The stench of sweat filled my nostrils, harsh spikes of floral, and wood mixing in. Move one way and the harsh smell almost resembling nature would make you dizzy. Go the other and flowers hit you like a train, almost knocking you off your feet. You could practically taste the loud smells if it had not been for the gun powder. The only smell you could taste was sweat, the saltiness constantly abused my tongue. It was hard to keep my mouth closed to stop it. I was breathing to heavily. One gasp after another. No matter how many times I practiced, how many times I have raised my stamina, nothing could prepare me for this. Not once in my life would I think I could hear so many bangs and booms. The hissing of sprinklers added fuel to the flames. With Hard loud thumps, that sounded strikingly similar to horses galloping mixing in, almost naturally. The deep vibrations of the overpowering brass was enough to make my ears ring. It made the children behind me screech and start crying. The hard lace brushing my inner thighs were most differently going to give me a rash. I could practically feel it forming now. The scratchy fabric around my bust did not do my arms any justice either. The corset was tight, restricting my moments, and causing my lower back to pull in pain. The shoes were not that amazing either, making my ankles hurt. Why they had the varsity cheerleaders in corsets and horrible clothing? The answer was simple. The so called leader of the jocks thought it would be a funny prank. Making all of the cheerleaders think we were supposed to wear this to the biggest game possible. We were barely cheering, mostly out of spite, partially because we couldn’t even do our cheer routine. We were all sour, not because we would get a ear full from out couch for not cheering. We were sour, because the couch would be chewing us out for what we were wearing. The crowd did not care too much about us, after all. Our job was done, right now we were waiting on our team. It was the final goal after all. I could hear one child behind me, begging their mother to turn on the lights in the sky. Then her almost getting drowned out by the banging next to me telling them, that they had to wait for the ball to go past one of the large mettle poles. I almost laughed, not even I knew what those things were called. Nearly a second after the childs begging, a loud alarm went off. Exclaiming the game was over. One side erupted, hooting and hollering. I had to cover my ears due to the increase in the already loud volume of it all. I jumped at a loud bang then crackle, then brushed against another hard clothed shoulder. As soon as it started our couch came over, yelled at us to take off the ridicules nonsense and do our end routine. Without skipping a beat, we all took off the straining corsets. A deep breath filled my lungs, soothing the fire that started to grow in them. When I was able to stick my hand down the bale shoe and fling it off, I groaned in relief as my feet touched the grass. We sprinted off to the middle of the field, aching feet relaxing at ever slap on the wet cool grass. I had to climb the other wet and sweaty bodys, my back popped as soon as I was air born. I shivered slightly when a bunch of tiny tickles, brushed on any exposed skin it could get to. After so many bangs in the sky, the taste and smell of metal was harder than ever. When it was all said and done. We walked back to our lockers, constantly moving our shoulders hoping to relieve some of the pain in our backs. The once hot bumpy rocks now felt cool. The side walk was no better, soft and cold, but felt hard enough. I knew if I walked too long on this it would tare up my soul again, for now it’s cold grasp made me want to moan. My sore souls, screaming and throbbing in pain, once on fire, now were relaxing a crying to be fully straight. All of the doors in the locker room were squeaky. Each one screaming at who ever dared to open it. I simply drifted off to the showers. No longer being able to take my arms sticking to my stomach. As I stripped, the cold air curled around my shoulders, a shuttered breath shook out of my body. My hair did nothing to protect me. A squeak from the old shower and hot water rushed from above. I squeaked as I feel on my bottom. Gasping and whining at the coldness. The hot liquid drifted over my body in comforting crosses. Wiping away the cool touch, seemingly jealous like. Standing up, I moved more to the water. Felling the cool open holes on the drain. It did not occur to me how hot the water was until I coughed. The sudden loss of air made me regain a sense of where I was. Hard throaty coughs left my mouth, the air was too hot. The steam musked the air, creating a think fog to chock on. I had to poke my head out into the significantly colder hallway to gasp for air. When I was done, I pulled my self from the shower cubby and into the almost empty locker area. One cold screaming metal slab later, and I am finally able to put on the one thing I have wanted to wear this whole day. Sliding through the fabric felt like a dream come true. It’s soft arms wrapping around and gently resting on top of my arms and legs made me decompress. Slouching in place, before sighing and slinging my heavy fully bag over the shoulder. Almost falling from the extra weight. My friend was waiting in her car, a neutral temperature blasting from the vents.


We sat atop a hill chewing on rations, for that was all we could do with the days so hot and the rations so stale. We were supposed to be relieved three days ago, but the roads have been blocked off by the Opposition, and the land stripped by foraging and bombing. There’s no chance of anyone coming to relieve us for the rest of the week either, it’s a national holiday, and even though the Party abolished such things, they haven’t yet educated the people against it, so now it’s like paid time off but with a much higher chance of getting shot. My friend and I are, officially, patrolling the west side of the mountain to defend against an Opposition invasion, but only shepherds and their herds frequent the area, so we pass the time by counting sheep through our rifle scopes as they scurry across the rocky trails. No shepherds or sheep today though, so we’ve spent the afternoon watching two clouds slowly drift across the horizon. I break the lethargic afternoon silence by biting into my three-day old bread. The crack of its calcified crust deadens the portending cry of the morning dove. “That sounded like it hurt,” my friend quips under his drooping beret. “Definitely wasn’t the sound I was hoping to hear yea,” I laugh in return. I toss the hunk off the mountain, watching it fall until it disappears in the mist below. Propping myself on my elbows I stare at my friend lying peacefully beside me. I chuckle at our fortune, two shepherds who joined the War for adventure and excitement end up back where we started, sleeping on a mountain. War never works out the way you planned. A quiet sigh emerges from my friend’s pursed and I hesitate to ask the question that has weighed on my mind since we joined all those months ago. “Hey Erruki?” “Yea?” I turn back to the clouds, their effortless company mirroring ours, “What’re your plans? You know, after the war.” “Stay with the Party,” he replies simply. “I see...” He lifts his beret, “what about you?” “Oh... I don’t know. Maybe start my own farm somewhere.” I blush at the aloofness of my answer. Exposing myself so openly to my friend has never been easy for me, especially when sharing my most desperate dream. “Oh yea?” he answers casually, “not with the Party?” I ignore the slight edge in his voice, he’s probably annoyed at being woken up. I should apologize. “Sorry for uh, waking you,” I blush again, “we can talk about this later, if you want.” “No, no. I’m awake.” He pushes himself up and sits cross-legged across from me placing his rifle in his lap, his eyes narrowing into mine. “Why don’t you want to stay with the Party?” He asks again. I can’t meet his burrowing gaze, “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just... I wanna do my own thing, you know? I wanna live my life, build my own home... start a family?” Words I had to force through clenched teeth and burning cheeks. A lifetime spent together, and I uttered those hopeful words so unceremoniously atop an empty mountain. I’ll be kicking myself about this for years to come. Unless... ? “Hmm,” he muses, “don’t you think the Party could help you though? We have programs for farming, housing and marriage. Why do you feel the desire to do it on your own?” He, didn’t answer. Maybe, maybe, he didn’t realize the question was directed at him. “No, I wanna do it on my own,” I assert again, “with... with someone special to me. The Party has given us the opportunity to be independent, and we should capitalize on it.” “Capitalize?” He sneers. My guilt ignites what remains of my face. I desperately try to dissipate the growing tension, “That’s not what I mean! This is what I wanted from the beginning, before I even joined the Party!” Despite my earnestness I remain unable to meet his frenzied gaze. The renewed silence between us is bereft of its previous ease. “I joined the Party because I wanted to make a difference, to live a better life.” I admit softly. “I joined the Party to crush the Opposition, as we all did, as we all PLEDGED to do. I joined to win this War for the Party!” “And what will you do when the War ends, Erruki? What will happen to the Party when the War ends? What will, we, do?” “The Party will last forever,” he recites without hesitation, “what to happen to the Opposition, or to you, is not my concern.” His razored words destroy my hopeful dreams and I rise to my feet with tears streaming down my face. “Not your concern? I’m, not your concern?” “I joined the Party, and this insufferable War to make a difference, to give people a chance of a better life, to be happy for Christ’s sake! But I also joined for you. I joined so I wouldn’t have to be apart from you, and for the hope, the stupid, desperate hope that maybe, MAYBE after all this is over, you and I could go back to the way things were, just you and I... together.” “Things will never go back to the way things were. So long as the Opposition exists, the War will continue.” “The Opposition aren’t intangible ideologies Erruki they’re living people, and regardless of how much you or I or the Party disagrees with them, they have just as much of a right to exist as we do, and I will fight for their right to exist just as much as I fight for ours!” His arms clench around his rifle, “If you are not for the Party, you are against it, and to be against it...” “... is death.” I finish solemnly. He grips his rifle. I watch the two clouds vanish into the blue sky. “I know our Party’s policy, and if wanting peace, if wanting happiness, if wanting you makes me an enemy...,” I turn back to my childhood friend, “then you’ll have to kill me.” And so he did.


