Listed Below are a number of short stories I have written. Some of them were originally for a class, while some are just for fun. If you would like to comment on one, use the "Comment/Contact" tab and send me one. If I get enough comments, I will install comment tabs for each of the stories. Please enjoy! And in other news, the long-awaited essay section has arrived (criticism highly welcomed)!!
Essays
Why are Aliens Anthropomorphic? Extraterrestrials are a favorite in movies and literary media. However, when making my own extraterrestrials for my stories, I ran into an issue which I then found everywhere I had seen extraterrestrials — they all look humanoid, and are ultimately anthropomorphic with heads, arms, legs, and tails attached to a central body that basically looks like a human’s. Even the ships in War of the Worlds resemble water towers, and the monsters in Mist resemble well-known dinosaurs, insects, mammals, and reptiles. Freeza and his band in Dragon Ball Z are all humanoid, It and the Killer Klowns from Outer Space are all very humanoid, even infestations in the form of spore-carrying comets yield symptoms similar to well-researched diseases and parasites. Everything we can imagine coming from space is entirely terrestrial. Why are aliens anthropomorphic? Simply put, we as humans who have to common knowledge never contacted intelligent extraterrestrial life have nothing with which to compare ourselves. We physically cannot have the slightlest idea what extraterrestrial life might look like because we have never seen any. Our anthropomorphic body structure which is shared by nearly every creature on this planet is specific to this planet, where it was developed in a semi-vaccuum from the rest of the universe; if other planets hold life, that life has probably followed a different body structure than ours due to its different environment, history, and contact from other planets. We can barely begin to guess what that structure is; though a fanatic such as myself would try to create a cause and effect chart for every possible trait for body structure given environment and other factors, the entire endeavor would be ultimately meaningless, as there can so easily be extra factors completely missing from this planet (such as the presence of elements unable to be found or made within our reach of observation) that could completely nullify any analysis between this planet and another. There is no way for us to know what an extraterrestrial might look like, so we use ourselves as a basis. While our depictions and conceptions of aliens are misguided, there is one possible way to prove that extraterrestrials are anthropomorphic: ancient deities and monsters. Take Shiva and his destroying third eye, or Vishnu and his seven-headed snake, or Ra in his boat riding across the sky, or Xipe Totec who due to a lack of his own wears the flayed skins of sacrificial victims. In Norway there are moon-devouring wolves and six-legged horses, in Mexico is a man-eating dog with a hand on its tail, in Germany are the shape-shifting doppelgängers and the amalgamated wolpertingers, in West Africa the firefly-vampire adze, massive flying snakes in China, orca-werewolves in Canada, a race of demigod demons on Sri Lanka. Assuming the Mayans received their (incorrect) doomsday calendar from more intelligent forces and that the figures on Easter Island and the pyramids in Egypt could not be built by humans, one could come to the conclusion that other powers came to Earth, left, and were remembered only in myths. Giant snakes, for example, appear everywhere in mythology across the world: dragons in China, Jormungadr in Norway, Yacumama in the Amazon River, Moan in South America, Queztecoatl and Mictlantecacihuatl in Mexico, the Leviathon in Europe, Apophis in Egypt, Python and Typhoon in Greece, Julunggal in Australia, Shennong and his fellow dragons in China, Ryujin and Long Wang in the waters near Japan, the water panthers in North America, and Lindon Worm in British folklore; perhaps once Earth was visited by a race of massive snakes which then disappeared without leaving bones or descendants. The same could have happened to other anthropomorphic extraterrestrials — Greek deities retreated to Olympus, Norse deities walked to Asgard on a rainbow brigde, Queztecoatl floated away with promise to return on a boat of feathers — but there is one issue: they are all anthropomorphic, act like humans, breed with humans, each basically the same food as humans, speak human languages, and dress like humans. It is infinitely more plausible for polytheistic deities to be based off of ourselves just like extraterrestrials. It is not difficult to imagine something larger, stronger, or greater than the norm brings (for example, a massive eyebrow worshiped as a deity because it destroys cities). Therefore, imagining ourselves as Killer monsters from Outer Space is no small task, though it is physically inaccurate to do so. But until we find, study, and divulge information about extraterrestrial life and body structure, imagining is the best we can do.
The Conundrum of Humility The strangest thing to say aloud is the phrase “I am a humble person.” While you might be the humblest of beings, stating so immediately nullifies any humility your character might possess. The tone set by the phrase “I am” is full of pride despite whatever follows; the phrase seems to take pride in humility, which is a handsome conundrum which excessively humble people (such as me) stumble across. According to my favorite dictionary (The American Heritage Dictionary, Second Edition, 1982) “humility” is a “lack of pride;” “humble” is “marked by meekness or modesty in behavior, attitude, or spirit.” According to Urban Dictionary, “To be humble is to have a realistic appreciation of your great strengths, but also of your weaknesses, and that “true humility is to recognize your value and others[‘] value with looking up.” According to dictionary.com, “humility” is a “modest opinion or estimate of one’s own importance, rank, etc.” and that being “humble” is being “not proud or arrogant: modest” or “low in rank, importance, status, quality, etc. lowly.” Humility’s latin origin humilitas translates to “insignificance, unimportance” according to online-latin-dictionary.com, and “nearness to the ground, lowness,” and “obscurity” according to Cassell’s Latin and English Dictionary from 2002. Humility in all its forms is characterized by ascribing to an uninflated view of one’s own self that lends one to be uninflating about one’s own qualities. The effect of saying “I am a humble person” on personal humility is almost hilarious. The whole statement drips with arrogance, and in espousing humility so blatantly one inflates the importance of that quality far beyond the bounds a humble person would have set, and brings that quality out of obscurity and meekness and into the spotlight, so to say. Given current attitudes toward braggarts and social media influencers and infuriating “douchetubers,” being humble is a valued quality, despite being characterized by a lack of value or status among others; elevating humility above other qualities and thereby inflating its value is completely contradictory. And here is the conundrum. The best solution to this conundrum is to acknowledge it; that at least allows one to keep their humility intact. The other solution is to ignore the subject entirely, and truly be meek. However, if I for one have to describe the most important qualities of my character, I always find it strange and funny how I cannot describe my own humility.
