- The Edith Fowler Series -

Pastor Collins raised his sallow hands signaling pallbearers to lower Lester Smith's coffin in the marked grave of Bleakville's cemetery. A smell of fresh soil wafted through the air, mixed with cut grass surrounding his interment. Craving booze, pastor Collins ignored his jaundiced look and took a sip from a hidden flask. He watched as townsfolk made their way to the Community Negro Baptist Church. There, they mourned Lester's death and ate comfort foods like fried chicken, dumplings, apple pie, and potato salad.

Mayor Edith Fowler dressed in a gray Dixie hat, white blouse, and black skirt for the occasion. She pulled a long-stemmed rose out of the pocket of her open vest and matching boots. A pricked finger drew blood, spotting the blouse near her heart. After buttoning the vest to conceal the blemish, she tossed the rose in the grave on top of the coffin she had specially built. Sealed before the ceremony, no one saw what was left of the colored man's body that was beaten and whipped by a mob days ago.

"No peace in life. Have peace in death," she prayed.

Edith put on her octagon glasses with gold forged frames. When her eyes adjusted to clarity, she looked at a family photo of the Smiths before tossing it in the hole as well. Lester's wife and two children fled town right after his body was found. The value of their lives was worth more than the possessions they left behind. A smell of retaliation ran through the air, putting fear in civilians. Bleakville lawmen stood on high alert. Sheriff Tuney spotted the mayor leaving the gravesite and called her out with urgency. Startled, she locked eyes on the briskly walking blond man coming towards her, stirring up dust as he approached.

"Mayor, I'm calling a meeting at the courthouse. I want the Bleakville town heads to meet me there lickety-split. This is a matter of life and death for our town," he insisted, blue eyes staring her down. "You best show up too," he said, with contempt. Edith kept her head low and said nothing.

"Your colored life is on the line for what you did," she felt he wanted to say.

* * *

Bleakville town heads filed into the courtroom. Sheriff Tuney Moonbay, Marshal Pete Doyle, Pastor Steven Collins, General Store owner Ewald Bensen, Blacksmith Arnett Hedley, doctor, and mortician Ingram Wardell assembled. The men who kept her town running stood before the mayor, a woman, the only colored in the room. Her clammy hands clasped together to avoid shaking as her heart pounded and breath shortened.

"Did you disremember widow Norma Thorton, the owner of 90 acres and the 40 cattle heads that help feed our town?" Edith spat out before she could stop herself. The sarcasm she was famous for escaped her lips, unable to be reeled back in.

"She was the one who instigated a riot when her husband Sam was killed," said the sheriff. "Then she got the owner of the Rusty Spur to start a petition that got a white man hung and Lester killed. That colored gal is not welcome here," he fumed. "Let's git started boys," he said while directing the men to maneuver tables and chairs together, deliberately cutting communication off with Edith.

She started to tell the sheriff "You're so weak north of ya ears that you couldn't lead a horse to water, no less a meeting," but thought better of it.

Sheriff Tuney took the front and center seat, a move to show he was now calling the shots. He passed a document around for the others to see. It was a proclamation for the arrest of Mayor Edith Fowler, signed by the governor of Pennsylvania. The paper reminded Edith of the petition her townsfolk signed a month ago requesting to have swift justice done to a man. The difference was this document contained a raised seal stamp and was signed by Governor Arthur Harry Moore himself.

As the sheriff started the meeting, someone knocked hard on the courtroom door just before entering. Florence, the Rusty Spur barmaid, balanced a tray of glasses and several bottles of whiskey as she made her way to the court table. Brown, blue, and gray eyes ogled her hourglass shape and brunette hair. Lust turned to disgust when her long locks betrayed the woman, revealing a hideous scar on the right side of her face as she put the glasses down.

"Obliged Miss Florence. You may leave. I'll settle up with you after the meeting at the Rusty Spur," said Sheriff Tuney.

"But Miss McIntyre requires I bring compensation back with the tray," she said diplomatically as Pastor Collins was the first to reach for a bottle, pouring a big gulp.

"Maybe you didn't hear right correctly," said the sheriff. He walked toward her with a menacing swagger and pointed a finger at the door. "You best skedaddle. I'll settle up wit that painted hen boss of yours when I'm done," he urged, his voice growing louder with each word.

"Yes sir sheriff!" Florence answered as she bolted through the door without looking back. She considered herself lucky that those men only wanted booze and let her go. Satisfied watching her race away, the sheriff closed the door, filled a glass with whiskey and hovered over the seated businessmen and mayor.

"Let's weigh our options. We could git some money and personal things together and git her outta town quiet like. Or we wait for the governor's men to bring her to trial for dereliction of duty in another jurisdiction. Either way will be hard," Sheriff Tuney added.

"What do we do about the hanging crew coming up from New Jersey? They want justice now, not a trial. And they will be here in a few days," remarked Arnett.

"We could put her in jail for her own safety," said Doc Ingram.

"That dog won't hunt. She won't last a day in there," corrected Marshal Pete, remembering how he aided a mob removing Maverick from the same jail at gunpoint.

A high-pitched screeching sound came from the mayor's chair when she suddenly pushed back, stood up, and pounded on the table. "SHE HAS A NAME!" the mayor yelled as her nostrils flared. Edith held tears in check, but not the raw vocal emotion of everyone talking as if she weren't present. Everyone stared at the mayor, now standing over them.

"Edith," the sheriff said as he slowly stood up also. "The governor wants you arrested for the lynching of Maverick Lawson on your watching eye," he reminded. "We are hoping to keep you outta that situation. And there's the New Jersey storm coming our way in the form of a neck-tie mob. If we don't hand you over to them, they will burn down the town in retaliation... so forgive us if we don't address you proper like," mocked the sheriff.

* * *

At the Rusty Spur, widow Thorton sat at the bar, exhausted from tending to her livestock. Norma's husband, Sam, killed by Maverick, earned her the moniker. Her dirty denim overalls and blue cotton shirt looked out of place on the colored woman in the bar. She was grateful that most patrons were at the church paying last respects to Lester Smith, one of the colored men who participated in the lynching of Maverick. Florence, overhearing talk about the widow, warned she had best wait for the meeting to be over before trying to talk to the mayor.

"They've been in there quite a spell," said Florence as she cleaned glasses behind the bar. "The mayor will fill us in when it's over," she continued.

"I hear they got a bounty on the mayor's head," chimed in Lucille McIntyre, owner of the bar. She had bought the Rusty Spur with money earned by spending time with men.

"If I had let matters be, the mayor wouldn't be in this spot," the widow said as she kicked the stool she sat on, causing dried-up mud on her boots to sprinkle the floor like sand. "But I have a plan. Something I learned from my grandma. I want to make things right, but the mayor must back me for it to work. As soon as that meeting ends, call her out, and Blacksmith Arnett. I'm gonna need him too."

* * *

Within 48 hours Bleakville came under siege. In the cover of the night, the Bleakville businessmen were tossed in jail with the marshal and wounded sheriff after a brief shootout. Several New Jersey henchmen stood guard and mocked the town heads standing in the overcrowded cell.

"I'd offer you boys some drink, but you only got one chamber pot to piss in," joked one of the Jersey men as the others laughed out loud.

Men ate, drank, and caused a ruckus at the Rusty Spur. Several fought for a turn with Lucille's painted ladies. The demand for flesh was so high that Florence the barrister was forced to take up with men at half the price on account of her scarred face. Lucille tended the bar while Florence took on two out-of-towners. One of them left an upper bedroom and pranced down the stairs wearing just a wife-beater, carrying coins. He dropped them on the table.

"Whiskey, a full bottle this time," he said. "And let me borrow a hat for a spell."

"To cover yourself?" Lucille asked.

"No, to cover that heifer's face," he said as he went back up the stairs with a bottle and a 10-gallon hat.

More men came into the bar, this time with the New Jersey lynch mob leader, Vasil Huges, a name Lucille and her ladies were familiar with. Vasil was the man responsible for a mob beating Lester to death when he was questioned in Gold Rose County, and had gotten away with it. He came up to the bar and sat down with three men. His brown eyes looked through her as she stared back at the unwanted patron. Lucille didn't have any more women available if he wanted one for his boys. The ones she had were bruised up and worn out. Terrified, she envisioned herself on her back, with a line of men waiting for a turn. His words snapped her back to reality.

"I was told you know the whereabouts of that colored mayor," Vasil said over the noise of the bar.

"I might know if I can get that bounty on her head," Lucille suggested.

"I'll see you get the bounty. As long as I get to burn her alive," he declared.

"She's hiding in the Funeral Parlour, waiting for your men to leave town," Lucille revealed as she poured the four men each a shot of whiskey with shaky hands.

"If that's true, you'll have the coins as soon as I lynch her behind this nice establishment," he chuckled while he searched Lucille's demeanor for motives. Finding none, he asked: "Why you giving the mayor the little end of the horn?"

"When Edith became mayor, she gave the job a lick and some promises, but she didn't keep any. She caused all the trouble you see in town. All she had to do was wait for the sheriff and let justice be done," she lamented while pouring Vasil more whiskey.

"It's all 'cause Edith had a rough growing up. Got passed around a few slave owners that liked youngins. When she thought one of Bleakville's boys was touched wrong, she let Maverick swing. Truth be told, that kid was stretching the blanket. I'm sure he wasn't telling it right. But what's done is done, and I want that bounty," she said without guilt. Vasil finished his second drink as his men pushed back what was left of their first. No one paid for the liquor.

