Thanks for the opportunity!

As a kid, it was always easy to tell myself, “When I grow up, I’m never going to be like Mum and Dad.” In retrospect, parents don’t have it easy.

There’s a thousand and one ways in which things could go wrong. Most of the time, those wrong things are just small ripples in the current of time that eventually rights itself again. And then, there are those rare occasions - those that you never think will happen to you - where the small ripples are compounded and cause a large tidal wave that leaves nothing but destruction.

A long time ago, my dad told me of one such occasion. Now, each time I look at my kid, I tell myself this.

Remember.

Remember the events that happened thirty years ago which shattered the peace and quiet of that little town nestled far away from prying eyes.

No one knows where in the world it actually happened or who were involved. What matters is how and why everything spiraled out of control. So I tell you this story now the same way my dad did. And I want you to close your eyes and keep an open mind.

Disregard race, religion, culture, nationality. This is a story of technology, parenthood, and morality.

A story of love, choice, and death - the devil’s love triangle.

Standing on the steps leading to a small cabin, the brunette swept her eyes over her surroundings, from the snow-capped mountains in the distance to the vast sprawling land in front of her. All was silent, save for the hooting of an owl in the distance.

The narrow dirt road she had traveled down was empty of vehicles. Tall grass on both sides of the road stretched to the horizon as far as she could see, swaying along to the touch of the gentle breeze. There was no sign of any living thing in the vicinity.

Her guard still up, she turned towards the dark haired man standing behind her, an automatic rifle held to his chest. Jerking her head in the direction of the open area, she spoke in a low voice, her breath condensing in the chilly air. “Watch my six.”

Steel black eyes met hers. The man nodded and turned his gaze back to the fields around them.

Supporting her rifle with one hand, she reached out with the other to feel along the top of the wooden doorway. It had to be here somewhere.

Halfway down the length of the doorway, her fingertips still picked up nothing but dust. Her heart almost sank until her fingers brushed against the metal tip of a key. She sighed in relief before slipping the spare key out of its hiding place and sliding it into the front door lock.

A light turn of her wrist and the lock disengaged with a loud click that seemed to echo within the house. She froze, holding her breath as she listened for any movement coming from inside. Seconds passed with the only sound being her quickened heartbeat.

Motioning to the man, she pointed two fingers at the front door. Once he acknowledged, she lifted her rifle to her shoulder and pushed the door open with a hand.

A quick scan of the house revealed three rooms and the living room-cum-kitchen in front of her. The windows were boarded up, leaving enough sunshine to stream in, illuminating the interior. Furnishings were simple and plain, nothing seemingly out of place.

Treading steadily across the wooden floor, she crossed over to the rooms lined up on the left. Her finger curled around the trigger of her gun. She inhaled deeply, her body tense, and in one quick motion, she pushed the first door open wide. She did a sweep of the small bedroom, and finding nothing, she exhaled softly. One room down.

She moved on to the next room and then the next. Lowering her rifle, she called out to the man, “All clear. Secure the door.”

Only once he was in and had fastened the bolt on the front door did she then allow herself to relax a little. Still, there was one more part to go before she could declare the premises safe.

“Now, check for any bites.”

Surely everyone reading this is already familiar with how, once genetic engineering reached a sufficiently mature state of the art, the science began to serve not just the correction of debilitating deformities and conditions but also peoples' fantasies and whims. So it came to pass that pet catgirls had been genetically engineered into existence using a blend of feline and human DNA. They became a popular pet in well-heeled homes along with creatures like the Toy Elephant and the Minigiraffe. See Wackopedia for information on the moral and social developments leading to the unquestioned acceptance of such things, but let us save that discussion for another time. This essay is actually meant to be a short insight into one man's life; a certain Mr. Roberts. You may have heard of him. You may even have seen him in some of the "Wanted Fugitive" advertisements. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.

As pets, catgirls were engineered to have low intelligence with the intention that they might be easily trained and managed much like any other engineered pet animal except perhaps Microbears which, no matter what was done, always tended to be grouchy and headstrong.

But not all breeders were equally careful. A strain of normal-IQ catgirl spontaneously evolved (scientists now say this might have been predicted) and instead of being euthanized as was required of any unauthorized genetically-modified versions or mutations, they were allowed to develop. Their creator, Kawaii-Kits, a small lab operation, could only make a few and the investment in the work was too much so that they needed to sell those few in order to remain in business. And they did so through a few small vendors whose scruples allowed them to overlook certain paperwork and other such niceties.

Enter Edwin Roberts.

Thank you
I have a collection of short stories, every one of them is a bite-sized episode.

---

---

SOUL BAIT

He lay motionless, sprawled on the bed, gazing at the hospital walls, tall and white, spotted with grey flower patterns, and the whitewashed ceiling above.

"I'd like to run up the wall," he thought, a thin man with brown eyes, now bloodshot and sunken. "Up, up! On all my six legs. And then across the ceiling..."

He pressed his palm against the wall. It felt cold and rough to the touch. He hit the wall with his foot. Cold, and rough and hard. No sticky contact. He wouldn't be able to run up the wall even if his life depended on it. Four limbs instead of six, and all are useless! A feeling of loss struck him suddenly. He wanted to weep but couldn't: it was too human for him yet.

Human. Soft, lithe body. No chitin plates. Wingless. Defenceless. Weak. And it lies on its back! He remembered too well what it used to mean in his past life. It used to mean that you were stuck with your wings glued to a sweet kissel, twitching your six legs helplessly in the air, and that you were going to die, slowly and miserably. There was no way out.

He shuddered at the thought and then did what he never knew was possible: he bent over and sat on the bed.

"Hey! Look who's up and smiling, guys!"

The man's fellow patients put away the greasy cards they were playing and turned toward him.

"He's awake, finally. Poor guy," said one of them.

"Hey, sonny, are you hungry?" said another and without waiting for the answer began rummaging in his bedside table. "The guys who brought you here left some kissel* for you. They told us to give it to you when it's gone sour."

Had handed the man a bowl full of kissel, sour-smelling and heavily fermented by the yeast that covered it.

"Listen, pal, don't eat this," said the other man. "I don't know what they were thinking trying to feed this garbage to you. Want a sandwich? I have one."

But once the smell of the fermented kissel reached the new patient's nostrils, his face suddenly brightened up. He grinned. He beamed. He made a strange sound. Then grabbed the bowl, held it against his face and stuck his nose into it.

The next moment he was grieving for a long and flexible proboscis he'd had in his past life while trying to reach the delicious yeast with his short human tongue.

He reached, finally, but only to recoil in disgust.

