The Thirteenth Hour

My name’s Tim Carroll; I write about weird things and sometimes I post them here. If you’re new here, you might want to check out the "I'm New Here and Very Confused" link on the right side of the screen, for some suggestions on where to get started. All content Copyright © 2012-2018 Tim Carroll

[hour13]

Mobius

By Tim Carroll

@

“Hey, stop!” The guard shouted, raising his gun and pointing it at my chest. 

“Wait, me?” I asked in a fake Irish accent as I took another step forward.  

“Don’t take another step,” the guard said gruffly. 

“A step like this?” I asked, as I took another step.

The guard pulled the trigger.  A flash of blue plasma streaked towards my chest and

@

“Hey, stop!” The guard shouted, raising his gun and pointing it at my chest. 

“My name’s Finch.” I said, stepping forward,  “We’ve met before.”

“Stop.”  The guard said, and then a second later, “Finch,  do not move or I will shoot.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you would—”  Before I could finish, the guard pulled the trigger. A flash of blue plasma streaked toward my chest and

@

“Hey, stop!” The guard shouted, raising his gun and pointing it at my chest. 

“Do you have any thoughts on time loops?” I asked, stepping forward.

“Don’t take another step.” the guard said gruffly.

“Ever worry that you’re a bit of a repetitive guy? I don’t—”   Before I could finish, the guard pulled the trigger. A flash of blue plasma streaked toward my chest and

@ 

“Hey—” The guard shouted, as I grabbed the gun in his hands.  “Where the hell did you—” he shouted before I cut him off by slamming my elbow into his nose.  His skull hit the wall with a dull thud and for a quarter second he was dazed. @ And for a quarter second he was dazed.  @ And for a quarter second he was dazed. 

I sealed the loop I had created over the man’s head.  To my trained eyes it looked like there was a bright fog surrounding his skull.  In theory, I would be able to keep him in that moment forever, oblivious to the world around him.  In practice…  

I wrenched the gun from his hands, pressed it against his temple, and pulled the trigger.  The loop and the man’s head dissipated in a cloud of gore.  I took a moment to examine the gun;  it was an older model, but well-maintained. The guy must have been taking good care of it before he got his blood all over it two seconds ago.  I tsked and pocketed the gun as I approached the door at the end of the hall.  

It looked like a simple wooden door, with an out-of-order keypad next to it.  But I knew that behind the wood was about 8-inches of solid titanium, and that if the keypad had the wrong 12-digit combination put into it more than once, that titanium would probably be the only recognizable thing left in this hallway.  

Funny story, I didn’t actually know the combination.  I didn’t really even have a good guess.

But I did have something better. 

I approached the keypad and reached out with my mind.  The room in front of me expanded in a kaleidoscopic array of dimensions and possibilities.  For a second – or an eternity, whatever, – my consciousness was in free fall,  but with a mental effort I anchored myself on now, and with a second effort I gave the timeline a little twist.

Then I knelt down in front of the keypad and put in a number:  00000000001.  A red warning light flashed, signalling I was incorrect.  I tapped in a second number: 00000000002

And the wall in front of me disappeared in an explosion of fire.

@

Then I knelt down in front of the keypad and put in a number:  00000000003.  A red warning light flashed, signalling I was incorrect.  I tapped in a second number: 00000000004

And the wall in front of me disappeared in an explosion of fire.

@

Then I knelt down in front of the keypad and put in a number:  142826578433.  A red warning light flashed, signalling I was incorrect.  I tapped in a second number: 142826578433

And the wall in front of me disappeared in an explosion of fire.

@

Then I knelt down in front of the keypad and put in a number:  753159456851.  A red warning light flashed, signalling I was incorrect.  I tapped in a second number: 753159456852

And the door in front of me slid open, revealing a small elevator on the other side, with a rather large bomb sitting in the center.

A hazy memory of that bomb blasting me to pieces crept into my mind.  All memories from the loops that hadn’t “happened” were dreamlike. In addition to being fuzzy on the details, I tended to remember only the interesting bits.  The only thing that was clear in my mind was that the next number in the sequence was 753159456853.  Keeping count is essential when crafting a loop for yourself, otherwise you’ll do the same thing in every iteration, something that I had far too much personal experience with.

I’d learned all these tips and tricks from a man named Felix. We met on the day  I created my first loop, which happened to be while I was doing some mountain climbing outside my hometown.  From my perspective, I fell 50-something feet and landed in the muscled arms of a red-haired man about three seconds later.  From the perspective of the rest of the world, I had been falling to my death and resetting for the last 200 years. 

The world had changed a lot in two centuries.  I’d entered the loop climbing up a 4,000 ft mountain, where the crisp air mingled with the lingering scent of a thousand rose bushes in the valley below.  The world I’d landed in was a pile of rubble with the air smelling of burnt plastic.  A light dusting of ash was falling from the red tinged sky.  As I started to hyperventilate, Felix tried to bring me up to speed.  

Felix’s name was Felix and he worked for an organization known as The Ravens.  The Ravens had found out about me accidentally creating a grisly loop of my own death in a national park and sent Felix to break me out. He was here to recruit me.  

I don’t remember too much after that; Felix says I was pretty much catatonic for the trip to Raven’s headquarters, a subterranean bomb shelter they affectionately named The Nest..  Felix brought me to an infirmary where a doctor checked me with a dozen different tools I didn’t recognize for a dozen different diseases I had never heard of.  Once they were satisfied I hadn’t brought any diseases with me they let me sleep. 

Felix showed up every day for the next couple weeks,  taking the time to explain what I’d missed.  The world I knew was gone;  roughly 250 years ago people had begun developing abilities that allowed them to control time.  Before long, six different militaries were vying to get every empowered human on the planet.  “The bombs falling wasn’t the worst part,”  Felix explained, as he puffed on a weird smokeless cigar, “”It was when they started messing with the timeline that things fell too shit.”   

Felix also explained that The Ravens were an organization dedicated to stabilizing the broken timeline.  He asked me if I wanted to be a part of that. 

I told him no.

He asked if I wanted to make a lot of money doing it.

I told him no

Then he asked if I wanted magic to learn how to use magic powers…

And, now, two short years later, here I was in an elevator ride standing next to a bomb that had exploded in my face a trillion times and also never. The Ravens had sent me here to steal a mechanical doodad developed in the late stages of the war called The Aion. 

The metal doors slid open and revealed what looked to be the interior of a mansion.  The entire room was covered in mahogany wood paneling and had honest-to-god suits of armor standing on either side of a massive staircase.  Artificial sunlight filtered in through fake windows high on the walls and I could see a very convincing illusion of cherry blossom branches on the other side of them.

A pang of nostalgia hit me.  It looked like something from a fancy medieval-themed ballroom in my time.  From home.  

I approached the staircase.  One of the suits of armor turned to face me,  because, of course, it was animatronic.  “HALT, IDENTIFY YOURSELF.” the synthesized voice said at the volume most people shout. 

“Sorry, what?”  I asked.  I’d heard him, but lying to people was a habit at this point.  

The sentry paused for a half second, “IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR BE ELIMINATED.”

“Oh, my name’s Finch,  like the bird,” I added, “ the extinct one.”

The robot paused to consider this, “THERE IS NO FINCH IN MY RECORDS. YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED.”

I tilted my head to the side, “Are you sure? Can you check again?”

For a half-second the robot searched its database for me. @ For a half second the robot searched its database for me. @ For a half-second the robot searched its database for me.  I finished sealing the loop around the bot’s central processor and continued walking up the stairs.  Sometimes my job was too easy.

“THERE IS NO FINCH IN MY RECORDS,” the machine repeated behind me, “YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED.” I turned around to see the suit of armor stepping up the stairs and drawing a blade from the scabbard at its waist.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  It had been a long time since I had botched a loop. 

I crouched into a fighting stance and gathered the delicate threads of time into my hands.  And then those threads dissipated as though someone had yanked them away.  SHIT.  This had only happened twice before, and it could mean only one thing:  That asshole was here.  

I gritted my teeth, one problem at a time.  The robot swung the medieval sword, and I scampered backwards up the stairs.  The robot was strong and well-armored, but it was bulky and slow.  I needed to create some space.  

As I reached the top of the stairs, I rolled backwards and drew the pistol I’d borrowed from the guard’s corpse.  I fired a few blasts of plasma at the center of the robot’s mass.  They sizzled harmlessly against the chest, the blue plasma cooling and dripping to the floor.  The robot plodded forward as if I hadn’t tried anything, a red light glowing from the eye slits in its helmet.

I searched the carpeted hallway at the top of the stairs for a weapon.  I found one waiting in the hands of another decorative suit of armor: a spiked mace.  I tipped over the statue to make sure it wouldn’t start swinging at me, and then grabbed the mace.  

I crouched against the wall as I weighed the weapon in my hands.  There were maybe six materials that could shrug off a direct hit from a plasma bolt.  Only two of those materials could convincingly pass as medieval armor and both were pretty brittle.  

I took a breath as the robot reached the top step and rolled out from behind cover.  The machine raised its sword for a strike, but before it could finish I brought my stolen mace down on its kneecap.  

The robot lurched to the side, trying to find its footing, and I took advantage of the weakness to smash my mace into the side of its head.  A spray of sparks and broken metal shot into the air as the machine tumbled to the ground.  

I smashed my mace into the back of its head one more time for good measure, and then checked the room to make sure that none of the other suits of armor had decided to make a move..  

Fortunately, they all seemed to be decorative. Unfortunately, clankers were the least of my problems at the moment.  Now that I knew what to look for, I could feel the stands of time being pulled taut in every direction.  It was something I’d only felt twice before, and I knew who was responsible:  The Phantom. 

The Phantom was the nickname The Ravens had given to a rival thief who had beaten us to our last few scores.  The Phantom was a time manipulator, like most of The Ravens,  but whoever they were, their skills were a level above anything I’d ever seen a raven do.  We had no idea who they worked for or anything else: Age, Gender, Race, no idea.  

I felt a ripple of energy at the far end of the hall and turned my head towards the source.  A figure in a dark grey bodysuit of molded armor stepped out from behind the corner. Their head was covered in a flat chrome reflective mask that reflected the room and me like a funhouse mirror.

I didn’t hesitate; I hurled the mace at the asshole’s skull, and then fired a trio of plasma blasts at their chest.  

Time lurched in the hallway. The mace and the blasts of plasma froze in the air. The Phantom casually walked towards me at speeds that looked superhuman.  Along the way, they plucked my mace out of the air as though they were picking an apple.   

“Sloppy.” A voice, distorted but hauntingly familiar, came out of the reflective helmet.  “You’ll need to do better.” No one in The Ravens had ever heard The Phantom speak before.  No one alive at any rate.  I tried not to think about what that meant for my chances. 

“You want better?” I asked, hoping I sounded confident.  I tightened my grip on the plasma pistol in my palm.The Phantom could dodge individual blasts, but what about… 

I yanked on the threads of time pulling myself just enough slack to create a small loop around myself.  I imagined the hallway as a 10 by 10 grid in front of me. Then I fired a shot at square 1. @ Then I fired a shot at square 2. @ … Then I fired a shot at square 98. @ Then I fired a shot at square 99. @ Then I fired a shot at square 100.  I grinned as a hundred bolts of plasma surged down the hallway.  Dodge this, asshole. 

I almost felt satisfied, almost.  Until the wall of plasma froze in midair.  

“Better.” The Phantom said from behind the wall of burning cerulean.  “But you’re not using your powers to their potential.  Let me show you.”  The plasma bolts all rocketed backwards to their point of origin, fizzling out where they had been created.  

Whatever The Phantom had planned I wasn’t going to stick around for it. I was already half way down the hall when I felt another lurch in time.  The flow of time twisted like a noose around my neck and squeezed.  As I struggled to breathe, the loop around my neck rapidly tightened as it increased in weight, yanking me onto the floor. 

This shouldn’t have been possible.  This was far beyond anything I’d seen any member of The Ravens do.  As I tried to use my talent to loosen the stands of time around my neck, The Phantom calmly stepped over to where I was on the floor. 

“Here,” The Phantom said, resting their hand against my throat.  They twisted time in a way that my brain could barely parse, and the garrote dissolved away.  “Do you see what I did there?” They asked,  “Time’s not all that different from space when you have powers like ours.”  

I grabbed the gun and pushed it against the temple of their mask, “Thanks, but I already have a mentor.” I pulled the trigger.  Or at least I tried to. The well-maintained plasma pistol was now a rusting relic with a jammed trigger and a dead battery. 

“Felix isn’t your mentor.” The Phantom replied as a glowing white sphere of hardened time hurtled through the air and rammed into my stomach knocking me to the ground, “He’s not your friend either.”   

I forced myself to my feet and into something of a combat stance, “Oh?” I asked, trying to hide my pain, “Got a lot of friends?”

“The Ravens are using you,”  The Phantom said as a dozen more orbs of hardened time materialized around the two of us, “And keeping things from you.”

“You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,

“Actually, I do.”  The Phantom said, as they used a hand to lift off their metallic helmet and drop it to the floor   No… There was more gray in the hair, and more lines around the eyes, but it was unmistakably my face.   

“This is a trick…”

The Phantom locked eyes with me, “Felix showed me -- showed us – his true colors when we came to The Nest with powers that he had worked so hard to keep secret.  He nearly kills us.  And when he fails, the death squads he sends are even worse. Do you know why I survived?”  

“I don’t…”

“I survived because I had years and years and years of hard training.” My doppelganger said as they put their helmet back on, “Now shut up and fight.”  

Time surged through the hallway as The Phantom charged at me.  Dozens of hazy images flooded into my head of seeing this before.  I rolled out of the way of the attack and reached for the robot’s discarded broadsword. Before I could reach it another orb struck me in the jaw with enough force to send me skittering across the floor.

“We have a long way to go,” The Phantom said as the rusted plasma pistol flew off the floor into their outstretched hands.  By the time they grabbed the weapon it looked brand new.

“Why?” I asked, “Why do this to yourself?”

“Because we need to be strong.  It’s the only way to defeat The Ravens.” They paused, “But more importantly,  It’s the only way we see home again.”  

I looked up at the metal mask and saw my own distorted reflection.  Home. 

“Will it work?” I asked

“It already has,” I replied, “Better luck next time.” 

The Phantom pulled the trigger.  A flash of blue plasma streaked towards my chest and

@

“Hey, Stop!” The guard shouted, raising his gun and pointing it at my chest. 

“Wait, me?” I asked in a fake Irish accent as I took another step forward.  

[hour13]

The Disciple

The Disciple By Tim Carroll

           I had just reached the checkout counter when the dark god spoke to me.  

           BLOOD it whispered in the back of my head.  Well, I say ‘whispered,’ but really it sounded like a room full of people screaming in unison, just in the quietest possible way.

           “Give me a second,” I mumbled to both the extraplanar being and the teenage cashier.  I took a deep breath as I reached for my wallet. When the dark god speaks to me, it sometimes leaves me with a feeling that I’d just been punched in the gut.  A few seconds later the sensation faded and I finished paying for my chicken and asparagus.  

           If the cashier had felt my behavior was at all out of the ordinary, she didn’t show it.  I hurried my way out to the parking lot.  

           BLOOD NOW the dark god insisted in a slightly louder voice.  And by ‘slightly louder voice,’ I mean ‘slightly louder chorus of screams.’  I breathed deeply through my nostrils as I stumbled over to a flower patch in front of the store.  I spied an ant crawling on a bright pink flower, and stomped both the insect and the plant into the ground.  

           GOOD the dark god said, as I felt a sensation like a phantom claw patting me on the back.  A father pushing a stroller gave me a stern look for stomping on the store’s floral display.  I returned his look with my “Do-you-really-want-to-fuck-with-me death glare.  The dad quickly backed off.  People do that a lot when they see my death glares.  I think it’s the fact that my eyes tend to pulse red.  

           I drove home and listened to my favorite country station.  It’s broadcast from far away, so the static makes the experience hit or miss, but today it was pretty nice.  

           The dark god first spoke to me when I was fourteen, with his requests for BLOOD or occasionally SUFFERING. I was pretty freaked out, but when I tried to talk to my parents about it, they both thought that “hearing the dark god’s voice” was just my roundabout way of referring to that time of the month.  So, I was pretty much left to figure it out on my own.

           Anyway, after a few months of trial and error, I learned that his requests for blood could be sated by killing just about any animal with fluids inside it.  Ants don’t even technically have blood, and they do just fine.  And his requests for suffering could be relieved by asking annoying questions to pretty much any retail employee.  

           Johnny Cash’s singing dissolved into static as I pulled into my driveway.  THE ENEMY the dark god warned, his voice resembling a room full of people hissing into my ear.  A holy warrior was leaning against my front porch and brandishing a four-foot-long jeweled broadsword in her hands.  She was wearing padded armor – the kind you’d wear if you enjoyed competitive paintball – with a gilded cross embossed onto the chest plate.

           She had really nailed the modern-day paladin look.  I’d probably be jealous if I played for the other team.

I gave my eyes a particularly crimson tint, as I launched my best death glare at the holy warrior.  She barely flinched.  This woman wasn’t playing around; the death glare scares of pretty much all the wannabees, so whoever this was, they were serious business.  

           “I WILL SLAY THEE, DEMON,” the woman shouted, as though English hadn’t changed at all in the past six-hundred years.  She charged at me, swinging her broadsword over her head.

           I took in a deep breath as I called upon the dark god’s power.  The voices in my head screamed in unison, as hatred, malice, and anger surged through me like an injection of molten lava.   Through sheer force of will, I molded those emotions and concentrated them in the palms of my hands.

           The paladin was only a few feet away when the burning red liquid shout of my hands, splatting over the paladin and her armor.  She screamed as she fell to the ground, but she didn’t scream long.  The dark god doesn’t mess around when it comes to holy warriors attacking his faithful.  WELL DONE the voices screamed into the back of my mind.  

           The red ichor left a dirty brown mark on my front yard, as it dissolved what remained of the woman.  I reached down and plucked the jeweled sword out of her burned hand. I made a mental note to take it to an out of state pawn shop the weekend after next.

           I looked around, to see if the lady had had a partner, but after about thirty seconds without seeing anyone or hearing any warnings screamed into my mind, I decided that she’d been a lone wolf.  

           With the sword slung over my shoulder, I unloaded the groceries from my trunk and hurried into the house.  It was pretty late, and I needed to make dinner before The Bachelor was on at 8.    

[hour13]

The Tower

A note before reading:

             Back in 2015-2016, a few friends and I were planning to work together on writing a serial story about a team of people known as The Scrap Hounds who roamed a post-apocalyptic wasteland.   We built an amazing world and a few great characters, but unfortunately things fell apart.  Before the collapse, I wrote The Tower, which was originally going to be released in six weekly installments.  

             The Tower is set in the Durante Desert, a land trying to reclaim itself after being the battlefield between two powerful nations, Myrora (MERE-Ore-Uh or Mai-ROAR-Uh, depending on inflection) and Sideah (Sih-day-uh).  The Scrap Hounds are a team of junkers who wander that desert collecting scrap from battlefields, wrecks, and abandoned towns and selling the raw metal to the settlements they come across.  The Scrap Hounds travel around the desert in The Land Whale a large vehicle colloquially known as a trawler.

The Tower

Writing by Tim Carroll

The character of Torva is a creation of Miles Rodgers

The world of the Scrap Hounds was a collaboration, see end of story for credits.

Part 1

             If you’re of the mind to listen, the sounds of the Durante Desert at sunset can form a sort of symphony. The buzz of insects finding their way home to their hives, the distant howls of coyotes, the percussive rattle of scorpions, the crackle of campfires, and, of course, the slow steady rumble of trawlers moving through the desert.

             Tonight, there is one more sound - if you listen closely enough -  a quiet hiss, a gasp of compressed air, as an artist presses on his canister of spray paint.   His canvas- a tower, hundreds of feet tall- his painting, hardly a painting but a story. A tadpole, swimming out of the flames of hell, to become a frog, live its life, and eventually be reincarnated as something greater.

             There were no entrances to the tower, at least none accessible above the shifting sands.  The only reason the Scrap Hounds had bothered to stop at all was because a zeppelin had crashed at the tower’s base nearly a week ago.

             Unfortunately someone else had gotten there first. The zeppelin had already been stripped down, the crew members buried, and everything of value taken.

             Another sound filled the night, a drumbeat, something pounding against the desert sands.   Selak raised an eyebrow, but did not turn around, as the seven-foot-tall armored man approached him from behind.

             “Hello, Torva.” The artist called, shaking a can of green paint.

             “Hello, Selak.” Torva replied, his voice a deep reverberating bass. The armored man tilted his head to the side as he took a long look at the painting. “Reincarnation,” he said, after a short pause.

             “You got it.” Selak smiled.

             “What did a frog do to merit being reincarnated?”

             “Lived a good life as a frog?” Selak offered, leaning against a pile of scrap, “I imagine the bar’s pretty low for them.  Eat flies, lay lots of eggs, respect the natural order.”

             “Then neither of us would merit reincarnation.” Torva observed.

             Selak raised an eyebrow, “You don’t think we’re good people?”

             “We do not respect the natural order.” Torva clarified, “Few humans do.”

             “Maybe that’s a design feature.” Selak replied, filling in the frog’s body, “If humans respected the natural order, we’d have too many people reaching nirvana and nowhere near enough people being reincarnated as insects.”

             “Perhaps,” Torva observed, as he pressed a button on his shoulder blade, igniting a floodlight that illuminated the dark picture.              Selak cleared his throat. “How’s Blue doing?”

             “I do not believe he will suffer any lasting harm.”

             “The scorpion didn’t pierce a lung?”

             “That is correct,” Torva replied, stepping forward, “The greater danger is the poison.”

             “It was just a baby, right?  Painful, not lethal.”

             Torva shook his head, “An adolescent.”

             Selak bit his lip, “You can cure that right?”

             “Our supplies are low. I have done what I can, but we will need to leave at first light to make it to Anodar.  There I will be able to purchase the medicine he needs.”

             “Sounds good.”  

             Torva paused. Selak sighed.

             “But you need me for something?” The artist asked, “Look I know you want to chew me out, but what happened was a complete accident, scorpions shouldn’t have been inside the main hatch, the kid—”

             Torva raised his hand, “I am not here to chastise you.”  He cleared his throat, “There is a cave not far from here.  The recent winds have cleared away dunes that were blocking the entrance.  Initial exploration suggests it may lead to the tower’s entrance.”

             “But tomorrow we’re leaving?”

             “Correct. At first light.” Torva repeated.

             “So if we wanted to know what’s inside this thing, we’d have to do it right now.”

             “Also correct.”

             “And you’re proposing a night mission, into an unknown, possibly trap-filled tower, in the hopes of gathering information about the old world or finding useful and/or pricy artifacts.”

             “For the third time, correct.”

             Selak grabbed his paint supplies from the ground and threw them into a canvas bag over his shoulder. “I’ll get my kit.” He said, “Meet you outside the cave in ten.  I’m in.”

Part 2

             If you’re of the mind to look, there is a beauty to nights in the Durante Desert.  The winds tend to die down, allowing one to appreciate the endless rolling dunes, watched over by a thousand twinkling stars.  But be careful, many have made the mistake of assuming that night’s reduced risk of dehydration and exposure meant a reduced risk of death.  It is night time when the most dangerous of creatures in the Durante Desert hunt – whether they be the giant scorpions out to secure sleeping prey, brigands out to catch their targets unaware, or the mutants lurking beneath the sands, hoping to catch a glimpse of the surface.

             There is beauty to be found in the Durante Desert, but there is far more danger.  

             Selak tried not to get distracted by the scenery as he approached the mouth of the cave.  He had tossed away his painter’s smock in favor of his exploration outfit.  A black flak jacket – spraypainted with shark scales and an open shark mouth on the torso. Inside the dozen or so pockets were every tool he might need for a night outing: chemical flares, lockpicking equipment, and – his personal favorite – the grapple gun.  

             Torva was waiting outside the cave, wearing a different evo-suit than before.  Although few other junkers noticed – most were too scared of the behemoth to pay much attention – the scientist’s suit varied from day to day, with pieces removed and added as Torva saw fit.  

             “I didn’t know you liked the mollusk suit.” Selak said as he approached.  The suit’s back was painted with a design of a golden crustacean shell, the creature’s appendages reaching so they rested upon Torva’s own arms.”

             “It is good for spelunking, and I appreciate the design aesthetic.”  

             “Was that a compliment?” Selak asked.

             “It was.”

             Torva touched his shoulder, and an instant later, a floodlight illuminated the path in front of them.  The two set off into the cave.

             “So I am a mollusk, because I am armored and collect things.” Torva observed, “Do you have an animal for each of us?”

             “I believe that each of you have an animal.”

             “Fair enough, what is Alexa?”

             “A hawk.”

             Torva tilted his head to the side, “Is that not the animal you attributed to your ex?”

             “First off, she’s not my ‘ex.’” Selak corrected, “And, second, there’s no reason that two people can’t have the same animal.”

             “So, I’m a mollusk for my nature.  Alexa is a hawk for hers.  Why are you a shark?”

             “You don’t think it suits me?”

             “You are not a predator.”

             “Have I not told you this story?” Selak asked, “The origin of my necklace?” Selak reached into the neck of his suit and pulled out a two-inch long shark-tooth attached to a piece of scarlet rope.

             “You have not.”

             “Really?” Selak asked, replacing the necklace, “Okay, well, brace yourself.  Way back – maybe a hundred years ago at this point – my family used to live on the south shore.  My great-grandfather was a fisherman and a mechanic, and he was damn fine at both of those jobs from what I hear.  Now, one day my gramps was out fishing when he caught the attention of a massive shark.  The thing, attacked his boat, damn near destroyed it, and nearly killed my great-grandpa.  Luckily, gramps kept a spear lying around and was able to fend off the animal until he made it back to harbor.”

             “I see…” Torva murmured, running his hand along the preternaturally smooth cavern walls.

             “Great-Gramps and the shark fought at least a half-dozen more times over the course of the next two years.  Each conflict was bloodier and more dangerous than the last.  Grandpa lost two of the fingers on his left hand, the shark lost several of its teeth and part of its dorsal fin.  

             Great Grampa dreaded seeing the shark, because he knew deep in his gut that the conflict would only end when one of them died.

             But that all changed one summer night.  There had been a massive storm, the kind where trees are ripped out of the ground and thrown around like toys.  And worse, about five miles off shore, an oil tanker was damaged, and was going to sink unless someone intervened.  

             But it wasn’t just the people that were in danger; everything in the ocean was at risk.  If that tanker capsized, the entire shoreline would be devastated.

             My grandfather was the only one with the expertise to go out and repair the tanker, but every boat on the shoreline had been wrecked.  There was no way they’d be able to get to it in time.

             That’s when the shark rose up out of the water near the shore, and allowed my grandpa onto its back. Together they swam over to the tanker and grandpa was able to repair it in the nick of time. Every person on the boat and every fish in the water was saved.  

             There was no more fighting after that.  My great-grandfather and the shark remained friends, and when it died, grandfather gave the shark a funeral, and took several of its teeth in memory of their friendship.”  Selak reached for his necklace again, “That’s why I wear this.”

             “Do you believe that story?” Torva asked.

             Selak shrugged, “It was told to me by people I trust.”

             Torva coughed, “So you are not decorated in honor of all sharks, but one in particular.”

             “The shark went against its nature, and joined with its enemy for the greater good.  Their rivalry, their language barrier, their species barrier.  None of it mattered.  I think there’s a lesson we can learn from that.”

             “The shark went against its nature…” Torva mused, “Per our earlier conversation, neither your ancestor nor that shark would reach heaven, they would both be reincarnated.”

             “Maybe that’s for the best,” Selak mused, “The world is a better place with animals like that, no matter what form their in.”

             “Or perhaps we were wrong to assume that going against one’s nature was a bad thing.”

             “Or maybe we—” Selak stopped mid-sentence as the two came across a stone door.

             Torva knelt down and rapped his metal knuckles against it.  “Granite,” he muttered, “At least three inches thick.”

             Selak ran his hands over the door, engraved into it, at head height, was an insignia.  “You recognize this?”

             Torva nodded.  “Have you ever heard of Dr. Alarus?”

             “No…” Selak paused, “Wait.  You’ve mentioned him before.”

             “Her.” Torva corrected, “Dr. Olivia Alarus was one of the directors of the Myroran militarized science wing, specializing in genetic research.  She had many projects, but her most infamous involved modifying humans in the hopes of creating the perfect soldier.”

             “How’d that work out?”

             “For the subjects: very poorly.  Many died in her experiments, many more were crippled.  It is said that the few “successes” if you choose to call them that – were used in combat operations, forced to act against their will.”

             “What happened to her?”

             “One night, there was a prison break at her facility.  A few of the mutants broke loose and were able to free their brethren. They captured Dr. Alarus and tortured her to death.”

             Selak shivered. “Do you believe that story?”  

             “It was told to me by people whom I trust.”  

             “So what’s that got to do with this symbol?”

             “It is the insignia of her lab.”

             “Could she be here?”

             “Unlikely.  Even if she had been able to escape from her lab that night, I doubt she would hide in such a noticeable dwelling.  In addition to her former test subjects, there are many who want her dead.  Those in the public who believe she must answer for her crimes and those in the Myroran military who she has shamed.”

             “Fucking Hell.” Selak let out a low whistle, “So what’s the symbol for her lab doing all the way out here.  We’re what two hundred-something miles from the Myroran border?”

             “I do not know.” Torva replied, as he ignited a blow torch “But it is my intention to find out.”

 Part 3

             If you’re of the mind to search, there’s a history to the Durante Desert – a tale of heroism, honor, betrayal, and blood-stained sand.  But be warned, any investigation into writings about the desert will lead a researcher through a labyrinth of bias, misinformation, and pride.  The Myrorans and Sideans both hold each other accountable for the attacks that reduced nearly a third of the land into a wasteland. Even the rare scholars who truly are impartial are confounded by the conflicting reports. Were there two factions in the war, before it was disrupted by the rebels? Or were there as many as five?  Was the rebellion truly motivated by a desire for national sovereignty? Or was it, like so many things, motivated by greed?

             The answers to many of these questions, like so much of the desert itself, are buried deep beneath the sands.  

***

             Selak took a few steps back as Torva knelt down and set to work on the door.  The acetylene torch in the scientist’s hands lit up the cave like a miniature sun, and even a half-dozen feet away, Selak could feel the prickle of perspiration on his forehead.

             “Hey, Torva?” Selak shouted over the tool’s hissing, “How exactly do you intend to melt through a stone door?”

             “Stone does not melt, Selak.”  Torva replied, not looking away from his work, “But locks are not made of stone.”

             “So you’re melting the hinges?” Selak asked, “And then we’ll kick it down. “

             “Precisely.” Torva grunted.

             “So how is this different than a door made out of metal?” Selak asked, “Wouldn’t that be easier to work with?”

