Fuse Blog

“You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.” — Jack London

How do you balance constructive criticism and the honesty required to give a helpful critique?

I try to always start by telling the author something I liked about their piece. Even when it is horrific, I can generally find at least one good character name or other trivial point to give a positive comment about.

After I have stated at least one positive thing I let the critique flow. A writer can’t improve unless they know their weak spots. Don’t waste time giving a fluffy feel good critique, tell the author what stinks so they can sweeten it up.

In graduate school the professors always said to end a critique on a positive note, but I generally forget to do this and thus far no one seems to care.

How do you balance constructive criticism and the honesty required to give a helpful critique?

Jacob

A Game of Risk Chapter 1

by artemisx5

“Up there?” I asked, pointing up the ladder.

“Can you think of another way to get the crepe paper up?” replied Shawn.

“But I’m wearing a skirt,” I protested again.

“Your problem,” Shawn answered, and walked away with her clipboard.

“Can you think of another way to get the crepe paper up?” I muttered to myself as I mounted the ladder.

“Problems, Murphy?” My best friend, Jack, teased from the neighboring ladder.

“That girl is evil when she’s got the clipboard,” I whispered.

Jack snorted. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

I secured the end of my roll of crepe paper to the basket ball hoop, and started back down the ladder.

“Nice shorts, Gwen,” Jill—my other best friend—called up as she walked past.

“Thanks, Jill.”

“Whatcha got on?” Jack asked from a few rungs higher.

“My Little Pony,” I said, lifting the hem of my uniform skirt just enough to show off the romping horses on my boxer shorts. The only way to survive wearing a wool uniform skirt is to wear boxers underneath.

“Classy,” Jack nodded.

“And you?” I replied.

“Tazmanian Devil.” Jack tugged the waistband of his own boxer shorts out just slightly.

“Festive.”

“That doesn’t look like working!” Shawn’s voice sailed across the gym.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“Let’s get this over with.”

We slid their ladders across the floor to hang the rest of the paper. By the end of the rolls, we had developed a rhythm: I held both rolls and twisted them together as we walked to the next hanging spot, Jack climbed the ladder and taped up the decorations. Finally, the last of the roll was ready to go up. It came up just short of the Halloween banner on the wall. Jack came down and we eyed the display for a moment. I glanced over both shoulders.

“Let’s move the banner. She’ll never notice.” She was Shawn of course, self-appointed Social Director of Saints Agnes and Andrew High School.

“All right, quick.”

We hurried back up the ladders. I unhitched one end of the banner, and Jack the other. We attempted to slide it over, but it was clearly secured in the center as well. I eyed the distance between the ladders and decided to go for it.

“Here I come,” I announced and stretched out one foot. For a moment I was falling through thin air, then my foot caught the backside of Jack’s ladder. “Sweet!” I said, just before my ladder jarred slightly from the altered weight. I found myself doing the splits eight feet up two ladders.

“Grab the middle,” Jack said.

“Got it.” I freed the banner and Jack managed to slide it down to meet the crepe paper. We slapped our palms against the tape to keep it in place.

“All right, let’s get the heck out of here,” Jack started down his ladder, and I tried to shift my weight back to one ladder. I couldn’t move.

“Jack, I’m stuck!” I whispered, laughing.

“You are not.”

“Yes, I am! I can’t get back.”

Jack appeared below me, looking up. I squawked, trying to cover my exposed boxers.

“Oh, relax. I’ve seen it before.”

“Not since we were five!” I protested.

“That’s what you think.”

“Get me down so I can smack you,” I hissed.

“All right, all right,” He tried pushing one of the ladders toward me, but the opposite one just pushed away.

“Aaahck! Stop it!” I pin wheeled my arms, trying to stay balanced. My shriek finally caught the attention of the other students in the gym. Jill immediately started laughing.

“Jill, shut up!” I hollered, not even needing to see my best friend to recognize her laugh.

“A little help here,” Jack called. Matt and Mark came to his aid. “Hold the ladders still.”

Jack appeared below me again and started up the ladder that held my left foot. He nearly toppled me as he got the right height.

“Careful!” I said, wobbling.

“Yeah, yeah.” He reached out and curled his hand around my waist, gripping the waistband of my skirt. I shuddered when his thumb tickled my skin. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Just get me down.”

With a grunt and a frightening moment of weightlessness, I was safe on one ladder again. The small crowd below clapped.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Just a little…stretched.” Actually, my thighs felt like jelly, but I didn’t need to share.

“Let’s get down.”

“’Kay.”

Jack left me clinging to the ladder while he climbed down first. I was working myself into an internal froth about the lack of chivalry as I climbed down, but as I stepped onto one of the last rungs, I felt Jack’s hands on my waist. He guided me to the floor and I disgusted myself with a little heart thump.

Here’s a secret: I am a hopeless romantic. I dream of being a tragic heroine, like in the classic romance novels. Give me a love song and I am lost. A romantic movie? Please; I will have the dialog memorized after one viewing. But, this is my little secret, because it would totally destroy my cool-girl reputation. I am supposed to be the girl you can count on for a sarcastic comment, a laugh at a dirty joke, and to always go along with a prank. So, I hide my secret moments of romantic thinking. Such as this one.

Jack and I have been neighbors since we were born. Literally. We have the same birthday. Jill lives around the corner of the same block. She is four months younger than Jack and I. She didn’t move into our neighborhood until she was eight, but we became friends right away. The three of us have always been like peas in a pod. I am absolutely against romantic thoughts about Jack. But, even he can inspire my hopeless heart. That’s how much of a sap I am. Disgusting, isn’t it?

Anyway, back to the story.

The small crowd assembled around us applauded when I was safe on the ground.

“What is going on over here?” Shawn demanded, pushing her way into the circle.

“Nothing, anymore.”

“You missed it.”

“Jack saved Gwen,” someone said.

Shawn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. We’re done here anyway.”

A small chorus of cheers rose up.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow at the dance.” Shawn did a quick turn and walked away without another word.

“Ugh, that girl!” Jill muttered when Shawn was out of earshot. She imitated Shawn’s purposeful walk, earning a few snickers.

“All right, who needs a ride?” Jack asked.

I put my hand up along with Jill, and three other people who live in our general direction.

“Let’s roll.”

When we hit the parking lot, I noticed the weather was decent for October. “Top down!”

Jill groaned, “My hair.”

“Oh please. Who are you trying to impress?” Jack said.

“You never know.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Jenny said.

“Fine.” Jill crossed her arms while the rest of us worked on securing the top of Jack’s ancient convertible down. As soon as we were done, she called, “Shotgun!.”

“Back seat!” Jenny said at the same time as her boyfriend, Eric. Eric climbed in over the side before anyone could open the door. He held out his arms and called, “Matt, I’m open!”

Matt, a rather huge athletic type, seemed to know what this meant, because he picked up Jenny—who shrieked—and tossed her up to Eric, who caught her easily. Jenny is a teeny little Vietnamese girl, but I have never considered her even remotely tossable. Boys are very strange. Matt jumped in after Jenny, leaving me with the undesirable seat in the middle of the front. Great.

We managed to squeeze in with all backpacks in tow, and Jack somehow managed to shift the car into gear around my knees.

Jill twisted sideways, squishing me further, to talk to the passengers in the back. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

“I’m going to be a fairy,” Jenny announced.

“Criminal,” Eric said.

“Interesting couple,” Jill said.

“He’s always a criminal,” Jenny elbowed Eric in the ribs.

“It’s comfortable!” he protested.

“What about you Matt?” Jill asked, eyelashes fluttering ever-so-slightly.

“Gag me,” I mumbled to Jack, who laughed. We loved to make fun of Jill more than almost anything. Since puberty, Jill has been boy crazy. I’m starting to think it’s chronic.

“A devil.”

“Ooh, I’m going to be an angel!” Jill practically jumped over the seat to tackle him.

“Oh brother,” Jack mumbled.

“What about you guys?” Jenny asked us.

“That’s top secret,” Jack replied.

“No it’s not,” I retorted.

“Just because you know doesn’t mean everybody has to,” Jack said.

“Oooh,” Jenny said, “now I’m intrigued.”

“I’m gonna tell,” I teased.

Jack let go of the wheel with one hand, and wrapped me into a headlock with his hand over my mouth. He had me so tight I couldn’t even open my mouth enough to lick his palm. That would have made him let go right away. I pulled at his hand, wheezing laughter through my nose.

“Real mature, guys,” Jill said, but she was laughing too.

To my shock and horror, Jack managed to keep his hand over my mouth all the way to the corner where we dropped off Jenny, Matt and Eric. Matt and Eric lived around the corner from each other, and Jenny was headed over to Eric’s house.

“See you guys tomorrow,” Jenny called as they headed off.

“Impressive dedication, Evans,” Matt saluted Jack.

“Thank you,” Jack acknowledged with a nod. He maintained his death grip on my head until we were a block away.

I gasped when he let go. “Jerk!” and I gave him a good punch in the shoulder.

He laughed, but rubbed his shoulder.

“What is the big secret, anyway?” Jill asked.

“There isn’t one,” Jack said.

“Then what’s with the headlock?” I demanded.

“I thought it was funny.”

And for some reason, it struck me as funny then, too. I laughed hard enough to get my eyes watering, and Jack laughed right along with me.

“You guys are demented,” Jill declared when Jack rolled to a stop in front of her house.

“My neck totally hurts!” I laughed.

Jack broke into fresh giggles.

“Whatever,” Jill got out and slammed the door. “I’ll see you idiots later.”

I jerked my thumb in her direction. “She thinks we’re idiots.”

“She doesn’t get it,” Jack laughed.

He pulled into his own driveway. Within 30 seconds, my sister Efa was on our front porch.

“Hi! Hi Jack!” she waved.

“Your girlfriend’s here,” I whispered to Jack.

It was a well-known fact that Efa had a raging crush on Jack. She was only 13, and the poor child just could not grasp that a 17 year-old guy was not interested in her. Jack has a brother in Efa’s class, Brahm, but Efa thinks he’s “gross.” This is kind of true. But, in my experience, all 13 year-old boys are kind of gross. Maybe she’ll transfer her affections in a few years.

“Hi Efa,” Jack said.

She beamed at him. “I got the Killers CD you told me about.”

“Cool.”

I thought her face might split she smiled so big.

“I think mom’s looking for you, Ef,” I pointed to our mother’s face in the window. She was clearly just checking what had caused Efa to run outside, but it worked.

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Bye,” she waved again and went inside.

“Omigosh, Jack you’re so cool,” I gushed. “Can you tell me everything you like so I can go out and get it too?!”

“Ah leave her alone,” he said. “She’ll get over me…eventually.”

“Oh brother,” I sighed.

“Come over later,” Jack ignored me. “We still have a game of Risk going.”

“Oh whatever, I am clearly winning that game! I don’t know why you bother playing.” I poked him in the ribs. “Besides, you’ve probably been messing with my armies while I’m gone.”

“I haven’t touched them.”

