26

Matt felt most at home at two in the morning, when the city's outlines blurred into a soft mist. He lingered beneath the Nightbird’s awning. The whiskey still flowing warmly through his blood after the last call. He lit his cigarette. Hand curved around the flame despite the air’s stillness.

He imagined the photograph. Grainy, underexposed, and slightly out of focus. One that makes a man look burdened with the weight of the world.

Indeed, there was a sadness. Since fifteen, perhaps. He discovered it made for a good photograph, caught the light in a certain way. It looked good with whiskey. With cigarettes. With women who said they could tell he was somewhere else. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Cobain, Winehouse, all twenty-seven. It was supposed to be a short trip, and he packed appropriately. He left savings behind; those were for people with a future. He left the dentist six years ago. He left his job, a restaurant, quitting in the middle of a Saturday rush. Untied his apron, laid it on the steel like a man surrendering his sword. He had never felt so alive as he did on that walk home.

The warmth of burning a bridge. For a single night, it glows. It’s the warmest thing in the city. At twenty-six, how many bridges there still were!

His brother, Paul, called on Sundays. Paul was four years older. He had a family. A house and an infant daughter. He’d leave Matt voicemails about nothing. Matt never picked up, but some nights he played them and listened.

33

He shifted the date once, then again, and then again. Twenty-seven became thirty. Thirty became “soon”.

Lena made note of things in advance. She’d note a future doctor’s appointment, their anniversary in March, her sister’s wedding in April. She asked him to plan something nice for March.

I’ll take you some place special.

And where’s that?

Relax. You’ll know in March.

She knew then they would not make it to March.

He watched her pack her things. He hoped for tears. For anger. He hoped for a storm. To be the kind of man for whom storms came. Instead, she asked only if he’d like to keep the coasters.

He told the story at the Nightbird three times. The first time, she simply left. By the third, she delivered an impassioned eulogy. Ran out the door as he watched her taillights fade into the night. It was the kind of story that earned him drinks. On the walks home afterwards, he felt the old warmth flicker up.

Months later, she called. He watched it ring. Watched it stop. He tried hard enough. “Love just wasn’t meant for people like him.”

45

A bank had replaced the Nightbird. Now, he drank at Benny’s. It was a block away. The stools were harder, and the lights weren’t quite as moody. He had lost two molars. He could not afford a bridge, so he chewed on his right. His mornings arrived with an incessant cough. He told himself it was his voice was deepening with age.

One Friday, the bartender at Benny’s, a young man, set a glass of water before him without asking. “Let’s do a water, boss,” he said, as though speaking to someone’s feckless uncle.

Matt normally knew how to turn being thrown out into a story. However, this subdued sympathy left him uncertain. Uncomfortable. He drank the water, murmured a thanks, and stepped outside to smoke.

He repeated the ancient ritual and imagined the photograph, but as a chatty trio of college students neared, they fell silent, swerving toward the curb. Recovering their voices only once they had passed Matt by.

Matt promptly finished his cigarette.

61

Paul was asleep when his heart gave out. Matt prepared his words and mentally rehearsed them on the train ride over, watching his reflection in the window. He would be the soulful brother, the cowboy, the black sheep.

The event was packed with faces and voices Matt did not recognise. Paul’s daughter spoke of the early morning drives to school. His dutiful effort and care. And through it all, he uttered not a single complaint. She lamented that she did not understand her father’s service until she took up the mantle of parenthood herself.

Friends and colleagues shared words of commiseration and celebration. Paul was reliable. Paul was the one you called. Paul was a mover.

Nobody asked Matt to speak.

At the reception, a woman asked how he knew Paul.

I’m his brother.

Oh - I’m sorry. He never mentioned-

She walked away, thinking it strange. She sat amongst the others and forgot him.

Matt stood alone as it flickered through his mind like a match struck in the darkness. Two in the morning, pacing the hallway, rocking his infant daughter back to sleep. Birthday cakes from the grocery store. A call to his mother once a week. Thirty years of the same argument with his wife. A living room too small for all its guests, but warm and inviting all the same. A life immense and sublime.

Paul’s life.

Matt thought of the voicemails. He tried to recall when they stopped. He could not. They ended so quietly. So far back. His chest tightened.

He stepped out into the parking lot. Cupped his hand around the lighter. He leaned against the lamppost where those leaving would see him: the brother outside the funeral, solitary in the chill. It was a better photograph than the one inside. It was never a hard choice. It had never been a hard choice, not once.

He stayed until everyone left. Nobody came over.

68

At two in the morning, his smoke detector began to chirp. The detector hung from the ceiling of his dingy apartment, out of reach, and his knees could no longer bear the chair.

He scrolled through his phone, through names he hadn't spoken to in years. Paul’s daughter had sent a card the first Christmas after the funeral, but not another after. Matt reasoned it was foolish to call his niece at 2 AM about a detector battery. You don’t call anyone at 2 AM about a battery.

He thought about writing her a letter instead. He composed the first line in his head. It was a lovely line. He did not write it down.

He pulled the heater closer to the chair by his window. Once again, he curled his hand around the lighter.

The detector chirped again.

16 Inches

Eight days had passed since the deadline to take the fish houses off the lake. He watched them go, one by one, all week. With each morning, they went about the same methodical, inevitable ritual. They jacked up the shanties and winched them off, leaving only a clean rectangle, the impression of a presence. The warden had come and put a notice on his door. He read it once and left it.

In January, he received a cake and a calendar after forty years on the county road crew. They hung the calendar above his favourite chair. The following Monday, he drove his shack out onto the lake.

He’d drill a hole every morning before he did anything else. He leaned on the auger until it busted through, lowered his tape, and measured the ice. Sixteen inches. That was a good number.

His shack had no windows. When he shut the door, complete black consumed him until the green glow from the spearing hole shone through, lit from beneath by the daylight in the lake. He could see the weeds on the bottom, the small perch swimming among them, the grains of debris drifting through the light’s rays.

The only light in the shack came from the lake.

He let down the decoy, a wooden perch he had carved, its colours worn now. His spear hung above his door. Seven tines, with a rope on the handle tied to a cleat in the wall, so whatever he struck, he would not lose. Then he sat on his bench in wait.

The men at the bait shop had talked about an old pike for as long as he had been coming to the lake. She was female, larger than a grown man. She lived in the deep waters and came up to the shallows only in the last weeks of ice. Most of the men who had first told him about her were dead now. No one had ever seen her.

He had.

The winter of his son’s birth, a shadow passed through the hole from one end and kept coming until it filled the hole and ran past both edges. It hung there long enough for him to see its eye, then vanished before he thought to reach for his spear.

He told his wife, Ruth, he’d return when he caught her. He also told her he’d be back by the Sunday at the end of the month regardless, for his grandson’s baptism.

He sat with the green light reflecting across his boots. He was content. He hadn’t known a person could be so content, or that contentment, when it came at last, would feel so much like waiting.

15 Inches

The ice, once seamless, had begun to pull away from the shore as a band of open water now lay some yards across. He laid a plank over it and crossed over to the ice. His truck remained on land. He drilled his hole. Fifteen inches. Still a good number.

Ruth had driven down to the lake. He walked out to the edge of the ice sheet to meet her. They stood on opposite sides of the open water.

You promised by the end of the month.

I know.

It’s Sunday. It’s happening today.

I know what day it is.

He’s got your name. You should be there when they say it.

He tightened his lips and looked back at his shed.

Is it the fish? she asked.

I’ll come back when I get her.

What do I tell them?

That I’m fishing.

She stood a while longer, then returned to her car and drove away.

The lake began to speak that night. A sound like a great wire drawn tight. It was a familiar sound, but he always heard it whilst on land. The deep rumble began from the north shore, running toward him, then passing beneath him so that he felt it in his back and his teeth. Hearing it whilst lying on a cot in his dim shack was another thing.

Fifteen, he said.

He lay still until he was sure it wouldn’t come again.

15 Inches

The green beamed straight up through the hole. He had watched the decoy so long he no longer saw it. Then the green glow darkened, as if a cloud had passed over the sky beneath the lake; he looked, and a long shadow slid under the light. Flat and wide, her behemoth head emerged first, then her body slithered into view; dark olive, adorned with creamy spots, her scales firm and taut like chainmail, nearly shimmering in the green glow; it came on and on and on until it covered the hole from end to end. Then she stopped - suspended right under his decoy. He looked right into her eye.

He reached for his spear, moving slowly so as not to shake the ice, and held it with both hands just a foot above the water. It was a trivial throw. He had made a life for himself making much harder ones.

He would drag her in, and they would need to invent a scale large enough to weigh her. He would proudly pose beside her for a photo, and they would stick it on the wall. The men would hail him for completing what Ahab could not. Then there would be the day after that. And then the day after that. And then all of the other days on nothing but dry land. Days with nothing left beneath him to wait for.

He held the spear over the hole as she hung motionless in the green.

And then she left. She departed like light leaving the wall from the noon to evening, so unhurriedly that he could not say when she began to go, only that she was going, and now she was gone. The green glow gleamed back up the hole.

He hung the spear back up. He told himself he had not been quick enough. She was still down there. Tomorrow he could wait for her again, and the day after, and the day after.

The moon would descend, and the ice would rumble again.

14 Inches

The propane ran out. He awoke before dawn to the chill. He drilled his hole and read the tape. Fourteen inches. He loaded the empty cylinder onto his sled and ambled towards the shore.

The gap of water between the shore and the sheet of ice had doubled. His plank barely reached the edge, its far end resting on soft, grey ice. Once on shore, he looked back to his shack. It was the only thing that remained on the lake. Then he drove home.

Ruth was sitting at the dinner table when he arrived. On their fridge, there was a photograph of his grandchild. An infant in a white gown.

They poured it on him three times, Ruth said. He didn’t cry.

His eyes lingered on the photograph.

Did you get your fish?

No.

He went to his chair beneath the calendar and sat. Ruth came and stood by.

What are you doing? she said.

Nothing.

She went into the other room.

He meant to return to the lake by the afternoon. But the house was warm, and then the evening came. He slept in his own bed for the first time since January. He awoke after midnight. He heard the wind come around to the south, placed his hand on the window, and felt warmth in the glass.

Zero

At daybreak, the plank was gone. A channel hundreds of feet wide separated the ice sheet from the shore. Far out, his shack stood alone, slightly tipped over. He watched it from shore all morning. Toward noon, it listed even further. Its demise was gradual. It settled like an old animal in its final rest. The water consumed the shack, one end and then the other.

He thought of the spear on its hook, the decoy on its line, and the room filling with the same green light it had always looked down into. Then the roof went under.

In the evenings of that spring, he stood by the window over the sink and looked out at the lake. No more ice. He stood by the window anyway, for hours, the way he gazed into the green glow within his shack.

Chapter One: Love At First Sight
Winter had settled over the town when Isaiah met Lyra in December 1989. The sidewalks were slick with old snow, the houses' windows glowed with Christmas lights, and the cold made even the shortest walk feel like an inconvenience.
Their mutual friend Alex had decided to host a Secret Santa party that year, inviting a handful of friends to his house for an evening of cheap gifts, holiday music, and enough food to feed twice as many people as he had invited.
The living room was crowded and warm. Coats had been piled across the backs of chairs, half-empty glasses of beer sat on every available surface, and a string of colored Christmas lights blinked lazily around the living room window. Someone had brought a plate of sugar cookies, someone else had brought a fruitcake nobody seemed willing to touch, and an old Christmas record played softly beneath the overlapping conversations.
Isaiah stood near the edge of the room, nursing a can of soda and listening to his friends argue over the rules of a board game. He had never been particularly fond of parties. He liked his friends well enough, but he tended to go quiet in large groups, content to observe rather than compete for attention.
Across the room, Lyra laughed at something Alex said.
She laughed in a way that made people look at her without realizing it. Isaiah noticed her before he knew her name, though he didn't think much of it at the time. She was pretty, certainly, with a smile that seemed a little too genuine for a room full of people pretending to enjoy one another's company. But more than that, she seemed comfortable in a way he had never quite learned.
When it was time to exchange gifts, everyone gathered around the Christmas tree. Alex passed out the presents one by one, occasionally shaking a box or guessing its contents before handing it to its recipient.
Lyra received a rectangular package wrapped in red paper with a crooked silver bow.
She tore off the paper to reveal a hardcover copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula.
"Oh, nice," Alex said, leaning over her shoulder. "A little light Christmas reading."
A few people laughed.
Lyra turned the book over in her hands, studying the cover. The edges were slightly worn, though the pages looked untouched.
Isaiah recognized it immediately.
He had bought the book months earlier on a whim, thinking he might read it someday. Someday never came, and when Alex reminded everyone to bring a Secret Santa gift, Isaiah grabbed it from his shelf without thinking much. It was something he knew he wouldn't miss.
He hadn't expected Lyra to end up with it.
"Looks like you got my present," he said.
She glanced up at him, a little surprised. "You got me a book about vampires?"
"Technically, I got you a book about a lot of things. Vampires happen to be one of them."
She smiled and looked back down at the cover.
"Well, looks like I'll have to get to reading it."
"It's pretty good," Isaiah said, then paused. "Or, at least, I've heard it's pretty good."
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
"You haven't read it?"
"I bought it, didn't I?"
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No," he admitted. "It doesn't."
She laughed, and Isaiah smiled too.
They spoke for only a few more minutes. Their conversation was brief and awkward, interrupted several times by others, and neither of them asked for the other's phone number. By the end of the evening, they had drifted back into separate conversations. When Lyra left with a few of the other guests, Isaiah barely had time to say goodbye.
Still, she remembered him.
A few months later, the book was sitting on her kitchen counter beneath a stack of unopened mail, a grocery receipt, and a magazine she had been meaning to read. She had moved it there after the holidays, intending to get around to it eventually.
One quiet afternoon, while looking for something to do, she picked it up.
She settled into a chair and opened the front cover.
Beneath the title page, Isaiah's name was written in dark blue ink.
Below it was his phone number.
And beneath that, his address.
Lyra stared at the handwriting for a moment, then laughed to herself. She hadn't even realized he had owned the book long enough to write his information inside it. She wondered whether he had done it in case he ever lent it to someone, or whether he had been the sort of person who wrote his name in everything he owned.
She remembered the party then. His dry humor, the way he had looked faintly embarrassed when she caught him admitting he hadn't read the gift he'd given her.
She had thought he was cute.
Funny, too, in a quiet way she found appealing.
The thought lingered longer than she expected.
Eventually, she closed the book, walked to the kitchen telephone, and dialed his number.
It rang several times before the answering machine picked up.
A click sounded, followed by a brief mechanical hiss.
"Hi, you've reached Isaiah. I'm not home right now, so leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
Lyra waited for the tone, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she felt.
"Hey, Isaiah. This is Lyra. I don't know if you remember me, but I got your Secret Santa gift at Alex's Christmas party. The book."
She paused, glancing toward the kitchen window as if someone might be watching her.
"I was wondering if maybe you'd want to hang out sometime. Do something. Whatever."
She winced at herself.
"Anyway, give me a call back!"
She hung up before she could change her mind.
For the rest of the afternoon, she found herself checking the telephone whenever she passed it.
She told herself it didn't matter if he called. It had only been a casual invitation, nothing serious. If he weren't interested, she would forget about it.
But that evening, when the phone finally rang, she nearly knocked over a glass of water as she reached for it.
When she heard Isaiah's voice on the other end, she smiled before he even finished saying hello.
Neither of them could have known that a book about a creature that survived by feeding on the living would become the first small coincidence in a chain of events neither would ever be able to undo.

Chapter Two: The Love Hungers
By the time Lyra and Isaiah approached their second anniversary, they had become the sort of couple their friends teased them about.
They went everywhere together. They ate, shopped, watched television, and spent so many evenings at one another's homes that their separate lives began to feel like an inconvenience. Isaiah kept a toothbrush at Lyra's apartment. Lyra had clothes in his dresser. Neither of them could remember the last time they had spent an entire weekend apart.
They were happy.
At least, they believed they were.
The strange thing was that happiness never seemed to be enough.
Even after spending a full day together, Isaiah missed Lyra the moment she stepped into another room. Sometimes he would follow her into the kitchen for no reason other than to stand beside her while she made coffee. Lyra did the same, reaching for his hand whenever they sat together, leaning against him when they stood still, and kissing him as though part of her feared that if she stopped, he might disappear.
They joked about it at first.
"You know, most couples don't need to be attached at the hip," Lyra told him one afternoon as he followed her down the hallway.
"Most couples aren't as interesting as we are."
"Oh, is that what it is?"
"It's the only explanation I can come up with."
She rolled her eyes, laughing, and pulled him into a kiss.
But sometimes, after the laughter faded, Lyra found herself staring at him with an unfamiliar ache in her chest.
She wanted something she couldn't name.
She wanted more.
And the worst part was that Isaiah seemed to understand.
Their second anniversary approached in the winter of 1992. One evening, Isaiah called Lyra from his apartment as she folded laundry.
"I was thinking," he said, "for our anniversary, maybe we could stay in. Play some Super Nintendo, order a pizza. Nothing fancy."
Lyra smiled and tucked a shirt into the basket beside her.
"That sounds perfect, baby."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. As long as I'm with you, I'll be happy."
A pause hung on the line.
"I love you," Isaiah said.
"I love you, too."
She meant it with an intensity that sometimes frightened her. It wasn't merely affection, nor even the ordinary longing that came with being apart from someone you loved. It was something deeper, something that lived beneath her thoughts, a persistent hunger no amount of closeness could satisfy.
She didn't know that Isaiah felt it, too.
Their anniversary came and went exactly as planned.
They ordered pizza, turned off most of the lights, and spent the evening curled up on Isaiah's couch with the Super Nintendo set up in front of the television. They took turns playing, arguing over whose turn it was, and laughing whenever one of them made a stupid mistake. By midnight, the pizza box was empty, the living room was a mess, and Lyra was lying with her head against Isaiah's chest.
His fingers moved absently through her hair.
She could hear his heartbeat.
It was steady, warm, and reassuring.
She closed her eyes and focused on the sound.
For a moment, she felt perfectly content.
Then the familiar ache returned.
At first, it was subtle, nothing more than forgetting something important. Lyra shifted closer to Isaiah, pressing her cheek against him until nothing separated them.
The ache remained.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
"What's wrong?" Isaiah asked.
"Nothing."
He studied her face.
She hated how easily he could tell when she was lying.
"Lyra."
She sighed. "Do you ever feel like something's missing?"
His fingers stopped moving.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know." She searched for the words, growing frustrated with herself. "Sometimes I feel like I could spend every second of every day with you and it still wouldn't be enough."
Isaiah stared at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know what you mean."
Neither of them spoke after that.
They didn't need to.
For the first time, Lyra felt relieved. The feeling had seemed so strange, so unreasonable, that she had been afraid to admit it aloud. But Isaiah understood. He felt it, too.
Whatever it was, they were experiencing it together.
That should have comforted her.
Instead, it made the ache feel larger.
Over the following weeks, the feeling began to follow them everywhere.
It was there when they kissed goodbye in the morning, held hands in the grocery store, sat together watching television, and lay awake at night with their bodies pressed close beneath the blankets.
They began noticing it in photographs.
At first, Lyra thought it was a trick of the lighting. One afternoon, while looking through a handful of pictures and sorting out the ones she wanted to keep, she stopped at a photo of herself and Isaiah standing in front of Alex's Christmas tree.
They were smiling, his arm wrapped around her waist, her head tilted toward his shoulder.
They looked happy.
But there was something wrong with the space between them.
She couldn't explain it. No visible gap, no strange shadow or blur. Their bodies touched exactly as they should have. Yet the longer she stared at the picture, the more she felt that something vast and empty stood between them.
Not space, exactly.
Something that had no right to exist.
She took the photograph to Isaiah that evening.
He stared at it for a long time.
"Do you see it?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
"Yeah," he finally said.
"What is it?"
"I don't know."
He turned the photograph over in his hands, as though the answer might be written on the back.
They looked through the others. Every photograph seemed to contain the same invisible absence. It was never obvious at first. They had to stare until their eyes watered, until the familiar details of their faces blurred, before the feeling revealed itself.
The void was always there.
It was as though the photographs had captured something their eyes couldn't see.
After that, they began trying to explain the feeling to each other.
They never got very far.
Sometimes Lyra would begin describing it, only for Isaiah to interrupt with the exact words she had been searching for. Other times, Isaiah grew quiet, and Lyra felt the shape of his thoughts before he said a word.
She couldn't hear his voice inside her head.
It was more like recognizing a familiar song before the first note had finished playing.
His sadness arrived in her chest before his expression changed. His anxiety settled behind her eyes before he admitted he was worried. When she was afraid, Isaiah would reach for her hand before she realized she had begun trembling.
They interpreted it as a sign that their love was deepening.
Neither considered that they might be losing something.
By the following Christmas, the sensation had become impossible to ignore.
Alex was hosting another holiday party, this time in a new house with a larger living room and a fireplace that made the whole place smell of woodsmoke. The same friends had gathered, along with a few new faces. Christmas music played from a radio on the kitchen counter, and someone brought a bottle of wine that circulated the room.
Lyra and Isaiah arrived together.
They barely acknowledged anyone.
They stood close enough for their shoulders to touch, their hands intertwined, their attention fixed almost entirely on each other. When someone asked Lyra a question, she answered without looking away from Isaiah. When Alex tried to draw Isaiah into a work conversation, Isaiah seemed to hear him from a great distance.
It wasn't intentional.
At least, not at first.
They were becoming more difficult to separate.
As the evening wore on, their conversations grew strange.
They would begin speaking normally, exchanging words that everyone around them could understand. Then, mid-sentence, their voices would change. Their speech became soft and rapid, the sounds running together until the words no longer resembled English.
It sounded like gibberish.
Yet Lyra understood every word Isaiah spoke.
She understood him when he spoke too quickly to follow. She understood the unfinished phrases, the strange sounds, even the pauses where no words came at all. Sometimes she knew what he was about to say before he moved his mouth.
Isaiah experienced the same thing.
At one point, Alex approached them with a smile, holding two drinks.
"Hey, you two. You know there are other people here, right?"
Lyra looked at him.
For a moment, she seemed confused.
Then Isaiah laughed, and Lyra laughed with him.
"Sorry," she said, though her attention had already returned to Isaiah.
Alex stood for another second, then shook his head and walked away.
He wasn't the only one who noticed. Their friends tried to include them in conversations. Still, the couple grew impatient whenever someone interrupted—even a few harmless questions drew unexpectedly sharp responses. Eventually, everyone began leaving them alone.
From across the room, they looked like two people sharing a private joke.
Up close, something about them felt almost frightening.
They seemed to hear something no one else could.
Sometimes, when they fell silent at the same moment, their expressions became identical.
Neither noticed.
They were too busy looking at each other.

Chapter Three: The Voice Between Them
By February 1993, Lyra and Isaiah had stopped pretending they could spend time apart.
They still went to work, ran errands, and carried out the ordinary responsibilities of their lives, but everything else had fallen away. They canceled plans with friends. They stopped answering invitations. If one of them had to be somewhere alone, the separation left them irritable and distracted until they could be together again.
They had begun celebrating Valentine's Day a few days late that year. Neither of them cared much about the holiday itself; they had agreed to wait until later, when they could spend the evening together without worrying about work the following morning.
The apartment was quiet.
A half-finished dinner sat on the kitchen table. The television played softly in the background, though neither of them had watched it for nearly an hour. Lyra sat on the couch with her legs draped over Isaiah's lap, her fingers tracing the lines of his palm.
They had been quiet for some time.
Not an uncomfortable quiet. They were long past the need to fill every silence with conversation.
Still, Lyra felt the void.
It had become a familiar presence, something she carried with her even when Isaiah held her close. She could almost imagine its shape now: a vast, invisible emptiness folded into the narrow space between their bodies, stretching farther than the room itself.
She pressed his hand against her cheek.
"Do you ever think about how strange it is?" she asked.
"What is?"
"How much I love you."
Isaiah smiled faintly.
"Every day."
"No, I mean…" She struggled to explain. "Sometimes I think about it, and it feels too big. Like there's nowhere for it to go."
His smile faded.
He looked at her for a moment, then turned his hand over and threaded his fingers through hers.
"I know."
She leaned forward and rested her forehead to his.
They closed their eyes together.
For a moment, Lyra could no longer tell where her own thoughts ended, and Isaiah's began. She felt his affection as though it were her own, his longing as though it had been growing inside her for years. There was no need to speak. No need to explain.
They were together.
They were happy.
And still, somewhere in the darkness behind their closed eyes, something waited.
The void had been silent for weeks. They had almost forgotten the unease it brought, having grown so accustomed to its presence that it felt like another part of their relationship.
Then, without warning, it spoke.
WE WERE NOT MADE FOR TWO BODIES.
The voice was low and gravelly, as though it had traveled a great distance to reach them. It seemed to rise from the space between their faces, vibrating through the room and settling somewhere deep inside their bones.
Lyra's eyes opened.
Isaiah's did, too.
Neither moved.
For several seconds, the only sound was the television murmuring in the background.
Lyra swallowed.
"Did you just—"
She stopped.
Isaiah was staring at her.
He looked frightened, but beneath the fear was something else. Recognition, perhaps. Or the desperate hope that she would tell him there was a simple explanation.
"You heard that?" he whispered.
Lyra nodded slowly.
They stared at each other.
The voice sounded like Isaiah's, if Isaiah's voice had been dragged through gravel and stripped of everything human. Yet she knew he hadn't spoken. She felt his surprise the moment she did.
For months, they had believed their strange connection was a natural extension of their love. They had assumed they were learning to understand one another more completely, moving beyond words and into something deeper.
Perhaps they had been right.
Perhaps this was simply the next step.
Isaiah squeezed her hand.
Lyra squeezed his back.
Neither of them said what they were thinking.
They didn't have to.
The thought passed between them with perfect clarity, shared so completely that neither could claim it as their own.
Whatever happens, we stay together.
And somewhere in the invisible space between them, something stirred.
For the first time, the void did not feel empty.
It felt hungry.

I came awake. Not all at once, more of a one sense at a time kind of thing. At first, I felt something in bed with me. Like when I’d been living at my old apartment with my old cat. He would always join me in bed sometime in the night and I would always wake up just enough to know he was there. Occasionally, I’d even roll on my side so he could snuggle up in my semi-circle. I guess he trained me to do that.

But this was different. Not because those tiny padding paws were doing anything Pedro hadn’t ten thousand times, or because I’d had to put the old guy down five years ago and hadn’t seen fit to replace him. It was like whatever it was in bed with me was trying to sneak.

My sleeping mind had been on the verge of declaring what was happening a dream anyway and putting that sense of touch back on “Ignore” before those tiny padding paws padded toward my face. Pedro had only done that a few times to my recollection; back when he still had a large amount of feral in him. Back when he never came out in the daytime and only investigated me when he knew I wasn’t awake.

I opened my eyes. Maybe it was a mix of poor vision and a mostly sleep-caked mind, but there was no panic in me. Whatever it was, was cat-sized and dark. Two blurry orbs recessed in what I assumed was its head, pointed in my direction. It stopped in its tracks for a moment before dipping its head and bringing those silvery eyes just about level with mine.

The only surprise in me was that I wasn’t panicking. I felt my breathing, still long and deep, like physiologically I was still asleep. My ears prickled as I strained to hear something to corroborate what my weak eyes were informing me was in front of me.

Perhaps, I could catch it. I felt the muscles of my arm and back tense before I’d made the conscious decision to move, to trap it. But that had been enough to make the cat-thing skittish, and it turned its head as quick as a laser, racing for the edge of the bed. I felt those padding paws trace down the inside of my thigh, the thought coming too belatedly to grab for it.

I never felt the cat-thing again. Saw or heard it, either. It was like it was a ghost or something that conjured from my dream. Except I was awake. And even though I didn’t know what it was, I knew something was in bed with me.

Before I could sit up, something pulled from my face. It didn’t hurt and there was no pressure as if something had been on my face and was then gone. It just felt like something had been there that I’d never felt and only from it being removed was I ever aware that it had been there at all. Kind of like that thin plastic layer on the screen of a cell phone that you could either peel off or leave on and the phone still worked perfectly fine.

I swung the covers off and swiveled on my butt to place my feet on the floor. Again, no panic that whatever that thing was was under the bed waiting to scratch me. I knew without knowing it was gone, like my body had a sense of how much air was supposed to be in the room and none of it had been displaced by a ten-pound animal waiting somewhere inside here with me.

Interesting that I’d thought “waiting” instead of “hiding.” But on the off chance my internal alarms weren’t working properly, I reached for the light switch over my nightstand. I expected to squint against the light, but my eyes were already adjusted. I got done on one knee and then all fours before peering beneath my bed. There were a couple pairs of slippers under there, two dumbbells, a composition notebook, and a box of tissue I must have forgotten about and kicked underneath without realizing. But no cat and nothing that looked roughly cat-like. Definitely, nothing alive.

I keep my bedroom door open, so it could have run out, but the head of my bed is by the door. The thing had run toward the foot. If it had come in that way, surely, it wouldn’t have forgotten and run the opposite way.

The door was the only way out, though. My only guess was it had found some spot in here to hide. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and pulled the case off. Odds were, I wouldn’t be able to catch it in here, but I’d rather have something I could use to protect my face in case I cornered it and it decided to attack.

My closet door was closed, so there wasn’t a need to check there and there was no room to hide underneath my dresser. It wasn’t flush against the wall on one side, so my guess was it was either there or hiding behind the television. I stood long enough to cautiously step close enough to see there was nothing behind the TV before getting into a crouch, stepping cautiously around my bed as I crept closer to my dresser.

