The Comfort of Dragons

Farla guided Shyler’s magic in the glass dragon the pair were crafting and smiled at how enthusiastic her partner was about this project. This was the thirteenth dragon and Shyler’s joy over creating smaller replicas of herself had yet to dim. Starting their next project might well lead to a pouting dragon, but creating this mobile for Farla’s niece had been a lot of fun.

After waiting for the crystalline dragon to cool, Farla tucked it carefully into a padded bag with two others and left the studio with Shyler perched proudly on her shoulder. The pair received varying reactions on their journey. Those of the neighborhood who knew them offered waves and cheerful greetings, but strangers shied away. A few people even crossed the street. It was hard to be sure if they were prejudiced against Farla’s elven ears or Shyler’s red hue. Elves tend to be stronger with magic than human channelers, which makes some humans nervous, while red dragons have a completely unearned reputation for aggression. And, of course, there had been a rising sentiment against using magic at all lately.

People who knew Farla and Shyler recognized two of the most highly regarded artists in the nation and remembered how much of their income Farla spent on helping local families. The driver of the city bus the pair caught knew them well enough to shake his head at the couple who got up and moved to a further seat after she sat down near them. He made sure to use both her and Shyler’s names when wishing them well as they disembarked.

Upon reaching her sister’s house, Farla took a deep breath. Her sister was out of town, as was her husband and their six-year-old. The house was being watched by Farla’s brother-in-law’s sister. The sister, Elise, had soft grey eyes, warm brown hair, a gentle smile, a stately figure, and a deeply rooted sentiment against magic-channelers, all of which she’d inherited from her mother. Farla and Elise had known each other for close to a decade, and had a few interesting conversations early on. Then the conversations dried up, leaving only some glances that Farla struggled not to read much into from across rooms and dining tables. It had been two years since Elise did anything other than ignore Farla as much as possible.

When Elise opened the door, Farla expected her to stand aside without a word before going to read in the study as she had done every other time. She did not expect Elise to follow her into Katchya’s room and watch her bring out the final three dragon sculptures.

“These are the last ones?” Elise whispered, sounding scared. Her gaze was locked on the floor tiles beneath her feet.

“Yep.” Farla put extra pep into her voice, trying to pretend that she wasn’t unsettled by the change in routine. Shyler flew up to sit atop a bookshelf along with an assortment of plush animals but watched Elise with open distrust. “Once I attach them, I can hoist this baby up and it’ll be all ready to surprise the birthday girl when she gets home next week.”

Elise’s eyes moved to the ceiling, where the hook for the mobile was already installed. “I wonder how long it will take her to notice.”

The thought of their niece entering the room and going about her normal business before suddenly going, “When did that get there?” made Farla chuckle. “She’ll either see it immediately, or not until she gets into bed.”

“Agreed.” As though mentioning the bed had reminded Elise it existed, she sat down on it as she watched Farla deftly attach the new dragons. Each of the glass reptiles was a different color, which would work perfectly since Katchya’s room already looked like a rainbow had exploded across it. “Um…” Elise said after several minutes. “I don’t want to sound rude. But… Are they enchanted?”

Farla’s fingers paused and she looked up. Her eyes met Elise’s and she processed what she saw there. The other woman was openly concerned. It would have made some channelers angry, but Farla figured it was a mixture of possessing ignorance and honestly caring about a little girl they both adored. She could never be angry at someone wanting to protect her beloved niece. “I couldn’t love Katchya more if she were my own daughter. The only magic in these guys was from their formation and a mild spell to make it harder to shatter them.”

Elise’s lips pressed together for a moment before she nodded. Then she licked them as Farla tried to think about something other than Elise’s lips.

Farla went back to double-checking the attachments on the mobile, making extra certain that the metallic chains the dragons were to hang from were secure. Satisfied, she waved Shyler over. “Time to get this up!”

“Wait!” Elise sprang to her feet.

Shyler hissed at the sudden sound and flew to hide behind a curtain. Elise stared at the lump the dragon formed behind the curtain fabric as Farla waited for an explanation. Eventually, she gave up on that and said, a little testily, “I already told you I didn’t cast any big scary spells on it.”

“Oh.” Elise blinked a few times before meeting Farla’s gaze. Her eyes dipped as though she was cowed by what she saw. “That’s not what I meant. I meant to say, please hold on for a moment because I wanted to ask if you could add an extra enchantment.”

Her head tilted as Farla studied the other woman. “I thought you hated magic.”

“No… Not really.” A hint of tears clouded Elise’s eyes as she continued to study the floor. “That’s… I was raised that way. And my husband, he feels that way…” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but when she looked up her eyes were filled with anger. “But I’m sick of shutting up and ignoring my own opinions just because he ignores them. I’m leaving him. Or I want to. But when I told him that I wasn’t going to come back from this trip, he threatened Katchya.”

As Elise crumbled, collapsing onto the mattress and burying her face in her hands, Farla breathed in and tried to still a growing rage. The bed creaked as she sat and put a tentative arm around Elise. “Have you told Ethaniel?”

“Do you think I told Ethaniel?” Elise asked with a bitter laugh. “Is he on holiday with Katchya and Yvonne or in jail for murdering his brother-in-law?”

“Yeah, alright, I see your point.” Farla’s hand rubbed against Elise’s shoulder in a way she hoped was comforting as her anger turned to resolve and her thoughts shifted to planning. Shylar, reading the change in her partner’s emotions, emerged from the curtain at ground level and took a few hesitant steps towards the pair of elves. She stopped a ways shy of them and watched closely as she sent a sense of support to her partner. “I can enchant the mobile easily enough. But I think maybe you need something too. And we’ll need to put a charm on Katchya to protect her when she’s not in her room. Everyone already knows I made her the mobile, so we’ll need a piece of jewelry we can say is from you.”

Elise nodded. Her expression was numb and her voice toneless as she answered, “Of course. Just tell me what to buy.”

“I have some rainbow stone back at my place. It’s good for holding enchantments. Especially if you wrap it in gold. I have a little bit of that too. So we just need a chain.”

“Okay.”

Farla’s chest felt tight as she gave Elise a squeeze and stood up. “You don’t have to stay for this part if you don’t want to.”

Elise looked up slowly. “I want to stay if that’s alright. I’m curious.”

Farla quirked her eyebrows. “So you really don’t think you’ll be damned by being around someone misusing God’s power?”

“No.” Elise shook her head and let out a soft sigh. “You couldn’t do evil if you tried, Farla. You’re the kindest, most godly person I know.”

Her lips parted as Farla replayed the words in her head. She had no idea how to respond to them.

“I’m sorry I let you think I hated you,” Elise went on. “I… I just couldn’t let Aris know I didn’t. If he had any idea how I actually feel about you… He wouldn’t handle it well.”

“How you actually feel?”

The softest of smiles graced Elise’s face. “Don’t get distracted. I’ll tell you all about it after we make sure the niblet’s safe.”

“Okay,” Farla all but squeaked. Could Elise be saying what Farla so desperately wanted her to be saying? No… Probably not. She probably just meant she wanted to be friends, right? Farla told herself not to let her hopes get too high and that now wasn’t the time for fantasies.

Early the next week, Katchya ran into her room and spotted the change right away. “Everybody!” she yelled. “There are dragons in my room!”

Laughing, the adults walked down the hall to admire the project. Her mom and dad looked up, making sounds of astonishment while her aunts smiled at each other.

Katchya put a hand on her hip. “Was this you, Aunt Farla?”

“Why would you think that?” Farla asked with a grin. On her shoulder, Shyler clicked merrily in the dragon equivalent of laughter.

“It was,” Katchya said to the others before running back to stand under the mobile. She lay on the floor so she could get a better view. “They’re so pretty.”

“So you like dragons?” Elise asked in a teasing voice. “I didn’t know that, Niblet.”

“Everyone knows that,” Katchya said.

“Okay, fine. I knew. That’s probably why I bought this.”

“Bought what?” Katchya bounced up again and looked eagerly at the package her other aunt held out to her. She grabbed the present and ripped the paper off it with excited efficiency. More gently, she took the lid from the box thus revealed. Her eyes went wide at the sight of a gold dragon clutching a rainbow-colored crystal to its chest. She squealed. “I love it!”

“Good,” said Elise. “I never want to see you without it.”

