Sprinkles on Top
“Okay,” said Boomba. “You can take your helmet off.”
Dax could barely understand the muffled voice from the confines of the space suit helmet. The visor shielded his eyes from his surroundings making navigation near impossible. Boomba had led Dax by burying his head in the small of Dax’s back and pushing him forward, though Dax didn’t have much confidence in Boomba’s depth perception. In fact, after the third time Dax’s knee was slammed into a foreign object, he doubted whether or not Boomba could see at all. But now they had stopped moving and Boomba tapped Dax on the leg incessantly. I guess that was the signal that it was time to peek. Dax unlatched his helmet and attempted unsuccessfully to tug it off of his head.
“Boomba, I’m stuck!” Dax cried.
“Bend over.”
“What?” Dax’s ears were pinned beneath the opening of the helmet.
“I said, bend over!” Boomba yelled.
Dax leaned forward and felt the pressure of Boomba’s tiny hands pulling on the helmet. The opening was tight, but with Boomba yanking, the thing popped off his head and Dax stumbled backwards into something hard. He turned and saw a massive pair of biceps connected to an even more massive torso. The creature stood on its two arms while a comically tiny set of legs dangled freely. It had two eyes resting on stalks which protruded from its otherwise plain face. It turned to Dax and spoke in a voice that reminded him of the sound of ice crunching underfoot. He couldn’t understand the language but he could definitely understand the angry tone. Boomba flitted between Dax and the bulbous gentleman and began speaking in the same gravely language. Dax wasn’t sure what he said but the big armed threat choked out a sound that he hoped was laughter.
“What did you say to him?” Dax asked.
“I just told him his muscles were looking especially beefy today,” said Boomba. “Flattery will get you everywhere with a bulkin.”
Boomba once again leaned his body into Dax and pushed him away from the strong armed brute. With the threat of violence behind them, Dax finally had a moment to take in his surroundings. A world of sights and sounds stormed past his senses and assaulted his neurons. There were hundreds of people, all from different species, bustling about in a space big enough to fit an entire Star Frigate. Dax ran over the railing in front of him and looked down. They stood twenty stories up and there were at least twenty more above them.
“What is this place?” Dax asked in amazement.
“Only the largest candy store in the known universe,” Boomba said.
He smiled so wide, it looked as if the lines of his mouth might extend past his body. Boomba was an adorably small alien. His hairy blue body only came up to Dax’s waist and Dax wasn’t even that tall to begin with. At first glance, Boomba appeared to be nothing more than a big ball of fur with one single eye in the center of his body, but Dax knew better. Underneath all that fur concealed two tiny legs and two tiny hands.
“Holy spumoly, look at all these people!”
Dax lost himself in the throng. There were tall skinny green folks, ones that looked like walking alligators, even some that looked vaguely human - albeit with purple skin and horns. Dax had met a lot of people from a lot of planets but this was the most diverse selection he had seen in one place.
“Who doesn’t have a sweet tooth?” said Boomba, “I mean apart from those without teeth. You know what I mean. Let’s scoot, there’s a place I think you’ll like.”
Boomba skittered off into the crowd and Dax ran after him. In the center of the facility stood what looked like a giant gumball machine, only the gumballs it contained were as big as Dax. Each one looked like a miniature planet, complete with land masses and weather patterns. A particular green and blue gumball brought back memories of Earth. Dax caught an elbow in the side - although it could have been any number of foreign appendages - and snapped out of his reverie. He scanned the crowd for Boomba who had already reached their destination. He was quick for a little guy. Dax caught up with him and stared at the sign above the shop.
“31,000 Flavors.”
“It’s an ice cream parlor, just like on Earth!” Boomba said excitedly. “I know you’ve been missing home. Especially on the anniversary of…”
Boomba cut himself off as he watched Dax’s face droop at the mention.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
As he stepped inside, Dax was greeted by the attendant behind the counter. He wasn't of any species Dax had encountered. The attendant had orange skin and six arms and wore a red and white striped apron.