I don’t know why there wasn’t anything in me like fear in those moments. The thing could have been rabid for all I know. Or it could have tried to eat my face. But just before peeking around the edge of the dresser, I realized either way it wouldn’t be something I couldn’t handle.

But whatever the animal had been, it wasn’t being now.

It was a relief, but not that much. I spent about five more minutes searching my room and then made a half-hearted sweep of the rest of my one-bedroom apartment. There wasn’t a lot of furniture and not any hidey-holes I could think of. Getting back to bed was more of a priority, so I called it quits.

I made a pit stop in the bathroom and as I washed my hands in the sink, I looked at my face. No sleep puffiness, no restless red eyes. It hadn’t scratched me and whatever had come off my face hadn’t left a mark. I splashed water on my face anyway and traced my fingers down my brow and over my eyes and cheeks before meeting at the point of my chin.

Some didn’t feel right.

I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection. Nothing looked off. I turned my head from side to side and didn’t see anything weird. But when I felt my face again—I couldn’t tell what—something was wrong. Very wrong.

There was a sample-size facial cleanser in the shower that I’d gotten from the dermatologist’s office. I splashed more water on my face and worked up a good lather in my hands and really worked my face over. After rinsing the soap off, I felt my face again, and dammit something was still wrong.

I looked at my hands. Maybe there was something wrong there and it only felt like it had been my face. Nothing looked wrong and when I felt each hand in turn, everything felt right to the touch. It was specifically my face.

I washed my face twice more for good measure before feeling like my senses returning to me. This was stupid. I’d just had a fright from an animal—hell, maybe a hallucination—waking me up in the middle of the night and my mind’s way of processing was probably sensing something else that wasn’t there.

Except I had never been afraid. And poor vision or not, I knew I’d seen something. Felt it, too.

Sleep was the priority, though. I’d been awake for maybe twenty minutes, and I had a meeting at 8:30. If I got up at eight on the nose, I’d have a little less than seven hours’ sleep. That is if I could conk myself out in the next five minutes.

I flipped the light off and got back under the covers. A little box-breathing slowed my heart rate and helped me clear my mind.

The quiet-empty of outside slipping in the room with me. In a few hours, passing vehicles and children between the ages of eight and sixteen would be one story down, just outside my bedroom window talking—all of which I’d slept through countless times. But right now that quiet-empty filled my bedroom. It expanded like a parade float, covering the air, settling over me, crushing the air out of my lungs and filling me back up with more quiet-empty—

“Stop it.” The sound of my voice chased the quiet-empty away. I could feel it at the corners of my room, waiting for me to relax so it could infiltrate again. I couldn’t stay vigilant all night. At some point, I had to get back to sleep.

But I continued flexing some foreign part of me, like I was trying to balance myself on a tightrope that ran the length of me. Like it was just under my bedsheets and if I teetered too far this way, I would fall.

Into what, I couldn’t imagine. As I lay there, though, helpless and sharp-minded, wary and exposed, a question became clear to me.

How the hell do I get back to sleep?

 

“Right, onto the next topic.” The man sitting at the head of the table set down his hefty stack of papers and raised his hand for attention. “Higher-ups say we need to provide a balance patch for the amphibian class, somehow, buff them up a bit so they stop drying out.” He rolled his eyes. “Apparently, having the sky dripping down on them is not enough. Greedy creatures, aren’t they.”

“It’s—” The woman sitting a few seats away coughed into her hand. “We’re calling it rain, Davis.

“Whatever.” Under his breath: “‘World-building’ is so lame.” He coughed. He crossed his arms and sat back. “Any ideas?”

The people sitting around the table all glanced around at each either, no one wanting to be the first to speak. 

Davis groaned. “We don’t have all day, people! Ideas!”

“What if we gave them some kind of buff?” one man suggested. “Right now, they’re just a little underwhelming.” Davis made considering sounds as he spoke, writing along on a sheet of scrap paper. “We could make them a little more… fearsome. Maybe a painful bite? Or I don’t know, claws. A sort of paralysing toxin would be cool..” Davis was nodding along, but he suddenly paused. He looked up.

“Not this again,” muttered the man beside him.

“And,” the first continued, “We could make them stronger. Like, just to make them more intimidating. We can give them spikes or something, and increase their aggression. These spikes could have some insane poison that kills anything it touches.”

He stared incredulously at the man. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t exactly meet his gaze. Davis lowered his pen, which had been scribbling a doodle of a horse.

“Also,” the man continued, “I suppose we would have to make them more common… being nocturnal would be cool—” He flinched as he was kicked from under the table. He turned to glare at the man next to him.

“Exactly how is that supposed to help, Tom?” the aggressor hissed, venom in his tone.

“Excuse me, John, what do you mean?” Tom hissed back. He gesticulated with wild, frantic motions as he attempted to convey the depths of his passion. “It’s—It’s sick!”

“Did you even look at the species overview on amphibians? They basically won’t be amphibians anymore!” John glared at him. 

“But it’s so cool!” Tom insisted.

John threw up his hands. “I know what you’re trying to do! You’re just salty that my team denied your latest organism proposal, right?!” Tom simmered, shooting daggers through the other man with his eyes. “Newsflash, we’re actually trying to make something coherent here! We can’t have like a bunch of creepy murderous nightmare creature… things crawling around everywhere terrorizing everyone. Stick to your horror novels!”

“I’ll get it approved one day, you’ll see,” Tom muttered darkly. “If you’re scared of ‘ants’ you should see my ‘spiders-’”

“You’re flying too close to the sun,” someone else chimed in with a bored tone. “I know how this goes. You keep nagging them with an overpowered design, and they’ll just hit you with a hard nerf.”

“Try me,” Tom declared. “The best they can do is shrink ‘em down, a little, but they’re never gonna be able to stop them from taking over the world–-”

“Guys,” Davis cut in. There was a pleading note in his voice.

There was a pause of silence.

Davis folded his hands together and stared at the table, wondering why in the world he agreed to head this meeting when it was absolutely time for him to head home. He could really use a paid vacation at the moment.

“Hey,” one man spoke, “We just need the amphibians to stop drying out, right? And rain isn't enough because it has to be timed? What if rain just formed lakes?”

There was a long pause of silence.

Someone released a suspiciously-laughter-like cough. The man looked around defensively.

Davis sighed. “Moving on-”

“No, hey,” the man protested, “Just think about it! The problem is that they’re drying up, so just add more water!”

Davis pressed his palm into his temple. “Look, Richard, if we did that, the entire Earth would be flooded in a matter of weeks,” he said, sounding irritated that he even had to explain it.

As he said that, a man sitting several seats away gasped. ‘Brilliant idea,’ the man mouthed, beginning to scribble notes down in a thick leather-bound book. Davis glanced over his direction with a slight frown, but quickly looked away while shaking his head. ‘Bible’ was written on the cover. Was the hell was that guy doing, wasting his time writing flash fiction when he could be contributing to the incredibly pressing work meeting? 

“It just needs tweaking!” Richard insisted.

“Way too much tweaking,” Davis complained, “How in the world did you even come up with something inane like that?” He stood half out of his seat to lean over; he managed to catch a glimpse of Richard’s screen and scattered papers even as he was attempting in vain to obscure them with his arms. He gasped out. “A—ha! Ducks! You don’t care about amphibians, you only want lakes for your—” He stopped. He squinted at him. “...Why are you pulling together a proposal? You already made ducks. I saw them. They’re down there right now, wandering around and frolicking in fields.”

Richard bristled. “There can be more!” he defended.

“A second kind of duck,” Davis deadpanned. “Okay. Okay, whatever.” He slumped back into his seat, mumbling, “Management will filter it out.” He crossed his arms. “I swear, if you people have no better ideas, this entire Earth project might be a lost cause.”

“That’s a bit unfair to say,” Richard said, but quickly shut up when a scowl was angled in his direction.

“Hey.” One woman raised her hand. “When he said lakes...”

“No. We are not proceeding with this line of conversation,” Davis muttered.

“No, really, he has a point, think about it,” she insisted, “The problem with his idea is flooding, right? We just need the bodies of water to timeout after a little bit.”
He gave pause. 

“Despawning lakes?!” Richard demanded. He rose half out of his seat and slammed his hands against the table. “That’s ridiculous!”

She turned on him, incredulous. “You suggested it!”

He fell back into his seat, grumbling.

“Wait,” Davis said contemplatively, “I actually do see what you mean. And if we just scale down those lakes a bit…”

“Down?” Richard almost screeched, affronted. The people closest to him leaned away at his sheer volume.

“Maybe by five thousand percent, as a base starting point…”

“That’s not enough to float in!” Richard threw up his arms.

“Make the ducks smaller,” a woman said to him.

He looked offended that she even thought of it. “They’re already small enough thanks to management,” he said sniffily, “You can’t make me make them smaller. They deserve to be seen.”

"Dude, come on, size doesn't matter."

“Ohh, let me guess,” someone else said under their breath, “You were going to make them Colossus creatures…”

He heard it anyway and turned red. “I don’t see why only the dragons get to be Colossal,” he said sulkily.

“Heard they’re binning the ‘dragon’ concept anyway. They were too ‘OP’ or whatever.”

“Hey, you—you guys shut up.” Davis eyed them. “We were actually making progress.”

“We would have made progress,” Tom grouched, “If you had listened to my idea about buffing the amphibians—”

John slammed the table with both palms, shooting up from his seat to face Tom. “Okay-”

“No, don’t start.” Davis held up a hand. “We’ve already established that you have nothing good to say. Moving on.” Tom was left gaping. Davis continued. “You know, this really is a great idea. Fixes the drying up problem very well.”

The woman who had suggested it nodded very sagely, looking proud.

“There’s just one thing.” Davis tipped back in his chair, peering thoughtfully at the ceiling. “If that ‘rain’ thing has to materialise on the ground, isn’t that too confusing? This whole sky falling thing is just really weird. It doesn’t even make any sense. I don’t get how it's supposed to be infinite.” He frowned. “Or are we just hand-waving the lore on that one?”

“It’s actually an incredibly complex process—” someone began, but they were quickly cut off by the woman across from them.

“You do know what rain is, right,” she asked Davis. Her eyes were squinted.

Davis eyed her. “Well. Yes?”

“Okay, how does it work?”

He coughed, looking away. “It, like. You know.” He waved a hand. “Falls. And there’s water.” 

“Our team spent months coming up with that world-building— Explain it, Davis. Actually explain it.”

Davis nodded slowly. He smiled. It took several long seconds before the next words came out. “...The sky is the progenitor lake?” 

The woman covered her face in her hands and burst into immediate tears.

Davis looked around defensively upon receiving multiple judging stares. “Isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Rain doesn’t come from the sky,” someone else chimed in. “It comes from clouds.”

Davis was still for a very long moment. When he finally spoke, he sounded very skeptical. “So rain falls from somewhere up there.” He made a vague gesture of something trickling downwards. “Up there, mind you, there’s only the sky, which is blue, and the clouds, which are white- And rain is water. Dare I ask, what color is water?”

“Blue,” someone said, at the same time someone else said, “Clear.”

Davis ignored the latter completely. “And you’re telling me that rain comes from clouds and not the sky?” He threw up his hands. He spluttered. He fell back against the backrest of his chair. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Actually,” someone else piped up, “We’re thinking about adding another thing in the sky–-”

“---Right, yeah, the ‘Sun,” it’s a giant glowing ball of light—”

“I’m done,” Davis said blankly. “I’m done. I don’t care. This meeting’s over, right? Because I need to go.” He pointed at a random person sitting somewhere adjacent to him. “You. You write the report for this.” 

They froze with their hands half-raised off of their keyboard. From their computer came a sad game-over noise. They slammed it closed hurriedly. “But we haven’t finalized anything,” they said. “What values do I even give them? What do I call them to differentiate them from lakes?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Randomize them.” Davis began rising out of his seat. “Are we done?”

“Would ‘puddle’, work for a name?”

Davis did not respond. He was too busy collecting and stowing away his stray papers, covered mostly in uncoordinated doodles, to be willing to.

“Hold on.” Richard waved his hand. “We’re still not done. We need to talk about the lakes.”

Davis groaned and buried his head into his hands. “Can you please just take your ridiculously ugly little ‘ducks’ and get out?”

"Ugly! Little! My ducks?!" Richard stood up in a huff and gathered his things, deeply offended. “How dare. You know what, I think I will,” he snapped. “I will not tolerate this slander towards my creations, I’m going straight to management and they’ll appreciate my genius.” He stormed out the door- he was barely out of it when he crashed into another body coming in. Both went tumbling to the ground, sending a spray of papers all over.

“I—Sorry—?” the other person managed, barely able to get a word out as Richard furiously scrounged his papers back up and speed walked away. She was left looking back as he disappeared rapidly around a corner. “Oh… well.”

“You good?” Davis called over.

“Yeah, I’m…” She paused, searching the scattered papers still remaining. “Oh. Hold on. This isn’t right.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she gathered them all into a neat stack. “I’m really sorry, I was supposed to deliver this briefing to you,” she said to Davis. “But it looks like it’s gotten a bit mixed up with whatever that man was holding. Not all of it is here, he must have some of mine, and I have…” She squinted down at them. “Oh, isn’t this a proposal sheet though? I thought these ‘ducks’ already went through…?”

Davis had made a face at the word ‘briefing’. “It’s whatever,” he said, clearing his throat, “And such an awful shame that the damage done to that briefing was completely and totally irreparable. Such a tragedy. Ruined.” He celebrated inwardly. He looked away when she began trying to hand him the partially complete briefing. Just for the formality, he asked, “What was supposed to be in that briefing, unfortunately unrecoverable as it is now?”

“Oh, you know, something about reptiles and mammals, something with beavers…” she shrugged.

Nothing too consequential, Davis figured, and it was good for him that they were lost, but he obviously didn’t say that out loud.

Well, what was the worst that could come of it?

------------------------------
"I have to say, Richard, congratulations!” A heavy hand clamped down onto Richard’s shoulder. He jumped. When he turned, he came face-to-face with the head of management. The man was beaming.

Oh no. Did they notice? They couldn't have noticed, could they? How could they have been able to tell that he'd submitted two similar species? Identical, really, but he would deny that if anyone asked. It was definitely against the rules. But it wasn't possible that they actually noticed, right? He'd changed the name and everything. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t they told you?” He boomed with laughter. “You’ve won the first prize for the new contest we’ve been running! Most Creative Species!”

Richard went very pale. “What?” he spluttered. Creative?! They had to be playing some trick. He was getting fired at the end of this.

“A deserved victory, of course!” the man exclaimed. “I saw your creation. Such a fascinating creature. I hear it feeds its young through its fur, is that true—”

“What?” Richard repeated faintly. He was beginning to feel a bit like a broken radio. There had to be some misunderstanding. What was this man even talking about?

He slapped Richard on the back and almost shattered his spine. “I mean, really, who could have thought of something like this? You’re really some sick genius!” He laughed. The volume of it just about deafened everyone in the nearby vicinity. “A strange creature that took inspiration from reptiles, avians, and mammals all at once, and such a cute little bastard, too!”

Richard’s jaw opened. His jaw closed. His ears were still ringing from the man’s laughter. He said, “Hhghhn.”

“Oh, look!” The man turned, smiling broadly. He was looking at a poster on the wall, in front of which stood a glass case. As Richard squinted, he saw his own name on the poster, as well as a gold ribbon. “There it is.” The man pointed at the glass case, which on closer inspection seemed to have an animal in it. The little brownish creature in the glass case was meandering back and forth.

When Richard walked slowly over to stare down at it through the walls, it stopped. It seemed to look up at him.

He stared into the little beady eyes of his own creation, the 'platypus', with a rising sense of horror.

She spent the afternoon by the window. The rain came and went twice. For the better part of an hour, she watched the street. Her eyes listlessly followed a man and his dog as they walked down the block. The daily commuter pack on bike and foot. For most of that hour, she had been entirely content.

The Sun’s light stuck to her far wall. When it had gone, she sent for him. Soon the room let her go, and she slept; when she woke, it had all changed. The light had left her wall. The sky had grown dark. Her window had turned into a cold, blue square, where her reflection sat faintly. Below her, the streetlights switched on, one after another.

She caught a figure standing by the street corner. He stopped and looked up. They looked at each other. He could make out nothing beyond the opaque glass of her window. He could have climbed her stairs blind and known, before the door opened, how he would find her.

He crossed the street.

-----------------------------

“It’s open.”

He came in. The cold outside still clung to him as he let go of the knob. He set his coat on the peg by her door, as he always did. She did not get up. He looked at her. She did not trouble her face with anything. She looked at him with the same regard she had given the man, his dog, and the commuters.

“There’s a draft,” she said.

“It’s the window.” He went to it. “I can close it.”

“Leave it. I like the air.”

He took the glass from the sill, then walked across the room again. Reached into the cupboard for another. He filled them both and gave her a cup.

“Did you eat?”

“There was bread this morning,” she said.

“This morning.”

He sat by her table, across from her bed where she stayed perched.

“What did you do today?”

“A man and his dog walked by the street twice.”

“And?”

“The commuters.”

“Did you see me?”

“You came up by the near side. You always do.”

"I looked up.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t wave.”

“No.”

For a time, neither of them spoke. Below, brief chatter gradually softened; an engine hummed as it passed, and the sound lingered long after it turned the corner. He looked at her. She knew the look. She let it rest on her as the cold seeped in through the window, and looked back at the street.

He looked where she was looking. It was only the street. He looked back at her.

“On the bus, there was-”

She did not turn from the window.

“Is it pleasant?” he said. “The whole day like this?”

“The light goes up the wall in the afternoon, nearly to the ceiling. And then it goes.”

He waited. But that was all.

She set her cup on the sill. “Come to bed.”

-----------------------------

They lay side by side. His eyes went slowly about the room. He looked at her sill, where the once-white orchids he had brought her stood in their pot beside her chair. The stems were bare, the last of the petals lying brown on the soil where they had dropped. His gift was gone from the shelf by her bed. Expunged to make room for her.

She reminisced about the afternoon. For a moment, she wished he were already gone; then, for a moment, that he would not go; then, for neither.

Her gaze rested on the ceiling. The streetlights below had laid a pale shape across it.

“The light reaches it now,” he said.

“You’ll go early.”

“Yes.”

“Before it’s light.”

“Yes.”

“It was very quiet today.”

“I can be quiet.”

“I know you can.”

He said nothing for so long that she thought he had fallen asleep. Then, without lifting his head:

“All that time. Why?”

“I was lonesome.”

“Only?”

“Yes. And for that only, you will give yourself again.”

“I would.”

The Ford of the Keys: The Fellowship of the Keys

It happened on a day when the sun was shining bright. Goondalf made his way in his carriage to the Mire as was his custom every so often. He felt a special connection to the Quags that lived there.

“Oh what a glorious day,” Goondalf said. “Hopefully everything’s in order.”

He made his way to Bullbo’s house just across from the swampy area where his house laid in the hill forming a natural roof. He got off his carriage and made his way to the door where he knocked. A bussle could be heard from inside the house – pots and pans clashing everywhere it sounded like. Suddenly, the door swung open and there stood a small Quag about half the size of Goondalf who towered over him.

“Well, to what do I owe this surprise?” Bullbo said.

“Why it was high time I’ve visited it’s been ages,” Goondalf said.

“Come in, come in,” Bullbo ushered him forth.

Goondalf bent down and walked into the small house where he stood observing his surroundings.

“I’m actually getting ready for a journey, Goondalf,” Bullbo said. “It’ll be my first time out of the Mire since that whole giant tortoise incident.”

“Ah, I’m glad you’re finally venturing out,” Goondalf replied.

“I’m leaving, for good. Tonight’s the night. I’ve left some very special for Freetoe.” Bullbo said.

“Oh, the Keys I imagine,” Goondalf surmised.

“Why, yes, how did you know?” Bullbo asked not expecting a response. “You always had a knack for knowing things. Please, sit.”

Goondalf found a chair and stooped down and sat.

“Why not some tea?” Bullbo offered. “I’ve just made some fresh.”

“That’ll be lovely, Bullbo,” Goondalf said. “Where is Freetoe by the way?”

“Oh he’s in the computer room doing some teenage stuff. I don’t understand it.” Bullbo said.

“Let me get him,” Goondalf said.

He went to the computer room door and found that the door was locked.

“Freetoe! Freetoe! We’re having tea!” Goondalf shouted. “Open up this door so we can enjoy your company.”

There was a screeching sound coming from the room, as if someone got up from a chair.

“You better not be looking at pornography in there!” Goondalf yelled.

Suddenly, the door opened and Freetoe emerged.

“Oh, Goondalf! Good to see you!” Freetoe exclaimed.

“What were you doing in there?” Goondalf asked.

“Oh nothing, just looking at Reddit.” Freetoe responded.

“Hmm, let me see…” Goondalf trailed off. “A meme? A wizard is never late or early he arrives precisely when he means to, Gandalf.”

“Oh, it’s just funny stuff…” Freetoe explained.

“Did you make this?” Goondalf asked.

“Oh no, I just found it,” Freetoe said.

“Hmm, well let’s have some tea,” Goondalf finished.

So, they sat drinking tea, reminiscing on the times of old. Freetoe was especially excited hearing of the giant tortoise and the escapades of the Easter Egg. Goondalf informed them of his exploits and all that had been going on in Middle Earth. Tales of orc sightings and bacon invasions of certain towns.

“Lord Soreon is on the move,” Goondalf explained. “He’s eyeing the Keys.”

“The Keys? What are those?” Freetoe questioned.

“You haven’t told him…?” Goondalf said quizzically.

“Well, you see, there was never a good time to explain,” Bullbo said, some guilt in his voice.

“They are our only hope in this world,” Goondalf explained. “They power the F-150 to free us from these earth shackles and wander the stars.”

“They sound mighty important,” Freetoe said.

“Much so,” Goondalf replied. “And best of all your great-grandfather here has them.”

“You have the Keys?” Freetoe asked excitedly.

“I do, in fact, I was going to leave them to you. It’s time I pass them on,” Bullbo said.

“Me? You’re going to pass the Keys on to me?” Freetoe asked incredulously.

“Why, yes, of course, you’re the rightful heir,” Bullbo informed.

“That’s so much responsibility…” Freetoe muttered.

“You can do it, champ,” Goondalf said. “It is said that the Chosen One will reunited the Keys with the F-150, perhaps that is you…”

“No, I couldn’t do that, I’ve never even left the Mire,” Freetoe said.

“You would have to trek all the way to Mt. Doom itself, where Lord Soreon has concealed the F-150.” Goondalf said.

“Mt. Doom! I can’t go there, that’s much too dangerous, especially with what you’re telling us of all the orcs and walking bacon running amok. No. The Mire is the place for me,” Freetoe stated.

“I fear Lord Soreon’s reach may come to the Mire itself,” Goondalf informed. “He has caught a very special someone who knows the whereabouts of the Keys, Squidward.”

“But there’s no way he could’ve have saw me all those years back…” Bullbo said.

“Oh, but he did. He knows that Bullbo has the Keys and the torture of Lord Soreon is bringing forth that information.” Goondalf informed.

“This is just awful…we have to leave the Mire at once,” Bullbo said.

“You go on ahead of us dear Bullbo, we have to make preparations for our journey,” Goondalf said.

“You’re leaving?” Freetoe asked.

“You didn’t tell him?” Goondalf questioned.

“Well, you see, there just wasn’t a good time to tell you…” Bullbo stated. “But, yes, I am leaving. I’m headed for Oceandell, the land of Count Chocula and the elves.”

“Oh Bullbo, I’ll miss you,” Freetoe said.

“Yes young one, I know, but this is a long time coming. I must go on to greener pastures, my soul aches for it,” Bullbo said.

“Then it’s settled, you will leave this night, and we shall leave on the morrow or the next day,” Goondalf triumphed.

So, the day wore on and they joked and laughed and told more stories. They also went onto Freetoe’s computer and looked up more memes, scouring Reddit for the best it had to offer. And night came and Bullbo was readying his things.

“Goodbye dear Bullbo,” Goondalf said.

“Goodbye Goondalf, goodbye Freetoe,” Bullbo said, hugging Freetoe and giving Goondalf a knowing look.

He was almost out the door when…

“Bullbo, aren’t you forgetting something…” Goondalf said.

“No…I don’t think so…Oh wait now I know,” Bullbo said.

He felt around his cloak for his pocket and had a blank look on his face. He reached in hesitantly and pulled out the Keys.

“Oh these old things…” Bullbo said.

“Yes, come now Bullbo, we must leave them for Freetoe,” Goondalf said.

Bullbo looked hesitant to pass on his Keys. He stared at them for a moment muttering my own, my precious when he looked entranced.

“Bullbo, you must put those Keys down this instant,” Goondalf roared.

“Oh right,” Bullbo said.

He dropped the Keys on the floor and Goondalf picked them up with some fire tongs and handed them to Freetoe.

“Goodbye,” Bullbo said quickly as he walked out the door.

The house felt eerily empty without the presence of Bullbo. Freetoe and Goondalf stared at each other for but a moment.

“You take the Key Goondalf, you’re stronger than me,” Freetoe said.

“Never underestimate yourself, dear Freetoe. But I can’t take these Keys, they hold too much temptation, even for a wizard of my caliber,” Goondalf said. “I would want to use these Keys to help the world, but I fear they will only end in the clutches of Lord Soreon. You must take the Keys Freetoe, your heart is pure and you have not yet seen the wickedness of this world.”

“But Goondalf!” Freetoe protested.

“No, you must take the Keys Freetoe. They are your inheritance, your family has the strength to restore this world to what it’s meant to be,” Goondalf informed.

“I guess your right…” Freetoe said. “We are small so we can elude Lord Soreon more easily.”

“I am always right,” Goondalf thundered. “Now you must listen to my next request. I must attend to things small and large. I have to make council with my leader, Towlieman and inform him of our quest and what we shall do. Meet me at the Dancing Danny in Brie at the light of the fourth moon from tonight. Now get your things together, we must make haste.”

So they gathered their packs and made preparations for their journey. They rested that night and woke up early the next morning. There was a knock on the door.

“Freetoe! Freetoe!” a voice said.

“Freetoe, are you expecting guests?” Goondalf questioned.

“No! No! Oh wait that’s right I’m supposed to go canoeing with Sem today,” Freetoe said.

“No this is not good, the less people know the better,” Goondalf said.

“But it’s Sem, he’s a good person,” Freetoe said opening the door.

“Freetoe!” Sem said.

“Sem!” Freetoe said.

“What’s with all the packing?” Sem asked.

“We’re going on a quest, a dangerous quest, to Mt. Doom. We’re the last bastion of hope for all of Middle Earth!” Freetoe exclaimed.

“Shhh Freetoe, pipe down, you have no idea with Soreon’s spies,” Goondalf said.

“A quest, to Mt. Doom, can I come? I’ve always wanted to tour the college there,” Sem said.

“We won’t be dilly dallying at any University,” Goondalf said. “We have to sneak into Mt. Doom and…” he trailed off.

“And?” Sem pressed.

“The less you know the better,” Goondalf said defiantly.

“Let me come with you, every hero needs a sidekick,” Sem said.

“Yes, Goondalf, we can only help each other,” Freetoe said.

“Fine pack your things and meet Freetoe at Old MacDonald’s farm. I have things to attend to,” Goondalf said.

So Freetoe made his way to Old MacDonald’s farm and waited for Sem when he ran into two more Quags, they were carrying some vegetables when…

“Peepin, Marry, what are you doing here?” Freetoe asked. “Are you working for Old MacDonald?”

“Not exactly…” Marry said.

“Then what are you doing with his crops?” Freetoe asked.

Just then Sem appeared at the clearing.

“Sem! Good to see you!” Freetoe said.

“Freetoe! I made it!” Sem said. “Oh I see Peepin and Marry are here.”

Just then, an angry yell was heard cracking across the farm.

“Oh that must be Old MacDonald, he must have found out…” Peepin said.

“Hurry, run!” Marry yelled.

They dashed down the path away from Old MacDonald’s farm. They ran out of view of the farm and came to a road where a strange sense overtook Freetoe.

“Hide behind this tree!” Freetoe exclaimed.

“But…” Peepin protested.

“Hurry!” Freetoe said. “Get off the road!”

They made their way to the drop off and slid into the inlet where the tree trunk was eaten away. No more than a minute later, horse hooves could be heard screeching across the way. Terror ran over the gang. The horse hooves stopped and the rider dismounted. They could hear footsteps coming their way and they held their breath for their lives. A figure bent over where the drop off was and sniffed as if detecting them. In a sudden move of courage, Peepin threw some of the vegetables he stole in a sack onto the other side of the road which spooked the horse and led the figure away.

Once they had an opening, they continued onward in their journey to Brie, Peepin and Marry accompanying them. They made their way to Madame Blueberry Ferry when they were met with the neighing of horses.

“Hurry we must get on the ferry!” Freetoe yelled.

“Is that a waffle?” Sem inquired.

“It certainly looks that way, let’s go, the horses can’t cross the water,” Marry said.

They took the ferry which cut all the way to Brie and came to the city gate at the dead of night.

“Whaddya want?” the Gatekeeper asked.

“We seek Goondalf at the Dancing Danny,” Freetoe said.

“Goondalf never heard of him,” the Gatekeeper said.

“Please, we’re a group of four Quags seeking refuge,” Marry said. “Let us in.”

“As you wish, master Quag,” the Gatekeeper said ironically.

