For Want of a…

Red stared down at the confession letter in front of him. It contained neither his thoughts nor his feelings, but it did contain his crimes. Enough of them at least. It was impossible to get off scot-free unless his lawyer also happened to be a miracle-worker. The letter represented guilt, but it was also his best hope of getting his life back on track.

“Do the right thing, Red,” the man in the suit with a blue tie said as he leaned over Red. 

“It’s for the best, Red,” the man in the suit with a green tie said from across the table.

“We’ve got your number. There’s no getting out of it.” 

Red’s vision grew misty as he extended a trembling hand and picked up the pen sitting beside the letter. He pressed it against the paper and—

“Hm?”

“Something the matter, Red?” Blue asked.

“The pen’s out of ink.” 

“What? Damn it.” 

Blue patted himself down. 

“I’ve got nothing. Green?”

Green patted himself down the same way. 

“Nothing.”

“Seriously?” 

Blue looked at the mirror on the wall opposite him. 

“Anyone got a pen?” 

A faint rustling noise came from the other side. Blue shifted his weight back and forth while Green fidgeted with a ring on his pinky finger. 

“Catch the game last night?” Blue asked. 

Green shook his head. “TV was on the fritz and it doesn’t look like the motel is going to do anything about it anytime soon.” 

Blue stopped shifting his weight and put his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, uh, that’s real tough.” 

Green shrugged. 

“Not the worst thing that’s happened.”

They fell silent and Blue began swaying back and forth on his heels. 

“Guys. The pen,” he called.

A low buzz sounded from above the mirror and congealed into a voice. 

“Couldn’t find one. Got someone going for one right now.”

“For the love of—not a single pen in the whole frickin’ room,” he grumbled. 

“So how was the the game?” 

“Huh?”

“Last night’s game. How was it?” 

“Oh, I mean, I don’t want to tell you if you haven’t...”

“It’s fine. I don’t know when I’d get to see it anyway.”

“Yeah... Fair enough. It was a real good one. The team wasn’t doing so hot in the beginning, but they pulled it together. I remember, there was one point where the ref pulled out a yellow card. I was ready to put my foot through the TV. But, no. It was fine. They pulled out ahead.”

“That’s good.” 

“Yeah.”

Green went back to fidgeting with his ring. 

“You two talk at all?” 

“Nope?” 

“Not at all?”

“She blocked my number.”

“Oh, wow. That’s a... that’s rough.”

Green shrugged.

“Did someone find a pen yet?” Blue called. 

“Still working on it,” the voice responded. 

“Working on it? It’s a frickin’ pen!”

“We’re working on it.” 

“Working on it. Just stick your head out the door and ask for a pen,” Blue grumbled. 

“You doing ok at home?” Green asked. 

“Me? Well, there was some stuff we were arguin’ about, but it’s fine. You know how it—Oh, shit. I mean...”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“Sorry. It’s just...”

“I’m telling you it’s fine.”

“Sure.”

Blue turned around and inspected the camera in the corner of the ceiling. 

“Look, um, maybe if you wanted, you could come over and watch the next game, have a couple of beers, you know?”

Green nodded.

“That’d be nice.”

“Not trying to make a thing out of it or anything. Just, y’know, if you feel like it.”

“I appreciate it.”

There was a knock on the door and someone poked their head in.

“Found one. It definitely works.” 

“About freakin’ time,” Blue snapped. 

He grabbed the pen and passed it to Red who signed his life away.

Peace of Mind

It’s been a while! Almost eight months, in fact! I’m sure you’ve all been desperately waiting for me exactly as I left you so I won’t bother asking how you’ve been. As for how I’ve been? Well, this year has been what we in the business call a lot. I’ve recently discovered a number of things which could be described as “non-conducive for work”. However, I’ve carried on! For what reason, you ask? Why, for you, dear reader. That’s right! You specifically. In the blazing heat and the frigid nights, it’s you who pushes me to keep going. For that, I truly want to thank you. Now, you might have hoped that my long hiatus was due to some immense opus I was preparing to dazzle you with. Well, um, sorry to disappoint. To be honest, I haven’t gotten much done on that front for a while. I’m working on it though! My goal (not going to say New Year’s resolution because we’ve all seen how that went last time…) is to get into a decent enough work flow that I can begin posting here again at least once a month. I’ve been working on a couple of pieces recently with certain goals in mind. Namely, each one is meant to help me overcome certain weaknesses in my writing and storytelling style. What are those weaknesses, you ask? Let’s put a pin in that for now. I’m hoping that these pieces will prove to be both entertaining and exploratory works as I develop my writing. The first one is a dark little ditty that popped into my head while reading some comments on a certain social media site. If that isn’t enough to dissuade you from continuing then, by all means, read on.

