The King of the Dead

By Joseph McConnachie

Prince Hadrius of Lotheran was rarely disturbed so late in the night unless it was of utmost urgency. Lord-Inquisitor Aron Hek himself rarely ever graced the prince with his presence. He was a tall man, his skin a rich ochre, a shade not common to this side of the world. But he was gaunt, little more than skin and bones, looking as though a gust of wind could knock him over. But his mind was sharp as tempered steel, and Father always took his sage wisdom into account. “Sire. I am sorry. Your Father is gone and will soon rejoin Ailoth in His Great Light.”

The telltale signs of his Father’s declining health had been mounting for months; the blackened blood he had hacked up increasingly, the greyness of his pallor and the general deterioration of his once strong body. Even still, hearing the words spoken aloud was a great shock to the prince. Grief swelled within him, sorrow and regret the first to surface. All that he had left unsaid, all that he had never learned from his father… It was a barrage of misery that he quickly banished, setting his face into a flat grimace. Duty above all, that was the mantra of the Kings of Lotheran. “There will be time to mourn later, Lord-Inquisitor. What is it you require of me?” Aron seemed relieved at his pragmatism, the sympathy pinching his brow smoothing over as he folded his hands behind his back. “Meet me in the hall when you have dressed. I have woken your servants.” He said coolly, trailing from the room without another word, gesturing slightly. The servants filed in, taking his clothes from the armoire before stepping towards him.

While his servants dressed him in brocaded silk, the cogs of Hadrius’ mind whirred. His father was not yet cold, and the Lord-Inquisitor was already moving pieces across the board. But such was his purpose in the Realm. The vile rumors spread by nobles, that the Hek Family were sorcerers from the Eastern realm of Mekhara sent to destroy Lotheran, had never turned Father against Aron. After all, he and Aron had been raised side-by-side in court, back when Father had been merely a prince and Aron the Lord-Inquisitor’s son. He had heard the tales of those days, how different Aron had been then, strong of limb and filled with joy. But Hadrius had only ever known the shadow of the man, the one mocked and feared in equal measure by those in the court. Father had always assured him that Aron would never harm him, and he believed that, even now.

The gentle click of the golden chain around his neck and the clang of his sheathed blade on his belt drew him from his thoughts, the familiar weight uplifting him as the servants backed away. He gave a brief nod of thanks before striding from the chamber, seeing Aron standing in the center of the long hall. His near-statuesque stillness was always unnerving. “May I… May I see him first?” Hadrius asked in a low voice, Aron turning his head slightly to peer at him with his dark eyes. “Of course.” He soothed calmly, leading the way to the King’s bedchamber. What would soon be his bedchamber, Hadrius mused. Several clerics lingered at the open door, heads bowed in prayer, hands idly tracing the sigils along the sevenstar emblem of Ailoth about their necks. When they passed the threshold, he could hear the soft chanting of the other clerics around the King’s bed, singing the hymn of embalming as the royal healer prepared the King for his last journey. Hadrius stood silently, looking at the corpse of his Father somberly. From here, he appeared only to be sleeping, frail and sickly yes, but resting. Aron’s touch against his shoulder was a surprise but a welcome one, turning his teary gaze to the Lord-Inquisitor who looked on with unshed tears of his own. Neither would let them fall. Duty above all.

“I will ask again, my Lord, what do you require of me?” Hadrius asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You will accompany me to the Stairs of Heaven. We shall ascend the mountain together.”

“But only the King-”

“Your Father and I journeyed there often together, when the weight of the crown grew… heavy.”

“But the Sacred Temple. The Word of the Prophets-”

“There are things your Father failed to reveal to you before his passing. This was one of them. This burden was never meant to be mine, but I gave him my word that I would guide you, that you would fulfill the duties that he once did. I will not be made a liar.”

“I would never… I just…” Hadrius said no more, turning his gold-flecked gaze to the floor. “I did not mean to offend you or your honor, Lord-Inquisitor. If I must ascend the Stairs, so be it.”

Aron seemed to relax, whatever weight he carried, lessening slightly. “Good. Your Father will rest easily knowing that. Now, we must be quick. By dawn, word will have spread of the King’s passing. We must return by then, so that you may be crowned.”

“Then let us not waste any more time.”

—

The Prince and the Lord-Inquisitor left the gilded halls of the palace, journeying through the Queensgrove to the winding path that led to the Stairs of Heaven. The entirety of Ai’Tilir, the capital of Lotheran, was situated on a hill that joined with the great mountain of Saindor, atop which the Sacred Temple of Ailoth resided. The palace was built near the base of the Stairs, so that only the King, the divinely blessed ruler of Lotheran could venture forth to seek the guidance of the Great Light. But Hadrius had learned that perhaps not all was as it seemed. The King alone did not venture forth there after all; Aron had accompanied him to the Temple. He had many questions, many that Aron deflected. “All will be revealed atop the mountain, my prince.”

When they reached the base of the Stairs of Heaven, Hadrius hesitated. Aron marched along confidently, ascending the first few steps before turning to him. “Now is not the time for doubt. I swear to you, all you wish to know shall be revealed at the Temple.” Hadrius sighed wearily, taking the first tentative step forward. In silence, the two ascended the Stairs, the winding path skirting the edge of the mountain and then curving back around to reach the peak. A bone-deep weariness had set in by the time they reached the glimmering gates of the Temple.

