For one hour “every day”, I smash my brain against a blank page and post the results. My goals are to practice creativity, develop my voice, experiment with language and become a better writer. Contains gratuitous worldbuilding, tedious prose, frequent mistakes, abrupt endings and the odd bad word. I’m just doing this for me.
Cristina used her fork to push the last few pieces of pasta, chicken and vegetables around the wide glossy porcelain bowl in front of her. A rapidly drying crust of the creamy sauce had formed over its surface. It had been delicious and she really did want to eat the last of it but her stomach already protested. She was full — over-satiated some might even say — and she knew from experience that if she ate even just a little bit more she would feel much worse.
She looked across the table and was unsurprised to see that Yolanda’s plate was empty to the point of looking clean. Every speck of lasagne and salad had been eaten and every millilitre of their respective sauces had been wiped away by bread. Her side plate and cutlery were neatly stacked on top of the plate and she’d even taken her napkin off her lap, folded it and squared it next to the stack. If there were any sauce stains on the white linen, she’d made sure to hide them within the folds. It was as though all of it had just been dropped off by their server, straight out of the dish machine, fresh from the ironing board.
“You look like you’re done.” Yolanda wore a smile that was like her side of the table: tidy. There were no visible breadcrumbs on her loose black cardigan nor were there any red sauce dribbles on the white dress she had — in Cristina’s esteem — bravely worn to an Italian restaurant.
Cristina almost replied, “So do you.” but, before she could, she stifled a laugh at her own joke which ended up coming out as a high-pitched snort. He shoulders heaved with silent giggles for a few seconds before she realized that her joke wasn’t even funny and got herself back together.
Yolanda raised an eyebrow. “What the hell was that?”
“Nothing.” Cristina could feel her cheeks reddening. The restaurant was well lit; there would be no hiding it in the shadows. “It was, nothing.”
Yolanda still looked concerned but she didn’t ask again. Instead, she stood halfway up, craned her neck and looked around the dining room for a moment, likely trying to get the server’s attention. “They’re not very attentive,” she said softly after she’d sat back into her seat.
Cristina could only nod in response. She always felt uncomfortable talking about the service or the food while still in the restaurant, even though the room was noisy and there was no way they were being overheard. When she went to the movies, she couldn’t even bring herself to criticize the film until she had left the theatre parking lot.
“How was the seafood plate you almost finished?”
“Heavy,” said Cristina, relieved that Yolanda dropped the subject of the service, “but in a good way.”
“The way you started going at it, I thought you were going to inhale the whole thing three minutes after they brought it to you.”
“Yeah I had to have my lunch early because of some back to back meetings.” Cristina sighed.
Yolanda laughed. “Kyle?”
“How did you guess?”
Yolanda didn’t respond but offered a sympathetic smile for which Cristina was grateful.
“You’re lucky you’re not there anymore,” she said after a few beats. She suddenly felt far more nervous than she ought to.
“Chill girl,” said Yolanda. “You can talk about your boss with your friend.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Cristina took a deep breath. She tried to hide her anxiety behind a forced smile even though she knew Yolanda would see right through it.
“Especially with your friend who used to have the same boss.” Yolanda’s face turned serious. “I swear, he’s not standing behind you. if him or any of his associates suddenly walk into the restaurant, I’ll let you know.”
Once again, Cristina felt some gratitude toward Yolanda for her solidarity.
“You know,” she said as she felt a newfound calm wash over her, “I forgot how nice it is to talk to someone who’s been on the inside.”
As the Elders counselled, Paraé let routine consume her body. Physically, she threw herself into every task. During every beginning, she passed in front the Chamber doors gripped by terror from within. If the eyes of her elders and peers were the chains that bound her to these rocks then what lay beyond that threshold was the edge of a blade pressed against her skin. The Mountain itself watched her. She felt its weight over her during the quiet. It pinned her down in the dark, and offered a singular promise: that she would never again escape this place.
However, even if she couldn’t climb her way to the upper passage, no one — not even the Judge — could stop her mind from wandering up toward the splendid light. Every time she felt the vibration of the drum resonate in her chest, she remembered how she’d still been able to feel the sound of it from Outside. While her fingers wove lignin strands, she imagined her bare feet stepping once again into the crystalline ice upon the great Slopes. As her hammer’s strokes scattered sparks from embered iron, she pictured herself running through the sparse, green plants and could almost feel them brushing against her ankles and open palms. No matter how long they kept her here, she was certain — now more than ever before — that she had become individual.
Praise that would have once bolstered and uplifted now disarmed her, left her bare. They complimented her newfound dedication to the cause. They called her a fine example of citizenship. She even received commendations in combat training. But with every smiled word she received, she couldn’t help but see the suspicious eyes that lingered behind them. Those eyes that were wary of her every coming and going. Those eyes that couldn’t help but wonder when she begin to stray again. No amount of good behaviour could fully distance her from what they could only suspect she’d done.
