All-Consuming

Word count: 500

All-Consuming

Hissing acid rain beat on the wide glass windows, glowing red with the reflection of the fire. Beneath the window, an old man’s head jerked up from the pen strokes he studied like bacteria beneath a microscope. He peered at the fireplace, a heavy frown etched deep into his face.

The door swung open, creaking. A young man closed it softly behind himself.

“Father, it’s time.”

The old man stood and trudged toward the bookshelves lining the far wall. Books crammed together so tightly that the shelves sagged in the center. He glared at the shelf, eyes running along the worn spines.

The young man put his hands into his pockets, his voice weary as if he were repeating instructions to a toddler for the fifth time. “Father.”

“We do not need to go,” the old man said. He selected a heavy book and glared at his son as he opened it. Tree branches scraping the window echoed in the room like miners working through the night to breach enemy defenses.

“The rain’s through the attic ceiling already. We need to get to the safe zone.”

The old man frowned at the diagrams on the page. “I need to solve this problem.”

“Father—” The young man gripped his father’s shoulder with a hand like a talon. “Your books aren’t going to protect you.”

Wind rattled in the chimney. The old man threw off the hand, frowning fiercely.

“This is the only way to end it!” he almost shouted, his old voice as raspy as the branches drawing across the windows—quieter now, though the rain hissed down, unrelenting, eating everything in its path.

“You cannot stay here! No one can stop it!”

The old man met his son’s eye. The firelight reflected on the dark, dilated pupils.

“You mean you cannot.” Plunking into his chair, the old man buried his head in his hands. The elements howled in his ears, dragging at his thoughts, filling them. He stared again at the charts and scribbles on his paper.

“This is it,” he said, under his breath, to no one in particular. “It has to be.”

The paper, littered with chemical symbols and diagrams, fluttered as the young man approached.

“We don’t have time for this—"

“No!” The old man flung his arm backward, backhanding the young man across the nose. He stumbled backward into a bookshelf. The wind shrieked outside, unencumbered by the tree the rain had already consumed. Around the edges, steaming foam began to seep in at the window.

“All right.”

The young man straightened, wiped his mouth, and walked to the door. It snapped shut behind him.

The old man, panting, slid his head into his hands and tangled his fingers in his thinning white hair, pulling at it. Rocking back and forth, he stared at the papers on the desk and muttered.

This is all we need. All we need. All we need.

At the window, the rain worked its way in, nearer and nearer.

The Library

Word count: 1000

The Library

The Marien house stood behind two grinning stone lions at the end of a crackled cobblestone path. Maeve brushed one of the paws for luck as she passed. Old raindrops hung from the ivy above the ancient door.

Inside, Old Marien hovered behind a reception desk, a short stack of precise papers resting on the desk in front of her. Her withered shoulders stooped forward and her brilliant eyes, sunk in a mass of wrinkles and cavities, stared right at Maeve as she made the long walk down the entryway to the desk.

“Have you thought about it?”

Maeve smiled. “I’m ready.”

Old Marien pointed with one long, remarkably straight finger at the pen. A faint smell of incense rose from her clothes as she moved.

“Sign on the first and last page.”

When Maeve set the pen back in the inkwell, Old Marien’s long fingers closed around the stack of paper and drew it backward. 

“One year,” Old Marien said. Her seamed face cracked into something like a smile, lined with yellow teeth. “You know the boundaries. Cross the lions and your deposit is forfeit.”

Maeve offered a handshake across the desk. Old Marien ignored it. Upright except for the stooped shoulders, she set a single skeleton key in the center of the desk, picked up her pocketbook, and left. The door clunked shut behind her.

Maeve made a beeline for the library.

****

Old Marien had lit a fire in the library. Draped in a blanket in one of the two overstuffed black easy chairs in front of the fireplace, Maeve looked out across the room, lit from dim yellow wall sconces. Stacks of books cast long shadows across the room and holes gaped black on shelves where books used to be.

Nearly two a.m. The hour he always appeared. Maeve squinted into the dim room.

The newspaper ad had been the strangest Maeve had ever seen. Beneath the toe of her paint-stained black sock one morning, she had caught sight of it. Marien family seeking to dispose of their mansion in town. The house would go to anyone who could remain on the grounds for a year.

No caveats. Maeve had checked. She had been the only applicant.

And she knew why. Maeve opened her book, still scanning the room. She had seen him on her long late night walks past the house.

The Marien house was haunted.

Maeve’s eyelids drooped, the soft roar of the fire smothering her senses. On the edge of sleep, she thought something cold passed over the fire. But she startled awake to find nothing there. The draft in the chimney pulled the fire up in jagged gasps. 

She shivered and settled deeper into her blanket. She sat by the cold fire, watching for him, until the sun rose.

****

He did not appear that night. Nor the following night. Nor the night after that. Maeve went to bed as the sun rose, catnapping on a bed that felt larger than her entire apartment, and in the evenings she painted, listening to jazz records and drinking hot honey lavender tea. She left the door open to the patter of the evening rain and the chatter of the evening traffic on the sidewalk.

And then, as the night quieted and sank toward midnight, she crept into the library and settled into her armchair, watching. Waiting.

He never appeared.

A tiny sliver of moon cleared the top of the fence and hung in the sky, shining faintly. Maeve pulled her jacket closer, catching a whiff of the paint she’d spilled onto the sleeve, and closed the front door. Faint strains of Frank Sinatra floated into the dim hall from the kitchen. Sliding a little on the smooth floor in her socks, Maeve made her way toward the kitchen, draining the last of her tea. She glanced in at the library, shrouded in gloom and the faint glow of the fire that never quite died, in passing.

