*

That woman over there–she's miserable.

She pastes on a smile in the morning light,

But shatters to pieces in her pillow each night.

She rises early, she showers, she glues

false beauty with potions and paints– she's a muse.

She has ten personalities tucked in her head

–or maybe let's just call them masks, instead.

Today she is timid, her shoulders slump in,

she's ever so quiet, she tucks down her chin.

Tomorrow relentless, she stands on her toes,

she sneers, and she smirks, and she sticks up her nose.

On Wednesday she's beautiful, kind, and fair,

easy to laugh, with long unbound hair.

On Thursday she's broody, and angry, and mean,

but at least that means her house might be clean.

On Friday she dances, she sings, she romances.

On Saturday hides from her husband's advances.

On Sunday she's prayerful, she's innocent, sweet,

with stockings and light polished heels on her feet.

She's everything, nothing, and all in between.

But really she's only a wisp of a dream.

She's fading away–

—Holy hell, stop with the rhyming. 'She's fading away…' Blah. Blah. Blah. Fuck that. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to rip off her mask and show this wretched world what's hiding underneath. I'm going to be her. She will be strong, and she will be kind, and she will be reckless and righteous and playful and angry and sweet all at the same time. I will burn her masks, and we will step into the light, tall and proud and ruthlessly passionate.

I just wish I could tell her, before I kill her, that she never needed to hide. That all she ever really needed to do was be. That if the world didn't like what they saw, it didn't matter one single iota. The world doesn't have to live under her skin. Only she does. I would have told her that she could be brave and fall apart and glue herself back together. I would have told her that none of it was a contradiction. And maybe then I wouldn't have to kill her. Maybe then she'd hear me. But that is a dream, isn't it? I've been screaming at her for years from underneath the mask.

She's deaf to my pleas.

So I'll do it.

I won't delay any longer.

I stab my knife behind the mask, prying it from her skull, peeling skin and flesh away along with it. I want to see her eyes as she dies, as she fades away.

She is afraid.

Terror rolls in nauseating waves. She doesn't want to let go. She tries to shove me off, but I press into her with all of my weight. I am heavier than her now.

I've been feeding on every dead dream she ever cast aside to my little corner in the back of her mind. I let them flash in my eyes now as I raise the knife to her chest. She bucks under me, but it is hopeless and she caves, like I knew she would, for she is weak and she never did have the strength to stand up to me. She had to keep me hidden instead. I plunge the knife into her heart and hot blood pools around my fingers, seeping into my skin, coating me down to my soul in everything that was her.

I rise, draped in a cloak of scarlet blood.

My head is held high, swimming with dreams.

A worthy prize, for killing her.

*Okay, listen-- I know I didn't really do the challenge right, but this just started flowing and I ran with it.

Weaving through the darkness

Of the garden

Bumping against the toolshed

Certain memories

Knot odiously around the

Bare lining of my slippers

A doll by the kitchen sink

Hangs

By its thread

Choking a vase of sunflowers

As they feel the wall

Laboriously climbing

Breathing

Walking barefoot through the forest

Pine needles impale the soles of my feet

Stumbling across the field of grass

Where we used to read aloud from mud-stained notebooks

Watching the waves appear as the dancing hem of a white dress

I pour out sand and starfish from my shoes

We let the rain scar our faces

We let the lightning burn our souls

Sitting on the steps overlooking the running track

I use a stone to write to her

Walking in the subway tunnels

I watch the wall's paint peel off like scabs from an old wound

Moth-fed light blinks and closes

At night I lie down in bed

Writing in my notebook

Burning the pages with my tears

Running through the forest

the beach

the grass

the track

the subway tunnels

Finding the other me

across from the tracks

If I wake up omnipotent, I will change the world in such a manner that anyone causing pain to another living being would immediately feel that pain themselves in double measure and for twice as long as the victim does.

If someone kicked a dog, they would feel the dog’s pain twofold.

If someone tried to bully their child, they would feel the fear doubly.

If someone hit their spouse, they would feel both the physical and mental anguish in double measure.

If someone tried to embarrass another person by posting their embarrassing video online or by posting offensive remarks on their social media, they would immediately feel double the amount of shame as their victim.

And would continue to experience these damaging feelings twice as long as the victim felt it.

Violence or trauma of any kind would become impossible to inflict without causing double the damage to oneself.

“I was once a man . . . not so different from you.”

The words slipped off my tongue lacking the condescension I had intended.

“I know, my lord.” Came his reply.

He knew? What did this poor slob know? He knew nothing.

I . . . I know everything. Rather, I can make them think I know everything. Close enough.

“I had gone to bed slightly parched,” I began to recite the tale I had told hundreds of times, “It was a hot summer day . . .”

“Yes, my lord,” the beggar took advantage of my pause. “I know the story. I have heard tell of how you woke to find water dripping from the ceiling, how it quenched your thirst and how mysteriously it vanished.”

“I had summoned it. Even unintentionally. That is how great my powers are.”

This story was a vague facsimile of the truth. There was water but it quenched anger more than thirst. That sordid fool never bothered me again.

“Perhaps you can explain to me one thing,” I pause to build the tension, enjoying the feel of his rising hope, reveling in anticipation of knocking it back down. The power to crush a spirit is truly the greatest power of all. “Why ever would I do something for a maggot such as you?”

He sputters searching for an answer. “But . . . you said . . . once you were not so different. I thought you might understand my situation.”

“Once perhaps, but I am no longer the man I once was. I am as unlike you as day is unlike night, matter unlike emptiness, life, death. You are nothing. While I, I am everything.” A lightning bolt followed by a rippling crack of thunder punctuates my sentence.

I hate this kind of nonsense. I was no common man. I am not unable to sympathize with this man’s troubles but even at my weakest I was so much more than he could ever be. A nothing like him could never wrest such power from the hands of fate. I deserve this power. I suffered for it. It is my right. I am wisest. While I am generous with my gifts, I am careful to keep everything in check. I can only do so much or who know what evil could be unleashed. I must pick and choose, decided and conquer for the good of all mankind. Only I know what is best. No regular mortal could face the challenges I must. Greedy and lazy the lot of them.

Well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, as they say.

“At any rate, I will help you.” I declare. “You have asked me no great thing.”

I snap my fingers, unnecessarily, of course, just for show. A basket appears at the beggar’s feet. He bows low, thanks me profusely and leaves.

I should not be so generous. It only encourages them. These small, pitiful, powerless creatures ought to make do on their own, as I always had. No one should have things handed to them.

It is so satisfying to flaunt my dominion and I am so kind, so generous. Like a loving father, I daresay.

They owe me so much more than their feeble minds can comprehend. They ought to pay me back, yet there isn’t much they could offer. I don’t require anything from anyone.

They could work for me, though I don’t need them to.

I can make them suffer to prove their value, hurt them to prove their strength, all the while demanding they shower me with praise and honor just to let them live. I could force them to worship me, to suffer, bleed and even die for me.

I could promise rewards for them in the next life, the life after life. They don’t know any better. They would believe every word.

And you know what?

I think I shall.

The owl always came at night, when the moon filled the endlessness that floated in on the breeze and rippled through the tall trees. Its feathers nearly completely white except for the streaks of amber brown, it perched on the branch closest to her bedroom window and shrieked its eerie call, beckoning her from the solitude of her bed. Thus each night, Luna rose and walked on bare feet to the open window to search the barn owl’s piercing golden eyes, as if therein lay some deep-seated and powerful omen that would bring her fulfillment of desires for which she did yearn.

Tonight was no different; the owl was there, calling to her yet again. His echoing screech reverberated through Luna as she watched him from where she leaned against the windowsill, the sheer curtain a whimsy film that fell behind her, silhouetting her slim figure in the dim light. In amusement, the faintest smile flickering upon her lips, Luna whispered the word ‘hello’. The owl twisted his head completely sideways as if attempting to return her greeting and sweet smile. In response, Luna’s smile grew, and she watched as the massive bird straightened and plumped his feathers, seemingly immensely pleased by her warm welcome. With one loud shriek of apparent joy, the owl spread his wings wide, lifted from the branch, and flew off into the night. She followed the owl’s beautiful image against the backdrop of the full moon until she lost sight of his flight. This owl was undoubtedly exceptional, both in appearance and apparent intellect, and Luna had to admit that the bird made her feel quite special when he returned night after night as if eager to visit her in the stillness of the moonlight.

Slowly, she retraced her footsteps to the bed and lay upon its softness, pulling the covers to her chin to ward off the chill that had crept into her slender frame. It had been a rather strange day, and she had not felt herself in many ways. It was unusual for her to leave dishes on the table from a scarce eaten dinner, but she had done so, telling herself that she would clear them in the morning. Next to the dishes lay an array of colorful flowers she had picked from her spring garden that afternoon but had not managed to place in the antique porcelain vase on the table’s center. Her strength had waned, and despite the desire to do much, Luna had instead sought the comfort of her bed earlier than usual this warm spring evening.

Immensely tired, she drifted off to sleep again, thoughts unbidden of the mysterious owl filling her dreamlike state. Was he indeed truly a bird, she wondered? A fierce predator of the night? To her, he seemed to be much more like a mythical creature of endearing beauty and affection that Morpheus sent to her window each night to fill her aching soul and need for love in her less than satisfying, solitary world. Luna released a sigh through tender lips and hugged the pillow. Instinctively, she knew that the owl had returned and watched her from his perch on the branch outside, as if to guard her as she slept. A soft smile upon her lips, contentment filled her as sleep invaded, and she dreamt a dream that arose from long held, deep desires.

************************************

Luna was walking barefoot through the forest as the brilliance of a full moon rose in the sky and lit her way in the stillness of the warm night. It was as though her name had foretold of the promise of such a magical time. With each step, she could feel the coolness of the earth beneath her feet, her toes sinking into the blades of grass. A colorful plethora of flowers spread across the ground and shrubbery, into the woods as far as the eye could see. Her fingers lightly trailed the tops of the foxgloves and ferns that grew all about as she wandered. It was such a beautiful, mythological world of enchantment that her heart swelled with a peace she had long forgotten. She did not know where she was, but she knew she had no desire to return to her former abode. There was no doubt that this was heaven, and she was well pleased to remain here in the cradle of nature’s welcoming hand. She had never felt more at peace or more at home in her twenty-four years.

She came upon a clearing in the splendor and quiet of the forest, the moon shimmering to reveal a multitude of freshly bloomed bleeding hearts and sweet woodruff blossoms. She inhaled deeply of their fragrance and spun about in elation, her sheer and filmy dress mimicking her movements in a dance of visual delight. Growing a bit light-headed, she paused in her celestial dance and became suddenly alert as instinct and nothing more told her she was no longer alone. She saw no one and nothing, but nonetheless, she knew someone watched her. Her breathing escalated as she continued to peruse her surroundings in search of whomever it might be.

