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.

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.

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.

Samantha and The Wind (Part Four)

The forest closed in on Samantha from all sides. As moonlight became more and more sparse, the forest became more and more quiet. Her pace slowed as she started to feel tired from her journey. She didn’t dare sleep on the ground, fearing that a snake would bite her, or a bug would poison her. She considered climbing a tree, but would never dare sleep so high off the ground for fear of falling. What she wanted was a bed, but they were in short supply.

When she decided that at least a fire would be nice, she saw the orange glow of one in the distance. She approached as quietly as she could manage, letting the darkness be her friend. As she drew closer, she could hear music and see tall shapes dancing around the fire. The creatures were like Vibrius in shape, but they did not wear masks: their faces bore unsettling smiles that spread from ear to ear. Their eye balls seemed to float inside of sockets that were too large for them, and bounced slightly as the forest folk leapt and cavorted.

“Food is glorious!” one announced. He seemed to be the eldest. The others shouted his name in praise, crying “Tula! Tula! Tula!” Stroking his long, web-like beard, he held a small, reddish something in his hand. Samantha had never seen a heart outside of a person before, but she had an inkling of what it might look like, and suspected it was quite similar to what Tula held in his hand. She wished to have no part of it.

“We will eat flesh!” cried Tula, and the others responded with gleeful shouts of “Tula! Tula! Tula!” Samantha slinked away, as quietly as a sleek, white cat. While the shadows concealed most of her, the light from the fire reflected off of her pale skin. And the grins of the forest folk grew wider. For a moment, there was a silence just like the one before the universe was made. Eyes glistened in the firelight, and Samantha’s right foot was stepping backwards. She could feel the soft ground as her foot touched it, and then there was a roar like the universe being birthed.

Long fingered hands grasped for her dress, reached for her long red hair. Dull, thudding footsteps rumbled after her like an earthquake. Her short stature and small frame gave her an edge, as the forest was thick with trees. She squeezed between trunks and darted down a ravine, tumbling head over heel and landing hard on the ground.

“Follow! Give chase! Get closer and get food!” shouted Tula, cheering on the forest folk as they ran helter-skelter through the woods, scraping their claws across the trees as the went. Samantha felt the world growing dimmer as the forest folk stood at the edge of the ravine, hissing like serpents.

When she woke, the forest folk were gone, but in their place was a terrible stench and the dim light of stars overhead. The earth on which Samantha rested was soft in spots and hard in others. As she reached out with her hands, she swore she could feel a cold, lifeless nose. In the darkness, she could make out faces and hands. She stifled a scream as she realized she was in an open mass grave. Around her, half eaten and desiccated bodies were rotting. Samantha knew that they were the remnants of Tula’s hunger; first she fought against a scream, and then she fought against tears. She moved gingerly across the grisly floor and slowly pulled herself from the shallow ravine.

Looking down at the mass of bodies, she lost the fight against her tears, and she began to sob. A cool, iridescent hand caressed her face. Even through her blurring tears, the woman looked beautiful, although her proportions were slightly strange, as though she had been slightly elongated. Rubbing her tears from her eyes, she gasped at how beautiful the woman was.

“Come away from there, child,” she said in a soft, sweet voice that reminded Samantha of her mother singing a lullaby. “This is not something you should see.”

Willie McGee was the Worst Blues Man in the History of Blues

Willie McGee was the worst Blues man in the history of blues. His skill with the guitar easily rivaled Eric Clapton’s, but when ever he strummed or plucked a string, it sounded as though he was tickling it. In any other hands, his sleek, black Gibson would wail like a dying whore, but in his hands, it cooed like a baby. When he performed, a joy welled up inside of him despite his every effort. A smile would push itself from between his lips, sharpening every note he tried to sing.

Willie stayed up late at night, wondering what was wrong. Sure, his life wasn’t one of abject poverty, but he had his share of fiscal woes. His luck with women wasn’t terrible, but his heart had been broken at least once. In the dark, with his wife sleeping beside him, he could feel the emotions stirring inside of him. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, once he stepped on the stage, the lights would shine on him and the joy would rise in his belly like a cake baking

“Maybe it just ain’t meant to be,” announced his wife, Nell one morning as she fried an egg in a cast iron skillet, cursing under her breath as the yoke broke. “Some things are what they are, and nothing is what it isn’t meant to be.”

“I can’t just let it all go. Not after all the work I’ve done; the time, the money, the effort.” Willie felt the blues stirring in him like a thousand snakes in a pit. He had spent the last five years pursuing a career as a musician, and it had cost him much more than it made him.

