Looking by Allen Stroud

"Alice?"

I raise my head to find Miss Hargreaves peering down at me over her thick black glasses. She's asked me a question, but I wasn't paying attention. She's holding a book in her hand, the same book that's on my desk, the same book I'd been staring at but not seeing. Lewis Carroll - Alice, Through the Looking Glass, about a girl with my name, but a different life.

A better life.

I can hear the sniggering behind me in the back two rows. I can guess who. Michaela, Josh and Sarah, it’s always them. Any weakness and they're ready with words like knives after class. I know why. Starting with the names and teasing means others don't start on you, but just because you understand why people pick on you doesn't make it easier. You bleed on the inside. I'm a target these days, spotty face, hair that won't behave.

"Sorry Miss Hargreaves," I say, feeling the building heat in my face.

"Do you need me to repeat myself?" she asks, her tone suggesting I better not, but I've no option.

"Please," I say.

"I'll do that after school then," Miss Hargreaves says. "I trust you'll be more focused until then?"

"Yes miss, sorry miss."

The bell sounds an hour later, the others all troop out. I stay put, a little relieved to avoid the shoving and name calling. I answer Miss Hargreaves question about chess pieces as characters. She leaves me alone in the room to wait out my punishment. I stare at the book again; flip through the pages to a picture. The girl in old fashioned clothes climbing on the mantelpiece to the mirror. Maybe the book is my looking glass, a window to another world. Anywhere's better than here.

By the time I'm walking home, everyone is long gone and it's dark. Mum'll be upset with me. Dad'll be angry with her when he calls at the weekend from his new life without us.

I keep my headphones in and turn up the volume on my mobile as I make my way through the streets. Loud angry music to wash away feelings and make like I'm not really there. Channel it all into whatever the singer's screaming, raw pain about being alive, about being me.

I get to the main road lit up by streetlamps. On the other side there's a figure. As I get closer I realise what it is. A human-sized rabbit, dressed in a coat. It waves, pulls out a pocket watch and impatiently beckons me to cross.

A rabbit?

I stare for a bit. The rabbit stares back, points at the watch again and mouths words at me. I can't make them out, but the meaning is obvious.

I step into the road.

Lights blaze towards me, I look and see the car, too close to avoid. Brakes squeal, but I know the driver won't stop in time. I don't even raise my arms.

Anywhere's better than here, right?

It says 11p.m. UTC. Guess we will know who won in monday.

Rainwater and The Hairman,


Walking barefoot above rusty colored ground. Dust was falling into my drying out mouth, while I was whistling mundane melody that I heard my dear uncle playing on a turtle guitar. Had one string only, was made out of a bison bowel. When Bison was alive his name was; Marcus. As a kid, in the late evenings I was watching his lonely silhouette on a horizon, mighty and unsettling. Back then I was only frightened little child, but now I can whistle and the bison is dead. My destination, an exceptional treasure, a golden teeth’s, the whole god damn jaw.

In my home there are plates with nothing on them and maybe a bit of cold of eastern wind. My mother shared with me a story about, my wealthy great-grandfather who fought during the War, was buried somewhere on the other side of the Dark Forest. Many heard that he died out of thirst. They used to call him Golden Grim, his smile was color yellow. My wife, dear Melanie, told me to go there, she sent me away with a shovel… to an adventure.

I reached the border of a desert and the dark forest. I saw there a woman, in the black crimson dress. I approached her, just and only with an intention to say: "Hello" And then I fell. Fell into a pit, as a I would say wasn’t there before. Without the sound, I fell. I lost my shovel.