The gates were wrought of gold with silver filigree, depicting the great battle at the dawn of time, when Ailoth vanquished his brother Naroth and cast him into the Well of Night. Above the gates was a curved arch, a passage from the Word of the Prophets etched upon it. Hadrius had memorized entire passages of the Word, and he knew this one by heart: None but the blessed divine may enter through the sacred gates. Death awaits those who test the Great Light. He moved to clutch the sevenstar pendant he always wore about his neck, the one he had left on his bedside table. He bit back a curse as Aron, without pause, approached the gates and planted his hands against them. Hadrius’ eyes were wide as the gates groaned open in record time, frail Aron looking none the worse for wear after pushing open doors that weighed several tons.

“How…?” Hadrius trailed off as Aron straightened, adjusting his long black coat and dusting it off. “You will see. Come.” He stepped through and Hadrius followed him into a marble courtyard with a dried fountain at its center. It might have once been beautiful, but overgrowth and decay had set in, vines and other invasive flora writhing across the cracked marble underfoot. This was not the Temple he had heard spoken of in the Word, one of unearthly beauty wrought by the Great Light. They passed the fountain, the dull echo of their boots against stone the only sound in the night. Ahead, a looming decrepit temple stretched out across the grounds, the once vibrant gold stripped and fading. Towards their left was a wide ledge, paved over with more marble, a golden banister curving around the edge. A cloaked figure stood silently, looking out over Lotheran, the only movement their fluttering cloak in the wind.

Aron held up a gloved hand to stay Hadrius from moving any further. He wordlessly approached, the cloaked figure turning his head slightly as Aron spoke in a low reverent voice and lowered to one knee. Hadrius had learned the language of Mekhara, his father had commanded it of him after a fragile peace was sealed in blood and oaths. The language the two conversed in resembled the tongue of the Eastern Empire, barely, a few scant words he caught if he focused hard enough. Who was this stranger? Why was he here at the Sacred Temple? And why was the Temple in ruins? Eventually he drifted from his thoughts, Aron’s sharp voice bringing everything back into focus. “Hadrius. Step forward,” he said tersely, stepping away from the cloaked figure. Hadrius took a deep breath and moved forward, clenching his fists to prevent them from shaking. Duty, duty above all, he chanted the mantra within his skull, drawing what little strength he could from it. He had no reason to fear this stranger, not truly, but his stomach churned in warning as his gaze lingered on them.

When he was three feet from them, the stranger lifted their hand. The skin was blackened and cracked in places, as though withered by flame. At the center of their palm was the symbol of a black sun that absorbed what little light the stars gave off. Hadrius recognized the symbol: The symbol of the Inquisition. Their nails were talon-like, black knives that extended from the tips of their fingers. Hadrius let out a shuddering breath and stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own cape as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “What… Who are you?” He whispered, unable to conceal the primitive fear that crept into his bones. Had he no shame at all, he would’ve fled back to the gates and down the Stairs to the safety of the palace. But the rational part of him knew that there would be no escape from this… creature. The cloaked figure lifted the outstretched hand higher, pushing back the hood of their tattered robe, revealing the man underneath. His beauty was at odds with the decrepit grounds of the Temple, a shining effigy amidst ruins. His face was smooth and without blemish, not like skin at all but bronzed marble, left out to bake in the sun. His angular features were defined by his sharp cheekbones and jawline, framed by curly dark hair that trailed over his shoulders. But it was his eyes that made Hadrius’ blood run cold. A fathomless black like unto the Pits of Naroth. “I am death… and life.” He soothed in a voice like silk, turning with fluid grace. Hadrius turned to Aron who was entirely at ease, his hands folded in front of him. “Was this your plan all along? To bring me to this abomination? To have him kill me?” Hadrius asked, his voice trembling. “You misunderstand, child of Lucaneus. I am not your end, but your salvation. I am all that keeps the Darkness of the Pit at bay in this mortal plane.” Hadrius narrowed his eyes and paced before the pit-fiend, flexing and unflexing the fingers on his free hand. “It seems I am at your mercy. Explain yourself.”

The fiend’s lips curved into a smile, his sharp elongated canines briefly visible. “It is by the will of Ailoth that I show mercy to his blessed. I would never disobey the Great Light; May He reign unto eternity.”

“Do not blaspheme, monster. I know you serve Naroth the Scorned. You cannot deceive me.” Aron’s voice rose beside him. “Hadrius, please listen-”

“Hush, descendant, hush. He will see the Light before the coming of dawn.” The stranger soothed in a singsongy voice, Hadrius’ features contorting into a snarl. “You have nothing but lies. And you have ensnared my Lord-Inquisitor.” The screeching of steel resounded into the stillness of the night as Hadrius drew forth his blade. With a war cry, he swung the blade with both hands towards the creature’s head. The stranger merely lifted his index finger and placed it in the path of the sword. When the blade met the digit, all momentum ceased, Hadrius’ eyes widening. “I am not your enemy, Hadrius of Lotheran. Your father never told you what awaited you when he wilted and died, as all mortals do. A great shame. He was the greatest of your long line of Kings. A fierce warrior, a sage, and a uniter.” Hadrius lowered his sword with a defeated sob, the grief he had dammed flooding through him. He collapsed to his knees, weeping without shame, only flinching when the monster’s hand caressed his golden hair. He turned his gaze up, recoiling when he saw black tears trickling down the fiend’s face. “Yes, there will be time to mourn, but it is not now. You must renew the pact between the Living and the Dead, as your father’s forefathers have done for centuries.” Hadrius frowned, swiping his sleeve against his eyes. “W-What pact?” He whispered.