This was true. He hadn’t touched them. We have this conversation all the time. We’ve had the same game of Risk going for over a year now.

“Okay, I’ll be over later.”

“See ya.”

After dinner, Efa and I watched the end of Moulin Rouge, which had been playing when I first got home. That movie has some great romantic moments, but the end always depresses me.

“That’s so beautiful,” Efa sighed.

“It’s too sad!” I protested. “Why does she have to die?”

“Their love wasn’t meant to be,” Efa answered, sounding way too wise.

“All right, I’m going to play Risk.” I got up.

“No fair!” she pouted.

“What’s your problem?”

“You always get to go over by Jack.”

“It’s no big deal. We’re just playing Risk.”

“You never play Risk. You probably just say that so you guys can be alone.” She jumped up on the couch, shouting over the back as I headed for the back door. “You probably just go over there to kiss him.”

“Okay, eww,” I said. “Ef, he’s my friend. That’s it. We like to hang out. There is no kissing.”

“Yeah, right.” She flopped onto the cushions again, disappearing from sight.

“See ya, kid.”

I cut through the yard and entered Jack’s house from the patio.

“Hey Brahm,” I greeted the Evans child that I could see at the computer in the family room.

“Hey.”

I stuck my head into the room. “Hi Mom and Dad,” I greeted Mr. and Mrs. Evans.

“Hi, honey,” Mrs. Evans waved.

“Hey girls,” I called to the sisters Zoe—age 12—and Annie—age 10—who were absorbed in something on TV. They each raised a hand, but didn’t look away from the screen. The fifth Evans child, Cassie was nowhere to be seen.

“Jack upstairs?”

“Yup. Who’s winning?” Dr. Evans asked.

“Me. Of course.”

“Am I ever getting my ottoman back?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“Probably not tonight,” I gave my standard answer.

“Give him hell,” Dr. Evans said.

“Yes, sir,” I saluted him. Dr. Evans had been a Marine for 10 years, and there is just something about him that demands respect. Both Dr. and Mrs. Evans are from the South originally, Mississippi I believe, and require their kids to be very respectful. All of the Evans kids are super polite and say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ when they talk to adults. It kind of makes me laugh.

I trooped upstairs to Jack’s room. The lights were off in the hall, but I knew the way by feel, smell or sound. I’d been finding my way here since I was about 5 years old. I popped the doorknob open and gave the door a swift kick.

“What up, J?” I adopted a ridiculous gansta stance as the door swung open.

“Hey, check this out,” Jack said, ignoring my pose. He was under his loft on a beanbag, watching TV. Dr. Evans and my dad had built the loft when we were 10, I think. It used to hold a virtual city of Matchbox cars and Legos, but once we got to high school, the toys were cleared out and a mattress took their place. Now there was a small sitting area beneath it. The old, tiny TV was hooked up to a DVD player Jack had inherited from his grandfather when he had upgraded to an easier-to-use model. There was a huge green beanbag in front of the TV with easy access to the stereo and the old Playstation that had been replaced by a Playstation 2 in the family room a few Christmases ago. Apart from the usual bedroom furniture, there was an ottoman, confiscated from the living room to hold our Risk board at a comfortable height. The Risk board had actually started to gather dust where it sat in the corner. We hadn’t even rolled the dice in about two months, because we were forever getting distracted by something.

I flopped onto the beanbag beside Jack and looked at the screen. There was a black and white movie on.

“Young Frankenstein,” he announced.

“Nice!”

We watched in silence for a while, passing a bottle of water between us.

“Oh, by the way, you suck,” I told him at a commercial.

“Why?”

“My neck totally hurts from your headlock.”

He grinned at me. “That was awesome.”

“Like I said, you suck.”

He gave me a half-hearted, one-handed massage for a few seconds.

“Gee, thanks.”

The old movie ended, and we surfed channels for something more exciting. Jack found a more recent horror movie on one of the cable channels. “Oh, this is a good one,” he declared. He has a strong stomach for fear, apparently. I however, sat with my stomach in my throat.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, and I jumped. He laughed.

“You scared me!”

“Obviously.”

“What did you want?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Are we going to the dance together?”

“Hunh?”

He sighed. “This is my nonchalant way of asking if you have a date.”

“Oh. No. Why?”

“I don’t either, so are we going together?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, yeah. I just assumed we were. We are, aren’t we?” He’d never asked me to a dance before; it was just understood that we would be riding together. There had been a couple of dances that one of us had dates for over the years, but we’d still carpooled. He was making me nervous all of the sudden.

“Yeah, of course, forget it.”

“Okay.” After a moment I added, “Good.”

“Good.”

We fell into an awkward silence until Jack joked, “We’re gonna look funny together.”

“The cowboy and the princess?” I laughed.

“Rapunzel,” he corrected, giving my long ponytail a tug. “You’re such a girl.”

“I thought that’s what you liked about me.” I batted my eyes at him.

“Yeah, it’s a little uncomfortable sitting on the bean bag with Mike,” he said. I laughed at the idea.

He surveyed the room for a moment. “Someday we’ll have to finish that game.”

“We should at least dust it,” I agreed.

Ordinary Chapter 1

by jokrupinskiyahoocom

Evelyn Ashbrook was exactly one hour shy of seventeen, and she was waiting.

Underdressed in her yellow skirt and pink sandals, she couldn’t stand another minute of the solemnity that the occasion of her father’s death prescribed. It had been six months. She had grieved. She had cried. She had worn black at all the events her mother had held in his honor. She wouldn’t live that anguish any longer.

And yet here she was, again seated in the same rigid wing chair across from Lawrence Grey’s desk. The attorney’s office was modern and sleek. A mahogany desk gleamed from under several neatly stacked piles of documents and an array of Post-it notes. The room had the unmistakable feel of sophistication and class, and she found it surprisingly intimidating. The last time she was here she barely noticed the paint color, despite it being her favorite shade of green.

Mr. Grey had been the family’s attorney for as long as she could remember. She had always known him to be a decent man, so when he called her on her cell phone early yesterday morning, she had no reason to challenge his motivations.

But however strange it was that he had called her personally, even stranger was his request for a private audience. He had alluded to the fact that this was in reference to her father‘s wishes, but she didn’t like having to resort to subterfuge in order to come alone.

She rarely lied to her mother. She rarely lied to anyone for that matter. She figured all she had in this life was her name and her word. And if she was a liar, neither was worth anything.

But, of course, this was different. She sensed this meeting would transcend her philosophical principles of moral conduct. And besides, this wasn’t the first time she had been compelled to lie on her father’s bidding. His secrets were worth keeping. The ones she knew about, anyway.

But her mother hadn’t seemed to care that she was spending her Sunday with friends at the mall. As long as anyone in this backwater town didn’t recognize her used Jetta parked at the law office, she’d be fine. The only thing worse than lying, she imagined, was getting caught.

She shifted in the stiff chair and couldn’t decide where to place her hands. It was awkward to leave them folded so neatly on her lap — it felt too formal. She moved them to the arms of the chair, resting them lightly on the plush brown fabric. She quickly pulled them back again and snatched her purse from the floor. She cradled it in her lap, working the straps nervously with her fingers.

The door on her right came open abruptly and she jumped in her seat. Mr. Grey blew in gracefully, ever the quintessential lawyer, dressed in a power suit and black tie. He was carrying the classic combination-lock briefcase, leaving in his wake the scents of authority and aftershave, in that order.

He acknowledged Evelyn with an easy smile and ran a harried hand through his stylish salt and pepper hair. He reached his desk in three long strides and plopped the briefcase on top of the Post-it notes, sending a few gliding toward the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up.

Seating himself gracefully into the chair behind the massive desk, he wheeled it close enough to extend both arms across the table and clasp his hands together. He smiled again, as if to reassure her, and the action highlighted the gentle creases at the corners of his deep brown eyes.

“Well, Evelyn, I should tell you that it is not my normal practice to meet with minors unaccompanied by a legal guardian, but in this case I felt obligated to make an exception. Your father adhered to interesting ideologies, I must say.” He templed his fingers and gazed pensively at his silver cufflinks.

A few seconds later he glanced up at her again, his face wearing an expression of concern. “So how’re you holding up, kiddo?”

Evelyn stared at her feet. How was she holding up? Lately it seemed like whenever she heard that question, or one like it, it was an inquiry of polite obligation — like some unwritten rule of etiquette deemed it necessary before a normal conversation could commence. She continually reminded herself that people were just trying to be nice, to show they cared. But the truth was, no one ever really expected an honest answer to that question. And no one really knew an appropriate response. How much more of it would she endure before it became appropriate to stop asking?

“Um, okay I guess. It’s been rough, but I’m getting through it.” She gave her stock answer as practiced as always, and timidly rubbed her arms as if warming herself from a chill. “Christopher’s been a big help, though. He always knows the right things to say. I really don’t know how I’d get along without him.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Grey replied, smiling. “I haven’t seen you around the house lately, and I was beginning to worry that the two of you were fighting. I remember the last fight you both got into — what was that, the fifth grade?”

“Oh yeah.” She relaxed a little with the memory and grinned. “Christopher got mad at me because I lent Katie Snyder the colored pencils that he bought for me with his allowance.” She laughed then and added, “Guess I deserved it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. My son can be a bit strong-willed at times.” He considered his words for a moment and recanted. “Maybe pig-headed would be a better term,” he said with a smirk.

“At times.” She laughed. “But I’m still grateful for his friendship. He’s like my other self.”

He contemplated that for a moment, and a vague expression passed quickly across face. Not quite worry, not quite regret. It was something in between. He sat back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on his lap.

“You know, Evelyn, despite our, uh…troubled relationship, I’ve always been very proud of my son. I wish he felt close enough to me to consider me a friend, but I know that the road behind us has made that difficult. I’m very grateful he has you to talk to, but I do hope you will not let our differences influence your trust in me.”

“Of course not, Mr. Grey. You were a dear friend to my father.” Well, that was true, anyway. And it was the only thing that reassured her at all about this meeting.

He looked at her appreciatively for a moment and then cleared his throat. “Okay, so, on to the business at hand.“ Opening his briefcase, he pulled out a small white envelope and placed it on the table in front of him. He clasped his briefcase closed again and set it on the floor next to his chair.

“Evelyn, when we met last, your mother and I discussed the appropriate execution of your father’s will and the sequence of actions to follow.” He picked up the envelope and tapped it absently on the desk. “But there was something that I was not at will to discuss at that time, and especially not with your mother present.”

She gave him a quizzical look. Her demeanor clearly expressed confusion, because Mr. Grey sat back in his chair and shrugged, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Your father’s orders.”

As if that explained anything.

“I don’t understand,” Evelyn began, perplexed. “Whatever else he had to say, why did it have to wait this long?”

“I’m not fully aware of the nature of the information, only that he had specific requests regarding its dissemination.” He held out the envelope to her encouragingly.

She reached across the desk and tentatively accepted it, noticing her father’s scrawled handwriting in black ink across the front.

Larry, please remit to my daughter exactly six months following my death.

