I wasn’t fond of dreams, at least not usually. They were always full of inane nonsense. Usually it was something about being late to work, or I would dream that I had gotten up, brushed my teeth, showered, ate, and gone through my day before my alarm would sound and I would really wake up.

It was annoying.

Recently, though, my dreams had begun to change. I’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night and scare my cat, but the content of the dreams would escape and fade away almost immediately. They always left me with a cold knot of dread in my chest, or a light-headed feeling of freedom in my head. It was making me lose sleep.

Which was why, at this very moment, I was holding a mop and standing in front of a large, foul-smelling assistant manager named Omar. Omar never bathed, nor did he eat anything green, leafy, or otherwise naturally occurring in fields or orchards. He smoked cigars in the basement of the store and always looked angry. Today was no exception.

“Snyder, you’re gonna have to sign the warning.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Sometimes this argument worked on the oaf, and sometimes it didn’t. I alway tried it, just in case.

“You’ve been late for the third time this week. I have to give you a written warning. Just sign the damn thing and finish mopping your section!” Omar shoved the paper in my face, along with a pen. On the paper were the words “Official Reprimand” along with “consistently late” and “under-achieving,” which I thought was a little unfair. Retail was about the most underpaid and overworked job to have, and they had the gall to call me “underachieving” for mopping floors and restocking the shelves of the automotive section all day? It wasn’t like it was rocket science.

Apparently, I also wasn’t a “team player.”

I hated this job.

Omar continued to wave the notice in my face until I finally snatched it out of the air in front of me. “Fine!” I signed it vindictively. I hoped it was possible to actually sign something vindictively or i’d just be stabbing through the page for no reason. Pointless waste of energy, that would be. I shoved the paper back. “There. Now move so I can mop.”

Omar lumbered away, leaving behind a stale aroma of cheeseburgers and beer. I took one of the cans of aerosol car air freshener and gave a quick spritz in the general area. Now it smelled like Mountain Meadows.

I rubbed my forehead. I’d been on my shift for seven hours, and Omar had only come by now, during my closing duties, to issue the reprimand. I’d be out of here late. Again. I sloshed the mop back into the bucket before setting it back on the floor. Two more isles to go.

----

Finally, I clocked out and threw on my leather jacket and grabbed my helmet. The only good thing about this job was that my route to and from work was a hell of a lot of fun on my motorcycle. The sun was just setting and there were clouds rolling in from the east. There would be a storm tonight for sure.

Damn, and I was going to let the cat stay outside tonight.

The streets of downtown Ridgeport were lit up at night with neon signs and car headlights. It was the only section of town that offered any 24-hour establishments. One was the Wal-Mart where I worked, and the other two were a Waffle House and a small gas station. Luckily, most of the other places in downtown were open till at least midnight. I pulled into the Waffle House parking lot.

“Hey, Snyder!” Al, the night shift manager, was just getting in. “How’ve you been?”

This was why I liked the place. The atmosphere was pleasant and the staff knew me by name at this point. “Eh, another day...”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” Al grabbed a place setting. “Usual table?”

Once I was settled with a cup of coffee and a waffle, I got my notebook out of my bag that I carried with me. One thing about college was that I had started to carry what my sister affectionately dubbed a “murse” or man-purse. It couldn’t be helped, though. I had too much crap to carry around all the time without a bag, and backpacks were too cumbersome.

This notebook wasn’t full of class notes or homework, however. This was a notebook of creativity. Sketches, bits of my dreams, half-hearted attempts at poetry, it was all in this book. I thumbed through it to a blank page and pulled out a pencil. Soon, my waffle was gone, my coffee cold, and what had started out as a simple doodle to pass the time was turning into the portrait of a horse and rider. The horse was jet black, except for a white mark on his neck. The rider was cloaked in black and had a silver sword at his hip. The steed was rearing up with his front two hooves in the air and the rider’s head was thrown back, mouth open, in an bout of insane laughter. The full moon was filtering through the winter-dead trees in the background. I was putting some detailed shading on the rider’s cloak when someone sat in the booth across from me.

“I’ve always said you should sell your artwork, kiddo,” said a feminine voice, “It’d make you a fortune. Keep you from having to work in that hell-hole all the time.”

“Hey, Grace,” I pushed my coffee cup aside. “How’re mom and dad?”

“Eh, they’re still there.” She flagged down the server and asked for coffee. I took the opportunity to order a refill. “They asked about you today.”

“Really? Is that a good sign or is it a one-time thing?”

“Dr. Zimmerman isn’t sure, but he’s hesitant to call anything ‘improvement.’ You know how he is.”

“Yeah.” We sipped our coffee in silence for a few minutes before Grace snatched the notebook from me in between pencil strokes. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Just a sec,” she said sweetly. “I wanna see what you’ve been up to. I never get to see your work anymore.”

The horse and rider was almost finished, so Grace paged past it to look at my other sketches. I watched the expression on her face turn to amusement at one point before she turned the book around and pointed to a rough pencil sketch. “What’s this, little brother? Getting delusions of grandeur?”

“Only in my dreams, apparently.” I knew why she was laughing. The sketch depicted myself on a horse, casting a stream of something out of my palm toward a wolf. The stream hit the wolf in the chest, and the creature’s face was contorted in pain while I bore a look of triumph and concentration. I had sketched it that morning, for once remembering an image from my dream before it was shattered by daylight.

“Hmm.” Grace pawed through my notebook for a while longer. I only ever let her look at my work under close supervision since the time she had ripped out a page in high school and entered it in an art competition under my name. It hadn’t mattered that I’d won. I was embarrassed that anyone had seen my
artwork.

We sat and chatted for a while longer before Grace’s watch chimed. “I need to go home. It’s nearly nine, and I want to help Evan put Charity to bed.”

“Give my love to the family.”

“Will do.” She gave me a hug and a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t get into too much trouble, little brother.”

“Humph. I’m only ‘little’ by ten minutes. Seriously, we’re in our twenties. Just let it go.”
Grace laughed. “But it annoys you so easily! Why would I give that up?”

“Go home, Grace.”

She skipped out the door with a cheery “Goodnight!” thrown over her shoulder.

 I grabbed my jacket and helmet before leaving a moment later.

I got back to my apartment to find my cat, Willow, meowing desperately at the door. It had started to rain heavily by the time I arrived, and both of us were drenched. Willow darted ahead of me inside, and had the good sense to shake the water out of her fur in the kitchen instead of the carpeted living room. I filled her bowl with food and put some bread in the toaster before collapsing on the couch and flipping on the TV. The news was on, and I let the anchorwoman’s voice drift over me while I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

---

When I opened them again, I knew I was dreaming. I knew it within my very bones. And it was easy to figure out, really, because there was no way in hell I was really looking at a...what the hell was this thing, anyway?

“It’s a phoenix, Master Ian.”

I turned to find a young woman of about my own age standing to my left. Aila. The name drifted out of the shadows. Her name is Aila.

