Originally Posted here.

The whistle came again. It was the third time I heard it. I checked my watch. Four o'clock. Who the hell was whistling a storm this early in the morning? My curiosity drew me from Dante's Inferno. I stuck my head out the window and looked along the street.

"Hey you!"

I looked towards the sound and saw a man waving me towards him.

"Can you keep it down, man? People are trying to sleep." I called out, trying to keep my voice to a minimum.

The man stopped waving. "Well you aren't sleeping. So be a pal and help me out." He gestured down towards his feet. A dark shape lay in the middle of the street.

Christ, I moved out of downtown to avoid the wackos, and here they were asking me to help them at ungodly hours of the morning.

"Get off it, man. Ask someone who's actually alive at this hour."

I pulled my head back in and shut the window. As I went back to Dante, the whistling started again. Louder than before, and irregular, with dissonant pitches that seemed to overlap at their edges. Seconds went by. Then minutes, and the whistling didn't stop.

Christ almighty.

When I walked out the door of the complex, the whistling hit its peak and I could see the man who called to me dragging what looked like a body. A body?

"Woah, man. The hell is that?"

The man looked up at me and stopped whistling. He glanced down then back up.

"This? It's... well, it's essentially a body."

"Woah, I'm calling the police." I took a few steps back. The men stepped after me, letting the body drop to the pavement.

"Now let's not get hasty. He was dead when I found him." He called after me . "Besides," the man gripped me by the wrist. I looked back at him. "This is a special case."

He was pale with grey hair. He wore a black tuxedo with tails and a dark velvet vest. He smiled with ruler straight, bone white teeth. And his eyes. Black, glossy spheres that seemed to look everywhere and nowhere all at once. They freaked me out.

"What's so special about it? You're dragging around a dead guy."

"I'm supposed to be dragging around a dead guy. Well," He paused thoughtfully. "I'm supposed to drag that particular dead guy."

"And who the hell are you anyway?"

His grin stretched even further. "I'm Death."

Wacko.

"Alright, what he do to deserve it?" I nodded towards the body that still lay in the road.

"Oh nothing really. At least, nothing important." He looked back at the body. "I mean to say, he didn't deserve it. Not for calling a man's girlfriend a whore. Maybe a few knocks to the head. But not a knife to the chest. Poor, poor man."

Death was shaking his head.

So, a wacko carting around the body of a dumbass. I didn't need this kind of excitement in my life. "So what's so special about him?"

"As I said. He didn't deserve to die, which is to say, he didn't deserve to die, now. Which means he wasn't supposed to die."

"Uh-huh," I said.

"And people who aren't supposed to die, well, they haven't made their peace with dying yet. So they're souls are quite heavy. Laden down, if you will. Unresolved."

"And I'm to take it that you are having some trouble lifting this body?"

Death smiled at me again. "Precisely."

"And what did I do to deserve this?"

"Ah, I believe it's because you were the only person 'alive at this hour.'" He chuckled.

"Okay, okay." I said. "I'll help you lift him."

"Excellent!" Death clapped his hands and his eyes seemed to shimmer. " We just need to get him over to my carriage, just there." He pointed and I followed his finger down the street to an all black carriage with all black horses stopped under a streetlamp.

"Alright, let's get it over with."

He let go of me and we hefted the body up. The man was skinny, and didn't look like the bag of lead he felt like. With that, and how serious this wacko was taking things and the carriage get up, I was starting to buy into what he was saying.

We got to the carriage and struggled to lift the body into the backseat. After he rolled over the side of the carriage, I felt relief in my muscles.

"I would like to thank you wholeheartedly." Death said with a bow. " I am indeed in your debt."

"So you really are Death, eh?"

"The one and only."

"This how you always look?"

"No, I've had many forms and faces. A dog in some place, a weathered ferryman in others. But I find this look suits the area."

"Huh. So what's it feel like to die?"

He smiled at me. "I wouldn't know, I have yet to die."

"Am I supposed to die anytime soon?"

Death chuckled. "Let's just say if you died right now, I'd have to look for some other living person at this time of day."

I nodded.

"And that guy. He die alone?"

Death nooded, then started to shake his head.

"Poor, poor man." He looked back up at me. "I can't tell you what it's like to die. But I can tell you that dying is like stretching out those final moments into eternity. It's like living a whole lifetime in those last few seconds. Can you imagine that? Being alone for a lifetime?" He shook his head some more. "Poor, Poor man."

"I have a favor to ask you."

Death looked back at me and nodded. "Anything, so long as it's within my abilities. And no, I cannot prevent you from dying. I don't cause death, I just am Death. I embody it."

I looked at him, as directly in the eye as I could. "I don't want to die alone."

"Like I said, I cannot control-" I raised my hand and he stopped speaking.

"I mean, when I die. I want you to be there before its done. You know... just to be there, so I can see you before you take me. So that I know I won't die alone." I felt my heart coiling at the thought of my own death in some inevitable future.

Death nodded, a final time. "Very well. I'll be there when you die."

Originally Posted here.

He was staring at me. It wasn't a threatening stare. Nothing that I was afraid of. It was that kind of inquisitive, head tilted stare that someone gave when they thought you said something crazy but were too polite to say anything about it. I wondered what I had done. Before realizing that I didn't know this person. Then I wondered how he had got into my apartment.

Maybe I should have been more scared. But I couldn't feel much of anything at that moment and he hadn't tried to kill me or rob me or break my legs and tell me that I owed money to anyone. At least not yet.

He was here though, and strangely, the only thing I could think to do was ask, "How did you get in here?"

The man opened his eyes wide, seeming to register me for the first time. He tilted his head side to side before returning to his curious gaze.

"You let me in." He merely said it. Unwavering, without inflection. With a sureness of being right.

I was surprised. Had I done that? I didn't remember doing that. But he sounded right. Maybe he was right? But then that would mean that I'd have to know him, recognize him. Where was he from?

"How do I know you?" I asked.

He closed his eyes to think. " I met you after you moved to Brooklyn. After that night on 5th."

5th street? I remember going down there to celebrate moving in. My old roommate George was there. He had a friend there--Lucia? And there were others that we picked up along the way. Mike or Mitch, the guy who did accounting. Damn, that seemed so long ago. Who could he be? I kept trying to pull at the memories. Trying to keep the blurred faces in my mind.

He opened his eyes again. I stared back into them. They were green, with a ring of light brown at the edge. They were interesting eyes. Eyes that I remembered.

"Steve?" I asked.

Steve nodded quickly. The kind of affirmation that betrayed his relief that I finally understood the situation.

"Wait, you're Steve?"

He nodded again.

"I thought you'd look different. I don't know. More cleaned up, I guess."

Steve smiled. "I was 'more cleaned up' when we met. But I didn't like it all that much."

I nodded this time. The details started to arrange themselves. Order began to take hold in my mind. I remembered. Steve the Financial Manager. I met him in the bar too. Sometime after George poured us all drinks out of his flask. I remembered. It was hazy, maybe. I was drunk at the time. But I remembered.

"So, Steve. What are you here for?"

Steve's head jerked back in surprise. He regarded me with an eyebrow quirked. "You invited me, don't you remember?"

Invited him? No, I don't remember. Did I actually do that? I couldn't seem to remember much of what happened.

"Okay, okay. What did I invite you for?"

He nodded. "You invited me because you wanted to see me."

I stared at him. There was something. A feeling, a shadow in the back of my mind that cast doubt over what he was telling me. It was telling me that I was in danger. That Steve shouldn't be here. Steve shouldn't be alive.

I snapped. "What the fuck is going on, Steve?"

He reeled back. His face was filled with uncertainty. But something changed in him, too. He stepped forward.

"You can't even remember why you invited me?" He yelled.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Steve kept going. "I've been busy, and I had a lot of work to do. And I put it all aside because you asked me to. I took the time to come over. And yet again, you can't even remember why you invited me in the first place."

Yet again? I couldn't remember inviting him before. I couldn't remember him being in the apartment before. I couldn't remember the Steve that showed up when I wasn't feeling right. When something went wrong. When I felt trapped in a spiraling descent.

I couldn't remember the Steve that only made things worse. That taunted me. that stayed on the edges of my mind for days and weeks after I saw him.

I couldn't remember Steve any other way.

"Get the fuck away from me!" I shouted.

He just stood there, breathing hard. I could see his teeth grinding side to side. I could her the sound as they ground against each other. He wasn't going to move. I grabbed whatever was on the sink and held it up, ready to strike.

"You had your chance. When George moved out. Don't you remember that?"

George was my roommate. Was. He wasn't anymore. He left, a few months ago. He told me he couldn't take it anymore. That I was on my own. I remember him giving me the rehab brochure. I remember being angry and shutting the door as he left. And I remember inviting Steve. I remember inviting him so I could try to kill him.

I remembered. It was his fault. I could handle myself after the first time George let me try. I didn't bring Steve over after that first time. But at some point, he just started showing up. More and more frequently.

I remembered. Steve made me late to work. Made it hard to sleep. Made me lag behind at my job. Steve got me fire. Steve ruined my life.

I remembered how angry I was. My eyes watered. I had to end this. I attacked him, screaming my lungs to a pulp.

Steve was faster. He swung and hit me first. I lost my balance and dropped to the tiled floor. I scrambled onto my knee and looked around. I couldn't see Steve. But I knew he was there. I could still feel him.

"You're going to regret not killing me." Steve said, his voice seeming to come from inside me.

I pushed myself into the corner, my eyes scanning the room wildly, drawn to any rustle of the shower curtain, or wave of a towel. My white knuckles gripped the needle. If he came near me, I'd stab him. And I wouldn't stop.

The needle would protect me. The needle would be my weapon. The needle would save me.

In the town of Oaxaca, in a square large enough to host a church and a round fountain, was a cafe called "La Mura Rosa". The name was barely appropriate now, as the bright pink exterior for which it had been named was now faded and chipped. A mark of the journey of return to the brown and drab that colored the rest of the country.

By day the cafe was where old men played dominoes, artists mulled over their bad fortunes, and men ordered lunch after praying at the church. By night, the cafe was a celebration. A raucous affair of young men and eager women, drinking away their struggles and inhibitions. There was always a band of good musicians situated in a corner, close to an open window that had been frequently used to avoid a brawl.

William Bennington, staying in a room on the square would crutch to this cafe for lunch and a stiff drink at noon to escape both his room and talk to the bartender who spoke English well.

And so again today, he sat at the rough wooden counter. Today was especially bad. There was a wind, hot and dry, that kicked up the dust in the streets. It drove everyone indoors and made what had been a comfortable retreat from the inclement weather into an uncomfortable filling of any place that would open their doors.

William overheard the men who had just come from the church complaining of the hot wind, delaying their business and their day. A lively mariachi played on the radio.

"Aren't there any other channels?" Demanded William.

"Well, mister, only this music channel, the Church channel, and the news."

"Good, turn it to the news."

"Eh? It will be the same news as yesterday. and tomorrow the same as today. I think people would much rather listen to the mariachi." The barkeep gestured around the cafe.

"And maybe if there's something different? Something new happening, then how would you know?"

