The Triumph of the Light

The garden would be no less impressive if anyone could actually pin down the date it first appeared. Visitors claim having heard tales of it for decades, always from third or fourth hand sources, never anything truly specific about its location or the wonders held within. The first verifiable account of someone having visited the garden happened almost five years ago, though the visitor claimed the grounds were just as packed with people on that day as there are now.

Every day hundreds of people roam the paths under the perpetually darkened sky, staring at the ever-glowing, constantly shifting patterns of light. Many of those people are scientists, attempting to uncover the secrets of the garden. Experts on bioluminescence, psychology, light manipulation and even a few stage magicians wander for hours, searching for the wires, the projectors, the hallucinogenic spores, the smoke and the mirrors. None have succeeded so far, but doubtless someone will someday claim the growing bounty put up by the skeptics to explain it all away.

A growing number of believers of all faiths flock to the garden on pilgrimages. They claim that the garden must be proof that we are not alone, and that we are loved. The lights calm the raging storms of emotion held inside the most troubled person, allowing them peace and enlightenment, or so the pamphlets claim. The same pamphlets advertise bus rides for $50 and inner peace certifications for $100.

Not matter the angle, almost every admits there is a strange calmness to the garden. Barely a whisper is spoken, fists are never raised in anger. Some say there is something else,  a sadness to the light mingled in with the feelings of peace. The garden could very well be a memorial to a battle never seen, a triumph or defeat that may never be understood by those that gaze upon it.

No matter the true purpose, the garden of light, shadows and gossamer threads stands as a reminder that the world is wilder than most people suppose, and even in the heart of civilization mysteries abound. Even in the darkest night, there is light, and peace, and even if it is just for a fleeting moment, everyone is loved.

Seemings

People just assumed it was a steeple. It's soot-stained exterior, unadorned by windows, was unremarkable but for it's tall and slender silhouette that stood out against the sky. No one could remember when it was built, it had always just been there. Then, one day, it lifted-off, brilliant jets of flame as bright as welding arcs carried it aloft, towards the stars...

La Guerre Du Sac Rouge

In 1964 Texas Instruments developed the Paveway series of laser guided missiles. Using a special coded laser signal, a ground trooper could "paint" a target for the missile to hone in on in such a way that the target could not be aware until it was too late. In 1991 these missiles were used to great effect by the United States during operation Desert Storm. This was not a new concept, even in the sixties. This idea harkened back to the days of grass huts and cave paintings, of superstition and demons and blood magic. There was no true difference, only a fresh coat of paint, science and technology covering millennium of ritual. 

Like the missiles, the monsters set loose by dark rites upon a target have no particular malice towards it. They are simply doing a job. No, not just a job. The job. The job they were created for. The job we were created for. Monsters of bone and blood, of gnashing teeth and rending claws. Weapons. And just like the missiles, we can be stopped. The huntsman's axe, the silver dagger, certain other talismans, little things far more effective than guards and armies and fortresses. Or, I suppose, police and panic rooms nowadays. Even monsters have to keep up with the times. 

The long belabored point is this, we don't hate our targets, we aren't unstoppable, and most importantly, we don't choose the targets. Which can lead to trouble. Some of us have been killed on missions, others have been hunted through the Veil to the homelands, one poor bastard even fell in love with his target. He was the one that discovered we were vulnerable to certain kinds of axes. 

There's also the risk of collaterall damage. Lesser brethren spawned because of an errant scratch, a bite on the wrong arm. The outbreak in the seventies started because of a war between the witches of Scotland. There are acceptable losses, acceptable damages, and when one of us falls, we know, and another shall rise to take their place in the hunt, another missile locked and loaded. That said, losing one of us on a mission is rare, and two is unheard of. Which is why, when I crossed the Veil and the memories of the five hunters who had failed before me filled my mind, I knew something was terribly wrong. 

The target was a witch, a catch all term used for any human with the power to summon us, and the hunt had been on for centuries. Technically, the target was her satchel, which she had been carrying around the whole time. Sorting through their memories, I was able to piece together a jumbled timeline from the five others, one of whom had run for decades before finally confronting her. In each case but the first, a long hunt, followed by the bright flash of a red bag, followed by nothing. No last moments, no death, just.... nothing. 

I could feel the pull of the target to the north, knew that she was less than a day away by car. Sure, I could get there by plane in an hour, but I had a few things left to arrange and since the security crackdowns in the last few decades, air travel has gotten considerably more difficult for my people. I reached in my pocket, pleased to find a set of car keys jangling around with a cell phone. 

***********

The next morning found me walking in to Grand Central with the rest of the morning commuters, a familiar scene from my borrowed memories. A nice, big, public place. An army in a modern castle, no safer from my kind than a barred portcullis or a moat. It didn't take long to spot her, she wore the guise of an older human, grey haired, arm in arm with an older man. A quick sniff told me he smelled very strongly of nothing. It didn't take a genius to realize that he was a crafted accessory, nothing more than a man shaped cane.

