I Woke Up With A Splitting Headache, Lying In Bed Next To The Devil Himself.

Prompt - Dirt, Shoelaces, Hip

@big-bad-grimbark

Shadows danced as the gravedigger did his work, lit only by a single torch placed above him, dug into the ground at the foot of the grave. Opposite lie the memorial tombstone, for a William Berk, a man who died in his fifties, and was well-liked by the town. A shoelace salesman, he made a living selling what many did not realize they need – baubles that make life easier. Why, the gravedigger himself had bought a set just a fortnight ago, from the man himself, not that it mattered, he supposed.

The gravedigger continued his grim work, with each shovelful of dirt making the hole greater down, down into the dirt. But then something was wrong. He put his shovel to the dirt, and rather than reaching soft, moist earth, it hit something hard, like stone. Thinking that perhaps he had just hit a rather large rock, a not uncommon thing, he dug around it and uprooted it, and saw what it was.

It was not a stone, as he had thought, but a hip bone – from a human. The gravedigger shrieked aloud at the discovery, for this grave was not supposed to be inhabited. Scrambling for the edge of the grave, to climb out, he was gripped by the ankle by a hand – or rather, the skeletal remains of one. Ripping it from the ground in his mistake, he dragged the upper half of a human body from the ground with him. This body was mostly rotted – next to no meat remained on the bones, but the rotted remains were enough to hold the skeleton together.

The gravedigger was on the edge of the newly-dug burial ditch, when he saw it, and froze in horror. The ground of many graves was convulsing as if the things inside longed for release, and then clawing to the surface came the many dead. He watched as a man who died from a gunshot wound, buried a fortnight ago, whose body had begun to rot, clawed his way out of his grave. He watched a grave for lovers who died in an accident, as one rotten corpse crawled out, and helped the second to its feet. He watched as corpses, by the dozens, crawled from their graves and began to group together in the center of the graveyard.

He watched as the corpses of the Leer twins, who had drowned and been found days later, bloated with decay in the ponds buried with their favorite toys, met up with the skeletons who walked out of the Lovelace mausoleum; a married man and his wife, wealthy enough to afford affluence in death.

He watched, and then he saw Him.

He was a tall, thin figure, playing a flute, approaching the dead. He was dressed in a cloak and hood obscuring his upper face, but his hands were pale and paler still in the light of the full moon above. The sound of the flute was unearthly, but it seemed as though the dead were drawn to it. He played with skill, but the gravedigger could not hear it.

He watched as the skeletons from couples’ graves began to pair off and dance to an unheard tune played by the thin piper, and then those who died unmarried began to pair off and dance, a waltz to death’s memory. As they continued to dance, the gravedigger fought to free himself from the grip of his skeletal captor. Dragging himself to the surface, he ran towards the gate, trying to avoid the crowd of the dead.

But then the piper saw him, and began to play a different tune, one that the gravedigger could hear. The gravedigger felt frozen as he saw her rise from her grave – the woman he had loved in her life, though she died before her time. She rose, and he saw her as beautiful in death as she was in life, clad in a white dress. She approached him, and curtsied, and offered her hand to dance. Speechless, the gravedigger complied. Together they danced, closer and closer to the crowd, but the gravedigger could not care. For even as he looked, he saw them all as the beings they were in life; men and women, beautiful and forever in their prime. He saw none of the decayed beings they had become; he could not see the bone or smell the rot of aged and dead flesh. He could only see the couples dancing, happy as a yule-day ball.

The piper played faster, and faster still they danced, keeping time with the pace until the waltz became an insane jig, faster and faster they turned, turning and he noticed not them approaching the grave he had dug. He was too caught up in his love being returned to him, if only for the night.

For hours they danced, and the gravedigger could not feel the burning in his legs as they ached from exhaustion, he could not feel the pain of his own aging limbs as they were pushed to their limits. He could not see himself, as his time with the dead drew him closer to them; in both form and function.

Finally, they drew to the lip of the grave, after hours of dancing, and by the time he noticed his placement, he had lost his footing and tumbled into the grave. Hurting his back in the fall, he could not move his legs. He raised his hands for help, as he saw the ghostly party gather around the edge of the grave. He silently begged them for help, imploring them, imploring his beloved to rescue him.

But as this happened, the sun creeped over the horizon, and the glamer was broken. He saw them as they were – skeletal, ragged creatures in the tatters of burial clothing, skeletons, some with coins over their empty eye sockets. He saw his beloved as she was – a bare skeleton now, with a hole through the right cheekbone leading through to the back of her skull.

He tried to scream, but no voice came out. He looked up, and saw that skeletons were pushing the heavy tombstone – weighing near a ton. He saw as they pushed it closer and closer the edge, and finally noticed his hands – aged and wrinkled, as if he had aged four decades in as many hours. He raised them to protect him, as the tombstone reached the edge, and tipped into the grave. The last sight to greet his eyes before the tombstone struck was the face of the Piper, a face like a grinning death mask, its cheeks cut and restitched, a smile that never lowered. A last smile for the departed.

I don’t know how I got there.

Or, rather, I’m not sure.

Last I’d remembered, I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by my family. My husband, my daughter, and a couple doctors were standing by. I held my husband’s hand tight as I had gone into a seizure, side effect of an inoperable brain tumor. I’m fairly certain I died.

Yet here I was. On a rain-soaked street in what appeared to be any town in the Midwest, a bar in front of me, with two neon signs – a pretty typical ‘open’ sign, and a glowing white, cursive word – Purgatorio.

Not knowing what else to do, I went up to the door, tried to push it open, and the door held fast. I looked down, saw the sign that said ‘pull’, and obeyed. The door opened with ease, and I found myself in an empty bar – well, mostly. A man stood behind the counter, wearing a white dress-shirt, black jeans, a tie, and a black apron. He was wiping down the bar with a grey rag, and music – some folk rock band – played quietly from the speakers. As I walked in, a bell rang, and the man looked up.

He was a young man on the cusp of middle age, with black hair, pale green eyes, and a pierced right ear. He seemed unsurprised, and he called me forward. “Well,” he said, “Come in, have a drink.”

He pulled a bottle of whiskey from beneath the counter, and a tumbler glass. Getting ice from an old-fashioned machine behind him and putting some into the glass, he gestured me towards him again. “Come on, boy. You haven’t got much time until someone comes to collect you. It’s good to have a guest.”

I moved forward, and sat down in a leather stool at the bar. He poured whiskey into the glass and handed it to me. I looked at it, and then at his expectant face. “I don’t have any money,” I said, patting my clothing to look for a wallet I was pretty sure I lacked. I was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt under a simple grey hoodie. And no, I did not have a wallet, much less my own.

