Kyle & Jasmine

Kyle and Jasmine have a wall between them. There is a wide gulf that separates them despite their physical proximity in the small automobile that Kyle is maneuvering slowly and precisely through red-tinged mountains. Each of them, Kyle and Jasmine, loves the other, but they are unable to say it. Each of them, Kyle and Jasmine, is unable to actually spit out the words. Kyle is afraid that Jasmine has forever placed him in her in the sheer-walled confines of her friend bucket, a fate few men are ever able to escape. Jasmine is afraid that Kyle must have issued his affection to someone else and has taken his utter lack of forwardness to be an obvious sign of disinterest. Kyle knows that Jasmine is the perfect girl for him and Jasmine is well aware of the rarity of the chemistry they share. There is an undeniable bond between them, but the rift that drives them apart seems wholly insurmountable. As the car radio plays softly and the sun sets behind them, Kyle and Jasmine are both experiencing the same confounding mixture of contentment and lightning fork agony.

There have been few words spoken on this trip, but it hasn't been an uncomfortable silence. The space is filled, instead, with the flutter of Jasmine's eyelashes or the quiet serenades that Kyle has hummed along with every appropriately longing song. Every now and then their eyes will meet and each of them, Kyle and Jasmine, thinks they feel something spark, but then it's quickly dismissed as a product of their own desperation and the spark is extinguished and the hollowness of their mutual supposed unrequited love rushes back in to fill the void. Kyle and Jasmine are writhing inside, dying to spill their guts and gush over this person next to them, the boy or girl that they adore so very much. The drive is killing them. Neither of them ever wants it to end.

The mountains, now, are stained violently crimson and indigo by the spectacular sunset flowering behind them. There is an aura of magic enveloping the world, the sort of mystic glow that comes from a scarlet dusk, the sort that wildly intensifies the romantic tension that is driving Kyle and Jasmine straight out of their minds. Jasmine's lovely profile is lit up by the dying sun and she looks more perfect, more divine than anything Kyle could ever imagine. Kyle looks distant and lost as he thinks of her, and Jasmine is drawn to his distance, imaging levels of depth dwelling in her friend that she has barely begun to plumb. And it is absolutely maddening. The red mountains are fading behind them. Kyle and Jasmine have descended from the craggy heights and are driving along a winding, whispering path in the middle of a desert wasteland. The purple sky will soon be bleeding stars. If this magical dusk has been difficult, then the night will be practically unbearable.

The universe is shuddering around them. There is a sickening fluidity to it, a dreamy quality that the two of them, Kyle and Jasmine, take in amazing stride. Their preoccupation with each other has left insensate to anything outside of their hermetic mobile world. The desert is resculpting itself around them. The red baked clay of the earth is rising up in twisting, finger-like spirals, wrapping around themselves before dissipating and falling to the ground like cinder-block meteors. Pyramids shake themselves loose from the dirt, and great, steaming fissures open up along the roadside. Kyle and Jasmine do not notice the changes. Kyle is hoping to hear Jasmine laugh and Jasmine is drunk on Kyle's eyes. Pale green and bright blue moons fill the darkening sky, maybe a hundred or more, and they detonate spectacularly and ceaselessly, brilliant celestial fireworks overhead. This does not phase Kyle or Jasmine in the least.

The road scuttles beneath their car like a treadmill and soon they aren't going anywhere at all. Gas is burning, exhaust is spewing and Kyle's foot is held fast on the accelerator, but there is no forward motion, no progression. Kyle and Jasmine are so lost in thought, though, that neither notices or cares about their stagnation. As the hours pass, however, they do begin to grow weary and as they yawn, the ground does too, and the earth spits up a little white building made especially for them. It is squat and its walls are windows and it glows from within with a sort of pale ivory that makes it stand out like a beacon in the bloomed darkness of the desert. The building is nondescript and utilitarian and it has a parking lot and a blank marquee sign standing tall at the road's edge. Kyle and Jasmine give a passing inquiry to what, exactly, the little place might be. They agree, then, that it is enough that it is a shelter and they'll stay there for the night. In any other circumstance, settling in a strange, solitary building would be illogical. But they are both so tired and the building is right there. They haven't seen another structure for hours after all. Kyle parks the car. They go in.