He felt sick right away; his stomach turned, he threw up. He wept, terrified of the salty moisture leaking from his eyes.

The feeling of loss was different this time. It was so painful, so deep, so alien! For a moment he gazed upon the food that had meant a world to him in his past life, then began sobbing inconsolably over it with pathetic, whimpering cries of a heartbroken human being.

"There, there, pal..." His fellow patient gently patted him on the back. "Eat a sandwich, it will do for now. There's going to be a proper breakfast soon."

He learned to be human, and it came naturally to him, though he couldn't let go of the past life's memories yet. Sometimes he would catch little flies and try buzzing something to them while holding them carefully with his hands. Because of this, his fellow patients called him Fly. They couldn’t get his real name out of him anyway.

As time passed, Fly learned to measure it in a human way: with days and nights, hours and minutes. It seemed familiar somehow but long forgotten along with many other things.

Recovery of the old, alien memories was a hard and slow process, but it was much easier than learning from scratch. Each new day made Fly more and more human. Soon, the glimpses of his past life came to reveal themselves only in dreams. And then even the dreams of Fly's lost world became rare. He began dreaming of times that seemed ancient: of human childhood.

When the Visitor came to see Fly, he found him reading a newspaper. Fly lifted his eyes and saw a tall man in a dark suit who greeted him with a warm smile. The man was old but had aged well, his snow-white hair thick and shining, his blue eyes full of life.

"You've learned a lot here at the hospital," the Visitor nodded. "Do you even remember the days when you used to live in a vial of sweet kissel on my table? I doubt that." Saying no more, he took a little glass vial out of his pocket and showed it to Fly.

Fly grabbed the vial that very instant. He couldn't believe his own eyes. There, in his shaking hands, human hands, he held his homeworld which seemed so small now, barely recognizable, too. It looked like ages had passed there since Fly left it. The glass itself was dirty, stained with countless tiny footprints, plastered with empty cocoons, and almost all the kissel had been eaten. Of all the inhabitants of the world only a few flies were left, small and starving, and oblivious of their doom. They ran and flew to and fro, living and moving too fast for human eyes. Fly felt tears welling up in his eyes again.

"This hospital is just like the vial you came from," the old man said to the crying Fly. "You've grown out of it. Now it's time for you to enter a bigger world."

He took Fly by the hand like a child and led him to the exit. The promised world wasn't just big, it was huge beyond imagination. Fly fell to his knees, his head swimming, his heart pounding, and tried to buzz as if he still had had his wings.

"Get up, human," said the Visitor sternly. And Fly got up.

-

Fly was adapting to his new life fast and forgetting the past one even faster. He now had a human name - Ivan, - a passport, and an apartment to live in. A mere week after getting all these things he'd already been working as a cook in a local bakery making sweet cakes of dough, cream and chocolate.

The Visitor whose true name Ivan had never learned called on him often. He spoke little, smiled a lot, and always took a note that everything was going fine and according to the plan. His visits were all alike, brief and uneventful, all but the last one when he left Ivan a gift.

It was a little glass vial half-filled with sweet kissel, seeded with living yeast, and populated with several young Drosophila flies. Attached to the vial with a silk string, was a little Birthday card with a few words written on it: "Remember where you came from."

He did. And this memory filled his human existence with a depth he didn't know before.

Ivan's touching love for the little flies amused his human friends and had earned him a reputation of a funny geeky guy, but he didn't mind. The little glass vials stood in long rows on the top of his fridge, minuscule ages rising and fading away inside them.

He'd been a little fly once. Now he was their god. He washed and sterilized the dead worlds, filled them with kissel and yeast, and repopulated them again with a few chosen ones leaving the others to share the fate of their dying homeworlds. He couldn't save them all. There were too many.

When he fell in love, the feeling of loss echoed in his heart once more for Ivan had no wings to sing the love song. But then a new wave of memories rose risen in his mind, and instead of a song sung by the soft buzzing of the wings, he found words. And deeds…

--

In a narrow white hall, there was a long table with a row of chairs on each side. That day, every single chair was occupied. People like Visitor had gathered there, and the Visitor himself stood on the podium above them giving a speech about the scientific breakthrough his discovery would lead to. He spoke with great eloquence, but all the profound phrases and big words he was throwing around were no more than ripples across the ocean, vast, deep, and cold.

Gene therapy. Several genes taken from Drosophila melanogaster - a lab fly - and, with the help of a tamed virus, inserted into DNA of every cell of a human body. A subtle, harmless change with the most dramatic effects.

How do you change a hardened, cold-blooded criminal into a compassionate human being again without damaging their mind in the process? How do you leave their memories intact and remove the dangerous behaviour at the same time? That's how.

The suggested therapy blocks the very origin of violence in humans. It's simple, cheap and has no drawbacks. There's proof, see for yourselves.

One, two, three... ten... hundred of files Visitor puts on the long table, patiently, one by one. They are the dossiers of the cruelest criminals of Earth, and the thickest and the heaviest one is that of a man who is now known as Ivan.

People are shocked, they can not believe their eyes. But the proof is solid, the reputation of the scientist is perfect, and the results exceed all expectations.

By the end of the year, the new gene therapy will be approved for the worldwide implementation. There will be no more prisons. The world itself will change for the better. A miracle...

...A miracle. A true miracle, and there's no catch...

The blue-eyed old man smiled at that thought.

He is walking down the park lane paved with white stone and spotted with green patches of grass. Under his arm, he's holding a case full of criminal dossiers, heavy with other people's recorded sins. He knows the debates about his method will cease soon. He has nothing to worry about anymore. Not even about whether he did the right thing.

...There is no catch...

The blue-eyed old man stands on the shore and looks away; past the noisy children playing in the waves, past the horizon where the sea meets the sky, past the mortal world and into the depth of the afterlife where unbound souls soar in the infinite space.

Every living being on Earth has this little gene sequence - the "soul bait" he called it. It is simple and short, just a "code phrase" to lure a certain type of soul into a certain type of body. That's how a fox gets a soul of a fox, and a cat gets a soul of a cat, and a human being gets a human soul...

That's how it used to be, but from now on everything will change.

(May, 2005)

*Kissel - juice or milk thickened with starch. It can be either a drink or a jelly depending on how much starch you put into it.

As students, we used kissel to grow drosophila flies at home for our own experiments; in the lab, we used agar-based feeding substance instead.

Also, kissel is a tasty dish that does wonders to a sore throat when sweetened with honey instead of sugar and drunk/eaten hot.

Isamu says with a chuckle as he sits the cat down on his lap, “You just wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Who wanted what, Macchan?” The lady says entering the room with a tray full of snacks in her hand.

