MCM's Blog, page 22

Achievement

Morning arrived, and the party was only just dwindling down, the last few stragglers blindly searching their way home. He'd spent the night in the motor car, slouched at an uncomfortable angle, his essence pooled into the lower half of his host's gut. The last jubilant tunes of a jazz band cascaded across the dawn in sparks of sound. He dozed, only to be awoken at intervals by young, confused lovers attempting to sneak an early morning copulation in the seat of a random motor car, their drunken laughter halted when they saw he was there.

"Sorry," he said, as they staggered off.

The dawn was a pale, misty blue that gave him a strange sense of peace. The ocean, not far from them now, kneaded the sands with crystal clear purpose. There was no mission. No target. There was no need for him to be here. The ocean swept across the sands, scrubbing clean his conscience.

She swore as she stomped towards the car, her feet leaving thick, bloody imprints on the white stone of Charlie's porch. Her hips shoved him over as she clamoured into the driver's seat. There was blood on the back of her hand, across her knuckles. It stained her hair, gory pieces of humanity embedded in her feather boa. The front of her pink and grey dress was saturated in red.

All that effort, and she didn't even get the part.

"I've come to understand something," he said.

"I don't care," she replied. She shakily took out a cigarette and cursed when she couldn't find her matches.

"That sometimes our goals are wrong. Blindly pursuing them can only destroy us."

"Tell me about it."

She found her lighter and let out a small sigh of relief. She popped a cigarette between her clenched teeth and lit it, enjoying the smooth smoke as it slid down her throat.

"You find your target?" she asked.

"Yes. I did."

She grinned at this, her teeth bloodstained as the gore dripped from her bangs and into her mouth. "You see? You can't do this without me. I've been with you all along, and I never steered you wrong, not once, not never."

"I know," he said. He gave her a genuine, heartfelt smile. "I will always be grateful."

He pressed Borgen's gun to her temple and fired.

A Good Wife

The straw was piled high in the bier, bright and golden and smelling as clean as a summer's day, while inside the house, the odor of decay had pushed Freya past her determination to be content.

Layers of straw and rushes had been laid, and every year a new thatch was leveled over the floor. The old was left beneath the new, year after year, with the waste of life matted down into its depths and left to fester. The stone of Orlik was as hard and cold underfoot as the life it supported, but the warm stench of living in a compost heap was much worse.

The decision had come easily, inspired by the rush to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the house and away from the exasperation of fists clenched in endless frustration. Happy to be moving again in the open air, she tugged armloads of clean straw free, carried them to the door and piled them there, ready. When it seemed she had enough, she set to work with a hayfork and rake, dragging all of the rotting floor covering out into the sun.

As she worked, Goda whined incessantly and Freya ignored her, redoubling her efforts whenever she felt tempted to silence the old woman. It was hard work, and the packed earth floor was damp and musty when its covering was removed. Still, it was worth the toil when she spread the new straw across the floor, and the house began to smell fresh.

Dragan was away on the slopes with his vines, and she knew he'd be pleased by the improvement when he returned. It was something she could do, something to work her strength against, and an effort that would ease the prickling memories of filth and destitution. But the old flooring was piled by the door where she'd pushed it out and it ruined the effect. Shrugging, blowing a hard breath full of fatigue down her chin, she looked at the damp grey pile. She would need to rake it, bit by bit, to the yard for the chickens.

Or she could burn it.

Inspiration spurred her into action once again, and she took a lit brand from the fire and shoved it deep into the driest part of the waste pile. It took a moment to catch, but breezes teased the flame and encouraged it. In a few moments flames were crackling and licking out across the surface, drawing down into the moldy depths, and smoking. The rotting grasses gave off thick grey smoke that billowed up and rushed into the house on the wind.

The louver above could only release a small amount of the smoke and although the window streamed, Freya coughed and choked as the house filled. The smoke smelled of rotten vegetation, and she caught up the pail that held the day's water and cast it over the flames. It dented the blaze a little, but only made the smoky smolder worse. Coughing, she tried to avoid the worst of the billows as she threw a heavy fleece onto the flames and walked up onto it, stamping her feet. Her weight and the thick cover compressed the mass starving the deeper parts of air, and the flames themselves were dying down, but their vapors now carried the reek of singed wool as well as the putrid odor of damp smoky rot.

She was smeared in sweat, soot, and damp mold when the emergency was finally dealt with. The pile of straw and ash still seethed on light breezes and it still blocked the doorway with filth. Far from smelling sweet and clean, the house reeked of dirty smoke and burned hair. It was a disaster. Between fits of coughing, Goda wailed from within, demanding help to get out of her home, and Freya rushed back in to help the old lady struggle out into the clean air.

As they crossed the doorway and out into the sunshine, Freya looked up from her misery to find Lenka standing with their horse, staring horrified at the fire. She seemed frozen as Freya and Goda doubled against each other, gagging the smoke from their lungs. She dropped the reins and ran to them, seizing Goda in loving arms. "Mother, what's happened? Are you all right?"

There was no enquiry after Freya, but it was a relief just to hand over the weight of the old woman. Goda had begun to weep, loudly praising the child of her heart, hugging Lenka hard against her breast, and stroking her hair and her cheeks like she was a precious golden icon.

Shrugging her cape from her shoulders, Lenka strode back into the house and reemerged with the high backed chair and set it steady for Goda to sit. "I had to come back, Mother. My father sent me and said I wasn't to leave here." She glanced over her shoulder at Freya and away, kneeling at the old woman's feet and clasping her hands. "Will he be angry, do you think? I'm afraid of what he'll say."

Freya answered for Goda, hoping she could head off another tirade. "He won't be angry. He's spoken of sending for you, anyway."

Shock dropped Lenka's mouth open. "When? Should I have come earlier? Why didn't he come for me?" She'd turned, and seemed ready to leap up and sprint across the pastures.

"Goda needs someone to help her and I don't want to do it. He said he might keep you here to do for her."

"He'd keep me?" She smiled, having selected enough of the statement to suit her own purpose and turned back to Goda to share her joy.

"He needs someone to care for his needs, more like," Goda snapped. "He works all day and then does a woman's chores when he comes in. There are some here who have no useful skills in a home. They'd be best suited to the barn."

It was going to start no matter what she did, so she picked her rake from where it leaned against the wall and began to rake the fetid mass toward the yard gate and the chickens.

Lenka's smile widened. "I should fetch him a meal. Where is he now?"

"Out with the vines. You go, quickly. There's pork belly and corn bread in there. He'll be glad of some proper food to work on."

"I should help you clear the smoke, first. You can't stay out here alone." Lenka stood with her hands on her hips, her thick ankles well spaced and reliable.

"You're a good girl. My own sweet daughter. I'll be better now you're home, won't I? And he'll soon remember how good it was to have you here, before she came." Goda dropped her voice, but Freya worked no more than four paces from them so her words were easily heard. She rested her hand on Lenka's stomach and asked, "Has there been any show? Do you know yet if you're rounding?"

"No, no show. That's why my father sent me. I've been home a month and there's been no cycle to see. He's bent on Dragan keeping me. He says he must." She walked swiftly up to the saddle bags and lifted them down, holding them out as she walked back. "He sent these for you. He said you wouldn't have a good choice for fruit with things as they are, so he sent them for you and for Dragan. Also these."

One of the pouches was filled with cherries and plums, and tied to the handle of her basket were four stout jugs. Alcohol, Freya guessed, and she watched the basket that held them move. She hoped they were brewed strong. A well earned blinder would do her good, especially after she'd finished raking this mess.

As darkness fell, she watched Dragan walk across the top of the ridge with Lenka walking slightly behind. The country paragon had wafted the smoke from the building as well as she could, and set the table with bowls of ripe red cherries and a large wedge of cheese. There was cold pork belly fat and onions left out ready to fry. A fine meal, indeed.

And she'd set a pot of vinegar to boil over the fire, its sharp steam driving the smoke vapors away from the walls and the thatch above. She'd taken out the furs and fleeces, all the blankets and linen, and draped them over the stone wall and briars to air in the sun. Then, when she had done all a good wife should do, she'd set out across the field with her basket filled with food and drink for Dragan.

Freya stood by the door, waiting. She had spent the afternoon raking her mess away, and then gone down to the river to try to wash some of the stench from her own skin and hair.

She'd wanted to open the first jug of strong wine and make a start on it, but she'd made herself wait, as she must. Impatiently, she counted the steps it took them to reach the house, trying to will them both to run.

Even as he ate, Lenka sat behind him, holding the jug of brandywine on her lap and waiting for him to drink from his cup before refilling it. His plate was piled high with seared pork and onions. The fruit bowls were moved into easy reach. Under her thigh she'd trapped a skewer, rolling a knob of cheese over the coals to soften and melt for his bread.