“To know of the pact, you must know who I am… and who I once was. I am Ezarakel. I was a prince of Mekhara, in a time when the people of Lotheran were little more than warring tribes, vying for power and land. I was a lesser heir, expendable in the eyes of my father, the Khanat. I was to be a sacrifice to the Lord of Night, as was the practice in those dark times, when Ailoth’s Light was obscured by the machinations of his Scorned Twin. But I was not sacrificed. My fate was worse than death. I was taken by one of Naroth’s dark progeny, the Lord of Blood, Vashaloth, and brought into the horror of undeath. For centuries I hunted under the Cloak of Night Naroth draped over the world in perpetuity, nothing more than insatiable hunger. But salvation came, when I strayed far from my master’s side, and found myself in your primitive lands. Light had a chance to flourish there. A Light that speared into my heart when the Star of the Morning descended. It was the Sacred Temple, the one Ailoth wrought in the Sun and cast down to even the scales, to banish the progeny of Naroth back into the Well and allow mankind to flourish under the Great Light. I would’ve been ashes were it not for your people. In that fugue-state between life and death, I saw Him.” A flicker of devoted fervor sparked in the cold black depths of his gaze, like flickering embers of dying light. “He told me of the balance that now existed, between the Light and the Dark. That the Great Light would rule during the day, but that His light would recede and Naroth’s Cloak of Night would drape over the world. It was a bargain for the soul of the world. I would be a vessel of His will, a beacon in the Dark. An Undying King of the Dead, a Vestige of Night reborn in the Great Light, the craftsman of the Word. The Word you know much of by heart, Aron tells me.” He said with a musical laugh.

“All of this… By your design?” Hadrius said, shocked and even a bit awed by these revelations. Ezarakel shook his head. “Not mine. His. But alas, I was an imperfect vessel. The Temple endures, but its glory is diminished. With every Night that passes, its Light dims. But the Great Light now endures within you and the people of Lotheran. And it shall endure, so long as your line endures. So long as the line remains unbroken. So long as you continue the pact.”

“The pact?”

“You take my blood unto you. My blood may be a corrupt vestige of Naroth’s evil, but through my blood, Lotheran has grown mighty. Mighty enough to challenge Mekhara and force them to sue for peace. Darkness will linger forever, but you, Hadrius of Lotheran, can be a blade against the Night. Your life will be short, especially if you imbibe as your father once did. But it was a sacrifice he and all others before him were willing to make. For the soul of your world, for the Great Light. For Ailoth.”

Hadrius reached for the missing sevenstar pendant again, grasping at air. His vice-like grip upon the hilt of his blade loosened as he rose, determination suffusing through him. “I will renew this pact, Undying One, like my father before me.” Ezarakel let out a breath of relief, a breath he surmised the pit-fiend need not make if he were no longer living. Using one of the black talons on his left hand, he carved a wound open at his wrist, black ink-like blood spilling from it. “By the Great Light, I anoint thee. With this blood, you shall be reforged as a blade, and wielded by Ailoth, may He reign unto eternity.” He beckoned Hadrius forth, the Prince kneeling before him. He hesitated as the wound was brought before his lips. “…What will I become?” He asked softly, turning his gaze to Ezarakel who looked upon him with pity. “You shall be whatever Ailoth requires you to be, son of Lotheran.”

With no further hesitation, Hadrius closed his lips over the wound, the putrid blood roiling over his tongue and down his throat.

Apoxied Tabletop

By Dantes M Cristo

He stood there short, and slightly obese, impatiently waiting for the clerk to give him the two packs of Zyns that he had requested, instead of the two barrels she had tried to upsell him on. Standing idly behind him, as another patiently waited in the aisle for the line to move, I noticed the stand that holds those cheap sunglasses, the kind you buy when you’ve forgotten yours at home when on the way to the beach, staggered as you were towards the door.

The 12-pack on the counter has a rip in the top, and you hope and pray it doesn’t completely fall to pieces when you try to Navigate it out the door, once this Fuck in front of you finishes his transaction.

Were you here prior to the gentleman waiting in the aisle, in the line good and proper? Recollection escapes me, and eyes drift up to the $2 mirror fixed atop the sunglass case.

The face looks familiar. The glue scarred Nose, unkept facial hair, bushy eyebrows and distance gaze from dilated pupils.

“I’ll be back in ten,” then searing pain as the much larger bully rains blow after blow with his leather belt.

Folly. Pathetic attempts to squirm away. Fire. Split second fibers tear from apoxied tabletop and microscopes fly, black linoleum spread collapses as the two-by-four shaped barely connects with him, dark, “break it up you two…” Principals office. Fade.

“Can you help me with my homework?” Had figured he’d be a little more than retarded, though Not by much. Being two years younger than him could get me access to the parties I had dreamed of.

The basement was full of booze for the taking. And take I did.