Inside, the place is bigger than it should be. It is immense. Cavernous. An echoing giant chamber that could have been a church or a wedding hall or the hollowed out remains of some uncomfortably baroque and ornate theater. But to Kyle and Jasmine, it doesn’t seem to be anything at all. It is a room, an empty room, with its glass window walls and worn cream carpet. The ceiling seems to lower as they delve deeper in. The floor seems to likewise drop beneath them, as if they’re now half underground. It is cool in the building, pleasantly cool, and softly lit in a way that could be thought of as eerie or comforting dependent wholly on one’s particular point of view. The darkness creeps in through the window walls and Kyle and Jasmine eventually find themselves walking in the black beneath a dim spotlight. It follows them through the emptiness. They’re blind to everything outside of it, and the wide open building suddenly seems very small and cramped. They huddle together, as if being outside of the light could somehow do them harm. They move closer and brush against one another. Each feels a sputter-shock run roughshod through their nervous systems. It is infuriating and exciting.

The spotlight comes to rest upon a small lacquered wooden bench in the center of the mysterious building. They can’t see a thing beyond it, beyond the little bench that will barely seat them both. They exchange a weary look. Both of them are so tired, so spent, that they instinctively collapse, in tandem, into a heap on the little wooden bench. Their backs meet at the shoulder blades, and they sit still for a moment, propped one against the other, breathing in the antiseptic air of the building. It is embarrassingly thrilling, this basic, gentle touch. There is sort of pulse numbing pause to the moment, a hard stop on the careening vault of time, and the two of them, Kyle and Jasmine, hold their breath and try to make this tiny porcelain moment last forever. But, of course, the clock eventually unspools again and they're forced to come up gasping for air and the bit of crepe that tied the whole of it together has been ripped. Minutes tick on and there is the shrill worry of ending looming over them. Still, there is something so sweet and so utterly unspoiled about this miniscule connection that they each give in, grave and cautiously, to the idea that things between them may have, just maybe, slightly possibly changed. In the lock of the moment, there is a significant boost in ego, in confidence and in passion. And it's Jasmine that takes advantage of that shift in the pair's demeanor.

Jasmine unlocks her position on the bench, twisting herself forward, and moving Kyle like an interfaced sprocket as she does. They are both facing front, now, and Kyle is surprised and a bit unnerved by the change. Jasmine acts quickly to capitalize on this novel orientation, and she softly lays her head on Kyle's shoulder. The effect is immediate and it is explosive and it is indescribably wonderful. Rockets fire between his temples and Kyle is close enough to her now to feel the oceanic tidal rhythm of her breathing. He matches his lungs' cadence to hers after letting out a long, whalesong breath to denote the inimitable pleasure of her present company. Emboldened by her act of affection, Kyle wraps an arm snugly around Jasmine's waist, and he pulls her, subtly, slowly and assuredly closer. She smiles and she lets out a half whispered sigh and he just melts. Exhausted, she shifts again, this time sliding herself down, stretching upon the wooden bench and laying her weary head in his lap. He moves a hand toward her hair and runs his fingers between her locks as her cheek heats up his thigh. It's more calming, this new intimacy, than the hope of any prescription pill or silvery meditations. There is a tenuous, nervous and overly glass-like happiness shared between them; a quiet and luscious release that would verge on catharsis if it weren't still bottled up and in danger of shattering them both from the inside out. They still want to say it. More so, now, than ever before. The two of them, Kyle and Jasmine, still desperately want to tell each other, to vent it, to whisper it lovingly and frighteningly into the other's ears. But the wall is still there. It is crumbling, brick by brick and slowly, but it is still there.

