Eryn’s Dream

She awoke next to her dream on a bed of forget-me-nots. It was one of those rare moments that transcend reality, love, death, happiness, innocence, prejudice, understanding, fear. . .

She listened to the dream speak. In its voice she heard every person’s laughter, every child’s scream, every unfaithful lover’s lie. She heard the sorrow of every parent losing a child, and the bitterness of every brother or sister losing a sibling. She listened to all of the emotions she would vocalize, as well as the ones she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. . .

Looking into the dream’s eyes she saw every first crushes broken heart, every first love’s disappointment, every first-born’s wonderment. She saw the motivation on the face of a boy told he’s not good enough, and the nervousness of a boy afraid of rejection. She saw every crushed hope, every broken dream of a son, a daughter, a father, mother, friend, lover, who only wanted more for. . . someone. And in those eyes she saw all the men she would love and every inner-child she would hate. Every person that would love her but she couldn’t love back. She saw the people she loved and wondered if they loved her. . .

Inhaling her dreams breath she smelled the waste of a person alone, the desperation of a woman falling apart but trying to hold herself together. She smelled the sweetness of a teenage boy’s whisper, and the tartness of that whispers impure intentions. She smelled the odor of two bodies entangled as she let her body be taken by that whisper. And she smelled alcohol. . .

She tasted her dreams tongue and in that the flavor of tears lost in a public bathroom in some city somewhere and the drugs taken to forget those tears. She tasted the sweat falling off the faces, arms, legs of children and their parents working to survive. She tasted the blood lost in a hospital room for being human. Of blood lost on the street for being a different shade of skin. Of blood lost on the battlefield for being young. Of blood lost in the bedroom for grasping at innocence. . .

She reached out, and touching her dreams hand felt the goose bumps of a nightmare or fantasy realized. She felt the panic and guilt of a wrong-doing, and the tightened fist of a person done wrong. She felt every bruised, broken, bleeding wrist of a person who gave up on nothing but themselves. She felt the sting of a missed opportunity, and of a missed friend. She felt herself falling into this moment of self-actualization, self-awareness, self-realization, self. . . self. . . selflessness.

She had heard, seen, smelled, tasted and felt everything she was, is, and could become. Anyone could become. And she wondered, “Is this all there is?”

The sea, how I long for thee

“Oh wicked sand how I have come to despise thee,” I said to the beach I sat upon, the handful of sand that I held falling through my fingers back to the mass that was the beach, the ocean, coming upon the sand but never touching my feet. I could reach to the water, run to the waves, but never would the water and I touch.

Standing, looking to the rising sun, a sight I have watched day in and day out since the curse was afflicted upon me. Three long years, only four more days till the actual three year anniversary of the wicked day that is the rue of my existence. Watching the burning rays kiss the horizon, the reflection growing as the ball of fire in the sky grew, I wished the sun itself could take me away, lift my feet from the island that was my prison, hold me in its fire embrace and free me. But not even the sunrise offered me any hope.

Walking my usual path, through the trees and brush, over the rocks and moss, coming face to face with the statue that cursed me, I stood before it, falling to me knees. Staring into the stone eyes, they stared back at me, I knew they were looking back upon my poor being. Every day I had looked into them I knew they were looking back.

“Goddess of the sea!” I shouted. “Free me, for all the love of the heavens above, free me! Hell, kill me! I am tired of this life. As your prisoner, so release me from your magical grip!”

            Reaching behind my back, gripping the book that I had held by the brim of my shorts, I pulled it forth, throwing it to her feet, spitting upon the literature. Getting to my feet, I pointed a stern finger, directly into the face of my cruel captor.

“And your attempt of entertainment, Moby Dick,” I shouted, my finger moving from her face to the book and back, “IS MISSING THE FIRST THREE PAGES AND THE LAST TWELVE! HOW DOES IT BEGIN OR END!! I have read it, over, over, over, and over. I have made my own ending, my own beginning, but they make me only want to know how Melville intended the piece to be read! DAMN YOU!!”

The statue, who in a moment of pity possibly, moved her head to look down upon me, like the goddess she was, a goddess looking down upon a mortal, or a master looking down upon a slave. Or a cruel captor a caged, no, trapped animal. I am that animal, trapped on an island by a curse that is an unfitting punishment for a crime of ignorance and arrogance.

And knowing that I could sit and scream, stand and shout till the sun would pass over me heading towards its setting moments in the day, the goddess none the more going to answer me, I walked back towards the beach, resting upon the sand that I so damned at the start of my day.

Looking out towards the horizon, wishing I could dance upon it a dance of freedom, I more so missed the feel of the ocean itself. I was a sailor, a man born to ride the waves of the ocean, a lad who loved the roaring rage of a watery storm, who could write poetry about the serenity that was a calm sea. And yet, there I sat, no more able to walk into the very water I longed for than the devil wishes to rule the heavens above.

The sun, almost a full fiery ball, the very last bit of it clearing the horizon, something else was winking at me, something else that was hidden in the bright light that is the sun. Staring as hard as I could, my eyes could not make out what it was at first, but within hours, to my shock and at the same time excitement, the mysterious object was a boat. A beautiful ship sailing on the high seas. Directly to the island that was my prison home.

But my excitement was short and unsatisfying. The shock turned to heart wrenching disappointment, much like the other times ships had broken the serene calm that is the horizon. If they made it to the island, made it to where their feet would carry them out of the waning ocean onto the very beach I found myself more often than not sitting upon, they would never speak to me, nor see me. They would not acknowledge my existence. Like nothing more than a light breeze that they dare not feel, to the passengers of that ship, I would be nothing. Nonexistent.

The ship dropped anchor that night, the ship more beautiful in the moonlight, the sails rolled up, the masts like fingers pointing to the heavens, the sea just gently rocking the crew aboard to a silent sleep, the only noise they’d be hearing that of the boards creaking, the masts silent whispers as they groaned on deck. Oh how I missed those sounds, those night time noises that carried me to Slumber on so many occasions.

At first light they used long boats to come upon shore, twenty two men, one woman. Oh the beauty that composed that lass, her long blonde curls only outmatched by her pale blue eyes. Such a smile found a way to her lips as her bare feet touched the dry sand of the beach I sat upon, and looking at her, I knew she, nor her shipmates could see me. I could stand in their faces, shout. They would hear nothing. I could run at them and leap, I would pass through them as though I was no more a phantom spirit.

Falling to her knees, I knelt in front of her, admiring her smile, watching as she lifted sand and let it slip through her fingers back to the beach floor. Reaching out to touch her face, to grace her beauty with my fingertips, I felt nothing. She spoke to her shipmates, and though her lips moved, the men’s mouth’s moved as they spoke, I heard nothing. Not a single word.

The crew of the ship explored the island, finding nothing more than coconuts and rocks, they made camp, and after having one long boat return to the ship and quickly made a trip back to the island, a feast they did have, a feast of the likes I haven’t seen before. Walking amongst the laughing, hearty men, all with their gulls full of roasted pig and rum, I came to notice that the lass was nowhere to be found.

Making my exit, the feast and festivities only aching my heart, I walked till I found her, the lass, sitting upon the beach, the moonlight in the clear, starry sky bathing her. Standing over her for a long while, the wind made her blond locks dance freely, but in her eyes, was lonesome. She dragged a single finger upon the sand, and I knew that she longed for another’s finger to trace behind hers, another’s finger to lock with hers. And as I sat next to that lass, her none the wiser to my company, I just stared into her eyes, occasionally reaching for her hand, though every attempt was in vain.

In time she made her leave, and to be the proper gentleman, I followed her back to camp, making sure that none of her male shipmates got out of hand in their inebriated state. Some made conversation, and through a fake smile she made it to her tent, to which I didn’t follow her in, just standing among the still hearty men, watching as she prepared for sleep. Looking into the eyes of every man that was the crew of that ship, I swore to bring an unbearable death to any of them that dared harm her that night, though I knew it would be difficult with the state that my cruel captor had trapped me in. But I would have found a way.

When the lass would awake and look to the hand carved nightstand next to elaborate cot, she would most likely smile. And of course wonder who placed the oyster with the pearl in her tent for her. I wouldn’t go in as she changed, but to leave a gift. That’s a different story…

*

            “I am tired of coconut milk and coconut meat witch!” I shouted to the stone woman as I threw the shell of the coconut that had been in my hand at her form, the statue making no movement to avoid the projectile. “I am tired of coconuts! For three years tomorrow, damn coconuts have been my primary food day in and damn day out! Why don’t you feast upon the vile meat, if it can be called meat that is the innards of a coconut foul goddess!? Did you not see the feast that was the crew’s magnificent meal last night? Did you goddess? Did your otherworldly eyes partake what was leftover, what they merely threw to the ground this morning?! Did you bring them to torture me further? When will my plight be ended? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!!”

Every word, every syllable I shouted, she heard. But she gave not even a nod in response. I walked away exhausted from my rant, but more that exhausted I was frustrated. In one day’s time would be the three year anniversary of my terrible curse, and to make it the rue of my existence, the most beautiful woman I had ever laid my very eyes upon shared the same island I was trapped upon. And she knew not of my very breath, nor my very being.

“My woes begin with my lonely,” I whisper to myself as I walk into the foliage that surrounds the statue of the goddess. The island itself is covered in heavy jungle, but no animals inhabit the trees or dirt. Birds, seagulls do fly upon the island, but rarely. Looking to the sky, the sun was directly above me. Noon, or close to it.

Back on the beach, looking out to the anchored ship, my eyes noticed the absence of the long boats. Searching all along the beach, looking from one end to the next, they were in fact gone, having most likely returned to the ship. Running, I moved hastily to the area in which the ship’s crew had made camp, and upon my arrival, to my dismay, they were gone. The men, and the lass. All gone from the camp. Their tents gone, their tools, everything gone. Even the embers of their night fires were burned out and cold.

Breathing a lonesome sigh, I was again left by myself upon the damned island, left with the statue of a goddess who dared not speak a word to me. But then suddenly, at first my ears picking up on something that I believe to be nothing more than the hushed wind mixed with the song of the sea’s crashing, I came to learn it was something else.

Moving through the island jungle, focusing on the sound, making my steps as quiet as I could, trying not to lose track of what I was hearing, to my surprise, it was singing. Beautiful, glorious singing. Sitting alone upon a small build of rocks, looking out to the sea, opposite of the ship, to the open sea, with nothing but the waves themselves to observe, the beautiful lass was singing. And somehow, in some unexplainable way, I could hear her.

“And my heart sings out to my sailor dear, for the sea, the sea has brought me here.” Finishing her song, it was a tune I had never heard, but it was wonderful, though I only caught the end. Watching her, she looked sad, and I wondered if the song she sang was for a sailor that had captured her heart. If the sailor possibly wooed her, but had been taken away by a cruel sea, never to return to his love. Or possibly, he just broke her heart, leaving her to continue her life without his love for he had found another.

The lass, making her careful way off the stones, stood alone on the beach, with only me to accompany her, though she never knew it. I wondered where her shipmates were, but that wonderment lasted briefly, gone to admiration as I looked upon her beauty. Slowly strolling to her, standing behind her, I wanted to touch her, to speak to her. I wanted to hear her sing again, to speak. I wanted to hear her words. But, I guess most I wanted to know her name.

Finding a small stick that could have come from the jungle, or possibly been brought by the sea upon the shore, I quickly etched behind her a quick sentence, hoping she could read it, hoping the goddess didn’t leave my attempts to no outcome.

Together we stood for a long while, me behind her, her looking out to the sea. In time she turned quickly, and for a brief instance I swore she could see me, into my eyes with her pale blue crystals. But quickly I learned that she was looking through me, to one of the men that had come to retrieve her. Disappointed was painted heavily on her face, as though she would rather live on the island than return to the ship that was her vessel and transportation.

Disappointment began to fill me as I knew she was going to go with him, go back to the ship and back to the sea. But then, I saw her eyes move down, her gaze looking upon the sand as a small smile found a way to her lips. With a finger followed by her exit, the lass quickly wrote her name, then made her way to follow the man back to the long boat he had taken to retrieve her.

“Emma”, I whispered through a smile.

*

            “Three years Matsu!” I shouted, upon my knees before the statue of the goddess. “To this very day, this very day! When will this punishment end? When will my otherworldly sentence come to its prayed for finish? Set me free Matsu! Please, I beg of you, I cry to the heavens where you rest, release me! Release me!!” Bowing before her, not in praise, but defeat, I remembered exactly why Matsu was punishing me. I had pushed the very memories from my mind, refused to remember, for the pain that came with those memories broke my heart.

I was at sea, a long voyage. Upon returning, I had found my love in the throes of another, my brother, the bastard. In anger, I beat him to near death, never saying a word to the woman I thought loved me. Returning to my boat, I took to the sea, knowing that a wicked storm was brewing, but I cared not.  Driving my ship directly into the storm, I was startled when a woman appeared in a red gown, begging me to turn back. Begging me to venture no further. I asked her who she was, where she had come from, but her only answers to my questions were begs for my safety.

I didn’t listen, only instead driving the ship harder into the storm, in my anger and arrogance thinking that my skills as a sailor would protect me. The storm destroyed my ship, tore it to pieces, and yet I survived. Finding myself swept upon the shore, alive but battered, it took me a few days to find the strength the venture upon the island. In time I found the statue of the woman who had been on board my ship, and in longer time, I came to realize who she was.

Matsu, goddess of the sea. My cruel captor, whom kept me imprisoned for not heeding to her begging. A broken heart had led to deaf arrogance, which led me to the island. In the three year’s time I had been trapped with the statue, I learned from my mistake. I knew I had learned.

“Matsu,” I whispered to her, not in anger, but acceptance. “You are a caring goddess. And, I am sorry. The sea is my love, always has been. But I am man, and the sea cannot love me back. For that love, I need a lass. One broke my heart, which is why you brought me here. I am sorry Matsu. I am…sorry.”

Looking up from my bowed state, going to look into the eyes of the statue, she looked down upon me, then, for the first time since I’d been on the island, the statue moved more than just her head. Slowly at first, a foot moved, then a leg, the she stepped down and around me, walking on, ignoring me completely.

“Matsu,” I said, watching as she walked past me, my irritation growing with the goddess statue. “MATSU!” Getting to my feet, I followed her. “Answer me! Give me something! I apologized, what more do you want? MATSU DAMMIT!” Getting to the beach, the goddess statue continued into the water, not stopping till the water was neck high, the statue turning back to me. I had stayed behind her the whole time, shouting, trying to get her to acknowledge me. And in my anger, I didn’t realize that I had walked out into the water, the waves brushing against my legs.

Smiling, tears forming, I was overjoyed. It was over, I was free. Matsu, smiling, continued into the water disappearing beneath the waves. Laughing, I jumped into the water, feeling the cool touch of the sea.

“Thank you Matsu!” shouting, I splashed, laughed, jumped all around. Exhausted after several minutes, I just stood, breathing in the salt air. Running my fingers through my wet hair, it felt so good. So good to be back in the sea that I had so missed.

“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind me on the beach. I knew the voice. I had heard it singing just the day before. Turning, it was Emma watching me, a smile on her face. Strolling through the water to her, I stood before her, the wind a bit chill against my soaked figure. “Where did you come from sir?”

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“I came here, days ago with a small expedition, and no one was on the island, or, from what we saw no one was on the island. And I saw no other ship at sea. Where did you come from sir?” Looking over her, I was surprised to see that she wore a pearl upon a string as a necklace. Looking to her pale eyes, she had been watching mine as I had gazed upon the necklace, which I know she took note of the smile that had formed on my face.

“I have been here for three long years. Three years to this day actually.” Running my fingers again through my wet hair, I still couldn’t get over how bad I had missed the feeling of the sea.

“Three long years sir. That’s a long time to be on such a small island. May I ask you one more question?” Chuckling, I was in the best move I had been in, well, in three years.

“You just asked me a question, but, you may ask one more.” My response made Emma laugh.

“What’s your name?” she asked. Before answering, I looked around, behind me, looking to see something that was on my mind. Spotting the ship that had brought her, it was becoming smaller as I watched it, the masts full, heading back towards the horizon, leaving Emma on the small island.

“You may call me Arthur,” I said to her, listening to the crashing of the waves, wanting to run back out and jump in, but I was quite content with talking to Emma. Quite content indeed.

“Arthur. Well, it’s nice to meet you Arthur. My name is…” Before she could finish I interrupted her.

“Emma. Would you like to swim with me? For a moment or two?” Turning her head to the side, giving a half smirk, I figured Emma was wondering who I really was, what my story was. I figured we had plenty of time for me to fill her in about me. Plenty of time before another ship made its way past the island.

“I’d like that Arthur.” She said, taking me hand, pulling me into the water. “So tell me, what’s there to eat on this island besides coconuts?”

Premise for Murder Mystery

When they picked Little Jo up at the Sears department store, in the home appliances department, the main thing sergeant Vega wanted to establish was whether or not Little Jo was connected somehow to the crime scene at the ice-cream factory.

Back in the office, Little Jo had woken up a little, now showing signs that he was cognizant of his surroundings in fairly precise detail, i.e. he knew whose body it was that his consciousness was now inhabiting.

Sgt. Vega reviewed her (long) list of questions she had to ask Little Jo. “Hey there Little Jo. My name is Sergeant Vega, and I’m with the NYPD, ok? I’m gonna have to ask you a loada questions. Do you understand that?”

Little Jo nodded. “Yes,” he mumbled, “yes I got it.”

Ok. First question was “Do you have any ID?”

There was a pause, and then Little Jo shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t have any.”

“Do you know why is that?” said Sgt. Vega.

This is what always happens. For some reason, the suspects never have any ID. This one, Little Jo, acted all confused, like he had no idea why he didn’t have any ID. He just shrugged. “I–uh–I honestly don’t know.”

Sgt. Vega moved expertly onto the next question. “So you have no idea why a store clerk finds your ID just lying around in the home appliances section of a nearby Sears, the morning *after* an as yet unidentified corpse is found frozen in a shell of chocolate dip, an internal layer of vanilla ice-cream surrounding it, within an industrial freezing appliance at an ice-cream factory?”

It was too much exposition for Little Joe, and he just shook his head once, then stared blankly at the sergeant.

“And after finding your ID, police soon also find you sitting inside a display fridge unit nearby.”

No response.

“You’re shiverin’, except it’s just a display unit. The electricity was not even turned on, it was probably hotter in there rather than cold.” She put her notebook on the table, now in stride, and said “What we want to know is why in the world you were shivering, Little Jo?”

A look of realization slid onto Little Jo’s face. The identification, the refrigerator, the body in the freezer; all of this had to have something to do with a small taste he’d taken a few weeks ago from a strip of paper that had been left fluttering in wind near a local Taco Bell.

“Magic paper,” said Little Jo, suddenly.

Sgt. Vega took her notebook back, and pulled a pen from her breast pocket. This was going to be good.

“I was strolling,” began Little Jo.

“Strolling? You’re just strolling? Just randomly like that?”

“Yes,” continued Little Jo, “just very randomly strolling. Looking for avenues, and streets–traffic signals, that kinda thang. And I was on my cellphone.”

Sgt. Vega prepared her pen. “Who were you on the cellphone with, Little Jo? Who were you talking to?”

“Well–”

“But wait,” said the sergeant, expertly, “before you answer that, can you tell me if you remember if there was a name on your cellphone. Cos a lot of people put their names into the phone–that way they can remember their name, in case they forgot or something.”

“Yeah,” said Little Jo. It was all clearing up now, and he was getting more interested in the conversation. “I remember the name now. It was Sagat, Bison.”

Vega dropped her notepad and looked at the criminal. “Oh. Sagat Bison,” she said. “Kind of an unusual name, don’t you think? Weird arrangement. Sagat is not a very good first name.”

Little Jo smiled a fresh smile back at her. “It’s actually Bison Sagat. I just like to put the last name first, with a comma–it makes it sound more official.”

At least, she really, really wanted this guy to be the criminal. “Ha. Now you’re name-calling a homicide detective. You don’t think I’ve heard that before? Little kids who think they’re gods at Street Fighter making fun of my last name?”

“Okay, it was just a joke,” said Bison Sagat, “Don’t take it that seriously.”

“So who were you talking on the cellphone with, Bison?” asked Sgt. Vega.

“Two people,” said Sagat. “My momz, and my ex-girlfriend. Both at the same time.”

This was getting really weird. “Oh, so you’re on the phone at the same time with your mom and gf. Was it a conference call, Bison?”

“No,” said Sagat. “I was using the ‘hold call’ trick that they have, speaking to my mother in one moment, and then speaking to my ex-girlfriend the other. They both called me up out of the blue, trying to find out what I was up to at that particular moment.”

“Where are your mother and ex-girlfriend right now, Roger?” asked Sgt. Vega, then. “Can we give them a call, maybe? See how they’re doing? Maybe they’re feeling a little…left out in the cold, you know?”

Bison looked up. “Who’s Roger?” he asked.

“You’re Roger,” said Sgt. Vega. “Remember, we found your ID just a few feet away from the display refrigerator you were sitting inside.”

“Oh. But–”

“Yes?”

“How would you know that that is my real ID?”

