Category: fiction

the windy city 1

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“Always a well-dressed fool
Who wouldn’t spare the rod
Never for me”
-“Foreigner’s God” by Hozier

Colm

His fingers flew. Colm was flying, but he wasn’t free. His fingers followed regimented paths, a platoon of soldiers, lining up, striking one at a time, just like they had planned. But one renegade struck out at the wrong time, throwing a sour note into the tail-wind of his violin.

His father’s voice came to mind, crowding his thoughts. Start over, it said. He stopped, ready to start from the beginning. But the judges expected a different path. They held their waiting fingers next to the sour note, ready to move on. His brow-line broke in the center; the soldiers must charge, must go on. There was no starting over.

Now his fingers flew and flew free. The soldiers were fierce and courageous. They followed the lines of their plan, but also their intuition, their innate sense of battle. Colm knew he had messed up again, but the notes flowed in lines and this time those lines felt like music.

Colm had trouble concealing his smile when he bowed, as one judge clapped,
another smiled, and the last one nodded, not in recognition, but in agreement. But his father was watching so conceal it he did.

He had trouble looking at his father when he walked off the stage. But his father was watching so look at him he did.

His father’s face was flat but the lines of his face were angry. Colm had learned to see that anger, no matter how slight, so he could know when to duck, when to brace himself, and when to run away.

This anger was slight but intense. This was when to run away. But there was nowhere to run, so Colm walked straight into battle, into the fray, trying to conceal his fear but in all likelihood failing.

“You made a mistake,” his father said. The words that had been waiting in his father’s mouth now met Colm’s ears. The voice was quiet, more intense, more dangerous. Run. It said. You can’t duck this one. You can’t brace yourself this time. Run.

“Why didn’t you start over, Colm?” The voice continued. Quiet. Intense. Dangerous. Run. “I told you to start over.”

Colm’s voice stuck in his throat thick with fear. He didn’t try to speak because he knew he couldn’t. He knew he would speak wrong. He knew he would
make a mistake. “Answer me Colm.” A warning. Not in the words. In the lines, straight on a calm face. Run. His voice stuck in a throat thick with fear. The voice didn’t need an answer.

“You shouldn’t have made that mistake, Colm. You should have started over.” The
voice still wanted an answer. His throat was thick with fear. His father banged on the ground the cane he never used for walking. “Answer me, Colm,” he snapped.

But Colm could not.

The cane swung backwards, but Colm had no time to react before it hit his head. He sunk to his knees, surprised as much as he was not. But the pain still cracked and stung, hot on his forehead. He looked up, mouth open in surprise. His father had never lost his temper in public. Only in private where bedroom walls would hide his shame.

But he struck again. Again. Pain snaked and cracked and barely escaped Colm’s lips. He had learned a long time ago not to scream. Screaming was uncouth, uncivilized, and, most importantly, it attracted the neighbors’ attention.

So Colm did not scream, but he did attract someone’s attention. The cracks of cane against his skull were louder than the grunts that passed Colm’s lips. His father couldn’t blame him this time. He felt the blood run down the bridge of his nose and gasped in surprise, in fear.

The pain that cracked and bled threatened his vision with black but he saw the eyes of a woman, the horrorstruck eyes of a woman.

He heard shouting. He wasn’t shouting. The voice was coming from outside his head.

And even through the pain all he could think was that his father couldn’t blame him anymore, not this time. Foreign arms pulled his father back. Neighbors.

He had bothered the neighbors. He shook his head. No. No. No. He wasn’t the one shouting.

The woman pulled him against her chest. Like a mother.

And maybe she was. But she was a neighbor; he had bothered the neighbors. Now they were interfering. He was breathing fast and quick. He wasn’t the one shouting; he couldn’t be – the voice was so far outside his own body. Father couldn’t blame him. He pulled his head into the neighbor’s chest. He gasped through the pain. But he wasn’t the one shouting.

“Colm! Colm! Colm!” He knew that voice. Sophie. The neighbor pulled back. His little sister was around him, hidden in his chest. He was supposed to protect her. How could he do that now? He leaned in, his arms barely around her.