I’m sorry to say this, sir,” the doctor said. “But I’m afraid you have an idea.” 

Q wiped the sweat from his brow. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been feeling the symptoms for over two weeks now. Damn it, why didn’t he get checked out sooner?

“Will I— uh, how’s it looking?”

The doctor shook his head. 

“If you had come in sooner, perhaps we could have done something about it. As it currently stands, your chances of having it removed look slim. A stray thought is easy enough to extract, but once it has festered into an idea? The roots often run too deep.” 

The doctor took out a legal pad and clicked his pen. 

“I’m going to ask you some questions.  We need to figure out where this idea must have come from. Otherwise others may be infected as well.” 

Q gulped and nodded.

“Have you recently watched any independent films?” 

“Of course not.”

“Listened to any songs other than the season’s top tens?”

“I don’t even know where I’d find that kind of music.” 

“Have you attended any rallies for third-party political candidates?” 

“Doc, what do you take me for?” 

“I have to ask, Mr. Q. It’s procedure, you see, when dealing with an idea.” 

Q shrugged and the doctor continued, “Have you read a book recently?”

“Only books approved by the governor.” 

“What state do you live in?” 

“Florida.” 

The doctor nodded and crossed out what he’d just written.

“At the very least, you appear to have done your due diligence in avoiding the main sources of ideas. However, it is important to remember that ideas are insidious. There are all sorts of innocuous ways in which they can creep in and affect an innocent mind. We are exposed to all manner of minor stimuli in our day to day lives which can cause ideas to fester. I ask that you think back and that you please be honest when answering these next questions. It’s about more than diagnosing you. It’s for the sake of removing an existential threat from your community.”

“Alright, but I really don’t think you’re going to find anything. 

“Well, let’s see. Have you ever studied a second language?”

“In America?” 

“Traveled abroad?” 

“Does Miami count?”

The doctor stared and scribbled a few more notes. 

Aw, c’mon Doc. I didn’t mean—” 

“No need to apologize. This is what happens when people get ideas. It’s not your fault.”

Oh... ah, ok. Listen, Doc, I”m worried about my kids. I don’t want them to get infected with whatever—”

The doctor held up a finger. 

“One thing at a time, Mr. Q. It’s important to that we fully diagnose you first.”

“If you say so...” 

“Let’s continue the questionnaire. Have you recently eaten any ethnic food?”

“Absolutely not.”

The doctor clicked his pen.

“But... I guess I did go to that taco place a few weeks ago.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“C’mon, Doc. It’s a huge chain. It barely even counts. Besides, everyone who worked there was white, I swear.”

“Hmm.”

I just don’t know, Doc. I tried so hard to be careful. Not just for me, y’know? I didn’t want my family to get infected either. I mean, I’m so busy anyway, it’s not like I’ve got the time to sit around getting ideas in the first place. That’s the problem with this whole capitalist system in the first place. Working-class people are constantly being pressured to put their noses to the grindstone or else they have no hope of advancement. In the meantime, creative pursuits are actively dis—”

Q clasped a hand to his mouth. He took a breath, long and slow. Then another. He tried for a third, but it came out as a choked sob as tears started to roll down his face. 

“You’ve got to help me, Doc.”

The doctor shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Q. There’s nothing I can do to help. I’ve seen this happen plenty of times before. Hard-working men like yourself brought to ruin by one little idea. That’s the problem though. It’s never just one idea. They’re like a fungus, growing and reproducing in your mind. Multiplying and feeding off of you like parasites. It’s not simply the ideas themselves that are the issue. Once you’ve been exposed, they can re-contextualize your other thoughts as well. Your job, your hobbies, even your own family. Your thoughts towards any of those things could be irreparably altered by an idea.”