They entered the city and noticed quite a bustle even for the dead of night. There were drunkards walking around and horses prancing. They even saw a Snake Oil man selling his goods at a stall. Peepin was almost drawn in, but Sem reminded him that they hadn’t much time. They came to the Dancing Danny and entered…

“Wow, what a place,” Peepin said outloud.

“Shh we don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves,” Marry whispered.

They could overhear the conversations of some the bar goers:

“I don’t know about working from home,” a voice said. “I mean I just can’t get motivated, don’t get me wrong, I love wearing my house clothes and going to work, but I just feel like I need a dedicated space to work.”

“They go to the Best Place Ever,” another voice said. “They call it Heaven and all they have to do is believe in this guy that He saved them. Sounds like a bunch of French toast to me.”

They found a seat and got some drinks, the heavy kind, as they were aged Quags. They noticed a stage where a man was dancing to some well-balanced pop music.

“That must be Dancing Danny,” Sem said.

“I don’t see Goondalf,” Marry said.

“I don’t either. I don’t like this,” Freetoe said. “There’s a man that’s been staring at us ever since we came in.”

He was sitting in the corner with his hood up playing with a twig of hay.

“This isn’t good, Soreon must be onto us,” Freetoe said.

“Now now don’t jump to conclusions,” Peepin said obviously drunk.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much,” Sem said.

“Pollycock I haven’t had enough!” Peepin retorted.

Just then, the man got up and went upstairs. Freetoe ordered some rooms for them to stay in as they waited for Goondalf. They went up the stairs to the room and found the hooded man sitting there.

“I know what hunts you,” the man said.

“Reveal yourself! Who are you?” Sem charged.

The man removed his hood and revealed himself. He was Capn’ Crunch.

“Capn’ Crunch! Oh, thank the heavens!” Peepin said.

“What hunts us?” Freetoe asked.

“Waffles. Lord Soreon’s personal Key seekers.” Capn’ Crunch said. “They ravage the land for nothing short of the Keys.”

“What must we do?” Freetoe asked.

“Come with me.” Capn’ Crunch said.

They followed Capn’ Crunch across town to another inn. They booked a room and slept the night. Across the way, at the Dancing Danny a horde of Waffles entered and went to the room they had occupied, drew their Q-Tips, and slashed away at the beds, finding only pillows. They let out a wail that pierced the night. The gang stayed still throughout the night, letting the Waffles think they had escaped. They took their chance the next day where they travelled the land coming to CherryOnTop, a nearby fortress area with a clearing on the top. Here they made camp and by chance a fire when…

“Put it out!” Freetoe yelled.

“We’re just making some nice sunny side up eggs, Freetoe,” Peepin said. “Everyone needs their dinner.”

“We’re on the run from Key seeking Waffles, we can’t risk being seen!” Freetoe shouted as he stamped out the fire.

They could here the screams of the Waffles just a while off while Capn’ Crunch was sleeping. Their horses were at the summit of CherryOnTop when the Quags seeked refuge on the top open area. When the Waffles lashed out at them with their Q-Tips.

“Hurry, get the maple syrup!” Peepin yelled.

Sem grabbed the pitcher full of maple syrup and tossed it at one of the Waffles. The Waffle soaked it up with its indention and flung it back at Freetoe, when Capn’ Crunch showed up with a torch that was lit, fending off the Waffles.

“Silly Quags, Waffles are impervious to maple syrup. These are afraid only of fire!” Capn’ Crunch yelled.

With the masterful sword skills of Capn’ Crunch fending off the Waffles’ Q-Tips, they ran off for fear of the fire. Capn’ Crunch noticed Freetoe on the ground and inspected him.

“We must hurry, he needs Elvish medicine,” Capn’ Crunch said.

“Why didn’t your sword slice right through the Q-Tips?” Peepin asked.

“Their Q-Tips are coated with a special polymer that makes them hard and sharp as swords.” Capn’ Crunch said. “Now, we must go!”

He saddled his horse and strapped Freetoe in.

“We’ll meet you at Oceandell!” Capn’ Crunch yelled as we rode away.

The Waffles chased them all the way there when they came to a river. This was no ordinary river, for it was on Elvish land. There was an elf maiden nearby, who had a special connection to Capn’ Crunch that let her know he was in need. She sang a song to the river which rose its waters to an impassable level that left the Waffles stuck in their tracks. Thus, they made it to Oceandell safely. They tended to Freetoe’s ailment and gave him time to recover. When he made his way back to them, Sem, Peepin, and Marry had all arrived. Bullbo was there too. They told Bullbo of there adventure when Bullbo said he had something special for Freetoe that would help them with their journey.

“See this pitcher,” Bullbo said grimacingly, for he had age quite a noticeable amount since they last saw him in the Mire. “It glows blue when bacon is near.”

“But maple syrup doesn’t work on the Waffles…” Peepin said.

“That may be, but it’s perfect for bacon and pancakes as long as you don’t have sizzling bacon it will candy them up and make them super sweet,” Bullbo said. “Make sure to keep it with you, it will come through in a pinch.”

“I will treasure it, Bullbo,” Freetoe said.

Then Goondalf walked in.

“Goondalf!” Freetoe said.

“Freetoe my boy,” Goondalf said.

“We were at the Dancing Danny, what happened?” Freetoe asked.

“I have grave news, Freetoe,” Goondalf said. “It would seem our allies are now our foes. Towlieman has gone to the dark side and follows Lord Soreon. I was there at his tower at Bacongard where he unveiled that he was now under Soreon’s control. We were discussing the events taking place across Middle Earth, when he suggested that we eat some Ice Cream. Now we all know Ice Cream is forbidden for it has a direct link to Moredoor. That’s when I knew that Towlieman had switched his allegiance. He then trapped me at his tower where I was forced to call upon the help of Doves after three days of solitude.”

“That’s just awful,” Freetoe said. “Middle Earth is becoming a smaller place.”

“At least you got away,” Sem said.

“Thank God,” Goondalf said.

They were all quiet after that. However, an assembly had been called by Count Chocula, the ruler of Oceandell to discuss the matter of the Keys.

“We should destroy them, that would be the responsible thing to do,” a voice rumbled.

“No, we need them to transcend our existence, Grouchy bunny,” Count Chocula said.

The Keys had been placed on a pedestal in the middle of a ring of special persons including: Grouchy bunny, Lucky from Lucky Charms, the Keebler Elf, Capn’ Crunch, and the Quags that had accompanied them.

“We can’t let Lord Soreon have his hands on these Keys, he will surely destroy them, and our only hope of reaching space,” Keebler Elf said.

“One does not simply trek into Moredoor and take the F-150,” Lucky observed.

“We can’t just do nothing,” Capn’ Crunch said.

They began to argue with themselves in a tumult where everyone was losing focus on the matter at hand. Trouble was brewing and a hopelessness drew over them when…

“I will take it!” Freetoe yelled feeling the call of duty.

“Only the Chosen One can reunite the Keys with the F-150,” Lucky said.

“I don’t know if a Quag is up for this challenge,” Grouchy bunny said as Count Chocula motioned with his hand for everyone to calm down.

“I will take it!” Freetoe said again with brevity. “Who will go with me?”

“You heard the Quag, he will take the Keys to Moredoor and who shall go with him.”

“Aye,” Capn’ Crunch said.

“I shall go to,” Lucky said.

“You shall have my cane,” Keebler elf said.

“And my axe,” Grouchy bunny finished.

“Then it is settled, you shall be the Fellowship of the Keys!” Count Chocula reigned.

They settled themselves and collected their things.

“We must either take the high pass or the mines to reach the backdoor of Moredoor and I will not be taking the mines,” Goondalf said.

“Then it is settled, you shall take the high pass,” Count Chocula renumerated.

So, they were off on their trek. They climbed the high pass and came to a mountainside where the wind blew cold and fierce. They heard a shouting across the mountains, then suddenly one of the mountains seem to come alive.

“I’ll make that bacon sizzle,” the mountain side.

“What is this devilry Goondalf?” Lucky asked.

“This is the working of Towlieman,” Goondalf replied. “He has awoken the Rock.”

“What is this big steaming pile of monkey crap doing walking God’s green Earth?” the Rock said.

He hurled huge boulders at them, risking the mountainside collapsing.

“We have to turn back, Goondalf,” Lucky said.

Goondalf, having a worried look on his face seemed reluctant, when another boulder came crashing near them.

“Jabronis!” the Rock said.

“Come, we must take the mines, my cousin Furry will make us a warm welcome,” Grouchy bunny insisted.

They turned back and began their way back to the mines.

“If you smell what the Rock is cookin’!” they heard the Rock roar as they traversed the backside of the mountain.

They made their way to the mines and found the entrance which had a magical seal.

“Speak friend and enter,” Goondalf said.

“Speak friend, what could it mean?” Peepin asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” Goondalf said.

They sat there at the mine entrance for a span when…

“Speak friend! What’s the Bunny word for friend?” Freetoe asked.

“Bandhu,” Goondalf said.

At that moment, the door rolled away and the entrance opened.

“Aww this is gonna be good,” Grouchy bunny said.

The entrance was mired with cobwebs and had a certain stench of death.

“I’m afraid these mines have long been since abandoned,” Goondalf muttered.

They made their way deeper in when they came to a resting place to gather themselves and eat some food. They heard a scampering deeper in the mines, below them. They could make out a figure, but weren’t sure what it was.

“Something’s following us, Goondalf,” Freetoe said.

“Yes, yes, it’s Squidward,” Goondalf said matter of factly. “He was bearer of the Keys before you and is now twisted by their power. He seeks them and is now disfigured for them, all this after turning away from Jesus.”

“Sounds like quite a demise,” Freetoe observed.

They continued onward and found themselves at a great hall, that was empty save for the pillars they held up the great structure.

“Tale tells of bunnies that dug too deep and let out something malevolent,” Lucky said.

“I’m not sure where everyone is,” Grouchy bunny said.

They came to a room where dead skeletons littered everywhere. They came to a well which had a tome strapped across it. They began to read:

“They’re everywhere. They found us in the deep. And now they leave us in the deep, no more to see the light,” Goondalf read aloud.

“They are no more, we must leave,” Lucky said.

They ran out into the great hall and heard the shouts of evil beings. Before they knew it they were surrounded by bacon strips, Freetoe’s pitcher glowing blue. They huddled up in a circle preparing for the onslaught when they heard the grumblings of the deep. The bacon froze and begin talking to one another:

“She’ll eat us!” one said.

“We have to run!” another said.

They began to disperse when a blue glow emanated from down the hall in a faraway corridor.

“We have to go, now,” Capn’ Crunch said.

“What is it Goondalf?” Freetoe begged.

“It’s the Galrog,” Goondalf said. “She must be angry at her husband Guyrog and is coming to exact her vengeance upon us!”

“He left the seat up on the toilet!” the Galrog yelled.

“She sounds very irate,” Lucky said.

“He never watches what I want to watch!” the Galrog bellowed.

“She sounds very distraught,” Keebler Elf said.

“He never washes the dishes!” the Galrog shouted.

They made their way through the mine to the Bridge of Utter Doom when the Galrog came crashing in. They were crossing the bridge when the Galrog grabbed Goondalf right from them.

“You shall do as my husband hahahaha,” the Galrog roared.

“No Goondalf!” Freetoe exclaimed.

“Goondalf!” Lucky said as Capn’ Crunch tore him away.

“Fly you fools!” Goondalf said, his last words.

They exited the mine with safety but were struck by the loss of Goondalf. Yet, the quest must go on. They came to a place called Ooroo Baein and struck a cord with each other as they heard the horn of a new foe, Pancakes.

“You and Sem must go, we’ll hold them off.” Capn’ Crunch said.

Sem and Freetoe found a boat and sailed into the day, broken at the fall of the Fellowship. The other members braced themselves for the clash ahead…

End The Ford of the Keys: The Fellowship of the Keys

Little did I know the shape my life would take, little did I know how many years of lives I would be a part of, little did I understand how important my existence was to be. 

I harbored no fear of how I would be treated. I knew that a single heavy hand could press too hard and snap the delicate strings inside me. But those strings were my life—they created the vibrations that made the air swirl in currents, traveling directly into the souls of those who welcomed the sound.

And now I was connecting through a little boy whose fingers were sending shivers through the keys and strings and wood that make me what I am. They were dancing along the keys softly as he played for his parents in their room of music, my first home,  filled with envious instruments who were dazzled by me, a new invention from Italy, a gravicembalo col piano e forte, or “harpsichord that plays soft and loud”, the first of its kind that with the right force could convey feelings none like me could convey before. Some called it a miracle, I called it an idea whose time had come and would change the world forever. 

For this boy it was already changing his world. You see he had no way of communicating as he was born unable to make a sound. He had no way of letting his parents know what he needed or felt, and it was his mother’s idea, once his little hands started to grow, to let him touch me and learn what I could do. 

So now here he was, attached to me through the sounds he and I were making, almost as he was attached to his mother at birth, except no one could cut this cord. 

And his mother, and his father, were for the first time hearing what he could not say any other way, crying and smiling at the same time. And understanding. 

My short time on this earth was already beginning to have purpose. 

2.

All my ancestors, while cute and dainty, really had no voice in a crowd. All the “chords”, clavi and harpsi et. al. struggled to be heard. They plucked away with their tinny little voices but were never allowed to let their true selves  out beyond a few notes heard above the din of a few strings and winds. They tried, but they couldn’t do it. 

And then someone had an idea that changed all. Hammers. No plucking anymore.  We could now render the softest tones to the loudest along a spectrum of sound we weren’t capable of before. Deep rumbles to delicate ringing bells from bottom to top. Music was allowed  to grow in ways unheard of in instruments like me. 

And anyone who sat with me and evoked the harmonic feelings out of me became a part of me, wholly and entirely. We became one, melded together in a world  of sound that drifted through the air and encompassed all who heard, until it disappeared into silence and its messages were absorbed by anyone who dared to take it in. 

The little boy knew this and knew he had a lot to say through me. With me he learned how to do just that. 

3.

So here we are, his mother and father watching in awe and with tears in their eyes as my little friend sends his messages to me and I send them on to his parents. The music is serene and wistful, sad but not sad, calm with moments of rare anger. He’s telling them he loves them, he’s saying he’s sad he can’t it say it, he’s thanking them for teaching him how he can, and he’s saying he’s often angry he can’t. But as the last soft notes fade into oblivion, he turns and runs into their arms. They hug. And I sit with only the last remaining vibrations moving through my sound board and into my shell until it stops. It feels good, it gives me a reason to be, and I know this is just the beginning. 

4.

I didn’t know cats like music. I didn’t know cats live in houses. Actually, until this house I didn’t know what a cat was. Now I do. Because when my keys are exposed that strange and beguiling creature likes walking up and down them and making its own music. I hear laughter from far away rooms, but no one comes to help. So the black and white cat just lies down on my matching keys with a crash of jumbled notes and goes to sleep. And well, it is company at night. 

5.

The days go on and on and each one is filled with my music, or I should  say the boy’s music. He learns pieces by the famous composers of today who are writing profusely for this new musical invention.  He plays them over and over. He moves to the rhythms and sometimes closes his eyes, letting himself get further into our own little world. 

Recently, though, he’s been taking paper and pencil and writing his own creations. He plays a bit, he writes, he plays again, he writes some more. He crosses things out and tears it up and starts again. Eventually he is happy with what he writes. So am I. And so are his parents and their friends. He is invited to share his wonders with others. I love that idea. 

But he isn’t happy, because that means playing them on another such as I. He doesn’t want to do that, and he lets everyone know he won’t let others hear what he has to say unless I can be with him. They ponder that, they try to convince him a piano is just a piano. He will have none of it and he storms away, crying. Everyone sits quietly until one of them says “i have an idea”. 

6.

A simple idea…. I would travel with them to a venue suited to my size and sound and where my young friends’ extraordinary talent could be seen and heard. And the friend said he would be glad to finance the effort. After all, music like this is worth any price. 

And so my legs are removed and I’m put on a trolley  and covered up and hauled away. A few strings object in my lower region and complain loudly ,  but they are ignored. I am put in a cart and brought through the streets to a hall not too far away, where I am put back together and placed in the front of the room, out in the open , exposed for all to see. I’m  polished and gently patted, my strings tweaked to perfect sound, and I stay there alone for a night to ponder how this experience will be perceived by the attendees. The next day I know. 

The room is filled with expectant visitors coming to hear the wonder child and his music. I am just the conduit for his message to them. And I am ready. 

The voices are loud as the people wait, the still warm air gently moving as many move fans up and down to try and cool themselves in the heat. But when the boy comes in and walks down the center aisle…. all voices are stilled. He walks with his family, who nod to people as they pass. But he looks straight ahead at me the entire time, as if begging me to help him through this. The people watch in silence. 

His family sits at the front and he continues on to take his place at the bench he knows so well. It accepts him as he gently sits , and I accept him as he softly places his small hands on my keys. We wait in quiet, and when he is ready we begin. 

A very few, soft notes begin their journey through the air, gentle vibrations of the ether that start their entry into each persons ears, beginning the miraculous process of turning into  passages of sound that begin and end within each individual head. 

And each individual opens and closes their eyes in response, feeling their hearts beat softer and quickly calm down, forming tears of sadness and joy spontaneously and all at the same time. They share the message we are sending equally and they all understand. 

And we were telling them how much we loved what we were doing, and how much we appreciate the ability to tell them how beautiful it is to fill their souls with feelings we can’t express otherwise, and how amazing life is when it has the power of music in it, and how we hope it never ends. 

And then it ends. The people sit in silence for the briefest moment, and then they rise to their feet and clap and cheer and cry all at the same time. We know then this is what we are meant for. 

7.

The years pass and we spread music beyond borders that the little boy ever imagined he would ever be able to go beyond. From palaces to the street people come to hear the wunderkind and the new thing called a piano. We’re inseparable, and can’t imagine it any other way. 

People sit him in their laps just to touch his small hands, they gently rub my wood and keys, and they marvel. But time moves on and we get older.

8.

No longer a child, the now young man’s hands become more powerful as does his music. 

We are inseparable, until the day we are not.

9.

Time moves differently for a creation of wood and wire than it does for a being of flesh and bone. To me, a decade is merely the settling of a soundboard, the slight deepening of varnish, or the wearing down of the felt on my hammers. But to my young friend, a decade was an entire lifetime of stretching fingers, widening shoulders, and the slow, quiet creeping of age.

He grew from the silent child into a celebrated man, his hair turning the color of my sharp keys, his hands becoming webbed with lines of wisdom and his labor of love. 

We traveled across miles and performed within the vaulted ceilings built for music, but the message never changed. We were still the same two souls, speaking the one language we shared.

10.

Then a bitter winter, one of many, came, and with it, the end. His once-magical fingers were stiff, clumsy, and trembling with a cold that went deeper than the weather. The grand concertos were dead. The dazzling, vibrant rhapsodies were gone. Instead, his shaking hands coaxed his very first melody—the quiet song of a mute boy speaking to his parents. It was a tragic, whispered farewell between us, a dying piano fading into the stillness.

The final vibration left my shell, and the silence that followed was deafening. No hugs. No tears from a proud audience. He just closed my key slip, pressed his forehead against my polished mahogany as if saying goodbye to a dying friend, and walked out.

He never stepped through those doors again. I don't know where the world took him, or what stole him from me. I only knew that darkness had fallen, and my music had died with him. 

11.

For a long time, the world was dark. A heavy velvet shroud was draped over my frame, blocking out the light and choking the air. 

Without the touch of hands, I felt a deep, hollow ache within my soundboard. Instruments are not meant for silence; silence is our graveyard. I slept for what felt like an eternity, listening only to the faint scurry of mice near my pedals and the shifting of the floorboards as the house around me grew old and neglected.

I worried that the threads inside me would snap from disuse, that the air would forget how to swirl in currents around me, and that my purpose had died with the one who gave me a voice.

12.

Then, the shroud was lifted. The sudden rush of golden sunlight blinded me, and the air was thick with the scent of dust and lemon oil. Voices filled the room—not the hushed, reverent whispers of the concert halls, but the loud, boisterous chatter of strangers. Heavy hands lifted me, my legs were removed once more, and I felt the familiar, jarring motion of a cart traveling over rough streets.

When I was finally set down and uncovered I was no longer in a palace, nor a grand music room. I was in a crowded back room of a shop crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with other instruments. There were older, tinny harpsichords from who I felt a faded envy, tarnished brass trumpets, and rows of weeping violins.

"An authentic Cristofori," a man with thick spectacles murmured, running a coarse finger over my nameplate. "A bit worn, a bit out of tune, but a true miracle of Italy. This I put in the front of the shop.”

People walked past me every day. Some would press a single key carelessly, making me wince as a discordant note rang out through the shop. 

They called me an antique. They talked about me as if I were a ghost, a relic of a bygone era. They did not understand that inside my wooden chest, the music was still waiting, trapped and desperate to get out.

13.

It happened on a rainy afternoon.A young musician entered the shop, soaking wet, her boots leaving damp patches on the wooden floor. She looked poor, her coat patched at the elbows, but her eyes were wide and bright as they swept across the room. She bypassed the shiny new pianofortes and the elegant harpsichords, walking straight toward me.

She stood before me for a long time, just as my first friend had done during our very first concert. She reached out a hesitant hand and gently touched my middle C.

The vibration shot through my wires like a bolt of lightning. It was out of tune, yes, but the resonance was deep, honest, and full of potential. She closed her eyes, a small smile touching her lips.

She sat on the wooden bench, lifted her hands, and pressed into me. She did not have the refined, flawless technique of the composers my first friend used to play. Her hands were rough from hard work, and she hesitated between chords. But as she played, I felt the familiar magic stirring in the ether.

She was not playing a piece written on paper. She was improvising, pouring out the rhythm of the rain outside, the weight of her worries, and a fierce, quiet hope that made my strings hum with a brilliant warmth. She was speaking to me, and through me, she was speaking to the world.

14.

I realized then that my journey is far from over. My first friend was gone, but the language we invented together belonged to anyone who had something to say and no words to say it. I braced my keys, welcomed the touch of her fingers, and prepared to start a new lifetime. For I finally understood the great secret of my existence: I am temporary, but the music is eternal.

It will remain , a continuous, unbroken cord passing from one generation to the next. It will alter the heartbeat of a stranger in a crowded hall. It will offer a voice to those who have been stripped of theirs. It will spark a fierce, quiet hope on a rainy afternoon centuries from now, long after the name of my inventor has been forgotten.

We are all just conduits for a greater melody. I am merely one of many vessels and they are the players, but all the songs belong to the future. It is a universal language that will never stop searching for a place to land. 

As long as there are hearts that feel, there will always be a need for a way to make them sing. And I, a piano, had done just that.   

She put the pill in her mouth and smiled. Valerie’s mother was always so happy. She laughed and stuck her tongue out at me from the next car; I waved and laughed back. This was turning into a decent drive home. The kids were all asleep, and Valerie was in a good mood. She told me to start the car so we could continue down the road.

Three kids and two young lovers in a Honda Civic Coupe, tailing her mother, grandmother, niece, and nephew in a Subaru Wagoneer. It had been an early start, but we had all enjoyed visiting Kansas City. I felt lucky to have gotten off work from both jobs to see Valerie’s other grandmother and family. Her baby, Annabelle Love, was sound asleep at last, right where she belonged…"with us. We were where we belonged: together. Past the pregnancy I’d met her through. Past the eight-hour labor. Past the breakup we never expected to heal from. Together.

The cars pulled into their parking spaces, and everyone dismounted the Japanese vehicles. In the middle of Central America, there are few better places to eat than an old-fashioned diner. Though things were coming along easily enough, the drag of working two jobs while carrying a school workload had taken its toll. I needed a break…"a quiet moment away from the chaos. Though the milkshakes and burgers did half the job, as we stood up to leave, I saw my chance.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll only be a moment."

It wasn't just a moment. I took long enough in that bathroom to have taken a full power nap. When my moment was finally over, I stepped out of the diner to find Valerie’s mother sitting in the driver’s seat, while her grandmother appeared to be napping.

The highway was only a few miles away, accessed by a two-lane road stretching into the unknown. It would be four more hours until we were all home. The Subaru slowed and signaled left for the on-ramp. As they pulled across oncoming traffic, their car was struck square on the passenger side.

Gone in an instant. Tires screeched and burned, and thick smoke filled the space where their car had been.

Valerie screamed in disbelief, "WHAT HAPPENED?"

I spun the Honda around and parked. Something was lying in the road ahead. I ran toward what I thought was a loose bumper, only to realize what it was.

Sophia lay on the pavement. Thrown through the window and severely wounded, she looked up at me. Nine years old, small for her age, with golden-brown hair and teal eyes. Blood coursed down her forehead and past her eyebrows. Kneeling down, I gathered her into my lap. All I could do was pray.

"We know You love us, Lord. Please, not today." Over, and over, and over.

She looked up at me and asked what happened.

"Don't worry, you're going to be alright, baby girl. Just hold on, okay?"

A boy knelt next to me and began praying too. I handed her to him and sprinted to my trunk, digging through my bag for a shirt to press against her wounds. Which one was I willing to ruin? Not this one, of course…" full stop. I grabbed the nearest shirt, ran back, and pressed it against her head. I told the boy to maintain pressure, then ran to the wreckage.

The passenger door was caved in as if hit by a wrecking ball. Airbags blocked the empty window frame. I gently lifted one to find Ethel gasping for air. My chest sank. Sometimes, you just know. Forcing the bravest smile I could, I told her that everyone was going to be okay and that help was almost there. I lowered the airbag gently and ran to the driver’s side.

I opened the door to find her mother wincing in pain. She looked at me and gasped, "Stop... get the babies."

I opened the back door and found him. Waiting in his car seat, I pulled my nephew out of the wreckage. Miraculously unstained and without a scrape, he was eerily quiet for a child who had just survived a major crash. I handed him to a bystander near Sophia as a crowd started to gather.

Returning for her mother, I realized she couldn't stand on her own. I draped her arm over my neck and pulled her toward safety. Nearby, a man began cutting away the airbag trapped around Ethel.

"HEY! THAT'S MY FAMILY! GET OVER HERE, LET ME SEE THEM!" Valerie’s voice cut through the air as she screamed to join the rescue.

I ran back to our car to find Penelope” a brave two-year-old standing in the driver’s seat, repeatedly hitting the push-to-start button. The Coupe had had enough. It was not turning over. Bystanders yelled at us to get the kids out; the car had been shut off while I was away. She was trying to drive the others to safety herself. “a child acting on pure instinct..” until someone pulled her out.

Firefighters held Valerie back as the scene fell apart around us. She sobbed and pleaded as they laid Ethel on the ground, deceased.

Alone I lay, bed filled with dismay.

Above me stares the Paralysite down upon me with hunger

”Do you remember the people you ruined the lives of for a joke young one?” And I could not respond to its grinning wide eyed face nor its body covered in darkness. I felt guilt, misery. from its words.

”Would you desire a hug from your mother? To calm you? We can get her if you’d desire.” My mother has been dead for years, it knows this. But then. at the end of my bed, I saw her face

”Why didn’t you call me?” She asked. “I missed you so much, and I was alone. Yet you never picked up the Phone.” I began to cry ”And so I died. Alone without my child by my side. What a horrible, terrible, mistake of a child.” I couldn’t stop the tears.

”She really died missing you. That’s no lie.” As the Mockery wearing my mothers face tore it off its face and started wearing my mothers face as a hat revealing its grin and eye on its dark skin, the Mockery and Paralysite began to laugh at me, they enjoyed the misery I felt.

”And that time you crashed the car on a bet? And your best friend ended up Dead?” The Paralysite Said. “ooh! or the time you pushed a girl down the stairs cause your so called "true love" told you to! That was hilarious. Especially the part her neck snapped!” the mockery responded. they continued to laugh, continued to feed on my misery. as I cried an ice giant. The paralysis and mockery was endless. I couldn’t stop barely handling a micro instant of it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate them both. but until they’re done feeding they won’t leave me alone, and so I felt the agony of them mocking me. of them reminding me of my deepest sins I couldn’t even regret with them around.

and then all of a sudden, they’re gone. done feeding off me. and off to torment another soul I’d never know. I left bed and grabbed my phone, I checked old photos, my mother, my best friend, my father, my brother. all gone due to one thing or another that I had done when younger, sure not all were dead. but they were all gone. I cried. Endless tears and endless years of despair, of missing them.
but then, my experience inspired something in me. Perhaps. Just maybe. I could fix one relationship. My brother.

I messaged him “Hey Joe, we need to talk.”

”What is it now? Money? I’m not sending you anythin.”
“No, no, it’s just. We haven’t spoken in ages but.. I wanna fix things.”

I bit my tounge.

My brain flicked a switch upon reading the message ”Yknow what, sure.“
”Wait really?

”Why not, I know you miss me.” And I cried reading that. I had another chance. I had hope! I could fix things! i could have my brother back.

”Nah I’m just F#ing with ya.” and my heart dropped.

”You ruined everything you know. Our relationship, our jobs, our family. You ruined it all. and you don’t deserve a second chance, you don’t even deserve life. Your only use is for us to feed.” Then I realised.

”this isnt real, isnt it?” Out of my phone came the mockery still wearing my mother’s face as a hat and it said “Ofcourse it isn’t, he'd never go beyond the no money thing. He hates you.” and I fell down into paralysis by the Paralysite. “He will always hate you.” It said to me “You cannot fix the broken dear.” as they kept laughing “or that time in Hawaii!” the mockery yelled. as I finally realised. they’ll suck me dry before they go.

I hate this so much.

