Vignette: “Sure, why not?”

They got married because he was afraid of dying alone and because she was the girl who always said “Sure, why not?”

“Chinese takeout tonight?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Vacation to the Adirondacks?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Marry me?”

“Sure, why not?”

Jump off that cliff for me?

Sure, why not?

But deep down, she actually loved him. It was a strange situation, having to keep you love for you husband a secret from him, so as to preserve the very easy-going mystique that had attracted him to you and landed a diamond ring on your finger while vacationing in the Adirondacks. It was the price she had paid all along to be the “Sure, why not?” Girl — the girl everyone wants to be friends with. Lovers with.

Let me finger you in the back of a cab?

Sure, why not?

The wedding had been delightfully laid-back. No one, not even the bride and groom, really took it seriously. She wore a $15 dress from Macys’ Juniors department, and he wore dark jeans and the button-down from his graduation photos. Their first dance was a poor attempt to recreate the twist scene in Pulp Fiction, but of course he ws no John Travolta, and the Chuck Berry record they were using skipped every 17 seconds.

Five months later they were right where they thought they’d be: Arguing, making up over macaroni and cheese, and picking up her birth control pills at the pharmacy every month. Until one day he couldn’t take it anymore, this informal marriage where he’d come up with all the ideas and she apathetically agreed with them. So he came up with a solution and presented it at the dinner table over leftovers.

“Want to have a baby?”

He sat there, waiting for her answer.

Axiom Thorne: Waking up on the Reiver

The Reiver. Morning’s first light.

Captain Whatshisname — Everwick, as it turns out, now that the wine fog clouding my brain has dissipated — is far from the first man I’ve fucked, but he is the first one I’ve shared a bed with. Darvin always retired to his own pallet inside the closet, and Ansel and I spent nights out in the woods, curling into each other on top of soft mud or leaves rather than sheets and a down mattress. Everyone else has been a passing thrust in the dark corners of bars or alleys, and that’s how I like it. It gets the job done without any risk of attachment.

I probably wouldn’t have stayed all night on the Reiver if it hadn’t been for Everwick’s blunt warning as he stood from his chair, wrapping his own colorful striped scarf around his neck, all debonair-like. It’s a scarf just like mine, given to him by a figure who sounds suspiciously similar to the Man with the Colorful Scarf and Diamond Shoes.

“Everyone I sleep with dies,” he had said. I expected him to smirk. Instead, he was stone-faced, the only movement on his face a wisp of hair caught in the sea breeze.

That makes two of us, I had thought, remembering Darvin’s screams as the dragon ground his body between its teeth. I didn’t know what had happened to the handful of others after they had slipped in and out. They were dead in those same bars and alleys, for all I knew. As for Ansel: His fate was worse than my own death. But I haven’t told you all of that yet.

“Everyone dies,” I had shrugged.

“Horrible, agonizing deaths,” Everwick countered.

Sounds fun, I had almost said, but he was walking away now, his scarf catching the wind and snapping like a sail. I wasn’t sure if I was meant to follow, but I did — it would be easy to blame it on my ego, as my shipmates were back at the Hydra, probably taking bets on how long I’d be, but I’ll admit that there was something about Everwick that was irresistible to me. Maybe it was the idea that he was a kindred spirit, a warlock locked in the same war with the same devious patron.

An open door awaited me; and an open door shut behind me as soon as I crossed the threshold into Captain Everwick’s chambers.

It did flit through my mind that if he hadn’t detected the obsidian trilliant hidden literally inside my chest as I stood before him in my armor, he might certainly notice it once I was lying flat on my back, undressed and unguarded. But as things had progressed, it became clear that finding the match to the black stone he had brandished before me on the deck was the furthest thing from his mind now that I was in his bed. And eventually it was just as far from mine, too.

I wake up to soft light filtering into the ship’s cabin. Everwick is still asleep, his arm draped over my waist. His hand is disturbingly close to where I inserted the trilliant into my chest, and I swear I feel it beating against my bones with longing to meet its companion, which I had last seen disappear into the captain’s fist. Or maybe it’s just my heart, fluttering through feelings of fear, dread, ecstasy and…no, just those three. Nothing more concrete, and certainly nothing to do with having any sort of feelings toward the man lying in bed with me.