I sprained the ankle. I landed in a rather cold pit, a cave. Inside the cave another cave darker than the one I fell into. From darkness a mysterious man emerged. Mysterious I say he was, a strange looking fella. My nerves were busted, pain numbed my senses.
His face was covered with curly black hair, whole head was, whole face. I could see his eyes, they were hidden in a hairy sticky mess, giving me an examining look, like an eyes of a weird, hypersensitive dog, which didn’t bath in a long time. No doubt that in the past, he could have been chic gentleman. He wore a grey, black striped frock coat, shabby, smeared in coal.
- What’s you lookin at? – He aggressively broke the silence and gasped.
- Excuse me, sorry. – Politeness is a virtue in those strange times, that’s what my Mother used to say.
- Ma dear wife pushed me here, can you imagine, boy? – he said “boy” very high.
- Yeah. – he paused for a little while, or maybe it was a short time. His appearance was most confusing and distracting.
- … listen boy. I ain’t here cause I wanna. She told me, that I’m saying things…
stories, too complex, too unusual for ma boys and that I’m making little Sarah afraid.
He scratched his head, looked around and put his fingers in his hairy mess, so it looked like he was picking his nose. I took his peculiar look as a hallucinations, after shock… he didn’t make sense, but he continued talking.
- …A nice bed time story about a Reverent who was collecting cockroaches, to teach them how to drink good wine and cry. A Duck with a most twirly, twisted pipe stuffed with a cherry tobacco, always asking for fire. A Governor with a silver glass eye-ball, which was ripped from his head during kinder garden opening… ripped by an albino condor.
I didn’t say a thing.
- I just grow hair on ma face, that’s all. Upstairs there is a hole and I’m making a rope out of my hair, so I could get
out.
- What’s inside the cave?
- Inside the cave, lives a snake, of course. A Python, I think. You don’t want to go there, boy. How did you get here
anyway? Did the old gods sent you here, to accompany me?
- I was pushed, I imagine by your wife as well.
- So is she still there?! She didn't call help, for all that time. I though wolfs ate her or... Is she a demon?! Does she
enjoy torturing me? Wicked woman. Help me! Honey, please!!!
Something snapped inside him. He started to scream and then he cried and after an hours of yelling, stranger fall asleep, just like that, and so did I. Wind from a dark cave awoke me.

I saw him hanging, on a rope made out of his hair. He strangled himself, he decided to take his own life.
My decision was different, I crawled into the cave, to meet a devious snake. I didn’t like the alternative of growing hair on my face.
The Snake. His eyes were shimmering out in non-existing light, weirdly enough I could see him perfectly, red, green and black mosaic was paved on his shiny skin. He surrounded me and slowly started breaking me, slowly. Very slow.

I hated him, breathing in, and breathing out. Suddenly, he jumped at me, bit me in a hand, mighty sting of a mythical creature. Poisonous mouth in the dark, my hand started to swell.
Gigantic serpent, an enormous, smiling creature, with a mouth wide open. His teeth, two needles, and something like a tongue, some kind of an organic fleshy tube. I knew he devoured many before me, because he had a breath of a rotten corpse.

I grabbed him, little below his head, he was difficult to grab. I started to squeeze, his slippery neck, that’s all he was. My wound turn into a purple-green bubble dripping puss, my muscles felt like they’re being digested. I took smile off his face, the poison was making its way to my brain. Now, we were both dying.
I choked him to death well and then… I passed out.

I heard the rain. It was raining outside, I crawled half-paralyzed towards the sound of the water.
Finally, I felt beneath me solid ground which wasn’t made out of a rock, a fresh air, freedom.
In my left hand I was still holding trophy of a dead snake. With my right hand I felt her bare feet. I rolled over and then I felt it.
I was holding hair, not a snake, I touched my head, I think I pulled them out of my own head. She was wearing black crimson dress. I couldn’t find a way to interpret expression of her face, it seemed blank to me, even though she was clearly smiling. Behind her I saw a dark forest, somehow I got to the other side, but the sun was making me dizzy, I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t get rid of a metallic taste out of my mouth, it was dusty. My lips were to dry to whistle even an simple mundane melody.
- Water. – I whispered to her, so she leaned before me to cover the sun.
- It is raining, my dear. - and that's what she said.

I'm not an english native speaker so i'd like to deeply apologize beforehand for every gramatical incorrection you may come across in the following text (or maybe already in this little introduction) and ask for your kind understanding in that area.

