#campfire story

[insomniac-dot-ink]

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

My book! 🐈 Newsletter

[jokingluna]

Suggested by @slhrpgapplejack

[workingforitallthetime]

i recently watched roadhouse (the jake gyllenhaal version) and it is very silly and very enjoyable, and i would like an au.

seamus’s grandfather dies and leaves him a bar in the florida keys. seamus immediately receives a massive offer to purchase the bar from a powerful local businessman, but he’s somehow reluctant to let the place go. he and gavin make a trip to the keys to check the place out.

they’re not as close as they used to be; they’re both at a crossroads in their respective lives; etc. they go fishing. the water is impossibly blue. something about seeing seamus in his element, here at the end of the world, florida but not really the florida that used to be theirs together, stirs something for gavin. “i think you should make a go of it,” he tells seamus, and seamus says “i will if you’ll help,” which is kind of what gavin was hoping he’d say.

the bar’s a disaster. accounts in disarray, hassles from the health department, a rough crowd that keeps getting out of hand. seamus gets increasing offers from the guy who’s pressuring him to sell. but now this is his and gavin’s place, and every morning they sit in the sun and have coffee on the deck of the dilapidated houseboat they’ve rented. seamus feels like he’s starting to find himself and maybe starting to find gavin too, and he’s not selling this bar.

gavin’s the one who takes the drastic step of offering a princely salary to a morally dubious former mma fighter to come be their bouncer. they’re about to lose their insurance if they can’t curb the violence at the bar. ryan leonard is vehemently not interested but after some sparkling banter with gavin he decides he’s in.

as leno settles into life in the keys and starts kicking ass at the bar, he encounters gabe (a doctor at the local hospital where leno keeps showing up with the wounded in the aftermath of bar fights). he takes gabe to dinner. they flirt. there’s sparks.

leno also encounters will, who leno thinks has some innocuous job in tourism. unbeknownst to leno, will is the son of the local business magnate who has his eye on the bar and is behind the campaign of violence that’s pressuring seamus to sell to him. if leno was aware of this he would not have started fucking will, but too late now.

leno beats up a series of thugs sent by will’s father to cause chaos at the bar. their identities are not important but they are all played by random nhl people whose behavior i loathe (trouba, mackinnon, marchand, wilson, etc.) one of them gets eaten by a crocodile. maybe they all do, because this is my story and i can have jacob trouba eaten by a crocodile as a treat.

also the tkachuks are involved but in a fun way. like, leno breaks up a fight but it’s matthew and brady fighting each other and somehow they all end up pals.

in the movie there’s one “villain” who’s the trump card of violence that the business magnate brings to town bc he’s supposed to be the only person who can take out leno. i put villain in quotes bc this character is played by conor mcgregor, and he’s a lot of fun and you are kind of rooting for him even as he and leno are fighting each other to the death. in my story this character is played by matt rempe.

there’s a climactic scene on the water with a boat chase and an exploding yacht and gabe is taken hostage by the evil interests. when leno comes to save gabe, will greets him on the deck of the yacht and that’s the big reveal that he’s the son of the evil business owner.

idk how that love triangle resolves, but the rule is that snakes don’t get happy endings, so the happy ending is leno exploding the yacht and leaving a chest of the bad guy’s money at the bar for gavin and seamus and the two of them kiss and live happily ever after. in the final scene the bar is repaired and thriving and they’re both working there wearing t-shirts that say roadhouse on the back.

[unchartedstarsocs]

What do you mean I haven't posted this already-

Anyways, here's a cover I did for a minicomic I'm making!

The comic is intended to be a campfire story in my (WIP) comic, The Close Encounter Of Cabin Seven. In the story, the main character, Oliver, meets a girl (currently unnamed) and it does not end well for him. Fun fact: he's holding a love letter in the cover.

Here's the sketch:

[mareenavee]

In the Woods Somewhere

For the prompt fill: Ghost Stories. I decided to go for the format of a ghost story in this case. Inspired by this tidbit that @saltymaplesyrup shared with me. Thank you, friend! This one is for you!

Spooky, with some gross imagery!

Tagging @throughtrialbyfire and @changelingsandothernonsense for your support of these weird pieces I love to try :>

Song inspo: In the Woods Somewhere by Hozier

Without further ado --

In the Woods Somewhere

There exists, deep in the Green, a mirror of our world. Ghul-Mora, a haunted place left over from nightmares that might have been. Or may yet be. It is spoken of only through the hushed whispers of elders around their campfires. None alive are truly sure if it is its own plane of Oblivion, its gates held open from a crisis centuries ago—or if it was something else. A punishment, maybe, or a reflection of what would come to pass. Words make time stretch thin, and if you are not careful, it becomes too simple to wander through into the gloam. And there you’ll stay, or so the story goes.

The forest, it is said, rots in places. Through the mist and eerie stillness, the crunch of leaves underfoot seems to echo, the sound of it punctuated by the blood-curdling howls that erupt from further in the darkness. They say the very trees are warped, bark and branches twisted and blackened. Spiderwebs stretch across pathways long overgrown, the bones of creatures left to die in the threads blocking your way. And the skittering. Pay too close attention, and you’ll feel it on your skin. Or, rather, inside your skull. They say the sound never fades, even if you ever manage to escape. Not that it’s entirely possible. At least…not in the way you would hope.

And what of the beasts that roam those haunted glades? It has been said they were like you and I, once—that they were too far gone for Y’ffre to reach, and so He tried to seal the doors. Some shadows, however, are far too strong for such things. If their claws tear through—and they do—where they rip out roots and shred through bark, only decay remains. -> Read the Rest on AO3

[flowingsakura]

Campfire Story

Summary: Kagome and Sesshomaru have differing opinions on a particular campfire story.

Snippet:

Glancing back to her newfound critic, she found Sesshomaru deep in thought as he digested her words. The firelight danced in the reflection of his scrutinizing tawny gaze. Suddenly, he met her gaze catching Kagome off guard. Surprised by the sudden eye contact, the miko squeaked and snapped her eyes to the fire.

She sensed Sesshomaru leave as she attended to the fire. Stoking the burning embers with a stick, Kagome pondered her own tale of romantic sacrifice. Despite the tale’s tragic ending the miko smiled softly to herself. A love that was so strong that the lovers were together even in death. It was morbidly beautiful and touching.

[jiacast]

Campfire story

The Shadow in the Woods

The moon casts eerie shadows across the dense forest, and a group of friends huddled closer to a campfire. They had heard stories of a dark presence in the woods, but dismissed them as mere legends until that night. Sarah began to tell them about a local man named Thomas who went missing ten years ago. When the wind howled through the trees, a branch snapped in the distance, causing everyone to jump. Sarah whispered that Thomas encountered something not quite human, and his wife swore he wasn't the same before he vanished.

A cold shiver ran down Mike's spine as he glanced around the dark perimeter beyond the fire's glow. She told him that Thomas saw the Shadow in the Woods, a creature born of darkness, feeding on fear. It moves silently, blending with the night, waiting for the unsuspecting. The only sign of its presence is the chilling cold that grips you, moments before it strikes.

A sudden rustling in the bushes made everyone freeze, and the fire crackled loudly in the silence that followed. Sarah whispered that once you've heard the Shadow, it's already too late. The group exchanged nervous glances, their imaginations running wild. A shadow, darker than the night, moved between the trees, almost imperceptible but there. The air grew colder, biting at their skin, and the fire flickered, threatening to go out.

