Arison
1. Aurathalor
It was the night of Aurathalor. On this ancient night the two wondrous moons of Arison became one. The crimson red Drak’arok dissolved into the deep blue sapphire of Vorthalas, weaving an emerald hue across the sky. The moons were deities of old, revered since time immemorial predated all existence. But the greatest of them was Malachra, the emerald moon, revealing itself only on this sacred night.
As the wind grew cold, the air turned crisp. The gentle breeze carried the smell of pine needles and moist soil, evoking visions of lush forests and tranquil woods.
Quite suddenly, the vibrant sounds of chirping birds fell silent, and the rustling of leaves ceased to be heard. In the mighty heights above the forest, a flock of enormous birds took flight. Against the chilly night of Aurathalor, these seven birds moved in a V-shaped pattern, gliding effortlessly like the wind itself. Their dark bodies glistened in the emerald light of Malachra. Leading this formation was a bird larger than the rest, distinguished by a massive white jewel adorning its neck.Despite its size, it didn't seem to weigh upon the majestic creature. It flickered against the light as if it could shine on its own.
Within the grand Duskaeries, flames flickered, casting a fiery glow that illuminated the space. The wooden doors stood open, flanked by two guards clutching their spears tightly, their stances vigilant. Bathed in the warm torchlight stood a man, draped in a flowing green fabric with a rough, textured quality. His hair cascaded freely to his shoulders, unbound.
Beside him stood a woman, dressed in vibrant red fabric adorned with delicate gold linings. Her hair was styled into a neat bun at the back of her head. Upon closer inspection, one could see the skin sagging around her eyes and the scattered white hairs beneath her black bun. Yet her beauty veiled her age perfectly.
“Thalor, you have done an amazing job with the preparations. The Duskaer will be delighted with the arrangements. Tonight is the night of Aurathalor, the night of budur.” She smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm for the upcoming ceremony.
"Thank you, Lady," Thalor responded with a nod, acknowledging her words of appreciation. "I put my utmost effort into ensuring the Duskaer will find the arrangements remarkable. Glory to the queens!" he added.
Helen echoed the sentiment, her voice resonating with devotion, before excusing herself to join the crowd gathered outside the Duskaeries.
As Thalor stepped into the Duskaeries, the torches around him cast flickering shadows on the walls. The wooden door closed with a thud, leaving him alone. At the center of the room stood a solitary stool, seemingly made of black marble. Upon it rested a bowl adorned with the symbol of two intertwined stars, the royal authority of Arison.
Thalor approached the bowl, circling his fingers around the rim, oblivious to the gleaming white orb inside. He looked nervous as he stared at a door at the far end of the room. With measured steps, he made his way towards it. Clutching the handle, rusty and worn, he grasped it firmly, wrapping his thick fingers around it. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and opened the door with a creak.
Inside was a lonely chamber, stripped of life. Red splatters covered the walls like paint thrown at a canvas. On the floor, within this crimson pool, a massive emblem of two stars was etched. Thalor stared at the mark and sank to his knees. Silent tears streamed down his face as he gazed into the past, which he could never forget.
*******
18 years earlier
`
“Dad, help me!” a young girl cried, her voice piercing through the crowd like a dagger. Seven women dressed in black stood around the girl in a circle, one of them forcefully dragging her to the entrance of the Duskaeries. Thalor stood still, staring at the wooden doors. Silent tears streaked his young beard. Each breath seemed a struggle, his chest tightening with every passing second. His eyes appeared empty, as if devoid of life. He felt as though his entire existence was crumbling, reduced to mere fragments scattered across the sands of time. Time lost its meaning; it felt like centuries since the girl had been dragged into the Duskaeries.
Seven women emerged from the Duskaeries, holding the young girl, now limp and lifeless. Her delicate hands were stained with blood, her eyes hollow sockets. Suddenly, thick black smoke enveloped the women. As it cleared, seven enormous birds stood in their place. One of them held the lifeless girl in its beak and ascended into the night sky. They disappeared into the vast expanse, carrying with them the girl and her life. Her fate was sealed, her death a mere excuse, her life a cruel game.
Thalor stared at the night sky where Rayla had vanished forever. Malachra drifted apart into the two moons of Arison, taking with it the prosperity it had brought. The crowd dispersed, relieved their daughters had been spared, yet they tried to console Thalor. But they couldn’t understand. For Thalor, every breath felt like a betrayal. It was wrong to breathe when his daughter couldn’t, wrong for his heart to beat when hers didn’t, wrong to live when she couldn’t.
*******
“Sir, Lady Helen has arrived with news,” a guard stiffly shouted through the door. Thalor rose from his kneeling position, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He took a deep breath before stepping outside into the heavy night. Lady Helen stood outside the Duskaeries, still in her shimmering crimson robes.
“Is there something I need to worry about, Lady Helen?” Thalor inquired, smiling.
“No, my dear lad, it's wonderful news. The Duskaer have sent word—they shall soon grace us with their presence.” Lady Helen smiled as she shared the news.
“Glory to the queens! That's wonderful, and just in time for Aurathalor. I shall see to the preparations,” Thalor said before excusing himself and heading towards the ruins of Aurathlories.
Lysara and Elenor were waiting for Thalor, who had promised to arrive at the Aurathlories before Aurathalor. They sat side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ruins.Itt was a broken building, one that had once been grand but now showed the wear of time. Vines had grown over the ruins of Aurathlories, which quite literally means the Hall of Aurathalor. The building had crumbled and been looted over the centuries. It was well-known among the children of Arison from the old tale of Dola on Aurathalor, where a young girl named Dola described the wonders she saw while traveling to Arison. One of those wonders was Aurathlories, described as the sun in the night, for the gold embedded in it shone like the sun. One could not guess its former richness from its current poverty.
Lysara’s hair was tightly woven into a singular black braid. She turned towards Elenor, whose hair was a shining blonde. “Elle, it's Aurathalor again,” Sara uttered.
Elle smiled and hugged Sara tightly. “Yep, I know Sara, it's literally the same day as last year.”
Sara laughed into Elle’s shoulder. “Yes, Elle, it is.”
“Sorry, my children, I was held up by Lady Helen,” Thalor spoke, his smile masking his weary face.
“Did you, Uncle? You always seem to enjoy her company,” Elle said, smiling.
“Elle!” Sara exclaimed, playfully elbowing Elle in the stomach. Sara leaned forward towards Thalor. “You always have so much to do, Uncle,” she said, hugging him tightly.
Thalor turned towards Elle and playfully remarked, “No hugs, Elle?”
Elenor rushed towards him, wrapping him in a heartfelt embrace.
“Hey, slow down, you,” Lysara teased, laughing softly.
2. Crimira
The Duskaer descended silently from the night sky, their presence alone sending a wave of fear among the mob. They raised their colossal wings, and black smoke enveloped the seven birds. In their place stood seven beautiful women, clad in sleek black velvet garments that clung to their bodies with ease. Adorning their heads were headdresses carved from the bodies of dead birds, a symbol of death. The assemblage was exclusively composed of women. Each bore a ring upon her finger. Their lips were painted in a shade of obsidian black.
Amidst the beautiful assembly of women, one woman stood forward, her eyes commanding attention. Around her waist, an enormous white jewel was tied. All eyes were fixed upon her; the young lusted at her beauty while the elders cowered in fear.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" The woman's lips curled into a self-assured smile.
Helen, who was standing before her, sank to her knees. The woman offered her hand to Helen, who gently kissed it. "Indeed, my mistress. Your presence is my blessing," she murmured.
"Indeed it has. But worry not, Helen, my arrival brings purpose." The woman placed her hand on Helen's head. Her eyes turned a deep shade of black, and she murmured spells of old. The fabric of reality tore, as if cut by scissors. Jewels of different shades fell into Helen's lap. The crowd shook in awe.
"Your generosity is beyond measure, Miss Talora," Helen bowed her head to the ground, her eyes in tears.
Thalor, the town's chief, stood tall, his gaze fixed. Flanking him were Lysara and Elenor. According to the age-old tradition of Arison, it was the duty of the town chief to wash the feet of the Duskaer with rakh, a black powder made from burnt remains of human bones. Standing beside Thalor was the previous chief, Lady Helen. She clapped twice, and in response, fourteen servants appeared. Two servants carried seven metal bowls, their surfaces reflecting the light of malachra. These bowls were filled with water, shimmering and pristine up to their very brims. The bowls were placed in front of each Duskaer, who stood in a line with Talora at its centre. The Duskaer raised their hands, their black garments clinging to their fingers. Suddenly, as if they had always been there, black marble stools materialized out of thin air. The air grew heavy as the Duskaer descended upon the stools.
Thalor kneeled before Mistress Talora, his eyes cast downward in respect. His heart quickened beneath his chest as he reached out his hands to touch her foot. The moment his hands made contact, he felt a chill, as if icy tendrils were creeping up his spine. The rakh clung to his fingertips as he applied it to Mistress Talora's foot, seeping into her skin and turning it inky black. Her once-pale skin now bore the haunting hue of midnight. One by one, the other members of the council followed Thalor's lead, their hands trembling with fear. The Duskaer kept smiling, for it was their day.
The sight of Mistress Talora's skin darkening sent a ripple of unease through the members of the council who stood witness. One by one they followed in Thalor's steps as they undertook the ceremony.
