The Journal of Brian Ezhno

View Summary

August 31, 2001 – Friday, 10:39pm

I had to read The Diary of Anne Frank for my English 10 Honors class over the summer. I already switched out of honors and into regular English, but I actually read the book. It was kind of interesting to read. By the end of the book it seemed like writing a diary would be a good idea. It’s supposed to be cathartic, and a way to organize your thoughts, and if there’s anything I need it’s those two things. I knew by the end of the book that there was a reason I had been assigned to read it. It was the hand of God (or something like that) telling me, Hey, this is what you gotta do. So, I’m doing it.

Anne’s diary had a name. I can’t remember why she named it Kitty, and I don’t really care all that much. Mine I’m going to call Henry. I miss Henry. I was 4 years old when he died and I still can’t get over it. So maybe whoever wanted me to read Anne Frank also wants me to contact my brother somehow. Maybe it was Henry who told me to read Anne Frank so I’d know how to get in touch with him. It must be boring in Heaven.

So, Henry, I guess you’re wondering what I’ve got going on, to read The Diary of Anne Frank and think of myself. I’ve been having some problems since maybe 6th grade that I’ve never told anyone about. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I don’t think I’d want to admit it even if I knew for sure. And since you died, I swear, Mom and Dad’ve acted like it was my fault. No fucking help there. But anyway, I think…. Well, no. I’ll just tell you a story.

The summer before I started middle school, everything started to get… different. Everything started changing. I don’t mean like hitting puberty and that shit, but literally changing in front of my eyes. One morning Dad came down the stairs and melted into the carpet. I ran to the bathroom to grab a towel to soak him up with, and when I came back he was sitting at the breakfast table like nothing had happened. Once Liz strangled the cat till its eyes rolled back into its head, then she dropped it and the cat just walked away. It even shook its head and the bell on its collar jingled. Liz gave me a funny look when I gaped at the cat, and told me I was weird.

When school started I ditched all my friends from elementary school. They all hated me anyway, and I decided I hated them, too. The voices didn’t come till later. But they did come.

I’m tired now. I’ll finish my story tomorrow, probably, or something like that. Sleep well on your angel clouds, Henry.

excerpt: Fall of Heaven III

Fall of Heaven III: The Death of Faith View Story Summary

Sabraton emerged moments later, followed by four women in robes. They looked like nuns in dark blue habits. Their skin was wrinkled with age and their eyes were covered with a white film, affecting that they were blind; yet they walked surefootedly behind the thin form of which Sabraton was possessed. The last woman pushed a long metal cart, which appeared to be almost six feet long. Its top shelf was covered with a sheet, the shelf below it home to surgical implements that could have also been torture devices.

As if it were a show, Sabraton’s Nurses halted the cart in the middle of the gym floor, so that the length of the table was visible from the bleachers. Malquior brought Judas to the four hags, and two of them took his arms. They grinned greedily, and there were few teeth to be seen in their wrinkled gums, which bled in some places as their mouths split with their expression.

The Nurses were stronger than Judas had imagined. The two grasping his arms dragged him to the cart, forcing him down onto the white sheet that covered the cold metal, while the other two removed their tools: one which looked like eyelash clippers, and one that seemed like a distant cousin to an ice cream scoop, with a sweeping blade that was sharpened exquisitely.

Judas struggled, but the Nurses held him fast. One of the Nurses, the one with the eyelash clippers, held his head down by the forehead with her right hand. With her left hand she maneuvered the clipper-like implement first to the man’s left eye.

The clipper forced the eyelid open, and Judas could not draw the lids together without ripping the flesh that was caught in the tool. The other Nurse with the scoop put the thing over Judas’s left eye, just below the spot where the clipper-thing held his eyelid. With a press of the little lever, the blade in the scoop swept around in an arc, with such force that it cut through the optic nerve.

Judas shrieked in agony as the world swam before his remaining eye, and where the other would have been there were flashes of red from the alarm and the pain. “God!” he cried, thrashing in the grip of the other Nurses. The clipper tool let go of his eyelid and he closed the empty socket where his eye should have been, even as it filled with blood.