“You only see me on holidays,” Katchya said. “But I’ll wear it everyday.”

“Alright.” Elise smiled as Yvonne helped her daughter secure the clasp of the new necklace. “You’ll be seeing me more often than that from now on though.”

Ethaniel gave his sister a curious look. “She will?”

“Yeah.” Elise drew a deep breath. “I’m divorcing Astir.”

Everyone paused for a moment, then Yvonne blurted, “Thank God,” as Ethaniel said, “About time.”

“And…” Elise reached out for Farla’s hand. “And I’m moving in with Farla.”

There was another pause, during which Yvonne and Ethaniel shared a smile.

“Thank God,” said Ethaniel.

“About time,” Yvonne added.

“Awesome!” proclaimed Katchya. “This is the best birthday ever!”

Above image is by deviant art user Sandara. I urge you to check out her feed at https://www.deviantart.com/sandara and considering purchasing some of the works she has for sale. (A list which includes this imagine.)

It was offered as prompt on my Wording Wednesday Project

The Ghost of the Claw Machine

There are a variety of ways in which people respond to being dead. Some take the news well and start new lives in the world of Shadow, happily continuing on as ghosts for years or even centuries. But others try to deny their deaths, attempt to act as though it never happened and they're still alive. The souls in this latter group will usually pick one place of importance and stay there doing whatever is logical in the spot, like the grandfather who continues to sit in his recliner napping all day or the frycook who keeps trying to flip burgers.

What every spirit who remains in Shadow has in common is that they possess a purpose for remaining. The guy sleeping in his chair? He's probably worried about his widow or their grandkids. The frycook? He's worried about that coworker he was crushing on, or maybe he wants revenge on the manager who made him work until closing and is the reason he crossed the street at 11:30 instead of 8:30, which is how he came to be killed by a drunk driver.

Mara Brisbane remained living-adjacent rather than moving on to the true afterlife because of one thing: a claw machine. Well, a claw machine and a mentaly unstable young man with a gun.

On the afternoon of June twelfth, 1987, a gunman entered the Midtown Mall Arcade. It was years before Americans would start thinking of mass public shootings as normal events, but despite the fact that he injured five people and killed one in an age where this didn't happen several times a week, the news was too busy talking about Ronald Regan telling Mikhail Gorbachev, "Tear down this wall!" as though the Soviet Premier might start taking direction from the President of the United States to fully cover it.

Mara knew her murderer from school, where they'd shared a trigonometry class. She wasn't the reason he was in a homicidal rage, though. That honor went to Brittany Smalls, who had not only turned him down for prom but made certain everyone knew how ludicrous it was that he'd thought he stood a chance of her going with him. Brittany frequented the arcade regularly, but wasn't there that day. Even in the realm of people willing to commit murder, most people would go home and come back later if the object oftheir plan wasn't there. Not this guy. In the absence of the brunette he wanted to shoot, he shot at every brunette he could spot in the time between drawing his weapon and being taken down by off-duty cop who had been ordering cookies nextdoor when he heard gunshots.

It would have upset Mara to be murdered no matter what, but what really upset her about the whole thing was that she was absolutely certain she was a second away from finally managing to snag the plush wolf in the claw machine bin.

The wolf was important. It was for her kid sister, who needed it to comfort her as she had surgery scheduled the next week. Annie loved wolves. And Mara loved Annie.

That was over thirty years ago and Mara is still standing in front of the claw machine.

Over the years, she's developed the energy to work the machine's controls. That's how everyone knows the thing is haunted. She only uses it when the arcade is closed, but when she wins things, she leaves them where they fall. There hasn't been a wolf in there for years, you see. And she isn't interested in anything else.

I've pieced all this together over the last few weeks, through a series of conversations with Mara. It's only been a few months since I moved to this town and when my parents brought me into the arcade gushing about how they loved places like this "back in the day" I instantly spotted the teenaged girl in a short denim skirt, jean jacket, and high top sneakers. If I didn't have so much experience with ghosts, I would have thought she was being retro, but she's far from the first spirit I've come across. When I realized no one else seemed to see her, I was confident she was dead.

A couple named Jonesevich own the place and roll their eyes at the assertions of the place being haunted. Their daughter, Camille, though… She believes. And she helped me arrange for there to be a wolf in the claw machine. She also let me in after hours, which is why we're both walking up behind Mara as she concentrates on the machine.

"She's there, isn't she?" Camille whispers. She's shorter than I am, but her boobs are bigger and she's all-round prettier than I could ever hope to be. Her heart-shaped face is filled with awe and hope as it shines up at me from under a teal fedora, and her hands are grasped in front of her chest like she's about to break into prayer.

"Yes," I confirm. "But sush, she's concentrating."

Even though she knows Mara is there, Camille lets out a little gasp as the claw in the machine starts to move. It lowers, grabs a toy, and moves to drop the prize in the shoot to the collection bin.

Mara breathes out. "Okay. I should be able to get the wolf now. Can you get that thing out of the way?"

"Sure." I move over to where I can bend and retrieve what turns out to be a really cute blue dragon. Personally, I'd rather have a dragon than a wolf, but I don't say anything.

Aware that Mara doesn't care about the dragon's fate, I take it to Camille. "She says to give you this thanks for all you've done."

"Oh!" Camille grabs the plushie and hugs it tightly. I feel a twinge of envy for the dragon. Camille is my age, my type, and openly bisexual judging by the blue, purple, and pink heart pin attached to her hat. I'm not silly enough to think that means I stand a chance with her, though.

We wait as Mara takes a few tries to grab the wolf. When we first met, I asked her how she could operate the arcade machines without using tokens. She'd shrugged and said that when she came to after being shot, they just worked for her without her knowing why. Her theory is that her energy is somehow tricking them. I don't have any better explanation.

Finally, the wolf drops into the prize box and Mara takes it out with a whoop. She doesn't manage to hold it long; manipulating our world takes a lot of energy and she would already have been tired from using the machine controls.

I pick the wolf up off the floor. It is pretty adorable, although I stand by my assertion that the dragon was the better prize.

"Did she move on?" Camille whispers.

"No. She's still here."

Mara moves around, looking at as much of herself as possible. "Yeah, I kind of thought something would change."

"Maybe you need your sister to get the wolf," I say. Camille and I brought a box and we sit on the floor to put the wolf in it and seal it up. Annie's address, which I paid a service to get and hope is right, is already written on the shipping label and ready to go out first thing in the morning.

"Have you seen my sister?" Mara asks, standing over us.

"Not in person," I admit. "I found her Instagram account, though."

I open my Instagram app and put in Annie's username. A page full of pictures, mostly of two little girls and a Siberian Husky, pops up and stand to show it to Mara. "See? She's doing well. Those are your nieces. She never says their names, but their initials are MM and and SA."

"Mara Marie," Mara whispers. "My middle name is Marie. She named her daughter after me?"

I shrug. "Maybe. Probably? I thought about asking, but was afraid I'd sound creepy."

"And SA would be Sarah Anne. That was our grandmother's name, the one Annie was named for." Mara's eyes continue to focus on the screen. "Where do they live? Is that a beach?"

The picture she's pointing out does seem like a beach. "Her address is in Maine, so, I guess so."

"Maine? That so far away… But she's okay, isn't she? Like really okay?"

"I think so." It's hard to tell how someone is doing from an Instagram account, but she seems to have a nice balance of activities and interests.

Mara smiles. “That’s all I ever wanted. For her to be okay.”

Even as the words fade, Mara’s body starts to take on a transparency. Without further comment, but with a peaceful smile, she shimmers and is gone.

I stare at the spot Mara used to be in. I’ve never actually witnessed anyone moving on from Shadow before. “She left,” I whisper. “I think… I think she’s in heaven now. Or being reincarnated. Or, you know, whatever happens after Shadow.”

“Oh. So she just needed to know her kid sister's alright?” Camille looks where I am, although she never saw Mara in the first place. There’s a mist in her eyes. “That is so sweet.”

“It really is.” I bend over and pick up the box. “Think we should mail this anyway?”

Camille nods. “Absolutely.” She climbs to her feet. “And… Um… There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask, but it didn’t seem like right time before…”

My heart-rate picks up even as I tell myself she’s not about to ask me out. More likely she wants to know if she can learn to see ghosts too or something like that. “Okay. Go for it.”

