Being a Ghost Sucks (Pt. 3)

Holy shit she's listening. She's going to help me get out of this damn thing! Roberts thoughts are a jumble and he feels a sense of exhilaration and a certainty that if he still had a heart it would be beating wildly. Just knowing that someone was there to help, someone to talk to, and someone to save him from an eternity in a vacuum cleaner was enough to fill him with exultation and hope.

But how the fuck is she going to help me get out of the vacuum cleaner if even I don't know how? And despair creeps back in.

Words appear in the dust once more, “I'm a ghost.” Blurred lines. “I think.”

“You think? You think? Like, you think you're a ghost but you might just be a vacuum spirit, like a dryad but for vacuums, something like that?”

“No! I'm a person.”

“Well you sure look like a vacuum cleaner to me.”

“I mean I was. I died here and woke up in this thing.”

Trish bends over the front of the vacuum cleaner and wipes the dust from the front of it underneath the torn catch bag, “This thing is a Hoover model 8760GT, serial numbe 87625149. Man, for a self aware appliance, you aren't very self aware.”

The dust is still for several long moments. “You're kind of a jerk.”

“Yep, okay, back in the closet for you and then to the dump tomorrow. Have fun at the junk yard!” Trish jumps to her feet and makes as if to grab the Robert's handle.

“No! No! Please, I'm sorry. Just listen to me!”

“Hmm... One more chance mister suckmaster.” The dust is still in response. “Okay, that was a bit harsh. Go on, please.” Maybe I should be nicer, the poor guy is stuck in a Hoover, she thinks, barely suppressing a giggle. She sits back down, brushing the dust away from a spot on the floor directly in front of the vacuum, unsure of exactly where she should be facing.

“I'm scared and alone.”

“Man, you are sad and. . . I mean, look, I feel for you but what do you want me to do?”

“I don't know. I can't do any research like this but there has to be a way.” The words are spelled out slowly, no more than four or five at a time before they have to be smudged away to make room for the next. Suddenly she noticed that the words are all carefully formed, the letters very exacting as if the hand writing them were being very deliberate and precise. “I didn't expect to be a vacuum cleaner. I died in this house and ended up here. Could you try to help me get out? Maybe find a way?”

“I guess I could go on wikipedia.” She bites her lip and pulls a stray clump of wavy blonde hair from in front of her eyes. Robert watches her in the weird way that he does, for the first time wondering how exactly it works since he doesn't have any eyes. He catches himself thinking how cute she is when she's pensive. “So, how'd you die anyway?”

“That's not important.”

“Ha! You have to tell me now, come on! I bet it was something embarrassing! Was it auto-erotic asphyxiation? Like that David Carradine guy?”

“No.”

“Oh, oh, I know, you died on the toilet like Elvis, didn't you!”

“Kind of. Please, this isn't a game.”

“Well, just tell me then!”

“I was drunk. I died of alcohol poisoning at a birthday party for my best friend.”

“Oh shit dude, I'm sorry. Still, it sounds like you died at a baller party. That's kind of cool. I mean, not like cool 'cause you're dead, but you know. . .”

“No, I don't.”

“So, were you like old or what?”

“I was about to turn twenty one.”

“Oh for real? Were you cute? Do you have any pictures?”

“I'm a vacuum cleaner.”

“Oh, right. I guess they took your stuff.” Suddenly it dawns on Trish that she is literally sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor in a pile of dust talking out loud to a vacuum cleaner. Eagerly awaiting its response no less. This can't be healthy.

“Hey, I'm sorry I was a jerk earlier and I'm not trying to be one now, but this is a bit much. Let me clean up and—well, I guess I can't clean up or we can't talk. Tell you what, let me take a shower and change clothes and get my head straight and then we'll talk, OK?”

“OK”

Trish stands and looks down at Robert for a minute, debating whether to put him away before she decides to avoid the issue and just go take a shower. Now I'm talking to a vacuum cleaner. What. The. Fuck. And I asked him if he was cute. Ugh. . .

Sitting in the center of the room Robert sits in his spray of dust, almost happy for the first time since he'd found himself here. I'll have to ask her the date, so I'll know how long it's been, he thinks, but then he wonders if he'd really like to know at all. Now that he knows there might be a way out, it makes it a little more bearable, but only just.

So now that I'm certified crazy and talking to a household appliance, Trish idly thinks in the shower, I should have no problem adapting to a new high school, right? I mean, if I'm uncomfortable I'll just start talking to my desk. Or a pencil. It'll have to be easy to meet cute guys when I'm holding conversations with pencil sharpeners and toilets, right? But when she starts thinking of the logistics of realistically starting at a new school, the odd situation with the vacuum cleaner fades from her mind and by the time she wanders back into her bedroom she's almost forgotten the bizarre events of the last hour.

She walks, stepping over a box and tossing the towel on top of it as she slams the door shut behind her. Digging around in the mass of clothes on the bed she pauses to stretch and yawn. It's been a long day.

Holy shit. She's naked. While lost in his dreams of escape and carefully avoiding what might come after, Robert is startled to see Trish walk in and fling her towel aside. She bends over the bed, facing away from him and pulls out a cute pair of pajamas before turning back, stretching with her arms over her head. Robert isn't sure how since he's been deprived of his body but certain feelings well over him in waves and he, or at least the Hoover, starts to shake a little. Maybe this isn't so bad after all. . .

Yawning, Trish glances over at the vacuum and freezes, her pale skin blushing from head to toe. 

“You. . . You can see, can't you.”

She looks down at the spread of dust on the floor apprehensively, waiting impatiently for an answer. 

“No.”

Oh thank God! She thinks as she lets loose a deep breath and relaxes. That's one thing I don't have to worry about at least.

“OK, that's good. I mean, I guess not for you, but it makes my life easier.”

For an instant Robert feels his conscience twinge but he consoles himself with the thought that if he's going to be stuck in a vacuum cleaner for all eternity after dying a virgin there should be some sort of perks involved. “How?” He tries to stop the shaking so she won't notice that or the way that the letters in the dust are kind of erratic now.

“Um. . . nothing. Still, if it's alright with you I'm going to put you in the closet so I can get some rest, OK?”

“Sure.”

“Sure, huh? I never expected a ghost to use words like 'sure.'” She puts on the pajamas, glancing over her shoulder at the vacuum, wondering suddenly if maybe . . . No, it's just a ghost anyway, better not to think of it. “Tell you what, Robby the Robot Vacuum, we're gonna get you fixed, OK? Besides, if nothing else it'll be a great distraction from this train wreck my stupid parents made of my life, moving me to this dumb podunk town. At least I kind of have a friend now. Maybe I'll meet a nice toaster tomorrow too.”

Trish grabs Robert roughly by the handle and notices a strange shake come from it when she does. Maybe he's scared to be alone? She thinks as she gently sets him down in the closet. Well, screw him. I'm the one stuck with a haunted vacuum cleaner. This whole situation sucks.

She chuckles softly to herself as she readies for bed.

Being a Ghost Sucks (Pt. 2)

“What in the hell…?” Trish stopped trying to pat off the dust that had settled on her head and shoulders like gray snow and kneeled in front of the ruined vacuum cleaner. Two words had just appeared in the pile of dirt at her feet, as if they were being traced by some invisible finger.

“‘Help me’? Help you what? Stop being a shitty exploding vacuum cleaner?”

She ignored the way the temperature in the room suddenly dropped several degrees.