“I can’t let that happen.”

“We can discuss your options, but first we must figure out how you contracted the idea.”

Q nodded. 

“Have you recently had any new coworkers?”

“No.”

“Neighbors?” 

“Not sure, but we don’t talk anyway.” 

“Have you recently visited any museums?” 

“Who’s got that kind of time?”

“Do you like to walk?”

“Sure. We’ve got a forest nearby.”

“Do you walk alone?”

“Whenever I can. Listen, I love my family, but I still need some space from time to time.”

“And do you have your earbuds in, as recommended?”

Q scratched his head.

“I mean... not exactly.”

“Mr. Q...”

“It’s not like I’m reading or something. I just like to listen to the sounds of nature. They help me... relax.”

“Relax... and think?”

“I... yes.”

“I see.” 

The doctor leaned back in his chair. 

“Mr. Q, I have some good news and bad news for you. The good news is that your idea seems to be self-induced rather than one you’ve contracted. It is generally more difficult to articulate such ideas and accidentally pass them on. The bad news is that they are almost impossible to treat. They tend to be subtler than other ideas and by the time symptoms appear, it is often too late to save the patient. As I said earlier, your condition is most likely terminal. As far as options, we have a consultant who will go into full detail with you. Needless to say, if you choose to continue living, you will be kept in solitary confinement. You will at least be provided with approved entertainment materials. We wouldn’t want to exacerbate your symptoms any further. You will be permitted to say goodbye to your family with a chaperone present to help prevent you from infecting them. They will go over what to say in advance.”

Q nodded and ran his hands through his hair. 

“How do you do it, Doc? How do you do this job and not get ideas yourself?” 

“It used to be that half the patients in solitary were doctors who had hit their limits. We spend a lot of time being educated the right way which helps build a resistance but, thus far, real immunity eludes us. Of course, that’s a great deal of time and money wasted on doctors, so other methods are being worked on.”

The doctor lifted his hair, revealing a dime-sized scar on his temple. 

“Still in the trial phase, but I’ve outlasted every other doctor by up to five years. It’s just about impossible for any ideas to poke their way in. Hopefully, once it’s fully approved, it’ll be made mandatory, but we’ll have to see.”

Q sat back and smiled.

At least there was hope. 

The Expertise of the Professional Cable Car Rider

I hadn’t thought about Dana Tseng in nearly ten years. I had just gotten married and was actually in the middle of my honeymoon when she intruded on my memory. I suppose it’s normal, around the time one gets married, to think of past relationships and how things might have gone had other choices been made. Nonetheless, I was surprised that Dana Tseng of all people would pop into my head considering how brief our time together was. 

Of course it was the cable cars. My wife and I had taken our honeymoon in Hong Kong and she had insisted we ride the Ngong Ping cable cars. Now, it wasn’t that I was traumatized or anything like that. I wasn’t fond of heights but I certainly wasn’t going to chicken out in front my wife on our honeymoon. My past experience with Dana Tseng didn’t immediately come to mind either. As far as I was concerned, that entire incident hadn’t even centered around her. She merely came along as a supporting character. No, what brought that memory to the surface was, while we were waiting, my wife casually asking me which car looked the nicest. It was only then that my memories couldn’t help but drift to the Professional Cable Car Rider. 

I was in either my first or second year of college when I met Dana Tseng. We were both working at the school newspaper and happened to be working together one night on a tight deadline. We hadn’t really spoken before that point besides a couple of cursory greetings. We probably wouldn’t have spoken much that night either if she hadn’t put a Frank Morgan album on. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” She said. “I can’t get any work done past six unless I have some jazz playing in the background.” 