I thought little more of it as my gaze drifted to her other arm, the bag it held. The target. Glowing red in a way that only I could see, pulsing as if it were alive and breathing. I found myself gripping my arms tight, fighting the urge to shift, to attack, to end the hunt then and there. Regaining control took longer than it should have. The painkillers were effecting me more than I realized. 

By the time I regained control of myself she was gone from sight, but the pull of the target was unmistakable. She led me past restaurants, through shops, up and down, through twists and turns that were impossible to keep track of, rewarding me with momentary flashes of red to let me know I was still on the right track. 

Eventally, I looked around and realized that the crowds had thinned to nothing and a blank wall stood before us. She turned abruptly, no longer wearing the old face, but the beautiful one I remembered from the oldest of the memories now embedded in mine. The face was smiling, but her eyes held something far crueler. 

"Good boy," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "heel."

I fought down a snarl. "You want to do this now? Here?"

"What better place than here?" she asked, waving her hands around in an all encompassing gesture. 

"I will not break the truce."

"Silly boy, this is my little corner of the universe. No mere mortal will be able to see anything I don't want them to see. Besides, who ever said a word about you doing anything?" With a wave of her hand, the stone floor came to life, flowing up and around me, forming shackles I could not break. I glanced around nervously, but the few passerby paid us no heed. 

"So kill me then. Another will take my place."

She smiled widely. "And another, and another, until I have finished your cursed race. Lambs to the slaughter. But first, a symbolic gesture... " she reached behind my head, pantomiming scissors. Symbolic my ass. The pain that followed real enough. 

I growled, straining against my bonds, but slumped as a wave of vertigo washed over me. "What did you do?"

Her grin was almost feral. "I cut you off. Cut the bond that anchored you to your world, to that wonderful mental collective. The next one to cross will only have the fraying edges of your memory to work with."

I fought down the growl, focusing on understanding. That was the last piece of the puzzle, the reason why the memories didn't add up to the time that had passed, why they were so disjointed. 

"But don't worry, you will be a long time dying. And oh the games we will play before you beg for the sweet release of death. The first one of you to come after me, we had so much fun. I believe he is the father of what they now call bloodhounds."

"The first you summoned, you mean."

She laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. "Clever boy! You are the first one to figure it out."

I snorted derisively. "The others knew. That's why they ran. We can't kill the employer, and we are trapped here until the contract is fulfilled."

"Oh, well, it really is no matter. Running from me did them no more good than your running into my arms will do you. The story ends the same, one more dead monster."

A gunshot rang loudly in the near empty section of the train station. I fought down a smile. The final favor I called in had just been paid. The few people in the distant hallway jumped, calming quickly when they realized that the noise must have just been their imagination. My opponent laughed again, twirling to show she was unharmed. 

"You missed."

I could not hold back my grin this time, but I wasn't trying very hard. It didn't matter any more. 

"You think that you were the first person to try this little trick? There's a reason why you have to paint an object, not a living thing."

She looked down at the bag, noticing for the first time the single smoking hole. She could not see what I saw, the brilliant red bleeding away.

"The contract ends when you pierce the target with tooth or claw, a gunshot will not do..." She trailed off as she noticed my smile, now wide, and the two lines of blood dripping down my jaw from empty sockets.

"A gunshot will do just fine, if you use the right bullet." 

The last of the red drained, and I braced myself against the pull that would draw me back across the Veil, so that I could finish what I came here to do. A pull that never came. Whatever she had done, it hadn't ended with the contract. No matter. As I shifted, breaking free of the stone bindings, I briefly entertained the thought of keeping her alive, forcing her to send me back, but that little bit of clarity faded with the rest of my sanity. 

She had chosen her lair well, tucked in the far nook of a dead end side passage. The remains of my bonds took up most of the entrance, leaving her little chance of escape. Tooth and claw, blood and bone, a guided weapon homing in on its target. One way or another, the story ending the same, with one more dead monster. 

Moonfall Kingdom

You might say it started with a rabbit. A rush to go nowhere fast. You might say is started with loneliness.

That's not all of it though. Honestly, that's not even how it started. That's just when things got weird. So where do I start? Where I was born? A city in the South. If you have to ask which South, then you obviously aren't from there. When was I born? Longer ago than you might think. Who am I, and why am I being so vague? I'm your humble narrator, and it all comes back to a bunny and a game as old as the universe.

I guess the best place to start is the road trip to South Fork to visit my aunt. I had come into a bit of money and was about to start losing vacation days, so I put up an out of office email, loaded up my truck, and headed west-ish to a place where dial up modems and land lines were the height of technology. Working where I worked, you had to really get off the grid to enjoy a vacation.

The drive generally takes two days, unless I'm in a rush. I do my best not to rush while I'm on vacation, so on the first night sundown saw me pulling into a tiny town in the middle of nowhere looking for a cheap motel and a bite to eat. The motel had a faded sign and mattresses that were surprisingly soft considering they seemed to be made of solid rock. The dinner came from a diner on the outskirts of town. The place was rundown and covered with dust and rust and dead leaves from an ancient tree that covered the back half of the building, a deep and ancient shadow in the bright light of the full moon. A sign in the window claimed they were open and a chalkboard on the door claimed this was the Jade Rabbit, home of fine Chinese cuisine.

