I can’t see them
But I can still picture that moment
I can feel their breath in rapid waves
Their tears running down my eyes
An ocean—the fault is my demise
I can’t take that me away, no compromise

I won’t let them fall down with me
No matter how long I’ve spent yearning
For a different end, for a single death
No matter how much I say I don’t need others
I know deep in the scapes of my mind
This is a place I just can’t leave behind

You are the permanent stamp
Branded on my brain
Since you, everyone else was temporary
Nothing about this life is not scary

I don’t think about you anymore
Just the idea of you—and the pain
The wounds that are still raw
I’ll never again be able to see what I saw

The good, now burned to the ground
At least I’ve learned from your hate
But I can’t stop being bothered by the fact
That I thought you were all I had

Though the world outside of you is so large
This journey is even harder without you
Each step forward I’m escaping my past
I said I’d go through hell and back

For you…
I guess I really did.

Waves

The last time was enough
The last time I split myself open
Revealed every vulnerable part
And had left where I was at the start

The last time was enough
The last time I didn’t want your love
I told you I don’t want to feel you anymore
But now you’re all I feel

It comes in waves
The wanting, the endless crave
It comes in waves
The hatred, the silent decay

I paint a picture of you in my head
With beautiful pinks and reds
My mind has been mislead
Is this what it’s like to want someone dead?

You invade my thoughts once again
Then I push you away
But I can’t not think about you
There’s too much to say

Every time we say goodbye it hurts
You pained me, then you painted me
In deep blues
I guess the only one who’s ever seen me is you

When you finally leave my mind
I don’t want to come back to you next time
I will no longer dwell on the ghosts of my past
This shadow over my shoulder will not last

So here I am, still waiting in the out-gate line. I don’t know what the holdup is. These things are entirely automated. You just swipe your wrist to pay and walk through. If it buzzes, then some robot pushes you to the side to be scanned further—or hauled off to prison. I didn’t steal anything. Nobody else in this place stole anything. So why is everything moving so slow?

Step. bzzzddttt

I’m trying to go to the green. I made plans to go today. I can barely see it through the gates, but I’ll still be in this line a while. I round a corner and step to the first scanner. I swipe my wrist—minus one Satoshi—and step through. No sound for me. Good. I turn another corner and see the rest of the line queueing for the MRI machine. Great. At least I can see the field now.

I look across the green field. Adults jogging, kids riding bikes, kids playing with soccer balls. Everybody seems to be having such a good time with their families. I want to be like them. They look so happy. But I can’t afford to have children.

Step. bzzzddttt

The field is so green it stings my eyes. I haven’t seen grass in a long time. At first I thought it was beautiful, but the more I stare at it, the more I see that it’s just flat—the same color, the same length, no variation. Endless sameness. But there’s so much of it.

Where I live, in the outer ring, there’s no grass. The houses are on top of one another, next to each other, leaving scant ground. Foot traffic wears everything down to dirt. Grass, I hear, is tenacious, but not under relentless abuse. The only other place I’ve seen green like this is at the farms.

Step. bzzzddttt

When I was a child, my dad took me and my sister to see the farms at the outer edge of the city. I stood there in awe. In all directions were green hills. Dad explained they were crops and groves of different vegetables.

Robots went about their business, fertilizing, killing anything that didn’t belong there—like weeds—and harvesting the spoils. He said the entire city was surrounded by farmland, but it wasn’t for us ring folk. That we were never to go into the fields. That they were private property.

Step. bzzzddttt

The only public property is in the outer ring, where my house is. That’s where everyone who doesn’t live in the city stays. All land outside the city is privately owned. There are many cities, but nearly everywhere else belongs to a corporation or an individual richer and more powerful than any corporation.

Of course, you can’t go to any of those places. Trespassing carries the penalty of death. A landowner is well within their rights to kill anyone who steps on their land. Since all the land is private—even the roads out of here—it’s a death sentence just to walk anywhere outside the ring unless you can afford the tolls.

I could never afford to go down those roads, so I stay in the ring.