With a smile curling upon her lips, Talora's gaze swept through the mob. The time had come. Thalor met her gaze, understanding what was to come. "As you wish, my lady," Thalor murmured softly, his voice light. Lady Helen clapped twice, and the servants swiftly snatched the water-filled bowls away.
Talora stood up, and so did all the other Duskaer. The stools upon which they had been sitting disappeared into thin air. Thalor stood in front of the Duskaer as they approached the heavenly hall. "Duskaries" literally means the Hall of the Duskaer.
As they approached the hall, the door flew open with a creak. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting dancing shadows. The door closed with a thud as all awaited the judgement they would face. Fathers clutched their daughters tightly, and mothers cradled their day-old baby girls. Thalor stood still next to Elenor and Lysara. His hands were trembling. Lysara tightly took hold of his trembling hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Everything will be fine," she assured him. Thalor looked at her for a moment before running his hands through Elenor's hair. "I wish," he said.
Talora slowly moved towards the centre of the room, where a black marble stool stood, upon which lay a bowl. The hall seemed to have a life of its own. Talora picked up a white orb from the bowl, its smooth surface glittering in the dim light. Gripping it tightly with her slender fingers, she began incanting a special spell. Soon, all the Duskaer joined in. Slowly, the white marble orb started rotting into a black piece of coal, as if its very essence was being destroyed. The ball crumbled to dust, but the very second it did, a thick voice said, "Elenor Thal uq ’lars." Talora's lips curled into a smile as she awaited the fate that had befallen the girl.
Lysara and Elenor stood side by side outside the Duskaries, their hearts beating fast. They were waiting for the duskaer. Besides them stood a woman. A head scarf draped over her features veiled her face.Though her face was hidden, her unwavering posture possessed strength.Elenor stole a quick glance at the woman. The woman looked at her, her emerald eyes met Elenors, they were calm, as if they were smiling. The woman suddenly gripped Elenors shoulder tightly her touch firm and grounding.She hushed in a force tone,”Be prepared,”Elenors stared at the woman, taking it in, but before she could say anything, the hand on her shoulder disappeared, so did the words in her mind.
Lysara bit her lip and glanced around, feeling a cold sweat on her forehead and a knot in her stomach. She leaned closer to Elenor, who seemed a little distraught. "I'm worried," Lysara confessed. Elenor met her gaze with her crimson red eyes. "So am I," she said softly, "but we will get through this." They squeezed each other's hands, the heat of their skin mingling and soothing their chilled fingers. Elenor looked at Lysara with tears in her eyes. "Sara, promise me that whatever happens, you will never leave me."
"Of course, silly. That's what families do," Lysara said, her sapphire eyes shining in the night. Their skin was hot and clammy, but they didn't let go, their heartbeat echoed in their palms.
The door of the Duskaries swung open quickly. The Duskaer emerged, their faces lit up with smiles. Talora’s smile sent a chill down everyone’s spine. The air grew colder, as if all the warmth had been taken away.
Her voice, sharp and cold, echoed in the quiet space, each word filled with a looming threat. "Elenor Thal uq ’lars," she said with a wide smile. A collective sigh of relief came from the crowd, happy their daughters were safe. Elenor dropped to her knees, staring up at the powerful Duskaries. "Is she your daughter, Master Thalor?" Talora mocked. "Yes, my lady, she is," Thalor replied, his voice shaking with sorrow.
A loud shout erupted from the crowd, "No!! You cannot. Elle!!" Lysara cried out, throwing herself onto Elenor, holding her tightly. She looked into Elenor's eyes, seeing only pain. Elenor's eyes seemed to say, "This wasn’t supposed to happen?" Slowly, Elenor stood up, smiling weakly at Lysara, her hands trembling. "I love you," she whispered. Lysara could feel her heart breaking, but her lips wouldn’t move.
“I can and I will, Lysara Thal uq ‘lars. Thalor, don’t you think that girl has crossed her limits? I wish to eliminate her, but this is the holy night of Aurathalor; we kill only once. You are spared, Lysara Thal uq ’lars. But remember, a Duskaer never forgets.”
Elenor dabbed her face with her sleeve, erasing the traces of her tears. "I am Elenor Thal uq ’lars. I stand here today to die by your holy hands, by the hands which have taken thousands of innocent lives." The crowd was stunned; every girl before her had begged for mercy, for a chance to be spared.
"Silence," Talora commanded, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. Elenor was not the kind of girl she preferred. She liked them young and helpless, their parents' cries soothing her ears. Over the millennia, Talora had encountered few like Elenor. They didn’t cry, they didn’t call out for help. Talora remembered the image of a young girl, her eyes full of tears, crying for her father. Decades had passed, but Talora didn't forget a good victim.
The defiance in Elenor's eyes fueled a different kind of desire within Talora. She looked at Elenor's trembling hands. The girl could fool the crowd by acting brave, but no one could fool the Mistress of the Duskaer. "Oh yes, my dear, I loved tearing their meaty hearts apart, drinking their blood like wine," Talora whispered, her voice honey-sweet.
Elenor squeezed Lysara's hand tightly. The Duskaer raised their hands, and Elenor was lifted into the air, her body enveloped in a black aura. Suddenly, the sky tore like paper, and the young girl was pulled into it by a powerful force. All was black.
The Crimira, also known as the Scarlet Room, was bathed in an eerie crimson glow. The walls bore deep stains of blood, and distant echoes of screams lingered in the air, haunting the silence. Etched onto the floor was a symbol of power, each mark seeming to whisper tales of past torment and souls crying out for mercy.
Lysara blinked her eyes open to find herself alone in the room. Suddenly, a decaying hand crept up her chest, tightening around her throat, and darkness consumed her once more.
When she next awoke, she was surrounded by black birds staring at her with intense hatred. One of them, adorned with a large white jewel, perched on her chest. With a swift motion, it slashed at her, but no sound escaped her lips. Blood spilled, staining the floor as women laughed joyously in the background. Despite the horror, Lysara felt strangely distant, as if she were watching from outside herself, unable to feel the pain inflicted upon her.
3. The Escape
Elenors heart was pounding in her chest as she watched Lysara being ripped away into thin air. She wanted to say “I love you ,” but the words were stuck in her throat. She felt numb, as if all her emotions had been drained from her. A chill crept over her, and she shivered despite the wool on her body. She tried to shout, to stop her, but no sound came out. A hand covered her mouth with a silky cloth, and she gasped for air. She took deep breaths, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, but instead she fell into a dreamless sleep.
“Should we tell her?” a woman’s voice said “No, let her decide what she wants to do,” another woman’s voice said, with a tone of authority. The voices were faint and distant, like echoes in a cave. Elenor felt a faint sensation of warmth and light, as if she was floating in a pool of sunshine. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy and glued shut. She wanted to ask them who they were, what they wanted from her, but she couldn’t move her lips or tongue. “She is waking up,” the sweet voice said, gently stroking Lysaras hair. She strained to see them, but all she could see were flashes of white lilies, pure and fragrant
******
Sixteen years earlier
A vase of lilies stood on a table, their white petals gleaming in the sunlight. The wall behind them was blue, decorated with lily motifs that copied the flowers in the vase. On a bed covered with a blue quilt, two women sat.
Lyra’s voice trembled, its timbre laced with concern. “Silvena, I can’t help but feel worried. What if we can’t protect our children from the dangers that lie ahead?” Silvena’s gentle smile faltered for a moment as she placed a hand tenderly upon her own pregnant belly. “I know how you feel, Lyra. The world can be a scary place, especially for mothers.” Lyra’s gaze fixed upon Silvena’s burgeoning belly, her voice filled with a deep sense of worry. “It’s the thought of having a girl… What if the Duskaer take her away?” Silvena’s eyes softened with understanding as she reached out to touch Lyra’s arm. “I get it, Lyra. But we can’t let fear control us. We gotta be strong for our kids.” A tear glistened in Lyra’s eye, her vulnerability laid bare. “I wanna believe that, Silvena. But it’s just so overwhelming.” Silvena squeezed Lyra’s hand gently. “We’ll face this together, Lyra. We’ll be there for our kids every step of the way.” Lyra’s voice quivered, a blend of vulnerability and determination. “You’re right, Silvena. We can’t let fear win. We will do whats necessary for them.” Silvena smiled warmly at Lyra, the bond between them unbreakable. “That’s what friends are for, Lyra.”
*******
Elenors eyes slowly opened, and she found herself lying on the ground in a forest. The trees had shed their leaves, and the ground was covered in orange and red leaves. She could hear the wind rustling against the trees, but there was no one around. Elenor felt confused and disoriented, wondering how she got there and why she was alone. She tried to stand up, but her legs felt weak, and she fell back down. She looked around, hoping to find a clue or a sign of life. But all she saw was a box next to her, a red velvety box with a lily stamp on it. Adria reached for it, curious and confused, wondering what it contained and who left it for her.Adria gently opened the box, her hands trembling. Inside was a letter, written on a piece of animal skin. It was rolled up and tied with a red thread. Adria untied the thread and unrolled the letter. She held it in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t read it. Her eyes were blurry. She squinted and tried to focus.
To Elle,
You can save what you yearn,
Love what you need.
Someone once told me,
"Love with all you have,
Until you have no more."
There's always a chance,
The flowers say so,
Follow the winds of life,
And you'll find where you belong.
