#aliteraldumpsterfire

The comm center had buzzed like a busy hive all day. All available units out on every call, and every call was a disaster. Denla was frazzled. Maybe more than frazzled, but who wasn’t? She keyed up to her comm crystal again. 

“Checking for an available unit for a code 3 response at 44 Fraternity Drive, Unit 954 is requesting a second for an Oracle Disturbance.” It took effort to not finish the transmission with a grumble of “damn kids!”, but she managed not to. 44 Fraternity Drive was the Divinity Fraternity house for the undergrad mage academy, and one that should have been shut down years ago if police visits were any indication.

With every unit on a call, she was going to have to pull from somewhere, even though every event on her console scroll was a priority 1… After a moment she decided to pull from one of the events that should be close to clearing by now… 

The comm crystal sparkled and twirled as the sounds of shuffling and running amplified in her ear. “Central from 928, requesting one more!” Another?!

For Pete’s sake! That was the unit she was going to reassign! Denla bit back a curse and checked her scroll to confirm his location. “928 requesting one more for his Wand Offense at Sorcerer’s Grove, 9986 Grove Lane. 954 requesting a second for an oracle disturbance at 44 Castle Drive, requesting code 3 response. 944, are you direct?” 

The last part was for the field supervisor, who today was her least favorite sergeant. He liked to keep his radio turned down at inopportune times. Are you direct? was less a polite question of ‘did you hear all that?’ and more of a  HEY, ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?!

“Direct. Enroute to 954. Check for an available unit from Thoroughfare Patrol, please.” Came the curt response.

She shot back a little sassy retort in her head. Yeah, I bet you were. But it was too busy to waste time being sassy. She had calls to make. 

Just as her comm crystal started to swirl with numbers she dialed, though, a voice made her stop. 

“912 enroute to 928’s call.” A bit of feedback from a spare radio screeched feedback from someone’s office down the hall. 

Out of pure habit Denla replied ‘Copy!’ and repeated the unit’s traffic over the comm, but it took a moment for her to realize… she had no idea who 912 was. She hopped up in her seat. 

“Hey, uhh, Gnash?” 

“WHAT?” Her supervisor’s voice sent the room physically trembling. The ogre was in rare form with his grumbling this evening. Denla snatched her comm crystal out of the air before it nearly careened into the next console’s. Gnash was clearly not having a good day either. He was filling in on phones for the evening since Luna called in sick. 

“Hey, uhh… who’s 912?”

“I am.” It wasn’t Gnash who answered, though. A rumbling voice that didn’t shake the whole room continued. “You’d best remember, dispatch. 912 is your Paladin Knight Captain for Silver Precinct 7.” The words were stern but carried a tone of amusement as the captain emerged from his office. He towered in the hallway, holding his badge in the air for her to see. 

“Oh!” Denla peeked over her scroll console, agape. “Oh! Captain Dragoran!” 

Dangit Denla, now you’ve done it!, she thought, coloring in embarrassment.

“You forgot my badge number, Denla.” Despite how annoyed at herself she was, relief flooded to her with his chuckle. “Maybe you forgot I worked here?” 

 She almost shot back a reply but he was disappearing out the door, holstering his service wand and vest.

Without any time to spare to laugh at herself, Denla refocused on her status icons at the console’s scroll. A couple units had cleared themselves from older calls without advising over the radio. She busied herself with sending their paperwork to the transcribing goblin, anxiously waiting the couple of moments before the captain would arrive on scene. 

“Center from 928. Civil issue, 10-8.” Perfect. She checked 928’s call scroll. For a unit that had recently requested another unit, he sure wrapped it up quickly. With a lacquered fingertip she flicked through the notes, chuckling. 

Coupla kids with a crone’s stick. Stick returned to crone.

So much for the ‘Wand Offense’ it’d originally been called in as, and the request for backup.

She looked up anxiously as the comm crystal lit up again.

“Center, show 928 enroute to 954’s call.” She confirmed his traffic, and then heard the unit she’d been waiting for.

“912 on scene. Units stable.” Even better. She breathed another sigh of relief, but it wasn’t for long.

“Center, call over to the Academy. Have them get some Campus Aurors over here. We’ve got a full-fledged eldritch… thing… here.” Aaaand there it was. Just the news no one wanted to hear. 

The room trembled. “Awww, come on!” Gnash complained. He was half out of his chair, coffee mug in hand. 

“Hey, I got this,” Denla laughed. She snatched her comm crystal before it collided with the one across from her and started dialing. 

“Mage Academy Public Safety, this is Serena.” She recognized the answerer’s musical voice immediately– they’d gotten certified together.

“Hey girl,” she started. “Your kiddos are real smart tonight.”

Serena groaned. “What did they do?” 

“I’ve got units, including the captain, over at the frat house trying to contain a full-fledged eldritch horror. You think you can send some aurors over?”

“No problem! I’ll get ‘em goin’!” She could hear the scroll of the other dispatcher scratch furiously on the other end of the line.