Step. bzzzddttt

Finally, I get to go through the last scanner. I swipe my wrist—minus one Satoshi—and walk through. I’m clear. The green is before me. But first I have to cross the mall. Kids play on the concrete in dirty shoes, kicking around duct-tape soccer balls. A bunch of these kids are fighting over a ball.

“It’s mine. Give it back!”

They’re fighting over something that shouldn’t be fought over—it’s pointless. One of the kids shouts, “Go touch grass!” The other kid yells back, “I’m not! You’re crazy. You go touch grass!”

They start fighting, punching, hitting. I walk past them. One more step toward the field.

Step. bzzzddttt

A personal transport drone lands in the field in front of me. A family steps out in puffer jackets, smiling, ready to enjoy their day on the green. If you can afford a drone, you don’t need toll roads. You can fly over anyone’s land to get to your own. So far, they haven’t made it so people can own the air. But I’m sure they’ll think of something for that soon.

Another drone takes off. I follow its path, looking at the tops of buildings scraping the clouds. The ring doesn’t have tall buildings like the center spire. Any time we try to build too high with handmade bricks, they collapse in on themselves. These machine-made skyscrapers have rooftop landing zones for drones.

The only time the rich people who live in the towers come to the ground is to touch grass. They’ve never bothered to haul dirt up to the roofs of their metal palaces because they want us to see them touching grass. If there’s no one to envy them, what’s the point?

Step. bzzzddttt

When they first brought in machines to automate jobs, I rejoiced. I thought it was supposed to make things easier for everyone. No one had to do jobs that no one wanted anymore. No one had to clean toilets. No one had to flip burgers. The machines did it all.

They did it faster and better than humans, all day, nonstop. They didn’t need sleep. They didn’t need to eat. Electricity was cheap. It was supposed to leave the rest of us with time to pursue art, music, writing, drawing. But they put a price tag on that too.

Step. bzzzddttt

When they started building their towers, I said, “Good for them. They should be able to enjoy the benefits of hard work. They earned their billions of Satoshis, so they should get to use them.” I thought I could be like them. I was told that if I worked hard enough, I too could have billions of Satoshis. That was the dream I was sold, and I bought it.

When they started automating every job, I was concerned, but I knew there was enough money to go around. Technology had brought us unlimited energy and AI to serve. There was no real need for anyone to work or want for anything. I thought they would give what they had in abundance to those who had none.

Step. bzzzddttt

When I started seeing people pushed out of the city—not by force, but by dollars—I thought I would be okay. I had a good job. I could afford the rent increases. I still had some left to give to people who needed it. I noticed the increases hit some more than others—more often than not, people who didn’t look like the billionaires.

I looked like the billionaires, so I thought I would be okay. I didn’t move from the city. That was a callous thought—a selfish one—but I didn’t want to end up on the streets. I didn’t want to go hungry. I did what I could to make money, to feed myself and my family, and when I could, others.

Step. bzzzddttt

Of course, it didn’t matter that I looked like the billionaires. They went against those who looked different because it made it easy to divide us. Divided, we were weak.

Even though we outnumbered them, we spent too much time fighting among ourselves over the scraps we were given. What separated us wasn’t our creed or culture, but the size of our bank accounts.

It was never about skin color for them. It was about power. We didn’t have it, and they would never have enough.

I feel ashamed I didn’t push back harder. Ashamed I didn’t notice until I was on the street. Ashamed that I did not stand up for everyone—and by not doing so, didn’t stand up for myself. But I can stand up now. I can take one more step.

Step. bzzzddttt

I’m nearly at the end of the concrete, a few steps from the grass. Kids run, parents jog, and families hold birthday parties on the field. The thing keeping us from joining them is that the field is private property. All the people who play on it have paid to play on it. They know no one from the ring can afford to.

The automated turret pillars ensure that anyone who can’t pay will not make it more than a foot on the grass. AI controls the turrets—always persistent with sensors, always precise with aim, always unlimited with plasma bullets.

Step. bzzzddttt

I look down at the small sign on a post in the grass.

Below it, a picture of a person looking like they’re dancing and having a good time, with rays of light hitting their torso, their legs, their arms, their head.