“You have to be kidding me,” she said, rubbing at the goosebumps popping up on her arms as the air continued to chill. “Really? The house is haunted? And by a nut-job vacuum cleaner?”

Fuck this, she thought, and she stood up. Clearly, this whole thing was brought on by the stress of having to switch high schools in the middle of her junior year. Really, who’d blame her for cracking a bit? All she needed to do was go take a shower and pretend she didn’t see anything. Otherwise, she was going to end up in a mental hospital explaining to the good doctors that the ghosts were leaving her messages in her alphabet Spagetti-os.

But before she could put this plan into action, the words in the dirt were swept away and new ones were being written in their place.

“‘Don’t go’? Oh, come on!” she yelled. She couldn’t believe this. A fucking haunted vacuum cleaner? She briefly toyed with the idea of kicking the dust around and chucking the vacuum out the window. That would teach it to ruin ordinary people’s lives by talking at them. It was a tempting idea, at least until her conscience decided to pipe up. What if there really was someone stuck in the vacuum cleaner or something? What if breaking the vacuum left them in Limbo or unable to pass on or something? She knelt back down.

“Ooookay, Mister Vacuum Cleaner –”

Robert.

“You’re a vacuum cleaner named Robert?”

No!

“So you’re really some guy stuck in a vacuum cleaner?” She propped her chin against her palm and chewed over that piece of information for a minute. “Guess that means I should top hoping for shirtless Patrick Swayze to show up. So what happened? Did you like, kill a kitten and get stuck with this as a punishment?”

The temperature sank again.

“Oh, don’t get pissy at me! You’re the one who literally exploded at me, and now I’m covered in whatever-the-hell all is and …”

“Honey, who are you yelling at?”

At the door, her mother looked down at her with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“I’ve heard yelling…oh, good lord!” Her mother bustled over to her, all but lifting Trish bodily to her feet. Her mother gingerly picked up a chunk of her currently-gray hair, looking for all the world as if someone had just died. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Trish said, rescuing her hair from her mother’s grip. “It’s just, um, I turned on the vacuum and, um, the back just exploded! Can you believe it?” 

Trish briefly wondered if she should tell her mother the truth, but decided trying to explain to her mother that the vacuum cleaner was haunted and exploded to get her attention was a little beyond her abilities at this point.

“That’s just awful,” her mother said. She backed up a pace and gave Trish a once-over. “Well, you seem fine. Why don’t you head into the shower, and I’ll get rid of this thing?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No! I mean, you don’t know that for sure. That’s it’s not going to work, I mean.” Trish grabbed the handle and began dragging it back to the closet. “Don’t waste and all that, right?” 

She opened the closet door and shoved it – him – unceremoniously inside, wincing as the vacuum landed on its -his – side. She turned to face her mother but kept her hand on the doorknob.

Her mom stared at her, half uncertain and half bewildered. “Are you sure you’re alright, honey?”
Trish nodded. “Yep. Definitely. It was just a bunch of dust and stuff. Gross, but it’s not going to kill me.” She still didn’t move away from the door.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“It was probably just a fluke, like an electrical surge or something.”

“Alright, alright. If you say you’re fine, I believe you. Make sure to clean up. You look like you just stumbled out of a disaster area.” Finally, finally, her mother turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Trish let out the breath she was holding. She cracked open the door to her room and peaked inside. The vacuum cleaner was where she left it, though it somehow managed to right itself, which was kind of creepy. But then, if it could explode, how hard would standing up be?

Trish decided to save that pertinent question for later and pulled out the vacuum and placed it in the middle of her room. She sat crossed-legged in front of it and cleared her throat. “Okay, Robert,” she said, making sure to enunciate clearly despite feeling like an idiot. Who knew how good or bad reception on the Other Side might be? “I’m listening. So um, say something. Or write something. You know what I mean.”

Being A Ghost Sucks (Pt. 1)

Light filters in thin shafts through the slats of the closet and it takes Robert a while to comprehend what that means. Light! Light in the living room for the first time in months, years, who knows? Time travels differently when you're a ghost, but Robert knows that it had been a long, long time since anyone has come to the house. Voices now too, or snatches of voices, passing into the room. Probably another realty tour, just like all the others, but the first in so long! And these voices sound excited.

“And here we have the second bedroom,” Mimi, the realtor, chirps rather than speaks. It's a little small, but it would be great for children, or maybe as a study?” He can hear the fake smile in her voice.

“Oh, Bernie! I love this color! It's such a delightful shade of . . . purple. Oh, don't you know Trisha would just love it to death. You know dear, I--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you love the house. You been sayin' so ever since we pulled up. Try not to act so excited in front of the realtor, eh?”

“Oh, aren't you two cute. Don't worry, you're the third couple this week to say that! Everyone just loves this house; I certainly don't see it being on the market for very much longer !”

“Yeah, yeah, and how's the closet over here? Trish's got a lotta clothes for a girl her age.”

Heavy footsteps approach and the door creaks open, creasing on either side to slide apart. A tall, heavy set man looks down at Robert looking puzzled, but underneath that determined. The kind of determined look that builds up over years like laugh lines or crow's feet until it's always there. “A vacuum cleaner? Hey look hun, it comes with a free vacuum cleaner.” 

 

He looks back over his shoulder with narrowed, deadpan eyes at Mimi. “Oh yes, the previous tenants left it and it was such a nice model we though we'd leave it with the house for whatever lovely people moved in after!” That inane giggle that so thinly masks a lie. Robert remembers all the times they tried to move him from the house. First in the dumpster they were using when they cleaned the house, second in the back of one of the cleaner's cars. The third time the cleaning company had told the bank about the issue and they'd scoffed at it. The cleaners tried once more and gave up, nervous and afraid.

Each time he'd been moved from the house he'd disappeared, “Poof!” right from wherever they'd moved him and popped right back up here in the closet. Sitting quietly in the exact same spot every time they'd come back, the little indentations in the carpeting lining up perfectly with his little wheels.

“Yeah, doesn't look that nice of a model to me. . .”

“Oh Bernie, come on. Let's see the rest of the house!”

The final three times he'd been moved had been in the back of Mimi's car. She took him to the dump the first time and then, the second time, swearing like a sailor, she'd taken him to the thrift store. The third time, silent and shaking, she'd taken him to the river and dropped him in, only to find him here, dry as a bone and just as she'd found him every other time. Her optimism for selling the house decreased steadily after that.

More days go by. Weeks? Months? Robert doesn't really think in those terms anymore but it's a long time. More time to ruminate on his pathetic little situation. A ghost in a vacuum cleaner has nothing but time on his hands, especially in an abandoned house. Nothing but time to rebuild every little moment of his last day alive. No wonder most poltergeists just end up going crazy and causing mischief.

The last day he'd been alive they'd thrown a big birthday party for his roommate Zack; the biggest one they'd ever thrown at the house. Robert and his other roommate Justin had bought a keg for Zack's birthday and as usual Robert had drank way too much, challenging every male in attendance to a drinking contest and eventually downing a half dozen Four Locos before stumbling into the john.

And then that was it. He'd fallen in the bathroom while vomiting and banged his face on the toilet, rolling over onto his back. By the time they found him he was dead of alcohol poisoning and stiff as a board, but not before his addled spirit had bumbled out of his poor, pale body and drunkenly stumbled, confused and scared, back into his bedroom. The world spinning and a bright light shining in his face he'd tumbled into his closet and hidden there, afraid and shaking, wondering why his hands seemed to fade away near the fingertips. It was a snug fit with the beat up household Hoover in there already.