“Welcome,” he bellowed enthusiastically. “Care for an authentic iced cream? Made the old fashioned way by extracting fluid from a strange mammal’s teat. Who wouldn’t want that?!”
Dax chuckled a little at the entire concept of this place. They were trying desperately to replicate an ice cream parlor but clearly had never seen one with their own eyes. Dax looked at some of the ice cream flavors with a mix of confusion and revulsion.
“Boomba, these flavors are barf town,” said Dax, “I’m pretty sure that one has live insects crawling in it.”
“What, you don’t like Chunky Dumpster?”
Dax laughed, “No.”
He continued to scan the endless rows of ice cream flavors until he found the one thing he’d never expected to taste again - rainbow sherbert.
“Excuse me?” Dax asked the attendant.
“What can I do you for, kid?”
“Does this rainbow sherbet have anything in it that would kill a human? It’s not radioactive is it?”
“No sir, just frozen milk and sugar.”
“I’ll take one scoop, please.”
“One scoop coming right up.”
They paid for their cones and then Dax and Boomba took a seat next to the window to watch the crowd rush by. Boomba’s tiny hand poked out from under his fur and held a cone that was stacked so high with scoops of ice cream that Dax was sure it would topple. Dax didn’t need that much ice cream, a little taste was all it would take to bring him home. The flavor transported him light years away and suddenly he was sitting in his living room on earth. Everyone was there - his mom and dad, his baby sister, all his aunts and uncles. The smell of burning candles still lingered in the room and Dax could see the half eaten birthday cake sitting on the dining room table. The gentle hum of voices surrounded him but he was able to pick his mother’s out of the crowd. She was the nicest person Dax could remember. He looked at her and she smiled at him from across the room. Dax looked down at the bowl of rainbow sherbert in front of him. One bite left. He lifted the spoon to his mouth and savored the flavor. It tasted like home.
“How’s the ice cream?” Boomba asked.
Dax swallowed and and looked over to Boomba whose face was filthy with ice cream residue.
“It’s perfect,” said Dax.
Boomba’s giant tongue swept his lips in an effort to recapture the remaining flavors that dwelt there. Dax rested his head on his free hand and gazed out the window. A young girl was walking tentacle in tentacle with her parents, her face aglow with wonderment.
“Hey Boomba,” said Dax. “Thanks.”
“No probs, friendo! I know it’s been tough for you and I just wanted to do something special. Happy birthday, Dax.”
Sprinkles on Top was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
Iris Beaumont - Writer's Block
Iris stared at the spinning blades of the brass fan above her. It was mesmerizing the way it wobbled. Monte Carlo, she wondered, that’s a curious phrase to be written on a fan. A brand name she guessed. Iris groaned inaudibly as she slid her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had begun the day sitting at her desk with impeccable posture but as the sun slumped across the horizon so had she slid down her chair. She had achieved mega-slouch. Ok, no more distractions Iris, she told herself, time to write. With a concerted effort, Iris pushed herself once more into a proper sitting position. She placed her hands against the cool metal typewriter and her fingers found a home against the keys. She took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her head but the words wouldn’t come to her. These stories usually write themselves, she thought, I’m merely a vessel through which creativity flows. She took a moment to revel in her own smugness and then decided that was a good enough place as any to start writing.
I am a vessel through which creativity flows.
She finished typing and pulled the line space lever to slide the page up. Well, it’s not a story but it’s a start. She peered at the freshly dried ink against the stark white page then cocked her head as she noticed that a few of the letters were faded. Great, she thought, I finally start writing and already I have technical difficulties. But secretly she was excited for the immediate distraction. Iris flipped the release switch on the side of the typewriter and the face popped open revealing the spools of the ink ribbon. She wriggled the spools until they came loose then tossed the worn out ribbon aside. The wooden drawer of her desk refused to open smoothly, but Iris knew just how to coax it. She tugged on the handle and it jolted open, jostling the knick-knacks inside. The contents were scattered in disarray but after a little rummaging she found the new ribbon she was looking for. She slid the spools into place and clicked the faceplate shut. Alright, she decided, let’s try this again. She pondered for a few moments and then let her fingers lead the way.