“Ugh. Undergrads.” 

Serena’s voice brimmed with annoyance. “You’re telling me. This is the third time this week. What is it about Spring Break that makes kids want to summon otherworldly beings?” 

Denla laughed. “You’re welcome to join the Big Time with us over here when you get sick of drunk under-mages and broom unlocks.” Gnash was returning from the break room with his coffee cup, filtering amazing aromas her direction, but also scowling. She sank back into her seat just a little to avoid the scowl. Her boss was famous for his searing temper. “Gotta go, byeeeee!” She keyed up her comm stone again. “Units out at the Divinity Fraternity, Campus has aurors enroute.” 

Despite her always teasing Serena about joining the “Big Time” by getting hired on at the regional dispatch center, Denla couldn’t deny there was an allure to not working with her supervisor. Sure, the work was slower, but at least she wasn’t constantly having to keep her comm crystal from being knocked out of orbit. She considered the application in her console drawer again. It was already filled out, safely underneath some policy binders.

Without warning Gnash appeared over her scroll. 

Well, no hiding from that ugly mug scowling now. He wasn’t really that ugly, as far as ogres go, but the scowl ruined any approachability he may have had in regular life. Denla had never seen him without one though, so she wouldn’t know. Until now. 

His face split into a huge toothy grin. He suddenly looked… warmer… despite his sallow olive green skin. In his enormous hands he extended a second smaller cup of coffee.

“Captain texted me. Said you might need this.” He sat it on the warming stone on her console. 

He started to turn away, but paused. “Oh, and. Good job today. That part is from me.” The ogre ambled away, chuckling. 

Denla took a cautious sip. It was strong, like any self respecting ogre made it, like it’d been brewed twice.. It was just what she needed. He told me I did a good job. She closed the drawer, leaving the application untouched. 

Maybe Gnash wasn’t so bad after all. Some days weren’t so bad here in the Big Time. Without another thought to the application, she sipped her coffee happily and finished out her notes for the captain’s call and sent off a note to the unit’s broom displays. 

“Hey Gnash,” I said as I passed my supervisor. “How’s shift?”

He harumphed a giant sized harumph my direction. I might have felt the whole of the comm center building tremble a little.

 “That bad, huh?”

“It’s a full moon. What more is there to say?” The center trembled a little more from his grousing as he keyed up his crystal. “Units 956 and 947, copy a transfiguration with injuries.”

That was my cue to sashay with a bit more haste to my console. A long shift could make Gnash an ogre in any situation. I mean. He is one. But full moons are a whole other stalk of beans. 

Sinking into my chair at my favorite console, I took a long sip of my coffee for a fleeting moment of zen. It passed all too quickly. 

Every other report crystal was lit up at the consoles around me, and the faint chime sound meant there were more calls holding, too. Time to plug in. I set my mug on the warming stone and swiped my spell chip over the headset dongle.

As if calls waiting weren’t enough to ruin my moment of zen, my partner Luna was bound to. The tip of her conical hat waggled behind her scroll screens, clearly frustrated. Her quill scratched out a transcription that was surely of a caller who hadn’t taken a breath since the fall of Rome.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! MAAA’AM!” Luna practically shouted into her mic. A couple heavy thumps meant she was banging on her desk in exasperation at her caller. “Ma’am, I need you to listen to me. Is the effigy changing color? Ma’am?” She huffed and the thumping sound came again. 

“Hung up on you?” I asked.

“Of course. Nothing like calling Tilde-Star-Star and then hanging up on the crone trying to help you.”

“Another goblin screaming ‘just get them here’?” 

“Mmmmmhm.” Her annoyance could have curdled butterbeer. The sparkling gem twirling above her scroll twirled faster as she hit voicemail on redial. “Well of course.” The gem suspended above her workspace winked out as she flicked the scroll over to Gnash. 

“You’re killing me!” The room rumbled with the boss’s displeasure as he stared at the new scroll. 

“Nope. That’s why they pay you the big ingots!” Luna shot back his direction, winking at me. I hid my chuckle behind another sip of coffee.

Luna’s wide-brimmed headwear popped up over her scroll as she bounced forward to squint at me. “Hey, aren’t you off tonight?”

“I was.” I sighed heavily. “But Jakub called out at dusk. Full moon.”

“Ohhhh, bummer.” She didn’t sound disappointed for me, though. In fact I would stake my first wand on the bet that she was glad she wouldn’t be the only one on calltaking tonight. I didn’t mind. I’d prefer to work with Luna than some of the night walkers I could have been stuck with.

“Yep.”

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “You’d think he’d take the potion for–”

“Iiiii know. But you know how New Age werebeasts are. Anyway, I don’t mind padding my coin purse and it’s supposed to be mostly cloudy tonight.”

“Mmmmmmhm”. Her response brimmed with skepticism. 

My crystal shot out a beam of scarlet light accompanied by soft chimes. “So it begins.” I groaned and tapped the crystal, now blinking furiously. “Tilde-Star-Star, where is your emergency?” My quill floated up, scratching out the start of a new call for service.