I told her I didn’t mind. I was a relative newcomer to jazz. At first, I’d been forcing myself to listen in an effort to cultivate a certain image for myself. But it hadn’t taken long before the lie became the truth and I fell in love with several of the albums I’d bought. That said, I was still fairly ignorant of the world of jazz and I doubted I’d come off as anything other than a poser if I tried to discuss it with a true aficionado. By luck though, my entry way into jazz had been Frank Morgan and he’d remained my favorite musician even as I recount these events. He was also one of the few jazz musicians whose music I’d actually be able to recognize. It was that knowledge which gave me the courage to comment on it that night in the newspaper room. Dana’s ears perked up immediately. 

“You’re a fan of Frank?” She was suddenly animated. 

We ended up talking well into the night about his work and I received several recommendations which I still listen to despite having long since forgotten the person who had introduced them to me. I can’t recall whether or not we actually managed to complete our work before the deadline. Needless to say, it wasn’t of consequence either way. I do recall that the night ended with us planning a date. I’m not sure whether it was her or I that suggested an amusement park, but that was what we ultimately decided on. The following weekend, we met up for our first date. 

I wasn’t particularly experienced in dating at the time. Not that I’m an expert now, but at that time I had almost no metric to grade things on. Regardless, I believed that things were going well, exceptionally well even. We’d found a surprising amount in common and the conversation flowed easily the entire time. That is, until we decided to take the cable cars. Again, my memory is not clear on whose idea it was, but I am inclined to think it was mine. Compared to the Ngong Ping cable cars, these were shoddy imitations. I’m sure they were perfectly adequate for the park though. They looked spacious enough and they covered the entire length of the park, the view of which was certainly nothing to sneeze at. It was also where I planned to make a move. As we looked out at the view, I would sit next to Dana and put my arm around her. If things went really well, I might even kiss her. The fact that she agreed to take the cars without hesitation was something I took as a sign that she had the same thing in mind. It was while we were waiting in line that we encountered the Professional Cable Car Rider.

There was nothing about the man which inherently made you think “cable cars”. However, he stood out for a variety of other reasons. For one, he wore glaringly bright clothes. If memory serves, he wore a bright green shirt, orange pants, and a yellow bandana. He carried a large backpack which looked like the kind you would take camping or hiking rather than when visiting an amusement park. He was holding a small notebook in which he was scribbling intensely as he stood in the middle of the line. Occasionally, he would stop writing, glance around, and return to writing again. By happenstance, he was directly ahead of us in line. As much as he stood out, nothing about him was threatening or alarming. There are plenty of different people out there after all. I could have just as easily seen him and forgotten about him immediately after had he not been so distracted by his note-taking that he failed to notice the line was advancing without him. 

“Excuse me,” I said gently.

  Immediately, he glanced up, saw the line, and scurried forward with an apology. No problem and no reason for us to interact any further. Except that was not to be the case. 

Once we caught up in line, he turned back towards us. 

“I’m sorry about that.” 

He had an accent, though I can no longer remember what kind, only that he had one. 

“I have to get the notes down while they’re still fresh in my mind. That initial reaction is important, you see. It can be easily overshadowed by the rest of the experience which is why it has to be written down first.”

I didn’t see, and judging by her face, neither did Dana. 

He must have sensed our confusion because he began to explain. 

“You see, I am a Professional Cable Car Rider.” 

“You mean like a safety inspector?” Dana asked. 

He chuckled. “No, no. Nothing like that. Though I suppose safety could end up factoring into what I do. What I do is travel about, riding various cable cars, and taking notes all the while.”

“Do you work for a magazine?” Dana asked with enough interest to surprise me. 

Again the man chuckled. “Not for any magazine per say. It’s important that the information be free. After all, it can be vital for other park-goers or even a new Professional Cable Car Rider in the making.” 

“Naturally,” I commented, feeling too uncomfortable to remain silent. 

“Does that mean that this is your first time at this park?”

He held up a finger and grinned. I got the impression he liked giving these speeches. 

“On the contrary, I’ve been visiting each day for the past week. After all, I can hardly call myself a Professional Cable Car Rider if I don’t ride every single car available.” 

“Is there really a big difference between them?” Dana asked. 

“Quite so, quite so! A considerable difference in fact.” 

He pointed up at one of the cars, a yellow one. 