“I…” She draws a shaky breath. “I was wondering…” Her eyes drop to the floor. “Would you maybe…” She brings her eyes back up, her expression saying it’s hard to look at me as she speaks. “Would you like to go out with me?”

I try not to stare. “Like on a date?”

“Yeah… I mean… You do like girls, right?”

I nod.

“And I know it’s a stretch to think that maybe you’d like me specifically, but-”

“I do!” I interrupt. “I like you specifically. Very much so. I would totally have kept that dragon otherwise.”

She laughs, relief making her body loosen. “Okay. Good. You pick where. Anywhere that isn’t an arcade.”

I join the laughter. “That’s really limiting, but I’ll think of something.”

With the box tucked under my left arm, I wrap my right hand around Camille’s as we walk out into the deserted mall.

The above image is Arcade by Kelsey Smith. You can find it an other works by the artist at INPRNT.com.

It was offered as a prompt for my Wording Wednesday Project.

If you like ghosts, you might be interested in my novel I'd Rather Not Be Dead.

Drew McKinney never liked living in Pine Bridge, North Carolina, but she liked it a lot better than being dead there. No way does she want to haunt this stupid hick town for the rest of forever. She doesn't want to haunt anywhere if she can help it. The whole dying thing knocked Drew back in time several weeks, so she's got a shot at saving herself from Hell in Appalachia if she can figure out why she died. Unfortunately, not only is she clueless about what killed her but there's a soul-eating fog after her, the ruler of the ghost realm is interfering in her afterlife, and the only living person Drew can turn to for help is Cooper Finnegan, who is hands down her least favorite person on the planet.

Available for Kindle and other digital retailers or in print.

On the Edge of the Sea

Overhead, the sky regards me with the same dispassionate grey as my lover’s eyes as the breeze blowing off the sea ruffles my hair despite the shawl I have over my head. “It’s the perfect time,” Eethea tells me. “I don’t understand why you want to wait.”

My teeth dig into my lip as I try to think of the words to explain with. See, the thing is, I don’t want to wait. Because I don’t ever want to down another ship, whether it be this storm or five storms from now. Back home, everyone warned that if I moved to land, I’d eventually start to feel this way. I didn’t believe them, though it seems I should have. The smell of salt rolling off the sea still fills me with comfort, but I’ve become too acclimated to shore.

“You skipped the last feast,” Eethea reminds me, as though I could have forgotten either the massive argument we had about it or intense pain I felt as my covenmates gorged themselves on the sailor’s life forces while I stayed hungry. “People are already assuming I’m your daughter. If you keep aging like this, they’ll be thinking you’re my grandmother soon.”

“Would that be so bad?” I ask, my eyes moving over the rolling waves before us. Their peaks are growing taller and white caps have appeared across the bay to which we were exiled decades ago. “At least then people wouldn’t think we’re sinful for loving each other.”

Her arms fold over her worn human-style dress. “And why do you care if they think we’re sinful? Sure, in Kesh they might stone us for it, but in Ahland they’re all pacifists, so they just shake their heads and move on. How does them shaking their heads harm you?”

I let out a long breath. “That’s part of the problem,” I tell her. “You’re asking me to kill someone who isn’t willing to kill me.”

“So, what? You want to wait for a boatload of Keshmen who happen to be here when a storm hits? Or do you want to drown them without the cover of a storm?”

“Well, that is a law I’m surprised we’re still abiding by,” I say, mainly as a way to deflect the conversation. I don’t think I really want to drown people from Kesh either.

Eethea rolls her eyes. “First off, it’s a good rule because we don’t want to risk a survivor having seen us and that’s less likely if we strike during a storm. And secondly, they may not be willing to kill you for being intimate with another woman, but they most certainly would if they knew you were yiishka.”

Yiishka… What the humans call merfolk. I’ve been on land long enough that hearing words from my first language seems strange.

Placing her hand over mine, Eethea goes on. “I understand that they’re intelligent animals with a complex social structure and deep felt emotions, but they eat whales, who are not only all of those things but also more friendly. And who don’t eat them back. Really, humans are terrible.”

“I know…” I turn my palm over so that I can grasp Eethea’s fingers. “I just… Maybe if it were a one-on-one trade, I’d feel better about it. I’d find someone truly horrible and steal their life to fuel mine. But I need to kill at least a dozen people to make much of a difference, and more would be better.”

“Only because you’ve waited so long.”

“Yes, well, I’ve already done that.”

With a gentle tug, my lover pulls me closer to her side and I lower my head to her shoulder. She tilts her head until her cheek rests against my hair. “I know it’s hard, baby. But there’s only so long you can go without eating before you’ll die. Don’t do that to me.”

Of course Eethea found a way to make it about her. “And what about the people who love the sailors? It’s okay to doom them to widowhood?”

“They’ll only live another few decades at most, then they’ll escape from their pain. I could live another thousand years with a hole in my heart where you’re supposed to be.”

“If you keep murdering people,” I mutter.

Eethea stiffens and straightens her head so that it’s no longer touching me. “Since when has it been wrong to survive? We’ve tried taking the life energy from other creatures you deemed less deserving of life and it didn’t work. You remember that, right?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So what choice do we have?”

That’s obvious. “We could grow old and die.”

“Right. Which isn’t really a choice. I don’t know why the Great Mother designed us this way, beloved, but she did. And she wants us to live.”

“Now you get religious on me?” I ask as I sit up. “Most of the time, you think the gods aren’t real.”

She shrugs. “Fine, then. We evolved this way and evolution wants us to live.”

“No, it just wants us to procreate. And neither of us are doing that. We accepted exile to avoid doing that.” Sometimes I can’t remember why. The Queen didn’t want us to break up or anything, she just wanted us to get pregnant and help grow a new generation below the sea. Would it really have been so bad to spawn some brats and raise them with Eethea back home? Sex with a male doesn’t seem like it would be pleasant, but it’s not like it would take terribly long to get it over with either. “If anyone wants us to live, it’s Queen Eilka. She’s the one so upset about the declining population that she’s willing to toss her own daughter out of the sea.”

“Yeah, well, screw my mother.”

I nod. “Dying would do that.”

Eethea scowls. “I may have Mommy Issues, but not enough of them to kill myself to spite her. And I’m certainly not going to let you die just to flip her off.”

“Is it really killing ourselves, though? To let nature take its course?” My eyes go back to the ocean. The tide is coming in and we should move soon, either going back to the city or out into the water. Sitting on the shore wet isn’t an option as saltwater will turn us back into our aquatic forms.

“Skiya, if a human stops eating and dies, do people say it was an accident or do they say he starved himself to death?”

I study the water as I think about that. She has a point. “But…”

“Humans don’t usually eat humans,” she says calmly. “But sometimes they do. If they’re somewhere with no other food and it’s the only way to survive, they absolutely will eat either other.”

“I’m not sure that really happens. It might be a myth.”

“Well, I am sure. Because I’ve met humans, and while they’re sentimental, they’ll do whatever it takes to live. So maybe a few of them wouldn’t eat a party member, but I honestly believe most of them would if their survival were at stake.” She twists in order to take my chin in her hand and turn my face toward her. “This is no different. Even if you say now that you’re willing to deny yourself the energy you need to live, do you really have the willpower to slowly starve to death?”

I hate the fact that the answer to that question is probably no.

“Come on.” Eetha stands up and holds her hand out to help me to my feet. “Let’s get in the water and then decide.”

Once in the water, my thought process will change. In the water, I’ll no long see myself as anything akin to the humans. In the water, the sailors will seem like food and not people. But I let myself walk to the surf anyway.

The above image is Looking Out to Sea by Winslow Homer.

The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/

Embracing Destiny

My grandmother says that the one good thing about humanity trashing the planet to the point that we encapsulated our cities under domes is that now you can see the stars at night. Apparently when she was a child, you could see the moon and maybe two or three stars from a city the size of ours. Of course, between the chemical pollution, the light pollution, and the dome itself, we should really be seeing even less rather than the vast array we’re treated to every night. And who’s to say which is better, really? At least my grandmother’s two or three stars were real and not projections.

Azealia knows the stars are fake, but she loves them anyway. To her, I think their lack of authenticity actually makes them more beautiful, because now they speak of the human need to create beauty and thus provide her with evidence that our species really isn’t as bad as it seems.

One of the things I love about Azealia is her faith in the basic goodness of humans. And it’s that faith that allows her to love me even though I don’t share it.