             “You, of all people, do not need a lecture on symbolism nor aesthetics.”

             Before Selak could reply, Torva turned off his torch, and slammed his armored shoulder into the door, knocking it off its weakened hinges.  The stone door toppled forward, groaning like a dying beast as it did so, but an instant before it hit the floor, Selak heard a second sound, one that he had heard far too often in his life:  the sound of a bowstring being pulled back.

              “TORVA!” Selak shouted.  Acting on instinct, Selak kicked at the back of the scientist’s knees, knocking him- along with his exosuit – to the ground.  As his partner fell, Selak dove to the earth as well.  The two Scrap Hounds hit the ground simultaneously, as an iron crossbow bolt, crackling with electricity, sailed over their heads.

             “ROLL!” Selak shouted, as he and Torva tumbled to opposite sides of the doorway, where a layer of stone stood between them and their attacker.   Less than a half-second later a second crossbow bolt hit the ground between them, sending a flurry of blue sparks into the air. They had a foot-and a half of room on either side of the door.  Room to breathe, but not much else.

             Torva reached for his periscope while, Selak reached into his jacket pocket for a compact mirror.   The two peered around the corner. There wasn’t a human in sight. Just a large auto-loading crossbow resting on a table, with a tangle of wires attached, some of them leading to a black orb resting beside it.  

             “What the hell?”

             “An automated firing system.” Torva observed, retracting his periscope, “Rare to see one functioning.  The ocular technology they used was known to be problematic.”

             “Fascinating,” Selak hissed, “You got any grenades?”

             “I brought none.” Torva replied, “I was not expecting this kind of resistance.”

             “Looks like we’re gonna have to improvise.” Selak muttered, “Problematic ocular technology, right?  Is that big black thing its eye?”

             “In a manner of speaking.”

             “So let’s blind it.” Selak replied, grabbing a spray paint can and a long thin nozzle from his jacket, and fastening them together.  Carefully, Selak squeezed the trigger, spraying an arc of green paint over the machine’s electronic eye.  

             Torva removed the gauntlet of his exo-suit and waved the empty metal arm in front of the egress. No more bolts came out.  “It is disabled.” Torva replied, reattaching his glove.

              Cautiously, Selak shined his flashlight over the entryway.  “You see any other traps?”

             “Negative.” Torva answered, as he approached the crossbow. “Exquisite work.” He muttered.  

             “I like how ‘exquisite’ for you, doesn’t preclude ‘deadly.”  Selak replied, running his hands along the metal walls.

             “It is good that we did not use grenades.”

             “Why? You want to take it home with us?”

             “No.” Torva answered, “This device was only able to work because it has spent much of the past decade in darkness.  A month out in the desert, or an hour out in a sandstorm, would render it inoperable.”

             “So why was it good that we didn’t use grenades?”

             “These power cells,” Torva said, tapping two yellow and black squares with his metallic forefinger, “are what kept this system functional for so long. They are Myroran military technology.  Exceedingly rare.  If disrupted by an attack of sufficient force, they would create an explosion powerful enough to destroy this room, possibly even this cavern.”

             “And they decided to attach these to their defensive formation without any sort of protection?”

             “Perhaps they anticipated an attack by an opponent who did have grenades.”

             “Oh…”

             “This was most likely an off-site storage facility.”  Torva said, as much to himself as to Selak. “The hidden entrance and defensive machinery would be intended to keep out raiders, as guards for such a far off facility would be unfeasible.”

             “But why here?”

             “Field testing of Alarus’s mutants must have taken place in the area.  This was most likely a facility for holding them and experimenting on them pre and post battle.”

             “Would they still be here?”

             “Unlikely.” Torva replied, “The mutants used for battle were too valuable to be left to rot and too dangerous to leave to their own devices.”

             “So how does this thing differentiate friend from foe?”

             “On its own, this device would be incapable of doing.”  Torva replied pointing to the half-melted mechanism beside the door.   “If a member of the Myroran high command were to have come here, they would have needed a transmitter to ensure their safe entry.”

             “Press a button. Open the stone door.  Disarm the crossbow.”

             “Yes.”  Torva nodded, “Although…”

             “Something the matter?”

             “This crossbow appears to be a recent addition, the security system most likely originally used a firearm.”

             “Which leaves us with three options.” Selak replied, “Option one: The scientists here got bored one day, and decided to see if the motion tracker would work with different long-range weapons.”                “Unlikely.” Torva replied, “The scientists who worked here were corrupt, but not stupid.  Tampering with defensive equipment would have been tantamount to risking their own lives in an attack.”

             “Option two.  The gun was damaged in a raid, and they replaced it with a crossbow for whatever reason.  ”

             “Possible, although there is no reason that they would not have replaced the old weapon with a similar one.”

             “Which brings us to option three.” Selak said, “Which judging from the lack of bullet holes in these walls, I like best.  The gun failed due to mechanical issues over the years.  Eventually someone found the weapon and replaced it because they wanted to use this place as their new hideout.”

             Torva searched the room. “That would appear to be most likely.”

             “You do know what that means?” Selak asked, reaching for his pistol.

             “Yes,” Torva replied, “It means we may not be alone.”

Part 4

             If you’re of the mind to dig, there’s a world buried beneath Durante.  When the first shots of the war echoed over the sands, many of the desert’s denizens fled.  Some ran off to the southern shores, and began new lives as fishermen.  Others headed north to try their hands tilling the fertile plains.  But there were a few who took a different approach; they fled downward.    

             Lying underneath many towns in Durante is a spiderweb of catacombs. During the war, these undercities had a thousand uses, housing black markets, hiding families, and allowing rebel soldiers to outmaneuver and escape their opponents.  

             Most of the tunnels have been preserved since the war.  Many homeowners enjoy having a secret room beneath their cellar.

             And of course, there are the rumored-few, who liked their subterranean home so much, that they chose to never return to the surface.  

***

             The metal catacombs echoed with each step the pair took further into the lab.  

             “I guess the stealth approach is out of the question.”  Selak shrugged,

             “Stealth has never been my strong suit.”  Torva replied, as he examined the scratch marks on the walls.

             “That’s okay,” Selak replied, “I’ll just be sure to hide behind you if they jump out and shoot at us.”

             “That is hardly shark behavior,” Torva observed, “Would it not make more sense for you to charge ahead, so that I could use your corpse as a shield when you die, as my patron animal would suggest.”

             “Only if you’re comfortable living in my corpse after this is over.”

             “I doubt that I would…” Torva paused in mid-sentence, and knelt down.

             “Something wrong?”

             “This floor is made of iron.” Torva observed, rapping his knuckles against a section of the floor with four inch-long scratches, “And these gouges were not made by a machine.”

             “A wild animal?” Selak suggested.

             “Nothing natural could have done this,” Torva replied as he rose to his feet,

             “Could a mutant do something like this?”

             “If the stories are to be believed, Alarus’s mutants were capable of far stranger things.”

             “There are bullet holes in the wall,” Selak said, “You think there was a battle in this hallway?”

             “That would seem to be the case,” Torva nodded, “We should continue.”

             Less than a minute later, the hallway came to an abrupt end, with a stone staircase leading upwards into the darkness.  

             “It seems we have reached the base of the tower.”

             “Well, let’s get climbing.” Selak replied, walking up the stairs.  

             The two walked up the concrete steps. Selak listened closely after each step, trying to listen for any telltale signs that the stairs might come crashing down beneath him and his partner.  About five steps before the next level, the artist held up a hand, “Hey Torva, you smell something.”

             The scientist shook his head, “I do not. What do you smell?””

             Selak sniffed the air, “Do you know what hibiscus is?”

              “I am familiar with the flower,” Torva responded, “Not with its smell.”

             “It smells like that… and…. and sweat.”

             Torva shrugged, as the two arrived at the first floor.  The pair shined flashlights over the room.

             “Holy lord…” Selak muttered as he stared at his surroundings.  The room was three-stories tall and looked to be made of iron and stone. Stacked three-high in a dozen rows in front of him was over a hundred prison-cells, with catwalks running back and forth between them.  

             Selak shivered. Torva turned to his partner.  “Are you well, Selak?”

             “I’m fine,” Selak said, as he began walking, “Let’s just keep moving, it’s freezing in here.”

             There was not much to see in each cell.  Nothing more than a cot for sleeping and a large bucket for excrement.  

             “Strange…” Torva said, as he peered into the nearest of the cell, “All of these cells appear to have been used, but there are different accommodations for different subjects. Perhaps another experiment?”

             “I doubt it.” Selak replied, testing the lock on the nearest door.  It swung open with a shrill squeak.  

             “Oh?”

             “You’re thinking too much like a scientist, Torva, and not enough like a warden.  These weren’t subjects, they were prisoners.”

             “Why would that-“

             “If you’re in charge of prisoners –” Selak interrupted, running his hands along the bars, “If you keep people in cages for a living, what is the one thing you fear most?”

             “Those people breaking out.”  Torva surmised, kicking a loose screw into the darkness, “Those people putting you in a cage of your own.”

             “An uprising.” Selak concluded.  

             “And the distribution of blankets prevents an uprising?”

             “In order to rebel against a more powerful foe, you need two things: numbers and unity. Historically prisoners have always had the former.  It’s just not practical to have an equal number of guards and prisoners.”

             “So they take away their unity?” Torva asked, ducking under a low-hanging catwalk.

             “That’s where the blankets come in.” Selak explained, “In any group of people, there are gonna be the popular ones.  The ones who everyone likes.  The ones who could inspire a rebellion.”  

             “And you take away their blankets?”

             “No,” Selak replied, “Those are the people you give blankets to.”

             “I do not follow…”

             “Imagine you’re a prisoner, and you see that the man in the cell next to you just got a nice warm blanket.  What’s the first thing you ask?”

             Torva paused, “I would ask “Why?””

             “Exactly. Why are they getting special treatment?  Are they secretly working with the warden? Can I trust them?”

             “Preventing a rebellion with a few square yards of wool.” Torva concluded.

             “And that’s just the start of what guards can do with blankets.  Give them to obedient prisoners on a cold night.  Take them all away as a form of mass punishment if one person starts stirring up trouble…”

             “Where did you learn so much about managing prisoners?”

             “I…” Selak coughed, “I’ve had a few friends who’ve done their time behind bars.”

             “You would think that prisoners would learn that they are being manipulated.”

             “Easier said than done,” Selak replied, “To have an uprising you don’t just need one person to go against their nature, but dozens, maybe even hundreds.”

             “A mental revolution.” Torva agreed, as the two came across a steel door at the far end of the room.  

             “Hey, Torva,” Selak shouted, pointing at the walls – which were lined with steel fans, “Is there any reason they’d need to keep this room cold?”  What’s with all the air conditioners?”

             Torva shook his head, “I have no idea.  Perhaps they kept these rooms freezing to improve their use of blanket tactics.”

             “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

             “What name would you suggest?”

             “Blanket tactics sounds a little too whimsical for my tastes.”  Selak replied, “I’d call it what it is: torture.”

             The pair arrived at a set of double doors on the opposite side of the room.

             “No lock,” Selak observed as he pulled open the door.

             The next room was also three-stories high, and looked to be an infirmary.  Rows of cots lined the walls, with medical devices lying next to them.  Everything else seemed to be made of bare metal: The walls, the floor, the cabinets that covered the far wall.

             “Looks like they expected to have a ton of wounded.”

             Torva shook his head, “These beds are not equipped for emergency care.  And if one truly harbored concerns about the safety of the injured they would not put their infirmary so far from the entrance.  This was where they gave the mutants their treatment.”

             “Treatment?”

             “Most mutants are unstable.  The genome is a tool for gods, not man.  Most mutants required significant medical care in order to survive from battle to battle. Alarus considered it a small price to pay.”

             “This woman keeps sounding better and better.”  Selak mumbled, wrenching open one of the cabinets. “You think you can do anything with this stuff.”

             Torva looked over the contents of the cabinet.  “Antibiotics…” he mused, “Blood thinners… bandages… “Torva grinned, “We’re in luck. Not only should we be able to refill the Whale’s infirmary, but we will have a surplus to sell at the next trading post.”

             “Looks like the hounds will be eating pretty well for the next couple weeks.”

             “Why?  Did you see something that would get you off of cooking duty?”

             “That’s cold, Torva.”

             The scientist laughed, as the two approached the door at the far side of the room.  “Wait a minute…”  Selak stopped dead.

             “What is it?”  

             “Those prison cells, they were made of iron… just like the floor.”

             “Yes,” Torva replied, “Why… oh dear…”

             “If a mutant could tear through the floor, why couldn’t he pry apart his cell?”

             The two scrap hounds exchanged glances.

             “Something is not right.” Torva murmured.

             Selak nodded as he opened the final door. A staff kitchen with a large wooden table in the center.  In front of each of the dozen place settings was a black metallic box.  

             “Audio logs.” Torva said, picking up the closest one in his hands.  “Numbered one through twelve.”

             “Looks like there’s a story here after all.”  Selak said

             “Not only that,” Torva replied, “But someone here wanted the story to be known.”

             “Well then,” Selak replied, leaning against the nearest chair, “How about you and I oblige them.”

Part 5

             If you’re of the mind to care, there is a desperation in the Durante Desert.  The ceasefire brought an end to the war, but it was only the beginning of the true struggle.  For some, every day is a fight to survive.  Farmers hack away at the dirt, trying to raise a profitable crop. Junkers search through piles of wreckage hoping to find something to sell.  Architects throw structures together praying that they’ll survive the next sandstorm.  Some have called life in the Durante desert a constant sprint to stay ahead of the next disaster: A marathon that may never have an end.    

---

             “Status report:  Day 16.”  The recorder on the metal table buzzed, “This is Senior Researcher Richard Parvus.  Yesterday, Dr. Alarus returned to Myrora to continue work on Centurion III. As of today, I am the director of all operations here at Site 14 and all further status reports shall come from me. Our current priority for all personnel is ensuring the total obedience of subjects.  In addition to usual mass humanoid containment protocol, we are using both subliminal and explicit instruction to convince them that they cannot survive in sunlight without regular injections of Pherendalin. We are also using pheromone therapy to aid in containment.  The entirety of the prison is filled with pheromone mixture 21-B-epsilon, which dulls the strength and mental fortitude of our subject population.  

             Field testing will be scheduled when have ensured complete control of our prisoners.  Nothing further to report.”  

             “Disgusting,” Torva hissed, his hands clenched around the steel table.

             “Do you have any idea what happened to this asshole?”

             Torva shook his head, “His name is unfamiliar to me.”

             “Is there any news on what happened to Alarus’s aides after the war?”

             “Only rumors.” Torva replied, “It is impossible to separate fact from fiction.”

             “What do you believe?”

             “I believe that Alarus’s aides were removed from public record and transferred to other projects by the Myroran government.  Myrora would not let valuable assets rot in prison or be taken by the enemy.”

             “Amazing…” Selak mumbled as he reached to press the play button on the next tape. “Wait a sec,” He drew his hands back. “Pheromones… those are released from sweat right?”

             “In many cases, yes.”

             “Could that be why this place smells like sweat?  Artificial pheromones?”

             Torva scratched his chin. Or at least approximated the gesture through his exo-suit. “That would make sense.  It would also explain the excess of ventilation in the prison room.”

             “Just a thought.” Selak shrugged as he pressed play on the second recorder.

             “Status report:  Day 29.” Parvus’s voice droned, “This is Director Richard Parvus.  Another pair of mutants died today.  The fault rests solely with Dr. Bakir, who prescribed insulin at the average level needed for a homo Sapien, not a homo Servus.  I have informed him that a similar mistake will result in him sleeping with the mutants.” Parvus laughed before continuing.

             “We have lost 7 percent of our mutants since our arrival at Site 14.  I have decided to accelerate the schedule for field testing.  Our first operation will not be conducted in ten days, as was previously scheduled, but in three.  We will also be using forty mutants instead of twenty.  That is all.”

             Selak and Torva looked at each other.  A bead of cold sweat rolled down the artist’s forehead.

             “We do not have to continue,” Torva intoned.

             “Someone set this up for us,” Selak gestured at the table, “Maybe not us specifically, but someone wanted their story known.  We have an obligation to listen.”

             “Very well.” Torva replied, pressing play on the next recorder.

             “Status report:  Day 34. This is Director Richard Parvus. All subjects have been returned to their cells.  Confirmed Sidean casualties: 436.  Confirmed subject casualties: 22.  Field testing indicates that our mutants’ lack of ranged weaponry was a hindrance on the battlefield.  However, as-expected, hormonal injections did insure the complete obedience of subjects. Our next testing date is set for a week from now, we will use 60 mutants on the battlefield.  That is all.”

             “Hey Torva, not sure if this is outside of your expertise…” Selak turned to his partner.

             “Yes?”

             “How the hell do you control someone with injections?”

             Torva cleared his throat, “There are certain brain states that can be induced with the right combination of hormones and neuromodulators.  If one had been mutated or conditioned to have one of those brain states associated with complete obedience, then it would be possible to use hormones as a form of mind control.”

             “Injectable obedience…” Selak mused, “And just when I thought these bastards couldn’t sink any lower.”

             “They would most likely have needed some sort of pheromone failsafe to prevent the mutants from taking orders from the enemy.  Possibly there was--”

             “I know I brought it up,” Selak interrupted, with a shiver, “but is it okay if we end this conversation?”

             Torva nodded, and reached for the next audio log.

             “Status report:  Day 42. This is director Richard Parvus.  Our latest field expedition was an overwhelming success.  Confirmed Sidean Casualties:  286. Confirmed Subject casualties:  Merely 8.  Unfortunately, a new problem has arisen.  Some of our subjects appear to be developing a resistance to pherendalin.  This has led to six of our mutants developing severe UV burns on the battlefield.  We will increase dosage, from 20 ccs to 25 for those showing signs of acquired immunity.  

             I have consulted with command and they are interested in a more aggressive pace of field testing. Recent reports have come in of a Sidean Motor Pool, 60 kilometers to our north.  In three days’ time we will deploy 80 mutants to that base.  If the ensuing massacre doesn’t convince command we’re deserving of more funding, nothing will.”

             Torva and Selak looked at each other.

             “Funding?”  Selak hissed, slamming his fist into the table.

             Torva took a step back involuntarily.

             “Winning a war? I get it.”  Selak said, pacing back and forth, “Advancing science? I get it. But just earning funding!? I can’t fucking believe—" Selak’s words were interrupted by the sound of pounding coming from the wall next to him, “What the hell was that?”

             “Machinery?” Torva suggested.

             “Why would it still be running?”  Selak asked.

             “Perhaps they left more equipment than just their defenses running on advanced batteries”

             “Perhaps…” Selak said, “But the war ended—what a decade ago?  Did they just forget about this place?”

             “If these logs are anything to go by, then this seems to be a place well worth forgetting.” Torva tapped the play button on the next recorder.

             “Status Report Day 45.  This is Director Richard Parvus.  We deployed seventy-six of our mutants to the field today, along with twenty-eight of our guards and scientists.  We are currently running on a skeleton crew of scientists.  I remained behind to supervise experimentation of the seven mutants who were deemed unfit for battle.  

             Unfortunately, due to being understaffed, we were unable to stop Subject 44 from escaping before her third injection of Nafaltin.  Subject 44 broke from her restraints and self-terminated by throwing herself into the metal gears of the ventilation machinery. As a result…”  Dr. Parvus paused,” Oh… shit.”  The doctor nearly screamed, his voice notably higher “The vents are down, that means…”  A crash sounded on the recording.  

             A second voice – a man’s - rang out on the recording, “Forget something, Dick?”

             “Stand back!” Parvus shouted,

             “Or what?”  The second voice asked, “Richie, I’ve watched dozens of my brothers and sisters die slowly and painfully at your orders. So for the sake of science, I think it would be best if you experience that—”

             A gun shot rang out on the recording, and then a sound like a body being thrown to the floor.  A second later a crack sounded – the unmistakable sound of a bone breaking- and then another- and then another.   An agonizing minute later the screaming stopped. Followed by the sound of someone standing up.  

             “Is this thing still recording?” The second man said, “Did this guy honestly do daily monologues... How did he end them? There was a few second pause on the recording. “Uh…. That’s all folks.”

             Torva and Selak stared at each other in silence.

             Simultaneously, they reached for the next play button.

             “Status Report,” The voice of the man from the last recording began, “Day uh… yesterday plus one. This is Markov Karazden.”  Markov paused. “Uh… Updates:  Richard Parvus is dead.  Seeing as this is a science report, I would like you to know that, according to the very scientific experiment I conducted yesterday, he lasted nearly a dozen bone breakings before dying.”

             “For those wondering how this miraculous escape occurred, well there’s only one person to thank. Melanie knew that she was dying -- only had a couple of days left.  Yesterday she broke free during testing and jumped into the vents.  She – her body – clogged up the machinery.  Since our blood has the vish- visco-  stickiness of resin, they weren’t able to clean out the machine fast enough.  Without the vents they didn’t have the damn pheromones to keep us contained. Tomorrow night, they’ll be bringing our brothers and sisters back in groups of about a dozen at a time. They’re expecting that this place will still be run by Parvus.  Oh boy, do we have a surprise in store for them.

             The recording clicked and the two scrap hounds stared at each other.

             “An uprising.” Torva not-quite chuckled.  “Blanket tactics appear to have been insufficient after all.”

             “You think this is funny?” Selak asked,

             “Funny? No.”  Torva replied, “But it is fitting.”

             “Fitting?”

             “After all he has done, do you truly believe that Richard Parvus deserved to go gentle into the good night?  That he deserved anything less than what he received?”

             “What he deserved was to learn the error of his ways and try to amend them.” Selak responded. “His mutilated corpse doesn’t serve any purpose?”

             “And how would you ‘show him the error of his ways,’ Torva asked, “Mind-Control Hormones of your own?”

             “Torturing people to death isn’t something we should be cheering on.” Selak replied, “Violence just begets more violence.”

             “Said the ex-mercenary.”

             “Said the human being.” Selak corrected.

             “That is even less of an argument.” Torva responded, “I have spent years watching humans kill each other over minor slights and insults.   This is perhaps the most just killing I have ever witnessed.”

             “Saying that it’s the ‘most just killing’ is like saying that you’ve seen ‘the smartest buzzard’ or ‘the strongest housefly.’  A killing being more just than usual doesn’t suddenly make it justice.”

             “So you would prefer Parvus to be alive?”

             “No,” Selak shook his head, “I just wish things could have been different.”

             “Things are as they are, Selak.” Torva replied, “Now shall we listen to the next recording.”

             “Please.”

             Torva tapped the play button.

             “Status report day 1.”  Markov’s voice rang out, “Yes, we restarted the calendar.  The battle for research facility 14 is over.  Confirmed shithead deaths: 29.  Confirmed mutant deaths: 2.  Damn, I went ahead and spoiled the ending.  So sorry, let me set the scene.

             The scientists and guards were coming back from the Sidean motor pool.  There had been a massacre there, a ton of vehicles and equipment stolen.  They even managed to lift a few crates of champagne for the lab. I don’t know why there was champagne at the motor pool… is champagne something people keep at military bases… whatever… probably not important. Anyway, they figured this was their big break; three ‘victories’ couldn’t be a coincidence.  They figured a grant – you know, money for scientific research - was coming that would make them all filthy rich… oh yeah, and it would help their research, but I think we all know where their priorities were lying.

             Anyway, they had already started drinking the champagne when they walked the first group of mutants back, and you could tell that they were hurrying things along.  Ten guards and scientists escorted the first group of fifteen mutants in.  They’re so busy talking and hi-fiving that they don’t notice how faint the smell of pheromones was.  They only realize what’s going on when we jumped on them from above. We went straight for arteries and vein just like they had taught us.  A few managed to grab their guns, but let’s face it, they designed us too well. Two bullets hit me in the solar plexus and I didn’t even feel it.  

             Maybe twenty minutes later another group of guards came in, this time without any mutants, I could tell they were worried.  One of them had even ripped the big-ass gun off of the security device they have behind the stone door.  If we had had more time, I would have loved to have cleaned up all the blood, but we didn’t have that so the second they walked into the room, they saw the bodies of their comrades, and then we shot them before they could run screaming back.  

             We weighed our options after that.  We could either wait to see if any more of them would walk in, or we could head out to where the rest of our brothers were being kept outside. Alicia had the bright idea to put on the clothing of some of the guards, before we left the building.   It worked out well enough.  We were able to get the jump on the last few scientists, and escort the rest of our brothers inside before sunrise.

             There are 58 of us remaining.  Tomorrow we’re going to make plans for how to free the rest of the prisoners across Myrora.”  

             The recording ended.  

             The pounding in the room next door resumed, louder than before. The two looked at each other.

             Selak turned to his partner, “You sure you’ve never heard of this place?” He shouted over the din.

             “I have not.’ Torva replied, “Though there is another possibility.”

             The pounding stopped.

             Selak shrugged, trying to look more casual than he felt, “Go on.”

             “Earlier I told you the story of Alarus.”  Torva continued.

             “But she wasn’t here. At least not during the uprising.”

             “What if the two stories-- Alarus’s death and the prison break - have become conflated over time?”

             “It’s possible,” Selak scratched his chin, “But then we have to acknowledge another possibility.”

             “Which is?”

             “That Alarus is still out there somewhere.”

             Torva shivered, “I pray, for the world’s sake, that that is not the case.”

             A silence descended, as the two looked at each other.

             “Shall we go on?” Selak asked, gesturing towards the next recording.

             “Please.” Torva replied.  Selak nodded and pushed the button.

             “Day 3. Markov Karazden.  You know the drill.  Yesterday we took it upon ourselves to clean up the bodies.  All of us know damn well what happens to those who hang around rotting corpses. We burned the lot in the incinerator and mopped up the blood.  We then proceeded to celebrate, seeing as the doctors were kind enough to supply us with shitloads of champagne before their passing.”  

             Markov sighed.  “We have a problem though.  Because of my medical training, I’ve been put in charge of inventory.  It doesn’t look good.  In fact, it looks like the reason the reason the doctors were sending us out to fight so much was that they were running low on medical supplies.”

             Markov sighed again. “We don’t have enough to last us the month.

             The other problem is Pherendalin – which is spelled with a P-H, by the way.  Pherendalin is a chemical compound with a unique folding… you know what, I won’t bore you with details. It’s an injection, and we need it if we want to step out of the compound without being cooked alive by the sun.  They gave it to us every time we left the base, and now it looks like it’s losing its effectiveness.  Even if it was at full strength, there’s not nearly enough for us to all leave together.  We’re looking into jury-rigging some exo-suits for some of our more resistant brothers, but those aren’t exactly easy to make.

             Honestly, even without the guards, this place might still be our prison.”

             Selak shook his head… “Goddammit…”

             Torva reached a hand out.  Selak batted it aside.

             “God Fucking Dammit.” Selak hissed, “Why the hell would they do that.  The scientists.   We’re in a fucking desert.  Why would you want troops that burn in the sunlight?

             “It’s like you said earlier, Selak.”  Torva replied, “The one thing all jailers fear is prisoners getting out of their cage. It makes sense to have a last resort—”

             “And their government funded this?  A project that would leave them broken for the rest of their lives?  How can you be okay with this?”

             “I am far from okay with this,” Torva growled and Selak flinched.  “I am merely inured to the horrors.”

             “You…”

             “Believe me, If I had had the chance, I would have been happy to kill Alarus and all her ilk with my own hands.  If the Rebels had ever managed to eke out a victory on Myroran soil, I would have been happy to go there, hammer in hand for the chance of breaking the bodies of anyone who has abused science for an atrocity like this!”

             “Torva…”

             “I understand why the rebels accepted the terms of the ceasefire, but every day there is a part of me that wishes they had not.”

             “You wish that we’d attacked Myrora!?  Do you have any idea-- ”

             “You have travelled with me for less six months, Selak.”  Torva interrupted, “Do not presume to understand my reasons.”

             “I’m sorry,” Selak said, stunned “I--

             “I accept your apology,” Torva interrupted, “Please play the next log.”

             Day 7, Markov said in a defeated tone, “There was… another fight today.  It was worse than yesterday’s.  Christine… dammit… she killed Kaine, bashed his skull against a wall.

             I… We don’t know what to do with her.  Some of us suggested killing her, but I’m not willing to institute capital punishment.  Others suggested locking her in a cell, but unless we use the doctors’ pheromones it’s not gonna keep her in.  

             It wasn’t her fault. Not entirely.  We were designed to be aggressive, and without any sort of balances we’re slipping.  We’re losing our minds.  All of us. Little things are making me angry, and I know I’m not the only one.  If we don’t come up with a plan soon, we’re gonna end up killing each other.

             Some of my brothers are suggesting we take as much pherendalin as we can, and see if we can make it to the Myroran border.  ‘A few massacres’ they say, ‘and they’ll never mess with mutants again.’  I told them absolutely not.  I’m not going to have the blood of children on my hands, Myroran or otherwise.  We need to maintain control. We are more than living weapons”

             The recording clicked off.

             Torva turned to his partner, “I should not have yelled at you.” He said somberly.

             “I understand.” Selak said, “But thank you.”

             Torva tilted his head to the side.  “This may be the ultimate test of our earlier conversation.”

             “How do you figure?”

             “The nature of these people is clear.  To kill without end.  Now, they have to choose, to rise above it or to give in.”

             “I don’t see this as a contest.”

             “How you see it is irrelevant.”  Torva said, “What matters is how it is.”  Torva clicked play on the next recorder.

             “Day 8,” Markov’s voice crackled, it sounded almost as if he were crying, “Christine’s dead… she… she shoved a metal pipe into her heart.  I tried to give her a second chance, told her that we would trust her, but the others… they wouldn’t stop giving her shit about Derek… I mean, I know she killed him but...”

             Markov sniffled, “I guess it doesn’t matter now.  We need to get out of here, there’s no other way.  The others and I have been through our supplies.  Food is no concern of ours, as a result of our “condition.”   Markov spat the word like a curse, “But our medical needs can’t be met forever.  There’s not enough pherendalin for us to leave, but there is enough to stock an away party.  We’re going to draw lots tomorrow for eight of us.  There’s enough Pherendalin to last them each three weeks, more if they’re able to find caves to hide in during the day.”                Selak reached for the next recorder, but Torva grabbed his wrist.

             “What the hell?” Selak asked, jerking his hand free.

             “I’m curious,” Torva asked, “What would you have done with Christine?”

             “The murderer?”

             “Yes, would you have allowed her to go free or would you have done something else.”

             “I’d have killed her,” Selak sighed.

             “Why the sudden change of—“

             “It’s not a change of heart.” Selak replied, “It’s a change of situations.  Us junkers, we’re privileged.  If a fight breaks out between us and a rival team, we don’t have to end it with killing, we do have other options.”  

             “And what if it’s not a fight between the Scrap Hounds and another team.  What if a Scrap Hound kills another Scrap Hound?”

             “We’d have to look at the circumstances.”  Selak said

             “And you’d feel that way if you were the one that were killed.”

