Deborah

THE UNDERCLASSMEN RUSHED AROUND LIKE ANTS ATOP A DISTURBED ANTHILL. Monitors were chirping and sounding. Sliding glass doors were swiping open and closed behind the swish of nurse scrubs. The walls were white, the tiled floor was white — everything was stark. It was how the upperclassmen lived, inside their pods. There was a calm panic about the room. 

"He's burning up!" One of the nurse-maids said.

"Doctor's on his way," Deborah, the head nurse, was looking at her wristwatch. Her free hand was clasped around the upperclassman's naked wrist — she was counting the heartbeats — which were rising in speed with the upperclassman's core temperature! She was liable to see this man's...No, scratch that — this boy's body explode! "Get me ice!"

The nurses and servants moved as if attached to a hive-mind. To anyone looking in from the outside, it was chaos and everyone seemed to be walking into each other. To those that were part of the hive, everything was in perfect order. Every person quickly, quietly, and swiftly, performed their assigned task. 

Head nurse Deborah had already given up. She stood motionless in a sea of in-motion bodies. The survival rate for something like this was slim to none. She'd heard of so few cases where they came out alive. Why did this keep happening!? Deborah thought. But, searching for the answer was far above her pay grade. She'd find new clients. Upperclassmen were easy to find in New York. And most of them liked to have an exclusive head nurse. It meant she wouldn't have to do freelance work. 

The nurses and cleaning servants brought ice and started filling the upperclassman's pod with ice. "Make sure the ice is separated from his skin by a sheet or towels. That'd'll be the next thing," she said under her breath. 

The gap of knowledge in the room was vast. It went from Deborah to nurses that knew how to take blood pressure to cleaning maids who's contribution to wisdom was knowing the difference between Windex and Fabuloso. But they all helped. They all understood when life was at stake. Especially when the life that was about to be lost — meant your job. Some of these underclassmen would go months without a job, living off scraps and practically homeless. Maybe they'd venture beyond the city walls and barter with the compassionate wildermen. Those wildermen savages believed that all life was sacred and worth saving!...And worth fucking, Deborah thought.

Deborah was at a bitter stage in her life. She's what slang would call a "halfer." She had enough views to live half of her days logged into the Consciousness, but not all of her days. So she was stuck classed as a poor underclassman until she could gain enough views to be awarded with upperclassman status. Forced to walk the streets, take the train home, and breathe unfiltered air.

Deborah looked at her watch again, "Is the doctor walking?"

"No. Train ma'am," one of the cleaning servants responded. Maybe she knew a little about first aid and the difference between bleach and ammonia. Deborah thought, remind me to find someone competent like her when I'm logged in twenty-four hours a day.

"Thank you..." Deborah lingered, eyeing the cleaning servant. She wore white scrubs, similar to the nurses' and doctors' light blue. Not a speck of dirt, not a single stain, not even wet spots from the cleaning supplies she used spoiled her uniform.

The cleaning servant finally understood what Deborah was waiting for, "Oh! I'm sorry," she giggled. She held out her hand, "My name's Ashely Rose." Deborah seemed turned off by Ashley's outstretched hand. Ashley caught on this this quicker, "Oh, excuse me. Are you upperclassman?" Upperclassman didn't shake hands. They weren't too keen on physical contact at all — unless it took place in the Consciousness. 

"Deborah Brown." Deborah nodded in greeting and Ashley lowered her outstretched arm. "Are you from the south?" Deborah asked, noting the cleaning girl's accent.

"Originally, yes ma'am."

"Came to New York to follow your dreams?"

Ashley Rose looked bashful for a moment, "Yes."

"How many views?"

"A couple thousand."

Deborah was already pulling her Palm device from her pocket. The other people in the room seemed stressed with an underlying hint of what the fuck is this nurse doing? There's a man dying here for Conscious sake! There was no hope for the boy. Deborah ignored the instruments that continued to beep and sound. "Over 10,000?"

"No."

"Get out your Palm."

Ashley Rose dug into a pouch pocket on the front of her scrubs. Her Palm was covered with a pink case adorned with fake jewels that glittered in the examination room-like lighting. Deborah readied the transfer. Ashley Rose looked confused, like she couldn't believe what was happening! Deborah hit BUMP TRANSFER and tapped the edge of her Palm to Ashely Rose's. Ashley's eyes bulged as she saw the 10,000 views were transferred into her account. "Oh. My. God! Thank you! How can I repay you?"

"Just make something of yourself." Deborah said outwardly — inwardly she thought, at least the status of upperclassman is determined by lifetime views and not what you currently have. And then, Conscious let some good karma come my way. Deborah knew without a doubt that she as going to lose her job tonight.

"Deborah," one of the other nurses said quietly. 

Deborah snapped back into focus. She could hear the machines screaming, louder than they had been before. She scanned the boy's body, laying peaceful inside his open pod. She saw that the IV she'd put in his arm was melted. There was a the tiniest wisp of dancing steam rising from the spot where skin met melting tubing. "Everybody out!"