“Of course,” I said sarcastically, “What else would it be?” I felt the ground beneath me, solid like myself, and looked up at the clear night sky. These weren’t my stars. Where were my constellations that I knew so well?

I was back in my realm of dreams. It had happened every night for the last two weeks with the same cast. Aila was always beside me while I looked at some strange mythical creature, and behind me there usually stood...“Where’s Lovewell?”

“He’s gone home for the evening. I said you wouldn’t want to be disturbed by his presence this night.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I noticed, as I always did, her striking appearance. Aina’s hair was long, straight and a deep, fiery red. Not coppery like any of the redheads in reality, but the color of pomegranate seeds or blood. She always left it down, but with two silver combs sweeping it up and out of her face. She dressed in a medieval-style black dress with long bell sleeves and her eyes were a deep, startling blue. She was always the same in every dream, but her image never stayed with me long enough to sketch her upon waking.

Slowly, the details of my nightly dream came back to me. It was always the same, and I had been slowly developing the ability to live it out in vivid clarity. Odd, because every other time I had been aware that I was dreaming, I had woken up. This dream held me in its sway until I woke up naturally or until I accomplished whatever task Aila or Lovewell, her friend, set for me.

“The phoenix’s name is Fuego, Ian. It is your task this night night to learn from him. Fire is a necessary part of any Seeker’s arsenal.”

And of course it made sense, in that maddening way that dreams always seemed to follow a path of unknown logic. I knew somehow what to do. I made eye contact with the bright orange bird and nodded my head. What the hell am I doing?

The phoenix seemed to know what was going on, however, because in an instant it had leaped onto my shoulder and engulfed us both in flames. I screamed in pain as the fire licked at my clothing and skin, and I could smell my skin burning. This was torture at its finest, and I knew the pain would not stop, not
until I mastered the fire around me. But dear god! It burned! It hurt so much! Please, just let it stop...

---

And in an instant I was awake on my couch, the smoke alarm was going off, and I knew that my toast had been ruined. Damn. That was a good loaf of bread, too. I unplugged the toaster and fished out the charred bread with fork. I threw it away and scowled at the toaster. Even the kitchen appliances were out to get me tonight.

Wings

Death flies on wings of moonlight,
Poisoning dreams in the course of its flight.
Life comes on wings of the sun,
Bringing balance when the night is done.

Dawn breaks on angels' wings,
Casting grace onto all living things.
Dusk falls on ravens' wings,
Carrying a banner of fallen kings.

Discord arrives on the wings of fancy,
Taking a risk on words that are chancy.
Peace draws near on the wings of a dove,
Bringing an olive branch and teachings of love.

Noon soars on eagles' wings,
Strong and steady as it sings.
Midnight slips by on skylarks' wings,
Finding dreams to which it clings.

And lastly, I, on wings of light,
Soar in the breeze and bid farewell to the night.

From Muffin With Love

Tuesday had begun in an alarmingly normal fashion. Judy had sent her alarm clock to the floor with a fist, sat up, yawned, and gone to brush her teeth. Muffin, her beloved companion, had shown his love for her by leaving a half eaten lizard on the kitchen floor. The cat himself was nowhere to be seen, which was typical. Only when he was hungry did he deign to show his face indoors.

The cheap coffee made her choke a little on the first sip, but she forced herself to swallow. At least it was hot, caffeinated, and heading for her bloodstream. She quickly opened the door to snatch the paper from the porch before the chilly wind could leech the warmth from inside the apartment.

When she turned back, an envelope sat next to the lizard. Crisp and white, it hadn’t been there two seconds ago. Her name was in black ink, the envelope was sealed, and she didn’t know anyone who could do calligraphy like that.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a letter in the same elegant script.

That’s when her normal day ended.

My Dearest Judy,
I’m writing to get a few things straight with you, and I cannot in good conscience return home until I have said my piece. I hope you like the lizard. It took me all day to chase him down. I feel that it is my duty to explain what humans seem to consider “typical cat behavior.”
Firstly, I believe I speak for all cats when I say that Muffin is an utterly humiliating name. My true name is far too complex to explain to a human. You simply would not comprehend it, but you may call me Tessercat. And just because I am a cat does not mean that I am inferior to you. If anything, the opposite is true.

Consider this: I don’t have to feed myself if I don’t want to do so. You do it for me quite happily. I can leap several times my height, and I (like all cats) walk with a proverbial paw in another world.

You poor bipeds have your three dimensions and your tiny sliver of visible light in the spectrum. You live in houses of wood, stone and glass, and you wonder why we consider ourselves the better species?

The ancient Egyptians had it right for the most part. We are above and beyond you in almost every way. I cannot easily explain my world to the human mind. In essence, I can see space. Every dimension at once. Your world is so small, and comparing it to mine would be like calling a child’s stick-figure sketch equivalent to a Greek statue. There is simply too much scope and detail in the statue to make a comparison.

A face from your perspective consists of two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and perhaps you can see the hair and a bit of the ears. In my world, my dimension, I see all of it. Face, hair, bald spot, the back of the head, everything at once, and this is normal.

When I look at you, my dear human, I see every hair, every wrinkle, your back, your legs, hands, palms, knees, and everything in between. What you see of me is not my true shape, only that single part that dips into your three-dimensional world. I can’t even begin to explain what I really look like, because there are simply no words for it. No human has seen the fourth dimension, so how can you describe it? How would you describe the concept of “up” to a scribble on a page? Would you even try?

This is my universe. I see space, time, and everything in between. I taste music, feel smells, and hear flavor. This is the existence of a cat.

My purpose therefore, is to ask that you change my name to something less humiliating. Signing this letter “From Muffin with Love” just seems silly. Judy, I would not ask this if it was not important to me. You’re my human, and I love you (as evidenced by the lizard), so please end my torture. I am the laughing-stock of my associates.
Regards,
Tessercat

Judy stared at the letter for several minutes. Was this a joke? She was halfway to the trashcan before she noticed Muffin sitting on the lid, head cocked to the side, whiskers twitching, and with black ink stains on his right forepaw.

She blinked, and Muffin blinked back.

Feeling irrational, she asked him, “Did you write this?” She held the letter tightly and at arms length, as if it might bite her.

She almost fainted when her cat nodded. This was ridiculous.

“Muffin?”

His reaction was to sniff disdainfully and twitch his tail.

She started to giggle. Honestly, who could blame her? She had just received a letter and half a lizard from her fourth-dimensional cat. She picked him up, rubbed his tummy, and decided that Tessercat was a fine name indeed.

Lydia

In the end, we all discover the futility of life.

Dora Anderson sits in the window seat. Bright sunbeams struggle through the tiny seams between the blinds, dust motes swirl and scatter like honey bees at the end of summer, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before winter swallows their precious flowers.

Opaque white eyes see none of it. In withered old hands is gripped a stuffed penguin, once bright green. Mr. Apple is the affectionate moniker given to him by Lydia.