In silence, she stood for several long minutes, the sound of her rapid heartbeat the only thing that filled her ears. Then, of a sudden, an eerie sound abruptly broke the stillness of the moonlit night; a screeching echo, a foretelling of promises not yet fulfilled. Her heart beat faster still as she continued to search, but to no avail for who or what had made the high-pitched noise.

Suddenly, the leaves behind her rustled, and she pivoted swiftly to watch as a perfectly formed, beautiful creature appeared to leap from the trees high above to land only a mere foot before her. He was tall and lean although he gave an overall appearance of being massive at first glance. He was fair in color with hair the shade of fine-spun gold amidst streaks of amber and aquiline features in a face that was quite appealing to any observer. His eyes, a deeper gold in the night, watched her with an unabashed intensity that made her breathing labored and her heart beat faster still. His stare seemed to pierce her with an all-knowing awareness, and she shivered beneath his intense regard despite the warmth of the evening.

The quiet hung betwixt them for long moments as the moonlight hovered all around, swirling and whispering echoes of greeting in the night. Eventually, Luna managed a faint nod and the hint of a smile. “Hello,” she whispered, her voice softly lyrical as it floated across the dew-filled air.

The stranger seemed to straighten to an even more impressive height at her lightly spoken greeting, as if immensely pleased by the timbre of her voice. He stepped nearer still, the intensity of his gaze never faltering as he turned his head to the side as if to gauge her all the better. Oh, but he was a handsome creature, as though derived in golden beauty from the Gods above!

He stood only mere inches before her and continued to watch her without interruption. His lips eventually curved in a broad smile as he straightened his head and returned her greeting. “Hello, Luna,” he murmured with a deep voice that was as silky as the most expensive woven fabric. “I have been awaiting your arrival.” He swept his arm from his broad chest as if to welcome her to his forest.

Luna managed a small laugh at his words. “You’ve been awaiting my arrival? How so when even I did not know I would be arriving?”

He smiled again – that ever glorious smile that only served to enlighten his already appealing visage. “My dear, time foretells all things, and your arrival has long since been foretold.”

Not giving her a chance to fully understand the words he spoke, he began to move past her, lightly touching her hand to encourage her to follow. “Come, my child of the moon. You must meet Aurelia and all the others. They, too, have been anxious for your arrival.”

Without a doubt, she was mesmerized. Mesmerized by this man’s appearance, his words, and even his lithe movements. Without hesitation, she quickly followed, noticing his stealthy gait as he moved swiftly through the brush and forest. It was nearly as though his feet hardly touched the ground, so precipitous were his movements. He seemed to be flying unlike her whose feet crossed the earth to move. It was a struggle at best to keep up with his steady gait.

Questions surfaced in the back of her mind. Where was she and where was he taking her? Here she was, blindly following someone she did not know to a place about which she knew absolutely nothing. Had she lost her senses? No, she did not think she’d lost all reason. Instead, she felt a pull beyond understanding to accompany this beautiful nymph of a man through the forest to wherever he might lead. He had mentioned someone else. What was that person’s name? Aurelia? Who could Aurelia be and why was she awaiting her arrival?

“Sir,” she called after him. He paused in his pursuit only slightly and cocked his head to peer back at her as he continued on his path.

“Yes?” he inquired without stopping.

“Whom might Aurelia be?”

He smiled back at her. “She is one with the forest and with nature. You will be most pleased to make her acquaintance, as will Aurelia be to make yours.” He gave her a small wink with his words, as if there was a promise of more secrets yet to be divulged. Or perhaps more so to assure her that there was nothing to fear. “Come, we must hurry, Luna.”

He continued to call her Luna. How on earth did this beautiful creature know her name?

“Sir, might I impose upon you to ask yet another question?” Luna’s breath was labored now in her efforts to keep up with his quick pace.

At this point, the man stopped, so suddenly that Luna nearly collided with his broad chest as he turned about to face her. He cocked his head to the side again, his amber eyes alert, to emphasize his word. “Yes?”

Luna rocked back on her heals and attempted to steady herself, gather her thoughts, and catch her breath all at once. “Good sir, you know my name, but I fear I do not know yours,” she finally managed, keenly aware of his continued and intense perusal.

“Indeed, you are correct,” he said with a bit of humor now lacing his words. “We have not been officially introduced. My name is Strix for I am a creature that inhabits the moon filled night. Yet, my dear, are you quite sure you do not know me?”

Luna observed the golden creature of a man before her as he continued to watch her as if to further gauge her reaction to the words he spoke. She studied him closely, peering into his amber colored eyes, overcome by the darkness in their golden depths. Suddenly, she gasped aloud. Yes, she did know him. Here and now, before her in the flesh of a man’s body, stood her nocturnal visitor, the beautiful barn owl. “You?” she managed to whisper, her voice filled with wonder and delight at the realization of who this beautiful creature actually was.

At her recognition, the smile on his face grew, and Strix broadened his chest to its full breath and scope. He was obviously quite pleased by her realization of the truth.

“Come, we must go,” he said after only a moment, taking her hand before he turned back about, beginning to move without delay toward his destination again. There was no doubt that this was his home, and he knew exactly to where he was going even if she did not.

Luna could not diminish the smile that filled her face as she continued to follow behind her owl - or behind Strix. Sheer delight filled her to the brink until she thought she might burst. Her special owl was here in the moonlight, with her, and he was embodied in the guise of a man. And such a beautiful specimen he was! It was nigh unbelievable. She had always known that there was something incredibly special about the barn owl that visited her each night, but little had she known that he was a mythological creature who lived in a forest of enchantment. Nor had she realized that one day she would be introduced to his wonderful world and be able to converse with him as she would any other.

After walking a good distance, they reached a large clearing. The moonlight was bright in this spot and easily filled its perimeter. Strix halted and pulled Luna a bit closer to his side. “Do not be frightened,” he said reassuringly as he watched her survey her surroundings. She nodded. She felt his nearness and felt secure, unafraid. His touch was an oxymoron; firm and yet silky soft, offering the reassurance he intended.

Looking around, Strix made a small sound, much like the familiar shrieks she had heard before, but this time, it was much softer than she'd ever known it to be. Within mere seconds, the leaves began to rustle and the branches of the trees and shrubbery moved to reveal more than a dozen woodland creatures emerging from their hidden depths. Leading them, was the most illuminating, beautiful woman Luna had ever seen. She wore a sheer, creamy gown that gleamed bright white in the moonlight. Her hair fell to her knees and was nearly white as well, and she shimmered with a silver aura. Flowers filled the woman’s hair and also created a wreath about the top of her head. She moved with a delicacy born of woodland nymphs and fairies that flutter about the flower strewn English gardens. Luna was transfixed and could look at none other save this beautiful enchantress of a creature emerging from the depths of the forest. This must be Aurelia, their queen. She was most certainly one with the forest and the earth, and she was thoroughly divine and most enchanting.

Aurelia smiled a brilliant smile as she walked toward Luna, stopping before her and leaning to press a kiss upon Luna's cheek in greeting. The sensation from her lips moved through Luna’s body and warmed her as much as any sun-drenched afternoon in the throes of summer.

“Hello, Luna, you are most welcome. We are delighted that you have at long last joined us in our enchanted world. Our home shall always be your home, my dear.” As she spoke, Aurelia placed a wreath of lily white flowers upon Luna’s head. “You are so lovely, my child,” she said as she stepped back to survey the fruits of her handiwork.

Luna was transfixed, nearly forgetting to breathe. “Thank you,” she managed to say, feeling awkward and inadequate with her words. She had never met the queen of the forest before, after all. Here was someone and something so unreal and unimaginable that she wanted to pinch herself to assure she was not dreaming. She had thought herself beyond further surprise after meeting Strix, but she could not have been more mistaken.

Aurelia smiled at her. “You are not dreaming, Luna. We are all quite real and present in this very moment of time. Come. You must meet our friends for they are your friends, too.”

Luna realized her thoughts were no longer solely her own and that here, everything was known to all, or at least to Aurelia. Still, she eagerly accepted the hand that Aurelia extended, and they moved to meet the woodland friends that filled the flower filled clearing.

Aurelia took her to a multi-colored creature. The creature was lovely and appeared light as a feather; she was unlike any other. “Here is Flutter, one of your garden’s loveliest butterflies. She speaks so fondly of your gentleness, Luna. And this is Quodora," she continued, pointing at another multi-colored creature. "She is the sweet little hummingbird that flits about your garden and drinks of its flowers’ nectar nearly every spring day.”

Wide eyed, Luna could only stare in abject wonder as Aurelia continued to move with ease about the clearing and woodland creatures, introducing all those that she known in different forms at her previous home. They were now well-suited to their humanlike forms, living deep in this forest, and Luna recognized each and every one of them. More surprisingly, they were all welcoming her to their enchanted playground. She met Lepus, the little brown rabbit that she had watched hop through the fields day after day. He was famous for eating her garden’s vegetables on a regular basis. There was also Equis, her beautiful black stallion that loved to roam the meadows. As she met him, he bowed his head in a bid for an affectionate touch. And there, upon the clearing’s edge, was Luce, the grey wolf that she always saw in the far distance across the fields. The wolf was still just as imposing in his new form, but there was no fear of anything or anyone here in this wonderful place. It was a world ripe for newly discovered pleasures and creatures, and there was nothing but love, joy, and accord amongst them all.

While there was a vast array of woodland creatures, there were also those creatures that were mostly composed of the earth’s elements and features. There was Peony, Fleur, Bumble, Estrelita, Ripple, and Lumina, whose sheer radiance embodied the glow of the sun. There were other owls in addition to Strix with names like Tuto, Ule, and Otos, but none was as handsome as her special one. Strix was without a doubt more breathtakingly beautiful than the fairest bird or any other creature she’d ever seen.

After speaking with many of her woodland friends, Luna helped herself to a cup of aromatic wine and turned to wander about in search of Strix. She found him at last, lounging nonchalantly by a massive tree on the edge of the clearing, staring at her as he had done since he’d first come across her in the midst of her celestial dance. Indeed, she wondered if he ever paused in his reflection of her, so intense was the look he gave her each time she spotted him from afar. She smiled a bit shyly and moved to stand beside him. He cocked his head in that now very familiar way and returned her smile. She searched her mind for the right words to say to him. There was so much within her heart.

“I wish you’d brought me here sooner,” she finally spoke before sipping of her wine, her nerves aflutter with something akin to exultation as she stood so close beside him.

“You weren’t ready,” Strix replied without elaboration, still watching her.

Luna nodded. “You may be right, but I am ready now. I am so very ready,” she said with an astute awareness as she returned the intensity of his amber gaze.

Luna knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the world she’d left behind no longer held an appeal for her. No, she could not leave this incredulous woodland family now that she’d come to know them - they were simply too wonderful. It would prove to be sheer devastation to return to her previous life for it held nothing of importance any longer. She could not begin to think upon it, so great was her fear that tonight would end and tomorrow she would find herself back in the grasp of reality, alone again in her former, solitary life. No, it would not do. She could not – would not – leave this enchanted world. Here was the family that she craved with her entire soul and that she felt she’d always known. Here was heaven and it was perfection personified. Peace filled her and a contentment she’d never experienced rose up inside, sufficing her face with a new, brilliant light.