“I don’t want money,” he laughed. “I’m not in this for cash.”

He leaned in, and said in a voice alight with childish glee, “I do this for the stories. I’d like to hear yours, or as much of it as you want to share.”

I looked at him, and saw his nametag. It read, “Hello, my name is: Dante A.”

“What is this place? Why am I here?”

He poured another couple fingers of whiskey into the tumbler and gestured for me to drink. I took a sip. It was a good whiskey.

“Well, kid, you’re dead. Sorry to have to break it to you like this.”

Caught in the middle of another sip of whiskey, I gagged a little. “I can’t be dead – I’m here.”

He nodded. “Logical. But answer me this – where is here?”

Looking me up and down, he continued. “Because last you remember, you were somewhere else. It may have been a hospital bed, or in a car, or at home going to bed – but you woke up here, right outside my bar.”

He stepped away a couple steps and wiped down another part of the table. “As to your family, who are they? Tell me about them.”

I looked at him as suspiciously as I could, but it made a weird kind of sense. I began to speak, and the words poured out. He listened intently, nodding along as he cleaned up the bar. I told him how I’d met my husband – at a pride rally, in 2003. We’d fought tooth and nail for what we had – all the way up until our marriage was legalized and we could get married in our home state of Virginia. We settled down, opened up a book shop, and adopted our daughter.

All the while, while I droned on and on about my family, Dante looked like he was having the time of his life. He didn’t speak, only prodding me for more details. My daughter’s school teachers, what were they like? My husband, what was he like? He seemed insatiable in his lust for more information.

I drank as I spoke, and Dante refilled my glass each time I emptied it, and I found myself laughing at my own retelling, as I finished story after story. It felt like hours had passed.

Finally, I stopped. “Is this it?” I asked him, not feeling particularly drunk at the moment.

He looked at me, a twinkle in his eyes, and said, “Not even close.”

He leaned against the bar which he had finished cleaning, and looked out the rain-beaten windows at the front of the establishment. He seemed to fade off a little bit. I got his attention again, “I mean, is this all there is for the rest of eternity? Just sitting here and talking to you?”

He laughed. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Shrugging, I began again. “I mean – what about heaven? What about hell?”

He poured himself a glass and refilled mine. “What about heaven? What about hell?”

“Do they exist?”

Taking a sip, he spoke. “Yes, they do. I’ve seen them both.”

“And what’s this place?”

“A halfway point, sort of. For souls to wait for their guides.”

“Guides?”

“Angels, for the good. Devils for the bad. I get what I can out of those who come through. I remember your mother, when she came through. She said a lot about you.”

My mother had died some fifteen years ago. She was probably the most supportive person I’d ever known, and the first person I came out to. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had sat here, talking for hours to the same person I was, sharing stories of her life.

“Who came for her? Angel or devil?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know who comes for who, only that they do.”

“And what about you? Did anyone come for you? Will anyone come for you?”

He shrugged again. “I’m happy here, I built this place. I listen to stories. I guess that’s always been my job and my dream.”

“Do you ever want to move on?”

He paused, shrugged a final time, and then he perked up. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you, your story, your life? We’re nearing the end of your time here.”

“Where do you think I’ll go?”

He grabbed my hands, and looked me in the eye. “Look at me. Listen. You are the only judge of your life. Where do you think you deserve to go?”

I was a little dumbstruck. “I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of people tell me I’m going to hell.”

Dante looked up at the ceiling, muttered something in what sounded Italian, and looked back at me. “Well, in the words of the great Lewis Black, fuck them.”

“I’ve seen good people, I’ve seen bad. I’m not a judge, but most I can tell plain as day. And you, my friend, are not a bad-“

I heard a rapping at the door. Outside was standing a plain-looking man, dressed in a suit and tie, with steel-grey hair and an unyielding disposition. I looked at Dante. “What do you think?”

“Go,” he said, waving me on. “Go to where you belong.”

I walked back out through the door, and the man looked at me.

“You the new arrival?”

Looking back, at Dante, now thoroughly wiping the table again. “I suppose,” I said.

“Good. Would you step into the vehicle, please?”

I looked at the car behind the man. Black and simply-built, it looked solid enough. He opened the door, and I sat inside. He went around to the other side, got into the driver’s seat, and began to drive.

“Where are we going?”

He looked at me in the mirror, a stern expression on his face. Cracking a smile, he began to speak.

“On,” he said.

After you die, you expected an afterlife or either Heaven, or Hell. Instead you find yourself standing in front of a pub named ‘Purgatorio.’

Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.

For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.

“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”

Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”

“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.

“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.

Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.

But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.

“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”

“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”

“Got it.”

Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.

She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.

She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.

They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”

The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.

Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”

They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.

She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.

Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.

But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.

Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.

“Yes, there is.”

“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.

“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.

“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.

“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”

Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”

“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”

Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.

“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.

Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”

Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.

“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”

Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”

Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”

“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”

“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”

“F… fuck you…”

He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.

--- Present Day ---

They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”

The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”

They continued on their way.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”

“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”

She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.

It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.

--- Present Day ---

The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.

“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.

“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”

Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”

They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.

Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.

“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.

“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”

“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.

They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”

The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”

Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”

He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”

He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”

Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.

“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”

Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”

Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”

Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.

Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”

Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.

He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.

“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.

A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.

“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.

Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.

The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”

Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.

They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.

“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”

“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.

Story Shard 543

You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

Fire, Death, Light, Dark. There are many such abilities beholden to the Awakened. Those powerful souls who can command a fundamental force of nature with their will alone. There are thousands of us, an underground society operating even to this day, under the guise of governmental organizations and secret agents. Some of us are hired guns, sought out to bring down oppressive regimes – at least on paper. Many hone their abilities through such work. Others try their hardest to help those who need it. Some of us, though, hunt down our fellows who break the laws of the Covenant, an ancient document made by the First Council of the Awakened, to bind us all and keep us secret. Those hunters are called the Vyadha

I’m one of the latter; day to day, I’m a private investigator in sunny Miami, but once in a while, a next-to-unused fax machine (which is unlisted and even unplugged) will spring to life and print out my next target. A picture, a name, and some basic information will be printed out and I’m to hunt them down, wherever they be, all costs assured. Who finds out what they did, who sends the commands, no one knows. It’s the job of the Vyadha to hunt them down, and to recruit other Awakened to serve as Vyadha; once they take the oath, they are bound to hunt down all who break the laws until they lay dying. Those who fail become the hunted.

