Marshall J. Stephens's Blog

“Excuse me Archmage, I don’t mean to interrupt, but can you help me?”

I looked down from where I hovered. There was a hapless-looking little wisp of a girl in novice robes. I floated down and set foot on the stone floor, then asked, “What aid do you need, apprentice?”

“I’m to report to Archwizard Grimalkin. Do you know where I can find him?”

I shook my head. “You’re a student of Archwizard Loriman’s, aren’t you?”

“Yes… did you read my mind?”

“No. If you’re looking for Grimalkin, I know why you were sent, though. You’re a divination adept.”

“Yes… is Archmage Grimalkin a divination teacher?”

“Of a sort. He’s kind of a legend around here.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“So imagine you’re a talented transmuter. One who knows how to alter the structure of matter, the very fabric of reality. Where there was one chair, now there are two. Where there was a chair, now there’s a goat. Sounds like a wonderful sort of power, correct?”

“I think so.”

“What is the core teaching of the diviner adepts?”

The girl stood up straight and recited the creed perfectly, “Nothing Hidden, Nothing Forgotten”.

“Well done. Do you know the corresponding creed of the transmuters?”

“No.”

I cleared my throat. “Everything is nothing and everything is everything.”

“That sounds… no, I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“It means all things are nothing, of no fixed form, which means transmuters understand how to break them down to their most indivisible elements, which are the same for every bit of matter in the world. Then, they can recombine those elements as they wish. Making anything. Do you see now?”

“Yes.”

“From day one, this creed is taught to the transmuters, but it is a warning as much as an observation. Some feel that such equivocation diminishes the individuality of discreet objects. Where one transmuter sees a bond between all things, another might become apathetic, recognizing that the logical conclusion is that matter and by extension, even creatures are not really worth keeping track of or interacting with them you have to. A sort of grand apathy. “

“And Archwizard Grimalkin falls into that second category of thought?”

“Well guessed, diviner. Our transmuter understands that on a material level, everything is the same, and likewise on a philosophical level. The only thing he might actually find valuable are truths that extend beyond the physical or even the biological, essential underpinnings of reality itself. We wizards all run the risk of supreme detachment as we unweave and reknit the skein of the world.”

“What does this have to do with Archwizard Grimalkin?”

“Grimalkin found plumbing these academic depts irresistible. He spent less time with his students and his peers, his only true desire to stay in the lab, experiment, research, and leave the meaningless spinning world to itself. Don’t think that any of us are above such obsession. Believe me, I knew his motivations as well as if they were my own.”

“Why then remain a teaching wizard? Wouldn’t he have been happier going somewhere he could isolate himself?”

“There’s the dilemma such a poor wretch must face. Here there are people, but there are also books. Resources. No greater collection of knowledge and magical ingredients exists in the whole world than this esteemed college.”

“So, it had what he needed, so he didn’t want to quit. He, however, wished to remain in a constant state of experimentation. Do I have it right?”

“You do. The solution was simple for him, I think. He started hiding. How well do you think someone who can literally make twelve of himself or turn himself into a grandfather clock might hide from his peers.”

“Very well, I think.”

“And finding him?”

“…would take a diviner.”

“So what does that tell you, apprentice?”

“It’s… It’s a test.”

“Yes. I pity you.”

“Oh dear.” Her face fell sullen, like a first year maths student being asked to solve ninth-year equations using only a bag of beans.

“Don’t fret, apprentice. You’re meant to fail. As I understand, every new divination apprentice has to do this. It’s a test of talent, a lesson in the limits of your power, along with a sort of hazing. I’ve seen many try. Most of them give up after a day or six. How long have you been looking?”

“Only a half hour.”

“Oh… did you come straight here?

“This is the first tower I came to on the campus, yes.”

“Did anyone tell you to search this one specifically?”

“No. It just felt… well… like the way I should go.”

“Oh… well… that’s something.”

“Why?”

“Let me escort you to the door and I’ll tell you. I do have things to which I must return, you see.”

“Of course, Archmage… I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“That’s of no matter apprentice. Now, I have two tasks for you.”

“What are they?”

“Tell the Loriman that his first roommate says he’s a bastard. Don’t worry child, you’re only quoting me. He won’t be cross.”

She swallowed. I ushered her into the hall.

“I will, Archmage. What’s the second task?”

“Inform him that you succeeded.”

She stared at me with wide eyes as I closed a door that had not been there before this morning and that would never be again.

NOTES: This little fantasy bit was another prompted story. The hook hit me immediately, but the destination didn’t arrive until I was halfway through. I hope found it entertaining.

Get it? Found? Ha, I kill me.

Mrs. Loviatar sat on a bench outside the school, smiling and turning her face towards the sun. A cold chill broke her peace and the smile disappeared.

“Hello, sister.”

Louhi said, “Did you think I’d choose to not come with you?”

“No, I expected it. I just didn’t look forward to it.”

“So, we’re saving children these days?”

“I am. You don’t understand how frightened these children are.”

“Don’t, I though? Terrifying children used to be one of my favorite hobbies. I’d try to remember their crying faces and screaming frowns and paint portraits to hang in my home.”

“No, it’s worse. The adults have all turned to idiots, fools, and braggarts. All that little girl wanted was to not be scared anymore.”

“And she was scared her classmates were what… going to give her ‘cooties’?”

“No, much more. Much, much more.”

“A single little sugar tablet dropped onto an altar stone stolen from across the sea isn’t going to sustain you for long, Lovi. And then what?”

“Then I sink back into obscurity and you with me, dear sister.”

“Do you mean to turn her into a disciple then?”

“I mean to give her just recompense for the first true, selfless offering either of us has had in centuries.”

“Loviatar, you have other children to look after.”

