#i barely even had to farm for him it kept giving me such good artifacts

[electric-plants]

GOTTA stop being so committed to testing my builds on ruin guards when there are so many better options that won’t die in like two hits smh

[athenagc94]

Delving Beneath the Surface

Hello! Here is the first chapter of my new Stardew Valley fanfic - Delving Beneath the Surface. Follow my farmer, Verona, as she searches for dwarven artifacts to learn their language, lost to the ages. If you’re interested in following along, I’ll be updating it here on AO3 and here on Wattpad. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

The Stardrop Saloon was the place to be on a Friday night.

More accurately, it was the only place to be in Pelican Town on a Friday night.

Verona chatted amicably with Emily as she fixed her a drink behind the bar. She asked Haley to join her, but she chose to spend the night with Alex instead. She mentioned something about not wanting to interact with her sister more than she thought was necessary, but Verona struggled to understand why. Sure, Emily had her quirks, but in the end, she was sweeter than Robin’s strawberry crumble.

And she always gave her a discount on drinks when Gus had his back turned.

Emily slid her drink across the beaten counter. “You should really stop by more often. You brighten up the room with that aura of yours.” She motioned to her, the crystal beads on her wrists catching the light like a disco ball. “It has this shimmer I don’t often see around here. Maybe because you’re from out of town.”

“Thanks,” she heard the doubt in her voice, “I think?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s a compliment.” She sighed dreamily. “I think you’re rubbing off on Haley. Her aura used to be so blah, but now it’s much brighter. I suspect you have something to do with it.”

She merely smiled as she took a sip of her drink. The orange juice and grenadine barely masked the burn of liquor. Emily was also very generous with her alcohol. One of her mixed drinks left the room spinning if she drank it too quickly. And she never needed more than one. It was a mistake she only made once after she woke up, half-naked and covered in hay, with Shane. The pair agreed never to speak of it again. They had taken to avoiding each other ever since.

Even now, he refused to meet her eye from across the bar.

Clearing her throat, she set her drink aside and said, “We both know she’s a lot nicer than people give her credit for. She just needs to warm up to someone first.”

Emily leaned against the bar, cradling her cheek in her palm. “Oh, I know how sweet she can be, but I like to see her hanging out with someone who isn’t Alex. I love that boy, I really do, but he’s a bit bland for my tastes.”

Verona shrugged. “Alex is fine.”

“No one wants to be described as fine,” Emily said with a knowing smile, “Unless they’re being called fine.” Verona shook her head, earning an airy laugh. “You know I’m right.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny such things.”

Emily pouted. “Boo. You’re no fun.”

At the end of the bar, a harried-looking Elliott plopped down in a seat and waved Emily over. She eyed him warily, then turned back to Verona. “He must have finished another long writing session,” she whispered so only she could hear, “he always comes here for a celebratory glass of wine, but if you ask me, his first order of business should be the bathhouse.”

Verona hid her smile in her drink.

With a smirk, she added, “I got to keep working, but let me know when you need a refill. It’s on the house. Just don’t tell Gus.”

“You spoil me.”

“Anything for my sister’s best friend.”

Like she said, sweeter than strawberry crumble.

Drink in hand, Verona wandered over to the game room on the far side of the saloon. Abigail and the boys normally laid claim to it before she arrived. The enduring smell of cigarette smoke and old pizza proved that much. To her surprise, the trio was absent that evening and the game room abandoned. She stepped inside, studying the games consoles on the long wall. 

She lingered on one – Journey of the Prairie King. The monitor transitioned between the trial and the high scores.

The coveted first place belonged to someone with the initials SQM.

She glanced back at the bar. No one paid her any mind. The chatter was loud enough to drown out the jaunty music coming from the console. Surely, no one would miss her if she played a game or two.

Fishing a coin from her pocket, she shoved it into the machine. The monitor transitioned away from the high scores and straight into the game. The goal was simple enough. Shoot enemies and avoid getting touched. She could manage that.

Her fingers flew across the control pad. Dodge, shoot, collect. She enjoyed the thrill that came with these games. No strategy needed. Something to kill time and sweep her away. That was exactly what she needed after a long week of farm work. Ten minutes came and went in the blink of any eye. The LED lights on the marquee lit up followed by the crawl of the ‘high score’ animation across the screen.

She threw her hands up and whooped triumphantly. “Take that SQM.” She replaced their initials with her own – VDS. The screen popped up and she took a moment to revel in her victory. Pulling a coin from her pocket, she started another game. At the very least, she could knock SQM to third place before she called it a night.

“What are you doing?”

Verona whipped around. Sebastian leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed tight over his chest. She shifted in front of the console and sputtered, “Me? I was just killing time, or whatever.” It beeped and flashed, signaling her loss. “And I’m not very good.”

“Whatever.”

He made a beeline for the pool cues on the far wall. She watched as he reached for one, then seemed to reconsider, grabbing the one beside it. He weighed it in his hand with a satisfied hum and turned to the table.

“Playing pool by yourself?”

He ignored her as he organized the balls in the triangle rack. She stood opposite him, watching quietly. The soft clack of plastic filled the empty air between them as she waited for him to acknowledge her. A minute passed before she sighed and took the cue ball, rolling it idly between her hands. “Not much of a talker, eh?”

Silence.

“Haley mentioned that you like to keep to yourself.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “And that you don’t get out much, which seems kind of mean if you ask me. One could argue that I don’t get out very much because I—”

“Look,” Sebastian cut her with a glare, “I’m not interested in…”

He trailed off, zeroing in on her chest. Her blood coated her veins like a thin sheet of ice. She should have been used to the stares by now. It happened all the time in Zuzu City. On the street, the subways, around the Joja office. Eyes followed her wherever she went. She hoped Pelican Town would be different, but evidently not.

“Where did you get that?”

Her brow pitched. “Where did I get what?”

He took a step towards her. She matched it with a step back. Surprise colored his features as he studied her. The full brunt of his gaze unnerved her, but it felt far from predatory in the way that she was used to. The fear that swelled in her gut must have translated on her face because he stepped back, giving her the space that she needed. The pressure that weighed on her chest lightened until she could breathe again.

“That.” He motioned to her chest. She followed the line of his gaze to the pendant hanging off her neck. A pale blue gemstone on a simple chain. “Do you know what that is?”

She found the gemstone while exploring the mines earlier that week. Amongst the snow and ice coating the lower levels, she almost missed it, but it caught the light of her flashlight just right. When she got home, she decided it would make a lovely necklace and threw it on a chain.

“It’s a necklace.”

He gave her a long look. “That’s a frozen tear.”

She stared at him. Was that supposed to resonate with her or something? He scratched irritably at the nape of his neck. The shaved underside of his head had grown out and curled around his ears. She noted the reddish hue at his roots and bit back a smile.

“Legend says those are the tears of yetis that inhabited the mines thousands of years ago. The museum used to have one, but it was stolen with the rest of the collection.” He gave her a once over – like he suspected her of stealing it. She had a killer alibi considering that happened years before she arrived in town – and they both knew it. “How did you manage to find one?”

“I found it while gathering ore the other day.” She brushed her fingers over the gemstone, marveling at how it still felt cold to the touch. Maybe there was some truth to the legend after all. “I had no idea these were so rare.”

“Wait. You went down to the mines by yourself?” She braced herself, already anticipating the direction this conversation was about to go. “Why? Wouldn’t that ruin your manicure or something?”

She threw her whole body into the eye roll she gave him. He had no idea. With all the work she did on the farm, there was no hope of salvaging her cuticles. The closest nail tech was two hours away. She had neither the money nor the time to do anything about it.

“Well, yeah, it does,” she deadpanned, “but I also want to commission some tappers for trees to make a little extra money, but Clint’s ore prices are ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me that little miss pageant princess went down to the mine alone?”

Verona resisted the urge to groan. If she had known that rumor would spread like wildfire, then she would have kept that chapter of her life to herself. Granted, she never expected a polite conversation with Jodi to end with half the town knowing about her history with frilly gowns and tiaras. She came here for a fresh start, but she couldn’t escape her past that easily.

Sebastian sized her up. “And you came back unscathed? I call bullshit.”

“I wouldn’t say unscathed.” She teased the sleeve of her sweater. “I had to buy a drugstore worth of bandages and antiseptic from Harvey when I got back. Those bats are merciless.”

