《Incendiary》


 Foug猫re

    I''d never liked intimacy. Never liked trust. Not until you.


    I thought you were the shelter that I needed to weather the storm. A warm fire that rested heat on me like a blanket. I was wrong.


    You were smoke. Stinging tears into my eyes and stealing the air from my lungs. Suffocating. Intoxicating. I escaped from it, from you. But it was too late. The damage had been done. And now you''re gone. Disappeared into thin air, like smoke in the wind.


    Trystan Bodin /// Monday, January 3rd, 7:30 a.m.


    It was cold, the day I met you. The wind had long since gotten its first chill, and the trees were barren, allowing it to whirl by with force. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, fingers numb even through my gloves.


    I shuffled along, desperate to get to the general store. The heat. I could already see it. The windows fogged with moisture, making the neon ''open'' sign look hazy and blurred. I looked away from it, focusing on the door.


    The bell dinged when I opened the door. A warm and soft tone that I''d grown to appreciate. Eliza looked up from the cash register, which is huddled into the back right corner, close to the heater. A grateful smile graced her face.


    "Thanks for coming in." She said. "I know it''s colder than a witch''s tit out there."


    I shrugged it off, unable to hide my smile at the southern drawl that wormed its way into her old idiom. She had that adorable familial warmness to her that''s only achieved by the warm smile and kind voice of a lady from the south. Well, one that isn''t biased and strong in old opinions.


    Eliza wasn''t that. She was kind and accepting. So I let the blanket of familiarity settle over me. She thanked me once more as I sat down on the stool behind the counter, then headed off, eager to return home to her husband and kids. I looked around, taking my jacket off as I did.


    We still had a few Christmas items littered around the store, but I was sure Mrs. Sylvia would be there soon to clean them out. She always did. An older lady with children and grandchildren, who always came and bought out the last of the Christmas items to donate or keep for next year. She was sweet, and the thought was nice, so I decided to gather all of the items and put them in a box to wait for her.


    It was quite the task, as is everything in this store. Sure, we weren''t one of the usual antique shops around town, but our shop looked like one. Rows and rows of items that felt like they''d never been sold. The ceilings were high and support beams were visible. The insulation wasn''t great, so space heaters in the winter and fans in the summer.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    But I was determined, and I managed to snag all of the lingering porcelain Santas and paper plates with reindeer, and anything else Christmas-themed.


    Not long after I sat back down, the bell chimed again. I thought it might be the sweet old lady coming to collect her Christmas items, but it wasn''t. It was you. There was nothing unusual about you, not at first. You were my age, and while the small college town was normally populated only by the older folks on the breaks, it wasn''t unusual for a few grandchildren to wander up for the holidays.


    Your face was pale from the cold, besides the tint of red that spread over your nose. You rubbed your hands together, trying to get away from the cold that likes to seep into people''s skin. Reaching up, you tugged your beanie off, revealing curly brown hair that barely passed your ears. You ran a gloved hand through it, roughly.


    I gave you the usual greeting, not even bothering to toss in any enthusiasm. Sure, you were attractive, but you weren''t that interesting. Not yet.


    You smiled back at me, a pained thing that made me shift in my seat, uncomfortable. You must''ve noticed, because you dropped it quickly, settling for staring at the ground like it was suddenly most interesting.


    You weaved in and out of the aisles, headed towards me. You lacked the grace and familiarity of the everyday customers, so I knew you were new in town. Actually no, I didn''t recognize you, so I already knew you were new in town. It''s a small little thing, Fort Harwood, and everyone knows everyone. That''s how small towns go. But, the way you stumbled around like a baby fawn confirmed what I''d already suspected.


    You finally made it to me, stepping up on the platform that the register resides on. You lean on the counter, hands tapping idly on it. The gloves were soft, worn leather, and I remember the sound being strangely calming. Your cologne wafted over, smelling more masculine than I''d anticipated. You smelled like vetiver and cigarettes, and I liked it more than I cared to admit.


