the gaslamps
the written word
Envee
“Can you believe that? It’s completely ridiculous, right?” “Certainly.” It was not in fact ridiculous, but who was he to argue? It simply wasn’t good business. The man in question was a weekly client, arriving punctually to the stool every Friday night. Upon entry he was rather withdrawn but once the tonic entered his bloodstream, there was no conceivable end to his chatter. Poor, ailing John. It seemed as though the world were conspiring against him. Two weeks ago, he was surprised with news of his wife’s two-month relations with another, younger man. Only last week did he discover the fresh recruit in his department was not only receiving a hearty raise but a promotion as well. And today he was greeted with that blasted eviction notice on his door. John’s woes never fell on uninterested ears. His drinking partner was always avidly attentive, his gloved hand propped under his cheek and his face reacting perfectly to every new development to the drama. The combined forces of liquid courage and the understanding company had allowed him to grapple with his consistent misfortune. Apart from the bar, John’s path did not cross with his barroom companion, their circles independent of one another. He didn’t even know his name and had never thought to ask. John was not the sort of person to think of these details. His mind was overwrought with his unending hardships. His cynicism prevented him from finding solace. “No, I honestly can’t believe that. You’ve certainly been through it, my friend,” the young man shook his head sympathetically. Absentmindedly swishing his glass, he said “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” “No, you’re too young to understand such things.” John flashed his companion a scrutinizing glance. He was too young. Oh, to be so young again and to have time to idle as this gentleman did. He never considered it before, but he was probably wealthy too, based off his attire. John’s eyes concentrated on the gold necklace glistening faintly under the man’s collar. The pendant attached was a peculiar, oblong shape. Eyes rising now, he found that he was suddenly invested in this young man. He yearned to know more about him. Just how much better off was he than himself? It was a dark train of thought, but John couldn’t help himself. *** In the adjacent stool taking a large sip from his glass, the young man smiled amiably with his eyes. He could feel his drinking partner staring or rather glowering at him. This was exactly what he was after. Lowering the glass, he traced John’s vision to his pendant and could almost read his thoughts. Smiling still while lifting the necklace, he explained, “It was a gift from my parents from a little while back. Just a spur of the moment thing, I suppose.” He, in fact, did not have parents. But John didn’t know that. He grinned inwardly. John didn’t know anything. John nodded and cleared his throat gruffly. The conversation had seemed to trail off, but he knew better than to think it had ended. John was mulling, finding his words. It wasn’t often after all that he spoke about something beside himself. *** Putting his drink to his lips in consternation, John studied his drinking partner with contempt. He never took this young man for that type. He never struck him that way. A spur of the moment thing? Of course he was here at his age. Someone in his position could afford to do whatever they pleased whenever they pleased. He didn’t have to earn a living. He was free. Squeezing the glass, his temper rose. *** Noting the tightness of John’s grasp on his glass, the young man began to nonchalantly fiddle with the ring on his left hand’s ring finger, knowing it would seize his attention. As predicted, John’s eyes trailed to the ring and the glass in his hand began noticeably shaking with the pressure. “Oh this? Yes, my wife. She’s a gem, the cutest thing! We were married just this summer.” He waved his hand flippantly while laughing heartily. “Still adjusting, if you get me.” He wasn’t married. It was merely a convenient prop. He may be Society’s pet, but he was no married man. But John didn’t know that. *** Plastering an aggressively forced smile upon his face, John gritted his teeth. How had he spent so many a week laying himself bare before this man. This man that practically mocked him with his pretentiously debonair lifestyle and fulfillment. The more he revealed about himself, the sourer John’s disposition became. He knew it was unjustified and even hinging on sinful, but he found himself loathing this man. Grimacing inwardly, he bitterly reflected. All the nights he had perched keenly absorbing all of John’s recounts of misery began to make sense. He had mistaken interest for compassion or sympathy. It was entertainment. The scoundrel was entertaining himself on a Friday night. Look at the fool. Look at poor, ailing John. Look at him flounder at his circumstances. Even now the snake sat there with his green eyes rapt, contently waiting for his next morsel of despair. It made John sick. *** The young gentleman’s sparkling green eyes were indeed rapt. He had been waiting weeks for this moment. With shaking hands, John set his glass down slowly, maintaining a pathetic attempt at composure as he did so. The picture of instability. Knowing what was to follow, the young man cleared his throat, “You look a bit stuffy, friend. Might I suggest you get some fresh air?” “Yes, I think I may,” John replied calmly, his face downcast as he rose from his stool. Following his suit, the young gentleman suavely put his hat upon his head of thick hair. As John began to rifle his pockets, the gentleman intervened. “Show yourself out, my fine man. My token for your troubles,” he said as he effortlessly produced some cash for the bartender without counting. A small smile rose to his features as he heard the irritated sigh and the sound of storming footsteps behind him. *** Everything he did was to spite to John. He could feel it now. Why else would he pay? Out of kindness? No. He was most definitely mocking him. Now in the darkness of the outside, John made no attempt to conceal the scowl directed to the lanky figure striding out the doorway, smiling kindly to him. He had reached his breaking point. “Are you all right my friend? You seem upset.” He stood in the mouth of the alleyway John had retreated to; his towering figure silhouetted by the moonlight. “Apologies for my bad spirits. It’s just all these recent troubles,” John said, maintaining civility. “It feels as if everything is slipping away from me. Or rather being stolen. That’s it.” The young man stared at him listlessly. In a dulcet tone he asked, “And what would you do the thieves?’ John looked up in confusion. His partner laughed at his reaction. “You know, those who have stolen from you. What would you do with them if you had the chance?” He stared expectantly at him. John was confounded. Though he was angry, the air had cleared his mind. He was calmer. Before him, the gentleman cocked his head in what seemed to be disappointment before smiling once again. He outstretched his arms. “In other words, John, what would you do to me?” John’s eyes widened in surprise. “What do you mean? Are you mad?” Processing the information further, he began to shake once again, his calm giving way to rage. “You don’t mean… the notice? The promotion… even-” He could barely bring himself to finish his sentence in his mania watching the man stand before him grinning sadistically as he nodded. “Yes, yes, yes John. It was all me.” he confirmed. “Now what will you do?” He beckoned him with his hands. “Tell me.” John was overcome with emotion, unable to speak. His vision shook with the distorted image of the source of his misery who was still smiling examining his hands. “The house is mine.” He paused, adjusting his glove, and smirked. “She, is mine.” That was the final draw for John. He took an assertive step forward when the ground seemed to tremble beneath him. Upon closer inspection he saw not cobblestone but a circular maw, countless rows of teeth descending into a depthless chasm. Looking up he saw not a man but a well-dressed monster, green eyes and pointed teeth glistening in the moonlight. The pendant around his neck had opened, revealing the green jewel within framed with golden lashes. Tails like snakes twitched erratically about him. “Who are you?!” He cried in terror as he felt himself sinking into the disembodied gullet. Just as John was engulfed by the oblivion below him, he heard that consoling tone that had comforted him for so many weeks nonchalantly say, “Envee, sir. My name is Xavier Envee.”
