The Magi Weekly Classifieds.

Ad #1610 Single Wizard, 42. Enjoys good books, star charts and deep conversations. Seeking a star-crossed sorceress with a passion for discovery. If you value serious research during the day and playful observation at night, please write back. “Playful observation,” Albert Limerno read aloud from his ad. “What a buffoon. ” Albert tossed the issue of the Magi Weekly atop a heap of star maps on his desk. It took him a week to make those charts - plotting two new celestial bodies and calculating their apparent diameters, yet he spent a month agonizing over that silly ad. Time he could have spent on more serious matters. He plucked his quill and wrote a letter he’d been putting off for over a year. To the honorable members of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, Proven by the theory of perfect fixed motion, all celestial bodies move relative to each other in precise harmony. However, I have discovered an aberration. A dim body near the King’s Head star has an erratic motion that I cannot reconcile. Please refer to the included star map. Your humble servant of the skies, Albert Limerno

The dim star was a frustrating deviation in an otherwise perfect sky, but he could not deny its existence. The past year he’d built and rebuilt his astrolabe - spending a great deal on bronze plates and ecliptic rings. He bought three different telescopes and built two of his own, all to make the star conform to the theory of perfect fixed motion. The star refused to meet his expectations. But even with the heavens on his mind, Albert's thoughts turned to his silly little ad. *** For nearly a month, Albert rose early, only to watch the postman speed past his house - save for three deliveries of The Magi Weekly.

“Morning Bert.” The postman slapped issue #754 in his hands. Atop it were two letters. One sent from Martin Hornsby, Head of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, and the other addressed to the star-crossed Wizard . Albert rushed to his desk to retrieve his letter knife. He opened the second letter first. “Paintings?” was all it said. “Paintings?” Albert scoffed at the ads that had paintings. He saw one where a wizard clutched a gold staff and wore embroidered silk robes, as though that was his common attire. Another sorceress depicted herself atop Dragonridge summit, alluding that the peak experience defined her personality. A painting could be doctored to show any superficial display of status or attributes. It was beneath him. Albert threw the letter in disgust.

He opened the other from Martin. Dear Albert, brother in seeking.

The theory of perfect fixed motion has accurately predicted movements in the celestial sphere for centuries. During that time, we've had countless reports of ‘aberrations’ that have all been proven wrong. Most are as simple as not having a clean eyepiece. In your case, however, I suspect a failure in your imagination. We’ve confirmed that your reported body is simply not there. This is common for overtaxed minds. I advise a break from star charting. Enjoy some time off with your loved-ones. Your humble servant of the skies, Martin Hornsby “Clean eyepiece? Failure of imagination?” Albert crumpled the letter and tossed it in his stove pit. “He thinks I am some lunatic neophyte without a clue. No! I’ll prove it.”

Albert dragged his astrolabe, hung from a stout pedestal at the foot of his desk, to his window. With two turns of the latitude plate, he found his star’s coordinates. He swung his telescope and looked through the immaculately clean eyepiece.

The dim star was not there. No. How could this be? Albert spent all night cleaning his lenses and recalibrating his disks, but it did not make his star reappear. *** “Can you paint me?” Albert said, at the doorstep of his sister’s house. “You look awful, have you slept?” Gemma said. Albert came inside and slumped down on Gemma’s sofa. “Don’t tell me you come seeking a last portrait. Are you sick?” “No.” Albert sighed. “Well yes, but not of the body.”

“What is this about?” “I need a painting for my ad.” “What are you selling?” “Myself.” “A classified?” “Yes.” “It’s about time!” “Can you paint me or not?” “Of course!” Gemma fetched a canvas and a case of paints from her armoire. She sat opposite him and set the canvas on her lap. “Suspenders and an ink-stained shirt? I still have some of Roger’s formal wear here, I'll fetch you—” “My clothes are fine,” Albert said. “And why would you ever paint the stains?” “Don’t be surly, I’m doing you a favor. Relax, I’ll make you look good." Gemma pointed her brush to the top of Albert’s head. "I’ll even add a bit of foliage to the barren hill up there.” “Ugh, the world has become as shallow as a spring puddle.” “First impressions matter, Bertie.” Gemma smiled and set her brush to the canvas. “My teacher said that no one will swim the depths of the heart, if the surface does not first capture their eye.” “Painters should stick to paintings, not proverbs.” Gemma dabbed her brush in a canister of blank paint. “Would you meet with a bald woman?” “What?” “If you saw an ad with a bald woman, would you meet with her?” “I’d guess she’s sickly or insane.” Gemma gave a mischievous grin. “That’s your first impression?” Albert slunk further into the sofa. How can a painter best a wizard so many times? “Sit up, and stop slumping,” Gemma said. “Look like you have some dignity.” Albert sat up, and for the rest of the painting, he followed her direction. Albert left Gemma’s with a splendid portrait. She captured his best features - his high cheekbones, and sharp jaw - and lessened his worst, by adding a little foliage and removing a little girth. After admiring the image for too long, he sent it away to The Magi Weekly. *** Within a week, Albert had a new letter. Dear star-crossed Wizard, My best work is done by moonlight, and if we connect, I’m certain I can help with your playful observations. Shall we meet? Say at the promenade on the solstice? I’ll be wearing a blue dress. Sara. Albert grinned. The solstice? That is tonight!

He rushed out his door to Gemma’s house. “You’re smiling?“ Gemma said. “So you’ve finally gone mad.”

“Can I borrow Roger’s formal wear?” Gemma clapped. “You have a date! Yes, come.” She ran upstairs and fetched a white silk shirt - frilled at the neck - and striped trousers.

When Albert finished changing, Gemma brought him a short-waisted maroon doublet with gold trim at the sleeves. “He wore that on our first date,” she said. Her eyes grew teary. Albert gave Gemma a hug. “Thank you. For everything,” he said. And he dashed out of Gemma’s house on route the promenade. *** Sara stood at the head of the cobblestone path that followed Maggie Lake. Albert nearly turned around upon sighting her. Sweat pooled on his forehead and he could barely breathe. She was stunning. Her long curly black hair draped past her shoulders - streaked with a subtle gray that added a distinguished touch to her cherubic looks. She stood at least five inches taller than him, and her blue dress exposed only slivers of her long legs. “Sara?” he finally said, after calming his nerves. “Oh! I’d hoped it was you.” Sara thumbed to a man squatting on a dock nearby. “And not him,” she said, under her breath. The stout man held a rod in one hand and a bottle in the other. He flashed his yellow teeth and gave the two a nod. Sara held her arm out. “It’s nice to have the company of such a handsome man.” “I…ah, you…ahem..look radiant.” That was the best Albert could muster. But he took her arm, and they walked down the promenade. It wasn’t long before Albert settled and the two were laughing and chattering on. “You know!” Albert said. “That angler had the upper hand on me.” Sara laughed. “Is that so?” “Yes, he had a bottle! Such forward thinking by my rival. But I won’t tolerate any more embarrassment” He swept his hand toward the wine house a little way ahead. "Would you join me for a drink?" “Are you trying to make me giddy?” “Yes.” Sara squeezed Albert’s arm. “Well in that case, I’d love to join you.” The pair sat at a table overlooking the Maggie Lake gardens and shared bread and wine and stories. “So what do you do for the Order?” Albert said, pouring their second glass. Sara fiddled with her napkin. “I don’t work for them.” “Ah, and independent. I’d admire that. What’s your field of research?” Sara nudged her head towards the sprawling two-acre garden behind the wine house. “Plants,” she said.

“You’re a cataloguer?” Albert said, somewhat taken aback by the low station for such elegance before him. Sara’s eyes remained on the napkin. “I make salves and potions for my clients.” “Hah! Like a witch, good one!” “That’s not a term I use.” “You’re a witch?” The wine and bread threatened to come up.

Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I’m someone who doesn’t agree with everything that pompous Order has to say. They don’t like being proven wrong, and for that they slander us.” “They’ve been proven correct, time and time again, for centuries. And excuse me, but witches are prideful neophytes who don’t take their research seriously.” “All of them?” Sara said. Albert caught his reflection in the glass. He looked sharp in Roger’s maroon doublet. “In truth, I know nothing of witches. And you’re right, the order is expertly pompous. Would you accept my apology?” Sara smiled. “If you can accept being seen with a witch.” Albert lifted his glass. “To the under-realms with the Order of the Heavenly Magi.” Sara clinked her glass against his. “And to all the magic that life has to offer.” They finished their wine in silence. Albert looked out to the night sky. The moon was waxing gibbous, and the stars shone brightly. “Come,” he said. He left a bill on the table and stood. “I’ll show you what I do.” Sara took his arm, and they walked to the lakefront, where Albert withdrew his pocket astrolabe. “What is it?” Sara said. “Many things. A clock, a calendar, a compass, but for me, it’s most important use is a map.” He held the brass instrument to the moon and spun the outer disk. “You see that bright blue star?” Albert pointed to the sky and Sara followed the line of his finger.

“I do!”

“It’s the Gleaming-Soul star. Look for it if you’re ever lost, it will guide you north.” “It’s wonderful when you really take it all in.” Sara came close. “Do you have a favorite?” “There’s one that I’ve looked at a thousand times more than any.” He gave three turns to the disk. “There. A faint red dot called the King’s Head. Do you see it?” Sara squinted and thrust her neck forward. “I only see white and blue.” Albert dug in his pocket and fetched a loupe he crafted for such moments of spontaneous observation. “Here, look through this.” Sara held it to her eye. “Oh, I see it. And look, the King’s Head has a little ear.” “A what?” “A white point right beside it.” “May I?” Albert grabbed the loupe and looked through. It was his dim star. “You see it too?” “Yes.” Albert clutched her hands and found her eyes. “You really see it!”

“I do.” Albert’s joy turned to elation as Sara leaned in and gave him a kiss. *** The enamored couple spent every day together for over a month. The nights were dreadful apart, so Albert asked Sara to move in. “Are we rushing things?” Sara said. “I don’t care. I’ve been a cautious man my entire life,” Albert said. “And I only feel alive now.” “All my things, my cauldron, my herbs, you’ll be sick of my clutter. ” “Look.” He patted his desk. “You can set everything here.”

