Tag: short-story

Today I am Compost

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story… Essay?

Because I meant to make a story today. I really did. I had this grand idea about organic material and how it feeds into one another. In it, there was a cute little mushroom who grew up learning the strange, constant flow of information from his connected family through the electrical impulses they send one another.

It’s actually science, that one. Not me making stuff up again. Mushrooms and trees are probably talking behind our backs under our feet right now, say (paraphrased) Plant Pathologists and Microbiologists.

But the text response I send to my brother is “I’m currently sitting in front of 2415 works I kinda hate about a mushroom. Gonna take a break.“

And I am going to take a break. I’m so mad at this poor, innocent mushroom for not developing himself into something publishable, even after multiple chunks of paragraphs, that I’m instead writing about how much I hate it to just get some words out.

I feel like you understand. We are all crafty in our own way- whether your medium is words or clay or wire or dough or dungeon-ous minifigures. And sometimes those freaking things get away from us, becoming their own thing instead of molding under our fingertips as requested.

It feels rude! Are we not their creator?!

But alas. My mushroom pal is not to be. So I’m allowing myself to grab the rare mini Dr. Pepper from the fridge. They’re delicious, and I will make up for the calorie deficient somewhere else today. I always think of author John Green when I grab a Dr. Pepper. Not in a weird way, but he’s brought up his Dr. Pepper obsession in two of his books and at least every other podcast episode so I cannot help but associate the two. He drinks the diet kind though, and I would never do something so sacrilegious as disobey the good Doctor’s prescription by replacing real sugar with artificial (please don’t come at me, Diet Coke fanatics, I’m actually rather afraid of you).

I’m taking my mini Dr.Pepper outside. It’s damp and humid from all the rain yesterday, but so lusciously quiet. Normally my neighborhood teems with the happy sounds of toddlers screeching, old men yelling at their lawn mowers, and the teen across the street working on his basketball dribble: Thump thump thu-thump.

But the dampness has kept them all inside. Even the wrens, known accurately for their talkative ways, are quiet. I assume they’re mad I haven’t replaced the birdseed after the storm and are either pouting or, more likely, harassing a distant feeder instead. Only me and the occasional mourning dove, who does not mind a slightly moist sunflower seed.

I have two oak trees in my back yard that I’m very fond of. They are the kind of tall and aged that makes one wonder what things such elders have seen. I often think they are quite cinematic, photogenic. But my attempts to subject them in my “artsy” Instagram posts have not gone well.

The deck chairs are damp, so I figure why not go ahead and sit with one of these lovely trees? I’ll have to change pants once back inside either way, so let’s just confirm the weird-neighbor rumor if anyone looks outside.

How to choose? They’re both good sit-spots. This is when I notice a bright orange blight at the bottom of the larger oak. What’s this?! I work very hard to keep my yard tended and healthy! Alright, I work kinda hard. I work hard when there’s time. I try.

Stomping over, I find that it’s not a big orange blight, but instead a strange mound of peachy mushroom. How appropriate.

“Mocking me, are you?” I ask the mushroom.

It doesn’t respond.

I stare at it a bit, and decide proudly that this is a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom. If I wait a few hours, I can confirm this by the soft, unearthly glow it will give at dusk. I’m getting to know mushrooms better, watching a foraging YouTuber and reading several herb books. I figure if our various leaders are going to blow up the world, we’ll still need to eat afterwards and best to figure out now what’s poisonous and what’s yummy.

The Jack-o-Lantern is on the “no snacking” list. It feels like this should be obvious- one should not risk putting glowing forest objects into one’s mouth. But unfortunately, there are three other kinds of mushroom that are of similar color, grow in the same places, and are excellent sources of nutrients. I know my Jack-o-Lantern is none of these though because as I lean closer, I can see the moss surrounding it has begun to recede in a slow retreat. This guy is apparently poisonous to everyone, not just us vertebrates.

But not dangerous to sit next to. And I’m enough of a stereotypical writer that I think perhaps sitting with a mushroom will help me write about it better.

What do you think- Is this going well? Is it helping?

It’s better than the little gill-capped lad I was trying to create, I tell you that. Most anything would be better.

I set my Dr. Pepper down next to the mushroom on a flat bit of ground. Then, worrying about spores, I move it to the other side of me while giving the mushroom my best “don’t touch my stuff and I won’t dig you out and throw you on the stick pile” glare.

It doesn’t respond to this either.

A deep breath, that’s the ticket. Meditating has never been a skill of mine, but I do find a peace among the world’s natural sounds. The mourning dove is sending out an occasional curious “coorcoo?” wondering why it’s alone. The branches above me are playfully jostling in the wind. Something skitters in the back brush- probably one of the damn squirrels that digs in my flowerpots, little varmint- but I let that anger go and return to my breath.

A creak, probably the oak shifting, peering down at me. Perhaps it thinks Oh here’s the little one from the house leaning on me, how interesting. Perhaps I’m not interesting to the tree at all and the thought is more Lordy not another one, but I feel like we have an acquaintance at least. I pick up its leaves and fallen branches, spray it for invading bugs each spring. It shades my deck and holds up my bat house. We’re companions in a way.

This makes me look again at the mushroom, “Are you hurting my tree? Or just chilling?”

It shifts a little.

Had to be the wind but I huff a laugh, “Is that a yes or no, friend?”

It shifts a little more.

This would bother some people. But I am a certified Weirdo and am okay with the moving abouts of things that should not be moving about. Don’t get me started on the ghost that lived in my first apartment, for example. A mushroom shifting in the wind that… has actually stopped… blowing? Does not disturb me much. I do move my Dr. Pepper a little further away though, onto one of the rocks guarding my peony garden. Imagine a caffeinated poisonous mushroom!

Wait- is that my story? Do I add my little mushroom fella somehow getting his hands on a cup of coffee? Maybe I tie that into the new real world mushroom-coffee fad? And maybe say that mushrooms are trying to take over the world via our stimulant addiction??

No, no. Another deep breath. That’s far too much like the jellyfish story I’m writing. And that one is going better so I don’t want to sacrifice its good idea to fix today’s tale.

I look down again at the splayed pastels next to me. I wish I’d brought my phone out with me to take a picture of it, but I’m trying to do this new thing where I just walk away from my phone for a while. Probably good for my eyes.

Did I slide closer to it when I moved my soda? Odd. I give it a little more space. I don’t know for absolute certain that the only way it can kill you is if you eat it, I’m just pretty sure.

It is gorgeous though. Its caps look like spraying waves frozen in time. I wonder why this one, out of the multiple mushrooms that cosplay as nightlights, got the name Jack-o-Lantern. It’s not even the only orange one, if I’m remembering correctly. Maybe it was just discovered first?

It shifts again.

Third time doesn’t feel like the charm in this scenario and the little hairs on my neck stand in agreement. I’m about to head inside and talk myself out of my spooky thoughts (because really, it’s just thoughts, writers get carried away with our own fiction so often), when a black centipede shimmies out from under one of the caps.

“Oh it’s been you!” I address the bug, now glistening in a bit of sunlight, “You nearly scared me there, little guy.”

The centipede is not impressed with my musings and quickly makes his way up the tree without even a how do you do.

