Gradualism burns the wooden tracks that carry us to progress. Languidly chugging up a manufactured hill of disparity, the gears of forward motion are greased with the souls and bodies of the sacrificial Now.

As more fall under the weight of future expectation, their suffering and loss are heralded divine. To suffer is to be like Jesus: the expectation of living as a saint, of striving for the perfection of loss and suffering for the good of the many has been placed upon the shoulders of those least deserving of sorrow, those who already bear the brunt of suffering and degradation.

An inconvenience of time or petty cash is all it takes to tip Poverty from scraping the bottom to being crushed under the barrel that holds those scraps of insecurity, crushed because so many dip into the barrel furiously, clamoring over one another and crowding, yet their ladles come up empty. Now is all there is; for those with no future to speak of, to drink excessively, to eat badly, or to buy impulsively is the only true pleasure they can afford.

The immediacy and ease of procuring the unhealthy–because affordable consumables in the US don't even considered food in other countries–further impedes the impoverished person’s ability to contribute to the economy. And their taxable income seems to be the only determiner of society’s estimation of their intrinsic value.

Those whose incomes and housing and healthcare are secured are allowed to simply be. Their human value isn’t determined by their immediate productivity; leisure is allowed. Leisure has been earned, whether by birth, luck, work, or a combination of the three.

Their value being established by the tax dollars they unwillingly contribute, they are free to overindulge without excessive consequence. Paid sick leave can be used for hangovers; gap coverage and car rental coverage can be used for irresponsible driving and endangerment of others; retirement funds and house equity can be used for overspending and financial irresponsibility. And all this is aboveboard, protected, acknowledged as appropriate citizenship. And nothing more is required; no accusations are made against their humanity.

The most precise weapon of oppression is abject poverty. Poverty looks different now than it did decades ago. Poverty has a flatscreen TV and a cell phone. Poverty has internet access, soap, and a used car. But, Poverty has little else. And everything, for Poverty, is the urgent now.

Zar couldn’t fathom what she saw in this guy, his clown-like outfit, ordinary blah features that could be anybody, and his ridiculous, bright face…always smiling and grimacing with the same overinflated bravado. How boring!

Half-grinning like a goon, Zar swiped a finger across his throat and popped his tongue from the unsmiling side of his mouth. He bobbed: up on his toes, heels down, up on his toes again.“Is his last name really Glow?”

An elegant hand whooshed through the air toward his face. He could see it coming, a slow-mo kung-fu fight scene, but the impact knocked the rest of the smile from his lips. SSSUMP! “Quiet, you ignoramus! The ‘Mr.’ is salutatory! Ugh!” Her eyes were slits of white fire as she flashed a toothy snarl in his direction. There she was…in all her villainous glory, the bane of and only reason for his existence. The Mist-Ress.

He figured if she knew how much he enjoyed those slaps, she might reconsider doling them out, so he held his cheek in half-feigned fear. A growl visibly vibrated her throat, which sent an icy-hot shiver through his sternum. She refocused her attention on the ridiculous creature before them. “Now, where were we?”

The man in tights raised an eyebrow at Zar. “What are you staring at, minion?”

“I’m no minion, you idio—”

FWUMP! A heavy lead boot made contact with Zar’s sternum, knocking the air from his lungs in a resounding grunt. Zar skipped across the stone floor like a pebble on a pond. The Mist-Ress paused then threw back her head with a wicked laugh.

"Saved me the trouble! Any more favors you want to grant me, hot stuff?" She slunk around the room, spinning her shuriken in her palms and licking her small, pink mouth. She gave Zar a quick kick in the balls, more for humiliation than pain, and pressed a finger to her lips, "Shhh."

"You fiendish witch! I am not tempted by your wiles." With this statement, the blond blockhead's fists began to hum and radiate. "You know what we used to do with witches, don't you? Give up, now, and I'll settle for prison!"

The Mist-Ress giggled and made an "O" with her mouth. "Are you trying to flirt or fight, sass-mouth?" A shuriken spun from between her long painted nails and slashed Glow's ear, taking a few millimeters of golden hair into the wall with it.

"Finally, some action," Zar murmured mischievously. He rolled on his side, propping his head on a hand and crossing his legs.

The Mist-Ress hissed at Zar once more and, in a puffy amber cloud of twisted flesh, teleported right in front of Mr. Glow. "Hellooooo, hotty." Wham!

It was my fault, you see.

He asked permission to leave.

It was my turn to "babysit."

And although I generally included our baby brother, never getting embarrassed of him when I was with my girlfriends, I just wanted a night to myself.

I simply said, "go ahead!"

He didn't need to wait for me.

It was my turn to live a little.

