The Burning (Jan. 2021)

 Word count: 1200

The Burning

Another monotonous gray twilight deepened, thickening the shadows around diaphanous filaments that stretched from building to building, building to ground, spider webs covered in icicles of ash that became thick black ropes as the darkness built. The webs became nearly impossible to navigate at night, their growing period, as they crept through the streets. Thick, twisted trunks of them crawled through windows and doors, into homes hopefully long abandoned. The air hung thick, oscillating as though with a breath or a pulse. A storm was brewing.

In the midst of it, John padded down the street. Mouth and chin covered by a bandana, a shapeless hat slung low over his head, his jacket too large, he moved slowly, carrying two white plastic bags in one hand. He stepped carefully over thin filaments that covered the sidewalks in a sort of web. His ratty running shoes crunched softly on pieces of broken glass. 

Once in the middle of his journey, he misstepped. He froze while the air and the webs silently pulsed around him. The plastic in his hand rustled lightly. A tremor ran through the air. And that was all. He resumed his slow way, plastic rustling, glass crunching, the soft sound of sneakers on pavement.

On the edge of the city stood a small church with webs growing up the sides like ivy. They coated the walls in a thick twining coat, except for the steeple, which thrust upward yet bare. The webs were growing, though. They would be up the steeple soon. The yard was covered in them, kudzu and soot, and filaments of them hung in the air. 

In the deep distance, a faint orange glow lit the cloudy horizon. It was like daylight, except it never faded. He squinted into it. Had it come closer? Would it ever come closer? They said the fires, when once they came, burned for weeks, licking slowly along the endless spidery webs until all was dust and ashes...

After a few moments he took a deep breath of musty air, then shut the church door behind him.

Out of a confused jumble of old pews piled at the front of the sanctuary like a forgotten barricade, a dark head rose. Bryce, a young man in a ragged eclectic mashup of clothes that reminded one of a priest without the collar, came sliding across the room through the dim light of two camp lanterns. 

“Thank heaven.”

John cast Bryce a quizzical look, and Bryce pointed.

Behind the confused mass of smashed pews and pulpit, once there stood a stained glass window that twisted light into brilliant streams of blue and purple. But now, where once colored and leaded glass tesselated through the figure of Christ on the cross, black filaments stretched through jagged holes. Pieces of colored glass made glistening islands in the dust on the floor. 

Among the islands of colored glass in the dust sea, a single set of footprints and a fallen, cracked kitchen knife.

“When did--”

“Two hours ago,” Bryce said, relieving his friend of the grocery bags.

John let Bryce have them and studied the webs. He had seen them growing through the windows of the shops and municipal buildings, of course. But somehow, this was worse.

“We’ll have to make a fire.”

John stared at Bryce. “Don’t you know--”

“We have to risk it. Once the big fire gets here, we’ll have to deal with it anyway.”

He hesitated, and in the pause Bryce’s voice was flat and even. “You weren’t here to see it.”

Silence hung between them. 

Initially, the orange glow on the horizon had bounded nearer every night. Now, they wondered if it would ever come to burn away the dark presence, to bring purification. And what if it never did? Perhaps the other had started in just such a way, two companions desperate not to let them wrap their tendrils around their lives…

Bryce held out his hand. “If you’re too afraid--”

With a final glance toward the ruined window, John took his firestarter from his pocket and bent to the tinder Bryce had laid for him. A tiny spark, a tiny flame. Maybe it would be too small to notice. 

The tinder was very dry. It caught, spurted upward--

“Crap,” he said, and then they were upon it. 

Thick, fibrous tentacles writhed out of the darkness, splintering wood, thumping as if feeling their way--the whiskers of a living organism. A deep stench followed, like death on the move. John nearly choked on it.

A long black fiber shot out of the darkness, the tip of a tentacle, into the fire before either man could shield it, and a harsh, shrieking groan shook the walls of the church that before had only been shaken in prayer.