I can’t think of anything useful to type.
That’s strange, Iris mused as she gazed at the faded letters of the sentence she had just written, I just cleaned you. She scrunched her face in frustration but as she did so, something became hauntingly clear to her: the faded letters spelled something.
Iris
I can help
Iris’s eyes widened and she immediately jumped from her chair uttering an involuntary squeal as she did so. She looked around the room frantically and then her eyes landed on the bean bag chair in the corner. Without hesitation she bounded across the room and dove for the cushion. She rolled over it onto the floor and then pulled it over her head. Surely she was safe from whatever spectre dwelled in her typewriter as long as she remained in the comfortable cover of darkness. She curled into a ball for a few minutes until she felt brave enough to peek.
The room was still, save for the spinning of the fan. The gentle breeze filled the room with a peaceful coolness. The last lingering light of the sun cast a long pattern across the stained wooden floor. You’re being crazy, Iris. She cautiously oozed her way from underneath the beanbag like a snail wary of a boot. Iris stood up, dusted herself off, and confidently marched back toward her desk. Before she could take more than two steps, her slipper caught on an uneven floorboard and Iris stumbled. She rebalanced herself at the edge of the desk and looked around to make sure no one saw her faux pas and then remembered she was completely alone in her office. Smooth.
Iris sat back in her chair and swiveled to face the typewriter of doom. Against all odds, the machine sat completely still. I see what game you’re playing, you crafty devil. Waiting for me to make the first move. Iris darted her hand forward and mashed her open palm onto the keys.
awefljag
At first there were no messages hidden in faded ink but as Iris continued to type a paragraph of gibberish the faded letters returned.
just type whatever comes to mind and ill do the rest
Well, what do you have to lose, Iris? She removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter, inserted a blank one, and began to write. Her mind was razor sharp now - all distracting thoughts were buried underneath a newfound fixation. Her fingers danced along the keys as if performing a choreographed routine. Page after page flew from the typewriter as her story unfolded. After an hour had blazed past, Iris looked up from her work and realized that the sun had long since set. She checked her watch and was amazed that so much time had passed.
All around her, the desk was littered with pages full of text. She began gathering them, reading passages as she did. Wow, Iris smiled as she heard her own words in her head, this is good. She ordered the pages and then glanced around confused. Where was that first page? She dropped down to her knees and searched under the desk but it was nowhere to be found. She flipped through the pages of her manuscript and saw no signs of faded ink. That’s weird, thought Iris. She dropped the stack of papers on the desk and plopped back into her chair. I really need to get outside more.
Iris Beaumont - Writer's Block was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
The Visitor in Postern
Through a series of unforeseen circumstances I found myself living in a small town called Postern near the coast of Maine. After graduating from Colby College I had a job lined up with a small publishing company called Cadrick. I left everything behind and moved to Postern only to lose the job six months later. Cadrick had seen a considerable loss in revenue and was on the verge of bankruptcy. New hires were the first to go. I had student loans to repay and uprooting myself again was not an option. That’s how I ended up working in the Postern Public Library.
Maine was a beautiful state to be stranded in. Everywhere I looked I could see the bright orange, red, and yellow hues of the leaves. Having grown up on the west coast, I never really got to appreciate the seasons. That was part of what drew me eastward in the first place - that and my unquenchable wanderlust. There was something undeniably surreal about this town and it’s surrounding wilderness. In the days and weeks following my unemployment, I spent much of my spare time hiking through the woods, hoping to become lost in a hidden glen or find a crashing waterfall to rest beneath.
I had heard of secluded trail behind an abandoned sawmill located a few miles east of Postern. The road leading to the mill was overgrown and narrow making for a precarious drive. The air was especially frigid that day and the marine layer had settled deep inland forming a penetrating mist. After a point, the road became too treacherous to drive so I parked my car and continued on foot. The sawmill was nestled in a clearing in the woods partially enclosed by a rusty chain link fence. A single tall building rested in the center of the facility surrounded by a few dilapidated shacks. A rusty yellow backhoe with tires half buried in the dirt had clearly not seen use for some time. The place was ghostly quiet except for the occasional chirping bird in the distance. There were no sounds of spinning blades and no lumberjacks hauling logs.