It was one boring Tuesday in the middle of November when the fax machine did just what it does, printed out the face of an attractive twenty-something boy. Long, unkempt but clean blonde hair, blue eyes, a well-defined jawline, and dressed in some combination of black and leather. The name and aliases read as follows.

ALEKSANDER KUZNETSOV

“The Bright One, Sunspot, The Light of God”

Twenty-two, Russian origin, currently hiding out in Crimea. You know what to do.

I looked at his face again. I didn’t know him, but then again, I didn’t need to, to know what he was. I looked closely at his face, and I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t just one of the hired soldiers, he was one of the “Razbudili Rebenka”, the child soldiers that saw use in the latter days of the Soviet Union, whose use continued into the late twentieth century by the disenfranchised pieces of the disbanded country. When their use became a risk to secrecy, they were killed by their handlers, soldiers who were unawakened. Even against the powers of nature, a single bullet can take our lives just as easily.

I’d guess he probably killed his handler. I wonder if he had even met one of his own kind. I wondered if it would have made a difference. Probably not; it was too late for him, regardless.

Getting up from my seat, I picked up my overcoat and put it on, looking in a mirror. An aged face looked back. I’d been at this for a long time. I was born in 1973, a child of a poor German-Jewish immigrant, whose parents had moved here to avoid the Nazis, and a black woman, and for the first fifteen years of my life I was happy enough. Then, they came.

The Erwechter Henker, a sect of Awakened Neonazis who sought to kill all awakened bloodlines from ‘lesser races’. They tracked down my father and struck. An awakened whose powers were to control fire burned our house down, killing my father, asleep in bed, my mother taking me and running outside. The awakened who had burned down the house was waiting outside with a group of unawakened. They took pleasure in beating me and my mother until I lay dying and my mother dead. That was when it happened, my powers awakened, the bloodline coming alive like fire devouring my blood.

My power is a rare one; the ability to affect matter with my mind. I can agitate it, move it, pressurize it, among other things. Within seconds I’d boiled the unawakened’s brains within their skulls, and shattered the bones in the awakened’s arms and legs. Unable to move, and therein unable to use his abilities, I took my pleasure slowly forcing all his blood into his head until it popped like an overripe cherry. I was sixteen years old.

I’m not ashamed of what I did that night; swearing to never let this kind of man do what he did ever again, I buried my family and left that night, to hunt down the rest of the Erwechter. Thanks to my efforts, their sect will never take root in America ever again. That took a decade and a half to do. By the end of it, I had burned every bridge in my life. I had no family; fascists had taken all that from me. It was then that he came to me, a Vyadha calling himself Jack the Reaper. His power, to control darkness, was used to hunt down Nazis across South America, to inspire terror in them before they died. He was near ninety when he came to me.

It was night, and I was drunk, aimlessly wandering around the streets in the dark, when he approached. He was dressed in a suit and overcoat, looking every bit the sophisticate. I looked like a vagrant, mostly because I was. I had no money, no goals – I had done everything I’d sought out to do.

“You are lost,” he spoke, his voice overlaid with a subtle German accent. “You are better than this, herr Abner.”

I looked at him closely, wondering if he was a spy of some sort. “Are you one of them?”

He shook his head at this. “Do not ever mistake me for one of those shizcoff.”

“Then who-“

“I am like you. I am Erwecht, Awakened,” he interrupted me. “I have spent my life hunting down the scum that have robbed us of our families, and I knew your grandfather and father before they came to America. I had heard he had a son.”

I nodded to this, it making sense even in my relatively inebriated state.

“He was a good man. I am sorry to hear what happened to him. I’m sorry that this is the fate that has befallen you; your vengeance was justified, but it should not have cost you the life you could have lived.”

I nodded again, accepting his statement. I’d have been lying if I had not thought the same thing, many times.

“I am here to offer you a chance at a new life; I am Vyadha, of the ancient order of hunters who destroy those who would break our laws. One such as the Erwechter Henker, and many such groups across the world. I have come to offer you the oath to join. It is a lifelong commitment, and should not be taken lightly.”

Here he paused, thinking for a moment. “I do not have much time left, myself. I have spent my years hunting much the same chaff as you, sending them to whatever awaits them. You can continue my work.”

From there, he handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, as well as a cell-phone, something somewhat rarer at the time.

I did not call right away. I continued to wander, the thought never leaving my mind.

But, one night, that changed. Two weeks later, I was taking the subway downtown, and came across a scene. Two muggers assaulting a black woman, calling her several slurs along the way. What charming fellows, with Celtic crosses and swastikas tattooed on their necks and the backs of their heads. I shouted at them, and one of them turned to me, drawing a gun. “What do you want, shitskin?” he asked, pointing the gun at my head.

“Leave her alone.” I stated, calmly. It wasn’t the first time a neonazi had pointed a gun at me. Wasn’t even the dozenth, or even the dozenth dozen.

He laughed, drawing back the hammer on the pistol. “Nah, I think I’ll kill you. Then-“ he gestured at the woman, “Me and my friend will do what we want to her.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” I said, this time cracking a smile.

“And why’s that, you n-“ he stopped as I broke his hand with my mind, dragging it down, and causing the gun to discharge into his foot. Screaming in pain, I picked him up by the throat with one hand, and threw him bodily into his friend. I nod with my head, indicating the woman to leave the station, as I did what I always do to Nazis. Leaving behind quite the gory mess, I pulled the phone out, and dialed the number. The voice on the other end was familiar. “Have you made your decision?”

Looking down at the corpses of my attempted murderers, I answered, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Two days later, I met him in central park. “I used my connections to get the investigations against you to stop,” said Jack, holding a lit cigarette. “Two men dead to gang-related activities, I am afraid.”

We both stop to laugh a little. “What do I need to do?”

He tossed me a silver knife and a piece of parchment with writing on it. “Cut your hand and say the words aloud. That is all that need be done.”

Drawing the blade across my hand, I read the paper.

“I swear on the Powers that Be to honor the first covenant, to hunt down the enemies of life itself, and to keep the secrets of the First Council. I swear this on my life, on the lives of my ancestors, and the power passed through blood. On this day, until my last day, I swear.”

I felt something change – like my awakening, but stronger. Pain, yes, but almost in a good way. Like a cleansing. “It is good to meet another Vyadha,” said Jack, “Welcome, brother Abner.”

That all seemed so long ago. Jack took me under his wing for a few years, introducing me to his contacts and other awakened, like us. But in 2006, at the age of 95, he died peacefully in his sleep, and I made sure he was buried with his dead family in Germany.

