↓ → qυιℓℓ & cαиvαs【 ∂ и ρ 】 ← ↑

Imagine if your character was a crime. Which would he be?

Vagrancy	12.5%	[ 1 ]
Homicide	0.0%	[ 0 ]
Shoplifting	0.0%	[ 0 ]
Corporate fraud	0.0%	[ 0 ]
Unsafe lane change	25.0%	[ 2 ]
Indecent exposure	12.5%	[ 1 ]
Did this poll come from a board game? [Yes, yes it did.]	50.0%	[ 4 ]
Total Votes:			[ 8 ]

[Mikael Hart]

→ ∂σ иσт ρσsт ←

writing/post samples

[Mikael Hart]

active. curt. hardheaded. honest. impatient. perceptive. reliable. self-respecting. solitary. straightforward.


Fantasy: Witches

The day’s requests were written on the board in the kitchen, white chalk and flourished handwriting so elaborate and ever-changing that one actually had to focus to read its contents. Most of the items and duties had already been crossed off the list, but beneath the printed “A. arnica root” [which kept transforming back and forth from white letters and various illustrations of the plant] and “J. siren hair” [this one would change from the word to the image of a spindle] were “S. dragon scales” and “S. refill woodshed”.

The “S.” was for Sereno; it was his initial, and he crossed off the dragon scales from the list with a snort, even as the chalk warped the characters into a sackful of reptilian plates. The open room under the garden terrace, the Dragon’s Nest [though it seemed more of a roost], had been a pain to pick through manually, but the task was also oddly reminiscent of his college years. Now if only he could rid himself of green flecks lodged beneath his fingernails.

The magician scrubbed his hands under hot water in the sink, debating over whether or not to take a coffee break before moving on to the next task. Unlike the arnica root, the siren hair, and the dragon scales, refilling the woodshed was not for store inventory so much as it was a house chore. Sereno wouldn’t leave it for long, of course; it wasn’t his habit to procrastinate on a responsibility, and as the list was written in Faris’ handwriting, experience told him that trouble would spring up from neglect.

He’d almost forgotten what it was like to work under a witch, up until three weeks ago. Though he’d been employed by Faris for nearly three years, he’d scarcely seen his boss. Rather, with Justice taking charge of business, Araceli handing the inventory, and Sereno himself making deliveries, it was as if the three of them were the ones who ran the place. The elusive store owner and the familiar the shop was named for seemed something more of a rumor.

During that time, Sereno had settled into the routines of his lifestyle, so simple and straight-forward that only small magic was required. There was always magic flowing in Citta Magus, of course, but for Sereno, his smoke abilities were mostly spent on temp ladders and tangible clouds that flushed out troublesome customers.

Then came the day that Faris returned, setting the floorboards to life with a wash of color that flowed from his very steps; his presence warped the containers in the shop into extravagantly whimsical shapes. He gathered up the clerks of Pallas’ and after quick consideration, assigned Sereno to his current role as a house-sitter to a wizard Sereno had never even heard of.

Whether he'd been persuaded or caught off guard, that was how the magician ended up in Y Bach Ffridd Castell, the enchanted wooden tower.

[Mikael Hart]

active. curt. hardheaded. honest. impatient. perceptive. reliable. self-respecting. solitary. straightforward.


Fantasy: Witches

There were no words painted on the store window; no eye-catching logo with decorative icons, or even sale signs. Instead, under the shingle roof that had faded gray from years in the sun, the glass panes revealed a lone bicycle as its featured piece. The vehicle was an old model, but clean, restored, and well-maintained –and that itself was a testament to the shopkeeper’s skill.

Maria Resia was much like her shop; from her long face, scant lashes, and lanky figure, she was undoubtedly plain. An uncomplicated woman, she always spoke with a strong voice, with straight-forward words, and a straight-forward humor. “All sticks and nails,” was an acute description of her, and though not many would dare say it to her face, she was aware, and even quite proud of it.

She stood now before a bike set on a repair stand, her hands moving over various parts as her eyes followed in careful inspection. Chains were checked, and wheels were turned; bolts and breaks deftly tested. An array of tools hung from one of the walls and was spread on the counter, but the mechanic seemed to have everything she needed on hand, and finished the assessment with little more than a wipe of her palms on a clean [clean enough] rag that hung from her waist.

“Well,” Maria said, finally turning her gaze from the bike to her patron, a red-haired magician and long-time acquaintance. Sereno Marcellus de Lurano. She had words for him, and he knew it, but she liked to start things off with the statement.