~ John

She turned it over, examining the opposite side, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Curious, she began to open it. But she barely got a finger under the fold before Mr. Grey reached abruptly across the desk and grabbed her hand, nearly crushing the envelope within it.

She gasped, startled by his unexpected reaction. For a moment, she could do nothing else but stare at his large, white-knuckled fist gripping hers. She remained still, though her heart was thudding so loudly in her ears that she was amazed he didn’t seem to hear it.

He was instantly embarrassed and removed his hand from hers. He nervously smoothed his tie against his chest and seated himself once more in his chair.

“My apologies, Evelyn,” he began anxiously. “It’s just that your father — well, he was very clear that there were to be no witnesses to your examination of the letter.” He attempted to gather his composure, but traces of red still flushed his cheeks. “Including myself.”

“What? But that’s crazy.” She stared at him indignantly.

He knows something. Something big.

Suddenly, mere curiosity gave way to feelings she had been bottling up for months. Anger, because the last six months had made her an unwitting pawn in her father’s post-humus game of secrecy. Pain, because she felt that she must not have known him at all while he was living. And guilt, because this was the first time she had ever been truly angry at him.

“What on earth is going on here, Mr. Grey?” She stood up from her chair and tossed the envelope onto his desk. “If my father was involved in something so cloak-and-dagger that even you are afraid of its consequences, then what makes you think I want anything to do with it?” She spun around and walked toward the door, her eyes brimming with tears.

“No. Wait.” Mr. Grey had the envelope in his hands once more and followed her out the door. He glanced uneasily around him as he slipped it into her purse. “Read it. Please. He said it will explain everything.“ He paused again, lowering his voice. “Come see me when you understand. Good day, Evelyn.”

With that, he retreated to the security of his plush office and shut the door behind him.

Uncertain what she should do, she stood staring at the black vinyl lettering that spelled out his name on the frosted glass window.

***

Evelyn parked her car in the garage, grateful that her mother was still at her pottery class in town. She walked to the kitchen and scribbled out a note that she was going to take a walk. Margaret wouldn’t have to guess where. It was the same place she always went – the patch of woods that her father had cleared for her when she was a child. It was her private sanctuary.

Lying flat on her back against the mossy earth, she stared pensively up through the twisted branches of the hemlocks and maples. Her wavy brown hair had become tangled with weeds and fallen leaves, but she didn’t care. This was where she had come after the accident. And where she had come every day since then. It kept her centered.

There had once been a tree fort here that they built together, but she made her dad take it down when she was nine because she had become convinced that there were “tree people” living in it. He had laughed at her and she refused to talk to him for a day and a half after that. But looking back, it did seem like a childish daydream.

She examined once again the seemingly sacrosanct, yet completely nondescript envelope Mr. Grey had given her. She analyzed the handwriting. It was clearly her father’s. His left-handedness gave it a unique slant, with smudges of ink here and there where his hand pushed across the words he had just written.

She closed her eyes and tried to recall a memory. As time went by, it became more and more difficult to produce his image at will.

This time he was in the attic, seated at the nineteenth century roll-top desk that used to be his grandmother’s. He sat hunched over, as usual, despite her mother’s constant admonitions about poor posture. His black brows were furrowed in concentration, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Why he always chose to write in their humid, non-air-conditioned attic was beyond her.

His glasses were halfway down his nose, but that made no matter to him. When he wrote, it was a feverish scratching at the paper, a flurry of cursive and shorthand that rarely got transcribed into more legible forms. Most often, the lined yellow paper would go into a file labeled “Theories/New Research.” The file would then get locked away into in his oak cabinet, in a drawer marked with masking tape and red ink: Private.

She squeezed her eyes tighter. No. Then she opened them quickly. No more tears.

She held the envelope out as far as her arms would reach. The last of the day’s sunlight illuminated its corners, revealing the folded pages within, and the shadow of handwritten words upon them.

She stared at it for a long moment. Once this letter was opened, there would be no turning back. Whatever was inside would change everything — she judged that from Mr. Grey’s reaction. All the secrets, all the forbidden things her father had kept so well hidden — would they be revealed? Did she really want to know?

She dropped her arms to her belly and inhaled deeply, her lungs turning crisp with the chill. Autumn had fallen quietly over the New England landscape, trading the aromas of wild onions and blackberry for those of pine and harvest. It was the time of year when the days were still warm, but the evening air quickly turned cold and damp with the receding sun. She loved everything about October in Connecticut. She especially loved this forest when the soil became lush and wet, and its darkness held such a contrast to the colorful foliage of the woodlands.

The forest’s edge lined the perimeter of her family’s five-acre home, and it was relatively easy to disappear from society whenever she chose. Waldgrave was a small town, too small if anyone asked her. Granted, she knew nothing different — she had been born and raised here — but the collective mindset of the town’s 4,900 residents was just so…provincial.

Her father had called it “neighborly.” She called it nosy and narrow-minded.

He was good at that, though — shielding her with euphemisms, buffering her against the intolerable daily gossip. Given that her mother enjoyed her fair share of the rumor mill, conversations at the dinner table had become nearly painful. She missed her father’s carefully interjected comments about her mother’s latest book club title, or some other subject-changing topic. Often he would talk about his newest investigative report for the Waldgrave Courier-Post, which she was always grateful for, as it limited the opportunity for idle chitchat. He would throw her an inconspicuous grin and wink while asking her to pass the rolls.

If nothing else, he protected her too much. Until now.

She sighed and made a conscious effort to gather her courage. Well, Evie, she told herself, using the nickname that her father had given her, it’s vain for the coward to flee.

She carefully slipped a finger under the fold and began to tear at the edge. She made a small opening in the corner and brought it to her eye like a telescope, as if cheating would somehow absolve her from any real involvement.

Oh, this is ridiculous. Just open the stupid thing.

She sat up and leaned against the massive oak at her back. She took a breath and held it as she ripped off the end of the envelope in one swift, reckless motion. Holding the torn piece in her right hand, she paused and looked around expectantly. What, no terrifying beasts? No atomic bomb?

She sniffed. Of course not. Mr. Grey had some serious issues.

She reached inside and slid her fingers along the ridges of the folded paper. It didn’t have the same feel as the legal paper her father always used. This was coarser, like parchment. She began to pull it out when a rustling of leaves to her left caused her to stiffen. She turned her head in the direction of the noise, scanning the trees and brush around her.

Nothing.

Probably a deer. She put her attention back on the strange paper inside the envelope and tugged at it, easing it out carefully.

Another rustling, closer than before, got her attention once more. She froze and listened again.

A few leaves blew over each other in the distance, then fell silent. She looked ahead. A few more leaves, less distant, lifted and swirled and scattered along the ground. Soon, the swirling motion took on a linear direction – like a path being made by an invisible force. As if something were moving in her direction, kicking up leaves in its wake. But…there wasn’t anything there.

This wasn’t a natural event — it wasn’t an erratic shift in the wind, or the scurrying of a small animal. Something in the air changed, and the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She often got this same feeling just before a thunderstorm. There was a charge around her, and it was growing stronger with each passing second.

Someone — something — was coming.

The leaves began swirling more quickly, moving closer. She scrambled backward in surprise, the papers in her fist getting soiled as she dug her wrists into the ground for leverage. The invisible presence moved toward her with undeniable purpose, the whirling motion of leaves and dirt coming at her like a storm — and then stopping abruptly at her feet. A small gust of wind blew her hair over her shoulders and sprayed dust in her eyes. She blinked, instinctively covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.

A new scent lingered in the air — it was so familiar. She knew that smell, but from where? It was sweet, yet woodsy, like honeysuckle and wet pine needles. The aroma of it made her nostalgic for something that was just out of her memory‘s reach.

She remained frozen where she sat, not necessarily by fear, but more by some strange, uncharacteristic defiance that began to pulse through her. What on earth did she have to fear now? The worst had already happened. Why should she live so tormented by the past? By the unknown?

No. She was through with that.

She dropped her hands from her face and squinted out at the nothingness in front of her. Standing up with a new determination, she faced the unseen presence. It was there, directly across her, emitting an electricity that was impossible not to feel. She gingerly stretched a hand out in front of her, struck with a desire to touch the air around it, to see if she would strike something solid.

As she did, there was a sudden jolt of movement and the stirring of leaves underfoot. She brought her hand back quickly in astonishment.

And then she grinned. Was it possible? Had she surprised it?

Oh, yes, she was done with fear.

* * *

Kearne Blackstone stood staring at Evelyn in disbelief. She must have been about seven years old the last time he had seen her. And a good thing, too, because right now he wanted to wring her pretty little neck. She had been a thorn in his side back then, and it seemed the tradition would continue.

Really? Was she grinning at him? How smug. He had half a mind to try out his newly acquired magic on her right now. She just might enjoy spending a few hours liberated from the burden of free will. He raised a hand toward her, palm up and fingers outstretched. What did the pitiable old faerie say just after he had rendered him powerless? Oh yes – be careful on whom you choose to use compulsion. Some were immune, and the whole thing could backfire.

Well, he’d take his chances.

It was so familiar, the surge of energy that rushed from his chest to his limbs to his head. Every spell pulsed like an electrical storm under his skin. His extended arm began to tremble with the current, an evanescent haze of cold blue creeping in an aura down his body. He could contain it for a while, but there came a point when it would no longer be his power to bear. The forces would culminate in an existence of their own, then strike out against the objective with a strength unequal to anything a common fey might conjure. He was gifted, and it came with a price.

Suddenly he thought of John Ashbrook. A terrible price to be gifted, indeed. Indecision flickered across his face, his cheeks burning with the heat of his blood. He struggled against the power, putting forth more effort than seemed necessary to recall a spell of his own creation. The haze around him began to fade and recoil as he slowly lowered his arm to his side. The blood drained from his face, and he blew out a sigh.

Using compulsion on her might provide some comic relief to this insufferable servitude, but it certainly wouldn‘t help matters. He was here and he was a man of his word, if nothing else.

And there was no use getting himself in trouble again.

Stupid bloody girl. She had no idea what he was capable of. No idea what she had just gotten herself into.

But she carried the Summons. There was nothing he could do about that. He was bound by faerie law to protect her. And if it was necessary for him to make an appearance, who knew what was about to be unleashed.

Hell, what had hegotten himself into?

Chapter 1 of Estaroth

by EstarothAvestas

A mantle of mist lay low over the mountains. Like a dense shifting blanket, it made its way through the deep valleys, swallowing trees, plants, animals, giant rocks and even the mountains themselves in its cold embrace. The inexorable journey of the mist through the vales and natural basins was the ushering of a new beginning. Spring was close.

The massive peaks, towering to all sides with their snowcapped summits were almost completely shrouded in the clouds that rode on the mists. The sun, as if reborn, peeped over the distant horizon, a pale yellow ball suspended over the earth as if frozen in time. Its orange rays lit the air, shooting shafts of light into the sky as if they were heavenly pillars to support the far-flung bowl of the sky.  It was a sight to see, but if one were not caught in the midst of the mist.