She froze, the record suddenly distant and tinny.

In one of the armchairs by the fireplace sat a long, lean figure, washed-out and faded. Small round glasses caught the firelight as he bent over a book open in his lap. The pages rustled as he turned them, searching for something.

Maeve took a soft step into the room, blinking hard. The figure was pale but not transparent. He wore a smoking jacket of a deep hunter green. 

He was beautiful. For a long moment Maeve wondered what his story was, wished she had her notebook in her hands to draw him as she drew the rest, to preserve him for posterity.

She took another step forward. The pages ruffled as he continued to turn them, still searching for something. What a life, to be constantly doomed to searching for answers.

Maeve’s socked foot slid across a rough patch in the flooring and she stumbled. Catching herself, she slowly straightened and let out a long, silent breath before she looked up. 

Straight into his eyes. 

Stomach sinking, Maeve found herself unable to look away from pale brown eyes staring at her, unblinking. 

Never look them in the eyes, she remembered, too late.

The book closed and he laid it on the table beside his chair. He unfolded himself and stood, long-limbed and still intently focused on Maeve. The pale brown eyes were deep and wide and sparkling. Maeve leaned forward, fighting the urge to push closer. 

She had months left in the house. Months to study him. Months to possibly put him to rest. If she could just avoid touching him. 

She reached out. Her fingers closed on cold air. 

Instantly roaring filled her ears, then the chatter of a thousand people. Images flashed through her mind--people, faces. Waves of heat and cold swept over her body and she gritted her teeth so she would not scream as her stomach sank.

When she opened her eyes he was gone. He left only the ruffling pages of an open book behind. 

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah

Word count: 1250

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah

Leeland stared with vacant eyes at a tattered banner, its blue and gold barely visible between gaping holes, half-hidden beneath a slick of red mud and the edge of the tent canvas. The wadded-up coat beneath his head was wet and warm from the heat of his body. A fitful breeze brought tendrils of smoke wafting over the rows of sick and wounded, carrying the scent of someone’s supper or the reek of blood.

Sounds of pain filled the hospital tent. Outside, muddy boots and striped trousers huddled in a circle. A voice floated down, droning over a list of the dead.  

Arthur J. Fielding. Joseph Jameson. Isaiah Weatherfield.

In his camp, would they do the same for the poor Rebel boys who’d fallen three days before? Would his name appear in the endless columns? Would they read it out in church, mourning the boys who never made it home?

A scream, sharp and terror-filled, pulled him back with a jolt to the world of dying men.

“I’m sorry you have to hear that.”

Leeland opened his eyes. Standing against the light was a young woman, her white apron spattered with dark spots, her hair in a thick braid down her back.

“I tried to get them to set up another tent for the doctor, but they wouldn’t,” the young woman said, bending over Leeland and handing him a bit of bread. Another scream broke the quiet din of the hospital and Leeland and the young woman flinched.

“Does a body no good to hear the screams like that.”

She began to turn away and Leeland instinctively reached out to stop her with his right arm. A blast of pain blinded him, and images flashed across his eyelids.

The soul-shaking booms of artillery. Earth dug up at his feet by the shells. Eddie, holding the banner, the life winking out of his vacant eyes as he fell down, down, down…

A gentle touch on his forehead woke him from memories as the pain subsided to a dull roar.

“Can I get you anything?” the young woman asked.

Leeland shook his head slowly, careful not to move his arm, afraid to look and see what part of him was missing. “You—what’s your name?”

“Elsie.”

She was too kind, the touches of her hands too soft to be roughened by the curses and groans he heard around him.

“Elsie. You should be at home…” Leeland tried to remember the movements of his mother’s hands as she sat in the parlor making boxes for “those poor boys.” Anything to distract himself from the sudden remembrance that he was no longer a whole man.

“…making bandages,” he finished. “What are you doing here?”

“We all have to do what we can.” She smiled. “Can I do anything for you?”

“No.” Leeland closed his eyes, the smile on her face too much for him to look at.

After a moment, she left, letting a thin ray of light fall across his face. He raised his good arm and covered his eyes, hoping with the light to block out the sounds and the smells.

He could block the sounds and smells, but he couldn’t block the rabid faces charging behind his eyes, snarling like wolves freshly fed. If he had not believed in hell before, he did now.

Later, the doctor came by. He was a burly, rough man in a stained gray shirt, his pockets bristling with tools, his suspenders barely clinging to his Union-striped trousers over a bulging barrel chest. He was stained with blood all over and his heavy mustache accentuated a deep frown.

The doctor reached him and loomed over him, his heavy brows lowering over his eyes. A meaty hand reached down and grabbed Leeland’s bad shoulder, sparking a wildfire of pain that blurred his vision. The doctor’s face twisted into a disgusted expression dripping with even more hate than Leeland had seen on the battlefield. He spat.

“Rebel.”

Leeland cursed him softly as he fell back, too overwhelmed to do more.

Elsie returned in the wake of the doctor, leaving a blanket of quiet in her wake. As the wounded settled to what sleep they could in the candlelight, a group of men outside began singing.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord…

Some glory, Leeland thought. It was supposed to be quick. They were supposed to add a couple of Yankee scalps to their belts and return home yelling and screaming, covered in glory.

Elsie leaned over him, the flickering lamplight forming a shifting halo around her head. She handed him a dipper of water, laced with something sweet that spread warmly through his body and began to numb his senses.

“Elsie.”

