Update.

So I fell off of the schedule that I set for myself a few months and haven't posted as much as I had originally intended by this time.

To make up for it I've released two new stories tonight. They're both pieces that I'm rather fond of, and may one day continue to develop.

Here's to getting back on track. Expect a lot in the coming weeks.

- Jacob.

A Place Between

I will live forever in this red inch between the bullet and the back of my skull. And when this forever ends I will spend the next three in the ringing stillness of a dead man’s bedroom.

The gun is cold in my hand. Its heavy. How I maintained my grip on the thing after squeezing the trigger is beyond me. The rictus of death is surely forever away.

We are at the End

Ona Is An Orchid. She is graceful and singular and she is fatal. She is fragile. This is not her home. And in the light that precedes the sun she almost looks at peace, her chest rising and falling to the shallow rhythm of sleep.

The hounds don’t bark anymore.

The Magnet - Part 2

Seatbelt

The rumble of the engine is like a blanket spread over a patch of sand spurs. The quiet beneath its sound is intrusive, prickling. Calin’s ear rings annoyingly through it. Beneath it all, for a reason he can’t explain, the awareness that things will not be the same after tonight sinks through his skin to his bones. He rubs the goosebumps on his right arm and lets out the breath he’s been holding.

Her freckled face reflects against the dark glass of the passenger window. She doesn’t seem to be looking at anything so much as she’s just not looking at him. But then she turns and looks at him, a question raising her eyebrow. Oh shit, he’s been staring.

Shaper Shadow - Part 2

The northern side of the Greybacks were a series of bleak mountain tops that sloped into verdant mountainsides and hills. There were springs and summer runoff from the pale frigid peaks that flowed down the slopes in helter skelter streams, cutting deep troughs in places, and wearing others flat. Somewhere to the north, within the green expanse that stretched as far as the horizon, the ShadeWalk, the mountain streams became the torrent known as the north Vardan river. It was the same current that carried water down the continent, between the Magnatium and the Society only ever parting to create the no man's land of Efrim's bluff. The river island where Melanie had lost her freedom at the hands of a Tetherlain and group of soldiers.

Erent looked At the man he'd saved. His skin was pale, almost translucent from the indeterminate amount of time he'd been locked away from the sun. He was literally skin and bones. His eyes were glossy, red, and full of disbelief. And Erent didn't know if he should trust the man, or respect the unsettling feeling that had nagged him since their journey through the mountain. For now all he could do was carry Melanie, and watch as the man as he was reveling in the morning light - his arms extended to their full reach, palms and face pointed to the sky. He sucked in the fresh air in huge chest heaving breaths, like the roots of a desert plant absorbing a rare rain. He seemed peaceful in this moment, happy. He faced Erent and spoke, "Thank you! I never thought I'd see the day again." His eyes were misty.

"Uh-" Erent looked at Melanie's limp body, everything else felt so far away. He should feel good for freeing a man, but how could he with- "You're welcome."

He began carving a path toward a nearby cliff of naked granite that jutted from the earth at a ninety degree angle. It seemed an impossibility, but it would be the perfect place to lay her to rest. As he approached it he urged the earth to shift once more, again forming stairs at his feet that led up to the formation, eliminating much of the ardor that the mountain slope would likely have provided. Melanie's body seemed to grow heavier with each step, until he was seriously worried that he might drop her and send her tumbling into the trees. It got to the point where, once at the top step, he actually couldn't lift his feet. And it wasn't until several minutes later that he forced himself to take the final step. His legs nearly buckled and he stumbled toward the outer center of the cliff. A waist high dais formed at the last second, and he stopped, banging his knees on it.

Gingerly, he laid her body upon the stone. He slid his arms from beneath her and touched her face and stroked her hair. It was knotted and tangled. There were still light lines on her cheeks where her tears had washed the dirt and filth free as they'd rolled down her face and revealed the flesh beneath. "I made it," his whisper cracked, "I came."

Somewhere behind him were footsteps. They stopped a short distance from the dais. "Who was she?" It was the skeleton man. He sounded genuinely curious, and concerned.

Erent didn't have anything to say. He looked at the man, almost screamed at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. Then opened it again, "I need to get wood." And with that he left the cliff.