I shake my head. Out here for some air and I’ve not only personified a plant but made it eerie. Try to focus again. Deep breath. The dove coos again. Deeper breath. Close your eyes and feel the sun on your lids.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Ah, pavement must have dried up enough for the teen to come out for practice. Good for him.

Thump thump thu-thump.

If I focus on the bounces, which I must tell him next time I see him are defiantly getting more consistent, it’s almost like one of those drums meditation leaders use to help you hone in on a single thing.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The breath comes easier now, I can feel my own rhythmic system align itself, all my earlier frustration seeping out into the earth.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Something, perhaps a small bug, moves along my thigh, and I quickly flick it away and try to remain in the zone.

Thump thump thu-thump.

It’s lovely, really, out here in the damp moss, under a tree that has endured so much.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The bug lands on my thigh again. Did I spill some Dr. Pepper on it or something to attract him? Another flick, another deep breath.

Thump thump thu-thump.

This time when it lands, I let it. It’s too late in the season for mosquitos. Probably just a cranky fly. I won’t even dignify it with looking. I relax my eyebrows. If it wants to sit there while I breathe, fine.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I’m getting rather good at this meditation. Perhaps having that conscious thought means that I am actually not, but it feels like it. I can feel myself becoming less a bunch of limbs on the ground and more just space out in more space. Feels good.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The air smells alive. How nice to be alive with it. The sun seems to be moving away.

Thump thump thu-thump.

How long have I been out here if the sun is moving? I really am getting very good at this. In a moment though, I will have to open my eyes and go inside. Feed the cat, run the laundry, etc.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Just another moment though. This feels so nice. These breaths are so deep, entering my whole being.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I don’t feel the little bug anymore. In fact, I’m not quite sure I feel much at all.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I feel sedative. Feel pulsing as one with the soil.

Thump thump thu-thump.

We feel lovely down here.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Oh we do glow in the evening. Isn’t that fascinating.

The Word

Compost: (noun) Decayed organic material used as a plant fertilizer. (verb) Make (vegetable matter or manure into compost.

Gotcha! I’m okay- didn’t actually turn into a mushroom! That I’m aware of anyway. They do “communicate” via electrical impulses, and you’re reading this via a kind of electric impulse, so who’s to say?

This story did grow out of another one about a goofy mushroom. Maybe you’ll meet him someday, and maybe like many of his fungi brethren, he will never see the light of day. But today, I turned him back into the earth to come a new life- this spooky-ish story above. I don’t try stream-of-conscious often, partly because I’m a control freak and partly because it simple isn’t my forte. But how do we improve without practice?

And, Jack-o-Lanterns (the carved gourd, not the mushroom) were actually named from an Irish tale about a man named Jack who for makes a bad deal with the devil and has to carry around hell fire as his only light. So, Jack-o-Lanterns (the mushroom, not the carved gourd) are well suited for the realm of spooky.

And it’s very much becoming spooky season, isn’t it, dear readers?

Happy reading!

Today I am Placid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized
You might enjoy this story more if you read Hectic first!

The Story

He entertained himself quite a bit by randomly sowing seeds from his now mostly useless bug-out-bag whenever he spotted good dirt.

“Johnny-zombie-seed, they’ll call me,” he chuckled, patting the small mound of soil affectionately.

The vulture was not amused. It pecked at Todd’s legs until he stood and re-shouldered his pack.

“Alright, alright,” Todd dug his right forefinger and thumb into his left brachialis, “here ya go, bud.” He held the bit of muscle and skin aloft, felt the familiar clamp of a strong beak on his finger tips as the creature settled onto his shoulders. Thinking for a moment on the nature of fate, he found it funny that he had learned all these body parts, not for saving himself or anyone else like he prepared, but to know what he was serving his feathery friend.

“We’re gonna need to find another squirrel or something soon. I actually don’t know how functional I’ll be without some of these,” he tentatively flexed his left arm. It still moved up as told, but with a little hitch.

“And we still have a ways to go.”

He pulled a small notebook from the pack’s side pocket. On it he’d written all of the places he thought might be interesting to see on the continent: Redwoods, Everglades, Library of Congress, Mississippi River, Niagara Falls, Denali Point, Yellowstone Park… He planned to venture down to South America when he was done. And he really wanted to see Mount Everest, Victoria Falls, the Great Barrier Reef too. But he wasn’t exactly sure how an undead might traverse the ocean. He’d experimented accidentally in water before and yes, he still floated. But he imagined with a rigged set of weights and drowning no longer a concern, walking from one continent to another was technically an option. Except for the absence of a guidance system. And Todd did not think it a fun idea to get lost puttering around on the ocean floor until the sun exploded. So he planned to deal with those traveling plans later and enjoy what he could more easily reach in the meantime.

Turns out Ol’ Faithful was indeed pretty faithful, still putting on her display without anyone to watch. Long after some fire or another seemed to have swallowed most of her surrounding national park, she was still quite the beauty he thought. He’d loved the Redwoods as much as he had as a child camping with his father. But the Grand Canyon had bored him. He supposed its grandness may have been more captivating when one had the threat of falling to their death or even a notion towards the passage of time, neither of which really concerned Todd anymore.

His loyal companion had seemed to enjoy the ride as well. Often they’d walk as a single oddly hulking figure, vulture tucked into the top of Todd’s backpack. Sometimes it took off and flew for a while before returning, either with a snack or simply stretched wings. A few times, the fowl had disappeared for a whole day or so but it always caught back up, often with dried sludge on its beak.

Todd didn’t much have a route he was taking. It was more “head towards the next interesting thing” while avoiding packs of humans, whether dead or still alive. He’d learned the hard way that avoidance was best.

His first encounter with his fellow zombies had gone rather dreadfully. He assumed that since they were one and the same, they wouldn’t be bothering him much. He even lifted a decaying hand in polite wave.

However, they clearly did not feel that same brotherhood.

They, for they did move as a lumbering herd, steered themselves towards him and began to speed up. At first Todd hadn’t moved away because he thought maybe they were coming to introduce themselves, perhaps? Were these beings also unsure what to do with themselves now that the work of survival was done? The vulture hopped off him and flew towards the group, distracting a few by smelling alive as it plucked yummy pieces from their unflinching bodies.

Then the herd had started growling.

“Well, that seems unnecessary. Unless that’s your only form of communication, in which I apologize. But I-“

Close enough now to see the hunger in their dry eyes, he took off in an uncoordinated jog. When he got to a safe distance past several buildings and in the shade of a tall oak, he paused. Did his gut feeling that had kept him safe all his life not work when there were no guts?

He admonished himself for taking such a chance, even though he still wasn’t entirely sure of the horde’s intentions. What could they possibly have wanted from him that they couldn’t take from each other? He shook his head, and with the vulture back on his shoulder he took off once more.

The run-in with the alive humans had been much more unsettling. He’d come across them quite by accident when he was passing through the weedy fields of what he’d thought was an abandoned farm. He figured he’d just walk on by, maybe pet the pigs on the way, nab a piglet for the vulture.

It occurred to him too late why the pigs were still in a pen at all.

“GET ITS HEAD! SHOOT IT IN THE HEAD!”

“No I’m not going to eat you, I’m just lost-“

“THE HEAD, SARAH!”

