New Post Day is Moving

New posts will now be found on Wednesday rather than on Saturday. This is partially because I tend to be busy on the weekends, and as such forget to post. I know, I know, I could just set my post to publish automatically, but where’s the fun in that?

So, Wednesday = New Posts

This Wednesday = New August and Minerva

~H

 

The Last Glimpse

When he was eighteen, Liam entered the National Service and risked his life in the muddy trenches of the West. After a decade witnessing the horror of war, he returned home and put the past behind him. He locked his uniform in a chest that he kept at the foot of his bed. Some nights, he thought he could hear it stirring, crawling in its box. On those nights, he wondered why he didn’t die in the war. He had escaped the grim battlefield without a single wound. While so many others were killed or mangled, Liam left the war without any physical scars. However, his mental wound was as deep as any bayonet’s thrust. He became obsessed about his fate, and his obsession led him to the alley where Santiago’s illicit business thrived.

The alleyway was dark as ink and wound about itself in a maze of twists and turns. On either hand, towering brick monoliths held scores of sleepers who dreamed more peacefully than Liam had in the past twenty years. In the dark corners, he was certain that eyes watched him. Walking with more care than he had in all of his forty-eight winters, Liam gripped the trench spike that he always kept hidden in the pocket of his moleskin overcoat. It provided him with all the comfort of a best friend.

The alley abruptly came to a dead end after a sharp right angle. A door carved with strange symbols stood ominously in the plain brick wall. By rights, it would be the rear entrance to a building, but the wizard Santiago’s curio store had no front entrance; all of the wizard’s dealings were secretive and unfit for daylight. Knocking softly on the door, Liam glanced behind himself, just to be certain that no one was following. The door swung open, revealing Santiago. He was a short, mole-like man with a pinched nose and tiny eyes that were warped by thick spectacles.

“You are late,” said Santiago, his tan face a mass of deep wrinkles that were exaggerated by his squinting and frowning. “A man who is not punctual is barely a man. You kept me waiting, and have wasted my time, what precious little I have.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Liam. His ears burned with embarrassment as he bowed his head remorsefully. “I didn’t expect the walk to be quite so long.”

“Life is too precious a thing to waste so frivolously. Nothing you say can give back what you have taken from me. There’s little use for apologies and pretty words when the reaper is rapping on the door.” said Santiago, clenching an ornate pipe between his teeth. The billows of smoke it expelled had an exotic, spicy, fruity aroma.

“I don’t wish to delay you any more than I have,” replied Liam resignedly. He took a step into the curio shop; it was a dusty place filled with useless antiquities and expensive baubles. In a corner, a huge mirror stood ominously; a camera mounted on a tripod stood before it, reflected crisply in the meticulously cleaned mirror.

“I have your letter of introduction here,” said Santiago, pulling a crumpled letter from the pocket of his short, velvet waist coat. “Your friend speaks very highly of you. A veteran of the War, an upstanding citizen, and all the things the Government could ask a man to be. Yet, you come to me. I am an Enemy of the State, you know.”

“I know that,” said Liam, his eyes shifting and examining the windowless walls. “They say you can foretell the future and divine a man’s fate. I need to know what mine is.”

Santiago waddled towards the camera, and invited Liam to stand before it.

“This camera is a rare thing, and an antique. It is the secret of my power.” Santiago’s eyes gleamed with passion as he patted the top of the camera as though it were an obedient dog. “When I photograph a subject standing in front of a mirror with the camera, upon the development of the film, you will see a faint reflection of the subject’s coming fate. However, it is a fickle device. Since the future is a malleable thing, the photograph may need interpretation. If a pregnant woman were the subject, it could show the child that the woman will bear, or maybe the death that awaits her offspring in eighty years.

“The more I know of you, the more accurate my interpretation can be. Also, if you can articulate your question a bit more,” said Santiago as he buffed the camera’s lens.

“There isn’t much to tell.” Liam stroked his trench spike with his thumb nervously. “I was a soldier in the War, like the letter said. I spent ten years in that place. It was unending slaughter and violence, like Valhalla, but without feasts and without immortality.” Liam began to sweat as he thought about the time he never spoke of.

“It was always damp and wet; on the best days the water was ankle deep in the trenches. On the worst, you could drown. Blood mixed freely with the water and mud, turning everything red and rust. At the least, I should have contracted immersion foot syndrome. Yet, as the days went by and the War went on, I remained free of illness.” Mopping his brow with his sleeve, Liam felt himself being drawn back into his memories.