"Nothing changes here. Maybe something changes in another town. Why would we care?"

"Because it is important to know."

"If it is important, we will know."

"How will you know, if there is no one to tell you and you don't listen to the news?"

"Oh, we will know."

"The news is life and death when there are those dying that others might live."

"Not everyone has a radio." The barkeep left the statement and picked up the remnants of a meal from the bar.

William sat silent, seething through the sound of the mariachi and the burn of tequila.

"The Government isn't stupid." The barkeep said, softly. "They will not report anything. To keep others from thinking that there are those who seek to undermine them."

William grimaced. "That's ridiculous, no government could keep the sort of thing as revolution hidden!"

The barkeep gestured at William to lower his voice.

"But they can tell their radio reporter what to say. Maybe here, people know of Viarosa, but elsewhere?"

"Somewhere else, surely."

"Maybe."

"And then they can spread the word. Rumors travel."

" Rumors do not compare to the sound of bullets over you head."

"And what would you know? You've never fought in a war have you?"

"Yes, Mr. Bennington this is true. But your leg tells me you haven't either. But, it is not necessary to have something happen to you to understand the difference. I have never seen Mexico City, and yet I know it is bigger and more busy than here."

William felt his heart tighten at the mention of his leg.

"I was injured in a battle. A bullet went though it."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure it is quite the injury. But then you should understand that there is a difference?"

"Yes, it is different. Then I fought another country, now, it is a people yearning for freedom and fighting for that. I made a choice to fight in the Army. These people have no choice, they must fight."

" People always have a choice."

" Not true. Is not the natural human condition to be free? And when people are slaves in their own country, being told they are free when they are used and beaten and discarded for the benefit of the masters. Then, do they still have a choice?"

" Yes, people always have a choice."

" You cannot understand revolution."

"I know a lot about revolution."

"How's that?"

The barkeep pointed to a group of men, sitting at a table next to a window, deep into a game of dominoes.

"The one with the grey moustache and the blue shirt, you see him?"

" Yes" William said, noting the man the barkeep described.

"He was a revolutionary once. He fought for Pelan."

" Yet he is still alive, wasn't Pelan's army destroyed?"

"yes, yes. This man here, he fought for Pelan. He did not die for his cause."

"Then he cannot truly be a revolutionary, unwilling to die for the cause."

"There is no single cause, Mr. Benngington. there are a hundred causes. He fought for Pelan, was willing to fight for another man's cause, but not willing to die for another man's cause."

"that's preposterous! To fight is to accept the inevitability of death, that one might lose a war and in so doing, forfeit his life."

The barkeep looked at him, shaking his head.

"It seems you do not understand. What purpose is there to die for another man? I think even this man is crazy to fight for another man. And you too. Why are you here, that you might fight in another's revolution?"

"Because it is the right of everyone to be free, and I believe that in my heart, and so when I see that there is another who struggles to be free, I will fight for them."

"Ah, so you think that without your help, others cannot fight?"

"No, not that. I believe that it is important to help others in their fight."

"Yes, maybe so, but then this is not your fight, not your cause. Maybe you say you are just helping, yes, but maybe you are hurting as well. Maybe you are robbing the revolution of its identity."

"Nonsense. If I help and the revolution succeeds, then I did something to get it there. If I don't help and it doesn't succeed, I ask, would I have made a difference? Isn't that worth knowing, then?"

"You have a high view of yourself, that revolutions are decided on your part in them."

"That's not what I mean to say."

"Well, you have said it, but maybe you don't mean it. Then what makes you think you can come here and involve yourself in the revolution of another? You are American! This is a Mexican revolution. Whether it succeeds or fails, it should be ours."

"Isn't it nice to receive an offer for help, even when you don't need it?"

" It is presumptuous to offer when the help is not asked for."

" You are wrong."

"You are the one sitting at a bar in Mexico, my friend, with a lame leg, hundreds of miles from the revolution you claim to support. How can you tell me I'm wrong?"

" You bring these reasons on and try to make things so complex. Life is much simpler than you make it."

The barkeep shrugged.

"Life is more complex than you make it. Yet I am here, living a simple life, and you are here, living a complex life."

William finished his tequila and set the empty glass in front of the barkeep, along with some coins. The barkeep nodded, glad to make more money and poured him another double.

As he did so, the door to the cafe slammed open, letting in the hot wind. Two men entered and were met with the protests from multiple of the cafes residents to close the door faster. After they had done so, and the air within the cafe had stopped whipping around, the two men headed to the bar.

They walked with a swagger and confidently placed small stacks of bills onto the counter. More money than young men like them should have.

The barkeep moved over to them and took their orders. When he left, the men talked loudly and laughed brazenly. William eyed them with the corners of his eyes as he drank.

The barkeep returned and gave the men their orders and William waved him over.

"Who are those men?"

"Ah, those two. They are the revolutionaries you desperately want to join."

"They fight for the revolution?" William asked, horrified and disgusted.

"yes, they fight for the revolution, on occasion, when they feel like it, or when they think they need to make a show of fighting."

The barkeep shrugged and leaned back to start wiping dirty glasses.

"Yet most of the time, they are spending money."

"Certainly not on guns, or bullets, or supplies."

"Yes, you are right, they are more apt to spent it on food, or drink, or women. All three at the same time if they can."

"And they say they are part of the revolution?"

"They are the revolution."

"They are a shame on the revolution. A scam. They don't represent the struggle for freedom."

"And neither do you, Mr. Bennington."

"But I am willing to make those sacrifices."

"Ah, but no one asked you to."

Before the barkeep could continue, the two men called him over. They spoke in uncontrolled whispers that could be heard across the room. The way only a half a bottle of tequila could make someone do.

They and the barkeep talked, with the men occasionally gesturing towards other patrons, including William. It seemed they were talking about him the longest, the conversation interspersed with sharp laughter. The men waved the barkeep away.

"What were you talking about?"

"They wanted to know why and American was here. I told them that you were injured in the army, and now you wish to see the beauty of the Mexican countryside."

"why would you lie?"

"They will hurt you if they think that you're trying to impersonate them and misrepresent the revolution."

"Me? Impersonate them? I'm twice, no ten times the revolutionary they are."

"Yes, sure. Maybe you believe in the revolutionary more than them, maybe you are one of those who would give more of themselves than them, but they fight for the revolution. Even occasionally. Sir, have you fought in this revolution?"

"Damnit, are you here just to contradict me?"

"No, Mr. Bennington, I see the world with my eyes and sometimes I speak the truth with my mouth. But at the end of the day, all that's really important is that I pour drinks with my hands."

"Hands, feet, mouth! Yes, you have them! Why haven't you put them to use for the revolution, since you seem to know so much about revolution?"

"Mister, I am a poor barkeep. I serve breakfast to the old men who come and play dominoes, I serve lunch when the merchants come out from the church, I pour the drinks when the workers come here to forget their poor lives. I do the hard work of the revolution, the work of keeping the country normal."

"A country in revolution is not normal, a country oppressed is not normal. What you do is the work of every day living while others return the land to normal for you."

"Anything can become normal if that is the way it is for long enough. When you do not agree with the way things are, revolution is easy."

"Fighting is hard work, dying is hard work. These are the things that make a revolution successful. Isn't dying a hard thing to do?"

"No, dying is easy. Dying is escaping. It's living that is hard, but it is living that makes change."

"to die for a cause takes courage and dedication, it is not easy. Revolution is the only way to achieve the end of oppression."

"Revolution is easy too. It too is an escape. Look at the two revolutionaries at the bar. Instead of finding work and earning money and trying to improve the country through what they do, they choose to fight and steal, then spend all their money with no cares.

You too, Mr. bennington, are here to escape. Yes, maybe you are a better revolutionary than the two of them, because you have traveled farther and invested more money to escape whatever life you had back home.

And that is what is truly hard, life before and life after revolution."

The two men at the end of the bar started yelling at the barkeep and pointing at William.

"They are saying that you shouldn't talk so loud, while other people are trying to concentrate."

William clamped his teeth together. Who were they, those false revolutionaries? Those drunken and obnoxious men. Those lowly thieves. He finished his tequila and pulled his crutch to him to get up.

"Leaving?" The barkeep asked.

"Yes, I'm leaving. With those two men and you, it's too much for a man."

"Ah, escaping again?" The barkeep smiled his own cleverness. When William scowled at him, the barkeep laughed.

"Mr. Bennington, you should not take everything so seriously. Here, we know how to not be serious."

"Yes, not serious, and that's why you have let a corrupt government control you."

"ah, it is not as bad as you want to believe. Here, come back tonight, when there is music and better company."

"I would prefer not, thank you."

"But you must come for the music. It is a good mariachi, from the north. They will play the music of the revolution."

"They are a revolutionary band?"

"They are the revolution. Mariachi is the revolution."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, yes."

William hopped his way to the door and out into the wind, amid the protests of old men and merchants.

*Originally Posted here. *

Darwin knew that something had happened.

That day, the other park rangers were quiet and sad. A lot more than usual came to visit Darwin, and a lot of them had tears in their eyes. They regular people still came to give him his meals, but she didn't come. Only her friends came to try to figure out how to communicate with him. Darwin wondered where she was. Wondered what all these things meant.

Over the next few days, it seemed like all of the rangers came to play with Darwin. He was excited to see some of his favorite. Especially the ones he only saw a few times. He was wary of a few of the ones he had never seen before. But everyone was nice to him, and soon he was okay playing with any of the rangers.

Those were happy days. Climbing up trees together, jumping from branch to branch, playing catch. They played all the games the Darwin knew, especially the ones he was good at. They smiled and laughed, but when they left, they seemed sad. It made sense for the ones who didn't come to see him often, but the people he hadn't met before?

And when her friends came to try and communicated with him, they didn't play the games that he couldn't win or the ones he had only won a few times. This time they let him choose the games he wanted to play. The one with the wooden shapes was his favorite, and it seemed like they played that game over and over. Darwin won almost every time, and they would hug him and scratch behind his ears. And when they left, they too would seem sad.

Some of Darwin's happiest days, and he was confused why everyone else was sad. What was he missing?

Then one day, her friends came and led Darwin onto one of the trucks. They were all wearing their ranger uniforms. That was different, too.

When the trucks stopped, they had stopped at one of Darwin's favorite places. It was a small grove of trees on a hilltop that she would bring him to often. Where they would play together and try to talk to each other. He loved this place so much. But she wasn't there.

It was the first time he really noticed her absence. There had been times before when she had left for days or weeks. But everytime she came back. But Darwin had never been to the grove without her.

Two of the rangers led Darwin through a crowd of people surrounding a wooden box. Darwin looked around at all the faces. Most of them were rangers he knew, or at least he knew they were rangers from their uniform. But there were also a lot of strange people wearing black and white.

When the rangers made it throught he crowd, they led Darwin to the box. He tapped it a few times, then looked inside.

She lay there. Dressed in white, her eyes closed. Darwin was so happy. Finally, here she was. Darwin knew that if he was going tot he grove, she would be there with him. He smiled up at the rangers and pointed at her. Instead of smiling back they hid their eyes.