"But...?" One of the other nurses stuttered. 

"Out!" 

Deborah had't seen a combustion with her own eyes. She'd heard and read enough about them though. She even tried viewing videos in the Consciousness, but such graphic videos were often taken down just as fast as they're put up. Technically she had the clearing to watch any medial videos, no matter how gruesome — but she didn't want to spend views on something so trivial. According to the top doctors in New York: It's only a matter of time until you're there, until you see one for yourself. This was Deborah's chance. 

On the outside, the boy seemed normal, peaceful — except that his skin was hot as fire and the tubing, needles, and suction cups that attached him to the various machines around the room were all melting. On the inside, in his mind, logged into the Consciousness, he was probably caught in a fire or a lava pit and can't get out. That's only if his mind has been able to hold itself together. Usually in a true death from the Consciousness side, the mind goes crazy, unable to cope with what is actually happening. The patient usually goes brain dead long before the actual body stops working. 

When it had started, the boy was shaking and moving his eyes rabidly as if he was stuck in a bad dream. That had stopped a while ago. 

Everyone was out of the room now. Deborah stepped away from the pod and the overheating body, and watched. Steam was slowly starting to rise from the boy's skin everywhere. The scent of burning flesh came next. Deborah coughed, choking, and grabbed a face mask just incase there was anything contagious floating in the air, off the body. 

There was a knock on the door, "Deborah! The doctor's here."

"It's too late," Deborah said, unable to take her eyes off the boy. 

More knocking, "Deborah!?"

"It's too late!" Deborah called louder. 

The doctor opened the door.

"He's gone, sir."

"There was no saving him." Deborah was unsure if the doctor was stating fact or asking a question — so she didn't answer. 

There was a whistle, like the sound of air being passed through a small opening. Deborah and the doctor watched. For some reason she felt that the doctor hadn't seen this either. She was sure he'd watched videos though. Doctors, even underclassman doctors, had plenty more views than a head nurse like Deborah. 

At this point all of the tubes and machine equipment that was in contact with the boy's skin had been melted and detached, hanging from their various housings with charred and melted ends. The boy's logging suit had split in various spots and from the heat, curled on itself until his entire body was exposed. The hair on his body singed. There was a poof of the last breath of air escaping from the boy's body and then suddenly his eyes melted. Deborah almost turned away at that! She wanted to puke! His chest cavity caved in on itself, like sand filling a void in the desert. Everything else started to flake away as dust, until what was left behind looked like some poor sculpture. 

One second the boy's body still had form, a shape. The next — it fell into a pile of grey ash. 

Deborah stood there, her mouth slightly open behind the face mask, one of her hands covering where her mouth would be. She was stunned. She thought that if she moved, if she breathed too deeply, she'd either pass out or throw up.

Gathering of Gardeners (Gardener Story, draft, unfinished)

LYRANNA COULDN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE! Her father couldn't protect her from everything! She had slammed the behind her. Her woki-half took the shape of an angry bull. The red-furred kind from the red wastes of a world "simply" called the Land of Dust and Sky, LoDaS to the Gathering.

"You are not ready!" Her father had thundered. But the part that hurt the most was, "You may never be ready."

"But it chose me..." Was her weak response with tears in her eyes. 

She needed to calm down. Her woki-half couldn't stay in this form down the hallways. The bull form was much too large. The black smoke that he expelled from his nostrils was noxious. Lyranna performed her breathing exercises that her father had taught her when he'd discovered she had a short temper. 

Eventually her woki-half, stopped breathing smoke. But not before passing by some cleaning ladies who gave Lyranna a look of shame. Stupid earthlings! Don't know how to show their emotions. Pity them that they wear their woki-half inside their bodies. Lyranna thought. Her woki-half assumed the form of a blue monkey with eight arms. It cackled loudly and began stuffing its fingers in its big ears, its eyes, and mouth. The cackle had caught the maids' attentions and the message was clear. Lyranna was not the least bit ashamed of her attitude. Being the commander's daughter she knew she wouldn't suffer any scolding from mere maids. She wished they would challenge her. She wanted someone to direct her anger at.

Lyranna stomped down the hallway towards the Metal Room where what was rightfully hers was held. Her woki-half, calmer now, more determined, became a small blue songbird, she thought it was an Earth variety. Odd, she thought. I've only been there once. Maybe it was subconscious because of her run-in with the earthling maids. Who knew why woki-halves became what they became? 

She could hear the clop-clop of heavy shoes upon the floor! She grew excited. A warrior! She hurried to see who was coming around the corner! She didn't know who it was, but he was clad in armor from head to toe! Lyranna's eyes basically bugged out of her head! She couldn't believe what she was seeing! Her woki-half became a cluster of brightly colored butterflies.

"Wooooooooow," she whispered. 

The soldier was a summoner she knew. Earthlings hadn't worn armor suits like that for hundreds of years. The summoners could call creatures that they call animentals to the physical realm and they could perform amazing things, like becoming a suit of armor! Lyranna was awestruck. She needed a suit of armor like that!

