"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.

"Please Grow" -- July 18

Word count: 1200

Please Grow

The only cloud in the bright, clean May sky hung over a tiny rundown house at the end of a long lane, surrounded by a wrought iron fence in as much disrepair as the house itself. There was no gate in the fence, and the bars were crooked and broken. The porch hung off the house at a forty-five-degree angle, and the windows were covered with brightly colored scraps of mismatched flannel.

Up the lane came a dusty man. Grease stained his fingers and his blue jeans, and his boots were covered in mud that splashed up his legs. He walked with his shoulders bowed forward like a man carrying a heavy burden.

The porch creaked beneath his feet, sending up puffs of dust. He walked straight across it, ignoring the sound, and knocked heavily on the door three times. While he waited, he patted all his pockets and straightened his clothes.

The door swung open silently. The man hesitated on the doorstep, then ran a hand over a bald, shiny head and face and walked in.

The man crossed through a beam of gray light from a window, stepping over a litter of colorful stones on the floor. He stopped to inspect a stack of old books that bent the side table beneath their weight.

“Mrs. Ballywood?”

The man leaned from side to side, trying to see around stacks of clutter. “Mrs. Ballywood! It’s Murphy!”

Murphy’s voice echoed in the room, seeming to startle a collection of taxidermied foxes that perched on a sofa, staring into the room with wide-open eyes and mouths. He put a table with a large, heavy globe on it between himself and the animals.

“Mrs. Ballywood!”

A figure rose from behind a pair of shelves filled with dusty bottles. Wild gray hair appeared first, then a pair of bony shoulders draped in a sheer material embroidered with crazy figures. She turned around, her wizened face scrunched into a squint.

“Farmer Murphy?”

“Mrs. Ballywood, it’s me.” Murphy stepped around a pile of empty bottles into the old woman’s line of sight.

Mrs. Ballywood stood up straight, bony hands holding her filmy shawl to her chest. “Oh?”

Murphy’s hands fidgeted in front of him, as though he were wishing for a hat to hold. “I’ve come for help with my situation.”

“I see.” The old woman stepped out from behind her shelves, dust falling from her shoulders like pixie dust. “And just how do you think I can help you?”

“Well…Corey down at the General Store said you’d helped him with his problem, and I thought—”

“Did he tell you how much it cost?” The old woman squinted at Murphy, a frown tugging the dozens of wrinkles on her face downward toward her chin.

Murphy fidgeted. “No, ma’am.”

“Hmph.” The old woman put her chin in the air and studied Murphy.

“Please,” he said. “It just needs to grow.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure I can help you with that.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“I’m not sure you know what you mean.” The old woman pivoted on her heel and hobbled toward a door.

Murphy watched her go, his shoulders slumping. The old woman glanced back over her shoulder at him as she closed the door slowly. Murphy hesitated, rolling the hem of his shirt between his fingers.

“Wait!” he said just before the door closed. “How much would it cost?”

The old woman poked her head out from behind the door. “How much did you bring?”

“I can get more—”

“At least two thousand dollars,” the old woman said. She pulled her head back behind the door, but it remained open. “And that’s if I choose to help you.”

Murphy stood speechless, his eyes wide, his face turning an unhealthy yellow. The door remained open. In the silence the raspy breathing of the old woman was audible. A soft cascade of dust motes fell through the slanting rays of gray, overcast light from the windows.

“Mrs. Ballywood, I only have eight hundred dollars, but I just bought a brand-new tractor that you can have; I can use the old one—”

“What would I do with a tractor?” The voice from beyond the door was sharp and had a hard edge of laughter in it.

“Look, it’s worth at least three thousand; I’ve only used it to plant one field—”

“Do better.”

Murphy licked his lips and ran a hand over his smooth head and down his face. “Um…”

“I’ll wait.”

“Half the crop?”

“What would I do with that? Eat it?”

“It could—”

“Do better!”

“My…” Murphy bit the word down and hesitated. He wiped his palm down his shirt.

“My dog?”

A pause.

“And what,” said the sharp voice behind the door, “would you do without that?”

Murphy took a step toward the door. “I…I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Ballywood, but I’ve just got to have your help. Would…would you take my dog?”

A long pause. The old woman’s head reappeared.

“Eight hundred dollars, your dog, and half the crop.”

“You promise it will grow?”

The old woman pushed the door back open. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“No guarantees.”

