Desert Manufacture

The horizon burned though it was not on fire. Heat rose in translucent waves from the golden desert floor, mingling and merging with the clear blue sky. Jarvis walked toward that mixture and though he’d made no progress in the time he measured and the time he hadn’t, he pressed on all the same. He knew before he began this journey that his options consisted of escape and insanity, each at the cost of the other.

“Sobering thought, ain’t it?” Elias spoke between mouthfuls, sending flecks of bread and spittle on the hard consonants. “Y’know, the desert? How it don’t end? So they say at least.” He bit off another chunk.

“It’s not endless. Nothing is.” Jarvis flinched away from his cellmate who burst into laughter.

“Speaking in absolutes, huh? Shit like that’ll get you offed.” Elias took a messy swig from his victory grog and wiped his mouth and chin clean of the foul smelling drink. Jarvis grimaced as he watched the man revel in his meager opulence. He wished for a larger window if only to have something else to focus on.

Elias irritated to the point of Jarvis wishing the Pitch would take him. Maybe then he would get a cellmate more like himself, quiet and reserved. With a nice collection of books, he thought. With his rotten luck he’d get another just like this one as they seemed to be the only demographic in the population; not counting himself of course. When Elias began pawing at his groin to relieve a pesky itch, Jarvis thought happily of trading the bigger window for a chance to kill the slovenly mess before him.

“What’s that look for?” Elias said.

“There’s no look. You’re seeing things.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that look you’re giving and I don’t like it.”

“Makes two of us then, doesn’t it?” Jarvis rolled his eyes at the confused glare of his cellmate. “Just eat your winnings already. Making me sick.”

Elias responded with some quip about jealousy and its relation to physical stature, but Jarvis could no longer remember it.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Surrender by Steven Belledin. Inspiration for this story.

You Wish to Know

Dank was the word. Brian had been trying to think of it once he turned down the alley. Trash lay scattered and slips of newspaper flew about until they caught on objects or were gripped by grimy puddles. Weak light from apartment windows overhead only illuminated the occasional drops of water from leaky gutters. What looked like a rat carcass, but could have been a blackened Styrofoam cup, rocked gently in the breeze. How anyone could willingly bring themselves this way without some illicit purpose became clear to him then; they couldn’t. He wished he hadn’t worn his designer shoes.

An intermittent drip echoed louder than it should have, but Brian noticed he couldn’t hear anything else. It grew louder with every step he took, like an indirect variant of water torture. Suddenly a dark green bulb flickered on, muddled and encased in a small steel cage. It revealed a weathered door with a brass knob that shined in defiance of its surroundings. He approached it quickly. Beside the door, but out of sight, the loud puddle rippled, but stopped. It then threw itself into reverse and spit up the droplet until that paused then fell back to the puddle starting the process again.

The sign by the door had faded, but Brian could still read it: The Prime Minister’s Witch. This is the place, he thought. He looked up and down the alley for prying eyes, witnessing none. He knocked in a 2-3-1 pattern and waited. The door opened by an inch and an eye flashed in the crevice before the door closed again. After a shuffle of chains and locks the door swung wide open, but a woman blocked the entry.

“You wish to see the witch.” She hissed at him in a thick accent, though he detected no malice in it; only the factual statement. She wore an ornate but moth afflicted shawl that hung loosely, plainly showing her tattoos and tightly bound corset. “And you’ve the payment.” Again, plainly stated.

“I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t told anything about a payment.” Brian said, worried he’d missed a vital point somewhere in his briefing. The woman didn’t care. She stepped aside and directed him to enter, which he did quickly.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

The Prime Minister's Witch by Hethe Srodawa. Inspiration for this story.