Society
God could be a woman. Whyever not? I am honestly not so different. Such were the musings that accompanied the harmonic ticking of the rows of clocks in the tinkerer’s mind as she studied the gears before her. She extended her gloved hand across a table cluttered with all manner of metal pieces, confidently grabbing a seemingly innocuous gear from the cesspool. Inserting the gear into the system, the notes of the clock weaved themselves seamlessly into the chorus of the rest. Music to her ears. Closing the door to the clock, she continued aloud, “Not so different at all.” “Are you monologuing about being God again?” The sudden voice sounded from the back of the workshop, which was blanketed in shadows and dust. One could just make out the prominence of a hat in his silhouette. Hardly looking up from her workspace, she had already set to work on yet another clock, her arms dancing mechanically across the table. “I don’ t see anyone here that can stop me.” Saying this, she cast a direct glance in her visitor’s direction before returning her attention to the clock. He laughed wryly as he strode over, his lanky form gracefully sidestepping around the labyrinth of grandfather clocks, stools and other various objects. Reaching the edge of the table, he joined her in examining the clock albeit with indifference. He nonchalantly picked up her latest repair. “How many of these things have you fixed today?” “Twenty-sev… twenty-eight actually,” she replied, triumphantly shutting the door on the clock before her. Momentarily detached from the trance of her craft, her eyes rose to the room around her. “Why, would you look at the time! Nearly 10 am.” Shaking his head, the man rested the clock back on the table. “Never will I begin to understand how someone completely surrounded by time can be as completely oblivious to the time of day. It’s actually impressive.” Having taken his hat off, he was running his gloved fingers through his shaggy hair in ennui. Leaning back in her chair while stretching her arms upward, she replied, “I genuinely can’t help it. Clocks captivate me, and you of all people know how difficult it is to escape captivation, Xavier.” “True, but good lord, the dust in this place! You could afford some time outdoors,” Xavier responded waving his hat around pointedly, stirring up a flurry of fuzzy gray molecules. The shop was laced with a thin veil of dust with cobwebs dangling from the ceiling like chandeliers of fluff. “Personally, I quite enjoy the dust. It smells familiar and helps me notice when something has been disturbed. Like a web of security,” she said, reluctantly rising from the chair she had occupied for the past two hours. Continuing, she said, “And I actually can’t leave today as I’m meeting someone, which is why I summoned you.” With her pale gloveless hand, she gestured to a large crate of mended clocks. “I need you to deliver these for me.” Xavier leaned sideways to survey the goods. It was indeed filled to the brim with clocks in a range of shapes and sizes. Most importantly, it looked incredibly heavy. He sighed dramatically. “I fear my arms will fall off one of these days delivering milady’s clocks.” Despite his words, he stooped and heaved the crate with relative ease, his long overcoat skimming the dusty floor. He began to cross the room, his long arms straightened under the weight of the crate. As he reached the door, she spoke up. “And Xavier. Keep my work and yours separate. No double-dealing.” She smiled coldly towards him. He turned slowly, smiling to reveal a mouthful of gleaming pointed teeth. “I would never, milady.” He continued onto the street. *** The viscount nodded curtly to the tall gentleman whirling out the door with a crate brimming with a baffling number of clocks, barely giving the soul time to reach the stairs before edging through the doorway himself. He hadn’t the time for idling. He was a man in duress. The brown-gray hues and soft chimes of clocks of the workshop greeted him, the innumerable gossamer strands drifting lazily towards the sudden draft of the doorway. The serene ambience seemed to scoff at his plight. There was a searching quality to his eyes as he scanned, looking, looking, looking. “Where are you… you you…,” he sputtered frantically, his eyes darting about the room for any signs of movement. “Viscount? You seem so distressed,” her derisively gentle voice sounded from the darkness ebbing in the back of the room. He tentatively plunged deeper into the workshop, slowly being driven mad by the rhythmic pulsing of the clocks. The tip of his foot nearly grazed the start of the shadows before he became dreadfully aware of the presence looming behind him, almost seeming to descend from the ceiling. “What troubles you Viscount?” the gentle voice inquired from over his shoulder. Startled into action, he whirled quickly about. Nearly a head shorter than him, stood a young woman with brown, piebald hair, her glasses pushed up to reveal her mahogany eyes and the curious red diamond shaped marks in sets of three on either side of her face. Normally when they met, she was tightly bundled in a coat but today she was wearing a black, sleeveless blouse. Normally when they met, her right hand was comfortably encased in a glove but today her false marionette-like fingers glinted in the lowlight. Normally when they met, she disguised herself but today she wore no masks. Two years ago, when he verged on public defamation with no other options, she had appeared on his doorstep. She introduced herself as a humble Samaritan with a network of connections. As a Samaritan, she continued, one could not help but to be moved by such dire circumstances facing one of such noble standing. Nobility fraught with dire circumstances were her specialty, she had said. She could make the dire circumstances disappear. Before he could voice his instant skepticisms, she listed names. Names that had vanished over night without warning. Having established her credibility, she again offered her services. She had but one condition. “Join my web,” she said now. The cobwebs descending from the ceiling wafted eerily about the two of them. Two years ago, he had no other options. He was desperate. Desperate people act with haste in the moment. Desperation, like many other things, fades over time. The names that tormented him had vanished. Years passed and his status was regained, and his confidence grew, perhaps ruefully so. Thusly, when his butler delivered that heinously conceited letter this morning, he was suffused with courageous fury. Seeing the bluntly deviant look in the tinkerer’s eyes however doused his fury with a frigid shower of terror. “Do you know why clocks captivate me, Viscount?” she asked in an even tone. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “Clocks are a feeble attempt by humanity to control time. Time cannot be controlled. It consumes who it pleases when it pleases. Yet inevitably humans naively create these manageable little machines to comprehend and thereby control it.” With each sentence, she drew menacingly closer. Watching appendages sprout like barbs from behind her, the viscount found himself instinctively backing towards the darkness, possessed by a visceral desire to escape. The solid ground beneath him gave way to a tangle of strange fibers slowing his retreat. “Humans can’t control time! They can barely control themselves. Yet, the clock exists.” By now, the viscount was horrifyingly aware he was no longer propelling himself backward, his limbs flaccid against the taut tethers that had manifested from the darkness. The ground was now overwrought by the mysterious fibers. “Always vying to escape control. Why can’t you be satisfied with the natural order of the world? Why must you dominate? I’ll leave you to ponder these questions,” As she said this, her voice shrank away. The tethers had abated their yanking. Their grip, to their captive’s dismay, had not subsided in the slightest. If anything, the weight of the bindings had increased. He found himself in a frantic liminal space between paralysis and denial, fighting in vain. Soon futility would overtake him, and he would process his surroundings. The distant hum of clocks thrummed in the vacuum of the foreboding silence. He would soon find he was one among cocoons of names doomed to be forgotten by the merciless march of time. *** The tinkerer shrugged on her coat, calmly fastening the buttons in place before once again occupying her chair before the endless assembly line of clocks. There was a muffled undercurrent of screams accompanying the chorus of clockwork. Not so different at all. she thought with a smile.