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I failed.”

the vice 1

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Philo leaned against the ropes of the theater’s curtain. The show was running on the lit stage in front of him. That’s how it always was. Philo stuck to the corner. No one would think about who built the set or who was running the lights. They would watch the actors pantomiming human emotions. They would be entertained. They might laugh. They might cry. All the while forgetting what the play really was. A fake.

The stage manager walked up to Philo.
“Get ready for the set change,” she ordered. Philo nodded. “Remember, the
prince goes offstage and we need to get the bed on as quickly as possible. I know this is just a rehearsal, but you know what they say: practice like you play.”

Philo nodded again, but he wasn’t listening.

The pain was crawling through his toes. It shot though his legs, and now it
was crawling again. Higher, higher, his navel, his ribs. His heart.

It stabbed.

His chin met his knee. He barely heard the stage manager’s voice as it trickled
down to him.

“Philo, are you are right?” He focused on his eyes. His jaw muscle’s strained.
His joints screamed as he straightened out and brushed Dora off.

“I’m fine…just…leave me alone…” He ran, or that’s what he planned to do. He
only stumbled a couple steps before he slammed into a row of lockers.

He was going to die.

This is what happened when you forgot to take the drug. You died. Philo was
going to die. Then they’d all know. They’d know that the vice had grabbed him
around the neck. He could almost hear their voices now.

“He seemed like such a nice guy.” It was always seemed with the drug deaths.

None of them were nice, but they all had seemed that way. The only kindnesses the deceased would get were the denials. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it,” like being on the Drug made them a different person, like it made all their good deeds go away.

Now Philo was heading to that same place, to that same despair in death. His
head was spiraling, his vision blackening.
Cold glass pressed into his palm. He dared not look. It felt like the Vice, [his
savior now]. But what if it wasn’t?

He opened his hand. A blue liquid shimmered at him.

It was the Drug. His blurred eyes caught a brown head of hair. The head turned and nodded. He didn’t have time or energy to follow his savior, but now he
had the drug. He could live, at least for now.

the philosopher’s agenda 3

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“I just can’t pretend anymore,” he cried, turning back to confront her with the lines of anguish on his brow. She looked at him and stepped slowly out onto the deck; her face as usual held no clue to the inner tumult of emotion ardently felt.

“Maybe we don’t have to pretend.”

Alfie held his breath, bated, in his throat, afraid a stray exhale would blow away the possibility it had suddenly occurred to him to hope for. His hand drifted outward in tenuous question. But it remained as far away from her waist as it was from his own. He knew with a stinging realization that if her words did not mean what he hoped, he would cry, and he would cry in front of her.

With stiff face, Rosemary answered the delicate question, catching his wrist and pulling it slowly to her waist. So complete was his disbelief that he required similar encouragement to rest his other hand opposite the first.

Slowly and ritualistically, Aflie bent his head and kissed on the forehead a girl he had admired for months, if not years.

In slow and trembling voice he asked, “How was that?” Rosemary could not keep a smile from shifting visibly under the carefully kept mask of her face.

“Better than Alchemy.” And with similar ritual, the alchemist kissed Alfie gently on the corner of his jaw. He shivered unexpectedly, the combination of excitement and disbelief traveling violently through him.

Rosemary leaned closer and her whisper was softer. “How was that?” Alfie closed his eyes, pressing his chin into the hand she had rested on his neck.

“Better than sex.”

the windy city 0

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“I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied round their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow
And I turned round and there you go
And Michael you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime”
-“White Winter Hymnal” by Fleet Foot Foxes

Sinfi
The caravan was broken. It had never been broken before. It had been burned, cracked, cut, and bruised, but never broken. But now the red and gold pieces had caved in, fallen over and up, crushed ships in a dark, white-capped sea.

Sinfi’s blue dress lapped around her ankles, chasing her, demanding that she follow the others.

The others ran ahead, colors dancing a fast, rich, dangerous dance. The yellows leaped and turned white. The reds stomped and turned black. The oranges twirled and turned grey.