But they didn’t — and couldn’t — know. If anyone had seen her take the lit passage, they’d now be as guilty as her. Or, perhaps, their minds would be as changed as hers. Perhaps, they too, would have found their own individuality.
There is a place far north and less far east of here. where all of the world’s tensions meet — a pinnacle of troubles. It is a ruin, a solitary relic of a time lost to young minds, with stone walls smoothed over by blizzards and faded white from sunlight. An experienced traveller would find nothing remarkable — ruins such as these can be found sparsely throughout the Wastes — whilst a novice may look upon them with wonder or curiosity for a moment before moving on.
The easiest place to start your journey is the place they now call Utopic Gate. These young Hallians who colonize the Holy City invent new names for places because they have forgotten them. Many no longer believe or even know that the heart of their city used to sit amongst the clouds and that the towers that stand so high above any of their structures once numbered in the hundreds. But I digress.
There is a road that goes more or less east from the gate. It is the second oldest of the five great roads that meet beneath the Ancient City. To this day, the oldest of them still stretches all the way to southern coast. Once the Frozen Wastes begin to encroach on the Bubble, you will have to climb the wall of ice and snow that covers the road. After surmounting the scrape, you will no longer be able to see the road as it is entirely buried from this point on. Push your thoughts through the snow and ice. Feel the stone road under the ice and the frozen earth beneath the road. It is dense, weathered and broken in many places but, for your entire journey, it will be there. If you attune yourself just right, you can even feel the echoes of the ancient traffic — the millions footsteps and wheels that once rolled and trod upon the road.
Traversing the Icy Wastes is no trivial task. Even in summer, the frozen Wastewind can cut through several layers of stout clothing. But you are an uncommon human specimen; you have the the rare ability to push your mind outside of your flesh and bone and influence the course of reality. Beyond the warm and still air of Hallium’s influence, you must extend and maintain a small bubble of your own in which you can survive. With all of this in mind, follow the buried road. If you hold a brisk pace, it will take you nearly six hours to reach your destination.
There are three landmarks along the way that will help you know that you are still on the right path.
Terash’s recent insomnia weighed on him as he aimlessly traversed the Pedestal and the Garden along with all its trees and the Towers that surrounded it all blurred past him. He wasn’t on any particular errand; he’d just needed to get outside for a moment — partly to get away from Doréan but mostly to give his focus a chance to relax.
He let himself wander the paths for a time, taking the turns of each fork or intersection without any particular intent. He came across a nice-looking bench and then another and, each time, he chose not to sit down because it wasn’t his body that was exhausted. He came to the edge of the Pedestal where the path dropped into the first stone step of a long staircase. This time, he did hesitate. This felt like something else — he felt like he was leaving.
He struggled to remember what he’d told Doréan on his way out. Had he told him how long he meant to be gone? Had he said anything at all? He supposed it didn’t matter anyway. Doréan would surely still be absorbed in his work for hours and he hardly paid attention to his apprentices anyway.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Terash descended into to the Old City and was soon met by the familiar metallic scent of the forges and foundries of Gothan Block. By the time he reached the bottom, he was fully immersed in it to the point that he barely noticed it. While the stairwell had been largely unoccupied, the narrow streets of old city was crowded. He joined the throng and let himself be moved by it.
The crowd urged him west for a bit until sixty-seventh when he began to make his way northward. The city still blurred around him and he paid only just enough attention to keep track of where he was — tired as he was, he still couldn’t afford to let himself get lost.
A block or two after the turn, he was shaken from his reverie by someone calling his name. He craned his neck to see who it was but he couldn’t even really tell from what direction the call had even come. After a few seconds, he began to think that maybe he’d imagined it. He still moved along with the traffic around him — from where he was it was impossible to stop without disrupting the flow.
On one morning, at the end of summer, Terash finally found the ruins in the Frozen Wastes. At least, he was was pretty sure he had. It had taken him a total of fifteen individual treks out into the Wastes over several months, largely because the directions he’d received from Neetrin had been so vague. The snowy plains outside the Bubble were vast, after all, and none of the maps Teele had been able to discover from the Archive were particularly detailed. And after all that time spent out in the wastes, he didn’t even feel like he knew his way around them any better. The world beyond Hallium in every direction just looked the same: it was all a flat, white expanse of snow and jagged ridges of ice with scarce permanent landmarks of note.
For a while, he just stood in front of the weathered facade that jutted out from the snow — two dilapidated stone towers with a thick wall between them and a massive circular opening in the wall. Neetrin had said that a large amount of the building was buried under the snow. Even if that was true, the twin towers still went up at least ten metres above him and the wall with the circular opening was almost just as high. The opening itself was just low enough that he figured he’d be able to hoist himself through it.