“That one is weighted a little differently which causes it to lean to the left. If you sit on the left side, you can recline a bit. It’s the most comfortable one that I’ve ridden here so far. On the other hand...” 

He pointed to a red one.

“ Avoid that one at all costs.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked hesitantly.  

“The screws are misaligned. It’s not dangerous, but it causes the car to tilt a bit. Completely ruins the experience. It shook me up so much, I had to call it quits for the day.”

I squinted up at it. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t any different than the other cars. 

“So how many parks have you visited?” Dana asked. 

“Let’s see. This park will make two hundred and thirty-seven, as long as you’re not counting the individual cars. I have to say that this one has been a fairly pleasant experience. Nothing special, but a great starter for burgeoning enthusiasts. It hardly compares to some of the greats like the Grenoble-Bastille, Ngong Ping, or Grindelmald-Mannlichen, but I’ll have no problem recommending this park as well, provided that discernment is used when selecting the cars. 

By now, we’d reached the front of the line and the Professional Cable Car Rider bid us farewell before hopping into a purple car. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to Dana after that. Hopefully, I’d be able to get some momentum back once we were in the air. 

“Is that...” Dana started to say as a red car approached and the attendant ushered us forward. 

“No way. There’s more than one red car,” I said without confidence. 

“Maybe we should let someone else take it.”

The attendant was gesturing a bit more urgently and I was getting nervous about causing a scene. 

“Let’s just take it,” I insisted. “It’s probably not the same car and even if it was, do you really think it’d make that much of a difference? These cars are all manufactured and maintained the same way. Any difference is just your imagination.” 

Dana looked unconvinced, but she followed me on just the same. It carried us off and for a moment we sat in silence as if waiting for the car to explode. However, as far as I could tell, it felt like a perfectly normal cable car ride. 

Creak, creak, creak. 

I said as much to Dana, but she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t even looking out. She just sat there with her head down. After a few unsuccessful attempts to get her to speak, I gave up and sat back in my seat feeling put out. What even was a Professional Cable Car Rider anyway? I tried to plan out my next course of action with Dana. It wasn’t like I had done anything wrong so, once we were finished with the cable cars, we would be able to get back to where we left off. After what felt like forever, the ride finally finished. I glanced around cautiously, looking for the Professional Cable Car Rider. Thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in line for the return trip. 

“So what should we do next?” I asked Dana. 

“Actually, I’m not feeling very good,” Dana said. “I think I’m going to go home.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to just sit down for a bit?”

“No, I just want to go home.” 

“Well, ok. In that case, I’ll walk you...” 

“No. I’ll go back alone. If it’s all the same to you, I mean.” 

“Oh, yeah. That’s fine.” 

We walked to the bus stop. I didn’t have a car back in those days. Dana lived on campus, I lived with a friend a short drive away but far enough that we needed to take different buses. I watched Dana get on her bus and ride off without looking back. 

The next week, I went to the newspaper room to look for her, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. It wasn’t until much later that I found out she’d never come back to school. A few of her friends mentioned something about her family, but even they had only a few details or, at least, they saw no reason to share them with me. 

Eventually, I decided she must have had some prior trouble which was why she looked so upset on the cable car. It had nothing to do with me or some nonsense about misaligned screws. However, I couldn’t escape the thought that the red cable car had somehow cursed us and ruined our date. As I mentioned earlier, at some point I forgot about Dana Tseng entirely. While I had a newly acquired distaste for cable cars, I never had an opportunity to ride one again until my honeymoon when I stood with my wife in front of one. I glanced around the line with a half-remembered day floating around in my head when my eyes settled on a brightly dressed man scribbling in a notebook. 

The Professional Cable Car Rider had not, as far as I could tell, aged a day since I’d seen him ten years ago. Then again, ten years wasn’t such a long time in the grand scheme of things despite it feeling like several lifetimes ago. For an insane moment, I considered approaching him. I couldn’t say what I would have done if I had. I felt no anger toward him over a failed date I had long since forgotten, but all the same, it felt almost natural to attack him. Not that I wanted to, but that I should. It was as if he were some sort of aberration who should not exist in this world. 

