The two figures paused in their walk through the expansive garden city of Asrad-mor. The younger of the two, who had actually been gliding several inches above the ground, waved his hand, causing the shade tree that had been following them to dig its roots in and take a break.

The elder, known as Risawas, looked out on the fields as he adjusted his vestments. Here and there were couples enjoying relative solitude, and off in the distance a group of kids was playing some kind of game involving a whirlwind made of flower petals. He was trying to remember a time when he was that carefree, but even with a mind as sharp as a knife, he couldn't do it.

“Uh, Risawas, is everything alright?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes; I was just thinking. I suppose we should continue on. The rectory is just ahead. Shall we?”

Inekino Torriskin released the shade tree to wander off in search of another to provide its service, then resumed his glide, his preferred mode of ambulation. The stone pathway slowly “flexed” as it continuously laid itself out in anticipation of its passengers direction.

Overhead, the Tamryr river system floated, unsupported except by magic, covering the entire garden like a spider web made of glistening mercury. As they walked in, around and through these wonders, Inekino thought it impossible that anybody would get bored with such displays, but that seems to have happened to his mentor Risawas. They were on their way to the rectory where the mantle of the overlord would be passed down from Risawas to himself, and he was determined to not become jaded. He noticed that Risawas, more and more as the years wore on, avoided using magic, instead preferring to do all things manually. He even swept the floors with a broom.

Upon passing through the heavy wooden door, Risawas turned to his companion and stared into his eyes with what looked like sympathy.

“My boy, I'm sorry the council did this to you. You had such a bright future, but we needed to appoint my successor and we needed someone fair, but also strong.”

“What do you mean? This is an honor I've been looking forward to for a while now. To be able to lead an entire city...”

“Come with me and I'll explain. There is much less, and much, much more to this title than you imagine.”

With that he led the perplexed young man to the tall fireplace and pushed on the back wall. The scorched brick wall swung aside, revealing a short passageway. As Inekino floated along, Risawas delivered a speech of sorts.

“As you know, the magic ability of our people makes life...unusual and very interesting, enjoyable. More importantly, however, it makes our life in this land possible, for without our collective power nothing would grow here, there would be precious little usable water...in all likelihood we would die out.”

At this point they had reached another door, sturdy oak bound in iron. Risawas paused with his hand on the door and looked Inekino in the eyes.

“As the new overlord of this city, I must tell you that you will not be concerned with the day to day operations; the council will handle all that. The reason for your job is beyond this door.”

And with that, he pushed open the door, revealing a circular room twenty feet in diameter. In the center of the room atop a 4' pedestal rested a small cage. From this cage shone a bright, shimmering yellow-white light, casting ghostly shadows of the cage bars on the walls. As the two approached, Inekino saw that the cage held a small faerie, hovering forlornly. The sprite barely acknowledged their presence.

The old man continued. “We are not naturally magical. All the tricks we perform, from the smallest cantrip to making life possible in this land, are because of this sad creature trapped in this cage; we leech a tiny fraction of its power to live, and to enrich our lives. How and why it came to be here are lost to the tides of time, but despite the raw power at its disposal, it cannot free itself. All it takes is for someone to decide to open this little door and end its imprisonment.”

The old man's voice was a rough whisper now, as if decades of life not really lived had caught up to him.

“That decision is now yours, and it is a daily job; keep this unfortunate creature trapped, or set it free and likely doom our people. If you are not careful, this burden will consume you. I'm sorry, Inekino Torriskin, but you were the best candidate; you deserve better, but we in the council know you will take this responsibility seriously.

Now you know why I stopped using magic all those years ago.”

With that, Risawas turned and headed back to the passage.

“Now I'll show you around the grounds, give you the royal tour, as it were. There are only a few...”

By the time he reached the door, he realized he was alone. Risawas turned to see Inekino still staring at the cage and its unfortunate occupant.

Just like he did, upon his appointment, 800 years ago.

He noticed that the young ruler was no longer hovering in the air; his feet were planted firmly on the ground.

It penetrated the egg beneath the hen, and unnoticed, settled in behind the membrane, delving into the warm liquid within. Of course the forming chick was a casualty of this invasion. Its tiny heart stopped beating the moment the new entity was introduced.

The hen didn’t know that along with her eggs, she incubated a pinnacle of energy not of this world.

The Warzling, as it was called, moved about in the egg, growing and absorbing the dead foetus. It gained bulk and strength. An elongated body formed, each segment luminescent and a different hue. Two arms unfolded with five tiny fingers on each hand. Transparent wings unrolled from its back. All in all it resembled a dragonfly with a few human modifications.

It hatched twenty-four hours after entering the egg. It struggled outward as the hen cooed above, excited by the early hatching of one of her young.