And even as I was saying it a little too gruffly, he giggled and smiled because he had the answer he wanted and would have left anyway but under a huff.

That huff would take time.

He'd have left a few minutes later.

It was my choice to not argue.

And he loved a good argument, especially if he could turn it back on you to make it make sense for whatever he wanted in that moment and without regret.

He didn't do regret; how strange that he is mine.

My mother holds our family in boxes. She spent decades compiling stories from tiny slivers of information via family bibles, genealogical archives, vital statistics databases. She collected all the letters and journals from extended family members and read each one.

Placing the specific within the context of time, timelines are almost as important as the lineage itself. More than a dormant, leafless family tree, her honoring is more vital, more abundant. Her histories contain personalities, feelings, and contemporaneous views of the past. Historical perspective lends insight to decisions grand and intimate, decisions that brought us to this time.

Such acts of remembrance shape our understanding of self. Dates and locations are cold, dead data points. Life is an ancestor writing a letter to her pioneering cousin, not knowing if she made the trek to Salt Lake, not knowing if she'll ever receive it or answer. Closing the letter with Happy Holidays, as the letter might arrive anytime between All Hallows Ev'n and Christmas Day.

My mother sees the dauntlessness of her foreborn cousin as explanation of her own intrepidity. Or an enriched connection to Family, to self, to history and time, to life and the eternal nature of consequence, of life leading to life. And in the shared remembrance, she honors the flesh and the spirit of her ancestors.

I can feel the soothing cool of your presence on my cheeks each morning, and I know I can relax. Breathe easier and enjoy the day, the whole day outside without being burned or dangerously overheated.

My mind perks like a kitten before a thunderstorm, and inspiration visits more often. I'm friendlier, less prone to grumpy fits because I can't endure the pleasure of summer, lounging on a boat at the lake for hours or weeding and harvesting summer vegetables.

But, I still can't forgive you for Charlie, Aunt Jane, and Grandpa. Years apart and in reverse order, youngest to eldest, you took them. I logically know it wasn't you, and it's not really all that terrible to have a memorial month, I suppose. It makes it easier to cram it all together, and cleanse myself of my burdens and regrets, my losses and hopes... before the new year.

The scents you bring of rot and decomposition, the ozone and minerals from the chilling soil, all heralding the big rest, the promise of renewal and the beauteous life cycle. The physical and the psyche churning and feeding one another.

And then I remember the piles of leaves and an impetuous giggle as he and his dog, Georgie, ran in counterclockwise circles, looking for the best spot to flop; wriggling Scottish eyebrows of jolliness when building a bonfire; coffee and baked goods on the front porch swing, the only time of year she cooked anything other than microwaved dinners.

So, I guess that's why you've always been a favorite. All the grand and brilliant memories. The physical release from anxiety. The purge of emotions that we stoics hold behind calm eyes.

You always spoke so little of yourself,

You could bury your best friend, and tell nobody at work;

You are "so good at keeping things vague,"

In the most intriguing ways.

But, I'm not psychic because I can read you,

You said I understand you, better than anyone else in town;

You are such a star, a gravity well,

I find that hard to believe.

But, I do know you, don't I...

I feel your eyes when you glance at my Insta, before the hearts appear;

You love my photography: raw,

Natural and unrefined, unfiltered,

Where others just see trees, weeds.

You delve into understanding me,

And call me sophisticated when others just see the clown;

You expect me at my best yet love it when I'm bad.

Always a conscious choice.

I see the beauty in your mess,

And I appreciate the seemingly-random calculations you make

That place others before you, always pushing us for betterment,

Coach.

What a strange thing to understand someone else as oneself;

Stranger still to appreciate the flaws alongside the healthy positives,

But I still can't read your mind.

Geo felt freer on the lake than anywhere else. He could be himself, and hardly anyone bothered him there. Not since that summer. Sure, there was an investigation, but nothing came of it. No body; no crime.

He liked the shack and the little skiff dock. He sat on the edge of the dock on evenings like this. Thirty feet out, the buoy rocked from a passing motorboat, and the soft clang set the birds off.

The motorboat made another pass and slowed, letting its own wake push it to the dock. His dock. "'Scuse me. May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for 402 East. Whatever that means." The stranger stood and steadied the boat alongside the dock.

"It means lot 40 on the south-eastern shore. The 2 stands for South. It also means you found the right place."

"Oh, I just assumed...uh. Hmm. I was told there wasn't a tenet." The two men sized each other up.

"Assumed, yeah. The old man just disappeared, and no family had come to claim the shack. Was it really so bad that I lived here? But people make *assumptions,* and gossip turns to truth faster than paint dries in the desert," Geo blurted out, immediately wishing he could shove all the words back in his big gab.