I sat on a fallen log to catch my breath when I saw a man leaving the treeline and enter the sawmill grounds through a gap in the fence. I don’t know why my instinct told me to remain hidden but I listened. I ducked behind the cover of the log and peeked my head up just in time to see him disappear into a large barn shaped building. Something didn’t feel right and I knew I should probably just leave but I felt compelled to stay. I left the cover of the tree and crept over to the building where the man had entered. I pressed my back against the outer wall and leaned my head around the large opening. There was no sign of the man. Cautiously I entered the building. It was full of machinery that I had no names for. I scanned the room but it appeared to be empty. Perhaps my mind had been playing tricks on me. Without warning the large sawblade at the center of the room whirred to life. My legs nearly buckled at the sudden rush of adrenaline and my heart pounded against my chest. My stomach overturned as I heard footsteps clattering on the metal rafter above me. I didn’t stay to investigate further, instead I fled the premises and ran to my car.
The whole drive home I remember replaying the incident in my head but when I returned to my apartment the importance of what I had seen seemed to fade away. I wasn’t even sure I had seen anything out of the ordinary at all. By the time I laid down to sleep that evening I was convinced that it had all been a hallucination.
A few weeks later I was sitting at the front desk of the Postern Public Library with my nose buried in a history book. The library didn’t see a lot of patronage, which meant that on slower days I was the only employee. I didn’t hear the bell ring as the door opened. It was the way he moved in the corner of my vision that broke my concentration. It was the man the I had seen at the sawmill and the memories of that day came rushing back to me. I wanted to crawl under the desk and hide and hope he just left but I was transfixed. The man crossed the room without so much as a glance in my direction before disappearing behind the shelves. As I sat there frozen in fear, I realized I had no idea what this man looked like. Just moments ago he had passed in front of me but for some inexplicable reason, the image refused to form a solid memory. How had I even recognized him in the first place? I never got a close look at him in the forest. The compulsion to get another look at the stranger was so strong I felt as if I was being dragged from my chair. I searched up and down the rows of shelves but found no sign of him.
The library had been rebuilt nearly twenty years ago. According to the papers of the time, there had been a mysterious fire that destroyed most of the original building and its contents The basement had not been in use since the building had been rebuilt and I never had a reason to enter it. But now the door to it stood ajar revealing an old staircase going down. As I stood at the precipice I felt as if I was floating at the edge of a void and if I moved at all I would sucked into its dark recesses. I took a deep breath and shook away the image. The walls looked much older than the materials used to build the rest of the library. The bricks were charred and I wondered whether the basement had been renovated at all after the fire. I took a few steps down and was greeted by darkness. I took out my cell phone and opened the flashlight app and though the light did little to illuminate the stairway it was enough to guide my path down. The stairs groaned with each step and I was worried they might give way under the weight of my foot. I reached the floor below and shone my light around the room. I could see rows of shelves each lined with books. I paused and listened for a moment for signs that the man was down here but was greeted with silence.
I took a few steps deeper into the room and examined the rows of books. There was a thick coat of dust covering everything down there. A musty odor permeated the room and overpowered my senses. These books had been rotting here for far too long. I pulled a book from the shelf and blew away a layer of dust. Its wooden cover was bound in cracked leather making it seem more like a tome. I didn’t recognize the language it was written in but it looked ancient. I began turning the pages slowly at first and then with increasing purpose. I was overcome with the sense that the book was guiding my hand, showing me specific entries none of which I could read. And yet understanding began to seep into my thoughts as if the language was no longer a barrier. The pages flew by and I can’t say for certain that my hand had anything further to do with their motion. The book contained truth but it was a truth I wish I’d never known. Behind my eyes, in the space where nightmares dwell, I was consumed by an unrelenting madness. The world around me began to quake as if the fabric of reality was loosening at the seams. A series of loud thumps freed me from my mania and I was momentarily thankful for the reprieve. But then I realized that the tremor hadn’t stopped. A foreign wind whistled down the stairs and I heard the eerie cry of the hinges as the door began to swing shut. I dropped the tome and ran for the stairs just as the door slammed. I stumbled up the steps afraid that when I reached the top the door would be locked, trapping me down here. Without looking back I clenched my fist over the handle and pulled. The door flew open and I very nearly tumbled back down the stairs but I refused to loose my grip on the handle and hoisted myself up. I slammed the door shut and locked it behind me.
