Live a Great Story

Dakota Foreman faced the bright orange brick wall, staring at the eye-level sign. Underneath the words LIVE A GREAT STORY would be an ironic place to die, but that is what she thought she might do.

The middle-aged man behind Dakota reburied his pistol into the twenty-two-year-old's lower back. The barrel was hot from the warning shot he had just fired. It burned Dakota’s skin through her shirt.

The man had startled Dakota, jumping into her backseat as she was leaving the gym. She was trying to text the boyfriend she wanted to break up with that she had quit her job. The man’s gun was up before she could dial 9-1-1.

He made Dakota drive to the outskirts of Charleston. Now they stood in front of an empty building in an abandoned part of the commercial district.

“You’re the final piece to the puzzle I’ve been putting together for the past twenty-four years.”

Dakota felt the pistol barrel dig deeper into her lower back, pushing her forward towards the wall. She had cried the entire drive out to this location. But her nerves had calmed since she parked the car and climbed out.

“Peel off the sticker,” said the man.

Dakota hesitated for a moment.

“Three seconds,” said the man, raising the gun to poke into Dakota’s rib cage. “I don’t have all day.”

Dakota jumped forward and dug her fingers into the brick at the left edge of the sticker. The adhesive held at first. Dakota felt the brick scratching away her green nail polish while the sticker refused to budge.

Eventually, Dakota successfully pulled the sticker away, revealing a circular stone carved to resemble a screaming face. There were two dots for eyes, a big mouth and three slits on each cheek.

“What is that?” asked Dakota.

She partly asked because she had no idea why there was a screaming face cut into the wall – or why it had been covered up by a sticker. But she also asked because the face had an unexplained effect on her. For the first time in years, she felt at home.

“A doorway.”

“To where?”

“That’s for us to find out,” the man replied. “Push it.”

Dakota’s gut told her to oblige. Her mind screamed in protest.

“Why me?” she asked, biding time to settle her internal conflict.

“Because I’ve seen enough Indiana Jones movies. And I have the gun.”

“Fair enough,” replied Dakota.

Like the man, Dakota had seen plenty of Indiana Jones movies. She knew what happened to the no-names who messed with secret doors and mystical objects. But her gut told her she was far from a no-name here.

Dakota took two deep breaths and slammed her palm into the stone face. The rock resisted at first, holding its ground. Then there was a soft click and the piece slid back into the brick wall.

A soft hum started behind the stone face. It quickly turned to a louder buzz. Dakota peeked over her shoulder at the man behind her, but he looked just as perplexed by the sound.

Then the buzzing intensified.

“What’s happening?” asked Dakota.

“The door’s opening.”

“What door?”

Dakota had confirmed multiple times there was no door. But as she turned around, she saw that was no longer true.

The buzzing was thunderous now. The ground shook and the bright orange wall that had previously rested before them was splitting and folding away. When the rumbling stopped and the wall settled, there was now an empty doorway leading to pitch black mystery.

“I was right,” said the man, stepping up next to Dakota. “You’re one of them.”

“One of what?”

“An Atlantean,” he said. “I found the way to Atlantis.”

Suddenly, the smile was gone as a spear flew from the darkness and tore through the man’s midsection. In horrified shock, he looked down at the back of the spear protruding from his stomach. He dropped the gun, collapsed to his knees and then fell to his right.

Dakota froze next to the man. She wanted to run, but her legs refused.

A mountain of a man scooted through the doorway and stepped out in front of Dakota. His dark brown beard was thick, bushy and stretched down past his chest. His hair was pulled back into a braid that extended down the same distance. The man did not wear a shirt, revealing skin bronzed as if it had never missed a minute in the sun. His muscles were ripped – taut, holding another spear, ready to throw at Dakota.

The man’s expression quickly shifted from anger and questioning to recognition. Then a smile appeared.

In a deep, rumbling voice, he stated something in a language Dakota did not understand.

Chills rushed up her spine. Chills of relief.

“You’ve arrived,” the man said in English. “The princess is home.”

Dakota’s eyebrows jumped at the word ‘princess.’

“Follow me,” said the man, waving for Dakota to follow him.

She followed. The other side of the doorway was not the dark cavern she expected. Rather, Dakota found herself in awe of a white marble walkway lined by a majestic ceiling, grandiose walls and Greek-like columns.