“You must stop the bleeding, sister,” one of the restraining Nurses said, in a high-pitched, grating voice.

“One thing at a time, my dear!” the one with the eyelid holder replied, her words cracking in her mouth as she spoke. Her voice was lower than the first Nurse’s, but no less unpleasant. She knelt down to grab the surgical sewing kit on the bottom shelf, and offered the eyelid holder to the Nurse to whom she had spoken.

The other operating Nurse now had Judas’s eye in the scoop, like ice cream waiting to be transferred into a bowl for dessert. She unscrewed the cap of a jar on the lower shelf of their operating table and dropped the enucleated eyeball in. With mild interest she watched her sisters sew up the optic nerve and try to stem the bleeding.

What to Do With a Gun – First Section

View Summary

She gave me the handgun and locked the door.  She and her four compadres watched me expectantly from outside.  The room I was in was like a glass box—it was only about six by three feet, only the ceiling and the floor opaque.  The only light was from the adjoining room.  It smelled like basil, the only sound the incessant buzzing you hear in your mind when it’s silent.

“Kali,” I whispered.  “I hate you..”

Deep in my mind—maybe as deep as my subconscious—I knew it wasn’t Kali I hated; it was me, and it had been me my entire life.  That was why she’d given me the gun, wasn’t it?  So that I could show her and the rest of her gang what I was made of?  So I could end it?  The silver gun shined in the dim light.

Do it, Jake!  Shoot, you worthless screw-up! something in my mind yelled.  It hadn’t been my voice, I knew, but it was definitely me who’d said it.  That was what I’d really thought of myself for three years, although I’d never before admitted it to myself.  And now that I had, it seemed so merciful—“worthless screw-up” was only the top of the grave gate.

I felt like a lab rat, with Kali and her gang peering into the glass room at me.  A sinking feeling grew at the pit of my stomach, like I’d eaten a bag of rocks, as I examined the Ruger in my hand.  Without checking, I knew the clip was full; none of the bikers watching me from outside thought I could pull the trigger without quivering and missing, although I knew already that I could.  I’d done it once before.

&&&

Three years ago, my name was Andrew Keely.  I was an honor-roll student who had been described as decent and caring.  And I had been just that, for a while.

My home life then was fine, and I had no problems at school (nobody at school gives the fifth graders any problems—how many kids would want to get into it with the oldest kids in the school?); but rules at the playground were different.  I always wanted to be friends with the older kids like my brother Mike, but all they did was bully me and treat me like trash.  Every day, though, I went with Mike to the basketball court and weathered the abuse from his peers, hoping they’d start to like me better if I put up with it.

The way they treated me only got worse.  One of my brother’s classmates, Jeff, beat me up playing basketball on the afternoon after the last day of school.  The next day I came back with Mike, armed with my dad’s handgun.  The black pistol tucked into the waist of my jeans gleamed in the sunlight when I checked to make sure it was still there.  It was cool against my stomach, but still I began to sweat as I made my way toward the basketball court.  I knew who I was going to shoot.

When I pulled the pistol out, only a few kids noticed.  They started to scream, and soon everyone started to scramble.  I shot at them; or, at least, at everyone except my brother, who was coming toward me.  I made sure to aim low, because although I was angry I didn’t want to actually kill anyone.

Mike took the gun from me and shook me violently.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed at me.  We both tried not to look at the kids I’d shot, with their legs and backs gushing blood from their wounds.  I was glad, on some level, that I had done it, but when the reality of what I had done hit me, I drowned myself in guilt.  The police came and took me away less than five minutes later, paramedics rushing the wounded kids into ambulances and to the hospitals.

Nobody died—I’m glad for that now.  All twenty-four of the kids I shot recovered, although Jeffrey Ghomers was paralyzed from the waist down, and almost all of the victims went to see grief  and trauma counselors for a long time after I disappeared.  My trial lasted for over a year, along with several law suits being filed against my parents.