“Please, I just…” he’d attempted to lumber away quickly. Several fast footsteps were drawing in behind him as his friend screeched wildly in the sky.

Then miraculously, Todd’s hastened retreat resulted in a clumsy trip, a missed hand grab on a tall bank, and falling into a river. This is when he learned he did indeed still float, but that he had not gained the ability to swim. Apparently one needed to learn such things while alive. So he wrestled himself onto his back, and allowed the current to pull him in whatever direction the river was choosing.

He briefly heard a “Did that one talk?” from high above and a “no, damn Sarah, we have to get you out of the sun” just before the noisy water drowned everything out.

He floated along, thankful again to Whoever Was Up There, because although he had not quite settled on the best way to leave this world, he didn’t think seeing angry, terrified farmers in his last moments is what he wanted.

When the river deposited him on a different bank several miles away, the vulture only took a little over an hour to catch up.

Since then, Todd had avoided anything remotely human-looking by skirting around towns and hiding when there was any chatter in the wind. It just was not worth the hassle.

Near the end of another day, the odd pair came upon what looked to be a red dessert.

“I think we’re in Wyoming, friend. Might be Utah but I do think we successfully headed northeast. The Devil’s Tower monument should be around here somewhere. Maybe in the morning we’ll find it and become rock climbers, huh?”

The bird squorked in disagreement. Why climb when one can fly? it seemed to huff.

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd settled them into shallow cavern in one of the shorter rock faces. Along the walls, lit barely by sunset’s last rays, were scrawls of humans long gone: Evan and Trudy 4ever, Kai was here!, Eleanor + Lu 1997. He ran his fingers across the markings. Once, while on a field trip to some sort of mine when he was in elementary school, his teacher had threatened that anyone who carved their name into a tree or a rock would be in detention until she retired.

It is a desecration of historical nature by delinquents! she’d hooted, cheeks puffy red, and her class would NOT be among them!

Now, Todd felt oddly thankful for these rebels who had escaped their teacher’s or parents’ eye. Sure, he thought, they scraped away stone that had stood for billions of years, and that was kind of uncool. But isn’t that what cave people had been praised for? Wasn’t he echoing that same archeological sentiment right now, feeling pangs of one-ness with people who were, statistically, gone?

He sat down against the cool stone. These dead days, philosophical questions seemed to stir in Todd more than they ever had in life. He simply hadn’t had the time before! He worked hard and had enjoyed his simple life of good coffee and mystery novels. He’d never asked for more, yearned for more, even thought about what more might mean.

And yet he had no regrets. There was no romantic partner he wished he’d held onto. No dramatic parting he wished he’d done differently. In each of his moments, he’d reasoned he’d done what he could. He was still mostly proud of the quiet life he lived.

Just perhaps now that his mind had all this time to wonder as he wandered, it was poking in all those untouched crevices of his synapses.

“Watch, now that there’s no one to tell,” he reached out and softly petted his friend’s leathery head, “I’m going to figure out the meaning of life.”

The vulture gave him an unconvinced stare, then rustled itself onto the pack for the evening. It finished with a gargled huff in his direction.

Yeah, right.

The Word

Placid (adjective): 1. Of a person or animal, not easily upset or excited. 2. Especially of a place or stretch of water, calm and peaceful, with little movement or activity.

I told y’all I love Todd and his vulture friend, and that he’d probably be back! And back he is. I wasn’t sure where Todd was headed next, so I thought this time we’d just follow him and see where he was going, just for the joy of writing. I’ve really enjoyed building his world out a little bit more, and I hope you’re enjoying the exploration as well.

Sometimes things don’t have to be complicated with a dozen meanings, they can just be whatever they turn out to be 🙂

Happy reading!

Today I am Mislaid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Her cheek is cool to the touch, just as it was the last time I spoke to her. My fingers run across the smoothness of it. Where my index should hitch slightly on a dense scar left from an unlucky training day, it slides unhindered.

Disappointing.

She would have preferred they captured all her truths in the stone. It’s some sort of marble or quartz, I imagine, based on the regal flashes of white and sparkling gray shooting through her unseeing eyes. Though the unruly sea of her hazels are lost, they did manage to capture the feeling that she was always looking beyond the here. I silently commend the artists for this ability. Even now I’m tempted to turn to see what has caught her attention. To catch a glimpse of the world through her eyes.

I resist and quickly walk away before the urge to throw my weight against the object overtakes- before realizing the satisfying crash of precious artwork turned scattered rock across the pathway.

Her cheek should not be smooth.

It should be worn over by sun and wind. Cracked open again and again, scarred over with a larger map of her adventures. It should be wrinkled, crumpled into so many laugh lines as children and grandchildren illuminate her with pride. It should be warm and smiling, paling as her explosive youth fades into relaxed retirement. Not smooth. Not cold. Not gone.

They never mention this part in the prophesies. I suppose it would give too many would-be heroes pause. My first captain had warned us long ago: “The old write, and the young die for the words written.”

And now, the old mourn.

“Why did it have to be you?” I whisper to the garden and then again to the stars. I ask not for the first time, not for the last.

My cheek is wrinkled. Damp now with a few tears I’ll claim are just these old eyes if someone spots me. My name is in history books. History it’s called, already. Though one would not find me in the archives nearly as often as her. For many of the reports and legends, I am just “and her companions.“ No drinking songs tell of those beside her, exult us like the popular “Fair her, our champion, gaze upon her waves! We fight for her, we love for her, she who bears no knaves!” Which no one would believe, but it was I that wrote most of those verses; on a night of deep sorrow and even deeper drinks, and I had just wanted to make her laugh with a rhyme. Like I had when we were children.

There is a painting in one of Levliants’ Great Halls, of our entire company where I am beside her. A carving somewhere in the Alden Library as well, I have been told, with she and I at the front.

Thankfully, most people do not recognize me anymore. For just like her, that version of me has remained unchanged. The song still shouts of a crew strong and sure. The etchings boost of a people with bright eyes and steady souls. Yet I have had the great privilege and punishment to survive beyond such things.

I knew she was The Chosen One from the moment she opened her eyes. She was crying, our mother was crying, hell the nurse was crying from how many hours we had been stuck in that hot room together trying to wrestle my sister into this world.

I swaddled her as the nurse tended my mother, counted her fingers and toes and odd freckles. That baby felt heavy in a strange way. Not in that she was a large one, though she was and my mother never let her forget it. But that I felt I was holding both my baby sister and the weight of the whole world. I feared if I set her down, she would have to carry it all herself. In the months to come, my mother accused me of not letting her learn to walk for saddling her on my hip! So from the moment I set her down, I barely left her side. If the fate of the world was her burden to carry, then she would be mine.

Our people were made from the very first dust. Our stories some of the first spoken. In all of the many tales, there was always a Chosen One, a Special Champion, a Someone that came and saved us all from evil doing. I never imagined I would know one, let alone love one. Never dreamed I would lose one.

The great battles came. The war cries were called. The charges charged. And all happened as it was meant to, according to the lines covered in dust. Even though I stepped in front of her. Even though I watched every move, tried to guard every angle. Still, she stood before everything, and bled.