She set the dipper back into a tin of water by her side. “Yes.”

“Do you have a newspaper?”

The voices drifted in as Elsie went to fetch the paper.

Glory, glory, hallelujah…

“Is there anything in there about the 41st Regiment?”.

Elsie settled on her knees next to him. “We don’t have a 41st—”

“Confederate,” Leeland said.

Elsie’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth as if to speak.

Leeland braced himself. He would probably die anyway. What use was it to find out the fate of his comrades?

Elsie raised the paper to the light and squinted at the page. After a moment she began to read, softly, her voice rising and falling like the flicker of the light.

“In the action against the 14th and 21st Regiments, on the 3rd Instant, the 41st Regiment sustained:

Killed: Joe Curtis, Leslie Springer, Major John Sutherfield…”

Her voice went on and on softly, a soothing sound that reminded Leeland of his oldest sister reading to him when a small child.

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps…

As the drug filled his head with cotton, images drifted back through Leeland’s mind. He could almost hear the band playing, the day his town marched out to war. The echoes of the joyful sounds as the young men spun stories around fires at night, sang songs. Then the hard edges in voices, the whispered accusations, the name flying from tongue to tongue, bitter in each mouth. Yanks. Yanks. Yanks.

Leeland interrupted Elsie’s reading. “Don’t you hate us?” His tongue moved slowly in his mouth.

The paper snapped as Elsie dropped her hands. “Do you want me to hate you?”

“We hate you,” Leeland said, drifting.

“Do you?”

It was the last thing he heard from her. A cool touch from her fingertips lingered on his forehead as her shadow moved away, and the echo of her words floated to him.

Behind his closed eyes rose a blue and gold flag, streaming bright in the sunshine over gold trim and fresh starch. Gold thread sparkling, it merged with a sea of flags, blue and red and gold, waving over a bristling field of rifles and gray coats, borne on the broad shoulders of the glory of the little southern towns, bright-eyed and wet behind the ears.

Then artillery, crashing into the morning. Officers screaming orders. Gray coats stained with blood and mud. Smoke. Lumps on the ground that turned out, hours later, to be the bodies of comrades. Lungs burning. Rifles jamming.

The flag, full of holes, stained with smoke, trampled in the mud.

Outside, the singers began their fourth chorus, the strains of the song tapering off into the countryside.

Glory, glory, hallelujah

Our God is marching on…

"Chocolate" -- July 24

Word count: 600

Chocolate

“Are these all the kinds of chocolate you have?”

The employee looked up at Matt with a quizzical expression. “No, this is it.”

“All right. Thanks.”

As the employee walked away, Matt leaned over and studied the shelf of chocolates. He blinked sleep out of his eyes. It was 1 a.m., and the fluorescent lights of the corner store glared off the snow piled against the windows.

Milk chocolate.

Dark chocolate.

Semisweet chocolate.

Melting snow dripped off his scarf into a puddle on the floor as he tried to remember what kind Brittney liked. Matt had painful memories of his last midnight run—and the hour of sobbing when he returned with the wrong kind.

“I’m sorry,” Brittney had said, burying her face in his shirt. “It’s not your fault.”

Matt pushed aside a handful of packages of milk chocolate. He struggled to remember. Did she like dark chocolate or semisweet—or was it white chocolate? Brittney had not answered his text.

Not white chocolate. Matt picked up two packages, one of dark and one of semisweet. He checked out and tucked the bags in his pocket, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck.

Outside, snowflakes flickered through Matt’s headlights, floating on the breeze. He drove home as quickly as he dared, sliding on the slick streets.

The porch light shone through an increasingly thick slurry of snowflakes. Matt jumped out of the car and hunched his shoulders around his ears as he jogged toward the door.

Neither he nor Brittney had gotten a good night’s sleep in almost a week. He hoped the chocolate would buy him a few more hours of precious sleep—and hopefully Brittney, too.

Wrapped in half a dozen blankets, Brittney waited for him on the couch. Matt turned on a lamp as he walked in. She struggled upright, looking at him with red, puffy eyes.

“Did you get it?”

Matt had learned never to ask Brittney if she’d been crying. Instead, he shed his coat, brushing stray snowflakes from his shoulders and pants, and sat beside her on the couch. He handed her the two packages.

“I couldn’t remember which one you liked,” he said, rubbing her swollen stomach. A tiny foot kicked beneath his hand.

“Thanks, Matt.” Brittney held the packages to the light. She handed the dark chocolate back to him with a short laugh. “These are nasty.”

He tossed the package to the other side of the couch, allowing himself to let out a sigh of relief. No tears. “Do you want something to drink?”

Brittney mumbled “no” through a mouthful of semisweet chocolate. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

Matt held her close. She was warm and his eyes began to close. A quiet rustle across the room crossed his mind, but didn’t register.

“Matt, stop crinkling the package.”

“I’m not—”

“Stop, please.”

Matt opened his eyes. On the other side of the couch, a long-legged spaniel made eye contact with him and wagged his tail slowly. The second package of chocolates lay open between his front paws.

“Henry!” Matt pushed Brittney’s head aside and lunged for the dog, digging soft, goopy chocolate out of its mouth with his fingers. “Bad dog!”

“Henry?” Brittney sat bolt upright, a smear of chocolate on her mouth. “Did he swallow it?”

“Bad dog!”

“He’s going to die!” Brittney burst into tears.

His own tears prickled at the back of Matt’s throat as he scooped the dog up and headed to the sink to wash out his mouth. It was going to be another long night.