But the dance behind them followed, faster, richer, more dangerous. The broken wood turned to flame, the flame danced, but it did not turn white, not black, not even grey.

A small solo lilted away from the fire, his voice rising and falling in tiny pants and
fast heavy footsteps. Sinfi fought against the current: the crowd, her dress, the fire. She reached back.

“Hurry Hanzi,” she urged. “Run.” His dark eyes reached for hers, but his feet
stumbled. They were right behind him.
They didn’t dance. They struck. Hanzi’s head fell to the white-capped waves, red
capped sea. Neither would part, and neither would hold back the Pharaoh’s men.

Sinfi let the current carry her, and she moved on, a steel skiff that knew how to
brave a winter storm.

Hanzi was gone, and the caravan was broken.

quarantine 0

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Part 1 – Breaking the Dragon from Her Cave

The Fox Escapes

The air was hard. Neal Grover breathed in steel air conditioning and let his heart run under his steel-tipped jaw. First day. He was stationed at the quarantine island.

He had heard stories about the terrible disease that raged there, so many different stories that he had sometimes doubted that the disease could be real. But that was ridiculous. Why have a quarantine island and no disease? He could never answer why such an island would need guards in the first place. But it wasn’t his job to ask questions, or to answer them.

His cold walk brought him finally to the overseer’s office. The overseer was a man in his late thirties that could only be described as gruff. He seemed disgruntled even before he caught sight of Neal. He didn’t look any happier to see a new guard. Neal took a deep breath. Steel, he reminded his jaw. Steel, he reminded his heart.

“Name?” the overseer snapped.

“Neal Grover, sir.” The overseer rolled his eyes.

“Sir…yes you are new. They never bother with that courtesy anymore.” He sighed wearily. “Past experience, Grover?

“None, sir.”

“Good, fresh out of the academy. They are getting thin. The guards I get are greener and greener each year.” Neal’s eyes darted around the room. He wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer or if that would make this already disgruntled man even more disgruntled. The overseer shook his head. “No matter, we’ll train them, always have, always
will. Mycha!” he called. A guard sauntered into his office in answer

“That’s alright, Mycha, don’t hurry it would make my day too easy.” Mycha only grinned in answer. She crossed
her arms.

“What do you want, Boss?” she asked. The overseer pointed at Neal.

“This is Grover, Neal Grover. He’s fresh and untrained. Take him for a tour and show him the ropes.” Mycha grinned in answer.

“Easy enough. Where’s he stationed?” The overseer sighed and looked at his
scribbled notes.

“I hate to do this, but we’re short staffed in the Dangerous Animal sector. He’ll go
there.” Neal blinked rapidly. Dangerous animals? This was a Quarantine island, not a menagerie. Mycha shrugged.

“Your job, not mine, Boss.” She turned back to Neal. “Come on, Grover, you’ve got a lot of touring to do.” She left the room quicker than she had sauntered in, leaving Neal to scramble to catch up. His jaw loosened as urgency overtook his first-day nerves.

“Wait! Hold on.” Mycha turned back to him. “What does he mean, dangerous
animals? I thought this was a quarantine island.”

“Okay, Grover, I’ll cut you a break today, since you’re greener than grass on the
other side of the fence. Lesson one, newbie, this is not a quarantine island.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a place we hold a very special type of person.” They were walking through a
different hallway with hard air and grey walls.

“What kind of person is that?” They reached an iron door, locked from the outside.

“It’s where we keep shapeshifters,” she said and swung the door open.

curse of the magi 27

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Hovsep was pacing his room along the same pattern he always paced it. Back corner, front corner, side middle, back corner. A perfect triangle. There was no thread left on the carpet there.

He turned around as the door creaked open.

“Elia.” He smiled with half of his mouth. “You’re here.”

“It’s good to see you too.” She gave him a half smile back. “Where are they? Hovsep pointed to the door behind her.

“Holding cells.” Elia nodded and followed him into an all-silver holding room. She
shifted uncomfortably, she could already feel the deadly metal sapping her energy, but she had been trained for this. A barrier spell insulated her magic, but she would have to make contact with the guard to put her under a sleeping spell.