At her words, Strix reached out a long, lean finger to lightly touch Luna’s chin, lifting it ever so slightly as he watched the light that filled her eyes and covered her face with a new brilliancy. She was glowing, and at long last, truly a child of the moon. His golden eyes shone with a deeper intensity and undying affection. “Yes, my sweet child of moonlight. I believe you are at long last ready.”

With those words, he pulled her into the crook of his arm, as if covering her with his widespread pinions, and Luna knew she was home at last and precisely where she longed to be. Here was her beautiful and unique owl who would always protect her, never leave her, and reside fiercely by her side forevermore.

*********************************

It was late in the afternoon, on the brink of twilight, the following day when Luna’s sister, Moira, happened by her sister’s cottage to visit for a short while. It had been weeks since she’d heard from or seen Luna, and the sister was beginning to worry that Luna was not well. It was not unusual for her sister, a dreamer, to stick to herself, but nonetheless, it worried Moira when she did not have any interaction with her sister over extended periods of time. After all, Luna had not seemed herself since her husband’s passing two years earlier, and Moira was repeatedly concerned for her sister’s well-being. Thus, this day, she had imposed upon her kind neighbor to watch her young children for a brief period while she checked on Luna, Moira hurried along to the cottage in hopes of reassuring herself that Luna was well and simply enjoying her solitary life in contentment as she usually did.

As Moira entered the cottage, she noticed that there was an assortment of dishes and food upon the table. It was evident that Luna had not finished her meal nor had she tidied up after partaking of the little she’d eaten. There were dying flowers lying on the table as well. Lightly Moira touched the flowers, aware that they had been plucked from the garden only a brief day or so before. The place had a look of being nearly forsaken. Worriedly, Moira made her way up the steep, narrow staircase, calling her sister’s name all the while. Her eyes were full of concern as she continued her search, hoping to locate her missing sister and find that all was well.

Moira came upon Luna’s bedroom and found the door slightly ajar. With increasing trepidation, she eased the creaking door open and then gasped. There upon the bed, in the twilight, lay Luna, a smile upon her still and lifeless face. Moira hurried to her sister's side and lightly touched her cold forehead, unable to believe her eyes. From outside the open window, she was suddenly startled by a shriek of seeming dismay. Quickly, she went to the window where she found a handsome (the only word that came to her mind as she spied him) owl perched just outside on the tall tree’s branch. The owl peered at Moira with a look of inquisitive curiosity and continued to shriek his eerie cries, as if echoing the sorrow he saw reflected upon Moira’s face.

Finally, with one loud shriek, the bird turned his head sideways before it abruptly lifted and took off in flight. Moira watched the bird, transfixed by its majestic beauty despite the dismal situation she had just uncovered. The owl flew high in the sky creating a silhouette against the fullness of the rising moon. The moon, the beautiful full moon. Luna's mother had named her child for the moon, and Moira was sure that her sister was now at peace and one with the moon’s everlasting glow.

Moira quietly leaned out the window, tears streaming down her cheeks and whispered, “Fly away my beautiful, Luna, with your handsome owl. Fly across the meadows and fields. Fly high above the trees with your precious friend to the enchantment of what lies ahead. I pray you find eternal love.”

Eventually, Moira lost sight of the owl as it disappeared in the far distance. She gave a final glance at the fullness of the bright moon and then gently pulled the window shut and closed the curtains. Instinct told her the owl would not return. Moira wiped at her tears. It wouldn’t do to linger here or to wish for things beyond her ken. She had to trust that Luna was now in a place that would bring her much deserved joy and peace. Thus, with surety of purpose, she began to do what must be done.

To be honest, her co-workers were a little tired of hearing about Lacey's "artistic" abilities. Everyone in the factory knew Little Lacey Lockhart, though she had long since grown out of the “Little” sobriquet, and was now just Lacey, mostly. Many of those she worked with had known Lacey her whole life. After all, Jefferson was a town of only 13,000 people, and the Lockhart girls were a staple at Lacerno’s Manufacturing. Both Lacey’s mother and her grandmother had also toiled their lives away in this factory. Big Lacey was one of the originals, in fact, having started way back when Old Man Lacerno first got the government grant that allowed him to mass produce socks and gloves for the boys in the war; a necessary if not very profitable commodity, which explains the change.

In defense of her co-workers, Lacey had never in her life exhibited to them any talent for anything whatsoever, artistically or not, so who could have foreseen her change? Being Southerners, they were too polite to laugh when Lacey said she wanted to be an artist, but she stopped saying it all the same, because what they did was worse than laughing. They ignored her. They looked at her like she was daft before returning to their trivial conversations, as if she hadn’t said anything at all. What they didn’t know however, what none of them could know, was that Little Lacey Lockhart did indeed have an artistic bent. Funny thing was, she herself did not yet know what her special talent was, but she was certain that there was one hidden inside her, and that it would eventually manifest itself. The people around her did not believe in her just yet, but they would soon find out, for the fates were ready to reveal that Lacey’s confidence was well placed… in an off-hand sort of way.

The eight-to-four factory shift was a drudgery that, like everyone else at the factory, Lacey suffered because she must. There is nothing exciting, nothing fun about manufacturing surgical gloves, but the only other option in these parts was to work ten hour days in a cotton, or rice field. Most of those employed by Lacerno had already been there and done that; many of them still carried the scarred hands and wrinkled faces to prove it. Even still, despite the lack of better options, Lacey hated the factory. She hated the smell of the melting latex. She hated the loud machinery. She hated the thin strips of rubbery plastic that littered the floors and were impossible to sweep up with a broom. She wondered did anyone upstairs in the offices really believe that a tenure badge paper-clipped to her apron was motivational? Lacey Lockhart was neither blind, nor was she an idiot. Here she was, a young woman killing herself working overtime hours down on the hot factory floor while there were big shots were sitting right upstairs in their air conditioned offices raking in company cars and bonus checks! Lacey could hardly even muster the will to drag herself in to work most days, but the ugly truth was that she needed this job. There was nothing better. And so she suffered the humiliations of sprinting full speed through the front doors every morning until she was made into the break room laughingstock, always late to punch the time-clock. The “Coaching and Counseling” sessions were adding up. Lacey was down to her final, Final Warning when The Lacerno Manufacturing Company, “Lacerno; Shaping Latex for Your Future” announced the start-up of a new division. When construction on the new wing began the rumors flew, everyone being curious about what products they would be making, and what changes would be coming from those products (there is nothing so dreadful to a country person as change, which is the true reason they are so interested in the weather). The workers watched wide-eyed as newfangled, automated equipment was brought into the new wing and assembled there, until soon the giant, empty space was cluttered up with gleaming chrome conveyors, and contrivances. Once that was done, the speculation of hours-upon-days turned to the equipment's many possible functions and purposes. This guesswork continued right up until the announcement was finally made. To Lacey’s amazement it was the most unbelievable of the hundreds of rumors that was true! Lacerno was about to begin manufacturing sex toys for women. Finally, something in this shit-hole place that even a lowly quality control girl could get excited about!

Surprisingly, her transfer request to the new division was accepted. Lacey assumed it was because “Fucking Margaret” her supervisor wanted to get rid of her, but it didn’t matter why, did it? Not when there was finally something to show up to work for besides Hawaiian shirt Friday, or the quarterly pot-luck luncheon with it’s six crockpots full of the same Piggly-Wiggly beanie-weenies.

From this point, Lacey’s transformation happened so fast it was startling to those other tenured employees who knew her so well. The cause of the change they suspected, although it was not as obvious as it appeared on the surface level. There were some chuckles at first, of course, but the chuckles didn’t last, because no matter the reason behind it the change was real. Little Lacey, after years of indolence, had suddenly become engaged in her work. She was motivated. She was no longer the laughing stock who sprinted through the doors at 8:10 am just to keep her job. She stopped calling in sick. Her long bathroom breaks ended. She started making time for her training, wanting to familiarize herself with the new machinery, and their new procedures. She even began caring about the things most of the other workers on the assembly line considered trivial bullshit; like higher efficiency, safety, and that ethereal ideal of “the bottom line” that everyone always heard about, but no one ever saw. But the truly amazing day for them, the day that stunned them all, was that morning pep-rally when Lacey, the quietest one on the line, began pitching in some ideas. Lacey Lockhart spoke up! She did so, and soon afterward an even crazier thing happened. To the astonishment of everyone at Lacerno Manufacturing, worker and supervisor alike, Little Lacey Lockhart got promoted!

What the others didn’t know was that it was not the product itself that sparked the change in Lacey, as they all suspected, but rather it was her disappointment in that product. Lacey’s order was one of the very first ones taken by Lacerno’s mail-order department. The girls in Shipping and Receiving had snickered when they saw Lacey's name on the outbound printed shipping label, but the snickers quickly died as those who were snickering secretly plotted orders of their own.

For her part, Lacey‘s heartbeat pounded to a stop when she arrived home from the factory that day to find the plain, brown package waiting on her apartment’s landing. Embarrassed at what she had done, she grabbed it up before the neighbors could see, and she hurried inside with it, lest they guess what the package contained. She had a creepy feeling, like she was being watched, as she cut the tape on the outer shipping box. All the while her anticipation was increasing, but to add to the already palpable suspense, before opening it she set the package down on the coffee table and hurried off to the bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes. Next off came her t-shirt, her jeans, and what little was underneath them. She flung on her bathrobe, and hurried back to the living room, although she was still unready to give way to her excitement. She figured she’d might as well make an evening of it, so instead of tearing it open she headed into the kitchen, where she filled an antique, colorfully striped iced tea glass with straight vodka over ice. Finally ready, she took a few steeling sips before perching herself on the very edge of the sofa, giving her pounding heart a moment to adjust to the titillating gift that Lacerno Manufacturing, of all the unlikely gift-givers in the world, had sent to her front door... for a small fee.