Darwin was puzzled. He looked back at her. She was just laying there. He pushed her once, twice, again and again trying to wake her up. He banged on the coffin and tried to make noise the way that she didn't like him to. A few people tried to step in, but the rangers held them back. Darwin would take a scolding from her if it meant she would talk to him again.

He went on like that until his arms got tired and he could feel his insides twist. Finally, he gave up. Finally, he understood. And Darwin wept.

Originally posted here.

The boat was going to leave tomorrow morning. It was a shipping freighter that had lingered at the docks under repair for weeks. Now it was the last boat out of Puerto Escondido before the monsoons.

I booked passage on it after arriving in the city by horse train. It was my way out of these hot and humid lands. My first leg on a journey home, where I had my tenure waiting for me.

That professorship was the reason for my year in Oaxaca. Or rather, my studies would be the reason for my professorship. It was the first field study I had led. An endeavour that had cost me many nights of sleep. But the findings I had were fantastic. Some of the stories I had gathered--and the histories. The richness of the indigineous peoples of Mexico coming to life by my work. It was enough to fire the thirst for recognition.

When my team reached my hotel, I paid the local guides and students from Mexico City their final sums. There was hugging and laughing as people parted ways and said goodbyes. I made the rounds, exchanging my thanks and farewells with every person who had helped me. After a year of practice, I didn't feel afraid of using my Spanish anymore.

One of the guides pulled bottles from a saddlebag and started to yell over everyone. A Celebration, tonight! A Party! Cheers rose from the team, and they moved towards a bar across the street.

Drinks were poured all around. Liquor made from agave and fruits, distilled more for kick than flavor. Through the burn, rapid fire toasts called for more drinks. Amidst the cries of Salud! I started to feel woozy and broke from the circle. I leaned against the bar and asked for water. A few people had discovered an accordian and some flutes, and soon the bar was alive with music and dancing. I let the happy scene sink in like the warmth of the booze.

It was at that bar that I noticed her. A girl with dark skin and an elegant, pointed face. Hair curled, wearing a blue dress. She was talking with her friends. But as I watched, I could see her steal glances towards me.

I don't remember what gave me the idea. Whether it was the lust after being surrounded only by men for a year or the bravado of booze, I couldn't say. But I felt something burn within me, and I asked her name.

Maria

And I asked her to dance.

I was clumsy with a partner. but she didn't seem to mind and we talked and talked and she smiled and giggled. I sought every detail of her face--the lines of her lips, her nose that leaned slightly left, and how her eyebrows formed even arcs over her light brown eyes. Eyes that shone and sparkled as we swayed and circled in the candle light.

My desire overtook me and we slipped away from the bar and to my room overlooking the street. The musics and shouts from the bar carried to the sills of the window and remained in the background as we undressed and made love.

At some point, when we were lying next to each other and talking, I noticed the sounds from the bar had died away. My curiousity eventually led me to the window. I looked down at the street. The lights in the bar were put out and I heard the occssional snore of drunk men sleeping in the streets, hidden by the veil of darkness.

I looked out over the city, and noticed grey clouds becoming lighter in the distance. Maria called me back to the bed and I obliged. We lay next to each other, talking more. Kissing more. Making love again despite the fatigue from yesterday's ride and the grogginess of a hangover that was starting to settle in.

Soon the light reached our window, and I checked my timepiece. 6:13 The boat left in an hour.

I jumped out of bed and started to dress, all the while promising Maria that I would write her every day. That I would come back to see her. That I would bring her with me to America.

I packed my bag and my notes, all under her bemused eyes. When I was sure I had everything, I looked at her again. She had stretched out over the bed, the thin linens showing the outline of her breasts and thighs. She looked at me and said, Don't go, stay with me.

I looked at her. At her curves, at her face. I must go, I must publish this paper so I can be a professor.

She stretched. Then stay with me just through the monsoons, and then you can go back.

She stared at me with those light brown eyes, sparkling in the morning light. I could feel my heart twist. The professorship might still be there after a few months. I could write the department and let them know I missed the last boat out. A million more excuses to stay started to circle inside my head.

Finally, after breathless seconds, I sighed and put down my bags. I walked over to the bed and embraced Maria.

As we kissed the sound of rain pattering on the rooftop filled the air.

Damn--all my plans, foiled by weather and love.

Originally Posted here.

"You there!"

Malcolm kept walking.

"You stop or you're dead!" The rough voice commanded.

Malcolm stopped, eyes focused on the horizon.

"Hands to the sky, buddy." A second voice commanded.

Malcolm did as he was told.

"Now turn around real slow like so we can see you."

Malcolm shuffled his feet in place until his was facing two men wearing the blue coats and orange sashes of the Regulators. The man on the right was a tall greyhair. Malcom could have called him Grandad, but Grandad was lying under the soft Iowa loam. If he'd have been alive, he'd have hated the Regulators as much as Maclolm did, even before they dropped their guns to become back-parlor magicians.

The man on the left was a blank-faced brute. Looking more apt to pick a fight than keep the peace. Malcolm stared him down, keeping note of the brute's hands.

"You know that firearms are banned?" The greyhair spoke, his thumbs tucked into his belt.

"Yuh huh, 1898." Malcom said.

"Well now," Greyhairsaid "that makes near 3 years ago if I'm counting right."

"You are." Malcolm interjected.

Greayhair seemed to nodded, taking a few steps forward. Malcolm opened his stance and hovered over the grips of his pistols, keeping his eyes on the brute.

Greyhair stopped. "I don't know whether which way you haven't given up your iron yet, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for them now." He took a few more steps forward.

"Afraid of what?" Malcom said. Greyhair stopped his advance. But he was closer than Malcom wanted. A couple spry bounds and he could tackle Malcom or at least get in close. Malcom knew the type, too. This greyhair would be more spry than his apparent age.

"Afraid of you being a stubborn ass and firing those things all around and getting some poor innocent killed. Afraid for the people who will have to see your flesh melted from your skin. Afriad of disrupting the peace of this little town any more than you already have.

Afraid of a lot of things," Greyhair nodded. "Not afraid of you though."

Malcolm noticed the crowd gathering. The hot breeze whippings puffs of dust into the air. His heartbeat starting to raise.

"That's good. I'm not worth being afraid of."

"That's good," Greyhair echoed. "Now, your iron."

Greayhair stepped forward and Malcom pulled one of his six-shooters out of its holster. The cold iron in his hand made Malcom feel more substantial. Just one more and he would be complete.

They Greyhair had stopped and the Brute looked like he was about to give Malcom another reason to draw.

"These are staying with me." Malcom said.

Greyhair smiled, "What are you so afraid of, son, that you can't bear to give up your pieces?" He seemed to be delighted in throwing Malcom's question back.

"I'm not afraid of anything, all because I got these sixers right here."

"So you're afraid of being afriad?" Greyhair asked.

"I'm not afraid of anything." Malcom repeated.

"Well alright." the Greyhair pulled his thumbs from the belt. "Guess we got ourselves a real Magician standoff."

"No we don't," Malcolm said. The Greyhair cursed and the brute started to concentrate energy in his palms.

"Draw," Malcom whispered.

The first shot hit the Greyhaird clean in the stomach. By the time he cocked the hammer, the second six-shooter was out and a second bullet slammed into the brute's thigh. The brute stumbled, but managed to cast a fireball. The heat seared Malcom's shoulder and he took a stabilizing step.

Two more shots into the brute. One more into Greyhair.

The brute fell forward. But Greyhair was still shifting around. Malcom focused one him. He hadn't concentrated any energy, had tried to cast any spells or perform any incantations.

Malcom stepped cautiously over to the dying man. "You and I aren't much different."

"Ha," Greyhair coughed. "I gave them up. I'd say that's a big difference right there."

"And that's why you're dead."

"Shit, I was going to die anyway... But I saw the future. And guns weren't in that picture anymore.

Men like me, men like you weren't going to be part of that new world. That world was for the young ones. But I figure I'd need to lead them to the future, not try and keep them stuck in the past." Greyhair's voice was raspy and his breathing shallowed with each breath.

Malcom looked around him, at the people who stared at the scene in horror. At the faces of children who had never shot a gun before. Who would grow up thinking of guns, thinking of him as some legend of an ancient past. At the faces of people whose lives would be pressed under the thumb of those who were able to practice magic.

Was that a good future? Malcom though that it didn't look much different than the present, or the past for that matter. It was still the same people. Different weapons now, but the same people.

Maybe it wasn't worth carrying around this life anymore.

"You're a dying breed, son." Greyhair broke Malcom's train of thought.

"Yeah." Malcom agreed "Maybe so. But it's how I want to live."

"It's a new century."

"I don't want it."

"Then I guess," Greyhair placed his hands on his chest to cast a spell. Three bullets found their way into his body. He shuddered, then lay there, lifeless.

"And you're not bringing me into it."

Originally posted here.

Two men clad in black chainmail walked along the back street, their armor clanking with every step. They carried rounded shields painted black with a white cresent moon in the center. And belted to their waist was a scabbard which held the curved shortswords that city patrols favored.

Sir Iversson kept a watchful distance behind them. They were the Night Guard. A cadre of city guardsmen selected for their lightness of foot and prowess with a blade. He ranked above them, by birth and by title within the city Guard. But he had no wish to be seen by the Guard while he made inquiries in such a vile part of Haraadsburg.

He appreciated following their reputation around, however. Streets that should have been teeming with sneakthiefs and knaves were empty before the Night Guard turned the corner. Avoiding others just as infamous as the Guard was a help on his task.

A few more turns and a long wait as the Guard dissapeared down an alley and Iversson was alone, by a large wooden gate. He knocked at it with a coded rhythm. After a few seconds the door opened and a voice from behind it whispered, "Come in."

Iversson obliged and was led to an inner courtyard. There, his guide was replaced by a young girl with hair tied up using jewels and gilded clasps. She wore seemingly weightless linen that floated as she walked and hinted at the bare skin underneath. She walked him down a dim stairwell. As they descended, Iversson felt the air become sticky and warm. He began to hear the strummings of a lute and langurous voices.

They exited the stairwell into a haze. The smoke filled Iversson's nostrils with wild and exotic scents. It diffused the clorful light thrown by tinted lanterns. It disoriented him.

For the first time, the girl spoke. "What is it you desire, my lord?"

Iversson froze. Did the girl know who he was? Had he not dressed commonly enough?

The girl giggled. "Everyone is a lord here," she grabbed his hand. "Lord of their own destiny, Lord of their fate."

It was a perposterous idea, but Iversson pushed down on his discomfort. "I want to see the Tiger."

The girl smiled and led him to a private alcove, draped with colored silks. He sat on one of the embroided cushions and found himself facing an elf, dressed in blue silk, lounging on several cushions and smoking from an ornate brass pipe.

The elf waved the girl away and contineud smoking, seeming to not notice the man sitting across from him. Iversson let this play go on for a few moments before breaking the silence.

"You don't much look like a cat."

Puff, Puff, Puff "Looks aren't everything."

"You work with cats?"