    Then you spoke, in this soft cadence that would make boys and girls alike swoon. "Hello. You must be Trystan. I''m Mara." Your voice didn''t have that southern drawl that peaked into most of the town¡¯s voices. No, there was something different, though it was barely there. Something Slavic, like all of the villains in American movies. Bosnian, I''d later learn.


    You continued. "My grandmother buys the last of the Christmas things here. She said you''d be the one to talk to about getting them."


    If you hadn''t caught my attention before, you did then. "Mrs. Sylvia?" I asked.


    You nodded. I nodded too, feeling dull even as I did it. "Yeah, I got the box right here."


    I stood up and sat the box on the stool, beginning to ring up items. Though a thought crossed my mind, and I paused about halfway through.


    "Hey, wait a minute. Why didn''t Mrs. Sylvia just come up herself?" I ask.


    You fiddled with the buttons on your jacket. "She''s ill, so it''s best for her to stay home and rest."


    "Oh, I''m sorry," I said genuinely. "I hope she gets well."


    You nod, giving me that pained smile again. I didn''t think you really wanted to be out of the house either.


    I gave you the total, and you paid, telling me to keep the change. Then you left, leaving behind the smell of your boyish cologne and too many crisp bills on the counter.


    Finally, someone interesting in this town.

 Coffee and 猫clairs

    Trystan Bodin /// Thursday, January 6th, 10:12 a.m.


    When a town is small, word gets around quick when something interesting is going on. Our town was small, and you were interesting. So pretty soon everyone knew everything there was to know about you.


    It seemed I was always the only one out of the loop, which Arden constantly complained about. He''s my best friend and I love him, sure, but sometimes I can''t stand the small-town gossip. I did want to know about you, though.


    So, when he picked me from my cold, small apartment, coffee and ¨¦clairs in hand, the pull of the bed was weaker than normal. The smell wafted out of the cup, and I still wanted to stay home, but damn that smelled good.


    "Best way to get you out and about is to bring caffeine and food." He joked. Though it was probably more true than it should''ve been.


    I rolled my eyes, then thanked him anyway, reaching for the coffee.


    He pulled it closer to him, a grin on his face. "Nope. You don''t get it till we''re out of the building."


    I groaned, but complied, throwing on my jacket and boots and marching down the hall.


    "Forgot to lock your door," Arden called. I walk back, flipping him off. He just smiles at me as I lock my door. And, much to my annoyance, I smile back. He''s just so unassuming and familiar that way. Friendly and trusting to a fault, though I won''t point it out. Just give a gentle nudge when someone is off.


    We walked down the hallway, and I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, fiddling with the loose change I found in them. They were cold in my hands. I felt over them, doing some guesswork and then a bit of math.


    Seventy-five cents. Two quarters, two dimes, and a nickel. I pulled the change out of my pocket, counting it up. Seventy-five.


    We stepped out of the building, and I shoved the change back into my pockets. The air was thin and harsh from the cold, stinging numbness into the tips of my fingers. I really need to invest in some nicer gloves. We breathed out fog, and I tugged my jacket tighter around me. Maybe a nicer jacket too.


    I stopped, turning to Arden. "Can I have my damn coffee now?" I asked. He laughed, then nodded, handing it to me.


    I gulped it down greedily, the liquid burning my throat as I swallowed. But it warmed my stomach and tasted like heaven, so I decided it was worth it. We start walking again, silently. I know where we¡¯re going, so I don¡¯t ask any questions. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Snow was still falling, though at a considerably slower rate. It left the ground slick with ice and slush, crunching and sliding under our feet. I was glad I grabbed my boots since they gave me extra stability.


    It didn¡¯t take long for us to arrive at the trail, and then it was only a short walk across the muddy gravel to the bridge. The air smelled of musk and pine, and I brushed some of the fallen pine needles off the bridge. We sat down in the new pine-needle-free spot, legs dangling through the posts and over the icy water below. Arden set the box of eclairs in between us, and I tossed it open, picking one up.


    Arden did the same, chewing slowly before asking, "You heard about the new girl who just came into town? Sylvia''s granddaughter?" I almost laughed. I knew this was coming, Arden always has his eyes and ears open for gossip.