Two powerful chargers galloped down an old worn road to the south of the mountains. One was a glossy black gelding which flew over the ground with tremendous bursts of speed; the other, a heavy chestnut stallion followed a pace behind, keeping up with its steady thundering gallop. The loud drum of their hooves filled the forest, startling animals away from the road as they rode by.

Astride the chestnut was a burly man with long curly red hair and beard that fell to his chest. His arms, each so thick that one hand could not encompass their girth, were bare and at his waist hung a long broad sword. His large crooked nose hinted that it had been broken several times in his violent past. On the other hand, his piercing dark brown eyes showed wisdom and experience.

On the black gelding sat a boy who was at complete odds with the large man. He was lean and full of energy, balancing easily on his horse. His long brown hair whipped in the air behind him and he threw back his head occasionally, laughing in exhilaration. The boy’s bright green eyes were set below dark bushy eyebrows, and his hooked nose gave him the fierce look of a hawk. He wore the finery of a young aristocrat, a red brocaded doublet and coat, billowing behind him as the wind swept it up. A bow was held in his hand and a single-edged blade hung at his waist.

The thick snow was thawing as winter gave way to spring, and yet, on this morning it seemed that it was as cold as a midwinter day. Only those trees that kept leaf or needle throughout the winter had green about them. Meshes of last year’s bramble spread brown webs under the trees. Nettles numbered most amongst the few weeds that grew at this time of the year.

The sounds of life were like a multitude of jumbled noises as the forest came awake at dawn. The high-pitched chirrup of birds overlapped each other, outlined by the chattering of the squirrels high in the branches. It seemed to become even more of a frenzy as the birds warned the forest of the presence of outsiders and it drowned out most of the noise in its brilliance.

Powerful flurries flattened the boy’s shirt to his back, lashed the light brown wool around his legs, and made his hair whip across his face. He wished his clothes were heavier, cursing himself for not wearing anything extra. He spent most of his efforts trying to tug the cloak around him, a wasted effort because it would snag in the quiver at his hip. Trying to hold the cloak one-handedly did not do much good anyway; he had his bow in the other, an arrow nocked in it. Without thinking, he touched the nock of the arrow; it was ready to be drawn to his cheek in one smooth movement, the way his mentor had taught him. Animals roamed this land freely and it would be foolish for him to relax his guard.

It was no longer safe to be out after dark. Men were the prey as often as sheep, and the sun did not always have to be down, but he thought little of this. He was skeptical about the fact that a wolf or even a bear could catch him off guard. He would have more than enough time to flee from a bear on horseback and he could bring down a number of wolves with his bow.

The red headed rider reined up and looked down at a snowy patch on the ground. He dismounted with agility that did not match his size and crouched beside the patch. The tracks were clearly imprinted in the snow, not more than two hours old, and between the widely spaced tracks was a smooth surface of snow. The boy jumped off his horse, and stood beside the man, like a willow beside a giant monolith.

“Are these the tracks, Havgar?” He asked.

The man named Havgar nodded slowly. “Yes they are.” he said, pointing at the surface of the snow that was smooth. “It has dragged the sheep over the snow; you can see how it’s scraped smooth.”

The boy bent over to look more closely, “Yes… how long do you think since they passed here?”

“I would think two hours ago, maybe more. You can’t really know due to the snow,” replied the large man. “But they’re close, Elathan.”

Elathan was the second and youngest son of Viscount Aquilo, a man who cared very little for anything other than his duties. His mother had died when he was born fifteen years ago and he did not even remember her face except from the portraits of her at the castle, but he was told that her beauty had shone like starlight. As a child he had occasionally imagined her to look like one of the court women, all dressed up and regal. However those thoughts had long since faded away because growing up amongst men, all of whom were sturdy warriors, had toughened Elathan to the point where he had lost all resemblance to children his own age and enjoyed spending his time in the company of his father’s soldiers as well as Havgar.

A snow leopard had recently started to terrorize the villages. The forests that they were riding through were all is fathers’ property and thus the duty came down to his family to go and kill any animals that preyed on game or farm animals. From what he had heard from the villagers on his way, it was obvious that there was only one of them. Leopards were native to the mountains that lay north of the forests they rode in. Vicious and intelligent creatures, at times they would even attack a man when hunger drove them to do so. It was known that a snow leopard could take down three men in a group before the fourth felled it with a sword or arrow. Unlike the other cats, Elathan had heard of, leopards who took down everyone before they began their meal, whereas lions would concentrate on a single target in a group and attack only him. Elathan was in no way overly optimistic or confident that he would be able to find and kill the creature easily. He knew the leopard had come down from its high hunting grounds because of lack of food, meaning it was willing to kill more animals to keep alive.

Elathan had come alone because his elder brother, Volun, was on an errand for his father. He knew from the accounts of the villagers that the leopard had attacked not once, but several times. Leopards were never so confident or stupid; they were weary of traps and never attacked the same place in a single week, but Elathan did think that that mattered much. He really had no choice since the villagers looked to his family to take care of the problems concerning the Viscount’s fief. Elathan had snuck out without the permission of his father, and now as he thought about it he had no idea about what excuse he would give the Viscount. It would have been just as appropriate for his father’s soldiers to search the forests and hunt down the leopard. Whatever he was going to say it would have to be good.

The attacks had started two weeks before. In the beginning, one head of cattle would vanish every two days or so, however after a few nights two or three would be killed in a single night, which in the end brought the villagers to the Viscount’s doorsteps as they complained to him. When a week of the villager’s arguments had passed, Elathan could take it no more. He told his mentor of many years, Havgar, that he was going out after the leopard no matter what anyone else said and Havgar, though a fully-grown man, could never resist the temptation of adventure and had readily agreed to accompany him, claiming that it was all for the sake of the villagers, whereas Elathan knew the whole truth.

Havgar had been his tutor since childhood. The large bearlike man had taught him how to ride, use a sword, fight with his fists, shoot with a bow and arrow and even how to survive during hard times. The strict regime he had enforced on Elathan from early childhood had been tough. He was grateful now for all those rigorous years of continuous fighting. He could hold his own against almost anyone in his father’s personal guard, except for Havgar, and Elathan was only fifteen. Elathan loved his large protector as much as his own father and he knew that he could never live without his mentor’s continuous presence at his side. He felt invincible when with Havgar.

There had been times when Havgar had been the only one that mattered to Elathan. His brother was much older than he was, thus the chance of friendship between them had never really blossomed and his father was too strict and abided by iron rules that gave no room for familiarity. Thus it was Havgar who Elathan turned to in times of trouble as well as when he was about to undertake something he was going to hide from his family.

The bond of trust between them had always been strong and he told Havgar everything…perhaps not everything as Elathan felt awkward speaking on the topic of women with his mentor. What would Havgar think? Elathan thought silently.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Havgar spoke. “Let’s leave. If we’re lucky we’ll catch up to the beast in a couple of hours, maybe less and we may be able to take it down with plenty of time to spare for the return journey.”

Elathan looked over the tracks one last time before mounting his horse named Oistos. He set him into a fast trot, following close behind Havgar who went after the paw tracks. At times the tracks would disappear if they came across rocky ground, however a while later they would re-emerge, heading in the same direction.

Elathan had never seen a leopard, but the villager said that it was a very large one, about the size of a bear and with jaws that could swallow a man whole without even chewing. Elathan knew that was an exaggeration of the truth. Swallow a man whole?  What fools they were. There was one thing that Havgar always beat into him during the sparring lessons and that was always to overestimate your opponent so that when you faced him you were more than just prepared.

“Be vigilant!” Havgar had always roared. “One day you’ll drop you’re guard and you’ll be stabbed in the back by a lowly thief in an alley where people won’t even pay attention to your rotting body!” Havgar always went on to tell stories of many great warriors, most of them his own friends who had been killed in such a disgraceful manner simply because they had stopped being ‘vigilant’. “It’s not the right way for a respectable man to die.”

The pair had set out in the pre-dawn darkness and had already ridden for a few hours now. Elathan had developed an ache in the small of his back that had spread slowly to his thighs and upper-back as they rode on. The pale winter sun came over the forest and slowly rose upwards into the high heavens. Its weak rays offered no relief to the riders, only increasing their discomfort as it shone directly in their eyes and induced a throbbing pain in Elathan’s head. It was only after a short while in this uncomfortable state that Elathan realized he was no longer enjoying the hunt he had so eagerly rode out for. His nose was runny, his head ached, his back ached, and his mouth was dry. Havgar seemed unaffected by the problems assailing Elathan and rode in the same fashion as he had had hours before. He was so impervious that he held discussions and pointed out birds and animals to Elathan on the way. He commented on the color and origins of the birds as if Elathan enjoyed being enlightened about them, which he obviously did not, however Havgar seemed not to notice and kept his persistent monologue running for a long while.

After a drawn out ride they entered a clearing from where the mountains were clearly visible in the clean air. Their white snowcapped peaks were shrouded in the dull grey mass of clouds that stood unmoving all winter over the mountains. The exposed high rocky crags were the only thing that gave away the presence of the massive peaks. They paused for a while to look at the sight and Havgar muttered beside him.

“Cursed mountains, why is it that trouble always has to come down from there?”

Elathan chuckled. Havgar’s bad moods were like the seasons. They came and went periodically. “This is the first problem I’ve seen and they find them beautiful.”

“Oh, there were others,” replied Havgar, “but those were before you were born, when your dad and I were still young.”

“Like what problems?”

They had started riding again. “Nothing serious, but it used to annoy us a lot. We had to go clean up whatever mess that came rolling down from there.”

He went on to tell Elathan of how he and his father had once killed a massive bear, ‘bigger than anything Elathan had seen’, in the streets of a village after it had torn down two straw houses in an effort to reach honey it had sniffed from afar. Elathan regretted asking Havgar as once again he was forced to listen to him speak continuously. Just when Elathan was starting to get interested in the story, Havgar suddenly froze. His body tensed and he looked around, holding his hand up, signaling Elathan to halt.

The silence lasted several heartbeats and Elathan realized that he was holding his breath. Letting it out slowly, he listened, to discern what had distracted Havgar but it was to no avail. “Havgar, what is-“

“Shh! Wait!”

Elathan was more aware of the cold now; he realized his muscles had cramped and that his movements were now limited. He fell into a sullen silence and drew his bow up, ready to shoot at anything that moved. The silence persisted as the pair waited a hundred paces away from the edge of the forest. If they were to be attacked out in the open, it would make the leopard’s job easier. However, considering that they were two of them, and that Havgar was such a seasoned fighter, there would be little problem for them to defend themselves. What he feared the most was the probability of something going wrong. Leopards were infamous for their killing power; they were exceptionally good at it.

The wind that had harassed them all day had now died off, leaving the world in a state of calm…too calm for Elathan’s liking. The silence was heavy; even the birds cooing in the upper canopy had fallen silent. This was strong indication that the leopard was near. His eyes ran over the wall of trees at the edge of the forest, trying to spot the leopard in between them.

