the pig men were becoming a real problem

The hybrids had escaped from the lab and were eating all the crops and generally wreaking havoc. They were only 33.3 percent human, to get around the 29th Amendment to the US Constitution, that had decreed a minimum threshold of 40 percent DNA of human origin was enough to grant human rights. (And yes, we know how genes work and that we share DNA with many creatures, all living things are made up of the same basic building blocks, but this specifically refers to the source, not just the sequence.). 

They were more like pig centaurs, I guess, but without a clear delineation between the pig part and the human part. Imagine a regular pig; now stretch out just the neck, up and out like a horse's, but about twice as long. More like a llama. Then give it the oval shape of a human head, but much larger, with small, deep-set eyes, a pig snout, triangular ears, and bristles poking out all over. Many of the males will grow tusks. 

And right underneath the head, jutting out from under the chin, are a pair of small arms and hands. They look like someone stuck the arms of a five-year-old kid on them as a joke. They have five fingers, but no fingernails. 

It's the most unsettling thing about them. They are mostly active at night, but sometimes during the day you can see them resting under a shade tree, eyes closed, with those little arms folded underneath. 

Or the way they drink water by dipping their whole heads just above the surface of the river or pond and the little hands will scoop up the water and they'll slurp it up. 

Once, as I stood on my porch with the sun setting behind me, I saw one shading its eyes with its hands as it crept up to the edge of my vegetable garden. 

It's hard to keep them out. With those damn hands, they can open gates and latches. Even doorknobs. 

Someone really outta do something about those pig-men.

the end? 

Not really because this was/is a draft, one of many where I start jotting stuff down, and it's not even what I would call a story because nothing happens. Describing odd stuff is not a story. There are threads there, at least. There are definitely lots of opportunities for creepy hand things. Picking their teeth. Digging. Greeting each other by touching each other's faces. Or maybe face-holding. Pigs are omnivores and will eat any meat they can get so it seems natural that eventually these pig-men will try to eat someone. We'll see. 

Need Nothing

He was trying to get to bed early tonight. He'd felt off all week, and knew that it usually meant he hadn't been getting enough sleep. He wasn't tired yet, so he put on some instrumental music and stared at the wall. Off-white, knockdown-textured drywall. He would imagine shapes in the ridges and plateaus of the paint. A skyscraper. The head of a horse. A clawed hand reaching down. 

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Except... He could still see the wall. He opened and closed his eyes again. Still, the wall was there. He pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. 

He was wondering if he was dreaming when the clawed hand he has seen in the texture of the paint began peeling itself away from the wall towards him. 

Towards his face. Towards his eyes. 

He froze in terror. 

A searing pain, and then he saw nothing. 

The End

Author's Note: This was going to be about the mental strain of not being able to close your eyes and enjoy peaceful darkness once in a while but I quickly realized that being able to see clearly at all times is kind of a superpower and would become a whole thing and I didn't want to deal with the logistics of that right now. Goodnight!

*Note to self: it's twenty minutes later but why you don't you have him only see the image of the last thing he saw clearly? That could work. 

A Time Machine

You can travel to the past, if you really want to, but no one is there anymore. It's just an empty shell, a scaffolding holding nothing up anymore. In a past life, we met for the last time and hugged until we cried. I went back, once, and saw the tear drops on the ground and our footprints in the dust. 

You can go forward, too, but nobody is there yet. You can see amazing new places, cities and mountains and towns and architecture that means nothing to you, nothing to anyone, not yet. 

If I were trying to warn you against it, I would say "Time is like a river, and you can only step into a moment once" or something quasi-profound like that. 

But I'm not going to stop you. You've already gone, and I've already gone, but we didn't go at the same time. And we missed each other again. 

And I can go as many times as I like, for as long as I like, just hoping. But time moves on without us, unwavering, resolute. It will take longer and longer to get back to the present. Until one day, when you just won't make it. 

This isn't a warning. You've already done it. You already know this. 

Because you're the one who told me this. I read the message you left, written in the dust. 

The End

Author's Note: I was thinking about a story about a werewolf but then this happened. Goodnight!

Care To Go Around Again?

Shit. I'm finishing my second glass of Macallan 12 year single malt scotch when I realize that its September 30th. Nothing special about today, except that it usually means tomorrow is October 1st. That's the day I have a problem with. 

Exactly a dozen Octobers ago, I got a doppelganger. A double, almost an exact duplicate. I don't know how it happened. I was torn, I guess, wanting to be in two places at once. Then, I was. Staring directly at myself, like looking into a mirror. I had attacked him immediately. He had hesitated, I remember, which makes me suspect that even then, we weren't exactly the same. 

Other Me got in a lucky kick to my knee and I fell, and he ran. 

Haven't seen him since. 

But I know that he's still out there. I also know, somehow, that I'm completely safe for eleven months out of the year, but every October, for those 31 days, he gets a chance to destroy me. 

It's been so long now, and I haven't seen him at all. 

I stretch half-heartedly. I've been exercising, mostly. Partly. I'm ready for another physical fight anyway. My knee still bothers me, but I've got a brace for it. 

It's getting late, and I'm drowsy. He wouldn't attack right at midnight. That is, we wouldn't. It's too obvious. Plus, the dogs would bark. The dogs are the reason I don't just put booby traps all over the place. Also because, statistically, your booby traps are more likely to harm you than the actual intruder. Most major accidents happen in the home anyway. 

I hope we get to talk a little before we do battle. I have so many questions. Presumably, we have now had the chance to learn from double the amount of mistakes, so why not share that hard-earned wisdom with whoever wins? 

Whomever wins?

I'll also have to thank him, I suppose. These 13 years have been a lot of things, including a huge pain in my ass, but they haven't been boring. 

And I've got a good feeling about this October. 

The End? 

Well it begins. I'm going to attempt to write something fictional and spooky (or at least autobiographical and horror-adjacent) every day this month. Since I don't do NaNoWriMo. This one isn't that. Spooky, I mean. This isn't really writing; this is merely swirling the water a bit, as they say. 

I don't know, I don't like doppelgangers. We might be friends and I guess clothes shopping would be fun because we could share a closet. Still, imagine the pointless arguments. Everyone around us would probably kill us first. 

Goodnight!

November Mourns

November always felt different to Donal, and not just because all the monsters had gone back underneath the earth. The short October days were filled with preparation; the fortification of defenses, the sharpening of blades, the chirurgeons setting bones and stitching up wounds, and the burying of the dead.  