“If I leave, my mother will be alone.” “Ah, it’s a bit too high.” Albert said, mimicking a stir of a cauldron over his stove pit. He took his astrolabe off the pedestal and pulled the column the masoned pit. “Come,” he said, holding out an open palm. Sara went to him. “Are you sure?” Albert helped her onto the pedestal and held her close. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said. *** “Can you please not boil the aniseed while I am …aaa… achoo...working.” Albert said. He was at his planisphere, redoing calculations for the hundredth time, in pursuit of a new theory of perfect fixed motion. Sara stirred her cauldron, red-faced and gleaming with sweat. “My client’s daughter has a terrible rash and needs this yesterday. Can’t you work outside?” “Aaa…achooo!” In the force of the sneeze, Albert snapped the tip of his quill. “All I’ve done for you, and you can’t fulfill this simple wish?” Albert stood and crumpled his page. “I could figure this out, if there wasn’t such foul humors in here.” Sara dropped her stir stick. “What exactly have you done for me?” Albert chucked the paper into the fire. “How about giving you a roof, free of charge.” “I never asked for that.” Sara said. “Great heavens I wish you’d give those silly potions a rest. We don’t need the money. And do you know what it’s like to hear the other wizards chatter about me being with a witch?” Sara dug into the drawers of the desk and pulled out handfuls of aniseed and mandrake. “You needn’t worry about my foul humors anymore.” She clutched her ingredients to her chest and ran out the door. *** “Is Sara here?” Albert said, at the doorstep of her mother’s house.

The old lady stood with two hands shaking on a hazel cane. “Yes.” “May I speak with her?” Sara’s mother shut the door. I’ve ruined the only good thing in my life. What’s the point of this misery… “Albert,” came Sara’s voice from the window. His heart skipped. “Sara I’m —” “I need my things from your house. I’ll be there in the morning.” “Please, let me explain. It was my work, I was frustrated and–” Sara closed her shutters. Albert retreated to his house and collapsed on a chair near his desk. He could not eat, he could not sleep, he could not work. Sara’s grimoire lay before him and he opened it. The dust from the book carried the scent of aniseed and he sneezed. And then he cried. Albert composed himself. The open page of the grimoire caught his eye. Sister Abathy’s Love Potion One Mandrake root Three areca nuts Two leaves of henbane This recipe was handed down by my great grandmother. She was born in… Albert flipped past three pages of Sister Abathy’s family history and paintings of each of the ingredients.

Mix with your beloved's favorite drink, and they will be by your side forever. Please note that for guaranteed results, the potion should be made under the light of the full moon. Albert rummaged through the drawers. There’s a full moon tonight. I can do this. I can have her back. He found all the ingredients, save for an empty jar labeled henbane. He was not deterred.

There will be some in the garden. There must be some.

He grabbed his cloak and ran to the garden. *** Albert turned every leaf in search of the brown petaled henbane flower. For most of the night, he avoided a dense thicket of thorny roses in the middle of the garden. Exhausting all other options, he finally dashed into it. The thorns tore through his shirt and trousers and soon it was pitch black.

Something hissed. Albert jumped back into a bush, taking thorns to his rump. Two tiny pinpoints of light rushed toward him. “Get back!” he cried.

The hissing grew louder, and the figure took shape. The raccoon hissed once more and fled. Albert collapsed in the dirt. The stinging scratches on his body were nothing compared to the misery in his heart. The moon shone through the brambles above his head and only a few hours of its light remained. Even if he found the henbane, there wouldn’t be enough time. “To the under-realms with you,” he said. “Waxing and waning in some cosmic joke of lunar peekaboo.” Albert gasped. A moon! And then he laughed the greatest laugh of his life. “The King’s Ear is a moon!” Albert stood, plucked a handful of roses, and rushed back to his house. *** Albert sat on his porch the rest of the night, waiting for Sara to come. “What happened to you?” Sara said as she approached. “Something magical.” “I’m glad to see you so happy without me.” “Oh no, I’m dreadfully miserable. But now I see why.” Sara walked past him. “Wait. Look, I was frustrated with you, because you didn’t fit my idea of perfection.” “Yes, it’s a great shame to be seen with me–” “No. I was idiotic. Things don't need to conform to what I think, and they can still be perfect in their own way.” Albert held up the roses. “I’m not making sense…and I’m not asking you to come back. All I ask is that you accept an apology from this buffoon of a man.” Sara took the roses and gave them a sniff. “I never asked to live with you or take any of your space.” “I know.” Sara was silent for a long while. She stepped off the porch and looked up to the sky where the rising sun’s orange and red hues overtook the silver moon. She held out her arm, and the pair went for a walk.


TW: violence My mom’s last words were, “Every pain that we shared was for you. If you ever want to build a family, find yourself someone that mirrors you. Find someone and love her the way I loved you.” She was all that I have and so upon her death, the world had left nothing for me.

There was no one to care for me anymore. No one to comb my thinning hair. There was no one to help me stitch an open wound once I suffered another. It is hard as well to chop food with this two-fingered left hand.

We had lived in this wooden hut in the filthiest outskirt of town. Black waters of industrial waste ensured that the river cannot support a single sprout of any crop. Our picket fence never did hinder anything from trespassing our grounds. Looters would come and ransack our defenseless house, the equally starving would kneel for a meal’s share, and some people would just come in for our beating just to sate their bloodlust. The only visitors we aren’t bothered with were fat canal rats caught in our traps which would sustain our day. But my mom would hug me and assure me that all that’s happening was a way to toughen myself up. Her smile was the strengthening potion I needed.

From then, everything that reminded me of her uproots a pain I always try to bury. But not this time. I thought I would be alone for eternity until I saw your face.

Your smile was very reminiscent of hers. Do you know you both have thin lips but a deep cupid’s bow? It is uncanny how your nose has the same pointed form. Your dark eyes, I would say, are far more beautiful than hers. Hers I thought were carbonado but yours was the polished one.

I did everything to have you and finally, you were here rested beside me. I would do everything to keep you with me.

I caressed your face with my hand. I removed strands of your silken hair off of your lovely face. I’d love to stare more at its purest state.

I flinched for you woke up. Quickly you sat on the bed with your body tightly adhered to the wall. Your body shrunk and your thin limbs trembled. I might have frightened you out of your rest.

“Wha-what …” your speech stuttered. After your deep breath came a moment of calm. “What are you doing? It is quite early for your nighttime visit don’t you think?”

“Yes, that is so.” I squinted my eye and can’t help but look at your restless hands behind your back. “Are there bed bugs once more? Your hands seem to itch a spot furiously.”

Your shaking voice shifted to an unwavering one. You gulped, “Now tell me why are you this early.”

“I came here for your meal. Look, I prepared something special for you. I want my family to feel that they are loved.” I grabbed the tray with my right hand and tried to help it balance with my left. On top of it is a meal along with a glass of water.

“What is it?”

“It is not a rat this time. I tell you with all honesty. This is chicken!”

“Why?” your eyes pierce.

“What is with all this question?” I raised my voice upon your gratuitous skepticism. “Aren’t you happy I’m giving you a meal that I’ve never eaten more than the count of our fingers? What do you want me to do this time? You are making me mad! It was very thoughtful of me to provide you with something delicious for being a good girl!”

“Calm down! I still am your good girl.”

“Now fucking eat this up before I can’t control myself.” I left the tray above the bed, stood up, and started walking towards the door.

“Wait!” she beckoned. “I would love you to feed me this time.” You know that I cannot refuse such orders from your sweet voice. “Please.”

I went back and offered you a forkful of meat. “Open wide!”

A sudden jolt rushed down my nerves. My eye whirled with rapidity and my vision became the whirs of a defective television. A loud ringing was all I can hear. Blood spurted out of my neck tainting your devilish smile with crimson. Your eyes glare with satisfaction. As if that wasn’t enough, you lifted your knife and swung it without hesitation but I blocked it with my hand.

“You fucking open wide!” You stole the knife I carried on the tray and the next thing I felt was a loose jaw. Air started to inflict pain on my left cheek and the cold felt colder on my exposed gums.

With your limping gait, you scampered out of the room. “Rot in hell, you monster!”

“You will never get away!”

How can you run with a weak leg? You made me laugh. I thought you were the one to stay with me through the years but I guess I’ll just force you once again to doing so. Wasn’t it enough that I severed three of your fingers for you not to be afraid of me? Do I need now to slit your fucking mouth wider the same as what you did to me? What deception! It really seemed you were becoming a good girl. I shouldn’t have released you from your shackles.

Do you think this would kill me? My mother had cut my fingers for me when they started to rot because of an infection. She even plucked an eye of mine out and sold it in the black market. I take a beating every day you fucking moron! My lovely mother does know what’s best for me. She prepared me for this.

I ran outside the house and looked for you in the darkness. The barren fields were wide and it wouldn’t take long for me to find you, especially with all the bear traps dispersed under a thin cover of soil.

I tried sniffing the air just in case I can detect your lovely scent. A muffled groan excited my blood. Like a werewolf, the increasing sound of its prey draws me closer. And so I walked and walked, then ran the moment I saw a dark silhouette of yours. You don’t know how much my heart beats the more you tremble. Cry for me more.

“What happened to you? You inflicted this upon you yourself!” I sat in front of you and once again, I removed the strands of your hair that blocked a beautiful view. “I told you to be a good girl. But what did you do?” I bellowed as I pointed a knife to your face, “What did you fucking do?”

“Pi-please don’t kill me. I assure you that I’ll behave.” Your soft voice touched my heart anew.

“You really are a sweet girl. Do you promise that —”

You slammed a rock onto my face but this time I immediately retaliated with a punch. “You were beyond salvation.” I grabbed your hair and slammed your face onto the cold hard ground. Your eyes turned languid and your nose bled.

I guess there’s no helping it. An eye for an eye. I held the knife firmly and with its tip touched the sclera of your eyes. A drop of blood tells me that your screams weren’t a lie.

“Don’t! Please don’t! We are family right?” Your words echoed like music.

“Let me hear it again?”

“We … are … family …”

I never knew I’ll ever hear those sweetest words again in my lifetime. I don’t want to hurt the person I want to build a family with. I dropped the knife. “Let’s go home. Shall we?”