The Bauer water bottle would do the trick. A drop or eight of whiskey. Maybe 15 (drops) of tequila. A smudge of vodka. Forgot the rest. An encyclopedia of teenage angst poured into this sports bottle And geared up for one helluva Night.

Fade.

She was older, though shorter than I, with the most perfect tits. I sucked on my water bottle. I got shut down. Fade.

Shudder inside my bedroom. Bunk beds, light wood color, Nothing on Top, opened eyes.

Vomit, dried, covered sheets and comforter, stuck to the side of his mouth and on his teeth. Grit, ache, swollen throat, fade.

Steam rises of the pot on stovetop, Boiling water. The half rests, Next to it. Chopped bits thrown in, screen door closed, apartment on fourth floor reeks, brush, brush, brush back my hair as the bits start to swirl. Into cool mug, until bits sink to the bottom. A Bark interrupts, suddenly jolt back, still waiting for this fucker to finish his transaction. Fade.

Porch, looking at the sky, towering inferno of steeples cascade towards the very Top of the Sky, ever breathing and morphing to fuck all knows what. Fade.

I can’t breathe properly. Sid has an idea. Try this, he recommends, heat burning my fingers, blisters, toothless mother, prostitute daughter. Junkie trash. The nitrous when the time came for dental work was worth it.

Large window that overlooked a major thoroughfare, running behind the blinds twisting rose, in palms to cool. Shattered glass lodging where it doesn’t belong. I didn’t Notice.

Pieces of rock and sand mistakenly smoked, from finding on ground hands and knees praying one last hit left, one more god one MORE!

Fade.

Kitchen full moon, half gone by end of night,

Fade.

What sick fuck would have an in-house rehab center in the sticks of Southern Virginia opposite a fucking graveyard? Twat.

Fade.

And just like that, it’s my turn in line.

Congradulions – 2 year anniversary. Stank of piss off dilapidated ruins of a hell of a time.

Park pick up drop off.

Fade.

The strippers were at the door, but with the mound of powder on the counter his mother was having second thoughts about hosting my birthday. He’d get run over by a train years later. The strippers weren’t allowed in, and the night took a turn for the worst.

Searing pain radiates down my fucking skull and I immediately regret writing that line.

Fade.

Head hurts, rub the blue snot from your Nose, picking and eating it. No point in wasting it. No drinkin 6 months, from 3 bottles a day, to Nada, Nothing, Fuck yes.

The filter of a cig has had the fluff removed, Now holds the daily in place, only an inch thin left, up and at em. Shit, shower, shave, fuck I forgot to shit! Oh well, Next month maybe.

The Shell sign kind of laughs, maybe pity, in clerk’s eyes, trembling sweating in a suit and tie very professional. Horrorshow.

He had lean, bottles of everything, god bless our city workers and government health care system, but Nada.

This bitch Never left her room, sweetest lady in the world lift to her docs and suddenly 20 or 30 roxys in my palm. Asleep.

Checked emails but can’t focus. Fucking supply & demand. $200 for a days’ worth. Shell sign.

Fade.

Car. “Can I hit?” break 3 30’s on phone case, well used bill, up and away.

Emails, phone calls, emails, phone calls, showings,

“did I Not put the key back” showings emails save a half a line for the morning.

at least I didn’t drink. I can’t remember what it’s like to take a shit.

Fade.

Hotel being renovated in the Bahamas. Large suite. Sweats. A single snickers bar and ibuprofen in morn w/ 3 double vodka redbulls. Pool game in local tavern, joint outside. Home. Better.

Fade.

She had always been a friend to us. The mother of the friend who could have been the mother to all of us.

Tar ain’t pillz. My nose was finally healing. Fuck it.

Tin foil. Soot covered hands and taste of fucking marshmellow, give me the fucking Needle, China, Lord this shit tastes like crap and the whole apartment smells like decade old cigarette smoke, sunk into the couch playing video games when he was home, still fire with both. Right back to it boys. Why the Fuck Not.

70^th.

Fade.

New Orleans.

Boat top deck, headphones, bottle down, spent the morning puking my guts out, another bottle down, make sure to tip the maids on the last day, another bottle down, thrown out of the bar/breakfast I can’t see it 6am of one day to the Next 7pm.

Disappointment, fucked, Drunk, fucked, sick, fuck, the stars that Night on Those Fucked fucked sick Fucked.

“Is that all for you sir?” she asked, snap back, fade.

2 packs of cigs, one in each pocket, 12 pack under arm and it didn’t break and that’s the best News I’ve had all day.

Fade.

Life and Freedom

By Beverley J. Davis

                Ask not what your country can do for you, or for whom the bell tolls, nor ask the sparrow how the eagle soars. Life pondered over these quotes as he thought about the death of his friend Freedom. Losing his friend took the life out of him. Your death diminishes us all as it complicates and challenges our lives.

Walk down the street, any street; there are no real signs of outcry from this loss. There is only stillness and fear; fear that civility has alluded us, and the hope of Freedom returning has totally vanished.

My friend Freedom never asked much, just the right to live, to work and have financial stability, to be able to think critically. But the bell tolled for him.