He left me a tidy sum, secret bank accounts holding liquid assets nearing a half a million dollars. Funds stolen from Nazis he had hunted.

Now, in the present, I boarded the first plane I could get to Ukraine, calling in favors from some of my contacts for information on the target. He was indeed of the Rebenka, and had indeed killed his handler. He was famous for his abilities, to channel light into his body and out through his hands. The effect could be anything from creating fire to blowing apart a building, depending on the strength of the light and his own desires.

I rued the fact that Jack had died so long ago, his ability to extinguish light would have come in handy in this venture. But, there are other ways to handle this.

Arriving in Ukraine, I was met by one of my contacts, an elderly woman who had lived through worse regimes than the modern Russians and had been a friend to Jack. She brought me to her son, a mechanic who had helped me and Jack in the past. War-torn countries are often havens for Awakened seeking to escape world governments. He gave me a vehicle, I took out a fake passport – one that claimed I was a reporter from the states – and set out for Crimea.

Within a day’s drive, I was in Crimea, and trying to figure out where Aleksander was. I hoped he’d been making a scene, but, as I knew was likely, he’d gone underground. It took a week of searching before I even heard of someone matching his description.

He’d fallen in with a gang in Sevastopol, who had protected him in exchange for his services as a ‘peacekeeper’, an enforcer who hunted down rival gangs. I tracked him to a club, called P’yana Svolota, and kept a close eye on the door, before following him into the club, wearing a thick hood and gloves. A black man in Crimea would stand out like a sore thumb. And there he was – dressed in the leather he seemed to like so much, attempting to woo a dancer – and by woo, I mean he was snorting coke out of her bra. He was laughing and chatting up a couple of suspicious-looking gents in suits in Russian. I couldn’t make a scene, killing him here. I’d probably kill him before he could do anything, but I’d most likely get shot for my trouble. I listened to their conversation.

“I want my salary doubled,” he said, sniffling a little.

“You’re already the highest-paid employer in our service,” said one of the men in suits. “We can’t justify paying you more – despite your valued service.”

Laughing, Aleksander brushed his blonde hair away from his face, and began again, “I don’t think you understand, I’m not asking – I’m telling you what I want, and you give it to me, or I drop more bodies than just your enemies.”

“The boss will hear about this,” said the other man, “You can’t just go making threats like this –“

“I can and I will, you mat’ shlyukhoy,”

The two men in suits stood up and walked out, and I watched as he pushed the dancer away roughly and got up, going to the bathroom. I followed.

Inside the dingy, graffiti-laden bathroom, I stood a couple urinals away from him and when he went to wash his hands at the pair of sinks, and I joined him at the other.

“Hey, man,” I said in English.

“What do you want?” he responded in an accent-laden English.

I turned to him and used my powers to throw him into the wall.

“Sukin syn!” he exclaimed, followed by a stream of likewise vulgar slurs.

Aiming a hand towards me, I dodged out of the way as a burst of flame went from his hand to the far wall, nearly taking me out. Using my abilities, I pinned his arms against the wall, and he responded by shooting light out of every bare bit of skin he had – brighter than a flashbang. Losing my concentration, he dropped to the floor, diving towards me while I was blinded. Recovering quickly, I used my abilities to turn off the lights in the room.

Remembering what Jack had taught me about fighting in the dark. Guard on all sides. Use your other senses, he had told me, be prepared for a strike from any side, but if both you and your opponent are on equal footing, make sure to face wherever they are coming from.

I drew from my pocket a switchblade that I had bought on the trip here, knowing telekinesis would be less than useless without my sight to guide it. I heard his footsteps as he ran towards me, and threw myself forward in a tackle.

Unfortunately, I dropped my knife. We grappled on the floor, and I heard sounds from outside, shouting. As I pinned Aleksander, the door slammed open, spilling light into the room. I rolled off of Aleksander as he blasted a beam of light from his bare hands, at what would have been me, but striking the ceiling. Finding the knife, I crouched as he rolled backwards, throwing himself forward into a standing position. Firing blast after blast at me as I dodged as fast as I could, I got closer and closer to him. A blast grazed my arm, melting cloth and burning flesh, painful but survivable.

Finally, I stabbed the knife through his right hand, causing him to scream in pain. Though he was trained in hand-to-hand, he was mostly a ranged opponent and was unused to physical pain in combat. Pulling the knife out quickly as he tried to blast me again, I drove the knife home, slicing through leather and into his right lung. A scream becoming a gurgling gasp as the lung collapsed, I knocked him off his feet, and finished the job, slicing across his throat. I turned and saw the man standing in the doorway, trying to draw his gun, but it was already too late. I threw him out of the doorway with my mind, ran outside and got back into my loaned truck, and drove.

It took me a week, three cars and a couple thousand dollars, but I made it back to the States, and to my house. Taking a beer from the fridge, I relaxed into my chair, and turned on the television. A rerun of Friends was playing. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let out a groan. My bandaged arm still hurt like hell. Then, the fax machine in the corner began to beep and print again.

There are many types of Mages in the world. Fire, Ice, Wind, Water, Death, Darkness, to name a few. But in this world, every type of mage is treated as equal. Everyone can be a good guy, no matter how dark your power. And anyone could be a bad guy, no matter how beautiful their ability…

reading update: june 2023

as promised (to myself) I spent all of gay months reading books by and/or about the gays, no exceptions! (unless you count the heaps of old Batman comics I was reading, but come on. it's all pretty fruity.) the trend will be continuing into July as well because I overshot and still have book I need to finish, so in the immortal words of Janelle Monáe: happy pride forever!

anyway, what have I actually been reading?

