u/Boddom_Of_The_Barrel

Chokma. I’m sure you’ve all seen those posts like “I’m writing a fiction story about a Cherokee princess, drop any advice in the comments!” This isn’t that.

If there are any native writers on this page, I’d love to see your work! Drop some of y’all’s stuff in the comments, and we can all check out each other's pages. Fiction, non-fiction. Slice of life or historical drama. Wtv you’ve been working on, we’d love to see it. There are so many talented visual artists on this page; I’d love to shine some light on the literary ones.

Personally, I’m working on a fantasy project based on ancient sites like the SECC. It’s a lot of fun for me because it gives me a fun way to learn about my culture's history and our neighbors across Turtle Island. If there are other fantasy writers, I’d love to see y’all’s work!

Chokma. I’m sure you’ve all seen those posts like “I’m writing a fiction story about a Cherokee princess, drop any advice in the comments!” This isn’t that.

If there are any native writers on this page, I’d love to see your work! Drop some of y’all’s stuff in the comments, and we can all check out each other's pages. Fiction, non-fiction. Slice of life or historical drama. Wtv you’ve been working on, we’d love to see it. There are so many talented visual artists on this page; I'd love to see a light shone on the literary ones!

If you're not a writer, tag some that you know or give a shoutout to your favorite native authors.

Personally, I’m working on a fantasy project based on ancient sites like the SECC. It’s a lot of fun for me because it gives me a fun way to learn about my culture's history and our neighbors across Turtle Island. If there are other fantasy writers, I’d love to see y’all’s work!

{ I place the cigar to my lips and pull,

A great wave rushes over my soul.

Grey smoke rises from dried leaves,

Fills my eyes; sunlight retreats...}

Excerpt from the research of Grey-Feathers, who embedded himself in the mysterious Moth Cult of Spire-Top Mound, circa 146 A.C.R. Grey-Feathers was tasked with infiltrating and sabotaging the order, which sought to overthrow the Cahoan Government’s grip on the Eastern Seaboard. This was his final report before disappearing.

Full Text:

{ I place the cigar to my lips and pull,

A great wave rushes over my soul.

Grey smoke rises from dried leaves,

Fills my eyes; sunlight retreats. 

A cord wraps round my neck.

A pop and twist, my mind goes slack. 

Wings wrap round me, a mother's warmth.

Black surrounds thee, a pallid corpse.

Mother Moth, hear our pleas;

With our soul, rise above the trees.

Let wings unfurl, let light return.

Let your tongue loosen, let our flesh burn.

Rise to the cosmos,

Flutter towards that nova’s might.

Take us to the Milky Way;

The truth, the path, the light. 

Mother Moth, scared flower.

Our time has come, the fatal hour.

The path is bright, the journey long,

You take our soul, you end our song.

With this line, the old man fell silent. He sat in the dark, deathly still. In front of him, the young convert shook violently and muttered to himself. 

“Mother… Mother…”

The old man shifted, producing a fan from his side. An ornate palm fan, painted stark white and mottled with black dots. Then came a small bag, leather and tied close with a length of sinew. He unmade the bag, revealing a frosty grey-white powder inside. He sprinkled the contents onto the fan and began waving it, sending the dust flying into the air before it settled on the boy. 

His rattling receded, his body still except for the gentle rise of his chest. 

“I see it, I see it. I've found the path.” }

Context: This story excerpt is set within my fantasy setting, Tlanni. Tlanni is an Ancient American-inspired dark fantasy world. After the fall of the Old Empire, Tlanni has become a hotbed for the rise of new kingdoms.

The Cahoan, a warlord state based in the East Woods, has fought like hell to consolidate the region under one power. Many factional elements remain in the East Woods; most threatening to the Cahoan is the myriad of occult orders that seek to revive the era of a free woodlands. For more stories and some Photoshop work, you can check out my page.

The Mother Moth Cult, though politically persecuted, lacks the revolutionary motivations of their fellow occultists. They are concerned with powers of a higher order, using ceremonial drugs like Ghost Flowers to enter a death-like state and communicate with their deity, who resides ‘along the path’, the Milky Way.

For more stories and some Photoshop work, you can check out my page.

I’d love to answer any questions or discuss what you think might be a fun expansion on the concept! What kinds of cults inhabit your world, and how do you write them in a way that feels authentic rather than “these are the super bad guys who are evil because they are bad!!!”?