She pushed up her sleeves and showed him the bandages wrapped around her forearms. The cuts had stopped bleeding, but a few gashes still looked nasty, so she kept them wrapped until they healed a little more. Harvey warned her that a few would probably scar, so there went her flawless skin. Her mother would have a meltdown if she ever found out, but she could cross that proverbial bridge later.

“Okay,” Sebastian grimaced, “but why go down?”

“The prices here are ridiculous,” she reiterated, “Pierre already bleeds me dry at the turn of the season when I buy seeds. I can’t afford Clint’s ore prices on top of it. If I can gather it myself, then I will.”

“Fair enough.” He turned back to the pool balls, signaling the end of their conversation.

Verona was never one to pay attention to those signals. “So, are you playing pool alone?”

He sighed. “Sam got stuck re-stocking shelves at work and Abigail is helping her dad with inventory. They’ll stop by later, but I decided to come ahead and set things up for us.” He swiped the cue ball from her hands and set it on the table. “So, no, I’m not playing alone.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who plays pool.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, I would have never pegged you as a gamer.” He nodded to the consoler. “I was ranked number one, but I guess I’ll have to settle for second place.”

Her blink betrayed her surprise. “SQM?”

“Sebastian Quincy McCarthy. What? You thought Sam had the high score?” He rolled his eyes and turned back to the pool table. “I love the guy, but the guitar is the only thing he has going for him. You de-throned me, so thanks for that.”

With a shrug, she said, “In my family, second place is unacceptable.”

“I’m used to second place, so whatever.”

A frown toyed on her lips. What was that supposed to mean? Before she could press, her phone vibrated in her back pocket. A text from Haley greeted her, followed quickly by three more. She skimmed the messages and cursed. Alex ditched her for a last minute gridball game and she wasn’t taking it well. She tucked her phone away. That meant her night and this conversation was officially over.

“I gotta go.”

Sebastian hummed in response, which was better than being ignored, so she took it. Turning to leave, she stopped short. Her gaze fell back to the necklace. Genuine awe like his was hard to come by. It’s not like she needed this frozen tear. She had plenty of gems to make jewelry at home. This obviously meant something to him.

“But before I go,” she pulled the chain over her head, “I want you to have this.”

She offered it to him. He made a face, caught somewhere between surprise and his usual jaded indifference. The two emotions fought for control until he ducked his head. The crown of his head burned crimson. “What? Why?”

“Consider it a gift.” She kept her hand outstretched towards him.

Sebastian shook his head. “No. You’re the one who found it. It’s your prize for surviving the bats. I’ll find one eventually.” He hid his hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. Verona sucked irritably on a tooth. As if that would save him.

“I find plenty of cool things in the mines,” she countered, “I can make necklaces from a jade or ruby. This means something to you. I want you to have it.” She took another step towards him, nearly flush with his chest. His breath hitched as she peered up at him through her lashes. It might have been a cute moment if not for the fierce determination coloring her features.

“I insist.” Standing on her tiptoes, she managed to drape the necklace over his head.

His fingers wrapped instinctively around the gem. The corner of his mouth twitched up into the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s still cold,” he breathed in disbelief, “but how? It’s the middle of the…” His eyes fluttered as he refocused on her face. Sawdust and cigarette smoke clung to him, barely masked by the smell of peppermint on his breath.

“Thanks, I,” he swallowed hard, “I appreciate it.”

She beamed at him as she stepped away, breaking whatever that moment might have become. “I’m glad I could give you something you really wanted.” If possible, his blush darkened. “And if you ever want to play pool and the others aren’t around. I’d be more than happy to—”

The bubbly beat of Haley’s ringtone cut her off. Verona swore under her breath and brought it to her ear. “I’m on my way. You can tell me everything over a glass of wine.” She threw a wave over her shoulder as she hurried out of the saloon, not bothering to look back and see if he returned it.

[semicolonthefifth]

CROSS ch.3 - Sleepwalk

Many villages lined the Black Road, but much are alike in both design and reason for why they exist. Centuries of colonization, and Aurora is still untapped of what it could offer. Humanity has barely scratched a percentage of the planet, on account of both the world’s vicious sand storms and unforgiving climate. In addition, the natives practically own the mountains, and aren’t at all welcoming of humans digging too deep into their homes. Yet to this day people continue to stake their claims, coming to Aurora to find whatever section of rock or dirt that’ll hopefully grant them riches - ranging from lost Old Earth salvage, Deltan artifacts, or rich metals. When the dream dies, they settle down and try to make their fortune in another way: by settling a town.

When you travel the Road, you’ll find plenty of towns - some thriving, others dying, and many others to be completely abandoned. Often times these towns are a farm of sorts, others act as mines, and the rest offer some sort of service to travelers. You’ll have places built around a cookery, a goods store, churches, or - most commonly - a bar. When you’re living on a place like Aurora, you’ll always need a place to relax and have yourself a drink.

Jason had gotten a bad rep in a lot of the better spots along the Road. When you’ve got a habit of hunting your bounty into the one place everyone takes restage at, you tend to cause a fight or two. It doesn’t help that there’s sort of an unwritten law, that a bar is the most neutral spot you can find. So naturally, Jason had to drive for a long stretch of the road after dumping Sid’s body, all to find one bar to rest himself in. The one bar he could find a good change of getting a break was further south, in a town east off the Black Road and nearer towards Moresatta than Calberi:

A quiet little place called “Blondie”.

Population: about 48 people. Mostly men, with some women, children, and a few elderly.

It was a mining town that then turned into a wet stop for any traveling drunkard looking to stretch their legs before making the long trek for the city at the South end. From what Jason could remember off hearsay, it used to be quite the popular spot before a more easily reachable settlement was made, and the mines hit an impassable blockage that essentially killed the mining work there. It was named by its founder, for reasons that weren’t explained - save for the rare comment about an ‘inspiration’ of sorts. Besides the bar, a barber, and an alright tortilla shop, there wasn’t much else to get out of the place.

Jason met some regulars to the spot in his travelers, and they all described the bar’s selection of ales to be alright. There wasn’t anything better for miles on end - Jason couldn’t care less for quality at this point.

It took another 20 or so minutes before he would see the town coming over a hill, with a few lights twinkling to signal that any life was there. The wide swerve off the Road was rough, but after driving through some bumpy terrain he slowly came to what he assumed was the saloon. With the night still dark, and his moon dour, Jason didn’t pay much attention to the layout of the town - very few lights were set up in the town, and all Jason could care to pay mind to was where bar stood.

He slowly walked out the car and towards the large structure that acted as the town’s north-most landmark, and from a quick glance of the many lights and the muffled sound of music, he knew this was the bar. Jason made his way for the backdoor, and from the moment he steps in… he feels an all too familiar pain in his head.

Then he remembered.

Blondie was a town that greatly enjoyed the age of the Wild West from the Old Earth, from calling its bar a saloon to the style structure they built, along with all the stuff they hung on the walls of this very establishment. The place was at once a bar and a place of worship of the old. You saw posters that worshiped the heroes back in those days: legends like Wyatt Earp; Billy the Kid; and even good ol’ Harmonica. There were replica bull skulls, a set of guitars and tapestry. A table at a far off corner had a neatly made model of what those western towns looked like back in the day - all too similar to how Blondie is built, now that Jason thought about it. There were even the guns hanging around the place. Fake, of course -bought replicas from an artist, most likely.

Jason looked at it all. He observed the place, and wished even more he was elsewhere.

A music player was nestled by the hallway leading from the main bar floor to the back where Jason had entered. He have a look to see what was playing: an instrumental little thing called “Sleepwalk”. Santo & Johnny. Jason felt in a similar mood.

Then. “Jason?” He heard.

“Jason!” He heard again. “Jason, is that you?” Shouted a patron within the bar. Glancing from where he stood, Jason looked down the hall and saw a friend of his: a man by the name of Frankie Houser, seated next to a guy utterly new to this place.

Frankie was a tall, lean twig of a man at 6 feet in height. Atop his head was a set of red curls that looked like a broccoli had sprouted from his dome. His teeth angled forward whenever he spoke, and the apple in his neck stuck out for all to see. Though he made it all work with what Jason could best describe as the most honest and happiest of smiles. He wore a set of layered leggings that seemed to weigh him down, along with suspenders that hung over his gray-colored wife-beater. His boots were long and brown, almost turning red from the sand. Frankie kept a side-arm, a typical handgun, hanging off a holster to his side that kept him safe for his travels.