I was sent to the juvenile detention center at the eastern edge of town for eleven months.  My family rarely visited me, and the kids who’d called themselves my friends never came anywhere near the center.  The whole time all I could think of was ending my life, and how much easier that would be; they obviously didn’t need me anyway, right?  Maybe they were better off without me?

Links to More:
None currently available.

Falling Awake, first 2 pages

It was a cool Saturday in the spring of 1998. The birds in the trees were singing happily as the branches swayed gently under the pressure of the wind. A few white clouds drifted lazily across the sky, betraying no indication that it would rain today. The sun shone down on the little Florida town, but its heat was not repressive, as it would be come the summer months. The McGee kids’ hockey nets were set out in the cul-de-sac, their sticks abandoned for some afternoon Kool-Aid and Easy Mac. Mrs. Brogan was outside with the twins, watching them play in the sprinkler and the little plastic pool her husband had inflated for them.

Her eyes met his as Parker Maggiatto shut the front door of his parents’ house and walked down the driveway to his motorcycle. Parker waved and smiled cordially at her before hiking one skinny leg up over the bike and positioning himself on the seat. He took his backpack off and checked to make sure all his zippers were zipped so he wouldn’t lose his work shirt, then put it back on once he was satisfied. Parker put the key in his hand into the ignition and fired up the engine of his dark blue Supermono. The bike purred, and the twenty-year-old lifted it up off the kickstand and kicked the metal leg up and out of his way. He waddled the motorcycle around to face the road, then took off down the street.

The garage was only two blocks from the neighborhood; if it were any farther, Parker was sure he’d be pulled over for not wearing his helmet. His dark hair danced in the wind as Parker hit thirty miles per hour, the speed limit from the intersection up to Jean Kayle’s house. The road between the cul-de-sac and the first intersection was straight for about a mile, lined by houses with suburban yards. Parker just wanted to hurry in to work and pull his five hours so he’d be done with it, free and clear to go to Lilly’s house for the night. His stepfather was expecting him at 1:30, and Parker was already almost late.

When he hit the stretch of road between the intersections, Parker hit about ten miles over the speed limit. The road was slightly curvy here, not so much that it was dangerous but just enough that it felt like it might be; it was a small thrill in the small town of Jaysdale. There were four curves, then a short straight stretch coming up on the second intersection. Parker reached the stretch and pulled out into the intersection, since it was the cross traffic that had the stop sign.

Parker’s ‘96 Bimota came to the intersection as a woman in an SUV ran the stop sign. She was talking on her phone and was completely unaware of both the sign and of the motorcycle that was suddenly colliding with her front bumper. The impact sent Parker and his bike flying across the intersection. Parker saw spots from the excruciating pain in his leg, and between those patches of white nothingness he could see the bone sticking through the skin. Everything was pristinely clear—the green SUV, its shining silver grille, the blue sky and white clouds, the gray of the pavement as he and his motorcycle were flung violently across it in the air. As they landed on the blacktop, all Parker could think was that he had better be able to fix his bike after all this—then his skull hit the pavement.

&&&

Parker pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Kenton’s Auto Repair. He came in through the lobby door and went out into the garage through the service door. At the desk he filled out his time sheet and threw his backpack off onto the lukewarm cement floor. From the backpack he grabbed his button-down gray work shirt, then threw it over his shoulders and around his slightly muscular arms.

When the young man stepped onto the shop floor, his stepfather spotted him from one of the technicians’ stall. “You’re late, Parker,” the older man commented.

“Sorry, pops,” Parker replied nonchalantly. “Traffic.”

Steven Kenton shook his head. “Go on and get to your stall, got three or four jobs lined up for ya this afternoon.”

There was a mini-fridge behind the service counter where the technicians and mechanics kept cold lunches and drinks, and Parker took a can of Mountain Dew out of it before heading toward his stall on the opposite end of the shop. He popped the can open as he walked and took a gulp of the stuff, watching Cesár pull the first car around and park it in Parker’s stall between the pillars of his lift. When Parker reached his stall, Cesár climbed out of the green SUV and handed him the work order. “Brake pads.”