Sereno, in turn, gave a snort in response, only too familiar with the mechanic’s habits, and well-aware of the subject to follow. Maria might not be much of a gossip, but she’d obviously heard of yesterday’s events, and were it someone else’s problem, Sereno might have been more tolerant of the conversation.

As it was, the situation was very much his own problem, and fresh fodder for the women of Citta Magus too, by the looks of it. The actual incident wasn’t even so bad, but had been blown so absurdly out of proportion that Sereno was ready to strangle the housewife that started it all. He set his jaw and gritted his teeth. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

Maria waved a hand, as if to brush aside the other’s irritation. “There’s no point in getting offended. Your cousin, Domenic, had worse; though to his credit, at least he had some tact. I’ve heard at least three versions of yours this morning though, so you might as well tell me which of them was true.”

The woman offered a thoughtful tilt of her chin, and counted the variations on her fingers as she listed them. “Giselda claimed that you and the lady Grim were having a lover’s quarrel. Maria Gobbi told me that you were caught with another woman. Helena said—”

“—since when did you give a damn about what Helena says?” Sereno cut in. He really didn’t need to hear the rest of it. To think that one moody customer could beget such nonsense. “That woman was just a bad patron.”

“It must’ve been some argument, then, for her to drop the wet laundry and pelt you with vegetables. I assume that much was true, judging by the clothesline knotted in the spokes and rear derailleur here?” A gesture towards the bike, but she didn’t expect an answer, and his silence on the matter was as much a response as any. A kinder woman would’ve restrained the humor in her tone, but Maria wasn’t the type.

“This may sound like a step back in progress,” she continued, “but if you treated women the way you generally treated your belongings—” and here the mechanic offered the bike a fond pat “—you’d both fare much better for it.” She unhooked one of the wooden tablets from the back of the bike’s framework –the talisman to increase protection and prevent accidents bore a deep crack. “I’ll have my husband make a new charm for you when he gets back. Come pick up your bike again in the evening.”

Looks like he wasn’t going to make today’s deliveries, then; it was just as well that he called out for work this morning. Sereno gave a shrug, not feeling too gracious or thankful at the moment. “I’ll be back for it.”

“Sereno,” Maria called in warning as he reached the door. “Someone’s going to curse you one of these days.”

The magician gave a quiet huff of dry amusement. The door swung open and he stepped out, muttering under his breath. “Someone already has.”

[Mikael Hart]

active. curt. hardheaded. honest. impatient. perceptive. reliable. self-respecting. solitary. straightforward.


Fantasy: Witches

Three.

In the town of Solferine, in the witches' community of Citta Magus, there were a number of shops and attractions that were held in high esteem among locals and tourists alike. Located a turn and a ways away from Main Street, Pallas’ Witching Supplies had never quite reached the top ten among them, but still managed to remain fairly popular and well-valued regardless. It was a medium-sized shop; generally tidy and reliable on its stock of standard witching ingredients, but was best known for its timely delivery service, and its high probability on obtaining extraordinary and peculiar commodities [with proper licensing], besides.

The flow of patrons seemed to fluctuate with the seasons [particularly whether or not it was tourist season] or the time of day [housewives in the morning, students milling about after school, working folk often slipping in right before closing] –the staff at Pallas' were well-equipped to greet them head-on. Still, there were days like today [tourist season, two days before the weekend celebration of one of the Grande Magi Holidays, the Summer Solstice, the Midsummer's Day] where the heat of season and the demands of the customers pressed and crowded and grew more unreasonable than usual.

Sereno could feel his temper rising with the excessive din and clamor of the shoppers, and as he gritted his teeth in what seemed like the fortieth repetition of “No, we do not have a public restroom,” both obligation and sheer stubbornness glued him to his post at the register. He rang up bottled rose oil and dried packets of aconite; he carefully wrapped stiff tissue paper around a newly purchased potion bottle, and did a price check [and here a number of patrons in queue all elicited a unified groan] on imitation unicorn tail [on its label, a cartoon ungulate was exclaiming, “You can't tell the difference!”]

The magician was so focused on getting the persistent stream of sales out of the way [it was endless, but it had to end eventually –even so, it was endless] that he hadn't noticed the warning signs of a troublesome customer until her rising pitch had cut off the flow of conversation from the patrons before him.

“–What do you mean it hasn't arrived?! I needed those scales by tonight!!!”