He wasn’t cold; his aora protected him from the wind and from the cold. After all these expeditions, he could now hold the sphere of warmth around himself with little effort, little thought. Although, he could still sense both the wind and the cold at the edges of his influence. The former blasted it’s way around his shield as thought it were a solid object while the latter needled at it, like it was attempting to surreptitiously penetrate the sphere.
He could hear the wind outside as well, muffled thunder against his mind’s barrier. For a second a thought intruded: what if, in an instant, he dropped the aora altogether? He wondered what the wind would feel like if it hit him, in full force, all at once. Despite his dense, layered woollens, he was a mere speck of warmth in a vast ocean of ice and snow.
Terash shook his head and rejected the dark thought by focusing his attention back on the ruins. He was wasting energy and daylight. He still had to make his way back to Hallium.
He spent about a minute inspecting the wall up close — the white stone brick was so smoothed over by the wind that there was nothing much to make of it from this vantage — before he ineptly attempted to climb through the circular opening. It took him several tries — his bulky clothing and snowshoes severely hampered him — but eventually managed to crawl over the the wall and ungracefully drop himself on the other side.
His chest heaved from the exertion as he slowly turned around and, for the first time, saw the ruins from the inside. He was underwhelmed. Frankly, they didn’t look particularly different. Nothing of the internal structure — if there even was an internal structure — was visible above the snow. All he saw were the same external walls, just as pale and weathered inside as they were on the outside.
Gondra and Eleni had their heads together, engaged in a soft, intense conversation that Terash couldn’t overhear from a few metres behind. Every so often as they walked, Gondra would lean over and kiss Eleni on the neck at which point she would giggle loudly, lean into him and cinch her grip on his waist. Terash tried not to look at them but it was difficult because they were walking right ahead of him and Teele. He tried to focus his attention on his wife; each time he met her eyes, she would shrug as if to say “I know” and he would silently return the gesture. They’d both known Gondra since their teenage years and he’d never been one to show restraint — especially when he was out in public.
This late, the streets were sparse with people and the bright lanterns cast shadows out from those that were out. Other couples huddled closely together. Small groups of youth passed them, talking boisterously. Rarely did they see anyone walking alone. Everyone they did see walked at a comfortably brisk pace and looked as though they were on their way home for the night.
When they crossed into the West End, Gondra broke away from Eleni and stepped beside Terash. As soon as he did, Teele let go of Terash’s hand and jogged to catch up with Eleni. Immediately, they launched into animate conversation.
Meanwhile, Terash and Gondra walked side by side in silence for a while. Terash glanced toward his friend and noticed that he looked rather exhausted.
“Happy anniversary, by the way,” said Gondra after a couple of minutes.
Terash started; their anniversary had been a couple weeks back and so it was no longer front of mind for him. “Thanks,” he said. Between the two of them, Gondra was usually the one to strike up conversation.
“You do anything to celebrate?”
Terash shrugged. “Not really. Teele’s been too busy with the summer inventory and the big move at work. We went out for dinner a few days before the day. Cotton Table near the North Fork.”
Gondra looked upward. “Yeah I think I’ve heard of it. How did you like the show?”
Terash didn’t answer right away; he was distracted by a snipped of conversation he’d just overheard between the other two, who were now several metres ahead. Laughing, Eleni had exclaimed, “It’s not that crazy though, right?” Sagely, Teele had replied, “Six times a week would exhaust me.” He had no idea what they were talking about but he wrenched his attention back toward his friend.
“The show,” he said and paused to collect his thoughts.
The show we just saw, his internal voice said. The one we’re walking home from right now.
“The show,” he repeated.
“Yes?” said Gondra.
“I thought the play was good. Not the best script I’ve seen performed this season but the actors were good enough to make up for it.”
“Hm,” said Gondra simply.
Ahead, Teele and Eleni both erupted into boisterous laughter that echoed through the mostly empty street.
Gondra had been sitting at the table for a while now, watching the people around him and waiting. He’d arrived just after the seventeenth bell and, while he hadn’t yet heard the eighteenth, he felt pretty sure that it was due to ring at any moment. He wasn’t sure if he’d been stood up or if Eleni was still on her way. It had come as a surprise to him that he didn’t feel particularly upset about the situation. Even just a few years ago, he would certainly have been insulted, full of resentment perhaps even suspicious. But this evening, he felt calm — he was having a good time.
The outdoor restaurant was busy but not completely full — there were some empty tables here and there. His table was located very close to the street which meant that there was always lots going on around him to capture his attention. Paisley’s was located on the main thoroughfare of the West End and, from his seat, he could see dozens of other restaurants that splayed out their outdoor seating in the evening. A pair of busking string musicians were playing about twenty metres up the road — they favoured melodies that were slow but upbeat. He enjoyed their music and made a mental note to walk past and throw them a few checks on his way out.