“What about that trio, The Star Seekers? They were high on you. I never saw anyone love your playing as much as them.” Nell slid the dilapidated egg onto Willie’s plate and served it to him with cold toast and crunchy bacon. She was beautiful, like a princess right out of Egypt, dark and slender, but with sensuousness about her curves. Willie, whose stomach rested on his lap while peeking out from under his white T-shirt, found himself wondering what he ever did to deserve her.

“No.” he answered resolutely. “I won’t play that sugar-pop crap. Not now, not ever.” He contemplated stamping his foot to get his point across, but he knew that Nell all ready knew that would be his answer.

“Well, if music is what makes you happy, and that’s what you want to do for a living, you might as well make money doing it. No sense in being a fool about it. Take what you can get, or get out of the business. Your bank job pays well enough; if you applied yourself, you’d get a promotion. You’re smart, educated, and able.” Nell rubbed Willie’s shoulders as she stroked his ego. She kissed him on his high forehead and sat across from him, where her mug of cooling coffee waited.

“Give it one more try, but if you bomb again, please, just take the gig with The Star Seekers or quit the music business. I hate to see you beating yourself up like this. It ain’t healthy.” Sympathy filled Nell’s eyes, and guilt grew inside of Willie. He hung is head and pouted, disappointedly pushing at the solid yellow yolk on his plate. “I just want what’s best for you, Big Bear,” said Nell, drawing a lingering smile from Willie; he always smiled when she called him by his pet name.

After breakfast, Nell left for work, leaving Willie with a list of chores a mile long. He had taken all of his vacation time at once, hoping that he’d be able to set up a slew of gigs. However, he found himself at home more than on a stage. He plugged his Ipod into the stereo and put it on shuffle. He listened to Muddy Waters while he washed the windows, and B.B. King while plunging the toilet. However, when Charlie Daniels came on, singing about the Devil in Georgia, it set Willie’s mind rolling down a perilous decline.

He remembered hearing about men going to the crossroads at midnight to make deals with the Devil. It was a passing fancy, but it took root at the back of his brain. Through the day, the idea’s roots twisted through the wrinkles of his brain, digging deep into his consciousness. By dinnertime, he found himself wondering if any old crossroads would do, or if a road trip was in order. Through the night, he was quiet as he pondered these questions and more. Nelly let him be, thinking that he was feeling moody from the morning’s row. She went to bed before he did, and she was sound asleep before he crept out into the night.

The small suburb where they lived was silent; the earth seemed to rise and fall softly in time with all the dreamers snug in their beds. Willie started to question his sanity as he walked to the intersection of Pine and Gorvell. Somewhere, a dog barked and all around air conditioners hummed quietly. Gazing back and forth, Willie shook his head. He felt like an idiot standing out on the corner at three in the morning. As he turned to go back home, a sulfurous smell assaulted his nose. He felt a ponderous hand clench his shoulder.

“Willie McGee. You are the worst Blues man in the world, and you came to the Devil for help,” said a voice as slippery as a slug’s trail yet as coarse as a rasp. Willie didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to see the Devil. The hand kept him from running, and it guided Willie’s body in a turn. The Devil, goat-headed and two-faced (three if you counted the one on his belly), stood in his diabolic glory, resplendent in a shimmering cloak made from the skin of slain angels. Willie felt himself cowed into a groveling bow.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Devil. I didn’t think this would really work,” said Willie apologetically, ready to debase himself.

“Well, I’m here, and nothing’s going to change the fact that you are here to make a deal. It is in your heart and mind: you want to be a great Blues singer, adored by the whole world as a treasure.” The Devil’s goat lips curled in a mocking smile. “Too bad no one listens to the Blues anymore.” Willie looked at The Devil with a dumb-founded expression. “Rap is where it is now, son. That or maybe pop. Why do you want to sing the Blues anyways?”

“The reasons are my own,” said Willie, unwilling to give The Devil an inch. He knew he was stuck in negotiations, and that anything he said would be used against him somehow. He was disinclined to say anything, fearful that he would say the wrong thing.

“Not that there’s anything I could really do anyway. Your gift is God-given. You know you are talented, and you talent can’t get any better. Usually, when humans come to me to make a deal, they just need the confidence that only The Devil can provide. I’m like the mouse in that story about the flying elephant; it’s all psychosomatic. They sell their souls, then they think that they’re more than they were; in truth, they’re just the same, just afraid to die. There’s little and less that I can do for you, Willie McGee. You are the greatest you will ever be, but you are cursed with joy. It is your lot in life to love playing that guitar and singing the blues.”