Touch grass. When you’ve given up, the easiest way to end it all is to step onto the grass. So I will take one more step, joining all those who touched grass before me.

Step. I hear the buzz of the turrets one last time. bzzzddttt

I’m struck in the arm and stagger to the ground, landing on concrete, nearly hitting my head. I’m not on the grass. A man holds my arm. He was the one who yanked me back.

I look into his dark eyes. He smiles and says, “Hey, Compa, now’s not the time to give up. Now is the time to fight.”

In his hand he holds a scythe—a tool which no one in the towers would be familiar with. They took our guns because we could not afford them. They took our machines because we could not afford them. But they left the old tools to dig ditches, dig latrines, build shacks. A scythe is a cruel joke because we have no grass to cut.

I just now notice that other people are lined up at the edge of the concrete, toes barely outside the grass. They all hold hand tools, waiting for something.

He points at the turret pillars. “Why have friends in high places, when you can have friends in low ones?”

I watch a turret train its barrels straight at me. This is finally it. I’m ready. But the turret slowly rotates toward the inner field.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The tower dwellers playing in the grass are mowed down by the fire from dozens of turrets. I consider if I should feel sorry for them, but I feel nothing.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The people of the outer ring rush the field, the turrets avoiding them. Why aren’t they shooting the ring folk?

I remember the chip. All of us who are slaves to money have one embedded in our wrists to track our value. The same chip that is used to track our location. The same chip that can be used by AI to avoid hitting us.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The tech oligarchs didn’t know shit about code. They did not write it. It was the hundreds of thousands of software engineers that created the AI. They weren’t brethren. Just more workers—more chaff from the wheat. The tech oligarchs forgot who could reprogram their AI.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The ring folk jump into the personal drone transports the billionaires didn’t bother to secure. They fly to the towers and pour out, a lethal horde.

The man hands me his scythe. “Time to mow them down.”

I take it, raise it high, and step into the field, ready to reap.

Author’s Notes

This story was from a prompt idea that , , , and I talked about last October. I wrote it then, but never got around to editing it. Posting it this week seemed like the right time to express how I’m feeling.

I “wrote” this story by speaking as the character into Voice Memos on my phone on a long drive, then transcribing it. The end result is very close to what I originally recorded with edits to remove way too many “um”s. I was quite surprised that I got a story by speaking it aloud first. Maybe I’ll write more things that way in the future.

⚠️ Content Warning: Gun violence and gore

The hooves of the horses hit the hardpan, kicking up dust that drifted on the hot winds pouring out of the eastern hills. The brown cloud lined up behind the two riders like a beacon on the open plain—find the dust, find the horses, find the men. Two canteens rocked against a saddle, slow and steady. Two more clanked, hollowed of their life-giving fluids. A bladder in the saddlebag hinted at more, but promised nothing.

They only needed to make it to the train station—a mere speck of a town at the end of the tracks. But it would have water, enough for the train’s big steam engine, enough for the plain folk that tended it. With water, the riders could meet the rails in three days, two if the wind died—but the last time the wind died, so did Jean. Without water, one rider would die tomorrow, the other a day later.

Between here and there was a town, though. A dead one. Some say it was always that way, that it was a tombstone planted by God to show white men what happened when you wandered too far. The Collector, well, he didn’t believe any of that. This dead town would have a well, though, and water if—how did that ancient tale go?—if God willed it.

The painted stallion the Collector rode was new to him. But it had been a fine horse that hadn’t shied away from gunfire. The Collector would rather give water to the stallion than to the bounty. But isn’t that always the way. Behind the Collector rode a black mare, muzzle tethered to his saddle. And atop the mare’s bare back was the bounty, laid on his stomach, callused hands bound and hanging down one side, bootless feet bound and hanging down the other.

In the lee of a cliff, out of the wind, the Collector broke saddle. The canteen brushed across cracked lips as he took one sip. Two more, but that was it. Any more and the math would fail. The cans of food were spent. All that was left was hard tack which soaked up the water, leaving a dry mouth in its wake. The Collector hobbled the horses and let them squeeze whatever water they may from meager brush.