“Gotcha,” Parker replied, taking another swig of his Mountain Dew. He slammed the SUV’s driver-side door shut as Cesár walked back to the service desk for the lunch awaiting him in the mini-fridge.

The overhead fans couldn’t keep the shop cool enough; as nice as it was outside, the stalls were saunas. Parker wiped sweat from his brow as he removed the old brake pads from the SUV’s front left tire. They were so worn down, Parker was surprised that the van hadn’t been taken in for servicing sooner, or that the owner hadn’t been in an accident from the lack of stopping power. He replaced the pads on both front tires in about twenty minutes, throwing the old ones into the box the new ones came in. After lowering the lift arms so that the car was on the floor, Parker kicked the arms around back to the sides of the lift and jumped into the SUV.

Parker drove the van slowly out of the garage and into the parking lot. He pulled it carefully into a space at the side of the shop, parking as far into the space as he thought possible. Once Parker had shut the door, he locked it back up and put the key in his shirt pocket. As he walked around the van, he saw that its back tires were the last thing between the spot’s lines.

“What the—?” he said aloud. “How the fuck?”

He pulled the car keys back out of his pocket and got into the van to try again. Only a second or two after he pressured the gas pedal, the van jounced from colliding with the curb in front of it. Parker turned the car off and sat there for a second, staring out the windshield in bewilderment. Then he came out of the van for the last time, locked it, and looked again at his parking job. The van appeared to be in the exact same place as it had been before—a little less than halfway out of the space.

Parker shook his head furiously. “I give up.” Then he laughed a little and spouted, “I have no idea what’s going on.” So he went back into the shop and got back to work for the rest of his shift.

Jake Morrigan’s story: I-1

View Summary

1

As the eyes and ears of Jord turned fully away from their precious oil territory, those of their envious neighbors focused in on Xidelstat. Two country-states—Barisma and Kadesh—directed their military caravans into the steppe in hopes of claiming it for themselves, once their leaders were sure that Nikita Roke and the President, Timbre McEachern, both had all of their attention on the new technology threats from Mortadel. This initial battle was uneventful for Xidelstat itself; the clashes between the armies took place only at the border between Barisma and Kadesh. But when it seemed to be over, both Kelmore Evid and Breverd Gerrans sent their troops further into Xidelstat, each believing they had won and the war was over.

Only once they began invading the capital did both powers realize that there was still a war to win before either could claim to have seized the territory and denounce Jord as its mother state. This second battle quickly became a slaughter, and Sarabi was the slaughterhouse. The number of soldiers was thinning on both ends, and the order came to begin drafting civilians as it became apparent that their forces were being bottlenecked by border patrols on and from both sides.

When Sarabians began to turn up missing and the city itself was being razed by the dynamite and the heavy artillery fire from the war, many of those remaining fled to the north, where Jord’s own military still was rumored to have some soldiers stationed. They stayed indoors by day and by night the citizens of Sarabi fled, hoping that they would get far enough away from the war zone that they and their families might be safe.

Judge Harlan M. Morrigan and his wife and children finished packing their things one evening a week into the third definitive conflagration. He had decided that they should leave in the quiet before this battle had started, but had thought that he and his family would have more time than the short fortnight that the peace had actually afforded them. More people had disappeared in the short time span of this battle than in previous excursions, and Harlan had finally given up hope of taking everything with them. They needed to leave immediately.

“Dad, me and Morie are ready to go.” Harlan’s ten-year-old son said, shambling into his parents’ bedroom. Jake held two large suitcases, his and Morie’s, one in each hand, both filled with clothes and maybe a sentimental knick-knack or two. His father nodded silently; his thoughts were elsewhere and his once-handsome face was drawn with worry. His son put the suitcases down by the open door and returned to the living room where his sister waited for him.