A Birthday with water and wine

The story i want to tell you is about my mother and her two best friends. A friendship that is lasting already for over ten years and hopefully stays that way for the years to come. The deep friendship reached their families so that we all too developed a friendship that is filled with mostly laughter. Water and wine is actually playing a major role in our lifes. For one thing we're living in a beautiful wine-growing village where a lot of vineyard estates are so we all like to drink wine. The other thing is that a big river is flowing right beside the village. We're living right before the river makes a S-curve so the display is a rather beautiful one when you look at the village from above staying in the middle of the vineyards that cover the little hills surrounding the village.

The story begins with our door bell vehemently pressed a lot of times around noon in September. I jumped out of my chair to get as soon as possible to the door but my mother was faster. A voice screamed in excitement through our hallway:

"Inge, I have the perfect. No, no, no, the most perfect idea for Annes' birthday party."

Oh well, I thought to myself, hopefully it's something reasonable. You have to know that the voice belonged to Beth and Beth likes to have perfect ideas for everything and tends to go overboard... a-lot-of-times. Even if you let her know that it doesn't matter to her because her ideas are great. How can they possibly not. They come out of her brain. You know?! Okay that matter aside and admitting that with a little twinching her ideas are really good... most of the times...while getting rid of her shoes constantly laughing with overjoyed sparkling eyes and talking about how great and perfect her idea is, my mother already went down with lightning speed into our cellar and appeared like only seconds later with two cold wine bottles in her hands again. Before i could even follow they both already sat in our kitchen two full wine glasses in hand (and i mean full, they wouldn't be the women i know when they actually would care for the 0,2l marks.) congratulating each other for this perfect idea and with a cling of their glasses drinking to their greatness (just a comment here: until that moment my mother hasn't even heard the idea yet. Just saying.).

I already heard a lot of plans for Annes' birthday which Beth and my mother were organizing because Anne didn't have the time. But until that day they hadn't found an idea with which they could surprise Anne on her special day.

After drinking to themselves three more times Beth layed down her plan:

"We're doing a wine hiking through the vineyards surrounding our village."
"No way!" my mother said with sparkling eyes. "THIS IS ABSOLUTELY GREAT!"
A satisfied Beth took another sip from her glas. "I KNOW!"
"OH MY GOD, why haven't we thought of this sooner? It is so obvious."
Sparkle, Sparkle! Cling!
"It is perfect! No, no it is more than that. It is ab-so-lute-ly genius!" Cling! Cling!

It went on like this for a while longer until our two geniuses (hopefully this is the word for more than one genius) began to plan out the whole thing. Where we're going, what we're taking with us (Beth: "We need a lot of wine." "Yes. you think 12 bottles are enough?" "Na, better take 18 with us. We're a lot of girls." Yeah, like ten. "And the Men?" "Oh right, they need wine too.") and that we needed some games we could play on the way.

At the kitchen sideboard were already three empty wine bottles when my mother opened another one. We all three drank happily together in total bliss and sunbathing in those great ideas and our greatness together when it suddenly hit me pretty hard and i was down at earth again:

"Yeah that's great and all, but... how are we going to transport all of that?"

They both stared at me a little while.
Beth:"Oh!" She wasn't capable of anything else.
Inge:"Shit! And now?"

Well, first i made a trip to the fridge and made our three glasses full again, just like magic. The cling sound of our classes sounded like the misery we were falling slowly into. The wine didn't taste as great as before. And we began to sigh in turns.That was a real bummer.

But then my mother jumped right out of her seat making me choke on the wine and Beth actually spill something of hers. Because of her sudden excitement she couldn't utter anything else then: "I Know!" We came closer. Eagerly awaitung what she would spit out.

Inge: "FATHERS DAY!"
Of course, the handcarts!

Well, i don't really know how the rest of the world spends Fathers Day but around here it is custom that the fathers and their friends gather, put a hole lot of beer into a handcart and go with it to..., well that's actually a mystery to us but as far as we know they return eventually in a really loud (mostly drunken) manner to the sorrow of their wives. Never failing to bring the handcarts back save and sound. But empty, of course.