Short stories
The Little Life of Pop I was born deformed, so my older brother got me lost in a traveling circus with a box of popcorn and never came back. They named me Pop. My mommy was a contortionist named Flairie, and my daddy was a strongman who could lift both my mommy and me on one shoulder and carry us around. My sissy, their child, was a face painter and slept with the lion-tamer twice a week, and I sat in the room when she had an abortion and told me later that the dead baby had a face just like mine. I loved my sissy. Her name was Olivia, and her clothes smelled of paint and happy smiles. Ever since I was little, I sat on my chair in the House of Freaks and smiled at people. The house was run by a tall man with a pale droopy face who loved tomatoes and pickpocketed the people who looked too long at the freaks. He used to come over to me and wage his finger in my face, saying with a strange accent: “You got to not smile, child! These people do not pey to see a smiling child!” Across from my chair was a man called Bumba with three eyes, one smushed in next to his right eye. The third eye was brown, while his other two were green. He had lost six fingers, nine toes, seven teeth, both nipples, and half of his chin when he was on a tropical island populated by savages who ate human skin and made necklaces out of bones. He told me that story a lot in a deep, growly voice and without his two front teeth: “And then, ath I was beating the little one to death, up came a big’un, so big I had to tear up a li’l tree, and smack ‘im ower da head!” He would smack the air with one of his palms. I would laugh and laugh and laugh until the double-headed girl in the stall next to me would yell at us to be quiet. One the heads, the one named Tiffany, was nice, and knew how to bake cookies, while the other head, Ashley, was mean, and yelled at the lion-tamer when he tried to touch her bottom. “Get out of here, Jack!” Her voice was more shrill and annoying than Tiffany’s. “Go fuck somebody else!” I didn’t know what that meant, but it was probably a compliment. At night, sometimes the tall man, named Greg or Gerard or Garry, would close off the House of Freaks and sit and talk with us. Ashley never wanted to hear Bumba’s story, but she loved to hear Harry’s stories about people who had tried to cut off his extra arm that sprouted out of his chest. She also liked the girl who had three tongues, all three stacked on top of each other. I could never make out her name. I liked Greg or Gerard or Garry’s stories the best, about how he fought in a war and got swallowed by a tiger or how he once contacted his little brother with a squidgy board and got cursed by a demon. Bumba said all his stories were bullshit, which is a complement I think, and Ashley, who always disagreed with Bumba, turned her nose up as far as her neck would let it go and shushed Tiffany every now and then. I sat on the ground with them and listened, admiring the golden rings and paper money slipping out of Greg or Gerard or Garry’s pockets. Sometimes there were faces on the money. I used to try and draw them on the walls and on my chair, but my hands were too pudgy. Greg once saw me trying, and laughed out loud. “You’ll never be good for counterfeit, Pop. Stick to circus, it will be better for you.” I sometimes slept with my mommy in her room, or with my daddy in his room, though sometimes one of them would go to the other’s room and I would be left alone. At nights when the circus travelled, I would stay up and hold my mommy’s hand, and watch them pack up all the lions and tigers and tents and stuffs. Mommy used to point out all the different things, but I learned them quickly and I started to do it by myself. “Lion crate! Lion hoop! Tent pole! Tent!” Mommy had a pretty laugh, and she always laughed when I got everything right. “My little smart Pop.” She would tickle my oversized nose and outline the different raised and lowered parts of my head. It was comforting and I remembered it from when I was a baby, with a popcorn bag in my hand, and had accidentally wandered into her changing room as she was getting ready for a show. She had called me Pop, and now that was my name. And I liked Pop. The circus went to many places. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes it was sunny, and sometimes there were big buildings in the background. Sometimes the buildings were up close. Different buildings had different people in them, Mommy says. Some people wear ugly clothes, while other people wear nice clothes. Sometimes the parents would not let their kids run around by themselves, and then sometimes there were no parents and the kids were everywhere. Mommy said it was all a matter of moony. Some people had moony, others didn’t. I told her that the moon is right up there in the sky at night, and anybody can have the moon whenever they want. She laughed and told me nobody can reach the moon. Unless someone’s rich. Then they can reach the moon. I liked the circus. I got to see so many people. Some of them frowned when I smiled at them, and others looked surprised. One man with a big mustache looked very closely at me until the tall man asked him what he was looking at. He said “I am a Doctor, and I have noticed the deformity on this child’s head. The way his head is shaped, he is very loyal and innocent, and barely traitorous or untruthful.” The tall man looked at my when the big mustache man was gone. “Nothing’s wrong with your head, Pop. I think it’s a nice head.” When I turned eight, I had lived with the circus for five years. In those five years, my sissy ran away with a rich man, Bumba was shot by a hunter, I had a new sister, and the man who ran the House of Freaks had been called insane by all the other people in the circus. I didn’t think he was insane. He stopped pickpocketing people, stopped meeting with us, staring chewing his nails and going out at night, started drinking. I thought he was doing just fine. We started to talk a lot, him and me. I learned his name was Paul, and that he missed his brother. He said his brother and he had tried to kill their parents, and when it worked, his brother, whose name was Jacob, went crazy and shot himself in the head 23 days later. “Twenty three’s a devil number.” He told me one night. “Everything happens after 23 days.” Once a child had come into the House of Freaks, without parents or anyone. He didn’t pay, but Paul let him inside anyways. He had nice clothes, which meant he was rich and had moony. He even had nice hair, and had an embroidered vest that looked like the one my daddy wore. He looked like Ashley, who kept her nose in the air all the time. The child came to me, looked at me for five seconds, said I was ugly, and left. I knew by now that ugly was a compliment, something that everybody says when they like someone. But as the child left, I saw Paul follow him. Tiffany and Ashley saw him too; they both looked at me, then at each other. “He misses his brother.” said Tiffany. “Yes.” said Ashley. “Misses him a lot…” I kept waiting and waiting, but the child never came back. They have to walk back in front of me, because there isn’t an exit over that way, Paul had said. Paul came back eventually, when there were no more visitors and Tiffany and Ashley had left their stall to find something to eat. They both had grown pale and looked sick. Paul’s hands and jacket were wet, and he walked with a limp. He sat in Bumba’s seat, staring at the ceiling, and fell asleep. My mommy didn’t like Paul. She said that Paul was crazy. I told daddy about the child who had walked by and never walked back again, but daddy was busy lifting a stack of chairs, so he didn’t care or hear much. I wondered what sissy would think: my new sister was too young and screamed too much for me to ask her anything. I missed my old sissy. Exactly 23 days later I woke up in the middle of the night from Bumba’s voice telling me his story again. He had just smacked the big savage over the head when I saw Paul and his baggy eye peeking through my daddy’s tent door. I went outside because I didn’t think Paul was crazy. He had a squidgy board with him, and was very shaky and scared. “I think it will work with two. Do you think it will work, Pop?” Even when he put my hand on the squidgy board, I could still hear Bumba’s voice somewhere in the House of Freaks where Paul and I were sitting, and Bumba’s voice was so comforting and soothing that I went to sleep on the ground in the House of Freaks that night. I don’t know what happened to Paul, but I do know that he is dead, and that my mommy and daddy and Tiffany and Ashley keep pretending that Paul had never been there, but I know he was there because of the way they look at each other when I bring him up. I don’t know what happened to Paul. But I am nine years old now, and I love popcorn and my name is Pop.
Day of Heat The smell of bodies and hot stone undulates around me. I can taste the sun warming the clouds pooling in my mouth, the baking of gravel and leaves. The heat of the day dissolves between my fingers, soaking in the oil of my hands. The drifting clouds of vapor nestle in the creases on my skin, like the ants between the bricks do at my feet. They, the miniscule beads of red, scrabble through the black dirt in messy hoards. If I listen through the wind, I may hear their tiny feet tapping against hot stones. A wisp of my hair tickles my ear as a cloud devours the sun. It is one individual strand, apart and alone from the rest. Everything else is joined in friendship. Even the ants seem to be together, crawling along at my feet. There is civilization elsewhere; speaking, laughing, clothes rustling, the slapping of shoes and toes upon pavement. Planes and their noises crash upon me from above, deep rolls of thunder reverberating across the heated sky. All around me, people are together like ants; together on airplanes, together in the streets, together even between the cracks in the pavement. I can feel my skin baking, I can taste the heat coming off of me. It’s suffocating. It’s drowning. Was it like this, father? Is this how you felt when they killed you? This drowning, this heat? You must hate it, this day so like the day they broke in. I hate it too. I was in the other room, the heat made me fall asleep when they entered your house. Had my door been unlocked I would be with you, watching these ants mull about in this heat. I would not breath this steamy air, not taste the stale liquids rolling over my tongue. You died alone. Now I live alone. Even the ants are together, even the airplanes carrying so many people tell me I am without company, without you. I wonder if it is quiet where you are, if the vibrations of the airplanes can reach you there. Do you hear people walking? Do you smell their bodies? If you could live another day in this heat, would you come back?
Jump Time was not needed. World was not needed. The wall and the ground beneath it were all she needed, jumping over the edge. The people in line were not needed. The empty branches were not needed. She just needed to jump. To feel alive while hundreds around her stared. While others thought she was crazy. Skin color was not needed. Age was not needed. Racism and sexism were not needed in the least. All that was needed was the idea to jump. The idea to keep moving. To do that which had never been done before. Clarity was not needed. She jumped as the world swayed away around her. Vision was not needed. She did not know where she was going. Others and their words were not needed. Reason was obsolete as she passed away from them. The world was not needed. She did not know where she was, but to go somewhere else, somewhere which was further than the place she knew, somewhere where nothing was needed, not even her… That was where she went when she jumped.