Mrs. Morrigan finished packing her own suitcase, which she had rested on the bed, and locked its clasps tightly. “Harlan—“ she began. I’m so scared had been her next words, but she broke down into tears instead. Harlan sat her down on the bed—the bed that they had shared for twenty-six joyous years—and held her close to him with his thick, strong arms.

“It’ll be alright, Shai. Don’t you worry. Everything will work out all right.” he cooed, kissing her comfortingly on the cheek. Shai Morrigan sniffled and wiped the tears from her face. Before she and her husband could stand, the sound of the front door swinging open shot through the house, followed by a scream—their six-year-old daughter’s voice. Harlan and Shai both bolted out into the living room to find their children face-to-face with two uniformed men at the front door.

Jake stood protectively in front of little Morwen, between her and the two men, whose military uniforms bore the blue fin-like emblem of the Barisman army. They were both tall, and clean shaven. One was holding his helmet in his hands; in his partner’s hands there was an assault rifle, and it was aimed first at Jake, then at Harlan.

“You are all hereby under military arrest,” said the one holding the helmet. There was a hint of contempt in his voice. “If you resist, my partner may have to use that.” He gestured to the rifle.

With his hands held away from him, Harlan cautiously made his way to his son’s side. The boy’s eyes flared with rage and his jaw was set. His father put a pacifying hand on his shoulder. “You heard him, Jakob. We’ll go and give them no trouble.” Harlan said sternly. When Jake did not respond—did not move—Harlan shook the youngster’s shoulder once. “Hear me, son?”

After a moment Jake’s whole body went at ease. His mother moved and picked Morwen’s hand up in hers, and when the soldier who’d spoken went through the doorway onto the porch and motioned for them to follow, she followed first, with her daughter trailing slightly behind her. Jake came third and Harlan walked behind him, followed closely by the soldier with the rifle.

“‘Military arrest,’” the forty-something judge scoffed, as he and his wife sat together on the hard earth in one of the Barisman camp’s holding tents. “We’re civilians, there is no such thing!”

He had been going on about this for some time before Shaila spoke up. “Harlan, please, this is no time to question the legalities,” she said. “What are they going to do to my babies?”

For a moment, they both were silent. They regarded each other in the darkness of the little tent that they shared with their children, who slept quietly a few feet away. They had fallen in love when he was in his twenties and Shaila Mae Swindon was eighteen years old. They married two years later and had three children, before they had ever conceived Jakob. There had been tragedies; they had lost a child before they had wed. Their second child, a son they had named Scott, had lived only to be sixteen years old. He had been a good boy—a good man—and that in fact had led to his death; but he had died a little girl’s hero, and the man who killed him would never see the world outside of prison or abuse any child ever again. When their third son was born a month after Scott’s death, they christened him Jakob Scott after that man he would never meet, and of whom he would never come to know.

Lorie, their first child, was twenty-six years old now, married to a well-to-do businessman in West City in the state of Yorkley. She and Richard Borenir had meant to visit her family on their anniversary, but by the time that would come around the war would already have taken its toll and left her home city in rubble. Their second son was Kaleb, who at age eighteen was already out on his own, earning a fine living at the national capital of Porto-Maro as a shipbuilder, after graduating from his apprenticeship two years earlier.

“I don’t know,” Harlan finally said, after that long moment. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us. Let’s just get some sleep, dear; it’s late, and damned if they won’t wake us at the crack of dawn.” He settled onto his side on the hard-packed dirt, and Shai lay down next to him.

Jake heard the rustling of clothes from over his shoulder, and the whispered conversation being over he assumed that his parents were going to sleep. He finally allowed his eyes to shut as he wrapped a protective arm around his younger sister. In the silence that followed, the harsh realization came to him that none of them may ever see their home again, may be that they won’t all wake up in the morning. The thought sent chills down his spine and the tears came, but he forced himself to remain silent and still so that he would not wake his sister.