    Instead, I nodded, drinking down the rest of my coffee. "Yeah, she came ''round the shop on Monday."


    Arden''s eyes widened. "You saw her?" He asked.


    I nodded again. His mouth gaped open. "Well, what''d she look like? Nobody''s seen more than a glimpse of her."


    I shrug. "Tall, maybe five-eight. Her eyes are green. She''s got short, brown, curly hair, and her skin is fairly pale."


    Arden nods. ¡°She seem nice?¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t say.¡± I shrugged again. ¡°She doesn¡¯t exactly seem like the social type, but that doesn¡¯t mean she isn¡¯t nice.¡± I elaborated.


    ¡°Huh,¡± Arden said. ¡°Anything else you¡¯ve been keeping from me?¡± He joked, nudging into my shoulder.


    ¡°Nope.¡± I think for a moment. ¡°Actually yes. She had an accent. Something Eastern European that I still can''t place."


    I added, ¡°And style-wise? European biker chick.¡±


    Arden barked out a laugh, nodding. ¡°Got it. I¡¯ll be on the lookout for the tall, antisocial, European, biker chick.¡± He turned to face me."My mom says she''s bad news."


    I snorted. "Your mom thinks I''m bad news."


    He shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s fair. Though it¡¯s probably because she thinks you stole her gold earrings.¡±


    I laughed. ¡°I never took those damn earrings. Initially, though, it was because she thought we were dating and I was going to distract you from school and football.¡±


    "She was half right." He quips.


    "Whatever you say, college boy." I snorted.


    He scoffed playfully. "Like you can talk, drop out."


    "It''s called taking a gap year, asshat. And should you even be smoking right now?" I asked, gesturing to the cigarette in his hands. When did he even light that?


    He shrugged. "I''m on break."


    I rolled my eyes. "Still. Wouldn''t want that scholarship to go to waste. Can''t play with tar in your lungs."


    He looked down at it, eyebrows furrowed. Taking one final drag from it, he crushed it on the ground. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled the box out, tossing it to me. I shook it. Almost full. I considered tossing it into the water, but decided against it, pocketing the box.


    He didn''t say anything to acknowledge the exchange, so I didn''t either.


    "So, what shenanigans have you gotten up to while you were away, college boy?" I teased.


    Arden looked up at me, grinning. "Whatever do you mean? I always stay out of trouble."


    I grinned back at him. "Oh yeah? Tell that to your mile-long school record.¡±

 Rosewood

    Trystan Bodin /// Sunday, February 20th, 3:06 p.m.


    Weeks passed before I saw you again. Winter faded into spring, new leaves sprouting on the trees. The chill in the air dissipated, and warm breezes blew pollen everywhere. The air smelled like flowers and rain. I''d nearly forgotten about you, only vaguely reminded when I''d hear news of Mrs. Sylvia. She was getting sicker, and I feared that she would pass soon.


    The whole town must have felt that way as well because everyone was coming into the shop looking for flowers and a good casserole dish. I don''t know what it is with southern ladies and thinking lasagna and casserole will solve a family''s problems.


    My shift ended early that day, so I decided to wander over to Mrs. Sylvia''s house to check-in. The weather was nice so I ditched my old Volkswagen bug, choosing to walk instead. I skipped the casserole bit of the visit, since I''m not fond of cooking, and I suspected Mrs. Sylvia probably had a refrigerator full of them by now.


    I walked along the cracked sidewalks, the edges pushed up in odd angles from the roots of the trees they planted too close. The further I pushed into the old side of town, the worse the sidewalks looked, until they were just gravel and stone, crunching under my feet. The houses here were old as time, though some showed it more than others.


    Paint chipped and foundations cracked. Vines and bushes overgrew, blocking the view of the houses that seemed forgotten. But they weren¡¯t, clearly, since cars that looked clean and out of place were parked in the driveway. I suppose the owners are just too old to get around to yard work. Or didn''t have the money to spare.