Sometimes it pays to try the longshot. “Well,” said Sgt. Vega, “we know it’s yours because the barcode imprinted in it corresponds to the chip that was embedded in your neck when you were born.”

“Oh…” said Roger. “But they could have just transplanted the chip,” he said.

“Why would anyone do that?”

Roger looked down at the small desk. He kept looking for a good twenty-thirty seconds. Only when Sgt. Vega shook her head, ready to pursue a new tree of investigation, did he look up again. “Maybe…” he said, and he seemed very uncertain of this. “Well…they always sometimes dim the lights on me.”

“What?”

“Like sometimes, I’m fine as a feather,” said Roger, “and all of a sudden it’s like someone ‘dimmed’ the lights in the room for just one second or so.”

Sgt. Vega stabbed repeatedly at her notepad with her pen. “They just dim the lights?” she asked. “And what do they do after they dim the lights in the room?”

“I don’t…know,” said Roger. “It’s too fast. It only happens for, like, one second. And then it’s over.”

“Over? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” nodded Roger. “And even more, it happens even regardless of whether there is a room or not. Sometimes it even happens in the streets to me.”

“Streets?”

“Yeah, I’m just walking around, in the streets, all of a sudden I experience this feeling like…like as though my battery life just dipped for one moment. Except it’s not a battery for my phone, or if I’m driving, a battery for my car, but more like…more like my own battery. My own personal human battery.”

The Majestic Imagination

“Wake up.”

“Wake up.”

“WAKE UP!”

“WAKE UP!!!”

 

Waking up slowly, feeling relaxed, the man rubbed his eyes from under his glasses, refreshed, stirred from a sleep that felt like the best sleep he had ever had. Stretching his legs, arms, he wondered what had woke him, his sleep, that perfect sleep, he thought, being so deep, he couldn’t remember what had woke him. And coming to think about it, he couldn’t remember much of anything else.

Looking at his hands, the watch on his wrist, the jeans he was in, one knee tore open. The Converse chucks on his feet, he couldn’t remember, or the orange shoelaces laced through them. His name, where he had come from, nor where he was. None of it was coming to him.

“Well hello, hello sleepy head,” a voice said from above him. Looking up, branches stretched out from a large, old tree like arms reaching for the sky, the leaves littering those arms a deep green, a healthy green, casting a cooling shadow over all that was under them. Wondering who had spoken to him, assuming it was someone sitting up in the branches, the man who couldn’t remember anything stood, looking up, not seeing anyone.

“Hello?” he said, his own voice unfamiliar to him, something that was strange. Not knowing your own voice, almost like never hearing it before.

“Hello, again.” The voice wasn’t coming from above, but rather in front of him, directly from the tree. Looking to the source, noticing for the first time a face carved into the wood of the tree. Eyes, a nose, mouth. All the features of a face, in the tree, the bark cut away. And while it was an amazing sight to take in, it was unbelievable to think “it” was what was speaking to him.

“Are you talking to me?” the man asked, not sure if the tree would answer him or if it was someone behind the tree merely playing a joke.

“I think I am talking to you,” the tree said, making the man jump back in disbelief. “I mean, what if you aren’t here, and I am just talking to thin air, imagining that I’m talking to you.”

“Of course I am real,” the man said, stepping towards the talking tree, not seeing any danger in approaching. If it was a killer tree, it would have killed him while he slept under it. “But, how are you real? I mean, how are you talking?”

“With my mouth. And my voice. Isn’t that how everyone talks?” The tree asked, a smile crossing its wooden lips.

“I mean, yes. But, how are YOU, a tree, talking?” Touching the tree, it felt real. The bark was rough to his hand, feeling like bark should feel. Part of him thought it was clever animatronics, like in a Hollywood movie. Maybe I stumbled onto a Hollywood movie set. Or maybe, I’m the star of a movie, who got in an accident and can’t remember his name. Maybe I’m Brad Pitt?!

“I don’t understand your question. I’m talking like you are talking. I’m just, talking. Duh!” The tree’s playful demeanor only reinforced the man’s beliefs. Nodding, thinking it was all a gag, everyone on set knowing he was in an accident, deciding to have a bit of fun with him, “pull his leg”, he was going to go right along with it. Sitting down crossed legged, he was going to see how far they were willing to go with their little joke. Mess with a guy with amnesia. Sick people in Hollyweird, let me tell ya.

“So, what’s your name talking tree?” he asked, wondering at the same time what his name was, not too sure if it was Brad Pitt, hoping it was. Brad Pitt is such a badass. I really hope I’m him.

“Birch.” Smiling, the tree was proud of his name.

“Birch?” The man laughed. The tree, old, tall, was no birch, instead being an oak. Whoever is doing the voice is clever, but doesn’t know their tree’s too well. “How’d you get your name Birch?” The last time he said the tree’s name it was with a sarcastic tone.

“Maddie named me, mister. And since you keep asking me questions, let me ask you one. What’s your name?”

“Well,” thinking, the man said the only thing that felt right at the moment, “Brad Pitt. My name is Brad Pitt.”

“No it’s not. You don’t look like a Brad Pitt at all.” Birch shrugged its eyebrows, knowing the man was just saying a name, knowing all too well he didn’t know who he was.

“How’d you know? Do you even know what ‘a Brad Pitt’ looks like?” The man felt like he was arguing with a child, but instead he was arguing with a damn talking tree.

“I don’t but I bet it doesn’t look like you. See, I think you look more like a…. An Albert. Yeah, you’re definitely an Albert.” Sticking out its tongue, Birch definitely acted like a child.

“No, I know I don’t look like an Albert. I am not an Albert.” Crossing his arms, but only for a moment, the man stood, uncrossing them, not daring to stoop down to “their” level, “Their” being the ones who he thought were working the tree. Now I’m starting to act like a child.

“Do you know what you look like? No. Which means you don’t know what an Albert looks like. AND, you don’t know who you are, I know you don’ t, so don’t lie Albert,” the man kept silent, the talking damn tree correct, he didn’t actually know who he was. “Which means you don’t know who you aren’t, SO, you could, or could not be an Albert. Until you can prove to me you aren’t, you mister, are Albert.” Sticking out its tongue again, “Albert” realized he had just lost an argument over his identity to a talking tree.

“Then Albert I shall be,” he gave in, just letting “them” win. “Who is Maddie? You said Maddie named you Birch?”

“Oh, you know Maddie. We all do. She’s the reason for all us Majestic’s.” Albert, confused, had no idea what Birch was going on about. Wow, they are good, he thought, still thinking it was an animatronic tree being used to mess with him.

“Let’s pretend that I don’t know who Maddie is,” which Albert wasn’t pretending, he really didn’t know, but since the tree, Birch, was acting like a child, he would talk to it like he would a child. “Tell me about her.”

“She is so smart. And gifted. And a great story teller. She used to sit and tell me the best stories. She could make up anything, and the way she told it. If it was sad story, I’d want to cry. A happy story I’d laugh. And don’t get me started with the scary stories.” Closing its eyes, Birch didn’t want to think about the scary stories. Nightmares for days would follow.

“Wow, she seems, cool.” Cool was the only word Albert could think of to describe Birch’s take on this Maddie person.

“Oh how she is cool. So cool Albert.” Smiling, Birch always smiled when he thought of Maddie.

“And you said she’s the reason for all us Majestic’s?” Albert asked.

“Stop asking the poor sapling so many questions lad,” a new voice came from behind Albert, making him turn to again stand in disbelief, a unicorn there. The beast, a white stallion with a sparkling horn was breathtaking in its own right, but the checkered sweater vest and monocle were confusing, making Albert raise an eyebrow. This has to be the strangest practical joke in history.

“Now a talking unicorn.” Albert was almost speechless, only able to point out the obvious.

“I do have a name good sir. I am a dignified individual, not just a beast.” The unicorn, speaking with a thick British accent, chin high, horn catching the light, shimmering and twinkling in all its glory.

“And your name is?” Albert said.

“Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U.” Bowing in greeting, Albert couldn’t help but laugh.

“Mr. Q?” he asked, still laughing, the unicorn a bit irritated by the man’s rudeness.

“No Albert. Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letter’s K-W-U,” Birch corrected the man.

“Or, just Mr. Q for short,” Mr. Q finished. “And to answer the question you asked the young sapling before I intervened, we, as in you, I, Birch, all of us here in the Fields, are Majestic’s.”

Looking around, everything around him came into realization, all the sights hitting his brain like a cement truck, almost too much to take in at once. A group of violins floating through the air off in the distance playing on their own; a man in a violet suit floating on what looked like a colorful cloud at first, but upon closer inspection the colorful cloud being hundreds of violet and silver butterflies, flying below the man, holding him in the air while he inspected his nails.

A two story farm house, run down, old, the windows broken; a storm cloud above it, rain falling in sheets, lighting cracking the sky. And that was the thing that made that scene so strange. The storm was only happening above the house, the dark, ominous cloud ONLY above the farm house.

And then the fact that he was talking to a tree and to a unicorn, a unicorn in a sweater vest and monocle, none the less. And they were both talking back. Looking from Mr. Q to Birch and back, then to everything else in the field, Albert didn’t know what to think, but he knew he wasn’t Brad Pitt, nor part of a hollyweird set joke.

“What is going on? This is a dream, it’s all a dream. Just a drug, or heavy alcohol induced dream,” Albert said to himself, trying to get a grip on what was happening.

“Nope. Not a dream,” Birch said, giggling at Albert’s sudden distraught behavior.

“Not even close sir,” Mr. Q added. “WE, as I just stated are Majestic’s. Created by Maddie, and this is the Fields, though it’s only one Field, making you wonder why the name is plural.”

“No, this is a dream. OR, this is a story, and we are characters.” The thought was crazy, but so is a talking tree and unicorn. A UNICORN IN A SWEATER VEST!

“Oh please Albert,” Mr. Q began, insulted. “Do you really think we are nothing more than some minor characters in some whimsical story being written as we speak. I am insulted sir.”

“YOU ARE A TALKING UNICORN WITH A NAME THAT MAKES NO SENSE!” Albert yelled, his confusion turning to anger and frustration.

“And you are an angry man who doesn’t even know his name. Do you even know why Maddie thought you up? Huh, do you? And you dare yell at me. I sir walk on all four legs because I am PROUD to be a unicorn, but you don’t have to call me one simply because. Hmph.” Galloping off, Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U, left Albert and Birch, Birch laughing at the two’s ended argument, Albert even more confused.

“I know why Maddie made me,” Birch said, voice thick with proud enthusiasm to tell about his creation. “Maddie wanted to tell her stories to someone. And her neighbor, Old Mister I-Don’t-Remember-His-Name had a tree with a face he had carved into it. So one day Maddie gave the tree life, and a personality, and a name. Guess what name she gave it?”

“Uh, Birch,” Albert said, his brain hurting from trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.

“Yeah, yeah. It was Birch. You’re smart Albert. Maddie named me Birch, and she would tell me stories, the best stories.”

“Here, she would tell you them here?” Albert asked, wondering if he was a made up creation from the mind of this Maddie person. Come on man, you are not a made up “thing”.

“No silly. I didn’t come to the Field’s till after Maddie got tired telling me stories. It was a sad day, but she moved on. I’m better now. I can still remember every single one of her stories. Every one of them!”

“And Mr. Q? Why’d she think him up?” Looking in the direction of where the unicorn had galloped off to, he was nowhere in sight, having disappeared among the tall grass of the never ending field.

“I was thought up to assist with high school English homework,” the voice came from behind Albert, startling him, the man not even realizing the unicorn had returned.

“English homework? Why would she imagine a unicorn for that?” Albert asked, none of it making any sense at all.

“She had a unicorn bookmark, and she loved to study in the woods. So she created me to assist her. Now you’re turn. Why did she imagine you? Hmmm. Please share. I would love to know why she would imagine such a rude, amnesiac bipedal creature? You’re not even unique from other humans.” Naying in an insult like manner, Mr. Q had done the trick, making Albert ponder his existence. Albert didn’t believe he was made up, but if he was, why wasn’t he unique, like a talking tree, or a prick unicorn in a sweater vest.

Though he couldn’t see himself, or remember what he looked like, to a normal person, Albert would look just that, normal. In a t-shirt, jeans and chucks, black baseball cap and thick black rimmed glasses, he wasn’t overly attractive. His eyes were just sky blue, his hair chestnut brown, and his smile was just a smile. He didn’t have any extra limbs or fingers, and he couldn’t do anything spectacular, which would explain why he couldn’t believe he was just a made up creature, or a Majestic as Mr. Q had called them.

“I don’t know why. The last thing I remember is walking down a crowded street.” Thinking as hard as he could, thinking about that crowded street, walking through and past the people, bumping elbows with folks he would never see again, looking at faces he wouldn’t remember, one face stuck out in his mind. One face that was perfectly remembered. “And then there she was.”

“Maddie,” Birch and Mr. Q said simultaneously. “Blond hair, perfect smile. Pale blue eyes that you can just swim in.” Mr. Q spoke, describing in perfect words exactly what the girl looked like that Albert was remembering. “I think I get why you were imagined Albert,” Mr. Q said, one eyebrow raised, the eyebrow above the monocle, his British voice thick with a ponderous tone. “You are the first Majestic to come to the Field’s since the Violins Magnifico.” Motioning with his head, his horn pointing off in the distance to the floating, playing violins, Albert looked at them, silent, their beautiful music just barely audible on the soft breeze that was blowing through the Field’s.

“Oh how I love the Violins Magnifico!” Birch added, interrupting Mr. Q’s train of thought.  “Maddie thought them up to help her with her violin practices!” Birch, so proud to help out.

“Yes yes Birch. I love them too,” Mr. Q continued. “Anyways, where was I…. Oh yes, first Majestic in a while. You sir, are what I believe to be her, oh how I don’t understand this but I shall say it anyways…. You are her perfect man.” Not believing what he had just said, it seemed only logical to Mr. Q, Birch only able to giggle at this conclusion.

“How can I be her perfect man?” Albert asked, “I don’t even know anything about her.” It was true. All he knew about Maddie was what Birch and Mr. Q had told him about her. That, and he guessed she had been the one he could remember from the street.

“The only thing you can remember is walking down the street right?” Mr. Q asked Albert, Albert nodding his head. “And the only person who can remember is her?” Again, a nod from Albert. “See. Maddie is all grown up. And she is lonely. So, she imagined her perfect man, for one moment, walking past her on the street, and you blew it. You walked right on past her. So just like the rest of us, you were sent to the Field’s, cause she moved you from the real part of her mind, back to the imaginary.”

“How,” the coming question the only thing Albert could think to say, everything else being too much for his brain to even attempt to process at once. “Can this Maddie person imagine us real? I mean, I feel real.” Reaching over, touching Mr. Q, who felt real to the touch, Mr. Q not pleased to be touched though. And thinking about Birch, Birch had felt real to his touch.

“We are real Albert. Quite real indeed. And we are real, because Maddie is a special girl. She has a gift…” Mr. Q, about to finish his sentence about Maddie and her gift, was interrupted by Birch, the child-like tree wanting to tell its new friend Albert instead of the unicorn.

“I WANT TO TELL HIM! CAN I TELL HIM!” Birch shouted, much to both Albert and Mr. Q’s annoyance. Both said yes quickly to shush the tree up and get it to just continue. “Maddie told me all about it. When she was a little Maddie, her daddy left, leaving her with her mean ol’ mommy. But before her daddy went away for forever, he told her one thing. He told her, if she ever needed anyone, anyone at all, they would always be right here, and when he said right here, he tapped his head, and those anyone would come to be there with her. But little Maddie didn’t understand when her daddy tapped his head with his fingers, so she asked him, ‘daddy, what do you mean they will be here?’ and she tapped her own head with her fingers. So her daddy told her.”

“I’ll finish now lil sapling,” Mr. Q said, Birch not happy with being interrupted, but letting the unicorn finish, not wanting to be mean, though Mr. Q was being awful mean for not letting him finish, Birch thought. “Maddie’s father told her to use her imagination if she ever needed anyone. And she took the last thing her father had said to heart. And so, anytime she needed someone, when no one in her life would listen to her; when little Maddie was invisible and needed a friend to be invisible with her, she would think of one of us.”

“So, we are her invisible friends?” Albert asked, thinking he was beginning to understand, but still not believing that he was a made up friend of a little girl.

“No, no, no Albert.” Mr. Q was losing patience with all the man’s silly questions. “It’s really not that hard to grasp. Maddie was invisible to everyone around her. Her father had been the only one who was there for her, so when he left, she was left alone. But from what he had told her, she was able to make new people. People who were there for her. To help her. To listen to her. To help her grow. We are real, but we are created from her imagination, so when she doesn’t need us anymore, when we have helped her best we can, we go back to the imagination. But we are too ‘real’ to just go back to just any imagination. Thus…” Again interrupted by Birch.

“THE FIELD’S! Home to us Majestic’s!” Birch exclaimed loudly. Floating over on his cloud of butterflies, the man in the violet suit seemed uninterested with anything going on around the excited tree, looking more than bored with what seemed like everything.

“Why are we called Majestic’s?” Albert asked, this time the man in the violet suit answering.

“You sure do ask a lot of questions. It is rather annoying if you ask me,” the violet suited man spoke. Lounging on his cloud of butterflies, he wore a top hat, the same shade of violet as his suit, his skin bone white, black tattoo’s adorning his face. His fingernails, which he admired all the while he spoke, were black, with flecks of silver in them, the silver glittery in the light, much like Mr. Q’s horn.

“Nobody asked you Sandman.” Mr. Q replied, the unicorn not a big fan of the violet suited man, usually avoiding him in the Field’s.

“The Sandman was made to help Maddie sleep one night during a thunder storm. Her mommy wouldn’t come tuck her in or give her a kiss or nothing…” Birch began, excitedly, but the Sandman finished.

“So I came and looked over her. The lightning frightened her, but I made it better, telling her stories about Dreamscape, and the wonders of the world of Dreams.” Oozing with egotism, the Sandman was overly proud in that fact, that he had helped Maddie find sleep on stormy nights.

“Alright, I accept it then. I was made up by Maddie, and if what you say is true Mr. Q, then I’m her perfect man, or was, until I blew it.” Albert felt a pain that he couldn’t describe. It’s almost unfair. I blew something that I didn’t even know I was supposed to try at. What the hell? How is that even right?

“Way to go,” The Sandman spoke. “She loved everyone of us, you know. But she loved us as friends. You, she wanted you to love her more than a friend. She wanted someone she could love back, with all her heart, and whelp, you messed that all up now didn’t you?”

“Wow, you really are a pompous dick aren’t you? Must not of liked you too much, you’re here in the Field’s too, aren’t you?” Albert wasn’t liking the Sandman too much, and though he had retorted back, his remark getting quiet, terribly hidden laughs from both the unicorn and the tree, the Sandman finally looking up to glare at all three of them, Albert couldn’t deny what the Sandman had said was true. Maddie had been looking for a new kind of love, and he walked right on by her. “But I did mess it all up. She made me up to be there for her, like all you had. And right on by I walked, right to here, back to not even being a real person anymore.”

“And you had the chance to be real too,” Mr. Q said. “I’m a unicorn in a sweater vest. What chance do I stand in a crowded room?” His voice sad, it was really the first time he had ever thought of it that way. “You don’t belong here Albert. You belong with Maddie.” When he said this, Birch, and even the Sandman agreed.

“Yeah Albert, you got to make her happy and love her, and stuff,” Birch said.

“We were there for her, but the unicorn with the stupid name is right,” the Sandman said, Mr. Q muttering under his breath about him at least having a name. “None of us could stand a chance in the real world with Maddie. At least you’d have a chance to be there forever.”

“But, here I am, in the Field’s, just another forgotten Majestic.” Sitting down, Albert was unhappy. First, he couldn’t remember who he was. Then, he lost an argument to a talking tree about who he was, not being Brad Pitt, disappointedly, instead being named Albert by the said talking tree. Finally, after learning he was a made up person, he had failed in his one task as said made up person. His short existence was a sad, depressing one. “This sucks.”

“But wait!” Birch exclaimed, in the already expected, annoying excitement that Albert expected from the tree. “There might be a way for you to go back and try again Albert!” Albert, curious, looked to the tree, waiting to hear more.

“Don’t even say it tree,” the Sandman said, floating off, finished speaking to the three, knowing that if what he thought the tree was thinking of was about to be brought up, he wanted no part of it.

“Yes lil sapling, leave it be.” Mr. Q knew exactly was Birch was going to say, and thought it would be best to leave the idea alone, not even mentioning it to the newest Majestic.

“No, what is it?” Albert asked, wanting to know.

“Let me tell him, please. PLEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSEEEEEE!” All the while Birch said please, Mr. Q kept repeating the word no, over and over, for several minutes, till Albert couldn’t stand it.

“JUST TELL ME DAMMIT!” he shouted, the two creatures shutting up, Birch sticking its tongue out, Mr. Q doing the same, then snorting as he again galloped off in anger and defeat.