“My other children are all doing well enough. No cure has been found for Cancer, much to my surprise. Ulcers and the Plague have all thrived in my absence.”

“And the others?”

“Not as successful, but not gone. I can leave them to their devices. I have other matters to which I must attend.”

“Hmm… I think I understand you. Just answer me one question.”

“Ask, sister.”

“Why is the Mother of the Nine Diseases keeping one of her own children at bay in a Kindergarten class? Denying them food and shelter?”

Mrs. Loviatar smiled. “If there aren’t enough of them, my spawn have no where to live. The children really are our future.”

“Oh come now.”

Mrs. Loviatar listened to the squeals of the children still on the playground.

She said, “I’m a mother, Louhi. I know that pure faith, that helpless dependence that they have when they’re that little. The offering was made in innocence with great purity of heart. I’ll be cast into oblivion before I turn away from that.”

“Oh, dear. You really have been lonely, haven’t you?” Louhi said. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts.”

Mrs. Loviatar heard the crunching of bone, the flapping of wings, and again the warmth of the sun. She sat there until that was gone again, but this time for the usual reason, namely it had become nighttime.

She stood up and listened. The air was still and calm. Still, she knew who was watching, waiting for her acknowledgement.

“Lover, I need to take me somewhere. I wish to go to Delia’s house.”

The Wind whipped up around in an unnatural gust. It grew in power until a tiny cyclone was raging in the empty parking lot of Long Lake Elementary. Mrs. Loviatar stepped into it and was carried away, caressed by the father of her children.

Moments later, she was let down in a neighborhood where she could feel many spawn of her true children all around her, and more human woes with them: hunger, cravings for strange powdered delights, and the wildfire of wrath. It was a cacophony of suffering being ignored by those who suffered it, perhaps because it was the only way they could go on at all.

Mrs. Loviatar straightened her dress, adjusted her hat, and then went to a house, walked up to the front door and knocked.

There were voices inside. One of them loud, the other meek. The loud one barked a command. The meek one came to the door.

A short woman in a long sleeved t-shirt and ill fitting jeans asked, “What do you want?”

“Are you Delia’s mother?”

Despite standing in front of a blind woman, Delia’s mother nodded.

“I’d like to talk to you and your… boyfriend?”

“Is Delia in trouble?”

“Oh no. Delia is quite secure and an amazing child. May I come in?”

“Um… yeah, sure.”

Mrs. Lovitar entered the home and was surrounded by sensations. Fear clung to the walls like cobwebs. Pain and tears were ground into the carpet. Sorrow coated everything like grime and dust.

A man, the boyfriend, was sitting on the couch. He looked up and said, “Who’s she?”

It was Mrs. Loviatar that spoke. “Delia’s teacher. Well, substitute. I wanted to talk to you for a moment about her.”

The man stood, grumbling. “I told that brat she needed to behave in school. What, did she start another fight? Cuss you out?”

“No sir, nothing like that. In fact, I found her rather charming, polite. She needed only a small favor, one I was happy to give, but I know that she has other needs, perhaps more important in the long run. That’s why I’m doing this.”

The boyfriend did not have a chance to ask what “this” was, but found himself flying across the living room. His back put spiderweb cracks in the window on the other wall. Delia’s mother screamed.

Mrs. Loviatar glided across the living room and picked the man up by his neck, pushing him up the wall until he stood on his tip toes.

Chocking, he croaked out “Who… Who are you!”

“I’m your daughter’s new patron and protector. I am why you will stop hurting her. Do you know that when they pretend that some coward has come to the school with a rifle to harm the children, she pictures that it will be you? There are no ills in her life that she does not find their origin in you. You are her own personal demon. Today, I am her exorcist.”

“I’ll stop! I’ll stop!”

“No, you won’t you don’t know any other way but brutality. You believe you will now, pissing yourself, but tomorrow your weakness will… “

A baseball bat hit Mrs. Loviatar in the center of her back. Delia’s mother pulled it back for another swing but Mrs. Loviatar caught it, yanked hit from her hands, and hurled it across the room.

“Madam, I do not mean to frighten you but understand the only reasons you are not pinned to the wall along with this excuse for a man are that Delia needs you and loves you. In the future, pick better men.”

Delia’s mother went to get her phone. She found it dead.

Mrs. Loviatar smiled. “Viruses are my servants. The new silicon hosts of this age are quite interesting, but they are my servants there too. Now, where was I?”

She turned back to the man in her grasp. He squirmed and swiped his arms at her, clawing the air near her face. He managed to knock Mrs. Loviatar’s glasses off and he gasped when he found the two blind orbs they’d shielded fixed on him.”

Mrs. Loviatar was smiling. “Hm… so what shall it be? Cancer? No… Consumption. Hmm… no, I’d have to drag you away. I know: Gout. In every joint, in every limb. It won’t kill you, but you will feel like you are being ripped apart by beasts for the rest of your life. Every day. I think that might make it hard for you to-“

Mrs. Loviatar stopped, feeling a tug on her dress near her leg.

“Delia,” she said. “You should go back to your room. I don’t want you to see this.”

“Mrs. Loviatar, I don’t want you to hurt him. I just want him to go away. Please. If you hurt him, Mommy will cry.”

Mrs. Loviatar took in a deep breath and said, “As you wish child. The final answer to your heart’s prayer.”

Mrs. Loviatar dropped the man, turned to him and said, “You survive at her mercy. Harm her or her mother again and you will no longer have that mercy. I will not offer you any in its place. Now go. Take only what’s in your pockets and leave. Flee to the farthest corner of your earth. You are banished.”

The man scrambled, going and getting a set of keys out of his jeans. Seconds later, he was pulling the car out of the driveway. It squealed it’s tires, disappearing into the night.

Delia’s mother was kneeling, holding her daughter, when Mrs. Loviatar turned around to face them both.