The winds brought heat even at night, baking the Collector in his boots. Still, he would have liked a fire to fend off coyotes, but the smoke would be a stronger beacon than the dust. Not even a match strike could be risked on the clear, moonless night. Instead, he threw out his bedroll and leaned against the cliff wall.

On the bedroll, he laid his pistols—the big irons of the law. The only mementos he was allowed to keep from that time. That place. He did not need the light to guide him as he took each weapon apart. Quick Hand did the work, brushing out the dust, then oiling the barrel and six chambers of the cylinder. He counted each bullet as he wiped them clean. Twenty. Twenty rounds to keep him alive and the bounty in his hands.

“Water.” came a dry rasp. The bounty roused against the mare’s flank.

The Collector got up and unceremoniously pushed the bounty off the horse. He slid down, feet first, then pivoted into a crumpled heap on his back. The dust stirred, the critters of the night did not. The bounty dragged himself to a boulder and leaned against it, rubbing his head with his bound hands.

The Collector poured two thimbles of water into the canteen cap and held it out to the bounty. “Don’t waste it. This is all you get.”

“Are you trying to let me die?”

“You’re still breathing aren’t you?”

The bounty didn’t complain anymore and took the cap, sipping, savoring. He handed the cap back, kicked away an encroaching scorpion with his bare foot, and laid his head flat against the boulder’s smooth surface

“Why am I here?”

“You know why.”

“Are you a bounty hunter?”

The Collector went back to his bedroll, sat down, leaned back, snugged one pistol in its holster, and laid the other across his chest. It pointed to the north, the bounty sat westward. No matter, Quick Hand would point it where it needed when it was needed.

The bounty must have been hit in the head harder than the Collector intended because he kept babbling.

“I didn’t do nothin’. It was Johnny Gringo’s boys. I was the one who found her body. I rode out to the law and told ‘em. I told ‘em the whole disgusting story.”

The Collector tapped his fingers along the sandalwood grip of the pistol, but said nothing. The bounty was smarter than he looked because he kept his mouth shut.

The bounty slept uneasily. If the Collector slept, only the night knew. The sunrise crept around the rock wall, reflecting, reaching. But all it found was bare dirt brushed clean by the wind.

By late afternoon, the dead town was on the horizon. The wind did not die with the night. At least it pushed the dust trail away from the town instead of announcing the riders’ approach.

This day, the bounty rode upright, bare back, still bootless. His bound hands were tied to the Collector’s saddle hitch along with the mare’s harness. The bounty could jump and run for it, but the Collector would drag him across the hardpan. If he broke free, barefoot and without water, he’d be dead by nightfall.

The Collector led the horses down the town’s only street to the well in the center. There would be water, but only if God willed it. Buildings hid shadows, but all the glass was gone and half the wall boards were missing. The Collector knew this would be an ambush, but as God willed water, God would have blood.

Quick Hand fired a single shot into a saloon second-story window, eliciting a cry, then a thud. Nineteen. Why did that number tug at his memory? In a single motion, the Collector flung the saddlebag onto his shoulder, dismounted, and dragged the bounty, protesting, off the mare. He entered the saloon, ignoring the dead body already shattered among a broken rail atop a rotting card table.

He shoved the bounty into a corner and threw the saddlebag on the bar. Quick Hand fired into the gut of another man entering from the back and again into his chest. The man fell against the wall, blood slicking it as he slid down, mewling. The Collector stood behind the bar and fed three fresh rounds into the cylinder. Sixteen was the count.

“Quick Hand, c’mon out!” A woman sat horseback just outside the non-existent batwing doors of the saloon. Two riders sat beside her, Winchesters raised and pointed at the Collector.

“That’s not my name.”

“We know who you are. Hand over the bounty and we’ll let you go on account of respecting your reputation.”

“Leave me now and you can keep the reputation.”

“Any other day and I’d take that offer, Mr. Quick Hand, but my boss Johnny Gringo wants your man in there. He’s besmirched Johnny’s good name.”

The bounty shouted in hushed tones, “Don’t let them take me, please. They’ll kill me. Untie me—untie me and give me a gun. I can help take ‘em.”