Twice, so far, the server had come by and offered him a second drink which, both times, he’d declined. He’d finished his small tumbler of gin rather quickly and he didn’t want to get himself drunk. At least, not while he was sitting alone. He watched the people walking past in the street and when that got stale, he shifted his gaze toward the people seated in the restaurant. He went back and forth countless times as he waited and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t just looking out to see if Eleni was in sight.
Then she arrived. He hadn’t even seen her coming. One moment he was sitting alone and, the next, she was standing right next to his table.
“It’s so good to see you,” said Gondra as he stood up to offer a greeting.
“Yeah, you as well,” said Eleni. She opened her arms and stepped right up to him and they exchanged a sincere if slightly formal hug after which they both took their seats.
“It’s good to see you,” said Gondra. His body tensed as he realized that he’d just repeated himself. As he tried to think of what to say next, he fought with the urge to point out that she was late. The polite thing to do was to let her be the one to bring it up if she wanted. After all, he still wasn’t feeling upset about it but this was one of the many ways that his old habits still crept in.
Eleni, however, didn’t let the silence drag on. “How have your studies been going?
Gondra smiled before responding. She’d always been quick in conversation. He relaxed in his seat. “I know I’ve been saying this for a long time now but I think I’m going to be done at the end of this year.”
Eleni laughed and leaned forward. “You’re right. I’ve heard that from you before. What makes you so sure this time?”
“Well, I’ve only got two classes left to finish.”
“Go on.”
“I’m already halfway through the first one and signed up for the second one next semester.”
“Sounds promising.” Her tone wasn’t quite mocking but she was clearly bemused. “Why don’t you sound more confident then?”
Gondra snorted. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t sound confident to you?” he asked, his eyes wide with mock-sadness.
When the sound of the bell came, Paraé and all the other youth bowed in thanks to elder Doramel and promptly lined up at the rack to stow their sparring swords. Before she made it to the front of the line, however, the elder called to her from the centre of the training circle.
“Come here, Paraé.”
Without hesitation, she jogged to the elder’s side, awkwardly holding the training sword downward at hip level. She kept her heart and breath steady despite the growing sense of dread within her.
“Yes, elder Doramel,” she said with a deferment nod. When he offered no reaction, she nodded a second time.
Doramel didn’t look toward her; he watched the rest of the class as they filed away from the circle. Paraé turned her eyes toward them as well. Everyone seemed to be looking away from them, avoiding eye contact. When she’d first been singled out, she had naively assumed that he was going to assign her an errand such as bringing a message to another elder. Suddenly, she felt nervous. Had she really been that bad in training?
When only the two of them remained, Doramel finally looked down at her. His eyes were cool and distant. “You need extra practice,” he said.
Paraé looked up at him. She was still clutching the light, blunted sword. The grip was wet with sweat from her palm. She didn’t know what to say.
“From now on, you will stay an extra half after each class. For today, you will spend the half training with me.”
“Elder,” said Paraé, “I’ll be late for—”
“I’ve already spoken with Samule,” interrupted the elder. “You are doing well enough in your tradeswork at the moment and she had agreed to give your time to me.”
It’s already settled then, thought Paraé and, once again, she stood speechless beneath the elder’s gaze.
Without another word, Doramel stepped back and drew his own sword — a real sword. She felt a strange, inescapable feeling when she saw its sharp edge catch the stone’s light above; he was holding a weapon while she wielded a mere tool.
“Paraé, twenty-sixth,” the elder said, “Will you join me in combat practice?” He adjusted his footing.
Paraé’s voice shook. “I will do my best.” She held her false blade in front of her and adjusted her own footing.
They began their spar according to custom: going through the basic motions, first the elder, then the pupil. To her relief, he seemed to be taking an easy pace with her.
However, that relief quickly left her as Doramel started to pick up the pace of his swings. Paraé breathed heavily. She struggled to match his pace. And, as they moved from the customary into the impromptu, she noticed something else in his swings, something that seemed to bubble beneath the surface. Two or three times, she caught a hint of anger in him when their eyes met.
Then, in a moment when their blades and eyes were locked and they both stood still, face to face, Doramel whispered, “Where is it you have been going during the slow hours?”
Paraé felt a surge of panic. She stumbled backwards, dropped her sword and fell onto the ground. She looked up at the elder, who only looked disappointed, as though his worst fear had been confirmed.
Paraé sat on a raised, grassy patch of earth. It would have been a comfortable place to sit in any other situation. She leaned forward nervously and watched the spar. Although the situation between them looked to have become rather tense, she had held herself back — it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to intervene. As far as she knew, they were still just practising. But their swords clashed ferociously and sent out reverberations that she could feel in her stomach.
Jamelle’s movements were fluid, precise and she remained constantly on the offensive. Paraé had forgotten how fast she could move in a fight, how made her every gesture and every step look effortless. It would have been a marvellous thing to see — beautiful even — were her face not twisted by an aggressive grimace to the point that that she no longer looked like herself at all. Paraé had only seen that face on her before when she’d been face to face with an enemy — when she’d been face to face with someone she was prepared to kill.