Empress of Forever (Max Gladstone, 2019) - man, I've been meaning to read this FOREVER! and I'm glad I finally did. Gladstone's space opera follows ultrawealthy tech genius Vivian Liao, a sort of dykey Lex Luthor who's CERTAIN that she's the good guy. okay, yes, she's trying to get control of the nukes, but she's not going to use them. it's just that the world's a mess and she needs to be in charge. unfortunately our girl Vivian doesn't get far in her master plan before she's transported across the galaxy and finds herself on the run from the all-powerful Empress in the company of a cybernetic monk named Hong and the legendary space pirate Zanj, the Empress' greatest enemy. from there our heroes are off on a slow, messy quest across the galaxy as they make new friends, grow as people, and strive to bring the Empress down. it's a very long book and can feel slow in places, but all of the time devoted to fleshing out the characters ultimately pays off as their stories converge into a resonant narrative about the notion of identity and what it means to be yourself. if you like Becky Chambers' Wayfarer books of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies, get on this shit.

also hey listen Max Gladstone is having a bit of a Moment rn; the book he coauthored with Amal El-Mohtar, This Is How You Lose the Time War, is getting a huge boost thanks to the Trigun (????) fandom??? over on Twitter, and you should definitely go check it out

Not Gay: Sex Between Straight White Men (Jane Ward, 2016) - Ward is a brilliant queer feminist writer; rigorous and insightful while keeping her work imminently readable. while the title may sound facetious, Ward actually takes entirely at face value that there are men having sex with each other an engaging in otherwise homoerotic activities - mutual jerkoffs, hazing rituals that involve anal penetration - that sincerely aren't stemming from a place of gay desire and asks us what the fuck we're supposed to make of that. what results is a fascinating look at masculinity and the intricate rituals that both subvert and maintain it. shockingly thought provoking for a book that contains so many transcribed craigslist posts of men looking for straight guys to have totally normal hetero dudesex with!

The Latinos of Asia: How Filipinos Break the Rules of Race (Anthony Christian Ocampo, 2016) - I was lucky enough to get to see Ocampo (who is gay) speaking at the National Conference on Race and Ethnicity this year, and naturally I had to buy one of his books while I was there. I strongly suspect he's about to become one of my new favorite nonfiction writers, because the Latinos of Asia was a brilliant read that I really couldn't put down. Ocampo (who's also Filipino!) delves into the formation of Filipino-Americans' racial identity, and finds that many feel caught between the most conventionally accepted racial categories - feeling alienated from the idea of Asian identity, which is often perceived as pertaining to East Asians like Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, and instead relating much more firmly to Mexican-Americans and other Latinos. it's a FASCINATING study on race and one (of many!) loopholes that exists in this very large, messy, totally made up construct of race.

A Lady for a Duke (Alexis Hall, 2022) - for my pride month romance novel I wanted to read something that I might actually like. I've previously adored Hall's genre-fucking ultra-queer Sherlock Holmes pastiche, the Affair of the Mysterious Letter, and Lady for a Duke was really well-reviewed, so my hopes were high! and you know what? I fucking loved this. it was like cotton candy, perfectly sweet and made to be inhaled without a second thought. Our Heroine Viola was the heir to an estate who faked her death at Waterloo so that she could run away and be herself - that's right baby, this is a 19th century trans lady romance! she reconnects with her old BFF the Duke of Gracewood, who's been catatonically depressed since losing his best friend in the war, and reader, you will not believe what happens next. just kidding, you totally will: they want to kiss each other so bad! they're yearning so bad and it's great. it's a very silly book and Gracewood is the most unexpectedly forward-thinking 19th century duke EVER who is instantly down to accept Viola entirely as a woman and thinks that having biological children is overrated, and you know what? that rules. I'm not reading this book for historical accuracy I'm reading it to watch a man beg his girlfriend to fuck him tenderly in the ass. and she does!!! if I'm being honest everything after they finally hook up is kind of nonsense and the book probably is too long, but god it's a delightful time.

Chlorine (Jade Song, 2023) - back in the days of twitter I started following Jade Song as soon as they announced selling this book, the story of a competitive high school swimmer succumbing to obsession as she fantasizes about becoming a mermaid. finally getting to pick up the book from the library and actually read it felt crazy after existing in potentia for so long! while Song's novel is a little rough in some places in exactly the way I expect from a debut, it's still gripping and visceral. our protagonist lives in an intense and demanding world, striving to please an overly handsy coach, wanting to please the immigrant parents she can barely speak to, stumbling through sex with boys on her team while longing for her female best friend. through it all she fixates on mermaids, and the story is told in flashbacks building up to a drastic act of self-mutilation at a swim meet. it's definitely not the right book for the faint of heart or anyone looking for feel-good fluff, but it's harrowing in the best way.

Vagabonds! (Eloghosa Osunde, 2022) - gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous! Osunde celebrates queer life - those called vagabonds, society's outliers - in Lagos, Nigeria, slipping between the real world of social stigma, oppressive religion, judgmental family, and dangerous politics, and the world of magic, gods, and the unreal, blending the two together in an effortlessly dizzying effect. the ultrawealthy hide behind layers of flawless masks to conceal their identities, a lonely woman dying of cancer summons up a daughter than only she can see, and a young man channels the devil to raise his murdered lover. while the stories start bleak, firmly establishing the danger of life on the margins, they gather speed with increasing warmth and love as the story progresses, eventually bringing all of our protagonists together in glorious, life-affirming celebration of vagabonds and all who love them. Nigeria, in Osunde's hands, reads much like family - imperfect, sometimes even awful, but also capable of harboring tremendous love, surprising tenderness, and still worth holding out hope for. I think measuring books in terms of relatability is a fool's game, but as an American queer watching more and more legislation and persecution roll out against my people each day, it was hard not to feel a cord being struck. Vagabonds! is a beautiful reminder that queer resilience is eternal, and reader, I did cry.

Quietly Hostile (Samantha Irby, 2023) - I was a ride or die bitch for Sam Irby even before she picked up and moved to my small Michigan city, effectively becoming my neighbor. (not really, but she is married to the mother of a friend of a friend, so.) despite this, I will freely admit that I was a little underwhelmed by her last release, 2020's Wow, No Thank You. it's possible that WNTY was damned by its March 2020 release, putting it in the awkward position of being a humorous essay collection creeping out into the world at a time when everyone was paranoid and nothing was funny; maybe on a reread I would receive it a bit more warmly. Quietly Hostile, on the other hand, is just stupid funny right out of the gate. Sam Irby is old (see: in her early 40s) and going downhill, writing candidly about peeing her pants everywhere, adopting a rancid little dog, getting sent to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction, and jacking off to plot-heavy porn of elderly lesbian nuns. it takes a little bit of work to get me to actually laugh out loud at a book but man, I was chortling. if you don't already know her work, this is a sign from god (me) to check Samantha Irby out now.

what am I reading now?

Black Water Sister (Zen Cho, 2021) - the was one of the oldest queer novels(TM) on my list and I really wanted to knock it out for pride month. the Malaysian setting and culture is a welcome addition to contemporary urban fantasy, but I'm not sure I'm crazy about the story overall. and yet, I'm over 200 pages deep and don't want to give up, so ? I guess I'm persisting.

Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin, 1956) - my local library lost their copy just in time for pride month, so I bought one on ebay for all of nine dollars. haven't started yet, but I'm really excited to finally pop that proverbial Baldwin cherry!