I probably should have avoided a ramshackle ethnic food place in a backwoods town so white bread that the old women running the motel had called me a "furr-in-er" under her breath, but I've never been able to avoid trying food in a place that it doesn't belong, because, once in a rare while, the meal is wonderful. This time, the gamble paid off. The inside was far better kept up than the outside. The walls were a deep forest green and covered in an intricate pattern that I later realized was made up mostly of different rabbits. The decor was not the only thing better than expected. I was treated to some amazing dumplings and cha siu bao that rivaled anything that I've had at dim-sum. The food was so good that I drifted off into my own little world, lost in the tastes and the smells for longer than I care to admit.

When I came to my senses I realized that I was pleasantly full and the restaurant completely empty, save for my waiter, a spritely old asian man that seemed to be pulling double duty as the cook. Realizing that he had been serenely sitting there, watching as I rudely stuffed my face, was more than a little unnerving. "Oh. Uh. The food was great." I'm not the most eloquent when caught off guard.

"Yes."

I waited for a moment to see if he would continue. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to say anything else, I offered "Love the place too. Interesting decor. Matches the name really well." Other than the old redneck at the motel, I hadn't spoken to anyone outside of work in nearly three weeks. My conversational skills were a little rusty.

He nodded. "The rabbit is of nature. The rabbit is of the moon. On a night like tonight, with the moon high in the sky, the walls separating the worlds weaken. There are gifts to be given, fortunes to be made."

I grinned. "Gifts? From moon bunnies?"

The old man did not smile with me. "Adventure. Immortality. Laughter. Which would you choose?"

"Immortality." I said without any hesitation.

"A good choice", he nodded thoughtfully, "but not a wise one. Not wise to not ask the price of the gift. All magic has a cost."

"What is the cost?" I asked cautiously.

"Adventure brings madness and danger. The risk of death. Immortality brings isolation, loneliness. Betrayal. Laughter brings pain, and with every joke performed for you, there is another played on you. Are you still content with your choice?"

"Oh. Well, I'd rather not have the madness, and laughter doesn't seem to be that good a trade. I can find my own laughter without lunar intervention. In this hypothetical situation, what would happen if I chose nothing?"

He shook his head. "One does not refuse a gift from the heavens. Houyi tried, and Chang'e suffered. Some cannot even find it for all the trying in the world. Michael Collins searched longer than anyone knows, traveled to the moon itself, and history has mostly forgotten his name."

"Oh, well. In that case, I would choose immortality, and all that comes with it."

He nods, the ghost of a smile crossing his face, and turns back to the kitchen. He returns moments later with a steaming pot of tea and a porcelain. "It is herbal. Cinnamon, mostly. Fresh, from the tree out back. On the house."

I took the cup with a smile. I could be melodramatic and say that I knew from the instant that liquid touched my lips that my life had changed. That destiny, if there is such a thing, had swept me up in its current and my future was no longer my own. But honestly, at that moment, all I knew was that I was drinking a good cup of tea.

I didn't begin to get suspicious until the next morning, as I was leaving town and decided to see if the old man served breakfast. The Jade Rabbit, and the cinnamon tree that shaded it, were gone in the bright light of day. I drove around for almost an hour before I gave up, circling the entire town twice, even going so far as to ask the lady working the desk at the motel. She had never heard of it.

I left the town a bit nervous, but wrote it off as some strange dream. It wasn't until hours later, after dozing off at the wrong moment, catching a bit of gravel, sliding off the steep road, and plummeting to the valley almost a hundred feet below that I knew. Sitting in the wreckage of my truck, watching my bones and flesh knit themselves whole, I knew that I hadn't been dreaming. I knew that life was never going to be the same again.

Climbing The Corporate Ladder

André blinked, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. A half drained cup of cold coffee sat next to his computer, forgotten now that he had passed the point where caffeine no longer did anything for him besides make his heart pound and his stomach turn. Nobody, André was certain, wanted to have gassy panic attacks while still half asleep.

He glanced at the clock. It was a little past 7 PM. He was pretty sure about the PM part. This time of year, it got dark early and stayed dark late, but he didn't think he had been working on the project for that long without realizing it. It had been two days, maybe three, of straight coding. He was pretty sure it was two.

Honestly though, it wouldn't have mattered how long it took. André was an intern, he still had to prove himself. And all of his co-workers worked well into the night. It seemed like some of them never went home, though between his erratic schedule and the ones they had to be working, he could never be sure. It's not like any of them talked to him anyway.

His boss, though, had been happy with the project. Happier than André had every seen him. Almost happier than André had ever seen anyone. His grin dimmed a little when André told him that he was going to head home and sleep for the night. This project had been huge. It was going to make the company millions. Could he stay a little bit later so he could meet with the owner? André couldn't refuse. He was an intern. He still had to prove himself. So here he was, fighting off yawns and the strange desire to start up another project, something, anything, to keep his fingers moving and his mind too busy to think of sleep. He started working logic puzzles instead.