“Where are we?” asked Dakota, walking along the Atlantean’s side.

“This is a portal station. A bridge between our world and theirs.”

“Our world?”

“Yes,” said the Atlantean. “Ours. Including yours. Heirs to the throne spend their formative years above so they can better understand the land humans. So that you can empathize with them.”

“I’m from Atlantis?”

“Everything will come back to you once you’re home.”

“And who was that?” asked Dakota, peeking back over her shoulder to where they had left the armed man.

“Doctor Higgins has spent the better part of three decades hunting proof of our existence.”

“I’d say he found it.”

“He has found proof before,” said the Atlantean. “But he was obsessed with proof he could share.”

Dakota and the Atlantean stopped at a set of tall stone doors, having reached the end of the long walkway. The man banged his fist on the door in front of him three times.

“I hope he lived a great story,” he said. “Or at least a good enough story for him.”

Written by: Kevin Treaccar
Photograph by: Sophie Stuart

Faerie Road

A peculiar path wound through the fields behind Beaugenveu Estate. It was a long path that no one ever walked for fear of never walking back. Despite never being used, the grass on the path was always cut while the grass surrounding it grew vigorously. As was the way of Faerie roads.

The youngest Beaugenveu daughter, Alice, had grown up hearing horror stories about the Faerie road. She used to watch the path from her bedroom window night after night and wonder if what her nanny said was true. This sort of thinking was what drove Alice to walk the path one sunny, Sunday afternoon, and her cousin was either stupid enough or courageous enough to go with her.

"This is it?" Lena sighed. "I thought it would be more impressive."

"This is it," Alice confirmed. Lena gave it another disapproving look. Doubt crept up Alice's spine the longer Lena stared. "Come on. Staring doesn't do anything," she said, stepping onto the path. Lena was quick to follow.

High tendrils of grass swayed around the path like a green ocean. Like gleaming golden rays of sunlight, dandelions stood out against the green. The air of unease that had surrounded them slipped away with each step as the house grew smaller and smaller, leaving them smiling and laughing. Everyone was wrong; there was nothing scary about the path. Nothing at all.

The path stopped where the old family cemetery began. Both stared at the ancient iron gate for many moments before Alice spoke. "Let's have a look around," she breathed. Lena shrugged.

The cemetery was small with crumbling graves. "No one's been buried here since the path appeared," Alice whispered. "Said it was too dangerous."

They danced around gaping holes and fallen stones before coming to the center of the cemetery. A large brush cropped out of the ground and loomed over their heads. They stopped and stared at it for several moments.

"It looks like you can go inside," breathed Lena. A small fissure, more open in some places than others, ran between the two bushes. Beyond was darkness.

Alice nudged Lena in the back. "Go on then," she said. Lena stared at the gap, hesitant. "What are you waiting for? An invitation?" Alice laughed. Her cousin's mocking was not something Lena would put up with, so she brushed away the thoughts of danger beginning to cloud her mind and stepped into the bush.

Alice followed close behind and the two girls spread out in the small area. "How very mysterious," Alice laughed, looking around. Lena glanced around as well but her eyes stopped as they landed on a gentleman kneeling before a gravestone. "Do you think faerie-"

"Alice," Lena hissed. Alice quieted and turned to see what had disturbed her cousin. Her eyes quickly found the gentleman. He was watching them with eyes the color of silver and hair a glowing gold.

"Miladies," he greeted, slowly standing, brushing dirt off his opulent clothing. The unease Lena had felt before stepping in the bush washed over her again. There was something dangerous and also delightful about him. Lena wasn't sure which scared her most.

"I'm sorry, we'll leave." Lena grabbed Alice's wrist but her cousin wouldn't move. She was staring at the man as if he was the only thing in the world.

"You needn't." A shiver of terror raced down Lena's spine, and she tugged on Alice.

"We have to go." Alice didn't budge.

"In fact," continued the man. "I was just looking for a partner. I was on my way to a ball at my brother's kingdom." He smiled at Alice. "Do you like to dance?" A smile broke across Alice's face.

"Yes," she breathed, stepping towards him.

"Then come with me." He offered a hand and Lena pulled back on Alice, terror fully consuming her now. Alice kept walking, reaching for the man's hand. Lena felt her fingers slip from her cousin's arm, and she fought for grip. As Alice's fingers wrapped around his, she disappeared. Lena stared at where her cousin had just been standing with wide eyes.

