Parva Gradus

Nightwatchman

May 15th, 2021

Duodecimus Gradus

Tightening the straps until they hurt, Vasco Voll stands upright to glide into a confident stride out of the weeping alley and into the flickering light of the street. His black jacket grows unevenly damp in the night’s rain as he picks up his stride, deciding his movements according to a map on his phone. Picking up speed, he slides around a sharp corner, kicking up a small cloud of rainwater. He switches his phone from the map to his camera, presses record, and takes off sprinting into the darker street. Flicking the phone against a garden box such that it captures a clear view of the street, Vasco pounds the sidewalk and leaps just as a bald man spins around the corner of a building.

Having caught the man entirely by surprise, Vasco slams into his chest and drives him into the cement with a crack of the skull and a slosh of the puddle. Springing back to his feet, Vasco turns and thrusts his arm out from his side to produce a baton from his sleeve as a second man with a blue sweatshirt rushes into the camera’s view. Blue swings right at Vasco, clearly telegraphing his move, then cuts it short and attempts an uppercut with his left. Vasco, predicting the feint, steps to his opponent’s right.

In one motion, he raises his baton to catch Blue’s right forearm with enough force to bruise, then drops it down into the path of the left uppercut; Blue’s knuckles meet the metal rod and suffer terribly for it. He yelps in pain and stumbles backward. Vasco raises his baton, preparing to crash it into Blue’s skull, when he feels a pressure around his ankle. Before he can react, his leg is yanked out from under him. He falls onto his face, barely able to turn his head in time to avoid breaking his nose.

Blue, sensing the advantage and the opportunity for revenge, lumbers over to Vasco and delivers a sharp kick to his upper back, then another, now a curb stomp to the back of the head. Vasco’s legs are still gripped by the bald man’s huge hands, which remain clamped even after Vasco’s desperate attempts to escape. Presently, Blue still wailing on Vasco, the bald man stands without letting go of his prey. As a result, Vasco is pulled upside down. While being raised up, he manages to drive the end of his baton into Blue’s stomach. Blue recoils, coughing, and Vasco feels himself get thrusted downward.

Blood spurts out of his mouth as he coughs himself awake. His eyelids flicker as he struggles to process the world around him. It slowly returns to clarity as he pushes himself to his knees; it’s still nighttime, it’s still raining, he’s on the same corner. And his body is screaming.

Vasco grunts as he forces his quads to thrust him toward the building. Sirens wail a couple blocks away.

Are those…?

Yes, they are.

Red and blue lights dancing in alternation on the buildings down the block, growing brighter. The sirens grow louder.

Stumbling the way he came, Vasco plucks his phone out of the miniature garden and turns the camera off. The battery is almost dead; that was a long time of recording.

His jog-with-intermittent-walking-breaks home is unusual. His whole body is numb. His muscles do as they are told, but they seem to be two or three commands behind Vasco’s orders. And they work slowly, very slowly. Or his brain is working overtime. He can’t tell for sure.

The door groans. Vasco’s keys fall to the ground, clattering next to the baton. He barely squishes his way out of his sweatshirt, stumbling toward the couch, and collapses into darkness.

“I’m still going to have plenty of time to get the whole project wrapped up today, Mart! Come on, when have I ever let you down?” Vasco is on speakerphone. Talking himself out of tardiness is second nature by now, so he’s multitasking on the phone, watching that blue upload bar push itself toward the right side of the screen.

“Vasco, I’m not just calling to rip into you for being late—again,” Mart sighs through the phone. “You’re fired.”
“Fired?” Vasco’s eyes snap away from the phone screen, and his legs flex. He winces in pain. “Mart, my track record is flawless. You can’t be serious,” Vasco counters.

“I am serious. The company can’t tolerate it, Vasco. Your record is impressive, but it’s not enough. I… I’m sorry.” Blo-oop.

Vasco’s mouth pries itself open slightly. He works his jaw. The phone snaps onto his coffee table. He groans as he bends over to untie his shoes. Ba-ding!

His eyes snap to the screen. Reminder: Dinner with Merry tonight.

He groans again, dialing Merry’s number. “…please leave a message after the tone.”