He had neatly matched all fifteen of the 5K racers, their times, their pets names and their shirt colors by the time his watch buzzed with a notification. It was time.

His boss met him at the end of the row of cubicles, nodding approvingly. He silently led André to the elevators. André, thinking to take the initiative, reached for the button for the forty second floor, but laughter from his boss brought him to a halt. With an amused twinkle in his eye, he reached instead for the button that would take him to the lobby. 

The fifteen floors flew by in the literal blink of an eye. André shifted uncomfortably as the doors opened, he was apparently tired enough that he was falling asleep on his feet. Hopefully he wouldn't embarrass himself in front of the owner. 

His boss led him away from the banks of elevators and out the front door. André fought of a slight moment of panic, worried that his contract was being terminated on the spot. 

"Don't look so scared, little man. You have done well. I'm far too pragmatic to throw away such a useful tool." 

The voice boomed throughout the courtyard. André glanced around, trying to discern its source. No one was around besides himself and his boss. The only other thing was the giant blow up mascot the company kept in front of the building. 

"I suppose you can't be blamed for suffering from the failings of your race. Such a limited world view."

The voice was coming from the mascot. André looked closer, and realized, for the first time that there was no apparatus keeping the thing filled with air.  

"Don't be surprised, young man. There are terrible things that are older than you know in this world. Fortunately for you, I am a humanist. I'm just here to offer you a job. Something a little more... permanent than your current employment."

André considered for a moment. Most CEOs were considered monsters anyway, and the benefits of full time employment with the company were unparalleled. 

"You've made up your mind."  It was not a question. 

André nodded and bowed slightly, not trusting himself to speak. 

"Excellent. Welcome aboard, young man."

An Affair to Forget

The office stood near an alleyway, gray, dull, and wholly unremarkable. Still, something about it tickled my memory, and a sense of déjà vu overcame me. I shook it off, sure I had just seen a photo on the website, or something like that. 

The receptionist smiled warmly at me as I walked in. A knowing smile. A familiar smile. I reflexively smiled back, the way that people do when they know that they should know someone. She cheerily greeted me, told me all of my information was on file, and Doc H would be with me as soon as I filled out the incident report.

I completed the so called incident report, titled "Romantic Attachment with Female Identifying Companion", in a matter of minutes. What was her name? Where did we meet? When did we meet? The last question had "date and time, please" scrawled next to it in pen. Then a short paragraph describing who she was, how things had ended, and why I wanted to forget.

This whole clinic seemed like something out of a Charlie Kaufman script come to life.  Memory donations. You didn't have to even pay the doctors to take them. They paid you. It would be like a blood bank paying you to get rid of your bad blood.

The last box had just been initialed when a tall man in a lab coat rounded the corner and called out my name. His accent was faint, but held a hint of Northern Europe. Scandinavian, perhaps. He shook my hand and clapped me on the shoulder in a familiar way before leading me to a poorly lit examination room.

After looking over my form, the doctor clucked a bit disapprovingly when he saw the woman's name. I asked what was wrong, and he said that some people will try to take advantage of anything, no matter how much it is meant to help others. He promised that he would leave the tiniest memory of her face, and a bit of pain, in case she tried to find me one more time.  I thanked him, but as much as we hurt each other, I doubted she ever wanted to see my face again.

I asked a bit about the process, and he told me that the donations were handled by his associate, a Doctor Moonan, I think, thought it might have been Mewnan. They had been practicing the technique for decades, though it had only recently been approved for use in the States. He assured me of the precision of the procedure, that there was no chance they would take any more memory than absolutely necessary.

When asked what they did with the memories, I was told that the majority of them were sold to busy executives that wanted to experience love and heart break but just couldn't find the time. Happier memories were worth more, though those often found their way into the minds of patients recovering from traumatic accidents or painful treatments. There was even another pair of scientists measuring the effects of emotional memories implanted into the brains of sociopaths.

Scientific advancement may have been a great side effect, but I admitted the main draw for me was the promise of a large paycheck and relief from this heartache. He laughed, and said that, knowing me, the money would be gone before I knew it, and I'd find a new heartache. I glared at him, but that just made the doctor laugh even harder.

Irritated, I asked when the procedure would begin. He had me lie back, count to ten, and then describe meeting her. To my surprise I couldn't. He smiled reassuringly, telling me that his associate must already be hard at work. I glanced nervously around the room, peering into the shadowed corners. Somewhere in the depths, I caught a glint of something, almost like a drop of water on an onyx marble. The room distorted and spun and I was glad to be lying down. After a few seconds, the vertigo passed and I stared into the shadows once more. Again I found the glinting onyx, and this time a sound accompanied the disruption of my equilibrium. A rustling sound, a rushing flapping sound filled my ears, and then everything went dark.