“Shouldn’t we get into the forest Havgar? It can catch as easily in this open ground.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

“No…” He replied. “We won’t be able to use those bows properly in there and I don’t think there’s one.”

“What! Not one? How do you know that?”

“I saw a pair of faded tracks a while back which had crossed over the prints of the leopard we’re following and from the look of them it wasn’t the same one. I’m guessing it’s a pair that has been taking the cattle.” Havgar jumped of his horse and motioned for Elathan to follow suit. “Leave them here, we should continue on foot.”

Elathan reluctantly left Oistos’s side and tagged along with Havgar.

Without moving his mouth, his mentor asked. “Are you ready?”

“Are you?” Replied Elathan with the same question, with more calm than he felt. He scanned the forest quickly, eyes darting from one side to the other, trying to decide where the beasts would attack.

“Now listen Elathan, this is important.” continued Havgar. “I need you to watch the left side of the forest while I lookout on the right. No matter what happens do not look towards my side, let me handle everything that comes out of there and I will do likewise with yours. If any of us looses concentration for a second then that’s when they’ll strike. Understood? This’ll be a good test of what you’ve learnt. Be vigilant!”

Elathan nodded without a word and lifting his bow higher, pulling the arrow back slightly for instant release. He could hear the thump of his beating heart and the sound of rushing blood in his ears. He could feel the snow that he treaded on and the tiny twigs that broke beneath the pressure. His senses were heightened to a completely new level. So this was the feeling danger…he thought. Elathan tried to listen to the forest, straining his ears to catch some tiny sound made by the two hunters who watched them so closely. He realized the irony of the situation that they were in. The hunters had become the hunted.

Suddenly from behind him, Elathan heard a sharp grunt that was followed by the twang of a bowstring. He looked around impulsively to see what had happened and was just in time to witness a leopard running full pelt across the ground. An arrow flashed through the air, striking it directly in the chest and bringing it down in a cloud of snow. Before the dead cat even stopped sliding, he heard Havgar’s roar of warning.

“Elathan you fool! Look behind you!”

Elathan cursed loudly, turning in a full circle and drawing the arrow to his cheek. A silver blur flew over the snow, covering the distance between him and the forest in short rapid strides. He released the arrow reflexively, praying it would hit. The arrow soared over the shoulder of the cat, burying itself in the snow behind and Elathan reached back for a second arrow from his quiver, but at the last moment realized it was futile…the leopard was too close.

The creature hurled itself into the air ten paces away from Elathan, flying like a spear at his chest, yellow canines bared to bite into his face, and front paws extended to grip his chest. Elathan was frozen in shock, knowing that there was nothing he could do. Was this the end? Abruptly Havgar’s massive shape moved in front of Elathan blocking the leopard, as it struck his chest. His mentor was tossed backwards by the impetus of the charge and landed motionless in the snow, face down.

Elathan hurled his bow to the side at the same time, screaming, “Havgar!”

The leopard rolled over, snarling viciously at Elathan it lowered itself into a crouch. Its voice tore through the air and shattered the silence that had existed only seconds before. Elathan did not dare to glance at Havgar’s form, knowing that the moment his eyes left the leopard he would be dead. He could feel tears of anger stinging his eyes, as he stared topaz yellow eyes if the cat. Elathan had already drawn the long dirk at his hip amidst his rage, knowing that it was up to him to kill the creature. He held the weapon tightly in his fist as he covered Havgar with his own body from the path of the leopard, all the time looking into the depths of its eyes. He was surprised but more so relieved when he heard his mentor groan in pain, Elathan gathered his resolve, bracing himself for what he had to do. It was all up to him now that Havgar was hurt and he would not fail for a second time.

The cat had grayish fur and a long bushy tail. Numerous black dots covered its face and larger, more widely spaced ones were across the body. Its chest and stomach was bright white in color and completely spotless. Elathan could not help but admire the beauty of such a ferocious creature.

Leveling his dirk in front of him, Elathan stepped forward facing the leopard. Staring into those yellow eyes, he felt as if he was gazing into an infinite world of animal rage. Elathan realized that losing was not an option. This was not one of his sparring lessons; much more was at stake. Both his and Havgar’s life were on the brink of a precipitous cliff because of his stupid mistake, even though Havgar had warned him. As the leopard circled, Elathan felt the urge to bare is teeth back at leopard, an instinctual reply to man’s primeval enemy, and not being able to control himself, he growled deep in his throat.

Just then, the cat sprung forward, swinging its paws at him. Elathan jumped back avoiding the poisonous claws, and slashed back with his dirk; however, the leopard had already recoiled and now paced around out of Elathan’s reach. It was only a feint, thought Elathan. It’s testing me. Reaching down slowly, he drew another blade from his boot. He advanced forward slowly in an attempt to scare the cat away, but to his surprise it did not even budge from its position which made him stop his progress and trail the circular path that the cat was following.

Suddenly a thought struck him and he reacted quickly. Lifting his hand, he hurled the dirk with all his strength at the leopard. It spun twice before hitting the cat in the face, but to Elathan’s horror, the hilt struck first. The cat screeched in pain, thrown off balance by the sudden attack. Elathan understood that this was the only chance he would get and charged at the leopard with all he had. Swinging the dagger in an underhand thrust, he slashed the distracted cat across its shoulder. The blade sunk into the flesh, meeting resistance and then came free, spinning Elathan around. He caught himself before he fell as the leopard jumped back in pain; he struck out again, this time managing to slice deeper into the chest, but not deep enough to cause grievous harm. However, the second blow left him stretched out in an awkward position from which he could not come out fast enough. The leopard pitched itself on to him, throwing Elathan down while it landed on his chest.

The first thing that entered his mind was the stories he had heard from hunters. When leopards brought their victim down, they would sink their teeth into the back of his head and tear the top of his skull out, while using its back legs to tear open the stomach and disembowel the person. These thoughts set his body into motion.

He thrashed his lower body energetically, not letting the leopard get a proper grip with its back paws while at the same time he pushed the cat’s neck back with his right hand and tried to slash its face with the dagger in his left. The hot blood from the wounds he had inflicted on the creature gushed over his face and chest as he struggled, sour bile rising into his mouth. Its screams were the only things he could hear and he hit it repeatedly from below, remarkably managing to escape all the kicks from its back legs. Finally, desperation took over, and with all its might, the cat tried to get at Elathan’s face with its jaws.

Suddenly one of his slash’s struck properly, sinking into the cats’ eye. What he saw next he would never forget. The leopard threw itself off him, beating widely across the ground. He watched in horror as it smashed itself repeatedly into the rocky ground in complete pain. Scrambling away in repugnance he ran over to his fallen bow and clumsily fitted an arrow into it. His hand shook violently as he watched the once beautiful cat kill itself. Sobbing in revulsion, he took careful aim and released the arrow. It went into the leopard’s neck, severing the jugular and arteries in its path. The cat fell to the ground. However, it still twitched. He fitted another arrow and walked up to the cat. Closing his eyes, he pointed it at the head and released the second projectile. He felt flecks of blood land on his face as the arrow hit its mark and several seconds passed before he realized that silence had descended once again.

Elathan felt his knees weaken and he collapsed in a heap. Still not opening his eyes to see what he had done, his breathing was labored and to his own surprise, he felt a deep sorrow for the creature. They had both been driven by necessity to fight each other. Still not opening his eyes, he felt with his hands for any wounds on his stomach. To his utter amazement, he was free of any wounds that may have been inflicted in the melee. Elathan did not know how much time passed, but then he remembered Havgar and turned around quickly to look around.

Havgar was leaning against a tree several meters from Elathan, hand against his chest and a grimace on his face. He shook his head slowly. “It’s a bad way to go for a creature like that, eh?”

Elathan did not reply, a lump forming in his throat.

Havgar smiled then and Elathan felt as if the weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Don’t blame yourself, boy. You only put it out of its agony. You were fighting for your life, as it was too, and you should have no qualms when it comes to a situation like that.”

Elathan shook his head numbly. “None of this would have happened if I had listened to you.”

Havgar stood up, pressing his chest experimentally. “You’re right about that.”

Elathan looked up at him angrily. “You know I’m quite disturbed at the moment so it would help if you supported me right now.”

Havgar walked over to him and offered him a hand. “You’re not a little child Elathan. I don’t have to console you or help you justify your own actions. The fact is that you did not take seriously, what I told you, and you paid the price. However, you learnt a valuable lesson. One, you’ll never disobey what I say, and secondly, you learnt how to kill. It’s best your first kill was a leopard rather than a man, because all men will fight as brutally as you did when their life is threatened and you’ll be ready next time.”

He hauled Elathan to his feet, who thought about what had just been said, and he had to agree the words rang true. Havgar went to pick up his bow and Elathan looked over at him. “How’s your chest. You look alright.”

“I had the wind driven out of me and after all I’m not as young as I used to be. It took me a while to recover my breath.”

“Thanks for saving me. I could’ve died.” Said Elathan sarcastically.

He and Havgar walked back towards the horses with the two leopards lying where they had been killed.

“Yes, you would have, if it had not been for my training.” Havgar grinned.

The horses came into sight a moment later. Elathan was glad that Oistos was safe. For the first time he noticed that his clothes were completely soaked in stinking blood that had already begun to dry.

“I can’t go back like this!” exclaimed Elathan. “Father will kill me!”

Havgar laughed. “I think he will anyway, but for the sake of the villagers you aren’t going to wash yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

Havgar hauled himself onto his horse as did Elathan and they set out the way they had come. “They’ll all be waiting outside the castle when we arrive and if they see us all clean and smelling like flowers they’ll think we had fun playing in the forest.” Havgar threw his head back and laughed at his own joke.

Elathan on the other hand gave him a cold look. “That’s not even funny and who cares if they think that. I didn’t go out to impress anyone so I’m going to take a bath when we get to the river.”

It took a while for Havgar to sober up from his joke. “Well the choice is yours, but considering the cold I think you may freeze to death and besides that it’ll be fun to see the looks on their faces as they try to imagine what happened. It may even help you with the ladies…I’ve seen those sly looks that they throw you every now and then.”

Elathan looked away towards the forest, grunting sourly. “I’ll be lucky to catch the attention of an old hag let alone a beautiful maid in such a state.” Havgar began to laugh again and Elathan banged his hand against the saddle in exasperation. “What’s wrong with you Havgar? You’re about to scare the horses, I’m serious. Don’t you think you’re a little too happy?”

“I told you already Elathan. The choice is yours. If you want to wash yourself before we reach the castle, go ahead, but you’ll catch a cold more dangerous than any leopard. Remember, your appearance has to suit the occasion. I’m not the one to teach you about how to handle yourself since I used to be a village boy myself, you have other tutors for that, but I know enough to tell you that your current appearance is perfectly fit for the situation.”

Elathan decided to drop the argument and agree with Havgar; however, he realized that he would have to endure with all the grime for quite a while. Changing the topic, he said. “Don’t you think that was extremely dangerous? I mean, you’re not the one to underestimate anything so how did you not know that we’d be facing two leopards instead of one?”