Links to More:
Blogger

Морая Кошка: The Sea Cat: October 9, 1828 (1)

View Summary

October 9, 1828

Yuriy Chernov,

This is Shurik Kalmakoff. Do you remember me? We were once best friends—we were close enough to have been brothers—in Vladivostok, Russia, years ago, until you left for Stoke-on-Trent in 1821. I hope to come to see you soon, and although my own tale is long, it is not so important that it cannot wait until we’ve docked at harbour in Britain. I am a sailor now, and have so been since after you left Russia, and as the end of our voyage is near, I want to tell you the tale of my foster father, employer, and Kapitan.

Kapitan Vladislav Monrova was not always a seafaring man. He had once been a man of family; he had had a daughter, Zoya, and a wife, Inna Elena. They lived on the harbour off the Sea of Okhotsk in 1810. That was the year that Zoya would be married, the year that Vladislav would christen his first watercraft, the Enazoya, and, ultimately, the year that the Monrova family would be destroyed.

Months after Zoya Monrova’s wedding (the captain had never said exactly how long after), reports of a fast-spreading disease swept through the Okhotsk Gavan’. The harbourfolk were urged strongly to send for a vaccine to this un-named disease; Vladislav Monrova stepped up to the task, as he felt it was his duty to do the Gavan’ a favour, after so many people had helped to create for Zoya her dream wedding. Vladislav left for the vaccine on his cargo ship Enazoya in the month of April.

Vladislav returned a month and a half later. In the time he was away, though, the disease itself had swept through the harbour like a storm surge, killing over 200 of the little seaport’s 811 residents—two of whom were Inna Elena and Zoya.

The deaths of Vladislav’s only family—for he, before he had married Inna Elena, had been a waif himself—nearly drove the man mad. He burnt the Enazoya to its bones and let it sink to the bottom of the Okhotskoe More, and attempted time and time again to end his own life. Zoya’s newly widowed husband, Ilya Shefner, had Monrova locked away, for his own protection; five years passed before the captain could once again see the light of day—and the Sea.

In the year of 1819, Vladislav Monrova took his life’s savings to the bank farther into the mainland, and spent all he’d ever had on the biggest ship he could afford. It was a triple-mast, quadruple-sailed rig with a fair-sized hull and forecastle. The bit of harbour shinplaster that Monrova had left over from his purchase was used to stock the galley with fruits and vegetables and cooking supplies and vodka.

The only thing that Vladislav had forgotten in his calculations of cost and supply was the second most important thing (next to, of course, the ship itself)—the crew. He found himself penniless and crewless then, without anything like to a plan. But with the popularity of migration to the Americas, he found that he could gain revenue by transporting people from Russia to the New Land, and would thereby gain crewmen, if not only temporarily, and bonds of friendship on both continents.

Kapitan Monrova never did recount much on his many journeys to and from the Americas, even when he was almost three sheets to the wind; all I’ve been privy to is that he made many travels between August of 1819 and fall of 1821.

By the Spring of 1822, Monrova had enough rubles to hire a crew. When he had finished recruiting, the captain had 44 crewmen, men he had come to trust from the Motherland, and some from the Americas, between his journeys between the continents. Whence the crew had been completed, the Kapitan shifted his focus on trade and got his Russian Traders License.

And so, Vladislav Monrova christened the Moraya Koshka; and so the harbourman became the Kapitan; and so the sea took him.

Море Взяет Его
Shurik Kalmakoff

Links to More:
Blogger

The Cerulean Empress: 1

View Summary

1

Once upon a time, there was a little village called Talythia. It belonged to the Kolkos Province, sitting on the outer rim of the kingdom of the Yecateríne dynasty and precariously hedged by Zeraphathia, an empire believed to have been founded by a legendary demon. The village was shrouded in forest, dotted with cottages and little huts in which its inhabitants lived, surrounded by lush greenery both natural and harvested. Talythia was the home of the singular waterfall from which the surrounding demesnes took their drinking water and bath water and cooking water. The Lila Waterfall, which rose high above the village to the northwest, thundering down from Czar Peak, got its life from a river flowing from somewhere far north in Kolkos, that emptied out into the Gulf of Kholadna that mingled with the Ocean, the name of which no one of the village knew.