The customer's indignation and outburst were directed at Sereno's coworker [the Lifelock, the Red Witch] and not at him, however, and despite Justice's tight smile [growing tighter by the moment] as he attempted to explain the estimated acquisition period, the other man was only able to offer the beginnings of a clarification before he was cut off by the sharp retort of “–I don't care about your excuses! I paid good money for those scales! If you can't even manage to get me that much, then I demand a refund!”

Sereno turned away from the scene to offer a brief search among the crowd for yet another co-worker; it was a moment until his eyes found Araceli's. They exchanged a look, each expressed with their own subtle quirks, which to those familiar would read as, 'Would you like to, or shall I?' and 'I'll handle it.'

“Excuse me.” Sereno's tone was light, but audible, as he directed it to the waiting customers before him; most of them drawn to the currently happening incident, but a few were growing in impatience at the halt in the line.

The magician’s gestures were casual; purposeful but unrushed, and it went entirely unnoticed by the angry patron as he pulled out a small case he kept with him and snapped open the clasp.

← ----- ---- --- -- -

Two.

Some of the patrons near the counter were regulars at the store –those among them who had little intention of making a purchase that day were already beginning to back up and make room, even as the neighborhood children of Citta Magus were crowding forward to see.

The three sections of the pipe were pieced together smoothly, and the protective cover of its bowl was removed before Sereno set a match to light it. 'Durand' read the letters that ran across the stem, and at the face of the bowl was carved the head and antlers of a stag.

It should be noted that the problem with pipe-smoking was that it couldn't simply be inhaled like a cigarette, and Sereno's gesture was more purposeful than leisurely by the time that Justice was able to reassure the woman that he would refund the purchase. As she had only grown more outraged by his efforts at verbal communication, he'd cut the talk and snapped open the register. It was then, finally, that the point had gotten across.

Sereno was puffing smoke like a mad cartoon train before an oncoming collision when the patron had finally taken notice of him [really, by then, it was difficult to ignore the vapors]. Her hand was outstretched as Justice returned the money to her [change and all], and was still in the process of tightening those manicured fingers around it, even as her lips parted in protest.

← ----- ---- --- -- -

One.

Unfortunately for her, she never had a chance to, because [and here the magician could give the Big Bad Warg a run for his money] Sereno exhaled with such force that she flew out the door, bills and coins practically erupting from her loose grip. Patrons dodged or were pulled aside [or were soundly struck, as in some unfortunate cases], as a path was cleared straight from counter to door. Almost comically, a singular and rather chic almond toe pump clattered to the floor in her wake.

Justice patted down the tousled side of his hair from where the blast had disarranged it, and among the acclamations of the youth, the protests of the injured [they were only mildly scuffled, and maybe a few sported bumps on their heads, really], and the cheer of the majority [especially the tourists, no one's louder than a tourist], the staff of Pallas' exchanged smiles [and Sereno a full laugh] as the Lifelock gave a brief, more sincere apology to the patrons of the store, and called out a cheerful “Next guest please!”

Araceli had all but gone unnoticed as she quietly excused herself from the customers she'd been previously tending, and moved towards the entrance to put a true end to the incident. Had Sereno been a more sympathetic man, he might've almost felt sorry for the other woman.

[Mikael Hart]

active. curt. hardheaded. honest. impatient. perceptive. reliable. self-respecting. solitary. straightforward.


Fantasy: Witches

[[Note: Sereno is using a fake name in this story because Red Witches in Artos don't use their real names.]]


When Everard had first gotten to exploring Y Bach Fridd Castell, he had found himself in a strange sense of wonderment that had slowly brought to mind the forgotten sensations of his boyhood years. It was akin to the hazy memories of summertimes past, where, at his grandparents’ house, he and his cousin would go exploring from room to room, their grubby fingers leaving prints on the grandfather clock, and constantly tugging the windows open to let in the breeze that ruffled through the documents so neatly stacked on the sun-warmed desk. It was reminiscent of the shouting and full laughter back when there was little care for conduct, and running everywhere because it got them to places faster, and if the staff weren’t always approving, at least there was the twinkle of laughter in his grandfather’s eyes.

He was mildly startled to remember that, in a workshop where half the shelf contents seem to lack proper labels, and the piles of books and half-crumpled parchments in one corner looked almost slept in. It didn’t much resemble his grandparents’ place, this small room where dust motes wafted lazily on shafts of sunlight, but he felt that if he’d knelt and pulled at one of the creaking floorboards, he might find a tin box of childhood memorabilia. And Everard couldn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why.