Ignoring the bounty, the Collector shouted out the door, “That’s not my name!”

Quick Hand fired again, the round drilling into the eye of the rider on the right, leaving a void where his mind had been. He was a fair shot, that is, when his mind still worked.

The Collector fired the big iron that was already in his left hand at the other rider. The first shot missed. The second caught the rider’s shoulder, triggering an involuntary shot from the Winchester that went across the Collector’s arm. Just a graze. But a graze still bleeds, so God was satiated for now. Thirteen.

Gunfire rang out from all directions toward the saloon. Tables and chairs exploded into splinters. The bounty cowered in the corner, protecting his eyes. The bar was stopping rounds, but wouldn’t hold for long. The Collector slipped out the back door.

A shadow blocked the back alley, but Quick Hand fired two rounds, one hitting the heart, the other piercing the throat. More than necessary, but you couldn’t always be sure with shadows. Before the shadow hit the ground, Quick Hand fired into the shadow behind him, emptying all chambers of that pistol. Ten.

The Collector reloaded six rounds into the spent pistol. He ran to the other side of the building, leaning left around the corner, fired. One. Two. Three times. A couple made their mark. He slid back, but not fast enough. His left bicep was bleeding. God would have blood.

The big iron was now too heavy to lift. He had to keep moving. While running to the other side, he pulled out the remaining round, holstered the weapon, and palmed the bullet. Seven.

The Collector ran past an alley and behind the next building. When he rounded the corner, he was confronted with a bearded man. Grease from this morning’s bacon congealed in the long curly hair and glistened from the low sun. The barrel of the bearded man’s pistol glistened too. Quick Hand was fast, but not faster than a bullet.

A red blur buzzed in front of the beard, then stopped instantly. The man’s eyes crossed to see what threatened him. Quick Hand fired into his skull before he could focus. The hummingbird 1 flew away unfazed. The Collector slid the bullet from his palm into the empty chamber. Six.

The wind never died. Without the buildings blocking it, the main street was a cloud of dust. The Collector sprinted out, pistol raised. There was no time to stop. Stopping was death. He moved and the big iron fired with each step. Five. Four. Three. It would be enough. Or it wouldn’t. Only Quick Hand could say, but Quick Hand was busy.

The woman fell from her horse, her gray duster stained in blood. The Collector stood over her, gun aimed at her still chest. A sharp click brought his eyes up, his attention forward. The bounty, hands untied, held a pistol leveled at the Collector. The bounty fired.

The Collector heard the report. Looking down, he saw his shirt stained with blood, but no fresh blood seeped out. He looked behind himself to see Johnny Gringo slumped on his horse.

The bounty lowered his gun an inch. “How’s about we calls it even? I go my way, you go yours.”

Was this man as innocent as he said, or the bastard they said he was? He was good at killing, but isn’t everyone still alive out here?

By the calculus, one bullet was left. Whether the shot could be made was never in question. But the payday would be half. Too little. Too late. If the Collector let the bounty go, the payday would be nothing. But the bounty had saved him. And didn’t the Collector owe him something for that?

The Collector lowered his gun an inch. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

The bounty nodded and holstered his gun. The Collector did the same.

The bounty turned to walk away. In the last flash of the sun slipping below the horizon, in the twitch of a squint, the Collector saw it—a smirk. The one a man wears when he knows he’s gotten away with everything.

Before the Collector could finish this thought, Quick Hand had already done the job. Its judgement laid bare by the crimson blooming on the bounty’s back. The bounty collapsed to the ground.

The Collector had weighed the cost and reached the only conclusion. He would get half.

Author’s Notes

I channeled Stephen King’s The Gunslinger with this one. I don’t know if I made the mark, but if you felt a vague familiarity, then I’m satisfied. Also, I barely know how to write in third-person.

This started as a story for a prompt. I don’t really write for prompts. But ’s latest Power up Prompt hit so many Gunslinger themes, I couldn’t pass it up. I went for all three levels:

1. The Ghost Town

2. The Disgraced Deputy

3. Delivering Justice

Writing with King’s style, I did not clarify these points too deeply.