There wasn’t much left of the world. The war didn’t just take away singular things, rather uprooted entire concepts, and burned feelings and ideas to ash. Things such as society, comfort, and peace of mind were not only foreign to those who were born after it, but completely incompatible. Ideas that would collapse under even the slightest scrutiny, and that were more unbelievable than even the most outlandish children’s fantasy. Yet in a world where ideas died, where plants were all but eradicated, and the constructions that once stood as monuments to humanity's ability to create fell like dominoes, people still lived. Though these things were more real, and concrete than the very concrete beneath his feet, Elliot failed to consider them. The lack of care for the past or future was one of the notable traits of the Final Generation after all. Those who lived in the world before, often still thought about things other than what was in front of them, things that may have stood there thousands of years ago, or may stand there yet millions of years in the future. But the children of the Final Generation never had the luxury of learning this skill. All they knew was how to survive in the moment. Yet even Elliot had dreams. His were far vaguer and less understood than most boys of eight, but he knew he wanted something. Elliot, as impossible as it was, wanted to see a flower. He had heard that before his world, there were all kinds of flowers. Roses as red as blood, and daisies as orange as the sun. Flowers of dazzling colors he had never seen and fields of yellow called sunflower fields. Elliot’s older sister ran over, a piece of string in her hand, and a nervous smile on her face. She was born before the Final Generation and had a taste of things such as wonder, and amazement, and dearly wished for her brother to have a chance to taste such things as well. But whenever she tried to do something for her brother, something that would show him a world before his own, it always went wrong. Things were never meant to go right in his world, he couldn’t see why she couldn’t understand that. Though he did understand this, and so felt no disappointment when whatever plan she had, went wrong, seeing the pain on her face broke his heart every time She glanced up at the star-speckled sky. And nodded to herself. “Brookline,” he said softly. “Mhm?” she said, seemingly more focused on double-checking the plan in her head. “If this doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad sister. It’s not your fault” he said, taking her larger hand in his. She turned to him, her eyes, which had a color crossed between hazel and gold, fixed on his. For a moment she looked confused, perhaps still reviewing part of her scheme before she smiled softly at him. “That’s sweet runt,” she said, ruffling his hair. “But us grown-ups gotta make sure you little guys get a childhood as good as our own”. Elliot found it unfair that a sixteen-year-old was forced to be an adult, but completely missed the irony in the fact that he never saw himself as a kid. “Okay, just…just don’t get sad again” he said, "Don't worry, runt" she said, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice and on her face, a skill anyone born before the Final Generation clearly could not learn. “I won’t have a reason to be sad this time,” she said, pulling a lighter from her pocket. She flicked it a few times, and when she didn’t immediately get a flame, feared she never would, but eventually one came. “Okay,” she mouthed to herself. “Okay,” she repeated, this time talking to him. “It’s going to be loud okay? So, don’t get scared runt”. He nodded softly at her. “Okay,” she said one last time, before holding the flame to the string in her hand. She dropped the string as a flame started to follow it, across the barren ground. Brookline bounced up and down excitedly, but as the flame reached the tube at the end of the wick, it went out. For a moment all was silent, and Brookline’s shoulders slumped. Elliot’s heart sank as she opened her mouth, most likely to utter an apology, but before she could speak, a loud whistling sound emanated from the tube as it launched a brilliant ball of fire into the night sky. The ball exploded into a pattern of yellow light with a satisfying crackle before fizzling away. The tube-launched three more fireballs into the sky, each erupting into another beautiful yellow pattern. Elliot gasped in awe, and though he couldn’t see it, Brookline cried while grinning.


Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn. As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling. Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers. The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned. "Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group. After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body. The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo.


         Junior philatelist Davy Santos placed his rare, three-cent George Washington special into a windowed display card in the center of his table. Booth after booth, lined up side by side, filled the Sarasota Municipal Auditorium, home to the annual Sarasota National Stamp Exhibition. Some dealers displayed their wares on folding display boards, some on fancy swiveling racks, many in albums, a few in locked, glass-covered collectors’ boxes. Except for the George Washington special, Davy had a modest display of stamps in neat transparent envelopes organized in alphabetical order by country. These he’d collected in plastic shoe boxes he’d bought in a dollar store. His sheets of colorful tropical stamps from Venezuela were arranged all around the boxes to attract the customers.          When doors opened, a swarm of people flowed in and began circulating up and down the rows of vendors. The buzz of fans talking and joking and bargaining soon filled the auditorium.          A bald man in a brown leather jacket stopped and asked, “Hey, kid. How much for the George Washington?”          “Nine hundred,” Davy replied. “Just for today.”          “Fair price,” said the man, who sauntered away.           Another guy, older and more hunched over, strolled on by. Davy called out, “No fee for looking. Help a soon-to-be-college student get to college, please?” He held out a business card with his name, email address, and phone number and with a photocopy of his three-cent prized possession glued on the back.

         An hour or so passed, but no one was buying yet. Davy stood when lookers approached; sat when no one was there. He took sips from his can of Coke hidden at his feet under the table beside his now- empty wheel-around cart.          “Hey, kid! How much for the butterfly?” It was the same bald guy in the brown coat, who’d stopped before. He pointed to one in Davy’s Venezuelan pile.

         “Five bucks,” said Davy.          “Humph,” the man said. “All these flowered jobs? Must be truly old. Nothing like the Simon Bolivars you usually see from there.”          “They’re from the 1950s. My great-grandfather’s.  I inherited his collection when he died.”          “Humph,” he said again. “Will you take $4.50, kid?”          “Okay.” After collecting the money and placing the stamp and its transparent envelope into a paper bag, the boy said, “I’ve got some collectibles from Great Britain and a few from Liechtenstein?”          “Nah. Thanks.”          Davy had never told a single person at school that he collected stamps even though it was something he’d obsessed over ever since he’d gotten that first envelope full of them from The Mystic Stamp Company for his sixth birthday. He’d been hooked ever since. But guys at school wouldn’t get it. They’d call him weird or nerd or worse. So, he kept his true hobby a guarded secret and only attended conventions in Melbourne or Kissimmee when he was sure no one he knew would be there. Today he was taking a risk. The convention was in his hometown of Sarasota. Hopefully, no one from his circles would ever be caught dead in here.          With no other sales in sight, Davy abandoned his booth and headed out for a walk. “Watch my stuff for a sec?” he asked the vendor next to him.          When the lady nodded affirmatively, Davy took off to explore the other dealers’ tables and maybe spot a rarity or two. Two vendors had shops in nearby Bradenton; some came from as far away as Connecticut, Missouri, and Canada. He decided to take a look at the exhibit sponsored by the ABC Stamp Company, which, a sign said, specialized in 19th century U.S. postal history.          He was admiring an 1894 one-cent stamp when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and faced a girl. Long ponytail, blinky eyes, his age.          “Hey.”          “Back at you.”          “Someone in your family a dealer?” she asked.          “Nope. Just me.”          “I’m here with my dad. Boring.”

         “Nothing boring about philately. Its geography, topography, currency, sports, famous people, even foreign languages.”          “I guess.”          “Bet you don’t know the word Germany in German is Deutschland? I learned that from a stamp. I bet I’m the only guy who knows where the island of Mauritius is.”          She leaned close to him and said, “So where is it?”          “It’s an island in the Indian Ocean, off Madagascar.”          “Oh, I know Madagascar. That’s a movie.”          “No, it’s a place. Once a British colony.”          “Well, you sure know a lot.” Blinky-eyed Girl held an extra-large paper boat full of french fries in her left hand.          “No food or drink in the exhibit area. You know that, right?”          “I know, but fries taste awful when they get cold so I better eat ‘em up.” She swirled a fry in a glob of ketchup then stuck the whole thing in her mouth.          Just then something on the ABC man’s table caught Davy’s eye. “A twenty-four-cent inverted Jenny?” he exclaimed. “You’re kidding me! It’s a fake, isn’t it?”          “That’s no album weed , kid!” the vendor said. “It’s the real deal.”          “You mean a reissue?” the girl asked.          “Nope. Cost me $510,000 to be exact. The asking price is $600k.”          “Not a forgery?” Davy said. “Aren’t you afraid of losing it?”          “It’s insured. Wanna hold it, kid?”          “Yeah.” Half a million dollars in the palm of his hand and Davy’s knees trembled. “Big yikes!” He felt like he was in the company of royalty. In a way, he was. “You actually gonna sell this thing? Why don’t you hold on to it?” He handed it back to the vendor, who placed it on the table in front of him.          “Got some bills to pay and at my age, if I don’t travel the world soon, I’ll never make it. Here’s my business card.”          Davy read, “Sam Houston, ABC Stamp Company, Cleveland, Ohio.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the girl was flipping through an ABC catalog.          “Attention dealers, collectors, and visitors. Attention, please.” Davy and Sam turned their heads toward the front doors, where the loudspeakers were located.           “Our noon auction will be starting shortly in the theater area at the entrance of the convention hall. Don’t miss it!” The announcement was repeated twice.          Davy shrugged. He never entered into any auction. He was too afraid his stamp would be undersold. He turned on his heel about to head back to his booth when a hand grabbed his shoulder.          “You little thief. Nice try. Hand it over.”          “What?”          “You know what?”          “I don’t.” Davy winced from the squeeze on his shoulder bone.          “The inverted Jenny. My inverted Jenny. Give it. Right now.”          “I don’t have it. I gave it to you.”          “You took it. During the announcement.”          “No, I’d never. I didn’t, I swear.”          “Hand it over. This second, you little punk.” Now Sam was shaking Davy, who heard his teeth rattle in his head.

         Someone walking by said, “They teach them young to steal!”          “I didn’t steal anything!”          His shouting and Sam’s fury attracted a throng gathering around the booth. The crowd parted to let a man come on through. It was the bald guy in the brown leather jacket.          “What’s going on, Sam?”          “This here punk stole the Jenny. The Jenny!” Sam yelled.          “Let him go, Sam. He’s just a kid. Wouldn’t know value if it bit him.”          “Oh yeah? He stole it, clear as day.”          Davy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and took a couple of deep breaths. His knees wobbled and his stomach wanted to heave. “I didn’t, no!”          The bald guy said, “Better get back to your table, kid.”          Davy’s legs moved but he lost his bearings and traipsed up and down the rows hopelessly before he found his way to his meager wares. A few minutes later Sam, accompanied by a six-foot-tall, paunchy security guard, showed up.          “Search him, Hal.”          Davy felt the tears well up.          “Empty your pockets. The other one. Now the shirt pocket. Take off your belt. Remove your shoes.”          Davy did as he was told, moving through this bad dream as if he’d been cast in a movie of his deepest fears. Except he was the accused instead of the accuser, and the stolen item was an inverted Jenny instead of a George Washington.