I couldn’t reconcile the events that day nor those in the woods but the more time passed, the more I was sure that nothing strange had happened. I hadn’t noticed the man enter the library so it stood to reason that I hadn’t noticed him leave. The horrors I felt in that basement faded from my mind like a dream upon waking and eventually I stopped thinking about them. A month later, I was taking a walk at the beach when the weather took a sudden turn. I was huddled under the cover of a public restroom awning checking the weather on my phone to see if the rain was going to let up at all when I saw him. He was walking along the shore seemingly unconcerned with the inclement downpour. I had to know what he was doing and so I stepped out onto the beach and followed him.
Pinkman’s Lighthouse was a landmark in Postern. The town wasn’t known for much, but on the rare occasion that a tourist happened through, they were often directed to the site. It wasn’t open to the public but it was something to look at. The strange man walked the winding path up the bluff, stepped over a broken fence and splashed toward the cylindrical building. The lighthouse was much taller than it seemed from afar - it must have been two or three stories high. The door, to my surprise, was unlocked. I slipped inside and followed the sound of the man’s footsteps up the stairs.
The staircase curved around the frame of the lighthouse until finally unfolding into a sizable open space. At the center of the room stood the massive rotating spotlight which served as a guide for ships nearing the shore. For a brief moment, the entire room was engulfed in a haunting white light as the bulb revolved. The beam swept the room revealing more than mere shadows could conceal. It was like the visual representation of a weak radio station being overtaken by a stronger signal. I was staring into a space between realities and what I saw threatened to splinter my psyche. There was a far away sensation that I recognized as horror but my consciousness and body were worlds apart. There were no words to describe what lay there in the cracks but in the span of what felt like mere seconds, I knew the true definition of insanity.
I don’t remember collapsing to the ground. I don’t remember crying. But there I found myself, curled in a ball, tears wetting my cheeks. I tried to push myself to a sitting position but my arms would not stop shaking. I stared out over the balcony towards the foggy sea as the light continued its revolution. I desperately wished I had never come here; to this lighthouse, to Postern. I wished I had never left my west coast home at all. And then I saw the man and I knew my misery was only just beginning.
The truth washed over me like a wave, drowning away any lingering doubt: he wasn’t a man at all. His body was merely an anchor, binding his true form to this world. I looked into his eyes and for the first time he looked into mine, only it wasn’t his eyes that noticed me, it was the beast that lay beyond. In all of my education I had not encountered words adequate enough to describe its visage. It was amorphous and yet somehow solid. It had no mouth and yet I saw rows of fangs. It had no eyes and yet it watched me with an alien curiosity. As I lay on the cold metal floor of the lighthouse, the beam of light seemed to spin faster and faster and with each gyration it illuminated the abomination. I yearned to avert my gaze but I was mesmerized by the strobe effect. I clawed at the ground, pleading my body to stand, but all I could do was crawl. The man stood perfectly still but the part of him that existed beyond reckoning crept toward me. It flickered closer and farther all at once as if the physical space between us was immaterial. I inched toward the edge of the balcony unsure of what I planned to do if I reached it. Maybe I thought I had a better chance surviving the thirty foot drop than I would with the anathema, but before I had a chance to decide, the beast’s outstretched appendage twisted around my leg and dragged me back. I pleaded for mercy and this time I remembered the tears.