"Would you like to come to the ball too?" the man asked Lena. His charm did not fight through her fear, and she whirled, tripping out of the bush.

Lena raced back to the path. Her pounding feet matched the frantic beating of her heart. Alice was gone, captured by a faerie. The path was just as dangerous as the stories said.

Clouds gathered with alarming speed and lightning shattered the sky. Rain began to fall in torrents and the world blurred until Lena didn't know up from down. She pushed forward, unsure of where she was, or where the path was, but determined to keep going.

Suddenly the rain dropped away as a canopy of leaves sheltered her. The forest unveiled itself around her, dark and foreboding. Lena jogged slowly down a random path, her waterlogged skirts weighing her down. She needed to get back to the estate, to tell Uncle Pete that Alice had disappeared, to send people out to find her. Could anyone be rescued from a faerie, though?

The forest was unfamiliar territory and somewhere in her heart, Lena knew she was hopelessly lost. She wouldn't let that seep into her mind, though. There was hope somewhere. There had to be.

A stick snapped behind her, and she whirled. She couldn't see anything through the murky light of the forest. Lena started on when a growl rumbled behind her. Again, nothing revealed itself to her. Lena remembered the hunt's master talking about wolves that lived in the forest. The thought continued to fuel her fear.

As if on cue, a giant wolf lunged from the shadows. Lena reeled back, screaming. Two other wolves followed the first. They slowly began to circle her. Ragged sobs began to rip from Lena's throat. She was going to die, in the middle of a forest, no one knowing where she was. She closed her eyes and waited for their attack.

Silence filled the forest clearing and Lean slowly gathered the courage to open her eyes. The wolves were gone. Lena felt her legs give out, and she hit the ground. Hopelessness filled her and she sobbed.

As she sat there, a hand patted her on the shoulder. "The ball would be much more fun than this." She looked up, finding the faerie man behind her. Lena nodded despite herself. "Come with me."

Written by: Cameron Mitchell

Photograph by: Kyle Hemmings

Coven

Snap.

Their bare feet have hardened like leather from seasons of traversing the forest. Another dry twig breaks underneath a carpet of burnt citrus leaves.

“Quiet!”

The muffled crunch of their walk continues, with more attention paid to buried tree limbs. They are unavoidable, almost undetectable. Periodically a snap or crack will elicit the same harsh shushing from their leader.

When she thinks they have gone far enough, the leader signals the other three to stop.

Fingers of moonlight probe the forest floor. Their bouncing shadows stretch, mingling with those of tall, spindly trees. A breeze whispers the promise of dense fog in the morning, and they shiver. The red, chilled tips of their toes peek out from under the robes, thick and dark and warm.

They have arrived.

Each member of the coven takes her seat on her own flat stone. The four of them form a tight diamond against the wide circular fire pit. Burnt metal, almost buried by the detritus of autumn, winks in the luminescence. They clear the pit with care and consideration, piling the leaves and twigs next to them on the stone.

The leader’s hands move with a confident cadence. In the still of the evening, she coaxes a fire to life. Each woman nurtures it with an offering from the pile they gathered: bundles of twigs, or armfuls of crumbling leaves that catch fire and scatter ash and embers.

Throughout the evening, the leader will pull larger branches from behind her stone seat and feed them to the fire. None of the members of the coven will remember seeing the branches before, and will forget to ask her if it was foresight or magic.

When their faces grow warm from the fire, they begin the ritual.

“You got it, right?” The leader turns to the one with dark skin and eyes like glacial ice, blue and cold and piercing. She nods and pulls the worn canvas bag out from underneath her robe. She sets out the ingredients with painstaking precision.

“And you brought the rest?” The leader turns to the one with pale skin and a layer of freckles so thick it could be armor. Her small hand pulls the sticks out from a disproportionately large pocket. She passes them around and they each take one.

“Now?” asks the smallest one, the quiet one, with wide, muddy brown eyes and an upturned nose.

“Now,” the leader agrees. They each hold an object, once soft, that has grown rigid in the cool night air. Above them, a storm of wings erupts, and they cannot tell if they hear bats or owls, or something darker.

“Eye of newt,” the leader says. They pass around the plastic bag and skewer a white, pillowy proxy for their spell ingredient. It transforms in the flames, bubbling and charring.