"Frostbite" -- July 23

Word count: 750

Frostbite

Jem and Gray were assigned to the tracks on the most bitter morning of the year. January 14. They took three pairs of gloves apiece and an extra. The team that went out before them had lost a man to frostbite.

Jem and Gray did rock, paper, scissors for carrying the gun, which meant standing atop the handcart and watching for the wolves. Gray lost.

The sun hung low in the sky when they reached the end of the line, where the half-built, frozen tracks faded into snowbanks, but the snow shone all around, like a white bonfire. The air attacked the openings in Gray’s clothing, nipping at his wrists and the skin around his eyes.

“They won’t come during the day,” Jem said.

Gray leaned against the pump in the center of the handcart and flexed his stiff fingers against the barrel of the gun. He could feel the brittle coldness of the steel through his mittens. The last time he’d felt a gun like that in his hand, it had shattered when he pulled the trigger.

Gray squinted into the white wasteland, searching for eyes.

Below him, Jem pounded at the tracks with his sledgehammer. The hammer’s clink on frozen metal echoed over the blank white landscape. Gray did not envy Jem his job—track duty meant working, sweat turning wool clothes into an inescapable sauna.

“You could help me, you know,” Jem said, resting on his sledgehammer.

“We agreed.”

“Gray, they won’t come during the day.”

Gray didn’t answer. He’d had this fight with Jem too many times to count. He had seen the white wolves attack before. Jem was new. Anyone who had been on the line for more than two months knew about the wolves.

He held the gun barrel close, to keep it warm, and scanned the snow for movement.

The sun cast no warmth on the men. Jem’s hammer never stopped, each erratic plink jarring inside Gray’s skull. As Jem laid track, they crept further and further from the base.

Jem’s hammer finally stopped sometime around midday. He leaned it against the side of the cart. The platform shook as he jumped up beside Gray.

“What are you doing?” Gray asked, his voice muffled through his scarf.

“Taking a break.” Jem shrugged off his outer coat and hung it over the mechanism of the handcart.

“Put your coat back on, idiot!”

Jem looked Gray in the eye. “Strong language from someone watching for imaginary wolves while I work.”

“You’ll get frostbite.”

Jem spread his arms, showing Gray the layers of coats he still wore. “Come down and help me. Oh, wait.” He leaned forward and squinted outward. “There might be a wolf.”

Gray refused to respond. After a pause, Jem dropped back to the ground.

An hour later, Jem removed a second coat and one pair of gloves.

“It’s hot,” he said, staring up at Gray with his face uncovered, blowing defiant clouds of steam into the cold, dry air. “I’m sweating.”

An hour later, he removed his last coat, leaving himself in a fleece-lined shirt. He made an eloquent gesture when Gray opened his mouth to comment.

Jem swung the hammer more slowly now, gathering strength between each swing, movements sluggish.

Gray moved his eyes back to the edge of the woods, covered in a thick blanket of dazzling white. Something black moved against the snow. He snapped the gun to his shoulder, reminded once again of the brittle coldness of the barrel. The stock numbed his cheek through his scarf.

“See anything?” Jem asked, his voice slow and exaggerated.

Startled, Gray looked down. Jem stood soaked in sweat that was already crystallizing into frost, grinning lopsidedly. His warm clothes made dark gray spots on the snow behind him.

“Jem, put your clothes back on!” Gray moved to the edge of the platform to step down.

They attacked. Wolves from every direction, materializing out of the snow. Gray threw his rifle to his shoulder, but the black noses, black eyes, white shadows were everywhere and nowhere, impossible to reach with the rifle.

Jem screamed, staggering. “Get lost, you sons—”

Hot adrenaline pumping through him, Gray sighted at the nearest wolf, on the edges of the flailing pack clustered around Jem.

The crack of the shot echoed across the plains as the kickback knocked Gray backward. He stumbled, his stiff fingers refusing to catch him. As he hit the platform, the rifle barrel shattered, leaving him at the mercy of the wolves.

"Utopia" -- July 22

Word count: 500

Utopia

A breeze kicked up swirls of sand across the dig site, eliciting a chorus of groans from overworked grad students crouching in shallow pits. Above the pits, two girls sat on a dirty tarp, eating sandwiches.

“Tell me about what you’ve found,” Maisy said, opening a bag of potato chips. “I really appreciate your help.”

Holding up two fingers, Nikki took another bite of her sandwich before answering.

“Ok,” she said, tucking the sandwich back into her lunch bag. She leaned forward.

“So, you know how everyone says this used to be the largest city here?”

“My senior class went on a virtual tour. All the people they’ve found here have been perfectly uniform and they think there was no disease.”

“Right. So, over there, by that white flag, is the huge building you see in all the pictures.”

Maisy squinted. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So then, we found these tunnels radiating out from the basement of the building. You can see, the purple bunting is strung along one of them. We haven’t managed to map all of them yet; there are just so many. See them?”

“What are they?”

Nikki shrugged. “Trevor found out that they run all over the city, leading to every building we’ve found. Dr. McCreedy thinks they were used for surveillance. They’re everywhere, which means either there were dozens of buildings that left no trace, or that they were doing surveillance everywhere, even out in the open.”

“Why didn’t we hear that in History?”

“It’s too new.” Nikki pushed her lunch bag aside and stood up, wiping her hands on her dusty pants. “This you have to see, though.”

Nikki led her friend down the embankment and toward a large, deep pit, where two sun hats bobbing at ground level indicated two grad students at work. Nikki knelt on the edge of the pit.