The mountain threw up hot blood and gas. At first, it wasn't so bad. Its spit-up ran all down the smooth sides and cooled off into black glass. The ground shook for a minute, like an old monster had just woken up way under the dirt. The smoke went up fast, making an angry black cloud. It choked out the birds. Mama and I watched from the valley as they all started falling out of the sky. Their bodies were black and swung around in a wild way, like a swarm of bugs zooming down into the woods around the mountain. One fell a few yards from us and made an explosion of white and black dust that stung my nose. That's when Mama said that we had to start walking. 

Everyone left the valley that day. Camels, horses, deer, even the big turtles lumbered along, each stuck with their little groups. We walked with our kin, the only other rhinos we’d seen around. They were older cows; their coats had gone grey and patchy. We did know them; our kind didn't do much gathering like the herders. It was for safety, Mama said when she saw me nervously looking at these strange old ladies’ exposed grey leather skin. Only temporary.

At night, the big dogs started to go crazy. They were always hanging around, looking for weak or lone folks to pick on. We hadn't stopped for the dark, and a group of tired old horses had started to stumble behind. The second they fell behind the turtles, they were torn apart. They didn't even fight, like they knew it was better to give up than keep walking. Those who could run, ran. The turtles hunkered down in their shells, but the sound of cracking that echoed through the night told us that was a mistake. When the sun rose, I noticed that everyone's herd had slowly clumped together in our escape. Nothing would be the same, I thought. 

I was right. The next couple of days, I thought I was in a bad dream. The soot from the sky had only gotten worse every second since it appeared. It grew and grew; no matter how far we walked, it chased us from above. Then it started to fall. Inch by inch, a layer of dust formed over the ground. I was so tired from walking, I thought it was fun at first. Like snow. I stuck my tongue out and felt a fresh burst of energy as the dusting started. Then came the stinging. My eyes and mouth burned. I itched all over, like it was crawling into the ridges of my armor. The old cows grunted and rubbed against each other, trying to make it stop. I tried to do the same to Mama, but she scolded me. She told me not to scratch, that it would just hurt worse. I was glad I listened as the rest of the herd scratched themselves into a bloody mess. The smaller ones got the worst of it. The deer and camels stumbled around coughing and wheezing in the dust they kicked up. The little horses rolled around on the ground, covering their cuts in white and wailing in pain. Mama shooed me along, and we slipped away without a word, the old cows just behind us. The big dogs, shot out from the brush, covered in dry blood and powder, put an end to the craziness. That was the last we saw of any dogs, not counting the pup we found foaming blood from his mouth. We didn't see anyone, really. 

We marched forever. We walked, we’d stop to sleep, and we’d walk again. It got cold. The ash got worse, and the old cows started to cough up blood. They wandered off one night, leaving just me and Mama. She would root through the piles of dust just to find a scrap of dried grass. She would bleed every time she ate. She wouldn't let me near it; she forced me back to the udder until we could find fresh grass. I didn't mind; her milk was the only thing left from our old lives.

With the sun blocked out by that angry cloud, there's no way to know how long we've been like this. But it’s been too long. Too long a walk. Too long since the sun warmed the earth. Too long since Mama fell asleep. I feel like I could nap for days too. But my belly won't let me. Mama’s teat is dry. The grass is poisonous. All I can see is the haze of grey-white, all I hear is the wind. And a thumping. A heart? Mama? I push my face against the cold skin of her face. No. The thumping is below her, below us. Deep underground, a heartbeat. I lay down in the ash, my nose pressed to Mama’s, and I listened. For the first time in too long, I start to feel warm. 

The mountain threw up hot blood and gas. At first, it wasn't so bad. Its spit-up ran all down the smooth sides and cooled off into black glass. The ground shook for a minute, like an old monster had just woken up way under the dirt. The smoke went up fast, making an angry black cloud. It choked out the birds. Mama and I watched from the valley as they all started falling out of the sky. Their bodies were black and swung around in a wild way, like a swarm of bugs zooming down into the woods around the mountain. One fell a few yards from us and made an explosion of white and black dust that stung my nose. That's when Mama said that we had to start walking. 