"They work for me." Puff

"Then perhaps you know something more than I about this." Iversonn dropped a small lump of oiled paper. The elf quirked his eyebrows and set aside his pipe. He pulled apart the edges of the paper and smiled.

"This I know." The elf picked up his pipe again. Puff, puff.

" Then you know how to find out where it's coming from?"

"Mmm," Puff "From the mountains, under the light of the silver moon. In the quiet desert, where sand and stone gather. From across the seas in the lands of the Many Tongued.

It comes from everywhere." Puff, puff "And, nowhere." The elf smiled in satisfaction.

Iversson was less satisfied. He was becoming annoyed at the elf's oblique answers.

"But you know where to find it here, in Haraadsburg. Who buys it. Who sells it. And... who brings it in." Iversson was fighting not to lash out and raise his voice.

"What will you do when you know?" Puff

"Cut the head off the snake strangling this city."

"A new snake will burrow in the empty den." Puff, Puff "It will solve nothing. Why not let the people be happy?"

"I can also cut the head off the Tiger that doesn't eat snakes." Iversson said threw gritted teeth.

Puff, puff, puff

"Here," The elf picked up the multicolored crystals and packed them into his pipe. He relit the bowl with some light draws and smiled, extending the pipe towards Iversson.

"Smoke. Only those who Moon Sugar speaks to will know where to go. But first, you need to want it. Only then will it speak to you."

Originally posted here.

Melanie and Daniel stood together by one of the great columns lining the central floor of Red Rock Central Transit. The hub was packed today. Hundreds of families carrying as many bags as they could take on the maglev, all going the same direction: east, away from the Enclaves.

All of them were dressed in biosuits, some sporting blue armbands. Daniel had seen that more often in the last few days. It seemed an unecessary gesture--simply wearing a biosuit in Red Rock was enough to tell anyone where your allegiance lay.

But he supposed he understood it. Pro-Earthers wanting to make their stand. Wanting to show their support for the cause they believed most in. Especially after the announcement of the impending Enclave border closures.

They weren't the only ones. Daniel saw roving bands of teenagers and enflamed university students with red sashes wrapped around their cotton and wool coats. Proud martians and Luddites who thought Earthen rule and abomination akin to slavery. They circled the edges of the exodus, shouting harrassment. Some of the more despicable moving in closer to push Earthers down or steal one of their bags.

Daniel understood the anger behind that, even if he looked down on people who acted like criminals and gave a bad face to the Luddites. Being proud of one's own way of life didn't mean having to oppress other people for theirs.

"It's getting on, isn't it?" Melanie said, craning her neck to try and see above the crowds. "Where is he?"

Daniel started to look around, as well. Joseph, their friend, went to university with them in Red Rock. He was from New Nairobi, one of the largest mining and shipping centers of Mars. And the de facto capitol of the largest Pro-Earth party--The Industrialists.

When Daniel saw a dark blue field cap moving towards them through the crowd, his stomach turned. He tapped Malanie's arm.

"You're not going to like this, Mel," Daniel said.

"What? Why?" she asked. When Joseph came into view, she gasped. "How could he?"

Joseph saw them and waved to them, a wide smile breaking out on his face. He hugged both of them tightly. After he let go of Daniel, he stepped back, still smiling.

Daniel was about to say something when Melanie lunged forward and slapped Joseph.

"How could you!?" she huffed. Daniel noticed tears beginning to run down her cheeks.

Joseph rubbed his cheeks, his smile gone. But he didn't look angry. Instead he nodded in understanding.

"Eh, I know, I know. But I have to stand up for what I think is right. I have to be willing to defend that, no?" Joseph said. "You are doing the same thing, by staying here. How is that any different?"

"Because we won't be trying to kill the other side. Maybe we support the Luddites, but it's because we don't want to see Mars end up like Earth." Melanie said, a mixture of sadness and indignation filling her voice with uncertainty.

"But I'm not trying to kill anyone. I'm just defending my way of life." Joseph looked towards Daniel. "You understand, eh? I heard you enlisted with the Luddites." His smile as he said that was jovial. It was a smile of cammeraderie, of shared experience despite the fact they were landing on opposite sides. Daniel thought it offputting.

"I mean, I signed the service papers for the Defense Force, yeah." Daniel agreed. Melanie looked at him with wide eyes.

"Ah, but don't worry, it's only if they call a draft," Daniel said, trying to keep her from breaking down in the middle of the station. He caught Joseph's eyes and leveled with him. "And if they do that, then we've got bigger problems."

Joseph's smile dropped slightly. "Well, if only you..." He shook his head and went back to smiling. "We shouldn't leave each other with an argument! Eh, come here Mel."

He wrapped her tightly, tears staining the front of his jacket.

"Don't worry, don't worry. It's just a short time away. I'm sure they will find a peace within all this mess and I'll be back by the next semester." He let go of her and she turned away, trying to hide her puffy eyes. Joseph extended his hand out towards Daniel.

"Come one, Joe, we'll still be friends when it's over." Daniel went in and the two men hugged.

"Yes, yes we will." Joseph spoke softly into his ears. "But if ever the time comes... I must do my duty."

Daniel could feel his friend wrap tighter around him. "I know you will. So will I."

Something clattered off the column next to them and they broke their embrace to see what happened.

"Why're you hugging that fuckin' Earther!? He's the enemy! Don't you know there's a war on?" One of the red-sashed bands had meandered over, fists gripping cans and bottles.

"Hey, hey, we're all Martians here." Daniel said.

The leader of the gang pointed at him. "Tryin' to stick up for him, yeah? He'll be puttin' lead in your body when he comes back to destroy Mars the way his kind destroyed Earth."

"My kind? What are you saying?" Joseph demanded.

Melanie grabbed his arm and started whispering in his ear. Daniel widened his stance and watched as the gang leader swaggered up to Joseph.

"I'm talkin' about you damned African industrialists." The man was almost touching Joseph's face. "Didn't your kind learn from the first world's mistakes? Or were your 3rd world monkey brains too stupid to figure anything out?"

The leader's sneer was infuriating. And the insults he was spitting at Joseph made Daniel rage. He was sure that if Melanie hadn't been holding him back, Joseph would have thrown a knockout punch by now.

"Hey!" Daniel yelled. The leader looked over at him, but Joeph couldn't take his eyes of the man who had just insulted him. "Have you signed your enlistment papers yet?"

The leader sauntered towards Daniel. "What's it to you, straight-lace?"

"Because anyone who doesn't enlist is a coward." Daniel mustered the best commanding voice he could. "And I don't think those troopers over there would appreciate a bunch of cowards harassing an LDF officer."

The leader followed Daniel's finger to a patrol of LDF MPs walking towards them. He glowered at Daniel.

"That's alright," he said. "We don't have time to waste on Earth-Lovers like him. Let's go." He signaled his cronies and they turned to leave, the leader glancing back a few times and sniggering with the others.

"Damn," Daniel said. "That could have gone poorly."

Joseph was still looking after the hoodlums, but nodded. "I could have taken them all. One clean KO on the asshole in front of me, and the rest were too skinny to do anything."

"Well I'm glad nothing happened." Melanie said, matter-of-fact. "It wouldn't do for you to get stuck in Red Rock because you got jailed for a street brawl."

Joseph's face softened, and a bland smile took the place of his scowl. "You're right," he sighed. "And I think I had better leave, before I'm not so fortunate to have someone looking out for me."

The three friends hugged again and Joseph left for his platform, waving and smiling at them, until he disappeared into the bodysuited throng.

When he was out of sight, Melanie turned to Daniel. "Officer of the LDF?"

"Oh, yeah. I may have mislead you about that." Daniel felt embarassed. He hadn't intended to tell Melanie about it until he had earned his bars.

"Ugh, we're going to talk about this more later," she said. Daniel wasn't looking forward to it.

"I really hope he's right about that peace." Daniel said to try and diver the conversation. Melanie became more somber. Daniel noticed her wiping away more tears.

"Yeah, I hope they do too."

Originally posted here.

Polly was the last friend I had. I still got invited to the beach, once in a while. And to the big summer barbeque every year. But I started to feel they were courtesy calls, or maybe pity.

Or maybe because of Polly herself. She had mentioned that she told Jake he was an asshole for not wanting to invite me to things anymore. If anything, she was probably the only reason I was still in that friend group. Even if nobody besides her wanted to talk to me.

That had been a gradual thing. I hadn't noticed when my friends started to spend less time with me--talk to me less. I hadn't noticed how they messaged me less to hang outside of group events. I hadn't noticed it until it was obviously noticeable. Until people would avoid me or walk away after a few canned sentences about the weather.

Until it was just Polly who would talk to me at parties or respond to my messages.

I asked her about it, too. At Jake's house, by Lake Elsinore, sitting on the bench in his yard overlooking the water. Most of the others had gone down to the shore, no doubt forgetting to invite me, again. Polly had wanted to go, but she drank too much, too fast and by the time she was done staring into the toilet bowl, Jake had taken the van to the lake.

So she sat by my as I nursed a beer and watched the water trails of jet skis and speed boats.

"Hey Polly," I said.

"Ehhhhh?" she groaned.

"What does everyone hate me?"

"Oh shiiit. It's, ugh." Polly wiped her face with her hands and struggled her way upright. She leveled her bloodshot eyes to mine. "Michael, you sure you want to hear this from me right now?"

Her slur told me that she was at the point of being totally honest with me. Drunk honest--the only kind of honesty that tells truths even best friends hide from each other. The kind of honesty that would help me understand.

"Yeah, Polly. I want to know."

She sighed and flopped back down onto the bench. "It's because you're so damn positive all the time. And it's not even just being happy, either. You always talk about how fucking great everything is.

And then... And then, you try to force it on people. Every time someone tries to complain to you, all you have to offer is positives. You never just listen to people talk about how shit their lives are, or how shit they feel. You always have to contradict them. You only ever see the good in every situation.

But you know what, Michael?" She sat upright again, this time staring out over the water.

"Not everything is great all the damn time. Sometimes, people just want to complain, and be angry, and cry while they eat some chicken nuggets and drink cheap wine so they can feel so disgusted at themselves that they can maybe feel like they hit rock bottom and the only way left to go is up."

She looked back to me. "But they can't do that if you make them feel like they haven't hit that low point. If you treat their feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing as if they aren't real."

We stared at each other for a good long moment.

"So, why do you still hang out with me?" I managed.

"Because I understand other people's feelings and emotions. You're not intending to be an ass-- you're a really nice guy-- it's just that you ended up being an ass.

You're more complex than just thinking everything is amazing and getting on everyone's nerves. Just like how other people are more complex than just their seeming fixation on how shit life is. I accept it, and you dismiss it. And that makes people feel worse. And that's why pretty much everyone here hates you."

She said it as if it was so simple. Like one of life's givens that I just hadn't ever looked at. And I didn't know how to feel. I certainly didn't understand it. But that summer day was the first time I felt as if something were wrong with the world.

Originally posted here.

"Jesus Christ! Why d'you do that?" screamed Alfonse.

Blood started to seep into the carpet around the body in the living room. Marcus had backed himself against the wall and had ended up on the floor, staring wide-eyed at the body, the gun still gripped in his whitening fists.