She was the perfect wife; Freya knew it with the same certainty that insisted she herself was incompetent. It was an irritation to see her so composed. Lenka knew how to do things that Freya had never guessed anyone needed to do. Freya's response was to take one of the brandy jugs to herself and a chock of bread and some fruit, and to take a seat at the opposite end of the table. She nibbled at the solids, but she poured the warming liquor down her throat with absolute relish.

Goda lay on her bed, contented, a bowl of softened cheese, bread, and fruit resting on the floor in easy reach.

Everything was calm and ordered. Peaceful. There was no need for Goda to point out any deficits tonight, when simple perfection shone for her from the stool behind her son.

Dragan was tense and silent. He didn't speak at all when Lenka served him, or when she brushed her abundant breasts against his shoulder and arm as she served. Although Freya watched her every movement steadily, Lenka never returned her gaze. She was careful to always keep her eyes averted, but that didn't stop a smile of smug satisfaction from flashing across her lips from time to time.

Freya smiled, too, and poured herself another drink.

There was warmth in the air and in the wine. And watching annoyance tighten Dragan's brow while Lenka either ignored it or was oblivious to it, warmed her too, with the expectation of sport. For too long, here, she had let her heartbeat tick away the hours. There was fun to be had in this grim situation, and she grinned just a little as she considered the possibilities.

When the meal was done and Lenka had moved into the shadows by Goda's bed, Dragan leaned his elbows onto the table and raked his fingers up through his hair. "The grapes look good," he said to Freya. "They had enough rain over winter. If it holds off now, they'll be sweet and full at harvest."

There might have been something she could say to that, but it was of no interest. Grapes grew. Sheep fattened and had lambs. Each morning there were eggs to collect from the hens and milk to drain from a cow. Farming was not work that needed any genius, as far as she could see.

"Good," she said.

"The barley is heavy, too. It'll be a good crop, but harvest will be hard work."

"Why?" No genius, maybe, she thought, but muscle and sinew did not ever go astray. She had caught and dragged sheep for shearing, and their small size belied their brute strength in a tussle. Everything about working the land seemed to her to be hard work.

Lenka leapt from her chosen place and rushed to stand by his side. "Father'll send workers for us," she said, smiling her smug half-smile. To Freya directly, she said, "Since you came, none of the neighbors who'd come to help with the harvest will make the journey, like as not. It's a terrible hard job for one man, but if I ask, my father'll send hired workers." She grinned widely, "And even the neighbors'll come if there is money to be made."

"Problem solved." Freya shrugged and grinned back, "What a helpful little poppet your farm girl is, Dragan. So many ways she can help around the house."

"Leave it," he warned quietly, still resting his forehead onto his hands.

"Skilled. I'd say she was widely skilled. We're lucky to have her here. Where do you suppose she should sleep?"

"Lenka, go back to my mother. This isn't any of your concern."

Her full lips drew into a pout and she dropped her face like a spoiled child, but she dragged her feet off toward the far corner of the house obediently.

"Yes Lenka, go back over there." Freya yawned with an exaggerated stretch. "I need to talk to my husband about grapes."

Dragan looked up from under his brows and shook his head, smiling suspiciously. "Grapes?"

"Yes. This brandy that Lenka was kind enough to bring for us was made from grapes. But, I can taste another fruit." She stood and moved up closer. "You tell me what it is." Leaning in along the top of the table, she turned her face up under his and kissed him softly on the lips. "What's that taste like?"

Feeling Lenka's cold stares across the width of the room, Freya had no need to turn. She wanted to laugh and a smile played on her lips and sparkled in her eyes, but she stood instead and slipped the bows from the lacing of her bodice. Dragan shook his head at her again, but there was no conviction in his rebuke. His smile had grown wider, and there was a strange light in his eyes that moved from sadness or regret, to nostalgic amusement. She just had time to hike her skirts and move to straddle him where he sat, when he reached quickly for the lamp and snuffed the flame.

The stool was too small to hold them both safely, and he chuckled from deep in his chest as the legs wobbled unsteadily. Her basque was easily discarded, its laces serving to hold it closed and nothing more. She lifted it free and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing loud breaths between kisses and moaning in the darkness as she slid her lips across his cheek. "Tell me about the harvest," she breathed against his ear.

Her teeth brushed the hard muscle of his neck and the heady scent of his skin brought a flush of heat up her throat. He didn't answer, running his hands along her thighs, under the swathes of fabric that draped her hips. His hands cupped her ass, pulling her tight against him and he dropped his mouth to her shoulder. There was no pretense in the rush of her pulse when he stood, lifting her with him, and moved to sit on their bed. In the darkness, Freya slid to the ground between his knees, slipping his tunic up so her lips found the hot skin of his belly. Above her he exhaled in a soft pant, and as she loosened the laces of his breeches, quiet sobbing began in the far corner of the room.

Fiction-phile: Guts and Sass – An Anti-Epic by M.E. Traylor

She wanted to do one of those message in a bottle things, one that read something like:

But not only did Hannah not have handwriting that fancy, at this point it just seemed easier to go along with it.

Day three: Recon.

It wasn't actually day three, it was more like week something-or-other, but it was day three of reconnaissance.

She was sweeping the top deck again, because there was nothing else to do and it was outside. It was morning, and it felt nice. Seventies maybe. It seemed like there were more guys up top, sitting around doing stuff with rope, or nets. Some looked like they were playing cards. She had yet to find the inboard motor, GPS, or radio. She needed to find an excuse to get into the cabins. Hannah had gotten to the point where she was starting to work around the big wooden box at the front of the ship, when she found her progress blocked. He was staring out over the sea, and he was not paying attention to the cleaning lady.

"Move." He looked up in surprised irritation, blinking. She swished the broom at him. "Moooove." He kept staring at her, looking vaguely hostile. "Move." Hannah scooted forward, and he backed up, into the box behind him. She heaved an exasperated breath. "Move. Move. Move." She tried to dance around him, just as he tried to step aside, and they ended up blocking each other again. "Move, move, move." He tried to slide past her the other way the same time as she tried to duck that way. "Move move move move—"

Hannah's brain suddenly went blank, and she didn't flash back to when the guy had slapped her when they chucked her overboard. She flashed back the last time she'd been slapped by her mom, for back-talking in that particularly tense space of time right after someone's been laid off, and suddenly every smart aleck remark is a calamity.

The sting went deep, the numbness from the impact wearing off after the first second. Standing there tight with nerves, he looked like he was ready to do it again. Hannah straightened her face to look down at him, trying to comprehend that he had just fucking slapped her.

In movies they never show how much it hurts your goddamn hand to slap someone. At least if you do it hard. And Hannah generally went in for the pound."You do not fucking slap me."

He looked at her, stunned, one side of his face turning pink, as if this was not a possibility he had considered.

She slapped him again, and he threw up his hands in front of his face, tangling their arms. Snatching back her hand, she darted in from the other side and got him again.

"Try that on for size."

"Laberd!"

"Get back here, you sorry motherfucker."

He was already scrambling away and she kicked a leg out to trip him, dropping the broom. He stumbled, still protecting his face, so she got him one in the stomach.

"Mudut!* Aff— Stop!" Hannah kicked him in the calf, tripping over the tilt in the deck. "I am gonna—"

"You'll what? Fucking slap me?" He kept backing, toward a little group standing on the high side of the boat, a black guy and two white guys, one of whom was Blondie.

Everyone started backing up when it became clear that there would be no deviation in course, but then the guy went and hid behind Blondie.

"Getter off me!"

Blondie looked confused, and also like he was threatening to smile again, in that way that made Hannah think that maybe he wasn't running on all cylinders. Ignoring him, she reached around and whacked at the guy again.

"Fucking whore," she said, catching him as he tried to dash around Blondie.

"How did this start?" Blondie asked, like he was asking the weather.

"She was, aggh! She wouldn' leave me alone, an' I hitter, and then she went crazy—" He dodged again. Blondie took this opportunity to step out of the crossfire. "Juele!"

"Pansy-ass bitch." She smacked the back of his head, then got his arms a couple more times. When she stopped, he froze, arms still covering his head. She pointed at him. "Don't fuck with me." Then she turned around and marched off to find her broom.

"Mirea, toludt fasi ak behom."**

———————–

*"Stop!"

**"Mirea, you have a hilarious life."

M.E. Traylor writes free sci-fi and fantasy novels over at metraylor.com. Met's current project is Guts and Sass: An Anti-Epic, where you can read about all your favorite fantasy tropes and character types… not quite the way you've learned to expect them.