The cat senses his sweaty palms jitter and gets up. His jaws shaking, Isamu says stretching his hand to hold the cat from walking away,“Oh… she…the cat… hand … lap...”

The lady puts down the tray and sits on the sofa, stretching her ageing knees before turning to Isamu. “Why are you jittering, Macchan?”

“I-no-uhm.…”

She picks her glasses up from the table in front of her and puts them on. Gasping, she says, “Macchan! What’s with the drenched clothes?”

“I-it’s nothing, Makoto-san. I-I’ll just change once I’m hom-”

“Never mind that. I’m going to go-” she turns to the door and sees Akira, returning from the kitchen, “-and get you something from the uh…Arai-chan, can you help me a little more? Can you get Macchan to take this shirt off? He’s going to catch a cold-” She rushes out of the room, her eyes furrowed.

Akira, dumbfounded by the sudden favour asked of her, rapidly turns to Isamu, then towards the rushing lady and back in search of a clue. “Huh? What! Why? Take off? Why me?” She stands at the door, peering out to see the lady enter one of the rooms she passed by on her way back from the kitchen.

“A…Arai-san?” Isamu says leaning back on his hands against the floor.

“I- what? Why would she ask me to do that? What’s she thinking? Heck, why am I even thinking about this? I won’t do this! I won’t do this! I won-”

“A-r-a-i A-ki-ra-s-a-n?”

Akira says, slowly tilting her head towards Isamu, “I won’t -”

Isamu, no longer jittering, smiles. “You don’t have to do anything! Makoto-san is getting tensed for nothi-” He covers his mouth. “AAACHOO- for no- AACHOO-ing.”

“Pfft- nothing, huh?” Akira turns around. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I’m- ACHOO- fine!” Isamu takes a handkerchief out from his pocket.“Just-… I’ll be fine!”

“If you say so-” She takes a cookie from the tray and sits down on the sofa. As she bites into it, she sees Isamu raising his head to face the ceiling to calm down his storm. “Does that even work?”

Jake pressed his shoulder against the wall, away from the person who just invaded his personal bubble to sit next to him in his Lit class. He’d noticed that he apparently projected some basic signals since his accident. “Not worth acknowledging,” for normal humans and “free punching bag,” for magic users. But this dude sat down next to him like he didn’t notice anything weird about him. Jake gave him the side eye, not picking up on any magic, either... Was he being tagged for later? Or was he just new and didn’t know better than to avoid him?

“Hi, I’m Damien,” the guy said, reaching his hand out to shake.

Peering at him suspiciously, Jake offered his left hand in a fist. Damien barely blinked before bumping knuckles.

“I’m Jake,” he finally replied, still wary of this person. Especially since he was way too happy for a morning class. He watched him out of the corner of his eye. Damien was tall and built sturdy. Probably did some kind of sport with that physique. He seemed to have a permanent glow about his tan skin considering it was January. His dark hair was undercut and the part left longer on top curled slightly.

“Have you had this professor before?” Damien asked, effectively startling Jake out of his staring.

Jake shook his head. “No, but I heard good stuff about him last semester,” he responded before pressing his mouth shut. He quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had seen the exchange. A hand on his shoulder made him almost fall out of his chair.

“Hey, you okay?” Damien’s eyebrows were furrowed in concern.

Jake frowned at him momentarily. “Yeah, but you should stay away from me.” He tried to deliver the warning in a polite tone.

Shock registered on Damien’s face as the words sank in. “Umm, okay. Whatever you want,” he finally replied, taking his hand back.

Hunching over in his seat, Jake did his best to ignore everyone. He’d made the mistake of trying to make friends last semester and it hadn’t gone well for any of them. It was better to push people away than to see them get hurt because of him.

He quietly set up his tablet so he could view the e-book during class and hoped the professor wouldn’t be a jerk about it. Jake breathed an audible sigh of relief during role call when the professor gave him a little nod after his name had been called.

Some of the teachers knew about what had happened and were at least moderately nice to him and others liked to assert their dominance. That’s why Jake had been so careful about picking only human teachers this semester. The magic teachers had all but destroyed him the prior semester. He sat up a little, willing himself out of his dark thoughts, praying this year would be better than the last.

Wayback, episode 1:

It happened during an August stormy night. Although if somebody asked him, and he himself spent a good time meditating on this, he would not know what was the event that caused such misfortune. The only thing known for certain was that at one point he was lying on his bed, in a small attic that his grandparents set up for when he came to visit on vacation and, the next, he had been awakened like a beggar: shouting and on a pile of straw in an unknown place.
"Oscar, are you slacking off again?"
Of course, that annoying voice couldn't refer to him, could it? That is, because his name wasn´t Oscar.
"You're not going to earn your wages if you keep falling asleep in the corners," insisted a man with a threatening expression, approaching. "Look, I don't care if you are my nephew; you are old enough to take care of yourself. If the boss has a complaint, I won't be the one to stand up for you. It's about time you take a little responsibility"
The aforementioned "Oscar" decided to get up at that moment, perhaps scared to realize that this individual whom he had never seen before and who claimed to be his uncle was coming towards him with a rake in hand, who knows with what kind of dark intentions.
"Right now I´ll get on with... uh... with whatever".
"Whatever I was doing," was what he thought to reply. But he didn´t want the stranger with the unfriendly face to notice the confused state he was in. Besides, there was something weird about him. This guy's clothes looked a lot like the ones he might have seen in photographs at some Victorian farmhouse exhibition. No, not only that, but his clothes as well.
What the hell was going on and why was he dressed like...?
"Leave it alone, you'll get on later." The uncle seemed to calm down at his sudden good will, but his commanding tone didn't stop as he indicated. For now, follow me.
Oscar did what was requested of him, while taking the opportunity to have a look around.
The place where he had regained consciousness was a scantily-sized barn, which could hold up to three or four nags. There was not much to note in terms of decoration, nothing that caught the attention of a newcomer like Oscar, who did not even have much idea of horse riding. Outside, the wide streets of the city of Edinburgh had vanished into a much more rugged landscape. With a house here and another one there, large estates separating each property, it had become a rocky little town that resembled the sea of peace.
The cold summer night, at some point, turned into a sunny spring morning. And Oscar was really starting to freak out.

all of my chapters are pretty short, but this one is one of the shorter ones:

Thesis let out a long sigh. He took off his glasses and stared blindly at them before putting them back on. He tilted his head down a bit and allowed his shoulders to go lax.

      “I was a psychology professor at a university.” Thesis began.