Lily
Elenor's heart pounded in her chest as tears blurred her vision. She carefully folded the letter and placed it inside her jacket pocket, clutching the velvet box tightly. Sitting down amidst the carpet of leaves, she gazed around, hoping for some sign of Lysara. The forest remained eerily silent, amplifying her sense of isolation.
"Where is Lysara?" she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking against the stillness. The Dusaker had taken her best friend away leaving behind a void that echoed with her unanswered questions. "Why?" she called out, her voice trembling with sorrow, but the only response was the echo of her own anguish reverberating through the trees.
Desperate, she cried out for her mother, her voice cracking with emotion. Yet, the forest offered no solace, enveloping her in a profound silence. Just as hope threatened to slip away entirely, a soft, melodic voice brushed against her ear, humming a soothing tune.
In the world of honey, my dear Elenor gleams, In the light of dawn, my little one dreams. I hold your tiny hand, your voice so light, My sweet Elenor, a beacon in the night.
You're mine, and I'm yours, forever and a day, Together we'll journey, come what may. I'll be here always, through thick and thin, My love for you, a melody that will never dim.
As you grow tall, I'll watch you bloom, Like a flower in spring, chasing away the gloom. Strong and brave, with a heart pure and true, I'll guide your steps, in everything you'll pursue.
In the world of honey, my dear Elenor gleams, In your laughter and smiles, my heart finds its dreams. I'll cherish every moment, hold them close and near, For my love for you, my child, will always be sincere.
Elenor opened her eyes, tears still lingering from the memory of her mother's sweet humming. Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the calm of the forest. It wasn't human—it echoed unnaturally through the trees. Elenor jumped to her feet, heart racing, and followed the sound deeper into the woods.
Among the dense canopy, she spotted a bird unlike any she had seen before. Its feathers shimmered with a colorful plumage, each hue blending into the next like a painting come to life. The bird fixed its intense gaze on Elenor and let out a sharp cry that reverberated through the air, almost sounding like "arrr."
Before Elenor could react, the bird abruptly burst into a cloud of ash, disintegrating into nothingness. Startled, Elenor stumbled backward, falling to the ground. From the ashes, tiny worms wriggled out and crawled swiftly towards a nearby tree, disappearing into the bark.
As the dust flew onto her face, Elenor felt a strange whisper in her ear, almost like a question: "Who are you?" and Elenor collapsed.
Elenor winced as her mother Lyra tenderly tended to her wounds, her brow furrowed with concern. "You have to be more careful, Elle," Lyra chided, her voice a gentle mix of worry and frustration. "I won't always be here to take care of you. You need to learn to navigate the world on your own."
Elenor's eyes glistened with tears as she struggled to find her voice. "I know, Mama," she whispered, her words heavy with a mixture of gratitude and sadness.
The night draped the scene in a blanket of silence, broken only by the gentle hoots of owls. A fire crackled, its flames painting the surroundings in a warm, flickering glow. Elenor stirred from her slumber, feeling the comforting heat embracing her. She opened her eyes to the velvety darkness above, speckled with the twinkling Drakrok and Vorthalas.
Trying to move, she realized her hands were tightly bound. Panic flickered within her as she surveyed her surroundings—the crackling fire and a roasting bird were the only companions in this eerie place. Suddenly, a deep, menacing voice reverberated in the air. "Who are you?" it boomed, sending shivers down Elenor's spine. She couldn't find her voice to respond.
But then, as if a spell had twisted, the voice cracked and transformed into that of a feeble, elderly woman. "Oh, holy horse! It's gone wrong. Must've botched something," the voice stammered, sounding fragile and uncertain.
Perplexed, Elenor glanced around once more. Gradually, a small, indistinct figure emerged near the fire, gaining clarity—a diminutive, hunched old lady donned in a flowing green robe, silver threads dancing in the fire's glow.
"I'm a stone monster, ready to gobble you up," the old lady proclaimed with a tremor in her voice, looking directly at Elenor. Confusion painted Elenor's face, unable to make sense of the situation.
"Aren't you scared?" the old lady asked, noticing Elenor's hand dangerously close to the fire. "Oh, blast it! Even this! Age hasn't been kind," she sighed, distressed.
"Oops! Has my plan backfired?" the old lady muttered.
"What should I do now?" Elenor cried out, her voice echoing into the nightly sky. Suddenly, a small sparrow materialized seemingly out of thin air and perched delicately on the old woman's hand, chirping urgently at her. "Ajack, fun of old Mara. Not good," she murmured to the bird. Ajack cackled in response, fixing his gaze on Elenor. With a swift movement, the sparrow flew from the old woman's hand onto the rope that bound Elenor to the wooden rod, deftly pecking and chewing until, almost magically, the binding rope gave way.
Elenor collapsed onto her knees, her strength depleted, managing only a single word, "Water."
"Ajack, what have you done? She could pose a threat," the old woman cautioned, but Ajack squealed loudly in response. The old woman regarded him with a knowing look, seemingly comprehending every sound the sparrow made. "Jalam!" she called out into the air, conjuring a flowing stream of water suspended mid-air that poured gently into Elenor's parched mouth. Elenor drank greedily, as if she hadn't tasted water in weeks. Gradually, her strength returned, and she glanced around, noticing that the darkness of night had given way to the dawning light, with the moons setting and the sun rising on the horizon.
Seated on a nearby rock, the old woman observed Elenor, while Ajack continued pecking at worms on the ground. "Where am I?" Elenor inquired softly, turning to the old lady, who met her gaze steadily and responded, "What you should ask is: Why are you here?"
Title - Arison
genre- fantasy
age range- 15 to adult
word count- In process
author name - Skye celestial
my project is a goof fit due to the inclusion of emotions and all types of diverse characters. It is an original world with its own language and grammar giving an immersive experience for the reader. I am a young author writing a fantasy book, it is a wonderful advertisement gimmick.
The book deals with mature themes of loss and sacrifice. The book starts with a sacrificial ritual and has diverse characters .If given the chance I hope to extend it into a series.
Target audience- young adults
bio- Avaneesh Khanapure, student studying in 11th grade. 16 years of age
Silver and Red
"Tonto, where's Red?"
The Ranger had bolted upright in a cold sweat, woken by a nightmare of black jaws. The cold night poured into the old hunter's shack. The fire had gone out.
His Indian friend stood in the doorway, normally stoic eyes wide with alarm.
"Taken, Kemosabe. She went out into the night. I followed but the monster found the girl first."
The Ranger was on his feet in a flash, buckling on his gun belt.
"No time to waste, Tonto," he said. The brave stood aside to follow as he made for the horses. Silver's eyes were wide; she always knew when there was danger, but stood bravely until it was time to run.
The Ranger and his friend mounted up and bolted off into the forest.
"This way, Kemosabe!" Tonto shouted, leading the way into the trees.
The full moon is a double-edged blade, the Ranger mused. The forest is clear before us, but...
"Here, Kemosabe!"
They stopped in a clearing, clover glistening in the moonlight and lavender bell flowers with their heads down to sleep. Lying in the middle of the glade was a familiar red cloak. The Ranger bent to pick it up. Grasping it firmly in his gloved hand, for a moment he couldn't take his eyes off it.
"It does have her," he whispered. He tucked the hood into his side belt. "Are there tracks?" he said urgently.
Tonto was already leading his horse along the edge of the glade. "Here, Kemosabe. It ran north."
The moment he spoke, a howl echoed through the night, low and distant. The Ranger didn't waste another moment, shouting his horse into a run.
"Hyah!"
The forest blurred by as Silver ran more swift than the wind. In his mind the Ranger saw shadows of red and black, images of fates that he would not let happen. The trees seemed to constrict as he rode deeper, the shadows growing darker.
Suddenly, the forest stopped at a rock pass. The Ranger reined Silver in. Here the trees seemed to claw up the cliff, roots grasping at the mouth of the pass.
He heeled Silver on, riding only as carefully as need be over the roots and into the dark. Tonto appeared from the trees after only a moment, and they went on together, the pass just wide enough for both riders.
After a short stretch, Tonto called quietly. "Wait, Kemosabe."
The Ranger reined in, turning to his friend. "There's no time, Tonto."
"Listen," Tonto said, his eyes upon the air.
The Ranger felt a chill when he realized what his companion meant. It was too quiet... yet from the howl they had to be close.
They continued on, painfully slowly, but every sense told them they too had to keep quiet.
When they rounded a bend, the Ranger pointed. "There," he whispered.
Ahead was another glade in what looked like a circular canyon, moonlight falling on a figure lying in the grass. Red looked unharmed, her white blouse and red skirts untattered, dark brown hair a mess around her. The Ranger felt a spark of hope when he saw she was breathing.
"No, Kemosabe. There." Tanto's voice was grave.
The Ranger followed his raised finger up to a sharp cropping of rock that jutted out from the cliff. There the full moon hovered above a dark figure, the crouched and menacing silhouette of the beast.
The Ranger's brow hardened as, slowly and smoothly, he drew a silver bullet from his belt and loaded it into his revolver. As he did, a low growl came from the shadow, a warning to go no further. The Ranger felt the corner of his mouth raise just slightly.
With a flash of steel and pull of a hammer, the Lone Ranger fired, a deadly shot for the beast above.