She added an extra skip in her step as she rushed towards the Metal Room. Is there anybody there? She thought excitedly as she got closer. Thorin's not here? She peeked over the counter. There was a door that led into the arms room where all the weapons and protective gear was held. Her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of a glaive...But she calmed when she realized it wasn't what she was looking for. 

"Your father told me that I'd see you today."

To her horror, Lyranna turned to find Thorin directly behind her. Dammit! She cursed. "It's been moved, Little One." Thorin explained. That's why I couldn't feel it, Lyranna thought. Her woki-half had flown to the counter top and become a snake, coiled and hissing. 

"Think of me what you will," Thorin said. "But your father is my commander and they were his direct orders."

Lyranna felt a little betrayed. Thorin was usually on her side. Her eyes knit together in anger, "It chose me!"

"True it did. And they don't choose lightly." Thorin knelt down. 

"Well it's mine! And I'd like to have it!" Lyranna stepped past the counter towards the arms room in the back. 

Before she could get to the threshold there were suddenly two Thorin's standing before her. One of the Thorin's duplicates held a tarot card between his index and middle fingers. He smiled, which stood out more because of his dark skin. Thorin was what the Gathering called a panmaegi, which Lyranna knew to be a complicated term that meant he knew a lot of tricks. This being one of them: The ability to multiply himself with the use of that card held between his fingers. 

"Where is it!?" Lyranna shouted.

"I can not tell you, Little One." Thorin said as he pulled his copies together. There had been three, two blocking the doorway in front of her and the one still behind her on the other side of the counter. Lyranna guessed that the one beyond the counter was the real one. But as she's seen him display before, he could pull his copies back into any of the existing copies, and this time he chose one of the two standing in the doorway.  

The Fall of Vivirdrasil (Gardeners Story, takes place on Earthmother, draft, unfinished)

THE MOON WAS BRIGHT. Vivirdrasil rose behind them, around them, like a sentinel, the god of gods! No one had ever seen Earthmother, but they knew she existed — the tree was her greatest birth. Vivirdrasil, the Tree of Life, the World Tree. It towered behind them, around them, like anything and everything. With arms outstretched, cupping in protection, leafy fingertips clasp and grasp. The tree's age was ancient, older than the first men. Vivirdrasil saw the first light that bore fruit to all that swam and squirmed. If Earthmother was the creator, Vivirdrasil was the kiln that incubated such creations. 

They always knew that where it began so to, it would end. There were seven of them left. Most of the keys have been lost. Three of them clutched the keys they still had. Not enough to unlock the world, to revive Earthmother, and turn the world anew. Not enough. 

Six of them stood, in the moonlight that filtered through Vivirdrasil's branches. One lay dying on a raised flat stone. "Brother," Drax said mournfully. He had a broad head with two black as night horns, thick, spiraling from just above his temples. He rose the stone, formed the rock, called it from the earth like a child to a parent. In his opposite hand was one of the keys, a black scythe, the blade looked like obsidian, but far stronger.

The figure on the rock slab smiled. One of his sisters, wearing her tempestform, stepped forward, a small stormcloud churning in the clutches of her fingers. For a moment it appeared as if her old body was too weak to withhold the power of the storm. Her wrinkled skin was luminous alabaster. Tiny cracks of blue energy shone here and there like the marks of a tiger. Her eyes were blue, ice blue, the blue of the far frozen north, and glowing. This was a most powerful form she assumed. 

She came up to the raised stone. The slab was much too high for her, with his free hand, Drax lowered the slab. The sound of grinding rock and the groan of the deep earth followed as the stone altar shrunk back towards the earth. It lowered just beneath the old crone's shoulder-height. "Thank you," she croaked to Drax. 

She held the thunderstorm over her fallen brother's weak body. He smiled as a miniature rainstorm drenched him. As each droplet of water touched his skin it shined with luminous fish scales. It looked like he was some type of squid, flushing with different colors. A firework display upon his own skin. The crone knew that her fallen brother would lose his form soon. She felt arrogant for holding such a powerful guise like tempestform in front of him. 

"Thank you — sister," the fallen shape smiled. They could all tell it was taxing for him to speak. 

"What does this mean!?" Viper stepped into the moonlight. The weremane were always very talented at hiding in shadows and using light to their advantage. Here tonight, there were three of them present. Weremane always traveled in packs. Sadly, these were the last three. 

"We are..."

"...Not sure," the crone's twin sister stepped forward and finished her sentence like she always did. The twins, with their powers to see into minds shared each other's minds too much, it was as if they were of one mind now. 

"It may never rain again." Drax spoke.

"Without the rain..." Viper whispered and allowed his thought to drop off. 

"Yes." One of the two crones said with finality. 

"The world will pass." Drax said what everyone else was afraid to. He was the tallest and most hulking of the figures underneath the cover of the world tree. His horns only made him appear that much more menacing. It was a wonder that something so powerful could call a herd of deer with the simplest of whispers. 

"But the keys!" Viper begged.