             “I don’t know what you guys are going to make of my death,” Selak replied, “But I hope to God it never gets used as a reason to hurt others.”  

             “Fascinating,” Torva replied,

             “Fascinating?” Selak asked, “What am I, a test subject?”

             “Not everything has to be an experiment for me to find it fascinating.”

             “Is that what my life philosophy is to you?” Selak asked, “An idle curiosity?”

             “No.”  Torva replied, “What’s curious to me is that you have managed to survive so many combat encounters with such a philosophy.”

             “Not everyone wants to kill, Tor.” Selak said, “Some people will take any opportunity to avoid killing.  They’ll make a deal with anyone to have one less face staring back at them when they close their eyes.”

             “Is that what you see when you close your eyes?”

             “Just play the damn tape.”

             Torva nodded and pressed the play button on the penultimate recorder.  

             “Day 10.  This morning everyone wrote their name on a scrap of paper and we threw them all into a bucket.  We shook it up and drew eight names. Sylvia, Raith, Colin, Esther, Jacob, Noah, Nina, and Reggie were chosen as our team.  They left this afternoon.   Markov sighed. Some people wanted to draw it out, to throw them a goodbye party.  But let’s face it, if we waited any longer we wouldn’t have been able to send them away.

             Their departure was emotional anyway.  Esther was sobbing when I hugged her goodbye.  I told her that I would see her again, but deep down, I don’t know if that’s true.  

              And then, before they could even walk out the door.  Another fight broke out.  I don’t even know what the cause was, but it was ten times more violent than the one a few days ago.  Three more of us were killed.  Nobody from the away team. Thank God, I don’t think we can draw any more lots.  I don’t know what to do.  I’m not going to force martial law on my own people.  My brothers and sisters…” A sound rang out like Markov punching a wall.  

             “God Fucking DAMNIT! When we sealed the entrance – replaced the turret with that electric crossbow, I thought it would keep us safe.  But it won’t... I don’t think anything will.”  The recorder clicked off.

             “Before we go on,” Torva said, “I thought I should tell you something.”

             “What’s that?”  

             “Selak, you said a few minutes ago that you hoped that no one uses your death as an excuse to kill someone.”

             “Yeah?”  Selak replied, “Is that so weird?”

             “I will not honor that request.”  Torva said, “If someone kills you, I will kill them.  I will break their body with my hammer, slowly and painfully, until they at last exsanguinate.”

             “You wouldn’t honor my last request?”

             “The desires of the dead should not outweigh those of the living.  As such, your desire for me to show mercy will not trump my desire to not live in the same world as your killer.”

             “It’s more than honoring my last request.”

             “How so?”

             “If I die, and you guys go on a roaring rampage of revenge, we’re gonna need someone who keeps the Hounds from becoming a full-on mercenary outfit.  And that someone’s gonna have to be you.”

             “You think I would be a good choice for that?”

             “Good? Hell no,” Selak grinned, “Best… probably.  But don’t worry about it. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

             “No one ever does.” Torva replied, as he pressed down on the final play button.

             “Day 17.”  Markov gasped. “I am leaving this message with claws covered in blood.  I’m pacing through the halls of this prison, praying that I’m not alone, praying that just one of my brothers or sisters survived that fight.  I’ve been dragging bodies to the incinerator, washing away the blood stains as if removing the evidence will make them all come back. That last fight… it wasn’t even intentional. Kylie stepped on Sam’s foot.  That was all it took.  We’re powder kegs.  FUCKING POWDER KEGS!!!!”

             Markov took a few deep breaths “Sorry… I can feel myself slipping.  I’ve burned the last of the bodies, washed away the last bits of my brothers’ blood.  But I’m still searching.  Praying.

             Every time I turn a corner, I see ghosts, my brothers, my sisters, the scientists, the soldiers, my family, my classmates, the people I killed, all of them screaming at me, sobbing, wailing in agony…  

             It’s too much.

             I’m locking myself in the inner sanctum.  I’ll take the books, the supplies, and a healthy dose of sedatives to keep my aggression in check.  Maybe there’s a cure for our condition.   I don’t need to eat; as long as I can inject myself with those hypernutritional supplements I should be able to last for years.  I’ll last for as long as it takes to find the cure for our condition.  I WILL see the sun again.  No matter how long it takes.  

              Before I lock myself in, I’m leaving some recording on the table in the meeting room. This one and ten others.  Mostly mine, but a few of the asshole’s as well. I’ve labeled them 1 through eleven.

             Come to think of it, if you’re hearing this than you probably know all that by now.”  Markov gave a weak laugh, “Well that’s how the recorders got there, whoever you are.

             You know, I suppose I should give you a message, if I’m not there to greet you in person.

             If you’re a member of the away team, coming back after days, weeks, maybe even yeas.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that more of us couldn’t survive.  But I want you to know that from the bottom of my heart I am happy that you did.

             If you’re a member of the FUCKING MYRORAN GOVERNMENT.” Markov caught his breath before continuing, “I hope the atrocities committed here have made you realize…” Markov gasped,  “Made you realize how horrific mutating human beings truly is.  I know how important the war is to you, but if you continue down this road, there will be a day of reckoning.  Someday there will be an uprising that you can’t contain.  And when that day comes, there will be hell to pay.  Stick to non-living weapons.”

             Markov sighed,” I suppose there’s a possibility that you’re just a stranger.  A man who wandered into a secret lab, or a Sidean raiding an enemy facility.   I’m sorry, I’m not here to greet you, but I implore you to learn the lesson of what happened here.  

             PEOPLE… AREN’T… WEAPONS.”

             The recorder clicked off and the two Scrap Hounds eyed each other in silence.

             “Lord…” Selak said, after a couple of seconds, “I can’t believe it...”

             “It’s—” Torva’s words were drowned out as the pounding resumed in the next room, louder and more insistent than before.  Selak’s mouth fell open as the realization dawned.

             “Torva?” Selak asked rising to his feet, “Is what he said possible? About not needing food?”

             “Theoretically, yes,” Torva replied, “Although it would not be pleasant.”  Torva paused, “You don’t think…”

             Selak nodded, as he reached for his pistol, “What if that’s not a machine that’s making that noise.”

Part 6

             If you’re of the mind to feel, the Durante Desert is a wounded land.  The war cut a bloody swath across the landscape and the people of Durante, leaving a scar that may never truly heal. For three decades, blood and fire poured over this land; culture, landmarks, and scientific advancements, were all destroyed in a mad quest for victory.

             Hate burns in this land as brightly as the sun above.  For some, the anger is concealed: The shopkeeper whose price raises by the slightest of margins whenever a Myroran enters his store.  For others the anger is a badge, proudly worn: The veteran who sits at the Sidean border, sharpening his knife, and waiting for the day the ceasefire wavers.    

             ***

             The artist and the scientist stood on opposite sides of the steel door that led into the lab’s final room.  Selak held a pistol in one hand and checked the door’s handle with the other. “Unlocked,” Selak half-whispered, “He’s not sealed in there.”  

             Torva nodded as he flicked the switch on his electrode hammer.  An instant later it’s metal tip crackled with electricity that made the hairs on Selak’s arm stand on end.  

             “Okay, Torva,” Selak hissed over the sound of crashing on the opposite side of the door,  “No matter what state he’s in, we should try and talk things out first.  There’s no need to spill any more blood here.”

             “I am ready to negotiate if he is mentally stable.” Torva replied, “Are you ready to fight if he is not?”

             Selak sighed.

             “Are you?” Torva repeated.

             “Yes, Torva,” Selak said, “I am.”

             “Good,” Torva replied, “If I make contact with my hammer, he should be stunned.  It will not last long, but while his muscles are seizing, you will have time to shoot him in the head.  Any other bullet wound will not be able to stop him!  Do not attempt an incapacitating shot!”

             “I know!” Selak grimaced.

             “Good.” Torva answered, “Then let’s go in.”

             Selak nodded and pushed open the door. The second his hand made contact, the metal clanging on the other end stopped.  In silence, the two Scrap Hounds entered the next room.  

             It was a chemical lab, or at least it looked like it had been one once.  The dilapidated shelves clinging to the walls were covered in beakers and broken glass. Textbooks, their covers and pages shredded. Torva eyed a few of the stray pages with interest.  

             “Think we could put off reading till later?” Selak asked, “Maybe a time when we’re not in danger?”

             Torva nodded, as the two walked into an adjoining hallway.  At the far end of the hallway was a man-sized scientific instrument, with three of the batteries they had seen at the entrance attached to it. Selak looked at the machine, and tilted his head to the side.      

             “So what does this—” Selak jumped, back as the machine sprung to life, releasing a flurry of sparks into the air as its metal innards ground together filling the hallway with the pounding drumbeat from before.

             “It is an industrial-grade pestle.” Torva shouted over the din, “It is used for crushing medicines that are stored as minerals, but administered as powders!”

             “So this is what’s been making the pounding?”  Selak shouted back.

             “It would seem so,” Torva replied as the two rounded a corner, “But if that is the case then where is—” Torva stopped midsentence.

             “Well…” Selak cleared his throat…  “Fuck…”

             The man was shirtless, exposing his grey skin under the dull fluorescent lights.  He was propped up against the wall, a recorder in one hand and a pistol in the other.  His shoulder-length greying hair did little to conceal the olive-sized hole in his head, a wound filled with a grey-black mixture of dried blood and congealed brain.

             Torva knelt down beside him.

             “How long has he been like this?”  Selak asked.

             Torva shook his head, “Difficult to say given his mutations.  Several years at a minimum.”

             Selak reached for the recorder in Markov’s hands and rested his finger on the play button.  He glanced at Torva, who nodded solemnly.

             If you’re listening to this… well… If you’re listening to this than I guess you can see for yourself what’s happened.  Markov’s voice was raspy and far weaker than before, as if every word was a challenge for him to force out, I… I found a cure for the Pherendalin problem.  I’ve developed an injection to make my body fold proteins differently.  I’d essentially be able to produce Pherendalin naturally.  I’d need semi-regular injections, but I’d be able to make a lifetime’s supply with just the materials in the lab.

             I’d be cured…  Markov let out a soft sob.

             But I know that I can’t do that.  I know what I’m like unsedated.  My anger isn’t a flame in my chest anymore; it’s a wildfire, uncontrollable and deadly.  I wouldn’t be able to return to polite society.  I wouldn’t be able to return anywhere.

             Markov cleared his throat. I am done fighting the inevitable.  Out of the corner of my eyes, I still see my brothers and sisters, but they are no longer angry.  They are calling me home.

             I realize that these are my last words. Another sob escaped from Markov, “So I guess… I guess I should make it count.”  A weak chuckle.  “I remember back – was it weeks?  Months? Maybe even years ago, when Regis suggested we take what was left of the Pherendalin and go on a killing rampage. Get to the border and kill as many Myrorans as we could before the sun cooked us alive.   Markov let out a wet hacking cough.

             I don’t regret telling him no. And I hate the Myrorans.  I hate them so damn much.  But more than anything else…

             I hate the war.  I hate what it made this broken world into.  An orgy of blood and violence.  

             Whoever you are.  Thank you for listening to my story.  The story of my brothers.  Do not let it die here.  Let it be free.  This war is a cancer on the land.  Do not take part in it.  Bring it to an end.  Markov let out a weak chuckle and flicked off the pistol’s safety.  I guess that’s all I have to say.  It’s time for me to move on to the next life.  I hope that when I get there, I’ll get to see the sun again.  Or, at the very least, I hope that it’s warm.

             The recorder clicked off, Selak and Torva glanced at each other.  

             “What now?” Torva asked.

             “Now,” Selak sighed, “Now, I think it’s time to head home.”

***

             It took the artist and the scientist nearly a dozen trips to get everything they needed from the tower.  Together they sorted through the medical supplies, dragged out the most functional machines and batteries, sorted through the remnants of the textbooks, and pried as many armloads of iron bars as they could from the prison cells.  

             The prison incinerator was broken beyond repair.  So as Torva removed the last of its functional parts, Selak returned to Markov’s body and carried him away from the lab.  The emaciated corpse was uncomfortably light in the artist’s arms as he walked out of the cave into the desert night.

             As Torva sealed away the last of the supplies in the Land Whale’s storage, Selak found a rocky outcropping at the base of the mural he had been painting earlier, where he laid out pieces of dried wood, rubber, and strips of old bandages from the tower.  He laid down Markov’s body, and sprinkled it with gasoline, before igniting a match and pressing it against his dried skin.  It ignited instantly, the crimson flames illuminating the mural like a flare.

             “Did the others approve your appropriation of the Whale’s gasoline?”  Torva asked as he approached from behind.  

             “They can take it out of my next paycheck,” Selak replied, “Markov said he wanted to be warm, I think we should honor that.”

             Torva nodded, and for a moment the two stared in silence at the crackling flames.

             “You have been uncharacteristically quiet since we found him.”  Torva observed.

             “I thought you’d be celebrating.” Selak replied.

             “I like to think that I am not as cold as the metal exo-suit lets on.”

             Selak sighed, “It feels… hollow.”

             “What does?”

             “Tonight.” Selak said, “Everything we learned.  The mutants broke free, they escaped their imprisonment, but still they all died. They never got to be free again. Even Markov, he kept his sanity all those weeks alone, even managed to find the cure.  But then he killed himself for the benefit of people who will never know his sacrifice. ”

             “What about the away party?” Torva suggested,

             “It’s been years, Tor. If they ever came back they would have moved Markov’s body.  They’re either dead or living in a cave somewhere in fear of the sun.”

             Torva rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “There were good things about today.”

             “Such as…?”

             “The batteries we took will be useful to us for years to come.” Torva replied, “The medical supplies will save lives in every town we come across for the next month.  The textbooks we salvaged will make worthy additions to the libraries in Dura.  And that is to say nothing of the value of the scrap we took from the prison cells.”

             Selak shook his head, “Forgive me if I still feel sad.”

             “I would never hold that against you,” Torva replied, as he walked away from the pyre, “After all, it is your nature.”

---

             If you’re of the mind to listen, there is a story in the Durante Desert.  A tale of junkers and jailbirds, love and loss, brotherhood and blood.  A story of a broken world and its denizens.  A story of murder and manipulation, of greed and guilt, of hedonism and heartbreak.  A story of those who gave their lives for causes greater than themselves and those who lost their lives for reasons they couldn’t comprehend.  A story of exploration and exploitation.

             A story as dark as the desert night.

             But as bright as the sunrise that comes after.  

 Notes on the Scrap Hounds

             As said in the opening, the world of the Scrap Hounds was a result of a five-part collaboration.  The five of us (in alphabetical order) were Talia Loeb, Derek Mull, Karlo Panganiban, Miles Rodgers, and myself.  I won’t try and piece together who is responsible for what or whose vision is most clearly represented.

             Each of us created a character for the Scrap Hounds that we would take creative control over.  Torva was designed by Miles Rodgers and Selak by myself.  If you want to read up on how Torva met Selak and some of their early adventurers, let me know and I’ll see about asking Miles to let me put up a few of his stories on here.  

             I have a few extra short stories set in this world that I may put up just for the hell of it, but I should specify that they’re all 2-4 pages, nothing on the scale of The Tower.

             Champagne – the bubbly wine – is referenced several times in the story. I went back and forth as to whether or not to change it since this story takes place in a world where the Champagne region of France never existed.  I eventually decided that it wasn’t a linguistic rabbit hole worth going down. They drink Champagne in Durante. They also speak English.  I offer neither excuse nor apology.

[hour13]

Fishbowl

Fishbowl

By Tim Carroll

I

           “Wanna know a secret?”  Persephone asked in a voice that was too loud for anyone but her to call it whispering.

           Margaret shrugged.  She felt that Persephone’s secrets were invariably either things that everyone already knew or things that she had just made up to feel special.  She looked over to see that Persephone was still staring at her expectantly.  

           “Fine,” Margaret whispered back, using actual whispers.  

           “Last night my grandma told me that the sky wasn’t always cracked.”

           Margaret looked up at the jagged web of fractures that stretched across the western plate-glass horizon of Dome 58.  Margaret shook her head, “Your grandma doesn’t know your name half the time.  I think she might have—”

           “No!” Persephone squealed, before remembering she was supposed to be whispering. “She said that one day a long time ago there was a loud bang.  She said that when she first saw the cracks they looked like a spider web and she was scared that there would be a giant spider who lived there and wanted to eat her!”

           Margaret shrugged, but Persephone continued in her non-whispery whisper, “She said everyone was scared, but then they weren’t allowed to talk about it.  The people at her school said that it was all normal and they whacked kids for discussing it.  And eventually everyone forgot that it wasn’t always there.”

           Margaret smiled at Persephone.  She had stopped scowling at her a long time ago-- it was too likely to make her cry. “That’s quite a story Pers.” Margaret replied causing Persephone to beam, “Now come on, we’re late to pick up our rations.”  

II

           It seemed like every aspect of the office of the director, from the old world paintings that covered the walls to the tapestry behind the desk, had been designed to awe visitors into a state of submission.  Simply walking through the door, Surveyor Peter Card felt like he had left behind the administrative offices of Dome 58’s town hall and stepped into another world.  A world that was run by the man sitting behind the desk, casually thumbing through an old world book – Director Edward Thornton.

           Peter approached the desk slowly, taking the time to admire the room’s centerpiece: A man-sized scale replica of Dome 58.  

           Peter figured that several years’ worth of art budget had gone into making the model.  Every detail had been perfectly attended to: tiny mothers walking to the birthing center, tiny children marching in double file lines behind the schools, and even a gaggle of people gathered outside the ration stations.  Somehow, the sculptors had even chiseled a perfect replica of the jagged crack across the western sky.

           Peter felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked at the crack.  If it were only a few millimeters deeper.

           Director Thornton flashed a grin at Peter as he approached, not breaking eye contact, the director grabbed the book off his desk and put it away on a small mahogany bookshelf.   Peter had never seen so many paper books outside of a museum or a picture of the old world.  Then the director got out of his chair and walked over to the surveyor.

            “Pete, how’re you doing?” he chuckled, clapping Peter on the back, “Take a seat.”

           Peter tried not to flinch.  He wondered if Director Thornton was this liberal with back pats and nicknames to everyone he called into his office.  He must be. Or maybe Peter truly was as special as Director Thornton claimed.  

           “Sir,” Peter began, as he pulled out the seat in front of the desk “Have you—”

           “Slow down,” Thornton smiled, “Would you like a drink first?  Some water?  Tea?”

           Peter gulped, “No, sir.  Thank you, sir.  If it’s all the same to you--”

           “Enough with this ‘sir,’” Director Thornton interrupted, as he sat down on the imposing chair behind the desk, “I get enough of sir.  Call me Ed.”

           Peter swallowed again. “Okay… Ed.” Peter paused and, sensing no impending interruption, continued, “Have you had the time to review my report?”

           The director tapped the black top of his desk, revealing it to be one massive touchscreen.  Almost instantly, every chart, figure, and equation detailed in Peter’s 30-odd page report appeared on the surface.  “Very impressive work, Pete.” Thornton mused, “I knew you were the right man for the job. That said, are you positive of your conclusions?”

           Peter nodded. “I would bet my life on them.  The cracks are not as stable as they appear and are growing at a rate of roughly 2 centimeters a year.  You told me that decontamination was causing the Earth’s atmosphere to rise in temperature. If this is true, and assuming that the temperature will continue to increase at a constant rate, additional thermal stress will be placed upon the dome, causing the rate of fracture to increase exponentially.   There’s too many unknowns for an exact prediction, especially since perfect measurement of the conditions outside the dome is impossible, but you’re looking at a 60% chance that the dome will be breached in the next forty years.”

           Director Thornton nodded, his smile drifting away, “Your report also says that there is roughly a twelve percent chance of no breach occurring in the next hundred years.”

           “Yes, but considering the low probability of that scenario, I think we would be far safer ignoring it.  I was hoping we could use this meeting to discuss exactly how repair would be implemented.  I would be more than happy assisting whatever team you choose for the job.  Seeing as the rate of fracture is unpredictable, I think we should try and start as soon as possible.”

           “Let me stop you there, Pete.” Director Thornton said, as he jabbed his finger at the section labeled Repair Costs.   “Pete, don’t take this the wrong way.  I consider you a friend, and you’re obviously the best engineer we have here, but it’s clear you’re not a budgeter.  And that’s not your fault.”

           “Sir…, I mean, Ed.  I don’t understand.  This is the dome we’re talking about, I don’t think we can take half measures. ”

           “Pete, looking at your report you seem to suggest we should use close to the entirety of Dome 59’s stock of formaldehyde in order to synthesize this Cy… Cyano…”  Director Thornton fumbled on the word,

           “Cyanoacryllate,” Pete finished, “It’s a type of glue. One that should be able to hold the dome together until decontamination is done.”

           “Pete, your heart, and much more importantly, your brain, are both in the right place here.  But I can’t authorize using the entirety of our formaldehyde supplies.  We need that for several other construction projects as well as producing a variety of medications.  You’re going to need to bring these costs down.”

           “Director, I have brought those costs down.  Frankly, our stores are insufficient for the type of more permanent repairs we should be doing.  The Cyanoacryllate we have will be sufficient for only repairs of the most major cracks. There’s still going to be a non-negligible rate of fracture.”  

           The Director shook his head, “I don’t know what to tell you Pete, you’re going to have to find a way to make it work.”

           Before Peter could protest, there was a loud knock on the door and a woman poked her head in. “Director Thornton, your next meeting is here.”

           “Give me a minute, Martha.”  Director Thornton shouted, before turning his gaze back to Peter. “Pete, I want to be on your side here, but I just can’t authorize that kind of expenditure, you’re going to have to make do with what we have. I have complete faith in you.”

III

           The doctors called it Constrained Habitat Induced Insanity.  Those who were less sensitive called it “Domentia.”

           Due to structural constraints, it had been much easier for the failing governments of Earth to construct hundreds of smaller domes before the Great Contamination instead of a few larger ones.   As a result, dome residents would spend their lives surrounded by the same 2,000 or so people in the same 10 or so mile radius.  For most domers, that was good enough.  But for some, the monotony was maddening.

           Allison’s birth mother had had Domentia.  Her mother had stayed up late at night, rocking herself to sleep, and staring at the horizon as though a creature might come out of the inky blackness and take her far away.  Even now, years after she’d been taken to the sanitarium, Allison could still hear the screaming rants in the back of her mind.  

           It was those same screaming rants that had driven Allison to pursue a job in the office of communications.  In this office, Allison knew she was never truly alone.  Everywhere else in Dome 58, interdome communication was strictly forbidden. But from her desk, Allison could send text-based messages to communicators in over a dozen other domes, brokering trade deals and discussing what life was like over a hundred miles of radioactive desert away.

           Allison smiled as she reflected on an interesting tidbit she had learned this morning. Apparently, the director of Dome 42 was trying to legalize bigamous family units so that he could take his mistress as a second wife.  Allison was typing a reply to her friend in Dome 42, when she heard a knock on the steel door behind her.  

           “Come in,” she shouted, without turning away from her desk. Reflected on her computer screen, Allison could see a blond-haired boyish face poking through the doorway.  

           “Hey, Ally,” the man said, “was wondering if you’d had your lunch yet.”  

           “Hey, John.” Allison replied, “I’m busy today.  Decided I would save my midday rations for a bigger dinner. You peacekeepers haven’t made that illegal have you?”

           “Not yet,” John replied, sauntering into the room, “But it could be argued that you working yourself to death is a seditious act against the office of communications, seeing as they’d never get on without you.”

           “Wow,” Allison whistled, “You give a peacekeeper a gun and suddenly he’ll look for any excuse to arrest someone.”  She gestured to the conspicuous holster on John’s hip, a sign that he’d graduated the academy with flying colors.  

           “Hey,” John chuckled, “First of all it’s not a gun…”

           “Really?” Allison asked, eyeing the pistol-shaped device, “It looks like a gun from here.”

           “It’s a dart launcher.” John clarified, “Bullets cause too much collateral damage and are too inconsistent.  A touch of one of these neurotoxin darts and a criminal will be dead in a few seconds.”

           “Doesn’t that strike you as a little risky?” Allison asked, “Isn’t a few seconds long enough for someone to pull a trigger of their own?”

           “That’s why they only give dart launchers to peacekeepers and not to every person who wants to steal some rations.  Speaking of which, you sure you don’t have time for a bite?”

           Allison shook her head, “Sorry, babe.  I’m going to be communicating with Dome 78 in a few minutes.  Their communicator is a friend actually, and I’m negotiating an important trade deal with him.”

           “Oh really, what are they sending to us?”  

           “Fertilizer,” Allison replied, turning back to her keyboard, “and if you want there to be a steady supply of vegetables in your rations for years to come, chances are you’re going to want me to have this conversation.”

           “Shame,” John said, as he walked out of the room, “Maybe next time.”  

           “Maybe,” Allison replied, as she flexed her fingers and got back to work.

IV

           Director Thornton whistled a soft tune to himself as he walked out of the town controller office for the evening.

           Without warning, he heard the sound of someone charging at him from behind. With a practiced casual air, he reached into his jacket and fingered the remote he kept inside it.  With a single button press, a team of security officers would be at his location within two minutes.  

           A second before he squeezed the remote, he turned to see that his would-be attacker was none other than Peter Card, the surveyor.  

           “Pete!” He said, forcing a smile as he moved his hand out of his jacket pocket, “What are you doing here so late?”

           “Sir…” Pete panted, “I had… an idea for the situation.”

           Director Thornton checked for anyone who might be listening before leaning in. “I think this is a very serious matter to discuss in a public place.”  

           Pete turned his head to the left and right before craning his head in for a whisper, “I think I know a solution, and I just need you to set me up with someone discreet from the office of communications.”

           Ed swallowed hard. “And why would you need that?”

           “We may have finite formaldehyde stores, but there certainly are other domes with their own.  Or possibly even the means of producing more.  I’m not sure what we have to trade but if you give me—”

           “Pete. Pete. Pete.” Director Thornton interrupted, “We’re supposed to be a self-sufficient community.  We can’t be asking other domes for their crucial supplies.”

           “Sir, we already participate in goods exchanges with at least a half-dozen other domes.  Certainly there are some luxuries we could offer them in exchange for formaldehyde. Even a 20% increase in our stores would vastly improve our long term structural integrity.”

           “Pete.” Director Thornton said sternly, “I told you to find a way to make it work.  You’re going to need to find a way to repair the breach with the stores you have.”

           “But sir…”

           “I’m sorry, Pete. I have to go.” The director said as he walked towards the waiting car, “If you wish to have another meeting, schedule it with my secretary.”

V

           Margaret stared at the half-written report on her desk and sighed.  It was supposed to be two written pages about why Dome 58 – with its job of maintaining the human population after the Great Contamination - was critically important, and what she as a citizen could do to help ensure that that mission was completed.  Personally, she’d always wished she had been born into one of the decontamination domes so she could actually help make the Earth livable again, but instead she was stuck here waiting for… nothing.  

           She heard the sound of footsteps behind her and turned to see her mom carrying a plate of beef-flavor rations over.  Her mom flashed a smile, “How’s the report coming, pearl?”

           “Not too well.”  Margaret replied, “I just think there’s only so much I can do to help Dome 58.”

           “Well there’s a lot you can do, hon.” Her mother replied, “Did you mention that you could volunteer as a birthmother,” she said gesturing to her growing belly.  

           Margaret nodded, though the idea of carrying a tiny baby inside her tummy always somewhat scared her. What if it bit on something important?  

           Margaret shook her head, and looked at her mother, “Hey, mom, can I ask you a weird question.”

           “What is it, baby?”

           Margaret turned to look at her mother, “Did the sky always have a big crack in it?”

           “Of course, pearl, why would you ask such a silly question?”

           “It’s just, Persephone said something today—”

           “That girl says all kinds of silly things.  Between you and me, I don’t think the teachers are doing a very good job with her.  Radical ideas like hers are what got Earth into this mess.”

           “Yeah…” Margaret said, “I thought so…”

           “Anyway, let me know if you need any more help.” Her mother smiled, “You’re a smart girl.  I’m sure you’ll figure everything out.”

VI

           John awoke to the sound of faint tapping beside him. His eyes peeked open, and he looked over at Allison, the curve of her back silhouetted by the light of the tablet on her lap.  

           “Ally,” he mumbled, as he moved closer to her.

           “Go back to sleep,” she said patting him on the head,

           “You first,” he teased.

           Allison smiled, and resumed scrolling on her tablet.  

           “If you have so much work you’re doing it past midnight, you can probably tell your superiors. You’d at least qualify for more rations.”

           “Not work,” she shook her head, “Not exactly.”

           John yawned loudly.  “And it can’t wait for the morning?”

           “I was talking to Claude from Dome 42 this morning.”

           “Your friend?” John asked.

           “I thought he was, but I referenced some of our old jokes today and he acted like he had no idea what I was talking about.”

           “Sorry, babe.” John yawned, leaning back on his pillow. “I don’t think everyone has your memory.”  

           “I think it’s more than him being forgetful.  I’m looking back at our chat logs. Sometimes he seems like a completely different person.”

           “Babe, I… respect you… a lot.” John replied, “but maybe we can discuss this in the morning?”

           Allison sighed, set down her tablet, and rested her head on John’s chest. “Fine, we’ll talk in the morning.”

           John opened his mouth to reply, but he was asleep before any words came out.

VII

           Allison – Dome 58 Communicator has signed on. [12:58:14]

           Rebecca – Dome 46 Communicator has signed on.  [1:01:15]

Allison 58: This is Allison Dome 58. Do you read me? [1:02:36]

Rebecca 46: This is Rebecca Dome 46. I read you Allison. [1:02:52]

Allison 58: Security Check, what is your favorite color? [1:03:36]

Rebecca 46: What? [1:05:02]

Allison 58: We have had a problem with security recently.  [1:05:13]

Allison 58: Asking personal questions to confirm identity [1:05:23]

Allison 58: What is your favorite color? [1:05:58]

Allison 58: Did you not tell me this during our communication two weeks ago? [1:06:44]

Rebecca 46: Oh, right. [1:06:56]

Rebecca 46:  Rebecca Purple.  Like my name. [1:10:11]

Allison 58: Why the delay? [1:10:31]

Rebecca 46: Apologies. My boss walked in and had a question for me. [1:11:52]

Rebecca 46: She does not remember approving a security check. [1:12:08]

Rebecca 46:  So can we please talk about the trade? [1:12:33]

Allison 58: Sure, just one more question.  Where did you meet your husband? [1:12:59]

Allison 58:  Rebecca? [1:15:04]

Rebecca 46: My apologies. Boss came in again. There’s been an incident.  Will get back to you about my husband soon.  [1:17:03]

           Allison reclined back in her chair, massaging her temples.  Eight months ago, Rebecca from Dome 46 had adamantly insisted that she had not and would never marry.