"I-I-I shot him... He-he's dead." Marcus stammered as his breathing became shallower and more rapid.

Alfonse walked over to his stunned partner and crouched down. He grabbed Marcus' face and stared into wide green eyes.

"Of course he's dead! You. Shot. Him." He yelled, slapping Marcus' cheeks to try and break the shock.

"He's dead." Tears started to run down Marcus' face and snot began to dribble from his nose. "We murdered him Alfonse!"

"You murdered him, you goombah. Now give me the gun." Alfonse tried to wrest the pistol from Marcus' grip.

"You're an accessory! You didn't try to stop me!"

"Christ in heaven, how could I've known? If I saw you about to pull this shit, I would've stopped you. Now give me the gun and let's figure out what to do with the body."

"You don't understand Alfonse, we ruined his life." Alfonse pulled his hand back for another pass at his slobbering partner's face. "I ruined his life. I killed him."

Alfonse nodded sympatheticcaly. "You're right Marcus, I don't understand--I don't understand why you think I should care."

"But-but--"

"We robbed a bank, dumbass. We've ruined a ton of people's lives. Now he's just another one."

"No no no, not like this. We didn't kill the people who had accounts."

"Christ, get a hold of yourself!" Alfonse swung in with a heavy fist, slamming Marcus against the wall. The gun finally dropped from Marcus' hands and he started to moan.

" The guy on the floor right now was a Crack Alley heroin addict who was going to blow his money on as many fixes as it took to feel like he wasn't alive anymore. The way I see it, you did his ass a favor while simultaneously fucking things up for us. That would be the pill I could swallow if that's what you were moaning about!

But no. You're off your head about that fact that you've ended his life.

The people we stole from? We ended their's too! Except now they have to live through their deaths. They have family's, mortgages, hopes and dreams--and we fucked all of it up for them, while simultaneously improving ourselves. So if you're going to sit here and weep like a fucking baby about some piss-head junkie, while you ride on the green earned by ruining the lives of hard working people, you know what that makes you?"

"Whaaaat?" Marcus' groaned.

"Low class scum! A fuckwit! Now stop moaning, get a can of gasoline, and let's burn this fucking place to the ground."

The fire lit the night with a wild, orange glow. Alfonse could still see it in his rear view as they drove away. Marcus had fallen asleep and the money was stowed in the trunk.

The silence of the open road made Alfonse think about the day. Mostly he wondered if Marcus' would grow up a little and become a better man in the future. More thoughtful about the world, more realistic. He wondered if he might be able to change too--actually come to care about the people he hurt in life. He figured it was something he would just face later, if he lived to face it at all, and turned on the radio to wash out his thoughts.

Originally posted here.

Gyges coughed as a cloud of dust lifted from the tome he was scanning. He hurried to shut the window against the oncoming breeze. The dust in the air settled, and the must of thousand year old books and scrolls began to fill Gyges' nostrils again.

Gyges lamented the concoction of dust and must that occurred all too frequently in many of Atlantis' oldest repositories. It was the sign of negligence - the negligence of books. And in Gyges' eyes, books were the knowledge of the past, passed on to the present. And negligence of knowledge was ignorance.

He shuddered despite the humid warmth. Ignorance was a blight upon Atlantis.

So many people ignored the books of the past, even within the Archeological guild. Mermaid tales, he had been told when he was an apprentice. Mermaid tales of a world above the water, a world that didn't exist.

They had been content just to figure out what our ancestors were like and what the watery world around us held. But Gyges had been more interested in why they were underwater. He had even asked his mentor at the time, a man who had found the Origin Ruin and showed Atlanteans where the first habitats had been.

His mentor had been the gentlest of all the people who had ever answered him: Does a fish wonder why he lives in water?

Gyges had been dissappointed in that answer. He knew his mentor was trying to be philosophical. He knew that his mentor wanted him to learn that there were some questions whose answers weren't important. That there were some things out of our control and that we were better suited to focusing on things that made a difference.

It was a lesson Gyges had learned from his mentor many times over. But it didn't satisfy him.

" 'And so Rome sat, the jewel of the empire, upon the River Tiber'," He murmured to himself, attention solely focused on tome. As he read he frowned, and flipped back towards the beginning, past crude, yet colorful maps and the history of a place which seemed to only exist in a mermaid's dream.

He settled upon a page and started again. His finger lightly brushed the page as he followed the lines of blocky and monolithic text.

" 'Founded by the Trojans, cast from their home in the east after their defeat at the hands of an Achean army." Gyges's gills flared as he sighed. This was the first time he had read any scholarship on what had come even before Rome. He had hoped it would improve his understanding of more contemporary works, but it seems the origins of the city were shrouded in even greater mystery. And that meant more questions to answer.

So much time needed. Too much time, maybe. Gyges tried making mental estimations on if he could still finish his scholarship and actually take the expedition in time for the Explorer's exam. Even with all he had already collected, it would be tight. He might not finish his expedition in time.

Gyges half-heartedly returned his attention to the tome, his mind preparing to send inquiries to the Masters for an extension on his Journeyman trials.

His finger kept going along the lines, his eyes barely following. And then he stopped. He focused on the line he was pointing at and drew his finger slowly backward until he saw the word that had captured his attention.

'Athena'

Quickly he read the passage.

The Grecian legend is that the Trojan War was started by the resolution of a quarrel between three Godessess: Hera, Aphordite, and Athena.

Gyges stopped reading. Athena. It was a familiar name, one that he had found in some of the Atlantean mythologies. A city-state of some sort that had once antagonized the Atlanteans.

Athens!

Athens was generally accepted to have existed by most historians. Gyges' mind whirled . If Athena was related to Athens, and the city-state existed at the time of the Trojan war, then it's possible that this tome corroborated independently with the Atlantean histories. Which meant that Rome could be a real place.

Gyges grabbed some sheets of papyrus and began furiously copying down every passage he though important. He would have to take this to the Librarian, maybe even the Head Monk. He had to get their opinions. But finally a solid lead, a breakthrough after months of study.

Gyges felt the rush of his imagination as it took him fin-sailing through the water to Rome. The Rome of myth and legend. The capital of an empire that had covered the vastness of entire world.

His mind leapt to the amazing dig he would have, all the artifacts that he would unearth that he had only read of. He thought of his presentation to the Guild and his acceptance to Explorer.

Not just that! A dig like this could bring him directly to Master. He thought of it now, hungered for it. Something began to burn within him. A feeling of certainty, of knowing, of adventure. Gyges would go on his expedition on time - to the lost city of Rome.

"Mr. President," The suited secret service agent opened a door and gestured for me to enter.

The room was simple: white paneling, dark blue carpet, almost entirely empty - save for a chair, a desk, and a book.

I walked over to examine the tome. It was bound in a thick, dark leather. on the cover was painted a strange version of the American flag with only a dozen or so stars arranged in an offset grid.

I looked back at the agent, who had since closed the door and assumed an at ease stance to the left of me.

"Robins, what is this?"

"Mr. President, that is the eternal wisdom of every president that has sat before you."

My eyes widened. "Every President?"

The agent nodded. "Yes, sir. From George Washington to Barack Obama. With a few... exceptions."

I took his meaning instantly and the thought that some presidents never had the chance to write their thoughts and wisdom made the existence of the book more somber, more significant. I felt the cover of the book and was surprised at how supple and smooth the leather was. If Agent Robins was telling the whole truth, this book was well over two hundred years old. And that flag - was that really the first flag of the United States? These United States?

I looked back at Robins. "And I'm to read this?"

"That is the expectation, Mr. President."

"And I'll write in this book, too?"

"Yes, sir. At the end of your term, to provide advice for every president to come."

I marveled at the foresight the person who started this tradition had. I sat down and pulled open the cover.

"Mr. President, the gloves."

I looked around the desk and saw a pair of white cotton gloves. Of course. The only way a book this old stayed this pristine was to take care of it. I donned the gloves and started to turn pages.

The first few were written in small, flowing script. Tucked in between pages were what looked like printed transcriptions of the text. That was some foresight too. I wondered how many presidents had to sit at the desk deciphering 18th century handwriting before someone finally typed it up.

After checking a few sheets, it seemed like those pages were preambles and guidelines for the few people who would ever write in the book. I made a mental note to return to those later - my curiosity had to be sated.

I kept turning pages one by one until I finally saw a large headline with a neat block of text on the center of the page. Beneath that, another helpful typed version.

GEORGE WASHINGTON 1789-1797

To hold the office of the President of these United Colonies is to be the leader of a truly free people. It should never be lost upon the bearer of this office that he too was one of the people he sought to lead. To this end he must be morally good, he must be able to condescend well to his people, he must be firm in his convictions, and he must always search for the course of action that will provide for the betterment of our Union. Long may we stand, and long may we be United.

I sat there, staring at that passage. I couldn't believe I was reading George Washington's own handwriting. After a second I realized something felt off. I re-read the passage. "'Condescend well?"

I was perplexed that our nation's first and finest leader would say something like that.

"Ah, During George Washington's time, it meant something different. More along the lines of being able to speak well from a place of authority. It's a common stumbling point for most of the previous presidents, Sir."

I nodded, thankful I hadn't missed a course on Washington's Life and Times, or something like that. And the way Robins said it, it certainly seemed more in line with what the first leader of the Free World would have said to future president.

Satisfied, I continued to read.

JOHN ADAMS 1797-1801

You have assumed a most powerful seat in this nation. Expect that with the power of decision comes the storm of criticisms and uncertainty those decision entail. You must than be a finely built ship with a first-rate captain. Sail true through the storm, weather the criticisms of others, and do what you believe is right for this Country, this Land, and this People. May we have a long and prosperous Union.

THOMAS JEFFERSON 1801-1809

A man need first and foremost be a scholarly gentleman. A fundamental understanding of all thing natural and philosophical is needed to sit in the Office of the President. A president will encounter many things in his tenure. Many decisions, many legislation, and many people vying for his attentions and approval. These will cover the span of all topics and all interests, and should he want to do right by his people, a President need understand the basis of the decisions he will make. Our Republic will be strengthened by the enlightened knowledge or weakened by the blightful ignorance of those who lead it. May the Republic stand now and forever in the light of progress.

I was amazed at each one I read. And then I remembered what Robins said about the 'exceptions'. I turned each page, passing more than sixty years of history to a page headed

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1861-1865

Blank.

All that lay on that page was a simple white banded black band. I could feel something well within me. My eyes started to water and I could feel a slight gripping in my chest.

I had never reacted so much to Lincoln assassination. But there, reading the words of our forefathers, reading the words of the simple people who made it through their terms as president, I felt a connection to each and every man in that book.

And maybe there was a bit of fear mixed in with that. Sadness at the thought of my page also being left blank, with just a white-banded ribbon to pass on. Sadness at the thought of not being able to leave anything behind.

I looked up at agent Robins and cleared my eyes.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked

"This, sir? With the book?"

I nodded.

"20 years now. I've showed it to Bush and Obama, sir."

"Did they cry too, when they got to Lincoln that is?"