It was mid morning. He'd spend until dusk hauling armfuls of wood from the mountainside forest to the dais.

Deacon lingered on the cliff for a moment. The stone had been sitting in the sun, and was warm against his soles. He looked down at his feet. His toenails were long and dirty. His fingernails weren’t any better, they were like claws. He reached up to touch his face, and tugged on the beard that had grown there. His hair was long too and hung to his shoulders. He starting chewing on the fingernail on his index finger and used the steps the shaper had made to get down to the forest.

He a took a few steps into the dense foliage growing at the tree line. There was the rush of flapping wings, and he looked in time to see a crimson and black robin fleeing his presence. He landed on a tree limb just beyond his reach and turned its head to look at him quizzically. It gave several small hops on the branch and continued to investigate him with its beady black orbs. Something about the bird made Deacon very happy,  and he couldn’t help smiling at the creature.

It flew up higher and he looked back to the earth. He fell to his knees the instant his eyes rested on the spot the robin had alighted from. A large blueberry bush lay before him. He began greedily tearing the dark powdery orbs from the plant’s branches and stuffing handfuls into his mouth. They were bitter, but they were also the best thing he’d ever tasted. His stomach gave a heavy rumble the instant the first berry found its way down. It was a thank you, he thought, after so long without food. He ate most of the bush’s fruit in a matter of minutes, and climbed to his feet with a satisfied smile. He sucked the little bit of blue juice off his fingertips, and let his right hand rest on his abdomen. It ached. But it was a satisfied kind of ache. He’d have to eat small amounts, frequently before he’d be functioning at proper capacity and rebuilding his strength.

The robin flew back down to the bush after Deacon backed away from it. It let out a cheery “Hip! Hip! Hip!”, and made its way to one of the remaining berries. Deacon watched it for a little while longer before wandering away.

The sound of rushing water echoed up from the steep ravine the ran under and from the cliff. He grabbed hold of a sapling growing on the edge of the extremely graded land and leaned out into the air. He could see the water flowing over naked stone and sand at the bottom. He turned his head to the right and saw a narrow short waterfall raining over a jut of stone into the stream below. Before he realized what he was doing, he was reaching from tree trunk to tree trunk, swinging his grip and weight, between the skinny, though surprisingly resilient trees. He steadied himself by keeping his feet against the side of the mountain. In short order he’d made it to the bottom. He approached the water with a little too much haste, the tree he’d grabbed hold of was dead. It broke, causing him to lose his balance and the loose soil and plant debris carried his feet out from under him. He scrambled for something to hold onto, but the ground gave no purchase and came loose in his grasping hands. He couldn’t stop himself from sliding ass first into the chill of the shallow water. He hollered in surprise, but quickly grew accustomed to the temperature and began to revel in the water as it flowed around him.

Righting himself into a sitting position he cupped his hands together under the water and scooped some to his face. Most of it ran through his beard, but the little bit that actually made its way into his mouth and down his gullet had to provide one of the most pleasurable experiences he’d ever had.

It was only a moment before he worked his way up the ravine to the fall of water at the beginning of the ravine. He stood directly beneath the flow. He could see dirt and grime running down his arms and chest and legs. It splashed against his scalp which he massaged with fingers in an effort to get the dirt, oil, and dried sweat loose. At one point he closed his eyes and looked up into the fall with an open mouth. The cold water caused his teeth to hurt, but it was worth it.

He was there for a while, scrubbing himself and his rags clean. It was too soon to tell, but he felt like the water carried more away than the grime he was covered in. It felt as if the despair, and hopelessness, and darkness of the cell and its memories were also flowing down stream, leaving him indefinitely.

It was a new day, and the fear and trepidation he’d had about facing it in the tunnel abandoned him now. This was a second chance. A time to begin anew, and make a life for himself.

What will you do? Nithil spoke for the first time since they’d exited the dungeon an hour before.

“I want to help that man if I can. And then I’ll return to the plantation.”

Out of prison and back to being a slave again? The Rider sounded disappointed. I guess the first twenty two years weren’t enough for -

“I’m going to free Rosalyn.”

Now that sounds like fun.