A distinctly thick accent sputtered in my ear. “Forbidden Forest, Grove Seventy Seven.”

“Okay, and what’s going on there?” Nothing good, I would bet. The Forbidden Forest is dicey to visit at the middle of the month, let alone the end. 

The translator critter on it’s pedestal protested as I gave it a little nudge and raised my eyebrow. It’s feathered antennae twitched some wordless backtalk at me. Translating critters were notoriously dodgy in the twilight hours. Who could blame them though, really? 

The voice coming through my headset coughed nervously, but was clearer this time. “So, uh… my friend and I were totally not doing anything illegal but my friend has Witches Cough and I’ve been feeling pretty ill myself.”

I sat up a little straighter. “How long has your friend been sick?”

“I dunno, maybe… a couple hours?” Gnomes. Always can trust them to wait until it’s too late to call. “Not to worry, we’ll get some healers headed your way,” I reassured the voice. “Are there any spells or hazards we need to know about?”

The answer tumbled out in a barely intelligible rush, despite my critter’s efforts. “Well I think we might have set off some tricky charms here, because one of my other friends here is running from a really, really mad pixie right now, and I think she’s summoning her family.”

GAH! GNOMES! 

I wanted to punt the crystal. My fingers itched to pound my desk like Luna had only moments before, but I managed to remain still. Why does no one lead with the most important details?!

Barely containing my irritation at the caller, I flicked the scroll flying away to Gnash with more force than strictly necessary. He rumbled again. 

“It’s gonna be one of the nights, Gnash!” I called as he started to key up his crystal.

“What did I tell ya!” The floor shook a little harder.

That’s when I really started to regret coming in. All the console gems started to spin and pulse colors at once. 

“Looks like the clouds cleared up,” Luna cackled.

 I swore a half-uttered curse under my breath. “Just my luck!” 

Reluctantly I tapped my crystal and recoiled as screams of a banshee hit my ear. 

“Ma’am!” I started, biting back another curse. As the wailing continued I made a mental note to come down with potion poisoning on the next full moon. A little case of Mutation Sickness could be easily faked. 

More crystals chiming interrupted the thought. Banshee or no, I was sure of one thing.

Shadows had just begun to press a kiss over the clearing in the woods when Curtis McGowan crested the last ridge of Mica Mountain. From his rocky alpine outcrop he watched as those shadows advanced, interrupted only by a young wisp of smoke from the cabin chimney below. There was only one other who knew of his family’s abandoned refuge in the woods, unless it’d been claimed by squatters, but he doubted it. The gray mustang grazing downstream confirmed his suspicions.

Found you, Bethy Shaw. You’ve taken one too many liberties this time.

It didn’t take much to find her, but it was a relief to know his childhood ‘playmate’ hadn’t gone far. Wouldn’t be long now ‘til he recovered his gold and other effects. Then maybe he’d go down to Sante Fe and find some honest work-- something other than mining. He wasn’t about to fall for that racket again.

The miner swung down from his horse, cursing the ‘borrowed’ saddle that made him sorer than a California widow.

“Now just you wait here,” he told the horse as he tossed the reins on a low branch. Not that he particularly cared if the bay stayed put or not, since he was fixin to liberate another from down-valley in short order.

He cut a trail down the backside of the ridge, skirting the perimeter of the cabin until the only safe barrier was a cluster of boulders, and he veered around them. She’d expect him there. Instead he sallied to the far side of the cabin, where her horse stood dozing.

“Hey, Clyde,” he whispered, giving the old gelding a scratch behind the ears. The big gray looked awful long in the tooth these days, a far cry from the colt he’d caught on the plains when he couldn’t have been much older himself. “How’s she treatin you?”

Clyde only flicked an ear in response, as if his former owner were a fly. He and Clyde weren’t much friends these days. That was alright, nothin’ a spare apple wouldn’t fix. But the big brute only eyed Curtis suspiciously as the apple was held out.

“Suit yourself.” Curtis stowed it and crouched behind the firewood, stacked in neat towers below the cabin’s eave. He waited, listening, and he imagined she was on the other side of that wall, doin the same. Until the dull scrape of wood on packed-down clay proved him wrong. It cut through the cicada’s song, and with it Curtis dropped behind a low scrub.

Dim lantern light spilled over the clearing as Bethy Shaw stepped out of the cabin. Her shadow danced behind her, making wispy exaggerated sways of her hips across the pines. Every curve of her shape leapt in the lantern light. Curtis would have recognized every one even in the dark. Blindfolded. With his hands tied behind his back. Not that the two had any… intimate history. He just always wished they did. Their chance encounter a couple days back in Tucumcari made that hope a possibility, again, as long as he could persuade Bethy to return his goods and go on back home.

Except it was at that exact moment he caught the hard line that pointed westward from her hip like a compass into the twilight unknown, and he froze.