“See that ooky, spooky house over there?” Birch’s eyes turned towards the house. As Albert turned to look at it, knowing the house the tree was speaking of, having looked it over earlier in his initial take of the Field’s, the Violins Magnifico approached, the violin’s playing a haunting song, only adding to the effect. “Inside, there is a nasty old witch, and they say that she holds a treasure. The treasure is said to be there to let one of us go to Maddie without her calling them.”

“What’s the treasure?” Albert asked, having goosebumps, the look of the house and the haunting violin music having the effect on him, a slight shiver crawling up his spine as his mind made up what the witch looked like, if there even was a witch at all.

“There is no treasure,” Mr. Q said, yet again sneaking up on Albert, making the man jump clean off the ground, much to the unicorn’s amusement.

“Jesus Christ in a half shell, would you stop that!” Albert yelled at the unicorn, his hand over his heart, making sure it wasn’t going to jump from his chest, the damn thing beating so hard. “And are you just saying there is no treasure so I don’t go in there, or do you know that there is no treasure?” The unicorn avoided answering, his attention on Violins Magnifico. “Well?”

“Fine, there is a treasure. But, the witch will rip the flesh right from your bones, and then drink you blood mate. It’s crazy to go in there. Suicide.” The unicorn shuddered, clearly shaken by thoughts of the witch.

Looking at the house, Albert’s mind was made up. I failed you once Maddie. Not again. Determined to go into the house and find out if what Birch was saying was true, and if it was, then he was going to love the woman that made him to love her.

“I have to go. Maddie needs me.” Looking to Mr. Q, then to Birch, they both understood perfectly why he had to do it. They were created by Maddie to be there for Maddie. And just like them, Albert was created for her, and he had to do what he thought was best for her.

“Go get that treasure Albert!” Birch exclaimed.

“And do be safe lad,” Mr. Q, whispered. “And tell Maddie hello if you do succeed.”

“And tell her I said hi too,” Birch added. “And that I miss her stories. And ask her how’s she’s been? Well, never mind. I guess you won’t be able to tell me huh? So tell her I’ve been good. And that I miss her, bunches….” Birch continued to yell things for Albert to tell Maddie, but Albert was walking through the Field’s, heading to the house to face the witch, the Violin’s Magnifico behind him, Mozart’s O Fortuna playing off their strings, only making him more determined to succeed.

“It’s time to kick a witch’s ass and get some treasure,” he said to himself, a cocky smirk forming on his lips as he turned his cap backwards, the music from the violins getting his “jacked”. Balling his hands into fists, he took off into a run. Let’s see if you can keep up Violins Magnifico. Man that’s a badass name. And these were Albert’s final thoughts as he ran to meet his only chance to get back to the woman he was made to love.

 

*

 

She sat on the park bench, idly watching people walk past her, the gaze of her eyes telling anyone who paid attention that Maddie was daydreaming, thinking of someplace else, rather than the here and now. Her hair, blond, almost white, was tied back in a pony tail, and her glasses reflected what mid-afternoon sun broke through the canopy of tree leaves in the park that day.

Maddie felt as though her life was missing something, but then again, she knew what it was missing, trying to pass the feelings of emptiness off as an upset tummy. She needed someone to love, and someone to love her back. She had, like most people, had her fair share of failed relationships, and it had been over a year since the last catastrophe that she had been a part of, with a certain arrogant prick named Rick.

Her mind bouncing from here to there, thinking about so much at once, she finally got it to slow down, Maddie remembering a man she had passed earlier that week on the street. He had smiled when he walked by, his face shaded by a baseball cap, his gorgeous eyes behind thick framed glasses. When Maddie had seen that smile, she blushed. She didn’t even know why. She hadn’t blushed since she was kid. After walking past him, or, after he walked right past her, she felt that emptiness, the emptiness that could only be filled by three little words from someone else.

I.

Love.

You.

Maddie mouthed those words while she imagined that man, imagined what he would be like. Kind, sensitive, funny, caring. Staring at her hand, the free one, her other clutching her notebook as it so normally was, a picture was starting to take shape from thin air, an old Polaroid, the black of the picture coming into shape from tiny, black flecks, almost like sand swirling around her hand.

After the Polaroid itself was formed, in seconds mind you, the image on the picture itself began to come too. Maddie watched, as at first it was hard to tell what it was of, the image white, the color of it becoming evident, as though the picture really had just been taken moments before.

In about a minute’s time, held between her forefinger and thumb, Maddie held the Polaroid, now captured on it a picture that was never taken, but one that she was simply imaging. Her and the man that had passed her. She was sitting on his lap, and he was kissing her cheek through a smile, a hearty giggle obviously spilling out from her lips past her own wide grin. The picture made Maddie smile, but, she knew it wasn’t real.

Blinking, the picture was gone. She had always had an overactive imagination, able to create anything with just the power of her mind. It was why she was perfect at what she did. An author, and a best-selling one at that, taking that over-active imagination and putting it to some damn good use. But it had been a while since she had written anything. She just wasn’t inspired like she used to be. She needed something, almost magical, to step into her life to get her back on her feet.

*

 

 

Hiding, Albert held his breath, praying the beast didn’t find him. In the midst of what he thought was going to be a single man, brave assault on the house holding the witch, Albert hadn’t expected any “problems” to arise before he even entered the house. But anyone would think an eight foot tall Minotaur in a pin striped suit with a Tommy-gun was a problem.

Having stepped out from around the house, acting as a guard, the Minotaur had seen the foolish man running up, followed by the Violins Magnifico, but the instance the beast made its presence, the instruments high tailed it in the opposite direction, and the man disappeared in the high grass, falling to his stomach. The Minotaur could only laugh a deep baritone laugh.

“Why the hell would she imagine that goddamn thing!?!” Albert whispered harshly to himself, utterly lost on what pretense Maddie would think up a BIGASS MINOTAUR WITH A MACHINE GUN! COME ON!!

Just lying there, prone on his stomach watching the monster through the blades of the high grass that also served as his hiding grace, Albert’s rush of “badassery”, which had mostly been fueled by the Violins Magnifico music, was all but vanished completely. He knew he stood no chance against the minotaur alone, but lucky for him, so did the other Majestic’s.

“I do believe it’s time to fall back and re-strategize,” Mr. Q whispered, making Albert jump, the man not hearing the unicorn even approach. Crawling on his stomach, staying low, Mr. Q had seen the minotaur appear, and also saw the cowardly move made by Albert to hide, although Mr. Q thought, Cowardly, but smart. Though running in there alone was a stupid idea to begin with. Men and their ideas of valor and chivalry. Bollocks if you ask me…

Albert and Mr. Q crawling back, the Minotaur could see them, making an escape, and he could’ve cared less. Just laughing that deep, baritone laugh and snorting, the monster returned to the back of the house, going down into the cellar until the foolish man attempted another brave assault.

Back at Birch, Albert was breathing hard, having military crawled until the grass was a bit smaller, and only after looking back and seeing the beast gone. Turning his cap back around, trying to catch his breath, he had to ask the obvious question.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?” he asked, pointing towards the house, both Mr. Q and Birch knowing that he was asking about the Minotaur.

“That sir, is Valentine,” Mr. Q began. “One afternoon while Maddie was watching a documentary on the infamous Al Capone, she had thought she heard the word ‘monster’ instead of mobster, making her wonder what would happen if a mobster was a monster. Hence, the big bad Minotaur that perceives itself a gangster.”

“And how long did that thing stay in the real world. I mean, an eight foot tall, walking BULL IN A FEDORA MIGHT ATTRACT SOME ATTENTION!!!” Albert was distraught. He had thought he was going to be facing a witch, maybe a witch with some nasty spells and magic, but he had believed only a witch. NOT A GODDAMN MINOTAUR WITH A MACHINE GUN!!!

“It was only for a brief moment. Maddie had imagined him, never even looked at him or acknowledged him, and then poof! He was here in the Field’s with us. And not a happy camper for being ignored.” Mr. Q shook his head, feeling almost bad for the beast. Almost. “So the witch took him in, and now, from what you just saw, he acts like her self-appointed guardian.”

“Well, Valentine,” Albert thought the name was slightly comical as he said it, “could rip me in half if he wanted to. So I need a new plan.”

“I got an idea,” the tree said, speaking for the first time since Albert had returned from his quick failed attempt to get the treasure.

“And what’s that?” Albert asked, curious to see what the tree would say, thinking maybe Birch was smarter than his demeanor would lead others to believe otherwise.

“We use a catapult to launch you overtop the house, with just the perfect trajectory that once you are overtop, you release your parachute, floating down without being noticed, thanks to Mr. Q and I laying down your distraction. An assault from the front, after we release a heavy barrage of smoke grenades, concealing our own entrance. You go in through the roof Albert, while we take care of big ol’ mean Valentine.” Smiling, Birch was very satisfied with his plan, while Albert and Mr. Q stood dumbfounded, open jawed, and confused.

“That’s a good plan lil’ sapling,” Mr. Q began, Albert finishing for him.

“But we don’t have any of those things what-so-ever.” For a brief moment, the intelligence displayed by Birch had been phenomenal, but only for a brief moment, the innocent child-like personality returning as it realized Albert was right.

“Oh shoot. You are right,” Birch said, frowning. “Well darn it. Now what?” And Birch’s question was on all three of their minds. Now what exactly? Albert thought, not sure what to do.

“What if we help you?” The Sandman asked, floating over the trio on his cloud of butterflies. The question puzzled Mr. Q and Birch, who didn’t see the Sandman as one to offer any sort of assistance to anyone, but Albert was willing to use any help he could get.

“Yes, what if we help?” Mr. Q quickly added, not wanting the Sandman to seem like the savior of the moment.

“I want to help! HOW CAN I HELP!?” Birch yelled, overly excited for the situation. The Sandman, annoyed by the tree, had his cloud of butterflies fly him upwards towards Birch’s top, to which the violet suited man proceeded to break off two branches from the tree. “OUCH! YOU DICK!!” Birch called the Sandman for his action, having learned the word “dick” from Albert.

“Now, why did you do that?” Albert asked, the Sandman floating back down, the branches in his hands, a devilish smile on his bone white face.

“He wanted to know how he could help,” the Sandman said, looking to the angry Birch. Taking the two branches in his hands, closing his eyes, a violet glow emanated, so bright, everyone else had to look away. Albert, shielding his eyes with his hand, the light still seemed to find a way to get through the cracks of his fingers, so amazingly bright.

When it was all said and done, the brightness fading, Albert, Mr. Q and Birch looked upon the Sandman who stood, his butterflies gone, a sword in one hand, a cane in the other. The sword, sterling silver bladed, with a violet hilt, was gorgeous, the blade shining in the light, the hilt guard an entwined work of swirling metal. As for the cane, the stick itself was black, the head of it a miniature version of the Sandman’s head, one eye winking one would notice if the face was closely inspected.

“In the name of Maddie,” the Sandman said, holding the blade of the rapier like sword, allowing Albert to take the hilt, the moment his hand touched it, a tingling feeling passing through his palm, disappearing farther up his arm, almost like getting shocked.

“How’d you do that?” Birch asked, astounded by what the Sandman had just done.

“We are creatures of magic.” Raising one eyebrow, grinning, the Sandman spun his cane, and upon hitting the tip to the ground, a small show of violet sparks erupted. “Now, are we going to stop a witch and get this Majestic to our Maddie or are we going to sit here and be nothing more than imaginary friends?”

“Let’s kill us a witch and get this lad to Maddie!” Mr. Q said, bowing down before the sword wielding man, a motion for Albert to get on him. “I would be honored to be your steed as we rode into this battle.” Eyes closed, the unicorn waited for Albert to get on, but Albert was hesistant.

“I can walk there.  I mean, I have this sword, and I don’ t want to ruin your sweater vest. And…” Making up excuses, Albert didn’t want to admit that he would just find it weird to ride a talking unicorn wearing a sweater vest.

“Just get on dammit!” Mr. Q insulted, the man already wasting time. Albert listening, awkwardly got on, and the unicorn standing back up proudly, Albert positioning himself to where he wouldn’t fall, they were almost ready.

Feeling something in the air, something coming at him, carried on the light breeze that was blowing through the Field’s, Albert, lifting his hand and without looking, snatched the picture from the air, the Polaroid held between his fingers and thumb.

Looking at it, it was Maddie sitting on his lap, him kissing her on the cheek, both smiling like teenagers in love. The picture gave him butterflies in his stomach. Putting the picture in his back pocket, tucking it in so it wouldn’t fall out, Albert was ready.

“Let’s kill us a witch!” he stated proudly, holding the sword in the air, Mr. Q’s head up, his mane of white hair flowing in the wind, his horn shining. Letting the monocle fall the ground, the unicorn would have looked the part of a majestic steed, if not for the sweater vest.

“Not just yet,” the Sandman said, snapping his fingers. From around Birch, the Violins Magnifico slowly appeared, the group of flying violins almost appearing frightened, shaking violently. “Yes you, come here,” the Sandman spoke to the instruments. “Now, when Albert speaks, you will begin our epic battle theme.”

“We have a battle theme,” Birch, Albert and Mr. Q all asked at the same time.

“Of course we have a battle theme. Now, are you going to lead us into battle lover boy?” The Sandman’s words were almost as inspiring as the music played earlier by the violins on Albert’s first attempt.

“LETS DO THIS!!! MAJESTICS HOOOOOOOEEEEE!!!!!” And on that note, Mr. Q launched into a hard gallop, Albert held the sword high, and the Sandman was left standing with Birch wondering what the hell the man had just yelled. Shrugging he leaped, his butterflies returned, carrying him to the house as well, the Violins Magnifico behind the trio, playing Europe’s Final Countdown.

*

 

“…It’s the final countdown!” Maddie’s cell phone rang out, the ringer set on high, a few people around her turning her way to wonder why a girl looking like her had a ringtone like that. Smiling, she loved those looks, hence the reason her ringer was always on high.

“Hello Ruth,” Maddie said, answering the phone to her editor and manager, whom she’d been ignoring for the better part of a month.

“So she does answer her phone!” Ruth said, not too happy that it had taken so long to get in touch with her favorite author, although that said favorite hadn’t written anything in almost six months. “How are you Madeline?”

“Just fine. Just enjoying my tea,” Maddie said, taking a nice long, loud sip from her cup of green tea with just a splash of peach juice. Delicious. Ruth was a few years older than Maddie, and while the two could have been best friends, their relationship had always remained professional. Except for the night that Maddie’s first book made the New York Times best sellers list. That night a lot of Peach Schnapps had been consumed between the two. And Maddie could honestly say that would be the only time she’d ever kissed another woman. Or better yet, made out with one.

“Maddie, you really need to get back into your groove thing girl. Are you working on anything? Anything at all.” It was always business with Ruth. Maddie, setting her tea cup down, opened up her composition notebook, flipping through the pages of hand written poetry and short stories, small doodles drawn sporadically throughout.

“I’ve got one thing coming, but, yeah.” Maddie had been working on a short. The story being one she’d been working on for a bit of time. The ending just wasn’t coming to her.

“What do you mean, ‘yeah’?” Ruth asked.

“I’ll get back to you on that Ruth, got my tea to enjoy,” Maddie said, hanging up, a smile on her face knowing just how angry her manager was at that moment. Pushing her tea away, she wasn’t really in the mood for it, and she was still waiting on the waitress to bring her the bagel and cream cheese that she had ordered twenty minutes before.

Going to the last page of the notebook, seeing where she had left off, she had to figure out what was keeping her from finishing it. It was by far the best short story she had ever written, in her opinion anyway, since no one had ever read it. I just need my inspiration to come along. That’s all I need.

*

 

Valentine had been alerted by the witch that the idiotic man was again attempting an assault of the house, but this time he was accompanied by the unicorn and Sandman. And the violins. Valentine hated the violins.

Coming around the house just as the “heroes” and the damn violins were closing in, Valentine dug his hooves in, and opening fire, unloaded a barrage of rounds from his Tommy-gun, the only noise louder than the rattle of the expended shells being that of his deep, psychotic, baritone laugh.

Albert, seeing the Minotaur appear, knowing what was coming, wasn’t sure how they were going to get past the monster. Expecting that the Valentine was going to open fire on them, Albert hadn’t been expecting for the rounds to stop in the air in front of the still moving group, the bullets colliding with what appeared to be a magic shield. Every time a bullet was stopped, for a brief instance, a ripple of blue could be seen, showing the magic shield that was protecting them.

“What’s stopping those bullets?” Albert asked.

“We are magical creatures after all,” Mr. Q said, eyes narrowed, the thrill of the assault passing through him, helping him in channeling his magic, his horn shimmering the same blue tint as the shield ripples. “When we get close Albert, roll off. I’ll take care of Valentine!” Albert just nodded.

Close enough that the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, Albert rolled off, staying low in the grass, the magic shield not protecting him anymore as Mr. Q galloped forward to face the Minotaur one-on-one.

Picking up speed, pushing all his might into his magic, pushing that magic through to the shield, Mr. Q made a bee line for Valentine, the Minotaur in turn focusing all his rounds on the unicorn, none of the bullets doing any damage, all stopped by the magic shield. In the moment before the two collided, Valentine, tossing the gun, not needing it, dug his hooves in even more, and tearing the fedora from his horned head, hands and arms extended, waiting for the unicorn to meet him, he let out a mighty roar, saliva flying from his mouth.

In an ear deafening clap that rivaled even the thunder roaring above the house, Mr. Q crashed into the awaiting Minotaur, the magic shield shattering into a trillion blue specks, all dissipating in the air as the two mythological creatures flew through the front of the farm house, into the home. Rolling around inside the home, in the cobweb infested living room, tossing, snorting, grunting, the two beasts battled, leaving Albert and the Sandman outside, waiting to see who would emerge victorious. But more so on Albert’s mind, he wondered where the witch was.

And as though his thoughts had been screaming out to be heard, the front door of the home swung open, and though Albert and the Sandman were expecting one of the mythological beasts, instead stepped out a woman who couldn’t have been older than her mid thirties, but the strangest thing about her, she looked as though she had stepped right out of a black and white movie. Stepping through the door, the only two colors on her whole were grey and black.

Instead of walking, it appeared almost as though she was floating, but once clear of the doorway and the crumbling overhang that hung over the decrepit porch, the witch showed her true form, eight long spider legs extending out from under her black dress, the legs just as black as the dress upon her grey figure.

“Company. I’ve been expecting company,” the witch yelled, having to over the thunder claps from above and the battle still taking place inside her falling-apart home. The lightning flashes above made her appear ever more menacing, though it wasn’t difficult to be frightened by just her in general, the witch standing well over nine feet tall with her spider legs extended, the full body of a spider exposed, the abdomen and all. It was like something out of a horror movie.

Inside the home, the two beasts were leaving ruins of anything their tussle came into contact with. Valentine swung with his mighty fists, connecting with Mr. Q’s sides, but the Minotaur had taken a tremendous blow before they even entered the home, when the unicorn had driven his magical shield directly into the Minotaur. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if the gangster beast would tire before pummeling the sweater vested unicorn into submission. Or worse: death.

The unicorn, realizing he was going to have to do something, working himself free of the Minotaur’s grip, and spinning quickly, turning to put his rear towards Valentine, all the while dodging more blows, Mr. Q, with the last of his strength, in a great kick, connected both back hooves with Valentine’s face, the monster stopping dead still, then, like a statue that had been pushed over, fell, smashing through the floorboards, the floor too weak to withstand that much weight coming down at once. Mr. Q, moving quickly to not follow the Minotaur down, was quite pleased with himself, though tired and in plenty of pain.

“Undignified beast, walking on two legs. NO RESPECT FOR YOURSELF.” Preparing to go outside, having seen the witch walk past him and the Minotaur earlier, paying no heed to the two battling beasts, Mr. Q pondered how Albert and the Sandman were fairing. But before stepping out, Mr. Q, looking down into the hole, seeing the defeated, still unconscious Minotaur, lying upon the stone basement floor, had one more thing to add. “AND GOOD DAY SIR!”

Back outside, the witch controlling the very lightning from above, laid down a mighty barrage of strikes, wherever the white hot bolts touched, flames erupted, the grass floor of the Field’s around the home quickly becoming a death trap to Albert, who was having to dip, dive and dodge the bolts. The Sandman, flying on his butterflies, had the witch’s attention, blasting her with orbs of violet energy from his cane, and though the bolts were being directed towards the Sandman, Albert almost felt as though he was the primary target, most of the bolts connecting just mere inches from the man, keeping him on the move.

“Why don’t you just die already!!” the Sandman yelled, blasting another energy orb at the witch, more irritated than anything that his magic was nothing compared to hers, the witch doing nothing more than wincing at every orb that connected with her body.

“Now, now,” the witch said, laughing, her voice a demonic screech. “This is a fun I have been looking forward too!” With both hands out, a giant bolt called forth from the cloud found its way to the Sandman’s butterfly cloud, the beautiful insects bursting into a quick ball of flame, disappearing, leaving the Sandman to fall to the ground many feet below.

Albert, using this as his opportune distraction, sprinted to Valentine’s discarded Tommy-gun. Picking the gun up, the weapon heavier than expected, Albert was forced to drop the sword, but the gun seemed a better weapon choice to him anyways.