Downtrodden and feeling insulted, Willie burst out, “What do you know, Devil? What do you know what I can and can’t do? What do you know?” Willie’s blood was boiling and rage was tearing through his guts. He wanted to bash The Devil in all his faces and kick in his balls. “All my life I’ve worked and worked, got better and better, but never became what I wanted, needed, to be! And now that I go to The Devil, you say there is nothing you can do? “Willie spit at the ground where The Devil stood and the spit sizzled away.
“I’m not a miracle worker. You went the wrong way for that, boy,” said The Devil provokingly.

“What kind of Devil are you? Damn it!” swore Willie as he turned to walk away. “I just wish I could play the Blues, that’s all. And be able to sing ‘em.” he said under his breath. The Devil’s ears perked up.

“Could?” asked The Devil, his eyes narrowing. “Could implies the capability, but doesn’t imply that you actually have the ability. That is something I can work with.” The Devil laughed and Willie cried out. The Devil’s hands clamped down on Willie’s hands like hot irons. “Willie McGee, you came to the Crossroads to sell your soul and I came. By fulfilling your wish, your soul is mine.” With fiendish strength, The Devil crushed Willie’s hands. Willie wailed in pain. The Devil left him maimed at the crossroads, unable to play the Blues, but able to sing them well enough.

Willie “No-Hands” McGee became the greatest Blues singer of his generation, and arguably the greatest Blues singer of all time. Nell took care of Willie as best as she could, but their marriage was never the same. When Willie left the world, he left behind Nell, who lived (in the comfort that can be provided by a successful musician who was also a banker by trade) to be over one-hundred years old. The Devil smiled when Willie came to Hell and offered him a seat at his table.

“You gave a lot to give the world the gift of fine music. You cared for your wife, never raised a hand to her.” said The Devil, tucking a napkin into Willie’s stained T-shirt. “You belong here, no doubt, but never say that The Devil ain’t just.” Willie’s eternal soul stared at a plate of eggs, each with broken and cooked yolks. “That’s the way you like them, right?” The Devil stared curiously at Willie’s eternal soul as it cried crystal tears.

Samantha and the Wind (Part Three)

“Well,” said Justice, his eyes looking upwards, then sideways. “You’re a child, a female, and that makes you a girl, right?” When his eyes fell on Samantha, she was surprised at their uncertainty. It was as though Justice had forgotten too much of what it was like to be alive.

“Of course I am.” responded Samantha, wondering if she should be unsure. She noticed that she was fidgeting with her fingers, which her mother always told her not to do.

“Well, a girl is nearly a woman, and,” Justice’s pause was uncomfortable in length. Samantha was filled with loathsome anticipation before he said, “I’d really like to know what a woman likes. If a woman could think I was handsome, or maybe what she’d like to do.”

Samantha exhaled with relief. While she was no expert on what women thought, she was happy that Justice didn’t have a more lascivious request. Cheerily, she answered, saying “A woman likes a man that is kindly; one that is willing to treat her well.”

“But there has to be more!” said Justice obsessively. “I have tried being kind. I have tried listening. I have tried being a friend. Yet all of these have failed. She must look for more than that. What else! Tell me!” His eyes widened in a maniac stare, his teeth ground together; it was as though he stood in front of a treasure that he had sought all of his life, and now it was his for the taking.

“Well, some women aren’t attracted to just any man. Some have an ideal in mind.” Samantha was proud to say such a mature thing, but when she saw how crestfallen Justice had become, she wondered if she said the wrong thing. His entire face drooped like a wet sack and his shoulders bowed as though bearing a thousand pounds.

“Oh.” he said desponded, “That’s what I thought. I’m ugly.” His chin wrinkled like a prune as he held back a sob. Samantha’s spine straightened and she pounded her foot against the ground with a soft thud.

“I didn’t say that.” she announced, angered by how he twisted her words. Her cheeks glowed red and her brow was creased with frustration. “You just might not be what she thinks of as handsome. The world has a lot of people.”

“Then you think I’m handsome?” he asked, his hands reaching out for hers. Gently, he held her hand and stroked its back with his cold fingers. “Do you?” His dark eyes pleaded with her.

“I, um…” Samantha’s mind whirled, unable to find an answer that she was sure was not wrong. He was handsome enough, but she feared that if she said so, that he’d get the wrong idea. On one knee, he was the same height as her, and she tried to stop herself from wincing when she smelled the charnel scent about him.