Even without prior experience of sharing a bed with someone, I know I can’t move his arm without waking him up. So I shift and turn into him, smelling the salt on his skin. It’s different than Ansel’s dried leaves and spice scent — fresher, and metallic with Adrenalin. In some ways I like it better: It’s the scent of someone who’s trying to pretend he’s chasing something, rather than being chased. The trilliant in my chest beats harder.

I close my eyes, tempting sleep to come back to me. The window isn’t bright enough for it to be much later than first-light, and the crew of the Hydra is probably still sleeping off the drinks from the night before. They won’t miss me.

Just as I’m about to doze off, Everwick begins to stir. His arm tightens around me and pulls me closer as he murmurs, “Still alive?”

“As far as I know,” I say, my breath warming his cool skin. “Did you want to sleep with me just to see if I would survive?”

The logic makes sense — if it is indeed our shared patron killing off our lovers, it stands to reason the Man (or, in Everwick’s case, Woman) in the Diamond Shoes wouldn’t kill both his magical servants just because they fucked each other. It seems like a morbid form of forced matchmaking, but after experiencing Everwick’s prowess in bed, I won’t complain.

“What if I say yes?” Everwick asks, a mischievous grin cutting through his morning stubble.

“Then I’d say you’re smarter than I thought,” I say, pushing him over on his back so I can straddle him. “Or at least more pragmatic.”

“Thanks, I guess?” he says, pulling me in for a kiss. I oblige for as long as I feel like before getting off him, getting off the bed, and snatching my breeches from the floor.

His stare almost wills my clothes out of my hands, but I don’t capitulate. Once I’m back in my armor of snakeskin, metal, and colorfully striped wool, I’m at the door.

“Until next time?” He asks.

“Who says there’s a next time?”

“Your whip does. You left it on the chair.”

I didn’t do it intentionally, but protesting that fact would only convince him that it was a scheme to be invited back. Once I secure it to my hip, I go straight to the door. The creak of the bed indicates that Everwick is just a few steps behind me, and before I can open the door, his hand pushes it harder into the jamb.

“Don’t tell her, er, him — them — about this, will you?” Everwick asks. It’s a plea, not a threat. “I haven’t spoken to them in 30 years, and now isn’t a good time for a reunion.”

“I promise,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t feel like looking into the leering face of the Man with the Diamond Shoes today — or possibly any day after this.

I leave without a kiss goodbye, but I feel Everwick’s eyes on my back as I walk up to the deck. Out of his gaze, I smile into the wind while passing his gold-cloaked crewmates on my way off the ship, and it’s a grin that stays in place all the way back to the Hydra’s gangplank. In my private glee, I forget to take the tiny step up on the platform and find myself sprawled out on my belly, facedown on the walkway.

As I start to push myself up to my feet — face warm with the sting of embarrassment and palms warm with the sting of several splinters — my eyes catch on my own reflection, shining back at me hundreds of tiny times from a man’s jewel-encrusted boot planted just inches from my face.

“Have something to tell me, Axiom?” His gravel voice asks. I bring myself to my feet, pushing his helping hand away. My arm goes right through him, but he’s still standing there.

“Yeah,” I say. “Leave me alone.”

I walk through him and up toward the ship. The trilliant in my chest beats hard.

Vignette: Gran’s rattling secret

When they pulled him out of the ravine, he was in suspiciously good shape. A couple zits on his face, a sprained thumb, a torn earlobe shiny with pus — clearly not a recent injury, but a festering infection. And breathing, thank god, despite his insistence that his inhaler was still down there somewhere. The paramedic had a spare in the ambulance.

“Why?” asked the detective, the wind tearing through the back of her Oxford shirt.

“Why is my inhaler in the ravine? I dunno, probably fell out of the car.”

“I mean, why did you drive into the ravine?”