The two students inside looked up and leaned back on their heels, brushes and picks in their hands. “Hi, Nikki.”

“Found anything interesting today?”

One of the students handed up a box. Inside, carefully catalogued and labeled, lay a confused mass of tiny bones.

Nikki handed the box to Maisy. “Careful.”

“What is this?” Maisy took the box and balanced it across her knees. “They’re so small. Is it a baby?”

Nikki crouched over the box, pointing to the bones. “It is a baby. Actually, two. See the skull there; there’s an arm bone, there’s a femur. We’ve found at least six full skeletons in this pit alone, and all of them have had something wrong with them. Missing limbs, deformed skulls—you know.”

“I thought they’d eradicated defects.”

“We thought so too.” Nikki leaned her chin on her knee, her eyes sparkling. “But look here—these babies were joined at the hip. Here we were looking for the secret to utopia.”

Maisy studied the bones in her lap. “But…”

“But,” Nikki said, tracing the outlines of the bones with her fingertips, “it looks like it’s not exactly the utopia we had thought.”

"The Belle" -- July 21

Word count: 1200

The Belle

“Send in number 5.”

“Won’t they wonder what’s going on?”

“It’s a mansion. This guy wipes up his dog messes with hundred-dollar bills. They won’t care.”

“Sending in number 5. Room G.”

“Hailey, monitor Room G.”

“On it.”

****

Lady Carmichael stood six feet tall without heels and she was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a dress studded with tiny crystals that reflected the light in a halo around her. Her teeth were brilliantly white, her eyes large and seductive, her shoulders strong and sculpted. She stood in the center of a flock of men, all immaculately dressed and sporting various colors of bow tie.

“There are many beautiful women here tonight, but you, my dear, are sparkling.”

“What will your wife say to that?” Lady Carmichael said, relieving the man who had addressed her of a champagne glass and lightly smacking his hand with her fan.

Neville put the hand in the pocket of his maroon slacks, flashing her a smile almost as dazzling as the crystals on her dress. “This is the most splendid outfit I think I’ve ever seen you in.”

“Better than the Moroccan Prince’s cocktail party?”

Neville pursed his lips and nodded. “Better than that—by a hair.”

“I knew I could rely on your honesty.”

“How many compliments like that have you gotten tonight?”

Lady Carmichael raised her manicured fingers dramatically to her forehead. “More than I can count.”

“As you deserve. Can you dance in that getup?”

“What a question. What kind of dancing?”

Neville offered her his arm and they proceeded together into the ballroom. A crystal chandelier caught the light and flung it sparkling around the room. A handful of young people danced together, brilliant colors meshing with blacks and blues, as a live band played.

“Unless you prefer a different kind of dancing,” Neville said. “There’s a disco in the North Ballroom.”

“This is perfect.” Lady Carmichael swept onto the floor in a shower of sparkles that rivaled the chandelier.

Lady Carmichael was fascinating. Neville couldn’t keep his eyes off her. As they spun around the room, laughing and chatting, his eyes bored deep into hers or devoured her face like it was the last beautiful thing on earth.

When they had had enough of dancing, Neville brought Lady Carmichael more champagne and they stood in the corner of the room, watching the others dance.

“How is Angie, Mr. Neville?”

Neville shook his head. “Broke up a few months ago, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I guess you could say I’m on the market.” Neville showed all his teeth in a laugh.

“Don’t talk like that. Tell me about the cruise. Did you know her plans before you went?” Lady Carmichael painted a smile onto her face and listened.

“No, actually. We went—"

His eyes left her face. His voice trailed off.

Lady Carmichael followed his eyes.

Standing in the doorway was a woman angelic in her beauty. She wore a sky-blue dress and brilliant white gloves and her brilliant orange hair cascaded down her back. She caught the eyes of the room as soon as she entered. In a moment, a dozen young men clustered around her, and within two minutes, one of them had her as a partner for the dance.

“Excuse me,” Neville said, giving Lady Carmichael a smile and depositing his wine glass on a table of half-empty glasses. A moment later he had appeared in the crowd around the new arrival.

The champagne turned bitter in Lady Carmichael’s mouth and she strode from the room in a forgotten, ignored shimmer of light.

****

“What’s our status?”

“Number 5 has moved from Room G. Guests appear normal.”

“Numbers 3 and 4?”

“3 became unresponsive due to overstimulation from disco lights. 4 became unresponsive in bathroom 8 while attempting to recalibrate. The others are still circulating.”

“What room is 5 in right now?”

“B.”

“Good. Keep monitoring.”

****

Lady Carmichael made her way to the bar. She leaned one elbow on the reflective countertop, watching a knot of people around the brilliant blue and orange girl.

Their eyes were not turned on her. Neville’s eyes were not turned on her. She frowned, tapping her fan against the counter.

Lady Carmichael laid her fan on the counter and rose, striding toward the group like an Amazon on the warpath. She entered the group in a swirl of sparkles and smiles.

Neville turned to her with a startled look.

Lady Carmichael maneuvered her body to separate him slightly from the group. “Neville, do introduce me to your friend,” she said under her breath.

“Oh, yes!” Neville took Lady Carmichael’s elbow. “Alicia, this is Lady Carmichael.”

Lady Carmichael held out her hand and Alicia shook it gently. Like a walking doll, she had flawless skin and brilliant eyes.

“Charmed,” Lady Carmichael said. “Will you join me for a drink?”

The three settled at the bar, where Lady Carmichael called for a round of drinks. Putting on her widest and most ingratiating smile, she plied Alicia with questions.