Havgar shifted his bow into a more comfortable position and looked up at the sun, which had climbed much higher. “I came out thinking there was only one. If I had known there was another I wouldn’t have brought you along, let alone come with only one other person, but we got lucky, if you hadn’t thought of throwing your weapon, you could’ve died and if you had missed then you would’ve been worse off since you’d only have a single knife left.”

Elathan drew Oistos next to Havgar and said, slightly hurt. “What do you mean by luck? I planned that out. I aimed to hit on the face to distract it.”

Havgar gave him a dull, sidelong glance. “You planned to hit it with the ‘hilt’? If you’re so good then why not just throw the knife between its eyes and get it over with.”

Elathan shrugged. “Okay, I admit that was a miscalculation on my part, but trust me it wasn’t just a-” He stopped as he saw Havgar wince, the large man was still in considerable pain from the hit he had taken from the leopard. “Are you fine Havgar? You look bad.”

Havgar shook his head. “It was worse than I thought, but no worries, I can bear it until we get to the castle. Old man healer will patch me up and I’ll be fine in no time.”

Elathan remained silent, unsure of what to do, but Havgar patted him on the back. “No need to worry, boy. I’ll be fine. Let’s just hurry back.”

From then on, they talked little and even Havgar’s commentary on the surroundings had ceased. His father’s estate was massive and Elathan soon lost track of time. He even forgot to look at the passage of the sun to find out how long they had been riding for. When he looked at the sun next time it was already zenith. Even though he knew there was much distance left for them to cover, he did not worry since Havgar and he had run for miles without a break so this was nothing to him, he had handled much more hardships in the past.

As they neared the village, small houses started to appear here and there and many children who played outside stared in awe at the pair. There were men who called out to Havgar, enquiring how the hunt had gone. Elathan was sure that the news of their return would reach the castle faster than they would and that his father would already be waiting for him and Hagar to return.

It was nearing late afternoon when Castle Enloc came into sight. The road rose up to the gate, high above. Enloc crouched high upon a hill like an animal, poised to pounce on its prey. The towering spires of the castle reached for the sky. The guard towers were manned day and night and the entire defense was in the ‘responsible’ hands of Havgar, who had much experience in these matters. From afar, Elathan could see a group, which had gathered outside the gates, waiting for their return. They had lined up on either side of the cobble stone road, their cheers faintly heard from afar. Women and children also stood amongst them however, the feeling of victory he had expected was not there and it was because he feared his father’s wrath that was to come.

“This is the part I love best.” Muttered Havgar. “The welcoming of the heroes.” He rode forward to meet the people, Elathan following a couple of paces behind. Havgar waved his hand to the people gathered, while Elathan sat motionless on Oistos, knowing that he would look like a complete fool if he suddenly stumbled upon his father while waving merrily to the crowd. Elathan saw the girls bat their eyelashes, looking at him slyly and some even screamed excitedly. He glanced sharply at Havgar to see if he had noticed but he seemed too occupied in his own glory. Elathan also saw other faces, filled with shock at seeing him in his condition.

They rode through the open gates and into the courtyard, coming to a stop in front of the main quarters. The courtyard was large, surrounded by many buildings. Archway’s led straight from the gate to the front of the main quarters, another smaller arch led away towards the stables and barracks while a third led to the smithy and the fletchers shop. A number of soldiers loitered here and there, waiting to see what would happen to the two warriors now that they had returned.

Elathan’s father stood at the stairs that led up to the main quarters, hands clasped behind his back he had a grim look on his face. Aquilo was tall and had the same hooked nose and green eyes, the same as Elathan’s but he was of a heavier build. A sword hung at his waist, sheathed in a simple black scabbard. When Elathan saw him, he felt his throat go dry. He was no longer confident and dropped his eyes to the ground in front of Oistos. Havgar stopped waving when he saw Aquilo, and glanced mischievously at Elathan, whispering under his breath.

“He looks quite happy, don’t you think?” Maybe it was the nature of the situation, however it was one of the few times that Havgar’s sarcasm seemed funny and it took a great effort on Elathan’s part not to snort loudly.

They both dismounted respectfully and Elathan was not sure if he should step forward and justify himself, before his father even spoke. He prayed to himself that his punishment would not be one of those whippings that the most disobedient soldiers got. Elathan knew those were more than just simply painful. Unconsciously he scratched at the dried blood on his shirt and stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing, instead he noticed his dirty nails and tried to clean those too, however he stopped that as well, cursing silently to himself. Elathan was in total confusion and had a difficult time in getting a grip on himself.

Standing there guiltily in front of his father made him feel like a child again many years ago, when caught in the act of sneaking out of the castle at night, or maybe breaking a rule. The three of them stood in silence as the gate behind them was shut, cutting off the sound of the crowd. Elathan stole a glance towards Havgar to see how he was doing and to Elathan’s dismay; he had a smile fixed on his face, almost as if he was beaming with pride.

Elathan promised himself that he would deal with Havgar once they were alone. When his father had gotten a good look at both of them, he spoke.

“So Elathan? How do you explain this escapade of yours?” He asked.

Elathan looked down when being addressed by his father, and prepared himself to recite the words he had planned out on the way back. “I really had no choice this time, father. The villagers were complaining about the leopards killing their sheep for two weeks and they were growing desperate. No one was doing anything and I felt pity for them so…”

“So you thought you would go and bear the duty of killing the leopard, eh?”

“I apologize father, but I didn’t think that.” He replied sullenly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Elathan saw his father shake his head. “Look at you. Dirty with blood, smelling to the sky and looking like a street kid who fell in a gutter. Let me guess; was this Havgar’s idea of a heroic entrance from a victorious battle? He always bloodied himself from head to toe in the old days.”

Elathan tried to cover the smile that split his serious looking face. His father had hit right on mark.

“And you Havgar? I thought you would do better than to encourage this little adventurer. Is your intuition going dull or did you simply turn a blind eye to the dangers involved in taking a child on a leopard hunt?”

“No need to worry so much Aquilo. I was there with him so he was never in danger.”

The Viscount gave Havgar a cold look then addressed Elathan. “Go up to my study. I’ll be there shortly.”

Elathan gave Havgar a worried look before he went through the large door of the quarters. Inside, the broad stone corridors, built of undressed stone blocks, were lit brightly with torches high in their brackets. The walls were covered with drapes that fell from the roof, embroidered with the family crest, a stooping falcon. Shields as well as full armor sets, with the same crests, were also pinned to the walls alongside maces, axes and swords that had all been used by his father and grandfathers on many occasions before. Many of them had already begun to rust away since they had not been taken care. He had as a child admired them for many long hours at times thinking he would wield them someday, but now when Elathan looked at them he thought the weapons were useless since so they were too bulky for practical fighting, or maybe they just did not suit his fighting style.

Climbing up many flights of stairs Elathan arrived at the door of his father’s study. He pushed the door open to find his brother, stooped low over his father’s table, staring intently at many parchments spread over it.  Glancing up at Elathan, Volun smiled, and then continued reading while saying.

“You’re back? How did the hunt go?”

His brother shared the same basic features as Elathan and his father, including the hooked nose and sharp eyes that ran in the family. He had black hair that lay over the side of his face, hiding his eye and giving him a darkish look, however he always seemed to be in a merry mood.

Elathan was relieved by his brother, since he did not have sharp words for him as his father did. “We killed the leopards.” He replied, throwing himself into the vacant seat. “But father’s not too happy about it. What should I tell him, Volun?”

“Well if you come looking like that you shouldn’t expect him to pat you on the back and applaud you?” Volun chuckled. “And there were two of them? You said you killed the leopards.”

“Yeah there were two and they ambushed us close to the river. I would’ve been killed if it weren’t for Havgar.”

Elathan noticed that his brother was looking at a map of his father’s lands and he recognized the locations since his tutor had made him memorize every hill and stream there was.

“Oh, really?” His brother had begun to collect the maps and was placing them back. “I’ll go thank him for saving my careless brother then.”

Just as Volun spoke, Aquilo entered the room. Elathan scrambled to his feet and Volun stepped aside to let his father sit down in his chair. There was terse silence in which Elathan gave his brother an appealing look, who smiled back reassuringly.

“I believe you’ve heard of your brother’s exploits, Volun?” Asked Aquilo. “You should teach him some manners from time to time.”

“You worry too much father.” Those were the same words that Havgar said, thought Elathan. “He is fifteen this year and he can handle himself well enough. Besides, Havgar was with him, and he has saved your life countless times before. It’s good that he’s learning to uphold his duty, at least I think so”

Aquilo gave his eldest son a long stare. “I thought you would give some useful advice, Volun.”

Elathan could not help but be amused by how the situation was turning in his favor. Everyone seemed to be supporting his actions.

Volun shrugged. “Sorry father, but that’s what I thought.”

Aquilo ran a hand through his hair as Volun examined some books on a nearby shelf. “I’ve never had any trouble like this from Volun when he was young, Elathan. You’re always running around and putting yourself at risk when you should be doing other things. Do you want to know why I did not order Havgar and a group of soldiers into the forest before today to finish off the leopards?”

“Yes father.”

“Sit down then.” Said Aquilo, pointing at a chair.

Elathan seated himself, feeling slightly guilty now.

“It was to teach the villagers a lesson. They’ve become lazy lately, and haven’t been doing their jobs properly, they’ve not tended to the land as I want them to and most of all they’re not bearing the burden that is rightfully theirs. Not killing the leopards was a way for me to convey to them my disappointment, as well as to remind them that I am the one who takes care of them and that they have an obligation towards me. Do you understand now? Don’t you ever again think that I neglect my own subjects?”

This was the first time that day that Elathan felt stupid. He had somehow missed this fact. It had never even occurred to him that maybe his father had a reason for not taking care of the leopards. Elathan had no idea of what to say so he apologized, hoping that it had some effect.

“I’m sorry father. I never thought about that…but really I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“I know you didn’t son, but next time do think before you act. You’ll never survive for long if you just act on impulse.”

Elathan nodded with a sheepish look on his face.

“I’m glad you understand.” A rare smile spread across Aquilo’s features, making him seem many years younger. “You should see that your wounds are treated before they mortify. The healer is waiting for you in the banquet hall and in the meantime your brother and I have some important business to attend to”

Elathan thanked his father and slowly closed the door behind him. When he was gone, Volun turned away from the bookshelf and shook his head in amusement.

“That was a good excuse you made father. I know you let the leopards live to see if Elathan had enough guts to take care of matters himself. Am I right?”

Aquilo smiled, almost to himself. “I have no idea of what you’re talking about Volun.

Chapter One of Estaroth by EstarothAvestas is the winner of the book first chapter writing contest.

Ordinary by jokrupinskiyahoocom is second place and A Game of Risk by artemisx5 is third place.

We have been given permission to publish Chapter One of Estaroth and Ordinary on our blog. These two chapters will appear later this week.

*See all of our writing contests

Purpose: Have fun, enjoy the competition, and become a better poet by participating in our peer critique process for this contest.