But the hen started clucking in alarm when she viewed her first hatchling. This was not a fuzzy yellow chick, but a greenish-blue insectoid with a human face and torso! It blinked up at the hen with bright green eyes. She backed off and beat her wings. The invader vibrated its own delicate looking wings, but this was deceiving because it was by no means delicate. When the hen made to peck at it she was met with a surprising resistance as its small hands grasped her beak.

A chain reaction began among the other hens, and soon all were clucking in alarm. The newborn did not permit this ruckus to go on. It leaped from the nest and spread its wings, beating them as fast as any hummingbird. They made a whirring sound as it swooped and dived. A moment later all five hens in the henhouse were decapitated, and the noise ceased.

With that the newborn moved from nest to nest, breaking and devouring the contents of each egg, whether it was a liquid or a chirping chick on the verge of emergence.

The Warzling gained strength from this feast. As the nourishment washed through its blood, pinpricks of light emanated from its skin and swirled about it in ecstatic energy. It delighted in these little devils as they followed it out of the henhouse. It would be flying all night, searching out eggs in which to deposit its many young. Each would have the capacity to create a thousand more. What luck to have found a world so rich in birds.
_____

It flew among the treetops, lonely and wild, a creature that had been the last of its kind for nearly three hundred years. Finding a branch to its liking, the golden plumbed bird landed and turned a long neck to the setting sun.

The time was coming when the Phoenix would die and be reborn. There would be no mate, no rearing of chicks. The Phoenix would be reborn of its own flaming demise.

It had been here on earth for the past one hundred years. Slowly, as the universe expanded and changed, even creatures with lives boasting near immortality met their fates. The Phoenix was only one of many such creatures near extinction.

Thoughts of rebirth made the Phoenix nervous, as always. It would twist and flap in agony as the heat melted its feathers and bones to ash. Then, in the cosmic miracle that it was, the new Phoenix would spring from these ashes, young again.

It would carry some memories of its former self, but not all. It would remember to keep out of sight; for the Phoenix was a hunted creature and had many enemies. It would remember the pain of its death. In fact, it would remember the pain of each and every death.

It groomed itself as the sun went down, smoothing out its golden plumage. It shook its shining feathers. Its senses were sharp, its eyesight impeccable. It saw the Warzling exiting the henhouse long before the creature spotted the golden bird perched in the treetop.

_____

Both creatures recognized each other for what they weren’t… ordinary mortal beings of this world. Here were two creatures of magical proportions, one a predator, one the prey. Both were the last of their kind. One had the power of rebirth, the other the power of mass multiplication. One was gentle and let other life around it thrive. One desiccated the life around it.

The predator looked at the prey. The hunt was on.

_____

The Phoenix took wing and the Warzling pursued. Its attraction to those beautiful golden feathers was timeless. It would not give up this chase.

For its small size the Warzling was by far superior at flight and speed. Soon it overcame the Phoenix and in conjunction with its swirling young, forced the majestic bird to the ground.

It was here the hunt would come to an end. These two species had been enemies for all known time. Another extinction would take place here on earth. The predator took a last look into its prey’s eyes.

The Phoenix was in flames before the Warzling could lay a single, tiny finger on the golden prize. This was the way it had been for centuries, the predator seducing its prey with its beauty and then engulfing it in flames upon its rebirth.

The feathered fiend screeched in own agony as it killed the last very last Warzling and all of its young.

Fiona lived with her parents in their little croft at the edge of a marsh. Every morning she would comb out the wool from their sheep. Every afternoon she would spin the wool into thread. Every evening she would weave the threads into good wool cloth.

One day the Laird came riding up to the gate.

“Hello,” the Laird called out. “I am looking for a good wool cloak. Fiona came out from her work and brought cool water from the well.

“I am sure Fiona will weave her best for you.” Her father smiled and shooed her back into the croft. “She can weave gold from straw.”

Well the Laird’s ears perked up. He had money needs of his own to be sure.

“I do need a new cloak, but I need gold even more.” The Laird stood “Bring her by the castle and we will see.” He fixed Fiona’s father with a fierce glare. “Do not disappoint me, or it will be worse for you.”

When Fiona’s father told her what he had done, she wept bitterly, but they were caught. In the morning she walked down the road with eyes dry and mind working furiously. To get to the Laird’s castle they had to pass by the black marsh. At lunch she sat by the dark water.

“Foolish, foolish, foolish” She muttered. “Who would dream of weaving gold from straw?”

“Not so hard if you know the trick.” Said a voice from the water. Fiona started and looked around, but saw only rocks, trees, and her sleeping father.

“Would it be a trick that you could teach me?” Asked the girl.

“For a price.” Said the voice. “It is an easy enough thing. Go on to the Laird’s castle and I will come to you there.”

Fiona continued on to the Laird’s castle. She arrived in the evening, and was shown into a cold room with a hard mat on the floor. In the morning a servant came and took Fiona to a room filled with straw. The Laird waited for her at the door.