Bryce dropped to the ground, sobbing out something that sounded like a prayer laced with profanity. Shards of colored glass rained down around both of them. A tiny ember from the fire--all that was left in a darkness alive with menace--floated down and winked out softly on the floor.

After that there was nothing but darkness alive with movement, harsh creaks and splintering wood and the occasional near-human groan. The world was made of the noise and movement, like sitting blindfolded in a pit of snakes as they hissed and slid around you. John covered his head with his arms and prayed.  

Morning dawned gray and cobwebbed.

Sometime during the small hours, the webs had stopped growing, leaving John nearly encased in a bower of sooty fibers, tangled above his head. They filled the church, festooning from the vaulted ceilings and trailing through new cracks in the wall. The broken fragments of pews and pulpit were enmeshed in webbing.

Bryce was gone.

John slowly rubbed his head, afraid to breathe too deeply in the moist, rancid air. He was tired. So tired.

Time to move on, he told himself, without moving. He could not stay. He did not look up, afraid to look too closely at the webs. Afraid of what half-rotted abominations lurked there. An acrid taste lingered in his mouth.

When finally he stepped his way through the forest and stepped outside, the air was thick and heavy. Black fibers covered the churchyard and road like a mat. The air was full of a sharp, gritty scent. Smoke. 

He looked up at the sky.

In the distance, the orange glow had grown stronger. A light breeze blew in.

The first flake fell as he stood in the doorway. Gray, glowing lightly, it grazed his nose and landed, sizzling, on the stunted grass. It glowed, went out.

Another fell, and then another--the air was full of them, tiny orange glimmers of light that materialized out of the murk and fell silently to the ground. The smoke smell grew overpowering. The orange glow was much stronger--almost blinding--and advancing.

The embers fell thick, fast, silent. Beneath them, the webs began to curl and buckle, writhing, creaking, shrieking. Like demons out of hell.

But the rain of embers kept coming. The man sank to his knees as tongues of flame sprang up around him, hissing, and drove back the dark. A single tear glistened on his cheek.

Tick

1000 words

Tick

There’s always a clock, solemnly clicking on to your death in the branches of a dead oak tree.

You search for the clock in this endless misty land, the clock that drills into your head with every click. It’s in a different place every time. It comes at 5:07, the only constant here.

A thick atmosphere drags at your body. Abandoned buildings tower around you. Cars sit in orderly lines in the traffic circle and it rains from a blue sky and bird-shaped shadows swoop around you. The rain changes to papers falling straight from the sky like rocks.

A statue stands at the corner of the plaza, barring your way. It’s covered in a stack of papers.

You avoid it.

           

Following the road the other way, you look over your shoulder. The statue stands there looking at you--a pudgy, soft teddy bear, striped in brilliant colors, smiling a little. Its eyes are giant and vacant and they stare different directions. It was not there when you walked down the road.

You dodge through perfect, rigid rows of dead cars, your feet shuffling through piles of medical charts. Maybe inside the hospital that looms ahead you can escape the paper rain.

           

Inside, you trip over an extension cord. Beeping surrounds you, pressing on your body. The statue is sitting on a chair in the corner. It’s holding a digital clock that reads 4:51. You think the statue’s eyes move, but you can never be sure.

The hidden clock ticks. Tick. Tock.

A doctor approaches the bed in the middle of the room. He is a tall man and he holds a clipboard with more medical papers. He leans over the bed and speaks to the person on it. Then he looks at you and holds out the clipboard. You cannot see his face.

For a moment, you stand still. Two, three, four breaths. You listen to your gut, deep inside--the voice that says you’ve done this all before.

You reach out and take the clipboard, your hands shaking. You look down at the scrawl, listen to the doctor’s voice, but you can’t make out any words, written or spoken.

You don’t need to. He’s telling you the cancer has spread. He’s telling you she has two weeks to live.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the doctor chants.