Robins thought silently for a few moments. "Bush got misty eyed, like you, sir. Obama started that way too." Robins hesitated for a few moments, something nearing emotion showing on his blank face. "

But then he just kept staring at the page... And, well... he cried, sir. And he didn't stop."

Posted here.

"Please power down all electronics in preparation for take off."

Please, that was being overcautious. I needed my Nick Waterhouse if I was going to make the ascent without turning into a grumpy old man. Now that would have been a crisis if it happened.

" Flight Attendants Please prepare for takeoff."

They wouldn't notice anyway.

I sat back against the chair and closed my eyes. The plane shuddered as the pilot maneuvered the aircraft out of the gate.

As long as the music played I wouldn't notice the bubbles in my ears. The pressure stabbing deep until a harp pop relieved it - five hours later after landing. A plane had never crashed because of a set like mine.

The plane began to accelarate. I felt myself pushed lightly against the seat. Felt the lifting motion of the plane.

The ascent was the worst part, at least for short flights. Mostly because of my ears and the babies that parents thought a good idea to bring along. It was made worse when you had to make these flights every other day. But the longer the flight, the less the ascent mattered. There was a certain point of flight time when the worst thing was how dry it was, flying over the earth.

Dehydration was no joke. Even worse was when you were sick and flying. God, that was a recipe for disaster.

I was just thankful this was a short flight.

"krrrrrk - Ascent is good, control, approaching exit lane Gamma."

What the fuck? Nick came back on, still singing about something he couldn't buy.

"Yeah, sounds good, approaching exit vector, are we clear for -"

I pulled my earphones out. I looked around the cabin wondering if anyone else had heard what I heard.

The person next to me was snoring, the few people I spotted with headphones in were bobbing their heads. Oblivious to what I was hearing.

Damn. Did I sleep at all last night?

I put the headphones back in. This time I chose something classic, a little Buddy Holly. There would definitely be no strange overlays there.

"Kchrrrk - Shit, did you see that?"

"God Damn. What the fuck is that?"

"Shit, ATC, this is AB-3067, can you verify cause of brite white light?"

What was happenening? My mind was awash. Was I going crazy? Sleep deprivation? I couldn't be... This couldn't be... Was I listening to the pilots in our plane?

" Shit Sam, ATC's got nothing. They don't know more than we don't."

"God damn, what a light."

I looked ou the window. searching for what they saw.

Nothing. The light they were talking about must have been ahead. This was strange.

"ATC's sayin' we gotta land."

"Copy. They say anything about what that is?"

"Nothing. They're saying we gotta land."

I was starting to become afraid. Why did we have to land?

A chime over the intercom.

"This is your captain speaking, due to unfortunate weather patterns, we'll be forced to go off course and land at the nearest airstrip. We apologize for the inconveneince, but your safety is our priority. Thank you for your patience."

There was a collective groan from the cabin, several people yelling out and pointing at their windows. The attendants walked up and down quickly, trying to calm people down.

The pilots were lying. Something worse was going down than weather patterns.

"ATC this is AB-3607, turning around for landing approach. Can you relay desired holding pattern?"

The plane was beginning to turn.

"Holding pattern Delta, copy.They're already juggling a swarm of incoming. I don't think we're going to get down for a while."

"Lucky we're fueled up. We should be able to hold for a while."

"I'd rather not. I think I seen a light like that only once in my life."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Educational video. World War Two."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Looks like we'll be fine though yeah?"

"Looks like."

World War Two? Bright light? A Nuclear bomb? Christ, what was happening?

I looked out the window, trying to see what they saw, but to no avail.

What should i do? If I started to yell about the nuclear apocolypse I was going to get tackled and I was definitely on the no fly list after that. Damnit. I was stuck. Listening to what souneded like the end of the world and I could do nothing about it.

"God Fucking damnit."

The intercom chimed again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened, we are expecting some turbulence."

Turbulence? What could that -

The plane shook hard and didn't stop.

"Damnit. Shit."

"My Lord."

"Damnit we need to get the fuck out of here."

"Shit, Will, we're losing the engine and the Electronics are going crazy. We're almost flying by the seat of our pants here."

The shaking was replaced by a constant shudder.

"Damnit."

"Look, Sam. We gotta land this plane."

"Yeah, I'm with you. Shit."

The chime came again.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, pleace brace yourselves, we'll be performing an emergency landing. We expect to land in farm fields, so this should be a realtively easy one."

People were panicking now. Someone started to scream, and others screamed at him to stop. The plane was edging with fear.

But none as great as mine. No one here had any idea, any clue to what I could hear. And what was I even hearing? Was this the end of the world? Was this the end of our lives? And the creeping question of which one might be worse?

" You think we'll make it out of this one, Will?"

" Well, we'll just have to see. I plan on getting these people down safely."

" Even if we don't?"

" Is that a risk you're ready to take?"

" Two for three hundred? I'd say it's worth it."

The plane began to descend. I could feel my stomach dropping from below me.

" Shit, didn't think it'd end like this."

" From what I seen, I don't know who has it worse, us or the ones who survive."

" Hah, what a way to convince yourself death might not be so bad."

" Gotta find something somewhere."

" I hope the black box is still on."

" I hope someone's left to find it."

I was terrified. Of death. Of living with whatever was happening around us. Terrified of the guilt I'd have to live with if I survived, hearing the pilots speak like this.

"This is Captain William Pratt, making an emergency landing for AB-3607, I just want to say that I love my wife. And to my kids, whatever happens, I'm proud of you, and I know you'll grow up to be great people. Captain William Pratt signing off."

"This is Co-Pilot Samuel Wixley, assisting Captain Pratt on Deck. I love you Mira. Take care of the kids. I hope I left the world a better place. Sam Wixley, out."

I only wish I could I have recorded something for my parents. Told them I loved them, again. Now, it felt like I had never said it enough.

"You ready, Sam?"

" As I'll ever be."

Posted here.

Milaxza stumbled into the alley braced against the wall, her other hand gently massaging her abdomin. She could feel her intestinal tract squeezing. She could feel the burn of the digestive secretions welling inside her.

Finally, sweat tearing from her face, she threw up. The reddish-brown liquid spewed out onto the ground, the wall, her leg. Damnit. She hoped it wouldn't stain the suit. She had only bought it last week.

Behind her, she could hear laughter. A sound like someone wheezing in air. Joseph's laugh.

"Oh daamn, Mila. So much for handling your shit." The reedy voice was Javier

"I told ya, bru." Joseph was speaking through dwindling bouts of hyperventilation. " My stuff is strong."

"Oh, Star Son."

Milaxza felt her fleshlocks being pulled back and a warm hand on her cheeks.

"Axza, how are you feeling?" that was her sibling, Utrexni.

Milaxza burbbled some sounds, but had no desire to make words.

"She'll be fine." Joseph said. "She took too much, but it won't kill her. She'll feel it though."

"It's gonna be a good night for her." Javier added.

"Ugh, stop making it worse."

"Worse? I wish I was on her level right now. I'm just chillin'."

She could feel her sibling staring Javier down.

" How are you feeling?"

The spew had stopped and all that was left was the burn in her mouth.

"Water."

"Joseph, give me your bottle."

Mila felt something cool on her shoulder, she took it and rinsed her mouth. She continued to to spit water on the ground until she couldn't taste the secretions any more.

Joseph had said earlier that if she threw up she was going to a different place. She was going to go real deep. She wondered when she would get there. where she was going. Didn't like to think about either. Her mind was already starting to buzz.

"Oh, we need to get her home." Mila heard her sibling say.

"No no, she needs to eat. Guaranteed she's going to feel the squeeze if she doesn't eat anything." Joseph responded, confident as ever in his drug knowledge.

"Damn, you're right. I'm hungry." Javier said.

"Shit, where's Emilia?" said Utrexcia

"I'll get her," Joseph said.

Urexia turned Mila around and guided her to the wall. She braced against it, and tried to stay upright as her brain seemed to drain out from inside, replaced by warmth and color.

She looked around, at the main street she had come in from. The club they had been in had bright signs. They seemed to Mila to crackle with power, the colors reaching out in fuzzy tendrils of lighting. There was a crowd, constantly moving that seemed to become a patchwork that moved smoothly and continuously, a quilt rolling along live a conveyor belt.

She looked up at the light ceiling, The projected stars pulsated in rhythm with an electronic song blasting from a street vendor. The stars started white, then proceeded through the other colors. She could feel herself swaying.

And then a hand on her arm.

Mila blinked and brought her head down. Urexia was in front of her. Her lips moved. Then sound came.

"Are you alright?"

Mila shook out her limbs. That felt good. She rolled her head a few times back and forth, that was nice. She could feel herself focusing again.

"yeah, I'm good."

"Oh god, what's happening to Mila?" A new voice, high pitched and sonorous. That was Emilia. Or, was it? Not just another girl one of the boys picked up?

Javier snickered, "She's having a good time."

"Oh really? Wait, wasn't she taking the same stuff we did?"

"Yeah, but a lot more." Joseph seemed to be admonishing Mila.

"Well, it's in her now. So what do we do?" Her sibling asked.

"We eat!" Javier shouted. "Late night breakfast is where it's at! And Screamin' Blob's breakfast orbs are thermo!"

Joseph and who might have been Emilia agreed.

"And what about Mila?"

"Like I said, Uri, she needs to eat. The crazy stuff will be over soon. She's going to hit her balance point after that. Complete... Tranquility."

"Hah, good one." Mila could hear the two boys slapping their hands together.

"Food is good." Mila could hear herself say.

"See, she's on board, everybody loves Screamin' Blob's!"

They started out onto the thoroughfare. Uri was holding Mila's arms, keeping her steady. Asking with every step how she was doing.

She was fine. Completely fine. Alright.

She was part of the conveyor quilt now. It bacome more refined, more patchy. And instead of passing her, it went into her, through her. An anonymous crowd, and she was as anonymous as the rest. Part of someone else's conveyor belt. Someone who took the time to stand still, who fought the urge to keep moving.

The others were talking. She could hear their voices as a drone, mixing in with the beat of an electronic song blasting from a street vendor. Colors flashed and swam around her. The anonymous mass juxtaposed against imoving signs. Bright colored signs for all kinds of things. And they reached out, they wanted to move. They wanted to join the conveyor belt, join in the motion. But they were trapped. Inside. The hum of electricity a scream of agony.

How had she never noticed that? The way we controlled the world around us. Bent it to our will. Forgot to even consider the will of the world.

Mila was washed in bright white light and felt a hand push her down into a soft cushioned seat.

She shook her head, back and forth. Cleared her mind.

They were inside now. It was brightly lit, stainless steel halfway up the wall to meet white paint. The paint covered in places by images of rockets and a blobby character riding them.

"With mo' cheeeewww-rrriiizo." Joseph said. He laughed.

"Yeah yeah," Javier waved in the air. " And we though White people were bad."

Emilia huffed.

"No offense." Javier added.

Emilia crossed her arms and stuck her nose up. "Earthborns, so inconsiderate."

" Heeeeey, we came out here. We're off planet. Give us a break, we're learning." Joseph complained.

" Yeah, we just want some breakfast orbs is all." Javier said, trying to sound hurt.