Panic set in as they grabbed their flashlights, shining them frantically into the woods, but the shadow always stayed just out of reach. They bolted through the woods, the cold night air cutting into their lungs, and their hearts racing. Behind them, the shadow followed relentlessly and silently.

Mike stumbled, falling to the ground, and for a horrifying moment, he saw the shadow—glowing eyes in the shadow, watching him. Sarah and the others pulled him up, but the shadow didn't follow them out. As the campfire flickered and died, the friends made a silent pact to leave first thing in the morning. The forest around them seemed to breathe, alive with secrets and shadows, and they knew better than to tempt fate again.

[vor-leser]

"AM provided punk and we burned it, sitting huddled around the wan and pathetic fire, telling stories to keep Benny from crying in his permanent night."

[ephemeralleviathan]

Acorns

A fantasy short story.

TW list: fire, storm/lightning, children, mob, burning alive

This is a happy story about old friends! Feel free to critique, and I would love some new ideas! Read at your own discretion. The story starts below the break! Happy reading!

    I surveyed the kids around the campfire. There were rows and rows of twelve year olds whose parents had decided to send them away for a couple of weeks and had just happened upon Diana’s Summer Camp. I knew some of them didn’t want to be here, in fact, most of the boys hated it here, but even so, I had all of them wrapped up in my stories. These kids got so excited to hear my tales at the end of every night that even the ones that decided to skip every other activity were present for the evening bonfires. I waited for the hush that swept over them as I stood to start my story for the night.

    “Once upon a time, there was a simple farm girl,” I started. “She was just like all her peers; she had a modest living, average looks and height, and only sometimes did she engage in mischief making.”

    I got a few chuckles for that, so I continued, “Only this girl had a big oak tree just in front of her house. It was so big that there were many swings held aloft by its branches and the other children that lived near her always came to play in the shade of her huge tree. In the summer, this tree was a blessing so all who came to her house could get out of the blistering sun for a while. But one day, during a particularly nasty storm, lightning struck the tree, splitting it down the middle and killing it.”

    I threw some sawdust into the fire to make it spark and billow as I described the storm, and some of the listeners gasped as the fire licked out and then quickly receded. Once they all quieted down again I continued the story.

    “The tree burned down, leaving only a pile of ash and a few burned charcoal logs. That, and a single acorn. The girl scavenged what was left of her beloved oak tree, tossing the charcoal into her woodpile and picking up the single acorn.”

    I fished into my pocket and held a large acorn up above my head and said, “An acorn just like this. She kept this acorn close to her out of mourning for her beloved tree, whether she kept it in the front pocket of her dress close to her heart or on her nightstand when she slept, she always kept this little acorn near to her like the large oak tree had been near and dear to her heart.”

    I bent over and picked up a small basket of acorns and dropped the one I was holding into it. I gave it to the nearest child to me, asking the children to take one and pass the basket down, then I kept telling the story.

    “When she worked in the field, the acorn was by her side, when she tended her animals, the acorn was always with her, even when she went to swim in the creek she took the acorn with her and left it on the shore for safekeeping. One night, even though she was careful with the acorn, she set it on her nightstand as she always did to find that the acorn had a large crack running from the top to the bottom. She gently picked up the acorn from her nightstand, but even as gentle as she was the acorn split in two in her hands. What fell out of the split shell was not the nut that should’ve been inside of the acorn however, but what looked like a tiny wooden baby.”

    Some of the kids started looking for cracks on their acorns, but others sat on the edges of their seats eagerly awaiting the rest of the story. I reached behind me again and retrieved another prop for my story.

    “At first the girl didn’t know what to do; this wasn’t a fairy for it had no wings, and plus she didn’t want to just give give the tiny baby back to the oak, the great oak was just a pile of ash now. The girl decided to care for the baby like it was one of her dolls, but she had to learn how to care for a living baby first. She fashioned a tiny bassinette out of one half of the acorn shells and set the little thing inside, and seeing as it fit just fine before, with a little cushion from spare wool, the tiny baby curled up inside the acorn shell.”

    I held up a cradle I had made out of an acorn shell for the kids to see; it looked old and worn, like it had gone through many stories before, and there was a small crack in the side.

    “The girl consulted the older women she knew on how to care for a baby, and they told her to feed it when it cries and sing it to sleep to keep evil away from the baby. The older women laughed at her because they thought that a girl of her age could have no child of her own, but the girl still returned to the baby and followed their instructions to the letter. She would feed the baby a tiny drop of milk when it was hungry and every night she sang songs of myth and legend to ward off evil. But still, the baby grew fast, faster than any human baby, and it grew and grew until it broke out of the cradle the girl had made for it. The girl started sewing tiny dresses for the little acorn child and created it a larger bed out of an old sandal.”

    I held up a sandal with tufts of wool sewn into the leather of the sandal and a little fabric blanket. It too looked worn and tired like the acorn cradle, but this was not broken, just stretched out in some places.

    “The girl would still take the acorn with her when she worked and when she played, teaching the tiny child everything she knew as best she could. One day the girl left the child at her home now that the child was too big to just carry around or put in the girls pocket. She had been doing this for quite some time, where it was normal for the girl and the wood-like child would be seen together. The child didn’t speak, but she sang just like the girl did when she was smaller. The townspeople thought there was something off about the acorn child, though. They didn’t trust that the acorn child was safe for the girl or had good intentions for their humble village. So one day, when the girl left to tend to her animals and fields, the townspeople formed a mob for the acorn child. The acorn child was the same size as the girl that raised her, but the acorn child had dark eyes whereas the girl had piercing green eyes. That, and the acorn child had an almost wooden complexion with grains and knots like the bark of a great oak.”

    “The villagers swarmed the girls house as soon as they knew she wasn’t there. They knew the girl would’ve protected the acorn child like a mother bear, but they thought that the acorn child had somehow charmed the girl. They attacked the acorn child, who ran and ran and called for the girl the only way she knew how: singing of legends like the girl had done for her. The villagers hated the song simply because it was coming from the child’s mouth, thinking the child was trying to curse them too, so they threw their torches at the acorn child just as they reached the girl’s field.”

    The kids listening seemed to all lean forward in anticipation; they knew my stories never ended boring. I paused dramatically, then I continued.

    “The girl ran to the acorn child, who quickly started to burn as the fire licked the child’s wooden skin. The girl patted out the flames with the hem of her dress and burned her hands on the hot fire of the acorn child. The child saw the girl burn her hands for the child, and suddenly roots and trees shot up from the ground and ensnarled the angry villagers. The fires that they threw and the fires that they still held started to burn the roots and trees they were trapped in. The acorn child scooped the girl up and ran to their house, wrapping the girls burnt hands. The girl picked up the acorn shell, the half that was left behind from making the cradle for the child, and tied twine around the stem of it, making it into a necklace.”

    I passed strands of twine to the children, showing them how to tie it just like the girl did, though it was a little difficult for me to tie the twine because of the burn scars on my hands. The kids almost immediately put the acorn necklaces on as I finished the story.

    “The girl put the makeshift necklace around the neck of the acorn child, then they both escaped into the forest as their former village burned down. Some say they still wander the forests together.”

    The kids started a loud round of applause before other camp counsellors rounded them up and escorted them to their various cabins. I sat by the fire, watching it burn down as the camp settled into a sleepy silence. I heard the melodious singing of myths and legends of yore, and I joined the singing as I stood to greet my old friend.