"We only have three," Drax said simply. He held one of the keys. One of Viper's concubines held another. Their fallen brother held the third, it rested next to him on the stone alter. It did not vibrate with power like the other two did. The keys, mostly, channeled their bearer's power. 

"Surely we can find the others! Save the world!" Viper said.

"There issss..." One twin hissed.

"...Always hope." The other finished. 

"You expect me to allow my people to die!? To depend on false hope, hope!" Viper spat.

"We have risen..."

"...From darker apocalypses." The crones said.

Viper fell to his knees. His bushy black eyebrows furrowed with sadness and despair. "My only son." He meant the boy weremane still standing in the shadows, next to the woman with the scythe, the key, in her hand. Viper was shirtless, weremane weren't partial to clothing. His black hair seemed to grow, instantly, like a weed, spreading down his spine, like the mane of a horse. His hair drooped around him, mimicking the despair that he felt, the finality, the defeat. His line would die, just like the finlies, like his fallen brother on the slab, like the crones would and eventually, the strongest of them all, Drax: Last of the rockchew, the dragontamers. 

"Get on your feet Viper!" Drax spat. "You are better than this!" Without commentary, Viper climbed to his feet. His hair seemed to recede back to its normal shoulder-length. 

"Do not despair..."

"...Child." Everyone was child to the crone twins. How had they lived for so long. Though the animancers were powerful, they were still just human. "You, King of the Weremane, Master of Snakes, first Wielder of Blackflame..."

"...That us sisters have seen..."

"...In years." The crones said, singing Viper's many titles. He was the first weremane to call the blackflame in this lifetime. The blackflame, the coldfire, was thought to be a myth before Viper proved them wrong. 

The last finly, laying weak upon the stone slab, gasped in pain. "Not even my lifefire can save him," Viper whispered. 

"Lifefire was never meant..."

"...To heal."

"True. But I thought it could."

"You tried," Drax said, his voice deep, stony. "Not even woodmancy can save our brother. It is time..." Drax let the statement linger. They all knew that the finly was suffering. There were only so many times the crones could douse him with their tiny rainclouds. He could no longer pull strength from the water like he once had. 

The six gathered around their fallen brother. Drax, the twin crones, and the last three weremane.  The boy with yellow hair and the woman, clutching the key scythe, with blue hair. To the weremane, hair color was a mark of their status, their power. None had black hair. They all gathered and watched. Drax, at the head of the stone slab. He raised his scythe. Tears in his eyes.  ...And dropped the scythe through the last finly's chest.

Bully (Finly chapter One draft)

PART

THE FIRST TIME THAT I SAW A FINLY I WAS IN THE BOY'S LOCKER ROOM. The day started like any other. I woke late for the wagon that picked us up from the Outskirts and brought us to Westside Junior High. Had I known that moving from sixth grade to seventh would be like walking into an alternate dimension, I would have chosen not to go. 

They ride a bus. Make it more modern, just broken down. Everything is Ancient, junk in the Outskirts. The city is white, glass, polished, minerals with trams and power run off aqualight. Make a moment where Atreyu is listening to Material Gurl in his headphones. 

I stood beyond what you'd call my front yard, on dry sand, along the harder packed sand of the road. Roads in the Outskirts weren't made of white marble like the city proper. Roads out here sprung from continual use — and changed with the seasons, depending on flooding. 

It was low tide and there were no storm warnings for any time soon. School would start on time today. I stood at the wagon-stop with my sandmask over my mouth and nose. I looked stupid, but my mother had insisted. As soon as I heard the wagon coming, I was going to take the mask off. No one wore sandmasks!

At least she hadn't forced me to leave the house with a suncloak. Low tide had been going on for more than an hour. The air was already hot and the sun was beating its rays hard. I could feel the sun on the bare skin of my shoulders. My vest was buttoned, I wasn't brash enough to leave it unbuttoned like some boys.

My domed hovel was behind me. It was covered in barnacles, coral, and anemone that attached themselves to its metal and glass sides. Today, it was sitting atop a dune, like the crown of a colorful head — tomorrow the landscape could be completely different if a storm comes through. Mother said there was only a twenty percent chance of a storm. 

My neighbors' domed homes were adorned with colorful wildlife as well. Packed sand walkways and roadways were lined with seagrasses that waved as if caught in ocean currents, when in fact the air was dead — and in low tide, dry. My science teacher explained that the seagrasses were able to wave and undulate via organs called flotsam sacs. It was the same organ that allowed fish and whales to swim in the sky. 

I heard the buggy before I saw it. My stomach tied immediately into a knot.

A few months ago it wouldn't have mattered. I never knew stepping out of sixth grade and into seventh grade would be like walking into an alternate reality. Last year I was popular. I hung out with Jaysen and all the other boys that lived in the Outskirts. Being a friend of Jaysen's prevented me from getting picked on by anyone in school, even the popular jocks. I had lost all of my credulity over the summer.

