The sun never rose on the dark side of the Onyx City. Onyx structures stood like shadowy sentinels along the streets, the stone appearing dull and matte with no glistening rays of hazy orange light beaming down from a sky that remained the deep, shining red of a newly cut garnet all through the day and night.

     The Tall One stood atop his citadel, calmly observing the silent quarter. Around his shoulders hung a charmed cloak of fine onyx dust that shimmered and swirled around his incorporeal body in a glittering ebony curtain. He turned minutely this way and that as the sounds of the dark side floated up to him, guardian and ruler of all manner of indescribable beasts that lived only in the darkness.

     Though the flitting creatures of the night that populated the dark side moved with the stealth of a prowling cat, their creeping slithers and airy footfalls were all noted by the Tall One, who heard even the faintest motion of the most insignificant vermin that moved throughout his realm.

     “Sir?”

     What do you want? The Tall One replied with the voice of his mind, without turning from the maze of somber streets below him.

     “I saw them again, Sir.”

     The Tall One turned and gazed down at the figure who now stood before him. Broken Toe appeared as a man-shaped silhouette where he stood, featureless except for the glowing red stone that hung from a woven cord around his neck. He was the only being on the dark side whose form the Tall One permitted to remain hidden. So they have met as you foresaw?

     “Yes, Sir. It was the girl who found him.” Broken Toe swallowed hard, thankful that his unease was masked by the glamor that cloaked him, a most welcome reward granted for a lifetime of loyal service to the master of the dark side.

     Who is she?

     “She is the daughter of the other.”

     From where have they come?

     “I don’t know, Sir. Not exactly anyway.” Broken Toe paused, searching for just the right words. “All three are from the same world. But she and the other came through a different doorway. It was not revealed to me, but I saw that they come and go. They have been here for at least thirteen moons in total.”

     Why have you only seen them now?

     Broken Toe did not respond immediately. The implied accusation underlying the Tall One’s question made him decidedly uneasy, even though he was certain the master knew the visions revealed what they would, and that Broken Toe’s magic could unveil the hidden plane but not control it.

     The Tall One seemed to shift closer to Broken Toe with no discernible movement, a hint of amusement somehow apparent even in the incorporeal essence that was his form. Never mind. Have they yet approached the tower?

     A flash of anger surged through Broken Toe. “No, Sir, not yet. The one had lost his way but the girl and the other found him. She is leading the way,” he answered, managing to keep his voice steady.

     Do you see them arriving in time?

     “I can’t tell, Sir. There are two paths. Each exists equally for now. Evidently the choice has not yet been made.”

     And the one? Does he know?

     Broken Toe shook his head slowly and the upper portion of the silhouette swayed gently to and fro. “No. The vision was quite clear, and I saw into his mind. He has no idea but there is something that remains unseen. It could be a mark.”

     The Tall One was silent for several moments. He turned away from Broken Toe and gazed out over his dark realm once again. His words played over and over in the master’s mind and any amusement at his oracle’s discomfort drained away in a mere instant.

     What else?

     “Nothing you don’t already know, Sir.”

     Very well. Is the horde prepared?

     “Yes, Sir. Completely.”

     Then leave me.

     With a brisk nod, Broken Toe retreated into the shadows.

     So the one approaches still, the Tall One remarked inwardly. And there may be a mark to deal with as well. He closed his shimmering black mantle, and the delicate cloak of minutely flecked stone formed a cold, comforting shell around him. He turned his mind back to the streets of night-dulled onyx. Soon all will be revealed, one way or the other, he told himself. The Tall One shifted restlessly where he stood, stepping to the edge of the citadel rooftop. He had complete confidence in Broken Toe’s second sight, and yet a troublesome uncertainty nagged at the back of his mind with the persistence of the irritating bite of a desert fly.

     The Tall One reached out with his mind and sent his awareness soaring to the street below, turning swiftly down a narrow alley. He saw without seeing as he passed a family of dreads huddling over the bloated and lifeless body of a nightwisp, a shivering, bleating hoar rat digging in the soggy, rotting remains of a whirler, and a glower that softly stridulated as it rolled into a pitch black doorway.

     At the end of the alley, quivering almost imperceptibly where it sat in a glistening puddle of oily black liquid, was a monstrous feldspinner. In the corner, eyeing the spinner’s mess of mouths and legs, lay a greater cstreml, cowering and whimpering despite its vastly superior bulk of swollen, undulating muscles. Ignoring the cstreml, The Tall One approached the feldspinner from the deepest, darkest corner of his mind and squeezed, as a fist closing around a ripe, swollen fruit, pressing harder and harder until only a wet, mangled twist of flesh remained.