“Hey… I have to cancel for tonight. I—I woke up really sick. Don’t want to pass it on.”

Vasco is laying in the bathtub, the water steaming into the room. He holds his phone in front of him, watching his most recent video on repeat. He evaluates the motions. All good, he just forgot about the bald guy. To be fair, he played the role of Knocked Out After a Heavy Fall really well.

He rotates the phone and scrolls to evaluate its statistics. The video had a healthy stream of likes until right before Vasco started drawing the bath water. It was now sitting between two and three hundred, with only a handful of comments. He flicks the video away and returns to his home page, scrolling slowly through the scores of videos sitting there, which range dramatically in view count. His channel barely maintains even a quaint repeat audience.

“The Nightwatchman of Lakewood” has a few great moments, Vasco thought. He scanned the deep red scar that snaked from his wrist to his elbow, wincing as he remembered that night. But he doesn’t make money.

The phone buzzed, producing a banner on the top of the screen with the headline “Miscreant street activity swells in upper Lakewood, robberies up in commercial zones.”

Vasco drops his head too hard against the acrylic tub.

And he doesn’t make a difference.
Rain Will Fall

April 30th, 2021

Secundi Gradus

The bus decelerates on the smooth curve with a comforting gentleness. The thrum of tires rolling over the wet asphalt is a welcome lullaby to those on board.

With a slight lurch, the bus rolls to a stop. A handful of passengers stir. They’re calm as they stretch and begin to dismount gingerly, careful not to disturb their slumbering neighbors as they step off for a break, snack, or to begin the next part of their trip. After a few minutes, the bus is relieved of many souls. As the final one enters the rain shower, a young man hurries up the steps, his shoes slopping against the grip-friendly stairs. He seethes at the noise, noticing the sleeping others, and shifts onto his toes. Every step is tense, filled with worry that this or the next will wake someone.

To his surprise, the bus is quite full—he can tell by the luggage—despite the early morning—or late night—hour. To his dismay, whatever seats don’t have someone in them have ambiguous ownership status. He can’t tell which are taken and which are free as bags, folders, jackets, and the like are scattered about with a difficult-to-interpret disorder.

“Here,” a soft voice whispers. The man looks around, unsure if anything had even been spoken. “This seat is open.”

A tender hand reaches up above the shadows of the bus seats. The man shuffles toward it as it recedes, knowing its purpose is served. He turns into the seat, setting his bag upon his lap. He parts his lips to speak, but is interrupted.

“There’s an overhead shelf,” the voice floats into his ears like a sweet aroma fills a nose.

“I won’t be on long,” he whispers. He looks to the woman—for it was a woman, which her voice, being so quiet as to scarcely exist, did not adequately reveal—who had ushered him over. In the unimposing light, her face is only half visible. “Thanks, though, for the seat.” He turns his attention toward his bag, tugging at a zipper.

“Where are you headed?” She inquires.

“Um,” his hands stop messing with the pocket and its contents as he lifts his eyes to think. “Braylin.”

“That’s not very far, is it?” She whispers. “Are you going to sleep?”

The man chuckles, uneasy. “No, I’m too afraid I’ll miss the stop.”

“I can’t sleep either. The rain is too interesting. Which droplet will win?” He turns to look at the big droplets on the window, which she is gazing at with too high a degree of interest. Through the panel, which disfigures the outside, he can see shapes hurrying back toward the bus.

“Mm,” he offers, as if to say in a not-as-subtle-as-he-would’ve-liked are you crazy?

She turns to look at him, her lips pulled into a sly smile.

“I’m kidding, of course,” she puffs. “I just have trouble sleeping on the road. None of my friends seem to,” she gestures with her head at the rows of seats behind them. His eyes, now better adjusted to the dark, see her eyes roll as she says this. Gentle breaths and tiny snores strengthen her claim. He returns her smile.

“You’re with a group?”

“Yeah,” the word is almost indistinguishable from a shallow breath, “we’ve got one more state to go for the convention.” She turns back toward the window, sounding uninterested.

“A convention,” the man repeats, “about what?”

