Tag: writing

Today I am Fervor

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“She’s come under some kind of fever!”

Yarrow

“I don’t know what happened! We were talking and I came into the kitchen and she was bent over, soaked in sweat.”

Queen Anne’s Lace

“Is the baby going to be okay?”

Ginseng

“No she was feeling well all day! I think. She didn’t say anything about feeling bad.”

Black, no, blue Cohosh

“Is she going to-“

“Shut up and get. Out.”

The man sputtered to a stop, his mouth open still trying to form his next word. He almost tripped into the sink in an attempt to halt his pacing.

“But, but she needs me…” he tried, his eyebrows furrowing into an astonished trench of wrinkles.

“No,” the woman spat, “she needs me, that’s why you brought her here. And I cannot do a thing with you mucking up the energy of my house. Amber?! See this man gets some fresh air!”

A smaller woman with sparkling blond hair reappeared in the doorway, her eyes commanding but her hand outstretched gently, and ushered the man into the dusk-covered garden.

Meanwhile the slightly older woman finally took a deep breath, stretching her back and straightening her long blue dress with calloused hands. She pulled a peppermint from one of its many pockets and popped it in her mouth. Then she sighed once more.

“Alright, love,” She grabbed a well worked rag from a tall shelf, each row filled to the brim with odds and ends and jars and bowls and dried something or another. This rag’s faded dyes whispered of a long forgotten university homecoming, but its life now was a cooling cloth as she dipped it into a glass bowl of water with lavender buds swimming through it.

She dabbed the rag on the young woman’s brow, and a breath of relief escaped from her parched mouth.

Lavera was rather relieved as well. This was the first sign the woman may actually live since sweet Amber had led the husband in here and he had rather unceremoniously dropped the woman in the kitchen cot before dropping himself to his knees and begging Lavera to save his wife.

“There you go, now have a bit too there,” she dipped the rag again and held it to the woman’s lips, “hydrate or diedrate, you know.”

The young woman’s closed eyes creased a bit, and Lavera took this as her weary attempt to smile.

“Worry not, love, we’ll get you sorted. But you did get yourself into something nasty, didn’t you?”

Lavera took a few more rags from the shelf, dipped them into the water, and placed them on each of the gal’s wrists and ankles, as well as across the chest and forehead. She dabbed gently at a short but deep scratch right at the woman’s hairline. She then returned to the mortar and pestle, where she had been attempting to gather her wits and herbs while that man had been nearly driving her mad.

From the glass bowl she poured a bit of the lavender water and began a paste.

“Trying to rid ourselves of him before the baby came, were we?”

She didn’t have to turn to hear the small but affirmative “mmm” from the cot.

“And what did we do, forget our task and lick the spoon? Not open a window while we were mincing the belladonna?”

There was another “mmm” from behind her. It didn’t answer the question, but it did confirm that she was in the correct realm of guesses.

Lavera nodded her head, too knowingly.

She continued to press the herbs together, distracting a part of herself as she turned and asked a little quieter, “Cheater? …or is he too stupid, ran y’all down?”

No noise from the woman.

Lavera stopped her pestle, “Is he… mean, rough?”

“Mmm.”

“Mmhmm,” Lavera nodded again, turning back to the counter, “It’s always the nice ones, ain’t it? They make it hard for people to believe you.”

She passed her fingers over the smaller jars, searching for the powdered turmeric. She found it by feel, the dent on the left edge of the top, while she eyed the rosemary bush outside.

“Be right back,” she cooed softly.

She walked barefoot and silently through the back garden. Amber’s comforting words to the husband carried on the soft breeze with the gentle scent of tomato leaves and fresh dirt. Lavera whispered encouragement to the plants as she walked, touching them gently as she went. Sweet nothings to the echinacea, tickling tales to the thyme, compliments to the calendula, catching a few leaves here and a couple petals there as she did. When she reached the rosemary, she offered her thanks as she snipped three short sprigs from the bush, and hurried back inside.

She shed the rosemary into the mortar and let it settle for a bit while she set the kettle on the stove. Tea would be a good idea for the whole ordeal.

When the healing paste was finally ready, she turned to her patient, who was still sweating. This was actually a good sign, but she was still too pale for Lavera’s liking.

“To business then,” she said as much to herself as to the woman on her cot.

Lavera gently peeled off each damp rag and replaced it with a healthy swipe of the thick paste. As she did, the room filled with the heady scent of sharp herb, honeyed flower, the very earth itself. The air shimmered with ancient knowledge as Lavera whispered again, this time not encouragement but appeasement and instruction.

She then took the rest of the paste and scooped it into a clay mug just as the kettle trilled the water was ready. She filled the mug, and while it cooled, she filled three more mugs and placed a selection of herbs in each one, as well as a few of the collected petals from her pocket.

When there was the sound of stirring behind her, she turned to see the young woman attempting to get out of the cot.