The Death Knell and the Vampire of Ogrencisi The Vampire of Ogrencisi witnessed how his closest ally, another immortal, was dissipated by being beheaded in the battle between the Turks and the Templars. A templar beheaded him and put a sword through his heart. Only a woman could distract him that way, Ogrencisi surmised. He slew the soldier who killed his friend and ended the battle but not without knowing where the woman was. She took refuge in a monastery among the nuns in the Balkan mountain. She was a Christian, an angel, who accompanied the Templars on battles. It was said that his ally, a moor and the Angel were lovers. Knowing where she was, an augur told him to take the child who was to be his bride in twenty- one years’ time. And so, he travelled on a lone horse to find them. Inside the monastery, the Angel had given birth to the unearthly child. But the skies filled with clouds to occlude the sun and became one in a phalanx following the Vampire of Ogrensici towards the monastery. The Angel looked out the seared shut stained glass window pane of colored saints. She found darkness descend in the middle of a bright, trilling, snow capped day. How the vampire knew of where she was is no wonder. The evil had their ways of knowing and they paid a high price for it. The angel pursed her lips as she suckled her child. There was only one thing she could do. To confront the vampire and end him before he could take her child away. A gust of wind wailed and blew off the tapers and lamplights. The younger nuns huddled together and made the sign of the cross. The elderly nuns who were more familiar of the vampire and knew of his cruelty guided the younger nuns to pray the Ave Maria. No matter what, the elders told them, do not look into his eyes. But the angel was determined not to allow the vampire to enter the convent and sow fear into the peaceful convent to whom she owed her refuge and delivery. The day turned into a starless night as the wind howled and grew restless against the stained- glass windows whose saints began to bleed tears of blood. The Vampire of Ogrencisi had arrived. As some would assume, he would be weary from battle. But he trudged up the steep mountain trail until he almost reached the peak where the monastery stood carved like a relief against the bolster of rocks. It was the most beautiful monastery anyone have ever seen with a garden of blue roses and verdant green grasses whose fertility against the cold was most unusual indeed. But there it was, the last bastion of belief the angel was prepared to defend against all odds. And what of her lover, the Turkish moor. He died as the death knell of the monastery bells tolled for the sext or the middle prayers. The angel felt the first pangs of childbirth and fell to the ground grappling the grass among the blue roses where she walked each day to lower the child from her womb. She knew then, that her lover, the moor, had died. Now, his friend was coming for her child. They both loved him, but in different ways. He would do everything to find the child and bring her back to his manor as his ward. Which only meant, she, the angel was a block to the augured future he so believed in. The angel would prove the augur made a terrible mistake and change the course of the future. Her daughter was not to become a vampire. She was to be an angel, just as darkness was to be turned to light. The angel placed her finger into the palm of her daughter and this closed about her own like a flower closing at night after a day in bloom. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and seared her forehead with holy water. When she battled with Christians against the moors, she did so with her wings folded behind her back lest they betray her for being an unearthly creature, an angel of God. The moor wanted to see her fly, but she could only cover him with her wings as he lay cold beside her when they loved. The angel placed her daughter to the care of a nun, wrapped in sheepskin. Barefoot she drew her sword from beneath the cot she had been sleeping in for the past months. It was a long sword, heavy with metal hammered to perfection by holy alchemists. She dragged the heavy sword through the dark, cold hallways of the monastery and it flickered fire from the friction of metal against stony ground. The nuns prayed for her absolution, to destroy now, being an angel of death. Soon, she was outside the front garden and the nuns opened the gates to release her towards their fate. It was a cold, heartless landscape she encountered for the wind, sleet and snow all conspired to make her turn back. But she was unearthly as the vampire was. Immortal with no end in sight, one could say, she was his equal and yet only one would remain standing before the night. Through the thickness of the dark, the angel tried to find him, walking away from the monastery until she found him before her on a horse, drawing his sword and ready to slay her. The angel ran towards him, this time with her sword raised heavy on her hands. Her wings unfolded behind her ranging a mile from wingtip to wingtip and she flew over him. With a clear sweep of her sword she slew his head and severed it from his body. He toppled down from his horse and she landed on his chest to pierce his heart with a twist to make certain, absolutely certain that he, would die. The sun, slowly appeared in accretion and the clouds dispersed into pieces until they disappeared from the sky. Brightness lay its mantle on the snow and it soon melted. Tonight, the stars and moon brightened the nightscape as the angel rocked her daughter from a chair by a warm fire knowing fully well she had saved her child from an immortal life with the Vampire of Ogrencisi. ***


When I was 22 years old I had an opportunity to live rent free in a small house that sat on county property. It was next to a lake and inside a park that was open from sunrise to sunset. I’d agreed to lock the main gates up at night and make one trip around the park each evening after we’d closed. It was a pretty sweet deal. My father was friends with the guy who ran the place and that’s how I got to live in ‘Wood House’ as we called it. Two cheers for nepotism. At that time in my life I was bumping heads with my parents over the smallest of things and wasn’t an easy person to be around. My dad’s pulling strings was as much about getting me out of the family house as it was finding an opportunity for me. After graduating high school I’d hopped around from job to job and had zero desire to start college. I was never a great student and during school I’d always struggled to keep up with everyone else. Studying and retaining information at the speed they expected never worked for me. I was bright, but not in the way needed for school success. I was in my early twenties and looking for a direction to go in. Looking back at this era in my life I can see why things were so frustrating and confusing for me. I’d been coming to terms with the same sex attraction I felt and desperately wanted to get away from. It was the late 80’s and it seemed being gay was a virtual death sentence. AIDS was in the news and on the covers of magazines and it was the most press coverage gay people had ever gotten. True, it wasn’t just a gay person's disease but it sure as hell looked that way. If there was a good time to figure out you were gay, this wasn’t it. As any other young adult who’s just crossed the border into adulthood might want for themselves I could think of nothing I wanted to do more than sexually explore and practice being with other people. That was about the only thing I was clear on but it’s not the kind of thing you can tell someone when they ask what you’re doing with yourself. Being gay was dangerous and I hated that. It took about four years after high school for me to finally embrace that my same sex attraction was natural for me and had to do with the way I was wired. It was shortly after this personal awakening that I moved into Wood House. I was 22 and on my own. My parents were only a short drive away and I could call on them if I needed to. I didn’t have many expenses and just needed to keep my car on the road and fueled. l had a part time job at the town hall helping a couple women process parking code violations. Another opportunity my dad arranged. It paid well and I had enough money to sustain myself while living on my own. It’s easy to see that younger version of myself as having the perfect set up. I’d figured out I was gay and suddenly had my own place to bring men home to. But I was totally lacking in confidence. I’d never gone to any of my school proms or had a chance to practice being with someone I liked. Not in the same way my straight peers did. The school dances and social gatherings that came and went over the years were aimed at giving us kids a chance to rehearse the roles we’d play later in life. But not for me. Not for the gay kids. I may have suddenly had my own place but that didn’t mean I knew how to take advantage of it. This was also in an era before smartphones and apps that could let you talk with other people without leaving the comfort of home. If I wanted to meet other gay men I’d have to go to a club or bar, something I’d never really done before and didn’t feel comfortable with. Those were my options. I’m not suggesting that young gay people today have it easy just because technology has taken a great leap forward. You guys have your own struggles to deal with and I recognize that. I’m just telling you how it was for me in the late 80’s and early 90’s. This is what I had to work with. My arrival at Wood House marked the start of my growing gay identity and for reasons you might not expect. It marked the beginning of a series of strange experiences I’d start having throughout my life. Experiences that expanded the way I looked at the world around me and proved that more things were possible than what seemed obvious. This was the exact message I needed. Here’s what happened. After living at Wood House a couple weeks my dad decided to come by for a visit. He planned to come over once he got off from work, so that I’d have to meet him at the main gate of the park to let him in. Having the keys to the park entrance made me feel like a real adult. I had responsibilities and I was excited about being able to let my dad into a place that was closed off for everyone else. I got to the gate a bit early as I couldn’t wait to let him in. The entire park felt like it was mine and I loved it. It was the most grown up I’d ever felt. It was mid October at the time and many of the trees had already lost a bunch of their leaves. It was easy to look deep into the woods without having my line of site blocked. I noticed movement off in the distance and could see what looked like an older man entering the property. He was carrying a fishing pole but I couldn’t tell much else about him. I’d never had anyone sneak onto the property before and this would be the first time I’d have to tell someone they had to leave. I watched the man approach the lake and then lost sight of him. I knew I’d have to go and find the guy as soon as my dad arrived. It was dusk and only getting darker. It was a comforting thought that my dad would be there with me for this first encounter with a stranger. After my dad arrived I told him about the trespasser. It was late enough in the season that few people were fishing anymore and absolutely nobody went fishing at night. We both knew that something wasn’t right with this guy. Dad even suggested the man might be heading to some marijuana plants of his. A secret garden hidden within the woods. It got dark fast and we drove the trail that circled around the lake but didn’t see anything. Dad suggested we drive it again but this time with