“I am trying to sleep!” announced an irritated voice. It was the stranger in the smiling mask. The murmurings of Samantha and Justice had been irritating him for quite a while. Unlike others of his kind, he had very sensitive hearing, and he had become fed up with their whispers, which to him were like shouts. He towered over Justice, and Samantha found herself wondering if he had been that large before.

“I apologize, Vibrius, I didn’t know that you were so close.” said Justice, cowering like a supplicant. “I was just asking this young woman what she thought of me.”

“I know. I could hear your prattling tongue from a mile away. You really should not drag this poor, young thing into your pitiful obsession.” reprimanded Vibrius, who placed a hand protectively on Samantha’s shoulder. “A man like you should not ask such things of a child.”

“Well, I needed to know why Livia does not love me yet. I thought another woman’s perspective would help.” explained Justice. He hung his head ashamedly and kicked at the dirt like a scolded child. Samantha was glad that Vibrius had come to her aid, but she also felt bad that she couldn’t help Justice.

“I think you are a good-looking man, but there is something about you that frightens me.” she said calmly and quietly. Vibrius and Justice both looked at Samantha with astonishment in their eyes.

“What is it!?” exclaimed Justice as he fell to his knees, reaching for the hem of Samantha’s skirt. With a mighty slap, Vibrius knocked Justice’s hands away, causing him to collapse to the ground. “I need to know! Tell me! What’s wrong with me?” his voice broke in sobs and weeps, and tears flowed in great, salty gouts from his eyes, muddying the dirt below. Samantha pulled the hem of her dress out of the groveling man’s grasp and wrapped her arms around Vibrius’ hand and wrist.

“Feh.” scoffed Vibrius, shaking his head at Justice’s display. “Why don’t you be a man about this? Willows weep less than you do.”

“I can’t help it,” responded Justice through a veil of sobs and pitiful moans, “Love does strange things to a man’s mind and heart. He becomes thirsty for it if he has gone without it too long, and I have been walking in the desert of loneliness for far too long. My heart feels so numb, ripped, and torn…”

“Makes me glad that I can’t love.” interrupted Vibrius, a smile hidden beneath his smiling mask and revealed only by the tone of his voice.

“You are intolerable!” admonished Justice, thrusting a finger through the air, pointing at Vibrius with menace. “An unfeeling monster, that’s what you are. Your own people cast you out.”

“So did yours.” responded Vibrius. “We’ve been through all of this before, so if you are done, sleep calls to me. I’d like to have some before the new day dawns.” Passively Samantha watched as the two argued, feeling herself becoming fearful that there would be a fight. For a moment, she felt bad for causing the argument, but then she realized that she was not at the root of the issue. What they argued about, while connected to her presence, went far beyond anything to do with her existence.

She released her grasp on Vibrius’ arm and slowly skulked away as the pair continued arguing, oblivious of her departure. Samantha felt freedom perch proudly on her shoulder as she walked deep into the darkness, clambering carefully from glimmering moonbeam to shimmering moonbeam as they poked through the forest’s canopy. Glee filled her as she confidently walked on a soft bed of pine needles, letting their calming scent fill her nose.

A Script, Tentatively Titled “Not Settling”

FADE IN

INT SET DAY

Anne sits patiently. We see little of the set. Frank is seated across from her, ready to conduct his interview.

FRANK

Sorry to have kept you waiting so

long. I know that you’re between

takes and…

ANNE

(interrupting)

Don’t worry about it. There’s time.

There’s always time. Half of making

movies is waiting. I’ve got that

part down pat. Seems like I’ve been

waiting all my life for this.

FRANK

(takes out a pad

and smiles)

So, this is your big break, huh?

 

ANNE

(sits, looking

serious and

sarcastic)

Yes. I’ve worked really hard to get

here.

ANNE (V.O.)

What I’m saying is a lie. This

isn’t my big break, but I know

that’s what I’m supposed to say.

However, I did work very hard to

get here.

INT FAMILY ROOM NIGHT

In the past, an 8 year old Anne is sitting and watching television contentedly with her parents. Washed in blue light, she is entranced by the flickering images.

ANNE (V.O.)

I’d watch the actresses on TV as

they received their awards,

confident that I’d have my own

some day.

INT BEDROOM NIGHT

Still in the past, a 13 year old Anne is looking at herself in a mirror, wondering if she’ll ever have a womanly body.

ANNE (V.O.)

As I grew older, I started to

wonder if I would actually be able

to become what I wanted to be. Not

every girl grew up to look like

Marilyn Monroe.

INT COLLEGE STAGE NIGHT

In the recent past, Anne sits on the edge of the stage, not content. Bertie is talking with her, consolingly.