While this started as a prompt, King’s dreamlike writing and the unreal nature of Quick Hand made me think of The Cog and a particular hot headed hummingbird. So I consider this my first submission for The Cog.

The alleyways of London spiraled into darkness, brick walls bolstering the city, seeping water in thin rivulets. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional shadow scuttling for cover. My coat was soaked through, fabric heavy against my shoulders. I pushed on anyway, guided by dim lantern glow that barely cut the mist. Somewhere in the downpour, my target thought he was safe.

I moved swiftly through the alleys, dodging anyone who stood in my way, avoiding drawing suspicion. The sound of hurried footsteps splashing puddles in the deserted street caught my attention. There. Only he and I were present. This was my chance.

I ran up to the man and grabbed him by the collar. “This is the last time I’ll ask you so nicely.”

“Unhand me, you ruffian!” he screamed while clawing at my sleeves, trying to get loose.

“If that’s what you want, then I’ll give it to ya.” I released him from my grip.

Reprieve granted, I lunged then, as quickly as I had let go. My fingers wrapped around his throat, putting just enough pressure to not choke him. I was on a mission. I couldn’t fail.

“Give up on your dream, old man,” I hissed. I could sense the pleading in his eyes, could smell the dark panic radiating from his skin.

I couldn’t let him leave this place without a change of heart, so I squeezed tighter. “Stop pursuing that patent.”

I could see the fight leaving him, hope slipping from his mind. Though, just as I had everything under control, I blinked—suddenly, I was elsewhere.

The familiar yet alien feeling of harsh bark against my palms overwhelmed me. I let go of the tree, wondering why I was even holding it in the first place. I was warm and dry, the cold sting of a rainy night no longer aching in my bones.

I looked around. Trees spanned over acres with luscious, juicy fruits ripe enough to eat. White fences lined perfect green grass fields.

I was in an orchard.

It all seemed so nostalgic, like I’d been here a million times in my dreams. The smell of bark hung like a carrot on a string in my mind.

But then, the harsh drill of rain pounding on the rooftops above flooded in. I was back in London.

I flinched. The noise was too much for my head to handle. My shaking hands reached for my temples, the source of pain. Where did this headache come from? And. Wait. Where did my target—that inventor go?

I looked at the empty alley as it succumbed to shadows. Too distracted by that... whatever it was... to realize he slipped from my grasp. Right under my nose, too. Dammit!

What the hell happened? I couldn’t go back to my master now. I hadn’t completed my job. He would surely believe I was a failure—if he hadn’t already.

The image of the sunlit orchard clouded my vision, but I pushed it away. I wouldn’t let the fleeting image of a glorified forest get in my way. I would complete this—whatever it took.

I followed the inventor back to his home, a fancy house on the outskirts of the city. I told myself that I was just going to watch him, then find another opportunity to threaten him later. But I knew, deep inside, what I needed to do.

My gaze wandered to the outline of the knife concealed in my long coat. I slipped it out, contemplating it for a long moment. The moon came out from behind the clouds then, shining on the blade.

Dark circles hollowed out my eyes in the reflection of the knife. I looked half-dead. I supposed it made sense—I didn’t get much sleep.

I looked up and found myself watching through the window of the inventor’s house. Orange lantern light illuminated the dining room. It looked warm in there.

The inventor was sitting at the table, all alone. I thought to myself that nobody would care if this old rich man disappeared. That made my job easier. Then, I noticed the small feast that lay before him. One man couldn’t eat all that by himself.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as a woman with long brown hair walked into the room. She carried a young child in her arms, cradling him. The way she looked into his eyes so lovingly—so gentle—made my stomach tighten. The inventor smiled as soon as she sat down at the large wooden table, the corners of his eyes crinkling. A real smile.

I couldn’t. I just didn’t see how I could do this.

I stood up and started walking to the pub in defeat, wondering when I became so weak. The bottoms of my feet ached in my leather boots. I almost fell against the door from exhaustion when I reached the front of the pub.

As soon as I stepped in, I was assaulted—the sting of cheap whisky, the sound of men laughing. All of it was too loud. It would have been easier to just drown in the black night outside.