Neville finished his fourth cocktail and smacked the glass back down on the bar. He leaned toward Lady Carmichael. “You know,” he said under his breath. “You are the most beautiful woman I had ever seen until I saw her.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Alicia, who frowned as she pushed three glasses toward the bartender.

Lady Carmichael signaled for another bottle of champagne and gave Neville a thin smile.

“Alicia,” Lady Carmichael said, leaning over. “Where did you go to school?”

The blue and orange girl raised her fourth glass of champagne. “I went to…Yale. Business degree. Tommy went there too.”

“Tommy?”

Alicia waved her glass. Her eyes were wide and a little too bright, her movements a little too stiff, her smile too rigid.

“Someone I used to see.”

On her other side, Lady Carmichael felt Neville melt at the mention of Tommy. She allowed herself a small, secret smile.

Alicia lifted her glass to drain it, mumbling something about Tommy and his law degree, her cheeks flushed attractively, but as she put the glass to her lips, her arm convulsed, and the glass flew across the room. It shattered on the floor to the accompaniment of half a dozen screams. Lady Carmichael pulled back, startled by the violence of the movement.

Alicia stood up, her entire body shaking, hair flying. Her dress ripped down the side and she barely made an effort to hold it together. Her lips had pulled back over her teeth in a wide grimace.

Lady Carmichael screamed. Neville nearly fell off his bar stool as he pushed back and fled the room.

Alicia fell to the floor. A faint smell of burnt metal filled the room, and a tiny wisp of smoke rose from Alicia’s mouth. Her torn dress revealed a network of wires beneath her skin.

Lady Carmichael was left standing over the mess. Once again all eyes were on her.

****

“What just happened?”

“Overabundance of alcohol, sir. The unit malfunctioned.”

“You mean you made robots that can’t hold their liquor?”

“Regardless, I would call this a success.”

“That depends on how you define success.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, type this up. I want it on my desk as soon as possible.”

"Shoulder Fairy" -- July 20

Word count: 1000

Shoulder Fairy

Sometimes, you feel like there’s no good in the world. Everyone around you is making bad decisions and will never change.

I flew low through the back streets of New York City, dodging clouds of cigarette smoke and loud voices, my wings we with drizzle. Arian had called in sick—something about getting caught in a cloud of exhaust—and asked me to cover his rounds.

So I was up early, flying in the rain. My rounds had not gone well.

My first stop was a doorman at a fancy hotel. Ten angry people in damp suits stood in front of him arguing over their reservation.

I closed my eyes and visualized his shoulder. Pop.

It was slipperier than I imagined, and I grabbed his white collar to keep from falling.

“Stay calm,” I said. “Refer them to management. Stay calm.”

I repeated it three times, willing the words to reach him. But a moment later he flung himself toward the group, shouting incoherently. I hightailed it out of there.

My entire morning followed the same pattern.

A girl on the subway platform went to work instead of dropping in on a friend in distress.

A barista deliberately misspelled a beautiful name, despite my begging.

An old man made the wrong move in checkers and lost the game two moves later.

A woman kicked her dog’s poop onto someone’s doorstep, despite my list of half a dozen perfectly good places to kick it instead.

By the time I reached Central Park, I was exhausted. I’d run through the spray from a cotton candy machine on the way in, and I was coated in sticky tendrils. My wings were damp and my muscles hurt.

Too tired to go on, I flew up and lighted on a twig, listening to street performers around the corner playing something that involved guitars and crooning. I had one more stop, but my legs and wings hurt and no one had acknowledged my work all day.

Below me, a couple passed hand in hand. They looked up at the tree at the same time. I waved at them, though they couldn’t see me.

As they paused under the tree, uncertainty rose in a wave that almost knocked me off my twig.

He was on the verge of a decision.

I took a deep breath and visualized his shoulder as clearly as I could.

Pop.

The girl leaned against the tree and laughed. “I didn’t know you were into this kind of music.”

He shrugged. “I thought you’d like it,” he said.

The girl was cute—frizzy orange hair in a messy top knot and a cluster of freckles on the tip of her nose. Her smile was radiant.

The boy’s shoulder was tense and he was sweating. He had one hand in his pocket. The path was empty, music playing softly in the background. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves.

“Do it,” I whispered into his ear. If this was the one good decision I scored today—

“Do you want to get ice cream?” the boy asked.

“No!” I shouted into his ear. “Just do it!”

He took her hand and they headed for the outskirts of Central Park. I could feel his courage slipping away moment by moment.

“Just turn around and ask her!” I shouted, trying to make my voice heard. I shook his collar as hard as I could, then ducked as his hand swept up to swat at me.

We approached an ice cream stand. The girl’s face was so close to the boy’s shoulder I could smell her breath. “I’m going to save a spot on the bench,” she said.

“What flavor?” he asked.

He ordered two double scoops of strawberry ice cream. While the ice cream girl scooped the second cone, he reached into his pocket and removed a tiny, flat box.

“Yes!” I screamed. Finally!

“Wait—”

He took a dainty ring out of the box and put it on the top scoop of ice cream.

“Don’t do that!” I shouted. “It’ll get sticky! That’s gross!”

Whether he heard or not, he didn’t stop. He slid the box back into his pocket and let out a long breath that squeaked at the end. When the attendant handed him his second cone, he fumbled with his cash and tipped her three dollars by mistake.

I held onto his collar, a sick feeling in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him to do it. What girl would accept a sticky ring like that? His day would be ruined, and then mine would.

In the ten-second walk to the bench, he must have cleared his throat ten times. Then he was standing in front of her, and I could feel his pulse in the air beside me.