“Oh, that,” he scratched his head, wincing as his damaged thumb caught in the tangle of his hair. “Saw it in a movie,” he shrugged.

She wasn’t buying it, he could tell. But it’s hard to tell your sister, a private detective, why you decided to pull off the road and into the airy abyss hanging over Settlers Gorge late on a sunny Tuesday afternoon with an inhaler of albuterol in one pocket and your great uncle’s silver baby rattle in the other. He patted the fabric surreptitiously: Yep, it was still there. The secret their Gran had bestowed on him upon her abrupt move to Wisconsin dairy country was still safe from her eldest granddaughter, and he intended to keep it that way from his gumshoe sibling.

Axiom Thorne: The first night on The Hydra

No new statue on the bow was going to fix the fact that this ship was being run by our ragtag team of misfits. We scrubbed it clean, loaded new cannons, relettered its name “The Hydra” on the side in silver that tarnished on contact with the salty air, and yet it was just the same as our former vessel — the one that had carried its crew to a port for us, and a grave for it.

The traitor Darvin was long dead, swallowed by a monster in a cave. I did not grieve him, no matter how Captain Urto anticipated my heartache. It was futile to explain that Darvin held not a single string of my heart, no matter how many nights he retired to my quarters. He was merely a filling for the one I had left behind; the one who had forgotten me long before I found myself afloat on the tenacious sea.

Now something else had taken Ansel’s place — a stone, cold and black and powerful, sent by the Man with the Colorful Scarf and the Diamond Shoes. It was possibly the greatest gift he had bestowed upon me, though I did not yet understand why.

The first night aboard the Hydra, I nestled within my bedsheets, still musty with dust and dried sage. The lamplight swayed with the ship, dancing to the tune of waves lapping against its sides and my heart beating against the black gem implanted within it. Here in the quiet, however, thoughts of Ansel started oozing from the cracks between animal and mineral, and I was awash with the memory of his eyes looking at me curiously, wondering who I might be as I cried in self-pity at the foot of his bed.

My eyes shot open, hoping the dark ship wall would save me from the vacancy of his face and the weakness of my past. And they might have, had Ansel not been sitting at the foot of my bed now, his eyes twinkling with recognition.

“I miss you, my love,” he said, smiling that crooked grin that made my insides turn to gelatin. Even the black rock in my chest became jam more than gem.

I lunged forward without thinking, hoping his arms would catch me like they always had, and instead slammed my face into the wall. Ansel was gone, replaced only by a knock from the other side and Azha’s half-concerned, half-annoyed, “Everything OK in there, Ax?”

“Fine,” I said, unsure if the tears in my eyes were from the pain blossoming outward from my nose, or from the memory of my greatest failing.

#CampNaNoWriMo Vignette: “Homo sapien bitterus”

The first thing I see when I walk in is two construction workers sitting and chatting with Kris, the bartender. Shortly after I silently slip onto the stool, Kris approaches with an empty pint glass in hand, detouring briefly at the tap to pour the darkest stout on the menu before placing it in front of me.

“You’re a little early today,” she says.

“You’re a little heady today,” I reply, eying the two inches of foam filling the top of the glass.

One of the construction workers spins a pack of cigarettes between two fingers like a hyperactive watermill, and I feel my mouth itch. It’s been two years, seven month and nine days since my last cigarette, and although I can now run a mile without keeling over, the cravings haven’t gotten better.

The construction worker’s pal notices me trying not to stare at the pack of cigarettes.

“What do you want?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

“I quit, and I’m regretting it,” I say, nodding to the Marlboroughs once they’re face down on the bar.

“Sorry,” the smoker says, picking up the pack as if hiding it from me will make me forget how much my lips itch. “I tried a while ago, and I couldn’t do it. Girlfriend even threatened to leave, and I couldn’t stop.”

“She was a bitch,” shrugs his friend, sipping his bear. “A black lung is better than blue balls.”