Target

The radio spat scratchy ragtime at them as they sped into the heart of the desert, past Perch Springs, past Valentine and its tiny red schoolhouse made especially for Old World settlers. The journey had given up the night and was now fully engulfed in the fireball of day, the heat melting into their every pore.

"I can't wait to meet Charlie." Clara's eyes were wide and bloodshot from lack of sleep and hot sand creeping into the corners. "He won't know what hit him when he meets me, I'm going to walk right up to him and give him a big sloppy kiss, one that says he can't say no to me, no matter how much he might try."

"Charlie Chaplin," he muttered. The motor oil had lost its lustre and now sat ill in his host's gut. He was going to have to get rid of it soon, and since Clara refused to stop the motor car, his only recourse was to retch over the side. A splatter of black littered the passenger door, marring the shining cream-coloured finish. But Clara had other things on her mind, and the wrecking of a car would only mean finding a way to get a new, better one.

He settled back in his seat, feeling sick from the constant rocking motion of the motor car on the uneven road. Clara's rambling was another wave that kept crashing over him, doing its best to capsize his stomach.

"Charlie's a genius," she assured him. Her dark eyes danced with glory, the whites wide in an unsettling eagerness that infected her entire demeanour. "When we get there, you have to be on your best behaviour, no whining in the background, no looking all rumpled and bored. Besides, your target will be there, at Charlie's house, you can feel that like I can the feel the camera on me, and the flicker of that film clicking frame by frame. We're helping each other now, aren't we? Charlie's mad for girls like me, girls with open minds and willing to do what others won't." Her grin was lopsided, her lips bleeding and cracked, blistered from the relentless heat. "We ain't stopping. We're heading straight on, through the heart of Los Angeles and onto Sunset Boulevard, we're going into West Hollywood, and we're going to Charlie's house."

"Glad you know the route." He yawned and settled back in his seat, the queasy feeling of his inner body sloshing inside of his host easing slightly. "We don't even know how long we've been travelling. He might not be home."

"Oh, Charlie will be home!" Her eyes widened further, shots of red piercing the whites in tributary rivers. There was something wrong with her, he thought, and a real nag of concern assailed him as she began her chatter anew, talking of Charlie, of silent films, of Lillian Gish and switchblades and fat men with wallets and one good fella after another, each with a bottle of good booze.

"Charlie, he'll put me in the lead, and I know I'm going to get it. 'Romeo, Romeo.' Do you hear how I'm saying it? All forlorn and hopeless and knowing it's the end? 'Romeo, Romeo.' He'll point that camera of his at me, his lead star, his main lady, his 'It' girl, and he'll shout, loud as you please–'Fire!'"

He frowned.

"They don't say 'Fire' in movies. They say 'Action!'."

"Don't be stupid. They aim and they shoot with those cameras, don't they?" Her bleeding grin was for the highway alone. "We're ready for you, Miss Clara. We'll try that shot, the one Lillian used last time, in The Sparrow. Steady now. We want to see fear, Clara. Real terror. That's right, like a little trapped sparrow banging against its cage. Hear that? That's the clap of a black clipboard by some nobody, that kid who's just happy to be there. He's on his own dime, but he'll give a feel if he gets a part. FIRE!"

* * * * *

He could sense the ocean, even though they couldn't see it yet. The air was scrubbed clean with salt, oxygen-full breezes coursing over them the more they drove. It was early evening on an unknowable day, but Clara was keen to tap her heels and keep the radio tuned to the same scratchy jazz station, the horn blaring in uneven spurts.

"Just listen to that guy play!"

"He's no Langley."

"This one's got a name for himself. He's been in pictures."

"Ones with no sound. There's no comparing, Clara. Langley's soul is in his horn, and you'll only find that kind of honesty in Chicago, in a basement, with no one caring whether or not they hear it."

"You're a big, nasty grey cloud on a sunny day, that's what you are." She did a sharp turn to the right, onto Huntington Drive, following it south. "This will take us right into Los Angeles," she said, her voice breathless. "You can taste the Pacific, we're so damned close!"

He was exhausted. From one state to another, bathed in blood, he had no energy left for Clara's misguided enthusiasm. "We're close to what?"

"Charlie. The party. Your target. Don't you ever listen?"

His host's eyes were partially closed, an expected darkness overtaking them. He was so damned tired.

"Target," he repeated.

"That's right," she said, falsely bubbly and full of energy for her own goals. The switchblade was forgotten in these moments of vanity, but he knew it was ever present in her possession. Her eyes were wider than usual, a strange mania present in her that sent a shiver of worried understanding through his jelly essence. Her lipstick was uneven. There was a tear at the hem of her dress. There were bloodstains on her shoulder. The feather boa she'd taken as a gift from Reggie was tattered and wilted, most of the larger feathers long since torn out by the wind that whipped at them as they drove. She wrapped it around her neck anyway. She looked like a sick bird with a molting disease.

"I need to fix my eyes," she said, a shaky fingertip smudging the days old kohl that lined them, smearing them into black pockets, giving her the appearance of a corpse. She snatched her hand mirror out of her hand bag and with one hand still on the wheel, she fished out her kohl with the other. She propped her hand mirror onto the steering wheel with her elbows, and in this awkward pose managed to apply another line of black without poking herself in the retina. "There," she said, smiling at her ghoulish reflection in her hand mirror. "Let them try to say no to me now!"

"You haven't eaten," he reminded her. "We could have stopped at that gas station, back around Pasadena. You should have had a sandwich, at the least, and a cup of coffee."

"I don't need that sort of thing, not anymore," she said, her words a harsh whisper against the road, his doubts, her own intentions. "I'm going to go to that party, and Charlie is going to have one look at me, and it's all about becoming the flickering light. That little dash between dark and light, that's going to be me, that's going to be my grey shadows up there. Nothing else. Nothing at all, and that's the way it should be."

She drove right, onto Mission Road, and then west onto North Broadway before crossing interstate five. They sped above the Los Angeles River, the desert already a distant memory behind them. Long, spindly palm trees lined their ascent into the arms of Hollywood, a quick jaunt past Sunset Boulevard, where Clara's wide, crazy eyes were pinprick stars in the surrounding darkness. "Almost there, almost there…" She let out a horrific, tortured squeal, one more suited to her victims than as a cry of victory. She released her hands from the steering wheel to punch the air, her feet kicking in happy, barefoot glee. Lines of blood were etched across her ankles. She'd cut her toes driving without shoes.

They pulled into a modest looking house, its front end surrounded by cars of all shapes and sizes, a buffet for those enamoured by the wheels only wealth can buy. She slammed the brakes and pulled the car into park beside a black Chevrolet, the wide expanse of her trunk blocking it in.

"You should park across the street," he tried to tell her, but she was already out of the car, heedless of her bleeding feet, her tattered feather boa trailing behind her. She was roadkill, and she didn't care. She'd made it to Hollywood, to her own target, to this party, and nothing else mattered but shadows and her mindless vanity.

The door swung open and they both slid in, serpents uninvited to that first, perfect garden. She waved her hand high, heedless of the odd looks the wealthy patrons of the party were giving her. "Charlie!" she shouted, trying to gain a small, rather shrivelled man's attention. "Charlie! It's me! It's Clara!"

He broke free of the tousled redhead at his side and made his way slowly towards her, his cane offering him poor support. This wasn't Charlie Chaplin, of course, and judging from the tall glass in his hand it was clear he had more than a small rum runner connection. "Clara," he said, and his voice was broken glass. He held out his arms and she ran into them, giving him a severe kiss on the cheek. "It's good to see you. It's been a little while. Chicago, it's too cold and too far for me, I like the ocean air." He smiled softly and patted her cheek, his eyes as cold as hers were black. A mutual assassin. "Imagine that, you showing up here. You got nerve, kid. You got some kind of crazy devil in you to bring you here."

He glanced up, catching a good glimpse of her companion. "Hey, Frankie. Look who it is. Our old friend, Clara." She winced as he dug his fingertips into her clavicle, her smile faltering slightly as she looked back at the man who had been her companion for her bloodbath of a trip. "Bet you never thought you'd see her again, did you?"

Charlie's watery eyes narrowed as he looked on him. "Frankie…You not feeling good or something? It's the strangest thing, I thought you were on the patio, out the back, by the pool. You got changed, too." He shrugged. "Do what you want, you always do, pal. Just like my little Clara, here. Now come on, sugar, you and me, we got some catching up to do."

"You got a part for me, Charlie? You going to put me in your pretty pictures?"

"Sure, sure. I'll make some pretty pictures of you, all right."

