Vinegar Hill Horror

"I am never going camping with you again," Charlie announced as they walked home. Jen looked hurt.
"Oh! Why not?!"
"Because you made me do everything! You didn't cook, or light the fire, or put up the tent."
"That's because I can't do any of those things. I tried to, but you just got mad and took over from me. Also, I helped to carry firewood."
"Complaining the whole time about bugs and splinters."
"They were everywhere!"
"That's what camping is," Charlie sighed. "It's about getting closer to nature, not about sleeping all day and using all the torch batteries to listen to the radio."
Jen laughed, and kicked a piece of trash in her friend's direction.
"You know there's nobody else you'd want to go with."
Charlie grunted in what may have been agreement.
"Let's get ice-cream," she said suddenly. "I haven't had ice-cream in ages.""You had one on the way to the camp-site," Jen pointed out.
"Yes, well, that hardly counts. Anything you eat while exercising doesn't count." Her eyes dared Jen to disagree.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like the store is closed." She pointed.

"What?!" Charlie shrieked, pressing her face up against the dusty window. The unlit interior was dim in the late afternoon sunlight, and clearly not occupied.
"Why?" Charlie asked, throwing up her hands dramatically. "Why would they do this to me?"
"I'm not sure that it was aimed specifically at you," Jen said soothingly, almost managing to hide a giggle.
"Now that I think of it, it is a little quiet today," Charlie said, looking around slowly. "There's nobody around and everything's shut."
"Maybe they're all dead?" Jen suggested cheerfully. Charlie responded with a glare.
"Maybe they're at the circus. That was meant to be in town this weekend, right?"
"Yeah," Jen agreed, sounding almost disappointed.
"They've got elephants, and tigers and stuff," Charlie pointed out. "And sideshow games. Maybe we should go check it out?"As if to confirm their theory a roar of delighted screams rose up from the direction of the fairgrounds where the circus always set up. Jen sighed - their homes were in the other direction, and she'd really been looking forward to a hot shower.
"Alright. Before they pack up.""Maybe they're selling ice-creams?" Charlie said, laughing. "Don't look so upset. We'll go home and clean up after they're gone. This is pretty much the most exciting thing to ever happen in this town."
"True," Jen admitted as they set off to the sound of distant screaming and laughter.

Before Sarin Searched, So Did He...

Caderyn looked at the gypsy with open scepticism. Him, a great mage? That was never going to happen. He had no magic - his parents had sent him to be tested when he was only little, and there hadn't even been enough of a spark to light tinder. No, the fortune-teller must be mistaken, and that did throw the rest of her information into a more credulous position.
"Thank you," he said politely, for he'd been raised to be polite.
"You'll see," she replied cryptically as he left the dimly-lit tent, blinking in the harsh sunlight outside.
Caderyn stuck his hands deep into his pockets, feeling for the charms and trinkets he always kept there. For protection, and clarity of thought, and increased luck. That was another thing his parents had passed onto him, a kind of token belief in the supernatural arts and the power of little spells to turn the balance of fate in a positive way. If he ever thought about it deeply the whole affair seemed a little foolish, but he tended to avoid deep thought because it invariably led to headaches.
The road from the gypsy camp but to town was a long one, and if he dallied much longer he'd end up walking in the dark, but Caderyn wasn't terribly concerned. The opportunity to speak with storytellers of another culture was a temptation he could not resist, and they seemed like a friendly enough group of people. After a few enquiries he was directed to a campfire where a pot bubbled with an unknown, deliciously scented liquid. A stout woman stirred its contents with a wooden spoon, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaggle of children running around the camp. By her side sat a woman older than he'd imagined a person could ever be, hunched over a bowl of pea-pods.
"Could I help you with that, Grandmother?" He asked respectfully, ignoring the snort of laughter from the cook. The old lady looked up at him with icy grey eyes, gnarled fingers never ceasing in their work.
"That depends on your motives," she replied sharply, with a voice like a cutting winter wind. She may have been old, Caderyn thought, but she was not soft in the least.
"I wish only to help, and perhaps talk a little."
After a moment the woman shrugged, and handed him the bowl.
"Get to it." She paused, then added, "The talking will depend on the topic you intend to bring up."
Caderyn sat cross-legged by her side, settling easily into the task. He hadn't shelled peas in a long time, but when he was younger his mother had often allowed him to help her in the kitchen with such things. After a little while he got into a rhythm, and it was only then that he began to speak.
"I have heard much praise of your people, and their stories," he said, carefully watching her expression without looking directly at her. "It is said they are many, and of a quality not often found in the city."
"Of course," she snapped. "We have no tame tales to wave about as if we own them. Our stories are lent to us by the earth and the sky, and we pass them along with care and respect."
"Are they not changed with time?" He asked, noting her frown. "All things change as they are passed along. Each teller has their own way, their own words, their own embellishments that they bring."