She would often see Lydia and Mr. Apple walking--no, stalking--down the hallway with a flashlight, on some grand adventure. Whether it was an African safari in the kitchen or exploring an Egyptian tomb in the living room, they were inseparable.

Mr. Apple's fur had been soft and bright, then. Now, Dora can feel patches where the soft fur has rubbed off completely, and he is missing a button eye. Who knows what color his plumage is now?

Stiffly, slowly, she rises from the window seat, penguin in hand. With the aid of a guiding stick, she easily navigates through the small town. She counts her steps. One hundred and twenty down Main Street, make a left, and walk thirty-two more. A gate and latch are easily dealt with before fifteen paces right and nine forward.

She drops the pole, reaches out, finds cold, smooth stone.

Lydia Anderson
Beloved Daughter
1981-1989

She knows the inscription well. Her fingers have traveled over them for almost twenty years.

She leaves Mr. Apple leaning against the headstone, wishes Lydia "happy birthday," and picks up her guiding stick. It's time to let go.

Hold Me Close

Winds blow strong and menacing
The earth shakes beneath my feet
My thoughts are scattered and wandering
I am about to concede defeat

Hold me close in your arms
Cradle my fragile heart in your hands
Close to you, I'm safe from harm
There's no better place in this No Man's Land

Hold me as I weep
Hold me till I'm strong
Hold me and keep me
I'll have to let go before long

I don't want to face the night on my own.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Meant for More

Why do we stand
In the middle of the stream?
Why don't we take
A chance and lead the team?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

Don't just stand there,
Live out loud, dream it up.
You'll never know
Until you take the plunge.

Do you want to live
Your life in stagnation
Or do you want to feel
The breeze caress your face?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

We are meant to be human.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Don't

Kiss the rain
Sing to the skies
Don't bother with drying
The tears I see in your eyes

I'm there for you
When life carries
You away in a deluge
Of fear, of pride, of failure
We all make mistakes

Don't hide away
Don't lower your eyes
I want to see you
I'll help you learn how to fly

Mine?

Given breath, given life,
Given sorrow, given strife,
Knowledge learned
Through work and life,
Is anything truly mine?

Father's eyes, mother's chin,
Sister's laugh and brother's grin,
Face defined
By blood and bone,
Is it even mine?

My own mind, my own sin,
My own voice, and my own skin,
What good are they
In my life
When nothing's truly mine?

Lessons learned and put to heart,
Even though it's torn apart,
These things are mine
And mine alone.

And none shall take them from me.

Rain: A snapshot of reunion.

It was raining. Again.

Sarah McKinley hated the rain. The sky became gray and dreary, the moisture falling from the sky was frigid, it soaked you to the skin almost instantly, and it made everything muddy and slick. The only thing she liked about the occasional desert rainstorm was the smell: cool and clean, drifting up from the pavement and whispering in her ear about far off places and scattered dreams.

In Arizona, rain was rare, and she didn't believe in dreams anymore.

She shuffled over to the couch to grab a pair of slippers. She needed to check the mail, and there was no way she wanted to get her feet wet. When she opened the door, moist air and musty fragrance flooded the living room. Her cat looked up briefly from his nap on the recliner, vaguely curious, but too lazy to investigate the change in the air.

Sarah walked out to the driveway, shoulders hunched against the cold wet spatter that still fell from the sky. She heard someone down the street belting out an off-key rendition of "Singin' in the Rain," and decided that they needed to be shot. But not by her. She was too cold and wet and miserable. I should have been born as a cat, she thought.

When she turned, mail in hand, to go back inside, she screamed. No! That couldn't be...

"Sarah?" The ghost by her front door smiled wanly.

Even though she knew it wasn't possible, she let the whisper fall from her lips. "Brian?"

His vague smile turned into a full-blown grin. "What can I say, 'lil sis?" He chuckled, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

In the next instant, the mail lay forgotten on the soaked concrete driveway, and Sarah McKinley was sobbing in the arms of her assumed-dead brother.

It was still raining. Large drops of cold water fell from the sky onto the siblings, and Sarah decided something in that moment: She loved the rain.

Pen & Paper

Here I am again,
Alone with my thoughts
Wandering the depths
Of my mind.

Two candles are lit
By the window.
The flames sputter and twist,
Giving me light and warmth.

Pen touches paper,
Glides on a black streak
Through a boundless sea
Of white perfection.

Symbols soon form.
Letters convey thoughts,
Not blemishing the
Inimitable page,
But enhancing purpose.

From these simple words,
A story unfolds
Telling of beauty and pain
Of sorrow and joy.

A catharsis of thought
From a pen
And a page
And a candle-lit room.

This is peace.
This is perfection.
This is purpose.

copyright 2008, H.J. Hanauer

On the Shores of Shattered Dreams

Far away
On the shores of Shattered Dreams
A small, lone traveler
Learns that nothing is as it seems

Promises fade
Love is buried
The only constant things
Are death and decay

On the shores of Shattered Dreams
That one small traveler
Knows that no one can hear him
Even when he screams

He wanders on the shore
Made of sharp, jagged, unforgiving stone
The waves beat an angry rhythm
On that cold black stone

The sky is dark with stormclouds
Lightning cracks across the sky
Causing our young traveler
To look up and scream to the sky
"Who am I?"

"Am I just another face
You see as you walk down the street?
Am I someone you've met face-to-face
Or is that just another illusion from my tormented mind?"

The wind does not answer him
Nor do the waves
The sky still crackles with bright fire
They do not listen to his cries

The wind carries his words away
To be lost in the storm
As if they had never been spoken

And the traveler
Weary and lost
Sinks to his knees
On the shores
Of Shattered Dreams

copyright 2005 H.J. Hanauer

A Vision of Students Today

Not my vid, but still very thought-provoking.

"A Vision of Students Today"

Warrior in the Dark

Inspired by the picture to the left. I saw and it simply begged for a story; who was I to refuse?

--------------------------

Nothing would ever be the same.

He stooped toward the ground, delicately lifting a shredded scrap of cloth that had been trodden into the forest floor. Clutching it in his fist, he began to shake with rage and sorrow. Then, slowly—reverently—he tied the silver scrap to the hilt of his sword. Her memory would live on solely with him. The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists.

He sheathed his sword, knowing that he must move quickly before they came again. He raised his eyes to the dark castle in the distance and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to howl at the sky in rage. She was gone, and he must continue his journey alone. He began to walk, the sound of his heavy black boots stifled by the still night air of the forest. He pulled his glove onto his hand for a more snug fit.

The only sounds were the distant cries of the werewolves howling at the full moon.

He never halted in his steps again as he made his way through the forest, his dark high-collared cloak making him nearly invisible. He was not afraid, merely angry and sad: She had been his reason, his one hope in a dying world, the only thing that had kept him from going back to his old ways of life as a mercenary, and now the only thing that was left was a scrap of the scarf she had worn in her hair every day since he had bought it for her.

His gloved hands clenched into solid fists again. They would pay. Maybe not today, maybe not anytime soon.