Who Can Enter: This contest is open to all poets. All submissions must be posted and assigned critiques completed by February 28, 2010. Poems must be 50 lines or fewer. You may post additional poems to this site for critique, but only one poem will be eligible for this contest.

Subject Matter: Open, you choose. The poem should adhere to our content policy.

Prizes: The winner of this contest will receive $100.

How to Enter: It’s pretty easy

1. Create a free account or sign in for existing members.
2. Upload your poem; make sure you select Poetry Contest as the category.
3. Submit your poem for peer critique.
4. Complete your assigned reviews, this is discussed more below.

Decisions: There will be 3 rounds of judging.

1. Authors from the Review Fuse staff will select the 10 best poems for Round 2.
2. Of these 10 poems, Review Fuse management will select the 5 authors who gave the most detailed and well thought out critiques of their peer’s poetry for Round 3.
3. The winner will then be selected by 3 creative writing and poetry professors.

• Find out more about what our judges think great poetry is.

Entry Fee: There are no entry fees or purchases of any kind required to enter and win the contest. After you submit your poem to the contest you will be required to complete assigned critiques of other poets (4 for free members and 2 for premium members). You will receive 3 critiques of your poem in return. Those who do not complete their critiques will not be eligible to win the contest.

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Notification: The prize winner will be notified by email on March 13, 2010. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on March 15, 2010.

I asked my three year old son what he had done that day while we were driving home last night. He said “I went to the dinosaur museum with mommy.”

It was kind of silly to ask, but since he is three, I said “what did you see there?”

He said “really really big dinosaurs.”

I asked “where they nice or mean?”

He said “they were really really really scary daddy.”

For a three year old it was cute and effective to tell me about the dinosaurs, but for those trying to entertain readers or make a few bucks writing you have to learn how to show. You can learn more about show verses tell from our writing lessons.

Jacob

We are proud to announce that Conversation by Tyffany Neiheiser is the winner of our October 2009 Short Story writing contest. She has given us permission to publish her short story below. Tyffany D. Neiheiser is a part time writer and full time book addict. Tyffany lives in sunny Arizona with her six cats, two dogs, and one husband. In her spare time, Tyffany is working on her Master’s degree and finding an agent to represent her novel.

Abstract by Hugo Damas was second place. We have not been granted permission to publish this short story.

Portrait of an Abandoned Queen by Emily Nelson has been awarded third place. Emily has also given us permission to publish her story below.

Conversations
by Tyffany Neiheiser

Brenda had worked at Conversations for only about a week when she first met Jack. He usually sat in Amy’s station, but she was out sick, so everyone was filling in outside their normal station. Brenda had heard that Jack was a little strange, but no one would tell her why, just saying with knowing smiles, “You’ll see.” It seemed to her to be some sort of initiation, so she didn’t press the subject.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Not a depressing rainy day, but a warm day with soft rain. The rain blurred the edges of the city, giving the area a gray haze that could have been anything, and let Brenda dream that she could be somewhere else. Brenda took her ten-minute break standing at the kitchen door, letting the cool breeze wash over her as she watched the rain. She was getting strange looks from the kitchen staff, and almost wished that she smoked so that she would have an excuse to stand there, half in and half out of the rain. There were big windows in the restaurant itself, but she wanted just one minute to herself to relax and enjoy.

Coming back into the dining room, Brenda got her first look at Jack as he walked in and seated himself at his normal table. Diners seated themselves, and Brenda walked over to light the candle in the middle of the table. The ambiance was nice, with lots of exposed dark wood, dark green linen tablecloths, white napkins, and fat white candles in hurricanes. It was one of the few restaurants Brenda had been in that didn’t have multiple TVs. There was just quiet music that encouraged conversation. Jack ordered his drink, a dry martini.

Brenda took an order at another table, then went to pick up drinks from the bar. As she returned to Jack’s table, she stopped abruptly, and the drinks sloshed around on her tray, dripping slightly. Jack was leaned forward at his table, chin resting on one hand, gazing intently at a spot above the other chair. He was talking as if he were engaged in a conversation with another person, even though he was alone. Brenda looked closer, and noticed that the chair had been pulled out from the table as if there were someone seated there.

Recovering quickly, Brenda pasted a smile back on her face, and served drinks to her tables. When she got to Jack, she placed his martini in front of him, and he placed his order. While she wrote his order on her pad, her eyes kept straying to the empty chair. She felt herself blushing as she tried not to be obvious about it.

Throughout lunch, Jack continued talking to his imaginary companion. Jack lingered at his meal, obviously engrossed in his conversation. Brenda caught only snatches of what he was saying. At one point, he was apparently talking about work, and later the weather. He was animated, and didn’t appear to notice the other diners watching him. Most people were polite about it, but there were one or two people who were obvious in laughing at him. He tipped generously, and Brenda watched him leave.

She wondered what was wrong with him. She thought that crazy people were dirty and disheveled, smelling faintly of old booze. She hadn’t expected someone like Jack, clean cut and attractive, to be so obviously unbalanced.

Brenda found herself making up stories about him as she wiped the table. He was an executive who had succumbed to the stress of his job and had a minor nervous breakdown; his wife had recently died, and he was still grieving in a rather unusual way; he had a brain tumor and was seeing a childhood friend. Brenda’s thoughts halted abruptly as she automatically bent to wipe the unused chair. There was a light blue, silk ladies scarf on the chair, smelling faintly of a floral perfume.

Brenda’s thoughts whirled. She knew that she had cleaned off the chair before Jack sat down. The only explanation was that someone must have put their jacket on and set the scarf down. She hadn’t noticed any women wearing a scarf like that, and she usually noticed what people wore. Then again, it was entirely possible that the woman hadn’t been wearing it at all. It could have fallen out of someone’s pocket.

Feeling strangely relieved that she had come up with an explanation, but not understanding why, Brenda tucked the scarf into a drawer below the cash register. It was their unofficial “lost and found.” Most items that went into the drawer never came back out; usually people didn’t know where they lost things.

Amy came back to work the next day, feeling better, but still rather pale. She was smiling as she approached Brenda and asked, “How’d you like our resident nutjob?”

Brenda frowned at the description of Jack as crazy. The same thought had passed through her mind, but she had at some point excused his behavior. “I liked him,” Brenda replied truthfully. “I thought he was very nice.”

“Why don’t you keep him then?” Amy asked. “To be honest, he kinda creeps me out. I’ll trade you any table for that one when he comes in.”

Brenda shrugged, and Amy looked relieved. “Really, he doesn’t bother you?”

“He didn’t bother me at all,” Brenda said. “I thought he just seemed sad.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized it was the truth. Jack hadn’t seemed the least bit crazy. He seemed sad. He seemed more alive when he was talking to his invisible companion, but there was no disguising the sadness in his eyes.

Brenda soon learned that Jack came into the restaurant every day for a late lunch, and he always ordered the same meal with a dry martini. Just one. He didn’t appear intoxicated as he talked to his companion, and he was always perfectly polite to Brenda. Watching him one day, Brenda saw him approach his usual table and pull the chair out, then scoot it in as if he were helping seat his companion. He took his seat, and looked at the empty space across the table.

Brenda made a special effort to make normal conversation with Jack. She took care to ask him how his day was, how he liked the weather, whether he enjoyed his meal. He was always pleasant and answered her questions in a patient tone of voice, almost as if he knew what she was doing. She wanted to ask him the question, “Who are you talking to?” but knew instinctively that topic would be taboo. For some reason, she was afraid that he would stop coming into the restaurant if she called too much attention to his “companion.”

Brenda left the table after one such conversation, and as she passed, she caught the same scent that had been on the silk scarf. She stopped abruptly and looked around. There were no other female diners near her. No one had passed by the table. The scent faded, and Brenda met Jack’s eyes. For the first time, they were steady on hers, and she felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. She held his gaze for a moment, until he dropped his eyes to look at the other chair, as if his companion had just made a comment that caught his attention. When he looked back, Brenda was gone.

Brenda splashed water on her face in the ladies’ room. What just happened? She had a weird feeling of unreality, like there was something going on that she could understand if she chose to. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling.

Brenda resumed waiting her tables with a subdued air. She did not make eye contact with Jack again, and made no effort to spend any additional time in conversation with him. She went to the cash register to run his credit card through, and on a whim checked the drawer where she had put the scarf. It was gone.

Brenda felt a chill run down her spine. All it meant was that whoever lost the scarf had come to pick it up. Nothing less, nothing more. Brenda brought Jack his credit slip to sign, and he left without speaking another word to her.

Brenda wasn’t sure if she was dreading or looking forward to Jack coming in the following day. They had shared a moment, and Brenda had felt connected to him for those brief seconds, but at the same time, the whole situation was too weird for her.

Jack went through his normal routine when he entered the restaurant, seating his invisible companion before sitting down himself. Brenda watched him surreptitiously for a long time before she finally approached him, bringing his martini without being asked. He smiled at her, and placed his order. She turned to leave, and heard him say, very quietly, “Her name is Grace.”

Brenda turned back to him and met his eyes. He was trusting her, and she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t turn and greet the invisible person; it wasn’t right to encourage his delusion. Not knowing what to do, without a word, she turned to put his order in.

Later that evening, when Brenda was alone in her apartment, she wondered what it was that bothered her about Jack and his invisible friend. She didn’t believe that he was dangerous, and if he was crazy, it was a benign sort of delusion. He obviously felt as if she had befriended him, which was her intention in the beginning. She wasn’t sure what it was that she was feeling.

Curious, Brenda Googled Jack L. Danner. She remembered his name after running his credit card every day for weeks. Several articles came up. As she suspected, he was a well-known businessman, and according to the articles, well respected. She skimmed several articles, stopping to read paragraphs here and there. A newspaper archive caught her eye, and as she read, several things about Jack became clearer.

According to the article, Jack and his wife Grace were on their way home from a business dinner when Jack’s car hit a patch of black ice, and spun out of control. The car was totaled, and as sometimes happens in freak accidents, Grace was killed instantly, and Jack survived the accident with only scratches and bruises. The accident had happened three years ago, and as Brenda took a closer look at the articles she had been reading, it appeared that everything that was written on Jack the businessman had been written prior to the accident. Jack the Businessman had ceased to exist after his wife’s death.

Brenda now understood Jack a little better, but was left with more questions than answers. Did he really believe that he was talking to the ghost of his dead wife? He obviously had enough grip left on sanity that he knew that other people thought he was crazy. Still, why go to a restaurant with the ghost on a daily basis? Why not leave your insanity at home?

Brenda didn’t sleep all that well that night. She was plagued by dreams of coffins opening, with skeletal hands gripping the edges of graves to pull themselves out. Brenda normally loved to sleep in whenever possible, but that morning she made coffee and sipped as she watched the sun rise. Brenda decided that she was getting way too involved in thinking about Jack’s situation. She was only his waitress. She should be polite to him, and treat him with respect, but there was nothing else she needed to be concerned about. If he wanted to talk to invisible tap dancing crickets, that was his business. She would be polite, and distant, and not think about him any more.