And then this.

The door opens again and it wakes him from his reverie. This time it's a woman and she sounds like the last one to visit the house. “Bernie's so silly. So what if there's a vacuum cleaner in the closet, it's not like we can't throw it out if it doesn't work. Why can't he just be excited that we got such a good price on this place?”

She grabs Robert by the handle and jerks him out of the closet roughly. “This isn't such a bad looking old Hoover. Now let's see if you work.”

Unwinding his cord from the prongs on the handle she pulls him over by the nearest outlet and he sees that the room is no longer empty. Boxes are stacked haphazardly around the room and a bed frame and mattress are leaned up against the wall. A heap of colorful girls clothes is piled atop the boxes. 

 

Taking in the room he feels a jolt and realizes that he'd been plugged in. Then he hears noise. So much noise. Almost like the sound of a giant vacuum if you were locked inside. Surprise, surprise.The first time he's been plugged in and it's terrifying, like electricity is shooting through his veins and a massive whirring beating against his ear drums, maddening vibration shaking him apart, and then silence.

“Oh, you do work! And strong too. Just another perk to this lovely, lovely house.”

And he's back in the closet.

“What the? A vacuum cleaner? Mom! What do you want me to do with this stupid vacuum cleaner?”

A girl stands at the door this time. Late teens and blonde, she's kind of cute in a messy way. Her hair's a little disheveled and she's wearing a baggy T-shirt but there's definitely a cute factor there. Robert feels like he'd be blushing if he weren't haunting a vacuum.

“Honey, just leave it there for now, we've already filled up the closet in the living room.”

She shakes her shoulders in a petulant huff. “Ugh, like this closet isn't small enough already. Stupid house.”

The rest of the day is spent watching her put clothes in the closet, arranging them carefully at first and then just tossing them in. One of those things girls put their shoes in goes over the hanger rod and slaps roughly against him before shoes fly from across the room and knock him around. A t-shirt ends up draped across his handle and he doesn’t see anything for a while.

“Well, that's the bed and the clothes. Enough for one day anyway, even though I'm sure dad'll bitch at me for not being done. Ugh, at least I can use this damn thing to clean up this dusty room.”

She pulls the shirt off of him and throws it on the floor, kicking off an errant high heel and grabbing him by the handle, dragging him out of the closet. The room is a wreck with half -unpacked boxes everywhere but the bed is upright and covered in blankets now. Already wondering what the hell he's going to do he feels his plug go into the wall.

This time it's not so bad. He can already kind of feel himself getting used to it as she slides him across the carpet, loudly whirring. It's almost nice. But how the hell do I do ghost things? You'd think I'd just take control and roar around.

He focuses on moving on his own. Nothing. On jerking himself from her hand. Nothing. On blowing instead of sucking. Nothing. Finally in a rage he just focuses everything he has into a fit of shaking anger.

“What the. . .”

The handle starts shaking and with small, bursting explosion the catch bag on the back of the vacuum billows out from behind him, spraying dust and debris all over Trish and the floor. “Ah! Damn it!” As Trish pulls back from the cloud of dirt Robert has an idea. 

 

Hair balls and brown dust flutter to the ground, falling in tufts, and showering her feet as well as the carpet. As it falls though, it begins to form into a pattern. What looks like words.

“Help me.”

Sneak Thief (Pt. 3)

Freezing his body in place, Sylvis reaches to his good luck amulet out of habit, touching the raised spot on his tight-knit shirt where he can feel it through the fabric. Suddenly it is very light on his chest.


“Put down whatever you've got and turn around. Now.”


Sylvis puts the envelope back down on the desk, carefully closing the flap and running his fingers over the obviously expensive, woven paper before letting go. Taking a deep breath and putting his empty, black gloved hands out to either side, he turns around.


Standing in the doorway is an old male elf, but short by elf standards. Maybe five and a half feet tall, he's not a very imposing person in stature, but in presence he fills the room. Immediately Sylvis knows that this is the man he's been told to steal from, Enoch Wallisarn. It can be no one else but him, standing there with his back straight and his hands in his pockets, no weapon drawn nor any worn, he must be very confident in his abilities to challenge as he does, even as his skills are belied by his shaggy grey hair and tanned, wrinkled face. Shit, it's just some old guy. What do I gotta be worried about? But he knows that's not exactly true and he can feel all the blood run away from his face.

“Yep, I don't need a weapon to hurt a pip squeak like you, though I don't really got a mind to, yet. Tell me what yer here for boy, and who sent ya, and make me believe it, and I'll let ya on your way.”

Sylvis looks at him and concentrates on keeping calm, keeping his story straight. “I just saw the big house, ya know? Biggest one on the street, it was, and I thought, I'll go there, ya know? Figured you had all kinds of old, valuable--”

His words and his breath are cut off as one. Moving in a blur across the room the old elf pushes Sylvis down on the desk, slamming him on his back and sending baubles crashing to the ground and papers fluttering down in a mess. One of Enoch's hands is wrapped tightly around the his throat and the other is holding a long dagger that Sylvis can feel pushing against his abdomen, pulsing an intense aura of heat from its blade as it's held with just enough pressure to be felt but not wound. Quicker than his eyes could perceive it, the elf has pinned him and he can feel his head getting light. Stars begin to appear at his periphery, but he struggles not to fight, to hold still. The old elf looks down at him with an odd, bemused expression. Almost smirking, he grips tighter until things are just starting to go black before letting go and pulling away, letting Sylvis fall to the floor, grasping for breath and flailing his arms.

“So boy, you still wanna play?”

Sylvis grasps the edge of the desk and pulls himself up, noting that the dagger is no where to be seen. Catching his breath, heaving while bent over, he touches his stomach and feels the drops of blood where the blade barely pierced his skin, cutting a tiny slit in his shirt.

“It. . .” Gasping, he grabs his throat and can feel the heat where it is bruised. “It was just a -cough- contract! A stupid sneak job!” He leans heavily against the solid wooden desk.

“A big one I bet. And they gave it to an amateur like you. They must think I'm getting old.”

“They just said, they said to get the green envelope with the House Cannith crest on it and get out,” Coughing, it's hard for him to go on, but he does his best to stand and look defiant. “They said it would be like stealing candy from a halfling.”

Enoch laughs and in his laugh is the sound of cogs turning with no lubricant. It is the laugh of a man who has seen life and death in equal measures, finding neither much more interesting than the other. “And was it boy, was it?”

“Well, you said you'd let me leave if I told you. . .”

“Yeah, yeah I will. Course they'll kill you if you come back without the envelope.”

Suddenly Sylvis' attention is fixed back on Enoch's face, watching his eyes. He's no longer laughing. “Why. . . ?”

“Boy, they're like as not to kill you even if ya come back with it. My guess is this whole thing is about destroyin' evidence. Startin' with that offer, that letter there in the envelope.”

Maybe I don't want to be in the big time after all. “Please, just let me take it and I'll take my chances.” Sylvis has never been one to beg but seeing the old elf move like he did before, bringing him closer to death than he's ever been, has humbled him a bit.

“Yeah, I'll let you have it. No use to me anymore. They coulda' just asked for it, but that ain't how they work. They don't kill you boy, you be careful of them you working for. They don't play nice.”

