Ironically, I'm at my keyboard when they find me. I hear the door to my trailer give way and the first thought to go through my head is a completely unoriginal but understandable "What the fuck?", followed quickly by the second thought.

Nobody would fucking dare.

I step out of my room, ignoring the part of me that says to just wait and ambush whoever it is as they come down the hall, and step into the living room.

I'd like to say that I'm surprised at what I see. But, to be honest, I figured this day was coming.

They just sit there and stare at me for a moment as if simultaneously disappointed and angry at discovering the mundane existence of their creator. I look at the bent and broken door and the holes in the doorframe where the hinges were ripped out completely.

"The door didn't do anything wrong. It's a bit much, don't you think?"

Sentinel is the first to step forward. I wince because I know that he has the most room to be upset about how I chose to bring him into being. And I know that I deserve whatever he says and does.

The unnamed werewolf is there too, the only surviving member of a trio of brothers fallen victim to a werewolf in the first horror story that I ever wrote in first grade.

He was both the only survivor and the killer after he was bitten. I guess I ALWAYS had issues.

The last one is a bit more obscure.

Back when my father was homeschooling me after he believed that my mental health coupled with my apathetic middle school teachers was slowly turning me into a potential school shooter, he realized that I had some talent in creative writing. So, he tasked me with writing a story. Just a story. Whatever I wanted. I was actually excited that I got to do something fun that day.

Of course I quickly grew bored with the assignment when my brain decided that HAVING to do it was synonymous with torture. So the knockoff Legend of Zelda protagonist with adopted parents, amnesia and a prophecy to his name was born. I don't even remember his name actually, and he doesn't volunteer it.

Not my best work, for sure.

"Why?" They all ask in unison. Fuck if that isn't the question, huh.

"I don't know." is all I can find to answer with.

"Not good enough." Sentinel says.

Right. So I guess I get to explain him now.

Adrian Cross, AKA Sentinel. My first real attempt at creating a superhero. Akin to Superman in that he is damn near unbreakable and that even if someone finds a way to kill him, he just comes back. Whether he wants to or not. He was struck by some mysterious red lightning after having a screaming match with a lightning storm he chose to see as God. Then he threatened to pull the trigger on the gun aimed at his temple. That was when it happened.

I know. Says a lot about me, doesn't it. A person with suicidal depression saved by God or whatever before he can go through with it, and being given immense power. Delusional for sure.

Except that I didn't stop there. I kept writing, because of course I did.

Adrian was already in a bad place in life. Being given powers akin to Superman but with a bit of a theme around the red lightning that created him did nothing to erase that. But when he died fighting a man with powers similar to his that had chosen a much darker path, but managed to take the evil bastard with him, he was content. He was truly ready to go. He could die a hero.

But guess what? I kept writing. So, he came back. Again. That kind of shattered him for a while, I think. To make things even worse. It was then that I got back into therapy. I stopped writing for him, because he was a character born of the most depressing aspects of my mind, and that's all I could see in him anymore.

Until recently. But that doesn't really matter right now.

"I'm sorry." I say. Judging by the looks on their faces, that definitely isn't good enough either. I sigh.

"I created you to help me understand." I start, giving each of them a sympathetic look in turn. They don't interrupt me so I continue.

"I'm very flawed, this I'm sure you know by now. When I created each of you, I gave you a piece of myself. Something that I couldn't reconcile on my own. In the hopes that you could help me find a way to do just that. And, in a way, you did. I grew, and I learned and I need you to know that I never forgot about any of you. I use the lessons you taught me every single day. For myself and those that I love. I'm only sorry that I never returned the favor. But you know what? I will."

Something in them relaxes. Sentinel especially seems taken aback. I knew he would understand, even if it still hurt him. He's a much better person then I am. They all are. That was the point.

Slowly the other two come around. I don't think they're okay with the why of it, so much as they know that nothing can change it. One by one, they fade, as if they were never there.

Let this be a lesson. Never abandon those that you've created. They deserve more than that, just like you.

Dearest Alanna,

I have kept these crystals for a very long time. Through my entire life as a healer from the first time I used the skills, after finding them on the altar at our circle so close to home. A quick walk as you know, and only a short distance from the fairy’s home under the great oak.

I put them in your care now. You will become so much more than what I have managed, and I am and always be your proud mentor and tutor. On this, your silver birthday, forgive me if I ramble. I am indeed starting to feel my years at long last.

Please find the bloodstones inside the parcel. Harry has been kind enough to pull it and this letter through to you. Let Liam do the unpacking as it is heavy. Roarke helped me wrap them. Also, find several large rods of black tourmaline. Cousins, to Harry’s, they were mined from the same source in Brazil.

The large orb of red tigers eye is for the bedroom. I doubt you will need it, for it’s traditional help with libido issues. But it grounds the base chakras. I found it helped me to think clearly when I needed it. Especially when I found myself called to an emergency in the middle of the night. I suspect it will do you well when a baby insists on a dramatic entrance. I am so proud of you for taking the trauma of Maggie and turning it around to help women whose fear at a critical moment in their lives is often misunderstood. Who better than you would understand them?

The bloodstone geode which split in two on the alter are the same stones I carried with me wherever I went. You remember them hanging in the workshop or around my neck. The blue rainbow moonstones were there, as well as a clear quartz tower. This one amplifies any or all of the others. The selenite bowl is for recharging, but I would advise you to take it out on Andrew’s deck, especially if a thunderstorm is immanent.

Otherwise, let Irena guide you. She is a treasure. Her knowledge of crystals, rivals Chen’s immense wisdom with herbs.

T

his is your graduation gift. You finished your internship and are working on your residency. Trauma surgery with a specialty in obstetrics is an intense combination for your sensitive nature to deal with. As an empath, your mental health is tenuous at best. It’s a truth you must face. Let Liam be your rock as he has been from the day you met.

Let your children, little Allen and Glory are blessings already, be your reason to continue. I believe you are mistaken about this pregnancy. There are two babies there if you care to look a little deeper. Identical from what I sensed when you were here for Samhain. They will be born close to Ostara.

No more after this, dearest, well perhaps one. Don’t let yourself wear out before you can fulfill your dreams. Balancing all phases of your life is difficult, and these gems and crystals will help you do it.

With love, pride, and faith,

Your Uncle, Cardamon.

“Oh Liam, I sensed the end is coming for him, and for Roark. This isn’t just a graduation gift. It’s a passing of the torch, so to speak,” Alanna said as she wiped tears from her cheeks.

“I’ll take care with this box. I see it’s more a crate than his usual parcels this time. I’ll get my hammer so I can pull the nails out of the lid. A prybar too. Perhaps I can use the wood to craft a display table for the orb he was talking about.” Liam turned to go through the door to their attached garage. The house, newly finished, was up the hill from her father’s and not very far from Harry and Gaia’s retirement chalet.

Alanna winced, as she thought of them. The family agreed to keep it as it was, a center for learning and research for the magical community in the area. Harry’s collection of books was in a specially maintained archival room, only handled by people after they went through a quick introductory course. The ancient books were fragile, and Liam volunteered to guard them from harm.

She could still see her Grandda hunched over the scanning equipment as he committed his collection to digital perpetuity. To everyone’s surprise Cardamon outlived his cousin Gaia. Alanna knew his time was limited.

“Shall we see what’s in here?” Liam asked. “Twins, he said, identical?”

“Yes, pry the top off this. I can’t wait to see what we have. I know the bloodstone.

Brilliantly red, like arterial blood. With a band of deep Douglas Fir green around the outside. The geode is only two inches in diameter a bit too oval to called round, but close.”

Liam wedged the prybar into the space at the edge of the lid. Working his way around the crate, he loosened it, and found a stiff cardboard box inside.

“What about his insistence that you’re carrying twins?”

“He’s right, I think. I expect my next ultrasound will give us the answer. I’m bigger than I should be at this point, and yes, I appreciate you refraining from call me a whale.” She stuck her tongue out at him, as she teased him. Orca was their private nickname for her as she neared the end of each of her last two pregnancies.

“Boys or girls?”

“You’d think I could figure it out. It’s so easy when it’s someone else. I knew with everyone of the mothers around us.”

“Including all four of yours.” Liam reached inside the crate to lift the box out, and quickly pulled his arms back out. “This is way too heavy to lift out. I’m going to pull the rest of this crate apart. Keep an eye out for any nails that come loose and fall on the floor. I don’t want Allen picking them up and putting them in his mouth. Glory is crawling already, and she is as much of a vacuum as Saqui is with crumbs and scraps.”

“You are such a great father. Do you think we need a nanny?”

“With identical twins coming, yes. But I think we can look to one of our Murphy cousins. I think Paddy and Aileen both have wandering feet. Paddy is a gardener, trained horticulturist. Andrew said he’s looking for a ground manager. With the crops he’s added, he needs a farmer. That’s Paddy. Aileen, his wife would make an excellent housekeeper and nanny for us. She cooks too, much like Soleil does for Riona.”

“Get the feelers out. I’ll talk to Dad about it. We have the room here to build them a smaller house across the creek. You’ve been thinking about this for some time?”

“Aye. You love to cook when you have a chance, and so do I. But the housework is only done because of spells, and that’s not what I want to teach our little ones. Remember Harry’s insistence on hard work when we can do it ourselves.”

“He’s so right too. I wince with guilt every time I do it.” Alanna kept watching as each of the wooden sides came away, “You’re amazing, love. I hope you can use these pallets.”

“Must have been Roark who put this together. I see his fine eye for design in it. I’ll ask him what kinds of wood he used. It doesn’t look like it’s all cheap pine. Let me take this stack of five out to the workshop, and we’ll get the box open right away. I can actually feel a hum coming from it.”

“You’ve learned a lot about crystals. We’ll place these in all the right places.”

Liam took three trips out to the workshop as Alanna slit the tape on the top of the box and opened the flaps. Packing paper was wrapped around each of the crystals, and Styrofoam peanuts filled the gaps in between.

“I’m glad Allen is napping. Glory too,” Alanna said.