“Don’t you touch her!” the mother cried, terrified, now holding a steak knife.

Mrs. Loviatar glided to her. “Delia has nothing to fear from me. Ever. If you use that bravery, that fire you summoned to protect her to keep protecting her, to be a better mother, you will never have me at your door again. Oh, and I think you’ll find some of her co-workers will be taking some sick days in the near future. I think that will give you some extra shifts and get you noticed by your employers. It’s no guarantee, but it will give you something to do with your time and perhaps a better future. I wish you luck. It’s up to you now.”

Mrs. Loviatar picked up her glasses, then put them on and went down on one knee. Delia pulled herself from her mother’s arms, walked to Mrs. Loviatar and gave her a hug.

“They said on the field drip that they used to say you were bad. I don’t think you’re bad, Ma’am. People say I’m bad, but I just want to be left alone.”

Mrs. Loviatar embraced the child gently. She said, “I know. Thank you, Delia. This has been a wonderful day. You did that for me. Now, I must go.”

Mrs. Loviatar rose. Delia’s mother rose too, holding the pitiful knife in front of her. Mrs. Loviatar tipped her hat, then turned and went out into the darkness.

In the parking lot behind a liquor store, the man who’d been dating Delia’s mother sat drinking cheap vodka out of the bottle.

“May I have some of that?”

He jumped and turned to find a woman sitting in the passenger seat. She had silver hair like Mrs. Loviatar, but shot through with streaks of black. Her eyes, too, were black. She had a hint of as smile on her lips.

“How the-“

“Sir, you didn’t see the mouse jump into your car when you got out to go into the store, but a mouse did. And that mouse was me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My sister has grown soft, you see. Fortunately, when one prays to her, they too pray to me. When one makes an offering to her, they make it also to me. That means I owe Delia something. Where my sister and I are unalike, however, is that I am not as forgiving.”

She turned to the man, her teeth turning pointy as she growled a wolf’s growl.

When she walked down the road a little later, back to the dark place from which she first came, she did it while humming a happy tune and sipping from a bottle spattered in blood.

NOTE: I had intended for “Sick Day” to be a stand alone story. I got requests for more. I hope you enjoy the extended time with Mrs. Loviatar, standing at safe and respectable difference. There may be more still… we’ll see.

“You’re not the teacher,” Billy stated with perfect certainty.

The gray haired woman said, “No, Billy. I am not your usual teacher. I am your substitute teacher.”

“What’s a subsitoot,” Laticia asked, slightly slurred because of her very first baby tooth being currently in the hands of the tooth fairy.

“Well, child, do you ever feel sick or unwell? So bad your mom and dad had to keep you home for the day?”

Laticia nodded.

“Today, Mrs. Patterson is not feeling well. I’m here to teach the class for the day. I’m Mrs. Loviatar.”

Laticia nodded and said, “Ooooh. Okay”

Nathan raised his hand, while in the back, Galen and Marcus were starting to giggle between themselves, involved in some joke that involved fart noises.

Mrs. Lovitar said, “Yes Nathan. What is it?”

“Why are you wearing those sunglasses?”

“They’re not exactly sunglasses, child. I’m blind.”

“You can’t see anything?”

Mrs. Loviatar smiled. “Not as you do, but I assure that I see everything. Like you starting to to tease Delia, Galen.”

Galen froze, and Marcus too. They had switched to from fart jokes to calling the sullen girl in the back corner of the class silly names. She was ignoring them, but her head raised as her name was called and she seemed to notice the substitute for the first time.

Michael raised his hand, but did not wait to be acknowledged. “Mrs. Loviatar, can we go back to the museum?”

“No, child. I’m sorry.”

Galen burst out, “Is that because dumb Delia left trash on one of the zibbits?”

Delia shot him a terrible look, but said nothing.

Mrs. Loviatar shook her head and said “No. As I understand, it wasn’t trash she left on the ex-hib-it.”

She pronounced the word carefully, annunciating each syllable.

Galen found himself repeating the word with her, carefully.

Anna asked, “I saw her do it.”

The teacher looked at her, shaking her finger, and said, “Nobody likes a tattletale. She did not leave trash, because it was not trash. It was an offeri-… a gift. It was a whole piece of candy.”

Delia looked up at Mrs. Loviatar, who looked very young despite her silvery locks. She spoke, for the first time in the week.

“Your name is the same as one of the exhibits.”

“Oh, is it? Interesting”

Mrs. Loviatar came from around the desk and walked through the rows of seats. She touched a number of children on the shoulder as she passed, but she ended her stroll through the classroom in front of Delia, who was also the last girl she touched on the shoulder. When she did, she bent over and dropped an empty peppermint wrapper on her desk.

“It was very yummy candy,” Mrs. Loviatar whispered. She pulled down her solid black glasses and winked one milky eye at the child. This made Delia smile.

At the front of the room, the door opened and a coughing Principal Overton stumbled in, his eyes red. He blew his nose into a cloth handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. One of the little girls said, quite audibly, “Ew.”

The principal addressed the teacher. “Are you doing okay, Madam?”

Mrs. Loviatar turned and walked to where he stood. She said, “I’m fine, but shouldn’t you be at home? We’ve a lot of nasty bugs going around. It would be a shame to infect the children.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s just a cold.”

“Are you sure? Keep in mind, many of the children in this class were unvaccinated.”

“I’m quite… were?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said ‘were’ unvaccinated.”

“Oh I’m sorry, meant ‘aren’t’ of course.”

“How would you even know-“

“Let’s just say diseases were a special interest of mine once. Now, Mr. Overton, I have a class to look after and keep an eye on. May I get back to my work?”

Principal Overton coughed, snorted, then nodded to her. “Carry on.”