                Freedom dared not ask the sparrow why the eagle soared. He knew the eagle is a free spirit, strong, able to roam and nest on the highest mountain or the lowest tree whenever and wherever it chooses. Alas, my sparrow, your wings are small and won’t allow you that freedom. They limit you in distance and speed, yet still you dare to try. Freedom encouraged you. Soar little one__Soar.

Life never got a chance to ask Freedom what he had done for his country.

                But he left Life a note.

Dear Old Friend,

Things may be bleak and dark now, but I will rise. Yes, I’ll be missed for a while, but I will rise again. Like the sparrow I will take tiny steps, I’ll plan, organize, protest and fight back. And I will rise like the Sun in the early morning and hang in there through the night and rise again like the Sun.

Death cannot hold me. I have left a spark, a tiny flame that will ignite and flare up. Be patient, wait, don’t fret because I am in the DNA of man. Don’t grieve and don’t worry about for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee, for Life and Freedom are connected, we walk hand in hand. My__our country tis of thee; Sweet land of Liberty of thee I sing. We, Life and Freedom, are all connected and share a common humanity and mortality. My death relates to you,–you, for whom the bell tolls.

So, it goes . . .

-an essay by john wayne comunale-

So, it goes . . .

This is a line from my favorite Kurt Vonnegut book, one I’ve read over a dozen times, Slaughterhouse 5. In the story we follow hapless protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, through a life in which he has become unstuck in time. Because of this, Billy no longer lives his life in the linear sense with which we’re familiar, but instead hops from moment to moment randomly from his birth to his death. In short, he is experiencing every bit of his life all at once, all the time. Every time you snap your fingers Billy Pilgrim is living and dying over and over.

When things happen to Billy, life things, the kind of things that typically elicit a dramatic reaction whether positive or negative, (birth of a child, death of a loved one) he simply says So, it goes. Time and time again whether Mr. Pilgrim is opening his own dental practice or being held as a prisoner of war in a Nazi camp, his sole response stays the same. Billy remains unfazed by taking solace in the same three words. No matter what’s happening to him in the moment, Billy feels no certain way. He knows it will be balanced by another incident in his life whether it takes place in his future or past.

In Billy’s world, those words, future and past, have no real meaning short of serving as a demarcation for what age he happens to be in any particular moment. Billy Pilgrim’s unique circumstance aids in shaping his point of view, because he’s seen his entire life. He’s seen it all many times, in fact. Outside the world created in this book by Vonnegut, the reality of linear time in which we exist; we aren’t granted such luxury. Our lives proceed forward in a straight line with no access to what the future holds, leaving us only with the experiences we’ve lived through up to this very moment from which to draw knowledge.

This is why it’s easier for us to fall apart, to lose hope, to develop a belief that our future holds only more of the same pain and misery in which we are stuck currently. As our future isn’t certain, we tend to gravitate toward the negative when things don’t go our way, or the wheels start falling off our lives. It’s the easier option, and one to which we seem naturally drawn as humans.

Slaughterhouse 5 is a work of fiction, but that doesn’t make the lesson it teaches any less valid or untrue. Sure, at this moment there is no way to see into the future, but we don’t necessarily need to. Shit happens like all the time. All the time. A lot of times, at least I’ll say this for myself, when something significantly negative happens, it’s easy to see it as ‘the end of the world’ when in truth it’s nowhere close. Shit has been happening to you your entire life, things you thought in the past were ‘the end of the world’, but here you are alive to tell the tale.

What I believe happens is most people tend to shy away from revisiting and reevaluating negative occurrences from their past, because they don’t view them as anywhere near important to what’s occurring in their present moment. I disagree. I think we actively choose to forget to learn from mistakes or failures. We don’t want to value the knowledge those things have to offer as we should, because we choose to view said mistakes and failures as negative experiences. Why look back on something soul crushing or life altering for any kind of lesson?

The challenge lies in changing the way we’ve learned to think; changing the way we look at things, and what we take away from them. It’s a rewiring of the brain that is far easier said than done but can be done. We may not want to due to the degree of difficulty and, as I mentioned earlier, the ease with which one can sink into self-pity. It’s not supposed to be easy. If it was, we’d never find ourselves in whatever predicament in which we are currently. We’d already know how to look at what’s coming on the horizon and be able to navigate it to our advantage always. Like it or not, there are no shortcuts here.

It’s perhaps hardest to mine knowledge or find the lesson when you’ve hit your lowest point. Looking up at how far you have to go and what mess you have to crawl through can have even the best of us shrugging our shoulders as we instead choose to meander down Hopeless Road.

This is where I find myself currently. Over the last seven years I’ve poured everything I have into my writing and art career. Everything. I’m drained emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially. I’ve found myself feeling like a grocery store the day before a hurricane. Completely. Empty. I can only blame myself; I chose to ignore the writing on the wall. I kept slamming that square peg into that round hole, because hey; I made it fit once. Didn’t I? I can admit, I knew what I was doing wasn’t working like it had been. I should’ve pivoted to change things up months ago, but I chose to ignore the signs, ignore my intuition, and keep pushing.

So now, here I am.

It was during my most recent four week outing when everything came to a head. I was stuck. I was sinking in quicksand. I had to ask for help, and I felt shameful for it. I’d decided effectively in that moment to give up. Just, give everything up. No more writing. No music. No drawing or painting. I was completely prepared to move forward doing nothing. I even tried to delete all my social media accounts. During my twenty-two-hour drive home, a drive I did all the way through completely by myself, I had a lot of time to think. And think I did.