But they would pay.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, bracing against the chilly wind that suddenly whipped through the forest air. Was it his imagination, or did he hear laughter? He dismissed the notion as childish, the wind could not laugh.

Could it?

He went forward into the night, facing what may come with his head held high. He would not crumble.

He wanted revenge.

copyright 2006 H.J. Hanauer

Stirrings in the Night: A Halloween Short Story

A stiff, bitingly cold wind rushed through the streets, rustling the dead leaves and searing exposed skin like fire. The moon was full, but hidden behind clouds of deepest black.

On the corner of a street filled with ramshackle houses and gnarled trees stood the figure of a man. Tall and sharp-featured, any who dared to glance at him were soon scurrying away, suspicious of the stranger with the coal-black eyes and long black hair held with a simple silver clasp. He didn't mind. He preferred to be alone.

His silk-lined velvet cape, also black, and held with a bright silver chain, was warm. He pulled it closer around him, allowing the high collar to shield his face from the cold. He gazed up and down the street, his head turning slowly, his dark eyes taking in every detail. He shuffled his feet, startling a cat from a hedge next to him. He watched as it bolted across the street.

He didn't blame the cat for being apprehensive. Even the animals seemed to know that something terrible was about to happen. Something no one could prevent.

His lips curled into something like a smile. Soon, he thought, very soon.

He checked again that his sword was strapped securely to his hip. It would not do to be unprepared tonight.

"Greetings, Ivan,"

The deep voice behind him made him turn, weapon drawn. A thin, sallow-faced, grey-haired man stood before him, looking completely at ease in the tense night air. "What do you want, André?" he sighed.

The old man, André, sneered. "Put that sword away, Ivan. I'm making the rounds. He wants to make sure everything is in place before he strikes."

Reluctantly, Ivan sheathed his sword. He kept a hand on the hilt, however. No point in pretending to trust André, after all. "I don't have anything to report," He said, "The villagers keep to themselves: they don't trust strangers."

"And who can blame them?" said André rhetorically. "It's not every day that four men are found dead in the village square." He made a harsh hacking sound, and it took Ivan a moment to realize that it was laughter.

"That was you?" He hissed, "You killed those men? Why? It could have tipped our hand! You know better than that, old man!"

André's cackling stopped so suddenly, Ivan looked around for what had startled him. Straining his eyes to peer into the darkness, he shivered as he asked, "What is it?"

André held up a hand for silence as he, too, tried to see something in the blackness of the night. At that moment, the black cloud that had obscured the moon shifted to the side, slowly bathing the street in an unearthly glow.

It was then, with the cold moonlight casting everything into sharp shadows, that the two men heard a piercing, spine-chilling howl. Ivan knew that sound.

"Werewolves!" André was looking distinctly nervous, now.

Ivan chuckled. "Come now, old man!" he taunted. "Surely a couple of men cursed by the full moon aren't enough to scare André, the 'Great Assassin?'"

His companion gave a neutral sounding snort. "You would be nervous, too, boy, if you'd seen some of things werewolves can do at full strength."

Ivan rounded on him. "You think me innocent in such matters?" he growled. "I was nearly bitten myself a few years ago, and my father was executed because of the Curse!"

"Really, now?" André looked like he had just happened upon something very interesting. "So you're from Fairhaven, then? I know they are the only ones left who practice those old customs."

Ivan gave a curt nod, but remained silent, opting instead to gaze again into the night. After a moment, he spoke again. "We should get moving. It won't be long before he strikes. We should be in position."

His companion nodded, and the two of them made their way silently from the street corner. Walking side by side, Ivan's hand still on the hilt of his sword, they headed for the village square, where Ivan could just make out four lumps around the massive fountain in the center of the square.

Apparently, André wanted to make a lasting impression; the bodies were none other than the village elders, all staring lifelessly from eyes frozen open in death and terror. Every one had been killed in a different way, although it was plain that they had all been killed by André's short, evilly serrated dagger. One had been stabbed in the chest, one had a cleanly slit throat, one had four long diagonal gashes across his chest…Ivan turned away from the last one, nauseated. When he felt sure he could speak without being sick, he addressed André. "What did he do to deserve that?"

The old man pulled his black dagger from his belt. "Oh, he got violent when I approached his daughter. Pretty little thing she was, too."

"Was?"

"Well, naturally," his tone gave the impression that he was simply talking about the weather, not murder. "I had simply handicapped the man so he could watch me enjoy the company of his pretty little teenaged daughter, but for some reason he didn't appreciate it, so I killed him. Naturally, the girl didn't take kindly to her father's murder, but she soon forgot about it as she was busy trying to scream." His eyes took on a manic gleam. "She's dead, too. Had to gag her. Wouldn't do for the village to wake while I was having my fun, now would it?" he cackled again. "Oh, I wish I could see her mother's face when she comes downstairs in the morning, finding her daughter…bloody, naked, tied like a Christmas turkey…and her husband, gutted in the square."

Ivan felt like his stomach was full of lead. He held no pity for the victims, but was sickened at André. "You're a sick old man. We're assassins, you fool! Why do you take such pleasure in your target's pain?"

"Why don't you?" André asked. Then he waved a hand as if swatting a fly. "Bah. No matter. I forget, while some in the Assassin's Guild enjoy their work, you feel above such emotions. Tell me Ivan, do you even feel emotion?"

Ivan gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Only anger, hatred, frustration…and pain…always the pain…"

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud until André replied, "Well, I'd say that you have some problems. Why are you an assassin, if not for pleasure?"

Ivan began pacing the square, making sure everything was in place as he spoke. "It pays well."

André's hacking laugh seemed to follow Ivan as he moved, even though the old man still stood by the bodies next to the fountain. Ivan glanced up at the full moon, hoping that his superiors had truly secured the loyalty of the werewolves. It wouldn't do to have them turn on each other tonight. Too much was riding on the events of the next twenty-four hours.

As he completed his check of the village square, he spotted a tangled lump just inside the opening of a narrow alley. Curious, he made his way over, sword drawn just in case. When he got closer, he noticed that it was vaguely human-shaped, but far too thin and still. He prodded the bundle with the tip of his sword, and the hood of a cloak fell back from the face.

Gasping, Ivan backed up several steps while André walked toward him, hissing, "What's the matter, you fool?"

Silently, Ivan pointed out the figure to his companion, who suddenly grew pale.

The cloaked body must have been a young man at some point, a rich one, judging from the clothes. But it was the body itself that sent cold ice into the stomachs of the two men.

The skin was shriveled and was a grey that gave the impression that the life had not simply been taken, but torn from the body by something twisted and unnatural. There was no substance to the body, the pallid skin hanging limply over brittle bones. The only thing that remained of the young man was the eyes, wide and staring, any spark of life now gone from the ice-blue depths.

Ivan turned, desperately trying not to vomit. Even André, who had seemed to be unaffected by death and decay, seemed disgusted. "What could have done this…?" André murmured.