He left and Mrs. Loviatar went to the desk.

“Now class, I think we should start with story time. I have a very, very old story to tell you….”

__________

Notes: Another story inspired by one of the good folks at r/WritingPrompts. The story called for a kindergarten class to be protected. There are far worse and all too real threats I could have gone with, but as soon as I found Mrs. Loviatar and red the bit in Wikipedia about her, the answer became clear.

I think he passed out when I picked him up. I am not sure what I expected, but certainly not fainting. After all, how could he achieve the title of “Master” of anything and be so frail.

I landed and put him down on the ground. When I did, took off his backpack and set it to the side. I then took up my usual perch and waited.

I’m used to waiting.

When the lanky creature started to stir, I watched his eyes dart right and left, become full of panic.

“Where am I?!”

I cleared my throat. “My lair.”

“What?”

I started to answer him, considered, and then said, “I’m sorry. I forgot that I should be speaking a dialect of English, not Gaelic. It’s hard to keep up with all the weird tongues you people develop. But to repeat myself, we’re in my lair. At least I think that’s what you’d call it.”

“Who are you?”

“You couldn’t pronounce my name if you wanted to. For now, just call me… Gary.”

“Gary?”

“Yes. That’s a name relevant to the topic at hand. I want you to explain your game, this ‘Dun Dun Dragons’ thing. Especially what lore it has in it about dragonkind.”

“What? I… oh, god I think I’m going to puke.”

I wrinkled my brows and tried to give him time to catch his breath, scurrying around on my floor like a newborn puppy. That was when I realized that he couldn’t see. I am so accustomed to the darkness that it didn’t occur to me.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

Then I puffed out six little spurts, each one to light the six torches in the chamber. They were over a hundred years old, but they ignited just fine.

“Now,” I said in my kindest voice, “Is that better?”

It took some time for him to stop screaming. I returned to waiting.

“D-d-d-d-dragon! You’re a fucking dragon!”

“I know that word and I understand it’s not always a reference to mating, but I’m still confused as to why you’d address me thus. No matter. Please, explain your dragon game to me.”

“Wait, you mean D&D?”

“Yes.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“I doubt it as you are awake.”

“I’m so confused.”

I took a deep breath, counted to ten, then let it out slowly, smoke blowing from my nostrils.

“Are you or are you not a dungeon master?”

“Um… yeah.”

“Well, ‘Master’, you do understand the game, this ‘D&D’?”

“Yeah.”

“I want it explained to me. That’s why I brought you here. Now, if you please, I have millennia behind and before me, but I’d really like to get on with it.”

The Master looked in a daze as he found where I’d laid his backpack next to him. He picked it up, looked at me with a worried face, and then pulled a book out with a artwork of some creatures. I recognized the unicorn, the griffon, but I was somewhat taken aback by one of the other representations.

“Why is the dragon on that cover all red?”

The young Master pushed his glasses up his nose and said, “Well… in the game dragons are either chromatic or metallic. The chromatic ones are evil. That’s a Red Dragon; they breathe fire.”

“So they’re color coded? What are the others?”

“Black, which spit acid. Blue which spit lightning-“

He stopped when I laughed out loud.

“They ‘spit’ lightning? How does one ‘spit’ lightning?”

“It’s just… in a line?”

“Oh, our lore must truly have faded if this is what you think of us… well of me.”

“I don’t think anyone was trying to tick you off. Um… can I go now?”

“You still haven’t told me about the game. I want to understand all of it.”

“Okay… okay… well, it starts with rolling up a character.”

“What do you mean ‘roll up’?”

“You use dice. That determines your stats. Your strength, your Dexterity, wisdom, constitution, charisma and intelligence.”

“Aren’t those already easily defined by other means?”

“Oh, not the player’s stats. The character’s stats. It’s kind of like theater, but when you get to a plot question, you roll dice to see how it goes.”

“And when do the dragons become involved?”

“Well, the point of the game is to fight… well, monsters. That gives you experience.”

“And I… my kind is a monster in this game?”

“Well yeah, but not all of them are evil. The gold, silver, and other metallic dragons are good. They might help you. Especially if you oppose Tiamat.”

“What do Babylonian gods have to do with this?”

“Well, nothing… except kinda. Look, can I just show you the books?”

I considered. I shifted on my stony perch and said, “Come closer.”

The young Master took a torch from the wall and came to me. He opened the book and started showing me how various “monsters” were portrayed, both in art and numbers. I found it amusing that one of the monster types was ‘men’.

Eventually, he got out more books and explained how the game went. Before long, I’d flicked some of his dice and he’d written things down for me. I played a dwarven fighter. I think we played for hours; we definitely both lost track of time. The Master relaxed, confident in his role as facilitator, arbiter and narrator

The title Dungeon Master is terribly misleading.

As I crested 3rd level after defeating a ogre who in the story was terrorizing a small town and stealing their cattle, he yawned.

“I… I really need to go,” he said. “My mom must be worried sick. I hope dad recorded Airwolf for me… I need to get back.”

“But I want to follow the map that was in the treasure chest. I still have to win.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You don’t win. Not like you do in Monopoly or Scrabble. You just keep telling the story, pretending to live out this adventurer’s life.”

“Hmm… so this might require another night?”

“My current game has been running all summer. We get together once a week at Tommy’s house.”

“That’s… interesting. Would you come back tomorrow?”

“I can’t promise that. We can play another time though. Maybe you can show the game to some of the other dragons.”

I slumped down, turned my head from him. “That won’t be possible.”

“Why? You don’t think they’d like it?”

“Because they’re gone. I’ve been searching for a century now. I think I’m the last of my kind.”

“Oh… wow. I’m sorry. Wait, wait… you thought… that I might know-“

I flapped my wings. It’s the same meaning as when human’s shrug.