Pulling the trigger, the Minotaur had made the task look simple, but the recoil rocked Albert’s body, forcing him to grip the gun with all his strength, his muscles quickly getting soar. But it was worth it, the bullets fired entering the witch’s spider abdomen, the witch screaming out in agony, quickly turning to see her attacker.

“I’ll rip your goddamn head from those shoulders and use it as a volleyball!” the witch sneered through gritted teeth. Making a dash towards Albert, her spider legs clicking as they moved almost too fast for the eye to see, Albert had to abandon the heavy gun and move, but not before picking up his sword, rolling just as the witch trampled over where the man had just been standing.

Running, thinking that he had to do something, Albert turned around, only to look up into the witch’s grey eyes, the spider-woman looming over him, having caught up to him with no effort, anger from the pain he had caused her showcased on her face. Lifting her arms high, summoning lighting to her clawed fingers, she wanted to deliver the killing blow onto the man herself, instead of sending a bolt from the cloud above.

And like the Minotaur, Albert had to wonder how or why the witch had come into existence, had to wonder why Maddie would imagine something so dark and evil. And though he would never know, the story behind the witch’s creation was a simple one.

*

 

Night of the living dead, by Romero, one of Maddie’s favorite films, even though she was only nine. Her mother would most definitely yell if she knew Maddie was watching, but that was only if her mother cared enough to walk into the room at all. Maddie couldn’t remember the last time her mother had given her a goodnight kiss, or even a goodnight. Most nights she would fall asleep with only the television to comfort her.

Rolling over, Maddie could remember a time before she had a television in her room, a time when she would sit and think about things, about her mommy, and how she missed her daddy. Then the Sandman came and told her stories. He made it better to fall asleep at night. No need to think of all those sad, bad, and miserable things.

When Maddie’s mommy got a new television, she allowed Maddie to have the old one in her room. It was only a matter of time before Maddie didn’t need the Sandman anymore, the yarns played out on the television whispering her to sleep. And that night, it was Romero’s yarn that was whispering to her.

With the volume down low, Maddie didn’t really focus on it, her back turned to the t.v. as she felt her eyelids getting heavy. Maddie had seen those nasty zombie’s trying to get into the white farmhouse over and over, knew what was coming, how it ended. She just liked having it on as she tried to go to sleep for the night.

Opening her eyes for what she thought was going to be the last time for the night, just to see the lights on the wall from the black and white film playing out on her television, an unfamiliar shadow crawled down the wall that caught Maddie’s eye, pulling her from her almost sleep to a more awake state of being.

Rolling over, Maddie had never seen such an icky, hairy, or just plain big spider in her life. Just crawling down the screen, the zombies walking beneath the spider’s legs didn’t scare Maddie what-so-ever, but that spider, it was a different story.

Screaming, she couldn’t help it. The spider was just too big and Maddie was afraid it was going to jump off that screen. Jump off onto her bed, and then who knew what it would do. Crawl up to her, with those long, nasty legs. Fangs dripping venom, all eight of its creepy eyes reflecting her frightened face.

Her mother, still in her night gown, who herself had been sound asleep when she was stirred awake by the blood curdling scream she had heard from her daughter’s room, Maddie’s mommy was not happy the least bit when all it had been was a spider. One little spider.

Scolding her daughter for overreacting, then for the movie on the television, Maddie’s mommy pulled the plug on the television, telling her daughter no more television at night, and then told her to grow up. “It’s only a damn spider Maddie. Grow up.”

Slamming the door behind her as she left, leaving Maddie in the dark room alone, little Maddie crying, upset, hurt that her mommy hadn’t come in to protect her from the nasty spider, instead telling her to just grow up, Maddie was hurt. But in the darkness, she could hear something. Thinking it the Sandman, the clacking sound she could hear from the dark corner of her room told her differently.

“It’s time to go to sleep baby,” the voice said from the darkness. But it confused Maddie. It sounded just like her mother, but she had just seen her mother walk out of the room. The slam of the door had only made that fact more real. Yet, Maddie could hear her whispering from the dark. But what was the clacking noise. The clacking of something moving maybe?

“Mommy?” Maddie asked, just for the sake of asking the question. Stepping into what little moonlight sneaked into the room, Maddie’s mother was most definitely in the room, but there was something off about her. The tint of her skin color, the blond in her hair gone, turned grey. But maybe it was just the moonlight?

“Hehehe. Of course baby, now. Go to sleep.” The last words to come from this different mommy’s mouth weren’t just words. They were growls. And they scared Maddie worse than the spider. Where was the Sandman at when she needed him? Why did the men she loved and needed disappear when she needed them the most?

*

Arm’s raised, lighting captured between her hands, the witch was ready to strike down the man below her, the man that had hurt her. Smiling, the thrill of the kill was the most sensational feeling that had ever made its way through her body.

Holding the sword up, knowing it was probably futile, Albert thinking the witch’s magic stronger and deadlier than the Sandman’s sword. Falling backwards to the ground as his eyes were glued to the witch’s hands, the light trapped between them mesmerizing, like lightning caught in a glass ball.

Just seconds before the blow found its recipient, just before Albert was to be shocked to death with the voltage familiar inside lightning, Mr. Q was suddenly standing above Albert, the unicorn rearing high on its hind haunches, steed looking more mighty and grandiose than ever before. Colliding with the falling orb held in her hands, the witches lightning orb was stopped by Mr. Q’s magic shield, the brilliance emanating from the two lights, the intense white light mixing with the soft blue light, it was beautiful to partake.

And then a wicked explosion, a blinding explosion, Albert’s vision left blurry afterwards. When he could finally see again, the witch was gone, and Mr. Q was on the ground, his horn broken, eyes closed, making Albert fear the worse.

Crawling to the steed, petting his mane, the man let out a sigh of relief when he realized that Mr. Q was breathing, but unconscious. Looking to the Sandman, the violet suited man on his knees, recovering from his fall, Albert was on his own, though he was questioning his worth.

“What are you waiting for you bloke?” Mr. Q asked, eyes still closed, the words a struggle to get out. The pain shooting through his head from his broken horn was unbearable, but he somehow found the energy to get the words out.

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m not magic like you or him,” Albert said. He was scared, and starting to feel like he had failed Maddie again. He had just fallen over, watching the witch prepare to kill him. I did nothing to protect myself. How could I protect Maddie?

“You don’t have to be magic Albert. Just go. You have love on your side.” Barely opening his eye, Mr. Q looked upon Albert for one brief moment, his words having no use to persuade the man to try. Try and find the treasure.

“What does love have against something like that?” he asked concerning the witch. Dropping the sword, Albert was losing all hope quickly. The Sandman, sick of the man’s depressed whining, planted a foot in the man’s shoulder, kicking him over. “Hey!” Albert asked, wondering why the hell he had just gotten kicked by someone whom he had thought was his acquaintance.

Reaching down before Albert could move, the Sandman grabbed and pulled out the Polaroid of Maddie and Albert, holding it in front of the man. “This is what love can do you idiot!” the Sandman said angrily. “Love can do the impossible, create things out of nothing, travel worlds. Save lives. Create life you fool. She is waiting for you. Maddie is waiting for you!” Poking Albert in the chest with his cane as he said “you”, the Sandman got through a little bit better than the unicorn had, which might have angered Mr. Q if the steed had fallen back in exhausted sleep.

Inspiration back, Albert got to his feet, picked up his sword, turned his cap backwards, and taking a deep breath, found a way to convince himself to finish what he had started. What he had dragged two other Majestic’s into. He had to finish it for all of them.

Turning, going to enter the house, finish the witch off once and for all and claim the treasure, but before he took his first step to head towards the house, he turned back to the Sandman, snatching the Polaroid from smiling Sandman’s hand.

“That’s mine,” Albert said, returning the smile, putting the picture back into his pocket after looking at it for a moment. Giving a farewell nod, he was off to kill the witch and claim his treasure.

“Good luck kid,” the Sandman whispered, resting both hands on the cane, turning his attention to the still sleeping unicorn. “And I’ll say this while you’re asleep, good job Q. But lose the sweater vest. It’s ugly.” Making his way off towards Birch, snapping his fingers, his butterflies gone, the Sandman would need some entertainment while he walked.

Coming up from hiding in the non-burned patches in the Field’s grass, the Violins Magnifico went to the Sandman to follow him, playing a random symphonic masterpiece by Tchaikovsky, the Sandman whistling right along with the song as he walked off. Opening one eye, having heard everything, Mr. Q smiled. “Well, your suit is tacky,” the unicorn said before allowing himself to fall back to sleep.

 

Making his way into the destroyed home, one hand upon the sword, the other out in front, forefinger and pinky extended out like “devil horns”, to anyone who didn’t know, Albert looked like he could handle his own with a sword, but the truth was, he had no idea what the hell he was doing trying to fight a nine foot tall spider woman with magic powers with an oversize, shiny “sandwich tooth pick”.

The battle that had occurred between Mr. Q and Valentine was all too evident, the furniture destroyed, holes all throughout the house, the most obvious being the one in the floor. Looking down in, Valentine was still unconscious on the basement floor, Albert breathing a sigh of relief upon the sight. Only the spider bitch to deal with.

Creeping through the house as slowly as he could, it was almost no use, the floor boards creaking beneath his feet, the rusty old nails squeaking loudly, every squeak making him wince, making Albert think that the witch was just waiting to pounce and pin him down with one of her long, black spider legs.

“God I hate spiders,” he said to himself, vowing to kill every eight legged little bastard from there on out, if the queen of spiders didn’t get him first that is. Seeing nothing on the first floor that could either be a witch or a treasure, though he had no clue what the treasure even looked like, Albert came across the spot where the steps had been at one point, leading to the top floor, but the stairs themselves were gone, having collapsed into the basement, leaving a cobweb infested space where they had once been.

Standing there over the collapsed staircase, Albert could see the basement door directly across from him, and below the door, the stairs leading down into the basement had also collapsed, the wood from both cases laying crumbled, broken on the stone floor roughly seven feet down.

Trying to figure out which was his best route to go to find the treasure, Albert thought he could hear something, though faint at first, he passed it off as just the sounds of the house, then thought it could have been the witch sneaking up on him. Looking all around, trying to stay as silent as he could, though he was in the open, an easy target, he was able to listen in more carefully, the sound being that of music playing below him.

Kneeling down, it was hard at first to hear the music, but it was just loud enough to faintly pick up. And along with the music, he could hear singing. The witch is singing, he thought, her chilling voice sending a chill up his spine. Realizing he had no better choice but to go down, Albert looked below, not liking the idea of jumping down onto the broken wood from the stairs, so instead, he returned to the hole made from the collapsed Valentine.

Hopping down in, after sitting on the edge of the collapsed floor, feeling the weakened floor boards giving way, not allowing Albert much time to consider his outrageous idea, the man just dropped down onto the minotaur, more gracious than anything his fall didn’t wake the beast. Rolling off Valentine as quickly as possible, making sure to not poke the monster with his sword, Albert breathed a deep sigh of relief, glad his stupid idea had actually worked.

Looking around, the basement was built like a stone labyrinth, but the way to go was simple, Albert just following the witch’s singing. Sneaking, moving on his tip toes, staying as quiet as possible, the witch’s haunting singing to the music was chilling, unnaturally beautiful, but still chilling.

Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes….

Albert could see a faint light ahead of him in the stone hallway he was sneaking down.

It was always you that I despised….

Leaning against the wall, Albert listening to the witch’s singing from the room just around the corner, he was almost hypnotized, closing his eyes to listen, a moment to allow the witch to continue. Continue before they faced off for one last time, with only one walking away.

I don’t care enough for you to cry….

“Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes,” the witch finished singing, the music dying to silence, the eerily sound of the echo being the only sounds left in the stone labyrinth, till even those were gone in silence. “You think you are good enough for my Madeline?” The witch knew that the man was around the corner, she could sense him, his fear of her. His love for Maddie. She knew he was going to face her, the fool, she thought.

“To be honest,” Albert said, stepping out from off the wall around the corner, looking into the room, the witch’s back to him, the faint light being that given off by two lit candles. The only thing in the room was a wooden table, and besides the candles, Albert couldn’t see what else was on it, the witch standing overtop the mysterious cause for the music. “I know I am not good enough for Maddie. She’s a special girl. But I will try my damndest to be the best man for her that I can be.”

Pointing the tip of the sword to the witch, Albert waited for her to turn and face him, wondering why she was stalling.

“You can try all you want. All you want, but it won’t ever be good enough.” Turning around, the witch’s hands were scorched, terribly damaged when the lightning ball she had attempted to kill Albert with exploded from Mr. Q’s interference. Looking Albert in the face, a single tear rolled down her grey cheek.

“Who are you to try and stop me? We are all supposed to do what is best for Maddie. Be there for HER!” Angry, this witch was delaying what Albert had to do, and that was to just get to Maddie.

“I do care for her! More than any of the rest of you! Madeline would never admit it, and though she hated her mother, despised her, my little girl hated that bastard of a father more!! The one who walked out on her, leaving her with that horrible woman who would dare call herself MOTHER!” Albert’s guard lessened from the witch’s monologue, he was nearly caught off guard by a lightning quick strike from one of the witch spider legs, Albert dropping low, rolling backwards through the door way, the leg slammed into the stone wall across from her with such force, pieces exploded away, cracks running across the wall’s surface.

Seeing no alternative other than to attack, Albert struck, swinging down with the sword, cutting clean through the leg, about three feet of the appendage falling to the floor, still wiggling on its own, the witch screaming in agony as he redrew her damaged leg back.

Jumping through the doorway, swinging blindly with a clenched fist, missing, the witch was crying more openly, the tears being those of fury. Albert, back on his feet, knew he had the upper hand, the witch’s hands damaged and him making a heavy blow severing one of her legs.

“Just give up,” he said, more up to talking her down than trying to fight the angry spider woman. “Allow me to go. I promise, I won’t walk out on Maddie. I never would do that.”

“LIAR! YOU ARE ALL LIARS!” Throwing more blind punches, just swinging madly, the witch refused to strike with her legs, afraid of what the man was capable of, surprising her with that first attack.  Jumping at Albert, with one last lunge, the witch felt the worst feeling in her gut, Albert falling back, sword up, the witch falling onto the silver blade.

Pushing her to the side, rolling away, Albert almost felt pity for the witch, looking upon her tears, the sword in her belly, black blood just barely dripping out, a thin line running down the blade.

“I’m sorry,” Albert said, his apology not needed, but sincere. “I didn’t want it to come to this. I just want to get to Maddie.” Seeing the witch’s finger motioning for him to bend down, he wanted to at least oblige her with one last dying wish. Knelt down, he didn’t expect her to grip his throat in a death grip, pulling her face towards his, the clacking of her legs attempting to move deafening as the sound echoed in the hall.

“I’ll rip your still beating imaginary heart from your worthless chest!” Sneering, the witch tried to get to her feet, but the pain in her gut made it impossible, and the grip of death on her was just as strong on her as her grip on Albert’s throat.

Reacting instinctively, Albert grabbed the sword’s handle, pulled it from her belly, and swinging it in an ark, sliced through the witch’s arm, cutting off another of her appendages, and after getting some space between him and her, he had to put up a bit of a struggle to get the amputated arm off, throwing it to the floor.

“BITCH! I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY SOMETHING TO REDEEM YOURSELF BEFORE YOU DIED!! I MEAN SERIOUSLY, what the hell!” Kicking her arm towards the witch, Albert could hear her whispering, but didn’t care, he had defeated her. Turning his back to her, he walked back to the room, and looking into it, on the table was a music box, the box white and pink.

It was always you that I despised,” the witch whispered under her dying breath, knowing that she had failed in her own self-righteous mission, trying to keep Madeline safe from any more men that might leave her, breaking her heart.

Staring at the music box, Albert knew it was the treasure that he had gone into the house for. Looking it over, then looking over himself, he was covered in the witch’s blood, his clothing torn up from the battles, and he was still clutching the sword in a mighty grip. Releasing the blade, he let it fall to the floor with a clang, and smiling, he had done it, placing both hands onto the lid of the music box.

Realizing he was holding his breath, Albert smiled, letting out a breath while he lifted the lid, the music beginning to play as the lid was opened fully, a little plastic ballerina spinning on one toe to the music. The box itself was empty, but a tiny mirror was inset on the inside of the lid. Looking at the mirror, Albert noticed he had no reflection, and thinking this strange he reached forward, touching the mirror, feeling like he had just got zapped with millions and millions of volts of electricity, his eye’s shutting closed quick, his breath stolen from his lungs, the music so loud it felt like it was in his head.

The witch saw a flash of light erupt from the room, knowing what had happened. The Majestic man had touched the mirror, doing what she had been trying to prevent since her arrival in the fields. The man was gone, having used the magic trapped in the box to go back to the real world, to go back to Maddie.

The music still playing as the light disappeared, the witch smiled, a part of her actually glad she had failed. Maybe the man was being honest, maybe he could make Madeline happy, maybe he wouldn’t break her heart. Crawling across the floor, leaving a trail of her own blood as she made it into the room, she looked up at the table, the lid open, music coming from the music box as the little ballerina spun.

Pulling herself up to a kneeling position, the witch looked upon the box knowing the truth behind it, being the only one who did. The box was the only real thing ever sent to the Field’s by Madeline. A box that she had found in her mother’s closet, a gift that her mother had claimed was from her “bastard husband and Maddie’s worthless father.” That day, that was the only day that Maddie hated her father for abandoning her, so she damned the box to the Field’s.

Closing the lid, the witch knew her time was very short, her last breath of life in her lungs as she fell back to the floor. Eyes closed, she let out that last breath with a final verse, allowing death to take her.

Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes…”

*

Tapping her pencil, Maddie just didn’t know what to write. She had major writer’s block, and pissed off, she tossed her pencil, the writing utensil landing several feet away, catching the attention of a man who was enjoying a muffin. Picking the pencil up, he walked it over with a smile, and returned it to the very agitated woman, who found a way to return a smile.

“Thank you,” Maddie said, just catching a glimpse of the ring on the man’s left ring finger, telling her he was already another woman’s man. Damn, he’s cute too.

“No problem miss,” the man said, returning to his muffin without another thought. Maddie watching him walk back to his table and sit down, she let out a lonely sigh. She had been returning to the same corner café, ordering the same peach tea each day, a week passing by since her last phone conversation with Ruth. Maddie just felt like she needed to be there, but couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t helping her with her writing, at all. It just seeming to be a futile and pointless attempt to let something unexplainable happen.

Calling over the waitress to get her check, the girl whom Maddie thought looked too young to be out of high school, she thought about asking the girl’s age for a brief second, but decided not to, the idea rude. Thanking the girl, another item was with the receipt, which both things puzzled Maddie.

“Your tea was taken care of by a gentleman over there,” the waitress said, pointing behind Maddie. As Maddie turned, there was no one there. But the tea being paid for wasn’t what puzzled her. The Polaroid sitting underneath the receipt did. The Polaroid that she had thought she only imagined. Maddie always knew she had a very overactive imagination, and many imaginary friends growing up, but how is this real? she thought as she held the picture.

Turning back around, still no one at the table, Maddie didn’t understand. Confused, the whole matter surreal, upon looking back at her own table holding her notebook and pencil, Maddie was surprised to see the man from the Polaroid sitting across from her, smiling.

“Well hello there,” the man said, a smile on his face. Wearing a black oxford, grey dress vest and black cap, he mixed dress well with the casual, his black rimmed glasses only drawing Maddie to look deeper into his sky blue eyes.

“Are you real?” Maddie asked, having never seen the man before except for passing him on the street and having a strange Polaroid of the two together. Looking at him, head tilted to the side while she tried to unravel the mystery of what was happening, she couldn’t help but smile, the man’s smile contagious.

“I feel real, so you tell me if you think I feel real.” Getting to his feet, walking around the metal table sitting outside the café, the same table that Maddie had sat at for a week waiting for something to happen, she got that something she had been waiting for.

Picked up by the man, his hands finding their way into hers, she was on her feet, and before she could stop him, he was pulling her in for the most passionate, electrified kiss she had ever had the pleasure of being a part of. Feeling as though small shocks were traveling from his lips into hers, then through the rest of her body, Maddie lost her breath and could feel her heart just pounding in her chest.

“My god,” she said, once he pulled away, both of them keeping their eyes closed for a few more minutes, “that was too real. Surreal.” Smiling bigger than before, Maddie opened her eyes and had a loss of words, not sure what to say beyond “surreal”.

“You don’t know what I had to go through just to get that kiss,” the man said, leaning in and kissing Maddie on the cheek before returning to his seat across from her, Maddie taking a moment longer to regain her composure, then also taking her seat.

“I don’t. But first, what’s your name?” She had to at least know the name of her surreal stranger.

“Someone decided I looked like an Albert. So, name is Albert, and this pleasure is all mine Maddie,” reaching a hand across to shake hers, Maddie couldn’t help but giggle as she returned the gesture, lightly shaking his hand.

“You don’t look like an Albert what-so-ever,” and in her opinion he REALLY didn’t look at all like an Albert. “You look more like, an oh, I don’t know, a Brad maybe.” This made Albert laugh.

“It’s just funny you say that, but I have to tell you, I grew to like Albert.”