He’d know that sawed off barrel anywhere. Pa’s shotgun. His shotgun.

In the soup-thick night air another thing came to him as well. The sweet, earthy aroma of his lucky cigars. He groaned. A little too loudly.

Known for her keen hearing, of course, Bethy heard. Her clear, brusque voice cut through the night serenade.

“Curtis, you gullible sonofabitch, I know you’re out there. I’ll shoot ya full of your own bullets if you try me.”

After a long moment of stillness the cicadas started up again. She remained there, peering into the darkness as the nightsong swelled and the oil lamp flickered.

Curtis McGowan weren’t no yellerbelly. He gathered up his courage, waited until Bethy Shaw disappeared back into the cabin, and waited twenty more minutes just for good measure. Satisfied that would be enough time for his quarry to let her guard down, he tiptoed to the door. There he waited another five minutes at the pine doorframe. And finally burst into the cabin.

Several things hit Curtis McGowan all at once. The most unexpected of those things was the beautifully light but fragrant aroma of lavender and sage. Then there was the sight of Bethy Shaw, in a state of the most titillating undress, more real than any dream he’d ever had. The most predictable, and pressing thing, however, was the knotty end of a long pine bough, bark still intact, which slammed into his chest with considerable force.

He stumbled back, crying out, and was rewarded with another whack over his hands as they flew up to protect his face.

“Damn Bethy, it’s Curtis, not a goddamn Comanche!” he cried, struggling to shield himself from another blow.

“Don’t care who you are, if you’re hopin’ to get the bulge on me you’d better think again, Curtis McGowan!” She made to swing again.

Curtis backed up, empty palms raised. “Easy girl, easy! Have a care with that thing! Ain’t here to uhh--,” his eyes traveled down her front, taking in the sights, and bit back a smirk. “Get the bulge on ya.”

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but notice her state of relaxation. Aside from the gunbelt slung haphazardly over her shoulder, she had the look of a soiled dove hanging up her spurs for the day. Not that he’d say that aloud-- that would surely cost him. Instead, his eyes landed on the weapon he’d spied her with earlier.

“See you helped yourself to my pa’s shotgun too.”

She smiled wickedly and reached for it, blessedly putting the pine bough down. “Oh, this one? It was your pa’s, you say?” The shotgun swung in a high arc to level at him.

He gave a low whistle. “Didn’t take long for you to adjust to bandit life. You’ve got sticky fingers somethin awful, Bethy.”

She pulled a face. “It’s hard out here for a lady to make her way! Thought an old friend wouldn’t mind helpin a damsel in distress but I see I misjudged my old friend.”

Curtis wasn’t buying it. “I have a mind to pack you up on my mule and take you directly back home to tell your daddy what you done.”

That brought on a true flash of panic across her face. “You know my daddy would tan my hide if I went back home!”

From what he knew of Jacob Shaw, a tanned hide would be the most mild-mannered result of Bethy goin home, that was for sure. Curtis stole a glance back to her and smiled. As real casual-like as possible, he planted a palm on the rough-hewn table and leaned back. “Well hell, I s’pose I don’t have to mention it to your old man. Depends.”

Bethy lowered the gun, the hint of an upward twitch at the corners of her lips. “You tryin’ to make a bargain, Curtis?”

“You gonna make it worth my while?”

Wickedness flickered through her eyes. It stirred a weakness behind his knees. It was the same look she had in this dreams, ever since the town fair hay makin’ competition three years ago. She’d won a blue ribbon. He won a ‘friend’ he couldn’t shake, even if he wanted to. Not that he ever did. Bethy Shaw was like a shadow made of smoke, all wispy curves he knew by heart but never could catch. But maybe tonight…

It was with that secretive, mischievous glance that she finally put down Pa’s shotgun. She set it gently on the table behind him, and slipped her gunbelt back off to join it. With her blouse no longer under the heavy belt it draped and swung freely. Free enough to billow up when she moved a little too quickly, sidling up against him. It was then that his vantage, towering over her by a good head and a half, paid off.

“You’d think,” she mused aloud, “that any idiot would’ve figured out if a gal is lifting all your gear, you’ve got something she wants.”

Curt paused, unsure he caught her meaning. “Other than gold?”

He needed a drink, and a casual sweep of the cabin told him Beth indeed had helped herself to his whiskey, too.

“Other than gold”, she echoed, fingers inching towards his gunbelt. His mouth worked soundlessly, so transfixed was he upon her fingers. The buckle fell to the floor with a heavy clink. The weight of the thick leather belt leaving his hips made him wiggle ever so slightly, by instinct. Happy accident drove him to collide with hers.

“Other than gold.” Her murmur was husky, so low he had to lean forward to hear as she repeated again.

When he did she seized him, her fingers traveling up his arms, and then his shoulders, to tangle in his hair. He tried to not think about the heat flooding through him. Tried to tear his eyes away from her smooth, unblemished slopes of cleavage in stays that only barely served their purpose while unlaced.