It was the stars that brought us together the night we met. I was walking across Founders Park after getting off my shift at the pizza joint that was my first place of employment when I came across a dusky-skinned girl with a bright blue pixie cut and golden eyes who was doing the strangest thing. She had an easel set up and was painting a skyscape, a realistic portrayal of the multitude of astral features decorating the dome.

I longed to ask why she was doing this in the middle of the night in the center of a park when the projection was public domain and could have been covering her ceiling at home, but actually asking seemed intrusive. Even stopping to watch her seemed like I was overstepping, but I couldn’t help it. I told my feet to walk on, but they refused to obey me.

After a bit, she looked over and me, smiled, and answered the question I hadn’t asked. “The stars aren’t meant to be seen from your living room.”

“Yet you’re painting them,” I pointed out before I could think through it enough to convince myself not to.

Azealia nodded serenely. She does most things serenely, her soul as infused with calm as mine is permeated with tension. “Yes, but the painting isn’t supposed to be a real sky. It’s supposed to be my perception of the sky.”

My eyebrows pulled together as I thought about that.

“Look closer.” She stepped to the side in invitation and I accepted by drawing near.

Up close, the painting was less realistic than I’d first taken it to be. It was clearly based on the actual sky, but the stars were in different places and the swirling nebulas were less subtle. I’d never studied art, but this seemed like art.

“It’s wonderful,” I told her. Then I walked on, like a complete fool. I beat myself up over that all the following week. I should have stayed and talked more, tried to figure out if maybe she was into girls, although I wanted to be friends even if she wasn’t. I should have asked her to do something with me, or asked her if her artwork was for sale anywhere, or at least gotten her name.

When she walked into the pizzeria two weeks after we first met, she was on a date with a gorgeous woman with ebony skin and a laugh that reminded me of Christmas. So she was clearly interested in women, at least some of the time. And she remembered me, which I told myself must have meant something even though she seemed clearly in love with her companion.

Azealia became a regular. So did the woman with the ebony skin, but that was alright because Clarice was amazing too. She was tall and toned, but also incredibly smart and outrageously funny. She was lead singer in a band I’d never heard of before but soon came to adore. They were called Under the Starlight, a name Azealia had come up with.

It was Clarice who asked me out first. For a second, I was confused. I’d never seen either woman with anyone else, so it hadn’t occurred to me that they were polyamorous. But they were. I never had been before, but as I thought about Clarice’s invitation to a traveling musical, I realized I was already in love with both of them.

Years passed. I finished college and started managing an art gallery with Azealia. Clarice’s band grew popular enough to support touring, but she never drifted away from us. Azealia does all Under the Starlight’s artwork and I run their online merchandise store. We’re happy, the three of us. Sometimes it makes me nervous, being so content, as though it’s tempting the universe to assault us.

I look down at the shirt I’m packaging to ship. It features the poster for Under the Starlight’s Embrace Your Destiny tour. A young woman in white stands on a platform with her arms open to the sky. Her build and her long dark hair are mine, symbolizing how all three of us are a part of our story, how we’re each other’s destinies.

Destiny isn’t a concept I ever thought I’d believe in. Yet, somehow, when I go home and fall into the duel embraces of my beloveds, I do.

The above image is "Kissed by Starlight" by Lisa Falzon. Ms Falzon's works can be found at https://lisa-falzon.com/. 

The image was offered as a prompt on my writing prompt project Wording Wednesday, more information about which may be found at https://wordingwednesday.blogspot.com/

Helping Myself to Live

“Look at Nicole,” Kimberlyn says. “See how her client is so relaxed? He’s dying, but he looks happy.”

I study the veteran war-wraithe and the soldier she cradles in her lap. As Kimberlyn attested, the man looks content. If you didn’t know what was going on, you might even think he was falling asleep in her lap rather than bleeding out… Wait, there’s no blood. “Why isn’t he bleeding?” I ask.

“Poisoned dart,” my trainer answers. “If Nicole wasn’t there, he’d actually be in an agonizing amount of pain. That’s part of the job. Yes, the main goal is to harvest their souls, but the soul of a man who dies peacefully is of much higher quality than that of one who dies in distress.”

My eyes move around the chaotic battlefield. None of the weapons I see could possibly harm me and the place still causes me distress with all it’s rapid movements and cantankerous noise. I’m working very hard not to show it, though. I will not freak out on my first day here; my older sisters would never let me live it down. At least I can’t smell the place.

Kimberlyn returns to her lecture. “Your mask will let you into their minds enough to convince them that you’re someone they trust and care about. Sometimes that’s a lover, as it rather looks like it is here. But other times it’s a mother or a sister or somesuch. So be careful not to do anything that can’t be interpreted platonically. Yes, they’d all be happy to think they’re giving their beloved one last kiss, but it will break the illusion if you start frenching one of them and he thinks you’re his mom.” She chuckles. “Or let’s hope it would. It would be pretty messed up if it didn’t.”

I nod and jot the gist of that down in my notebook. “And that’s why we have to wear the masks, right? Even if they’re not on our faces?”

“Oh, yours will be on your face,” Kimberlyn says. “It takes a lot of experience to be efficient enough to get away with pushing it back your head like Nicole has done. She trained with your mother, so don’t go thinking you’ll reach her level of skill any time soon.”

“Noted,” I respond, trying not to think about Mom. She was one of the highest decorated war-wraiths of her generation, until she fell in love with my father. Chastity is a condition of employment, and they decided that didn’t really work for them as a couple. She quit her job, opened an ale house, and had three daughters, of which I am the youngest. You might think with that backstory she’d have wanted her daughters to grow up and follow their own hearts, but when I tried to tell her I wanted to join the muse corps instead of going into her old business, she totally flipped out. We’re talking yelling, screaming, and even tears. It was the tears that got me. We agreed that I’d give it a year, then she’ll give my blessing for me to apply with the muses if I still want to. I had actually applied to the Muse Academy already, even been offered a scholarship, but I elected not to mention that.

Kimberlyn is still talking, so I try to focus on her. “Notice she doesn’t let her extractor glove touch him yet. That’s important. If you touch them too early, you’ll start extracting their soul before they’re actually dead, which will damage it.”

“Got it.” I scribble the information down.

“Now I want you to really pay attention to this bit.” Kimberlyn puts her hand on my shoulder and points at the pair. “That white mist around them is going to turn silver. That’s her cue.”

As promised, the iridescent white fog dancing around them on a wind that isn’t there shifts to a metallic grey hue. Nicole slides the covering off her index finger to reveal a inner glove designed to extract and hold a soul.

“You couldn’t hear it,” Kimberly says, “but there was a chime just then that indicated the absorption has started.”

“Okay. Is that something Nicole would have heard?”

“Probably. But if the background is ever too loud, you’ll also notice that your gauntlet will give off a little vibration. They’ll be another one when the whole thing is over, both a chime and a vibration. Also, the aura will completely dissipate. Note that she’s only using one finger of the glove. If she used the whole hand, the process would be nearly instant, but that’s rougher on the soul and could jeopardize its integrity.”

I write quickly then look up to see that the fog is down to a few wisps that quickly evaporate. Nicole smiles, put the tip of her gauntlet back on her finger, and stands up. The corpse of the man whose soul she just harvested collapses and his eyes stare blankly at the sky. I blink away a sudden flurry of tears. Crying is most definitely on the list of things I shouldn’t be doing right now.

The senior war-wraith saunters over. She’s taller than I had thought, but also prettier. She’s as old as my mom, but still gorgeous in a way that could easily start barroom brawls if not outright wars. Not that I’d try anything with her. For one thing, I already have a girlfriend. For another, this woman is just way too intimidating for the likes of me.

“You’re Shelly’s youngest?” she says in a husky voice.

Suddenly mute, I nod.

Her gaze chills. “If I catch you so much as pecking a man on his cheek, I’ll have you drummed out of here before know what hit you.”

Before I can think of what to say, let alone find the gumption to say it, she turns and struts to her next client.

Kimberlyn clears her throat. “She… She was close to your mother. Never quite got over Shelly choosing a husband over the wraiths.”

Numb, I manage to say, “I gathered.”

“Don’t worry, she won’t be in your chain of command.” My trainor gives me a smile and looks down at her clipboard. “Alright… So I think that’s enough of an introduction to the field for the day. Let’s get back to HQ and I’ll show you how the souls are in-processed.”