Desireé
Morning light streamed through the windows of the apartment, glaring off the white walls. The room was modestly decorated with but a wardrobe, a chest, a chair tucked in under a table and a small bed. Grunting emanated from below the covers, the lean figure underneath resistant to the call of the sun. Despite his reservations, he found himself nonetheless rolling toward the windows with the intent to rise. As he did so, his hand made contact with something cold, striking him like ice in the comfort of his bed. There was also a plethora of a certain silky texture. He was not alone. Sitting himself up, he looked on in amusement at his visitor who was sprawled rather peacefully on the edge of the bed. Gingerly, he climbed over the sleeping body, the mattress creaking beneath him. Standing before the bed, his bout of waking was once again interrupted by an icy caress to his wrist. He cast a glance downward at the delicate hand clasped around his arm, as many as four rings adorning each finger. Using his arm, the individual dragged themselves up wearily. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?” Having shed the guest’s grip, he crossed the room and began rummaging through the wardrobe soundlessly. His visitor stretched his arms upward, yawning gracefully. The extravagantly frilled sleeves of his shirt cascaded over him, revealing alabaster skin laced in fishnet. “Oh, you know I was on this side of town last night and thought to myself, wherever shall I spend the night? And before I knew it, I found myself here.” Twisting the rings on his hand lackadaisically, he continued, “And I knew you wouldn’t mind! Envee never minds.” He flashed something of a coquettish grin, blinking his sliver-blue eyes at Xavier. Smiling and shaking his head, Xavier continued his perusal of his shirt collection. “But why me? Society’s room is just down the hall. You could’ve paid her a visit,” he suggested jokingly. To this, his guest shuddered and shook his head dramatically. “Absolutely not! I wouldn’t be able to sleep a single second. She’s twisted. I’m afraid I’d never wake up!” Having said that, he swung his legs from the bed rising to a standing position, his sleeves fluttering with the motion. Across the room, Xavier turned on his heel having settled for a sleeveless button-up. A look of distaste crossed his face as he grumbled. “And people call me an uncouth beast. You couldn’t have bothered to take your shoes off?” Shamelessly ignoring his comment, his visitor’s heeled shoes clacked across the wooden floor as he flounced to the window, jingling accompanying the movement. Once there, he produced a compact mirror and began preening himself. Dressing himself behind the concealment of the wardrobe door, Xavier watched him with curiosity. Standing illuminated in the window, he was the embodiment of purity. Leisurely gazing at his reflection, he combed his fingers through his lengthy strawberry blonde hair, the hallmark of his appearance. Paired with his effeminate facial features, he was the picture of androgyny, a natural gift he was not ashamed to use to his advantage. Shame was beyond him. Heads turned wherever he went, and he relished it. Scandalous rumors ricocheted haplessly off his sashaying figure, the very prospect of shame cowering in his delicate shadow. His audacity was something Xavier both reviled and admired; a sentiment shared by many. Emerging from behind the wardrobe door, Xavier straightened his collar. His guest quirked his eyebrows at him smiling. Xavier tsked in response grabbing his overcoat. “Shouldn’t you be off?” His visitor made a pouting gesture. Sighing dramatically, his guest replied, “Well if you’re throwing me out. So cruel!” With effort, he hefted open the window, the incoming breeze causing his hair to flutter backwards. Xavier shook his head for the second time that day. Noting his reaction, his guest argued, “What? This is how I always get in! It’s nearly noon which means Society is definitely out there. I’m not in the mood for her moods and you probably aren’t either.” He was now comically crouched in the windowsill, preparing for his descent. Xavier laughed at his desperation. “Whatever. Have fun with your dealings then.” His guest gave him a surreptitious wink and waved a curt farewell before leaping down to the sidewalk below presumably creating something of a spectacle below. Xavier smiled and shook his head once again as he slid his gloves over his scaly hands. He was truly shameless. *** Languidly reclined in a secluded booth, his eyes were trained on the furtive woman darting through the seedy crowd with her hands clasped tight to her chest, like a mouse in a den of snakes. Navigating through the smoky darkness of the room, her movements were like a beacon. Trying to act comfortable never fails to appear awkward after all. Everyone recognized her type and blessed her desire to remain unacknowledged. Her eyes were searching about the hazy air until they widened and narrowed, her flitting nature giving way to certainty as she directly treaded to the booth, glancing leerily about as she went. As she slid cautiously in the booth across from him, her hands remained tightly clutched as she slowly lowered them towards the table, her guard still incredibly high. He pitied her case but meeting here was to her benefit ultimately. The final trial. He loosened one of his draped arms from the back of the booth, extending his pale hand across the table, the frills and lace of his sleeve grazing the surface. Pensively, she rose her own closed hand and paused. “It all ends?” she asked. His gaze softened for a moment before being replaced by its usual gaiety. Flexing his fingers slightly, he replied, “It all ends.” Seeming appeased, she released the small object into his palm, exhaling deeply as she did so. It was as if she was suddenly liberated of an immense burden. In turn, his hand tightened around the object. Wordlessly, she rose, bowing slightly in gratitude and darted from the booth, her hands now free to lift her dress as she went. Watching her leave, he rose the glimmering ring to his lips in contemplation. The die was cast. *** The next hours were that of a routine blur. Drinking and crooning sweet words. Prattling away frivolous phrases that were immediately forgotten. More drinking, more crooning. He was the life of the party. A pretty thing like him deserved another drink. Who was he to refuse from such a gentleman? More drinking, pretty words dripping from his mouth. Words slurring now, he really was too pretty. Prettier than. Tittering giddily, prettier than what? Prettier than her. The right hand suddenly tensing and slipping over the left, over that ring, slipping it off as was necessary at times like this. Not enough alcohol. Perhaps another drink? That would be fun. More, more, more! Spirits brightened once again! Ring forgotten. Words slurred nearly incomprehensibly now. Pretty he was. Very pretty. Flattered, he whispered now, ringed fingers gripping his ringless hand, beckoning. Alcohol makes you bold. Too bold to notice the disparaging glances. Shameless. The bar was gone now. It had been gone for hours now. There was only the pretty light in the darkness. That tingling laughter. The sweet smile. Hair like silk. The scent of orchids. Pale smooth skin. Sparkling eyes so blue they were almost silver. Pretty fathomless eyes. Tantalizing. Staring into the depths of those reflective irises, an image danced. An ugly image. Wide shaking eyes, glossed with tears and terror. Terror at him. That cowering, demure face. Breath bated by the sobering image; eyes unable to avert. Suddenly a curtain of strawberry lashes hides the atrocities. Breath renewed; the intoxicating orchid fragrance erases the presence of the image. She was the yesterday, tomorrow’s problem. He was the now. The now was so blissfully thoughtless. The bar was yesterday too. Even the orchid printed vest on the floor was a piece of scenery in the face of this vision. The iridescent alabaster flesh of the sternum peeking between the blouse’s ruffles. Delicate hands poised on either shoulder. The smoothness of the small of the back interrupted by something rigid and cold. The tensing of the grip. Then the quiet plea. “Confess.” His grip tightened on his shoulders, his face rising to showcase his shining eyes, glinting with malice. The dream had subsided. “Confess them! Now! Your desires!” his voice now raised. He now giggled wickedly, that pretty titter seeming sinister now. Recoiling at this spontaneous descent into madness, the gentleman moved to dismount the bed. That was his intent, anyway, but his muscles were unresponsive. A snaking form waving lazily across his vision answered his confusion. Countless silvery segments ending in a barbed point. He had this moment of clarity as the piercing pain spread across his neck. Leaning back now, his pretty little friend clumsily wiped his face, his mouth opened to reveal the chrome of his pointed teeth and tongue. A metallic substance dribbled down his chin. Looking at his face, he smiled dolefully before leaning in once more. Strands of darkness bled into his vision, the details of the room blurring away once again. As the strands crept further, he saw once again that image. A face no longer cowering but at peace, empowered. With time, that faded too. *** Sitting on the bed’s edge, he lifted the sheets to clean the remains off his face. He gazed listlessly at the husk sprawled next to him. Truly a depraved soul indeed. His favorite to devour. Like saccharine. Turning his attention to his palm, he admired the two rings. Nonchalantly, he lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal a pocket chain upon which hung innumerable rings. He gave these two new additions similar treatment. They slid amiably into the rest. He stretched his arms above his head, gently collapsing back into the sheets. The stillness of the room reverberated in his ears, the steady pattern of his breathing being the only sound. As he lay in contemplation, only one thought crossed his pretty mind. “Now,” he voiced aloud. “Wherever shall I sleep tonight?”