The guard jumped to her feet.

“What is your business here?” she demanded. Hovsep shook his head.

“You don’t recognize us? Seriously?” The guard raised her eyebrow.

“No…”

“Well we have explicit orders to talk to the two in cell 3.” The guard shook her head.

“I’m going to have to confirm with HQ.” Elia shook her head.

“No need, I have written permission. One sec it’s right-“ Hovsep stuck his foot out
and Elia tripped onto the guard. As soon as she made contact, she pushed a sleeping spell onto the surprised woman who slumped gently to the ground.

He made eye contact will her, nodded, and he spoke without words. You’ve got this. Elia nodded back and leaned over the guard. As she turned her back, Hovsep slipped out and the door clicked shut. Elia unthreaded the key marked with a three from the leather key ring. She quickly unlocked the door, her heart racing.

There were two people in the cell , but hardly any movement. When the door swung in, the brown haired one raised his dark blue eyes, but the hazel-eyed ginger only curled tighter into a fetal position.

“Who are you?’ the brown haired boy croaked.

“I’m Elia, and I’m here to help.”

curse of the magi 26

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Elia edged up to the palace gates at 2315.

The palace guard gave her a suspicious glare. She glared back.

“I’m here to visit Hovsep.” The palace guard laughed.

“Very funny, now get out.”

“I’m being serious, call him if you want.” The guard raised his eyebrow as he picked up the intercom phone.

“Hello. Visitor for Hovsep.” His voice crackled over the intercom.

“Yup, send her in.” The guard slammed down the phone and grudgingly hit the
button that opened up the gate. Elia raised her eyebrows at him and went through.

pentacle 8

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PART 1 – THREE OF SWORDS (cont.)

Adrian, who at this point in time was called Alice, was glued to the kitchen chair. Not literally glued, but figuratively, glued by obligation. Held down by the idea that if they got up, they would have failed. Which would have been the worst thing in the world. Janet placed a china plate on the table in front of Alice. Alice stared at it reproachfully, sure that the pretty pink roses were mocking them. All the roses had to do were be pretty, but Alice was obligated to stay here, and do what was required of them.

“Try it again,” ordered Janet, not unkindly. Alice stared at the plate until one plate turned into two. They were developing massive headache, and it seemed that their forehead as well would split into two. But as hard as they tried and hoped and desperately pushed with their mind, the plate would not move.

“Mom,” Alice pleaded. “I can’t do it. My head hurts.”

“Of course you can do it, sweetie,” Janet said, again, not unkindly. Alice started to cry.

“I can’t, mom, I can’t,” they said.

“Alice,” Janet said sharply. Alice flinched at the sound of their name. “You will do it. So keep trying.”

“No!” screamed Alice through sobs. At this, the plate shot through the air and shattered against the wall, just barely missing Janet’s head. A single shard fell away and sliced its way down the side of her face. Her eyes turned mean.

“Alice,” she said again, quietly, but this time, quite unkindly. Fear shot its way down Alice’s spine. They knew they were in trouble.

pentacle 7

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PART 1 – THREE OF SWORDS (cont.)

Adrian and Aiden had retrieved the box. It was smaller than expected and cardboard with “From Bill and Janet” written in thick sharpie on the top. The scrawling script was clearly Bahir’s. Adrian, once again, had gone numb and was staring that the box, but not really at it all. Aiden put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll get a box cutter,” he said. Adrian had not moved by the time he had returned. “It won’t open itself” he said, handing the box cutter over. Adrian nodded silently and sliced the tape deftly. The flaps fell open. The contents were bundled in bubble wrap. Adrian knelt down and carefully unwrapped the first parcel. As Aiden leaned over their shoulder, he could see that the other parcels were exactly the same, all stack on top of each other. It seemed that the box was filled with delicately painted china plates.

The plate Adrain was holding made no sound as it fell and rejoined the others. The plate was painted with tiny pink roses around the rim. Their breath turned shallow and quick as they recognized the pattern, and relived the memory they recognized it from.

pentacle 6

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PART 1 – THREE OF SWORDS (cont.)

