Parva Gradus

Avian Procession

July 3rd, 2023

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

“What’s the mouthfeel of that spider?” To you and I, of course, it sounded like a series of gobbles and an avian wail of inquiry. To the gaggle, it hardly needs mention, the sounds read exactly as reported.

“Gooey, squishy… moist. It provides a good coating. Crunchy at first, naturally,” came a chipper reply (a cluck and a purr, nonsense to us. And such would all of the following speech sound to our ears). Mergle swallowed the spider and apologized to her mother for speaking with food in her mouth. Even for turkeys, it’s an unbecoming habit.

The inquirer happened to be the master of the turkey flock. She was leading her comrades through the lake-adjacent forest, their ancestral home. Their claws still sunk into the white ground-above-the-ground for most of the route, though the white shroud had slipped off of the trees by now. Some of the trees were regaining their feathers. Over the past few days, the slow-falling sky had turned to fast-falling sky, drenching the forest in the smell of fresh eggshell-to-be.

Thus, the turkey maidens (and him, who I will introduce later) marched toward the cherished Clearing Place. The turkeys of this valley preferred to congregate there first, for it was the fabled nest of the First Hen. Her spirit presides, in purified form, above the valley, visiting the gaggles and gangs now and again to usher in reiterations of the cycle. At present, she was hidden, prancing behind the stagnant, gray, brush piles of the sky.

The master bird stopped with a cluck, prompting her comrades to meander into an imperfect line alongside her. Stretched before them was the scratchy, black, frozen-not-slippery-river on which the Smelly Things roared. The hen purred, her head snapping to pause over segments of the river. It was quiet, today, and no Smelly Thing passed them by. The river gleamed, and in the glimmering she made out the writhing forms of long, pale bodies. Her tail ruffled.

“Let’s have ourselves a snack! The frozen-not-slippery-river is peaceful and fruitful, it’d be a shame to leave it unharvested,” she whooped. The others cheered with gobbles and purrs of their own. Claws planted on gravel, the hens stretched over the blacktop to snap up worms, spreading themselves further along the length of the road. Hearing the plucking of her brood grow distant, the master stretched her neck, kicked her strong legs, and strutted onto the hard, scratchy surface. She snapped up three worms in rapid succession, purring loudly.

The other hens, necks tired from reaching to the center of the road from the shoulder, plodded after her, seeing that it was safe to stand upon the frozen river. The spoils were bountiful, and each turkey ate her (and his) fill. The master garbled and trotted to the opposite edge of the road, whereat she ushered her compatriots back onto the pebble-filled frozen-not-slippery-river bank. Satisfied that the road was clear, she stooped her neck and took a mouthful of pebbles into her beak, swallowing them carefully. She trotted up and down the row, making sure the rest had consumed their portion.

Desperate yammering cut through the silence. He squawked and flapped his feathers loudly, generating great alarm among the hens. The turkeys snapped their heads upright and scanned either side of the river, bodies tense for fear of a screaming-fast Smelly Thing.

Instead, they saw a Spinning Thing carting a featherless biped.

“Such a ruckus could drive us to danger! Will your alarm ever match the threat, Freggens? Or are we condemned forever to bear the clatter of your feeble spirit at every drop of a leaf?” the master bird scorned him. The bird who had wailed, with a gray eye and patches of exposed skin, hung his skinny head and waddled to a distant edge of the group of hens, who danced away from and gobbled at the biker as he safely, slowly, passed them by.

“Hup, now! That’s plenty of refreshment and featherlessness for now. Form up!” The master bird reordered the gaggle. As a unit, they trudged back into the forest, leaving the frozen-not-slippery-river behind them. Freggens made his way along from the rear, pouting as he went.

“This way, dearies,” the master bird chirped, ushering the gaggle up a hill. Stepping through the white ground-above-the-ground was not preferred, especially uphill, but the wise master bird knew that the crest of the hill would have a very shallow coat. So the gaggle bore with her, careful to trace each others’ steps, carving a path through the forest. Freggens, mulling his mistake, chose to forge his own path behind the hens. He did not deserve to walk the easy trail blazed by their marching line.

Such went the pack, cooing and gargling various conjectures and positions on topics political and apolitical alike, with Freggens distantly trailing, stinking of scorn, for many an ebb of wind.

Mergle chittered and growled. Her mother stopped, and the hens began to circle up. Freggens, head down, didn’t notice the change in pace, and continued trudging along.

The master bird scanned the forest in the avian way, snapping her neck to and fro, angled in curious positions. She caught a sliver of orange fur whisking behind a trunk. She hollered and flared her wings, arousing the rest of the gaggle, who made themselves large and loud. Freggens, shocked by the display, leapt into the air with so little control that he landed on his side.

The sliver of orange popped up from behind the trunk, revealing itself to be a creature lesser in size than the master bird herself. It had orange fur, and green eyes, and sharp fangs and a long tongue, and its name was

“Miss Vue, you villainous wretch!” The master hen called. Her voice began with a bite of rage, but gave way to relief by the end of her greeting.

“Margelgel, my friend! What a fine gaggle you have found under your wing,” Miss Vue replied, strutting toward the pack.

“They are. Quite attentive, you found? And ready for a fight?”

“Quite, quite. They are well-prepared for predator response. The hens, that is,” Miss Vue glanced at Freggens, who was now stumbling back to his feet. Margelgel followed her gaze.

“Indeed. Thank you for the drill, as usual, my dear,” she gobbled. The other turkeys relaxed, returning to their smooth, striding formation. Freggens, twice now embarrassed, lagged further behind than before, wattle like a waterfall dragging along the ground. Miss Vue joined the group, chatting with Margelgel about the waning winter, and other topics apolitical.

When they came upon the second frozen-not-slippery-river, Miss Vue gave her regards and slipped back into the woods. Margelgel clucked, and the turkeys formed a tight, three-bird wide line. When she decided the Smelly Things were far from their path, she began to trot onto the black ground.

“Come along, dears,” she encouraged, “the Clearing Place is but a few paces hence. And they’ll be no more excitement ‘fore we reach that sacred plot.”

Uplifted, the birds began to skip along the road. All but the six at the end of the lines failed to hear the Smelly Thing passing behind them, and even those six paid it no mind, for it was, after all, behind them.

The gaggle pranced their merry way along the familiar path. They celebrated as they poured out from the trees into the Clearing Place. It was beautiful, even with the still-gray-sky above. Turkeys from many other packs were streaming in to the place as well.

Margelgel spun on her claws to count her gaggle, haphazard-like, for confident she was that her hens were safe. But, her count was off. She seized in cold, eyes wide, and looked her group up and down.

“Where, pray-tell, is Freggens?”
Mister Watchman

February 20th, 2023

Quadragesimus Quartus Gradus

Rising out of the lukewarm water caused Vasco’s skin to tighten around his muscles, which began to quake in the freezing air. Vasco blew a breath through tight blueing lips and snatched his thin towel off the rack. He stayed in the shin-high water as he scrubbed himself dry, unwilling to plant his feet onto the cold tiles until it was necessary.

Setting his towel around his neck, Vasco reached over to the sink, where his laptop was sleeping, and began clacking at the keyboard. The laptop quivered precariously on the edge of the sink, but Vasco hardly noticed as he flipped from window to window cutting, pasting, dragging, resizing, re-editing, double-checking, formatting, rendering, and stepping out of the tub, sloshing onto the tiles and recollecting his towel from its perch.

Bending, he dried his legs in a frenzy before dropping the towel into a pile and dressing himself. His eyes were plastered to the computer screen as he dressed, his mind racing to complete the presentation, his fingers itching to relay his desires to the computer and make his plans a virtual reality. He broke his stare long enough to glance at himself in the mirror. He was, indeed, dressed.

Snagging the laptop, the screen now full of condensation, he darted out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He plucked his phone off its charger with unusual but welcome ease, pocketed it, then set the computer down and picked up a mug of coffee (on which Vasco singed his hand, because he couldn’t thread his finger through the handle).

He noticed that the computer screen was foggy. Groaning, he set the mug down, intending to wipe the glass. Instead, coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug and splashed onto his trackpad. Stifling a yelp, both from the pain in his hand (which he now noticed) and the concern for his computer, Vasco repositioned the laptop and dabbed at the puddle of steaming coffee with the bottom of his jacket. Flustered, Vasco pressed save on his projects, snapped the lid shut, and stumbled out of his apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

The frosted glass door slammed shut behind him. It rattled into silence as Vasco winced. He hadn’t meant for such a boisterous entrance.

Mart glared at him with an expression caught between unbelief and contempt. He pressed his suit coat with flat palms as he leaned back and crossed his legs.

“Hey-y-y, Mart, sir,” Vasco cooed and smiled. He fumbled with his computer bag, his fingers arguing with his orders. “I know corporate is upset with my attendance, but after you see this, they’ll be begging you to pull me back on board.”