     In the blink of an eye, the Tall One drew his awareness back to the citadel. Any psychical pleasure he might have felt upon taking out his frustration on the grotesqueries that haunted the dark side suddenly felt somehow hollow in the shadow of the annoyingly steady progress of the one.

     The Tall One turned and strode to the hidden recess that housed his spiral staircase. He muttered a curse under his breath and the black clouds that converged over the citadel matched his darkening mood.

Below the citadel, in an underground chamber accessible only through an intermittently existent doorway, knelt Broken Toe in the middle of a circle inscribed with an intricate pattern of ancient and esoteric glyphs. His eyes remained fixed on a bright green flame that flickered and danced in the middle of a circle of onyx chunks, each one anointed with the ichor of a blood agate beetle.

     It was only within the underground sanctum that Broken Toe removed the red stone from his neck, thus revealing his true form. Beads of sweat shone off his milky white skin, running down his face in streaks through the ceremonial paint that encircled his eyes and drawing a crooked pattern of tracks in the designs on his cheeks, the runes of the prophet that would make clear to him the portentous significance of the visions received from the flame.

     Broken Toe’s powerful hands jerked and strained against the magicked filaments with which he had bound his forearms tightly together before beginning the ceremony. It was a necessary inconvenience that prevented him from tearing at the shining onyx rings in his ears or gouging chunks out of the tattooed flesh of his broad chest in the throes of the trance of the flame. A low roar escaped him as he allowed the flame’s arcane light to drag his awareness into the hidden plane, the black feathers woven through the snow white hair that hung down his back quivering almost expectantly as his muscles rippled and trembled with exertion.

     All at once, an unseen force pressed his throat and he was there in the other plane, the vision coalescing around him even as he jerked his head back, hands reaching ineffectually upward toward his chest. The straining of his hands went unnoticed as in his mind’s eye, Broken Toe saw a delicate white bird flutter before him, and the pressure on his neck gradually abated as the vision took hold. The movement of the bird’s wings seemed to slow even as an inexplicable gust of wind buffeted him where he sat. A shudder tore its way through his body and he suppressed the urge to retch as his awareness was carried deeper into the hidden plane.

     The bird stopped moving all at once, hovering motionless in the ether before him, and in an instant Broken Toe realized he was no longer looking at a bird at all, but an opaque crystal. A bright yellow light glinted off its multifaceted surface and the stone began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, and faster again until nothing remained except a brilliant whirling dervish.

     A sharp stinging sensation broke out on Broken Toe’s face and chest as he saw the dervish fling a barrage of tiny, needle-sharp stones across his body. His hands twitched upward in an automatic attempt to block the shower of stones, fighting against the filaments for several moments before relaxing. The vision was new but the sensation of pain that traveled through from the other plane was familiar and it had been many centuries since the involuntary straining of his body against the magicked bonds could distract him from his vision.

     The bite of the stones on his flesh faded gradually into nothingness but the dervish continued to spin wildly. Broken Toe released his mind further, and the flame flared higher in the onyx circle, until suddenly a hidden layer of the vision came to the fore.

     Broken Toe gasped, his arms pulling back, twisting upward in a vain attempt to cover his face, as the dervish abruptly sank into the earth. Looking down, he saw that the circle had disappeared and he found himself sitting cross-legged in the shiny maroon sand of the mountains surrounding the Onyx City. With a start he realized his arms were free and he frantically dug in the sand, pushing great handfuls of earth this way and that, his mind reaching out in every direction as he searched desperately for the circle that not only oriented him within the visions but that was his only gateway between the planes.

     A sharp stab of pain burst into his awareness and Broken Toe cried out, his back arching against a searing pressure. He threw himself forward and his arms sank into the earth, his fingers still twitching and clutching at nothing but handfuls of hot, dry sand. His eyes rolled wildly as he jerked his head this way and that but his mind could not find the circle, and the sand seemed to grow deeper and deeper around him, until all over was nothing but a wall of sand that flowed and pulsed absurdly in a swirling series of eddies and currents that surrounded him, burning his eyes and filling his lungs as he hurled his mind out into space in one last futile grasp before a coldness enveloped him as a black shroud that gripped his body, clinging tighter and tighter until he at last slipped into a merciful unconsciousness.

     Broken Toe gasped and sucked in a breath that rasped deep in his chest. Though the green flame no longer shone from the onyx circle, he could make out the familiar form of his hidden chamber beneath the citadel and he sighed in relief that he had somehow made it back to his world. He could not deny, even to himself, how much the vision had shaken his nerves. Never before had he been drawn so far into the hidden plane as to lose his mind's hold on the circle.