I awoke this morning with the hangover from hell and my encounter in the doctor's office fading like the strange dream that it was. A dream that I've had far too often. I looked around the room. At some point someone had scrawled "Persistence of Memory, My Ass" in marker on the mirror, and there was a large pile of cash in one of the drawers.

Apparently I made my way to a casino sometime last week, got blackout drunk, stayed that way, and somehow won a fair bit more than I lost. That's the only explanation that makes sense, really, and hey, it only cost me a week of my life, near as I can tell. Sometimes, though, sometimes I wonder just how much time I've spent in the bottle, because face in the mirror seems a few years older than it should be.

Triple Crown

Pendleton was relatively certain that something was wrong. Mere months ago, he had been rather comfortably munching on some cactus leaves, enjoying a nice sunny day, when suddenly he was in a strange, damp place with a small manling on his back. Then little creature had the gall to hit him with a stick. Infuriated, he took off running, trying to shake this little burr.

As he flew around a corner, he noticed the other creatures running beside him, each with their own tiny manling. They seemed to be somewhat related to the camelkin, though they were certainly distant cousins. He spared them little further thought as he sped past them, still bothered by the stick smacking his side. After almost two minutes of trying to dislodge the irritant, Pendleton found himself crossing a white line and the manling suddenly stopped hitting him. He pulled to a dignified stop, glad to be done with that strangeness.

Finally able to take a look around, Pendleton noticed the he was in a giant bowl, surrounded by hordes of the creatures that called themselves human. He spat nervously, startling someone who was approaching cautiously with a armload of sweet smelling flowers. All of the man creatures seemed nervous, disoriented. In a strangely accented version of one of the rarer manling tongues, Pendleton heard "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it appears that Lyapunov wins...." There was a smattering of confused applause. Pendleton ate one of the flowers from the sheet being draped around him.

The next few weeks were a confusing mess of manling arguments, sharp pricks from pointy things, and running in circles while being called Lyapunov. Before the second circle, Pendleton's tiny manling came into his stall, slapped him on the side, and said "Congratulations, kid, you're a Thoroughbred." It was all very strange, but at least by the time he ran the second circle, the manlings were cheering in earnest as he crossed the finished line. The yellow flowers didn't taste nearly as good as the red ones had.

Pendleton, who by then thought of himself as Pendleton Lyapunov, had grown accustomed to life in the strange oasis by the time of the running in the third circle. He had convinced his manling that the stick was unnecessary, and the food he got here was better than anything he had in the desert. The manling had moved him to a nicer stall, and let him wander whenever he wanted. The small creature had even prevented several taller manfolk from stabbing him with more sharp things. He wasn't sure why these were different from the ones before, but he was grateful not to suffer the sting.

As before, the third running pitted him against other cousins of the camelkin. He recognized a few of them from previous circles, and spat welcomingly at their feet. This caused all sorts of jumping and whinnying. He doubted he would ever understand his distant relatives. All of this angst was forgotten by the time that the circling started, and once again, he easily outpaced the others, even though this was a greater distance than before. The audience erupted in cheers, his creature wore a wide grin, and the white flowers were delicious.

Pendleton was absolutely certain that something was wrong, but he had long forgotten what he thought would be right. All he knew was that he loved the constant oasis, the tasty food, and the cheers of the manlings. 

Red Wine at Midnight

The day that I got the news was probably the worst day of my life. I got out of class to find this huge guy waiting for me in a dark suit. He seemed like a caricature of an FBI agent. It was bad enough I thought maybe my friends hired a stripper as a joke. I thought, at worst, that I might have been one of the unlucky people that the RIAA was prosecuting for five songs I downloaded in high school. 

His badge said DEA. That confused me even more. My friends always made fun of me for being a good girl. I couldn't tell them why I stayed away from drugs, why I couldn't afford to let my grasp on reality slip, but aside from a little teasing, they took it in stride. I had almost an entire campus of character witnesses. 

It turns out he wasn't there because of anything that I had done. My little brother had mouthed off to the wrong drug runner, and brought an entire cartel down on my family's ranch. From what they could tell, there had been no survivors. I suddenly felt like my brain had been dunked into a pool of ice. 

He told me he would spare me the details and the small part of my mind that hadn't completely numbed noticed that he shivered slightly when he said it. He said since my family kept to themselves it had been almost a week before anyone else had come by.  He said other things, but the rest of the conversation passed in a blur. I remember wanting to scream at him, hit him, call him a liar. Instead, I just leaned against the wall, detachedly observing the tears streaming down my own face.

I somehow made it back to my dorm room. Two days passed, two days that I don't think I would have survived had it not been for friends who kept me fed and put me to bed. The biggest shock to me was that anyone had dared to do this to my family. Everyone knew the stories about my grandmother, and her grandmother, and on, and on, stories stretching back to when our history was passed down orally. No one in town would meet our eyes and I would hear whispers of 'sawish' when I was little, before I understood what it meant. Even the drug lords were wary of her, of us. It didn't make any sense. 