         Sam stepped behind Davy’s table and rifled through his cart. The guard whipped envelopes out of the shoeboxes and tossed them on the floor. One by one every aerogram and piece of postal stationery lay haphazardly on the floor.

         “I don’t have it. I told you.”          “We’ll find it,” the guard said. “I know how.” Sam and the guard disappeared down a row of tables. The lady vendor who had watched Davy’s items during his absence stared.          The boy began picking up loose stamps that had fallen out of their protective coverings. Some had come off of their paper hinges. One sheet of Venezuelan tropicals was torn down the middle. His fist pounded the tablecloth. Those wonders that had belonged to Great-grandpa Jake could never be replaced. He took another sip of Coke to steady his nerves, he hoped.          Suddenly, a stern voice rang through the hall. “You’re under arrest!” It was a cop. A female. With a nightstick in hand and a holstered gun. Sam was by her side.           What? Why? I didn’t do anything. “I don’t have it.”          “You had it. Where’d you stash it? You little hoodlum!” Sam grabbed Davy’s shirt in his fists and yanked him forward. “I want my stamp. Now!”          “I’ll handle this,” the policewoman said. “Hands behind your back.”

         As she read him his rights, Davy’s mind was a blur. All of it was a blur—where they exited, how he got to the patrol car, how he got seated in its back seat cage. “What about my things? My money box? My credit card reader?”          “You should have thought of that before you stole a million-dollar stamp.”          “Half a million,” Davy corrected.          Officer Hastings adjusted the mirror then shoved her ponytail into her cap.          Ponytail! “Wait! I know who took it. I can get it back.”          “Too late.” She inserted the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life.          “But I know who has it. Listen to me. Take me back inside. I promise I won’t try anything. I’ll get the stamp back. That’s all anybody wants, right? Please, give me a chance. I know who has it. I know.”          “Try anything and I’ll Tase you.”          It took all of Davy’s courage not to bawl in front of the other vendors as the female officer led him, handcuffed, up one row and down another. Finally, he spotted the cute girl with the blinky eyes and ponytail. He recognized her orange T-shirt and her skin-tight skinny jeans. “Her!” Davy said as he pointed. “Look in her basket of fries.”          “What? I will not.”          “Look in it. She was right beside me. She walked around with that basket of fries like it was filet mignon and I only saw her take a single bite.”          “Excuse me, but I need to see your fries?” Officer Hastings’ face turned a crimson red.          “The food court is over there.” Blinky-eyed Girl hugged the paper basket to her chest like her life depended on it.          “Milly, what’s going on?” A blinky eyed man with her identical features pushed his display aside and spilled her fries onto his tablecloth.          “Nothing, Daddy.”          But there, among the greasy mess, was the inverted Jenny, still in its acrylic protective case. “Milly? Where did you get this?”          “I don’t know.”          “What do you mean, you don’t know? It just jumped into your food? Do you have any idea how much prison time you could get for something like this?”          The girl’s faced paled, and her chin began to quiver. “I don’t know, Daddy. I don’t.”          “Sir, don’t worry. It’s just a cheap forgery,” Davy lied. “So she isn’t in any trouble. But this officer is gonna return it to its rightful owner, just so it doesn’t get mistaken for the real thing.”          When Davy slipped by the girl, she taunted, “Don’t need your help, you little turd!”          The female officer paraded a handcuffed Davy back to Sam’s table, where she handed over the priceless beauty.          “That’s my Jenny. My Jenny! Officer, you’re a lifesaver! Wait, why are you removing the handcuffs? This kid is a thug. He stole a stamp worth thousands of dollars then took us on a wild goose--”          “--No, sir, he didn’t. And he saved the reputation of the girl who did.”          Davy rubbed one wrist then the other. Head down, he trudged along the rows of vendors till he reached his booth. Bending down, he scooped up the loose stamps, the empty shoe boxes, the broken lids.          Soon a voice at his side said, “Need a hand, kid?”          Davy looked up into the eyes of Sam Houston, who was handing him a brand-new Tupperware container in one hand, his three-cent George Washington in the other.

         “I do. I do need a hand. Just don’t call me kid.”          Davy accepted the man’s apology. Glad the convention was winding down, glad a female cop had believed him, glad he hadn’t had to call his mom from a police station for the very first time in his life. Happy to be just a weird, stamp- collecting kid. But still, it might help if he didn’t look the part. Thus, he made a pledge: Tomorrow he’d stop shaving and start growing a beard and hopefully some respect.

words: 2,251


I still remember the last time I saw you. Do you remember that day? It was almost the end of August. The leaves were starting to change colour and the weather was starting to cool down. You walked into my office around 3 in the afternoon like you owned the place wearing that royal blue shirt that you knew I loved along with faded jeans. You flopped onto my office chair and promptly started apologizing for being late as you were held up at work. We talked while I continued to finish my work. At 5 I locked the door to my office and turning around I saw you standing by the passenger door of your car holding the door open for me to climb in. Who knew the smallest gesture could mean so much? After you got in we were on our way. We had movie tickets and dinner reservations for that evening. During the drive you unconsciously reached over to grab my hand, put it on top of the transmission shifter and covered it with your own hand opting to drive with one hand rather than letting my hand go. Once we reached the theatre you killed the engine and got out of the car to come and open my door again. After I climbed out you leaned in and whispered “You look amazing.” Smiling from ear to ear I stood on my tiptoes to give you a quick kiss. I was wearing a black simple dress and three inch open toed heels on my feet. I always loved that you were taller than me even when I was wearing heels. I loved that I could rest my head on your chest when we hugged. Your height was definitely a reason I was attracted to you in the first place. Grabbing my hand once again you led me into the theatre and directly to Theatre 8. We found seats all the way at the top and got comfortable. You did not let go of my hand once during the whole process. Not during the movie. Not during the walk back to the car. And not during the drive to the restaurant. Conversation flowed so easily between us. It always had. I remember you taking off your jacket and placing it around my shoulders as the cold wind hit us when we stepped out of the restaurant. Not wanting to leave each other’s company we chose to aimlessly drive around for a while talking about work, friends, movies. Anything that came to mind. We finally reached my place just before midnight and I remember you whining about me going on vacation for a week. You were upset I was leaving but simultaneously happy that I was getting a chance to let loose. I didn’t see the need to say see you when I get back. I thought that was a given. I kissed you goodbye before getting out of the car. I didn’t turn around to wave goodbye as u drove away. But now I wish I did. Little did I know that kiss was the last time I ever kissed you. Little did I know that night was the last time I ever saw you.


Later, when she’s older and her bones pop when she bends down, she’ll remember this. It makes sense. It smells the same-- Nebraska isn’t so different from Missouri in the rain, and it’s the same muddy scent, even though she’s on the driveway and not in the grass right now. The smell remains the same, and it’s the smell that’ll make her remember, when she’s older, this day in the rain.

She’ll remember how the rain beats down, plastering her hair to her forehead. It will be longer by then, but for now it's short and stuck against her skin, refusing any attempt she makes to fix it. Longer wisps of her hair are also stuck to her cheeks, but that’s nothing. They’ve been there for an hour now, cemented by tears. Maybe she’s crying now-- she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, not with the rain. She shivers-- he took his letter jacket back when he drove away and she hadn’t thought about the cold consequences of that when she’d gotten into the car earlier. Years from now, she’ll buy her own letter jacket from a thrift store, adorned with letters she didn’t earn, although she won’t be wearing it when she thinks about how the rain felt clinging to the back of her thin shirt. It’ll be inside, in the closet next to her graduation gown, and she will wear it to the farmer’s market on the days she doesn’t snooze her alarm.

Now, though, she’s cold. She shivers.

Later, when she’s forgotten exactly which day of July this is, she’ll still recall the moments she spent considering whether or not to go inside her house. She would love to get dry, of course, but it’ll be air conditioned, which would chill her to the bone. Besides, her mom is in there, and if she goes in, her mom’ll see her pink-rimmed eyes even if the rain has done away with the tears themselves, and she knows she’ll have to explain to her mom how the love of her life is gone, and she’ll have to hear her mom, trying her best to be consoling, tell her that she’s only seventeen and she has her whole life ahead of her, as if it doesn’t feel like it’s ending now. When she remembers that part, when she’s older, it’ll bring a tiny, fond smile to her lips, but for now, it just sends her into another sob. She can tell she’s truly crying now-- her tears are so hot against her frozen cheeks, and she tilts her head up towards the sky. She feels like she’s communing with the heavens themselves, like the storm clouds can recognize one of their own and her tattered, faded soul is just the right color. When she looks back on this moment, when she’s an adult, she’ll mostly remember how one particularly tenacious raindrop flew right into her left eye.

When she’s rented her own apartment and then moved on from that apartment to the small house she’ll be living in when she remembers how she felt, devastated, on her knees in the middle of driveway, watching the end of the street as if staring will make his headlights reappear, as if he’ll admit everything was his fault and he made a mistake by letting her go, if only she keeps watching the turn of the road, she’ll sigh. When a few years have passed and this is no longer the worst day anyone in the world has ever had, she’ll think about how she let him drive away and shake her head a little-- that visibility was truly dangerous to drive in. Right now, however, she just blinks. She knew this would happen and she still put on makeup this morning-- it’s dripping down the sides of her face and smudging onto the palms of her hands when she wipes it away. She thinks the worst is over when she sticks her left hand in her pocket and pulls out a crumpled receipt for a cheap noodle dish and she feels her lip quiver all over again and when she exhales heavily, it seems deafeningly loud, despite the noise of the rain. When she’s grown a bit, and hears her own laugh in the same caliber rain just as loudly, it reminds her of the way the rain faded into a static back then too. Right now, though, she’s just aware of the way her breath hitches in her throat and how it shudders once she forces it out and how half of her nose is blocked. It’s hard to breathe, she finds, and she shivers again. The world is so grey, so empty, and so is she. It’s fitting.