Adrian was sitting in the middle of Bahir’s bed. They hadn’t moved in nearly five minutes. Aiden was nonchalantly skimming the belongings strewn across the dead man’s desk. A pen was thrown across a half-finished notebook page. An empty coffee mug sat to the left. As if someone was about to pick up the pen and finish their thought. As if someone would come through the door any minute to clear away the empty mug. Aiden finally broke the silence.

“Ok something’s up, spill it,” he said. He held up his hand. “No, I know. There’s a lot that’s ‘up.’ There’s something else.” Adrian stared into space for what felt to Aiden like forever. But in what was actually only 30 seconds, they finally responded.

“I think he really did shoot himself. That seems to be true,” they paused again. Then continued. “On the left side of his head – I mean, there was makeup on it, but you could stills sort of see that -“

Aiden grimaced. “Okay, stop, stop, I get it”

“Oh,” Adrian continued, “well that part seems true, anyways, but Aiden,” for the first time since they had entered the room, they made eye contact, “there were bruises, on his wrist.” Aiden’s eyes went wide.

“Well how could you – I mean don’t they…” he gestured broadly “cover that up or something?” Adrian shrugged.

“Maybe not, if it’s supposed to be covered by the suit.”

“He’s wearing a suit?” Aiden snorted. “Boy, he would hate that.” Adrian let out one short, soft laugh, then another.

“It’s not like the undertaker would let me put him in a Hawaiian shirt,” they managed between laughs. Aiden snorted again. Adrian doubled over. And they each forgot, momentarily, the reason they were in this room alone in the first place. They forgot momentarily that the man they were laughing over was gone.

In the kitchen Joyce looked up from her late friend’s will and raised a single eyebrow at the sound of two friends laughing hysterically in the room of a dead man. She lined up the edges of the pages, slipped them into an envelope, and quietly absconded. Her work did not end here.

“Okay, okay,” Adrian said breathlessly, wiping away tears. “Let’s do what we came here to do.” They looked around, actually taking in the room for the first time. They pointed to the desk. “What’s in that notebook?”

Aiden moved over to take a closer look.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s to you. It starts ‘Yo Adrian!’ “

“It does not,” Adrian laughed. They stood up to [look over Aiden’s shoulder]. “Oh” their voice softened “it does.” [backstory about name goes here??]

Yo Adrian, the letter read, I thought you and Aiden would appreciate. Aiden and Adrian grinned at each other. The contents of this notebook will shock you. They will challenge your reality and introduce you to a world I worked hard to protect you from. I couldn’t protect you any longer, and I’m sorry for that. I ask that you take this information one page at a time. Each will take time to process.

Aiden, I know you are reading this too. The friends exchanged a sheepish grin. You and I both know Adrian. They are proud, stubborn, and fiercely independent. Adrian blushed. But this path is yours too, you will understand that soon. My task for you is to make sure Adrian doesn’t walk this path alone. Be as annoying as compassionate, and as persistent as I know you can be.

Aiden screwed up his face.

“He has to have to last word, doesn’t he,” Aiden complained. “Can’t even give me a break when he’s dead.” Adrian laughed. They both fell silent and tried not to look at the notebook. They failed. Adrian nervously adjusted their hat.

“Here goes nothing,” they said and flipped the page.

It won’t surprise you, Adrian, Bahir wrote, If I say that your adoptive parents did not have your best interest at heart. But it may surprise you to hear why that is. And why they adopted you in the first place. You see, they were interested mainly in your abilities. The reason is part of a much larger picture that will unfold as you continue to read my extensive notes. They died under suspicious circumstances only two years after you were removed from their care.

An article was cut and pasted onto the page. The headline read “Carmel couple found dead in their home” the picture was of the home Adrian had lived in until the age of seven. Seeing it again, even in black and white newsprint, raised the hair on the back of their neck.

What they left to you in their will is in a label box in the basement. Their death was ruled a suicide. But you should know that a suicide is not always self-inflicted.