The next day my aunt called, she had been able to cajole the locals into arranging a funeral, but it would be almost three weeks before the priest would be anywhere near the ranch. She even booked a flight home for me. I don't think I thanked her, but I should have. I certainly couldn't have made the arrangements on my own.

After two weeks, I began to be able to function somewhat normally again. I carefully controlled my thoughts, keeping my mind away from certain topics. I even attended a few classes, though I left most of them early, some overheard remark or questioning glance sending me into another fit of sobbing. 

On the long flight home, I finally began to poke at the knot of emotions that I had been trying to bury. To my surprise, inside the mess of despair and loss, there was a tiny ball of hate and rage. I explored these feelings in a way that went against all my training. Saya would have beaten me for the thoughts that flashed through my head, for the plan that began to form. 

By the time I landed, the plan was a little more formed. The two day drive into the wilderness was enough time for me to work out all the details. I could have made it in one, but I took a few detours to gather the components I needed. Besides, I had no real desire to show up early and deal with my distant relatives for an extra day. 

The funeral was quiet, simple. The priest performed the most basic rites, leaving well before the sun could set. At least he knew enough to respect and fear us. The rest of the relatives filtered out slowly, leaving me to my grief. I told my aunt not to wait up for me, gesturing with a bottle of wine to the emptying graveyard. 

I was alone by the time the sun peaked behind the foothills, pulling various items from my backpack. The ritual itself was simple enough, if you knew what you were doing. Saya had warned against the simple spells, out right saying that they were careless use of dangerous energy, things to avoid. She even implied these were evil things, things that belonged to true witches, but that night I was beyond caring. I needed my vengeance. 

Once I chanted the last chant, they appeared. Saya appeared first, in the distance. I could not bear to meet her eyes, but I could feel the disapproval radiating from her. There was a moment's pause, almost as if I was being given a chance to change my mind, then the rest rose from their graves. I nearly wept at the sight of them, translucent though they were. Mother, Father, Jorge, even little Alejandro. Their eyes burned with the the same hatred that beat in my heart. I called again, stronger this time, and from the depths rose generations of my family, ready for vengeance. 

It was nearly midnight when Alejandro led us to their camp. Waves upon waves of the dead came crashing down. When one of theirs fell, he rose again a few moments later, fighting for us. It was the stuff of nightmares and horror stories, and all around us rose cries of "La Brujita!". I basked in it, killing more than a few with my bare hands, others with my ceremonial blade. Before long I found the runner that started this whole tragedy. He was kneeling, crying, clutching a rosary as he prayed to a god that could not help him. 

I took my time, savoring it for as much time as I could spare, but he died all the same. When he rose again, a thing of spectral fury under my command, he mutely led me through the tents, to the last pocket of resistance. I pointed him like an arrow at the heart of their leader, and loosed him with no remorse. Oddly, I could not raise the drug lord. It seems his soul had already been promised to another. 

After taking care of the drug runner and the cartel boss, the joy of revenge seeped from me, leaving only emptiness. I let the few survivors run terrified into the dregs of the night. The story they told would spread, a new legend would grow, and our people would be safe once more. 

I returned home, reaching the ranch with the rising sun. To my surprise, the dead followed me, shimmering in the sunlight, but still, not fading as I expected. Saya chides me endlessly for not ensuring that the spell would expire. As she says, the easy things are easy because they are careless. Things could be worse, but I certainly couldn't return to school with things as they are. I now spend my days on the ranch, playing with my brother, talking with my grandmother, trying to find a way to let them have their rest once more. 

Some days I worry that I've actually gone insane, that my brain couldn't cope with the loss and that I'm really curled up in my dorm room, or a mental ward, or worse, bloody and broken in a cartel stronghold after drunkenly charging in to confront them. If it is madness, it is a nice madness. I've got the shades of my family, my home, and in the night I can hear the cries of "La Brujita" echoing in the hills. 