“Dragon’s scale and willow root!” They chant together as they pass around Hershey bars and demolish them piece by piece. Golden graham crackers snap in half, and their imaginary spell produces something real and wonderful.

The taste is warm and sweet and decadent. It bursts with the first bite, and marshmallow sinew cuts sticky trails against their chins and robes. Mixed with the smoke and ash, they will have to scrub away residue the next morning before dutiful, prim appearances at church.

They continue the process as their supply dwindles. Laughter turns to cackles. Spells become songs. They grow frenzied and mad, consumed by their lust for sweet, dark power. Their energy spills into the night and they dance around the fire, cavorting among friends, sisters, and smoke.

Skewers are abandoned when the ingredients deplete. Offerings made have reaped their reward: euphoria on a dark weekend night, when the forest fulfills its promise as a safe haven for those with the desire to cast incantations and witness the spark of magic.

It leaves as quickly as it came. They slump against the cold stones as the fire becomes a pitiful collection of embers. In the excitement, the leader forgot to feed it more wood. It is cold, achingly so.

“Time to come back inside.”

The man comes to them when they are too exhausted to make note of it. The members of the coven protest in mumbling half-yawns, and he relents. He wraps them in plaid wool blankets and brushes the dust off their terry cloth robes. He places black pointed polyester hats on the stone surfaces. The hats wiggle from a mediocre breeze.

The man stokes the fire. He shivers and stamps his feet, his breath a warm cloud suspended over them. An owl hoots in the distance as he huddles on the stone next his daughters, the leader and the smallest member of the coven. They share pitted dimples, widow’s peaks, and the thickest blanket.

He watches them with tenderness and builds the fire back up to its glory, log by log.

                                                                                                       ***

“It’s sacrilegious,” Sarah stands on the deck, gazing to the edge of the leaf-strewn lawn where the girls still doze on the stone benches. “We shouldn’t have taught them that word. ‘Sleepover’ is one thing, but ‘coven’ entirely another.”

“It’s literally child’s play,” John says.

Sarah glances over at him, her mouth turning up in a smile. He puts his arm around her and gives her a kiss on the head. Her hair is shot with strands of gray that gleam in the soft orange of the sunrise.

“I can make them breakfast,” Sarah says into his chest, “you’ve been up all night.”

“Nonsense,” John argues, “I’ll make them oatmeal pancakes and heat up some of your apple cider. A perfect fall breakfast.”

“They’d rather have hot chocolate with chocolate chip pancakes,” Sarah says, cocking her head in the way he finds irresistible.

“Maybe you should inventory the pantry,” John chuckles, “because I think our daughters and their friends ate their weight in s'mores last night.”

“To be young,” Sarah murmurs.

“Younger,” John corrects, “and metabolically gifted.”

They clink their coffee mugs together and wait for the girls to wake.


Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Angela DeRay

Figments

"Aren't you excited?" Steph's voice carries from the hallway. I do my best to ignore the bile churning in my stomach. My face is a mask of pain and anxiety, and a few shades paler than it should be. I nod at my reflection in the mirror, trying to convince myself of a lie before I tell it.

"Yeah," my voice wavers in response. Not convincing. "Totally."

Definitely not convincing.

"Alex," she draws out my name, each letter a syllable. The sharp points of her stiletto heels click in the hallway, drawing closer. She opens my door, not bothering to knock.

"You promised," Steph says.

"I just don't feel very well," I respond.

"Bullshit, you just don't want to go."

She isn't wrong. I don't want to go, even though I did promise Steph that 2014 would be the year I got out more. 'You can't just hang out at the house every night,' she'd told me.

"I don't want to go," I admit. I stare at the wall, willing it to somehow turn into a time machine. I imagine it shifting, the paint and boards peeling away to reveal a panel of buttons and bright colored lights.

Oh, or better yet, the boards slide open and illuminate a secret passageway that takes me to a Delorean. Run for it, Alex!

"It's just dinner," Steph says beside me. "It's like, the most low-key double-date ever because Garrett barely knows this guy so there's no pressure to like, ever hang out with him again. And I bet he's way better than those weird guys you met online last year."

I look at Steph but continue to think about my imaginary time machine. Where would I go to stop this double-date from happening?

I could go back to the train ride, when Steph first proposed it. Living in an old house away from the action of the city has its perks; I get tons of reading done on our morning commute. Steph plays Candy Crush, and apparently matchmaker.