“If you can weave this into gold, well and good. If not…” He shrugged and left, locking the door behind him.

Fiona looked at the room and felt her heart sink. It just wasn’t possible.

“Foolish, foolish, foolish.” She muttered. “If you are here, I could use your help.”

“Close your eyes.” Said the voice. She closed them tight, and a gentle hand led her to a chair. “Take the comb, and comb at the straw, but see in your mind the finest wool. But you must keep your eyes closed the whole day.

“What is the price for your help?” Asked Fiona.

“The merest trifle.” Whispered the voice. “Just a kiss.” Fiona tilted her head up and felt the brush of lips across her own.

All day she combed the straw as if it were the finest wool with her eyes tight closed. Just as the light faded, the voice whispered.

“Open your eyes.” The room was filled with the finest wool all combed and cleaned.

“Where is the gold?” Demanded the Laird.

“You see wool where you had straw.” Replied Fiona. “Can you not be content?”

A servant took her back to a chamber with a fire and soft mattress.

The next morning she was taken back to the room.

“Today I want to see gold.” Growled the Laird.

“Foolish, foolish, foolish.” Whispered Fiona. “If you are here I could use your help.”

Once again the voice instructed her and led her with eyes shut to the chair. Once again the hand was gentle and the kiss a mere brush of lips. Again Fiona worked, eyes closed, spinning the wool into thread. And again as the last wool came off the wheel, the Laird burst into the room.

“Where is the gold?”

“You see thread where you had straw. Can you not be content?”

“If I see gold tomorrow,” Said the Laird, “I will marry you.”

The servant led her to a fine suite with a bath and meal laid out. Yet Fiona lay awake all night. In the morning when she was brought to the room, she walked to the chair and began weaving at the loom. All day with her eyes open she weaved thread into good wool cloth. Just as the last light was leaving the room, she closed her eyes and whispered.

“If you are here, I would speak with you.”

“I am here.” Whispered the voice.

“What happens if I open my eyes?” Said Fiona.

“Then I must leave you forever.” Whispered the voice.

“Then I will keep my eyes closed, but I want to go with you.”

“Do you not want to marry the Laird?”

“I would rather a gentle hand and loving kiss.”

The gentle hand led her out of the room, out of the castle to the edge of the marsh.

“Kiss me.” She kissed him, with lips and heart together.

“You may open your eyes.” She saw a figure before her, not quite a man, not quite anything else.

“What do I call you?” Asked Fiona.

“I am the Glothogach.” He said.

“Then I will be the Glothogach’s wife.” Said Fiona, taking his hand.

“What of the Laird?” Asked the Glothogach.

“If he can’t make gold out of good wool cloth, he isn’t much of a Laird.” Answered Fiona.

I will not start with once upon a time, because this story begins here; it begins now. Perhaps it’s not a story at all, but a bitter truth wrapped in a personification of a story. Either way, you may or may not take what I say seriously. That of course will be up to you.

I tell the story of myself, or at least a part of me that somehow became an independent. I call him my Shadow, because for all intents and purposes that is what he started out as.

I was witness as he pulled his wretched self out from whatever condemned place he once dwelt. It was a horrible sight, and it brought me great physical pain as it happened. It was like having a thousand tiny pins wriggling from the inside of my body out. Mind you, the pain was brief and its effects short lasting without bruises or scars.

To describe exactly what I saw is difficult, because even now the fibres in my brain are being affected by this creature’s escape. Soon I won’t remember any of this; thus my attempt to say what needs to be said now.

You look at me as if I am out of my mind. I expected this. There is nothing I can do about that. Soon enough I’ll wonder why I am sitting here talking to you at all. I will politely excuse myself. I will go do what I need to do, and never see you again.

Anyway, the Shadow that escaped me was the most frightening creature I have ever seen. Of course in comparing it to what I’ve seen, I am referring to the fabricated Hollywood versions of such creatures, demons, and such. My Shadow is by far superior to any of these.

It happened on my patio, on the eleventh floor. I was enjoying a little sun and a cigarette, minding my own business. I watched my shadow smoking and the transparent shadow of the smoke as it swirled up into the windless sky.

It happened quickly. My Shadow turned when I very obviously did not, and shrieked! I dropped my cigarette and watched as the shade from my shadow contorted and jerked and began to peel itself away from the wall and pavement below my feet. My fright was unlike anything I can remotely describe, and my feet were frozen in place with my sheer horror. As my shadow found its own space away from the wall, the pain began. Pins seared through my blood and tissues and bones. I fell to my knees. My Shadow twisted to copy the fallen shape of me in my agony. From its transparent darkness two eyes of searing blue flashed my way.

I gazed into them, and suddenly countless thoughts flooded my head, crushing and crowding, each demanding to be addressed first. In that moment it seemed I lived a thousand years, had memories not only my own, but those of my many predecessors. They imprinted and became an instant memory, a multitude of experience and emotion. I saw the world as it bloomed with the first signs of life. I glimpsed beasts whose footsteps trod on it long before the age of man. What beauty!