[doublegoblin]

Eyeshines

Those terrestrial embers, the local stars. Magical aren’t they? You really start to notice them early in life, but you haven’t a clue what they could be. You see them in the slow fade into the night, right when the world, just start to not make as much clear sense to you anymore. Little pinpricks along the roads that whiz away the moment you know they are there. Clusters of them scampering up and around the trees; they stop for a second burning brightly and then carry on their merry ways. Uncountable shines in the dew drunk grass. Or if’n you get real lucky. Outside your window burning a hole right through the glass while dozens more stand single file along the tree line.

So you start to ask about these ocular fireflies. You start asking your parents, teachers, friends, and anyone else who will lend you an ear. They all say the same thing but just with different words. That they are the eyes of creatures big and small. ‘Cept for your pals who say they’re ghosts or boogiemen coming to get you. So you start asking why their eyes shine so bright. Only your teachers give you an answer you can trust. It’s because these animals have a special part of their eye that helps them see at night. Keeps ‘em from getting eaten or helps them to instead eat. You start rattling off all the eyes you’ve seen from the deer on the road to the spiders in the grass. The strangest thing though is when you ask about the big one. Their face drains of color a little and that one gets brushed aside. This explanation lights a fire in someone. Why do they glow though? Why would prey have a way to be seen by predator? Is their only means of defense to close their eyes and wait for the danger to pass? Why don’t my eyes glow? Do my eyes glow? Why do only some people’s eyes glow at night?

As you get older you start to understand more and more about those curious lights. You start to understand that to shine those eyes need some kind of light. So you start heading out to the woods with your buddies, most of the time alone, and you bring a light with you. You start waving that thing around to see those gems sparkle. When you see a twinkle you freeze and try and guess what they could be and what they might be feelin.

Two eyes starin’ forward with a stoic fear, just a mama deer passing through. She’s waitin for you to either move on or move close. Those eyes you’ve seen scurrying up and down the trees with their curious gaze. Family of racoons, wondering what in the world you are doing out there with that bright stick. But at home, those eyes outside the window don’t need a light. They are hungry eyes. Ravenous eyes. Luckily they’ve forgotten how to use doors and windows. You know better than to answer a knock after the sun has gone down and to pay no mind to the window scratching. Keep ‘em locked up and you’ll be fine.

But there is one glow you’ve never been able to put anything concrete to. You stare and stare but just can’t get a read on it. It ain’t dead for all it’s worth. You’ve seen it blink. Is it scared like the deer? Curious as the racoon? Or hungry like the folks in the woods? No, no, it’s just seems to be cold. Cold as a midnight in winter. Cold as those dark hours when there are no clouds in the sky. It’s a frigid and patient glow. You try and wrap your mind around why something like it would need to glow so bright, but your mind aches and squeals with protest. So many questions. Why does it blink so slow? What does it mean when it turns red? But most unsettling of all to you, what does it mean, when you can see it’s pupil on that day, when all grows still and silent, what does it mean when the eye stops shining? And what does it mean when it starts to cry?

[authorshen]

Short Story: The Milkman

Content Warning: blood, pandemic, cabin fever, peeping

Howard Ranet Peabody was a Milkman. You may think this is an odd profession for the 2020s, but it’s a pandemic, what are you gonna do? Howard had to work, and delivering milk around the deceptively small town he resided in was the best he could hope for. The town was filled with two kinds of people, the retiree boomers who had more money than sense and helped make the gap, and the struggling younger generation, trying desperately to bridge it. Howard was lucky to have this job or he would have been struggling just like his peers.

His job was simple. In the morning he drove to the bottling plant, picked up the shipment in the company-owned refrigerated truck and delivered it to where the GPS on his phone sent him. Often this was the same 250 houses on varying days of the week. He couldn’t say he loved his job, in fact, it was dreadfully boring. So boring that he had found a hobby of peeking in the windows of the homes he delivered milk to. Just a few minutes a day, for entertainment.

Most of the time the houses were empty, or quiet. Older people watching tv, or working in a home office. In either case, frequently neglecting to wear pants. Parents would be in the kitchen, kids sitting on their phones, eyes glossed over and lost to the world. For the first few months, things were still pretty boring, as boring as the job, and as boring as he was. Things didn’t start to heat up until around July. In the summer people weren’t allowed outside. Everyone saw the sun through their windows and blamed each other for not being allowed out in it. Stuck in close quarters with someone, even someone you love, can eventually drive you to do things you otherwise wouldn’t. Most of the time it was just screaming at each other, other times it was more.

One hot sunny morning, which would have been a perfect day for the beach, Howard pulled into the driveway of the Bonnet residence. The Bonnets seemed like nice people, a traditional couple, retirees. Either they had never had children or their children had moved out. What they did have was a dog. A large black dog of an unknown breed with long curly hair and a friendly demeanour.

The Bonnets had been regulars on his route since his first day. The house was tall and as dated as its owners. It was a grey brick, three-story colonial home covered in purple ivy. It was surrounded by a large hedge that had become immaculate during the pandemic. The work, no doubt, of Mrs. Bonnet. Mr. Bonnet, Howard had noticed, didn’t do much of anything but watch tv. Howard had often seen Mrs. Bonnet yelling at him from the front window.

Howard stepped out of his truck and pulled his delivery out of the back. He opened the front gate and walked into the garden, instantly cooled by the shadows of the greenery that surrounded him. He placed the carton on the front step and before he rang the doorbell, peeked in the front window. After visiting a residence almost every day for months, you either make friends with the animals or become overly cautious of them. Howard had always attempted to make friends. Usually, by this time, the large black Bonnet dog would have barked at him in its excitement. It had not, and this was suspicious. The large black dog was nowhere, not seen, nor heard. In his boredom, he decided to investigate. The front window only showed shadows. Mr. Bonnet was not watching tv. Maybe Mrs. Bonnet had finally succeeded in getting him off of his behind.

Howard went around to the side of the residence. A cast-iron gate separated the front and the back. Cautiously he opened it. The resulting creak should have roused the dog wherever it may be, but not a sound could be heard from the beast.

He ventured onward. There was an in-ground pool and a doghouse in the corner of the yard. Large glass sliding doors separated the inside of the home from the outside. Howard peeked in. The lights were off, which was normal for the middle of the day. What was not normal was the red puddle on the floor, or Mr. Bonnet laying on top of it. Howard knocked frantically on the glass. “Hello? Is anyone there? Someone’s in trouble!” He tried the door, which would not budge. He called 911 and told them what he saw.

“Can you get in there?” Asked the operator.

“Hold on one second.” Howard, in his panic, tried to shove the phone into his pocket. It fell to the ground with a crash. He told himself he would worry about it later and grabbed a lawn chair. He swung at the door. It did not break, but the foot of the chair had put a large crack in it. He tried again. The door broke this time. Large pieces of glass fell to the ground. He stepped through the glass, a jagged piece cutting his arm in the process. The shards of glass crunched beneath his feet as he stepped into the white and steel kitchen. Mr. Bonnet was on the floor, covered in red, with a knife stuck in the center of his chest and a look of fear frozen on his face. The man was dead. Howard, in the realization, felt nauseous. He swallowed to keep from throwing up.

A small woman, Mrs. Bonnet, was standing in the shadows on the far side of the kitchen. She carried a mop and a look of rage. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY WINDOW?!” She screamed, her shrill voice piercing Howard’s shocked stupor.

She ran at Howard who stepped back over the door frame. He dodged her swing and took another step back.

Another swing, and another step.