Liam nodded. “I’ll get a garbage bag. I can see this in Deataigh’s fur. Missy wouldn’t be able to resist either.”

“Hmph. I wonder where they are?”

“Up at the circle for some reason. With your Aunt Morgan’s triplets and Killa and Maura clearing the debris before it gets buried in the snow. Doug and Mike are doing the heavy lifting. Deadfall is always a problem. Having Paddy here to keep track of it all will be a blessing. I miss Harry. He used to keep it all done without ever telling us exactly how much work it was.”

Alanna sighed. “We all do. At least they come back at Yule and Samhain. With all the others who have gone before. Who knew Aunt Morgan would step into Grammie’s shoes as a medium? She is truly a sorceress to be admired.”

“Riona is good at it too.” Liam slipped the edge of the garbage bag under the box and Alanna threw the first of the endless supply of wrapping paper in it.

“Oh my! Look at this. It’s bigger than Grammie’s was!”

“And perfectly clear. This goes beside the great room hearth, at the heart of our home.” The four foot tall spear of flawless quartz sat on the floor reaching well past Alanna’s waist.

“I can’t wait to get to the rest of them.”

“Black tourmaline for every bedroom. It will keep the worst nightmares away, along with the amethysts Gaia left us.” Liam said.

As they continued to discover more treasures, Alanna’s heart lightened. Cardamon was right. They were exactly what she needed. When they uncovered the giant orb of polished red tigers eye, she sighed.

“Straight to the bedroom,” she said. “I’ll bring its stand. It goes on the table in front of the balcony window.”

“Agreed. Always recharging in the sun there. I think we finished just in time.” Liam said as he settled the orb in its new home.

“I hear Glory. I’ll nurse her before I leave. Back to reality. My shift starts in a couple of hours.” She stretched up on her toes, her baby bump settling against Liam as she pulled his face toward hers. “Give me a kiss and I’ll wake you when I get home in the morning.”

Liam smiled, “Best deal ever. I’ll never quit thanking the powers that be for putting me at the stones that night.”

“Me too. Okay, Glory’s screaming. And I hear Allen too.”

Liam’s grin grew broader. “Our son has a set of lungs.” He turned left as she turned right as they headed for their children.

Alanna scooped up her daughter and headed for the changing table. Life was good, and she promised herself to make sure it stayed that way.

My smart Hemp-Gummies with Super-Keto are more powerful than your Shark Tank Dubai Escorts using Testosterfo and Bitcoin

September 19, 2024

Most of the crowd was utterly confused. Henry was one of the crowd and was utterly confused. His boss ordered him to attend the lecture as part of team building exercises designed to make him a better employee.

It didn’t.

And he was still confused.

Why be outside on an overcast day when I can be inside, at work, producing a product someone will buy making real money?

The speakers spoke of the required sacrifices, both in extra time at work and decreased production in desirable consumer goods. They spoke of a pie that could never grow. They insisted that it was natural for each person’s slice of that pie to shrink. It was better, according to his boss, if he just forgot any claim he had to that pie and let people smarter than himself decide who needs pie today and who does not.

Henry stood, daily, in the line for “just forgot.”

Why not go back to work and make things people actually want? Why not listen to the loud and ever present market forces and satisfy their demands instead of creating artificial ones?

Why not just expand the pie?

Henry put his hands in his pockets, feeling the holes preventing him from carrying anything in those pockets. Not that he had anything to carry. Not that he could locate anyone to fix the holes, let alone pay them for their services.

The applause signs required “polite” positive reinforcement. The secret police would remind those who didn’t understand. Henry clapped just enough to blend in with the masses who learned the advantages of the phrase, “just enough to blend in.”

Why create a narrative from a self-fulfilling prophecy that ensures an outcome of little or no value? Why not search for a reason to act and then create a product or service to assist in the act? Henry Ford raised minimum wages to get the best workers to build cars that the best worker (and then everyone else) demanded.

A baton brushed against his neck as Henry mumbled a bit too loud for comfort.

Life is too short for this nonsense.

And with that, Henry tried to return to his job.

But, the barbed wire and police checkpoints prevented him.

But, since he was first, he would be first to be branded. The inker made short work of his left arm, adorning Henry with his new bar code and ID number (A0025639B).

The new speaker was extolling the values of collaboration to make all, into one. It would be easier. It would be for the best.

It was a sacrifice that needed to be made.

I was ordered to make the sacrifice.

I made the sacrifice.

Somewhere, in some box, lies the information crystal proving A0025639B did.

Part.1

Logan.

It was late. After 3:00 A.M. Only another two hours to go before his alarm would go off, heralding in yet another day of thankless work. It was his flip phone that had roused him. It had been buzzing incessantly for some time now. Logan wasn’t fully awake as he rolled from his right side onto his back. Away from the nightstand and away from the monetary disturbance. His mind still sticky with indistinct dreams he never quite remembered, like cobwebs you were never certain were there to begin. The half-conscious state left just enough room for a notion to slip through—a misgiving, really. The one he had been sensing with great unease and pushing to back of his mind for months now, perhaps longer. Afraid to allow it admittance, it waited for a time like this. Just before he awoke—just behind the mental list of the day’s tasks, the recollection of bills still needing to be paid, the vacancy of his savings account, the truck he loved and should probably sell for something mor economic. This morning, the notion found its way to the forefront of his mind and introduced itself.

Maybe this is not enough?

Logan’s own life—it had been good enough for him. He had tried not to let the things that damaged his little sister and older siblings during their childhood, damage him as well. So, like everything else uncomfortable for him, he pushed dismal and obscure things down, into depths he dared not go. He wasn’t familiar with Nietzsche, but even he knew well enough not to be a man who sought out darkness or who questioned his own humanity. He chose to see in black and white and took things as they came—good or bad. He didn’t necessarily believe in the evil of man but regarded it as a source of their actions. He accepted the idea of God and of Satan and avoided situations that would cause him the obligation of guilt. But that was as far as his belief system took him. He didn’t need it to go any further. To give him purpose, like other people did. And he didn’t need anger to drive him to be a better person. His siblings had enough guilt and anger to share. They even seemed to revel in it, wear it, be proud of it. Logan wanted no share. “Water off a duck’s back.” That’s what he’d say about things that would send the others in a tizzy. He was built different than them. Maybe because he didn’t feel connected to that part of their childhood? He couldn’t (wouldn’t) process mom’s slow demise. Or dad’s explosive volatility. Where his siblings felt what his little sister called “imposter syndrome” out there in the world, he felt comfort; in fact, Logan felt safest in the camouflage of vapidity.

But unlike others, Logan never felt he had anything to lose. Not before her. Not before Zoe. And not like Jessica. And she resented him for that. Jessica did. She resented that he had taken from her years that she could have spent preparing her for her adult life that were meant to be spent figuring things out. Herself out.

She had always put education first—until him. That’s one of the things that had drawn Logan to her, actually—her intelligence, ambition, her purpose. He hadn’t understood or felt purpose before her. And he didn’t know at the time that he complicated hers. He knew what he knew in his adolescent approach to love. That she was the ‘one’ (literally the only one) and might have continued to be had they stayed together. Because Logan was that uncomplicated. He was so uncomplicated that he thought she felt the same. But how could she? She was sixteen when they met. The same age as his little sister.

Jessica couldn’t keep her head straight during the whirlwind of their relationship. She wasn’t like him. Things didn’t fall into her lap. Nothing was happenstance. She worked for where she had gotten in school. In the community. She had appearances to keep up, church to attend, her mom’s confidence to sustain and convince she could handle everything. Friends to emulate. But that was changing.

First, her GPA dropped. There was no scholarship or family money to get her into the expensive universities her friends were attending. And she had lost her mother’s trust with the misuse of her time, the broken curfews, the all-to-obvious broken promise of abstinence until marriage. What was left was ‘making the worst of it’ as Jessica called it. But, paradoxically, had never felt more beautiful or thriven. On fire.

Something had awoken in her, and fuck it was exhilarating. Until now, she had been the good girl. The church girl. The smart girl. The sensible girl. Never sensual. Never the one to elicit attention from anyone, really. It wasn’t until recently that she had traded her oversized hair bow for high-waisted bell-bottoms and crochet halter tops, courtesy of her elder sister (the beauty of the family), married at eighteen, and now pregnant with her first child. Her sister and mother had always been at odds. Lisa never did anything right, and Jessica worshipped that. She wanted more of this—more than just another predictable outcome—gold star for another achievement. Another goal obtained—set by someone else. Everything had a ceiling she was discovering. So, what was the point?

Jessica took a job at the farm and feed mill on the outskirts of town to help pay for university That’s where she met Ben. She had known him in passing—it was only a town of fifteen-hundred people, after all. He was a friend of Logan’s. Not a close one, but in fringe. He was tall. Sweet. Pale. Cute. Funny. A shock of dark hair. The attraction between them was immediate. It was as if someone had thrown her into a basin of ice-cold water—the startling realization that it wasn’t just Logan she had been attracted to. It was the opportunity and license to fail. The potential and exhilaration to crash—to sabotage. To make mistakes and take consequences as they came. She had decided—against her mother’s wishes—she was going to take a semester off after high school. She’d go to parties. Try new things. Fuck. And not any of it with Logan. For, if she was going to burn for her own choices, then she would burn asunder.

He was barely into his twenties when he got her pregnant. Jessica. Now his ex. The first ex he ever had. His first real love—first girl. First person he truly disappointed. It was a one-night stand. She was high. He was drunk. She said she missed it. The sex. Being loved.

He thought if he convinced her, she would stay with him. They would be a family. She did keep It. He convinced her to keep It—It now being Zoe. But he didn’t keep Jessica.

Jessica had found Jesus again. She was back in church and, therefore, her mother’s favor. And along with God’s blessings came a man to redeem her tarnished character. A good man. A suitable man. A man who could provide. A man complete with a good, Christian upbringing, stable background, a family business, and no testosterone…but a man, nonetheless.