Vongeance
Fold it in half. Fold it in half. Fold it in half once more. Set it into the basket. Repeat. Her hands worked metrically through this process. They were small hands, the kind that were both dainty and calloused. She may have been humming as she worked but she was unaware. The sheets needed to be folded. That was her primary focus. As the final sheet was set into the basket, her mind was at last free from this cycle. In her freedom, she found herself turning around and surveying her shared quarters. There was a sumptuous vanity teeming with all manner of cosmetics and jewelry boxes. The upper drawers of the vanity were slightly ajar so that just anyone could see their contents. She didn’t need to look. She knew each drawer was filled with rings. Neighboring the vanity was a canopied bed with the ornate fuchsia covers contorted around a singular mounded form on the very edge. She frowned. The reason she was folding sheets. She crossed the room quietly, approaching the slumbering mound. *** Tucked happily away in his bundle of warmth, said reason was taking his well-deserved nap after a night of pleasure. This was until he felt a jab in his side. Groaning he peeked over the edge of the silk blankets to the figure looming above him. Her freckled face was unenthused, half-gloved fingers still poised inches from his side, prepared to strike again at a moment’s notice. Sighing, he slid upward to a sitting position, his hand clutching his side. “Von, girl, can we please find a better way to wake me up?” Staring at the firm look in her hazel eyes, he found his answer. He groggily ran his hand over his face as he watched her produce a crumbled paper from the pocket of her dress and brusquely handed it to him. Smiling wanly, he took it. In elegantly winding penmanship, it read: Her Ladyship wants to see us. Now. So, get up. please. “Of course she does,” he replied, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “Right when I decide to sleep in my own bed.” Despite his reservations, he found himself emerging from his bed, now standing just above eye-level with Von who still held him in her piercing stare. He met her stare with matching resolve before passing her to the vanity. “I’m not leaving this room without tidying myself up.” He sat dutifully in the floral upholstered chair before the vanity and immediately began scrutinizing his appearance. As he ran his comb through his glossy tresses, he took notice of her returning to the far less opulent side of the room, her preferred state of living apparently. It wasn’t as sparse as Xavier’s room, but it paled compared to the explicit luxury of this side. She paused by the baskets currently occupying her own bed and pointedly looked to the vanity with disdain. He sighed dramatically once again. “Look, I am sorry.” Satisfied with his work, he stood and trekked towards the baskets. “But we have to do what we have to do, you know?” He held up his hands, showcasing the rings on his fingers. She crossed her arms in defiance. He strode past her. Theatrically, he gestured to the baskets. “And to prove that I am sorry, I will take care of these even though I am so very weak.” Eyes suddenly lighting up, he hurriedly reached into his vest pocket. “I forgot I had prepared for this moment!” He thrust a small notebook decorated with flowers to her. Hesitantly she accepted the gift, attempting to suppress a small smile. He grinned back with the genuine smile he only set aside for his closest friends. Unable to hide her smile any longer, Von grabbed his hand and yanked him out of the room, bowing her head as she went. *** The windows of the room were enswathed in deep sapphire curtains bathing the study in sultry darkness. Behind a large wooden desk embossed in gold, sitting in a grand chair the silhouette of her graceful profile was just visible. Her hand was raised to her shoulder, occupied in a rhythmic stroking motion. There was an orchestrated calm to the space, ominous to those who would venture to disturb it. Well aware of this, her houseguests composed their pace before entering. As they neared the desk, the figure dwelling in the chair showed no signs of stirring. Her presence however emanated an authoritative aura that demanded patience. With the door open, there was a subtle glint of the golden statues decorating the room, Romanesque in their varied severed limbs. It was several moments before she spoke. “Quick and excellent work,” she said in a melodious voice. “Beautiful, Desireé.” Standing beside Von, Desireé smiled before performing a gentle curtsy with a flourish, his frilled sleeves fluttering mesmerizingly about him. A lavishly accessorized hand rose above the chair, loosely bearing a gilded envelop in its grip. The other hand remained locked in the stroking motion. Wordlessly, Desireé ventured to the desk, leaning to accept the envelop. Adopting his usual frivolous smile, he waved in thanks. Their kind did not voice gratitude after all. Turning towards the doorway, he flashed a final sincere smile to Von before departing, slicing the envelop open with one of his many rings. As Desireé left, the stroking motion ceased, and the figure rose from her seat. While the entirety of her person was clad in shadow, her eyes gleamed with a golden sheen. Von gazed at her in reverence. “Von, this situation requires your skills in the utmost,” she began, lifting her hand once again to her shoulder, where a pair of equally glimmering gold eyes could be seen. Von put her hand to her chest. “My skills are at your disposal, your Ladyship.” *** Fold it in half. Fold it in half. Fold it in half once more. Set it into the basket. Repeat. Rows of hands worked metrically through this process. They were small hands, the kind that were both dainty and calloused. Humming may have emanated somewhere in the rafters of the warehouse, but the girls didn’t notice. The cloth needed to be folded. That was their primary focus. The cloth had no foreseeable end. There was no freedom from the cycle. The monotony was excruciating. This was until one young girl towards the end of the row rose her eyes from the cloth for the first time in months, her ears ringing. Her hands, disturbed by the distraction, clumsily fumbled the fabric. She heard it now. The usual rustle and stillness of the room was permeated by a hypnotic humming. The girls beside her paused themselves at her abrupt halt in folding. Then they heard it too. Within seconds the steady rustling of cloth had given way to the curious song. Words thrummed in their ears, the kind one can only understand on the brink of dreaming and inevitably forget upon waking. Lilting words, guiding their attention to the unattended door. They wouldn’t be punished for leaving, the lilting words assured them. Quickly now. Slowly, the girls stepped away from the rows of tables, stepping away from the fabric. Mechanically, they shambled to the door, small arms extending upwards to the handle. With effort, the bulky door eased open, and the crowd of girls poured out into the open air, wide eyes blinking at the sudden brightness of day. Thoughts of the fabric were abandoned. *** Leaping from the rafters, Von landed gracefully on the table amidst the scattered half-folded fabric. With the humming subsided, there was dull throbbing silence in the warehouse. She strolled to the table’s head where she took a triumphant jump downward. Swinging her arms nonchalantly, she ambled to the door which she ripped open violently before traversing deeper into the factory. Machines that once whirred incessantly at all hours were in a dormant state of disarray, their operators absent. Cloth in various stages of development was strewn all over the floors. Warehouse after warehouse was left unattended, vacant of any life. Humming to herself, Von continued forward at a leisurely pace. She was in no rush. It was her ladyship that taught her to act this way. Haste accompanies the unprepared. Ascending the stairs to the office, she cleared her throat. Gently, she forced the locked door open. A fire blazed in her eyes as they met the wide gaze of the unprepared man of industry behind a desk filled with trinkets designed to bide the time of the bored. His hands fidgeted, his mouth searching for excuses in the depths of his mind. “Save your breath please,” Von said, raising her hand. “You’ve proven yourself a liar.” At the sound of her voice, the man’s trembling hands rose to his ears. He cast an imploring stare across the room, cherry red rivulets coursing down his cheeks. His face was flushed, his thoughts searing like an inferno in his skull. “My ladyship was generous and has been quite patient with the likes of you. And you lied to her. She so loathes liars.” Von drew closer to this man of industry, the volume of her voice amplifying with proximity. “But something she loathes more than liars is seeing her money wasted.” Wings akin to flames reflected in the window behind the desk, framing her petite silhouette. The man sputtered, the inferno devouring the oxygen in his lungs. Von looked on in indifference, raising a hand to her hip. “Nevertheless, she is willing to be merciful,” Von continued. “You’ve a week to redeem yourself. This is your last chance.” With these parting words, she treaded out of the office, taking the combusting sensation with her. The man, bleeding and stripped of his industry, gaped incredulously at his amnesty. Ignoring his present condition, he frantically rose from his chair. One week wasn’t very much time after all. *** Perched in her windowsill, Von glanced towards her bed finding it was devoid of baskets. The familiar mound was once again visible within the fuchsia bedspread. Smirking, she descended from the sill and promptly crossed to Desireé’s domain. Once she stood before the bed, her hand rose softly to stir him but faltered. Fetching a pen from her dress pocket, she scrawled something in her new notebook and deftly removed the page. Ever silently, she set the folded floral textiles atop the vanity along with a golden ring and her fresh message. In her elegant handwriting it read: You’re forgiven.