Many people wondered where the girl went. They left notices on the walls. They asked around. But to their surprise, she was nowhere. And to her even greater surprise, the girl was somewhere else. At night she built a school all to herself. It was made of limestone and brick, it had windows that could educate more than a teacher. She built trees in the earth and hung as many objects as she could things in them. Where she came from, she could vaguely remember, there had been nothing on the trees. The first she hung were shoes. There were plenty of shoes around. She hung cotton slippers, high heels, sneakers covered in dirt. She hung hats that had been singed by fire, she hung dresses of white and gold, she hung bricks upon the weakest branch. She ran about the place, picking up sticks and other random creations. She built an extension to her school, an extension that was made of foliage and trees and strange objects hanging in the trees. But she never hung a leaf in a tree. Never a leaf. By noontime she made a friend. He was walking along the school halls, looking for his class. He was a zebra made of wood and steel, skin draped over a strange and false body. He lumbered to and fro, his hooves never leaving the ground, a cart with zebra skin. His name was Ziri. The girl and Ziri had many a class together, roaming the halls, making things, building other things. They hung more shoes in the trees, they built another school, they added a playground. Ziri walked about in his wheely hooves, and the girl made the toys they played with with beautiful delight. But it was only when Ziri saw a leaf fall from the roof that he picked it up with his fake mouth and gave it to her. He told her to put it on a tree. Where the girl came from, no trees had leaves on them. She had never thought of putting a leaf on a tree. She told him she did not want to, but soon he bit her hand, and made her put the leaf on the tree. It was the first tree she made. And now there was a leaf on it. When she awoke, it was early spring. She had broken her arm falling off a wall.
The Future Peter picked up his fork, but set it down again when James returned from the kitchen with an enormous covered plate. The stench that followed James was hot and wet, and the sizzling of fat and sugar on meat made sweat clot on Peter’s forehead and saliva pool in his mouth. “What’s that?” “This,” Said James, wiping his left hand on his apron as he came towards Peter. “Is the future. It’s my religion. The one I’ve been telling you about.” “You’ve been telling me about a lot of religions lately.” “And this is the one that will rule them all.” A streak of bright red followed James’s hand as he wiped it again. James placed the plate in front of Peter and took the seat on the opposite side of the six person dining room table. The towel covering the platter was turning red as it settled over the object beneath. Its smell made Peter’s fingertips tingle. “What is it?” “It’s a steam-roasted corporal segment smothered in Sanguira sauce and Mentis dressing. Organs intact.” Peter picked up his fork and dropped it again. He looked up at the low hanging four bulb chandelier, then at the pictures of James and his three sisters on the walls. James himself waited patiently with his hands folded in front of him. Somewhere else in his house an air conditioner ticked on. The clock in the foyer ticked slowly. “Mentis dressing?” Peter asked. “Mentis was the old Greek goddess of the mind. Even though we should use a term along the lines of caput-capitis, which is the Latin word for head, we like to refer to a person’s head as the Mentis of the body.” James said this very quickly, and ended with his chin pointed toward the left wall. Peter smiled weakly. “Is it related to ranch or vinaigrette?” James blinked. “No it’s entirely different.” Peter nodded. His eyes wandered back to the covered dish. It was still steaming in front of him. “Why don’t you try it.” James suggested. “You will need to use the instrument on your right to break the sternum. After that you just need to use your fork.” Instead of a centerpiece, James had a wreath of wooden and steel culinary-looking knick-knacks and instruments piled around an unlit candle. The tool closest to Peter’s right hand was a slim wooden cylinder from whose top protruded a tall shaft with a knob at the end. It looked like a cheap pepper grinder or sausage maker. Peter reluctantly grabbed it around its middle — it was light and sanded well, but that did not impress him. He glanced at his fork. It had a freakishly long neck. He glanced back at the instrument; he stifled a yawn. “Sternum?” He said suddenly. “You have one too. It’s right there.” James nodded toward Peter’s chest. “You just need to push that stick in and break the bone. I’ve already broken it partway for you, you just need to push the little breaker in there into the indentation I’ve made. The you just need to pick out the bones and put them in that basket next to you.” There was a red basket on the hair beside Peter. “I can use the bones later in rituals and whatnot. I actually have a few knives made out of them. The dressing and sauce made them brittle and easily broken down, so if you eat one by accident it should be fine. You can also eat it with the ribs on or you can use your knife to saw them off.” Peter glanced at the knife by his left hand. It was a meat cleaver as thick as his palm and as long as his forearm. “It’s a little awkward. You’ll have to lean over the table and hack away it the base of each. Feel free to use your elbows, I don’t mind.” The towel covering the plate had relaxed with the stench. Peter could one again smell the lavender febreeze wafting around the room, which did little to cover up the odor of wet dog creeping in from the living room. The towel outlined the object underneath, from which a red gel had seeping into the white fabric and stained it in numerous places. Now the plate looked like a gnarled tortoise shell outlines in fake movie blood. The object was as wide across as his shoulders, and about half as tall as his face was long. It was longer at one end and shorter at the other. The long end was roughly as long as his hand. Peter sniffed it quietly — it was still meaty and tender, with the hint of a more tangy second scent that Peter did not recognize. “Go on.” Across the table, James was smiling at him. “It won’t bite.” Peter smiled weakly. Still holding the wooden pepper grinder in his right hand, Peter used his left to take hold of the right edge of the towel, and pulled it off the platter. Peter’s smile faded. It was a human ribcage.
It had no skin, and its meat was cooked to a deep red, like a steak. Its bones were luminously yellow. The shoulderblades had been removed, but the decapitated stump of a neck stuck out with jagged edges at the small end of the body. The nerves inside were black and drooped out of the spine like charcoal worms crawling from a yellow pipe. Only the lowest pair of ribs did not connect to the sternum in the center of the chest, where haphazard hairline fractures across the little gnarled bone pointed to a hole in its center. The hole was half filled with a puss-like liquid that glistened in the ruts and crevices all over the butchered meat and bones like salad dressing or sprinkles. The smell was most pungent and sweet under the towel — Peter’s eyes watered and his shirt collar clung to his neck as the wash of hot vapor bombarded his face.