     Standing gingerly, Broken Toe uttered the incantation that lit the tapers in the corners of the rooms as he made his way to the black mirror on the far wall. What he saw sent a shudder tearing through him. Both arms were marked with deep scratches running from elbow to wrist and the tattoos on his chest were almost indiscernible beneath a thick layer of rapidly drying blood that had run from a gash just under his collarbone. Reaching up with one trembling hand, Broken Toe pulled the end of a sharp chunk of onyx from the wound, absently casting it aside as a fresh stream of blood began to pulse thickly over his chest.

     The blood that soaked his body was soon forgotten as Broken Toe’s gaze settled on his face.

     Red sand still clung to his cheeks, embedded in the smeared remains of the runes that were his guide to interpreting the visions. A circular pattern had been drawn in the paint under his left eye, instantly recognizable as sjá, the sight, and under his right, the three vertical lines indicating heimr, the world. His brow furrowed as his gaze traveled upward to the hair that now fell in straggly clumps around his neck and shoulders, and it took several moments for him to realize the full import of what he was was seeing.

     Slowly, Broken Toe reached up with one trembling hand and pulled one of the feathers from his hair, a feather that had been black as the citadel’s onyx walls but that was now the bleached white of bare bones. The very tip of the delicate shaft was stained the bright crimson of fresh blood. Every feather that Broken Toe removed had been similarly changed, and he drew in a deep shuddering breath at the portent that had been revealed to him.

     Come to me.

     The call of The Tall One’s mind pulled Broken Toe from his thoughts and he jerked his head toward the hidden doorway. It would not do to keep the master waiting but, as he quickly wiped the blood smears from his arms and chest and slipped the red jewel onto his neck, Broken Toe resolved that this would be one vision he would not share, at least for the time being.

I quietly sat in the corner of the overcrowded waiting room; clutching bag with one hand and holding a book in another. A train had derailed in the morning because of which many trains were delayed and the station was crowded with people waiting for the mess to clear up. I somehow managed get a decent seat near the window. A lady next to me struck a deal. In case of washroom emergencies we would save the seat for each other.

It was difficult to breathe in the humid air filled with sweat, piss and other pungent odour. I opened the window and saw the abandoned old rail yard. The lady in the next seat looked out of the window and said, “They vacated it because it was haunted.”

A tea vendor moved around serving tea to people.

“Don’t look towards that yard, Sir. Even looking at it is like a bad omen.” he said.

I took the half filled Styrofoam glass from the vendor and asked, “Why do you say so?”

“There is something evil about it. Any train bogie that was stationed in it overnight would meet with an accident the next day.” he said.

“What rubbish?” I exclaimed.

“The new yard was flooded due to rains so they parked some coaches here a day before. They are the ones that derailed today morning.” he informed.

People around us overhearing the conversation started murmuring. The vendor enjoying the attention added more information. “Sometime back, a man decided to spend a night in the yard. Next morning his dead body was found holding a book in one hand and his bag in another. No one knows what happened that night.”

A mad commotion started. The lady next to me shrieked, “It’s him.”

Time for me to go!

@microsmsfic #railyard

I always heard her sing and play by the old willow, 

Where she said she met her friend Ella there. 

I didn't mind at first, 

It was common for a child her age 

To make imaginary friends.

One day I summoned myself to my daughter's side 

Where she drew a dreary picture.

"I'm making a drawing for Ella. She looks sad."

She said as she continued her art.

My smile wiped away as I sheltered

My daughter from her friend Ella,

Who laid by the old willow

Still midst of her decay

Rope and broken branch rested on her lap.

Well, well, well, would you look at that? It’s Friday again. Which means it’s time for what many tell us is their favourite thing that we do each week. That’s right, Feature Friday. So we venture out into the world and land in Australian to meet a popular Proser who you’ll know as @OnyxCity

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

O: My name is Runa Ahlstrom. I know this makes it seem like I might be Swedish or something but I'm not, just plain ol' American. My username is OnyxCity. As many of my fellow Prosers have no doubt already guessed, I chose the name because of a deep and abiding love of H.P. Lovecraft and his nightmarish dreamscapes. I keep hoping to take my own dreamquest to the Onyx City but so far it hasn’t happened.

I really hope everyone gets that reference. If not, well, that’s fine, too, I suppose I don’t mind if the first impression I give is of a crazy nut.

P: Where do you live?