Vasco pulled the laptop open and placed it on Mart’s desk. While doing so, he noticed that his shirt was untucked, and covered with a continental coffee stain. Shhhh….

Mart stared, without looking, at the screen, but Vasco didn’t notice. He was busy stuffing his shirt into his pants. And realizing that the zipper was down. Shhhhhh!!

Mart blinked like an owl. His eyelids rested low over his pupils, his lips venomously neutral. But his eyes began to scan Vasco’s work even as Vasco attempted to turn away and fix his zipper. Mart had never seen such a confident yet such an ineffective attempt at subtlety.

“Just… have a seat, Vasco,” he sighed.

Vasco struggled to settle. His ears turned hot.

Mart took his time to consider Vasco’s work. It was well-researched, precise, airtight, and expertly presented. Beautiful artistry of charts and numbers and citations.

“I believe that art can be viewed separate from its artist, Vasco,” Mart drawled at last, “which is why I’m stuck in middle-management. Pretty reports like this just set my soul ablaze,” Vasco couldn’t discern Mart’s cryptic sarcasm from his pessimistic sincerity, “but they don’t erase reliability records. Corporate wants you out, Vasco.”

They locked eyes for a moment, Vasco waiting for Mart to continue and, like the prodigal’s father, welcome him back to work with arms wide open. A smile started to pull at his mouth.

“And from now on, corporate gets what she wants.” Mart leaned forward, crossed an arm across his lap, sharpened his eyes into focus on Vasco’s, and patted the top of the laptop. “Get out,” he spat as he snapped the lid closed.

Vasco stood with a zippt noise, snatched his laptop, and darted away. His eyebrows furrowed and relaxed in a cycle as he squirmed his way through the building and out of the door, which rolled shut behind him.

Vasco stretched in the shadows until he felt warm. He slinked through alleys, considering every step to minimize noise, eyes panning every streak of light to learn where the shadows were darkest. If it weren’t for the sweet, familiar anticipation that now consumed him, his body would be wailing for rest. He reached out and scraped his fingertips on a brick wall, elated that the sensation of rough brick sliding over his skin reached his awareness immediately. Maybe he wasn’t concussed that bad this time.

He would’ve pulled out his phone map if he thought it would’ve helped him. It wouldn’t. He wasn’t after anyone in particular, since his last lead got away. And he already knew where every security camera in the commercial districts were tucked away and exactly what view they could capture. Tonight was a wait-and-strike kind of night. Those sometimes performed well with the algorithm.

Vasco settled near a dumpster to stretch some more. Dumpsters are an excellent hiding place; their bulky forms exaggerate shadows and mask silhouettes. The rotting smell disciplined Vasco as he timed his stretches, reminded him that he could overcome any challenge.

A van squealed two blocks away. Vasco glanced over to see it crawling over the road. That meant it was stopping, as was Vasco’s stretching routine. He began jogging in the van’s direction with long, casual strides, sticking to the shadows.

Squeaky engines aren’t a very sneaky choice, maybe they’re not burglars, Vasco thought, his heart sagging, his pace slowing. Deciding that it was still worth checking, he kept on, unenthused.

As he jogged through another alley the squeal of the van petered out. Toward the corner of the building his ears picked up on the rumbling of the engine. So, the van parked, but didn’t shut off, on Patch Street. Either this was some late-night drop off, or there was about to be an active burglary. Vasco felt giddy and ducked around the other side of the building where he would find a fire escape ladder and a perfect perch for his phone camera. From that angle, he was able to identify three masked individuals. One armed with a crowbar, one staying in the drivers’ seat, and the third nervously glancing back and forth down and up the street. Vasco clicked record, then grinned as he slithered back down the ladder. He sauntered back around the building so he would emerge behind the van, intending to evade the driver’s alarm until he had dealt with at least one of the burglars.

He could hear Crowbar and Anxious chattering over the rumbling van as he approached the corner. Crowbar’s voice was monotonous, as if this was routine, while Anxious sounded… well. And for good reason. As the crowbar clicked against the doorframe of the building Vasco sprinted out from the corner, his shoes pad-pad-padding like paws on the sidewalk. Before Crowbar even noticed him coming, he had smashed his baton into his fingers. The crowbar clanged to the ground and the man yelped in pain. Vasco wrapped his baton around Crowbar’s neck and pulled him into his knee, then up and down into his knee again, striking the air out of his lungs and traumatizing the diaphragm. He crumpled to the ground, throat creaking as it begged for air to pass through it.

Anxious leapt back an impressive distance, turned on his heel, and slammed a hand into the passenger door of the van before Vasco could catch him. “Andrew!” He managed to scream before Vasco grabbed his head and bashed it into the window, shattering it. The driver sped away right when Crowbar was able to suck in a breath, filling his lungs with black exhaust. Vasco cradled Anxious’ limp body as it folded to the ground.

Turning his attention to the coughing and heaving Crowbar, Vasco produced rope and a knife, then secured his arms behind his back and tied them in place. He did the same with Anxious, then taped their mouths shut. Prancing to the fire escape to collect his phone, he left them on the steps of the… Rocket Tax Assistance Center? He resolved to interrogate one of them (meaning Crowbar, unfortunately, since Anxious was asleep) when he got back down there. What could make this place a suitable burglary target?

His phone screen was black. He tapped it. Still black. He wiped the screen, then shook it, then tapped it. Still black.

The cleanest hit he’d had in months, never captured, and unsharable.

His face steamed. Vasco clenched his eyes, thinking. Patch Street. R-TAC. Right next to the credit union. His eyes snapped open, his fingers battered his cheek. The fire escape was for the credit union, which was crawling with cameras. It really wouldn’t be difficult to slip in, snag a tape, and slip out. And it wouldn’t be criminal, just borrowing… and it was footage of his likeness, anyway, and he had stopped a crime next door.

As he built up his case in his mind, his body was already breaking into the building.

He dropped out of the ceiling and touched down on the floor with feline grace. His soft shoes pad-pad-padded on the glistening tiles as he crept into the security room, unfazed by locked doors. He plucked a flash drive out of his pocket and stuffed it into a computer, then dragged the security footage onto the device. It copied without a hitch. No one at the credit union would ever know. The drive pulled out with a snipt, and the door snapped closed with a clikt as Vasco glided up the counter and started hefting himself back into the ceiling.

He started to pull his leg into the pitch-black crawlspace as it was flooded with light. White light bathed the credit union, then red and blue spiraled over the walls, then Vasco heard the wailing sirens of the police cruisers and the internal security system.

Vasco gasped and clambered into the crawlspace, dashing as fast as his crouched position would allow toward the fire escape vent he’d broken in through. He heard officers flooding into the building beneath him. He resisted the urge to leap out into the night, and instead checked his corners. Two officers were scanning the alley. He ducked back inside the building before they looked up.

Heart thumping in his ears, Vasco took a knee. He started to take shallow breaths, then they started to quicken with his thoughts. Do they know I—

A ceiling panel collapsed beneath his weight and he crashed, shoulder-first, fourteen feet down into the red- and blue- and white-shining tile floor. He groaned. He dragged his arm beneath him and tried to push up, but his elbow gave out and his chin fell back to the floor. His vision blurred.

“That’s a great mask, honestly, up close like that.”

“Aw, shuddup, Tommy. The Nightwatchman? That’s what you call yourself, correct?”

Vasco groaned.

“Well, Mister Watchman, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say….” He didn’t hear the rest of his rights, because he dropped too hard into unconsciousness.
Thank You for the Undead

February 20th, 2023

Quadragesimus Quintus Gradus

Heavily inspired by “Thank You for the Venom” by My Chemical Romance.

I recommend listening to the song before and/or while reading this story. A familiarity with the song may enhance the reader’s enjoyment of this story.

The kill team encircles the facility, shadowy specters against the oily trees of the morning forest. Eddie severs a padlock, kicks in a door. Angie swings inside. The shadows storm through the hallway. Muzzles aimed at scrambling lab coats cry out with flashing rage. They clear the living, converting them to the dead. They clear every room, converting each into a mass casket. Bright blood from the slain spatter roses across the coffin doors.

At the end of the hall Angie scurries toward a frosted glass door, weapon nuzzled in her shoulder, barrel steaming. The opaque panel shatters as she nears.

“Sister!” Eddie yells as she’s caught by the rotting arms of a bloated corpse five times her size. Her pretty face screams, she pulls the trigger. Brown mush spurts out of her attacker’s back, a spray chasing each bullet. They don’t stop the fangs of the monster from sinking into her neck. She never had a chance. Her flesh splatters to the floor as the monster turns and leaps onto another person, then another, lurching from wailing victim to victim. Each becomes a pile of mutilation seeping over the polished floor.