He wanted to ask, “is it a kiss?”, but her lips were already on him, and he dared not tempt fate.

***

He woke to cardinals singing. For a moment he basked in the song, unable to discern if he was in a dream or a memory of times gone by. If only things were as simple as mornings of his childhood, in his father’s hunting cabin in the high ponderosas amid early birdsong and thick mountain fog. Dream or no, it was cozy all the same. He wanted to savor it, but a reminder tickled him to waking.

Gotta light a shuck out of here before Bethy wakes.

He made himself listen for a moment, and furtively sent a hand to Bethy beside him. But his fingers only met cold buffalo hide. Bethy was not there. Confused, he raised his head and rubbed his bleary eyes.

Pa’s shotgun was gone. His new saddleblanket, too. With cold realization, it hit him. Bethy was gone. His gold was gone.

“No. No no no no!” Curtis vaulted out of bed. “Aw, sheeit. Bethy!” In nothin but his long johns he dashed outside, checking for her horse.

But Bethy was long gone, and Clyde with her.

He should have expected as much. He wondered if it was true, that she was really sweet on him.

Artemis surveyed her collection.

The shelves of her library reached to the ceiling with jars standing shoulder to shoulder. All displayed eras of meticulous cataloging and assemblage. Despite the thousands upon thousands lined up filling her quiet sanctuary, if given time she could remember the contents of each one. A millennia had made her choose each treasure for her collection wisely.

Morning light streamed in through the windows, illuminating her treasures through clouded glass. Some danced with joy for the warmth of the sun, some glared and shielded their eyes, and others strained forward with gentle necks and graceful limbs to welcome the day. She smiled as she passed the tulips, all radiant in their dew, and the twin condors, their wingtips catching an unseen breeze. 

Never had she imagined her collection would come to this. Never could she have imagined that her modest fascinations would be remembered as an act of preservation for her beloved Earth. She murmured a thankful prayer that all was not lost. Not here, not in her precious sanctum, where the Golden Toads still leapt from pond to pond. Here the Monarch butterflies still flitted through meadows like wildfire, swirling up in the breeze, their swarms turning the hillsides brilliant ochre. 

Each jar contained life that had vanished from everywhere but her library, and in the memories of the ancients. Long had she waited for the world to be new. 

The dusty shelf she stopped in front of held many wonders, but she came in search of one that was special… one she could remember from her youth as clear as day. 

If Artemis concentrated she could almost feel the silk of her first stallion’s coat on her fingertips, with the kiss of the summer sun shining down on a midday ride. One day she hoped to feel it again. She prayed in good time that her hope would come true. 

The jar was heavier than she recalled, but that was to be expected. All her treasures had grown in the time they spent behind the thick glass that had kept them safe. The herd eyed her curiously as she held their home aloft in the light.  

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she whispered to them. With her arms wrapped around the glass like a mother cradling her precious newborn, she stepped to Earth.

She descended to a place she had imagined many times. The land was just like she remembered it, back when the world was as young as she. 

It was time. Kneeling to the ground, she gently tipped the jar to the opening. 

They sniffed the air cautiously, whickering to each other.

“Go on,” Artemis encouraged.

The dappled mare was the first to catch the scent of the sweet breeze. The blur of gray and white bolted, determination in every hoofbeat to chase the wind. The herd needed no further convincing. They rushed out with elated whinnies. Finally, they could be as they were meant to be.

Jailbird Honey

Elise Morton wasn’t ready to end her column just yet. Despite the telegram from her editor directing her to move on to the Pikes Peak Gold Rush and the stories waiting to be discovered there, her bags remained unpacked.

Moving far from civilized society’s comforts for a reporter position in the “untamed West” had taken an adjustment. Her parents wrung their hands over her choice to venture out into the Wyoming Territory. Still, her editor’s offer had been too alluring to reject, and so away she went, to cover the gunslingers and US Marshals that brought them to justice.

Despite her trepidations over being so close to dangerous criminals and occupational hazards, the inmates were more cooperative than expected. Some were downright charming. Even after months, she hadn’t had her fill of her first assignment, the sweet-talking highway bandit Royce McElhaney.

His voice was slow, meandering in that way only a deep drawl could be; impossibly languid and delicious. Not that she would ever tell him that. That would cross a couple of lines if the Warden had anything to say about it, she was sure. But she could still enjoy it.

Where his voice was lazy, Elise’s was pointed and thoughtful but clinical. At least at first. Every Tuesday they’d meet, same place, same time, and she’d listen through the iron bars.

This Tuesday was like every other as she waited patiently for the interview cell at the end of the hall to clang open. She wrinkled her nose at the guard’s stale boozy breath as he leaned in close, tipping his hat to her on the way out. With a weak smile she inclined her head in thanks.

While there was little to be said for the sobriety or work ethic of the guards of Wyoming Territory Prison, she appreciated their complete disinterest in journalism, and as a direct result, her privacy with the inmates. The tall man deposited a ring of keys on the far wall and ambled back to his post down the hall, already reaching for a flask.