Yet as surely as the birds fled the trees, he saw the shadow dash aside, as if black smoke in a sudden breeze. They heard a growling, an awful snarling, descending somewhere out of sight.
"It comes, Kemosabe."
When the dark shape fell into the pass and began bounding toward the riders, the Ranger tried to load another silver bullet, but was too late. He dove off the horse as the creature lept, a giant mass of black fur and gleaming fangs. As he flew aside, a claw slashed and tore away his gun belt, and it fell back into the shadows of the pass. Scrambling on the ground, he looked to where the belt had been. The beast snarled as it turned back in rage, glowering at the Ranger. The pistol had only one silver bullet.
A figure in tanned leathers suddenly appeared between him and the monster; Tanto had flown from his saddle, holding a wicked tomahawk to face down the thing.
In a moment of reprieve, the Ranger turned his eyes back to the clearing. Red had stirred awake, her head rising to look their way. The horses, he saw, had circled around to the far side of the canyon. He turned back to see Tonto circling and dancing around the creature, making war sounds as he kept its attention.
Lying at his feet, the Ranger saw the red hood. He swept it up, getting to his feet as he raised the pistol again.
"Tonto!" he shouted.
The brave came up from a roll and darted toward the Ranger, leaving the monster seething as it prowled, watching them from the edge of the shadows.
"Stay on Red," he said as he began to circle to the left, his pistol trained on the mouth of the pass. He waved the red hood out in front of him, but the creature's growling only faded, it's eyes sinking back into the dark.
"Is there any other way into the canyon?" he said, not taking his eyes away.
"Monster could come down from any side of canyon," Tonto said.
"I'm sorry, John," Red said. "This is my fault."
"Take it easy, Red," the Ranger said. "We're not going to let it hurt you. Tonto, get the horses. Don't go until I say, it could still be in the pass."
Just as he said it, Red let out a scream, trembling hands covering her mouth, and pointed up to the far side of the cliff. There again it crouched beneath the full moon, jaws open in what could have been a wicked smile. They stood for a moment frozen, as it raised up on its hind legs and let out a howl to the sky.
"Go," the Ranger said. "Go now!"
In the corner of his eye he saw Tonto lift Red up onto Silver. As they rode for the pass, he heard Red's voice.
"No... no!"
The creature's eyes followed the escaping riders, but the Ranger waved the red hood high above his head, shouting, and they returned.
"Just you and me now, friend."
The creature growled and lunged down the side of the cliff. The Ranger fired at the black shadow, but the bullet missed and struck the stone behind it with a shower of dust and rock. He dodged away as the thing tore past, barely avoiding its claws. It turned on him far too quickly and he could only raise his arms as the hand swiped at him, cutting into his sleeves and skin and knocking him across the ground. Tumbling, his head hit something hard and everything went black.
*****
He stirred, hoping it had only been a few moments. There was a pain in his head, but his senses were oddly clear despite it, as if on the edge of a dream. The dirt and deteriorating twigs beneath his face were a rich and welcome smell. Yet he knew there was still a shadow nearby.
He pushed himself up, his hand finding the rock that had struck his head, and looked around the glade. The creature was contentedly stalking the edge, watching him. He stood up, his arms feeling limp.
"You want a fight?" he said. "Alright then." He stooped to pick up his empty revolver. Aiming it at the creature, he pulled the trigger and made a firing sound with his mouth. The thing seemed to be smiling again. It knew he was dead.
"Kemosabe!"
A jolt appeared in the Ranger's chest and he whirled around. Tonto stood at the mouth of the pass, holding the gun belt. The brave tossed something up and a small gleaming shape sailed through the night, reflecting the moonlight.
The Ranger caught the silver bullet in his free hand and loaded it as the beast charged. The muzzle flashed as the shot rang out... and the creature fell.
It collapsed and tumbled over the ground, stopping still a few feet away. The Ranger raised the pistol back and let out his breath.
Both he and Tonto came to stand over it. Its wolfen features were clearer now that it was still.
"Third time's charm, Kemosabe," Tonto said.
The Ranger let out a laugh toward the sky, a hearty hand on his friend's shoulder. "Well done, Tonto. Well done."
A light gasp came from the pass and they turned to see Red leading the horses. She dropped the reins and joined them, hands covering her mouth.
"Well... there it is," she said.
"Oh," the Ranger said, picking something up from the grass. He handed Red her hood. "You dropped this."
She smiled as she took it and put it on, shivering lightly.
"We better get back," the Lone Ranger said. "The old hunter will be awake soon."
"I guess we'll have quite a story for him," said Red.
The sky was beginning to brighten when they saw the old hunter's shack.
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September 19, 2024
Most of the crowd was utterly confused. Henry was one of the crowd and was utterly confused. His boss ordered him to attend the lecture as part of team building exercises designed to make him a better employee.
It didn’t.
And he was still confused.
Why be outside on an overcast day when I can be inside, at work, producing a product someone will buy making real money?
The speakers spoke of the required sacrifices, both in extra time at work and decreased production in desirable consumer goods. They spoke of a pie that could never grow. They insisted that it was natural for each person’s slice of that pie to shrink. It was better, according to his boss, if he just forgot any claim he had to that pie and let people smarter than himself decide who needs pie today and who does not.
Henry stood, daily, in the line for “just forgot.”
Why not go back to work and make things people actually want? Why not listen to the loud and ever present market forces and satisfy their demands instead of creating artificial ones?
Why not just expand the pie?
Henry put his hands in his pockets, feeling the holes preventing him from carrying anything in those pockets. Not that he had anything to carry. Not that he could locate anyone to fix the holes, let alone pay them for their services.
The applause signs required “polite” positive reinforcement. The secret police would remind those who didn’t understand. Henry clapped just enough to blend in with the masses who learned the advantages of the phrase, “just enough to blend in.”
Why create a narrative from a self-fulfilling prophecy that ensures an outcome of little or no value? Why not search for a reason to act and then create a product or service to assist in the act? Henry Ford raised minimum wages to get the best workers to build cars that the best worker (and then everyone else) demanded.
A baton brushed against his neck as Henry mumbled a bit too loud for comfort.
Life is too short for this nonsense.
And with that, Henry tried to return to his job.
But, the barbed wire and police checkpoints prevented him.
But, since he was first, he would be first to be branded. The inker made short work of his left arm, adorning Henry with his new bar code and ID number (A0025639B).
The new speaker was extolling the values of collaboration to make all, into one. It would be easier. It would be for the best.
It was a sacrifice that needed to be made.
I was ordered to make the sacrifice.
I made the sacrifice.
Somewhere, in some box, lies the information crystal proving A0025639B did.
Don (ta) Ask Me ’Bout Exacerbation Of Trumpeted “FAKE” News
written September 19th, 2018, and following words still ring (more true) today – exactly six years later.
The then forty fifth prez
of United States of America
best get sent packing
to Lake woebegone
forced to coexist amidst University
of Pennsylvania Dutch
men in breaches
(May Apple lie)
swampy netherlands awash
with bipedal hominid
sucker punching leeches
where within every
whirled wide webbed
nook and cranny
Nietzscheism reaches,
and survival of fittest
iz basic credo,
and dogmatic ethos,
analogous to an apprentice teaches
a most frightful distortion of facts
and make up mistruths
indiscriminately bandied about
said alarmist blatant LIES
blithely stated with dangerous clout
appearing oblivious and totally
clueless without a doubt
punctuating with doubt Thomas
pettifogging questionable details
FALSE exclamations
generating fear with mindless
ignorance exaggerating protocols
as he doth emphatically flout
begetting, engendering,
and inflicting emotional gout
nothing accomplished by
hash tagging him a "LOUT"
and more opprobrious affect
would ensue anew
undeservedly praising him,
whose animus toward
Democrats would brew
but no matter what (tick)
tack toe taken,
he got nary a blue's clue
about vital issues,
which lack of insight
even Scooby Doo
would agree, heck the Americans
may as well install an emu
with more positive
forthcoming results,
cuz dis dope head like hellacious,
ludicrous, pernicious evils
in Pandora's box flew
his every actions
destroying essential glue
that sets this country apart
approximating Democracy, where hue
mans comprise melting pot,
whether Eskimos (er...
rather Inuits) in their
(fast melting) igloo
gentile, heathen, or Jew
experience limitless
pasta billet teas
applying their new
dill (aptitude) reaching
titular status of parvenu
especially trumping proper, "P's"
and most every "Q."
The echo maker
Caverns carry the sounds of wingbeats. Bats hang on the underside of the cave, mating and roosting, slumbering during the daytime. Beneath them, other cave fauna make their home in the guano. Then, when nightfall arrives, the wingbeats echo off the cavern’s edges as hundreds of hungry hunters fly off in search of sustenance.
There are few who willingly enter caves - few human beings, that is. Echoes make us doubt ourselves, feel self conscious of the footsteps that would, on other surfaces, be silent. But some people study the creatures of the caves, the beings that live within. Some people study echoes themselves; the physics of sound, how it bounces off objects.
There’s a connection between echoes and water - most creatures that use echolocation are aquatic, as electricity travels more easily in water. Fish have an electric sense to make the most of that reality. Mammals that echolocate are usually ones that returned to the sea, cetaceans communicating across oceans. But even on land, caves were formed by water, ancient water. There, too, mammals, the only ones capable of flying, use echoes to make their sense of the environment.