“Then Albert it is. But who gave you your name, Albert?” Maddie was curious. Everything else about this man was strange, so the origin of his name had to be just as interesting.

“You may remember him. He’s about thirty feet tall, has a child like demeanor.” Maddie at first was confused. How the hell can someone be thirty feet tall? And then like what Albert was saying was a spark that had ignited a fire in her mind, everything came flooding back to her. Birch, Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U, and the Sandman. Valentine, and the witch. The music box. Her Majestic’s.

“All of you. You were all so real to me. You were all there for me.” Shedding a single tear, Maddie questioned herself, wondering how she could forget, pushing all her memories to the back of her brain, making her friends, the Majestic’s nothing more than figments of her childhood imagination, or so she had convinced herself.

“Hey now,” Albert said, reaching across wiping the tear away. “No need for tears. They are still there for you. Without them, I would have never of made it here doll.” Maddie, looking from Albert to her notebook, had to ask the only question that was on her mind.

“You defeated the witch to become real again?” It seemed crazy, but she knew it was all real. It was unexplainable, but she knew it was all real.

“You got it. Said I wasn’t good enough for you.” Albert took Maddie’s hand in his, and with his free hand pulled her notebook over, opening it up to the last page, reading the last few lines she had written, her story still needing an ending.

“And do you think you are?” Maddie knew that Albert was something she had imagined, and she knew that she had imagined her perfect man when she had brought him into reality for that brief moment on the street. But even Maddie didn’t know what it took for her perfect man to be well, perfect.

“To be honest, I don’t. But, I’ll try my damndest to make you smile every day. To wipe away every tear like I just did, and to make sure your story ends with,” and at the same time, both Albert and Maddie finished his sentence, “happily ever after.”

Grabbing her pencil, he began writing in her notebook, making her smile, and a look crossing her face, without words saying just what is it are you writing Albert? When he finished, he closed the notebook with the pencil in it, and pushed it towards Maddie, a playful grin on his lips, with a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“And just how did you end my story?” Maddie asked, going to open the notebook, her curiosity overwhelming, but Albert keeping his hand on top of the notebook, waiting to say what he had to say before letting her continue.

“When you read this, imagine it in your head doll. Do that for me alright?” Albert asked, his little plan coming together, but Maddie still not sure what to expect from what he had just jotted down in her composition book.

“Alright,” she said, a bit of puzzlement in her tone. Finally allowed to open it, she cleared her mind, and let Albert’s words take her away.

*

 

The Majestic’s knew that Albert had made it back to Maddie. They had felt the kiss between the two all the way across the planes, passing from reality into the Field’s, world of imagination built by their beloved Maddie.

But Albert felt as though he owed everyone a debt of gratitude, his success being nothing without admitting it was all due to them, everyone of the individuals left back in the Field’s to only wish they could see their Maddie one last time.

And as she read the words written in her own notebook, the words written by a man that she herself had created, she smiled, feeling a tingle in her whole that she hadn’t felt since she was a child. With her mind’s eye, she was in the Field’s with her Majestic’s, with her friends.

Birch, casting a cooling shadow over the sitting Sandman, the violet suited man spinning tales much like he used to when a restless Maddie needed to fall asleep.

In a house that had been built to be haunted was changed to a beautiful home, a home that Maddie had never saw as her own, but in the Field’s it looked more welcoming. Inside, the sweater vested unicorn had found that he had a real talent to sing, and taking his teaching methods taught the Violins Magnifico a new tune or two.

And Valentine, the mobster minotaur. Thinking of how silly his creation had been, Maddie made the creature much more pleasant to deal with, the minotaur taking up singing as well, his deep baritone voice complimenting the unicorn’s perfectly.

And finally the witch. Albert knew reading just the mention of the spider legged woman would spur unhappy memories in Maddie, Albert still unsure of the witch’s creation, but better off not knowing. But, just like the rest, the woman was a Majestic like the rest of them, and even she needed happiness.

So, with Albert’s final written words, knowing that Maddie reading it, Albert wished for the witch to take the name Mother, and to have normal legs, long beautiful legs, and for her black and white color to be replaced with the color of  a woman in her prime. And Mother, the woman who had been hell bent on protecting Maddie, had a new job. Look after the Majestic’s, loving them the way only a mother could…

*

“Will all that really happen?” Maddie said, closing the notebook, wishing she really could see all her friends again.

“If you want it too doll.” Albert, getting to his feet for a final time, pulled Maddie to hers. “Come on, I’ll make you dinner.”

“Where are you going to make me dinner?” Maddie asked, getting up.

“Turns out you not only imagined me, but also gave me an apartment not far from here. And a bank account. With a whole seven hundred dollars in it.”

“A whole seven hundred dollars in it huh? And just what name did I imagine for you, since you have this apartment and bank account?” He had to have a name to have either of them, she thought.

“Brad Pitt as funny as that is,” Albert laughed, Maddie as well.

“Welp, Brad, what’s for dinner?” Maddie, taking his hand, left the notebook on the table, not too concerned with how her story would end, content on just letting it play out for her to be surprised.

“Albert,” Albert said, “I prefer Albert doll.” Pulling her in, he snagged one last kiss before the two began to walk to his apartment.

“My apologies Albert. Off we are then?” For the first time, Maddie felt like she had found somebody real who was actually going to be there for her, even if she had imagined him.

“Off we are Madeline. Off we are.” And for the first time, Albert felt a feeling of success, having finally made it to the woman he was meant to love. And though neither of them would ever know it, the Field’s filled with wild roses, the velvet of the flowers springing up like an ocean, telling the Majestic’s left behind that Maddie was happy. The flowing red telling all of them that Maddie had finally found love.

“I knew you would do it Albert,” Birch would whisper.

“Way to go kid,” would slip out the Sandman’s black lips.

“Good job indeed,” Mr. Q would let out through a smile.

And without saying a word, just letting a single tear fall to the Field’s velvet floor, Mother knew that for the first time in her existence, she knew what the perfect failure felt like, having failed to stop the man, but knowing that she was all the more happy she had.

 

*

 

Walking up to the notebook, opening it and grabbing the pencil, the boy didn’t even read what was written. He didn’t have to. He knew just what to write without even having to read what was in that notebook. Jotting down the words, he closed the notebook, slid the pencil behind his ear, claiming it as his own, and skipped off down the street, leaving the notebook to soak in the coming late afternoon rain.

If anyone were to walk up before the rain ruined the book, they would find an unfinished story written by a best-selling author, a small narrative written by an imaginary man who had fought to become real, and a final sentence written by that boy. The final sentence being…

 

They all live Happily ever after…

 

 

 

 

 

The Drowned [part II]

I open my eyes to find two unfamiliar, young, male faces hovering above me.  Startled, I sit up and try to slide myself back away from the boys, but I’m stuck, sinking into the middle of the old bed I’m on top of.  The room is dimly lit, but I can see they both have friendly smiles on their faces, yet they remain silent.  Unsure of what to do, I half smile back.  I look down at myself and notice that I’m wearing a dark blue robe.  I can’t remember what I had been wearing, but I know it wasn’t this.  The boy to my left stands up and starts to walk towards the doorway.  My eyes follow him and I notice now how the walls of the room are solid rock, and the air is damp.  We must be in some sort of cave, I think to myself.  How did I get here?  What was I doing before I woke up?  I try to remember anything, but my mind seems blank.

“Is she awake?” a voice calls out from the adjacent room.  A few seconds later, a third boy peaks his head around the corner.  He waltzes through the threshold, carrying a teacup and saucer.  Gliding carefully across the rocky floor, he hands me the cup and says, “drink up darling, it will help your blood shift.”  As soon as he says this, I realize my chest feels heavy, as if I’m not receiving enough oxygen.  I am hesitant to drink the hot beverage, but its sweet aroma floats up to my nose, and I cannot resist.  I take a few sips of the tea, and let the warm fluid coat my throat.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“Safe.  You know, you sank right to the bottom.  Luckily Chase was hunting in the area, saw you struggling, and brought you home.”  He glances over to the boy on my right, “This is Chase.  I’m Angelo, and over there is Peter.”

“I’m Valyn.”

“We know.  We heard them calling for you,” Angelo says.

“Calling for me?” and then I remembered my date with Alex.  “I need to get back to the cliffs, Alex is probably worried sick.  I was just – .”

“It’s too late,” Angelo interrupts, “Alex went home.  We insist you stay here for the night.  Finish your tea, darling.”

I decide not to argue and finish the last few sips of the tea.  The weight in my chest seems to have disappeared, and I can breathe easily now.  I hand the empty teacup back to Angelo.  Smiling, he gets up and motions the other boys to do the same.

“We will let you get some sleep.  If you need anything, just call out.  Otherwise, I will have breakfast ready for you in the morning.  Would you like me to leave a light on for you?  It gets awfully dark in here.”

“Yes, please.”

It’s just then when I realize that the only light sources in the room have been coming from candles or torches along the wall.  Leaving a candle burning for me by my bed, the boys blow the rest of the flames out, and leave my room.  I hear them rustling around in the other rooms, but it’s my thoughts that are distracting me from going to sleep.  I still don’t know how or why I’m here.  I don’t even know where “here” is.  It’s nice though, safe like Angelo said.  I don’t feel threatened by the boys at all.  Angelo seems like such a sweetheart, always smiling.  Suddenly, Alex appears in my mind.  I have to get back into town tomorrow, I’m sure one of the boys will show me the way.  I dream about Alex that night, holding and kissing me in front of the sunset.

The next morning I awake, this time to the smell of bacon and eggs.  I tie my robe up and follow the smell out to a bright, cozy kitchen.  Angelo is in front of the stove, humming a strange tune.  I look around for Chase and Peter, but don’t see them.

“Good morning Angelo,” I say, “I’d offer to help you, but I’m a terrible cook.”

Smiling, he responds, “Oh don’t worry, the femmes do all the cooking around here.  You may set the table if you’d like.  Flatware is in the drawer over there, and plates are in the cupboard above the sink.  Chase and Peter are out on an errand so it will be just the two of us this morning.”

I’m not sure what he meant by “femmes,” so I mull it over while I set the table for us.  The dining area is quite charming.  A painting of a lighthouse hangs on the wall, and the rest of the kitchen is decorated with a beach theme.  Sea shells and beach glass are displayed in jars, and roped fishing nets hang in the corners.  The walls of these rooms are solid rock too, and there are still no windows letting light in, only torches illuminate the place.  You can’t even tell it is morning, I think to myself.  Actually, I don’t know if it even is morning.  Angelo brings the breakfast over to the table and begins serving us.

“It smells delicious,” I tell him before I take my first bite.  The bacon has the perfect texture and the eggs are fluffy and full of flavor.  I find myself making complimentary noises as I enjoy the home cooked meal.

“I’m glad you can appreciate my cooking, darling.”  Angelo says as he pours what smells to be the same type of tea from yesterday into my cup.

“I could eat like this every morning, Angelo.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.  You know, since you’re a part of us now, you can’t just leave, anyway.  I know you will fit in perfectly with our group.  Chase and Peter love you already, especially Chase.  He was rather devastated to find out you are a boi, but you do seem to straddle the gender line, you are a two-spirit afterall.  Maybe there could still be something there?”

“Boy?” I ask, “but wait, I can’t stay, I need to get back into town today.  People are probably looking for me, well, Alex at least.”

“Your blood has already shifted, you can’t go back to the surface now.  You drank the tea, you depend on the oxygen in it or from the water outside now.”

“I don’t understand,” I stammer.

“You were drowning.  Chase found you, and quickly brought you back here.  Your blood has shifted in order to adapt to the oxygen levels of our environment, so you can’t leave now.”

“Am I dead?”

“No, not quite.  We’re just in a different realm down here.  The only connection we have to the world we once were from is through encounters in the lake.  You can now breathe, walk, communicate, do anything you want underwater, but going to the surface is dangerous.  Your lungs could collapse if you stay exposed too long…  Are you understanding this?”

I nod my head, “I’m beginning to, it’s just a lot to sink in.”

“Let’s clean up, then I’ll show you around.”

We wash our dishes, put them away, then head down the hallway I came from this morning.  I notice there are several more rooms that channel off from it.  They appear to be empty, just waiting for others to fill them up, make them home.

“This is where Peter and I sleep.”  Angelo lights up a large bedroom, full of character, much like their kitchen.

“So you’re gay?” I ask.

“Well, I guess you could call us that.  Peter and I are indeed a couple.  We are both physically males, but I am a two-spirit so as for gender, I like to consider myself a femme, as it reflects more my personality than what is physically on the outside.  It doesn’t mean I want to be a woman, it just means I’m a feminine male who happens to be with a masculine male.  Together we create the perfect balance of human harmony, and that is all that matters to us.”

“So now I understand why you called me a boy,” I say.  “And you think I am a two-spirit as well?”

“Yes, you are most definitely a woman on the outside, but from what I can judge of your personality, you seem to lean more towards the masculine side; we would call you a boi since you still have femme qualities, but more dominantly are your masculine idiosyncrasies.  Please don’t take offense, it’s only an observation.”

“No, I agree with you.  I have always been more of a tomboy.  So is that what a two-spirit is?  Someone who is physically a male or female, but is mentally the opposite gender?”

“It is a complex concept, but that is the basic black and white version.  With that being said, our roles down here are pretty traditional in that sense.  The femmes cook, the bois hunt.  If you’re feeling up to it tonight, you can go with Chase and Peter.”

“Should I talk to Chase first?  I wouldn’t want to make it awkward.”

“No, he knows already.  It’s fine, really.  He just wants someone to balance him too…  Did you have someone who balanced you?”

“There might have been someone, but it doesn’t really matter now.”

The Recruiter

“You sit there, and just smile at me. You drink your orange juice, no pulp. You had to have no pulp. You sit there, drink your no pulp orange juice, pulling that unlit cigarette from your lips, putting it back, pulling it out to sip your juice, putting it back. But you won’t light it. Not once, you won’t light it. Just sit there, smiling, drinking, and…. Well, it doesn’t matter what I say now does it?”

He laughs at his companion’s agitation. It is amusing after all, someone getting so bent out of shape over things so little, because all he can see is a bigger picture, but even so, it’s blurred. Like a massive painting. From far away, he can make out a galloping horse racing through a sunlit meadow, but upon closer inspection, your eyes were fooled from far away. Upon closer inspection, it’s just a blur of colors, nothing spectacular, no galloping horse, not even a meadow. Just a big picture that isn’t what you think it is up close.

That’s how John thought.

Pulling the cigarette from his lips, sipping his orange juice, and smiling, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder how in the world people got by thinking like John. There were so many, who lived by the “Big Picture” rule.

“That’s what you are John. A Big Picture kinda guy. You don’t look at all the little pebbles at the bottom of the pond and think, ‘man, there’s millions of pebbles on the bottom of that pond.’ No John, you walk up to that pond, stand on the edge and think one thing. Do you know that that one thing is you think John?” Pull the cigarette out, take a sip, set glass down, cigarette returned to the lips.

“That it’s a pond. Just a pond.” John said it, knowing that what Thatcher wanted to hear, that that was the answer he was seeking. And John would deny it, in his head, to the man sitting across from him with the loaded gun, with the cigarette and the orange juice. But, deep down inside, John knew that the man across from him was right.

“Exactly. It’s just a pond.” Cocking the hammer back on the gun, making John’s heart skip a beat, Thatcher relaxed back in his chair, running his free hand through his long, black hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Not in a long, long time.

“Why are you doing this?” John had to know. There he was, in his home, being held hostage by a man who had barged in, gun to John’s head, forcing the two to sit down. For two hours, to the second they had sat in silence, nothing said between them as Thatcher pointed the gun at the owner of the house. Then, precisely as those two hours were up, Thatcher pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips that had been there from the get go, introduced himself, asked for a glass of orange juice, no pulp.

“Ask yourself why the pond is just a pond?” Thatcher was smiling, still smiling.

“What does a damn pond have to do with you pointing a gun at me?” John couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he had done to make another man want to hurt him. The chance was there that Thatcher was no more than a crazy person, which was seeming more accurate a conclusion with each passing moment.

“The pond has nothing, and everything to do with this John. Here we are, two strangers, sitting across from each other, one has a gun pointed at the other, and the other has nothing pointed at the one. And then I ask you about a pond. Makes you wonder about the pond and why I even bring it up. Because John, right now, this situation is the pond. And it’s sink or swim time. Which are you going to do?”

John didn’t understand. What was happening? Was he about to die? Was he about to get shot by a man who didn’t even know, hadn’t met before, hadn’t even known existed before two hours and sixteen minutes earlier that evening.

“What are you going on about? Please, tell me what I did to deserve this? What did I do to you? Do you want money?” This only made Thatcher laugh harder, the cigarette almost falling from his lips, the man having to struggle to hold his mouth just right to not let the menthol stick fall.

“Please, all I wanted was your time, your ears and a glass of no pulp orange juice. I got all three, now all I want is for you to grasp and understand my reason for existing. We all have a reason, and this is mine.” All John could think was that Thatcher was out of his mind.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with. I can’t stand this bullshit. I don’t get what you are going on about. So do it, just kill me.”

“There it is John. Just a pond, no pebbles. ‘Just kill me, kill me already.’ And you are probably thinking I’m out of my mind too aren’t you?” John just nodded, his eyes glued to the gun still pointed at him. “John, look at this, and ask yourself why I’m here?” Pulling out a picture from the front pocket of his ratty jean jacket, setting it on the table between the two, John was in shock, not understanding how the man across from his had it.

“Ashley.” The picture was of John’s daughter, who, having just died three weeks before in a car crash, was still the only thing that her father could ever think of anymore. He missed her so much, and for this psycho, this Thatcher to taunt him with her picture, it was sick. John didn’t care if he was going to die, get shot, whatever. He was going to murder the psycho who dared to even bring up his daughter. “You bastard, where did you get this?” John held the picture like it was his daughter, though he knew all too well the real Ashley was gone.

“That’s not important John. What is, is the pond.” Cigarette out, sip of juice, glass down, cigarette back.

“The pond. The pond. What does the pond have to do WITH MY DAUGHTER!” Slamming his fist on the coffee table, the glass top shattered, glass flying everywhere, but there Thatcher sat, just smiling. “If you’re going to kill me, KILL ME! DON’T SIT HERE, and talk to me about ponds, lakes, whatever. Just DO IT!” Crying, John was through, spent. His mind hurt from trying to figure out what was happening.

“That’s just it John. You want to see her again. Would die to do so. You blame yourself. Think it was your fault. She was driving though John, you were at home. Drunk driver hit her, not her fault, certainly not yours. And you are just begging me to pull that trigger, thinking that it would me committing murder, not you committing suicide. You miss her that much.” Finishing the orange juice, Thatcher set the empty glass down, and stood, looking down at the sobbing man.

John cried heavily, falling to the floor onto his knees, his hand bleeding, his non-bleeding hand holding the picture of Ashley to his heart. Thatcher was right. Absolutely right.

“Are you my Angel of Mercy? An Angel of Death? Who are you?” John prayed to some God that man had been sent to reconnect father and daughter. John’s wife had left him years ago, leaving the man to raise his daughter alone, leaving the two to grow closer, to bond. And then, with Ashley stolen from him, he was left alone in a world that was cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. “Be my Angel of Death Thatcher.”

“I’m no Angel, nor do I want to be. Too much work taking care of those wings.” Laughing, Thatcher walked over, placing a hand on the crying man’s shoulder. “The gun was never loaded, it just helps to get people to listen. Everything, all this, this world, life, death, it’s all a pond. Sometimes, you need to look past that, and right there, amongst the water, the ripples, the fish, is one pebble just waiting to be found.”

John, looking up to the man whose voice was soothing, calming, Thatcher still smiling, the cigarette still between his lips, John was still confused. Thatcher, nodding with his head towards the seat he had just been sitting it, John thinking it was empty, but proven wrong as he looked to it, his daughter somehow sitting there, smiling and crying, looking at her daddy.

“Ashley,” John said, losing his breath, crawling around the broken top table to his daughter. She was there, he could feel her, hug her. She hugged back. Her hair, her long blond hair was in his face, but he didn’t care. It smelled of lilies, and rosemary. It was pretty.

“I miss you daddy.” Her voice, it was soft, but it was Ashley’s, only making him cry harder.

“I miss you too baby. I miss you too. And I love you. I love you so much. And I’m sorry. I’m so….” His daughter put a finger to his lips, hushing him. Shaking her head, tears that shined like crystals falling from her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry daddy. It wasn’t your fault. And Thatcher took me to a better place, told me I’d get to see you one more time. But, he said, for me to see you, you had to do something.” His daughter was there, there with him for one more time. John would do anything. He couldn’t explain it, how Thatcher had done it. John knew it was Ashley, couldn’t deny it. He had buried his daughter weeks ago, and yet there she was, right in front of him, he holding her. He would do anything. He owed the man anything.

“Anything. You let me see her again. I let me see her.” Kissing her cheek, John looked away, throwing a smile to Thatcher, feeling Ashley disappear from his arms. Looking back, the seat was empty, his little girl gone from him again, making his cry again, this time harder than before.

