The Good Friend

 

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A Trap In The Dark (Golhyrr wun l'olath)

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(Human Paladin to Drow Female Sorceress)   Methur's footsteps echoed for untold distances, his mind struggling to fill the absence of the other senses. Finally he found it. The Paladin in the sun-etched plate approached the altar carefully. This was the experience he needed. How could they doubt his dedication to the order now? Evil artifacts were everywhere in the Upper Dark and the Drow were always patrolling close by. He began chanting a cleansing spell. Dark ichor bled from its edges, but he remained in prayer. In an instant, he felt like he’d been impaled through his back as he was lifted up on the spot. What was this? Gods, arghhhhhh. His blue eyes flickered. Fight... someone was trying to overwhelm his divine magic barrier.  “Our pact is fulfilled Drow. I kept your memories. Now let me fight the Blood War in peace.” The almost bored devilish voice said. The altar shattered into pieces. “But remember we will have you eventually. Despite your persistent efforts.” He felt ...
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Train to Lanzhou

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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...
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All Over Again

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 You materialize unseen in the shadowed corner of the club. An average looking club, well, that seemed the genuine consensus amongst the minds of those present. Jasmine Anh is leaning against the polished mahogany, her pink dress riding up to barely cover her plump ass. Her long black hair, streaked with purple, runs over one shoulder as she tilts her head back, laughing too loudly at something the massive man beside her says. His name pops into your head. Along with anything else you'd ever need to know. Braden Pike... college football player. He's thinking... hmm.. how much he loves Asian chicks. He's dressed in black designer jeans and a shirt stretched tight over his muscular chest and arms. His auburn hair is over-gelled, artfully messy, his blue eyes fixed on rump slices of Jasmine with the malest of gazes. "Oh, you so strong!" Jasmine coos, her voice pitched high with a thick accent. She bats her long, fake eyelashes, running a manicured finger down Brade...
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Night Hag

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 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...
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The Beautiful Babe.

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 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...
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