Author: Andrew

The first time I wrote I LUV U with my finger on his skin, he asked what I was doing. I told him it was my way of saying how much I loved him. He laughed, pushed my hair aside and kissed my forehead.

I would do it again every now and again. He would always thank me, kiss my forehead, and say he loved me too.

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Reports were coming in from everywhere. Cassy couldn’t keep up with them. Facebook, texts, radio. She tried her best to ignore them and focus on driving. That was easier said than done, as the roads were a nightmare. She suspected that everyone was doing the same thing she was.

She finally made it to her parents house. It was the same two story house where she grew up. She hadn’t seen them for years. It’s not that she didn’t love them, it’s that they drove each other crazy.

“Mom, Dad?” she asked as she opened the door. Luckily she still had a key. “Hey guys. Are you here? Have you been watching the news?”

Nothing had changed much since the last time she was here. They still had that tan corduroy couch. Her father’s newspapers were sitting on his chair like always. They added a few new paintings, landscapes, big god-awful green landscapes. Her portrait was missing from the corner. It used to sit next to Jennifer, her sister. No, surprise. I mean you don’t disown your child and then spend every day looking at them.

“Mom? Dad? Your cars are in the driveway. Are you here?”

She worked her way into the kitchen. This is where they used to fight. Fight about the boys she was dating. Fight about how lazy she was. They would fight about everything. She reached down and wrapped her hand around her mothers coffee cup. Still warm. It’s been thirty plus years and she’s still drinking from that same coffee mug.

“Mom?” she said again.

She glanced out the screen door into the backyard, but didn’t see anyone out there. Her dad called it is man patio. The TV was on, and there was a glass of tea on the side table, but the chair was empty.

She worked her way down the hallway to the bedrooms. Family photos and sayings lined the walls. ‘God, grant me the serenity’, she read to herself. She hated that quote.

“Mom, dad, for fuck sake, where are you? And don’t shoot me. It’s your daughter Cassy. Remember me? I just came to see how you are and if you’re okay. There’s some crazy shit going on.” she said as she peeked through the door to her old room.

“Dad?”

“Shhhh.” he said putting his finger up to his mouth. He was sitting on the edge of her old desk chair. Her mother was laying in the bed, with the covers almost to he chin.

“Is she okay? Have you been listening to the news? I’m glad you are okay, half of my friends on Facebook are missing. Seattle, oh my god Seattle? Isn’t that where Aunt Sophie lives? I completely forgot about Sophie,” Cassy said franticly.

“Yes, she lives just outside of Seattle, Mercer Island, I think. Why don’t we go to the kitchen.”

Cassy followed her dad in to the kitchen. He was older than she remembered. When you see someone everyday you don’t notice the changes, but it had been a good couple years since she had seen him. His face was more weathered and worn. His hair was thinner. But, he was still dad. The same mannerisms. That wasn’t the first time he’d asked her into the kitchen that way. It took her back.

He picked up her mothers coffee cup and poured it down the drain. He turned and rested on the edge of the sink.

“It’s not her,” he said.

“What do you mean, it’s not her?” Cassie replied.

“It’s not her. I’ve known your mother almost my entire life, and that’s not her. That’s, someone else. I mean, I don’t know if it’s related to all the disappearances and kooky stuff going on. It has to be, doesn’t it? It’s just to much of a coincidence.”

“Why is she in bed?” Cassy asked.

“Okay. I’m not proud of this, but I slipped a couple sedatives into her coffee.”

“You what?!!”

“I drugged her. She was acting all crazy.”

“You mean more so than normal?”

“Okay, different, she was acting different, like she was a different person. She had all of her memories, but her personality was of some one else. I couldn’t get her to understand that she was different, and that made her nuts. You know how your mother gets.”

Cassy nodded.

“I needed some time to think, and check in with the news. And we still haven’t heard from Jennifer. I hope she’s okay?”

His head sunk and he started to cry. Cassy put her arm around him and comforted him.

“I need to talk to her,” Cassy said.

“Of course. She’s coherent, just a little high.”

