《The Window (and Other Stories)》 The Window It was the eighth time it had rained. Amara Hekekia pulled her keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car, taking care not to slam the door too loudly as she closed it. The handle was slick with fresh rainfall, like the parking lot, which had not been paved in years. She began walking. There was little purpose in her step. The meeting would be the same as before, she was sure. The same as the seventh, and the sixth, and all the others. She had arranged it by phone the night before, spending her evening partaking in a dreary call-and-response with the answering machine on the other end. Just as she had the others, except for the first, which she had scheduled in person. She could see the window of the building up ahead. It had yet to be cleaned since she¡¯d begun visiting, leaving the glass dull and smeared. Amara had seen him through it each time¡ªalways the same man, sitting in a black office chair with his hands folded in his lap. Amara reached the window, and sure enough he was there, just as she remembered him. He wore today, as he always did, a plain grey suit with a white tie at his throat. She nodded slightly, feeling entirely neutral. Weeks ago she might have felt angry. But anger had turned to annoyance, and annoyance had turned to a muted sense of boredom. And by the fifth visit even that had begun to fade. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. She knew his answer. He¡¯d gone to the effort of rephrasing it each time, but still it was all the same. He¡¯d say there were rules. Tell her that animals couldn¡¯t be buried on city land the way she asked. That people couldn¡¯t be buried on private land the way she asked. He¡¯d ask if she would consider cremation¡ªsurely, he¡¯d tell her, the ashes of the birds and their owner could be mixed? They were routine by now, these weekly visits. Every part of them. The cloudy grey sky, the windshield wipers squeaking as they moved. The window and the office chair and the man¡¯s dull, grey suit. Just another Wednesday errand. Like a run to the grocery store, and just as draining for her already tight budget. She¡¯d known the night before, as she had since the third time she¡¯d called, that nothing would come of the meeting. The conversation would be as dull, and as blurry a memory when it was over, as the window she stood in front of. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said quietly, and told herself that she spoke to no one in particular. She turned, and began to walk back toward her car. For a moment she felt a pang of melancholy, and a stinging in her nose. In her left eye a solitary tear began to well. But then there was nothing, and the stinging faded. By the time she had reached her car, the tear had joined the raindrops on the pavement. Salt in the Rain Eight. Eight times it¡¯s rained. Like the sky¡¯s taking after me, long lost the will to put on its nicest dress. I flick off the radio, keeping one hand on the steering wheel even though I¡¯m parked. I haven¡¯t really been listening to it. Not the last few trips, honestly. They used to be comforting, Ani¡¯s tunes, as I drove the hour between home and here. Now it¡¯s just¡­ noise, I guess. Don¡¯t even know what it was playing when I switched it off. I pull my keys from the ignition and get out of the car, reaching for the doorhandle. It¡¯s slick with fresh rainfall, like the parking lot, which hasn¡¯t been paved in years. I shut the door and start walking. There¡¯s not much purpose in my step. Meeting¡¯s gonna be same as before ¨C same as the seventh, sixth, all the others too. Arranged it last night; spent like an hour talking to a bot that seemed more bored than I was. I can see that old window up ahead, on the front of the old grey building and to the left of the door. Hasn¡¯t been cleaned since forever ago. Remember when Ani and I¡¯d go on drives, back when we lived in the city. Must¡¯ve been, what, ten years ago, and the window looked the same back then. Hell, maybe it¡¯s been that guy¡¯s office the whole time, too. I see him through it every time ¨C always the same guy, sitting in a black swivel chair, hands folded up in his lap. As I¡¯m getting closer I can already see him, doing just that, sitting there in his suit, beige, with a white tie round his neck. I reach the window and just¡­ stop, for a second. See his office through the hazy glass, only three, four times bigger than a cubicle and decorated about the same. Picture hangs next to his desktop, and I can see him in it, smiling next to a woman with long blonde hair and a done-up smile. His wife, maybe, guy looks at her like he¡¯s waiting for the photographer to finish up so he can take her to bed. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. I never learned his name. He never offered to tell me. He knows mine, though, spent a couple minutes getting him to pronounce it right our first meet. Remember he laughed, a polite laugh, fake as the woman¡¯s lips. He started his spiel, same one every time. Goes to the trouble of rephrasing it; credit where it¡¯s due. But it¡¯s the same. Says there are rules, says animals can¡¯t be buried on city land, says people can¡¯t be buried on private land when I ask if I could bury her myself. Sometimes he asks if I¡¯ll consider cremation. Said, ¡°Surely, Miss Hekekia, you could mix ashes?¡± Says it¡¯s all just carbon. Scarlet macaw, Human, when it¡¯s ash it¡¯s ash, I wouldn¡¯t notice a thing. That used to make me mad, first time I visited. But anger just turned into annoyance, and that turned into boredom. Fifth visit, sixth, whichever, that went too. ¡®Cause it¡¯s just routine, now, these visits, the cloudy sky, squeaking windshield wipers, the window and his office chair and his dull, grey suit. Like a Wednesday errand. Like I¡¯m running to the grocery store but all the food¡¯s triple the cost. Tight on money enough as it is. That¡¯s what I said then. Money¡¯s real tight right now. I¡¯m doing my best, sis, you gotta give me some time. And Ani trusted that. Trusted me. ¡®Cause I was big sis, wouldn¡¯t lie to her. Told myself that too. And then she¡¯d leave the next morning, get drunk the next night and crash on my couch. And I¡¯d tell her again. I¡¯m working on it. Could have something soon. Something better. And she¡¯d smile that little smile she only ever gave me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper quietly, and I turn, and walk back toward my car. For a moment my nose stings, bad. Feel a tear welling up in my eye. But then it¡¯s gone, and I¡¯m just walking again. A minute later, it¡¯s just my tear left on the pavement. Tiniest bit of salt, mixed in with the rain. Cant See I can¡¯t see. Maybe I¡¯m sleeping. But I feel like I¡¯m awake. I remember my fourth grade teacher talked about something like this. Lucid dreaming, think she said it¡¯s called. But I dunno. It¡¯s not dark. Not bright either. Just can¡¯t see. That¡¯s weird. Dreams have stuff in them. Usually mine do anyhow. Maybe I¡¯m dead? Hurts like it. Head¡¯s just pounding. How¡¯d I get here? Last thing I¡­ it was night I think. At a bar. I didn¡¯t drink. Been trying to quit since big sis asked me. Charlie made a joke and took a drink. Think it was a Monster can. Had those big bright neon green letters on black. Looked like street graffiti taken right off a wall. And they just put it on an aluminum can, said, ship it. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Then I got a headache, all loud and sharp, and went home. Just walked inside and sat down. The usual, big sis said I could crash. Asked her for something to drink. She offered water and I said fine, asked how the birds had been. Then it was her turn, said fine same as me. I smiled and she left for the kitchen. For a moment I sat there and my head pounded and pounded. It¡¯s still pounding. Hurts like hell. Feels like only a minute ago. But I didn¡¯t close my eyes. Didn¡¯t go to bed. Was just waiting on my water. Maybe I still am. But if it comes I don¡¯t see it. Spread Bloody claws plant into the seashore, on a crescent bay at the edge of the ocean, and they spread, tear down the trees and build a home, name it Sunyha Kyrrra of Family Taiyharren, they prosper and grow and trade and sing and spread some more; the others of Lumylen and Arash and Sunuma see them and call them nomads because that is what they are, nomads, wanderers from a shore like another world, who take to the plains like songs take to memory, and for years and years they grow and they trade and spread, not just lives and cities but ideas, ideas spread and they catch like flames, the others are like moths and come to the flame to hear their songs and trade for goods, the others learn of their ways and bring them home, to the other lands, away from the seas of grass to the mountains and the dunes and the rivers, and there their ideas spread too, spread and spread and spread some more, ¡®til memory forgets that once they weren¡¯t there at all. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Sunyha Kyrrra | SOO - nyah / CARE - rrah Taiyharren | TIE - yah - rrehn Lumylen | loo - MEEL - ehn Arash | ah - rahsh Sunuma | SOO - NOO - mah Her I could never, not with all the years left of my life, forget what She sounded like. I can¡¯t remember much of that day, but I know I was on the riverbank, gathering reeds for a basket. Her voice was heavy in the air, rhythmic and melodic, a cadence of notes and tunes; speech made Song. She was just how the stories described Her; the perfect melody of the Bond-Song, the Song that chose unbidden to build bridges and repair all the millions more torn by those who stand on their own riverbanks and shout of their might at the top of their lungs. I can remember almost nothing else of that day when I heard Her, but that memory remains. When I think of it I can hear each and every gentle note of Her twining together; a constant flow that never stops or climbs or deepens. Each moment of Her is just as She always is: a series of notes, all special, unique, refusing to repeat and instead ongoing in seemingly infinite permutations. I remember how She slipped through the rushing river in my ears, the rustling leaves in the trees and the gentle churning of the dirt as my claws dug in the wet earth, effortlessly, unintrusively; She never demanded, never suggested, never even asked, not even of the river and the earth and the forest. She was in them too, Her notes not extensions, not recreations, of the rushing and the rustling and the churning, but more of them, more of all of it. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. And in the Song I could hear myself, as well, my breaths and the beating of my heart and the gentle thump of my tail as it hit the dirt, tapping to the beat of the song the old musician had played us the night before, still lazily adrift in my thoughts. In Her I could hear that song, too, one-two, one-two, a slow beat buried somewhere in Her depths, no different from a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I heard that distant melody and then suddenly the old man himself, part of Her just like I was, the care with which he treated his young grandson and the garden he tended, the songs he wrote by firelight in the late hours of the evening, his talontips long since stained black from the ink he used to do so. And then I could hear the ink itself, could hear the slow spreading of the black liquid as it sank into the paper, the indentation of the writing claw as it pressed down to deliver it, the quick and decisive movement into the bottle and then out again. I remember so little of the rest of that day. I cannot even remember how She came away from me, but finally She did, and when I found myself aware again, I was digging in the earth and cutting the reeds with my claws, just as I had done before. The Room There¡¯s dust in the air, dust the color of smoke, covering the smooth grey stone floor on which my claws click with each step. Piled up flakes of it cover everything, a lonely condiment spread across each and every surface of the room; from the practical wooden beams in the ceiling to the termite-chewed dark wooden table in the center of the room and its four chairs, which surround it like hatchlings crowd their mother. Piled high in the far corner are crates, stacked up to conserve space. An old tarp, at one time maybe white but now dulled to a greyish sort of color, lies half-spread upon them like a threadbare blanket draped over a skeleton dead of the cold. The House has its fair share of those, to be sure; skeletons. own kin, and the tiniest bit of Rh¨¦vos himself, they say; all of them still here. They are buried side-by-side, just past the lips of the yawning alcoves which line every one of the black metal walls in the mountain. I dare not witness their bones. ;;fortunately, We do not share that problem. We see him enter the room, before his mind becomes aware he has done so. We see his eyes search the chamber, his clothes gently blowing in what little wind finds its way past the slight opening in the heavy steel doors of the House. We see his lips curl, and within his mouth his fangs begin to bare. We see his breath come faster, imperceptibly so, as nerves begin to build in his limbs. We see his eyes find the table and chairs and the crates stacked high in the corner, worn and rotting, fit not even for a termite¡¯s meal; we see the slightest expression of disgust flicker across his lips as he does. We see him turn his eyes to the wall, to the alcoves he so fears and the bones that tales taller than the sky have warned him of. We see the temptation in his eyes, to pull back the curtain and look upon the dead, upon his ancestors. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.??;;but he does not. We see him turn toward the hallway, long and dark and twisting, that yawns before him; the only way forward, the only way through. We see his eyes try and try to adjust, and when they do¡ª ;;he sees Us. In the room there is a table, surrounded by chairs; an idol to which its supplicants pray. In the corner there are boxes covered not entirely by a tarp, colored a dull grey, shot through with holes and covered with the same dust that lies atop the entire room. In the alcoves lining the walls there are curtains hiding shelves, upon them row after row of bones. And in the hallway ahead stands a Song, tall and wrapped in shadows, His voice a beating of drums. A single note, played forever and forever. He looks on, into the room, watching the Draicyr¨ª who stands at its center. He sees, and waits, until the Draicyr¨ª sees too. Sword in the Stone It¡¯s a sword. I know it; it¡¯s a sword and it¡¯s sticking out of my face, six, seven feet past the hilt. It¡¯s fucking Excalibur, I¡¯m not talking Needle or Sting or a damn kitchen knife, it¡¯s Excalibur half-impaled in the stone of my sinuses. Think maybe someone¡¯s tugging on it, some idiot would-be king, ¡®cause there¡¯s this noise, slow and syrupy bouncing around in my head. It¡¯s distant, coming from next to me, but hell, that might as well be a couple miles with that thump thump thump of my head between whatever¡¯s making the noise and me. Sounds vaguely like a person, maybe someone¡¯s talking to me. Sluggishly, I consider turning to look, but I don¡¯t want to hit them with the sword, that¡¯d be impolite. The voice pauses for a moment, and I almost rejoice, but then, there it is again. Sounds kind of irritated, questioning, and it¡¯s starting to get louder. I¡¯m really considering turning my head, maybe pointing my face down at the ground so I don¡¯t hit anybody, damn sword is a public safety hazard, and¡­ a hand touches down on the surface of my shoulder, bared thanks to the lavender nightgown I¡¯m wearing, and startled, my eyes snap all the way open. I turn, and Mom¡¯s standing there, next to the stool I¡¯m perching on, and her expression is a little more than annoyed. ¡°Earth to Aurora! Are you listening?¡± she asks, and her tone is exasperated. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Um,¡± I mumble. ¡°what?¡± I Have to Go Claws struck at the cobblestones outside, loud and sharp and intermixed with wingbeats; someone was running, gliding. Kin¨¦n¨ªa¡¯s eyes came all the way open, the dream she had nearly fallen into crumbling to dust before her. Her own talons were at once in motion as she rose from her rest, flaring out her tail behind her to balance her ascent. She could hear the claws still, clattering closer to her door, she thought, and with such an urgency to them. Had the Taiyharrens come to collect for their armies? Her heart trembled as she imagined Cinyr¨ªtas and all the others of his age, barely older than hatchlings, following the soldiers back to Bright Crescent, where only new-forged spears and iron-hard cots would welcome them. With equal parts relief and horror, she remembered that Cinyr¨ªtas was in fact not there at all, he hadn¡¯t returned; might the soldiers take Kin¨¦n¨ªa, if he was not present? Would he come home to no one and nothing? For a moment she thought her heart might pound its way out of her chest altogether, splattering uselessly upon the ground as her lifeless body followed suit; she wondered absently if death would be preferable to what the war had to offer. But instead she took a deep breath, allowing the air to lazily come through her nostrils and out again. Surely, she thought to herself, as reasonably as she could manage, it cannot be the soldiers. Why would they run? Perhaps there had been an attack, then? Had the joint efforts of Antumbrai and Khoral¨ªn truly been so fruitful that they could have pushed here, so many dozens of villages north of the Falls? The doorknob turned as the door to which it was attached swung open, revealing the face of her son, bathed in the light of the moons above. ¡°Cinyr¨ªtas!¡± shouted Kin¨¦n¨ªa, and she darted toward the door, enfolding him in her wings as her heart beat like lightning, louder than the drums of R¨¦zavaz against her son¡¯s scales. ¡°Mar¨¦t¨ªa,¡± he said, nearly whispered; his voice was as breathless as Kin¨¦n¨ªa¡¯s own. How long has he been running? ¡°Am¨ªat¨ªlo, Songs and stars, where have you been?¡± she asked after a moment. ¡°All night with no word, no¡ª¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°North,¡± he said, interrupting her and swallowing, as if to suck more air into his lungs. ¡°I¡¯ve been North; I am so sorry, I could not get free.¡± ¡°Free? Free of what?¡± An inkling of what had occurred began to jab at the back of Kin¨¦n¨ªa¡¯s thoughts, pushing needles in and out of the surface of her mind, but she shoved it down, surely it couldn¡¯t be as bad as she was¡ª ¡°There were soldiers,¡± said Cinyr¨ªtas, and Kin¨¦n¨ªa¡¯s heart nearly stopped. ¡°I heard¡­ I was on the banks with the reeds, and I¡­ there was something I¡­ I heard, and I¡­¡± ¡°My son,¡± said Kin¨¦n¨ªa. ¡°Collect your thoughts. You are safe.¡± ¡°No,¡± he said swiftly. ¡°I wish I were, but I am not, and until I am gone neither are you. You must listen to me¡ªit is difficult to describe; to make heard, I cannot¡­ there was music that I heard, on my path this morning. Not any music of wings, but¡­¡± At this he paused, and said nothing more, casting his eyes to the ground. ¡°A Song?