I had to admit to myself I’d screwed up, own up to my mistakes, and come to terms with them. Sure, I’ve been busting my ass trying to make things happen, but my effort would’ve been better spent had I made an adjustment when the Universe was screaming at me to do so. I knew I couldn’t change things now, but I could examine them, break them apart, deconstruct the whole thing. The knowledge is there and always has been. I, however, chose to pick and choose my lessons at times rather than taking the entire bitter pill.

I thought a lot about this on my drive. I thought about Billy Pilgrim and his becoming unstuck in time. I thought about all the things, large and small, from which I derived happiness. Most importantly, I thought about the people I’ve met who believe in me and tell me so. The people who’ve supported and cheered me on since day one. And the people I told along the way to not give up. Doing so myself would make me a hypocrite. I’ve always prided myself on being genuine and authentic with the people I meet. What you see is what you get, and I like to tell it like it is. Yet here I was ignoring my own advice. Negating my own credo.

  By the end of my drive, I’d turned around my mood and thoughts. Sure, I was down, but I’ve been down before and come back from it. I have the knowledge, and now it’s time to use it. I’m broke, wiped-out, and up against it, but this is not the end of me. I have people who support and love me, which alone is more than most. I won’t let them down, but more importantly; I won’t let myself down. It’s not over, it’s the start of something new.

 So, it goes . . . 

Cherry Wine

By B. Allen

**This story uses words/names from the Lushootseed language, an indigenous language used by people from the Snohomish Tribe. Any Lushootseed words I’ve used ignore English grammar rules out of respect for the language.

It all began with a song.

            Standing beside the old creek, the song whispered such a profound melody through the trees that I dropped the glass bottle from my hand, where it immediately shattered against the river rocks.

The song vanished. I shook my head, wondering if I’d been hearing things. I bent back down, studying the mushrooms along the edge of the creek. They were speckled with white like amanita muscaria, though with the brilliant purple color of cortinarius iodes instead of a vibrant red. I didn’t realize they were arranged in a perfect circle until I was already inside.

Grandma Saoirse’s warnings rang through my head, and I leapt out before chastising myself for the superstition. I’d never believed her stories, but they were still imprinted in my mind.

“They’d come and take our children,” Grandma Saoirse would always say, her thick Irish accent bleeding into her voice. “Steal ‘em away with promises of magic, the little loves none the wiser.

“They’d come back changed. They’d look the same, but who they once were was long gone – their names and stories stolen by the fairy folk, and there was nothin’ we could do for ‘em but grieve.”

Her Irish folktales always reminded me of the stories my grandfather, scapaʔ ns’skioos, would tell me about the boarding schools he’d been sent to as a child, where they made him cut his hair and would beat him if he so much as mentioned Snohomish stories and beliefs.

I tried not to think of my grandparents or fairies or boarding schools while examining the new fungi, my cheek pressed against the grass to get a better look, the blades tickling my skin. My mind ran through all the fungi I’d memorized, but nothing was coming to mind. I pulled out my mushroom book to double check, but there was nothing like it.

My heart pounded. Had I discovered a new fungi?

Hands shaking in excitement, I pulled out a bottle, which I immediately dropped and shattered. Cursing under my breath, I cleaned it up and pulled out another one from my bag more carefully. My tendency to drop things meant I had a surplus in my bag that tinkled every time I moved.

Setting it to the side, I drew the iron knife Grandma had given me and cut out a mushroom. I plopped it into the bottle before stoppering it, and held it up to the dimming sunlight to get a better look. I swear the shroom glistened as though made of moonlight.

That’s when I heard the song again. 

The bottle fell from my hand and I fumbled with it, the glass bouncing back and forth between my fingers before I finally caught it. I gripped it to my chest, where I could feel my heart beating like a frightened rabbit.

The song continued, a mournful melody I felt rather than understood.

I looked across the small fairy ring, my eyes settling on the opposite end of the clearing. A tall, limber man emerged from the trees. Long, blonde hair cascaded down his shoulders like flowing water, the color so light that it blended in where it brushed against his pale skin. He was draped in hiking clothes hanging from his lean frame, and a backpack of camping gear was slung across his back. His boots were caked in mud, but everything else about him was wonderfully perfect. 

His eyes met mine and I stiffened. He just smiled, lifting a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” he said in an accent I didn’t recognize. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d see civilization again.”

“We’re only a couple of miles from the main road,” I said, licking my lips.

I was becoming increasingly aware that I was a woman alone in the woods, and not just any woman. The stats for missing and murdered indigenous women flashed through my mind. Was I about to become another tally in that report?

“Really?” the man said, grinning as he made his way over to me. I tensed, but I couldn’t get my feet to move. “That’s good to hear. I was worried I went too far off trail.”

I swallowed, trying to steel my nerves. He seemed harmless, but then again, don’t they always?

When I finally had the courage to speak, I gestured the way I’d come. “Just follow the creek and you’ll make it back.”

He entered the fairy ring, a curve of mushrooms the only thing keeping us apart. “Ah, yes. It’s always good to follow the water.” 