Beside him (on Frankie’s left) was another fellow, a curious one from appearance alone. A short, young-looking man that sat proper, unlike Frankie’s more laid back position. He was the cleanest thing in this entire bar, with a nice dark blue-colored suit that was one size too big on him - all over a light blue dress shirt with an obnoxiously green tie. He had dark brown skin, and short layer of black hair on his head, with none over his face. No dirt covered him, and no weapon was visible. Nothing except a backpack held tightly against his chest, only let go briefly so he may wave at Jason. A strange thing to see out here in some bar, Jason thought.

Making his way over, Jason took a seat beside Frankie’s right - all the while giving both men a handshake along the way. Frankie was firm and energetic, meanwhile the kid was weak-wristed but polite. Jason winced on the former more so the latter. With Jason seated, he looked to a bartender that had been waiting nearby - a grizzled, old looking man who gave a little nod to the new patron.

Jason placed his order: a glass of mildly sweet Deltan Ale, a straw, and a plate of ice.

Frankie turned to Jason, “Nice to see you, man. How’s like treatin’ ya?” He asked, with as much kindness and genuine interest. It was about the nicest thing thrown at Jason’s way today.

“Well”. Jason tsked, “Ain’t exactly going my way.”

“That about the truth for all of us, ain’t it?” Frankie responds. “Seems like nothing ever goes our way. Still, I’m sure you’ll find some good coming over yours. Just need to keep ya’ chin up.” He takes a pause to sip from his own drink - a glass of water, one for him and a similar for the friend beside him. It was then that he coughed a bit. All of a sudden a thought entered his mind and he swallows up his water before resuming his talk with Jason.

“Oh, almost forgot - rude of me. Jason, allow me to introduce to a new man here in the wastes. Kid’s name is Charlie. Charlie Wills. Landed onto Aurora, straight from Tyrell.”

Jason chuckled harshly, “Seriously? Tyrell? THE city, Tyrell?”

Charlie nodded before speaking gently. “That I am.”

With more a chuckling escaping from him, Jason then asked further of the young man, “What the heck are ya doing out here in the Black Road? Shouldn’t you be heading on over to Moresatta or something?”

With a slight hesitancy, Charlie’s response was interrupted by Frankie’s own explanation, “Actually, he’s taking the scenic route. We’ve been passing by every site we can find along the way. The kid’s loving all the villages we’ve come to visit so far - along with all the many delicacies they come to offer. Quarter of the trip’s spent trying out foods, I tell ya! Had in me now more than I have the past week!.” He lets out a long breathy laugh at that, bringing Charlie a clear look of embarrassment.

“Hilarious.” Jason comments, a tad positively at first but becomes more serious when he speaks to Charlie. “Hey, kid? Try not to waste too much time on the Black Road though. Drivers like Frankie here can’t be spending all night on the Road.”

“He’s alright, Jason!” Frankie exclaims, once more interrupting whatever reply Charlie was about to make. Frankie then continues, “He’s paying for my troubles, for starters. Plus, I’m having the time of my life. I get some moments to stretch my legs more than I would a straight drive anyhow.”

Charlie finally gets a word in, explaining that, “I’m doing my best not to take advantage of Mr. Hosier. Forgive me if I can’t help myself to stop so much, but you have a wonderful place here. Tyrell’s lovely, but Aurora certainly captures my interest far more by a great margin. Mr. Hosier here has been a great driver since he picked me up from Calberi, and all the sights I’ve seen have already made the expenses worth it. I must say, you have a beautiful world here, sir.”

“Yeah, well so is a lady with experience.” Jason remarked with a lazy grin. “Pretty to look at, but mess with her and she’s already got a knife aimed for your throat.”

Frankie stifles a chuckle, but Jason continues - again, seriously. “Listen, kid, do yourself a favor- go back home. Aside from the two cities, there ain’t nothing to see here on Aurora. It’s a wasteland, empty except for a bunch of folks killing each other all the damn time, and a lot of gangs playing dress up while proving to see who can shoot each other more.”

“Well I’m sorry to say, but t-that’s precisely why I came.” Charlie nervously shoots back, proceeding to open up his backpack and dig right in. “I’ve got - if you let me a moment - some things I wanted to see here that you don’t get in other worlds. All we ever hear about Aurora are the gangs, he natives, and the various wars. So much history bottled up in this one planet, it’s all so interesting yet nothing I’ve read at home really do it justice. Tyrell barely gets anything, and oftentimes what we do get is questionable in its legitimacy. I had to come here, to confirm it myself that it’s all true.”

He keeps on digging, prompting Jason and Frankie to side-eye each other with looks that equally find entertainment at Charlie’s naivety. They don’t say anything, however they’re somewhat intrigued by what the young man’s looking for. Eventually, Charlie produces a thick black binder. He opens it up, revealing a colorful collection of prints and photographs - to which the two natives of the planet take a gander.

Charlie flips past the first couple of pages to show off a small selection of printed replicas of old war-time posters - from the era of conflicts happening on Aurora. They depicted humans in UROE infantry gear, either lining up in inspirational formations or firing their rifles at sword-wielding giants. He turned a page, briefly pausing to let them examine each photo before continuing on to the next. The next set featured prints of a different tone: humans, holding their hands up in union with the giants, set against amber colored mountains. Additionally there were prints which shows 5 humans and one giant, all working at a construction site with words emphasizing “union” and “working to the future”. From how each print looked, it seemed that the original posters were painted before being copied for mass distribution - with a warm, inviting feeling that nostalgia-lovers would love to get their hands on.

Eventually Charlie did some commentary as he showed off the prints -  a bit of confidence making its way up the surface. “Check it out. War propaganda from around the Great Aurora War, nearly a millennium ago. Back then we didn’t know whether to trust the natives or to present them as enemies, so marketing sorta changed in those years. All of it made from a printing company in Aurora, who only got a brief clue of what Deltans looked like from news and word-of-mouth.”

He turned another page, commenting further, “Then see here: prints of the continued war with the Kronian Empire.” The young man, smiling at the two men looking down at his book, turns the page to showcase further pieces in his collection. He pointed to various prints, all of them depicting red-eyed figures, either in pale white face or under black gas-masks. There was one print in particular he directed to the most, where it featured a looming, red-eyed gas-mask wearing creature leering deviously over a group of human colonists. It displayed the text: “OUR HOMES ARE IN DANGER”

Page after page he turned, with Charlie showing off more of his historical collection. Jason was honestly interested at this point, especially when he noticed that none of it remotely mentioned the Old Earth. There were so many detailed, organized prints of Aurora history - even stuff he never heard about.

Charlie’s commentary drew Jason away from his initial cynicism - made all the better as Charlie came out of his shell and was eager to share history with a couple of locals. Though it also helped that, by the time he was listening, Jason’s plate of ice and drink had arrived. The kid kept on talking, being so open and smooth in his vocals, with all the nervousness having gone away.

He’d say this like, “This is a photo of several Deltan natives making the first trek down the Black Road; you may notice how some look uncomfortable with the surface at first.”

Or, “A print showcasing the opening of Moresatta. I managed to get this printed straight off the archives back home - it was so exciting.” He was quite captivating when was in the zone.

Frankie, out of them all, was the most absorbed into it. In between his listenings and close examinations, he’d make the passing comment of “been there” and “seen that”. Every now and then he’d even correct Charlie on something, like how the Deltans rarely fought each other in colonized lands - prompting Charlie to grab a napkin and write the info down with a pen kept in his pocket. Of course there was a disappointment in Charlie: it scratched off the goal of seeing two Deltans fighting, as he heard from the stories.

By the 30th page however, it got too personal for Jason. As they closed halfway upon the hour, Charlie began turning the pages towards more recent history - and Jason felt less enthused.

Every page was a painful memory for Jason, and especially the world.

The mass incarceration site built in off the Road to house countless numbers of UROE prisoners, only to lead into a jailbreak many years back. With it brought the near endless supply of raiders and bandits that roam the Black Road, causing so much trouble from that catastrophe.

The crackdown by the UROE, which began with arming various militia groups to fight back the raider scourge. All that did was lead to even more violence along the Road.

The deadly raid on the Black Road hospital up North, leading to dozens dead. Nobody had a chance there.

Everything that came in before or during his childhood, and yet still messing up his life to this day.

Then the photo that Jason hoped wouldn’t come… finally arrived.