The echo maker, human ecologist, visitor to this world of echoes, entered the habitat, the cavern. So many creatures could be crushed beneath the feet that make those echoing footsteps, no matter how carefully said human points their lamp and watches where their feet land. So many small beings underfoot - centipedes, spiders, beetles; guano is quite a foundation for an ecosystem to be built on.
Certain species can only be found in specific caverns, and the unwelcome human has to be the one to record said species’ existence, count their numbers if possible, try to kill minimally in spite of humanity’s footprint on the planet crushing far less isolated ecosystems than these.
Maybe the creatures prefer not to be recorded or counted, to live unnoticed in the caverns, echo makers but without anyone but other echo makers to hear said echoes. Maybe the human would perish, unpreserved except in skeletal remains. The feat of removing a human in a cave is far more difficult than the feat of recycling beings with exoskeletons. Maybe all that will remain are echoes of a maker, of a person attempting to make a hidden world slightly less hidden.
Shadows of Insanity
The foggy umbra of a city far from sleep lay spread out before me. In all those old superhero movies, there was always the edgy “hero” posted on a rooftop, watching the people he had chosen to protect, and posing like a badass. I remember a time where I would have envied that hero like most anyone else. Now, not so much.
But after everything this world has endured, everything I have, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The emergence of the Awakened almost burned the world to ash. We oohed and ahhed at the fantastical things we saw, ripped right out of films, comics, and our wildest dreams. Until a man made of molten rock drowned Chicago in a lake of fire. Until a woman the size of an ocean liner, sunk half of the eastern seaboard into the ocean. When a child of 5 years old threw a tantrum so violent that it killed millions and turned most of the central United States into the Grand Canyon 2: Apocalyptic Boogaloo.
But against all odds, we survived. Back in the old days, they would have called that a miracle. But that was before miracles became commonplace. Back when people prayed for one every day, instead of praying that they could survive one more day without being subjected to another “miracle”.
But it’s not all bad. It never is, and that’s a life lesson that took an apocalypse, and a cosmic amount of irony, to sink in. We may have lost contact with most of the world when Activation occurred. But focusing on ourselves for a while hasn’t been the worst thing.
Ignoring the despotic warlords warring in the streets to claim the entire tri-state area as their “domain”, the tribal groups of sentient ex-zoo animals ruling what’s left of Manhattan, and the roving groups of cannibalistic electrokinetics running people down on their self-powered motorcycles like twisted ghost-riders in what used to be central park.
Just another day in New York, post-Activation.
My name is Adrian, but people around here know me as Void. I’ve been around for a while. As in pre-Activation. That was almost a century ago now, and I’d like to think that I look pretty good for my age. Something about my abilities stopped me from aging, unlike everyone else. Most everyone else, anyway.
I reach out with my power and slip into the shadows behind me, emerging an instant later out of the shadows of an alley below.
The first thing you need to know about life in this world of titans and self-proclaimed dark gods is that things don’t abide by the laws of the old world anymore. And I don’t just mean the laws of physics, or the literal “legal” laws. Haha, yeah no, we don’t have those anymore.
I mean reality. And “reality”, is whatever men and women like Apotheosis and Nirvana feel like making it today. And I mean that literally. Fucking worldshapers man, god damn. Then there’s the whole monster thing. See, whatever manifested all of us world destroying bastards into being, didn’t stop there. It decided that the world needed more horrible shit in it.
Now, even on a good day, you can just be going along with your day trying, for some ungodly reason, to fish some dinner out of the Hudson. Next thing you know, a two-legged fish the size of a small dog, but with biceps way bigger than whatever you might claim to have down there, decides that this time YOU get to be dinner.
But hey, that’s where I come in. I slip through the shadows and next thing you know tenebrous blades of inky darkness sprout from my own shadow, turning that scaly little fuck into sushi. You’re welcome.
At least that’s how it was. But then THEY showed up. Some busted ass Costco brand Justice League wannabes calling themselves The Saviors. I know right, fucking pretentious pricks. They came to bring “order” and “law”. But how do you bring that shit to a place where even the trees try to turn your ass into a light snack.
I know, a lot of things trying to eat people, very obvious. But trust me, when you think that the last thing you will ever see is someone being stuffed into a demonic tree’s mouth and seeing their arm being severed by pulpy wooden teeth as they scream for help and try to reach for the outside world one last time, everything else falls by the wayside in terms of worries.
Anyway, that particular bit of ever-burning nightmare fuel aside, I now find myself out of a job. Kind of. See, when the newbies rolled into town, they found it every bit as difficult to pull off the impossible as one would think. One being me, obviously. So, they decided to try and whip the local Activated into shape and form some kind of super-powered police force.
Now, I have standards. But as New York’s most well-respected hero, I decided to do them the favor of throwing my hat in that ring. Be the Costco Batman to Sentinel’s Costco Superman and all that. But then they fucking rejected me. Apparently, I didn’t pass their “psychiatric evaluation”.
“Narcissistic tendencies, acute schizophrenia and occasional complete disassociation from reality.”
So, because I believe in myself more than they do and occasionally talk to people who aren’t there, they branded me as a liability. You try living for a century in this world, never aging, and stuck watching everyone you love die to overgrown nightmare shrubberies and other horrible bullshit, and see if you don’t come out the other side a little less than sane.
I step through the shadows once more and find myself atop another grungy rooftop. I was here before they even bothered to turn their golden merciful gaze on this city, which was doing just fine without them, by the way. Mostly.
Okay so, they got the power up and running again. Whatever, we did fine without electricity for almost eighty years. The water? Tastes like irradiated flop sweat, but sure it’s on, I guess. The Volt gang…fine I’ll give them that one. Less cannibal bikers is a win for everyone, I suppose. But the whole turning central park into a community garden thing was all ego on their part.
Anyway, you might think that I took it a bit hard. Being that the only thing keeping me going is trying to help out where I can. You would be wrong. I took the news with dignity and grace. And then I put Sentinel’s statue through a shadowy blender.
I mean come on! The fucker has only been here for like six months and already has a statue?! I’ve been here for decades! Where is my statue?! Not that I need one, obviously. I’m not nearly as vain as that unbreakable bastard. If only his statue had been as unbreakable.
I chuckle to myself as I step from shadow to shadow, making my way towards the city proper. My completely understandable lapse in judgement aside, I decided that regardless of their unattainable expectations, I am still more than capable of doing what I’ve always done. Protecting the people of New York.
And when I found out that an invading team of so-called “supervillains” calling themselves the Doom-Walkers had moved into my city, well how could I not do my civic duty.
When a body came crashing down through a skyscraper window, broken and bloodied, did I hesitate? Of course not. When I realized that the broken man in front of me was the unbreakable Scion of the Skies, THE Sentinel himself, did I stop for even a moment?
Nope.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve died. Immortality is a bitch. Did I not mention that? Ah well.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Tea And Stained Glass Sympathy
I am terrified to be vulnerable again,
Protests my soul’s
Battered child;
Can love erase the devil’s palm prints
Stitched around this limping heart?
I’ve tombed myself
In a sun jailed room,
Keyless cathedral
Where recycled trauma bonded visions
Flash digital scars,
Screening sympathy buried scenes
From my faded analogue life.
But I can’t deny
This charmed lapdog dance
Towards your dawning smile,
Obliterating parameters
Made of make believe ghosts,
Arm’s length darkness
And claustrophobic pinch
Entertained for far too long.
So paint lipstick love
Over stained glass sorrow
And let crowing demons
Be downed
And turned inside out,
Cutlass split bones
Now only bird picked memories.
To hell with fear’s straggling horrors.
Hold me.
Dollarstore Figurine
"What the hell does this thing say? Piano museum? Piano medium?" Some people with, I suspect, an unhealthy relationship with alcohol find themselves staring at little plastic dollar store figurines for extremely inordinate amounts of time trying to discern the irrelevant writings on a chipped inscription; others go to bars or nightclubs or whatever extroverted people do. Yours truly is of the former camp, for better or worse. "Why are the windows blue?" he asks himself, knowing the question is also a pointless one. Momentarily distracted from the most irrelevant question ever seriously pondered by an intelligent human being he hones in on his tinnitus and breathes uneasily; he suspects, ironically, that more of the alcoholics in his own camp are afflicted with tinnitus despite having a fraction the noise exposure as the other. "Well, I guess I'll figure it out tomorrow", he said to himself, knowing that he wouldn't bother. His attention now turned to other matters, ones more likely to explain the fact that he is awake and drunk in the middle of the night staring contemplatively at a piece of plastic. Before he begins the endeavor a wave of self doubt, alien to him before the business his mind was set to tackle, overwhelms him. Whatever he's thinking is almost certainly wrong he knows before even beginning. He stops.
Elesea in Dreams?
I hurl the entire can against the canvas out of frustration, splashing blood red paint against the floor and walls, crime scene style. This isn’t going the way I want. I need to check myself, so stop to roll a joint. No one smokes joints anymore, which is a shame. There’s something to the ritual of rolling a joint that’s as relaxing as the joint itself. I haven’t been able to paint anything in weeks and I’m getting irritated. I switch out my Cocteau Twins Pink Opaque for The Damned’s Neat Neat Neat. I need something more aggro. I briefly consider going next door to see if my neighbor has any blow, but decide to pop open another energy drink instead. Funny, all the sugar and additives in this gut rotting beverage are arguably worse for my body than a bump of coke. But nevermind that. How do I shake this creative block?