I ordered the cheapest pint and drank it without tasting. My mind was too busy holding onto the lingering feeling of being weak. Of being a failure. I couldn’t walk home yet. Master would scold me ceaselessly. What exactly he would say was beyond my knowledge.

I headed upstairs to the inn after throwing a few coins on the bar. I’d been here before and knew how terrible these rooms were. I wished the bed felt a little less stiff compared to the servant quarters I was used to. I sank into a bed that felt more like rock than mattress.

To be held in the arms of another human being—one whom you loved—that must be what humans were made for. At least that’s what I thought about as I tried to fade away into some kind of slumber.

Fumbling with my own thoughts got me nowhere, as usual. Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did, no matter how tired I was. Somehow, I found myself drifting into a fragmented sleep hours after I went to bed.

𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇

I awoke with memories of tree branches twisting through the dark sky like the dirt paths of my hometown. I had been dreaming of an orchard, the same one from my vision the night before. I wondered why it felt so real.

Murmuring to myself, I shook it off, then found my way out of bed and into my coat. I had to make it work this time—I had to find a way to make him happy. I didn’t recall how I got downstairs, just the feeling of chilling air biting into my skin as I stepped out onto the cobbled path outside the pub. It was time.

The inventor’s house looked exactly the same as it had last night. My task hadn’t changed at all. I don’t know why I had hoped it did.

I waited for him to leave the home, managing to stay out of sight easily. Soon after I arrived, he stepped outside the side door and hopped onto a carriage. Hell! How am I supposed to follow him in broad daylight?

I didn’t have a choice, so I followed behind him along the road, trying to keep up with the speed of the carriage. Soon the stone road disappeared, replaced by a muddy path. This was good for me—the mud would slow down the horses.

The carriage still rode out of sight, but I continued my quest along the path. I hoped that he hadn’t made any turns outside my watch, seeing as I didn’t know where he was headed. He wasn’t traveling back to the city—he was going in the opposite direction.

When I finally reached his destination, I looked forward in awe. A forest stood tall in front of me, leaves flowing in the wind. It was December—these trees should have been barren. The inventor’s carriage was stopped just outside the forest, but he wasn’t in sight. I was sure he was in there.

When I stepped past the tree line, the black horses attached to the carriage neighed in discomfort. I ignored them, walking further into what I slowly began to realize wasn’t a normal forest.

All the trees were placed in perfect lines instead of growing naturally. But, more importantly, there were apples decorating each tree like ornaments. I wondered why apples were here out of season.

The overgrown orchard pulled me in deeper regardless. The more I walked, the stranger the air felt—as though the forest itself were alive. The trees were giant, the bark thick. Roots stretched across, bulging out of the ground like brown veins.

I felt in a trance, observing the nature around me until a voice snapped me out of my haze. I thought I had been caught, until I realized it wasn’t speaking to me at all.

I stopped behind a tree, grass crunching under my feet. I observed as the inventor pressed his palm against the bark of a particularly large tree. I strained to listen to the words he whispered.

“—some man threatened—”

“—please help me—”

I filled in the blanks. He must have been talking about me, but who was he talking to? Was he praying?

Another vision struck without warning.

Trees and pressing my hands to their bark just as the inventor had. Memories of touching them and feeling... something. Connection—perhaps power. The image faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me shaking with another sharp pain pounding on the inside of my skull. Memories—that word rang in my head like a bell. Why was I thinking of that word?

I looked back to the spot next to the big tree where he had been standing. It was empty. I cautiously walked over to investigate.

The tree loomed over me, its branches arching over everything caught in its shadow. I reached my rough hand out to touch it, feeling warmth in the bark immediately. Maybe I had only noticed because of how freezing it was outside.

A thought hit me like a mallet. These trees held memories.

The inventor’s and those of his ancestors—maybe even mine. If I cut the branches tied to his memories, he’d forget everything—his invention, and the patent he was trying for.

I pulled out my knife and ran a finger along the backside of the blade. Memories or not, this was just another job. I had to see it through.

But how did I know which branches held his memories of the patent? Looking up, I saw a branch with shoots reaching out. The ones farthest from the trunk were greener.