       “Oh!” Ruby exclaimed, “That explains a lot.” Thesis grunted annoyedly. The rest of the group (sans Sequel) snickered, Agony more obnoxious than the others.

       “Quiet the lot of you!” Thesis growled.

       “What? She’s only saying that it explains why you're always generously providing us with entirely unwarranted and ridiculous diagnoses.” Grinned Motif. Agony shot him finger guns.

      “You're entirely unwarranted and ridiculous.” Thesis growled. Motif puffed out his chest and adjusted his sunglasses.

      “In response to a lack of the society that made him who he was, Thesis has reverted to the stage of development prone to pathetic and childish insults.” Motif Mocked.

      “Ooh! He’s got you pegged!” Agony wailed happily.

       “It is a very cruel thing to mock others.” Duenna said, “But it is also a cruel thing to deny your company a very excellent joke.”

      “Assholes! All of you!” Thesis blared, “Now would you please just let me finish!”

      “I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve said that.” Agony snarked. Motif guffawed. Sequel remained unflinching.

      “SHUT THE FUCK UP! ALL OF YOU!!” Thesis exploded. Duenna scowled.

      “Animals.” She scolded, “Every one of you. Animals.”

      “Shut up Duenna!” The three offenders said together.

https://tapas.io/series/Post-Apocalyptic-Introductions

Thanks for the opportunity, here's mine

It began with screaming.

Sporadic at first, coming in confused bursts at a distance, then closer and more frequent until it seemed as though the entire city was in a panic. The walls shook, the windows rattled, and ornaments fell from their shelves with each successive crash and rumble from outside. There were frantic shouts from out in the street now. Somewhere close by a horse screeched in terror.

‘Darling, we need to go. Now. Get the girls.’

Torbeon’s words were stern and unwavering, a paragon of the sort of stoic reliability that had secured him the Chancellor’s post at the College of Thaumaturgy, but his wife could see the tight set of jaw beneath his close-cropped beard and the too-wide eyes as he stared transfixed out of the parlour window.

‘Dear heart... Tor... What’s happening?’

A dozen heartbeats, a rattle of indrawn breath.

‘Something that should not be.’ he replied quietly, the mask slipping and fear spilling out in a faint waver. ‘Get the girls. Now!’

Heda picked up her skirts and ran, maternal instincts squashing down the rising panic as she barrelled out of the room, down the hallway, and up the stairs, the heels of her shoes tapping frantically on the polished wooden floor as she went. Her daughters were upstairs, this being a rest day with no schooling. Imagine if they had been out... Oh by the gods...

Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, she slammed open the door to the girls’ room with enough force to dent plaster. No matter. They were the only thing that mattered right now.

Aina at eighteen years of age and Thorun only two years behind, both bookish girls who received that particular trait from both of their parents, along with their father's blue eyes and their mother’s black hair. Both were reading as she burst inwards and looked up in shock.

‘Mama...?’ queried Aina.

‘Girls, we need to go now,’ Heda forced a weak smile. ‘Come along, don’t worry about packing, we just need to go.’

Both of them were already moving – such good, trusting, loving girls – and she ushered them ahead through the door.

‘Mama, what’s going on?’ pressed Thorun as they scurried down the stairs. They could hear the screams again, so so close.

‘Worry not, just follow your father’s lead.’

Having donned his cuirass, sabre, and Thaumaturgist’s black cloak, Torbeon was already waiting for them in the entrance hall. Any trace of the earlier fear had disappeared, whether through force of will or purely for the girls’ benefit Heda cared not; it would not do to panic them even more.

‘Stay behind me, stay close, and don’t stop for anything,’ he instructed, looking them each in the eye and making sure they understood. ‘We’re going to the docks to evacuate and if we get separated we’re to meet there.’

A pause, a nod, then Torbeon threw open the door.

Outside was even more chaotic than it sounded, if such a thing could be possible, throngs of people and animals screamed and thundered down the road towards the docks, tripping over rubble and bodies alike, left uncaring by their fellows. The building across the street, the Farsens’ house, was entirely ablaze with a pink-tinted roaring fire that spoke of a source not at all mundane. She flinched as something huge crashed two streets away and Heda looked up at – Oh by the gods... No... No, no, no...

The sky was gone. Everything was lit still by the light of a midday sun but where there should have been the vibrant blue of a Summertide sky there was only a yawning black void bereft of any form of detail or marking, so unlike the wheel of the heavens at night and more akin to the cellar when all lamps have been extinguished.

From a point below that nothingness, at less of an altitude than one would expect of clouds, fell globules of that pink fire, raining randomly and indiscriminately down as far as she could see. The end of days had truly arrived and all hope was lost.

Part One: Chapter One: One More Glimpse
Samara

I have visions.

Sometimes, they’re terrible, cruel, unspeakable evils. Sometimes, they’re acts of beautiful, wondrous kindness. I never know which one I’m going to get, but now… Well, I’d say I’m perfectly accustomed to receiving them. I know that’s not a normal thing to say, but I’ve grown use to the thought that I am anything but normal.

Normal people don’t wake up in a sweat after seeing horrible creatures attack innocent people. Normal people don’t stare at a person’s face and see beasts or beauties. Normal people don’t have powers. But for as long as I can recall, I’ve been this way.

It used to be that I just got visions. And they terrified me. But each year I grew, my powers did the same. Before I knew it, I was able to do incredible things. I can move an object just by thinking of it. I can get a person to do just about anything I want to with a smile. I can conjure green fire in my hands, and make plants grow with a single touch. I’m sure I could do more if I tried, but… why should I?

At twenty-three, I’d say I’m freakish enough, wouldn’t you? But I have to believe there is a reason for this: why I am the way I am. If there isn’t one… well… it would just make my existence sad—purposeless even.

But this last vision has given me a bit of hope. It keeps recurring. Showing me the same thing over and over—even while I’m awake. This vision is potent. I’d go so far as to say dangerous. I can barely function when I have it, and on some level, I think it’s telling me to find him.

In my vision, I see a man. A most handsome one, I must admit. He’s sculpted to perfection. Tall and muscular with keen amber eyes. He always looks like he’s in pain or angry. His mouth perpetually in a frown. His brow furrowed in distaste. I wonder what makes him look like that.

Why is he always dissatisfied?

Each day, this vision gets stronger. They do that sometimes: prompt me to find a person or place. To intervene. I can’t help but to do it. It helps to relieve the pounding headaches the visions sometimes cause. But none have been worse than this.

Where to begin though? I guess, I’ll have to wait… for just one more glimpse of my fuming stranger.

Chapter One: Call Me Penn (part 1)

“You know, Des, I really do wish I led an adventurous life—like… a superhero!”