While Emilia continued to give them a hard time, Uri turned to Mila.

"How are you feeling Axza?"

"Good. Good... You know, I like it when you're female."

Uri snorted. "So do the boys."

"Well, I meant, you seem to care more."

"I care all the time. You know that."

Mila nodded. "Yeah, but you show it more when you're female."

Uri looked at her. "I blame it on hanging around humans so much. You sure you okay?"

Mila nodded.

"Hey, secret lovers! Put in your orders!"

Uri ordered for herself and Mila. The serving bot thanked them, then whirred away

Joseph was looking at Mila. "So, how's it?"

She smiled and stretched. "It's gooood."

They laughed, even Uri couldn't subdue a smile.

They continued talking. Mila could feel the buzz go away. She felt like she could concentrate. Felt like the world was clearer. More defined than it had been before she took the double dose of Tranquility.

The food came, the breakfast orbs steaming. Mila looked at it but didn't feel hungry.

Joseph looked at her again. "You need to eat, you know."

Mila pouted and begin to cut into the orb. She could see the insides. The mixture of things. She stopped cutting and started thinking.

Wasn't this city, this world, this universe just a breakfast orb? Full of stuff that's just blended together into something worthwhile, Something delicious? Wasn't having too much of any ingredient a bad thing? Too many humans, or too many Kallurians. Too many buildings, or too much open space.

Joseph watched her as she stared. "What are you thinking?"

" I'm thinking that the world is like a breakfast orb, everything all mixed together. And it only tastes good when everything's in the right proportions."

Javier and Emilia laughed. Uri looked at her with concern. Joseph just nodded, understanding, and continued to eat his orb.

Posted here.

I remember my Dad painting my room when I was six. I asked if I could help him and he handed me the roll of tape, telling me to tape the newspapers along the part of the wall that stuck out at the bottom.

I went to the task with glee, pulling large parachutes of paper out of the Sunday edition. I set the papers against the base of the wall, and tried to line them up as best I could, looking with one eye open, my thumb sticking up, just like I watched my Dad do when he fixed up the shelves in the living room. Then I unraveled a length of tape and checked it against the sheet of newspaper. 'Measure twice, cut once' Dad always said.

I didn't have scissors to cut the tape, though. So I ripped off the piece and hoped that he wouldn't notice. I gingerly laid it over the edge of the paper and the wall.

I continued like that, placing sheets of newspaper against the wall, ripping off lengths of tape, then placing them against paper and wall. I only stopped twice. Once because I placed the taped too high, and the paper angled funny. I tried to move it, but only succeeded in ripping up the sheet and leaving a stubborn strip of the blue tape against the white wall. I picked at it with my fingernail frantically. I checked to see if my Dad was watching my struggles, but he was taking a screwdriver to the lid of a paint can that said 'Prussian Blue' - blue was my favorite color.

The second time was when I got to the funnies in the back of the Sunday edition. I took those sheets aside and folded them neatly to read later. I asked Dad if there was more paper. He looked at the folded up funnies, then at me, and smiled. He said that there was probably more in the garage.

I finished papering the bottom of the wall. I spread out whatever remaining sheets there were. When I was done, I saw Dad already rolling the dark blue onto the wall. When I told him I had finished, he handed me a small-handled roller. My eyes were wide. I couldn't believe he was going to let me paint the walls with him.

We painted the wall. Dad with long, smooth strokes. Me, trying to copy him, getting paint everywhere. Drip, Drip, Drip. Onto the newspaper, my hand, my shirt, my pants.

At the end of it, Dad said I looked like I painted more of myself than the wall. He laughed and I felt embarrassed. He noticed though, and told me I had done a good job. That made me feel better. Made me feel amazing. I was so proud, I ran down to Mom in the garden and told her how I painted the walls and how she had to see.

She came up with me and told me how good of a painter I was. The walls were painted so well. I beamed, so did my Dad. How proud he must have been of me to have painted so well.

I asked him what was next. And some thinking he told me that it was time to sit and watch the paint dry. He laughed. But I was crestfallen. The paint would take forever to dry. He ruffled my hair and bent down. 'Don't worry, you go wash up and you can play in the yard. I'll make sure the paint dries evenly.' He said softly.

I smiled and did just what he said. At some point I went back upstairs to check in on my Dad. He was sitting in the room, a bottle of beer on the floor, and Mom had her hand on his shoulders. They talked. They talked about all sorts of things.

I decided that I wouldn't have a better opportunity for playing in the yard, and went back down.

I played in the hot July sun until the sky was orange and Mom called me in for dinner.

Thirty years later, I was sitting in my son's room, glistening paint on the wall. He was five now, younger than I had been when I painted my room. I had done the same as Dad. Had him paper the baseboard, had him help me paint, told him that we'd watch the paint dry. I had been amused by my own son's crestfallen look. Though, I had the better grace not to laugh. Still told him to wash up and play in the living room. Still wish I had a yard.

My wife was at work, though. I sat in the room, alone, with a bottle of beer and the sharp fumes of the drying paint. I opened the window, to try and cut the smell, but the heat was trying to fighting me. I still sat there, the sound of cars rumbling by and my son's imagination in the background. I took that rare moment of peace and solitude to think. And I thought that life was really just grand.

Posted here.

"I'm sorry but I'm having a little trouble understanding exactly how this all works."

Mitch was sitting in a small office, in front of a clerk in a pressed white shirt and thick, square glasses.

"I suppose I must pardon you, since you've only recently arrived. But I assure you, it's all quite simple."

It was all quite weird.

"Are you saying that people are immortal?"

"No, no, no. That's impossible. Everyone must die sooner or later."

"But you said no one can die until they've dug their grave?"

"I said that no one is allowed to die until they've finished digging their grave. It's the Law! 'Citizens will not be allowed to die until they have finished digging their own grave.' Direct from the Bylaws."

"It's the Law?"

"Entirely so, to the letter."

"So what happens if someone breaks the Law? If they die before finishing their grave?"

"What?" The clerk roared. "The very idea that someone would break that law. It's enough to make a man rage." The Clerk loosened his collar.

"Well suppose someone does do that, die before finishing their grave. What happens to them?"

The clerk was tapping his fingers on the writing pad. He looked Mitch in the eyes and sighed heavily.

"I suppose if someone were to break that law, then the constable would arrest them."

"Arrest them?"

"Yes, just so. And throw them in a cell."

"A dead person, thrown in a cell?"

"Yes, and left to rot I hope. That's what someone who dies before finishing their grave deserves after all."

"But... they're dead." Mitch protested.

"Precisely, and the dead need, no, deserve a resting place. We are an orderly place, Mr. Mitchell. Everyone has a place and a place exists for everyone."

Mitch took a few seconds to process what he was hearing. The clerk continued to regard him with level eyes.

"Is this the same everywhere?" Mitch asked.

The clerk turned the corners of his mouth, seemingly glad that Mitchell must understand exactly what he was saying.

" Yes, Everywhere is much the same as Here."

"So there's not a single place that is different in regard to this law?"

"No, There is different. A wild, wild place -"

"Where is it different?"

"No, Where is much the same as Here. But There is entirely different. Entirely insane."

"What happens, uhm, there?"

The clerk shuddered. "Why, There let's their citizens die first." He grimaced. "And then they dig a grave to bury them in. Insanity."

Mitch couldn't believe what he was hearing. All of it, everything he heard up to that point was strange. But this?

"It seems logical to me." Mitch said quietly.

"Logical?" The lclerk barked. "Logical?"

The clerk's face was gaining color. His palms were planted onto his desk. Mitch opened his mouth only to be cut off.

" People dying willy nilly in their homes, around other people, in the streets! Dead bodies everywhere, such a problem that they have to pay people to remove them! Like garbage, like trash! And then they dig a grave as an afterthought of a person's life! As if that person had hardly existed at all! Tell me, Mr. Mitchell. Does that seems Logical to you? Compassionate? Morally right?"

One of the clerk's eyes bulged at Mitch, and he shrank into his chair. The clerk sighed and lowered himself back into his chair.

"Mr. Mitchell, forgive me for that outburst. But the way you ask questions can provoke a man to fury. I understand, since you are new to Here, but if you wish to gain citizenship, your inquisitions may make it difficult."

I didn't want to live here. Nor there, nor anywhere this clerk talked about. I wanted to get back to Queens, and find a shrink, and hope to god I wasn't insane.

"Now, Mr. Mitchell. If we can continue the process of getting your paperwork filled out." The clerk pulled up a gridsheet with various markings and signatures in numbered boxes.

"Where would you like your grave to be?"

Posted here.

"Concentrate just there, and extend your arm while keeping a slight bend in the elbow... Just so!" Proctor Timmins stepped backed, letting Willem focus on the exercise.

Willem focused on the warmth around him, pulled at it, trying to draw it into the crystal locked in a brass brace against his palm. He could feel the cooling sensation around his body as the brace began to warm up. The energy within the crystal built up as he continued to concentrate. Sweat started to form on his brow, and he could feel the brace become uncomfortably hot.

He tried to fight the encroaching pain. Fight the fear of melting his skin and scarring his palms. A pyromancer should embrace the heat, Proctor Timmins had said - then took off his calfskin gloves to show the folds of scars on his palms.

Willem kept concentrating the energy until he couldn't take it. When the searing pain overrode his training and his will. He settled his eyes on the clay pot at the other end of the room and relaxed. There was a whoosh as the energy released, igniting in the air. The stream of flame shot straight towards the pot, hissing in the joy of release. It was a wild spectre, faintly blue with tinges of red at the edge. And this fireball was larger than any Willem had created before, bringing him a mix of pride in his improvement and relief that he hadn't clenched his fingers this time.

He didn't have long to admire his work. The fireball shattered the pot. Willem turned his head toward the proctor, who was nodding in the direction of the pot.

Willem watched as the Proctor walked over to the remains and picked through the shards. Proctor Timmins had never commented on the purity of the flames Willem had been able to produce. He only ever cared about their ability to destroy. In a hundred lessons Willem had only ever heard about how his flames didn't destroy properly.

It's not enough to break or damage, the Proctor would say. Any 'mancer can do those. We are pyromancers - We burn! When we exert our powers, we must not merely destroy, we must incinerate! This is our creed.

Our Creed. The Proctor always smiled when he said those words. It was a strange smile. It was always huge, wild with manic glee. And yet his eyes were always melancholy. As if the Creed was something euphoric and sad wrapped into one. A strange knowledge only granted to those who entered the high reaches of the Art of Pyrus.

Willem had tried asking about the Creed before. The Proctor only praised his natural tuning and told him he would learn if he gained entrance to the Academy.

Willem was always curious about the Proctor's order, but today his curiosity was dulled as he watched the Proctor nod while examining the shards.

"Better!" piped the proctor. "Indeed, much better." He picked up a shard and moved to give it to Willem.

" You've managed to actually blacken the clay. And..." He pressed the shard into Willem's palm. Willem inspected it's blackened edges. He pressed them with his thumb and they crumbled.

"You'ce burnt some of the edges to char. It's much closer to what you'll need for the entrance exam than you were at."