The bench changes. It softens and it widens and becomes a davenport while she lays and he sits and there is a plushness to it that lets her body sink into a cloudy abandon. Her tired bones and muscles float on a sea of luxury and the comfort of it flows through her while her mind unhinges from conscious thought and loses itself in a vivid morass of lovelorn dreaming. And Kyle watches her drift off and he smiles. She looks so perfect and so peaceful that he cannot help but love her. He adores her. He feels her every tiny movement rack through his body and the soft tone of her sleepy murmur cuts into him like a knife. His heart balloons with want, but what he wants is here, next to him, and he is terrified at his current surfeit of satisfaction. He is afraid of losing it, and so he tries to etch the feeling into his brain, like a treasure map, so he can find this memory again when things have spun out of control and gone horribly, horribly awry. It'll happen. Somewhere beyond this beautiful night is a future of sickness or hardship or loss or fear. And when he is lost in something bigger and more wretched than his meager faculties can handle, he will find himself, he knows it, right here.

As he tries to pull it all in, he too succumbs to the new softness of the bench turned couch. He gently moves her warm body and slides himself between Jasmine and the sofa's back. He nestles up next to her, wraps his arms around her and squeezes tightly. He plants a quiet, hushed kiss on the back of her neck and he falls asleep.

The two of them, Kyle and Jasmine, dream of each other as they slowly turn to ash and crumble away, now commingled in dust forever.

Phaedra Steals A Book

As silently as she could, Phaedra slipped the old book off the sleeping wizard's shelf. She had spent months preparing the draught that finally knocked him out, and even with all of that effort she was unsure of how long the effects would last. Gyrith had a way of surprising her. He was more resourceful and cunning than his superficial bumbling would ever let on. Still, she had studied the man for nearly a quarter of a year, now. Her mission was nearly complete. She didn't even breathe as she removed the leatherbound tome from the bookshelf.

Success! There were no magical alarms, no protective spells, no little impish guards... Gyrith probably didn't even know the value of the book. As he continued to snore in his favorite chair, Phaedra dropped the volume into her satchel and crept from the room. All she needed to do, now, was slink out of the cottage and into the wishing well out back. Then she could return the volume to Chryth, a ransom for a clue to the whereabouts of her brother. She didn't like betraying Gyrith like this, but she was certain that he never would have helped her knowing that his father was involved in the deal. It was better this way. Phaedra wouldn't even have to say goodbye to the old magus. She was better at sneaking out in the middle of the night even when she wasn't stealing.

She tiptoed through Gyrith's kitchen, trying not to disturb the pots and pans as they scrubbed their copper clean. She narrowly avoided being nicked by a knife flying from dishwater to its flatware drawer bed. She didn't like Gyrith's kitchen. It was always this active, day and night, whether she or Gyrith used any dishes at all. His utensils and plates insisted on cleanliness, and that meant bathing once a day. It was, in Phaedra's estimation, a waste.

She crossed the threshold of the back door, her heart lodged squarely in her throat, and realized that, while the book may not have been protected, the entrances to Gyrith's cottage certainly were. A white field of light blocked her exit and dispatched two tiny blue sprites off into the study to wake their sleeping master. Phaedra panicked. She tried to bound through the light, but of course she failed. She fell back onto her behind, disrupting a flow of spoons to their resting place. They hit the ground with a shriek and a clatter. She cursed and stood up, and tried desperately to remember a spell to negate Gyrith's simple barrier. She muttered the words, hoped for the best, and ducked through the light again. It wasn't perfect... the barrier dyed her skin bright blue as she passed through it. Still, she was outside. She could deal with the side effects of the botched casting later. She made a made dash for the wishing well knowing a newly wakened, wholly enraged and likely very insulted Gyrith would be right behind her.

She was right. The old wizard came bounding out the cottage door, suddenly flying, aloft on a mixture of rage and simple spellcraft. He was howling like a banshee, wounded and mad, and the sound of it sent a shudder of guilt and fear up Phaedra's spine. She was so close to the wishing well, now, but she wasn't certain she could make it. Her concentration wasn't great enough, her command of magic not yet disciplined enought to make casting any sort of spell under these conditions possible. She was limited to the speed of her legs, and they didn't seem to be fast enough... especially when compared to the velocity of an airborn wizard.