Cassy slipped out of her fathers embrace and headed to her room. Her mother was laying on the bed fully dressed. She had been fidgeting and threw the covers off.

“Mom?” Cassy said. “Are you okay?”

“Your dad is a monster, Cassy. A monster. Don’t trust him,” she slurred.

“Mom, what are you talking about, Dad’s not a monster. He did this for your own safety, he said you were get all worked up.”

“Monsters work me up.”

Then she said it. “Cassy, I miss you.”

“Okay, now I’m on Dads side. Who are you? You are the one who told me you didn’t need me anymore. You are the one who said, never comeback. My mother would never say that.” Cassy paced around the room, as her mother reached a hand out to her. “I’m your mother Cassy, and I miss you.”

It was too good to be true. Cassy had longed for the day when her mother would call and say that she missed her. But, it never happen, and Cassy lost hope that it ever would. Her mother was the most stubborn person she’d ever met. She was never going to give in. She would never say that. Maybe dad was right, she thought.

“Do you feel different, mom?”

“You mean like someone slipped a Mickie in my coffee? Yeah, I do,” she said laughingly.

“You can’t be my mother,” Cassy said. She didn’t mean to say it out loud, but she did.

“And apparently I’m not his wife either,” her mother replied.

“I’ll be right back,” Cassy said.

“I’d come with you, if I could,” said her mother as she flopped her arm back down on the bed.

Cassy’s father was sitting in his chair. He was flipping though the channels. They were all pretty much the same. Every channel was news about what was going on. Reports on how Seattle had just disappeared. Stories of missing people. And now stories of people changing.

“Anything new?”

“Why do you hate us?”

“What?” Cassy said. “The worlds on fire and is is what you want to talk about?”

“Yeah, seems as good a time as ever.”

“I don’t hate you. We just see things differently.”

“Why does that have to hurt?”

“That’s a very good question. I’m not sure I have an answer for you,” Cassy said.

“I mean we did what we were supposed to do, right? We raised you, took care of you. And you hate us.”

“I don’t hate you dad, I just don’t get along with you. It’s different.”

The TV went white and lit up the room. They both looked over. A passage appeared in the center of the screen.

We are rebooting your simulation due to a fatal error. Please stay calm while things return to normal.

The saying also appeared in their heads as if someone was reading it to them. Cassy didn’t really understand it. Then she felt things blink. It was hard to explain, but it was a blink. It was like suddenly things were different.

“Cassy?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“How did you get in? And why are you here?”

“That’s a very good question, Dad.”

“You should probably leave before your mother….”

“Cassy? Is that you?”

Cassy braced for it, for the anger, for the hate, for the fight. But, it didn’t happen. Her mother ran up to her and gave her the biggest hug she’d ever gotten.

“I missed you, Cassy,” she said.

“I missed you, too, mom”

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Baston had been walking most of the morning. With every step, grass collected on his dew covered boots. The forest was quiet this time of the year. Spring had just finished and everything was preparing for the long winter, even him.

There was no path to follow on this trip. No road. No trail. It didn’t matter. He kept a brisk pace through the trees. That was, until he tripped on a rock.

He laid still for a moment staring face down at the forest floor. He laughed, and spit a pine needle from his mouth. “That’s a first,” he said. “The Great Wizard of Pendon taken down by a common forest stone.”

He flipped over, sat up, and took a long look at the offending rock. It looked remarkably like the shell of a tortoise. He reached over and ran his fingers across the grooves in the stone.

His fingers tingled with a static energy. He had felt this kind of energy before. He ran his hands back and forth again, just to be sure. It was a binding spell of some sort he suspected. Amateurish, but enough to hold this animal in stone.

This wasn’t a common after all, this was magical!

He stood up, brushed forest off his clothing and placed both hands on the statue. He whispered some words under his breath. The grey stone began to melt away revealing a brown and green shell. The head of the tortoise started to wiggle and move about. Baston smiled as he saw the animals feet shake and shutter with life.  

“Thank you kindly, Great Wizard of Pendon,” said a slow, deep voice coming from the tortoise.

The wizard stepped back a bit and said, “Well, then. Not common. Not common at all.”