P: I live in Melbourne, Victoria in Australia. I have lived here since 1998. Before I moved here, I lived in Launceston, Tasmania for five years. And before that, I lived in the United States, where I was born and raised until I was six years old. I suppose I could say where I was born but it seems so irrelevant after living in Australia for 24 years, like some fleeting image in a dream that flickers out within seconds of waking.

P: What is your occupation?

O: I am the managing editor of an academic journal. That is really just a fancy way of saying I read, write, and edit academic articles. And collect them in an online publication. I guess it sounds like maybe this is relevant to writing fiction but actually academic and creative writing are really different.

I taught music history in universities around Melbourne for several years so a lot of my more formal professional experience, so to speak, is in academia. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I like creative writing. It’s a nice change from the rules and regulations that go along with any kind of writing in higher education settings.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

O: Hmm, let’s see… I’ve been writing since I was ten years old. The first short story I ever wrote was for a fifth grade assignment. Though that dogeared piece of notebook paper, crammed with my sloppy, little-kid handwriting, has long since been lost to the ages, I can still remember the story, a nondescript piece about a woman who has to cancel her vacation when the weather turns bad. Nothing terribly interesting or special there but, in a funny way, that was like the beginning and the end of something for me, because I kept writing stories but never showed another one to a soul for, oh, let’s see, twenty years. Literally. I’m not even sure exactly why anymore. I suppose it was probably something small, a comment, or even a glance, from my teacher whose name I can’t even remember now, that killed me inside. I jest, of course, I’m sure I was dead inside long before that… 

But in any case, I kept writing stories fairly regularly, but then I suppose I let it fall by the wayside when I went to college. I studied violin performance and musicology, and performed professionally for many years, and there really was just no time for writing. I believe it was when I stopped performing, which was many years ago now, and moved into teaching and research, that I started writing fiction seriously again.

I think maybe the reason I really started writing again, i.e. not just for my own amusement but with the actual intention of letting others read my work, probably does have something to do with the fact that I ended up in academic research. The fact is, I really don’t feel like much of a school-type person, I never liked it, and yet I ended up getting more education than is probably strictly necessary – I have a Bachelor of Music with Honors and a PhD in musicology. On top of that, I ended up working as a teacher and researcher in higher education, and now as an editor. I guess maybe I wanted to do something that felt more creative, especially after leaving professional music performance behind, and writing is something that I really do love.

Just a little aside – to anyone who works in higher education, I’m not saying you aren’t creative, or that your work isn’t creative or worthwhile. Those are just subjective feelings I had about myself, and my situation at the time.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

O: Reading is so important to me. I mean, yes, professionally, as an editor, of course it is, but it’s much more than that. I guess it’s pretty cliched, but reading really is an escape for me. I read everything from Le Fanu to Stephen King because, to me, reading is about finding people and places and things that resonate within you. And then losing yourself in those people, places, and things. Those nouns, I guess, since I just described nouns…

I guess the punchline of this is that I love reading and I just think there’s nothing better than sitting down with a good book, even if only for a few minutes at a time, and escaping into a fantasy.

And here’s a little piece of trivia about me: I love books, that is, I love physical paper books that I can hold and turn the pages and savor that leathery, papery smell. The only time I read online is on Prose.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

O: I am working on a few things right now, I can never seem to work on one at a time. I can never seem to read just one book at a time either… Anyway, one of my main projects is a collection of short stories featuring death personified. It is tentatively titled, Ten Minutes to Two and Other Stories. Another is a humorous novel about a young woman and her (mis)adventures as a student of music, titled Symphony in Q; or Scenes From Someone’s Life. I know that sounds autobiographical now based on what I said earlier, but it’s not, it’s fiction, just incorporating a setting I happen to know about and that I figure might seem interesting or unusual to readers.

As for my future posts… You’re probably going to see lots and lots of limericks because, well, I love them and I’m going to inflict them on the Prose community whether anyone wants to read them or not. You know how traditional limericks are comical, and often comically obscene? I want to create the limerick (limerickal? limerickular?) sub-genre of the comical horror limerick. Okay, I’ve said “limerick” too much, it’s losing all meaning… 

My love of horror, the paranormal, and the bizarre is probably no secret to anyone. I have some more surreal horror stories in the works that I will be posting in the near future, too. I know, no surprises there…

P: What do you love about Prose?