“One day, I noticed that I didn’t recognize any of the faces of my comrades. My entire squad had died in the course of subsequent battles and had been slowly replaced. Soon, I wouldn’t recognize anyone in my battalion. I got cocky, thinking I was immortal. I lead a squad out of a trench and across No Man’s Land and took over one of the Enemy’s machine gun nests. When I returned, my C.O. told me that everyone in the squad was gunned down as soon as they went over the top of our trench. I took the nest alone after running 30 or 40 yards through heavy machine gun fire.”

“You are a very lucky man,” Santiago said, breaking Liam‘s intense recollections.

“When I got home, I was convinced that it was more than luck. I was invulnerable on the battlefield. Where so many others left their lives in the mud, I had thrived. I felt that God had put me here for a reason, that He protected me in the War so that I could do something great for society. I tried getting into a career within the Government, but I lacked the talent for politics. I settled for a life selling and writing the news.” Liam felt relief after he told Santiago his story. He had never told anyone else about his feelings, much less about his time in the War.

“So you want to know the purpose of your life, and hope that I can divine it for you?” asked Santiago with a tone of certainty that propelled Liam in front of the camera.

“Should I pose a certain way?” asked Liam as he sheepishly stood before the cyclopean machine. The camera stared at him with emotionless objectivity. A shiver or excitement rippled through Liam’s flesh as he gazed into the unblinking eye of the machine that was about to reveal all of the secrets of his future. Santiago stood behind the camera and gazed through its viewfinder. Shaking his head, he left and returned with a lamp on a stand. The old man moved slowly, shining the lamp blindingly in Liam’s eyes.

“Look forward,” announced Santiago as he moved behind the camera again. Liam looked deep into the camera’s lens, and he felt a strange, tugging sensation. It was as though the camera was pulling part of himself into it. Suddenly, he felt as though all the breath was being taken from his lungs. Unable to inhale, Liam began to panic.

“Keep looking forward. It is almost over,” instructed Santiago. Darkness began to creep into the edges of Liam’s vision, then, suddenly, his lungs filled with air again. Gulping in breath after breath, Liam could feel each cell in his body happily accepting the oxygen.

“It will take a few moments for me to develop. Please sit and wait,” said Santiago professionally.

Alone in the shop, Liam found it difficult to subdue his excitement. He looked at rows of crystal trinkets and stacks of dusty milk glass, but nothing could hold his attention. He would finally find out what his destiny was.

When Santiago returned, he was holding a thin, iron plate. On it was an image of Liam. A bright light glistened off of the mirror behind him; in that light, tiny shadows seemed to form vague images. Liam squinted, trying to see what the images were.

“They are nothing to the untrained eye. Just lines and blobs.” Santiago pointed at the shadows. “These say that death is close to you. Your life will be cut short. The others here show that it will be a violent death.”

“When?!” demanded Liam, “Why? How?”

“Soon. Because it is your destiny. With an old knife,” answered Santiago without compassion or tact. “The knife will push through your ribs and puncture your lung. A second stab will catch an artery. You will die in a gurgling heap.”

“Will it be to save someone?” asked Liam hopefully.

“No.” Santiago replied.

“No? No?!” bellowed Liam, rage flowing through his blood like a virus. “You are telling me that I lived through that Hell for no reason greater than to be stabbed to death? That is a lie. Life doesn’t work that way. There is reason and order; if fate is real, then there is a purpose to everything, isn’t there? If fate is an illusion, then what you have done here is a lie. Either way, you are doing this again and you are doing it right.” Liam grasped the trench spike in his hand and strode in front of the camera. “Take the picture again, and do it correctly!” he demanded.

“No,” said Santiago. “It will be no different. Your death is too close.”

“What do you mean?” asked Liam, redness creeping up his neck. His muscles quivered with excitement, ready for action, ready to kill.

“You are past the point where your fate can be changed,” said Santiago.

Furious, Liam rushed at Santiago, pushing the camera over as he lunged forward. Santiago retreated swiftly, but Liam was faster. With the trench spike in his right hand, he caught Santiago by the lapel with his left hand. Santiago grinned manically at Liam. His knife flashed faster than a blink. Liam lurched over, blood pouring from his neck and chest.

“Now, if you were a more patient man, you could have lived a long and happy life. Instead, you have done nothing but waste my time and yours. Go to sleep, little soldier,” said Santiago, cleaning the thin, pointed blade of his knife on Liam’s clothes.