Peter could feel his muscles lock up. A cold sweat rose on his back and neck, and a shiverless chill shocked his heart and lungs. “What is this…” His voice was hoarse and low. “A steam-roasted corporal segment with Sanguira sauce and Mentis dressing.” The smile James wore was the same smile that appeared in each picture he had hung on the walls. Peter’s eyes snapped up to James, his cheeks puckered, his fingers tensed into numbness. “James—” “I make it myself. I know it’s a lot for one sitting, but I find I can eat at least half before I’m full. Then I can save the organs and feed the rest to Georgie.” Georgie was James’s German shepherd. “The organs preserve well in a special kind of salt or just in plastic wrap in the freezer. And Georgie loves the meat, really. He prefers it to his dog food. I’m afraid he might start attacking humans, but I’ll have no problem with that, I always carry a knife with me at all times.” Peter’s eyebrows knit together involuntarily. James saw, and frowned. “You haven’t noticed?” The muscles in Peter’s chest forced a heave of cold air out of his lungs. “James…” He wheezed. “What did you do…” “Well first I cut him up, that’s only customary. My friend has his limbs and his lower half, and I have the head in the kitchen right now. Then I skinned him and drained the liquid from the head for the Mentis dressing. I brought the Sanguira sauce from my friend a while ago, I forget exactly how he makes it, but he needs the blood while the body is still alive and kicking and I didn’t have time for that. You dress it up and break in the sternum before you put it in the oven all covered up with special meat-paper which I can only by from a priest — see I get a discount from him because I’m a convert — then it goes in for an hour, two hours depending on size, then you take it out, add some extra dressing, and it’s ready to eat!” He smiled wide at the end. Peter could not smile. “I saw…” “Hmm?” James pointed his chin towards the left wall, leaning closer. “Missing boy…” Peter’s eyes flurried around the room but saw nothing. He could not control them. “Boy? Wow, that’s amazing you can tell! It took me awhile to tell the difference between the sexes after they had been cooked. But yeah, that is a boy. I found him at the park down the street. His mother was smoking in her car, she had locked him out. Really I was doing him a favor.” James slouched back like a reclining god. “Can’t be more than six or seven. That’s good luck for some sects. It’s hard to find people as pure as that.” “James!” Another heave of air burst out of Peter. James’s smile shortened. He sat very still. Blood was moaning his Peter’s ears. “James… Why did you… how could… what did this…” His breath was coming out in spurts that he could not control. “Why…” Without warning Peter threw down the instrument in his hand as if it had shocked him. It was then that Peter noticed there was a hole in the cylinder’s bottom. The needlelike tip of a knife poked out of it. Peter shot out of his chair, bumping his knees on the table, rattling the silverware and instruments of torture. “Peter!” The echo of James’s voice was a guttural growl. Peter’s eyes flew to James. The first think he saw was the handle of a knife sticking out of James’s back pocket as he stood a full head taller than Peter. Peter stopped at the sound of that voice and the sight of that knife. The rattling of steel and wood continued like wedding bells. James no longer smiled. His face was solemn and drawn. The chandelier cask dark lines down his temples and cheeks. His hands were clenched at his side. “This is the future, Peter.” His brown eyes reflected amber in the dimness. “This is what will save us. This will save you. This will save everyone.” He put his knuckles on the table, hunching his shoulders around his ears. He looked like a bear. “We’re not human anymore.” He said. “We don’t act like humans. We don’t treat each other like humans. We don’t treat ourselves like humans we come into this world and act like sheer animals. Our specie of creature is not human anymore. We are no different than wolves or birds of dogs. But there was a time when we were human, when we could proudly say that this Earth belongs to us because we are human and it is our God-given right to inherit this planet and rule it like we can. But we ruined it. We started doing the wrong things, started arguing about the wrong stuff, started getting confused about things that don’t matter. We’ve turned ourselves into animals. And when we forsake all of our humanity that’s when we know we’ve murdered the human race and destroyed everything we’ve ever worked for. That’s when we know we’ve killed God and his plan for us and the Earth is doomed. This is the only way to save ourselves! This is the only way to go back to that time when we were on the right track! This is the only way to save ourselves from all the elements we’ve introduced to our lives that draw us away from ourselves! This is the only way to survive anymore!” He was breathing hard through his mouth. He looked at Peter. He shook his head slowly. “This is the future, Peter. I’m giving you your humanity back. I’m offering you a chance. You can either die like every other brainless monster on this planet, or you can learn to be human again, like you’re supposed to be.” Peter’s eyes fell on the platter and the little boy’s body. His muscles suddenly locked again. He had once been that small. “James this is insane!” He blurted out. “Insane?” Repeated James. He laughed. “I thought it was insane when I realized what the human race had come to. Look at us James! We’re just shadows of what we were and what we are meant to be!” He sat down with a heavy sigh. His eyes rested on a picture of his sisters at their mother’s house. In the background his mother cooked steaks over and open grill. Everyone knew his other had been strangled by her drunk nephews in the same house almost five years ago. “I want to see some change.” James said. “I want to see something great happen. And now I can.” He turned back to Peter. “This is the future. Now eat.”
The Deal Had he remembered that the rain on this plane of existence was a potent downpour of stomach acid, Lex would not have slept outside. He had also forgotten how weak the forest was here — he was almost 15 feet tall with his shoulders hunched, which meant he knocked into every fragile limb and sticklike trunk which ever way he turned. The more trees creaked and clattered over, the less canopy protected him. The acid was making his skin itch and the water in his eyes boil, and the fact that even the wimpy trees were immune to the rain made him grumpy. Normally he wouldn’t have been annoyed. Normally he would have slept through a hurricane of this stuff, maybe an avalanche. But his trip here from his father’s palace had not been going according to plan. He had made a mistake phasing through the dimension boundary and had instead careened shooting-star-style into a mountain range, where he had to fend off a fully grown manticore and may have caused a mudslide. Although the fire from his fall had not singed the coarse hair that covered his body, it still hurt his skin underneath, and his run in with the manticore did not help his moral or stamina. The rain was also seeping into his hair and pooling between his skin and his fur, which was irritating him in a way he had seldom been irritated before. Now he just felt raw and naked. His strength was greatly depleted, and his senses were heightened. The moment his senses kicked into overdrive, Lex knew he was weak enough to die. His senses were his final defense against an attack on his body. Usually he smelled, felt, and tasted nothing, because his body was aware there was nothing to fear. His senses told him when to run and hide, not how to fight. Right now, they were trained on the rain bombarding him. It wasn’t that Lex had to run from the rain — his skin still held strong. The rain was annoying. Lex would not be annoyed. Lex knew the trees were not endless. He may have done the boundary transition ritual wrong, but he had not stuck himself in a loop. The forest must end before he mowed the entire thing down. He had been spending the last month memorizing a map of this realm, which would have been easier to do if he had not also been attending to his father. That monster was more needy than Lex. As a ranking officer, his father was used to being pampered, especially by his unranking son. Lex had been raised as a slave in his father’s palace. Now he was doing his father’s dirty work — again. The last mission had been to a ranking diplomat’s house to negotiate time travel rights. That man also had an unranking son who was half human, surprisingly. Neither of them knew the other existed until the boy was in his twenties. Now he did his father dirty work as well. Lex would rather have been sent back there than over here. A diplomat was called a diplomat for a reason. The moment Lex arrived there, the old man had served him tea, offered him a chair, and answered everyone of Lex’s questions. He had known Lex was unequal in rank and age, but he never let that guide their conversations. Lex’s father was different. The problem was that his eyes were too big. He offered him few acts of kindness, spoke little, and let his eyes do the talking. He looked at his visitors and servants differently — those lower than him were given glares of superiority; those of his rank got glints of contempt in the acceptance of his smile, those higher than him found his eyes cold, desolate, and stubborn to their commands and authority. Lex was aware he had his father’s eyes. He and the old beast could speak to each other without a word, and they often did. But despite the words he used and the glares and glances he gave, Lex’s father saw him differently than his other rankless subjects. Lex always saw a glimmer of glee in the corners of those ancient eyes — a sense of approval and challenging, maybe pride. Lex was thinking about his father’s eyes when he ran smack into the side of a mountain and crashed into an abandoned mine.
“Sir?” “Nnnmm…” “Sir?” No one would ever call Lex “Sir.” Expecting this to ne one of his vivid childhood dreams come back to annoyed him, Lex grunted again and rolled onto his side. “Mister, um… I don’t mean to be rude, but your presence is requested…” “Nnnmm…” “My master can provide you a bed, she just wishes to meet with you now.” “Mm,” Lex dropped open one eyelid. It was entirely dark in the mine shaft except for a gas lantern casting an orange circle around Lex’s head. He shut his eyes and opened it again. It was a man, wearing a white tunic and plaid pants under an embroidered vest and cloak. Had his eyes not been glowing electric green, Lex would have mistaken him from a normal human. The man pushed the lantern in his left hand closer to Lex’s face. He wasn’t afraid of the sleeping hairy giant. “Sir?” Lex snorted gravel, sand, and copper ore out of his nostrils. “What do you want?” “My master wishes to speak with you, Master, uh…” “Lex.” “Lex?” “Lex.” The man’s tone was relaxed. He had dealt with Lex’s kind of stubborn before. “The full is Lexirronidas, but I won’t be called that.” “As you wish, Master Lex. You are who I am looking for.” “Good.” Lex slowly lifted himself back to on his arms. “I was told someone would find me.” “Of course Master.” “How, I have no idea.” “Allow me to explain.” The messenger bowed customarily as Lex rose to his full height. “The natives of this area have built and developed specific instruments and techniques to measure disturbances in our aerial potency field. A spectrometer caught your transitory ritual explosion on a paranormal-inclined radar. It also told me the general area in which you landed. I was able to more accurately pinpoint your location with a toxin-inclined aerial terrographer. The elements that make up your body are not commonly found in this realm, and the molecules composing our air take cells off of your body and carry them in the air. You see, there is a single wind current that runs the length of this entire plane of existence, and smaller wind channels often break off and rejoin the central current, carrying whatever particules they come in contact with back to the main current. By mapping how many of your cells are in the atmospheric wind channel, I can trace where their source is.” Lex shook the mine grit out of his hair. “Even down here?” “The whole you made allows secondary wind channels to enter and exit. Subcurrents always converge back with the mother current.” “Hm.” “I would have gotten here sooner, but the rain slows the signals. My apologies, Master.” “You’re forgiven. Doesn’t the rain bother you?” “No sir.” Smiled the messenger. “I’m a native here. We’ve evolved alongside the rain. But you have no need to worry, Master Lex. The rains usually last only a few months at a time.” “Few months?” “120 days at the most.” “Hm.” Lex thumped his heavy tail against the ground, shaking the entire mine. He watched the servants glowing eyes bob up and down, fighting to stay balanced. Lex’s father used to do the same thing with him. Every whack of the big monster’s tail would send a baby Lex flying. The smell of salt, ash, and vomit hung in his nose and mouth as a crude supplement to his hunger and sleep-deprivation. “Where’s this man I’m supposed to meet?” Growled Lex. “Some Lucius Dove?” The servant blinked conspicuously. “I think you are mistaken, Master Lex. Lucius Dove was murdered ten years ago. His daughter, Adrienna Dove, has business with you.”