O: It’s really such a supportive community. The mix of very experienced writers and those who are just starting out makes for such varied pieces of writing. It’s a place that makes it possible for all writers to participate and interact without worrying about being excluded or dismissed out of hand. It can be difficult to put yourself out there and bare your soul, so to speak, to readers. At least, I think so, it can be difficult for a lot of people anyway. Prose is also a place where it’s possible to read and write on your own terms and to explore really any ideas that might seem interesting at any given time, even if only because of a random thought or passing fancy. That means a lot, I think, to both new and established writers. And it’s great to be able to interact so easily with other writers all over the world. I’ve made friends with people I would have no way of meeting outside of an online forum in the short-ish time I’ve been a member. The community is generally just very considerate and open to the ideas of all members. Oh, and the challenges - the community challenges are really great. I think it's a good thing that Prosers have the opportunity to participate in challenges in a way that really has no consequences in terms of competing, but that allows for the sharing of different interpretations of ideas. And, of course, the Challenge of the Week is fun, too!

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

O: Gee, only one? Well… I would say Nineteen Eighty-Four. It’s a great book but it’s also a good life lesson. I don’t usually go in for issues and learning stuff (wow, that sounds terrible. I’ll leave it in though, if anyone gets mad, well, they can scold me later) when I’m just reading for fun, but Nineteen Eighty-Four is something of a manual of living for me. I’m always ready for the inevitable day when the thought police come to take me away to the Ministry of Love…

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

O: A hero? Yes, in a way. There are people I admire greatly. But I don’t usually think of people as my heroes exactly. A hero who got me into reading and writing? Well, no. I don’t think so. At least, to me this question seems to be asking about a person I know in real life. But I mean, if I can say Lovecraft, Poe, Kafka, Heine? Then yes, I have many heroes who got me into reading and writing. It was Charles Dexter Ward, Annabel Lee, Carmilla, poor K., and too many others to list, who made me want to read. And it was the looking-glass house, that painted ship’s painted ocean, Mr. Dark’s sinister carousel, and so many other eerie, fantastic, and wonderful places, that made me want to write my own twisted worlds into existence.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

O: Uh oh… okay… um, moody, cynical loner. Or was I supposed to sell myself here? Oh, well, I stand by it.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

O: And I say: “Look! I have no hands!” But the people all around me say: “What are hands?”

This is from Dune by Frank Herbert. It pretty much describes my feelings exactly as I stumble through life, always the one who sees something, just not the thing seen by every single other person in the room.

P: Favourite music to write and/or read to?

O: I pretty much only listen to classical music nowadays but I very rarely listen to music while I write. When I do, I just choose something out of my huge collection of classical records that fits with my mood at the time.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

O: No books? Would I have books though? Well, I’d still have my time machine, right? I wouldn’t tell the poor, unread masses anything. I’d get back in that time machine and hightail it out of there. I can’t, I won’t, live in a world without books!

I guess I could just write some though, right? I’d be the only author so I’d be the greatest writer the world had ever known by default, no matter what I threw together… Well, the question’s moot anyway. I would never use my time machine to go into the future. I would only go backward, to a time when mail came in paper form and I wouldn’t have to carry a phone around with me all the time.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

O: Ah, well, I’m not really a social media person, I guess it comes from pining for rotary phones and VCRs and such. I did finally get my website up and running, so if anyone wants to check it out, it’s www.alderstream.com. Because I only just set it up, there’s not much new stuff on there yet, but I will be adding to it fairly quickly in the coming days and weeks. I feel like I’m actually quite dull and I should probably go before everyone starts conceptually tapping their feet, glancing at their watches, and looking around hopefully for the nearest exit. So I think I’ll sign off for now.

Before I go, I would like to thank everyone at Prose for selecting me for this interview. I am really honored to have the chance to talk to you, and not just through my stories and poems, that is. Thank you all again - admins, readers, writers, everyone! I trulyappreciate your interest in me and my work.

Thanks to Runa for letting us into her world for a wee while. Please, if you don’t already do so, follow her, interact with her and send your love and support. If you want to be involved, or you’d like to nominate anyone to be interviewed; let us know at info@theprose.com

Enter username and password.

WesternPaladin

********

He waited for a moment while the front page of Prose refreshed. There was a now-familiar red dot on the “Activity” icon in the top right of the screen. Without waiting for the page to load fully, he clicked on it.

OnyxCity started following you.

2 hours ago

He blinked several times, releasing his grip on the mouse. The last time he’d seen those two words used so close together was almost a year ago, continents away. They reminded him of the smell of those old books bound in some type of leather no-one had ever seen; of the ship they’d found drifting with no sign of the crew on board, and of dark mountains shivering under strange stars.