The denizens of Talythia led simple lives; they were mostly farmers, of rice and cattle and vegetables and fruit, but also they were craftspeople and tradesmen, and, like anywhere else one may venture in the vast region of Pingtan, Talythia was a place where a number of witches made their homesteads. Some of these witches, men and women alike, were farmers and homemakers as well, but most often were known in the provinces for their herbs and potions that could cure an ailment or help to catch the eye of a lover. Some could use manipulations of sorts; such as those who could with a thought and a flick of the wrist fashion a puddle of water into a liquid puppet or a short wall; or those who could in that same manner transform a flicker of flame into a hardy bonfire for nighttime festivities in the village.

Two such witches were Sunila Calder and her seven-year-old daughter Marina. They lived in an ivy-covered old water mill on the river just below the Falls, a quaint little cottage with a chimney and a far view of virtually the entire village. Marina’s father, Douglas Quade Calder, had been killed when she was only three years old, protecting his sleeping young family from robbers, generally believed to have been two unnamed murderers from the Zeraphathian empire—an attack unheard of before, and so unrepeated thereafter. So the mother and daughter lived in some subconscious level of fear in their cozy pine home on the Colkien.

“Mama!” the little girl called through the cottage. She raced through from the back door out the front, where her mother was replanting the year’s crop of herbs and vegetables, arranged neatly in rows parallel to the front porch. Marina burst through the open doorway and ran to her mother, who was crouched over newly turned soil with a trowel in one hand and a bag of Klamath weed seeds in the other. “Mama, can I go for a walk along the river?” she asked.

Sunila looked up at her daughter, shaking her bangs out of her pretty blue eyes, the same that her daughter had inherited. “You promise to be home before dark?” the woman replied. She was a young woman, in only her later twenties; Douglas and she had fallen in love and married early, when Sunila herself was only sixteen. The eyes with which she questioned her little daughter now were still youthful and lively.

“Yes, Mama. I promise.”

Her mother smiled. “Go on then, Marina. Have fun, and be careful!” She called this last bit, as her daughter had trotted off at the first sign that her mother would let her go.


Little Marina slowed down once she was out of sight of her home, just a little way up the river. She tied back her long brown hair, which was the only thing she had inherited from her father, aside from his nose and his strong spirit, and hummed to herself as she walked. Marina was a solitary child, since she and her mother lived far away from the other children, who were on the other side of the village with the new schoolhouse. Her mother had begun homeschooling her two years ago, and was delighted to learn first-hand how bright her daughter was, in both academics and in learning her magical abilities. The girl, with some concentration on the river, fashioned her fingers in the shape of a walking man, which then manifested itself on the surface of the hasty river water. So she walked along the river with her little friend, humming daintily and soaking in the beautiful summer day and all the colors of the Talythian forest.

As Marina walked, the edge of the forest drew in as the trees had grown closer and closer to the river’s edge. She had fine-tuned her ears to the sound of birdsong, and hearing the many being sung around and above her, she easily noticed the unsettling rustle in the trees at her left. It was quick, and stopped abruptly several times, seeming to close in on her, then wait for her to get ahead so it could catch up to her again; but she saw nothing, and so returned to concentrating on the little water man she had made instead. It could be some little animal, she thought, something that’s just little and curious, like me. I won’t bother it.

The girl paid the noise no mind for a good while. She walked closely enough to the line of trees that each one brushed against her arm, so as not to be steered into the empty high water gully from the last rainy season. When the path became too narrow for even Marina’s small body, she made her way through the trees that were standing side by side like watchful sentries, forgetting completely about the disturbance and the little man on the river, who proceeded to walk to his death against a rock jutting out of the water. With the confidence that comes with familiarity, Marina made her way through the brush and into the forest.