our headlights off. After getting about halfway around the lake we could see a spark of light at the edge of the water. Our mysterious fisherman had just lit up a cigarette. A couple minutes later and we could smell the smoke. I parked the car but didn’t shut the engine off as my dad suggested I let it keep running. He made me extra nervous with this suggestion. Why would we need to get away quickly? I had my official looking ‘town jacket’ on and was carrying a big flashlight. Neither of which made me feel very safe. My dad looked more the authority figure than I did. I was just a scared kid trying out what it felt like to be an adult. We headed into the woods and towards the man, taking quiet steps and trying not to draw attention to ourselves. I wanted to whisper something to my father, anything, so that he’d whisper back and I could hear his voice one more time. I was scared and had second thoughts about having taken the house at the lake. It was dark and cold and I was approaching a stranger in the woods. I needed to start making better life choices. We got close to the stranger. Night had set and I couldn’t see very far into the woods anymore, but I could see the glow of the man’s lit cigarette and still smell its smoke. My dad and I exchanged a look but I couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do next. Approaching this man any further seemed a mistake. I tried to find strength in the fact that I had the authority to be there and this man didn’t. The tension was broken by a loud splash in the water and then seeing our visitor struggle with his fishing rod to reel in his catch. My dad crept closer to me as this happened, masked by the sounds happening at the water. The man reeled in a fish that looked huge, bigger than anything I’d seen come out of the lake before. It was hard to see, but this fish looked to be about as big as a medium sized dog. There was no way a fish that size was hiding in the lake. It just wasn’t possible. The moon had started rising in the sky but was only a narrow slice of its fuller self. It wasn’t going to cast much light to help us see. We stood and watched the man slip his fish into a large sack. And then, it happened. The fish started making a loud crying sound. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever heard. The best way to describe it is to say it sounded like a goat, a sound I’d learn is called ‘bleating.’ I was finished. Done. My dad felt the same way because we both started heading back toward the car in unison. I’d never heard a fish make a sound like that before and I was sure it wasn’t supposed to. We picked up our pace but could hear the man talking to the fish in a calming tone as if talking to a child. The goat noise stopped and we heard what sounded like a purring cat, amplified. Even now I get chills thinking about it. My dad and I moved faster towards the waiting car and once inside took off towards Wood House. I’d never seen my dad so shaken and it was a disturbing thing to witness. We made coffee and sat at the dining room table trying to make sense of what had just happened. My big plans to show off the house and the ways I’d personalized it didn’t matter anymore. The only thing I felt about the place was that I needed to get far away from it. My dad suggested we drive back home so that he could get a change of clothes. He insisted he was sleeping over that night to be with me. I could hardly believe it. He had to get up early for work the next day but was willing to change his plans and stay over with me. I’ll always love him for it. Back at my parents house we told my mother what we’d seen and how strange it was. She suggested we call the police but my dad was set against it. We’d have to tell them I didn’t actually approach the stranger and ask him to leave. It would look like I’d failed to do my job. Dad was right. And telling the police about strange goat sounds wasn’t going to help us either. The stranger had been trespassing, it’s true. But he was only fishing. My mother helped us feel better about the whole thing by insisting that the man at the lake was a very poor person who sometimes fished for food and had probably been doing so for years. He was nothing to get paranoid over. Back at the lake my dad and I checked to see if the man was still there and he wasn’t. Thank God. He’d gone and taken his goat fish with him. We tried to get some sleep but after a half hour of staring at the ceiling we got up and watched television; old episodes of ‘Night Court’ I’d had on VHS and refused to record over. I did my best to not think about what had happened at the lake but it was hard. I was just glad my father was there with me. My dad agreed to come by the park the next evening and spend the night with me again. On the third night I told him it would be enough if he came by for an after hours visit and then returned home. By the fourth night I was feeling pretty good about things and told my dad it was enough for him to just call in and check on me. I remember feeling so appreciative that my dad was my dad. I felt like my father’s son and it was the first time I’d felt that way in years. The passage of time has allowed me to share this first part of the story in a matter of fact way, but it took a long time before I was able to talk about it openly. About a week after this incident with the fish I was back to my evening patrols and gate locking routine as a comfortable solo activity. I was returning to a sense of normalcy and spending my nights alone again at Wood House didn’t feel threatening. As even more time passed I became friends again with the forest that surrounded my little house. I also began to feel empathy for the poor guy who needed to come and fish at night in order to feed himself. I decided that if he showed up again I’d invite him to come and fish the lake by the light of day and offer him a free park membership. I’d pay for it myself. This normalcy lasted about a week before the next strange thing happened at the lake. I was getting lonely spending my nights alone at Wood House and threw myself into the task of meeting another guy I could be with. I was working at the town hall five hours a day and then driving twenty minutes to the nearest gay club. I did this every day after work. Not because I had the guts to actually go inside, because all I did was drive past the place. I went really, really slow so that I could check the place out and take it in. In fact, I almost caused an accident once. It took a couple weeks of these drive-by’s before I was able to pull into the parking lot and spend time sitting in my car alone before starting it back up and leaving. That routine lasted another couple weeks and allowed me a closer look at all the people coming and going from the club. I was fascinated by them. What really stunned me was how normal everyone looked. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but these people didn’t look much different than anybody else. I’d leave my window open a couple inches and overhear bits and pieces of conversations. I was fascinated. I was also freezing, as the cold night air coming through my window chilled me to the bone. It’s amazing I didn’t get sick. The night I found the strength to go inside was a sub-freezing friday evening in late November. It was far too cold to sit in the parking lot with my window open; it was far too cold to be sitting outside at all. Just before I’d gone into the building I asked the universe to give me a sign that this was the night to go inside. I looked up into the night sky and saw a shooting star. I couldn’t believe it! I’d asked for a sign and had received one. Entering the club was like entering another world. I wanted to stop and stare at everyone but didn’t want to come off as a newbie or tourist. I saw people buying drinks at the bar so I followed suit and did the same. I spent that night hiding in dark corners and sipping my beer while taking it all in. And believe me, there was a lot to see. I saw men dancing with other men and guys kissing one another. There was a guy in a pink wig and high heels dancing on top of a speaker. A girl in a wheelchair rolled herself out onto the dance floor and was spinning circles. A guy in bikini briefs was blowing bubbles from a balcony above. And there were lots of guys I never would have believed were gay if I’d seen them outside of the club. I never knew there were so many ways to be gay. I returned to the club over the next couple of friday’s and continued lurking in shadows and people watching. On my fourth visit to the club I met Justin. He was the first guy I ever developed feelings for and was the next person with me when strange things happened again at Wood House. It was a saturday night and the club always had live shows then but I never knew it because I’d only come on fridays. The featured performance of the night was the 10pm show, a group of female impersonators who lip synced to old disco songs and called themselves the ‘Pussy Bags.’ There were five of them and they carried huge purses that contained an endless amount of tampons they’d throw at the audience. I met Justin because one of the tampons bounced off my head and went into his drink. He seemed to be the only person not drinking a beer. Justin was about the same age as me and sort of looked like he could me my brother if I had one. I immediately found him attractive. I’m not sure what that says about me, but there it is. He seemed equally out of place at the club. He was shy and easy to talk to. What really bonded us was what happened next. During their performance one of the Pussy Bags slipped and fell and someone had to call an ambulance. He’d hurt his leg and could barely move. The poor guy was desperately afraid about having to go to the hospital in drag and people were doing their best to calm him down. Everyone clapped as he got rolled out the front door of the club to the ambulance. Justin and I followed him outside along with a handful of others, because he wanted to smoke and I needed the fresh air. After the ambulance was loaded one of the EMT’s started asking people if they’d seen what happened and was looking for witnesses. Nobody wanted to give their names and neither did we. When asked what he’d seen, Justin explained the incident as simply as he could and offered his name as ‘Justin Daisy,’ a play on the name of one of the performers inside named ‘Lazy Daisy.’ I caught on to the game and confirmed everything he’d just said and offered my name as ‘Henry Dance.’ One of the performers inside was ‘P.P. Dance.’ We felt clever and amused with ourselves. A week later and Justin was coming to meet me at Wood House. I’d cleaned the place up and used Febreeze fabric spray on all the ancient furniture. It had just come out and I felt hip and cutting edge for having it. Justin would come over after he’d gotten off work and gone home to eat dinner with his family. I was super excited about his visit and bought vanilla coffee for us to have and also a big box of Entenmann's crumb cake. I was hoping to fool around with him but was really nervous about it. I didn’t have any experience and was in need of some. I had my copy of ‘The Last Starfighter’ on DVD set to go in case things took a turn for the worse and I had an evening of platonic frustration ahead of me. I didn’t know what Justin had in mind and I was anxious to find out. I met Justin at the gate after the park had closed and let him in. It was very late November or early December and freezing out. He followed me back to Wood House and after parking our cars we stood and stared at the moon for a bit. It was almost full. I liked that he noticed it and brought it to my attention. I’ve always been in tune with nature and he seemed to be the same way. Again, it’s about wiring.