           

You drop the clipboard. The words are like a weight on your shoulders, pulling you down, and you slump forward, grabbing the edges of the bed for support, your eyes closed. The metal rail is thin and hard under your palms. There is not enough air in the room.

Something compels you to open your eyes. You know what will be there, but you can’t avoid it. So you try not to look for too long. She died with her eyes open and no one has closed them yet.

The statue stands by the door, the only way out. You make eye contact and something jolts in your gut. You leave by the other door. Halfway down the corridor, you realize you are still holding the clipboard, but do not stop.

A heavy metal-and-glass door leads to a forest. Here, the ticking of the clock fills reality to bursting. You still have the clipboard in your hands, covered in charts and red lines that fill your head.

The clock is close, and it is closer. You can sense its footsteps behind you.

It already came, you tell yourself. For her. Not for you. For some reason, your insides still quiver.

You find the clock, nestled in the branches of an oak tree with ancient, gnarled roots that cling to the side of a crumbling cliff. The clock hangs suspended over the drop.

The clipboard gets in your way as you start to climb, maddened by the constant ticking. You drop it and try not to watch it as it disappears.

If you look back, the statue will stop moving. You don’t want to see it changing places without moving. You don’t look.

The branches end. Beyond you, they stretch brittle twigs over the abyss. The wind rocks you up and down in thin air. You reach for the clock and brush it with your fingertips as the second hand clicks over. 5:00.

The steady ticking that has haunted you all day stops. Branches creak, the only sound as you sway up and down. Your gut clenches so tightly you have to grab a spray of twigs to stay balanced.

           

It’s there. The statue. You edge away as it begins to climb. It’s covered in copies of the chart that told you your wife had two weeks to live. It scoots up the trunk of the tree toward you in dead silence, its eyes pointed different directions. Medical forms--death certificates--swirl around you.

You scoot farther back, ignoring the crackle of smaller branches as much as you can. The branch can’t hold you much farther.

The branch barely sways as the statue approaches. You can hardly see the statue through the storm of death certificates floating like giant snowflakes around your head. Thick, unreasoning panic settles into your stomach.

You know it’s going to happen, but when the statue’s head thrusts between the papers, so close you could feel its breath, if it were breathing, you scream. The twigs give under your weight and you fall. Time seems to stretch out and the whole motion is centered in your gut, stretching it, twisting it, as you scream without making a sound at the silent statue head looking down, watching you fall through a sea of death certificates. You wonder if you will ever hit the bottom.

Everything goes black. In the blackness, something tugs at you, calling your name, and you wonder if you will wake up.

You wake up in the middle of a city. Empty cars line the pavement in orderly rows. From all around you echoes the ticking of a clock, counting down to 5:07.

Tick.

Tock.

Scorched

Word count: 750

Scorched

I do not have time for this.

The dragon’s leathery wings wrap over its body and my finger; it snarls at me as I try to shake it off. The talons scratch the skin beneath my gold ring. A tiny wisp of smoke wafts up from its nostrils.

“Get off,” I mutter, its body heat scorching my finger. It purrs and clings tighter.

I open the drawer of the till and hold it over it, shaking it a little, closer to the scattering of gold coins in the till.

“You little—” I should be opening the shop doors, not prying a dragon off my finger. Can’t customers be more responsible with what’s in their bags?

It spots the gold in the till and flops into it. Grabbing the nearest coin between its claws, it rolls over and hugs them to its smooth, snakelike belly. A plume of smoke rises from its nostrils.

Just another problem, I think, twisting my ring as I open the shop. Getting the little beastie out of the till at the end of the day will be difficult.

My apprentice does not appear before the supply caravan comes. I snap my account book closed. This shop is more trouble than it’s worth, sometimes.

It takes the whole day to settle the new inventory in the shop, indulge the camel drivers’ trading customs, and get them back on the road. Thankfully, no one comes to the shop. My apprentice still does not appear.

I reenter the shop and groan.

The dragon. Now cat-sized, it sits among the splintered shards of my till, its talons full of gold coins. It looks up and coos as I stop dead in the middle of the floor.