Charlie turns the page, explaining at first, “Of course there were many people we saw fighting the raiders in the vids that aired in Tyrell. They were probably the most popular ones when you consider the views they got. It was a group of these cowboys, dressed up like in the Wild West - calling themselves the Crimson Crosses. See, I even got a photo of two such members right--”

He stopped right there, almost completely. Charlie took notice first of Frankie’s slight cringe, before then directing his sight at Jason.

Charlie had seen this photo about a dozen times, but a new detail emerged then. The photo showed two young men, both wearing a set of wild-west inspired outfits over their tall, powerful frames. The garments consisted of brown vests; long-sleeve collared shirts, dull dark pants, and a dark overcoat covering much of it. Atop their heads were similarly sized wide-brim hats, and around their necks a bandanna. As well, both men shared the exact same style of hair, and exact appearance of face. Between them was an overweight, gruff-looking bandit tied up with a lasso, with both men posing triumphantly beside him.

Below the photo, on a sticker Charlie used to caption his photos, it read, “The Cross Twins, Frederick and Jason, capture the Butcher of Red Peaks.”

Jason hesitantly grabs the photo - his mind felt like it was screaming ‘no’, but a part of him felt like he needed to see it. He brought it closer and looked down at the picture, and at that moment all the color and life in his face drained completely - and in its place, a flood of bad memories once walled up behind years of alcohol.

Meanwhile Charlie looked towards the stranger, studying his face in relation to the photograph. There he was: Jason Cross of the Crimson Crosses - older, stronger…

And now he’s downing an entire glass of ale.

[adamarinayu]

Gold Feathers Pt. 2

PREVIOUSLY

Let’s barrel on since this was supposed to be all in one anyway

Tinged

When Donald was eleven the farm hit a hard time. The crops were failing and Grandma didn’t have enough to go around. At night, Donald, Della and Gladstone would creep around, listening to Grandma speaking to different people.

“This will affect us for years to come,” she had lamented to someone on the phone.

“I don’t have enough to feed the kids and pay the farmhands,” she had confided in someone else.

As such, all three children knew before Grandma told them that they were being sent to live somewhere else for a while.

“It’s just for a year,” she promised her grandchildren as all three of them climbed into a car that would take them to their uncle’s house. “Then, if you want to, you can come back.”

They loved their uncle- he told amazing, fantastical stories of adventure and lived in a house big enough for them to run around freely in- but being away from Grandma was... not ideal for them.

But it passed. They were expected to help around the house and the yard, as much work was fitting for three children, and Donald and Della fell into a comfortable routine. They found they liked living there, away from the smell of fertilizer in the summer, not having to watch where they stepped out in a pasture and such things.

Gladstone, on the other hand, hated every moment they were there. He and Scrooge didn’t get on too well. Scrooge was frustrated that everything he told Gladstone to do would get done with no help from his half-goose nephew, and Gladstone was frustrated that Scrooge just didn’t understand that he literally could not help it- that he had no control over it at all.

When the end of the year came, Donald knew Grandma was still struggling. He chose to stay at the mansion, and Della did too. Gladstone, however, went back to the farm.

“Do you think you should tell Uncle Scrooge?” Della asked Donald one day when they were twelve, exploring Scrooge’s garage. Donald was focusing on all the different forms of magic in there, feeling how it pulsed and moved, and it was almost as if he could understand it intuitively. “I mean, he has all these cool magic things, maybe he’d know how to help.”

“Maybe,” Donald agreed.

And he decided he would tell Scrooge.

It was too bad Magica chose to drop in. Scrooge kept Della and Donald behind him while fending off the witch, and afterwards had said, “Witches, bah! Let this be a lesson to ye, kids- keep your distance from anyone involved in magic.”

(Yet ironic, Donald would later find out, that Scrooge would say this when he was friends with literal gods, whose magic power was so much more than any sorcerer Donald had ever met. Overwhelmingly so, he could hardly even breathe on Ithaquack with all the magic pulsing and swirling together, competing for dominance over one another. They knew him for what he was immediately but never said a thing- beings so powerful know better, especially when neither Scrooge nor Della give off the waves.)

Donald and Della looked at each other and linked hands. They stayed quiet.

But Donald didn’t stop using it. He didn’t want to risk another buildup like what happened when he was eight. He kept practicing, and the more he practiced the stronger it got.

It was unsteady, unrefined, untrained magic, but no one was being hurt. That was better than the alternative.

Scrooge started taking them on adventures when they were thirteen, and at fourteen Donald met the Sorcerer.

He was an old dog- Scrooge claimed him to be a con artist, unable to feel the waves of magic rolling off of him. The Sorcerer, in turn, focused on Donald, undoubtedly able to feel his magic as well.

“Powerful magic, for one so young,” he commented when Donald finally approached him, feeling drawn to the man. “A young sorcerer- takes one to know one,” he had added with a chuckle.

Later, Donald would learn, only sorcerers could feel magic like that. Witches and wizards and mages and such, they were limited. A sorcerer’s magic, though...

“I don’t want to limit myself,” Donald decided when he was fifteen and the Sorcerer, now his mentor, was urging him to choose a specialization. “I want to learn it all.”

“Not even a sorcerer, in all the years he has, has enough time to learn all magic,” the Sorcerer told Donald. “It is best to master one.”

Donald considered it before shaking his head. “I want to learn as much as I can. Everything’s so interesting! And besides, it could come in handy.”

The Sorcerer didn’t seem to approve, but he nodded and taught Donald the base of all magic, and the basics of the different subjects (as well as he knew how, as he was a master of runes) of magic. He taught him alchemy, runes, sigils, seals, potions, battle magic, healing magic, light magic, dark magic- everything that he knew he taught to Donald, all without Scrooge’s knowledge.

When Donald had learned all he could from the old Sorcerer and turned seventeen, the Sorcerer gifted him with a staff.

“It will help you hone your magic,” he told Donald with a smile. “And it will enable you to control it better, concentrate it more and be more precise when you aim your spells. All sorcerers like ourselves need one- the magic that courses through us can at times be uncontrollable. This will help.”

The last lesson Donald had before he graduated from apprentice was how to use the staff, and he felt an immediate difference.

Magic, particularly strong magic, had left him exhausted as he focused so hard to keep it in his hands, focused so hard to keep it where it needed to be. The staff, however, seemed to resonate with the magic within himself, and when he channeled his magic through it the magic obeyed without struggle.

It was exhilarating.

He showed Della, and she marvelled over the craftsmanship- the hand-carved white oak and the pale blue crystal set into the rosegold head of the staff. It looked like an artifact that Scrooge would have gone after, had he known it existed.

And it belonged to Donald.

It wasn’t always easy, hiding his magic. It was like having a secret identity- he kept his staff hidden in its own little pocket dimension (learning that spell had been... difficult, to say the least), which could only be accessed when he cast a certain spell.

Sometimes, he’d be showing Della a new spell he learned when Scrooge would barge in, saying something about discovering the location of a new lost civilization. Donald would panic and shove the staff into the pocket dimension, thankful he always kept his back to the door.

That problem was solved when he figured out how to create wards to warn him someone was approaching.

Then, sometimes on an adventure, there’d be trouble. His fingers would twitch, he knew he could get them out. Della would notice and shake her head, even when she was being held captive by a creature that could only be described as...

Scratch that, it couldn’t be described.

He’d be seconds away from throwing his secret aside when Scrooge would work a miracle and everyone got out safe and sound.

“Don’t ever reveal yourself for me,” Della told him earnestly when they were fifteen, when he was still an apprentice, holding tightly to his hands. “We don’t know what will happen when Uncle Scrooge finds out.”

When. Not if.

But Donald promised her- he wouldn’t give up his secret.

So he hid it from Scrooge. He kept hiding it, even when it got harder. When the magic became more obvious.

When it started to show in his feathers.

He noticed the gold tinge on his fingertips and in his palms before he turned eighteen, and he contacted the old Sorcerer who told him it was normal- magic often came with physical changes, he’d said. Sometimes it was the colour of their fur or feathers. Other times it was the colour of their hair or eyes. Less often, though- less often, it was the colour of their blood, or a sudden development like thorns, spines or wings.

“It’s natural,” he assured Donald, patting his gold-tinged hands comfortingly. “Just be glad you only have changing feathers.”

“How do you hide it?” Donald asked, gazing down at his palms. It was barely noticeable but, he knew, it would only grow.