Quick as a snap she whipped into the other room and slammed the door. Murphy jumped. A shelf of glass knickknacks rattled, and a puff of dust rose from everything in the room.

The old woman’s voice came faintly. “Of course, if it doesn’t work, I’ll return half the payment.”

The color came back to Murphy’s face as tension drained from his shoulders. He grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Ballywood!”

“Don’t leave!”

Murphy waited. He wandered the room, feet leaving wide prints in the dust. He picked up a jar full of green fluid and turned it over in his hands, studying the three-eyed fish suspended inside.

“Farmer Murphy!”

Murphy jumped and set the jar down with a clunk. The old woman stood in the doorway, holding a bottle full of orange liquid. She handed it to him with a sniff.

“Put it in your water,” she said. “Don’t let anyone else get any. And bring the dog tomorrow night, around eight?”

Murphy took the bottle reverently and gently deposited it in his pocket. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

The old woman turned and disappeared behind her door.

Cradling the precious bottle in his pocket, Murphy left the house grinning.

Five days later, Murphy stood at the pump and poured the last of the bottle into his wash bucket. He tucked the empty bottle into his pocket and leaned down, splashing his head and face with the orange-tinged water.

As the water settled, he leaned over and grinned at his reflection. From his head and chin, which had been bare and bright enough to reflect the sun a few days before, sprouted a crop of thick, dark hair. He ran his fingers through it, grinning as he spiked it in front.

The loss of half his crop meant he wouldn’t have money for another invaluable cattle dog for at least a year—but he had despaired of ever having hair again.

Rubbing his hair dry with the towel, Murphy walked into the house grinning.

"The Party" -- July 17

Word count: 750

The Party 

You don’t have to sparkle. Just…be gregarious.

I don’t know how to do that.

Just…for heaven’s sake don’t frown.

Billie had a headache from smiling. Clutching a bottle of craft root beer, she stood by the wall and watched people walk by, keeping a thin smile pasted across her lips. Why had she let Liza drag her out to this party?

Soft music covered the room like a blanket as the singer perched on her chair and crooned into her microphone. Ripped denim, oversize clothes, and glittering piercings dotted the room. Liza had left her and stood in a crowd of denim jackets, holding a clear plastic cup of white wine.

Liza was definitely going to get the deal. She’d been negotiating with the producers for months. She had a smoky, rich voice and a ridiculous talent for lyrics. She had a charming smile and a few connections in the industry.

Billie had a degree and no music deal.

For heaven’s sake don’t frown.

Billie checked her smile.

“How’s it going over here?” Liza materialized in front of Billie. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

“I am.” Billie took a drink of her root beer. It was getting warm. Was her smile really that bad?

“You should talk to some people.”

Billie shook her head. “Maybe later.”

“All you have to do is stand on the edge of a conversation and smile.” Liza held up her clear plastic cup. When Billie didn’t respond, she reached to Billie’s side and clinked it against Billie’s bottle. “Good luck.”

She flitted off.

Liza made it look so easy. She made everything look easy. Singing, dancing, writing. Talking to people, negotiating, working with a producer.

Meanwhile Billie worked 9-5 at a gas station. She studied her nails and scratched a little dirt out of them. She’d only come to this party because Liza hinted so broadly that she should. Maybe she would meet someone, Liza said. Maybe she should get out of the house more, Liza said. Maybe if she would just try a couple events, Liza said.

Liza’s delighted squeal drifted faintly over the room as she fell into the arms of a blond-haired girl with pink highlights in her hair. “I missed you!”

Watching the two hug each other and then grab a booth and sit down, smiling and chatting like they’d known each other their whole life, Billie felt an aching loneliness grow behind her breastbone.

Billie shook herself free of the annoyed thoughts. She was here to make connections. Scanning the room, she spotted a small group at a table with an empty seat. When she sat down, a well-dressed man turned to her and smiled.

“Hello,” he said. “Who do I have the honor to welcome?”

“Hi, I’m Billie.” Surely he would be able to tell her smile was fake.

“Tom.” He reached out for a handshake.

Billie obliged. Her palm was sweaty. She tried not to grimace.

Tom turned back to the others at the table and they continued their discussion. Something about the music industry. Billie tried to look interested, but Tom kept spouting numbers and the others repeated them, and she couldn’t follow what was going on. So she sat in a bubble of silence, waiting for something to come up that she understood.