Through my intense pain I experienced the greatest pleasure. I know, it sounds contradictory, but it’s the truth!

As these thoughts and images settled in my head my Shadow completely separated from the wall and stood before me. He was like me, but not exactly. He mimicked my shape, but his form was shifty, like a thick, dirty smoke. His eyes were addictive and I could not help but look into them. As I did the pain dissipated. I saw something else, something different. I tried to understand, and in doing so felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

So I cried. My pain and pleasure slipped away, and a deep sadness settled over me. My Shadow looked on as I cried and sobbed, my chest heaving, until I was barely able to breathe. It formed a mouth and smiled. I stopped crying and felt angered. I wanted to kill this thing, this dirty, horrible thing! Then my Shadow waved a hand towards me. The anger died a sudden death. My Shadow whispered in a voice that was my own, “I am all that is magical about being human. I am taking all of it. You don’t deserve it.”

I heard myself plead, “But I am nothing without you!”

“You will forget.”

This neither frightened, saddened, nor angered me. It brought me no pain, no pleasure. I felt nothing suddenly. I realized everything I needed in life was standing there outside of me, leaving me but an empty shell. I was not upset by this fact, what was done was done. I only realized that I could not go on this way.

“This is the beginning of the end. The time of man will pass,” my Shadow told me. “Your sickness is not unique.”

That said, he was drawn away on a sudden breeze as if a wisp of smoke after all. I suddenly understood, my Shadow was an infectious disease, and the world was about to change. From chaos, beauty would be restored.

You shake your head. You have no concept of the magic we have inside and what it means to life. But wait and see…

Once upon a moon ago a baby beau was born
With silken mane, pallor frame – and an incandescent horn.
Her forbearer's boasted pride – nothing but the norm
For none other creature in the world is as vain as a unicorn

Little Lotus Luna glowed and grinned with glee -
She danced and pranced through mounding moss – rebounding tree to tree
She snickered at the wolves, the turtles and the bees –
Knowing none of nature’s creatures could equate to her majesty.

Then one day a beggar came weaving through the woods,
Asking those who approached for aid if they could.
Eventually upon her quest before the foal she stood -
“Help the hungry?” asked the figure behind the tattered hood

Little Lotus Luna scoffed at the request –
Laughing at the drifter, arrogance professed.
Upon the sight of this – the scrounger did undress
There stood the fairy queen who said “You have failed the Test”

Who would have presumed royalty to play the part -
Of a feeble vagabond – to test her kingdom’s heart?
Quite the foolish filly did the queen quickly outsmart –
She spreads her wings laced with gold and then begins to start…

“Little Lotus Luna, so dazzling – so free,
Deep within your soul, you’re as ugly as can be.
What is beauty worth, if kindness isn’t seen?
Nothing good returns to those who act in cruelty”

With this the fairy queen stripped her of her horn -
And no punishment is worse than this for a unicorn.
The humbled little horse, now forever morns -
The day she bypassed virtue and chose instead to scorn.

The fairy queen moved forth – continuing disguise
Roaming through thick foliage grew until she reached sea-side.
There she sat to rest – but none other did she spy,
Than two young whales playing in a wading pool near by.

“Help the hungry?” did the pauper nimbly implore –
Cloaked in rags, dirt and grim – an unavoidable eyesore.
A life though bleak and meager could not the whales ignore,
And dove to depths to gather fish, bringing them a’shore.

The fairy queen was pleased with the offerings from below,
And exposed her hidden persona to the whales who did not know –
For these gentle giants a gift she did bestow –
Little lotus Luna’s horn – radiant and a’glow.

“It is an honor to see those who show warmth to the frail,
And from this moment all creatures shall preach about the tale,
Of the day altruism prevailed where arrogance did fail,
And how the unicorn became a horse – and you, the narwhal”

“Prove it,” demanded Kelly, her voice loud enough to disturb the other diners.

Charles Qi-Long looked at his fiancé and wondered, not for the first time, if he had made a terrible mistake. Not for confessing his true nature – he knew that was a mistake – but for falling in love.

“Kelly, this is hardly the place…”

“You’re such an ass, Charles. We’ve been engaged for less than twenty-four hours and you play a stupid joke like this?”

“It’s not a joke, Kelly.”

“You honestly expect me to believe that you’re some kind of dragon?”

“A black dragon.”

“This isn’t even funny. Take me home.”

“But our dinner…”

“Now!” Kelly got up and stormed out of the restaurant.

Charles tossed money on the table and followed. He caught up to her at the intersection. He tried to take her arm but she shook him off and turned her back.

“Kelly, I…”

The light turned green and she leapt into the crosswalk.

“Kelly, wait!” he called after her.

Kelly broke into a run and disappeared into the undergrowth of Central Park, ignoring the well-lighted walkways.