VIII

           Director Thornton reclined back in his bathtub, scrolling through a briefing on his tablet. Bathtubs were technically a luxury that was only afforded to families of five or greater. But then again, if the position of Director didn’t have any benefits, Edward seriously doubted that anyone would apply for it.  

           Suddenly there was a pounding at the bathroom door. Director Thornton’s head jerked back, and nearly collided with the tile wall.  Steadying himself, he reached for his bathrobe.  

           “Martha?” He asked.  It wasn’t truly a question.  His secretary was the only other person with a key, and Thornton sincerely doubted anyone would be foolish enough to rob the home of the director. Clad in his royal blue bathrobe, Thornton opened the door.  Martha was standing on the other side, holding a pair of caffeine pills in one hand and a hanger with a suit dangling from it on the other.

           She looked at him sternly.  “We have a situation.”

 X

           Clad in black, Allison snuck through the bushes outside the office of the communicator.  She’d spent the past week-and-a-half staking out the building and watching the patterns of the guards’ movements.  Granted, the term ‘guards’ might have been a little generous.  Half of the night watch were asleep, and a third more spent the night either reading or playing games on their tablets.  

           Before she had left work six hours ago, Allison had left one of the first floor bathroom windows open a crack.  Resting her back against the wall, she wormed her fingers into that small crack and lifted the window to create an Allison-sized opening.  Once she was satisfied, she slid into that egress and closed the window behind her.

           Allison crept to the bathroom door and opened it a fraction of an inch. She saw the lone night watchman walking about twenty meters in front of her. Gritting her teeth, she closed the door and counted to thirty.  When she reopened it, he was gone.

           With each step she reminded herself not to sprint. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the sweat pooling under her black gloves.  This was her last chance to turn back. No, she told herself, I need to be here. I need to KNOW.  

           Allison made her way to the staircase and began descending until she reached the steel door to sub-level four.    She pulled out an ID card she had swiped from her boss’s desk when he hadn’t been looking and waved it in front of the scanner.  A half-second later, the red light turned to green.  With a beep and a mechanical hiss, the door swung open.  

           Allison crept inside and let out a long exhale, there wouldn’t be any guards in this room, so she could take her time.

           This room was supposed to be empty.  It was meant as an unloading dock for the ships that came in from other domes.    Dome 58 hadn’t received a trade in over a week, and yet the room was stacked floor to ceiling with crates.  Allison ran to a stack of crates labeled “Dome 75” and lifted the lid.  It was filled to the brim with medical supplies that she had negotiated a trade for on that very morning.  

           Allison dragged her gloved forefinger across the top box.  There was a thin layer of dust.  

           Allison spent the next half hour searching the room. All of the mechanisms for opening the docking bay to the outside air had been disabled and were covered in dust.  Even if there had been space for a trading ship to dock, there was no way for it to get in.

           Not that Dome 58 needed any supplies. All the trade goods she had negotiated for in the past month were already here.

           Had always been here, she realized.   All of the seemingly random things her supervisors had told her to ask for, hadn’t been random at all. They were planned out to create the illusion of trade with other domes.  Other domes that might not even exist.

           Allison shivered.  For the first time in her life, she felt alone.  

XI

           Margaret walked to the education center in a sleep-deprived daze.  She and her mother had been up two hours past curfew the previous night writing a list of ways she could benefit Dome 58 by stepping up as a birth mother.  Her mother had insisted that it wasn’t really lying; Margaret would feel that way eventually.  She just didn’t yet.

           Half-asleep, Margaret nearly walked directly into Persephone, stopping a second before she smashed into her classmate.  

           “Sorry,” Margaret mumbled, “I didn’t—” Margaret gasped. One of Persephone’s teeth was chipped, and there was a large cut under her right eye.

           “What happened to you?”

           “I…” Persephone stuttered. “I tripped.”

           “Are you okay? Should you even—”

           “I’m fine,” Persephone nearly shouted, “It’s just I need you to know something.”

           “What?”

           “All that stuff about the Dome yesterday…”

           Margaret nodded, “About how the sky wasn’t always cracked?”

           Persephone seemed to flinch at the words.  “I made it all up.” Persephone whispered, really whispered “It’s always been cracked.”  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Don’t tell anyone anything else. You might get in trouble.”

            “Sure, Pers.” Margaret nodded, as she rested a hand on her classmate’s back, “It’s fine. I never really believed you anyway.”

XII

           John sat on the bench in Pleasant Park and stared up at the dome.  The bench used to be his and Allison’s bench.  But John was beginning to doubt whether he and Allison were even a… well whatever they had been.  The two of them hadn’t shared a meal, much less spent a night together, in the past couple weeks.  

           John sighed and kicked a rations wrapper absentmindedly.  He’d been considering talking to her about filing for cohabitation, but now…  

           John crushed the empty paper cup in his hand and threw it at the nearby trashcan, missing the rim by nearly a foot. He considered getting up to pick up the trash when the radio on his hip sprang to life.

           “Attention all units!” The metallic voice squeaked, “This is a code 4.  Is anyone in Rim Sector 6!”  

           John pushed away thoughts of Allison and grabbed the receiver.   “This is Peacekeeper Mulligan, I’m in Pleasant Park. What’s the trouble?”

           “Roger Peacekeeper Mulligan.   An unknown figure has been spotted walking along the dome catwalks.” The voice barked, “Unclear what he is doing up there.  Investigate and report immediately.  This is a priority one objective.”

           “Copy.” John replied, as he pushed himself to his feet and began jogging to the cast-iron catwalks that butted up against the glass dome that surrounded the community.

           In theory, no one was supposed to go up there without passing a pair of guards, and the presence of a man on those catwalks represented a massive threat to the community.  In practice.  John was willing to bet several weeks’ worth of extra rations that a guard – equal parts bored and stupid – wanted to see the view during his coffee break and forgot to clear it with a supervisor.  

           Ten minutes later, John arrived at the catwalk access station.  John knocked twice on the steel door before electing to let himself in.  

           “Hello, my name is Peacekeeper Mullig---“ John stopped midsentence, and swore as he reached for his radio.

           “This is Peacekeeper Mulligan!” John barked into his radio, as he fumbled to check the two unconscious guards for a pulse,  “I’m at catwalk access station R,  both guards have sustained head injuries.  Both unconscious.  Requesting immediate medical support.  Requesting immediate backup!”

           For ten seconds that stretched into an eternity there was only silence.  

           “This is Peacekeeper Mulligan!” John repeated, “I am at catwalk access station R—“

           “We hear you Peacekeeper Mulligan!”  The voice on the other end of the line interrupted, “Backup and medical are on route!  Apprehend the figure on the catwalk.  Deadly force authorized.  Do you copy?”

           John swallowed a mouthful of air down his suddenly dry throat. “Deadly force authorized,” wasn’t a phrase he had ever actually expected to hear on the job.  Let alone directed at him.

           “Peacekeeper Mulligan.  Do you—“

           “I copy,” John replied as grabbed the dartgun from the holster on his waist and began climbing the uncomfortably titled steel stairs that led up to the side of the Dome.   After going up three stories, John saw a figure.   “Mystery man spotted.” John panted into his radio, “Engaging now.”

           “Roger, Peacekeeper Mulligan!”

           With the dartgun clutched in his sweat-slick hands, John approached the dark figure.  His boots clacked on the metal catwalk with each step, but the suspect didn’t seem to notice until John was only about a half a dozen meters away. The man appeared to be fiddling with a device that was affixed to the glass wall of the dome.  John was no expert, but it looked uncomfortably like an explosive.  

           “Suspect!” John shouted, “You are in violation of Dome 58 code.  Step away from the device and surrender yourself!”  

           The man turned and looked at John.  

           John gasped.  “Allison?”

           “John…” Allison replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you…”

           “What the hell are you doing, Ally.  This isn’t like you.  What is that machine.”

           “It’s not a machine, John.” Allison said, holding up a detonator, “It’s a bomb.”

           “Good lord, Ally.” John replied, “What the hell will this accomplish?”

           “There aren’t any other domes, John.”

           John tilted his head to the side, “What?”

           “The other domes, they’re all lies.  They don’t exist.  All the ‘clean-up domes’ we learned about in school were made up.”

           “Then why blow up this dome?” John shouted, “This one is real!”  John took a step forward.

           “Don’t come any closer,” Allison shouted, holding up the detonator. “Don’t you get it, John? Everything is a lie. There aren’t any heroes out there cleaning the earth.  All the sacrifices we make, all the rationing, all the forced families. It’s all for nothing!  There will never be a clean earth!  We are just living to die!”

           “Allison, please, come home!” John pleaded, “We can go home!”            “We’re not people, John…” Allison replied, tightening her grip, “We’re… guppies… guppies in a fishbowl!  Living for nothing!”

           “Allison…” John pleaded

           “I can’t live like this!” Allison sobbed, “I can’t live knowing that it’s all pointless!”

           “But I can, John replied, “Other people can.

           “They’ve…” Allison sobbed, “They’ve broken you. All of us. They’ve made us think it’s okay to live in submission.  They’ve played god with our lives.  We’re not even people John!  My mother was right!”

           “Your mother was nuts!” John shouted,

           “NO, John…” Allison said, suddenly quiet. “She was sane.  And now I am too…”

           “Allison, please!” John said, lifting his gun, “Don’t make me do this.”

           “I need to do this, John.” Allison sobbed, as she held up the detonator.

           “NO!” John screamed, as he squeezed down on the trigger.  A sharp hiss of air brushed against his hand as a trio of darts sped into Allison’s stomach.   Allison stumbled backward, her face twisting as the neurotoxin coursed through her system.

           And then, with a final breath, she pushed the button.  

XIII

           Even now, through the swelling and blood in his eyes, the office of the director still looked dazzling to Peter.  The two men, practically towers of muscle, standing beside him each held one of his arms in a stranglehold.  The two of them nodded reverentially as Director Thornton entered the room.    

           “Pete, Pete, Pete…” The director tsked, “I thought we were friends.”

           “Do you lie to the faces of all your friends?” Pete asked, spitting equal parts saliva and blood onto the carpet.

           “I do, in fact.”  Director Thornton responded, “It’s the price I pay for being director.”

           “Yeah, you sound real broken up about it.”

           “I have learned to cope,” Director Thornton responded as he poured himself a drink. “With the lies, the secrets.  And speaking of secrets.” The director took a long sip, “We let you in on a major secret when we told you the truth about the crack in the dome.  And now my men are telling me that you broke into the office of communications.  We trusted you, Pete.  And to abuse that trust…”

           “You didn’t trust me.”  Peter snapped, “You lied to me – to everyone – from birth.  You think telling me one truth makes up for that?”  Peter paused to catch his breath, “Was it even one truth? How did the dome really break?”

           Director Thornton sighed, “I supposed there’s no point in secrets, now.  Roughly seventy-five years ago, a terrorist named Allison Graham detonated a bomb while standing on the catwalks only a few meters away from the glass.  The dome held, obviously.  If it hadn’t, I doubt any of us would be here now.”

           “Why’d she do it?”

           “According to the officer at the scene, she’d leaned the truth about all the other domes that we had been in contact with.  The truth that I have been tasked with keeping from both you and the rest of the citizens of my dome.”

           “So, what is the truth?”  Peter asked, “Why aren’t they talking to us?’

           Director Thornton shook his head, “One hundred and forty years ago – roughly a quarter of a century after the great contamination - we actually were in contact with all the other domes.  And we truly did trade supplies with them.  However, for reasons unknown, the domes around us starting going dark, stopped sending supplies and communications.  Over the course of about two weeks, we lost contact with every other dome.”

           If the two men holding Peter’s arms were surprised by this information in any way, they didn’t show it.  Peter looked at their impassive faces, and then back to the director.  “What happened to the other domes?”  

           Director Thornton took another long sip of his brandy and shook his head. “We have no idea.  The domes went dark so suddenly that we didn’t have any time to do anything other than speculate. The last few domes we were in contact with didn’t seem to know any more than we did.”  

           “We have ships though.”  Peter responded, “Why didn’t we send them out to investigate?            “Why do you assume we didn’t?”  The director asked, “We sent out two ships.  One to Dome 75, one to Dome 46.  Those vessels never came back.  Seeing as are last few ships are irreplaceable assets, my predecessors decided to call off the search instead of risking more of them.  For the sake of preventing mass panic, we’ve kept this information from the general public.  However, the leaders of Dome 58 have spent the last century under the assumption that we are the single last surviving dome.”  

           Peter resisted the urge to vomit.  “But Dome 58’s not a decontamination dome.  We have none of the tools to purify the planet’s air or water.  That means…”

           “Yes,” Director Thornton responded, “If we truly are the last surviving Dome, then there is no one else who has the tools or knowledge necessary to restore the Earth to its previous state..”

           “But if that’s the case… if we’re all that’s left… then you need to fix the cracks”  Pete pleaded, “You need my plan.”  

           “You are correct, your plan for fixing the dome is absolutely necessary. More than you could have ever known.”  The director sighed and finished off his drink,  “However, you are not necessary.  Quite the opposite in fact.”  Director Thornton slid open a nearly invisible compartment in a bookshelf and withdrew a peacekeeper dartgun. “Thank you for your designs, Mr. Card. Rest assured, they will be put to good use.”  

           “Wait!” Peter shouted, as Thornton pulled the trigger. Peter continued to protest, his words slurring together as his body slumped to the ground like a ragdoll.  

           “Get him out of here,” Director Thornton told the two guards, as he returned to his desk.  

           The director waited until the two men were out of sight before pouring himself another tall drink.

 XIV

           Consciousness came back to John far too quickly.  One second he was lying on the catwalk, watching the spider web of cracks spread out over him. The next second, he was… well certainly not on the catwalk. He was in a bed, staring up at a featureless white tile ceiling.

           As his mind replayed the memories of the explosion- as if on cue – the aches spread down his body. With a grunt of exertion, John propped himself up on the bed and began to look around. It wasn’t heaven. Either that or Heaven looked exactly like the inside of Dome 58’s hospital.  And the man in the corner looked a lot like Director Sanders.

           “Director…” John grunted?

           “You can call me Jim if you want.”  The Director said, as he poured a glass of water from a plastic pitcher and handed it to John “Take this, the doctors said to get water in your as soon as you were awake.”

           “Thanks…” John panted, “Jim…”

           The Director – Jim – pulled up a chair and sat down next to John. “Peacekeeper Mulligan – may I call you John?”

           John nodded.

           “The doctors also told me that I should get them as soon as you were awake.  But unfortunately there’s a conversation that truly cannot wait.  Do you understand?”

           John nodded again, as he downed the glass of water. Jim reached for the pitcher, but John shook his head. “I’m good…” he muttered.

           “You’re far more than good, John.”  The director replied, “If the accounts I’ve heard are to be believed, you are truly extraordinary.”  

           “Is the dome…?” John began

           “The glass barrier is fine.” The director answered, “There’s a few more cracks in it than there used to be.  But it’s still holding.”

           John let out a sigh of relief. “And… Allison?” John asked, but in his gut he already knew the answer.

           Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry, John.  She… she passed in the explosion.  You have my condolences, I understand the two of you were somewhat close.  

           “We…” John began, “I guess we were...  I don’t know…”

           The director raised his hand.  “I won’t pry if you don’t want me to.  I know it’s always a shock to friends and family when these things happen.  However, there is something we do need to discuss about it.”

           “Don’t worry,” John said, lying back down, “You’ll have your full incident report once I’m out of this bed.”  

           “Actually, John, there’s no need for that.”

           With a groan, John pushed himself into an upright position. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

           “Peacekeepers have recovered a detailed suicide note from Allison’s residence, which I now have in my custody. The things Allison wrote down…” Jim shook his head, “There would be pandemonium if people knew.”    

           John lifted his eyebrows. “Knew what?”

            The director titled his head. “I don’t understand…”

           “What things don’t you want the people to know?” John asked, “Do you not want them to know that a woman with a bomb nearly shattered the dome? Or do you not want them to know that that woman believed… believed there weren’t any other domes.”

           “Peacekeeper Mulligan,” The director began, “You have an exemplary record of service. And taking a wound in the line of duty is something that we notice at the office of the director.  It’s the type of thing that lets us know who we can trust.  Who we can put on the fast track for promotion. Do you understand my meaning?”

           John looked at the director as though through a haze, “Just tell me two things. “

           “I’ll do my best.”

           “No, don’t do your best.” John replied, “Just tell me the truth.”  John looked the director in the eyes. “Was my girlfriend – was Allison – ever truly in contact with any other domes?”

           The director shook his head. “No, she only talked to actors.  People within the circle of trust.”

           John nodded. “The second thing.  If I don’t cooperate, are you going to kill me?”

           The director sighed. “You must understand, John, there are realities here that can’t be ignored.  You’ve seen yourself what this knowledge can do to people.  To good people, like Ms Graham.  It’s not pleasant, but it’s what we have to do.  You do understand, don’t you, John.”  

           John closed his eyes and lay back down against the pillow, “I understand perfectly.”

           The director smiled, “I’m glad, John.”

           “So… Jim,” John said, not bothering to open his eyes, “Could you do me a favor?”  

           “Certainly, John.” The director replied, “What do you need?”

           “Can you make it quick?”

           “Make what qui… oh… I understand.”  Director Sanders rose from the chair and withdrew a dartgun from the inner pocket of his suit.  “Thank you for your service, Peacekeeper Mulligan.”

           It was quick.    

XV

           It was 3:00, and the shouts of the hordes of children leaving the education centers reverberated against the glass windows of Director Thornton’s office.  Ed sighed and stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk.  If he hunkered down, he estimated he would be able to get it done before 7:00.  The director reached for the next reacquisition form and sighed.  Finishing the last of his brandy, the director pushed himself away from his desk and headed to the door.  

           Martha eyed him as he was leaving, “Taking an early night?” she asked.

           “Just something I need to see.”  The Director responded, as he headed out onto the streets of Dome 58.  

           Ed’s driver, a redheaded woman in her thirties, stood up as he approached, but Ed gestured to signal that her services wouldn’t be needed.  “I need a walk anyway,” he muttered, not sure if she could hear. She had already returned to playing a card game on her tablet.

           It was a two mile walk to Pleasant Park, but Director Thornton was out of breath when he arrived.  Perhaps he truly did need the exercise.  Director Thornton walked to his favorite bench, the one that had the letters “AG & JM” etched into the side inside of a heart.  Director Thornton sat down on the bench and stared up at the crack in the dome.  From this vantage point it was so large it nearly dominated the crimson sky.  

           Before he even knew what he was doing, the director grabbed his tablet and opened up Surveyor Card’s – Pete’s – project.  He scrolled down to the conclusion section. The tables and graphs were crystal clear, so easy even a pencil pusher like him could understand them.

           With the entirety of the available stores of cyanoacrylate, used in exactly the right places, they could reduce the chance of the dome breaking in the next hundred years to just thirty-two percent.

           The director sighed.  Thirty-two percent.  

           It would have to do.  

Author’s Notes

·        It’s good to be back.  Life has made writing a bit more difficult this year, but I’m still very pleased with how this story turned out.

·        I believe this is my first story to completely unambiguously pass the Bechdel Test.  

·        The fact that Margaret’s mother calls her pearl is a pun.  Margaret is Greek for “pearl.”

·        This story was inspired by the idea of a tryptich.  Which is usually three stories or poems centered around one topic.  I planned to do a triple tryptich, nine chapters, alternating between the three plotlines. Once it became clear that the story was too big for that, I turned it into the fifteen chapter mess that it is now.  Margaret and Persephone’s arc however still works as a tryptich.

·        Ed Thornton was an interesting character, one who I wish I could have done more with.  It’s not a coincidence that he and his predecessor, Jim Sanders, both use pretty much the same manipulation tactics on John and Peter.  I’d imagine that each director has been groomed by the one before into being a master manipulator who doesn’t question the status quo.

·        I don’t think Ed’s a sympathetic character, but I do sympathize with him to an extent.  Not many of the options he’s presented with are good ones. I don’t believe he was lying to Peter during their final confrontation and I do think he saw the killing as absolutely necessary. I think lying and manipulation are things that have become so normalized to him that he legitimately doesn’t see another way out.

[hour13]

Without

                                                            Without

                                                         By Tim Carroll

           The skies of Without are grey like I remember faded snow used to be.

           Every morning in Without begins the same way: with my eyes drifting open, the darkness giving way to the white that surrounds me.  Everything a shade of white; even me now...

           I roll off the wooden pew that I have been sleeping on and rise to my feet.I call this building the church – a dozen curved pews facing an altar in the center, light streaming in from the tinted glass in all directions.

           I have nowhere to go, but I am not tired, so I begin walking.

           Outside of the church is not the center of a town... a town would have people, sounds, others... Outside of the church is the center of a congregation of empty buildings and roads.

           I walk through the streets, the only sound my echoing footsteps, and head for the park, where ivory grass grows in rows so regular it could never be mistaken for natural.

           In the center of the park is the wall - a chalk-white stone tablet, as tall as a man and as long as three.

           I grab a fistful of the charcoal dirt like I do every morning, and crush it in my hand.  Then I drag it down the side of the wall leaving a black stain on the otherwise pristine surface.

           Tomorrow the blemish will be gone. Nothing changes in Wthout.  Nothing is ever out of place for long.  When I first arrived in Without I had hoped to make marks to keep track of the days... if there could even be days in a world without sun.

           But all the marks I made faded. All shattered windows reformed. All moved stones found their way back to their place.

           But even so, I've learned to keep track of my time here.

           Today is day 108. 

           When I first arrived in Without, I was colored. When I first opened my eyes on this world, I was chestnut skin with scarlet and cerulean vestments in a world of white.

           I first assumed this world was a dream... then a nightmare... then purgatory and as the days ticked by... Hell.

           I began to explore the town - back when I still called it that - its nooks and recesses, its immaculate buildings and curving pathways, I tapped on every blank tombstone of the cemetery, inspected every tile of the church’s floor, pulled on every brick of the Park's pathways.

           I don't know what I was searching for… At first a secret passage that would lead to a world of color… But as time passed my thoughts of escape faded, and my dreams and skin shifted from color to shades of white.  It was then that I began to search for a sign of a creator. An imperfection in the stone, a mislaid brick- any sign that a human hand had wrought this place, any sign that a human heart might return...

*

           I step away from the wall and stare at the blemish feeling a strange kinship. We both are nothing but flaws.

           I turn and circle the park facing outward at the white buildings. Eggshell, Ivory, Moonstone, and Alabaster. I repeat the colors in my head. If I knew more names, would I see more colors? If i had a few more labels, would I see a richer tapestry of shades before me? I wonder what would happen if I forgot these names that I do know. Would I see the world at all? Would it be one endless expanse of white?

*

           I may have been half-mad the day that the lights danced in the sky.

           Coruscating orbs of light pulsed in the gray sky and hovered over the arena - my name for the sandy pit not far from the park.

           I could tell in an instant that something was coming, something that would arrive and free me from this purgatory. I stared at the almost blinding light in the arena's center, expecting the arrival of an angel.

           When the lights finally faded, I could see it was not an angel, but another person.  Even so, I wept with joy.

           Her name was Sarah.

*

           There is no geometry in Without. If I walk far enough in one direction, I find myself back where I started, my footsteps already faded. Some days I do nothing but run through the landscape, turning right and left randomly, hoping to find something new. I run until my lungs burn, I run until I fall unconscious, and yet, no matter how fast I run, I end up in the same place.

           Is Without just a small planet? Do I circumnavigate every time I walk a mile without turning?  Or is it impossibly large, with the same buildings replicated endlessly?  There is no way to tell.  No way of knowing how many churches or parks or arenas there are beneath the endless grey sky.  

*

           Sarah may have been human, but she was every bit the angel that I had hoped for. Together we walked the streets of Without, my chalk-white hand wrapped in her mahogany-brown one. She stared at this place with wonderment, and looking at the world through her eyes, I began to view this place as other than hell.

At night we leaned against each other by the pale fires we ignited in the arena's center. And when our lips touched and she threw her purple brassiere onto the alabaster ground, I began to suspect that this place might be a kind of heaven.

*

           Over time, my eyes have become accustomed to noticing the smallest changes in the grey sky.  Looking up, I can already see the lights gathering over the arena, beginning their dance.  I kneel down on the brick path at the park’s edge, tapping the individual stones out of habit. None of them are loose, my fingernails will have to do.

*

           I do not know how long it took for the wonderment in Sarah's eyes to fade. For her to gaze upon the white structures as prison bars and not vistas. For her to see the grey skies as dismal and not enchanting.

           Every time I looked at her lightening face my heart broke a little more. And each day, I asked her if there was anything I could do to ease her mind.  At first she insisted that nothing was wrong. And then she insisted there was nothing I could do. Until finally, she told me the truth.... There is a path that leads out of every prison…

*

           My nails are cracked and my fingers ache by the time I lift the brick from the charcoal dirt and ivory mortar.

           I clench my hands around the stone and glance upwards.  The light above the arena are pulsing with even more intensity, and I begin to walk towards them.  It is day 108. It will be happening soon.

*

           I tried to talk Sarah out of it, but her mind was made up. Without was not our home, but our prison. And if I tried to stop her then I was not her lover, but her warden. Her skin was already the color of parchment, she did not wish to wait until it matched mine.

           She found a path that led her up onto the steep tiled roof of the church.  She would go up there daily and stare at the ground below with a look of longing that nothing I was able to could make her feel.

           At night, with her arms wrapped around me, she assured me that this would be for the best.  We would be together forever. Together in a world of color.

*

           When I enter the arena, it feels as though I stand in the eye of a hurricane.  The lights circling above are now moving almost too quickly to see. They gradually lower to the ground, shooting off sparks of energy as they whiz back and forth.  I do not flinch or look away as they converge in front of me with an almost blinding flash of light. I simply step forward, the brick clenched in my hands.  

*

           Sarah and I clambered onto the roof, our hands – chalk-white and parchment - intertwined. Sarah grinned as she laid one last kiss on my lips.

           "A world of color," she whispered, as she leapt off the edge and dragged me with her towards the ground below.

*

           The lights subsided, and I saw the new arrival lying on the sand - her brown hair splayed out of the ground, her hands shaking and uncertain. She was colorful.  She was beautiful.

           I approached with the brick in my hands. She looked up at me, her heaving throat and shaking lips unable to form words… But they could form a scream as I brought the brick down onto her skull.  

           Her body went limp, as limp as Sarah’s hand in mine when we collided with the ground.

           And from her broken body oozed the same crimson hue.  

           I should be horrified-- revolted and what I had just done.  But all I could do was smile.  The red was so beautiful  

***

           I do not know why I survived the fall, when Sarah did not. Perhaps I had been here too long and was already a part of this place. Another fixture that would always recover, another thing that would be forever pristine.

           Perhaps if I had convinced Sarah to wait a little longer before our fall, she would have ended up like me... Chalk white and undying. Unable to kill herself no matter how many times she repeated the jump as I had, no matter how many times she slashed her wrists as I had...

           I am lonely, but I have no desire to experiment with the ones who arrive every 108 days. Some days I say it is because I never wish to feel the pain of loss again, never wish to make attachments.  Other days, I tell myself it is because I wish to condemn no one else to my fate, an eternity of eggshell and alabaster.

           It does not matter. The result is the same. I am a murderer.

           And I am alone.

           Perhaps someday I will go mad or perhaps I already am. Perhaps if Sarah and I had not leapt, these people would have arrived anyway. Perhaps this would have been our home – a town that would someday be full.  I have killed dozens already, I have no idea what would happen if I stopped.

           Is this my punishment for a crime long forgotten? Is this a test I have failed? There is no one to answer these questions in Without. There never will be.

           I know only one thing. Today is day 108. Tomorrow is day 1.

[hour13]

Boston in the Winter.  Taken from the roof of my building.

[hour13]

The Tale of Sophia

                                             The Tale of Sophia

                                                 By Tim Carroll

The people to whom this story is dedicated know who they are.

       The monastery is old beyond comprehension.  Books and scrolls, their pages yellowed by years of decay, sit upon the rotting bookshelves – all of which are losing an endless war against the termites and mold that permeate this forsaken place.  In the entire room, only one object seems to remain untarnished: a book, lying by the windowsill.  You approach it slowly, as if it were an illusion.  Could anything have survived the centuries of decay? Gingerly, you open the book to the first page.

       It is called the Tale of Sophia.  It is the story of Barukk the Hunter.  It begins…

       The jungle buzzed with the calls and cries of a thousand creatures.  Damp steam rose from endless crevices in the cracked earth, twisting and expanding like corrupt ambition.  Barukk wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he knelt beside a paw print in the mud.  Six-toed with curving claws, and an impression deeper than any natural creature could have left.  There could be no question.  It was the beast. The witch Sophia's malign magic made flesh.  The monster that he needed to kill.  

       Barukk took a breath of the humid air as he rose, tightening his grip on his spear. There was no time to rest.  His tribe, harried and harassed by the witch’s foul creation, was starving.  They needed meat and they needed the creature to be killed.  Barukk intended to solve both problems himself.  

       Nearly two decades ago, Sophia had been a priestess of his tribe.  Before her exile, she had been a fortune teller, interpreting the omens of the many gods.  When the elders of the tribe accused her of blood magic, she did not speak a word in her own defense. She had simply left the tribe and retreated deep into the jungles to continue her sorcery unmolested.

       “Why now?” was the question on every single tribesman’s mind, “Why had she waited so long to seek her revenge? Why, after twenty years without a word of contact, had she decided to conjure such an abomination?”

       Barukk had never answered their question, nor had he corrected their mistaken assumption – the hunter had never dared to tell anyone in the tribe of his romance with Sophia.

       Barukk slapped a flesh-eating insect away from his neck as he sniffed the air. There was blood nearby -- unmistakable in its scent.  He pushed onward through the thick brush and came across a mutilated boar, its viscera and organs staining the ground.  Six-clawed scratches covered what was left of the once-proud creature’s defiled flesh.  Barukk nearly gagged.  The sight was far too familiar to him.  

       Barukk had not been the first hunter of his tribe to pursue Sophia’s beast. Garen had been the first to face the creature; his knife arm had been strong but his hubris stronger.  Arrogant and stubborn, he had been too slow to defend himself when the time came; the beast had ripped a hole clean through his chest.  Next had been Kyrev, swift as the wind but lacking the strength to land a killing blow.  The beast had consumed him whole.  After him came, Rorst, and then Kukar, and then Phiro.  All had strived to kill the beast.  All had perished in vain.

       An unwelcome chill ran down Barukk’s spine as he recalled the hunters’ deaths. In the early days of his forbidden romance, when he and Sophia’s moonlit meetings were so infrequent and so passionate that Barukk barely knew whether or not they were dreams, he had confided in the witch that he longed to be the best hunter in his tribe.  Now, with the others dead, Barukk realized that Sophia had granted his wish.  