It seemed that for her, the third time was the charm. Howard fell backwards trying to dodge again. She clipped him in the temple with the mop’s heavy metal handle. He splashed into the pool.

As a red cloud of blood surrounded him, water and chlorine burned his lungs as he fought to stay conscious. She said something to him, but as he was underwater he heard nothing but a muffled voice, almost indistinguishable from the water in his ears. He looked around and saw the large black dog was there with him, unmoving and floating just above the bottom. “I should have found a better hobby,” he thought, just as everything faded to black.

The End

If you enjoyed this story you can read more short fiction in Coffee and Summoning Circles.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Deep in the Woods in the Dark of the Road

Everyone talks about the fear of hitchhikers. Parents and urban legends repeat, Never pick up someone on the side of the road. Like food from the floor, you don’t know where they’ve been. Smiling ghosts, prison breakouts, serial killers on the lam. Very few stories talk about the edge of the road, the place where you lose yourself to these strangers in a stranger’s land. The ones that pick you up. I tell the story to anyone who will listen.

First, I have to tell them, “of course I don’t hitchhike anymore,” condemning my youthful folly for them before they will consider me a credible source. As someone worth listening to. My sister likes to remind me I was on the type of adventure only clean-shaven young men can get away with in the first place.

I like to remind her that I’m not sure I got away with anything.

May 12th, everything else shifts around it like the light, but that date might as well have been printed on the back of my hand. 

May 12th and the small Canadian town I had been staying in had a high school graduation, the place swelling with relatives and well-wishers. There was only one high school and their hockey team seemed to be the one big rallying point the people shared. Everyone became a grandkid to every aging adult and I knew it was time to move along in the same breath.

I meant to leave early in the day. Meant to leave earlier in the week too. Nonetheless, when you're on a country-long trek you do start to appreciate the little things and the Johnsons’ had a high-pressure shower. The Johnsons were a family of pit-stop angels for hikers and bikers, turning their home into an invitation. Hippies, aging athletes, and former-vagrants were the main types of pitstop angels–literal angels in my mind at that point. I told myself a second shower was indulgent and then I gave myself another shower. Me and time we’re never really on the friendliest terms, especially when I was a thru-hiker that had lost the trail.

I stood under the burning hot spray and melted. During the first shower, the water always runs brown and muddy, sloughing off layers of dirt and dead skin. I think I understood religious resurrection after showers like that. 

This one though, a second shower, ran clear and crystalline and perfect. 

Hot, steaming water and a steady drumbeat of pressure. Heaven. Heaven though, eventually turned cool and then freezing. A cold river from every faucet. I jumped out and had a mild freakout session. Leaving someone’s worse-off than when you found it was a big taboo. 

Plus, I was young and still embarrassed by everything. I wrote a hasty apology note, and then packed up as quickly as I could. It’s the type of age where you’ve started to realize you are responsible, but not old enough to know how to go about doing it correctly. I left a note. I scrubbed their counters and stripped the sheets off the pull-out bed. I scrubbed the counters a second time and then tripped out the door before they could get back. The day had turned into late afternoon. A spring chill seeped across the land and I took a backroad to the highway.

Originally, I had told my parents I’d be back by the end of season. Then I told them I deferred my college start date to the second semester. Then deferred again to next fall. Bumming around ski towns during the winter and making just enough money to get back on the trails in springtime. I had been skipping around different trails since then.

I needed to get on the road. I needed to find another car.

One of the tricks to getting picked up is to be clean, so I had that much going for me. Boiled like a lobster in oil, I felt new and good and I walked confidently backward with my thumb out. The second trick is to smile. I smiled and waved and walked along a long stretch of highway bordered by dense conifer forests.

If worse came to worse, I’d set up my tent somewhere among the tree trunks. A dampness coated my skin. Strong wind rustled the branches. A minivan approached and I smiled wide enough to make my eyes water. The van passed.

I took a break to chew down an energy bar and some Slim Jims. Drivers normally don’t stop if you’re chewing furiously and an internal sigh was building in my core. I wondered if the Johnsons’ were toasting their daughter right now. Giving a cheer. Making plans for dinner. I’d miss their dinner.

When I stood up again, the sun had dipped toward the steep mountains. I shielded my eyes and scowled. How the hell did so much time pass? I hurried to the side of the road, thumb out, smiling, rehearsing some of my best stories in my head. I liked telling stranger’s stories, a “thank you” for the ride. I had learned the best ways to spin terrifying encounters with mountain lions and the chipmunk trapped in my sleeping bag. Most drivers seemed to like it too. 

The sun disappeared behind the first peeks and the temperature plummeted. Pockets of darkness spread out before me between the shards of sunlight quilting the land. My teeth chattered.

The dusk had a feeling to, a weight. A car approached from behind me and I whipped around, hands too cold to be out. A beat-up Hyundai, off-green and compact. A tacky Sasquatch air-freshener hung from the mirror and the person behind the wheel wore sunglasses. He looked like a young guy, early 20s, with long brown hair down his shoulders. The hair reminded me of a girl, curly and well-kept, shiny in the dying light. The dusting of a beard offset the look. 

Several cars lined up behind the Hyundai. Their lights were all on, shining like a procession of lanterns. This is where they all were apparently. Figures, I thought, and I stuck my thumb out.

My stomach sank when the Hyundai swerved off to the side of the road. I was hoping he would pass and let one of the others pick me up. I usually preferred families, women, couples, and the like. I would like to say it was the romantic in me, wishing for ladies or aging lovers, but the truth was I had never really gotten along with guys my own age. But beggars can’t be choosers.

He honked the horn once and grinned at me. I checked over my shoulder like the trees might turn into a Holiday Inn, and then approached the window. 

He cracked the door. “Where you headed?”

“Vancouver,” I said, which was true enough. He gave the horn a second honk. “Alright, alright, alright, my brother. Going to the same jungle. Hop in.”

I gave him a crooked smile and avoided responding by opening the back door. Storing my enormous backpack was always a challenge, but the back seats were down and I slid Jessica, my pack’s nickname, right in. 

“How’s it going?” The guy had both a California accent and swagger to him. I ran a hand through my hair, already on guard.

“Cold as a witch’s tit out there.” I might as well get the bro-ing over with. The driver had holes in his faded band shirt and board shorts. Sandals probably too. 

“Only if you're walking down the side of the road like a lost kitten, my man. Here.” He cranked the heat in his car and I exhaled, gratitude shining from my center. 

“Thanks,” I said, showers and warmth and soft beds having changed me. I swallowed a couple times, not sure if bros even thanked each other. “So, what are you doing out here?” I asked, already formulating my story about the mountain lion. And yes, I do embellish just a bit.

“You know, this and that. What are you doing getting yourself ax-murdered all the way out here?” I shot him a look. “You know, this and that.” I cleared my throat, mimicking his tone, “Ax-murdering. Collecting hooks for my right hand.” He lets out a big laugh and that’s a relief. I grow emboldened. “What are you doing to avoid getting hook-handed this late at night?” He chuckles, chest rumbling like a car engine. Taking off his sunglasses, he places them in the cupholder. “Distract them. Ask them what ACDC they are into.” His gaze flicks to the back as he says it.

I noticed for the first time a guitar case wedged into the back. My eyebrows raise. “Sweet. You playing gigs?” “Just coffee shops and anywhere that will take a burnout with a dream.” I copy his tone. The swagger. “You any good?”

“Hell if I know. Coffee shops aren’t Juilliard.” He winked. “But don’t tell my mom that.”