Ivan knew exactly what did it, but why would one be in this poor, desolate little village? He had thought he'd left all of this behind all those years ago when he fled from Fairhaven, his home town. Now it was all returning to him in one night; first the werewolves and now, "It was a vampire, André."

André's head turned toward him so quickly, Ivan thought he heard a snap. "What?" he seemed horrified, but then it turned to suspicion. "How do you know that?"

Ivan, now over his battle with nausea, strode over to the body, sheathing his sword and drawing a small knife, which he used to gently pull the cloak from the neck of the body. "Here," he indicated the two round punctures on the neck from a vampire bite. He beckoned his companion closer, so that they both knelt on their knees beside the body. Ivan pulled a kerchief from inside his cloak, using it to turn the head away from him, so he could see the back of the neck. "Perhaps the creature left his mark…"

Seeing the confused glance from his unwilling comrade, he explained that all vampires had a mark of their own design, and that some would mark their kills with it, so that their name would grow into legend. "It's been done for thousands of years. And you are in no position to be that disgusted."

For André had the same look that Ivan had when they first entered the village square and saw the bodies of the elders.

copyright 2007 H.J. Hanauer

Undefinable

What does it take
For you to see me as I am?
Why do you always claim
That you know my innermost thoughts?

Do you really want do know
What goes on
in
my
head?

Dark waves of thought crash violently
On the rocky shores
of belief,

The full moon casts light
On the dark forests
of emotion,

The sun tries valiantly,
Only sometimes succeeding,
To brighten the caverns
Of experience.

My words wander
Like lost souls
On the winds
Of my imagination.

Broken thoughts
Tumble
Through time.

I am not profound
I am not a leader
I am not encouraged
by life's winding road.

Bright colors flash
Soundlessly
Through a dark, cloudy, moonlit sky.

This is who I am.

I am emotion
Thought
Reason
Imagination

To others, I am defined
Through my words
And the actions of this limited body.

To myself, I am defined
By my perception
Of the world.

By the cries of my mind
Or the laughter
Of my muse.

Language is limited
So is action
expression
relation.

I am undefinable
And I am weary of being imprisoned
by the world's mind.

Fly Away From Here

I want to fly away from here
Before I sink into the earth;
I want to conquer my fear
I want to feel the exhilaration of new birth!

These days are all the same;
They drag by as the clock ticks.
I'm sick of always playing this game.
I want to fly like a phoenix.

I want to escape the constant pressure
Of trying to always do what's right.
I want someone to reassure
Me that I have not lost my will to fight.

I know that this life is not all there is,
But sometimes it smothers me
With its foul stenches.
Sometimes it covers me with debris.

I feel like I am buried by
The things that are expected of me.

I want to fly away from here
Before I sink into the earth;
I want to conquer my fear
I want to feel the exhilaration of new birth!

Music

Silver and ebony, smooth and sleek
To make children laugh
And women weep

Wood and metal, perfect tools
To make strong men crumble
And the wise look like fools

No one can know Music's mind
There is no harder thing to find

But we do, again and again
Find the mystery, sometimes the pain
Of lost love
Loneliness
Or fear.

The music sways, ever moving
Lost souls join in common thought
Barriers broken

For who can keep silent in the midst of music?

You cannot hide
Why should you try?

I know of nothing that cannot be
Made better through sweet melody

Yucca Mountain Essay

I wrote this essay last year for my English 220 class and got a 96. I decided to share it...

Yucca Mountain Repository: Practical Solution?

Nuclear Waste: These two words almost never fail to gain the attention of any citizen, and the first concern is "Is it dangerous?" Yes. But you must also consider long-term exposure to the sun, excessive X-rays, and rush hour traffic. Like these other examples, nuclear waste is only dangerous if precautions are not taken. Currently, there are 131 different nuclear waste sites scattered across the United States, including one in New Mexico. What do we do with all this waste? We let it sit in special containers, decaying and releasing harmful radiation that is shielded by the walls of the canisters. This is where the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository comes in.

Since 1978, the United States government and the Department of Energy have been researching Yucca Mountain—which is located about one hundred miles northwest of Las Vegas, Nevada—as a possible site for a storage area for the nation's nuclear waste. Its relatively close proximity to such major centers of population, however, has caused a major controversy in Nevada. While some people may disagree, saying that the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository (Yucca Mountain Project) is a danger to the environment and is an unnecessary financial undertaking, the benefits far outweigh the potential problems.

But what exactly is the Yucca Mountain Project? It is simply a permanent solution to a current problem. The Yucca Mountain Repository is a series of underground tunnels that have been carefully constructed and shielded, using a network of remote-controlled, protected, specially designed railcars to transport solid nuclear waste into an underground chamber roughly 1,000 feet below the surface (DOE fact sheet). The nuclear waste from across the country will be contained in these tunnels. The storage chambers and tunnels would be monitored constantly, allowing for any dangers to be identified and dealt with accordingly. Having all the solid nuclear waste in the nation in one location would lessen the cost of maintenance and increase the safety for the environment on a large scale.

The general population in Nevada, however, opposes the Yucca Mountain Project, citing the fact that they have no nuclear program of their own and should not be responsible for the nuclear waste generated by the rest of the country (LV Sun). The debate has been prolonged by accusations of falsified safety reports, amendments to safety regulations, and the natural political problems inherent in any major project that involves public safety. These concerns have drifted in and out of the public eye for years, with the occasional newspaper article stirring citizens in an uproar, only to have the frenzy die down within a few weeks with the release of new information. Usually, the only problem is lack of information.

The Yucca Mountain facility will be constructed, monitored, and maintained by the United States Department of Energy, who will be held to the safety standards put forth by the Environmental Protection Agency. Working together, the DOE and the EPA should create a network of safeguards and checkpoints suitable for the maintenance of such an enormous undertaking (EPA). The organizations responsible for the creation of the Yucca Mountain facility have also made a considerable effort to keep the public well informed and up-to-date with accurate information. Information is readily available on the official government websites, and is typically easy to understand. There are even transcripts of many of the official technical documents being reviewed by various committees.

There is the question of transportation of the waste, however. A common misconception about nuclear waste is that it is flammable or explosive. This is not the case. Radioactive waste will only explode in a forced chemical reaction. It cannot combust otherwise. Responding to concerns of the public, the DOE and EPA have stated that there are plans in place for transportation. Carefully designed railcars that would shield the surroundings from harmful radiation will be constructed. According to the US Department of Energy,

"Estimates for radiation dose from transportation, based on the exposure of a person standing 100 feet from a vehicle that is carrying waste and moving 15 miles per hour, is about 0.0004 millirem. A person would receive 5,000 to 12,500 times more radiation dose on a round-trip flight from Los Angeles to New York on a commercial airline (2.5 millirem)" (DOE).

Nearer to the actual location of the repository, there are plans to build a railroad through the Nellis Air Force Range to get closer to the site, avoiding main rail lines. When transportation by railroad is not possible, the waste will be transported by highly trained drivers of heavy-load trucks—again, they will use specially designed containers to prevent radiation leaks and to protect the contents from any inclement weather encountered (Eureka County NWO).