“You are most welcome Mr. Tortoise. And while you now have the gift of gab again, can you tell me how you came about being under my foot today?,” the wizard said.

The tortoise took a step or two forward and stretched its long neck out into the forest air.

“I startled a young apprentice of magic at this spot. In return he conjured me into stone. I can’t remember if he didn’t know how to change me back, or if he didn’t care. But, he left me here at this exact spot,” the tortoise said.

“That is both unfortunate and fortunate for both of us. Will you join me for lunch and tell me more?” asked the wizard. 

“I think I would like to eat. It has been a long time time,” said the tortoise.

The tortoise devoured the wizard’s breads and greens. It was obvious that he had missed eating. The wizard didn’t mind. They drank some wine and talked late into the evening.

The tortoise had lived a long life and told the wizard many stories. His voice was given to him by a lonely wizard who wanted a companion. The tortoise outlived his companion and moved on after he died. He traveled far and wide, slowly of course. Sometime he would speak, but most of the time he would just be a tortoise.

They each shared stories of their adventures. Like the time the tortoise took to the sea. He was the pet of a eclectic captain, who found him to be great luck. The tortoise was fond of the sea, as was the wizard.

The night grew long. The wizard snuffed out the fire and laid out his bed. The tortoise finished his wine. He realized how much being alive had made him tired. “I like wizards,” he said. “More so than the others. And to be honest, I’m not even mad at that apprentice.”

His head sunk. And as he slowly retreated into his shell he mumbled, “I wish I could become a wizard, a wizard like you.”

“It is the least we could do my friend,” said Baston.

And that is how the wizard tortoise came to be. How he came to power is another story….

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Wizards don’t roll dice. No one really knows why. Some have speculated an ancient age of magic where dice were evil. But, that was a long time ago. All I know is, I’ve never seen a wizard roll dice. Not a single one. And I’ve spent my life around wizards.

Dice are still around. My master carries a pair. He fidgets with them all day. Back and forth in his hand. Does he do it for the irony? All I know is I’ve never seen him without them. They are ivory colored with black pips. Bone I think? I’ve never seen them up close as he is always rolling them in his hands. Back and forth, back and forth. From what I have seen they are worn and discolored. Maybe from his hands? I wonder how many years he’s been clutching them.

I often wondered what would happen if he let them slip. Would he conjure a spell to stop them? Would he dive to the ground to catch them before they revealed their numbers? I could ask, but he’d just scold me and put me back to cleaning. It doesn’t matter. He’s never rolled them. Never.

It’s the sound of the dice that annoy me. The tumbling back and forth in his hand. It’s like bone on bone. It drives me crazy. It gets worse when he’s nervous. And he is often nervous. That’s how it started, that night we were on the road to town. That night I saw him roll the dice.

Crunch, crunch was all I could hear. It got faster and faster, louder and louder.

It was a pretty routine trip. We needed things only he could get. You know, magical stuff. It was the kind stuff he wouldn’t trust me to get on my own. We left late. My master might be a great wizard, but he’s not very punctual. He leaves when he leaves, even it that put us here, on the road, after dark. Not that he would care. He’s a great wizard. Me? Even with him close by, the road terrified me. Everything about it.

But there we were, deep in the forest, on the road, in the middle of the night. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” he said. Here wasn’t much of anywhere. Thick trees draped the road as it curved back around the bend. You couldn’t see the color in the trees, but it was late fall, the night was crisp. There didn’t seem to be many options for making a camp.

I pleaded a bit, with no response. Luckily, I found a break in the forest just down the way. I was glad, as there was no way I was sleeping on that road. I pulled the horses off into a meadow. The sound of the dice became louder. It didn’t stop. He rattled though dinner, desert and even smoking. I cleaned up and started preparing the beds.

“I won’t be sleeping” he said. Did that mean I wouldn’t be sleeping either?

It didn’t matter, because that’s when I heard it. It was like a million tiny feet pattering on the soft forest floor, like a swarm of beetles moving toward us.

My master set his pipe down, raised his head and mumbled, “It’s time. Fetch my staff.”