“So I can have it?” He makes a half turn toward the desk, picking up the envelope gingerly, watching Enoch all the while.

“Go for it. Aren't you curious what it says?”

Holding the large green envelope, running his fingers over the gold filigree of the House Symbol on its cover, he realizes that he is curious for the first time why they would send him, offering so much money no less, to do nothing but take an envelope the old man would've given away. “Maybe. They said bring it back without opening it though . . .”

“Ha! You won't go far in this world with that kind of thinking.” He pauses, looking at the younger thief there by his desk, still shaking a little from being held so tightly 'round the neck. “Listen kid, I'll give ya some advice for free, and I don't do much for free. Go back to picking pockets. This kinda work ain't for you. Ya don't know it, but you're playin' a bit role and don't nobody cry when they loose a pawn to the other side's knight.”

Looking down at the envelope, he suspects Enoch is right and suddenly he wants nothing more than to be out of here, out of the Skyway, and back to running errands in the lower districts.

***

He's riding in the back of a taxi again, wearing his nicer clothes and halfway back home when his curiosity gets the better of him and he opens the envelope. Lifting back the flap he pulls out a sheath of papers on very high end paper, the House Cannith letterhead emplazoned atop it.

“Enoch, I have a favor to ask of you...”

Sneak Thief (Pt. 2)

“The Master was busy today, it seems.”

Sylvis catches his breath. One of the mahogany bookcases slowly begins to slide forward and Sylvis, seeing that this would be a most inopportune time to be discovered, sinks into the blue shadows in the corner of the room. The weight of his golden charm feels slightly heavier around his neck. He knows that he won’t be seen. Not just yet. Good.

“Aye, it did seem that way,” replied a second voice. This voice is a bit higher pitched.

Sylvis peers past his sanctuary ever so slightly. The sliding bookcase has now slid completely to the side and only the soft light of a candle in the dense, dark library illuminated the faces of the voices.
“And he spoke to them, alone,” said the first, a tall male with a slim handsome face and a short, well trimmed beard. His hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. He probably kept his hair so long to hide his ears, but they still managed to pop out some.

“Rather strange business if you ask me,” said the second, an older, small framed woman who’s head barely reaches the male’s waist. She kept her hair up in a tiny bun. “Did you see ‘em? All of ‘em I mean.”

The handsome one shakes his head as he turns and pulls a wide bound book from the shelf. “I was preparing dinner.” The bookcase slowly moves back.

“Well one of ‘em looked like death. Like death itself. There was a furry one, her mother never taught her ’bout dressing modestly, I’ll tell you that much. Then there was a big ol’ ugly bastard with barely anything coverin’ him up!”

There’s a thud. The bookcase was closed. “They had one of ‘em metal men too. He was touching all the books and the like. It was the last one I couldn’t figure out.”

“How so?”

“She dressed like she belonged in a repair shop but she was high born, I knew that much just by looking at her. Held herself too tall to be a poor girl. Her face was a bit dirty but that wasn’t a face that’s seen any hardship.”

They began to walk through the open thresh hold into the next room and the light slowly slinked away from the dark. “If she’s getting herself involved in anything that Master Enoch’s ever been involved in, those eyes are gonna come back a little bit darker that’s for sure!”

“What do you mean?”

“Hush, you!” she hissed, “You talk too much! Master Enoch’s probably up and about and he’ll have your neck if you’re neglectin’ your duties for chit-chat!”

When the safety of the dark had completely returned, Sylvis stepped out from his hiding spot. Well that’s interesting, he thought. Sylvis had only been given this assignment today. Not five hours ago. Curious. I wonder if those visitors have anything to do with my target?

No time to ponder though. And no time to see what’s behind bookcase number one even though it is an itch he longs to scratch. No. Sylvis looks up. Second floor. Enoch’s office.

The rooms in this place aren’t very beautiful. They are gorgeous. Deep, lush colors and patterns line the walls, not that you could really seem them past the menagerie of portraits and landscapes, most look like a window rather than paint on a canvas. The carpets are an inch thick and are soft like a newborn’s bottom. Definitely imported. Sylvis spots a blood stain in the corner of the carpet in the music room beside the grand piano. He was getting to like this Enoch guy the more he snuck around his home.

And while each of these rooms are stunning, each feels off. Off like someone is watching him but that can’t be. Maybe it’s the thin layer of dust that has settled on the furniture that makes Sylvis listen just a little harder. Maybe you’re just nuts. Which is why you took this shady job in the first place!

No sign of anyone since the library and Sylvis can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. It probably means nothing but it nags him in the back of his mind. When he gets into the entrance room he takes the arm of the grand staircase on the left. Sylvis himself is left handed and he makes it a point to only trust the left side of things. Right siders are too full of themselves to ever get anything done. Sylvis’ footsteps sound like a dust bunny’s sigh as he maneuvers up the staircase. Only at the top can he appreciate the diamond chandelier in the middle of the room. Damn, that’s some nice shit.

 Sylvis spots a candle in the corner of his eyes and swiftly hides himself under the velvet tablecloth draped over the hall table. The light comes from an old man, drenched in shadow as he exits a room on the far end of the hall. Sylvis smiles. The moonlight of the room outlines an imposing desk. He is exactly where he needs to be.

Sylvis doesn’t breathe as the old man walks past. He won’t even peer out a tad to catch a glimpse of his face. The very essence of this tells him that seeing him means that he’s seen you. The man stops in front of the table Sylvis is under. Sylvis is silent as the grave and won’t even let himself think. It’s a moment that feels like a year but after that moment, the old man passes and walks down the right side of the staircase into the music room.

The door to the office isn’t even locked. Enoch must really think he’s untouchable. Upon opening the door, Sylvis sees what he’s come for. The thief picks it up and inspects the outside. It’s a large, green envelope with golden script written in elvish script- a dialect that Sylvis isn’t familiar with. Certainly old. Maybe as old as Enoch. Sylvis slowly pulls back the envelope’s flap.

“You’ll stop right there if you know what’s good for you,” said Enoch, standing in the doorway.

Sneak Thief (Pt. 1)

The streetlamps in this part of town automatically dim after midnight. It's not that they go out, just that they go barely dim enough to leave a warm glow illuminating the streets and the lawns but not enough to bother the people living here. That's how you can tell it's a swanky neighborhood. That and the fact that even if the lamps were as bright as sunlight they still probably wouldn't touch the fronts of the houses, they're so far back from the sidewalk.

What the hell was I thinking? This job is way out of my league. Sylvis absently thinks to himself. This is the biggest job he's ever taken and certainly his first in this part of town. Even now he's amazed that such a job even came his way, a big break that could put him up there with the big ones, getting high line contracts left and right. If he can pull it off.

He climbs gently out of the shrubbery he's been hiding in patiently for the last three hours, carefully slinging his small satchel tightly over his back. He'd had to wear nice clothes for the taxi ride up, hoping to not make anyone suspicious, but the driver had still given him the stink-eye in the rear view. Surely the taxi guy could spot that he didn't belong here, not in this fancy ass high class neighborhood. Surely he could see that Sylvis was the scum of the earth and probably up to no good. The taxi drivers always could. He'd changed as quietly as he could after sneaking into the bushes, ending up in a tight leather and cloth black jumpsuit, a black mask covering all but his eyes and mouth with leather gloves and boots with soft soles covering his hands and feet.