ANNE

(sadly)

I don’t know if I can keep this up,

Bertie.

 

ANNE (V.O.)

I started my career like most other

actresses, doing musical plays:Little

Shop, Godspell, and Once Upon a Mattress,

However, it was the role of Audrey

that came back to haunt me.

BERTIE

I saw you a few months ago in Little Shop

and I thought that you.

were brilliant. You brought such a

tender vulnerability to the part.

ANNE (V.O.)

Ugh. I heard it a thousand times

from friends, family, and

strangers. It made me think I

could really make it.

INT CASTING OFFICE DAY

Three people sit in judgment of Anne’s acting ability. Brent, Bianca, and Bob. Brent is a typical Hollywood “suit”, while Bianca is a “butchy lesbian with small boobs.” Bob looks utterly fascinated with Anne, though he is not as well dressed as Brent. Anne is dressed for the audition and stands before them feigning confidence.

ANNE (V.O.)

And then, it was always the same

thing.

BRENT

(smiling)

Thank you for your time.

BIANCA

(smiling)

We’ll get back to you soon.

BOB

(grinning,

he nods his

head)

 

ANNE (V.O)

But I know they were actually

thinking…

BRENT

(disappointed)

Her tits are too small.

BIANCA

(disgusted)

Her tits are too big.

BOB

(grinning,

he nods his

head, “singing“)

UMP-ST UMP-ST Doo-Doo-Dee-Doo.

UMP-ST UMP-ST

INT SET DAY

Back at the interview…

FRANK

Why do you think they chose you for

the part?

ANNE

(smiling)

I guess it is because I’m just

right.

ANNE (V.O.)

It also helped that the director

was a friend from college.

BERTIE

(interrupting)

I’m sorry, but we need you now.

ANNE

(feigning

happiness)

Busy, busy.

Frank watches as Anne walks onto the set a few feet away. The “set” is revealed to be little more than a basement with a green screen set up. A stocky guy hoists a thinner guy onto his shoulders as Anne approaches.

BERTIE

Okay, this is the monster. He’s got

two heads, and is covered in warts,

really nasty. And he’s got a big

ol’ wang. Don’t worry: it’ll stay

artsy. Okay? All right!

(shouting)

Effects, get the Bloodgasm ready. I

want her covered! Got it? Okay. 3,

2, 1! Action!

                                  (We hear monster “noises”.)

ANNE (V.O.)

Sometimes, it’s strange; the things

we’ll do to make our mark or follow

our craft.

ANNE

(screams

piercingly)

 

BERTIE

(loudly)

Bloodgasm! Now!

(The crew douses her with blood, producing a huge splash while the monster bellows excitedly.)

FADE OUT

　

Dream Time: The Jungle Men

This is a recent dream I had about strange men living in the jungle:

Deep in the jungle, far deeper than any man from outside would dare go, within the borders of a tiny village, lives a strange race of men. They are compact and grim; their skin is dark, as are their eyes. Strangely, each man binds his scrotum tightly inside of a compact, bamboo package. Each also secures his phallus to the small package with small lengths of vine knotted in an intricate pattern. All of the men also carry a sharpened obsidian knife, the purpose of which is two fold. One purpose is for hunting and self defense, and the other is for procreation. There are no women in the village of the Men, which leads me to speak of the lake.
The lake is on the village’s border, and the old chief Ulphua says that it is magic. It is expansive, disappearing at the horizon. The waters are clear and deep; in the shallows you can easily see bottom, but out further, there is only an deep abyss, deeper than nature should allow. Each year, the eldest man goes to the lake, and this year it is Ulphua’s turn. He leaves amidst a great ceremony of fire and dance.

“Bring us back a stronger chief!” joke some of the young men, veiling the tears in the eyes with smiles and feathered headdresses. The older men are solemn, banging their drums and chanting low, filled with the knowledge that they will soon need to take the long walk themselves. Ulphua walks proudly, his head held high, bedecked in a simple crown of jungle leaves.

“Where you go, we will go.” the old men chant, trying to smile as their friend passes by. “We don’t frown, you will return in another skin, you will return as our kin.” The chant continues, deep and droning, until Ulphua has walked so far that he can no longer hear it. He walks to the lake, placing his jungle crown on the shore. His father told him what to do, and he stretched his memory so that he could remember his lessons.