He was taller than I’d thought – taller than me by at least a foot – and his eyes, peering out of two rings of lightly colored lashes, were the brightest blue I’d ever seen. He was beautiful and had a charm that put me at ease, even if another part of me was screaming not to let my guard down.

I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I just stared at him.

After a beat of silence, he said, “I appreciate the directions. May I have the name of my rescuer?”

Foolishly, I gave it to him.

“Well, now, that’s a lovely name.” The glint in his eye made me shudder.

“Thank you,” I said, not quite meeting his gaze.

When I finally did, his eyes looked hungry. I took an instinctive step back, but when he repeated my name, his tongue rolling over the word like a juicy berry, the sound filled me with pleasure and rooted me back in place.

“And what brings you to the woods this evening?”

“I’m collecting fungi samples for my professor. He expects me back in about an hour or so.”

I’d thrown in the lie last minute. I wanted the man, as charming as he seemed, to believe I would be missed if something were to happen.

“You’re a mycologist,” he said, looking pleased. “That must be fascinating.”

I shifted from foot to foot. “It is.”

“Have you got a sample there?” He gestured to my hands.

“Oh.” I looked down at them. “Yes – yes I do.”

He held out a milky-white hand. “May I see it?”

Despite his charm, I was growing eager to leave, but couldn’t figure a way out of it. I reluctantly handed him the bottle.

He took it in his slight fingers. “What do you call this fellow?”

“I, well, I don’t know,” I blushed. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it may be undiscovered.”

His eyes lit up and he handed me back the bottle. “That’s wonderful!”

My cheeks burned hotter. “Yes, it would be incredible for my program.”

“And your career!” He flashed a bright grin before peeling off his backpack. “We must drink to that.”

“Oh – no. I couldn’t-”

“Come now, it’s just a bit of cherry wine,” he said, drawing an old flask from his backpack and holding it out to me.

“No, I really-”

“Come, come, there’s no need for that. Just a sip-”

“I’d rather not -”

“I really must insist-”

“I said no!” I finally snapped.

His warmth vanished in an instant, and I was once again aware of the danger. I was alone, in the middle of the woods, with a man trying to force a drink on me.

He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Fear sank into my stomach. I slowly backed away, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“I – I better head back.”

His voice soured. “I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

I froze. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes twinkled with merry mischief. “You owe me, you see.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“But you do. You thanked me, and I’m afraid those are the rules of my kin.”

My mind stirred with Grandma Saoirse’s stories, telling me what I’d already known, but forgotten when I’d needed them most.

I shook my head. “No – no. That’s not, you’re not -”

“I am what you think I am,” he grinned wickedly.

“That’s not possible,” I whispered.

“Tell me, what’s your name?” he challenged.

I opened my mouth to say it, but it was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember my name, but that it was gone. He had stolen it from me.

The fairy’s eyes glittered with glee. He stepped towards me and I threw the bottle at him, where it shattered against his cheek.

I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I turned and ran.

I ran as fast as I could, but the fairy was much too quick. I’d barely emerged from the clearing when he tackled me from behind. I slammed onto the ground, my face smashing into the dirt. I felt my nose crack and the taste of warm blood filled my mouth.

The fairy flipped me over, pinning me beneath him. I tried to shove him off, but he was too strong, too powerful for someone like me.

He grabbed my jaw, yanking open my mouth and forcing his flask between my lips. The cherry wine exploded against my tongue, its sweet flavor mixing with the salty tang of my blood. I spluttered, trying to spit it out of my mouth, but it was too overwhelming. I was drowning in wine and my body betrayed me with a swallow. The wine burned on the way down, infecting me from the inside.

The fairy’s eyes lit up in triumph, but I couldn’t let him win. Not like this.

I drew my knife from my pocket.

“You are mine,” he growled, pulling me so close our foreheads touched. “This land is mine. Together we will bring back the old ways of the fairy folk.” 

I plunged the knife into his chest. The fairy gasped, his blue eyes bugging from his rotten-milk face.

He looked down at his chest, muttering a fearful, “Iron.”

I twisted the knife further in, praying he felt the pain of every woman and child he’d ever hurt in that one little action. 

With rasping breaths, the fairy keeled over, toppling off me. I sat up, backing away and trying to ignore his warm blood soaking my shirt. 

The iron worked fast, and within a few moments, the fairy was dead. I had killed him.

But I had not escaped.

I didn’t realize it at first, but slowly, as minutes turned to hours and hours turned to days, I could no longer ignore it. I realized that Grandma’s stories are just as true as scapaʔs, and the consequences are the same.

I am coming undone. I am losing who I am, or rather, who I once was. I am vanishing before my very eyes. I am the lost child, who will never return as I was, if I ever return at all. Changeling… changeling… that is what the wind calls me.

But you, sister, you still have a chance.

I’ve seen your coming in the water, a newfound power granted to me by this curse. You will try to find me, afraid that I have become another bloody handprint on the mouths of our people. You are right to be afraid.

You will not find me. You cannot find me. Because I am gone.

Run. Run, kikisobl, and do not look back.

…

            Kiki’s hands trembled as she re-read the note from her sister, the one she’d found tucked in a bottle floating down the creek. She hardly dared to believe it, but the evidence was right there in front of her. How could she deny it when it was staring her in the face?