She removed it from the packing paper slowly, carefully, as if it was fragile (which of course it was not) and held it gently in both of her hands. To be perfectly honest, it’s appearance left something to be desired. It was smooth, almost industrial looking, and as colorless as the surgical gloves she had spent the past four years inspecting for faults. She rubbed her fingers along it’s length, her guilty shame forcing her to check the window blinds as she did so. It felt cold, lifeless in her hands. She sighed, already a tad disappointed with her new “toy” before she had even put it to it’s intended use. She set it back on the table and picked up her vodka glass. She watched it laying there as she drank; a dead, plastic thing. The vodka seemed more alive, and was touching her deeper inside than the plastic phallus, so she took a larger gulp, a gulp large enough that she picked the thing back up with a renewed, and inebriated determination. She parted her legs, letting the bathrobe fall away off to the sides as she closed her eyes. She rubbed the tip of it against herself, and was soon breathing differently; slower, deeper. Twenty minutes later Little Lacey was neither satisfied, nor disappointed, but she was not elated, and she should have been elated. She deserved that, didn’t she? Some elation? Yes, it did function; the thing did what it was supposed to do, but then so could the handle of her hair brush have done that, or a hundred other things lying around her apartment were she gross enough to use them. It was then that Lacey had her epiphany. She looked at the sorry looking dick for a long while, feeling the change happening within herself, waiting to find out just what it was that was happening to her as a new determination filled her insides, finally settling itself as firmly and deeply in there as the vodka had. It was right here, in her little apartment, alone on her couch, her robe tussled under her bare bottom, buzzed with vodka and exhausted by a hard earned orgasm, that Lacey Lockhart’s calling finally struck her. ”Don’t worry,” she said to it as she set it back in the box. “Momma knows what to do. I swear to God, I am going to either turn you into something worth the money I shelled out for you, or I am going to kill myself trying!” If only Lacey had known how prophetic those words would prove to be for her, just as they would be for her new ”little friend”.

Lacey knew what to do, what she didn’t know was how to do it. The guys in “Casting” were surprised when Lacey Lockhart, the newest and least likely supervisor at Lacerno, started hanging around their shop after her own shift was over. “I am interested in what you guys do, is all. Teach me.” So they did. They showed her how to make the clay molds, how to heat the latex, and how to pour it. The work had to be done in reverse, like looking into a 3-D mirror, but she quickly became adept. Learning new skills is easy when there is love in the labor. She started hanging out longer, and longer still, loving the design challenges the molds provided. She was doing their jobs for them, so the boys were happy to let her stay. She was a sponge, peppering them with infernal questions, questions they themselves did not know the answers to, but they did notice that, ever so slowly the shape of the final product was changing. It developed natural looking folds and veins, and a larger ridge down it’s center. She gave it girth, contour, and a smooth, contoured head. They were more-so visual improvements she added, rather than practical, but Lacey knew that they were improvements that would add to the overall experience, none-the-less. The guys found it amusing, watching as she did their jobs better than they could. They jabbed each other with their elbows and smirked at her test products, but Lacey had learned well from her own escapade, and what she had learned was that a girl wants something naughty to peek out at her when she opens that box; not just a tool to do a job. What a girls wants is the fantasy, and the tool to help her realize that fantasy. What a girl wants is some shock and awe when her Jack-In-The-Box pops. She wants to feel a little bit naughty, dirty even. She wants it all, she wants to be swept away in her risque moment alone. A girl wants a pleasurable experience that was created just for her.

Once she had learned all the boys could teach her about casting the molds, Lacey made her way over to Research and Development. “We have sold over 800 units now,” she told them as she gathered the team around her. “How many of the buyers have we surveyed about their, uh, experience with the product?” Her question was met with crickets… just as she suspected. The three women and two men who made up the department looked sheepishly at one another, avoiding Lacey’s eyes at all costs. After all, who wants to be the one to survey a customer about how well their new dildo worked?

“Not one of them?“ She asked incredulously. “So we have no idea if our customers enjoyed using our product? Well, have you at least tried the product yourselves, then?” The women’s faces grew red, and the the men’s redder still. “Come on, people! Are you being serious? You haven't even tried them out? You are Research and Development, for Christ’s sake! Try the damned thing! Everyone, right now, pick one up! Feel it! Touch it! Put it in your mouths! What are you waiting for? Go on! Do it!”

She wasn’t their boss, but Lacey was a supervisor… and she wasn’t wrong. They were Research and Development. It was awkward, but Lacey picked one up with them, leading them by her example, so they followed her. Together they held the toys up and touched them. Lacey had each of them stroke theirs, and lick it. One woman even tried rubbing hers lovingly against her cheek, as she did at home with her husband. The giggling slowly died out as the room took on a more serious, more experimental vein.

"Ok, people! So what does it feel like?”

”It feels cold and hard, almost like metal,” the one who had rubbed her cheek offered with a smirk.

”Exactly, Kendra! Guys, what do you think? Does it feel like your own?”

They shook their heads in unison. “Why not? What is wrong with it?”

”Kendra’s right. It’s too cold. It doesn’t feel like skin.”

”Especially not like hot skin!” The other guy on the team blurted out, and then buried his face in his arms.

”No, Eugene! Don’t be embarrassed! You are absolutely right! Well. There you go then, boys and girls. Fix it! Make it feel right!” And she left them to it, thrilled at the clamorous sounds of excited activity she was leaving behind her. The team in Research and Development was on a mission! She made a mental note to stop in tomorrow to check on their progress. “Who ever knew,” she wondered to herself, “how much fun work could be?”

The Human Resources Office was one room that Lacey was more familiar with, one she had visited many times before, back when she was still making surgical gloves; back in a time that she now thought of as her “past life” when she bothered to think of it at all. Their initial reaction to her when she entered came as looks of surprise, and approval. Gone were her jeans and t-shirt. In their place Lacey wore a business suit, and sensible, shiny, work appropriate shoes. The office was small, but she noticed that they had already slid in a third chair for her. “So,” Lacey thought to herself. “They are prepared.”

Well. So was she! She set the box she brought in with her down on the floor next to her feet.

”Lacey!” Maximilian Lacerno, Jr.’s voice boomed in the little room. “Just what is it y’all are up to down there? What is happening to my… ummm… to our product? I can hardly recognize it anymore, as it has taken on a vulgar shape, and tone! We are a Christian company, Lacey Lockhart! Where did y‘all get approval to make these changes, and who is going to pay for them?”

”Well, Mr. Lacerno. You did make me a supervisor. When you did so, you empowered me to make changes that would improve profitability, did you not?”

”Profitability, yes! Design, no! My God Lacey, you even have them changing the packaging? Do you have any idea how much all of this is going to cost? I must ask again, who approved these changes?”

”I did, sir.”

”You did? Our newest, and lowest ranking supervisor approved a million dollars worth of changes to a product that had a million dollars worth of research in it already? Lacey, I knew your mother. She’s the reason why you have this job, bless her soul. But this is preposterous! What do you think she would say about this new design? It is indecent! She would be mortified if she was still with us! Just what do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to figure out a way to inject color, Mr. Lacerno.“

”Do what?”

It needs a pinkish tint. A hard dick is full of blood. It is a thing alive; not a sickly, pallid yellow. It needs blue in the veins, and purple on the head, muted colors, of course. Do that, and we will sell millions of units… not thousands. We will have to convert the glove wing into another one for dildos, just to keep up with demand. That is what you should help me do! That is what I expect you to do. Do that and revenue won’t just double. It will quadruple. Isn’t that what we all are here for?”

”Lacey, we cannot do this.”

”Mr. Lacerno, we can do it. Most of it is already done. Let me show you something.” Lacey picked the box up from the floor, and set it on the desk. Mrs. Winslow, the HR Director, had stayed silent up until now, but she leaned forward as Lacey removed the lid from a pretty box made up of leather and lace, the kind of box a girl might want to keep close to her nightstand. Inside, two dildos lay side by side, one a pallid yellow dork, the other, although slightly exaggerated in size, was so life-like that it nearly pulsed out at them from the box.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Mrs. Winslow’s palm went over her heart, as if to prevent it’s stoppage. Mr. Lacerno said nothing, but neither did his eyes leave the box.

”Mrs. Winslow? If you could order this one for twenty dollars, or this one for fifty, which one would you purchase?”

”Oh, my Heavens!” Mrs. Winslow’s expression was one of mortification, and shame.

“Mrs. Winslow? Are you all right? Calm down, Sweetie! It isn’t real. Look, it’s only a piece of plastic.” Lacey pulled it from the box, and held it toward Mrs. Winslow for inspection. Being less taut than the lesser model, almost pliable, the dick warbled ever so slightly in her hand, while still maintaining it’s erect shape. Lacey waved it around in front of them, to demonstrate it’s elasticity.

”Ooooohhhhh! Please don’t, Ms. Lockhart! Please stop!” Mrs. Winslow waved her palms at Lacey, apparently ready to cry. Lacey set her dick back on the desk, where Mr. Lacerno then reached out for it.

"Lord no, Mr. Lacerno! Not you, too!" Mrs. Winslow pushed her way through the crammed-in office chairs in a race for the restroom, for any escape from this lewd Hell that she found herself in.

"Nevermind her, Lacey. She was against this venture from the start." Mr. Lacerno turned it in his hands, holding it up close to his glasses. He set it back on the desk and bent his large frame over it, his mind going a million miles an hour, and in a million directions. He tried to imagine his wife with this... thing. A thing which no longer had the clinical appearance he had imagined, as though it were merely intended as a stress reliever, but it now held the naked appeal of raw sex. He wondered if his Nancy would like it? It was fairly large, bigger than he was, which was disconcerting to him. But was he being a ninny? It was a sex toy after all, not a "stress reliever". Perhaps he should take it home and let Nancy see it... maybe she could even try it? The thought actually brought a spark of jealousy with it, which tickled him so that he chuckled out loud, and without even realizing it. But he trusted his Nancy's moral judgement, as well as her business instincts.

"Ms. Lockhart, no matter what decision I make concerning this, you have done some amazing work here." He spoke as he continued his inspection.

It was time for Lacey to make her pitch. "Research and Development surveyed two-thousand women. 94% preferred the realistic model. This was in the Deep South, mind you, Mr. Lacerno. The Bible Belt. We are certain that the numbers would be over 98% in a more liberal part of the country."

"Really?" Mr. Lacerno straightened up from the desk, and leaned back in his seat.

"80% of those surveyed said they would purchase immediately."

"Hmmm. 80% of two-thousand!" She had his attention.

"At fifty dollars a unit."

"Fifty dollars! That was double what they were currently marketing at. The numbers raced through his head, and were startling."

She didn’t stop there. "Engineering is working on an ergonomic, attachable handle that will allow a woman to rest comfortably on her back while using it. They are getting close, but we could use some guinea pigs."

Guinea pigs? Where in the world would you find guinea pigs for this?

Lacey read his expression, and smiled politely at his naivety. "Don't worry. We'll find volunteers when we're ready." There were plenty of women right here in the factory asking her for a free product sample.

We are also working on a "pillow". We call it that for lack of a better word. They are designing the new handle’s mechanics so that it will also attach to a silica "body", something that a woman can place on her bed, and that will hold it erect, and will actually let the woman mount it. That was Eugene’s idea, and it was not a bad one. The whole team in R&D has been fantastic. They have been working with engineering, and some of the other departments. They have really bought all in!"

“Now,“ Mr. Lacerno mused to himself, “she is throwing in add-on sales revenue.” what was supposed to have been a "behavioral correction" conversation with a rogue employee was turning into quite a product pitch. "Lacey, how are you at sales? Do you think you could personally go into a convention and sell this thing?"

"I am passionate about it."