He pushed it from his mind. It had to be a coincidence. Nobody could possibly have known about that expedition to the Antarctic - they’d managed to keep it out of the press, though it had cost them a fortune. And that was without counting the promises made and favors owed to every government with an interest in the frozen continent. Certainly there was nothing amiss with this person’s profile: a close-up photo of an ordinary-looking person, presumably OnyxCity herself. An address for her personal website.

And here was some blank verse, posted just a day ago. It was a somber, reflective piece about the protagonist’s emotional state. Little, it seemed, to distinguish it from the other poems that went up on Prose every day. He raised an eyebrow when he reached the closing stanza, which had an odd rhythm unlike the rest of the poem. Even though the poem was mostly made up of short, everyday words, it ended with the word “firmament”.

He closed the poem and navigated to another of her posts. This one was about summer, and its imagery was suitably light and breezy. It was only four verses long, and the fourth verse’s cadence again shifted dramatically compared to the other three. Its rhythm was jarring, even as it spoke of an eternal green meadow, and a chill crept up his spine.

He stared at the screen for a minute, and another, not blinking, until it felt like his eyes were on fire. Then he leapt to his feet. It took only a second to reach the trunk he’d brought on the Antarctic expedition. He hurled the papers on top of it to the floor, threw it open, and started rummaging through its contents. He’d used the ciphers a thousand times, and he more or less knew them by heart, but in a situation like this, he had to be absolutely certain.

It took him hours to copy every one of OnyxCity’s poems onto paper. It took him more to make the calculations and transpositions for each one in turn, starting with the oldest and going all the way to the most recent. Evening slipped away to night, and the sun rose again outside, but he didn’t notice as pages torn from his pad piled up around him. Even as he found a description that matched no planet in the solar system, he tried to imagine it might still be a coincidence. Even as a collection of haiku became an incantation to the King in Yellow, he still prayed he had made a mistake in his calculations. Even as her most popular short story concealed a quotation that exactly matched a passage from the Mad Arab’s writings, he still half expected to wake up at any moment.

He pushed the pages to the floor, his hand shaking. On his monitor, the browser window was still open to Prose. By reflex, he pressed the refresh button again. There was a new post on OnyxCity’s profile, a mere ten lines worth of rhyming couplets. His head swam as he performed the calculations one final time. The pencil fell from his nerveless fingers.

For the one who has read and understood. He awaits you in Stethelos.

5 am. Call placed to the police. Report of intruder in room. Intruder apparently forced entry through the third story window. Guest moved from room so the lock could be replaced. Due to lack of availability, this results in guests designated Hermit Thrush and Onyx City sharing a room.

12 pm. Phone call of unknown origin placed to room [REDACTED]. Transcript unavailable.

1 pm. Hermit Thrush signs in for a volunteer shift at the first annual Prose convention. 

1:30 pm. Onyx City enters the convention as a guest.

3 pm. Guests near the horror booth report flickering lights, cell signal loss, and lowered temperatures. Maintenance is dispatched to the area, but find no problem with the lights or thermostat. Surveillance footage confirms that Hermit Thrush and [REDACTED] were both in the area.

3:05 pm to 3:08 pm. Onyx City receives a series of texts from an unknown origin. Transcript as follows.

Unknown Sender: Can we meet today?

Onyx City: Who is this?

Unknown Sender: We've already met. This morning.

Unknown Sender: I'm with your friend now.

Unknown Sender: All right then, I'll find you myself.

3:30 pm. Fire alarm triggered in the convention center. Evacuation of all guests takes place. The alarm was triggered manually. Surveillance footage unavailable for room where the alarm was triggered.

4 pm. Hermit Thrush and Onyx City arrive at the police station together. They report being stalked. Excerpt from interview transcript as follows.

Officer: Can you describe the person following you?

Onyx City: I haven't seen him, but I know he's following me. My room got broken into this morning, and then I got these texts.

Hermit Thrush: I did see him though. He was hanging around the volunteer table, and he only left after I got off my shift. We only lost him after I... after the fire alarm went off.

Officer: Can you describe him?

Hermit Thrush: Oh. Right. He's tall, white, and has blond hair. Kind of pale, actually. He was wearing jeans and a red shirt.

Officer: Did you notice anything else about him?

Hermit Thrush: Well, he was wearing gloves which was kind of weird. Um... I can't really remember anything else about him. I'd recognize him if I saw him though.

6 pm. Hermit Thrush and Onyx City leave the police station, accompanied by a non-uniformed officer. Surveillance footage does not reveal anyone matching the description given by Hermit Thrush in the area.