She giggled as Charlie led her into the melee of people, the party in full swing. It wasn't much different from the speakeasy in Chicago, the same worn faces, the same drunkard props at the bar drooling onto the counter. The only difference was the softening salt air that coursed over them, and the desert warmth that refused to fully leave. A Chicago that was easier to bear.

A hand rested on his shoulder. Its familiarity sent a shiver of memory through him, and he closed his eyes against its onslaught.

"I can't believe you brought her here," a voice, so similar to his own, hissed at his ear. "She's a cannibal. She wants to be in films so she can bend out of the screen in spirit and tear into the crowds so she can eat them."

He turned, and wasn't surprised to see a familiar face. It held every nuance that was his usual features, apparent after every host was taken over. A certain cut to the jaw, a definite height and shape of the neck and shoulders. The face was always the same, and it was this face, his own face, that stared back at him in longing sympathy.

"Frankie," he said. He cocked his head to one side and his larger twin did the same. "I was wondering who that was."

"It was you," Frankie said.

"I don't understand."

Frankie smiled. He placed his hands in his pockets, casual and cool, an easiness about him that was envious. "She never told you how she made you." He let out a bitter laugh. "Of course not. Clara and the truth don't see eye to eye."

"Who are you?" he asked, a sudden rush of anger burning inside of him. This man who had his face, his mannerisms, his structure–he seemed more solid, as though there was more of him holding him together. Frankie nodded and gave a friendly wave to a pretty young woman and her beau as they passed. When they were gone, he slid a cigarette out of his side pocket and slowly lit it.

"She was the one who did it. Who tried to kill me. She almost got her wish, but I managed to get away, even if a little bit of me got left behind." He took a drag of the cigarette and let out the thin smoke in a single breath. "That's what you are. Poor Mikey, getting full of that little bit of me, just because she happened to feel a tiny bit of remorse." He laughed and shook his head. "You know what we're made of. Jelly and black tar. Well, she shot me point blank in the face and the host just crumpled up like paper and I fell out. Then she went ahead with that stupid switchblade of hers and started cutting into what solid bits of me she could. Of course, I managed to scrape most of myself together, but I guess you're that little bit I left behind." He took another drag of the cigarette. "I have to give you credit. You lasted all that way with her, and she never once tried to cut you up. That's something even I couldn't accomplish."

He couldn't understand. He didn't want to. It wasn't like this for them, it was humans who were fractured and blindly searching for memory, who put images on screens in hope of silver light to trigger some forgotten emotion within themselves. They wilfully ignored the truth. They didn't see the director shouting orders in the background, the actors carefully memorizing their lines. They didn't see the rising starlet running her palm across the front of the producer's trousers. They saw shadows and light and believed in nothing.

He held his hands against his head, pressing his palms against his temples as though warding off a terrible noise. Langley's horn was a crescendo in his memory.

"Don't tell me any more," he pleaded.

"You know who you are," Frankie harshly chided him. "You're the shadow, that flicker of myself that follows the rules, who can't leave them behind. Cutting you out was the best thing Clara ever did for me." He tossed the remains of his cigarette into the pool behind him, the surface one of polished pearls. "Do you know who our superiors are? Dead weight. That's right, there is no home to go to, no place to rest our weary heads when our target is achieved. They dumped us here to punish us. Criminals who dared to feel singular instead of part of their constantly churning, never fluctuating futures."

"The future was always changing, and there were consequences," he tried to argue. He could feel his voice getting hysterical, his throat constricting in fear. "We can't just walk away from our responsibilities."

Frankie let out a scoff at this. He grabbed two drinks off of a visiting tray from a harried waiter and handed one of them to his twin. He took it and downed it, wishing it was motor oil.

"You should drink more of this stuff," Frankie advised him. "It makes a good preservative. Better than the oil."

"I don't want to talk to you…."

"But you will. What choice do you have? You're me, after all, a little piece that got chopped off and was allowed to grow. I feel sorry for you. Sorry for myself. All you've believed yourself to be is a task, a thing to get done. I'll bet you spent the whole trip obsessing about your target, and how he'd better be here for you to kill. Do you know what the target really was?" He took a sip of his scotch, wincing at is went down uneasy. "It was you. And me. I was so angry they put me here, so miserable to think I was stuck with that psychotic bitch, Clara, I wanted to end it all. And I knew how to do it. Just a wrong look her way, a little threat to her ego by brushing her hair from her eyes and trying to be coy. It's that easy. That's how the devil springs out of her, and it cut me down, blew my host's head off and hacked me into pieces." Frankie let out a bitter laugh over his drink. "Shame it didn't work, of course."

He collapsed against the side wall, settling in among a dried flowerbed. The drink in his hand rolled onto the patio stones, and a drunken actor kicked it out of the way. "Suicide."

"Murder in all forms."

"It's not right. Killing isn't right."

"You picked a strange travel partner, if that's what you believe."

He felt sick, the oil he'd consumed earlier wanting to visit him anew. He grabbed another cocktail off of a wandering tray and downed it, much to his twin's amusement.

"I killed a man," he confessed

His twin merely shrugged. "Who hasn't?"

"He was innocent. He just wanted to find his brother."

Frankie tapped his fingers on the side of his glass. A nervous gesture. A thought turned physical.

He took another swig. A warm rum on a hot night.

"You're right. That is very sad."

They stood studying one another for a long moment, imperfect mirror images that couldn't quite recognize each other. Finally, he let out a long sigh and forced himself to stand, his twin offering his hand to help him up.

"She's a bad person," he said, meaning Clara.

"We're all bad people," Frankie said, reassuring him with a soft squeeze on his shoulder. "But take some good advice and cut her loose. She tried to kill us once. You know what she's like. She doesn't leave anything half finished."

Frankie patted his back. His name was called, and it floated above the crowd, a singsong need for a dance. "That's her," he said, and bit his bottom lip. "She tries to kill me and now she asks for a dance. I know how you feel. You want to be rid of her, but you can't. She'll kill you before you get a chance to do that for yourself. She's like that motor oil, slick and black as death and just as smooth as it goes down. Inevitable. Quick to run you down."

And with this he slid into the crowd, off to his fate with the girl and the switchblade, leaving his accidental twin behind. He had to wonder, how many other splinters of himself were wandering out there, each captivated by a task he couldn't properly fulfil. There could be dozens.

Clara had shot him point blank in the head. The splatter of his essence had to have been significant.

He'd forgotten to ask, how small had he been before he found his way into Mikey's body and grew into it. An inch worth of jellied substance? A droplet?

There could be hundreds of fragments of himself out there, lost, wandering the linear desolation this violent world alone. A mob army of disconnection.

He sloshed within his host's gut. Sick. Unsettled.

Weight

Dragan swept his hand through the winter's barley, smiling at the weight of the ears, silver-green as yet but heavy with grain. Harvest was nearly upon them already and his meadow would yield well. There was contentment here as summer crept onto the farm. For too many years he had been called away before the fruits of his winter labors could be seen.

Now the barley ears were full, the grape vines were lush with the winter's muck-heap slurries he'd run, and fruit was setting. His animals were fat and well. All across the pastures wildflowers and moths, bees and dragonflies lifted a haze of buzzing color. Everything felt as it should. Yes, he was content.

Yells or curses broken by distance rose on the air, and he searched for their source. Over the rill, where the pasture climbed up into the beech woods, Freya ran after scattering sheep. Her frustration was clear as the animals gathered and paused to watch her approach, then took to their heels again, separating, circling wide, and rushing off through the trees.

He laughed as he watched her. How she had managed to get them into that part of the pasture was anyone's guess. They had been fenced in by the house and her only chore with them today was to open the gate to the house-yard and give them access to the bier. They were due for shearing and he wanted them in close at hand. Yet, there they were; rushing through the beeches in a paddock two gates over from the one they should be in.

He chuckled as he started walking, heading with no great speed toward the footbridge over the rivulet that separated them.

Each morning now she had a set of tasks that freed her from the house, and from his mother's spite. She fed the hens, turned the sow and piglets out into the yard, milked the milker and turned her out on the pasture with her calf for the day. Then she could skim the milk and set aside the cream for churning. There was nothing difficult in anything he'd given her. He thought.

And there could be no doubt she had put her best into every effort she made. He had heard not one word of complaint since their arrival. The peace of the countryside was calming the restlessness in her spirit. It was just as he'd hoped it would be.

Only one concern weighed on his mind.

In all the years he'd known her, Freya had never been freely available to him as a lover. She had, in every sense, chosen times and places in accordance with her own eccentric bursts of passion. And, at any time in those years, she had been as likely to choose another man as him. He'd taken some time to accept it, but he had come to a sense of pride, knowing she would come to him without duress, without bind or obligation.

