let one urn enfold the bones of us both

It turned out they didn’t love how she insisted she was their son. 

You know how that kind of thing goes. It really doesn’t have too much to do with this story except giving me a complex about belonging to a family that wanted me for myself.

When I saw the ad on Craigslist, I was looking for used furniture. Scrolled too fast, accidentally opened up domestic gigs. The first listing caught my eye.

“Wanted: Compassionate man to marry our recently deceased daughter.”

The initial click was just out of morbid interest.

It read, simply enough, “Our daughter wanted to be married and we want to keep our promise to her that she would be. She has passed away, and we are seeking a kind and compassionate man to engage in a quiet, non-legally binding ceremony and become our in-law. 

“This is not a joke and we are in bereavement. Please keep this in mind when considering your reply.”

It got taken down within the next five minutes, either by the family or moderation, but I’d already texted the number provided.

The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how they’d be to be executed

The woman who raised the changeling alongside her biological child

Cinderella finding Araura (and falling in love)

The God of Arepo (graphic novel 1 / 2 / 3) (ebook)

The Monster of Sentan

The Witch’s Cat

Raise Both Children

Stabby the Roomba (honorable mention)

Cinderella Marries the Prince (comic)

My Arch Nemesis Cynthia

Pirates and Mermaid

Eindred and the Witch

The Demon King

The Cornerwitch

Grandmother Beetroot

Apocalypse Daycare Worker

Grandmother Accidentally Summons a Demon

New Year Saga

A Story About Changelings

Ranger in the King’s Forest

The Difference Between a Hare and a Rabbit

24. The Queen with Three Cursed Children

25. Tiny Dragon with one coin hoard

26. Haunted house

27. Shark hero was about to go rogue

28. Grandma lives in the woods comic

29. A Different Aftermath comic

30. Battery (microstory but I love it so much)

31. It’s A Date comic

32. Supervillian kidnaps rival’s kid and they want to stay

33. Narrative Town

34. I have been hired to clean the wizard tower comic

35. Robot Apocalypse

36. The Statues That Do Not Weather

37. Kushiel

38. Tooth Fairy

39. Alien abduction

40. Felonious wish-granting

41. When humans met actual space orcs

I wrote a short vaguely historical vaguely spooky ghost story about Jews and burial rites and I have to justify it existing so here it is.

“Are you the leader of the Jews?”

There was no good that ever came from that question. Rabbi Jacob stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob and the other on the frame, ready to yank it closed at a moment’s notice.

“Well, not all of the Jews.”

The man at the door made a frustrated little grunt. He was clad almost completely in dark grey clothing that seemed to fade into the shadows of the darkened street behind him. The collar of his coat was pulled up so high that it was impossible to make out more than a pair of sharp grey eyes beneath the brim of his hat, and the cloak he wore over the top of it concealed most of his body. There could be any number of guns, knives, or angry mobs hidden under there.

“But the ones in this town, yes? You are their priest, you lead prayers and weddings and so on?” the man said impatiently.

“Rabbi. Yes. I’m the rabbi, that’s correct.” Jacob said, stiffening his posture and assuming the most neutral expression he could manage. Being completely ignorant didn’t exclude someone from being completely dangerous–if anything, that heightened the risk. “What can I do for you?”

“Rabbi,” the man repeated, as if to seal it into his memory properly. One gloved hand squeezed the pommel of his walking stick. “And you preside over the funerals of your people, and perform the rites to send them to the next world?”

“Yyyyyes?” Jacob shifted his weight to his back foot, poised to slam the door in his face. This sounded unpleasantly like an opening for a death threat.

“To any of them, regardless of the sins they carried in life?” An eagerness entered the man’s voice.

“Of course. Though sin as a Jewish concept differs from the Christian…mm. Yes, of course.” The scholars of old might have debated the nature of the evil in men’s souls until the crack of dawn but Jacob had no intention of doing so at half-past midnight with a complete stranger.

The shadowed man took a half step forward and Jacob leaned back to maintain the distance between him. “What about a gentile?” the man pressed. “Would you tend to his corpse too?”