My arms gooseflesh and at least my teeth stopped chattering. “Good to know. You have an LP? CDs?”

“Not yet. Still working it out.” “Nice. Well, I’m Ben. Not really a music guy, but an appreciator.” I realized I had gotten all jumbled by being freezing and messed up my usual intro. “Hailing from Boston by trying to be anywhere else.” He chuckled again. “Christopher.”

“Not a Chris, I take it. The whole thing?” “All the way through, brother. Think you can handle it?”

I clicked my tongue. “I usually stick to single syllables, but I’ll make an exception for you.” “From my new friend Ben? Can’t complain about that. Damn, can’t complain about a long night on the road. Nice to pick you up.”

“Nice to be picked up.” I realized too late the way that sounded and rubbed the back of my neck. “Beats walking. Or have to hook-hand my own damn self.” “Heh.” His inky eyes flicked my way and then he grins. I looked away at that, gently embarrassed in a way I couldn’t explain. I had gotten pretty good at the chameleon act but still wasn’t finding my footing here. His eyes were deep brown, inky-almost, and deep-set in his face. 

The beat-up Hyundai rumbled up a mountain pass and the sky turned the blue-black of a bruise. I tear my eyes back to the window. The conifers appear larger–like everything does at night, and pass in a blur on the back-forth mountain road. I spy a river through the trees and birds taking flight from somewhere in the distance, lights of tucked-away homes even further up.  

Christopher turns the music up at that. “You ever listen to house music?” “Can’t say I have.” I turn back, mountain lion stories forgotten. “Ben, my guy, you’re missing out. You don’t do German house music either, I take it.”

I put a hand over my heart. “Purely provincial.” “I’ll play the good stuff.” He grins. “Make an exception.” “You usually play your hitchhiker’s mediocre playlists?” “Exceptionally mediocre. The last one didn’t even make it beat drop.” “I’ll sit and take notes.” “Don’t let me down, Benny.”

“Now who’s not going all through?”

His dark eyes flash. “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“For you?” I gave a sardonic half of a smile and then let it fall.

Noises with bumps and chs played out over the speakers and I had to wonder why Christopher had a guitar instead of a DJ soundboard. Maybe he had both. A hand placed on my knee and I jumped. I went to brush it off, God, I didn’t need this to get unpleasant, but when I looked down nothing was there. Christopher’s hands were lazing on ten and two and he raised an eyebrow.

“You still headed all the way to Vancouver? It is a long drive.” he asked slowly and I nodded, unwilling to say my real plans. To just keep going. I started on the east coast and wouldn’t mind making it to the other ocean. “Good.” He turned the music up a second time. Despite the grating techno and sense of still not having found my feet here, the heat of the blowers washed over me. The rocking of the car and dull humming of the driver next to me. The lights of cars wound through the roads behind us and my eyes fluttered closed.

You don’t sleep in stranger’s cars. It’s rude for one thing and dangerous for another. Yet, the cold leached out of me and a drowsiness sent me over the edge into a deep abyss.

—----------------------

I heard humming now and then, dreamlike and threaded through my personal abyss. I cracked open my eyes, glanced at Christopher, humming to himself and tapping a beat on the wheel. And then drift off again in the very way I shouldn’t.

—-----------------------

A hand shook my knee. I had no idea what time it was and the weight of night startled me awake more than anything else. A pair of headbeams blared into my face and I brought up one hand. “What the hell?”

“Hey, Benny, buddy,” the driver, Christopher, said. It took me a moment to turn toward him. His sunglasses were back on and he was frowning. “Do you think you could mess with my phone? I’m not getting anything up here. Do you have service?” I blinked rapidly and pieced together the back of tail lights in front of us and head beams behind. “Traffic?” I croaked, rubbing my throat. “Here?” Only three cars ahead were visible, disappearing up a mountain bend into who knows where. However, I get the sense of lights lined up like little soldiers through the night, long and duckling-like. 

“I know, it’s whack. I was looking for a sideroad or something to get us out of this.” “How is there traffic in the middle of the mountains?” I rubbed my eyes until I saw spots, feeling groggier than ever.

“Probably a rockslide up ahead or a truck fell over, who knows. I think someone’s cleaning it up now but at the pace of, like tomorrow morning.” “What the hell?” “Now you’re getting it.” The line inched forward and Christopher refreshed his phone with one hand. I fumbled for my own phone in my small pack and cursed under my breath. “What?” Christopher prompts me.

“Out of battery.” I shake it like that might do something. “Hold on, I have an Anker in my pack.” I turn to climb into the back and dig through everything for my charger. 

“Wait, wait, I think I see a road. Put your seatbelt on.”

“We can’t just,” Christopher grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me back to my seat. I inhale sharply, remembering I am in a car with a stranger–maybe getting too close for comfort. I sputter out my protests, “we don’t know where we are. Where that goes.” Christopher was already turning off the side. “I bet I’ll get some signal if we head down the mountain. That’s headed down. Don’t worry about it. Put your seatbelt on Ben from Boston.” The nose of the car dipped down and I clenched my teeth, clicking my seatbelt in place. We rocked, boat-like, and the wheels fought against the dirt until we were level again. 

I wasn’t sure how I was feeling about Christopher at that moment. I wish I could charge my phone or maybe get out and walk. There were plenty of cars to hitch a ride from by then. Too late to make up my mind, the car’s wheels crunched on a new gravel road and our headlights streaked against an empty dark. The car behind us drove forward to take our place.

“Don’t you think other cars would go this way,” a bump in the road sent me jostling, “if it leads to the main road again?” “I’ll just get us some signal,” he mumbled. “Better than sitting in traffic.” I huffed, “Right.” The gravel road had the feel of a worn-down side street, probably leading to a series of fancy mansions or off-the-grid weirdos. Nowhere real. Christopher took off his sunglasses all over again and met my eyes.

“Sorry to get you take you on a side adventure.” He cleared his throat. “And wake you.” I remembered myself all at once and ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry,” I said, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m normally a better house guest. Promise I don’t normally pass out in stranger’s cars.” “What do you normally do?” I shift in place. “Convince them to go off-roading in the middle of the night,” I deadpan. “Keep things interesting.” “That’s my line.” He laughs. Before we can really get back to normal and I can push away the dark flick of his gaze, Christopher slams on the breaks. “Holy hell!”

I grip on to the seatbelt, jostling back and forth, eyes go wide. “What?”

A line of cars appeared up ahead. My whole system tingled. “Were those there before? I didn’t see those before,” I repeated the phrase like a fool, “I didn’t see any of those cars a second ago.” A long line of cars, trailing off ahead and into the hills. “Out of the frying pan and into . . .” he trailed off. Christopher’s gaze lost its humor. He put his sunglasses back on. “Get out.” “Excuse me?” I definitely shouldn’t have taken that nap. “Get out.”

The hairs on my arm stood on end, breath catching in my throat. I glanced into the woods. The trees were tall here, leaving little undergrowth, and a sliver of moon lit barely penetrated the textured black. I could still make out headbeams, bright here, blaring, and moving through the trees. I reeled back, watching the lights bob in place. A few minutes ago, I had been chomping at the bit to get out of the car and find someone else to ride with. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Head Beams swayed. Oddly. Unnaturally. Too far off the ground. Head Beams that couldn’t be headbeams when I squinted and looked. I gulped.

“Sure man, just give me a second.” I clutched at the seatbelt. A hand squeezed my knee and I glanced down, almost grateful if he was going to keep me for this reason or that. Nothing was there. 