Late Post

This week’s post will be appearing on Sunday, due to Halloween.

~H

Autumn Haikus

Bedtime for Trees

Winter is coming

Drop all of your colored leaves

It is time to sleep

 

The Best Light for Photography

The sun sets early;

Its warm and golden rays shine

An autumn treasure

 

There’s a Bunch of Them at Whole Foods

Immature giggles

“Look at that gross, wang-like gourd!

It is all bumpy.”

 

Folk Medicine

An apple a day

May keep a doctor away;

What will a peck do?

 

The Risk

Crunch, Crunch, Crunch, Crunch, Crunch

I hope there is no dog poop,

In this pile of leaves.

Phall Photos

My wife and I went on an Autumnal Expedition last weekend, which yielded the following photographs. I hope you enjoy them:

The Apple and I

You Can Call Me Flower, If You Want To

Autumn Trees

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 3)

5

 

Hearing August’s thrashing and splashing, Minerva decided to forego modesty and rushed through the bathroom door. She saw August’s hands groping at the side of the enormous, rectangular tub while one of his legs kicked and writhed in the air. Seeing his struggle, Minerva didn’t afford herself a chance to think and loosed a bolt of energy that shattered the side of the tub. Water spilled out in a wide arc, and August tumbled out onto the floor, gasping for breath.

“August! August!” shouted Minerva, trying to get some response.

“I’m okay,” said August breathlessly. Minerva grabbed a thick, plush robe and wrapped it around August’s shoulders, embracing him tightly. August felt safe and secure in her arms.

‘What happened?” she asked, heedless of the seeping water and shattered tub. August stood and pointed to the mirror, where an imp sat on the shoulder of his reflection. Its skin was livid like the underside of a corpse that had been laying about. The small, fish-faced creature had a long prehensile tail that wrapped around August’s neck and body. It grinned malevolently, showing gums lined with human teeth.

“A Hex Imp,” observed Minerva, “What did you do to deserve this?”

“Nothing that I know of. Unless… Oh crap!” August grabbed at his foot after stepping on one of the dull plastic shards from the tub. The imp shifted its bulk, sending August off balance and crashing into Minerva. The pair fell to the floor with a subdued splash. For the briefest moment, August realized that his face was pressed against Minerva’s bosom; he quickly got to his feet, swiftly belting the front of his robe closed before offering Minerva a hand.

“I’m sorry,” said August as he helped Minerva to her feet, “So sorry…” His embarrassment quickly mellowed when he saw the gaping hole in the side of the tub. “What did you do?” asked August accusingly. “Did you use your magic to save me?”

Minerva slowly nodded her head, not making eye contact with August. Long ago, she had made a pledge to August that she would not use magic, and she seemed loathed to admit that she broke her vow.

August’s heart hung heavy as an iron block in his chest. He was overwhelmed with emotions, and could only manage to say “Thank you” before tears streamed down his face. The moment lasted briefly; someone rapped on the door. Minerva rushed to open it, leaving August on the floor.

He could hear the hushed conversation. It was one of the staff at the door.

“Is everything all right?” asked the bellhop with a mild French accent, “Room 315 complained about a loud bang that sounded like a cannon. I was going to bring the cot and said I would see if there was something wrong.” Waves of worry lapped at August’s waist, and he felt like he was sinking fast. He imagined the bellhop’s response when he saw the shattered tub.

“The tub ruptured,” responded Minerva honestly. “I don’t know how it happened. There must have been a lot of stress on it recently.” She sounded like she was telling the truth, and her voice gave no hint that she was skirting around the issue.

“Is everyone safe?” asked the bellhop, his concerned voice seeming forced.

“Luckily no one’s hurt.” said Minerva. “There’s a lot of water, but we’re soaking it up with towels. If you can send a custodian, it would be for the best.”

　

6

 

Even in the City of Lights, there was darkness. Danger prowled in the shadows, oblivious of the romantic climate or tourist appeal of Paris. A woman, draped in a shimmering satin dress and woolen shawl sat on a bench behind Notre Dame. Shadows like snakes writhed towards her, wilting flowers as they passed. As they massed together, they rose in a humanoid shape.

“Quaashie, do you still think I went too far?” asked the seated woman is a language that sounded a little like every language on earth, but nothing like any single one. The shadow slowly became substantial, solidifying into the shape of a dark, muscular man. He had no hair on his sleek, ebon body, and his eyes were darker than the deepest pit.