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The ancient demon Mara is older than man. The Buddhists were the first to recognize him. The sounds that make up his primordial name were first recorded in Sanskrit. Sanskrit and all other languages are flawed in their representations of his name. The true symbol of his name cannot be expressed in any language. But it can be described. Four crosses, joined at the base, jutting in opposing directions. Northwest, northeast, southeast and southwest. I almost took the birdhouse down, and I should’ve. But I was so proud of it. The detail was amazing, a perfect copy of our two-story Victorian, down to the alternating shades of green trim. It was so good, in fact, that people noticed it when they came to visit. I would act casual, like it wasn’t the best thing I’d done. I truly believe that. I think that birdhouse might be one of the best things I’ve ever done with my life. I was drinking in the garage, feeling down. A vision of the birdhouse flitted through my mind and I smiled. I had the comforting thought that everything wasn’t that bad because I had built that birdhouse. The thought immediately on the heels of that was a question. “Is that the best thing you’ve done?” I started to sob. That’s why I couldn’t tear it down. Even after all the deaths. The mysterious bodies. The spoiled tinge of the compliments when it was noticed. It was the best thing I’d done. I’d finished it in the fall. In the winter, Carole and I helped pick a perfect place for it in the backyard, ready for spring. The year exploded into a lush flurry, our garden thriving under the temperate sun. By the middle of April I was already thinning the corn and tying the beans and running my hands along the spines of the tomato leaves and smelling my palms. The smell of eyes opening. The green and bristly youth of spring. If the smell wasn’t a cousin of the optimistic wisps that danced from the marigolds when the sun baked them, it was at least a fine complement. A blue jay’s head lay in the gravel below the neighborhood of birdhouses I had hung and posted along the southern fence. The hodgepodge of styles was a tale of my progress as a craftsman. They were beautiful under the dappled shade of the mulberry trees. In the middle of that was the beat up head. It lay as if it had fallen from the doorstep of my masterpiece. I toed at it, and supposed our girl cat. I felt a vibration and turned to the bird-sized replica of our home. An ominous melody played in my mind. I peered into the first story opening and squinted as I tried to make out what I was seeing. A nest in the corner. Three chicks lay slumped about the nest, the mother dead on the floor, and the father’s blue, headless body stiff in the entry. I scowled and left them there. We worked the garden, one of the best summers I can remember. The squash was prolific, the mulberries sweet, and the tomatoes red. The evening waterings breathed an unthirsty petrichor into the evening breeze. And as I tended the garden I always had an eye turned to the birdhouse. My masterpiece. The best thing I’d done. That winter I opened the house and found the remains of the family and poured them into the dust bin. I reassembled the house and touched it up and reposted it, and it sat proud. The next spring a large family of finches moved in. They built nests and made a show of things as Carole and I worked the garden. It was a late Sunday afternoon when I walked into the backyard, appraising our bountiful harvest to come. My eyes settled on the darkened door of the birdhouse. I turned an ear, listening for the birdsong. There was none, and their remains were much more gruesome. Into the dustbin they went. Followed by an even more carefully intricate refurbishment. I posted the birdhouse in the fall. It wiggled in the wind and gathered leaves and faded in the winter cold. When spring came I cleaned it and touched it up again. Carole and I worked the garden. And the birds visited my neighborhood of houses. They negotiated over ownership and settled on the best and second best of them. The flocks thrived and flurried through the garden as we worked it. By the next fall I knew the house would be filled with the dead bodies of mutilated birds. I examined them and threw them out unceremoniously and took the house into the shop, and left it in the dark on the bench. It was more than six weeks before I returned to refurbish it. It had been three seasons now and the house was beginning to show wear. Webs had gathered and eves had bent. I tapped the hammer and brought it back to plumb. I painted it with careful strokes and brought back its original luster. As I proudly appraised it my smile turned to a frown. Its base had become worn. I had been so focused on the fine details I had overlooked its foundation. I turned it on its side and saw the brand that I had burnt when I had finished building it, all those years ago. I poked at it. The burns held fast but the wood around it crumbled under the stroke of my thumb, sprinkling fine sawdust. I decided the brand needed to go and the bottom side of the house resealed. I disassembled the steeple and the second story and turned it upside down and took the sander to it. I sanded through the whole board, the echoes of the burn ran through the entire piece of wood. I sanded for hours and in the end I had turned the foundation of the house into a piece of paper and the brand still shone through. I scoffed and wondered why I cared so much about removing the mark that I had ruined the base of the house. I pulled the thin board free and cut a new piece of wood to take its place. It was pine, but it was thick and clear, and I carved into a perfectly fitting foundation. After that, no more birds died in that house. It was almost three years later when my thoughts turned to the brand I had used to sign the bottom of my masterpiece. I was sitting at my work bench in the garage. Carole had gone to bed early and I had retired, with a few beers, to my corner. The birdhouse I was working on had lost my attention and as I reached into the mini fridge for my next pop. The blue light cast across the debris that I had neglected to clean, left over from the base of my best birdhouse. Somehow the brand was still clearly discernible amidst the thin planes and chips and sawdust. I found it in Thailand, or more accurately, Carole found it amidst an overflowing assortment of offerings at one of the more eclectic stands of the bustling street market. She surprised me with it that night after dinner. At the time, I was taking a deep dive into wood burning. Carole, the thoughtful woman that she is, always kept a peripheral eye turned to my hobbies. That’s how she had recognized the hidden tchotchke as a branding iron. Not only was it beautifully crafted, but the symbol in the center of the marker was made of four crosses joined at their base, almost like a crosshair. It looked like four lowercase ts. All three of my names start with t. What she liked the most about it was that it held my initials. That night we laid in bed. She rested her head on my chest and dozed after a perfect day. I sighed and twirled the brand in the soft light admiring its intricacies. I snagged a beer, closed the minifridge, shutting off the cascade of blue light. I cracked it open with a hiss, tossed the cap into the cap-jar, and took a deep slug. I burped and exhaled a thick breath as I leaned down and opened the third, right drawer. I pushed at the brands on top out of the way and saw a twinkle flash off of the item I was searching for. I plucked its stem and shook it free of the others, and held it under the lamp. I probably wouldn't have done it if I hadn’t had one or two too many. I stood in the backyard in the dark, my face lit by the flame of my torch as I heated the brand. Before long it started to glow hot. I killed the torch and the brand glowed, almost impossibly bright, in the pitch of the night. I turned it slowly, lost for a moment in its brilliance, before lifting it and pressing it into one of my less beloved birdhouses. Luckily, I didn’t set the yard on fire and in the morning I had no memory of it. I only began to remember after the birds started dying again. Three heads laying in the gravel. Titmouse heads. I saw them from a ways away and when I came close my heart fell. The little chickadees were one of my favorites of all the birds. I found their cute little mohawks and bashful behavior endearing. The next deaths were a couple of wrens, a species I liked less. I turned a blind eye to the bodies that built up, not wanting to admit that the mark of the brand undeniably brought death. I let the bodies build up for two seasons. A pile of decayed heads laid under the columbarium. Bodies spilled through the doorway. In October of the second fall after I had branded the lesser house, I found Carole in the section of the garden she rarely visited, examining it. I surprised her as she poked at it and peered through the opening and toed the mix of skulls and fresh heads. She jumped and I sipped my coffee and raised a brow. Carole turned to me, her eyes wide, brows raised higher than her shoulders, slowly shaking her head as she gestured toward the gruesome display. “What happened? What is this?” I gulped my mouthful of coffee as I searched for an explanation, found none and shrugged. She narrowed her eyes. “Thomas?” I raised a palm. “I really don’t know.” She flashed an appraisal, bought it, and turned back to the scene with concern. “Are they being poisoned? Is something killing them and stashing their bodies here?” She turned back with an idea. “The cat, maybe?” I nodded along at the possibility. “Maybe the cat.” She turned back to the birds and nodded at the comfort of the explanation. “Yeah, the cat.” She examined them for another moment before turning and placing a soft hand on my chest. “Clean them up will you?” She gave a final glance over her shoulder before she kissed me on the cheek and let her hand fall as she left. “Horrible.” “Yes, darling.” I watched her go as I took another sip. I loved to watch her go. Even in our late sixties, she still did it for me. I grumbled as I turned back to the macabre tableau. Instead of cleaning and refurbishing the birdhouse, I tore it from its mount and stuffed the rest of the remains inside. I set it into the fire pit and returned that evening with a pair of beers and a can of lighter fluid. I doused it thoroughly, exhausting nearly all of the can. I set the can down, cracked a beer, and pulled a deep swallow. I fumbled with my breast pocket and pulled the ancient pack of cigarettes I had pilfered from a neglected bay of cupboards in the garage. I popped one in my mouth and brought a matchbook from my pocket. I tore a match free, turned the book and struck it. It flared, yellow