There Is No Why

The store was quiet and dusty, filled with shelves and stacks of books and papers. Sarin moved through it carefully, afraid to touch anything. Wizards and librarians were known to be touchy about their craft, so she expected that the great biblio-magician Silverpage would be at least doubly so. It seemed odd that a man of such wealth and status should choose to operate in a place of business that was as dull and musty as this, but if librarians and wizards were both odd people, then Silverpage would be easily as strange.
The shelves towered over her, seeming to lean in at the top until it felt as if she tiptoed along a paper tunnel; a sound too soft to really make out followed in her wake, as if the books were whispering to one another as she passed.
"This way," called a voice from the dim depths of the literary cavern. "Don't be shy, I won't bite."
Sarin blushed and stepped up her pace, and after a time she found she could make out the flickering glow of a candle, not so far from where she was. The desk it sat on was almost clean, she noticed, but not quite - her fingers twitched unconsciously to the cleaning rag always tucked into her belt. From childhood she'd been raised to value cleanliness, and she'd never felt comfortable in the presence of dirt.
"How may I help you?" Silverpage asked, voice as fragile as the pages he guarded. The light was little but she could still make out his features, and she thought the stories held some truth: in his youth he would have been a heartbreaker indeed. But with innumerable ages his looks had faded, and Sarin thought he resembled an ancient tree, lined and gnarled and slow-moving.
"I wish to buy a story," she said, sounding less confident than she'd felt upon entering the store. He laughed uproariously, throwing back his head and slapping the countertop.
"But of course you do! Why else would you be here?" He fell silent abruptly, levelling his gaze with hers. "A story of any particular kind?"
She smiled.
"Of course. Why else would I be here? There are other storytellers in this city, and none half as expensive as yourself."
They looked at one another - he with the cunning wisdom of old experience, she with the shrewd eye of confident youth. Finally he nodded.
"A particular kind, then. Not the kind offered by my fellow vendors." He tilted his head to the side. "Is it an adventure you seek? I have tales that slip into your mind and enliven your dreams so that you would hardly wish to wake."
Sarin shook her head. The wizard guessed again.
"A romance, perhaps? I can spin words around you so that you feel yourself to be in the arms of a lover who exists only in your mind."
She shooked her head again. He narrowed his eyes, and gestured that she should speak.
"I wish to buy a truth," she said. "About people, and the world, and why."
"Ahh." He sighed, a little sadly. "A true story. I did wonder when this day would come."
She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing that if she would ever find answers it would be here. A flutter of excitement stirred the embers of hope that had settled so low throughout her search.
"The biggest difficulty is not in finding it, of course," he said, "Any tale which exists may be found, in time, by one who knows the place in which to look. The issue is proprietary - there can exist only one truth, or one set of complementary truths. A tale once sold cannot be purchased again and here lies my problem."
"You have already sold the truth?" Sarin asked, heart sinking.
"The one you seek, no. Other truths to other questions. But the great truth, the truth of why, was sold by someone else, many years ago."
"If I find that person could they share it with me?"
"Perhaps," Silverpage said. "If they were willing to share it.""Why wouldn't they?" Sarin demanded.
"If the truth was not what they expected. If it were a burden more than a hope, perhaps they would wish to keep it to themselves."
"How selfish," she muttered. Silverpage nodded.
"A little."
"Is that all? You cannot tell me who, or where, or how I may find them?"
"I cannot. I am sorry."
Without another word the woman left the store, bumping a stack of books as she left. They toppled to the floor, falling open to pages that had not seen light in countless years. The great wizard Silverpage rose slowly with a groan, and shuffled over to where they lay. Bending to lift them he stopped, taking a little scrap of paper from the pocket of his robe. The words it bore were simple, written in a small and flowing script that had faded with time, as everything does. To anyone else it would probably have been illegible, but Silverpage had read it many times since he first bought it as a youth. It was short and poignant, the tale of people, and the world, and why...

Let Me Paint You A Picture...

You asked me to paint a portrait of you but I'm so bad at colours. I have clumsy hands. I told you that and you were disappointed in me.
You have eyes that are like autumn, brown and green and flickering all over the place like they were caught in the wind... When it's windy outside your hair comes to life. Others tame theirs with sprays and gels and bobby pins, but you let it go, you let it float and fly around your face. Your mouth isn't used to smiling because you smile on the inside and you smile with your fingers when they dance on the guitar.

Where's My Happily Ever After?

Dreams and news and fairy tales all mixed up in your head until you couldn't tell the difference. You told me it didn't matter, because they were all atrocities anyway, atrocities against life and hope and dogged survival.

She's Broken - Can't Hide the Fractures

It was his voice she'd fallen for, and his fingers easy on the guitar strings. The songs weren't his own but that was ok, because the sound of them that night was his, all his. The sun was setting outside but she was oblivious to that, staring into the distance through her coffee as his words spun a dream around her. Calm enveloped her so softly she didn't realise it at first. When she did it was a kind of revelation, because in that moment she was happy.

Hope Piggy-Backed on Lightning Bolts

It was dark; the moon and the stars hid behind the clouds as if they were afraid to watch such a night. Power crackled on the backs of stormclouds and made static in the hair of the late-night lovers on park benches. An electric expectation crackled in bus driver's fingertips. Anticipation left watchdogs drooling and cats prowling restlessly.

Julie Is the Wind

Julie collected bruises like other kids collected marbles, hoarding them greedily like some delicious secret beneath her clothes. It wasn't that she was clumsy, just that she was more delicate than other people. Things others barely noticed caused her real pain. A sharp word or harsh tone was like a bludgeon to her fragile bones - it left her short of breath, gasping in pain and bleeding on the floor.
I always wished I could just kiss it better, but nothing is that simple.

Insignificance, Ernest

After she'd gone, Ernest let himself collapse onto the sidewalk, propped up against the wall and with his head in his hands. Everything had been so simple until now. It wasn't difficult to go about your life, even one of constant repression, when that was all you had. But Xanthia had offered him rebellion - dangerous, life-threatening rebellion against an organisation with all the facilities of a nation at its disposal. Was his life a price he was willing to pay for a freedom nobody knew they were without?
But the answer came to him with an eerie clarity as he stared down at the cracked pavement. He would do it, just like Xanthia would do it, because there was nobody else who could.
Feeling very small, Ernest went home.

From Such Great Heights...

Katie clung to him as if she were drowning.
"Don't let me go," she whispered into his shirt. He had one arm around her while the other aimed and fired, and she had never felt more secure in her life.
"Would I?" He asked shortly, swinging her around so that his body was between her and the current line of fire. Bullets and screams tore through the air around them as he cut a path through the sea of men and Agents that fought on every side of them. She pressed her face harder against his chest, wishing it could block out the sounds of battle. She had thought she would be ready for it, but here they were and she was barely holding back her tears.
"I'm sorry," she said with a little sniff, "I'm not strong enough."
"You will be, when you need to be," Shadow replied. "For now, you are alive. That is enough."

Inconspicuous, Ernest

"We've got ten minutes," Sarah said. Ernest stared at her, barely blinking. "You can ask questions once I'm done."
She looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses, wondering how badly he was freaking out.
"I work for the government. They watch your every move, because you know about them. You are not a priority target yet, but the minute you start getting angry or crazy you will become one."
She had spent hours agonising over just how much to tell him. Too much and she would put herself in real danger of exposure. Too little and he may reveal them both out of ignorance.
"The name you will know me by is Xanthia," she said. "It will be a code if I need to communicate with you in a more public way than I'd prefer. For now all I will say is this - I have slight influence over the case of your surveillance. There will be short windows of time when we can communicate, and these must be the only times you speak of me."
He nodded, still wide-eyed, looking around constantly."There are safe places," she said, "Where the surveillance does not extend. This is one."
Sarah glanced quickly at her watch. Alice would return soon.
"At this time you are watched but not recorded. If they see anything suspicious that will change, and you will lose any chance you ever had of making a difference in all of this."
When she didn't speak again, Ernest took his chance.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because what they do is wrong and somebody needs to do something. My job gives me an advantage that I can't pass up."
"When will I hear from you again?"
"When it is safe." She looked at her watch again. "I have to go. Please act normally."