Adrienna Dove did not take the title “Mistress,” as her father would have expected of her. Ever since her great ancestor Lars Montoriann Dove had begun the family business of connecting skilled and powerful interdimensional travellers and entities with each other and various magical objects, the business had been run by the male heir who always took the name Master — Master Lars, Master Rochembri, Master Loven, Master Loven the Second, Master Loven the Third, Master Lars the Second, Master Gravier, Master Tamikma, Master Rochembri the Second… all the way down to her father, Master Lucius the Fourth. Despite her birth as a female, Adrienna refused to drop the coveted family title because of her gender. Master Adrienna, as she was known, had hence gained a reputation as a woman of stringent tradition. Lew could see it in her every move. When she rose from her desk to greet him, she wore the same suit that Lars Montoriann wore in the portrait that hung above her desk. The velvet shoulder pads and silk undershirt rested comfortably on her body, but the ivory color of her skin, the charismatic circles of her eyes, and even the crinkles her plum-skin lips made on her rounded cheeks were rehearsed in their appearance and placement in her meeting room — the pink and yellow stained glass in the windows behind her especially complemented her skin tone and irises, and the deep blue of her wallpaper kept her body apart from the enormous portrait of her ancestor above and his mahogany desk below. Adrienna was small for the inherited desk and room, but the way she spread her finger across the desk’s crowded face and bowed respectfully over her piles of books and parchments gave her all the marks of a talented businesswomen. Even her auburn hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, had the same leathery texture as the rub on her floor. Adrienna was meant to be in her position, in her father’s business and room, despite breaking the oldest Dove tradition and owning the business as a single woman. “Master Lex.” Even her voice sounded inherited — calm, commaning, and serene and quiet all the same. “It is my honor to welcome you here.” “Master Adrienna.” Lex smiled as best he could — he had learned at a young age that his face was not built for such pleasant actions. “If we may, I wish to begin immediately.” Smiled Adrienna. “Of course.” Lex had been scrubbed clean of the rain and outside world the moment he stepped inside the Dove Northern Business Estate. He had also been fed two whole beluga whales, three barrels of Sponge wine, and the organs of an elephant smothered in manticore blood. In his short time as Adrienna’s guest, Lex had been given a wonderful view of the new Dove deal-broker. But Lex knew about deception from his father — he could tell when he was being led into a false sense of security. He wanted to know more about Adrienna — what kind of person she was, what kind of deals she made. What she wanted with him and his father. Curling his tail around his waist, Lex let himself relax on the carpet before Adrienna. His weight lay into his bone girdles and tail, and his calloused palms stretched onto the ground. He had no legs to denote need of a chair, so he sat as upright as his relaxed psyche would allow. His father also did business and negotiated standing up, and Lex would need to be as quick and cunning as his father if he was going to secure the best deal out of Adrienna. His sense had relaxed, his might had increased, he could barely smell or feel — but these were all signs that his mind was sharp once more. Survival was no longer his concern. He let his eyelids relax into the diameters of his eyes. Now his only job was making this girl do as he wanted. Just as his father told him to. Adrienna seated herself again, shuffling a few papers away and taking up a peacock feather pen. She was minuscule compared to him, but she did not mind. She did not glance up at Lex, and she did not show fear of him. Her pale skin reflected in the hemispheres of Lex’s eyes, but the size and appearance of her guest did not cause alarm or discomfort on either of their faces. “Do you know what I do here, Master?” “I would like to hear it from you yourself.” Replied Lex. “A fair request.” A smile appeared on Adrienna’s lips. “My family specializes in the art of paranormal communication and supernatural economics. We study and utilize eons of history and research to determine which spirits, gods, or other entities would benefit from a connection with each other or with a specific instrument or artifact that we can provide. Not only do I run an multidimensional market for grimoires, spellbooks, runes, enchanted objects, and various other supernatural instruments, but I also facilitate contact and communications between entities to assist my associates in their personal endeavors. Without the connections I provide, most of these people would never find each other and would lose numerous services and benefits that they could easily have found. If you ever wanted anything done or put in your possession, you barely need lift a finger to contact me, and I will find you the right being or object for the job.” “All for a price.” Said Lex. “Precisely.” She nodded curtly. “If need be, I would be happy to lend money, especially to a creature such as yourself. Do keep in mind, however, that I and my partners are rarely paid in a variation of monetary currency.” “You take secrets then.” “I take many things. Secrets are one. Dead manticores are others. I’ll even trade for a bundle of bricks from your palace if it would suit you. I deal mostly in bartering, Master. A favor for a favor, and object for an object, a secret for a secret. We can work the values and prices out. But yes,” Her pleasant face took on a darker tone. “I will take a secret.” From amidst a bushel of Nordic spellbooks Adrienna drew out a crimson colored page. She looked Lex in the eye, her blue-green irises as stern and serene as her tone. “One of my greatest disdains I hold against my father is that he shied away from creatures like you. His reason was that you were to cunning and powerful for him. You would find the problems with his enterprise and widen the gaps and discrepancies until you could destroy his family business which has survived for over a millennia. He was right about one thing, Master. You and your father’s associates are indeed cunning and powerful. But I see something different in my future.” She cocked her head forward. “Do you.” Lex attempted to smile again. “You are the first woman to run this business, I believe. Just as I am the first offspring of my race in the last 600 years. That’s something to be proud of.” “Is that so?” Adrienna’s face had changed. Her charisma was turning. The practiced smile Lex had seen before was relaxing into a culture-like grin. Her fingers, which had lain stretched and open on her desk, were curling into fists. The kindness in her eyes was clouding over — suddenly she did not fit so well within her room. “Why don’t I cut you a deal.” Lex thumped the end of his tail lightly against the carpet. “What kind of deal?” “I know why you’re here, Master Lex. You’re doing your father’s business. Have you ever thought about doing your own?” Lex’s cin dropped so he could look closely at Adrienna’s eyes. She was serious. “What do you mean?” He said slowly. “Your father sent you here for a deal with me. A trade agreement. Special objects and hidden secrets from across the universe. Don’t you want a little something for yourself? Your own shipments and secrets he wouldn’t know about?” “I thought you were continuing your family’s tradition of honesty in business.” “Hah!” Adrienna’s cackle echoed off the walls. “‘Family tradition? Guess how long I have been running this business, Master Lex.” Lex narrowed his eyes. “Ten years?” “Seventeen.” The red of her hair matched the cruelty in her tone. “I’ve been running underground and undermining my father’s efforts and tasks for quite a while now. I know how to make deals and run a disguise. This,” She gestured to her entire room with a sweep of her quill. “This is just destiny. I was made for this kind of work, this kind of power.” She cocked her head onto her shoulder, looking up at Lex diagonally. “I’ve heard about you, Lexirronidas. You’re not some bastard half-breed child, but your father treats you like one. I’m like you in that respect. I don’t deserve to be married off and laden down with children, and you don’t deserve to bow to your father’s bidding for the rest of your life. We have hidden potential, you and I. I’ve found my potential, and I’ve unlocked it. I can help you find yours. So…” She put the peacock pen to the page before her, making a rotund blotch in its center. “What do you say?” Lex stood very still. The rain pattered on the windows which matched Adrienna Dove’s face and facade. He let his eyes fall shut. He took a breath in. “You are a professional, Master Dove.” He said, ever so slowly. Adrienna’s smile began to fade. “But that is your undoing with me. If there is one thing that I have learned from my father, it is that I am and must always be alone. He barely gave me attention or respect in my youth, barely cared for me or taught me anything besides submission and suffering, but he respects me as I am for how I shaped myself and my own ways. I don’t need spellbooks or runes or secrets — I must find my own path and I will walk it alone. So, Adrienna, I bid you keep your spells and your secrets, because I will not make myself dependent on another or accept help that does not help me. My loyalty is to myself, and I will not betray it or the creature who taught it to me.”
