Please Be Prompt

It might be April Fool's Day, but this is no joke - Please Be Prompt is back!

Co-hosts Ryan Rimmele and Joshua Witsaman return with a pair of poems based on the above prompt.  The hosts also discuss how their processes differ when writing poetry versus prose.  

It’s confusing isn’t it?

When the sun rises and the sun sets

When the moon and the stars remain in the sky

When flowers bloom and leaves fall

But it’s not confusing

When a witch smokes a cigarette in a lake.

When her thoughts of cathedrals drift as easy as the swan behind her

Holding his driver in hand desperate for the golf ball he knows landed nearby

It’s not confusing

When a clock melts into a pool of radiant hues

When a horse sprouts wings and asks if you party

When your right hand converges with the universe and erupts into a heavenly choir

It’s not confusing

When spiders crawl through your eyes as you lie awake

When the pope‘s blood-filled mouth screams in horror after dinner

When the man with no face tells you how you’re going to die

When the abnormal becomes the everyday

When visions are all that you see

Confusion turns on its head

And your head turns on you

Stones which, until that day, had been stacked high as towers and walls.

Looming, venerable, oppressive walls.

But now they serve to provide stability, for her footsteps.

Serenely she marches into the tarn 

In triumph, that daughter of Hecate strides the rippled mirror 

Where regal swans so recently floated. 

Such cygnids took flight, disturbed by assaults on ramparts nearby 

As coven, together found, new freedom.

Sisters of the lineage, undoing false consecrations. 

Spells were cast, skulls were cracked, and sunk was that blighted cathedral. 

No fowl could be seen on the water now. 

As fiery thoughts temper there, madame lights a cigarette. 

Victory can provide hope hereafter. 

But greed and chance bring about a different kind of holey land 

Flags spring up there, during that brief repose. 

Returned - the swans now play golf, where those mistresses were bloodied. 

Heedlessly, victory has been usurped. 

Witches know well the nature of Time - yet still are cursed by it. 

A coven collectively drowned beneath,

The deluge of opportunists, who always seem to prevail. 

The Prompt:

Write a story about a liar and include a time machine. Also use the sentence - "This means war"

On this episode of the the show co-hosts Ryan Rimmele and Joshua Witsaman welcome guest Daniel Kearsey! That means of course there will be a trio of stories based upon this prompt.

The first deals with a post apocalyptic future and the slim hope for something better.  The second deals with old friends who might be older than you realize. And the third tale of the episode deals with brothers whose imaginations might be closer to reality than they realize.   

Today was the day for Gelbrax Dufrain! 

At last he was being honored for the many achievements which he had achieved and the varied talents for which he was talented.

He had trained his entire life for this moment.  It hadn’t always been easy and it certainly hadn’t been quick, he was 157 years old after all, but at last he was here, standing within the capital halls of the intergalactic presidium itself!

With his head held high Gelbrax ascended the staircase toward the grandstand. 

There at the top awaited Twilla Zorbell – intergalactic sovereign vizier!  Chief Executive Administrator of all known worlds and distinguished commander of the eternal defensive fleets of the Galactic Hegemony.

Upon reaching the zenith of the hovering staircase Gelbrax took a knee and bowed his head before the Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier, precisely as he’d been instructed.

“This is a tremendous day for all sentient life in the galaxy!” ISV Twilla Zorbell declared, raising her hands in a sweeping gesture of diplomatic accord.  The motion was quite exaggerated and overblown in person, but something that would play well to the bajillions of registered voters watching at home via videofeed across countless exoplanets galaxy-wide. 

“We are here today to declare Gelbrax Dufrain the undisputed, verifiably, and scientifically proven greatest liar in the entire galaxy!”

A tremendous cheer erupted from the throngs in attendance at the presidium and Gelbrax rose to his feet to accept their adulation and receive the accompanying plaque which went along with this distinguished honor.

It was true. Gelbrax Dufrain was the pinnacle of professional liars.

There of course was some natural talent which Gelbrax had exhibited from a young age, but there had also been a single-minded determination and constant strenuous training, which went into making him the best.

Gelbrax was not only a skilled liar, but lived his life within a convoluted series of lies.

Lying was so ingrained in his personality, that it literally became his entire existence. 

He had made a life out of lying.  Money, home, friends – every part of his regular day-to-day was fueled through a constant stream of lies.

Of course Gelbrax was charming, that was a large part of what made his lies so successful. 

He spoke with such confidence, alertness, and poise that he made the most ridiculous and ethereal concepts seem as plausible as a photograph in your hand. 

Earlier in his career Gelbrax briefly contemplated getting into politics, or enrolling in the propaganda ministry but he had a passion to be the greatest, and politics was the realm of petty liars. 

He didn’t lie for wealth or power, but rather for a love of the craft.

In many ways Gelbrax saw himself as an artist.

“Gelbrax Dufrain for your continued excellence in the realms of falsehood and misdirection, for your fundamental contributions to the science of lying, and for your unparalleled achievements with verbal and written perfidiousness I present to you the title of the Galaxies Greatest Liar and Honorary Perjurer Laureate of our Galactic Hegemony!”

ISV Zorbell held up the highly filigreed plaque, accentuating its golden accents showing off the prestigious award for the audience and those viewing across the cosmos. 

Gelbrax reached out to accept the award but was startled when he heard a guttural shout issuing from the bottom of the stairwell.

“This will be your end!” A voice cried out.  “This means war!”

It was an ambassador from the planet of Rellowdol who Gelbrax had seen waiting in the wings.

Gelbrax was initially annoyed by this rude interruption. 

The Rellowdolian delegation was scheduled next on the docket, they had some peace treaty or something like that to present.  Gelbrax didn’t really know, he hadn’t been paying attention, plus he’d been late and missed most of the introductions in the green room.

But whatever the alien ambassador was here for now could certainly wait another hour until after Gelbrax had wrapped up his acceptance speech!

As this thought occurred to Gelbrax Dufrain he noticed that the Rellowdol ambassador was holding some sort of strange object in his tentacled grasp.  It appeared to be some sort of rectangular object with various spikes and buttons across it. 

The ambassador seemed to be brandishing it like a weapon.

Instinctively Gelbrax shied away from the angry Rellowdolian as they stormed up the stairs heading directly toward the Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier.

Before he could even register what was happening Gelbrax watched as the Rellowdolian Ambassador struck the galactic leader with the weapon.

Almost instantly the Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier exploded right where she stood and just as instantly Gelbrax was covered in a hot slick gore which had previously been the Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier.

Before Gelbrax could even flinch the Rellowdolian Ambassador similarly exploded adding a layer of blue gore overtop the gore of the recently exploded ISV.

Gelbrax now stood alone atop the grandstand, covered in blood and entrails, staring in shock at the horrific scene around him.

Those in attendance at the Presidium were screaming in enraged hysterics!  It was unlike anything Gelbrax had ever heard before.

But that uproar within the capital was nothing compared to the cacophonous sounds of all out war which would soon come to dominate the life of Gelbrax Dufrain, along with almost everyone else in the galaxy. 

The assassination of the Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier immediately lead to the largest and bloodiest war the galaxy had ever seen.

Politics, diplomacy, and governmental infrastructure completely deteriorated over the first decade of the war.

Twenty years later, terrorist cells dominated entire star systems.  War lords ruled pirated fleets which enslaved most of the civilian populations. Commerce and manufacturing were non-existent.

Sixty years later the galaxy was completely unrecognizable.  Entire civilizations had been wiped out either from warfare, disease, or intergalactic ennui.

---

Unsurprisingly Gelbrax Dufrain had managed to survive this cosmic apocalypse which had gutted the rest of the universe around him.

Gelbrax was now aged and scarred. 

The years had been hard but his skills had seen him through the worst of it. 

His lies had gotten him in and out of more trouble than he could remember.  The world of mistruths he lived within had become so all-encompassing and engrained that it had become a delusion, a psychosis, and a major point of pride.

So many of these self proclaimed post-apocalyptic warriors were making their way with combat skills, wilderness survival knowledge, or intimidation mixed with ruthlessness.

But nobody could survive the collapse of society like Gelbrax Dufrain - through sheer force of lying. 

As these thoughts occurred to Gelbrax he found himself picking through the rubble of a partially collapsed building.  He was however halted in his tracks by the sound of a nearby explosion (a fairly common occurrence in those days) and a bright flash of light.  He also heard a strange noise which sounded something like the crackling of electricity.

The flash had temporarily blinded him and his pulse quickened, internally he readied a series of potential lies he could put to use to escape whatever danger this might be. 

When his sight returned he saw an odd scene.

There was now some sort of large mechanical device sitting in the field, near the partially collapsed building.  It certainly had not been there just a few moments ago.  It was fairly large and he wondered how something that size could have gotten here so quickly, it didn’t appear to be any type of vehicle he was familiar with.

The machine consisted of a series of pipes and buttons.  It had small flashing lights and bright display screens which showed various series of numbers and equations. 

In the center of the machine was a narrow looking hatch with a small frosted porthole.

To his surprise the hatch sprung open and Gelbrax saw the machine had a cozy little interior which consisted of a swiveling chair surrounded by more display screens.

Even more surprising was the fact that someone was sitting in the chair. 

With a quick motion the occupant spun around in the chair and pointed a plump finger directly at him.

“Are you Gelbrax Dufrain!?”  The person blurted out quickly.

“No.”  Gelbrax lied.

“Ah, yes.  Of course you are!”  The person insisted.  “There’s not a chance that my calculations were incorrect.”

Without hesitation the new arrival squeezed their way out of the compartment within the machine and walked toward Gelbrax.

They were dressed in what appeared to be a white lab coat and wore thick goggles pulled down over their eyes.  Their hands were sheathed in some sort of technological gloves and their clothes were adorned with various other devices which they’d tucked within their pockets or clipped to their lapels. 

“I’m Professor Merryweather Hathgrow and I need your help to reverse the horrific chain of events which have transformed our entire Galactic Hegemony to this irreversible nightmare!”

Gelbrax opened his mouth to respond but Professor Hathgrow raised a hand to silence him.

“Tut tut!”  The Professor chided him.  “I dare not even allow you to speak and suck me into any of your various well-crafted lies.  That has already happened to me once and nearly terminated our chances of returning to a normal life!”

The professor turned and gestured toward the machine.

“Let me simply state, that this is a time machine of my own design.”  The professor explained.  “I require your assistance to undo the assassination of Intergalactic Sovereign Vizier Zorbell and prevent the genesis of this disastrous timeline.”

The name of Zorbell and that incident seemed like a lifetime ago but Gelbrax didn’t understand what he could do now to undo any of it.

“No, no again I must insist that you do not speak!”  The professor reiterated.  “As I’m sure you remember the ISV was assassinated with a unique Rellowdolian weapon which was subsequently destroyed when the ambassador took their own life.”

Gelbrax silently acknowledged.

“Well it seems that you were the only being in the galaxy who actually got a good look at the device.  And the only person who could perhaps go back in time and neutralize the device and, most importantly, do so without violence! We can’t risk disrupting the normal series of events of the timeline. 

The Rellowdolian peace treaty must be carried out as planned!  We need you to use your subtle and skillful lying abilities to locate and remove the weapon before it can be used in the assassination.”

The Professor paused for emphasis, looking Gelbrax directly in the eyes.

“Can you do it?”  They asked.  “Gelbrax, can you help save the galaxy from a slow and sorrowful decay into obscurity?”

Gelbrax pondered it for a moment then shrugged.

A shrug being the best possible response he could manage, being as neutral as possible to avoid lying.

“Ha ha! Perfect!”  The professor chortled.  “That’s what I was hoping for.”

The professor hurriedly shoved Gelbrax into the time machine and closed the hatch.  Remaining outside Professor Hathgrow tapped a few buttons on their impressive gloves and with a crackling flash the machine, and Gelbrax, were gone.

--- 

After arriving in the past Gelbrax went straight to work.

First things first, he talked his way into some fresh, non-apocalyptic clothing.  A finely pressed energon suit with kyber detailing and a mélange ascot.  It took some time to find the right fit, but appearances were important. 

Dressed for the occasion Gelbrax quickly made his way to the presidium, only slightly behind schedule.