Our kitchen was filled with the Cling! Cling! Cling! sounds of our glasses again. „To the greatest idea ever! To Fathers Day! And to handcarts!“

The next couple of weeks we were waiting in excitement for Annes' Birthday and when the day arrived we couldn't believe it. It was the beginning of October and the sky was shining in a brilliant deep rich blue. The sun was bathing earth in a beautiful light and gave us amazingly 26°C (78,8°F). There was not a single cloud in the sky for the whole day.

Clothed in shorts and thin layered tops we went with two really full handcarts all together to Anne and gave her the surprise of her life. Laughing, singing and drinking we began our tour through the vineyards and boy was that a beautiful and happy tour. The river was as beautiful as the sky in color and the sun made it seem like there was gold flowing down the river instead of water. It was an astonishing sight. It was a day i would call a perfect day because of the beauty of everything and the harmony we felt.

After that day these wine-hiking tours became our thing. The vineyards became our refugee where we go when we do have a hard time or want to relax and feel at peace no matter which season we're in.. And everytime we do and we're sitting on one of the many banks and tables along the way watching the stream of the river and the vast land in front of us i sometimes feel so much thankfulness flowing through my body. I'm thankful for this life, the people around me and the beauty of this world that is all around us. And with the wineglas in hand i toast to that and take a sip.

Note: Since processing took a whole lot of time I don't think I made it in time to post the full story but i had fun writing it anyway^^ Thank you!

Note 2: Ignore my first note. I mistook the pm for an am. lol

Note 3: i shortened my story. So that it could fit in one post.

you have 12 hours left. i'd be more concerned about "reasonable length" ;)

I wouldn't count on a Monday announcement. It takes a while to read and judge these things, and I doubt anyone's going to work the weekend to do it

Yes, the number of submissions has been quite high. they would probably need some time to read them all, unless they have started reading already.

Missed it by that much.
Her fingers touched the iron flask, gently caressing the cold metal surface. Nails scratching the intricate carvings, lips wet with a sweet and burning taste. She put the flask in her chest pocket as her eyes fell on the lonely campfire, watching it dance and crackle, casting shadows and a promise of recluse. She looked at the horizon up ahead, now dark and menacing. If only she had been here on time. If only she had rode faster, if only she was here at sundown. When the desert would be colored purple, blue and gold.

That meeting would have been a turning point. A meeting of vagabonds, outlaws of the truest kind. Guns at their belts, hands where they could see them. A feeling of unease, a shiver of fear, a chance of disaster. And then, after all would have been settled, they would ride free, aiming for a cause that would make them legends or dead men. A conclave of desperation.

She was too absorbed to hear the sound of boots on the nearby rocks. Her eyes were so blinded by the blazing fire that she couldn't see the figure approach. She was too surprised too react when the man pulled out his gun. But she saw the flash of light, she heard the loud bang.She felt the pain in her chest, as it pulsed towards her neck and face. With trembling hands she pulled out the flask from her chest pocket. As her vision blurred she put her fingers on it, gently caressing the warm metal surface. Nails scratching the intricate carvings, lips wet with a strong and salty taste.
Missed it by that much.

Part 1 of my submission.

A promise kept

The ground shifted precariously underfoot. Peony stood dead still. The spear dragged painfully at her exhausted arms. Fiery pain blazed from her ankle, as though bone had turned to burning coal. Sweat stung as it trickled into the deep gash along her cheek. But she dared not move. Stones skittered away down the slope, bouncing from bare, jagged rock to bare, jagged rock, birthing a thousand stony echoes that reverberated from sheer face to to bottomless cliff, from loose piles of stone to clinging snow, until the entire mass of it trembled and shook, a mere beat of a butterfly’s wings away from crumbling to to a crushed and battered mound of stone.

Above her a man laughed, frayed and exhilarated in equal measure. One bloodied hand gripped a knot of rock not larger than an apple, fingers writhing as he struggled for purchase. The other held tightly to the hilt of dagger, the blade driven into a narrow cleft. He was down on his haunches, breathing heavily, eyes skittering from tumbling pebble to scoured face, then down to her, the lips twitching into a grin, then back to the stone. His tongue flicked out, grinding over chapped lips. Again he laughed, the hollow, tin timbre of a madman.