“Huh?”

“There is a man needing to be buried tonight who requires absolution. He is not a Jew, but a Jew’s prayers may be close enough for what is needed.”

“Um. It’s not usually a request I get.” Jacob tried to keep his voice calm and soothing. There was some kind of entrapment lingering in the conversation, he just knew it. That or a giant box of crazy that had managed to dress itself stylishly. Gentiles asking Jews intrusive but urgent questions never turned out well for their target–a day-long case of irritation was the best outcome the target could hope for.

The man’s hands pressed together as he completed the full step forward, making Jacob back up into the doorframe. Desperation was in his tone and Jacob was forced back over the threshold just to stay out of his grip “All I need is someone to accompany me to the cemetery to consecrate the body and pray for its soul. Barely an hour of your time. I cannot pay you with anything but my gratitude, but you will have it eternally.”

“And you came to me?”

The man sighed. Even the top hat seemed to slouch slightly as his body slumped. “I have asked every holy man in the city, Catholic and Protestant alike, and they have refused to come to the cemetery,“ he bemoaned. “The last one told me to visit you. Likely a ploy to make me leave faster, but you are all I have left.”

“What did this man do, that so many people refused him? Who was he?”

The man at the door hesitated. The sharp eyes vanished as his eyelids slid down, and then appeared a few moments later.

“Must you ask?” he said quietly. “Is it not enough that it is a corpse which can do no man harm any longer, and you will lose nothing but a half-night of sleep?”

The inside of Jacob’s head was ringing with warning bells like the frantic clanging of gongs announcing a fire. He swallowed and tried to ignore them.

“You say he wasn’t Jewish?”

“He was not…much of anything. He felt God had no interest in him, and returned a lack of interest in kind. Perhaps if he had been more attentive he wouldn’t lie in a pauper’s grave…or perhaps he would have not changed a whit.” The man’s voice was bitter and the sharp eyes briefly looked away from Jacob, to Jacob’s deep relief.

“Who was this man, to you?” he asked.

“Close. I would prefer to say no more. Please, rabbi. It must be done, and it must be tonight.”

Seminary did not prepare me for this, Jacob thought, and then thought again. There is absolutely something in the Talmud about this and I’ve just forgotten it, because I’m an idiot and I’m half asleep and there is a goy on my doorstep asking me to go out to the cemetery with him at midnight to bury a man whose name he won’t tell me.

“Look, I’ll need someone to help dig the grave.”

“Of course.”

“And a coffin. A plain pine box. And I’ll need to get my supplies from the–”

“But you’ll do it?” said the man excitedly, standing up even taller. “And do it tonight, before the cock crows?”

Jacob held up his hands to keep the man from getting even further into his personal space. “Fine. Yes. Give me half an hour and a lazy rooster.”

The cloak almost seem to inflate as the man gasped for joy. He grabbed Jacob’s hands and shook both with enthusiasm, sending Jacob stumbling. “Thank God for you, my good rabbit! Whatever God there is, thank God for you!”

The man ran off into the shadowed streets and was out of sight almost immediately.

Jacob’s hands slowly fell back to his side as he mumbled, “Rabbi,” to the darkness.

My wife is going to kill me if whatever’s at the cemetery doesn’t.

A weird joke to pull out, sure, but not panic-weird. You grew up a nerd. Your in-jokes are weirder. This guy, you decide, is unbelievably shy. Might have had bad experiences. Or social anxiety maybe.

You just give him a reassuring grin. “Definitely needs more plutonium,” you agree, and take a big bite of noodle, and something in him relaxes and he looks at you with a strange kind of understanding that you can’t really interpret, and from then on, you have a new close friend.

[DISCLAIMER: I was raised Roman Catholic and I studied Religious Philosophy/Italian Renaissance Art- I am not associated with the Catholic church currently but I have interest towards keeping information accurate and effective in this field.]

"PLOT! Plot, PLLOOOOTT!"