Capitalism
Fools were oft distressed by silence. To ease such distress, most resorted to filling the yawning void with words. Petty words, just as empty as the space they filled. This was one of the trite phrases she told her once. Malarkey, she had thought to herself then and thought once again now, her lips curling into a smile as she lifted the cup to her lips. “Is something funny, Society?” A dulcet voice wryly inquired from across the grand desk separating the two. Savoring the sweet nectar of her drink, Society shook her head dismissively. “Nothing you’d understand, I’m afraid,” she replied crossing her legs smugly, the fingers of her gloveless hand flicking flippantly against the arm of the chair she occupied. Though the room was clad in shadow, the faint scorn across the desk was unmistakable. Society knew how much she coveted her booming silence and was one of the few who dared to violate it. Uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to return the cup to the coaster, she grinned wickedly at the uncomfortable squeak of the chair beneath her. “So, what is it, my queen?” She asked sardonically, reclining back into the chair. “I hardly imagine you invited me here just to drink your lovely tea. We all know how much you love chit chat.” Society knew why she was here. She just wanted to hear the words leave her mouth. She wanted to hear her say it. The figure in the chair cast an icy gold glance to her, ever the reticent despot. “You know why you’re here,” she replied calmly. “You’re many things, but a fool is certainly not one of them, Society.” Flicking the chair once again, Society narrowed her eyes. “I have played along with your silly game because it was fun and gives me a decent amount of leverage. But it’s not about the game, is it?” Society pressed. A frustrated but composed sigh emanated from the chair across from her. “John Riverton may have been a flawed man, but he shouldn’t have been condemned to death.” An apprehensive finger glittered in the shaft of light stretching across the desk between them. “Your beast is getting unruly.” Society sputtered with derisive laughter. She was correct in goading the truth out of her. Priceless. “No one will miss …whatever his name was or any of the rest of them.” She fluttered her fingers offhandedly. “They’re like flies, they come and go.” “Flies aren’t above vindication,” the figure replied evenly. “Humans can be more complicated than you give them credit for.” Society smirked in amusement. “Malarkey,” she scoffed. “Life is quite a simple formula when you distill it. I would know.” She gestured backward at the figures quietly stationed on either side of the door. “Nevertheless, I’ll pass your little lecture onto Xavier. I’m sure he’ll find it a riot,” she rose elegantly from her chair. Taking one last gulp from the cup, she added, “Do pass my compliments to your butler, he’s outdone himself.” The tea was one of the few reasons she entertained these little visits. With a flourish, she departed. Her entourage bowed before following suit. The artificial scraping of their joints echoed down the hall. *** The figure in the chair shook her head quietly, fending off one of the tedious headaches that always seemed to follow visits from Society. She sighed, exasperated. The rain pounding against the street outside quelled the clamor of her thoughts. Chittering sounded from her shoulder, and she offered her attention to the creature nestled around her neck. The marten’s golden eyes winked at her in the darkness as he began to twine down her arm playfully, before training his gaze on the jewels embellishing her rings. She chuckled, “Mammon, you’ve more tact than that.” Lifting her own cup to her lips, her own eyes illuminated with delight at its sweetness. Perhaps she could not help but agree with Society in that regard. Indolence made a brilliant brew of tea. A gentle tap on the door disrupted her pondering, likely the gentleman himself. Cocking her head, she expressed her desire to Mammon for him to reassume his post. Obediently, he scurried back to his refuge behind her neck. Rising languidly, she walked around the desk and through the labyrinth of limbless golden statues dominating her office. She traced the contours of the ornate doorknob before opening the door. Standing before the threshold, her butler jumped startled by her appearance, his tired eyes widening just slightly. She managed an apologetic smile and rose the cup still occupying her grasp upwards. “Your tea was truly a marvel today, corroborated even by the fickle tastes of our guest.” She reflected for a time before adding, “For whatever that is worth.” Wringing his frail hands, Indolence nodded graciously. Blinking his eyes erratically, he spoke tersely. “Yes, yes, yes, regarding our guest… what is to be done about what she has done,” he spoke as if in a spiral of distress, the wringing of his hands becoming frantic. “Regarding myself? As she did it with little to no notice and I was not prepared, and I need a replacement or I’m not sure what will become of me…” She looked on in pity as his words slurred into a buzzing mumble of delirium, his body rocking back and forth with his mania. “Indolence?” she intoned. He perked up instantly, his descent into madness put on hiatus. “Yes?” “I have an urgent matter for you to attend to so listen carefully,” she murmured. He leaned with anticipation, his honey-colored gaze hanging on her every word. She smiled, “Relax.” Indolence remained in anticipation, awaiting the exalted command. In response, his lady gestured behind him with a pointed finger. He turned in genuine confusion towards the vacant hallway. Returning his gaze to his lady, he found her face in a poignant frown. “Rejoice in your break. Go relax. I have heard your scurrying at all hours of the day for weeks.” He opened his mouth to object, but she shushed him with her further torrent. “I have already arranged a replacement. Do not defy me. Have fun.” Having his fears allayed, Indolence turned toward the vacant hallway with renewed vigor. A smile rose to her lips as she watched him pause in contemplation for the first time in weeks before proceeding forward briskly, his specialty pace. *** Leisurely strolling down the dewy street, her elegant figure was in stark comparison to the people flitting by, anxious to attain their next quota, making cyclical haste. Her golden eyes drifted with disgust at the world about her. It never failed to turn her stomach. Out of necessity, she closed her eyes, her steps becoming stagnant. A decadent carriage splattering mud on two nearby children broke her stupor. Oblivious to the fresh stains to their tattered garb, the children continued chasing each other about. She smiled enviously at their whimsical oblivion. The smile faded as her eyes rose to the noble exiting the carriage. Laughing and skipping through the puddles, the children pounded by, specks of the muddied water arcing upward onto the noble’s shoes. Anger flared in his eyes. Where she saw whimsy, he found audacity. As he descended with an obvious intent to exact vengeance on the small children, she stalked into the fray, her regal sapphire skirt rustling in the wind. “Lord Puerile, life is short. Do you truly wish to deign to while your time away on such a trivial matter?” she inquired in a candid tone. Flushing, Puerile opened his mouth to counter but wavered as he imagined the onlookers interpreting this spectacle, let alone his fellow aristocrat. He righted his posture and straightened his collar haughtily. Forcing a smile, he turned towards her jauntily. “Of course not, forgive me. Life is indeed short! There is not time to waste on such …” He cast a snide glance towards the children. “Matters.” She returned his sentiment with an icy smile. “With the spirit of time in mind, shall we convey inside then, my lord?” She gestured towards the grandiose gate of her private manor. “Yes, let’s.” *** Puerile strode at an impatient pace behind his hostess. How pesky it was that today of all days she would grace him as a personal escort. He reflected dolefully on the retribution he could have exacted on those pestilent flies for their insolence. Ahead of him, his hostess ambled at an agonizing pace. If she wasn’t such a lucrative connection, he would have severed ties with her long ago. Such was the sentiment shared by many of her investments. But he was different than the rest, or at least he believed himself to be. He had ulterior motives. The gilded print of her scarf flickered ahead of him. As alluring as her to all appearances infinite stream of riches was her origin. She was a prosperous enigma. Blooming practically overnight, she spontaneously dominated the economy with her influence, a sporadic magnate looming over the city. Piquing resentment and reverence alike with her financial siege, she acted with collected confidence. To her so-called rivals, that was her most infuriating trait. Her placid nature added yet another layer to her mystique. She was indomitable. This was merely what she wanted everyone to think, in accordance with Puerile’s theory. Such an abundant fountain of wealth had roots somewhere, more than likely beyond the parameters of legal proceedings. Elegantly she opened the door to her study and unfurled her arm ceremoniously