Looking intensely at the lake, he lets out a shout that echoes across the waves. Nobody shouts back, there’s not even a whisper. Ulphua smiles, his remaining yellowed teeth like corn kernels amongst the steel wool of his thick beard. He pulls his knife from its sheathe and wades into the shallows. Further and deeper he goes, until he disappears beneath the waves. He is a powerful swimmer, and he swims as deep as he can; the light above shimmers through the water.
Ulphua feels his lungs begin to strain – they are hungry for air. His instinct tells him to swim back to the surface, to take in the air, to live. He struggles to keep what little air he has in his lungs, but his vision has begun to darken. His very spirit demands that he swim upwards and live, but his mind is set, the knife is in his hand. Grabbing his genitals, he makes a single, hewing stroke with his knife. There is blood and pain, and Ulphua shouts, the air leaving his lungs forever. As his world darkens, he sees the blood trailing the seeds he has planted in the abyss.

His last memory is of his father teaching him the secret of birth.

“Each of us is born from a man that has gone into the lake and planted his seed. When a man plants his seed, he becomes three men: two will return to the village, and one will remain with God, within the lake. Those that return are adopted by a father and taught, just as I have taught you. This is the most grim task of our lives, but it is one that must be undertaken so that we may thrive.” with a smile on his face, Ulphua sinks deep into the lake, awaiting the embrace of God.

Samantha and the Wind (Part Two)

Deeper and deeper they walked in the forest. The stranger moved with the ease of a mountain goat on a cliff side, but Samantha stumbled and tripped over the winding bunches of roots that probed the forest floor. She wondered how the stranger moved so swiftly in the darkness, but she would not ask him, frightened as she was of his temper.
“This is home.” announced the stranger, pointing at a hollow in a tree trunk. Samantha squinted, struggling to see what the stranger was pointing at. “You seem too weak to be able to do anything to me, but I have learned not to make assumptions. You will enter first, and I will follow.”

Samantha felt panic rising in her stomach. She worried that the stranger was as evil as he seemed, that he intended to eat her. She studied the opening in the tree and considered how she could enter it, but still be afforded a chance at escape if it was a trap.

“You can stay or you can go, but I am tired and need to rest. I am slowly caring less and less about your fate.” pronounced the stranger, as if he were a judge passing sentence. “Decide now.”

“I won’t,” said Samantha, wondering if she would regret the decision. The stranger rolled his eyes and pushed past the hesitant girl. Extending a foot into the hollow, the stranger’s body began to twist and warp as he squatted into the hole. Filling the hollow as snugly as a cork in a bottle, the stranger yawned.

“If you don’t want to come into my home, I won’t be hurt.” announced the stranger in a morose tone. He tried to obscure his sadness, brushing his hands past his eyes. “You can sleep here, and if anything comes to harm you, I will kill it and protect you.”

Samantha considered the stranger’s offer, but her fear of him weighed heavily on her decision.

“I cannot. Since I have come this far, I need to finish my journey.” she said, trying to seem brave. She could think of no better way to decline the stranger’s offer without hurting his feelings further.

“Stay or go; I made the offer and will not make it again.” said the stranger with a wide yawn. Slowly, he began to meld with the tree. A crackling, creaking sound came from the tree as the stranger’s body disappeared. Only the smiling mask remained visible, embedded deeply into the tree’s bark. “Go North. The Moondancer will likely suit you more than me. She is beautiful, not like me. She is more like you, more like a human. I’m sure you’ll think that’s a good thing.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Samantha, but the stranger would speak no more. She considered taking the Stranger’s mask and using it to disguise herself. She was certain that he must be the most fearsome thing in the woods, and appearing like him might have gotten her out of a tight spot, however, she could not reduce herself to stealing. Slowly, she walked away from the stranger, glancing back before the darkness swallowed both him and his home.
The night was getting colder, and Samantha wrapped her arms around herself to try to keep warm. She stood, not quite knowing which way was North. She considered going back to ask the stranger, but she felt that he would heed her no more. The trees around her groaned, swayed in the breeze. As their leaves parted, small beams of moonlight glistened on the ground, eventually falling on an enormous stone some distance away.

It was a tall, black obelisk that pointed unerringly to the sky. It looked older than anything Samantha had seen before; the writing on it was indecipherable in the dimness of the night, but even if it was afternoon, she would not be able to read it. The language was older than mankind, and far beyond the ken of such an innocent lass.

“Child.” called the fragile voice of a man. He was young by adult standards, but Samantha considered him a grown-up. His clothes were worn and baggy, his eyes sunken and intense. His pallid skin seemed iridescent in the shimmering moonlight. He regarded her suspiciously, then knelt beside the obelisk. “You are a child, yes?”

Samantha fiddled her fingers together, unsure of how to answer. She watched as the man produced a mirror from within the folds of his cloak.