This leads us to the problem of tourism. Would the thriving tourist trade in nearby Las Vegas be affected by the transportation and storage of nuclear waste a mere 80-100 miles away? It is very doubtful. Las Vegas is far away from any of the rail corridors planned for transport, and the repository is next to the Nevada Test Site, inside the Nellis Air Force Range. There is no reason for Nevadans or tourists to take any more notice of the site than they have in previous years.

Would the stored nuclear waste have an adverse affect on the environment? It is unlikely. Yucca Mountain has undergone rigorous study and testing for over 25 years by leading geologists, biologists, and other scientists. Its dry climate is preferable because the most likely way for harmful radiation to spread would be through the flow of water. The repository will be built 1,000 feet below the surface and 1,000 feet above the water table. Most of the surface water will evaporate, get used by plant and animal life, or simply run off the mountain. Any remaining water would have to filter through 1,000 feet of dense rock to reach the repository (which will be lined with steel and concrete), and then through another 1,000 feet of even denser rock to get to the water table. Any radiation that did make it through would be negligible (DOE).

It is clear that the concerns surrounding the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository are legitimate ones, but that the DOE has made a considerable effort to make the repository safe for centuries. The use of the repository would be beneficial to the United States as a whole, and would considerably lessen the cost of safeguarding the nuclear waste currently scattered across the country. It is a practical and useful solution to a long-term problem.

Works Cited:

Grove, Benjamin. "Utah senator: Yucca 'does not make sense.'" The Las Vegas Sun, 21 September, 2005. 07 March, 2007

The Eureka County Nuclear Waste Office. "Map page." 07 March, 2007.

United States Department of Energy. "Overview: Yucca Mountain Project." 07 March, 2007.

United States Department of Energy. "Americans' Average Radiation Exposure." 07 March, 2007.

The Chief

Concrete, a single flickering bulb jutting out from the industrial wall, copper pipes on the ceiling dripping grimy water and caked with greenish rust.

“So,” a deep, slightly Scottish voice purred, “This is where the Chief lives.”

A man stood at the end of the hallway, leaning against a metal doorjamb. The room beyond him was spare, populated by a large battered military desk in the center, facing the door, a metal file cabinet in the corner next to a safe, and a small army cot in the corner with a flat pillow and a thin blanket. An ancient, dormant computer monitor sat on the desk while the actual computer device—which looked surprisingly sophisticated—churned away beneath it. The lamp on the desk cast a weak light on the woman in the squeaky office chair. Only a vague impression of long blond hair, a small nose, and a softly curved face were visible.

“That’s right,” she said evenly, her voice quiet and professional, “Come in Tobias, don’t keep me waiting. What do you have for me?”

Even though he had been working for the Chief for several years, he had never met her face-to-face, having previously communicated via phone or middleman. Tobias strode into the room and leaned over the desk, doing his best to show the confidence he always projected toward others. He had earned this prestigious promotion to the Inner Circle recently. Yesterday, in fact. He wanted to make a good impression on the most powerful person in the world.

His scarred hands were strong and lithe, his face a ghoulish jester’s mask in the light cast from the lamp beneath it. His face was sharp-featured, had laugh lines around sunken blue eyes rimmed with grey exhaustion, and his black close-shaved hair formed a widow’s peak over his large nose. A navy blue shirt hung loosely on his slim chest, and a black leather tailored trench coat hung from his muscled shoulders. “Wha’ no kiss an’ hug?” he asked with a toothy, manic grin, “’Coz I’m not here to give ya peanuts, Chief. I’ve got somethin’ you want.”

She leaned forward, almost nose-to-nose with Tobias. Now in better light, it was obvious that she was young, perhaps in her mid- to late-twenties. She was dressed in simple black slacks and a white buttoned shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to her elbows. She looked like she was just out of college, but her eyes were a striking golden brown that held the knowledge of centuries. “And what do you have that I might want so badly?” Her grin wasn’t as manic as his, but seemed more disturbing somehow. Tobias leaned back a little.

“Well…” he drew out the single syllable, making it last as he exhaled, “I’ve got one o’ the witnesses to t’the signing of the Kellerman Contract.”

The Chief leaned forward. “Really? Which one?”

“The American lad, Miller. James Miller.”

The Chief leaned back in her chair and pressed the tips of her fingers together under her chin. “I’ll admit it, Tobias; I’m actually impressed.”

His impossibly wide grin grew even wider. “Thought you’d like tha’. He was ‘ard to track down, I’ll ‘ave ya know. Took me six months—and most o’ those favors you called in fer me—to find ‘im.” It was this feat that had earned him the promotion, he knew.

For a moment her expression showed anxiety. “You didn’t bring him down here, did you?”

Tobias let out a harsh bark of laughter. “O’ course not! I wouldn’t risk yer trust in me, Chief, seein’ as it’s th’ first time I’ve been allowed down ‘ere myself!”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to gauge his honesty, when a shrill, insistent beep went off. She reached into her pocket with a quick “Excuse me, Tobias,” before pulling out a phone and flipping it open. “Yes?”

She was on the phone for less then ten seconds, during which Tobias amused himself by wondering how she managed to get cell phone reception in an abandoned bunker fifteen floors underground. Was there anything she couldn’t do?

She snapped the phone shut, not having uttered a word since her curt greeting, but simply listening to whoever was on the other line. She wearily tossed the phone onto the desk, the front display still lit. Tobias glanced at it and made a note of her service carrier, intending to switch as soon as he was back on the surface; he was lucky to get service in an office high-rise elevator with his current cheap company.

The Chief dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and leaned back, the very image of frustration. She huffed before addressing him, “They’ve caught up with Williams in Cairo. He’s been arrested.”

He cringed. Williams was a good man, one of her best. “You want me to break him ou’, Chief?” he asked. He had a few connections in Cairo; it wouldn’t take long to find him and get him released.

She shook her head no. “I need you to concentrate on that witness, I’m afraid. I’ll send someone else. Question this ‘James Miller’ about Kellerman himself. I want to know what kind of security he has for his family, so I can add to it if I need to.”

“He’s not gonna tell me unless ‘e knows the questions are comin’ from you, Chief.”

“That’s all right; I think he can be trusted. See if you can find out where that other witness is, too. I’m not so sure where his loyalties lie.” She spun in her chair and coaxed her computer screen back to life. A few taps of the keys and several pages began to spew from a small printer under the desk. “And now, about your payment.”

Tobias leaned forward eagerly. 

She handed him a moderately thick stack of paper. “This is everything I could find,” she said with sudden tenderness, “Pictures, addresses, news clippings, blogs, police reports…obituaries.”

Tobias took the stack reverently. “Thank you,” he said, “This is more’n I’d ever dreamed you’d find.”

“Family is important, whether you remember them or not,” she said.

He huffed. “It’s no’ really an issue of rememberin’ them, it’s that I don’t remember anything abou’ who they were.”