“Well, fair maiden, where to from here? We can scarce go any higher. What say we parley, you and I?”

“Give it back.”

He laughed. But it was a laugh swiftly strangled: the bloodied fingers slipped, and he slid, boot thudding into a knot of stone scarcely larger than that which had anchored him. Fingers scrabbling like a spider they found a second cleft, wormed into the crack, leaving a pockmarked trail of scarlet across the smooth stone. He grimaced in pain, fingers twisted at a nauseating angle, arm shaking violently with the effort. But still he grinned, in insane exhilaration, eyes glittering with feverish desire.

“I will not. I see the hand-crossbow at your thigh. Relinquish my prize and I would follow yonder stones to the valley floor. I would be a mite broken, I think.”

“Give it back,” she growled.

He shook his head. “After all the fun we’ve had getting here? That would be most anti-climactic don’t you think? Far better to gaze upon each other, you at my rugged charm, while I swoon at your immeasurable loveliness.”

“A bounty has been placed on your head. They will pay for your corpse.”

He grinned. “And yet I still breathe, for my prize would not survive the fall.”

“What do you want?”

He cocked his head to one side. “A curious question. Could it be that you are willing parley indeed? I would not blame if you are. A most disquieting perch this, of ours; I imagine we would not last long should the weather turn. Or perhaps we could die of thirst? One of us is going to fall for certain, but you do not want that, I think?”

Peony glanced down. The height was dizzying, the valley floor but a distant river of green, the village a motley clump of fudged brown specks, like mushrooms dotted about a field, the river but a thin stream of winding silver. The keep, that towering bastion of imposing stone, was reduced to the size of her thumb. Down by the river it would be warm, starlings singing in the trees, dragonflies flitting gracefully above the water, the sleek dark shapes of fish drifting in deep shadow. Here there was nothing save rock and sparse, stunted trees, the only sound the mournful call of the chill wind winding through the crevices.

Should the weather turn they would be stranded. The skies were yet clear but come the afternoon the winds would rise and the first feelers of wispy cloud would curl over the peaks. From the valley floor the beauty of those gentle white swirls was breathtaking. But here, here she suspected they would be as teeth, cleaving them from the rock to dash their broken bodies against the serried ranks of trees below.

“What do you want,” she repeated, looking back at him.

“So you are prepared to parley?” He chuckled, a sickeningly mocking sound that brought bile to her throat. “Well, my pretty flower, my conditions are thus: provide me with a kiss and your lost treasure is yours.”

She gaped. “A kiss? You steal from us, run like a coward, then bring us to the edge of ruin, all for a kiss?”

“My dear, you wound me; I doubt you would have been willing should I have approached you atop the village green, fair maidens being such virtuous flowers. In my experience a glass of wine or two is needed to loosen their lips, but I digress.” He smiled, offered a slight bow of the head. She felt her lips curl into a snarl. “Regardless, the ploy worked did it not? I am here, as are you, and we are alone.” His eyes flitted to the valley. “And a more majestic a setting I cannot imagine.”

“If you think I will be offering myself to-” she grated.

“My dear, you misunderstand me,” he broke in. “I do not mean to bed you against your will. Such would be highly impractical on the side of a mountain, no?” He chuckled, clearly amused at his cleverness. She bared her teeth. “Besides,” he continued with an airy laugh, “such behaviour would see me hounded from county to county eventually to live a craven exist atop a miserable spit of rock far out into the Megryn Ocean. No, I collect memories, nothing more, of beautiful maidens and their honeyed lips.”

Her grip tightened upon the spear. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Dear thing, I have not been caught yet,” he chided. “I am fully within control of my faculties.”

“I will not,” she said coldly.

Broken - The End

“My beloved, we have seen ten-thousand years of bloodshed, treachery, suffering… and still you would stand against me?”