Everyone left the valley that day. Camels, horses, deer, even the big turtles lumbered along, each stuck with their little groups. We walked with our kin, the only other rhinos we’d seen around. They were older cows; their coats had gone grey and patchy. We did know them; our kind didn't do much gathering like the herders. It was for safety, Mama said when she saw me nervously looking at these strange old ladies’ exposed grey leather skin. Only temporary.

At night, the big dogs started to go crazy. They were always hanging around, looking for weak or lone folks to pick on. We hadn't stopped for the dark, and a group of tired old horses had started to stumble behind. The second they fell behind the turtles, they were torn apart. They didn't even fight, like they knew it was better to give up than keep walking. Those who could run, ran. The turtles hunkered down in their shells, but the sound of cracking that echoed through the night told us that was a mistake. When the sun rose, I noticed that everyone's herd had slowly clumped together in our escape. Nothing would be the same, I thought. 

I was right. The next couple of days, I thought I was in a bad dream. The soot from the sky had only gotten worse every second since it appeared. It grew and grew; no matter how far we walked, it chased us from above. Then it started to fall. Inch by inch, a layer of dust formed over the ground. I was so tired from walking, I thought it was fun at first. Like snow. I stuck my tongue out and felt a fresh burst of energy as the dusting started. Then came the stinging. My eyes and mouth burned. I itched all over, like it was crawling into the ridges of my armor. The old cows grunted and rubbed against each other, trying to make it stop. I tried to do the same to Mama, but she scolded me. She told me not to scratch, that it would just hurt worse. I was glad I listened as the rest of the herd scratched themselves into a bloody mess. The smaller ones got the worst of it. The deer and camels stumbled around coughing and wheezing in the dust they kicked up. The little horses rolled around on the ground, covering their cuts in white and wailing in pain. Mama shooed me along, and we slipped away without a word, the old cows just behind us. The big dogs, shot out from the brush, covered in dry blood and powder, put an end to the craziness. That was the last we saw of any dogs, not counting the pup we found foaming blood from his mouth. We didn't see anyone, really. 

We marched forever. We walked, we’d stop to sleep, and we’d walk again. It got cold. The ash got worse, and the old cows started to cough up blood. They wandered off one night, leaving just me and Mama. She would root through the piles of dust just to find a scrap of dried grass. She would bleed every time she ate. She wouldn't let me near it; she forced me back to the udder until we could find fresh grass. I didn't mind; her milk was the only thing left from our old lives.

With the sun blocked out by that angry cloud, there's no way to know how long we've been like this. But it’s been too long. Too long a walk. Too long since the sun warmed the earth. Too long since Mama fell asleep. I feel like I could nap for days too. But my belly won't let me. Mama’s teat is dry. The grass is poisonous. All I can see is the haze of grey-white, all I hear is the wind. And a thumping. A heart? Mama? I push my face against the cold skin of her face. No. The thumping is below her, below us. Deep underground, a heartbeat. I lay down in the ash, my nose pressed to Mama’s, and I listened. For the first time in too long, I start to feel warm. 

The mountain threw up hot blood and gas. At first, it wasn't so bad. Its spit-up ran all down the smooth sides and cooled off into black glass. The ground shook for a minute, like an old monster had just woken up way under the dirt. The smoke went up fast, making an angry black cloud. It choked out the birds. Mama and I watched from the valley as they all started falling out of the sky. Their bodies were black and swung around in a wild way, like a swarm of bugs zooming down into the woods around the mountain. One fell a few yards from us and made an explosion of white and black dust that stung my nose. That's when Mama said that we had to start walking. 

Everyone left the valley that day. Camels, horses, deer, even the big turtles lumbered along, each stuck with their little groups. We walked with our kin, the only other rhinos we’d seen around. They were older cows; their coats had gone grey and patchy. We did know them; our kind didn't do much gathering like the herders. It was for safety, Mama said when she saw me nervously looking at these strange old ladies’ exposed grey leather skin. Only temporary.

At night, the big dogs started to go crazy. They were always hanging around, looking for weak or lone folks to pick on. We hadn't stopped for the dark, and a group of tired old horses had started to stumble behind. The second they fell behind the turtles, they were torn apart. They didn't even fight, like they knew it was better to give up than keep walking. Those who could run, ran. The turtles hunkered down in their shells, but the sound of cracking that echoed through the night told us that was a mistake. When the sun rose, I noticed that everyone's herd had slowly clumped together in our escape. Nothing would be the same, I thought. 