“How are you today, Royce?” Elise settled onto the unsteady stool the guard left, pulling out her journal and pencil. She’d left her folio behind this time, no longer needing the inmate’s file she’d memorized by heart. Staring at the contents week after week unsettled her-- she refused to believe Royce was guilty of the crimes he’d been charged with. No one could have such an easy demeanor as his and still be capable of those things.

“Well, now I’m better for havin’ seen you, darlin’.” He grinned and leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee.

She let it slide when he called her ‘darlin’, and let him think she didn’t notice.

Oh, but she did.

Elise knew she shouldn’t allow such casual names from the so-called “dangerous criminal” sitting opposite of her, but she couldn’t deny the small part in her that smiled. It was hard not to, considering the ease radiating through those prison bars. There wasn’t any harm in giving a prisoner some semblance of regular human interaction in the face of isolation. It also didn’t hurt that she enjoyed their weekly talks. Or the praise her editor heaped on her from readers in the East.

Everyone was enraptured with the story of Royce McElhaney, the reformed gunslinger who’d returned the payroll from a stagecoach robbery to save a town as it burned to the ground, a casualty of encroaching on Sioux Territory. Her paper ran with the headline ‘Bandit With A Heart of Gold’ and ‘Robbing Royce, the Railroad Robin Hood’. The editor of the New York Herald wrote to her himself with questions for Royce after that one. Elise was all too happy to oblige, never skipping a Tuesday to fulfill the requests.

After negotiating down his sentence to one year of hard labor for giving the whereabouts of his fellow outlaws, he’d acclimated well to prison life for all that Elise could see. At least, as well as could be expected for prison life. The hours he’d toiled away at the labor camp had chiseled out a wiry frame from his previously slight figure.

She’d be lying if she said it hadn’t enhanced his allure over the past months. For all her efforts to keep admiration from seeping into her articles, she’d still received a letter from her mother demanding she take the first train home, away from ‘that evil man’. But she couldn’t. Elise was a moth to a flame, and Royce McElhaney burned brighter than any story, person, event, or battle she’d ever covered.

“Tell me about how you’ve spent your time since we spoke last.”

Again his grin came easily, warm as if the bars separating them didn’t exist. “Oh, you know, the usual. Lots of travel. Socializing.” His honey-brown eyes twinkled.

She let the hint of a smile play at the corners of her mouth. “And have you made progress on the book I lent you?”

He hefted a dog-eared tome. “I read it. You’ll be disappointed to learn I didn’t find it nearly as captivatin’ as the scholar who recommended it.”

She forced down a flush creeping up her cheeks. “Royce, let’s focus on the book. What passages stood out to you in Marx’s Manifesto?”

“Look at me, Elise.” The clean scent of pine tar soap wafted from him as he leaned forward, nearly touching his temple to the bars. “I mean, really. Look at me.”

Book forgotten, she felt compelled to obey. He wore his dusty camp issued denim like a tailored affair, not a hallmark of degrading punishment. Hell, she hardly noticed the gray and black stripes as she found herself gravitating to that molasses-smooth voice.

“I feel like you’re the only one that sees me in this hellhole, kitten.”

She could have drowned in the bourbon brown pools that stared back at her. “I do. I see you, Royce.”

“I know you do, darlin’.” There was something startlingly unassuming about him, his red flecked beard matching the highlights in his eyes. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything.” Her answer came as naturally as breathing.

Calloused fingers curled around the bars as he murmured, “Prove it to me. Open this cell.”

If there’s one thing Stan Rawson was good at, it’s remembering dates. Marla Rawson, on the other hand, was more of a ‘in the moment’ person. She probably didn’t even realize what day it was…. A boon for Stan, because anniversaries and remembering them was the best way to score points with the missus.

He left Woody’s Specialty Toys with a bounce in his step, and a shopping sack full of surprise anniversary goodies. He’d told Marla he’d be at the office late filing TPS reports, but truly he hadn’t done any report filing in forever, not at least since he’d been hired on by Efficiency Consulting five years ago. Not to mention that there was no way he’d have this sweet bod if he was still at that hell hole they called an office like the rest of those suckers. Instead, he’d told his Overlord to go pound sand, because he was going to be treating his lady to a night in and didn’t have time to wreck any animal shelters today. His Overlord hadn’t been happy about it, but that guy can screw himself. The bad guys get a night off too, sometimes. He’d left his uniform hanging in his locker, and the cape with “NASTY SURPRISE“ emblazoned on it lumped in atop his electric red high top boots. It was only 1 AM, and this night still had plenty of life in it still.

Maybe Saving Grace would appreciate the night off too, instead of having to repeat the combat of a hundred scenarios of the past. She got him good a couple of days ago when she dropped an anvil on his head, but he got her back when he dropped her over the Grand Canyon. Those kind of feats always took a couple days to recover from, anyway.