¡± Kin¨¦n¨ªa finished, and Cinyr¨ªtas nodded. ¡°I¡­ it must have been,¡± he said. ¡°I cannot think of what else I heard¡­ it was like all the world at once, everything I knew, everyone¡­ wrapped up in Her.¡± ¡°Lumina?¡± asked Kin¨¦n¨ªa, and Cinyr¨ªtas curled and uncurled his talons, seeming indecisive, as he stepped out of her arms, wrapping his own wings around his body. ¡°I¡­ I thought so,¡± he answered, ¡°but¡­ no, no; it doesn¡¯t matter which it was, Mar¨¦t¨ªa, they found me like that, do you understand? Soldiers from the Crescent, they found me on the riverbank and thought I was Resonant¡ªthey¡ªthey wanted me to¡ª¡± He put his claws over his face and let out a shaky sob, his breathing ragged, its pace increasing with each breath. ¡°Am¨ªat¨ªlo,¡± Kin¨¦n¨ªa began. ¡°I am so sorry¡­ they¡­¡± ¡°So I have to go,¡± said Cinyr¨ªtas. ¡°If they found out you had been hiding me, they¡­¡± Neither of them spoke for a moment, leaving the inevitable consequence unspoken, as far from their mouths as they could keep it. ¡°Alone?¡± asked Kin¨¦n¨ªa, her tone harsher than she¡¯d meant it. But it was all she could do to keep the same tears filling her son¡¯s eyes from her own. Cinyr¨ªtas only nodded, his gaze filled with sorrow. ¡°Where will you go?¡± Kin¨¦n¨ªa asked him. ¡°I do not know,¡± he answered. ¡°I will hide, I expect. At least¡­ until the war is over, I suppose¡­ and then I will¡­ I¡­ I do not know.¡± He shook his head again. ¡°I do not know,¡± he repeated. A long moment passed, and he kept his mouth half-open, as though he sought to speak again but could find no such words to do so. ¡°Will¡­ will you come with me?¡± ¡°Always, my am¨ªat¨ªlo,¡± said Kin¨¦n¨ªa, ¡°until arra.¡± `We See You` ¡°Hello?¡± ¨¦lyren doesn¡¯t know who they¡¯re talking to. There¡¯s certainly no one to hear him, not in the Ashen House. It¡¯s dead, it¡¯s a grave, Luna always said. The biggest tomb in the world. And yet he finds himself unwilling, maybe unable, to raise his voice higher than it is, just slightly above his normal register. Like there¡¯s someone he might disturb, but then, he¡¯s talking, isn¡¯t he? Silence would be the least disruptive, surely. But he is equally unable to simply say nothing. There¡¯s a gravity to this place, pulling on his throat and forcing out words like the moons pull the tides. ¡°Is anyone there?¡± Hearing no reply, he takes a step, allowing the heavy, steel-reinforced door to creak shut behind him. The sound of his claws on the stone floor echoes like snapping talons, startling him, but only for a moment. Recovered, he glances around the room, barely registering the table and chairs or the boxes in the corner huddled under a shredded tarp, because his eyes are somewhere else¡ªthe wall to the left, the dark, curved metal wall lined with alcoves. He can¡¯t see past the curtains, but he can smell what¡¯s behind them by their syrupy, coppery tang. Bones. Stars, no one ever stopped talking about the bones. Don¡¯t look at them. Don¡¯t even think about them, his Uncle used to say. And his son would add, Never, ever touch them. It seemed silly, then, like a Song-Night story. And it was, alongside whatever other stories they¡¯d tell. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. But that was there-then, and ¨¦lyren is here-now, and the Song-Night stories are no longer so untouchable. Because the bones are here, real, where ¨¦lyren is, only talonlengths away, and no longer in the words from Uncle¡¯s jaws. Their scent is in his nose, he can taste it in the air when he flicks out his tongue. Unbidden, his hand reaches out; he¡¯d never told it to, but there it is, inching closer and closer and¡ª A drumbeat, harsh and sharp, louder than Mother¡¯s roar, and ¨¦lyren freezes solid like a statue. It¡¯s a snare, he thinks absently, hit with a draikha blade or something equally as brazen. Came from the right, down the hall at the back of the room. Another, just like before; the exact same beat, and this time it snaps him awake. He shudders, and after a moment of struggling forces his head to turn, and in that hallway there¡¯s¡­ someone, he can¡¯t tell who. A Draicyr¨ª¡¯s figure, no doubt; it¡¯s tall, like his, but thinner, more curved and graceful. ¨¦lyren swallows, and speaks again: ¡°Hello?¡± ¡°We see you.¡± The voice is¡­ his. But¡­ off. Not wrong, but not quite the same, its sound more feminine, its tone, sharper¡ªmuch sharper. And that drumbeat, he can still hear it¡ªin its voice, a bizarre echoing of its words¡­ her words? ¡°We see you, ¨¦lyren Antumbrai,¡± it continues. ¡°do you see Us?¡± He swallows again, and as the figure steps into the light, he does indeed.