I was right. The next couple of days, I thought I was in a bad dream. The soot from the sky had only gotten worse every second since it appeared. It grew and grew; no matter how far we walked, it chased us from above. Then it started to fall. Inch by inch, a layer of dust formed over the ground. I was so tired from walking, I thought it was fun at first. Like snow. I stuck my tongue out and felt a fresh burst of energy as the dusting started. Then came the stinging. My eyes and mouth burned. I itched all over, like it was crawling into the ridges of my armor. The old cows grunted and rubbed against each other, trying to make it stop. I tried to do the same to Mama, but she scolded me. She told me not to scratch, that it would just hurt worse. I was glad I listened as the rest of the herd scratched themselves into a bloody mess. The smaller ones got the worst of it. The deer and camels stumbled around coughing and wheezing in the dust they kicked up. The little horses rolled around on the ground, covering their cuts in white and wailing in pain. Mama shooed me along, and we slipped away without a word, the old cows just behind us. The big dogs, shot out from the brush, covered in dry blood and powder, put an end to the craziness. That was the last we saw of any dogs, not counting the pup we found foaming blood from his mouth. We didn't see anyone, really. 

We marched forever. We walked, we’d stop to sleep, and we’d walk again. It got cold. The ash got worse, and the old cows started to cough up blood. They wandered off one night, leaving just me and Mama. She would root through the piles of dust just to find a scrap of dried grass. She would bleed every time she ate. She wouldn't let me near it; she forced me back to the udder until we could find fresh grass. I didn't mind; her milk was the only thing left from our old lives.

With the sun blocked out by that angry cloud, there's no way to know how long we've been like this. But it’s been too long. Too long a walk. Too long since the sun warmed the earth. Too long since Mama fell asleep. I feel like I could nap for days too. But my belly won't let me. Mama’s teat is dry. The grass is poisonous. All I can see is the haze of grey-white, all I hear is the wind. And a thumping. A heart? Mama? I push my face against the cold skin of her face. No. The thumping is below her, below us. Deep underground, a heartbeat. I lay down in the ash, my nose pressed to Mama’s, and I listened. For the first time in too long, I start to feel warm. 

Undertaking was an evil-minded field. Lots of creeps, very few bleeding hearts. They all did terrible things to the bodies unfortunate enough to end on their slab. Even the “normal” ones were mutilated and manipulated. At least a ‘little bitty’ slit from taint to tailbone, or a slice under the belly. Things no one would see at a funeral. Long, thin, hidden cuts for a freak’s giggles. It was an odd and cruel profession. Even the bits not for laughs were bloodthirsty. Spikes under eyelids to hide missing orbs. Wired teeth to close a dead man's jaw. Pounds and pounds of makeup to hide death's blue touch.

Hank, on the other hand, wasn’t cruel or odd in the slightest in his opinion. He was just a realist with an eye for opportunity. He didn’t leave marks on his clients; he only took. Watches. Rings. All forms of jewelry and trinkets. Never clothes, though. He was no pervert, just a man who liked to snatch things from people who didn’t need them. A watch is no good in a coffin. Too dark. No relevance of time. Same with a ring. Love and status were irrelevant in the ground. The only warmth down there is from worms and bugs. No pride radiates from the gut. Just foul gas. Hank understood that. He knew what death brought and what it, rather, he could take away. He would often sell these sneaks and trinkets to pawn shops or give them out as gifts. Everyone knew him as a very generous man.  Once he gave a ring to a woman he had begun seeing, but unfortunately it happened to have belonged to her estranged cousin. Hank spent all night convincing her it was an act of fate. She completely bought it. 

Hank now had a man in front of him that was just like hundreds before. Dead as a doornail. He was a broad-chested, crooked-backed man with a pinky ring that had a tiger eye the size of a kidney stone. It was quite a large one, formed by god to draw the eye of potential mates and business partners. It made him look professional in his day-to-day, before it ended in a bad traffic accident. A drunk driver tale ended him off an overpass, sending him into a long haul straight to the bottom of a drainage ditch. He was dragged out just in time for his skin to remain stitched to his bone. 

Hank had to grab that ring. It would be unprofessional not to. It was a gorgeous rock. Its smooth pupil was like a bottomless pit in the center of the ring. A murky whirlpool pulling in the amber streaks and silver surrounding it. It was very imposing, gaudy. There was no doubt that this man was known for his ring, if nothing else. Its absence at the funeral would not go unnoticed. He would have to snatch it between the viewing and the actual funeral, before he was chunked into the clay. It wouldn’t be too difficult. 