I buttoned up my jacket, readying myself to walk until I couldn’t walk anymore. Get ready to be eaten by a mountain lion because I sure as hell wasn’t setting up camp any time soon.

“Nevermind.” Christopher grabbed the back of my head. His hand was large and firm around the nape of my neck. “Too late. Get down.” The lights bobbed and weaved around us and I didn’t need to be told twice. Better to be hunkered down than out in the open. A second later, a knock came at the car window. The type you might hear from an officer in a tv show. I hoped. Just a regular official telling us the roads weren’t clear, the rockslide was too big. Go back, go home, all of this was explainable.

“Can I help you?” Christopher’s window rolled down. I tucked myself into a tighter ball in the foot space. 

“Do you want to be loved?” The voice was sharp, a splash of cold water cloying through my senses. Branches against glass, more garbled than real. Then the words righted themselves in my head and I wished I was back at the Johnson’s. I could be with their family right now, however out of place, holding up non-alcoholic champagne and telling her life after graduation wasn’t so bad. Didn’t have to be.

“No, I’m all good.” “Do you want to be loved,” the voice said in an insistent tone.

“I don’t want any.” He cleared his throat. “We’re running behind, anyway. Have to go. You could tell th–” “Seven years. To be loved, do you want to be loved,” I peaked up from my fetal position, a thing bent into the car, “Seven years and a day. To be loved.” Christopher rolled up his window, slow and deliberate. “No. No,” he said, “not that.” I caught a glimpse, however briefly, of a head of something impossibly tall and with a singular eye, blinking and glowing and bobbing in place. My heart sang, briefly, called out, wanted. Then, the thing at our window turned and disappeared.

“That’s what I get for thinking it’d be someone important.” Christopher’s gaze lingered on my own, keeping me there and for the first time, I heard him humming, gently, in the back of his throat. Inky eyes, dark as night, and holding me there. 

“Stop it!” I clawed at the air back to the door. My chest heaved.

He swallowed, looking away. “I really was just trying to give you a lift,” he muttered, gripping the wheel. “I don’t even think they’d want me back so soon.” “Who?” I lapped the roof of my mouth, realizing I was parched.

Christopher leaned his head back against the headrest, looking above. “Don’t tell my mom,” he adjusted his seat, “I’ve been playing music for mortals.” —---------------------------

There are ghosts and ghouls and monsters and many things that want to eat you. I was a fool, not recognizing what types of things might want to eat me. Traffic was barely moving, whatever this traffic was. I was getting thirstier.

I swallowed, again and again. A steady stream of knocks came at the window, but Christopher waved them all off. “No thank you, no thanks.” 

Music spilled in the distance, faint and dreamlike, just like the soft humming Christopher had let out. I could see streaks of light against the seat, Christopher’s face, the trees up above. Once, impossibly, something passed overhead. An enormous head you might see displayed on mantles. Big as a house, mighty and towering up above. A long white nose and antlers thick as redwoods. Great tendrils of moss seemed to hang from the antler’s alongside lanterns. Lights strung up among the foliage and impossible prongs.

An elk, an elk enormous beyond imagination, passed and I exhaled. I really wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

“Do you have any water?” Christopher glanced down, eyebrows arching and eyes wet as dogs noses.

“None for you,” he said but in a tone that somehow did not convey rudeness. “Trust me.” “Trust you,” I muttered, “after being cramped and hiding for over an hour? God, it must be sunrise soon.” “No. I’m afraid not.” He heaved a sigh. “Fairy market and all that.” I gaped at him. “Would you like to run that by me one more time?” He shook his head. “Ben,” he said, tasting the name on his lips, humming, “sturdy name. Useful. You’ve got strong fate lines. You won’t die here tonight, as long as you do as I say. Well, won’t die or be stolen if I can help it.” I set my jaw and Christopher put his sunglasses back on. “Happy?”

I kicked out, deciding if I was going to have a delusion, I might as well have it sitting. I rested my back against the door, head peeking up above the windows now. “I want to go back to the main road.” 

Christopher didn’t reply. 

It could have been an hour or only a few minutes, before a face appeared in the window. At first, I didn’t recognize it as a face, a smooth moonlike token in the window. Then, it gathered itself into two sparkling eyes, a clever mouth, and delicate cheekbones. The lady's white hair piled high on her head, adorned with blood-red leaves and berries and she smiled. Her eyes were ink-dark.

“Oh no.” Christopher clutched at the wheel. The lady inclined her head, clever mouth remaining closed but eyes beseeching. A pang went through my chest, unbidden, I felt bad for Christopher. Lord have mercy on a fool. “I have to take this,” he said in a monotone. Air whooshed into the car, cool and light against my skin, tasting of mint or something sharper.

“Wasn’t expecting a visit so soon. Is dad here?” The woman didn’t seem to speak, but inclined her head. Christopher leaned forward, blocking my view or maybe blocking her from me. He got out of the car. 

The second the door closed, taking Christopher with it, I decided to make a break for it. 

—---------------

I racked my head for what I knew about fairies. Cinderella’s godmother, the tooth fairy, Peter Pan. Tinker Bell was probably not going to help me much unless, of course, pirates became relevant in the near future. Which they might, given the night I was having. I opened the door a crack. Sweet brisk air filtered in.

I contemplated the ground below. No longer gravel but rich black earth. My spine prickled and I held very still. The only thing I could come up with half-way relevant was a 11 grade project where we had to choose a poem to analyze. I had picked The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. As a 16-year-old I had chosen it for the racy content and riskier presentation in class.

Looking at the dark soil, I muttered to myself, “We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil, they fed their hungry thirsty roots?”

I squeezed my eyes closed. I had already spoken to the dark-eyed man and listened to his music, I suppose. I didn’t remember much else of the poem but the heat rising in my cheeks and Lizzie walking into the market. 

I kicked the door open, kept my eyes down, and went for my pack. My heart beat at the pace of the hummingbird's wings and my hands slipped on the door handle. Voices, whispering, indistinct. At the third try I wrenched the back open and got my pack out in one swing. The whispering grew louder and my eyes caught on the lights and the forest.

I knew the Canadian Rockies. I tripped over pine cones and hard stone, drank from crystalline lakes, ran my hands over Alpine forget-me-nots, froze and sweated and bled. This was them and so much more. The trees were the whitebark pines and firs, tightly knit together and crowned in ragged peaks. Voices called to me.

The darkness between the trunks bled into hands, red and mangy, like huckleberry shrubbery waving in the wind. Faces appeared in the shards of moonlight, lanterns bobbed and lurching heaving mountains of things moving in the far distance. Elk perhaps. Mountains. 

I pivoted in place, keeping my eyes away from stalled cars that made up this place. Voices called and righted themselves into words this time. “Young man. Mortal son. Hello.” A sheet of misty rain appeared to my left, melting from the dark and blinking handsome golden eyes. A sturdy nose. A pretty mouth.

“Would you like–” “Thanks. No.” I copied Christopher, not meeting the thing’s eye, and began to walk. The underbrush was not empty however, the forest moved with creatures big enough to crush. I wondered if any amount of walking would take me home.

Another voice broke through the murmuring. “You’ll never make it that way.”

I turned. And there were cars. Glowing bright as stars and windows cranked open. Figures sat inside alongside various goods. Twinkling soda cans and pearl necklaces hung next to each other on string. Stuffed bears and empty plastic bags filled baskets hanging out of car windows. Paint brushes, old CDs, and pine cones set out on car hoods. 