and red, blue at its center. I lit the cigarette and inhaled the stale, harsh smoke, coughed, and placed the cigarette back in my mouth. It dangled as I held it with the expertise of a lifelong smoker. Just as the match began to dwindle I held it to the match heads, still in the book. They caught instantly and hissed as they spat a sulfuric flame. I stared into them for a moment and then tossed them onto the petroleum soaked haunted house. Almost six months later I was sitting in the den, watching the Padres getting their butts handed to them, when I heard the door close with an unusually loud thump. I raised my chin toward the kitchen and the foyer beyond. At first I thought Carole had brought company home, but as I listened, over the game, I realized she was muttering to herself. I caught a glimpse of her as she passed through the kitchen and furrowed my brow as I heard her stomp up the stairs. I turned back to the game, staring through the tv, unable to return my attention to it. I turned an eye to the ceiling, picturing Carole, and tilted my head as I heard a muffled sob. I finished the last slug of warm beer and pushed myself out of my chair with a groan. As I took the last step, I paused on the landing. Our bedroom door was closed. Our bedroom door hadn’t been closed for more than a decade. I heard Carole’s muffled voice, and tried to creep closer. The floorboards groaned. I listened and heard nothing. I straightened and walked across the hall and held the back of my hand up to the door. I listened again, heard nothing, and lightly rapped a knuckle. “Carole?” I heard her shuffle, then a few steps. I turned the knob gently and opened the door slowly. “Babe?” “Huh?” She sounded fine and slightly annoyed. I relaxed, opened the door the rest of the way and walked into the room. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping a single finger across her cheekbone and breathing deep through her nose. I shambled to the door of the bathroom and stood awkwardly. “Are you ok?” She turned a smile to me. An obviously labored smile. “I’m fine.” She tilted her head, “What’s up?” and sniffed. “Nothing.” I raised a hand in reassurance. “I just... I just thought something might be wrong.” Her smile became genuine as her crow’s feet wrinkles deepened. She spoke low and soft. “I’m fine.” I loved her eyes and my smile deepened in return. I stepped to her and braced her elbow with a hand. “Good.” Her eyes flitted around the room before settling on mine. She lightened, pulled her elbow free, snorted, and pushed me away. “Go finish your game.” She gave me a wave as she turned back to the mirror and preened an eyelash. I smirked and obeyed and stole a final glance before leaving. That night at dinner she told me all about it. She started off by telling me that she felt silly even bringing it up and it was all really nothing. I blinked patiently. “Tell me.” “Well,” she thought for a moment, “you know how much old Gil hates the hedge.” I nodded as I took a bite and listened. Almost fifteen years ago we had planted a hedgerow of boxwood to separate our driveway from our neighbor’s, Gil Harker, an ornery, angry old man, now in his early eighties. The hedge had always been a point of contention between us. He would grumble that he shouldn’t be expected to maintain the bushes, and yet would not allow us on his property to prune his side, which Carole--who maintained the front of the house and the drive--would have gladly done. That morning Carole had neatly trimmed our side. She had done her best to reach as much of Gil’s side as she could manage and pull the branches back to our side with a rake. Gil had come bursting out of the house lambasting her with epithets. She apologized and swore to not do it again as she retreated back into the house. “It just scared me.” she threw up her hands. “I know he’s harmless and I don’t know why I let it get to me.” She looked up and away searching for a reason, found none, and shrugged. “He just kind of scared me.” “You’re right he’s harmless.” I agreed, trying not to show that my blood was boiling over. “I think he’s getting a touch senile, as well. I’ll talk to him.” “Oh, please don’t, Thomas.” I had grown tired of our feud with old Gil, and making Carole cry was the last straw. So I lied, “Ok. I won’t.” After dinner she retired to our bedroom to read her latest romance novel. She’d be asleep within the next twenty minutes. I went to the den and turned on the night game, not that I cared who won. Really, the game was just background noise as I swilled beers and kept the corner of my eye on her bedroom window, waiting for her to turn her light off. She had taken longer than I had expected. By the time the light went off I was on my eighth beer. My anger had not subsided. I pushed through the hedgerow, almost tripping on my face, dragged my feet across the drive, and swayed as I fumbled to light the torch. The flame burst to life. I turned the valve until it became a superheated blue and held the flame to the brand and watched it begin to glow. I smiled and pressed it into the side of Gil’s house.


This was originally from a writing prompt, but the original prompt seems to not exist anymore, unfortunately. Some swearing and adult themes (mods, let me know if I need to censor it.) Luke sighed in frustration as he set aside the full bucket on his carpet. The rain had finally let up, but he'd been distracted cleaning out the basement most of the day and hadn't noticed the leak in the ceiling until it had soaked through the carpet and part of the bed. He'd just put silk sheets on it, too. Surveying the damage, he started to realize that there was no salvaging the carpet. He'd have to rip it up and probably get it replaced. He did some mental calculations and thought that the emergency fund might not cover it. He'd been preparing to go to a concert with Andrea later that month and maybe they could scrap it...but he didn't want to take that away from her. Maybe he would just eat out less for a little while. Luke spent the next hour moving furniture and starting to tear up the carpet. Part of him wished Andrea was here so she could help him, but he'd rather get this done without bothering her. She was at her mother's for the weekend, and he didn't want to stress her out any more than her family already would. He had been planning for the house to be in perfect shape when she got back, but apparently that wasn't happening anymore. And he wasn't totally unamused by the irony of spending the whole day cleaning the house while ignoring the catastrophe in the bedroom. As he pulled the carpet further back, it occurred to him that he'd never seen the floor underneath, which turned out to be wood floorboards. Maybe they should have the wood refinished and get a rug instead? Most of the rest of the house had rugs anyway, so Andrea would probably prefer it. It didn't seem to be water damaged, at least. Under where the head of the bed had been, a square patch of the floorboards had been replaced with a different plank of wood. He crawled over to it out of curiosity and picked at it a little, and to his surprise it wasn't very well secured. He tried to move it a little more and found that it was completely removable. *What lazy carpenter put this together?* There was a cavity under where the wood had been with supplies in it. Luke stared at the small space for a moment before he realized what he was looking at. This was essentially a secret treasure, probably left behind by the previous owner. Well, it was probably actually junk, but still, he couldn't help but feel a little excited. There was a childish wonder in a discovery like this and for the first time in hours, he wasn't thinking about cleaning or home repair. *So what have we got?* The space was about one square foot and all he could see on top was a small wooden box and some red candles. He examined the candles first and decided that they were, in fact, junk. The box was locked, but the clasp was pretty cheap and he had his tools here anyway, so it only took a minute to unscrew the clasp. He was starting to feel like Indiana Jones uncovering the secrets of the world, not letting the practical knowledge that this was probably more candles squash his dreams yet. Inside the box, there were not, in fact, more candles. At first he wasn't even sure what he was looking at. There were very tiny jars of dried herbs, a jar of ink, and some incense. What stood out most, though, was a small glass vial. It was diamond-shaped with gold lining on the edges. He picked it up and held it to the light to see that there was some brownish red liquid inside. *What the fuck?* He lost track of time staring at it, trying to come up with a non-morbid explanation for what he was looking at, but he couldn't come up with one. The best he could manage was that this belonged to some old fortune teller and it was a fake prop. But why hide it under the floor? Whether he was looking at real blood or not, whoever put this here probably thought it was real. At least there wasn't very much of it, though, so there was that. He put the vial back in the box and set the box beside him. What was left in the space in the floor was a brown book laying on some white cloth. He put the book aside for a moment to look at the cloth and unraveling it found that it was a cloak. It had a gold clasp and was slightly moth-eaten, and outside of the color it very much looked like it would have belonged to a fortune teller. Or a witch. Or a very high quality Halloween store. There was nothing else beneath the cloak in the storage space so he dropped it back in and returned his attention to the book. The book looked unremarkable on the outside. It was very old and faded with a broken spine and yellowed pages. He opened up the first page and found faded handwritten ink. The writing was elaborate and looked like Gothic German lettering, and yet he could read a few words here and there. *What language is this?