“Sounds good,” I say, in no hurry to spend more time with the dying than I absolutely have to. Hoping no one notices, I take a pair of swipes at the moisture gathered under my eyes.

We turn to walk over to the transportation vortex, but have to detour around another wounded soldier. I try not to look as we move around him, but the way all of his insides seem to have spilled out beside him is hard to ignore. It’s also hard to look at. It’s one of those things you don’t want to see but can’t look away from. The man shifts, causing the pile of guts to move.

I bend in half, vomiting all over the space in front of me. Dear Heaven, how do people stand doing this every day? Mom thinks I’ll survive a year? There’s no way.

Countless heaves later, I manage to straighten enough to stumble around the puke. With Kimberlyn holding tight to my elbow, I shuffle toward the vortex with my eyes shut tight. Or I hope I do. I put all my trust in my guide because there is no way I’m going to watch any more of this.

“It happens to everyone their first day,” Kimberlyn says, her voice almost drowning beneath the racket of the battle. A clang sounds from somewhere particularly close and I flinch. “You get used to it.”

“Honestly?” I say as the background din gets even louder. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than not getting used to it.”

“What?” Kimberlyn yells.

I shake my head and scream back, “Nothing.”

As the gentle wind of magic breathes across my skin, Kimberly draws us to a stop. The cacophony of war cuts off abruptly as the vortex whisks us away.

~*~

Safely back at headquarters, I stagger away from the landing in case someone else comes in. A safe distance away, I crumble to the floor, where I sit cross-legged as I try to convince the world that it can stop spinning now.

Kimberlyn comes up behind me. “Have a piece of gum, newbie.”

Grateful, I take the stick of minty comfort and plop it into my mouth.

“So, Jackie...” Kimberlyn settles down next to me. “I guess you’re probably wondering how quickly you can find some boy to kiss, huh?”

“Pretty much,” I confirm. I don’t like kissing boys, but I’d prefer it to being in the middle of a war ever again. The mint is helping to settle me down, but I can’t imagine every possessing enough willpower to go back onto a battlefield.

“It’ll get better if you give it time.”

My eyes stare down at the stone beneath us. My mind is curiously calm, oddly quiet. Without asking, Kimberlyn takes my notes from my hand.

After a few moments, I hear Kimberlyn close the notebook. “Why did you sign up? Trying to impress your mom?”

“Not exactly. Kinda.” I sigh. “I told her I wanted to be a muse and you’d have thought I’d driven a dagger through her heart.” Unbidden, the image of blood flowing from a knife wound pops into my mind and I try really hard to replace it with a picture of a forest waterfall.

“Now, see, to me there’s nothing wrong with being a muse. But there’s something massively wrong with trying to live your kid’s life.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh?”

It really isn’t. I don’t think… “She just thought I’d be happier here.”

“Kid, I’ve known you for one afternoon and I can tell that you won’t be.” Kimberlyn lets out a heavy breath. “It’s noble to help people die, but you seem like the type who’d rather help them live.”

My tongue presses the gum against the back of my teeth. She’s nailed it perfectly.

She hands my notebook back. “Those notes are all haikus. You don’t belong here.”

Flipping the cover open, I read what I wrote, counting all the syllables. She was right; they’re all haikus. I wasn’t trying to write in haiku. It probably would have been harder to do if I were. “I promised Mom a year,” I whisper.

Kimberlyn sighs. “Most people vomit. Some people cry. No one who lasts does both. And those who don’t last? They’re traumatized. Some never recover.”

My inbreath is more of a sniffle and I try to hold back a whimper. “But Mom…”

“Your mom’s not here.” She gives me a level look. “If I don’t clear you, then you don’t get this position. And if you want me to clear you, you’re going to have to say something really persuasive really fast.”

Pressing my lips together, I gather my courage. “I don’t want to.”

My guide’s lips curve into a sympathetic little smile. “I didn’t think so. And it really is okay, kiddo.” She climbs to her feet and holds a hand down to help me up.

~*~

I leave the war-wraithe headquarters and find Lola at the coffee shop she’s working at until she starts the Muse Academy in the fall. She looks up quietly as I walk into the place, takes a cup down, and starts to make me my standard latte. “Caramel?” she asks. “I assume caramel because you’re here awfully early.”

“Yeah,” I confirm. I only get the caramel syrup when I need an extra pickmeup, which I certainly do right now. “It… My would-be supervisor figured out real quick that I shouldn’t be there.”

She slides the milk under the foaming arm. “Better to know that now then after you plunge into depression over doing a job you should never have been pressured to apply for.”

“I guess.” I sit down on a stool across the counter from her. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mom though.”

“Want me to do it?” She offers me the coffee along with an attractively malicious grin. She really would be much better suited for helping people die than I would be, but she plans on specializing in inspiring action films.

“Nah.” I take the drink and look down at the foam. She’s written our initials in the foam with a cute little ampersand between them. “I’d rather you continue to be allowed to come over.”

“And she already blames me.” Lola plops her elbows on the counter and leans into a resting posture.

“That’s true enough.”

“It’s okay,” Lola says. “I don’t mind being credited with your happiness.”

~*~

Fortified by coffee, I make my way home. Mom’s downstairs, in the pub part of the building we live in. She glances up from the bar she’s wiping down, frowns, and checks the clock. Maybe I should have waited longer to come back so that it would be less obvious something hadn’t gone well.

Mom tosses her cleaning rag to the side. “You blazed through training fast.” She looks at me in challenge, like she’s daring me to say otherwise.

I gather every last nerve I have, knowing that I’m going to need them. “Washed out fast, you mean.”

“Washed out?” Folding her arms, she gives me a dark look. “After I pulled strings to get you in? What happened? Was it Nicole? She gave Sarah a hard time, too, but one visit from me sorted it all out.”

“It wasn’t Nicole.” I draw a breath. “Kimberlyn said -”

“Kimberlyn!” Mom shakes her head. “That girl! I can’t figure out how she gained any rank at all. I’ll fix everything.”

She walks around the bar like she’s going to head over to war-wraith headquarters right this second, but I move to block her. “No, Mom. I don’t want to be a war-wraith. I don’t want to get used to watching people’s guts spill out or holding them while they die. I don’t want that to be normal.”

Mom’s eyes narrow on me. “It is normal.”

“Not for me.” I hold a hand out, imploring her to listen. “I’m a muse, Mom. I don’t just want to make art, I need to make art.”

“No one needs that.”

“Mom-”

“No,” she cuts me off. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

I shake my head. “No. I’d want this without Lola. I’ve always wanted this.”

The words seem to bounce off my mother without sinking in. “Do you have any idea how little muses get paid, Jacklyn? Ten years as a war-wraith and I bought this place outright. That wouldn’t have happened if I’d been a muse.”

I whither, but before I can say anything meek, my father’s hand falls on my shoulder. “You know what else doesn’t pay as well as being a war-wraith?” he asks softly. “Running a pub.”

Her eyes on Dad, Mom’s body softens. “Bill…”

“What did your parents say when you told them you were quitting to marry me?”

Mom drops her gaze as she nods. “You’re right. They said it financially stupid. Irresponsible. And a complete waste of my talents.”

“Yet you’re telling our daughter to ignore her own talents in the interest of making more money doing something she’s not suited to.” He pauses for a moment, letting her think. “Do you think you made a mistake?”

When Mom looks up again, I see a shimmer of tears. She’s silent as the clock ticks on for seconds that threaten to become minutes. “I don’t regret leaving the wraiths. Not even the slightest bit.” She moves her focus from Dad to me. “You’re not a muse, though. That requires a license you can’t get without going to their school.”

A tiny ember of hope lights in my mind. “I already applied. They offered me a scholarship, Mom.”

She smiles, although there’s no joy in it. “Then I suppose I’ll have to get used to have a daughter who’s a muse.” She draws in a breath. “Just like I need to go make sure the pies are ready to go in the oven so there’ll be something to sell to people when they show up for dinner tonight.”

As my mother turns and rushes out of the room, I look up at my dad in awe. “Is she?” I ask. “Is she really just going to get used to it?”