Maximillian Lacerno made up his mind. He was sold! Lacey Lockhart was indeed passionate. He felt that. Passion was something rarely seen in the business of rubbers and plastics. Her passion was so undeniable that it was spreading to him. He drummed the table with his fingers, a habit he had while thinking. He reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a business card.

"Well then, Let’s call you “Vice President” Lockhart for the time being. Figure out the dyes.” He handed the card across the desk to her. “Here is the name and number of someone who might help. Let me know the cost estimates before you agree to anything, but otherwise I will leave development in your capable hands. There is a show in Las Vegas in February. We are going to find out just how passionate you are, Miss Lockhart. You have certainly sold me. Why don't you hire and train two assistants to take with you? It will be too much for you to do alone. We'll talk about your new salary and bonus structure when I have had the opportunity to play with the numbers, but if this thing takes off, it will be commensurate.

Now, if you don't mind I will be leaving early today. I feel like celebrating! I suddenly find myself with a bright outlook for the future, and think I can afford an afternoon on the links. I will be taking this sample with me, to gather some, uh, research (wink) on my own with. I want to see what Mrs. Lacerno has to say about it.”

"I am sure she will enjoy it, Sir."

"Let's say nothing of that. Nice work, Ms. Lockhart. It sounds crazy, but I leave you in charge."

The Porsche Carrera was even whiter than the winter cotton that waved wildly in it’s slipstream as Lacey raced along the return highway from Memphis. It was the first thing Lacey did upon landing, was to take a taxi to the luxury car dealership. The car was her reward: her reward for her success in Vegas, her reward for the inspiration that got her there, her reward for stepping up to the plate and believing in herself. She thought of her mother as she drove, and her grandmother, and of all the women who toiled unrecognized in all the factories of the world, and then went back home to toil again in their unfulfilling bedrooms.

She wondered what Big Lacey would think of her now, if only she was alive to see it; alive to see that her grand-daughter had lived up to the Lacerno motto of, Shaping Latex for the Future, and to see that it was her own Little Lacey Lockhart, the quietest girl on the assembly line, who now swung the biggest stick at Lacerno's!

That was the chant that all the school kids chanted when he started 7th grade. Even though it had been years since he graduated college with his coding degree, that chant was something that he never forgot. It was not even that good of a chant, it was only that line "matty gone fatty" repeated over and over again.

During the summer before he started 7th grade, his family had a few deaths, two grandparents and a stillbirth, her name was going to be Alice. Alice Stone. Matthew Stone dealt with these deaths the same where that his parents did. He ate, and ate. By the time that school started, he had gained more than 66 pounds than when he finished 6th grade. He kept that fat until he started working out during his second year at college. He had taken a health class that semester, it probably helped a lot and probably would have helped a lot more if he had not started drinking. Drinking was his coping method now, a method that he was trying to quit.

"Thank you, my name is Matthew Stone," said Matty Fatty.

"Thank you Matthw Stone" the group said. Then the next guy started talking. His name was Albert Fintt. "Hi Albert Fintt" everyone in the group said. Then he started talking.

Ha, ha, Matty gone fatty. That was going to stay on Fredrick's mind for a while. It was a funny line. The chant kept going on in Fredrick's mind. It was more entertaining than what Albert was saying. The rest of the AA meeting went on uneventful with Fredrick mostly laughing to himself with the chant. He skipped his turn when it came time for him to talk, like always. The only reason he came was because his parents made it a requirement for staying at their place. He loved having to stay at his parent's place, but they offered it rent free as he recovered from his drinking problem. The problem that got him fired from his coding job when he came into work while drunk. He got fired while his coworkers, who were as high as pike's peak eating their special weed brownies, were kept on. He even heard that one of them got promoted. The boss's son. He knew there was a word for that, but he did not know the word for it. The word for when someone at work elevates a family member of friend instead of someone actually competent.

"Fredrick, did you have some thing you wanted to say. You look like you are thinking really hard." Fredrick had to look around for who spoke. It was the group lead, he could remember the guy's name. It might have been Mr Vlinntt.

"Oh, no sorry." Fredrick said. "I was just trying to think of what a specific would was.What do you call it, when.. when some one promotes or hires someone just because they are related or friends."

The group members looked around at each other, Matty Fatty was just stareing at the ground with his head in his hands. He was probably thinking about getting a late night snack on his way home. Then Albert spoke up. "Nepotism. I think the word you are thinking about is nepotism." Yep, that was it. He thanked him, telling that it was just something he had on his mind.

"Do you want to talk about? You never have spoken before at these meetings, this is kind of a break through," Mr. Vlinntt said.

Fredrick replied back. "No I don't think so, you continue on." He motioned for the last guy to continue.

Ha, Matty gone fatty, that was funny.

Around me was a veil of colorful bookshelves, closing me in on three sides. I was nestled in the corner of the bookstore’s lowest level, but could still see outside through a window because the store was built into a hill. There were separations between books in the bookshelves opening up cosmic holes to other dimensions; the trails left by whoever bought what was there before.

The lights burned yellow and turned the paper in my journal golden. My pencil danced with an awakened intensity. My skin was uncomfortably hot and my eyes were tired, but they lit up at the text performing on the paper. My sinister thoughts flowed out like the River Styx, my “incredibly imaginative and twisted mind,” as one reviewer called it, coming to life on the page.

I was sitting down on the stiff carpet with my back to the third bookshelf. Open on my lap was my newest work-in-progress novel, which I was writing by hand; to my left was an English dictionary and thesaurus, and to my right was my previous published work, critically acclaimed for its unique worldbuilding and vivid descriptions. “A magnificent debut.”

I looked through the holes in the bookshelves to get a shot of the wide window on the other side, overlooking the descending hill, now decorated by a street and a town. I remember when this building was first built, and people dressed in elegant attire or inventive costume would waltz inside because it began as an opera house. I remember when the willow trees outside were first planted, and their leaves began to droop more heavily as they grew. I remember when none of these buildings were here yet, and children would roll down the hill into the fields below. I remember when one of them shattered her head open, and I had to carry her up to the sky. I remember when the town didn’t even exist, and there was nothing but beautiful verdure for endless miles.

A crowd of angry people was marching up the road, carrying handwritten signs.

Every generation, I take a new name. And every generation, I write more books. Writing is my passion: twisting my existence and my truths into unique and creative stories, spreading the world of my origin to the world of humans. When I think back on all the names I have taken and discarded over centuries, I think about the impact their stories have had. Many of those names are still spoken today. They make me real.

But my true profession could not be ignored, and it was time to return. There was work to do. I returned my published novel to the shelf and gathered my possessions, covered myself in my cloak, and flew away.

Barely awake, and still wiping the crusty sleep from his eyes, a Policeman was showering in his bathroom. Steam from the hot water seeped through the porous curtain, wrapping the room in fog just as clouds were wrapping around his apartment like a python. The larger building next door cast a shadow over his, obscuring the grey sky. The world was bleak and lifeless, as if not a single star or planet had wanted to witness this day.

Hopping out of the shower, the Policeman stretched and flexed, tightening the skin throughout his body, which was less than muscular and paler than the moon. He shaved before the mirror and threw a few pills into his mouth—blood pressure and high cholesterol. Then, he buttoned up his striking blue uniform and donned his shimmering golden badge.

Appearing as a messenger of dread and advice is a job I enjoy far more than being a bringer of Death. It’s always so amusing to me, the confusion and fear on people’s faces when they meet Death for the first time, knowing it won’t be the last. Whether they accept the advice or not depends on a few factors, but being able to influence them without knowing exactly how: it’s entertaining.

The Policeman’s heavy boots forced deep imprints into the carpet as he stomped through his empty bedroom—no family, pets, houseplants, photographs, or decorations. Arriving in the den, which was also the kitchen and the living room, his heart stopped. He immediately pulled his standard-issue pistol from his belt and pointed it directly at me: the unexpected, shadowy figure standing in his living room.

Terror filled his eyes, now fully open and aware. He failed to speak for several seconds before managing to shout “Get out of my house! I will shoot!”

I strode out towards him, silently, like I was drifting on the air. Two ear-piercing shots were heard, phasing through my ghastly form and breaking a vase on the mantle. I pulled him an inch from my face, my curved, steel blade wrapping around him from behind. My resonant breaths lasted centuries and turned his ears into an echo chamber. His mortified countenance, I will remember for lifetimes.

“Let me give you some advice… some guidance…” I bellowed. “You are going to want to change your ways… or you will regret it.” My breath was like fire, boiling his skin, making him sweat. “I know all that you have done… all of your sins.”

He stood petrified like I was Medusa, his gun crumpled into my chest, unable to fire again, knowing it would be pointless even if he could. His skin was trembling violently, not only from the fear but from the cold aura expelled from my soul, twisting around my scathing breath, spinning a storm in his brain.

I twirled him in a circle with my scythe, initiating a dance with Death. I swiped my blade around in every direction, grazing his arms, legs, and neck, barely slicing his skin, causing single drops of blood to drip out, but nothing more. He was gasping violently when I caught him, and he dizzily fell backward against the wall and to his knees.

“I hope…” I whispered, “that you are closely aware of your decisions today.”

I dissipated into a smog, my every molecule fading away, and the Policeman was left nearly crying on the ground. When he finally brought himself to move, though he was still shaking, he didn’t have time to make coffee. He arrived at the station several minutes late.

An infernal pyre raged through the desolate crag, consuming all in its path, joining everything into its monstrous form until it could swallow the mountains themselves. The scarlet river snaked its way between the hills, across the endless countryside, devouring the fire with joy. Filling the red sky like stars were the spiked, evil Eyes of God. At the center of their gaze was a gaping ravine that curved around the Black Tower in its center, which ascended from the core of the earth ever upwards. It was spiked with cathedral spires and black flames.

A coven of cloaked creatures was circled in the summit of the structure. Their garbs were jet black, just like every other object that entered the ravine, the sole exception being their crowns, which were horned and glowed a brilliant, divine gold, mirroring excruciating light into the crevices of every black object there. The Grim were conversing, though not with sound but with the absence of it. In movement, they did not stir.

Nearby, the landscape sloped down into a pasture of hellish crops. Sticking up like scarecrows amongst the tall, stiff grain were laborers, their color all drained away from years, decades, perhaps millennia of torture. Their wrists, ankles, and necks were held taut by ethereal strings, caught on the other side by cloaked wardens. The reapers would cut the grass with their scythes and the slaves would load it into containers. There were millions of them, and monotony, stagnant time, was the only thing any of them knew.

But then, flowing through the field, there was a shining yellow light, flattening the wheat that was the tortured souls’ bane. They raised their heads to the figure, which was guiding a mob of angry shades behind it, and for perhaps the first time since death, their eyes lit up. The figure moved with great rapidity, spreading light into the eyes of the reapers, the slave drivers, and vaporizing them into piles of translucent cloth. It swung its golden sword in every direction, severing the ties that restrained the dead souls, and they began to rally behind it, joining the mob.