It is angry when I try to pick it up; gold rustles against its belly as it gathers the small pile beneath it. Its teeth have grown appreciably. It sneezes, catching a whiff of the peppercorns I spilled on myself, and a lick of flame darts from its mouth.

I think of my father-in-law, who helped train the battle dragons in his day. He could help me get this thing out of my shop. But it is dark now, and he will be abed. A thought flashes through my mind and I watch the dragon contentedly lower its head to the floor.

I dig out my secret stash of gold, the small bag I keep for emergencies. The dragon’s head pops up as I jingle the coins. It cocks its head like a puppy. Then, like a puppy chasing a bug, it pounces, bounding into the storeroom after the bag of gold, and I close it in and leave it for the night.

The sun rises on the ruin of my life.

The dragon sits in a smoking pile of charred wood and embers, steam rising from its sides into the air. Abandoned buckets lay scattered among the ruins.

            It happened quickly, they tell me. Just before sunup. Someone heard a terrible sound, and a moment later the building was afire. It lasted about an hour, not even enough time to come fetch me.

I should be devastated. I pick my way through the steaming embers and come face-to-face with the dragon.

It growls softly, its teeth half-hidden by the thin cloud of smoke hanging above its head.

“You bastard,” I whisper to it. It looks me in the eye. I would almost swear it smiles. Beneath it lies the small hoard of gold I kept in the shop—all of it. One look at the dragon’s eyes and I know it won’t leave the hoard alone. No way I’m getting that back. It’s almost as large as me, now that it has been sitting on the gold overnight, and I don’t dare approach it closely enough to get my gold back.

Thank goodness that wasn’t everything. I look it in the eye again. It rumbles deep in its throat.

“Keep it,” I say.

The little dragon that started off no bigger than my finger has grown as large as me and ruined my business. I regret the shop a little—my father built it from the ground up when he was my age. But I do not regret it that much. Not enough to rebuild.

The soft, contented growl of the dragon echoes softly off the walls of the buildings as I head down the street toward home. Time to start over. Somewhere new. Somewhere exciting. Somewhere profitable.

Time to start over.

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. 

"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.

"The Broken Ring" -- July 11

Word Count: 300

The Broken Ring

“You take him; I’ll take her.”

“Shouldn’t…I charm her?”

“No. She’d be suspicious.”

The two faeries hid among the leaves, watching the young couple walk hand-in-hand down the path below them. The strangers had broken the ring, disrupting the faeries’ path home. Now the Law said they must face the Council.

“Come on.”

With a buzz of gossamer wings, the two zipped ahead of the couple on the path. In seconds the wings disappeared, the bodies expanded, the delicate, androgynous fae features widened and sharpened and hardened. A man and a woman, exquisitely beautiful and draped in fine clothes the same shifting hues of the forest, now stood in the path. Their movements a little too quick, their step a little too light, their eyes a little too golden, they advanced toward the merry human couple.

“Hello, strangers!” the human man called when he sighted them afar. “Where are you bound?”

The faery woman smiled, her teeth small and sharp. She smelled gold. The Council would be pleased when these ring-breakers were captured with an extra bounty in their pockets.

“Where the road takes us,” she said, her voice chiming like a brook over stones. She fell in beside the human woman as the couples caught up to each other. “Where are you bound?”

“For home.” The woman looked sharply under her brows at the faery. “Fritz,” she said.

The human man broke off his bright conversation with the faery man and turned to look. A sharp scent of suspicion rose from the human woman.

“Now!” the faery woman hissed, though it was too early, and her companion seized the human man as she lunged at the human woman.

The struggle lasted only a moment, before the two faeries, loaded now with gold and prisoners, bent their steps toward home.

"What Happened in the Dark" -- July 10

Word count: 1500

What Happened in the Dark

“Will you please turn that down?”

“I can already barely hear it!”