A guard at the door halted him, requesting his authorization.

Shifting his weight just right, Gelbrax perfectly gave off the air of annoyance and authority. 

Then tilting his head, he arched one eyebrow with such precision that when he spoke his words met absolutely no resistance.

“Are you kidding me son?”  Gelbrax spoke down to the guard.  “I am the Minister of Defense.  I sign your checks sergeant!”

The guard quickly straightened, standing at attention.

“Yes sir! Of course sir!  My apologies sir!”  The guard replied, opening the door for Gelbrax.  “Please right this way sir!”

As the guard admitted Gelbrax through, he quietly hoped that this didn’t mean he was getting a demotion because he was, after all, a lieutenant.

Once inside Gelbrax made his way to the Presidium’s green room, just outside the hover staircase and grandstand beyond. 

He arrived just in time to see his younger past-self exiting the room to ascend the stairs. 

Gelbrax scanned crowd of bureaucrats and functionaries within, quickly spotting the Rellowdolian Ambassador standing by a small bar.

He casually sidled up beside the alien ambassador.

“I’ll take a Starport drip.”  Gelbrax told the android behind the bar.

“What is that?”  The android asked confused.

Gelbrax quickly waved away the question.

“Just give me whatever you have there.”  He insisted in a hushed tone.

Taking his drink Gelbrax stepped up beside the Rellowdolian.

Casually he looked over the alien, searching for the weapon which would soon be used to kill the IVS. 

There it was!  He saw it, the weird boxy, spikey, buttoney thing!

It was clipped to the ambassador’s uniform near what Gelbrax assumed was it’s shoulder.

Slowly he reached out toward the ambassador, hoping to snatch up the weapon before dashing away victoriously.

Just then the ambassador took a swig of his own drink and the motion created a flurry of tentacles which enveloped the weapon, hiding it from Gelbrax’s sight.

The ambassador turned then and upon spotting Gelbrax, grabbed hold of his extended hand with a trio of tentacles and shook it vigorously.

“Ah a pleasure to meet you!”  The Rellowdolian said quickly.  “I’m Stewart! And did I overhear that you are the Minister of Defense!?”

“Um, yes.  That is correct, that is exactly who I am.”  Gelbrax replied with a sudden smile and vigorous handshake of his own.

“Well perhaps you can give me some inside information about your illustrious leader’s intentions for me and my people!”  The ambassador joked.  “Or at the very least perhaps you can give me some tips to ensure success for our treaty!”

“Oh, you know, just be yourself!”  Gelbrax shrugged.  “That’s what I always say!”

Shifting his gaze, Gelbrax pointed at the weapon on the alien’s uniform.

“Oh, now what is that you have there?”  He asked coyly, quickly changing the subject.

“You have a sharp eye Minister!” The ambassador smiled. “This is an exceedingly rare and ancient artifact of my people, a one of a kind weapon from our oldest days.”

“Oh a w-weapon you say?”  Gelbrax continued nervously.

“Oh yes, but a weapon intended to prevent violence rather than encourage it.  You see the planet Rellowdol saw much violence in our ancient past, but it brought nothing but suffering.

So our ancient artisans created weapons which would not only vaporize an enemy but would vaporize the user of the weapon as well.  The intention was to ensure that any such violence was absolutely crucial, for in its committing the individual perpetrating such violence would not benefit from it.”

“Sure, sure.  How quaint.”  Gelbrax remarked.  “But security allowed you to bring that thing in here?”  Gelbrax asked.

“Of course, it is a great sign of respect and an honor to be worn on the uniform for such an important occasion such as this treaty!”

Gelbrax nodded slowly, eyeing the weapon as he contemplated his next move.

“And speaking of such things, I do so wish we could get on with this treaty!”  The Rellowdolian ambassador stated.  “We have much to discuss and much to share.  Unfortunately we must be delayed by the giving of awards to some intergalactic idiot!”

Gelbrax was snapped out of his contemplations by that statement.

“Idiot, sir?  Why, whatever do you mean?”  Gelbrax asked, doing his best not to let any offense show.

“Oh yes, an idiot to be sure.”  The ambassador repeated.  “I understand that the Galactic Hegemony celebrates all manner of achievements, but the galaxies best liar?  I do not agree.”  The ambassador said flatly.  “On Rellowdol con artists and deceivers are not figures of adoration.”

Gelbrax clenched his jaw tightly and chuckled stiffly through his teeth.

“Well you see good sir” Gelbrax interjected.  “As I understand it, Gelbrax Dufrain is not merely a con artist but a craftsman of artisanal lies.  He has in fact perfected the craft of lying and finds himself living a lie which is so convincing that it ostensibly has become his reality.”

“Well that all sounds like a fancy way to say ‘idiot who doesn’t have a real job’ Glaha ha ha ha!”  The Ambassador laughed loudly jabbing Gelbrax playfully with several of his tentacles.

“But now it looks like my turn has come at last!”  The ambassador stated, finishing his drink.  “The idiot has received his award and is almost done!”

Gelbrax stared blankly with a soured smile on his face, something that nearly resembled a snarl. 

The mission he was here to complete was absent from his thoughts.

“Do you have any last words of advice for me Minister before meeting with your Sovereign Vizier?”

“Absolutely ambassador, I would make sure not to touch her with those slimy little tentacles of yours.”  Gelbrax blurted out.  “She has told me, in confidence, that tentacles such as those give her the creeps (her words, not mine) and the mere thought of having to see those things flail around in front of her was enough to make her nauseas!

So it would probably best to keep those wiggly little buggers clasped behind your back if you don’t want the leader of the free galaxy losing her lunch across your peace treaty.”

The entire green room was suddenly silent. 

Gelbrax looked around confused, everyone was staring at him. 

Perhaps that was slightly uncalled for.  He thought to himself. 

Unfortunately for Gelbrax he hadn’t arrived in time to receive the briefing about the Rellowdolian culture which had been presented for everyone in the room before the ambassadors arrival.

As it was, one majorly important topic of the briefing, and a point that was reiterated multiple times throughout the presentation, was to never, ever, ever, never (not even slightly), disparage or speak ill of the Rellowdolian species’ tentacles. 

The appendages were not only a matter of pride for the people of Rellowdol but major aspects of their religious and sexual practices as well.

Across the room quiet gasps and murmurs could be heard from the onlookers.

The Rellowdolian ambassador was quivering with rage.

Wincing, Gelbrax once more remembered what exactly he was supposed to be doing and antagonizing the alien with the ancient weapon was not it.

Without warning the ambassador began flailing wildly, he pushed past Gelbrax, went out the door, and ascended the stairway beyond.

Slowly Gelbrax began walking in the opposite direction, toward the exit.

As he was leaving he heard chaos erupt behind him.  He didn’t even bother to turn around, he already knew what had happened.  He’d already lived it once.

“Well, I guess some things are just inevitable.”  Gelbrax said to himself as he contemplated which supplies he should loot first.      

Every Thursday evening Steven and his older brother Kyle’s mom goes to the neighbor’s house to play cards and “drink pop.”

On these occasions the neighbor’s teenage daughter comes over to watch movies and drink pop.

Steven and Kyle spend their time in the basement where the floor creates an ideal race track.

After recently upgrading their refrigerator, the space under the stairs would become the perfect place for a time machine.

“When should I go now?” asked Steven of his older brother.

“That’s just an old box,” responded Kyle. “You can’t actually go anywhere.

Angrily, Steven rushes into the box, slamming the cardboard flaps with a soft whooshing sound.

After making beeping and booping sounds from his mouth, Steven yells out to his brother.

“See, I did it! There’s dinosaurs everywhere!”

Kyle runs over to the box and throws open the flaps to reveal Steven sitting alone with his hands out in front of him, holding an invisible steering wheel.

“You just missed them,” said Steven, with a smile on his face.

Kyle closes the box, leaving his brother behind to continue his beeping and booping.

As Kyle walks away Steven shouts out again.

“Whoa, you should see all the cowboys!”

Kyle runs to the box and again throws open the flaps to find Steven alone. No cowboys. No steering wheel.

“You just missed them,” Steven says.

Kyle backs out of the box and mutters under his breath, “This means war.”

Grabbing the box with both hands, Kyle shakes it violently. Tearing the flaps covering the entrance. 

Steven runs out of the box and inspects the damage.

“I must have hit a worm hole on the way back from Egypt.”

Fed up, Kyle runs into the box. 

“This isn’t a time machine, I’ll show you!” he shouts as he pretends to hit buttons and beeps and boops with his mouth. 

Steven runs in after him, “We can’t make another trip until we fix the damage! Otherwise we won’t be able to come back!”

Kyle grabs the invisible steering wheel and looks over to his brother. 

“Good,” he says as he pushes the center of the steering wheel. 

Kyle looks at his brother and begins to speak but is cut off by the distant sounds of screeching. 

Both brothers look toward the opposite end of the time machine, and through the small opening see thick jungle and the passing shadow of a T-rex.

Jason has been down on his luck since he was forcibly removed from his parent’s home some three years ago. “Down on his luck” is a phrase he has heard ad nauseum since, as if that day had just been a random act of unluck.

WIth few options at his disposal and a growing desire to live with a roof over his head, he sets out each day in search of small jobs. Cleaning houses. Delivering parcels. Any job that will earn him enough money to eat that day.

At his local corner store is a bulletin board placed just inside the entrance. His daily routine includes checking for any odd jobs that could earn him some money. On this particular day he grabs an address off the last tear off looking for someone to deliver some packages. Having completed numerous delivery jobs he was no stranger to the process. He would ride out to the address listed, knock on an old door in some back alley that smells like piss and cat food, and take a nondescript parcel to whatever location is written on the box.

As he entered the usual back alley he noticed an absence of the usual smells and lingering garbage. This alley was almost clean. As if it had been new. He came to a large metal door painted a deep blue. A logo was affixed to it, a bright red globe with a yellow circle in the middle.

He knocked on the door. A beeping started as a camera spun to look at him, its motors whirring behind its enclosed glass orb. His eyes were met with a bright red flash, temporarily causing his vision to blur. At this moment the door opens, revealing a well-lit hallway with a mid-century modern decor, wood paneling and green patterned wallpaper. The hall stretched for as long as he could see -- much longer than he remembered the block to be.

Jason peers into the doorway, still unsure whether entering is the best idea. A crackling voice comes from a nearby speaker, “Third door on your left.”

Jason stands up straight, his eyes darting side to side. “What?” he asks.

“I said the third door on your left,” the voice responds with an impatient tone. “Come on, dude. Just go through the door. And shut it behind you, if it stays open too long an alarm goes off and it’s fucking annoying.”

As Jason passes through the opening he feels a warm blast of air, from the well-heated hall. He closes the door behind him and makes his way forward. As he passes the first set of doors he can hear the distant sound of chatting and printers spitting out page after page. This must be an office, he thinks as he sees a middle-aged man dressed in a tie and white shirt pass from one doorway to the other ahead of him.

He reaches the third door on his left. It’s a plain wooden door, with no remarkable accents. Nothing about this place is remarkable, actually. Just an office in an alley with a security camera and an impatient security guard.

Jason, feeling better about his location now that he’s confident he’s not in danger or could easily run away, opens the door and enters the third room on his left.

The room smells like antiques. Wood paneling covers the wall and a large red persian rug lays on the floor. The only furniture is a wooden table and a chair situated in the center of the room. On the table is a box decorated with brass latches and a floral inlay design.

Again, the crackling voice tears through the air, “Please, sit down.”

Jason slowly makes his way to the chair, inspecting every inch of the table and box as he does.

“The chair isn’t going to bite you,” says the voice. “Just sit down.”

Once sat in the chair, Jason can get a better look at the box. Besides its floral design, it too is unremarkable. It’s a box anyone could have purchased from the home goods store uptown. They probably have a case of mediocre wine somewhere around here too.

“Open the box.” the voice says.

Jason, without hesitation, opens the box to reveal a timer and a single 20-sided dice.

Lazily, as if reading from an instruction booklet, the voice begins, “Inside the box you will find a 20-sided die and a timer. As the ‘player,’ it is your job to roll the die until either you decide to stop or can no longer roll the die. The timer will keep track of your progress and will begin the moment you roll the die for the first time.”