This short story is a part of the Mieran Ruins Collection. The rest of the stories can be found on this masterpost.

Judge Juarez called the trial for the day. His seat was uncomfortable, and his butt was starting to hurt. He appealed to his supervisors for a nicer chair. This trial seemed to go on forever, and no end was in sight. If he was going to be stuck listening to them argue, the least he could do was being given a nice chair. His supervisor’s response was prompt. She pointed out that the guards spent the whole trial standing without complaint; he could tolerate the back pain. He retorted that he was of a higher rank than them. Therefore, he should get more privileges. If power didn’t bring perks, what was the point of power? He was then told that Lieutenant Smith technically outranked him and the trial was a farce anyway. Judge Juarez responded by asking which guard was Lieutenant Smith? At that moment, his supervisor slammed the door in the face and told him to suck it up.

Becca, Derrick, and Evelyn used this time to discuss. Mary was luckily placed in another bunker preventing her from listening to their discussions. Becca opened a notebook while Derrick laid on his bed. Evelyn smiled from her accomplishment.

“Alright so I made a note of every possible witness or incident that Mary might use against us over the next few days. I think we should review them and discuss how we are going to counter them.”

“When did you have time to do this?” Derrick asked.

“During the bathroom and lunch breaks, I become a bit of a zealot when I have a task before me. I haven’t slept since Saturday,” Becca said.

“That explains a lot actually,” Evelyn said. Derrick nodded his head in agreement.

“So I want you both to review this list and add anyone you think should be on there when we are done. I think we should start with the easiest one. I think Mary might call Goldtail to the stand,” Becca said.

“Goldtail,” Derrick blinked, “You mean our cat?”

“Yep, no one knows about the inner workings of city hall better than him,” Becca said.

“To be clear, he is a cat. Also, why would he hate us. We feed him and clean his litter box,” Derrick said.

“I do that. You two don’t do anything with them. Not that I mind. I am happy to take care of the cat. He is a very sweet boy who only scratches me a little bit. I don’t know why he does that because I do so much for him. I suppose he likes you more, Derrick, which is strange because I do everything for him. I even pet him more. Not that it matters to me of course,” Becca said. Evelyn and Derrick looked at each other.

“Okay, but to reiterate. He’s a cat. He can’t talk so he can’t testify,” Derrick said.

“Larry couldn’t talk either, and he testified."

“Larry is silent. Goldtail cannot speak because of his biology.”

“The military has advanced technology. They could have a way to communicate with animals, and they would never tell the rest of us. Why would they? They love to keep their edge over the rest of humanity; that's what my mom told me. When I was eight, we saw a flying saucer abduct a cow. I never understood what it wanted from the cow. Then, my mother told me the flying saucer was a military vessel meant to get cheaper beef. That has informed my worldview ever since,” Becca said.

“Becca, I think you need some sleep.” Evelyn held out her hands in a calming pose.

“Why?” Becca blinked five times in one second.

“One, you sounded bananas. Two, your mouth curved in a smile to look like a banana. Three, a bit of drool heaped out that was white and looked like banana mush. In conclusion, you are bananas,” Evelyn said.

“Don’t compare me to a vegetable,” Becca said. Derrick’s face twisted. “You are right. A banana is a fruit. After we review the files, I’ll go to bed.”

“I don’t need to study. I spend every day prepared to verbally eviscerate potential enemies, and everyone wants to see me knocked down a peg. That’s what it’s like when you are above everyone,” Evelyn said.

“Okay, but I think you should still review,” Becca said.

“Don’t bother.” A man pulled back the curtain and entered the room. Evelyn screamed.

“Who are you, and why’d you barge in here? We might not be decent,” Evelyn said.

“My name is Sergeant Vank. I live in this bunker, and I am avid follower of this trial. To answer your question, would you really let these two see you indecent?” Sergeant Vank said.

“True.” Evelyn tilted her head.

“Anyway, even though I am rooting for you three, I have to tell you that your case is doomed. Mary’s cousin is married to the General’s son. She has no chance of losing. That’s why she brought you here. There’s no chance of your success,” Sergeant Vank explained.

“Why even bother with a trial then?” Derrick asked.

“We were bored. I want you to keep fighting because it is entertaining, but also, don’t fret too much. Enjoy your last days.” Sergeant Vank left and closed the curtains.

“I knew something like that would happen.” Becca curled into a ball and began rocking. “We are going to get butchered like space beef.”

“Quit whining. We are going to keep fighting. I have fought overwhelming odds before and won. It’s what I do,” Evelyn said.

“That’s oddly optimistic for you. Are you sure you want to be that dedicated?” Derrick narrowed his eyes.

“Of course, when I win, I’ll prove that I am better than everyone else. It’s a foregone conclusion. Now, let’s get some sleep.” Evelyn closed her curtain and jumped in bed.

“Well, I guess she’ll be entertaining.” Derrick turned to Becca who fell asleep on the floor. Derrick lay in his own bed and closed tomorrow. “Hope for the best. Plan to be publicly and violently executed. That’s all we can do nowadays.”

---

r/AstroRideWrites

Night. Rain pounds an old, neglected graveyard. Headstones from as far back as

the 1700s. A mighty thunderclap explodes as lightning illuminates a filthy hand

reaching out from an open grave. The hand clutches a shovel which it slams down

onto the ground.

Day. Windshield wipers beating madly. Sheets of rain on the windshield of the

Sullivans’ car. Mark and Ronnie Sullivan, both in their early fifties, work their way

north on the Palisades Interstate Parkway, which closely hugs the Hudson River.

They are married but not in love. This is only a recent discovery by their daughter,

Anastasia (Stace), twenty-two years old, who sits in the back seat with their

German Shepherd, Freddie.

Stace is mixed-race, her father is Irish and her mother is black. Any thoughts that

their progressive union gave them special staying power as a couple are quickly

extinguished when their conversation is overheard.

“87 will be faster,” says Ronnie.

“It’s always jammed,” says Mark.

“Google says it’s not.”

“I’m telling you, it’s jammed.”

Ronnie abandons the exchange.

Stace rubs Freddie’s belly and he groans appreciatively. She turns her attention to

the window, where rivulets of water make their way down the glass. Though she

knows they are moving according to the appropriate laws of physics, she imagines

for a moment that they are choosing their path. Hmph. Yeah right.

With maybe five awkward hookups under her belt, Stace has formed the opinion

that love is only an invention of hopeful minds. She’s fairly sure that the concept

we losers call “love,” can really only be one of two things: obsession or

compromise. You are either dangerously dependent on someone or you have

chosen to overlook their immense flaws and decided that having a companion who

drives you crazy is better than being alone. Though she’s grown more and more

confident in her theory, she’s not yet certain which option is preferable.

Her parents have decided to spend the summer in Livingston Manor, New York, a

town in the Catskills that straddles the Beaver Kill, a tributary of the Delaware

River that runs rich with trout. Historically known for timber, trapping, and

tanneries, the area now serves as a refuge for rich Manhattanites, who have, over

the years, invaded the town like a plague, to the ongoing annoyance of the original

inhabitants. Or their descendants anyway.

Stace recently graduated from George Washington, where, after four years, she

made few friends, unless you count the animal specimens in the biology lab. Shabo

the hamster, Kiki the monkey, and Thomas the snake brought her reams more

interesting company than the oceans of pre-lawyers, pre-senators, and pre-Wall

Streeters she found herself drowning in. Even GW’s artistic community only

defined themselves by what they stood in opposition to, meaning the entire student

population was either moving towards or moving against the exact same thing. Did

it really fucking matter whose side you were on if everyone is struggling upstream

or downstream in the same polluted river?

Lacking any better ideas, Stace agreed to accompany her parents to the Catskills

for the summer, if only to give herself some time to plot her escape. Escaping what

precisely, she wasn’t sure, but “getting out” was the goal she focused on, and

perhaps the “from where” and “to where” would eventually reveal themselves. It

was either that or continue to teach sign language to Kiki the monkey, who, from

what little he was able to express with his hands, seemed like kind of an asshole

anyway.

She thought she’d know herself better by now, but the only thing she’s sure of at

this point is that she doesn’t like being told what to do, what to think, or how to be.

The Sullivans arrive at their summer home, a modernist’s wet dream of glass and

steel that some city lawyer built, grew bored of, then listed on VRBO. Whoever he

was, Stace was fairly convinced that used the words “clean lines” in some toxic

amount. The house stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the converted farmhouses

and cabins, a distinct “fuck you” to the natural beauty which now surrounded them.

“Are you kidding?,” shoots Stace.

“I think it’s perfect,” returns Ronnie.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Mark, as he shuts the engine and pops the trunk.

They drag their luggage into the house like soldiers pulling their duffels off the

train, trudging towards whatever new base they’ve been assigned to. After a quick

scolding from Mom about tracking in mud, Stace finds the room that’s been chosen

for her and drops her bag. The walls of her room are all glass. One might delight at

the opportunity to observe the woods surrounding the house, as if plunked down in

front of a terrarium, or conversely, one could imagine every one of nature’s

monsters hungrily staring into a clear box filled with entrees.

The rain has stopped.

“I’m gonna take Freddie for a walk,” declares Stace, anxious for a reconnoiter that

might identify escape routes, figurative or otherwise. Dad is already

testing the wi-fi for a work zoom and Mom is opening and closing cabinets.

“Come back before dark,” manages Mom.

“Put him on leash,” tosses Dad.

Deciding that neither of these directives are REALLY meant for her, Stace heads

out the door with Freddie, who scampers ahead in leash-less abandon.

The sun is going down, but Stace is having too good a time to notice. She sits on a

on a riverbank hugging her knees and watches as Freddie chases fish. He

galoomphs and splashes in fruitless effort, soaking and delighting himself in the

process. Animals are the only ones having real fun, she’s decided. At minimum

they’re the only ones embracing true “mindfulness,” remembering the concept

rammed down the throat of students at every opportunity in order for them to

“thrive” at school.

Another dog joins Freddie in the river. It’s a Golden, and she’s beautiful. Freddie

starts barking, not threateningly, just excitedly, as if just eager to let his new

companion how great this all is.

“Stop barking, you’ll scare her away! Show some game, man!,” scolds Stace,

wishing a love life onto her best friend.

“Nothing will scare her away, she gives as good as she gets.”

A young man, maybe a year or two older than Stace, makes his way down the river

bank. He’s handsome. Tall, lanky, angular face, floppy brown hair.

“Hey, I’m Evan.”

“Stace.”

“Stace like ‘Stacy’?”

“Stace like Anastasia.”

“Oh cool. Like the Russian princess.”

“Duchess, but yeah.”

“Didn’t she get—

“Murdered, yup, that’s her.”

“This isn’t going well. Hi, I’m Evan.

Stace smiles. “Anastasia.”

“Are you visiting or…”

“I guess, I think, for the summer.”

“Cool, nice. I mean, for you. And your family.”

“Are you…”

“I’m from here, yeah. We moved from the city when I was five.”

“It’s beautiful here.”

“It’s actually really boring. I’m just gonna stay until I hear from law schools.”

Awesome. Another lawyer.

Evan skillfully skips a stone across the river.

“My dad’s a lawyer and he’s got this big firm in the city so… It’s probably where

I’ll end up.”

Stace nods, then offers, “My dad’s a lawyer, too.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“You might want to think about heading home. It’s gets dark really quickly and

there’re no street lights.”

“Got it.”

“Alright, see you around. Come on Lucy, let’s go!”

The Golden splashes towards Evan, and he hooks a leash to her collar. He gives a

small wave and heads back up the embankment.

Stace walks down a narrow road. The thick woods prematurely extinguish the sun

and the entire realm comes alive with the sound of frogs, crickets, and who knows

what.

She comes to a T intersection and for the life of her can’t remember which way she

came from. She picks left, figuring she has a 50/50 chance of guessing correctly.

It’s pitch black. Stace has her phone light on but it’s pretty useless when there’s

nothing informative to illuminate. Trees and more trees. Every once in awhile the

light will catch a critter’s eyes and make them glow. It’s unsettling but so far

nothing bigger than a raccoon. And Freddie’s here.

Shit. Why did she wait so long to start for home? To piss off her parents? Well,

yeah. But now she’s the one in the woods. Big win. But it’s gonna be fine. Wait. Is6

she still on a road? She points the light at her feet. The road has turned to dirt.

She’s on a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Something moves in the trees. Not a raccoon. Something of size. By the time she

shines her light it’s gone. Shit. Shit shit shit.

Now something moves on the other side of her. She whips around. Sees a form. A

bear? Are there fucking bears here? She can’t remember. What did she read once

about bear attacks? If it’s black, fight back? If it’s brown, lay down? Or is it the

reverse? No, then it wouldn’t rhyme, stupid.

Freddie starts to bark. Not playfully. He doesn’t like whatever’s in the trees. He’s

baring his teeth.

“Freddie stop!”

But he bolts after whatever it is. Disappears into the black.

“Freddie! God damnit!”

She hears Freddie aggressively barking. It seems to come from every direction.

Then growling. Not Freddie. Something big. Low and deep and sinister. Stace

plunges into the trees, tripping over roots, stepping into holes. She drops her

phone. It lands light-side down. Gone.

She stops. Freddie has gone quiet. Something begins moving towards her. Twigs

snapping. Bushes rattling.

Stace starts to run. Stumbling. Branches whipping her face. She falls. Gets up.

Movement getting closer. She runs again. Fuck whatever this is, it’s not gonna get

her.

The ground disappears from under her feet. Falling. Down a steep slope. Tumbling.

Comes to a halt against a big rock. Bloody gash on her leg. Something’s coming

down the slope after her. Closer, closer, she’s dead meat-

“Hey, is this your dog?”

Stace turns to stare into the bright glow of a flashlight.

“Oh, sorry,” says the owner of the flashlight, who now points it at her own face.

She’s a kind looking woman in her early 30s. She’s kneeling next to Freddie with a

finger holding onto his collar. Stace catches her breath.

“Yeah. He’s… that’s Freddie.”

The woman gives Freddie’s fur a friendly scratch. He sits.

“Are you okay? Your leg…”

Stace gets to her feet.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. Just scraped it I think.”

“I’m Corey.”

“Stace.”

“What happened? Did he get out?”

“I was walking him and… I got kind of lost. And I thought something was— I’m

sure it was my imagination.”

“Yeah, it’s hella confusing here when you don’t know your way around. I can get

you back to the road though.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re alright? Your knees are shaking.”

“I just got a little... spooked. ”

Stace scans the trees, eyes wide. Corey looks at her sympathetically.

“Hm. What if instead of getting you back to the road, I get you in front of a drink?”

“Oh my god, yes, please.”

Stace knocks back a shot of Patron then sips from a glass of beer.

“Now how do you feel?,” says Corey.

“Fucking better.”

They sit at the bar in saloon-type establishment, the kind of place that only exists

outside of big cities. The kind that has posters of trucks. The kind that still

plays the Eagles. One hundred miles and forty years away from Manhattan. But it’s

the right vibe for right now. Comforting. A Dad-bar. Freddie lays curled up

underneath Stace’s stool, wiped out from his exertions.

“I really freaked myself out there. I don’t usually rattle that easily.”

“I mean, you’re alone in the woods of a town you’ve never been in, there’s bears

and bobcats all around you”

“Wait, there are bears?”

“Of course. They’re everywhere. Black bears.”

“Black you fight back.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“They don’t generally attack people, but you might have heard one in the bushes

looking for food. They’re generally either hungry or curious.”

“I’d like to see one. I mean, like, during the day.”

“You will. Just give them a wide berth. Unlike you, nerves of steel, they get scared

really easily.”

Stace smiles.

“Are you like, a forest ranger or something?”

“I’m a veterinarian.”

“Really? That’s so cool!”

“Thanks! I don’t usually get that reaction.”

“I love animals so much. Way more than people.”

“Okay, that’s slightly strange but I’ll allow it.”

“Don’t you think animals are better than people in so many ways?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. I just don’t want to marry one, which sounds

like something you’d find appealing.”

“I’m not like some weirdo. I mean, maybe I am some weirdo, but- I just don’t

make friends that easily. With people.”

“I get that. I wasn’t exactly Miss Popular in high school.”

“Were you like, weird animal nerd?”

“I actually wanted to be a doctor. I joined the Air Force and they sent me to

medical school.”

“Oh my god, you’re so cool.”

“Yes, that’s me. Extremely cool. But after I got my M.D., I don’t know… I just

completely lost interest in practicing. I just wanted to move back home and live

a… small life.”

“Did a boy have anything to do with any of this?”

Stace reads discomfort on Corey’s face for the first time. She meant it as kind of a

joke, but somehow she struck a chord.

“Kinda.”

Their easy banter having petered out, Stace shifts in her seat.

“I should probably let my parents off the hook. I’m sure they’re calling hospitals

by now. It was really nice to meet you. And thank you for… getting me out of the

woods.

“No problem. Good luck finding your phone tomorrow. Remember it’s in the

woods next to Pritchett’s farm.”

“Got it.”

“Hey, do you have a job this summer?”

“No, not yet. Do you know of something?”

“Our assistant at the office just moved back to the west coast so we need

somebody. Mostly just checking in the cats and dogs and the occasional bird but

it’s fifteen buck an hour.”

“That sounds awesome. Count me in.”

“Cool.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No worries.”

Stace stands up.

“Come on, Fred.”

She proffers a small wave and heads toward the entrance. Freddie heaves himself

up and trots after.

Corey grabs a corner of the label on her beer and starts to peel.

It’s only nine o’clock when Stace gets home but her parents are waiting for her like

she’s fourteen and it’s two in the morning.

“Hi.”

“Where the hell have you been?” says Dad.

“I took Freddie for a walk then I met this girl and we went for a drink.”

“We have been worried sick.,” says Mom.

“I’m sorry, I lost my phone.”

“Your legs are filthy… and you’re bleeding!” says Mom.

“Yeah I took a little tumble, but I’m fine. I’m gonna go wash it.”

Stace, wishfully thinking this might end here, starts towards the back of the house.

“We’re gonna need some ground rules if you’re gonna be with us this summer.”

Of course. What parent-child interaction would be complete without a discussion

of the “ground rules?”

Stace wheels around.

“Okay?”

Mark starts pacing and talking with his hands, as if making a case.

“I know you’ve gotten used to living on your own at school but as long as you’re

living under our roof we need to know where you are.”

“Maybe I could wear a tracking device of some kind.,” Stace deadpans.

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” chimes in Mom.

Stace actually likes it when her mom calls her on her shit. She wishes she would

call her dad on his shit more. She wishes she could call her marriage on its shit

more.

“I’m just asking for the simple courtesy of knowing that you’re okay, that’s all

we’re asking it and I don’t think it’s a lot,” says Dad.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. I lost my phone and I couldn’t text. I’m gonna look for it

tomorrow. Can I go clean my cut before gangrene sets in?”

Mark nods. Stace exits and imagines the exchange of “what are we gonna do with

her” looks going on behind her.

“I got a job by the way.” she says without looking back.

Stace sleeps soundly, Freddie curled up at her feet. A flash illuminates the room,

then thunder rings out two seconds after. Freddie sits up and starts barking.

This wakes Stace up. Another flash and just for a millisecond a man is lit up

outside the glass walls of her room. A young man, barely clothed. He’s maybe

thirty but long hair and a scraggly beard make him look older. Freddie barks and

growls. Stace pins herself back against the headboard. Thunder explodes. Another

flash and the man is gone. What the fuck? Did she really see that?

Stace, not having slept terribly well, walks into the kitchen, where Mark reads his

iPad and drinks coffee. Ronnie scrambles eggs.

“Some thunderstorm, huh?” says Dad.

“Yeah.”

“That’s summer for you.,” says Mom.

“Bit of good news though. That friend you made must’ve found your phone.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was on the porch this morning.”

Stace’s spine turns to ice.

Livingston Manor Veterinary Hospital is a quaint little establishment on the main

road. A few people sit waiting with their pets: A middle-aged man with his Cocker

Spaniel, a grandma holds her kitty, a stock broker looks at his phone as his Pit Bull

Terrier pants on the floor below him.

At the counter, Stace hands a Pomeranian to an athletic-looking woman in yoga

pants. Dr. Corey Lambeth, who rescued Stace the night before, addresses the

woman.

“So Tucker’s fine. We worry much more when they eat the hyperthyroid meds than

the hypothyroid ones. They can actually assimilate the human dose fairly well. Not

that we want them getting into our meds, kind of, as a rule.”

The woman examines her pup as if for dents and scratches.

“I honestly don’t know how he got the bottle. It was on my nightstand and it was

closed tightly.

“Yeah, you’d be surprised how crafty these guys can be when they’re curious. And

child-proof isn’t necessarily puppy-proof.”

The woman admonishes the dog. “Naughty boy. Very naughty.”

Corey rolls her eyes at Stace. Yeah, it’s the dog’s fault. Right lady.

“Anyway he vomited it all up and he’s fine. So it’s $400 for the emetic and $150

for the overnight stay.”

“Seriously? That’s what I pay in the city. I would think it would less in the

countryside.”

“Well, we here in the countryside have to pay the same price for our medicines as

the big city vets so it ends up being the same. Plus the whole ‘living wage for our

employees thing.’”

The woman hands over her Platinum Amex.

Corey demonstrates for Stace on the computer.

“So you click on the treatment menu and select ‘emetic’ and ‘overnight’ and it’ll

give you payment options. Credit card…”

She puts the card in a chip reader. It beeps.

“Can I have a receipt please?” says Yoga Pants.

Corey prints out a receipt and hands it to her.

“Take care now! Bye Tucker!”

She turns to Stace.

“Then I like to make a few notes like “well-behaved pup or owner’s an asshole.

And that’s it. Easy.”

“Cool. Hey did you happen to find my phone and return this morning?”

“No. I thought you lost it in the woods.”

“Yeah, but somebody returned it.”

“I don’t even know where you’re staying.”

“Right.”

“Glad someone found it though.”

“Yeah.”

Corey heads into the back.

“Hey Corey? You don’t know anything about some weird scraggly guy wandering

around the woods at night, do you? Like, are there reports of an escaped convict or

anything?”

Corey, as Stace expected, looks at her as if she’s lost her mind.

“Ummm, no. But if, you know, something comes in, over the… wires, or I hear

about an APB or something…”

“Forget it. I’m hallucinating.”

“I’m sure you just got shook up and your amygdala was firing. Takes a day or two

to calm down. Why don’t you take your lunch break? The diner next store is pretty

good.”

Stace stares at her vegetable soup. Pick up the same spoonful over and over and let

it stream back into the bowl.

“Hey there, mind if I join you?”

It’s Evan, the cute boy from the river.

“Uh, no, sure.”

Evan and his double cheeseburger sit down across from her. He goes to work on it.

“How can you even get your mouth around that thing?, says Stace, trying to be

friendly.

“I have to unhinge my jaw.”

“Like a boa constrictor.”

“Yes. I got a blood test last year that said I had low iron so I’m trying to boost my

numbers.”

“I’m sure this is exactly what your doctor had in mind.”

“Hey I got sweet potato fries, which everyone knows are extremely healthy.”

Evan puts his burger down for a moment, then…

“How are you enjoying life on the Beaver Kill?”

“Uh, okay, I guess, so far. Had a weird moment last night. Thought I was being

stalked. But other than that, peachy. Any reason this place has such a scary name?”

“Beaver Kill? It’s not scary. ‘Kill’ is the Dutch word for ‘river.’ You know, when

this was all New Amsterdam and shit.”

“Okay, now I feel stupid.”

“You mean you’re not fluent in Dutch?,” he jokes. I don’t think it’s common

knowledge or anything. Just don’t want this place to get a bad rap.”

“It is really beautiful. At least during the day.”

“Once you know your way around the nights will be beautiful too. Okay, that

sounded weird.

He blushes slightly, then tries to change gears.

“Sooo- just you and your family are here for the summer? Any brothers or

sisters?,”

“Only child. You?”

“I have a younger sister and… had an older brother who passed away.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry to hear that,” says Stace. wondering why he brought up the

subject of siblings in the first place.

“Thank you. He was a good dude.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“He was walking home on the road and got hit by a drunk driver. Some

stockbroker from the city. Didn’t even lose his license.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry. Again.”

Evan nods and turns back to his burger, but before he takes a bite he adds-

“I guess maybe this place can be scary at night.”

Back at the house. Stace ties her sneakers. Her mom passes by.

“Taking the dog for a walk?”

“I already did. I’m taking me for a walk.”

“It’s getting dark.”

Stace holds up a flashlight.

“I’ll be fine.”

Stace walks down the road in the area where she got lost. The sun has set and

visibility is waning. She alternately shines her flashlight on the road and then onto

the trees. It’s very important for her to know that she’s not seeing things. Seeing

things is a big deal and it’s just not something she wants to take on if she doesn’t

have to.

Thunder. For Christ’s sake don’t rain again. Just some dry lighting it seems.

She finds the area where the road becomes dirt. Here comes the sounds of critters.

Fine. Expected.

Here’s where Freddie bolted into the trees. She pushes her way into the woods.

“I am not afraid. Fuck you, fear.”

She finds the slope where she tumbled. It’s a small ravine.

Picks her way carefully down.

Reaches the bottom.

Shines the light all around.18

Nothing.

Trees, bugs, critters, her.

Everybody belongs.

She’s satisfied.

Inhales. Big exhale.

As she takes her first step something rustles above her. She shines the light in that

direction. Another rustle some distance away. Then suddenly close. Then in front

of her. She swings the light-

It’s a bear. A black bear. Four hundred pounds. GROWLS.

“If it’s black, fight back.”

She can hear her heart in her ears. She’s going to fight for her life, and she’s going

to lose. She’s going to die.

The bear rears up on its hind legs. ROARS.

Suddenly there’s barking. Loud, menacing barking. Freddie? No. That isn’t

Freddie’s bark. This is loud and aggressive. This means business.

It gets the bear’s attention. He turns his head, tweaks his ears to locate the sound.

And then it’s there. The man. And he’s barking. Loudly. His throat is straining with

the effort. Veins bulging on his neck. He’s in a crouch, with hands on the ground.

The bear opens his mouth and roars again. The man barks back and growls.

Equally menacing. He’s a wild animal. It’s uncanny. It’s too much for the eyes to

see. For the brain to process.

The world starts to tilt for Stace. She’s fainting. She makes her peace with Death.

She hits the ground as the two beasts face off.

All goes black.

*Trigger Warning* depictions of depression and strong, negative emotions

Lines from some old Christmas song blared, waking him with a start. Moaning, his hand fumbled with the snooze button long enough to hear who was kissing Santa Claus before he rolled over. Eyes opened, he studied the little red screen until he understood that it said 7 AM. He had no idea why he had set the alarm for Saturday, but since he would not be able to sleep now, there was no point in lying there much longer.

Charlie sat up. He heard the cracking of his back as he stretched. Rising, he stifled a yawn as he trudged to the bathroom. Taking care not to glance in the mirror, he stripped and got in the shower.

Knowing the hot shower could not last forever, Charlie concentrated on how nice it felt, ignoring the faint tugging at the back of his mind. Today would be good. It had started a little early, but Charlie was sure he could keep his mind peaceful for a day.

As soon as he shut the water off, the cold enveloped him. Charlie knew it would not be long before he showed up to force the chill into Charlie’s core. Grabbing a towel, Charlie stepped out and pressed his hands to his temple, trying to engulf his mind in distractions. Staring straight into the mirror, hating everything he saw, he realized it was no use today. He was already with Charlie.

He dressed slowly, wanting to prolong the moment, wanting anything to keep from leaving the tiny, warm room. He heaved a deep sigh and opened the door, his heart sinking. He had awoken in a good, happy mood. But, of course, that never seems to matter, clearly displayed by the smiling man standing by Charlie’s bed.

Lu. What a name. It was much too simple for so complex a man. There he lounged, long and slender, dressed in his usual black attire, his white face grinning, eyes bright. At first glance, he looked like a charming man; he held himself casually and his deep eyes hardly appeared red from a distance. When Charlie entered the room Lu chuckled softly, a melodic, terrifying sound. He knew Charlie would ignore him, and that just would not do.

“Why such a sour mood? Aren’t you glad to see me?” Lu inquired placidly. “You wish for someone with whom to confide; yet when I offer just that, you turn away. Very rude indeed, Charlie.”

His smooth, light voice forced warmth and kindness, yet underneath held something more sinister. Charlie heard this, as he always did, and chose to look away, afraid Lu’s eyes would read the depths of his own.

Lu glided closer and rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. He said, “You really should learn to speak up. I hear your thoughts clearly, but you could at least humor me with actual conversation.”

He gave Charlie’s shoulder a sharp squeeze and Charlie was shocked with the image of his father, stumbling through snow, searching for a road sign or phone or anything. Two white lights flashed behind him and Charlie was shaking, standing again in his room, realizing what Lu had just done. The bastard was going to give him hell today.

Shaking Lu off, Charlie stepped a few paces away, looking into those deep, knowing eyes he wished he had never seen. He sighed deeply and said, “I want to be left alone today.”

Lu frowned. 

“You really don’t care for my feelings at all do you?”

“You really don’t care for mine, either.”

“Oh, but I do. I care for them very much… I merely prefer the ones that you don’t,” Lu said, smirking. 

Charlie closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and said, “I see. You like sadness and anger and hatred. You get off by making me feel like sh-”

“Who are you talking to?”

His eyes shot open when he heard Ruthie’s voice, and he was shocked to see that he was alone but for her. 
He turned to see her standing in the doorway. She was still in her nightie and was rubbing her eyes sleepily. 