“What do you see?” he asked, holding the mirror out to Samantha.

“I don’t see anything. It is too dark, and the mirror is black.” Samantha’s face showed a puzzled expression that was matched by that of the man. “To answer your question, yes, there are those that would think of me as a child.” she tried to keep her statement vague; she did not want to be eaten, and she remembered that children often are eaten by witches and monsters.

“Ah, a living child. That is novel. I haven’t seen one in many centuries.” said the man matter-of-factly. He withdrew the mirror and tucked it into the shadows of his cloak, amongst other strange tools that Samantha could not identify.

“I am Samantha.” said Samantha, holding out her hand and fighting the urge to say Will you be my friend?.

“I am Justice. I used to have a last name, but I lost need of it. There aren’t many spirit-whisperers named Justice in these parts.”

“A spirit-whisperer?” asked Samantha.

“Yes. As in, I whisper to spirits. I am a friend to the dead; I give them consul when they need it, help them when I can. You’d be surprised how many dead folk don’t know they’re dead yet.” Justice’s chest swelled with the pride of an accomplished professional that has been recognized for his superb work. A crooked smile invaded his face.

“How can someone not know they are dead?” inquired Samantha, trying to wrap her mind around the concept of being dead and not knowing it. She suddenly shuddered, wondering if she was dead and did not know it.

“Usually they are young souls; the sort of people that go through life without recognizing the value of each day. They get caught-up in the peace and comfort of monotony and simply continue trying to do what they did while they were alive.”

“How can you help them?”

“When I show them the mirror, they see their form. From there, I help them get to where they want, or need, to go. One needed to come here, and that is why I’m here. This monument can send a spirit on to the next world. So that’s what I’m doing in these woods at night. What about you, Young Miss?”

“The wind stole my best hat, and I tried to find it. I didn’t so much get lost as wander too far. Now it is dark and I can’t find my way.” said Samantha.

“And you want help to get out now, huh?” asked the man. A knowing smile traced across his face, and it made Samantha feel like she was being told what to do. She hadn’t decided if she really wanted to leave the forest and abandon her hat to the wind. First the stranger told her of the danger and bade her stay until morning and then turn back, and then Justice asked her if she wanted to leave. She started to feel very unwelcome. Spotting Samantha’s flaring temper, Justice threw up his hands pleadingly.

“I didn’t mean anything by that. I just assumed that you didn’t want to be in the forest. It was my assumption that you were lost; now-a-days nobody comes to this burial ground except for me.” Samantha was amused by Justice’s sudden humility, but she didn’t let it show on her face.

“I’m not lost,” she said insistently, “I just need to figure out where I need to go from here.”

“Well, if you need help, I can help you.” offered Justice. The knowing smile was on his face again, but it did not grow as wide. It was clear to Samantha that the man had something on his mind.

“At a price, I suppose. If anything, I’ve learned that there is little in life to be had that is free.” she said sternly, her feet together and waggling her finger. She could hear her mother’s voice over her own. ‘Nothing in life is free’ was one of her mother’s favorite lectures – ‘Don’t trust a banker’ and ‘Procrastination is not worth it’ were a close second and third, respectively. For a moment, Samantha wondered if her mother had ever been in a situation like her own.

“Well, not a large price.” said Justice, averting his eyes as he said so. “Just a small bit of information, really. A trifle, if you will.” Clasping his hands together, he leaned in closer to Samantha. She could smell the scent of the woods on him, as well as something bitter that she did not recognize and found most displeasing.

“What is it?” asked Samantha, “And mind you, I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” she added shrewdly.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Otherkin (Part Ten)

Kristabel sits patiently on a hard bench in the hospital’s waiting room. The bench is as hard as a rock, because, unbeknownst to her, it is actually a rock. Lana has sent this young girl to River, who is a magician that specializes in conjuration, but also knows how to craft illusions fairly well. The room where Kristabel sits is actually a cave; an old oaken table stands solidly in the center of the room. On it, an intricate symbol has been rendered using the blood of Zeeb, Detective Green, and a dozen rats. River provided the rat blood, but Lana provided the blood that would truly fuel River’s ritual. He will call King Bodon to this side of reality, and he will set the powerful demigod free.
“So, what do you want to become?” River asks Kristabel, who sees him now as a nurse rather than a hermit. If she saw his grimy countenance, she would not trust him as she trusts the beautiful nurse that stands before her; in fact, she’d likely run from him.

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought; I’ve actually been considering it for over a year. I would like to have the appearance of a Tiger.” replies Kristabel with a gleeful glimmer in her eyes. River knows what to expect next, and wishes that he could just tell her to shut-up; he has observed that they all have the same routine and truly does not want to hear it again.