Pulling the tiny slip of paper out of his pocket he glances at it again, probably the four hundredth time tonight he's done it tonight, and yes, it is still the same address. 2150 Bregandish Way. This address. A quick glance up and down the street shows no carriage lamps, not that anyone is out at this time of night except for the constables and sneak thieves like him. He hopes he's the only one tonight, at least.

He slinks across the street, moving quickly and deftly. He may be small time, but he's got practice and the balance of a ballerina. Small and light, moving silently has never been a problem for Sylvis and it isn't now. Coming up short in front of the ornate iron gate, he stops. It's a little dingier up close than it looked across the street, well kept but old, just like the fence extending to either side. He looks closely at it, moving his eyes over the surface of the filigreed handle, trying his best to spot any traps.

He grasps the handle and gently pulls down. The gate opens. It's not even locked! Not that it would've stopped me. He chuckles and pulls it just far enough open to slip inside and crouch by the hedges behind the fence.

Now that he can see the yard better he can tell that the house is indeed set far back from the road and the walkway leading to it winds through a complex landscape filled with carefully trimmed topiary and fountains. All of the fountains are dry at this time of night though, and grass is still. It's deathly silent tonight and no moon, part of the reason he chose this day to try it, after spending more than a week working up the courage and outfitting himself.

Slinking up to the house, keeping his movements slow and deliberate rather than quick and darting, he makes he way to the front of the house, edging towards the right side. He can't help but be awed by what a house it is. Sylvis has never seen anything like it and even after the taxi ride up and through the other neighborhoods, this house is a monster of wealth and old money. Surely the largest and most complex, even in this most illustrious of neighborhoods where any home would be worth the life of a thousand Sylvis's, this house is magnificent.

Much like the gate, up close it seems worn but well cared for, and it exudes character and class, but with a thin under layer of oddness and something a little sinister. He sneaks around the winding front porch, making his way from window to window, peaking in at the dim rooms inside. Most are dark but for a few with dimmed lights and no occupants. The contact said that only one old man lives here, aside from a couple of live in servants, and as outlandish as it sounded then, Sylvis believes it now. Of course, with a house this size though, he's more worried about his contacts info on the being wrong and less about being caught by an occupant.

Moving down to a dark room near the corner of the house, he tries a window, gingerly fingering the sill, rubbing his hands over the lip and trying his best to find any trace of a trap or enchantment. He opens it and it's easy as anything, sliding up silently and smoothly, almost as if it were well oiled and oft opened. Almost as if it were too good to be true. But it's too late to worry about that now.

Sylvis climbs gingerly over the ledge, his lithe body scaling the high sill with no problem, and he rests his feet on soft, lush carpeting, closing the window gently behind him. Please, for the love of all the deities, let him not have any magic wards here to stop me.

Fingering his good luck charm through the cloth of his shirt, feeling its weight on his chest suspended by its gold chain, he calms himself. If there were real magic here he'd sense it, just like he always has before, but he doesn't. Or at least not the harmful kind. Not yet. Again he kicks himself for believing that the old charm helps him see magic traps, but it hasn't failed him yet.

As his eyes become accustomed to the darkness inside he looks around the room he's in. Something like a large study or a small library, the room is lined with bookcases and shelves of artifacts, carefully arranged. Looking closer, he sees that many of the books are ancient and the artifacts. . . Sweet mother of. . . I could sell all that's in this room alone and live the rest of my days in luxury. What is this place?

Arranged on the shelves are things that he only could've imagine a few minutes before. Artifacts of such value and rarity that someone of his stature could only ever hope to see them in a museum. Taking a quick look around an wondering what else this place might involve he moves to the door, touching the handle gingerly before pausing again. They said that the old man was a prospector, an archaeologist, or something, but this. . . Surely he's a thief as well, Sylvis thinks. The artifacts and artwork here, while worth immeasurable amounts, are so strange and unique that even the most well-heeled would be hard pressed to match them. And this is only the first room.

Taking a deep breath he pulls his instructions out of his pocket once more, knowing he needs to focus before moving on. Reading the top of the carefully folded paper once more has a calming effect, though by this point he could recite the letter by heart.

“2150, Bregandish Way, Azure District, Skyway” and then the name of the occupant, “Enoch Wallisarn.”

Pumpkin Seeds (Pt. 3)

The Beast's tongue flicks out between its front rows of teeth, licking its lips wetly, small dabs of spittle flying out onto the three terrified creatures pined between its paws. “I can't wait for this. I've heard you things taste good . . .”

“Cally?” Sneezle's body is pressed tightly against him as they both crouch over Moribund, trying their best to shield him from the beast, but failing.

“Yes, Sneeze?”

“I love you.”

“Me too.”

Suddenly it's darker and the Beast's head raises from them, looking up and above, all three of its eyes wide open, and it lets out a meek roar of annoyance. “Shelly!” And a voice like thunder booms around them, falling out of the sky on them from far above. There is the shadow of a gigantic figure there. One of the Big Ones.

“Shelly, what are you doing? What have you found, love?”

The Beast pulls back from them as the Big One flicks its foot against the side of it, pushing it's foul, furry body off of them and sending it tumbling to the side. It yelps in surprise and, coming to rest, jumps to its feet and starts to lick itself.

“And what are you little things?” Sneezle shoves herself ever closer to Cally and faints as a giant face approaches them from above, coming at them with incredible speed to pause over them, breathing softly. It looks to be a female, her brows furrowed and her mouth in the shape of a frown.

“Oh, children, I fear this is the end. Both of you were good kids, please know that. Even if you were lazy.” Morry's eyes are getting watery and Calcifer has never seen so much emotion from the angry old one, but it might be from the pain his arm.

“Oh, don't worry.” The woman is whispering to them, or at least it must be whispering to her. It's still much louder than any of them could manage themselves, but it has a calming effect. “I'm not going to hurt you. Was that beastly pet of mine bothering you?”

Morry is silent and Sneezle is still out in Calcifer's arms, so he reluctently speaks up. “Please, please don't hurt us. We didn't know it was a sacred temple. We thought it was just a pumpkin and we've had a bad harvest this year. Please.”

“But, I just said. . . Sacred Temple?”

Calcifer nods gently and begins to shake Sneezle softly, trying to wake her. He eyes flutter open and she looks up at the woman's face, her ears shooting straight out rigid in fear as she sees it.

“The Jack-O-Lantern? That thing? Oh, that's just for fun!” She laughs. Or what must be a laugh, and raises back somewhat. The three tiny figures begin to climb to their feet, Morry stumbling a little from the pain in his fractured arm. He leans on Calcifer's shoulder while Sneezle grips his good arm.

“I may be a crazy old witch, but I'm not going to hurt the ltitle forest people for setting up shop in my dumb old Jack-O-Lantern! You little things are so silly. Are you okay?”

“Old Moribold here broke his arm when your . . . pet attacked us.”

“What? Shelly!” The witch kicks out at the beast again, narrowly missing it as it jumps away and runs off. “Dumb thing. Let's see how it likes skipping a few meals.”

Cally and Sneezle look at each other confused as one of the monster's hands comes down towards them. As the cower the other hand comes as well and suddenly the three of them are in the palms of the monster, lying back on its warm soft skin. “My name is Bette. What about you little things, eh?”

Again there is silence until Calcifer speaks up. “My name is Calcifer, this is Sneezle, and the hurt one is Moribund.”

“Oh, the hurt one? Wait, what happened to your nose? Did Shelly do that?”