His initial reaction was to tell her to leave, but he realized he had raised his voice before and awakened her. He could not be angry with her when she stood there looking up at him with innocent concern. She was only eight and would not understand if he tried to explain to her, but she loved her older brother too much to be sent away without an answer.

Charlie thought for a moment and said wistfully, “I was reciting some old play from English class. It was nothing. How about I make you some breakfast?”

Ruthie’s blank expression quickly shifted to eagerness as she agreed to his proposal and ran to the stairs, her tangly, brown curls bouncing around her face.

Charlie went to follow her as a white, spiderlike hand touched his arm, causing him to turn. He knew Lu had not actually left, but the disappointment still etched his face. This only brought the other man amusement. He swiftly pointed to the nightstand before stepping past Charlie and disappearing down the hallway.

Charlie looked at the nightstand and regretfully grasped the tiny, glinting piece of metal. Stowing it away in his pocket, he lightly ran his forefinger along the tiny blade, utterly aware of the scars hidden beneath his sleeve.

After an eventful morning flipping pancakes, coloring Muppets pictures, and scrubbing syrup out of Ruthie’s hair, Charlie felt warm. He sat in the living room watching Ruthie do a puzzle. He would have helped her right away, but she always insisted on doing it herself, though she ended up asking Charlie to help anyway. He laughed a little thinking about it.

He stared at the blank television screen, not even thinking to turn it on. They did not have cable and the local stations never had cartoons. Just as he was about to ask if Ruthie was done attempting to force the wrong piece into place, Kathy walked by. He glanced up to see her still in her robe and looking as though she would keep it that way all day. She opened the fridge and the light emphasized the bags under her eyes. Looking away when her eyes wandered over to him, Charlie stared ahead, furrowing his brow and crossing his arms.

He heard Kathy sigh and start shuffling off to her bedroom. Charlie felt the guilt immediately and turned to her. 

“Good morning, Mom.”

Kathy halted and looked at him, searching his eyes. She replied, “Good morning, hon.” 

She began to leave again and he said, “I thought I would take Ruthie to Cheryl’s today. You know, since she likes to play there and it would be nice to get out…”

Kathy smiled an odd smile, nodding her head and agreeing. Charlie knew the smile was there to mask the sadness in her eyes. He grinned at her, attempting to tell her with his expression that he did not wish her to be sad. She nodded again, understanding, and walked off to her room, leaving Charlie to ponder her behavior. She had been mourning, just as he had, but she had also stopped caring. He knew that she still loved him, but she had turned to alcohol recently, which left him to care for Ruthie more and take her away when he knew Kathy was going to drink. She was never violent, but she had become rather mean at times and said things Charlie knew she had never meant. Still, he felt better when Ruthie was out of the house and was not exposed to her mother’s problems.

Charlie leaned forward and told Ruthie to gather up the puzzle and put on some clothes. She trotted off without picking up the puzzle and Charlie grabbed the pieces and tossed them into the box. He put a few toys in Ruthie’s little backpack and handed it to her as she came down the stairs. Wrapping her puffy green jacket around her, Charlie guided her to the front door and hollered goodbye to his mother.

They walked along the street holding hands. Ruthie hummed a tune while Charlie kept her out of the road. Without realizing what he was seeing, Charlie stared at the person walking a couple meters ahead. It was not until they were approaching the driveway of Cheryl’s house when Charlie noticed how thin the man was. He wore all black and underneath his white blonde hair his neck was ghostly. Charlie frowned and walked Ruthie to the door. He exchanged “hellos” and hugged Ruthie goodbye. He did not want to walk back home now.

He meandered along the drive and glanced down the street. No one was there and he sighed freely.

“He seems to be gone.”

Charlie turned with a start and stared angrily into Lu’s face. The latter merely smiled in his way, lazily placing his hands in his pockets. 

Charlie decided to find a distraction, so he started toward the busy shopping street. Lu stepped easily into place beside him and spoke not a word more, enjoying Charlie’s annoyance too greatly.

How hideous he felt when Lu was near him. That is what he did to him; he made him feel sick to his stomach. When would he leave Charlie alone? Just as Lu most likely had intended, Charlie’s scars seemed to burn in an irritating way, tingling only in his mind. He fiddled with his sleeve, wishing for anything to rescue him now. 

As they entered the busy street, Charlie cringed at the sight of Lu’s hungry eyes searching the crowd, picking out the weak ones. They passed by a medical clinic and Charlie faltered for a moment when he noticed a young woman stepping outside. She looked petrified and wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering with sobs. Wondering what could be the matter, Charlie noticed Lu watching the girl. Lu’s eyes danced and he smirked a terrible smirk that chilled Charlie’s insides. Wanting to be away from the poor girl, Charlie quickened his pace, hoping Lu would follow. He looked over his shoulder and his heart sank.

Lu drifted forward and began whispering in the girl’s ear. She did not appear to see Lu, but clearly heard his voice in her head. Charlie racked his brains for something to do when he noticed something bright on the girl’s arm. It seemed to glow in one spot and it must have felt warm; the girl seemed to notice it anyway, for she placed one hand on the spot and looked stunned. Lu saw it as well and his face contorted with rage. Charlie, on the other hand, grinned widely.
 
“Tom.”

As he spoke the name, a tall, slightly built man with thick curly hair and plain white clothes faded into view beside the girl. Charlie was astonished; he had stopped speaking to Tom so long ago that he had forgotten his name until now. How he could forget Tom seemed quite senseless. The quiet man never intruded, yet he had stuck around until Charlie had completely forgotten him. 

Lu straightened up and stepped away from the girl, the anger in his eyes unyielding as Tom spoke softly to the girl. Her face was stained with tears, but she was no longer sobbing. She kept glancing around, obviously wondering if someone was actually speaking to her.  She seemed to not care in the end and merely allowed Tom’s words to carry her back inside. She looked around once more as she stepped through the door and smiled to herself.

Charlie watched as the two men before him bore into each other’s eyes, gray into red. Without a word, Tom looked away and his eyes found Charlie’s instead. His soft, serious face broke into a wide smile as he walked forward, arms wide. Charlie accepted the hug more than willingly and knew Tom would only let go once he did. Stepping back, he looked up into the face of this friend he had so missed. Tom looked right back, his old, wise eyes somehow fitting perfectly on his young face. The two stood this way until Lu broke the silence.

“How very sweet. I might just vomit. Charlie, how can you embrace this man? I thought he had forgotten you. He left as soon as you ceased speaking to him. He can’t handle the fact that you choose to spend your time in my company instead,” he said scathingly.

Tom’s eyes widened as he took Lu in. He spoke softly, “I never forgot Charlie. I have always been with him. You know that. I think you have led him astray long enough.”

Charlie bit his lip and leaned away from Tom, looking down and saying, “But you did leave. I haven’t seen you in months. I hardly remembered your name just now… because you’ve been gone.”
 

Charlie was glad his eyes were averted because Tom’s piercing stare would have been too much to handle. He waited patiently, though, for Tom to respond. He unconsciously rubbed his arm, running his fingers along the rough skin. He only stopped when Tom’s warm hand grasped his arm and he looked up to see sorrow in those old eyes.

“I never left you. Charlie… you never wanted to listen when I tried to help, you said that getting better was too much work, so you ignored me. Even so, I have always stood by. You woke up one day and chose not to see me, and so you did not. Charlie, you would have left this world by now if I had not held onto you. Every time you fight Lu and choose to be happy, I am with you. I will never leave you,” Tom said at last, while Lu scoffed unintelligibly.

Charlie stood between the two men, one of light, the other of darkness, and was torn. He could not think why he would be torn between these two. One forced misery upon him, the other offered hope. 

Just as he began to say something, Lu reached out and grabbed his arm, pushing Tom’s hand away. His eyes flashing, Lu smiled his awful smile and Charlie was thrust into a whirlwind of dreadful memories: himself, taking the blade to his arm; his mother, drinking her sadness away; his father, in the hospital, breathing his final breath. Lu laughed eagerly as Charlie shuddered and stumbled back into an alleyway. 

With every heaving breath, the pain of sorrow ached his body more heavily. Charlie dropped to his knees and stared up into the white, chaotically joyous face above him. This was the end and he was ready. He wanted the world to vanish and leave him to be nothing, alone. Just as Lu leaned over him, guiding his hand to his pocket, a stronger hand pushed Lu back with such force that he stumbled and fell over.

Tom stood over Charlie, his jaw set and brow furrowed. He tried to push his fear away, but Charlie was utterly shocked. Not only had Tom acted violently, he was angry. Charlie had never seen him angry before, and he did not think that he liked it. He crawled away from Tom, cutting his hand on some glass. He swiftly wiped it on his jacket and attempted to get up. Tom, his expression softening, leaned over and lifted Charlie into his arms, humming a lullaby he recognized from another life.

Charlie, limp in Tom’s arms, felt a warmth spread through him as glorious images syphoned their way into his mind: the lullaby Tom was singing, but coming from his mother’s smiling face; Ruthie coloring picture upon picture of Muppets; his mother again, only in her robe, humming the lullaby and sobbing, looking at a picture of Charlie and Ruthie. He closed his eyes to the warm moisture he felt, trying to hold in every feeling and emotion he had been hiding since his father had died and Lu had begun tormenting him. 

Lu was standing a few paces away, looking at the sight of Charlie in Tom’s arms with disgust and fury. He lost all of his cool composure and shouted, “You could end it all now, Charlie! This worthless excuse for a man can never make you happy enough! Your life will never be perfect and your father will always be dead! You are worthless and have no purpose here!”

He spat on the ground at Tom’s feet, standing his ground. At this, Charlie stepped once again between the two men, torn. He observed Lu, confused by his lack of coolness. He had always seemed so sure, yet now he showed his weakness: a challenge. To Charlie’s right stood Tom, serious and concerned, yet sure.  Charlie wanted him to speak, to tell Charlie that Lu was wrong, to tell him that he should stay.

Tom sighed deeply and looked to the sky. He spoke with measured words when he said, “You have the ability to do whatever you please, Charlie. Only know that the good parts of life will always make the bad parts worth it. Know that there will always be at least one person who loves you.”

On the last word, Tom pierced Charlie with his deep, gray eyes. He glanced at his left arm, lined with sadness, and knew what he wanted. He knew now more than he ever had what the right thing to do was. 

He turned and pushed the man away, falling into the other.

Charlie and Ruthie came inside and put away their coats. Charlie glanced into his mother’s room as he walked Ruthie to get ready for bed. Kathy was doing a crossword while some game show flashed on the television. He kept walking.

Once Ruthie had brushed her teeth and changed, Charlie tucked her in and went downstairs. He lingered outside his mother’s room for a moment before stepping inside. She looked up as he entered and put down her pen. She stretched and smiled at him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at the picture in his hands and grinned. He leaned over and placed the photo in his mother’s hand and watched her face. She gave him a teary smile and kissed his cheek. He laid his head on her lap and began humming his childhood lullaby, happiness spreading through him as his mother stroked his hair and joined in.

When he left her room an hour or so later and grabbed the bottle that was next to her bed, and she did not object, which he took to be quite a good sign. He had kissed her goodnight and left her singing happily. He shuffled up the stairs and made his way to bed. As he lay there, he rubbed his arm and smiled, knowing that the scars would fade. Life could be beautiful.
He felt a warm hand touch his head and he whispered goodnight. 

Audio Version - Vocaroo

—

“Mommy!” Ellie cried. “Hurry, mommy, hurry!”

Jenny rushed to her daughter’s room. When she opened the door, a dark, orange glow from the nightlight cast half the room in a dim ambiance.

The other side hid behind a shadow drawn from the moon coming through the open window. The night was stuck under a warm blanket, but the air was five degrees cooler in the bedroom than anywhere else in the house.

Ellie tucked herself into a ball, sitting upright in the middle of her mattress, squeezing Mr. Muddles, a tiny rabbit with a carrot hat.

“Mommy, where’d he go?”

A stench with pins of rotted wood stitched onto Jenny’s tongue and slowly dispersed from her mouth. She gagged as she sat on the bed next to Ellie. “Honey, what is it?”

She brushed Ellie’s hair out of her face with her hand. “Where did who go..? Did you just have a bad dream?”

“It’s Daddy… Mommy. He’s not in heaven anymore. He came back home.” She spoke with a lisp from her two missing front teeth and stared at her mother.

“Sweetie.” Jenny’s eyes watered as her face sank downward. “Daddy can’t come back home. Remember we talked about this.”

“No, Mommy. He is home. He was standing over there.” She pointed to the shadowed part of the room. “He told me we shouldn’t go downstairs. Will you stay upstairs with me, please.”

“Was somebody in your room, Ellie?”

“Yeah, Daddy was, Mommy. I pinky swear, I’m not lying. He told me he missed us.”

A cold shiver, sharp as blizzard winds, pinched down her spine. She swallowed a gasp of frosted air, and the stench of firewood blew into her lungs.

“Mommy, what’s that smell? I don’t like it.”

“It’s coming from outside, sweetie. I’m going to close your window. You go back to sleep, and we will talk about Daddy tomorrow morning.”

She checked to make sure the window was locked and poked around the room. When she went to tuck Ellie back in, a weight pressed down on the mattress and indents formed in the blanket. She held her breath and blinked, and the wrinkles smoothened over the covers.

I’m seeing things now, she told herself while shaking her brain awake. She turned to walk out of the room and stopped. “You said Daddy told you not to go downstairs?”

Ellie stared with her eyes stretched open, tightening her grip on Mr. Muddles, and slowly nodded. “He looked different, Mommy. His skin wasn’t the same and he had black stuff everywhere on him, but he wouldn’t come out of the dark area. He said he didn’t want me to get scared.”

A pain shot into her, almost as if a hand with jagged nails had reached into her and began scratching and squeezing her heart as it pounded against her ribcage.

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second, she showed the paralyzing fear she failed to mask as it took over her body. Just before trembling, she held her composure long enough to conceal the deep anxiety rippling under her skin.

Her husband, Danny, had suffocated from smoke inhalation with third-degree burns on his upper body from a fire that started in a neighbour’s house, and died saving the both of them last year.

Ellie closed her eyes and snuggled into her stuffed animal. Jenny’s first instinct was to grab her daughter and leave the house, but she overcame it by thinking rationally.

If someone broke in, the alarm would have gone off. There’s nothing to worry about.

When she left Ellie’s room, the silence in the hallway didn’t seem right. She walked down the stairs, and they didn’t creak. The only noise came from the basement door. It slowly opened and stopped.

“Hello?” Jenny called out, gripping the bannister, almost expecting to hear someone respond. “Who’s there?” she instinctively cried out.

As she approached the bottom step, a voice from the living room called out, “Mommy.” She paused, frozen where she stood. “I’m thirsty.”

Her eyes were wide-open. She crept to the living room and saw her daughter lying on the couch with her blankie and Mr. Muddles.

“Why did you come downstairs?”

“Because, mommy, there’s a girl sleeping on my bed.”

My mother apologized. Her legs were not shaven. We were sitting in large faux leather armchairs, side by side, slightly reclined, getting pedicures. The young Vietnamese girl smiled in response. She understands my mother’s apologetic tone, if not the words. I smile at both women. My gaze is warm and comforting, I hope.

Apologetic phrases have always been part of my mother’s pattern of language. I learned from her how quickly those around you will warm to you once you slip an apology, no matter how light, disingenuous, or undeserved, into the conversation. These days, the apologies are heartfelt and often accompanied by tears and self-upbraiding language. Not now, no tears right now, but she is genuinely embarrassed about her unshaven legs. She has always been concerned about the judgement of others. And as such, her self-care, what I have come to think of as her relentless self-grooming, has never wavered, not even at 81.

They know her here at this nail salon and greet her warmly. She is a regular customer, chatty and often kind. Lately, though, she is belligerent. She points out their errors and demands their attention.

They always have new girls, she tells me, not bothering to whisper. From Vietnam. They bring them over to work.  They train them and then ship them over by the half-dozen. They must pay well.

I don’t understand how this follows, but I don’t contradict her. The conversation mortifies me, and I want it to stop. This feeling is almost constant now when we are together. She has always been a gossip, but she used to employ a softer voice or wait until we were alone before sharing the business of others.

The son married one of them, she continues. I tell her the color she has chosen for her nails is so pretty. She is pleased and momentarily distracted. Do you want it? You could get it too. You are here, she offers. I demure. I say I like the color I have chosen for me. I tell her it matches my yoga mat. I smile. I like to look down when I am in downward dog and see the tonal continuity. This is true, but I am caught out all the same. Another rejection of her. If I really liked the color, really liked her, I would put it on my toenails, too.

Instead, I tell her how much I like yoga, distracting her again. I am taking a 200-hour instructor course. What does David say? She asks. David is my husband. In a millisecond, I am irritated. Abandoning all tools of my newly acquired mindfulness, I say what do you mean. I know what she means. I also know I could have just given her the benign answer she wants. He loves it. He admires it. Our marriage is fine, Ma. Great, even. But instead, I withhold that from an old woman who wants to know her daughter is safe. That her eldest daughter’s husband won’t leave her for a 28-year-old, won’t abandon her as he nearly did all those years ago in another country when the children were small, but not too small to know.

I have the best divorce story I want to tell her. Absurd, funny, tragic, and ultimately unfulfilled. Which is what probably makes it the best. The happy ending. Only, it’s not the end yet, so perhaps it is best to say the happy late middle. That is where David and I are in our marriage, the late middle. Certainly, 28-year-olds could lurk on every corner. He is still a handsome man, even more so now. Only I don’t fear them. I didn’t then either. That’s why I did not suspect.

I want a divorce, he told me. We were eating lunch at the Plaza. He had arranged our anniversary weekend in New York, my favorite city, his least. He’s asked my parents to come to take care of the children. He told me he wasn’t sure I would go – our anniversary is also our daughter’s birthday. David had been distant, but I had not really noticed. Life was busy - ballet, lacrosse, PTA. I was teaching part-time at the university. For his part, he ran a successful ad agency, traveled for work, and even had his picture on a magazine cover celebrating young media visionaries. Forty-four is young for a visionary.

We’d arrived in New York the night before for our romantic weekend. I adored the city. We did not make love in our hotel room. At lunch at the Plaza, I asked him why. He told me because he wanted a divorce. Like every ambushed spouse everywhere, I still wonder whether he would have mentioned it had I not asked a pointed question.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I love bathrooms in fancy hotels. Each stall has a floor-to-ceiling door one can properly close to ensure privacy. I pulled up my skirt – I had even worn a dress - sat on the very clean, white porcelain seat and called my best friend. I still had a flip phone then. David had offered me an iPhone a few months back. I had laughed and said that I would not know what to do with it. He said I could text. I said who would I text. He said, “Me.” I laughed. The last thing I needed was another form of communication to keep up with.

Is he okay, my friend asked, shocked. This could be a brain tumor. The movie Michael, had just come out. All aberrant behavior was given a period of grace while loved ones asked for brain scans. My phone went dead. I had not charged it. Grateful, I stood, pulled down my skirt and opened the door. I had an overwhelming need to see a familiar face. My face. I looked at my face in the mirror. I did not look like I was getting a divorce.

My mother responded, cowed by my tone, I just want to know, does he like it? I willed my shoulders to drop and answer, yes, very much. She doesn’t get belligerent with me, not really. I think I am spared because I am tied to her self-image. If we have a falling out, then what is her life? I am her success. A reflection of her ability to raise a functioning adult who still comes to visit even though I moved away. My bad. Another rejection.

One of the Vietnamese salon owners comes around. This is my daughter, my mother introduces me. She is very beautiful, the owner tells my mom, as if I am five and not 50. My mother beams. She looks just like your husband. My mother’s face falls. I squeeze her hand to indicate we both know otherwise.

The shop owner broke an unwritten pact. Perhaps it is the cultural norm in Vietnam to attribute the looks of a child to the father. The owner did not look like she knew she had misspoken. When some women intentionally break a social norm, you can almost see the nictitating membrane crossing the pupil like a lizard. I have even seen it in my mother.

Her best friend calls me when I return home. Your mother has really changed. When are you coming up? That question. When are you coming up? At Christmas? In a month? A week? The only acceptable answer is right now. That may be my guilt talking. My internal voice is both punishing and defensive.

Something’s wrong, my uncle tells me. He needs her like air. At 70, he is the youngest of four. She is a full ten years older. When their mother left them behind and took the other two, my 12-year-old mother became his. When their devastated father could not handle the despair of abandonment, he put them in foster care. She never let her two-year-old brother be uncared for.

We leave the nail salon. She insists on paying. She is still the mother. Still caring for me in a way I will let her. Do you want to go to lunch, I ask her. Or we could walk. She needs to walk. Her hip operation did not go well. She won’t do the physical therapy because she doesn’t feel like it. We should pick up your father, she tells me. He is her obligation, and therefore mine. Yes, I say, and then after we will walk. Bargaining. She nods.

After lunch, we walk. It is rarely the two of us. We deposit my father back in the condo. He cannot walk without effort. Down by the tennis courts, I take her hand. She is unsteady. The hip has not healed properly. I ask her questions to jog her memory. She is worried about the forgetting. I ask only about the facts, not her feelings. I don’t want to make her cry. The tears are always there, threatening the corners of her eyes.

Nana, her mother, left Ireland with my grandad and her four children. The baby was only 9 months old. Divorce was illegal in Ireland. Nana had married a Catholic. Her family, prominent Anglicans, prophesied it would never work.

They had servants, my mom told me. They had a big house and servants. They helped my Nana and Grandad buy their house. A big house, too, though no servants. The children visited the big house with servants every Sunday. My mother’s grandmother visited their home when each child was due. She brought the babies in her suitcase, or so my mother thought, and then she helped her daughter care for them.

Why did they leave Ireland, I asked. I don’t know, she replied. We had everything. We owned our own house. We had nice things. We left it all behind. She wanted to divorce Daddy, I guess. They knew people in East York, so we came here.

Their first apartment had bugs, so they didn’t stay long. Eventually, they bought a house in Riverdale. It was a big house, too. But they had to rent out rooms. Grandad fixed up the basement for him and Nana. The older girls, my mom and her sister, Peg, shared the middle floor. The two little ones stayed in the basement with my Nana and Grandad. The top floor was rented to men my Nana’s age.

And then she left, I question. She didn’t like Daddy, so she found an apartment and took Peg, the eldest, and Marion, the second littlest. I don’t ask why. She tells me anyway. Because Peg was 16 and working so she could help pay the rent, and Marion was so pretty, she could model and help pay the rent. That’s harsh, I say. She shrugs. We sit on a bench by the tennis courts. Is that a blue jay, she asks. She loves the sounds of birds. The bird points to has a crest on its head like a jay, but it is red.

We breathe quietly. I let go of her hand. It is hard to walk on the grass, so uneven. Good for you, I say. Small micro-muscles are being strengthened, helping you balance.

I call every morning now. David and I purchased a studio in Old Town for me to stay in when I visit. I try to visit once a month. Doctors’ visits are frequent. I have their power of attorney for health care and property. They have a lot of money thanks to Aunt Peg, who died a wealthy spinster. Peg died just in time to pay for the care my parents will soon need. Already need but won’t accept.

Our conversations have a template, personal, but not intimate. How are the kids? Where is David? (He travels for work – this worries mom, she does not say this in words, only in tones). Are you alright?

I ask what they will have for dinner. How is Debbie? How is Michael? Have they spoken to my father's remaining sister? How are her friends?

My mother maintains her friendships. She has longstanding relationships with women who love her because she cares for them. She just sent Michelle $5000. Michelle is terrible with money, she tells me. I tell her she needs to hold on to her money. She will need it. Dad will need it. They are terrible with money, too. I don’t say this last thing. It is unkind. I don’t need to be unkind.

The next morning, I knock on their door and call, Hellooo! A singsong greeting we inevitably use. My mom does not respond, but I hear FOX News, her near-constant companion. Her hearing is usually good. I walked quickly to the sitting room.

She sits on the loveseat and looks up at me. Her face crumbles as tears fall from her eyes. I reach out to touch her shoulder.

I thought he would be dead when I woke up, she exhales.

I know, Ma.

But he is not. He is just sleeping.

We both swallow our disappointment. I sit down beside her and take her hand.

She longs for the release his death would bring her, bring us. They have been together for 60 years. What seemed impossible just two years ago, that her narcissistic, diabetic, and formerly violent husband would outlive her, does not seem improbable now. Cruel, but not improbable.

 

 

To preference, I change some stuff in this story, do some magic stuff that doesn’t make the most sense, and there is major plot armor. Also, this is the first story I’ve written and there’s definitely bound to be some cringy stuff. You’ve been warned

GOD OF WAR × MARVEL
War of The God Slayers: The Blade of Olympus

Chapter One
The King in Black
New York was burning.
Not from fire, from darkness.
Black clouds rolled across the sky, swallowing the moon.
Buildings disappeared beneath waves of living symbiote matter.
Cars were overturned in the streets as creatures crawled through them, pouring onto the roads like an endless black tide.
At the center of it all stood Knull.
The King in Black.
He looked down upon the city as though it were already his.
A bolt of lightning tore through the darkness.
Thor came down like a meteor.
Mjölnir struck the street.
The shockwave threw dozens of symbiotes through the air.
"Get off my planet!"
Thor swung again.
Lightning exploded from the hammer.
Beside him, another figure landed.
Throg.
His own hammer was already spinning through the air.
It struck a symbiote in the chest, flew through another, then curved around a building before returning directly to Throg's hand.
"Nice entrance," Throg said.
Thor grinned.
"I learned from you."
"Obviously."
A black and white blur swung between the buildings.
Spider-Man landed upside down on a streetlight.
Except something was different.
Black material covered most of Peter Parker's body.
The symbiote suit crawled across his shoulders and down his arms, forming white spider markings across his chest.
His eyes narrowed.
"You know, when I imagined fighting an evil space god, I wasn’t picturing a gothic rockstar who clearly fell into a vat of liquid tar.."
A second voice growled from inside the suit.
"We hate him."
Peter sighed.
"Yeah, I know."
"We really hate him."
"Yes, I know buddy."
Peter's eyes narrowed toward Knull.
The symbiote moved beneath his skin.
"He is our god."
Peter's expression hardened.
"Not anymore."
A sword sliced through three symbiotes behind him.
Deadpool landed on the roof.
He looked around.
"Okay."
He pulled both swords.
“Which one of you is the terrifying, primordial alien deity we're supposed to be thrashing?"
Throg lifted Frogjolnir, pointing the tiny, crackling hammer straight ahead.
“That one.”
“Okay, great. Just wanted to make sure I wasn't hallucinating the talking swamp pile. Thanks Kermit! Now assemble my Avengers!”
He cracked his neck.
"I've made worse decisions."
He whispered to himself before plunging directly into the swarm.
Spider-Man stared.
"Is he always like that?"
Thor answered without looking.
"Yes."
Throg nodded.
"Unfortunately."
The battle erupted.
Spider-Man moved through the city like a black lightning bolt.
His symbiote suit amplified everything.
Strength.
Speed.
Reflexes.
He swung between buildings, pulled symbiotes into one another, slammed them through walls, and used tendrils from his suit to catch enemies from blind angles.
But there was something else inside him now.
Something that wanted Knull dead more than anything.
Peter could feel it.
The hatred.
"He made us."
Peter swung beneath a bridge.
"I know."
"He enslaved us."
Peter landed on a truck.
"I know."
"He will never stop."
Peter looked toward Knull.
"No."
His voice became quiet.
"That's why we're going to stop him."
Venom emerged partially over Peter's face.
The enormous white eyes appeared.
The jaw opened.
Rows of teeth flashed.
"WE are going to stop him."
Peter smiled.
Throg was having considerably more fun.
His hammer flew around him in impossible patterns.
A symbiote lunged.
The hammer passed straight through its body.
The weapon had vibrated so rapidly that it had become effectively untouchable.
Another creature charged.
Throg slammed the hammer against the ground.
The street changed.
Concrete twisted upward.
A wall formed between the heroes and the advancing army.
Deadpool landed beside him.
"Your frog hammer does construction?"
"On occasion."
A symbiote grabbed Deadpool from behind.
Deadpool looked over his shoulder.
"Oh."
He sighed.
"Rude."
He stabbed it.
Throg laughed.
Thor landed beside them.
"Knull is moving."
The three looked up.
Knull descended from the sky.
His feet touched the ground.
Everything went silent.
Knull locked eyes with Spider-Man, watching the living armor ripple over the hero's shoulders.
A dark recognition flashed across his pale features.
"A piece of my own shadow,"
Knull murmured.
"Still breathing."
Venom manifested fully, his white eyes narrowing into lethal slits.
"We're here to give you an ending."
Knull raised his dark sword.
"Then you will die fighting."
He struck.
The force of the strike sent Peter flying through three buildings.
Venom immediately wrapped around him, cushioning the impact.
Peter hit the ground.
Rolled.
Stopped.
He stood.
Blood ran from his mouth.
Venom covered his face.
"Again."
Peter looked toward Knull.
"Yeah."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Again."
The battle became a war.
Thor fought Knull's strongest symbiote warriors.
Deadpool carved his way through the army, laughing every time he was dismembered and complaining every time he wasn't.
Spider-Man and Venom fought together.
Peter would dodge.
Venom would attack.
They became one fighter.
Throg became a storm.
His hammer flew through the battlefield.
Lightning came down.
The weapon changed size.
It manipulated matter.
It phased through attacks.
It flew wherever he commanded.
At one point Throg threw it straight into the sky.
The hammer disappeared.
Knull looked upward.
Nothing.
Then—
BOOM.
The hammer came down like a meteor.
Knull blocked it.
But the impact cracked the ground beneath him.
Throg flew toward him.
Knull grabbed him by the throat.
"You are entertaining."
Throg struggled.
"You're not."
Knull squeezed.
Throg's hammer came flying toward them.
Knull caught it.
Throg's eyes widened.
Knull examined the weapon.
"Powerful."
He closed his hand.
A crack appeared.
Throg froze.
"No."
Knull twisted.
The hammer shattered and its pieces fell through the air

Throg stared.
His voice became quiet.
"You couldn’t have…"
Knull released him.
Throg hit the ground.
Knull stepped over him.
"I did."
Thor roared.
He charged.
Knull struck him across the battlefield with a single swing.
Peter attacked, flying in with a vicious kick.
Venom wrapped around Knull's arm.
"DIE!"
Knull slammed them through the ground into a subway station
Knull raised his sword.
Then—
Multiple portals opened.
Doctor Strange appeared.
"Everyone!"
Thor looked toward him.
"What are you doing?"
"Saving the ones who can still be saved!"
Throg staggered to his webbed feet.
"I'M NOT LEAVING!"
Strange looked at him.
"You don't have a choice!"
Throg tried to move.
The portal pulled him backward.
"THOR!"
Thor reached for him.
"THROG!"
Their hands nearly touched.
Then the portal collapsed.
Throg vanished.
The last thing he saw was knull.
Watching.
Smiling.