The wagon was being pulled by a giant hermit crab. It was a baby compared to how big they could grow. Their shells weren't disposable like other hermit crabs. Their shells grew with them. Most adult crabs lived out in the Dunes. When they died, often their empty shells were washed up against the stark-white highrises of the city. This is where we got our homes...And thus they were formally called shelter crabs. 

The wagon wheels were deflated rubber tires that squealed with every rotation. The wagon was open-top. I wanted to keep my sandmask on, but I couldn't afford to provide Jaysen any ammunition. He'd been riding me pretty hard already and it was the first week of school. It was obvious that there was no salvaging our friendship, which honestly, based on how he'd been treating me it was hard to believe we had been friends. I stuffed my sandmask in my pack. 

The driver sat upon a constructed seat, almost like a hammock, that hung suspended between two spikes of the shelter crab's shell. He held a crop stick in one hand along with reins in both which were strapped to the crab's large pincers. The wagon was pulled by chains that were hooked to a ring that was drilled through the crab's shell on the backside. Traveling via shelter crab was slow, as one could imagine, but the city didn't care to build tracks for their trams out here. So the crab wagon would cart us to the nearest tram station to the northeast. 

Jaysen and his gargoyles, people that used to be my friends were sitting in the back of the wagon. Jaysen's vest would be unbuttoned, showing off his sixpack. He was the first of us to get them. He was also the first to get hair in his armpits and on his balls. I could attest that he definitely had hair in both places, but I wasn't honestly sure if he was the first. His were the only balls I'd seen other than my own.

I climbed the steps onto the back of the wagon. My hands were sweaty. I began the walk of shame down the aisle looking for a seat. Ever since I was ostracized by Jaysen and his gargoyles...I couldn't believe I'd been friends with them! ...My strategy was to find the first empty seat. However, all the first seats were filled with other outcasts. Even worse, was the fact that they, when they saw me, would nonchalantly move their bookbags and whatever else they had with them to cover any available space they may of had, so that I couldn't sit with them. To allow me to sit with them would just give Jaysen and company another reason to make fun of them. In junior high, anything you could do to stay off the prey list, you did — even if it went against your nature.

I could feel Jaysen's eyes on me the whole time. His gargoyles were quiet for a moment, waiting for Jaysen to make his move, watching him from their peripherals. I was Jaysen's most favorite prey. 

There was an empty seat near the middle of the wagon.

PART

THE CRAB WAGON MADE ITS SLOW SCUTTLE TOWARDS THE LAST STOP BEFORE THE TRAM STATION. We were still in the Outskirts, actually going further towards the Dunes with the curve in the packed sand road. Jaysen hadn't made any move towards me. Sand gathered around my nostrils, causing me to have to breathe through my mouth, which only caused sand to slip into my throat. I wished I wasn't such a pussy and would just put my sandmask on. 

Out here we were truly in the Outskirts. Unlike my neighborhood, which was littered with shelter crab shells, here the sand was littered with metal scraps from cars and old buildings that the Gripes had used to border their clamming lands. A partially swallowed car had writing spray painted on the side: GRIPE CLAM FARM. 

The road wound its way towards the last student's stop. Tiny dustdevils danced in the open fields of sands and gathered dunes. None of the twisting sand posed a threat to the wagon, except for everyone's lungs if they passed through one. 

We came to one last stop before the tram would take route to the tram station. This was the last stop. The last poor underclassman that couldn't afford a dolphin taxi to school. The Gripes were clammers. They'd get up in the early hours of the morning, just before the sun rose and dig up their various clam traps that they set in their yard or plots of land they bought out nearby. I never understood how they got the views to pay for all the plots of land they had. The Gripes were always dirty from digging through silt and clay...Warden included. He stood at his stop, his white hair was unkempt. From this far away I could see silt shadowing his cheeks. Truthfully it was accentuating his chiseled jawline. 

Warden Gripe was the dirty kid in school. He used to just be dirty, but as our bodies started to transform with tufts of hair growing in mostly unwelcome spots, he started to become the smelly kid — even more so than Gregory, the fat kid. Last year, in sixth grade, we had gym together and I noticed he'd started to wear deodorant, but his smelly nature wasn't easily forgotten. 

Before this summer, Warden was at the bottom of the totem pole of "coolness."

Warden climbed the stairs onto the tram. He had headphones in his ears. He had a defiance that I admired, like he didn't care what people thought of him. Though, he'd been dealing with how people felt about him since the start. His family had always been poor clammers. 

I could see his eyes scanning for a seat without actually looking like they were desperately searching. It was a trick that I was trying to perfect. I'd have it by the end of the school year. 

I'd just done the hunt for an empty seat. I knew that there weren't any. Without realizing what I was doing I pulled my bookbag from the empty space on my seat. I could see the flicker of relief in Warden's eyes — it was only there for the slightest moment. Maybe he wasn't as uncaring as I'd thought. 

Warden sat down and I knew that I'd just put myself lower on the hierarchy of popularity. I had given Jaysen and his gargoyles more ammunition. I swore that I heard Jaysen snicker from the back of the tram. 