"Let's take a walk over to the Parlour," Vasil told his men. He looked at Lucille. If I don't find what I'm looking for...me and the boys will pay you a not so friendly visit," he promised her as hard eyes undressed the voluptuous woman before they headed out.

* * *

Vasil's men surrounded the Funeral Parlour. He placed a man by the south side window and the back, even though there was no exit. He stood by the front door. More men had guns drawn, waiting for instructions.

"You, go fetch the mortician from jail. His name is Ingram. I want to know if he's in on hiding the mayor," Vasil told a blond henchman then turned to another."And you, go over to General merchandise and buy enough oil to burn the Parlour down if need be," he told a stockily built man."And you," he said to another, "go fetch that painted lady Lucille. Bring her to me," he directed the last man.

"If the mayor got away, I'll pass Lucille around to the boys, then burn down the Parlour for my troubles," Vasil promised himself as he loaded his gun, preparing to go inside the building.

He looked through the side window of the Funeral Parlour but a bloody smear on the glass hampered viewing. Frustrated, he kicked open the unlocked front door. A stench of death stopped him in his tracks.

"Good God!" Vasil said, holding his nose.

"Did she kill her fool self?" said a ponytailed-man following behind Vasil. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand but kept his gun out. As they walked, the smell of death became stronger, causing ponytail-man to vomit. The only light inside came from the door kicked open. A buzzing sound like a thousand flies was heard, but Vasil couldn't locate the source. Ponytail-man put his gun away and wiped spittle from his mouth as he swiped at flies swarming the room. They continued looking around.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw a row of chairs on the left and right side of the Funeral Parlour. Sitting in the chairs were several rotting corpses in various stages of decomposition, held together by deteriorating clothes. In the center of the floor was an octagon drawn in blood. Human skeletal bones connected to two points like the hands of a clock. Flower arrangements made of intestines hung on a closed casket that sat on a wooden table in front of the circle.

"Dead coloreds...having service? Who's leading it?" Vasil stammered. Then he heard the coffin unlock. The top half of the specially built casket creaked and squeaked on noisy hinges as it opened. The contents were fully visible even in the dim light. Vasil and ponytail-man saw a body wearing a gray Dixie hat, gold frames, and a white blouse. It slowly sat up.

"She done come alive!" yelled ponytail-man as both men fired at the body, fear causing them to miss the mark. Bullets bounced off the steel-reinforced casket, hitting chairs, corpses, and the Parlour walls. The men backed out of the building, still firing. The flash of gunfire illuminated the room enough to see the body lie back down.

"Burn it!" Vasil hollered at the men standing guard. "Burn it down! If anything comes out... shoot it!" he ordered as the men threw oil around the building, through the front door, and set it on fire.

Lucille and Ingram, tied to a pole, gasped at the burning Parlour. Vasil cut the two loose and helped Lucille to her feet as townspeople came out from their homes to put out the fire. Vasil's men prevented them from starting a bucket brigade, so all just stood by and watched it burn.

"Is the mayor in there, Vasil?" asked Lucille, terrified as the Parlour burned.

"She is," he answered. He thought about those gold frames and the body lying back down in the casket. A sight he would never forget. "She's in there with four corpses, having some kinda...something."

"Oh, God!" Lucille cried out, hugging Ingram tightly as flames engulfed the whole building, turning the beginning of dusk into a bright orange night.

"God had nothing to do with what I saw in there," Vasil remarked. "And...I'm a man of my word. I'll go over to General and fetch the bounty I promised," he told Lucille, still looking at the burning Parlour.

"Won't be anything left when that fire is out," Ingram rambled as the heat and flying ash pushed everyone back.

* * *

A horse and buggy rode away from Bleakville. Looking back briefly, she saw an amber light of something ablaze. Edith, wearing dirty denim overalls and an old blue cotton shirt carried food, water, and a gun in a wooden chest in the back of the buggy.

"Judging by the fire, I'd say all went well...or to hell," she said to herself.

"I'll have to give thanks to Widow Thorton one day. She knew Vasil was a superstitious fool and would be scared of the bodies we set up in the Funeral Parlour. When I get further away, I'll stop and say a prayer for the bodies I had dug up to make Vasil and his Jersey men think I was coming to life, leading the dead. One day, I'll thank Arnett too. That blacksmith fixed the casket with springs, making Lester's body in my clothes and glasses stir up and down. Bless that man and Lucille with her ladies keeping the men off-kilter. Everyone will think Lucille turned against me, but she played a part in the plan too.

"I have to make it to Gold Rose County. Then take a train using the widow's name out to another state. I will start a fund to build another town with my cut of the bounty Lucille will send to me. I will not fail this time. There will be justice for every color man and woman in my new town...or there will be justice for none."

Edith continued on the dirt trail using the clear moonlit sky to guide her, thinking only about the 4-day journey to Gold Rose County.

"Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions."

~ T.S. Eliot

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned by Mayor Edith Fowler (r.i.p)

***Lynch Mob Abandon Hunt After Fire In Mortuary***

Sheriff and Marshall Reclaim Bleakville From Vigilantes - Morning Press -July 17th, 1877

An alleged lynch mob from New Jersey led by Pinkerton officer Vasil Huges age 39, was called off after a fire burned down the Bleakville Funeral Parlour with beloved Mayor Edith Fowler trapped inside.

The mayor was seeking a pardon from Governor Arthur Moore after she was implicated in the death of white businessman Maverick James Lawson, from Lakewood Tennessee, age 35 by an unknown mob. He was found lynched behind the Rusty Spur, a Saloon run by Lucille McIntyre, age 29.

According to the governor, Mayor Fowler failed to protect Lawson who was in custody. Mr. Lawson was part of the governors administrative staff but his job was not known. Several patrons witnessed Pinterton Security officers surround the funeral home, trapping the mayor inside. For some unknown reason the home caught fire killing the mayor. Deceased citizens in their caskets were also consumed by the intense fire. It is unsure why the fire was not put out before it destroyed the 12 year old building.

Sheriff Tuney and Marshal Pete lead a group of 35 township men that forced the Pinkterton's out of town. With the henchmen gone, the town restored order to Bleakville. Ingram Wardell, the mortician for Bleakville, promised to rebuild the parlour and dedicate it to the founder of Bleakville, Edith Fowler.

Story written by B.D., The last reporter of the Bleakville Gazette

In that reversed place, I am Mara Vex, the part of me that never learned guilt. I move through ruins I made myself, laughing like a crack in the earth. I betray because I can, because the ache on someone else's face feels like sunlight on my skin. Every kindness shown to me is just a weapon handed over, blade first. I am hunger without end, a mouth that sings when everything falls apart. There’s no shame. There’s only more.

You did not break down my walls. You didn't make me blindly trusting and impervious. You caught my interest, and I watched you from inside with a child-like curiosity. Every movement was bewildering, every word was fascinating. Eventually, my curiosity consumed me, and I let you in so I could learn. You helped me rebuild when my fortress was under attack. You made windows so I could still experience life. You brought me paint, and helped me cover every wall with a beautiful mural. I am still guarded. I still have my walls. But it no longer hurts to see their dreary bricks. I feel safe, and I feel happy. You didn't leave me without shelter. You made it into a home, and made me feel comfortable enough to venture out on my own.

Tapping my finger against the table, I stared over my drink and past the seats at the door. What may come to me through that door is the very thing I might fear, or the thing I might hold most dear. My body went rigid at the thought, trying to find some balance to that concept, but I started to thrum from the rattle of my nerves instead.

What may come to me through that door... The tapping from my index finger felt almost synonymous to the ticking of a clock as I waited, watched, and then waited some more for things to take a slightly different turn. What may come through that door.

I tried to squint at it, like scrutinizing it would allow me to twist and warp space, turning the door until the windows gave way and the iron beams framing it all together snapped loose. Come.

Antsy, my anticipation started to reach a peak, my tapping no longer keeping in rhythm until the train wreck of my finger's twitch ached up my hands, spasming my knuckle and tendons until I yanked my hand from the table sharply to grab that hand and squeeze. And I mean squeeze! I squeezed that hand so hard, I was almost to believe I'd pop it from the joint, rip it away and discard the limb wholly with the intent to throw it away or yeet is across the room in some capacity.

"Diana?"

My gaze snapped sharply up, and an uneasy smile worked up out of me as I tried to smooth the wrinkles of my nerves and emotions like the lapels on a gentlemen's suit. "Yes?" I answered back calmly.

The woman settled in across from me at the faux wood table in the chair made of iron and 'wood' where we nestled face to face in the cozy atmosphere of the dimly lit café, where overcast clouds shrouded the entire room in gray. I didn't look at her. I couldn't. Instead, I snapped my gaze down to the table, at the fake grain of the wood that had black stain settling in the grooves just below the surface.

"I know this was an impromptu meeting, but I figured it would be better to see you in person to discuss this than over the phone."

"I know," I told her, toiling with my fingers a little bit. Taking in a deep breath, I stopped, held it and closed my eyes as the waning distortion of my surroundings displaced me in my mind, making me wonder if I might throw up from it all.

"I wanted to let you know it wasn't your fault."

"I know," I repeated again.

"She loved you."