“Of course, I know, Petite. You talk of almost nothing else.” She replied her heavy Cajun accent coating her words.

Petite is one of many little pet names Des has for me. I don’t mind the name though, especially since when she says it, I imagine Gambit from the 90s X-men cartoons. Ah, the 90s—best animation, I swear.

Des thinks I’m “cute and tiny.” Cute is a matter of opinion, but I will admit this much, I am short—five foot two to be exact—especially in comparison to the Amazon that is my best friend. She has the brains and beauty of one to boot: black hair, blue eyes, and tan skin. Not to mention she’s a straight-A student, and she hardly even tries! I’m pretty sure she’s related to Wonder Woman, but I think if I mention it one more time, she might actually kill me. And God forbid if I ever see her angry again.

“No, but I’m really serious, Des. If I could, I definitely would.” I gave her the most serious stare I could muster.

She laughed at me and patted the top of my short honey-colored hair—placating me as if I was a dog. I felt my face scrunch up, and my glasses hit the middle area between my eyebrows. I never did know what that spot on a person’s head was called.

“Oh, Penn, if you want an adventure so much, maybe you should just go on a trip. We could go together!” she grinned. “I wouldn’t mind getting out of CC for a little. Yeah? So, what do you say?”

I shook my head, still laughing at Des’s proposal. “No, it’s not the same. I just want to feel like I’m making a difference, I guess.”

Des sobered up and put an arm around my shoulders. “And one day, you will.” She smiled, squeezing me tightly. “You’ll become a world-renowned author and I’ll be the next big fashion designer! It’ll be perfect. We can go have real adventures all the time when that happens.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” I beamed. “We’ll go to every state and every country!”

“Well, not every state.” Des mentioned. “But yes. Definitely, cherie.”

“Sorry,” I whispered, nearly forgetting that Des doesn’t want to be anywhere near Louisiana.

She moved from New Orleans to Cardinal City. She told me her family disinherited her. In a way, she was kind of like me. Want and necessity driving her out on her own. Des never told me exact details about what happened, and I never pushed it. Sometimes we all need to keep things hidden until we’re ready to reveal them to the universe.

“It’s alright,” she shrugged and released her grip on me. “Oh, Penn, is it not time for you to go to work?”

I looked towards the clock, realizing the time. “Ah, man!” I yelled, scrambling to gather my bag.

Right before I ran out the door, I heard Des’s muffled laughter as she said, “Have fun, Petite!”

Prologue

1930 Chicago

The streets were filled with people, all in a hurry to be somewhere.
Some waiting to meet close ones, while others having the time of their lives.
Some on their way to work, to provide for their families, while others flaunting their luxurious outfits strutting on the sidewalk looking for something to appease their hunger.

So many stories unfolded that day, yet their busy lives could never have comprehended what was about to come.

All of a sudden, the ground split into multiple cracks which spread like a wildfire beneath all the houses, shops, and pedestrians. For a brief moment too, the earth shook, startling all the busy travellers.

They huddled together in groups whilst some tried scurrying away like mice. The shop owners ran out of their stores, in despair.
That day concluded in a lot of casualties.

In the coming years, with the help of scientific research, it was revealed that the earthquakes were not actually earthquakes. They showed no movement of the tectonic plates and neither did they produce any seismic waves.

It was a wonder for all the scientists. Some would even call it an aberration of nature and would debate on researching more on it, while others argued for preventive measures as it caused a lot of unwanted damage.
These "earthquakes" were later dubbed as “Dianchian".

The magnitude of these Dianchians started decreasing after the initial mega "earthquake" in 1930, a relief to many. However, they did not stop.

CHAPTER 1

Present-day

A young boy, who appeared to be around 19, stood in front of his uncle's shop and scoffed disapprovingly.

"I just cleaned it yesterday," he sighed brushing his yam dyed apron, which had a name tag- “Esae".

He reluctantly opened the shop grunting about teenagers, who had spray-painted over the shutter. He cleaned the whole shop and put everything in its rightful place.

He switched on the TV and sat behind the counter waiting for his uncle to come.
At that moment the bell rang above the glass door, a boy around his age came in. He stepped in sheepishly holding a phone in his hand. He looked up with a tired face and froze as soon as he saw the cashier.

Esae too lifted his head up to see who his customer was and froze as soon as he saw his face.
———X——-
"Esae, can you go get the watch from that shop?" A middle-aged man with sleeked combed-back brown hair, asked his son. He was in a hurry which was apparent by his disoriented movements around the room.

"Huh? Right now? I can go pick it up later today when you come back." Suggested Esae, brushing his black hair with his fingers.

Looking into the phone camera-he was examining his hair, which had purple highlights (his newfound interest).

He peered over from the phone when he noticed his father’s disgruntled face.
”No Esae, right now, you know how important it is to me. What if someone else takes it or it gets lost?”

“Fine, I'll go right now." Esae said putting his hands up defensively, seeing that his father was in no mood to argue.

Esae put on his black leather jacket and headed out.

He stood in front of the shop, which promised to repair the watch his father held so close to his heart.

He walked in and looked at the cashier and froze.

The cashier looked exactly the same as him, well not exactly but very similar. They both had the same face, height, and complexion. They even had a small mole on the left corner of their eyes.

Anyone could have mistaken them for twins if it wasn’t for their different hair colours and clothes.

"Welcome, are you here for your watch?" The cashier said quickly trying to drown out the awkward silence.

What are the chances, The cashier thought to himself.

“Ah, yeah," Esae regained himself, "I take it my father called you?" He tried smiling, but it came out as a nervous laugh.

“Alright, please wait," The cashier said equally perplexed while rummaging around under the counter, trying to find the wanted watch.

Esae's eyes darted around the cashier's face. Every detail matched his own. He started scanning the cashier while pretending to wait for him. His eyes went to his name tag which said Esae.
Having a similar face would have been fine, Esae knew about the existence of doppelgängers, but having the same name too? This alarmed him.

"You," as the cashier looked up, Esae pointed at his name tag," You have the same name as me." He said not knowing what more to say.

The cashier seemed to process that, he looked down and up back at Esae," Ah yeah, what a coincidence huh?”

"Tell me about it, you look exactly like me." Esae blurted out. He could feel the ice break.

"Yeah, I noticed," the cashier pointed at his mole, and back at Esae's, "The mole too, so eerie haha.”

"I thought doppelgängers were only supposed to look the same not have the same name too. You live around here?”

"I could say the same. Yeah, I do.”

Silence fell upon them again.

The cashier handed Esae the watch which was carefully packed in a small box.
As Esae went to take the packet from his hands, their fingers brushed.