Later, when she’s older, with her hands on her knees, winded both from laughing and from chasing her eight-month old chow-chow mix around her yard, she’ll think back to now, where she’s running out of sob, as if her lungs simply won’t force air anymore. Right now, her life is over, and her future is blank. She clutches her own forearms, a gesture half self-consolation and half a last-ditch attempt to stay warm. The rain refuses to let up, aggressive, overbearing, deafening. In a few years, when the rain hits her just as hard, it won’t seem painful at all. In fact, when she’s older and the rain reminds her of this moment right now, the rain will seem comforting. After all, it’ll be the same rain, the same water, and she won’t be able to help but smile at her former, younger self, who cared and loved so hard. She’ll look up at the rain, making sure not to get it in her eye, and admire the clouds-- they’re not empty, she’ll find, but full and lovely and she’ll laugh, despite herself, before scooping up the damp and muddy puppy. He’ll make a mess when she gets him inside, sure, but it’ll be worth it, she will think. She’ll walk towards her own door and think about the boy she’d loved so much, and wonder if he’ll be in town for the high school reunion in a few months. They will have become friends again, by then, and she will be happy with that. She’ll look back at the rain once before opening the door with the non-puppy-carrying hand and smile again at the memory of sitting out in the rain, on her knees in the middle of her parents’ driveway, and she’ll take a deep breath to smell that same rain smell that had surrounded her then.

But for now, she steadies her breath and shivers again. She wipes away the last of her tears and the rain-- a fruitless effort, to be sure, as more rain continues to drip on her face-- and stands. She stands, and lets the rain run down her scalp, down her spine, and she takes a breath.


My faithful readers, In the pages of this monthly column, I have revealed to you the mysterious doings of some of the most curious and eccentric persons on this earth. Over the years of your faithful readership, you’ve followed along on my adventures in meeting such elusive characters as the Bayou Swamp Preacher, the Magician Salesman, and the Mob Exorcist. Although I’m proud of my chronicles thus far, there had been one particularly evanescent figure of great importance who had evaded my attention…until now. Join me as I regale my encounter with the mysterious ghost writer known as Mr. De Ville, exposing his true nature and fulfilling a family destiny of mine that stretches back generations. As one becomes enlightened about the literary world, it does not take long to recognize the impossible pace at which many well-regarded authors publish new works. It was this realization that fed my intrigue of the shrouded world of ghost writing. Surely, a profession that encourages comparisons with specters must guard some shadowy personalities worthy of my column. To find such intrigues, I once again elicited help from my contacts in the dark, digital spaces that underpin our society. After a few weeks of plodding developments, I finally was afforded a lead regarding a man hiding under the alias of a Mr. De Ville. Subsequent investigation revealed this man to be the uncredited author of several infamous biographies, the subjects of whom had a strange habit of dying mysterious deaths before their life stories had been published. A lack of criminal investigations into these matters led me to assume that Mr. De Ville had somehow acquired powerful allies in high places. This gave me pause as to whether to continue my investigation, as any damning details I surfaced would surely haunt me after publication. However, I had a hunch that this Mr. De Ville may be the nefarious figure whose exposure would alleviate some darkness in the world and cement my rightful place in my family’s legacy. After much internal debate, I found the fortitude to carry on. Details were sparse on the man, even from my associates of questionable character, whose powers of recommendation rarely led me astray. I was ultimately blessed with an address, a domain in a rural part of upstate New York, deep in the forested bosom of the Adirondacks. Reluctant to make the drive without confirmation of identity, I sent a letter addressing my desire to interview the ghost writer. To my surprise, I received a return letter in just four short days. In the letter, a man who identified himself only as Rene, revealed that he was Mr. De Ville’s assistant, and conveyed his employer’s desire to meet with me at his residence. An invitation with strict conditions for meeting was followed by a harsh warning of discretion, promising the utmost legal action for any public revelation of my planned visit. I took the threat seriously, based on my earlier assumptions, and told no one, despite the obvious risks it posed to myself. The day before the proposed meeting, I made the long drive from the city to the small town nearest Mr. De Ville’s supposed residence. I stopped for the night at a dilapidated motel near the highway just as a fierce storm whipped up. Sleep evaded me that night. Thunder crashes and sweaty nightmares awakened me constantly. In one fleeting moment, I felt the presence of someone in my room, prompting me to grab my trusty cane and raise it above my head, shouting like a fool into the empty darkness. A more cautious person may have regarded the nights’ disturbances as terrible omens and abandoned the campaign, but I am not such a person. The journey from town took me along progressively degraded roads, from smooth highways to bumpy gravel roads, to barely passible dirt paths that appeared untraversed for years. Rene had suggested I bring along printed directions, for there was no cell service in these deep woods. I was glad to have followed his advice, for I was nearly lost multiple times even with said assistance. The unmarked dirt roads curved and branched endlessly into a disorienting maze amongst the sea of trees. I began to fear that I would arrive dreadfully late for the meeting, if I arrived at all. Deep in the evergreen timber, the light of day struggled to penetrate the thick tangle of branches. I had been driving nearly all day, and the fuel light flashed a warning. Fortunately, I had brought along an extra container of gas. As I parked, a premature, thick darkness overtook the woods. I kept the key in the ignition and the headlights on. Without my cane, I leaned on the car as I filled the tank. The forest was eerily quiet. Two glowing eyes appeared between the trees up ahead. The glowing orbs seemed to sit atop some tall creature. As it moved through the trees, the eyes lowered to the ground. Walking into the headlights, the eyes belonged to a snarling wolf. It approached slowly; its sharp incisors revealed. I felt frozen, paralyzed, from some otherworldly fear. The wolf stalked to the side of the car. It’s eyes locked with mine, and it’s snarl retreated. The wolf backed away and returned to the headlights, trotting a few paces before stopping and turning back, as if expecting me to follow. I fumbled putting the empty container away and hastily returned to the car. I proceeded hesitantly, slowly rolling behind this fearsome lupin as it guided me through the darkness. After some time, it stopped and let out a blood-curdling howl, before dashing into the thicket. No sooner than the wolf abandoned me, than I spied several specks of flickering orange light in the distance. Like a moth to flame, I followed the light of the lanterns until coming to a rest in front of a manor so out of place in these remote woods that I could barely register my belief. The large gothic mansion screamed of Victorian excess. A grand, stone staircase led up to an imposing wooden door fit for a castle. Ornate carvings danced along all its awnings. I hobbled up the great stone steps and breathed a deep, calming breath. As I reached for the ornate door knocker, the door flew open. A squat, bespeckled man with patchy, wispy hair greeted me. “Mr. Helsnig, I presume?” “Oh…uh, indeed…but please, call me Abe,” I said, as he motioned for me to come inside. I crossed the threshold as I spoke. “I assume you are Rene, whom I corresponded with?” “Ah, of course, Abe. Yes, I am the one who wrote to you. How was your journey? I’m afraid the path here can be quite cumbersome for those unaccustomed to the…” My focus on his voice faded as I absorbed the scene before me. A soaring cathedral-shaped ceiling overlooked a looming balcony, with two spiral staircases descended like twisted metal skeletons. There were no windows to be seen, with the gloomy space lit only by dwindled candles mounted along the peeling walls. It was even more ghastly than I had expected, even for such a supposedly eccentric person. I struggled to shake away the goosebumps that prickled my skin. “Please, follow me into the library where Mast…er…Mister De Ville awaits your company.” Rene had walked to the doorway between the staircases as I gawked at the room. He looked impatient, as I’m sure my late arrival had inconvenienced him. The metal tip of my wooden cane echoed through the empty room as I stepped towards him. I caught Rene looking at it suspiciously. “May I ask, for what use does a young man like yourself have with such an aid?” With much effort I withheld my annoyance and responded politely. I gave a brief explanation of my illness in youth, which had led to my current hindrance. Rene led us around a dark corner and down a narrow hallway. From a doorway at the end, I could see a dark silhouette illuminated by the dancing light of a fire. Rene hurried ahead and disappeared into the room. A deep, booming voice said “Ah, yes, send him in.” Rene reappeared and motioned for me to approach. The grand library awaited me. A roaring fire crackled in a cavernous hearth along one wall, flanked by two wooden chairs with intricate carvings along their frames. The room reeked of ancient books, which sat piled on sagging wooden shelves extending from floor to ceiling. Against the far shelves appeared to be a rusted and tattered hospital gurney. “For my treatments, Mr. Helsnig.” The voice materialized suddenly behind me, giving me fright. I turned to see a tall, pale man looming over me. A black shawl draped from his gangly shoulders. “Ah! Mr. De Ville, it’s nice to finally make your acquaintance!” I struggled to calm my voice. “Are you alarmed by my appearance?” He inquired. His blood-red eyes piercing mine. “No,” I lied, a sheepish attempt to convince us both. “Albinism is a rare and strange affliction, one of many I suffer from, but I’ve accommodated with my unique dwelling.” He raised his arms, gesturing at his mausoleum-like estate, the shawl hanging like giant wings. “Please, Mr. Helsnig, join me at the fireplace. You have travelled so far, and I presume you have many questions to ask of me.” He moved gracefully, as if floating, taking a seat beside the fireplace. I joined him. The hot flames on my face thawed the chill of dreadful nerves. “Well, Mr. De Ville, shall we start with your craft? How does one go about telling someone else’s story, in the manner of their voice?” “Ah, yes, well over much trial and error, I’ve found that it does not suffice to simply listen to one’s story, no matter how brilliantly they can orate the intricacies of their journeys.” De Ville gazed intently into the fire as he spoke. I spied flames dancing in his eyes, and I could swear it was not merely a reflection. He continued with a patient elegance. “I shall perform a demonstration for you tonight, but first, let us hear your other questions.” My concentration wavered as I considered his intentions. I scrambled to collect my thoughts as I continued. “I must say, I’ve marveled over your work, and with your powerful prose, surely you could have fame and fortune if you so desired. Why this profession? Why seek anonymity?” De Ville turned his gaze to me, and his severe expression alerted me that I had struck upon a sensitive subject. “True power lies in the shadows, Mr. Helsnig!” A bitter tone rose in his voice. “Be not foolish enough to reveal oneself to the masses, for you only invite injury. Better to thrive in the darkness.” I let a grave silence settle before I continued. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must ask. Why invite me to your residence?” De Ville turned to me. White lips wrinkled like maggots pursed into an amused smirk. “Why, haven’t you already guessed? A young man as well traveled and full of experiences as yourself, I’d be a fool to not wish to tell your story. How fortunate am I that you sought me out!” A tremor rang through my heart. De Ville smiled big, and I saw his fangs. Before I could react, the sound of quickening footsteps behind me followed was followed by a dull whack to the back of my head, after which the world went black. I awoke with a blinding headache. My body was strapped down to what I could only assume was the hospital gurney I spied earlier. Sensing a tingling in my right arm, and I lifted my head to see a dark red tube snaking from it. “Ah, I see you’ve awaken!” Mr. De Ville, or whatever name this monster went by, was staring at me from across the room near the fireplace hearth. Rene shuffled over to me and attended to a bandage on my head. “I do apologize for that nasty whack on the head. Rene is a good Familiar, but he tends to get a bit carried away at times with his duties.” After changing my head bandage, Rene bent down and was rummaging with something at my side. Upon standing, I saw him holding a bag of blood, my blood, and he shuffled quickly over to his master. The monster’s eyes lit up and he clasped the bag with his long, bony fingers. He seemed to rise into the air, afloat with pleasure. “Now, Mr. Helsnig, you shall witness my process! In the blood of my subjects, I can taste their personality, smell the successes and failures. I imbibe the very essence of their life. With this, I can flesh out their story as perhaps no one else can.” As the monster lectured, I worked at my wrist restraints. One was loose enough that I hoped to pull my arm free. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of having to dislocate my shoulder to do so, but the alternative was even more unpleasant. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Helsnig, as to regale me with your life story while I sip on your most vital of fluids. Your cooperation will result in a peaceful death, as you slowly weaken and fall into that irreversible sleep after me having drained you completely.” I yelped as I forced my shoulder from it’s socket, nearly fainting from the pain. “Please, do not struggle my dear subject, it only delays our work. Must I appeal to your sensibilities as a writer to convince you? I shall write for you the grandest biography that one could hope for!” Realizing they had not suspected my plan of escape, I played along. “Yes…okay….I will tell my story.” “Excellent,” the monster exclaimed with a hissing sound. Opening his mouth wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw, he bit into the bag of my blood. After a moment, Rene rushed to his master and grabbed at it. “Master, pace yourself!” The monster pulled his mouth away and licked my blood dripping from his chin. “Ah, yes, I can get carried away, ahem…now please, continue…cough, ahem.” The monster lurched into a coughing fit. It clutched it’s throat and glared at me, it’s eyes aflame. “What have you eaten!?” “Ha!” I laughed, stalling for time as I wiggled my wrist free. “You have doomed yourself with a taste for blood!” “Master!?” The familiar yelled, grasping at his side. The monster doubled over, hacking a terrible sound. The familiar turned to me, anger flashing across his face. “What have you done to my master!?” “Hahaha!” I couldn’t contain my glee. “The monster’s throat burns from the garlic and colloidal silver that flows through my veins!” I slipped my hand from the restraint and untied the other. Free of my bondage, I grasped my cane leaning against the bookshelves. Upon seeing my escape, the familiar charged at me, no doubt intent on carrying out deadly revenge. With a swift dodge of his advance, I spun round and swung my weapon, catching him right at the temple with a sickening thud. He collapsed limply to the floor. My heart thumped; my vision tilted as the loss of blood lightened my head. I steadied myself with my cane, sucking deep breaths. My eyes desperately scanned the room for other threats, but the only remaining appeared to be the once great monster who was now reduced to a pitiful heap on the floor, coughing and wheezing and spasming like a caught fish. “Who…haaack….haa…..who…are…haack…you?” The monster weakly rasped. “Face me and I’ll reveal my true self!” I ordered, kicking the monster. It feebly dragged itself to a slumped position against the wall. My blood seeped from the holes burned through it’s throat. “Spare me….haak…and…haack…haaack…I shall…give…..haaack…eternal life!” “Ha! Spare me the offers of your cursed eternal life! My family of mere mortals can live forever through the deeds that each generation visits upon the damned!” I slipped off a protective metal cap to reveal the sharp end of my wooden cane. Standing over the monster, I raised it high with both hands. The monster hissed and threw up a hand in a futile attempt at deflecting my blow. “I shall cast you to hell for your undead deeds against the living! For my true name is Abraham Van Helsing the 6 th , and I continue that which my great, great, great grandfather began so long ago!” With all my strength, I drove the sharpened point through the monsters hand and into its chest. It released a horrendous scream. Fire spontaneously burst forth from its chest and quickly consumed the entire body. The flames of damnation burned quick and hot, quickly reducing the monster to smoldering ash. When I finally peeled my gaze away from the glorious death, I noticed that the Familiar had slipped away. I followed his trail of blood out a back door, where the tire marks in the dirt revealed that he had escaped. I resolved to track him down, for he would surely lead me to another monster. My dear readers, as I have now exposed my identity, my column shall take on a different tact. I may have downed a king of the shadows, but there are many others who lie in wait to take the throne. I do hope you will continue to follow along as I hunt them all. Sincerely, Abe Helsnig, aka Abraham Van Helsing the 6th