The Visitor in Postern was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
The Cliffs of Castorshire
Once upon a time there were six brothers who lived in the lush green hills of Castorshire. Their father was an old and feeble man who had no estate to offer them. And so he sent them away to seek their own fortunes. One day, the king of Castorshire issued a challenge: anyone who could travel from the Cliffs of Castorshire to the White Rock jutting out of the sea beyond would win the hand of his daughter and one day inherit the kingdom. The brothers caught wind of the royal decree and returned from afar to win the Princess’ hand in marriage.
On the day of the tournament, people gathered from all around atop the Cliffs of Castorshire, anxiously awaiting the tournament. They looked out at The White Rock which was far too tall and narrow for a boat to dock - any that tried would surely be dashed against the jagged rocks beneath. The brothers would need to get creative.
The first brother had spent his time away training to be the best athlete in the land. He could run faster and jump farther than anyone else. He approached the crowd with confidence and addressed the king, “Your Majesty, I will win your daughter’s hand with my might.”
The king was impressed. A man with this much physical prowess could surely rule with an iron fist.
With a running start, the first brother approached the cliff’s edge and leapt into the air. The crowd gasped as they watched him soar. But the island was too far and the brother plummeted to the sea below.
The second brother had spent his time away serving in the king’s Royal Army. He had learned much about combat, weaponry, and loyalty. He approached the crowd sternly and addressed the king, “My Lord, I have served in your Royal Army. I will win your daughter’s hand with the ingenuity of a soldier.”
The king was impressed. A loyal soldier could surely make for a good leader.
The second brother motioned for his men to come forth. They wheeled out a great wooden catapult and positioned it at the edge of the cliff. The brother climbed aboard and gave the signal. His men cut the rope and the catapult flung the brother out over the ocean. His aim was impeccable but unfortunately his training involved aiming and not so much safe landings.
The third brother had spent his time away living in the forest and learning to live with the animals. He approached the crowd peacefully and addressed the king, “O’ just king, I will win your daughter’s hand with the help of my fine feathered friends.”
The king was impressed. A man who could tame the beasts of the forest could surely rally the subjects of this great kingdom.
The third brother held a hundred ropes in his hands each attached to different a bird flapping overhead. He whistled and at his command the birds began to fly into the air carrying him over the edge of the cliff. But the birds became confused and each flapped in a different direction. The brother could not keep his grip and as the ropes slipped from his hands he plummeted into the sea below.
The fourth brother had spent his time away studying at a prestigious academy. There he learned a great many things about machinery and so came up with a plan. He approached the crowd with his nose buried in his books and addressed the king, “My good magistrate, I will win your daughter’s hand with my amazing invention.”
The king was impressed. A man who could build such contraptions could surely understand the machinations of a well oiled monarchy.
The fourth brother pulled back the cover of his invention and revealed a magnificent flying machine. He strapped himself in and powered up the device. It zoomed towards the edge of the cliff and then plummeted out of sight. The crowd gasp and waited with anticipation. With a flourish, the flying machine lifted into the air and soared over the heads of the crowd who cheered in amazement. The brother became caught up in the applause and flew his machine in a loop to further impress. As he stared out at his adoring fans he failed to notice the quickly approaching treeline where his machine was torn to pieces.
The fifth brother had spent his time away finding the beauty in the world and learning to express it in the form of poetry. He approached the crowd flamboyantly and addressed the king, “My liege, fair maiden, ladies and gentlemen; today I intend to leave no dry eyes. Prepare thineselves to be wooed.”
The king groaned. A man who spent his days pontificating and placating would crumble under politics.
The fifth brother strode to the cliff edge and began to speak. His sonnet was long and verbose as he pleaded with the White Rock to inch closer to the land that he might rest his weary limbs upon it. The king grew tired of his frivolous rhetoric and motioned for his guards who verily shoved the fifth brother over the edge of yon cliffs. As he fell, he heard the thunderous applause of his first standing ovation.
The king was disappointed with the contest. “Is there no one that can meet my challenge?” he boomed. “What about you there?”