Thankfully, the impulse passed before I had any opportunity to act on it. My wife didn’t seem to notice the Professional Cable Car Rider, nor did she sense the murderous intent that had seized me for a moment. It didn’t seem like this coincidence would extend any further. There were enough people between us that he couldn’t approach even if he wanted to. Not only that, but there was no reason that he would remember me. Between the two of us, he was certainly the one to cast a larger impression. However, that didn’t stop me from watching him intently as the line moved forward. 

Finally, I watched him reach the front of the line, but before I could breathe a sigh of relief, he turned and looked directly at me. For a moment, we simply stared at one another. Then, he he pointed to one of the cars. He looked back at me with a grimace and made a rocking motion with his hands. With one last wink, he turned and got onto his car. 

“It’s almost our turn,” my wife said, completely oblivious to that whole exchange. 

“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “These things don’t look particularly safe.”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that. You know how much time and money it took to get these tickets. Besides, these cars run all day, everyday, and you never hear about a single accident.”

“Right...” 

What else could I even say? There was no real reason to believe that the cable cars had been responsible for my romantic trouble all those years ago. All the same, I kept a close eye on the car the Professional Cable Car Rider had pointed to. I tried to count ahead of us. Maybe we’d miss it and get away unscathed. Sure enough though, by the time we reached the platform, it was clear that the car which had been singled out was fated to be ours. 

My wife took me by the arm and pulled me on board. I tried to bury my anxiety as best I could. We were newlyweds on our honeymoon. We were going to have a good time. The car took off and carried us into the air. 

Creak, creak, creak. 

The Wolves of St. Patrick

	I sat in a nonexistent throne of fog and a skeleton dressed like a seventeenth-century bard stood in front of me. Considering the state of the clothes, he may very well have been an actual seventeenth-century bard that someone had dug up. His arms were wrapped around a lute in equally squalid condition. He strummed a note and began to croon. I was surprised that both sounded far sweeter than their sources looked. The notes coalesced into a song, and the voice of the haunted bard drifted around me. 

“A Hallow’s Eve tale, have I to tell
of a family’s plight, from grace they fell.
Before you fools leave to treat or trick,
listen to the Wolves of Saint Patrick.

The priest traveled to the Emerald Isle 
to convert its kin in his own style.
Against his mission, many did stand, 
but some of them choose to join his band
until all who lived saw things his way.
Yet there was one clan he could not sway.

To old Celtic ways, they still held strong.
Ol’ Saint Paddy’s word, they said were wrong.
When he’d heard they’d - reject’d his path,
the Emerald Isle’s Saint was fill’d with wrath.

He condemned them for misanthropy,
cursed the whole clan with lycanthropy.
Every full moon’s night, the clan would howl,
trapped in a wolf’s form, and forced to prowl. 

On each month after, the blood did flow.
Yet all other days, they did not show
the proof of their curse, they guarded tight
until they reveled, on full moon’s night.

The townspeople grew filled with dark fear
of the beasts hunting across the weir.
They began to move in angry mobs
for they’d grown tired of their own sobs.
They sought out the beasts, ready to kill
not knowing they lived just up the hill.

Yet one fateful night, the clan grew lazy. 
The curse’s burden had made them crazy.
The youngest member had been reckless.
She’d run off with her mother’s necklace.

Ran across the weir, while the moon shone.
Changed into a wolf, mind not her own.
In a craze she ran, in beastly form,
not noticing her necklace was torn.

The necklace was found, loose in the marsh.
When the village knew, their fury was harsh.
The people did march, to the clan’s home.
Another beast’s light, in their eyes shone.
With pitchforks and flame, were they gather’d. 
No longer was blood to be slather’d.

The whole clan was killed, son and daughter.
None but for one man, escaped slaughter.
The cunning wolf ran, eager to flee.
A hidden boat sat, ready for sea. 
The sea did take him to safer shores
just in time to fight in America’s wars.

And fight the wolf did, to much acclaim.
When bodies were found, he escaped blame.
He earned a fortune, American Dream,
and each full moon’s night, victims screamed.

So you watch your backs, on this dark night.
When you hear a howl, tremble in fright. 
Decide if this tale, is truth or trick,
but beware the Wolves... of Saint Patrick.”