In October, the village felt alive. After Samhain, the final night of October and they had survived the largest, final assault, a torpor fell upon the people like a blanket of snow. True, they were exhausted from the month of nightly attacks, and eager to return to the dull routine of early-to-rise, early-to-bed. Soon enough the camaraderie of standing shoulder-to-shoulder would wear off, and they would be back to bickering with each other, as ancient slights were recalled. 

They were a warrior people now, although not exactly by choice, for when they had first settled here long ago, it was to fish and farm and hunt. They did it well, and they had done it peacefully for decades before the monsters came. The elders said the monsters had come because the village grew too large and attracted their attention. Donal didn't know if it was true, but when he went out with the hunting parties, sometimes they would find the remains of other villages. If his people hadn't been the first to settle the valley, they were certainly the ones left now. 

Donal walked to the blacksmith, the bellows finally cold after a month of repairing weapons and armor. He put his sword with the others. Nobody had their own sword here. All the weapons were made equally well, as there was always a chance the original wielder would not see the morning.

Last night, he had tripped over the body of a slain wulver, a creature with the body of a man by the head of a wolf. 

A nuckelavee, a grotesque half-horse, half-demon saw him go down and charged him. Eilidh, a fair-haired girl, had leaped directly into its path and drove her lance into its frothing maw. 

Over the monster's gurgling shrieks, he had shouted a confession of love and admiration, and she had returned it. Then they were back to the battle and had spoken no more of it. 

Why then, he wondered, do we only speak our hearts in the face of death? Do we fear revealing ourselves so much? Can we only be true for s single night at a time?

Donal resolved to go to Eilidh and repeat what he had told her when she had saved his life. If it was true in war, it would be true in peace. 

Perhaps this November would be exciting after all. 

The Second Promise

On the last night of October, there was no moon. The wind blew wet, cold, and briny, from over the the ocean and swirled around the small graveyard atop the hill, covering the green grass with grey, hoary frost. Its chill could not penetrate the earth; underneath, the soil remained warm and rich and alive. 

Crooked, rough-hewn headstones curved along the hill in grinning rows. Inscribed on the ivory slate was not a name and year. Instead, there was the first line, and the last line. This was not a graveyard for people. It was a graveyard for stories. 

Hamish Eshad had come to look for his.

His luxurious wool long coat flapped in the icy breeze as he walked slowly, holding up a storm lantern to each inscription. Though the hill was not large, and no stories repeated, Hamish searched for hours. Many of the stories began in almost identical ways, some even exactly so: someone is born, someone is lost, someone leaves home for the first time, a boy meets a girl. The endings, however, were always unique. 

Just before dawn, he found his. He had been concerned, as the night began to fall away, because he was not supposed to be here. When he found it, he almost wept with relief. 

This headstone had only the first line: "All endings are foretold by their beginnings; when Hamish Eshad met Killoran Rivers chose to meet once more, as if for the very first time, this was an act of defiance."

He sank to his knees and began to dig with his hands. The earth moved away easily, invitingly, and soon there was a hollow large enough to hold him. He sank down into the warmth and began to scoop the dirt over himself like a child at the beach. Hamish took one last breath, and with a final armful he was completely interred. After a few minutes, everything stopped, and the  graveyard was still. 

Then came the sharp staccato sound of chipping slate, and the headstone had its final line. The bitter wind blew the dust from the final inscription, and all was still once again. The last line now read: "Their last promise to each other was that whatever else happened, they would write their ending together."

 

THE END

But it was not the end. 

Hamish erupted from the ground with shower of dirt and a great rattling gasp. He coughed violently as the icy air entered his lungs again, and spat out the bits of loam and silt that had filled his mouth. He scrabbled upwards, out of his ephemeral burrow, and threw himself against the headstone to read the new inscription. He read them and laughed, a little hysterically, but mostly joyfully. 

By all accounts, this should not have worked.

Hamish didn't bother to brush himself off. He ran out of the graveyard, down the hill, and into the direction of the rising sun. He didn't want to keep Killoran waiting. He smiled as he ran. She had a bit of a temper, that one. 

THE END

Author's Note: I threw on Viking Wolf on Netflix because it's Norwegian and so I could have something on while I write, but because I don't speak Norwegian maybe it would work out better than that time I tried to watch Hellboy and write. I like listening to people talk, but if I understand the language it really interferes with my imner monologue. As I finished this story, the end credits came on and the song that plays over them is midnight love by girl in red and it almost broke me. It's a beautiful song and I was not expecting it. It's like these stories; so many of them have just gone wherever they want to go.

And I do kind of apologize for the false ending. 

But not really. I didn't know what was going to happen either and you know how hard it is to write a fake ending in writing when people can just skip further down the page? I don't know if it's ever been done unless you count "It was all a dream" but I would never do that to you, Dear Reader. Goodnight, thank you for being there for me (if you're not sure if I mean you, don't be silly, of course I mean you) and I love you all. 

The Hunter's Moon

The night before Halloween is always the most dangerous. All year, the undergods watch the evils done by humankind and harvest the miasma of suffering and despair left in their wake. The thaumaturgic substance was distilled, refined, and infused into effluvia rhamnusia, or ichor of nemesis, as the alchemists call it. I use the old name for it: soul phlogiston. It doesn't really matter what it's called. The most important thing to understand is that the worse we are, the worse it is.

As the sun sets on the 30th of October, ghostly tendrils, like stray threads of fog, are sent up from the depths of the earth, turning the land it touches into a corrupting morass. When the wisps of the noxious mist touch a living creature, flesh intumesces, bones elongate and warp, teeth and claws enlarge, erupt red and wet through the gums and and skin, gleaming like porcelain razors. Those innocent creatures, once corrupted, became an amalgam of nightmare and beast. Then they would turn to the city. 

Humans were not immune, although it was rare to find an innocent human in this city.

The city had grown too prosperous too quickly, and the vast structures had arisen in a frenzy of activity in only the past decade. Towering structures with flying buttresses, adorned with elaborate carvings. Pointed arches stabbed at the skyline, making the city look like the lower jaw of a slavering beast. Every prominent building had massive, stained-glassed windows, and the sunset trickling through them turned the streets the color of blood.

The narrow, twisting streets were cobblestone and brick, filled with blind turns, sudden inclines, and dead ends.

The moon rose in the sky, and night was here.

Every town has at least one hunter, and a city this size would need dozens. Tonight, in this city, I was the only one left. 