The only real issue was the corpse twitching. The last bit of mechanical life zapping through this cold slab. No better than sparklers in a steak. This one was more ornery than most. Hank couldn’t leave him alone without zipping him up in one of the many industrial meat bags in the office. He would routinely go into fits, knocking surgical tables over, even knocking himself off the table once. He incited a nasty mark from the tumble. There was now a large gash about an inch behind his hairline. It was nothing a few staples and smartly combed hair couldn’t solve. 

Now, the broad man was convulsing his elbow, slapping his chest while Hank tried to stuff a hole in his abdomen with a preservative cocktail. His ribs shook when hit and sent fluid and chunks of meat popping back in Hank's face. Not to mention, the man's behemoth chest had already been cracked in half from the crash. If he continued like this, he’d destroy the supports and cushioning inside and pound his ribs through his back. 

“You dumb bastard...” Hank grumbled, reaching over the body. He grabbed the rogue fist and jammed it to the side. The second he let go, the cadaver raised it once again. The fist bounced off the back of Hank's head and landed square against the crushed bone.

“Fuck!” Hank was furious. He slammed his fist onto the metal table. “Dammit. If you were half this stubborn in life, it's a miracle anyone is even paying for this funeral.” 

He turned away from the table and walked towards the other side of the room to calm down and lick his wounds.

“If it were up to me, I'd take your ring and be done with this. I wouldn't waste any more of my time or equipment on you,” he said, looking back at the body. He took note of the man's back. He wasn't sure if the man had broken it or if he had scoliosis. The coroner's report was very vague. It might have well read ‘he fell off the bridge and that was that’.
Hank took no issue with its vagueness. He believed they were not very important.

“Fucking useless, dead or not.” 

Rude, croaked the body. 

Hank spun around. He waited in silence for a second before approaching. The body still. Hank thumped a finger against his chest. Silent. 

“Nearly scared the hell out of me. A less experienced mortician wouldn't stand for it.” Hank complained. Corpses often made noises. Gas moved through the throat and mouth, sometimes letting out a rancid grunt. This one was much more pronounced than most, but this could have been due to his constricting throat. It's not like he spouted Twelfth Night. 

“Anything else, Shakespeare?” Hank mocked the body. He gave up on packing and hoped his client had tired himself out for the night. 

Days later, after hours of packing and slapping and cussing, the body was lying in the parlor with hands crossed across his broad, suited-wrapped chest and his ring perched perfectly at the top. Family spent the day crying and honoring the man while Hank hung at the back of the room, waiting for the procession to the grave. 

While standing at the back, he noticed a little boy in the pew closest to him. He paid no attention to the casket or the mourning. He didn’t even acknowledge that there was anything out of ordinary. He just sat there, eyes glued to a tablet that flashed bright light into his hungry brain. Hank thought it was funny that this kid's complete lack of understanding of death was still closer to the truth than any of his relatives. Death was something to not worry about until it got in the way of the flashing lights and sounds. 

Death is just like darkness, Hank thought. Darkness isn’t a tangible thing, merely the absence of light. It’s not a force or entity; it’s just nothing. It’s impossible to care about nothing. 

After all the tears were cried, and all the sappy stories told, Hank shut the casket and escorted everyone out of the parlor. While they all went to their cars, Hank cracked it open again and fished out the ring and hurried the casket out to the Hearst to be loaded.

Next was the long procession. The family, with their minds fogged by grief, had bought a plot all the way on the other side of town from Hank's parlor. Hank didn’t live in a metropolis, but with the funeral procession's 5 mph cap, it was almost an hour drive.

40 minutes in, Hank had become incredibly impatient. In his boredom, he took the ring out of his pocket and began to admire it again. He put it on all his fingers and found it to fit his left pinky the best. Then, he adjusted the mirror to see how it looked in his hand. He waxed it around as if giving a presentation, or holding court at a party, two things Hank rarely did. Maybe this ring would give him a reason to now. 

While flipping it around to check for any engravings that might need to be sanded down, Hank hit a pothole that sent the ring tingling down into the crack of the seat. 

“Dammit!” He said as he stuck one hand down into the seat. Dug as deep as he could but couldn’t seem to find it. 