Always, the risk was worth it when she came with passion trembling in her flesh, with her skin and mouth burning and her eyes alight. She was elemental. It was everything he loved in her from the first; the hot blood and passion, the fearlessness and refusal to be cowed and bullied. In her he'd found a lover like no other he'd ever known.

But somewhere on their journey that light had gone out and taken all its scintillating heat with it. Since the night of their arrival she had lain in his bed like a puppet made of warm, soft flesh that lacked the rods to animate it. She returned his kiss and little more.

It was a great shame, even if it was an attitude better suited to a wife. He had loved her well enough as she was, and he missed that vital spark.

* * * * *

"What man works all day and then comes in to cook his own meal, Son? No man."

"No," he agreed, as he stirred the soup bones, lifting them to keep them from catching. It saved argument.

"We've too much butter. See it sits there turning rank. It's too far to take it fresh to market and we could have bartered it for good black cherries if we still had neighbors who would trade."

"Yes," he said, as he dropped onions and turnip into the pot. He no longer heard the words she used, only the noise of her speaking.

Freya sat with her forehead and elbows on the table and her hands laced behind her neck, trying to ignore the constant drone. Beside her was the whetstone and shears, their blades as keen as razors, glinting like a threat in the soft lamplight. If there had been something of interest to share with her, he might have tried to distract her from his mother's constant criticism, but the past had proven it only gave the old woman ammunition for her cruelty.

When Freya spoke, it was unexpected. She turned to where Goda lay and asked, "Did your husband fall from his tree, or did he leap?"

The temptation he felt to laugh at the bitter truth of that observation fled as his mother took the bait.

"My husband died because my son left him with too much work. He should have been here, helping with the winter chores as we expected. But he was too busy chasing after you."

It was an endless round and he stepped away from the fire and pot, took Freya's hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Come for a walk," he said quietly.

Out in the summer night, the moon was rising near to full and a breeze spread just a hint of chill on the air. It was a time, he knew, for comfort and affection, but they were not gestures that came easily to him. Instead he said, "I'm sorry. Short of throwing her out into the yard, there's nothing I can do to stop her and she knows it."

Freya gave him no more than a tired smile that might have meant she understood. In days gone by she would have had a mouthful of obscenity to offer his mother, and likely one for him too. She had made no real attempt to defend herself, not physically and not even verbally. Most days she let the insults and the bigotry slide off her skin as if she didn't hear it. She did. He knew she did and he knew the fierce anger that burned in her when she was insulted. But she showed nothing of it. He hoped it was the calming effect of farm life.

Once she would have laughed and suggested solutions that involved steel and blood. Instead she stood quietly in front of him, watching her feet and tugging at the bottom of her bodice.

"Perhaps I was wrong." As soon as he said it, he knew she had leapt to false conclusions. Her eyes shone with the sudden light of hope as she snatched at possibilities, but he took her hand and rushed to explain. "I sent Lenka away because I don't want her here, but that might have been a mistake. As long as she is here, my mother has someone to wait on her hand and foot and she thinks she is in command.

"While she is gone, you have to face her every day. Maybe if we bring Lenka back to care for her some of the bickering will stop."

As quickly as the light of hope had filled her face, the shadows of disappointment crept over her skin. A tiny frown ticked between her brows and she nodded, leaving her face turned down from the moonlight.

"Yes," she agreed softly. "At least I won't have to stay with her all day. That alone might be worth it." The tired smile touched her lips again as she added, "But she will never let you forget she won. Or me." She pulled her hand back, crossing her arms in tight across her belly, watching her toes as they twisted a divot in the dust at her feet.

"You wouldn't care if she was here?"

"No."

That hurt. He wanted her to care, or at least show some sort of concern, but she shrugged away any suggestion of jealousy or resentment.

"She was never a lover," he offered.

"No? Well, she seemed to think she was."

"She wants a husband; she thinks she should have been first in line."

"You're a limited resource." She nodded, smiling. "What else can I do? I am never going to manage the house. It isn't even a question of learning how to do things. I don't know what it is that is supposed to be done."

"That's one of Lenka's virtues, but if you took her onto a battle field she would never have done as well as you've done here. A wife is all she ever wanted to be. She'll do everything and be pleased for the chance to do it."

"Lucky girl."

"And you can come out into the field with me."

"Lucky me."

"It's hard work, but it's outside. There might be something in it that will make you happier." There was so much he should say. Beside his thighs his fists formed and fell open, but there was no way for him to reach across the silence filling the distance between them. He wished it was easier, that she stood closer or that she had not wrapped herslef so tightly in her own embrace. "I wish I could make you happier, Freya."

She looked harder at the ground and what was left of her smile fell away. "So do I."

Sediment

Trunks of rock lay scattered across the horizon, as layered shelves of the earth's former life loomed above them. On his right wa a riverbed that had spent its lifetime drying up, until a million years later it transformed itself into a mountain. It was strange to him, how this linear world could forge such examples of eternity and yet the sentient beings that walked the periphery of that mystic riverbed were themselves nothing more than specks of dust in its memory. There was no forever for a human being on Earth. Only the vague recollection of carbon in the mountain's layers could distinguish what was human and what was animal. One day, even this civilization would disappear beneath the sediments, the only clues to a human populace being the rims of motor cars, porcelain plates reduced to tiny shards. Arrow heads. A rusted switchblade.

The heat was the worst he had ever experienced, an oxygen-deprived wasteland that was fit to fry a lizard. Clara was likewise melted by the pursuit of the sun, the silk top of her dress billowing out as the motor car forced a breeze over them. It cooked them with its even heat, a slow, symmetrical roasting.

"We should have stopped in Nevada when we had the chance," she complained. Her lips were dry as she spoke, her hands never leaving the wheel to rummage for lipstick in her handbag. She was as rooted to her post as the trees that lay in stone on the vista surrounding them. "We could have stopped at The Northern Club, out on Fremont Street. Bit of gambling, bit of drink, would have done us good."

"Nothing good comes from us," he reminded her. She was wisely silent at this, her jaw set and determined as she concentrated on the long, desert road before them.

They passed the remains of trees, the graveyard of a forest long dead, the route outlining the tragic story of the earth, where sands tore over craggy rocks that were once winding veins of life, now red sediments full of the blood of strange creatures that once walked a very different surface. A vague memory of his own home assailed him, a multicoloured landscape of bubbling tar and swirling twin moons. Just as quickly, it disappeared, a fragment of a dream only partially remembered, yet its residual feeling left a haunting imprint, chipping away at a stranger's bones.

"We're heading towards Meteor City, near Two Guns," she explained. Her lit cigarette pointed out to an unidentifiable spot on the horizon to her left. "It's a big hole, left by some rock from up there." Her cigarette pointed upwards at a ninety degree angle, ashes raining down the belly of her wrist. "They say it might have wiped out the dinosaurs. Covered the whole planet in ashes and choked them all out." She narrowed her gaze at the horizon before her as she took a long drag of her cigarette and tossed its stubby end onto the moving sands beside them. "Kind of strange, when you think on it. Maybe even a little scary. That's how easy it can be to wipe us all out. A big rock hitting the desert. Like a bullet in the gut, I'd say. Everything dying all at once–that's just the earth bleeding out."

He could feel his inner body squash itself along the right side of his host, an unconscious need to be separated from her even if it wasn't physically possible. Of course she would use an analogy similar to murder, her mind so preoccupied with that heinous act she had no other frame of reference from which to draw her understanding. He turned to her, reluctant to engage her in conversation, yet needful of finding any sentience upon whom he could confess.

"Why did you kill your friend?" he asked.

She shrugged, as though this mattered little, and in her case, it didn't. "Reggie always had good liquor," she said, by way of explanation. "A nice tall glass of rum does a body good, it really does. You ought to try that instead of that nasty motor oil. Goes down hot and smooth, settles the nerves. It's from the islands down south, you know, where all those pirates used to put their feet up. Rum is all full of that kind of history. Guess some of it rubbed off after a glass or two."

"What are you talking about?"

"Pirates, you lunkhead." She sighed and thought about snatching another cigarette from her handbag, only to toss it back at her side, delaying the inevitable for now. "All they're famous for is mayhem, stealing and murder. And that's what they drank, morning, noon and night. So, like anything, like a clock on a mantel that witnesses a family growing up, like some rocking chair that an old granny spends her last days in, it gets itself haunted. That's what rum is, it's a haunted drink. You get that spirit in you, and you can't help but go a bit pirate yourself."

She pressed her bare foot firmer on the gas pedal, forcing the motor car into its top speed. The road spit up a cloud of sand and dust in protest, every grain infected with the spirits of distilled, vibrant life.

"That still doesn't explain why you killed him."