Chapter Two
The God of War
Throg landed in snow.
Hard.
He rolled down a slope and landed atop a tree before falling to the ground.
"Ow."
He looked around.
Mountains.
Ancient ruins.
A frozen forest.
He looked down at the broken pieces of his hammer.
His anger returned.
Then he heard footsteps.
A man emerged from the trees.
Bald.
Bearded.
Scarred.
An axe in his hand.
“Hold giant! Or be prepared to face the mighty Throg!”
Kratos lowered his axe slightly but did not relax his posture.
"You bleed. And your weapon is ruined.”
“No matter! I will search for a great blacksmith to repair my mighty hammer!”
Throg replied.
“Hmph. I know of two blacksmiths not far from here.”
Kratos begins walking with Throg hopping along not far behind.
“So, who are you?”
Throg asks.
“My name is Kratos.”
"You're Kratos?"
Kratos stared back.
"Yes."
"The God of War?"
"That title means nothing."
Kratos replied as he continued walking.
Throg looked at the Axe.
"Right..."
“Who did this to you?”
Kratos asks.
"Knull, The King in Black. The Lord of the Abyss. He’s come to slay or corrupt every god in existence!”
Kratos’ stops and his eyes widened.
“He slays and kidnaps gods?”
“Yes! He caught my hammer in his bare hand and crushed it like dry clay! I barely escaped through the fabric of space”
Kratos grunts quietly.
“Then he has taken my son. Two days ago, while Atreus was traveling these realms in search of the giants, I felt my connection to him suddenly disappear. At the site of his disappearance, I found his bow covered in a living abyss. It is a foul corruption I have only seen once before, when I fought to slay Gorr the God Butcher."
“Aye! Gorr was merely Knull’s apprentice! Well then, we seek the destruction of the same head! We must work together to kill the demon!”
Throg said proudly.
“I will kill this nuisance alone. I have dealt with dark entities before.”
"Nuisance?!"
Throg croaked.
"Listen to me, blind giant! Knull is no mere monster from thy woods. He is the primordial dark that existed before the light of creation! He decapitated a Celestial! A god of the cosmos with a single swing of his Necrosword. He commands millions of symbiotic dragons that devour entire star systems. If he breaches this realm, thy axe will not just fail…it will dissolve into his void.”
Throg explained everything.
The war.
Thor.
Spider-Man.
Venom.
Deadpool.
Kratos turned toward the mountain.
"Then we prepare."
Kratos led Throg deep into the subterranean caverns beneath his old home, navigating a labyrinth of frozen stone until they reached a heavy, magically sealed vault.
With a low rumble, Kratos pushed the stone doors open.
In the center of the chamber, a bleak slab of gray stone bore the weight of a mythic divinity: the Blade of Olympus.
The holy golden runes etched along the metal were entirely dim, buried beneath a dense shroud of gray dust that made the legendary sword look like nothing more than a forgotten relic.
"By the stars... is that the legendary Blade of Olympus? Even blanketed in the dust of ages, the phantom thunder radiates from its steel."
Throg observed, hopping onto the altar to inspect it.
"It is a weapon of absolute ruin,"
Kratos replied.
"It ended the war of my youth. I buried it here so its hunger would never plague this world. But if your king is as vast as you say, we will need its power."
Kratos reached out and gripped the hilt.
The moment his calloused hand closed around the metal, a sudden, violent reaction occurred. The blade did not draw upon Kratos's life force.
Instead, it reacted to the lingering, volatile cosmic radiation leaking from Throg's shattered Frogjolnir.
The vault erupted in a blinding, dual flare of solar gold and nebula blue.
The raw energy pressure was so immense it cracked the stone walls of the cavern.
When the light faded, the Blade of Olympus had completely transformed.
It hummed with a dense, reality warping gravitational pull.
Its destructive output permanently elevated to a multiversal tier.
It was tapping directly into the primordial spark of the original creation forge.

“Now, we find the smiths.”
Said Kratos.
Inside the chaotic clutter of the Huldra brothers' workshop, Brok and Sindri were in the middle of their usual bickering when the heavy front door swung open.
Announcing a familiar Spartan visitor with a strange looking amphibian riding atop his shoulder.
Brok took one look at the pair, saw the crushed remnants of the frog's miniature hammer, and immediately shook his head.
"No."
"What?"
Asked Sindri, looking over a bookshelf
"No damn way."
Brok growled.
Ahh! What is that on your shoulder?!"
Sindri shrieked, pointing at Throg.
"A frog in a cape?! Is it clean? Don't let it touch the clean linen!"
"Peace, Sindri,"
Throg commanded, hopping onto the main anvil and laying out the pieces of his hammer. "I am a God of the Storm, not a swamp pest. My Uru is fractured by the King in Black.
Fix it, so we may cleanse thy world of this filth."
Brok and Sindri examined the broken hammer.
Brok stared.
"Fine! Why don’t ya paint my balls purple and call me a Frost Giant!"
Sindri leaned closer.
"This is fascinating."
Brok looked at him.
"That means it's bad."
"You mean it's complicated."
"Same damn thing."
Throg watched them work.
"We can use this."
Brok grinned.
Sindri looked concerned.
"We probably shouldn't."
Brok smiled wider.
"That's never stopped us."
For hours, they worked.
The hammer was reforged.
Stronger.
More stable.
More powerful.
When Throg finally lifted it, the forge exploded with lightning.
He threw it.
The hammer vanished.
Then returned to Throg.
He stared.
"That's new."
Brok grinned.
"Mhm, you're welcome."
“Now Kratos, what’s that giant thing on your back?”
Kratos lifted the Blade of Olympus and placed it on the table.
Sindri gasped.
“Is that the Blade of Olympus?”
He asked shakily.
Kratos looked toward Brok.
"What can you do?”
Brok pointed at Frogjolnir.
"That frog’s hammer might’ve taught us a thing or two."
He said grinning.
They hammered relentlessly for hours straight working on the blade.
“Done!”
Shouted Brok.
“Why does the blade not leave me weak when I wield it?”
Kratos asked.
"The Blade simply lacked a way to contain its own power without drawing from its wielder. Now it has a self sustaining divine core thanks to the frog’s hammer.
But now….just give it a toss.”
And when Kratos threw it—
It returned directly to his hand.
He throws again.
The Blade of Olympus flew across the chamber.
Kratos raised his hand.
The weapon reversed direction.
It tore back toward him.
He caught it.
Brok laughed.
"Now that's a weapon."
Kratos looked at the Blade.
"It will do."

Chapter Three
The Black King Returns
Knull arrived at dusk.
The sky turned black.
The mountains shook.
The symbiote army poured into the realm.
Kratos stood at the front.
Leviathan Axe in hand.
Throg stood beside him.
His restored hammer crackled.
Knull arises from his living throne.
“You believe a broken god and an amphibian can defeat me?”
Knull shouted.
“thy pride blinds thee to the nature of the Ghost of Sparta! He is no mere 'broken god'—he is the grave of pantheons! Look upon him, King in Black, and know that thou hast not brought him here to die... thou hast merely given him a new monster to butcher! FOR ASGARD AND SPARTA, HAVE AT THEE!"
A jagged smirk cut across Knull's pale face.“We will see.”
With a casual wave of his hand, the sky blackened.
Thousands of Symbiote Dragons and Black Berserkers screeched, diving toward the duo in a tidal wave of teeth and claws.
"Hold the line, frog!"
Kratos growled, gripping the Leviathan Axe radiating with cosmic ice.
"Watch the skies, Spartan! The storm is mine!" Throg roared, launching himself into the clouds.
Throg swung the restored Frogjolnir to unleash its complete, devastating arsenal.
The solid ground beneath the horde instantly dissolved into thick, suffocating sludge that sucked the army downward.
In an instant, he crystallized the sludge, freezing the horde rigidly in place.
Kratos followed through, bringing the Leviathan Axe down with shattering force reducing the frozen constructs into a cascade of frozen gravel.
Knull's elite guards attempted to flank them, but Throg spun his hammer, triggering density control.
He made the very air around the shadow-dragons so unimaginably heavy that gravity itself crushed them flat against the mountain, their wings snapping under the magnified atmospheric pressure.
The Ghost of Sparta and the Frog of Thunder advanced upon the obsidian throne like an oncoming storm.
A hurricane of blades, frost, and lightning tearing through every dragon and symbiote soldier.
Nothing could stall their march as they dissolved the final lines to ash with flawless, savage grace.
As they crossed the threshold of the throne room, Knull loomed before them.
A cruel, mocking smile carving through his deathly pale features.
“Is this the true zenith of thy meager might!?
Doth thy fury fade so quickly, villain?”
Throg shouted.
Without a word, he drew All-Black the Necrosword, and in an instant, thousands of rushing symbiotes flooded back to fill the room.
“Hmph, you spoke too soon frog. Ready yourself.”
Kratos muttered.
As they steady themselves for the impending onslaught, Lightning tore the sky apart. Delivering Thor in a blinding, electric blast.
Behind him, the night fractured as Blade Knight flew from a portal spun of pure moonlight.
Deadpool tumbled through a third, far more erratic gateway, just as Spider-Man plummeted from above, sticking a perfect landing beside them.
Peter looked at Kratos.
"Nice to meet you…giant….brooding…guy, I’m Peter."
Kratos stared at him.
"I am Kratos.”
"Like the Kratos? Well I’m glad you’re on our side!”
Peter’s attention quickly shifting back to knull.
Venom's voice rumbled.
"We hate him."
Kratos looked at the creature.
"I understand."
Knull appeared above them.
Atreus was suspended beside him.
Alive and barely conscious.
Kratos' eyes locked onto him.
Knull smiled.
"You came."
Kratos' grip tightened around the Axe.
"Release him!"
Knull laughed.
"You still believe you can command me?"
He placed one hand around Atreus' throat.
Kratos stepped forward.
"Do….not."
Knull tightened his grip.
Atreus gasped.
Throg looked at Kratos.
"Kratos—"
Knull spoke.
"How sweet. He actually thinks he can save you from me."
Knull smiled.
"I will kill your son."
Kratos' eyes changed.
The Axe trembled violently in his hand.
"Then, I will make you watch as I corrupt his very soul."
Kratos' fists clenched.
"The depths of hell could not hold me. Zeus and his army, could not stop me. And you will not see the end of this day!”
The Ghost of Sparta roared.
Knull tossed Atreus in the cage and lifted his necrosword.
"Then come."
Kratos let out a deafening roar as his rage erupted within him, causing the very ground to explode beneath his boots.
His flesh knit together as his wounds instantly healed.
His muscles swelling with devine energy.
He blurred out of existence.
Instantly closing the distance to reappear inches from Knull's face, driving the full weight of his godlike strength into his fists.
Knull barely managed to deflect the first strike.
But the relentless momentum was too much.
The Leviathan Axe slammed into his chest freezing his torso.
Once, twice, three times Kratos strikes in rapid, brutal succession.
He moved with terrifying speed, his axe carving deep rifts through the thick symbiote armor with every swing.
Kratos unsheathed the Blade of Olympus from his back.
Its celestial glow shattered the darkness, filling the chamber with pure divine light.
Kratos leaped into a two-handed overhead cleave with the Blade of Olympus.
Knull sneered, thrusting All-Black upward to intercept the strike.
The blades met with a deafening, metallic ring that shook the very ground they stood.
The Symbiote King slithered backward in a sudden, violent burst of speed.
He slammed All Black into the floor, summoning a tidal wave of pitch black symbiote tendrils and razor sharp spikes that surged forward like a roaring ocean.
Kratos met the wave head on.
He slammed the Leviathan Axe into the ground, triggering a massive glacial eruption that froze the front line of the tendrils solid.
Knull retaliated with a blinding flurry of thrusts and slashes with the All Black.
Kratos stepped directly into the darkness of the storm.
He parried a lethal throat-thrust with the flat of the Leviathan Axe, deflected a savage downward cleave with The Blade of Olympus, and stepped inside Knull's guard.
Kratos slammed straight into Knull’s jaw, with a devastating undercut, shattering one of the dark lord's teeth and sending him staggering.
Before Knull could recover, Kratos raised the Blade of Olympus and delivered a brutal horizontal slash.
The divine edge tore across Knull’s chest, ripping a smoking line of gold through his dark armor.
Knull instantly slithered away, before hoisting his blade, commanding an endless army to encircle the God of War.
With a single, devastating swing the entire legion dissolved into ash and sent knull sliding back.
Desperate, Knull lunged and swung his blade. Kratos ducked beneath the arc, but Knull instantly pivoted into a lethal stab.
Reacting with godlike reflexes, Kratos caught the incoming sword bare-handed.
For once, Knull's eyes widened. And a flicker of fear crossed his face.
Kratos slammed the blade away and unleashed a ferocious hook that hurled Knull with enough force to send him crashing straight through a mountain.
Thor stared.
"He's stronger."
Throg nodded.
"I don’t think anyone’s made him this mad before."
Peter watched Kratos charge.
Venom whispered.
"Now."
Peter looked at him.
"What?"
"We help him."
Peter nodded.
"Let's go."
As Knull staggered up from the dust, a sudden flash of frost cut him short.
In a split second, the Leviathan Axe embedded itself at his feet, instantly freezing him to the ground.
Kratos surged forward, throwing the absolute entirety of his strength into a crushing swing. But The King in Black met the blow head on. He caught the divine steel against his own dark sword.
Undeterred, Kratos unleashed a furious flurry of slashes.
A blur of golden and blue lightning hammering Knull’s defense.
The dark king parried and deflected with desperate speed until one savage strike finally broke through, biting deep into Knull's shoulder.
Feeling the cold grip of desperation, Knull unleashed a concussive blast of dark energy, blowing Kratos backward across the chamber.
Just then, Spider-Man and Venom launched themselves at Knull.
Venom detached from Peter and wrapped around Knull's body in a brutal, vice-like grip, pinning him in place.
"YOU MADE US."
Knull struggled.
“I am your master!”
Venom's jaws opened.
"NO LONGER. NOW WE CHOOSE WHAT WE BECOME."
Peter swung in at blinding speed, unleashing a vicious barrage of punches that pulverized Knull's face before he pivoted and quickly swung away.
Seizing the opening, Thor struck with apocalyptic fury, unleashing a blinding explosion of lightning.
From behind,** Throg blindsided the dark lord, crashing down with explosive force as Frogjolnir slammed into the crown of Knull’s head.
The impact snapped Knull’s neck violently downward just as Blade Knight descended from above with a lethal strike through knull’s shoulders.
Towering over the battlefield, Kratos held the Blade of Olympus surging with celestial bolts of blue and golden lightning.
He hurled the divine weapon with absolute, terrifying force.
The blade ripped through the air and struck Knull squarely in the chest, burying itself deep within the dark god.
Kratos raised his hand and the blade tore free.
He rushes towards knull, recalling the Leviathan Axe.
The weapon flew back to his palm just as he brought it down in a savage arc that severed Knull's legs entirely at the knees.
Frost spread upward.
Knull made a frantic attempt to escape, but the team held the line.
Venom anchored him in place.
Thor and Throg neutralized him with a relentless storm of lightning from the heavens.
And Blade Knight drove his swords straight through knull’s shoulders to bind him.
Kratos looked down upon the dark king.
His gaze cold, unwavering, and completely devoid of fear.
The King in Black forced his gaze upward.
"The dark always prevails. You cannot outrun the shadows, Ghost of Sparta!"
Kratos stood tall.
"I do not outrun them,"
Kratos rumbled.
"I bury them in fire."
He hoisted the sword and with a final, crushing surge of strength, Kratos drove the Blade of Olympus straight through Knull's head, burying it deep down into his torso.
A tremendous explosion of divine energy erupted from the wound.
Knull screamed in agony as the absolute darkness around him shattered like glass.
His living symbiote armor dissolved into nothingness.
His army falling to oblivion.
And his primordial body began disintegrating into ash.
Kratos ripped the Blade of Olympus free.
The ancient tyrant shattered leaving behind nothing but scattered black ash on the stone floor.
Peter stood silently.
Venom slowly dissolving back into Peter.
"We did it."
Venom's voice was quieter now.
**"We did."
Peter looked toward Knull's remains.
"You okay?"
Venom paused.
"No."
Peter looked at him.
Venom stared into the distance.
"But we are free."
Peter smiled.
"That's a win in my book.”
Venom nodded.
"Yes."
Kratos found Atreus unconscious but alive.
He knelt by his side instantly.
"Atreus! Are you hurt?"
Atreus opened his eyes heavily.
"Father? No... I'm okay."
He looked at the unfamiliar room.
"Where... where are we?"
Kratos placed a hand on his son's chest. "It does not matter, boy. All that matters is you are safe."
Nearby, Throg's restored hammer flew back into his hand.
Thor looked at it.
"Your hammer seems stronger."
Throg smiled.
"So am I."
Deadpool walked past them.
"I don't know about that."
Throg turned.
"Where were you the entire time?"
Deadpool shrugged.
“I was just securing our survival. Do you know the sheer, ridiculous amount of plot armor it took to survive a literal God of Symbiotes?!Fortunately, I checked the credits. The writer is heavily biased in our favor."
Throg stared.
Deadpool continued walking.
"Just saying."
Thor laughed.
Then Kratos looked toward the mountains.
Atreus was alive.
The war was over.
And the journey continued.

[Strays Universe]

Fort Worth, Texas Year 1892

Cassiel Cross hadn’t stolen anything valuable in his sixteen years.

But he had a problem that was twofold. He liked to drink and to do that he had to steal.

On this particular night he had a beer bottle and a peaceful spot behind the saloon. Life was looking up.

He tilted the bottle to his lips. A few drops trickled down his tongue. Someone was playing cards inside, losing money. Two men were arguing and the piano player had nearly finished a song before they started a having little tussle.

Cassiel wiped his mouth.

“Could be worse.”

“Could be.”

He turned.

The barkeep stood in the doorway of the alley. Thick arms, sagging vest and possibly older than the building itself. His right hand was resting on his holstered revolver.

He mustve stepped out to avoid a stray fist or flying bar stool.

Cassiel looked between the bottle and the man.

“Evenin’.”

“Set it down.”

“It’s empty.”

“I can see that.”

“Then we're making progress.”I’ve been robbed this week.”

“Have you?”

“Three times.”

“Four times, but you missed one.”

He instantly regretted the last part. While he may have been clever, he often confused being clever with being idiotic.

The barkeep wasn’t amused.

“Get over here.”

“I can’t. I’m expected somewhere.”

“Where?”

Cassiel looked down the street. “Not sure.”

He tossed the bottle aside, trying to walk past the man.

The barkeep moved, barring his path.

“Enough! I’ve had enough of you!”

“Oh, thank you. I was really worried you were becoming attached.”

He weaved around the barkeep’s arm and ran down the alley. He figured he’d just got off lightly. The barkeep had customers to attend to, money to count and a crowd of people who would probably pay well to watch him get angry.

However, thirty seconds later he realised he was wrong.

As soon as his back was to the wall he heard heavy boots scuffing the dirt.

“No way.”

“Turn round, boy.”

“I’m busy.”

“Turn round!”

He did. Straightening his trousers as he did.

The barkeep’s face was bright red.

“You think you’re funny do you?”

“Had some good times.”

He tightened his grip on his revolver.

Cassiel’s smile vanished.

“I swear I..”

The bang echoed around the alley.

A piece of wood flew from the wall above Cassiel’s head.

He let out a noise he would never admit to and ran.

“Get back here!”

Another bang. Something thudded to the ground near Cassiel’s boot and sprayed grit up his ankle. He ran faster. He didn’t care if he looked foolish. He just wanted to get out of there.

He tripped over something.

He landed painfully on the floor. He sat up on his back, gasping for air.

His revolver had fallen from his belt.

It was a few feet away.

“Dammit.”

He pushed himself forward. The barkeep’s boots were getting closer. He pushed himself up but slipped on his elbows.

The barkeep’s shadow loomed over him.

“Don’t move.”

He looked up. The revolver was trained on him.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You’ve made a fool out of me in front of half this town.”

“I don’t think half this town knows your name.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine.”

This time, he meant it.

The barkeep sauntered forward. He stepped over the Colt as if it was a dead rat. Cassiel watched. The revolver was within reach if he stretched but the barkeep had already noticed him eyeing it.

“Try it. See what happens.”

Cassiel kept his hands in the air.

The barkeep loomed over him. He smelt of sweat and cheap alcohol. He had a dark stain on his shirt from spilling something.

“You should have been beaten for having no manners.”

Cassiel clenched his jaw.

He’d be happy to be called a thief. Or an alcoholic, idiot or whatever. Most insults rolled straight off him. Some were even deserved.

But his dad?

“Don’t talk about dad.”

The barkeep chuckled. “Or are you going to go get him?”

“I’m warning you.”

“Are you?”

He cocked the hammer.

Cassiel held his breath.

It was so close he could see a small scratch on the barrel. He could hear the barkeep breathing heavily through his nose. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied and someone laughed as if nothing in the world had changed.

“Put it away.”

“Make me.”

He couldn’t.

His Colt was a few feet away. His hands were empty. There was nowhere to run. This guy obviously thought it was a good idea to shoot a kid to get his revenge.

He stared at the revolver.

He didn’t want to die in an alley over a beer. He didn’t want to go home but that was another issue.

It needed to be removed.

He wanted the revolver out of his hands. He wanted it to stop pointing at him. He wanted it gone.

For one strange reason, the barkeeps gun almost seemed as if it wasn’t his anymore. As if it had been placed in the wrong hands.

His fingers loosened.

Trembling slightly, the barrel moved to the side. He tried to keep a tight grip but the revolver slid out of his grasp.

It flew between them.

Cassiel caught it.

It was heavier than he expected.

No one said anything.

He looked at the revolver. Tilting it slightly.

The barkeep stared at his empty hands.

“What the hell?”

Cassiel had nothing.

He looked at the revolver. It was warm from the barkeep’s grip. The wood was worn and felt nice in his hands. There was nothing unusual about it. Nothing to explain why it had flown across the distance.

“Damn.”

The barkeep lunged.

Cassiel jumped back, raising the revolver. He accidentally caught the trigger.

The bang echoed.

The barkeep let out a yelp and stumbled against the wall. He put his hand over his shoulder but blood was already dribbling through his fingers.

Cassiel dropped the revolver.

It seemed as if everything went silent. Then his ears began ringing. The barkeep spoke.

“You shot me!”

Cassiel looked at him.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You little bastard!”

“I was defending myself!”

“You shot me!”

The barkeep tried to stand up straight. His face was pale and his knees seemed shaky. He leaned against the wall and breathed heavily through gritted teeth.

Cassiel had punched people before. He had broken noses, split lips and gotten into fights he should have ended up getting the worse end of but something about seeing this grown man clutching his bleeding shoulder made his usual excuses seem weak.

He hadn’t meant to shoot him.

“I’m calling the sheriff. You’ll be hanging for this.”

Cassiel crouched down to retrieve his Colt.

“Tell him you fired first.”

He ran.

He didn’t stop running until he was a few streets away from the saloon. Once he thought he heard someone following him he ducked into an alley between two buildings. No one came around the corner so he stopped looking back.

At least no one was chasing him with a loaded gun at home.

He slipped through the door sometime after midnight. He climbed the stairs without turning on a lamp. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling until the darkness faded into grey.

He tried to convince himself the barkeep would be okay. The wound was bad but it was to his shoulder. People had suffered worse.

He told himself he was defending himself.

Which was true.

But...

He knew what had happened. He had seen it happen.

It still made his skin crawl.

---

The Sheriff arrived the next afternoon.

Cassiel was sat on the porch fiddling with his pocket knife. He hadn’t really done much all day. Every time he heard horse’s trotting past he looked up. If it wasn’t the sheriff he acted as if he hadn’t.

This time, the rider stopped at the gate.

Sheriff Harlan dismounted and took his hat off. He was a skinny man with a grey beard and tired eyes. Cassiel had seen him around town for years. He looked as if he would have preferred people not give him any reason to work.

“Cassiel.”

“Sheriff.”

“Is your dad home?”

“Should be.”

“Should be?”

“He doesn’t tell me much.”

He studied him. Then looked at the house.

“Can I have a word? About what happened at the saloon last night?”

Cassiel closed his knife.

“He got angry.”

“I gathered.”

“He pulled out a gun.”

“You shot him.”

“I was aiming at my chest.”

“I’m not asking where you aimed it at. Why did you shoot him?”

Cassiel looked down at the knife.

“Because he was going to shoot me.”

Harlan sighed. “The man says you stole his beer, ran and then shot him with his own revolver.”

Cassiel said nothing.

“He also says it flew out of his hand and landed in yours.”

Cassiel looked up.

The sheriff noticed. He was not surprised. He looked as if he had found the last piece to his puzzle.

“So it did.”

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“Perhaps you should ask the barkeep. He seems to have a better story.”

“Boy. I’ve heard it all before. You’re not the first and you’re not very good.”

“I’m disappointed. I’ve been practising.”

He looked at him for a long moment.

The front door opened.

Mr. Cross stepped onto the porch, buttoning up his cuff. He was tall and broad shouldered. He was always conscious of how he looked in front of people. His eyes landed on the sheriff before moving to Cassiel.

“What has he done?”

Cassiel exhaled through his nose.

“Hello to you too.”

“Cassiel.”

His dad said nothing else but it was a warning.

Harlan explained the situation. Mentioning the stolen beer, chase and injured barkeep. He hesitated when mentioning the gun, hoping Cassiel would deny it.

He didn’t.

His dad looked at him.

“Did you shoot the man?”

“Yes.”

“Did you steal from him?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Cross turned back to the sheriff.

“I will pay for the doctor and anything he’s lost whilst he can’t work.”

Harlan shifted his hat.

“It’s kind of you but this isn’t just about money.”

“Of course not. But money can solve a lot of problems before they get out of hand.”

His voice was calm. As if he was talking about a broken fence.

He mentioned Judge Whitaker and the county clerk. He knew people who knew people and was very comfortable letting the sheriff know. He didn’t want any questions, gossip or attention in the Cross household.

Harlan rubbed his beard.

“The barkeep says the boy is dangerous.”

Mr. Cross glanced at Cassiel.

“I won’t argue.”

Cassiel’s mouth parted slightly.

The sheriff stayed for a few more minutes. They came to an agreement that the barkeep would be compensated and Cassiel would stay away from the saloon. Harlan clearly wasn’t happy but agreed.

As he mounted his horse he turned to Mr. Cross.

“Try to keep him out of trouble.”

“I’ll try.”

He rode off.

Cassiel watched him go. Turning to his dad.

“Pa. I can explain.”

“Inside.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

“Inside, Cassiel.”

His dad had a way of saying his name that made everything else redundant.

He followed him inside.

The door shut.

He was punched.

He was thrown to the side, hitting the table. A glass fell and smashed. He steadied himself against the edge, more shocked than anything.

He touched his face.

“What the hell?”

“What were you thinking?”

“He pulled out a gun!”

“You stole from him.”

“He was going to kill me!”

“He’s now in bed with a bullet in his shoulder because of you!”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him shoot me?”

His dad grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him against the wall.

“You’ve been making a fool of yourself in this town for years. I’ve paid your debts, taken the blame and now I have to pay someone because you can’t keep your hands off what isn’t yours!”

Cassiel grabbed his dad’s wrist.

“Let go!”

“You steal, you drink and now you shoot people. What am I supposed to do with you?”

He shoved him harder against the wall.

Anger flared. It always did. Most of the time he knew when to stop but something about being told he was a useless son after a man tried to shoot him made him want to keep going.

“The barkeep is still alive. You’ve paid his bills and the sheriff has gone. What are you going to complain about?”

His dad stared.

He knew that look. He had seen it many times. Usually it meant...

He was hit again.

He landed on his knee. His palm landed in the shards of glass. He barely felt the sting. His lip was split and he tasted blood.

His dad stood over him.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Cassiel wiped his mouth. Looking at the blood on his skin.

He wanted to punch him. He wanted to jump up and hit as hard as he could.

“I should have let the barkeep shoot me.”

His dad fell silent.

“Don’t test me.”

He wished he didn’t care. He wished he could laugh, jump up and walk out.

But he was sixteen. Part of him still hoped his dad would change his mind. See him as a son, not a costly burden.

And that was the worst part.