Decision made, Brenda threw herself into her workday with more energy than she actually had, considering her pre-dawn wake up. She told herself that she wasn’t thinking about Jack, but noticed immediately when he walked in, and had to admit to herself that she had been watching for him.

As was her custom, Brenda put in an order for Jack’s drink and brought it to him before he had to order. As she approached the table, she noticed that Jack was scowling at his companion and engaged in a deep discussion that looked like an argument. Brenda had to stifle an inappropriate chuckle as she wondered, Can you argue with an imaginary friend?

Jack looked at Brenda as she set his drink in front of him. She smiled at him in a detached kind of way, and said in a pleasantly impersonal tone of voice, “I’ll put your order in.”

“Wait,” Jack said. Brenda turned to look at him, a little nervous about what would come next. He studied her for several moments before he continued, “I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me. I know what people think.” He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but then changed his mind and dropped his eyes. “Anyway, thanks,” he finished lamely.

Brenda didn’t know what to say, and stood awkwardly for a moment. “Um, you’re welcome,” she said nervously. As she turned away, she smelled the floral perfume. The scent was strong, as if someone had sprayed it near her and she was walking into a cloud of lingering particles. Brenda had to force her feet to keep moving. She wanted to turn to Jack and demand that he tell her what was going on.

Brenda scolded herself throughout Jack’s lunch. She wanted to be unmoved by his words, but felt as if he were asking for her help or her understanding. Part of her wanted to understand what was going on, but another part of her wanted to do exactly what she had vowed and stop spending time dwelling on him.

Brenda cleared his plates from the table at the end of his lunch. “Brenda, I…” he began. She cut him off with a smile and a steely look, then took his plates and walked away. When he had left for the afternoon, she cleaned his table with far more energy than was necessary. There were plenty of attractive men out there. Why was it that she wanted the one who was crazy? Why was she obsessing about a man who was so obsessed with his dead wife that he still talked to her three years after her death? In fact, he wasn’t just talking to her; he took her out to lunch! She wasn’t the type of woman who entertained fantasies about unavailable men.

She didn’t understand what was going on, but it was suddenly very important to her that she find out once and for all. She didn’t know how she would start the conversation in the middle of the restaurant. “Hey Jack, I have a crush on you so can you tell me what’s going on with your dead wife?” just didn’t seem to work.

Brenda didn’t know what she was going to say, just that she was determined to have some understanding of the situation once and for all. She was curiously deflated, then, when Jack did not show up for lunch for the next couple of days. At first she was disappointed, then worried. However, she couldn’t think of any reason to contact him that wouldn’t sound weird. She chuckled. She was worried about sounding weird to the man who brought an imaginary friend to lunch every day? It didn’t seem that there was much she could do to top that one.

Brenda was relieved when Jack came back to the restaurant on the fourth day. She still didn’t know what she was going to say to him, but thought about it as she brought him his martini. She set it in front of him, and he covered her hand with his own and looked at her. “She’s not there,” he said quietly.

She froze. “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

He looked pointedly at the chair across from him. “She’s not there.”

Over dinner, Jack explained that he had trouble recovering from the accident that claimed Grace. He had such trouble dealing with her death that she had been unable to move on. His grief and guilt kept her chained to him. Grace had worried about him, encouraging him to move on, saying that there would be someone else out there for him, and that he needed to get out into the world. The lunches at Conversations had been her way of forcing him to interact with the living. She had hoped that he would be so embarrassed about talking to an invisible companion that he would eventually allow her to move on. The plan had backfired. He had absolutely no interest in other people, and talking to someone that only he could see alienated him further. It was not until he had met Brenda that he had felt a desire to return to the land of the living. He had been holding on to her only out of habit.

Brenda didn’t know how much she believed what Jack told her. She knew that he believed it, but she wondered if grief had caused him to fabricate the experience in his mind as a way of dealing with a tragedy. In the end, she decided that it didn’t matter. Whatever device, coincidence or supernatural, had brought her this wonderful man, she was grateful to it.

They had a good marriage, and two lovely children. If Brenda occasionally smelled perfume that wasn’t hers in the house, she learned to ignore it. Jack didn’t seem to notice anything, and she never mentioned it, but sometimes she felt someone touch her arm gently when no one was there.

Portrait of an Abandoned Queen
by Emily Nelson

There is an old saying about portraits. I do not remember it exactly, but it has something to do with capturing the image and soul. My mother whispered it to me once when I was still a small child, poising for the first of my many portraits. I was fidgeting, my dress and jewels were heavy and my smile frequently fell from my face. My mother, a queen with much discipline, pursed her lips at my discomfort. When the artist raised his bushy brows for what was surely the millionth time, my mother rushed to my place and, for the first time in a long time, caressed my cheek. She told me that we had to suffer for beauty and that I must be strong. I felt a such a rush of pride and joy that I was good enough to be given attention by such a powerful women (even if she was my own mother) that I ignored the boredom and pain. I did not flinch again during the hour and expected my mother to say something about how good I was being. But she had already left.

Now I stand poising for a portrait again. The emeralds in my hair and on my neck glitter in the feeble light that shines through the window. My dress is of fine, white silk that falls into an array of pearls and feathers. But I am no longer the young, fair-haired beauty I was and the effect of the outfit simply give me a look of desperation. My hair has grayed, my skin wrinkled and I fear that my legs cannot hold me up much longer. I tremble, I feel faint, and my smile has turned into a grimace of pain. But I do not move or complain, I do not give anyone the satisfaction of my weakening. The King has taken too much away from me already. My youth, my power, and my children. But he can not taken my pride. I will wear this gown with grace and dignity and they will know that I am still the same beautiful Portuguese princess that came to this country years ago. I am still the wife of a king and the queen of this country.

My husband fell out of love with me years ago, I am wise enough to know that. His eyes wander from my aged beauty to a slim-waisted, youthful girl often. But he has never shamed me publicly before this year. He always led me out for the first dance, praised my excellence to visiting ambassadors, called me his ‘luck charm’ when we would hunt together. I was still an adored queen, even if it was simply protocol for me to be so. But my husband is a fool with a greedy heart. When a new, gorgeous, younger woman stepped onto the dance floor, he was captured. I saw him lean forward in his seat as her skirts twirled, her curls bounced in an array of gold, her smile formed a perfect Cupid’s bow. In that moment, the youthful beauty of a younger woman made me truly lose him. He never called his sweetheart again, he never led me out to dance, he never invited me to hunt with him. Every night, I must watch him dance with her, hear the men and women of the court praise her delicate beauty and wit. I feel like I am no longer a queen, but only a shadow sitting on the throne. With everyone waiting for a wind to blow me away.

I hang the finished portrait in the opening of my presence chamber, for all the see. It does not recapture my youth, but it does give the appearance of royalty, something that only I own. When my husband dines with me the next morning, he does not comment on it. I know that he is wishing to be with her, but he must settle for me and it angers him. I praise his strength, his leadership, his keen observance when he complains about the slowness of my servants. But he does not thank me for my company or bid me a good day. He simply leaves the room, ignoring my farewells. I despise his greed, his stupidity and his cruel eyes. I want to hit him, I want him to fall ill…I want him to love me again. I want him to kiss my hair and whisper how precious I am. I want him to bring back my children and to make us a family again. But petty dreams will not bring him back.

When we ride through the city, the commoners do not act as though they still love me. I know they are weary from the heavy taxes and they do not even have a beautiful queen to be proud of anymore. I throw them coins, but they do not smile as they pick them up and their eyes show hate me. They eye my rich dress and do not realize I wear it in an attempt to recapture my husband, to save our country from the disaster of a royal separation. They blame me, silently but strongly. They still love their strong, prideful king and they adore the beautiful, young woman that he smiles at. I hear her giggle and know that she is taking away my people too. Bitterness is a unattractive crown but I wear it with my shame.

As they sit close in the evening, she whispers a little poison in his ear and he hates me a little more. Her pretty giggle echoes in the hall and he wraps an arm around her waist. He calls out for a dance and they glide onto the floor, her blue dress twirling all the way. I feel my hate for them burns hot in the pit of my stomach. But I keep the thin smile on my lips clap when the music stops, and I laugh as though this dance between them was a gift to me. Tears burn my eyes and I feel like screaming. But I hold my hurt in my heart and think of my beautiful daughters and my strong sons. I feel their little hands holding mine and their heads nestle into my necks even though there are miles between us. I almost let the tears slide down my cheeks when I think about their little blond curls and dark blue eyes. My husband does not feel the pain of longing for our children. His only worry is whether or not she is happy.

After the sun has completely left the sky and the moon has taken her place, one of my ladies walks toward me and I give her a smile. She, like all the others, knows how fake it is, but she accepts it as permission to speak. She softly asks if I would like to retire to my chambers, and I know that the king or his lady has asked her to do so. My skirts brush the ground as I glide to the center of the room and a few gentlemen bid me goodnight. But I am far from leaving this scene.

“I would be so pleased if you would honor your wife with a dance, my king.” My voice comes out soft, but strong. My husband looks shocked at the invitation and I take this moment to brush her aside. His hand is warm as he holds mine and his grip is gentle. I feel young in that moment and my feet move with the music as though I were weightless. My cheeks regain their color and I know myself to be lovely in this moment. My love, my only love is holding me tight and twirling me gracefully. I am youthful again, I am a young princess in his arms. I laugh freely and hear the most wonderful sound: he is laughing too.

“Having a good time, my sweetheart?” He chuckles as he lifts me into the air. I see him smile at me and I blush like a maid. Yes, this is how it’s supposed to be. He still loves me, his queen, his sweetheart. The music stops and the court cheers at our little performance. The king releases my hand and thanks me for the dance. His smile is warm and his eyes are kind. I think for a moment that things will be alright. Our marriage will survive and we will be alright. But that happiness is shortlived. He brushes past me and goes back to her. The music starts again and there is something more in his gaze when he looks at her. He loves her, he adores her, and he wants her. I may have captured him once, he may have even loved me once, but my time is past, I am the woman that holds the most royal title in the land but not the royal heart. But I will never give up my throne or my children no matter how young the woman is or how happy she makes him.

To this day, a portrait hangs on display in the most extravagant musuems in the world. It was found hidden in a French castle and even today it’s origins are not known. A noble lady stands tall in an extragant dress of silk and pearls, her sad eyes seeming to stare into the soul of whoever gazes upon. Nobody knows who the woman is or where the painting came from. Any one who looks upon it will tell you that it must be a queen, she looks so regal and her dress is so rich. But those same people will also tell you how sad and lonely she looks. From these opinions the portrait was given a name shortly after being discovered: ‘Le Portrait d’une Reine Abandonnée’. The Portrait of an Abandoned Queen.

Have you ever participated in the Nano challenge? Every November Nano challenges authors to write an entire novel in one month. If you have participated in the Nano challenge please tell us about your experience. You can find out more about the challenge at http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano

Jacob