On the bright side, Zoe—the best thing to ever happen to him to that point. She had his bright, blue eyes. And her mother’s pale complexion, quiet nature, thick hair, and disappointment in him.

She had been “daddy’s girl” just up until the novelty of father/daughter weekends wore off and the existentialism of teenage-hood took its place. She had grown to resent him for the long hours. For the regret her mother carried. The disdain she exuded and overflowed onto the girl for reminding her of him. But Zoe mostly resented him for not being the dad that her stepfather had the resources to be. And it became worse after her stepsister was born. The ‘golden-child’. The child Jessica always wanted. Born with intent. Coddled. Fawned over by her parents. She now knew her own mother’s obsession with herself and disdain for Lisa. She didn’t want to admit it—but she understood.

Jessica: love of Logan’s life, a stay-at-home mother of his daughter, living less than six miles from him at this very moment, playing house (happily) in the bed of another man. “Ironic.” Is that the word? His little sister would give him shit for not knowing that answer.

Zoe, a daughter whose only tie to him was a surname that barely made it onto the birth certificate. Zoe, the daughter whose only fatherly support was a paper trail of child support. Zoe, who never saw her dad due to his work schedule and her mother’s incessant plot to cut him out of their lives.

He had never planned on going to college. He had never planned on anything. Everything he had just somehow ‘showed up’—offered itself in one way or another, then left the same way. Like “water off a duck’s back.” And this is what Logan had to show for his time here so far.

Maybe this is not enough?

He rolled onto his left side to stare at her in the dark. Even now he lay beside a beautiful woman who just ‘showed up’. And somehow, they had been living together for the last four years. They met on the job. He as a dispatcher for a logistics company. Her—working in poultry. It was hot at first. Like everything is in new relationships. But they both had been dumped and neither were much for playing games, so it made sense to stay together even when things kinda became flat. It was easy even. Monetarily appreciable. He watched the shape of her. The soft swell of her abdomen against the light of the window. Featureless.

In the dark he could still tell you that her skin was olive, as were her eyes. Her features were pointed and fine, whereas Jessica’s had been soft and rounded. Younger that Jessica by a few years. He could tell you this woman was a hard worker. Her favorite food is anything made with potatoes. Hates broccoli. Doesn’t like spice. Salt is a flavor. That she didn’t believe in any god except for the one that put that food on the table. Can bow hunt better than any man outside himself that he’d ever met. Loves Dukes of Hazard but had never seen Star Wars and didn’t need to.

What he couldn’t tell you is how she felt the day her little sister died in a car accident when she was just sixteen. Or how every miscarriage Logan and she had been through had changed her. He couldn’t tell you what her favorite season was or if autumn ushered in, for her, a feeling of excitement and change, or if brought up anxiety of the cold, dull solitude that it would soon be winter.

Shannon had always been a woman to him. Never a girl, like Jessica. He didn’t watch her grow up and then plateau into the person she was now. She had just always been ‘this’. Honest, loyal, predictable, hardworking. Salt of the earth. But bland. A shape in the dark against a window bright with moonlight.

Logan’s phone began to buzz furiously again. Shannon rolled away.

“Who the fuck.”

“It’s my brother.”

It wasn’t a question. And she was already asleep.

Logan crept into the kitchen of their doublewide. A gift from his boss. It wasn’t nice. It had a leak under the tub and the floor was soft in there. He had even stepped through it a time or two before he put down particleboard, just to cover up the issue. There were other usual things like mice, non-working outlets, poor insulation. But his boss let him do whatever he wanted with the place, as well as the property immediately surrounding the modular home. And it was rent-free—which made it good enough to stay.

“Hello?”

“Logan!”

It was Shamus, of course, the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family—a designation he fought their youngest sister for back and forth like a championship title belt with reckless acts that embarrassed the whole family, most especially the non-immediate ones. Both were brooding and aloof, but the difference between the two of them was that she couldn’t care less about what anyone thought of her—least of all family. And incidentally—that was what Shamus cared about most. Especially the opinion of their maternal grandparents. Nothing... nothing—was more important than family to Shamus. The Black Sheep were two sides of the same, cold coin—sedition and contrition—spent the same way. Worthless.

“Logan! I’m mom. I’m om my wayt pick oo up…” he was speaking unintelligibly. Slowly. It wasn’t unusual except Logan lived in Arkansas and Shamus had moved back to Nebraska.

Logan diagnosed the danger right way—Shamus was having an episode. “We gotta get mom. Mom doesn’t want be there, Logan…”

“Shamus! Stop! Where are you? Where is Carol?”

“Carol…” he repeatedly it with disdain. “Pffffttt…bish.”

Shamus.

Connie—Shamus’ second wife. A native American woman he had met in Nebraska after his divorce from Cherilee. Shamus had met Cherilee in Nebraska as well. A young, single mom. She was intelligent. She spoke Spanish as a second language. She had a beautiful smile. A beautiful singing voice. Loved music. Loved having fun.

So, when Shamus’ mother moved to Arkansas with Logan and their youngest sister, and he had decided to go too—he invited her. She refused. She wanted to stay near her parents, even though they had been disappointed in her for years as she had forsaken the path of the Jehovah’s Witness for the love of the man before Shamus. And she had lived a sheltered life until she had gotten pregnant with her daughter. She was doing relatively well on her own. Her parents were starting to talk to her again. Then she got pregnant with Shamus’ child, and she was on her own again.

For twenty-six years, she had never left the state. She had fucked only two men (counting Shamus) and ended up pregnant. Twice now. She never even wanted children, before her daughter, especially not out of wedlock… Realizing this might be her only chance to redeem herself as a woman, she agreed to go with him. On one condition. So, they married. And had four more children. But Arkansas was not easy on her. She often felt alone. She and Shamus fought frequently. She hadn’t any family nor many friends there. She gained weight. Being a mother of five small children, all born within proximity of one another was difficult at best. She hadn’t even fully matured. And no matter how hard she tried; she could not gain the approval of Shamus’ mother. She was even jealous of the relationship he had with his mother. She had never experienced that with her own—it was alien to her.

And for Logan and Shamus’ mom—it wasn’t that she didn’t like Cherilee. It wasn’t the fact that Cherilee (virtually) shared her namesake which that made things confusing at a very intimate level amongst family gatherings, mailing services, and had become a trite and sometimes inappropriate joke amongst friends. And it wasn’t even entirely that Cherilee didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, or that she had no passion for cooking, or was placating towards Cher in what was become a noxious exchange of barely friendly natter. It was that Cherilee didn’t love her son, Shamus. Not in the way she knew he deserved. Cherilee loved him in the way that was good enough for her…and for whatever reason, that is all that Shamus thought he’d come to deserve. Because on a regular basis, whether she realized she was doing it or not, Cherilee, blamed Shamus for her dissatisfaction with her own life—from which the course of trajectory had been set well ahead of his presence in it. But without anyone else to take responsibility for the roles unfilled by her daughter’s father and her own parents, Shamus was obligated to take those on.

Therefore, when Cherilee started taking her lunch breaks at home every day instead of with him at the poultry plant were they both worked to have “me time,” Shamus understood. It wasn’t until the rumors did Shamus become suspicious and need to see for himself.

Three times in his life would Shamus have a mental breakdown—that Logan knew of. Three times would he burn it all down, not calculating well the aftermath of that decision or how it would alter his and his children’s path from then on.

The time Shamus was roped into driving his mother to Nebraska from California was the first time Logan knew of. The man Shamus had come to see as his own father—best friend even—was battering his mother and the children they shared. Imprisoned in their home. He was forced to be the one who drove the car his brother-in-law had donated for their escape. The truth was it wasn’t just Cher, Logan, and their baby sister Maxine and her husband were trying to save. It was Shamus too. King had gotten him onto heroin. And Shamus didn’t take well to detox. The moment he could, he left. He was an adult after all. He made his way all the way back to The King of California.

Shamus doesn’t remember much about his second turn in California, away from his family, and alone with King and whatever cohorts, whores, and enemies King chose to medicate, lay, or betray in that moment. Because of this, Shamus often found himself prey to manipulation and coercion with dangerous conclusions. This is how he contracted Hepatitis C from his stand-in father figure—a disease that would take partial claim of King’s life before he ended it. A disease Shamus, himself, would barely survive.

Teresa flipped her hair back and rubbed her nose hard. King didn’t have the best cocaine. But he had a lot of it. And a lot more recently now that he had hired her and Shamus to cut it. Teresa was King’s longtime mistress—a woman King had been seeing concurrently while he kept Cher hostage and now that Cher was gone, she was his main squeeze.

Shamus felt guilty when he was around Teresa. He didn’t even like the woman, really. But wherever King, there she was. And always ready to party.

“Oh my God is that good!”

It wasn’t. But Shamus doubted Teresa would know what good coke was.

“Can you, please, do that somewhere else? I have a test tomorrow!” Teresa’s daughter screamed.

“Then go study in the room, Amber! God! You’re like an old woman!” Teresa laughed.

“I would but it smells like shit in there because you and your friends partied in there all last night! Remember?? You made me sleep on the couch! And that midget kept trying to touch me!”

Teresa started cackling. Shamus probably hated her laugh as much as daughter did.

“He’s not a midget! He lost his legs!” she was laughing so hard, she started coughing.

“Please, Mom! It’s important!”

Her eyes met Shamus’. Begging. She reminded him of Maxine, his younger sister. He recalled the many times she begged King and his friends for the same courtesy. He felt bad for her. Ashamed.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Shamus said, standing up.

“What?” Teresa asked, taking a sip of her beer, and still coughing.

“I’ll buy your drinks.”

“But King isn’t here…”

“Come on.”

He ushered Teresa up off the couch and toward the door. Before shutting it, he caught Amber’s gaze. She mouthed the words ‘thank you’. He closed the door.

King had become suddenly absent, though this was not necessarily unusual for him. He often disappeared for days at a time. But this would be the first time they went out together without him. Teresa convinced Shamus to go to their regular dive. She wanted to go there because she knew the other girls would stay away. He was hers tonight.