"Thank you," Warden whispered. I pretended that I hadn't heard him. I was looking out the window, being that I was seated on the inside of the bench. 

The landscape turned from metal scrapes and car parts and dunes and sand to white roads, white domed shelters, and white impossibly high skyscrapers. Everything was pristine here in the city. Sandsweeps were out, dust caked to the shoulders of their uniforms, with their brooms, constantly sweeping sand away from the streets and walking areas. 

The wagon was pulled faster upon the white roadways towards the tram station. Once on the tram it would only take about five to ten minutes to get to the school. Westside Junior High was the furthest school from Center City. It was actually pretty close to the tram station. The transfer from the wagon to the tram came with no problems. The tram was open to the public, not just students. So It was easy for me to find a car with a bunch of people I didn't know. I even lost Warden in the process. 

I was a coward. 

PART

THE FIRST TIME THAT I SAW A FINLY I WAS IN THE BOYS' LOCKER ROOM. Had I known that moving from sixth grade to seventh grade was going to be like walking into an alternate reality, I would have stayed home. "You staring at my junk, faggot!?" Jaysen spat the words with such malice. 

Before the summer, if Jaysen was talking to me like this I would have assumed that he was joking and it was just some prologue to a play-wrestling interlude to release some of our adolescent aggression. I mean, our bodies were starting to make us feel things, telling us to feel things that didn't make any sense to our child-self!

Now — looking into the true fury in his eyes, I knew he was waiting for an answer or he was going to hit me! "N—no," I stammered. How quickly my exbestfriend was able to cow me. 

With my peripherals I was desperately trying to find someone, anyone, that I thought might save me. The locker room wasn't exactly populated. It never was when Jaysen and his gargoyles were about. Luckily for me, Jayseon only had three of his gargoyles in gym class. The fourth asshole with him was skipping class to be here. Jaysen had been planning this. There were two other kids in the locker room, but they'd be foolish to say anything against Jaysen. He had enough manpower to control the situation. Calling for the gym teacher would only offer me physical abuse faster than if I bared through the fear and tried to talk my way out of it.

"What do you mean faggot, I saw you looking! I was standing over there in my loincloth and you were straight up staring!"

"No I wasn't," I squealed. 

"So you wanna see it?" Jaysen sneered. He pressed his hips out, throwing his package closer to my face.

I didn't want to say out loud that I'd already seen it. ...And perhaps that's the reason that I was here — in Franklyn's headlock with Jaysen's junk too close to my face! "I think he wants to see it," Jaysen said to Franklyn. "Turn around dweebs!" He snapped at his gargoyles. I could hear and see dirty bare feet shuffle as they all turned around. I imagine that Franklyn closed his eyes. 

And to my horrified surprise, Jaysen pulled himself out from the cover of his loincloth! I didn't know what to do other than cry an unintelligible, "No!" 

"You like that?" Jaysen asked me. It was swinging too close to my face. "Make it hard."

"Dude! What are you doing?" Franklyn asked unsurely. 

"Shut up dweeb! Just hold him. I'm going to give little Trey what he's always wanted." Jaysen smiled that smile he always got when he was about to do something truly outrageous. Like that time he jumped over a deep ravine that had been carved into the rock of the Outskirts with his bike. Everyone else was too scared to do it. Jaysen just barely made it across.

He was fully hard now.

"Jaysen...No," I said weakly. He pressed the tip along my lips. I could feel myself want to throw up or thrash Franklyn's arms off of me. 

"Jay," Franklyn said again.

"I said hold him!" Jaysen pressed his tip against my lips harder. I was crying now. He parted my lips. I was going to bite him. It'd be the last thing I'd ever do — but I was going to bite him!

"Jay," Franklyn said again. I could feel his grip on my head loosen. Franklyn didn't agree with what Jaysen was doing. It wasn't often that anyone stood up against Jaysen. 

"Just hold him fucker!" Jaysen put his hands on the back of my head. This was it!

"Let. Him. Go!" In the momentary distraction, Franklyn dropped his grip. Only Jaysen and his gargoyles were in the locker room now. ...And Warden. 

"What did you say punk?" Jaysen snapped. 

"I said leave him alone." Warden said again. His voice didn't waver like mine would have. He was defiant. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I wasn't openly sobbing. Boys don't sob. For the first time, I truly looked at Warden. He was handsome — for a dude. I don't even know why I thought about him that way, but there was no other way to describe him, at least in that moment. Perhaps there was something different about him that I just couldn't put my finger on. The moment seemed to hang in the air like a thousand years. 

Yea — perhaps his jawline was a little more pronounced. His face was clean of silt. His eyes held a sort of alien luminosity, like his irises were crystal reflecting sunlight. In the creases of all of his joints there was a dark light. I wasn't sure if it was a trick of the undergroundlike lighting of the locker room, but they gleamed like black scales with hints of violet and royal blue. His hair was white, gleaming like a pearl. I had never seen it do that before! He was different.