The voice stops as Jason inspects the die -- a deep red with yellow numbers. He had seen a set just like it at the nearby gaming shop. The voice returns with an abrupt popping sound, “Also there is a reward of $100,000 for each hour you continue rolling the die.”

Jason is dumbfounded. In shock and unable to speak, he looks around him, expecting to see cameras and the obvious signs of a TV prank show. He remains alone in the room, no sounds but his own breathing, and the sound of midday traffic on the other side of the wall.

“For fuck’s sake, just roll the die, dude,” the impatient voice says.

Jason picks up the die, shakes it in his hand, and releases it into the box -- it ricochets off the walls of the box and rests near the center.

As the number 16 stares up at him, he waits. Maybe something is supposed to happen after rolling the die, he thinks to himself. This can’t be all he has to do. What’s the money for? Why is he rolling the die? How many hours will they let him do this?

Suddenly, he hears the screeching of tires outside. A cacophony of twisting metal and blood curdling screams tears through the air, startling Jasona and causing him to bolt out of the chair. Police and fire sirens cut through the sounds as the crackling voice returns, “Please sit back down and continue rolling the die.”

Jason looks down at the timer: 5 minutes. He is nowhere near the first hour and very certain they don’t do partial credit. 

“We do not do partial credit,” the voice says, answering the question he never actually asked.

As the sounds of a car accident play out in the background, he sits down in the chair and picks up the dice. He rolls the dice around in his hand, feeling it bounce off his fingers and palm. Releasing the die, it rolls across the table, landing near the center. 

With a yellow number 5 resting face up, the floor beneath Jason begins to rumble -- low at first but builds rhythmically as the sound of screeching meets his ears. The hideous noise is like nothing he has ever heard, save the monster movies he watches through his fingers. No earthly creature could have possibly produced that shriek. 

The building shakes, tiles fall from the office’s drop ceiling. Jason looks around as walls begin crumbling. He grabs the die and makes for the door.

The voice cracks through the shrieks and screams as Jason takes off down the hall, “Please, sit back in the chair,” it says. “The events outside have nothing to do with you and you are not helping by going outside.”

Jason breaks through the outside door as the voice continues to follow him, “Please, sit back down and continue rolling the die,” the voice says as Jason makes his way out of the alley.

As Jason enters the street he can see people running and screaming, a giant, flying, whale-like creature streiks through the sky. It dives at the crowd below and slams into the buildings, causing debris to fall onto the people below.

The creature raises up into the sky and turns 180 degrees, almost as if it has picked Jason out of the crowd. It shrieks and bears down straight for him. Seeing no way to escape Jason runs for his life. As fast as he can, pushing people out of the way, he does everything he can to avoid being crushed by this flying creature.

Just as the creature hits the ground behind him, Jason leaps forward to avoid being crushed. The die flies from his hand, knocking between panicked runners and debris. It lands unceremoniously in front of him, a number 1 stares up at him.

Just then a shockwave runs through the ground. Cracks appear in the pavement around Jason and steam is released from them as if from an exploding boiler. An intense heat overcomes him and grabs the die and leaps to his feet. Red hot lava begins oozing from the newly formed cracks, bubbling and spewing into the air.

Jason runs as hard as he can toward nothing in particular except for the idea of not dying. Step by step he dodges falling lava and ever-expanding crevices. His feet float above the ground as he sprints away from danger. 

Suddenly the ground beneath him breaks at just the wrong moment, sending him flying through the air. Landing hard on his side and shoulder, he crumples into a fetal position. Desperately, he jumps to his hands and knees, opening his hands to find the die is missing.

From the street, Jason searches for the die. Looking around where he landed and underneath him until the glint of red catches his eye from across the street. At that moment, a cracking sound rings out through the air and a new set of shrieks echoes off the nearby buildings. Looking into the sky, he can see a second gigantic winged beast swooping down at the helpless crowds below.

A stampede of people blocks most of his view but he knows if he runs fast enough he can reach it. Like a sprinter at the starting line, he makes his way to the die. Running through a panicked crowd slows him down, but he is able to break through to the other side. Looking from side to side he catches a glimpse of the red die, sitting at the edge of the road.

Diving for the die, he lands with a hard thud on the sidewalk as the ground shakes once again. A crevice appears between him and the die, slowly adding space between him and it. He watches as the die teeters, teasing him each time it leans closer to the edge of the chasm.

Jason picks himself up from the ground as the die defies his every wish and tumbles down through the earth, stopping every few feet before falling further. 

The sound of a cracking whip and popping signals the arrival of a new group of horrors each time the die pauses. Screeching, winged beasts call out from the skies. The howling of demonic beasts erupt from around the corner as they make their way toward Jason. The sky goes dark as thick green clouds cover the sun and acid begins raining down on the people below.

Jason stands in the middle of a torn up street. Lava spewing into the air. Huge crevices break apart the ground. Acid rains from the sky. Bodies litter the ground. A pack of hell beasts bear down on him. 

Jason looks around panicked, trying to find any way to escape. He braces for the worst and closes his eyes tightly.

The die tumbles and falls through sewer systems and dirt. Past fossils and creatures that haven’t seen the sun since the dawn of man. Its silent journey down through the earth occurs with no knowledge from anyone on the surface. An important mission no one knows exists. 

As it careens through geological formations, it is suddenly stopped by the hard bedrock below. Causing the die to spin in place like a top that will never fall. It spins and spins as it hits each of its sides a dozen times before slowing -- selecting a singular point to teeter upon before rocking back and forth in its final place. A dirt covered, scratched and mangled number 20 sits upright, as if attempting to shine a beacon to the world above. A shock wave erupts from the critical roll.

Jason opens his eyes to find the street empty. The ground is without crevices and no lava is spewing into the air. Giant flying creatures no longer terrorize those fleeing on the ground. As he looks around, it’s as if none of the recent events happened. 

Pedestrians cross the road in front of him, drivers curse at him as they pass. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He lifts the phone to his ear. 

“Hello,” he says.

A crackling sound and then a pop comes through the phone. “Well done,” says the voice on the other end. “You’ve successfully rolled the die. If you check your bank account, you will find the appropriate amount of money has been deposited. If you have any further questions, please refrain from asking us or any other person you come in contact with. We do not exist. This never happened. Have a good day. Try not to die.”

The sweat was dripping down his face and into the corners of his eyes.  He blinked furiously, but with the gun pressed against his temple he didn’t dare try to wipe the sweat away.

He was nervous and hot. 

But the room itself didn’t seem any warmer, in fact he felt a cool breeze blow across his ankles.  It was coming from the room’s only vent.

The cold metal of the gun against his face contrasted his own rising temperature.  But even that didn’t last, the metal quickly warmed as it remained pressed to his flesh. 

The coolness of the object was absorbed by his quickly expanding aura of panic.

But how had he gotten here?  What was happening? 

It was like waking from a dream, his vision and realization snapping back into focus as his recollection slowly fell into place.

There had been something here, in here with him. 

But that wasn’t right, that couldn’t have been.  Had he imagined that? But what about everything else?

Now he was remembering – and it hadn’t been his imagination, it was more than that.

But how had he gotten here? 

When someone offers you a job opportunity like that, especially one that offers that much pay there is always a certain amount of caution.  If it’s too good, or too easy, to be true – it probably is. 

Instinctively more than a few alarm bells went off in his subconscious.

“So, you’re saying you want me to guard a single, empty room for an hour – and you’re going to pay me $100,000 dollars to do that?”

“That’s right.  That’s what we’re offering.”

It didn’t make any sense. 

When you work for a security firm, you quickly realize that the more a job pays, the more dangerous it is.  But that didn’t seem to be the case here.

“What exactly would I be guarding?  What is in this room?”

“Only what you bring with you.  You’re firearm, equipment, phone, etc.”

He had worked plenty of jobs that were explicitly hazardous environments. 

Chemical plants, where a small mistake could cause a big explosion. 

Political rallies where those attending had been worked into an explosive furor.  He’d felt the press of unruly crowds before, people pushing against him like a conscious wave of meat. 

There were also plenty of private security jobs for individuals and small organizations which were almost certainly taking part in highly illicit and extremely volatile dealings.  Which brought with them a lot of unknown, but certainly dangerous, variables.

None of those jobs however had ever paid anything near what was being offered here.

And for just one hour of work.

After the initial offer he made a call to the main office of his firm.  He wanted to make sure that this was legitimate, that this work had passed all of the background checks, and other safety requirements.

After headquarters confirmed the details, they also informed him that there were multiple shifts being filled at the same rate of pay.  They were requesting to station a guard at the same location nearly every hour of the day.  The only exceptions were the hours of Noon, Midnight, and 3 a.m.

His office encouraged him to accept the job quickly because other guards had already heard about these offers and were eager to fill the shifts.

Yeah, no shit.

After hanging up with the main office, he returned and accepted the offer.

The details regarding the job were sparse, but simple.

The company wanted a guard stationed in a specific room, for no longer than an hour at a time.  During which time no one was to enter the room and the guard was forbidden to leave.

When he asked about what he would be guarding they provided no answer, merely stating that he didn’t need to know. 

The guards were permitted any of their standard high priority security equipment.  Gun, taser, multitool, phone, and walkie.  They would provide a locker at the facility for any other personal effects.

Before the guard could ask, they informed him that there would be no further shifts available beyond those which had already been filled.

This was a one-time offer.

He was escorted to his post by a non-descript individual wearing a sleeveless sweater over a button down shirt and jeans.  The person carried a key card on their hip and used it to open a door into a featureless concrete hallway. 

The hallway lead down to an intersection of three other halls, each direction was just as featureless as the way they came.

With the exception of the left-hand path, where a door was set into the wall a short distance down the hallway.

This was the entryway to the room he’d be guarding.

The first twenty minutes were completely uneventful.

There was absolutely nothing in the room itself. 

It was roughly 50 feet square with white walls and white tile flooring.  The ceiling had an inset lighting fixture which bathed the room in harsh bright light.  In one corner there was an air conditioning vent which lazily blew cool air across the floor.

Pacing back and forth the guard tried to think of what the scenario could be which would require this specific room to have an armed guard.

The best he could come up with was that the hallways outside were used to move valuable assets.  Cash perhaps, or some sort of product they manufactured here.

Maybe they wanted this space for a fallback position if they ran into trouble, or a place to have extra security to call out en route if there was an issue.

But that didn’t really make any sense considering the job requirements.

The contract he signed specifically stated that no other individuals were to enter the room during the shift and the guard was not to leave the room, under any circumstances, or their terms and compensation would immediately be voided.

$100,000

It didn’t matter why they wanted him in this room, he could put up with anything for an hour to make that kind of money.

Leaning against one of the walls he took a moment to close his eyes, shielding them against the sterile fluorescent light around him. 

Listening to his own breathing he also heard the quiet clicking sound of the air conditioning starting its cycle again. 

A soft breeze was lazily escaping between the thin metal grates of the room’s only vent.

Leaning forward he opened his eyes and was immediately startled to see movement out of the corner of his vision.

Across the edge of his sight a dark shape seemed to slink across the room.  He quickly bolted forward and turned in the direction of the movement.  But there was nothing there.

His heart pounded in his chest as he chuckled to himself. 

Boredom and imagination seemed to be getting the best of him.

Checking his phone he saw he had half an hour left.  Just a few more laps around the room and he’d have the money and practically be a new person.

But something wasn’t right. 

His eyes didn’t feel right, more accurately his sight was wrong.

He was no longer looking at his phone, but rather seeing himself standing there, looking at his phone.

It was as if he was floating above his own body looking down at the room.

He moved his hand slowly and strangely saw himself turning his hand in the air. 

He pocketed his phone and watched himself put the device away.

His pulse remained elevated.

Was this a seizure? Had he fallen asleep?

Those thoughts quickly left his mind as his surroundings were replaced with nothing – a void.  The room was gone, he was gone, and there was no light and no dark.  It was all an indescribable nothing.

Then slowly something began to take shape in front of him. 

It didn’t make sense to him, it wasn’t approaching or even appearing but rather it was as if the scene was being constructed in front of him.  Small pinpricks of light, tiny specks of dust congealing as if atoms were combining to take shape of something he couldn’t yet determine.