The king motioned to the sixth and final brother who addressed his king, “My king, I am only here to watch my brothers make fools of themselves. I did not spend time away learning a new trade as they did. I stayed at my ailing father’s side and kept food in his belly. I have no skills to complete your contest.”
“Nonsense!” laughed the king.
“Well,” mused the sixth brother, “I have brewed a fine ale. I was saving it for the victor, as it was surely meant for a king. But you, my Lord, are the true king.”
The sixth brother passed out his special brew to the crowd and everyone quaffed. The king drank the brother’s ale as his listened to his praises. Soon, the king was inebriated and raucously pompous.
“The only one worthy of this kingdom,” the king hiccuped, “is me!”
He stumbled towards the edge of the cliff and belted out across the water, “Listen here, rock. As your king, I command you to stand on me. I mean, I shall stand on you.”
The guards were too drunk to notice as the king stumbled forward and tumbled over the cliff. The princess approached the sixth brother and congratulated him on winning the contest.
“But, Milady,” he replied, “I have done nothing.”
“You have freed these people from the tyranny of a foolish old man. Now what would you ask in return?”
“Only that my father stays well fed until the day he dies.”
The Princess happily obliged and the brother and father lived happily ever after in the lush green hills of Castorshire.
The Cliffs of Castorshire was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
Appeasement
The frigid air clawed at Ruq’s lungs with every breath he took. Though he was a hunter, his prey was no average animal and his pursuit had stolen him far from the village. The elders had beseeched him not to go - even if he could fell the great beast, the village would surely be cursed. Every year, the elders chose a child for sacrifice because - so they said - Maku the Great Bear demanded it. Ruq knew this, as did every person in the tribe. It was the way it had always been.
There were two days when Ruq truly understood the significance of his own life. The first was the day he was wed to Tiqri. On that day he realized that his life was a gift he could share with another person. The second day was the day his child was born. On that day he realized that his life was secondary. Then came the day when he was asked to sacrifice his own child. Had it been his own life, he liked to think he would have gladly given it. Tiqri pleaded with him to forsake the elders. She was a fire of rage and tears as Ruq ripped the child from her arms and as he did so he knew he was tearing away any love she had for him. The ceremony was as it always was. The child was dressed in a ceremonial pelt and the blood of an arctic hare was smeared across his forehead. After the rites had been uttered, Ruq returned to the village leaving his child alone in the snow.
Ruq was lost. All feeling of worth had been abolished, left to die in the snow with his son. When he returned home, Tiqri was gone. Ruq’s blood shot through his veins. He knew precisely where she had gone and he had to find her. He buried himself in his wolf fur coat, took his bow, quiver, and spear and left the village.
The eternal twilight of the north cast a mystical glow upon the snowy terrain. The otherwise white expanse was instead a sour yellow. Ruq ran until his legs felt as soft as the snow through which he trudged. The wind howled through the canyon and on its breath brought flakes of snow. The storm wasn’t bad enough that Ruq couldn’t follow his wife’s tracks, even if she did have a bountiful lead on him. What was her plan? No one could survive alone in the treacherous wilderness, let alone with a baby in tow. Ruq paused to catch his breath and noticed something else in the snow. It was a paw print but it was bigger than any he had ever encountered.
Ignoring the pleas of his muscles, Ruq continued. Overland snow travel was sluggish, even with the proper clothing. The passage of time was difficult to track but as a hunter, Ruq had learned how. The sun made a very specific voyage along the horizon. It never quite settled below the earth but it did move. That is how Ruq knew how far he had traveled. The storm was gaining momentum and Tiqri’s tracks became harder to follow. And then Ruq saw something that made his heart sink - drops of blood on the snow. She was close. He could hear her voice behind the wind’s curtain. Ruq forced his way faster through the snow.