inviting him within. Nodding politely and passing into the space, he smiled to himself. If entire empires could topple, why couldn’t she? With her back turned, she twisted the key to her lamp, illuminating the room in a warm brilliance. “Though it may be a trifle chilled, there is tea.” She turned around smiling coldly and gestured to the tea setting upon her desk. “Feel free to indulge as you please, Lord Puerile.” Returning her smile, he strode forward. “I think I shall do just that.” *** After exchanging business jargon for an indeterminate period, Puerile resolved that it was his moment to shine. Setting his empty cup upon the saucer, he rose his eyes in a sheepish display. “Though I am a tad ashamed to inquire milady, I am sorely in need of a visit to the latrine.” She met his nervous smile with a compassionate gaze. “There is no shame in honesty, Lord Puerile,” she assured before passing on the directions. She reserved him the dignity to leave of his accord. Slipping out of the study, his culpable steps gave way to presumption. His minutes above suspicion were numbered and he had no intention to waste them idling. He was dealing with no fool after all, but a conniving overlord. Finding a door in the neighborhood his hostess’s directions, he made his entry, determined to find anything demonizing. He was greeted by a throng of statues, all cast in dazzling gold. It was appalling garish. Grimacing at the pretention of the display, he plunged onward. Passing an assortment of busts, limbless, headless and whole statues alike, he remarked inwardly that should he find blackmail, he would entertain any unavailing attempts to purchase his silence before inevitably toppling her. Momentary recognition in his periphery vision stalled his pursuit. His eyes examined the bust’s face with keen curiosity. It was eerily reminiscent. The artist’s rendering of the subject was impeccable. There was unmistakable desperation and fear instilled in the gaze. Chills coursing down his spine, he turned around and was met with an even more unnerving spectacle. Before him lay a railing. Squeezing between two headless statues, his eyes shook with wonder at the room below. Countless golden effigies blinked in the overhanging chandelier’s glow; a sprawling ballroom filled to capacity. Staggering backward, Puerile was speechless. He had never bore witness to such opulence. It was unbelievable yet before him. “Have you found what you were looking for, my lord? The latrine was it not?” The sudden sound burst Puerile’s awe. He had lost track of the time. Of course she had grown suspicious. Gathering his composure, he turned abruptly. “I got turned around, I’m afraid. Apologies. Your estate is massive! But, this… this is a sublime collection you have here.” “Indeed.” Her lips were pursed in an inscrutable expression. This was when the revelation struck him. He locked eyes with the reminiscent bust. It wasn’t merely the craftsmanship of the sculpture, but the face he had genuinely recognized. Leisurely, she sauntered to join him adjacent to the railing, her eyes lazily scanning the sea of gold. “You are not alone, Lord Puerile. So many have lost their way here on the way to the latrine. I suppose I should issue better instructions.” He laughed hollowly in reply, his eyes wavering towards the door. “Well should we not find our way back to the study then, milady?” Her eyes failed to leave the golden sea, as if in a forlorn trance. Now more than disconcerted, he retraced his steps to the door. As he turned the handle, he was met with resistance. It was locked. “Puerile, please forgive my peculiar hobby.” His heart raced in alarm. “I covet the authenticity of faces so corrupted by deceit.” He turned slowly, seeing not the composed figure before him but the obsidian blade steadily brandished before him. Instinctively, he raised his arms. “Yes, that expression precisely.” She treaded forward with conviction. “I’m afraid this will be the end of our commerce.” As she approached, ideas whisked through Puerile’s lips. He had money, influence, power. Whatever she liked! Her eyebrows raised in amusement, listening to his final pleas. *** Standing rigidly in the doorway, she performed a final sweep of her blade, golden flecks flying free from its edge. Golden hands clattered to the floor. “Conducting business requires a rational mind, my lord.” She smiled towards Puerile. “And money has no value to me. Trust is far more lucrative.”
Indolence
Wake up. Wake up. Wake me up from this nightmare! A frail hand wrested a handsome wristwatch into view. Some people counted sheep. He counted minutes. Seven had passed and he still wasn’t asleep. His fingers tapped manically on the blanket beneath him. Dreaming eluded him. Why dream of something when you could simply do it? He turned his body to the left and then the right before returning to his back. There were seventy-three ceiling tiles but was he entirely certain? It couldn’t hurt to count them again. The frail hand rose again, strangling the strap of the watch in its grasp. Not even a whole minute. He lifted his other hand to cover his face, to cover his eyes. Insomnia was exhausting. He parted his fingers to peer at the vile on his night table. No, he told himself. Suddenly he was standing. No, he thought quietly as he stumbled to the table and snatched the vial. No, no, no, his mind chanted as he swigged the concoction. The voice was consumed by the void of the unconscious. *** “You have a letter, my lord,” he said. Dutifully setting the letter on the table, he took his leave to the edge of the room. Calmly, the man at the table slit open the wax of the envelope. Brimming with tranquility, he unfolded the letter and perused the content, lifting his morning tea upward. His eyes trembled in their sockets processing the words. The tea sailed in an arc across the room, the cup splintering on the mahogany hardwood floor. His hands crumpled the letter between them. “Who does she think she is?!” he shouted. Hurling the letter to the floor to join his morning tea, his face flushed with rage. Continuing, his voice blared, “We had a deal, you.. you..“ “Pardon, my lord?” The man whipped his head towards his timid butler, his fingers tensing and untensing with fury. “Cancel my appointments. Something … urgent has been made aware to me,” he grumbled before hastily exiting the room. Left in his wake, his butler approached the crumbled letter. With gentle hands, he unwound the letter before crumpling it himself and tossing it back in the morning tea’s remains. His hands shook. All he had needed was to see the witch’s handwriting to know the truth. The Viscount was not coming back. *** He woke in a cold sweat, shaking. The seventy-three tiles stared down at him. His tremorous hand still clutched the wristwatch. Squinting at the numerals, he found that he had slept for exactly twenty-three minutes which was plenty in his book. Sleep was nauseating. Groggily sitting up from the place he collapsed on the floorboards, he listlessly latched the watch to his wrist. Once his bearings were gathered, he stood up and brushed himself of the floor’s inevitable dust. The haggard reflection in the mirror snagged his attention. He straightened his tie and frowned at the darkness shrouding his lower lids. “I’m paid for doing my best not sleeping my best,” he resolved as he abandoned his quarters and his worrisome reflection. Outside his door he braced promptly, nearly colliding with the sumptuously dressed figure passing by. They spun towards him and smiled, their hair swishing with the motion. “Indy, you took care of the baskets for me! They were unimaginably heavy- I don’t know how you managed!” The answer was simple of course. By all appearances, Desireé was not designed for lifting baskets but evidently something else entirely. “They actually weren’t that bad,” he replied, the pang in his back screeching to the contrary. But it wasn’t a lie. A few baskets were nothing in the context of all of his other cumulative responsibilities. He was designed for lifting baskets, for bearing a burden. To some extent, he may have even enjoyed it. There was glory in accomplishment where there wasn’t in stagnation. “So they weren’t,” Smiling lightly, Desireé trained his glacial eyes on him, melancholy veiled behind layers of carefully crafted levity. “It must have been my imagination then.” With this, he continued down the hallway jauntily. Indolence stared after him before returning to his own path. *** “This Viscount Ebullience has discontinued a staggering amount of personnel.” She callously flipped one of the assorted papers on her desk. “Permanently in some cases, as rumors have suggested.” Severity occupied her eyes as she glanced upward, betraying her indifferent disposition. Delegation was always her weakness. She never faltered commanding those whose loyalties lay elsewhere. It was the fierce reverence in the gazes such as the one before her that caused her to balk. Individuals who held her every breath in esteem, who would grant any sacrifice to satisfy her wishes. Those she could trust. Sincere piety was both parts flattering and terrifying, a brittle treasure one tried to preserve at all costs. Breath hitched, Indolence stood before her calmly albeit radiating with expectation. She