His friend laughs, but it’s fake. I can tell that he’s still hurting from his girlfriend leaving, and he blames himself, his parents, his friend, the tobacco industry, even Marlborough Man Tom fucking Selleck himself, judging from the way he manhandles the crinkled box of cigarettes as he pushes them back into his workpants pocket.

The two of them go back to talking about something a guy named Ed did while sitting in his pansy-ass air conditioned trailer, and I go back to contemplating the now-thinned head on my beer. Behind the bar is a mirror hazed with time and tobacco, but I can see people walking past the bar and looking in at the urban zoo exhibit and its inhabitants. Morgan’s should have a plaque outside the door: “Species: Homo sapien bitterus. Diet: Alcohol, tobacco, regret. Habitat: Dive bars, construction sites, newsrooms. Thrive best in climates of sarcasm, self-pity and loathing.”

Vignette: Floating chance

The body floated, bloated, down the river toward the sanitation facility where it would presumably get caught in the filter and cause a nightmare kind of day for the plant supervisor, who’d have to call the cops, then sweet-talk his team into helping guard the scene until the investigators arrived, then wait for all the photos and little yellow tent markers to be placed before he could get on with the day’s duties.

He’d act all day like it was an inconvenience, like a large tree trunk had gummed up the works rather than a former person But then he’d go home and cry into a tall glass of tequila-less margarita mix about the fragility of human life and all the regrets he had — how he’d never seen Spain; how he’d never applied for that MFA program; how he should have asked Stephanie to marry him when they were teenagers so he could be divorced with three kids by now instead of dragging the scent of sweat and sewage into his empty studio apartment next to the Kwik and Save.

And then he would fall asleep — floating, bloated, almost inches off his sheets as he dreamt of the life he’d have if he had taken all the chances he’d been offered, before he’d have to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

Vignette: Still life of an in-joke

“Let me get that heifenweiser,” Charlie said once taking her coat from Leslie and slinging it over a director’s chair that sat next to the apartment door. Above it hung a dartboard with three darts pinning a picture of the president to it. At least, she thought it was the president: His face had been obliterated by holes.

Charlie turned into the kitchen, leaving her to meander into the larger room and get a better feel for who she had just decided to go home with, much to her friend’s chagrin.

It was a strange haven, to be sure: The blue fuzzy dice hanging off the ceiling fan. The stuffed Pusheen cat sitting on the window sill. A couch draped in a sublimation-printed tapestry depicting the final battle of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, still creased and reeking of the plastic that encased it during shipping. A desk cluttered with playing cards, dice, magazines, hand-scribbled notes, and a smooth copy of Stephen King’s On Writing that didn’t have a single mark or crack in the spine — so meticulously scattered that it looked to be on purpose, a still life painting befitting an eccentric nobleman-thinker. When she picked up one of the clear boxes of different-sided dice, she noticed a clean line of dust that had settled around it.

It felt like the scene from The Great Gatsby where one of the partygoers drunkenly discovers that his host’s books have never been read.

Charlie returned from the kitchen with two bottles of beer, each bearing a label written only in German and bearing a scantily clad woman sunning herself on the wing of a 1920s airplane.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking the neck of his bottle to hers. The glib-globs of the orange lava lamp on the side table reflected in his glasses, which were just big enough to be ironic.

Everything about this place seemed to have been procured and placed as part of some inside joke that Charlie had, and it made Leslie wonder if she had been selected to be the next oddity to be used for his personal image.

Vignette: Modern Day Lovecraft

Less than a week later, they were back at her place, reiterating the same moves as they had at 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning, this time perfecting them. A finger tracing down a spine, an arm looped around a waist, a glass of whiskey — this one undribbled — in a single free hand. And then he saw it.

“Is — is that my ticket stub?”

“What?” She didn’t want to move her mouth away from his, but he was already pulling apart, staring at the tiny square piece of paper on the minibar.

He plucked it up with two fingers, setting his drink down and confirming with his own eyes that yes, this was the movie ticket stub he had found in his wallet while fumbling around for a condom. It had been in there for easily a year and a half: The movie had come, gone, arrived on streaming-on-demand, and lost big at the Oscars.