Market stalls. Of course. Some of them appeared as cars, others were old barrels and broken-down train cars off to the side. The beckoning of hands felt like it was coming from all directions.

“I don’t have any money!” I called like that would matter. “I’m, I’m a hiker. A traveler passing through.”

“We don’t take money. Those things,” a clump of white moths, fluttering around and around in a mass, spoke. Ink eyes. Beautiful, tumbling curls. She pointed at the empty soda bottles and stuffed animals, “not for you.”

I backed away. “I don’t have anything you might want.” 

The clump of moths smiled. “My darling, sweet boy . . . Would you like to be loved?”

I gulped down air. “I have to, have to go.” Weaving between stalls one moment and stalled cars the next, I hurried to where there must be an end. There must be an end to the market. 

Fruit the color of sapphires piled high on discarded card tables. Sardine cans and quilted blankets. Water bottles. Canisters and other hiker’s camel backpacks. God, I was thirsty. And I could hear all of them now. 

“Boy, would you like unfading beauty?” “Ten years of glory and a lion’s heart. Heart of lion’s for only ten years.”

Calling. Beseeching. A market you could understand the poem’s sisters getting lost in. My sleeve snagged on something in this endless market. I stumbled into what felt like a rock face.

“Hush now, sweet thing,” thick lichen, flaking and upright, spoke, “I will give you a belonging you have never felt before.” My heart went double time and the thirst ached. I knew it was aching. I knew I was Lizzie about to have her skin pinched and clothes torn. Sullied. Or perhaps, like Laura, changed. I wondered about my sister then. I wondered about being home.

“Belonging for thirteen years and thirteen days,” she smiled. My heart raced and I searched the fairy's face. “You deserve to belong just like anyone else, don’t you? Thirteen years and nothing more.”

“Of my life?” She smiled wider and placed a hand on my chest, fingers spreading like a mold. “Or your heart. Your soul. Memories. Wakeful hours. A song.” I shook my head, slowly and then vigorously. I took a step back.

“A bargain then,” her voice crooned in the groaning of old wood, “Twelve years. Twelve days.” Her hand spread, soaking into the flesh of shirt. “And a kiss.” 

“Thank you!” I nearly shrieked. “I’m not, I’m not. No.” I stumbled back, teetering away from the bright lights. I ducked and dodged into the darkened wood where smaller, stranger things dwell.

I stepped out of the light. The fairies called after me and their voices, luckily, faded into the murmuring of brooks and bird calls and rustling once more. I turned and felt the despair leach into my center. The line of stalls appeared endless, a train, a caravan, a curse.

I slumped down and put my head in my hands. No matter where I had looked, there was no sign of sun. I counted back from ten before I pried my eyes open again. “Christopher?” I called once and then shivered in place, perhaps the most lost I’ve ever been.

“Would you like to be good?” I didn’t look over when it spoke. “Good and know that you are good.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I want to go home.” I groaned, still not looking down. “Or at least for my ride to come back.” Christopher, at least, had not tried to make any deals. 

“Hmm. Not home. No.”

I saw her hop up from beneath a crop of twisted roots. This fairy was smaller and less beautiful. A dainty clump of mountain ash that was only a hands-length tall. A bushel of delicate white flowers crowned in dew-like hair. She reminded me a bit, only a bit, of Tinker Bell. 

“You’ve been running from something,” her voice was more of a squeak. I was tired. 

“You could say that.”

She patted my knee and my throat throbbed hard enough to make me groan.“You could be good. And know that you are good.” 

I leaned back against the tree trunk. “How much?”

“For good?”

“For home.” “A year or two.” She shrugged. “For being good and knowing you are good. I’m not sure about home.”

I chuckled without humor. “Less than a decade. You’re not much of a bargainer.” “The others know I am small. And crushable.” Dew leaked down her shoulder tops. “So, I’ll take just a year or two of your heart. That’s all.” “My heart?” She shrugged once more, the water making its way down her fluffy skirt and dripping on the ground. “No love. No opening of it.” She put a hand over her chest. “And you’ll be good.” “Good. Huh.” “And know it!” she chirped, “so when you ask yourself, am I doing alright? Am I enough? When I am not earning or making or promising or getting a wife or standing big. You will know. Know that you're good without wondering.” My eyes burned and I rubbed at the corners until I saw spots. I cleared my throat, knowing I needed to steer away. “Where did you come from?” “Silly question.” “Sure.”

“I am like you.” “Not good then?” I raised an eyebrow. “In need of being good, apparently.”

She laughed, shrilly. “No. Not very good at all. Small. Crushable. Small and crushable are not allowed in the queen's caravan.” “That does sound bad,” I said, quietly, staring up. “I’d like to say I know how you feel, but . . .”

“But I do know things. And little boys like, they don’t have to make their own lives so difficult.” “Ha.” My gaze drops to hers. “You’re offering to make my life easy?”

A smile across the face of the little ash fairy, spreading all the way across her face like a jagged wound. “Good.” 

My breath wheezed out and I dropped closer. I was tired, eyes heavy, body aching like a kicked dog coming back to sit at your feet. “It wouldn’t hurt, would it?” She held up a cup made of her own petals. A cup of deep water and lapped at my cracked lips. “All you have to do is drink your fill.” The moonlight caught in the shallow dip and I tipped my head back. Three droplets passed down my lips, fresh as spring, cold enough to strike from my chest to my fingertips. I screwed my eyes shut and clutched at my chest.

The cold blossomed and it was what I imagined a heart attack might feel like. Or perhaps the opposite of one. 

“Wait, shouldn’t we, shouldn’t there be something to sign–” I choked and sputtered and then pain burst from my middle finger on my left hand. The fairy, small and crushable, dug her teeth into my flesh. Gripping ruthlessly, she attached to an open wound, drinking her fill. Dew perched on her head turned red and she made a supping, singing noise in the back of her throat. 

“That’s enough!” I shook her off and another sharp prick went through my wrist. A sting in my neck and then another by elbow. “Stop it!”

A chanting went through my head, a child’s chant like a nursery rhyme. You are good, you are good, you are good. I covered my ears with both hands.

“Stop it!” I bellowed. “This isn’t what we agreed to.” What had we agreed to? The creature tittered and others gathered around it, sharp and hungry. The roots and the rot and the writhing soil. 

I stood, world spinning and heart crushing together into a perfect aching cold. Are fairies allowed to be liars? A tingling spread to the ends of my fingertips and a dizziness overwhelmed me. I covered my mouth with one hand and stopped myself from heaving.

I might have blacked out, blacked out and not come back, and then a light parted the darkness of the wood.

“What have you done?” The words echoed in my head. The face of man, inkdrop eyes, and shining curly hair, looked down on me, pitying. “No,” he said simply. “You can’t. He is my guest.”

Blood seeped out of the cut on my hand and I think I might faint, actually faint like in the movies. Strong hands caught me and then two fingers, clean and warm, human even, pressed to my mouth. Light like the moon poured off of him. “Swallow,” he said. The light burned away the sickly chill. A white fire, burning a path down my throat and into my chest and leaving new life in its wake. 

“Better?” A crown hovered around the man’s head in a halo, stars, the moon even. 

Maybe I could have stayed, made clean and whole, and neither good nor bad. Could have stayed to be made better by the prince of fairies. But I wasn’t that type of person. Voices, again, of birds and wind and roots. I tuned them out. My eyes fixed on lanterns in the distance, meaningless words rushing over me. He spoke of being clean now, healed. The lantern flickered, floating there like something from the stories. 