* The pages were extremely brittle and he had to turn them slowly one at a time. Each page was a block of unreadable text occasionally interrupted by a drawing of peculiar patterns. The shapes were almost hypnotizing in their symmetry. Some were made of sharp lines while others were delicate swirls, and some were simple while others were elaborate. The more he flipped through the book, the more convinced he became that there was an enormous amount of history in its pages. On one page he turned to, a page with little writing but a fairly detailed symbol, a piece of paper fell out. He picked it up and saw that it was...a torn piece of lined notebook paper? Yes, that's definitely what it was. A modern piece of scrap hidden inside this relic. Andrea liked to bookmark with torn scrap, so maybe that's what it was for? The implications of this realization hit him suddenly and he found himself staring at the piece of garbage. Andrea wasn't the only one who bookmarked that way, though, and why in the world would she be hiding something like this under their bedroom floor? He took out his phone and took a picture of the book to send to Andrea. He typed a message asking her what any of this was but halfway through decided to delete it. Whatever it was, if she wanted him to see it, she would have told him. But it might not be hers anyway. Andrea liked things like meditation and incense, but she wasn't especially into mysticism, not to the point where she would have a demon cloak and an antique book under her floorboards. Or a bottle of blood. He looked again at the jars of herbs and the incense. The incense was tied together in a bow in the same way that Andrea stored her own incense. He sniffed at it but whatever it was was too faded. He picked up the herb jars and this time the doubt was almost completely crushed. There were labels on the herb jars in masking tape, written clearly and undoubtedly in Andrea's handwriting. Her distinctive "y" on "thyme" was too unique and he was absolutely certain now that these were hers. He found himself overwhelmed by all of it. There were supposed to be bottle caps and Christmas decorations in this secret compartment in the floor, not something actually exciting. His life was boring, and honestly, he liked it that way. He'd had excitement in his youth and left that behind a long time ago. But this, trying to face the idea that his wife was a witch? What in the world did that mean? No, because this wasn't left by his wife, this was someone else who happened to have Andrea's handwriting and mannerisms. He tried to remember what Andrea had taught him about meditation. *Focus on your breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slowly in. Slowly out.* Whenever a thought hit him about Andrea and spirits, he gently let it go. *Slowly in. Slowly out. Don't think. Don't worry. Just let it go.* The rising alarm slowly faded and after a few minutes he could think more clearly. So maybe it was Andrea's, so what? This stuff really wasn't too strange, was it? Okay, yes, it was weird, but it wasn't bad. The only thing that worried him was that it was in the floor, but otherwise, there really wasn't anything too offensive in this whole discovery. Except the blood. But maybe that had an explanation, too. He returned his attention to the book. There must be answers in there. He couldn't even begin to figure out how to decipher it, but there was probably someone on the internet who could. He searched for forums about antique books and eventually found one dedicated to medieval text. The pictures on the forum seemed closest to what he was looking at. So it was middle English, then. He sent a picture of the bookmarked page of the book to the forum with the caption, "Found this under my floorboards. Can anyone translate or tell me anything else about it?" He put his phone down and looked around him. It suddenly occurred to him that he still hadn't toweled up the rainwater that had soaked through the carpet. He put the occult paraphernalia on the bed and went to work cleaning the floor. After he was done, he checked his forum post and found that he'd gotten a few responses. > LookinForJim: Holy shit that's so cool. Looks like its from 13th century england maybe? > hereforthelolli: fake > bitcherofrivia79: This is probably a replica. Do you have a picture of the cover or front page? Inside cover? He sent the requested pictures to the last user and waited a while longer. > bitcherofrivia79: It looks pretty real. I think the first page talks about supernatural mystics and shit. Sorry I can't really read the text on this one lol. Luke hadn't even considered that it might be a replica. It would certainly be a comfort, but that didn't really solve the mystery of it being hidden. He sent another response. > Lando_1109: Thanks. There was also incense, candles, herbs, ink, and a cloak under the floor. So mystics makes sense. > Fire_Whiskeyyy: uuuummmmm what? > hereforthelolli: fake > bitcherofrivia79: Probably should have mentioned that at the beginning... Luke sighed and put the phone down. He was starting to feel like a lunatic. *What the hell are you doing? Just put everything back and leave it alone. If Andrea wanted you to know about it, you'd know about it. Leave it be.* He checked the forum post again and this time had received a longer response. > eofra998: I took some liberties to make it a little more readable, but here's my best guess: > > Would you desire the passion of another > Blend the greens of calamint, thyme, horseradish, comfrey, rue > With rue at half the lot of the others > All dried and prepared untouched for eleven days > Burn the scents of thyme while the sun is risen > And when the moon has risen > Depict the patterning upon the ground > And alight the candles at its ends > Drink the blend of greens > Set the collected blood of the mark in a vessel > And set the vessel at the heart of the patterning > The candles come to end > And while the vessel is sealed, the trance is held > > So to put that into human words, "If you want to make a girl wet for you, do all this super creepy stuff." So...a love spell? That's what this was, right? He looked again at the jarred herbs and sure enough, they matched those listed in the book. That's what this was all about, it had to be. Why would Andrea want to put anyone under a spell? Who would she even need to do that to? Did she do this on someone else's behalf? Was this something from her past that she was ashamed of? There's no way this was actually real, right? Was it even possible to successfully put someone under a love spell? Meditation. He sat back against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed in. And out. And in. And out. The thoughts were harder to push away this time, but he forced them out. Slowly. In. And out. Breathe. He opened his eyes again and tried to think calmly. He and Andrea had been married for twelve years and dated for a year before that. They moved into this house together when they got married and in all that time had never replaced the carpet. So she must have put this under there twelve years ago. He couldn't avoid the obvious conclusion any longer. There was only one person Luke could think of during that time that Andrea would have wanted to put a love spell on. He tried to meditate again, but no amount of measured breathing could push away the panic. Everything was sorted back as best as Luke was able to get it. He had pictures of everything in the storage compartment, including every page of the book. It probably wouldn't have to be perfectly replaced after twelve years, but he didn't want it to seem like anything had been touched. Even the clasp on the box looked pretty good. Well, almost everything. He knew someone as kind as Andrea wasn't going to engage in demonic rituals, but there was a small voice in his head that wouldn't quiet until he found out for sure. And he couldn't let her know that he thought there was a chance she would do this. He felt guilty for even keeping this from her. But he couldn't bring himself to just ask her outright either. There wasn't much more to do. The house was clean, the carpet was removed, and roof repair was scheduled for two weeks out. Andrea would be home soon and all he could do was wait. He spent the remaining hours following up on leads given to him by the forum posters. It was almost impossible to parse through what was legitimate and what wasn't. Some sources seemed reliable and provided some not completely unreasonable evidence of witchcraft. Others were ad-hoc ramblings that were almost unreadable let alone realistic. There were some other books in the world like his, nearly all in museums, none with more than a page or two online. He was looking up directions to the closest such museum when the front door opened. "Luke!" Andrea called. "I'm back!" Luke went to the front door to see his wife coming in with a rolling suitcase behind her. In that moment, the doubt vanished. She was a small woman with rich, energetic brown eyes and short brown hair that at this moment was falling into her face. She was wearing tightly formed skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, simultaneously hiding and showing off her slight figure. She pushed the hair out of her face and smiled at him, and he was as entranced by her smile now as the day they got married. "The house looks great!" Andrea said. Luke went over to his wife and pulled her into a deep kiss. "Thanks," he said, feeling the smallest amount of flush in his cheeks. "How was your trip?" "Better than usual. Mom didn't bring up children this time, so that was good. How was life without me? Lonely?" she teased. "Always," he answered, grinning. "Um, actually, there was an issue in the bedroom." She walked behind him through the house, her suitcase rolling loudly along with her. "What happened?" "There was a leak in the roof. I called a roofer, but in the meantime we'll have to use a bucket if it rains again." They reached the bedroom and he opened the door. "Oh god," she muttered in shock. He watched her closely as her eyes scanned the room. She seemed worried about it all, but he couldn't really blame her. He was pretty disheartened when he saw it, too. "The carpet was ruined. But the hardwood is fine and I was thinking we could get a rug instead, so maybe it's a good thing." "Uh huh," she said distractedly, walking into the room and over to the bed. Luke had repositioned the bed so that one leg was on top of the plank hiding the spell ingredients. Andrea was standing just near the plank, glancing back and forth between the bed and the floor where she stood. Was he reading into this? Or was she really trying to inconspicuously check the storage compartment? "That might work," she said. "Do we have anything to put over the floor in the meantime?" "I don't think we need to, if we're going to have to move everything again anyway." "Right." Andrea laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I'm pretty tired," she said. "I'm going to take a quick nap, then we can have dinner." "Sure," Luke said. "We can look at rugs tomorrow." He left the room, closing the door behind him. Andrea was skimming through social media on her phone when Luke joined her in bed. "Anything interesting on there?" Luke asked. Andrea shrugged. "Bianca is getting married again, apparently. Do you remember Bianca? From when we lived in Sheffield?" The name was familiar, but he was having trouble putting the pieces together. He shook his head. "Oh you know, she was married to Cory back then." He remembered now. He hadn't thought about Cory in years, honestly. They were friends when he and Andrea first