       The sun was beginning to set; as the heat subsided, the fear of failure grew in Barukk’s breast.  No matter how quickly he moved, no matter how well he followed the trail, the beast was always a step ahead of him. For a moment, he considered turning away and searching for easier prey to feed his tribe.  But then his thoughts turned to the boar… the way its broken body had lay in the mud… the way the diseased blood had oozed out of its carcass….  He could not allow this unholy beast to live another night, not when the burden of its creation rested upon his shoulders.  

       He had sworn to Sophia that he would be true.  That their forbidden romance was all that he needed to satisfy him.  But he had not expected Lyra, the daughter of a newcomer to the tribe, to be so loving, to sing so sweetly by the tribe’s bonfire, or to be so warm during the cold winters.  Lyra had never questioned Barukk’s moonlit dalliances, and Sophia had never questioned his faithfulness.

       A roar sounded through the jungle - a sound no natural creature could ever have made. Hands clenched around his spear, Barukk sprinted into the darkening jungle until he came across a clearing with a single figure kneeling in the center – its wretched body covered in fur with arms made of unnatural sinewed muscles.  Had it been waiting here for him?

       The creature snarled and stepped forward into the dim moonlight.  Barukk gasped as he saw its face. Twisted and maligned as it was, Barukk recognized it instantly - the face of his son.

       The son he had born with Lyra fifteen years earlier.

       The son who had silently followed him when he left his hut on the night of the last full moon to meet Sophia.

       The son who resembled his father so much that with one look, Sophia had recognized Barukk’s betrayal.

       The son who had run away from the village after learning of his father’s infidelities.  

       The son whose mere existence had pushed Sophia to create the beast.  

       With matching feral cries, hunter and beast charged at each other.  Claw and spear lashed out in the dim moonlight, as the two danced around each other, with slashes as passionate as kisses, feints as illusory as false promises, lunges as fast as heartbeats, and blows as heavy as the burden of love itself.  The two, dripping with sweat and blood, fought with such ferocity that man was indistinguishable from beast, until at last, Barukk plunged his dagger into the beast’s side – a crippling blow.  But before the hunter could end the beast’s misbegotten life, the creature rammed him to the ground and sprinted off into the dark forest.  

       Furious, Barukk rolled to his feet and chased the creature through the jungle, slashing aside the brush as he sprinted. At last, nearing exhaustion, he approached a river where he saw the beast on its knees by the water’s edge, cupping its hands and pulling the liquid up to its face.    

       Without hesitation, Barukk charged from the forest and, before the creature could even cry out, the hunter plunged his spear into its spine.

       As the creature’s limp body collapsed to the ground, Barukk recognized his mistake. His spear was not inside the beast… it was inside of his own son.  

       Weeping, Barukk fell to the ground beside his child.  For a moment, he considered throwing himself into the river – but before he made the fatal leap, he remembered the plight of his tribe.

       In silence, his vision blurred by tears, Barukk grabbed the knife from his side and began to carve away the meat from his son’s bones.  

       The crescent moon was at its apex by the time Barukk returned to his tribe, the deerskin sacks at his side filled with red meat. He told his tribesmen that the beast was dead, and that he had taken its meat and left its filth-ridden body to rot without honor in the jungle.  In the darkness, no one recognized that anything was unusual about the meat Barukk laid beside the crackling fire.

       With only a glance at the bounty, the elders declared that it was time for a feast. Bonfires were ignited and the meat was prepared on spits.  

       Barukk sat by the fire and refused to eat.  He would not allow the tribe to waste food on him.  First Garen, then Kirev, then Rorst, then Kukar, then Phiro, and now his own son.  All lost forever.  He would not allow anyone else to pay for his mistakes.  He had made his decision: when the tribe fell asleep tonight, he would travel into the forest and throw himself into the accursed river where his son had died.  

       As he stared into the fire, his eyes blinded by tears and exhaustion, he listened to the stories being told by the women of his tribe.

       One in particular caught his attention.  

       It was called the Tale of Sophia.  It was the story of Alara, the favored handmaiden of Princess Maria.   It began…

       Those who visited the Royal Library of Herondale often said that the Heron River flowed beneath it – but that wasn’t quite true.  Instead, it was the library that flowed around the river: its myriad bookshelves arranged so they looked like trees above the stream, its glass floors and ceilings angled to illuminate the endless procession of flora and fauna that moved through the river with angelic grace, its cushioned seats angled so that they faced the rushing water.

       The Heron River was the source of all water and all life in the country of Herondale. Any man who entered the palace first paid homage to the king, but any man who entered the library needed only to look down to see who the nation’s true master was.

       Two dozen meters above the rushing water, resting on overstuffed armchairs, Princess Maria of Herondale and her handmaiden, Alara, sat engrossed in their books – neither one knowing that it would be the last normal day of their lives.

         One moment the library was silent, save for the sound of rushing water below. The next moment, the air seemed to explode with the sound of cheers and distant trumpets; a parade? Maria and Alara tossed their books to the side as they rushed to windows to see what the commotion was.  Maria grabbed a gold-inlaid spyglass from the sill, but before looking through the device, she offered it to Alara.  

       Though Maria was born in a tower, and Alara was born in a gutter, the princess had always strived to treat Alara as an equal, preferring to ignore their immense difference in status.  

       Alara shook her head and gestured for Maria to look first.  The princess shrugged and looked through the spyglass. A second later, she sighed and handed it over to Alara.  “Another suitor,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “This one has brought a procession with him.  Father’s going to want me to be presentable.”  She shrugged, “We better go get dressed.”

       The two girls hurried up the stairs to Maria’s dressing room, and – after some debate- laced Maria into a silver dress suitable for receiving guests.  Maria was only a few months shy of nineteen years old and was – to her infinite dismay- considered one of the finest prizes any bachelor in the province could aspire to.   Although Alara was not privy to the internal politics of the palace, there were rumors that the King hoped to have his daughter married soon in order to secure a political alliance.  

       After Alara tied the final knot on the corset of Maria’s dress, the two hurried down to the audience chamber to meet Maria’s latest suitor.

       The delegation was already there by the time the women had arrived.   Standing at the far side of the room – surrounded by guards – were two figures.  The first was an elderly woman, with skin so wrinkled it appeared to be leather-bound. Standing beside her – dressed in the finery of royalty – was the most beautiful man Alara or Maria had ever seen.  

       The man stood six feet tall.  He approached with an earnest grin, resting on a face framed by auburn hair and eyes that shone like gold.  “Hans – Duke of Glucktan” he introduced himself, as he took Maria’s hand and raised it to his lips.

       By the time he had released the hand, both women had fallen in love.  

       Within a minute, the King arrived in the audience chambers. And, after a brief exchange of pleasantries that neither Maria or Alara truly listened to, the King declared that there would be a royal banquet that very night.  

       The feast was the start of a night of wooing.  Hans spent the evening romancing Maria with tales of his homeland.  The King spent the evening espousing the benefits of a trading and military alliance to the duke.  By the end of the evening, both had achieved their goals: Hans proposed to Maria, with plans to unite their families and their kingdoms’ strengths.    

       And all the while – Alara stood in the corner trying to pretend that a snake wasn’t coiling its way around her heart.  

---

       Over the next few days, Alara made excuse after excuse to spend more and more time away from Maria and Hans.  “They need extra help in the kitchen.” “One of the gardeners is sick.” “The royal jewelry is unpolished.”  Her excuses were vague, but she doubted the princess even noticed her absence; she and Hans had become inseparable, having taken to wandering the palace and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes.  

       One day, while walking through the gardens, trying to think of anything besides Hans and Maria, Alara nearly ran into the old woman who had arrived with Hans.

       “My apologies, child.” The woman said, with a voice choked by countless years.  

       “No...” Alara mumbled, trying to walk away, “My fault.”

       “You were thinking of my grandson.” The old woman declared. It was not a question.

       “How did you…?”

       “Your eyes betray you, child.”  The woman interrupted.

       “Sorry…” Alara mumbled, beginning to walk away.

       “You do not need to apologize, child.  We are who we are.”

       “It is not right,”Alara responded.

       “We are who we are,” The old woman repeated more firmly, “And we are both slaves.”

       “Pardon?”  

       “You to the princess, me to my grandson.”

       Alara turned away, “Maria does not treat me as a slave.”

       “And yet, you give up your heart to her without a fight.”

       “She is my friend,” Alara said, turning away.  

       “So you say.”  The old woman replied, chuckling, “Come to my quarters later if you wish to be free.”  

***

         That night, after pretending not to notice Hans creeping into the princess’s bedchamber, Alara snuck out of her quarters.  Slinking like a thief in the night, she made her way to the wing of the castle where honored guests resided.  

         Hans’s grandmother opened the door only a few seconds after Alara knocked.  

         “You have come,” The old woman declared as if she was explaining that fact to the gods themselves.  

         “You invited me here, Ma’am.”  Alara whispered

         The old woman chuckled as she guided the handmaiden into her room.  “No need to be so formal… Please child… Call me Sophia.”

***

         The next night, Hans snuck out away from his guards.  Torch in hand, he walked along a hidden path that led away from the gates of the palace.  That morning, he had received a perfumed love letter telling him about this path – and asking him to come alone.  The gesture seemed like something out of one of the fantastical stories that his grandmother had told him when he was a child.  

       He followed the path for a quarter mile, until he came across a clearing along the banks of the Heron River.  There, in the rushing water, he saw a maiden bathing, her naked back illuminated by the glow of the full moon.  Like a phantom, the maiden turned and beckoned for the duke to join her in the water.    

       By the night’s end, Alara and Hans sat curled up under a blanket along the banks of the river.  Speaking in whispers, the two made their decision:  they would depart from the castle in secret the next day, leaving everything behind but each other.  

***

       Three years passed before Alara returned to Castle Herondale. The kingdom had descended into chaos after her elopement.  The already tenuous political situation between Herondale and Glucktan had deteriorated almost instantly. Six months later, war erupted along the nations’ shared border.  And from the festering, corpse-strewn battlefields, a plague was born that had swept through the land, killing thousands.

       A locket swung back and forth on Alara’s neck as she walked up the cracked stone steps of the palace. It contained a small portion of Hans’s ashes.  He had been one of the plague’s many victims.  

       Alara blinked back tears as she stumbled through the broken building, hoping to find some fragment of her former life.

       At last, she arrived at the library.  The entire room was in shambles:  its oaken bookshelves overturned, its glass floor cracked in a thousand places, and the river below polluted with ash and filth.          Tears streaming down her face, Alara saw the now collapsed armchair she had been sitting in on the day Hans had first arrived at the palace.

       Lying on the chair was a single book, its pages stained with ash. Involuntarily, Alara reached out and grabbed it from the floor.

       It was called the Tale of Sophia.  It was the story of Rutan, a blacksmith’s apprentice.  It began…

       There was not a day that went by that Rutan did not wish that his neighbor, Bachel, had never bought a chicken coop.  The cocks’ crows, as they did every morning, shattered the stillness of sunrise and roused Rutan from what – only moments before – had been a peaceful slumber.

       With a yawn, Rutan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rolled out of his bed.  

       Rutan and his mother lived a simple life.  Together the two of them resided in a humble house at the center of their mountain village.  Every morning, Rutan rose with the cries of his neighbor’s chickens, ate a simple breakfast of porridge, and then walked to the village forge where he was apprenticed to the village blacksmith.  

       In fact, the only parts of his day that Rutan considered to be the least bit extraordinary were the fleeting moments that he spent passing by the wooden apothecary stall in the town square.  The stall was tended by Isabella, the apothecary’s daughter, a woman richer and more beautiful than Rutan could ever dream of being.  Every day, as he passed by her stall, Rutan snuck furtive glances at her and fantasized about ways he might raise a dowry that could persuade her father.

       There were very few who knew of Rutan’s secret love, and all but one had cautioned him to give it up.   The lone exception was Rutan’s mother, who encouraged her son to dream – as his late father had never dared to do. Rutan’s father had been a blacksmith, who spent every day of his forty-year life toiling in the forge, never daring to consider any other path in life.

        Today, Rutan would not be seeing Isabella.  Nor would he be going to the forge at all.  The night before, his mother had told him of a village secret – a story told only in harsh whispers.  There was a witch who lived on a mountainside not far from the outskirts of the village - a lonely old woman named Sophia.  If anyone could help him win the heart of his beloved, it was she.

       Dressed in his blacksmithing garb, Rutan made the journey to where the stories claimed that Sophia resided.  The trek took Rutan longer than expected – the terrain was rough and the air was cold and windy – portending a coming storm.  The young apprentice was on the verge of giving up when he spotted a thatched roof hut in the distance.  

       Steeling himself, Rutan made his way to the simple structure, nearly slipping twice on the wet rocks as he did so.  After a half hour of scrambling along the mountain side, he arrived at the hut’s wooden door.  

       Rutan took a cleansing breath and knocked.  Silence was his only reply.  He knocked again.  Again, he heard nothing.  The apprentice swore under his breath, but before he turned away, the door opened.

       Standing in the doorway was a woman more elderly than Rutan had thought possible – her skin as grey as stone and her back as crooked as her cane.   With eyes that shined like emeralds – she glared at Rutan as though he was an intruder.

       “Are you…” Rutan began, “Are you the one they call Sophia?”

       The old woman nodded.

       “They tell stories about you…” Rutan stammered, “They say good things.  They say you can help me.”

       For a moment that stretched into eternity the old woman did nothing. Then, with a grunt, she gestured for the young apprentice to enter her home.  Shivering, Rutan followed Sophia into a circular room with a man-sized black cauldron resting in its center.  The witch hobbled over to the cauldron, lay down her cane, and grabbed a large stirring rod.  

       “My name is—”

       “Do not waste my time,” Sophia interrupted, as she began to stir the foul-smelling brew in her pot, “You did not come here because of what you are named.”

       Rutan resisted the urge to flinch, “They say you help people with problems.”

       “They say many things about me,” Sophia responded with a voice like a steel-coated file, “Sometimes they speak the truth.  What problem brought you here in this storm?”

       “I am in love with a woman.”

       “And she seems to not love you back.”  Sophia responded.  It was not a question.  

       “She is a merchant, I am a –”

       “Do you want me to make her fall in love with you?” Sophia interrupted.

       “Is that…” Rutan stammered, “Is that something you can do?”

       For twelve long seconds – Sophia stirred but did not respond.  At last, the witch looked up from her frothing brew.  “There is a flower you will need.”  Sophia said.  “Hand me that book.”  The witch gestured to a leather-bound tome on her shelf.  

       Gingerly, Rutan picked up the book and handed it to the elderly woman. Barely glancing at the book, Sophia flipped it open to a page in the center that bore a detailed drawing of a flower as white as snow.”

       “I have many ingredients in my hut, but none that will change your beloved’s heart. If you retrieve this flower, you will have all that you require to make this merchant’s daughter love you.  You will have all that you need to spend the rest of your nights in her arms.”  

       Rutan’s eyes widened as he looked at the picture.  He had seen such a flower before, in a meadow that was not far from his town.  He would be able to retrieve it before nightfall.    

       “Thank you,” the apprentice said as he moved forward to embrace the old woman.

       Sophia jerked back and held up her stirring rod defensively, “Do not touch me and do not thank me. I do what I feel I must.”  

       “Thank you all the same,” Rutan replied, “I will see you before long.”

       Before Sophia could reply, the young apprentice had already run out her front door. The old woman only sighed and resumed stirring her pot.

***

       The rain had turned into a squall by the time Rutan arrived at the meadow.  The river that separated the grasslands from his town was swollen with rain and surged over the land like an angry beast.  In the distance, through the wind and rain, Rutan could see the flower he needed on the far side of the river.  Gritting his teeth, Rutan stripped off his heavy metalworking clothes and, naked, swam across the river.  Twice, he nearly drowned in the current, and the thornbushes on the far side cut his side like the ragged claws of a wolf, but after only a minute of searching he found his prize: the flower with petals as white as snow.

       With the flower clenched in his hand and held above the current, Rutan swam back across the river and redressed.  By then, the storm had gotten even worse.  Rutan knew that with his clothes and himself soaked to the bone, the journey back to the witch’s cottage would be suicidal.  Reluctantly, Rutan began the long trip back to his home.  

       After an hour of walking through the rain, Rutan arrived at his house.  But no sooner had the young apprentice walked in from the rain, then he collapsed onto the wooden floor.  His head pounded and burned with fever, and the wounds on his side ached with an almost otherworldly pain.

       Rutan’s mother screamed as she saw her son convulsing on the floor and ran out into the rain yelling for someone – anyone – to help her son.  Only one woman was still out on the streets at that late hour: Isabella, the apothecary’s daughter, bringing her goods inside to shield them from the rain.  When she heard the mother’s pleas, she grabbed a medical kit from a crate and rushed into the home to help Rutan.  

       The instant she entered the house and saw the boy laying there, the medical kit slid from her hands and fell to the floor.  “Rutan,” she whispered, as hurried to the boy’s side, “What happened to you?”

       Feverish, Rutan tilted his head towards Isabella, “Thorns…” he mumbled.  

       Isabella lifted Rutan’s shirt and burst into tears as she looked at the patterns of ragged cuts on the apprentice’s torso.  Devilweed.  A plant that secreted thick, deadly poison.  

       “Can you help him?” the mother asked.

       Isabella shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” She whispered,  “The poison has already spread.  There’s nothing I can do…”

       “There is one thing…” Rutan mumbled, reaching for Isabella’s hand “Stay… with me…” he whispered.

       Isabella sniffled as she tightened her grip around the boy’s palm.

       Shivering, Rutan lifted his head, “Every morning…” Rutan coughed, “Every morning when I pass your stall… it’s… it’s the best part of my day… I love you, Isabella.”

       Isabella pulled Rutan into a tight embrace, “I love you too, Rutan.”  She sobbed, “I always have.”  And in that moment, in the arms of his beloved, Rutan passed away – just as Sophia had promised.  

       For nearly an hour, Isabella held the fevered corpse of the man she had loved, scarcely moving.  At last, Rutan’s mother rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Still sobbing, Isabella looked up at the older woman and the fierce storm outside.  

       “It’s too dangerous out there for you.”  The boy’s mother whispered, “You will have to spend the night.”

       Isabella opened her mouth, but realized there was no point in arguing.  “Thank you, ma’am.” She finally mumbled.  

       As the night continued, the storm grew worse.  Isabella lay in her borrowed bed, shivering uncontrollably.  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the face of the man who had loved her so dearly.  After another crash of thunder, she rose from the bed and began to pace the wooden floors, counting down the seconds until morning arrived.  

       Wandering aimlessly, Isabella passed a small room nestled away in the corner of the house.  With only a glance, she realized it had belonged to Rutan.  She stepped inside.  

       It was a simple room, with little decoration aside from a few metalworked figurines positioned on the windowsill. Lying on a bedside table, beside an unlit lamp, was a well-worn book.  Isabella sat on her lover’s bed and opened it.    

       It was called the Tale of Sophia.  It was the story of Marcus the gravedigger. It began…

       Marcus winced as he plunged his shovel into the damp earth – his side aching as though someone had shoved a metal rod into it.  Last week, Marcus had attended the funeral of the mother of Braff, the village baker. Braff had cracked one of Marcus’s ribs after Marcus had informed the baker that he was surprised that a single coffin was wide enough to contain his mother’s girth.  

       Marcus lifted another shovelful of dirt and winced again; it was going to be a long day.  The joke about Braff’s mother had been uncalled for, but Marcus knew that it was better than the alternative.  Jokes and comments kept people far away – which was exactly where Marcus needed them to remain.

       Every time someone approached him - hearts beating, blood pulsing through their veins – Marcus felt the memories come flooding back…

       His dad’s laughter as he locked him in the dark room.  The dead bodies – hearts quiet, veins still. Tears running down his face. His six-year-old fists pounding against the heavy stone doors.  The sound of his dad’s laughter growing fainter and fainter as he walked away.  

       Slowly, young Marcus began to talk with the bodies.  Slowly, the bodies began to talk to young Marcus.  Before long, they were Marcus’s only friends.  

       A shiver ran down Marcus’s spine as he climbed out of the shallow pit.  He was not a fool.  He knew his urges were unnatural; that he was an abomination.  Better the townsfolk think him callous than learn the truth of his nature.  

       Marcus used his shovel as a crutch as he limped back to his house which overlooked the graveyard.  It was a nice house, far from humans, with their blood lying in limpid pools just below the surface… all it would take would be one good slice to…

       A shouted cry interrupted Marcus’s thoughts.  He turned around to see that, nearly a hundred meters away, an elderly woman had fallen on the path.  Even from this distance, the gravedigger could see her ankle was twisted at an awkward angle. Her body lying on the ground…

       Marcus shook his head and leaned against his shovel.  Better to leave before any harm could be done.  It was a risk to help her… but a greater one to leave her out alone… Marcus threw the shovel behind him and hurried back down the twisting path to help the old woman.  

       She smiled weakly at Marcus as he approached.  She was a foreigner… that much was certain.  Any local that old would have been to a funeral by now.  Anyone who had been to a funeral wouldn’t smile at him…

       Like a gentleman, like a monster disguised as a gentleman, Marcus offered the old woman his hand.  As she extended her hand, Marcus nearly jumped back.  The mark of the spider.  The emaciated appendage was covered in blackened veins that bulged as though they were about to burst – one of the final stages of the vicious plague that had come from across the sea.  

       Marcus had seen enough corpses to know that by the time the veins could be seen through pale skin, the disease was no longer contagious.  However, nothing more could be done to stop the sufferer’s passing.  

       The old woman noticed Marcus staring, as he helped her to her feet. “Do you know what this means?” He asked gesturing at her arm.  

       The old woman spoke every word as though she was gasping for air,  “I was told I have one more sunset…”  

       “I’m sorry…” Marcus whispered, “Is there anything I can do?”

       The old woman shivered, “Can you guide me home.”

       Marcus looked at the old woman-  her blood rushing through paper thin veins.  And slowly, nodded in assent.  

***

       The walk was a long one. Marcus had to guide his companion every step of the way, and twice had to seize her arm to stop her from falling onto the uneven ground.

       The two travelled in silence for the most part.  Marcus spent the time mentally repeating every nursery rhyme he knew to distract himself.  

       At last, after nearly an hour of travelling, they arrived at the front door of the old woman’s cottage.

       Taking a deep breath, Marcus pushed open the creaking door and led the old woman into her home, looking for a bed to lay her on.  

       “Why do you flinch away from me?”  The old woman asked, the sound of her voice nearly startling Marcus.  

       “I…”  Marcus began, “Just nervous I guess…”

       “I will never leave this house again,” The old woman whispered, “And yet you keep secrets from me.”

       “I will not burden your final hours with my troubles.”  Marcus replied.

       “I have lived my life as a burden.”  The old woman replied, as she laid down upon her bed, “let me ease yours in my passing.”

       Marcus sighed, sat on a chair beside the bed, and began to tell the old woman his story.  Of his father’s cruelty.  Of the tomb he had played in. Of the urges that haunted him every day.  And all the while the old woman patiently listened. At last, when Marcus was certain that she had drifted off into her final sleep, the gravedigger rose from his chair.  

       It was at that moment that the old woman reached out and seized his hand,,  “You are not your father…” she whispered, half-lucid and burning with fever, “Not what he was… not what he tried to make you…  “No one… No one who cares as much as you could ever be a monster….”

       Marcus shook his head. Noticing for the first time that he had been crying.

       “Tonight, I will leave this world.” She whispered hoarsely, “Remain here.  When I go, I shall take your troubles with me.”

       “Get your rest.” Marcus said, as he rested his hand against her shoulder, and pressed her against the bed.  A few moments later, the old woman’s expression softened, and she let out a muffled snore.

       Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Marcus left the bedroom.  It was pitch black outside, and the journey home was long and treacherous.  Resigned to spending the night, Marcus lay down on a rough carpet on the wooden floor, and – in a few moments – fell asleep.  

       The next morning, Marcus awoke to sunlight filtering in through the dilapidated windows of the cottage.  Bracing himself, he pushed himself off the floor and opened the door to the old woman’s bedroom. He nearly staggered backwards.  She was gone. Marcus ran back and forth across the cottage – there was no sign of the old woman – she had disappeared in the night.  

       A second later, he realized something else was missing.   His urges… they were gone.  Vanished like the old woman.    

       Marcus began searching the cottage for clues of who the old woman was, but found that the small home was nearly empty.  The pantry and cupboards were bare and the drawers and wardrobes were empty.  In fact, the only sign that someone had lived there was a large white feather daintily laid out on the desk.

       Marcus had heard stories of angels.  Creatures who dwelled in the clouds and took on human forms, coming to earth for only a single night every year to provide aid to those in need.  

       Marcus had never before had reason to believe those stories.  But now…

       Almost laughing with glee, Marcus charged out the front door of the cottage –

       -And nearly crashed into a confused woman – roughly his age - looking at a map.  

       Marcus stopped himself an instant before colliding with the young woman.  He took a breath and composed his expression, “Are you lost?”

       The woman nodded “I’m afraid I’m new to the area.” She admitted, “Would you be able to help me?”

       “I think so.” Marcus replied with a smile, “Would you like someone to show you around?”

       The girl smiled, “That would be great.”  

       “My name is Marcus.” The gravedigger said, extending his hand

       “Mine is Sophia,” She replied as she clasped her hand around his.

       Marcus and Sophia spent the remainder of the day together, with Marcus taking her to every sight in his hometown.  Passers-by stared at the couple as they walked, wondering what the girl had done to cause such a change in Marcus. .  

       By the bubbling riverbed outside his home, Marcus and Sophia shared their first kiss.  Hands and lips intertwined – giggling all the way – the two rushed inside of the house and practically leapt into the bedroom, shedding their clothes as they went.  

       Laughing, Sophia threw the Gravedigger onto the bed.

       Then, with an arm as quick as lightning and a blade a sharp as steel, Sophia slid a hidden knife across Marcus’s throat.   Sophia didn’t flinch as blood spurted from the incision like a geyser.  Marcus reached for the wound as his mouth shaped a single word “Why?”

       Sophia pressed her lips against his.  “I’m sorry, Marcus,” she whispered, running her hands down his quivering sides, “You are wonderful, but I can only love things after they have perished.”

       ---

       When she was finished, Sophia – still slick with Marcus’s blood – rose from the bed, and washed herself in silence.  The gravedigger lived alone; Sophia estimated that she would be towns away before anyone cared enough to notice his death.  

       When she returned to Marcus’s room to dress herself, Sophia noticed a well-worn book lying on his desk next to an inkwell and a quill.  In no hurry to leave, she flipped it open to the first page.

       It was called the Tale of Sophia.  It was the story of Agatha the musician.  It began…

       For as long as anyone could remember, the symbol of the Estrella Concert Hall had been a silver knife, dainty enough to fit in a gentleman’s suit pocket, but sharp enough to cut through bone.  

       If the legends are to be believed, the symbol was chosen because when the concert halls were first opened, it was expected that every gentlemen in attendance bring such a knife. The reason being that if a concert-goer were watching a performance and felt that he was about to sneeze, it would be preferable for him to cut off his own nose rather than disrupt the performance. The Estrella Theater has stood for so long that no one attending the performances today can remember if there is any truth to that tale.  

       Regardless of whether it was once fact or fiction – tonight’s performance was one that would have had gentlemen reaching for their knives.  At the center of the stage, surrounded by alabaster lights that gleamed like a thousand sharpened blades, was Agatha, playing a violin that seemed to weep with the sounds and emotions of a thousand tragedies.

       At last, after a three hour performance that the audience would remember for years to come, Agatha set her instrument aside.  As the crowd burst into thunderous applause, Agatha rose from her stool and took a bow. She studied the cheering audience – the theater was nearly packed.  But only nearly.  

       Agatha remained on the stage for as long as was polite before walking off into the wings.  The instant she was out of the crowd’s sight, Agatha sprinted to the office of the theater manager.  Pinned into the oaken door with a silver knife was a piece of yellowed parchment – an accounting of that month’s ticket sales – with the highest earners listed at the top.  

       Agatha slammed her fist into the wall as she read the chart.  Her name, as it had been for the past nine months, was listed second from the top. She was still only second best.  

       The woman whose performances sold the most tickets was a violinist named Melyra.  The origins of both Melyra and her otherworldly talent were unknown. One day, she had rolled into town in a black carriage drawn by snow-white horses.  Clad in a black veil, she had stood outside the Estrella Theater and played her violin. Within a week, she was performing on their stage.  Within a month, she had taken Agatha’s place at the top of the ticket sales list.  

       Agatha had spent months practicing, hiring better and better tutors, turning away from friends and suitors, but still she could not best her mysterious competitor.  

       It was on the morning after the tenth month of being in second place that Agatha realized she needed to change her strategy.  Tutors and practice would not be enough – she needed to discover how her rival trained.

       In her spare time, Agatha began searching her city, her ears tuned to any sign of her rival’s music – the infernal music that put songbirds and masters alike to shame.  In time, she began to forego sleep and food, wandering through the mazelike pathways of her town in a daze.  Her walks – once ten minute breaks – stretched into hour long fugues.  

       After weeks of tireless searching, Agatha was so exhausted from lack of sleep and food, that on one of her searches she walked off of a steep riverbank, and fell into a river on the outskirts of her village.  Shocked awake by the cold water, Agatha struggled to keep her head above the water.  With one arm, she clutched her violin case tightly against her, and with the other, she reached out in vain for a branch or reed to grab onto.   After being pulled downriver nearly a mile, Agatha at last managed to fight the current and clamber onto the far shore  

       And there, lying on the ground and gasping for breath, she heard the music.  That damn music.  It was her rival, there was no mistaking it.  Agatha pushed herself to her feet and began to follow the river, allowing her senses to guide her to a cottage that sat in a forest clearing not far from the water’s edge.  

       In silence, Agatha crept up to the cabin and looked into the window.  Inside was an ornate parlor with a crackling fireplace.  Standing in the center of the room was her rival, playing the violin at a furious pace.  Sitting beside her was an elderly woman - almost ancient by the looks of her greying leathery skin.  As Melyra played, the old woman chanted and rubbed a salve onto the violinist’s arms.

       Magic. Agatha nearly swore as she ducked down.  How could she have been so foolish?  That was how Melyra was able to draw crowds of such size.  Her skills were a product of the witch’s magic.  

       Agatha peeked back into the parlor and for a half-second her heart froze.  The old woman was looking directly at her with eyes the color of faded ash.  But then, a second later, the old witch looked away.  Agatha ducked back down and chuckled.  The old woman was blind.  

       Secure in her superiority, Agatha began to creep away from the cabin but then she realized.  Who would believe her story? Who would ever consider her anything other than second best?    

       Agatha knew that there was only one way to reclaim her rightful position as the greatest musician at the Estrella Theater:  she had to claim the magic for herself.  Agatha sat by the window for hours and listened to her rival.  They took a break only once, where her rival prepared the old witch – who she called Sophia – a dinner of boiled vegetables.  