It’s time? This was planned? We were meant to be here, in the forest, at night?

We stood on the edge of the camp and looked into the clearing. I was scared shitless. My master leaned on his staff and turned the dice over and over in his hand. The sound grew closer. It became so much louder that I could no longer hear the dice.

Clouds of dust rose in the background as it approached us. I could see it start to circle around like a tornado in the clearing. I took a step behind my master. This seemed like something I should leave to the wizard.

I peeked around and saw a swarm of dust and bugs circle and circle until it settled into a dark human form. Maybe it was just me, but it seemed to absorb the moonlight.

My master moved toward the figure. I tried to keep up, but with his long, fast gait, I fell behind. His stride increased as he lifted his staff and pointed it directly at the creature. The staff lit up and a blast of light shot out toward the shape. The clearing exploded in a yellow glow. A direct hit. I could see the creature split into a thousand pieces as the magic bolt passed through them. Then just as quickly they came together again.

It paused for a second and then it spoke.

“You can’t hurt me Tobias. I’m here to collect you,” it said. It knew my master’s name? It raised its hand and unleashed a swarm of insects toward us. My master braced himself as they hit him in the chest. He groaned and flew backwards. His staff tumbled from his hand as he hit the ground.

I was terrified, but continued to run toward him. I fell and fumbled around in the dark looking for the staff. It had to be close. It had to be.

The creature continued to move toward us. Large black flying insects began circling him. Their bellies started to glow green like a swarm of lighting bugs. The clearing filled with light and was finally able to see his eyes and face.

And then I saw it. On the ground, in front of me, I could see the glow of the crystal from my masters staff.

It’s totally against everything inside me, but I grabbed the staff and ran faster toward my master. I yelled at him as I threw the staff over to him. He reached out with his and grabbed it from the air.

I stumbled up behind him. He leaned on his staff and tumbled the dice in hands. Even now? Even now with the dice? We’re about to die and he is shuffling the dice.

And then I saw it. I saw my master roll the dice. Just as the ancient evil began to fire again, my master let loose of them.

The timing was perfect.

The shot from across the meadow hit the dice in midair. They exploded into a crescendo of light.

And as the dust cleared there were several wizards standing in front of us. Some were old, some were new. It took most of the evening, but they finally got the better of the evil that had enslaved them for so many years. I did my best to stay out of the way.

I did make breakfast in the morning. It’s not an easy feeding that many happy, hungry wizards with the supplies we had, but I made due. As I gathered the dishes to wash I noticed, in the middle of it all, was a new shiny black dice with white pips sitting on the table.

I did my best to not think about it.

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Hell is chaotic. Despite that, demons tend to enjoy a bit of structure. Big time biblical demons are ranked at the top, new demons are placed at the bottom. It’s a system they created to help keep the evil in order. It works for them.

Over time the new demons complete tasks, please the higher ups, and move up the ranking. They are eventually replaced by new demons.

Well, except Oofala.

“Your going to tell them about me?”

You are an interesting story.

“Fair enough, continue.”

As long as any demon can remember, Oofala has been at the bottom of rankings. He was placed there like everyone else, but he just stayed at the bottom. The top level demons were concerned when he didn’t move up. I mean, according to their thinking, demons should want to do bad things, and bad things make you advance.

Early on they pressured him. They tricked him like only high ranking demons could. None of it seemed to work. Eventually they gave up, and Oofala stayed put.

“Those were the days. I could tell you some stories.”

I bet you could.

You see, the ranking system works because the demons make it work. They pressure the others to stay in line. There are few rules in hell and there really wasn’t anything they could do. So, they left him alone.

“Not entirely true, but continue”

Without ambition and without supervision, Oofala enjoy a good amount of autonomy, as much as a lower demon can have. He would occasionally be called to do some task for a higher ranked demon. It was usually a farce, because he was bad at being a demon.

“I mean, am I bad? Or am I really good? These are the questions you need to ask yourself.”

Can I get back to my story?

“Of course.”

This gave Oofala a ton of time to himself. He wasn’t needed in war, or demonic possessions like the other low ranking demons, so he traveled. He traveled a lot. He came to enjoy people and places he found along the way.