Silver, meanwhile, grinned gleefully despite the fact that he’d constantly been on his heels throughout the fight. To Paraé, he almost looked manic and at the same time, he had never looked as old to her as he did right now. She’d never seen him breathe that heavily or move so clumsily. By his own admittance, he wasn’t particularly practised at open combat or with the use of long blades. He’d been well trained but was much slower than his opponent.
“I’m surprised you — haven’t already taken — off a piece — of me,” Silver huffed devilishly at Jamelle between the clashes of their blades.
“Don’t tempt me,” said Jamelle and after several seconds, she added, “elder.” There had been nothing respectful in the way she’d used the word.
Surely, thought Paraé, Jamelle wouldn’t — she couldn’t.
But as the fight continued, Jamelle became even more aggressive. Several times, Silver failed to block her strikes and had to jump backward to dodge them while the blade of her sword slashed within a centimetre of his neck, arm or torso.
“Have you had enough?” Jamelle asked after one of these close calls. “You look tired.”
Silver didn’t respond and didn’t back down.
As if insulted by his silence, Jamelle took a half-step backward and immediately lunged back forward with all of her strength. Her blade struck Silver’s close to the hilt and, with a twist of her wrist, she managed to wrench it from his hand. Then, with a triumphant flourish she slashed at his neck.
“Stop!” Paraé cried out. “Don’t do it!”
Half a second later Jamelle froze. Not in response to the outcry, Paraé quickly realized. Her arm hung steadily forward, her blade pointed directly at Silver’s neck. Her gaze fell off of Silver and her look of hatred was now on Paraé.
When the fore called out the day’s second break, Chanta stopped trudging, dropped her ropes and waddled back to the lumber-laden cart. There, she hunched over in an attempt to shield as much as her body as possible from the wind while she rubbed her hands together and wiggled her toes inside her boots. Even if her legs and body were kept warm by the effort, her extremities were still frozen. She was already wearing every piece of clothing, every excess layer she had brought along. She was even wearing her sleeping blanket as a makeshift cloak.
The rest of the team quickly joined her huddling in a tight line along their southern flank. Those who weren’t already wearing them pulled their blankets from the cart and draped them over their shoulders. They all still wore their snowshoes which made the it difficult to get close to one another without tripping. No one spoke; between the ceaseless howl of the wind and the array of thick woollen face coverings, it would be a waste of precious energy. After less than a minute, they were all gathered — the fore was the last to join them as she had had to inspect the runners on the cart for any damage. Chanta was starting to feel the slight tingle of reprieve from the cold in her hands.
She looked out into the sea of white that surrounded her. On such a clear day, even through her tinted goggles, there wasn’t anything to see except white snow that drifted over an empty white plain under a white sky, all of it washed over by the light of a pale sun that peaked a little lower in the sky every day. Even after all these years, she found the days when she couldn’t make out the horizon unnerving and disorienting. It caused her to imagine herself in an endless, colourless void. She spent the rest of the break staring at the ground right in front of her.
Winter weather had come early to the Frozen Wastes this year; it had hit them on the second day of their traversal. They were the last lumber portage out of the Gallot treeline. The camp behind them had already been shut down for the season so they couldn’t go back. She thought about the rest of the workers from the lumber camp — those who were bound for Biboton and beyond — and wondered whether they were facing the same difficult weather. By now they would already be halfway there while Chanta’s group still had over a week to go before they reached Hallium.
Before she knew it, she heard the call from the Fore for them to get moving again. Her hands and feet felt less cold but they were still far from warm. Her legs felt tired and heavy, but she walked back out into the wind anyway and found her place in the line. When they made it back to the city, she would be able to rest.
When everyone was in place around her and they were all holding the twin ropes that pulled the sled, they resumed their march.
For some reason, the first word that came to mind when Terash looked at the ruined structure before him was ‘cathédrale’. He had no idea what the word meant — for some reason, he felt as though he knew it was a very old word from before the blank era, likely from a lost language. It was possible he’d read it in and old book and inferred its meaning from context.
As he stood in front of the ruins and debated whether he should go inside, the Wastewind beat against his aura and heaved snow all around him. Although, it frequently obscured his vision, he felt none of it. The air under his influence swirled in a sphere around him almost at a temperature that was chilly but still survivable. It wasn’t particularly difficult for him to prop his mind outward and maintain his own microclimate like this, but knew from experience that he would be extra tired this evening from the exertion. Just as he’d been advised, he never did this in front of the others lest they ask him to keep them warm as well. Laypeople could never really understand the abilities or the limitations of an aureal.