       At last, the night came and the two finally stopped practicing.  Agatha waited another hour until the house was silent and then crept inside.  It did not take her long to find where Melyra was sleeping.  Without making a sound, Agatha removed her violin from its case. Then, with the instrument that had brought so much joy to the crowds at the Estrella Theatre, Agatha bludgeoned her rival.  

        Satisfied and exhausted, Agatha fell asleep in the bed, only inches away from the broken corpse of her rival.  

       Agatha arose early the next morning, feeling rested for the first time in weeks. She grabbed her violin from the floor, wiped the blood off of it and went down to the parlor to meet Sophia for practice.  

       Agatha stood in the center of the room as she saw her rival do the day before and began to play.  At first she laughed aloud as she listened to the beauty of her own music, but as Sophia began to chant, Agatha realized her horrible, horrible mistake.  

       Agatha’s arms began to move faster, disobeying her mind’s commands for them to slow down. Her fingers and legs began to move of their own accord.  With growing horror, Agatha realized that Melyra had never been Sophia’s student.  

       She had been Sophia’s puppet.

       Internally, Agatha screamed, but the only sound that came that came out of that cabin was beautiful, beautiful music.

       As the years passed, Agatha forgot her dreams of escaping.  She settled into her new routine.  Each morning she awoke and played her violin for twelve hours while Sophia chanted – breaking only for meals.  Twice a week, she left the cabin in a black horse-drawn carriage, and performed at the Estrella Theater to crowds that were larger than ever.  And though the crowds were packed, only a few patrons seemed to notice that Agatha’s eyes had darkened to the color of ash.    

       And some nights, after lessons were done for the day, Sophia would tell stories to her puppet.  There was one in particular that the old witch loved to tell. 

       It was called the Tale of Sophia.  It is a story about you.

[hour13]

Employee of the Month

                                           Employee of the Month

                                                  By Tim Carroll

              Gary was employee of the month.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  I don’t mean that Gary happened to earn employee of the month this month.  Rather, I mean that in the 14-odd months that I’ve been working here at Rob’s Roadside Refuel, Gary has never failed to claim the award.  In fact, if you take a look at our records (which is just a bulletin board with a bunch of blue paper stars stapled to it) you’ll see that in the three years Gary’s been working here, he’s never ever not been given employee of the month.  

              Which is fine. I’m not jealous per se.  I mean I wouldn’t be opposed to earning the award (and the accompanying $15 gift certificate to wherever my boss was shopping that month.)  But seriously, can we at least agree that it’s kind of weird that at a convenience store with 5 employees, 36 months can go by without someone else standing out from the pack.

              Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Your boss is playing favorites, dumbass.’  Unless you’re my friend, Ross, in which case you’re thinking, ‘Your boss is fucking him, dumbass.”   Well here’s the problem.  My boss isn’t playing favorites.  My boss – her name’s Robin - can’t stand the guy. And not in that I-pretend-to-dislike-him-so-it-doesn’t-look-like-I’m-playing-favorites kind of way.  It’s more like that I-treat-this-employee-with-poorly-concealed-hatred-that-no-one-deserves-especially-my-quote-unquote-employee-of-the-month kind of way. 

              Take the other day for example.  Gary was working the register, but saw that a woman with a broken arm was having some trouble carrying her bags.  So he got out from behind the counter, grabbed the bag she was struggling with, and helped her take everything to her car.   Most people would see this and think ‘Wow, what a considerate young man,’ but not Robin.  The second Gary was out the door, Robin gave this exasperated sigh of relief, as though she couldn’t stand being in the same room as him.

              And that’s not all.  Anytime Gay asks a question, Robin stares at him like he’s an idiot.  Maybe a month-and-a-half ago, our slurpee machine was on the fritz, and he asked her a question about fixing it that I’m almost positive you would have needed to be an electrical engineer to understand.  She then gave him an answer, (one that I certainly didn’t understand) in probably the most condescending tone I’ve ever heard.  

              I’ve talked to my coworkers about it and --- you know what, let me just give you a sample conversation.

              “Hey, Ben, Tyler, or Ryan, depending on what day of the week it is.” I say

              “Hey Mitch,” He, he, or he replies.

              “So Gary won Employee of the Month again.” I say

              “Yeah, the guy sure is a hard worker.”  

              “You ever think it’s weird that literally none of us besides him have ever won it.”

              “I guess none of us work as hard as him.”

              “Even though Robin seems to like us, and seems to hate Gary.”

              “Guess she’s good at putting aside her feelings when it’s important.”

              “And none of this seems weird to you.”

              “No, why?”

              “ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE!!!” I yell – or actually, I don’t yell it.  I think it, because I don’t want to get fired.

              And it doesn’t end there.  When I talk to Gary about it, he seems barely cognizant of the fact that he’s earned the award.   Every time I bring it up, he stares at me blankly.  Like he’s forgotten what I’m sure is at this point approaching his shot at ending up in the book of world records.

              I’ve even attempted to broach the subject with Robin, and every time I bring it up, she gives me a job to do that requires me to go outside and whenever, I get back she’s on her way out.

              This one time we were twenty minutes into our shift, and she was slated to be there another four hours.  There was nothing else to do, so I popped the question, “Hey is there something Gary’s doing that causes him to win employee of the—“

              “Mitch,” she interrupts, “I think that gentlemen needs help fueling up his Accord.”

              First of all, just because I work at a gas station, doesn’t mean that I know what type of car an Accord is, but I quickly figured out that it was the guy in full clown costume, who was staring at the gas pump like it was an artifact of a lost alien civilization.  So I went outside, and spent at most five minutes explaining to the clown how to pump his own gas, and by the time I got back into the room, Robin was explaining to the others that her sister was going into labor, and she had to leave right that second.  When she saw that I was in the room, she dashed out the door, secretly giving Gary the finger on the way out.  (The labor was a false alarm if you’re curious.  Come to think of it, I don’t actually remember that baby ever being born.)

***

              Anyway, moving on, this afternoon, I was sitting at the diner drinking with my friend Ross, (the one who thinks Robin and Gary are having sex –see above.)  We were drinking milkshakes together – which we do every Thursday, it’s kind of a tradition - when I brought up the topic of Gary.

              “I just can’t get over this Gary thing.” I asked, as the waitress set the milkshakes down in front of us, “I mean what makes him so special.  Why the hell—“”

              “You play poker, Mitch?”  Ross interrupted.

              “What?” I asked, “Not really, why?”

              “Do you know what the sucker rule is?” He asked as he picked up his glass and leaned back in the booth.

              “No…?” I replied

              “There’s an old saying in Poker.” He explained, trying (and failing) to sound sagely, “If you don’t know who the sucker at the table is, it’s you.”

              “How is that even remotely relevant?”

              “At work, who’s the dumbest guy there?”

              “I don’t know.” I shrugged.

              “mmmhmmm” Ross answered, sucking down his milkshake.

              “Seriously, we’re a smart group of guys.  Ryan and Tyler are both honor students and Ben was Salutatorian last June.  He’s headed off to Stanford next month.”

              “What about Gary and Robin?”

              “Robin’ s a small business owner and Gary… well he’s not dumb.  Honestly, he knows more about electronics than Mr. Redmund.”  (Mr. Redmund, is our high school’s electronics teacher.)

              “Sounds like you can’t find the sucker at the table.” Ross replied, “You know what that means?”

              “That has nothing to do with this.” I protested

              “It means….”

              “It means you’re a raving lunatic.”

              “It means….”

              “Oh fuck off.” I shouted, loudly enough to get a disapproving glance from the waitress.

              “It means the sucker’s you, Mitch.”  

              “Okay, and what does being the sucker at my shitty job have to do with no one else getting Employee of the Month?”

              “It means you’re being screwed with.”  Ross said,  “Or more specifically,  Gary’s getting screwed with.  By your boss.”

              “I already told you—“

              “And everyone else knows but you,” Ross interrupted, “because it’s funnier to keep you in the dark.”

              “That’s ridiculous!”

              “Is it, Mitchell?  Is it really?”

              “Yes. It really is.”

              “Explain to me one thing wrong with my reasoning.”

              “Okay, how about the fact that Ben, Tyler, and Ryan are all okay with it.”

              “Dude, we live in the future. Gary and Robin are consenting adults.  We live in a state where a man literally got married to his truck last year.”

              “I meant why are they okay with him winning all the time?”

              “They probably don’t give a shit about the blue paper star on the board.”

              “There’s a gift card award.”

              “Yeah, cause a $10 gift card’s really worth losing your job over.”

               “It’s a $15 gift card.”

              “Oh… my mistake.” Ross replied, slapping his forehead, “That five dollar difference really changes things.  I’d definitely lose a source of income and a possible reference over that extra bowl of breadsticks at Olive Garden.”

              “You know what?” I said, “I think I’m done talking about this.”

              “Only cause you know I’m right.”

              “No, I’m done because you’ve got the logical reasoning skills of a squirrel.”

              “Hey, don’t insult squirrels,” Ross fired back. “Imagine hiding all the food you’ll eat this winter, right now, and remembering where it’s stored six months from now.”

              “My mistake,” I replied, “You’re less intelligent than a squirrel.”

              “Fine, then prove me wrong.”

              “How?” I asked, “Strap Gary to a lie detector?”

              “Follow him, dumpass.  You got your work schedule on you?”

              “Yeah, why?”

              “Show it to me.”

              I pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of my back pocket and spread it out on the diner counter.  “Okay,” Ross said, pointing at the schedule, “You see tomorrow night?  Your boss gets off at 5:30, and Gary gets off an hour later.”

              “What the hell does that mean?”

              “It means that that she’s giving herself time to get home, shower, put on something sexy, and be ready for Gary to come in and fuck her brains out.”

              “It looks like I get off an hour after Ryan next Thursday.” I replied, “Think that means he’ll be at his house waiting for me?”

              “Maybe…”  Ross replied, scratching his stubble,  “Is he cute?”

              “A little bit?” I shrugged, “This doesn’t matter. You’re a madman.”

              “Okay, prove me wrong.” Ross said, “Tomorrow night, we’re gonna follow Gary, and when he shows up at your boss’s house, we’ll finally know.”

              “You’re a nutcase.” I replied.

              “Are you in or out?”

              “I’ll do it if you pay for my milkshake.”

              “Fine.  But if I’m right you have to call me whatever nickname I choose for the next month.”

              “What nickname do you want?”

              “Call me…” Ross paused for dramatic effect, “Big Daddy.”

              “Absolutely not.”

              “Then buy your own damn milkshake.”

              “Fine, but I’m only agreeing because I know you’re wrong.”

              “You’re gonna be so pissed, when Big Daddy is proven right tomorrow.”

              “Are you seriously going to start calling yourself that?”

              “If you had a nickname this great, wouldn’t you.”

***

              Ross (a man who I never intend to call Big Daddy) and I parted ways after that.  I returned home, ate dinner with my family, played on my Xbox till 3 AM and then went to sleep.  In fact, it wasn’t until Ross called me at 4:00 that I remembered that I had shit to do the next day.

              “I’m swinging by your house in 15 minutes, are you ready?’ He shouted, loudly enough that I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

              “What? Dude, you realize this is insane, right?”

              “It doesn’t matter what you think.  Big Daddy bought you a milkshake, which means that you owe me.”

              “What if I agree to call you Big Daddy, for uh… the next 24 hours. “

              “Dude, this is barely about you calling Big Daddy by his proper title anymore.”

              “If you’re that interested in watching an employee fuck their boss there are websites for that.  Probably hundreds of them.”

              “First of all, I jerked off twenty minutes ago so that my mind will be sharp.”

              “You really didn’t need to share that with me.”

              “But I did.” Ross replied, “And second of all, if I have to listen to you bitch about Gary and his stupid award one more time, I’m going to blow my fucking brains out.”

              “Fine, I’ll never bring it up again.  Can we please not do something that will end with us getting arrested?”

              “NO!”  Ross shouted into the phone, “Big Daddy is showing up at your house in fifteen minutes. I expect you waiting outside, fully dressed, and carrying as many of your mom’s chocolate chip cookies as you can fit into a gallon zip lock.”

              “What?”

              “I’m hungry, dumbass, I skipped lunch because I was planning. Also, I had to buy myself a victory cigar for later.”

              With that, he hung up the phone, leaving me alone wondering what in the hell I was thinking when I agreed to be friends with him.

***

              Big Daddy – damnit, I mean Ross – showed up at my driveway about twenty minutes later.  I was waiting for him on my front step, holding a quart-sized bag of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies.

              “I specifically said gallon.” He shouted at me as he rolled down his window.

              “Get your own mom to bake you cookies.”

              “Sorry,” Ross replied, “My mom’s too busy being a high-powered CEO to just sit around baking cookies.”

              “She sells shit on Etsy.  What’s she got, one employee?”

              “She has three if you count our cat, Nancy.”

              “Whatever,” I said, climbing into the side of his jeep. “Let’s just get this over with.”

              “That’s the spirit.”  He said, reaching for a toy megaphone he kept in his cup holder, “This is captain, Ross Irving of the U.S.S.  Mitch Sucks.  Please strap in your seatbelts for flight.”

              “Did you buy that toy just so you could butcher that line?”

              “It also helps for yelling at birds.”

              ***

              We parked two stores down from Rob’s Roadside Refuel, while we waited for Gary to leave. Eventually, we saw his beige sedan pull out, and Ross followed him.

              “Okay, here’s where things get tricky.”  Ross said, a pair of my mother’s cookies in his mouth.  “If we stay too far back we’ll lose him, but if we get too close he might get suspicious and call the police.”

              “And what the hell are we supposed to tell the cops when they pull us over?”

              “Well, ideally you’d have stolen this guy’s cell so that when the cops arrest us, you can say that you were just trying to return it.”

              “The ideal is that we commit two crimes instead of one?”

              “The ideal is that you provide a cover story for Big Daddy.”

              “You know that’ll make a great prison nickname.”

              “It’s better than Mitch the Bitch.”

              “Fuck off.”

              “Hello,” Ross whistled as Gary pulled off the highway. Ross slowed down but kept following.

              “This isn’t his exit.” I said, trying not to sound stunned.

              “Today it is.” Ross replied, laughing,   “Get used to calling Big Daddy by his proper title.”

              About a mile-and-a-half of driving later, we saw Gary pull into the driveway of Royal Frog Swamp – a small pseudo-national park that was popular with the Boy Scouts and any other hikers in our town.

              Ross pulled over to the shoulder and idled his car.

              “What are you doing?” I asked

              “Well, it will be too obvious if we just pull right in after him.”

              “We’re not going in.” I said, “You’re wrong. Robin isn’t a swamp dweller.”

              “Maybe they don’t meet at her home for whatever reason,” Ross suggested, “Maybe this is a date.  Maybe they just like having sex in the great outdoors.”

              “I’m not doing this,” I said, “Just admit you’re—“

              “TOO LATE!”  Ross shouted, as he slammed down on the accelerator and swerved into the park’s driveway.

              “Are you trying to get us killed?” I shouted, as I nearly fell into the center console.

              Ross either didn’t hear - or chose to ignore- my complaint as we cruised past the rows of evergreen trees deeper into the swamp.

              The parking lot was abandoned except for a pair of cars. Gary’s and – fuck…  Gary’s and Robin’s.

              Ross parked on top of the line between two parking spots - “Because fuck the system that’s why” - and leapt out.  He grabbed his iPhone, and turned on the camera with a flick of his thumb.  “Think they’re getting freaky?” he asked as we started on the main trail together.  

              “Maybe they’re just checking out the swamp together.”

              “Maybe you really are as dumb as you look.”

              We walked about a quarter mile before arriving at the visitor center.  Which was staffed by a single bored teenager, flipping through a copy of a gaming magazine. Ross tapped on the glass of his booth, “Hey, buddy.”

              The teenager – whose eyes were a little too red – glanced up from his magazine at Ross.

              “Hey,” Ross said, “Our cousin Gary just showed up, but he forgot his medication, and we need to bring it to him before he has an episode.”

              “I’m not a doctor.”

              “I know you’re not a doctor.” Ross said, “I’m asking if you saw which way he went.”

              “Don’t know what your cousin looks like.”

              Ross looked at me.

              “Uh… Early twenties.” I stammered, “ A little taller than me, but a bit more pudgy.  Blondish.”  

              The clerk glared at the two of us, and I felt as though there was a battle going on in his mind. Whether to help us stalk Gary and possibly end up on the news or to spend another five minutes of his time telling us to fuck off.

              “He went that way.” The clerk pointed, and Ross was already moving.

              “Thank you,” I shouted as I followed, but the clerk either didn’t hear me or just didn’t care.

              The sun was already setting behind the trees as we followed the trail.  I dug into my pockets and grabbed my cellphone, prepared to use it as a flashlight.

              Ross sniffed the air, as we climbed up a hill, “My Big Daddy senses say we’re close.”

              “First off that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I replied, “Second off I…” I trailed off as I stared at the crimson Red Hot Chili Peppers  T-shirt lying in the middle of the trail.   It was Gary’s

              “You see,” Ross smirked, “My Big Daddy senses haven’t failed me yet.”

              “Shut up… maybe he’s just…”

              “What?” Ross asked, “He’s just doing the totally normal thing grown men do, where they decide to strip while hiking and disappear from the trail?”

              I looked left and right. “Look,” I pointed, “Here’s a bootprint leading away from the trail, we’ll follow where it leads.”

              “Sure, if you’re okay walking in on your boss and Gary having freaky swamp sex.”

              I ignored him, and the two of us stalked through the trees and patches of skunk cabbages.  The mud rose to our ankles whenever our feet pressed down and I almost instantly regretted wearing sneakers.

“This is why you gotta always be wearing boots,” Ross said, pointing to the jet black hiking boots he was wearing.

“Did you actually expect to be trudging through a swamp?” I asked, pushing a branch out of my way.

“Big Daddy’s ready for anything.”

“I’m sure—“ I paused, “Wait do you hear that?”

“Yeah…” Ross replied, “It sounds like…”

“Chanting?”

The two of us took off towards the source of the sound. It didn’t take long for the two of us to come across a clearing in front of a cave at the base of the mountain. There was a figure pacing in front of a campfire, chanting hymns in a language I didn’t recognize.  Before I could see anything else, Ross knocked me to the ground, and then leapt into the underbrush with me.  “Keep down, damnit.” He hissed.

“I think you broke my arm.” I whispered.

“Get over it.”  He said, as he pushed aside the branches in front of us so that we could get a better look at the figure standing in front of the cave.

It was definitely Gary.  He was standing shirtless in a red circle, painted on the ground with what I prayed wasn’t blood.  I had never seen the tattoos covering his chest and back before.  They looked like hieroglyphics of some kind. He circled the fire at least a half-dozen more times before kneeling down in front of it and staring intently into the smoke.  

              I nudged Ross.  “We should go,” I told him, “Right now.”

              “Scared?” he asked me.

              I swallowed hard. “I’ll call you Big Daddy. You win the bet.  Let’s just get out of here.”

              Before I could react, Gary threw a fistful of powder into the crackling fire, which caused its flames to turn electric blue and surge upward into the darkening sky.  “Dark Lord,” Gary shouted, “Your servant calls you!”

              “What the fuck?” Ross hissed.

              Two hooded figures walked out of the mouth of the cave.  I could see the faint outline of a third standing behind them.  I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, of if the man in the cave was really ten feet tall.

              “Why have you summoned us?” Asked the figure on the left.  I couldn’t place his accent, but it sounded familiar and sinister at the same time.

              “I wish to renegotiate our contract.”

              The figure on the right laughed, “Our lord does not do renegotiations.”  His voice impossibly shrill, “If you are disappointed in the results, you should have been more specific when you made your deal.”

              “You are acknowledged as the greatest among your peers.”   The figure on the left said, “Your accolades are unending.  We have held up our end of the pact.”

              “But I know something that you don’t.”  Gary said, “ I have a coworker, his name is Mitch, he questions my dominance.”

              The two figures glanced at each other.

              “Questions…your… domiance?” The one on the left asked. “No one should be—“

              A voice bellowed from the cave in a language that I didn’t recognize, but it sounded old. Older than anything I’d heard before, maybe even older than the planet.

              One of the hooded figures responded back in the same language, it sounded like a question.

              The one in the cave interrupted him, with what sounded like an order.

              “Yes, my lord.” The man said, turning.

              “Yes?” Gary asked, he was trying to sound confident, but I could hear the fear behind his words.  

              “It seems you have found a deceiver.”  The figure on the left said, “A being immune to our master’s magic.”  The man nodded at his partner, who withdrew a curved black blade from his cloak, “Take this sword, bring us the head of the deceiver, and we will be happy to renegotiate.”

              “I will need some time.” Gary replied.

              The hooded figure laughed, “Ahh I forget how weak mortal eyesight truly is.”  He pointed in our direction, “The deceiver you refer to is crouching beneath the bush over there.”

              Gary growled, seized the blade, and began charging towards us.  Ross and I glanced at each other before scrambling to our feet and sprinting in the direction of the trail.

              “Split up,” Ross shouted, “I’ll go that way, you go towards the glade.”

              I wanted to point out that what Ross was pointing towards wasn’t a glade, but now didn’t seem like the time.

              I could hear Gary’s footsteps pounding behind me as I splashed through a puddle, I turned around he was only about twenty feet behind, I turned back just in time to see the fist headed towards my face. I stumbled backwards, and fell into the muck.  The person who punched me was another black-robed figure.  

              Before I could stumble to my feet, Gary grabbed me by the throat.   The other two hooded figures walked behind him.

              “It’s time.”  Gary said, as he held the blade in front of my face.

              “It doesn’t have to be like this.” I shouted.

              “I’ve come too far.” Garry hissed, as he raised the knife above his head “Sacrificed too much to be stopped by—“

              “You don’t have to—“ I screamed

              “DO NOT QUESTION ME!” Gary shouted as he plunged the knife into my chest.

              “NOOOOOO—what?” The knife bounced off me like it was made of rubber. I looked up at Gary;  He was grinning.

              “Oh my god!” Gary laughed, “Oh my fucking god! You really… really thought I was gonna kill you.”

              “What the hell?”

              “Did you actually believe that I sold my soul to the devil? For employee of the month?”

              “But the hooded figures?” I shouted

              As if on cue the three hooded figures approached and took off their hoods:  Ryan, Ben, and Tyler grinned at me.

              “What!?”

              “Come on,” Ben asked, “You actually thought that we didn’t notice that Gary was employee of the month for thirty-something straight months?  Do you really think we’re all that dumb?”

              “How did you get Robin to go along with this?”

              “They just asked,” Said the voice that had come from the cave earlier, “I thought it would be funny.” I turned to see Robin, her face covered in ashen makeup, approaching.

              “But why did you guys go along with it?”

              “She offered to pay us an extra 45 cents an hour so that we didn’t get mad that she gave Gary 15 extra dollars every month.” Tyler explained, “It all evens out.”

              “Besides, what else did you expect,” Ryan added, “He is sleeping with the boss.”

              “WHAT!?”  I shouted, “Isn’t that—“

              “We’ve been married for two years now.”  Gary explained, putting on a t-shirt to cover up his tattoos.

              “But how did you guys know I’d be here tonight?”

              “Because I told them, came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Ross standing there, grinning.

              “Ross!”

              “I believe you mean, Big Daddy.” Ross corrected.

              “That’s what all of us call him,” Robin said.

              “I didn’t even know his name was Ross,” Tyler admitted.

              “I can’t believe this.” I shouted, “How did you know this would work?”

              Ross flashed me a grin, as he took out a fat victory cigar from his pocket.  “Life’s just one big game of Poker,” he explained, “and Big Daddy had you pegged as a sucker right from the start.”

[hour13]

Decoupled

                                                Decoupled

                                             By Tim Carroll

              It was the Friday after his funeral that I saw Cole again.  I was using my pocket knife to cut open a pint of Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate chip ice cream.  My mom had wordlessly shoved it into my hands two days ago.  It was weird but it probably would have been weirder if there had been any conversation.  What would she have even said? “Hey, your brother is dead, but I got you your favorite flavor of ice cream and that kind of makes up for it?”

              I decided to eat it anyway – I’ll be damned if I become one of those nutcases who stops eating ice cream because his brother is dead.  I was running my knife down the plastic wrapping, when I happened to glance at the mirrored surface of the refrigerator.  He was there, watching me, my hair, my eyes, my hands, and his ankh pendant hanging from his neck

              “Sup?” He waved, spinning the pocketknife in his fingers.

              “Cole?” I dropped my knife to the tile floor.

              “The one and only,” he laughed, “Well… I guess the zero and only now… way to bring up a sore subject dickweed.”

               “What are you doing here?”

              “Well…” he began, “Being a frequent masturbator it’s not like I could get into heaven.  And a lifetime of eternal torment isn’t really my thing so I—”

              “Cole!”

              “Fine.”  He replied, rolling his eyes, “I was wondering if you’d seen the article at the bottom of the front page.”

              I walked to the other end of the kitchen and grabbed the paper my dad had neatly folded on the edge of the kitchen table. I scanned the front page.

              “First Green River man to pass the bar joins Memphis law firm.” I read (Yes, that’s what qualifies for news where I live. For comparison, the main headline is about a dog show three towns over.)  “Thanks bro, I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m looking for a local lawyer. Do you have any post-mortem advice that’s actually helpful?  Like where you hid your-“

              “Look at the picture.”

              I rolled my eyes and glanced downward.  The lawyer, Randolph Kooper, was smiling at the camera, with one arm wrapped around his platinum blond wife and the other resting against—my stomach lurched- the other was resting against the car.

              For a second I was back in that night.  Back on the sidewalk kneeling down in a puddle of cold water, Guinness, and Cole’s blood.  Holding my brother against my chest, as I dialed 911 with half-numb fingers, as the mint green sedan screeched away, its license plate too obscured by the pouring rain to read.  

              And then – shivering- I was back in the kitchen. It was the same car.  The same fucking car that had smashed into Cole a week ago.  

              I turned to my brother, “I have to call the cops,”

              “Sloooooow down there, cowboy.  What the hell are you going to tell the cops?”

              “That…” I paused.

              “That you saw your brother’s killer on the front page of the newspaper?” He finished, “That’ll go over well. Besides, even if they don’t think you’re delusional, he’s part of a fancy pants law firm in” – he glanced at the paper “Memphis.”

              “So what the fuck are we supposed to do?’

              Cole glanced at the counter where the keys to our shared car –  well my car – were lying. “Road trip?” He shrugged.

              I grabbed the keys and the ice cream and threw the latter in the freezer.  “I’m going out, mom.” I shouted up the stairs as Cole waved goodbye from the mirror in our foyer.  He was waiting in the sideview mirror when I got to the car, twirling his Ankh necklace on its silver chain.  It had been a gift from his girlfriend sophomore year – he had been really into Egyptian mythology then.   The week she gave it to him at least a dozen different people– teachers and students – had thanked us for getting it.  Since he never took it off, and my non-existent girlfriend never got me a matching one, they all finally had a way to tell us apart.  

              “Get in loser, we’re going shopping.”  He chuckled as I opened the door.

              “Where to?” I asked. I started reaching to adjust the mirrors before stopping myself.

              “You know that group of shops in a line?” He asked

              “The strip mall?”

              “Yeah, the one with that sporting goods store, and that fireworks store, and the office supply store?”               “The one on Hamilton?”

              “Depends,” he responded, “Is that the one with those shops?”

              “Do you seriously not know your way around our town?”

              “Hey, stop weighing me down with your mortal concerns.”

              “Whatever,” I replied, as I pushed down the accelerator.”

              I hadn’t quite made it out of my neighborhood when my phone vibrated against my hip.  I fished it out of my pocket and threw it into the passenger seat.   “It’s your---” I hesitated, unsure whether to say ‘ex’ or ‘girlfriend.’  I settled on ‘Kathryn.’

              “Oh…” He replied

              “Hey is there anything you want me to say to her?” I asked, “Any heartfelt messages from beyond the grave.”

              He paused, “Shit… man, I don’t know.  What would you tell her?”

              “Well seeing as this is her eighth text since your funeral, I’m verging dangerously close to telling her to go fuck herself.”

              “Matthew Maulbeck,” he exclaimed in mock shock, “I thought you were supposed to be the sensitive twin.”

              “Well now that you’re gone, I have to be the asshole twin too to pick up the slack.”

              “That’s not how it works.”

              “What the fuck do you know about dealing with a dead brother.”

              An awkward silenced descended over the vehicle, it wasn’t until I was pulling into the strip mall’s parking lot that Cole finally replied, “I don’t know man… maybe buy a self-help book or something.”

              “Chicken Soup for the Person Dealing with their Douchebag Brother’s Ghost’s Soul?”

              “Yeah,” he replied, “Something like that.”

              In order to avoid looking delusional, I kept talking with Cole to a minimum as I shopped around the strip mall.  Cole – to his credit – didn’t talk much either, only waving to me from the reflection in the metal cash registers during each checkout.   I returned the bags to the car after each store, piling the bags up in the trunk.  Sparklers from Green Falls Fireworks, black resistance bands from Devin’s Sporting Emporium, some nails, a hammer, and a two-by-four from the hardware store.

              By the time I returned to the driver’s seat, there were another two texts on the phone, both from Kathryn.  

              “Seriously,” I asked Cole, as I started the car, “Is there anything you want to say to her?”

              “I don’t know, Matt, do you think it’s better to tell her that she was my one and only or do we want to speed up the healing process by saying that I cheated on her with everyone.  Literally everyone.  Especially you.  Like massive amounts of twincest with you.  Like every night we would—“

              “Entirely to change the subject,” I interrupted, “Is there somewhere else we need to go.”

              “Of course,” he replied, “We’re still missing the piece-dee-resistance.”

              I shrugged.

              “What, you haven’t figured it out yet?” He asked

              “No, I –” I began, but before I finished the sentence, I did a k-turn and started driving towards the outskirts of town.

              The drive didn’t take long – like I said, we’re not exactly a big town.  – I pulled into the nature reserve’s empty parking lot and jumped to the ground.  I fished around in the trunk for a hand mirror, and Cole was already waiting for me inside it, spinning his necklace around his fingers like a Ferris wheel.

              “You think it’s still there?” I asked, as I locked the car behind me.

              “Richie and Tyler wouldn’t have taken it, and there’s no way either of the park rangers would look that far off the trail.”

              Richie and Tyler had been Cole and I’s best friends in middle school.  One day, the four of us were walking in town and saw a bearded man throw a black bag into a dumpster.  Being idiots, we waited until the man was out of sight, dove into the dumpster, and pulled it out.

              Inside had been a fully loaded Smith & Wesson revolver.

              Look, I’m not super proud of what happened next, but, in an argument strewn with phrases like ‘fuck the police’ and ‘every mofo needs a gun.’ We eventually made the decision to bike up to the nature reserve, hide the gun in a hole beneath one of the trees, and carve our initials into it so we could find it later.  We all swore a pact that we would only ever use it to protect one another.  

              Tyler moved away about two years later and Richie fell in with a new group of friends when we hit high school.  We never talked about the gun since the day we buried it.