Kaito spoke softly, yet his words and the hardened gaze of his eyes told different stories. Of the family Yukimura, Kaito was once a warrior of the highest caliber - a samurai - and a servant to a mortal lord whose name he had forgotten in some century past. He relished this moment of calm, stretching his toes into the grass, filling his lungs with the unblemished air of the mountaintop. It was a stark contrast to the usual burning fields and rotten forests that now filled his broken world. A rare grove of sparse trees and the occasional snow-dusted peak were the only scars of life left after millennia of innumerable wars in a land of gods.

He doubted very much that he was a god of any good sort.

A few paces before him stood the abomination that once was his wife, hunkered over and breathing in a broken rhythm. She wore only tattered rags that were originally a burial shroud and was unbothered by the cool, biting breeze that whipped across the rolling mountains. Her hair hung knotted and filthy, offsetting the delicate ivory of her face. Her oni, named Anathema, was a great and gluttonous devil whose lust for the taste of flesh was insatiable.

“Dearest husband,” she began. After coughing up a bit of blood-flecked phlegm, she went on. “I will hunt you for the next ten-thousand years, and the ten-thousand after that, until at last I find you at my mercy. Your blood flows sweeter than honey and purer than moonlight, and will sustain me until this world ends and the next is born.”

Before her transfiguration her name had been Ayane, but very little of her true spirit remained. Her breathing was as ragged as her clothes, and the light of the sun overhead cast shadows over her eyes, now sunken deep into their sockets. The wind whipped her hair and clothes about, and Kaito could see her sickeningly distended belly, gorged on some fresh meal that he dared not imagine.

Ayane’s eyes drifted slowly, somberly up toward her lover.

“Kaito, I wa…” her voice broke suddenly into a guttural growl as the oni pushed his hunger to the forefront of her conscious thoughts, and she lunged into a deceptively fast sprint toward her husband.

These scattered glimpses of what remained of his wife were the only reason Kaito had not taken his own life. After watching an empire wither at the hands of the avatars of demons and seeing an endless sea of innocents slaughtered - many thousands at his own hands - he had reason enough to seek death. Although he had some ambition guiding him to find and destroy the Shūryō Stone in hopes that this nightmare would be unmade, Kaito was driven onward these many years to hear these few broken words.

Even his oni, with whom he bargained for the strength to bear his sword eternally, tirelessly, and unrivaled, remained silent. His demon was a calculating and brooding thing but with an overbearing sense of honor, however twisted it was. It afforded him these moments, for as long as Kaito maintained his strength of will the oni would not fall in battle, and it prided itself on finding such a powerful host. It called itself Vindication.

Kaito had played out this charade with the corrupted shade of his wife many times since the world ended, and as his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, he wept. His measured swordplay was more than sufficient to defend himself from Ayane’s long fingernails and jagged, yellowed teeth, and as always he was careful never to spill her blood, but he had chosen to put an end to this ceaseless strife. Stepping deftly across the smoothly rolling earth, they danced and circled in a macabre mockery of grace.

As they fought, so too did the formless oni engage one another, although their altercation was offset from physical reality by the veil of the spirit world - a thin haze that could be seen through by those who had touched the Shūryō Stone. Vindication used its ki, its force of self, to shape and guide arcs of divine power into a clockwork arrangement of ancient words. It spoke this spellcraft into being, a lost language of magic known only to the entities who set the worlds in motion - or those who stole knowledge of it from other gods. This enchantment appeared as a series of complex circular writings floating in the thick, soupy reality of the spirit world, overlapping and intersecting to form still more lines of magical verse. The oni set redundant traps and pitfalls of sorcerous force that had to be overcome before it could be attacked directly by another god-thing, and having survived the rise and fall of quite a few incarnations of reality, it had become exceedingly skilled in its craft.

Anathema, in contrast, took a more simple and somewhat less dignified approach - it consumed anything that it was able, and that included oni magics. As it did so, Vindication crafted still more words of power to delay Anathema further, and so their encounter was a dance of its own sort. As they assaulted one another, the engorged spirit of Anathema began to encumber Ayane, tiring her very soul, and Kaito found an opening in which to strike. The blade of his katana was empowered by his oni and cut deeply into Anathema, causing both his wife and her spiritual bondsman to recoil into a spell-trap set by Vindication.