Mr. Cross fixed his cuffs.

“Get out of my sight.”

Cassiel climbed the stairs without replying. He shut his bedroom door. He listened. He could hear his dad moving around downstairs but his footsteps didn’t come up the stairs.

He moved away from the door.

His face, ribs and hand were sore.

He had had worse days.

But he couldn’t get the revolver out of his head.

He took his Colt from his holster and sat on his bed. He knew every part of it. The worn patch on the grip, scratches on the barrel and slight resistance when pulling back the hammer too quickly.

It was his.

He had never seen it move.

He placed it down.

“Come here.”

Nothing.

He waited. Slightly embarrassed.

“I’m serious.”

Nothing.

He leaned forward.

He imagined the scene in his head. The alley, the barkeep’s hand and the revolver flying from his grasp. Nothing.

“Fine.”

He sat back and rubbed his eyes.

Maybe he was scared. Maybe the barkeep slipped and he grabbed it without realising. It was possible. He was scared, hurt and half crazy.

But he did remember the revolver flying from his hand.

He had a sudden feeling it belonged to him.

It didn’t feel like he was pushing or pulling. Like some invisible force had made him reach out. He had wanted it and the Mark had responded.

He picked up the Colt.

“What’s wrong with me?”

He sounded silly. He looked out of the window.

The image of his father stood clearly in his mind. Downstairs and probably pouring himself a drink, muttering to himself that everything was now settled. The barkeep and his shoulder. The sheriff and his face when he'd mentioned the gun.

For the first time, there was something that Cassiel's father couldn't punch out of him.

He didn't know what it was yet. Whether it was a blessing or a curse. Or maybe even something new that would get him killed before he hit seventeen.

But it was his.

And far away from Fort Worth and out of the reach of man, something ancient stirred. Something that had waited for the first whisper of a promise being fulfilled.

Cassiel Cross was beginning to change.

He just didn't know who was watching.

He opened the front door, took three steps, and turned on heels to brave the sidewalk. Day has broken.

He comes upon a particular block. It is 7 o'clock.

To the left is a man and a woman. They are squared at eachother on a patch of dead grass, before a plastic-paneled shotgun house. They are engaged in a sort of tug-of-war with a child's blanket. Their words are indiscernible, but not for lack of trying; they babble and mumble and cuss and scoff like toddlers. Passerby would assume them to have only a base grasp on the English language, if any language at all.

They continue to pull back and forth and scream and shout. Their tugging escalates, as do their words, until the frayed blanket is torn asunder. Although the blanket exists now in two equal halves, the couple loses interest in their respective pieces. They drop the torn blanket at once and return inside.

He walks on.

He comes upon another block. It is 12 o'clock.

A house sits on the corner, fabricated from pearly-white-painted brick. Untarnished window panes on its front wall peer unobstructed into an immaculately clean sitting room. She is crowned with pristinely cut lead sheets, sparkling kaleidoscopic in the zenith of the midday sun.

Even the imperfections of that pearly-white paint -- the bubbles of excess which collect and dry on the outer surface of mortar seams -- are as rhinestones on a satin dress.

Shelling this picturesque house are slurs. Racial epithets, words of spite, from and against every creed and clan of man, in every human tongue, painted in black with sloppy brushstroke. They contained themselves neatly within the frame of each brick. No piece of that house is untouched by hate; too were the shingles of her roof covered by the spew, where the artist had instead used a bright white from his palette.

The owner of this house was never seen in its inside -- odd, when, through its crystalline windows, one might see a dust bunny hopping along the varnished wood furniture. But there is no dust, and the painted words are wet.

He walks on.

He comes upon another block. It is 7 o'clock.

He has not seen anything to pique any interest to this point. Nothing so far-fetched or unbecoming of humans. A droll stroll. Average.

The sun began to set during passing of laundromat at the end of that street. Inside is a boy working concertedly at doing laundry.

He is a thin boy, no older than 7. He wears age 10 times that of his markéd time on Earth. His hair is thin, and lofts loosely on a sunburnt scalp as he rushes about. His forehead sags and sloshes like a bag of milk above dark sunken eyes. His back is an ess curve under duress of hefty bags of laundry, not a parcel of which belongs to the boy.

He wears rags and carries nothing but that great weight burdened to him by those he has never met. His stature is diminutive, even for a boy of his age. His tiny hands ridge and cut like oak bark, but they are soft and brittle still, like balsa. The shuffle of his bare feet on the smooth tile sound like the repeated flipping of an hourglass as they drag toward the machine.

The boy trips up and drops a handful of coins to the ground. The coins cheerily roll away from the boy, who himself has fallen to his knees, and through fleeting peace desperately grasps at the fleeing pieces.

He grabs up as many as he can, and from his kneel looks up. He sees his reflection in the glass door of a dryer. He does not recognize himself.

He recoils, and he drops the coins once again. The dryer tumbles on, and the rhythmic thumping of those twirls chuckles at his misfortune and misplaced fortune -- all the while continuing to project his warped visage through its porthole.

Outside the laundromat is cold now, as the sun has set completely. He looks in on the boy,
as do the stars,
as does the moon,
as does all the rest of our world.

None make one move to help the boy,
but as the moon takes guard,
and the stars light the child,
and the world shuts eyes to sleep,
He stays, and He sits, and He weeps to our Father.

I’m in the stairwell waiting for Swann to call back. I went out for a smoke and forgot the key. I’m locked out in the cold. Got the flu. My fault. Shouldn’t smoke. Told Amy I quit.

Swann’s place is a dump. He watches the tube all night. I sleep on the couch.

Mind if I watch Conan?

Nah, don’t mind.

His couch. His TV. Can’t complain. Just a couple months until I patch it up with Amy.

Swann is a sex addict. Our group therapist Becky thought we’d help each other stay straight. His wife busted him for the umpteenth time on a laptop in his basement. He got shitcanned from his IT job the same week. Now he delivers potato chips to 7-Elevens. He’s on his route now. I need him to swing by and let me in. It’s February. It’s fucking freezing. I’m sick. I’d ask that chick across the hall if I could come in and wait but she’s got some dude in there.

‘Sup, he said, brushing past me up the stairs.

‘Sup, I said, coughing into my robe.

Swann goes to SA meetings. He’s got a sponsor. He’s had an intervention and been hypnotized. No more were the last words his wife said when she kicked him out. He wrote it on a post-it and stuck it on the bathroom mirror next to a photo of his kids. She won’t answer his calls or go to any more sessions with Becky. But Swann has hope. She needs time, he says.

Becky says we have to learn to bear discomfort. She sits at the head of a circle of folding chairs cleaning her glasses with a microfiber towel. She sips water from a crystal glass. She wipes away the lipstick with the pad of her thumb, her legs crossed, one foot hooked behind the other.

We sit still. Fidgeting might get you called up to do big work—Becky’s term for the ugly stuff. Beating the hell out of a pillow. Primal screams. Role-playing. Shining a light on your shame. Becky leans into the circle. She whispers, You hit your bottom when you stop digging.

Denise was my bottom. Amy’s best friend from med school. It started at Frank’s party. Denise’s husband was Jimmy. Frank was Jimmy’s weed-man, a local dude with a neon Open sign on his porch. Amy got drunk and passed out on Frank’s couch. Jimmy and Frank ate some mushrooms and wandered into the woods. That left Denise and me alone in the hot tub.

Fuck it.

A few weeks later we went on our annual trip with Denise and Jimmy up to Amy’s family cottage in Maine. The third year in a row.

Denise and I tried to talk ourselves out of it.

We can’t.

I know. Fuck, I know.

It’s unfair.

Fuck it.

The second night we went to Portland to hear a band. Got high on the way. I ordered shots. Pretty soon Denise said I gotta pee and I said I’m right behind you. We screwed in the ladies room while oblivious Amy and Jimmy bounced along to Bob Marley covers.

The rest of the week we pretty much stayed drunk. Denise and I paced ourselves. Around midnight Amy crawled down the hallway to bed. Jimmy lasted until 1 a.m. Then he passed out too.

It’s not like TV. Sneaking around. Cheating. Every time is the last time. She’s going to call it off. You are going to lose your shit. You pull up your pants and slink into bed next to your comatose wife.

This was the after-dinner routine: Amy and Jimmy wash the dishes while Denise and I walk the dogs. The last night on our last walk we duck into a shed. We’re humping on a riding lawn mower and I see Jimmy’s Volvo peel around the corner. Denise doesn’t seem to notice.

When we get back to the cottage Amy and Jimmy are sitting on the porch drinking wine.

Nice walk? Jimmy asks.

Thanks for doing the dishes, Denise says.

Chilly, I say.

Amy is silent.

It’s the next morning. We pack to leave. I yank a zipper off Amy’s favorite suitcase. I chuck a sink load of dishes into a dumpster behind the cottage.

Quit being such a dick, Amy says. Strip the beds.

I get it together and go room to room jerking sheets into a hamper. Denise and Jimmy’s are soiled from sex.

Jimmy is brooding. He knows something is up. Denise is going out to walk the dog one last time before they leave.

Aren’t you going with her? Amy says.

Why don’t you go? I say.

Jimmy sits in the car. I go back into the house to lock the windows and unplug the coffee pot. I check that the toilet isn’t running in the upstairs bathroom. I linger in the shower stall where we did it early one morning while they were still sleeping. Back downstairs I gaze at the loveseat in the sunroom. I see one of Denise’s long black hairs stuck in the wicker. I pluck it free and toss it in the fireplace.

Denise and Amy return from their walk. Denise’s eyes are puffy. She gives Amy a hug then gets into the car. I run out to say goodbye. It’s too late. Denise is belted in. Door closed.

Jimmy and I shake hands through the half-open window. Keep it real, he says. Denise won’t look at me. She flips down the mirror to fix a contact. Jimmy backs out. We follow. Amy drives.

We tail them to the Massachusetts line. I can’t take it anymore. I’m boiling over. I see Denise in the passenger-side mirror. She’s yelling at Jimmy. We stop at a toll booth. I am going to jump out and run to their car and tell Denise right there in front of her husband that I can’t live without her. But before I can they are through the gate. I imagine grabbing the wheel and swerving into an oncoming truck.

Amy says You seem tense, is something the matter?

I take a deep breath.

I think I’m in love with Denise.

You think you are in love with Denise?

I don’t know.

You are so fucked-up.

I tell Amy everything.

And now I’ve been on Steve Swann’s couch for five months. Amy and I have a session with Becky once a week. We’re working on forgiveness. I think Becky might green-light me coming home.

But right now, I’m locked out in the brutal February cold. I went out to smoke and forgot the key. I’m stuck in the stairwell, teeth chattering, no answer from Swann.

Across the hall, the chick is fucking that dude again. She’s moaning. He’s got her on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Grunting.

I go down to the street for another smoke. It gags me. I grind it into the pavement. The dude sweeps past me on his way out.

Swann returns a few minutes later.

You know, he says, there’s a reason for everything.

The next day in group therapy Becky leads me into a primal scream:

Repeat: I’m angry!

I’m angry!

Louder! Repeat: I’m angry!

I’m angry!

Louder! From your gut! Repeat: I’m angry!

I’m angry! I’m angry! I’m angry! I’M FUCKING ANGRY!

I scream loud enough to rattle Becky’s water glass and pound a pillow until feathers fly and there’s a pool of spit on the floor.

After a few more months of therapy, Amy gave me another chance. Within a year we had a son. Then a daughter. We don’t talk to Denise or Jimmy. Last I saw, they split up. Things got better between Amy and me. Then they didn’t.

I’ve got a shot of the kids taped to my bathroom mirror.

Die in Misery, or Live in Misery?

Which path will you choose?

Of course, I wish those weren’t the options for myself, or anyone in the same boat.

I’ve been stable for about 10 years.

In this timeframe, I was able to obtain my BA in Business Administration, get married, have a child, and gained steady work at a high level.

Do I still have cracks in my mental health; of course I do! Perfect isn’t realistic, but high level functioning is certainly attainable for myself and others with major mental health issues.

I suffer from Skizaffective Disorder; bipolar and depressive type. As well as other ‘issues,’ that I won’t dive into.

I’m not a martyr, but I’d like to share a bit of myself to hopefully give some of you confidence that life can get better, become tolerable, and understand that happiness is reachable.

In order to live in misery, you need a reason to live, a reason to get up, and a reason to break through the darkness into the light.

My childhood was great, better than most of people.

I had a ton of a friends, played soccer at a high level, great parents, and people that were my family, even if they weren’t blood.

I got addicted to video games and one day I decided to quit.

I got up and looked into the mirror and saw a few zits on my face.

I went into lack of confidence mode.
I said to myself, ‘how do I get rid of these zits?’

I started off with the basic topicals and antibiotics.

None of these remedies seemed to work for me, so I looked up what would help rid myself of acne.

I found a drug called Accutane.
I was ignorent and had no idea what a pill could do to you. I was only 18, never smoked, drank, or engaged in hardcore drugs.

Wow, that drug brought whatever was dormant inside come out like a baby climbing out of his/ her mommy.

This occurrence caused my dad and mom to fight because my dad didn’t believe in mental health issues and eventually he left us and went back to his home country.

I went forward with smoking weed, smoking cigs, and even tried hard core drugs.

I tried spice and got addicted to that.
Lost my virginity without thought.

Everything went to hell.
I didn’t feel ‘grounded.’ What happened to me?

I was so sheltered as a child and teenager. Once I became severely mentally ill, I went off the wire and went crazy, doing everything I would have never have done if I wasn’t mentally ill.

My mom and sister soon got addicted to OxyContin, smoking it off tin foil.

Heroine and meth seemed to be the norm for my mother and sister.

I always knew my mom was going to die. I just knew it was going happen and it was a matter of time.

She eventually aspirated, got ammonia, and sepsis in her blood stream.

I had to make the decision to take her off the life support.

I can’t explain how it feels to witness your mother taking her last breath.

I later went catatonic and received 2 sets of ECT treatments that really helped me.

There was a fortune teller that was friends with an aquatince of mine.

I’ll never forget this.
She touched me and jump backward, scared and fear in her eyes.

She only looked at me and said ‘I’m sorry.’

I didn’t think anything of it until life went on.

My dad eventually died and my sister lost her son.
I had no where to turn, no one for help.

I had myself and the spiritual world around me.

I later got married, had a child, and this gave me the reason to live.

So will what will you do? Will you die in misery, or learn how to live in misery?

The settlement check arrived on a Tuesday, which Imogen declared was cosmically significant. Tess pointed out that mail arrived on Tuesdays routinely and without cosmic intention, but by then Imogen was already holding the envelope aloft like a torch.

"We are going to do something meaningful with this money," she announced.

In the kitchen, their boys were sword-fighting with baguettes. The dog was licking miso off a spoon he had discovered in the couch. Tess packed school lunches with the focused calm of a woman who had learned to wait for the pronoun.

"We," said Imogen, "are buying an Airbnb."

Tess set down the butter knife. "Of course we are."

The house had been standing for three hundred years and looked like it knew it. A slightly leaning Georgian in the historic district, stately in the way of old things that have survived enough foolishness to develop opinions. Their agent Juliette—a woman of spectacular enthusiasm, no apparent indoor voice, and the tender-looking lips of someone who had made a maintenance appointment earlier that morning and was determined to carry on regardless—informed them that the original beams were intact, the original floors were intact, and the ghosts, probably, were also intact.

Imogen whispered to Tess that she intuited that even the ghosts would match the aesthetic.

Inside, the place was lust-inducing in that curated way seen on Instagram. And there, in the living room, glowing like an artifact from a more intentional civilization, sat a Barbie-pink velvet sofa.

Imogen stopped walking. She put a hand to her chest.

"Hello my beloved."

"Please," said Tess, "do not speak to the furniture."

They made an offer that afternoon. It was fifty thousand over asking. Imogen said yes before Tess had finished reading the figure aloud. Tess asked if she might be allowed a single beat of hesitation and Imogen said that pausing was for people who didn't understand destiny, and Tess said that she was buying a sofa, not destiny, and Juliette beamed at both of them with her whole face, winced very slightly, and touched two fingers to the slight brown bruise emerging on her mouth.

The condo board, Juliette explained, had been a situation.

She said this the way doctors say there were some findings. The board was composed of the two cranky downstairs residents whose primary qualification for governance appeared to be a shared, burning need to be perceived as people who summered. They had rejected the short-term rental rezoning application twice. The first time, they cited noise concerns. The second time, they cited vibes. Their written notes, which Juliette had seen, used the phrase not the kind of energy we've cultivated here in reference to a couple who had been guests for four days and once used the wrong recycling bin.

The sellers had ultimately secured approval by inviting the couple to the yacht club—or rather, to the waitlist for the yacht club, which Juliette clarified was not the same as access to actual boats, but was access to the idea of boats, and the possibility of boats, and the social proximity to people who owned boats, which had proven sufficient.

The board had convened an emergency session. The vote was two to zero. One member asked if he could be photographed accepting the invitation.

"Honestly," said Imogen, "that's fair."

The sellers were Gerald and Philippa Ashworth-Crane, a distinction that mattered enormously to Philippa and somewhat less to Gerald, who by the time Imogen and Tess arrived for the final walkthrough had the hollowed look of a man living inside a mistake he could not escape.

Gerald had listed the condo with all furnishings included. He had done this because it was expedient, because buyers liked it, and because he had not paused—fatally—to consult Philippa about the lamps.

The lamps were on the sideboard. Two blue ceramic artichokes, the color of a Mediterranean afternoon at precisely 4:00 pm. Imogen had been quietly communing with them for twenty minutes. They were extraordinary, and they were, Gerald now understood, a central fact of his marriage.

Philippa arrived like a weather event.

She did not open the door so much as cause it to open by approaching it with sufficient intention. She wore a cream blazer and the expression of a woman who had once sent back a glass of still water for being too still.

She stopped at the sideboard.

"Gerald."

Gerald, who had been standing near the kitchen trying to look like a load-bearing wall, turned around.

"Philippa," he said. "You came."

"I came," said Philippa, "because you listed my lamps."

"I listed the furnishings—"

"My lamps, Gerald. My lamps are furnishings to you."

"Sweetheart—"

"Do not sweetheart me in front of strangers." She turned to Imogen and Tess with a smile of such calibrated graciousness that it functioned as a threat. "I apologize. My husband occasionally makes decisions with the part of his brain that handles grocery lists."

Gerald smiled the smile of a man who had learned that survival required the surrender of dignity in increments.

The lamps, Philippa explained, had been made by a blind Tuscan ceramist named Osvaldo who worked from a converted shepherd's hut in the hills above Montalcino and fired his pieces only under the full moon, only in the warm months, and only after a period of what Philippa described as intentional solitude that lasted no fewer than three days. Each lamp had cost three thousand pounds. Osvaldo did not have a website. He did not take commissions. Philippa had obtained these particular pieces through a woman she knew in Siena who knew Osvaldo's niece, and the acquisition had involved two trips to Tuscany, a case of Brunello, and a personal letter written in Italian, which Philippa did not speak, and had therefore written in French, which she maintained Osvaldo would respect more than English regardless.

"So—" Tess began.

"Sentimental value," said Philippa, before anyone else could say it. "These lamps are not objects to me. They are memory. They are the light of two very important evenings in my life—evenings that cannot be replicated, priced, or transferred." She placed a hand briefly on the nearest artichoke in the manner of someone touching a grave. "No. I'm sorry. The lamps go with me. Some things exist beyond commerce."

There was a respectful silence.

Then Philippa said, "Or, I would take thirty-five hundred pounds for them."

Imogen blinked. "For—both?"

"Each."

"Each," Imogen repeated.

"They are a pair. The emotional resonance is compounded."

Imogen stared at her for a long moment. "You just said they existed beyond commerce."

"Sentiment has value."

"Yes, but—you've given it a very specific value. Thirty-five hundred pounds. Per lamp."

"Correct."

"Not thirty-four hundred. Not four thousand. Thirty-five hundred."

Philippa lifted her chin slightly. "That is the number that feels right."

"That's—that's not how sentiment works. Sentiment is not quantifiable. That's rather the whole point of it. The moment you give it a price, it stops being sentiment and becomes a transaction, which means I'm not buying your memories, I'm just buying your lamps, which are already included in the sale, which means—"

"Imogen," said Tess quietly.

"—this is extortion dressed in ivory linen—"

"Imogen."

"And in pounds? Not even American—"

Philippa regarded Imogen with the cool patience of a woman who had survived longer arguments than this and emerged not merely intact but vindicated. "The price," she said, "reflects the irreplaceability of the experience they represent." She inhaled deeply. "The currency reflects a trip Gerald and I will undertake in the fall. I am a careful planner as these two exquisite experiences here demonstrate." She caressed the ceramic spines.

"And you've calculated that irreplaceable experience to the nearest fifty dollars."

"Pounds—I rounded."

Gerald, from the window, made a sound that was not quite a cough and not quite a laugh.

Juliette produced a form from her bag with tremendous helpfulness, touched her lips again involuntarily, and offered a smile that was perhaps thirty percent smaller than her usual smile and a hundred percent more careful.

Tess offered to purchase the lamps at a greatly reduced price because they were, after all, used. Philippa declined, pleasantly, in the manner of someone who had been waiting to decline something all day. Imogen demanded it be noted in writing that the buyer was accepting the premises in a condition of diminished lamp integrity. Philippa said that was not a legal phrase. Imogen said that her feelings were not a legal phrase either, but they were real. Gerald suggested a cozy cup of tea, and no one acknowledged this. Juliette wrote something on her form with an air of great purpose and then appeared to realize she wasn't sure what she'd written.

They stood in silence, each focused on that warm 4:00 pm blue.

At one point, Philippa picked up one of the lamps to examine a small mark near the base—a thumbprint, she explained, almost certainly Osvaldo's, left during the cooling, and therefore not a flaw but a mark of human presence—and cradled it against her chest with a tenderness she had deployed at no point during the previous hour of human interaction, or perhaps ever.

"It connects me to him," Philippa said softly, her eyes going briefly and productively moist.

"To Osvaldo," said Imogen.

"To the process. To the intention behind the object."

"The intention being—"

"Art," said Philippa. "Craft. Meaning."

"The intention," said Imogen, "being thirty-five hundred pounds."

Gerald discovered something very interesting to look at on the ceiling. Juliette nodded in the sympathetic manner of someone whose face hurt too much to contribute further.

Outside, while Tess signed paperwork, Imogen sat on the historic front step and sulked.

"You're not actually angry about the lamps," Tess said, without looking up.

"I'm partly angry about the lamps."

"You're angry because you feel like everyone thinks you're impulsive."

Imogen was quiet for a moment. "I am impulsive."

"In good ways," said Tess. "Mostly."

Imogen looked at her sideways, the way she always did when Tess said the right thing, and she wasn't ready to admit it. "Do you really think this is a terrible idea?"

Tess capped her pen. She considered the house—the leaning Georgian, the pink velvet sofa inside, the small and serious venture they were about to undertake together. "I think it's a big idea," she said. "And I think you need one. And I like seeing you excited about something again."

Imogen kissed her, right there on the historic front step. Juliette, pretending to study something on her phone nearby, smiled her careful new smile, and when she thought no one was looking, pressed two fingers very gently to her lips and closed her eyes.

Through the window, they could see Gerald wrapping the lamps in what appeared to be a cashmere travel blanket. Philippa was supervising with her arms folded, and the expression of a woman overseeing the transfer of holy relics. Gerald said something. Philippa did not respond. Gerald nodded anyway and applied more cashmere.

The lamps left in a monogrammed tote, swaddled and secure. Imogen watched from the doorway with the expression of a Shakespearean widow. Or—Tess thought, watching her—more precisely, the expression of a woman already composing a very pointed retelling somewhere in the back of her mind.

"We'll find new ones," Tess said.

"They won't glow the same."

"They might glow better."

Imogen considered this seriously, the way she considered everything, which was one of the things Tess loved most about her and occasionally found exhausting. Then she laughed, low and sudden. "You're right. I don't need moon-fired Tuscan ceramics to be happy." A beat. "Sometimes I just like being mad at stupid people."

Behind them, faintly through the closing door, Gerald's voice drifted out into the evening: "Philippa, I really am sor—"

The door clicked shut.

Tess took Imogen's hand. They stood in their new living room with its original beams and its possible ghosts and its glowing pink sofa, and the space felt full of something—potential, probably, and the specific happiness of a large and impulsive idea becoming suddenly, irrevocably real.

Then Tess's phone buzzed.

She looked down at it. She looked at the screen for a moment. She looked at it again.

"Imogen."

"Mm."

Tess turned the phone around.

On the screen was an Amazon listing. Blue Ceramic Artichoke Table Lamp, Set of 2. The photograph was, in all meaningful visual respects, identical to the lamps that had just been carried away in a monogrammed tote at a combined sentimental value of seven thousand pounds.

The price was sixty-four dollars.

Prime delivery. Available Thursday.

Four and a half stars. Reviewed by someone named DécorQueen1987, who wrote: Beautiful lamps! Very elegant. My cat knocked one over, and it was totally fine.

Imogen stared at the screen.

Tess was already adding them to the cart.

Outside, somewhere in the middle distance, Juliette put down her phone and filed her commission paperwork and then decided the whole thing had been a perfectly normal Thursday. And somewhere across town, Gerald was still apologizing into a cashmere blanket while Osvaldo, if he existed at all, fired pieces by moonlight in blissful ignorance of what his thumbprint was currently worth on Amazon.

I had a friend called Samuel who wore a white mask on his face as he had a face burn. We called him Scar as that is what his classmates called him. He has white hair and in the Summer his whole body turns very pale. Every year he would come to my house over Christmas and we would celebrate. However, the days before Christmas would change things.

On the 18th of December things changed. He would often come back very late from school every night from the 18th.

One afternoon I asked him "We didn't have any homework so I'll just wait here until you come back with your bag." He replied "No its okay, I need to do my last class homework so I will stay here. You can go home. I'll see you tomorrow." I agreed as our last homework was very long.

However, when I arrived home I realised one of my copies was missing from my bag. I thought it was still in school. I wished I could have gone to school the next day as I had to go that evening. Next day I had to hand in my homework. It was 6pm in the evening and the school looked like a haunted house however I was brave as I didn't have much work to do.

I went into the school and went up the stairs to the second floor classroom to get my notebook. When I came out of the classroom to go back down the stairs I heard some crawling and someone shout "Please help me!"

I cleared my throat and turned around. I saw the security guard on the floor covered in blood. As he crawled towards me I saw his legs were gone and there was blood dripping from them.

Before I could say anything he was pulled from his legs. I could see a large hand pulling him. I got extremely scared and ran outside. I was outside the school and as I ran home I turned around for a quick second to check nothing was following me. I saw a reptilian like species walking on two legs through the glass window.

What I saw next was unbelievable. The species transformed into a human. It was Samuel!

He looked through the glass window and waved to me. I didn't go to school for a couple of days. However the day before Christmas I was in a good mood and went to school. When I arrived I was looking for Samuel however my classmate said "He left the school. However he handed me a note to give to you." He gave me the note and it said:

"Dear friend,

What you saw was the real me. I didn't have the confidence to speak to you after seeing me. I was created this way due to a failed lab experiment. It was meant to heal my skin after my body burnt from a fire accident however it turned me into this. Due to this I had to stay late at school and drink human blood to keep me alive. I want to ask you a favour. Please forget about me. I will never forget what I have done.

Be safe. Goodbye."

The next day was Christmas and it wasn't the same as usual. I didn't know why but maybe because I missed someone close or the feeling of forgetting someone I knew.

Edit: Link added

The Jobbit: An Unexpected Gurney

Prologue:

“Oof” a voice said.

The jail doors closed behind him and he was left to the devices of the men inside. He took a look around a noticed a large room with a few tables and some prison barred inner rooms. He noticed to the left was a set of stairs that went to an upper room with one table and an open area where one could sleep. There were no beds. He meandered his way up the stairs and set himself up in the open area. Here he collected his items given to him by the jail guards, a pen, some paper and a pillow.

“Oh God why is this happening to me?” the man said.

Immediately, the heavens opened up and a figure came forth, as in a vision.

“You did all these bad things so now your being punished, Squidward.” A voice said.

“I didn’t do all these bad things whoever you are,” Squidward said.

“Yes you did” said the voice. “And you vaped!”

“I didn’t know vaping was so bad,” Squidward said.

“It is bad when you’re under the rules of magic!” bellowed the voice.

“Who are you anyway?” said Squidward.

“I am Godrachi,” said the voice that took after a certain Pokémon. “I am the God of Magic Beings.”

“I need the real God not you,” said Squidward.

“NO NO NO NO NO, you get me!” said Godrachi. “Now you must suffer many things to make atonement for your past misdoings.”

“This just can’t be, I’m a good person, I volunteer…”  Squidward muttered.

“Enough, the sentence has been cast, good luck,” said Godrachi.

“Something troubling you,” a mysterious voice said.

“Yes, I’m here and it’s all wrong,” Squidward said.

“Tell me about it,” the Mysterious Figure said, shrouded in a grey hooded robe with blackness as his face.

“They arrested me for making terrorists threats!” Squidward argued.

“Sounds serious.” Said the Mysterious Figure. “What did you do?”

“I just wrote a note to my professor at Mt. Doom University of Science and Technology about how a certain group of orcs hijacked some horses and devastated Minas Tirith a few years ago and that could be why he’s having all these problems.” Squidward said.

“Sounds like something evil is afoot,” said the Mysterious Figure.

“I wrote two other notes about how I would have to see the provost about this mess – me getting fired, which is another story – if he didn’t see me about this problem.” Squidward said.