    I kicked loose stones across the pavement, trying to entertain myself. It didn¡¯t really work, but it also didn¡¯t matter, because I¡¯d managed to make it to Mrs. Sylvia¡¯s house. Her house was one of the more loved ones, with a coat of yellow paint that couldn¡¯t have been there more than a year. The yard was mowed and the bushes well kept. It looked like a home, and every time I saw it, the sight warmed me more than I thought it would.


    I crunched up the gravel sidewalk, swinging open the old metal gate. Then up the creaky steps to the patio, where the rocking chairs were sitting, waiting for someone to enjoy an ice tea and the sun.


    I knocked on the door, expecting Mrs. Sylvia but then the door opened and you were there. You, smelling of boyish cologne, an unlit cigarette hanging out of your mouth, and your hair slicked back like a greaser. You, and your sweater that looked too soft not to be expensive, and your face that was sculpted by the Gods and oh-. And the fading hickeys littering your neck, almost hidden by the thick fabric of your choker. Because of course with a face like that you''d be with someone. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "Hey, Mara right? I''m here to visit Mrs. Sylvia. You picked the Christmas stuff up from me at the store." I said.


    You nodded. You looked me up and down, subtly. Barely a flick of the eyes, blink and you''ll miss it. But I didn''t miss it. "I remember. She''s in the bedroom."


    You stepped aside, allowing me to brush by you and into the house. Vetiver and cigarettes. I stepped into the living room. You stepped outside, the screen door closing behind you.


    The house smelled of rosewood and vanilla, and the hardwood floors creaked with age. The fireplace rested unlit, a clear sign that winter was over. Mrs. Sylvia was particularly sensitive to cold, so her fireplace was often on well into spring. Or maybe it was because she couldn''t light it herself.


    I walked past the fireplace and down the hallway. The walls mimicked the outside of the house, colored a muted yellow. Pictures of children and grandchildren lined the walls, their faces smiling at me. I reached the final door, knocking softly before swinging it open.


    And there she was. Propped up against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her head. She looked thin and tired, dark circles surrounding her red eyes. She smiled as she noticed me.


    "Hey, sweetie. Come to visit?" She asks, voice hoarse.


    I nod, not trusting myself to talk with the knot in my throat. I clear my throat, nodding again. "Yeah, just wanted to see how you were holding up. Heard you''ve been in bed for quite a while."


    Mrs. Sylvia nodded. "Oh, I''m just peachy." She said, a knowing grin on her face. Cheeky old woman.


    I let out a laugh at that, some of the tension in my shoulders and neck loosening. "Yeah, I bet. You need anything?" I asked.


    "I''m quite thirsty." She said, "There''s some iced tea in the fridge if you wouldn''t mind grabbing it, dear."


    I nodded, heading to the kitchen. There were three different plates of cookies on the counter, all wrapped in plastic over ceramic plates. I sensed the refrigerator would look the same.


    I swung open the fridge, snorting. I was right, it was packed full of enough food to survive an apocalypse. Though it wasn''t all casserole, there were some bowls and plates full of various things as well. I grabbed the pitcher of iced tea, as well as a few glasses from the cabinet, and walked back to the bedroom.


    You were in the room now, sitting in the yellow armchair in the corner of the room. Your boot tapped idly on the floor. Not keen on sitting still, clearly.


    The smell of cigarette smoke was stronger now. It wasn''t overwhelming, but the emotions that came with it were. Nostalgia, grief, and comfort to name a few. It was a strange blend and continued to catch me off guard every time you were close.


    I studied on the bedside table. It was littered with books, tissues, and flower vases, but there was still some space on the old wood. I set the glasses down there, pouring the iced tea into each cup. I handed one to Mrs. Sylvia, who responded with a "thank you, dear".


    When I handed you the cup, you mumbled a sort of thanks, which felt too awkward for the aloof energy you exuded.


    I would''ve thought more of it if my phone hadn''t rung. But it did, and it was my mother, and I really didn''t want to get upset in front of you or Mrs. Sylvia. So I excused myself, apologizing, and walked outside to face the terror that is my birth giver.