sighed. Disappointing someone so earnest was beyond her and the decision was inevitably to his benefit. “He demands haste,” she concluded, firmly passing the paper across her desk to her faithful attendant. She smiled before continuing, “A demand I imagine you can oblige.” Scanning the document with reserved glee, his grip tightening, Indolence smiled to her. “It would be my pleasure, my lady. I will act in haste.” *** The viscount sneered at the fleeing maid. Was it so unreasonable to want his tea at teatime? He didn’t think so. They lived in a society where time was money. In accordance with that school of thinking, he just lost money. Shaking his head dismissively, he was beginning to believe he’d never find someone worthy of employ, someone to match… no rather outpace his stride. His deliberations were interrupted by a muffled knock on his door. “In. Come in then!” he ordered sternly; arms clasped tightly behind his back. The source of the knock entered with a downcast eye. The new butler with a peculiar name. He had needed to hire another after the previous disappeared under mysterious circumstances. “Ah yes, Indolence, was it? Hopefully we don’t live to our namesake!” He laughed merrily at his joke as it was truly hilarious. Indolence smiled wanly. “Perish the thought, my lord,” he uttered before bowing deeply. Vanishing to the hallway for a moment, he reappeared with a cart filled with all of the teatime necessities, none less and yet strangely none more. It was remarkable. Some servants pathetically attempted to compensate for their negligence by overstocking the cart which vexed him to no end, but this butler had failed to disappoint. The viscount approached the cart apprehensively, not being able to identify any foibles. He was almost a trifle upset. He released a mournful sigh. Indolence sprung to attention. “Is something not to your satisfaction, my lord?” “No, it’s … perfect,” he replied. The word felt bizarre on his tongue with disuse. He had no more than twitched his fingers when his new butler diligently poured his tea, the very thing he was about to do. “Why, thank you,” he said as he cynically accepted the tea, plastering a smile on his face. Indolence lowered his head demurely in response. Lifting the cup to hip lips, the viscount shifted his gaze to the windows. To his surprise, the curtains were already opening, courtesy to his butler. “How did you know I wanted to see outside?” he asked in bewilderment. “Pardon, my lord, you did not wish to see outside?” Indolence stood on guard. “No. It’s exactly what I like with my tea. I just wondered how it was you knew that” the viscount pressed, slightly unnerved. “Intuition, my lord. Any worthy servant acts before being asked, in my experience.” This was not something Viscount Ebullience could deny, as he himself preached these morals on the daily. Sipping his tea, he wearily ruminated on his week’s agenda, completely oblivious to the nick in his usual motivated attitude. *** In the following weeks, Indolence tenaciously proved he was anything but indolent. The viscount was beginning to believe it was kismet. From sunrise to sunset, Indolence was wherever he needed him whenever he needed him, never early and most importantly, never too late. One could not even propose he was too involved. In numerous instances, the viscount had internally found himself craving some isolation from his overly attentive butler, only for him to be absent. Indolence did not hover. If he was not wanted, he was simply not present. He was perfect, the embodiment of Ebullience’s virtues. The viscount, however, felt himself declining. Where he once stalwartly commanded his personnel without mercy and contentment, he now complacently received whatever his heart desired without mercy and contentment. It was miserable. His ambition atrophied on the daily. Menial functions like walking began to challenge him. Seeing Indolence flit about only ebbed his already sparse vitality. He was fading. *** Indolence raised the curtain to the viscount’s chambers. He promptly crossed the elaborately printed rug to the viscount’s bed. Silence reverberated through the space. “My lord, it’s time to seize the day!” His cry went unanswered. He dropped the clothes occupying his grasp. He laughed ruefully, stooping to violently jostle the heap he called his master. Through spells of laughter, he continued his tirade. “You hear me? It’s time to seize the day you love seizing so much! My lord, you bastard, it’s time to wake up!” His words were in vain of course. The Viscount was not coming back. *** The service was less dour than it was mundane. Those attending honored his memory by making their visits quick and efficient, as was the way he had so preferred in life, was it not? Etched into the headstone was an aphorism: Indolence served his lord until the very end. *** In a frenzy, he stumbled into his quarters. He’d been assigned relaxation again by his one and only true master. He wrenched his tie off, hurling it into the darkness of the room. How? How could one relax? He was brimming with energy. He approached the mirror, for once not taken aghast at his bleak reflection which though weary appeared enriched. He was practically glowing, effervescent. Sliding a clawed finger down his cheek, he reveled in the sensation of feeling alive. He could not afford to sleep now, but orders were orders. So, he collapsed to his bed. The accursed tiles leered down at him. Dread was behind him. He produced a vile from his vest-pocket. Gargling the contents, he embraced the elating void that followed, no longer time’s slave.
Appetit
“I am only as divine as dirt. Feed me your worst. Your battles. Your anguish. Everything so that I may live to see your life.” *** The sugary aroma was nearly palpable. Delicious steamy tendrils weaved through the streets, enticing passersby to their mistress’s domain. Confections were her specialty. Cookies, cake and candy, anything she distributed was irresistible, possessed of an indescribable underlying flavor that ensnared the tongue. The sweetness did not cease at her commodities. Crammed in nooks where there weren’t delicacies, were all manner of fragrant flora, flourishing in the background of the patisserie’s bustling. Nary a disgruntled face could linger for long in the serenity of the surroundings. Her humble business was a paradise for the senses, but it wasn’t always business that attracts attendance. Spinning gracefully as she descended from a stool, balancing a platter of wares in each hand, was the chef herself, the layers of tulle composing her petticoat bouncing with the motion. Landing unevenly on the floor, her grace gave way to wobbling. Gasps of suspense circulated through the crowd as the platters’ contents teetered unsteadily. Restabilizing herself, she laughed cheerily as she continued to the counter the colorful cakes successfully unscathed. “Silly me, what a pother!” she remarked through stinted laughter as soothing as sunshine. “Guess I should’ve looked before I leapt!” Relieved that the crisis was averted, the crowd returned her sentiment, erupting in a bumble of laughter. Brushing her peach-colored bangs from her eyes, she grinned as she resumed her flurry of activity. Whisking incessantly between the oven and the counter, she seldom paused for a break. Despite this, her smile never waned. *** “She’s perfect,” a freckled young man murmured from his seat in the corner of the establishment between two teeming pots of honeysuckle. Across the room, she was laughing at something a woman had said, making animated gyrations with her hands in response. Exhaling wistfully, he stared yearningly at her. “Don’t waste your breath, Jon,” his companion beckoned him from his daze. Crunching on a tart infused with a rich orange jelly, he probed,” You’ve spoken to her, what twice was it?” Jon shot a scornful glare to his cohort before resuming his study, propping his face on his hand in captivation. “And I’ve dreamt about both encounters every night since. She’s like a garden of dreams!” “What’s to distinguish you from the rest of the rest of her ogling patrons?” his friend gestured to the nearly dozen other men smattered across the patisserie, listlessly taking bites of pastry while intently eyeing her, all contemplating the same gambit. Rolling his eyes, he bunched the parchment paper from his tart before glancing over at the chef, “You’re all wasting your time anyways. She’s betrothed, isn’t she?” Astonished from his stupor, Jon whirled towards him. Desperation swept over his youthful features as he grasped his companion’s arm frantically. “To who?! What makes you say that?” Glancing at Jon’s alarmingly steadfast grip on his arm, his friend retorted, “Relax, would you? I’m surprised you haven’t seen him with your constant leering! Tall, spindly dandy of a fellow. Comes in here frequently and chats with her, sometimes after hours.