"I know." I answered back, my voice harder, more rigid, like I was blotting out everything in me warring and raging to lash out.

"Di-"

"Stop." I told her, unfurling my hands from themselves to put one up in motion for her to pause. "Just-" I put my finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, pinching my eyes shut as I tried to think. "Stop. For a moment. Before we continue..."

"Sure. Take your time."

"Thanks," I answered, my tone serious, and all playfulness wrung out of it. "I just- I need to think."

"Okay."

Stop answering everything I say! A part of me snapped, but I didn't speak those words. Don't feel sorry. There's nothing to feel sorry about! Another part of me barked out, but those words also didn't rip loose from my mouth. Slowly, my eyes opened, and I felt like the blare of the warm overhead lights must have hit me in a way because it hurt. The light stung, and the pollution of it dug into me in a way that made my head throb until I was rubbing my ears, like they were already ringing. And then I spoke.

"I wanted to say so much to her," I said. "I wanted to see her turn around. I really did, because no matter what I said or did, I never could hate her, but when we were in front of each other, I couldn't do anything else but feel resentful, and I'm still sorry for it."

"That's not your fault."

"No! Of course not. It's not my fault!" I said, my voice rising a little as the jilt in my tone took a sharper note. A curled smile spread over my lips until I was opening my eyes, but rolling them as I fluttered them open and shut, like I was pissed by the prospect of it all. "She's her own person. I only wish she knew and understood that."

"Mhm. We know that. You and I both know that."

"Gah- And she fucking!" I put my hands up, and then everything kind of let loose out of me as I let my hands drop and I sighed, blinking away the wetness in my eyes. I was still pissed. Cut... Hurt, you could even say. For someone who was supposed to have sired me in this life, she sure had done a funny job at proving that she was a decent human being... at least to me. Fuck, I hated how that shit all went tits up when I took off the rose colored glasses. "I wish I could shake her!" I said, feeling my teeth scrape the cold air as I sucked it in. "I wish I could yell at her and ask her, scream at her, what the fuck she was thinking when she did all this and then up and died on me! Like she thought she never had to deal with absconding from her responsibilities all because I told her I was tired of being her kerosene, but no! That wasn't good enough! And I wasn't worth it!"

"I mean, you are-"

"DON'T!" I put my face in my hands. "Don't speak on her behalf. It just makes me more pissed."

"Okay."

"God." And I shuddered, my shoulders slumped forward as I bent over my table, in my chair, in this hard seat that somehow didn't make my ass hurt because it was bare of any cushioning. "I want to hate her," I told her. "I really do, but I can't. I'm just pissed that she never took initiative to fix anything, and she always played pretend that she did and it hurts. It sucks! And it hurts." And when she didn't say anything, I continued. "I wanted her to be there, to kind of turn things around and stop being that kid. That kid that just... watched me grow from being a little kid to an adult. I want to be adults side-by-side with her, but now she's gone. She's just... gone, and I have to deal with that too. I knew I had to, but it doesn't make it feel any better."

My teeth chattered, so I clenched them. "She could have bought kerosene from the store, like every other fucking idiot who never seems to get it instead of setting me on fire, but she just couldn't help herself!"

I sucked in a sharp breath, and my body shuddered. "God damnit! I hate that shit! I hate how everyone who's ever tried to paint themselves as these... helpful people, these... community actors, just love to fucking set people like me on fire because they can't be fucked enough to buy kerosene from a store, to find some other entertainment elsewhere and I get to suffer for it. And she wasn't any different, and now she's dead. Great!" I rolled my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I blinked a few more times, then squeezed my eyes shut as more tears kept streaming down my face. "Great."

The chair clattered as she got up, and I nodded at her that it was good. That it was okay to go, because I think she too knew she was at a loss, and without the capacity to be the heart health I needed right now.

And so I just put my head in my hands and leaned over the chair as she stepped outside to give me a moment, while I sobbed... in the corner of the dark room of the nearly empty café. Some mother... Some body... But not mine. Not me.

We weren't close enough, because it was never meant to be.

"It's not a uniquely human condition."

Two men sit on the same side of a booth in a busy pub. If anyone cared, some would wonder if they were lovers.

The man who speaks wears no parka, despite freezing weather. He's in an immaculate bespoke suit. It almost swallows light, so dark is the black on black. He is regally pale in contrast, as if the warmth of the sun is a tale whispered by fairies.

His companion, leaning as far onto the wall as he can, is ruddy with drink. Even so, he is aware, sharp, focused.

Afraid.

"Come again?" he stammers.

The elegant man smiles like a rattlesnake.

"Hope. Hope is not a uniquely human condition."

"How so?"

"Take dogs, for example. You think it's love in their eyes when they stare at the dinner table? No. It's optimism. Begging for whatever scraps master will throw them."

"I see."

"Do you see you're the dog?"

"Who is the master?"

"Whom do you serve?"

"...I work at Sainsbury's, mate."

The man in the suit laughs, and the temperature in the pub drops. Winter's chill settles into the warm public house.

"Did you study Latin in school?"

"I remember a class, but nothing stuck."

The pale man calls for another round.

"Dum spiro spero." Two pints of Kronenbourg land on the table and the server quickly disappears. He's careful not to touch the man on the outside of the booth's seat, but he can't say why. "While I breathe, I hope."

"I like that."

"Breathing, or hoping?"

"Both."

"Abandon one, and you'll abandon the other."

The fearful man doesn't know what to say, so he drinks.

"Do you know why I order ale when I take these little walks topside?"

"Topside?"

"Among you mud-fucking monkeys. His favorite pets. His dogs. Only, your dogs are actually dogs, so I think you have the better of it."

"Mate, I'm just trying to have a pint. Never owned a dog, nor fucked a monkey."

The pale man laughs again; mugs on the table frost over.

"I like you, Oliver."

"Ollie. Dad was Oliver."

"Oh, I know him."

"Knew him?"

"Know."

"He was a right cunt."

"Is."

"What're you on about, anyway?"

The suited man swirls a delicate index finger in his pint. "I order ale because He made wine." Bright yellow lager turns into black stout.

The drunk doesn't believe his eyes, so he shuts them.

"Spirans erit cupidum memoria, Ollie."

"Cupid's memory?"

"What would you give to keep breathing? To prevent breath from being a fond memory?"

For the first time, Ollie looks into his guest's eyes. He sees a beautiful creature who looks like a man, but doesn't know beauty. True fear is lead inside him; even beatings taken as a child from Oliver the elder didn't weigh like this moment.

"Mate," he whispers, voice tight and chest hollow, "not much. To you? Nothing."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I can guess your name."

The devil laughs and everyone shivers.

He always wondered what the purpose of everything was. Drifting through his days as a quiet observer. The life of a Seeker was one of solitude and infinite exploration for the Celestial Council. Eman wondered about each and every sector of the galaxy as the council required. He did his job, lazily seeking worlds that may have sentient life. For what purpose he did not yet know. His father, Elume, was also a Seeker, as was his father before him. Eman used to find joy in this exploration. Now, he simply does his duty until the council retires him.

This world was cataloged by the name of Smaragdus. Eman thought this was an odd name but his job was to seek, not to name. He landed his small starship in a clearing of lush green vegetation. Tall sturdy plants lined the clearing and thrashed in the ship's wake as it landed. His heavy boots crushed the plants as he heaved his way into the jungle, leaving his small encampment to survey the nearby point of interest the ship's computer identified while on entry to the planet's surface. One stood out as anomalous, that would be the first stop.

* * *

Eman traversed the thick jungle for hours, only stopping for water and to collect the occasional sample. He did not need to collect samples but most Seeker’s kept a hobby to keep their minds sharp. The Set of binary suns were beginning to set, the sky becoming a mix of purple and green. Eman emerged from the jungle, entering a short clearing. The edge of a cliff just a few meters past where he now stood. In the distance, deep in a valley between two plain mountains, a massive crater scared the surface. No large pieces of vegetation grew in the crater but Eman could tell it was not a new addition to the planet. Grasses and small ponds littered the inside of the crater. At the center of it all, Eman located the anomaly.

The structure was tall and slim. It stood at least a hundred meters tall, perfectly vertical. The structure was rectangular in shape and was as gray as silica dust. No markers were visible anywhere on its surface. It took Eman another three hours to maneuver down the cliff and into the crater valley. Night had finally taken hold of the planet. The stars cast just enough light to see the surrounding area, completely devoid of any creatures. The night stood silent. Eman would have to make camp next to the monolith. He did not have a flat enough clearing to call the ship to his location and land. His survival pack provided him a small lantern, his rations, and his inflatable sleep pod. Emans mother would often take him camping, pointing out constellations by the fire.

There, you see that star, just next to Sigma Sagittarii? Your father is there now. His mother would often point out star systems where Eman’s father was working, both of them waving at the faint specs of light. He thought of those nights often now. Especially on nights like these, where the sky was perfectly clear. Those memories were sour to him now. Not after what she did. Eman sighed, turning off his lamp, he pressed his eyes and pushed those memories back where they belonged.

* * *

The air was thick with dew in the early hours of the morning. The first of the suns illuminating the valley with a faded magenta light. Eman unzipped his pod and emerged with a yawn, his breath visible and ghostly. He was still hazy and somehow felt less rested than when he arrived. His mind had been clouded with dreams of before, dreams of his father. A breeze stirred up the surrounding flora, the rustling of their leaves the only sound in the valley.