I did not wear armor. There was no point. A light, loose-fitting long coat over a coat, trousers, and vest to protect from the night's chill, sturdy boots, and a tricorn hat worn low to shield my eyes from the spatter of blood.  

We had firearms, but they were ineffective from any safe distance. You could only hurt them if they could hurt you. Those were the rules. 

My preferred weapon was a heavy, saw-toothed cleaver. The creatures that were coming to prowl the city for victims were not easily crushed, or shot, or stabbed. They had to bleed, or they would not die. Until enough of the nemesis salts were drained, they would fight on, slavering, enraged, howling, until they cut us all down. The cleaver's teeth were crude, jagged, and could tear through hide, bone, and entrails.

I shouldered my weapon and walked out from my workshop into the city, my footsteps heavy on the cobblestone, echoing down the empty streets. Everyone knew to stay inside tonight. The creatures would usually leave by dawn, and they would not come back the next night. Halloween would be safe, one way or the other. 

The wind shifted, and I smelled something sweet and metallic; the coppery smell of blood. I sighed, and my breath clouded around me. I heard the clicking of claws on stone, and glowing yellow eyes peered at me from the shadows, flickering in the light of the gas lamps.

I drew back my cleaver. "Stay calm," I thought. "Just think of it as nothing more than a bad dream."

More eyes appeared, and then the beasts were upon me.

THE END

Author's Note: Happy Halloween! Thank you for doing this with me. It's been...illuminating. And fun, and painful, and scary, and frustrating, and joyous. I don't know exactly how many stories I've written, but I know it's not 31 so maybe a few more will trickle out over the next week or so.

And yes, this is Bloodborne fan fiction, but I will not apologize. I love that game. And I changed it a little; there are undergods, not elder gods. Take that, copyright lawyers!

I am weary. And it's Halloween, so go face your fears and give out lots of that most delicious of candy: human kindness. Goodnight, and I love you all.

She Didn't Dance

She didn't dance, and it was an endless source of arguments. He would argue that it was good to lose control and let yourself go. She said that it might be good for him, but if she did that it might not be good for everyone else. He said that she was being her own worst critic and she couldn't possibly be as bad as she was making herself sound. Besides, what if they got married? She'd have to dance them! She raised an eyebrow at this implication. He raised his eyebrow back, and then thrust out his left arm, put his right arm around the waist of an imaginary partner, and waltzed off while pretending to weep. She laughed and returned to her painting. 

She never discouraged him from dancing, or refused to attend an event that involved dancing. She'd go with him to the night clubs and find a luxurious alcove, usually in the VIP section, and sip a bellini, a cosmopolitan, or a margarita. She enjoyed the music, and some of the places they went did put considerable thought and effort into the colors, and lighting. 

They had attended a wedding of one of his friends, and she had overheard a girl he was dancing with talking about her. The girl was drunk, and had said "Why is your girlfriend just sitting there? Is she mad at you or just being a bitch?"

He had laughed, "No, she's not mad at me at the moment. But keep it down or she'll hear you."

"So what if she does? Are you afraid you're going to have to stand up for her?"

"Oh I would love to, but she doesn't need me to stand up for her. You don't want her to hear you say that because she considers it a compliment, and I honestly don't think you're tough enough to be her friend. I'm looking out for you, really!" 

At the table, she had sipped her margarita to hide her smile. 

One night, they were walking home very late from a club. He was a little too drunk to walk straight and kept stumbling. They were still pretty far from home when she noticed they were being followed by two men. She giggled. The living blades at her waist, and strapped to her chest, arms, and legs, were very hungry, and the exercise would help her fall asleep. 

She turned into a dark alley. The men followed. Halfway down the alley, another man appeared at the opposite end, cutting off their exit. He stumbled against her again, and she used her hip to flip him over and toss him into the dumpster next to them. She didn't want him getting hurt.

At the burst of movement, the men rushed in from both sides. She chose the katana this time. Her form-fitting purple gown did not seem to have anywhere to hide an entire sword, and this caught the men off guard. As the first pair reached her, one grabbed at her arm to pull the katana away and the other circled to get behind her. 

She did a perfect pirouette and cleanly sliced off the arm of the man reaching for her sword. Then she did a pique turn and buried the blade in the second man's chest all the way up to the tsuba. The blade drank deeply.

She performed a fouette, a powerfu turn that pulled the blade free and whipped it towards the neck of the one-armed man, severing it completely. With a petite jete', she plunged the katana vertically down the neck. The blade drank deeply. 

The third man at the end of the alley realized he had no chance and turned to flee. She did a tour de reins, a spinning jump, contracting her back muscles and leaning toward the center of her spin at a sharp angle. All the momentum was channeled into the katana, launching it from her hand like a javelin. The sword flew straight into the fleeing man's back. He crumpled face-first into some garbage, and was still. The blade drank deeply, and was finally full. 

Her boyfriend was peeking his head out of the dumpster, his eyes wide. She smiled, and did a little arabesque over to retrieve the katana, still sticking up out of the last man's back. 

There was a blur, and the katana was gone, and all he saw was his girlfriend in her elegant purple gown, looking just slightly out of breath. She walked towards him. 

"Ready to go home?" She held out her hand to help him out of the dumpster. 

"Yes. Yes I am."

They exited the alley. He looked back at the headless man. "My love?"

"Yes?"

"It's okay if you don't want to dance at our wedding."

She smiled. "How very gracious of you. I'll try to keep that in mind."

THE END. 

Author's Note: I sincerely apologize to actual ballet dancers. I'm sure there are moves that are far more lethal than the ones I try to describe here, but please consider that I don't really know what I'm doing and technically it was the katana that was doing the killing. Which I had to add, again, because I don't know how a ballerina assassin would actually go about killing someone, I'm only certain that they COULD kill someone.

Seriously have you ever seen a ballerina's feet?! It's like they lift weights with those things. They look like they could kill you with just their pinky toe. 

Goodnight, and I love you all. If I'm found tomorrow plie'd to death, just leave it alone. It's just better for everyone not to anger Big Ballet. 

Six Word Scaries

In small amounts, arsenic kills imperceptibly.

As they jumped down from the roof, they noticed too late, the broken glass glued to the trampoline. 

Car crushing doesn't require corpse removal. 

Death in Carcosa becomes life here. We wake up from hell, to this, a lesser hell. I don't know where we go after this. 

Eagles can easily steal your eyes. It's their favorite food, human meatballs. They will circle majestically to entice you to look up. They are not monsters; they'll probably leave you with one. 