“You've caused me nothing but trouble, you useless piece of shit!” In his anger, Hank pulled his hand from the seat and slammed the top of the casket. The pain only made him more frustrated, but he wouldn’t admit to that.

He stuck his hand back down again and felt the ring's cold touch in his finger. He struggled to get a hold of it without knowing what part he was touching, so he began to cut glances down at his hand, just long enough to get his bearings. He did this for what felt like an eternity. Distracted, he missed his turn and instead led the procession over a bridge going the opposite direction of the graveyard. 

Hank finally saw the ring fully slip over the tip of his finger, and with glee he yanked his hand out of the seat crack as quickly as he could, in fear he would drop it again. His fist knocked against the wheel, causing him to swerve into the next lane, where a PT cruiser was. Hank yanked the wheel back into his lane, but realized he had gravely overcorrected when he heard the metal shriek of a broken guard rail. 

Despite all of Hank's certainty and callousness, he couldn’t help but feel complete terror as he stared into the ever-closer watery ditch below. In this terror, he abandoned those convictions and said a quick prayer. 

Dear god, please don’t let some sick son of a bitch take this ring from me. 

*** Digging through some old computer files and found this story from high school ***

Undertaking was an evil-minded field. Lots of creeps, very few bleeding hearts. They all did terrible things to the bodies unfortunate enough to end on their slab. Even the “normal” ones were mutilated and manipulated. At least a ‘little bitty’ slit from taint to tailbone, or a slice under the belly. Things no one would see at a funeral. Long, thin, hidden cuts for a freak’s giggles. It was an odd and cruel profession. Even the bits not for laughs were bloodthirsty. Spikes under eyelids to hide missing orbs. Wired teeth to close a dead man's jaw. Pounds and pounds of makeup to hide death's blue touch.

Hank, on the other hand, wasn’t cruel or odd in the slightest in his opinion. He was just a realist with an eye for opportunity. He didn’t leave marks on his clients; he only took. Watches. Rings. All forms of jewelry and trinkets. Never clothes, though. He was no pervert, just a man who liked to snatch things from people who didn’t need them. A watch is no good in a coffin. Too dark. No relevance of time. Same with a ring. Love and status were irrelevant in the ground. The only warmth down there is from worms and bugs. No pride radiates from the gut. Just foul gas. Hank understood that. He knew what death brought and what it, rather, he could take away. He would often sell these sneaks and trinkets to pawn shops or give them out as gifts. Everyone knew him as a very generous man.  Once he gave a ring to a woman he had begun seeing, but unfortunately it happened to have belonged to her estranged cousin. Hank spent all night convincing her it was an act of fate. She completely bought it. 

Hank now had a man in front of him that was just like hundreds before. Dead as a doornail. He was a broad-chested, crooked-backed man with a pinky ring that had a tiger eye the size of a kidney stone. It was quite a large one, formed by god to draw the eye of potential mates and business partners. It made him look professional in his day-to-day, before it ended in a bad traffic accident. A drunk driver tale ended him off an overpass, sending him into a long haul straight to the bottom of a drainage ditch. He was dragged out just in time for his skin to remain stitched to his bone. 

Hank had to grab that ring. It would be unprofessional not to. It was a gorgeous rock. Its smooth pupil was like a bottomless pit in the center of the ring. A murky whirlpool pulling in the amber streaks and silver surrounding it. It was very imposing, gaudy. There was no doubt that this man was known for his ring, if nothing else. Its absence at the funeral would not go unnoticed. He would have to snatch it between the viewing and the actual funeral, before he was chunked into the clay. It wouldn’t be too difficult. 

The only real issue was the corpse twitching. The last bit of mechanical life zapping through this cold slab. No better than sparklers in a steak. This one was more ornery than most. Hank couldn’t leave him alone without zipping him up in one of the many industrial meat bags in the office. He would routinely go into fits, knocking surgical tables over, even knocking himself off the table once. He incited a nasty mark from the tumble. There was now a large gash about an inch behind his hairline. It was nothing a few staples and smartly combed hair couldn’t solve. 

Now, the broad man was convulsing his elbow, slapping his chest while Hank tried to stuff a hole in his abdomen with a preservative cocktail. His ribs shook when hit and sent fluid and chunks of meat popping back in Hank's face. Not to mention, the man's behemoth chest had already been cracked in half from the crash. If he continued like this, he’d destroy the supports and cushioning inside and pound his ribs through his back. 