His wife and her demon howled in unison, crying out in pain and the sting of defeat. Ayane fell backward into the depths of nothingness while the brisk, mountain wind pressed her hair back away from her face, and again Kaito saw a glimpse of the woman he once loved buried inside her tormented form as she fell into that sorcerous, bottomless cage. That fleeting moment of both sorrow and fear pulled him deep into a memory of their last real days together, and for him it was utterly real, and became to him a heaven of sorts. Of Ayane, who can say how she suffered in that spell-trap with only her possessor for eternal company?

oh right. My bad. I thought it was 11 am not pm. lol.
mmh maybe you're right about the length.

Part 2 of my submission

“And yet you will not leave, not without your prize.” He shrugged. “We are at an impasse, then, as we have been for well nigh an hour. I don’t know about you but my perch is growing most wearisome.”

She glanced once more down the mountain. The dog was right. They could not stay here: if either slipped then this vain pursuit would have been for naught. But she could not return, not without what he had stolen. A promise had been made and she could not bear to think of the disappointment in the soft brown eyes should she fail.

“Show it to me.”

He smiled, indulgent. “My petal, I am afraid I cannot. Should I do so you would know where to retrieve it before you toss my lifeless body from the mountain. No, a mere touch of your lips, feather-light, and you shall have it.”

“And should I kill you afterwards? How do I know you will return it?”

“Blossom,” he laughed, “you are no murderer: you hunt beasts, not men. You are a noble protector, a woman of honour. And such as you do not kill in cold blood. As to how I shall evade capture?” He winked knowingly. “I shall place your treasure here,” he said, pointing to the rock his boot was braced on. “We can only one of at time climb to this spot. We shall meet halfway, exchange pleasantries.” He grinned. “Then we shall go down, you shall come up, and I shall be gone.”

Anger pounded in her heart. That this villain, this animal, should have cornered her like a rabbit was galling. It shamed her to the core, that she had not anticipated his intent, nor was able to prevent him from achieving a position of advantage. But the fox had played his game well.

“Very well, dog,” she said through gritted teeth. “You have earned your dalliance.”

He laughed, delighted. “Well now, isn’t that marvellous!”

Carefully he climbed down. Standing before her laughed like a slavering fool, his wide, jeering grin repulsive, the smile of snake dripping poison from its fangs.

“Such a glare,” he gloated. “Never fear, I shall be brief.”

He leaned in close and his lips brushed hers. The feel of his breath on her face, the nauseating slime of his contact, however brief, was unbearable. Sorely tempted to gut him with his own knife she nevertheless held her ground: fight on such unstable footing and they would certainly fall to their deaths. And so she ignored his lingering contact, the hand that rose to brush her cheek, reduced both man and touch to the buzzing of a bothersome gnat.

“Ah,” he sighed, contented, as he leaned back, looked upon her with languid joy, “such loveliness is a rare pleasure, and you my petal, are the most exquisite I have seen in a long time.” He clapped his hands briskly. “But now I must be going. Your company is heavenly but other maidens await.”

Fury coursed through her in a searing, corrosive wave. What she would not give to the see the man hanging from a noose. But she remained still and composed, kept her face blank. Let the fool think he had won his victory. It would be short lived.

Turning, he climbed back up the slope. Bracing against the rock he steadied himself. Then from behind his back he drew a small canvass bag, no larger than his hand. And from it he drew a doll. He heart stirred at the sight of it. It was a simple thing, made of linen, with buttons for eyes and neat red stitching for a mouth. Clothed in a simple green dress it was of no great value, would sell for the meanest amount, but she had crafted it with her own hands, through many a lonely night out hunting, and with her own hands she had gifted it to her sister. She still remembered the beautiful face, the radiant smile, how the precious little girl had cradled the simple toy as if it were baby, how fierce the grateful hug. He placed it on the rock, then clambered laboriously down.