Deacon tracked down the stream a ways until he found a bit of exposed stone to pull himself up onto. He sat on it and looked into the moving water. The surface was flat here and he could see the sun and the trees reflecting above him. He could see himself too, until suddenly he was looking at Nithil. A shadow with snaking tendrils of hair that had a life of its own and flowed around his head, and bright white orbs for eyes.

He kicked his feet to disturb the image and sensed a smile from Nithil.

“And I want to find my brother.”

The Magnet - Part 1

THE WITNESS

A woman’s scream peels around the corner. It passes one hundred sets of ears all humming with the anticipation for the squeal and slam of the guitars and drums being tuned and tested behind the concert hall’s door. There is a pause. A uniting question mark hangs briefly over all their heads. It dissipates into the sticky, clinging air of a Florida night in summer. Still, after the buzz of the cliquey crowd resumes, a few of Riverside’s denizens, the ones with the skittle assortment of shorts, interesting hats,ragged facial hair and the pixie cuts search the darkness that squeezes the hazy cast of the street lamps into incandescent mushroom heads.

The second scream never comes.

“Must have been a hell of an orgasm,” the one liner dances from a pudgy, balding man in his late twenties. He’s the kind of guy that thinks rocking a chin strap at this point is a good life choice. This earns a wave of chuckles ripple through half of the crowd around him. The other half stares angrily, taking it as a rape joke. However offended they may be by it though, they are swept into surging resurrection of the banter. It rapidly overwhelms the buzz of the streetlamps.

Calin Shaychilde knows what he heard. And while he may have smiled at the joke, he is well aware that around that corner a victim has been born.

As usual, he’s alone tonight. He’s bouncing on his apart from the everyone else, fingers squeezed into the small pockets of his fitted Levis.  He has not attended a live show since he was in high school.

He’d been surprised hours earlier when he stared up at the movie theatre’s marquee and found that he’d already seen every single one of the films. Upon hearing his plight, the ticket seller had suggested he head here to watch his friends band play. So he had, and he was honestly pretty excited for some live music.

The excitement is tainted now though. The scream still echoes through his skull. He knows it will remain. It will linger after every song dancing between the ringing of his ears and the hum of the amplifiers. It is his duty, as a human, to investigate. He knows. If somebody is suffering around the corner it is within his capacity to help. And nobody else is going to.

Sometimes all it takes is a witness.

Maybe.

But his feet have apparently been welded to the concrete. And the pounding of his heart, trying to beat itself through his sternum, is growing louder. He wants to help. Every moment that passes could be the one that the screamer dies, or is forced into a van, raped, mugged. This party of the city is old, something darker could over there. No. Stop. He tells himself to get control of his racing mind. He wants to help. He just can’t. His hands are trembling, jittering away even within the confines of his pockets.

He’s well acquainted with the feeling. It’s the same combination of symptoms that wracked him throughout high school, when he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to share an opinion about a book, or answer a simple math question. It’s the same time stretching sensation that wells up every time he has to demonstrate a skill in front the watchful eyes of any other person. It’s a ridiculous response. He knows that. And he knows that because of it he won’t be helping the screamer. He’ll ignore it like so many other urges. Which is why it bothers him. There is no reason to be nervous about something you aren’t going to do. He knows that.

He needs to ignore it.

He’s focusing on his breathing when the doors to the venue open. The crowd lets out a holler and begins to tightly shuffle through the entrance.

The pounding in his chest hasn’t grown any better. Another heavy heartbeat hits with each footstep toward the door. He’s taken three steps when he turns his head to look over his shoulder at the corner of the building the sidewalk cuts around. He turns completely around with his next step and rounds the corner.

Several yards down between the parallel parked cars and the iron stained brick of the building he sees them, a man and a girl. She’s pressed against the building. Her feet are not touching the ground his hand is around her throat. He’s bigger than any man Calin’s ever seen. Not overly muscular or weighty, he just takes up a lot of space. The girl is small, lithe, jet black hair in a wild mess around her head and shoulders.

“What did I say? Are you stupid, or do you just not listen?”

Her mouth opens and a painful cross between a gag and gasp escapes. Her fingers claw unfruitfully at his vice like grip as her legs kick uselessly beneath her.