Eddie fires at the monster until it disappears behind a corner. Screams echo out of the corridor. He bellows and kneels next to Angie, alive and suffering. “So this is what life’s like…” she managed, but Eddie didn’t hear her. The screams of throats and guns drowned her whisper in a putrid symphony. He pressed his ear to her lips “…bleeding on the floor?” She exhaled with her life.

Eddie pulls his blood-soaked ear away only for a chorus of moans to scratch it, even over the fray around him. Outside, dozens of decomposing legs stumble with haste toward the facility, gushing through the tree line.

Guards clad in white armor storm into the rotunda. They exterminate two of Eddie’s team before they can return fire. Eddie scrambles among the lockboxes in the lab, bashing glass cabinets with the butt of his gun. He tears open a door and finds them. A searing pain cuts his side. He growls and raises his eyes over the counter to see three guards.

“Give me all your pills!” Eddie screams as he sweeps his rifle across the counter, holding the barrel down with his meaty arm. The guards crumple. Maroon rivers taint their matte white armor plates.

Eddie sets his arm on the shelf and drags the canisters of pills into his satchel. He hoists the rifle upright and begins to sprint back down the corridor. His surviving teammates fall in behind him as the guards pour into the room.

The kill team bursts out of the facility and slam the door closed only to face a horde of unhinged mouths that belong to rotted faces.

“Hallelujah, lock and load!” Eddie orders. In the spare seconds they have, the specters reload and re-chamber. The barrels of his kill team raise at the same instant, blasting open the skulls of the dead and cutting a pathway of blood through the courtyard out into the forest.

Spilling into the tree line, Eddie hears a roar emanate from the facility. He turns over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the great beast bursting out of the rotunda’s glass roof with a squirming guard in one hand and half a scientist in the other. As the monster turns to consume the head of the guard, cracking through his white helmet and splashing his brains over the roof, it notices a train of survivors pouring into the forest opposite Eddie’s kill team. The corpse drops the bodies and lunges toward the fleeing crowd.

Eddie pushes off the ground, shouldering a decaying man hard enough to rip it in gory twain, and sprints toward the survivors with a roar.

“Eddie!” His team screams behind him, “You’re running after something that you’ll never kill!”

“Give me all your hopeless hearts,” Eddie cried over his shoulder to the team as he carried on, spraying down the dead in his way. He took a hand off his rifle and sunk it into his satchel, tearing out a canister and popping the lid with his thumb. He hurled the satchel back to his team.

“If this is what you want, then fire at will,” his team blessed him as they turned to make their escape with the pills.

Dropping his empty magazine and stuffing it into the eye socket of a corpse, Eddie began to vomit. He remained on his feet and forced his burning eyes to remain locked on a fresh magazine, replacing his rifle’s food. The puke poured over his chin and down his neck, soaking his chest. Hands clamped down on him from every angle. His pace suffered. The scratches and bites hurt, but they couldn’t kill him. They couldn’t turn him.

“Give me all your poison!” he taunted the dead through his bile, “it’ll be the last!”

He stopped running and thrusted an elbow back, lodging it in the chest of a corpse. It kept his aim steady as he circled, blowing heads apart all around him. Enough space cleared for him to pull his arm free and carry on, he sprinted once more toward the monster that had ripped his sister apart. It was amongst the crowd eating every bullet the guards threw at it and every soul it captured in its grip. The bodies in now-red clothes rained over the dark forest.

Eddie felt a shin snap below his foot and heard a yelp of pain. Shocked by the expression, he turned to look at the victim. It was a scientist, who gazed forlorn at the monster.

“You’re going after it,” the woman whispered. “It can’t be killed!” Her body quaked. “But… give me a reason to believe…” she let her final wish fade into the screams of the forest, the screams of both the dead and of the dying.

Eddie reset his attention on the monster. He shot at its head. No flash or noise revealed the shots. His gun was empty. Yelling, Eddie threw the empty rifle at a stumbling corpse and scanned the carnage for another weapon. All he found was a fire axe. Hoisting it up, he ran again toward the violent beast. Swinging the iron axe head with adrenalized ease he cut down multitudes on his way to the monster, leaving them to rot into dust at his heels.

He leapt into the air with the axe behind his back. The blade spliced the beast’s sternum. Eddie sunk his fingers around its clavicle and took the axe in the other hand. He cut into the chest over and over, the dead flesh hanging like mourning veils over the holes he gored. The monster struck Eddie, tearing away his grip. He spewed gasping for breath into the crowd of dying people and stumbling corpses.

“Love it or leave it!” Eddie heard a man scream.

“I don’t understand…” Eddie began, choking on spittle. He heard a wet gargling, but before he could turn to look a body collapsed onto him. It pinned his hips to the ground. He stared into the barrel of a PAW-20. The guard’s finger, warm dead blood still draining, was collapsing into the trigger. Eddie’s muscles snapped into action to punch the corpse’s arm away from the gun and take it into his own.

Still pinned, Eddie spun the launcher, nestled the stock into his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger seven times. Seven rounds split through the air sailing toward the beast. They bounced off its gray skin, or rolled around its feet, and a few sunk through the axe wounds. One by one they exploded into a hail of shrapnel and flame. Brown blood and bits of flesh blanketed everything in the fray, soaking Eddie’s face. He sputtered and wiped his eyes. The beast was both nowhere and everywhere, and Eddie wore it on his sleeve.
Archibald

March 30th, 2022

Octavus Gradus

The first month I lived in my apartment building I found a closed enveloped peeking under my door. My heart jumped a little when I saw it; I was worried I had made too much noise the night before or had otherwise irritated my new neighbors. I put off opening it for an hour or so as I proceeded with my morning routine; coffee, breakfast, a quick web search for friendly but relatively independent dog breeds. I was excited to have my own apartment, finally, with a stable career ahead of me. I wanted to share it with a little buddy.

I finally got around to opening the letter, breath held. To my pleasant surprise, it was simply an invitation to a summer get-together the tenants hold every summer. It was a community event. Everyone was encouraged to pitch in with planning or providing something so we could take advantage of the beautiful summer weather together. I was definitely interested in the get-together. I was eager to meet my new neighbors, make some friends, and hang out in the well-gardened yard, which was also a group effort.

When it was about a week away, everyone was ready for the party. I got a spree of notifications on my phone from local news reports and neighborhood watch apps; a break-in had occurred a few blocks away. The robber had apparently broken into a few different houses, made off with a sizable amount of valuables, and had escaped, leaving pretty much no evidence as to who it was.

After this, there was some mumbling about whether or not to hold the party. We decided it would be pretty ridiculous to cancel it. After all, it would be during the day, the robber wasn’t supposed to be violent, and a week should be enough time for the police to catch the criminal.

Still, I was uneasy about the situation. I spent about twice as long in the mornings making sure, and double, and triple sure that my door was locked. I kept my windows shut, spending a bit more money on the A/C, but it was worth it.

I talked with my mom about it, and she was worried for me. But, with motherly wisdom, she suggested that perhaps I find a bigger dog, one that could defend the homeland while I was away. I wanted one anyway, right?

Right, but nobody else had a dog. From what I could tell, maybe they didn’t even have any pets. I didn’t want to impose. After all, dogs could have a big impact on any or all of my neighbors, especially a big one. Someone could be scared of it, it could be loud, it could have big poops and leave them in the lawn. No, I would just lock my door and close my windows.

At work that day, I daydreamed about someone breaking into my apartment while I was away. They’d ruin my entire new, independent life. But in my daydreams, if there was a dog on duty, he would scare the robber away and chase him, hollering, down the street.

After work, I explored more dog breeds. I started to narrow my focus, and even pulled up some listings in the area. I checked shelters first and breeders second. I kept searching, and some ads got me interested in food bowls and cute little toys, too.

I heard a knock on the door. I looked through the peep hole to see my landlord. He had a fella I didn’t recognize with him. When I opened the door he told me the gentleman was going to install a more secure lock for me, if I didn’t mind. If I didn’t mind! I was elated, of course he can put it on!

That night I slept like a baby. I had new lock; I wouldn’t need to invest in a new dog after all. But then I had a nightmare. What if the locksmith was the robber? I imagined him sneaking into the building, unlocking the door with a secret key, then coming in and stealing my stuff, maybe even worse. I woke up sweaty and chilled. I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help but be nervous at work all day, imagining that at any moment the locksmith would be in my apartment, taking whatever he pleases, leaving no evidence of a break-in, just like at the houses down the road.

When I got back from work that day, I explored my apartment, pretty much taking inventory of everything there, holding my breath. Then I got a flood of notifications; another break-in had occurred just a few doors down!

I packed up my wallet, made sure the door was locked, and headed to a shelter across town. There, I met Archibald. I was eager to get him home, but we stopped by a local pet store and got all the goodies he could want.

Not a week later, I woke up to the sound of Archibald hollering. I hurried out of my room, ready to quiet him down. I was worried he’d wake up and annoy the neighbors; maybe I should give him away.