My choices built every bar of this cage. 

Gorging on entrails keeps getting easier. 

Healing is impossible without you. 

Infinity was going great, at first. 

Jokingly, I stabbed him, and laughed.

Kudzu vine grows so quickly there was no need to bury the body. 

Laughing too, I stabbed him back. 

Mechanical teeth ground into his back. "The animatronics appear to be working perfectly," he groaned.

Noticing she was being followed, she giggled. The living blades at her waist, and strapped to her chest, arms, and legs, were very hungry, and the exercise would help her fall asleep. 

Only the dream king could lie so boldly, because when he did it became true. For the rest of us, our lies were just wishes lost forever, like coins thrown down the well of Fate. 

Pizza so hot it burns the roof of your mouth, melts through your sinuses, your skull, your brain. Comes with a medium fountain drink. 

Umbrella ribs are made from people. 

Vulnerable areas were armored, but that just made hacking through them more exciting. 

When we kissed, the demons went wild. 

Yellow eyes burned in the darkness all around us. We ignored them; we had killed one, once, and it was only eyes. 

Zoos for people instead of animals exist; you are in one right now. It turns out if you let them build their own zoos, and imprison each other, they'll never look up and see their own cages.

THE END

Author's Note: I got tired of doing just six words. I think at least a couple are, but mostly they aren't.

Kite Wagon, Wandering

He knew exactly when he had lost her, but not exactly where. He had lost her before, many times, as she had lost him in turn. They'd always found each other again quickly enough. 

This time, years had passed. He searched on. He still had their vardo, the intricately-carved and luminosly-painted wagon with straight wooden walls that sloped out like a loaf of fresh bread as they rose to meet the eaves of the roof. When they were together, he had called it home. 

It was her vardo, really. She had built it, and had carved every image: flowers, cats, constellations, chickens, and children. 

He had only painted the wagon. He was a painter by trade. 

She was a painter too, and a builder, and a carver, and she made the healing potions. Little vials of concentrated magic, to treat all manner of ailments, were stored in neat rows inside the glass-fronted china cabinet. 

Almost all their income had come from her potions. 

Since he had lost her, he had refused to sell any. He had only used one vial to treat his mule, Toro, when the loyal beast had been bitten by a grey mamba, and would have surely died without it. 

She would have been unhappy, he thought, if she knew that he had been avoiding helping anyone with her potions throughout his long, lonely search for her. 

He couldn't bear to part with anything she had touched. And it would only be a little longer. He was close; he was sure of it. As sure as he had been the first year, and the second, and still now, in the twelfth. 

Close enough he thought he could smell her in the air. The scent of joy, of light, of love; despair. 

This was not an ending, he knew. She had told him, once, that when they reached the ending, if he wouldn't realize it himself, she would tell him. 

She promised. 

The Accidental Ofrenda

The night of November 2nd, the last day of Day of the Dead, I was driving home after my usual second shift at the Children's Hospital. My usual route home had a road closure because someone ran into a fire hydrant and flooded the whole thoroughfare. As I was struggling to find my bearings after being dumped onto a side street, I saw a little red and green restaurant. It was a Fratelli's Pasta Palace. "That's funny," I said out loud, because I talk to myself sometimes. "I thought they closed all those a long time ago."

In truth, I knew for certain they closed down over a decade ago. There were no locations left in Phoenix, or anywhere else in Arizona. I knew this because a long time ago, on every payday Friday, I would take my little brother to Fratelli's for dinner. 

Luis was a pain in the ass. He was born with Kabuki Syndrome, which, along with distinctive flattened facial features, arched eyebrows, wide-set eyes, and large ears, also caused him to have significant problems with feeding. As a newborn, he would not eat at all, which combined with all his other issues, caused him to spend the entire first year of his life in the neonatal intensive care unit. He had a tube in his nose that went down to his stomach and that's how he got his food. Eventually, surgeons placed a gastronomy feeding tube into his stomach so he could get enteral nutrition. Open the button, use this big syringe and a tube to squirt in the food, and that's how he would eat. It was a whole thing. 

The condition also gave him the longest most beautiful eyelashes you'd ever seen, and he very quickly learned how to bat them flirtatiously at his favorite nurses. I mean, the kid was developmentally disabled, but he definitely wasn't stupid. 

It was called Kabuki Syndrome because people who had it would be very pale, like kabuki theater actors I guess, and for the last of 5 children born to Mexican parents, his caucasity was a subject of much teasing. When he turned 16, we joked that he needed to hurry up and get his driver's license so he could drive the rest of us around. At that time in Phoenix, we had a sheriff who was particularly fond of pulling over those of us with browner complexions. Well, it was funny to us.

But basically he never got very good at eating. When he would eat, it was usually junk food, like chips or donuts. It was always a struggle getting him to try any new food, but I guess that first year when he was being fed through a tube in his nose, and then through the g-tube, it severed the connection between hunger and food. He would get hungry, but he knew he could wait it out until he got his enteral nutrition and in the meantime, he would graze on only the tastiest treats. Clever boy.

All those years ago, on one payday Friday, we drove to the Fratelli's and it was closed, for good. The food there was essentially mall food-court quality Italian-reminiscent food, but they would give you  unlimited garlic butter breadsticks, and the food wasn't bad, just kind of bland. You can't really go wrong when your main ingredients are pasta and cheese. But Luis loved it. Anyway, that time they were closed, so we had to go somewhere else that night. 

And then there it was, down a random side street, a Fratelli's. I almost never ate fast food anymore. I sighed. Some breadsticks would really hit the spot right now. 

I went through the drive through, ordered a half-dozen breadsticks. I paid, got that weird aluminum foil/paper bag of breadsticks, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and began my drive home. 

With my eyes on the road ahead, I reached over for a breadstick and felt something soft, warm, and...pudgy? This was not a breadstick. I looked over and saw that pale face, long eyelashes, and toothy grin. It was my little brother, Luis, still nineteen years old, just as he had been when he died. 

"Hey man! Looking for this?" he said, and held out a breadstick. I snapped my eyes back to the road. 

"Luis?" I said.

"Yeah?"

"You're dead."

He chewed thoughtfully on a breadstick, then said "Yup."

"Okay," I said. "Just making sure. Still, could you put your seat belt on? You're making me nervous."

"Okay!"

"I'll take that breadstick now."

He handed me one. I held it, but I didn't eat it.

"Luis?"

"Yeah?"

"Coming back on the Day of the Dead is pretty damn Mexican."