There will come one, born into a great wailing. Marked with the second moon and evening stars. Only to impart peace upon the grounds with the rain of their very life.

Saving our world, and plunging mine into darkness.

When she last closed her eyes and they took her from my arms to the pyre, it was the lightest she’d ever been.

I follow now the path of the garden to a stand of trees, ducking beneath cobwebs and owls’ nests. Through the darkness, my feet know the way. To the solid stone, cool and dead as she. I pull the vines from its crevasses, my fingers lingering across the rough granite. This is where her memorial should be- where she truly last stood, and from her very self closed the door against the evil that tried to overtake us all.

I press against it, as if it might give way. I swear on the moon I can hear their voices. The voices of the rest of our company, calling and mourning her as they did that first night.

But I am alone. And have to remain.

The Word

Mislaid (noun, past tense): Unintentionally put (an object) where it cannot readily be found and so lose it temporarily.

After a YouTube spiral into cleaning grave markers, I kept coming back to the statues of those lost, and the effect that must have had on those who survived them. What part of a person’s likeness do you honor? The best moment, their most recent, their bravest? And once we’ve chosen- how do we know we are honoring the dead instead of placating the living?

.

.

.

So… who remembers The Called?

***spoiler warning!***

While it remains my constant effort to make each story stand on its own, I do also try to make them part of a whole; I want them to fit together less like puzzle pieces, and more like the rounding hedges of a maze. And if you’ve been here a while, you know the members of The Called pop up in many, MANY of my stories, sometimes obviously, sometimes not so much. I’ve decided to go back and give their solo tales the much needed attention that such dedicated warriors deserve, bringing their stories up to par and ensuring their effects on the series as a whole. But for so long, I have wanted to tell their start. Where did the Door come from? Who locked it, and why? Now we get a glimpse from the other side of the mysterious Door, and a little hint for why it was sealed.

I promise to mark any updated story with some sort of signal, and leave an original somewhere on this blog (for we must honor our mistakes originals).

Happy reading!

P.S. Liked this story? There’s now a Companion Story!

Today I am Passage

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Strength

The Story

“Finish your drink, it’s time to go.”

He stares at the overly fancy ice block in his glass. It cost him an extra two dollars with its imposed presence, and now it may last longer than he.

“I just ordered this, and I’ll get indigestion if I chug it. Hate to greet the end with a rude belch. How about I buy you one so you’re not just sitting there waiting on me?”

“You’re not the first to try this tactic.”

“Not a tactic, just a pretty good vodka and soda.” He lifted the glass so Death could admire the flower-cut lime sitting on the rim.

Death turned its head slowly, then pulled itself silkily onto the stool beside him. A shadow of a wave to the bartender, who saw only a tall patron she couldn’t quite place.

Two fingers of whiskey were set before the harbinger.

“I always figured you’d be a red wine guy.”

“Stereotypes.” Chuckled Death.

“How’d you land on whiskey, then?”

Death paused for a moment, and the man began to think it’d somehow been a rude question.

“I was in Ireland for too long, long ago. Many of them greeted me kindly, despite the suffering of their last. I suppose I caught the habit there.”

The man nodded solemnly, “My mother was Irish actually, came here to act but fell in love with my dad.”

“I know.”

“Do you know everything?”

“Yes, but not all the time.”

“I bet a lot of us ask you what it was all for, then.”

“A fair amount, but fewer than you would think…”

They each took a sip of their drinks.

“…are you going to be one who asks?”

“Well if there’s an answer, I suppose it’s best to know.”

The figure shifted, in what might have been an agreeable shrug. 

“It is for what is next.”

“Wait-“ the man set his glass down as gently as possible, as if making a sound would be too painful in this moment. “All of this,” he whispered as he peered to each corner of the bar, “is just prep work? For what?”

“What is next. All things are for what comes after them. All that proceeds is exactly that- proceeding to the following.”

The man held perfectly still, “So all of life… is for death?”

“That is not what I said.”

The man thought for a hard moment, then released his tense shoulders, nodding again. He took a gentle sip from his drink, the ice still mostly intact.

They sat in silence for several moments.

“Are you afraid?”

“Are many?”

“It’s hard to tell with some. Bravery does not erase fear, nor does acceptance, but I would hate to count those among them as simply afraid.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

Death “hmm’d” a maybe.

“I suppose I am a bit. I did alright. Just not sure I did alright enough, ya know? If there’s a… next.”

The figure tipped his glass, the whiskey within swirling wistfully before he took a swallow.

“Often, alright is enough. At least to me. In these days, alright is quite good.”

“Good for…?”

“Indeed.”

“Then friend, what is it for us?”

The bartender plucked the two glasses from before the empty stools, pouring a nearly melted ice cube out into the sink.

They’d left her quite a nice tip, those gentlemen, for being such easy customers. She would be extra kind the next time they came in. She could not remember their faces right this moment, but hoped she would when they returned.

The Word

Passage: 1. (noun) The act or process of moving through, under, over, or past something on the way from one place to another. 2. (noun) A narrow way, typically having walls on either side, allowing access between buildings or to different rooms within a building; a passageway.

Passages and journey vs. destination have been on my mind a lot lately, as I am betting they have been for many of us in different ways. Especially as we make it through the first month of 2025. January always feels so much more like the stalling between one year and the next, rather than a beginning. And sometimes that’s good- to stall, to rest. And sometimes that sucks- to be stuck, to endure. It’s that middle place with an odd feeling as if things are happening to you rather than with you. I hope you have gotten rest, and endured, friendly readers.

…also was it obvious that each corner of the bar is meant to be each corner of the world, but just this guy’s current world in the moment? I’m trying to coach myself into not being so AND HERE WAS THE METAPHOR but I’m wondering if I’m pulling back tooooo much. Let a gal know!

Happy reading!

Today I am Furor

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Storm.”

“Absolutely not,” she strode across the room to stand just a few feet from me, her long navy jacket flowing behind her like a cape, “you need to take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d know we have already had a hundred Storms, and a hundred more variations on Storm: Storm Bringer, Storm Shaker, Storm Leader, Hailstorm, Hailstrum, Tempest, Cyclone, even Icy The Storm- and yes in every language. Squall, Thunder, Thunderstorm, Lightening, Cloudburst-“

“Cloudburst?”

“Yes, it’s when clouds… burst… into a storm.” She was rubbing her temples now. It made the silver streaks she often pushed behind her ears fall forward.

“How about Stratus? Strat-miss?”

“Al’s family tree is clouds, as you well know.”

“Oh, right. How about Gale?”

“Just… no.”

This is not how I imagined this moment going. I thought there would be a little fanfare, some well-mannered celebrating. At least a glass of champagne.

Instead I was in my aunt’s basement, with her friend Tidal, spending more time on my code name than acknowledging that I had passed every single test to get into the Guild of Underground Atmospheric Guardians for Earth, or GUAGE.

I started training when I was eleven years old, after accidentally calling a lightening strike to the neighborhood pool. It was a perfectly sunny summer day, the sky as blue as a berry and clear as glass. A teenage boy wouldn’t stop dunking my little brother and I in the deep end, holding one of us in the water until the other was able to tackle his arm, and then he’d switch victims. My fury and distress manifested as I saw the bubbles rising above my brother again, and the next moment the teen is screaming, lifeguards are whistling like an off key orchestra, and my mother is pulling me from the water, already on the phone with her sister.