“What do you mean?”

Tobias looked up at her face. She seemed genuinely interested.

“I ran away from home when I was abou’ seven.” He said.

“Why did you do that?” She asked.

He had just opened his mouth to ask her why she wanted to know when her phone rang again. She looked at the caller ID and groaned wearily. “One second, Tobias. This won’t take long.” She snapped the phone open and growled into the receiver, “Now what?”

She listened to the frantic babbling on the other end for less than a couple of seconds before interrupting. “No! Absolutely not!” She yelled. “I’m aware that he’s the President. That means nothing to me. Get him out of there!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “I don’t care if he’s prostesting. Get past his bodyguards and get him out of there. Tie him to a chair if you have to! I am not willing to find another President of the United States when this one’s only been in office for six months. It’ll be too much paperwork if he gets killed over there!”

She snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the desk before digging the heels of her hands into her eyes, leaning back and heaving a loud sigh.

“Coffee, Tobias?” she asked.

He blinked. “Sorry, wha’?”

“Would you like some coffee?” she repeated.

“Oh,” he cleared his throat, “Er…yes, thanks.”

She got up from the computer and walked to the corner where an old coffeemaker sat on a small table. He hadn’t noticed it before in the shadowy corner.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Er…no, thank you.” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. This wasn’t quite what he had expected.

She handed him some black coffee in a chipped white mug that proclaimed What do you mean caffeine isn’t a food group? and sat back down. He took a sip and looked up at her in surprise. “Ya make a good cup o’ coffee, Chief,” he said in appreciation.

She grinned at him over the rim of her own cup. “I practically invented good coffee.” 

She leaned back. “There’s a chair in the corner if you’d like to sit. I don’t get company very often.”

He pulled up the rusty folding chair in front of the desk and sat down, coffee in hand. “Thank ya, ma’am.”

“You know, you’ve just been promoted to my elite team. Call me Rosetta…or Rose, if that’s easier.”

His surprise must have been obvious because she chuckled, “I don’t like having to be so formal with the few people I trust. My family is long dead, and you and the rest of the Inner Circle are really the only human interaction I get. I mostly stay down here in this room. It’s not my real name, but it serves its purpose.”

He nodded, too thrown off to respond. This was far more than he had been expecting. He had been working with the woman he knew as “The Chief” for nearly six years, and knew that it would be a career that would likely last for the rest of his life. There were only a dozen or so people in the Inner Circle at any time, and a couple of them were in their late seventies and would have to retire soon.

“So,” she said conversationally, “Why did you run away from home so young?”

He shrugged, confused by the change of subject, but willing to talk. “I guess i’ was just to get away from me dad. He would ge’ drunk a lot, an’ he was a righ’ angry drunk, if you ge’ my meanin’, ma’am—I mean, ‘Rose.’” The unfamiliar word felt strange, but appropriate for her. He leaned back in his chair and carefully flipped through the pages of the packet in his hands, seeing news articles about his sisters on their soccer team, his mother’s colorful paintings winning a competition in a local art gallery…and on the very last page was his father’s obituary, stating that he had died almost a year ago. The rest of the family had moved to London after that; there was an address near Trafalgar Square named as his mother’s.

“I’ll ‘ave ta visit her when I’m done wi’ Miller,” he said, mostly to himself. He glanced up at the Chief, who was gazing steadily at him. “Do you ‘ave any family, ma’am?” he asked before sputtering, “Sorry, forge’ I asked. S’not my place.”

She gave him a sad smile. “It’s all right,” She said, “I haven’t had a family for a long time, Tobias. The last family I had was my daughter, who was killed in the Salem witch hunts. She was burned at the stake for witchcraft.” She blinked rapidly, but controlled her emotions quickly.

“Yer tha’ old?” he said before he could catch himself. He cursed and apologized. “Beg yer pardon. I’ve never asked a lady her age before. T’was impolite.”

Rose just gave him a light-hearted chuckle. It sounded out of place in the spare setting. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m old enough not to care anymore. As for my exact age…well, I haven’t hit four digits yet, but I’ll get there before you die.”

His mouth fell open. He knew he looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t help sputtering, “But ya look t’ be no older than twenty.”

She was working on her computer again as she replied, “It’s a dominant gene in the female line of my family. Has been for several generations. Every woman in my family grows naturally until their twentieth birthday, then stop. The men have a normal lifespan, but the women only can only die by two things, one of which is old age.” 

She sighed. “Unfortunately, many people discover the only other thing that can kill us long before we die naturally. Only one of us has died of natural causes, and that was my great-great grandmother.”

Her eyes glistened slightly, and Tobias realized what she had said a moment ago about her daughter dying in the witch hunts. “Rebecca, my great-great grandmother, died of old age at one thousand, one hundred and fifty-three, but looked as young as I do now.”

“I’m sorry.”

The watery smile he got in return struck him as one used countless times over the centuries. “It’s in the past. All things come to an end. Everything dies. Even I will, eventually.”

Tobias’s watch chirped, and he glanced at it without a thought before realizing that he had been here for over an hour. “Sorry to hold you up, Chief,” he said, hefting the stack of family information, “I’ll start questioning Miller first thing tomorrow morning. He’s asleep now from the jet lag.” His tone switched from “new friend” back to “loyal employee.”

She nodded before saying, “Wake him up. I want that security information.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and Tobias?”

He turned.

“Remember, it’s ‘Rose.’”

“I’ll remember tha’…Rose.”

She grinned widely at him. “Well, go on. I want that security information on my desk by morning.”

He gave a little bow. “As ya wish.”

Typing away at the computer, she dismissed him with a distracted wave of her hand, already immersed in whatever she was working on. He left quietly, closed the door behind him, and headed for the elevator that would take him to the surface. He leaned his head back against the cold metal wall and exhaled loudly when he got inside, listening to the clanking and grinding as he rose through fifteen levels of solid rock. 

Working for Chief Rosetta was going to be interesting, he could already tell.

Copyright 2007 H.J. Hanauer

It Begins

The South Forest of Jenigral Kingdom was quite peaceful during the day, when the Shalari dragons were sleeping. The blood-red reptiles only woke with the setting of the sun to hunt the humans that encroached upon their forest, and slept from sunrise to sunset. Daylight meant safety and peace.

It was high noon and fourteen-year-old Lillian sat in the highest branches of an oak tree, looking over the tops of the other trees. To the west she could see Father's Shoulder, a tall mountain range that separated Jenigral from its coastal neighbor, the kingdom of Saldren. The river Thalen flowed from that peak into the South Forest, and on its southern bank was the tiny village of Jenst, the southernmost community in the kingdom.

Lillian pushed a few strands of hair behind her ear when they escaped from her practical braid that hung just above her waist. Her black boots were scuffed and dirty and the rough tunic she wore was sturdy and an un-dyed, dull grey. She sat on the thin branch easily, balancing with slight concentration, as she had been taught. There was no breeze today, which made it easier.