She doesn’t answer at first. For a moment the man wonders why, but the absence of her voice makes him realize that the bustling of people re-boarding the bus has overtaken the sharp pattering of rain on the roof. If she spoke in the same whisper, her words would be lost. As the people settle, she turns toward him again, leaning closer to avoid this risk.

“A convention on Women’s Participation in Ecological Studies,” she grumbles. “Just awful.”

“Is it annual?” He pauses for an answer, then prods, “you don’t think a bi-yearly discourse on Women’s Participation in Ecological Studies is important?”

“Ecology? Certainly, but I don’t understand the gender segregation,” her voice wavers with snickers. “Anyway, it’s getting me a huge amount of extra credit for pretty much every class, and there’s an included four-hour rock climbing excursion.”

“The rock climbing sounds like fun. It’d be a shame if it was just an indoor rock wall, though.” Her eyes widen for a second with dread, then she hurries to produce a pamphlet, flipping to a page.

“Look,” she says, relieved. She shoves the paper into his face.

There’s a picture of a young woman hanging off the side of a rock wall—a natural cliff side, that is—with a full harness and set of climbing gear.

“Very nice,” he says, and the lights shut off. The engine of the bus purrs as the doors squeak shut.

With the tires, the wind, the rain, and the motor producing a generous amount of ambient noise, the pair don’t feel bad about continuing their whispery conversation. They speak more openly, growing more comfortable with each other, he assured of her sanity and impressed by her wit. Their discussion flits from topic to topic like birds among the trees, never a hitch, never hesitating with uncertainty as they dig deeper into each other’s minds. All the while, they grow more jovial. When he bubbles up into an unregulated laughter, she cuts him off with faux sternness, lambasting him for being so loud and rude; and vice versa. A few times, they did pause the conversation to avoid truly disturbing the others with their chuckles; like birds resting on the branches, even then enjoying each others’ presence.

Eventually, the man catches a glimpse of an ugly blue sign with white text flashing by the window. He recedes into his seat as his smile sinks away.

“That’s when I finally changed my mind. After all, ruffled potato chips are superior to potato ‘flakes,’” her voice wanes as she concludes another tangent. His smile returns.

“See? I told you,” he whispers as her head nestles into his shoulder. She yawns. He spends a moment thinking about how to respond, how he can carry on the conversation. He yawns. His heart races as he considers sharing his phone number, or telling her his name. Her name! He hadn’t even asked, she hadn’t even asked. Her warm breath cascades over his hand, rhythmic as she falls asleep against him, nuzzling closer to his body.

His stomach lurches and his body grows hot as the bus takes a gentle curve, as the tires roll to an easy stop. The dim lights of the aisle flicker to life. Taking a shaky breath, the man tenderly repositions his arm and guides her head and body to a new resting place, replacing his chest and arm with her bag. He looks at the pamphlet on her lap, and pats his pockets, desperate to find a pen. It doesn’t exist. He starts to unzip his bag… but’s it’s far too loud… far too rude… and he’s being presumptuous.

A couple of people work their way out of their seats, and the man glances at her again. Glances at her sleepy smile in the soft light. His ears are full of his heart as he stands with his bag. One more glance, and I’ll be off. He pauses, ready to turn toward her—but another passenger bumps into him from behind. Both apologetic, he hurries down the aisle, forgetting her for a moment.

He steps off the bus. The cold rain burns and the chilly air scrapes at his fiery skin. Tiredness sets in. His body and mind feel numb, his heart slows. He hears the bus roll away behind him. A frown sets over his lips. His melancholy eyes scan the wet, gray cement beneath him, soaking in its every detail, desperate to remember it, and his clothes grow heavy with the rain.
The Storm

February 15th, 2021

Vicesimus Tertius Gradus

Lara stirred under the covers, her heavy eyes struggling to pry themselves open as her mind struggled to make sense of itself. Her ears were subjected to the howling of the rushing air outside. It clawed its way through the cracks of the farmhouse boards with ease, producing an uneasy whistling that she had grown accustomed to sleeping through. She shivered.