Food For Thought

That night, as Alice headed outside for her break, Sarah logged into the O-BAD console. Her own password would not work but she had watched as Alice signed in the night before. If she was quick, she stood a chance.
Ernest was in bed but not asleep, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sarah keyed in a command - his bedside radio switched on.
"I know that's you," he said morosely over the crackling static as it flicked through the stations. "Are you having a good time?"
"Listen to me," Sarah whispered, looking over her shoulder at the door, as if she could see anyone before the came through it. Hearing her voice Ernest's eyes widened - he had not expected this. "You're right. About everything. We must meet."
"Who are you?"
His voice was shaking. Sarah smiled.
"A friend. Be outside 31 Elston Street at this time tomorrow night or forget I ever spoke. Say no more now."
"Elston Street? Why?"
Sarah resisted the urge to reply, to tell him everything, to tell him she was going to help because what the government was doing was wrong. But instead she sat back, and signed out of the O-BAD console, and returned to her own desk to watch as Ernest tossed and turned and did not sleep for a long time.

Ernest Gets Angry

Ernest Truffle was upset. He had risen that morning with his usual cheer, but it had disappeared when he saw the damp mess in his kitchen.
"You bastards!" he shouted, over and over, not caring if the neighbours heard. The neighbours already thought Ernest was crazy. A small voice in his head suggested that just maybe he was overreacting, but it was drowned out by the much louder voice of his indignation. Anybody else might have dismissed this as an unlucky chance, but Ernest knew better. It was too obvious, too much of a coincidence that the sprinkler system could malfunction the very night he found a way to beat the system. It was too neat.
On the outside he raged, but on the inside Ernest was calm.
It was time to fight back.

Office-Based Active Duty

An ominous voice crackled over the intercom - "Destroy the box."
"Can we do that?" Sarah asked, surprised. Alice laughed.
"I keep forgetting that you're new to this department. What we're about to do is known as "Office-Based Active Duty"."
"O. B. A. D.?"
"O-BAD. It's fun, believe me."
Alice pished off from the desk, rolling on her chair to where the room's third computer station sat. Sarah had always assumed it was there to cater for a possible third worker. But as Alice keyed in her password, the interface that loaded was very different to the one she was used to.
"This is the O-BAD interface," Alice explained, opening up Ernest Truffle's profile. "I haven't had a chance to use it since coming onto the Truffle Case, but they use it all the time on priority cases."A house floor plan appeared, and after a moment Sarah recognised it.
"That's Ernest's house."
"Bingo!"
Ernest had gone to bed but his box was still in the kitchen, so Alice chose to make a quick demonstration.
"We can turn the lights on and off, as well as any appliance in the room that's connected to power. We have remote devices to cater for anything more portable, but they're a little less reliable."
"That's insane," Sarah whispered. "That's absolutely unbelievable."
"Interns get a bit frisky with the O-BAD systems sometimes," Alice admitted, "Flicking lights on and off, that kinda thing. Making people think they're being haunt or going crazy or something."
"I don't blame them," Sarash admitted, "But-""But how do we destroy the box?"
Sarah nodded.
"I'm surprised you didn't think of it for yourself." She grinned as she tapped in a few commands, and then the fire-sprinkler switched on. It went to work, silently and without fuss, and before long the box was no more than a soggy heap. Alice chuckled to herself as she headed outside for a smoke, but Sarah felt bad. She knew what it felt like to be constantly under surveillance - besides Ernest, only those who worked for the Department really knew that feeling. So she did not blame him for wanting a little privacy. Taking that box away had been an act of spite.
She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. There had to be a way to do something nice for Ernest, without anybody actually finding out.

An Event that Made it Into the Report

"Doorbell," Alice announced. Sarah sat up with a start, dropping the pen she'd been absently chewing the end of.
"Visitors?" She asked, trying to find the pen without taking her eyes off the screen.
"As if," Alice snorted. "You know Truffle doesn't have any friends. No, it looks like a delivery..."
They watched in silence as a large box was wheeled into the room.
"Refrigerator," Alice nodded, satisfied that everything added up. Truffle had ordered it earlier that week, though they had not noticed any problems with his current one. Truffle signed for the delivery, then took a knife from the drawer behind him.
"I suppose you're wondering what I would want with a refrigerator, when the one I already have works fine," he said, addressing them again as if he really knew they were there. He slashed at the box with the knife, undoing its bindings until he could put it to one side. "Maybe I just want a little privacy?"
Without another word he lifted the box and set it down over his head. They could hear him giggling as he shuffled around the room.
"I think this is going to make it into the report," Alice said faintly.

The Truffle Case

Ernest talked to the invisible cameras as he cooked his breakfast.
"I hope you can smell this," he said cheerfully, "I hope you know what you're missing out on. Fresh eggs and cheese, a bit of bacon, a good omelette to start the day off..."
Sarah sighed, because it looked so much more appetising than her own cold-toast breakfast.
Alice sighed, because the lens of the kitchen's camera had steamed over, and they had to switch to an alternate viewpoint.
"I thought they'd installed defoggers?" She complained.
"On some units. Priority cases."
"Isn't Truffle a priority case?"
"To be honest, I don't think so." Sarah shrugged. "He would become one the moment he showed any hostile inclination. I think he's more of a novelty to them than anything else. They keep asking if we're sure he's sane, as if it's impossible for him to be so complacent about us."
She looked down at her current notebook, and then to the rusted filing cabinet where its predecessors rested.
"He's sane, though," she said finally. "I'm quite sure of it."
"Don't think I'd be able to cope with it," Alice shuddered. "It's bad enough to know I'm recorded out in public. But in your own home? Thank god this job gives us that much privacy. It's about the only reason I stay.""Is it so bad here? Comfortable chairs, easy workload. No job stress. Lifetime financial stability."
"My eyes hurt from staring at a screen all day, and all these computers give me a pounding headache." She rubbed at her temples, frowning, then attempted a smile. "At least the company's good."