“There are different ways,” the Sorcerer told him, pulling the sleeves of his sweater up and tugging the gloves he always wore off. Donald’s eyes widened, observing how the silver- stark, strongest at his fingertips- covered the entirety of his hand rather than just the fingertips and palm, and extended up his arm. The sorcerer then pulled the neck of the sweater down, showing him the web-like pattern of silver reaching up his neck.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that the silver was extending from his hands, where he channeled all his magic into his staff, to cover his entire body.

That will happen to me.

Pity- Donald didn’t think he’d look good with gold feathers.

“I use clothing to cover mine, but you can use a charm. Dyes don’t work- the magic will show through.”

Donald let it go for the time being- it was barely noticeable, after all, and he needed to consider his options. It was a bridge to cross in the future. 

If Scrooge noticed, he didn’t say anything.

[dragon-moms]

Entry 130 - Baroness

Conquest continues.

“How about I come along tonight?” the Paladin, Flare, asked. He grinned as Nobody and I packed up for another evening of study of the supposed entrance.

“No,” Nobody said.

“But I’m just staying here, standing guard,” Flare complained. “It’s boring. I want to go do stuff.”

“No,” she said again.

“Ivana, come oooooonnnnnn.”

“Don’t call me that!” Nobody snapped. She turned to me. “Baroness, let’s go.”

“Come on, Barry, you want me to come, don’t you?” Flare asked, looking to me. “I can help!”

I was taken aback by the necessity of having to express an opinion in this matter. I looked back and forth between the two of them, unsure what to say. “I…”

“Ignore him. Let’s just go,” Nobody said.

Flare touched the metal thing on his head, considering something. “You’re both having trouble figuring out this entrance, right? I’m a fresh perspective. And the magic of the door, it’s something very weird, right? I use weird magic, kind of. So you should give me a chance here.” He took his claw off of the thing on his head, smiling. “Something like that anyway. What do you have to lose?”

“A whole night of eggsitting you,” Nobody said.

“I’ll just hold the torch or something so you can see easier. Please?” Flare said.

“We… are to the point of simply testing at random to find a lead,” I said softly. “Perhaps he is correct about perspective.”

Nobody looked to me. “You too? I thought you were more reasonable than this.”

“...I…” I thought of the pamphlet Flare had given me. “According to ‘A Dragon’s Introduction to Progress, Our Guide,’ the Paladin intervenes on behalf of…”

“What the fuck? Don’t tell me he converted you to his god shit?” Nobody said, interrupting.

“...there… there is inadequate evidence…” I started, pulling my shawl tighter around me. “I simply mean to suggest that… he believes he can help…”

“Belief doesn’t do shit,” Nobody said. “There’s no use in a perspective that doesn’t understand anything.”

“I understand stuff!” Flare said.

“You understand hitting things and your weird god,” Nobody said, rolling her eyes.

“Yep!” Flare agreed.

“You aren’t supposed to be proud of that,” she said.

“But I worked on both of them real hard!” he said.

Nobody let out a frustrated growl.

I was getting along with Nobody while we focused on work. From what I had seen, the presence of Flare was likely to disrupt her focus and therefore our efficiency in working on the problem.

However, Gloria had said that the Paladin was attempting to become friends with me. Furthermore, he had confided in me about a desire to help Nobody in some way.

I had come to have friends almost by accident. A family, similarly. But they were important to me.

Perhaps the time had come to actively attempt to fabricate these relationships myself.

“...I would like Flare to accompany us,” I said.

Nobody looked at me. “Why.” Her voice had force behind it.

“...he can help…” I said quietly.

“Yeah!” Flare said, tail flailing wildly, aura flaring in such a way that I was filled, momentarily, with pain. He seemed to have realized immediately, however, touching the symbol on his chest and grinning. “Let’s do this.”

Nobody took a big breath. “You’re in charge of him. I’m going to actually do the fucking important shit we’re supposed to be doing.” With that, she took off.

“Hey, thanks, Barry!” Flare said, grinning. “This is going to be great!”

“We will just be continuing our experimentation and research into the enchantment we have located,” I said.

“Isn’t that great, though?” he asked.

I considered it. “It is… something I am good at,” I said.

“So great, then! And I get to hang out with you and Iv… Nobody!” He took off into the air. “Come on!”

I gathered my books and followed.

“Finally, this is going to be a real quest, with neat stuff,” Flare said as we flew. “Like, it was neat at the beginning, when we were all standing up to the Queen, but now it’s kind of been boring? But this will be good.”

It sounded like his understanding of the situation was not in line with our actual goals. “We are doing basic testing…” I said. “Most I have worked with find them tedious…”

“Oh…” Flare said. “Well, you like them, right?”

“...yes…” He looked at me as if he was expecting more. “There is... a sense of repetition to them which I find... appealing.”

“Oh! Well, okay then!” He did a needless twist in the air as he flew.

“Will this… be of use in helping Nobody?” I asked. Without my advisor in these matters at claw, I was unsure if I was making the right decisions.

“Oh, maybe?” Flare said. “I don’t know. You just have to do what feels right, right?”

“I… perhaps…” I said.

We soon landed. Flare looked around. “It’s a farm!” he said.

“What did you expect?” Nobody said, already arranging your notes. “You said you were going to hold a torch, so hold a torch already.”

Flare pulled a prepared torch out of his bag and breathed heat onto it. “Ta-da!” he said, grinning.

“Great,” Nobody said, her voice having none of the signs of enthusiasm I have noted in past social interactions.

“Thanks!” Flare said.

Nobody made a noise, but said nothing more.

We started doing our tests. Normally I would prepare many of these ritual sets ahead of time, but due to limited access to parchment, we had decided it prudent to focus on drawing them on the spot. Nobody kept track of our progress while I tested and analyzed.

I glanced up at Flare between tests. From what I had been told about his demeanor as well as my own observations during our travel, I would have expected him to exhibit signs of displeasure at the slow, methodical work that involved him very little. However, that was not the case. His free front claw was on the magical artifact on his head, and he looked to be focusing very intently.

“What?” Nobody asked, noticing me staring at Flare.

“...I was just… he seems… focused…” I said.

Nobody looked over to him. “Huh. Flare!”

Flare snapped out of his train of thought and turned to Nobody with a smile. “Hi!”

“Are you following this?” she asked.

“Following what?” he said.

“The tests,” Nobody said through her teeth.

“Oh! No. Are they going well?” he asked.

Nobody turned to me. “See? Just ignore him unless you need something hit, trust me.”

I considered this. “I… I would prefer to know what he is working on…” I said.

“He’s not working on anything! He’s just standing there!” Nobody said.

“Working?” Flare asked. “Well, I mean, I’m thinking? That’s kind of like work I guess. This place is weird. So I’m trying to figure it out and stuff.”

“What does ‘weird’ mean in this context?” I asked.

Nobody let out an audible sigh.

“Oh! Well, the Voice of Progress is being odd. That’s this thing?” He tapped the metal thing on his head. “Usually it says all kinds of things and makes all kinds of sounds but since I landed it’s just sang the same song over and over. I’m trying to figure out why.”

“That piece of metal tells you to do things?” Nobody asked. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah! Well, sometimes. When it’s important. Other times it’s just, like… motivation,” Flare said. “But if Progress needs me to do something specific, I can normally just feel it? This is just… I don’t know what this is.” Flare frowned, a look that seemed odd upon his face. “You two were doing tests though… I didn’t want to interrupt. This is probably between Progress and me.”

“Can I hear this song?” I asked. “If it is linked in some way to the passage we are attempting to open, it may prove beneficial to our testing.”

“How?” Nobody said. “It’s a song.”

“I… cannot be sure until I hear it…” I said.

“Uh…” Flare considered it. “I think The Voice of Progress has, like, a similar aura and stuff, so it would probably hurt you… I guess I could try to sing it? I’m not a good singer or anything though… let’s see…”

Flare started to sing, and immediately, his aura burst in size. I fell backwards, in pain.

“Barry! Barry, I’m sorry, I didn’t… like, I didn’t do that on purpose…” Flare said, rushing over to me.

“STAY BACK!” I boomed, and he froze. “...I apologize… but you will hurt me more… or I will hurt you…”

“Fuck, that was loud,” Nobody said, taking her claws off her head. “What happened?”

“My aura went all crazy when I started singing,” Flare said, frowning. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you… I’m a hero and stuff, you know? I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it…”

I believe I deserved it. But I kept this observation to myself. “...perhaps we should repeat the test after I retreat to a safe distance…”

To my surprise, Nobody followed me as I gave Flare some space.