He laughed. 

"Hey man, do you still talk to Jose?"

"No, he moved away a little after you died."

"Oh. Did you get that job at the animal shelter?"

I had to think back. "Yes, I did actually. About a year after you died. I don't work there anymore though; I mostly just help humans now."

"That's cool too! Hey, are you still not talking to our older brother? 

"No, Luis, I mean, yes I'm not talking to him. I don't talk to him." 

"Why not again?"

"Let's just say he's more dead to me than you are."

"That's pretty dead" he chortled, spraying breadstick crumbs everywhere.

"Luis, come on, man, you know that stuff that pretends it's garlic butter bleaches everything it touches!"

He did not apologize.

"Hey Luis, when I dream about you, am I just dreaming or is that really you?" 

"I hope not; your dreams get really weird."

"Luis, can I ask you a serious question?"

"Yeah man, sure, there's one breadstick left."

"Oh, is that how this works?"

"Not really, but I am gonna leave after I eat this breadstick."

"Okay. Here goes: did we hold on to you too long?"

He munched on the last breadstick and thought about it. "No, I don't think so. I wasn't even conscious for the last few days, so all that stuff they were all trying to do to keep me alive was pretty much for the family. It was probably good to feel like you did everything you could."

"Thanks, little brother. I kinda think you're lying, because you know I feel really bad about that, but thank you anyway."

"Man, shut up!" He laughed, crumpled up the empty foil bag, and threw it at my face. I turned away, and when I turned back, Luis was gone.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

"I'M BACK HERE NOW!" Luis shouted, popping up out of the backseat. I cursed and swerved and nearly hit a tree. He laughed hysterically. I regained control of the car, and this time when I turned back he was really gone.

"Damn you, boy," I said, wiping my eyes. "How are you still such a pain in the ass?"

THE END?

The First Witches

The first witches didn't need brooms to fly. The first witch, ever, was a village healer. She would gather plants, flowers, roots, the venom from reptiles, the poisons from insects, and clays from the banks of rivers and ponds. She ground bark from the trees, and made poultices of leaves. She was doula and midwife, and mother to new mothers. She was a scientist of nature, and a philosopher of humanity. And while she applied her remedies to the body, she used the power of words, songs, and symbols to bring about a change in consciousness in the mind of her patients. The body and mind, in harmony, provided the most fertile ground for recovery. 

The villagers called this "magic." 

Until one day, when she was unable to save the beloved son of the chief elder. So called holy men, from other villages, had been steadily gaining influence with their idea that the words, songs and symbols were enough, if the spirit believed strongly enough. They called this "faith." The spirit was a third place, separate from the mind and the body, and in fact completely independent, they said. All were equal in this, in the beginning. And the words and songs and symbols could be learned by anyone. They would not teach it to just anyone, only those deemed worthy, but the egalitarian trappings were enough to convince more and more people every season. 

The holy men hated her. Her patients repaid her healing in food, or cloth, or building materials, not in coin. If her patient had nothing; she charged nothing, and she healed them the same. Every patient who had the means to do so, would give her a little more the next time. They had known, before the holy men, that everyone is in danger of suddenly having nothing, and that it would not always be a result of their own actions.

The holy men demanded coin for their services, and the coin soon became a convenient measure of faith. Those without coin, lacked faith, and were not deserving of their spiritual salvation.

The chief elder had resisted these holy men, and had taken his son to her for healing instead. And the boy had been recovering, albeit slowly.

But while the holy men knew nothing of healing, they knew quite a bit about poison. They tainted a skin of goat's milk, and concealed it among the villager's offerings of food for that morning.

The boy died that evening.

And the chief elder, in his grief, found faith. He wailed and wept and gnashed his teeth, and declared that magic was evil, as the holy men had been saying all along, and that they would not suffer her to live.

The chief elder, the holy men, and many of the villagers, stormed the home of the healer. She lived away from the rest of the village, near the edge of the white cliff overlooking a tumultuous sea. They dragged her from her home, and, as she watched, they burned it down.

They beat her, and threw her down at the edge of the cliff. As she lay on the ground, at the very edge of the white cliff, her blood mixed into the chalk of the white cliffs. This very source of chalk (now turning red from her blood) had been a key ingredient for soothing upset stomachs of many of the villagers who were now striking her, and she thought back to how she had shown them how to mix it with a bit of water, to make a paste that would keep their teeth clean and strong. She smiled at the thought, and it was that which brought tears to her eyes, not all the pain she had endured. 

Seeing her smile, and her tears, the crowd grew quiet and fell back. Except the chief elder, who grew even more enraged, and with a cry, lifted her slight frame, and flung her from the edge of the cliff towards the jagged rocks below.

And instead of falling, she flew.

She flew.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Might have been listening to Anoana by Heilung while I wrote this. Goodnight, and I love you all.

You know every night for the past however long I've been doing this, I keep thinking it's going to be the last. And then the next night, here I am. What am I turning into? Whatever it is, I hope it likes ice cream.

20/20 Vision

 My eyes have been burning for days. At first I thought it was allergies. But they weren't red, and my nose wasn't running like it usually does when the pollen is high. I thought it was my contact lenses; sometimes bacteria can grow on them and irritate the cornea. I took them out for a couple of days and wore my glasses.

The pain still got worse and I started growing horribly sensitive to sunlight. My vision through my glasses started getting blurrier. I panicked then, and rushed to my optometrist. They checked my vision, left the room and spoke in hushed tones with all the techs, and then came back in and redid all my eye tests. 

I'd been near-sighted my entire life. But now, the doctor told me, my vision was perfect. 

They didn't understand it. They also couldn't see any reason why my eyes felt like they were burning.  Or why I was so sensitive to sunlight but not other sources of light. They noted that my pupils were dilated more than normal, but when they shone that penlight in my eyes, my pupils did not contract like normal. That light didn't hurt, or bother me at all.   

The eye doctor finally admitted they couldn't see anything was actually wrong with my eyes, and not-so-subtly suggested it may be psychosomatic. My life was good, I told them, my back hurt sometimes and my blood pressure is a little bit high but otherwise I am healthy and my life is normal. There's no reason I would make this up. The doctor assured me they never said I was making it up; just that if it was physical it would have to be something completely unknown to eye science. At this point I gave up arguing and just glared. Finally, they gave me a pair of blocky sunglasses they normally give to people who have had their pupils dilated, gave me a free sample of soothing eyedrops, and sent me on my way.