The New Year's Eve promise is a strong contender, since I regret it more and more each day. It was a night that began with glitter, shots of tequila, and flirtatious boys; night yielded to residual liquid courage, adrenaline from going out and not hating it, and an impossible resolution I no longer want to pretend I'll keep.

"It'll be fun," Steph sing-songs as she twirls a perfect curl of blonde hair around a manicured finger.

There was the OKCupid debacle. I like vintage things, I'd written in my profile. My high standards were met by two different men, and to reward them I invited them back to my place. I caught Tim batting the old lanterns downstairs because he thought they were 'like touch lamps or something.'

Mike was a little better - he knew what the lamps were and admired them from a respectful distance. He was problematic in a different way. I didn't see it coming, but I should have – he got distracted by Steph whenever he saw her. Maybe distracted isn't the right word. He was obsessed with her. His eyes would linger on her, and it took too many instances of me staring at him staring at her to realize it could never work out.

I settle on a time, envision Doc Brown adjusting the date in the Delorean: May 22nd, 2013, the day Mom convinced me that Steph and I should once again live under the same roof.

'She's your baby sister,' Mom said. 'She wants to move to the city, but your father and I just don't think it's a good idea for her to use Craigslist to find roommates. You've already got a job, and that second bedroom was nowhere close to an office or a study or an exercise room when I visited a couple months ago.'

I agreed to this, but if I'd known the consequences -- men more interested in my little sister, coerced drunken promises, mandatory double-dates -- I would have put my foot down and refused my mother.

"You can't do this," Steph's eyes get serious. "I didn't believe Mom, but she’s right. You never do anything exciting."

Because what's happening in my head is almost always more exciting than what's happening in real life.

"You don't have any friends, Alex," Steph sounds sad and distant.

Imaginary ones. I have imaginary ones.

I look down at my feet and a trap door opens. It’s the same one I always imagine: my social escape hatch, a way to ignore everything around me and live comfortably inside my head.

I'm not sure who to expect this time. There have been hobbits and elves, superheroes and supervillains, boy wizards and talking paintings.

Her back is to me, but she has a trim, petite figure and long pale hair.

“Khaleesi?” I ask, confused. I'm not a huge fan, but it was a popular enough Halloween costume. The woman turns, and it's not the Mother of Dragons.

It's Steph.

I want to ask how she ended up in my imaginary panic room. I want to ask why Mom told her I never did anything, if our living together was as much about me as it was about my little sister. Questions pile up in my mind, but before I can articulate any of them she is gone and I am alone in the dark made-up space inside my own head.

I get off my bed and walk downstairs. My sister follows at my heels, radiating pain like a new blister.

“Alex?” Steph asks. I grab my purse from its hook and stop in front of the mirror. I don’t want answers to new questions - why I’d rather dream experiences than live them, why I wore my favorite outfit, why I envisioned my sister as part of my imaginary friend panoply. I say that I’m ready and smile when Steph yelps with glee. She darts back to her room, her stilettos tapping a percussive beat.

I see a shape move in the shadows, another flash of my overactive imagination. Maybe it’s just what I need to stay sane tonight, to blur reality enough to make it tolerable.

You can come, too, but keep it down, okay?

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

A Woman's Desire

Leila opened her eyes for the first time.

Tiny beads of humidity blanketed her naked skin, catching light from the faintest rays of sunshine peeking through the canopy. She was in fetal position upon the damp earth, arms threaded between her thighs and knees pressed against her breasts. She blinked a few times before tilting back her head, peering up at the arms of the tree she rested beneath. Then she heard something, a high pitched sound that had a rhythm and melody, and she realized it was coming from a small bird with a red forehead and bright yellow chest sitting on a branch above.

She smiled before her mouth open in wonder.

Leila rolled over onto her back and stretched her arms and legs, easily six feet tall if she ever decided to stand up. She interlaced her fingers beneath her head, gazing up at the leaves, and digging her heels into the dirt. Another bird called out from the distance and she tried to replicate the sound, bracing the back of her throat and pressing the tip of her tongue behind her bottom row of teeth. The attempt delighted her, evoking a ringing laughter from somewhere behind her eyes and nose.

But someone else was laughing, too.