The ruins that had once been a building — possibly, even a ‘cathédrale,’ whatever that was — consisted of two heavily weathered towers jutting out from the deep snow. Between the towers was a high wall with a wide, circular opening that he supposed must have been meant as a window. Although it was roughly at his level, he knew he stood atop several metres of packed snow and ice. Through the opening, he could see walls beyond the tower that outlined the rest of the former building.
Ultimately, his curiosity got the better of him and Terash stepped through the round opening and into the ruins. Immediately, he relaxed the intensity his aura; the wind was far less intense now that he was partially sheltered by the walls and towers. He took several more steps forward. He moved slowly, checking his footing with each step. There was no way of knowing exactly how much of the building remained under foot. The surface ahead looked like an even expanse of hard-packed snow. He had no idea what was beneath it, whether it could support his weight.
When he had made it several metres inside he stopped. So far every step inside had felt like a step outside. He took a look around at the outer wall. In three places, it had collapsed or eroded below the snowline but he could still make out the general shape of it. All of it was built from some sort of light-coloured stone brick with walls that were at least a metre thick and had likely once been thicker still before they’d been subjected top centuries of wind and snow. Now that he was further in, he could also see a few pieces the inner structure jutting out from the snow here and there. Some looked like smaller segments of walls while other had a more distinct round shape that made him think of pillars. He thought he could see something carved in a nearby pillar.
Carelessly excited, Terash took one bold step toward the carving and, too late, realized his overconfidence. The surface shattered and the everything around him gave out at once. He began to fall. His arms flailed outward, grasping, finding nothing but air. His aura burst outward in search of anything he could hold onto but the only things in reach were the bits of ice that fell alongside him. Warm air seemed to rush upward and the light above him narrowed
An involuntary cry escaped his mouth, completely lost beneath the distant howl of the Wastes. Not that anyone was around to hear it anyway. Every one else was still at the camp as far as he knew, waiting for him to return.
Randell held the stick in above his head and looked at Pitch who stood expectantly to one side of the gravel path. His tail wagged as he panted.
“Stop teasing him,” said Shannon. “Just throw it.”
With as much force as he could, Randell lobbed the stick over the dog and watched as it flew away from them. Before it had even left his hand, Pitch had sprung up and started running after it, very nearly keeping pace with the flying branch. When he got a little further away, most of him disappeared into the tall grass so all that was visible of him was his tail. By the time the stick landed, the tail had also disappeared into the brush. However, just a moment later, it reappeared, now racing toward them. It made Randell think of a submarine periscope gliding along the sea of grass.
“Uh oh,” said Shannon. She pointed into the distance, roughly in the direction of the house. “Here they go.”
Randell looked toward the house but he already knew what he was about to see. Just as he expected, a second black tail had run into the grassy field, rapidly converging on Pitch’s trajectory. Whenever a stick was thrown for one of the dogs, the other was quick to turn up. The brothers met about ten metres away from Randell and Shannon and, for a moment, both tails disappeared. The only indications of what was going on were the the sound of growling and subtle disturbances in the movement of the grass. As far as Randell could tell, Jet had tackled Pitch at full speed, sending the two of them tumbling sideways. He had no idea if Pitch had managed to hold on to the stick.
“Jet, come!” called Shannon.
At almost the same time, Randell called “Pitch!” They looked toward one another and laughed.
When Randell looked toward the field, both tails were already flying through the grass toward them at full speed.
“I wonder which one has the stick,” mused Shannon.
Again, Randell laughed. He had been thinking the same thing. “I can’t even guess. Could be either.”
“Why not both?” Shannon laughed.
To both their surprise, it turned out she was right; when Jet and Pitch burst out from the tall grass, they were both holding the stick in their mouths. For a while, they ran circles around Randell and Shannon, side by side. They eyed one another as though each were daring the other to let go and initiate a chase. Their tails even wagged synchronously back and forth. For a moment, Randell fought the impulse to pull out his phone and film them and ultimately decided to just stay in the moment with them. The perfect shot of them bursting out of the tall grass together had already passed anyway.
Eventually, they stopped in front of the humans and simultaneously sat, still joined awkwardly by the stick.
“Do you want me to throw the stick?” asked Shannon.
“Pitch,” said Randell. “Drop it. Jet. Drop it.”
Once again, the dogs gave each other sidelong glances. Neither of them wanted to be the first one to let go but they both wanted to chase the stick into the tall grass again.
Slowly, Randell crouched down, reached forward and put a hand on the stick. “How ‘bout I hold it? Drop it.”
It took a few seconds of deliberation but they eventually seemed to find this agreeable. Jet was the first to let go and Pitch released his mouth a few seconds after. Excitedly, they both started running short sprints back and forth between Randell and the grass.
At least twice a minute, Warren would glance at the clock as he paced across the living room. He paced for sixteen minutes before going back to the kitchen. However, he became so anxious at the sight of the telephone on the counter that he immediately went back to the living room and resumed his pacing. He told himself that there wasn’t anything else for him to do; the call would come when it came.