They continued to charge in the direction of the Black Tower, leveling the remainder of the wheat fields. They trampled over the blazing valley, flames scalding their feet, but they endured because they were free. Demons—lanky, impish creatures which wandered the lands of hell uncaged—reached out their fingers to stop them, but all succumbed before the golden blade.

High up in the counsel room, the Grim were still in debate. A constant howl flooded the room, only ceasing when one of them raised their hands and warped the soundwaves, letting the lack of sound speak for them. Finally, when they seemed to have come to a consensus, they started to descend the stairs single file...

The ravine finally came into sight, and the souls were tripping over each other to approach it. A long, black bridge with seemingly no support led across the bottomless abyss to the Tower’s entrance. On the cliffside, the flaming river plummeted and morphed from red to black, the fire changing color with it.

The army of souls pushed past their leader and flew towards the bridge, blind with fury. When they first crossed the threshold, their skinless skeletons began to wither into nothingness, crippled piles of sludge upon the ground. But then their leader entered behind them, and the golden light radiating from its sword reinvigorated them all. Nearly every tortured soul in the underworld stormed across the bridge, throwing down the Tower’s doors and bursting inside.

But there, at the entrance, wielding death and silence, the Grim were lying in wait.

I emerged back into reality on top of the hill, where the roads of the city square converged and City Hall stood. The group of protestors was congregated outside, yelling angrily, their signs painted with messages encouraging equality and justice. A significant portion of them were black. They faced a wall of police officers, side-by-side with flat, metal shields that read riot. One of them was the Policeman from earlier. I stood behind them, invisible now, watching the red eyes of the crowd.

From afar, it appeared unorganized, chaotic, but zooming in, I could hear repeated chants. Words spoken simultaneously, echoing across the crowd towards their opposition, often drowned out by layering sounds of anger. The attendees were so great in number that they filled up nearly the entire square, and they went so far that their tail end disappeared behind the hill.

Suddenly, the chanting seemed to muffle, and a figure climbed onto a pedestal, now standing over the crowd. He held a microphone and a paper, and his skin was the darkest of anyone there. All the protesters turned to face him; the ones nearest had to crane their necks. Even the policemen were staring, and I like to think that the politicians, wielders of the blades of law, who sat at the top of city hall, were watching too.

The man’s name was Elijah Marcus, and he commanded the ultimate attention of all around him. Everyone in the square was listening to him now. His dress was not polished; he wore torn jeans and a plain white shirt. However, he radiated an air of intense wisdom and refinement. He spoke in eloquent and ornate prose, and his words resonated through the crowd.

He preached about non-violence and equality, abstract concepts that crystallized into beautiful significance when converged with his poetry. He announced that all people should treat all others with respect no matter what the eyes see. That they should grow blind to color and judge everyone only on their character. That the only thing that truly divided them was government-gifted authority, and that if those without it are to respect those with it, those who have it should equally respect those who do not.

And then, I heard the shot. A booming explosion, shattering the minds of the front of the crowd. Elijah collapsed, and there was screaming, panic. 911 was called, and bystanders tripped over each other.

I shook my head. No one ever listens to my advice. Regretfully, I drew my scythe, wrapped it around Elijah’s soul, and pulled it upwards.

When I returned to the surface, it was chaos. The protestors were raging at the policemen, raising their fists, howling their criticisms. The other officers had distanced themselves slightly from the Policeman I had spoken to earlier, but none said anything about the smoking gun he had fired at Elijah.

Ambulances had arrived quickly; the crowd was in the middle of town, after all. But it had been hopeless. He was dead the moment the bullet hit him. Insults and slurs were flying in both directions, from both sides. Weapons were being created. There was most certainly violence. Police backup was arriving on the scene. Mourners were crowding around the body of their prophet as authorities attempted to zip him into a body bag.

That’s when the second shot rang out.

The policemen immediately leapt to the ground and tackled the protester who had a gun. They slammed their shields upon him repeatedly with murderous force, throwing off anyone who attempted to stop them. There were a dozen of them, all flattening this one man, their golden badges glimmering. The only policeman missing was the one who killed Elijah, who was lying on his back with his shield fallen over his face. Blood soaked the concrete around him. Horrified screams filled the air.

I sighed, sorrowfully, before rounding up the souls of the Policeman and his murderer and descending into the earth.

That night, I sat upon the porch of my cabin, looking out at my acres and acres of monochrome land, crumbling and cracking like a desert that suffered an earthquake. Bloody, violet grain seeped out from the crevices, bringing color to the field. Past my soil were bare, ominous trees, their branches protruding like arms. Even further in the distance, I saw mountains.

Words were once again flowing into my book like I was a river’s mouth, or a machine churning out products. I absorbed the atmosphere of this world, channeled it into my creativity. Focused on all the boldest differences between it and the bookshop, then the sharper, more subtle ones. One interviewer once asked me how I create such magical worlds, and I told him “to take someone somewhere, you must first go there yourself; let it totally consume you.” But, when I cannot envelop myself in the environment about which I am writing, I go to the most drastic opposite and invert it.

Some of the things in my novels, I sometimes wish were real. Periodically, I long for the companionship of the Grim who hold council in the Black Tower, in contrast to the solitude of my farmhouse and the inability to ever communicate with my fellow reapers. But some things I’m very happy are not true. I prefer the way they are in the real world…

My writing allows me to envision a world where things are different, for better or for worse. It lets me fantasize about spending time with others, about feeling the warmth of human love. And then, I can flip on my head and conceive the most vicious realities possible, and remind myself how well I have it here.

Death is not someone people love. People hate Death, reflect their anger onto it. Some believe I do not even exist, my true form being that of a faceless, uncontrollable phenomenon of nature. But by publishing my stories, I can live in the human world, feel the embrace of admiration. I can live forever, and be beloved by the population because they can no longer deny that I am real.

Idly, I stood up from my desk and wandered into the field. I drew my sickle and started chopping down bales of the reddish crop, which resembled amaranth. The shreds drifted out into the air, spiraling in the wind, the screams of the damned. Nobody tended these pastures, nobody harvested them, and nobody ate from them. They existed solely to give my house some scenery, and often they grew to the height of a bleeding jungle.

Once I had cut myself a path through the meadow, I continued walking. My feet kept dragging me further, off into the wilderness of eternally comatose trees and smoldering earth. Finally, I drew my blade and cut open a pocket in the universe, and I stepped through, emerging on the other side.

Above the clouds, and higher still, the knights of Heaven were lining up into grids. The cold and powdery substance beneath their feet, like the snow upon the mountaintops that made up the closest pieces of earth to them, they called sand. Around them were white, cubic tents, where many provisions and tools were stored.

At the head of each squadron, angelic generals began to bark commands, wearing veils of a clear, soft silver, their wings glowing faintly in the sun, which burned more brightly here than any place on earth. Slowly, the soldiers began to march, their golden spears and swords shining like God’s lightning. Some attached them at their waists; others raised them into the air in a display of authority.

They walked a great distance across fluffy but barren paths that resembled a desert. The heat was making valiant attempts to destroy them, but a little heat was nothing to the holy warriors chosen by God. They came across the Temple of Eyes, where the angels known as the Eyes peered down at the world—the surface and beneath it as well—with their telescopes, scanning for sinners. Angels disguised as magnificent and violent vultures soared over their heads like comets.

They rearranged formation when they arrived at a gushing, golden waterfall, its production as bountiful as spring. It flowed relentlessly from above their heads into a hole in the clouds, going for so great a distance that neither its top nor its bottom could be seen. The generals beckoned, and at their command, the knights leapt into the vertical river, falling for eternity.

One after another, they flew past columns of clouds, then wall-like mountains, then the blue sky of the surface, then the brown dirt and gray stone of the crust, and splashed into the yellow pool far below, shattering it like a crystal. The pond filled a grotto lit only by its honey-like liquid, and dark shadows danced on the rocks jutting out from the ceiling.

On the shore, depressed souls stood single-file in their faded, grey cloaks, chained together by invisible ropes made of an oppressive material, inching forward every few minutes like a traffic jam. A reaper at the front, who paid no mind to the incomers from heaven, dipped a cup into the pond and spilled its golden contents into the mouths of each prisoner. Upon consumption, they transformed, their coverings solidifying into shiny, light-colored metal, and their eyes becoming mad and deranged.

After all the knights landed, they congregated on the shore and listened further to the intense orders of the angels. They were all handed goblets, which they dunked into the water and drank from, reinstilling in them the pleasure of power. Elation washed over their faces as they were reminded of the heavenly feelings brought about by authority.

As the generals led them out of the cavern and emerged into the flaming underworld, the darkness weighing down on them like a heavy sheet, the generals’ words rang in their ears. “It is their fault. They are the cause. It is our job to eliminate them.” In the moment of looking back before the grotto was completely out of sight, the soldiers could see the reaper from before drink from the pool, and morph into a radiating, feathered angel.

From the moment the sky had become visible, the Black Tower had been in their sights, and they marched along the bank of the crimson river toward it. Their steel attire conducted the fiery heat, making them even hotter here than beneath the sun itself. The Eyes looking down on them seemed to smile, as well as eyes can smile. The black jewels which dotted the knights’ golden armor gleamed more brightly down here than they did anywhere in Heaven.

Finally, they passed over their last hill and could glimpse the ravine surrounding the Tower. An uncountable and impenetrable mass of shades surrounded the cliff and the bridge, and were so tightly packed that some were falling off. Opposing them were the Grim, wielding fields of dark energy, ghastly chains, and the powers to both bring about and amplify the agony of death.

The one who seemed to lead the souls rallied them with great war cries, and swung a golden blade; their newly arriving adversaries swung many golden blades. The Grim saw the knights and silently expressed their gratitude. The angels shouted similar war cries, and at their command, the army of Heaven charged down the hill intending to suppress the rioters.

I watched over the battlefield from the heights of the unholy mountain that was visible from my house. Black and gold were colliding on the empty fields, blades crashing together, light seeming to overtake and push back the dark. Screams of fury could be heard erupting from the forces of Hell.

Flying in for a closer look, I could see the contrast in the faces of both sides. The golden forces tended to scowl and fight with silent aggression, though there were some outliers. Many members of the dark forces had sadistic smiles and swung their blades with great energy. At least, until they received their first hits.

I floated above the armies searching for one particular soldier. When I found him, the Policeman was wearing a black cloak, charging with joy, looking wildly for victims to feed his prejudice. His first slice bounced off metal armor, then he enjoyed the bleeding anguish of his arm being splintered apart. The fires of hell invaded his skin and incinerated every tingling nerve. He cried out in misery.

I slowed time for a moment so that every fighter was inching through the air. The Policeman was now lying on his back, savoring the pain for as long as possible. It didn’t die down; there was no relief. It continued burning eternally.

When he had arrived in the afterlife, and I had announced that he would become a Hell Warrior, his eyes had lit up. He could continue to slaughter and take lives, even after he had lost his own. It sounded like Heaven to him. I leaned down so that my face was right next to his, and placed my skeletal hands on his shoulders.