There she was. Tiqri was on her knees, arms outstretched. There was blood on her hands and a knife in the snow beside her. She was pleading with someone or something, Ruq could not see through the wall of snow. She was offering herself as a sacrifice in place of their child. Ruq wanted to call out to her but was petrified she would run again. Then, as if solidifying into existence, a massive shape took form in the snow. No one had ever seen Maku before - Ruq had even doubted his existence at times. But there was no denying his eyes, the Great Bear now towered over Tiqri. The beast’s fur was even whiter than the snow around it. Had it been standing still, Ruq may have lost sight of it. But the eyes - the eyes revealed more than its incredible body ever could. Tiqri bowed her head to the snow in reverence or perhaps fear. The bear stepped closer and surveyed the scene almost quizzically. His expression was inexplicably human.
Maku leaned its head down toward Tiqri - who was shaking visibly - and let loose a snort that blew the woman’s hair back. This brought Ruq back into the world and he slid his bow off his back and knocked and arrow. Was this great beast even killable? The bear sniffed Tiqri again and then turned away. With a lumbering gait, Maku faded into the falling snow. Tiqri raised her head and screamed. It seemed the beast had not accepted her offer. Ruq ran to her before she could stand and chase down the bear. She was hysterical. Ruq dropped his bow and clutched her tight. She tried to fight him off but was too weak from the trek and blood loss. Tiqri heaved and howled against Ruq’s chest.
Ruq could hear something else though. Beyond her sobs, beyond the wind, he heard a faint cry. He lifted Tiqri’s head until her eyes met with his and then held a hand to his ear. Tiqri’s eyes grew wide with hope. Together, husband and wife strode into the storm towards the sound. The cries grew louder until they found its source. There in the snow lay their child crying out for attention. Tiqri collapsed to the ground and sheltered their baby from the cold. Her blood-stained hands dirtied the child’s face and arms as she pulled him closer. Ruq squinted and looked into the storm for some sign of the Great Bear but there was nothing but white.
Appeasement was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
The Queen of Nothing
The merry-go-round is entangled by vines, the roots have weaved their way into the heart of the machine. Once well oiled gears are now rusted and broken, their teeth still biting but their will to bite broken. There is no electricity to motivate them, there is no electricity anywhere. Time waited in this place, it waited impassionately for nothing and no one in particular. The world is spinning but the merry-go-round is not. The paint on the horses is long since faded as they take their long journey of decay. The vines embrace the wooden beasts, gripping too hard except for one horse. He is called Halcyon and there was a time when he was the fastest horse in the pack. He was beloved. Now he stands alone, champion of a forgotten era. He is cracked and broken but he alone remained untainted by the encroaching foliage. She caresses his mane.
The pond is drowned, its waters swallowed by generations. The spigots of the the fountain are choked by grime, no liquid will quench the stone basin. The pump does not pump, the pipes are split. Silver and copper coins lie dormant in the pool, their etched faces forgotten. Birds once swam in the cool water, satiated by the novelty of excess. There are no birds here, there is no indication of motion. She hangs her bare feet over the edge.
The building stands as it ever did while others are crumbled to dust. The window is no more, splinters and beads have spread along the walkway beneath its frame. The pale fragments reinforce the fragility of creation. The door is hanging by one hinge too tired to stand but not yet granted a leave of duty. A door is a door. A heavy coat of dust blankets the the floor and shelves within. The wares remain on the racks though some have fallen to the ground and others have been eaten away. A cash register sits at the counter, its drawers long since emptied. And what would the money buy anyway? In the corner of the small back office sits a worn out little bed which once belonged to a cat who liked to sniff hands. The desk is overturned barring entry into the little room and the contents of its drawers spilled about. The window to the room is grey with soot but for a single clean smudge, a spot where a hand had hastily wiped it clean. She lies curled on her side at the cat’s bed cuddling nothing.
The air is still in this place as if even the weather has forgotten of its existence. The surrounding trees stand perfectly still and there are no sounds of life. Even during the day, the sun doesn’t shine here. Everything is drab and grey. It is a place forgotten by the world, forgotten by time, forgotten by everything. But she remembers. She alone stands watch over the emptiness. She rules over the abandoned. The queen of nothing.
The Queen of Nothing was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
The Queen of Nothing was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
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