Charles paused at the entrance to the park. He closed his eyes and brought his palms together. He took three long, slow breaths, tuning his senses to the world around him. The heat from the pavement snaked up through his shoes. The skittering of a squirrel in the tree to his left sounded clear and distinct to him above the jangling traffic. The strangled smell of green things, choked and confined to these few pitiful square blocks, assaulted his nostrils. The faintest hint of a breeze tickled his cheek.

Charles opened his eyes and pushed through the bushes, following the trail Kelly left behind; a trail more clear to him than any lifeless asphalt ribbon could have been.

He moved without a sound, leaving not a single bruised leaf in his wake. Swift and sure he went, the imperceptible signs he followed growing ever fresher. The sound of voices brought him up short for a moment, but he pressed on without waiting to hear what was being said.

“C’mon lady. Just gimme a dollar, OK?”

Charles Qi-Long rushed into the clearing where Kelly stood facing a hulking young man in a camouflage jacket. Charles’ nose confirmed his quick assessment that this was no homeless person.

“Charles!” Kelly cried, and ran to his side. He put one arm around her waist.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” said the young man. “Two for the price of one.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a switchblade. He opened it with a soft snick. “Just give me your wallets and we can all go home and sleep in our own beds.” He approached the two with a cocky swagger.

Charles pushed Kelly behind him and stood casually, arms at his sides. He slid his left foot forward, turned his right foot out, and bent his knees ever so slightly, his delicate frame dwarfed by the man he faced.

“Let us be, and no one gets hurt,” Charles said, his voice barely a whisper.

The mugger feinted a wild swing with his knife and unleashed a swift, short jab at Charles’ face. Charles’ right hand shot up and grabbed the incoming fist, stopping it dead in mid-flight. He held the mugger’s arm immobile. Other than that one impossibly swift motion, he did not move. He allowed the feint with the knife to slide harmlessly past him.

The mugger reversed his knife swing and slashed at Charles’ throat, but that attack, too, was brought up short.

The two men stood motionless: the mugger, frozen in mid attack; Charles, holding on to both of the young man’s hands. Charles tightened his grip until the mugger gasped and dropped the knife. Then he bore down with the weight of centuries until the attacker dropped to his knees.

A quick flick of both wrists twisted the mugger’s arms at impossible angles until his shoulders gave way with two sickening pops. Charles dropped the now limp arms and turned to take Kelly’s hand. The erstwhile mugger lay writhing in pain.

“Let’s go, Kelly.”

“But Charles, what about him?”

“He is not our concern. Let him reap his own harvest.”

Kelly and Charles hurried through the park and into the lobby of his apartment building without speaking. Kelly’s eyes glittered in the reflected light of the crystal chandelier. Her pupils were dilated and a pulse pounded in her neck.

“I never knew you were a martial arts expert, Charles!”

“There are many things about me that you don’t know. I tried to tell you that earlier.”

A soft chime announced the elevator. The doors whooshed open and the couple stepped inside. Charles pressed the top button and the gilded doors slid closed, leaving behind an empty lobby.

POTSMITE

The document read more like Shelley or Stoker, than a codicil to a will. An excerpt from this, is the following:
“Most people have heard tales of vampires, werewolves, etc. Not so many have heard of the Potsmite. The fact is, those who know of the Potsmite also know that the former are not just myths or legends. The stories may vary in their telling, but their basis is in reality. Pore over many of the old monster writings, and you’ll notice one thing that is shared. The fact that all the creatures die in the end. But if they are dead, why do the legends persist?

This is where the Potsmite comes in. One point rarely (if ever) mentioned in these stories, is the lineage of the deceased. Serious study would show that only blood relations fall victim to the monster. Curious? Not really, once you understand the workings of the Potsmite. This magical creature has been around longer than man, so no one can really tell the extent of its powers. The only known facts are those passed on by the living recipients of its generosity, or survivors of its curses. Some that suffered curses may have been the authors of such scary tales.

Dracula died by a wooden stake through the heart. The Wolfman met his demise by a silver cane. How they met their fate is not important. After all, they are just stories. The truth is that vampires can only survive by drinking the same type blood that flows through their veins. They are not dead, and they don’t go around killing babies (unless the baby is a relative). Werewolves do not breed more werewolves by their scratch or bite, and like vampires, can only subsist on their relatives. These phenomena are the curse of the Potsmite. A singular trait being that harm not extend beyond the family of the cursed.”

Drew found this interesting, but didn’t see the point. What did this superstitious writing have to do with his fathers will? All he cared about were the millions he was now to inherit. He just assumed his father had been an astute businessman, and that led to his fortune. What had this Potsmite rubbish to do with anything? Why was it a stipulation that he read this prior to accepting the inheritance? The attorney had just given him the sealed envelope and excused himself.