"Two Pair! 10s high!" The meaty fist slaps the lawman's cards on the table, causing the dirty glasses and last bottle of whiskey to jump and wobble. The bar is nearly empty this late at night. Or should it be this early in the morning? I don't know and I don't care. All I do know is Mr Crane won't let me flop down on the sacks behind this here bar until all the customers are either upstairs with the girls or finding other homes for their drunken stumbles. Heh, even the girls want these imbeciles to lay it all on the line and finish up. Sandy's been drooped over Marv's shoulder all night, but I swear she's decided to sleep there. I caught her drooling down his lapel three hands back, but he ain't noticing anyhow. He hasn't seen much other than the cards and his drink since a couple hours past midnight. He eyes the turn now, the ungrateful turd of a card he just dealt himself, and curses. I always find it amazing a man can hold so still while cursing and drinking and, well, Mama told me not to use the other word, not even in my own head. No wonder Sandy can sleep on him like that. "It's yours, Burt, if the Scribed don't have nothing better." Oh, damn. The fatigue muddling my head is instantly wiped away by Marv's words. Not this again. Why did I give them that last bottle? Now the Scribed outsider will take offence and he'll pull those guns. Then I'll need to go call Mr Crane to tell him the bar is all shot up and he'll blame it all on me, I know he will. I look from the three me...people at the table, to the balcony for the first floor. Oh, thank you, sweet lord. Angie's there. She'll step in if anything goes down. She might look like the rest of the girls, but one wrong move and they'll be shipping you back to Tombstone in a pine box. The Colt hides behind that stretch of bare back, cocked, locked, and ready to keep the peace. The peace! Please, please don't make her shoot the lawman. I join everyone else in the room in watching the Scribed. No one calls him that, of course. He's either the man with no name or "Pardner" to most. To us that know him, those on his regular route, he's Boneyard Bill, or Bones if yer brave. I'm not brave. Bill lifts his chin and stares Marv in the eye, the orange glow of the light from his socket doing nothing to pierce the drunken fog of his opponent. Slowly, the hard white of his fingers move to lay his two cards down, knuckles clicking againdt the wood as his hand unfolds. "Three of a kind." Bill's voice echoes in the air, deep and resonant, a sound that throbs through every part of your body and soul until it reaches your brain. And it must be Bill's voice, since we hear it when he moves that sigil-carved jawbone of a mouth. No one cares he doesn't have a throat for breath to pass through. When you live on the edge of the Soul Lost Plains, you get used to people like Bill. You get used to it, or you leave. One way--or another. Burt stares at the pair of tens Bill drops. There are only four in the deck, this being a reputable house of disrepute, and they are all visible. His face flushes. His eyes bulge. Suddenly, I pay increasingly more attention to the bet in the middle. Oh, jeezus, no. The flat, silver star sits atop the small pile of favours. It's just possible to make out the word "Deputy" from where I am. I can only imagine what the Sheriff will say when Bill walks into his office, that star pinned to his desert-tan poncho, head bowed so his cowboy hat hides his fleshless, scribed face. He won't bluster, he won't rage. He'll give Burt a whooping he'll never forget and then send Bill out into the plains. And he will go. But, he'll be back, probably with his bounty, and something will need to be done about it. But that isn't what is going to happen. It's going to be worse, I just know it. "Ye cheated." Burt's voice is low, dangerous, carring the conviction of a man who knows he is always in the right. And the fear of a man who's life depends on not being wrong. "You know I didn't." "That's the third time in a row ye had a ten." "How do you know that? You didn't see my cards last round." Burt's face grows redder than I thought possible, and I go looking for the bat. Or a place to hide. "What ya saying, Scribed? You callin' me a... " "Boys." Angie doesn't raise her voice. "Take it outside, m'kay? I don't want to explain to the sheriff why I had to put holes in your clothes, you hear?" Bill turns to Angie, ignoring Burt, who looks ready to ignore the lady. "You don't want that, Angie. You know how I play those games." The chill air ices over between one breath and the next. Even Burt has lost his bluster, red skin now the colour of snow, or that's the colour they tell me it's supposed to be. His eyes drop to the single bullet atop Bill's stack of favours. One of his special bullets. His soul bullets. "You were saying. Lawman." I've heard that tone once before. The time Bill hopped into town, missing a leg, a couple ribs, and half a hip. He hopped to the graveyard and fell on Old Charlie's grave. I didn't see it, but they say he dug the old man up and 'recycled' what wasn't being used. It took three nights for him to finish carving those runes into the bone but, when he was done, he wobbled on out to confront the mob of pitchforks and shotguns. That was the first time I saw the bullets in action. I didn't want to see them again. I didn't want to see the jauntiness return to his step when he was full up again. "Well?" Damn, Burt, back down! Back down and save us all the trouble of explaining this to the sheriff. Instead, colour returns to Burt's face and venom to his words. "You're a cheat, Scribed." Boneyard pushes his chair back and stands, poncho billowing around his skeletal figure. Humerus, ulna, radius, that's what the doc calls them. Arm bones. They snake out, one of those big black pistols held by the guard on the end of a finger. He places it between Burt and himself. "That," he points at the bullet, "And that," he points at the gun, "Are for you. Don't anyone say I didn't make it fair. When the clock strikes Rise -- we draw." No one moves when he leaves, saloon gate swinging as he passes. One breath. Two breaths. "Who do you want to tell your ma?" "Angie..." "Who do you want to tell her, Burt? Someone will have to." "I got this. This time we're on even footing. I'm same as him." Angie shakes her head and turns to her door, probably to watch from her window. "You're not the same, Burt. You ran and hid the time he came to the cemetery. You didn't see what he done. You didn't see what he is." Her eyes are haunted, their hollowness visible from here. "I'll tell her for you. I'll spare her your stupidity." Burt stares after her, then at the weapon. Slowly, he picks it up, breaks open the magazine and loads the cartridge. All the while, his hands shake. He doesn't look at anyone. No one looks at him. "I got this." He starts for the exit, stumbles, straightens, pushes the gate apart. Leaves. Silence reigns. Marv continued his statue act all the way through. 'Til now. Together, we race for the door and I only just note Sandy's chin smacking into the seatback as he moves. I don't think she was awake long enough to be aware of what's happening. It's later, earlier, than I thought. False dawn has past and the pinks and purples of morning's first light already streak the skies, fleeing before the rolling thunder of Dawn's Cavalry on the move. The clouds of dust their charge kicks are easily visible, and I pray we won't be dealing with a soul storm today on top of everything else. No warnings were issued, but it's long past due for one. Burt stands in the centre of Main Street, Bill down by the old church. He's quiet and still, feet spread, shoulders...well, I have to say loose. His face is hidden under his hat, the brim bowed to cover it. He might be grinning, maybe smirking. Can skeletons smirk? He faces the cavalry, appearing ready to meet them in battle, instead of defending his honour against a drunkard. We all watch, wait. The sky lightens. The cavalry charges. The air is still. Then, they are upon us, their spectral mounts flashing across empty space, their silent cries echoing from open mouths. They twirl their sabres and kick long-gone spurs into longer-gone flanks. They tear past us--through us--the wave of dust following in their wake, the only physical manifestation of their existence, fleeing before the oncoming light. And, just like that, they are gone again, the dust billowing around us, slowly turning to motes of purest crystal as dawn breaks across the town. My gaze darts between the combatants and the line crawling up the bell tower, creeping ever close to the old toller. Burt's fingers twitch. Bill doesn't move a non-existent muscle. The line inches closer. Burt's legs tense. He's ready to act. Angie's right. He fled. He hadn't seen. She would need to tell his mum. Finally, the rays strike the bell and, for the first time today, its silver chime rings out over the land. Burt dives. Bill fires. If it were a normal bullet, he might have survived. It isn't. A spray of colour bursts from Bill's barrel, streams of light putting the sun's recent performance to shame. They twist, and turn, and form beautiful horrors from nightmares. Flying skulls, dead unicorns, demons leaping from unseen air pocket to air pocket. They are their own cavalry charge, and they have spotted their enemy. Burt doesn't scream; he doesn't have a chance. He has barely enough time to realise what's happening before they are upon him, ripping his soul from his body, snatching it away and roaring into the sky. Their cries and cackles are unheard, but I know I will hear them. Eventually. In my nightmares. Bill calmly lowers his pistol, raising his canteen in the other hand. He says something then; I know not what. But the spirits hear him. And, though they struggle and plead, they return to the skeleton, drawn to that bottle. It takes forever and no time at all to shackle them to their master, who sends them somewhere only he has ever been. When the last vanishes from view, he raises the canteen to his jaw and drinks deeply of the nothing. Wiping his arm across his face, he shuts the lid and strides to where what was once Bill lies, retrieving the pistol from the body's loose grip. "Get me his star, Davey. I got a sheriff I need to talk to." I do what I am told.