"What you gonna do about it, clamboy?" Jaysen asked. He'd already placed himself safely back in his loincloth. Franklyn and the rest of the gargoyles were standing at Jaysen's flanks. They were ready for a fight. 

"You don't want to do this. Just leave." Warden said. He spoke so evenly. 

Jaysen laughed, "Twerp, I'll kick your ass with one hand over my crotch." As he said, he cupped his balls with his left hand. He shook it a little in my direction. "I guess you want a piece of this too, huh Warden. I guess I can't blame you. You going to get jealous Atreyu? Or can you share?" It happened so fast. It was so unexpected! Jaysen slapped me. It was open handed and fast and hard!

Warden moved like a blur. I swear I couldn't even see him move! The only way I knew where he was in the locker room was by the luminescent black and purple scales that seemed to form on his shoulders and elbows. I wiped dried tears from my eyes. Jaysen was on his back screaming. Warden was straddling him. I was staring at his back. There were definitely scales coming in and out of view on his neck and along what I could see of his spine. 

The gargoyles stepped back in horror! Some yelled. I didn't know why, until my brain caught up with what I was seeing. Black and purple-scaled tentacles writhed in and out of view from the sides of Warden's body. 

"He's eating him!"

"Jaysen!" The gargoyles were screaming.

"Go get coach!"

One of the gargoyles tried to escape, but a tentacle shot out, clearly coming from somewhere on Warden's body! It wrapped around the gargoyle's ankle, it was Bradly. It easily yanked Bradly back, keeping him in the locker room. Bradly was screaming like a little girl now. 

I heard the door to the gym open and close. Warden looked back at me. His eyes were definitely glowing! "What's going on in here!?" The gym teacher asked before he came around the corner. All of the lamps shattered, their green-blue glow leaving the dank room in darkness. I lay there — petrified. 

When the lights were finally turned on, Jaysen was in a coma — and Warden was no where to be found. 

Scythe Drafts (unfinished)

DRAFT ONE

SERINI DESCENDED THE STAIRS ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE HIVE. Like the hives of desert bees, hanging from cacti, the gryphonesses' hives were bulbous coming to a narrower nib at the bottom. On its outside, cut right into the packed red dust and clay that made the foundation of the hive, was an intricate maze of stairways. The stairs were for the men, whom didn't have a gryphon to call upon for flight. It was odd for a gryphoness, like Serini, to be using the stairs, but she felt it was important to keep her legs fit and strong. She'd seen too many gryphonesses fall prey to wyrmwraiths because they couldn't run away fast enough. 

Needless to say, her gryphon was close. She was a gold, flying somewhere above the hive and the corporeal cloud that the hive hung on. Her gold feathers would be glinting in the sun as if they were made from metal. She was just on the edge of where Serini could mentally feel her. The gryphon had spent its entire life bound to Serini. Both gryphoness and gryphon got radically stressed when they were too far apart for too long.

But Serini didn't like Sashini too close when she was carrying the scythe. Strapped to her back, over the top of her dust robes, was an over-sized scythe. The blade was retracted. It appeared as an elongated staff. Almost like the spears that gryphonesses used in sky battles. 

the scythe whined again in Serini's head. 

"We'll see," Serini stupidly said aloud. Thank Goddess there were no gryphonesses nearby to wonder why she was talking to herself. Curse that man that put you in my hand! Serini thought.

"He told me never to wield you." Though truth be told he told me you were a gift not a burden.

The scythe sneered.  

"I don't want power."

The scythe said, projecting an image of Serini riding a blue-feathered gryphon with a pryde of gryphonesses behind her. In her hand...Was a powerful glowing scythe of fire!

Serini directed her thoughts at the scythe.

Curse the man who gave you to me! Serini thought again. She'd been thinking that a lot lately.

As they drew closer to the ground, below, the air was mixed with sand. The lower castes lived here, mostly men and unkempt women, at the bottom of the hive. The foot traffic on the stairs grew the closer she got to the bottom of the hive. Men, mostly, climbed and descended the stairs. Many with their gryphletts, male gryphons, perched upon leather gloves on their arms or sitting on their shoulders. Pathetic birds with only two scaly legs not made for walking. Female gryphons could fly and stalk on he ground equally.

The hawkslingers, as the males were called, wore little more than loin cloths, leather gloves, and shoulder pads for their gryphletts to perch on without their talons digging into their flesh. Most of them were fit from running up and down the intricate stair maze that wove around the hive. They didn't have the luxury of flying on gryphonback, not unless their gryphlett was in heat. They wore their hair long and delicate, adorned with as many gryphon feathers as the gryphonesses would give. The hawkslingers only purpose was to appease the gyrphonesses. They could be helpful in a fight. They had some fire in them. Their gryphletts could sometimes form fire feathers. Other than that they needed to impress the gryphonesses. Hopefully the Gold.

Here, the stairs dipped under the bulk of the hive. Like desert bees, the gryphonesses' hive was bulbous-shaped, coming to a narrow nub at the bottom. The rest of the hive hung above her. Here the stairs were adhered to the side of the hive rather than being carved into it. Below the wood of the stairs was nothing by sky, further below, the sand. 