She sat up and pressed her back against the base of the tree, eyes darting left and right before locking eyes with someone emerging from the foliage ahead. He wore a red tunic and brown gloves, carrying a bow in one hand as he stepped forward, smiling at her. Leila had never seen a man before. She was horrified, yet mesmerized at the same time. He must have felt her fear because he knelt down in front of her, about ten feet away, one arm draped over his knee and his other hand resting on the ground.

“Hello, bright eyes,” he said.

Leila swallowed and said, “Lo.”

He laughed again, lowering himself to the ground and wrapping his arms around his knees. She was afraid of him because he was strange to her, but she could not ignore her natural desire to gaze upon his face and lean toward him.

The man placed his hand on his chest and said, “I am Arthur.”

“Thoor,” she said.

Another laugh and, “Yes, that’s right. That will do. And you, what shall I call you?”

Although Leila had never spoken her name before, she seemed to know deep down what it was, a combination of song and sigh that rolled off the tongue with ease. It pleased her to say it, and even more to say it to him.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Arthur said.

Leila crawled forward, her brown hair falling over her shoulders and swaying. Just in front of him, she sat back on her heels and offered her right hand, palm up. Arthur took off his leather glove and held her hand in his, meeting her gaze and wanting nothing more than to hold her against his body and kiss her neck. He wanted to smell the earth on her back and run his thumb over her hip. Leila’s quiet strength buffered his self control, and then he knew what she was.

“Ah, Leila,” he said. “You are a dryad.”

She smiled, pulling his hand to her chest.

He removed a leaf from her hair and looked up at the tree behind her. “And is this your tree, sweet nymph?”

Leila turned to look and she nodded with understanding.

“Extraordinary,” he said as he stood up and approached the tree, still holding Leila’s hand. “She looks old and very wise.”

Arthur turned to Leila and placed his hands on her shoulders, tracing her collar bones with his thumbs. She pressed her palms against his chest, assessing the fabric of his tunic with her fingertips.

“It’s curious that you should appear in my moment of need. For a year now, I’ve been seeking the answer to a question, and it escapes me. Being with you only makes it harder to discern. What do women most desire?”

Leila seemed to ponder his words as Arthur squatted at the base of the tree, leaning back against it and pulling a small knife from his boot. He dug the tip into one of the roots, then dropped it, startled by Leila’s sharp cry. She fell forward, placing her hand over the spot where his knife pierced the bark. Arthur reached for her, but she recoiled. She glared at him as if a wounded woman, ready to retaliate. Her warmth was gone.

“Leila, I’m so sorry. It was thoughtless,” he said.

He reached for her again, but she shrugged him off, avoiding his eyes and staring at the ground. The silence stretched for miles between them and he could feel her spirit harden against him. For a moment, Arthur imagined bringing her home with him. He could make her his wife, his queen. She would bear his children and become the face of the kingdom. She would be a woman, not a spirit. So long as this tree lived, Leila could easily outlive him. His fantasy ended when he felt her hand upon his. Their eyes met and she smiled, but she also shook her head.

“No, Thoor,” she said.

What do women most desire?

They stood together, fingers interlaced. Arthur wanted to wrap his arms around her naked body and press his mouth to hers, but now he knew the answer to the question. His life as a soldier and a king was made up entirely of choices, and sometimes making choices against another’s will. Arthur could not bring himself to overpower her despite the fact that he could. He could not bring himself to seduce her with empty promises, nor threaten the life of the tree. He waited to see what Leila wanted, to see what she would choose, if she would choose him.

Leila’s lips were on his.

Then, she was gone.

“To choose,” he said. “The power to choose.”

Written by: Natasha Akery

Photograph by: Angela DeRay

Pennybacker

When he was seven, Hunter slipped on his father's boat, fell in Lake Austin, and saw merlings. They were less magical and fantastical than he thought they would be; they were gaunt things with rigid bones and gray skin stretched thin. They were not the curved, fluid creatures of bedtime stories and animated films. They were, however, captivating. Hunter forgot everything: how to swim, his mother Elinor, even the importance of oxygen. His father jumped in and pulled him from the water.

There were witnesses. Witnesses who swore that the sopping wet boy's father had been a six-pack deep when he took his son out on the water. Witnesses who swore the father had a cap pulled low over his brow when the boy fell. Witnesses who swore the boy was under for almost a minute before the father jumped. It didn't matter how much was true. It mattered that Hunter's mother believed it

"Just tell her you saw them, Dad!" Hunter said. "I can back you up if you just tell her."