“Penny,” he said, and his voice squeaked.

She looked up at him and slowly put her phone away.

He cleared his throat. “Um, Penny…”

In a quick movement, he thrust the ice cream into her hand. The ring caught the sunlight and sparkled on top.

“Penny-will-you-marry-me?”

Mesmerized, she took the cone from his hand and stared at the ring on top. Slowly, her eyes rose to his. They were brilliantly blue.

“You dork!” She flung her arms around him, laughing and pulling him close. His ice cream splattered on the ground, forgotten. Penny’s face came to rest so close to mine I could count the individual freckles on her nose. She was beaming.

“Of course!”

I lifted from his shoulder and watched as they laughed at the puddle of ice cream on the ground and held each other as if they would break if they let go. At least someone had made one good decision on my watch for the day. I turned to go home with their laughter behind me. But first, I fluttered down to take a few mouthfuls of the part of the ice cream that hadn’t touched the ground.

It would be a shame to let that go to waste.

"The Society" -- July 19

Word count: 2000

The Society

Abel Wilkins’s flat was in total disarray. Undergarments and scientific equipment littered every available surface. Two large rucksacks stood open near the door, filled with instruments and surrounded by piles of messy clothes.

Wilkins emerged from an inner room, aggressively flattening a telescope and muttering to himself.

“A disgrace; they’re a disgrace. They are a blot upon the good name of science.”

He flung the telescope into one of the bags.

“I’ll show them a disgrace!” he shouted. With the intention off his chest, he stood over his rucksacks, muttering under his breath as he catalogued their contents.

The door inched open and a young face with a patchy beard inserted itself into the scene. “Sir, the train—”

“Ah, Caleb.” Wilkins beckoned the young man over and handed him an assortment of tools wrapped in a leather roll. “Hold these.”

Caleb lifted the flap to peek at the tools with a puzzled look. “Sir, the train leaves at 8:15 tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Wilkins took the roll back and deposited it in the rucksack. “You bought tickets, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, the cameras.” Wilkins held up three cases containing bulky travel cameras and their equipment.

Caleb sighed and took the cases from Wilkins to pack into the bags.

****

“Sir, what, exactly, are we looking for in Germany?”

“My dignity,” Wilkins muttered.

“Sir?”

Wilkins leaned on the railing, looking out at the skyline of the German port as they approached. Salt spray dusted his face.

“The Society says my creature cannot exist; well I know it does. No matter what they say.”

Caleb raised his eyebrows. Wilkins went back to staring over the railing.

“I know it’s out there,” Wilkins muttered. “I can feel it in my bones. Can’t you?”

“No,” Caleb said, leaning his chin on the railing. “What does it feel like?”

Wilkins gave Caleb a look and moved several spaces down the railing. He refused to look at Caleb for the remainder of the passage.  

Those nincompoops at the Society thought they knew everything—but it was out there. He had seen it. And, by Jove, he would show them they were wrong. They would be begging to reinstate him as a member in good standing.

As the boat drew nearer and the tangle of black forest surrounding the little port town grew thicker and thicker, Abel Wilkins bared his teeth in a slow smile.

He would teach them to expel him.

****

Wilkins strode down the crooked village street, squinting at haphazard house numbers with a much-worn paper in one hand and a field bag bristling with pens and instruments in the other. He’d left Caleb at the inn, waiting for breakfast. Caleb was far too addicted to comfort and pleasure to make a good Society member—or even scientist, though it didn’t take much in the way of brains to become one.

Wilkins spotted the broken steeple first—the numbers on the church were hidden beneath a thick carpet of ivy that crawled up the wooden side. As he approached the door, he stepped carefully around the holes in the dusty, spiderwebbed porch. A thin track, smooth and clean from street to door, marked the path of the faithful.

Wilkins shoved the paper into his pocket and pushed on the door. It was locked. He frowned and knocked. As he waited, he straightened his coat and tie.

He knocked again.

Finally, the door rattled. It opened and a tall, spare old man in a tall white collar leaned out.

“My apologies; I—”

Wilkins gave his most charming smile as the priest cut himself off.  “Good,” he said. “I was just about to look for the back door.”

The priest opened and closed his mouth several times.

“I believe your town archives are located here?”

The priest finally managed a “Yes.”

“May I see them?” Wilkins shouldered past the priest. “Thank you.”

“I’m…” The priest stared. “I’m sorry, can I help you with something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for your archives. I understand they are open to the public?”

“They are.”

“And they are located here?”

“They are.”

“I would like to examine them.”

The priest shook himself and gave a thin smile. “All right. You are welcome. Follow me, please.”

Wilkins followed the priest past ragged tapestries, damp stone, and an ivy-covered stained-glass window into a tiny room lined with heavy wooden cabinets. The priest fumbled with a key on a sparsely furnished ring and began unlocking cabinets, revealing stacks of bound books and papers.

“And what are you looking for in our archives?” the priest asked as Wilkins deposited his bag on the table in the middle of the room.

Wilkins pulled out a few notepads and a pen case. Choosing a notebook, he opened it and handed it to the priest.

“Ever seen one of those?”

The priest dropped his key ring back in his pocket and reached for the notebook. He pulled the page close to his face. Wilkins studied him.

The book hit the floor before Wilkins could reach out and catch it. The priest stood petrified with his hands extended, eyes wide.

“So you have seen it!” Wilkins leaned in, his eyes flicking to the book on the floor to ensure it was all right.