But I was horrified to see Archibald biting down on a hooded man’s leg, now knocking him over. The next-door neighbor opened his door, then another rushed down the stairs. They held down the robber, and I pulled Archibald off of him. We had caught the criminal.

I couldn’t believe it myself. I can’t imagine what might’ve happened if the robber—who, turned out, was not the locksmith—would’ve gotten in with no resistance. Apparently, he broke into a few lower-floor apartments and would’ve escaped with hundreds of dollars worth of property if it weren’t for Archibald.

At the summer party, he was pretty much the dog of the hour. He played fetch with the kids and got lots of pets and “good boys” from my neighbors. Especially from those whose property he’d saved. They love him. Even the news teams interviewed us. He’s recognized every time I take him for a walk; Archibald is a local hero. Then I clean up his big poops, but I suspect no one would mind if I left them.
Judge Marshall’s Definitive Decision

March 29th, 2022

Trigesimus Quartus Gradus

Judge Marshall wiped his mouth, hand shaking, before lurching forward once more and vomiting into the pink porcelain bowl. When he finished, he gasped, then rose to a quivering stride to the sink. Here he cleaned his spattered face and dragged eye boogers from the corners of his eyes, flicking them to the tile floor. There was a knock outside the door.

Judge Marshall winced as his arms—hands shaking—shot up to head level and hovered around his ears for an instant. Hesitant, he forced his arms to droop low as the door cracked open.

“Your Honor,” Ms. Dawson chimed, “the Court is ready to proceed.”

He hated her glistening white, perfect teeth. They made him recoil.

“I am the Court. And stop smiling.”

“Also,” she added, smiling, “Principal Lars is on the line. Again.” When it was clear that the judge intended to ignore the call, she finished: “he wants you to know that if your son’s grades don’t improve he will be disqualified from school-sponsored sports.” She ducked out of the room, chuckling, as an empty paper towel roll clattered against the doorframe.

The dim courtroom fell silent as the massive chamber door clanged open and banged shut with a satisfying snikt. Judge Marshall stormed up to the judge’s bench. His face was red, his eyes puffy, his shoulder thin and hunched as he huffed into the soft-cushioned seat. Suddenly the courtroom was filled with whispers. Deliberations by the lawyers, petty conversation among the observers. The bailiff winked at a woman in the crowd. She handed a bill to the man next to her, who shuffled over and delivered it to the officer.

Where, pray tell, has respect run off to? Marshall wondered. He took a moment to breathe and refresh himself on the contents of the case. The plaintiff, an under-qualified prospective employee suing on the grounds of unfair hiring practices. The defendant, some corporate entity based God-knows-where arguing that the spoiled-rotten rich frat kid doesn’t deserve a spot on their managerial staff just because he passed with a C in his macroeconomics program while hungover last semester. Their multi-million-dollar lawyering team will spend too much time arguing as if they hadn’t already won the case.

“Ordery—ahem—Order in the court!” Judge Marshall banged his water glass on the stand. Shooting a confused glance at it, he set it down and picked up his gavel. A quick scratch behind the ear with the handle will do. He threw a pen at the court reporter, shouting, “I heard six too many key-clicks, Mr. McKay!”

“Now then,” he groaned, “who wants to go first?”

Several rounds of verbal combat later, Judge Marshall was itching for a soothing salt bath and a few glasses, make it bottles, of wine. As he predicted, the defendants had dominated the time on the stand. Through it all, his mind had not been changed, except to make the plaintiff’s spoiled tantrum more absurd. Of course, the plaintiff had no room to accuse the defendants of unfair treatment, no matter how much he or his daddy whined to the bench. Of course the plaintiff needs to know that Yucatán is not one of the fifty United States if he wants to be the company’s Lead Sales Ambassador for Foreign Nations in the Western Hemisphere. Of course the company is within its rights to ask him if he knows, indeed, that The Free and Sovereign State of Yucatán is not one of the fifty United States.

“But your Honor,” Mr. Ewing begged with his pouty blue eyes. This was his last chance to convince Judge Marshall to decide in his favor. “Consider this document…” the judge nodded, chuckling, and the bailiff brought the paper up to the bench “…it’s a graded examination from my fifth grade year at Saint Lincoln-Washington West Eagle Elementary School of Freedom. Notice the teacher’s marks on question 8, your Honor.”

Judge Marshall’s eyes widened. The date on the paper matched Mr. Ewing’s age, it had Mr. Ewing’s name, and it had the title of the school in full display along with its symbol—an eagle eye the iris of which was painted like an American flag. It was legitimate evidence. Question 8 read, “Which of these is among the fifty states of the United States of America?” Of the four options, Yucatán was one. Mr. Ewing had not selected it, nor the correct answer, but the teacher had not indicated which of the four was the correct option. Thus, Yucatán could have been the correct answer, causing Mr. Ewing to live all these years of his life living with a false belief that led him to disqualify himself from the hiring process.

“My God…” the judge muttered. “Mister McKay!” He shouted to the recorder, “make sure you get this down word-for-word!”

“As always, your Honor,” he whispered. A pen collided with his forehead.

“I object, your Honor! The decision may not proceed until the defense has seen a copy of—”

“Silence! I’ve heard enough from you, Principal Lar—ahem—Mister Lee, and the damnable corporate carcass you speak for!” Then, a moment later, turning to Mr. McKay, he shouted, “Too many keystrokes, McKay!” The recorder narrowly dodged the gavel.

“Now, as I was saying!

“Let the record show, Mr. McKay, Mr. Lee and the rest of the defendant’s counsel, Mr. Ewing and your…father’s disinterested attorney, humble observers of the court, that on this day, I condemn the education system of America. Mr. Ewing never stood a chance in any corporate HR department because his school—” the judge gave the exam a vigorous shake above his head—“set him up for failure! How, pray tell, can Mr. Lee’s employer—” (“I’m really more of a contractor”)—“hold Mr. Ewing responsible for a lack of knowledge he clearly never had the chance to gain? Indeed, Mr. Ewing was unfairly treated by the corporation, which held against Mr. Ewing the failings of the public education system, and not any legitimate concern with Mr. Ewing as an employee himself. The employer is responsible for providing prospective employees with the skills and knowledge required to complete the job, and therefore must lavish these skills and knowledge upon prospective employees as part of the hiring process, and may only then consider other factors when making the decision whether to or not to hire.

“By order of the court, the corporation must pay for Mr. Ewing’s training and faithfully execute the onboarding process.”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Lee interrupted, “the expenses involved with that will bankrupt hundreds, thousands of small companies in America! Consider the economic—”

“Order, I say! Order! If after this investment into the person of Mr. Ewing he turns out to be an unfit employee, then fire him! Case dismissed!”

Judge Marshall banged his empty water glass on the bench, stood, collapsed, rose, and left.

The decision upset the legal system across the country. Judge Marshall was brave to make such a drastic decision. The decision was upheld unanimously and permeated across the country at every level. Employers, not schools, were responsible for teaching their employees basic information necessary to perform a job.

So, children failed every exam question possible. They could not be held accountable for knowledge they never learned. Sometimes, they would accidentally get a question right, and their families would mourn. Every correct answer was a liability when it came to securing a career.

A generation later, not a public nor private school existed in all of America. Instead, children were reared within corporate training facilities, because if employers were wholly responsible for the education of their prospective employees, it was most efficient to train them from the womb forward.

Indeed, as Mr. Lee predicted, thousands of businesses had gone under, but this simply made it easier for employees to decide which of the three or so remaining companies to work for.

Of primary importance, Junior Marshall got to stay on both the track team to set the worst time the school had known to date and the football team to have a knee blown out during a scrimmage match.

Of secondary importance, Mr. Lee and his legal team never worked another day in their lives. They retired to their own private islands, fraternizing with their contemporary Justices who had upheld Marshall’s decision.
Accident Prevention

March 17th, 2022

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Mel felt his fingers begin to slip over the steering wheel. He tightened his grip and gave it a slight turn, allowing the car to slow a few miles per hour around a gentle curve. As he mouthed the words to a song, hiding his voice from his ears, he noticed the tight line of trees on either side of the road. They were split intermittently with cracked, pitted driveways in no better condition than the shoulder of the road itself. A driver like Mel could better discern the lanes by deep channels along their borders than by the road commission’s worn paint marks.

Rhythmic eyes bouncing back and forth across the windshield, Mel took note of the cold-looking clouds up above. They were bright, but in a gray kind of way, as if they could burst into sunshine or downpour in the same instant.

A soft movement caught Mel’s eye on the right shoulder up ahead. Snapping to it, Mel could see an older man with a snug hat and huge jacket tugging at his mailbox. Mel edged the car toward the center of the road, raising his head to determine if any oncoming traffic was going to come up over that hill.