Nathan had a conundrum. The glass globe that mapped the entire planet - which he had dropped and shattered - was missing! The last place he recalled having it was while infiltrating the militancy hall in Droon. He'd been in the back alley trying to piece the broken - well pieces - together. What had happened after that? He had no memory of the moments after, which deeply disturbed him. To distract himself he stomped a rock into the soil of his personal floating island.

Displaced dirt was pushed out of the edge in influence from his runes and fell off onto the forest below. “Well, that’s okay.”

Nathan inspected the runes by stroking his finger through the groove in his totem. He traced them all the way to the dirt it was wedged into. “Fine calculations I believe.”

He was a genius. The totem wasn’t even centered and he still kept the chunk of earth level. “Now let’s see, I wonder where the pieces have gone. Someone might have stolen them. Maybe sold them off for a large fortune.” He had no way to track the pieces. They weren’t homing crows. So would he ever find them again? He might have to give up and spend his life on something more meaningful. At least he had the portion that showed most of this continent. The town west of Droon would be good. He recalled visiting there once. He’d been surprised how much news came through there. “Maybe I will find a young lady asking the local glass blower for the remains of a glass globe to be repaired. By which time I will arrive and sit with my drink. After overhearing the young lady I will approach (in a not perverted way) and offer my assistance. Namely my financial backing. I would pay for the repairs. Then with the glass map, we will join on an adventure together and become fast friends before using the globe to end the Terror of the Militancy once and for all.” Nathan was keenly aware of the plot holes and cli·chés in his story.

Once the town was in sight he lowered his personal island into the forest to its south. The mountains and hills in the distances evened out and fell away as he lowered under the tops of trees. He was in the midst of the quiet forest when he crashed to the ground. The island collapsed into a heap of grass and rock and dirt with his totem askew. There was no other way to land. He brushed himself off. His fine coat was dirty now; about right for someone who had traveled on the road. He was grateful for the cover. As for the totem he hoisted it and shuffled a sack under it and sat to rest. He was sweaty thirty ticks later when he was done. Even better, it was summer after all.

When he took a step up to the main road through the town, a woman ran out of a building on his right. “Haha! We usually get the best news by scroll, but this time the news walked itself in!” Nathan froze. Did she know him? “Hah! Well, bring your strange log in and tell us about it!” The woman turned and walked back into the building. Nathan followed her. This would probably be exactly where he’d want to be. Past the door, Nathan looked up at the sky. What did they do when it rained? “Terral! I’ve got him!” Nathan laughed. “You have me. Now…uh… do you have anything for me?” “Hahahah!” “Hehe.” A light and feminine voice laughed. “I’m Arri. Tell me something more interesting than the news out of Droon, and I’ll feed you and rehydrate you.” Nathan took a seat at the long table under a canopy. He shuffled his butt on the well-worn stool. A plate of grains and root vegetables steamed up between him and the women sitting across from him. They all smiled. “Looks good.” He pushed the plate aside.

They all leaned in. Terral had an eager look on her face. “This is definitely going to be juicy.”

Nathan took a sip of the drink they’d served him. “The totem I lugged here? That’s a rune totem I carved myself.” Terral’s eyes were so rapt with attention that Nathan felt the heat of a blush rise to his face.

“What’s the totem do?” Her light and now breathless voice made his heart beat faster. What was this? “Ah…uh, the totem. I use this for transportation.” Nathan took a bite off the plate while they pondered his words. Terral looked at the other woman. “I think this news is fabricated.” “Maybe he’d find comfort among the other fabricated stories.” “Oh you’re right. He’d be all nice and cozy.” Nathan chose to eat his generous meal and ignore the banter. He knew they spoke of the scrolls hung behind him. He’d been bullied enough to know not to react. After finishing the drink he had food remaining. He accepted an offer for a refill. While Arri went to fetch more, He stood and turned around to walk up and read the scrolls that hung on the far wall.

Terral came up next to him while he skimmed the various news reports. She respected his focus by watching silently. After he had skimmed all the news, Arri came up on his other side with a cup. He moved to accept it but she shook her head.

“Yours ‘s on the table.” Then she tossed the contents on the scroll in front of her. As the liquid soaked in, the ink ran. Nathan turned toward her in shock. He heard a giggle behind him.

“It’s water.” “Water…” He looked at the scroll soaking into the fabric. Not parchment as he’d assumed. She jerked the cup up again and more water ran the news away. Nathan watched as some drops fell into a divet in the ground where the bottoms of the scrolls were weighed down.

Someone new suddenly burst in and hurried over.

“The news! Arri! It’s not even raining. what’d you wash it away for?” “This is yesterday's news. Stay a while and enjoy the company of your neighbors. Today’s news will arrive shortly. Do I ever tolerate a late runner?” “No. no, you don't, you can be trusted. I’ll have what he’s having.” While the other man took a seat, Terral replaced him and felt one of the fabrics. “She washes the news away early, so folks come from all over the village and sometimes even Droon and the outlying homes to keep in the know. She’s brought a suspicious community together in a really clever way, I think.” Terral gave him a look. He didn’t know what the look meant, but none of the news would help him. He looked at her, tried to remember her name, but failed. He spoke to the air instead. “I lost a glass map of the planet. I’m looking for the pieces.” “Wow, a globe? Those are so expensive. Who even needs one? Nobody’s going to cross the ocean.” “No, I think they are still on this continent. I dropped it and it shattered. I have a good memory, but not after that moment. Here, I have a piece. He pulled out a concave shard of glass and held it up for her.

“Let’s take that to the table so you don’t drop it again.” At the table Nathan pointed out the geographic etches in the glass. The woman felt the smooth oceans and the rough continents.

So why do you need a globe? Are you trying to learn about the other continents?” “Well I can still learn about this continent with the part I have. Yes, the other parts are necessary if I want to get back to the academy.” “Academy… The University in Droon?” “No, this one is out in the ocean.” “Out there? Ships don’t even leave sight of the shore. How will you get there? Wait back? So you’ve already been there?” Nathan nodded. “Would you like to see how? “ “Arri. a break?” “Sure thing Terral! As long as you tell me all about your date!” Terral. That was her name. He’d remember it now. Nathan guided her out to the forest again. Terral was keeping pace with his long and quick stride. She kept her face turned away from him. Was she blushing too? He picked a flat and empty lot with plenty of healthy grass, where he dragged the totem out of the sack. With a heave of his totem he pegged it into the soil right through the grass.

Terral watched him trace the runes from top to bottom. The runes were carved all around the totem and connected by smaller grooves like elegant veins.

After his finger passed a glow lit up the runes. Once he reached the base of the totem, the ground broke up around them. They rose on the chunk of earth and had to kneel from the sudden movement. Nathan gestured for her to hold onto the totem. Once high enough to see over the rooftops Nathan eased the amount of runic influence on the island. They stood suspended directly above the empty lot.

Terral waved at the people in the open air news hub. They pointed and waved back. This was sure to be news that would get him into trouble again. That was good because he wouldn’t find those globe pieces easily. Terral sat and said, “What if you never find the other pieces?” “Well the naive stories of gathering the parts of a relic and saving the world are very unrealistic. I’d need an anchor linked to this totem to move horizontally. Otherwise I can only levitate a small piece of ground Directly up. The globe has a link to Flor’eliant zherself. That’s how I anchored to the forest nearby.