I looked down at my veins, spiderwebbed in light. They glowed from the inside out. A light, poured from the outside in. A hand was on my knee. Like it had been in the car and I saw it was my own, digging into my flesh. My own hand clutching my own knee and taking me back to myself.

“Can we get him a blanket?” Christopher turned his face. I bolted. No packback, no thoughts, only feet on the ground. Light blared into my face, branches gripped at my clothes, tearing at seams. My nose began to bleed, tasting heated and metallic. I didn’t stop to mop it up. I kept the light of that bobbing thing in my vision, running and bleeding like I never had before.

Later, I would learn a will-o-wisp will is a type of fairy as well, meant for travelers. A light that will get you lost or drown you, if it gets the chance. Though, I was already lost. I ran until my shoes lost the ground. One moment I was sailing ahead, the next I burst through the surface of a lake. Cold engulfed me from all sides, plunging me back into my flesh. I kicked for the surface, up into the fresh night. The trees surrounded this lake in beetle-worn packs, brown and small. Mud caked the banks of the water. Stars were distant and small overhead. I laughed. 

I tore at my shirt and shoes and pants and rubbed deep dark mud across my skin. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

The water ran muddy. Ran red. Then, at least, ran a bright horrible glow, bleeding out and out and out. I bled out the glow of the fairy prince. I washed myself, heaving enough laughter until it turned into a whimper. I scrubbed myself raw until the water, with the sun rising among the peaks, ran clear. 

—----------------

I thought of the prince now and then, how he saved my heart from closing. How he looked at me. How he poured light down my throat, burning me up from the inside out and taking with it a curse. I should be grateful. I went home after all, I hugged my sister and my parents. Hell, I even re-signed up for classes, even as I knew I’d eventually drop out again. Went on a few dates. Gained some roommates I loved and a dog I liked even more. I told stories and stayed. My heart was my own. But I didn’t come back the same after hitchhiking into the depths of the woods in the dark of the road. It was hard to be grateful. Hard for it to feel like a favor to have my heart kept open when it was only replaced by a worse sort of feeling. Longing and longing and longing for inky depths and impossibility, memory that grips you by the throat and murmurs, what if you had stayed?

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[twilight-linkess]

Time 15 :D

Everything is under control (nothing is under control)

Requests closed

[workingforitallthetime]

i was being lazy and kind of halfassed the last third of it when i was roughing out the adam/girl!rutger boys and girls can't be friends premise earlier, but fortunately the 2023 nhl draft suggested a much better ending, so here it is.

things start feeling a little... off with adam after the conversation about seamus. he’s quieter. he meets her eyes less, like he’s avoiding her without actually avoiding her. with the school year ending, everyone's around all the time, and rutger can't figure out if it's on purpose that adam's never alone with her any more.

she's determined to power through and make everything normal. adam leaves for worlds like next week. and maybe he’s never coming back, although rutger doesn’t want to think about that. but if he isn’t, they might as well make the most of it, right? (before rutger has to go back to mediocre hookups. she doesn't like to think about that either.)

adam is not picking up on her body language, which is strange since it seemed like he was kind of good at that. like, all rutger had to do was tilt her chin a little and five minutes later they’d be sneaking off together to the closest empty bedroom. but she finally has to, like, angle herself in close to him in the crowd at a party and press herself against his back and whisper into his ear let's fuck.

adam's back goes rigid. he tilts his head toward her just a little bit, not enough to look her in the eye, and says "i don't think that's what i want."

"okay, cool." rutger unsticks herself from adam's back and flounces away to the kitchen. she's not going to be embarrassed about this. she's not. friends with benefits is supposed be no strings attached, she reminds herself. she could have cut it off at any time. she can be cool about adam doing the same. she can be cool. she can prove that they can hook up, and stop hooking up, and still be friends.

so rutger's the coolest she can possibly be, and she determinedly treats adam just like nothing's changed. it still feels like something has. but maybe it's just her imagination. adam’s gone at worlds. he's busy. he doesn't have to answer her texts.

rutger swims in the lake and rides her moped with her teammates and tries to flirt with jacob at the big memorial day weekend trip to duker's, and there's still a giant hole in the center of everything. adam goes to the combine and he's all over every hockey account she follows on instagram and she doesn't know what he thinks of any of it.

she goes to the draft with her family, just like they planned it months ago. they pose for a photo, her and her sister and their parents and all the fantillis, and on the surface everything looks just like always. but adam hugs molly just the same as he hugs rutger.

that's when rutger realizes: she doesn't just miss adam texting her and competing with her and being the only other person in the world operating at rutger's level of all-in all-the-time no-bad-days. also she misses adam kissing her and touching her and taking care of her.

rutger gamely smiles her way through the pre-draft festivities and the draft and the fantilli draft party. as everyone filters out to keep the party going on broadway afterwards, she remembers she left her phone upstairs and tells them she'll catch up.

the main room of the penthouse is empty. rutger spots her phone by the window where she left it. instead of snatching it up and clattering back down the stairs, she sinks down to sit on the exposed brick windowsill, looking out at the lights of nashville. the colors go blurry as her eyes fill with tears.

well, whatever. she's been a good party girl all week and she deserves a minute to get teary all by herself in the penthouse suite, curled up by the window in her bright party dress and cowboy boots. she looks out past the river to the stadium as the neon bar lights pulse and cycle below her, and quietly admits to herself that this trip would have been much better if she was adam's girlfriend.

what a time to get a crush on adam, huh? now that they're not even friends anymore.

after a few minutes she carefully blots the tears out from under her bottom lashes with the tip of her pinky finger. she tightens her ponytail. she's gotta pull herself together to go join the party. she can do this.

the door to the penthouse opens. it's adam. of course it's adam. he stops on the other side of the pool table, looking puzzled, when he spots rutger. "everything okay?"

rutger's face crumples at the sight of him. "why are you mad at me?" she wails, abandoning all dignity. so much for being cool.

"hey," adam says, soothingly. he crosses the room and sits on the windowsill next to rutger and very gently puts an arm around her.

all that does is make rutger cry harder. here’s adam, finally touching her, letting her wrap her arms around around him and cry against his draft jersey, and none of it means anything. "why is everything so fucked up?" rutger sobs into his jersey. the edge of the cannon patch on adam's shoulder digs into her cheek.

“i'm not mad at you.” adam says, once rutger slows to a sniffle. “i just need some space." rutger's shoulders start to quiver again. "to get over it," adam adds hastily.

rutger takes a shuddery breath and sits up straight. "what have you got to get over?" she points an accusing finger at adam. "you're the one who didn't want..."

adam scoots back, palms up. "well, yeah, once i figured out you didn't like me like that."

"how don't i like you?" it doesn't make any sense. she likes adam in all the ways, every way it's possible to like someone. she chokes out the words between big gasping dramatic sobs. "we could have been everything."

rutger furiously swipes tears off her cheek. she's failing so hard at being cool. good thing adam's going to sign with columbus and disappear again and maybe she can just fall in a hole and die. she glares at him.

adam looks confused. "is that what you want?" he takes her team-damped hand and laces their fingers together. "everything?"

"of course i do," rutger says, very small, trying to not start crying again.

"me too." adam takes her tearstained face between his hands and kisses her.

[demonicseries]

Ao3 is down so people on tiktok live are reading fanfic aloud