It was raining quite hard when I saw them walking, a pair of lovers who had been going for a stroll in the dark, and had been caught in the rain. They were quite young, I suppose, though I have never been a good judge of those things, and I floated around behind them. I suppose I hover behind all at some point, but these two seemed special to me. I paid attention to them, and saw their stories, hovering behind them like film-reels lost to time.

He was a boy from Detroit; his life had been far from easy. He had had to fight for every scrap in his life, and love was new to him. He had met her on a train bound to New York, and they had hit it off. They had spent a couple weeks in correspondence with each other before they had decided to date, and when they did, it had been a smashing success. Within six months they had moved in, and within eighteen he had proposed; rushed though it seemed, they were in love.

He had cut ties with his father, who did not approve the marriage. She was ‘not right for him’ he had said. And who knew, maybe his father would have eventually been proven correct.

She was born in Tennessee, the child of farmers whose lineage traced back to the dust bowl. She loved him dearly, but not with the all-consuming passion he did; she was a slow burn, and had more ties in the city than he did. She worked in a grocery store; her favorite food was roast chicken, and her best friend was her coworker, who was the first friend she made in the city.

Her parents were dead, her mother from a heart attack, her father from lung cancer. She had no ties back home, and was happy here.

I take no joy in my work this night.

I follow behind as they walk along the street, talking and laughing, with such joyous plans for the future. Their lives seemed secure, so perfect, so lovely.

They walk along the sidewalk, wet and dark, with an umbrella to protect from the rain. Twenty feet lay between them and the end of the block, twenty feet between them and the street. They paid little attention; youth rarely does.

They wandered along, talking of everything and nothing at all, giggling, him holding her close, kissing her forehead with such care that I wondered if there was a way I could stop what would happen. Of course, I couldn’t.

Ten feet to the street. He knelt to tie his shoe and she waited. Perhaps if he had left it alone, he wouldn’t have –

Five feet to the street. Both she and he are talking and laughing again. They didn’t even notice, as they stepped into the street.

The driver was a truck-driver from Shermer, Illinois. No wife, no kids. Nearing forty, it seemed he had little prospects of that happening, and he was happy enough about it. After the ‘incident’ as his coworkers euphemistically referred it, he would lose his ability to drive. He would take to drink. In all too soon a time, I would be drawn to him as well.

Perhaps if he had reacted a little faster, he would think, knowing he couldn’t have. I think the helplessness is almost worse, in a way.

Perhaps if it was not raining, he would have seen them before. Perhaps he could have reacted earlier. But, like me, the rain is inevitable. And even if the rain did not come, perhaps I would have come to them in a different manner.

I take no joy in my work, and as they stepped forward, the headlights shined on them just a moment too late for them to react.

Soon there was nothing to be done but watch, I, the eternal witness, in the rain.

And right there it rained a little harder.

write a story with the first line being “it was raining quite hard” and the last line being “ and right there it rained a little harder”

What is an Unreliable Narrator? And How to Write One.

An unreliable narrator is a storytelling technique where the narrator's credibility or truthfulness is questionable. The narrator either intentionally or unintentionally provides a distorted or biased account of the events, characters, or situations in the story. This narrative approach can add complexity, suspense, and intrigue to your writing. Here's how you can create an unreliable narrator:

1. Establish a motive: Determine why the narrator is unreliable. It could be due to personal bias, mental instability, deception, or a hidden agenda. Develop their backstory, motivations, and beliefs to understand why they might present a skewed version of events.

2. Use subjective language: Incorporate language and descriptions that reflect the narrator's personal viewpoint and biases. Their opinions, emotions, and interpretations should color their narration, influencing how readers perceive the story.

3. Include contradictions and inconsistencies: Allow the narrator to make contradictory statements or present conflicting information. This creates doubt and keeps the readers engaged as they try to unravel the truth.

4. Reveal information selectively: The unreliable narrator might withhold or reveal information strategically, manipulating the readers' understanding of the story. This can create suspense and surprise as readers discover hidden truths.

5. Showcase unreliable perceptions: Explore how the narrator's perceptions and interpretations of events differ from reality. They may misinterpret actions, misremember details, or even hallucinate. These discrepancies add depth to the character and raise doubts about their reliability.

6. Use other characters as contrasting sources: Introduce other characters who present alternative perspectives or contradict the narrator's version of events. This contrast allows readers to question the reliability of the narrator and form their own interpretations.

7. Employ narrative techniques: Experiment with techniques like foreshadowing, symbolism, or unreliable memory to emphasize the narrator's unreliability. These devices can help blur the line between truth and fiction, leaving readers intrigued and uncertain.

8. Provide hints and clues: Drop subtle hints or clues throughout the story that suggest the narrator's unreliability. This allows readers to piece together the truth gradually and encourages them to engage actively with the narrative.

Prompt: Heather, Teeth, Argyle and Wand

@big-bad-grimbark

The heathers bloomed that year in record numbers, and while the townsfolk of Aniseborough were pleased enough, they could not help but notice the odd occurrences around the town as the season wore on. As spring began to fade into summer, the happenings around became queerer and queerer.

First the dogs and cats ran away, and few were found. Always they seemed on edge, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Secondly, there was a number of odd occurrences regarding the newly-in-place electricity; strange and fickle enough, this was mostly ignored, save for the blowing-outs of random lightbulbs. This (rather expensive) fault was blamed on wiring. Thirdly, a stranger moved into the house on Ashe street, and his solitary nature as well as his bookish behavior were cause of much consternation among his neighbors. The nerve, taking to paper more than people.

But the only one who seemed to link the strange happenings together was Jimmy. Little Jimmy, called Jimmy Tartan-socks by the locals (for that was what he always seemed to be wearing, leggings of tartan). Jimmy was a boy of eleven when this summer came around, and he was a regular terror; throwing stones through windows, shaving a neighbor’s cat (though how the cat came to sit still that long, no one knows), even seducing the neighbors’ children to his wicked ways.

A mischievous street-gang was all they were, him and the neighbors’ children and his three brothers. The neighbors’ children were two girls and a boy; the girls were twins of blonde hair and pale features, named Ashley and April (10), for the parents loved the alliterative names (though the girls would switch them up on occasion for a laugh). The boy, named Johnathon (11), whose dirty blonde hair was often made darker by dirt itself, was called Nat by the gang, and was often bullied by his older sisters, but that didn’t stop him from being Jimmy’s closest friend and confidant.