“Is this where you tell them how we met?”

Nah. Let’s save that for next time.

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Darn walked carefully around the desk. Nothing was fancy or extravagant about it. Everything seemed simple, practical. He edged closer, and leaned in to get a better look. He could see age in every curl and knot in the wood. The room was tidy and neat. The candle was out, but was still molten a bit. It hadn’t been that long since it had been occupied.

Books and scraps of paper littered the desk. In the center was a large ceramic bowl filled with a mossy, pungent smelling liquid. Darn had used enough magic to know that this was a spell makers desk. Not only could he see it, he could feel it. The hair on his arms stood on end. The room was charged.

Lots of people use spells, but only a rare few actually make them. You would think the makers would be powerful and famous, but they weren’t. Most toiled away in obscurity, in rooms much like this, perfecting their craft.

It’s a dangerous line of work to be in. Makers would routinely be killed by their own creations. An errant word here, a missed letter there, could mean an unexpected end to even the most careful of spell makers. If you found a battle spell maker past the age of 20, keep them.

Darn wondered about this maker. Where were they? It didn’t look like any explosions took place lately.

He rifled through the room looking for clues. Most spell maker are driven by the will to create. It is an imbalance in the world that they are compelled correct. Some are directed by their interests and skills.

“A Guide to Common Town Folk” sat on the edge of the desk. Darn rifled though the pages. Each one was a short description of common people and what they do. Fishmonger, barkeep, adventurer. Each page contained the spell part that would help the maker transform something or someone into something else.

This maker seemed to have lot of other books on transmogrification. It’s a weird, but wonderful line of work to be sure. The transformers are the most imaginative of the makers.

Was this maker transforming someone and something went wrong? This would be a sad way to go, Darn thought. He gathered more and more. A book on memory creation. A passage used for skill building, clothing. It was becoming clear that the maker was remaking someone.

He didn’t dare read any of the written spells on the desk. This was harder than you would imagine. The mind wants to read and comprehend, but he didn’t want to end up as a fishmonger today.

He couldn’t stay much longer. As fascinating as this is, he was an adventurer and he must be moving on. There was really nothing of value that he could find. No great book of unknown spells. No magic charms. Nothing.

He sank to the floor to rest for a bit. He drank some wine and nibbled on some cheese he had in his pouch. On the floor next to him was a small slip of paper with a small bit of script. It appeared to be a harmless part of a spell, so he read it.

And now Darn, adventurer, of father Belock, of town Stella, become.

The slip of paper dropped from Darn’s hand, he sat for a minute and tried to connect with his past, but it was gone. He grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. He never looked back.

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My grandfather gave me this dragon scale. It accompanied many late night stories of him killing the beast and saving the town. He was long gone by the time I worked out that it had been shed and not cut.

I don’t fault him for the lie.

The thing is, adventures are boring. The stories leave out the long bits of monotony that get you from here to there. Months and months can go by with absolutely nothing happening.

Grandfather’s stories never mentioned the boring things.

Like today. I spent most of it mending my wool socks. Socks are important out here. And when you have time you need to take care of them. My grandfather never talked about his socks. Turns out they are just as important as the shield I made out of the dragon scale.

It’s been a great conversation piece. Of course I may have been inclined to borrow some of grandads stories. Just a few. Why waste the effort to make up my own?

Truth be told, I’ve never seen a dragon. It will come, I suspect. Like at one point I had never seen a bugbear, until I did. That was a good sock day.

Turns out storytelling is a good skill to have on the road. I thank him for that. I have often had to tell a story or two to escape some menace or another. The trick is making it just detailed enough so they believe you, but just vague enough that you can wiggle your way through it.

Grandfather was good at that. I may curse him for it some days. But he did make me crave this life. And I do crave this life.

Wet socks and all.

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Their eyes were on the mountains, but their feet were in the fields. Tall, thick fields. Fields that poke, scratch, pull. Every mud-laden step was a drag. Poke, scratch, pull, drag. scratch, pull, drag.