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Jon. “A dandy? I- I need to see this guy! I bet he’s a rake, how dare he!” Jon squeezed his friend’s arm before glimpsing suspiciously at him, “How did you notice him then?” In response, his companion raised the crumbly remains of his tart, “I stop in here at least thrice a day! She’s not my type, but her food certainly is.” He licked the remnants off his fingers longingly. Shaking his head, Jon released his arm, his gaze now locked on the doorway in determination after having his prospective fantasies threatened. There was a weed in his garden. *** It was nigh thirty minutes until closing. The sun was setting on the town. Golden rays unfurled throughout the shop. The crowds had long since thinned, families and suitors alike gradually filtering homeward to dream about their respective experiences in paradise. Jon, however, remained vigilant. His companion skeptical though he was of his friend’s wayward romance had waited by his side, drowsily resting his face in the pile of parchment paper and residual tart amassed before him. Faint snoring sounded from his face. Jon fidgeted in his seat. She had darted in and out of the small door behind the counter a myriad of times but now stood poised by the counter adjusting a display of cupcakes. This was an optimum point as any to raise his conversation count with her to a whopping three. Mustering boyish confidence, he meekly exited his seat. Each step felt like a mile as he approached the counter. From behind the cupcake display, she glanced at him occasionally, her turquoise eyes gleaming with playful knowing. As he cleared his throat, to his dismay, all the words Jon ever knew purged his mind. He didn’t care. Surely one didn’t need words to express themselves? She was ever so close, her attention now diverted from the display completely. He opened his mouth prepared to engage when he felt a hand abruptly seize his shoulder with a steely grip. “Pardon friend, right behind you,” mumbled a velvety masculine voice behind him as the steel-like grip gently guided him to the side. Breathing a slew of automatic apologies, Jon peeked upward and had to refrain from gawking. He was real! The tall, spindly dandy of a fellow was real and was he ever tall, towering above Jon’s modest height. He smiled sympathetically down at Jon, his emerald green eyes shimmering. “Are you all right friend? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Chuckling slightly, he procured a cupcake off the rack and proffered it to Jon with his left hand. “My apologies for scaring you so silly, friend! This is on me. Why don’t you have a seat?” Shaken and disoriented, Jon accepted the impromptu gift and retreated back to the table to glower at the unforeseen competitor from afar. He had seen all he needed to see. There was a ring on his left hand. With Jon out of the picture, the other man simpered to the chef and said something indistinct before making a gesture to the door leading to the alley. Save for the attendance of Jon and his snoozing friend, the business was deserted. The man offered the petite hostess his hand. Cocking her head curiously, her features contorted with a blend of bemusement and confusion as she coyly accepted it and guided him outside. Seeing the confusion on her face was enough to inspire confidence once more in Jon. Perhaps he was a rake after all. It was something he couldn’t leave to chance. He wasn’t about to leave a damsel to duress. *** From the flank of the patisserie, Jon was nonchalantly peeking around a collection of cans cluttering the alleyway. He could only just discern the two figures departing out the door. Lifting her off the stoop, the cavalier elegantly spun the off-duty chef in a circle as they exited. Burbles of laughter rang out into the air followed by the sweet song that was her voice, the words obscured by distance. Setting her down and leaning close to her face, the man whispered something in reply, a sly smirk adorning his features. She cocked her head again. After vaguely considering his speech, she responded, every word of her sentence inaudible but the unmistakably shrill note of the word “cute.” With this, she locked arms with the man and led him to a crop of ivy entombing a shed behind her business. Before entering, her partner faltered, glancing what eerily felt too close to Jon’s direction. Removing his hat from his head, he bent downward once more inches from her face. Whatever followed was shielded by the brim of the hat. “What are you doing, Jonny boy?” Jon jumped at the sudden voice of his companion. Jon turned toward him, making no attempt to mask the crestfallen expression on his face. Peering over his shoulder at the two people vanishing into the shed, understanding crept onto his friend’s face. He draped an empathetic arm around his shaking, dejected comrade and led him home. *** “Shall we?” he motioned to the doorway. He extended a wiry arm out her, his fingers splayed suggestively. Whimsically, she accepted the arbitrary gesture and escorted him through the kitchen to the outdoors. Once to the stoop, she was confronted anew with his foreign behavior as he descended the stoop ahead of her and clasped his hands around her waist. As she was whisked through the air, she giggled both in surprise and character. Ecstatically watching the world swivel around her, she inquired, “What is it that we are doing here, Xavier?” Lowering her to the ground, she stared at him with a jovial yet dubious countenance. Xavier’s face broke into that crooked grin as he leaned to meet her eyes, his serpentine pupils dilating with delight. “I’m planting seeds as it were,” he crooned. He slanted his face seductively toward the adjacent alleyway. “Just a touch of fun in these dull times.” Tilting her head, she blinked her eyes quickly to the alley before returning his stare. “The freckled boy? What a shame. I say, it’s always the good ones. Him and his auburn-haired friend are cute together!” She wrapped her arm around Xavier’s and twisted towards the greenhouse. Xavier paused and snickered. He flashed a direct look to the trashcans where the boy was gawking. “Perhaps we can conspire to bring their romance to fruition, eh?” he ventured, removing his hat. Stooping towards her face, he raised the hat in front of their faces. She teasingly sulked before giggling, unable to contain her amusement. “Xavier, you’re positively wicked.” He chuckled menacingly, the pointed teeth of his smile shining in the dim light. He could hear the sound of the youths scurrying away, probably in a sniveling display. “Aren’t we all?” he replied sardonically. *** The greenhouse was teeming with life. Jars of nectar and seeds lined the walls competing with vines enshrouded the windows, some literally twining at their entrance. All the flora paled in comparison to the ecosystem’s most radiant occupant. A small but mystical arbor sprouted in the back of the shed, glimmering sap dripping down its meandering trunk like tears. It was a both frail and splendid existence, resilient in the face of ruin. Barbed hooks swayed sluggishly from the building’s rafters in response to their entry. “How many?” She asked calmly as she knelt before the glittering sapling and compassionately caressing its wispy branches. “Six. One’s from this week. May be a tad worse for wear.” He answered, laughing bitterly. “Mangled or whole, they don’t discriminate,” she intoned placidly. Xavier stood with his arms leisurely akimbo, awaiting the order. She grazed the branches once more impassively before standing, donning her true guise. A dark look passed over her bright eyes as she addressed Xavier. “Let there be rain.” *** Jon couldn’t sprint quickly enough. The vision of that grisly crimson cascade kept resurfacing and that deathly stench! He shuddered. But none of it was worse than the sound. That grotesque oozing and gushing and the pounding sound of it colliding with the soil below. It was the stuff of nightmares. Why had he gone back? What compelled him? Lust? Envy? He skidded into the alley, sweat streaming down his face. He had almost reached the street side when an imposing shadow dominated the entry way. Visceral horror tore down his spine as he futilely fled in the opposite direction, to the heart of the alley. He was inevitably met with the equally imposing edifice marking the alley’s end and breathlessly flattened his back against it, a feeble attempt at security in the heat of peril. The man strode towards him calmly before planting his hand firmly on the wall above him, his green eyes glowing malignantly down at him. “It all feels like a bad dream, doesn’t it friend?” Jon nodded frantically. “You want to forget what you saw so badly don’t you?’ Jon couldn’t nod his head vigorously enough. The man grinned down at him before leaning closer. “Then please do,” he whispered in his ear. He straightened himself and turned to the side. Jon gaped in wonder and hesitant relief at his fortune. He treaded forward warily, glimpsing back several times. The man made no indication of pursuit, merely staring after him with his uncanny eyes. He trailed the entirety of his way home without incident. By the time he retired to his chambers, he was beginning to believe he had imagined it all. Then he heard the voice ringing in his ears. Sleep tight and keep it a bad dream. Things are never as they seem, friend. *** Weeks passed and the delicious tendrils relentless wove through the streets. The aroma was irresistible to most all except one young man. Nothing turned his stomach worse than that scent, a baleful secret he would take to his grave.
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