"When are you gonna quit this?" Hunter's father growled. "I didn't see them. You didn't either. You shut up about those mermaids."

"Merlings!" Hunter said. "They're merlings."

The merlings were real, and to deny them would be to lie. After his father left, he tried to convince his mother. Hunter drew pictures and plastered them all over his walls. His room was a chamber of Lovecraftian horror: shapes and angles forced by the rabid hand of an unskilled artist. There was one Hunter drew over and over again.

"The Harbinger," Hunter told his mother at dinner. He showed her his latest attempt, with rough calcified scales at the tail and sharp moldy skin. A wide mouth brimmed with dark pointed teeth. White eyes bulged.

"Where did you hear that word?" His mother forced herself to swallow a forkful of meatloaf.

"He told me. That's what he said he was called." Hunter replied. "I think I'm supposed to go back and find him."

His mother checked him into a children's psychiatric hospital. There, Hunter learned that he had likely experienced trauma falling in the water. The doctor said Hunter's father was an alcoholic, and although Hunter did not know that, he had figured out that he would probably die because his dad could not rescue him. Hunter's mind had invented angels of mercy to help him prepare to go to Heaven.

"But if that were true, I would've made real angels. Real angels are white and glow. They have wings, not fish tails." Hunter told his doctor.

Hunter learned that the mind does all kinds of funny things when you are scared. Maybe his mind played with shapes in the water. Maybe his mind played with how the light shined within Lake Austin. Hunter probably heard the word "harbinger" on TV. Hunter's mind knew what it was from context. When Hunter thought he was dying, he invented the merlings. One of them was his herald.

That's what the doctor said.

Hunter stopped talking about the merlings. Hunter stopped drawing them. Over years of therapy, the Harbinger faded into Hunter's memory.

But not Elinor's.

"I wasn't there for him," Elinor told herself.

She wasn't there when her son fell into the Harbinger's murky waters. She was across the street, "borrowing a cup of sugar" from Ted Vicars.

She wasn't there when the Harbinger called again. Her husband wrapped his truck around a telephone pole. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. The coroner's report said his blood alcohol level was above the legal limit.

In the years it took for her boy to become a young man, Elinor saw tragic events as evidence of the Harbinger’s presence in her life. When the doctor suggested Hunter may be ready to leave the hospital, Elinor did not object. Good news was rare.

When Hunter came home, he was surprised by the house. Each room had been painted a different shade of watery blue. The living room was a shallow mountainside brook. The kitchen was a country pond, its surface just kissed with algae. Hunter's room was the top of Lake Austin when it glinted with sun.

Elinor's room - no longer his parents' - made him uncomfortable. It was the dark, deep inside of Lake Austin. It tugged at him, begging him to remember drowned nightmares. Hunter did not go in his mother's room. Hunter did not see her fill the tub and stare at it. He did not see her submerge herself, holding her breath under the tepid water. He did not see the inside of her closet, wallpapered with his old sketches of the Harbinger.

Hunter did not hear her call its name.

"I think we should go back to Lake Austin." Elinor said over lunch. "I think it would be good for us to confront what happened there."

"Mom, I don't want to go back in there. I don't think it would be good for me." Hunter stared at his spaghetti. The shapes were tangled curves, and for a moment he saw the ebb and flow of water and thought he might vomit.

"By Pennybacker! Not into the water, of course." Not yet. She could hold off a little longer. Maybe take scuba diving lessons first - just in case he wasn't near the surface this time. And really, who knew how deep Hunter had been?

When Elinor saw the bridge, she knew they were close. It was a low, wide arch the color of rust, and Elinor laughed at how it looked like water corrupted the structure. The amber curve did not dip into Lake Austin. It straddled the banks, but it was a false portal.

When Hunter saw the bridge, he inhaled sharply. Bad thoughts came to him, dark and evil things flooded his memory. The bridge transported Hunter back to that day he saw the merlings, that day he saw the Harbinger, that day he realized his father couldn't save him.

"The Harbinger." The word was a whisper. Neither knew who said it. Neither cared.

Shaking, Hunter pulled into the nearest parking lot. Elinor stepped out of the car without a word.

"See you soon." The voice creaked.




Photograph by: Emily Blincoe
Written by: Erin Justice