“They are both very strong. They will come and find you. You will not be able to withstand them with your hexes. All the imps of Hell won’t stem the tide of destruction the witch will work if the warlock is killed. The one you set on his is belligerent, and it won’t follow its instructions for long.” Quaashie took in a deep breath of the air; his entire body grew slightly with the inhalation, then shrank with the exhalation. “You play a dangerous game, Tabitha. Most Gypsies don’t open themselves to danger so overtly. Not over something so petty. What aren’t you telling me?”

“My secrets are just that: secret. I will tell when the time is right, but until then…” Tabitha closed her lips tightly, and Quaashie shook his head. “You will continue watching them and report back to me. Keep yourself hidden,” said Tabitha matronly.

“The witch knows that I was following her. There was a man that spotted me in Montmartre, and since then staying hidden from the witch has been taxing.” Quaashie began to dissolve back into the shadows.

“Who was this man?” demanded Tabitha. Before it faded completely. Quaashie’s face distorted in terror. A magically silenced gun shot from a flintlock pistol answered Tabitha’s question and sent Quaashie to the ground in a heap. Mr. Kane looked at the Gypsy like an undertaker estimating the size coffin he should build. His pistol still glowed with a white, eldritch light; arcane symbols carved along its barrel were all ready fading to blackness.

“I know you can understand me, so don’t play dumb. Who are you working for, and why shouldn’t I put you in a hole?” asked Mr. Kane stolidly. Tabitha stepped backwards and threw her shawl into the air, and before Mr. Kane could fire his pistol, she was gone.

Retro Post: Wolfie

I love cats. I love cats alot, and you’ll often find them skulking along the edges of my fiction. Typically, I portray them as being intelligent often on the cusp of being intellectual. This is, in no small part, due to my wife’s love of cats.

9 years ago, or so, her cat Wolfpaws passed away after a life of grace and beauty (which is the life that all cats aspire to), and I wrote this poem to ease Sarah’s pain, and to explore my own emotions.

*******************************************************************

Wolfie
(For Sarah)

Wisdom walks silently
On four padded paws.

Quietly,
She stalks across the moonlit night.

Her green eyes catch a moon beam,
and glow like a rainbow.

Alas,
The vision is gone in a moment.

With what purpose did she come?
We will never know.

With what purpose did she go?
Only she and the wind can tell.

His Name is Hershel (Part One)

Thursday

“I think I know a Nazi when I see one, Sharon,” said Hershel in a huff, “And those boys are Nazis, through and through.”

“You can’t just make those kind of assumptions Hershel. They’re just young guys.” Sharon padded around the small apartment in her dainty pink slippers, looking casually out the window to see who was moving in across the street. There were a lot of young men, stripped to the waist, muscular, and tattooed. They were accompanied by a bunch of blonde girls that wore indecently short pants. Running around the perimeter of the chaos were three dogs.

“They even have German dogs. Would you look at that thing!” Pointing at a dog that was nearly the size of a horse, Hershel gasped.

“That’s a Great Dane. They’re Danish. Like Hamlet. Hamlet wasn’t a Nazi,” observed Sharon, settling into a creaky wooden chair. Sitting at the breakfast table, looking out the window, the two of them stewed quietly, tension filling the silence.

“The Danes were Vikings. They were just as bad as Nazis. They were so bad that the Nazis aspired to be like them.” Hershel sipped his coffee, relishing its complex, smoky flavor. It went well with the taste of victory. Sharon shook her head and drank her tea. Through their forty years of marriage, most of their tiffs were like this; Hershel would make an outrageous statement, Sharon would point out its flaw, and Hershel would prove her wrong, and think that he had won the day.

The kitchen was tiny, barely able to produce a meal larger than a roasted chicken for two (without baked potatoes), and it was brimming with board games. The entire apartment was filled with them; they peeked out from under beds and down from tall bookcases. Board games had always been Hershel’s passion. He had sought a career as a game designer years ago, but the bitterness of rejection was too much for Hershel to bear.

“How about Parcheesi?” asked Hershel, knowing Sharon’s answer.

“No. And not Scrabble either.” Sharon didn’t even look at Hershel as she answered. Hershel, looking away in disappointment, gazed out at the new residents of the neighborhood and nearly spit out his coffee as he saw four of the men moving an oak armoire out of the moving truck.