Another fourteen minutes of pacing and clock watching passed in a flash. It was now nine-thirty-two.
“This isn’t helping.” He spoke to the empty room around him. His eyes fell toward the grey leather armchair by the window. “I should sit down?” What had started as a statement became a question as he spoke it. He had no idea what he was supposed to do.
He walked in front of the armchair and turned around but, just as he started to let his weight fall into it, he heard the sound of the phone ringing. A fresh wave of panic shot through him as his body sprung upright and his legs carried him briskly to the phone. When he gripped the plastic handset, and pressed the receiver to his ear, the whole apparatus felt cold against his skin and he realized how hot his restless movements had made him.
“Hello!” he breathed into the handset. His heartbeat hammered relentlessly in his ear.
“Hi Warren,” said Adrain. “You okay? You sound out of breath.”
“I’m fine,” said Warren, immediately regretting the sharpness in his tone.
“Okay then,” said Adrain. He paused for a few seconds. “Glad to hear you’re okay. I’m about ready to leave now. Maps says it’ll take about fifteen to drive over. Do you want me to leave right away?”
“Yes please,” said Warren between shallow breaths. Even though he’d spent hours anticipating the call, he now felt an overwhelming urge to get through it as quickly as possible.
“Okay. You don’t need any extra time to get ready? We’ve got three hours still and you’re pretty close to the airport.”
Warren’s eyes flickered toward the door. His packed bag sat in front of it with his rain jacket neatly draped over it. He had put on his shoes and hat two hours ago. He had brushed his teeth twice and cleaned his glasses four times. There was nothing else left to do. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Okay then.” Again, Adrain paused. “I’ll see you soon then.”
On a summer morning, late enough for an early lunch but before the full heat of noon had settled in, Genaro sat with his second black coffee of the day. A broad, red and white parasol sheltered him and the table from the sunlight and invited a tired but nonetheless refreshing breeze all the way from the distant sea. Rich conversations flourished all around him; every table on the small cafe patio except his was occupied by at least two people. Meanwhile, the promenade beyond the cafe bustled with pedestrians who carried their own conversations as they passed. While a small number of them rushed in one direction or the other, most seemed to prefer a leisurely pace that luxuriated in the last hour of this slow Saturday morning.
He looked down at toward half-drunk tasse. The small, round table at which he sat had two place settings and three chairs. Without warning, the idea crept into him that the cafe wasn’t going to let him keep sitting there unless he ordered something more substantial. Not when they could so easily replace him with a trio of lunch-hungry customers. As the idea solidified into certainty and a wave of sadness washed over him, he drank the last of his coffee in one gulp and stood up.
A few moments later, he’d paid his fare, walked away and found himself moving along with the pedestrians he’d been watching. The richness of everyone else’s conversations still surrounded him. Even in the thick of the throng, he felt just as alone as he had at the cafe. He wondered whether anyone who had seen him sitting in front of the restaurant had thought to themselves, “He’s probably waiting for someone else to join him.” or else, “I wonder if he got stood up.” Of course, Genaro knew that no one had paid him any attention but it was still nice to imagine the strangers’ empathy.
The city sloped downward toward the sea and so, just like the rain, that’s where he naturally ended up. He stepped up to the railing, looked downward and lined up the tips of his shoes with the edge of the concrete walkway that fell abruptly off into the sea. He stared out over the blue water below him without really looking at anything in particular. He was looking past the water, past the whole world really. It wasn’t as though he could just point his eyes nowhere.
The sadness had never left him — it rarely did, especially on the days when he had nothing to do and nowhere to be. When he felt like he’d taken in everything he could from this seaside vista, he stepped back from the edge of the walkway and resumed his wandering. This time, he made his way along the shore toward the marina. He often enjoyed watching the boats come and go.
As he stepped up to the docks, however, his heart immediately filled with disappointment when he saw that his favourite bench, the one that faced out toward East Isle, was already occupied by two people. He almost turned around, briefly considered continuing to wander aimlessly about the city but his legs were tired and he felt short of breath. He stared at his beloved eastward bench for a moment and weighed his options. The couple sat shoulder to shoulder, either engaged in soft, intimate conversation or both quietly enjoying the sights and sounds offered by the seaside. Genaro could interrupt them, ask if they might share the bench and engage in awkward, stunted conversation from then on — it seemed a poor option. Otherwise, he could look around for a different place to sit.
In the end, it only took him about two minutes of bumbling along the promenade to find a free bench. Having, rarely gone much farther into the marina than his usual favourite, he was, at first, surprised by how many benches there were.
From the moment she’d seen that small green plant growing outside the Mountain, thoughts of the narrow, sunlit opening consumed Paraé. She thought about it while she practised her katum in the river. She obsessed over it as her fingers went through the motions of weaving. She was so distracted during combat training that she got hit even more often than usual. It occupied her mind while she pounded molten steel and during foraging expeditions, when she woke up to the bell in the first hours and when she lay awake in her bed in the last quiets. During every waking activity imposed by her elder, she dreamed of leaving Koma.