“She’s done it,” my mother whispered into the mouthpiece, wrapping towels around my brother and me, “Yes! Lightening. No no, no one’s hurt. Yes, we’re on the way the home- meet us there.” She smiled down at me while the other parents’ faces were creased with worry and shouting for their children.

And then it started. Weekends out in the mountains to practice, tudors for every science class, a full ride to Cornell in Meteorology. While my roommates gallivanted off in search of the next house party, I stayed behind to monitor the tiny cyclone I’d stirred up in my tea mug.

With graduation, came the tests. I had withstood hurricanes, conjured hail, recoiled tornadoes, was even given the Rainbow Ribbon for passing all the trials with literally flying colors. But no, I was disappointing Aunt Lynda because I couldn’t come up with a unique code name.

“Do I have to decide this now?”

“You will be a part of GUAGE for the rest of your life, my dear. You will hopefully have a legacy. And most importantly, everyone in the guild knows you’re my niece. So I cannot have the family name ruined with a bad… family name.”

Her green eyes glinted behind her thick glasses. I think I did sense some pride in there, almost doused by the seriousness she was trying to express to me with her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“Well, if you’re Disdo-Ma’ameter, maybe I should be an instrument too.”

Her forefinger stopped digging into her right temple so she could place her hand on my shoulder instead, “It’s got to feel right. I appreciate the sentiment, but we don’t need a Baro-Ma’meter and so on. Because then they all start to sound stupid.”

I sat back down in the brown, practically wilting, lazyboy. I watched Tidal watch me for a minute. Then I turned my gaze to the arm of the chair, and began picking at a loose thread.

I’d wanted to be part of GUAGE since the very beginning. When Aunt Lynda burst into our foyer, hair wet with rain and eyes on fire, she scooped me up and held me tightly. “It’s a downpour out there! Well done! We’ve got one, Lacy!” she called to my mother as she twirled me. Then she set me down, pulled a wrinkled and torn journal from her bag, and told me about GUAGE. She held my hand from that moment to when I took my vows, just an hour ago.

“We are the weathermen, the weatherwomen, the weather people of the world. We are the wind in the hurricane, the ice in the blizzard. We are the gauge of the world, for the world. I take these vows to monitor, interpret, and engage with the atmosphere of our world for the betterment of all peoples, everywhere.”

I’d known the lines for a decade. Hell I could say them in Latin.

Next I would get my assignment: Once assimilated into GUAGE, I would be either put onto a search team, or made into a small TV personality to guard my assigned region. I secretly was hoping for the search team. How amazing would it be to scope out the very ends of the earth and even outside of it- to see the real forces we were interacting, and occasionally fighting, with.

But alas, I’d inherited by mother’s cherry curls and my father’s wide mouth, so I was destined to entice the elderly and the morning people with my winning personality on Channel 4. And you know, occasionally keep them alive by taking on the arrant tsunami while making it look like I’d just misread a rain watch. The usual.

“Surge…” I watched her eyebrow rise with suspicion, “…ess? Surgess?”

The eyebrow froze, then softened. Then she turned completely towards Tidal.

He nodded, grumbling, “The last Surgess passed away over 30 years ago, it’s up for grabs and doesn’t have much of its own legacy yet.”

“Then it’s perfect.” Aunt Lynda, the Disdo-Ma’ameter beamed at me finally, “Tidal, let everyone know, Surgess will take her place in Fort Myers by dawn.”

She hugged me tightly, then held me at arms length to stare right at me.

“Fort Myers? Storm central.” I whispered in awe.

“You’ve earned it. So now the real work begins.”

The Word

Furor (noun): An outbreak of public anger or excitement; a wave of enthusiastic admiration, a crazy.

This was directly inspired by the snow predicted for my city being over 4 hours late. And then I got the silly idea that weathermen/women/people predict things wrong on purpose sometimes, for of course superhero reasons- like they’re battling a large ice monster, they need to get an old lady safely back in her house before a hurricane, or they want to get their milk and bread from the store before everyone else.

Sometimes, stories don’t have to have a deeper meaning or magical inspiration. Sometimes, stories and prompts can just be fun. Like a snowday 😉

Today I am Fatigue

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Many of the shops along the main thoroughfare have changed throughout the years. They had changed signs, changed sales, changed paint colors. And when those didn’t work, they changed hands, changed trade, changed customers. The past decade had been particularly difficult on the half cobblestone half paved street, and several of the shops were now shuttered. Only lonely “Available for Rent or Purchase” signs gathering dust in their once vibrant windows gave any hint that there had once been life within.

The Grudgery had no such issues.

The Grudgery stood healthy and strong in the same building for nearly eight centuries. There had been a few improvements over the years, like the addition of a modern roof in the early 1800s (this had upset a few of the older regulars and many of the town rodents, but did pick up business during rainy season). There was also a rumor about a big fire that had attempted to take the whole street, let alone the whole town, a few years prior and that’s why one of the walls bellowed a bit inward. Though the size of the fire, when it was, and how many buildings it successfully scorched depended on who you asked and what time of day they answered.

The building had stood through so many historical battles, occasionally serving its citizens as hospital or hideout, and city reconstructions, always having just enough documentation to grandfather itself past new regulations, that some believed it may be the oldest building on the coast. Others would grunt and hum and frivolously claim that it must actually be a new building, just styled artistically to look so aged and worn to fool misguided tourists. But the only real change since its first founding were a few flakes of a putrid pink paint along the counter where an overly enthusiastic waitress had tried to “spruce up the place.” But both she and the color had been banned come the following morning.

For the most part though, The Grudery remained the very same since the moment Mrs. O’Harliot stopped her Gruders’ cart in front of the block on the blossoming boulevard, poured her bag of coins into the proprietor’s hands, and stated she would cart no further. Patrons would now come to her.

The large wooden door with its large iron handle led into a cooling stone floor- mismatched slabs pulled from the surrounding land and smoothed over by many feet and much time. Upon the stones rested several small tables, none of which matched either. Two were beautiful oak, carved with lacy leaves and intricate vines by a thankful carpenter. One was a wispy iron rescued when a tea shop went out of business. Three were just great lengths of the trunk of a proud oak that had once stood at the end of the street. When it was cut for town expansion, Mrs. O’Harliot told the workers they’d all be cursed to have felled such a beast, and then had her sons roll the trunk into her building before it could be turned into lumber. No one knew where the chairs came from, but there were always enough.

The counter was made from the same pine forests as the walls and door. Indents marked where many a man had leaned up to it, pretending to read the scrawly labeled bottles on the tall shelves behind it as they made up their minds. The burls were little tide pools of history, telling of customers’ circling fingers as they unburdened their wares.

And between the well worn wooden counter and the glass filled shelves was a young woman. Not young in the sense of today’s world and not young in the sense of yesterday’s world, for in both she should have probably been married off or shut up in her father’s attic by now. But young in the sense that she only had one singular strand of grey hair intertwined with her blond and had not yet seen the world.

She did however know her job and it was to carry on as Mrs. O’Harliot had wanted, and run The Grudgery. And she was old enough to know not to disappoint one’s ancestors, nor one’s customers.