Across the room, Liza entered another group and immediately fell into conversation.

It looked so easy. But when Billie opened her mouth to speak, her throat felt constricted and the words fled from her brain.

“And…Billie, was it?”

Billie jumped. Tom had turned to her and was smiling. She tried to smile back, her heart pounding.

“Yes.”

“Have you released anything?”

Billie hesitated. What a strange question. “A…bird got caught in my house,” she said. “I let him go—”

Tom laughed, a deep belly laugh. Billie broke off, heart racing, confused.

“I mean music; have you released any music?”

Understanding flashed through Billie’s mind. Blood rushed to her face. She would have to leave. He could never take her seriously after this.

“I’m sorry, I…” Billie looked around for Liza among the confusion of brightly colored hair and denim-covered shoulders. It was time to leave.

But if she left, she knew she would never come to an event like this again. Billie spotted Liza across the room, talking and laughing with her producer and two young women who sang on her album, and she dug deep for her determination. She took a deep breath.

“Actually, I’m looking for a producer.”

"Unshakable" -- July 16

Word count: 1500

Unshakable

They called it unshakeable. Nothing short of a continental breakup on the scale of Pangea would move it.

Reporters made faces on air when they mentioned it. Skeptics decried government corruption that allowed taxpayer money to fund such an absurd project. Protestors picketed every government building in the country. The President tried to quiet the dissent without giving answers. Quietly, inexorably, the Tower rose in the middle of the Nevada desert.

That was ten years ago.

A year ago, the shaking started.

****

Kennedy rolled to her feet and stood poised, waiting for the ground to shake again. She squinted against glare of the white sand. A mile away, her tent floated in a haze of heat, the Jeep parked next to it. Trey would have spotted her by now, and he would be sitting in the entrance of the tent, his shotgun in easy reach, the portable fan turned off to conserve energy while he let hot air into the tent. If the tent hadn’t collapsed during the quake.

It had been a small one, nothing like the 8.9 that had destroyed their home in Yuma, Arizona.

The ground remained still.

Trey was waiting with his shotgun over his knees, leaning back and eating corn straight from a can.

“Find out anything?”

“They’re going to the Tower, too.” Kennedy looked back at the dust cloud in the distance that denoted another traveling family. “Four of them.”

Behind the tent, the outline of the Tower poked through a thick haze of dust. It would probably take two days to reach it as they detoured around the cracks in the roads.

As they disassembled the tent, the Jeep radio blared, listing quakes and magnitudes. The quakes were a nightmarish fact of life now, too close together to allow rebuilding, too violent to allow peaceful rest. If the radio told of one in your area, the best you could do was pray your family wasn’t trapped under some rubble.

“How many people do you really think are going to the Tower?” Kennedy asked. She tightened the last strap over the shapeless pile of tent gear in the open back of the Jeep.

“Too many.” Trey’s hand hovered over the steering wheel. “Ready?”

Kennedy hopped into the front seat and slammed the door. “At least we have a chance.”

“If the Tower is even safe.” Trey set the Jeep in motion and they buzzed toward the Tower.

“This many people can’t be wrong,” Kennedy muttered. She pulled her legs up into the seat and prepared for the drive.

Around the Tower, tents and makeshift huts sprawled for a mile in any direction, filled with people driven from their homes by the quakes but too poor to afford entry into the Tower. Trey slowed the Jeep as they approached the brilliantly colored confusion and made their way through makeshift streets.

Kennedy opened the glove box, where a can of pepper spray and a loaded handgun were tucked within easy reach. The cash box with their life savings inside lay on the floor beneath her feet.

“Play it cool,” Trey said, leaning back. The radio announcer’s voice blended with scattered snippets of music and commotion from outside.

Kennedy grabbed Trey’s arm. “Do you hear that?”

Too-familiar screams in the distance announced another quake. Trey stopped the car and put his hand on the key, ready to shut off the engine. Kennedy braced herself against the seat.

A long swell of earth rippled beneath the car, shaking it. Dust filled the air like fog, and startled screams echoed out of it.

“Thirty seconds,” Kennedy said as the shaking subsided.

“We were close to the center. Did you see the ground?”

“Yeah.”

…4.3 magnitude, epicenter located three-quarters of a mile northeast of the Tower…

Kennedy shut off the radio.

“I thought it wasn’t supposed to shake here.”