met, but drifted after Luke moved away. They'd moved here for Andrea's work, and with that Luke had lost contact with a lot of people. He'd made new friends since then, of course, but it was a bit of a strange throwback to the old days. "I had no idea they even split up. You're still friends with her?" Andrea shrugged. "On Facebook. Haven't spoken in years." So much of that time seemed like a different life. Cory was actually there when he and Andrea met. She was a friend of a friend brought along for trivia one night, and he didn't even give her a passing glance at first. And though he may not have noticed her, she noticed him. She came along to every night out she was able to, always trying to sit near him, laughing at all of his jokes. Luke wasn't usually one to pick up on signals, but even he was getting the message. Even then, it still took a few months before he agreed to a date and they clicked. Getting to know her one on one on a simple coffee date seemed to spark a romance that hadn't faded in thirteen years. It had really been a case of opposites attract. They were wildly different people. Luke was intense and a bit of a daredevil, always traveling and trying to meet new people. He was always moving from one interest to another, always finding something new to keep life interesting. Andrea was more reserved and focused. Where Luke was flighty, Andrea was dedicated. She'd taught him to slow down and enjoy life for its quieter pleasures. She changed him, and it really did feel for the better. Honestly, he was never even sure what she saw in someone like him, someone who was so almost violently against the life she lived. "Hey, can I ask you kind of a weird question?" "Sure," she said, still scrolling through her phone. "When we first met, what did you see in me?" She paused, then set aside her phone and looked at him. "What's bringing this up?" He shrugged. "Just thinking about the old days." She smirked. "Well," she said, "my life was pretty bland and you were so interesting. Everyone liked you. You had so many great stories of all the places you'd been, and I couldn't get enough of them. You were a great storyteller, and funny. Well, you are funny." He was flushing again. "And cute, too. The second I saw you, I had to have you." She tilted her head and scrunched up her mouth in thought. "And what about you?" she asked playfully. "What'd you see in me?" He looked over his wife and tried to piece together the specific reasons he loved her. "Hmm. I like your smile. I like the way a room seems empty if you're not in it. I like how passionate you can be, and how beautiful you are. Also, you have good taste in men." She laughed and kissed him. He pulled her deeper into the kiss and held the small of her back, feeling her muscles move through the fabric of her sleeping shirt. Her hands traced down his neck and back, sending goosebumps along his spine. Distantly, he thought of the idea that this feeling was the result of witchcraft, and it seemed so impossible and far away. Whether this was a spell or not, and he was certain it wasn't, it definitely felt real. Gently, he pushed her back into the pillows, moving his lips to her neck, feeling her heavy breathing against his ear. The sounds of her pleasure drove him deeper into the moment, and he lost himself to the passion. - He woke up in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around Andrea's waist. The night was silent save for the gentle breathing of his sleeping wife, rising and falling under his arms. All of this was too familiar to him, and yet the nagging doubt that it might all be a lie gave it a strange, unreal quality. He gently drew himself away from her and slipped out of bed, pulling on his discarded boxers. This uncertainty would break him apart. He would find out, for sure, if there was even such a thing as a real love spell. And when he found out that his wife hadn't put him under one, he would beg for her forgiveness for doubting her, and she might be disappointed, but she would forgive. And he could be free of this distrust in his own mind. He returned to the original post on the middle English forum, finding the translation. A line in the text stood out to him. "While the vessel is sealed, the trance is held." So surely that meant if there was a spell, he could break it just by opening up the bottle, right? That's all it took? His toolbox still sat in the corner of the room. He opened it up, the clanging of the metal breaking the silence. Slowly, trying to not make a sound, he removed the top layer of the toolbox, then set aside a few of the larger tools. Underneath them all was the small vial of definitely fake blood he'd found under the floor. He pulled out the small, mysterious, inconspicuous glass bottle and turned it over in his hands. If all of this wasn't his imagination, when could she have even gotten his blood? He tried to remember a time it might have happened, but it was all so long ago. *You're an idiot,* he told himself. *Why are you freaking out about any of this?* He looked at Andrea, still sleeping peacefully on the bed. Moonlight shone through her hair, providing a halo effect around her face. Why did he have to even learn about any of this? His life was fine. He was happy. He returned his attention to the vial. He took a breath. And opened it. The whole world stopped. The rose colored glasses he'd been looking through were shattered, and life seemed gray and unfamiliar. He looked to Andrea on the bed and saw a stranger. Her eyes were too far apart, her nose too short. She was sleeping with her mouth open, and her hair was a tangled mess, but none of it was charming, none of it was cute. She was lying on sheets he'd bought for his wife, but this wasn't his wife. This was some woman in his home, a woman he never invited in. Luke pressed his forehead into his hands and tried to meditate again, but couldn't even seem to gain control of his breathing. Andrea was the one who'd taught him how to meditate, so wasn't doing so letting her into his head? He tried to remember what he loved about his wife, but he couldn't even recollect those truths that seemed so real to him before. He needed to get out. Now. He jumped up and grabbed clothes from the closet. Could he ever come back? He emptied Andrea's suitcase as quietly as he could, shoving his own belongings in. He went from room to room in the house, grabbing things he would need in order to be away for a long while, and the more he walked through the house, the more he realized it wasn't his. Andrea had picked out this house. It was her dream home. Did he ever even offer an opinion on where they would live? Did he have one? He'd lived in the city before he met her, and that's what he'd liked. That was how he had seen his future. But he left that for her. After quickly combing through the rest of the house, he returned to the bedroom to retrieve the suitcase. He stood at the open door with his arms full of various documents and items, and he realized he was shaking. He just had to go in one more time to get the suitcase and get out. He forced himself in and dropped everything into the case. Her own belongings were strewn around the room and he tried not to look at them. There were blouses he'd bought her, lip glosses he'd tasted. He zipped up the suitcase and stopped for a moment to make sure he had everything. He had money, keys, documents, any trinkets he could find in plain view that belonged to him, some clothing. He had the vial... He should take the rest of the spell items. She would just find a way to cast the spell again if he left it. Maybe she'd find a way to cast the spell again anyway. He went over to the storage compartment and saw that the bed had been moved so that the compartment was uncovered but was now under the bed. He crawled under the bed and removed the plank and to his relief saw that while she'd apparently checked the supplies, she hadn't removed them. He collected everything, not knowing what was important and what was replaceable. In his hurry, he bumped his head on the bed frame as he crawled back out, and he heard Andrea shift on the bed. He slowly backed away and saw that her eyes were still closed. "You awake?" she murmured. "Y...yeah," he got out through a cracked voice. "Come back to bed," she said quietly. A shiver ran up his spine. "Soon." She mumbled and quieted again. He dropped the antiques into the suitcase, zipped it up, and carried it outside. It was a warm night. The three-quarter moon was visible behind the power lines over the neighbor's house. The Ruizes lived there. He wondered what their life was like, if they were happy and in love. What their future was. Luke went to his car and dropped the suitcase in the passenger's seat, then climbed into the driver's seat. The front door of his house banged open and Andrea came running out wearing only a long T-shirt. He locked the door and then looked for his keys before realizing that in his hurry he'd put them in the suitcase with everything else. He was searching through the suitcase when he heard knocking on the window. When he looked up, Andrea was looking at him in panic. "Luke! Luke!" she cried, muffled through the window. "Where are you going? Come back in the house." She pulled uselessly on the door handle. He found the keys and fumbled to get them into the ignition. "I love you. We've been married for twelve years; you love me, too. Please, don't go. Please!" He looked at Andrea's pleading face. She was distraught and beginning to cry. Her hands were pressed against the window and he could see a a sparkle on her hand where the moonlight hit her wedding ring. "I love you," she mouthed. He hit the window and she jumped back. He got the keys in the ignition, started the car, and sped out of the driveway. In the rear view mirror he saw her half naked and crying in the street, but when he turned the corner, she was gone. After driving for what felt to him to be an indefinite amount of time, he finally stopped the car and took a moment to let all of it sink in. His phone had been buzzing nonstop and he'd been drowning it out with top forty hits on the radio. He turned off the radio and his phone, but not before seeing forty-seven missed messages from Andrea and a few from her family. The world was silent but for his racing heart. His entire adult life had been determined by what Andrea wanted, and he'd never even thought about his own needs. She hadn't, either. He tried to think of people he could go to, but it occurred to him that all of the friends he'd made were through Andrea. Who was he without her? Right now, he was a confused, terrified man uncomfortable in his own skin, lost on the side of the road, heading nowhere. He put the car back in drive and set off down the empty street, trying to think of a new destination.