The Grudgery had both its regulars and its new comers. The regulars were usually ushered in by a knowing family member or friend when the time was right, and brought into the tradition of having a refreshing draft at “the ol’ Grudge” before going about any important business. If they were regular enough, the resident O’Harliot would make a drink specifically for that family line to suit their tastes.

New comers sometimes fell onto the place, having trudged through the streets with a black cloud above their heads, or a worry about their shoulders, and their feet had decided that a stop at The Grudgery was needed. The unsuspecting patron would lean tiredly into the heavy door, and be pleasantly surprised by the peaceful air welcoming them into the large room. Even on the rare occasion when there was little company, there seemed to amiable murmurings of conversation floating about the space.

They’d cross the floor, each step feeling a bit lighter, and finally lean against the large counter, admiring the wall of swirling contents.

“Evening,” the young woman would chirp, no matter the time of day, “what can I do for you?”

And the customer would partake in a tradition of bars and bartenders that has been ongoing since the first wheat was fermented and poured from cup bearer to cup holder. Yet here it was done before a cork or tab or tap was even touched.

“I cannot stand my boss- always on egging me on like that!”

“We’ve been fighting like feral cats again, but I know she loves me.”

“I have to see my father-in-law and he owes me still, but I can’t upset my grandma by bringing it up.”

“They’re my child, and I want them happy, but if I hear ‘it’s my dream!’ after the last fourteen dreams? I may throw myself out the window.”

The young woman would nod, knowingly, just as her mother had nodded before her, and her’s before that, and her’s before that, all the way back to the great nodding of Mrs. O’Harilot with her traveling cart.

“I see, that sounds like a lot to carry,” or some variation of a comfort, “why don’t you take a seat and one of our waitresses will bring you something in just a moment?”

Then the youngest Miss O’Harliot would turn to the shelf and pull a few bottles, think for a moment, put a bottle back and pull a box of herbs or a jar of dried produce. She carefully measured each of her chosen ingredients into either a shaker or a teapot or a mug, and then blend or steep or froth as necessary. She would call for a waitress from the backrooms to deliver the drink to the customer’s table so that she could help the next. Because there was frequently a steady steam at her counter.

The waitress would set the drink down with a smile, perhaps a “careful dear, it’s hot” or an “enjoy, love!” The patron, still not entirely sure how they found this tranquil place, would take a hesitant taste and find themselves indulging in a combination of complex flavors, none of which they could ever later recall. Had it been quite earthy, like a matcha? They thought perhaps. But also a bit sweet, with a drop of fruity cordial maybe. On second thought, it had been delightfully warm and spicy. Or, was it bright and tangy? No matter. It had charmed the spirits, and the next time they felt so down, they would go to that nice little hole in the wall again.

Because they weren’t so irritated with their boss anymore, were they? They understood her perspective and would be more fair next time they spoke.

Or wasn’t there always two sides to an argument with a partner? Better to make up or break up rather than this round-and-round mess.

And can’t be upsetting Grandma, we’ll just forgive father-in-law the favor, but not forget if it’s asked again.

And so what if a child dreams more than a thousand times? This time we’ll support, just with a little more caution.

The weight fell away with each satisfying swallow, allowing the deeper emotions beneath to surface and take their rightful place. As each unburned traveler savored their last sip and took their leave, the waitress would appear again, clearing the empty cup as well as the coins or bills or gems or keepsakes which were left in payment.

“You have a good evening, sweetie! Come back and see us anytime!” And they often did.

It was rare, but there was the occasional unsatisfied customer. They would storm back in days or weeks later, angry and flustered. Stating they had lost their ability to indulge, to converse, and wasn’t this the last place they were before it happened!

Miss O’Harilot’s mother had turned these types away, trying to save them from themselves. The younger was more like her ancestor and did not bother herself with such things. She simply poured the flustered individual a glass of tap water from the old copper spigot, threw in a kernel that looked suspiciously liked an acorn, and slid it across the bar. As the un-customer downed it, she had a waitress bring them their refund, and pointed firmly at the door.

The other unique kind of customer was the type Miss O’Harilot refused to take payment from. She had been taught to see the difference in the weight of their shoulders, of the dark circles under their eyes. These she would take to a quiet corner table herself, with a large teapot of plain chamomile tea, and say “Dear, you must hold on to this one for a while, for your own good. You’ll come back again, when it’s time to let it go.” She would have a waitress sit with them until they were ready to leave, and make sure they knew the way back. She was always very pleased to see these customers a second time.

For The Grudgery was a place for all kinds, and all kinds for a place. It was why it had lasted so long, and had served both king and commoner, tops of family trees as well as the very roots of them.

You are welcome at The Grudgery, as well. Perhaps you wondered down this street looking for that bookshop a local spoke about, or a spot for lunch before your next meeting. Instead you’re enticed by the swinging sign with an old cart and donkey carved deep into its grain. The wooden walls of the place have groaned through countless storms and yet the door does not creak to announce your entrance. The weather outside has been as cloudy as your mind and you flinch at the idea of making a mess, but the mud caking your boots does not seem to mar the stone floors as you make your way in. Several seated patrons smile up at you, some lifting their mugs in greeting. A larger group points to unoccupied chair at their table without stilling their conversation, offering that you join their party if you’d like. You nod in thanks but settle into one of the wooden barstools.

“Evening,” chirps the young woman at the bar. Her eyes are as shining as the hundreds of colorful bottles behind her, “what can I do for you?”

The Word

Fatigue: (noun) 1. Extreme tiredness resulting from mental or physical exertion or illness. 2. Weakness in materials, especially metal, caused by repeated variations of stress. (verb) 1. Cause someone to feel tired or exhausted. 2. Weaken a material, especially metal, by repeated variations of stress.

I was thinking how nice it would be to just, set a grudge down for a bit, because it’s very tiring to carry around. I know I’m supposed to be a mature adult and like, let gooooo of a grudge or deal with it. But you know, in the meantime before I’m ready to do that work, it’d be nice to set it down for a bit. I feel like my Grudgery drink would probably be pina’ colada flavored. That seems grudge-deleting to me.

Anyway. I also really liked the idea of a building being the main character rather than a person, and I wanted to play with that idea. The O’Harilot line certainly comes in and is a secondary-main but I feel The Grudgery is alive enough on its own, or at least that’s my goal here. But I found it kinda hard to finish. Buildings can’t exactly ride into the sunset, you know? So this ending may change or I might give it another go, we’ll see.

Thanks for being here, reader! Happy reading!

P.S. Liked this story? There’s now a Companion Story!

Today I am Hectic

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Honestly, the apocalypse had been dreadful.

Not just dreadful with the multiple mutating viruses and the earthquakes and dead crops and the fire tornados and the crazy bunker people and the evolved rats with the revengeful pigeons and of course the new volcanos. And then the bunker people being driven out of said bunkers by the evolved rats and then the revengeful pigeons taking taking out said vengeance on the emerging populace and what not…

But also because it had become dreadfully boring.

At least for Todd.