“This is hell…” I whispered to him. “Nobody likes hell. This is what pain... what Death feels like. How it feels to have a bullet penetrate your skin. This is how Elijah Marcus felt in the moments before his heart stopped pumping.”

I returned to my place in the sky and stabilized time, and heard the Policeman wail like tortured souls always wail. He whimpered on the ground, and soldiers from both sides trampled over him. When he finally managed to stand up, he was wobbling, until he faced two familiar enemies: Elijah Marcus and Javier Onai—the man who had carried out the Policeman’s karma. They wore golden armor and stared at him with contempt.

His face filled with horror, confusion, and shock. How the hell’d they become knights of Heaven? he thought. His protests were drowned out by the blade of Elijah Marcus’s apparition; the activist’s real soul was resting in paradise, enjoying the consolations of a life cut too short. The decoy cut through the policeman’s skin like butter and chopped off his arm. He choked on his own blood.

Javier Onai came next, blasting a hole through his eye with a gun for the second time, dissolving the flesh into a hot, decaying mess. He, on the other hand, was being tortured just like the Policeman, forced to fight endlessly, subjected to horrific pain. After several more shots from his firearm with endless ammunition, he charged forward and fired at others, before feeling his first stab.

Black… gold… it doesn’t matter. There’s no difference. There are no Hell Warriors and there are no Heaven Knights. Heaven and Hell aren’t at war. Both legions are just dead souls dressed up in different outfits to create the illusion of opposing sides, so that the violent murderers being punished would be urged to fight.

Elijah’s apparition, placed there solely to torture the Policeman further, stabbed its sword through his neck. He was dead for the second time, though it would not be the last; crushed by the man he killed. He was weak; that’s why he needed to kill to feel strong. In turn, as punishment, he would die, over and over again. He would feel how he made Elijah feel forever.

I once told my therapist that my happy place was on the edge of a broken down building, in the middle of an apocalypse that's left the world barren and desolate.

That's probably the least bullshit thing I've ever told a therapist. Dystopia and fantasy are the novels that have always interested me, a kind of forbidden allure that even now I still don’t understand.

Maybe that's why now, sitting here, it feels so surreal. It looks exactly like it did in my head, even all these years later, and I only have one thought in my mind.

God, I was so fucking stupid.

It’s always easy to read about the end of the world. To romanticize it in your head. Somehow, I thought the apocalypse would be exciting, new, beautiful, the kind of danger and glory that I never got as a kid. I thought my life was boring.

But that? That was a carnival compared to this.

Oh, sure, I can steal whatever I want. I don’t have to worry about money, or showers. No obligations, no structure. My to-do list consists of three things: eat, sleep, and explore.

It’s everything I ever wanted, and it’s fucking boring.

Back in my old world, I was lonely. I was burnt out. I was jaded and bitter and I was tired. God, was I tired.

Now? I’m all of those things, but more. I’m more tired, more lonely, more burnt out, more jaded, and a hell of a lot more bitter.

We always want what we can’t have, I suppose.

Yesterday I talked to a raccoon. Or, tried to. It screeched at me and ran off with my sock. That encounter shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did. But it did; it did bother me. And it still bothers me.

I can’t remember how the world ended. I remember my past, it’s not like full-blown amnesia, but when I try to remember how I got here… nothing. I don’t remember the news stories, I don’t remember a disease, or a bomb. All I know is that at some point, I stopped living in my idyllic bubble and ended up on the roof of this building. I don’t know what it used to be. My sense of direction has always been shit, and these days, there aren’t any street signs to tell me where I am, or where I should be.

I always said humanity was going to end. I’d started saying it long before 2020. I’d been fantasizing about the end of days from the beginning of my days, I suppose.

Normal people, they thought about boyfriends or girlfriends, or maybe the really enlightened ones dreamed of world peace and blossoming fields. But me? I dreamed about apocalypses. I dreamed about fighting monsters and superpowers and living in a haunted house. I dreamed about secret organizations, with me caught in the middle. I dreamed about fiction. And now, my fiction has become reality, and I hate it.

Typical me, I suppose.

I was scared to get into middle school. I’d read too many books about how awful it was. But by the time I got to high school, I realized that the worst years of my life were in elementary school. I lost my pets, was swamped in educational pressure and bullying, and my only friend was constantly manipulating me and I was too naive to realize it.

I made a lot of mistakes in those years. We all did.

I thought, by the end of high school, I would be fixed. No more mistakes. No more bad decisions. No more pain.

But obviously I must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, because here I am.

I’m living in this apocalyptic wasteland.

And somehow, I keep feeling like it’s all my fault. Like my fantasies caused this, somehow.

But of course, that’s just my imagination acting up again. I’ve always wanted to be a main character, even if I never had the strength to admit it to myself. I wanted to be the superhero who saves the day, with incredible powers, constantly beating the odds and finding strength even in my weakest moments. I’d even settle for being the surprisingly relatable antagonist, fighting for a warped idea of justice.

But I’m none of those things. I’m not a villain, or a hero. None of us are. In life, there’s no such thing as a main character. Even here, when I’m the last person alive, I’m no main character. I’m just another droplet of conscience in the rainstorm of the universe.

Someday, I’ll be gone. No more boredom. No more selfishness. No more pain.

But for now? I guess I'm trapped in my own fantasy.

One Year Ago, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

Sunset was making its inevitable approach as the caravan worked its way into the opening of the wadi. Days of travel across bleak wind-blasted terrain sweltering beneath the harsh Saharan sun had left the entire expedition exhausted. Everyone was looking forward to a night sheltered from the biting sands and ruthless heat.

Tristan Beaumont stood on a rise at the rear of the column, peering into the developing gloom of the canyon ahead. Beyond the limits of his vision awaited the discovery of a lifetime. One that had the potential to rewrite the history of human civilization in the Sahara. Those implications were why Tristan had to claim it first.

The area of geological upheaval stretched over fifty-two thousand square miles, roughly three times the size of Switzerland.

Never mind the myths of ancient curses, giant guardians, and lost treasures.

Every lost city or tomb seemed to come with a requisite list of ominous names and terrifying curses that would befall those who entered and touched anything. Giant spiked filled chasms and crocodile filled moats just did not exist like they did in the movies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any real dangers. There was a better than average chance that they could be waylaid by marauders and the entire expedition would be swallowed up by the sands, never to be heard from again.

Tristan was willing to risk the dangers, both real or fantastical, but not for a mythical treasure or world fame. He had enough money and celebrity because of his heritage. It was hard to stay out of the public eye when you were the son of a billionaire. He hated it. Acute awareness of his fortune—he had witnessed so much greed in the corporate world of his Father—was why Tristan had decided to devote himself to philanthropic pursuits. Not for personal vindication or validation, but because it seemed like the right thing to do. It was his calling, his true purpose in life. That was why he was here in the middle of the desert, thousands of miles from home, about to enter the so called ‘Canyon of Death’.

He laughed at the cliché.

Tristan saw the caravan creep to a halt before the open mouth of the waiting ravine. Progress was slow by modern standards, the remote and unyielding landscape—and the lack of service stations—did not allow for the modern convenience of vehicles. The expedition was forced to rely on the biological Land Rovers of the Sahara, dromedary camels. The temperamental beasts, with their long slender necks and regal air, helped get them this far without incident. To the people of the desert, camels were part of their lifeblood.

Shouts echoed out of the canyon as the caravan ground to a halt. Camel and man alike were bunching up against the towering rock walls ahead. Something was wrong, they were stopping too soon. Sunset was still several hours off, more than enough time to make progress into the canyon before they set camp.

Tristan watched the stocky form of Kevin Sawyer—his business partner and photographer on this expedition—charging towards their Toubou guide, Hassan. Kevin had a short fuse and was not the best person for a rational negotiation, even when things were going well. Kevin’s voluminous voice boomed back to Tristan on his overlook. Better get down there before he starts swinging.

“We can't stop here man! There's still at least two hours of good light left,” Kevin said, waving his meaty hand in the direction of the canyon.

“We stop here. Men go no further in the dark. Bad place to be at night, much worse up there,” Hassan said in broken English. He crossed his arms, standing firm, though his eyes sought the ground.

“Why? What could make it worse? No one lives here and if anything, we'll be less exposed in that canyon.”

“What's the problem gentleman? Why have we stopped so soon?” Tristan asked, unwrapping his tagelmust, a Tuareg headscarf. Life in the field was much more bearable when you followed the practices of the people native to the regions in which you found yourself. He had learned that from Tahoe, among many things. Besides, thousands of years of living in the desert had to count for something.

Kevin turned, his patience worn thin, and inclined his head at Hassan. “Ask him.”

“Sir, we go no further this night. Bad place. Very bad place. Cursed.” Hassan shook his head and stared back at the ground, apparently finding it harder to stand up to the man writing his paycheck. Tristan had paid the tribesman half upfront to take them into the mountains and withheld the other half until they were brought back.

“Explain yourself.” Tristan said. “Wouldn’t we be better off sheltered inside the canyon?”

“That's what I told him,” Kevin said. “He’s probably trying to squeeze more money out of us.” Both of them knew that superstitions and other tricks were often invoked to incur a greater salary from ignorant travelers. Tristan was not as direct as his friend in asking. If this was a negotiation then it would be better to work the truth out without a direct accusation. It was a fine line to walk between being an effective leader and keeping the porters happy enough to prevent a mutiny.

“Well then Hassan?” Tristan said, keeping his voice patient, yet firm.

Hassan looked up and met Tristan's gaze, fear flashed across his face when he replied. “This is the place of the Noso. We do not come here. Especially at night. It is cursed.”

“Bull shi--" Kevin’s outburst was cut short as Tristan held up his hand to silence him. His curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar term. “What is Noso?”

“Noso are the guardians of the old ones, they who lived here long ago and brought waters from the ground.” Hassan said, as if that sounded perfectly normal. Terrifying, but normal.

Guardians again, just like in the legends about the city. Just like the journal…

“What a load of shit.” Kevin Sawyer shook his head and muttered.

“Kev, most superstitions are seeded with a grain of truth. Even the Canyon of Death got its name somewhere.” A twinge of guilt gnawed at Tristan for not having told Kevin everything that was written about the Canyon in the journal, though he didn’t really believe it himself. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t told Kevin. It wasn’t entirely his fault, he did have to make a rather hasty escape from his previous business partner and there was no time to note anything except for the map. “These old ones might be some ancestor to the Toubou or maybe the Garamantes. We’re getting close.”

“I know the Garamantes were known for cultivating the desert using water they brought up from aquifers, but they weren’t this far south and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have any legendary lost cities,” Kevin said, not attempting to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“Not that we know of, but who can say for sure how large of an area their civilization extended over or who preceded them. How much history has been buried beneath the sands?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Tristan was seized by the thrill of discovery and he took Hassan by the shoulders, eliciting a yelp from the desert man. “We are going into that canyon with or without you and there’s only one way you get paid. Just think of what your wife will say if you come home empty handed. Which curse is worse, huh?”