Trey shrugged. “I guess there’s no way to be sure.” He started the car again and they inched forward across the cracked ground, squinting through the thick cloud of dust.

“What if the Tower isn’t safe?”

Silence. Kennedy shuddered and turned the radio back on.

…9.1 just off the coast of Argentina, on the former site of Santiago del Chile, caused massive tsunamis; aftershocks are expected as far as central Bolivia and Peru…

The dust cleared as they neared the perimeter fence around the Tower. Set at a half-mile radius, the fence was two stories high and monitored by dozens of guard towers. Here there was no sign of a quake. Just a solid fence towering above their heads, casting deep shadows on the sand.

Trey crept up to one of the checkpoints. Kennedy counted a dozen guards, armed with multiple weapons. She pushed the glove box shut with a quiet click.

“What if they find the gun?”

“Shh.” Trey reached into the console for their IDs. “Don’t panic.”

Kennedy took a deep breath as they coasted up to the checkpoint and Trey put on his most dazzling smile. Behind them, more screams broke the air. Kennedy twisted and squinted into the haze. A flagpole that poked out of the top of the cloud of dust swayed and fell, dragging the flag with it.

Another quake.

“Please park your vehicle in the designated spot and follow me,” the guard said, his voice flat and professional. He pointed to a spot marked with flags.

“Bring the cash box,” Trey said as he pulled in. Kennedy slipped it into her backpack.

They followed the guard into a long, low building with thick walls and reinforced doorways. The sterile white walls and antiseptic chill were identical to every other government building. A few people huddled in an orderly bank of chairs on one side of the room. One was bleeding from an ugly wound on his leg.

“We need to get into the Tower,” Trey said, leaning over the counter to get a clerk’s attention.

The clerk pursed her lips, leaned back in her chair, and grabbed a fistful of papers secured with a binder clip. She plunked them on the counter in front of Trey.

“Good luck,” she said, dropping a pen onto the stack. She turned back to her computer screen.

Kennedy pulled the cash box out of her backpack, moving to shield it from the people on the other side of the room. She tapped on the counter to get the clerk’s attention again.

“We’re paying in full,” she said, opening the cash box.

Twenty minutes later they followed a guard out of the building. Kennedy held the last of their money against her chest. They’d taken her backpack and everything from her pockets except her ID and her chapstick.

They followed the guard across a wide open space and into the Tower. As the automatic doors hissed closed behind them, Trey gave Kennedy a fist bump. They were in. They were safe.

Later, freshly showered and with clean hair for the first time since the hotel in Arizona, Kennedy stood looking out a narrow window. They had been assigned a room halfway up the Tower and she could see for miles across the empty desert. The tops of the tents looked like a patchwork tree skirt around the roots of the Tower.

“What do we do now?”

Trey sat down on one of the two beds in the room. Kennedy crossed to the other bed and laid down, staring at the sprinkler set in the smooth white ceiling.

“I don’t really know,” Trey said. “Wait, I guess.”

“I hate waiting.”

“I know.”

At least they were safe. Kennedy didn’t have to spend nights waking every hour, listening for the earth to grumble. She didn’t have to watch people overtaking them on the desert road, wondering if they would be hostile. She didn’t have to practice pulling the handgun from the glove box in one seamless movement.

As she lay on the bed, tension she had been carrying across her shoulders since the first quake melted from her body.

“Kennedy.”

“Hmm.”

“Kennedy!”

Kennedy sat up. The tension returned as her heart rate spiked. “What?”

Trey leaned over the tiny radio they had let him keep. He twisted the volume knob up higher and held it out toward Kennedy. The announcer’s voice filled the quiet room with tinny noise.

Reports continue to come in of quakes above 8.0 magnitude worldwide. Everyone is advised to move away from coastlines and densely populated areas as scientists predict increasing large events over coming days…

A burst of static cut off the broadcast.

“Crap,” Kennedy whispered. She went back to the window. “How long do you think we have?”

“It might not—”

Kennedy pointed out the window.

In the distance, thick clouds of dust rose. Swells of land rose as well, advancing toward the Tower. Wide cracks opened in the landscape.

Trey stood beside Kennedy. A soft whistle escaped him. “It’s really something else to see from up high.”

“It’s scary,” Kennedy said, touching the window gently.

Right on cue, the Tower began to shake.