“No!” Sneezle shouts at the monstrous woman, her patience finally run out. “This is just the way I am, and I like it! Morry is the one that's hurt because of your damn monster! We were just trying to scoop out the seeds and it was going to eat us!”

“Oh, now, now, calm down. You look quite lovely like that. Come, let's all go back to my cottage for a bit.”

And the world begins to shift, and they are all shaken to their knees as Bette begins to walk, cupping them gently all the while. In what seems like mere moments they are entering what is like a giant cave, but with lights inside, and they are being settled onto a slab of smooth, worn wood.
“Now then, let's fix that arm first.”

Bette walks from the table and over to her herb cabinet, rustling around until she finds the proper bottle. “Here we go.” 
 
She comes back to them, leaning over Moribold's slightly shaking body crouched on the table. Sneezle and Cally step to the side as she sprinkles something from the bottle onto him, glittering in the air as it falls. 

“My. . . My arm! It's okay. It feels great.” He stretches it out, flexing it back and forth and shaking it. “It's incredible!”

“There we go now, all fixed.”

“Thank you, kind monster.”

“Oh, call me Bette. Now, I heard you all had a bad harvest this year. What do you eat and how much do you want?” And as she smiles down at them, she seems much less of a monster.

Pumpkin Seeds (Pt. 2)

Calcifer turns to Sneezle who is standing in the other window hole and pointing outwards. Approaching around the corner of a great stone wall, a rather large creature crept towards them. It had dark and dirty fur, sharp claws protruded from its four feet and even sharper teeth hid in its crooked smile. It’s tail swayed behind it like a giant worm. It stared out at them with three, bright, piercing eyes.

“Holy skittles,” shouts Calcifer, “it’s the Beast!”

“What’s with all that racket, you two,” says Moribold, turning about to look at them, a giant piece of pumpkin meat in his hand, “you better have that entire upper quadrant carved out by…” Moribold trails off as he sees the two hysterically running down the stairs with worried looks on their faces. 

“Where the fuddle are you two spoiled vegemites running off to?”

“The Beast is coming,” yells Calcifer, almost tripping over himself.

“Run, Morry,” shouts Sneezle, grabbing hold of Calcifer by the arm to keep him steady.

“The Beast,” ponders Morry quietly, turning the phrase in his head, “you mean the monster of myth? It’s only a legend, a story for silly children who are too lazy to work! Now you get your aspens back here this…” Moribold trails off again, this time because he notices that the top of the pumpkin is knocked off and large head comes into the view through the new opening. It’s three eyes peering down at Moribold dangerously and its sharp crooked smile shining like a sickle. 

“T-th-the BEAST,” shouts Moribold, tossing his piece of pumpkin into the air and running headlong towards the stairs. 

Calcifer and Sneezle are climbing down the ladder when Moribold reaches the triangular hole. Just as he’s stepping out onto the ladder, the Beast’s tail swats it away, sending Calcifer and Sneezle hurdling towards the stone floor. Moribold tries, but fails to catch his balance, and falls from the pumpkin. He lands first on his right arm, which gives a loud crunch as it snaps between the stone floor and the rest of Moribold’s body. He yelps with pain.

Sneezle and Calcifer stand up, mostly unharmed, and rush over to Moribold’s side. “Oh skittle,” mutters Sneezle, “his arm is fuddled up pretty bad.”

“C’mon, you old fiddle,” says Calcifer as he tries to help Moribold to his feet, ” we gotta get you outta’ here.” But they aren’t fast enough. The Beast leaps from the top of the pumpkin and nearly lands on top of the three creatures, it’s front legs closing them in on both sides. The beast kneels on its haunches and brings its face inches from the creatures.

The Beast opens its mouth, its teeth like dozens of bony knives its breath like boiling, rotten carcasses, and it says, “What were the filthy beings doing in the Temple?”

The three creatures are frozen in fear, none of them daring to move, except for their skin, which crawls and shivers uncontrollably. The Beast, growing impatient, leans its face even closer, narrows it’s eyes, curls its lips into a snarl, and growls so deeply it seems as if the Earth is rumbling beneath the creatures’ feet. Calcifer lets out a yelp before covering his mouth. “Wha-what is the Temple,” says Sneezle softly.

The Beast nods its head in the direction of the pumpkin, “That is the Temple.”

“The pumpkin,” whispers Moribold confusedly.

“That is no mere pumpkin, you worthless peons,” roars the Beast, “that is the temple, sculpted by the Spooky Goddess herself. And you dare set a foot within in its walls!”

“We-we’re s-s-sorry,” stutters Calcifer.

“Sorry is not enough, fool. You defiled the Hollowed Temple.” The Beast gives a snarling smile, “you must pay for your sins.”

Pumpkin Seeds (Pt. 1)

“Dammit Calcifer! Careful with those seeds!” 

Moribold screeches at him as one of the seeds falls from the bucket to the stone floor, crushing itself on the pointy end. Cal scrambles to balance the basket on his knee while picking up the errant seed, barely keeping from dropping several more as Moribund flops his nose at him and walks back towards the new hole.


“Yes sir, I'll be more careful sir.” As soon as old Morry's back is turned Cal wiggles his nose up and down at him and snorts through all four nostrils, whispering slanderous words under his breath.


“What a cranky old jerk. Don't give him any mind Cally.” Sneezle whispers out of the side of her mouth. “He's just cranky 'cause he woke up on the wrong side of the moss this morning.”


“Still he's such a jerk. So I drop one seed, big deal! It's not like they taste any different if they're dented up. I bet it gives 'em character!”


“Is that why you still like me, even though I'm kind of dented up?”


Cally looks at Sneezle's big round snub of a nose, vaguely scarred so unlike any other face he's ever seen. He sidles up close to her, careful to keep the basket balanced in his spindly arms. “Exactly.” He smiles and runs the tip of his nose over her nub affectionately, watching the frown that had been growing on her tiny mouth grown into a smile, her eyes widening in pleasure.


“Oh Cally, you're so sweet.” She giggles and he pulls away, his dark black skin flushing purple.


“I just like you, that's all.”


“Hey you two, get back to work!” Moribold's wrinkly nose pops out of the top hole in the pumpkin, his ears bent back as he tries to force his head through to yell at the youngsters.
“And don't drop any more seeds!”


“Yes, sir!” They chime in chorus, followed by more whispered slander.


The stump isn't far ahead anyway and the loads aren't that heavy. They both make it back with their bushels intact and dump them into the little oven by the back door. Calcifer grabs a jar of the herbs Morry told them to use on the seeds and covers it in with a glistening drop of water, fresh from the drizzle yesterday. It'll be another couple of hours before the pumpkin seed bread is ready, and the oven is full. Hopefully this will be the last batch for the day.


“I guess old Morry will want us back at that silly pumpkin anyway, even though we took all the seeds. I still think it's strange that we found it carved out like that, with all the guts scooped out. Kind of creepy to me.”


“Yeah, but you know Old Morry. He won't pass up any opportunity for easy food.”


Calcifer sniffs at the air as the pumpkin seeds begin to warm in the kiln. “Mmm. . . I do love the smell of pumpkin bread though.”


Sneezle's frown from earlier quickly returns. “Aw, Cally, I wish I could smell it too. I wish I had a normal nose like everyone else.”


Calcifer quickly wraps his arms around her as a single tear begins to form at the edge of each eye and runs the end of his long pointy nose over her ears and face. “But Sneeze, you have such wonderful ears to make up for it. And I'd love you either way.” He smiles his biggest smile and hopes it will work.