Eman went about setting up his few pieces of equipment. Seismic monitoring, full spectrum electromagnetic analysis, and material analysis would have to be done via the ship. For now, Eman brandished his handheld scanner after setting up a recorder and atmospheric sensors. He meandered over to the structure after about forty minutes of walking around the near perimeter og the crater. The scanner buzzed in his hand as the blue display provided some basic numerical data of the structure. After Eman had confirmed this was indeed a rectangular prism and definitely alien to this planet, he reached his free hand out to touch the monolith's surface.

Y’enute, ckaemo Svlada! D’udu der Ay’umanadis.

The voice came into Emans mind like a violent hail storm. Defining the inside of his mind and causing him to fall to his knees in pain. Eman spent several moments catching his breath, his eyes blurred and hands shaking as he tried to compose himself. When his eyes finally focused, heart setting back, Eman realized it was now dusk. A low hum was growing from the base of the monument now. Slowly, it grew more intense causing Eman to stumble back as if something was pushing him backward. Eman’s eyes grew large as the sky became darker, too fast to be logical. The stars grew so bright he had to put a hand in front of his eyes. The monolith began to lume over him with nothing but the sense of malice behind it. What in god's name is going on. Eman thought, scrambling back to his sleep pod.

Eman gathered his basic kit and ran as fast as he could. Stumbling and bashing his way through the thick forest near the cliff face. Branches sliced at his arms and face, the sound of his heaving breath echoing through the wood.

K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad…

The voice found its way back into his mind. Tearing at the inside of his brain like an animal caught in a trap. He continued sprinting through the woods, a clearing making itself known just a few dozen meters in front of him now. When he breached the clearing he let out a scream of primal fear. The monolith was there. There are more? Eman thought, mind aching as the voice continued. He then squinted his eyes, his terror growing even more. His sleep pod was there, the same spot as before along with his smaller instruments.

K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad…

The voice was growing fainter, but more prevalent in its tone. It was no longer a horrifyingly frantic screech. The voice was now more feminine in nature. Eman did not understand the words. He left the safety of the treeline and dumped his pack next to the sleep pod as he approached the structure again. The hum was now a low and consistent pulse. The stars returned to their original luminosity.

Em'na xir sa'roym… Em'na xir sa'roym… Em'na xir sa'roym…

The voice was changing somehow. Eman still did not understand. Was the voice changing at all? Eman was now on his knees in front of the monolith. The sweat on his skin glistened in the night. He was spaying back and forth, barely aware of the woman who was peaking at him from behind the structure. Her hair was jet black, blending in almost perfectly with the night sky. She was short, only about a meter and a half tall. Her thin arms connected to tiny frail hands that rested by her side. She was completely nude, her long hair covering her breasts and face. The voice now came from her, “Em'an ir s'roy… Em'an ir s'roy… Em'an ir s'roy…” She repeated as she approached Eman. He knew she was there but he was unable to react, frozen in a trance. She knelt down in front of Eman, he could smell the scent of her skin. It reminded him of something, someone.

* * *

Eman was twelve when it happened. He had just come home from school. His father left for another expedition a day prior. They seemed so happy then. He opened the door to their habitat pod on Epsolus One to see shoes he did not recognize, womens shoes. He heard giggling from his parents room as he followed the trail of garments. He would never forget the look on his mothers face, the horror. The situation was firmly punctuated by a message from the council. Eman’s father had died on that expedition, never knowing his wife's betrayal.

Eman never forgave his mother for what she did. They hadn’t spoken since he left home a decade ago. He hated the fact that she tainted so many of his memories. He hated the fact that he still thought of her, even now. She tried everything to mend things between them. Each attempt falling into a disastrous argument. They would both say things they would come to regret. His mother would still try to reconcile, even though all her communications fell to deaf ears, she still tried. Eman was her only son.

When the council informed Eman that his mother had passed, her wife with her in her final moments, he did not react. He thought he would be more shocked, more upset, anything. He had all her messages saved in the ship's data storage. He never understood why he could not delete them, even though he had tried many times. The day he received word from the council he was on route to some backwater world, likely devoid of life. He sat at the ship's console staring at the display, the most recent message on the main display. The ship read it out to him in its usual cold tone, “Eman, I am sorry. I will always love you. My perfect, my only, my sun.”

* * *

When Eman awoke the woman was gone. The voice was silent and the hum from the monolith had vanished as if it never happened. It was midday now. He was splayed outside his sleeping pod, the morning dew making his clothes damp and cold. Eman was still hazy. Convinced last night was just a dream, he packed his instruments and sleep pod. Heaving his pack, he stared at the structure for a moment. A chill ran down his spine. An almost overwhelming guilt was weighing down on his chest now. Eman let his head drop as he turned to the forest, heading back to the ship. He could see broken branches and disturbed mud a few meters west of him as he entered the forest. Almost as if an animal had come through the treeline during the night.

Eman, I am sorry…

Hey Y'all! Thanks for reading. This is a proof of concept. Just trying to get more writing out there and practice a bit more. A lot of ideas from this I want to implement in my main work The Stellar Man(working title).

Please comment your thoughts I appreciate the feedback!

-Mas

My presence lowered the room’s median age by 30 years. Side-eye glares began once I entered. Judgmental early arrivals, who had separated into their cliques, were suspicious of this newcomer. Just looking to kill some time before reconvening with the bachelor party, I accepted my helot designation by sitting along the perimeter with the other outcasts. The lighting wasn’t ideal. I was in line with an AC vent. Such are the downfalls of the supposed downtrodden.

Settling in, I realized those nearby weren’t exchanging pleasantries to make my acquaintance. Although members of a lesser caste, these strangers weren’t friends I hadn’t met. They were out to gain a higher standing by beating someone on a lower rung. Winning sets you free. Expanding your social circle doesn’t. This was a cutthroat aggregate.

It quickly became apparent who the nobility were: Mrs. S and Reggie. I couldn’t figure out their relationship. Siblings? Married? Working as a team? But all exalted their names and acted interested in their retelling of past wins. Like royalty, the pair held court. Not meaning to, I made eye contact with Mrs. S. Out of politeness, I gave her a deferential nod and grin. She relegated me to being a subordinate by replying with a condescending sneer. Bitch. Game on.

“Everyone ready?” was the only announcement needed for people to affix their concentration. As expected, the action was fast paced. Players remained focused. You’d hear the attempted witty comment randomly interjected by Reggie. Done more to throw off others than for entertainment purposes. The unfortunate ones who were distracted by this maneuver ended up on the wayside.

I kept a low-profile the first few rounds. My strategy was to act obtuse, then strike when the stakes were higher. Reggie had already notched four wins while his femme fatale had six. They were dominating and knew it. However, they didn’t grasp that any congratulatory acknowledgment from the almost rans was insincere.

Once the big jackpot came up, I decided to make my move. I’d bolster the 70% luck and the 25% skill needed with my 5% determination. The first thirty seconds put me behind. My hand barely moved as others’ feverishly bobbed up and down. Then my rally began. G Forty-eight. Need it. B Fifteen. Need it. I Thirty. Need it. And then, as if hearing it slowed down to 33 RPMs: OOOO Sevvvventyyyyy Onnnnnne. Dabbing the blank square with my ink marker, I held my card high and exclaimed “BINGO,” before partially rising from my seat.

With gloating intentions, I scanned for Mrs. S. Her back remained turned to me. She was, no doubt, engaging Reggie in some contemptuous discussion involving “beginner’s luck” or “even a busted clock is right twice a day.” I reveled in the fact Her Highness and Prince Uncharming were temporarily deposed.

Victory was financially sweet and hierarchically advancing. I departed $250 richer. But more importantly, I discarded my status as a bottom rung serf.

This was it.

“Here we go,” ol’ man Templet mumbled inarticulately. Everyone leaned in.

He anticipated drawing in his last breath in his beautiful death and delivering it back out with the weight of a fleeing soul. You only get so many breaths, and his last one was in sight. A beautiful end to a beautiful story. The Templet obituary would be the one everyone would want: a painless and peaceful death—who could ask for more? He couldn’t have scripted it any better.

His cue would wait just a moment, however, for he gave one last perusal of his surrounding family with their strangley silent tears and melodramatically quivering lips, some genuine, but most staged.

Tally time: one brother, one wife, two daughters, one missing son-in-law, one dead son-in-law, one son only half-there. Six Templets, counting himself, and two others.

Ol’ man William Templet paused at each—certainly the final moment could wait—for one more eyeful of each of them. One more stomach-ful of each.

The elderly brother soon to follow him into the unknown, but he had himself mentally departed already. Two daughters, neither with husbands any longer. The wife who stood inert, no longer able to participate in the morbid vigil for a man who had sewn her doubts for the reaping forty years earlier.

The grim reaping.

There were mistakes, sure. One son-in-law of whom he had never approved, and he was proven right by the painful explosion that shattered that marriage and an entire family. Or did he drive him off? Another son-in-law of whom he did approve—but he was proven a fool when the suicide happened. His widow was his feckless, reckless youngest—Suzanne—was it her fault she didn’t have a clue? If it was, was that his fault in raising her the way he did?

Or in anything else he might have, done?

Tally time:

--one unhappy wife,

--one divorced, unhappy daughter,

--one ne’er-do-well son,

--one brother lost in dementia, and

--one clueless, licentious widowed daughter, his youngest.'