His grip loosens and she crumples to the ground. “Fucking stupid.” The glow of a neon sign paints his face red.

She’s gasping in great gulps of breath. “I’m sorry.” She manages to say between coughs. Her hands tremble as she touches her throat.

His foot lifts from the ground. Calins knows the kick will kill or cripple her. Against the wall leans a broken metal post with a handicap sign bolted to it. He doesn’t even realize he’s closing the gap until the sign is in his hands and arcing toward the man. The aggressor sees the approach from the corner of his eye and raises an arm defensively. There’s contact. It's the hardest Calin’s ever swung something and the impact rattles up his arms in separate quakes that shake the bludgeon free from his grip. They meet between his shoulder blades and settle there painfully.

The man grunts, and leans to the side as his forearm absorbs the blow. A growl escapes his throat and his other hand wraps around the square, perforated rod as falls to the ground.

Calin ducks as the man arcs it powerfully toward him with a single hand. It whistles over his head and goes sailing over the car to clatter on the asphalt out of sight. He’s reaching for Calin now, who knows that this man’s hands will mean death. Calin dances past them and behind the man where he shouts for the girl to run.

Fear has her though and it isn’t until he shouts again, “RUN!” That she climbs to her feet and jogs on wobbly legs toward the corner. Calin watches her disappear around the building. The distraction earns him contact with a sledge hammer fist that sends him dancing into the brick wall. He hits the sidewalk. His vision is black, but he feels the man’s foot move the air beside his face, and hears it against the concrete as he takes a step. Calin’s hand grabs the tree trunk of an ankle and the man falls.

Vision a blur he pushes himself to his feet and moves passed the rising hulk. By the time he rounds the corner the lights are still screaming but his eyes aren’t swimming quite as much.

She’s not far ahead, pleading with the doormen to let her in.

“-out a ticket.” Calin hears the end of one their denials.

“Please.” It's a raspy whine. “He’s going to hurt me.

She’s turning to leave just as Calin reaches her. She looks passed him to see if he’s being pursued. He’s not.

“Hi.” His mouth tastes like blood, he can hear the swelling in his voice.

Her eyes search his face for a second before she turns away from him and starts moving down the sidewalk away from him.

He catches up to her with some effort.

“Hey, wait.”

“Leave me alone.” She walks faster.

He reaches for her arm to try and stop her. She recoils the  instant she senses his touch. “What are you doing?” Her back is pressed against a tall blue and white truck, her finger in his face accusingly. She’s angry.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need-”

“I’m sorry.”

There’s silence. He produces a key. “That's my Bronco you're leaning on. Let me drive you some place safe.”

She steps away from the truck door. “I don’t need your help.”

“I know. It’ll make me feel better though. Like that guy ruined my face for a reason.”

Surprised by this last statement she stares at his rapidly swelling face. “He hit you?” She seems doubtful.

He just nods, rubbing the spot. There's still too much adrenaline in his system for it to properly hurt yet.

“No.” She says getting back to the topic of him driving her. “How the hell are you even standing right now?”

“I’m tougher than I look.” He doesn't look like much he knows. It hurts to smile.

She doesn't smile back. Shock fills her eyes, and then her mouth twists into a snarl. A large hand pushes Calin forcefully out of the way. He looks back in time to see the girl's hand grab the man’s face. There's a flash of light and he’s sent sailing through the window of a shop.

Her eyes lock hard with his, they’re green as a river valley in spring. “Fine.”

He doesn't understand what he’s just seen. “Huh?”

She walks around to the passenger side door. “You can give me a ride, but you better be quick. He’s getting up.” She points to the form rising in the darkened shop.

The truck is already gone by the time the man has climbed bloodily back through the window.

Twenty Five Tomorrow

A quarter of a century ago I wrapped my umbilical cord around my throat three times in a bid to remain in the familiar safety of my mother’s womb. It was at this point that the doctors decided to slice her open and pull me out, I was being evicted whether I liked it or not. She’s cooking my favorite meal, Pepperoni Lasagna, when I go see her tomorrow. I have a suspicion that she does this to make amends for the trauma being born caused. It’s a worthy offering though. I mean it’s lasagna with pepperonis in it and that just rocks my world.

Yeah, this is a birthday post.