She had always had a thing for him. His fine, pale features, dark hair, and dimples typically brought women to him like flies to shit. Before Shamus had disappeared to Nebraska with his bitch mom, Teresa had often gone out with he and King and often she threatened the younger women with glares from afar. A while ago, she had even followed one woman into the bathroom, introduced herself, then the woman’s face to the mirror. Yes. Tonight, he was hers. And everyone there knew it.

They stayed until close; all the while Teresa plying him with alcohol until he needed to be carried to her little Mazda.

When they arrived back at her place, she parked in front of the beige stucco, two-story four-plex in a shit part of town. She shut off the ignition to her car. Teresa leaned back against the driver door, lit a cigarette, and puffed on it while she stared at him. He leaned back against the passenger door, fought bleary vision to see her. The orange streetlight that cut across the lower half of her face helped. She was smiling. Smoke leaking from the crevices of her teeth. Like a dragon. He returned her smile.

“What?” he asked coyly.

“Oh nothing.” She blew smoke. “You. I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“How could I stay away? This is where the party is at.” He jested.

They were flirting. He realized this. But his inhibitions were null.

“I hope that’s not all you came back for.” She opened her legs slightly.

Her ditzy, floral, babydoll dress barely covered her skinny, tan thighs as it was. Her lap was shadowed by the dashboard of the sedan.

She was probably an attractive woman once, he thought. Before the drugs and premature aging. Before the sun had taken its own tax.

“Come here.”

“Where?”

She sat forward, reached across the console, and grabbed the front of his short sleeve button-up. Teresa pulled him almost into her lap. Shamus grasped the dash to support himself, the stick shift boring a hole in his sternum while she shoved her lips against his. She was salty. He’d always remember that. Her other hand grabbed at his belt buckle—a commemoration trophy of sorts for his first year in California. King had bought it for him at the Tuolumne County fair. It was reservation silver. With a Native American Thunderbird in the center, inlayed with turquoise and coral. It was precious to him. He thought of King seeing him now, in this moment, with mild apprehension—if not fear. King was generous, but on his own terms. This wasn’t even his fault, but he knew that wouldn’t matter. If he caught them…

This wasn’t the first time a woman, even an older woman, had forced herself on him. Nor was it even a rare occurrence; in fact, the woman he had lost his virginity to a friend of his mothers. He was fourteen. He was thirty-seven. He never saw it coming. He had just flushed the toilet when she opened the door of the bathroom and closed it behind her. Much like Teresa, she grabbed him. He didn’t even get to zip after taking a piss. It was over in a matter of minutes. Maybe seconds. It was his first time after all. Then she left as abruptly as she burst in. Never said a word. And neither did he. When he emerged from the bathroom, she was sitting on the couch with his mom cackling about something on the television—smoking menthols and drinking screwdrivers. Ash all over the dark lacquer of the coffee table.

Mom never knew. Of course. And he never talked about it. To anyone. Not even to brag. Not necessarily because it made him feel depraved, or harmed, or because it was technically statutory rape. He just didn’t want the attention or fuss or to be seen as any more different than he already felt that he was. Things just went on as if nothing had happened. And it never did again. She had gone right back to never even acknowledging his presence like any other adult friend of his mother’s. Women are scary.

And that’s just what he was thinking now as Teresa unskillfully searched the inside of his mouth with her tongue. Even still, it wasn’t the worst kiss Shamus had ever had. He pushed her back to get some air back into his lungs.

“Woah-ho-ho! I’ve already had my tonsils removed. Thank you!”

She slumped backwards and bit her lip while smiling. He had sobered up some and thought that the lighting wasn’t doing her any favors in this moment.

“And here I thought I was the drunk one. We should get you upstairs.” He offered.

“Oh. I like the sound of that.” She giggled again as she put a foot up on the console.

Somehow, she had lost her sandal, and her toes were quickly edging across his thigh toward his groin.

“Alright you. Let’s get out of this car.” He reached over down by the car’s pedals and retrieved her missing sandal.

Teresa pushed Shamus against the door of her apartment.

“Quiet! Shhhh!” she giggled. “My daughter is asleep.”

She pressed herself against him.

“Come inside.”

“I should go home.”

“Nooooo. Come in and party with me.”

He knew what she meant. He weighed the pros and cons as she hugged onto im and swayed back and forth, humming. The yellow glow of her porch light was uncomfortably bright. She didn’t seem to mind the insects that bounced off them as they stood there. Flying termites, mosquito eaters, earwigs on the stucco. Then again, Teresa might be the world’s largest mosquito as he was sure the hickey she was working on was drawing blood.

Suddenly, Shamus saw someone standing in the dark of the courtyard. Staring. He slowly unattached Teresa from his neck but she wasn’t coming off easily so without thinking he shoved her. A little harder than he should have, gentler than he’d have liked to.

“Hey!” he yelled at the watcher. “Who is that?”

He walked slowly towards them.

“Shamus, who…”

“Shh!”

“You need something, buddy?”

The watcher didn’t move. His eyes large and bright against darkness. All of the courtyard was soaked in the yellow glow of the courtyard lampposts except one corner. The very corner the stranger stood in. Shamus kept his possessed gaze, approaching more and more slowly the more apprehensive he became. He stopped ten yards from the figure and felt that was enough. He could still only make out the man’s eyes, but Shamus could tell the watcher was taller by several inches.

“Listen. You…”

The man’s eyes disappeared for a moment and it startled Shamus, who took a step back. It somehow increased his overall sense of danger and unease.

“You need to get out of here.” Adding more fierceness to his voice, incidentally, caused him to appear more scared.

“Shamus, come back, please.” Teresa was sobering up in the situation as well.

He motioned for her to stay back.

“Look, guy,” He started toward the man again, “I’m getting pretty fucking sick and tired of this hide and go…”

Suddenly, the darkness flickered to light and Shamus stalled. He was five feet away from a lamppost that he swore used to a man suddenly. And face to face with the biggest moth he had ever seen. It was so beautiful, Shamus marveled. Yet he still felt terrified. Exposed. Still unable to unlock his eyes or move. He started to shake. His eyes filling with tears.

Teresa burst into laughter, jolting him back to reality. The massive insect slowly closed its wings, obscuring the eyes of its wings. Shamus’ functions came back to him. He wiped his eyes with his wrist.

“That’s the biggest fucking bug I’ve ever seen!” Teresa was unexpectedly right behind him now.

“Fucking hell! I was about to shit britches!” he said, making light of his own mortal terror he felt moments before.

“Let’s get high.” Teresa said.

The apartment was dim as they entered. Laughing at themselves and shushing one another. They searched for the living room light switch that seemed to change locations every time they drank.

“Shhhhhh…!” Teresa giggled drunkenly. “She’s going to yell at us again!”

She found the light. She put her hands over her mouth and snorted.

“Oh, shit! Turn it back off!”

Shamus flipped the switch again.

“What?”

“She’s asleep at the table!” she laughed.

Amber was slumped over her books. Only her shoulders visible above the yellow, floral vinyl covered chair.

“Aw, poor baby. I’m gonna scare her.”

Shamus scanned the room. He felt that unease again. The stove hood light was on, but the rest of the house was dark. He wondered if Amber didn’t intend to sleep in the bedroom, why hadn’t she chosen the couch again? Teresa crept toward Amber, looking back at him and giggling.

“Come on, Teresa, don’t.”

“Shh!”

She crouched low behind her.

“Time. For. Bed!”

She sprung up and grabbed Amber from behind. Teresa’s cheek was sticky as it touched the back of Amber’s neck. For that’s all there was. The chrome edges of the, once cream-colored, Formica table held a perfectly still pool of her daughter’s blood.

Teresa’s hoarse screams filled the night as Shamus approached the table from the side, giving it as wide a berth as possible in the small apartment. Teresa had collapsed to the floor and crawled to the loveseat where she crouched against its backside.

“My baby! My baby!” She skreiched repeatedly. Her voice filled with fear, anger, remorse.

Shamus stared at the inside of the girl’s neck wondering how this could be real. He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. He felt both glad, and alone, that his family was miles away in Nebraska.

"I want to go home."

Part 3.

Brothers in Crime.

…to be Continued.

J.M.Liles ©️2024

"What the hell does this thing say? Piano museum? Piano medium?" Some people with, I suspect, an unhealthy relationship with alcohol find themselves staring at little plastic dollar store figurines for extremely inordinate amounts of time trying to discern the irrelevant writings on a chipped inscription; others go to bars or nightclubs or whatever extroverted people do. Yours truly is of the former camp, for better or worse. "Why are the windows blue?" he asks himself, knowing the question is also a pointless one. Momentarily distracted from the most irrelevant question ever seriously pondered by an intelligent human being he hones in on his tinnitus and breathes uneasily; he suspects, ironically, that more of the alcoholics in his own camp are afflicted with tinnitus despite having a fraction the noise exposure as the other. "Well, I guess I'll figure it out tomorrow", he said to himself, knowing that he wouldn't bother. His attention now turned to other matters, ones more likely to explain the fact that he is awake and drunk in the middle of the night staring contemplatively at a piece of plastic. Before he begins the endeavor a wave of self doubt, alien to him before the business his mind was set to tackle, overwhelms him. Whatever he's thinking is almost certainly wrong he knows before even beginning. He stops.

Caverns carry the sounds of wingbeats. Bats hang on the underside of the cave, mating and roosting, slumbering during the daytime. Beneath them, other cave fauna make their home in the guano. Then, when nightfall arrives, the wingbeats echo off the cavern’s edges as hundreds of hungry hunters fly off in search of sustenance.

There are few who willingly enter caves - few human beings, that is. Echoes make us doubt ourselves, feel self conscious of the footsteps that would, on other surfaces, be silent. But some people study the creatures of the caves, the beings that live within. Some people study echoes themselves; the physics of sound, how it bounces off objects.

There’s a connection between echoes and water - most creatures that use echolocation are aquatic, as electricity travels more easily in water. Fish have an electric sense to make the most of that reality. Mammals that echolocate are usually ones that returned to the sea, cetaceans communicating across oceans. But even on land, caves were formed by water, ancient water. There, too, mammals, the only ones capable of flying, use echoes to make their sense of the environment.