Headlights.

Can’t give you much space. Sorry, sir, Mel thought to himself, projecting the thought toward the old man as if he could hear it.

Still, Mel kept as close to the center of the road as he could, and passed the man—and the other car—without incident as kept struggling to get the mailbox open.

Considering how close his huge piece of machinery had been to that vulnerable man, and how short the shoulder of the road was, and how slippery it was as well, Mel thought aloud: “I had that man’s fate in my hands!”

But isn’t it true that he could’ve jumped in front of you?

“Or slipped… or just backed up too far.”

If that’d happened, what fate would you have been responsible for?

“None, I guess.”

The leaves, Mel noticed, were all but gone from the passing trees.

We both had to play our role to perfection to prevent a deadly collision. I just had to stay in my lane and make sure I kept my car in control. He just had to…not get in my way, I guess. We danced a dangerous dance, then, he and I. To an extent, I had to trust him. And he really had to trust me. But his trust was without a second thought. Do you think he even heard me? He had a generalized trust for anyone who might’ve been driving by as he was getting his mail. And yet, we both played our part perfectly well….

An acorn fell onto Mel’s windshield, but he hardly noticed. His arms rotated the wheel with fluid, mindless ease, guiding the car around the tight, wood-walled curves.

That’s the same way stop lights work. Everyone is supposed to look around, though, too, and not just follow the light blindly. Even though I was expecting him to uphold his end of our deal, I still needed to be wary in case he didn’t. That way, I could still take action to avoid an accident that would’ve occurred if I hadn’t been expecting it and therefore didn’t act on it!

If he fell, for example, I should’ve been going slow enough to be able to stop, and hopefully glide out of the lane and borrow some of the oncoming lane. That’d’ve been better than running him over. And, much the same, that oncoming driver, I hope, would’ve seen his mistake, noticed my compensatory action, and himself made room for me to make room for him so we could all escape without incident despite there having been a hiccup in our little, dangerous dance!

So not only do we have to be able to play our role well, but we have to be able to adapt to potential mistakes made by the other in a way that will prevent an accident that might’ve been if not…

He uttered a sort of growl at himself, “Now I’m just repeating myself.” Switching to a smile, he concluded: “Suffice it to say, accident prevention is a cooperative effort!”

A thud and a lurch, and then Mel’s foot clamped down on the brake pedal. He glided onto the shoulder, heart clenched, sweat already beading on his forehead and cheeks.

“Uhh,” his voice quivered as he looked over his shoulder, then ahead, then repeating, before opening the door. He swung his leg over to stand, but the muscles didn’t thrust him out of the seat. He choked, felt a pressure on his throat. He cursed, then fumbled with the seatbelt and finally released himself from the car.

Whipping his head to the left, he swallowed hard, fearing what he might see. Nothing. Jogging to the back of the car, he scanned the ditch next to the road. A bundle in the road two dozen yards back caught his eye. He hurried over to it, sweat falling over his face. It was hard, in that gray-dark-bright light, to see what it was until he was quite close.

He saw a yellow-scale claw. He imparted a sigh. The sweat turned to ice on his face and neck. The bundle was a mess of feathers which hid a body that was oblong, pushed out of shape by the weight of something large and fast. Hmm.

Walking around the bundle, Mel confirmed his suspicion that this was a turkey when he saw its bald head and big wattle, which hung over the neck of the thing like a fleshy petrified waterfall.

Mel verbalized disgust, then felt pretty bad, so he said, to the dead bird,

“Sorry, little dude. Tough luck I guess. Um… here.”

He bent toward the creature and grabbed the back of its neck with his fingertips, but it was too heavy to lift like that. Sighing, he wrapped his fingers all the way around it and, carrying the body far away from his own, laid the bird a little way into the ditch, feet first.

Shaken by cold and wiping his hand on his pants, Mel hopped back toward the car. About to set himself in the driver’s seat, he hesitated, then curved around to the front to check the damage.

Come on, dude. Seriously?
A Time to Mend

February 11th, 2022

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus

The sweet bathroom air had wicked away the moisture, leaving the toothbrush to rest dry along the edge of the cup. Its bristles nodded more directly toward the bathroom door than when she’d left, but it was an imperceptible difference.

Above the toothbrush resided a mirror. The glass was as clear as to be invisible. By one angle, its smooth reflection of the baby-blue wall together with its white decorative rim rendered the silvered plane indistinguishable from a window. By another angle, the mirror captured the next room. From this angle, it recorded an ever-rolling history of the living room’s events.

Of particular interest to the mirror was the fireplace. The pale stones that surrounded the cavity stood apart from the blue-gray walls. Less often than so, the tongues of the fireplace danced between the wood, reaching vainly toward the white stones, able only to stain them with smoke. The gentle orange cast of the flames brought significant beauty to the mirror. Within the confines of the mirror the light blue paint would embrace the vibrant glow in a union of elegant gradients and strikes, as if a sunset were occurring during the brightness of noon. Though, presently, as it were, the fireplace rested.

The wood within creaked four times throughout the day, groaning at the same pain which caused the metal grating to retract into itself; wintery air.

A pen rested, ink stubborn from the chill, on a stack of papers. Its ends were perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets. The sheets were stacked precisely atop each other as if freshly cut on a factory line. The rest of the table was clear and fresh with disinfectant.

Plip… plip… the mouth of the bathtub watered.

The door opened, betraying no noise itself, but introducing the chit-chatter of friends in the hallway to the apartment. The conversation fell away in a smooth curve punctuated by the click, snikt of the door closing and the lock triggering.

Her warm breath whirled invisible before her mouth in the chilly room.

Her finger, skin tight to the muscle to preserve heat, brushed two switches in one stroke.

Tk, tk.

Suddenly the mirror burst to life, welcoming the writhing flames as they built their strength around the wood. The room, darkened by the evening and the gray walls, smoothed into the soft, orange light of a cabin in the woods as lamps rose to life. She casted shadows throughout the room as she navigated through, the mirror noting her familiar path toward the bathroom.

She cut around the corner, her face captured clearly in the mirror, all the dirt collected into streaks on her cheeks, congregated in the corners of her eyes, smeared on her forehead in the places she’d brushed with the back of her hand a dozen times that day. The mirror noticed the minute streaks of red that lined her face, microscopic abrasions that had drawn scarcely a full drops’ worth of blood when considered altogether.

Leaning over the bathtub, her dirty fingers pressed the lever. The rushing noise of water was met a moment later by the crashing of water on the bathtub floor. When the current began to steam and her skin was brushed by its warmth she flipped a switch to stop the drain. Then she stood upright before the sink.

She reached her hand to the handle. The cold, crafted metal sent a ripple up her arm. She sucked in her breath, turning the faucet. Bending to the bowl of the sink she washed a handful of water over her mouth, felt the dirt and grime rinse away. Rising, she took soap in her hands and cleaned them, remembering the first time she washed her hands after replacing a bike chain, the hours she’d spent scrubbing at the grease. Now, she was contented with ten seconds, confident that what would come off had come off.

Out came the toothbrush from the cup, and on its bristles squeezed a pea-sized blot of paste. She brushed her teeth in small, circular motions, targeting each tooth and being gentle over the gums. The taste and smell of lunch and labor, of a mouth anxious for water, was siphoned into the foam of the paste, ejected and washed down the sink. When she replaced the toothbrush to the cup she smiled, exhaled, and felt a surge of energy that spun her on her heel and put her back into the living room.

The crisp air of the bathroom dragged behind her, curling with the warming living room air. She stood for a moment in front of the fire place, allowing the heat to wrap around her as it rushed forth to counteract the little winter trapped in the apartment. She swayed there, enjoying the smell of the woodsmoke. Closing her eyes she saw late night campfires before her, the smoke shifting and driving itself toward her sister, then her brother, before they were both gone, replaced by college friends, now younger versions of themselves, now a vast fire clawing at an old couch. Grinning, her eyes fell open as she turned, reaching for the pen.

The mirror watched her snip it between her finger and thumb, twirl it like a cowboy’s revolver, and let it rest in that comfortable pocket of flesh between her thumb and her index finger. The ink flowed, broken up by the twirl and the rising air, and her mind fell into the pages, staining them with her elegant script. She peeled back the top sheet, crumpled it, and let it fall onto the table. Again the pen pressed against the paper, jumping and scratching fast across its grain, it and the ink and the page becoming her the longer she scrabbled prose into it.

The deep thumping of water pouring into itself began to rise as she lifted the pen from the paper, clicked it closed, and rested it with points perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets.