Gradually the atoms coalesced into him, but it wasn’t him as he had appeared in the room.  It was an older version of him, from his past – he was younger and there was someone else with him.

The two of them were looking at a canvas together. 

The younger version of himself seemed to be in a hurry, he shrugged, shook his head and said a few words to the other person before walking away.

He vaguely remembered this moment from his past. 

The other person was his cousin – they’d been working on some project from art school and had asked to hear his thoughts.  He had been in a hurry at the time, had a bad day, and was annoyed by his cousin’s prodding and desire for validation.  He’d dismissed the piece as trivial, told his cousin it looked pretty amateurish. 

And he had been in a rush to be somewhere else, so he may have stated his opinions a bit too hastily.  

The scene flashed forward showing his cousin, later in life, they were in the process of moving.  They had dropped out of school, he remembered that.  The whole family had talked about it, everyone was disappointed.  His cousin moved out west somewhere, got away from everyone and got into drugs.

The guard didn’t know the exact details of what happened, only that two years later he got word that his cousin had died of an overdose.  Supposedly an accident.

Was that his fault?  Had his opinion been held in such high regard by his cousin?

Surely an artist would need a thick skin against such criticism?  Or had that interaction between them just been enough to push his cousin in the wrong direction? 

His lack of interest, his flippant disregard for their work. 

A lifelong relationship revealed eroded in an unsuspecting moment – causing his cousin to reflect on their own truths, the hidden knowledge they already knew but couldn’t fully admit to themselves.

This reflection of the guard’s life expanded into nothing once again only to contract back into focus, this time he was even younger.  Middle school. 

A large group of kids were orbiting one another.  He could see the group roughly separated by boys and girls - the boys laughing, joking.  They’re making fun of one of the girls.

He honestly had no recollection of this particular reflection of his life.  He wouldn’t have even suspected that it involved him if he hadn’t recognized the younger version of himself among the group. 

It was so strange to see his own softened features of youth in motion once again. 

A face he once knew so well but realized had long since vanished.  Now however he found himself suddenly inhabiting that childhood presence once more.

It was like wearing an old pair of shoes that were no longer your size but suddenly found them fitting once again.

The boys were laughing and teasing one of the girls, ‘Betsy’ they were calling her – but he remembered that she preferred to be called Elizabeth. 

The group of boys were all being mean and relentlessly cruel. 

The other girls yelled back, but they seemed tense, they were also scared.  As though the meanness might suddenly target them next if they defended Elizabeth too much.

Elizabeth was looking at him, the younger version of him,that stood among that crowd.  Though he hadn’t been in her face overtly hurling the insults and attacks, he had still been there. 

He’d stayed in the back reluctant to do anything that might draw attention.  He smiled when he thought he needed to and laughed when the others laughed.

And that’s all that Elizabeth saw.

She didn’t even remember who the loudest boy was in that group or who it was that reached down and pulled her shoe laces apart and made fun of her clothes. 

She only saw that he was there, with them. 

His face was there as she suffered and was humiliated and that was the biggest betrayal. 

She thought they were friends.

Later on he wouldn’t understand why she suddenly didn’t want to be friends with him anymore.  He didn’t understand how she could possibly be mad at him.

He hadn’t even said anything to her, he had thought at the time, trying to ease his own hurt feelings.

Just then he saw the trajectory of Elizabeth’s life – a successful woman, college, law school.  But there was a parallel life, a personal life of cautious relationships and misread intentions.

Of course that single incident on a middle school playground wasn’t the entire catalyst for a lifetime of emotional strife but it had certainly been a substantial stepping stone.

The vision twisted anew and he saw himself only a few years before his current life, when his grandmother was alive. 

He saw his grandmother’s old dog slowly pacing around her house looking as miserable as she had been. 

He had helped his grandmother as much as he could, because his father had asked him too.

His parents were working a lot already and taking care of grandma had been a substantial stress.  They wouldn’t have been able to keep up.  He did what he could, but it made him anxious.

He disliked being at his grandmother’s house. 

He felt bad for his grandma, felt pity for this once proud, strong woman who had raised, not only her children but half of her grandkids as well.  Being in that place always made him panic about his grandmother’s inevitable end, and contemplate his own death as well.

There were a lot of emotions surrounding his time helping his grandmother but he’d been glad to help.  He did what he could.

But he knew the dog needed help as well. 

Grandma couldn’t take it to the vet as often as it needed, couldn’t get its nails trimmed, bathe it, or any of that.

His parents hadn’t ever thought of the dog, beyond feeding it. 

But he had always liked that dog, and seeing it neglected only added to the anxiety of his time with grandma.

Yet he didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to pile on additional stress for his parents but more selfishly he remembered, he never mentioned the dog because if he had, it would only mean he’d have to help out even more. 

Then he would be over at his grandmothers more often, and it was already too much.

But now as he watched this vision, he saw himself there helping to clean his grandmother’s house.  

And he viscerally felt the pain of the dog.

The hunger.

The hair matted with filth. 

The overgrown claws curling under to dig into the pads of its feet. 

He could feel the pain of each hobbled step as the dog crossed the linoleum kitchen floor to pathetically lap up a drink of water.

As this fresh pain mingled with remembered emotions, the constant worry of that time seeped back into his consciousness like burning wax, oozing and hot and the image around him changed once more.

And then again.  And again.

Repeatedly over and over, for what seemed like an infinity.

Each time it was the same, a vision of himself and others in a small, seemingly forgettable moment from his life followed by the unfathomable consequences of those interactions.

Always bad, always negative results regardless of what his intention might have been - often times across far flung years.  

He didn’t understand. 

Where was the love?  The good things he’d done in life?  He knew there had been many.  He remembered tender moments, sweetness, and joy, but just couldn’t recall them now – they were blocked to him in this hellish nightmare.

He now completely understood the absolute entirety of every bad thing he’d ever done, every unintentional misdeed, and fully grasped the expansive repercussions and guilt associated with those deeds. 

Not only that but he physically saw the crowds of people who had negatively been affected by his actions during his lifetime, the lines of individuals spreading outward from the source in all directions like a creeping mold.

The sheer embarrassment he felt, the self-disgust welling up inside himself, was indescribable. 

He was furiously pathetic as his mind swirled with expanded consciousness.  He understood the concept of thought in a new way which bridged himself across to a new understanding of – empathy.

Yes, that is what it was. It is what he now was, and how he now felt. 

And it was too much.

He reached down to the gun at his hip. 

Sweat dotted his neck and forehead as tears streamed down his face.  Freeing the gun from its holster he pressed the barrel against his temple. 

Death could in no way undo the negativity he’d sown in his wake, but it would at least end his waking realization of it.  For that was something he could no longer stand to crowd his thoughts with.

His face was hot, so damned hot.

But the room itself didn’t seem any warmer, in fact he felt a cool breeze blow across his ankles.  It was coming from the room’s only vent.

There was a series of four knocks on the doorway.

It was the signal that his hour shift was over. 

He quickly holstered his gun.

Hastily he wiped the sweat and tears away with the back of his sleeve.

He was still leaning against the wall.

Slowly he pushed himself forward making his way to the door.

The employee there asked him to follow, stating the next guard’s shift would be starting soon and they would have to be out before they arrived.

Hazily he followed.  While contemplating who might be working the next shift, he would have felt something like pity for them, if he hadn’t still been completely numb.

All he could think about however was that no amount of money would have been worth this.

The Prompt:

The more dangerous a job is, the more it pays.  You just took a job offer to stand in an empty room and do nothing for $100k an hour.

Co-hosts Ryan Rimmele and Joshua Witsaman present two tales of odd jobs that seemingly pay too well.

The first is all fun and games, that is until the game isn't fun.

The second story deals with having your empathy turned against you.

The Prompt:

Write a story about an archaeologist and include a musical instrument.  Use the line: "I can fix this."

Bonus: There seems to be no one left on the planet.

Co-hosts Ryan Rimmele and Joshua Witsaman provide two stories based upon this particular prompt.

The first is about a college class presentation gone wrong.

The second is a parallel tale of two unlikely individuals meeting at an opportune time. 

That first Halloween party at college would prove to be a personal marker.  My college career would go on to be filled with similar social pitfalls. 

At that time I was an effervescent mixture of confidence, inexperience, casual drug use, and pre-9/11 positivity, embarking on a degree program in English literature with a minor in anthropology – or as it is commonly referred to as The Upper-Middleclass Parent’s Rout – due to the fact that an entire 18 years of shepherding, guiding, saving, and planning could be utterly decimated by the miscarriage of such academic aspirations.

Because my passion for writing and reading had been set in stone years before I had no hesitation in choosing a major. 

But it wasn’t until I actually began my college courses that I made the decision on my minor focus in anthropology.

And it was because of one professor in particular that I took a shining to Anthropology - Dr. Leo Richardson.

I’d taken his intro to anthropology class in order to meet some basic requirements but I was immediately interested in the subject and in no small part due to Dr. Richardson’s zeal.

He was the type of professor that you imagined college faculties would be filled with. 

Dr. Richardson was enthusiastic about archaeology, history, and the entirety of humanity’s past, as well as their future!

As a veteran archaeologist and professor he was eager to share his experiences, talk about archaeological digs in which he’d participated, describe the unique shards of pottery he himself had uncovered, pontificate on the importance of mudbricks, and explain how ancient bones could reveal whether or not prehistoric craftsmen spent a lot of time squatting while working.

Sure, on the surface it all seems like pretty tepid stuff.

But, if you are like me and curious how the world’s sick twisted past could influence and reflect the world’s sick twisted future than these types of classes would be right up your alley.

My early literary classes were filled with pretty standard readings and pretty standard discussions. 

The professors were well read and practiced instructors but they tended to blandly recite their lectures and were certainly lacking the unbridled eagerness that was simmering within my anthropology classes at the time.

I don’t want to be too harsh on my English courses, they were good classes and I was exposed to great works and new perspectives.  Those classes would become the infrastructure of my writing and literary interests.

However I absolutely believe that an understanding of history, culture, and people in general is critical to any type of writing.

My English coursework was the bones of my writing but anthropology would become the soul of that writing.

Dr. Richardson was an intriguing figure.  He was enthusiastic as I mentioned, but also captivating in a strange way due to his almost childlike eagerness to share his decades of experience.

However such eagerness can often be deflected by the pervasive shield of apathy and cynicism within college lecture halls.  It was clear that most of my classmates were not as fascinated by this excitable archaeologist as I was.

Sure, Dr. Richardson was corny as hell.  The man was a walking compendium of dad jokes. 

He also enjoyed using out-of-date pop culture references to explain various aspects of anthropology. Mentioning the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy while discussing commercial archaeology seemed to confound many of my peers in the seats around me.  However it was these unexpected gems which even further endeared the man to me. 

And of course when I actually understood some of those references it gave me a, completely unwarranted, sense of superiority to my fellow students who were uninitiated in the deeper realms of nerdom. 

All of that being said it was safe to say that Dr. Richardson would not be considered ‘cool’ on any scale which could measure the term.

However when you got past the goofy, giddy exterior and actually listened to the stories and lessons he was discussing you could see the shadow of an Indiana Jones type hidden somewhere within him.  You had to squint, but you could see it. 

It helped if you were across the room too.  And if he was wearing a hat. 

But it was definitely there.

Almost immediately I viewed Leo Richardson as a sort of mentor.

I was determined to apply myself in my anthropological studies if for no other reason than to gain the admiration of this learned academic. 

However at one point, after building a casual rapport with the affable professor, I nearly shit the proverbial bed.

I was taking Archaeology II and it was early in the semester.  One of our first big projects in that class was called the ‘Unidentified Artifact Field Book’.

Basically the assignment was that Dr. Richardson would reveal an average, everyday household item to the class and each student was to assume the role of an archaeologist who had just uncovered said object during one of their excavations.  The twist of this project however was that the students had to approach the object as if we had absolutely no knowledge of what it was or what it was used for.

Dr. Richardson explained that typically he would use a fork, screwdriver, earring, or some other simple, unassuming doodad as the subject. 

The job of the student was to apply what we’d learned in class and use context clues, stratigraphic information, and other surrounding artifacts discovered nearby at this fictional dig site and present an informed theory regarding what this item might be and what it might have been used for.