The desert stretched as far as anyone could see. In the distance, just close enough to make out, was the bulbous shape of another hive. Serini, personally, thought the Gold allowed that hive to be built much too close. But her Gold felt that if women couldn't work together the world is truly doomed. 

The scythe screamed excitedly. Serini ignored the desperate blade. 

Most of the hawkslingers that walked by were intent to get where they were going, but this one stopped. He discretely looked her up and down — Serini had noticed. It was disrespectful to for a hawkslinger to look upon a gryphoness as an object. It was blasphemy! This hawkslinger had fallen prey to too many lower-class women. Women that got off on being submissive. No true gryphoness would ever!

"Looking?" The hawkslinger asked almost inaudibly. It was not customary for the man to make the first move. Serini could see how this could be appealing to some women — a kink even. She found it appalling!

"You have a lot of work to do before you could be worthy to lie with a woman like me." Serini snapped. 

Then Serini had noticed her mistake. This man could barely help it. Most the hawkslingers had their gryphletts perched upon them. This man's gryphlett was no where to be found. Discretely, she tried to look towards the skies. She was expecting to see a giant hawk-like gryphlett flying through the sky, large enough for a man to ride and large enough to mount a gryphon. Maybe it was flying above the solid clouds. This hawkslinger's gryphlett was in heat and Serini immediately felt sorry for the way she'd acted. 

"I'm sorry, brother." Serini said.

Serini had understood. Or at least she thought she had. Serini's gryphon had taken a mating flight before. She'd felt the power of the need, the heat of the moment. Her sisters had always said that for men it felt like that moment of need, when the cavern inside was being filled. It felt like that moment, but ten times more intense. They'd always told Serini that men could almost not control themselves when in heat. 

Serini noticed that he was wearing a longer loincloth than most. One that had flaps that hung down the front and back, which was customary when a man was in heat. Apparently they grew appendages when in heat. Suddenly, without asking for it, Serini felt a wetness, a heat, within her. A dormant need seemed to awaken. No, she thought. Where men felt heat intensely for about a week twice, sometimes three times a year — women could feel it at any moment.

The scythe said in her mind. For once, Serini was thankful for the annoying voice. A voice that wasn't male nor female, but both at once. Ambiguous, like the drag dancers of the Gold Court. The scythe cooed. Serini was broken from her heat. The hawkslinger was sniffing the air. He could scent her hormones, scent her heat, her need, calling to his — but then it was gone. 

The hawkslinger looked confused. His hand had moved, holding something below his waist. Serini would have punched the man if this were happening in the upper levels. Men weren't so open with their need on the upper levels for fear that they disrespect the Gold or one of her Court. Serini wasn't part of the Gold Court, but still, this man's need was confusing his principals. 

Serini took the moment to break the awkwardness by simply walking by him. She wanted to say sorry, but she felt that if she spoke anything to the man her heat would try and reach for his again. She could feel Morning Sun, her silver gryphon, nearby. The mental presence grew the closer the gryphon flew towards Serini. No! The scythe. Serini said, trying to gain some composure. She felt her gryphon bond getting further away. 

Serini hurried towards the bottom of the stairs. Underneath the nub of the hive the stairs were built into a dock with an open end. Men were repelling down the deck to the sands below. Serini watched, checking to make sure that all of them had gryphletts perched on them! 

Below, there was a herd of centaurs waiting to be mounted. Poor hawkslingers had to ride those landbound beasts through the desert. Serini wasn't sure what these men were going to do. They definitely were going hunting, judging by the leather armor they wore and the bows and arrows. Likely, they were lower caste men, Reds, unmated. The pryde only gave unmated Red men small rations. Many of them band together to form small city-states of their own within the pryde. 

Serini watched as all the men, quite expertly, repelled down the rope, some landing perfectly upon the backs of their centaur mounts. Once they were all mounted, about 15 men, the leader yipped and they were off, kicking up clouds of sand in their wake. 

Once the deck was unoccupied, Serini descended the last steps and stepped up to the deck. Now was the perfect time. The herd of ruckus centaurs would attract Serini's prey. The scythe hissed. Serini imagined, that if it could, it'd be frothing at the mouth. Serini could feel the scythe imposing its hunger upon her. Her stomach growled. 

Gryphonesses wore more clothing then the men. Serini was in a traditional desert robe which deflected sunlight and retained most of her body's moisture. It was silver to match the color of her caste being bound to a silver gryphon. There's a shawl section of every gryphonesses' desert robes that wraps around their neck, like a thick scarf. Serini unraveled this now, revealing the slit in the back of the robes. 

A gust of wind whipped by. It was perfect. Serini let her long blond hair fly behind her, now that it was unwrapped from the shawl. She also stretched muscles in her back which caused two vestigial wings to unfurl! She spread the wings, working out the kinks. It had been so long since she opened her wings. The feathers were gossamer and iridescent, like an insect's. As the sun shone on them they reflected light in a thousand rainbow colors.