His youngest, Suzanne.

He had done his best with Suzanne. She had become an hysteric about forty years ago—as Suzy—when still a mere child. He remembered how it was a change that had come over her in only a couple of months when she was a teenager. He still remembered the Sweet Sixteen party when she screamed at all of her friends to leave. She was defiant, had an answer for everything. The child who knew more than her parents.

What’s done was done, he realized, in the wisdom of his impending death; he realized that he had ended up trudging on with only the tools he had at the time.

When Suzanne was older, he had pinned all of his hopes on her husband in the marriage had pushed for. Too hard? He fantasized that man helping her navigate her astray life, but then he had navigated himself to the end of his own.

The old, dying man felt the draw of that same vacuum, and it was seductive, indeed.

The abyss. His own world was now flat, and he was moving toward his own finite horizon. Toward the edge.

He snorted a laugh, which to his audience sounded like a cough, prompting raised eyebrows and a few open mouths of concern. Concern for what? They knew the deal. They knew what was happening here. He could start hemorrhaging out of his eyeballs and why would it matter now?

He wondered if he only got so many laughed allotted in life. If so, was that his last one?

This was it.

After his eyes finished their sweep, the Templet passing-in-review complete, he privately reaffirmed his love for each one of them whether they wanted it or not; whether he meant it or not; even to his son, with whom he had estranged himself, then reconciled, all because of a son’s weakness and certainly not a father’s weakness. Had David’s drug abuse been his fault, like Suzanne’s fate?

He thought not. He did what he had to do with the tools he had at the time.

Would he have done things differently? Sure, now that he paged through the last part of his book—the index of his life, the final tally—any item available for reconsideration by just remembering it. It would take just a reminisce for a brief revisit to his life in review. But no re-dos. You trudge on with the tools you have at the time, and this time, on his deathbed, the tools were final: one hammer and six nails to shut his coffin for jettison into the abyss.

His life. How'd he do?

Were his couple of billion heartbeats tabulated somewhere in the great eternity’s actuary table of life along with the tallied daughters, sons-in-law, wife, brother, and biological son? Had he lived enough, trading one hour’s less sleep here and two hours’ less sleep there for three more hours of living? Or three more dollars? Did he break even? He would soon find out: the afterlife, if there really were one.

Or nothing? The joke on us—his entire life story and sentience negated into irrelevance by oblivion?

Templet chose to believe the afterlife version. Had to be. Better be. If not, he would strain to sense his oblivion just to resent it, fighting a paradox, contradicting oblivion itself; his anger would prove so powerful as to shatter the constraints by which oblivion imprisons one’s worth, fate, destiny, and intrinsic importance to self. And, of course, to the ones hovering over him in his final hour.

Go with the afterlife, he thought, because believing the alternative would muster infidel feelings that would be hard to defend in that afterlife.

The afterlife.

Would it be Heaven, perfect happiness, camaraderie with those who went before him? All his dreams come true? Where one dead son-in-law lived, the other reglued a family, and where even David could be brought back into the fold, whole? Where whatever happened to Suzy to make her so hysterical and live as only a half-personality, had not?

Where every facet of every relationship beamed beautifully and perfectly? Angels, seraphim, cherubim, and God Almighty himself, and Jesus and Moses and Mother Mary? That would be nice.

Wings would be cool.

But he realized such was his childhood afterlife version, little Willie Templet’s religion of rules and Heaven and Hell, reward and punishment, as taught to him by Nuns in grade school. He had grown up, and so had his religion.

His religion, he protested, arguing as a grown man, was an adult version. Not little Willie’s, but Ol’ man William Templet’s. A rational construct that only a Supreme Being could create. Sure, he could have some ideas, such as communion on a holy, supranatural, and fulfilling level with everyone who’s ever existed.

Ever?

His version also placed it outside of time, since ever would be ridiculous. It wouldn’t be with everyone who’s ever existed, but everyone who has existed, exists, and would ever exist. What a presence! And in having an adult faith in a supreme being, he realized that however sensibly wonderful he thought his destination, that the limits of human understanding—within the capabilities of that 3-pound brain—would only be a scratch on the ultimate reality. He knew he would be blown away by this next reality.

Yes. And finally whole enough to grasp it. Well beyond the three pounds of brain.

He smiled. He would soon be with all of his loves—the ones who ever lived or live now—many at his bedside, maybe—and the ones who will ever live—great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, and on. His massive tree planted on the day he was born, whose branches were all made up of umbilical cords, all reeled them back in for self-nonself and all-else consolidation.

He could only imagine.

He did one more sweep of the gallery and then smiled. One more smile wouldn’t affect his lifetime tally of smiles. Even if you’re allotted only so many, there must be plenty room for more.

Everyone stood, but not because it was standing-room-only. Now, he felt the recession of time and space that could only be filled by his last breath. The last one on his list of breaths. He drew it in; it failed to return out. The weight of a fleeing soul would find another way to exit.

He passed a sudden, unbridled torrent of colonic gas. Everyone knew it was his last word. Some thought it was befitting.

The silent tears became noisy. The end of a chapter can be just as sorrowful as the loss of the one who creates the ellipsis…the next chapter would follow without him.

A sobering reminder of one’s own mortality is a moving experience. Hands squeezed others’ hands. Quivering became soft cries. They all sought the eyes of each other, sweeping the circle as he had done just a moment earlier. But there was no cacophony or din from them, for his had been a good death. Diginified. A very nice death, indeed. And it didn’t get out of control, for not much would change in their lives.

For life, after all, was for the living, who now were thinking about bequeaths, inheritance, and hand-me-downs.

This was it, William Templet thought as his last thought before he died. He had lived as the man who knew everything better than everyone else—the man who had an answer for everything.

Except for now.

Now what happens? he asked himself. One last time he looked at his family hovering in dutiful vigil, even as he closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, his mind’s eye, his childhood religion smacked him hard. There stood the pearly gates, very high and firmly shut and secured by a very large, solid gold lock, its key hanging from a gold chain on the white-robed man standing behind the dais between him and his afterlife.

Wow, he thought, as a sentiment he had always had, has had, and ever will have.

Wow.

He eyed the keeper of the gates. Who would speak first? Certainly, it wasn’t his place to. He would wait. He laughed at the concept of waiting in a place outside of time. He laughed out loud.

“That’s number 674,843,” the man said, adding an entry to the open book that sat on his dais.

“Excuse me?”

“That was your 674,843rd laugh, although I really should add it to the 1,642 chuckles. Do you care, really? I mean at this point, we really stop counting and tally it all up, even though you only get so many.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I do not understand.”

“For the man who knows everything better than everyone else? The man who has an answer for everything?” The man turned some pages on the book on his dais. “Mr. Templet—Mr. William Templet—you have laughed 674,842 laughs, guffaws, and hoots in your lifetime. Fewer chuckles and hardly any chortles, although I’ve always found that to be splitting hairs. Or splitting haws, I should say.” He laughed at his own joke.

“How many laughs does that make for you?” he asked the shining man, hoping to engage with him on a level playing field of parlance.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” the man answered. Both shot each other a droll grin, as if rehearsed. “My, my, look at the snickers. You were very snarky, Mr. Templet.”

The man fingered a glowing gold ribbon that sat deep within the packed pages of the book and used it to open to that section. “Ah,” he said, “eructations.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Eructations. Nothing? Don’t know that word? How ’bout belches?”

“Oh, yes, belches.”

“24, 205 eruct—er—belches.”

“You’ve counted my belches?”

The shining man looked back down at the book, eyeing some more shining ribbons of different colors. He methodically flipped them one by one, pausing at each. Finally, one section caught his attention. “Yes, belches,” he answered, then looked back up at Templet. “Oh, I have everything here,” he added. “Heartbeats, blinks—"

“How many blinks, exactly?” Templet’s sarcasm didn’t resonate as obviously as he had meant it.

“Little more than half a billion, each eye.”

“Each eye?” The ineffective sarcasm missed its mark again.

“504, 576,342, left eye. 504, 575, 622, right eye.”

“They’re different? Are you sure your data are correct? Shouldn’t they be the same?”

“We count winks as blinks. You obviously are a right-eyed winker.”

“Of course,” Templet said, “that would explain it.” He was confused, feeling denied the mysteries of the universe by such superficiality. “This is all so very silly, isn’t it?” He watched the shining man page through the book again and grew impatient. “And this all means what?” he asked, with a touch of a demanding tone included.

“You mean, besides your winks being exactly 720?”

“Yes.”

“In due time, Mr. Templet, in due time. Now, sneezes, ejaculations…”

“Ejaculations?”

“Of course."

“Am I to understand we’re going to tally all of my bodily functions?”

”Of course.”

“When do we get to the important things?"

“The important things?”

“Yes! The good deeds…the…”

“The sins, sir?” The man’s demeanor changed. “Oh, don’t you worry. In good time. Funny you should ask.”

“Sure,” Templet replied. He didn’t like the glowing man’s different expression. It was an unfriendly one, a judging one.

“So, yes,” he continued. “Ejaculations—orgasms. It says here…4,209.”

“Wow,” Templet whispered to himself.

“Oh, don’t be so proud. It’s actually much less than average. Famously less, actually.”

Templet lowered his voice to a whisper. “My wife and I had…issues,” he said quietly.