Later, he was told by the homeowner that the tower did that sometimes; that while Y Bach Fridd Castell lacked a certain sentience, it a retained a sort of life that was more deeply rooted than the odd shrubbery that grew from its outer walls. The source of its peculiar nature was set upon it by the original witch who had built it, and the traces of their capricious disposition was part of the foundation of the place. Most who knew that much of its history presumed that said witch must have also been a Lifelock.

“Y Bach Fridd Castell is liable to move if it believes it’s unoccupied,” his boss had originally informed him prior to the agreement of his temporal residency. “It may start letting strangers in if it grows lonely.”

Everard had snorted in disbelief, except he could and did believe it, if it was about a Lifelock’s house. He was acquainted well enough with Magi establishments, and most of the magic fixed on them at least served some kind of purpose. Lifelock magic, in contrast, seemed inclined to do whatever it wanted, simply because it could. Somehow, this made the tower sound much like a neglected pet or grade-schooler, but before he could vocalize the comparison, his boss had continued on with a line that seemed to improve the situation as much as aggravate it.

“There are also dragons.”

← ----- ---- --- -- -

...The dragons, Everard later found out, were winged reptiles not much larger than an average rabbit, and while they were quick and clever and seemed to spout flames as much as chatter by way of communication, they were just about as threatening. The creatures weren’t quite house pests, but they still managed to get underfoot on any floor that allowed for outside access, and if they weren’t trying to trip Everard, they made enough smoke that half the time, he’d thought they’d set the place on fire.

Thankfully, the homeowner seemed to have taken that hazard into consideration; nearly everything in the tower was flame-resistant [though after discovering a number of stashed emergency medical kits, which included vials of a sort of negation potion, Everard suspected that dragon fire wasn’t the only concern]. To be on the safe side, he’d donned a sort of homemade apron [apparent enough in its faulty mending] to keep his clothes from singeing. It came with a protective hood, but Everard had drawn the line at that; he didn’t much intend to let anything near his face, besides.

After the brief company of the Lifelocks [his boss and the homeowner], Everard had soon found himself to be the sole resident of Y Bach Fridd Castell. There were still the dragons, of course, and these chittered and squawked the way most people do in conversation, but he found that he rather enjoyed their presence in comparison, and had even adapted to their small talk. The lack of human companionship did things to a person, even a solitary one.

Everard was currently not interested in any sort of interaction at the moment, however, settled as he was on the wooden ramps that jutted awkwardly out alongside of this peculiar section of the tower’s outer walls. A wizard’s place, as Y Bach Fridd Castell may be, he still thought it looked pieced together by an over-imaginative child; its interior made just about as much sense. Still, such creative architecture provided all sorts of nooks and crannies for him to explore or settle down in; he wasn’t about to complain.

As it was, the outdoors provided a number of choice seatings for a smoke, and while his pipe was no longer lit, the vapors hung in the air like a fine gray mist. Everard brushed a section of it aside as he turned a page of the Guidebook in his hand, and continued his reading, heedless of the way the smoke refused to dissipate. It was getting to the point where regardless of how fine [if not elaborate] his outfit was under the absurdity of the apron, everything he wore lingered with the sweet scent of Cavendish.

← ----- ---- --- -- -

A soft leather cover might have made for a more comfortable study or travel item, but much like the tower, the Guidebook’s exterior was of sturdy wood. Its slatted straight-grain form had been sanded down but left unvarnished, and its title, etched in dark cursive, made for a simple embellishment. The design seemed a thing detached from his boss’ general tastes, but the handwritten content of the pages within provided Everard with a sense of familiarity. The flourished print in dark ink that trembled at a touch and jumped from written descriptions to visual illustrations had ‘Faris’ all over.

The elaborate lettering and shifting format proved to be more distraction than help, however, and Everard set himself to concentrate, even as the distant din of dragonsong began to rise. Perhaps an outdoor study wasn’t the best idea after all --how was a person supposed to focus with the flutter and flap of green swooping in and out from the corner of their vision? It wasn’t worth the space to smoke.