"Blaze" -- July 15

Word count: 1800

Blaze

Since his first episode at age ten, when he had woken up with his bed and body in flames after a nightmare, Ari had lived in a little stone hut with the blacksmith and his fire-scarred hound. His mother came to visit three times a week, bringing money for his board and a basket of home food. Sometimes she brought him new clothes.

Ari held up the latest new tunic she’d brought. The fabric was waxy and stiff.

“It’ll mold to you,” his mother said, leaning against the doorway of his room, where he’d retired to escape the noise of the forge for an hour.

“I tested this one four times,” his mother continued. “I think it will work.”

Ari slipped the tunic over his bare shoulders. The fabric was cold and stiff against his skin. It slipped on the sweat still drying from his shoulders and sat on him like a wet blanket.

“Thanks,” he said, shifting his shoulders so it would settle.

His mother sighed. “If you don’t like it, don’t wear it,” she said.

Ari slipped it off and laid it aside, folding it neatly at the top of his bed. “I’ll try it,” he said.

“We miss you at home.”

“I miss you too.” Ari pasted a thin smile on his face, disgusted at himself for the lie. The clothes she worked so hard to make fireproof and the treats she baked for him had the cheap taint of guilt on them. It had been seven years; surely they had gotten used to his absence by now. In all those years, despite her fear, he had never again set his bed afire.

“Ari!”

“That’s the master.” Ari stood, leaving the basket atop his bed.

“Goodbye,” his mother said. She reached up for a hug.

Ari embraced her awkwardly, his gangly limbs poking out, and left as quickly as he could, loping back to the forge.

“The bench,” the blacksmith said as Ari hurried his apron on. A stack of twisted pieces of metal waited for him. The forge had died while he was gone and the apprentice was nowhere in sight.

Ari spread his fingers, a familiar rush of heat flooding up his arm and throughout his body as flames licked upward from his palm and fingers. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck as he bent to restart the forge and begin his work.

****

Ari ducked out the front door into the cool of the night, a small cloth bag over his shoulder. Colin would be shutting down his shop soon. Last night, they’d heard the night birds singing to the full moon, and tonight the wild dogs would start their hunting runs.

Ari spread his fingers, sending flames spiraling from his fingers to light his way down the dark path.

Colin’s shop was the only one lit on the narrow street. Inside, the young merchant swept the floor with a scraggly broom. Ari knocked at the doorpost and Colin beckoned him in.

“Will you gather the spears? I want two.” Colin pointed with his broom handle toward the door to the storage room.

Ari picked four short, straight hunting spears. Across the city, other young men performed the same rituals, testing the weights of their weapons, checking the edges. The wild dogs made good hunting, and hunting them kept them off the chickens and geese.

Colin locked the shop and the two shouldered their spears and set off down the street. Ari held his hand out ahead of them, flaming softly to light their way.

“You’re going to stop that when we get into the woods right?”

“Don’t be stupid, Colin.”

Colin gave Ari a punch on the shoulder. “I’m just joking.”

Ari waved the fire in Colin’s face.

“Don’t singe my eyebrows.”

As they left the outskirts of the city and slipped into the woods, Ari let the fire in his fingers die down, then slowly burn out. They worked their way softly through the trees and undergrowth, spears held at the ready. The dogs stalked rabbit runs and streamsides, always moving in packs. The trick was to surprise a pack of them.

“Is it strange for you, lighting yourself up like that?” Colin asked as they worked their way toward a stream.

Ari kept his voice low and his hands tucked neatly around his spears, fingers close together.

“It was at first, but not now. I think other people find it strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“People treat me differently. I don’t think they trust me.” My own mother doesn’t trust me, he thought, but Colin knew that. Anyone who had eyes knew that.

“Can’t you control it?”

“Most of the time.”

The two paused to listen for the running water of the brook, then adjusted their course to work toward it.

“Are there times you can’t control it?”

“That would be what ‘most of the time’ means, Colin.”

Colin huffed. In the distance another group of boys whooped as they located a pack. Colin and Ari found their favorite place by the brook and crouched down to wait for another pack to snuffle along its edges.

Colin spoke first after a time. “It must be handy for working with—”

Suddenly their hiding place was deluged with pattering feet and skittering tails. Not expecting the explosion of motion, Ari jumped straight up and crashed into a rock that formed one of the walls of their little enclave. Heat spread throughout his body as adrenaline pumped through his system.

He didn’t realize what had happened until Colin had ahold of his shoulders and shook him gently. His shirt smelled singed. He looked down at his clothes.