“Everyone has issues, Mr. Templet. And you surely had yours. Incidentally, we’re not counting masturbation. Otherwise, it’d be quite a different number, wouldn’t it? No, we shan’t add them. But, you’re right-handed, are you?”

“Meaning what?”

“You’re a right-eyed winker and, like your winks, you’re a right-handed wanker! But relax, ’cause we don’t put much weight on self-pleasuring.”

“Thank God.”

“Don’t thank God. It’s not that He approves; it’s just a don’t-ask, don’t-tell thing. But although we don’t put much weight on it, we still count each and every time.”

“O.K., so how many masturbations…if you must?”

“And I must. Well,” the shining man said, focusing on a line in the book, “it’s a footnote here, um…Whoa!”

“Yeah, I get it, more than my ejaculations.”

“Your official ejaculations, that is. And way more,” he paused, “that is.”

“Of course, as you say, my…official…those things.”

“Ejaculations,” the shining man repeated.

“Yeah, those. Thanks.”

Whose afterlife was this? Templet wondered.

This fit nowhere in any version of an afterlife in anyone’s religion—the children’s version or the adult version. No one’s. This was a Monty Python version. William Templet’s face fell. He appeared a bit dejected.

“Don’t fret, William. Can I call you William?”

“Sure.”

“Your maturation was higher than average. That’s something to be proud of, I suppose.”

“In what way?” Templet asked. “What’s average maturation? How much higher was mine?”

“The average maturation, of course, is the median between an Oxford-educated gentleman majoring in Philosophy and a transient, boorish sheetrock drywall worker.”

Templet gulped. “My first job was hanging drywall,” he said guiltily.

“You see, William, how far you’ve come? I mean, you didn’t go to Oxford—not even Harvard.”

“Princeton? Does Princeton count?”

“Really?”

“O.K., I was accepted there.”

“Really?”

“O.K., I applied there. Doesn’t that count?”

“Hmm,” the man said sadly, “not as much as Harvard. In fact, I think you’re probably closer to drywall installation than Oxford on the grand scheme of things. And, let’s see, you didn’t even do that well in hanging sheetrock, either…only 6200 square yards.”

“If you’re counting, and of course—”

“Oh, I am.”

“It was a summer job,” Templet blurted. “So long ago. It was to help my daughter pay for her abortion—uh-oh, is that a problem?”

“Abortion? Hmm…no, that’s not a problem—well, wait, what I mean is that it’s not your biggest problem. I do say, you two must have been very close. The daughter who could confide anything.”

“Yes, we were close.”

“Close.”

“Yeah, like I said…close.” He realized his mistake right away.

If something like the exact number of orgasms was well documented, certainly the number of abortions—whose exact number was probably more than the one he knew of—wouldn’t be a secret, either.

“Does that make me a bad person?” he asked the shining man.

“No, not that, because according to our records, the number of abortions she had was the number zero.' He smiled at him. "She didn’t have any abortions, William.”

“She didn’t? Oh, thank God—” The man waved his finger. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“No, and her lies didn’t make you a bad person—more like a chump. She used that money for a breast enlargement.”

“I thought she looked different by the time we got to beach weather.”

“You liked them, didn’t you!”

“So…” Templet said, “that little tramp.”

“She also used the money for her gas and cigarettes and to buy her cocaine. She was never pregnant, though. Surely you knew that, didn’t you?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Do you want to know how many times she had sex?”

“Not really,” Templet answered, but he knew the jig was up. “She’s my daughter, sir. I really don’t think the confidant stuff goes that far—that personal."

“Personal? That's funny. Nice try, William. Gee, forty-three years ago, from May 3 to June 22, why…she had sex as many times as you, and that—Mr. Templet—is a very curious thing. That—Mr. Templet—is what makes you a bad person. She was only sixteen.”

“So, you’re saying I’m a bad person for my daughter having sex when she was sixteen?”

“With you, yes.”

Truth be told, William Templet had been waiting for this shoe to drop. A single shoe from an amputated man who didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“William,” the shining man said, “on your deathbed you had wondered how she got like she did. You forgave yourself with the explanation that you did what you did with the tools that you had. Tsk, tsk, William. This isn’t good, sir. And I haven’t even gotten to the others who were so attentive to your final moments on Earth. You wondered about them, as well. That was quite a collection of human beings you screwed up. How’d you put it—the best you could manage with the tools you had at the time. You used some tools! You re-wired all their brains. It's going to take generations —for things to rewire correctly. They all came into the world perfect, and by the time you left yours, your actions had run up quite a tally. Shall I tally them up for you? You know…as you said, the important things?”

“No. Don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother, really.”

“I guess that’ll send me where I need to go?” he said.

“Yes, William. All….from the man who knew everything better than everyone else. The man who had an answer for everything.” The shining man stroked his long, white beard as he fixed his gaze intensely on Templet. “And by my tally, you’re going there for the 3,493rd time. Better luck next time, William. I'm sure the 3,494th'll be the charm."

Crawling through the aperture of adults, crouching and away from their immature word battle; those hands of theirs are ready to slap each other's faces.

This is their way to trigger the blind, appealing aggression; beating, chewing and sucking all the manner that's lectured on their broken description books.

Growling drunk people are spitting out their bladders; they're leaving no motivation for their livers to clean their mess.

This is how he sees the things happening in front of his eyes, just a pomegranate juice that makes the ones who are drinking feeling in an overwhelming pleasure.

Worry tickles his intestines and delaying the assimilation, he's already being stirred in their meal that's gonna be consumed by the sadistic chatters.

He could've never guessed what it would cost for him to be borned in the middle hours of wednesday; now his shade is sewing him like a piece of clothing.

Staying proper and vigilant is the sickness of these modern terms, loneliness and paranoia are their norms they're pushing him into.

Traumatized and dealing with the life's pressure; afraid of stepping out of line one day, cause he knows that going nuts is giving up in front of the pressers.

They've already reached to the adulthood and forced to face who they've become in a regretful way that causes them wishing to rest even if they can't yet.

This is what he's afraid of becoming; he knows what he's going to be, a chain that leads to the infinity restless and more ambitious than the ones who are trying to get out of it

He wished that the script would be handled by the readers instead of the reaper; the situation is helpless if he's nothing more than a mortal

Denying the negotiation, erasing the bestowed ones, tricking the oneself, dreaming hypothetical life prompts; this is his way of persuading himself to be on in this filth

Now he needs to find something to hide under it

I looked up at the icy blackness of the night sky and let three large puffs of smoke escape my lips. Leaning back in the creaky porch chair, I took another large inhale from the pipe. The bitter sting of it left an oaky residue in my throat. The burn traveled deep into my lungs as they filled with the thick purple and blue smoke. I inhaled, my shoulders dropped away from my ears, my eyelids fluttered gently.

In the distance, I heard a great owl calling. It's gentle call rolled through the silence. Though it was sudden, it wasn’t jarring or frightening. Pleasantly deep, it lulled me into relaxation. I rocked back in the chair, hovering the front legs off of the ground. My feet pressed up against the stump of an old tree, long since removed from here. As most things were.

"Time to go." Grisham's voice ran opposite to the owl's call. I dropped my pipe, the legs of my chair landing with a thud on the solid earth beneath me.

"Grisham," I sighed and rolled my eyes, leaning over to dust off my glass pipe, "how many times must you startle me before you accept my high-strung nature?"

"How do you know I haven't accepted it?" He laughed. "Perhaps I just enjoy scaring the heartless maiden."

"And why would you enjoy that?" I took a long puff and inhaled deeply before releasing the smoke into the night sky.

"Because it's the only time I see remnants of the humanness left in you, Runel." His heavy footfalls approached my side before a hand plucked my pipe from my lips.

I watched as he inhaled the sweet smoke. His eyelids fluttering as mine had moments ago.

"Help yourself." I muttered, finally forcing myself to stand. Brushing myself off before meeting his eyes with my own.

Tilting my head upwards, I watched the purple smoke float from his nostrils.

"Ready?" He asked.

His golden-green eyes and short-cropped auburn hair were just as they'd been since he was a boy. His sharp features developed more as he matured into the man he'd become. When we were kids, everyone called us the ‘Tormult twins’. Despite our differences now, our auburn hair and green eyes still gave us away. The only ones like us on this side of the wall.

"The more time you waste, the more pissed he's gonna be," he put the pipe on the stump, "no use avoiding it, Rue."

An exaggerated sigh escaped me and I walked back towards the house. I didn't have to look back to know Grisham followed. The sound of his footsteps trailed closely at my back. The old door creaked loudly though it opened easily. Everything about this place was old, the wall paper peeled from the walls, the wood planks of the floor barely holding together, cracks in the ceiling that threatened to split the place in half. Even the smell was old- dirty and dusty.

"Home sweet home." Grisham muttered.

The kitchen, though clean, was hardly usable. I tried to keep things tidy. It was the least I could do to give it the facade that this place was inhabitable. Crossing the threshold to the front room revealed that the lamps were already lit, illuminating the space just enough to see him.

"You've been avoiding me, Rue." His voice was silk. It was oil in my ears.

"I'd never dream of it." I retorted before coughing into my sleeve. Leftover Indigo working it's way from my lungs.

"Using your own supply, are you?" He asked knowingly.

"In moderation." I plopped down in the armchair across from him. None of the furniture matched here. The cloth fabric of the chair beneath me was ripped, only held together by whatever fastened it to the frame.