The raven plummeted from the sky like an arrow, spreading its wings at the last moment to arrest its velocity and alighting upon the top of my side fence like an ancient olden God.

"Plot!" it cried, looking me straight in the eye. I caught sight of one half-gray tailfeather amidst the glossy black and gasped. Birdy Steve!

This was one of my ravens, an adolescent who had abruptly left the flock, once part of the murder that I'd been taking care of for the better part of two years. They'd gone from wary to tentatively accepting under my diligent and timely distribution of sunflower seeds and unsalted peanuts, and once Birdy Pete had brought me some poor woman's gold ring among the usual trinkets and coins.

But nothing like this had ever happened. Until now.

"Plot." He croaked again, still looking me dead in the eye as he held his head in profile. The urgency in his cry was unmistakable.

As much as I wanted to dismiss the sound as just my brain playing tricks from avian mimicry, I knew what I'd heard. I opened my mouth and addressed him directly, feeling a bit foolish despite my senses.

"Uh. Hi, Birdy Steve. Long time no see. What was that?"

Birdy Steve hopped once on the top of the fence, then flapped his wings to traverse the distance to my shoulder. He was heavy. His talons gripped and prickled as his bodyweight shifted, and I was grateful my hoodie and the sweater beneath were both thick.

I tried not to think of what kind of damage his beak could do to my face if he got angry. As he leaned his head to my ear I instead began to think uncomfortably about how most birds carried lice.

"Plot, Plot!" He croaked, his voice a harsh whisper. "I bring tidings terrible and unjust!"

My mouth dropped open.

"A neighbor plots against you, my Lord. A plot most foul!" He continued, undeterred. "The Murder has taken tally and we are agreed; You are Friend of Ravens, granted henceforth the title and status of Lord of the Ground and Earthly Things. We shall aid you in your time need, my Liege, as you have aided us, for we are in accord and have become Friends to Man as well."

I stood there, slightly hunched under Birdy Steve's shifting weight, for probably ninety full seconds. But... you know what? fuck it, why not?This was a really excellent dream.

I opened my mouth to mimic Birdy Steve's old-timey cadence and diction in reply, maybe even ham up the whole 'my lord' bit. Such a wierd way to speak, like another cul-

I stopped myself just before I spoke. Shut my mouth again before I acted completely stupid. If I was suddenly a diplomat at the UN, would I mimic some foreign diplomat's accent and speech? Hell no. That's so rude. I'd speak normally, act respectful, and be grateful they bothered to speak in my language because I didn't know theirs.

Man, I was an asshole.

I turned my head and eyed Birdy Steve. He eyed me back, pushing his head and neck forward. He seemed to be totally fine waiting for my reply.

If these guys had language and could speak English that well, his name was probably not--

"Forgive me." I said, still looking him dead in one eye out of the corner of mine. "I didn't mean to offend you by calling you Birdy Steve. Do you-- What would you like me to call you? Do you have a title? Is-- may I ask your name?"

His eye bored into mine. I did not like that look-- I thought again of how easily that beak of his could ravage my eye. What his talons could do to my neck. He was right there.

"Wisdom." he croaked. "Wise, my Lord, to approach me as an equal, not some dumb beast." He cawed repeatedly. after a second I realized it might be laughter. "I am--" --he made three sounds, two mimicking water drops and the third a shrill cry that sounded surprisingly like a falcon. "I am, indeed, titled, Your Grace. You may also address me as 'Your Grace,' or Earl." He flipped his head and preened. "You have been a good and kind friend to me in the past, and so I shall allow you to call me Hunter. It is a human version of my name."

"May I know your name? I'm--"

He cawed in laughter again. "I know who you are, Patrick James Boole." Then he fell silent, boring into me with his gaze.

"It is not a trivial thing, the giving of one's name." He mused, softer now. Then, abruptly, "I am Hunting-In-The-Rain-Among-Marshes. Earl of Large Upper Cascade to Warm Black Rocks, chosen diplomat of Raven to Man." He dipped his head.