I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky because maybe they can relate, feeling a semblance of the same pain that I’m feeling. The sea would know, for how many have drowned in its flesh? It wasn’t the sea’s fault that the ignorant stray too deep. The sky would watch on, not realising why the small gets smaller when venturing too far down. And as the sea and the sky, I also am lost as to why one would disappear so quickly. Why she would. My star in the sky is now lost in the daytime and I do not know why. I lay in my lonely apartment, regretting to stray from the aesthetics of interior design my daughter begged me for, that would currently help me look at swirls of colours and emotions instead of dull blanks. Those blanks which are similar to the ones in my mind, who are wishing to see the just as lonely sea, to find someone to relate to what I’m feeling. All she left was a note, tattered with the scent of musk and ageing, as if she’s been gaining the courage for years to give me this bleak piece of ripped paper. I always knew my daughter to be decisive yet dependent, however, this note speaks of the opposite. She left. For why this happened, I do not know. There has only been the two of us, the picture perfect mother and daughter that stray from hardship and live in each other's joy. This isn’t joy. For the tattered note that *crinkled* in my hand revealed as such. *Dear Mum, I’m leaving...* I don’t want to read the rest as I fear my heart would shatter into tiny pieces, too small for glue to fix, yet big enough to cut yourself on. How could she do this to me? Was it to get back at the times I neglected the need for her to be more social? *Why do you need to go out so often when you have me?* I would ask, locking her in the house until she could understand that a mother is all you need. It may seem harsh, and she may have looked at it as so, mockingly calling herself *Repunzel* or *Cinderella.* However, the difference is that I’m the mother all kids wished they could have, I would have never thought of myself as a crazy old witch. Mother knows best and she would thank me for my company when she’s older. If she ever gets the opportunity to do so. If I ever see her again. I don’t understand how she’s even capable of leaving. Technology is the core evil of the Earth and I did everything I could to prevent it disintegrating her delicate, youthful and innocent hands. All she would do was write in her notebooks. She would write secrets that aren’t so secret when I have read them myself. I remember, after that incident when she caught me looking into her mind, she would write notes less and less, her writing fading along with her true sense of self. As I know my daughter and she wouldn’t leave me. I know her and now I know a bit more. That she’s a selfish, self-centred, sorrowful snake to leave with all but a goodbye to her now fading mother. And I know what she would say, that I’m a hypocrite, that I should ‘look in the mirror’. For I’m apparently the epicentre of all her problems and that I’m the sea causing her to drown, I’m the sky who’s watching her drown and I know what I’m seeing. But it’s not entirely my fault, and if she thinks so then I had no intention of hurting her and her rare relationships. I was protecting her, I’m still so sure of it. Sure, maybe I went too far. Locking her away like Repunzel up in that tall, terrible tower. Was this tower just as terrible? With the bleak walls, and the smell of rotting fruit that ties in with my rotting heart. I lost all care of everything else as I spent my days as a hovering helicopter to my daughter. For maybe the sea isn’t as kind and peaceful as many dream it would be. It has had its bad days where many would fear the unknown. I don’t think the lonely sea would relate to me as much as I am starting to relate to it. I’ll finish what I started, and read the letter. For maybe then I’ll start to understand my daughter.


Hey Guys, Here's a piece I've written about a bit of espionage gone wrong. Be warned, there's plenty of bad language and a smattering of violence. Hope you enjoy, I'd love to hear any thoughts or feedback you have on it. Matthews found it wasn’t the smell of the old butcher’s warehouse that made him feel on edge, but rather surprisingly, the noise. The whirring of the saws and the slicing of flesh was oddly rhythmic and organised, certainly not what he expected when he stepped through the battered entrance to the place. It did not fit the drab, revolting decor, and that bothered him. The paint on the walls were almost as worn as the tiled floor, which were obviously once white long ago. Now however, they were a dull, ugly shade of green, with black and brown stains spread sparingly throughout. He was no stranger to blood and gore, having seen much of it in his eight years of service to the loyalists. Tasked with the apprehension of vile, rebel scum within the city, he’d certainly seen his share. Carcasses of all kinds hung from rails in the large room, but the most common was pigs. Dozens of the things dangling lifelessly and skinless from the hooks above. Despite all of the noise of the machinery that would indicate people nearby, it was an entirely automated process with not a living creature in sight. Matthews shook his head slightly as he walked through the cadavers, being sure to not get any of the blood on his fine coat. He was heading for a door at the end of the large room, marked, “Private” With each footstep that took him closer, he could hear the faint sounds of something hard hitting something soft. He reached the ordinary, plain door and pushed it with a gloved hand. The door however, had other plans, and remained firmly shut. Matthews sighed and rapped his knuckles on the wood. Instantly the noises ceased, replaced instead by a soft murmuring he had to strain to hear. After a few heartbeats, a shrill high pitched voice sounded clearly, albeit muffled slightly from the door. “Whooooooo is iiiiit?” Matthews’s head lolled back in frustration and another heavy sigh escaped from his lips. “Just open the fucking door Hal. Must you always be so unprofessional?!” There was a dull click as the lock was turned and the door swung open to reveal a grinning man, with spots of blood on his face. Hal, as always, had absolutely no regard for formality or procedure. To him, it was something that was considered, then promptly ignored. Matthews was reminded of one of his most famous sayings upon seeing the ragged man, “Nobody ever died from not being called sir.” His hair was unkempt and messy, not slicked or styled, with long strands hanging down from the sides of his face. The telltale signs of youth were clear in his face and eyes, but that itself was a fortunate deception of nature, as Hal was in his early thirties. A thin stubble ran across his jaw and smiling lips, giving him a rugged look many of the ladies of the city found attractive. Where Matthews was tall and broad, Hal was short and wiry. Where Matthews wore sharply pressed trousers, a crisp white shirt with a fitted waistcoat and a tailored jacket, Hal was dressed in simple workman’s garb, wrinkled and stained with many days of use. Matthews knew better than to be fooled by his appearance however. Although Hal may have had all of the physical characteristics of a skinny factory worker, he was vicious, dangerous and above all else, loyal as a hound. Hal was still stood smiling when Matthews pushed him aside with a forceful snarl,entering the room. Hal held his arms up in exasperation, shaking his head with a sarcastic rolling of his eyes. “Oh yeah, I’m fine Matty, thanks for asking-” He began to speak, but was stopped by Matthews’ finger which was pointed at him, as rigid as a pistol barrel. “How many times Hal? It’s Matthews.” Matthews said with a glare. Hal laughed. “Hey! I can’t call you ‘sir’, ‘sir’. We’re in the middle of a covert operation-” “Spare me the bullshit Hal. You’d better have something good for me seeing as though you have no security whatsoever on the location. I mean, for fuck’s sake, anyone could just come through the fucking entrance!” Matthews said, anger colouring his words. Hal rolled his eyes again and gestured to the man who was tied to a chair in the centre of the bare empty room. The electric lights above flickered constantly, wreathing the man in bright white light one moment, then shrouding him in shadows a moment later. A table was illuminated briefly, covered with a variety of tools. Scalpels, pliers, hammers and clamps were to name but a few. A craftsman’s dream. “Taa daa...ladies and gentlemen, without further ado I present to you a known associate of the despicable restorationalists, Petir Mannings.” Hal said with an elaborate flourish of his bloody hands. As Matthews took in the sight, Hal continued with his introduction. “Known involvement with the Rail’s Cross bombings and the Bloomfield shootings, suspected involvement with various other terrorist movements such as the manor massacre and the great fire of the town halls, I give you...one nasty piece of rebel work...I bet he can’t even remember how many good loyalists he’s sent to the grave.” With his final sentence, he grit his teeth and punched the bound man square in the face, breaking his nose with a dull, distinct crack. The man howled with pain through his gag, as blood began to flow from his snapped nose. Matthews gestured to the many cuts and puncture marks on the man’s body and limbs, which were all precisely positioned, only oozing a small bit of crimson. “Hal, you’re not a machinist, you're a Justicar.” Matthews said, his voice softer now. “I know, I know...But this fucker was responsible for Niel and I wanted to remind him of that.” Hal replied, nodding his head slightly. The man continued to moan, unable to defend or care for himself. “They say that a pig’s flesh is most similar to a man’s. Fucked if I know, but he sure as hell squeals like one when you cut him.” “No more now, otherwise there’ll be nothing left for the machinists. They’ll make it long...and painful.” There was a silence for a few moments, save for the man’s groans of pain. “None of this blood’s mine by the way.” Hal said gesturing to his face. “I got him clean and clear in an alleyway out of east street, never saw me coming.” “Did anyone see the capture? No civilians?” Matthews asked. “No boss, it was quick and quiet. I don’t do things sloppy. I’ve been on him for a few days, trust me, I’ve not been made.” Matthews nodded and reached for his pocket watch in his waistcoat, checking the time with a quick glance. “The machinist will be here in a few minutes, I deliberately called him a bit later than I should have, I hope you’ll understand. After all, everyone’s got their guilty pleasures.” Hal said, a smile on his face again. To any other senior justicar, just admitting something like that would warrant a significant punishment for deviation of duty, or at the very least a “straightening out.” But Matthews had developed a strange sort of relationship with the man. Hal was professional at heart when he needed to be. He was easily one of the best Justicars that Matthews had command of, ruthlessly efficient and extremely effective in the field. It was just his lack of respect for the hierarchy and seniors that let him down and stopped him from promoting, although Matthews had long suspected that was Hal’s motive all along. He loved his work too much to be taken away from it. “I understand, but make sure he’s ready for the Machinist. Give him a bit more ‘reminding’ if you want, but be sure to leave something for them.” Hal gave a dark smile and nodded. “Much obliged boss, I’ll be sure to brief you on what we uncover.” As Matthews turned and began to walk out of the room, he heard Hal speaking to the man. “Oh dear oh dear, what are you moaning about? What’s life without a little laughter eh? Smile, it’ll make you feel better.” The soles of Matthews polished shoes rang out on the dirty tiles as he walked, not slowing his pace for a moment. The noise of something hard hitting something soft fading away with every step.