Mastery of her body returning, Lara twisted in the quaint bed. Her hands fumbled blindly against a meager bedside table in the untainted dark. She twisted a knob once, twice, three times before a wisp of light slithered to life, the flame unnaturally still within the lamp. Shuttering the glass so that only a minimal amount of light would pass through, Lara gently turned her legs over the side of the bed, betraying them to the stinging air outside the warmth of her covers. Her tiny feet met her slippers, and she padded gently out of her tiny room.

She crept into Ronald’s. He had a much thinner blanket than her, a fair trade since she was so many years his junior. Padding up to him, Lara gently pushed at her brother’s head, rocking it back and forth, hoping to wake him.

When he stirred, he groaned in protest. Lara was unaware, but his body was sore from yesterday’s work. It had been the hardest full day of work for him since the harvest season, and getting to sleep that night was only possible after hours of his drowsy mind wrestling his screaming body into submission.

“Wh-what?” His head turned toward her as his cloudy eyes strained themselves in the dim light. “What is it, Lara?” He says as he wipes his eyes, having barely identified her.

“I have to pee, and I’m scared,” she reported with simple honesty.

Ronald sighed. “Alright. Go put your boots on and leave the lamp in the doorway so I can find mine.”

She left, gently placing the flickering light under the doorframe. The light from the lone flame was enough to allow Ronald to see, while she, even in the hallway, was able to find her boots. Setting herself on the ground, which sent a shiver up her spine, she fitted the boots onto her feet. Despite her thick woolen socks, the boots stung at her feet, and it felt as if she was dipping them into a cool lake on a hot summer’s day. Then she reached up—stretching as far as she could—and plucked her heavy coat from the hanger. She wrapped herself in it tightly, the wind scraping against the door.

Then Ronald’s hand appeared in the door to his room and grasped the lantern. In the distance, Lara heard a deep rumbling. The storm must’ve been picking up somewhere to the west.

Walking to her, he said, “Here, hold this.” Then he put on his coat, which was also thinner than his sister’s. When it was buttoned, he inspected Lara’s, ensuring that it was closed in tight. He turned her around, pulling the collar up against her neck. Then, satisfied that she’d be protected from the elements, he sighed again and cracked open the door. She hesitated, unwilling to step into the foot-tall pile of snow that greeted her. He ushered her along, and she went. He hurried outside, closing the door as quickly and silently as possible.

Ronald plucked the lantern out of Lara’s little hand, then brushed past her to carve her a path in the snow. She followed close behind, grateful to not be stepping up to her knees in the freezing powder. After a few seconds, which felt like minutes in the unrelenting wind, Ronald forced open another wooden door, pushing the snow out of the way. The door bulged as a result, but Lara was able to slip inside. Passing her the lamp, Ronald said, “Be quick! I’ll wait out here for you, but I’ll be in the dark.”

He shut the door even as he shrugged and shrank into himself to preserve his body heat.

Lara hung the lamp on a rusty nail, then shivered. She clenched her jaw, bracing herself for the wooden seat. If the floor in the house had sent a shiver up her spine, the seat would send frostbite through her even as the plague had spread across Europe, according to how Miss Zeph had described it. Indeed, it did. Cursing her short legs, Lara had no choice but to rest her full weight on the seat.

Then an accursed blast shook the outhouse and rattled its boards. The tiny black room was suddenly flooded with blinding white light, burning Lara’s eyes. She leapt off the seat, landing with a thud. She yelped in shock, beginning to ramble incoherently, temporarily blinded. As she regained hold of her senses, she thought, It’s a good thing I was on the toilet, else I would’ve ruined my clothes. Mother would’ve never let me hear the end of it.

Still shaken, but able to see again with the humble flame that stood defiantly in the lamp, she hastily exited the outhouse. Ronald was nowhere to be found. Lara called his name, once, twice, now three times, but he didn’t respond. Gripped by the wind, she shrank into her coat and began to trudge through the thin path that they’d created. It was already coated with a fresh layer of powder. Despite the cutting sensation the tears gave her cheeks, she began to cry, fearing that poor Ronald was frozen and buried in the snow, else he was mauled and eaten by some bear or a pack of coyotes.

In the minimal light and through the elements, Lara did not notice a large, coiling cloud of steam rushing off of the ground and into the air.