She bobbed into the bathroom, pulled the lever down, allowing the faucet to hiss back to rest. She sank into the water above her head. The dirt and grim lifted from her skin like hummingbirds from branches, whisked away by the soapy water. She exhaled, listening to the bubbles as they rose and bursted up top, smiling at her memories of the ocean, the waves crashing down on her and her friends as they struggled to surf. She remembered the violent smell of salt, now replaced by a relaxed rosy fragrance.
Don’t Wake Her Up

January 10th, 2022
Quadragesimus Gradus

“Generally, she won’t remember them. Those she does remember we will be sure to process thoroughly. Don’t wake her up. You will only disrupt her sleep. In the short and long term, that has far more severe consequences. You both—you all—need rest.”

“I’m gonna get you!” Darian yelled with false animosity toward his screaming children. “Ahh!” He waved his arms high in the air as they scampered out of his path, ducking behind table legs and chairs, leaping onto couches. Darian cornered Merla, his middle daughter, and stomped over to her. Scooping her up, he dashed across the room while she wailed and thrashed. In a swift motion he dropped her onto a couch. “I got you!” Darian trumpeted as he began tickling her belly and under her ear. Her screaming turned to laughter.

After only a moment, Darian heard the others yelp little battlecries as they emerged from hiding, then the pitter-patter as they rushed to Merla’s rescue. Reaching Darian, Kayden began beating his father’s legs, hollering indecipherable curses. Everly, the eldest who was much taller, leapt onto Darian and grabbed hold of his shoulder, knocking him down and away from Merla. Merla joined her sister by pressing on his nape, their combined weight smooshing his face into a cushion.

Darian shook his whole body in an attempt to wriggle free, growling like a trapped beast. “Gah! I’ll get you, I’ll get you—ALL!” He caught Merla’s leg as she was beginning to crawl down his back, pushing her over his side and twisting out of Everly’s grip in one move. He put a hand on Kayden’s forehead and held him away; he was now free, but still on his knees. His back was to the couch, which gave the kids an excellent height advantage. Recovering faster than he expected her to, Merla scrambled from the couch onto the back of his neck—again. Everly hung from the arm which held Kayden, who was flailing his arms in the air before him, pressing into Darian’s hand. Then Everly began to tug on Darian’s elbow, forcing it to bend. Darian noticed Merla’s weight, the fatigue in his back. Truly, his kids were about to beat him in a wrestling match. They’d never done—if only she could see them now.

“Wrah!” He bellowed, rearing his back and flinging his arms. “You’ll never beat me!” Merla, again, fell onto the cushions. Kayden fell on his rear, giggling. Everly, however, had maintained her grip. “Never!” She retorted, adjusting and leaping at his face. The heel of her palm landed just below Darian’s eye. She tackled him to the floor, and from there he knew it was over. Merla and Kayden crawled on top of him, struggling to pin a limb each.

Darian let his bellows fade to begging whimpers, allowing his children to bask in their victory. When they finally let him up, they jumped and danced together, complimenting each others’ valor against the Dad-Beast.

“Alright!” He finally exclaimed, handing them each a water bottle. “Even though you bested me, that doesn’t mean bedtime is any later! Get going upstairs!” He widened his arms to playfully intimidate them, and they squealed and rushed up the steps. The springs of their beds rang as they leapt into them. Darian settled into his chair for a moment, plucking a cup of water in a light hold, and took a long draw.

He woke with a snort. He took a deep breath, inadvertently sucking in a strand of drool. He blinked. The pain in the corners of his eyes told him that sleep boogers had accumulated there. Slowly, he rotated his head, scanning the lamplit living room. Finding the clock, he sighed—four in the morning. He stood and wiped his eyes. Darian grabbed his cup of water and shuffled into the kitchen, flicking light switches as he went. After finishing off the glass at the sink, he filled it again, then performed the evening ritual of ensuring each door was locked and each light was off. Then he proceeded upstairs.

It was quiet, but the lights to Kayden’s room and the girls’ room were on. Darian exhaled, the air cutting through tight lips, seething at a pain in his knee. Continuing quietly up the steps, all was still silent—he hadn’t woken them.

At the top of the stairs lay the entrance to Kayden’s room, which Darian entered. Kayden was asleep, face sideways and mouth open wide on the pillow. Darian shook his head with a smile as he walked over. He has his mother’s cheeks. He gently guided Kayden’s body to its side. He kissed him above the ear. “Goodnight, my son.”

Darian flicked the light and went back into the hallway.

Murmuring.

He took careful, tense strides toward the girls’ room, listening to the voice, eager to determine its mood. As he drew closer, he realized that the voice waxed and waned in volume, almost in line with the inhale-exhale cycle. Certainly, the speaker was sound asleep.

Standing at the open door Darian could see that Merla and Everly were caught in slumber. It was Merla alone who spoke. She had a smile on her restful face. Between sentences she offered lax giggles. She said:

“Mommy! I know where you’re hiding! Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Her calls were sing-song lures intended to draw out her mother. Darian smiled—she was having a sweet dream, for once. He stepped into the room to tuck them in and kiss them goodnight.

Merla’s face contorted. Darian’s chest seized.

“Mommy! Mommy?” The call sounded surprised, the question sounded concerned.

“Mommy? Where are you?” The tone grew more worrisome. She shivered. “Momma?”

Darian rushed to Merla’s side, kneeling by the bed, taking her head in his arms.

“Momma? Mommy where are you?” Now she was anguished. Her head snapped back and forth, closed eyes searching. “Mom?” Her projected voice turned into whines, and her questions to begging. “Mommy please come out! Mom! Please….”

Her cheeks grew wet with tears, her pillow soaked in them. Darian groaned as he coddled Merla’s head in his arms, trying to wipe the tears from under her eyes and the hair from her face. But they were too many, and his hands grew wet, and her hair sprawled in chaos.

“Mom! Mom! Where are you?” Her voice reverberated through his ears as if through a dark, empty cavern. She was alone. She had to be. “Momma, please!”

Darian bit his lip until it popped in his mouth, washing his tongue with the taste of iron. He wanted to shake her, to shout her name, to pet her head until she woke up and realized she was safe, she was going to be okay, she wasn’t alone. But he couldn’t wake her, no matter how long she suffered, no matter how she begged him to be roused from the terror.

“Momma? Please! Don’t leave me!” No…not even now… “Mom! Where are you?”

So he gently attended to her tears, his hands trembling. When the blood dried on his tongue he whispered her a lullaby, the one her mother used to sing. “Mom,” Merla whimpered, “mommy….”

She fell silent. Her breathing steadied. Darian used his quaking forearms to wipe the moisture from his eyes so he could see. Her face relaxed. She was beautiful, she had her mother’s nose. How he hated to see it crumpled in pain! How he hated himself for letting her suffer!

But now she was alright, and he kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, my dear,” he managed through his constricted throat. Fatigued, he rose to stand. His leg had fallen asleep and he nearly fell to the floor, but he caught himself without too much noise. He shuffled over to Everly, kissed her above her mother’s eye; “goodnight, my daughter.”

He straightened his back and turned for the door, walking out as he had so many times before; with that fatherly gait which proclaimed its strength, its towering might, built upon a foundation of solid ancient stone hailing from deep within the Earth. Darian walked like this in case they were awake, or partially awake, and caught a glimpse of him. This way, they would feel secure in his confidence, not discouraged by his weakness.

He flicked the light and shut the door part-way.
```
       There the mountain stands,
	That great wonder of stone,
	A king towering o’er the Earth.
	See how broad his shoulders?
	See how high his peaks?
	A king so stern and wise,
	Resisting storm and ruin,
	Remaining e’r the same.
	

	Behold! The mountain rests
	But in God’s hands,
	All Creation’s Potter.
	Let God take that mountain stone,
	Let Him condense it twixt His palms.
	A meager petrosphere
	Has the King Mountain become,
	Who once towered sturdy o’er Earth.
```
Then he began the journey to his room through the hall, where they could not see him. His nerves washed with nothingness, but he sensed himself tumbling over a ledge. He stumbled into the guardrail of the steps, resting his entire forearm on it to steady himself. His shoulders hunched, his neck collapsed into his collar. He couldn’t feel his legs, he couldn’t feel his heart beat. Darian’s head lolled over his shoulders as he shrunk within himself.

He was focused on his throat, stopping those quaking vocal cords from tearing the air to shreds. He wanted to scream until his throat dried and decayed. To scream with outrage against the torture he had permitted, to scream as a prosecutor arguing against himself, to scream proclamation of a guilty verdict, and to scream until his throat bled as recompense for the horror which he had let Merla endure. But if he screamed they would wake up, and her suffering would be in vain, for he would ruin her night’s rest. She so deserved a good night’s rest. They deserved everything.

Darian pressed his door closed behind him. He fumbled sluggard and aimless through the dark. A dense weight thrashed within his heart, wrenching him toward the ground with each lurching step. His legs became rubber under the weight. His ribs clutched his chest the way spider legs cling to prey, squeezing tension into his abdomen. His neck and head throbbed, burning the air around them. Dizzy, what he could see of the dark room swayed like ocean waves. He groaned against his will and whined in protest against the groans, hating himself for being so ill-composed. He languished, preparing to collapse where he stood.