With his hands holding my upper arms, he bends to place a gentle kiss on my forehead before straightening to look into my eyes. “Your mama is one of the most stubborn women I’ve ever met. When she decides something, it’s almost impossible to get it out of her head. But even before she decided you should be a war-wraith, she decided that she loves you. That woman is fiercely loyal to her family, and that is never going to change no matter how many times she fails to get her way.”

The breath I try to take turns into a gasp and before I know it, I’m sobbing in relief. I hug my father, smiling against his chest. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Jacksie-girl.” He squeezes tight. “And you are going to be an amazing muse.”

I can only hope he’s right.

The above image is an untitled work by photographer Yiaz Yang. It was posted on Twitter by @lumecluster, who owns the company that makes the awesome gear seen in the picture. Said store can be found at lumecluster.com.

It was offered as a prompt on my Wording Wednesday group on MeWe.

She Came from Space

I guess the developer assumed I’d stay where I was and wait for the alien to come to me from where she has inexplicably parked in the surf, because as soon as I step onto the bridge of rock leading the the mid-twentieth century idea of a spaceship, I sink straight into it. So far, the preview of this erotic fantasy sim isn’t impresing me. I’m not really here to be impressed though. I’m not really much into sex sims in general and alien fantasies even less. Call me a prude, but I like my partners to be from my species.

My silky robe slides off my shoulder, causing me to sigh and pull it back up again. Oddly enough, it’s pooling on the rock like the program thinks I’m sitting on the thing. I shake my head at the obvious cheapness of the coding; was it done by high schoolers or just people too incompetent to be paid decently?

The program didn’t offer any attire options beyond male or female. I chose female to reflect my real-world body, but here I’m a tall and slender blond with unusually large breasts and an apparent tendency to wander the outdoors in lingerie rather than a short and plump hispanic girl with the sense to dress herself properly.

While I wait for the alien to appear like Janet insisted I needed to do when she sent me the download link for this silly thing, I look at the ocean. It’s not flowing quite right and the waves in the soundtrack aren’t anywhere close to synced with the video. I can’t smell a thing and there’s not even a hint of a sea breeze on my skin. The developers couldn’t even find a decent stock beach setting?

Words appear in the air between me and the spaceship. “She Came from Space, Then Came on Earth.” Good lord. My eyes roll so hard it almost hurts.

Cheesy elevator music begins to play and a door appears on the closest side of the spacecraft. With luck, a ridiculous alien will appear soon and I’ll be able to tell Janet I stayed long enough to see the silly thing. The demo will undoubtedly cut off before she does anything terribly interesting anyway, so I may as well leave as soon as she shows up.

A walkway glides from the still closed door down to the rocky outcropping with all the rush of an exhausted snail. I walk toward it, hoping to somehow move things along faster by doing so. My body continues to be bisected by the ground, but at least the place is badly programmed enough for there not to be any sensation from that.

The door finally begins to open, sliding up from the bottom with glacial slowness. A pair of shiny silver boots appear. Their three inch stiletto heels are all the rage off planet, I’m sure.

I stop trying to approach the craft and just wait as the door goes up. The boots reach nearly to the alien’s knees, ending with a swath of light green skin. A moment later, I see the hem of a silver miniskirt. This could take a while.

As the door continues to creep up, I open a window to check my messages. There aren’t any new ones, so I move on to the weather. Looks like there’s snow in the near future. When a glance up shows that the door has made it up to the alien’s overly abundant boobs, which are clad a tight silver spandex, I pull up the news headlines. Apparently the President is still an idiot, Congress is still inept, and people are starting to think about the start of baseball season already.

My eyes flick back to the alien to see if she’s been fully revealed yet. Not only has the door opened, but the alien has taken several steps down the walkway toward me. Holy shit.

“Stop program!” I yell. “Exit!”

The artificial world falls away, leaving me on my bed. I yank my immersion helmet off as command my house management program to call Janet.

Sitting up, I wait for Janet to answer. When she appears on my monitor, she takes one look at me and skips saying hi in favor of blurting, “You saw it?”

“I saw it,” I growl back. “What the hell is my doppleganger doing in a low budget porno?”

Technically, the alien hadn’t been an exact copy of me. Her chest was at least twice the size of mine and her waist was smaller. And, of course, her skin was green rather than my light brown. But the face was identical.

“I’m not sure,” Janet says. “But my money’s on Craig. He’s still really pissed about your break up and Joe says this thing is all over their dorm.”

“Oh, god.” I lean forward, my stomach quaking with nausea. “I’m going to be sick.”

“The host said they would take down, but you had to be the one to complain.”

“Ok…” I nod to myself. I can do that. “Then what? They’ll arrest him?”

She gives me a pitying look. “That’s beyond the scope of Your Fantasies Online, babe. That’s more police or FBI territory. But I asked my brother, AKA Super Cop, and he doesn’t think you’d get an arrest because the level of proof you need that he was being malicious is so high.”

“You asked Thomas?” I squeak. “About me being in porn sim?”

“Well… Yeah.” Her breath catches. “Don’t tell me you’re still crushing on him. I thought you got over that already.”

I moan. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“It’s clearly against student guidelines, though,” Janet changes subject to state. “I bet we can get Craig expelled.”

“Assuming we can prove it’s him,” I grumble. “But first, I need to contact the hosting site. I’ll call you back.”

~*~

Hours later, Janet and I peer at my video screen as we try to figure out the data tags embedded in the sim program. All of it’s above my comprehension level and I quickly realize I’m going to have to call someone else in. Unfortunately, the only someone I can think of is Nina, the girl I dated my senior year of high school. But she virtually breathes computer code, already knows lots of embarrassing stuff about me, and has seen me naked before, so she’s a better choice than anyone else I know. And we parted on good terms, only breaking up three years ago because I chose to go to college close to home and she elected to attend Caltech.

Nina whistles when I call her up on video and tell her the story. “Wow. You’ve got great taste in women, but crappy taste in men.”

“Yeah, you may be right. I certainly can’t think of anyone to hold up as a contrary example.” To either half. The men I’ve dated have all turned out to be jerks. And the women… Nina’s the only one, but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever known and claiming she’s hot as hell would be underselling her. I never figured out how I managed to win her after crushing on her since middle school, so it wasn’t too bad a shock when I lost her, but she did spoil me. Now every woman I meet gets compared to her, and while she wasn’t perfect, she was close enough that no one ever does well in the comparison. Somehow it’s easier with men to ignore the obvious fact that they aren’t Nina. Of course, I’m not going to get into any of that out loud. “But you’ll help me?” I ask.

She smiles, renewing my belief that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. “Always. Send me the file.”

~*~

The next morning, I wake to a notification of an incoming video call from Nina. A glance at the clock shows that it’s ten thirty, which is earlier than I usually wake up on a weekend but later than she ever sleeps. Quickly, I rake my fingers through my hair in a weak attempt at becoming presentable while I drag myself from bed and move to in front of the screen. With a deep breath, I press the screen to accept the call.

Nina’s smile widens to a grin when she sees me. “Sorry,” she says. “I forgot you like to sleep all day.”

I grunt. “And I forgot you were a morning person.”

“It’s nearly lunch.”

“Only if you’re a freak, Neens.”

She laughs, the sound sending a completely inappropriate tingle through me. I always did love her laugh. “I sent you an email with information you need to show your dean highlighted. So hopefully that will work.” She pauses. “And there’s something else, but I can call back later.”

“Something else?”

Her face looks uncertain all of a sudden. “It can wait.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m up already. What is it?” My mind rushes to guess what it could be. “Does he have a channel full of pornographic versions of me?”

“No. Um…” Her tongue is visible for just an instant as it touches her lips, bringing up memories of what she tasted like. Dammit. This is why I stopped talking to her after we broke up; keeping my thoughts chaste is just too much of a struggle. “I’m graduating early. At the end of the semester.”

“Seriously?” I stare at her. “You went to a harder school than I did and you’re graduating before me?”

She shrugs. “I was in a hurry.”

“Why?”

Her eyes stay on me as she answers. “I never belonged in California. There’s not enough rain here.”

Our gazes remain locked together as I consider the words. They’re innocent enough, but either there’s a subtext to them or I’m just a hopeless optimist. “Maybe you should come back north then. Washington still has plenty.”

“I think I may.”