After what felt to be an hour of walking and muted sobbing, Lara reached the door to the farmhouse and rattled the handle. It opened with unexpected ease, and standing in the doorway was—

“Ronald!” Lara called as she shuffled into the house. “What happened?”

“What happened?” He echoed as he helped her remove her coat and boots. “You heard the thunder, didn’t you? Well, I got scared and ran inside! I’m glad you made it back alive.”

At that last part, Lara began to whimper, fearing that she could’ve perished outside. Chuckling, Ronald wrapped an arm around her shoulder and reassured her that he was joking, and he was sorry he left her. But it was so close!
Supermarket

February 1st, 2021

Undecimus Gradus

My favorite grocery store as a boy was called Gregory’s Great Sales Supermarket. It was a petite, local store that always carried root beer hard-candy, and it smelled strongly of aging lumber. The building was one of the oldest in our small countryside town. A fresh coat of paint was lathered on almost every year in order to keep it looking somewhat healthy without sacrificing the ancient lumber.

I knew my way around the store like I knew my way around my school hallways; enough to get me to where I needed to be. The sales counter, the root beer candy, and items we’d call contraband if we found ‘em in our kids’ bags were the equivalent of my home room, the cafeteria, and the restroom. I could reach them from anywhere, eyes shut, with or without knowing the least bit about anything in between.

The chime of the bell and the gust of cold air were the sweetest welcome on a hot summer day. I waltzed in with my usual drama, overplaying the heat outside and imagining myself having just been saved from being stranded in a desert for months. “Water,” I begged with my tiny voice, “water, please, help,” I fake choked, making dry coughing sounds toward the sales counter.

“G’evening, Ron, g’evening, Billy,” Gregory’s son Clyde groaned at us with half-shut eyes, flipping through his deck of cards. Billy is my older brother, who distanced himself from my desert survival exercise. He’d reached the age where everything was embarrassing, all the time. As I made my rounds gliding my fingers along the price tags and tapping boxes and chip bags, I smashed my shin directly into a shelf full of peanut butter and jelly jars.

“Ouch!” I puffed, bending down and rubbing my leg. I turned to look behind me. Yeah, I had come down the marshmallow aisle. So what is this shelf doing here? I looked left, then right, and realized the aisles fed into a central area just to my right. Someone had decided to change up the supermarket maze. I didn’t pay it much mind. After all, it wasn’t much different. Later on I would realize that the change had been made to provide easier access to the liquor; and, unfortunately, give Clyde a better line of sight down to the refrigerators.

The cheep of the scanning machine was a good sound. The crinkling of the paper bag, the ruffling of my root beer candies. I maintain the position that I was a good kid, kept up with my manners. But I can never recall actually saying thank you, at least, I can’t recall with full confidence. I do remember, very clearly, slowly walking out of the store—ring-a-ling-a-ling—very slowly, eyes glued to the paper bag as I pulled the root beer candies out, tore open the baggie, and plopped one into my mouth. The first few always tasted the most authentic, I remember thinking. In retrospect, I reckon it had something to do with the cigarette smell in the parking lot fusing to the root beer flavor.

“Give me one,” came the usual demand from Billy.

“Frig off, Billy. Mom said I get the root beer candy,” came my usual response.

“I bought it,” Billy objected. While it was true that Billy’s money was used in the transaction, it was also true that it was I who handed Clyde the bills. Technically, I had bought it.

“Nuh—uh!” But I couldn’t quite put it into words.

Billy snatched it away, per usual, took a generous four or five candies, wasted them by eating them all at once, then shoved the bag back into my arms. Our arguments afterward were of low importance and high grandiosity. Typically, it ended with input from Mom. One day she would tell me to grow up and share, the next she would tell Billy in an affable voice “that it was nice of you to share,” then change her tone to a scolding “but that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to take them.” She’d send him to his room with a slap to the rear. Those were my favorite days. But this particular day, our argument was ended early when Jen walked by. She earned the title of “Ron’s Biggest Elementary School Crush” about ten months earlier when school reopened for the fall. Luckily, I could still see her over the summer, as we were neighbors.

“Hi Jen!” I chirped, “want a root beer candy? They’re my favorite.”