“So maybe they’re afraid,” said the Mysterious Figure.

“I think they want to get into my apartment and search it for the Keys.” Squidward said.

“The Keys?” the Mysterious Figure questioned. “Those are very valuable.”

“Yes, but I flushed them a while back, so no one can have them. I was feeling on edge about everything and made the move.” Squidward said. “I think they’re going to use this terrorist threats maneuver to get a warrant to search my apartment.”

“Well, what can you expect from Lord Soreon. He is a master of evil and dark magic,” said the Mysterious Figure.

“I should’ve known, but we built such a good report working on our fellowship together that I thought he had changed his ways.” Squidward said.

“Evil is a hard road to deter from,” said the Mysterious Figure.

“He was always insane about money…” Squidward muttered. “People want you to take care of yourself, but someone has to take care of you for you to take care of yourself, whether it’s a boss or customers, but usually you provide a service which they value and they compensate you for that value. But he just went crazy.”

“Tell me what happened when you got fired,” the Mysterious Figure asked.

“I wrote a note detailing some of the problems we had in the lab – I was a graduate student – like broken beakers, failures on the machines, and the like. And about three weeks later he fired me for damages to the lab. I just wrote how I wanted to take responsibility for them happening not actually doing them. That’s what led to the other notes. I need this lab position so I can pay my bills, I just started the PhD program and was receiving a stipend, so I didn’t have student loans from the government.” Squidward iterated.

“That’s tough,” said the Mysterious Figure. “But there is always a reason for our suffering.”

“I know, I know, but this is too much. My whole life is ruined.” Squidward said.

“Let me tell you a story – about the Keys.” The Mysterious Figure said.

“Uh, okay.” Squidward said.

“Did you ever wonder how you found the Keys?” the Mysterious Figure asked.

“Well, no, I just found them in a pond when I was on one of my walks. I found out that they could open any door.” Squidward informed.

“Yes, yes, that is one of the powers of the Keys. And Lord Soreon has been sorely after them his entire life, which corroborates your story. He wants to destroy them so no one can access the F-150 and escape Middle Earth.” The Mysterious Figure said. “Long ago, it is said that the Keys were obtained by Alexander the Great. He found the Keys and gained immense power, power so immense that he went and conquered the Earth, from Egypt to Bactria. However, he lost the Keys as he was entering India and lost his way. A magical force was at play that he knew not of and did not have the proper equipment to forebear. This force emanates from Anirudh who is said to oppose even God. This is how you found the Keys.”

“Hmm, interesting. Alexander the Great was a pretty big guy,” Squidward observed.

“Yes, but now the Keys are gone, as you say.” Said the Mysterious Figure.

“Yep, I flushed them,” Squidward reiterated.

“This is good, for they surely would’ve fallen into the hands of Lord Soreon.” The Mysterious Figure observed.

“He must’ve been tipped off by some of the orcs in the lab that I hung out with. I showed them the Keys and they were all amazed.” Squidward said.

“You never talk about the Keys,” the Mysterious Figure said. “No one can be trusted.”

At that moment, the jail doors opened up and Squidward was beckoned forth. He was free to go but now had the charge of Felony Harassment to contend with.

I suppose they figured the charges wouldn’t stick, Squidward thought. Now I see they have a different play.

So Squidward marched on through the madness, employing a lawyer and battling the charges against him. Taking a plea deal of Disturbing the Peace in its stead. He often times talked to God about the situation and wondered why he was being picked on. He came to two things: Job and the Mountain of God by Third Day, as he was now reforming himself back to his faith in Christ as this was the way he believed in.

End Prologue

Now, it happened on a day when the sun was shining and all the stars were bright. A certain wizard was moseying his way along to the Mire, a land of tiny people, called Quags. One Quag was special above all the others for he knew the wizard. And today was a special day because he would meet with the wizard.

“Ah, time for some peace,” the young Quag said minding his pipe and eyeing his tea as he relaxed on a chair. “Nothing like the quiet mornings of the Mire…”

“Ahoy there Bullbo!” a voice shouted.

“Goondalf!” Bullbo bellowed. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“I’ve come for the party of course!” Goondalf shouted.

“Party? What party?” Bullbo asked.

“Right here,” Goondalf said as he pushed a flier in Bullbo’s face.

And clear as day it said 125 Shortfall Way party tonight, the Mire.

“Why…what is the meaning of this?” Bullbo questioned. “This is my address!”

“Oh you shall see,” Goondalf said wisely.

“We can’t have a party here, I haven’t any food!” Bullbo yelled.

“Oh hogwash, you have plenty of food and drink, just look right here,” Goondalf said pointing to a table full of breads, cheeses, and meats.

“That’s not for guests!” Bullbo shouted.

“Oh come now Bullbo,” Goondalf said snootly.

And it so happened that day turned into night and the sun set on the beautiful village of the Mire. And it happened. There came a doldrum of noise from down the road. As sure as taxes themselves, a group of bunnies were walking up the road.

“Ah they have arrived,” Goondalf observed.

They walked up the road and made their way to the house. One by one they entered the house finding food, drink, and seating for each other while Bullbo protested profusely, being shoved away due to his small stature. The energy in the room was high, and the bunnies were boisterous in their gallantry. Everything was coming to a head when…

“Who are these bunnies anyways!?” Bullbo insisted.

“We are on a mission.” Said one of the bunnies.

“We have to recover it,” whispered another.

“What are you talking about?” Bullbo furthered.

“It’s the Easter Egg,” said one of the bunnies.

“The Easter Egg?” Bullbo questioned. “What does this have to do with me?”

“We need a Memer, and you are the prime candidate, Goondalf said so.” Said one of the bunnies.

“A Memer? I’m no mem-“ Bullbo said getting cut off.

“He would love to accompany you,” Goondalf interjected.

“I most certainly..” Bullbo trailed.

“It’s settled we have our Memer,” the lead bunny said.

“But I still don’t know your names.” Muttered Bullbo.

“Well let’s see here we have Pain bunny, Pleasure bunny, Joy bunny, Peace bunny, and Angry bunny,” Goondalf said.

“Pain, Joy, Peace…okay I think I’ve got it,” Bullbo said. “Now what’s this mission?”

“We have to recover the Easter Egg from under the mountain!” said Joy bunny.

“Long ago,” Pain bunny, the leader of the group, chimed in, “we bunnies lived peacefully under the mountain. We mined the mountain for eggs of all kinds, which would hatch into Peeps. We mined deeper and deeper until we came across a very special egg, the Easter Egg. This egg was the crown jewel of our dominion. We displayed it proudly at our throne room when a giant tortoise attacked our encampment. It was the only thing we could do to flee our home and take refuge in the hills and plains of Middle Earth.”

“The giant tortoise loved all our peeps and nested there, under the mountain,” said Pleasure bunny.

“Yes, but now we have hope for our fallen bunny brethren!” growled Pain bunny. “We have formed a group of brave bunnies ready to reclaim our home. And now we have our Memer!”

“To Hazfor!” the bunnies yelled in unison as they took their goblets and drank chuggingly.

“Who is Hazfor?” Bullbo whispered to Goondalf.

“Oh he’s not a person, but the place, under the mountain.” Goondalf said with a chuckle.

“Now, we must be off, at once!” Pain bunny said.

So they grabbed their things and Bullbo said, “What, now?”

“We wouldn’t want to anger them now would we, especially Angry bunny.” Goondalf said. “We must be going, come on Bullbo.”

And with that Bullbo had joined the gang. They left the house nestled in a hill and walked down the cobblestone pathway around Bullbo’s house, next to a swampy quagmire, where Bullbo paused, briefly, soaking it all in.

“This will be the first time I’ve left the Mire,” Bullbo said.

Goondalf grunted in acknowledgement and continued down the path.

“Come now Memer,” Pain bunny called.

So they went around the bend and found where the bunnies discarded their baskets, their mode of travel. They climbed in their baskets, and grabbed hold of the ledge and began to fly.

“Why I’ll be flying rabbits…” Bullbo said.

“We’re bunnies,” Pain bunny grumbled. “Now hurry you get in with me, Goondalf will go with Joy bunny.”

And they all began to fly, hovering over the Earth, waiting for the signal to go. Pain bunny strapped on his goggles and told Bullbo to get down, so that the wind wouldn’t get in his eyes. And they flew gracefully through the Mire’s forest, towards Bunny Mountain. They trekked for a time until they grew tired, where they found a nice place to take a rest.

“This should be a good place,” Pain bunny observed.

They gathered their things and built a huge fire to cook their food. They began to bicker towards one another about their quest as Bullbo strayed away.

“What if it’s not there?” pleaded Angry bunny.

“How will we defeat the giant tortoise?” Joy bunny asked.

“We are not fit for this mission,” Peace bunny added.

“Quiet, quiet, this is all just pre-mission jitters. We have what we need, we can survive.” Pain bunny coalesced.

At that moment, Bullbo had found a clearing where a fire’s remains had been. He knew someone had been here when suddenly:

“Why hello there,” a voice said.

“Good to meet ya,” another voice said.

“Oh not these guys,” Bullbo muttered.

“We can help you,” the first voice said.

“No you can not, I know your kind,” Bullbo stated.

“No, they can help, they said so,” Pleasure bunny said. He had followed Bullbo, coming out of the brush to reveal himself. “We must hear what he has to say!”

“No, he’s just a troll,” Bullbo said.

“No, I know where the Easter Egg is.” Said Troll 1.

“Tell me, please tell me,” Pleasure bunny beseeched.

“I don’t know, they may not be ready,” Troll 2 said.

“It’s easy, it’s in the Easter Basket,” Troll 1 said.

“See, I told you they’re just trolls.” Bullbo said.

“The Easter Basket, where can we find this Easter Basket,” Pleasure bunny furthered.

“That’s easy, it’s in heaven,” Troll 2 said.

“How do I get to heaven to get this Easter Basket that contains the Easter Egg?” Pleasure bunny asked.

“Why you have to believe in Jesus and then die,” Troll 1 said plainly.

“They’re just trolls Pleasure bunny, let’s go,” Bullbo said firmly.

“Who is this Jesus?” Pleasure bunny pleaded as Bullbo tore him away.

“He is God,” Troll 2 yelled down the path as they disappeared.

“You must not listen to them, Pleasure bunny,” Bullbo insisted.

“So you have to do whatever he wants,” Troll 1 shouted barely audible.

“No, they must know!” Pleasure bunny yelled, squirming in Bullbo’s grasp.

“They just troll you, they don’t really know anything,” Bullbo said. “We have to seek under the mountain for the Easter Egg, remember?”

“Oh…. yes that is right,” Pleasure bunny said reassured.

They came back to the encampment and shared a bowl of stew.

“Where did you two run off to?” Pain bunny questioned.

“Just up the hill,” Bullbo said.

“We found two trolls who claimed to know where the Easter Egg was!” Pleasure bunny yelled.

“And where was that?” Pain bunny furthered.

“Heaven…” Pleasure bunny said hesitantly.

“Unlikely so,” Pain bunny sang. “The Easter Egg is a gem of Earth, not the skies. It must be under the mountain, somewhere in the heap of Peeps where the giant tortoise sits idle.”

“I see” Pleasure bunny said.

And with that silence fell among the crowd. They stared at the fire as if in a trance, focused on the flickering of the flames. Goondalf smoking his pipe looking quizzically at the fire. They continued on in this manner for a time until they all went to sleep. Tomorrow was a big day as they would arrive at Bunny Mountain.

They awoke and mounted their baskets and took off in the direction of Bunny Mountain.

“Fair skies we are having today,” Pain bunny said. “It shall be a good day.”

They arrived at the base of the mountain and disembarked from their baskets. Lo and behold, there was a caravan at its very base. There was a sign that read, “Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Bunnies”. They had just noticed it when…

“Look, bunny hunnies,” Pleasure bunny said.

“No, you must not fall for such immorality,” Pain bunny chided.

“But it could be so fun,” Joy bunny said.

“No, we must stick to the mission and not get sidetracked, there will be plenty of time to get wives once we have the Easter Egg,” Pain bunny said.

“Hello boys,” one of the Playboy bunnies said.

“Why hello toots,” Angry bunny said, hearts jumping out of his eyes.

“No, Angry bunny, we must not tarry, they will only distract from the mission,” Pain bunny said.

“Aww don’t you wanna come play,” another Playboy bunny said.

“Unfortunately we cannot entertain you this day,” Pain bunny said determinedly.

“It’s just a game of pool,” another Playboy bunny said.

“Get back from me evil harlot, I will not fall for your sorcery,” Pain bunny said.

So they forged ahead, into the mountain. Here they grumbled at not getting to play with the Playboy bunnies, but still managed to form a group to scout out the tunnels. They set the Memer up to get to the throne room and search for the Easter Egg. He tumbled through the pile of Peeps, careful not to arouse the attention of the giant tortoise. He was fumbling through some Peeps when….

“Who dares disturb my rest,” a voice thundered.

“Uh, no one,” Bullbo said.

“I know you’re here,” the voice continued.

“Uh, really it’s nothing, I’m just uh passing through,” Bullbo said.

“Leave immediately or face my wrath,” the voice bellowed.

“Not much a turtle could do…” Bullbo muttered.

“What was that?” the voice asked.

“Oh nothing, just give me a moment and I’ll be on my way,” Bullbo said.

Immediately a jet of fire streaked out across the great room, visible enough for even Bullbo to witness.

“Fire breathing…goodness gracious,” Bullbo exclaimed.

“You fear my fiery breath do you not,” the voice said.

“Uh, it is a bit unsettling,” Bullbo shouted in the direction of the voice.

Suddenly, a giant tortoise appeared in Bullbo’s field of view. It was monstrous in size and had a huge shell with which its extremities peeked out of.

“Oh this is not good,” Bullbo said hiding behind a pillar.

“Leave now or get roasted,” the giant tortoise said.

Unexpectedly, Bullbo found something in the pile of Peeps. A tome. He grabbed it and quickly scurried out the doorway nearest him, to his right side just beyond the pillar. He ran into Pain bunny when…

“Ah the Memer, good I found you. Have you found the Easter Egg?” Pain bunny asked.

“Well, see, about that, I haven’t just found it just yet…” Bullbo said.

“Haven’t found it, by what is the meaning of this?” Pain bunny expelled.

“Well there’s this tortoise that breathes fire. A fire breathing tortoise, everyone failed to mention that!” Bullbo argued.

“I guess we forgot to mention he was a giant fire breathing tortoise, but still no excuses,” Pain bunny said.

“Right,” Bullbo said with a glare. “I haven’t come across the Easter Egg just yet, but I did find this tome.”

“A tome? What could it be?” Pain bunny questioned.

“Let’s see. It looks like for us to get the Easter Egg we have to have the Lord show us the whey.” Bullbo said.

“The whey? What can this be?” Pain bunny asked.

“Whey, whey protein.” Bullbo said matter of factly.

“Why do we need whey protein?” Pain bunny questioned further.

“We have to get yoked so we can take on the giant fire breathing tortoise.” Bullbo said. “It’s all right here in the tome.”

“Oh, I see, I never considered fighting the giant tortoise directly,” Pain bunny said.

“Oh wait, there’s something else, let’s see…. We have to follow Jesus to birth the Easter Bunny. Oh that’s just great.” Bullbo said.

“The Easter Bunny? But I thought we had to get yoked.” Pain bunny said.

“We have to get yoked so we can birth the Easter Bunny who will destroy the giant fire breathing tortoise and retrieve the Easter Egg.” Bullbo informed.

“So what must we do?” Pain bunny asked.

“We have to join a gym and start lifting weights and go to church and find Jesus so he can show us the whey.” Bullbo said.

“Whey? But isn’t it way?” Pain bunny asked.

“It is, it’s a play on words,” Bullbo said.

“Well then, the tome of my fathers can not be wrong. We must go to the gym and go to church to find Jesus.” Pain bunny said.

“I know a great gym,” Joy bunny chimed in.

“And that would be…” Pain bunny led on.

“Planet Fitness, it’s a total gym that has no judgement,” Joy bunny said.

“No, no it can’t be Planet Fitness, it’s too secular, we need Jesus, there’s only one gym that has that,” Bullbo said.

“And that would be…” Pain bunny led on.

“The YMCA of course,” Bullbo informed.

“See it’s good we brought the Memer along he knows all of our questions. It’s settled, we will go to the YMCA to get yoked. Now what of this church?” Pain bunny asked.

“I know a great church,” Angry bunny said.

“And that would be…” Pain bunny led on.

“Middle Earth Methodist Church,” Angry bunny said.

“No, no it can’t be a Methodist Church, we need the real Jesus, we need a Baptist church. Something like First Baptist of Middle Earth.” Bullbo said.

“Aww man I thought I had it right,” Angry bunny said.

“So it’s settled we shall join the YMCA and attend First Baptist of Middle Earth. We are in your graces dear Memer.” Pain bunny said.

“The tome says something else, but it is grave,” Bullbo added.

“It can’t be that bad,” Angry bunny said.

“It’s a story of how the Easter Egg fell into the claws of the giant fire breathing tortoise. It says the Trix bunny came by and convinced King Hair to showcase the Easter Egg for all to see. Jealousy erupted from this display and lured the giant fire breathing tortoise to claim dominion under the mountain.”

“It pains me to hear this,” Pain bunny said. “We must restore our place and reclaim my father’s pride!”

So they started working out at the YMCA going to the local GNC to get their whey protein supplements, praying first of course to select the right one, and attended First Baptist of Middle Earth to learn the ways of Jesus and hopefully travel the path to unearthing the Easter Bunny. They lifted weights and ran on the treadmill as much as they could, five times a week, getting stronger each and every day. They got posters of weightlifting giants like Arnold Schwarzanegger and Tony Horton to motivate them. They went to church and learned all about Jesus and how he loved his enemies and healed the blind and the sick and even the demon possessed. They even went on mission trips to other parts of Middle Earth to spread the Good News of Jesus. They went to Rohan and Gondor and even to Moredoor. They always had great fun with their new friends, gnomes, and ducks, and even puppies. The trip to Moredoor held special significance, but the bunnies knew it not, for Bullbo found a magical item. They were on a recreational trip in the midst of their mission trip where they went spelunking down some Moredoor caves. Bullbo found an interesting passage that the bunnies did not take and found a set of Keys perched on a stalagmite. There was a tiny crevice by this stalagmite, which was covered by stalactites and other stalagmites from other portions of the cave, where Bullbo could peer through. Inside he saw a young squid man on a gurney looking badly wounded as if he fell.

“Oh dear Lord the tragedy. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do.” Bullbo said. “That was quite surprising and unexpected.”

Now Moredoor was a land filled with heresy. The main inhabitants of the land, Orcs, did not worship Jesus, they didn’t even have churches. They had great temples built to the great Allah, which all good Baptists know is just a manifestation of Lord Soreon himself. So, the gang was in a dangerous place to preach the gospel and reach others for Christ, yet a few Orcs came to their following and followed Christ. A true miracle. However, time had passed and the bunnies were growing impatient with the Lord, they wanted the Easter Egg and needed the Easter Bunny to get it.

“We have to do something, time passes by,” Angry bunny said.

“We can not wait on the Lord anymore,” Joy bunny agreed.

“We have to take action,” Peace bunny said.

“It’s settled, we must find a Lady bunny and take matters into our own hands,” Pain bunny said.

“But, listen you must wait, the tome specifically says we need Jesus to birth the Easter Bunny,” Bullbo protested.

“There is no time, we should have known that the only solution was to find our own way,” Pain bunny said. “We must go to The Woods to find a Lady bunny. It is the last bastion of our race and the only place we have hope to find what is sought.”

So, reluctantly, Bullbo packed up his things and headed out with the bunnies, keeping the secret of the Keys to himself, as they were a precious item that must not be made known. They marched their way north to the wooded area of Middle Earth and found their way through the trees, as there was a path they could take. Now The Woods was said to be haunted by the ghosts of Elves past. A creeping power crept through The Woods entangling and ensnaring them, tricking them on what path to take.

“It feels like we’ve been going in circles for hours,” Angry bunny said.

“We need rest,” Pleasure bunny said.

“We must keep going and find the thicket of Lost Bunnies, there is no time to dilly-dally,” Pain bunny said.

“What do you think Goondalf?” Bullbo asked.

“Yes, yes we must continue onward,” Goondalf agreed.

They continued onward for some time when suddenly they were met by some Elves.

“You trespass in these woods,” the Elf said.

“We come here seeking Lady bunnies, we mean no harm,” Pain bunny said.

Now Elves and Bunnies were at odds with each other, for the former did not come to the aid of the latter when requested. This is what the Bunnies consider to be the reason for the giant tortoise to have overtaken their home.

“There are no Lady bunnies in these woods,” said the Elf. “The only Lady bunny is Lola Bunny and she is taken by Bugs Bunny. Here let us show you the way.”

“Why thank you kind sir,” Joy bunny said.

So the Elf showed them the way to their town. A huge palace shown in the way with arched roads in the likeness of trees sprawled the land. There were fountains and open areas with wells dotting the terrain.

“You must meet with the Lady of the Wood,” the young Elf said. “She can help you with your quest.”

“Mission…” Pain bunny grumbled.

“But first we have some refreshments, we actually have a good friendship with the Bunnies left behind. One of them has even opened up shop, you may know him.”

And that very moment the bunnies cried out in a cheer. They saw a sign that read, “Blue Bunny Ice Cream”.

“Blue Bunny!” Joy bunny cried.

There he was a Blue bunny serving ice cream to some Elves.

“Come on down and get some dessert!” Blue Bunny roared.

So all the bunnies sat at the bar that was set up in an open area with a rock terrace behind it shouldered by some vegetation and had some ice cream. This was a joy to them as they had not had a good dessert for quite some time.

“This is delicious, just what the doctor ordered.” Angry bunny said.

Bullbo had finished his ice cream first and wandered off by his lonesome where he got somewhat lost. He came to a well and found that he was not alone.

“You carry something of great value,” a voice said.

“Who’s there?” Bullbo said startled.

“It is I, the Lady of the Wood,” the voice said.

“How do you know I have something of what you say?” Bullbo asked.

“I can feel its power emanating from you,” the Lady of the Wood said.

“I only recently came into its possession, I don’t even know how to use it,” Bullbo said.

“Feel with your spirit and you shall know the way,” the Lady of the Wood said. “Now, you must know, that this item is meant only for the Chosen One. He is destined to save our world from utter doom and unite the races under one banner. He will use the Keys to unlock the Secrets of Existence and inform the nations of all that is.”

“How do you know what it is?” Bullbo pressed.

“I know,” the Lady of the Wood said. “You must keep them safe until it is time to trek to Mt. Doom and save the land by uniting the Keys with the F-150 and fly to the Sequestered Space.”

“Mt. Doom, but no one can get in there, it’s impossible.” Bullbo said.

“Where there is a will there is a way,” the Lady of the Wood said. “You will know when the time comes, but be weary and do not be consumed by the Keys.”

At that time, the rest of the gang of bunnies arrived, with Goondalf, and saw Bullbo.

“We were wondering where you ran off to,” Pleasure bunny said.

“Ah, good, you have come,” the Lady of the Wood said. “You seek a mate to birth the Easter Bunny, do you not?”

“Yes, that is why we have come,” Goondalf informed.

“Sadly, there are no Lady bunnies in this neck of the woods, you must search high and low to find one.” The Lady of the Wood said.

“But we must find one and fast,” Angry bunny said.

“There are tales of bunnies drifted across Middle Earth found in remote and desolate spots, but nothing can be confirmed.” The Lady of the Wood said. “You’re only alternative is Jesus.”

“No, it can’t be. We need Jesus, but we turned away!” Pain bunny erupted.

“Do not fret, for you can always turn back, such is the nature of Jesus.” The Lady of the Wood said.

“No it can’t be that we can just go back to Jesus!” Pain bunny exclaimed.

“Yes, you can always return to Jesus,” the Lady of the Wood said.

“Maybe through prayer and fasting Jesus will send us a wife,” Angry bunny said.

“It is our only hope,” Pain bunny grimaced.

So, they camped at the Wooded Tower for the night and slept off their delicious ice cream. While they were sleeping, Bullbo awoke, a curiosity sparked within him. He had to test the Keys and see their power. He found an Elvish door that led into a hollow near an open area and pressed the Keys into the keyhole and believed. He open the door and found himself in a white hallway dotted with grey doors all evenly spaced throughout. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, a hallway of doors, that looked from somewhere else in time. He reached for one door, realized it was locked, grabbed the Keys and plunged a key into the keyhole and opened the door. He was in his home in the Mire, where he decided he would stay for the rest of his days as he had had enough adventure. So, when the sun came up, the bunnies were wondering what happened to Bullbo.

“Where has Bullbo gone? Has anyone seen him?” Joy bunny asked.

“No one knows,” Angry bunny said.

“The Memer is gone, he must have fled in the night, being weary of our mission, knowing it’s doomed fate.” Pain bunny said.

“It’s not doomed! We still have hope!” Joy bunny shouted.

“May The Woods be kind to him and let him find an exit through this perilous path,” Pain bunny lamented.

“We must not delay, Pain bunny, we should get back to the church and read the Bible to find a prophesy for us.” Goondalf said.

“Yes, you are right, wizard, we must return to Jesus and pray he can work a miracle.” Pain bunny said.

And with that the gang was off, back to First Baptist of Middle Earth to follow Jesus…

 

End The Jobbit: An Unexpected Gurney

 LINK: Next Installment: https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1xghtvy/fn_the_ford_of_the_keys_the_fellowship_of_the_keys/

Wonderful, Wonderful

In my eighth year of life, a horrible drought hit the plains; oases, rivers, and even wells ran dry. As thirst clawed at my throat, I was forced to endure the torment of the soldiers who guarded the only well in the camp. Due to my outcast status, I was only allowed to drink from the same trough that the horses drank from, but it was bone dry.

“You know, motherless one, that due to the drought we are suffering, water is too scarce to waste on one like you. Why don’t you dance and pray that the sky god will answer you with rain.” The guard I called one eye taunted as I begged for a drink.

It hurt, for I was not motherless but torn from my mother’s side when the tribe's chief claimed my mother as his wife. For eight years my father was missing, and according to our customs, that made her a widow. And I was a reminder to the chief of a man, a father that I would never know, and my mother's love for him.

So I dance more defiantly than in an attempt to please my tormentors. It was then I heard the ram horn warning of an attack; the horn went silent as a series of musical thangs drowned it out, and I realized that the sound came not from musical instruments but from a war bow. The guards at the well fumbled to string their bow, and I watched as a single arrow streaked over the head to disappear into the clouds that hung over our camp. A loud rumble sounded, and rain began falling.

I laughed as I danced merrily with my doll, my mouth open to catch the raindrops. The guards cursed as the rain soaked their bowstrings, rendering them useless. I could smell their fear as a single man appeared at the edge of the camp, bow in hand cladded in shining armor, and walking with a confidence that seemed out of place, with him being outnumbered by the warriors of our tribe.

People poured from their tent with clay pots and vases to capture the rainwater, while a few warriors, seeing the lone figure, drew their swords and charged the intruder. The intruder's bow sang out unaffected by the rain; his arrows struck the advancing warriors and exploded into a cloud of sparkles. The soldier tumbled to the floor, sound asleep.

Everyone stared in amazement, and the guard at the well trembled in fear. He walked up to me and pulled the cloth that covered his face aside. His face was scarred, and he was ugly, not a sight that would win one heart over, but he smiled as he reached into his quiver. I trembled; was this some Jinn or evil spirit, and what kind of arrow was he going to produce to kill me with? Instead, a bright-colored conch appeared in his hand, and he handed it to me.

“If you place it to your ear, you can hear the ocean,” he said in a manner that was tender and kind, but I was perplexed, for what is an ocean?

It was then the chief of our tribe arrived on the scene, with the remaining warriors of our tribe. So focused I was with the shell at my ear, I missed the opening words of the discussion, but I did hear when the warriors surrounding the chief uttered in unison the name, “Alan!”

The name was that of my missing father, and I dropped the Conch..

“Well, Amar, are you going to face me alone, or do I have to kill all your men?”, my father announced, his bow at the ready.

Amar looked at him. “Only if it's sword to sword; outcast as your trick with the rain has rendered my bow useless!” My father simply nodded at the chief's request.

​ Both men drew their weapons; their swords glinted even in the rain as they began their duel. I could not watch; my father was facing the best swordsman on the plain, a winner of a hundred duels. The clashing of their blades rang in my ear. People cheered mostly for the chief, but one voice rose over the crowd, one I recognized as my mother.

“Finish him, Alan!”, she commanded, and I looked up and saw her cladded only in an old bear skin that I saw her wear many nights while growing up. I barely caught the flash of my father's sword as it cut off the sword hand of the chief. A single guard, one eye darted forward, blade in hand to strike my father from behind, only to be trampled by a horse that broke through the crowd.

There was a hush as my father swung his blade to decapitate the chief, and the crowd fell silent as my mother rushed to my father. A single Slap rang out as she struck him and said in a voice that bordered on anger and sorrow. “What took you so long?” she uttered before kissing him. When the kiss broke my mother scan the crowd and when she saw me grab at my blouse and pull me toward him.

“Alan, this is our daughter... “, and before she could utter my name, he placed his finger on her lip. And uttered, “And I will call her Wonderful, wonderful.”

He kneeled, till his face was level to mine, and said, “Maybe child I not worthy, but I will give you a home and you and your mother will never again be alone.” and I found myself hugging him.

The ninth year of my life brought rain and the arrival of my little brother, and I was again to know sorrow, but that is another story.