His knee struck the side of his bed. He fell in an instant onto the mattress. As he did, the air pressed forth from his lungs, the pressure in his gut subsided. He realized that this had created a sob. He drew a breath in through quivering lips. He held it in, eyes watering and creating two pools of tears on his sheets. He held it in, shrill groans breaking through the flesh of his neck for he refused to part his lips.

When his fingers began to tingle Darian could hold the breath no longer. He exhaled, and with the heaving breath the heat absolved from around his head, his ribs released their grasp, and the compressed mountain within his heart exploded through his skin. Tears leaked from his eyes, gasps and sobs polluted the silence in confidence. For a time his body writhed slowly, a sluggish squirming. He was acutely aware of every moment, of all the sorrow that seeped through his pores, of the remorse that racked his body.

Then he churned through his mind, unaware of the passing time, his body violently shaking and lurching, clutching the pillows and the blankets, shouting into them, crushing them and pulling them, crying out into them, suffering silently, his muscles growing tighter to restrain his rage, his screams, his destruction so as not to wake the children, who need their rest, they need their rest, she needs her rest, she needs her rest, do not wake her, she needs her rest, do not wake her, do not wake her, do not WAKE

“…her,” he stammered through a shuddering, blood-flooded mouth.

A sunbeam caressed his cheek through the window, coaxing him into consciousness. Fatigued, he dragged himself from the bed, splashed his face with water, rinsed his mouth with water.

He could hear Everly and Merla and Kayden singing to themselves as they woke.

And he crept downstairs to start making breakfast.
tea?

November 29th, 2021

Trigesimus Octavus Gradus

Inspired by and dedicated to my sister, whose imagination and creative talent far surpass my own. The event and characters are derived from a post she shared on 10 November 2021.

Black branches cut through the gray sky. They divided up the clouds like tight paint strokes, hiding the sky behind masses of tiny twigs. The naked trees swayed to and fro in waves that rippled through the forest, bending under the graceful wind above her head. She was a blot of color in the drab, dry forest. Her head was lush and bright, grown symmetrical. It was, of course, a pumpkin. Her eyes and mouth were jagged like puzzle pieces removed from the flesh of her head, leaving holes the color of a stormy night sky in their place. Yet, now and again, if one looked closely, one would see a faint yellow-orange flicker paint that black canvas. She frolicked among the sturdy trunks, crushing piles of dead leaves below her bare, pale feet. Her path was sure and confident, erratic and relaxed. She paid no mind to the biting wind. Her body was shrouded in a simple white gown with orange frills.

The young woman slowed before a wall of tightly-wound trees whose branches thrashed violently against each other. Instead of trailing behind her, her gown now flared in all directions. The cyclical gale was deafening in this place, where before the breeze was a soothing melody.

With one step forward, the wall of trees creaked, the gale whistled to a slower pace, and a gap in the branches emerged. She slipped through, entering a glade, and the gale resumed behind her, closing the trees.

Inside the perfect circle of trees there was no noise. The air was still. The overcast sky was clear of branches, but the clouds were giant foaming bubbles, no longer a flat blanket. No dead leaves hid the ground. Instead, healthy green vines snaked through the glade. She walked over yellowed grass toward the center of the circle.

There rested a white table, upon which waited a porcelain tea set of various pastel colors. Its metal frame was crafted with elegant shapes woven together. Two chairs on either side matched its style. One of them was occupied by another woman who sat with legs crossed, saucer in hand. A porcelain teacup rested against her lower pumpkin lip, pouring a thin stream of bright red tea into her mouth. Curled beneath her chair, with his eyes shut gently, his body rising and falling with deep breaths, slept a fox. The fox’s fur was groomed as if by an angel, his hue a perfect match for his owner’s pumpkin head. The black gloves over his paws and up his forelegs gave him a regal appearance even while he slept like a newborn pup.

The woman turned toward the newcomer. She smiled sweetly and gestured to the empty chair, which slid away from the table and rotated toward the younger woman.

“Welcome to my pasture, Nuala,” the woman’s dark mouth flickered that yellow-orange more rapidly as she spoke, its glow pawing at the lower edges of her eyes.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Lavendera,” Nuala responded with a curtsy before taking her seat. As the chair pulled itself back in to the table she folded her legs in the same way as Lavendera.

“I know you haven’t much time before Lord Fraxinus” (Nuala’s fiancé, as it were) “arrives. So, allow me to—oh, dear! I’ve not offered you a cup,” Lavendera chided herself. “Tea?” Nuala smiled, nodding.

The Lady’s movements as she curled her pale fingers around the teapot, raised the teapot, tilted the teapot, then set it down and handed the saucer and teacup to Nuala, were serene. Every elegance of nature permeated her actions. There was no flicker of hesitation in them. Nothing to betray the ongoing self rebuke that Nuala knew Lavendera was issuing, berating herself for forgetting to pour the tea before speaking.

Why was she so distracted and uptight, so rigid in spirit? What was she going to say? Nuala blinked and stared at the spout, certain she would not find the answers in Lavendera’s eyes.

As she poured, Lavendera held the teapot so still that the bright red tea poured so smooth as to be mistaken for a glass sculpture. Even the pale light of the glade refracted through the liquid and painted the tablecloth with rosy, motionless patterns.

The tea steamed as Nuala held the cup in her hands before her mouth. It smelled not unlike a rosebush, not unlike a rain-drenched strawberry in the first sunshine after a storm. It tasted not unlike those things, either, but many more flavors worked in tandem with them.

“Is the tea hot enough?” Lavendera sat forward.

Removing her lips from the edge of the cup, Nuala answered, “yes, and it is delicious. Did you add a cherry blossom this time?”

Lavendera folded her hands into her lap. Nuala shivered; the Lady was ready for conversation. What transgression have I committed to be ridiculed in person? In her pasture, no less! What Nuala once thought an honor was becoming a horror wrought by her own deficiency.

“Why,” Lavendera started with cheer, “indeed I did. You have a fine palate, dear.”

Nuala was going to offer her thanks, then bring attention to the dewdrop accent as well, to spend more time discussing the tea and less time discussing whatever Lavendera had on her mind. But Lavendera spoke too soon.

“Nuala, I summoned you here to express my gratitude.”

Your gratitude? Nuala’s eyes expanded, the pumpkin flesh wrinkling at the edges.

“In all the years I’ve been their stewardess my acres have never been better kept. Your enchantments and mundane efforts far surpass those of my peers of nobility—” this word she said with poison on the tongue— “whose lands are shabby wilderness compared to mine. Never have I met a more brilliant and honest Keeper. The Lords and Ladies are jealous that I have you in my employ. Rightly so.” She paused, her smile gleaming at Nuala. Her face grew stern as she continued. “I only hope that I have proved myself to be a master deserving of your talents and heart.”

The fox beneath the Lady’s chair cooed.

“I pray this winter has been a fulfilling rest that your good work would continue into the next growing season.” Lavendera paused to take a draw of tea. “I want you to know, Nuala, that anything you need of mine, whether for my purposes or your own, is yours. You need only alert me.”

The Lady turned her attention to her fox, who leapt onto her lap and nestled in. She looked over the table at Nuala and fell silent, now and again drinking tea. Her eyes remained set on Nuala, but they did not press for an answer. They were kind, patient.

Nuala raced for an answer, her head spinning. She planted a hand on the table to steady herself. The motion seemed unnecessary, for she was sat upright and polite, perfectly stoic. Her throat clenched, her eyes stung. What is the matter with me? What do I say to her?

She breathed, the glade’s pure air flooding her lungs.

“Lady Lavendera, the honor is all mine. In fact it is not by my—”

“Please. Do not take me as a fool. I can see the fruits of your labor,” the Lady smiled a punctual sort of smile, as if she would hear no more on the topic.

With all her heart, Nuala wanted to protest. She took a breath, and understood; she relaxed. “Cheers?” Nuala held out her cup, the tea inside brushing against the rim.

“Cheers!” Lavendera laughed, clapping her cup against Nuala’s. The tea sloshed over the edge, falling in peculiar spheres to the table and grass.

“Has Mister Verner caught up on his wife’s den projects, yet?” Nuala asked of the fox. Lavendera laughed heartily while the fox snickered. She refilled her cup as she said, “Mister Verner couldn’t finish her projects if he had a kingdom to command.”

The trio were merry for some moments, held aloft in that glade by their glad spirits. Mister Verner left Lavendera’s lap to stretch. As the conversation grew he pranced about or stood on his hind legs with paws on the table. Tea spilled over the cups as the women swung their arms in laughter without reserve; a formal mood at tea time is scarcely appropriate. The green and pink and pale blue teapots and saucers and sugar cups added to the jest.