It was odd leaving an eye doctor without a new prescription. Since I was a kid, at my annual checkups, my eyes had always gotten a little worse each year. So what changed?

This morning, it happened. I learned I can see the worst thing a person has ever done. I was in the office, 15 minutes early, getting my morning coffee, when I said good morning to Heidi and my mind's eye was flooded with...something.

It's hard to describe. It's like I'm imagining their memory? Or I'm in their memory; but not as me. I'm not a bystander stepping into a movie. I remember it, as them. The very first time I see someone new, it happens involuntarily. It's hard to go out into busy places. But after I've seen it once, I don't see it again unless I really focus.

The other surprising thing for me has been that, for the vast, vast, VAST majority of people, it really isn't that bad. Mostly they've hurt the feelings of someone they love by being neglectful, or selfish, or angry. Sometimes somebody got hurt physically, or worse, but it was usually an accident. But their memories are still steeped in regret; a desire to change for the better.

Then there are the others. People who want something so badly they'll destroy anyone that gets in their way. They have no regrets. I hold on to their faces, to their memories. In their worst moments, I know everything they know, and it's enough that I can find them again, if I decide too. I know that I can make sure they never hurt anyone again.

I also know, somehow, that if I do, the never-ending burning in my eyes will stop, at least for a while. 

It's gotten so bad I can't even sleep.

And the final surprise: Not only has my vision become perfect in the day (except for my aversion to sunlight,) my vision in total darkness? I can see perfectly. 

I can't take much more of this. It's late, really late, and I need to sleep, and it hurts so much. Maybe I'll go for a walk. Clear my head. 

There's no moon tonight. Who knows who I might run into?

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My eyes hurt, and I've been extremely sensitive to sunlight. I'm pretty sure it's definitely allergies. Although, fun fact, my pupils are a larger than average. It's not really a good thing; because your pupils should be the exact right size for the amount of light you're in. So when they're larger than average, you (that is, me) are more sensitive to light and have slightly worse vision overall. Now I need to get some actual sleep. Goodnight, and I love you all.

1st draft: 10/24/23, 2307

Sunrise In Gene's Garden

Gene sat on the porch overlooking his small garden, sipping on a cup of white tea and watched the sunrise illuminate the violets, primroses, and lily-of-the-valleys that were growing together nicely. It was a delicious late-spring morning and little tendrils of mist played along the ground as the sun chased away the remains of the night.

Gene stopped mid-sip as something caught his eye. He put his mug down on the porch railing, and wiped his classes on his nightshirt. There was a little winding brick path through the middle of the garden, and coming up the path, towards him, was a small, orange tabby cat. The cat was wearing a maroon bow tie and a cat-sized top hat. The cat hopped up on the railing of the porch and stared at Gene. Gene stared back.

"Gene," the cat said. "I am here for your soul. Please come with me peacefully or this could get really unpleasant." The cat waited, twitching its tail. Then the cat pushed the half-full mug off the railing. Time slowed and Gene watched the mug tumble over, saw every drop of tea splash and sparkle in the sun, as it fell towards the ground. "Just kidding!' The cat continued. The mug struck the ground, and the ceramic shards skittered across the floor.  "You don't actually have a choice." 

"Who are you?" Gene stammered. 

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you that. All cat names are secret; that's why we don't come when we're called. But don't worry about it; everybody gets a different animal. Some poor saps get a cheetah, or a peregrine falcon, and they don't get to enjoy all this" here the cat made a sweeping gesture with its paw towards the garden, " for very long. I'm not saying cats are slow, mind you, but we're not big on itineraries. Now then, before we go, do you have any last words?"

"I—"

"Just kidding! You can tell me on the way. By the way, my name's Valencia. It means 'she who is valorous', depending who you ask. So good thing you asked me.'" The cat hopped down and trotted down the path. "Now let's get going! We've got lots to do!" Gene rose from his seat, and followed the little orange tabby down the path.

* * *

The mail carrier found Gene that afternoon, slumped in his chair on the porch. The mail carrier took his pulse and, finding none, immediately ran off to get help.

From the grass, watching the mail carrier disappear into the distance, was a snail wearing a maroon bow tie and a tiny top hat. It waggled its eye-stalks in exasperation. "Aw nuts!" It said. "Missed 'em again! I should not have taken an early lunch." The snail sighed, and took one last nibble from a white hawthorn flower. "Ah well; live and learn I guess," it said, and began to slowly crawl after them.

THE END

1st Draft: 10/23/23, completed 2248

Author's Note: Should I save the author's notes for later? I feel like they don't give a person time to sit with a story. Ah, well. This is a blog, after all. I made no promises that there wouldn't be blogging in close proximity to any Shocktober Short Story Flash Fiction Frenzy content. This is another blank page one. You can't tell from here, but there was a solid hour of pure despair between the first two paragraphs and the rest. I had seen this drawing on Instagram of a frog in a top hat riding a snail. I thought it would be funny if that frog and snail suddenly appeared to a guy sitting on his porch. But that's not a story. Not a story at all! What are the rules? Why would a frog be riding a snail towards a guy on a porch? I mean it's kind of unsettling but not inherently frightening. A regular frog jumping on a person is more frightening than a frog slowly coming towards them on the back of a snail. You can get weird with it but get too weird without the proper context to hold it up and fear turns into puzzlement, and that turns into scrolling on to something else. Anyway ultimately I like this one. Yes it's kind  of about the creeping inevitability of our own mortality but mostly it's about sassy talking animals in hats and bow ties, so it balances out. Goodnight, and I love you all. Oh snap I almost forgot the title. Sometimes all I have is a title, and I build out from there. But these writing desk/blank page stories are just me sitting down and seeing what sticks. At least they have been so far. On my phone, where I have been writing most of the previous stories, the drafts are organized differently because it's on the Blogger app. On the desktop site, they are all mixed together. Different environment produces different stories? Not exactly, but the finding the momentum is different, the sorting through the ideas is different, and the ability to build is different. Overall I much prefer typing than swiping a touchscreen. Different spelling errors, and less outright wrong autocorrect word choices. Here, my mistakes...are my own!

Oh right, a title. Gene's Garden? Sunrise In Gene's Garden? Why did I name him Gene? There was a reason. Most of my names are a reference to something. Oh that's right, that's Norm MacDonald's middle name and I was watching his stand-up while I was trying to think of what to write about. He died, you know. I bet his animal was a youthful porpoise. Kind of flopping after him and making that eeh-eeh-eeh chittering noise. What? Don't underline chittering in red, spellcheck software. That's a legit word!