Stan hopped into his dune buggy and shifted into gear, turning up the radio to hear Meatloaf wail into the night. He loved his open air buggy, even though he wished he could afford a really sleek sporty car or something more fitting for a villain like him. The plastic of the shop sack in the passenger seat flapped in the cool evening wind as he pulled onto the roadway. The contents spilled onto the seat and he felt a little giddy just looking at the array of items he’d picked up for tonight. He was really going to win some points with this kit, he just knew it. Maybe he could even get into the house all sneaky-like, set up the bathroom with some candles, and lay out the edible undies.

That prospect was sunk as moments later Stan pulled into the circle driveway of his McMansion. The entryway lights were still on, and the glow of the big screen reflected in the windows from down the hall. Ok, so maybe being sneaky wouldn’t work. Stan was only deterred for a second. He shut off the ignition and gathered his goodies in his arms with a little whistle.

The door was unlocked and he was greeted by his dog Toby. He had to wait there to receive the appropriate amount of licks and a little bit of pee dribble on his pant leg from the overactive little golden retriever. Gross, but even that was ok on a night like this.

“Marla!” He shouted from the doorway, walking into the hall. “Baby, I know I’m a little early, but I was thinki–”. The sight in the living room stopped him cold in his tracks.

Saving Grace was sitting on his couch.

No, that wasn’t right.

Marla was in a Saving Grace getup, sitting on the couch… with the Saving Grace mask and booties beside her on the couch cushion. She was sitting with her feet extended, resting in Marla’s customary nighttime footbath bucket. The smell of epsom salts and lavender hit him.

The night’s earlier purchases clattered to the tile floor from Stan’s arms.

Marla was frozen in place. Her eyes were the biggest he’d ever seen…she’d turned as white as a sheet.

“Baby.” He greeted her, the word coming out slowly and uncertain.

“Baby,” Her voice echoed his. “I didn’t think you would be home so soon?”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh what the ever loving fuck. Stan found himself nodding, trying to process what he was seeing, but all he’d been processing for the last hour was four letter words in anticipation of coming home, and that’s all he could process now.

___

Marla looked him up and down, her eyes settling on the items that littered the ground at Stan’s feet in the hall. There was an odd egg shaped thing still rocking back and forth on the tile from the momentum, and a tube of clear liquid had popped open and dripped into a pool beside it.

In Marla’s experience, Stan only went on a shopping spree at Woody’s and lied to her about how late he’d be at the office for three things: her birthday, which she was sure it wasn’t, his birthday, which it surely wasn’t, or their anniversary, which…. Shit. Her mouth opened in an O, pausing for the right words. Her voice came unexpectedly chipper. “Baby, you ruined my surprise!” She gave him a scolding look.

Stan looked at her confused and shook his head like he was trying to shake off a bad dream. “What?”

She stood up in her foot soaking tub, splashing lukewarm water onto the living room carpet. “You think I don’t know what day it is?!” She asked accusingly.

His eyes snapped from the footbath, to the Saving Grace mask, and back to her again in bewilderment. Her flashy leggings were bunched around her calves, her feet were all pruny, her dirty blonde hair was put up in a messy bun, and the blue and yellow Saving Grace zippered blouse hung open. The cigarette on the end table tray was almost done.

“… What day is it, Marla?” His question came slow and baffled.

“It’s our anniversary, silly!” She hopped out of the footbath, adjusted her front, and struck a pose in front of him. “If you hadn’t come home so early, you wouldn’t have ruined the surprise!” She grabbed the mask on the couch and slipped it over her eyes. “See?!”

“Oh my god.”

“Right?! I knew you would totally freak!” She took the mask off again. “But I only rented it ‘til tomorrow at 3 because someone else needs it for a kid’s birthday party”. Marla picked up the egg shaped item from the floor and held it up for inspection. “It seems like you had some plans of your own, too, huh?”

“Oh, uh… yeah”, he stammered. “Very surprising.” He reached out and pulled the zipper of her blouse down a little. “This could work…”

“Could? You think so?” She asked coyly. Encouraged, she leaned away from him so the zipper came down some more.

__

Stan Rawson was nobody’s fool. But he was willing to play one for the time being. As Marla tried to pass off his discovery as part of her anniversary surprise, doing a little dance in her spandex suit, Stan was getting roped in in spite of himself. God, I love a woman in uniform, he found himself thinking. The spandex hugged every one of her beautiful curves, and he wondered why she didn’t dress like that every day. She’d always told him she was a personal trainer, and her closet was full of “RUN NOW, WINE LATER” wife beater tanks and sweatpants. To him it didn’t even matter in that moment what the pretense was, he wondered if she’d be willing to wear the suit more often. She turned in front of him like Vanna White again, and bent down to pick up the other items on the floor. She made sure he got an eyeful as she pointed her heart shaped ass in his direction and slowly stood back up, giving him a look he was definitely willing to act dumb for. Oh, yeah. Definitely.