Tyler set her keys gently onto the entry table, the rasping of the metal drilling into the side of her head. “I can’t even hear myself think!”

Margot dropped her video game controller onto the table, a deafening crack. “Well then put on your headphones!”

Tyler made for the bathroom in the shared studio apartment, her body wound like a tight spring, ready to snap. It had been a long day at the movie theater daycare, full of screeching children, and her head buzzed with feedback and painful static. She closed the bathroom door, the click of the latch pinging off her aching head like a bb pellet.

Tyler switched off the bathroom light and turned on her pink salt lamp, rummaging beneath the sink for her noise-canceling headphones. Her head ached and the pain had migrated down her neck and across her shoulders. She couldn’t wait for Margot to get a job. Maybe she would get lucky and her roommate would work night shifts.

She located her headphones and slipped them on, reveling in the sudden silence. She grabbed a microfiber towel, her knuckles brushing painfully over Margot’s stacks of rough towels, and tucked it around herself as she lowered herself into the corner of the shower.

She was safe here for at least thirty minutes, reveling in the soft pink light and the cool steadiness of the shower wall. Tyler focused on her breathing—slowly, deeply, in and out.

Suddenly the floor of the apartment trembled. Tyler shot to her feet, dropping the towel, her heart pounding painfully.

“What was that?” she whispered.

She stood still, waiting for it to repeat, but the floor remained stationary. Tyler gently moved the headphones off one of her ears, cringing at the onslaught of noise from appliances and vents, and tried to listen for Margot.

No sounds, except the obnoxious blare of Margot’s gaming system.

Tyler replaced her headphones and tried to still her body. Someone must have slammed a door downstairs—or upstairs. Maybe someone was having a fight.

Ten more minutes. Tyler needed ten more minutes before she could deal with Margot’s noise again. She could feel lost energy trickling back into her as the silence lengthened, pressing in around her and molding to her body like warm water.

Tyler closed her eyes and didn’t even notice when the pink salt lamp flickered, flashed, and blinked out.

Twenty minutes later, headphones in hand, Tyler slowly opened the bathroom door. The apartment was strangely silent. Tyler could no longer hear Margot’s gaming system, and the buzz of the appliances was silent. The lights were off. Even the harsh, indestructible bathroom light wouldn’t turn on.

There must have been a power outage.

The bathroom door swung open all the way, grating on its hinges. The tiny apartment was completely dark, except for Margot’s screen. Margot sat in front of it, cross-legged, shaking her controller. The insides of the controller rattled.

“What did you do in there?” Margot demanded.

“What did you do out here?”

Margot stopped shaking and leaned back on her hands. “Everything just shut off. Except this.” She pointed to her screen. “I got some weird in-game message right before it happened.”

Tyler could hear the soft static coming off the screen. Keeping a distance—the static pulled at her hair and filled her brain—she crouched beside Margot. “Did someone hack it?”

Margot shrugged. “It was a bunch of random misspelled words.”

“Glitch, maybe.”

“Maybe.” Margot pushed the power button on her console. It flickered green, then red, then shut off again. “I don’t understand why the screen is on but not the rest—”

Something clanked in the kitchen, then crashed, an explosion of sound that threatened to restart the headache that had just faded from Tyler’s skull. Margot grabbed Tyler’s arm, fingernails digging into skin.

“What was that?”

“Probably your dirty dishes.” Tyler pulled her arm away. “Are you going to call the landlord or am I?”

Margot took a deep breath. “No, I’ll do it. Do you have a flashlight or candle or something?” She got to her feet and scooped her phone from the floor.

“Why can’t it just be dark?”

Margot shot Tyler a look and dialed the landlord.

Tyler listened to the buzz of the phone as Margot waited for the landlord to pick up. The soft glow of the screen put a blue cast over the apartment, vaguely illuminating the fold-up bed in the corner and the futon by the wall.

Twice, three, four times the phone buzzed.

Margot slowly lowered it from her ear. “Tyler, he’s not picking up.”