I didn’t know how or why I knew they held memories. Maybe I was just crazy. But it was like my legs didn’t want me to walk away. I climbed up and slid on my stomach across the sturdy limb.

The shoots were pliable, fresh, newer. These must have been his most recent memories. I started cutting the thinnest ones close to the edge.

The tree felt like it was pulling itself away from me, like it was fighting back. It didn’t want me to stay, but I couldn’t leave.

Just as I finished slicing through the last green twig, everything shifted, knocking me off balance. I dropped, hands reaching for limbs that weren’t there, falling flat on my back, wind knocked out.

I held my palms above me, both empty—bleeding and raw from bark. The knife was point-first in the ground next to my ear, the twigs on my chest.

A voice called out, a deep mocking sing-song. “Well, aren’t you just the perfect gardener?”

That wasn’t the inventor’s voice. I stood, knocking the twigs to the ground, and spun around, knife back in my hand. I didn’t see anyone at first. My eyes darted above. A boy, no older than fourteen, but big for his age, sat perched on one of the higher branches.

He had not been there before, appearing out of nowhere—just like my visions, like my thoughts. His ginger hair glowed angelically in the sunlight, contrasting with a smirk that felt infamous, despite me not recognizing him at all.

“Let me guess why you’re here,” the boy said, swinging his legs lazily. “Stealing memories? Bad habit, you know.”

So this wasn’t a rash act of delusional impulsivity? Who the hell was this kid? What did he know? I would have told him to get lost, but he’s clearly part of this puzzle I got myself wrapped up in.

“Who are you?” I questioned.

He didn’t respond, just widened his smirk as he reached for something in his patchy coat. I instinctively held my knife toward him. He proceeded to pull out—what even was that? A pocket watch?

Before I could react, I froze—muscles locked up, stiff as stone. The world around me sped up, clouds flying across the sky at an impossible rate. My breath caught in my throat.

The boy jumped down, landing lightly on his feet, but he wasn’t moving normally. He was just as unnaturally quick as the clouds, swaying leaves, and birds flying above.

His expression stayed smug as he plucked the twigs from the ground. He slipped the knife from my grip, all in the span of a second. Then he said something entirely unintelligible, voice high-pitched as if a mouse tried to speak.

“∿∿∿∿ ∿∿ ∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿”

“Whaaaaaaattttt?!” I shouted, words crawling out of my mouth like they weren’t supposed to be there at all. I still couldn’t move.

He said something else I didn’t understand at the speed of the world around me. At that moment, though, something changed.

With the click of the crown on his pocket watch, he slowed to my speed. “Ah, forgot about that, mate. Can you hear me now?”

I stood still in shock—or should I say, still because of his spell.

“Here’s the deal,” the boy said, leaning in close. “You don’t touch things you don’t understand. Let’s hope you’re smart enough to stay away.”

He clicked the crown of his watch again. My knees buckled and I hit the ground hard. I looked up as soon as I recovered, expecting to see the kid’s smug face again. But he was gone, along with the twigs and my knife.

𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇

That night, my brain spilled onto the page.

I woke up one day, rebirth in flames
Limbs twisting in the sky, I’m out of my time
I’ve seen too much, but I haven’t seen enough
Now I’m being bled dry of my luck

This language tastes strange in my mouth
Yet, it flavors every word I speak
Dissolve my adjustment to this new world
Before I forget everything that made myself me

Please, I just want to return to the past
Where my worries didn’t even exist yet
And I was flying above everything
I have yet to flap my wings in this new life

Separated by my ages and the places
That no longer feel right
I don’t even sound like I’m from there anymore
I don’t even know if I remember it at all

My home always warps into something I won’t miss
But, I still want to be by his side and feel his kiss
Before the ink stain spreads
Making everything I love everything I dread

Editor’s Notes

Liminal Shards is a new experiment from us ( and ). Rather that posting an entire serial, we’re going to post individual chapters from a few story ideas percolating in Jan’s head.

This will help Jan get a figure out what to focus on next (in between The Spectral Agent Book 2).

Let us know what you thought of Orchards of Time in the comments.