"T-Thank you." I said. "Your Grace." I was a little overwhelmed. It must have looked crazy, me talking to the bird on my shoulder, but he had such gravitas and sincerity when he spoke. The bird was incredibly charismatic.

(I was beginning to hope I was dreaming. The alternative was a psychotic break. Ugh.)

"So." I said. "What's this plot from my neighbor about?"

Earl Hunter ruffled his feathers. "The man called Christian Clemmens. He means to end your life and the life of your neighbor, Frances Hickman."

I froze.

"It is a dilemma of land." Hunter continued. "Man's affairs." He cocked his head at me. "Ah. You know of it?"

I'd had to fight three easement claims against my property from Mr. Clemmens in the last seven years. He owned eighty acres adjacent to my parcel of ten and wanted to run roads for the housing development he was building right through my property rather than pay the extra to the county for an additional connection to the highway.

"Oh, I know him."

Suddenly I was not so sure this was a dream at all. Or a psychotic break. If there was ever a man who was moral-less, able to kill, and lacked any and all scruples, it was Chris Clemmens.

Sure, it’s satisfying to send the hypocrites and the assholes to hell. And it’s nice to see the ones who thought they were beyond redemption walk through into paradise.

So yeah, it has its perks. But not exciting. I mean, after the first million souls or so they all blur together, you know? You never get anything new. Animals all get sent right on through automatically and there’s nothing other then humans in our jurisdiction. Oh sure, there’s life other then humans. But that’s no my department.

I keep tads on humans on my lunch breaks. You’re a damn fascinating species, better then anything your “television” puts out. Although The Good Place was a little too relatable, I’ll give you guys that.

Anyway, one of my favorite things you guys came up with was the Space Race. I mean, what a nail biter! And it was so tense up until the end. Pity about those Apollo one guys, though. But I heard they got a kick out of watching the moon landing when it did happen.

Course, that sorta died down after a decade or so. Don’t know why you guys quit going to the moon.

And then you decided Mars was the place to be and started sending out all those rovers of yours. Not nearly as exiting as going yourselves, but as you all like to say, baby steps.

The rovers were surprisingly fun to watch. For mindless robots, they’ve got a lot of spunk. So I’d check in every once in while, but mostly I watched Earth. You guys had figured out how to work memes and it was a very amusing thing.

I was half way through a shift when it go here. I have no idea why none of the others I processed mentioned the thing, but death is confusing enough I guess.

It shouldn’t have been there. I want to make that clear, by no law of the universe should that thing have had a soul. You humans are where closer to making actual AI then you are sprouting wings. And you never even tried with this! Its job was to collect rocks!

And yet there is was, beeping up at me.

It didn’t look like a human soul. Or any other form of life that I had ever seen. It wasn’t damaged at all, or even afraid. That was the weirdest thing. You humans are always scared shitless by the time I see you. But this thing wasn’t. Even a little. It was just… curious. Like that’s all I could feel from it. Pure wonder.

I blinked a bit before flipping through my files, seeing if it was a new species or something. I found nothing, of course. Those idiots over in records never give us anything useful.

So I did the only thing I could do. I asked its name.

Now, you humans have come up with so many ways to say the same thing that I’ve had to learn a lot of languages to keep up. The newest was binary, which I never expected to actually need.

It came in handy, since that’s what the thing answered back in.

01001111 01110000 01110000 01101111 01110010 01110100 01110101 01101110 01101001 01110100 01111001

Opportunity.

I remembered that name. It had popped up in new reports regarding a Mars rover that went out of commission, sending the final message “my battery is low and its getting dark.” before dying.

Humanity had cried over it for a solid couple of days. You guys really like personifying objects.

But I had dismissed it as just that. But here it was. Waiting patiently for me to send it On.

I could just opened the gates and sent it through and put from my mind. Make the thing some else’s problem.

I didn’t.

I stood, crossed in front of my desk, and put out my hand to touch the strange soul.

Opportunity didn’t feel human. Nor animal. It felt…. simple. Calm.

I could feel an awearness of the love its chief engineer had felt for it. The pang of missing the workshop back on Earth where it had been built, during long nights on Mars.