“Are you sure?”


“Of course.” He kisses her on the forehead, hoping she will cheer up. In the last few months she's been so much happier; it would be such a shame to see her sad again. “And besides, maybe we could dally a little before we go back to help with the pumpkin. I can think of a few fun things to do . . .”


“Oh stop it you!” Now it's her turn to blush a deep purple. “We really have to get back. Come on! Last one there is a rotten froozit!”

She wraps her arm through his and pulls him through the door and they both run breathlessly through the moss back toward the pumpkin. They're both gasping for air when they get back, Moribund's head quickly popping out again to look at them. “Now that's what I like to see! Not so much goofing off, eh! Eager to get back to work. Good kids, both of you. Now come on up and help me scoop out what's left of the meat. There'll be enough here for all winter, I tell you!”


Calcifer and Sneezle take a few more deep breaths and begin to climb the long ladder leaned up against the side of the pumpkin, climbing in through the large triangular center hole. Suddenly it reminds Calcifer of the shape of a nose, with two giant round eyes above it. He's afraid to mention though, with Sneezle there, and lets it lie. They both climb through the hole and ascend towards the top up the crude stairs which Moribund carved into the inside meat of the pumpkin. “Hey Morry, haven't you wondered why this thing is here? I mean, have you ever seen anything like it?”


“Now Calcifer, one does not look a gift froozit in the mouth. We should be grateful for all gifts the universe chooses to give us.”

“But it seems so odd, almost too good to be true.” Sneezle can't help but chime in for Cally. “What if it's a trap?”


“A trap? A trap you say? That's just silly. It is a bounty from the gods and we should see it as such. Besides, just wait 'til everyone else comes back from their fall harvests and sees what we have! We'll be the talk of the village!”


“I guess. Something just doesn't seem right about this whole thing, that's all.” Calcifer walks over to the edge of one of the top holes to the outside, the ones he's started thinking of as windows.


“Oh poppycock. Get your head out of the trees and focus on the work that's to be done. This basket's almost full and it's not going to carry itself back to the stump by itself!”


“Sure Morry, we'll get it.” He looks out of the window and rests his arms on the ledge, noticing that the very edge of the cut pumpkin's skin is beginning to curl in as it begins its slow decay. He's startled out of his reverie though, as Sneezle cries out, “Cally, look!”

What Passing Bells - Part 3

But he doesn't.


Something makes him pick up the book a few days later, still damp and sticky, and read the poems again. Most of these he remembers from his childhood, along with the poetry of other authors, but all from the early twentieth century, and all of them English. He remembers his dad poring over them, especially Owens', like a Rabbi with a Torah. Searching for meaning. Reading and rereading late into the night, pounding away on his antique typewriter before handing it off to his mother to type up on a computer. Dad was always searching for meaning, until he wasn't. Until he found it at the end of a gun when Wil was fourteen. Sitting in front of his computer at two in the morning, playing online, far past his bedtime, hearing the shot ring out and the hard thump of his father falling to the floor. He still can't get the sound of that gunshot out of his mind and can't stand to be around guns. Can't forget the sound of his mother screaming or the sight of the clean up.


He also hasn't been able to read any poetry since, much less Wilfred Owens'.


So what possessed me to take this damn class? He thinks as he sets the collected works down, its pages torn and frayed but still readable, a lingering smell of mildew surrounding it. They're not even that great. And I haven't thought about this in years.

But he does read them, and they mean far less than he thought they would. So much less that he can't imagine what his father saw in them, can't see how they drew him towards a teaching career and towards a specialty in them. What led him to stay up late at night and clang away on that old typewriter, writing papers on poems that no one ever reads anymore. The poetry of programming is so much more meaningful, and so much more useful. Far more than the ramblings of a twenty-something from a hundred years ago. Wil knows that the work he does will truly affect the world and not just end up in a book that no one buys unless they're forced.

But he does read through them once and they pass through his memory like sand through a sieve, but somehow he manages to pass the exam and then the class is on to another writer. Another one that's not so familiar.

***

“Yukio Mishima.”

“Yu-what?”

“I know right? I've never heard of him either. I don't know how to spell it though. . .”

“What's the class and the professor's name?”

She's wearing tweed again, but he's pretty sure it's a different outfit. Maybe that's a fashion statement now? Not that he'd know, sitting in front of a computer all day. Suddenly he's very self-conscious about his ratty jeans and Mass Effect t-shirt.

“Um. . . 20^th Century Lit. with Daltry?”

“Holy crap, I'm not even going to try and pronounce this one, but we have it in stock. Are You gonna ask to borrow it again?”

“Ha, no. Sorry I was having kind of a shitty day the other day, I didn't mean to be rude.”

“Yeah right, that was nothing. You should see some of the jerks we get in here. The Asians are the worst. The don't wannna pay for anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How about you, Wil, is $15.78 gonna be to much for ya today?”

“Hey, you remembered my name too!”

“Yeah, the weird poet name. Hard to forget.” She smiles at him and it looks a little odd with her small mouth and big eyes, but it's endearing. Suddenly he's paying much more attention to what's going on. “I know you'll say you remember mine too, but I've got a name tag, so that's cheating.”

“No, I do though! Auggy, right?”

“Ha, yeah, a likely guess.”

And he smiles at her and it's kind of goofy with his big grin in a face full of freckles and unkempt hair falling over his forehead and his eyebrows. But she likes it.

“Hey, actually, I just remembered I have that last book with me too. Can I trade it in for credit?”

“Sure, as long as it's in OK shape. It's not water damaged, is it?”

“Um. . . maybe.” He pulls it from his satchel and several pages fall out as he lays it on the counter, the binding finally haven given up the ghost and let loose. “Yeah. . .”

“I told you to buy an umbrella! Here.” She pulls an umbrella from the little bin they keep by the register for impulse buys when it rains. “It's only ten bucks and it'll mean you get some credit for all your future books. Besides, it's gonna rain again today.”

“And how do you--”

“Hey! Remember last time? Now pay up.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“And wait til you see the blue flashing lights.”

“I know, I know. Hey, are you doing any--”

“Don't slide yet! The arrows aren't flashing, are they?”

“No.”

“Oh, and I like that Thai place on Liberty. They're open late tonight. Eight o'clock okay?”

“Wait--”

She smiles. “You can slide your card now.”

And he smiles too.

Lower Level 42 (Pt. 2)

Layla scoops up Rectitude in mid-flight, plucking him out of the air and cradling his shaking body in her hands. His feathers shiver softly and she could feel the warmth of the monster's blood still on his claws, drawn tight to his body in the protection of her palms. The hammer swings back down on it's lanyard and she spins back around, still holding the bird as she remembers that there were two other companions down here with her.


And then a flash of leathery brown skin flies by as she turns around and Hope is snatched away in front of her, feathers drifting down in the place where he'd just occupied. Plucked from the air as swiftly as she had grabbed Rec. “NO!”


But there's no time to think and she can feel the soft press of Valor's body against her ear as he lands on her shoulder and she puts Rectitude on the other just in time to grab the hammer's handle and swing it through the still floating gray feathers into the head of another monster, just now barreling down the pipeline towards her the very moment before its head explodes in a crimson mist.