She let out a hiss of frustration through her clenched teeth, and he was sure she was going to careen into the ditch out of spite, just to toss him onto the road and be done with him. Perhaps she would do him a further kindness, and murder him as she once promised she could do. But her hands only clenched the steering wheel firm, and her jaw softened slightly as she spoke.

"He got grabby. I don't like it when they get grabby. And I told him to quit it, but I guess he had too much of that pirate in him, too. Reggie, he wasn't all there, if you get what I'm saying to you. Watched his family burn to a crisp in a fire once. That does things to your mind. Makes you a little strange. A little off." She shook her head. "Poor Reggie. But still, he had the grabbies, and I can't tolerate that from no one. Like I said, I had plenty of that haunted rum in me, too. If I went a little Blackbeard, then that's Reggie's mistake. He should never have offered up that rum."

* * * * *

The half can of motor oil he'd sipped along the way had hit him hard, and when he awoke it was night, the moon a bright white circle, its shine making him feel like the sky was eyeing him. He rubbed his host's eyes, forcing a wakefulness into them that he hadn't felt for days. Or was it weeks by now, or even years? The desert that surrounded them in its speeding vista rolled past time, defying all linear logic. The present rushed headlong towards a future point they hadn't yet visited. Every grain of sand was full of next week.

To his right, a great black chasm had opened up, and he stared into it, wondering if that was where the past was finally resting. It was a good enough vessel for it. A deep, impenetrable valley chiselled between massive cliff faces. "We should leave it here," he advised her. The words were thick and blackly oiled on his tongue. "The past and all the terrible things that had to be done. Let's leave them right there, in the middle of that darkness where it belongs."

She scoffed at this, white hands unfeeling and tight as carved, polished stone on the wheel. "Don't be stupid," she chided him. "That's the Grand Canyon, seeing as how you don't know nothing. Everybody who comes here thinks they have some kind of nature commune or getting into their roots, or some other artsy fartsy reasoning, beats the heck out of me. All nonsense, if you ask me. It's a big ass river that dried up, and there's nothing worth throwing in there but trash." She cocked her head to one side, the marble hue of her skin beneath the moonlight congruous with the walls of rock that surrounded them. "Mind you, I got plenty of trash to get rid of, you're right on that. Maybe you're onto something after all."

She let out a low whistle, one that had a longing for a cigarette in its cadence. She ignored the way he slouched in his seat, the bubbling essence of motor oil seeping into his consciousness, destroying his sense of linear time. He could see her, as a child, driving the motor car, her hands dripping with blood, bits of terrier fur embedded beneath her fingernails. He closed his eyes, only to discover the back of his host's lids were covered in memories. of a lunkhead brother with a tooth knocked out by a rock and a slingshot. A gold replacement glinted in an adolescent afternoon spent fishing at the local pond rather than going to school.

He rubbed his host's chin with the heel of his palm. "It's all slipping away from me," he admitted.

She glanced sideways at him, a narrowed cat's eye view of concern "You really got into it this time. Look at you, barely able to think, can't make a real sentence up right. You're a mess. Here we are, almost at the finish line, and you're a big, oily, goopy piece of work. Tar sands, that's you."

"I'm not…" he said, but the universe was spiralling around him, the lines of the road's edge curving and twisting into knots, black asphalt and dirt and water seeping into every time frame. Huge motor cars made of solid steel sailed past them like ocean liners. Bullets roared in the sky, leaving long, thin trails of cloud behind them. A horse galloped beside them, pulling a waggon full to bursting with a harsh-looking family who stared him down for the villain he was. They disappeared into the billboard declaring they were now in Perch Springs. He could still hear the clack of the horse's hooves as they scurried off into the past, the dust settling itself behind them.

"Hot like Hades, ain't it?" Clara complained. She fanned herself with her hand, but it was a futile gesture. The only relief they had was if she kept her foot on the gas and pushed the speed high enough to create a decent wind current. Even in this the air was acrid, leaving a sandy feeling at the back of the throat.

"Get used to it," she warned him. "It's a long stretch of this desert before we get to California. The most boring ride you'll ever have in your life, even if you are with me."

He coughed into his palm. A black, sticky glob lay embedded in it. He wiped it off on the rail of his window, his body positioned so she couldn't see what he what he was doing.

"You said you never got this far."

"No. Never."

"So how do you know it's boring?"

"I can read a map, can't I? It's only what I've been doing since Chicago, gee whiz. You really are some kind of lunkhead, that's what you are. How do I know it's boring–of all the stupid things I ever heard! It's boring because boring is what's on the map you big lunk. One big stretch of nothing at all, it's right there along the thin blue line, in case you were wondering. See?" She tossed the map at him, which he puzzled over, unable to decipher what any of the strange symbols, lines and complex layers of illustrations meant. "Flat as a pancake, all along Route 66 to Pasadena. Nothing, nothing, nothing. We're riding into purgatory, that's what we're doing."

She pursed her lips, and let out smoke from an imaginary cigarette. The shadow of one played upon her lips, a past event superimposed upon the present. "That body you were wearing was just fine. Why'd you change your clothes?"

He fished in his pants pocket for the badge belonging to Sheriff Borden's brother, the metal hot against his skin. "I don't know," he lied.

His neck ached as he turned to her, the milky hue of her skin luminescent beneath the moonlight.

"Maybe I'm becoming like you."

The Antithesis: Book 2 Alpha is now available on Kindle and Smashwords!

The second entry in The Antithesis series is now up for purchase for $2.99 in the Kindle Store and Smashwords, with print soon to come.

This is a story about God and the Devil, but not how you were taught to believe.

This is also a story about love and hate, and the suffering both can bring.

This is about rights and wrongs, and all of the spaces in between.

This is about revenge, courage, death, passion; with no villains, no heroes… only those left scorned.

This is a story about Heaven, Hell, and the Jury that holds them together.

This is The Antithesis.

Qaira Eltruan is the Commandant of the Enforcers, Sanctum's Special Military Sect of angel exterminators. The war against the Archaeans has been nothing but a seventy-year stalemate, yet everything is set to change with the arrival of a mysterious Scholar who can serve to sway the battle in their favor. But this Scholar has secrets of her own…

Secrets that may kill them all.

Burdens

Freya had found her fears deepening as the night came on. Rationalizations that spun in ever decreasing circles kept her vacillating between a state of near panic and a numb despondency bought on by exhaustion. In her mind the journey's end had not been a cause for sighing relief, but the approach of a monumental dread. There was, waiting there, the certainty that she would be forever trapped in a silent world of utter boredom and renunciation.

Still, in all she'd imagined when she'd followed her partner, the vision of a young woman, hysterical and clinging to his leg as he wrestled with their packs, was not one she had ever considered. The more he swore and tried to free himself, the more determined this girl became to keep her not inconsiderable weight against him. And the old woman matched him, curse for curse.

Just when her own situation seemed to have reached the point of unbearable frustration, here was a sideshow to rival the best and Freya found herself beginning to laugh, despite herself.

Dragan was not so amused and his temper was clearly rising, which only made it all seem funnier. By the time he had thrown the packs to the ground and used both hands to pry the woman loose, Freya had stepped back from the weak light and was watching it all, delighted.

"Don't you laugh." From nowhere the old woman's anger sought Freya out. "You've no business here; this is all your fault."

It was hard to take the small, bent figure seriously in the circumstances, but Dragan clearly did. He had succeeded in driving the young woman off and she'd fled inside as he carried the argument up into the matron's face. "I warned you, Mother."

"Warned me what? What will you do? Send an old woman out into the pastures to freeze?" She, too, turned back into the house with her son at her heels, and Freya stepped up to the packs, shaking her head in amazement as she carried them to the door. She was reluctant to step through when she was clearly unwelcome, but she peered in to watch.

"Lenka, go back to your father's house. My mother doesn't need you here and I don't want you. Get ready; I'll saddle you a horse." His tone was even, but Freya could hear the fury in his tightly clipped syllables.

"I told you, Son, she's staying here with me. When you come to your senses, she'll be staying here with you and that one out there will go back to where she came from." No one spared a look at her, but Freya let the amusement slip from her mouth as she began to realize just how much animosity she had inherited with her ring.

"You can't send me away. Don't, please Dragan. Let me stay with your mother to help her. I won't get under your feet." Lenka's lips were pale and her eyes were reddened by her earlier performance, but there was some defiance in the lines of her face even as she begged. "You can't put me out in the night, not with wolves loose and no moon to ride by."

Freya could see the determination in her to stay where she was, and she wondered just what he would do if both women refused to obey him.

"He'll not put you out, girl. You steady yourself and get that fire burning. He'll want a meal now and some ale. You go off and fetch him his due." His mother comforted her companion and then turned back to jab a finger toward Freya. "What do you want that for? What can she give you half as good as you have here? Send her back to her own kind, and stop acting the fool."