7 pm. Hermit Thrush, Onyx City, and the officer all receive the same text from an unknown number.

Unknown Sender: I AM COMING

7:15 pm. Hermit Thrush and Onyx City check into a hostel without returning to or checking out of the hotel. Records show [REDACTED] was staying in the room next door.

8:04 pm. The officer accompanying Hermit Thrush and Onyx City reports being ordered to assist with a nearby emergency by radio and leaves the hostel.

8:06 pm. Emergency call to 911 placed by Hermit Thrush. Except below.

Operator: 911, please state your emergency.

Hermit Thrush: I'm at the [REDACTED] Hostel, room [REDACTED], and someone is trying to break in. Right now my roommate is holding the door shut but *indistinguishable*

Operator: Are you in immediate danger?

Hermit Thrush: YES!

Operator: We are dispatching help right now. Are you able to escape or hide?

Hermit Thrush: *Splintering Noise* Hold that thought.

Call disconnected

8:10 pm. The officer who had accompanied Hermit Thrush and Onyx City discovers there was no nearby emergency.

8:12 pm. Several officers arrive on the scene. Room [REDACTED] had its door smashed down, and there are blood spatters on the floor. The window is open to the fire escape. No one is in the room.

8:13 pm. A surveillance camera identifies Hermit Thrush and Onyx City in a parking garage near the hostel. Hermit Thrush is carrying a knife. They enter a car, but it does not start immediately. A blond man, limping and clutching his arm, comes into view. As he approaches the car, the security feed shorts out.

8:14 pm. Onyx City runs over the blond man. The feed shorts out again.

8:15 pm. The car is gone, but the blond man stands up. [REDACTED] is now on the scene. [REDACTED] throws the man into the back of a van and the feed goes down for the rest of the night.

9 pm. The body of the blond man is found in a dumpster. Cause of death appeared to be a gunshot to the head.

10 pm. The body of the blond man is missing.

Both Hermit Thrush and Onyx City have been put into protective custody. It is unclear whether [REDACTED] was in league with their stalker. Neither [REDACTED] nor the stalker has been found, and the stalker has yet to be identified.

I hover oddly

near you

stare

too long, force a blush

give you

the creeps

I swat away

and circle back, like the fly

disgusting insect

that I am

you run

past

glancing away

giving me a wide berth

in search of

desirable

prey

please

please

just

stand still, let me come

close

let me touch

you

Can I hold you?

Are you sure?

no, no

I don’t want

To trap you

I swear

just

just please

say my name

with that low

drawl, that slow

smile

let me live

a bit longer, pin me down

in front of

your eyes

watch me

I can make

you

I can make you

want me

I can

wait please

wait

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck. It’s not many, mind you. She may save only a chosen few without being discovered. Cradle, she was named, but why, by whom, she’d long since forgotten.

For time eternal, she stood in governance at the Fourth Gate. Those whom negligence caught resided within. Automobiles held majority stake here. She tidied here and there, re-positioning a tire, twisting a wheel, as cars caught fire, rolled down embankments and ran into countless trees.

Through endless nights, she bore witness. Her claws grasped the iron tightly as she watched each hateful loop. Born from fire, she had no soul, but she had formed compassion over thousands of years. It was tucked away from the fiery glint of his Majesty’s eye, and it had flourished in private. And so it was that once every few years she stole one burnt offering for herself.

One soul intrigued her now. She watched this former man, Jim, flip his Pontiac Sunfire end over end countless times. He suffered more than most in the never-ending night. He touched her, as did the other truly repentant, tugging at her time-built heart, because there was no absolution in hell. His self-hating soul was forever trapped in Cradle’s dominion.

On fate-night, he had suffered only minor injuries – the Devil wrapped drunks in his protection, for they were ever useful – but his three children and his wife had been smashed. His twin boys survived the car, but died on the side of the rain-slicked road. His wife suspected Jim was cheating, but Tequila shots were his only companion at the bar that evening. Jim was keeping odd hours of late because he had been fired from his job and couldn’t admit it to Jenny. So it was that he was hiding tears when he pulled up outside the theatre to collect them.

This Jim-of-everlasting had long since become self-aware, losing his private battle each night. Cradle watched him cut off his hand and sew up his mouth, but of course The Darke would not be thwarted by such. Each night at 8:45 pm, he would sprout a new hand, his lips would spring open and the pain would begin again. He never dulled to the pain, in fact, it grew more insistent every night, each recitation of his punishment, each blood and rain soaked episode bringing him freshly exceeded barriers of despair.