Birds fluttered about above the youth’s head as they caught wind of the cracking of twigs and branches beneath her bead-adorned gypsy slippers. Marina clawed her way through the thorny vines and drooping moss that wrapped their hands around the skinny birches and the tall pines, navigating her way through thickets and high grasses.

Once she lost sight of the Colkien River, the girl turned back toward her cottage and waded through the tall grass like water for about five kilometers, until she came to an uncanny clearing amidst the brush. Here the grass did not grow; it stayed always the same length, like turf, littered with a few medium-sized stones and the occasional branch fallen from the giant angelim tree at almost the exact center of this elliptical clearing. The old tree had a base about one meter around, and the rest of the trunk was about half a meter in diameter, with vibrant green leaves growing off the large, sometimes decrepit, boughs. A long, thick, thornless vine snaked down from one branch, and curled back up to hook around another—a makeshift swing. This was Marina’s refuge, the only place that she alone would go. Her mother did not know this place, and nor did anyone else, that she was aware of; this was hers.

Marina slipped her shoes off next to the great tree and sat on her swing, only the tips of her toes touching the earth beneath it. She simply sat there, without swinging, listening to the world around her and enjoying the warmth from the specks of sunlight that entered her haven between the angelim’s foliage.

Again she heard the rustling somewhere in the forest outside of her clearing. The girl listened curiously to it, tracking it with her ears, trying to piece together what it was. Dangerous creatures in the forest were so rare, especially around Talythia, that Marina was hardly alarmed by the mysterious stalker. She finally felt a twinge of anxiety when she heard the rushed gait of a biped—a person—coming up behind her, but by then it was too late to flee.

“Hello, little witch,” a voice cooed from behind her—a young man’s voice. He placed a hand on her shoulder, holding Marina where she sat.

“H-Hello,” the girl replied.

“What is your name, little witch?”

“Who are you?”

“Perhaps I will tell you, after you answer my inquiry first, little witch. What is your name?”

Marina’s voice came uncertainly, “Marina Calder.”

The voice chuckled, and he repeated the name aloud, to himself, musingly.

“Who are you?” Marina asked again.

“Prince Dmitriy Zeraphath, my dear Marina. Second heir to the throne of my father’s Empire. A lover,” the voice seemed to smirk at this, or so his voice inflected, “of children. Now, my little Marina, I noticed your exquisitely cerulean eyes and lovely face, and I have decided that to you I will give an option.

“My brother, Prince Brennan, is needy of a wife, you see; our poor dear father is dying, and to become the Emperor in his stead my handsome brother will need to marry. He sent me, dear little Marina, to fetch him a beautiful young wife, and this I do intend to do this afternoon. If you will not accept this offer of marriage—and how could such a beautiful little witch like yourself reject the courtship of a soon-to-be emperor?—then, my dear,” Dmitriy’s voice piped up cheerfully at this last bit in the way that a voice betrays a wicked smile, “I have other plans for a treasure such as you.”

The seven-year-old turned her head to glance into the eyes of the man with his hand gripping her shoulder. Everything about him was dark; he was of a tan complexion, raven-black hair and eyes, clad in clothes that were simple and black as well, a long-sleeved shirt and long pants, despite the heat. Marina saw the gleaming tips of fangs beneath his upper lip, which was curved into a lustful smirk. Even in her village naivety, the girl became uneasy and knew what his intentions were, even if she could not put her finger on what it actually was. “I want my mom,” she whined softly.

“No, my dear little Marina. You will come with me, to meet my brother or otherwise.” Dmitriy snarled, still in his sing-song way of speaking.

Marina swallowed hard and frowned, her body trembling. “I…” she began, then stopped. After a moment of consideration, she continued: “I-I want to meet him, then.”

With a bit of a frown casting its shadow on his own brow, Dmitriy nodded. He picked up her gypsy slippers and put them on the earth beneath her feet, and Marina slipped them on. The prince moved his arm from the girl’s shoulder to wrap it around her waist, pulling her up off her swing. Wordlessly he carried her away, across the Colkien bridge to the south of Talythia and to a coach that would take them into the capital city of Zeraphathia.