It had dreamed. Dreamed of humans making it to Mars and finding it. Of it’s engineer taking it home and repairing it. Dreamed of exploring Earth as it had Mars.

I could purpose, and curiosity in its mission. Lonely as it was, it never doubted its purpose or resented its lot in life. It got to learn, and to see what had never been seen. What more could it ask for?

I could feel one tiny spec of fear. Near the end of its life, it realized it would never go home. Never see Earth or its engineer again. That it would die alone on Mars.

And like all things with a soul it did not want to die. It cried and mourned and begged to live. It was alive! It had a home and it wanted to go home! So badly did it want to go home.

But there was nothing to do, of course. Even its engineer, whom it loved so dearly, couldn’t reach Mars and bring Opportunity home.

It had watched one last sunset, and sent one last message.

A goodbye. And a plea to be mourned, if it could not be saved.

I withdrew my hand and looked over the soul. It looked up at me.

For the ones that I send upstairs, I take the form of whoever loved them most in life. I guess in that moment, I was in the form of an engineer at NASA. Opportunity seemed delighted to see me.

“Welcome home,” I gestured to the gates that swung slowly open behind me. “I missed you.”

It beeped out a single phase, 01001001 00100000 01101101 01101001 01110011 01110011 01100101 01100100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110100 01101111 01101111

I missed you too.

his name is Tiffany. a bold bright name. a stardust name. a girl name. but he is not a girl. he knows this, even if others don’t. his mother puts him in dresses, teaches him how to sew, chastises him when he lets his voice get low.

“my great-aunt’s friend’s sister,” says his mother, with her red lips tight, “once knew these girls that spoke and diamonds came out of their mouths. you know what happened to the nasty one? she got toads. that’s your future if you don’t figure out how to be a nice little girl.”

so he speaks gently. but the whole time he is wondering: who gave them the language of gems. who gave them the language that rolled out of them. it must be magic. and if there is magic, maybe there is hope for him.

he takes off in a dark night. a sad night. one where the fire was too low and he was sick of mirrors. he leaves his mother a note: gone to find where the gems grow. 

in the black woods, he cuts off his hair. wears his father’s clothes. feels, at last, whole. runs and runs and runs until his air comes out in a wheeze. walks for weeks and weeks.

he finds the old woman carrying water. she is ugly, her mouth all twisted angry. but she carries the water alone. 

the boy does not have much. but he has shoulders. a good back. hands that work. when he takes her burden, she says, “thank you, young man.” and he smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything.

her house is damp. she feeds him stew, apologizes. says she used to make lovely foods but the price of milk and eggs got far too high. she says: if you carry my water for five weeks, i will give you something special. and he agrees.

she talks for him. spends a lot of time telling him of people he never met. girls with lips blood red. girls with white fairy dresses. boys who fell in love with swans. 

the boy says little. just nods. sleeps on the floor of her empty barn. when she’s not looking, he darns her clothes for her, keeps the floors swept, fills the lanterns with oil, makes her a blanket for the coming winter. 

on the end of the fifth week, she gives him the beans. tells him that they have been passed down in her family, that this was her portion. she says that she is too old now for such adventures. that she hears the beans will bring treasure. fortune. all the things of greed. she says: i will give them to you, for what you have done to me.

in the morning, he takes off. he feels the weight of them in his pocket. he thinks of the old woman and the stories and the sight of her tired hands. he stands in the market for a long time, unspeaking, simply staring at the cobblestones beneath him.

jack’s voice is the last call in the evening. a beautiful cow, young and thick and healthy. 

the boy has no money. he bounces the magic bean in his pocket, and thinks of treasures. 

“wait,” he says. 

jack turns. 

transaction complete: one cow for a handful of magic beans. the boy walks the cow home to the old woman, gets there in the morning. they are both very tired. he falls asleep beside the beast in the hay. dreams of the foods the old woman can cook now that she can get milk.

when he wakes up, he is changed. it is as if he simply turned into who he was made to be. not a new body. familiar. the body he could always see.

the old woman stands at the door of his barn. she says, “good morning,” and then she says a new word. a word he’s never heard. a name. his name. a boy name. 

he repeats it. it is a jewel in his mouth, so he says it again. another diamond.