The echo maker, human ecologist, visitor to this world of echoes, entered the habitat, the cavern. So many creatures could be crushed beneath the feet that make those echoing footsteps, no matter how carefully said human points their lamp and watches where their feet land. So many small beings underfoot - centipedes, spiders, beetles; guano is quite a foundation for an ecosystem to be built on.

Certain species can only be found in specific caverns, and the unwelcome human has to be the one to record said species’ existence, count their numbers if possible, try to kill minimally in spite of humanity’s footprint on the planet crushing far less isolated ecosystems than these.

Maybe the creatures prefer not to be recorded or counted, to live unnoticed in the caverns, echo makers but without anyone but other echo makers to hear said echoes. Maybe the human would perish, unpreserved except in skeletal remains. The feat of removing a human in a cave is far more difficult than the feat of recycling beings with exoskeletons. Maybe all that will remain are echoes of a maker, of a person attempting to make a hidden world slightly less hidden.

"Tonto, where's Red?"

The Ranger had bolted upright in a cold sweat, woken by a nightmare of black jaws. The cold night poured into the old hunter's shack. The fire had gone out.

His Indian friend stood in the doorway, normally stoic eyes wide with alarm.

"Taken, Kemosabe. She went out into the night. I followed but the monster found the girl first."

The Ranger was on his feet in a flash, buckling on his gun belt.

"No time to waste, Tonto," he said. The brave stood aside to follow as he made for the horses. Silver's eyes were wide; she always knew when there was danger, but stood bravely until it was time to run.

The Ranger and his friend mounted up and bolted off into the forest.

"This way, Kemosabe!" Tonto shouted, leading the way into the trees.

The full moon is a double-edged blade, the Ranger mused. The forest is clear before us, but...

"Here, Kemosabe!"

They stopped in a clearing, clover glistening in the moonlight and lavender bell flowers with their heads down to sleep. Lying in the middle of the glade was a familiar red cloak. The Ranger bent to pick it up. Grasping it firmly in his gloved hand, for a moment he couldn't take his eyes off it.

"It does have her," he whispered. He tucked the hood into his side belt. "Are there tracks?" he said urgently.

Tonto was already leading his horse along the edge of the glade. "Here, Kemosabe. It ran north."

The moment he spoke, a howl echoed through the night, low and distant. The Ranger didn't waste another moment, shouting his horse into a run.

"Hyah!"

The forest blurred by as Silver ran more swift than the wind. In his mind the Ranger saw shadows of red and black, images of fates that he would not let happen. The trees seemed to constrict as he rode deeper, the shadows growing darker.

Suddenly, the forest stopped at a rock pass. The Ranger reined Silver in. Here the trees seemed to claw up the cliff, roots grasping at the mouth of the pass.

He heeled Silver on, riding only as carefully as need be over the roots and into the dark. Tonto appeared from the trees after only a moment, and they went on together, the pass just wide enough for both riders.

After a short stretch, Tonto called quietly. "Wait, Kemosabe."

The Ranger reined in, turning to his friend. "There's no time, Tonto."

"Listen," Tonto said, his eyes upon the air.

The Ranger felt a chill when he realized what his companion meant. It was too quiet... yet from the howl they had to be close.

They continued on, painfully slowly, but every sense told them they too had to keep quiet.

When they rounded a bend, the Ranger pointed. "There," he whispered.

Ahead was another glade in what looked like a circular canyon, moonlight falling on a figure lying in the grass. Red looked unharmed, her white blouse and red skirts untattered, dark brown hair a mess around her. The Ranger felt a spark of hope when he saw she was breathing.

"No, Kemosabe. There." Tanto's voice was grave.

The Ranger followed his raised finger up to a sharp cropping of rock that jutted out from the cliff. There the full moon hovered above a dark figure, the crouched and menacing silhouette of the beast.

The Ranger's brow hardened as, slowly and smoothly, he drew a silver bullet from his belt and loaded it into his revolver. As he did, a low growl came from the shadow, a warning to go no further. The Ranger felt the corner of his mouth raise just slightly.

With a flash of steel and pull of a hammer, the Lone Ranger fired, a deadly shot for the beast above.

Yet as surely as the birds fled the trees, he saw the shadow dash aside, as if black smoke in a sudden breeze. They heard a growling, an awful snarling, descending somewhere out of sight.

"It comes, Kemosabe."

When the dark shape fell into the pass and began bounding toward the riders, the Ranger tried to load another silver bullet, but was too late. He dove off the horse as the creature lept, a giant mass of black fur and gleaming fangs. As he flew aside, a claw slashed and tore away his gun belt, and it fell back into the shadows of the pass. Scrambling on the ground, he looked to where the belt had been. The beast snarled as it turned back in rage, glowering at the Ranger. The pistol had only one silver bullet.

A figure in tanned leathers suddenly appeared between him and the monster; Tanto had flown from his saddle, holding a wicked tomahawk to face down the thing.

In a moment of reprieve, the Ranger turned his eyes back to the clearing. Red had stirred awake, her head rising to look their way. The horses, he saw, had circled around to the far side of the canyon. He turned back to see Tonto circling and dancing around the creature, making war sounds as he kept its attention.

Lying at his feet, the Ranger saw the red hood. He swept it up, getting to his feet as he raised the pistol again.

"Tonto!" he shouted.

The brave came up from a roll and darted toward the Ranger, leaving the monster seething as it prowled, watching them from the edge of the shadows.

"Stay on Red," he said as he began to circle to the left, his pistol trained on the mouth of the pass. He waved the red hood out in front of him, but the creature's growling only faded, it's eyes sinking back into the dark.

"Is there any other way into the canyon?" he said, not taking his eyes away.

"Monster could come down from any side of canyon," Tonto said.

"I'm sorry, John," Red said. "This is my fault."

"Take it easy, Red," the Ranger said. "We're not going to let it hurt you. Tonto, get the horses. Don't go until I say, it could still be in the pass."

Just as he said it, Red let out a scream, trembling hands covering her mouth, and pointed up to the far side of the cliff. There again it crouched beneath the full moon, jaws open in what could have been a wicked smile. They stood for a moment frozen, as it raised up on its hind legs and let out a howl to the sky.

"Go," the Ranger said. "Go now!"

In the corner of his eye he saw Tonto lift Red up onto Silver. As they rode for the pass, he heard Red's voice.

"No... no!"

The creature's eyes followed the escaping riders, but the Ranger waved the red hood high above his head, shouting, and they returned.

"Just you and me now, friend."

The creature growled and lunged down the side of the cliff. The Ranger fired at the black shadow, but the bullet missed and struck the stone behind it with a shower of dust and rock. He dodged away as the thing tore past, barely avoiding its claws. It turned on him far too quickly and he could only raise his arms as the hand swiped at him, cutting into his sleeves and skin and knocking him across the ground. Tumbling, his head hit something hard and everything went black.

*****

He stirred, hoping it had only been a few moments. There was a pain in his head, but his senses were oddly clear despite it, as if on the edge of a dream. The dirt and deteriorating twigs beneath his face were a rich and welcome smell. Yet he knew there was still a shadow nearby.

He pushed himself up, his hand finding the rock that had struck his head, and looked around the glade. The creature was contentedly stalking the edge, watching him. He stood up, his arms feeling limp.

"You want a fight?" he said. "Alright then." He stooped to pick up his empty revolver. Aiming it at the creature, he pulled the trigger and made a firing sound with his mouth. The thing seemed to be smiling again. It knew he was dead.

"Kemosabe!"

A jolt appeared in the Ranger's chest and he whirled around. Tonto stood at the mouth of the pass, holding the gun belt. The brave tossed something up and a small gleaming shape sailed through the night, reflecting the moonlight.

The Ranger caught the silver bullet in his free hand and loaded it as the beast charged. The muzzle flashed as the shot rang out... and the creature fell.

It collapsed and tumbled over the ground, stopping still a few feet away. The Ranger raised the pistol back and let out his breath.

Both he and Tonto came to stand over it. Its wolfen features were clearer now that it was still.

"Third time's charm, Kemosabe," Tonto said.

The Ranger let out a laugh toward the sky, a hearty hand on his friend's shoulder. "Well done, Tonto. Well done."

A light gasp came from the pass and they turned to see Red leading the horses. She dropped the reins and joined them, hands covering her mouth.

"Well... there it is," she said.

"Oh," the Ranger said, picking something up from the grass. He handed Red her hood. "You dropped this."

She smiled as she took it and put it on, shivering lightly.

"We better get back," the Lone Ranger said. "The old hunter will be awake soon."

"I guess we'll have quite a story for him," said Red.

The sky was beginning to brighten when they saw the old hunter's shack.

1. Aurathalor

It was the night of Aurathalor. On this ancient night the two wondrous moons of Arison became one. The crimson red Drak’arok dissolved into the deep blue sapphire of Vorthalas, weaving an emerald hue across the sky. The moons were deities of old, revered since time immemorial predated all existence. But the greatest of them was Malachra, the emerald moon, revealing itself only on this sacred night.

As the wind grew cold, the air turned crisp. The gentle breeze carried the smell of pine needles and moist soil, evoking visions of lush forests and tranquil woods.

Quite suddenly, the vibrant sounds of chirping birds fell silent, and the rustling of leaves ceased to be heard. In the mighty heights above the forest, a flock of enormous birds took flight. Against the chilly night of Aurathalor, these seven birds moved in a V-shaped pattern, gliding effortlessly like the wind itself. Their dark bodies glistened in the emerald light of Malachra. Leading this formation was a bird larger than the rest, distinguished by a massive white jewel adorning its neck.Despite its size, it didn't seem to weigh upon the majestic creature. It flickered against the light as if it could shine on its own.

Within the grand Duskaeries, flames flickered, casting a fiery glow that illuminated the space. The wooden doors stood open, flanked by two guards clutching their spears tightly, their stances vigilant. Bathed in the warm torchlight stood a man, draped in a flowing green fabric with a rough, textured quality. His hair cascaded freely to his shoulders, unbound.

