Concerning the Funeral

“Night, the shadow of Light,
“and Life, the shadow of Death.” -- Algernon Charles Swineburne



   It began, as so many things do, with a funeral.
  There was nothing memorable about it, or noteworthy, or a burgeoning fractal entrance deserving Dickens’ “best of times, worst of times” bit. It wasn’t even raining. Taylor wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but he stood stoic in the gravesite sun because this feeling was nothing foreign.
  He had been told, in the past, that he had a Problem. It was one of those terse psycho-terms he had become accustomed to and eventually learned to block out, not let affect him. People were always trying to tell him he had some issue or another. He seldom paid attention. He disagreed on the whole anyway. There were empty places in his memory, and sometimes he woke in place he didn’t remember falling asleep. He had read about that, so that was all right, and anyway that kind of thing rarely happened anymore.
  The sky was bright and brittle, a teasing Monet sun dangling where it should warm but letting the chill seep through insufficient clothing. Taylor absently searched for a reason to convince him he should still be standing here.
  Across the small gathering of faceless mourners, his eyes met those of that Asian kid who lived downstairs. The kid’s blank, halcyon eyes flickering briefly in silent remorse, and then visibly froze again. Taylor moved away, strolling among the tombstones.
  Eventually he noticed the eulogy had ended, and the black forms were coalescing like some soiled watercolor. He felt a soft tug at his sleeve, looked to see the Asian kid. He tried to think of what he should say, then realized the kid was talking.

Taking a break in the adventures this week for too much wine and food. Tune in to next week's broadcast as we launch an all-new spine-chilling tale!

Concerning The Ending

   They met at the crossroads, between Deepwood Cemetery and the riverbed, far from where the lights were ropes of dangling stars and the tinny washpan blues were a whispered memory. The moon was a sunken ship crushed on the forest horizon, casting ghostly light in wan strips over the gravel. Even the insects had ceased their castanets. He slid from the soul of the shadows, the nail ever-present in his hat-band gleaming like a diamond, like the smile beneath the twist of his moustache. He had been expecting his guest all along.
  A barter, one for stakes he could never guess, but one he knew was inevitable. Here another crossroad stretched, set evanescent above the road and river; the future yet un-traveled, save perhaps by the Houngan. Potentially he could have walked away, returned to bed, shut the door on the voice of magic, and mystery and danger. On the music itself.
  Hoell stopped before the tall man. "Well," he said, "I'm here."
  Rhodius nodded solemnly. "And I suspect you're not interested in the world."
  "Too many problems with it already," Hoell said, shaking his head. He removed his fedora, raked a hand through his hair.
  Rhodius smiled briefly, teeth glittering in the moonlight. He waved an arm behind him, a showman inviting inside. "There's a door here, Mr. Hoell. It opens only one way. No charm or totem will matter within. No veve has power except what is already there. Are you willing to step through it?"
  Hoell stood still for a moment. He looked at the moon, tracked a progression of notes moving through his mind like an amorphous cloud of migrant birds. Listen to the spell of the music.

  Come to the crossroads, it bids. Come to the crossroads, and master your own destiny. All he asks is something dear you don't really need. Will you really miss your second sight? Your inner child? Your last kiss? So much more could await in this world. So much that should have been, will be, could be. All that is asked is a token. A fair price for youth, beauty, and knowledge.

  He fumbled in his pocket, held forth the bullet, and stepped forward.


FINIS
copyright 2010 tcr/BPLtd.

Concerning the Queen of Knives

  Without any visible cue, two dwarves toddled around one of the caravans, each one taking an arm and dragged the body away over the moonlit dust.
  Cigars finally lit, Rhodius breathed a long fallow smoke stream, and turned his impressionless eyes to Hoell. "Thank you, my fellow. I am sorry you had to be involved in this most unfortunate night. If I may be of service in the future. . . ."
  Hoell didn't trust himself to speak. He mumbled a thank you, to which the ringmaster tipped a hat and strode off into the grounds.
  Kelly flipped the knife around a few times, catching the handle in this hand, then the other. Her smile wasn't unfriendly, but neither was it a thing to be trusted. It was of a thing in the darkness, telling you to beware, it's only warm for the time being. Hoell just watched her.
  "I see that you've met Nicholas," she said. "What wisdom did he impart?"
  "And ending," Hoell replied eventually. "All that mattered was the ending you make."
  Kelly laughed short and mellifluous. "That would be his style, old bastard." She made the knife vanish somewhere in her peacoat with a sleight-of-hand flourish, tipped her hat and turned to follow the ringmaster. Then she turned back. "Hoell," she called out. "No one can give you the world. They can only give you their part."
  Overhead, the moon shook free from the cloud cover.