I abandon the project and take my joint down to the waterfront. That always calms me. It’s a gorgeous day, despite yesterday’s thunderstorms. Or maybe because of them. I normally produce my best work in the wake of turmoil, so I get it, I tell the universe. I find a place on the seawall to sit, extracting my earbuds so I can hear the ocean’s song. My Piscean nature compels me to the water when I need to self-soothe. I spark my joint and sit there smoking, watching the sun glistening on the water. I’m hushed by the collision of waves as the ocean exhales them onto the shore before inhaling them back into her depths once more. Slowly, the frustration begins to ebb.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and holding my breath at the top. I count to seven before fully exhaling through my mouth. I need to carry this feeling with me back to the art loft. That’s the problem. It’s easy to get zen while I’m sitting here, near the ocean. Then I go back into the city and something inevitably fucks me up again. I suspect that’s how life is in the Olde Towne for most of us. We’re all scouring the city for these precious, borrowed moments of tranquility. The OT is feral. I never expected to stay here after my mother and brother were killed in a partisan rebellion. But then I found my chosen family, joined the underground resistance, opened the diner, and. Well, here I remain. I suppose it’s as close to home as anything else I’ve ever known.
Why can’t I just live in this moment forever? Why is serenity so difficult to hold on to? I sigh deeply as I look at my watch. I’m sure Owen is fine at the diner alone, but he always gets nervous if I don’t make an appearance by late afternoon. It’s understandable. Sweepers lurk in every gangway; beasts of prey. You never know when they’ll strike, and I’m mouthy enough to get pinched. Especially if I encounter a Sweeper who’s feeling particularly self-righteous. Technically, the diner is on neutral ground, at least in tacit terms. Even so, as female-presenting, I can’t be too careful. One could argue that women get it worse than non-white men. The black and brown men are simply shot or thrown over the wall. Women, well. I can’t contemplate that right now. Nothing will push me from my zen place faster.
I perform seven final rounds of breathwork, scanning each chakra along the way. My third eye chakra and pineal gland are ablaze. This baffles me. My third eye chakra is my creative center. If it’s so damned active, why can’t I paint? I scan again. My root and sacral chakras feel slightly misaligned. This gives me pause. The root chakra is connected to security, safety; feeling grounded. Am I blocked because I suspect something sinister is about to go down? Of course, there's another plausible interpretation: the sacral chakra is tied to sexual desire. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been feeling pretty ungrounded since Naddy unexpectedly cut ties.
Whatever, doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I stand and stretch. I thought we were clicking, even though we only dated for a couple months. We had tons of mind blowing sex, but we didn’t spend all of our time in bed. We spent many nights talking until dawn. If I’m honest, I thought we were both catching feels. Admittedly, I have the tendency to over-romanticize things, and Naddy is an unapologetic cad. Still. Her absence underscores how special, how seen I felt in her presence. I honestly don’t think I had expectations or an attachment to any particular outcome. I think I’m just annoyed at being so abruptly and summarily ghosted. I feel like I deserved at least a Well, that was swell, but the swelling’s gone down, so I’m gonna bounce. Or something.
I try to shake it off. I take a few more grounding breaths before I leave. I hope like hell everyone will Namaste the fuck away on my walk through the Olde Towne to the diner. Crap, I need to hustle. It’s nearly quitting time Uptown. Within the hour, the OT will be flooded with Uptown sex tourists and pleasure seekers galore. Especially considering it’s Friday. Owen’s a fine cook, but his neurodivergence doesn't lend itself to people skills. Plus, this misaligned root chakra business has notched up my spidey senses. Better to be in the safety of the diner if things do go sideways.
I stick to the waterfront as long as possible, but I’m eventually forced to move through the more densely populated area of the OT. Three early bird Uptowners are walking in front of me, talking loudly and occupying too much space. I roll my eyes and inhale deeply. I’m trying to stay zen here - can everyone fuck off a little? I’m hoping the Uptowners get distracted, allowing me a moment to circumvent them unmolested. I’m still wearing my paint splattered coveralls, which aren’t very flattering. That should work to my advantage. Out of nowhere, a man on the docks with a wide, entirely unsettling, shark-toothy grin waves, calling out to the Uptowners in front of me, encouraging them to join him. The three men excitedly trot off. I hope they don’t make their way to the diner later, but realize it’s an unfortunately grim possibility. Can’t worry about that now. I seize my opportunity to make it to the diner instead.
I don’t know if I’ve spooked myself, or if there’s legit evil afoot, but I shift into hypervigilance mode. Better safe than sorry. I arrive at the diner just in time. It’s busier than usual, and Owen is on the brink of a meltdown. The moment he sees me, he darts from the kitchen, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me in for a hug. He’s not big on physical touch, so I know something is way off kilter. Damnit. I hate being right about the wrong things. When I ask him what’s up, he has some difficulty articulating, but nods to the table in the far left corner. Sweepers. It’s clear by their Sears suits and sense of entitlement; so turgid it permeates the diner.
I look around and note that my regulars are stubbornly planted and ready to throw down. Stonewall style if need be. These are my people. And they’ve got my six, whatever may come. My heart swells with pride. I love my chosen family. It’s times like this when all uncertainty fades away. I know that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Whatever that means, for whatever it’s worth. It must be worth something.
The Sweepers immediately start barking orders at me from across the room. I already want to punch the loudest of the three in the face. Namaste, motherfuckers. I motion at my coveralls and hitch my thumb toward the back of the diner, indicating I need to change, but will return in a jiffy. One of them grunts in disapproval, another grumbles something about the help, and the last makes a particularly inflammatory remark about needing to keep my kind in check. They’re just trying to rattle us, I remind myself; to keep us living in fear. Fuck. That. I think defiantly as I head to the back to change. I’ll choose dying on my feet over living on my knees. Every time.
I pop a xanax and a weed gummy before I head back to deal with the shit show. One of the Sweepers tells me I clean up real nice for an older broad. Un. Believe. Able. So we’re playing it like that, straight out the gate? Smiling with dead eyes, I ask what I can get them to eat. I try to choose my words carefully, to avoid invitations, but they find a way to work in Are you on the menu? nonetheless. I vomit in my mouth a little.
Miraculously, I’m able to maintain my plastic smile and reply, “I’m not on the menu, I create the menu. I’m the owner.”
But they already know that. They’re Sweepers. It’s their business to know who owns what in the OT. I tell them I’ll give them a minute longer to decide, then turn to leave.
The guy amongst them most bloated with privilege isn’t having it, “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. Bitch.”
There’s an audible intake of breath, followed by tomblike silence from the other patrons. Snap, one of my most fiercely protective regulars, looks at me, raising an eyebrow. He’s ready to cut a bitch, even at his own expense. But that’s too high a price. I won’t allow it. I nod slightly, letting him know he can stand down. For now.
The tension in the dinner is palpable.
I turn, widening my plastic smile and reply, “I’m sorry. I think you misread my name tag. It’s Elle. You know, like the letter,” I trace an L in the air with my finger. The guy looks like he’s about to burst at his bloated seams when I add, “It’s ok, no worries. Words are hard. I understand.” My saccharine sweet tone confuses him. While he tries to work out whether or not he’s being mocked, I turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, “Be right back with that coffee.” It takes every ounce of self control I have to stifle a quip about how there are pictures on the menu in case the words are too big. I’m already treading a thin line, I remind myself. Except.
Except I’m not certain I care anymore. I’m fucking tired of their intimidation tactics. I walk into the kitchen to get the coffee and notice that Owen has switched from meltdown mode to ranger mode. He was a ranger in the special forces, some lifetime ago. He lifts the back of his apron so I can see he’s packing. If the Sweepers so much as lay a finger on me, they're dead men. That won’t be the end of it, though. It will only be the beginning. But that’s where we are.
I focus on my breathing while waiting on other customers. I reassure them that everything is going to be fine. I also want the Sweepers to know I’m not intimidated. And I’m sure as hell not responding to Bitch. They can suck my dick. The Sweepers are growing agitated. They’re talking loudly about how a woman’s only purpose is to serve her husband and raise his children. Typical inflammatory Sweeper rhetoric. I want to pour steaming hot coffee on their crotches. If I do that, they’ll attempt to haul me off. Here and now.
Owen will get his gun, Snap his knife and, if any of us make it out alive, our days will be seriously numbered. The Sweepers will launch a full scale raid, hitting not only the diner, but the docks, the underground, even the art loft. It’s too many potential casualties to contemplate. I can’t have that much blood on my hands. I realize that I’m standing there motionless, coffee carafe in hand. The bloated Sweeper is talking, but his words are muffled by the sound of blood rushing to my head. I want to eviscerate this sack of filth. I try to focus on my breath. I can’t ground myself. My hands are trembling.
“Hey! Are you stupid too? You’ve got one fucking job to do. You forget how to pour coffee?
I can feel the diners holding their breath.
I pour the coffee onto his crotch and, as he shrieks like an absolute girl in agony and disbelief, I smash the carafe into the second guy's skull, then use the broken glass to slit the third guy’s throat.
I shake the fantasy from my head.
“Hello? I said pour me a cup of coffee. Now, Bitch.”
I am barely able to steady my hand as I pour his coffee.