She can't help but reach down and grab at least one of the soft white feathers from the ground where it fell and stuff it into her overall pocket before bolting down the pipeline away from the rubble, swinging her hammer as she goes and hoping that her still living companions will follow closely enough to find safety with her. “Come on guys! Home!”


As she dashes down the hallway more than one tear falls to the metal grating of the floor but Layla forces herself to focus on the here and now. There are monsters to be killed if she ever hopes to make it back to her compound. Goddamn it, how can they be this close? It's only level 42! Unless they came from one of the other nearby compounds.


A brown head, followed by two grasping claws and a withered body fall out from a grate in the roof and land in front of her, howling in rage. This monster isn't as what she's seen in the pictures, in the training films, and she knows suddenly that these Broken Ones must be fresh. “Valor, find us a way home!”

The pigeon shakes on her shoulder but quickly obeys, launching itself upward before diving straight ahead down the tunnel and cutting a hard right at the next intersection. Three more monsters lay dying before she reaches the cut off, her breath pounding with every step. I have to get back and warn the council.

Up ahead, Valor is a blur of gray wings and the tunnel seems to stretch on a ways before turning right again but it is clear of monsters. Layla can almost relax for a moment, mentally at least, while her body pumps as fast as it can down the hallway, but then she feels a tap at the back of her head and her blood goes cold. She spins around again and it's Rectitude, flapping his wings at her as another Broken One lunges towards them. A quick swipe of the hammer and he is down but not before Layla takes a deep breath of its stench, wafting towards her as its head falls only inches from her face.

She nearly falls forward and her hands automatically land on her knees, the hammer once again falling gently to her belt. Gasping for breath she crouches hoping the creatures will give her at least this moments respite while each remaining bird perches on a shoulder, facing opposite directions, like sentinels for her safety but still shaking themselves. Their soft feathers still brush gently against her her ears and it is a full minute before Layla realizes the tunnel is quiet and she is alone but for weathered brown corpses and two living birds.

“Hope!”

But it's too late, and it's better not to think of it. At least she won't have to tell her mother that she lost Valor. It would break her poor heart almost as much as losing Hope had broken hers. Still, if I don't move on, I might lose everything, and Mother would hate hearing that I'd been taken by the monsters almost as much as she'd hate to hear that Valor was gone.

Taking no chances, she works her way down the tunnels, trying to find a way back to the elevator with Valor flying before her the whole time and Rectitude bringing up the rear. He's performed admirably for a first timer and she's glad to have him by her side. Pigeons, while silent, can be so much more reliable than people.

Aside from the beating of wings and the deep breaths she can't help but take at each step, though, the tunnels are quiet until she finds the next elevator entrance, two levels up. It's been at least two hours since she saw the last Broken One when she sees the weathered sign showing “Lower Level 40, Line 72. Please Watch Your Step.” Just in time too; she's had to switch out the cartridges on her gas mask and those of the pigeons twice by now and there's only one left for hers. She'd always said before that it was silly to have to carry three back ups but now she's not so sure.

There are extra cartridges for Valor and Rectitude now, though. And with that thought tears begin to roll down her dusty cheeks as she stands before the elevator door. She holds her posture, standing strong and erect. She can handle this. It's only the dust and the cartridge beginning to go bad making her eyes water anyway. Through the sheen of tears she can see that God only knows when the last time this elevator was used. Its doors are rusty and covered in a thick layer of dust and debris. Shriveled footprints show in the grime in front of the doors and she softly pushes the button marked “up.”

What Passing Bells (Pt. 2)

“Wilfred Owen…”

“Wilfred Owen Clark.”

She tilts her head to the left to get a better look at him. She’s short, but rather looks like a goose with her long neck and tweed cardigan. “And you’re gonna buy this book?” She holds up a copy of The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen with an overly amused look on her face.

“No,” he says, “I want to rent the stupid thing.”

Her bubblegum clicks loudly in her mouth. “I’m sorry, but this is a new text book, it’s not available for rent.”

“How much is it?”

“Eleven, fifty four. Cash, credit or debit?”

“What? It’s at least a couple bucks cheaper on Amazon.”

“We’re just a local business, Wilfred, we can’t afford the discounts that Amazon provides.”

“Just Wil, thanks,” he snaps. Wil feels bad. She didn’t deserve that. Really, what retail associate wants to stand around with a costumer that came into their store expecting to have a bad day. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy. “Look, I just need this book to study for one stupid exam in my literature class. Can I just borrow this?”

“I really just work here, I can’t offer that kind of-”

“Nevermind. Debit.”

“Swipe when you see the green flashing lights…”

There were no lights. Wilfred stands there, pinching his lips together, making him look a bit like a goose himself. The moment is awkward, and long.

She senses his impatience. “It takes a moment.” This doesn’t improve his mood. “So… What’s up with your name?”

Wil raises an eyebrow. “My name? What’s up with yours…” Wil peers over the computer screen to glance at her nametag. It was crooked and water stained in one corner. He squints the name into focus. “…Augusta?”

She yawns, makes sense, she looks like she wanted to pass out the entire time Wil’s been there. “Family name. My great, great, great grandmothers or something. My friends call me Auggy,” She takes a long swig of her coffee. The steam veils her face and fogs up her glasses. “Your turn.”

Wil almost laughs. “Fair enough.” He holds up the book. “Pop’s a giant fan of this guy. Mom had to stop him from reading these as my bedtime stories.”

“A tad too dark?”

“A tad. Never wanted to read them once I was old enough to know Wilfred is a lame name.”

“And now you have to read them.”

“Yep.” The green lights appear, but then stop. “It is supposed to do that?”

“No. Lemme try again.” Wil sighs. Another few minutes pass. “Ok, try it when the lights flash.”
This time the lights appear immediately and Wil zips his card through, quickly punching his PIN after. “About time.”

“I know, right?” she laughs. Her smile catches Wil’s eye. It’s much prettier than he would have guessed. And her laugh sounds like bells chiming in the wind. I hear the bells jingles in his mind but he can’t remember where the phrase came from. “Just got to wait for it to be approved.”

This takes longer than either would have hoped. They start to talk about school. Auggy is a college dropout, said it was her own fault for never staying awake during class. Wil writes coding for computer programs and fancies himself a poet of sorts. “It’s a language no one can really understand,” he says.

“But that’s not the same thing as poetry,” she protests. “You’re telling the computer literally what you want it to do. Poetry is much more nuanced than that. You can’t tell anyone anything if you’re doing it right.”

“That’s an unfair assessment,” says Wil, “You can interrupt the words at literal or you can delve into the hidden meaning. I do the same thing, but with zeroes and ones.”

“Ha ha ha!” Another laugh. Good. “But seriously,” says Auggy, “Look a little deeper into his work. Owen’s. You may like it more than you think. And then the trenches of that class may not be so bad.”
“Trenches? Is that a pun?”

The machine produces a receipt. “Finally!” Auggy cries. The word spears him through the gut. “Here you go, Wil,” she hands him his coveted book and receipt in a small plastic bag.

He hands the bag back. “I’ll just carry it.” 


“You sure? It’s gonna rain.”

“It’s not going to rain.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“Because I said so?”

Auggy laughs. “Alright. Well, remember you can’t return that book with water damage so, you know, keep it dry.”

It pours on Wil’s way home, his jacket barely keeps the binding together. An elaborate set up of fans manages to dry it out. He almost forgot about the $11.54 that he spent on it and rather lingered on his memory of Auggy’s wrinkled nose when she laughed. He knows he will fail the exam.