The whirling wall of trees slowed. A sliver in their ranks, far taller than the one which had opened for Nuala, appeared. Through it emerged a black stallion. As he trotted into the glade Nuala’s chair spun away from the table. The rider bent over, placing a hand at Nuala’s waist and hoisting her up with the momentum of the horse. A dark aura surrounded the rider’s body like an inverted vignette. He wore a Victorian suit fitting for a nobleman, each piece black like his horse except the ivory shirt. The shirt was clearly intended as the focal point of the man, as Nuala, in her white gown, became the focal point of the stallion and its burden. The flesh above the rider’s collarbone—neck and all—was naught.

“Lord Fraxinus! Welcome to my pasture,” Lavendera gestured over the glade.

Fraxinus, in a motion invisible to any eye, tucked his harness straps onto hooks affixed to his jacket sleeves, then signed a message to the Lady. She smiled and nodded. He unhooked the straps effortlessly and snapped them, ushering his stallion out of the glade. As they departed, Nuala shouted, “thank you for everything, my Lady!”

The stallion was swift. Nuala could barely hear Lavendera’s message as they approached the edge of the glade.

“Fare well, Nuala! I pray the gifts in wait for you at your abode find you well.” Lavendera waved until the trees closed and the cyclical wind wound up behind them.
A Spring Hike

November 1st, 2021

Septimus Decimus Gradus

Emilia took in the scent of the mountain dew as her feet gently nuzzled into the dirt path. Jonathan, a young boy with angelic blonde hair, bobbed happily alongside her. His blue toy plane serpentined through the air as he simulated the sound of a jet engine.

“Nothing better than a morning hike in the hills, don’t you think, Jonathan?” Emilia asked. The twenty-something glanced over her shoulder and extended a hand.

“I think you’re right,” Jonathan’s little voice chirped as he placed his hand into hers. My jet has never been so high before! So close to where it belongs!

The tweeting of birds and whispers of the sweet breezes accompanied the false engine rumblings. Emilia focused on the former, filled with the peace offered by the serene sounds. They told her she was home here in the gentle regions of Oregon. The natural beauty of the lush mountains always won out over more exotic spring break locales. And instead of spending on an expensive vacation, she was saving. How could she pass up the opportunity to be paid to hike on these beautiful trails and practice working with children? The scenery is gorgeous. It’s building her career. It’s good for the soul. And she was being paid to experience it all. Can spring break be better spent than this?

Lost in thought, she bumped into a log. Startled, she turned quickly to locate Jonathan. After she found him next to her but closer to the walled side of the trail she turned her attention back to the log. It extended from the wall of dirt on their left to the open air on their right, branches dangling over the cliffside.

“Alright, I’ll have to help you over this tree, but stay away from the edge once you’re across, okay? Wait for me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He smiled at her as she hoisted him up and over the log. She let him slip his hand out of her grip as he landed securely on the other side. Her heart fluttered with anxiety as she relinquished control over him, over his safety. He was alone then, the steep edge mere steps away.

“Wait for me, buddy, okay?” She was surprised at the quiver in her voice, which overruled the faint, self-assuring smile on her lips. I should’ve turned us around… giving up on the log. Too late. She hurdled the dewey log as quickly as possible, scooping his little hand into hers even as she landed back onto the dirt. She sighed in relief. Ah, we’re fine anyway. And it’s such a great view from the observation deck. It’d be a shame to be thwarted by a log.

They continued to walk along the path. When it began to widen Emilia let Jonathan walk independently, though she remained between him and the edge.

Jonathan felt the air grow cooler. They were higher, closer to home! He made excited zooming noises as the jet gained speed. He picked up the pace of his little legs, coming a little close to—

“—Jonathan!” Emilia was frantic. “Get away from the edge!” She lunged behind him and snatched his shoulder, hard. His loose grip on the airplane was broken by the jarring catch. It tumbled through the air, bounced on a rock near the edge, then plummeted over the cliffside. No!

“Oh, my God! Don’t ever do something like that again, you scared me to death!” Emilia’s eyes were wide. She guided Jonathan away from the edge, keeping an arm wrapped across his chest.

“My plane!” Jonathan squawked.

“Jonathan,” Emilia turned him around to face her as she knelt. Her heart was pounding. “Y-you can’t go running so close to the edge.”

“My plane, I dropped it,” his big eyes began to water.

“You could’ve tripped or something… you can’t get that close ever again.” She stuttered as she added, “I told you it’s very steep, okay? From now on, stay on this side of me.” He sniffled, not offering an answer. But what about the plane? His cheeks flushed, growing hot.

She stood and began walking with him, her hand tight on his shoulder. When her thumping heart receded from her ears, Emilia began to think more clearly. She began to wonder.

“We’ve been up this trail before and I’ve never had a problem with you. Why would you do that today?”

He wiped his tears away and his soft face angled into a scowl. “I want my plane back,” he huffed defiantly. Oh, she thought, pausing the walk and putting a hand on either shoulder, he must’ve dropped it. That’s why he was running by the edge!

“Jonathan, I know you’re upset that you lost your plane. But you can’t rush over to the edge to save it. Your safety is more important than that toy. You wouldn’t run out into the street to get a ball, right?”

“No,” he sputtered.

“Right, same thing here.”

No… no, he thought, looking over his shoulder. You threw it over the edge, not me. “Can I have my plane back now?”

“I can’t get your plane right now, but we will look for it on our way home. Can you be patient and wait ’til then for me? Come on, we’re almost to the deck.”

Who cares, if the jet isn’t with us? It wanted to be home! Don’t you know that? He had waited a year to bring it to the observation deck. So, why would you throw it over the edge, into the dirt? Airplanes do not belong in the dirt on the bottom of the mountain, because airplanes go in the air. That’s why it’s called an airplane. Don’t you know anything?

“You’re mean!” He snapped his head back to face her. “Let me go!” Jonathan began to squirm, pushing at Emilia’s arms.

“No, Jonathan! Not until you show me you can behave! Come on now, we were having a good time, weren’t we?”

“No! You killed my plane! You killed it!”

“Jonathan, it’s not dead. We’ll get it later, okay?” He was secure in her grasp. He’ll calm down in a minute, I just have to hold on for now.

“No, go get it!”

“Ouch!” Emilia exclaimed, yanking her right hand off his shoulder. She shook her hand in the crisp air; it stung with heat. His dark shirt is soaking up the sun. Capitalizing on her distraction, Jonathan ran toward the edge of the path, toward the blue jet. “Jonathan!”

Emilia reached out to snatch him up again, but he stopped before she could reach him. She hesitated, opting for a more diplomatic approach.

“Hey, Jonathan, remember what I said about the edge? It’s dangerous, right?”

She walked closer to him. He was breathing heavily. He was shaking. She, too, was doing both of these things. Her heart raced as before, thudding in her ears.

“Hey,” she said when she reached him, “come on. We’ll walk down to go get it.”

“No!” He yelled. His voice was not little, it was thunderous. “Get it now!”

He turned violently, grasping her forearms and squeezing hard. He bent his body as if to force her toward the edge, but he was too weak to make her budge. Emilia twisted her arms out, breaking his grip, and grabbed around his elbows. She guided him a step away from the edge. I’ve never seen him so pissed off! “Hey, Jonathan, relax, okay?”

Emilia, easily overpowering the boy, pressed him away from the edge. Resisting, he crept backwards, battering at her to break her grip. Tears streamed down Jonathan’s face as it grew redder.

Suddenly the tears on his cheeks dried, leaving salt stains that Emilia didn’t notice. He squealed in frustration, flexing his whole body, then stopped resisting her grip. Emilia relaxed. Sensing this, Jonathan shoved his arms up from under hers, knocking her grip away. As his arms returned to his sides the skin fell away like soot shaken from a scorched log. Stunned, Emilia gaped as the flesh likewise withered. She yelped and stumbled back, then caught herself. The edge!

Emilia turned and bolted toward the downed trunk. But Jonathan snatched her arm with his fleshless hand, spinning her to face him as if she weighed nothing. Whatever remained of his flesh was ashen and floating away in the wind. His coal black bones groaned as they grew in length, shrouded by a shadowy aura.

Emilia stared into the yellow eyes of the towering figure. She tried to grab him as her mouth fell open, but her hands burned wherever they landed. Her vocal cords shook with pleading, but his ears were closed tight. He swatted her arms away and spun her around so they were both staring into the open sky. With his claw cupping her nape he marched her forward.

“Go get it, now!” He hoisted her off her feet and projected her over the edge with such force as to empty her lungs of breath. The bellow quaked, “bring it home!”

She fell screaming with no voice.

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

Quadragesimus Quartus Gradus

Quadragesimus Quintus Gradus

Octavus Gradus

Trigesimus Quartus Gradus

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus

Quadragesimus Gradus

Trigesimus Octavus Gradus

Septimus Decimus Gradus