Of Jimmy’s siblings, there are three, but only two who take to the calling of his gang. His two little siblings, Jeffrey (9) and Josiah (7), who look much the same as miniature versions of Jimmy – red hair and freckles to spare. Of the final sibling of Jimmy there was Eve, whose red hair betrayed her relation to her siblings, born twelve months before Jimmy nearly to the day. They treat each other with such mutual enmity that were it not for the blood relation, she and he may have been close friends.

Jimmy and his gang were a terror to behold for the community at large; and some of the neighbors even began to think he responsible for the strange happenings around town. And as the sole suspect, Jimmy knew he was innocent. Mostly.

One day, he gathered his gang around the stump in his back yard to discuss what was going on. “Alright, chaps,” he’d say, in strict imitation of his father, “we’ve got strange goings on, and we need to get to bottom of it, or we’ll be blamed!”

In response, Ashley stated in a rather bored tone, “Me dad says it’s the foreigner who moved in on Ashe. He says he’s up late into the night doing mischief of all sorts across town.”

At this, Jeffrey scoffed. “Your dad’s a goop. He’ll say that about anyone who moves into town.”

At this, Ashley, April and Nat all start shouting at the others, and an argument quickly erupted. For a few minutes, Jimmy, the level-headed one of the group, waits for it to simmer down, and when it doesn’t, he cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts at the top of his lungs, “Quiet!”

And at his word, like loyal troops, his gang fell silent. Truly he was the unspoken master here.

“I didn’t say we knew what’s going on, I said we need to find out what is. So, we need to plan ahead. When are, these things happening?”

“The lights break at night, when they’re on,” said Josiah.

“The dogs and cats run away at night too,” said Nat.

“Then,” said Jimmy, triumphantly slamming his fist onto his palm, “We have to start watching at night. Within a week we can figure this all out.”

The entire gang began to erupt in protest, an unfortunate side effect of such absolute statements.

“We’ve got a curfew of eight o’clock,” said April.

“We’ve got a curfew of eight thirty,” said Josiah.

“Quiet!” shouted Jimmy, one more time, to get the point across. “We can break out our windows at night when our parents go to bed. Come now, when do your parents go to bed?”

“Nine,” said the neighbor’s children.

“Eight forty-five,” said Jeffrey and Josiah.

“Then all we have to do is clamber out our windows and be back by dawn. Easy as can be.”

At that, Jimmy noticed that the gang wasn’t really watching him anymore, but seemed more fixed on the space behind him a few feet. Turning around quickly, and flushing bright red, he saw that his sister was not five feet away from the group, arms crossed matter-of-factly.

“And just what are you brigands up to?” she said, in a sing-song voice.

“Nothing,” muttered Jimmy in response, his red face growing in color to an effervescent shade of crimson.

“Really?” said Eve, mimicking disinterest. “Because it sounded to me like you were planning some great heist of some sort. It would be a shame if word got around to… maybe mum and dad…”

Jimmy was flustered, and spattered out, “You… wouldn’t… dare?!”

“No,” said Eve, “But I want in.”

Jimmy was flabbergasted by this turn of events. “You said you wouldn’t join a year ago!”

“A lot can change in a year,” snapped Eve. “A lot has happened in a year, in fact.”

“So,” she said, stepping forward into the position around the stump that Johnny had vacated, practically pushing him out of the way as she did so, “What’s the plan for escape?”

_

The next night, they had all well prepared for their journey. Packing up a change of clothes apiece, going to bed in their day clothes, and ready for whatever grand war they had stumbled into, they snuck out of their parents’ houses. They met up a good deal away from their homes, to avoid suspicion, and began to search. Eve led Ashley and Nat, to scout the south side of town for any unusual activity, while Jimmy led April, Jeffrey and Josiah, to the north. Jimmy was fuming at the loss of his second in command, while April tried her best to cheer him up. “I’m sure we’ll find the rat first,” she said, her youthful naivete astounding even to those youths with marginally less. “Don’t you worry, Jim.”

“I told you never to call me that,” said Jimmy, sourly. He would never forgive Eve; of that he was sure.

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” said April.

Jeffrey and Josiah hung back a few feet, to avoid the general range of Jimmy’s bad mood, lest he cuff them again, as he had on a few occasions prior. But they knew he wouldn’t hit April; he’d never hit a girl, at least according to himself. As to Jeffrey and Josiah, they would oft exchange knowing glances whenever Jeffrey went off on one of his tirades against his sister. The two were a lot alike, even if neither of them would admit it in any number of lifetimes.

Meanwhile, Eve was turning up dirt, which is to say, finding absolutely nothing of value while being absolutely sure her brother was doing better at this; something that did not improve her already foul enough mood. She yawned, and at the yawn Ashley drew a bottle full of dark liquid from her satchel. “Coffee?”

Eve started, and stared at Ashley. “You’re ten.”

Ashley shrugged, uncorking the bottle and downing a bit, grimacing. “Me dad drinks this stuff all the time. Says it keeps him awake for his job.” (her father worked on an assembly line in a nearby town, building cars)

Nat was busy trying to figure out a way to impress Eve, when Eve called him over and handed him a pair of cheap opera lenses, which she had had the foresight to steal -no, borrow- from her mother. “Quit being a goldbrick and watch the rooftops. Maybe it’s some kind of strange animal.”

Ashley bobbed along behind Eve, and said in as stern a tone as she could, “What would you like me to do, cap’n?”

Eve smiled at the younger girl, and said, “I suppose you and I can make conversation while we search. I should rather enjoy the company.”

Ashley blushed at the compliment.

_

A few hours later, they had found next to nothing, and it was nearing midnight, and Jimmy was about to give up hope when he saw Him walking along the streets. Gesturing in silence for his compatriots to hide with him in the alley between two abandoned buildings, he watched the stranger. The stranger moved in almost complete silence, using a walking stick to help himself along. He would have been unremarkable, were it not for the strange time in a quiet town, or for the fact that, as he passed a street lamp, he lifted his cane up, and they watched as a tiny bolt of lightning went from the bulb to the cane, the bulb went out. It was if he was sucking electricity out through his cane.

Jimmy gestured for his allies to follow him, keeping fifty or so feet behind the stranger, as they made their way through town. At every third or fourth bulb, the stranger would perform the strange ritual again, lifting the cane and draining the electricity. It was almost unnerving to be so near the stranger in the dark. He barely noticed April gripping his arm. “We should go back,” she whispered with urgency, “He could be dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” said Jimmy, “He’s probably just some mad old rambler who’s wandering around with some odd magnetic contraption, messing with the lights. No danger to him, he’s making mischief, just like we used to do.”