Her own kind? Even here, she was not free. Paradise, Dragan had promised. Peace. But here, too, there was hatred and bigotry. There in the shadows, the howl of her inner scream began to rise as humiliation and anger burned into white hot shame.

"This," Dragan seized her hand and dragged her into the room, exposing her to the light, "– is my wife." He held her hand up, dragging her along behind him like she was a streamer trailing from the prize of his wedding gift. He turned with it, flashing the silver ring into Lenka's face.

The girl covered her mouth with both her hands, beginning to sob again as she recognized what he held. "No," she sobbed. "No. You can't have wed her. Not her."

"I have. As I said I would."

Freya tried to pull her hand back, to wrest some small dignity from the appalling situation, but his grip was tight and his determination to make a point too strong.

Lenka ran to stand with his mother, still weeping loudly into her hands as if the old woman could somehow recant any vows he had made. And Freya felt inclined to give her consent. She watched him, furious and arguing with his mother over choices he had made, choices which had become her life, and he spoke as if she was not even in the room.

"I'm bound to him already," Lenka cried over their bickering, raising her tear streaked face to Freya and holding her hands cupped around her ample belly. "I bedded with him. Even now I might have his baby here."

Her earnest confession shocked a laugh. "Good!" Freya pulled her hand back hard and succeeded in ripping it out of his grasp. "That'll save me the inconvenience of having to bear him any."

The furor stopped. In an instant every word was stilled and the vast emptiness of the outside world rushed in on the silence. All eyes were on her. All the cold anger Dragan had directed at his mother and their hysterical guest was turned toward her. Slowly, she watched his emotion reform itself and the light in his eyes turn to hurt and confusion.

She took a perverse pleasure in seeing her own pain reflected. He had brought her to this. None of it had been hers to choose, but she had trusted him.

All Lenka's noise was still, but tears ran down her face as she turned to look at Dragan, waiting to hear his reaction to this outrage. His mother was quicker. "There. There you have it. As I told you. They're not natural, her kind. She's not for you, Son." She spoke so solemnly, it seemed she was sealing a vow more binding than those Freya had never made.

And Dragan answered in a voice not much louder, but as sharp as her two best blades. "She's my wife." With his fists caught in silent strain, he walked past Freya to the door. Over his shoulder as he stepped out, he said, "I'll saddle the horse for you, Lenka. You're leaving."

Lenka's weeping began again, and she stood briefly glaring her terrible grief at Freya, then she turned and ran out the door after him, calling and begging as she ran.

"Well then. That's my only comfort gone, thanks to you." Dragan's mother leaned across the table to ensure her words and meanings could not be lost. "You're nothing good, nothing. And nothing good will come of you being here. Are you pleased with yourself? That poor child is out there now, alone in the night."

Freya leaned on the same surface, her face close to the old woman's. "Yes, she's gone. That's one down, one to go."

"You're fooling yourself, you stupid girl. You don't belong here, and you won't ever belong." She laughed, "You don't even want to be here, do you?

"You won't see me out of my home. Not now, not ever. And my son will realize his mistake, soon enough. He'll never prosper, not while you're here. Every neighbor in the district will know of you. We don't need more women here now, and never your sort.

"As long as he has you beside him, he'll get nothing from them but contempt. And this life is too hard to survive alone."

There was an awful power in her certainty. Freya would have chosen to laugh in her face, but she could find no humor in the words. If she'd stood across from a man, she might have taken the chance to free some of her pent up rage in blows. She might even have drawn a weapon. But as it was, she wished only for the cover of deep darkness so she could weep for sorrows too profound to be brought into the light.

She might have run out into the darkness of the night, but Dragan was out there with his hysterical lover and his anger. Away from him there was nothingness for twenty leagues in every direction. The closest thing to familiarity was the city of Talsiga to the south, with its wealth and its guilds and its cruelty.

Her elderly adversary struggled to the door instead. "Don't you worry yourself my darling," she called out as she leaned on the jamb. "You have a home here, tell your father that. As soon as we can we'll have you back under our roof. Don't you fret." Carefully, she stepped out into the night, still calling encouragement to Lenka as she went.

The costs of Dragan's choices weren't all hers to carry, then. He had accepted his share of the burden without ever making her aware of it, just as he always had. The heat from some of the shames she knew crossed into her cheeks. She needed to apologize to him for her words. But there was no way to take them back, no matter how much she wished she could. Nor how much she wished they were untrue.

But there was one thing she could do. She could try hard to be happy here, for his sake if nothing else.

Her dress had twisted, the basque turning easily on her each time the shoulder slipped, and she straightened it self-consciously. She hated it. She hated the coarse cloth and the heavy skirts. She had worn her suede breeches for as many years of her life as she had worn dresses, and she felt she would drown or choke on the masses of ill-fitting fabric.

But she could wear them without complaint if she had to.

Walking quietly to the door, she collected their few possessions and brought them in and laid them in the light. There was nowhere to put riches if they'd had any, so they would not be missed. There was, against the near wall, a bed with clean linen and thick blankets and furs. There was also, by the table and stools, a small open hearth that smoked up to the roof vent. Past that was another smaller bed, a single high-backed chair, and a chest. On the chest was Dragan's box and she walked to it and flipped it open.

All the small mementos were there just as they had been, and she slid the feather across her lips trying to remember better times. For both of their sakes.

Meet Letitia Coyne – Author of Touchstone!

What is 'Touchstone' all about and why should you read it?

'Touchstone' is a medieval tragedy. Some perfectly nice, somewhat flawed people are doing their best to find their way to a happy ending. In fantasy just as in reality, most of us have personality traits that will make the journey toward contentment more challenging, but we do keep trying to get there, don't we?

Also, it's short. You can get through it in an afternoon if you have a hanky.

What kind of webfiction do I write?

Fantasy, as always. Human relationships under pressure; broken people who try to keep moving when any sane soul would throw in the towel; anachronisms and anti-heroes; mud, muscle, swords and occasionally sorcery; romance; melodrama: Purple pulp prose with hyperbole, alliteration, repetition and a superabundance of semi-colons. That about covers it.

What audience do I write for?

Hot folks, I think. The hot tropics seem to be the single biggest commonality in my demographic: South East Asia, the Mid East, North Africa and the warm bits of South and Central America. And there are also some highlight spots scattered randomly across the globe. Much love to all of them.

I make no pretense toward literary fiction; I write stories. I like to spend my time with complex people in the real world and I like it even better when I can take complicated fictional characters into situations that test them.

I'm also big on melodrama, which has become a dirty word in today's fiction. But opera and classical music are examples of melodrama made to last. Soaps and serials are bigger earners than most movies. The big bulge in the middle likes high stakes and high emotion, even if it is not quite kosher to say so. And I like them.

Why am I writing webfiction?

Digital delivery is moving ahead at a pace, so with five years or more of writing, publishing and marketing from day one until a new print title hits the shelves, the bottom may have fallen out of the print market by the time any work begun today gets to an audience.

I am not seeing the traditional publishing industry making huge intuitive leaps in pursuit of ways to make publishing viable in the digital age. Already somewhere between 20% and 50% of print titles are being returned unsold. Author contracts are reflecting the publishing industry's concern over that 'shrinkage'. Advances are smaller and at times even take account of the risk factor on behalf of the publisher.

The world of webfiction is already examining the best ways to capitalize on their product in the changing marketplace, and the past, present, and future dedication of the masses to serialization seems to me to be one ideal way forward.

That's why. Oh, and also because Anna was kind enough to allow me this chance to try serialization with 1889 Labs.

Old and new projects?

The four historical novels online and available for download at obooko and bibliotastic are beginning a new life with conversion into other formats. 'Petra' zoomed off with its introduction in epub and prc, and I'm hoping the same for the others.

New projects include an idea that I've tossed about for a while concerning 'The Crucible' and the timeliness of a re examination of the witch trials and hysteria, and adding maybe some real live supernaturality, why not.

Also a grand plan that has fomented for more than ten years concerning the indigenous songlines of Australia. That's a big one.

And that's it. Thank you all for reading.

Feather Boa

She was breathless in the morning when she arrived at his door, a large ostrich feather boa draped around her shoulders. "What's all this? New digs already?"

She peered over his shoulder into his room and tsked over the acid burn stain visible in the carpet beside the bed. "You'll have to move that over to cover it. Jeez, what was the problem this time, that last one looked healthy enough. Not a blemish on him and you go wasting it. I thought he fit properly and you were happy with it. Guess you're more into the fashion angle than I thought." She cocked her head to one side as she studied him. "Yeah, this one does have a slightly stronger jaw. I can see why you like it."