~*~

Two months later, I sit in a pub near the edge of campus and nurse a cider while I try to stay calm. Nina should be here soon. She’s in town for an interview, a fact I’m still having trouble believing. If she was trying to get a job in Seattle, I would have put that down to it being the obvious choice for a recent tech grad wanting a job in the Pacific Northwest. But my town’s a lot smaller than Seattle, small enough that you don’t find a job listing for here unless you were specifically looking for one.

The door opens and I look over to see her coming in from the drizzle outside. I stand as she enters, my hands moving to smooth down my deep burgundy tunic as I give her a cautious smile.

“Mariana,” she says, my name sounding like that of a goddess when she says it.

“Nina,” I respond.

We look at each other for a few heartbeats before we start to laugh. Tension broken, we embrace and Nina claims the stool next to mine. She orders an IPA from the bartender, then has to drag her ID out of her wallet before he’ll go get it.

While we wait for her drink, I look down at mine. My nerves are returning and I’d like to take a sip, but that seems like it would be rude. “So… How did the interview go?”

“Really well. They offered me the job right then and there.”

“Wow.” I watch as the bartender returns with Nina’s ale. She picks it up as soon as he’s left and takes a sip. “Are you going to take it?’

She lowers the drink slowly. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Turning her head, she studies my response as she says, “On you.”

“Me?” I move my hand away from my glass, afraid my suddenly trembling will make me spill the liquid in it. “What do you mean?”

She takes another drink before she answers, looking like she’s thinking. “I don’t exactly regret going to Caltech. But if I had to do it again, I wouldn’t leave you.”

Deep inside me, a wound I’d forgotten I had begins to bleed anew. “But you did leave.”

“Yeah…” She turns her head to look at me, her deep brown eyes full of emotion. “And now I want to come back. If there’s even the slightest chance of you letting me in your life again, then I want to be here.”

“I…” My breath leaves me and turn on the stool to just sort of gape at her. “You want to get back together?”

She nods. “Yeah, I do. I never stopped loving you. I don’t think I ever will.”

Part of me wants to tell her that’s her tough luck, that I left her in the past and don’t want her in my present. But I’d be lying. “I love you, too,” I admit.

“But..?” Her whole body moves to face mine.

I shake my head. “No but.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyes begging me not to dash her hopes.

“Yeah.” I take a second to grin at her, then lean in for a kiss. It’s sweet, but with the promise of things not remotely innocent. And it brings with it a sense of quiet rightness that I’ve never found with anyone else, like this is the one person in the world I’m supposed to be kissing.

When we pull apart, we’re both smiling. Then a thought strikes me and makes me laugh. At Nina’s curious expression, I ask, “Would you have called me up if I hadn’t contacted you first?”

“Eventually… Maybe. It might have taken a while to think up a good excuse.”

I laugh again. “Then we should send Craig a thank you note for hurrying things along.”

The most beautiful woman in the world shakes her head at me even as she beams with happiness. “As long as you’re not planning to invite him to our wedding.”

“Wedding?” I snort. “I agreed to date you woman, don’t go thinking it will be so easy to get me to marry you. You’ll have to work for that.”

But I think we both know that, eventually, I will.

The above image is a creative commons offering from Pixabay.

It was provided as a prompt to my Wording Wednesday group on MeWe.

The Exorcism of Ophelia

The human's pain is delicious.

She sits on the edge of a meadow, perched on a wood fence and playing a melancholy air on a long-necked lute as a bonfire of paper burns before her. The cows that usually graze here keep their distance, repelled by the same things that attract me. She's been coming here for months, feeding me with her affection for a companion who is missing today. The affection was sweet, nearly cloy, but her hurt is savory. And although I find that I, unfathomably, dislike the idea of her suffering, I'd be hard pressed to say which emotion I prefer the taste of.

The new scene offers something the old ones never did: curiosity. What she and the other woman did here was obvious and easy to follow. Sometimes they chatted. Sometimes they played music. Sometimes they made love. All of these things makes sense; they're things humans do with great frequency. But now, I'm confused. The papers that drift from the fire show the marks of music. It takes great effort to compose music, so why would she burn her work? I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter, but I can't seem to walk away from the questions.

Thinking to better understand, I take a form I think she will find pleasant. It's the appearance of a dark-skinned woman I knew centuries ago, but I don't think she would mind me using it. My new body is impossibly soft, weaker than my true form. How do they stand being so vulnerable all the time?

On legs that feel as though they may crumble beneath me, I leave my concealment. I have walked many paces toward the woman before she looks up to notice me, and when she does, she looks away again as though my presence in no way affects her. I thought my form was attractive, but perhaps her pain is too extreme for her to notice.

"Hello," I say as I reach her side. I lean against the fence beside her, folding my dark brown arms and attempting to appear nonthreatening. I remember now that the woman who looked as I do now was a warrior, which means I'm more muscular than this woman may like. I'm certainly more muscular than her lover. I'm not certain why the comparison makes me anxious.

Her eyes glance at me, but she remains silent as she continues to play her mournful tune, a strange, unfeeling expression on her face. If her agony weren't filling me with so much energy, I could almost believe she felt nothing.

"It's a pleasant evening," I try, having observed that it's the sort of thing humans talk about.

This time, her eyes don't bother shifting my way. They're locked now on the fire, staring at it with no small amount of intensity.

"It's a nice fire," I say.

That gets a response. "Is it? Maybe. But will it work?"

"Work?" I too look at the flames. "What is it meant to achieve? To keep you warm? Is the summer air not sufficient for that?"

"It's not meant to warm my body."

"Oh." I frown a little. "Is it meant to warm food? I see none."

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. "No." With a sigh, she removes her fingers from the lute strings and drags her gaze to mine. Her green eyes radiate pain, but also hold an odd calm. "It is meant to cauterize my soul."

"That's very poetic," I respond, not stopping to think about the words.

She glowers as though convinced I'd said the last to mock her. I hadn't, but rather than allowing me to explain, she confides further. "Today Ophelia della Faunte became Ophelia Diego when she married a man who doesn't even know he stole her from me. So today I have cut her from my heart. The fire is to staunch the wound."

"Figuratively speaking?" I clarify.

The faintest hint of what's either amusement or exasperation breaks through the mask on her face. "Figuratively speaking." She looks back to the fire.

"And why these papers?" I ask. "Were they simply at hand?"

"No..." She shakes her head. The parting of her lip makes me expect more, but she merely closes them again and makes an odd gesture of dismissal toward the flames.

"Then why? Why throw away so much work?"

"They were hers." The woman clamps her jaws shut, her lips trembling and unshed tears crowding her eyes, and it is some moments before she is able to continue. "I wrote them all for her. So they need to perish."

"I see," I say. And I think I do. "Would you forget her if you could?"

A breeze travels through the meadow, one that smells like my brother. He will be here soon, drawn by the human's emotions just as I was. I should go, defer to him to the eldest, and allow him to devour the woman. But a possessive feeling such as I've never had before envelops me at the thought.

"No," the woman says, complete unaware that she is now in danger. "I need to remember the lesson she taught me. That you can't trust pretty words and hidden kisses, at least not when they go against what society expects. Because people are stupid little sheep who will always do as society expects."

I'd love to discuss this with her, but my brother is moving quickly. "Tell me your name," I whisper. "Please?"

"My name?" She blinks at me. "It's Ilissa."

Silly humans, always so free with their names. "Your full name," I prompt.

Ilissa pauses. "Why?"

I'm not sure if she'd believe the truth. Or that she'd trust me if she did. But I can't think of anything else to offer. "If you give me your full name, it will make you mine. And then others of my kind won't be able to hurt you."

"Your kind?" She shifts, tensing like she's about to jump off the fence and flee from the crazy person.

Not far away, my brother's presence fills the meadow. If the cows hadn't left before, they'd stampede now in the their urgency to get away. Heat blasts from behind us as the smell of sulfur rolls across the grass.

"You don't have much time to decide," I tell her, my words rushing out quickly. My heart races with what I take to be excitement, or maybe fear. Being unable to taste my own emotions makes it hard to know for sure which ones I feel. "I can cauterize your wounded heart, but the being that's coming now? He'll burn your heart to ash, and you along with it. And I don't mean that figuratively."

She hesitates, as well she should. She doesn't understand what's happening.

"Look behind you," I say. "Just for a moment. Longer might drive you mad."

I think for a second that she's going to laugh at me, but she can feel the heat on her back and that might be what prompts her to do as I urge.

Slowly, her head turns.