“I don’t think I want to play, now. Please go.”

That was when I felt his hand on my neck.

“I know what it’s like to be lonely. It’s part of the reason I started playing D&D. Because it’s usually a group.”

I snorted.

“Let me come back next Sunday. I can tell you where to… pick me up? I guess, literally? If you do, I promise, I’ll have a much better adventure planned for you.”

The thought was comforting. “Yes, Dungeon Master. I will allow you to take me on another adventure.”

“Brandon.”

“What?”

“My name’s Brandon.”

“I see… thank you, Brandon. Let me get you home.”

He collected his things. I picked him up and flew him from my lair. He giggled with delight when we broke through the clouds and could see the stars as well as the sun brimming on the horizon.

True to my word, I dropped him near his home. True to his word, he came back that next week. My dwarf became commissioned by a Bahamut to go on a sacred quest: to restore the lost dragons.

It was kind of corny at first, but together we told the story and rolled the dice.

That was almost 37 years ago.

Tonight is my first time DM’ing. I am nervous. It’s long time overdue that I return Brandon’s kindness… and meet his other friends.

Won’t the other gamers be surprised, though, when they get here and find out why Brandon has secured a pallet of Mountain Dew. Time for them to understand what real dragons are about.

I wasn’t used to seeing smoke come from the kitchen. Ellen didn’t burn food and no one has overdone popcorn in the microwave since the kids moved out. I was breathing heavy by the time I got there from the garage, extinguisher in hand. What was actually in the kitchen was far more unexpected.

It was Satan. Actual hooved, horned, Satan. Flames at his feet, smelling of Brimstone. As in, from Hell.

And I don’t mean Ohio.

Ellen was there, too, though and she didn’t look surprised at all.

“Back to get beat again, huh?” She said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, hands on her hips, wearing a flour spattered apron.

“Oh, confident are you! Well, the Lord of Darkness will show you your folly mortal!”

“I told you once, I’m telling you again, and I’ll tell you a hundred gosh darn times if I have to… I’m the best, no doubt about it and I’ve got the blue ribbons to prove it. You’re never going to beat me, Lucy. Not today or any other, okay?”

“No. Not okay. Not at all. Stand aside, spawn of Eve!”

My wife, my sweet wife who plays bingo on Thursdays and who stops after half a glass of wine to avoid getting “all crazy”, stepped aside gave The Prince of Darkness room to use our stand mixer.

That’s when she saw me.

“Oh, Stan, I’m sorry. I really wasn’t expecting this today.”

“You expect it other days?”

“I guess ‘expect’ isn’t exactly right, but this isn’t his first visit. You’re usually at the office.”

“Wait, how many times has Satan appeared in our kitchen… and used all our eggs?”

As I talked to her, he was cracking a fourth one into the bowl.

“It’s just this little thing we have going on. I swear he’s more jealous of my baking than Grace down at St. Catherines.”

“Satan is jealous of your cookies?”

“Oh, you betcha. Has been since I was in college.”

“When did you meet Satan in college?”

“Blind date. My roomie set me up. But nevermind dear, that was months before I met you. Now let me handle this. He’s really a sore loser. Take a seat over there.”

Slack jawed, I did as she asked and got into the chair we keep in the corner so that she has something to sit on when she peels potatoes in here. I put the extinguisher in my lap and just held on because I didn’t know where this ride was going.

Little puffs of smoke appeared in the palms of the Dark One as he summoned ingredients, little vials and jars to be dumped into the mixer. One little black bottle he snickered at when he put three drops into the mix. He then used one of our ice cream scoops to portion out the dough onto a cookie sheet. He didn’t bother with the oven, just passed his hand over them and they all baked.

He blew on them and they seemed to set.

“Ha, top that Ellen! Cowboy Cookies, with three thousand year old honey, vanilla extract crafted in the abyss by my own hand, and baked with hellfire! Have one!”

Ellen raised an eyebrow and went over, picked up a cookie, and took a dainty bite. Her eyes got big and her brows went halfway up her forehead. She looked at the cookie with surprise, nodding in admiration.

“Oh, Lucy, you outdid yerself there, kiddo. But I think you should quit now.”

“Oh, why? Got some Lebkuchen in the pantry? Some of those peanut butter blossoms? Bring your finest, apple biter! I’ll stand these up against the very best you’ve got.”

“Okie dokie.”

She went to the kitchen table. I knew she was making cookies for the school bake sale today, but I didn’t know what kind. When she pulled off the lid, I got scared down to my socks.

Satan laughed.

“Sugar cookies! You actually are countering the finest snacks in Hell or Heaven with sugar cookies?!”

“My mom’s own secret recipe. Have one.”

Satan snatched up one like she said and took a great big bite, half the cookie disappearing into his fanged filled mouth. I watched him chew. Then chew again. Then stop. Then chew some more. Then I saw a tear in his eye.

The Lord of Hell fell on our linoleum tile and started pounding his fists and crying like a toddler, “Sublime! So, sublime! And balanced! This is what sugar cookies should be! Jesu…. no, not going there.”

He apparently snapped himself back into focus because he got up and said to her, “I admit it… you win again! But don’t think I won’t be cooking up something to spell your damnation!”

“I see what you did there with the little pun. It’s okay, Lucy. You take care.”

Satan snorted. The floor cracked. I heard screams like I could never adequately describe and the light of a thousand soul-fueled bonfires lit him from underneath as he sank into back down to the Inferno. He raised his arm when his head disappeared out of sight and made a rude gesture at Ellen. She shook her head as the crack sealed back up.

“Told ya he was a sore loser. Well now, that put a crimp in the day. I don’t think I’ll have time to take a shower before we go.”