Parlour Tricks

      I've been travelling a lot and I've become famous in some pretty odd circles. It's not unusual for me to blow into town and be hit right away with four or five tempting offers from admirers of my work. I've learned there are things you look for in an invitation. Promises of complimentary service offset travel costs, but promises of unusual access is better. Everyone wants a write up, so it's tit for tat, as they say.
      When I blew into Seattle last time a friend of a friend told me about a bar called the Parlour.  She said that the owner would open up the back room for me, and added that this was a special treat; no one was allowed back there, not even staff.  How could I resist?
      My first question, upon arrival, was "How?"  How had they obtained the proper permits for a bar in the historic Underground?  How did it receive deliveries?  My friend, whom we will call Samantha, told me not to worry.  The owner had all the answers.  To my credit, I did not roll my eyes.
      The proprietor was exactly as I'd expected, which, at first, amused me.  The Seattle Underground is a tourist trap for people who find enclosed spaces thrilling and delight in the safe, historical distance of seedy history.  Who better to own a bar there than this man: ponytail, padlock goatee, white shirt, brown vest?  There was the glint of gold at the back of his smile and the glint of silver at the edge of his eye.  I put out a hand to introduce myself, but before I could finish, he clapped his over my back and said, "Oh, I know who you are."
      "Come inside," he said.  "I've got the finest collection in this world or any other and tonight it's all for you."  How could I refuse?
      You don't need the details of how much I drank.  The short version is it was a lot and Samantha had passed out long before our host began bringing by the really rare stuff.  I hadn't even heard of some of it.  We were finishing what I'm told was rum made when Barbados was a British colony when my host leaned across the table showing both of his glints and said, "So how's about it?  Do you want to experience the full collection?"
      With dignity and gravitas, I giggled and nodded.
      The bar, I should mention, looked old.  Every inch of it was period from a period before I was born.  Its furniture was a hodgepodge of battered antiques, its light fixtures hung like refugees of the great bars of the past.  Maybe they were.  Regardless, every wall was mirrored and each mirror was stunning and perfect.  There were no glassblower's distortions, no tarnished silver backings.  There weren't even smudges.
      The proprietor walked to one such wall and, producing a cloth from his waist apron, pushed.  The glass pivoted and I saw the depths of a room beyond.  He raised his head and tilted his eyebrows as if to say, "Go on."  I did.
      The room beyond was immense.  It was the size of an airport hanger or a Sams club, but full of rich old wooden shelves full of bottles.  It was the whole world's history of liquor.  When one passes through a hidden door one expects a bit of a hall and maybe a musty store room.  One does not expect to see one's whole life's work laid out for them.  I stopped, the strength sapped from me.  I had a million questions but what I asked was, "How?"
      The proprietor laughed again and said, "Vigilance and addiction make strange bedfellows," or something to that effect.  I was stunned and drunk and not paying much attention.  He put one hand on my shoulder and stretched the other out to the room at large.  "Take any bottle you like," he said, "and we shall drink it in my private sitting room."
      You don't want to know how long it took me to decide on something but I picked an absinthe, which pleased my host.  He claimed it was bottled in 1876 and I was skeptical of him then.  I am not now.
      He led me, clutching this very old, very green spirit, through the dusky backing of another mirror door.  He pushed it open and held out his big hand as if to say, "After you."  When I walked through, it closed behind me.
      I found myself in a room full of other men and women.  I believe that some of them are not human, but I could not tell you what they are, other than alcoholics with good palates.  They tell me this room, which looks just like the bar on the other side is the true collection: the fanciest drunks in the universe.
      At the time of my writing this, I'm still here.  It's taken me forty napkins to get this story down and my pen is running dry.  This bar is exactly the same as the one I came in save one difference.  There is a small window in the far wall that each of us strange drunken creatures staggers over to from time to time.  Through it all we see is stars.

Standing Outside a Bronzed Phone Booth With Money in My Hand

Inspiration comes from the strangest places. You see, I started casting bronzes in college. Before I left school to become a full time artist, I was a history major. I'd like to say that I had a grand plan to become a researcher or a professor, maybe even a biographer, but the sad reality was that I had absolutely no plans for the rest of my life. If I hadn't had taken a year off to travel Europe, if I hadn't missed my plane out of Rome, I might have never found my calling.

Left with a day to myself, I filled a conveniently open spot on a tour of Pompeii. As far as the sudden destruction of a civilization goes, Pompeii has fallen behind modern wonders such as the atomic bomb, but they lack the art and grace of a volcanic eruption. There's a special kind of beauty that you can only capture by preserving the last instances of a creature's life.

Back home, I didn't quite have a volcano at my beck and call, so I had to settle for the next best thing I could find. I enrolled in a casting class. Before long, I had a set of bronze candlesticks, a bronze pair of running shoes, and a bronzed music box that had once played a bit of Swan Lake. This kind of art was unsatisfying, to say the least, but it was necessary to learn what I was doing before I could get to the good stuff. 

Once I had graduated from household objects, I started small. It didn't take long before my apartment was empty of roaches, rats, and other vermin. I started taking long car rides to the outskirts of town. I added a chipmunk, a rabbit, and even a bluejay to my collection. 

There was one trip where I picked up a hitchhiker on the way home. The ride was fairly quiet for a few miles, but he got the brilliant idea that he could overpower me. He learned that I was stronger than I looked. I learned that human faces are far more expressive in death that your average rodent. That's also when I invested in a nasty little toxin developed by a bio-chem dropout. 

I sold almost a hundred pieces before anyone really began to notice just how nice my little neighborhood was getting. There were no drifters, no prostitutes, and no dealers crowding the street corners. I actually was in the process of picking out a new place in a worse part of town when I caught a snippet of a conversation between my girlfriend and her aunt.  The bits I overheard left me chilled. She knew. She was going to expose me. I had to do something. I didn't have a choice.

Officially, the statue is a memorial to my lost love, capturing the last time I saw her before she went missing. The collector I sold it to had taken it out of the States and didn't want to bother with any of the legal messiness. Besides, when they finally caught up with me, there were more than enough of my pieces out there. You live, you learn. 

But take my mistakes to heart. Find out what inspires you. Go out. Make art.