“Why are you humoring him?” she asked me.

“He… would like to be my friend,” I said.

“...uh huh. From what you’re saying, you can’t even be within a claw’s length of each other. What kind of friendship is that going to be?”

“...I do not know yet.”

“Why even try to have friends when you’re a skeleton made of death…” Nobody mumbled as she waved to Flare to say we were ready. Flare started singing again, and I could sense his aura expanding and flowing outward once more.

“I once thought that way, even before I died and became this… I have been shown to be mistaken,” I said. “It is…”

I was interrupted by a rumbling through the ground.

“No, no way,” Nobody said, and ran back over towards Flare.

I could not approach, so I watched from a distance as the ground itself lifted into the air, revealing a staircase deep into the earth, barely big enough for one dragon.

“Hey! I did it!” Flare said. But as soon as he stopped singing, the entrance began to rapidly close.

“No no no, you keep singing!” Nobody demanded, and he complied as Nobody looked at the entrance and the ritual lines dug into the stone.

“Holy fuck,” said a voice I did not recognize. “There really is an entrance.” I turned to see a Green and a Black, landing nearby.

“Uh, Julie?” said the Black in a scared tone. “Is that a… skeleton?” They were looking directly at me.

The Green turned to me. I saw his eyes change to those of fear.

“I… I am Baroness…” I started, attempting to hold my claws up in a non-threatening manner. “I will not hurt you as long as you do not make contact with me…”

The two dragons rushed backwards and then into the air to get away from me, making terrified noises.

“Fuck!” Nobody said. “Hold up, you two!” She took off after them.

I did not know what I should do.

“Barry! Go get my mommy, okay?” Flare called out to me. “And don’t worry! They’ll come around! I’m sorry they screamed at you!” He took off into the air as well, and the large slab of earth and crops floating above the staircase landed with a rumble.

“...yes… I can get Gloria,” I told myself. She and Merry and perhaps my apprentice could assist with this awkward social situation.

I flew back to camp and filled everyone in on the situation.

“I’ll go see what I can do…” Gloria said, her face looking grim. “Baroness, please stay here until things calm down or we have to go. Your presence will unfortunately make things worse.”

I nodded, understanding.

“And you and Myrmidon watch Philly for me, okay?” Merry said.

“You’re not going,” Gloria said.

“Yes, I am! I made friends with them in the first place!” Merry said. “I should be, like, useful in talking to them, you know?”

Gloria took a breath. “Yes, you’re probably right. Okay. But stay behind me until we know there’s no problems.”

“What problems could there be?” Merry asked. “We just need to explain…”

“They might have gone for help,” Gloria said. “We can’t stall, let’s go.”

Gloria and Merry flew off.

“Are you okay?” Philly asked. “That had to be unpleasant, having people scream at you…”

“I am… used to it…” I said.

“Well, still…” Philly said.

“I am sure that Gloria and Merry will be able to defuse the situation,” Myrmidon said. “Let us rest in the meantime, to be ready if they need us.”

Philly nodded. “That’s sensible.”

“...yes…” I said.

We rested together.

I have once again caused problems for those I care for.

The least I can do is rest and stay hidden as they ask.

[mikenips]

You Can Never Go Home Again

“Artur?”  Pop a different tape in the player.  I can’t even watch that tape yet.  And I didn’t even know the guy personally.  Just one of those figures you see walking around town.  The type of character you wanna ask all the questions to.  But also afraid to approach.  Our inspirations will always hurt us more than the people we know.

“Yes.”  The smashed beak of a nose gets you first.  He’s a quirky looking man.  Wears those big, goofy glasses nerds wear in your 1950s nostalgia.  “You say your making movie on Bart?”

“Yeah.”  My camera shakes as I get outta the car.  Nearly dropped the fuckin’ thing.  Quick shot of the puddle it would’ve sunk in.  Brown.  With a faded can of Miller High Life pacing back and forth with the breeze.  You can tell someone shotgunned it.  Wonder if it’s a remnant of Pharm House.  The rusted whip-its in the street aren’t.  See more of them on the streets of Hamtown than ants or rats.  “It’s for a class project at Wayne State.”

“Good school.”  He nods.  Pats the head of the dog in the backseat of his Jeep.  Crack swooping down the front driver’s side windshield.  “Come.  I show you house.”

The house is set far back on the yard.  Red siding giving it that farm look.  Probably was a house for farm animals or something.  Smaller than the rest of the homes on the block.  But also stands taller.  Gets higher than the rest of the block.  No matter how much weed Bart shared with the neighbors as they watched from the safety of the porch.  Staring at the graffiti covered tree.  “Bart was good kid.  Good tenant.  Always remind me to pick up rent.  You know.  I forget those things sometimes.  Spent many nights drinking with him.  He was always out and about.  Caught him buying coke from a bartender one time.  Tell him he shouldn’t do that.  He laughed.  Said he knew.  So I laugh.

“Shame when I tell him I had to evict him.  But he’s real smart.  He knew he was in the wrong.  Admitted it.  Left like he was supposed to.  Can even tell he tried fixing the damages.  I give him security deposit back.  For the effort.  Plus now I have this artifact.  I see kids, just like you, checking it out all the time.  I don’t know how they find it.  But they come to the house.

“See!”  He points to a dip in the lawn.  Patchy grass attempting to cover the dirt there before it.  “I talk to Bart after he leave.  Ask for stories.  Why these kids come to my house?  Just to look!  He give me tour.  Now I do the same for you.

“In Summer.  He throw a big barbeque.  Neighbors sit on their front porch and watch too.  They all spoke highly of him after he left.  It was for the homeless.  And the bands play right out here!  Crazy right?”

The banister of the porch is cracked.  My head plays the video from Shithole’s Facebook page.  Dooley attempting to hurtle the three foot tall plank of wood.  Catching his Croc on it.  Yanks it all down before landing on the rusty screws and splintering bark where the dip in the lawn would be.  Brad running up and stealing his sunglasses.  The pit swirls to the fuzzed out guitar still ripping through the chaos.  Dooley coming to his feet and hurling the bass at Brad.  Ripping the jack from the body.

And the whole time.  Barf stands quietly behind the mess.  That smile cuts through the grainy video from somebody who clearly owns an Android.  No shirt.  Fringe vest.  Jeans torn to shreds.  Camera around his neck.  Sipping on a bottle of champagne.  Standing next to his grandma.  Claps triumphantly over the crowd.  “Kids.  The bands play.  They run around.  Hit each other.  I see it sometimes at the shows here.  So interesting.  Not for me.  But fun to watch.”

“Yeah.”  I laugh a bit.  “We call that a mosh pit.  Let’s out all that aggression people tell you it’s not ok to let out.”

“Mosh pit…”  He stares at the patchy lawn.  “It did make pit alright.  But Bart always cut grass himself.  Sometimes I drive past and see him doing it.  No shirt.  Drinking Stroh’s.  Make me laugh everytime.”

Get on the porch.  As he unlocks the door my camera takes in the front window.  Backstage seats.  See an occasional face in the footage of the show.  Bits of shower curtain still stuck to the red siding from front lawn movie nights.  “It crazy.  Still feels weird coming in.  I always give Bart his privacy.  I don’t want to intrude on him.  But when I see house after.  Maybe I should have.  Damages everywhere.  Look here at steps.”

His arm sweeps in the direction of the stares.  But the camera continues to film the rest of the walls.  A mattress in the middle of the living room.  Chipped paint and random bits of tape still clinging by an inch to the drywall.  Wooden chairs around the feet imprints of a coffee table.  Instantly I can scrap book various images and videos to fill the rest of the now empty home.  Some characters in black and white.  Others pixelated and grainy.  In off hue colors.

Zoom in on the wooden landing below the staircase.  Slivers of empty space dart across the square panel.  Trying to find an escape from the pressure dropping on it.  “Not many know this story.  Very old story from Bart’s twenty first birthday.  He said he didn’t know many people then.  And nobody knows what the future will find worthy of keeping.  So not so many videos of that party.

“Bart says a friend of his.  Record producer that joined the Navy did it.  Bart says he looks around living room.  Everybody pointing and gasping at the stairs.  Bart standing just inches from landing.  Doesn’t see him jump.  Flies from second story to landing on Bart’s skateboard.  And he break the floor.  Looks at Bart laughing and says ‘at least the skateboard is in tact.’