“Whoa whoa, there girl!” Lavera said with a small chuckle, “you’ve got some fight you in you, love, but let’s not use it all up, now.” She rearranged the pillows so the young woman was now partially sitting up.

“That a bit better…?”

“Marie,” the woman let out in a rasp.

“That a bit better, Marie?”

Marie nodded.

“Alright good, let’s get some of this tea in you then. You’ll still be quite weak for a few days, but you and the little one you’re cooking will be all right, you just gave your system a fright.”

She blew on the clay mug and stuck a finger in it to make sure it had cooled a bit, then held it out to Marie.

Both Lavera and Marie were very pleased to see Marie’s hands could hold the mug just fine. Strength was returning quickly.

“Thank you,” Marie whispered in between deep gulps.

“Of course, love,” Lavera poured water into the other three mugs, “we do what we can for each other, don’t we?”

She took the other mugs out to the front garden, gave the husband and Amber the good news.

“By the time we finish our tea, your wife will be well enough to walk back home. But she’ll still need to rest for several days. Do you have someone who can come look in on her while you’re working?”

The husband nodded over his steaming cup, “Yes, her sister is close and can come sit with her.”

“That’s perfect!” Chimed Amber.

“And did you figure out what happened?” the husband peered back to Lavera.

“Oh yes,” Lavera stared back into his dark eyes, “it was indeed a heavy fever, can come on at any time of year. I’ve seen it a few times, and thankfully we caught this one in time. Make sure when you get home, leave the kitchen be. Might have been something in there with the germ on it. Ask her sister to clean it when she comes, just in case. Can’t have mother and father sick this close to baby.”

The husband nodded appreciatively.

And in an hour or so when they left by moonlight, they seemed happy enough.

And they would be. For a few days.

Long enough for Marie’s sister to arrive. Long enough for witnesses to see Marie’s husband get back to work. Long enough for the petals Lavera had dropped in his tea to work all the way through his system. But not quite long enough for him to realize that the scratch at the back of his throat was no ordinary seasonal tingle, but the cold claws of someone else’s conscious coming for his very breath.

And Lavera would be in her garden, watching several fat bees bumble past her to land on the marigolds as she spread the tea leaves and herb paste remnants through the mulch. This was one of her favorite parts of her work. The great exchange. Nature will always give if you will return in kind.

“Amber?” She called, knowing the young woman was most likely already right behind her.

“Yes?” came the chirping reply.

“What say we plot out that back corner for more room? Carrots, chamomile, and…”

“Foxglove? Pink ones?”

“That sounds lovely. Yes. It’s going to be a busy season, my dear. Let’s get going.”

The Word

Fervor (noun): Intense and passionate feeling

I can’t IMAGINE what made me decide to pull out this plot and draft it up this week… must be the weather.

The story of one of my favorite historic anti-heroines, Giulia Tofana is making the internet rounds again (again, this week? can’t imagine why, so random). And like many historic celebrities women people, the chances of the real Giulia Tofana being one person is actually very slim. I’ve heard numerous podcasts attribute her fame to different people, sometimes an Italian oligarch, sometimes that Italian oligarch’s maid, sometimes a mother-daughter pair, ALWAYS someone says a witch.

The guess that I throw my dollar bet on is that it was a group of women, and one of them had the best recipe, and her name was something LIKE Giulia- much like my family’s pound cake is Zenneth’s poundcake because it says “Zenneth” at the top of the recipe card, even though half of us were unsure Zenneth was a real person because for decades only Nanna had actually witnessed her in real life. So between our family tree and the people we shared it with, Zenneth’s poundcake may have traveled much farther than Zenneth herself.

My point being- I think the inner ring of women have been around for a long time, and kept secrets for a long time, and I have been thinking about that a lot this week, and how in the coming times, we’ll have to chose between fervor and fever, because the body is going to get this out one way or another.

Keep reading. Not just here. Read everything. Read all the things. Read the things they don’t want you to, especially.

Happy reading.

Herbs and flower meanings:

  • Yarrow: Flower means healing and love; reduces inflammation and stops bleeding
  • Queen Anne’s Lace: Flower means safety and refuge; used for skin ailments, blood disorders, natural birth control
  • Ginseng: Flower means stability; Boosts immune system and used as antioxidant
  • Blue Cohosh: Flower means protection, peace, serenity, and tranquility; used for sedative and gynecologic aid
  • Black Cohosh: Flower means resilience and understatement; treats hot flashes and sweats
  • Foxglove: Flower means resilience; treats heart failure and high blood pressure

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 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 several 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 a reliably 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. 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 it 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 sports car around an oak with Leia in the passenger seat.

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 young guy and one of Todd’s favorites in the Engineering department, was thankfully taking lunch. “I thought you had the pulse of those dudes 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 then 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 also 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 mostly to 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% as the survivors became tired and incredibly 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 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? 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 🙂