“Would you look at that monstrous thing! How do you think they got a hold of something like that? They look too young to have furniture that nice.” Hershel considered the particle board structures of his own home and felt envious. He and Sharon had never really invested in furniture; they saved their money through the year, taking trips throughout the world. At least until Hershel’s knees started giving out. The trips had become more and more sporadic, and much less spontaneous. Now, the furthest they went was the 80 miles to Marblehead, and even then their days were planned around where Hershel could sit down and recuperate.

Sharon began leafing through a copy of Family Circle she had picked up during the previous day‘s marketing. She always said that she liked the recipes, but Hershel was afraid that she was reading them because of the articles, which were all about rearing children and coping with their departure after they were raised. He felt the same way on Sundays when she would catch her looking at the Anne & Hope circular that came with the Sunday paper. Emblazoned with happy families modeling cheap clothes, Hershel felt that Sharon was just torturing herself with images of what they would never have.

Friday

“Joe wants to come over and look at my rendition of the Moksha Patamu board. His daughter’s going with a Hindu, and he wants to show her that the Indians played Chutes and Ladders too.” Hershel sat comfortably in his fifteen-year-old Lay-Z-Boy recliner which cradled him lovingly.

“Why’s that?” asked Sharon, knitting a shawl and not paying attention to the commercial on TV.

“Well, partly to show them how similar they are, despite their differences. I guess he wants to show them that they can have common ground. Interracial marriages do tend to fail a lot.”

“What about us?” asked Sharon innocently. Hershel scratched at his curly beard and his eyes narrowed with concentration.

“Well, we’re both white. We have the ability to change the perception that people have of our ethnicity. If we dress like everyone else, no one would know I’m Jewish and you’re French. They also wouldn’t know that I’m part Irish and that you’re part English. Without the obvious marker that we are different, there’s one less social pressure, you know?” Hershel leaned back in his recliner and folded his hands on his stomach.

Sharon focused on her knitting and Hershel paid attention to his program on the television, which had returned.

Saturday

“Do you think Neo-Nazis are organized by Robot Hitler?” asked Joe, a half laugh trailing the sentiment. Hershel tossed his dice onto the board and tolerantly moved his pawn up a ladder. “Because, you know, they never found his body, right? Well, they say they did, but we never got to see it. There aren’t any records. Even if there are, they’d probably be fake. I bet they made him into a robot.”

“Stop being so outrageous. It is disrespectful,” admonished Hershel. He and Joe had been playing Moksha Patamu on the porch under the pretense that it was a beautiful day. Truthfully, it was because each of them were wondering about the new people across the street. “Besides, if there was a Robot Hitler, it’d be steam-powered. It could never match the prowess of the technological marvel that is Cybernetic Benjamin Netanyahu.” Hershel and Joe giggled.

“Why do you suppose they bred dachshunds like that?” asked Joe, frowning as he moved his pawn down the curving body of a snake. Hershel took a gander at the long squat dog that was being walked up the sidewalk by one the women from across the street.

“It is peculiar, isn’t it? Like a snake with legs. Little sausage with teeth.,” Hershel glared at the tiny beast, “They are for hunting. They keep low to the ground so they can follow smells.”

“Waldi! Get away from there!” hollered the blonde woman, tugging on the dog’s leash and pulling him away from the storm drain.

“Waldi?” said both Joe and Hershel together. “Where have I heard that name before?” wondered Hershel.

“Well, if anyone knew, it would be you,” said Joe.

“What I do know is that I’ve won,” announced Hershel, moving his pawn into the 100th space on the board.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 2)

3

 

Minerva knew she was being followed. She figured it was coincidence when she saw him sitting in Notre Dame’s garden, and figured it was plausible that he decided to take the same tour on the Seine, but when she spotted him in Montmartre, she knew that he was definitely pursuing her. He was tall, wearing dark, simple clothes. His weathered skin made him look older than he was, and his receding hairline didn’t make him look any younger. She decided that she would take the initiative.

“What do you want, Mr. Kane?” she asked, spitting out his name like an obscenity.

“I was just wondering where you hid your furry friend,” replied Kane with a stolid expression on his face. “I wouldn’t expect a wife to travel abroad without her husband, even less so with another man.” A renowned werewolf hunter, Mr. Kane was in Paris for the convention, just as Minerva was. However, she would never condone the torturous methods that Kane espoused. Glaring at the necklace of canine teeth that was the only jewelry that Kane wore, Minerva resisted the urge to pummel the self-righteous hunter.