“time to fetch water,” she says, winking. the whole way, he whispers his name. it never quite tastes the same, always beautiful, always a fine thing, always his. the something special he was lacking.

maybe you gave up a few years of your life. you have callouses and muscles and a few scars and maybe a missing eye or something. you definitely have some blood on your hands. you might have PTSD you can’t talk to anyone about. and suddenly you’re fifteen again, in a body that’s too soft and too short and too complete. you’re always cold because there’s no magic burning in your veins anymore, and even as you grow up the feeling of not fitting doesn’t go away because when you look in the mirror at eighteen you look all wrong: this is not what you’re supposed to look like at eighteen. the sky clouds and you rub at the phantom ache of injuries this body never received. you wake up screaming sometimes remembering the sorcerer who burnt your hand to ashes, or the final battle you almost didn’t make it through, or the moment you felt the magic in you go out.

but here’s the thing: they took you and made you into a weapon that was determined enough and powerful enough to save a whole world. they can put you back where they found you but they can’t undo everything. and there’s this, too: the place between worlds clings to you. you can’t tease fire out of the air but you can feel the pull of the doorways all the time, although none of them so far go to your world.

but you try to make it work for a decade, anyway. you’re dutiful. but one night you leave work late and for the thousandth time you catch yourself searching the sky for firebirds. and you break. of the three portals within five hundred miles, one is a howling, frozen wasteland and one is a deep violet void, but one opens into a misty forest that you step into and don’t look back. it’s not your world, but if you keep going long enough, you’ll get there.

The people who are always barefoot are baffled that humans don't have a wash basin at their front door where people can wash their feet before stepping inside?? Do they just walk in with their dirty feet? The fuck do you mean you take your shoes off?

Humans don't have small baby-sized spellbooks for toddlers who just learned to read, so they can safely learn to practice tiny cute and harmless, age-appropriate magic spells before progressing to more mature and demanding spells? What, do they just throw teenagers completely unprepared into the arcane - hold the fuck up, is that why human sorceror mortality is so fucking high?

Dwarves who have always wondered why the entrance to human residences is so fucking big, why do you need to take up such a large area for a door that's just there to lead downstairs to the underground halls? Are the timber walls really as thick as a human is tall? What for? And once one of them gets invited to a human house to stay and rest, nobody ever fucking believes her: That's not the entrance, that's the whole fucking house. 100% of the human house is aboveground, there is no tunnel to the underground levels. They might have a single storage room down there, but the aboveground section is so fucking big because that's the whole house.

“Beg pardon?”  I had half expected Elunis to react to Port Johar with politely concealed disgust.  It was, after all, a human city.  And Elunis was a Silver Elf—they didn’t live in tree cities like most elves, but in palatial crystal cities that few ever see.

Elunis kept surprising me.  “Doors!” she said excitedly.  “I never knew so much could be done with doors!”

I looked around.  We were in Temple Square.  Granted, the temple’s doors were bronze, decorated with a relief of the gods doing various godly things (with “godly” definitely not meaning good, wise, or chaste) and the bank’s doors were high and forbidding, but still—”What do you mean?”

Elunis blinked at me with enormous gold-tinted eyes.  Her skin was the color of old bronze and her clothes were green silk and her eyes were that completely unhuman color, and sooner or later someone was going to dip into her pockets just out of curiosity, because she stood out.  A lot.  “Well.  Um.  In Tir Celes the builders try to conceal the doors.  They’re considered, I don’t know, gauche.  A flaw in the clean line of the structure.  But here, the doors are decorative, they’re an integral part of the design, they’re—”  She twirled.  “They’re beautiful!  I have to tell the people back home all about doors.”

I looked at her.  “Wait . . . is that why you keep finding secret doors and passages, when we get into a dungeon?  Because your culture just bloody hides them all?”i