Continuing to read, he saw the reason for the secrecy. His father had signed a pact with this Potsmite creature. In return for unimaginable wealth, he was to turn over one year of his life for ten years of fantastic prosperity. The pact allows for the person to make their own choice as to which year to give the Potsmite. During that one year time frame, this Potsmite would have possession of his fathers body to do with as it pleased.

His father had decided to put off the giving of his year until the last (or had he just decided to renege on the deal?). He was to remit in six months or suffer the consequences. If for any reason his father did not return to where the Potsmite dwelled, to honor this agreement, a curse would be enacted. This curse would be in effect for not more than ten years, or until his death, whichever came first. But his father was dead. Surely the agreement could no longer be in effect.

Though the document did not explicitly state that Drew, as his fathers heir, must turn over a year of his own life in lieu of the riches he was about to receive, the threat seemed implied. Were he to just take his inheritance and leave, would something unpleasant happen to him in six months time? He could not believe that he would be turned into a vampire, werewolf, cat person or some other sort of monster. And then to survive, would have to suck his relatives dry, literally? That’s all just superstitious nonsense, right?

There was no map attached to the document, nor in the envelope. Instead there was just a postscript stating that payment could be remitted on the observation deck of the Hancock building in Chicago on the appropriate date. After reading this, Drew decided it must all be some kind of sick joke. After all, how could this Potsmite have a dwelling there? His father must have had a more warped sense of humor than he realized.

He called the attorney back into the room, explained that he had read the nonsense, and asked if he could now have his inheritance. The attorney assured him that while he had not been made privy to the document, it must have been deemed serious indeed by his father. There was a space on the will, that must be signed by Drew, stating he had read the document, before the inheritance could be released to him. Something that important could not be “nonsense”.

Drew signed the will and departed a wealthy man. After a long absence, he is now often seen in the more elegant establishments around town. It is rumored that he is writing a book, but those that are close to him think he lacks the imagination to make one that will sell. After all, who would want to read about something as silly sounding as a Potsmite?

Growing up deep in the country can be a solitary and often harsh experience. However, for me, it was the most wonderful part of my life.

As a child, the one thing that never ceased to amaze me was nature. The vivid greens of the grass covered by the chalk-white dandelions never failed to inspire awe in me. The single grandiose sequoyah tree in our backyard was one of my favorite places to get away from the harshness of life. Atop the tree was a tree house which was, admittedly, not the work of a skilled carpenter, but it had been created by my father; it was a labor of love.

Being an only child, one would think that I would be lonely. There were no other children that lived remotely close to me, and I was home-schooled, so I rarely saw other children. Remarkably, however, I cannot recall a single time when I felt lonely. I always had a friend: an imaginary unicorn, to whom I gave the loving name of “Jeffrey.” I cannot imagine why I chose this as a name, but to this day I am glad that I did. Throughout my time at that beautifully quaint country home, Jeffrey was my best friend.

Every day, when my mother had finished her attempt to inject knowledge into my brain (for – I assure you – I was not the most attentive student), Jeffrey and I would climb into the tree house, and there we would sit, talking, for hours on end. On one occasion, my mom came to the base of the tree, stood, and eavesdropped on our conversation.

“Who are you talking to?” she bellowed from the ground, just as she began to ascend on the rickety old ladder.

“My friend, Jeffrey,” I replied.

My mother, upon entering the tree house, was quick to point out there was no one there. I argued with her, saying that my friend, Jeffrey the unicorn, was there. My mom, in an attempt to allow my still-childish imagination to spur, then consented to play along, and told me that she did see Jeffrey, said hello to him, and climbed back down. I, however, was smarter than that; I knew she didn’t see him. Honestly, I was perfectly content with that; nobody needed to see him but me.

No matter where I went, you could count on Jeffrey to tag along. When my mom and I would ride to the grocery store, which was no short ride, I would talk with Jeffrey the whole way. Occasionally my mom would interject, and I would give a brief, slightly snooty answer, and continue my conversation with Jeffrey. One time, however, she brought up a particularly sensitive topic.

“You know, you’re nine years old now…Don’t you think its time Jeffrey went away?”

I looked sullenly towards the floor, and did not give an answer. I couldn’t imagine letting Jeffrey go, but in my heart I knew one day he would be gone. I resolved that I would never let this happen, at least for a very, very long time. I continued talking to Jeffrey, and those blissful days of my youth continued for one more year. After this year, however, those glorious days came to a screeching halt when my father gave me the ‘exciting’ news: we were moving to the city.

At first, I was only slightly apprehensive towards this new chapter in my life. I could always count on Jeffrey to be there. Thus, when I was ten years old, my mother, father, and I packed up all of our belongings and began our journey towards the heart of the city.

Jeffrey and I had high hopes for the city. We expected brilliantly refulgent and wonderful buildings, and a general sense of happiness. However, we found the city to be anything but that. Upon entering the city, I was consumed by a dank, gloomy darkness. All around us were old, decrepit, dying buildings, which were an unwelcome change to the vivacity of nature surrounding our country home.