“Unfortunately my husband wasn’t invited to attend, and found himself confined to the States because of someone’s inaccurate implications,” said Minerva, keeping aware of her surroundings, keeping certain that there were plenty of people in view. “Besides, August is my partner. There’s nothing between us but friendship.”

“Indeed,” responded Kane, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You are aware that you are being investigated, yes?” Kane’s eyes tracked skyward and Minerva followed his cue. A shadow lurked on the ledge of a crumbling brick building, but there was no body casting it. “There are those that say you are too powerful to let roam free. Just you remember that. Keeping company with a were won’t do much to instill confidence in you as a supporter of the human race.”

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because I’ve been on the outside, and it isn’t pretty. When the IGPS pulls your membership, it is the start of a terrible road. Just you remember who told you that,” said Kane as he walked away slowly, stalking like a tiger. He disappeared in a crowd of tourists, leaving Minerva alone with the shadow. She wondered who could have sent their shadow to watch her, and what she should do next.

She found herself wandering away from Sacre-Coeur, letting the downward slope guide her to a small patisserie. She looked inside, seeing a variety of pastries and other goodies. She walked in under the pretense of buying something for later in the day, but the sweet scent of sugar and cream sent her stomach rumbling hungrily.

“Allo!” said the smiling proprietor. She was lithe and vibrant, her aura scintillating with all the colors of the flavored meringues that sat in the case before her.

“Bonjour,” responded Minerva, preparing to order.

“Don’t worry. I know some English.” said the youthful baker.

“Oh,” said Minerva, despondent that she was denied an opportunity to use the French she knew. Pointing at a chocolate filled éclair, she asked for two. In moments, she found herself thinking less about the shadow that crawled under the door. She felt that she had nothing to hide. “Let them watch,” said Minerva quietly under her breath.

4

 

August felt Minerva’s hand on his shoulder, and he drowsily looked up at her. His neck ached from the strange angle it was forced into.

“Asleep in the hall? You couldn’t make it into the room?” Minerva offered him a hand, and August graciously accepted.

“It has been terrible Minnie. No sooner I got out there, I fell for a grift. I should have seen it coming. So, I came back here and I realized you never gave me a copy of the key card. I tried to go back out there, but no sooner my foot hit pavement, a beggar was on me. He was persistent too.” August sighed as Minerva opened the door. “How did your day go?”

“It went well,” said Minerva, presenting August with a paper bag filled with an éclair inside. “I all ready ate way too much today,” she said, smiling. “Aside from this, I also managed to get us a cot for the room. They offered to move us again, but I was insistent. August sat down and reached into the bag and found that all of the chocolate inside of the éclair was now outside of it and all over his hand. He smiled grimly as he showed his hand to Minerva.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. It seems like everything is fouled up, and most of it seems to be because of me.” said August, feeling pitiful. He had such high hopes for his time in Paris, and they were falling apart faster than Crispix in milk.

“Tomorrow will be another day. Just take a bath, unwind a bit, get some sleep, and you’ll have a new perspective in the morning,” offered Minerva sagely. August pondered Minerva’s advice and agreed with a nod.

“Like the song says, ’let my troubles go swirling down the drain’ right?” said August as he stepped into the bathroom, where he found a plush robe waiting for him, as well as a compliment of tiny soaps. He stripped off his clothes as the deep tub filled with steamy water. He let himself sink low into the cradling warmth of the water, and felt the tension leave his body.

“This isn’t so bad,” he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “I really could get used to this.” After about an hour, once his hands were pruned and he was feeling bored, he pulled himself from the tub. That was when he caught a glance of his reflection in the mirror and saw a tiny red imp sitting on his shoulder, its tail wrapped around his neck. August let out a brief cry as the imp pulled him backwards, nearly causing August to brain himself on the side of the tub.

“August! Are you okay!?” called Minerva as August felt an intense throbbing in his brain, followed by waves of nausea. His arms and legs lashed out, seeking the side of the tub. On his chest, the imp sat invisibly, laughing as August’s head plunged under water.

No Update Today

Given all of the hurly-burly involved in getting a new computer, I have not had time to complete my weekly writing assignment. However, I will be taking this opportunity to continue making the site a bit more fun to navigate around.

I added a directory recently, and have started the process of linking each separate part of a story from one to another.

I’ll be back on track soon enough.

~Harry