Suddenly, the ground started shaking. It was violent, one not seen since the Dianchian in 1930.
The cashier grabbed the counter to stabilize himself while Esae, put his arms out in an attempt to keep himself balanced.

"Another earthquake?”

"Yeah, but aren't they supposed to be of less magnitude?" The cashier exclaimed.

"I don't know! Maybe mother earth finally decided we weren't worth it." Esae
shouted back in an attempt to ease the mood. Nonetheless, he was still panicking.

Right at that moment, something seemed to crash down right in front of the shop.

The view was partially blocked by the wall, but they could see the smoke from the crash. They inched towards the glass door to get a better view of the thing.

The object shone brightly. The light reflected from it, almost blinded them.

A girl stormed inside pushing the glass door with much effort. She was dressed in such a way as if she was cosplaying a Lolita anime character. Her hair was tied up in two big ponytails and she wore a Lacey frock.

"Come quick! We don't have much time!" She held out her hand out.

Esae looked back at the cashier, confused, and then back at the girl.

"Now!" A man, probably in his late 20s, emerged behind her.

He looked calm and composed compared to the situation they were in. His voice was commanding yet soothing. He wore a white shirt and black semi-formal pants. His presence demanded respect. He looked like a man who would not handle disobedience well.

Reluctantly they both followed the two strangers outside.
The earthquake seemed to settle down and the earth stopped shaking.
Both of them took a moment to catch their breath and began speaking-

“Okay okay wait-”
“What’s going on?!”
“Who are you people?” They both said in unison.

Both shot piercing glances at the two strangers demanding answers.
They looked at the object that had crashed down. It looked like a ship, like those in the comic books they would read. It was huge, red in colour, with white metallic stripes across it. Its engines looked damaged as they were still in smoke.
However, no one in their immediate surrounding seemed to take notice of the large obstruction.

Here's the Prologue to my novel The Revolution of the Dried Leaves:

---

[May 2013]

"So this is it."

Two teenagers were standing awkwardly by the tramway tracks. She was holding a worn notebook, while he fidgeted with a cheap lighter.

"This is it," he echoed.

They avoided looking at each other, staring absently at the objects in their hands.

With a jerk, the girl shot her hand forward and held the notebook at arm's length.

Slowly, as if unwillingly, he also extended his arm, positioning the unlit lighter underneath a corner of the book.

They searched for each other's eyes in the dark, and locked gaze for a few moments, despite the light of the lamp post being too weak and far off to reveal their features. Each face a stone mask, they both kept their thoughts to themselves.

With a nod, they returned their gaze forward.

The boy flicked the lighter and a flame only slightly larger than normal sparked from the tiny device.

The girl's eyes were steadily fastened on the burning book she was holding. She did not notice her peer moving his lips almost imperceptibly, as if mumbling inaudibly to himself.

Once the flames started to lick and envelope nearly the whole book, she let it drop on the stone steps, and they both just stood there, watching the paper turn to ash. The warm tones of the fire danced feebly on their faces, until they were in the dark again.

Without a word, they walked away in opposite directions.

Neither turned back.

Neither took notice of the cloaked figure lurking in the shadows.

---

“Can we do something about this smell,” Keenin asked as he and the knight dragged the chest of horse remains.

The sun was beating down ruthlessly and the smell was starting to give him a headache. The scent of smoke would be much nicer, burning horse. He shook the thought from his head before he did something irreversible.

“Yes. You could walk further back,” Clide joked.

“Don’t you still care about the money?” Dia said.

Damn, Keenin though in response to the jokes. The jokes were not helping.

“What about the bravery of my horse. Does anyone still care about that these days?” Murphy’s owner said.

“Bravery killed your horse,” the dragon pointed out.

These word jabs continued for the duration of their trip. If there was anything Keenin learned that day it was not to put a righteous man and two bored immortals together.

"The stars shine brightly, each one glistening like an individual diamond. Darkness envelopes the stars and the forest that is below it. Here I stand, waiting along a branch. My hair blows in the wind as my dress dances with the leaves in the tree.
The air is cold; I can tell by the frost that litters the ground.

I glance around the forest, catching all the creatures nervously shifting around as they are attempting to avoid their demise. I can see everything clearly; from a spec of dust floating in the air to a snowflake drifting towards the ground. Nature is beautiful when it isn't trying to kill you. Not that anything would dare wander towards me; any species, human or not, knows danger when they see it.

I glance around as I take flight and jump towards the ground. I have gotten used to it by now; the impact no longer causes me pain. I enjoy the feeling of being trapped within the hands of the air, to have the wind driven into my hair as the feelings around me are forced away. I can take a moment and breathe and ignore everything besides the sound that drowns out my thoughts. But, it is quick. It always is. Sometimes I beg for my flight to be longer. I just want to hang onto my peace, my sanity for just seconds more, but that never happens.

I look around the forest as my tongue licks my lips. The hunger that gnaws at my stomach is quickly driving into my chest. I can feel my head start to get foggy, and I know that my time of being sane is limited. My eyes look towards the creatures. Some are sleeping while others are awake, keeping an eye on expecting beasts ready to make them their next meal. For here I seek my prey, looking at all the little creatures that make their way into my line of sight.

I can feel my fangs and nails elongate as my footsteps skip along the frostbit ground. In the distance, I can spot the frame of a hog. It's familiar; I remember my mom buying it along the market a few times when I was young. The meat is full of nutrients and can be considered a delicacy for many, besides the royals, of course. I remember eating it on Gala evening when I was eight, the taste still lingers in my mouth as I walk towards the outline of it.

The Yehema hog is its official name. They are rare to eat because they have venom injected into their tusks. One sting and an adult human male can be paralyzed for up to two hours. The hog only needs two minutes to brutally mutilate its new prey. The good thing for me is I only need half of a second to inject a venom of my own.

My steps become faster, but I don't make any sound. I am like a shadow, no one can hear me, but I am there. I take in the hog's every move and the scents that surround me.

They might sense me, but no one can ever spot me until it's too late.

I'm only a meter away from the hog before I halt. It is groggy and ready to go to sleep. I can tell that it is a young male. That means the venom it carries is potent, but I don't worry for a mere second.

I launch myself, looking like a flash of lightning to those that observe me. My claws launch themselves into the hog's soft fur, and I allow my fangs to pierce its neck. My venom is injected, and the hog lets out an alarmed squeal quickly thrashing about. Yet, it is only minutes later that it finds its soul trapped between the hands of death.