Adrienna had realized she had failed long before it came out. She let him finish with reluctant realization furrowing her devious grin into a calm of stern resign. She recoiled slowly in her chair, bringing her neck and back into a straight line. She put down her pen softly, and let her fingers straighten on her desk. Her eyes rolled across her papers without looking at them — her mind moved quickly and quietly, and she could not mask its workings. It took her less than half a minute to find her next move. She looked up at Lex, aware of now small she was in comparison to him. She smiled, aware of her offer that he had refused. “Very well, Master.” The crimson paper was pushed aside. “Your decision will be respected.” “Respect is not silence.” Said Lex. “Did you learn that from him?” Adrienna peered at Lex out of the corner of her eye as she opened a drawer and rummaged through its contents. “Advertisement is no crime. And my volubility of my arrangement options has done me well in bringing you here. I hope you will not be dismayed if I remind you that my offer still stands.” A gold page with a silver boarded flew out of the drawer. “Now, your father wants a deal, does he? What are his requests?” She leaned over the page, peacock feather in hand. Above her, the portrait of Lars Montoriann glared down upon his ancient desk. “My father asks for the thumbnail of Set, a core of Idunn’s apple, as well as three teeth from a Nandi bear. If there are none from a Nandi, then the teeth of a yowie will do as well.” “A new shipment came in for the yowie. Would you prefer two from the yowie and one from the Nandi? The Nandi are rarer and break easily when they are not attached to a living organism. I suppose you don’t want rotting flesh in your order.” “Two yowie and one Nandi should suffice.” “Very well.” Adrienna’s writing was wavy and slanted, and she seldom dotted her I’s; but she wrote fast and kept up with his every word. “This seems too little for a decent order.”She commented. “It is. I was told you would have the hilt of Morrigan’s sword?” “A broken one, yes.” “I only require the unbloodied metal sunken within.” “And I suppose you want a spell to go with that?” “My father appreciates your recommendation.” “What does he wish to do with the hilt?” “Make a sword for himself.” “A sword for… I’ve never heard of such a task as that before. Nor have I met anyone who could do it.” “Ah, you have not met my father.” “And I see why we meet now.” She placed down the pen again, pulling her hands up to her chin, resting her elbows on either side of the paper. She searched the ceiling as she thought. Lex could practically see the gears rolling in her mind. “A sword made out of a goddess’s broken one… I’m afraid I have little to recommend. Perhaps I can offer a weapon making text originating from the Agar Mountain Range. It was traditionally used to deify sacrificial torture devices for appeasement of the demon god Sindora, and it details the paranormal reinvigoration of instruments once used for the purpose of murdering fellow people, though I don’t believe it accounts for weapons with such charged potency and metalsmith work as Morrigan’s sword. Would you instead prefer a contact with a Druid or Lwojan Shaman? The Island of Lwoja is a small place that few people know about, but they are famous for enchanting powerful weapons. Someone might know how to handle a sword of that caliber more so than a book.” “Just until a strong relation has been established, I’ll take the Mountain text.” “A fair judgement.” Adrienna smiled at his words — she was an open book to him, and he was quickly becoming the same to her. “Anything more?” “A casket of southern Matundrian iunonium currency would ensure your respect and diligence to our relationship and its desired longevity.” “There is a disturbance among the Matundra Empire. It is mostly in the north, with which I do little business, but this one in particular seems especially far reaching. However, the south is more connected to the multiverses than the north, east, eastern islands, and polar north. I will get you your coins, Master, for I too wish for a long and prosperous relationship between your father and I.” As Adrienna looked up, Lex saw that the vulture’s grin had returned. She placed down the pen and knitted her fingers together in patient expectation. “What does my father owe you in return?” Lex stifled a sigh as he spoke. “250 necronatal gemstones and 615 human slaves. I know you father has plenty of each.” “He does indeed.” “I will also accept enchanted ivory as 30% of the gemstones and Reptoid or Magabollian aliens as 43 and a half percent of the slaves. Understand that the numbers of gemstones and slaves are negotiable but the percents do not change if you choose to substitute.” “In that case, would you accept 300 gemstones and 550 human slaves?” “559 and an orange fireproof cloak.” “Orange specifically?” “If you don’t have one then two gray shall do.” “I see. I’ll find two gray. I think we will settle for the ivory substitution with this arrangement.” “As you wish.” She returned to her writing. “So the numbers are…” “90 hand-sized pieces of enchanted ivory, 210 necronatal gemstones, 559 human slaves, and two gray fireproof cloaks. And these will pay for your requests of the thumbnail of Set, one core of Idunn’s apple, two yowie teeth, one Nandi bear tooth, the hilt of Morrigan’s sword, an Agar Mountain weapon-enchanting text, and a casket of iunoniae — those are the Matundrian coins you’re looking for.” She glanced up. “Do you agree to this?” “On my father’s behalf, yes.” “Good.” Lex watched her print her slanting signature in the bottom left corner of the page. “All that’s left now is a sign of your written approval.” She held the sheet out to him. It measured less than a third the size of Lex’s palm. “It doesn’t have to be much, just something we can point to and say that this meeting took place and this arrangement was actually discussed. Balancing on his left arm, Lex clamped the right corner of the sheet between his right forefinger and thumb. He pressed his thumb into the signature spot — a green liquid oozed out from his nail, bleeding through the layering onto his hand. When he handed Adrienna back the sheet, her charming smile returned. Her lips once again paired with her eyes and the windows, and her endearing demeanor and air made Lars Montoriann Dove’s austere portrait feel out of place. Adrienna produced another sheet from the drawer, scribbled a repetition rune in its corner, and placed it over their agreement. “I make a copy of all of my deals and arrangements.” She explained as she delicately placed the copied sheet in an indistinct stack beside her and fished out a bendable parchment folder. “Tis an old Dove tradition.” As she wrapped the paper into a parchment-protected cylinder, Lex’s eyes wandered to Lars Montoriann’s painting. The old man had white hair and chestnut skin, with his silk blue suit and velvet shoulderpads hiding his frail frame behind an English monarch’s pose. His eyes projected an eagle’s flare on his old abode. Adrienna shared his lips and his eyes, as well as the shoulderpads he wore. They were both equally proud and commanding in this business room. “You know, I can’t help but wonder,” Said Lex. “Why you should want so many gems and slaves.” Adrienna’s smile outshined the pale glowing rain outside. “You are entitled to know.” She said. “There is an artist who will only trade his talents for slaves and very specific jewelry.” “What need have you for so special and picky an artist?” Lex smiled. "This portrait.” She turned partway behind her so that she was looking up at the massive painting behind her. “Has hung her for centuries, practically as long as this business has been running. It’s almost a millennia old.” She swiveled back around and continued wrapping the agreement. “I’m going to have it replaced.” Lex blinked. Save the movement of Adrienna’s fingers mixed with the rain, the grew eerie silent. The eyes of Adrienna’s ancestor were stony and strong. This was his business, his life’s work. “Does that portrait,” Lex began.”Not strike you as a family heirloom or prize of some sort?” Adrienna Dove let a childish laugh escape her smiling lips. “You sound like my father.” She said, tying the parchment shut with a red ribbon. Her happy eyes met his and held them. “I have no family left. I owe them nothing. And I have everything I need to move on, and leave them behind.” she swung him a sly glance. “You do to, Master Lex.” She handed him the parchment package beneath Montoriann’s painted gaze. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Master.” Adrienna said. “A pleasure.” Lex replied. The rain rattled on the windows. The wind current hissed against the age old panes.
