The delicate, ethereal notes of a handpan float through the air and simultaneously lull my restless spirit and invigorate my body. This is also very confusing because it's 2 am and this is a truck stop diner.

A handpan consists of two metal half-shells glued together and is played by hitting it with your hands. It's kind of like a steel drum, but it looks like a tiny flying saucer or a giant robot clam. 

It sounds like more laid-back version of a steel drum. Where steel drums tend to sound bubbly, buoyant, and festive, the handpan leans into exotic meditative tones. 

Knowing this, I still don't know why I'm hearing it now. I've finished my eggs and toast, the coffee is cold and black like the icy roads I've got to drive on for the next hundred miles, and I'm enjoying the warmth of the diner for a few more minutes before I have to brace myself for the winter chill as I go back to my truck. 

Is no one else hearing this?

Rowyn's Spire

Halfway up Mount Cullerman, (the locals call Rowyn's Spire) within just a few hour's hike from the summer cabin, are the ruins of an ancient stone fortress. They lie just at the edge of the treeline, which is strange because the treeline everywhere else in the area is about 2 thousand feet higher. Out of all the mountains in this stretch of the range, the trees just don't seem to want to grow any higher up on this one. 

Maybe that's why whoever built the fortress chose that spot. It wouldn't be hidden from their enemies, but nor could the enemies sneak right up to the walls. 

They'd have to cross about fifty yards of scree with no cover, and the clattering of the loose rock would alert the guards, even in darkness, and be met with a shower of arrows. 

I can see the tactical advantages, but what was the fortress guarding? Why spend the time and effort to put up stone walls and ramparts to defend a bare, resourceless mountaintop?

I made a campfire in the center of the ruins, and was sitting on the crumbling stones all mottled grey and green with lichen, with the sun having just set, when I heard the gritty, scraping, sounds of something, or many somethings, from somewhere above. 

It hadn't occurred to me that the guardians of this fortress may have been trying to keep something from getting down. 

Delicate rains are common this season. Every night until the early morning. The days are still warm, and the heat of the morning sun unleashes tendrils of mist and fog that quest across the city, snaking through alleyways and pooling in parking lots. 

The fog muffles sounds; the footsteps behind you could be closer than you think. 

I don't worry too much about it. The mist is more of an ally. 

The Dorian Strand

She was smarter than me, and I found that a little annoying. I was rowing the rowboat, or "more accurately" the skiff, through the choppy waters of the Dorian Strand. She was sitting in the stern, navigating, head bent over a map and compass, checking the landmarks on the shoreline. Occasionally she would tap my knee if I needed to adjust course. Left or right knee; a single tap if I was a little off, or multiple if I was very off. We had no rudder, 

She hadn't told me where we were going, probably because she never tells me where we're going. 

I suppose I'm okay with it. If we were doing something illegal, I'd have the benefit of plausible deniability. 

Although last time, we were attacked by a gratuitously large "chambered nautilus." I had called it "one of those things that look like an octopus hiding inside a seashell." It had latched on to the rowboat with its tentacles and was using its spiny tongue, or "radula," to bore through the bottom. 

That time she had uncorked one of her many vials she wore in a bandolier over her dress and dumped it onto the writhing mass of tentacles, which then immediately turned itself inside-out. I think that's what it did anyway. Hard to tell with a creature like that but I'm pretty suremost of it is supposed to be inside the shell. 

I had just kept rowing the whole time. She usually handled stuff like that. Whenever we encountered something that just needed to be hit with an oar, she usually left that to me. Probably doesn't want to waste her ingredients.

Night Music

It's like we knew we didn't have time to be strangers. We became best friends so quickly I don't remember noticing. Now you're gone, and I'm sitting in a dark room listening to neo noir jazz songs picked out by a computer in my pocket.

I remain positive. There's a fair portion of my body that doesn't hurt, for example, and I focus on that.The cuts, burns, and broken bones I obtained while fighting by your side have healed pretty well, considering. Not perfectly, so I've had to adapt. 

The web of scar tissue has reduced some of my mobility. Still, I was always the slow one. You were quick, darting in and out, blades flashing. 

I'd slug it out with the heavily armored ones, knocking off armor to expose a vulnerable area, or just keep them busy until you figured out some other way to defeat them. 

You were the brains and the brawn, now that I think about it. And I was just...your friend, I guess. 

I lie down and try to sleep. I focus on the parts of me that don't hurt. It works, and I drift off. Perhaps there will be a good fight tomorrow. If someone needs help, I will be ready. And if nobody needs help, I'll still be ready. No need to overthink it. 

hidden factories

There are buildings with no roads that lead up to them. Generally made of red brick, with high, narrow windows. We have one on the outskirts of our small town. I don't know how anyone applies to work there. I heard you get a letter, with a contract to work for 2, 3, or 5 years. 

It's not a 9 to 5 job, whatever it is. The people walk out there, go inside, and they stay. They don't seem to ever come out the whole time. After their years are up, they walk back in to town. Most of them leave town and never come back. Those who stay keep to themselves, and don't seem unhappy, but none of them ever seem to work anywhere else again. 

stowaway

Stowing away had seemed like a good idea. Hide out in the hold for a little while, let the ship sail far away from my enemies, and then sneak out at one of the many island paradises along the trade route. Now, after two weeks of the dark, the damp, and horrible seasickness, Prell was lamenting that he was slowly dying, lying there in the mildewed belly of this ship, when he could have died quickly, on his feet, fighting in the sunlight of the city streets. He liked to fight. He might even have won. 

Instead he had run, and hid, and now he was alone, with his writhing innards, his regrets, and the taste of bile on his cracked lips. 

"Perhaps it's not to late to be a man," Prell croaked, his voice sending the gathering rats scurrying away. He began to crawl over to entrance of the hold, where he would try give himself up. He doubted he had the strength to climb the ladder, but he still had the cavalry whistle his father had given him. The shrill blast had signaled many men to charge into battle, sometimes their last. 

Maybe he'd even be able to get in one more good fight. 

Fog

The fog writhed grey in the darkness, twisting coils choking the streetlights. The sidewalk was slick, and I picked my way carefully home. I knew the path from my door to the pub very well, although I confess the way back was harder to remember. After a few pints, the cobweb pattern of streets and alleys were harder to navigate, especially in the dark. 

I usually make it home eventually.