Spoiler Warning..?

I’m a big spoiler baby. If you start talking about any kind of media I plan to experience but haven’t, I'm going to put my hands on my ears and sing until someone punches me in the face. I want to go into everything as fresh as I can. That said, I think a work should be able to stand on its own even if you know what’s coming. After all, part of the joy of reading is rereading and uncovering new facets of a story you thought you knew by heart. Stories are diamonds to be admired from every angle, turned over, and held up to the light so we can love them for all their perfect cuts and unique flaws. 

As any fan of a book series knows, one of the best parts of reading a book is speculating about the next one. It is especially true of fantasy fans who aren’t just speculating about characters, but entire universes. Some fans spend hours of their days pouring over books looking for any tidbit of lore or narrative they might have missed before that hints at what’s coming in a later book. I am unashamedly one of those readers. As great as this is for a writer’s fanbase, it does present an interesting dilemma. What happens when the readers figure it out before you tell them? What if your whole series is building up to one huge plot twist and the readers figure it out? Where do you go from there? Now, I’m inexperienced as a writer and have approximately zero fans and/or readers of my work so I can’t offer any personal experience in that department. As a reader, however, I have seen writers approach this problem in a whole range of ways. One way is to change the ending. 

“The reader’s figured out my plan?! Well, joke’s on them! Now the ending is going to be one that I didn’t build up to at all! There’s no way they’ll expect THAT! Mwahahaha!” 

As you can probably tell from that saucy little bit, I don’t care for this strategy. Twists hinge on build-up. If you want the first thing the reader says to be “No way!”, the second thing they say should be “Of course!” A plot twist should be a piece of a puzzle falling into place that re-contextualizes the whole puzzle for the reader even if it’s not complete yet. A plot twist without the necessary build-up is like the writer throwing a random puzzle piece at the reader’s head while screaming “It’s BLUE you idiot!”. Definitely shocking, but not as much fun. 

The opposite end of that spectrum is to just write your damn ending. In theory, the climax of a series should act as a mission statement for that series. Of course you don’t want your book to be predictable, but if you’ve created fleshed out characters and worlds then of course some readers are going to figure the ending out. It means you did your job well. Speaking as a reader, I am way more forgiving of a twist I saw coming if I had a good time getting there. The best writer is the one who can tell me the ending of their series and make me think “Oh man, I can’t wait to find out how we get there!” To quote the writer I consider to be the best example of this *cough* Brandon Sanderson *cough*, “Journey Before Destination”. 

Now, in a plot twist of my own, I’m going to reveal that this was all build-up to something a bit more personal. A few years ago, I wrote a book. It is tentatively titled “The Wise Man’s Sword” and it took about two years to complete. In the time since, I have sent it out to several publishers, none of whom have chosen to publish it. To be honest, I’m not sure I blame them. It needs work. I’ve moved on to other projects since, but every time I feel myself pass a checkpoint in my ability as a writer, I go back and tinker with it. It’s a fun little story and I would love to write a whole series of these books one day. What’s it about? I’m not going to tell you THAT. 

I am however going to spoil one of the biggest twists I had planned for the series. 

*Gasp*! *Shock*! “But Bob, you ask, why would you do this?!”

Well, Daniel, the answer is simple. 

I really like this bit that I wrote. I wrote it well after I finished the last draft of the book and it takes place much later down the line in the story I have planned out. As it is, it’s fairly disconnected from the plot of that first book, though some of the groundwork was laid out. This bit of story emerged from a single line that popped into my head while I was taking a shower. I really should just do all my work in there. I dashed from the shower, splashing water and soap everywhere, and sat down to write the climactic scene of a book that didn’t exist in a series that didn’t exist, that may have spawned from a book that has never been published. It takes place in media res and does not explain a thing about who these people are, where they are, or what they want. But I still think it sounds cool. It also fills the key role of a climax, a mission statement for what I want the series to be. It’s my hope that reading this makes you at least a little excited for how we get there. 

Now, lets get a few questions out of the way. 

“Will you ever write this series?”

Hopefully.

“Will this passage spoil some of this series?” 