Grey storm clouds hovered low and draped them misery. They were muddy, soggy and sore. Everything was dreary, except those mountains.

Those mountains were hope. Take a step and look at the mountains. Look at the mountains and take a step. 

They pushed themselves in a small clearing. The reeds had been trampled flat. Scattered around were small beds of grass. Maybe animals? Maybe men? It was hard to tell. It wasn’t fresh, so it was doubtful it was coming back tonight.  

Baker stood in the middle. He was the tallest. Long, dark hair draped over his shoulders. He was dirty. He unhooked the worn leather strap of his bag and dropped it to the ground. The others followed. 

Darkness descended quickly. They dared not start a fire, so they nibbled on what was left of the bits of bread, cheese and meat they had brought. The moon pierced through the cloud cover and the mountains glowed in the distance. They were close and it warmed them.

“195,” Baker mumbled.  “My friends. Tomorrow will be day 196. I thank you for your sacrifice. I’m thankful that these fields are almost over and that the shadow of the mountain is upon us.” 

The group nodded in agreement and made hushed guttural noises.

The night ticked on. Some rested. Some slept. The darkness didn’t scare them anymore. Not like when they first started the journey. When they left the city, the night was fear. Real fear. None of them had experienced the darkness before. None of them had spent the night in the open. In the beginning it made them tremble. 

Eventually the night turned into a friend. Now, night meant rest. The night would heal them so they could hurt through the fields again for another day. Poke, scratch, pull, drag. 

The mornings came slower as they got closer to the mountains. The red and yellow light slowly draped upon them. They were weary and slow to rise.

The sound of a reed braking in the distance startled them to their feet.

Baker waved his hands and pushed them into a defensive position. In the 195 days of their journey they had few encounters. They were disciplined, serious, quiet. You get that way when just about everyone in the wild wants to kill you. Most of the time it was an errant wild animal. Just a random harmless encounter.

More cracks and pops. Something was moving through the reeds. Then they heard talking in the distance. This was not an animal.

There wasn’t much they could do. The sound of moving through the reeds would give them away. So they crouched in the shadows of the clearing.

The quietly waited for it to pass, but it didn’t. The voices came closer and closer. Baker drew his knife. The others followed.

Ramsey was the first to poke through the reeds into the clearing. She was tall, as tall as Baker. Splotches of blood covered her blue uniform. Her eyes were sunken and her face tired. Baker grabbed her arm and pulled her into his corner of the clearing. Her scream was cut short as he put his rough, dirty hand over her mouth.

The others rushed into the clearing. All were dressed in the same blue uniforms, each had a knife drawn. They were thin and frail.

They all stood in the clearing. Four versus four, it was a standoff. They postured a bit, but mostly they just glanced around, trying to size up each other. This went on for a bit. Baker removed his hand from Ramsey’s mouth.

“We just want to be on our way,” he said.

“As do we,” said Ramsey.

Baker released Ramsey and pushed her toward her friends. It was a risk, but he was reasonably sure they were not a threat. Baker was intuitive like that. It’s probably why he was the leader. It was probably why they had gotten this far.

“We’re heading to the city,” said Ramsey.

“And us the mountain,” replied Baker.

It got quiet. There was much to ask, but neither group did. The warmth of the sun broke through the clouds.

Baker pushed through the reeds and headed toward the mountains. The others in his group followed.

Ramsey stood in the clearing for a minute and then pushed on to the city. The others in her group followed.

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Mesong uncupped her hand and held the small gem up to the light. Bits of bright color pierced the darkness and danced around her body. She smiled and covered it again.

The most precious gem in the galaxy was finally hers. Well, except that it wasn’t really a gem. But, that didn’t matter. She always wanted a Marku fertility stone and now she had one. She clinched it tight to her body and slipped out the door, back to her ship.

Li’ca laid on the floor and wrestled with the pain. It was gone. Thirty years to make and it was gone. She touched the small hole in her chest and wrenched with agony and loss. It was gone.

Her skin still glowed in bright pink and red hues. At least she was still fertile. But, who would want her now. Who would want to mate with a stoneless one?

