Hollis set his youngest down and handed his spade to his eldest. “I will be back before dark,” he said. “Keep working the rows until they are clean, and then help your sister feed the cows.”
His eldest nodded, taking the spade with reverence and not a little fear. His children had learned from a young age not to touch their father’s tools. To be given the responsibility, even though it was not the first time, held weight.
When Hollis was a young boy, he wanted to work with his father in the fields. He saw men and women both young and old toil in the rich earth, growing green plants and roots that became delicious and nourishing meals. In his young mind, farming was what his people did, and he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to join in.
He didn’t know that was what he wanted, he just knew he wanted his own spade, his own hoe, his own water-pail.
It was raining hard as Jack Reed ran from the train station, heading further from downtown Chicago. The high-speed train had taken only four minutes to get to the northern suburbs, and from the station it was a three minute run to Erin’s office. Jack wasn’t sure why he had decided on Erin — had he even decided? Or had his body taken over, guiding his footfalls towards the north-bound platform while his brain was confused? Was he deciding anything, he wondered? All he could remember was staring at the bodies, scared and alone, and then running for the northbound train.
The ceremony was perfect. Raiselig was pleased.
The gifts of thanks came quickly and with little celebration. Raiselig was not surprised at this, as the people of Yolan were a proud sort, and didn’t take kindly to any suggestion that they were less pious or devoted than they could be. It was an odd dichotomy that Raiselig had never been able to understand. As a Scrivener, they were idolized by the Yolan people, and yet these proud and happy citizens couldn’t see Raiselig’s back soon enough.
The earth shook as Levret leaped to the side, barely evading the thick oak tree-trunk. Tucking into a roll, Levret swung their sword up and over, hoping against hope that the Ogre was clumsier than it looked.
His hope was for naught; rumbling laughter shook overhead. “Foolish boy of woman born, I’ll strip your skin like fleece is shorn!”
A gust of wind ruffled Levret’s long blonde hair as he turned to face his hated foe. “You’ve plagued the countryside for too long, Gob. Once you are slain, the valley villages will at last be able to live in peace!”
Hate.
It was like a sauna inside her skull.
Pressure. Hissing through leaks and cracks in the skin. Moist air flecked with sparks and flashes of venom and bile. Aversion. Desire. Inflamed. Hate.
Years passed.
Only once a year did she open her single eye, to gaze upon the black stalagmites and stalactites that were her prison. Her home.
For centuries she saw nothing, and so for centuries she went hungry.
For the first half1 of my creative career, I was an actor. Still am, in some ways, and a great deal of my writing has the stain of performative dialogue.
What I mean by that is: a lot of my writing comes out on the page sans the tone or emphasis that it has in my head.
Sometimes this a wonderful thing. Good writers can convey the sound of their characters’ voices with just words on the page, while bad writers…well, compare any transcript of a Donald Trump monologue to its recording,2 and see how much information is lost without the pauses, the emphasis, the pitch of voice…
No one is at Binny’s place anymore.
I showed up there once or twice, and it was just me and him.
I don’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t say anything to me. What is there to say? Word gets around, so why talk when you’ve heard it all?
Raiselig was allowed a maximum of seven days of vacation a year. It was a paltry amount for most, but Raiselig constantly had trouble finding times and places to indulge.
Relaxing was such an odd concept to Raiselig. When your being was your purpose, pausing in your efforts was akin to a kind of suicide, wasn’t it? If you weren’t working, then why were you?
Calchona had tried to explain it several times. Raiselig understood the idea of sleep, rest, even the idea of taking a moment to catch one’s breath — which was no small feat for someone who didn’t breathe.
The courtyard of Doom Keep was little more than a pile of mud. There were no paths walked by mortal feet anymore, save the aimless drifting of the soulless bodies clad in rusting armor. They stared, unblinking, into the dark skies that rained with black ichor.
Raiselig and Shosushai walked side by side down the slick stone steps, each holding onto the other so they did not fall. The corpses watched them pass.