I start to drink its blood; the taste is bland. There is a little bit of sweetness hidden within the fluid, but other than that, it tastes like nothing. I have learned quickly that the only blood that tastes of anything is human blood. But, I have only gotten small tastes of the unholy liquid.

I drain the hog of all its fluid, and I leave it to rot for the fungi to dismantle. My eyes gaze around as the small creatures look terrified. I don't blame them; I am something that no one wants to be attacked by. I wipe the blood that lingers on my face with my hand; my fangs retract to their normal size. My claws shrink back to their elongated self, and I feel the blood start to make its way through my body. Instantly, my head becomes less confused, and I can start to feel the energy surge throughout my limbs.

The color in my world starts to return as my steps start to feel less sluggish. My legs feel light; it is almost like I am skipping on the base of a cloud. I sprint around the forest as I can feel the sun is starting to rise. I know I wasn't supposed to be out this late hunting, but, sometimes, the taste of blood can always be too alluring. It is hard to ignore the temptation that nips at my skin.

I follow the common route that I took to get to my hunting grounds in the first place. I can see the kingdom gates approaching quickly. My heart skips a beat as the nerves that were once hidden start to arrive at my fingertips. I swallow my fear and look towards the little hole that is woven into the side of the gate. Guards are able to see the path I take, but the crater that is within the gates is hidden beyond mortal sight.

I look around as the night guards gaze blankly forward. No one dares to approach them, ever. I tiptoe around towards the path, and I can spot the glowing gateway. I take a deep breath and dash forwards. The air gushes past me as any weight I hold on my body is tossed away, and the feeling of flight is dashed between my individual steps.

"Aperta porta," I whisper. The door opens quickly as I fly through the opening. As soon as I see the torches that line the walls, my nerves instantly calm down. The door closes behind me, and I look around the familiar hallway. I start to walk down the long withdrawn hall. Despite the only light being provided by the torches, I can see each crack and crevice easily due to my enhanced sight.

I notice the dripping of water along the top of the ceiling as I pass under the waterfall that hides within the garden of the kingdom walls. The hall starts to swerve in different directions, but I follow the path that I have grown accustomed to.

I take a deep breath and open a door that appears at the end of the hall. From there, I am greeted by a breath of cool, fresh air.

-~-

I wake up freezing, my breath comes out in withdrawn breaths. The rags that cover my body aren't enough to preserve my body heat. My mom lays in the corner as she prepares a mush of some sort. I nervously look towards my fingertips half expecting to find them to be monster-like, covered in blood. But they are my normal, bit off nails. I let out a deep breath of relief. It was only a dream. A very, vivid, realistic dream."

^Only half of part one

Thank you for this opportunity.

Chapter 1, Part 1
(Note: this chapter has a Maturity Warning for profanity and sexual assault ("mild" as far as things go))...

--

Llew didn’t break stride as she kicked the empty glass bottle aside, barely giving it a thought. Litter was the least of the hazards in Cheer’s streets at night. She walked with her head down, hands thrust deep in the pockets of her coarse brown trousers, blending in with the evening’s wildlife. With hair in dire need of a trim, there was always a risk that the disguise wouldn’t hold – but it only had to hold until she got home. She would cut the offending locks in the morning.

A commotion broke out up ahead at Camille’s Cathouse. Some john lacking the financial means to sate his desires by the looks and sounds of it. Perhaps he should have thought about that before buying such a large bottle of whisky. The town’s men hunted gold by day, oblivion and pussy by night, and sometimes the two nocturnal aims conflicted. Both could spell danger for Llew.

She approached the still cussing man, stepping into the road to give him a wide berth. At this time of night at least one didn’t need to be so cautious about steaming piles in the middle of the dusty streets; all the horses were asleep in their stables or paddocks or waiting lazily outside a bar or brothel.

‘Out for a good time, boy?’ The old coot stepped in front of Llew, stopping her in her tracks. ‘I’ll share one wi’ yer.’

Llew tried to side-step him, but he shadowed her movement.

‘It’s still five miras each. Two men, ten miras.’ The half-dressed madam on the porch folded her arms across her chest and stared down at them.

‘You said five miras per girl. We only need the one.’ His arm snaked across Llew’s shoulders drawing her in to him. If she hadn’t already been cursing staying out late with Kynas, she sure would have started now. ‘What d’you say? I’ll let you go first. I won’t even watch. Sure you won’t mind me listenin’, though.’

Llew struggled to find her voice – her deeper, more boyish voice. She shook her head.

‘Five miras per . . . service.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want cheap, Renny, you go down see Hedy’s girls. They’ll look after you real nice.’

‘Aw, but Hedy don’t have your wee Tamra.’ Renny pulled Llew closer to his mouth. His breath reeked like it was coming from the other end of his body. ‘Wee Tamra’s my favorite,’ he confided in a loud whisper.

‘Tamra’s busy, anyway. Now scoot.’ Camille waved the back of her hand in a brushing motion at Renny, dismissing him. ‘And don’t come back till you’ve got some cash.’

Still clutching Llew, Renny waved his bottle, miraculously not spilling any liquor.

‘Oh, you’re a hard woman, Cammy.’

‘Better a hard woman than a limp dick any day, Renny.’ The woman flashed a gleaming white grin at them. ‘Maybe next time you’ll rethink the whisky. Or at least buy it here. Then we can talk discounts. Loyalty is rewarded at Camille’s.’

‘Oh, aye.’ Renny turned Llew with him to dawdle back the way she’d just come. ‘Women, eh? Never give nothin’ for free.’

Llew didn’t know anyone who gave anything for free and didn’t see why the brothel girls should be any different.

‘Well lad, shall we try Hedy’s?’ Renny squeezed again.

Llew tensed the second his step faltered.

He regained his composure almost instantly and squeezed her shoulders once more, this time looking down at the way her shirt bunched across her chest. Two small but distinct peaks appeared as her shoulders rounded under the pressure.

‘Well, well. Looks like my luck’s on the up ‘n up.’ His arm reached around her shoulders so his hand could feel the soft flesh beneath Llew’s shirt. He sucked back a glob of spit, took a swig from his bottle, and tried to bring her around in front of him. Llew pushed back and ducked under his arm. But he was quick and grabbed the loose waist of her shirt.

‘Hey! We was just gettin’ to know each other.’ He tugged and Llew bounced against his chest.

She used the momentum to break free of his grasp, turned and ran. The whisky hadn’t kicked in as much as she thought, because he was soon on her heels. She focused on keeping her line straight down the middle of the road. A straggling group of men leaving Polly’s Bar farther down the road made no moves to let her pass, seeming to find the spectacle of a young boy running from an older man interesting verging on downright hilarious. Some of them reached out to slow Llew, but they didn’t go so far as to stop her. Fearing that the men would turn on her, Llew didn’t plead for their help but pumped her limbs even harder, and a few moments later she was past them. Unhindered by the group, Renny caught up to her, knocking her into a narrow alleyway between McNulty’s Bar and Barber Pierson’s.