“There you go. Was that so hard?” He asks, before leaning over and smacking my ass.
Owen jumps over the kitchen counter and is halfway across the diner when, like a hero from one of those old Marvel movies, in walks Sydney. I almost visibly sigh with relief, but I can’t blow his cover. He’s been working his way through the Uptown ranks as our covert for months, and we need him to stay embedded. Fortunately, Sydney is a quick study. He reads the room, and calls to the Sweepers excitedly.
“Hey, guys what’s up?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. If one of these morons so much as looks at me sideways, Sydney might not be able to hold it down, “You gotta come see this. There’s a pop-up sex show on the docks. They’re picking guys from the audience and taking requests. Shit’s getting real!”
The Sweepers are all in. As they gather their cheap suit jackets to leave, the most cantankerous of the bunch makes eye contact with me and says, “Let’s go have some fun, guys. Service here is shit anyway.”
When the door shuts behind them, the diner heaves a collective sigh of relief. Owen approaches and asks if I’m ok. He was ready to kill them all, I can see it in his eyes. He would have eliminated all three before the first guy’s body hit the floor.
Snap lays a gentle hand on my shoulder in support. “Elesea, them fools are getting bold with the wrong bunch. I promise you that!”
I can feel it now with certitude: we’re on the precipice of a bloody revolution. Do or die.
A few hours later, Sydney returns and tells me it’s all been taken care of. I don’t ask questions. He insists on escorting me to the loft. Once there, Sydney leaves to catch up with a couple friends. He offers to walk me home after I finish painting, if he’s still around. I don’t decline, but forewarn him it could be a while. He copies that and takes off to do his own thing. I am immensely grateful for him, for all of my people. My tribe.
I rip a couple bong tokes and put on Love’s Secret Domain by Coil as I mix my paints. I work furiously, completely losing track of time. After I’ve filled two canvases, I stop to survey my work. The first canvas is a depiction of the diner. Owen is bopping around the kitchen in his headphones, cooking. Snap is sitting at the bar with three of his ladies, laughing joyfully. A few other regulars litter the background, everyone eating and talking amiably. Comfortably. As if they aren’t anticipating a scene like the one that played out today to erupt into bedlam at any given moment.
The second canvas is a depiction of Tangos, the underground French bistro that hangs my art. Pierre, the owner, is there, his kind, round face smiling widely; like it’s Paris in spring. That’s the thing about people who have everything taken from them and nothing to lose: they find bliss in the unlikeliest of places. If they don’t, if they allow the enemy to crush their spirits, then the enemy truly wins. Once upon a time, a night like this at Tangos would have been taken for granted. People in the OT don’t take anything for granted anymore. Moments like these, with friends, with family, are all we have left.
The diner, Tangos; the places are inconsequential. These places aren’t my home. These people are my home. I look down. One empty canvas remains. I pick it up and place it on the easel. I start painting with abandon, surrendering to the vision. It’s come to me in dreams. I know why I have resisted it, but I no longer can.
Right on cue, the titular track of Love’s Secret Domain begins playing.
In dreams, I’ll walk with you. In dreams, I’ll talk with you. In dreams you are mine. All of the time.
I finish, breathless, spent, and stand back to admire her likeness. The severe black bob that frames her exquisite, strong jawline. Her long, delicate neck and jutting clavicles. The mischievous glint in her dark, green-gray eyes. Her Mona Lisa smirk that always makes me feel like the secrets of the universe will spill through her full lips right into the depths of me. I can’t deny it; it wasn’t a fling. We didn’t meet by accident. Naddy is part of my tribe. That’s how the story ends. Or, more importantly, that’s how it begins.
“Come back Naddy,” I whisper to her likeness, to the universe, to her. I know she can feel me.
“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Come home.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: Elesea in Dreams?
GENRE: Literary Fiction
AGE RANGE: Adult
WORD COUNT: 2956
AUTHOR’S NAME: Ane R Key
WHY IT'S A GOOD FIT: I've written a trilogy of shorts, each providing insight into one of three protagonists of my untitled novel. Each short stands alone, so can be marketed separately, or as a collection promoting the novel.
THE HOOK: Sweepers from Uptown scour the OT for women and non-whites, eager to imprison, shoot them. Or worse. What they don't realize is that Elesea’s tribe is ready to throw down, Stonewall style. The resistance is drawing near, but it is anything but futile.
SYNOPSIS: Elesea runs a diner that operates as headquarters for an underground resistance in the OT. She's formed a tacit agreement with the self righteous, morally upright Uptowners that their secret police, the Sweepers, will leave her diner in peace so long as they are able to carouse on the docks of the OT with sex-workers. As tensions mount, Elle rallies her tribe. Yet, one key player is absent: Naddy, a woman with whom Elle had a brief but intense affair. Realizing that Naddy plays a crucial role, both in her life, and in the revolution about to transpire, Elesea sends out a psychic SOS, calling Naddy home. Will Naddy answer her call in time?
TARGET AUDIENCE: Fans of both the Marvel and DC universes, as well as Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, and John Burnside fans. People who enjoy stories of vigilante justice, revenge, and antiheroes. People who identify as non-binary, queer, or are otherwise disenfranchised. People who enjoy twists and creative, non-traditional literary fiction.
AUTHOR’S BIO: I am a queer, female-identified, feminist, anarchist, and creator. I am an educator, agitator, and fierce advocate of bodily autonomy and critical thinking. I am an avid reader, a polyglot; a lover of languages, literature, and learning. I have my BA in Philosophy and World Religion, and my MA in Education and TESOL. I am US born and lived most of my life in Seattle, Washington. I have also lived in Japan, Germany, and currently reside in Portugal, where I teach part time, and perform energy work, guided meditation and tarot readings part time. My free time is spent traveling, reading, writing, watching films, or at music venues. I am dedicated to the practice of yoga, and spend my time between embodied, meditative states of consciousness and liminal, disembodied spaces. I'm also the proud owner of the world's best travel companion, my dog, Chopper.
LITERARY STYLE: I create characters who challenge readers by defying traditional archetypes. I enjoy complex, interpersonal relationships, exploring, and subverting, concepts such as linear time, imposed paradigms, the patriarchy, and hetronormative assumptions. My favorite schools of philosophy are ontology and epistemology, and I find it interesting to weave threads of these philosophies into my work. I counterbalance these philosophical musings and reflections with rapid bursts of forward motion. I hesitate to refer to my work as plot driven as my first consideration is to the development of unconventional characters whom the reader finds inexplicably relatable. There is a fair amount of drug use and small measures of violence in my work, albeit none too graphic. Regarding drug use: there are far greater evils than drug use and, let's face it, big pharma and for-profit prisons are making a killing from the war against drugs. Rather than being gratuitous, I submit it as social commentary.
*Note: I am submitting the other two shorts, Samantha in the Red Dress? and The Devil in Disguise
The Weight of Stones
The Weight of Stones
Marcus stared at the crumpled newspaper clipping in his trembling hand. Even after five years, the words still burned:
"Local Teen Killed in Hit-and-Run"
He swallowed hard, his throat constricting around the lump of guilt that never seemed to go away. The faces of Sarah Thompson's parents flashed in his mind - their anguished cries at the funeral, their pleas on the local news for the driver to come forward.
But he never did.
Instead, he ran. He abandoned his scholarship to State, his dreams of becoming an engineer. He cut ties with everyone he knew and vanished into the anonymity of the big city. For five years he'd drifted from one menial job to the next, trying to outrun his conscience.
But the weight of what he'd done crushed him more with each passing day. He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. The guilt was a cancer eating him from the inside out.
He knew what he had to do. What he should have done years ago.
With shaking hands, he dialed the number.
"Millbrook Police Department, how may I direct your call?"
Marcus took a deep breath. "I...I need to confess to a crime."
Detective Alan Reeves drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, stealing sidelong glances at the young man in his passenger seat. In his twenty years on the force, he'd seen plenty of perps brought to justice. But he'd never had one turn themselves in out of the blue for a years-old cold case.
The kid - Marcus Ellis - had shown up at the station that morning, haggard and hollow-eyed. He'd confessed to the hit-and-run that killed Sarah Thompson five years ago. Alan remembered that case. He'd been the lead detective, had promised the grieving parents he'd find who was responsible.
But the trail went cold. No witnesses. No physical evidence. The case haunted Alan for years.
And now here was the perpetrator, delivering himself to face justice.
"You know you're facing some serious charges," Alan said, breaking the tense silence. "Vehicular manslaughter. Leaving the scene of an accident. Why come forward now after all this time?"
Marcus stared out the window, his voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't live with it anymore. The guilt...it was killing me. Sarah deserves justice. Her family deserves closure."
Alan's jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to rail at this kid, to make him feel the full weight of the pain he'd caused. But there was something in Marcus's demeanor - a bone-deep weariness, a palpable self-loathing - that gave Alan pause.
This wasn't a hardened criminal. This was a broken man crushed by the burden of his choices.
"Well," Alan said gruffly, "I can't say I agree with running. But turning yourself in, owning up to what you did - that takes guts."
Marcus turned to him, eyes glistening. "Do you...do you think her family will ever be able to forgive me?"
Alan sighed heavily. "I don't know, son. That's not for me to say. But facing them, facing what you've done - it's the right thing to do. It's the only way to start making amends."