Grisham remained standing behind me. These visits always put him on alert. The Chancellor wouldn't dare harm one of his most valuable resources, but Grisham knew what he was capable of.

I hung my arms over the edges of the chair as I slumped back carelessly. Grisham on alert meant that I could relax. As my looks were often deceiving, his weren't. He was precisely as strong as he appeared to be.

"What can we do for you, Chancellor?" I asked through a yawn. I crossed my ankle atop my opposite thigh. I wore the same boots I had during the incursion, the same jeans -tattered and torn. Not that I had much choice anyway.

The Chancellor sucked his teeth as he ran his eyes over my shoddy posture. No doubt irritated by my lack of formality. He came to his feet, his uniform neatly pressed and clean. Shoulder pads secured in place to give a more masculine appearance than was natural to him. Short black hair slicked over his head giving it a shine that reflected the flames from the lamps. His glasses did the same, making it hard to read the expression of his eyes.

"There was an incursion at the North Gate." His voice turned grave. It had been a year, almost to the day, since the last incursion. Since the last time I took off these damn boots.

"How many?" I asked, feeling tired already.

"We slaughtered fifteen at the gate before the rest retreated.” He picked up his hat which he'd set on the end table and began turning it in his hands. As if he knew my next question.

"How many did we lose?" I asked again, leaning forward.

"Five Facets. Six Wayfarers." His eyes remained drawn to his hat as he spoke. Their deaths were his shame.

"How did we suffer so many casualties?" Grisham cut in. His voice just loud enough to reach The Chancellor.

"We sent for more antidote from the Cambria Colony. The Surveyor teams were sent ahead and cleared the wilderness. It should've been safe."

"Did anyone survive the attack?" I asked.

"Only one. A Wayfarer. He hasn't spoken since we recovered him." The Chancellor replied.

"Casian," I repeated with more disdain than compassion, "what exactly are you expecting us to do about this? Did you forget? We're not indebted to you anymore. This is your mess. You clean it." I stood up, turning my back to him and facing Grisham.

"Indigo," The Chancellor muttered, "the Wayfarer team stumbled upon a hold of it when they tried to escape."

I froze. My affliction was also my for-profit, slightly illegal, endeavor. I spoke through clenched teeth, "I imagine in their desperation to flee, they failed to draw a map?"

"You want it don't you, Rue?" When I turned to him, his eyes were touched by the tip of his grin, "I know your sources aren't as plentiful as they once were here in Divern. And you're not one to travel to the other colonies these days."

"I didn't say I didn't want it, Chancellor," I stared back at him, "I'm just in no hurry to die, either."

I felt a breath in my ear and tipped my head towards it, "Let's talk to him, Rue. The survivor." Grisham whispered, "He might have enough information to get us there."

I sighed, "so you want us to find out where the Watchers came from and the Indigo we find out there is ours?"

"If-," His voice hung on the word, "if you find where they came from, how they were able to ambush us, then I'll let you back into Divern with all the Indigo you can carry."

The Chancellor liked to pretend our Indigo affliction didn't benefit him as much as it did me. He knowingly reaped the rewards of a chemically dependent populace that cared more about their rocks than their rulers.

“Why not just send another team of Wayfarers and Facets?” I asked.

“I don't want to draw the attention of the other colonies by pulling away our crews. I want to keep this quiet.” He replied.

Despite his true motives, he was right. Our stores were running incredibly low. I'd burned too many bridges with the Angore Colony to rely on their plentiful supply. The journey through the wilds was treacherous. I hadn't ventured outside the walls since the war, but I remember it well. The thought of it sent a shiver through my body. We relied on what my only remaining contact from Angore would send. And the store we'd found beneath this house. The one we kept hidden from wanting eyes.

Still, it wasn't enough and the people of Divern depended on us. The people depended on Indigo. We depended on Indigo.

"Who am I to stop giving the people what they need?" I held out my hand, "Right, Chancellor?"

He shook my outstretched hand. That wolfish grin creeping over his face, "Pleasure as always, Rue."

"Take us to the Wayfarer." Grisham demanded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We followed The Chancellor to the front of the house where his Facets awaited him, sitting high atop their horses. Horseback was the preferred method of travel when the gas pumps ran dry years ago. Looking up and down the streets, bodies of motor vehicles sat idle. Frames rusted, tires flat, stripped completely bare for parts. No one bothered to move them on the outskirts of Divern. Their dilapidated forms merely accented the deteriorating road beneath them.

Horses grazed on overgrown yards in front of houses that should've been condemned. Fifteen years ago, they would've been, but not now. Since Indigo arrived, we've had much bigger problems. Preventing incursions, securing antidotes and goods from the other colonies, and my own personal mission-feeding the Indigo affliction.

Grisham and I mounted our horses. Following close enough to see, but far enough to whisper to one another. As twins, much was unspoken, making private conversation practical.

“Plan?” I asked before cupping my hand over a deep cough.

Grisham nodded.

“The usual?” I asked.

He nodded again, “If it ain't broke…”

“Don't fix it.” I finished his thought, the phrase mom always used.

We made our way through Divern. Slowly, the streets became neater, fewer barren car frames. Weeds peeking through the broken asphalt had been plucked away by Keepers. The houses grew larger the closer we got to the center of town. I enjoyed rides through this part of the colony for one reason-the laughter. Children ran through the streets here, chasing one another and giggling wildly.

Where Grisham and I stayed, there were no children. Only the lost lived where we did-former Facets, widows, and the afflicted. But here, there were families, there were children. There was a future. Somehow there were still those who believed in a future bright enough to raise a child in.

How beautiful. And how very, very stupid.

When we reached the hospital, Grisham and I dismounted and followed The Chancellor once more. Only this time, his Facets followed behind him. Each of them eyeing Graham and I with a sense of unease and suspicion. The hospital was a two story building that was once some sort of factory, from what I could tell. It was equipped with machines that had been kept up by engineers from Cambria. The engineers a commodity The Chancellor undoubtedly bartered a few Facets for.

We walked by the intake desk, The Chancellor giving a curt nod before they let us through. Only a few Divernians possessed the authority he did. Doors that would've been shut in my face opened easily for him. Being the Chancellor of Divern did have its perks. No door off limits, an army of Facets at your command.

“I wish they'd stop following us.” I said, referencing the Facets behind us as we continued down the long hallway, “It's putting me on edge.”

I scratched my neck, calculating how long it had been since I inhaled that sweet smoke of my pipe.

“It's their job, Rue.” Grisham replied, “They're told to protect The Chancellor and that's what they do. You remember what it's like.”

“I remember.” I replied.

Grisham stopped abruptly and turned to face the two male Facets following closely behind us, “Would you mind giving us some breathing room here? We're not a threat.”

“You sure about that?” The younger of the two remarked, looking me up and down as I bit off a loose fingernail and spit it to the side of the hall, “This one looks like she woke up on the bad side of an Indigo affliction.”

He scoffed, nudging his partner who grinned widely.

I cocked an eyebrow but didn't say a word.

Reaching out his strong, slender fingers, Grisham grabbed the young Facet by his collar and pulled him towards his face. The camouflage jacket the young man wore stretched beneath the resistance of Grisham’s pull.

“Do you know who we are? Who she is?” He nodded towards me without taking his eyes off the young man, “She saved us from the last incursion. If not for her, Divern would've been overrun by The Watchers. Show some fucking respect.”

“She's not- one of us-” The young Facet struggled, “She wears the greens- of another soldier.”

“There's only been one female Facet.” The slightly older man interrupted his comrade, “You're not telling me this is her? She's not…”

“The Silver Blade,” my brother finished the man's sentence. The muscles of Grisham's neck flared as he set his jaw. His arms were hidden beneath his tattered leather jacket. He dared not wear his Facet greens anymore. It was too painful for him.

Quite the contrary to my daily garb. I wore the same greens every single day. I couldn't seem to let them go. No matter how sick I felt at the sight of my jacket, my boots- I saw myself no other way. I was a living photograph of who I'd been when the wall fell.

“She's fucking crazy, man. Look at her.” The young Facet’s brown eyes ran me over once again. The look on his face became increasingly disgusted, even as Grisham's grip tightened, “She's got those glassy eyes. She's pale. Her cheeks are sunken in. And she's still wearing greens. If she really is The Silver Blade, she's a deserter and doesn't deserve to wear the greens!”

“She's earned the right to wear the greens as long as she wants to,” spit from Grisham's mouth flew towards the Facet's face, “have you ever seen them? The Watchers? Do you know the empty, soulless eyes they have? Their pallid skin touching yours, the feeling of death creeping over you. And when they get close enough, the feeling of cold emptiness you feel when they suck your life away. Leaving you to suffocate and die just for the fun of it.”

The Facet quivered at Grisham's words. The tension on his greens grew until his jacket was too taut for him to move any farther, “Look man, calm down. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“You haven't even seen the outside of these walls have you?” Grisham’s voice purred through his clenched jaw. Hand on my forehead, I sighed as the exchange continued. Grisham's defensiveness wasn't a surprise. He'd always been my champion. My only fan. Even when I didn't deserve it.

“Well no, not yet. I… We….” he looked over at his partner who glanced off towards the wall. Refusing to speak on his behalf. I laughed as I chewed on my sleeve.