Dr. Richardson added another caveat to the assignment – stating that this project was one of his favorites of the semester and as such he liked to award a prize to the student with the best presentation.  The prize awarded would be one of the professor’s favorite novels.

Ah, a literary prize!  Even more incentive for me to win!  It could offer yet another point of conversation in which I could strengthen my kinship with this jovial Indiana Jones.   

On top of all that, Dr. Richardson also mentioned he had something particularly special planned for our class. 

Since my class was relatively small and the students generally more attentive than his other classes, Dr. Richardson decided to use a more unusual item as the titular unidentified object for our project. 

The pressure was mounting.

When the time came Dr. Richardson stood behind his desk and revealed a trombone. 

Yes, the long brass slide instrument with a large bell and funny name.  A trombone.  Not a fork.  Not a screwdriver.  But the ageless marching band staple, the trombone. 

The professor held the instrument up and unceremoniously dropped it on his desktop.

It was old and beaten up.  Dull and dented.  Dr. Richardson explained he’d seen it at a flea market and decided to buy it on a whim, specifically for this purpose.

Now of course you will remember, I know a thing or two about trombones. 

I fostered a begrudging respect for the instrument during my misguided years in middle and high school band.  During my time in band I’d reveled in sweeping love affairs and shrunk away from ego shattering embarrassments - all within the sphere of influence of the trombone.

So, obviously it was going to be particularly challenging to divorce myself from all knowledge and preconceived notions regarding the instrument, as the project required.

Carrying the trombone to a nearby corner of the room, Dr. Richardson sat it down and gave us our final instructions.

“Ok, so here is your assignment.” He told us, probably. 

(I’m not a stenographer I don’t know what his exact words were.)

“You have been part of an extensive archaeological dig, you’ve worked through various layers of sediment and uncovered this room!”  He said, flailing his arms wide to indicate our surroundings.

“The corner here, has just been revealed, and you see THIS!” He pointed to the trombone.

“But you have no idea what it is!  No idea what it could be used for!  It is a cultural artifact new to modern science and history and you must now use your extensive training to put forth the very first theories regarding its possible use!

“The only context you have to work with are these nearby filing cabinets and that rag on the floor next to the object.  The rest of the room remains yet to be revealed.  Now let’s begin by sketching the area with a numbered grid!”

I began to contemplate my approach to the project as I doodled the corner of the class.

My project had to be good, had to be original, and something that would really stand out from everyone else.

Then, as I sat there, a terrible idea sprang into my thoughts. 

As terrible as it was, in that moment it was seemingly a spark of genius.

I did a quick survey of my fellow students, to try and gauge the competition.  There were a couple fairly witty students to consider as threats but I was pretty certain none of them would come close to the ingeniously terrible idea I’d had and by the time I was back at my dorm room desk compiling my thoughts my mind was made up.

For my archaeology project, I was going to present the theory that this trombone was in fact, an ancient sex toy.

The days of preparation came and went.  This was not only a major project for the semester but a presentation made before the entire class. 

As my presentation time approached I double checked the requirements for the project, ensuring my materials met all of the criteria.

The two presentations before me were a couple of uninspired yawn-fests. 

I could almost see Dr. Richardson’s eyes glazing over with boredom.

The first kid theorized that the trombone was in fact some sort of farming equipment, with the rag belonging to a laborer and the filing cabinets containing harvest records. 

I found their evidence to be lacking and their rationale unconvincing.

The second presentation was even worse. 

They had the gall to present the theory that the trombone was in fact some ancient form of – musical instrument. 

I’m still not entirely sure if they were going for irony or simply missed the point of the assignment.

But when it came to be my turn I was feeling good about my material – that novel would be mine.

As I stepped to the front of the class and took the floor my confidence was overflowing! 

In my mind this presentation was to be the culmination of my collegiate studies up to that point – a perfect blending of my literary creativity and anthropological scientific training.  Not to mention perhaps the start of a burgeoning acting career – for I was about to embody the lampooned presence of this preeminent scientist who was explaining a theory in which they thoroughly believed this trombone, was without a doubt, an ancient sex toy.

To start off I turned to a large flip chart beside me and tore away the first page to reveal, in large bold print, my theory’s title:  The Perfect Tool to Bone Alone - Pleasure and Self Gratification in the Ancient World.

Almost immediately my audience was with me. 

There were a few smirks and quiet gasps from my fellow students as I revealed the title but as I launched into my presentation the chuckles and giggles began, building into genuine laughter as I presented the work with an overly deadpan expression which had the desired effect of making clear the humorous intent of my project.

That laughter would fuel the rest of my time at the head of the room.

I went on to explain that the instrument’s placement and the surrounding artifacts were key to determining that this was an ingenious tool of masturbatory intent.

Likewise the unique shape, movement and design of the artifact could serve no singular purpose other than for those quiet moments when ancient peoples were alone with their thoughts.

Certainly such an ungainly object and something so gaudy in appearance would not be carried around in public spaces and if done so would no doubt instantly reveal the users shame or at the very least make clear their unsatisfied sexual status.

I went on to explain my ideas regarding the artifact’s actual use. 

Impressing upon my fellow students that the artifact was most likely a universal self-pleasure tool able to be used by both men and women.

The large bell end was undoubtedly a receptacle for the male genitalia – the entry void being wide enough and the accompanying shaft long enough to accommodate any willing phallus.  The rag found at the site was most likely stuffed into the bell during use to heighten the sensation and in-turn could possibly be filled with any other manner of material.

On the other hand the elongated slide feature was clearly meant to stimulate female genitalia in a completely different but appropriate manner.

I put forth the idea that the slide by itself could be used for manual external stimulation or with the addition of attachments (though any evidence of such equipment remained unsubstantiated) could mean that penetration might also be achieved when using the object. 

Either way, ancient female users of the device could just as easily benefit from the object by operating the artifact with their hands or possibly even using their feet.

As I went through my presentation I mentally checked off all the requirements in my mind. 

My classmate’s reactions were exactly what I was hoping for and my self-confidence during the presentation reached such a peak that by the time I concluded I could only describe my attitude as swaggering.

At the very end I broke my faux academic deadpan and allowed myself to smirk a little as the class continued to laugh. 

I took a glance over at Dr. Richardson, hoping to gage his reaction – perhaps catching sight of him already bringing over the grand prize.

But when I saw his expression my swagger evaporated.

Dr. Richardson was sitting at his desk, more accurately he was slumped down in his chair –as if he was trying to hide behind the institutional gunmetal grey piece of furniture.

His face had lost its enthusiastic ruddiness and was uncharacteristically pale.

His typically disheveled hair was even more so, almost standing straight up.  His eyes were wide behind his large framed glasses and his lips were pulled back in a grimace which he was clearly trying to disguise as a smile.

He didn’t like it. 

The light of the world fled from me.  I now stood in the center of the room and it seemed like no one was left on the planet.

I’d gone too far.  I’d offended him, embarrassed him.  Of course I had!

“I can fix this . . . .” I thought to myself in a panic.  Except I had no idea how exactly.

Why would I expect this cornball, innocent, pun factory – this Labrador of a man – to be impressed with such an uncouth and inappropriate presentation within his realm of enlightened education?

Suddenly my evenings of pot induced inspiration were twisted into pot induced paranoia. 

I replayed the presentation in my mind and suddenly it was a horror show.  I especially regretted proposing the trombone’s spit valve as a possible device intended for easy cleanup.

Thankfully the class period was nearly over.

I quickly gathered up my materials and took my seat.

Dr. Richardson slowly shuffled up to the front of the class looking like someone who had just witnessed a murder.  He made his usual end of class reminders, reciting the words with a vacant tone. 

The class was released and the rest of my day continued beneath the shadow of that strange, amazing, and shameful moment.

Thankfully it was a Friday. 

My college weekend of smoking and drinking completely swept the moment from my mind, as well as most of the other moments from the week.

However as the following Tuesday rolled around and I made my way back to archaeology class I was struck with renewed dread.

As I got to class however I saw a trio of my classmates milling about outside the door.  They were looking over a note posted on the window.

“No class today. –Dr. Richardson”

There were some text readings listed for homework, but no reason given for the cancellation.

I could only assume it was because of me. 

I must have utterly demolished this porcelain professor and also shattered any respect I’d been able to garner with him up to this point.

I took the opportunity of the canceled class to check my mailbox – it had been awhile since I visited the post office and I had a couple of comic books waiting for me which could provide some solace during this panicked moment. 

When I picked up my mail I found a small rectangular package, wrapped entirely in plain brown paper and tied with string. 

Curious, I immediately unwrapped the package and was surprised to see a paperback novel inside.

It was Doctor Who and the Robots of Death one of the numerous novels from the old British sci-fi show Doctor Who (which at that time had yet to be revived in its modern incarnation).

Tucked into the book was a lined index card with a hand written note from Dr. Richardson which simply read – “Congratulations!  Top Marks!”

As I would later learn Robots of Death was one of Dr. Richardson’s favorite of the Who books and this particular book would go on to spark a great many geeky and academic conversations between Professor Richardson and myself.

In that moment however I was incredibly relieved.

As I examined my first place prize I noticed that the author of Doctor Who and the Robots of Death was an individual by the name of Terrance Dicks.

Which seemed like the perfect capper to the entire affair. 

I found myself laughing hysterically as I left the post office and made my way to my next class.

The beginning of the end of the world was a Thursday, according to most surviving scholars of the time. Decades later, the last surviving member of the ruling species died and the world officially ended. It was a Tuesday.

Sue was born during the first sunrise at the beginning of the end, she grew up as no one else did before her, and few did after. She knew only the ending of things.

At a young age, she was taught to scavenge for anything that might help her survive. But Sue was never one to scavenge lightly. There was far more out in the world than the necessities. Food and water kept her alive, but artifacts and knowledge let her live.

Sue collected items from every region she stayed in, however brief the stays were. Her parents always insisted on moving since staying in one place too long was just asking for a visit from bandits and other less savory individuals.

But this didn’t stop Sue from collecting. Her stashes could be found dotting the countryside for hundreds of miles, like a connect-the-dots that never ended. 

When her parents inevitably died, as everyone did in those days, she decided it was time to break the cycle. She was going to stay put.

***

Max is a 75-year-old Baroque violin. As his former owner, an amateur violinist would often say, “If it’s not Baroque, don’t fix it.” Max was not a fan.

Max spent his days held in a small case, being carried from audition to audition. He would listen as the orchestra conductor beckoned the violinist on stage. The case would open as light poured in, momentarily blinding Max so he could imagine being pulled out by literally any other musician.

Reality would strike as harshly as the violinist’s bow across his strings. Max would count 30 seconds before the conductor requested the violinist to stop and he was ushered off stage. They’ve been through this routine many times before. Max would then find himself once again thrust into the case, a dark, tight space that muffled the world around him.

***

Sue’s decision to stay in the former Hogs Head tavern was mostly due to its location halfway along her trail of collections – with the plan of gathering them into one location. There were once places all over the world that housed artifacts and Sue planned to bring this back. And the former Hogs Head Tavern would allow her to fulfill this dream.

Unlike museums of the past, visitors weren’t a top priority for Sue. At no point did Sue ever consider who would actually come to her museum, and she didn’t think it was all that necessary anyway. It had been months since she had seen anybody, and before then the people she did see weren’t the museum-going type – more interested in killing than appreciating.

People weren’t her strong suit anyway. She had spent her entire life avoiding them, it’s how she was still alive. She regarded the items in her collection to be her friends. Her companions she could rely on as she moved throughout the world. The unwanted trinkets of a time no one would ever know again.

***

After a string of unsuccessful auditions, the violinist would often drown his sorrows at his local pub. In his dark case, Max could only imagine the events of that final night he would spend with him.

Max, as he so often did, would count the number of times a pint glass would hit the table above him. The distinct sounds of a slowly emptying glass would be quickly replaced by a new, full glass, a cycle that would repeat throughout the night. An ascending scale orchestrated by a drunken man with nowhere else to be.

This particular night his count would steadily climb. Higher than average and at a pace Max was sure could not be maintained. From his muffled case he could hear the familiar sound of nearby conversation, the bartender refusing Max another drink, Max’s loud and violent reaction, and finally the sound a fist makes when colliding with flesh loosely blanketing a skull.