If You Don't Hear From Me Again, This Is A True Story

"We're all being watched," he said to the wide-eyed sales assistant, "All of the time."
He gestured expansively. She giggled.
"Of course we are, every store is fitted with security cameras."
He sighed and handed over the money. That wasn't at all what he'd meant.
It was a good coffee, though. He drank it with relish as he walked through the park to his home, smiling at the warm sunshine. Whoever was watching him should be jealous, he though, stuck in a stuffy little office on a day like this.

People called Ernest Truffle paranoid, and he called them ignorant. Was it his fault he knew more about surveillance technology than the everyday citizen? Was it his fault the rest of the world was so oblivious to the government's actions?He had worked out what was happening when he was 23 years old, and it had been the day his life changed. At first it had been the strangest thing in the world - to live under constant surveillance, to eat and sleep and bathe with unseen cameras recording every moment. He'd spent hours on end searching and never found a thing, but that just meant they were more clever than he was. In time he stopped searching, and then he stopped caring.

--

"Ernest is talking to us again," Sarah announced, turning up the volume at her station. "Do you think we should log this?"
"Depends on the content," Alice said with a sigh. "If he's just ranting again there's no point."They listened for a while, pale faces intent amidst the monitors' glow.
"I know you're there," Ernest said to the empty darkness of his bedroom. "Watching me. Recording me. Taking notes on everything I say."
Sarah's pen stopped moving, and she glanced over at her colleague.
"You don't think-?"
"No. He's guessing. He's not even sure we ARE here."
"He seems sure."
"He has no proof, and no way of getting any," Alice insisted. She rubbed at her forehead and sighed again. "I need a break. Can you handle things here for a while?"
"You may as well go home, Al. He's a heavy sleeper, I doubt there'll be a need for even one of us tonight, let alone both."
"Thanks, hun," Alice patted Sarah's shoulder as she passed. "I owe you one.""Another one," Sarah replied, and they laughed.

"I hope they're paying you a lot," Ernest said, "I can't even image how fucking boring it must be, just watching me all day."
"Boring for some," Sarah whispered. At her prompt the camera zoomed in on Ernest's face, and she watched as he closed his eyes. He was still talking, but more softly now, about the weather outside, about his day, about nothing in particular. He often talked himself to sleep.
"Get out and have a life of your own," he said finally, "You're only dying, in that office."

Before Ernest, Sarah HAD felt that her job was just a slow and dull death. But then she'd been put onto "The Truffle Case", and in a way her life had changed. He was the only person in the city who believed without a shred of doubt in what she did. Oh, others guessed, or wondered, or feared that it was so. But only Ernest Truffle really knew what was going on. Sarah sure of this, because she'd checked, using her precious free time to search millions of profile records.

She fell asleep at her desk, the office filled with the hum of the computers and the soft rumble of Ernest's snores.

Royal Courier

"This is my escort?" Emily asked in disbelief. "Surely the Queen warrants a few more soldiers?"
"You must attempt to remain inconspicuous, my liege," the armsman replied softly. "As of yet, only a handful of people know your current appearance, and you are safest as long as it remains so."
She frowned but nodded agreement. It wasn't Emily's annoyance but the crotchety old woman she carried within her.
"I am - we are afraid," she said at last. "We do not want to die."
"You will not die," he said, and he held the girl's chin so that she could not look away. "You are Lady Emily Graystone, accompanied by a small courtesy force of kingsmen to your family's winter lodgings. The only person to know otherwise besides myself is Captain Elmshold."
"Thank you," she said, taking her horse's reins from him. He offered her a hand but she leapt easily into the saddle and, with a last cheeky salute, trotted over to her group.
"Are we going to stand around here all day?" She called out, voice ringing in the still, cold air. Half a dozen sleepy faces turned to her, and with a start she found them to be familiar. Though she'd never met them before, Emily knew each one by name - grey-haired Captain Elmshold and three of his men, Lady Umika Shadowhands, mage of the court, and George Bardspell, a mage also and widely renowned. The familiarity was strongest toward him, accompanied by a warmth that told her the Queen had liked this man. He smiled at her as he mounted his own horse, and laughed aloud as the armsmen scrambled into position.
"Apologies, my Lady," Elmshold said, bowing from the saddle, "My men are new recruits and unused to discipline so early in the day."
"A trio of recruits is to be my guard?" She asked quietly.
"Young but talented," he replied, "Their skills will rival my own some day."
Emily did not know the Captain but the Queen did, and his words quieted the old spirit.
"I hope you set a hard pace these next days," she said as they rode out the gates, "I don't want those mages slowing us down."
"They are tough, for mages. They will not hold us back."

Elmshold decided speed was more important than comfort and so they ate first- and midmeal in the saddle, and stopped only as the sun began to set. The King's Road was designed for travellers and at intervals along its length the bordering hedge bowed outwards, leaving little clearings with soft grass, clear-water springs, and starapple trees. The trees had a magical power gem amongst their roots, and it was through these that the royal gardeners coaxed the trees to bloosom and bear fruit throughout the year. The starapples were a sweet contribution to the rather tasteless travel rations provided by the armsmen.
"Will you play for us?" Emily asked once the meal was done, spying a baliset among somebody's bags. "Nobody carries a baliset who is not skilled in its use, and I do love music."
Umika Shadowhands had not spoken all day but now she did, rising and bowing elegantly to Emily.
"It would be an honour to entertain the Lady Graystone," she said formally, taking the baliset into her lap as she regained her place beside the fire.
"I didn't realise -" Emily stammered, "I could never impose -"
Umika ignored her protest, silencing the girl with a raised eyebrow and a few plucked notes. Despite her protests, Emily would not be so rude as to speak over the performance of a court bard, let alone one who was also a mage. Umika tuned the baliset with loving hands, and when she was ready she asked if anybody had a particular request.
"A song you wrote yourself," Elmshold suggested, which drew a little smile from the solemn mage.
"The baliset does not like new songs," she said softly. "Only old songs that it knows, or melodies it composes itself."
"It writes its own songs?" Emily broke in, incredulously. Umika nodded but it was George who replied.
"The baliset is an instrument like any other, but in the hands of a mage such as Lady Shadowhands, it draws on the musician's magic. When they've been together for as many years as these two have it tends to develop a kind of will. They model themselves upon the player - Umika's baliset is notoriously stubborn."
"I would like to hear that," Emily said, prompted by the Queen's own memories of Umika's playing. She wasn't quite prepared to hear the amount of longing in her voice, but that was what it meant to be a host. The minds remained separated, with the carried soul as a quiet passenger, but emotions were more powerful than the magic and often mingled between the two. Emily had been afraid, at first, that this would be uncomfortable, but so far she had only felt it as a kind of dim compulsion, or a tingle of feelings that were not her own.