“You’re back.” Lex had barely shut the palace door. His father had a deeper voice than his son did — the old beast growled when he spoke. He hunched his shoulders when he talked down to Lex, and he often curled his wormlike tail into a club at the end of his body. Lex heard that club beating the ground before he saw his father, and the scratching of his father’s hair and crooked nails against the marble floor followed him as he drew nearer. Lex turned and bowed before his father, and instinct he had learned when he was young. “Father.” He said. “Lexirronidas.” Growled his father. The old beast had a wrinkled, dirt colored face, with eyes too large for their sockets and oval mouth too small for all his teeth to stay behind his cracking lips. His lips often bled when he spoke too fast when his rotting orange fangs speared them. His flesh was permanently prickled with goosebumps, and it bunched around his bones as it would on a rotting skeleton. Black holes ill compared to the lifelessness in his eyes, each of which were devoid of irises or corneas and reflected red in moonlight. All around his ancient face was a mess of long and tangled black hair that lay like a knotted, infested quilt over his skeletal body and sinuous arms. “You didn’t use my name with Dove, did you?” “No father, we both knew that if we did, you would be able to hear and see us both.” “Ha!” The club thumped against the floor, breaking in a dent. “Keep me out of my own business, is that so? Where’s my deal?” Without another word, Lexirronidas took like the little package out of the indentation between his shoulder and neck. His father snatched it out of his hand, scratching his broken nails against Lex’s hairless palm. He squirmed his legless body to a table in the far corner of the hall, where he tore through the parchment and crouched over the little page, his bristling shoulders hunching near his ears, his warty gray tongue rolling between his teeth and over his lips and chin. He grunted deep in his throat as he read, and his tail beat against the floor as if with a mind of its own. “Necronatal? Gray? Ivory? Specific little monster, isn’t she?” He unfurled his shoulders, easing his weight onto his tail as his tongue zig-zagged back into his maw. “We got the better end of this. Slaves and stones are nothing.” He turned his gaze on Lex, who quickly bowed again. “What did you tell her about Morrigan’s sword?” “I said it was for making your own sword.” “Ha! Did you believe it?” “Yes sir.” “Ha! Stupid human! Now we get a free book along with it. Anything else happen that I didn’t hear or see that I should know about nonetheless?” Adrienna’s offer floated through Lex’s mind. Lars Montoriann’s portrait followed it. He saw Adrienna’s charisma and kindness give way to her vulture’s look and turn back again. “No sir.” Said Lexirronidas. His father had already turned away, and was retreating into the darkness of his entrance hall. “Diplomat's son would have mussed it all up…” His voice echoed off the walls back to Lexirronidas. But Lex barely heard him. Lex was staring at the ground, concentrating on the thoughts and memories rolling in his head. He had been raised here, in this palace, his entire life. He had rarely travelled, rarely pondered what he was missing, rarely owned anything that he could call his own.Freedom seldom crossed his mind. Deception and lying never enticed him. He had never thought of opportunities to escape or leave behind the only family he had, no matter how hard his life had become or how alone he felt. He and his father were practically the last of their kind. Lex had never thought of betraying him for possessions or other favors. It had always been his family and the bond between its two surviving members — nothing more. Nothing less. Suddenly, Lex snapped his head up. His father stood over him, hunched and hideous as the old beast was. His midnight-stained eyes poured over Lex as he stood silent and still save for the slight tapping of his knotted tail on the floor. Lex bowed, and retreated meekly away down the pitch black hall. He could feel his father’s eye on him, but those eyes had once been the same as his own. Soon his father’s father would belong to him. But for now, Lex had his own face, his own body, his own morals and thoughts to cherish as possessions and secrets. And he could sleep easily with those, and those alone.
The Ghosts of Umber Verita Mayella cradles her mother’s head as the horse carries them over the next dune. The wind whips past them, spraying sand in their faces, into her mother’s screaming mouth. The sky is blossoming into the color of blood as Mayella strengthens her mother’s restraints; there is a slim chance either traveller will survive another night. Her mother screams again, her body convulsing, her eyes rolling about in her head, her nails scratching ruts into the wooden cart. Mayella backs away as far as she can. She watches her mother cough up blood, writhing in her bonds, her hands balling into fists, her nails tearing open wounds in her palms. Her mother’s eyes bug out of her skull. She chokes on dirt and blood. Her shoulders rock against the cart like an earthquake. She screams, tears pouring out of her eyes. The horse screams as well. It is preparing to rear up and toss off the cart it has been dragging for eight days. Mayella races toward the horse, grabbing its flying reins and bringing the shrieking beast back down. And then she sees it in the distance, through sheets of sand and the bloody dusk: lean buildings of white stone, fire light on their roofs, figures shrouded in white cloaks darting in-between the structures, their heads down, their faces covered. She sees the great white temple in the midst of the city on the endless sandy skyline, and she knows she has made it: the City of Umbar Verita.