His “date” looked past him in thought. A smile lit up her face, “You are clearly a genius at using runes. You could try making your own map.” “That wouldn’t be enough. I’d need a deep connection to the elements. The globe isn’t runic magic itself. I have no idea how it was made….” A short woman walked into the the news hub and sat at and empty seat. she dumped a pile of broken junk in front of her and began placing them in an organized arrangement.

Nathan turned to Terral. “Does this town have any maps of the area? “ “Are you going to make your own globe?” “No, I’m going to try a different way to anchor the totem to the land in the ocean. “So giving up on finding the glass parts?” “Not quite, but I think that local maps might even have a better connection to the planet. “Arri!” “What!?” “This Nathan man wants maps!” “I’ve many not very useful ones.” Terral looked at him. “Well mister Nathan. Want to look?” Nathan smiled. “Even old or outdated maps could help.” Nathan and his new companion perused the maps in a room behind the news hub that did have a roof. While they grew excited, the newcomer was placing glass pieces together that represented waves and other images in glass. She tried in vain to solve the mystery of the images. In frustration she slid everything into a pack and left the hub at a brisk walk.

“All right, do you mind helping me home?” A great vine rose out of the soil on the outskirts of the town. The woman was lifted high in the air and carried away across the land. The great vine wove and entered the earth in long-reaching arcs. As one portion descended another rose for the woman to hop onto. In this manner she quickly traveled past the city of Droon to the east, then turned north and with her went the shards of a glass globe. Deeper inland, and north to the city of Amnyl where she would return to her pursuit of the past.

“We’ll find out what you are yet, little artifact.” She patted her pack with optimism. Back at the town, two strangers peered over old and new maps with a fervor of those engaging in novel and intellectual pursuits. Forgotten was Nathan’s dreary voyage across the land. Forgotten was Terral’s lonely yearning for

news abroad. In a cramped room they shared a new journey. A journey much like the one a young mechanist had embarked on at the workshops of his university.

Three journeys that shared a single thread.


“Yela?” A woman in black business slacks and teal silk top looked at me. “Yes?” “You can follow me.” So I did. We left the testing room of plain walls and hard chairs. As she introduced herself as a nameless director, she led me through wandering hallways. We had been walking through this maze for ten minutes, when we arrived at two wooden doors and she said, “Welcome to the Gut Camp!” I followed her past the gates four times my height and was greeted with a garden of trees, flowers, rocks, birds, butterflies, and ponds. Somehow when the doors shut behind me, all other noises disappeared. I only heard the fluttering of wings and the trickle of water. “Yela,” she started. “Your gut tested so well during the entrance exams. We think you would thrive as a part of this program.” At 18, every citizen of Wastan completed in-depth personality tests to determine how they would best benefit society. I could’ve been placed with the Heart or Brains or Brawn schools, but I was assigned to the Gut tribe. We were picked for our instincts, not our digestive health. She guided me through a tour of the place, while painting daydreams of me leading national and global initiatives. As others passed us, I noticed creatures following them. They acted like dogs but didn’t look like them. One creature didn’t look like any other. Some were big, and some were small. Some slid, and some flew. Some drew me in, and some inspired me to look away. “Yela.” We stepped onto a platform of a gazebo-esque structure. It looked wooden, but it felt like clouds under my feet. “I’d like you to meet your companion. This is Hunch.” She stepped to the side and revealed my creature: a purple bowling ball with eyes, a mouth, paws, and feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Yela,” they spoke. I gasped. “I’m sorry.” “No worries,” they said. “Meeting your companion for the first time can be shocking.” They bowed with the little neck they had. “Yela,” the director chimed in. “Hunch represents your purest intuition. They will support you through your training and career as a leading mind and decision maker. In 15 minutes, you two must pass the gut test.” “What’s the gut test?” I asked. “You and Hunch will be interviewed and measured for compatibility and cooperation. It’s like a routine doctor’s visit, nothing to worry about. Plus, the connection should come naturally for the two of you.” I looked at Hunch, and they smiled at me. “I will leave you two and return in 15 minutes for your exam.” As the director nodded and glided away, a bird-like creature landed on her shoulder. I wished my companion could fly. I kicked the air, as if a rock was at my feet. I walked along the gazebo’s edge and looked over at Hunch. They were still. “So how exactly do we prepare for this test?” “We must trust ourselves.” “Have you done one of these before?” “No, I was created to pair with you and no one else.” “Really? How old are you?” “Age does not concern me.” I scoffed and dragged my fingers across the bars of the railing. “Assuming that you have not been around long, do you even know what you’re doing?” “One does not know. One simply does.” “Unbelievable,” I scoffed. “Hunch, you’ve got to give me more than inspirational quotes.” “Greed makes one foolish.” “Ridiculous,” I laughed and threw up my hands. “Can I get a new companion?” “No.” “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” “My name is Hunch.” I looked at them and their stone-cold, serious face. No quivering smile. All business. “This must be a mistake.” I strode around the garden, arms swinging. I scanned for the director. I exhaled like a peeved dragon and strode some more. I heard a noise behind me, like a helicopter rotor spinning. I looked over my shoulder to see Hunch pattering a few yards back, like the toy group contestants of a dog show. I rolled my eyes. How was that thing designed to help me pass this test? Just then, I spotted the director. Despite the tranquil surroundings, I ran across the garden. The helicopter behind me picked up speed. Once I got to her, I said, “Director,” and paused to catch my breath. Then, I heard a shaky slide whistle below, and at my feet sat a panting Hunch. I shook my head. “Director, there’s been a mistake.” “What kind of mistake?” “Hunch can’t be my companion.” “But Hunch is your companion.” “No, Hunch can’t be. We don’t get along.” “That’s common for a student’s first meeting with their companion.” “But,” I replied, as I dug around my brain for a rebuttal. Then, a high-pitched gong rang next to my ear. I looked up to see the director’s assistant holding a four-inch gong and mallet. “It is time for your gut test,” the director said. “Now?” I questioned, as Hunch began to hum. “But we need more time.” They followed the director and assistant, leaving me behind. “We can’t go now.” They walked toward this wooden beast of a structure, like the queen gazebo, decorated with vines and flowers. “We won’t pass.” Despite my reluctance, I was pulled forward by the director’s drive. No eyes looked back at me. Not one of them glanced over their shoulder. Then, I tripped and fell into a flower bed. As I spat out petals, I brushed dirt off my jeans. I looked up to see Hunch shaking like a dog that was caught in a rainstorm. “Hunch?” “Yes?” “Did I trip over you?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry.” With my hands dangling, I let my arms rest on my knees. “It was merely an accident. Rising again will be a testament to your persistence.” They held out their hand-paw hybrid. I scoffed. “How can you help me up? My microwave’s taller than you.” “I believe I can. I feel I can, so I will.” They stretched their arm out to me. I sighed, grabbed their hand, and was pulled up. It was smooth, unlike a yank. Hunch managed so much strength that I almost fell into the next flower bed, but I remembered my balance and strength this time. I turned around and looked at Hunch smiling. “Woah, how did you --” “I already told you,” they said and shuffled to meet the director. I shook off more dirt and nerves, while running and catching up. Making sure I could see Hunch ahead of me, I walked onto the platform. The director sat in an empty chair between two other officials. They all had an air of earned importance. They looked others in the eyes, despite the difference in position. It was as if there was no hierarchy. Hunch stood before the panel and nodded to the spot next to them. I hurried to my place. We bowed to the panel. They bowed in return. “Hunch,” the director started. “Do you trust Yela?” “Yes,” they answered with the little chin they had held high. “Yela, do you trust Hunch?” I used my peripheral vision to check in on them. Chin still as high as ever. I answered, “Yes.” “Yela,” she said. “Do you trust yourself?” Unaware that I’d be tested on myself, I was thrown a surprise party without any streamers or cake. I gawked like a fish out of water. Everyone looked at me, but Hunch stayed forward. That nub of a chin did not falter. Noticing a new warmth and moisture in my armpits, I stuttered, “I think so.” Equipped with invisible magnifying glasses, everyone leaned in, but no one said a word. There was nothing like silence that made me want to fill the space. “I’m pretty sure I do. I mean I do. I do trust myself. Most days. Almost always. You know, humans. We mess up. Like last week! Last week, I spilled coffee on my mom’s couch. That was stupid. She was mad. Oof, she was mad.” “Yela,” the director grounded me. “Yes, ma’am?” “Do you trust yourself?” There was nothing like someone repeating their question that made me doubt myself. “Director,” Hunch said. “May I have a moment with Yela?” She nodded. Hunch turned to me, and I knelt down. “Yela?” “Hunch?” “Do you believe you can trust yourself?” I looked at the waiting panel and turned back to my companion. “I think so. I just hate having the focus on me.” “That’s right. You should focus on yourself.” I shook my head. “Hunch, that’s not what I --” “Thank you, Director.” They ended our conversation and turned forward, leaving me to pick up my jaw and rise again all on my own. “Yela,” she started. “Do you trust yourself?”  When I was a young girl, I believed I could fly. I would sprint, flap my arms, and jump from anything I could. I once made it to the roof of our house, but my mom spotted me before I could make any big moves. I believed I could, and for a second -- leaping from a tree -- I was airborne. “Yela?” “Yes!” I shouted, inspired by the internal monologue that no one else heard. “I apologize for the outburst, ma’am.” “It’s alright. I like the enthusiasm.” She smiled. “I will ask again. Yela, do you trust yourself?” “Yes,” I answered with a chin high like Hunch’s. Our army of two was ready to take on the world. Just then, I felt something wrap around my leg. I looked down and saw Hunch hugging my calf. “Are you alright?” “I am proud of you.” I smiled and felt like flying again. “Yela and Hunch,” the director said. “You have passed your trust test. You are free to go, but please stay close.” Hutch tightened their grip on my leg. “Thank you, Director,” I bowed. “But what am I supposed to do now?” “Whatever you’d like, until you are called for your next exam. It won’t be long.” She and the other panelists bowed and left for other business. I looked down again. “Hunch?” “Yela?” “Are you going to let go?” “I do not want to let go of this feeling. Not yet.” They snuggled and squeezed. I smiled and looked up to the sky filtering through the roof’s beams. One day, Hunch and I would learn how to fly.