Max’s world shook as he was lifted from his resting place on the tavern floor, knocking loudly against the bottom of the table. The case rumbled as he was ushered quickly through open space and finally as if he was flying, a feeling of freedom he had never known, he was thrown through the open doorway of the tavern. A cacophony of curses accompanied the clattering percussion of his case meeting the close cobbled curb.

Lying in the street Max envisioned the scene around him. The violinist pulling himself to his feet after an embarrassing encounter with a large man, dusting himself off and looking around for Max. He would carry Max to the violinist’s small apartment where he would be pulled from his case for their nightly practice. They would spend the entire next day perfecting their performance and would be chosen after their audition this Thursday. Everything would be perfect after this low moment. Everything would be exactly as it should be for Max.

What transpired instead, was nothing Max could have imagined. Yes, the violinist picked himself up from the street. Yes, he looked around for Max and carried him away from that cold street. But when they stopped it was much too soon to be the violinist’s home. They had only traveled some 50 feet before the feeling of being lifted into the air was felt.

For the second time that night, Max felt as if was flying. He felt like he could go anywhere and be anything. As if the cycle of neverending lows were finally behind him. Until he hit the river and the rush he felt became the rushing water filling his case. Max sank to the bottom of the river like a stone, lodged between the rocks that filled the riverbed.

In his new resting place, he could hear the muffled sound of water rushing past him. The familiar sounds of the street above him were even more distant than ever before, and his world was still.

*** 

Sue’s daily ritual of reviewing her growing collection always began by fetching water from the nearby river, just in case any of her friends needed the extra attention of a quick cleaning.

As she approached the water she took each step with care as to not fall. Lowering her bucket, a glistening caught her attention just under the surface. She took a few precise steps into the rushing water so she could get a better hold of the item. The thought of adding something new to her collection excited her.

She pulled the item from its spot and placed it softly on the nearby grass. Inspecting the object she can see it was barely held together by rusted latches. Nothing a few strikes with a rock couldn’t break loose.

As Sue opened the case, sunlight filled the void, and for the first time in many years, Max could see the world around him. He could once again hear the melodic chirping of birds and a symphony of sounds he forgot existed.

Sue looked down at Max, inspecting his appearance and lifting him from his case with care. Her brow furrowing as she turned him over, looking at him with such care he had never experienced before.

“It’s broke,” said Sue. “But I can fix this.”

The Prompt:

Write a 1000 word story in the crime genre.  This is about a video game character and should include a single earring.  Also use the sentence "Leave me alone!"

Bonus: the story involves a fight.

It's back to just Ryan and Joshua this week!  The co-hosts have prepared two tales of video game violence and misdirection.

First up is a story about playing video games so much it's like you're living in one.

The second is about a character in a video game universe, just trying to do their job.

As the dust of battle settles around his feet, sweat drips from his nose onto the scorched earth. Blood runs down his forearm, through his fist clenching the hilt of his sword and lands into a puddle beneath him. His heavy breathing can be heard across the open field where the bodies of monsters lay in piles as far as the eye can see. 

Even though he is the only thing still standing, his muscles remain tight and his barrel chest heaves with anticipation of another wave. He stares down his fallen foe as the body of the large winged beast dissolves into a cascade of glitter and technicolor dust. 

Where the mangled remains fell now sits a chest. He lets out a long breath as his lungs empty and his muscles finally relax. He walks up to the chest and gives it a swift kick with his foot. The chest bursts open, light pouring out from within. At the bottom of the chest sits a single earring, illuminated by its power. 

He pulls the earring from its resting place, holding it high above him as the sound of horns erupts from the air and a deep voice proclaims, “LEVEL 36 COMPLETE!”

***

I stayed up late playing video games again. As my alarm rings through my head at exactly 7:35 am, like it does every morning, I can’t help but think that maybe my decision to keep playing last night was a mistake. As I pull myself off my mattress, I paw around my bedside table in search of my glass of water. My mouth feels as dry as the deserts of Errendall, a reference you would understand if you also stayed up late playing video games.

I spend my workday down the hallway from my bedroom in my home office. My morning routine includes turning on my computer so it appears to my coworkers that I’m online and immediately walking into the kitchen for some much-needed coffee and whatever I can find in the fridge. I turn on the television for some background noise, it’s still early so the news is the only thing that’s ever on.

“A tragedy has struck a local community late last night as 3 are found dead in their home,” says the news anchor. “So far, details are unclear as local police continue to investigate. Any information regarding this horrendous crime is welcomed and can be made through the police department’s anonymous tip line.”

Maybe the news isn’t the best background noise. I switch the television over to YouTube, where I select the first ‘LoFi beats to chill and/or study to’ video that pops up. Hour-long Animal Crossing-adjacent sounds should suffice.

As I attempt to settle and begin to work, I am distracted by a persistent soreness in my left arm. I must have slept on it, but it feels like I’ve been hit by a bus, but with only my arm. It’s just distracting enough to make it near impossible to get any work done. 

As I contemplate my daily tasks the sound of a bell comes through my computer -- an unwelcome alert from a coworker. “Leave me alone!” I shout at no one in particular.

Now, fully unmotivated, I do what anyone would do, I leave my computer on to appear to be working and I spin around and start playing my game where I left off last night.

***

Another glorious battle has concluded as our great hero holds his sword aloft, an electric current runs through the steel blade and into his hands. Every muscle expands as he gains even more strength. A deep booming voice announces, “LEVEL 42 COMPLETE!”

He lowers his sword to his side as the ground beneath him rumbles and cracks, splitting wide between his feet. Lava spits from the newly sundered ground as a massive, hideous fiery beast bursts forth, landing hard on the ground, its claws digging into the earth. 

The deep voice calls out: “BEGIN!”

Our hero turns from the creature and runs as fast as he can dodging falling rocks and embers. His goal is a distant cavern, a place to even the playing field and do glorious battle with this hell beast. As the intended location comes into view, our hero is hit hard with a blast of fire breath. A shot that would have killed a lesser man, but only knocks our hero to his knees for a split second. He pulls himself up and continues his sprint toward safety.

As he approaches the cave he grabs his sword and shoots a bolt of lightning above the entrance, causing a cascade of rock to fall just behind him, preventing the beast from entering the cave long enough to prepare for their battle. 

***

I should start drinking more water because I keep waking up with sore muscles, a dry mouth and a massive headache. My lower back feels like I’ve spent the day getting kicked by a horse and my arm wants nothing to do with the rest of my body. I pull myself up from the floor, which I must have fallen asleep on as a loud thud rings out through my house. It’s followed quickly by another as I realize a group of men are attempting to break down my door. 

A loud voice outside calls out: “Come out with your hands up! We have you surrounded!”

Everything is a bit hazy as I try to make sense of what is happening. I stumble toward the front door as a canister crashes through my window and smoke fills the room. I drop to my knees to avoid the fumes, but as I do I land on something metallic and heavy. I feel around until I connect with a thick hilt. I know what this is but it’s like a distant memory.

The door explodes out into the yard as I step through, the sword held in my hands, high above my head. 

A deep voice calls out: “BEGIN!”

The witnesses we interviewed stated the entire incident happened relatively quickly.  None of them could tell me exactly how it started, or what exactly ended it. 

As I inspected the area it was clear a fight had taken place.  More precisely, it had been a battle.

The grass was blackened and charred in places, with what seemed to be electrical burns.  There were also splashes of acid which had melted rocks and discolored the ground. 

I marked several areas which I wanted sampled for testing in a forensics report.

Near the center of the fray I found a single rose which had been discarded and subsequently trampled. I bagged it as evidence.

I hadn’t seen this kind of violence since I left Wyndon.  I’d transferred to the outskirts so that maybe I could find some calm, yet even here violence follows me.

As I searched the crime scene something else caught my eye.  Something glistening behind the tall grass, the afternoon sunlight catching it just right – reflecting light across my face.

I put on my gloves and bent over to pick up whatever it was, but I was beaten to it by another hand which zipped out from behind a nearby bush, snatching up the object in a flash. 

Surprised, I jumped backwards. 

I was even more surprised to see a young woman emerge from behind the bush.  She had chin length blue hair and held a delicate lace fan in front of her face which she lowered to reveal a coy smile.

“Oh excuse me detective!”  She began.  “I was just looking for this!”

Her voice was odd, as if she were sick, like she was trying to cover up the hoarseness a sore throat.

“I’m sorry, but what is it that you have there miss?”  I finally asked, after the initial shock of her sudden appearance.

“Oh nothing, I just dropped my earring.  That’s all!” 

She held up the earring between her finger and her thumb, I noticed she had awfully large hands. 

The earring itself was a ridiculously large green orb, it was cartoonishly big.

The woman was dressed in an unseasonably elaborate gown which bordered on gaudy but I noticed something more important about her ensemble, she wasn’t wearing any earrings. 

She didn’t even have pierced ears!

I took a step toward her.

“I’m sorry miss, but this is a crime scene. I’m going to have to take that earring as evidence until after our investigation.”

Something wasn’t right here.  Her charming attractiveness wasn’t enough to deflect my suspicions, besides she wasn’t my type, and she was slightly taller than me. 

As I stepped closer the blue haired young woman got a squirrely look in her eyes.

I could tell she was getting ready to run for it.  I instinctively reached out and took hold of her wrist and attempted to pry the earring from her grip.

“Leave me alone!”  She shouted, trying to draw attention to herself.  “You brute!  Unhand me!”  She continued to yell as she swatted at me with the folded fan in her other hand.

I was reaching for my handcuffs, ready to apprehend this suspicious woman when suddenly everything went to hell.

I don’t exactly know what happened – it was all kind of a blur. 

From behind me someone or something pulled my feet out from under me.  I crashed so hard I saw stars and the breath was knocked from my chest.

I could have sworn I heard an angry “Me-rowr!”

Before I even realized what happened, the area was engulfed in a cloud of greyish fog – a smoke bomb.

As I rolled on the ground stunned, coughing and weezing, I heard a quick ruffling of clothes and then maniacal laughter.

“Hee hee hee hee hee! I’ve got it Jessie! I found it!” 

The voice was familiar, it was the blue haired woman – but it wasn’t.  It was a man’s voice, clearly the true voice of the person I’d been dealing with.

A clever disguise.  Of course it was – if it was good enough to fool me.

I heard other voices then too, they were nearby.

“Me-wow!  I can’t believe you sent him back to find your missing jewelry!”

It was another man’s voice, it held an unsavory tone and was most likely the one who got the jump on me knocking me to the ground.  Undoubtedly a big brawny fellow if they were able to overpower me!

“I didn’t want anything leading back to us! You flea bitten dolt!”  A third voice said, this one a woman.

“And after all” she continued “Just think of how stupid I’d look with only one earring!”

“Couldn’t be any worse than your hair!  Hee hee hee hee!” the voice of the man in drag replied.

“Oh what do you know!  Now hand over my earring and let’s get after those twerps!”  The woman demanded, she was clearly the brains of the operation.

My mind was racing – was this trio of criminals the individuals battling in the park?  Why would they risk returning to the scene of the crime?  For an earring?  But why?

I may never know.

As the smoke dissipated, I dusted myself off, and got to my feet.  As my vision cleared I saw something I couldn’t believe.  Rising from behind the tree line was a hot air balloon in the shape of a massive Meowth head!

I stared dumbfounded. 

I should have stayed in Wyndon.

The Prompt: 

You own the best saloon for a hundred miles.  You're no nonsense and good at your job: the saloon is clean, the barmaids are treated well, and the patrons are happy.  But when an outlaw bursts in with guns blazing, your happy little saloon is at risk.  A brawl breaks out, and you pull your own gun from behind the counter to get everyone to stop.  The outlaw points their gun at you, and you balk.  This isn't just any outlaw; this is the famed bank robber, wanted dead or alive by every sheriff in the west.  More importantly, they're your ex - the first and only person you've ever loved.

It is a banner day for Please Be Prompt!  Co-hosts Ryan Rimmele and Joshua Witsaman welcome their very first guest to the podcast - Audrey Worthington!

Which means there will be three prompted works to read this week!