“Ellen… I have quest-“

She swooped up to me and put a finger on my lips. She had the most wicked gleam in her eye, the one that made me marry her twenty years ago.

She just said, “Shhhh. Just let it go, Stan. A girl’s got to keep some of her secrets.”

There are certain elements of story and plot and genre that are very common in Reddit writing prompts. One is the fact that Satan shows up in the prompt a whole lot. – M.J.S.

If you’ve found this, it means that I’m in trouble and it’s because of my job.

When I was in college, I answered an add in a local free newspaper. It looked honestly too good to be true. “Small Tasks, six figures. Call the number to apply.” I was behind on a car payment and working in a 7-11 third shift, so I figured what would be the worst that could happen?

I called the number. I was interviewed by a nice lady who never told me her name, just asked me a bunch of questions that made no real sense.

Was I a smoker?Did I have my own car?What’s a TV show I’d wipe from history.Did I have any chronic health conditions?Did I live alone?Was I a virgin?Did I like dogs?Did you have any food allergies?When was the last time I cried?What’s your favorite mixer for cocktails?Are the batteries in your smoke alarm still good?

I got annoyed at first, since some of those were kind of personal, but then it just started being funny. I looked around to see if I was on camera. The lady never stopped smiling, never stopped being polite. Finally, she said, “Thank you. We’ll be contacting you shortly.”

“I didn’t give you my number or address or anything.”

“Oh, we have that already. Good day, Anthony.”

It dawned on me that I’d never told her my name. I chalked it up to caller ID and then left.

A week later, I got a letter. It said I had the job. I’d tested well. I’d be asked to do small tasks around town and as long as I did them, I would be paid. I’d be contacted by mail. If I was going to be out of town for more than two days, I had to contact them at a number and leave a message.

My first task was in that letter. It was to take out my garbage and make sure that it wasn’t messy.

I shook my head, but what was there to lose? Garbage day was still two days away, but the bin was full so, sure. I did it.

That Friday, I got my first paycheck. I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a joke. The number seemed too high. Still, I went and cashed it, ready to dash at the first sign they thought it was counterfeit. It wasn’t.

I got another check the next Friday. I called my old boss and quit right then. Then, I kept getting checks each week. I got my next assignment almost a month later: go to the store, buy one dozen eggs, bring them home and prepare two of them however I wanted, then eat them.

I did it.

I also got a dog. I washed my car. I went dancing. I ate an ice cream from a street cart. I bet on a horse. I sawed the leg off of a chair. I bought a copy of the collected works of Shakespeare. I ran naked in my backyard. I thrifted a couch. I wrote bad poetry and read it at a local open mic night.

Sometimes it would be days. Sometimes, hours. Or months. The longest was three and a half years. Every week the checks came. Every instruction was followed.

I moved. I called them. They verified my new address. I hadn’t told them what it was.

It was about eight years into this weirdness that I was looking out of my condo’s bay window and I saw what looked like someone in a long black coat and hat looking six stories up at me. It was just a second, but when I saw him, he looked down and hurried away.

I kept doing my job, but I also kept a lookout. I didn’t see that guy again, but I did see another person, a woman, in a similar outfit watching me drink from a public water fountain. I kept watch and four times out of five, I’d see someone following me.

I got curious. By this time, I was set for life. I’d made good investments and good use of my copious free time. The worst they could do was fire me, I thought. So the next time I spotted one of them. I counted to ten and then I followed them. It wasn’t hard; they weren’t clever.

I tried to slow down, I was gaining on them too fast. They ducked down an alley and I stood at the edge. The acoustics of the alley made voices boom. I heard them say, “Test 412 completed; baseline decoded 78 percent. Still harmless.”

I snapped my head around the corner to see who they were talking to. I didn’t see anyone. What I did see was them getting into the back seat of a long, black sedan. I also saw two things… tentacles? Tails? Coming from under the coat. And I saw their eyes. They saw mine, too. We locked onto each other for what seemed like ten minutes but couldn’t have been more than a breath.

Then they got in the car and left.

There was a termination notice in my mailbox when I got home along with a final check.

A few days later, I opened the door and a young lady sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at me. She then said, “Um… okay, bye.”

When she turned, I saw an envelope sticking out her back pocket. It looked like the hundreds I’d gotten before.

That’s why I don’t sleep so good any more. I just lay there and think about that thing my observer said.

Baseline decoded 78 percent.

What happens when they get to 100?

Author’s Note: This story came about like the ones in my collection Second Hand Madness; a prompt from the Reddit sub, r/writingprompt. I’ve edited it a little.

I don’t know if I’d do another collection like that, but then again… maybe.

If you’ve found this, it means that I’m in trouble and it’s because of my job.

When I was in college, I answered an add in a local free newspaper. It looked honestly too good to be true. “Small Tasks, six figures. Call the number to apply.” I was behind on a car payment and working in a 7-11 third shift, so I figured what would be the worst that could happen?

I called the number. I was interviewed by a nice lady who never told me her name, just asked me a bunch of questions that made no real sense.

Was I a smoker?Did I have my own car?What’s a TV show I’d wipe from history.Did I have any chronic health conditions?Did I live alone?Was I a virgin?Did I like dogs?Did you have any food allergies?When was the last time I cried?What’s your favorite mixer for cocktails?Are the batteries in your smoke alarm still good?

I got annoyed at first, since some of those were kind of personal, but then it just started being funny. I looked around to see if I was on camera. The lady never stopped smiling, never stopped being polite. Finally, she said, “Thank you. We’ll be contacting you shortly.”

“I didn’t give you my number or address or anything.”

“Oh, we have that already. Good day, Anthony.”

It dawned on me that I’d never told her my name. I chalked it up to caller ID and then left.