What was confusing was that the rest of the bric-a-brac he had observed — albeit through bourbon-blurred eyes — was gone. The minibar now played alter to the evidence that he had seen Vice at the Riverside 21 AMC on December 29, 2018.

It wasn’t confusing to her at all, however. Such was the life of a modern-day lovecrafter: No longer were menstrual blood, bull testicles, red wine, human hair, cinnamon or anise required. Instead her spells called for some combination of movie tickets, club wristbands, a dollop of aftershave, scotch, and pizza grease heated above an overheating Switch. Love potions were easier when they were intended for women: a drop of nail polish, a smear of nightly moisturizer. A rhinestone that had fallen out of a cheap statement necklace.

“You didn’t need to keep it,” he said, pulling away fully now and examining it. “Why’d you keep it?” His face was that of a woman discovering a man has a closet wallpapered in black-and-white surveillance photos of her.

“Just— don’t even worry,” she said, snatching it from between his two fingers and taking it into the kitchen, where she made a big show of throwing it into the trashcan (but instead aimed for just behind it, where it would remain free of coffee grounds and ramen wrappers).

While she was doing this, she didn’t see the twitch of his smile as he rolled one of her tiny earring backings between his thumb and forefinger, which were clutching it deep inside his pocket.

Scene of the write: The last bar on the crawl

By the time we get to the final bar on our list of dives to visit on a clear but cold Saturday afternoon, none of us remember what it’s actually called. Partially this is due to four other bars that gleefully poured us shots and beers, called out the owner to give us a history of the joint, and allowed us access into their digital jukebox so we could play Celine Dionne’s “My Heart Will Go On” and all the Lizzo our liquor-loosened lips could name.

This bar is different. It’s the kind of place where, if walking in with a couple friends, you’d turn right around and leave.

The place wasn’t always a dive: The bar itself serves as the entrance to what was once a restaurant, and clearly a popular one in its heyday. Tables for two, four, six sit either in the middle of the floor or stacked on top of each other in the corner, half of them still draped in red-and-white checkered tablecloths that can be wiped down with a washcloth.

Before you can intrude on this museum, a mannequin — draped in a blanket for modesty, with a blond plastic wig and vacant, store-rejected eyes — stops you in your path. Her arms splay out like a priest’s at an alter, and before her is a brown couch that has played host to so many overnight patrons that this place might also be a B&B: Beer and bedtime.

Next to the sleep setup, you’ll notice a high top with a bag of tortilla chips and plastic tub of off-brand salsa, sitting out all day for anyone (anyone?) to munch on while they drink $3 whiskey-and-cokes and try not to think of how dirty the couch is right behind them. It’s easy to forget when you look up and see that a Svengoolie-hosted B-horror film from the 1950s is playing above the bar on a TV the size of a compact car trunk.

The date I brought with is starting to get deep in his questions for me, as if the beer and shots have made him more introspective. They’ve only made me need to pee. Again.

“So your last relationship — were you in love?” He asks.

“It was complicated,” I say, wondering if I have enough cash in my bag for another whiskey-Coke.

“Do you want to be in love again?”

The mannequin and I lock eyes.

“I don’t know,” I say. “The last time I was, it didn’t end well for either person. I learned I could be in love. He learned he couldn’t.”

Vignette: Snow-Up

It was snowing upward again.

From his desk on the 30th floor, Chris watched the white flakes swirl along the upstream. It looked like whoever was up there had realized it was April and thought “oops, wrong month for a blizzard!” and turned on a giant vacuum cleaner to save the plows and maintenance workers the trouble of having to clear the streets.

So that’s what the zoom-in shot of his carpet looked like when he rolled the Dyson over it every weekend, back and forth, perfect mountain peaks zigzagging across the living room until BeBe put her little foot into the middle of it or, giggling, spilled her legos across the floor. Snow floating up into the sky, leaving behind cracked gray pavement: Dust and hair from the week floating upward into the tank, leaving smooth gray carpet.