Days Like These....

Days like these make me wish that I drank coffee, or smoked cigarettes, or had some kind of addiction to draw relief from...

Prophecy

"You know that I don't believe in prophecy," The woman said sternly, peering out from beneath a black veil. "Yet you try to foister this one upon me, and you claim that I am to have a part in it."
"Indeed, madam," The man replied humbly, bowing low, his grey robe looking unusually bright beside the widow's mourning black. "Through no choice of my own, for the Dream came to me and I am but its servant, bound to inform those who must be informed, like or not."
She sniffed, and when she spoke her tone said clearly that she believed it all to be nonsense.
"If, as you say, what must happen shall happen 'like or not', then no action on my part may prohibit its happening to me." She paused, and he nodded in agreement. "Then why tell me at all?"
"My lady," He bowed again, not noticing the way the woman rolled her eyes at the gesture. "My true aim tonight was to impress upon you the importance of your role. If you fail, then we are surely doomed."
Still bent almost double, the man left the room, watched steadily by the woman whose finger still bore the ring of her beloved. She had never held with priests or any of their strange ceremonies, yet something in the man's voice had impressed itself upon her - an undeniable sincerity, an utter belief in what he said that left the woman uncharacteristically inclined to believe his words too. The prophecy he had spoken of had sounded so authentic, the way she had always secretly believed one should sound; filled with dark omens and impossible conditions. Despite the beliefs of a lifetime, suddenly the widow found her mind changed. She would play the priest's game, and await the coming of the prophesied one, and fulfil her part in their destiny.
With a heavy heart the woman looked around her at the room, at the heavy drapes that held out the sun's cheerful light, at the severity of the furniture, at the grim portraits of past generations. Perhaps it was time to end her mourning. Perhaps it was past time. With the tiniest of sighs she stood, knuckling her back, so sore after such a short time in that uncomfortable chair, and threw back the curtains of the nearest window.
Sunbeams lanced the air, and the dust that flew into the air seemed like tiny, dancing particles of gold. The woman stared at them, entranced, and some of the lines that had creased her forehead in recent days faded. Breaking free of the sunlight's spell, she moved about the room in a frenzy, tearing the curtains down and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The paintings followed after, without regard or care, and then she was running down the stairs, head brimming with plans.

Tempest

You said the only way to cure bad memories was to create new ones, so I agreed to go out with you. And even though you only said it to give yourself a chance, it worked for a while. Besides, I always knew what kind of guy you were. Why are dangerous people so exciting? When we fought you were a hurricane that tore me up inside, but I am grateful that you taught me how to shore up my defences. Bad weather doesn't last forever, though I'm left with new bad memories, and sometimes I still hear your voice.
Your words are cloudy skies that always herald rain.

The Welcomer

The first thing Emily saw was the sea, blue and green and sparkling in the warm sunlight. Without a thought she let the door close behind her, taking in her surroundings with awe. She stood on a tiny grass-covered island where little white daisies poked their heads up and nodded contendtedly in the salty breeze. At the base of a gentle slope a wooden dock jutted out into the water and a pair of beautifully decorated boats bobbed beside it. And, beyond a stretch of placid ocean, a shining city rose, layer upon layer out of the sea. The buildings were made of a smooth white stone flecked with silver, twisting and merging with one another like salt crystals grown on the rock.
"I don't believe this," Emily muttered, turning back to the door. It sat behind her in the trunk of a gnarled tree, but when she tried the handle it wouldn't budge.
"It's locked," said a voice from behind her, and she span to see an old man dangling his feet in the sea. "You won't get through that door in a hurry."
"What you you mean? Who-"
"Who am I?" He interrupted. "And then you ask, 'What is this place?' and 'Why won't you let me leave?'."
Emily scowled as he listed all the questions she'd been about to ask. He tried a smile on her but faltered when she merely frowned back.
"Why do they always become hostile?" He asked the empty air. "I am the Welcomer, you are at the Doors, and you cannot leave because it was magic that brought you here and magic is a fickle fiend at best."
"That didn't tell me anything!" Emily cried. She was in a state of shock, she supposed, as her mind numbly sat back and watched her body throw a tantrum. "Why are you being so difficult?!"
The Welcomer watched her wearily.
"It is my job to welcome newcomers - that's you - to Squid City. Through a network of magical portals, people like yourself are transported here. The doors only open on our side at the Festival of Lights, so if you're going home it will be then. Unless of course someone else finds the same portal you did, assuming it's still there, and that we manage to keep the door open. The longer they're open the harder they are to hold onto," he explained to a wide-eyed Emily. Now that he'd mentioned it, she could see that there were in fact many more doors than the one she'd come through. They were of all shapes and sizes throughout the tree's massive trunk, and all of them were locked tight.
"What is Squid City?" She asked finally, deciding that this had to be a dream or a hallucination. She would play along, for now.
"Squid City!" The Welcomer repeated brightly. "City of Heroes! City of Adventure! City of Squid!"
"Do they pay you to say that?" She asked. He shrugged.
"It's all part of the job." He brightened, and pointed to the boats. "Ready to go to the City?"
He moved very nimbly for his age, she noticed, as he helped her into the smaller of the boats. Seeing the question in her eyes he smiled sadly.
"The other one's grander, but it's too big for us. Couldn't do it even if I made you take an oar, and that's no way to welcome anybody." They both watched it as they pulled off from the dock, and Emily could see that it was faded and dusty. "Back in the day, there was a whole team of us Welcomers, ferrying people too and from the Doors. There were grand welcoming parties every day! Guests are rare now, though."
He sounded so sad that Emily could tell how much he'd enjoyed his job.
"I can tell people about Squid City," she offered, "I'm sure lots of people would like to come here."
"No!" He shouted, and she shrank back involuntarily from the strength of his reaction. "You can never tell people - we know what your 'government' is like. One of them came here, once, and got all agitated about our presence being a 'threat to national security'. We had to seal up that door after he went back."
Emily nodded. The Government would be interested in Squid City, and probably in a bad way for its people.
"Don't worry about that," the Welcomer said kindly. "Squid City is about having a fun time! The Festival of Lights isn't so far away, and then you can go home. Just think of it as a holiday."