Todd didn’t have any women or children to save. He’d been checking the grievous ‘Single’ box on his taxes for nearly three decades now. He wasn’t near any of the fault lines, so the earthquakes hadn’t been too much of a bother, except the losing of thousands of his fellow man, supposedly. Similar with the other terrible ‘natural occurrences’. The pigeons were mostly a New York issue, but the news made it sound like it was world-wide, because it was New York. The screaming was a bummer; he had been awfully sensitive to loud noises ever since his cousin let off a firework next to his ear in their teens.

Todd was a finance lawyer for a large import firm, and the import/export business was actually a pretty good tell for the temperature of the world at large. When things started slowing down this season (between the third Jamaican ice storm and the second great migration of mammals into the sea), the rich CEOs had chosen to quietly fly off to their tertiary vacation houses in the Alps instead of spitting expletives at their secretaries and VPs.

So Todd checked his spreadsheets. Nope, no laundering. He did a swift kitchen-gossip round, nothing shifty there. The protest up North was getting loud again, and Martha-in-Marketing was on her third affair partner, but that’s all the busy bodies were talking about.

Still, something was rumbling deep in his chest, and it wasn’t the extra large gyro he’d scarfed for lunch. He knew this feeling: time to bug out.

He’d gotten this feeling a few times before. When he was a young heart throb, long before the salt started to take over the pepper in his goatee, there was a traditional rootin’ tootin’ bonfire down by the creek back in his home town. His old pack was celebrating before they all took off for college, or trade school, or the Navy- and the hormones were loose that summer night, along with all the cheap alcohol they could find. About halfway through a second Coor’s and midway down a redhead’s sweaty neck, that feeling hit Todd. He tried to ignore it. But it wouldn’t go away. He set the beer down, hopped on his bike, and made sure ol’ man Fuller waved back as he passed the gas station. Todd even made it in time to have dessert with his parents, and get yelled at by his father for smelling like beer. But it was well worth the price of several witnesses saying he was home when the fight by the creek broke out. Two boys had been killed- one with a gun nobody knew about and the other when he slipped into the water, too drunk to crawl back out.

Another instance was the eve of his sister Leia’s wedding. Todd had never been a big fan of fiancé Gus, but had done his best to welcome him in to the family. Still there Todd was, holding one end of a table runner off the ground so his mother could iron the other side at midnight, and the feeling came. He dropped that runner and left the room at a sprint, his mother screeching behind him. Todd found Leia in the master suite of the house, petting her veil as if it was a nervous panther.

I’ll drive. Go anywhere you like, just let’s go.

I can’t. She whispered back. It’s far too late.

Less than a year later, Gus wrapped his little sportscar around an Oak, with Leia in the passenger seat. Todd never told his parents that the coroner noted Leia almost three months pregnant.

So Todd listened to his gut when it spoke.

He slipped his laptop and phone into the backpack stashed behind his office door. After a short thought, he grabbed the coffee canteen off his desk.

Since Leia’s passing, he always had a go-bag on hand. There was one in his office, one in his car, and one tucked in the coat closet of his townhouse. He always drove a car that could off-road well, and kept it up to date in maintenance. He refused to have any type of pet because he didn’t want to worry about the hassle of traveling with one, and he didn’t really know what would go into their go-bag. Although he couldn’t help but dote on the office mascots, two sparkling goldfish named Bela and Victoria. He snuck them extra food each Monday morning and slyly left the room whenever the front desk assistant joked how fat they were.

Todd gave them another treat this day, on his way out, knowing in that same gut-place that he would never be back.

He also stopped by the kitchen, with the illusion of filling up his coffee, to try and drop a few hints to the water-cooler gossip.

“Tensions really rising out there, aren’t they?” He said, a bit awkwardly to the room.

“What’s that, Todd?” Kimmy, the sweet new Numbers Analyst, kept typing on her phone, but angled towards him slightly.

“Just a bit odd. I saw that the Execs have all taken off, but I’ve got nothing on my calendar.”

“Really now?” Nathanial, a bright youth, and one of Todd’s favorites in the Engineering department, was thankfully taking lunch. “I thought you had the pulse of those guys in your little legality black book!” He and the surrounding blurred faces chuckled a bit.

“I normally do!” Todd turned to them, trying to remain calm by putting too much cream in his thermos and too much light in his voice, “But they’ve flown the coop! Just a bit odd with everything going on up North, don’t you think?”

The scattered room gave approving sounds and nods. Nathanial spoke for the group again, “What doya think is happening?”

“I don’t know, kid, but I tell ya- I’m going to work from my place for a few days. Catch some fresh air and be out of office, ya know?” He gave Nathanial an overly obvious conspiratorial wink.

Nathanial laughed, “Not a bad idea! Whatever the big boys are up to, might not wanna be here when they get back. I may do the same!”

Todd felt like he did what he could do. At least, without sounding like a crazy person.

He punched his Jeep down the carport, reaching again for his computer bag in the passenger seat, and the go-bag in the back seat for reassurance. As he turned onto the highway out of town, he thanked Whoever Was Up There that his parents had passed from age rather than having to deal with the way the world was now. And for the inheritance they’d left that had allowed him to buy a nice little cabin out in mountains, where he took his vacations and now, would wait out whatever was happening.

He would get there, recount the stashes he’d secured in the storage over the past several years for just such occurrences. Settle in, settle down. It would be just like all the other insane things going on right now, just another one, and it would be dealt with and done with.

Over the next several months, Todd did well. Relatively.

67% of Earths population, beginning with major cities and spreading outwards, succumbed to the virus within a matter of 74 days. This was due to mostly close proximity, disbelief, and unpreparedness. Saliva and blood are very difficult to avoid when the virus causes the host to sneeze, cough, and lust after the flesh of the living.

By day 108, it was 84%, partially because the survivors were tired and outnumbered.

Todd made it to day 216. One of his last completely living thoughts was that he was quite proud of himself. The second to last thought was if he did return as a zombie instead of just dying, he hoped he still liked coffee. And the very last living thought he had was how very awkward the feeling of being eaten was and that perhaps he should apologize to affair-having, vegan-preaching Martha-in-Marketing, for thinking her lunches so strange.

… … …

He opened his eyes. The world was very black. He must have died. So much for into the big light.

Death was black, uncomfortably stabby, and sounded very much like the squawking of birds. Which afterlife-philosopher did that prove right? he wondered. Probably some Greek.

Or, Todd re-concluded, he had a committee of vultures on his face.

His first impulse was to flail wildly- get these flesh eaters to scatter far away from him. But his bones ached in a strange way and fatigue riddled his every molecule. So he flailed the only part of him he could, which was a couple toes. This did not have much effect on the gathered fowl.

Rasping barks seemed to be emerging from the black fog around him. Great, the vultures are fighting over my dead flesh.

Pressure deepened on his chest and on instinct he tried to suck in air to relieve himself, but it didn’t help. You’re dead now, you idiot. He thought, your lungs don’t hurt, it’s your literal ribs.

He opened his hesitant squint a little wider to fully adjust to the world around him, and saw the pressure was a very large vulture attempting to assert dominance over his corpse.

Well, it was nice to be appreciated.

The creature hissed and grunted and squorked until the smaller vultures awkwardly hopped off to a safer distance of several feet. Then it turned to take a pick at the soft flesh of Todd’s collar.