Lillian had been in this tree for most of the day, having disappeared from the village earlier that morning. She didn't feel like being hen-pecked by the older ladies who were busy dressing up for the harvest festival. Lillian had the dresses, she just lacked the inclination to wear them.

She tilted her head when she heard a sound filtering through the dense foliage. Voices. Girls from the village, most likely, she thought, but how many?
She closed her eyes and focused on the sound. She counted four different voices, and a few more pairs of footsteps than that. She smiled: she was getting pretty good at this.

"Lillian? Where are you?" That was Greta's voice, faint but recognizable. Lillian stayed silent, taking advantage of this opportunity to test her tracking skills. The soft crunch of footsteps on a forest trail stopped. The group had halted in a clearing several yards away. One of the girls said something, and Lillian could tell by the tone of the voice that it wasn't kind. Most likely Suzette, saying something nasty about her.

"Lillian?" Greta was getting annoyed. "Come on! The feast is going to start in two hours, and Harfan's been looking for you!"

Lillian grimaced: she hadn't intended to annoy Harfan. He was the Guardian of the village, their protection from the Shalari after the sun set. He had been trained at the Guardian's Keep in Jenigral City before being assigned to her village just after Lillian had been born. When her parents were killed by one of the dragons two years ago, Harfan—who was a dear friend of her father's—had taken her under his wing, becoming a sort of older brother to her in a relatively short time. He gave her lessons in tracking fighting, swordsmanship, and horsemanship. She lived with Harfan now, in a small cottage on the village outskirts, near the stables.

"Lillian!" Greta hollered, "Please come down from whatever tree you're in! I don't want to have to deal with Harfan!"

Lillian sighed and set off toward the clearing through the canopy of trees, moving silently. Every time she went to the forest, she put her lessons from Harfan into practice. Soon, she was only a few feet away from the group of girls, but she was still several feet above eye level.
There were six girls standing in the clearing, searching for her. Greta's sharp eyes found her first. "There you are," she said, hands on hips.

Lillian smirked and took a moment to compare herself to the teenaged girls on the ground. At fourteen years old, Lillian was almost the oldest. Greta held that title at the age of fifteen and a half years. Their clothing was drastically different; while Lillian was dressed in cheap, practical boots, trousers, and tunic, the others were dressed in skirts and blouses, had ribbons in their hair, and wore thinner shoes. Nearly every one of them was gazing at her with disdain. Greta was the only one that Lillian considered to be a friend. They had known each other for all their lives, and were nearly inseperable.

"Why is Harfan looking for me?" She tilted her head, voicing the question at her friend. She didn't want to go back to the village yet. As the daughter of a noble family, she commanded a little bit of respect, but it was rarely given. When her parents had died, she had abandoned the fine dresses and lace kerchiefs for her more functional attire, which the older ladies in Jenst regarded with hostility.

"I don't know…he said something about starting early today, whatever that means. He said he'd look for you." Greta shrugged. They started to trek back to the village as a group, with Lillian and Greta falling back so they could speak privately.

"Your mother hasn't found out that you're taking lessons from Harfan, too, has she?" Lillian asked.

Greta shook her head and gave a secret smile. "No," she giggled, "Can you imagine her face if she had? She has a hard enough time letting me spend any time here. I shouldn't be associating with a vagrant like you." The last was said with a valiant attempt at a straight, somber face. She couldn't hold it, and started to laugh.

"Well, if we ever get into real trouble, we'll know what to do. I doubt half the boys in the village really know how to fight." Lillian's light laughter startled a rabbit from the undergrowth beside the trail, and she watched as it fled deeper into the forest, making far more noise than a rabbit should. She snapped her head around and gazed into the trees. Was there something more than a rabbit out there?

When Greta noticed her hesitation, she stopped, too. Glancing quickly at Lillian, she whispered, "What is it?"

Lillian held up a hand for quiet. She was listening to the forest. Another pair of footsteps had been following them, she was sure of it now: she had just ignored it, thinking it was the girls ahead of them. She turned slowly, taking in the forest around her.

Nothing.

"It must have been a fox or something. There's nothing there," she said. She wasn't so sure it had been a person now. It probably was a fox.

She shook her head, gave an apologetic look to Greta, and the two of them began walking again. "So," she began, "Have your mother and father decided when you're moving to Jenigral City?"

Greta grimaced and toyed with a loose thread of embroidery on her sleeve as she answered, "I think they want to go just after the Harvest Festival."

"But—but—that's only a week left!"

"I know," Greta sighed, stopping again. "Papa's worried about his cousin Peter. His health is failing, and Mama and Papa want to be close so they can take care of him. Mama's already packing so we'll be ready to leave on the day after the festival. They bought a nice carriage from Theodore with the money we made this summer from selling our orchard. Harfan's going to ride with us until we reach River Haven. He'll be back the next night."

Lillian was silent, digesting the fact that her only friend was leaving in one week, and that they might never see each other again.

"I—" She swallowed around the lump in her throat. "I hope you'll be safe. How are you getting to Jenigral City from there?"

"I think there's going to be an escorted convoy there. We're supposed to catch it and travel with them."

The sound of a snapping twig jerked her attention back to the surrounding forest. "Did you hear that?" she asked her friend.

Greta nodded and tensely scanned the forest around them for any sign of movement. "That wasn't a fox."

Lillian stared through the branches, too, realizing that the sound she had heard was made by something much larger and heavier than a fox. She glanced at the position of the sun out of habit, but it was the middle of the day: no Shalari would be awake. The forest was eerily quiet, and it took her a moment to realize that the birds had stopped singing, as if they knew what was lurking in the trees.

Suddenly, a large grey blur fell from the branch above Lillian, causing Greta to give a little yelp of surprise before the screech of metal screeching against metal rang through the forest. The birds broke their silence and fled from the noise, squawking in protest. Lillian found herself with the blade of her dagger pressed against the edge of a long, bright silver sword, which was held by a tall, slightly unkempt-looking man in a grey tunic. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, which crinkled at the corners in a way that indicated a humorous personality.

Lillian pushed forward with all her weight to dislodge their locked blades before sputtering in complete shock. "Harfan? What in the blazes—?"

Harfan, the village Guardian, sheathed his sword as he bowed slightly in greeting. "I told Greta that I wanted to start early today. We don't want to miss the opening feast of the festival."

Lillian scowled. "That doesn't explain why you're leaping at us from the trees like a large, armed squirrel." She crossed her arms. "You nearly frightened me to death!"

Greta narrowed her eyes shrewdly. "How long have you been following us?"

Harfan laughed. "Guess."

Lillian rolled her eyes. "You've been following me since I climbed that tree, haven't you?"

His answering grin was the only reply she needed. "Come on, ladies! Time for a little sparring. You have your equipment?"

Greta shook her head. "No, and I need to change my clothes if we're going to be sparring."

"Back to the village with you, then!" He said brightly. "I'll wait for you in that field by William's sheep pen."

The girls nodded and scampered into the village to collect their things.

Copyright 2007 H.J. Hanauer