“I’m tired of collecting souls John. I’m ready to gallop through a meadow, or swim in a pond, instead of just collection pebbles to sit at the bottom. You sir, are my replacement.” Standing, Thatcher, finally lit his cigarette. Twenty three years he had been waiting to light it.

“I don’t understand. Collect souls? For, heaven.” John, still crying, said he would do anything, but, he didn’t quite grasp was he was being charged with.

“No John. I said I wasn’t an angel.” Laughing, taking a closed eyed, long drag of the menthol stick, Thatcher blew the smoke out passed a sinister grin.  “It’s a bit unfair, how we trick ‘em. I bring Ashley up, you see her, you agree to anything. Terrible really. Unfair in my opinion. Don’t see it coming. You didn’t see it coming did you?”

“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Standing, looking to the gun was sitting on the floor, the gun that Thatcher had said was empty.

“Welcome to Hell’s Recruiting Services. We borrow souls on loan from heaven, use ‘em to ensnare guilty souls, and drag ‘em to hell. Quite a profession, and we get dental. Here’s the book of regulations, rules, guidelines, do’s and do not’s. And by the way, orange juice helps with going from the living world to hell. Don’t know why. Just does. Just remember, always…”

“No pulp,” John said, mouthing the words, not sure what else to say but to finish the sentence with the obvious answer. His eyes had shifted from the gun to the book that Thatcher held, and the man’s mind was spinning. Was it all real? Had his daughter’s soul been loaned from heaven to a man from hell to lure him into the same profession.

 

*

 

“Can I help you sir?” The woman asked, answering the door to the stranger who had been loudly knocking for several minutes, and though she had tried to ignore him, it had been no good, the knocking just continued until she gave in and answered it.

“Hello Marie. I’m going to need a glass of orange juice, no pulp. And my name is John,” the stranger said, the cigarette between his lips bouncing as he spoke. Four weeks it had been there, and he was actually surprised that he was good as his new profession, Recruiter.

 

The Night Guardsman

The planes of life and death are many, with just as many planes of reality and imagination in between. Take for instance Mr. Goodman Howe, a kindly old man who has lost everyone in the world he loves, and yet he still goes on day to day. But, on the first day in a long time, something good will happen to Mr. Howe, only in- The Twilight Zone…

*

Sitting in his vehicle, the rusted out ol scrap that it was, more rust on the truck anymore than paint, Goodman looked at the near empty parking lot, only two other vehicles there besides his. One, the day guards, Ricks. The other, one he hadn’t noticed before. Must’ve been someone working late, he thought. Something that happened ever so rarely.

After the death of his wife a few years prior, Goodman found himself lonely, the isolation of sitting at home alone filling him with depression and grief. Needing to get out, he opened the papers one day, the papers being from days before, and yet still, he saw the ad, called the number, and got hired to fill the position, no problems. Night guardsman for an avionics production facility. A quiet job, and quiet was just what Goodman thought he needed. A quiet job, outside of his eerily, quiet home. But over time, he found that his little guard shack didn’t offer any sort of relief that he had been hoping for.

Finally climbing out from his rust bucket, the hands on his watch finally finishing their crawl to those two one’s standing side by side like two lonely men, the eleven o’ clock shift starting, another night of nick-at-night reruns and reading through the papers from days before.

Strolling up to the shack, Rick already outside waiting, much like he did most nights, his impatience overly visible in his body language. “Bout time Goodman,” the kid said. The kid, Goodman thought, like he could call him that. Rick was in his early thirties, and compared to Goodman’s early seventies, hell, he could call him a kid. Damn kid’s.

“It’s right on eleven,” looking to his watch, seeing it was eleven o’ two, Goodman damning himself, caught in a very minuscule lie, but a lie none-the-less, wondering how it had taken him two whole minutes to walk from the rust bucket to the shack. Was he getting that slow in what used to be a strong, meaningful stride?

“Alright,” Rick said, just playing it off, knowing it wasn’t worth getting irritated with the old man. “You have a good night now.” With nothing else, the man, or kid in Goodman’s eyes made his way to his car, in it, key turned, wheels quickly turning to leave the ugly truck and one other vehicle sitting alone in the parking lot.

Climbing into the shack, shutting the door behind him, taking his seat, realizing that he had grown tired of the job, with no one there at night, nothing happening, Goodman just reasoned that it was just best he stayed put, kept the job. It’ll just be the same anywhere else, he thought. Lonesome. Quiet.

Grabbing a newspaper off the shack’s little counter, the counter itself littered with candy bar wrappers, which Goodman supposed was Rick’s, the man looking to have never minded his weight, and a small t.v., the company nice enough to run a cable line out to them so they could zone out on the job with the trash that was on the boob tube, as Goodman’s son called it.

His son, Gary, had moved all the way over to the other side of the country, in California, where he designed video games, or something like that. Thinking about him, his graduation from high school, college, Goodman was proud of his son, but missed him dearly, having not seen him since Christmas. Of last year.

Wish he’d settle down, give me a grandchild. Goodman thought, hoping his thoughts would drown out the silence of the shack, not that it was completely silent, the humming from the light above him relaxing, once you got used it that is. After so long, the sound became torture, staying in your ears well after your shift has ended and you’re lying in bed trying to get to sleep. Back to his son and a grandchild, Goodman reasoned that even if Gary had a child, its grandfather would never see it. Gary had always been a momma’s boy.

 

The hours rolled by slowly, agonizingly slow. Unable to even fall asleep, even though that was a no-no on the job, something he had been warned about countless times the day he was hired, Goodman knew better than to expect anything to happen. Nothing ever did happen. Ever. Flipping off the light in the shack, the television not even on yet, Goodman not having reached that point of boredom to give in and watch reruns that he had seen countless times, he looked out the dirty window up to the sky and stars, wondering if Mary, his wife, was looking down on here, feeling sorry for her miserable, widowed husband. But he also wondered when he had missed his chance to do anything worth doing in his life.

Not that life hadn’t been good, but looking back on it, Goodman just couldn’t think of anything that had been worth his life, worth life itself. And it saddened him to think that his existence on Earth had been wasted. Deciding to change his mood and demeanor, depression something he had gotten used to but wasn’t in the mood for that night, he flicked the television on, turned it to nick-at-nite, and let the show’s he was only half-heartedly watch take the rest of the night away.

An hour passed by like that, when startled by a sudden knock at his door, Goodman about fell from his chair, was almost certain that he was going to have a heart attack, his old heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. Looking to see who had spooked him, a kid, and this time a young man, no more older than twenty three, stood, smiling, mouthing the word sorry through the door’s tiny window.

Motioning the kid in with a wave of his wrinkled hand, the door opened, the young man stepping in, apologetic. “I’m really sorry bout that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare there.” Laughing, Goodman thought little about it, just glad to have someone to talk to for a minute.

“It’s nothing, needed it to keep me awake. Is there something I can do for ya? You the one working late in there?” Looking out to the car that hadn’t left yet, it was the logical thing to think.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the kid said, looking out to the car. “Ol thing ain’t starting up, was wondering if I could use your phone, can’t seem to find mine.” Goodman, not even seeing the kid walk out to his car and attempt to start it felt bad, the old man never owning a phone in his life, and the realization that his shack didn’t have one either. What good was a guard with no gun and no phone? He thought, they really must not expect anything to EVER happen out here.

“Sorry, but, no phone. Wish I could help. Got a key to get back in the building, they got phones in there.” Reaching for his keys, getting up to walk in, the kid wasn’t too worried about calling for a ride.

“Nah, don’t worry bout it sir, thanks anyways. I don’t live too far from here, and I can walk. Nice night out anyways.” Looking back behind him into the stars much like Goodman had been doing, a smile came across the kid’s lips that reminded the old man of better days, when he young, and thought he could own the world. Instead, the universe turned everything around on him, leaving him alone in a too-crowded world.

“It is ain’t it. Reminds me of when I was about your age. Owned a cherry red ’56 Chevy. White top, never had the thing on with nights like this to drive around. Love the feel of the wind making my way down these roads. Remember when this parking lot used to be nothing but fields, looked so nice in the moonlight.”

Goodman was in a very happy place thinking back to his days of his reckless youth, burning down the back country roads, back before they were asphalt and yellow paint, with Mary in the passenger seat, neither wearing a seat belt, the voice of Buddy Holly trying to beat out the roar of the engine and the howl of the young couple’s laughs. The best of times.

“Those must have been the days,”  the kid said, still looking up into the sky. “Welp, I better get goin before the wife starts wonderin’. You have a g’night now sir,” the kid said, the sir surprising him, kids these days having no manners. Goodman just nodded, said a goodnight and a goodbye in response, his mind left wandering back to better days. His night would go by quick, the rest of his shift spent on back country roads with the wind blowing through his memory.

 

Two hours had grudgingly crawled by, leaving Goodman to wish he could return to working on his Chevy in his pa’s garage, or sitting with Mary the night of their first kiss, both nervous teens, just waiting for one to make a move. Mary made the first move, putting her hand on top of his on the hillside that looked over both their homes. They had lived close, their houses on the same street, their families went to the same church.

Seeing his rust bucket and the kid’s car being the only two in the parking lot again that night, he wondered if the kid’s car was still not running, left from the night before, or if the young lad was working late again, leaving the misses at home waiting.

Not in the mood to watch the television or read the paper that he had brought in with him, not that it was worth reading, the damn thing four days old, he instead walked out of the shack, stretching his old, tired legs, getting some fresh air. Stepping into the night, the air was a bit chilly, autumn creeping it’s way up on the closing summer, but autumn was Goodman’s favorite season. Most likely cause it had been Mary’s. She loved the colors of the leaves.

Very calm, taking deep breaths, taking in the stars, wishing he could just fly up there with them, around the planets, maybe take in the sight’s of Saturn’s rings, talk to the Man on the Moon, roast a marshmallow over the sun, Goodman jumped when he was surprisingly greeted from behind.

“Hey,” laughing, realizing he had yet again startled the night guardsman, the kid laughing, placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder, apologizing. “I’m sorry. Keep doing that too ya.”

“You’re gonna kill me one of these nights. Catch me just the right way and poof!, heart attack,” Goodman playfully grabbed his shirt over his heart, acting like his heart was giving out on his, going into full character with facial expressions and groans, getting a few more laughs from the kid. “Late night for ya again. Must love that overtime.” Finishing his laugh, the kid just nodded.

“Not really, but hey, could use the money. Takin’ in the night air?” he said, taking a deep breath himself, eye’s shut.

“Good night to do so. And those stars are just calling down to me. ‘Come play with us Goodman.’” Looking up at them, he knew Mary was up there.

“Goodman, eh. Well, I’m Matt.” Reaching out a hand for a shake, Goodman returned the gesture and was pleased by the strength in the kids, Matt’s, grip. A real man’s handshake Goodman thought. A gentleman’s.

“It’s nice to meet you Matt. You’re a good kid.” Goodman said it, instantly regretting calling Matt a kid, not sure if he would take offense too it or not. Kid’s these days, no respect and they take everything to heart. What happened to the youth of this over-crowded world?

“Same to you Goodman. Can I ask you something?” Goodman nodded. “You get bored in there, all by yourself at night? I mean, nothing ever happens round here. I mean, I say that like I know.”

“No, no, you’re right. Nothing exciting ever happens round here. They keep me here for my looks,” Goodman laughed, knowing his charm and good looks left him ages ago, replaced with wrinkles and worn out eyes. But back in the day, he was handsome. Could have been competition for James Dean, or Presley. And Mary, Mary had been so gorgeous. Could have a movie star, she could have. “Welp,” Goodman felt bad, holding the kid up with meaningless chit-chat. “Better get home to the misses now, don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“It’s okay. She’s prolly asleep anyways. I’ll stick around. You need the company anyways.” Goodman couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to tell the kid no, tell Matt to get on home and climb into bed with that girl, cuddle up with her and enjoy it while he had her. But it was only for one night.

“Not much to do round here at night. Got the little shack here,” Goodman said, slapping the door, like he was glad it was all his. “Got the television in there. That’s it. Not much for a young man like yourself. You really should be gettin’ goin.”

“Why don’t we sit out here and you tell me bout those days on these back streets, when these were fields in the moonlight.” Sitting down on the pavement, back against the wall, Goodman thought about and would be glad to tell a story, but he sure as hell wasn’t sitting on the ground. His old back wouldn’t last very long, and he’d never get back up. Grabbing his seat from inside, he made sure Matt wouldn’t be offended if he sat in it, the respectful young lad not caring one bit, just sitting cross legged like a young child waiting for a good story to be spun.

“Let me tell ya bout the time I was racing Charlie Everett…”

 

Life was good to Goodman. Going to work wasn’t so bad. Matt had stayed the whole night, heading home just before the sun came up, listening to the better days of an old man’s life, smiling the whole time. It was the best thing to happen to Goodman in a long, long time, and all the kid had done was listen, but, Goodman realized, Matt had done more than that. He let Goodman remember. Let the man go back to those days. Let him sit behind the wheel of his car. Racing down the back roads neck and neck with ol’ Charlie Everett in his Model T. Man, did Goodman smoke in at the end.

Walking up to the booth, Rick was outside waiting like he always was, although Goodman was fifteen minutes earlier than usual, a smile on his face, his whole demeanor just a little bit brighter.

“You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” Rick commented, wondering why the night guardsman was in such a good mood.

“I feel like it, that’s for sure.” Looking around the parking lot, he noticed for the first time since pulling in that Matt’s car was finally gone, not parked in the spot it had been for days. Maybe Matt had finally gotten it towed, or more than likely he had left early that day, not feeling like the overtime was worth staying late for. Goodman had to admit to himself, if the kid didn’t startle him that night, he would be a tiny bit disappointed, rather enjoying the young lad’s company.

“So, you hear about the accident? I swear they don’t tell us anything. I read it in the paper this morning,” Rick said, the excitement to tell his news almost sickening, Goodman knowing it couldn’t be any good.

“What happened?” Goodman asked, almost not wanting to hear.

“Kid died here a few days ago. Was working late, fell from a rafter while working on the tail of one of the birds,” birds being airplanes, “no one found him till yesterday morning. Company is trying to keep it secret. Can’t believe I didn’t hear bout it till I read bout it.”

“Kid. What kid?” Goodman asked, the part of him that questioned the unquestionable forming a name already, though the rational side of the old man’s brain told him it was impossible, but as Rick tried to remember, Goodman mouthed along with him just as the name came to him.

“Matt something or other. Young kid. Had a wife with a baby on the way.” Goodman couldn’t believe it. It had to be another Matt. Not his Matthew. It just wasn’t possible.

“Was there a picture of the kid?” the night guardsman asked, knowing a picture would prove the crazy assumptions going through his mind wrong, that he would be put to ease knowing his Matthew was home with his misses, doing what young couple’s do nowadays.

“Sure wasn’t. Damn shame though. Well, I need to get going. Have a good one Goodman.” And like that, Rick was gone, leaving an old man alone to wonder in a tiny shack.

 

An hour passed by when Goodman finally decided he couldn’t sit no more, staring out into the parking lot where a kid, no, a young man’s car had been parked the day before. Stretching his legs, hands in his pockets, he didn’t want to think about Chevy’s, or Charlie Everett, or the good ol’ days. He just wasn’t in the mood to think about those days, long and past.

Looking up at the stars, then to the moon, wondering what the Man up there was thinking about, Goodman was startled, nearing jumping off the ground by a “hello” from behind. He knew the voice, and knew that he hadn’t heard anyone walking up behind him. He also knew no one had been in the building working. No one. Turning to see Matt, the boy smiling.

“Sorry bout that. Bad habit I guess,” Matt said, looking at the sad old man before him. “You okay Goodman?”

“Are you bub?” Goodman asked the kid, only ever calling his son that.

“I’m fine. I mean, I feel a little weird, but I’m prolly coming down with something. Everyone is this time of the year.” Looking up from Goodman to the stars, his smiled turned into a small grin, an innocence present, a longing to be somewhere that he couldn’t get too. Goodman knew the kid didn’t belong there with him, was meant to be someplace else, with Mary. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. If Matt was supposed to be with Mary, wherever Mary was, the stars, heaven, wherever, he would go when he was well and ready too.

“So, want to hear about the time I got caught sneakin’ into a lasses room?” Goodman asked, the kid sitting down, cross legged, smiling and nodding. Grabbing his chair, Goodman was content. Maybe, just maybe, that was where Matt was supposed to be…

 

 

*

 

An old man left alone in an over-crowded world. A young man robbed of his youth in an accident, only to visit with a lonely man and hear about days long ago. There are many places we are destined to be in our lives, and in the times after our light has been extinguished. And sometimes the most important place we can be is there for someone who needs us. That is no more truer than in…. The Twilight Zone

 

Princess Lottie Pt. 3

When Lottie woke she was warm, dry, and more than a little confused. She opened her eyes and recognized nothing around her. She was lying in a large, comfortable bed with clean downy sheets. Her head throbbed and her throat felt like it had never come in contact with anything wetter than sand, but the sun was warm on her face and the gentle chirping of birds made her forget the horror of nearly being burned alive by an irate, visually impaired dragon. She sat up and immediately regretted the decision.

Her arm exploded with pain and all at once the memories of the battle with Helgarth raced through her mind. Sure, she’d been in dangerous predicaments before, but usually she only sat on the sidelines watching. Never had she been the one doing the rescuing. Her heart hammered rapidly in her chest and her left arm screamed to remind her of the consequences of her actions. She gasped to keep from crying as her burns radiated heat though her body. She clenched her eyes shut and ground her teeth together in attempt to will away the pain.

“Oh, you’re awake,” said a squeaky voice. “Guess it’s time to change your bandages.”

A withered, spindly hand cradled Lottie’s arm while Lottie did everything she could to not choke the life out of the old woman the hand belonged to. The woman removed the bandages and the couple of layers of skin that didn’t seem to want to be separated from them. Lottie screamed and lost control of her limb. The offended arm jumped to life on its own terms and slapped the woman across her wrinkly face.

Ignoring the princess’s protest, the woman renewed her grip on Lottie with strength that was surprising in someone who looked as if she’d fall over in a strong wind. She smeared a thick, gluey salve into Lottie’s burns. Relief instantly rushed over Lottie and she swooned a little. The woman cackled and proceeded to wrap the arm in a clean, white gauze. When she was finished, she thrust a seashell into Lottie’s hand.

“Drink,” she ordered.

Lottie drank. Cold, fresh water slid down her throat taking her breath away. She refilled the shell three more times before she had drunk her fill. After the water came a slightly larger shell filled with hot soup. The soup had large chunks of crab and a spicy, coconutty taste which Lottie found delicious. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. When the last dregs of soup were finished, Lottie sighed contentedly and handed the shell back to the woman.

“How was it?” said the woman removing the shells and soiled bandages. Lottie belched in response. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” the old woman cackled.

“Who are you?” Lottie asked.

“Oh, Lordy, where are my manners,” the woman said. “I’m Agatha. And you’re Lottie. Princess Lottie to be exact.”

Lottie was taken aback. “How do you know my name?” she said.

“Your friend,” Agatha said. “The boy in the dress.”

“Calix!” shouted Lottie. “How is he?”

“Oh don’t worry about him,” Agatha laughed. “Him and the dragon’s out collecting firewood for me.”

Lottie’s heart leapt. “Godric’s okay too!”

Agatha had to force Lottie back into bed. “Now, you just calm down, little lady,” she said. “Don’t go working yourself into a fuss. Both of your friends are just fine. It’s you, you should be worried about.”

“I’m fine,” Lottie said. “Never felt better. How long was I out?”

“About a week,” said Agatha.

Lottie coughed and nearly passed out again from the shock. “A week?” she said.

Agatha nodded and began to move around her tiny hut tidying things up. For the first time Lottie got a good look at the place. Agatha’s house was very small, barely large enough to fit the bed Lottie was currently lying in, a fireplace, and a rickety table made out of seaweed and driftwood. All around the circular room hung herbs, flowers, and other plants Lottie had never laid eyes on. The table was littered with seashells and glass bottles containing ointments, potions, creams, and powders. A small cauldron sat at the edge of the table beside a well-used mortar and pestle. Not exactly the accommodations Lottie was used to, but she decided that she like the place. It was homey and had a pleasant briny scent.

“Your home is lovely,” Lottie said.

Agatha beamed with pride. “I built this place myself,” she said. “It’s not much, but it’s homey and has a pleasant briny scent.”

Lottie shrugged that off as a coincidence and eyed cauldron. “Are you a witch?” she said.

Agatha rolled her eyes and glowered at her. “I could have been,” she said. “But I didn’t pass the entrance exam. Had trouble with transfigurations. My toads always retained their human eyes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lottie said.

“I could never make any of my spells stick anyway,” Agatha replied rinsing out the seashells and arranging them neatly on a shelf. “Some people have it, some people don’t. I only wanted to be a witch because of my mother in the first place. I come from a long line of prominent witches. I’m afraid my mother was quite disappointed when I never seemed to display a gift for it.”

“So all these herbs and things…” Lottie said.

“Medicinal,” Agatha said. “Never amounted to much of a sorceress, but I’m a top notch healer.”

“I’m glad you are,” said Lottie. “I’m not sure I’d be here if not for you.”