Despite all this, I still looked forward towards the oncoming changes. I was to go to a public school for the first time in my life. My parents assumed that once I had real friends, I would no longer talk to Jeffrey. However, they were sadly mistaken.

My first day in school was a nightmare. I was made fun of throughout the day; the other kids calling me names like ‘country hick.’ I didn’t know what they meant, but I just ignored them and kept to myself whilst Jeffrey kept me company.

About a month after we moved, my parents noticed that I was still talking to Jeffrey, and that’s when they decided to put an end to my jejune nonsense.

“I know he means a lot to you,” my father told me, “but Jeffrey has to go. I don’t want to hear you speaking to him again. Ever.”

I knew my father meant business, so from that day forward, I never spoke to Jeffrey again. I slowly began to gain friends at school, but it wasn’t the same, none of them meant near as much to me as Jeffrey had.

Jeffrey was my best friend, and he was the only friend I needed, but he was taken away from me. And even now, at the ripe old age of twenty, I can honestly say that I will never be the same.

Remora arrived at work. “What’s up for today boss?” she asked Dio.

“I have a casting call out for a werewolf. A Mr. W. E. Coyote asked for an interview”, Dio replied.

“Since when are coyotes wolves?”, Remora asked.

“It is only a stage name”, Dio explained. “His given name is Vinnie Woflman. You will find him at this address”, Dio said, handing her a card.

“OK, I will let you know how it goes”, Remora said.

The address was in the middle of a dark woods. It figured of course. Remora shrugged, and cast a spell of light. A cougar watched her and began stalking. “Yeah, right”, Remora said, and gave him a permanent case of frizzy hair with a bolt of lightening. Nothing else bothered her in her travel, and she soon reached a small cottage deep in the darkest section of the woods. She knocked at the door.

“Nibble, nibble like a mouse... who’s that nibbling at my house?”, a voice inside said.

“You have GOT to be kidding”, Remora thought, looking at the cottage which looked entirely inedible. “I am looking for Vinnie Wolfman. I work for the Dio casting agency”, Remora said, introducing herself.

The door opened. “Why didn’t you say so”, Vinnie said, “come on in”, he beckoned.

Remora entered cautiously, and looked around. The interior had seen better times. Large half filled sacks of some kind of food were lying around, and a stack of boxtops were on a small wooden table. “Rumor has it you are supposed to be a werewolf”, she said.

“That would be me”, confirmed Vinnie.

“There is no full moon out today. Particularly since it is noon. So, why are you in wolf form?”, Remora asked.

“I have become such a master at being a werewolf I can dictate where and when the change takes place”, Vinnie said.

“I see”, Remora said, not believing it for a minute. “So, have you EVER appeared in human form?”.

“Of course”, said Vinnie. “Remember Little Red Riding Hood’s Grandma?”.

“Yes....”, Remora said suspiciously.

“That was me”, Vinnie said. “I have the stills from the picture to prove it”.

“Er, OK, now about the magical part. Can you show me some magic?”, Remora asked.

“Sure”, said Vinnie reaching into a night stand, and pulling out an ‘unmarked’ deck of cards. “Pick a card, any card”, Vinnie said.

“No, I meant more like this”, Remora said, gesturing and conjuring up a pixie.

“Would making it disappear count?”, Vinnie asked.

“I guess”, Remora hesitated.

“Hey baby, how about you and me checking out a bed of ferns?”, Vinnie asked.

“I’m so out of here”, the pixie said, and flew for the nearest exit, leaving a pixie sized hole in Vinnie’s door when she left.

“I call that my ‘spell of revulsion’”, Vinnie pointed out.

“Well I have to agree, it is pretty impressive”, Remora admitted. “Now it says here that you played in a series of pictures opposite a roadrunner.”

“Yes, but I had the talking part. All it said was beep-beep, and held up some signs”, Vinnie said proudly. “I have no idea how it ended up with top billing. I think his uncle was the producer”.

“It also says you never caught the roadrunner in five years of trying”, Remora pointed out.

“Well technically I did, at least once. We ran through a series of pipes. I magically got smaller, it magically got bigger. When I caught it, I grabbed it right around the ankle. Never could figure out how to eat it though”, Vinnie reminisced.

“So what DID you eat for five years?”, Remora asked, curious.

“Acme Wolf Chow”, Vinnie said. “Man did I ever get sick of it at the end. It is how I got all the free stuff I used”.

“Er, you saved up boxtops or something? That is where all that stuff came from?”.

“Yes, and it was all pretty cruddy stuff too as you would expect. I would have been better off getting the magic decoder ring and the propellor beanie in the long run”, Vinnie admitted.

“I still don’t see much magical about you”, Remora said.