            A song split through the quiet of the woods. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the same time she did. She was frozen for only a moment, the melody nearly drawing her in before she bolted. 

            Perhaps it was nothing more than a hiker or a bird, but she wasn’t taking any chances, because she knew better now.

            She knew that, in these woods, nothing was to be believed. 

END

By Nicole Calix Coy

Water Signs at Work: Emotional Intelligence & Empathy in Action
How Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces bring depth and compassion to teams.

November is “Scorpio Time” and as such I would like to dedicate this first article to Water Signs at Work.

In every workplace, emotional intelligence and empathy are the quiet forces that shape collaboration, trust, and success. In astrology, the water signs; Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces bring forth these characteristics which are not seen – not in front of us.  These folks are connected in a different way.  They are sensitive, intuitive, and connected to the unseen dynamics of a team.  Overall, water signs remind us that people, not just processes, drive results.

However, their depth can also make them vulnerable to stress, burnout, or emotional overwhelm if not balanced.

Water signs are often the healers, listeners, and nurturers of the workplace. They sense what others feel before it is spoken and create environments where trust can thrive. While each of the three water signs brings unique strengths, together they form the backbone of emotional resilience and team connection.

Let’s dive into how Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces show up as employees and as leaders.

Cancer at Work: The Nurturing Creator (June 21 – July 22)

Cancers thrive when they feel secure and supported, and they extend that same care to others. They are the ones checking in on their coworkers, making sure everyone feels comfortable and included. This nurturing quality makes them incredible team players and loyal colleagues. But their sensitivity can also make them retreat when faced with criticism or conflict. Encouraging open communication and giving them space to recharge is what all Cancers need to boost their confidence.

As an Employee:
Cancers bring quiet strength and creativity to their work. While they may appear reserved—often retreating into their “shell” when emotions run high—they are some of the most dependable and innovative employees you will find. Whether in nonprofit management, creative projects, or detail-oriented tasks like data entry, Cancer employees thrive when given the space to work independently while knowing they are respected and valued.

As a Leader:
Cancer leaders excel by leading with their heart. They are hands-on mentors who meet employees where they are, offering guidance and camaraderie. Their teaching style earns respect quickly, and their natural nurturing instincts create workplace cultures that feel more like families. Sensitive to their teams’ needs, Cancer leaders are in tune not only to what gets done, but how people feel along the way.

Scorpio at Work: The Resilient Powerhouse (October 23 – November 21)

Scorpios bring intensity and determination to everything they do. They are not just looking at the surface, they dive deep into the details, uncovering truths, and crafting strategies others may miss. Their loyalty and commitment to a cause or project is unmatched, making them a force in leadership and problem-solving roles. However, their intensity can sometimes come across as intimidating. When balanced, they’re the powerhouse every workplace needs.

As an Employee:
Scorpios are the marathon runners of the workplace. Loyal, hardworking, and fiercely determined, they thrive in high-pressure environments where resilience is tested. Their ability to juggle multiple projects, endure setbacks, and still deliver makes them invaluable during times of crisis. With a Phoenix-like ability to rise from challenges, Scorpios excel in careers that demand perseverance, such as counseling or crisis management.

As a Leader:
Scorpio leaders are empaths with iron wills. Deeply loyal to their organizations, many dedicate decades of service to one company. They inspire through mentorship, ambition, and a willingness to shoulder responsibility. While their intensity can sometimes be seen as controlling, their resilience, dedication, and emotional depth make them powerful protectors of their teams. In challenging times, Scorpio leaders are the anchors who hold everything together.

Pisces at Work: The Visionary Dreamer (February 19 – March 20)

Pisces are the imaginative folks who bring creativity and big-picture thinking into the workplace. They can easily empathize with others and often sense the emotional climate of a room before anyone says a word. This ability allows them to adapt and connect across diverse groups. Sometimes Pisces may struggle with boundaries or feel overwhelmed in highly structured or critical environments. Encouraging their creativity while providing clear expectations helps them shine as the dreamers who can turn inspiration into reality.

As an Employee:
Pisces employees bring charm, creativity, and positivity to the workplace. They are the co-workers with secret handshakes or inside jokes that lift morale on tough days. Their intuition and sensitivity help them sense conflicts and emotional undercurrents, though they often internalize rather than express these feelings outwardly. To flourish, Pisces need flexible, supportive environments where their creativity can shine.

As a Leader:
Pisces leaders are compassionate visionaries. They lead with empathy, inspiring teams with imaginative solutions and innovative thinking. Known for prioritizing the well-being of employees, they create trusting, supportive environments where people feel truly valued. Their generosity and sensitivity provide for natural respect, though they may need to guard against being taken advantage of. A Pisces leader’s ability to blend vision with compassion can transform workplaces into communities of trust and inspiration.

Why We Need Water Signs on Our Teams

When water signs are present, workplaces become more compassionate, more supportive, and more human. Their ability to listen, connect, and care ensures that collaboration is deeper, conflicts are softened, and success is shared.

Water signs remind us that emotional intelligence is not just a soft skill—it’s a workplace superpower. Cancer nurtures, Scorpio transforms, and Pisces inspires. Together, they encourage teams to go beyond logic and productivity, tapping into intuition, creativity, and human connection. By understanding the gifts of water signs, we can create more supportive and collaborative work environments where everyone thrives.

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