I walked to the Facet hanging from my brother's grasp and patted him on the shoulder before whispering into his ear, “Come find me if you survive outside these walls. I'll save some Indigo for you. We can share a smoke.”

“Unhand him, you brute!” The Chancellor shouted before forcing himself between my brother and the Facet.

The Facet stumbled backward and straightened his greens in an attempt to appear unbothered by the encounter. I flung my heavy auburn braid back over my shoulder and we continued down the hallway.

“You don't have to do that, you know?” I spoke quietly.

“You're my sister, Runel. It's my responsibility.” He replied.

“I'm a big girl, Grish. I can handle a little shit talking.”

“I know you can. But I don't think you should have to,” he nudged me with his shoulder. “You're strong, I know that better than anyone. I just don't want you to have to be all the time.”

I smiled at him and nudged back. If he hadn't been there with me after the incursion, I'd be dead. Not from any doing of The Watchers, at least not directly, but by my own hand. Long after the fighting stopped, I still heard their noises in my head. They'd burrowed into my mind once it touched me and I couldn't get them out. When it touched me, the strongest Watcher I’d ever faced, I saw the pictures in my mind. Death, over and over, our people being slowly killed by them. I couldn't stop all of the pictures, even after it released me. An endless playlist of death in my head.

Indigo affliction was already a part of me by then. If I wasn’t smoking it, I was running from the terrors I couldn’t explain to anyone. Not even my brother. I would've done anything to make it stop.

And I did.

Grisham found me that night. Covered in my own blood. The panic on his face, the fault all mine. I promised I'd never do it again, no matter how tempting it was.

But the Indigo…

It was the only thing to keep the voices away. The images that played in my mind. The soulless stares of The Watchers. The shrieks they made each time they claimed another life. It was constantly dwelling at the back of my mind, just waiting to be freed. But as long as I had the Indigo, I could manage it.

And I wasn't alone.

My clients were mostly former Facets. They needed it just as much as I did. The only thing keeping them tethered to their lives was Indigo. Even as some went mad and withered away, at least they lived when they so easily could’ve died.

I walked to The Chancellor who stood outside one of the treatment rooms. He read the treatment sheet just outside the door, mumbling to himself.

“What's his name?” I asked softly.

“Vellum.” The Chancellor replied quietly.

He slowly turned the handle and we followed him in. The Chancellor’s Facets stationed themselves outside the door.

The room smelled of stale, old crackers and mothballs. It was somewhat revolting when mixed alongside the smell of bloodied bandages and homemade anesthetic.

Vellum sat at the edge of his thin white mattress and looked out the window. From the window, the edge of the wall was visible just above the rims of the buildings that filled every crevasse of central Divern. A visual reminder that we'd been packed together like sardines in a can after the collapse of everything.

The wall was the only thing separating us from them. Like the other colonies, the people of Divern learned quickly that they shouldn't touch Indigo shards of the wall. Even the afflicted wouldn’t dare steal those shards. The colonies farmed it to build the walls making it property of the government and the people. Without it, The Watchers would have killed us all off long ago.

Some believe the Indigo appeared to warn us of their arrival. And that's why they can't touch it. Others think it's nothing more than a far-fetched coincidence, citing Murphy's Law. I think it's neither option. I think it's something far worse.

But I smoke it to keep the worries away. To remind myself that it's someone else's problem. Certainly not mine. Not anymore.

“Vellum?” The Chancellor whispered, placing his hand on the frail man's shoulder. “We're here to talk to you.”

Vellum turned to look at the chancellor and then at Grisham and I. His dark hair was disheveled and hung over his forehead. His blue eyes were shadowed with the burdens of what he'd seen. A look I knew from glimpses I'd caught of myself in the mirror. His face was lean, as if he hadn't eaten since the attack at the Gate. His hospital gown revealed little of his stature or size, leaving it a mystery to me.

“Talk… to me.” He spoke slowly.

“Yes we need some very important information, Vellum.” The Chancellor began, “This is Grisham and that's Runel. They were some of the best Facets we've ever had. They're retired, but they agreed to help us now. What happened at the Gate, we need to find out what we can do to prevent it. We need to know everything you saw. What you saw before the attack, when the Watchers followed you back to the Gate, anything that might help them. You're a Wayfarer. You know this area better than any of us and we need you to show us where you found those Indigo shards. If you do, then these two agreed to retrieve the antidote from Cambria for us. I know you're-”

“Sshhhh.” I hissed. As the chancellor spoke, Vellum’s expression became more drawn. I'd watched the eyes of my comrades turn glassy too many times to ignore what had happened to him.

I nodded at Grisham who approached Vellum slowly, carefully. His large form turning impossibly smaller when he sat before him.

“Vellum,” Grisham spoke softly and the frail man turned to face him, “I'm going to help you clear your mind to remember things that might be helpful to us, but I need your permission to do that.”

“You can… but how?” Vellum asked through strained breath.

“Think of it as cleaning the debris from your mind. Decluttering it so you can focus on what's useful.”

Vellum nodded, “We can… try….”

“Okay, take a deep breath and close your eyes,” Grisham spoke in a hushed, comforting tone.

Grisham sat before Vellum who was still perched at the edge of the hospital bed. Vellum's eyes reluctantly closed, even as his weary gaze swept the room in a final protest. Grisham had a gift for honing in on thoughts we needed to find. Interrogation some called it. But it was nowhere near as brutal as tactics often employed by Facets. Grisham merely unburdened them of painful memories held deeply. Decluttered their minds.

“Think about what you smell here in the room.

What you hear.

Now focus only on the sound of my voice.

Listen to my voice as you search for what we need.

Listen to my voice as you find the Indigo.

Picture it.

Look around.

Tell me what you see.”

Vellum's breathing slowed, his eyelids relaxed. His shoulders dropped away from his ears. He shivered. His voice suddenly more clear. “It's night. It's cold here. We got turned around… lost the trail to Cambria. The sounds of The Watchers are around us. G-getting closer.” His teeth began to chatter.

“We were trying… to get back to Divern. The path was dangerous…. We needed backup…. We could hear them…” Vellum's breath shuddered.

I saw the fear on his face. He pushed it aside in an effort to remember where he was and what he saw, but it was buried under the scaly, translucent skin of the Watchers who found them on that trail. I knew that fear because I'd felt it too. I'd been the best Divern could offer to stop them during the incursion. And I did just that, I killed and maimed dozens of Watchers when they tried to enter the colony. But what I'd lost during that fight, I'd never get back. It was a feeling that drew my pipe to my lips at the thought of it- despair.

I slowly stepped to Vellum and rested my hand on his shoulder. “You're safe now, they can't reach you here.” I retracted my hand quickly as if I'd been burned. Hoping the brief reassurance would help him find what he'd lost.

He inhaled deeply and turned his cheek towards me. Without opening his eyes, he spoke again, “When we retreated. We saw the blue glow of the Indigo. It wasn't a mountainside. It was a cave.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. Indigo had only ever been found on mountain faces. The reason the Angore Colony possessed it in droves, it was a colony alongside the mountain range.

Vellum nodded his head. I looked towards Grisham who nodded as well, no doubt thinking the same thing I was. Our basement wasn't the only underground cache of Indigo.

When Grisham retracted, Vellum opened his eyes, “That's all I can remember.”

“It's alright.” Grisham replied. “The Watchers seem to make us forgetful. Can you take us there?”

“I… believe so,” Vellum’s voice turned frail once again.

“We need weapons,” As soon as I faced The Chancellor, Vellum began to speak again.

“There are… people out there.” Vellum's shaky voice barely noticeable. “We weren't… the only people… in the woods.”

The attention in the room shifted to Vellum. Through the silence, the young Facet spoke, “Another group of Wayfarers. Maybe an expedition from Cambria.”

“No.” Vellum replied, “these people… weren't from the colonies. They spoke… in sounds. Their weapons… were primitive. And the way they moved… when they fought The Watchers. I've only seen it once… before.”

He turned to look into my eyes for the first time. His dark, disheveled hair parted only to reveal his bloodshot blue eyes. The stubble along his jawline matched his dark hair. The slope of his nose drew my eyes to his lips, soft despite his unkempt appearance.

“Only once…” He drew in a deep breath to steady his voice again. As if it took all his focus and energy to do so, “I saw someone moving so quickly you could hardly see her cut them down. Her blade gliding through the air, saving so many of us. Someone so beautiful, I couldn't believe she was real. Someone who never truly got what she deserved,” his eyes widened as he looked at me. It felt as though he were looking at a myth he'd only read about.

“Runel,” I jerked at the sound of The Chancellor’s voice. I'd been so glad to be rid of him when I left the Facets last year, I'd forgotten the way his voice turned my stomach, “We’ll send you with weapons. I'll send you with your weapon.”

My blade. He was going to return it to me.

“Anything else you need for the journey, I'll do what I can to-”

“I'll go,” I interrupted The Chancellor. “I'll do it.”

“And you?” He turned to Grisham, “I need you with her. That's the only way this works.”

Grisham's expression grew fatigued, his eyes shadowed, “Where she goes, I go.”

I bit my lip, still twisting my pipe in the pocket of my greens. I hoped then, that we'd survive out there in the wilds. That we'd come back to Divern with Indigo and answers. But there was more, an unanswered question in Vellum's words. Deep down, I knew we'd get the answers I searched for.

But I could never have prepared myself for the cost.