Agatha finished tidying up and plopped onto the bed beside Lottie. “You wouldn’t be,” she said. “Have you had a good look at that arm of yours?”

Lottie looked at her injured arm for the first time and almost threw up that delicious crab stew. She didn’t know what she expected, but it was definitely what she saw. The skin was blackened and blistered. What was left of it anyway. Her arm resembled something a butcher would discard than a fully functional limb. Lottie stared at it in horror. Agatha noticed Lottie’s expression and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not quite as bad as it looks. We can fix you right up.”

“Really?” Lottie asked hopefully.

“Of course,” said Agatha. “I told you I am a top notch healer. You’re lucky that boy got you here when he did. Not an easy task dragging an injured princess and an unconscious dragon three miles to shore in time to save that arm of yours.”

Lottie was speechless. She hadn’t considered how she had come to be in Agatha’s hut, but she never imagined that Calix could have carried her. In a dress no less! She may have seriously misjudged his character. Lottie was almost too relieved when Agatha interrupted her thoughts.

“You know,” she said. “That shield was harder than blazes to remove. Most of it had melted right on to the bone. What on earth did you do to make them Iron Mountain dragons so angry?”

Lottie sighed and smiled. “It’s a long story,” she said.

“Well, your friends won’t be back for a while,” said Agatha. “And I love a good story.”

 

***

By the time Lottie had finished the story the sun was setting and Godric and Calix had returned. Godric still had a black eye and what appeared to be a broken nose, and Calix was missing his eyebrows, but both of were otherwise uninjured. After a few moments of hugs, tears, and a collective sigh of relief, a fire was built, dinner was cooked, and Agatha introduced them all to her homemade wine.

An hour later the wine was gone, the fire had died to smoldering embers, and Godric had challenged Agatha to a game of tic-tac-toe in the sand leaving Lottie and Calix alone. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two and for a while they were content to watch the last wisps of smoke rise and dance away from the fire.

Calix cleared his throat and tried to speak but nothing came of it. Lottie shifted her weight and scratched nervously at her injured arm.

“How’s your arm?” Calix said at last.

“Still hurts,” she said loosening her bandages. “And it itches pretty badly. Agatha gave me some salve she concocted that she says will heal it up in no time.”

She pulled a small jar from her pocket and unstopped it. She recoiled a little at the metallic scent that assailed her nostrils. Calix laughed.

“That bad eh?”

“Not really, “ she said. “Just smells like my grandma.”

She unwound the bandages and smeared the medicine on her burns. Calix whistled slightly.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said. “Is that bone?”

Lottie nodded as cool relief seeped into her muscles. She wound a new bandage over her newly growing skin, but couldn’t quite tie it off. She hated the look of pity in Calix’s eye as he took her hand.

“Here, let me help,” he said. Lottie didn’t like showing any sort of weakness but offered him her hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle and she found that she minded him touching her less than she would have thought. When he was finished he held her hand just a little longer than Lottie felt was necessary.

“Um, Calix?” said Lottie eying their intertwined hands.

He quickly pulled his hand back and even in the half light of the near dead fire, Lottie could see him blush. Lottie decided it was rather endearing and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied.

“Thank you for also dragging my unconscious body to shore,” she continued.

Calix snickered. “Oh, you were no problem,” he said. “Getting Godric here was the hard part.”

“Jeez, Calix,” Lottie said rolling her eyes. “Just say ‘you’re welcome’ already. Don’t be so damn modest. According to Agatha, you probably saved my life.

“I definitely saved your life,” he said. “But I you saved mine first back there in the Crater so I was just repaying a debt.”

“Oh, right,” she said, remembering the battle with Helgarth and shuddering. “I guess we’re even.”

“Not quite,” Calix said and his eyes fell again on Lottie’s bandaged arm. Lottie understood. Somehow Calix blamed himself for her injuries. She wanted to comfort him but didn’t quite know what to say. Another uncomfortable silence followed. Eventually she spoke.

“Calix,” she said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. What say we start over.”

“I-I’d like that,” he said.

“Good,” she said. She looked around and breathed in the salty sea air. “Where are we by the way?”

“The Southern Isles,” he said. “The southern most of the Southern Isles, actually.”

“Does it have a name?” she asked.

“No. Too small,” he said. “Agatha is the only one who lives here. Tomorrow we can take a walk and you’ll see how small it is.”

Lottie noticed the hopeful tone in his voice but decided to play coy. “Who does Agatha heal then, if she’s the only one here?”

Calix scooted close to Lottie and pointed vaguely northwesterly. Lottie couldn’t help noticing that he deliberately smelled her hair as he did so. She didn’t really mind because she was intrigued by the agreeably tropical scent coming from his.

“See those lights over there?” he said. “Those are Major Isles. They make up the archipelago where Agatha does most of her business.”

“I see,” she whispered. A moment passed in which they both stared at the archipelago and then Lottie sighed.

“What’s wrong?” said a perhaps too concerned Calix. “Is it your burns again?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” she reassured him. “It’s just…I’ve never been this far from home before. There has always been a five mile radius on all rescue scenarios and kidnap situations.”

“How many of those have there been?” Calix asked.

“About two per year since I was eleven,” Lottie said. “Give or take.”

Calix’s jaw made a slight swishing sound as it struck the sand below him. After a moment of awkward staring he closed his mouth and said, “That seems excessive.”

“You get used to it,” Lottie shrugged. “Besides I’ve picked up some useful life experience from them, so it’s not all bad.”

“I’ll say,” Calix exclaimed. “The way you fought those dragons…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Lottie blushed and was thankful that all that was left of the fire was smoke and ashes so Calix couldn’t see her cheeks redden. “Thanks,” she whispered.

For a while they sat in silence listening to the waves crash over the beach. Agatha’s wine had gotten the better of Godric and he now laid on his side with this limbs twitching ever so often as he dreamed of chasing butterflies. Agatha shook her head and stretched out beside him to look up at the stars. A cool breeze whipped in from the ocean and Lottie caught herself snuggling closer to Calix. Without thinking he wrapped his arm around her and instead of punching him in the nose, Lottie sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. This surprised them both and in order to break the tension Lottie asked him how long it would take them to get home.

“Four days,” he said. “Less if Godric consents to fly us there.”

“I hope he doesn’t,” she said. “I like the idea of having an adventure.”

“I’d hardly call this an adventure,” Calix said as he adjusted slightly to make himself more comfortable. His arm had fallen asleep but he didn’t want to remove it from Lottie’s shoulders. “Besides, don’t you miss your home?”

Lottie sat up and shook some of the sand out of her hair, untangling herself from Calix’s embrace in the process. Calix let out a disappointed sigh that he would have been mortified to know that Lottie had heard. “I don’t think you ever really miss home until you’ve been somewhere else for a long time,” she said.

“Oh. Right,” Calix said as he turned from her and hugged his knees. Lottie couldn’t see him, but she sensed that the boy was upset. She placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and turned him to face her. “How long have you been away?” she asked him.

Calix cocked his head to the side and did some quick math in his head. “Almost six years,” he said at last.

Lottie’s jaw made a slight swishing sound as it struck the sand below her. After a few moments of awkward staring, she managed to choke out the word “Why?”

“I’m not sure there even is a home for me to return to,” Calix confessed and Lottie thought she saw the beginning of a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. Calix took a deep break and said, “My country was attacked by a neighboring kingdom we thought were our friends. I lost everything. My crown, my home…my family… My sisters were five and six years old.”

The tear slid down his face and Lottie knew better than to wipe it away. Instead she took Calix’s hand. “Are they…” Lottie whispered.

“I don’t know,” Calix said. “I hope so, but as far as I know I’m the only living member of the royal family. And even that in name only. I barely escaped with my horse and the clothes on my back.” He glanced around as if noticing the horse missing for the first time. “And now I seemed to have lost those as well.”

Lottie laughed. She couldn’t stop herself and immediately regretted it. As it turned out she wasn’t the only one who found it funny. Calix laughed. He wasn’t sure if he found his situation particularly humorous or if he was laughing at Lottie’s reaction, but he laughed nonetheless. They both laughed and for a few brief minutes they forgot about violent invasions and fire breathing dragons.

The Slender Man

“Again Barbara, it was only a nightmare. Relax, close your eyes, remember. And tell me what you see.”

Strapped to a chair, she looked to her leather restraints, tightly holding her wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the wooden furniture piece. Wiggling, trying to escape, it was to no avail, the straps giving no slack, diminishing all hope of release.

She sat, or rather, was forced to sit, alone in a dimly lit room, the only thing differing from the dark brown paint walls was the door positioned directly in front of her, the paint chipped everywhere, the door in terrible disrepair. Screaming, her voice was heard by no one but her, leaving her in a frantic state, panicked, wanting to know what was going on, and who had done this to her.

Feeling her baby kick in her stomach, she was only weeks away from finally holding what the doctors had said would be a baby boy. He was going to be her first child, and the situation she was in, restrained against her will in a room that she knew not how she had arrived, she worried more so about her unborn child then she did herself.

“What do you want from me?!” She yelled over and over again, hot tears streaking her cheeks, the words becoming a struggle to get out past the sobs. “What do you want from me?!” With no answer, no response from anyone or anything, the panic only rose in her. She wanted to move a hand to her stomach, feel her baby’s kick, reassure herself he was going to be okay.

Hearing a faint noise, she looked to the door in front of her, the knob beginning to turn slowly. Her breath caught in her throat, she waited to finally see her captor, to see who would dare lock her up, dare harm her or worse, her baby.

The door opened completely, and wide eyed, she was shocked. Who, or what was he? Walking in, pushing a metal cart with two things on it, an old vinyl player and a worn-leather doctor’s bag, a man, or what she guessed was a man, walked in wearing a black suit, black tie, white under shirt, and black fedora.

She guessed he was a man, fore he had no face. No facial features of any kind, no ears, no nose, no mouth or eyes. And his skin, looked like candle wax, yellowed with age, melted and shaped to resemble a man, only, without any facial features. That part scared her more so than just his presence. He walked like he could see, looked right at her as he stopped the cart next to her. Just looking at her with eyes he didn’t have.

Pushing the brim of the fedora up with a gloved hand, the man, tall and sickly slender just kept eyelessly staring at her, pulling one glove off at a time, revealing fingers made too from the yellowed candle wax, nails, blackened and long, coming to points like they were filed that way.

“Who are you!?” she yelled at him, or it. “What do you want from me?!” Yelling, it was almost to no use other than self gratification, the man not having a mouth to respond anyways. Just staring at her, letting her get it out, he allowed her to scream what she had to, exhausting herself from her pointless efforts. “Answer me you bastard!? Say something, do something?! WHY!?”

Pulling, tugging at the straps that still held her, she was trapped, not going to escape the bonds, and her captor, the strange man that just stood before her, frightened her so. Tired, catching her breath, angry, she wanted to attack him, escape and keep her baby safe. Safe from whatever the man had planned to do.

“Why?” she whispered, again crying, giving up in her attempts to escape, giving up a majority of hope for anything other than some sort of pain that the man had ready to deliver to her. Looking into his featureless face, she knew not what he was, nor did she care to know.

Raising his index finger to where his lips should have been, making the motion for her to “shhh”, be silent, the man rotated the handle on the vinyl player, the record beginning to spin. Lifting the needle from its rest, he slowly lowered it down onto the spinning record, careful to not scratch or damage the disc. From the speaker horn began to play music, first just crackles, then the softly growing instruments and vocals.

Tip Toe, through the window.

To the window.

That is where I’ll be.

Swaying his head to the music, patting his foot in rhythm to the song, the man undid the clasp holding the doctor’s bag closed. Opening it, wiggling his fingers, getting them stretched out, he turned his attention to her.

Lifting her shirt, resting in on the top of her exposed, large belly, he ran his hand over her skin, his feel so cold to the touch. Stopping, he could feel the baby kicking. Gently scratching that spot, much like a person would scratch behind a dog’s ear to please them, he pulled away, returning to the contents inside the bag.

Oh, Tiptoe from the garden.

By the Garden of the willow tree.

Reaching inside, pulling out a scalpel, he examined it without eyes, looking at it in the dim light that came from the ceiling. Satisfied, his attention was again returned to her, the scalpel held with the expertise of a trained surgeon. Placing his hand on her belly where the baby’s kick had been felt, his face was towards hers as she pleaded with him to stop.

“You don’t have to do this,” she begged. “Please, please, please. You don’t have to do this. Stop. You don’t have to do this… PLEASE! LEAVE MY BABY ALONE!” Shaking, pulling with all her might to get free, she was only hurting herself, the straps not daring to give way to her pleas of release.

Still tapping his foot to the song, swaying to the music, he raised the scalpel high, preparing to make the first cut, and then, in the blink of an eye, his hand moved, the blade slicing through her flesh, cutting from one side of her belly to the next before she even felt it.

Spilling forth, blood, amniotic fluid and of course her child. Catching it with one hand, the other setting the scalpel down on the metal cart with a light CLANK, the man without looking reached into the bag, pulling out a large pair of metal scissors. Snipping the umbilical cord, he set the scissors with the scalpel to hold the child in both hands.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She screamed, the shock and pain from the incision making it difficult to stay conscious, but she found a way. “Give me my baby! GIVE ME MY BABY!!”

Ignoring her, just playfully shaking his head in front of the motionless, blood covered baby, the slender man finally turned to her, head tilted to the side in either aggravation or confusion. Slipping into the room by itself, an all black stroller, the wheels creaking and squeaking as it rolled to a stop by the man. Setting the baby, down inside, tickling its stomach one last time with a pointed nail, he went back to finish his work, reaching into the bag once again as the stroller, by itself, wheeled out of the room.

Will you pardon me?

And tiptoe through the tulips with me?

Pulling a needle and stitching from the bag, moving quickly, the man stitched up the incision, closing the wound, faster than any surgeon could, or safely would have. Pulling his gloves back on, putting all his tools away, closing the bag, she, half conscious just watched him, staying silent, though it would have been difficult to find any way in her to speak at all.

Wheeling the metal cart back out of the room, the music still playing, coming to its close, ending just as he began to close the door, he left her tired, dying, and all alone in the room. Taking one last look back at her, he tipped his hat in farewell, slamming the door shut, leaving her to her bonded isolation.

 

“Is that everything Barbara? Is that everything that you remember?”

“You fucking fool! You took my baby! It wasn’t a nightmare, it was god damn real. That thing, that bastard took my baby!”  Feeling her stomach, there was no kick, the stillborn baby having been delivered months before, two weeks after she had awoke in a pool of blood next to her husband.

“IT was only a nightmare Barbara. It was only a nightmare.” The same thing he had told her before, and the same thing he would tell her again and again. “Come, let’s go outside, let’s get some fresh air.”

 

Tip toe through the tulips with me…

 

Princess Lottie Pt. 2

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Calix said an hour later as he tucked a couple of large apples into the bodice of Lottie’s gown. The dress fit remarkably well. A little too well, if Calix were to be completely honest with himself. A few locks from his horse’s tail had made a passable wig. The horse wasn’t at all thrilled with this though.

“You look very pretty, Calix.” Lottie and Godric snickered as she tightened Calix’s belt across her waist. Lottie looked and felt much more at home in Calix’s doublet and hose than he did in her vestments.

“This is humiliating,” Calix blushed.

“Welcome to my world,” Lottie said over her shoulder as she pulled herself into the saddle of Calix’s horse.

Calix adjusted his sleeves and watched Lottie try unsuccessfully to mount his horse. “I bet you’re just loving this,” he said as he helped her get her footing on the stirrup.

“Thanks,” she said kindly, plopping herself firmly in the saddle. “Everything but the codpiece.”

Calix smiled. “You have corsets, we have codpieces.”

Lottie laughed. Not long and heartily, but a short chuckle born from actual amusement. It surprised them both. They simply looked at each other for a moment then, slowly, Lottie spoke. “Calix, what did you mean when you said you knew what it was like to leave your home?”

“Oh, I…” Calix stuttered. Luckily, Godric saved him from having to finish the statement.

“It’s time,” Godric said thrusting his huge, spiny head between them. “Is everyone clear on the plan?”

“You fly through the clan with me to the Crater of Trials,” said Calix. “Drop me onto Blood Rock. After the matriarch acknowledges you and inspects the ‘princess’ she officially announces the start of the test.”

“Right,” said Godric. “And remember Helgarth is a real tough character. Just keep calm and let me do the talking during the inspection.”

“Are you sure I’ll pass?” worried Calix.

“You look pretty authentic to me,” said Lottie and then adjusted his apples.

“Let’s hope so,” Godric said. “She’s not a vegetarian.”

Calix made a valiant attempt to hide the crippling fear that slithered down his spine. To her credit, Lottie gave no sign that she could see him shaking beneath the yards of lace and velvet.

“She is almost completely blind though,” continued Godric. “So we should be fine.”

Calix gulped. “Right. Then Lottie thunders in on horseback and challenges you to a fight to the death. After a few minutes you ‘kill’ her and are pronounced a full-fledged member of the clan, and Lottie and I sneak out during the festivities. Simple enough. Why do they call it Blood Rock?”

Godric and Lottie both could only stare at him in amazement. “I think I’m going to be sick,” Calix said. And then he was.

“Feel better?” Lottie asked after he had pulled his head out of the bushes.

“No,” he said.

“First time’s always the worst,” Lottie said. “It gets easier.”

“What does?”

“Being in distress.” Calix smiled at her joke, but after looking at her knitted brow and pursed lips decided he had misinterpreted the comment.

“Ready?” she asked him.

“Not in the least,” he replied.

“Good,” she said. “That’ll make your performance more real. Godric?”

Godric snatched Calix from the ground before he had a chance to respond and threw them both into the sky.

 

***

Calix meant to have stern conversation with Godric about his aerial abilities when they landed, but any minor frights he had about flying were quickly replaced by soul killing terror of the Crater of Trials. To say that the Crater was massive would be an understatement. Calix had only a brief glimpse of Lottie’s castle, but he assumed that three of them could have easily fit into the arena-like structure.

The Crater of Trials was a mammoth bowl scooped out of the bare rock of the Iron Mountains. Jagged and vicious looking cliffs jutted out at improbable angles over bottomless depths. The walls of the arena were charred from dragons’ breath of Trials past. The ground, at least what Calix assumed was the ground, it was hard to tell from this high up, was blanketed by ash, half melted swords and shields, and the remains of human knights who had the honor of participating in the dragons’ rite of passage.

The place stank of sulfur and smoke. A loud buzzing sound reached Calix’s ears and he looked down to see a living blanket of flies the size of arrowheads swarming over the rotting remains of fallen knights. Calix heaved as he was carried over the carnage and was relieved that he was high enough not to see his partially digested breakfast splatter across a neat stack of blackened human skulls. None of this compared to Blood Rock.

In the exact center of the Crater loomed a smooth tower of soot black rock. It stood twenty feet tall and twenty feet across. At closer inspection Calix understood how it had gotten its name. Scarlet stripes ran down the tower like the legs of a fine wine twisting an intricate latticework towards the arena’s floor. Calix shuddered and, all too soon, was unceremoniously dropped on the top of Blood Rock. The wind howled around him sending his skirts and horsehair wig fluttering. He really missed his codpiece.

Godric flew around the circumference and came to a landing at the north side of the Crater sending bones and armor clattering for yards in every direction. The crater was deserted. Godric took a look around and, Calix couldn’t be sure, seemed to shiver at the emptiness. He took a deep breath, tossed back his head, and roared. A moment passed and nothing happened. Another moment and still nothing. Godric waited with baited breath for what felt like hours. Finally, across the Crater, the call was answered.

It started as one voice, then a second joined in. A third filled out the chord and soon the pit was filled with the roar of dragons. They came from every direction, unseen heralds of the great beasts. The cacophony was unlike anything heard by human ears. Deafening and terrifying, but undeniably beautiful. The haunting notes struck the Crater’s walls where they were thrown back to their owners after being distorted and amplified until the arena was filled with a symphony of sound. Had Calix not been using all of his mental powers to keep from soiling Lottie’s dress, he would have indeed described it as spectacular. Then, the first dragon showed itself.

A great flapping was heard as the monstrous beast descended from the heavens and came with a crash to the rim of the Crater. More followed. Some came from the sky. Some writhed through the cracks in the arena floor. Some pulled themselves along the walls of the crater. From every direction they came. Each one alighting itself along the edge of the Crater to watch the Trial until the rim resembled a glittering crown fit for the most unapologetically wealthy monarch.

The Crater sparkled with reds, flaming oranges and yellows, icy blues, and deep violets you could get lost in. Every color imaginable was represented on the dragons’ leathery hides. They would be beautiful if their luster hadn’t come with foot long serrated spikes and talons that could tear flesh from bone in seconds flat. And the teeth! The teeth were sharp too.

The dragons, once in position, ended their song and for a while nothing happened. The silence stretched out over the Crater until the last echoing strains of the dragonsong faded, then one of the dragons, a bronze colored one with a wicked scar across its left eye and a sizable hole in its right wing, began stomping its foot. It added a chant with each stomp and the cliffs echoed with the noise. The chant and stomping was slowly picked up by the other dragons. The rhythm sped up and the chanting got louder until Calix feared his eardrums might explode. As quickly as it had begun, the chanting and stomping ceased and Helgarth presented herself.