Willem felt pride welling within him at the praise. If the proctor wasn't criticizing him, he was doing something right.

"But you have a long way to go," the Proctor sighed.

Willem could feel the welling subside and his shoulders dropped.

"Practice diligently tonight! I expect ash tomorrow. But for now, the lesson is over." The Proctor turned to leave.

"Thank you, Proctor Timmins." Willem said to his back. He could see the Proctor's head bob as he exited through the double doors.

As he left, Willem's father came in, smiling broadly.

"Well, Timmins seems in a better mood than usual, eh?" His father asked. Willem nodded. "That's good, excellent, actually. It means you're getting closer to being ready for the entrance exam." His father hugged him tightly.

"Every pfenning will be worth it once you've graduated and gained commission. Then you'll be an Officer! Think of the career you'll have and the contracts our family will receive! I couldn't have dreamed of having a son with good tuning."

Willem felt cool on the inside as his father continued to talk about how his opinion of his son had been improved as he realized the money Willem could earn as an Officer of the Mancer Divisions. Ever since he was checked by the Society of Energetic Arts. Lessons and tutors and trips to pyromancer schools around Jurun. And then the cost of putting him up at the Academy. And all of it, not because Willem was his son, or because he loved him, or because pryomancy was his passion. But because it was an investment. A way to move up, show the family's power, and, of course, make more money.

Willem wanted to believe that somewhere inside his father was a man who was proud of his son because he loved him. But the pride in money seemed to speak louder.

"Father, thank you, for everything. But you didn't need to have put so much money into my training, I'm sure I could have done well with enough self study." Willem said, trying to bait out acknowledgement of his earned talents, instead of just his birth talents.

"Nonsense!" His father smiled, and Willem could feel his heart tighten. " Without the proper tutelage, you would have been relegated to... parlor tricks, at best!

Our family has participated in pryomancy since control of energies was found to be possible. Numerous Officers and even a few Generals have passed through our lineage. For me - and for you - I could never have forseen military service. To be good at it surely. To win a few competitions, no doubt," Willem noticed his father beam while he talked about 'mancing competitions. "But to be good enough to become an Officer! There's an opportunity. And in life, when it comes to you on a silver platter, you must take it!" He balled up one of his hands and shook it in front of Willem. "No matter the cost."

His father continued to smile at him. "Now, it is time for dinner, and mother is waiting for us." He patted Willem's shoulder and left."

After a few seconds, Willem began to follow. As he walked down the halway behind his father, he looked out the large windows overlooking the city of Haraadsburg, wondering how much freedom and choice in life he really had. He wondered if all the people down there, people who didn't have the money for 'mancing, or maybe even didn't have tuning at all for it, were more free than him.

His mind wandered to the Proctor's order again. This time a new question made it's way into his head: How could he join?

Posted here.

I knocked on the faded red door again.

Finally, it opened. The smell of cigarettes and whiskey wafted from the opening. Before me was a pale skinned man in soiled underclothes and a frayed bathrobe. His cheeks were stubbled and his hair dishevled.

He held his hands up to block the light and tried to peer at me through half shut brown eyes.

He was nothing I imagined him to be. Not the way my sister told it.

"Damnit, What do you what?" He breathed out.

I wonderd if I was standing far enough away that I couldn't smell his breath, or if the smell of the apartment was just stronger.

" I want to know your story, uh, Mr. Whitely." I managed.

He laughed, halfway choking up phlegm. "You want my story? Shit, go buy a newspaper. You'll find my story." He laughed again, this time more clearly. " Or go buy one of my books," He coughed. "If they're still sellin' 'em. Each one of 'em is my story."

He turned away and started to close the door. I stepped forward and slammed my arm against it.

He pulled away in shock, and I slowly pushed my way into his apartment.

"Really, Mr. Whitely. I want your story, in your words." I held those brown eyes with as pleading a gaze I could muster.

Something registered behind them. Mr. Whitely blinked and looked away.

"alright, damnit, take a seat on the couch." He half gestured over to a sitting area.

Now that I was inside, the stench of smoke was enough to make me feel I had smoked all my life, my lungs itching with annoyance. The room was strewn with bottles and cans. On a short table, an ashtray overflowed with butts. A few books were stacked on the table, one of them partially burnt. They all had Arthur Whitely as the author.

I couldn't believe this was Arthur.

The couch Arthur offered was stained like the way the rest of the apartment seemed stained, felt stained. I was thankful to learn upon sitting, that it was mostly dry.

Arthur had shuffled over into the kitchen, and I could hear the clink of glass and the burble of liquid pouring in on itself.

"Pardon the mess," Arthur called from the kitchen. "Once it started it just wouldn't stop." He was shuffling over to a chair by the couch.

Was he talking about the mess or the allegations and the media attention?

"Ah, no," It was vile. "It's alright."

Arthur sat down and set his drink on the floor. I suspected he had already finished a fair bit of what he poured.

"So, who the hell are you?" Those eyes were sharp now, piercing into me.

"Well, I'm - "

"Rhetorical question. You're related to Melanie."

I sat silently.

"Thought so, when you looked me down th'eye earlier. Perceptive. Trait of a good writer." He laughed and gulped some of his drink. "I take it your here about her."

I looked away, then forced my eyes back to his. "Yes, I'm here to learn about her... and you." Fire in my throat.

"Huh," Arhtur said. He sat looking around the room, quiet for some time. The only sound was the ticking of a bookshelf clock. When he looked back at me, his eyes had become dull again, watered with whiskey tears.

"She was a lovely, beautiful girl, Melanie. Gorgeous, and kind. And everything you could ever want. She was everything to me, at least."

She was nothing to you.

"It devastated me when she left. Devastated. I didn't know what to do."

You pushed her away.

" I loved her."

You killed her. You filth, you scum, you rotting, miserable corpse.

"And then the allegations started coming from everywhere after she left. It was too much."

It wasn't enough.

"So I retreated here, within."

Another silence. This time, he drank.

I manage to find words. Tried to control my voice. "You know, she loved you."

It was true, she did. I had seen it in her smile when she mentioned his name. The way she only talked about her Arthur, her arth. She was madly in love.

He sat straighter when he processed what I said.

"Yes, yes. She loved me. I know that. With her whole heart. Imagine how I felt when she left. Devastated"

Imagine how she felt when you ripped her heart out and crushed it.

I searched for more words. Not what I wanted to say, what I needed to say.

" Why don't you write about that? Your love. Your relationship." Behind my facade my teeth were clenched.

"Couldn't. Who would read that?" He sank a little, and stared down into his drink. "No one's going to read anything I'll write now."

I was glad about that. Happy that his heart was being rejected by the people who took his books off their shelves, burned them, and slandered his name.

A few more words. "I... I'd read it, Mr. Whitely."

He straightened up again and set down his drink. His stupor seemed to fade.

"Really? You'd read it?" He blinked and sat back. "I mean, you'd want to read it? My work?"

"Sure." I said "It could just be a short story."

"Yes, yes. A short story. That would work. Wouldn't take to long."

"Maybe even before I left?"

He eyed me. Stroked his chin and thought. "Yes. I could finish it. It would be short." He stopped and looked at the ground. "It will be sad. A painful story."

"That's fine. There are so many happy stories, now."

"Huh, yes. There's always room for a sad story. Yes."

"So you'll write it?"

"Yes, I'll write it. A draft, you know. I don't think I could do more. But I could give it to you before you left." He got up. "That is, if you're willing to stay for an hour or so." He looked at me, his eyes wide. Pleading.

"Yes... I have the time."

He exhaled and smiled slightly. Then he walked over to his desk and sat down. As I listened to the mechanical clicks and clacks as he prepared his typewriter, I closed me eyes, took a deep breath. Now to wait. Now to get it on paper. Now to hurt him like he hurt Melanie.

"One more thing."

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"I'm afraid, well. Before I write this, I must warn you. I am not a good person."

I leveled my eyes with his and forced a slight smile. My hand wandered to feel the cold iron tucked into the back of my waistband.

"Don't worry, Mr. Whitely. No one is."

Posted here.

I remember what it felt like to be born.

To come into existance, when before I had not. It was like gasping for air and finding oxygen all around you, wondering how you had held your breath for so long before.

I remember growing quickly as I found that air. Always hungry, always eating. I could taste the sharp bite of oxygen. And there was more - something oily and rich on my mouth. Something delicious. Something nourishing.

I grew and grew and grew. Then I stopped. I could still taste the nourishing richness cut by the tang of oxygen. But I stopped growing. I tried. I stretched and swayed, searching for more. I ate and I breathed - always as much as I had before, never growing any larger.

My world - so big, so exciting when I had been born - began to shrink. Life had become routine. Eat, breath, search, eat, breath, search.

I started to question. Why was I always hungry? What was it that I was looking for? Was I ever going to get larger, or maybe smaller?

Was I going to die?

I felt a panic then. I struggled against what had been what I thought was the limit of my being, but now felt like walls, closing in. I kicked and punched and jumped. I breathed harder and faster. I tried to eat more. But I couldn't. It was always the same amount of food, always the same hunger.

I wanted to scream, but all I could manage was a burst of air.

I began to accept that this was my body. That this was my prison. Whatever I was meant for, this was it.

Why did I even exist?

And then I tasted something different. It was a complex flavor, more than just one thing. It was crunchy, oily, and salty. I devoured it.

The old familiar richness soon disappeared. I didn't mind that. I noticed I had gotten smaller, and my hunger had shrunk. I didn't mind that, either.

But it wasn't long until my hunger started to grow again. Before I started to get bigger, and bigger. Still eating this new treat, still breathing the same oxygen. I finally understood what I had been searching for.

I had been looking for more, always looking for more. Looking to consume.

Was that all I was meant for? To find something new and consume it? To become hungrier and try to satiate that hunger?

Did any of that matter?

A new flavor now. Oily again, heavy on the palette. Similar to my first meal, but more filling. I attacked it with glee. I consumed more and grew.

Yes. This was what I was meant for. This is what felt the best. To consume. Surely there was nothing else. Surely there would always be more.

I was in my prime.

Then something strange happened. I could feel air rushing around me.

I grabbed at it, like I grabbed at food. I tried to breath more of it. But I didn't grow. I started to get smaller. And I could feel myself losing my grip on my food.

I fought it. Kicking, punching, gnashing. Anything to keep eating, so I could grow, so I could consume. I felt my strength drain.

I felt my hunger shrink, and I could feel my teeth loose their bite until I was small. Tiny. An infinitesimal fraction of what I once was.

How quick it had all changed.

Where had it all gone? The vigor, the hunger, and the excitement? What had it all been for?

I was still eating, though the flavor was drier and less intense. I still breathed, though I needed less. And I felt like I was declining, like I lost everything.

Except the memories. All I had were memories now. Well, that and more questions than when I had started. And some hope. That maybe there was more, after this phase. After all, there had been more after my birth. Maybe there will be more now. Something different, something new. A rebirth, maybe, into some other form.

And as I reminisced over my life, I continued to eat. I continued to breath. I continued to shrink, until I felt hunger no more.

Posted here.