“Farewell, petal. It has been wonderful meeting.” A flash of teeth, a scornful salute. Then he turned away and began to descend, whistling a merry ditty as he did.

She climbed up after the doll, listening as he made his way gingerly down. Reaching it she took the treasured thing in hand, tenderly tucking into her coat pocket. Patting it gently down, to make sure it would not fall, so allowed herself a small smile – the girl would be overjoyed to see it again.

“One moment, hound,” she called. Holding fast to the rock she twisted around to face him. He turned, an amused grin spreading across his face. But his mirth swiftly died. Retrieving the crossbow from her thigh she levelled it at him.

Shock skittered across his face. He edged back, but his footing was treacherous and the nearest refuge was dozens of meters away.

“You are right, I would not murder in cold blood,” she said, grim. “Not an idiotic knave with less sense than a boy, who indulges in childish games and delights in the shame of others. For you it should be hard labour, ‘till such foolishness were scoured from you. But you have been watching us.” She took precise aim. “For you to know the value of the doll, to know I had carved it, you must have been watching for years, slinking in the shadows as you bided your time. There is a name for one such as you – a monster. And while my craft is not in the slaying of men, it is in the slaying of monsters.”

She pulled the trigger.

A Clear Evening

The lift softly rumbled as it went up from the eighth floor to the tenth. The doors opened with a ping!. The tall, slightly out-of-breath brunette was joined by a stocky redhead. Both wore a name-tag with the word VISITOR promptly displayed.
“Late business too?” the redhead asked as she pushed the 6 button.
“Yes," replied the brunette, “my boss needed some things done and as usual it absolutely couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” She shrugged. “Bosses, right?”
“Ugh, tell me about it.” said the redhead. “My boss is the same. At least I’m fortunate that my husband works here and we can carpool home together.”
The lift ping!ed again, and the redhead left. “Goodnight!” she waved over her shoulder.
The brunette waved back as the doors closed, finally bringing her to the ground floor.
She put her VISITOR badge on the empty guard’s table and signed out, then resolutely walked out of the building into the cool night air. She liked the city at night. It was calm. And with clear weather like this, even light pollution wasn’t quite able to erase the stars.
Let’s see, left turn here, there should be a mailbox…
She took an envelope out of the front slit of her suitcase and pushed it into the slot. There. It could not be said that she didn’t do her job.
She walked along the maze of streets, eventually reaching the opera hall. They were performing tonight. Orfeo ed Euridice.
Good, she was on time. She’d feared this last-minute job would make her late. She didn’t have the best seat in the world, but it was good enough. She was more interested in the music, anyway. The woman playing Orfeo truly had a marvelous voice. She hoped she could buy the CD, someday.
After the show, the brunette went to the bathroom, never to be seen again.
—
“Did you hear what happened last night?” the shop owner asked, perhaps a bit too excited.
“No, I haven’t had time to check the news yet.” his customer answered, as she handed him the bag of Earl Green and a jar of tea pearls. The pearls had little roses at the centre, which would reveal themselves during steeping. A silly little thing, really, but it tasted good and…well, everyone enjoys some silliness from time to time. God knew she could do with some more silliness in her life. Her job could get much too serious and if it took some silly tea for her to wind down…well, so be it. “Why? What happened?”
“There’s been a murder,” he said. “In the tower. That’ll be 10,35, please.”
“Oh dear,” the blonde said as she handed him the money. “I was at the opera yesterday — that’s not far off! I wondered what was up with all the police sirens.”
“Yes,” said the shop owner, bagging her purchase. “A man had his throat cut — found by his wife, poor thing. My cousin, see, he’s the security guard. They found him unconscious and tied up in the basement!”
“Oh my.” said the customer. “Poor woman! I hope your cousin is well?”
“Yes. A bit groggy, and angry with himself for letting himself be jumped, but fine for the rest. Goodbye, miss.”
“Goodbye.”
As she left the store, the blonde wondered if the redhead ever realized she stood in the lift with her husband’s killer.