Anyone who saw Godric would assume that he was a large dragon. This is mainly because not many people have witnessed a Dragon Matriarch and Dragon Matriarchs do not attain such a position by merely being large. Comparing Godric to Helgarth would be like comparing a Shetland pony to a Clydesdale. Helgarth towered head and shoulders over every dragon on the rim. She yawned revealing an abyss of teeth the size of broadswords and stretched her wings, plunging the Crater into darkness. Her scales, the color of smoky quartz, were pockmarked with scars, holes, and smooth burn marks. Helgarth was old. Impossibly old and her joints ached with arthritis. Her spikes were chipped and broken, some missing entirely and her wings were a spider web of varicose veins. Her eyes, huge and deep, were glazed over with a milky substance that cause them to spasm every once and a while of their own accord. When she spoke her voice was akin to someone dragging a dying mule across a dry riverbed.

“Godric? Godric have you returned with your prize?” she called out to the assembly.

“I have, Mother,” Godric called back.

“Mother?!” Calix shouted, unable to control himself. Fortunately, the height of Blood Rock made it impossible for any of the dragons to hear him. As such, he was allowed to keep his limbs.

Helgarth growled a low growl and descended into the pit. Calix may have been imagining things, but could have sworn he heard the vertebrae in her neck creak as she raised her head to the top of Blood Rock. He was thankful that the ancient Matriarch was blind or she would have clearly seen the sweat beading on his brow. Her milky eye twitched and throbbed and Calix held his breath. Helgarth brought her cavernous nostrils over to Calix and inhaled. Calix had to hold tight to his wig or risk it being torn from his head and into Helgarth’s sinuses as she took in his scent. She sneezed and almost tore Blood Rock apart in doing so.

“That’s a princess all right,” she said. “I must say I’m impressed, Godric. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Godric groveled.

“And the hero?” Helgarth began to circle her son intimidatingly.

“A p-p-p-prince,” Godric stammered.

Helgarth laughed, Calix’s heart iced over, and Godric tried to keep from shaking.

“You can barely say it, hatchling!” scoffed Helgarth. “How do you plan to defeat your p-p-prince?”

“B-b-by tooth and claw and flame,” replied Godric with his head hung. “And I’m not a hatchling mother.”

Helgarth roared a roar that shook the very foundations of the mountains. “Do not talk back to me, Godric!”

“I am sorry, M-M-Mother,” Godric was just able to get out.

Helgarth leaned in close to Godric so only he could hear her. “Sass me again, son, and hatchling or not I will tear you apart.”

“Y-y-y-yes, Mother.”

Helgarth turned, joints screaming with arthritis, to face her clan. “Godric has retrieved a princess! His hero is on his way! Let the Trial begin!” she said. The dragons bellowed their assent. Calix couldn’t help noticing that dragons apparently took any available opportunity to roar.

“Do not disappoint me, Godric,” whispered Helgarth, as she ascended to the rim of the Crater.

The dragons waited for a prince to come galloping in and rescue Godric’s princess. After twenty minutes of waiting they became restless. Murmurs of the clan buzzed around the Crater and Helgarth’s sigh was enough to send shivers down Godric’s spine. The dragons huffed and tut tutted under their breath, Godric took to pacing the perimeter of the Crater, and Calix, having nothing better to do, took a nap. When Godric’s prince hadn’t arrived after a full forty five minutes Helgarth spoke.

“Your p-p-p-prince is late hatchling,” she sneered at her son.

Godric opened his mouth to respond but all that came out was a sound not unlike that of a heavy stone door swinging open on rusty hinges, which is exactly what it was. Every head turned towards the south facing gate as it slowly crept open.

“My god that’s a heavy door!” Lottie said squeezing herself and the horse into the Crater of Trials. She took in the scenery and promptly froze to see an entire clan of dragons staring her down.

“Is he here,” said Helgarth to the black dragon on her left. The dragon nodded then, remembering that Helgarth was blind, added a vocal affirmation. “Finally,” she said stretching out her neck. “Well, hatchling, let’s see what you’re made of. Go on Godric. Kill him!”

Godric winked at Lottie and then began circling her. When he was within her earshot he whispered, “Make it look convincing.” Lottie nodded, mounted her horse, and charged at Godric.

True to her word Lottie made it very lifelike, slashing and stabbing like a seasoned knight.  Godric did his best to doge the blows but a few of them landed. Lottie’s sword tore through Godric’s skin above his right eye. Blood spurted from the slash and Godric tossed his head away. “Not that convincing,” he hissed.

“Sorry,” Lottie apologized. “Knock me off my horse.”

Not needing to be told twice, Godric snapped his jaws at Lottie. She avoided them and took another swipe at him. This time, Godric ducked and whipped his tail around to throw both Lottie and the horse across the arena. The horse was not having a great day.

Godric was on her before she could stop the world from spinning. He snapped again and again and each time Lottie blocked his teeth with the flat of her sword so as not to cause any further injuries. Thought the battle was fake, Calix had to admire Lottie’s fighting skill. Apparently she’d picked up a few things from all the other princes that had rescued her in the past. She was good. Very good. Almost better than him, though he’d never tell her. Still, there was something about the way the muscles in Lottie’s arms rippled when she hefted his sword over her head that made Calix’s heart bang against his ribs. He crept to the edge of the rock to get a closer look.

Lottie and Godric moved like dancers through an intricate ballet of blood and violence. They lunged, parried, attacked, and withdrew each in turn. Neither gaining an upper hand. It was a beautiful display. Unfortunately the dragons of the Iron Mountain Clan cared little for beauty. They wanted blood, and they were getting restless. “Stop playing with him and finish it, Godric!” Helgarth bellowed.

“Ready for the coup de grace?” Lottie asked so only Godric could hear.

The dragon nodded his green head and Lottie let out a battle cry that would put the hardest warrior to shame and charged. Godric roared, shrugged off her attack, and took off into the sky taking Lottie with him. He flew in an arc around the Crater with Lottie dangling like a rag doll. The dragons roared in delight. Godric’s heart swelled with pride for the first time in his life. He chanced a look at his mother and nearly dropped Lottie when he saw, or imagined, her smiling at him. Well, in the vicinity of him. That heartwarming moment was brought to a crashing halt when Lottie drove the sword into space between Godric’s second and third toe. Pain shot through Godric’s leg and he lost his grip on the princess.

As luck would have it, Godric just so happened to be hovering over Blood Rock when he dropped Lottie, and Calix once again found himself breaking her fall.

“You have got to stop doing that,” Calix said dragging himself out from under Lottie.

Lottie grunted and pulled herself to her feet. “Relax,” she said. “Everything is under control.”

She looked across the rock to where Godric had crashed. He was lying in a twisted mass of wings and limbs. He righted himself and took a cautious step toward Lottie.

“That really hurt, Lottie,” he said wincing at the pain.

“Sorry,” she said humbly. “I’ve never fought a dragon before. I guess I got carried away. It’s very exciting.”

“Hardly the word I would use,” said Calix.

The dragons waited on the edge of their seats. Godric threw them a look and then tore the sword out of his foot. Almost casually he tossed it over the edge. It made a slight ping sound as it struck the arena floor a couple of minutes later. The dragons roared their approval and Lottie wasn’t at all pleased with the sinking feeling she got in her stomach.  Godric took out Lottie’s feet with his tail and was pinning her to the stone the minute she touched the ground.

All at once Lottie felt the air being crushed from her lungs as Godric’s claw slammed into her chest like a safe. Godric threw back his head and roared in triumph. The other dragons soon joined.

“Well done, Godric!” said Helgarth silencing the clan. “Now eat him.”

Godric almost snapped Lottie’s ribs. “B-b-but, Mother, I don’t-“ Godric stammered.

“I’ve had enough of your vegetarian nonsense,” Helgarth said. “Now eat the damn prince like a real dragon!”

There was no questioning Helgarth’s tone. Godric looked back and forth from his mother, to Lottie, to Calix, and back to his mother. He shrugged, gave Lottie an apologetic whimper, and then swallowed her whole.

“No!” yelled Calix. He tried to prevent it, but was too late. Helgarth laughed a sinister laugh deep in her dusty throat.

“Dragons of the Iron Mountains Clan,” she began. “My son Godric has completed his Trial and I am pleased to present him as a full member of our community! Godric, have you anything to say?”

Godric opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, Lottie, and a fair amount of bile, came splattering out.

“I guess he really is a vegetarian,” was all she had to say.

“That is so gross,” Calix elaborated.

“We’re in trouble,” Godric said, still a little queasy.

All three statements were true although, Godric’s proved to be the most pressing.

There was a collective gasp from the clan followed by three minutes of silence as one of the dragons relayed the events to Helgarth, then an ear splitting screech as she threw herself toward Blood Rock.

Godric’s heart was yanked into his throat and his eyes nearly jumped out of his skull as he saw his mother barreling toward him.

“Time to go,” he said. He quickly grabbed Lottie and Calix, opened his wings, and leaped off of Blood Rock seconds before Helgarth slammed into it.

The Crater of Trials vibrated as all of Helgarth’s considerable weight ripped Blood Rock from its foundations. The rock exploded, sending sharp, jagged pieces sailing through the air in every direction. All around them, heavy boulders rained down threatening a very painful death at any moment. Luckily Godric proved to be quite the aerial acrobat and twisted and turned to avoid each fragment if not with ease, then certainly with style. All this was, of course, very impressive until Helgarth clasped Godric’s tail in her jaws and threw him to the ground.

Godric, Lottie, and Calix flew in three separate directions across the crater. Lottie found herself sliding to a halt amidst a clutter of discarded armor and scorched bones. She immediately rolled to her right to avoid a smattering of debris plummeting toward her, stood, and surveyed her surroundings. All around her, rocks bit into the earth like a starving man would bite into a steak. A thick cloud of dust had settled across the arena floor and she could just barely make out Calix’s figure rushing toward her. He’d lost his wig and the dress was in tatters but he seemed to be in one piece.

“Are you okay?” he shouted once he reached her.

“A little scraped up, but all right,” she replied. “You?”

“I’d be better if I didn’t have this thing flapping around my ankles and tripping me up while trying to run for my life,” he said tearing off about three feet of delicate lace from his dress.

“Tell me about it,” Lottie said. “Where’s Godric?”

Calix pointed to the dragon’s unconscious silhouette several hundred yards from them. Lottie didn’t like the look of the purple bruises swelling above Godric’s eye, or the steady stream of blood issuing from his nostrils.

“Come on,” she said grabbing Calix by the arm and tearing across the arena. “We’ve got to help him.”

Calix and Lottie ran through the now settling dust cloud to the sleeping dragon. There was an odd moment just before they reached him when the sky went dark. Providing the same effect as a solar eclipse, Helgarth swooped low over them and dropped to the ground nearly on top of them. The resulting impact knocked both Calix and Lottie off their feet. Calix’s horse, who had somehow managed to survive the destruction of Blood Rock decided that it had had enough excitement for one day and proceeded with haste out of the same gateway it had entered.

Lottie and Calix gingerly rose to their feet.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Lottie told Calix through gritted teeth. “Hopefully, if we don’t make any noise, she won’t know we’re here.”

Lottie’s assumption was true. Helgarth had no idea where they were, or indeed where she was. Her blindness and her face to face meeting with Blood Rock had disoriented her. She was lost, confused, and, worst of all, angry. She tossed her head back and forth, sniffing the air in attempt to catch their scent. Lottie and Calix held their breath. Helgarth could find no trace of them and howled with rage causing Calix and Lottie to clasp their hands over their ears to keep from going deaf.

After a moment, Helgarth ceased her howling, and lowered her head. Taking a deep breath she opened her jaws. A wave of unpleasant odors like those of rotting meat and lamp oil threatened to overwhelm Lottie and Calix swooned at the smell.

“Oh no,” said Lottie, looking for something with which to protect them.

“What?” said Calix.

Lottie’s eyes landed on tarnished shield on which Calix was practically standing.

“Hand me that shield,” she barked at him. Calix did as he was told, though he still didn’t understand why. “What are you doing?” he said.

Lottie wrenched the shield from his grasp and then threw him to the ground.

“Stay behind me” she ordered lugging the heavy piece of wood and metal over her head.

Helgarth exhaled and a jet of white hot fire spewed out of her mouth. The flames slammed into Lottie’s shield and plumed around it like water breaking over a stone. The heat was almost too much to bear. Lottie’s knees buckled and the shield combusted and began to melt. The air around her was smothering and her head swam with lack of oxygen. She could feel the shield liquefying as the molten steel dripped steadily onto the ground. The smell of roasting meat wafted into her nostrils and suddenly, she was all too aware that the skin on her left arm seared and crisped.

Lottie gritted her teeth as she fought back tears of pain, but the dragon fire showed no sign of slowing. She cast a terrified glance to Calix and was not comforted to see her own fear reflected back at her. She was just about to resign herself to her fiery death when she spotted Calix’s sword at her feet. Grabbing the hilt and whispering a prayer to anyone who would listen she hurled the weapon through the flames.

The sword glowed an unseemly red and burst into flames as it sped through the inferno. It struck Helgarth in her craggy face, burying itself deep in her eye socket. There was a loud pop as the sword pierced the dead eye and the dragonfire stopped.  Helgarth roared in pain, taking out still more of the Crater’s structure. She clawed at the sword but only succeeded in tracing deep slashes in her own face. Blood mixed with fire and she rolled over the ground which only drove the sword deeper into her eye.

“That was amazing!” Calix said slapping Lottie on the back.

She didn’t have a chance to enjoy his compliment. The pain in her arm grew to be too much. Cradling the ruined limb she dropped into Calix’s arms. Calix did his best to wake her but it was difficult with an angry, blind, and possibly mortally wounded dragon thundering around. He did manage to drag her over to Godric.

“Godric! Godric, you have to wake up,” Calix pleaded. Godric remained unmovable. Calix sighed, took a page from Lottie’s book, and slapped the green dragon.

Godric woke with a start. “What happened? Was I asleep?”

“You were unconscious,” said Calix. “We have to get out of here. Lottie is hurt. Can you fly?”

Godric stood and stretched out his wings. “Yeah, I think I can. Nothing feels broken. Is it hot in here?”

Yes. It was hot. Helgarth had lost control of her breath and was now blowing fire all around the Crater without bias. Liquid fire spilt from her quivering jowls and splashed over the rocks. The Crater was quickly turning into a sea of molten rock. The walls were deteriorating and sliding into the growing pools of lava. The entire bowl was coming apart at the seams. With a great crack the whole structure split in half toppling a few of the dragons with slower reaction times into the boiling soup.

“We’re leaving,” Godric said. He clutched Calix and Lottie to his chest and took off.

The sky was full of glittering dragons and smoke. The dragons were angry. The smoke was indifferent. All around them the dragons bit, clawed, and snapped at Godric and his companions. He rolled, dove, and did his best to fend off his attackers while his mother was buried under crumbling rocks and her own fire far below him.

Godric flew fast and hard with his own clan swarming around him. They were quickly leaving the mountains. Soon the slate grey rock gave way to crashing blue waves of the Southern Sea. Godric’s wings burned from strain and the thousands of minor injuries inflicted by his own clan. Thankfully the sea marked the Clan’s border. They wouldn’t follow him past it. Of course he had had a large hand in the destruction of their home. Not to mention the probable death of their leader which just so happened to be his own mother, so all bets were off.

As it turned out, the dragons didn’t follow him, not that Godric would have known that. He kept flying for an hour before fatigue got the better of him and the three of them fell out of the sky and into the sea.

 

One Helluva Nightmare

The pain was horrendous, unbearable. Hot wet tears rolled from his eyes. Trying to roll, so many hands held him down as others tried to save him. A constant ringing in his ears, his eyes blurry from crying, he knew where he was, but couldn’t make out anything that was going on around him.

He could remember had happened. He been standing outside his home, just watching the two kids fighting, thinking about how he had been just like them in his youth. The two boys were only teenagers, no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. Other boys stood around them, watching, waiting for the first of the boys to throw a punch.

And then, for some reason, out of his pocket, one of the boys pulled a gun. Not believing what he was seeing, Nick was in shock. What the hell are you doing kid? Nick thought to himself, praying it was an airsoft gun, or a very realistic toy.

Watching the other boys around step back, and the kid that the gun holder had been arguing with instantly scared, his hands up, Nick began to approach, still hoping the gun was not real. Hoping it wasn’t loaded.

“Come on kid, what the hell are you doing?” Nick said, trying to catch the boy’s attention so if anyone was going to get hurt, it was going to be Nick. “Put that down before some is seriously hurt.” Approaching slowly, Nick had gotten the boy’s attention, but the boy still kept the weapon pointed at the kid he had been arguing with.

“Mind your own business!” the boy yelled, his hand slightly shaking, making Nick even more nervous. Nick, looking to the boy that the gun was pointed at, could see tears forming in the boy’s eyes, scared out of his mind, not knowing that the argument was going to take that dramatic of a turn.

“Put the gun down,” Nick, pausing, had to get the kid to calm down and come to reason. “What’s your name?”

“What’s it matter? This is none of your business!” Inching the gun closer to the boy he had been arguing with, the boy was openly crying, and the other teen’s were tense, not sure of what was going to happened.

“Put the gun down Dave,” one of the other teen’s said, standing closer to the boy with the gun.

“Shut your damn mouth! I’ll put it down if I feel like it! Scared,” the boy, apparently named Dave mocked, waving the gun in the crying boy’s face. “Crying like a baby, scared.”

“Put the damn gun down Dave. You think that makes you a man?” Nick mocked right back at the teen. He knew that Dave was trying to appear tough to his friends, trying to be a man, not backing down, suffering further humiliation from them. Nick knew that the teen was foolishly worried about his image. “Do you Dave? You think that makes you a man?”

Dave, now not so mad at the boy he had been arguing with, turned the gun towards Nick, just what Nick had been hoping, but the moment he was staring down the barrel, realized the carelessness of his decision.

“Do I think it makes me a man? Who the hell are you, man?” Pulling back the hammer of the gun, Dave held it steady, eyes narrowed, many of the other boys taking more steps back, worried of what their friend might do.

“I’m just a guy trying to keep a kid from making a very stupid decision.” Taking a few steps closer, Nick just had to get close enough to grab the gun. If he had to punch the kid out, so be it, but he couldn’t let anyone get hurt because of one stupid kid’s ego.

“You think you’re a man,” Dave said, “walking up here, trying to stop me from blasting him,” Dave motioned with his head to the teen he had pulled the gun on. “Walking up here, asking me if I think I’m a man. Yeah. As a matter of fact…” Pulling the trigger, Nick heard the second shot before he even felt the first bullet hit him. Three bullets before the group of teens jumped on Dave, fighting the gun away from him. Looking at them, none of them were hurt.

Falling to his knees, the wounds burned, all of them in his chest. Looking to Dave, fear was in the teen’s eyes. Dave had pulled the trigger, but after the act, couldn’t believe what he had done.

“Call an ambulance,” Nick whispered, not sure if anyone had heard him. He was looking around, watching the teen’s hold Dave down, some pulling their cell phones out, neighbors coming out to see what the noise had been, one man running up to Nick.

In no time he was in an ambulance, and then the hospital. His eyes burned from the white light coming from the ceiling, the ringing in his ears gave him a headache, and his chest ached with such intensity with each and every breath.

He knew the doctors and nurses were talking to him. But he couldn’t hear them. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t see them anyways, and he was tired of the burning ceiling light. A sudden cold coming over him, Nick knew he wasn’t going to make. It was obvious. The damn kid had shot him three times in the chest. God damn kid.

A heavy darkness coming with the sudden cold, Nick’s eyes shot open suddenly, a sudden bolt of energy flowing through him. Looking around, the light from the ceiling, the bright white light from the florescent bulbs was gone, instead a ceiling fan, spinning slowly, a beige ceiling.

His eyes forced shut again, his body’s muscles tensing, Nick forced them open, looking all around, the florescent ceiling light back, the blurriness difficult to see through. Trying his damndest to see through it, at the nurses, the doctors, the machines, he knew he was still in the hospital, wondering what the hell he had just seen.

Trying to take a deep breath, not able too, the jolt of energy rocked him his body once more, eyes slamming shut. This time when they opened, Nick’s head turned to his side, he was staring at an alarm clock on a side table, a lamp behind it. 4:13. That was what the clock said. Trying to turn his head to see more, his eyes shut once again before he could, the last jolt of energy passing through him with white-hot intensity.

Suddenly comfortable, suddenly calm, the ringing was gone, no noise at all. No doctors speaking, no nurses, no noise. And his body, relaxed, no pain, no one holding him down. Opening his eyes, the ceiling fan above him off, the beige ceiling illuminated by what little moon light spilled into the room from the window, curtains drawn back, the sky outside clear, stars very visible.

Looking to his alarm clock, it read 4:13. Blinking a few times, his eyes still heavy with sleep, he closed them, took a deep breath and slid his hand under his pillow, the coolness it promised welcoming.

That was one helluva damn nightmare, Nick thought, preparing to fall back to sleep.

 

The Drowned [part I]

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