Whenever she had the free time, she made her way through that tight crevice in the fifth and climbed the upward passage until she reached the cave. From there, she sometimes explored the Mountain slopes just outside the opening but, most often, she just found herself a comfortable place to sit and look out at the bright world beyond. Just staring out into the light for a short stretch filled her with contentment. There was still something stressful about the sky vast nothing above that looked to go on indefinitely upward, probably because she’d live her whole life in a place where every space she inhabited was so definitively finite.
Unfortunately, she knew the elders were watching her closely since the second time she’d been caught out after curfew and, as such, she always kept her visits to the cave brief. At least so far, they didn’t seem to have any idea where she was going. They seemed to think she was just getting lost. As far as she knew, she was the only Koman to come to this place, perhaps even the only one who had ever come to this place.
With every day that passed, he felt a little better. As the pain in his head eased, his sleep improved and, in turn, he became more aware. It took about a week before he got back into the daily rhythm of sleeping at night and being awake during the day. By that point, Teele was back at the Archive during the day and only visited him in the evening.
When she told him that he was in a private room in the Tower hospital, he felt embarrassed that he hadn’t figured that out sooner. It was the obvious place to bring him but he’d only ever been to the open ward. His small room was warmly decorated and, other than his bed, was furnished only a few chairs and a sturdy wooden desk. When he was well enough, he sat at the desk and wrote a little in a journal that Teele had brought him from home. She’d also left a couple of books and a deck of cards but, for some reason, he just found writing easier for the moment.
Eventually, he started receiving visits from people other than Teele. Doctors, both Aureal and insensitive, checked on him daily to evaluate his physical strength and mental capacity. Terash asked them a lot of questions, most of which they refused to answer. Most often, his questions about the child but he also inquired about when he would be able leave.
Once he was well enough to recount what had happened in full, he was questioned by a pair of Enforcers who took a lot of notes but didn’t ask many follow-up questions. Terash still found it difficult to string the event together in his mind. His memory seemed to be stuck remembering As they were leaving, he asked them if they knew what had happened to the child but they said that they didn’t know.
Madré came to see him once a week for therapy. Other than Teele’s, her’s were the visits he enjoyed the most. It was the one routine from normal life that continued alongside his convalescence. Mostly, he just talked to her about everything that went through his head. It wasn’t as though there was much going on in his life at the moment. When he was too tired to talk, he let her read his journal entries. Once, he asked her about the child but she had no information about them either.
Randy coasted downhill for nearly his entire commute home, only lightly gripping the brakes when he passed through an intersection. Having worked the late shift, he didn’t have to worry about there being very much traffic. However, his favourite part was the fact that he’d did all the hard work going uphill in the morning and could reap the benefits of that work in the evening.
He wasn’t a night person by any stretch. Some evenings, when he got home, he barely had the energy to eat his dinner before he collapsed into bed. On this night, though, he felt pretty good and, since he had the next day off, he thought he might be up to watching half a movie before bed. He thought about putting on his loose flannel sweats and his thick wool slippers. He pictured himself eating the slices of marble cheese that were in the fridge along with the last third of a box of crackers that was in the cupboard while he sat in front of the television. He even mentally flipped through some of the movies he’d been wanting to watch. Would he choose something new or go back to an old favourite?
The sound of a roaring engine ahead of him yanked him out of his after work daydreams. He turned his head just in time to see the front of a green car pop out from behind a shrub. It was seconds from driving right into his path. With all of his strength, he squeezed both break handles.
“Shitshitshit,” he swore through gritted teeth.
His feet came off the pedals and his heels skipped against the ground as he tried anything he could to slow himself down. He swerved to one side and skidded to a stop with one foot on the ground, just as the green car passed in front of him, barely five centimetres away. For a second or two, he teetered on one leg and watched it go by. He could feel the sound of the engine resonate through his knuckles that still gripped the brake levers.
To his amazement, it just kept on going right past him. It hadn’t swerved nor had it seemed to slow down. He hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of the driver but he was almost certain they hadn’t seen him.
As the sound of the engine dwindled, Randy exhaled and got his other foot on the ground. His heart raced. He glanced frantically around the intersection. There was no one else around. He looked toward the car that was still speeding away and then in the direction from which it had come. He saw a stop sign facing away from him. There was no way that car could have been going that fast if they’d stopped at the sign.
He kept thinking about his near-miss for some time. It was only when another car drove up to the stop sign that he realized he was standing in the middle of the road. The driver gave him a confused look and he snapped out of his stupor.
Hastily, he remounted and resumed his commute. His bike wobbled and his legs shook a little as he got going. The whole way home, he felt like all of his senses were dialed up. The rest of the way home, he went slowly and constantly glanced back and forth.