They are the Ghosts of Umbar Verita, and Mayella knows to treat them with respect. She bows as they lead her cart and mother away. She accepts their food and drink without dissent. Out of the corner of her eye she watches them, sees how they shuffle with their heads down, their unseen mouths whispering strange words she does not understand. These people are magicians, Mayella has been told. Sorcerers from another dimension that can work miracles. They can bring rain. They can conjure fire out of thin air. They can turn sand into glass and back again. They never show their faces. They never speak to those they aid. The only Ghost who talks is the Master Spirit. He lives in the temple, conducting all the rituals and rites that give the Ghosts their powers. It is he that banishes demons. It is he who will save Mayella’s mother. The Ghosts of Umbar Verita know this, though they never ask. When she is finished, one of the hooded specters takes her hand, and leads her through the winding streets of the city, between the towering white buildings so foreign to her eyes. Soon he gives her hand to another Ghost nearby, who takes her silently to the next Ghost and the next until she stands before the temple. Even at the temple, the center of the city’s activity, Umbar Verita is strikingly silent, the only sounds the wind billowing against the buildings and the occasional shuffling and whispering of a passing Ghost. Mayella has never encountered this quiet a place before, not even out on the desert when she journeyed to this city. The temple is like any temple she has seen — a single room held up by two outside pillars and four walls, a golden door guarding its entrance, the dome of the ceiling rising high into the murky sky — but instead of being made out of weathered bricks and drooping masonry, this temple is pure white and of upstanding sturdy marble. It gleams in the dying sun. An abnormal cool radiates from it, an unheard of occurrence in the midst of this desert. The golden door has even been decorated with a sentence etched in its soft surface: A and A, the Brotherhood. The door is opened by one of the Ghosts, who bows as Mayella passes through. Inside, a great bonfire rages in a central pit, its flames crackling and flying high above her head. Its light flickers across the gathered Ghosts lining the walls in their white robes, their heads bent, their hands tucking in their sleeves, silent curtains surrounding Mayella. Despite the fire, frigid wind whirls unseen around the darkened room, and the eye of this arctic hurricane is the Master Spirit himself, standing across from Mayella on the other side of the fire pit. His cloak is the same as the other Ghosts, but his head is raised ever so slightly that she can see his slightly-bearded chin and stern lips. Unlike the other Ghosts, the Master Spirit holds his hands folded in front of him, a pair of blood red gloves glowing in the firelight. She can see nothing else, not even the white washed walls, barely the designs on the floor. All that is constant in the raging fire is the Master Spirit, patiently waiting for her to come closer. Mayella steps forward. The Master Spirit is silent, a motionless statue, much taller than her, directing the power and wind flying around them. Mayella soon stands at the edge of the fire pit, her hair whipping around her, the only separation between her and the Spirit the blazing tongues of fire whose warmth she cannot feel, even when this close to them. Mayella can see the very hairs on the Master Spirit’s pale chin, can make out the wrinkles on his purple lips. His eyes are covered by his hood. He is still as a stone, quiet and strong before her. Suddenly he speaks. “Why have you come, Mayella?” His voice is deep, rich and creamy like the porridge Mayella’s mother used to make. Mayella holds her chin up, meeting his unseen eyes with her own. “I have come because my mother needs an exorcism.” The winds calm for a moment, allowing the child’s hair to fall to her shoulders as a murmur runs through the Ghosts all around them. In the blink of an eye the wind is back, though much gentler than before. “Do you know the name of the demon who has possessed her?” Asks the Master Spirit. Mayella nods, her jaw set. “The Black Ghost.” An uproar of whispers resounds around her. The fire roars and turns from orange to blue to white to orange again. The wind swells until it whistles in Mayella’s ears. The Black Ghost is a being of pure evil. He roams the desert riding a demon horse, a hood blacker than pitch covering his body and face. They say his eyes are red glowing orbs in his naked skull, and those who see them fall ill and die. He can bring famine, drought, infertility, disease. His hands are like meathooks, and anyone who strays too close to him on his mount he grabs and demands of them his name. When they tell him he is the Black Ghost, he tears them apart and feeds them to his horse. Whenever he passes by a village, he stretches out his hand and curses one person there. Is does not matter who they are; he will pick one person at random, and that person will die. His curse is irreversible, and he will return to the cursed one when they are dead and take their bodies to feast upon in another dimension. Mayella stands her ground as the room rages around her. Even now, the Master Spirit is motionless, his cloak billowing around him, but his body steadfast and immovable, not even his red fingers shifting an inch. Suddenly, he speaks again, causing a hush to fall upon the temple. “The Black Ghost cannot possess your mother.” He says. Mayella frowns. Beneath her, the angry flames become blue. “You have heard the legends.” Continues the Master Spirit. “You know that calling the Black Ghost by his false name will lead to your death. You know him only as the Black Ghost. When you see him, call him by the name Arvicious. He will do as you desire.” The Master Spirit lifts his head as the fire turns to orange once more. His hood’s shadow falls across his eyes, obscuring them from view. “Bring in the child’s mother.” A Ghost nearest to the door turns and exits silently. The screaming of Mayella’s mother is heard in the distance. Mayella turns, but she cannot see the exited Ghost or her mother through the open door. She sees only the sandy street of Umbar Verita, and the dawning night washing over it. “Let this child remain outside.” Decrees the Master Spirit. When Mayella turns back, he is looking down upon her. “Let her wait beside the door, and be very, very awake.”
Mayella has lived her whole life in the desert. The horizon of rolling dunes and swirling sandstorms is not foreign to her. The silence of Umbar Verita, however, is very unknown. Her hometown is a rough settlement of sandstone huts and traveling caravans, most of its inhabitants prone to roam the dusty streets at night without a home to come home to. Craftsmen work at night, and animals sing to themselves as the pale moon rises over the thatched roofs and smoky chimneys. Though Mayella lives in a house, the nighttime symphony of her city is the lullaby that has brought her to sleep all her life. She scarce thought she could ever sleep without it. But the City of Umbar Verita is not a city of animals or craftsmen or beggars walking the streets. This is a city of magicians, and a small, quiet city at that. All of its inhabitants are in the temple, and have left their city eerily silent. Even when she presses her ear to the door, Mayella can not hear a word from the city inside. She can not hear her mother screaming any longer. All she can do is wait.
The moon has barely risen over the towers when Mayella hears the sound of horse hooves on sandy roads. The sound is common where she lives, but something about this city or something in the sound itself makes Mayella sit up straight. She does not leave her place beside the door as the unseen horse draws nearer. She can hear it navigating the winding streets with ease, its rhythmic pacing drawing close and closer with a hypnotizing aura, a sound she she has not heard before. Nothing in her whole life has sounded so alluring, so pure, so much like an unheard of drum of peace. And then there it is. A figure, draped in a dark cloak, atop a horse with tar black hide, heading straight toward her. Mayella cannot move as he draws nearer. And nearer. Relentlessly. As he comes closer, Mayella can see more of the approacher and his mount. The horse’s eyes are red as blood, and purple smoke spouts from its nostrils in short plumes of lingering vapor. The horse wears no saddle, and a pair of pointed metal boots protrudes from the figure’s cloak where the stirrups would have been. The figure rides hunched, his head bent, the frayed edges of his hood causing a deep shadow to fall across his face. Mayella cannot see through it. His hands are the worst part. The fingers are each as long as her forearm, slender and curved, pointed at their ends like perfect meathooks protruding from his plated palms.They are the largest feature of his figure, curled around a discolored chain that is wrapped around the horse’s face, acting as a crude pair of iron reins. Mayella remembers the stories from her home: the Black Ghost grabs his victims and demands his name; he does not care who he kills, woman or child, man or mouse. But the voice of the Master Spirit returns to her as the specter and his horse draw near: call him Arvicious, and he will do as you desire. The Black Ghost is in front of Mayella. She can see every muscles beneath the horse’s skin, can feel the combined heat of animal and spirit upon her being. She peers up at the Ghost. He is watching her. One monstrous hand releases its grasp on the chain. The firelight from the roofs around them reflects on its polished surface. Four of its fingers curl into its palm as its index finger — a needle-like point at its end — lowers beneath Mayella’s face. The sharpened tip lightly pokes the underside of her chin, lifting her head upwards until her eyes are staring deep into the darkness of his face, unable to move, unable to flee. She can faintly see two glowing orbs of fire staring back at her. “What is my name?” Croaks the Black Ghost in a voice like broken glass. Mayella stares into the face of the Black Ghost. “Your name,” she says, “Is Arvicious.” A drop of blood slides down the pointed finger and falls to the ground. Without warning, the meat hook at her throat is removed, folded back into Arvicious’ palm, which is folded around the reins again. He waits, his horse still, the world still around them. Mayella speaks. “Save my mother.” Again, the night is silent for a moment. Suddenly, a sigh escapes from beneath the hood. Arvicious straightens himself on his horse, whose huffing has ceased abruptly. The horse stamps its foot once, and turns back the way it came. Arvicious gives the child a nod as he departs through the city, back into the desert night. She watches him disappear down the winding streets, listens as his horse rhythmically walk away. Soon he is seen and heard no more. All traces of the Black Ghost are gone from the night, from Mayella. The City of Umbar Verita settles into the night, as if the Black Ghost has never been there.
In the morning, Mayella is awakened by the Master Spirit. He lifts her in from the ground, brushing the sand off her face. He carries her into the temple, and places her in her mother’s arms. When Mayella opens her eyes, she sees her mother’s face — happy, controlled, serene — free. Her mother is safe and alive. They embrace and cry together on the temple floor. No winds whip their hair. No fire illuminates unseen faces around them. They can see their cart and its horse through the open door. Sunlight streams in. But before Mayella leaves the temple, she sees the Ghosts of Umbar Verita on their knees, whispering rapidly into their hands as they grovel with their backs to the wall. Their heads are facing the massive fire pit, now extinguished. In the midst of the ashes stands the Master Spirit, his blood red gloves covering his eyes from Mayella and her mother. He says not a word. He moves not at all.
Mayella has past over the first dune. When she looks back, she cannot see the City of Umbar Verita. She cannot see its Ghosts roaming the twisted streets. She cannot see the Master Spirit or his red gloves. She cannot see the Black Ghost Arvicious, nor knows what has and will become of him now. But Mayella knows what she has seen. Her eyes are covered no more.