___

The sheets had been thrown off the bed hours before, but Stan found himself feeling around in the dark to pull one around his waist. He tightened it around himself and slipped off the bed quietly. Marla was sound asleep, her Saving Grace suit discarded on the floor, and Toby was half curled up on it, also sleeping soundly. Stan made his way into the kitchen with a heavy sigh. First things first. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the whiskey. Pouring himself a drink, he opened his laptop to an empty document and began to type.

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to inform you that I, Stanley Rawson, am resigning from my position as ‘Nasty Surprise’ and will be ending my employment with Efficiency Consulting as of two weeks from now. I will be happy to assist the Overlords in training my replacement until my last day.

Thank you,

The Crash, or The House That YouTube Built

It’s quiet this morning. It’s been quiet for weeks. Or maybe it’s been months? The calendar on the wall has been used more in the last seven months than probably any calendar we’ve owned. It hangs next to the fridge with a little post-it note that hovered over the twenty first that read in all caps “Dr. Theisen, 8AM!” From my spot at the kitchen table I squinted to find the date. The smell of coffee wafted through but it hadn’t quite kicked in for me. Today’s the tenth. It’s been exactly nine months. I’ve never been a good judge of the passage of time, especially without all of my automatic synced calendar alerts from before The Crash.

At first it was a crisis. Not to me, but to my wife Vanessa. I’ve always had a healthy aversion to the internet but to her the panic from the sudden loss of the invisible network that wove us all together was palpable. In the hours following The Crash it seemed easy for her to distract herself with shopping and admiring herself in the mirror but after the twentieth hour her efforts were something more…. Desperate. She asked me to take her phone so she wouldn’t obsessively check it, then took a melatonin and lain in bed, staring at the ceiling. She dreamt about hitting 3 million followers on Instagram. When she woke to the still-same status of The Crash she was crushed.

I remember how she put on that fake high voice she uses when she’s not okay. “Oh! Well, I’ll just… go for a run I guess”. She hadn’t actually ‘gone for a run’ since senior year for P.E. exams, though her feed would tell a different story. So many photos of her in running gear. So many hours meticulously feigning a runner’s sweat with glycerin and posing in athleisure for the camera. Her announcement to go on a run was cautious, and almost nervous. I didn’t laugh at her. I simply nodded and tried to keep my eyebrows from betraying my surprise. Be cool. Don’t make it a thing. “Okay, babe. Don’t forget your water bottle.” For a moment she perked up. She was cheered by the reminder of the branded posh water bottle, an item she’d received only the week before as a PR package. I went back to my book as I heard her fill the bottle in the kitchen and left out the front door. She came back in a better mood to proudly show off the most genuine selfies I’d ever seen from her, but her overall antsiness continued. Those small pick-me-ups as reminders of her importance grew fewer and more distant as The Crash became a greater reality.

Vanessa Moore is the beautiful woman I have called my wife these past seven years. I don’t remember quite how or when she became fully attached to her fame or phone, but it happened slowly. First she Marie Kondo’d all her favorite souvenir national park t-shirts, then the spare room became a filming room, then she went blonde, and then one day I found myself picking her up an outpatient clinic for a procedure she swore would make her happy. It all seemed so linear to me now, how I lost my wife to the internet personality she’d rather be. The word they use for someone with that great of a following is ‘influencer’ but I cringe to think of my Nessa like that. She used to be so different. I didn’t used to be an Instagram Husband. I couldn’t have been more relieved that The Crash happened, to be honest it probably saved my marriage. My wife wouldn’t share my opinion. I held that secret thought as bitterly as my coffee tasted in my cooling mug.

The first six months were rocky for us. I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at being constantly asked to take photos for an audience that was lost in the ether. More importantly, Nessa discovered something that rocked her world– her sudden loss of connection to the sycophants she called fans and community left her lonely and depressed. Somewhere along the way her self confidence had been replaced by relying on validation from faceless interactions. I bet that even that some of those interactions came from bots, but she missed them all the same. It’s been hard. She still has dreams about hitting 3 mil. Her therapist says she has PTSD and FOMO, the second of which I cannot help but doubt is a technical term. As baffling as it was, we’re still coming to terms with what that means. For Vanessa that means she has to find meaningful things to do, and learn new skills. She’s enrolled in school for a real degree…. .. this is where I have to stop myself. Reframe. She has a real degree– Online Influence Marketing. She’s just getting one that is more relevant to the post-Crash economy now. I can hear Dr Theisen’s voice in my head correcting me. “Mr. Moore, despite benefiting for your wife’s influence you don’t really respect her, do you?” That question still felt like a punch to the gut, followed by deep and immediate shame. I benefited from the free vacations, home that YouTube bought, the brand spokesperson discounts, the random PR boxes that arrived on our doorstep. I couldn’t deny that my wife had worked hard to paint a picture on her social media of a… ‘bossbabe’. That word still makes me shudder. It all seemed so vapid and empty to me. If The Crash hadn’t happened, would I still be here? I constantly asked myself that question, steeped in guilt.