City of Heroes! City of Adventure! City of Squid!

The cave showed no signs of ending and Emily was getting bored. She was on the verge of giving up and turning back when her torch flickered and died. Cursing, she fiddled with the switch but nothing happened. Frustrated she shoved it into her pocket - and then realised that she could still see. A faint glow of light showed from around the corner. Was it possible that the cave was actually a tunnel that led somewhere?Curiosity dragged her around the corner and those that followed until it ended abruptly in a little cavern. And there, against all probability, was a door.
Even if it hadn't been in a cave underneath Emily's town the door would have been remarkable. Smooth silvery wood with copper-wire inlays framed the window that provided the only light in the tunnel - an extravagant stained-glass panel depicting a shining tower wrapped in the slippery embrace of an enourmous squid.
Nobody could have resisted the temptation to open that impossible door, and Emily had always been ruled by her curiosity. With a half-suppressed giggle of excitement she tried the handle - it turned easily, and the door swung open before her and for a moment she was blinded by the brilliant sunlight beyond it...

Battlecry

"You must wait here with the other women," he commanded, and the tone in his voice told Selyn there was no point in arguing. Nikkuro was often serious, but he only gave orders when he believed it to be absolutely necessary. "There are enough soldiers that your presence would not turn the tide of battle. I won't risk you again."
Tender words always remained unspoken with Niko, she knew, but it still hurt when he turned and strode off without another word.
"Is that it?" She called angrily, running after him. He turned and looked at her so sternly that she realised he was trying hard to manage his emotions.
"That's it. No goodbyes. I will see you when the battle is over."
She grabbed his sleeve before he could go again, kissing him deeply as if she could convey in that one action everything he would not let her say.
"No goodbyes," he whispered, touching her cheek gently, and then he was gone, tall and proud on his charger and leading the masses of troops towards the field where the battle would take place. Selyn blinked back sudden tears, frustrated at her own weakness, and angry that he had insisted she stay behind.
"He has a good point, Sel," Amry said softly, hand resting on the bulge of her belly. Selyn looked at the woman with admiration - despite being quite heavily pregnant she was bristling with mistmatched armour and weaponry. If the enemy did break through to the stronghold, Amry would lead the women herself in the last desperate defence of the children.
"Besides, if it comes down to a fight back here, you will make a difference."
Selyn smiled. They both knew what would happen.
"I'm sorry Amry. But while I live, no enemy soldier is going to set foot in the Vale, let alone give you cause to draw that sword."
Amry smiled too, but sadly. She could see the grim set in Selyn's eyes, and that the woman's fingers were lengthening into claws with anticipation of the fight.
"Take care," she said. "I will need you around to help me raise this child."
Selyn nodded, and turned to watch as the soldiers crested the rise that hid the Vale from view of the battlefield. She needed to be sure they were occupied before she joined the ranks, or Niko would sense her at once and send her right back. It would cause a scene, and she didn't want that. Not today.
A sudden surge of shouting voices led the charge, and as the soldiers disappeared from sight Selyn knew it was time to go. As she ran up the incline she felt her body shift, and in the form of a long, spotted cat she loped along, easily catching up to the lumbering human-shaped soldiers. Without warning she broke through the sea of legs, and for the length of a heartbeat she paced alongside Nikkuro's horse. With the enemy so close he didn't even notice her, and she was glad.
The sight of the enemy soldiers filled Selyn with rage and she sprinted the final gap, leaping ahead of Niko's army with a howl that turned into a roar as she changed her form again. Her cat-sprint turned into a bear's lumbering run as she clashed with the first of the enemy and she didn't even feel the blows of their weapons against her thick hide. Anger overrode all common sense and she tossed the enemy soldiers aside with love-taps from her massive paws. Her fur was matted with blood - hers or theirs, what did it matter? All that mattered was that they died.
"Selyn!" Niko screamed as a sword ran through her side, and she realised that the man holding it was their general, a feral triumphant grin on his face. With a howl she swiped at him, and her gore-coated claws scraped furrows across his face. He fell back but the sword was lodged deep, and she could feel her blood spraying from the wound. A voice in the back of her mind warned her that if she didn't change now she wouldn't have the strength, but she was already so weak.
The general wasn't dead. Even as she forced herself upright he was crawling away, but when she lunged for him she stumbled, and her anguished howl turned into a wail as she changed back to her human form.
The sword fell from her as her mass shrank, and she picked it up with a groan. It was impossible to walk but she could manage a crouching lurch, half supporting herself with the sword and half dragging it through the churned and bloody grass. The only sound that registered in her mind was that of her heart pounding, though she was vaguely aware of the screams and shouts of men fighting and dying on every side. Her attention was narrowed, though, to the trail the general had left as he dragged himself along. She felt hands on her arms but shook them off. This man had murdered her friends and family before her eyes, and sent her battered half to death as a living message to the Council. He would suffer at her hand and he would die by his own sword, bleeding and snivelling on the filthy field of a battle he should never have begun.
She threw back her head and howled wordlessly, and the bloodcurdling sound stopped the general in his tracks. He turned, trembling, backing away as she advanced - a woman bruised and bloody and fiercely determined to end his life. He pleaded then, begging for his life in the dirty, snarling language of his homeland. She ignored him, and lifted the sword above him, though her arms trembled weakly at its weight.
"You are filth," she snarled. "You are nothing!"
"Selyn," said a soft voice in her ear. "Do you wish to become a murderer?"
"He deserves to die!" She said, and her voice trembled too.
"He will be captured and sentenced in a fair trial, Sel. He will get what he deserves."
"No!"
"Selyn, I know you are not like this. To kill in battle is one thing but this is not you. Put the sword down."
Strong arms surrounded her, and gentle hands pried her fingers from the blade. The general's expression turned from blind fear to contempt, and he spat at her. Nikkuro set her gently aside and kicked the general square in the stomach. The man bent double, coughing and spluttering as Niko led Selyn away. By some miracle the battle was over, and Selyn could see easily the men she herself had killed - they lay in mangled pieces, torn apart by her rage. She felt sick at the sight of it now, and turned her face into Niko's shirt.
"Time to go home, Sel," he said gently.