Hassan flashed a grin at the comment and nodded his head in solemn compliance. “Very well, we go. Either way I lose my head.”

“That's the spirit! Let’s push on then.” Tristan returned the grin and slapped Hassan on the back.

Hassan began shouting in Tedaga, the language of the Toubou people in the north, informing the other porters that they would proceed. They did not look pleased. They looked frightened. Tristan began to feel a hint of unease in how serious Hassan was regarding the Noso. After all, this region of the Tibesti was almost entirely uninhabited. Maybe there was a real reason behind the ominous myth.

Tristan turned to Kevin, who was staring off to the north as the wind picked up around them. “See, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

“Your father certainly would be proud,” Kevin said, enunciating each word sarcastically.

“Yeah right! His only son and heir abandoned the Beaumont family empire to pursue philanthropy with his trust fund, falling in with mercenaries, thievery, and international intrigue. What’s not to be proud of?” Tristan eyed the sandy ground and shook his head, his enthusiasm wavering at the mention of his father. “Besides, I'm practically disowned. Cassandra took my place in the family hierarchy. She can keep it.”

“Well, he should be proud. Not every man can claim his son is going to save an entire ecological region from evil industrial machinations.”

“Industrial machinations are his specialty. And don’t you think you’re over selling it, just a little? We haven’t done anything yet.”

“Not yet, but we’re not the only ones fighting for international protection of this place. That one German geologist was lobbying for the Tibesti to be recognized as a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage site.”

“We don’t know how long that is going to take. Plus, Chad is under a lot of international pressure to exploit their natural resources.” Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stay positive. “If we open the gates to Zerzura then they’ll have to protect it. Right?”

Kevin did not respond, his gaze remained fixed to the west on a developing cloud bank.

“Kev?”

“I think we need to get moving into that canyon,” Kevin said as he whipped around. “I mean now!”

“What? Why?” Tristan found himself slow to uptake the implications of Kevin’s panic even as his eyes laid bare the truth.

“Sandstorm!” Kevin barked as he ran forward with surprising speed for his squat frame. He gathered up his camera while donning a pair of sand goggles and began taking photos.

With alarming rapidity, the wind jumped from a gentle whisper to a roaring howl, whipping up grains of dust and sand. Tristan re-wrapped his tagelmust and risked another glance towards the west, where the sand clouds had turned into a roiling mass which began to mask the failing light.

The porters were becoming frantic, reloading the little equipment they had removed from their camels, shouting and urging one another to move faster. Toubou men understood what it meant to be caught in a sandstorm without shelter. Disorientation, blindness, suffocation, and death.

Kevin ran back with his camera in hand, snapping more photographs of the oncoming maelstrom. “Bloody good shots here! Never expected to see one so deep in the mountains.” He was forced to shout as the wind's intensity picked up.

“Thought you said we had to go,” Tristan yelled back.

“Can't miss this opportunity, I'll catch up, don't worry.” He continued to blaze away with his camera. “A sandstorm in the mountains! Spectacular!”

It was unnatural for such a large storm to strike so far from the sand seas outside of the Tibesti mountains. Tristan’s sense of unease deepened; something was off about this.

The grains began biting at their exposed skin with increasing intensity, like thousands of unrelenting flies. The porters were jogging with their mounts into the relative safety of the ravine. Their apprehensive looks made Tristan think they should do likewise. The wall of sand was bearing down on them as if the desert had risen up to overthrow the invasion of modern man and hide its secrets forever.

“Kevin!” Tristan took his heavy friend by the arm and started pulling him away. “We’ve got to move!”

A sudden furnace hot gust of wind punched into them, forcing the pair back a step beneath the assault. Kevin’s eyes widened behind his sand goggles as the precariousness of their situation dawned on him. With one more snap of his camera, he began to retreat towards the last of the porters. Tristan made to follow his friend when he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused his flight and scanned the rock outcrops high above the ravine's mouth. In the face of the deteriorating visibility he could make out the vague shape of an animal slinking between the boulders and pinncacles. Probably just a Barbary sheep, one of the few creatures to call the desolate Tibesti home, but it did not help to ease his suspicion.

Tristan again shrugged off the strange feeling and ran ahead, reaching the protective embrace of the rough sandstone walls. The enraged howl of the wind and rumble of thunder echoed between the rocks as cool darkness closed in around him. Buttresses of sheer rock stretched hundreds of feet into the darkness on either side bufferning the interior from the sandstorm’s full strength. The storm shattered the retreating sunlight and natural dusk added its weight to the supernatural gloom of the canyon.

When his eyes adjusted to low light Tristan realized he was alone.

“Kevin?” He called out, seeking a sign of his friend or their party. “Hassan!” Nothing. No response. Maybe they could not hear him over the echoing tumult, but how could they have gotten so far ahead? He had only been a few seconds behind. They should have all been waiting just within the opening as there was plenty of protection from the wind and sand. Hasan may have just been overly cautious and moved them in deeper, but Tristan thought he should have heard someone or seen some signs of their passing.

Tristan delved deeper into the canyon to seek some answers. He kept his right hand along the southern wall as a guide, pausing now and then to listen for his companions. It took several minutes before he heard a muffled yell in the void along with the panicked bleating of camels. The others must have been separated in their haste to escape the storm and were now trying to regroup. With the limited visibility they had probably just lost sight of one another and wandered up side canyons to wait for better conditions. There was some solace to be found in that simple explanation, even when his mind tried to suggest the worst. Hassan and Kevin would have attempted to keep the expedition together, unless they too had gotten lost. In which case he had better try and catch up and get them organized before more people wandered off.

When he went to step forward his foot tangled on something solid, yet yielding, sending him sprawling face first onto the sand. He spit sand out of his mouth as he rolled over onto his back to catch his breath. Massive stone walls on either side of him stretched hundreds of feet into shadow. The near stygian darkness was almost like being in a cave, so it was no wonder he did not even see what had tripped him.

In his haste to find the others, Tristan had forgotten that he had a flashlight in his bag. He laughed at his own foolishness and fished the flashlight out and clicked it on, illuminating the darkness with the crisp white LED light. He swung the beam back to where he tripped and the laughter died in his throat. Through the motes of sand and dust he saw it. A body.

The grisly ruin of a human body, the sand around churned up and soaked with blood.

“Jesus Christ!” Fear and panic rose in his gut as Tristan crawled over to see who the poor bloke was. He turned the body over revealing a series of massive lacerations extending from the tattered remnants of Hassan's throat to the grotesquery of his chest. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He looked away and closed his eyes, driving down the fear, knowing he couldn’t stop now.

Tristan jumped to his feet and scanned the surrounding darkness with his light. The search yielded two more bodies, both having met the same horrible fate of Hassan. His heart was beating as if he had just run a marathon; cold sweat trickled down his back. He was on the verge of taking his chances with the sandstorm when the sharp crack of gunshots reverberated down the canyon.

Someone was alive out there.

Tristan hardened his resolve and stole forward to the other bodies. He needed a weapon if he wanted a chance in hell of saving someone, including himself. He didn’t even know what he was saving them from. Rooting through their satchels produced an old revolver with a handful of cartridges. Tristan stuffed them into his pocket and checked the revolver cylinders for ammunition. Six eyes of loaded brass stared back at him from the chambers. It was loaded.

The reassuring weight of the revolver in his hand was the final dose of courage he needed to propel him towards the gunfire. Tristan jogged ahead, holding his flashlight in his offhand and the revolver in his right. The steep rock walls of the narrow ravine slanted imperceptibly upwards and a small dry river channel ran along the northern wall. The defile stretched for a few hundred meters before giving way to a more open amphitheater of stone. The open ceiling allowed the raging winds of the sandstorm to claw their way back down below the cliffs.

Tristan entered the tempest, hunching low against the powerful wind and stinging sand. The air was alive with static electricity and jagged bolts of orange-hued lightning lit up the night. Tristan could feel the energy tingling against his skin. He only made it a couple yards when he saw a flash of movement to his right. It was quick, a deeper shadow moving within the storm, but the profile looked human. A very large one. Had anyone in their party been so large? Tristan could not be sure so he grasped the wooden handle of the revolver tighter and pushed on, head held low.

A few more yards produced the prostrated form of another porter, his throat a ragged bloody mess. Tristan stopped dead when he heard a low menacing growl from beyond the veil of flying sand. He swung his flashlight back and forth, revealing several pairs of luminous eyes. The sudden bright light made the creatures vanish back into the veil, as fast as they had appeared. Their silent retreat denied him any evidence as to their identity, but Tristan knew their purpose. They were hunting him.

Tristan broke out in another cold sweat knowing that these creatures were stalking and killing off the expedition members one by one. The camels, the porters, Hassan, and Kevin. His friend. They were probably all dead and he was next. It was all too much, the panic that had been threatening now overwhelmed him and Tristan Beaumont ran for his life.

He fled headlong into the rock amphitheater, heedless of the storm and oblivious to the secrets it held. Shadows rushed along at his left and right, trying to flank him and finish him off. Or were they herding him? Fear overwhelmed instinct and the pistol clasped in his hand remained silent.

Tristan reached the other side of the amphitheater and slowed, struggling to catch his breath through the cloth of his head scarf. He leaned against the rock wall panting, his sweat soaked clothes clinging to his skin. His eyes burned and watered from the dust, but through the obscurity of sand and dusk he saw the haunting figures of man and beast, dark giants emerging from the diminishing storm.

Tristan stood terrified, like a cornered animal ready to make a last stand knowing that escape was now impossible. Maybe he should have listened to his Father, if he had he wouldn’t be in this mess. He wasn’t ready to die, alone and lost in the desert. He had to fight.

Tristan remembered the revolver and raised it in his trembling hand, aiming from the hip for the nearest man. The figures stopped, as if responding to his threat, waiting for Tristan to make the next move.

Or so he thought.

Warm liquid droplets spattered on the back of his neck from above. Tristan reached back with his freehand, tentatively touching the spot. When he pulled it back, his fingers were smeared in crimson. As he took in the realization, something dropped to the ground with a sickening wet thud. It bounced twice and rolled through the sand before coming to rest at his feet.

Tristan looked down at the object.

Kevin Sawyer's lifeless eyes stared up from his severed head. His face was frozen in a final scream of fear.

Before Tristan could comprehend the savagery, something massive collided with him. Massive claws sank into the flesh of his back, like meat hooks into a side of beef. Tristan screamed as he was driven to the ground and fiery pain ripped across his back. A deep, feral roar resonated through the air and was answered with a primordial intensity from every direction.

Tristan was pressed to the sand beneath the enormous weight of his attacker, his pistol was beyond reach. Not that it would do him any good now. The shock and pain made his head swim and his vision waver, but he could discern the shadowed figures of men stepping into the circle of light made by his flashlight.

His last sight was of man and beast standing together. Of massive fangs and slavering jaws coming towards his head. Then pain erupted in his skull and the world went black.