The scream when she sees my brother pierces the evening. I reach out, grab her head, and keep move it until she can't see him anymore. The poor thing is sharking so hard I'm worried she'll break her fragile little body. Her fear tastes rancid and sour.

"I can save you. All I need is your name." I wipe at her tears with my thumbs. Why do I care so much about this one dumb creature? Why does the thought of her demise make my insides squirm into painful little balls of agony? Is it the same reason I come to this meadow so often? Was I drawn not just to her emotion but to her? "I know I'm asking a lot, but I swear I will keep you safe. I'll never harm you. He most certainly will."

"You said your kind." Although her tears keep coming, her voice is calm. "Does that mean you're... Are you like that thing?" She speaks the last word with all the revulsion a human voice can muster.

"I'm similar," I admit. "I'm less... We take on the aspects of the emotions we consume? My bother feeds on battlefields. I prefer to feed on lovers."

"Feed?"

With a grunt of annoyance, I move my arms to grasp her arms and give her a shake that makes her drop the lute. "Listen to me Ilissa, we can talk about all of this in as great a depth as you want. But he's less than a minute from ripping you away from me." I stare into her eyes, wishing there were someone I could pray to for help, but my kind were shunned by the gods ages before I was conceived. I draw a breath, then do something very, very rash. I lean close and whisper into her ear. A jolt of electric magic passes between us, but I'm not sure if she felt it.

"What?" she asks.

"That was my name. I am bound to you now. But that's not enough to protect you."

Her eyes grow wide. "I am Ilissa," she whispers back. "Ilissa Cammeara Ornegan."

The magic zings again and Ilissa takes on a faint glow. Behind us, my brother roars with annoyance. He's less coherent than I am, more a ball of anger than a thinking being, so he doesn't yell at me or lecture before he vanishes. My hands fall to my side in relief.

Ilissa lets out a breath as my brother's heat suddenly dissipates. In so doing, her eyes notice her body. Holding a hand out, she stares at it. Or, more likely, at the rose and amber aura around it. "What is that?" Her gaze flicks to me, then stays there. "You're glowing too. You weren't before."

I swallow. "You're not fully human anymore."

"What am I then?"

My heart hammers in my chest. "My wife."

She jerks, startled. I guess that wasn't the answer she was expecting. "Wife? Not slave?"

My head shakes vehemently. "No. I gave you my name as well. We are equals."

"Oh."

I nod. "Oh."

"That's..." Suddenly, she laughs. The sound cuts through the evening and brings a smile to my face. I'd worry she's going mad, but her emotions taste of relief and joy. "When I told my parents I was gay, they nearly disowned me. I can't wait to tell them I married a demon."

"Well..." I smile ruefully. "Demon's not quite the right word."

She shakes her head with a grin. "I don't care. That's what I'm telling them."

"You're taking this all really well," I observe.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

I shake my head. "No. Your happiness tastes better than you fear. And... I've decided I like it more than your pain, too."

"Good. Then you have incentive to keep me happy."

"I do," I agree, smiling widely.

Ilissa jumps off the fence, picks up her lute, and turns to me. "So, do we honeymoon on earth or in hell?"

"It's not really hell."

She shrugs. "Question still stands."

"On earth," I decide, wondering what, exactly, I've gotten myself into. "I've always wanted to see Salsis."

"So have I!" She loops an arm through one of mine and looks at me expectantly.

And not having any idea what else to do, I magic myself and my bride to the City of Lanterns.

Above image is Half Her Heart's Duet by Cynthia Sheppard.

It was offered as a weekly prompt in my Wording Wednesday group on MeWe.

My Love Returned

I was amongst the first to see the ship sail over the horizon. Atop the hill behind town, I put down my pen and stared, not quite daring to believe my hopes. From the sail, there was no mistaking that the ship was one of ours, but just because one of the queen’s vessels was approaching didn’t mean my beloved was. A more excitable man would have leapt up and ran to the pier to demand of the lookout whether this was The Golden Voyager, but I was always cautious and also well aware of how long it would take for men from the ship to reach shore. They had to sail into the harbor, which would involve waiting for the chains to lower. Then they would have to wait their turn to board one of the barges, because the ship was too large to dock at the pier itself. My beloved was not of high enough rank to get an early boat, so there were hours yet before he could possibly make it to me. Whether it was his ship or not wouldn’t matter until near dark.

There was no finishing my poem. The elk I was trying to capture with words didn’t care about the ship, but I was too distracted to work. I flipped the page of my notebook and scrawled something new.

Anticipation:

Part hope, part fear.

My longing is physical,

As is my uncertainty.

He’s been gone so long.

Is he still him?

Am I still me?

Is there still an us together?

The words weren’t particularly good, an incredibly rough draft indeed, but they were accurate. “Yishharu,” I breathed, making a prayer of my beloved’s name. I begged the Fates to let this ship be his if he still wanted me, but not his if he did not. For if he’d decided our relationship was a fleeting relic of childhood, that it was time for him to find a woman and father children, then I didn’t want to know yet. Better to continue to live with the fantasy of his love for me than to face a cold reception and lack of desire.

And thus did I sit for hours, watching the approach. Was that Yishharu I saw on deck, rushing from place to place? Or could that be him standing by the helmsman? Or maybe it was he in the crowsnest, looking at the shore and wondering if the figure on the hill was his darling Kikeru?

The tide rolled in, bringing the ship closer. She made anchor as the first of the barges headed out to meet her. The pier grew crowded with lovers, with parents, with children, all waiting for their sailors. The ship had to be The Golden Voyager. So many wouldn’t be waiting if it were a different ship. Yet I held back, too timid to join them rather than holding back, embracing only my nausea. I told myself there was no point in rushing anyway, that Yishharu was so junior he would be one of the last off, if he was even allowed to leave at all. For all I knew, he had drawn the watch for that night and wouldn’t be ashore until at least the next afternoon. And thus did I try to deny the obvious truth that I didn’t rush forward because I was too frightened.

Hope is a strange thing though. Strong as fear is, hope can be stronger. Fear comes into the fighting ring with more power, but most of its intimidation lays in pure bluster. Hope burns slower, seems meeker. But hope has a stamina fear lacks and is left standing when fear faints from fatigue.

Fear fought to keep me on the hill, but hope took me gently by the hand and led me down to the water.

I found Yishharu quickly, drawn to him as though I were a fish he had hooked. He met my eyes across the fading crowd and my heart raced as I tried to decipher what I saw in his gaze. Not breaking his focus from me, he said something to the sailor he’d been talking to. That man smiled at me, then smiled even wider at the woman clinging to his arm. I knew her; she worked at the bakery and spoke often of her husband. She’d found out she was pregnant with their first child just after the ship left and had feared she would give birth before he returned. He’d made it just in time.

My body trembled as I kept moving forward. Worrying about other people’s lives could only distract me so far. Yishharu moved too, advancing no faster than I was.

We stopped several feet apart.

“Kikeru,” he said softly, his voice catching partway through. “I didn’t think you were coming. I… I thought maybe you’d…”

In a heartbeat, I flew forward, letting my lips against his stop the words. “I’m sorry,” I whispered between kisses. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to come.”

He pressed against me, his body hardened from months at sea but still fitting against mine perfectly. Somewhere someone muttered about the appropriateness of our display of affection, but I felt no embarrassment or concern. My Yishharu was back, and he was still mine. Miracle of miracles, he was still mine! And I was still his.

My beloved pulled back, taking my face in his hands and staring into my soul with the piercing blue eyes I had missed so much. “I will never stop wanting you.”

Heart dissolving into happiness, I smiled for him. “And I will never stop wanting you.”



Yishharu sailed with The Golden Voyager several more times, until we had saved enough money to buy some land and a few goats. We live in the hills now, with a large window overlooking the bay. Sometimes as we sit hand-in-hand at our window and watch a ship come in, I think about his first homecoming, about how strong my fear was. It seems like a ludicrous worry now, when after decades he still looks at me as though I hung the sun. He is my heart, and I am his. I should have known it would take more than mere absence to come between us.

Above image is taken from a fresco on a wall in the ruins of Akrotiri on the island of Thera (aka Santorini).

It was provided as a prompt on my Wording Wednesday group on MeWe.

This tale of a sailor's homecoming hit me a little close to home. I dedicate it to everyone who has ever waited for their beloved to return from sea.