“Back of house or upstairs first?”  Camera fixed on the floor’s POV of the second story.  You can tell he never swept his stairs.

“Well.  The upstairs was the main stage for shows.  Let’s get shots of the rest of the house first.  Capture the essence of the party before goin’ to the main attraction.”

“Sounds good.  I like that.  I went to house party one time.  A friend of Bart’s.  Bart always invite me over here.  But I can’t impose on him.  I don’t know if I would want to know what he was doing.  Ignorance is bliss.”

The hallway splits into three rooms.  Pan camera left.  Once I start editing gotta superimpose the Instagram photos of that sink filled with two empty thirty racks.  One of the few photos from the twenty first birthday party.  The cigarette butt that blew up the gas station.

Spin one eighty to the second bedroom.  Which was really more of a glorified closet.  The yellow page of a legal pad still taped to the doorway.  Bart’s handwriting all over it.  “See.  He catch me.  I never wrote in lease that he can’t smoke inside.  But at least he kept it in the spare bedroom.”

We walk through the door.  Blue carpet singed and stained with spray paint.  “I still remember seeing videos as a teenager.  Can barely make out all those artists and musicians sitting in this room through the smoke.  I can hear Dooley, while looking dead at the camera, ‘nicotine hot box!’  Yelling at someone to keep the window closed.”

Tilt from the carpet to the window.  “Very funny story.  I assume this Dooley did.  Bart said he walks in the room.  Can’t breathe.  Can’t see.  Claustrophobic.  Tries to open window.  And somebody slams it from his hand.  Tears the blinds off.  Everybody laughs.  Now.  Blinds don’t close.  That’s still the sheet Bart hangs up over the blinds to block window.  Always wonder why he didn’t buy new blinds instead.”

The peacock couch is long gone.  A thirty five dollar purchase Bart made while on acid thrifting in high school.  Great clip of Cole Sanders from the Turds sitting on the couch.  Paisley shirt and leather jacket.  Looks like he’s trying to sell molly to teenagers.  Smoking Spirits.  Talking about listening to new wave.  While Echo and the Bunnymen play in the background.  The seam of his pants splitting wide open.

Tucked in the closet are various paintings.  “Do you know where these are from Artur?”

“No.  I find them hanging throughout the house after Bart leave.  Just lost artworks.  Some collage.  Some photography.  Some paintings and drawings.  All different people I assume.”

Flip through them.  Some standard CCS bullshit.  Some pop art homages.  Recognize the outsider doodle.  An original Cole Sanders.  Got a few hanging up in the apartment.  Then I see it.  Propped by itself on the opposite corner of the wall.  A surrealist portrait.  Oil on canvas.  A puke puddle of tie dye morphing to the doorways and walls of a house.  The colors give way to textures of fur and skin.  Even a slight haze of smoke.  The blobs lava lamp in the familiar image of Bart.  Camera zooms in on the interpretation of the image shared on Facebook this morning.

I recognize the style from the walls of Jenkem.  The holy grail in the mythos of Barf’s scene.  The piece Tara painted of him.  Something along the lines of paying him back after a bender that whole group went on.  She offered to paint him a portrait.  But the piece was lost after Pharm House got busted.  You can see it in a handful of videos all the way back on some people’s Instagram highlights.  If you know whose account to stalk.  “Can I take this?”

“Go ahead.  They just sit anyways.  Come see the bathroom.”

The white tile wall is stained orange.  Strands of hair stuck to it.  Stuck to the tub.  Stuck to the floor.  Stuck to the wall behind the door.  How the fuck do you even get hair stuck there?  A nice gradient of the off white tub fades from two circles to pitch black.  Two feet protecting some bit of fake porcelain from the dirt that would pool up.  “You know.  When I get house back.  The drains are all plugged in the bathtub.  So I cut into wall.  Take out pipes.  Pumpkin seeds!  There are pumpkin seeds in the drain.  Causing it to clog.  How do pumpkin seeds get in the bathtub?  I never ask Bart that.”

“There was one show here.  A band performing smashed a pumpkin upstairs.  Must’ve just gotten stuck to his foot or something.  Just trying to wash it all away.  Flush everything down the drain.”

Zoom in down the moldy drain.  Cutting off the rust colored stain on the bathroom floor.  Don’t even need to explain what that’s from.  I don’t know.  It seemed artsy at the time.  Now it just seems so pretentious.  The whole fuckin’ tour of the house seems pretentious.  Who does shit like this?  Maybe that’s Barf’s biggest illusion.  Getting people to create their own illusion of a home.  When nothing at all ever actually happened there.  Just a guy living life.  Never cleaning the bathtub because “the bathtub cleans me.”

“So this is my favorite part.”  Artur’s teeth crack the seal of his lips.  With the smile of a proud father.

Turn the corner at the top of the stairs.  A quick shot out the window at the top.  A toilet when Barf was too spun to figure out how to use stairs to go back down.  The master bedroom takes up the whole second floor.  The main stage.  Most people said they didn’t even know Bart actually slept up there.  Thought the mattresses were just decorative soundproofing.  Maybe the whole house was just a decoration.  “What’s that gash in the wall?”

“Cymbal.  Bart says hi-hat.  From Navy man’s going away party.  He says they cover ‘Blew My Mind.’  I forget the singer.  Chaos ensues.  How the hi-hat got behind the drummer?  Beats me!”

The famous send off show for the king.  Shitholes’s drummer.  Devil’s Night.  Dooley tryin’ to do coke off the amp during the set.  But the room had too many bodies.  Too humid.  Dooley yellin’ “it’s not working!  Fuck!”

“But this my favorite.  Look up!”  Tilt the camera to the angled ceiling.  A purple splatter that runs the length of the wall.  “Bart tell me he stand in back watching band.  Guitar gets stuck in chandelier.  Again.  Beats me how Bart never broke the chandelier.  Somebody as you said ‘moshes’ and falls into Bart.  His forehead hit bottle and it spills everywhere.  Even on ceiling!”

“So why’s that your favorite part?”

Focus back on Artur; with the same proud father smile.  “It’s jezy!  Good Polish boy drinking Leroux.  He always stay true to heritage.  Even that bar he buys.  Classic bar here from his grandparents’s time.  He buy it and revamp it for new kids to come to Hamtown and celebrate history.”

“That’s perfect Artur.”  The camera drops to my side.  But always keep it rolling.  Even when you think you got enough.  You never know what you’ll pick up on.  A random splice of life.  An absurd image that you never thought would mean something to you.  Like a still shot of a clump of hair in the corner next to beer a splattered and blown bass amp.  Probably Dooley.  He was famous for that shit.  “If you don’t mind I’m gonna get a few shots of the house from the outside.  But you can lock up and go if you want.”

“Of course.  Film!  Film!  Capture every moment.  That is why I don’t fix house.  This is history.  Other people need to see what happened here.”

As Art’s car takes off a neighbor’s voice calls from the porch next door.  The POV spins rapidly to the old black man.  “Are you another one of those punks here to do something crazy?  I’ll have you know this is more than some party house.  This is our neighborhood.  Bart never would’ve let stuff like this happen here.”

“No sir.  I’m actually working on a student film about Bart.  What do you mean he wouldn’t let stuff like this happen?”

“Well.  Bart threw parties.  And a lotta times they got outta hand.  But that’s what your twenties should be about.  Having a good time with your friends while you can.  But as the parties got bigger, they turned into free for alls.  Bart was trying to showcase new artists.  And it spiraled into this mess from giving everybody a platform to letting anybody do shit.  And now all these young kids show up and try to recreate those moments without really understanding what was going on.  How old are you kid?”

“Twenty one.”

“Exactly.  You were too young when Bart lived here to see what he was actually doing.  Things got outta hand.  But he always picked up the empty cans.  And he always made sure we felt welcome and comfortable.  He would move cars so we could park in front of our own houses.  He would pass the joint.  Bring us food he made.  He was providing a neighborhood for everybody to join.  Not just throwing parties.”

“So you think he was doing something good for the city?”

“He gave young people a place to celebrate themselves.  He just got carried away with it all.  And I don’t think it was him.  I think it was you kids that just looked at it as all fun and games that ended up with him being hurt.”

[j-eliasepp]

Changing Stasis

The paper for this letter was difficult to obtain, a candle’s flame so near causes me some concern. Concern…normally I wouldn’t feel concern for losing anything. It used to be incredibly simple to get anything back. Back in those days nothing was really gone for long. It would keep coming back, over and over.