Cradle saw Jim-soul’s beautiful upturned eyes, watched him swallow shot after shot through gritted teeth, watched him as he placed one hand on the wheel, neck cords standing out from the strain, trying not to shut the door, trying in vain to shout a warning to Jenny. Forever trying and failing.

Cradle saw him lift the keys and start the car, calmly tapping the wheel to the beat of the music, while his eyes reeled in their sockets like an animal with its paw in a snare. Jenny strapped the twins in their carseats and Annie, his girl, scooped the last of the movie popcorn into her mouth. All the while he brimmed, almost exploded with exceeded effort to change the past, forever locked into who he was and wanting what he could never have again.

Every movement, every word, was a contortion of pain, not only for Jim, but also for Cradle. Through the floating bars, her blood-red eyes held his wild blue orbs. Tonight, she knew, he would again swerve into traffic and skid, his reflexes soft from the drink, and the skid would turn into a roll and the roll would crush skulls and he would sit stupidly, hands limp by his sides as bystanders pulled his twin boys from the backseat through a trail of his wife’s blood. And his daughter’s long black hair, Annie-that-was, was far from where it should be, too far from the rest of her…

Enough! she thought. Her decision made, she had to move quickly. She passed in smoke through the gates, with a rusted squeal. One nod of her horned brow and the scene evaporated, leaving only Jim, a shucked husk of a soul. With one huge rust-colored palm, she tugged roughly at the filament that tethered his soul to her level, deftly rolled it into a meatball-sized shadow and placed it into her skull locket.

He would not be free, not yet, but she would take him to swim in the Abshe, where wrung out souls that had lost their humanity were tossed to feed the beasts. A great ocean of grief, it met the Skye at the very end – a time eternal of sunset. Cradle had been told long ago that if a soul could transverse the black waves, spider-crabs, wailing serpents and other sea haunts, they would be granted passage to the other side.

Cradle peered out through the haze of fire and the wail of screeching tires. No one bore notice, so she unfurled charred wings, stamped her feet and thrust upward, rising fast. Passing through hazy barriers, she heard the screaming of billions of souls, twisting and writhing with eternal agony. She shook her head to lose the cacophony and broke through the filmy barrier, thrusting her hooves down hard, landing in tar-like mud at the edge of the great sea.

It was night here too, but stars shone, which they were never allowed to do below. They were breathtaking, too low by half, making the air thin. Cradle breathed deep and although she missed the taste of smoke, it was pleasant enough air – purer than her level. She checked that she was alone, then tucked her wings back self-consciously and opened her locket.

Jim-that-was poured forth in a silver stream, materializing in an inch of gruesome water, the foam teeming with sea-lice. His figure shone in the murky darkness. Cradle smiled at him - a toothless, terrifying sight.

He looked up at her blinking slowly, then behind him at the vast filth. “What new torture is this?”, he asked, bewildered, but not scared. He was past that now. Cradle had not spoken in a very long time and her voice was scratchy from disuse, like grating metal.

“No trick, my Jim. You can see them again.” With a wave of one huge hand, she showed him his family in the car in the moment before it all changed. The image hung there a moment above them, then faded into the darkness. “Whole, like you are now.” She pointed over his shoulder and his eyes followed her hand. “Swim hard to the end. It will be long with many beasts.” She breathed in deep and flung her enormous arms wide to take in the ocean ahead. “I gift this to you. A chance.” She spoke the last word with reverence. It didn’t exist on her plane, not for her, not for anyone save those few souls she carried in her locket.

Wanting to believe, Jim-soul said, “Why? Why would you do this?” Cradle leaned down, her large black and red form dwarfing his own and touched his cheek. It burned where her crusted forefinger lay, but he ignored it. “You fight for them still.” Cradle paused, considering, then added, “Now fight for yourself.”

At that, she rose and motioned with her hand, giving him a hard push deeper into the water without touching him. He looked around quickly and hoisted a slimy black rock the size of his fist from just beneath the scummy surface. He nodded at Cradle, took a deep breath and dove in.

She hoped he was ready to fight the beasts ahead for his salvation. She had no idea how many of her souls had made it, she hoped all of them had, but she would never see for herself. Those born below were terminally possessed.

She watched him swim away, worrying and then, chewing on one fire-blackened lip, cheated a bit. With another wave of her hand, she pulled a tusked tuna from the water and clawed open it’s belly. She tossed it far to Jim’s right and watched the razor sharks frenzy towards the unexpected feast. She stared at his receding figure for a few minutes more. He was strong, she thought. He might just... Hot tears ran down her cracked skin as, staring up at the stars now, she began to sink.