“Sure,” she replied with a smile. My little heart jumped about six miles in the air.

“Oh I see.” Oh no, Billy. “She can have some, but your great older brother is the ‘world’s fattest jerk’ for daring to want a share of what he paid for.”

“Shut up, Billy! Jen is nice to me, and you’re not.”

“Really? After I keep giving you the gift of candy? If that’s how you’re going to act, you don’t get any more candy.”

Jen was backing away at this point, which I didn’t notice. I’d had enough of Billy.

“Fine, I’ll race you for it. If I win, you shut up about the candy forever, and if you win, you never have to buy me candy again.”

“Ha! You are so on, loser!” His smile told me something was wrong.

“Or at least, I’ll share my candy with you from now on!” His lips relaxed a little.

“Fine. Race to the candy, then.”

“Fine, go!” I yelled, racing off as fast as I could. My little feet pounded on the cement, but I couldn’t get them to move fast enough to keep up with Billy. He reached the door—ding, ding—about five seconds before me. A very generous lead for a store so small. Ding, ding, it was my turn to enter, and I raced over the tiles as quick as I could. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, glancing desperately around; he’d gotten stuck in the floor redesign. I smiled wide and devilish as I rounded the corner and—CLUNK! I smashed my face right into an open refrigerator door, scaring the customer looking into it and knocking me to the ground.

My lip started quivering violently as my eyes filled with water; I wiped it all away before I turned to look at Billy, standing just barely down the aisle, holding a fresh bag of hard candies.

“You alright, kid?” The customer asked.

I put on an angry face and stormed out of the store, ignoring my brother’s stupid idiot grin.
Forest 3-A Revisited

February 1st, 2021

Tertius Gradus

The time had come for the evening stroll. Spring walks through his private wood were the most heavenly experience he believed could occur while on the broken world. The soothing smell of blossoming flowers, of lush new leaves, clean air being ushered in by the joyous season always enveloped him on morning and evening trips. The evening, he was sure, elevated the experience; something about a day’s worth of sunshine brushing down on the forest gave it an extra liveliness; instead of the rigid and dewy hours after the night, the evening hour offered a clean, relaxing satisfaction after a long day’s work. The animals seemed to enjoy the later day as well. Birds chip cheerily all around him, squirrels chase each other with incredible speed, leaping from branch to branch with supernatural precision. Turkeys would cross the trails, eyeing him, gurgling at him, and fluttering their feathers at him. Now and again, he would encounter a small mammal, like a skunk or a porcupine, who always left him alone after a few moments of fraternal stares. More often, a rabbit would come across his path; the excitable little rodents always leapt away and disappeared into the brush immediately.

This day, he set out nearer to the close of his dinner than usual, giving himself extra time to enjoy the sights and sounds of his woods. He had worked hard to purchase his forest, labored and finessed his way through multiple corporate ladders for many long years to assure his ideal retirement. Secluded, calm, and natural. He knew as he aged, some of the natural aspects of his early retirement would need to be phased out. Wood cannot be cut by an eighty-year old, hunts cannot be dragged by an eighty-year old, his own body, eventually, would need help cleaning itself. The second retirement, a return to infantile dependency, may yet be enjoyable. He had a plan for it. But it would not begin to compare to the idyllic position in which he currently finds himself. On the trail, alone, free, and with a full belly.

Curiously, being about a quarter of the way down his typical route, he has not heard any songs from the finches or buntings that typically fill the air with their lovely little tunes. No matter, the gentle rustling of young leaves in the breeze is a sound that offers his mind ease. The vibrant forest, the soft breeze, and the whispering leaves are hypnotic enough on their own. He smiles, closes his eyes for a moment, and carries on, taking a deep breath of the evening air which he loves so much.

His nose is filled with a pungent odor. Recoiling and instinctively grasping at his throat as if he’d been choked, his eyes snap open and he looks around. Collecting himself, he examines a few bushes more closely. Stepping off the trail towards one, he notices a furry little body laying there, not reacting to his approach. The stench is present. Changing his angle, he finally determines that this little skunk is dead. The old man sets a glove over his hand. The body looks intact enough to be moved without falling to pieces. It certainly smells fresh, too. He picks it up, respectfully, and carries it some way into the woods, gently laying it to rest away from his walking trail, hoping that the stench will be diminished by morning.