“Aside from being my sign in the Chinese zodiac, I have always felt like a tiger, you know? Like there’s a proud predator inside me, just waiting to get out.” Kristabel crosses her legs, mindful of her short skirt. River believes that she is getting comfortable, and that she wants to tell him more. He imagines her telling him of her harrowing life as an outsider that has felt like they were born in the wrong body. River finds the concept vulgar; he believes that humans weren’t meant to correct what they believed were God’s mistakes.

Now, after hearing saying those words, River feels guiltless for what he is about to do. According to his metaphysical outlook, he would now simply carry out the punishment that this girl deserves for wishing to be something she was not meant to be. As the nurse, he smiles and nods, listening attentively with a comforting smile. The illusion is powerful enough to fool Kristabel, but River has not invested the strength into it that would allow an additional person to be fooled by his illusion. It breaks when a snarling werewolf barrels down on him, pinning him to the ground.

River curses himself for letting his thoughts stray away from his task on hand. He grasps the growling man-beast by its head and closes his eyes. A resonating chant causes Tobias’ skull to reverberate; his vision blurs as sound waves rattle his brain. Kristabel screeches loudly when the illusion of a sanitary hospital melts away, revealing a dank cave filled with murderous tools. She stumbles to her feet; the ground rocks beneath her, the natural reaction of a human mind to the abuse heaped on it. Bile creeps into her throat as she stumbles into Minerva’s waiting arms.

River’s concentration and focus are unbreakable; his knowledge had passed through countless ages and cultures. River can feel the proud eyes of his spiritual ancestors on him as Tobias’ warm blood begins to spill. Warm, red, and filled with vital energy, the blood courses down River’s arms and pools on the table beneath him. The conjurer’s physical strength cannot compare with the werewolf’s thick, corded muscles. River clenches his teeth and a gurgling sound emerges from between the gaps.

Tobias’ clawed hands are made to rend and destroy; he can feel the bones crunching within his hands. The wolf-spirit inside of him urges him on. It sees the unrelenting wall of River’s will and rages against it like a tornado. The recesses of Tobias’ mind are haunted by the innocents whose blood has spilled on the table. He can see their faces and hear their pleading voices. His mind burns, and his eyes will with red, murderous intent.

Two of River’s molars shatter under the intense stress. He can’t feel his arms anymore, and would see shards of bone jutting out from them if he dared take his eyes off of the werewolf. Launching a red-streaked blob of spit into Tobias’s eyes, River says the words that pass through the layers of space and time.

“Ai! Ai, na-hil. Fah-shal, shal-bal, F’rahl Bodon” shouts River “Shut this bastard down!” Tobias rears back, slapping away the conjuror’s hands. Tobias reels backwards and feels his body shrink rapidly back to its human proportions. He can still feel the wolf-spirit in him as it is closed inside of a tiny, ephemeral cage. His body convulses with anger, his eyes lose their focus.

“What the hell did you do?!” explodes Tobias, balling his hands into fists.

“Don’t screw with me, buddy.” says River, his eyes beginning to smolder with balefire. “On second thought, try me. I could use a few more bodies to keep this connection running.”

“What’s going on?” asks Kristabel in a frightened tone. “This is supposed to be a hospital.”

“I’m afraid that you’ve been misled. This is the lair of a conjuror; he has opened a portal to another world and is feeding off of the power of an entity on the other side.” responds Minerva, feeling a ball of force filling her hand.

“What do we do?!”

“You leave and don’t come back. Maybe you should also learn to appreciate what you all ready have.” says Minerva, leaving the girl outside of the cave. Like a soldier marching to the slaughter, Minerva doesn’t look back. She had made a vow, but sometimes vows lose their strength. Each step she took brought her through her life.

“You need to do what you were put on this Earth to do. If you are a witch, there’s no escaping it. Even if you never use your talent, it will pace within you like a tiger itching to be free.” said Minerva’s mother on Minerva’s first day at school. “We weren’t put here to hide our gifts.”

“Fire, ice, earth, air, and the soul; these are the powers that rule the world. Control over them is a responsibility not to be taken lightly.” instructed Adrian when Minerva was thirteen. “You are most powerful when you use your power with a light touch; those works will survive the longest and do the greatest good. However, sometimes you need to just let go.”

“Call Him!” yelled Father Tolland ten years ago. “Bring His servants to this world! You are duty bound. What you do today, you will remember always; it is the most important act of your life.”

“I promise. Never again.” she said ten years ago.