They followed for near an hour, until they found themselves in the south side of town again, and soon they saw their fellow conspirators anew, who had noticed the same stranger. Eve crouched alongside Jimmy, “Do you think he’s spotted us?”

“I don’t think he has; otherwise he would’ve stopped by now, right?”

They watched as the man put out one last bulb, and made his way down Ashe street, to the old house on the end of the dead end. “Isn’t that that house that belongs to the foreigner?” said Ashley

Eve scoffed, “The man’s no foreigner, he’s just from Europe.”

“That’s foreign to us, though!” said April.

“Nah, foreign is like someone from the east or something. At least, that’s how dad tells it,” said Nat.

“It’s just as well,” said Jimmy, “Since no one has seen him since he moved here anyway. He could be anyone from anywhere for all we know.”

They followed the man to the house, and watched him go into a cellar door.

“Should we follow?” spoke Nat, in worried tone.

“Yeah!” enthused Jimmy, “After all, it’s what we did this for anyway. We need to get that cane as proof, or no one will believe us.”

“No!” said Eve, paling at the idea, “Jimmy, this isn’t a good idea. What if you get caught? What if you get hurt?”

“Ah, that’s not gonna happen,” Jimmy scoffed. He got up and began to run towards the house at a half-crouch. Nat shrugged and followed, never one to be left behind. April and Ashley began to follow, but Eve stopped them. “You two go home, and make sure that Jeffrey and Josiah get home safe as well.”

“But Eve,” whined Ashley.

“No buts,” said Eve, in a tone that made it starkly clear whose sibling she was. “This could be dangerous. I may not have been able to stop Jimmy or Nat, but you four,” at this she gestured at the group before her, “are all my responsibility. Go back to your house and make sure the way is clear for the rest of us to come home, would you?”

Ashley bit her tongue, and grabbed April by the arm. Silently, the four made their way back. Eve began to go after Jimmy and Nat.

_

Jimmy and Nat made it to the cellar door, to find it unlocked, but partially stuck. It took them a moment to jimmy it so that it would open for them, and within that moment, Eve arrived. “Just what are you two thinking,” she hissed.

Jimmy looked up at her, a fire in his eyes. “No one said that you had to come.”

At this latest angst Eve rolled her eyes. “Of course I had to come you arrogant, little – “

Nat slapped his palm against his forehead and spoke. “What she means to say, Jimmy, is that she cares about you, no matter how much you two fools argue, you’re blood. And that means something.”

Nat began into the cellar, and then turned back. “Are you two numbskulls coming or not?”

Looking at each other, and in silence agreeing, Jimmy and Eve made their ways down the stairs.

_

The cellar was a strange thing; built into a natural sandstone quarry and partially filled with dirt. Strange and exotic plants were growing on tables here, and there seemed to be some kind of natural steam filing up from the dirt beneath them. The place smelled strongly of manure.

Covering their noses, the three made their way through the room and across to the stairway up from the cellar. In the next room, they found a strange assortment of goods. Metal casings, as if for ventilation, a welding torch, screws and screwdrivers, contraptions made of wood and metal, and then they saw it, across the way – on the table was the cane, made of some strange, silvery material.

Moving for it, the three barely paused until they heard the voice.

“Stop right there.”

It sounded tinny, like someone speaking through a fan or like someone a far way off. The three turned, and saw the figure standing across the room on the other side, with its arms crossed in front of it.

“I had figured I would be found out,” said the voice, which seemed to emanate from the chest of the stranger, “but I did not think I would be found out by a gang of children. My congratulations on that, I would suppose.”

The three looked at each other, worried by this.

“Do not be afraid. I mean you – and everyone in this town – no harm.”

He made his way to block the cellar exit, keeping his hands upturned.

“This would be easier to show than to explain,” he began, as he lowered his hood and began unwrapping the cheesecloth veil that covered its head.

As he lowered it, there was a shine of coppery metal and of glass. There were some knobs, some dials, and some other strange parts as he stripped, revealing his full, androgynous, metallic form.

“I was created nearly two decades ago, when a group of scientists tried to create an artificial intelligence, a brain from machine. No one could know of their experiments, and none could know just how successful they would be in creating me.”

At this, he gestured to himself. “But fear got the better of the men, and they sought to destroy me, to destroy progress. So, I took matters into my own hands.”

His head lowered, and his voice crackled as he spoke again. “But I will not harm children. I will ask you honestly, with the hopes you listen, not to reveal what you have seen tonight. You may return whenever you may wish, but if any others know about this, save you, I am in grave danger.”

He looked up, his face a bronze façade with green, glowing eyes. “Please, spare me so I may continue. To exist.”

Eve was the first to speak. “Why the lights?”

“I need electricity to survive. It is my lifeblood, and I cannot produce enough here alone by burning methane cells I create in the basement. So, I improvise. That cane is of aluminum, and can be used, in conjunction with my own abilities, to drain electricity. Unfortunately, your lightbulbs can only take so much. One day I may improve on the design, but I must live until then.”

“The animals?” intoned Jimmy.

“They fear me, for some reason. Perhaps I am anathema to their nature. I know it little better than you do.”

“So what do we do now?” whispered Nat into Jimmy and Eve’s ears.

“You leave. For now, and until it is safe to return,” spoke the stranger. “I ask that you keep this secret for me, and through that I will continue to survive.”

At this, the three took their leave of the place and returned to their houses, where they explained the evening to their siblings, and spoke of it no more.

_

To this day, rumors of metal men wandering the streets of Aniseborough are fairly common; and who knows, perhaps he wandered off. Perhaps if you see a stranger walking your streets at night, dressed in a hood and coat, keeping close to electrical poles and towers, perhaps you will be able to see the tiny bolts of lightning as he drains power from the world to save himself.

Perhaps the metal man of Aniseborough still walks to this day.

For all those who complain about explicit “smutty” books or smut in fic in general:

Just be aware that a bill has been introduced in Oklahoma’s state senate (SB 593) that would make writing/publishing/owning an explicit romance book a felony.

So, when you come on here to espouse your “anti pro-ship” nonsense, or moan about how hard it is to find fics/art/books that aren’t “smutty” — know that this is the effect. You are being used as mouthpieces to help feed and perpetuate censorship. There is no room for censorship in fiction because it will never stop at what you deem morally “right”. It is about control and the restriction of speech. Your discomfort with sex in media does not make it wrong, and it certainly doesn’t mean you get to advocate for its restriction.

Do not be pawns in the far-right’s game. Do not call yourselves allys of any kind if you are willingly feeding into a pillar of far right extremism. It will not stop where you think it “should.”