They were ripped and covered in soot. He put a hand to his close-shorn hair, only to find it brittle and sooty.

“What happened?” he asked Colin.

“Are you all right?” Colin answered.

“Did I light up?”

“Like a dandelion in the summer.”

Ari cursed to himself. No wonder the townspeople didn’t trust him, he thought. He ran a hand through his burned hair and sat down, leaning against the rock.

It was the first episode he’d had since he was ten. Ari clasped his hands around his long legs to hide the shaking.

Colin picked up the scattered spears. “I think, after that, we won’t catch anything tonight,” he said. He held out a hand to Ari.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll burn you?” Ari spread his fingers and tiny flames twined around them.

“Not intentionally.”

Ari put out the fire and took his friend’s hand. Colin handed Ari his spears, and Ari followed him out of the forest, all thoughts of hunting laid aside.

****

Ari dreamed of being ten years old. He was skinny and not as strong as other boys his age. There was a sense of dread in the air, settling into his lungs and stomach, as he crouched in the woods.

Something leaped out at him from the shadows. It wrapped around his face, black and suffocating.

He woke to flames.

Disoriented, heart pounding, he woke drenched in sweat to an orange glow at the door. In the hallway beyond, flames twisted up the walls. Half-dazed with sleep, he stumbled out of bed, just aware enough to know the fire would spread quickly in Colin’s shop and that it had not come from him.

The movement and the brilliant hot glare woke him fully as he stumbled into the hallway. The flames licked at his shoulders. He stepped over an overturned lamp at the end of the hallway and made for the door. Beneath his feet, the floorboards were brittle.

Ari stumbled out the door of Colin’s shop and into the middle of a small crowd of people clustering in the street. Fire gleamed on their faces.

“Colin, where’s Colin?” Ari demanded, scanning for his friend. The people took a step back, sending dark looks his way.

“Where’s Colin?” he demanded again. Behind him, beams cracked.

“You tell me, Fire Boy,” one of the men said, shooting a vengeful look at Ari before turning on his heel to order a bucket brigade.

Ari’s heart leaped up into his throat. The fire wasn’t his fault. Not this time. He had seen the lamp overturned in the hallway that had started it all.

And Colin was still inside.

Ari plunged back into the flames without a second thought. Behind him, the beam over the door cracked and fell, sending a blast of heat through the hallway.

Ari dodged through the main shop. The outlines of furniture and walls shimmered in the heat. Flames tried to catch on Ari’s skin, but they could not.

He found Colin crouched in a corner that had not yet begun to burn, coughing and choking.

“Ari!”

“Are you all right?” Ari crouched down beside his friend, scanning him for signs of injury.

“Did you—”

“No!” Ari looked toward the door, charting the clearest path through the flames. “I didn’t start it.”

There was no clear path. Ari could see the door, but everything between them was covered in hot orange flames. The fire crept along the ceiling toward Colin’s corner.

“I can’t get through that,” Colin said, grabbing Ari’s arm. “You can. Go. Get help!”

“No!” Ari pointed upward. A black crack spread across the ceiling, half-hidden in smoke and soot. “It won’t last much longer. Come with me. I have an idea.”

Side by side, the two battled through the flames toward the storeroom where Ari had slept. Ari ducked through the flames into the room and grabbed his bag, leaping back out through the door as it cracked and fell. He fumbled in the bag and pulled out his long black tunic, stiff and heavy and waxy.

“Put this on,” he ordered Colin, handing it to him. “Quickly.”

“What is this?” Colin slid it over his head, coughing. He swayed and nearly fell.

“My mother made it.” Ari grabbed Colin’s arm and dragged him. He could just make out the outline of the door within the flames. They had seconds before it collapsed. The flames closed around them, blinding Ari with hot orange light.

Then they were in the fresh air, and Colin sank in the middle of the street, gasping roughly at the cool night. He refused to let go of Ari’s arm. Exclaiming townspeople gathered in a knot, the fire forgotten. This time they looked at Ari with new respect and almost apology.

Colin handed the tunic back to Ari when he got back on his feet. “Your mother made this for you?”

“It’s fireproof,” Ari explained, shrugging. “I tend to scorch clothes.”

Colin laughed as Ari took the tunic. “Thank you,” he said. “I would have died.”

Ari smiled. “Good thing you’re friends with me, then,” he said, and winked.