Returning to the trail, removing his glove, and happy to be back on his way, he waits a while before taking another sniff of his surroundings. The sweet spring air should set his mind at—no! He gags, frustrated at the odor that clings to the woods. He looks around again, not finding any carcasses to blame. Pondering for a moment, his concentration is broken when he glances up at the sky. The vibrant blue of early-evening has evaporated, giving way to an orange, now yellowing, now graying late-evening, now dusking color. This should not be the case. He decides to turn around and head home. He must’ve travelled further than he thought after he disposed of the skunk. But, then, why the stench?

Suddenly the air around him seizes him in its grasp, binding him in biting cold wind, like a snowless winter gale. He shivers, then stumbles forward. The forest is no longer vibrant; the color is being drained out of the saplings, the tree trunks, the mosses, the flowers. The color, as the sun flees into the night, is soaked into the object to which it belongs and replaced with shades of gray. He looks into the sky. Black clouds with gray streaks swirl above him. These are the most charismatic storm clouds he has ever encountered, and they are brewing like a sinister stew in a witch’s pot. He picks up his pace and runs headlong into the stench. It sets upon him, stubborn before the chilling breeze that wraps itself over him. Instead of being reduced by the wind, it stuffs itself into his nose and mouth like acrid, fat fingers groping into his skull. Even his ears and eyes protest before the invasive odor. The putrid stench is worse than before, worse than a rank carcass, worse than burning flesh, worse than the decay of a battlefield, worse than any scent the natural world, worse than any scent man, can dream of rendering.

He begins to jog as the scent burns into his eyes, as the blackness of night mocks his vision. He flicks on his flashlight, catching glimpses of his trail in the pale light, creating skeletons of the trees shrouded in coal blackness.

Then the world goes dark again.

Stumbling forward, he mashes at the flashlight, desperate to set the battery straight. But he realizes he is not blinking.

His eyes have been forced shut.

He can’t breath.

He must reach his home.

He produces a pocket knife.

He sets the blade upon his eyelid.

He screams as blood rushes down his cheek, offering a warmth with a twisted welcome that fights against the blistering cold air.

Then the other.

He wipes the blood away,

and is yet blind.

Concerned no longer with the insurmountable pain in his eyes, he gasps and breathes heavy, fast breaths, pulling the stench in and forcing it out as if he’d just run a marathon. Within his chest, the foul air rips at his organs and thrashes like an alligator with its prey. The sensation alone nauseates the man. Forcing the stench out is no relief; the stench burns his throat on the way up, eating at his esophagus like acid, dragging behind it bile, which he ejects with every breath. It joins the blood from his severed eyelids that cascades over his chin.

He stumbles to his feet, clinging desperately to the flashlight, tumbling himself forward. His head begins to imagine that he must be nearing the cabin, he must be nearing the cabin. At any moment, he’ll bump into it.

His arms reject the prospect. They touch nothing but the ground as he collapses, unable to trick his lungs into accepting the unnatural air any longer. The ground is cold and clammy, like a cement basement floor. The flashlight falls out of his hand.

He begins to crawl forward, then allows his body to drop to the ground entirely. He retreats within himself, offering his body as a sacrifice if only his mind be spared.

But the odor is not contented with his body. It begins to pester at his consciousness. It consumes him, dominates his thoughts. He falls back so far that he is no longer uncomfortable—he no longer knows what the word means. He no longer feels the pain of the eyelids that once were. His organs no longer burn. He is not concerned with his breath, he has forgotten the place in which he lives. He withdraws further, forgetting everything. Unlearning everything. Now he does not think. There are no thoughts, but there is not nothing.

For there is something.

An emotion, a single emotion which has devoured his body, has seized his mind, and which is now penetrating his soul itself, inducting his soul into its own essence.

And the emotion is

Nightwatchman

Duodecimus Gradus

Rain Will Fall

Secundi Gradus

The Storm

Vicesimus Tertius Gradus

Supermarket

Undecimus Gradus

Forest 3-A Revisited

Tertius Gradus