A week later, I got a letter. It said I had the job. I’d tested well. I’d be asked to do small tasks around town and as long as I did them, I would be paid. I’d be contacted by mail. If I was going to be out of town for more than two days, I had to contact them at a number and leave a message.

My first task was in that letter. It was to take out my garbage and make sure that it wasn’t messy.

I shook my head, but what was there to lose? Garbage day was still two days away, but the bin was full so, sure. I did it.

That Friday, I got my first paycheck. I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a joke. The number seemed too high. Still, I went and cashed it, ready to dash at the first sign they thought it was counterfeit. It wasn’t.

I got another check the next Friday. I called my old boss and quit right then. Then, I kept getting checks each week. I got my next assignment almost a month later: go to the store, buy one dozen eggs, bring them home and prepare two of them however I wanted, then eat them.

I did it.

I also got a dog. I washed my car. I went dancing. I ate an ice cream from a street cart. I bet on a horse. I sawed the leg off of a chair. I bought a copy of the collected works of Shakespeare. I ran naked in my backyard. I thrifted a couch. I wrote bad poetry and read it at a local open mic night.

Sometimes it would be days. Sometimes, hours. Or months. The longest was three and a half years. Every week the checks came. Every instruction was followed.

I moved. I called them. They verified my new address. I hadn’t told them what it was.

It was about eight years into this weirdness that I was looking out of my condo’s bay window and I saw what looked like someone in a long black coat and hat looking six stories up at me. It was just a second, but when I saw him, he looked down and hurried away.

I kept doing my job, but I also kept a lookout. I didn’t see that guy again, but I did see another person, a woman, in a similar outfit watching me drink from a public water fountain. I kept watch and four times out of five, I’d see someone following me.

I got curious. By this time, I was set for life. I’d made good investments and good use of my copious free time. The worst they could do was fire me, I thought. So the next time I spotted one of them. I counted to ten and then I followed them. It wasn’t hard; they weren’t clever.

I tried to slow down, I was gaining on them too fast. They ducked down an alley and I stood at the edge. The acoustics of the alley made voices boom. I heard them say, “Test 412 completed; baseline decoded 78 percent. Still harmless.”

I snapped my head around the corner to see who they were talking to. I didn’t see anyone. What I did see was them getting into the back seat of a long, black sedan. I also saw two things… tentacles? Tails? Coming from under the coat. And I saw their eyes. They saw mine, too. We locked onto each other for what seemed like ten minutes but couldn’t have been more than a breath.

Then they got in the car and left.

There was a termination notice in my mailbox when I got home along with a final check.

A few days later, I opened the door and a young lady sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at me. She then said, “Um… okay, bye.”

When she turned, I saw an envelope sticking out her back pocket. It looked like the hundreds I’d gotten before.

That’s why I don’t sleep so good any more. I just lay there and think about that thing my observer said.

Baseline decoded 78 percent.

What happens when they get to 100?

Author’s Note: This story came about like the ones in my collection Second Hand Madness; a prompt from the Reddit sub, r/writingprompt. I’ve edited it a little.

I don’t know if I’d do another collection like that, but then again… maybe.

One of my first successes as a writer was in high school. I wrote what one psychologist described as “a very convincing suicide”. It was entitled “Who is Going To Feed My Fish?” and it was the thoughts of a man from the time he picks up a gun until it goes off. In my junior year, it appeared in our school’s literary magazine and I did a dramatic reading that brought the house down.

I wrote more my senior year, but nothing that touched how well that had been received. I put down writing for a long time, picked it back up, and started contemplating how I was going to make this how I made my living. The money, I expected, was in novels.

Novels are what get turned into movies. Novels are what come to mind when you think of the great works of literature. There are poet laureates, renowned biographers, outstanding screenwriters, and of course famous novelists.

I don’t even know there’s a name for a short story specialist.

One day I sat down and finally started working on an idea that I thought would turn into my first novel. I told my story. I was proud of it. It was, however, a short story. A mere ten thousand words. Technically a “novelette”. Definitely not a novel.

Later, I discovered NaNoWriMo. For those who don’t know what that is, National Novel Writing Month is a collective project in which writers encourage each other to write fifty thousand words in the span of the thirty days of November. I tried it a couple of times and didn’t get very far, but once I got a full fifty thou down. I was ecstatic. Finally I had my novel.

Then, I checked how many pages that was. The answer was not enough.

I reached out to an author I admired who I knew sometimes answered emails from his fans, Stephen Brust. I asked what his works were. A lot of his stories are on the thinner side and I could usually blow through them in a day.

He said ninety thousand was the standard, eighty thousand was fine, he’d have no issue handing in a seventy thousand word manuscript, but fifty thousand did not a novel make.

I threw that one in the proverbial drawer. Maybe one day I’ll come back to it.

Around this time, the ebook market was opening up. Chez Bezos was making it possible for authors to self-publish with ease. There were people turning their “one day” into “right now” and I wanted in. I still didn’t have a novel, though.

I turned back to short stories. I had a number that I’d written on one of my old social media platforms. I had that ten thousand word bit that I could offer. I decided to offer a short story collection. A sampler of sorts. In fact, I’d do two: one that was comprised of stories that occurred in the world we knew and one that happened in the realms of sci-fi and fantasy. I decided I would, kind of as a gimmick, offer ten stories for ninety-nine cents and call it “Ten Cent Tales”.

I was very proud of Just Next Door, the first collection. I put it up in August of 2012. I was so interested in promoting it, that I gave it away for free on New Year’s. I got a ton of downloads. I got a review or two. However, I had nothing else to offer; advertising only really works if you have something to advertise.

I got a few sales, probably from friends and family more than anything, but by June I had a new collection: The Gears of Strange Machines. Again, I was very happy with my work. These two were never intended to be what launched me into professional writing, but samplers to get people into what I had to put out. Again, I got good reviews but nothing really took off.