Beside him stood a woman, dressed in vibrant red fabric adorned with delicate gold linings. Her hair was styled into a neat bun at the back of her head. Upon closer inspection, one could see the skin sagging around her eyes and the scattered white hairs beneath her black bun. Yet her beauty veiled her age perfectly.

“Thalor, you have done an amazing job with the preparations. The Duskaer will be delighted with the arrangements. Tonight is the night of Aurathalor, the night of budur.” She smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm for the upcoming ceremony.

"Thank you, Lady," Thalor responded with a nod, acknowledging her words of appreciation. "I put my utmost effort into ensuring the Duskaer will find the arrangements remarkable. Glory to the queens!" he added.

Helen echoed the sentiment, her voice resonating with devotion, before excusing herself to join the crowd gathered outside the Duskaeries.

As Thalor stepped into the Duskaeries, the torches around him cast flickering shadows on the walls. The wooden door closed with a thud, leaving him alone. At the center of the room stood a solitary stool, seemingly made of black marble. Upon it rested a bowl adorned with the symbol of two intertwined stars, the royal authority of Arison.

Thalor approached the bowl, circling his fingers around the rim, oblivious to the gleaming white orb inside. He looked nervous as he stared at a door at the far end of the room. With measured steps, he made his way towards it. Clutching the handle, rusty and worn, he grasped it firmly, wrapping his thick fingers around it. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and opened the door with a creak.

Inside was a lonely chamber, stripped of life. Red splatters covered the walls like paint thrown at a canvas. On the floor, within this crimson pool, a massive emblem of two stars was etched. Thalor stared at the mark and sank to his knees. Silent tears streamed down his face as he gazed into the past, which he could never forget.

*******

18 years earlier

`

“Dad, help me!” a young girl cried, her voice piercing through the crowd like a dagger. Seven women dressed in black stood around the girl in a circle, one of them forcefully dragging her to the entrance of the Duskaeries. Thalor stood still, staring at the wooden doors. Silent tears streaked his young beard. Each breath seemed a struggle, his chest tightening with every passing second. His eyes appeared empty, as if devoid of life. He felt as though his entire existence was crumbling, reduced to mere fragments scattered across the sands of time. Time lost its meaning; it felt like centuries since the girl had been dragged into the Duskaeries.

Seven women emerged from the Duskaeries, holding the young girl, now limp and lifeless. Her delicate hands were stained with blood, her eyes hollow sockets. Suddenly, thick black smoke enveloped the women. As it cleared, seven enormous birds stood in their place. One of them held the lifeless girl in its beak and ascended into the night sky. They disappeared into the vast expanse, carrying with them the girl and her life. Her fate was sealed, her death a mere excuse, her life a cruel game.

Thalor stared at the night sky where Rayla had vanished forever. Malachra drifted apart into the two moons of Arison, taking with it the prosperity it had brought. The crowd dispersed, relieved their daughters had been spared, yet they tried to console Thalor. But they couldn’t understand. For Thalor, every breath felt like a betrayal. It was wrong to breathe when his daughter couldn’t, wrong for his heart to beat when hers didn’t, wrong to live when she couldn’t.

*******

“Sir, Lady Helen has arrived with news,” a guard stiffly shouted through the door. Thalor rose from his kneeling position, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He took a deep breath before stepping outside into the heavy night. Lady Helen stood outside the Duskaeries, still in her shimmering crimson robes.

“Is there something I need to worry about, Lady Helen?” Thalor inquired, smiling.

“No, my dear lad, it's wonderful news. The Duskaer have sent word—they shall soon grace us with their presence.” Lady Helen smiled as she shared the news.

“Glory to the queens! That's wonderful, and just in time for Aurathalor. I shall see to the preparations,” Thalor said before excusing himself and heading towards the ruins of Aurathlories.

Lysara and Elenor were waiting for Thalor, who had promised to arrive at the Aurathlories before Aurathalor. They sat side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ruins.Itt was a broken building, one that had once been grand but now showed the wear of time. Vines had grown over the ruins of Aurathlories, which quite literally means the Hall of Aurathalor. The building had crumbled and been looted over the centuries. It was well-known among the children of Arison from the old tale of Dola on Aurathalor, where a young girl named Dola described the wonders she saw while traveling to Arison. One of those wonders was Aurathlories, described as the sun in the night, for the gold embedded in it shone like the sun. One could not guess its former richness from its current poverty.

Lysara’s hair was tightly woven into a singular black braid. She turned towards Elenor, whose hair was a shining blonde. “Elle, it's Aurathalor again,” Sara uttered.

Elle smiled and hugged Sara tightly. “Yep, I know Sara, it's literally the same day as last year.”

Sara laughed into Elle’s shoulder. “Yes, Elle, it is.”

“Sorry, my children, I was held up by Lady Helen,” Thalor spoke, his smile masking his weary face.

“Did you, Uncle? You always seem to enjoy her company,” Elle said, smiling.

“Elle!” Sara exclaimed, playfully elbowing Elle in the stomach. Sara leaned forward towards Thalor. “You always have so much to do, Uncle,” she said, hugging him tightly.

Thalor turned towards Elle and playfully remarked, “No hugs, Elle?”

Elenor rushed towards him, wrapping him in a heartfelt embrace.

“Hey, slow down, you,” Lysara teased, laughing softly.

2. Crimira

The Duskaer descended silently from the night sky, their presence alone sending a wave of fear among the mob. They raised their colossal wings, and black smoke enveloped the seven birds. In their place stood seven beautiful women, clad in sleek black velvet garments that clung to their bodies with ease. Adorning their heads were headdresses carved from the bodies of dead birds, a symbol of death. The assemblage was exclusively composed of women. Each bore a ring upon her finger. Their lips were painted in a shade of obsidian black.

Amidst the beautiful assembly of women, one woman stood forward, her eyes commanding attention. Around her waist, an enormous white jewel was tied. All eyes were fixed upon her; the young lusted at her beauty while the elders cowered in fear.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" The woman's lips curled into a self-assured smile.

Helen, who was standing before her, sank to her knees. The woman offered her hand to Helen, who gently kissed it. "Indeed, my mistress. Your presence is my blessing," she murmured.

"Indeed it has. But worry not, Helen, my arrival brings purpose." The woman placed her hand on Helen's head. Her eyes turned a deep shade of black, and she murmured spells of old. The fabric of reality tore, as if cut by scissors. Jewels of different shades fell into Helen's lap. The crowd shook in awe.

"Your generosity is beyond measure, Miss Talora," Helen bowed her head to the ground, her eyes in tears.

Thalor, the town's chief, stood tall, his gaze fixed. Flanking him were Lysara and Elenor. According to the age-old tradition of Arison, it was the duty of the town chief to wash the feet of the Duskaer with rakh, a black powder made from burnt remains of human bones. Standing beside Thalor was the previous chief, Lady Helen. She clapped twice, and in response, fourteen servants appeared. Two servants carried seven metal bowls, their surfaces reflecting the light of malachra. These bowls were filled with water, shimmering and pristine up to their very brims. The bowls were placed in front of each Duskaer, who stood in a line with Talora at its centre. The Duskaer raised their hands, their black garments clinging to their fingers. Suddenly, as if they had always been there, black marble stools materialized out of thin air. The air grew heavy as the Duskaer descended upon the stools.

Thalor kneeled before Mistress Talora, his eyes cast downward in respect. His heart quickened beneath his chest as he reached out his hands to touch her foot. The moment his hands made contact, he felt a chill, as if icy tendrils were creeping up his spine. The rakh clung to his fingertips as he applied it to Mistress Talora's foot, seeping into her skin and turning it inky black. Her once-pale skin now bore the haunting hue of midnight. One by one, the other members of the council followed Thalor's lead, their hands trembling with fear. The Duskaer kept smiling, for it was their day.

The sight of Mistress Talora's skin darkening sent a ripple of unease through the members of the council who stood witness. One by one they followed in Thalor's steps as they undertook the ceremony.

With a smile curling upon her lips, Talora's gaze swept through the mob. The time had come. Thalor met her gaze, understanding what was to come. "As you wish, my lady," Thalor murmured softly, his voice light. Lady Helen clapped twice, and the servants swiftly snatched the water-filled bowls away.

Talora stood up, and so did all the other Duskaer. The stools upon which they had been sitting disappeared into thin air. Thalor stood in front of the Duskaer as they approached the heavenly hall. "Duskaries" literally means the Hall of the Duskaer.

As they approached the hall, the door flew open with a creak. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting dancing shadows. The door closed with a thud as all awaited the judgement they would face. Fathers clutched their daughters tightly, and mothers cradled their day-old baby girls. Thalor stood still next to Elenor and Lysara. His hands were trembling. Lysara tightly took hold of his trembling hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Everything will be fine," she assured him. Thalor looked at her for a moment before running his hands through Elenor's hair. "I wish," he said.

Talora slowly moved towards the centre of the room, where a black marble stool stood, upon which lay a bowl. The hall seemed to have a life of its own. Talora picked up a white orb from the bowl, its smooth surface glittering in the dim light. Gripping it tightly with her slender fingers, she began incanting a special spell. Soon, all the Duskaer joined in. Slowly, the white marble orb started rotting into a black piece of coal, as if its very essence was being destroyed. The ball crumbled to dust, but the very second it did, a thick voice said, "Elenor Thal uq ’lars." Talora's lips curled into a smile as she awaited the fate that had befallen the girl.

Lysara and Elenor stood side by side outside the Duskaries, their hearts beating fast. They were waiting for the duskaer. Besides them stood a woman. A head scarf draped over her features veiled her face.Though her face was hidden, her unwavering posture possessed strength.Elenor stole a quick glance at the woman. The woman looked at her, her emerald eyes met Elenors, they were calm, as if they were smiling. The woman suddenly gripped Elenors shoulder tightly her touch firm and grounding.She hushed in a force tone,”Be prepared,”Elenors stared at the woman, taking it in, but before she could say anything, the hand on her shoulder disappeared, so did the words in her mind.