First is a story of the tragedy of scorned love and the mistake of running away into the frontier.

Next is a reminiscence about the complexities of work/life balance in the harshness of the wild west.

Lastly we have the next hit country song - a tragic ballad of love and scoundrels.     

It’s hard to imagine why anyone would go out west to hide. 

Bandits, murderers, and criminals of all kinds have been trying it for decades.  But no matter how far they roam, sooner or later most of them get caught.

The problem is many criminals share the same flaw, being incapable of laying low.

They get twitchy. Overeager for that next job – that next big score. 

Men who commit crimes, and who succeed at getting away with them, already have an inflated sense of ego, so they tend to figure they could pull it off again. 

When compared with glory and riches, the prospect of staying holed up at a remote cabin in some god forsaken backwater town simply lacks all appeal. 

Outlaws can’t help themselves - how quickly idle time will transform those types into hopping frogs when it’s best if they remain a submerged pollywog. 

Anxiousness aside, it’s difficult for most people to realize how spacious the western lands are.  So much of the world there is just open emptiness, which makes anyone and everyone traveling through it more visible to the many eyes of the plains and prairies. 

Each passing year more and more sets of watchful eyes start trekking westward and those watchful eyes are attached to nervous brains which in turn operate talkative mouths.

A fugitive who rides out for supplies at the wrong hour, gets spotted.

A fire is carelessly built too far up in the rocks, the smoke drifts too high, and it gets you spotted.

Underestimating the number of eyes in the west means any minor slip in planning has the potential to reveal even the best hideout for what it is.

And you can’t forget the many eyes that have already been out here. 

The Sioux, Comanche, and the Crow. 

Those who still come and go as they will, even as newcomers pass them by or push them out. 

Those native folks have already had more than enough trouble on their lands and don’t take kindly to thieves and killers hiding in their midst, drawing undue attention.

Rake Harlow didn’t much care about drawing attention to himself. 

Rake was out here for his own reasons. 

Sure, maybe Rake had been a criminal for a spell, but that life had brought him too damned close to death more than once and he’d gotten tired of constantly looking over his shoulder. 

Rake realized that he wanted more than money, chaos, and bloodshed out of life. Rake wanted stability and to be able to say that he had created something during his time.

That’s why he came to Derleth Gulch, probably the most desolate town in the Wyoming Territories, to purchase the deed for a saloon.

Nobody had asked where Rake got that much money.  Nobody much cared.

It was a fairly large saloon considering its remote location. Derleth Gulch was lucky to be found on any map and travelers were lucky if they managed to ride past the place without having to stop there. 

But Derleth Gulch had a decent stock of hard working folks that were earning their keep as best they could and were able to take some solace in the local watering hole.

When word got around that Rake Harlow had bought the Saloon the locals were relieved to know that the place would continue to operate.  If you had to live every day in Derleth Gulch it helped to have somewhere to get drunk.

All of that had taken place a few years back. 

Rake Harlow became known for running a clean place and for being eager to do whatever he could to take the edge off of the rough frontier lifestyle.  And because Rake had escaped a life of crime and a premature death, he also came to be known as someone willing to give others a second chance.

More than a few people in town had been able to leave behind a less than reputable lifestyle with the help of Rake Harlow.  

On the afternoon of August 23rd, 1882 the saloon was fairly quiet.

It was after 3 0’clock, with only a handful of patrons scattered around the tables.  All of the customers were familiar, most of them regulars, with a few notable faces among the crowd. 

“Beth can you wake up those two by the door and send them on their way?” Rake asked one of the barmaids.  Beth Bailey had worked at the saloon since Rake had taken over, she was young but knew how to handle herself around a roomful of drunk sharecroppers.  She was boisterous and prone to loud bursts of laughter.

Beth strode over to the table Rake had mentioned and jostled it with a bump of her hip. 

The two townies had clearly had too much but got to their feet and stumbled out the door with no more than a few grumbles.  Without hesitation Beth picked up the dark bottle of whiskey the men had left behind and was pleased to see there was some left.  Tipping it back Beth emptied it with two deep gulps.

One of the other patrons looked at her sidelong.

“One of the perks of the job darling!”  Beth told him with a giggle. 

Ol’ Stimey Cosgrove leaned back in a corner seat with his boots on the edge of the table and his back against the wall.  Stimey was the town’s most senior deputy and coincidentally the town’s most drunk deputy.  If Stimey Cosgrove wasn’t on his way somewhere to get a swallow of booze, he was sitting somewhere with a swallow of booze in front of him. 

When it came to his deputy work, ol’ Stimey always made sure to look the part.  His pair of holsters were snug against his narrow thighs and his revolvers were always brightly polished.

“Anything else I can do for you deputy Cosgrove?” Another of the barmaids asked as she cleaned the neighboring table.

“Nothing else for me my dear!” Stimey replied.  “A lawman never knows when he might be called to action!” He added with a sincere nod.

The barmaid smiled, almost laughing, but restrained herself.

Her name was Ethelinda Stapleton – slightly older than Beth, she had a dark complexion and many in town believed Ethelinda was descended from gypsy blood.

“Well if you do find any action of particular note Stimey, make sure to let me know!” Ethelinda told the deputy.  “I could use some action myself!”  She chuckled as she walked back behind the bar.

Young Mr. Feng sat alone at the bar quietly drinking gin. 

Feng was a Chinese fella who had been part of the railroad crew that came through Derleth Gulch a few months back.  He’d found himself in a spot of trouble however with some of the loudmouths he worked with and so Rake Harlow had given him one of the rooms upstairs and paid Feng to help with odds and ends around the saloon until he could save up enough to head east to New York or Boston.

A handful of other patrons strolled in as the late afternoon rolled on.

However when the sound of fast paced hooves thundered down the main drag of Derleth Gulch the quiet of the saloon and the peace of the town went straight to hell. 

A group of riders were quickly approaching, the sound was like a stampede which immediately gripped the attention of everyone in the saloon.

Rake Harlow got a knot in his stomach which got tighter when he heard gun fire accompanying the oncoming riders.

Their approach was swift and their arrival sudden.  There were several more shots outside and then silence.  That’s when the Abbot brothers kicked in the door of the saloon, guns in hand.

From behind the bar Rake watched them enter.  He vaguely knew of Quint and Jacob Abbot from a brief period he had as a cattle rustler.  The Abbots were hired guns at best, madmen at worst.

“Everybody stay in your seats and shut the fuck up!” Quint Abbot bellowed, waving his guns through the air.

“Your sheriff is dead, we got the marshals on our tails, and this is where we’re planning on holing up!” Jacob Abbot added.

Stimey Cosgrove leaped to his feet, swaying slightly in his inebriated state, and placed his hands on the grips of the guns on either side of him.

“Now you just wait one dulgarned minute!” Stimey said. “Who the hell do you think you are to just storm in here guns blazing?!”

A shot rang out hitting ol’ Stimey right in the neck. 

Rake winced as he watched.  That was a terrible way to go, even for an old drunken blowhard like Stimey Cosgrove.

Stimey slumped to the floor gurgling and bleeding out across the hardwood. 

But the shot hadn’t come from either of the Abbot brothers. 

Stepping in behind the Abbots was a tall stern faced man who made Rake’s blood run cold – Arthur “Zoetrope” Snider.  Known as one of the fastest guns in the territory, it was said he moved with a strange speed - so fast that only the devil himself could truly see it.

Zoetrope Snider strode in with his rifle smoldering, still aiming it at the spot where Stimey had been standing.

Snider stood between the Abbot boys and glared around at the silence of the saloon.

Uneasily standing behind the bar, Rake Harlow eased up to the edge in order to reach the shelf underneath.  He put his hand on the gun he kept stashed there.

I’m good with a gun. Rake thought to himself. But I don’t know if even I’ve got what it takes to take on Zoetrope Snider!

Another member of their gang pushed their way through the door.  He was a big hulking fella with a rumpled hat and a pair of sawed off shotguns hanging in his grip on either side.  Rake didn’t know this big guy but wasn’t eager to find out.

From outside a voice called into the saloon.

“You heard these gentlemen!” The voice said. “And you folks can clearly see we aren’t fucking around! So if you all work with us, a few of you might live to tell this story to your grandkids!”

The outlaws stepped aside as the owner of the voice joined them in the saloon.

Rake Harlow’s pulse quickened, his knees went weak.

The leader of this gang was a woman, but not just any woman – Edith Darce. 

Edie, as Rake knew her, was one of the most wanted outlaws in the west.  She was involved in schemes, crimes, and heists from the Mississippi to Colorado.  Edie was always on the lookout for any underhanded way to keep herself funded and free for another day. 

And it just so happened that Edie Darce was the reason Rake Harlow left his own life of crime and came all the way out to Derleth Gulch.

Edie and Rake had spent two years robbing and screwing their way across the country and it had been great.

Until it wasn’t.

She stole my heart. Rake thought to himself. And I stole her horse.

He just never knew how to tell her how tired he was of living on the run.  He couldn’t say how much he just wanted to settle down and make something of himself. Instead of telling her how he felt he nabbed her favorite horse, got out of town, and took off. And he kept riding until he was far enough away from the lure of her enchanting and destructive beauty.

I guess I should have run just a bit farther. Rake told himself.

Edie was now standing at the center of the outlaws.  She had her hands on her hips in such a way that the stance was both a statement and a threat.

“Now there are two ways we can go about doing this folks.” Edie called out to the patrons of the saloon. “We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

She slowly swung her gaze around the room until she locked eyes with Rake standing there behind the bar.

Her expression quickly shifted from smug assurance to icy determination.

“But unfortunately for you all, the easy way just went out the window.” She announced to the patrons as she stared down Rake.

Looks like she hasn’t forgiven me. Rake thought to himself.

With a blur of motion and instinct Rake pulled his gun from beneath the bar and put two shots into the big bastard holding the shotguns, laying him out on his back.  In the same motion Rake dove behind the bar just as a shot from Edie splintered the wood where he’d been standing.

In that instant it seemed like the entire place erupted in smoke and gunfire.

Feng leaped from his stool at the bar and dove for the body of Stimey Cosgrove, grabbing up the fallen pistols there.  Knocking over the table Feng began firing at the intruders.

With a scream Quint Abbot took a bullet in the chest from one of Feng’s shots and stumbled backwards through one of the saloon’s windows.

As Feng popped up to take a few more shots he was quickly taken out by Zoetrope’s rifle.

A couple of the local men who’d been sitting in the corner drew their guns and took some pot shots at Jacob Abbot. He was quick though and shot both men with a swift pivot and a swifter trigger finger.

Hiding at the end of the bar Ethelinda reached around and grabbed a knife from one of the shelves there. Jumping to her feet she hurled the blade with a practiced fluid motion and caught Jacob Abbot in the back, landing the knife deeply between his ribs.

The stubborn bastard refused to die however.  He began firing randomly into the saloon, shooting anything that moved. With one wild shot he downed one of the patrons who clearly had not been expecting Jacob’s continued survival.

Rake Harlow crawled behind the bar, making his way to the other end where he stood up and fired a few more rounds in the direction of the outlaws.

Edie dove behind an overturned table with a grunt. Zoetrope Snider spun on his heel and raised his sites at Rake, hammering off two quick shots.

One of the bullets lodged itself in Rake’s shoulder as he ducked back behind the bar.

With a savage scream Beth Bailey pushed herself off from against the far wall of the saloon and ran toward Snider.

Beth reached beneath her skirts and produced a small derringer which she kept in her garter.  She fired off the gun’s two rounds as she charged toward the rifleman. The first shot flew into his upper thigh with the second shot going wide into the floorboards.

Zoetrope turned his rifle on her and Beth dove behind a stack of chairs, scooping up a fallen revolver from the floor there.

With Zoetrope distracted Rake dashed from behind the bar to get a better shot.  Running while crouched Rake made his way to a nearby table, rolling underneath.

From the corner of his eye he saw someone else had the same idea.  Tumbling beneath the table he took a brief moment to catch his breath.  He realized he was back to back with the other person who had rolled under there with him.

Twisting to look over his shoulder he realized with a gasp who it was. 

It was Edie Darce.  And he saw that she was as shocked as he was.