Sail or Stay, Make My Day

In a vast and empty sea lies four islands - Furl, Roost, Perch and Weir. Their inhabitants are largely sailors and fishermen, superstitious folk who quietly worship the many sea-gods of their Islands. Each island serves a different purpose in the community, and to outsiders it can seem a very strange way of life.

Furl is the true sailor's haven - this is where sails are furled, this is the town where the sea-dogs rest by the glowing embers. The architecture is a masterpiece, from the earth-bound buildings of the taverns and shops to the wind-swept, sail-decorated houses of pleasure at the city's crows-nest. The isle is one based largely on the pursuit of pleasure - those who live here do so for the fun of life, for the gambling and the carousing and the enjoyment of all things to the fullest extent. Few families grow here, save for the accidental children, and they become the oddest folk of all, old before their time or eternally young, but one and all with a sideways view of the world, with pleasure-seeking at its heart. This is the place for dancing and drinking, this is the place of salt-crusted men and slim-ankled women, where musicians are gods that play all the night long and wine flows as freely as ale, fine dishes beside coarse, orchestras beside folk-songs.

Roost is a gentler place by far, with its idyllic sheltered bay and covered liberally with ocean-loving flowers. The grass is green and lush and shaggy, brushing the calves of the bare-footed children that run fearlessly along the clifftops. Flowers grow everywhere - not only in the earth beside the paths that criss-cross the isle, but beside roads in the towns, in window-planters and indoor pots, and on rooftop gardens and balconies. It is a cheerful, sunday-picnic community-bonfire town. It is where old men retire and women raise their children. It is a simple place and dedicated to a different type of pleasure, the comfort of a stable, peacefully beautiful life.

Perch is the isle of knowledge, where the scholars gather in their palaces of hewn stone so cold and grand. The universities are here, of all the kinds of learning - herblore, carpentry, cooking, and magic alike. Guilds lead each school of thought, and anyone who wishes to learn can do so here. The buildings are as large in ideals as in scale, wood and stone together forming buildings that are both solid and pleasing to the eye.

Weir is a place of adjustment - it is the halfway house of the lands, the home of lost souls and hermits. Its seemingly harsh landscape of steep mountainsides provides plenty of hollows where a recluse may hide, and its cities provide houses of the illest repute where a young man or woman may find themselves learning the kinds of lessons Perch does not provide - to keep your purse light and out of sight, your arms strong and your feet nimble, your tongue fast and your timing precise. It turns out the best of people and the worst of people - those realising they wish only to roost and forget the compications, those of a more crooked nature wanting to live the fast life of Furl.

Cinder and Smoke

I planted a cherry tree on your grave. The petals falling looked like snow, and the fruit was always sweeter than any from the store. As I was growing up I brought my problems to you, and if I was very quiet sometimes the wind rustling the leaves sounded like you whispering to me. I always brought my boyfriends to meet you, but I only told one of them the real significance of the tree. When he proposed to me beneath the branches of your tree the wind whipped a flurry of blossoms from its branches. I took it as your blessing, and I was glad that you approved. When I married we held the ceremony in your shade, and when I thanked you the cherry tree bowed down as if you were listening.
The summer that mum died was the last time any cherries grew, but you still gave me the fragrant snow of falling blossoms.

Reia's Roost

Reia's Roost was the highest part of the island, a windswept rocky spire coated in moss so that it was difficult to tell, at a distance, where the grass and rock met. Nobody knew if the spire had been named after the island or the other way around, but all who lived on Roost visited it sooner or later. It was here that couples spoke their bonding vows, and here that babies were named. Young children watched in awe as older children dared each other to climb higher up its slippery sides. Sailors made their offerings to Reia here before setting out, and it was the only place in the Islands from which you could see all of the others.
It was widely accepted that those who perished at sea had displeased Reia or one of her numerous underlings - there were countless Island gods, but Reia was the mother of them all - and as sailors are a superstitious lot, most were careful to make generous offerings, particularly before long voyages.

Your City Needs You!

The sound of panicked screaming was always a beacon for Turtle Girl. She jogged through the city streets, silently cursing her inability to run fast. It was distances that bothered her, but speed was a problem. Most super-heros saved the day just in the nick of time, and Turtle Girl was always a few steps behind the action. It didn't mean she didn't try, it just meant that more innocent citizens tended to die in her area than any of the others. That wasn't her fault. It didn't mean she stopped trying.

The source of the commotion was evident from blocks away - a gigantic, long-eared and fluffy demon was systematically tearing down the city's main shopping district. Turtle Girl winced as the cinema's balcony section flew overhead, crashing into and partially destroying the city library. Stray seats fell onto the road around her, occasionally ricocheting off her shell. She ignored them, because she still had some way to go and anyway she hardly noticed the impacts.

"CITIZENS OF TWILIGHT CITY," said a familiar voice over a loudspeaker, "FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY, PLEASE RETURN IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR HOMES."
Even the Mayor had beaten Turtle Girl to the scene. That was embarrassing - no politician was ever on time, and Mayor Bradford was one of the worst.

Turtle Girl halted, panting, at the end of the street. The rabbit was now chewing on a portion of the jewellery store; the emergency spotlights that were directed onto its face highlighted the glimmer of a necklace stuck between its teeth.

"Don't panic," she puffed, resuming her jog, "I'm here n-"

"Never fear, citizens!" A cheerful voice cried over the din. "Your savior is here!"

Turtle Girl watched, bewildered, as a girl in a neon-bright green and pink bodysuit swung into view, swinging Spiderman-like from building to building on sticky pink ropes.