Out in London

In hindsight it was clear that Warren Zevon had ruined it for them all. Seamus had been living in Notting Hill in '78 when the song had come out and made their curse fashionable. Everyone tired of leading their double life had come out and it seemed for them the nights went from telly and Guiness to free drinks and fingers through your fur. The whole community showed up to see two of his old friends off when they'd carpooled out to the country for full moon, and Seamus thought, fuck it, what am I waiting for. When they got back, he'd shown everyone. The next weeks were nonstop parties. He'd been attending classes at the London School of Economics but he'd missed so much it wasn't likely they'd take him back. At the time it seemed not to matter. Every night was a new adventure and you never had to pay for anything. By 1980 nobody cared about that song anymore. There had been too much blood. If all you do is drink and party, you lose track of the days, even if you're a werewolf. News kept emerging of parties turning to bloodbaths in the early evening on full moon nights, strung out young men and women carving up their fair-weather-friends like Christmas geese in main rooms of pubs and in fashionable flats all over the city. Over night it wasn't cool anymore. He was known by that point, and his identity a matter of public record. No one would rent to him. No one would give him a job. He'd never killed (a person) and yet they treated him like worse than a criminal. They treated him like a monster. Even the wogs wouldn't touch him. But time passed and now he was less of a Bogeyman and more of a joke. That worked fine for a busker, though, and with the 10 or so quid he earned a day he could at least afford to keep his clothes clean. He hadn't done "private work" for anyone in over two years, and he was honestly starting to enjoy playing the fiddle. He was actually getting quite good.

When in Rome

The old cobblestone street was filled with tourists, people that simply lacked the ability to comprehend what was going about to happen. A melodramatic person might say that they were at the site of a battle between good and evil, between light and darkness. A battle in the war for humanity's soul. But I think we both know that the world is a bit more nuanced than that.

A cynical person might think that these battles are, to quote the bard, things of sound and fury, signifying nothing, but that's not quite right either. Yes, it is true that this skirmish, like many more before it, will have little to no impact on the day to day lives of the average person, but you don't dabble in metaphysics for short gains. You play the long game. 

I tend to think of this sort of encounter as a play on the butterfly effect. One side wants to squash the butterfly before it can flap its wings. The other side simply wants the wings to flap without any interference. If you ask me, neither side has a clue what the consequences of their actions will be. Sometimes it seems like they oppose each other just to have something to do. 

In the end, it doesn't matter much. I cast my lot centuries ago, and questions don't butter bread. I sense the lightning seconds before it strikes the statue. Before I have a chance to think about what I'm doing, I dive forward, tackling the small child looking up in awe at the display in the heavens. I'm rewarded with screams of terror, crushed ribs, and a punctured lung as the stone fist topples from the statue. 

As I stagger to my feet, wheezily cursing the dark humor of the literalists, a woman approaches me, concern mingling with the tears of joy welling in her eyes. The child's mother. I wave her off, somehow convincing her that it's not as bad as it looks. Honestly, it's not. A few more days and I'll be right as rain. The old ways are strong here. 

Back at the hotel I'm none too surprised to find an envelope on the bed. Plane tickets. Next stop, Arizona. 

Fighting the good fight

Everyone kept telling me that Los Angeles was like another world, but I refused to believe them. The movie biz had it's fingers in everything, they said. That didn't matter to me.

There are two schools of thought on environmental activism. The first camp tries preserve the few remaining untouched parts of the world. But like the observed quantum particle, their mere presence changes it. They fight the spread of chaos, holding on to their pristine biomes desperately, knowing that they will eventually fail.

Then there are the people like me. The ones that know there's no point in fighting the human impact on the world from the places humans rarely go. We go to the big places, the centers of pollution and corruption. Places like New York, or like Detroit. Places like LA.

Since I moved here six months ago, I've been to twenty protests, three green energy conventions, and two city council meetings where I spoke on ballot initiatives that would raise penalties on companies that violated EPA regulations and use that money to fund renewable energy research.

There's been a little less smog in the air lately. There's been a bit of order in the chaos. But as I stand here, drinking my latte in Starbuck's, I wonder if the city has changed me, too.

Walking in a winter wonderland

The beach is nice this time of year. Sure, the water is really too cold to swim in, but that means the crowds are gone. I got to spend most of the day just kind of lounging around, trying to stay warm and keep the sand out my eyes. I met these two girls.  

They said they were here for a sales conference. It’s pretty lucky to get a paid trip to the beach, even if it’s in the middle of winter. They didn’t seem to think so, I guess they’ve never had to spend a rainy weekend in the Lansing Ramada. We chatted a bit, mostly about our summer plans, before they had to head off to some meet and greet. I snapped this shot as they were walking away. 

The wind really picked up about an hour after they left and I’ve been forced to seek shelter in the hotel bar, where I’m having a margarita or two with a late lunch. The food’s terrible and I’m pretty sure the drinks are more water than anything else, but at least it’s warm. 

I think I’ll walk downtown tonight. There’s supposed to be a Mediterranean place that’s just to die for.