Oh right, a title. Um...the tea is white tea because it's something to do with spring and renewal, I think, but I can't find where I thought I read that. Okay, good enough. 

My Last Bedroom

I grew up deep in the country, in a Victorian house. I stayed in a room in one of the severe, steep gabled roof, in what was once the servant's quarters. I had chosen it myself, at one point, because it was the furthest away from my parents. Oh, they were kind enough, but they were gone so often and it broke my little heart to see them in a constant state of unpacking and repacking for their next safari, mountaineering expedition, or sea voyage. I was left under the stern but caring eye of the butler, Mr. Rohan, the young cheerful cook, Miss Ada, and the wise old gardener, Tomohiro. 

Mr. Rohan was clean-shaven, broad-shouldered and tall, with alert, grey eyes, and the faintest touch of grey creeping into the temples of his black hair. Every so often, he would allow me to follow along as he attended to the myriad demands of running the household. I would later learn that this was unheard of, and now I think Mr. Rohan was both caring and shrewd. He knew that I was a lonely child, and he knew that if I developed a sense of all the effort it took to keep our home warm, happy, and peaceful, that I would would also begin to be feel responsible for it. Less likely to cause a mess, at least.

Miss Ada was my favorite. She had come to us from a town at the edge of the Black Forest in Germany, and would bake Lebkuchen for the two of us. They reminded me of gingerbread, but tasted better. She said it reminded her of home. I told her I wished I had something that reminded me of home, and she laughed. She would let me sit on the counter and watch her cook, and sometimes she would even sing German opera. They all had funny names, and I couldn't understand the words, but my favorites were from "Die Fledermaus," and "Der Freischütz". I would help scrub the pots and pans while she sang.  

The gardener, Tomohiro, had been a monk. I don't know if that was his first or last name. He said he had left the monastery because all the  meditation and prayer got in the way of his gardening. He would say things that sounded very somber, but he had this way of laughing with his eyes. And we had the most beautiful garden. In one corner of the grounds, he even planted sunflowers, which were not in the detailed plans my parents had laid out, but he knew they were my favorite. If my parents ever noticed them, they never said anything. I would run out to check on my sunflowers throughout the day and marvel at how they turned to follow the sun. 

That was my life, until just after my parents had gone to Tunisia for the winter to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. The day after their arrival, Miss Ada had fallen ill. By the end of the week, the plague had both Mr. Rohan and Tomohiro, and I was all alone.

My parents never came back. But I'm okay. The house has never fallen into disrepair, and there is always something to eat waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I wake up. The layout of the garden bears no trace of the straight and narrow rows of my parent's original design, but it still healthy and beautiful. Every day, I walk its forking paths until I end up in the little corner of the grounds that has my sunflowers.

They are big, and golden, and I still love looking at them. But they don't move anymore.

 Every night, I go back to my little room in the attic and sleep. And when I dream, I see Mr. Rohan, Miss Ada, and Tomohiro, and they tell me I'm a good boy, and they tell me all sorts of stories. I don't understand most of them, and some don't even have proper endings.

So I thought I'd write them all down. That's what this collection has been. I don't know what's going to happen to me. I guess it depends on whoever is writing my story.

But I've got my pen, and I've got my paper, and I've learned a lot from my collection of stories. Maybe I could write my own story. It would be about a good boy who is loved, and is happy, and isn't all alone. 

And his flowers would still follow the sun.

THE END

Author's Note: I set up my writing desk again. The vast majority of the previous stories were written on my phone, and my pudgy thumbs led to many interesting spelling errors. This is certainly different; sitting at a desk. Just like old times, I suppose. Certainly easier to research. 

This was  a blank page story, and of course it got quite melancholy. Still, I think there's hope for the protagonist. Nobody wanted to be in that house, and he was loved, but not by who he expected. Reading back now, I guess there a few different interpretations, and I can tell you that I don't know which one is correct! I was just writing down what I observed, but I don't know what happened, if that conveys the sense of things.

Maybe he's being cared for by the ghosts of his former caretakers, granted a reprieve from heaven or hell while they care for him. Maybe he's been doing the cooking, and caring for the house, and the gardening, based on what he learned, and he doesn't realize it. The sunflowers are a clue, but if he's an unreliable narrator...all bets are off, right? Maybe the boy is a different kind of ghost too, because in a way he always was before. Or there's more there that I'm not seeing right now, because writing this story made me sad and all my interpretations at this point are likely to skew lugubrious. There's hope, I think, at the end. Hearing enough stories, good or bad, can inspire you to write your own. 

Because as you can see, I have no idea what I'm doing but I seem to manage somehow.

"I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing." -Stubb, from Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

Goodnight; I love you all.

Seasonal Offering 2: The Chili-ing

I was working alone in my office when the little man in round eyeglasses walked in and handed me a flyer for The Autumn Festival And Chili Cook-off. He looked like a middle-management type: khakis, short-sleeved collared shirt (light blue, or "business blue" as I called it, because it's the only color corporate-types seem to allow each other to wear.) He was soft-spoken, and seemed almost shy as he explained that he owned the Sidron Excavation & Construction Company at the far end of the business complex, and they were inviting everyone from the myriad of different businesses to come over and celebrate the season. There would be games, rides, music, "And of course," he said, animating a little. "You're welcome to enter the chili cook-off!" 

"I'm not much for cooking," I said, 'but it sounds like fun. I'll see if I can make it down there."

The little man smiled, gave a kind of bow, and left. 

I examined the flyer. Noon to 2pm, this Friday, October the 13th. 

My favorite kind of food is free food, so I stuck the flyer to my tack board and got back to work 

* * *

That Friday, right at noon, I walked over to the parking lot that had been cordoned off for the festival. It was just me, because my colleagues all worked from home. I fancied myself a man of the people, so I had volunteered to stay and work at the office while everyone else went remote. My company shipped all our product, so customers almost never came in. I joked to my bosses that I could be gone for days before any customers noticed. Still, for insurance reasons, we had to have a physical office and at least one employee there. I didn't mind. It was quiet, I got free coffee, and no one ever stole my lunch from the break room. Well they did once but it was really me pretending to steal my own lunch. I guess I did get a little lonely sometimes. But I could turn the air conditioning to whatever I wanted. Having been born and raised in the Arizona desert, I preferred a warmer temperature than my colleagues. When they had been in the office, it had felt like a meat locker in there. 