"Sorry! What the heck do you mean? This is my uncle's property. You don't have a lease?"

"Look, it was just sitting here..." before he could finish, the stranger restartsd the engine and steered towards town.

The stranger returned the next morning, his face paler and his jaw set. "So, I asked around," he said, rousing Geo from his morning nap. "Look, I know what everyone thinks. I also know it's not true."

"And how's that? You just got here."

"Well, I just got back." The stranger lifted his arm and balanced the compound bow. He aimed for Geo's heart and squeezed.

Pre-Date Jitters

Aiden had everything planned. He had walked the spot, smoothing the grass and pulling up sticktights. He had tossed a few twigs past the trunk of the 60ft willow, its silvery leaves shivering against the breeze. Leaning his napsack against the gnarled trunk, he'd emerged from the swaying canopy. He walked to the trail head and looked back; he paced back and forth, squinting to see his napsack behind the cascading drip line.

The day before, he had shopped for all the little do-dads and nibbles at the local sundry, Mary & Joseph's. He walked each aisle with a confident gait, even though his shoulders hunched forward a bit. He picked a jar of olives, some table wafers, a pre-sliced summer sausage, some elegent cheeses, cheap cloth napkins, and a basket meant for apple picking.

Aiden turned his back to the storefront panes and bent over to get a good look at something. He put several of these items in his buggy and continued down the aisle. He glanced at the green and black and ambered clear bottles. He looked unsure if he should pick white or red, or maybe something pink and bubbly. His hand hovered over a cold duck for a moment; then, he made a fist and walked to the next aisle.

It was cute. And it was the right decision. Males can be such frail, hesitant creatures when they are prepping for a mating ritual. Their execution isn't always so... gentle. This was going to be a romantic picnic to rival all other 3rds in the history of dating, so much so that I found myself wanting to make an exception. Perhaps I could wait until after for once, I thought. Males can be surprising. Perhaps I was wrong about this one.

Date Night

Aiden walked slowly up the hill, reaching behind him. A small hand reached toward his, and the hands met. He gently tugged to help his companion (who we can call Jane) over a rocky outcrop, and her giggles echoed against the boulder behind the willow tree, only to fall silent just at the trail head. Very private. Aiden smiled when Jane gasped at the scene he had prepared.

The silver willow now glowed with an internal golden warmth. Candles sparkled, and a cool breeze sent slivers of light and merriment into the evening sky. Fireflies responded with their own illuminants. The couple sat on the blanket, and Aiden presented his picnic basket. Jane covered her smile upon viewing the contents.

"What? I tried." Aiden smiled so brilliantly that his companion couldn't help but touch his cheek. They embraced, and Aiden gingerly kissed her exposed neck. Jane discretely slid her skirt up, revealing the thickness of one upper leg. An invitation.

Aiden flashed a hesitant grin, eyes glimmering in the candle light. Jane nodded, and Aiden quickly kissed his way to her offering. He looked in my direction as if prompting me to join him. And though I knew he couldn't see me or sense me there, I found myself accepting his invitation.

He started slowly, nibbling and sucking along the adductor tendon just below her pelvis. Her head tilted back, and she held herself firm against him by balancing on veed arms--a triangle of desire and trepidation. I mirrored his movements, my fingertips and nails in place of his lips and teeth.

Aiden's body trembled; his effort to withstand the desire heightened my connection to him. He was almost speaking to me. I could almost feel his teeth scraping my thigh. My breathing quickened, and Jane's moans vocalized for us both. This was the moment. I would have to finish before she did if I were to save her.

I lifted my earbuds from my pouch and pressed each one deeply and firmly into either ear. I hit play. Dragging my nails across the tenderest patch of flesh on my inner thigh, three small trickles of blood slowly dripped onto the cool earth as I climaxed.

Aiden's head snapped in my direction, and a thin hiss escaped his lips. Jane, enthralled and waiting, sat in the same pose panting, thigh unscathed.

He was next to me in a second, the swirling gold of candlelight and leaves swishing behind him. He stared at me with fierce eyes as he crouched, slowly sniffing at my life's heat, leaking from my thigh like a savory sauce dripping from a perfectly cooked brisket.

As he leaned in, his mouth moved rhythmically. I was grateful for choosing quality earbuds, but it was still difficult to resist because I could read his lips.

Realms of bliss, realms of light

Some are born to sweet delight

Some are born to sweet delight

Some are born to the endless night

End of the night, end of the night

End of the night, end of the night

I tilted my head back and placed my hand on the cold hard railroad spike beside my pouch. Aiden cautiously licked at one trickle of blood, his fiery tongue rasping against the ravaged epidermis. I wrapped my other leg around his upper torso, pressing his face into the blood. His eyes widened. I could almost hear the internal struggle: this wasn't planned; I must stop; she isn't who I picked; she wants this more than I do; nobody wants this more than I do.