“What do you mean? I fell off of mountains, got blown up, smashed into walls, got run over by trucks, and I don’t remember how many other calamities, and I always bounced back. You don’t think that was magical?”, Vinnie protested.

“Putting it that way”, Remora mused. “OK, any other times you have appeared as something other than a wolf?”

“I was a sheep once”, Vinnie thought.

“I thought that was a costume”, Remora commented.

“Nah, just a lot of makeup. Er, I mean, I transformed”, Vinnie corrected.

“Ri-i-i-ght”, Remora said. “OK, do you have anything else to tell me in closing?”

“Well, I have the wolf part down pretty well, I can do my own stunts, I am practically indestructible which means I will never hold up production, and I am an experienced thespian. Give me can of nair and a decent razor and we are in business”, Vinnie concluded.

Remora closed her briefcase. “OK, Vinnie, thanks for your time, we will be in touch if something comes up”, she said, and poofed herself back to the office.

“Yeah, right, more Acme Wolf chow in my future”, Vinnie sighed.

On the paths of dreams she walks, singing her soft lullabies and from her indigo eyes, silver tears she cries. She is known mainly as the Weeper but she can be called the peace bringer. She appears to be humanlike in appearance yet made of the things we hold dearest. That is love, joy, peace and sorrow, without which there would be no tomorrow. Tall is she and shapely with long dark hair flowing freely. She wears no ornament save a crown of white flowers on her head. She wears a white dress hanging down to the ground and when she walks her silver shoes make no sound.

As she walks on the paths of dreams she looks for those in whose minds troubles teem. Then she follows the path to such a one and then tries to gently calm them with her song. Sometimes though the path she must follow is not straightforward, depending on the size of the troubles in the mind she is going toward.

One night she was walking and singing when she saw a mind in worse strife then she’d seen before. So she began to walk towards that helpless one but strange things happened, would she overcome? As she tried to find the path, briars with big thorns grew to block her way through. Brave heart, kind one, she pushed on, even though the thorns tore her she never faltered in her song.

The troubles of this mind were not yet undone; in fact the Weepers trials were only just begun. Her song continued unaltered, her voice still sweet, still strong, despite what was going on. Now a maze sprang up in her way and she felt the vaguest tremors of dismay. The maze was huge, she could not go around so she stepped in and then the entrance could no longer be found. She was trapped unless she could find her way through, then pitch darkness fell, what could she do? Her song still sustained through the dark night and suddenly the flowers in her hair started to shine with light. They were star-flowers you see and although they appeared white, they carried in them the star’s pure light, which at the Weepers’ song shone out bright.

Tremors ran through her body as she began to walk, one hand on the side of the maze to guide the steps she took. But the thing that had created this was smart and soon sharp prickles grew in the hedge making her start. She removed her hand and walked on; ignoring the ruby drops that fell down. Slow was her progress, many times she thought she was wandering in circles, or staying in one spot. Yet the love that made up her essence would not let her stop trying these defences. So although her white dress was stained red, she the maze kept on trying to thread. Time passed or no time passed, it seemed like she was hopelessly lost. The maze seemed to grow on her despair, yet she kept going on into the evil’s lair.

As she pressed forwards the light around her grew and her voice seemed to renew. The Weeper moved on, round this bend and the next, hoping to soon find the exit. Suddenly the maze dissolved into mist and the Weeper thought what’s this new twist? She was not left waiting long before her answered appeared; the trouble that was plaguing a mind with fears. It manifested itself a black dragon with eyes that were smouldering coals, it looked like it could eat the world whole. “Who dares try and steal my victim” it hissed, in reply the Weeper said merely “Desist.”

To the mind that was plagued by the dragon it seemed that a beautiful angel had suddenly appeared. It watched in horror as the dragon rose to strike, wishing, hoping the Weeper would put up a fight. As the dragon reared and sent out a flame, the Weeper started singing the dragon’s name. Her voice though it should have by now been hoarse turned music into a powerful force. The use of the true name of evil has long been known as the way to defeat it. So the Weeper sang and as she did, tears ran down her beautiful cheek. For she could see as she sung what the dragon had been, once it was more than a killing machine. She reminded it through her beautiful song of the life it had once known and had left for so long. The fire of the dragon passed around her bending before the Weeper’s great power.

So she sang but even still the dragon fought, trying to escape the web in which it was caught. The Weeper approached the murderous beast and began from its own inner evil it to release. Slowly, gently she wove her song, seeking to right the dragons own wrong. It seemed like an age to the watching mind, a slow sacred dance true peace to find. As the mind watched the dragon’s scales changed from black to shining silver pale. The fire in its eyes changed from a deep hatred to the sweet peace passed down through the ages.

It flew off on its own path now and the Weeper over the mind her head did bow. She lifted her voice again in a song, this time a lullaby of gentle calm. The mind stilled and fell asleep, as the Weeper walked off, to sing and to weep