Probably.

“Will it look like this in the published work?”

Probably not.

If you’re still here after that, then I guess I have to show you the story now. But before I do, one last thing:

SPOILER WARNING: This story reveals plot of a work that might someday exist.

“It is time to reveal the truth of Scribomancy. You, who has devoted yourself to the pursuit of an art you do not understand, the truth is this: Scribomancy is a heretical art cast from the blood of a murdered god. It is the power of divine creation bestowed upon those whose minds are mired in depravity. Everything you have created, everything you have accomplished has only served to lead the world further into madness. The voices that whisper to you are the blasphemous words of a corrupting fiend. Do you see now, foolish boy? Do you see why Scribomancy must be erased?” 

I fell to my knees. 

“Is it true?” I whispered. “Ariel, is it true?”

“I don’t know. It feels right though, doesn’t it? I feel the truth of what he’s saying in my bones and in my blood. Perhaps that really is what I am. If so, what of it? Has it changed what we must do?” 

If I let Lowell go, it would mean letting Yuka die. If he wasn’t lying, I’d already done irreversible damage to the universe. Saving one more person certainly couldn’t make it any worse. 

“Page thirty-two, ‘a chain of lilies bind all that remains.’” 

Ariel thrust her hand out and light coalesced into flowering vines which ensnared Lowell, pinning his arms together. 

“You fool,” he hissed. “There will be no redemption for what you have done.” 

“No, but there’s a little girl whose family is waiting for her. At least they won’t have to wait anymore.”

I ran past Lowell and leapt off the ledge. 

“Page seventy-three! ‘And the wings of time and wind shall guide all who follow to their true destination!” 

Ariel chuckled, “wow, you actually managed to bring that one back, huh?” 

Wings burning in flames of black and blue erupted from my back and carried me into the sky. There’d be time to consider the consequences later. There was no way I was going to let Yuka die. The last tower floated high above the rest. If the normal laws of physics applied, I probably would have run out of oxygen before I made it to the top. Instead, I soared even higher to the peak of the Silent Citadel. The altar sat in an amphitheater at the top. Yuka was lying atop it with Alisha and two other Scribomancers standing around her. There were also dozens of Pages. Most of them were the bird-shaped ones this realm favored, but there were others that had clearly been manufactured. 

One of the Scribomancers saw me coming and his Bookkeeper manifested behind him, a hulking masculine figure around eight feet tall with chalk white flesh that was covered in glowing veins like a volcano. Its hair also appeared to be made of fire which matched well with its flaming eyes. It bellowed and all the Pages turned toward me and attacked. 

“Page twelve! ‘The wave crashed before me and erased everything from view!’” 

Ariel swung her hand and a wave surged from nothing, striking the Pages and sweeping them away. The other two Scribomancers were still focusing their attention on Yuka. A white-gold flame appeared above her. Time was nearly up. If they managed to make her an avatar of the god, it was all over. It was too late to stop the ritual so my only option was chasing the god away. Of course that was easier said than done.

Although... Lowell had said my power was born from depravity. 

“Page thirty-nine!” I roared. “‘For the briefest moments the world became a wretched place that sought to devour any illusion of hope that the weak may have conjured in their despair!’” 

I reached inwards towards those lowest, most hateful moments I’d had, to whatever evil might be lurking within my power and I tried to channel it into the air around me. 

The world darkened. All color faded so that we were nothing but black, white, and gray. The air became bitingly cold and oppressively thick, so that you could almost drown in it. The sky turned black and gained a weight that gave the impression it could fall on us. It only lasted a moment, but when it passed one of the scribomancers had collapsed. Alisha and the other were both on their knees gasping for breath. Of the god, there was no sign. Yuka slept on the altar, hopefully unaware of what had just happened. I landed in the amphitheater and staggered, barely keeping my footing. Heresy or not, there were definitely going to be consequences for that. I approached the altar and picked up Yuka. 

“You bastard,” Alisha rasped up at me, “you’re going to ruin everything. And for what? One little life?” 

I looked down at Yuka and then back toward Alisha. 

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

I conjured my wings again and flew off. It was time to take the kid home.