Aiden's eyes rolled back and his mouth slowly opened, forming a great wide O into which he pressed my bloody inner thigh. Locked. I ran my hand sensually up and down his spine, matching the rhythm of his mouth and tongue. I found that tickly sweet spot, and then. Squelch. Was it pain I saw in those upturned eyes? Rage? Fear? Ecstasy? Perhaps all at once.

Thankfully, Jane would only remember a romantic picnic and that she decided not to see Aiden again, thanks to his thrall. After escorting her to her car, I came back to Aiden. He was gorgeous, even in true death. I removed his head and bisected his body. Such lovely 3rds. It was the most romantic night of my life.

Debrief

"Are you sure you want to sign this statement?" My supervisor had become increasingly squeamish over my past few missions. "Perhaps you could leave field work for a while and go back to the archives...?"

After a prolonged silence, he continued, "We can't have our agents appearing more...er...involved than the 'serial killers' they bring down."

"Of course. That's sensible." Under the desk, I rubbed the bruise on my thigh and thought of Aiden.

It wasn't the worst idea; I could find so many more monsters to slay in the archives. Perhaps my days of solo missions were over, but I had removed the head of the most vile vampire in Ireland, and that afforded me some leeway, I hoped.

That Night in NODA

Pinned against the silvery lavender

of his car, my knees wobbled as he leaned into me, doing a slanty push-up in reverse. The weight of his body, thicker and heavier now.

His brow furrowed, his face grew serious and dark, eyes wide, as it always did when he kissed me. His breath was on my face, and I lowered my head. One hand came to my chin, and he gently pressed up. His lips torturously close and lingering. But, I had to meet him; mutualism was required.

As he pulled back to gaze at my face, his brow furrowed again. He tapped two fingers against my temple. "Tell me," he probed.

I smiled. The wind kicked up a little swirl between us and his scent flooded my nose, penetrating my nasal cavity, mouth, throat. It was my turn for agony, sweet and savory.

We walked hand-in-hand toward the old converted warehouse behind the main strip. It was dark and ill-lit. A few guys sat talking and smoking on the neglected docking station; they noticed us and gave him the up-nod as we passed.

The muted rhythm of the music urged us closer, and I started skipping in anticipation. The doorman looked me up and down. But when he recognized my companion, we were let in at no charge. "My man," he said. He looked at me again with different eyes and nodded his approval of me as the plus-one, suddenly seeing the appeal.

A huge ring of people thronged around mats on the hard concrete floor. I bounced to try to get a look as we moved closer to the dense crowd watching the dancers. He held my hand so tight I thought my fingers would turn blue. He weaved through the first layer of sweaty bodies, and I got stuck. So, he put me in front of him and pushed his hands on either side of me to make room.

We made it just behind the front line, but nobody else would budge. I strained to see. The inner ring was tall gangly b-boys, sweat dripping and t-shirts tied at the waist. He pushed on my shoulders, putting me in a squatting position in front of him, and there it was: the sweet spot. I could see everything; he had given me the sweet spot. My head rested against his hips, his hands on my shoulders, I watched. Once in a while I would lean back and give him the look: did you see that killer move? Or, skills but no style, right? Each time he nodded his approval.

When round two ended, the crowd dispersed into smaller circles for chatting, practicing, or just dancing. "So, what did you think?" he tested me.

"Not much popping and locking for a pop-n-lock tournament," I replied. He nodded.

"Now," he looked at me unforgivingly and squeezed my hips so hard I almost yelped, "let’s get you to your bed.”

I hope this letter finds you well and settled in your new home. The appointments you mentioned in your last letter sound fascinating. J'adorerais avoir autant de beaux jouets. Pardon my French.

Doctors here have yet to boil their instruments with any regularity, so I expect an influx of plagued visitors any day now. It means more mess for me, but I do enjoy having a full house, every room filled, and the melted ice dripping from the cabinets.

As yet, our surgery only allows family to visit, but I hear from Frankfurt that you are the envy of Europe due to the observation lounge. Who would have guessed you'd be as big an attraction as the Tiergarten? After a near-century of distinction, I think Schonbrunn will understand and gracefully pass the torch.

I will say, I don't think I would much enjoy having so many Quicks rambling through my halls and disturbing my guests. But, you have always been a bit.. avante garde. Give my best to Saint-Antoine. Retirement can be frightening, and so little remains of the old ways. Not sure the modern age is for me. I grow tired of all the changes. I finally understand what Jianyang tried to tell me all those years ago.

Don't mind my grumpiness. I look forward to hearing more about your adventures.

Your friend always,

Pergamum