              “Heads up,” Cole shouted, gesturing to a tree on my left.  The carved initials were faded, but they were definitely there.   I dug my hands into the hard earth beneath the trunk, displacing a catacomb of spider webs, and grabbed a hold of the 5-year-old gallon Ziploc bag. I pulled it out, opened the dirty bag, and clenched my hands around the metal handle.  Time had dulled and rusted most of the metal, but there were still bits of the barrel that had gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting Cole’s wolfish grin at my face.

              He looked at my watch. “4:05,” he mused, “still plenty of daylight left if you’re ready.”

              I flicked the safety off, “What do you think?”

 ***

              It’s not hard to find out where someone lives, especially if their name is as stupidly unique as Randolph Kooper.

              And once you know where someone works, it doesn’t take too much effort to figure out the route they’ll take home.

              At 6:26 PM, Randolph Kooper’s mint green sedan turns onto a side street filled with boarded-up and condemned apartment buildings. He double-checks that his doors are locked and accelerates, hoping to get out of the neighborhood soon.  Suddenly, his car lurches forward and he hears a popping sound.  Swearing, he leaps out of his car to inspect the damage.

              Underneath his front left tire he finds a wooden board with a dozen nails hammered into it.  His howls of rage are interrupted when a thunderclap sounds.  His legs recognize what the noise is before his head, and his instincts drive him to sprint towards the nearest alleyway.

              He is looking backwards – towards his assailant – instead of forwards when he trips on the taught resistance band and plummets to the ground, skidding his hands and knees.  

              As he tries to pull himself up, another explosion sounds and agony shouts up his leg.  He looks down to see a spreading crimson pool below him.  He tries to push himself to his feet, screams, and falls back over.  

              A figure, clad in black walks toward him, a pistol in one hand and a glowing sulfur match in the other.  He presses the flame against the brick wall of the alley, and a fuse catches, igniting a dozen scarlet sparklers, over the lawyer’s head. A trail of urine runs down the leg of his expensive suit.

              The figure steps into the flickering light.

              “Hello, Randolph.” I hiss.

              “Who?” No! YOU!!!” Randolph screamed.

              I shook my head as I raised the pistol.

              “I’m sorry,” he screams, “I was drunk.  I had to drive away.  Do you know what would have happened to me if I had stayed? I would have lost everything, my license, my job, my reputation!”

              “Instead you left, and I lost my brother.”  I flicked off the safety.

              “Your…” he gasped in pain, “I can make it up to you. You can have everything.  My car.  50% of my paycheck. I can make it up to you.”

              “No,” I replied, “You really can’t.” I pulled the trigger and Randolph Kooper esquire’s million dollar smile was replaced with a bloody hole.  I stared at the blood leaking out of his body until the sparklers burned out.  

              I threw the gun into the nearest dumpster. Then I grabbed the Ankh hanging from my neck, ripped it off, threw it into the gutter, and walked away.

Author’s Note:

              Wow, it’s been a while since I updated.  I’ve been working on a lot of larger pieces, including a massive collaborative story with four friends.  My last few months have been dedicated to job searching, and now that I’ve finally got one, my love of writing has returned to me.  I’ll probably be updating the blog a lot more in the next couple weeks.  I worked on a lot of longer form stories over the summer, and I’ll probably be sharing them here.

              This story was written as part of a writing class in Italy.  The assignment was to write a ghost story.  We had six days to do the assignment.  I finished the first draft of this in only one.  

[hour13]

It’s All About the Sky

                                       It’s All About the Sky  

                                           by Tim Carroll

It’s all about the sky

It’s all about the sky with its

Sunlight broken by

Spirals of clouds that quiver when

You unfurl wings you didn’t                                  

Know you had, muscles

Twitching where before was

Only void mixed with

The lies they told you about

Not being able to fly

But that’s behind

You like everything else now that

You’re already sprinting forward, wind

Swirling beneath you as you

Jump off the edge and

The World Stands Still

And then time

Passes, air surging beneath you and with a

Wingbeat you rise up, ascending

Past clouds, past birds, past

Treetops, past

Everyone who said that you couldn’t as

You rise up to the stars circling

Among them as if

That’s where you’ve always belonged

[hour13]

Homecoming

                                            Homecoming

                                           By Tim Carroll

               The rain falls like it will never end, soaking tree bark and reducing the sodden leaves beneath your boots to mush. Rivulets of water drip down from the hood of your poncho, and are occasionally blasted into your face by the cold November wind.  Your bag, slung across your shoulder, digs into your skin like a claw as you suck in your breath and push forward, step by painful step, towards the house.  

               The graveyard in front of the dilapidated, single-story manor is a sea of mud, shaking and quivering.  The tombstones, epitaphs obscured by time and darkness, lie unevenly, like so many rows of broken teeth.  The ground tugs at your boots, as you make your way through what’s left of the central path.  The way is blocked by a toppled stone angel, its wings broken by the fall. As you step over the statue, there is a flash of lightning and for a moment you stare into the angel’s cracked eyes and see the water pouring down its face like an endless stream of tears.  Before you can turn away, the light vanishes leaving the image burned onto your retinas.

               You readjust the strap on your bag- as heavy as lead- as you continue your walk towards the house.  You’re shaking by the time you make it to the front step, and you know the cold is only partly to blame.  You take one last breath of the frigid, swampy air before pushing open the door and stepping into the darkness inside.  

               The din of rain echoes from the leaking rafters, its drumming punctuated by the creaking of the floorboards as you take step after muddy step further into the house – its furniture threadbare and worm-eaten beyond almost all recognition.  As the door swings shut behind you, the earthy scent of the swamp fades away, only to be replaced by the oppressive stink of mold and rot that permeates the house and masks- but not entirely- the scent of blood.  

               You shiver again, droplets of rain leaping from your poncho and colliding with the cracked floor. Ghosts from the past flitter at the corners of your vision, some beckoning you closer, other’s screaming your name like a curse.  A blast of lightning banishes the specters, and you spot the switch on the walls and flick it upward.  Corroded wiring crackles in the walls around you, but, after a few agonizing seconds, the bare lightbulb over your head pops to life.

               The ghosts are gone now, but you can still hear their whispers, barely audible over the gusting storm, as you make your way into what’s left of the kitchen.  A wooden table, its legs splintered, a dripping faucet, and a rusted refrigerator, its door ajar.  You kneel down, your bag- as heavy as iron – cutting deeper into your shoulder as you do so. Wincing you open the cupboard beneath the sink, revealing a catacomb of spider webs, their emaciated creators lying dead in their centers.  Gingerly, you reach towards the top of the cupboard, cutting your hand twice on the splintered wood before you find it, hard and metallic, the key.  

               You remove the object from its hiding place and brush off the spider webs.  A gust of wind hits your face from the cracked window in the parlor.  You look out instinctively, and stare at the churning ocean, as black and as cold as night.

               It would be so easy to go outside and throw the key into the sea.  Throw it away and leave this place behind.  No one would have to know.

               No one but you.

               You turn away from the window and make your way to the basement’s door, the stench of rotting flesh emanating from the cracks in the floorboards.  

               Shivering you slide the key into the lock, and twist it, forcing the age-old metal gears to bite into each other.  A silent prayer leaves your lips that this will be the day the mechanism breaks, the day that rust and friction, time and decay, finally take their fatal toll.  

               The lock clicks, the door opens, and your prayer goes unanswered.  But why wouldn’t it be? Does any god inhabit this place?

               There is no light to guide you as you walk down the cobblestone steps, your bag- a weight as heavy as sin- swinging against your side.  You can already hear the gurgles and moans from below. The dripping of drool and the scraping of claws.   The noise is distracting and you miscount the steps, as you always do, and for a second you find yourself falling forward into darkness, before catching yourself on the dirt floor. You turn to your right.

               Their glowing eyes look at you expectantly and their chains rattle in anticipation.  _Feeding time. _

               You could leave, but you don’t.

               You could run away, but you step forward.  

               You could grab your knife and slit their throats, but instead you reach for the waterproof matches in your pocket.

               The sulfur head crackles and ignites as your strike the flimsy wood against the side of the container.  They jerk away from the glow, as they always do, but you ignore them and light the candle, illuminating your workbench.

               Most of your tools are gone now.  Some lost, others thrown away, still more hidden in places deep beneath the earth where you pray no one will ever think to look for them.  Only one piece of equipment remains: your cleaver. You pick up the blade, and run it against the sharpener to your right. Once, twice -- they look up in expectation --three times, four times -- sparks fill the room and, without meaning to, you look at them, their impossible arms and legs twisting and writhing -- five times, six times -- their chains rattle and jerk at the stone walls behind them.

               Seven times is more than enough. You lay your bag out on the bench and unzip it.  Her head- a tangle of auburn hair- flops out.  With a grunt you lift her up onto the table.  Only thirteen, but more than enough meat on her bones to suffice.   Her dead eyes flutter at you and your stomach rolls.  

               You bring the cleaver down on her neck.  And then her arms, and then her legs.  Slowly, methodically, you place the meat into even piles.  Everyone must be equal.  Everyone must be fed.  After minutes-or hours-or eternities of cutting your stand up from the bench and look at the mounds of meat and bone.  You grab the nearest and bring it to the first.  He tears into it greedily, blood running down his lips.  The second and third finish their meals just as quickly. By the time you’ve given out the fourth and final meal, the others are looking at you like you might be next.

               It’s what they want and it’s what you deserve, but they do not move.

               Who besides you would come and feed them?

               Who but you would take pity on your family?

               You mutter another prayer, but you’re not sure what it’s for as you pick up the empty black bag and toss it into the pile in the corner that’s nearly as tall as you.  You don’t say goodbye as you walk up the steps and lock the door behind you, the gears grinding together like the gates of hell.  You put the key back into its hiding place and shut off the light before heading out through the front door.

               Outside, the storm has gotten worse.  The bitter wind whips at your poncho, as the endless rain falls, washing the blood away into the mud-soaked ground.

[hour13]

A November Story

Author’s Note: What do you mean it’s February?

A November Story

By Tim Carroll

               In polite company, Caroline Meredith Smith was called a miracle child or a happy little surprise. In less-than-polite company, she was known as an oops baby. Robert Alexander Smith and Robin O’neil Smith had never intended to have children. They were sensible, career-driven people who firmly believed that they had no business bringing a child into this world, let alone raising one. But fate, as it often does, cared little for their sensible, career-driven plans; thirty years into her marriage, three weeks after Mrs. Smith’s 52nd birthday, she began to feel morning sickness.

               She ignored it at first, after all, she was 52 years old, perhaps it was the lingering flu, or perhaps one of the viruses that they talked about on late night news. And the change in her eating habits? Well what business did her girlfriends have telling her what she should and shouldn’t eat? She was a grown woman, and if she wanted to have scrambled eggs for dinner, then by golly that’s what she would have.

               It was when his wife’s stomach started to bulge that Mr. Smith, finally, gingerly, suggested that Mrs. Smith try a pregnancy test. You know, as long as they were going to the drug store anyway, might as well pick one up, see what newfangled devices the twenty-somethings are using these days.

               The test came up positive. So did the four others that Mr. Smith bought at the drug store upon hearing his wife’s screams.

               That night Robin and Robert sat down across the dinner table, and discussed what to do with the child, each one holding a glass of wine. (“Our mothers drank when they had us,” proclaimed Mrs. Smith, “And I’ll be darned if some doctor says that we didn’t turn out all right.”) They were god-fearing people, and by the end of the evening it was decided: They were going to raise the baby.

               The next seven months passed in a whirlwind, with Mr. Smith, moving the furniture out of the upstairs sitting room and assembling a crib and mobile there, and Mrs. Smith visiting a trio of obstetricians and learning that, not only would she have to abstain from alcohol, but also coffee, fish, and soft cheeses. She didn’t adhere to the new diet perfectly, but she took her prenatal vitamins religiously.

               On the morning of November 5th, Mrs. Smith shook her husband awake and told him that it was time. Robert’s eyes bolted open. He threw on clothes and drove his wife to the hospital. Two hours later, Caroline Meredith Smith came into the world.

               With 10 fingers, 10 toes, a healthy- if pale- complexion, and a toothless smile that lit up the room, Caroline was the darling of the maternity ward. Mr. and Mrs. Smith received all the compliments with a fake smile they had each practiced in front of the mirror. They flashed the same smile at their baby as they brought her into their home, each wondering what exactly they were going to do with the child.

               Caroline, was a happy, if slightly out-of-date, child. Her classmates sometimes snickered at the plain, grey, home-stitched frocks she wore to kindergarten classroom. While other girls brought their Barbie dolls to show and tell, she brought her china tea set, carefully wrapped in paper. She tried hard to sound like the other children, but being raised by such old parents made it hard for her to sound like a modern child; not even her teacher understood what she meant when she said, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

               There weren’t many kids to play with in her neighborhood on Elm Street either. Most of her neighbors had, like Caroline’s parents, made the sensible and career-driven choice not to have children. The few children that did live on Elm Street were much older than her and attended far away schools, only coming back to visit on the holidays.

               After a few lonely afternoons playing games by herself, Caroline finally found willing playmates: the animals in her backyard. Caroline didn’t have much in common with the four-legged, multi-armed, or flying creatures in the woods behind her house, but they did share one important feature: they were largely ignored by the people living on Elm Street.

               It didn’t take long for Caroline to come to the opinion that animals made for better playmates than people. They didn’t yell at her or interrupt her. They didn’t her for the way she talked or dressed. And they always listened to what she had to say. In short, they were perfect friends.

               During her sixth summer, Caroline rose before the sun every morning and headed out into the woods to play with the animals there. She sang songs with the chickadees as they cracked open nuts in the trees. She raced the deer as they sprinted from one end of the neighborhood to the other. She even played hopscotch with the rabbits that she came across (even if they weren’t very good at following the rules.)

               At first, Mr. and Mrs. Smith were happy with this development. With Caroline leaving the house early each morning, they were free to sip their coffees in peace. Mr. and Mrs. Smith started referring to the animals as the best babysitter they’d ever invested in. They laughed, but they stopped laughing when they realized that Caroline wanted to bring animals back into the house with her.

               Caroline’s first adoptee was a cricket named Jodie. Jodie was a sweet, if vain, creature, and she loved to watch Caroline draw pictures. Unfortunately, her chirping kept Mrs. Smith up all night, and she had to go.

               Her next pet were a swarm of decidedly quiet fireflies named Alex, Amber, Alvin, Abbie, Abe, Andy, Archie, Arty, Ally, Aaron, Arthur, Ashley, Anna, Ashton, Ava, Alan, Aster, and George. They were hard to tell apart, but Caroline was pretty sure she knew which was which. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were okay with them at first, but one day, Caroline dropped the jar that contained them, and the glass shattered everywhere, releasing the fireflies throughout the house.

               After a harrowing three days of searching the house for every last firefly, Caroline’s parents sat her down on the big white couch in the parlor and explained to her that houses were for people, not animals. Caroline ran from the room in tears, but her parents refused to budge.

               Caroline waited another week before trying again, this time with a white-striped squirrel named Brian. Brian lived in a shoebox that Caroline had stolen from the recycling bin and quietly hid in the corner of the garage. Brian was fun to play with, but he wasn’t as good at hiding as Caroline had hoped. One night, he chewed threw the side of his shoebox, ran through the house, and bit Mr. Smith on the hand. Caroline insisted that it was an accident, but some people from a place named Animal Control came the next day and took Brian away to make sure he wasn’t sick with something called Rabies and Caroline never saw him again.

               After that, Caroline’s parents began searching the house every week for signs of animal activity. By then it was late August, and Mr. and Mrs. Smith hoped that with school and an abundance of human playmates coming their daughter would forget about her animal-obsession.

               Caroline did not share her parents’ enthusiasm for school. She thought of the girls there who couldn’t stand to get their clothes dirty and the boys who fidgeted and pulled at her hair, and the way they all made fun of the way she talked and she didn’t think she was ready to stomach another year of it.

               On the last day of summer, she made a point to tell all the animals where she was going. She whispered to the rabbits in their hidey-holes that their hopscotch games would have to wait, she told the three separate ant colonies that she’d be leaving for a while and they should all try to get along, she shouted after the deer that she’d miss them and that they should be careful not to run into the street again.

               One by one, Caroline found her playmates and said her goodbyes. The sun was low in the sky when she returned home and sat down to dinner with her family. She smiled her best fake smile at her parents when they told her about school tomorrow, and tried to fake excitement when her mother showed her the new hand-stitched frock she would be wearing the next day.

               It was only after she had taken her evening bath and sat down on her bed that the burning tears finally fell from her face, soaking her pillow and teddy bear. She looked out the window at the forest she was leaving behind, and sobbed as she saw the dances of the fireflies, and the sing-alongs of the owls, and the...

               And the…

               And the golden eyes staring up at her that she had never seen before.

               Caroline looked at the big hand on the clock next to her. 8:25, five minutes before her big-girl-but-still-early-because-there’s-school-tomorrow bedtime. Silently, Caroline tossed on her shoes and hurried down to see what was outside. “Getting a glass of water,” she whispered to her mom as she ran past her, waited till she was out of sight, and then exited through the kitchen door.

               The glowing eyes were gone by the time Caroline reached the edge of the woods, but she knew they couldn’t have gone far. Caroline had never explored the woods at night before, but she knew that this might be her only chance to see the creature, and after all, she would only go in a little bit, what could go wrong? Ten steps into the woods turned to twenty, and twenty into thirty, and thirty into fifty. There was still no sign of the creature, but by now the woods were so thick that she couldn’t see the way back to her house. After tripping on roots for the third time that she hadn’t seen until she was already falling down, Caroline was forced to admit that she was completely lost.

               Caroline figured she hadn’t taken more than a hundred steps away from her house, so all she had to do was pick a random direction, walk a hundred steps in it, and if she was wrong, she would just pick a different direction and walk a hundred steps that way, and eventually she’d choose the right direction and make it back.

               The plan seemed sensible at first, but after an hour or so of carrying it out, Caroline felt even more lost then when she had started. By now the woods were pitch black, and the cold wind of early fall pierced through the recent tears in her thin pajamas. With tears on her face she wandered through the woods. Every tree, every root, and every fallen leaf looked exactly the same, and every few minutes she swore she saw a pair of yellow eyes in the distance, but whenever she turned towards them, they vanished. Eventually, after hours of walking, she saw a pair of lights in the distance.. As she walked closer to the lights, she saw that they were the windows of a cottage. With the last of her strength, Caroline walked up to the cottage and knocked on the doors.

               The next few moments – or were they hours- passed in a blur. The door swung open, and a woman with greying hair and a thousand smiling wrinkles opened the door. Caroline opened her mouth to talk but before a sound emerged she was already falling forward into the woman’s outstretched arms.

               Caroline awoke to the sound of the crackling fire, its heat pressing against her face and warming the thick woolen blanket that was covering her. Caroline looked over to see the woman who opened the door pouring milk into a silver saucer while a calico cat waited patiently nearby.

               The woman turned at Caroline, her green eyes glinting in the firelight. “You’re awake,” she said, the gentle words rolling off her tongue. Caroline nodded.

               “You’re lost.” The woman explained as a second cat – a black tabby- leapt into her lap, “This isn’t the sort of place that someone goes looking for.”

               Caroline started to explain to the woman that she had been following a creature in the woods, and that it was past her bedtime, and thank you for the blanket, and she had no idea where her home was or even where she was now, and tomorrow was school, but she was okay missing it, and is there any extra milk because walking through the woods is thirsty work. The more she talked, the more Caroline’s words and stories tangled together like a ball of yarn with details constantly being added. It was a long story, and Caroline fell asleep more than a few times telling it, but whenever she woke up, the old woman was there, tending to a different kitten.

               By the time Caroline had finished her story, the first rays of the sun were just beginning to peak over the treetops.

               “I was once like you, you know.” The old woman responded. Caroline was a little startled, never before had she talked so long without being interrupted or scolded.

               “A child?” Caroline asked gingerly

               “No,” The old woman replied, stroking a gray-striped kitten, “Well I suppose I was. But I meant that I, like you, once thought that animals were infinitely preferable to people.”

               Caroline nodded, not sure what the word infinitely meant.

               “You said you had school today” The old woman continued, “And if you’d like, I could lead you back to your parents’ house so that you’d make it there in time for your first day.”

               Caroline didn’t move. The old woman took one look at the child’s widening brown eyes and chuckled, “But, I have so many kittens to tend to, and it’s so much work for an old woman like me. If you’d like you could stay for a little while and help me tend to them.”

               Caroline nearly leapt from the couch, her gap-toothed smile shining in the firelight.

               The next few days were the happiest of Caroline’s young life. Each morning she rose early and helped the old woman- Cassidy was her name- gather berries and nuts in the forest. Each afternoon the milkman came and delivered four gallons of milk in twelve clinking glass bottles, each evening Cassidy set her down by the fire and told her about the kittens: Jackie, who ate the seeds from the sunflowers in the garden, Alice who spent her free time leaping from the rafters, Mitchell who liked to play with the chickadees in the birdbath.

               “There have always been twelve of us, one for each month of the year,” Cassidy explained, gesturing to the eleven kittens as she tucked Caroline into bed, “I was never sure when I’d find my replacement.” Caroline nodded softly as she drifted off to sleep.

               One morning – a dozen or so days since Caroline had arrived at the cottage – Cassidy wasn’t there when Caroline woke up. Caroline missed the old woman, but knew that it was her time, after all, there needed to be twelve.

               Caroline continued her duties, carrying them out exactly as Cassidy had taught her. She didn’t remember everything, but the kittens were always there to remind her if she misplaced a silver bowl or didn’t bring the milk delivery inside quickly enough. By the time another week had passed she had forgotten that such a thing as school had ever existed.

               Caroline was only a little bit startled when the fur began to sprout from her arms and legs. Her arms were already growing heavier and her ears were beginning to pick up at the ends.

               On the night of September 30th, after giving each of the kittens a goodnight kiss on the head, Caroline stretched her blanket out in front of the fire and lay down, dreaming, as she often did, of the golden-eyed creature that had led her to this cottage.

               In the middle of the night, Caroline heard a crashing sound echo through the cottage, and leapt up onto her paws, sniffing at the room for the source of the disturbance. “It’s alright,” came a voice from above her.

               Standing over her head, was a red haired man with a bushy mustache and the same green-eyes that Jacob, the calico tabby, had had. He smiled at the kitten apologetically, gesturing at the pile of saucers he had knocked to the ground. He bent down and stroked the fur on Caroline’s back.

               “Welcome to the family, Caroline.”

End of Story Notes

               This story arose out of another storytelling challenge from my girlfriend. Neil Gaiman has a short story called “October in the Chair” where personifications of the twelve months sit in front of a fire and tell stories. Only June and October end up telling a story in full, so my girlfriend challenged me to tell her a different month’s story. I chose November.

               When I was telling this story the first time, not only did this story take place in November, but the protagonist’s name was also November. By the time I reached the end, I had to stop myself from calling her Caroline, the name just fit her too perfectly. The story’s transition to the month of September was a necessity as well.

[hour13]

The Origin of Green

Author’s Note: This story arose from a challenge by my girlfriend to tell her a story about the origin of the color green. I made this up on the spot.

The Origin of Green

By Tim Carroll

                 This is the story of how the color green came to be.

                 Long ago, before time was even counted, there were three sisters.  The three sisters had been trained since their youth to be weavers, a term that has lost its meaning in the intervening millennia.  Today, weavers stitch together hats and pieces of clothing, but long ago, weavers wove together reality itself. 

                 On each of their sixteenth birthdays, the weavers were called before their parents and given a challenge: to weave something for the creatures living on the barren rock that would come to be known as Earth. 

                 The eldest of the weavers took one look at the miserable humans, wrapped in their furs and shivering, and saw that they were freezing.  To end their suffering, she weaved together the Sun, and with it the color yellow.  She placed the golden orb atop the earth, and used its heat to warm the frigid lands.

                 Years passed, and it came time for the second weaver to prepare her gift.  She had been impressed by her sister’s creation, but noticed a flaw. The sun was only able to warm one edge of the vast earth; the other side was still cold.  To amend this, the second sister wove together the sky and with it the color blue.  Now the sun was able to sail above the Earth, and bring heat in equal amounts to all its inhabitants.

                 Two more years passed, and the time came for the youngest sister to weave her gift.  The youngest sister was far more brash and impetuous than her elders; she questioned why she should weave the denizens of earth a gift at all.  They were weak, and she was all-powerful.  Should they not be preparing gifts for her instead? 

                 To show her dominance, the third sister wove fire, and with it the color red.  She cast it upon the earth, igniting the land and scorching everything in its path.  The denizens of earth trembled in fear of the third sister’s monstrous invention, and hid deep beneath the surface where they hoped that the flames could not reach them.  

                 The elder sisters looked at the youngest’s foul creation with dismay.  They wished to end the suffering of the people on earth, but could not.  Once something has been woven into existence it can never be unwoven, not even by the cleverest of weavers. 

                 But the sisters refused to give up, and, combining their skills, they made one final invention, and, of course, a color to go with it.  A color that would come to symbolize hope and rebirth, a color that would one day represent of joy and spring. 

                 They spread their new color over the lands of the earth, calling it green.

                 All manner of green things, from plants to bushes to flowers, took root on the earth, spreading over the land to bring life to the world that had been devastated by the third sister’s flames.

                 In time, the fires that had once ravaged the lands were extinguished, and the young humans were able to come out of hiding and gaze upon the new world.  Earth was no longer a barren rock, but a lush paradise, teeming with life that was a mixture of the colors of sun and sky. 

                 The weavers have long since passed away, but still their colors and inventions remain.  The yellow sun providing light and heat, the blue sky making sure to spread it equally, and even the red flames, providing a surrogate sun during times of cold and darkness. 

                 And of course the color green remains, the most resilient of all the colors.  For even on the most damaged or wartorn wastelands, places of destruction and terror, if you look hard enough you will find sprigs of green poking up through the ashen earth, ready to remake the world anew. 

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've posted.  Nothing's happened to me, I've just been working on something incredibly long.   If you want an origin story for the color Purple, check out my old story Tyrian.  If you want an origin for the color orange, find a different author.

[hour13]

Duet

                                                        Duet

                                                  By Tim Carroll

                Surrounded by the blackened walls of a church that had burned to the ground,  beneath a sky the color of gasoline,  in front of an organ that had stood for over a century, the blue-eyed girl sat down to play a melody.

                The music, a song as beautiful as nature itself, flowed like a river through the desolate streets of the village that surrounded the church.  Music was a strange sound in the abandoned town; so strange, that the few mice and rabbits scrounging among the wreckage stopped their search for food, to listen to the sweet tones echoing through the hills.   

                On the other side of the village, the brown-eyed girl walked towards the source of the music, each note seeming to match her gait as she passed by the collapsed roofs and fallen trees.   The mice and rats moved out of the girl’s path as she approached, for they knew that where she walked death followed.

                The brown-eyed girl did not care about the actions of the small creatures.  She walked slowly, but so enchanted was she by the song, that by the time she arrived at the doors of the church, she felt as though she had only just begun to listen.

                The brown-eyed girl entered the structure.  When the Church was whole, her entrance would have been signaled to the congregation with the roar of the bronze door opening.  Now, the girl simply walked through the hole left where the door had once proudly stood. 

                She sat in an ash-covered pew in the last row, intending to wait for the song to finish.  But the instant her armored body touched the seat, the music stopped and the blue-eyed girl turned around. 

                For a second, the only movement in the room was the bits of ash dancing through the air.

                “You are quite a musician.”

                The blue-eyed girl stared at her guest as though she were a phantom. “You came,” she said, her tone indicating that the words were half-question, half-statement.

                For a moment, silence filled the church.

                The blue-eyed girl gestured at the instrument behind her.  “Do you wonder why this organ stands when the church around it does not?”

                The brown-eyed girl did not answer.

                “This instrument was created in the forges of the Grand Citadel where it is said that the golden flames burn so hot, that the smiths must don sealed armor before beginning the thousand foot descent into its belly.  If a single crack were to form in the smiths’ armor, they would not have time to call out before the flames engulfed them.”

                Again the brown-eyed girl did not answer, patiently listening to the story.

                “The Matriarch once said that the reason our people put such effort into creating these instruments, is so that even if the Laurasian army and all of its Dragons were to come and burn our lands, our battle hymns could still sound over the wreckage, uniting our people against the heretics.”

                “That did not sound like a battle hymn.” The brown-eyed girl observed.

                “In truth, I do not know any.”

                Brown eyes met blue eyes.

                “Why did you come?” The blue-eyed girl asked.

                “Why did you invite me?” The brown-eyed girl asked in return.

                Once again silence filled the room.  This time it was the voice of the brown-eyed girl that broke it.

                “When I was a child, royal officials took me away from my parents to a special citadel along our country’s border.  I was not the only one they took.  There were ninety-nine other children there, boys and girls, none of them older than ten, none of them younger than five.  Just like your citadel there was a forge burning at the bottom of mine.  But unlike yours, our fire was not stored at the bottom of a thousand-foot pit.”

                The blue-eyed girl did not respond, allowing the brown-eyed girl to tell her story.

                “For two years that citadel was my home.   I awoke early each day and trained with my ninety-nine brothers and sisters, learning how to kill the Gondwanan heretics, to break their bodies and their spirits.   Each day, I felt the heat of the forge’s flames beneath my feet, an ever present reminder of what would happen to me if I failed.”

                The blue-eyed girl said nothing.

                “For two years I trained, watching as, one by one, my brothers and sisters succumbed to the rigors of our training and were fed to the flames beneath us.   At last, the day came when only two of us remained.  On that day, I went with my final brother into the furnace room and the two of us fought, surrounded by the flames of our nation’s anger and the ashes of our cremated siblings.  After hours of brutal combat, I gained the upper hand and I pressed my advantage.  I charged at my brother and then I broke his spine and threw his body into the furnace, killing the last member of my family with my bare hands.”

                “Is that how you became a Dragon?” The blue-eyed girl asked.

                “That is how I was born.”

                The two girls sat in silence.  Realizing it was her turn to speak, the blue-eyed girl broke it.

                “I was born in a village of blacksmiths not far from here.”  She shared, “My mother perished giving birth to me.  There no were no children my age living in the village, so, as I grew up, my only companion was my father.”  

                The brown-eyed girl said nothing.

                “If my mother had survived my birth, I would have spent my days in the home with her.  Instead, I spent them in the spare room of my father’s forge.  I was known as an anjir, a word which means insect in the ancient language.  My father treated me well, but his coworkers did not.  A forge is not a place for a little girl.  The other smiths did not appreciate having to constantly look down to make sure they did not step on me, nor did they appreciate watching their language so that I did not hear any foul words.  My father assured me that he did not consider me to be an anjir, but still, every evening when my father laid me down to sleep and said his nightly prayers over my bed, I questioned whether he was praying for a divine power to protect me or send me away.”   