I wrote a novel after that, which was a NaNoWriMo project that I worked on for months after; it topped one hundred thousand words. I also wrote a sequel. I offered my two collections now and again as freebies to get people to try my work. I also got some hard copies to sell to people who weren’t into ebooks.

In 2019, I got to do a convention. I brought copies of everything including my shorts and I sold a copy or two, but that was about it. I was told that people liked the ideas and the pitch of my short story collections, but they were thin.

I went back to the drawing board. I pulled stories from both collections and shuffled them to make Evil Works, which I released right before the lockdown. At forty-thousand words or so, it was not a novel-length work

NaNoWriMo has come back around and I wasn’t sure what to work on. I don’t do it every year and I thought about skipping it this time. I have some half-started things that would be suitable, but I just wasn’t sure what I had the energy for.

Then I looked at my Reddit history. See, on Reddit, there’s a place where people post writing prompts.

I already had thirteen stories averaging about a thousand words apiece. If I could add another fifty thousand words then shuffle it back down, I’d have a new collection.

I dove into the project and, halfway through the month, I’m almost done. I’ve never written this much this fast. I look up the sub, choose one or three prompts, then play around with them. I petitioned my friends in real life and got a couple of juicy ones. I even took inspiration off of a Tik-Tok personality.

One of the best parts about this project is that I’ve fallen in love with short stories again. These bite-sized bits of madness are a wonderful playground for outrageous concepts that would be hard to keep going convincingly for three hundred pages. If I can create a world that makes sense for four, then once you read it I can wipe the slate and then give you an entirely new world. I get to experiment, get weird, and take things to the edge of the absurd.

It’s not just been a productive month so far. It’s been damn fun.

Once I get through the last few thousand words and the last two or three tales, the work of revision and editing begins. After that, I need to winnow it down. I want to keep it to fifty to fifty-five thousand words, somewhere over two hundred pages or so. I cannot wait to hand the finished project off to the world and see what people think (if I don’t convince myself it’s all trash first. Spoiler: It’s not all trash.)

Whether it sells or not, I am grateful to those who offered inspiration. Whether this helps me close the gap between “published author” and “successful author” or not, I will have enjoyed this just for the pure pleasure of writing it.

Maybe one day they’ll call a Short Story Specialist a “Stephens”. That would be kind of awesome.

One of my favorite people, Lucinda Rose, has a birthday coming up and the one thing she asked of the world at large was this: review a book. One of hers, someone else’s, doesn’t matter. Any book you’ve read. Drop a review.

Writing has been described as like telling a joke and waiting months to see if anyone laughs. Reviews, both great ones and not-so-great ones, are the best way for us writing the stories to know if we hit the mark or missed it and what our audience wants to see more of. I am grateful for everyone who downloads one of my stories or just reads one; you’re the difference between me being a storyteller and just talking to myself.

Most authors I’ve talked to feel exactly the same way.

If you’re seeing this on the day I post it or if you’re seeing this, whether it is before, on, or after Lucinda’s birthday, do her a solid and show an author some love. Or criticism. Or just honesty.

It is an amazing gift for any author for any occasion.

PS: To the left, there you’ll see a link to authors I like, most of who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. If you need something to read and then review, they’re a good place to start.

One thing that should have tipped me off to the fact I have ADHD was that there are really only two times in my head: Now and Not Now. This doesn’t mean I have no memories; there are some moments that stick and stand out. It’s just if I had to put them in a row, it would be an effort and probably involve a lot of mistakes.

One such moment was when I got my titanium spork.

by Snow Peak

As silly as this sounds, it is one of the best purchases I have ever made. It’s light, useful, goes everywhere with me that I carry my bag. Until I got a reminder from FaceBook, though, I had no idea that I’d had it since a few days before my 40th birthday, a solid decade ago.

I have even less memory of what I was doing then. I was working the same job I am now, but I wasn’t certified. I was with Shondra, two years married and 12 years together. I wasn’t published yet. I was looking for my first house. I was unsure about so much.

I wish I could say what lessons I’ve learned in the past 10 years. It’s not that I haven’t had any; I’ve had scads. It’s that they are all in the Not Now. I already knew by that time that you have to hold people close because you don’t know how much time you’ll get with them. I knew that you never stop learning, there’s always more to know, to understand a little deeper, and it’s going to be weirder and more bizarre and more mystifying than you can imagine. I already knew I had to take better care of myself if I wanted to be around to find out what’s next. I already knew by that point that what’s important, truly important, are your people.

Maybe all I’ve had since then are those lessons pounded into me. I’ve made so many mistakes, come back from them, had days of crushing anxiety, days of happiness beyond description, grown closer to some and farther from others. Love and despair, outrage and satisfaction, certainty and the humbling understanding that I know nothing.

I do know I worried about my legacy. I’m less worried about that now. There’s too much to do still.

I have a library of stories in my skull and I need to get as many of those out as I can while people are still interested in listening. I still need to gain enough that I don’t worry so much and maybe enough to help friends and strangers. I have things I want to do, places I want to go, and a man I still want to be.

I told my friends on my birthday that this isn’t the best version of me yet. I owe a lot of people for helping me get this far. I hope that I can become the man that repays them, at least by demonstrating they were backing someone who didn’t squander it.

I am grateful, I am humbled, I am lucky, I am loved. I don’t always remember where I’ve been or know where I’m headed, but I’m not lost. And I’m still here; a half a century down, who knows how much more to go.

I got myself another titanium spork, this one adonized purple. It’ll probably be my at-home spork and the original my travel spork. These are tools meant to last and I hope I put them and all the others I’ve gotten in the past ten years, as well as the whole of the past 50, to their best use.

Maybe at 60, I’ll get the green one.