The two of them locked eyes as gunshots and shouting exploded all around.  They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity and their entire history played out there between that shared gaze.

Without prompting or explanation Rake and Edie leaned in toward one another and shared a deep, passionate kiss underneath that saloon table.

The moment was broken however when Rake felt a gun barrel jammed into his ribcage.  As his eyes popped open Edie gave him a knowing shrug.

Grabbing her wrist and pushing it away Rake quickly slammed his forehead into her face as he scrambled to get out from under the table.

Edie did the same, tumbling out on the opposite side. Each had their guns pointed at the other.

Just then more shots rang out, this time coming in through the front door of the saloon. 

Two law men in long dusters accompanied the shots. Seeing the chaos within the saloon, the law men wasted no time opening fire. One of the marshals shot at the rifle wielding Zoetrope Snider and the other in the direction of Edie and Rake.

Neither of the tin horns seemed too concerned with which folks were the local bystander and which were the outlaws.  They only knew there were a lot of guns and a lot of trouble and it needed to be stopped.

Without hesitation Edie turned and fired back at the marshals before dashing toward a nearby window and expertly diving through the glass to the porch outside, barely hindering her stride. 

Relieved and panicked Rake ran for the back door of the saloon.

As he made his way out of the saloon he could hear the marshals barking orders between firing shots.  Without much of a plan Rake headed around the corner toward the alleyway which separated the saloon from the next building.

He was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Edie rounding the opposite corner at the other end of the alley and headed his way.

Edie halted her sprint and instantly had her gun in hand.

To his surprise Rake realized he’d already drawn his revolver and had it aimed at her.

The passionate kiss they’d shared beneath that table was still fresh on their lips as they stood there staring each another down with a mix of rage and despair.

A shot echoed across the alleyway.

Rake immediately stumbled forward and fell to his knees. His shirt already dark with blood, a gut shot. Rake knew then he was a goner.

Edie looked down at herself in shock.  The front of her vest was also smeared with blood, and there was a hole there just below her heart.  She couldn’t breathe but looked back up at Rake and managed to cough out:

“God damn you!”

Rake briefly got to his feet, taking a few shuffling steps before falling back to his knees.

Edie lunged forward with an awkward, jolting gait before collapsing down in front of Rake.

They faced one another for a moment there on the dusty ground until finally they each lifted their hands away from their mortal wounds and wrapped their arms around one another.

And that’s how they found them.  Dead - in that narrow alley - slumped forward in a macabre embrace.

They buried the two of them together in the Derleth Gulch cemetery.  But seeing as how the event became known as the worst local tragedy of the age they decided not to put their names on the tombstone.

Instead the grave was simply inscribed with the words: Love Is A Many Ruinous Thing    

From the rafters, Clementine the cat surveys the mad scene. The dust is just beginning to settle. Half the tables in the place are overturned. Wine and liquor are leaking from barrels, dripping off tables, and commingling in the grooves of the floorboards. A final few shards of glass fall lazily from the frame of what used to be a mirror. Most of my patrons hightailed it out of here at the first sign of trouble; the handful that are left are scattered on the outskirts of the room, at varied levels of intoxication, stunned into silence by the gunfight that just ensued.

I’m not accustomed to the quiet. In my line of work, you rarely get a chance to be alone with your thoughts. But here we are, in a moment of perfect silence, my forearms spanning the width of the bar, steadying myself against the wood and holding a 45 revolver. It’s pointed squarely at the forehead of the mastermind of this mayhem. My name is Celine. I’m the proprietor of this establishment and - at this moment - I’m carefully considering the merits and drawbacks of shooting my ex.

On the other side of my gun, Alex remains as unflappable as he’s ever been. He doesn’t holster his firearm, though I’m confident he’s out of shots. He takes stock of our predicament and the lines in his face shift ever so slightly, barely giving away his boyish amusement. Nine years in the wind may have aged him terribly, but they’ve done nothing to dull the sparkle in his diamond-grey eyes. I’ve heard he’s been robbing banks. I’ve heard a lot of things about him over the years. 

“Well, hello, Celine,” he says, cracking the silence in two. “Wondered if I’d see you here.” 

I feel his voice pour down my spine with the confidence of a hand running down a well-worn stair rail. He’s not afraid of splinters and he’s not afraid of me. I say nothing.

“How long has it been?” For a beat, I wonder if he’s really lost track.

“Henry turns 8 month-after-next.” I keep my voice even and dispassionate. I keep my gun level.

-----

The day that Alex left, the rain beat a lament onto the roof. It was torrential and it should have been my first clue. Things had run smoothly at the bar the night before, so I’d cut out a bit early. Alex seemed genuinely surprised to see me home; my late nights at the establishment were more commonplace than my early ones, especially back then. We shared dinner and some wine. We sat on the porch and watched as dusk deepened to a clear, dark blue sky. We didn’t talk much.

The next day, the rainstorm stretched the morning well into the mid-afternoon and I felt no hurry to rise. Our house was plain and tidy, the floorboards swept of dirt and we had very few unnecessary flourishes. We were a family of two - three, if you count Clementine - and we lived simply. I wasn’t due back to the bar until much later that evening. I could afford to be lazy in these moments.

“Stay in bed, Leeny,” Alex used my pet name as he got up, pulling a linen shirt on, further mussing up his disheveled mop of hair. “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t come back. The rain subsided as I waited, knowing all the while that he was gone for good. I pressed my forehead against the cool pane of window glass near the door, as the bitterness settled deep in my abdomen. I’d be navigating the rest of my life like this.

It was a day of disappearances around town, I’d later learn. As Alex vanished into thin air, so did the grocer’s horse. The grocer’s daughter Sarah did too, but just temporarily. She wandered back into town about a week later. Her son Henry arrived later that year; he’s known for his startling grey eyes. 

-----

A crash from across the room pulls Alex’s attention away from the bar. The ferrier’s kid, liquored up and scared out of his mind, has made a bad break for the door, taking down two stools and sending glasses spinning across the floorboards. In one fluid motion, I duck to the other side of the bar, closing the distance between Alex and me by half. Turning back to me, he starts at how close I’ve gotten. Obviously, he can’t predict my every move like he used to.

Slowly, methodically, I readjust my aim; my gun now points just between Alex’s collarbones, at the hollow of his neck. He catches my gaze and holds it like he’s looking for something specific. That’s when I notice movement by his feet; Clementine has descended from her perch and is winding her wirey calico body around Alex’s ankles, circling him like a shark. 

So much for loyalty, I suppose.

-----

The day that Clementine marched her way into our lives was a tough one. It was just two months after Madam Rosaline Baker - the formidable mountain of a woman who ran the bar before me - had passed away. She was an abrupt person, sometimes grouchy but never unkind. I was as surprised as anyone to learn that she’d deeded the establishment to me. I approached proprietorship with a fair amount of hesitancy and not just because Ms. Roz, as she was known, had died under circumstances that didn’t line all the way up. I’d never fancied myself a businesswoman, but truth be told, I didn’t have much else to do. I aspired to be a mother, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards for me.

Running that place, I’d soon learn, was hard labor. The barmaids did their jobs and the patrons mostly behaved, but both took Ms. Roz’s passing as an opportunity to push the envelope. Most days, I felt more like a schoolteacher rapping knuckles than an entrepreneur. I’d come home just before dawn every day, exhausted, and fall into bed. I met Alex there, most days.

This morning, though, I found Alex sitting hunched over the kitchen table, his face overtaken with concern and concentration. In retrospect, I don’t know how I missed the yowling on the way in. It sounded like the small calico kitten had swallowed the siren from a fire truck.  Alex looked up at me with a sense of wonderment that was very uncharacteristic for him.

“Celine, I think she’s hungry.” His hushed voice cracked a bit.

I helped him warm some milk, hoping to stymie her cries, which were splitting my head in two. Using his index finger, he fed her with lazy drops. That night - and many nights after - she slept curled up against his collarbone, head resting sweetly in the divot at the base of his throat. He loved her like a child and I did too. But too often, in those quiet evening moments, I ended up in tears because she was all we had.

-----

Standing in my bar, faced with my unwavering steely disposition and even more unwavering gun, Alex is starting to get nervous. I’m not surprised; he’s never been comfortable standing still for too long. He shifts his weight almost imperceptibly to the right, towards the door. I take two resolute steps to block his exit, my skirts swishing and swirling like a hurricane. It feels like a dance that only the two of us know the steps to.

Alex’s worry is plain on his face but he tamps it down. With intentionality, he drops his shoulders and loosens his stance. He runs the fingers of his left hand across the table next to him; his right hand doesn’t leave his gun. He leans nonchalantly against a stool. He’s always had a sense for how to own a room with his bravado. I suspect that charisma has helped him slip through the many hands of the law that are after him. 

“So,” he asks lightly, “What’s next for us, Celine?” 

It’s both a question and a challenge.

-----

The day I met Alex was otherwise unremarkable. Ms. Roz had just hired me at her establishment and I was learning the ropes methodically. I was generally a quiet person at the time, erring on the side of saying less to the other barmaids and choosing my words carefully with the patrons that crossed our threshold. I knew well that this could work to my advantage; when you provide just an outline of who you are, people have a tendency to color you in however is it that they want to see you. 

I was clearing glasses when, at the other end of the bar, Ms. Roz called for me. Not one to make an unnecessary trip, I hoisted a tray of clean barware against my hip before crossing the room to her side. She was talking to the dark haired young man in the last seat with a familiarity she never used with other customers.

“This the new girl I was telling you about. Started yesterday. Needs to loosen up a bit, if she’s going to stay here.” 

For a moment, I wondered if Ms. Roz had forgotten that she had called me over.

“Celine, this is Alex. My sister’s nephew. Lives about an hour outside of town.”

Most people see you how they want to see you. From the moment we first made eye contact, Alex saw me how I wanted to see me. He had the uncanny ability to take the broad strokes of a person and fill in the details for them. He could, in one instant, fully disarm you and then put you totally at ease. He would rip through my life like a tornado, eventually. 

Measuring me up for the first time, he cracked an easy smile and tipped his hat, always the gentleman.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said.

-----

I stand solidly in the hazy glow of the late afternoon light streaming into the bar. I take a moment to mull over Alex’s question… What is next for us? But, deep down, I already know; the room where we started is the same where, finally, the saga of Celine and Alex comes full circle. We’re different than I thought we’d be - one of us a steady beacon of entrepreneurship, applauded for soldiering through life; the other a far-famed outlaw with rumors running deeper than the lines on his face. But, we’re also still very much the same. We’re two stubborn souls stuck in a conversation that transcends time and space. After it all, he did come back. 

For the first time this evening, I feel my throat tighten with anger, grief and sadness. I finally break his gaze; it’s a small act of self preservation that buys me one more moment of peace. I exhale deeply and, in this moment, realize I have nothing left to say. I raise my chin in a salute of respect for our deep, dark story and meet his eyes. As I pull the trigger, I know that this is the last moment of quiet life will ever afford me.

For days they walked across hot sand

With a pair of matching iron bands

A parting gift from the Pinkerton

Their past had set the scene

Where they were headed nobody knows

Where they wound up is why the story’s told

A tale of broken hearts

A death for one named Gene

Gene and Bobby Joe were tied

To one another like a steer and hide

The bane of those who traveled west

To escape a life of fear and stress

Why they robbed and killed them folk

It must have been for show

They had everything they’d ever want

When it was just Gene and Bobby Joe

The day Gene died the world stopped

For our hero Bobby Joe

They kept on livin’, though deep inside

Their ache forever grows

Now Gene was known to run their mouth

It’s how they got so known

Until the law caught up with them

in a barn near San Antone

A deal was made with Bobbie Joe

To end their heinous sport

Or watch poor Gene be one with dirt

and food for bugs below

The day Gene died the world stopped

For our hero Bobby Joe

They kept on livin’, though deep inside

Their ache forever grows

Bobby Joe did what must be done

For the sake of love and Gene

Years went by without a word

It was a quiet life they’d lead

But when trouble brewed one fateful day

And a familiar face was seen

Their guns went up and they both knew

What Bobby Joe must do for Gene

The day Gene died the world stopped

For our hero Bobby Joe

They kept on livin’, though deep inside

Their ache forever grows