           Writing with a quill proves difficult. It is nothing like a keyboard. Screens never had ink to run out of either. This is my first venture outside after getting everything settled and I am already longing for the comforts of my base of operations. I am sick of the idea of going back at the same time. My share of historical artifacts was exceptionally large since we agreed this was the lowest risk world out of the eight of them. I ended up spending a hundred-odd years organizing it all. I am both sick and proud of it.

           My traveling companions are snoring rather loudly at this point in the straw beds behind me. For them this is comfort. A moon adds a contrasting pale blue light that fights in the middle of this page with the warm yellow light of the candle. It is summer here in the small town of Stagberry. Small and quiet. All the houses are made of logs and I see smoke from the chimney of one, the remnants of a cooking fire for supper.

I’m amazed I can still smell freshly baked bread through the window.This room absolutely reeks of unwashed men and stinky feet. The sound of a cart’s wheels clattering over the flagstones and the clip clop of horse’s hooves grows louder as it nears and passes beneath our window and dwindles into the distance. The air is stale and baked from the day’s heat. The gritty dirt from the road I can still feel on the soles of my feet, in my hair, and scratching under my clothes.

           I write this…no, I tell this story for I have no desire to write a real story ever again. You misunderstand me though, I would imagine. I do not know who I write to. Books and records disappear through history very rapidly. I do not want the same to happen to this story. Perhaps when this world is older…no, they will take it as fictional. I had first intended to tell this story only to humble myself and also give it as a gift to this world as a piece of history they likely will otherwise lose. I see the future in it though. This story will be seen as fiction so I will write this for enjoyment instead, despite the truth of it.

           It is incredible. I fear for my hard work to go to waste because it can go to waste. Everything is final these days. I feel a slight thrill in it. A feeling I haven’t had for a long time. This writing could be burned and lost forever. A man can die and stay dead. I could die.

           I digress. Whoever reads these stories, understand this and you will not misunderstand when I say I will never write a story again; I once helped write the story of history. I am no longer that man. The title, “Author of Life,” belongs to another man than the one who was my leader. I realized the futility of it all as did some of my co-workers. They are stronger than I. That is why I am on this world and not any of the others who survived the locking of the Utopia Machine. I am the only one here out of the rebels.

           I still have some of the tools of the trade. Twenty-two eyes is one tool set. My eyes allow me to see at any distance through anything. It isn’t omniscience but it’s the most information a human can process at once with a machine’s help. My eyes are sharp enough I can even discern thought or the vibrations of sound. However, such minute perceptions are only possible by using two eyes at once. Pity. Only being able to see clearly in eleven places at once is a handicap, but one I’ll have to live with.

I’m one of the few who retained a connection to the machine you see. Well, built one is more like it. Excuse me, I digress again. My current job amongst the dispersed rebels is clear-cut. I keep tabs on everyone and try my best to facilitate communication with the tool I have left.

           In any case, here I am. I drew the short straw. We all knew it was a gamble. But who would have thought he would choose this surviving world? Perhaps he knew our plan all along. I have no powers with which to defy him.

So here I am. I have chosen to tell stories and never write them again. I’ve changed history with the machine too many times for my sins to be forgiven. Even if the machine wasn’t locked I still wouldn’t use it.

I don’t know what else to do. The people of this world will have to defy him. I would help but I cannot stand to manipulate history anymore. I am too good at it. I can look in those places that matter the most. I can analyze the likelihood of outcomes. I can act in the most efficient way to achieve the best end. What if I were to make a mistake? I couldn’t undo it.

           I will make myself sick thinking of these things. Let’s look elsewhere besides my past and other dark tidings. I’m sure this world I’m on has some distracting stories we can look into. Yes, here’s one. I’ll narrate it to you. I give you my word, I don’t have a single stake in it. I never manipulated it in any way to bring about The Utopian End.

***

           A multi-walled city clings to the mountains around a wide inlet of water in the night. Docks line the shores on each side of the inlet. Down by the docks inside the first wall’s main gate, an inn warms the street with the glow of its lanterns. Raucous laughing erupts from its door as two men exit and stumble awkwardly together through the narrow doorway with a slam. The smell of beer sticks to them.

           “That is soome goooood beer.” Said the taller of the two.

           “Hoho! Better for me because it was free! See? Didn’t I tell ya a local knew the best inns in town? I know where all the good drinking spots are!” Said the shorter.

           The taller man began to lose his balance and grabbed hold of the shorter man. Together they stumbled to the right, then to the left, overcompensating.

           “Whoa my boy! We best get you to bed!” The shorter man steadied his companion.

           “Mmm, thank yoou. I heeard things aboout this plaace, but itsss not sooo bad.”

           The shorter man smiled and his teeth gleamed in the lamplight. “Let’s get you back to your ship.” The shorter man was the older of the two and he had a burly frame. His cheeks were rough with stubble. His clothes had a few holes in them but seemed to have been of better quality at one point.

           The taller of the two had a handsome young face. His arms were corded with the hard labor of a ship and burned with a healthy dark tan.

           The two stumbled down the narrow street towards the city gate. The younger one kept leaning on the other man’s right shoulder forcing the other to give a little. They got closer and closer to the front of the buildings on the right side of the road. When they got to a narrow alley between two of them, the shorter man stopped resisting and let them fall into the narrow alley together. The taller one groaned. “Oow, my heead.”

           The shorter man got up and brushed himself off and stood over the taller man who was holding his head. His jacket had fallen to the side revealing a money purse. The shorter man slipped out a knife and deftly cut it from the man’s belt and walked quickly away. The taller man still in the alley did not notice his companion had left.

***

           I…can’t look away from this scene. A man lies without a penny in an alley. How many times have I seen this kind of thing happening and worse? It is different now. It cannot be undone.

Well, call me a sinner. I’m searching the machine’s recordings. We locked its ability to reverse change, we didn’t turn it off. We couldn’t turn it off, it was never made to be turned off.

           I found the man in the records.

He was a peasant working on a farm.

Lets see… yes, a drought came. His little brothers and sisters are hungry and their clothes are tattered. The land is so dry his father can’t do the work alone. There isn’t much land to work. The soil is bare and cracked even by the stream bed, which is little more than a rivulet now. The man’s name is Keb. Keb sits down with his parents and they agree to let him try to become a sailor for money. He travels to the nearby port with money only for food. He sleeps by the road at night. He arrives at the harbor dusty, grimy and thin. The moisture of the sea air fills his lungs and hope rises in him. He goes from ship to ship trying to get work but they don’t want him. He becomes a beggar in that town for a while before a passing ship captain sees Keb’s determination and takes him on board. Keb soon becomes an able sailor. Unlike the other sailors, he doesn’t go to shore and spend all his pay. Then they reach the city he is in now, the last stop before he goes home. His sailor friends convince him to come into town and celebrate his good fortune. He earned it after all! Keb agrees and goes with them to town. A local shows them the best bar in town and they all get drunk. None of Keb’s crewmates notice when he and the local guide walk out of the bar.

           That vulgar miscreant! His family…they are more poor and hungry than when Keb left. The beets the father planted by the trickle of the stream were pillaged by rabbits. He sits dozing on a log there tonight. A long knurled stick rests on his shoulder. He cannot let his family starve.

           Gah! The machine’s control’s aren’t there. Is there nothing I can do? Almost burned my hand on the candle.

           I could find that man and mug him! See how he’d like it! Why I’d…I’d…

           No. No, I can’t do that.

I’ve inserted myself into history to change the future too many times. What do we have for it? Broken worlds. I…I don’t even know if I want to walk among people anymore, to interact with them. A life touches so many. By all accounts I should be dead. I have no right to touch other’s lives anymore. I have no right to manipulate them.

I know what I was. I only strove to tie the strings of time to my own ends.

Every time I meet someone new, I want to reach out and know their story. But I feel if I touch them…I’ll taint them and they’ll become a pawn in my plan.

***

It is late where I am at now. The gray of dawn is clarifying the horizon.

           Was that all the money Keb had?

           The dying candle in front of me flickers and goes out.

 We made the lock unbreakable. We made a lock with no key.

 Signed, Thennar Rawya Rabia Aldan-Bern Autor

The End

 Thank you for reading my short story! If you enjoyed it, please like, share and leave a comment! :D

 I wrote this to practice writing from a character and narrative perspective I had an idea for. It is a little tricky to pull off but I think it has many interesting points for potential.