Terrified and desperate, Phaedra fumbled through her satchel and produced a small vial of dark blue liquid. She didn't even know the contents, for certain, but she drank of it anyways, hoping the effect might save her from her raging friend. There was a sudden itch on the back of her shoulders, a wild sensation that nearly caused her to drop to her knees to attack it with her fingernails. She overcame the urge and kept running, but the feeling continued. It started to crack and burn, like her skin was desert dry and shot through with deep fissures. It hurt like hell, but she kept up her pace as best as she could. It was evident that bits of hardened flesh were shedding from her shoulder blades. And that, of course, was disconcerting to the young lady. She grabbed at the spots on her back and was surprised at the bony knobs that were now protuding from her skin. They were growing fast, too, upward and outward, ripping the fabric of her blouse and jutting out into the fresh air. The knobs were quickly growing into full on appendages, and soon they were sprouting feathers like blossoms on a pea vine. She was growing wings! It was only a moment before they were there, fully developed and useful, and Phaedra beat them as hard and as fast as she could. She left the ground, flapping her new wings, and able, now, maybe to outrun her pursuer.

When Gyrith saw this, he let out a horrid shout of anger and increased his speed. It wasn't enough. Phaedra was nearing the well. Gyrith knew the well in his yard was an onramp to a sort of metaphysical highway. Worse, it wasn't his and he had no rights in defending it. If Phaedra made it there, there was no spell in his repetoire that could stop her escape. His eyes lit up with yellow bolts of hot lightning. He thought, quickly, on a way to detain the girl without killing her. His options were limited. His imagination, however, was not. From a small bag around his waist, a bag always filled with bric-a-brac and nonsense, Gyrith produced a small black screw. He waved his palm over it, said a little incantation to himself, and then launched the screw, like a barroom dart, at his erstwhile apprentice. His aim was ridiculously accurate. The screw flew arrow straight and lodged into the back of Phaedra's neck. She squealed as it pierced the skin.

Obviously there was more to the screw than just a simple sting. As it hung in her skin and Phaedra, still aloft on her new wings, tried in vain to pry it out, the threads of the screw began to move. They reconfigured themselves into a grotesque approximation of a face. Phaedra, from her angle, could not see it, but when it began to speak, she could hear it perfectly well. The screw's voice was eerie and shrill, like a far off hawk's cry, only drenched in echo and speaking in words from some long lost language. Phaedra tried to block the sound of it out. She didn't know what it was going to do, but she knew it wouldn't be good.

There was no stopping it, though. As Phaedra tried to keep from listening, the screw wormed itself in deeper and deeper, until its "mouth" was buried beneath her skin. The pain was excrutiating. The effects were worse. The screw's shrill words moved up into Phaedra's brain through the veins in her neck. She couldn't block them. They were words of control. The screw was taking over Phaedra's conciousness, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The screw halted Phaedra's flight and had her hover, frantically beating her wings like a hummingbird while Gyrith caught up. The screw demanded that she retrieve Gyrith's book from her satchel and return it to him. She had no choice but to comply. Gyrith smiled, mirthlessly, as she returned his possession to him. She fought, but to no avail.

The screw, however, had plans beyond what Gyrith had programmed it to do. It whispered another command into her skin. She shuddered, terrified at what it was telling her to do. Against her will, she dug back into her satchel and pulled out another potion filled bottle. She cringed as her hand uncorked it and dumped it down her own throat.

Gyrith, still reveling in his little victory, realized what the screw had ordered her to do. And he went pale.

Phaedra's blue skin, like that of a snake, sloughed off of her body. Underneath was a form of writhing, sickly green. It was made of maggots and grubs and other wriggling things. Her new face was horrific, a yellow-eyed death mask with tongues spilling out from all sorts of incongruous holes. Her hair was pitch black and writhing like a sea anemone's tentacles. She was something other than Phaedra now. She was something abyssmal and cruel and powerful and incredibly dangerous. And she was wholly in control of the rogue screw.

Gyrith knew, then, that a long night had only just begun.