“Try again.” The edge of panic in Margot’s voice grated on Tyler’s ears. “Don’t freak out; it’s just a little dark.”

Something in the kitchen clanked again and Tyler thought she heard a snuffling sound. Her shoulders went rigid and she caught her breath.

“What is it?” Margot nearly screamed.

“Shush!”

“What is it?”

“I just thought I heard something.”

Margot clutched her phone to her chest. “Should I call someone else?”

“It was nothing.” Tyler stood up. “No answer from the landlord?”

“Nothing.”

“Check the app and see if the rest of the building is out.”

Margot looked down at her phone. In the dark the glare of the screen was obnoxiously bright.

A sound like a piece of metal dragging over concrete came from the kitchen, and then a snuffly and irregular, but very definite breath.

Margot dropped her phone and screeched. “There’s something in there!”

Tyler tried to tune out the shrill pitch of her voice. “Calm down. I’m sure it’s just a rat or something.”

“No! It sounded bigger!”

Tyler stood up and moved softly toward the kitchen. Behind her, Margot’s voice kept climbing upward.

“I’m going to call 911!”

“Just wait! I haven’t even checked it out yet.”

Margot kept squeaking in the background, spewing words in fragmented sentences, and Tyler tuned her out, squinting into the semidarkness for the source of the noise.

It leaped out at her before she spotted it, a shadowy shape with long limbs and claws, and she fell back. Margot screeched.

“Give me something to hit it with!” Tyler called back to her. The shadowy shape crouched in the corner by the refrigerator. Tyler squinted at it, not daring to go any closer. Its shape was entirely unfamiliar to her.

The creature made a high-pitched whining noise, the frequency of microphone feedback, and teeth flashed in the semidark. Its eyes began to glow, and Tyler’s insides sank into a quivering pile.

“Margot! The bat!”

Tyler had no idea what this thing was, but she had never seen anything like it before. The hair stood up on her arms and its eyes seemed to glow brighter. The pull on her skin was like the pull from the tv screen.

“Margot!”

Tyler could hear Margot screeching and sobbing and clattering around behind her. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the little demon crouched in the corner.

“Margot, shut up and get me the baseball bat!”

“I can’t find it!”

“Stop crying; that’ll help!”

“I’m calling 911!”

“Margot, give me the baseball bat!”

The creature’s humming grew louder and louder, pressing on Tyler’s ears and filling her head so she couldn’t think straight.

Something clattered across the floor, and Tyler reached out and picked up Margot’s pink Hello Kitty baseball bat from her Little League days. Across the room, Margot was still jabbering.

“Can you see what it is?”

Tyler twisted to face her, baseball bat in hand, the whine in her head building to a crescendo.

“Shut. Up!” she shouted.

Suddenly the creature was in her face, claws jabbing at skin, sharp teeth flashing, something soft and membranous brushing Tyler’s skin like a bug’s wing. She flapped her arm at it, sending off a shower of static sparks. The bat clattered to the floor and Tyler kicked it as she flailed, sending it skidding toward Margot.

“Kill it!” Tyler screamed. Something brushed her lips and got into her mouth and she gagged and sputtered. It stank and the chatter of its teeth, the rustle of its skin, the touch of it on her was too much. “Kill it, Margot!”

“I’ll hit you!” Tyler got a glimpse of Margot holding the bat over her shoulder, poised to take a swing.

“Just kill it!”

Crack.

White light exploded across Tyler’s face. All sense of gravity left her and she collapsed. She hardly felt the impact when she hit the floor.

When she woke up, the creature was gone.

“What was it?” Tyler asked, pushing herself up on an elbow.

Margot shook her head, her eyes wide. The power was back on and the appliances were humming. Dishes were strewn across the floor in the kitchen.

“It’s gone,” Margot whispered. “I called the cops. And an ambulance.”

“Thanks.” Tyler sank back to the floor, groaning. This would not be easy to explain.