“Well that’s a smart boy, the softest meat on a biped is often the pectoral.”

The bird stiffened at its feast making sound. It fluffed a bit, flapped its wings, hovered up, landed beside Todd. It bobbed its head back and forth, inspecting. When the flock dared to do the same, it hissed them back again into the distance.

“Ope- spooked ya, sorry. Good boy- girl? Good vulture,” Todd coughed.

The bird cocked its head and peered a deep brown eye at him. It seemed a long moment, to Todd. And he took it to admire the leathery face, like a pilot’s helmet. Rather novel, he thought, the way some creatures seemed to be built for the end of the world where others, such as his fleshy self and his fellow fragile humans, were absolutely freaking not.

“It’s okay, fella, I’ve got no use for it,” With a little bit of recovered energy, Todd lifted his left hand up towards the vulture. He noted it was awfully dehydrated, looked a bit too much like jerky. How long exactly had he been lying out in the sun?

The vulture took a cautious hop closer, pecked at his pinky skin. Then quickly pulled off a sliver a muscle and hopped backwards to swallow it.

Todd grimaced a bit, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. More like a paper cut than the knife wound it should have been. And no bleeding!

“That whole arm was really always there more for balance anyway,” he decided to give sitting up a try, and wondered if he actually had enough living faculties to be dizzy or if he just imagined himself so.

Now at 90 degrees, he saw the large bite marks on his knee.

Looking the several yards to the door of his cabin, there were three skeletons, already picked shiny clean. He imagined done by his new feathery visitors. He wondered why they’d gone after those first- did they like the aged flavor then, like a good red wine?

He tried to put the events together, though the memory itself was hazy: Three figures on his cabin’s monitoring camera. They didn’t look infected on the grainy screen but had walked through the electric fence without hesitation. They were swaying, shouting, and he shouted back through a speaker to go away. They dodged each of his yard-traps with ease or luck, and made it to the door. He’d finally shot two of them through a window, but the third he’d hesitated- was it Nathanial? Young Nathanial that he’d tried to warn? He opened the door to see better but no, just a young man with red around his eyes and now they’re going white and now he’s on top of Todd and he’s thrashing and biting and Todd feels the teeth sink into his knee before he gets a good shot off. He knows he’s done for, has watched people turn. Tries to crawl to a good view of his mountains to end himself before the turn happens and just barely gets into the sunshine before he passes out.

And now he’s here, with no blood flow, sitting up, staring at a very intrigued vulture.

“Well, what now, big guy?”

The vulture squorked.

“You would know better than me.” He returned to assessing the damage. He still had his good hiking boots on, though he noted the vultures had made a mess of his laces.

Todd stood shakily, noting that although his muscles continued to act strained, he didn’t feel much pain for it. Handy dandy.

He got up as straight as he could, which was a bit hunched since he was quite depleted of liquids and the flock or something else had taken a bite of his shoulder, the trapeze muscle? He tried to remember the picture from the medical books he kept in the cabin for first aid, just to see if his brain still worked. He supposed wondering about it proved it did, a bit.

“I think, therefore I am, I suppose.” He took a tentative step to see if he could be more than a thinking monument to dehydration.

His steps were a little sturdier than he expected, as he made his way back to the cabin door. His gait a bit like when he was a pre-teen and his parents had decided to do a ranch week for Spring Break. The whole family had walked bowlegged for several days following, and his father had vowed they’d go the traditional beach variety vacation from then on. Todd walked the same way now, and he decided to be resolute about this cowboy swagger rather than drag himself around like those poor creatures he’d seen in movies and through his cabin’s monitors.

Once inside, he shifted the items around on his desk. He saw the mug sitting next to his keyboard- the coffee he’d been sipping in his last human hour. It was undoubtedly cold, but he didn’t mind cold coffee. Not with the fancy beans he’d procured and rationed like it was insulin and he a diabetic. He lifted the mug and sipped. The liquid poured over his dry tongue with no effect. It tasted like nothing. Less-than-water-nothing. Damn disappointing. He’d really liked coffee.

Then he set to work: One last go-bag.

He did pick up his favorite pen and a fresh pad of paper. An empty water bottle as well as a full one, because who knew. His favorite camping knife that had fallen out of his pocket in the tussle. A couple other things he deemed possibly practical. He packed all this into the already-half-full backpack that had been hooked above the back door. Giving himself grace, he took the picture of his family at his college graduation off the bulletin board, and stuffed it in a pocket too, the only useless thing he’d allow. He unpacked most of the food, then after a moment, opened several of the tuna cans and set it out in the shade beneath the tree the vultures had settled in to watch his progress, no doubt disappointed he hadn’t just fallen back over.

And with that, he began to head down his mountain.

But not before he heard a large rustle behind him. He turned quickly, reaching for the rifle on his shoulder out of habit. And there was the big ol’ vulture that had scared the others off of him earlier, a small chunk of canned tuna stuck to its beak.

“Oh, just you,” Todd sighed and tucked the gun back on his shoulder.

The bird cocked its head to the side again, as if asking a question.

“Well my friend, I figure since I’m the danger now, there’s no point in hiding out any longer.”

It hopped closer, as if to say, Go on.

“So… I think I’ll see the world, right? See what’s left. I figure at least some of the world wonders must have made it. And if I’m already… might as well catch some fresh air rather than just sit around for someone to turn the lights out, right?”

The bird answered by rustling its feathers a bit, cleaning its beak, and starring at Todd without blinking.

Todd nodded back at it, and continued to walk. But with another rustling of feathers, there was a sudden added weight to his backpack. He looked up to a familiar shady sight of feathers and leathered face.

“Are you… you coming with me there, bud?”

The vulture’s only answer was to settle into the space between the top of the backpack and Todd’s shoulders and begin to preen itself like a royal dove.

“Well, alrighty then.” Todd clicked the backpack’s chest strap so his new companion was more secure, and started once more down to the valley.

Something loosened, deep in Todd’s chest.

The Word

Hectic (adjective): 1. Full of incessant or frantic activity. 2. Relating to, affected by, or denoting a regularly recurrent fever typically accompanying tuberculosis, with flushed cheeks and hot, dry skin.
(noun) A hectic fever or flush.

I’ve been thinking a lot about different versions to the end of our world as we know it because…

-gestures broadly to the world around us-

…and I’ll admit, I’m such a proud cat lady that my spoiled calico has her own go-bag. No way am I doing the apocalypse, be it zombie or alien or vengeful gnomes, without my right-hand feline. But it got me thinking if signing her up for that is fair, and those thoughts became Todd. And really, I’d love for Todd to have his own full story, and I think one day he will.

Also, I would be remiss if I did not mention the momma vulture that continues to raise her babies in the old barn of a family property, and that although no baby bird has ever been cute in the history of ever, especially not a baby vulture, my family is very protective of them. So good luck Todd and his new oddly loyal companion.

Thanks for reading, lovely readers 🙂 and if I see you out there in the end-of-days, I hope we don’t have to fight each other for the last canned tuna.

*The VERY deep Easter egg: The very first zombie movie was Victor Halperin’s 1932 White Zombie, starring Bela Lugosi. That’s why the office goldfish are Victor and Bela 🙂