                The brown-eyed girl said nothing.  

                “I did not realize that there was a void inside me until I filled it with music.”  The blue-eyed girl said, running her hands over the organ’s keys affectionately, “During my father’s sparse free time, he taught me how to play the instruments he crafted.   I started out with the flute, but as my skill grew so did the instruments I learned how to play, next was the lute, then the harp, then the piano.” The blue- eyed girl gestured to the organ behind her before continuing.   “Music transformed me.  During the day, I was an anjir, and there was nothing I could say or do that would make the hardened men in the village view me as anything other than a nuisance, a burden that my father bore with grace.   But at night, when I played music in the town center, they listened to me.  In fact, they did more than listen; when they heard my songs, they understood me and I understood them.  We were one family, united by music.  It made me feel whole.”

                The brown-eyed girl stood up and approached the marble altar that stood between her and the blue-eyed girl.

 “I too have felt the pain of emptiness.” The brown-eyed girl said, “When I emerged from the pit of the citadel, I felt a despair clutching my heart like nothing I had ever experience before.  My ninety-nine brothers and sisters were dead.  The children who I had trained with and fought with, ate with and bathed with, were dead.  And with them, so was my spirit. ” 

The blue-eyed girl hesitated, unsure of whether to approach or reach for the blade resting against the side of the organ. 

 “It was then that my teachers saw me and smiled.” The brown eyed girl continued, “They laughed and congratulated me on my victory.  Immediately, I was fitted for my armor.  Black and Green and Gold, the color of dragon scales.” The brown-eyed girl gestured to the armor she wore, and the weapon strapped to her back. 

“The instant I finished putting on the armor, a change rippled through the chamber.  Moments ago, my teachers had looked at me as though I was nothing, but in that instant, wearing the scales of a Dragon like a second skin, I saw a look in their eyes that would be mirrored in the faces of everyone I encountered from that day on. In their eyes was fear, real and powerful. 

The blue-eyed girl nodded.

“Before I donned my armor, I was no one, nameless and faceless, but with it on, I was a Dragon.”

The blue-eyed girl nodded, “Is that when you began to serve in the Laurasian Army?”

                The brown-eyed girl smiled, “My first battle was a thrill unlike any other.  In my arms, I carried a cannon that unleashed the holy fire of Laurasia, the very flame that I had trained above for two years.  When I spat it out, I felt like my soul was pouring out upon the world, igniting it with my rage and with my joy. In that moment, I was a Dragon and I breathed fire.”

                The blue-eyed girl stepped forward.  “Your flames spread across the Gondwanan border like a plague.”  The blue-eyed girl commented, “You were far more deadly and far more ruthless than any Dragon that had come before you.  People and cities burned beneath the crimson blossoms you ignited. The men of my village talked of your exploits in whispers, they made jokes and forced laughs as though they weren’t afraid, but in their eyes I could see the fear that our village would be the next one on your endless warpath.” 

                “I was born to spread terror.”  The brown-eyed girl said without joy or remorse.  

                The blue-eyed girl nodded, “It was not long before our ruler, the Matriarch, knew of the threat that you embodied.  ‘As long as you drew breath,’ she said, ‘Laurasia would not fall.’   We gathered our armies, our finest warriors and assassins, in the city of Antioch.   My father and his fellow blacksmiths were called to the city to make weapons for our nation’s assault.  Our generals planned to attack you where we believed you would be weakest, on your homeland, where your own flames would work against you.  Every building you burned would contain your own countrymen, every child you killed as collateral damage was one who would not grow up to stand against us.  Our leaders believed that you would not dare use your weapon when the cost would be so staggering to your own people.”

                “Your army was too large to escape our notice, our spies—“

                “Were we right?” The blue-eyed girl interrupted.

                “What do you mean?”  The brown-eyed girl asked.

                “Were our tacticians right to assume that you would not risk harming your own people?”

                Brown eyes met blue eyes.

                “I am a Dragon.  The people of Laurasia are not my people.”

                Blue eyes strayed from brown eyes.

                “My people were the Dragons who joined me when the time came for us to assault your city of Antioch.  Your army was too large to keep its secrets hidden, and our spies had urged us to gather an army and strike before you could.  Every single one of Laurasia’s Dragons came to join me in battle.  Just like me they wore scaled armor that gleamed in the sunlight.  Just like me they carried cannons that breathed holy flames.   Just like me they had steel in their hearts and fire in their eyes.  In that moment, I knew that I was not alone.  Once again I had brothers and sister.  When the order came to attack Antioch, I marched with them side by side.” 

                Blue eyes rose from the floor and met with brown eyes. “Our scouts could see your army coming from miles and miles away, but even with their warnings we were not ready.  Each day for the past three weeks more battalions had arrived at Antioch, turning the city into a crowded mess of soldiers scrambling back and forth like headless chickens, unsure of who to report to.  Our generals did nothing to end the confusion.  Instead of making plans for the assault, they struggled to outmaneuver and undercut one another, in the hopes that they, and they alone, would be the one who led our warriors in glorious battle.

                The blue-eyed girl sighed, “No one was prepared for your impending army.  Our soldiers were not properly equipped or organized.  With no idea what to do, our generals sent out our army with no instruction other than to kill as many of your soldiers as they could.”

                Blue eyes locked with brown eyes, “Our forces met on Abernajin plain.”

                For a minute the two sat in silence.  In the corner a mouse squeaked as it searched for food among the scorched tiles of the floor.

                “Why are you so eager to listen to a story you already know?”  The blue-eyed girl asked.

                “Why are you so eager to share a story with someone who already knows it?” The brown-eyed girl answered.

                “I watched the battle unfold from a nearby hill.”  The blue-eyed girl said, “I saw the Gondwanan armies, a disorganized mass of men, charging at your battle lines, only to be cut to pieces by your trained spearmen or burnt to ash by the breath of Dragons.  It was on that day, that I felt true despair; despair for the future of my people, despair for the families who would never see their fathers and brothers again, despair for the citizens of Antioch who dwelt behind our army’s lines, and despair for their despair. When our soldiers, beaten and bleeding, finally began to run away, I sprinted into the forest that straddled Antioch hoping that if I got far enough into the thick woods, I would be able to survive.”

                 The brown-eyed girl stepped forward.  “The day that brought you your first taste of despair was the day I experienced joy for the first time.  The battle of Abernajin plain brought me an ecstasy that I had never felt before.  My joy did not come from the thrill of the battle; it stemmed from the feeling of belonging that I had never known until that day.  Standing beside me in the din of battle, among the screams of pain and the crashing of bodies, were my brothers and sisters, men and women who had come from the same fiery womb that I had and inspired the same terror and respect from those around us.  To them, I was neither a tool to be used nor a monster to be feared. I was an equal, no more and no less.”

                The blue-eyed girl circled the altar that stood between her and the brown-eyed girl, “I wandered through the forest without direction for three days, eating and drinking nothing.  In the distance I could hear the constant screams of the city your army destroyed.  At last I came upon a small town beside the forest, its streets crowded with widows and orphans weeping tears of blood for the dead.  Those who could speak talked only of death and surrender.  Some considered taking their own lives.   Others discussed defecting to your country, not caring about our nation, only caring about whether or not they survived.”

                “What were your thoughts?” The brown-eyed girl asked.

                “I did not have any,” The blue-eyed girl replied, “I walked without feeling the ground under me, not knowing my destination until I arrived in front of this organ for the first time.  I sat down in front of it and began to play, my fingers moving automatically, guided by a mind that had ceased to think and a heart that had ceased to care.  I began by playing The Eagle’s Nest, the first song that my father had ever taught me, after that I played The Reverie of Spring, the song I had played when I last saw him.  After that I began to improvise.  I played songs without names, songs that I had never heard before.  I played songs of growing up alone in a village of blacksmiths, songs of the chaos and confusion of the battlefield, songs of despair and grief, but through it all I wove a thread of hope, a hope that a better day was coming, a hope that we were beaten but not defeated, a hope that the light of our nation’s candle was shrouded in mist, but it had not yet been extinguished, a hope that we would live to see peace.”

                The brown-eyed girl laughed.

                “Is something funny?”

                “Earlier you said you didn’t know any battle hymns, and yet that is exactly what you played.”

                “What I played was not a battle hymn.”

                “No matter what you call it, you played your music, and your people, broken, flocked here to become whole again.  Your song rallied those who had given up hope, and turned them into soldiers ready to take up arms once more.”

                “Is that how you see my music?”

                “Knowing the end of the path that your song set your country down,  can you fault me for not viewing it any other way?”

                The blue-eyed girl turned away from the brown-eyed girl and began to pace, running her hand along the organ’s keys.

                “I have no idea how long I played for. “ The blue-eyed girl said, looking at the charred floor, “I only know that as I was beginning a refrain that could have been the tenth or the ten-thousandth, I felt a hand rest on my shoulder, and when I looked up to see its owner, I stared into the weathered face of the Matriarch of our people.” 

                “In that moment the world I had shut out came back to me,”   The blue-eyed girl continued, “I looked down to see that my fingers were calloused and bleeding, and I looked behind me to see that the pews were no longer empty, but filled with hundreds of people, staring at me with the type of reverence that I had only ever seen in the eyes of my father when he prayed over my bed at night.”

                The Matriarch stood in front of the crowd, her silver armor and violet cape gleaming in the light that poured through the stained glass windows.   Her voice boomed through the silent church.  She proclaimed me as the hero of Gondwana, the woman who had united us in our time of greatest need.”

                “I tried to tell her that she was wrong. I was not a hero; I was an anjir, a nuisance, a girl whose only talent was playing music.  But the words would not come out of my dry throat.  The Matriarch continued her speech, and told the congregation that I was the woman who would lead our army against the Laurasian heretics.”

                “The crowd roared before I could protest that I had no skill in battle, I tried to tell her that making me into a symbol of hope would just do nothing but lead our people towards further despair.  But before I found the words, the Matriarch gestured to her knights to bring me a gleaming sword.  I knew that if I were to turn down the weapon, my people would be forever broken.  So, with shaking hands I reached out blade’s gilded hilt.” 

                “So you did not know?”  The brown-eyed girl asked.

                “No,” The blue-eyed girl replied shaking her head, “I had no idea what enchantments the high priests had put on that blade.   All I knew is that when I touched the hilt of the weapon, I felt a surge of power rush through my veins.  In my mind I could remember hundreds of swordsmanship lessons that I had never learned.  I could feel the blade in my hand and remember using it to cut down Laurasian soldiers who I had never encountered.”

                “This is the Archangel’s blade,” The Matriarch shouted, “It is a weapon crafted by the Order of Angels themselves.  Through its magic, the fallen will fight with us in battle, their strength channeled into a warrior as strong as ten thousand of Laurasia’s Dragons.  Hail the Archangel of Gondwana!”  As the crowd cheered, I realized that the Matriarch was referring to me.

                “And that,” the brown-eyed girl pointed out, “is the story of how you were born.” 

                “The Matriarch’s speech was perfectly rehearsed,” The blue-eyed girl continued, “before I could say anything to dampen the spirits of our people, her soldiers, their armor gleaming like the sun, burst into the church and began to distribute weapons.  With the people distracted,  the Matriarch led me towards an exit in the back.”

                “She walked alongside me as she led me through the town’s empty streets.  She told me that as the Archangel, I could inspire our people the same way the Dragons inspired yours.  She told me that I was our country’s last hope of ending the war.  I assured her that I would do my best, but she could see the doubt in my eyes.  She told me that she knew who I was and there was something I had to see before I led our people victory.  She led me to an unmarked tent on the outskirts of the city and told me to go inside.  The only thing in the tent was a cot that looked like a pile of coal had been dumped on top of it.  When I looked closer, I could not stop myself from retching, for it was not a pile of coal, but a man.   His legs and torso had been blackened by dragon fire and his right arm had been severed at the elbow, but his face was unblemished, and it was his face that forced me to fall to my knees and weep bitter tears, for it was the face of the man who had taught me music and had prayed over my bed every night.  The body was my father’s.”

                “I stumbled out of the tent, and the Matriarch rested a hand on my shoulder.  She began to speak but I did not hear it, all I felt was the fire of rage inside me, a fire that left me with nothing but an all-consuming desire to find every Laurasian soldier who had come to Antioch that day and slaughter them like the dogs they were.”

                “The next day I was fitted into gleaming white armor that had been made in the same citadel as this organ.  Now it was not just our battle hymns that would withstand the fury of your flames, inside my new armor, I too would be able to resist the heat of Dragon fire.”     

                The brown-eyed girl said nothing, knowing what came next.

                “Under direct orders of the Matriarch, the knights formed our people into battalions.  This time there was no confusion as to who was in charge, nor did any soldier doubt his mission or his purpose.  Our goal was simple, we would march towards the Citadel of the Dragon at the Laurasian border, and we would do whatever it took to end their reign of terror once and for all.”

                “It took us two weeks to prepare.”  The blue-eyed girl said, “Two weeks to turn simple villagers into the most fearsome army that had ever been born from Gondwana’s womb.  To the beat of war drums and trumpets, I led the march towards your citadel.” 

                For one minute silence filled the burned church.  The brown-eyed girl and blue-eyed girl stared at each other expectantly.

                At last the brown-eyed girl broke the silence, “It is your story to tell.”

                “I have no desire to tell it.”

                “History is supposed to be a story told by the winners.”

                Blue eyes remained locked on the floor.

                “If you don’t tell it then I will.”

                The blue-eyed girl said nothing. 

                The brown-eyed girl stepped forward, “Your army marched across the border and encountered only a small force guarding our citadel.  Our leaders had never expected you to attempt another attack on our homeland, not after the crippling of your army or the massacre at Antioch.  Although we were small in numbers, our soldiers did not despair, for among us was every dragon that that had ever been born from the citadel’s fiery womb, each one ready to spread terror and flame across your battle lines.  

                “We charged into battle, our cannons blasting holy fire onto your army’s ranks.  We expected to hear screams of terror and agony, but they did not come.  For the first time ever, your people did not fear us.   In the center of the carnage was you, tearing apart Laurasian soldiers with a blade that gleamed in the sunlight.  It did not take me or my siblings long to realize that you were the source of your army’s courage, and when you fell so would the morale of your soldiers. One by one, my siblings carved through the chaos of the battlefield and attacked you.”

                The blue-eyed girl continued to stare at the floor.

                “The first was my eldest sister, a woman as beautiful as she was deadly.  It was said that she occasionally took off her armor and went among your generals seducing information from them before incinerating them in their own beds.   For each man who met that fate she put a sapphire scale in her armor.  Charging towards you, a fire-belching mouth in each hand, she gleamed like the ocean.  She held both her weapons in front of her as she sprinted, expecting you to succumb to the flames in a matter of seconds.  But her beauty and her strength had made her overconfident, and when you did not fall to the fire, you only had to stick out your blade to pierce her sternum and end her life.”

                The blue-eyed girl looked up from the floor.

                “Next was an older brother of mine; he always kept his armor immaculately white and was known among our soldiers as the Winter Dragon.  He stood a head taller than the rest of us and was proud of his power.  To this end he had modified his cannon to shoot short intense burst of flame rather than endless streams of fire.  He adjusted his weapon as he charged towards you, intent on avenging our fallen sister.  From ten meters away he knelt to the ground and released a fireball as high and wide as you are tall.  The blast collided with your armor, filling the air with plumes of smoke so thick that he did not see you when you charged forward and sliced him from shoulder to hip, permanently staining his white armor with ash and blood.”

                The blue-eyed girl clenched her fists silently.

                “After that came two dragons clad in ruby, the only twins to ever be born from my womb.  They were wary of your fireproof armor and knew that the only way to prevail was to exhaust you.  The two approached you with coordinated movements, one always closer, standing just outside of the range of your sword, and one always further, releasing a torrent of flames.  For nearly an hour, the three of you danced across the battlefield, chasing one another in endless loops.  The twins had gifts of speed and gifts of endurance, but your gifts proved to be greater.  Eventually one of the twins, exhausted from the battle, tripped over the corpse of a fallen soldiers.  You took advantage of the opening, surged forward, and stabbed him in the stomach.  Immediately, his twin charged towards you with reckless abandon, tacitly asking for a death alongside his brother.  With a quick swing, you granted his request.”

                “Enough,” The blue-eyed girl yelled, “Yes, I killed them.   Every Dragon I came across fell to my blade, and with each one I slew I could feel their souls inside my blade, their knowledge mine to use in my quest for revenge.  I moved through the battlefield like a stone through a river, bodies parting like the current wherever I went.  When I took a step, I felt like it was the thousand-fold footfalls of an army.  When I swung my blade, it felt as though I was swinging the hammer of god.”

                “But, god or not,” The brown-eyed girl replied, “I charged forward, intent on avenging my fallen brothers and sisters. But before I could close the distance between us, I saw that a group of your army’s soldiers had reached the Citadel’s doors.  I changed direction immediately; killing you would not bring back the dead members of my family, but saving my womb would ensure that my line could continue.  I sprinted towards the citadel, incinerating anyone, Laurasian or Gondwanan, who was foolish enough to get in my way.”

                Tears welled up in blue eyes.

                “My efforts were in vain,” The brown-eyed girl said somberly.  “Even running at my fastest,  I could not reach my womb before your soldiers rolled a powder keg into the furnace, unleashing a blast that tore the entire structure into pieces.”

                “I—“

                “When I reached the soldiers who had done the deed,” The brown-eyed girl interrupted, “I did not use my cannon to kill them, instead I broke their bodies with my bare hands.  With a newfound fury, I unleashed my flame on the battlefield, intent on reducing the grassy plain and everyone who stood upon it to ash, be they the Gondwanans who had destroyed the citadel, or the Laurasians who had failed to protect it.”

                “How—“

                “I must have killed over five hundred soldiers that day.  I did not leave when the trumpets signaling our retreat sounded, I stayed, burning everything in my sights.” 

                “What made you end your slaughter?”

                “I didn’t do so willingly,”  The brown-eyed girl replied,  “I passed out from exhaustion and woke up three days later, in a hut surrounded by soldiers who had survived the battle. They called themselves the True Sons of Laurasia, and they told me about how our country had  surrendered, and was now little more than a puppet of the Gondwanan Matriarch.  They told me of their refusal to accept the surrender; that they would continue fighting the Gondwanan oppressors until every last one of them was dead.”

                “But that was not all they told me,” The brown-eyed girl continued, “They informed me that every single one of my brothers and sisters had died in that battle.  I was… I am… the last of my kind.”

                “If it consoles you, I believe my fate to be just as terrible,” The blue-eyed girl replied, “Shortly after the citadel fell, I was taken away from the battle to my country’s capital, a city of marble and alabaster.  I was paraded through the streets as the people cheered for me.”  The blue-eyed girl clenched her fists.

                “Are you not happy with your fame?”

                “The people did not cheer for me because I was the girl who had played music that brought them hope, nor did they cheer for me because I was a soldier who had helped bring about peace.  They cheered for me because I had slaughtered their enemies.  I had taken those who had made them feel powerless and brought them to a bloody end.  Through my victory, they felt powerful.”

                “Was that not your goal?”

                “My killing was a personal vendetta.  An attempt to avenge the death of the man who had raised me.  It was not an attempt to allow our country to force a surrender that gave them control over Laurasia.  I thought that I had entered that battle and slain powerful monsters, instead I only created one that was far more deadly.”

                “What monster?”

                “When I arrived at the Cathedral, I was greeted by the Matriarch, who embraced me as she congratulated me on my victory.  She assured me that it would be the first of many.  She showed me a map, and pointed out the islands that lay across the sea, peaceful lands that did not know war.  She told me that conquering them would be an easy feat for a warrior of my skill.”

                The brown-eyed girl said nothing.

                “In one week, the Matriarch intends to call our citizens to arms against these lands, in two, she plans to send our ships across the sea.  The legacy of the Archangel will not be the girl who played music or the girl who slayed the Dragons.  It will be the story of a warrior who shattered families and burned cities so that her country could have a little more land.”

                The Archangel and The Dragon sat in silence.

                “I have heard your story.”  The brown-eyed girl said, “And now I understand why you killed my brothers and sisters.  But why did you invite me here?”

                “I have no desire to conquer lands for my country.”  The blue-eyed girl answered, “But even if I refuse to take up my sword, another will.  There is only one way to stop the conquest of the Archangel.”

                “What is that?”

                “For you to kill me.”

                The brown-eyed girl tilted her head.

                “During the war, only two countries were hurt, mine and yours.”  The blue-eyed girl explained, as she picked up her sword “The rest of the world was safe from our carnage.”

                The brown-eyed girl did not speak.

                “I do not wish for the far reaches of the world to suffer because of my actions.  If I am killed by the last living Dragon, my countrymen will believe that our land is not yet safe from the Laurasians.  They will decide that yet another war would be an unacceptable risk, and that it would be for the best to cleanse the terrorists and murderers who lurk within our borders.  The rest of the world will be safe.”

                “You want to become a martyr?”

                “I want to bring peace.” The blue-eyed girl said, as she set her blade down on the altar.

                The brown-eyed girl sighed as she unstrapped her weapon from her back.  The blue-eyed girl glanced at the cannon before closing her eyes and kneeling.

                “I’m sorry,” the brown-eyed girl whispered as she pulled the trigger.

                For a few moments, golden flames danced along the organs pipes, before vanishing.

                The blue-eyed girl opened her eyes.

                “Are you taunting me?”

                “I will not kill you.”

                “Isn’t that what you came here for?”  The blue eyed girl shouted, “To kill me and avenge your fallen siblings?

                “That was the reason I came here.”  The brown-eyed girl admitted as she set her weapon down on the altar next to the sword, “But now I will not kill you.”

                “Do you only kill those who are unwilling?”  The blue-eyed girl asked, “Do you intend to make me suffer?”

                 The brown-eyed girl shook her head, “You are just like me.”

                Blue eyes widened.

                “You are not a Dragon.”  The brown-eyed girl said, “You do not have my claws, nor my scales, nor my fire.  But just like me you were taken from your home and reborn into a creature of war.”

                “I do not wish to be like you.”

                “I do not wish to see another one of my sisters die in vain. “

                Blue eyes widened further.  “Sister?”

                “I am not the first Dragon and you will not be the first Archangel.  So long as the disease known as war exists, people like us will be crafted into machines of war and called upon to kill and maim and burn and sever.  Your death will not change that.”

                “So you believe that it is hopeless?”  The blue-eyed girl asked, “That there is nothing I can do to stop the Gondwanan armada from assaulting innocent lands. 

                “I said that your death would be meaningless.  Your life does not have to be.”

                “What could I possibly do to unmake the monster I have created.”

                “Your Matriarch.”  Brown Eyes paused, “Our Matriarch, is a warmonger.  It is people like her who take the young and place them into wombs of fire and steel so that they may be reborn as Dragons or Archangels.  It is people like her who create wars to sate their need for more land and power.  So what I suggest is that you turn your sword, not on yourself, but on people like her, who open the wounds that pour out the blood of innocents.

                “You underestimate the power of the Matriarch,” The blue-eyed girl responded, “She is frail in body, but her mind is more ruthless or powerful than you could comprehend.  She commands armies and assassins, she manipulates the public like a master puppeteer, she is a genius who has led my people for longer than either of us have ever been alive.  How could I ever challenge her reign on my own?”

                The brown-eyed girl stepped forward and extended a gauntleted hand.  “I never said you had to do it alone, sister.”

                The blue-eyed girl looked up at the hand.  A hand that had strangled and shattered bodies.

                A hand that had burned Antioch and countless other cities to ash.

                A hand that may have killed her own father.

                A hand that belonged to someone who understood her unlike anyone else ever had.

                A hand that offered her a life that could result in something other than death and misery.

                The blue-eyed girl reached up and clasped it. 

                The brown-eyed girl smiled.  “My name is Isabella,” she said, as she lifted the blue-eyed girl to her feet.

                “Mine is Meredith.”  The blue-eyed girl replied.

                Without another word spoken, the blue-eyed Archangel and the brown-eyed Dragon picked up their weapons from the altar and turned away from the organ.  They walked down the aisle and out through the charred doors into the destroyed town.  The two walked through the night, passing by the collapsed homes and blackened vegetation as they headed towards the mountains where they would be able to rest without being found. 

                The trail was long and winding, but in the skies overhead the stars and moon shined brightly, illuminating the path before them with their combined light.

  ***End of Story Notes***

                This is my first story full-length story I’ve released in a while.  My personal and professional lives have been incredibly busy, but I’m hoping to get back on track this summer.  I have a pretty large backlog of half-finished stories that I’m hoping to work through and some of them may end up being my best stories yet.  

                One of the reasons that this story took so long was that it was very hard to find an ending that fit with the tone and with the characters.  An ending where one girl killed the other felt too lopsided, and an ending where both died felt empty.  Since I couldn’t find an ending, I kept fleshing out the storyline and the characters until I found one, leading to many, many rewrites.  Still, I am satisfied with the end result, and I hope you are too.

                The idea for the opening scene of this story came when I first listened to the chorus of the song “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid,” which I misheard as “With a thousand lies beneath the butane skies.”  The line is actually,  “With a thousand lies and a good disguise.”  Even so, I like my interpretation, and the idea of a sky the color of gasoline is deeply symbolic of A) the metaphorical pollution of war and B) the way that a metaphorical spark could set the world ablaze.

                For those of you who aren’t Geology buffs, the names Gondwana and Laurasia come from the names of the two supercontinents that Pangaea split apart into.   

                As always feel free to message me with your questions, comments, or suggestions.  

[hour13]

The Forsaken Punctuation

The Forsaken Punctuation

By Tim Carroll

                As part of a weekly meeting of a writers group I attend, we did a short story or poem about our favorite letter or punctuation.  This is what I came up with in ten minutes.  (I patched up errors in grammar and things that on reflection made no sense.)

                “Oh sweet Jesus!” Caroline shouted as she dove for cover behind the shattered remains of what had been her town square that morning.  She looked down at the melted piece of metal in her hands and threw it to the ground.  Useless.   She turned to her friend and fellow comma hunter, Becks, and motioned for her to toss her a gun, “How many more of these bastards are there?” 

                “I don’t know,” Becks replied, as she lobbed a rifle over to her friend,  “At least twelve, probably more.”

                “Brilliant,” Caroline hissed, as she wiped the sweat-soaked hair from her eyes and counted the remaining magazines on her belt.  The number was disappointingly low.

                “I thought they were a legend,”  Becks said, shaking her head, “I thought they had been removed from the world years ago, and replaced by the period or the word and.”

                “I know the stories,” Caroline said, as she put her back against a wall and knelt down, “But why are they here and why now?” 

                Another explosion shook the town, and Caroline saw the swarm of them approaching.  Their round heads floating above their pointed torsos.  Their metallic skin shining silver in the crimson light of the burning village.  Semicolons.  The legendary 14th punctuation mark.  The things English teachers talked to each other about in front of campfires, or in the teacher’s lounge, or wherever it was that they talked about grammar. 

                They glided over the destroyed landscapes, their silvery heads looking for another victim to claim, another life to end.  Caroline gulped, she had heard stories that when a semicolon stuck its point into you, it didn’t end your life.  Instead you just began another short life that was related to the first.   The thought chilled her to the core. 

                “On three…” she muttered, popping the pin out from a grenade on her belt.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Becks do the same, “two…” she hissed.  She didn’t get to one.  Moving with inhuman speed a trio of semicolons came from behind the two of them and knocked them over, sending their grenades hurtling uselessly into a pile of rubble.  An instant later, the two comma hunters were pinned down, by the horde of feral punctuation marks.

                “What do you want from us,” Caroline shouted, struggling to break free “Why are you here?”

                A semicolon with a distinguished brown beard silently glided towards them.  The other semicolons moved out of its path in what Caroline took to be a sign of reverence.   The semicolon stopped when it was only a few feet away, hovering over two comma hunters.  “We want you to admit it.”  It said, its voice loud and metallic.

                “Admit what?” Caroline shouted.

                “Admit that sometimes you want to include another clause and the end of a sentence in situations where using the word ‘and’ would be awkward, but you don’t want to use a period because it feels like the sentence without that clause would sound stupid on its own.”

                “Okay!” Caroline shouted, “I admit it.”

                “Never forget it.” The semicolon intoned as it and its brethren left the comma hunters and floated away to parts unknown.

[hour13]

Shift

Authors Note: For a Neuroscience class we read Virginia Woolf’s masterwork To the Lighthouse, and were asked to do a short work of fiction that emulated the way she switched between different perspectives. This is what I submitted. I hope you enjoy.

Shift

By Tim Carroll

            For Raven, the world was glass. Blurred images, distorted sounds, numb finger tips.  He reached out, he needed more, he needed to feel more, to be more.

            Darren fell to the ground screaming, he could feel it already, his world becoming fuzzy at the edges, the ringing in his ears, the tingling numbness in his extremities.  It was taking him, he wouldn’t let it. 

            Raven screamed, he would win this fight, he would have this body, this was what he was born to do. He was born to feel, and feel he would.

            Darren fought for control.  Resistance is futile, he thought, or was that the thing inside him?  He stuck his finger into the bullet hole on his leg, feeling a jolt of pain as he did.  98% chance of possession in those that have been shot he remembered.  Was that a real statistic or a lie they told to spread hope that you might survive.

            Raven laughed with the delight at the sensation when his fingertips touched the hole in his legs.  Feeling, sensations, he needed more.

            Darren staggered across the bloodstained field.  He knew what he had to do.  He knew what happened to those shot with these kinds of bullets.  He had heard the stories a hundred times, men returning back to their barracks, a stretched smile on their faces, killing their friends and families, a new mind inserted where there’s should have been.

            NO Raven screamed, as he saw where his new body was headed.  This was his body, he would not lose it!  Every night he had dreamed of being free of his metallic shell and joining the world of flesh.  This was his prize, he would keep it.  

            Darren could feel the thoughts of the thing inside him like toxic sludge in the ocean of its mind.  Its filth was spreading.  He thought of his sister, her stomach stretched out by the baby inside her.  It’s her or you, he realized as he staggered over to a corpse lying on the ground, a pool of blood dripping onto the dirt from a hole in its chest.

            Raven jerked with his foot, sending his body crashing to the ground, he would not allow his prize to be taken. He had a mission, a holy mission, to bring these creatures of flesh to the stars they had come from. He would not fail.

            Darren crawled over to the corpse.  He barely saw it as a human anymore. It was an object to be borrowed from Is that how people will see me in two minutes?

            They won’t see you that way if you just let me control. Raven shouted, Why do you fight! Would you prefer that neither of us have this body?

            Darren felt around the corpse’s belt with his numb fingers searching for a knife. NO NO NO NO.  He grabbed it in his hands. I WANT TO FEEL.  I WANT TO FEEL I WANT TO--

            The knife entered a chest.

            Silence.

[hour13]

Finals took a toll on me and I wasn't able to get out a story last month. However, I was able to do some pretty great winter photography.  I hope you enjoy.