They lapsed back into silence as they neared their destination. Alan found himself hoping, against all his cynical instincts as a cop, that some measure of healing might come from this for all involved.
Elizabeth Thompson's hands shook as she set down her teacup. She stared at her husband Robert across the kitchen table, trying to process what he'd just told her.
"They caught him?" she whispered. "After all this time?"
Robert nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Detective Reeves called. Said the guy turned himself in this morning. Confessed to everything."
A maelstrom of emotions churned inside Elizabeth - shock, anger, grief. For five years they'd wondered who had stolen their precious daughter's life, had prayed for answers. Now those prayers were answered in the most unexpected way.
"What...what happens now?" she asked.
"There'll be a trial," Robert said. "Detective Reeves said the DA is pushing for the maximum sentence."
Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists. Part of her cried out for vengeance, wanted this man to suffer as they had suffered. But another part of her, the part that still clung to her faith despite everything, whispered of forgiveness.
Sarah had been their miracle child. After years of failed fertility treatments, they'd given up hope of ever having a baby. Then Elizabeth got pregnant against all odds.
Sarah had been the light of their lives for 17 years. She'd inherited Elizabeth's artistic talent and Robert's quick wit. Her future had been so bright.
And then she was gone. Struck down by a careless driver who fled the scene, leaving her broken body in the street.
The loss nearly destroyed them. Robert threw himself into his work, staying late at the office to avoid coming home to an empty house. Elizabeth quit her job, unable to face teaching art classes without her daughter's sunny presence.
Their marriage teetered on the brink of collapse. Only their shared grief kept them together, two drowning people clinging to each other in a stormy sea.
Slowly, painfully, they'd begun to heal. Elizabeth started volunteering at the community center, teaching art to underprivileged kids. Robert joined a support group for grieving parents. They'd even talked about possibly trying to have another child.
And now this. The wound ripped open anew.
"I want to see him," Elizabeth said suddenly.
Robert blinked in surprise. "What?"
"The man who killed our daughter. I want to look him in the eye. I need to understand why he did it. Why he ran."
Robert reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Are you sure? It might be too painful."
Elizabeth met his gaze, steel in her eyes. "I'm sure. I need this. For closure. For Sarah."
Robert nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll call Detective Reeves and set it up."
As Robert went to make the call, Elizabeth closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. For strength. For guidance.
And, to her surprise, for the man who had taken her daughter's life.
Marcus sat rigid in the hard plastic chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. The small room in the county jail felt suffocating. Or maybe that was just the weight of his guilt.
The door opened. Marcus's breath caught in his throat as Sarah's parents walked in.
He'd seen their faces countless times in newspaper articles and TV interviews over the years. But nothing prepared him for the reality of their presence. The lines of grief etched into their faces. The pain in their eyes that mirrored his own.
"Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," he croaked, "I...I'm so sorry."
Robert Thompson's face hardened. He opened his mouth, but his wife laid a gentle hand on his arm.
"Why?" Elizabeth asked softly. "Why did you leave her there?"
Marcus's eyes burned with unshed tears. "I was scared. I'd been drinking at a party. I knew I shouldn't drive, but I thought I was okay. When I hit Sarah, I...I panicked. I just wanted it not to be real."
He looked down at his shaking hands. "I've relived that moment every day for five years. I know nothing I say can bring Sarah back or ease your pain. But I want you to know how deeply sorry I am. I'd give anything to trade places with her."
Silence fell over the room. Marcus braced himself for their anger, their condemnation. He deserved nothing less.
To his shock, he felt a warm hand cover his own. He looked up to see Elizabeth, tears streaming down her face.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Marcus gaped at her in disbelief. Robert looked equally stunned.
"Elizabeth," he started to protest.
She silenced him with a look. "I forgive you," she repeated to Marcus. "Not because you deserve it. But because I need to. For my own peace. For Sarah."
She squeezed his hand. "Sarah believed there was good in everyone. She'd want me to forgive you."
Marcus broke down then, great heaving sobs wracking his body. Five years of pent-up guilt and self-loathing poured out of him.
"I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs. "I'm so, so sorry."
To his amazement, he felt arms encircle him. Elizabeth held him as he wept, her own tears falling into his hair.
Robert watched the scene unfold, a war of emotions raging inside him. Part of him wanted to lash out, to make this man feel every ounce of pain they'd endured. But seeing his wife's compassion softened something in him.
He thought of Sarah - her infectious laugh, her boundless empathy. What would she want?
Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid a hand on Marcus's shoulder.
"I'm not there yet," he said gruffly. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully forgive you. But I'm willing to try."
Marcus raised his tear-stained face, overwhelmed by their grace. "Thank you," he whispered. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I promise you, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it."
As the three of them embraced, Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced in five long years.
Hope.
The next few months passed in a blur of legal proceedings. Marcus pled guilty to all charges, refusing any plea deals. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.
As the bailiff led him away after sentencing, he locked eyes with the Thompsons in the gallery. They gave him small nods of acknowledgement. It wasn't absolution, but it was a start.
Marcus threw himself into every rehabilitation and education program the prison offered. He earned his GED, then started taking college courses. He volunteered for work duty, determined to make something positive of his time behind bars.
The Thompsons kept in touch through letters and occasional visits. Their relationship was complicated, fraught with painful history. But slowly, tentatively, healing began to take root.
Elizabeth told Marcus about the Sarah Thompson Memorial Scholarship they'd established. Each year, it sent a promising young artist to college. Marcus vowed that once he was released, he'd find a way to contribute to the scholarship fund.
Robert shared that he'd started speaking to high school students about the dangers of drunk driving. Marcus offered to tell his story as part of Robert's presentations once he was out. Robert said he'd consider it.
Three years into his sentence, Marcus got life-changing news. Thanks to his exemplary behavior and the support of the Thompsons, he was granted early release.
As he stepped out of the prison gates, blinking in the bright sunlight of freedom, he found the Thompsons waiting for him.
"We thought you might need a ride," Elizabeth said with a small smile.
Marcus's eyes welled with tears of gratitude. "Thank you. For everything."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "You've got a second chance, son. Don't waste it."
"I won't," Marcus vowed. "I promise."
As they drove away from the prison, Marcus felt the burden he'd carried for so long begin to lighten. He knew he'd never fully shed the weight of what he'd done. But for the first time in eight years, he dared to hope for a future.
A future where he could honor Sarah's memory by living the best life possible. A future where healing and redemption were possible, even in the face of unthinkable tragedy.
It wouldn't be easy. The road ahead was long and fraught with challenges. But as Marcus looked at the Thompsons - these two incredible people who had found the strength to forgive the unforgivable - he knew he wasn't walking that road alone.
Ten Years Later
Marcus stood at the podium, gazing out at the sea of young faces before him. He took a deep breath, drawing strength from the supportive presence of Robert and Elizabeth Thompson seated in the front row.
"My name is Marcus Ellis," he began, "and ten years ago, I killed someone."
A hush fell over the auditorium. Marcus saw shock and curiosity flicker across the students' faces. Good. He had their attention.
"I was a lot like many of you," he continued. "Senior in high school. Star athlete. Bright future ahead of me. I thought I was invincible."
His voice caught. Even after all these years, this part was never easy.
"I was wrong. One night of stupid choices destroyed everything. I got behind the wheel after drinking at a party. I struck and killed a beautiful young woman named Sarah Thompson. And then I fled the scene like a coward."
Marcus paused, letting his words sink in. In the front row, Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Robert squeezed her hand.
"I'm here to tell you that your choices have consequences," Marcus went on. "Sometimes those consequences are irreversible. I robbed Sarah of her life. I caused unimaginable pain to her family and friends. And I threw away my own future."
He gestured to the Thompsons. "But I'm also here to tell you about the power of forgiveness. These two incredible people found it in their hearts to forgive me for the unforgivable. Their compassion gave me a second chance at life."
Marcus smiled softly. "I can never undo what I did. But I've dedicated my life to honoring Sarah's memory and trying to prevent others from making the same mistakes I did."
He told them about the outreach program he'd started, speaking at schools and youth groups about the dangers of drunk driving. He shared how he'd finally earned his engineering degree and now donated a portion of his salary to the Sarah Thompson Memorial Scholarship.
"Your choices matter," he concluded. "Choose wisely. And if you mess up, own it. Take responsibility. It's never too late to try to make things right."
As applause filled the auditorium, Marcus stepped down from the podium. Elizabeth enfolded him in a warm hug.
"Sarah would be proud," she whispered.
Robert shook his hand firmly. "You're doing good work, Marcus. Keep it up."
Marcus nodded, his throat tight with emotion. "Thank you both. For everything."
As they left the auditorium together, Marcus marveled at the journey that had brought them here. From tragedy to forgiveness to purpose.
The weight of what he'd done would always be with him. But it no longer threatened to crush him. Instead, it drove him forward, pushing him to make a positive difference in the world.
He couldn't change the past. But every day, he strove to be worthy of the second chance he'd been given. To live a life that would have made Sarah proud.
It wasn't happily ever after. The pain and loss would always linger. But it was something perhaps more valuable - hard-won peace and the promise of a better tomorrow.
As they stepped out into the sunshine, Marcus sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. For forgiveness. For redemption. For the chance to transform an unforgivable sin into a force for good in the world.
One day at a time, one life at a time, he would keep moving forward. It was the very least he could do.