The crash of the half-full bottle against the wall rang out as Llew fell to the ground. Quickly regaining her feet, she found herself facing jagged glass and Renny looking pissed off.

‘That bottle cost me a night with wee Tamra. Come ‘ere,’ he said, flinging both arms out in some sort of drunken embrace. He missed, but the bottle swung dangerously close and Llew hopped back deeper into the alley. ‘You owe me the price of a bottle o’ whisky, girlie. And maybe a bit more.’

‘You broke it, you drunk bastard.’ Llew dodged the man’s next lunge and made a pass for the alleyway’s entrance.

He brandished the bottle at her. ‘That ain’t the language of no young lady.’

‘Who said anything about being a lady?’

They danced side to side, Llew looking for a gap, Renny blocking.

‘Oh, you like playin’ at it like a boy, eh? Well, I ain’t picky. Turn around, we won’t even have to take them pants right off.’ He paused to grab his crotch.

‘Fuck you.’

Llew lunged and Renny blocked her path again, grabbing her and throwing her to the ground. He scrabbled at her feverishly, trying to get her trousers undone. Llew kicked wildly, she punched, she clawed, and when he hit her back, she grabbed his face, digging her fingers close to his eyes and returning the pain. Renny slashed at her with the bottle, slicing her shoulder. Llew pressed her hand against his chin, pushing him up and closing her wound. He screamed and slashed again, cutting into her arm. Llew grabbed his wrist, healing this new scratch.

Renny cried out again and now swung the bottle blindly, hysterically, cutting Llew’s cheek, neck, chest, forehead, shoulder, ear, nose, eye, throat . . .

Somewhere in all the chaos, a strange peace overcame her. She relaxed and let it take her.

Llew woke to the scent of blood, the jaunty tinkle of a piano being played nearby, light spilling across a wood-plank wall, and a heavy feeling in her chest. No. Not in her chest. It was on her chest, and it was sticky and damp.

Smell of blood. Heavy thing. Sticky and damp.

She pushed up. The corpse – she couldn’t feel any breathing other than her own – lifted, teetered, and then the strength in Llew’s arms failed. She fell back and the body dropped down with her. A shudder ran through her body. A glass bottle smacked to the ground and rolled across the ground, scraping the stones. Dim candlelight from the uncovered window above reflected from its shattered edge.

A broken bottle. The dead man.

Remembered pain flitted through Llew’s mind. He had attacked her and now he was dead. The events between those two points were a blank. Her shirt was wet, almost certainly with blood.

Mustering all her strength, she wedged her hands under the man’s shoulders and heaved again, pushing higher on one side. His shoulder slid to the ground, easing the weight off her. Bracing herself on her elbows, she kicked and slid, freeing her legs. Clambering to her feet, Llew shook herself, trying to rid herself of the dead man’s touch. Her near-white shirt looked black in the low light. Foul. Only slightly less so with the knowledge that it was her own blood. She could just make out his face, frozen in an expression of horror, in the flickering candlelight from the window above. There was no outward sign of injury Llew could see – apart from all the blood, of course.

She couldn’t be found there with the body. The Farries would hang her without question. She turned and ran deeper into the alley, emerging alongside the front entrance of The Diamond Duster, the last of Cheer’s bars to close for the night, and even then, usually only at the Farries’ specific request.
‘Bit of a rough one, there, lad?’ someone called after her.

Llew kept to the shadows; not that there were many Cheer locals out this late in the dark folds of night, but she had no way to explain her blood-soaked state if she did run into anyone.

The distance back to her hovel by Big River seemed greater than normal, but finally dusty dirt road gave way to swathes of tussock punctuated by the occasional matagouri or lancewood. She pushed her way through long grasses and past branches heavy with yellow bell-shaped flowers, now gray in the early morning light, past her thatched, thigh-high hovel, before pulling off her shoes at the stony bank and wading straight into the water, not bothering to remove her clothing. To have any chance of washing the blood from them, she would have to soak them now.

The swift current carried away the sensation of the man’s weight lying over her even as it lifted the blood from her skin and washed it away. It was her blood. It was all hers. He had killed her, and now he was dead.

She had never killed before. Probably because she had never died before. Healing, yes, she’d done that. She knew what must have happened, and yet couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Surely, she couldn’t do that: she couldn’t come back from the dead. No one came back from death.

She pulled the shirt over her head, then squeezed it under the water, rubbing it and rinsing it and rubbing again. The cold glow of dawn crept across the sky. And the browned blood could not be washed from the garment. She had left Kynas’s late, but not that late. How long had she lain unconscious – or dead?

Llew cursed and threw the shirt to shore. She only had one other shirt, and she was almost certain it was getting too small. She would have to spend a good deal of her earnings on a new one or take the risk of stealing more than her usual quota. But she maintained a quota for a reason. After all, she only needed what she needed, and being greedy got you caught.

Already half undressed, she fought with her trousers until they jerked free of her body. They, too, were stained with her blood. Damn it! Clothing wasn’t cheap. She could feed herself for free but, if she wanted to mingle with the general public, she had to buy clothes. While she knew how to use a needle and thread, her skills in that department only went as far as basic repairs.

She dug her hands into the riverbed and then, with handfuls of sediment, scrubbed the last of the blood from her chest, her face and her arms. Now acclimatized to the water’s chill, she waded in a little farther and dunked herself under, emerging a few seconds later to wipe her eyes clear of water and slightly-too-long hair trailing over her face. She pressed her feet through the muddy sediment, feeling it erupt between her toes, and took the time to appreciate the warmth beneath its surface. Strange how that little bit of heat always remained, somehow not leached by the rushing water above. Like her own sense of worth, somehow not drained by living beneath the flow of Cheer’s society.

Cheer. Named for the happiness the first settlers experienced when they started digging gold. The gold was gone. As was the cheer. But Cheer remained.

She peered at her hands in the rippling water. A man had died at her hands. But she had died at his hands first. It was little consolation, but it made forgiving herself easier.

Her fingers began to tingle and sting from the cold and she made her way back to shore, wiped herself down with handfuls of grass, returned to her little hovel and wrapped her woolen blanket about her. Despite having spent however many hours unconscious, she needed sleep. There were only a couple of hours before the market started. She drifted off, reveling in the aromas of dew-soaked grasses, damp stones, and thyme.