She had heard the stories of the night thieves, sneaking in and snatching stones from the chests of fertile Marku. How did she become one of them? How was she not more careful? Would it be another thirty years before her body made another stone?

Stepka stepped out from behind the small wall that was hiding him. In all her glee, Mesong didn’t see him following her back to her ship.

She stood in the darkness, signaling for the ramp of her ship to drop. Stepka walked up behind her. The stone was glowing bright pink through her tiny hand.

He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “It belongs to her,” he said. Mesong quickly drew a small gun from her side.

“Are you crazy? Delusional? I have searched my entire life for this. It’s mine. And you can’t stop me from taking it,” she replied.

Stepka reached for his pocket.

“Not so fast there.” Mesong jabbed the gun in his direction to remind him of it.

Stepka slowly raised his hand. The night erupted with a magical display of bouncing lights. Mesong’s eyes lit up. Stepka’s stone was bigger than the one she had stolen from Li’ca. The light curtained them both with color.

Stepka held Li’ca in his arms.

“Life must begin with a stone. Life must begin with this stone,” he said.

“But, you traded your Santar for mine? That stone was given to your father by your mother. It was part of you. You will be stoneless now.”

“I traded my stone for ours,” he said as he brushed his hand across her face. “Anyways, it will come back to me. It knows me, as I know it.”

She kissed him deep and gave him her stone.

Stepka carried her to the bed.

Li’ca felt rested and content.

She would not need to wait another thirty years.

 

 

 

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Of course she was made for him. Petite, cute smile, tattoos, perky tits. But it was her personality that won him. She was optimistic, whimsical. She was fun for the sake of being fun.

Mary bought her. Lots of women do. I guess they love their men that much.

She was placed near his work. It was all set up with a sophistication that came with a price tag. She was a Meagan model. She wore short, shorts and a tank top. They didn’t match. The saying on the front of her shirt was flirty and fun. It made you want to talk to her about something, anything.

The thing of it was, she was confident. You don’t become a manic pixie dream girl by being like everyone else. And you are happy. Happy all the fucking time. The men never see the pain or drama. Maybe it’s there, maybe it’s not. All they see is the fun.

She was noticed. Then she made contact. It was sexual. Of course it was sexual. A touch on the hand. A comment about how she liked him. She wore short, shorts for God’s sake. Her skin was soft. Her eyes were open. Her tits were fantastic. She brought a light, a happiness. She was not the rock he was pushing up the hill.

And so it grew. The desire. The temptation. The lust. Things grew. She brought him stuff. She told him things. She made him have hope. Did he objectivity her? Yes. Was she only here for his plot, for his muse, for his story? Probably.

It took time. He didn’t do anything improper. He didn’t act on his desire.

And then he did.

It was all part of the program. Meagan model was authorized by the spouse to play along. She was to be his play thing. She could do anything he wanted. It was up to him. Some men took longer than others. Some enjoyed the company. Some like to touch. Some like more.

It took awhile for him. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Men enjoy attention. I guess we all do. She was paying attention to him. He needed attention.

Then it happen. He was drinking one night and sent Meagan a message. “I think I have a crush on you.” It was simple. It was almost innocent. No dick picture. Nothing crude.

Just a simple – I like you.

It didn’t go well. But, it should have. She was made for him. She should have responded with more manic pixie love, but she didn’t. She turned on him.

Was he joking she asked?

Was he? Had he misread the signs? The giggles, the touching, the kindness. YES, YES, he was joking. Holy shit he was joking. He suddenly sobered up and realized that it was all wrong,

It got silent for days. He avoided her. She avoided him. Then it happen. She wanted to meet and talk about what he had sent. She wanted to talk about what he meant.

That morning she ambushed him. It was harsh. It was tense. He stammered. He thought about what he would lose. He thought about his life, his love. He was sorry. He could not stop apologizing, mostly because she seemed so angry for a little little crush.

There was nothing manic pixie about this. The conversation escalated. Voices were raised. She moved close to him. She was angry. She was metal. She grabbed his throat and squeezed.

She was not made for him. He was made for her.

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