That there might have been any actual purpose or explanation to the squawking didn’t immediately occur to Everard, who was still adjusting to the habits and nature of the creatures. Well, at least, it didn’t occur to him until a white blur was practically dropped onto his lap. Thankfully, the Guidebook was there to shield him from direct contact, but the impact of the thing caused the letters beneath it to burst into a thousand fragments of tiny skittering rodents. The squeak that was emitted might have been sourced to its tangible counterpart; however, the imagery of anything crawling around on paper [even in 2D] sent an additional shock of disgust to his system that had him flinging the book from reach with an outraged shout.

It was the rationality behind Everard’s subconscious that aimed the Guidebook towards the tower walls and not away from it [living creature aside, he had only one copy, and losing or marring it would leave him unarmed and at a likely depressing state]. The rat’s tail almost brushed his fingers as it went flying [and if he had time to be grateful, he would’ve considered it a small fortune to have avoided that much]. As for the book, its thick cover made a solid thunk as one corner hit the wall and ramp floor, it pages crumpling beneath, but with luck, the damage was only superficial.

Not that there was a moment to mind that; there wasn’t even enough of a moment for Everard to collect himself or straighten to his feet before the dragons came swooping in, too close to his personal space and with the intention of recapturing their prey.

So there he was, balanced on the edge of the wooden platform, on his knees with his body awkwardly angled towards the commotion as his back faced the open air and the drop below. The verbalized exclamations of, “What the hell?!” and “Oy, you goddamned dragons!” seemed underrated in light of the current situation, but the sweep of his arm sent a blast of drifting pipe smoke into action that blew the winged reptiles away with their outraged screeches. The dragons seemed to have gotten the message and dispersed, but with little mind to them, Everard had immediately focused his attention on the rodent. His hand swung down in a gesture like a grasp, and what lingering wisps of gray mirrored it in suit; manifesting his intentions as it fell on the creature and swooped it up in a roughly woven globe of a cage. The spherical encasement then tilted, as if it were about to roll, but tendril-like extensions shot forth to wedge it between the gaps of the ramp.

With his immediate concerns attended to [at least there wouldn’t be the start of an infestation], Everard got up and straightened himself off, picking up his pipe from where it had rolled precariously close to the ramp edge, and turning to collect his book.

As for the rat, lucky little thing that it was; Everard will wait to decide on whether it was too common a critter to preserve for potential ingredients, or if he should later placate the dragons and return their chew toy.

[Mikael Hart]

active. curt. hardheaded. honest. impatient. perceptive. reliable. self-respecting. solitary. straightforward.


Fantasy: Witches

Anise, coriander, robin eggs, dragonfly wings, salamander oil, lavender, osmanthus… In the flicker of a few glances, Sereno had cross-checked the shopping list with the ingredients that were laid out on the counter, and it was clearly noted that nowhere in said list was there a request for manticore teeth. His pale green eyes didn’t linger on the small packet placed so inconspicuously among the others, but they did fall upon a certain chubby ten-year-old, whose gaze darted guiltily away before its uneasy return.

‘You little punk,’ Sereno thought to himself, his expression carefully pulled to keep the grin off his lips at the youth’s obvious intentions. To think that Angelo Calvino had the nerve to slip in an addition to his mother’s shopping list –a man-eater’s teeth of all things– and expect to get away with it was absolutely absurd. Granted, the boy had enough sense [or perhaps not enough skill] to avoid forging the handwriting at least.

His face impassive, Sereno allowed his attention to drop from Angelo, and rang up the items before bagging them, careful to stack the eggs on top. He didn’t say a word as he handed the purchases over, much to Angelo’s relief, and waited for the youth to exit before bursting out in laughter.

Araceli briefly glanced over from where she was discussing the advantages and disadvantages of various larvae in spellcraft with a customer, but Justice, who was leisurely flipping through ‘Supernatural Properties of Unnatural Creatures’ beside him, shared a brief smile.

“Someone’s dog is going to find themselves with an extra row of teeth,” the Lifelock said.

“Better that than a dog that develops a taste for human flesh,” Sereno snorted in reply.

[Mikael Hart]

. . . . . . . . . .


Fantasy: Witches

Appearances are the makes and the breaks of the social world, and growing up, Justice was taught the full of it. His parents’ values were so ingrained on his mind as a child. “Clean hands, clean hair,” his mother told him, because she hated grimy finger nails, and little boys running around were prone to have them. She was a dance instructor and thought it was important to always look presentable. “You can always tell someone’s class by their shoes and their teeth,” said his father, a lawyer, and that reminded Justice of a show dog on display, but his family was intent on grooming him to be the next attorney, and with his family’s history (at least on his father’s side) being full of lawyers, it was sort of a big deal.

