The Demoness of Chengdu

 The box arrived bruised and battered, bound in twine. Ethan found it propped against his apartment door like a little orphan, his name and address in jagged script. His brother’s handwriting. Of course... he kicked the door shut behind him, the package tucked under his arm. Six months since Brian had vanished into Morocco’s sun-bleached alleys. Six months of radio silence, broken eventually by a deranged fucking set of emails and WhatsApp messages about desert d-ja-jinn, stolen artifacts, and arguments with 'bribed officials'. Like, what the actual fuck was he doing out there? Ethan had stopped reading after the third one. He ripped the twine with his teeth. Inside, nestled in a worn Arabic newspaper, was a stone. He was hit by a painfully thick smell that nearly made him toss the thing in the sink. It took a moment to process, it absorbed the light rather than reflect it. It was pocked with tiny, fractal grooves. Smaller than his palm, heavier than it should’ve been. At the b...

A steel blur ran through the Gansu barrens. Across the aisle, a young man sat down, then absorbed himself in a book. Tall, sandy-haired, radiating a Scandinavian ease. Dane, judging by the worn flag patch. He was handsome, oh... really handsome. No, don't think that. Don't think about it. A treacherous, unwelcome warmth bloomed in Dylan’s belly, a demanding feeling with a life of its own. It was Jin Fen.  The body rebelled. Muscles not designed for the coming new frame spasmed uncontrollably. A wave of giddiness,  her giddiness poured out. Full sentences broke into Chinglish shards. No more look at sand, boring to death. Finally nice man here! He felt dizzy, empty-headed, and horny, absurdly so. Reduced down to a caricature of desire. It had sounded so romantic. He was between jobs, a history graduate. Seemed good for the  resume back in Canada . Ancient trade routes, Buddhist grottoes, Border deserts. Instead, he’d lost everything at that back-alley bazaar in Dunhuang, l...

 The repetitive thump-thump-THUD of a soccer ball striking the cinderblock wall vibrated through Sam’s desk. He flinched, snapping his mechanical pencil lead against the dense organic chemistry formula on his notebook. Dark smudges stained the page where his finger had dragged across it in frustration. Outside the window, adjacent to his university's apartment-style dormitories facing the field, laughter erupted. Sam rubbed his temples. He’d chosen this room specifically – close to the library, away from the louder frat rows. He hadn’t accounted for the adjacent soccer field used obsessively by the college team, or his specific sensitivity to rhythmic bass-like pounding.  Who plans something like this anyway? The dorm security made excuses for them, not a bit of support for him. Oh you should stay out later? Why are you in the room so early? Didn't they realise how demanding this subject was? What's that? A darn college is made for sports not for studying? Of course! My log...