Lysara bit her lip and glanced around, feeling a cold sweat on her forehead and a knot in her stomach. She leaned closer to Elenor, who seemed a little distraught. "I'm worried," Lysara confessed. Elenor met her gaze with her crimson red eyes. "So am I," she said softly, "but we will get through this." They squeezed each other's hands, the heat of their skin mingling and soothing their chilled fingers. Elenor looked at Lysara with tears in her eyes. "Sara, promise me that whatever happens, you will never leave me."

"Of course, silly. That's what families do," Lysara said, her sapphire eyes shining in the night. Their skin was hot and clammy, but they didn't let go, their heartbeat echoed in their palms.

The door of the Duskaries swung open quickly. The Duskaer emerged, their faces lit up with smiles. Talora’s smile sent a chill down everyone’s spine. The air grew colder, as if all the warmth had been taken away.

Her voice, sharp and cold, echoed in the quiet space, each word filled with a looming threat. "Elenor Thal uq ’lars," she said with a wide smile. A collective sigh of relief came from the crowd, happy their daughters were safe. Elenor dropped to her knees, staring up at the powerful Duskaries. "Is she your daughter, Master Thalor?" Talora mocked. "Yes, my lady, she is," Thalor replied, his voice shaking with sorrow.

A loud shout erupted from the crowd, "No!! You cannot. Elle!!" Lysara cried out, throwing herself onto Elenor, holding her tightly. She looked into Elenor's eyes, seeing only pain. Elenor's eyes seemed to say, "This wasn’t supposed to happen?" Slowly, Elenor stood up, smiling weakly at Lysara, her hands trembling. "I love you," she whispered. Lysara could feel her heart breaking, but her lips wouldn’t move.

“I can and I will, Lysara Thal uq ‘lars. Thalor, don’t you think that girl has crossed her limits? I wish to eliminate her, but this is the holy night of Aurathalor; we kill only once. You are spared, Lysara Thal uq ’lars. But remember, a Duskaer never forgets.”

Elenor dabbed her face with her sleeve, erasing the traces of her tears. "I am Elenor Thal uq ’lars. I stand here today to die by your holy hands, by the hands which have taken thousands of innocent lives." The crowd was stunned; every girl before her had begged for mercy, for a chance to be spared.

"Silence," Talora commanded, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. Elenor was not the kind of girl she preferred. She liked them young and helpless, their parents' cries soothing her ears. Over the millennia, Talora had encountered few like Elenor. They didn’t cry, they didn’t call out for help. Talora remembered the image of a young girl, her eyes full of tears, crying for her father. Decades had passed, but Talora didn't forget a good victim.

The defiance in Elenor's eyes fueled a different kind of desire within Talora. She looked at Elenor's trembling hands. The girl could fool the crowd by acting brave, but no one could fool the Mistress of the Duskaer. "Oh yes, my dear, I loved tearing their meaty hearts apart, drinking their blood like wine," Talora whispered, her voice honey-sweet.

Elenor squeezed Lysara's hand tightly. The Duskaer raised their hands, and Elenor was lifted into the air, her body enveloped in a black aura. Suddenly, the sky tore like paper, and the young girl was pulled into it by a powerful force. All was black.

The Crimira, also known as the Scarlet Room, was bathed in an eerie crimson glow. The walls bore deep stains of blood, and distant echoes of screams lingered in the air, haunting the silence. Etched onto the floor was a symbol of power, each mark seeming to whisper tales of past torment and souls crying out for mercy.

Lysara blinked her eyes open to find herself alone in the room. Suddenly, a decaying hand crept up her chest, tightening around her throat, and darkness consumed her once more.

When she next awoke, she was surrounded by black birds staring at her with intense hatred. One of them, adorned with a large white jewel, perched on her chest. With a swift motion, it slashed at her, but no sound escaped her lips. Blood spilled, staining the floor as women laughed joyously in the background. Despite the horror, Lysara felt strangely distant, as if she were watching from outside herself, unable to feel the pain inflicted upon her.

3. The Escape

Elenors heart was pounding in her chest as she watched Lysara being ripped away into thin air. She wanted to say “I love you ,” but the words were stuck in her throat. She felt numb, as if all her emotions had been drained from her. A chill crept over her, and she shivered despite the wool on her body. She tried to shout, to stop her, but no sound came out. A hand covered her mouth with a silky cloth, and she gasped for air. She took deep breaths, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, but instead she fell into a dreamless sleep.

“Should we tell her?” a woman’s voice said “No, let her decide what she wants to do,” another woman’s voice said, with a tone of authority. The voices were faint and distant, like echoes in a cave. Elenor felt a faint sensation of warmth and light, as if she was floating in a pool of sunshine. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy and glued shut. She wanted to ask them who they were, what they wanted from her, but she couldn’t move her lips or tongue. “She is waking up,” the sweet voice said, gently stroking Lysaras hair. She strained to see them, but all she could see were flashes of white lilies, pure and fragrant

******

Sixteen years earlier

A vase of lilies stood on a table, their white petals gleaming in the sunlight. The wall behind them was blue, decorated with lily motifs that copied the flowers in the vase. On a bed covered with a blue quilt, two women sat.

Lyra’s voice trembled, its timbre laced with concern. “Silvena, I can’t help but feel worried. What if we can’t protect our children from the dangers that lie ahead?” Silvena’s gentle smile faltered for a moment as she placed a hand tenderly upon her own pregnant belly. “I know how you feel, Lyra. The world can be a scary place, especially for mothers.” Lyra’s gaze fixed upon Silvena’s burgeoning belly, her voice filled with a deep sense of worry. “It’s the thought of having a girl… What if the Duskaer take her away?” Silvena’s eyes softened with understanding as she reached out to touch Lyra’s arm. “I get it, Lyra. But we can’t let fear control us. We gotta be strong for our kids.” A tear glistened in Lyra’s eye, her vulnerability laid bare. “I wanna believe that, Silvena. But it’s just so overwhelming.” Silvena squeezed Lyra’s hand gently. “We’ll face this together, Lyra. We’ll be there for our kids every step of the way.” Lyra’s voice quivered, a blend of vulnerability and determination. “You’re right, Silvena. We can’t let fear win. We will do whats necessary for them.” Silvena smiled warmly at Lyra, the bond between them unbreakable. “That’s what friends are for, Lyra.”

*******

Elenors eyes slowly opened, and she found herself lying on the ground in a forest. The trees had shed their leaves, and the ground was covered in orange and red leaves. She could hear the wind rustling against the trees, but there was no one around. Elenor felt confused and disoriented, wondering how she got there and why she was alone. She tried to stand up, but her legs felt weak, and she fell back down. She looked around, hoping to find a clue or a sign of life. But all she saw was a box next to her, a red velvety box with a lily stamp on it. Adria reached for it, curious and confused, wondering what it contained and who left it for her.Adria gently opened the box, her hands trembling. Inside was a letter, written on a piece of animal skin. It was rolled up and tied with a red thread. Adria untied the thread and unrolled the letter. She held it in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t read it. Her eyes were blurry. She squinted and tried to focus.

To Elle,

You can save what you yearn,

Love what you need.

Someone once told me,

"Love with all you have,

Until you have no more."

There's always a chance,

The flowers say so,

Follow the winds of life,

And you'll find where you belong.

Lily

Elenor's heart pounded in her chest as tears blurred her vision. She carefully folded the letter and placed it inside her jacket pocket, clutching the velvet box tightly. Sitting down amidst the carpet of leaves, she gazed around, hoping for some sign of Lysara. The forest remained eerily silent, amplifying her sense of isolation.

"Where is Lysara?" she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking against the stillness. The Dusaker had taken her best friend away leaving behind a void that echoed with her unanswered questions. "Why?" she called out, her voice trembling with sorrow, but the only response was the echo of her own anguish reverberating through the trees.

Desperate, she cried out for her mother, her voice cracking with emotion. Yet, the forest offered no solace, enveloping her in a profound silence. Just as hope threatened to slip away entirely, a soft, melodic voice brushed against her ear, humming a soothing tune.

In the world of honey, my dear Elenor gleams, In the light of dawn, my little one dreams. I hold your tiny hand, your voice so light, My sweet Elenor, a beacon in the night.

You're mine, and I'm yours, forever and a day, Together we'll journey, come what may. I'll be here always, through thick and thin, My love for you, a melody that will never dim.

As you grow tall, I'll watch you bloom, Like a flower in spring, chasing away the gloom. Strong and brave, with a heart pure and true, I'll guide your steps, in everything you'll pursue.

In the world of honey, my dear Elenor gleams, In your laughter and smiles, my heart finds its dreams. I'll cherish every moment, hold them close and near, For my love for you, my child, will always be sincere.

Elenor opened her eyes, tears still lingering from the memory of her mother's sweet humming. Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the calm of the forest. It wasn't human—it echoed unnaturally through the trees. Elenor jumped to her feet, heart racing, and followed the sound deeper into the woods.

Among the dense canopy, she spotted a bird unlike any she had seen before. Its feathers shimmered with a colorful plumage, each hue blending into the next like a painting come to life. The bird fixed its intense gaze on Elenor and let out a sharp cry that reverberated through the air, almost sounding like "arrr."

Before Elenor could react, the bird abruptly burst into a cloud of ash, disintegrating into nothingness. Startled, Elenor stumbled backward, falling to the ground. From the ashes, tiny worms wriggled out and crawled swiftly towards a nearby tree, disappearing into the bark.

As the dust flew onto her face, Elenor felt a strange whisper in her ear, almost like a question: "Who are you?" and Elenor collapsed.

Elenor winced as her mother Lyra tenderly tended to her wounds, her brow furrowed with concern. "You have to be more careful, Elle," Lyra chided, her voice a gentle mix of worry and frustration. "I won't always be here to take care of you. You need to learn to navigate the world on your own."