The only person who was not so strict (at least outside of appearances), was his governess, Rosemary, and what she stressed her values on was reading …and magic. Yes, it was not something many people knew of or took seriously in this world (but she was not from this world, honestly); the “Hey, Presto!” that amazed, and charmed, and transformed. Rosemary was a witch, and unknown to his parents, Justice was her apprentice; the heir of her witchcraft.

So Justice grew up to be a young man, and he was clever enough to put on appearances of interest and willingness to please his parents, if only so Rosemary could continue her lessons of witchcraft unsuspected, even after he’d grown too old for a governess and went on to boarding school. Then, as his childhood years came to an end, he did something that left the family in shock. That is to say, really, he just outright left.

And I don’t mean that he just left the family, or the city, or the country either. He’d had enough of this world while growing up, so he did what he’d always intended to do; he left this world for another.

[Mikael Hart]

cultured. faithful. firm. grudge-bearing. hardworking. humble. idealistic. small-minded. unobtrusive. withdrawn.


Modern-Fantasy

Alexander…

Did you find it? Did you find it?

He’s not dead… Vitellius…

Voices, whispering in the darkness around him, faint echoes that seem to flutter like the wind, but Alexander was still. He was part of the nothing in that place; just a spectator, a listener, a wallflower. There was a sense of awareness that the voices were talking to him, in the way that they did without directing their focus at him but instead each other; an endless, genderless drone that seemed to tug at the corners of his mind. The murmurs grew lower, inaudible; then, as if they had collectively drawn a breath, as if someone had suddenly clasped their hands over his ears –a vacuum of silence. Alexander was holding his breath, even as he felt the weight of emptiness upon him, but he didn’t have to wait long.

In the flick of a switch, in the ring of a bell, Alexander had found himself a room. It was a place he didn’t recognize, with animated and intricately woven rugs on the floor, and paintings on the walls depicting the glory of nature. A witch’s house, then? It seemed likely, even more so when he caught sight of Jannes in a room at a distance, unchanged from the last time Alexander had seen him, in what felt like so long ago. There was his master, sitting in the plush cushions of a Victorian armchair; wavy, rosy red hair falling down to his shoulders as he conversed with another figure away from Alexander’s field of vision. What were they talking about? Alexander couldn’t hear them, couldn’t hear anything, but it didn’t seem to matter because what the voices wanted was for him to see.

He was still watching from the shadows, trying to make sense of it all, when a voice interrupted his thoughts –a woman’s voice, soft and persistent against his ear, seductive and teasing.

“Alexander.”

The contrast of clarity against this dream-like state jolted him awake. He saw the curl of deep brown tresses as he turned his head towards the direction of the voice, but it was gone, and he stood alone in his bathroom, with the faucet still running, and the radio playing a muffled rock song from the other side of the door.

‘Another vision?’ Alexander wondered to himself, still somewhat disoriented, even as his eyes moved to the clock on the wall to check the time. ‘It’s only been about fifteen minutes long. It should be fine.’ He turned his gaze back to the mirror before him, his reflection that of an unshaven young man. Alexander's dark brown hair was still in that odd cowlick from when he’d woken up earlier that morning, and his deep blue eyes were trying to focus back on reality. His tooth brush had fallen into the sink during his vision, which had interrupted him while he was brushing his teeth, apparently, if the cool mint foam that splattered his shirt and the edge of the sink were of any indication. He wiped his mouth in the most dignified way he could manage, before starting over.

A few minutes later, now clean-shaven and dressed in a navy blue shirt and dark trousers, Alexander mulled over his vision as he had his breakfast of cereal. The French toast with a side of bacon that he would’ve liked to have had had been compromised for the time lost in the bathroom, but jotting down the notes into his journal was easier this way. He circled a couple terms that he thought were particularly relevant. The vision, being the first he’d had since he’d crossed over, had given him new information, and though Alexander wasn’t any closer to finding what he was searching for, he was at least grateful for the fact of knowing that Jannes was well and safe.

His chest ached at the thought (home sickness, was it?), but he quickly disregarded it in favor of the tasks at hand. The journal was snapped shut, the bowl and spoon washed and set in the dish rack near the sink, and the radio switched off as Alexander left for work.

[Mikael Hart]

[Mikael Hart]

[Mikael Hart]

[Mikael Hart]

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[Mikael Hart]

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