The priest lowered himself to the ground and gathered up the loose pages, tucking them back into the cover with small, precise motions. “Why do you have this?” he asked.

“Have what?”

The priest handed the book back to Wilkins. “It’s a local legend. I didn’t know it had gotten beyond the village.” He smiled, showing all his teeth. “Unusual to get a request about such a silly piece of lore, that’s all.”

Wilkins tucked the book back into his bag. “What can you tell me about it?”

Among his open cabinets of moldering books and crumbling papers, the priest looked at home, like a ghost among the relics of his past life. He riffled through a stack of papers in a cabinet. “It’s really just a local legend. I don’t know why you’d waste your time looking.”

“Humor me. Please.”

“There’s—there’s really nothing to tell.” The priest took a handful of yellowing papers from the shelf and laid them on the table. From another cabinet, he took an ornately bound book and set it on top. “This is all we have. Humor yourself, if you like.”

“Thanks,” Wilkins said, leaning over the papers and setting his notepad and pens aside.

“Whatever you do,” the priest said, pausing to look back at the door, “don’t waste your time in the woods looking for it. I think you’ll see why.”

He disappeared. Wilkins watched him drift into the main body of the church, padding toward the altar, then turned his attention to the papers.

This time, he wasn’t going home without solid evidence to lay before the Society.

****

“Five sightings. Four within the last four months. All coinciding with the full moon.”

“Sightings by elderly people, and all entirely unconfirmed!”

“Look, Caleb, just give me the light if you aren’t coming.”

Wilkins stood at the edge of the village, facing the woods. He had his notebook in his hands and a rucksack on his back.

“Another sighting won’t win the Society’s approval again.”

“I’m not after just another sighting.” Wilkins waved his notebook under Caleb’s nose. “I’m going to bring back evidence.”

“What, a sketch? The Society would never—"

“You’d never make it in the Society, Caleb,” Wilkins said. He snapped the notebook shut.

“It just doesn’t seem very scientific…”

“You know nothing about scientific!” Wilkins stuffed the notebook into his pocket. “If I’m ever going to get a look at it, if I’m ever going to show the Society what’s what, then it’s going to be tonight. Come, or don’t.”

He took the flashlight from Caleb’s hand and stuffed it in his other pocket. Then he turned and marched into the woods.

Caleb hesitated on the verge of civilization, then followed.

The sun was just going down, and the light slanted in long golden rays between the trees. On the horizon, the moon was just beginning to rise, full and white. Wilkins crashed through the undergrowth ahead of Caleb, flashlight in hand.

Caleb caught up to him. “What are you even looking for?”

“So you decided to join me.” Wilkins stopped short. “Good. I remembered that the cameras are in your bag.”

“Abel, what are we looking for, exactly?”

“I showed you the sketch.”

Caleb let out a deep sigh that fluttered the leaves on the nearest tree. “I didn’t see it.”

Wilkins slapped the notebook into his hand. “Look, then. But keep it down.”

“What is this thing?”

“I don’t know. That’s what makes it exciting.” Wilkins took a camera from Caleb’s pack and checked to make sure it had film in it. He rubbed the flash with his sleeve, cleaning off a speck of dust. “We need to find a likely place to watch for it.”

Caleb put his head down and followed Wilkins as he stalked through the woods.

The sun continued to lower, and the shadows deepened at the base of the trees. The broken spire of the church was barely visible behind them in the deepening gloom when Wilkins signaled Caleb to halt. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“The sightings all happened within sight of the spire, at dusk,” he said. “Be silent and listen for it.”

The two of them crouched in a tangle of underbrush. Wilkins rehearsed what he had read in the archive papers. He hadn’t found much. Most of the sightings had been reported in newspaper articles buried with the likes of the personal advice columns. The Society would never admit the reports. But they were all consistent:

A figure the size and general shape of a man, with long fur and long limbs and an inhuman face. The favored explanation in the papers was that it was Old Scratch himself come to haunt the forests. It was likely, he knew, some sort of animal. The question was, what kind?

Night descended around them. A nightingale alighted on a branch and sang.

A little after dark, something moved in the silent forest. The sky still had a faint blue glow, but beneath the trees all was gloomy shadow. Wilkins perked up his ears and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

“Did you hear something?” Caleb asked under his breath.

Wilkins silenced him with a frantic gesture.

It moved again—a rustle, quiet snapping. Wilkins turned the camera over in his hands, feeling for the shutter button.

Into a shaft of lingering twilight, a familiar tall, emaciated figure appeared. Its long limbs were covered with tattered clothes.

Caleb clutched Wilkins’ arm as Wilkins leaned forward in the thicket, squinting at the suspiciously man-like figure.

“It’s just the priest,” Wilkins whispered, barely audible, as the man stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

Caleb’s hand did not let go. Wilkins had to strain to hear his whisper.

“That wasn’t just—”

In a blur of motion, something long and lean and furry leaped out of the trees. A flash went off, illuminating Caleb’s back for a moment as he fled, screeching, into the night. The screams of Abel Wilkins, caught in its grasp, woke the echoes of the forest again and again.  

****

We of the Society wish to officially thank Caleb Payne for bringing to light evidence regarding the disappearance of former member Abel Wilkins. Some doubt has been raised as to the possible identity of the creature captured on the film that Mr. Payne retrieved from the forest where Mr. Wilkins was last seen. However, our members are aware of how often a bear of medium height, standing at full length, can be mistaken as a man. It is the official opinion of this Society, after much deliberation and study, that the creature in question is a bear, and that Mr. Abel Wilkins has likely, to our great regret as a Society, been consumed.