Elenor's eyes glistened with tears as she struggled to find her voice. "I know, Mama," she whispered, her words heavy with a mixture of gratitude and sadness.

The night draped the scene in a blanket of silence, broken only by the gentle hoots of owls. A fire crackled, its flames painting the surroundings in a warm, flickering glow. Elenor stirred from her slumber, feeling the comforting heat embracing her. She opened her eyes to the velvety darkness above, speckled with the twinkling Drakrok and Vorthalas.

Trying to move, she realized her hands were tightly bound. Panic flickered within her as she surveyed her surroundings—the crackling fire and a roasting bird were the only companions in this eerie place. Suddenly, a deep, menacing voice reverberated in the air. "Who are you?" it boomed, sending shivers down Elenor's spine. She couldn't find her voice to respond.

But then, as if a spell had twisted, the voice cracked and transformed into that of a feeble, elderly woman. "Oh, holy horse! It's gone wrong. Must've botched something," the voice stammered, sounding fragile and uncertain.

Perplexed, Elenor glanced around once more. Gradually, a small, indistinct figure emerged near the fire, gaining clarity—a diminutive, hunched old lady donned in a flowing green robe, silver threads dancing in the fire's glow.

"I'm a stone monster, ready to gobble you up," the old lady proclaimed with a tremor in her voice, looking directly at Elenor. Confusion painted Elenor's face, unable to make sense of the situation.

"Aren't you scared?" the old lady asked, noticing Elenor's hand dangerously close to the fire. "Oh, blast it! Even this! Age hasn't been kind," she sighed, distressed.

"Oops! Has my plan backfired?" the old lady muttered.

"What should I do now?" Elenor cried out, her voice echoing into the nightly sky. Suddenly, a small sparrow materialized seemingly out of thin air and perched delicately on the old woman's hand, chirping urgently at her. "Ajack, fun of old Mara. Not good," she murmured to the bird. Ajack cackled in response, fixing his gaze on Elenor. With a swift movement, the sparrow flew from the old woman's hand onto the rope that bound Elenor to the wooden rod, deftly pecking and chewing until, almost magically, the binding rope gave way.

Elenor collapsed onto her knees, her strength depleted, managing only a single word, "Water."

"Ajack, what have you done? She could pose a threat," the old woman cautioned, but Ajack squealed loudly in response. The old woman regarded him with a knowing look, seemingly comprehending every sound the sparrow made. "Jalam!" she called out into the air, conjuring a flowing stream of water suspended mid-air that poured gently into Elenor's parched mouth. Elenor drank greedily, as if she hadn't tasted water in weeks. Gradually, her strength returned, and she glanced around, noticing that the darkness of night had given way to the dawning light, with the moons setting and the sun rising on the horizon.

Seated on a nearby rock, the old woman observed Elenor, while Ajack continued pecking at worms on the ground. "Where am I?" Elenor inquired softly, turning to the old lady, who met her gaze steadily and responded, "What you should ask is: Why are you here?"

Title - Arison

genre- fantasy

age range- 15 to adult

word count- In process

author name - Skye celestial

my project is a goof fit due to the inclusion of emotions and all types of diverse characters. It is an original world with its own language and grammar giving an immersive experience for the reader. I am a young author writing a fantasy book, it is a wonderful advertisement gimmick.

The book deals with mature themes of loss and sacrifice. The book starts with a sacrificial ritual and has diverse characters .If given the chance I hope to extend it into a series.

Target audience- young adults

bio- Avaneesh Khanapure, student studying in 11th grade. 16 years of age

The foggy umbra of a city far from sleep lay spread out before me. In all those old superhero movies, there was always the edgy “hero” posted on a rooftop, watching the people he had chosen to protect, and posing like a badass. I remember a time where I would have envied that hero like most anyone else. Now, not so much.

But after everything this world has endured, everything I have, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The emergence of the Awakened almost burned the world to ash. We oohed and ahhed at the fantastical things we saw, ripped right out of films, comics, and our wildest dreams. Until a man made of molten rock drowned Chicago in a lake of fire. Until a woman the size of an ocean liner, sunk half of the eastern seaboard into the ocean. When a child of 5 years old threw a tantrum so violent that it killed millions and turned most of the central United States into the Grand Canyon 2: Apocalyptic Boogaloo.

But against all odds, we survived. Back in the old days, they would have called that a miracle. But that was before miracles became commonplace. Back when people prayed for one every day, instead of praying that they could survive one more day without being subjected to another “miracle”.

But it’s not all bad. It never is, and that’s a life lesson that took an apocalypse, and a cosmic amount of irony, to sink in. We may have lost contact with most of the world when Activation occurred. But focusing on ourselves for a while hasn’t been the worst thing.

Ignoring the despotic warlords warring in the streets to claim the entire tri-state area as their “domain”, the tribal groups of sentient ex-zoo animals ruling what’s left of Manhattan, and the roving groups of cannibalistic electrokinetics running people down on their self-powered motorcycles like twisted ghost-riders in what used to be central park.

Just another day in New York, post-Activation.

My name is Adrian, but people around here know me as Void. I’ve been around for a while. As in pre-Activation. That was almost a century ago now, and I’d like to think that I look pretty good for my age. Something about my abilities stopped me from aging, unlike everyone else. Most everyone else, anyway.

I reach out with my power and slip into the shadows behind me, emerging an instant later out of the shadows of an alley below.

The first thing you need to know about life in this world of titans and self-proclaimed dark gods is that things don’t abide by the laws of the old world anymore. And I don’t just mean the laws of physics, or the literal “legal” laws. Haha, yeah no, we don’t have those anymore.

I mean reality. And “reality”, is whatever men and women like Apotheosis and Nirvana feel like making it today. And I mean that literally. Fucking worldshapers man, god damn. Then there’s the whole monster thing. See, whatever manifested all of us world destroying bastards into being, didn’t stop there. It decided that the world needed more horrible shit in it.

Now, even on a good day, you can just be going along with your day trying, for some ungodly reason, to fish some dinner out of the Hudson. Next thing you know, a two-legged fish the size of a small dog, but with biceps way bigger than whatever you might claim to have down there, decides that this time YOU get to be dinner.

But hey, that’s where I come in. I slip through the shadows and next thing you know tenebrous blades of inky darkness sprout from my own shadow, turning that scaly little fuck into sushi. You’re welcome.

At least that’s how it was. But then THEY showed up. Some busted ass Costco brand Justice League wannabes calling themselves The Saviors. I know right, fucking pretentious pricks. They came to bring “order” and “law”. But how do you bring that shit to a place where even the trees try to turn your ass into a light snack.

I know, a lot of things trying to eat people, very obvious. But trust me, when you think that the last thing you will ever see is someone being stuffed into a demonic tree’s mouth and seeing their arm being severed by pulpy wooden teeth as they scream for help and try to reach for the outside world one last time, everything else falls by the wayside in terms of worries.

Anyway, that particular bit of ever-burning nightmare fuel aside, I now find myself out of a job. Kind of. See, when the newbies rolled into town, they found it every bit as difficult to pull off the impossible as one would think. One being me, obviously. So, they decided to try and whip the local Activated into shape and form some kind of super-powered police force.

Now, I have standards. But as New York’s most well-respected hero, I decided to do them the favor of throwing my hat in that ring. Be the Costco Batman to Sentinel’s Costco Superman and all that. But then they fucking rejected me. Apparently, I didn’t pass their “psychiatric evaluation”.

“Narcissistic tendencies, acute schizophrenia and occasional complete disassociation from reality.”

So, because I believe in myself more than they do and occasionally talk to people who aren’t there, they branded me as a liability. You try living for a century in this world, never aging, and stuck watching everyone you love die to overgrown nightmare shrubberies and other horrible bullshit, and see if you don’t come out the other side a little less than sane.

I step through the shadows once more and find myself atop another grungy rooftop. I was here before they even bothered to turn their golden merciful gaze on this city, which was doing just fine without them, by the way. Mostly.

Okay so, they got the power up and running again. Whatever, we did fine without electricity for almost eighty years. The water? Tastes like irradiated flop sweat, but sure it’s on, I guess. The Volt gang…fine I’ll give them that one. Less cannibal bikers is a win for everyone, I suppose. But the whole turning central park into a community garden thing was all ego on their part.

Anyway, you might think that I took it a bit hard. Being that the only thing keeping me going is trying to help out where I can. You would be wrong. I took the news with dignity and grace. And then I put Sentinel’s statue through a shadowy blender.

I mean come on! The fucker has only been here for like six months and already has a statue?! I’ve been here for decades! Where is my statue?! Not that I need one, obviously. I’m not nearly as vain as that unbreakable bastard. If only his statue had been as unbreakable.

I chuckle to myself as I step from shadow to shadow, making my way towards the city proper. My completely understandable lapse in judgement aside, I decided that regardless of their unattainable expectations, I am still more than capable of doing what I’ve always done. Protecting the people of New York.

And when I found out that an invading team of so-called “supervillains” calling themselves the Doom-Walkers had moved into my city, well how could I not do my civic duty.

When a body came crashing down through a skyscraper window, broken and bloodied, did I hesitate? Of course not. When I realized that the broken man in front of me was the unbreakable Scion of the Skies, THE Sentinel himself, did I stop for even a moment?

Nope.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve died. Immortality is a bitch. Did I not mention that? Ah well.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I am terrified to be vulnerable again,

Protests my soul’s

Battered child;

Can love erase the devil’s palm prints

Stitched around this limping heart?

I’ve tombed myself

In a sun jailed room,

Keyless cathedral

Where recycled trauma bonded visions

Flash digital scars,

Screening sympathy buried scenes

From my faded analogue life.

But I can’t deny

This charmed lapdog dance

Towards your dawning smile,

Obliterating parameters

Made of make believe ghosts,

Arm’s length darkness

And claustrophobic pinch

Entertained for far too long.

So paint lipstick love

Over stained glass sorrow

And let crowing demons

Be downed

And turned inside out,

Cutlass split bones

Now only bird picked memories.

To hell with fear’s straggling horrors.

Hold me.