He didn't want to talk to her. He had spent the majority of the evening staring at the acid blotch the disintegration of his last host had burned into the carpet, the wide brimmed hat of policeman Borgen turned in half circles by the workings of his fingertips. It was early, he'd had no rest, and her painful cheerfulness grated on his host's nerves, causing his own inner jelly body to ache.

"We need to leave," he said.

She rolled her eyes and tossed her feather boa over her shoulder and sauntered ahead of him, her fancy, beaded handbag clutched firm in her grip. This morning she was an actress in high form. She was wearing new shoes, he noted, and a new, silky, silver-coloured dress that draped over her with the careful pleats of a gown befitting a Roman empress.

"I haven't even had the complimentary breakfast," she pouted. She gave her own chin a playful pinch and giggled as she made her way down the long, dimly lit hallway, her fingers playing in the stringy down of the ostrich feathers, pulling them off one by one. A trail of soft lines lay behind her on the dark red carpet.

A feather floated past him, then settled on the heel of his shoe. To his dismay it held a bright red dot upon its pristine white surface. A calling card for murder.

"I thought Reggie was your friend," he said. He bent over to pick up the feather, the blood smearing onto his fingertips as he touched it. "I'm guessing this is a recent argument."

"Uh-uh, I asked a question first, and you still didn't answer me. Why did you need a new host?"

He bristled at the playful intensity of her accusation, the irony of it painful. "We need to leave. Now."

He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the elevator, her feather boa trailing behind her, tiny droplets of red visible at intervals as it rolled along the carpet. She swore and tried to tear herself from him, but he ignored her protests and shoved her into the opening elevator, its elderly operator mute as they argued within the tiny tin confines.

"You're a miserable brute!"

"Just settle down. We'll head straight to the car, we'll be out of here while the morning's young."

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I want my continental breakfast!" She punched him with her stony fists, her excellent aim giving the elevator operator pause as he raised his brow. Two solid punches, right to the jaw. He felt the wallop rock his head back, and he shook his shoulders to bring his broken neck back into alignment.

"That was uncalled for."

"I ought to play it, you know, I ought to force a few x's and o's onto you for good measure. You deserve it, you brute. You coward. You miserable, boring bastard!"

The elevator landed on the ground floor and he tossed her out of it, her heels catching on her long strand of pearls, the force of it alternatively choking and toppling her. She shot a look of killer proportions back at him before righting herself, her heavily painted lips a twisted grimace. The pearls rolled in a scattered circle around her, threatening every misstep.

Her careful guise was easily ruined. With her hair askew, and the skirt of her dress hiked past her knees, she was every inch the vicious whore she was accused of being.

"I hate you."

The blonde clerk watched on bemused, a nail file put to use as she feigned disinterest. She was no actress. She gave him a knowing wink as he marched past, the corner of her lips upturned in carnal understanding.

"Don't worry, these lover's spats don't last long, especially not with a girl like her."

"I'm afraid they can last for an eternity," he informed her.

He would look back to see the confused expression on her face, the one that would be the beginning of a morning of horror, when she finally found the bleeding body of Reggie, her boss, his eyes a game of tic-tac-toe. In his mind, he could already hear her bloodcurdling scream.

He slammed the front door to the hotel behind him, eager to get back into the motor car and onto the road. He'd leave her behind if he had to, there was no reason to drag her along. He'd find his target without her. He would have to.

But he could see her from where he was standing on the top step, and she was already fitted into the driver's seat, her white gloves angrily gripping the steering wheel as she waited for him. She hated him, but she still needed him. This was how her version of care worked.

He passed two shady characters on the stairs, possibly the same men from the night before, though it was difficult to tell. They all had the habit of anonymity, the brims of their hats creating an everyman gangster that couldn't be properly identified in a police station.

"Be seeing you around, Frankie," one of them said, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

He paused and turned back to them. He wanted to ask them, once and for all, why everyone he met thought he was this Frankie person, and just what was so significant about him. But Clara honked her horn and he didn't want to raise any more questions than he had already left behind. The discovery of murder wasn't going to be long from this moment.

He ignored the two men whose gaze intently followed him as he made his way to the car, skipping two steps at a time to gain speed. Clara was already pulling out of the parking garage, and he latched onto the passenger side door, opening it while she slowly turned the car around. He slammed the door shut as she put the car into a higher gear and careened back onto route 66.

"We'll drive all night," she said. Her voice was curt, still angry. "We'll get to California in twenty-four hours if we keep following this road. No looking behind, no looking to the side, got it?" She let out a deep sigh as she peeled off her ridiculous feather boa and shoved it at him. "Put that under the seat, mind you don't ruin it. It's expensive. Those feathers don't come cheap, you know. And here…" She tossed him her handbag, its weight landing in his lap with a cruel snap. "Get me a cigarette, why don't you. A girl could shrivel into ashes waiting for a smoke from the likes of you."

He slowly took her cigarette case out of her handbag, but not before he fished out the familiar switchblade. It was encased in two layers of handkerchiefs, and even this didn't stop the seepage of a line of blood from leaking out of its handle.

Behind them, the Reynolds Hotel was already a small square on the horizon, the horror it held secreted away in stains on the carpet and mysterious disappearances. He patted the inside pocket of his jacket in a nervous twitch, one that mimicked Clara's need to clack pearls at her teeth. This is what murder does, he thought. It gives you strange habits.

The weight of the gun he had taken from the body of Sheriff Borgen's brother made him feel off balance, even when seated. The handle dug into his host's ribs, a steady reminder of an unfortunate end.

The open road lay before them, a pristine vista of opportunity, sanitizing the ugly actions of the past. They were now exactly past the halfway point to California. Through New Mexico and then Arizona, a straight line that cut through the desert, a preserved road, locked into an eternity that was as stoic as the vast plains of rock surrounding them.

"Have you ever regretted killing someone?" he asked her.

She flicked her fingers over the radio dial, bringing a scratchy ragtime piano tune into clarity. She bopped happily in her seat, her hands keeping time with its positive rhythm. "Some people deserve what they get, I told you that before." Her cigarette stumbled at her lips. It fell into her lap and she quickly retrieved it, uttering a harsh curse. The motor car veered slightly to the left and she steered it back onto the road, which was thankfully empty of oncoming traffic. They avoided another head on crash. Too much of her existence depended on that nebulous concept known to her kind as Fate. She tempted it at every turn, even when it had been against her. A veering, near crash sometimes saved at the last second, sometimes not.

"Once they're gone, there's no point in worrying about it. Done is done." She flashed him a wide, disingenuous smile. A predator's grin. "This ride is wonderful, ain't it? And to think it has a radio! I never been in a motor car that had a radio before, it's real treat, ain't it, being able to listen in on the world like this. We didn't have no radio in my house growing up. No music, no dancing, no card playing, no books. Real upright and uptight. Was immoral, that's what they said, all the uptight adults in my life." She sucked a long drag of her cigarette and then tossed its remains onto the dusty road beside her. "Sure taught me, all those rules of what you can and can't do. There's power in going against what folks think is proper. I'm living proof of that."

It wasn't a power he was envious of, but he kept his opinion to himself. The closer they came to his target, the more he felt an inward unease, a rising sense of guilt that started somewhere in Chicago, poked holes in his ideology in Foss, and now, with the blood and skin of Sheriff Borgen's brother sliding over his jellied essence, he felt fully engulfed by Preacher Joe's descriptive Hell. She was better suited to his job, he knew. There were no moral questions burning in her black heart, no ambiguities of purpose. Her world wasn't full of good people versus bad. The quiet influence of caring meant nothing to her.

She put her foot on the gas and spun headlong into the abyss. It was his own failing if he couldn't do the same.

"There was this dog, once," she said. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. "I was only a kid and it was only a little thing. Some tiny dog, all yippy and miserable, just like the old lady that owned it. All it ever did when I walked by her fence was bark at me like it hated the sight of me. Couldn't stand that thing."

He put the switchblade and its handkerchief cover back into her handbag. She took it from him and tossed it into her lap, space competing on her spindly legs with the cigarette case. "That was the first time I ever used it."

"Your switchblade?"

"That's the one."

She patted her purse absently, as though it were a dog itself in need of petting. "It's helped me when nothing else would. That little dog hated my guts. Told me so with every little yip it shot at me through her iron fence. And one day, I find this switchblade just laying on the ground and I think to myself 'I'm going to teach that little yipper a lesson'. All it took was one swipe. Not even a yelp to say good-bye."

The landscape sped past them as she pushed further on the gas.

"Pulled its little body through the iron bars of her fence and tossed it onto the road. She thought it got hit by a taxi. Stupid old broad."