I approached the jauntily decorated tents, booths, and rows and rows of tables and chairs, but something was wrong. I could I could hear music, but I didn't see any people. I sniffed the air and frowned. I didn't smell any chili cooking either. Was I early? I stuck my head into the main tent.

Then that little fucker with the glasses smashed me in the head with a carnival mallet. 

* * *

I regained consciousness on the floor of some kind of storage shed. I was surrounded by stacks of bags filled with potting soil, cedar chips, and limestone chalk. 

The little guy with the glasses was standing over me with that ridiculous brightly-painted carnival mallet. There were a few flecks of blood, presumably mine, on his business-blue shirt. 

This wasn't good, I thought. 

And I was right. As he began using the mallet to break my legs, the little man thanked me for coming to the Autumn Festival, and told me that every year they invited one special guest to enter the chili cook-off as the main ingredient. 

When I screamed for help, he calmly explained, between mallet strikes, that it was okay, that everyone here for the festival knew exactly what he was doing and they were all looking forward to consuming me. 

He went on and on about how one of their deeply-held religious beliefs was exocannibalism, and how it was a sacred ritual that would grant them eternal life, and that as well as consuming my body, they would also be imbued with any "valued qualities" I might possess, but not to take that too literally because even among the faithful, that part always seemed a little silly when you said it out loud, and it was an open secret that they all felt exactly the same after. He confessed to me, a little out of breath but continuing the mallet swings, that he wasn't particularly devout anymore, but the sense of community was still important, he enjoyed cooking, and at least the ingredients were cheap and plentiful. 

And because this year the Autumn Festival actually fell on a Friday the 13th in October, attendance for the faithful was absolutely mandatory. I should feel honored, he said, because all would partake. 

Once he was certain there was no chance in hell I could escape now that he had completely tenderized my legs, he said he had to go and bring the chili up to a boil and then I would be stripped and tossed in alive. Then he left the shed. He didn't bother to tie me up; he just walked right out. Didn't even close the door behind him. He knew I wasn't going anywhere. 

Through the open door, I could hear people talking and laughing, and wafting in was the unmistakable smell of fresh chili.

I had let the little man talk, had not begged or pleaded or tried to reason with him. Mostly because I was too busy screaming in pain, but also because I knew there was little use arguing with a fanatic. Also, I was desperately focused on staying conscious through the pain, because my watering eyes had seen a single large bag of zinc phosphide, a powerful rat poison, stacked up in the corner with the other supplies. 

I knew a little about rat poison from a previous infestation in the office. Since our buildings were all part of the same interconnected complex, they must have had the same issue too. 

With zinc phospide,, this stuff gets converted to phosphine gas in the body, which is subsequently absorbed into the bloodstream through the stomach and the intestines and gets captured by the liver and the lungs. 

It'll mess you up. In large enough amounts, it will definitely kill you.

I tore open a corner of a bag of the poison and began to eat. Poisoned rat bait was not my first choice of last meal, but like I said, my favorite kind of food is free food. And I can eat a lot of free food.

The rat poison wasn't bad actually; it tasted a little garlicky, but not unpleasant. 

When I was completely stuffed, I tore open a couple of the bags of cedar and potting soil and scattered it around to hide what I had done. 

The little man came back. "Everything is ready for you!" He chuckled. 

I said nothing. I had lost a lot of blood and didn't think I could speak if I wanted to. As I was dragged out of the shed, towards a massive, shining steel pot of chili bubbling over an open flame, I threw back my head and shouted, "Absorb these valued qualities, fuckers!" 

Not my first choice of last words, but I do hope they all remember in a few hours when they all mysteriously come down with upset tummies, pulmonary edema, and heart failure. 

Cause of death: food poisoning. 

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was the original concept for Seasonal Offering, based on a real invitation at my work to a Friday the 13th Chili Cook-off. But as you can see, it needed a lot more setup so I went with the easier coffee shop one at the time. But this one had to come back as a sequel. I think it worked even though it was no surprise that this guy was going to get eaten. My stories so far rarely seem to have a protagonist who actually "wins" so this felt like a good compromise. 

It's not that I have anything against a protagonist winning; it's more of a function of these being so short that I can set them up and then knock them down, where they stay down. In a novel or movie, the protagonist would then grow or change or realize the real free chili was the friends we made along the way, and then use that to propel them upwards to a triumphant resolution. 

But they are in the wrong story for that. 

Down here are some initial notes I made. Not a lot, considering I sat on this one for over a week. But I guess the three essential elements were there: chili, cannibalism, food poisoning. 

I scrapped the gruesome carnival games because again, this whole thing started as a joke and it wasn't meant to be actual work and I spent 3 hours on this one, the longer yet, and still I had to take every shortcut I could think of. 

So anyway. Goodnight! I love you all. 

Concept notes:

Memories

Seasonal offering

Chili cook-off Friday the 13

Games like a human carving contest

Pin the tail on the human

Bobbing for apples. What? I'm guessing they're not apples

Locked him in the shed. Don't wear yourself out. 

Police Found everyone dead zinc phosphide rat poison.Cause of death was listed as food poisoning. 

The Music Of The Penumbral Forest

Every winter, when the nights were long and dark and cold, the Penumbral Forest would fill with music. Thereb was a village at the edge of the forest called Vermillion,  and on those nights the people could hear the faint strains of stringed instruments: elegant violins, moody  violas, somber cellos, and mournful harpsichords. 

The villagers all knew it was best to ignore it. 

Every few winters, tragedy would strike. There was always a child that would be too curious, too sensitive, too stubborn, too brave, and be drawn by the little night music that they could hear. They would try, inevitably, to find the source of the music. 

Some villagers went to extremes to prevent this. Parents would stop their children's ears with wax. Or place hobbles on their feet at bedtime. One family built their entire home on stilts, and pulled up the ladders and locked them fast every night. 

And should those efforts fail, one final precaution was in place at the path leading into the forest. 

Wolf traps work just as well on children, and the village healer could often save the leg. 

And yet, it was never enough. 

The villagers failed again and again because children will always be sensitive, curious, stubborn, and brave. You cannot hide the world from a child, who is closer to seeing things as they are, not as they want them to be. This inherent power, the villagers could never change, and in thinking they could, they had already lost. 

So every few years, a child would slip away in the night to seek answers and adventure, and never return. And the next winter, there would be one more musician, playing forever, the music of the Penumbral Forest. 

THE END

Author's Note: I'm so tired. Happy though. Goodnight!