"What's going on?" She demanded when she finally reached the police car. Mayor Bradford looked up from where he cowered at its side, wringing his hands nervously.

"Well, you see, Martha-"

"Turtle Girl," she corrected coldly.

"Turtle Girl. Well, you see, things just aren't working out. We really do appreciate you stepping up after Captain Speedo's untimely demise, however since you took over Twilight City's defences the mortality rate has risen inordinately, and the repair bills are - well, you understand that the budget is somewhat strained."

From the corner of her eye, Turtle Girl watched as the neon-clad girl tripped the rabbit-demon up, entangling its feet with those same sticky ropes. It fell onto the road with a thud that knocked Turtle Girl to the ground.

"Crap." She muttered, scrabbling to right herself. Mayor Bradford got to his feet, leaning over her until she could see his face.

"You understand Martha-"

"Turtle Girl!"

"-Turtle Girl, you understand that you just aren't an economically sound choice for Twilight City any more. I'm sure there's a small town somewhere out of the way in need of a new superhero. Ah, well. Good luck."

He turned in time to see the girl stop the rabbit-demon's howls with a wad of that same, mysterious material. She turned and gave the bystanders a thumbs-up.

"Candy Apple - sweet as candy!" She cried, basking in the praise of those assembled.

Turtle Girl rocked from side to side until she managed to tip over, and slowly got to her feet. Nobody even looked her way - with a little sigh she turned, and began to make her slow way back home.

Furl

"I can fly!" She cried over her shoulder, stil running along the wall, "Can't you?"
He ran faster, desparate to keep up - he didn't believe that she could fly, and if she jumped from this wall she'd be dashed to pieces on the vicious rocky shore.
"Wait!" He said, fingers grabbing at her sleeve as she leaped out, but catching only air. He skidded to a halt, inches from the wall's end, eyes searching frantically for a sign of the girl with the feathers twisted into her hair. There was nothing - neither in the air nor on the rocks below.
"Safa!" He shouted, and the wind snatched at his words, teasing and tossing them across the bay. Far below a fisherman looked up, shading his eyes against the sun. Panic and confusion filled him; his heart ceased to beat in that terrible moment. A single sea-hawk wheeled overhead, it's harsh cries mingling with his own.
"Safa!" The boy and the sea-hawk cried.
Fly with me, whispered a thread of the wind, brushing past him.
"Where are you?!" He begged.
I am here, the wind breathed, and a single feather drifted down to land at his feet.

Dear Jeremy...

Dear Jeremy,

I died today.
The 319 is known for arriving on time, and I suppose one stray pedestrian wasn't a good enough reason for it to slow down at all. Passers-by freaked out, of course, running over to me to see if I was alright. When I got up and waved them away they left; at first they were bewildered, but I know they forgot me before they were a block away.
I can't explain how I was able to get up and walk home, but I tell you now my heart was not beating. I haven't taken a breath since that moment. I cut myself making dinner and the blood dripped out in a lazy trickle, and of course when I sat down to eat I found I had no appetite.
I'm writing you this letter so that you know I am still alive, in the way that matters, at least.
In my soul I am alive, waiting for your return.

Dear Jeremy,

When are you coming home? You've been away for so long that sometimes I think you have forgotten me. I have trouble remembering your face but I look through our photo albums all day. I read through the letters you sent, in the early days, when you had just left.
I still love you, even though my body is decaying. It bothered me at first but now I just ignore it... what good is there in worrying? I know why I am here, because I cannot die without you by my side, love.
I will wait for you.

Dear Jeremy,

I dialled your number today, and when you answered the phone I would have cried with happiness, if I could. Then I heard her, calling out to you, asking who it was on the phone.
Until today, it was love that kept me alive while my body fell apart. Now it is rage, and I will not stop until I have had my revenge.
See you soon, my love.

Bloodseeker

The pain in her leg was dull, a distant throbbing that nagged but did not distract her from the task at hand. They were almost at the compound now, she could tell; the blade in her hand was almost too hot to hold in its excitement. The blood it sought was close enough to taste.
Faster! it urged, more a feeling than real words, an itching sensation in her brain. Faster!
She picked up the pace a little, vaguely aware that the throbbing increased with every step. The sensible part of her knew that this was a bad sign, but she had long ago pushed sensible aside. She needed nothing more than dogged endurance right now.
Lights ahead guided her to the walls of the compound, tall and sheer without hope of a foot- or hand-hold, but that was alright. There were other ways to get into a place like this. Gathering her almost non-existant reserves of energy, she took a deep breath and stepped into the shadows. It was deadly to breathe in this non-air, but she had long ago mastered the art of shadow-walking, and she moved with easy steps through the suddenly-permeable compound wall. The blade hummed silently with its lust for blood, almost wrenching free from her hand. With an irritated frown she dug the tip into the palm of her hand, knowing that her powerful blood would subdue it for a time at least.
Again she slid into the shadows, this time running arrow-straight towards her target. Buildings and figures tugged slightly at her body as she ghosted by but she ignored them just as she ignored the bursting desperation of her lungs. Finally, sensing through the knife that no blood was near, she crouched down and left the shadows, allowing herself to breathe in quiet gasps.
She felt nothing at all from her leg now, and this would have terrified her if she'd been capable of emotion but the chill of shadow-walking had filled her to the brim with cold, cold purpose.
Now, the knife insisted as she slowly stood and turned to the wall that separated her from the target. She nodded and embraced the shadow-world for the final time, slipping through the wall and across the room to where a lone figure sat hunched over a desk.
He was old, which was unusual - the older a person was, the less likely they were to need her particular attention. Of course there had to be a reason for it, or she wouldn't be here, but the thought made her pause for just a second.
"Who's that?" Asked a quavering voice and the man straightened up, holding a bent and cracked pair of spectacles up to his nose. "Is somebody there? Come into the light."
She stepped into the light, knife held before her so that its blade glinted in the flickering lantern light. Shock filled his eyes as it plunged into his chest, but it was not the blossoming stain that had caused his surprise.
"Alisa?" He said, incredulously, and for the longest seconds of her life they locked eyes in mutual astonishment. Then the blade had slipped free, silent and content and slick with blood, and the man fell to the desktop with a terrible thud.