“You dumb bastard...” Hank grumbled, reaching over the body. He grabbed the rogue fist and jammed it to the side. The second he let go, the cadaver raised it once again. The fist bounced off the back of Hank's head and landed square against the crushed bone.

“Fuck!” Hank was furious. He slammed his fist onto the metal table. “Dammit. If you were half this stubborn in life, it's a miracle anyone is even paying for this funeral.” 

He turned away from the table and walked towards the other side of the room to calm down and lick his wounds.

“If it were up to me, I'd take your ring and be done with this. I wouldn't waste any more of my time or equipment on you,” he said, looking back at the body. He took note of the man's back. He wasn't sure if the man had broken it or if he had scoliosis. The coroner's report was very vague. It might have well read ‘he fell off the bridge and that was that’.
Hank took no issue with its vagueness. He believed they were not very important.

“Fucking useless, dead or not.” 

Rude, croaked the body. 

Hank spun around. He waited in silence for a second before approaching. The body still. Hank thumped a finger against his chest. Silent. 

“Nearly scared the hell out of me. A less experienced mortician wouldn't stand for it.” Hank complained. Corpses often made noises. Gas moved through the throat and mouth, sometimes letting out a rancid grunt. This one was much more pronounced than most, but this could have been due to his constricting throat. It's not like he spouted Twelfth Night. 

“Anything else, Shakespeare?” Hank mocked the body. He gave up on packing and hoped his client had tired himself out for the night. 

Days later, after hours of packing and slapping and cussing, the body was lying in the parlor with hands crossed across his broad, suited-wrapped chest and his ring perched perfectly at the top. Family spent the day crying and honoring the man while Hank hung at the back of the room, waiting for the procession to the grave. 

While standing at the back, he noticed a little boy in the pew closest to him. He paid no attention to the casket or the mourning. He didn’t even acknowledge that there was anything out of ordinary. He just sat there, eyes glued to a tablet that flashed bright light into his hungry brain. Hank thought it was funny that this kid's complete lack of understanding of death was still closer to the truth than any of his relatives. Death was something to not worry about until it got in the way of the flashing lights and sounds. 

Death is just like darkness, Hank thought. Darkness isn’t a tangible thing, merely the absence of light. It’s not a force or entity; it’s just nothing. It’s impossible to care about nothing. 

After all the tears were cried, and all the sappy stories told, Hank shut the casket and escorted everyone out of the parlor. While they all went to their cars, Hank cracked it open again and fished out the ring and hurried the casket out to the Hearst to be loaded.

Next was the long procession. The family, with their minds fogged by grief, had bought a plot all the way on the other side of town from Hank's parlor. Hank didn’t live in a metropolis, but with the funeral procession's 5 mph cap, it was almost an hour drive.

40 minutes in, Hank had become incredibly impatient. In his boredom, he took the ring out of his pocket and began to admire it again. He put it on all his fingers and found it to fit his left pinky the best. Then, he adjusted the mirror to see how it looked in his hand. He waxed it around as if giving a presentation, or holding court at a party, two things Hank rarely did. Maybe this ring would give him a reason to now. 

While flipping it around to check for any engravings that might need to be sanded down, Hank hit a pothole that sent the ring tingling down into the crack of the seat. 

“Dammit!” He said as he stuck one hand down into the seat. Dug as deep as he could but couldn’t seem to find it. 

“You've caused me nothing but trouble, you useless piece of shit!” In his anger, Hank pulled his hand from the seat and slammed the top of the casket. The pain only made him more frustrated, but he wouldn’t admit to that.

He stuck his hand back down again and felt the ring's cold touch in his finger. He struggled to get a hold of it without knowing what part he was touching, so he began to cut glances down at his hand, just long enough to get his bearings. He did this for what felt like an eternity. Distracted, he missed his turn and instead led the procession over a bridge going the opposite direction of the graveyard. 

Hank finally saw the ring fully slip over the tip of his finger, and with glee he yanked his hand out of the seat crack as quickly as he could, in fear he would drop it again. His fist knocked against the wheel, causing him to swerve into the next lane, where a PT cruiser was. Hank yanked the wheel back into his lane, but realized he had gravely overcorrected when he heard the metal shriek of a broken guard rail. 

Despite all of Hank's certainty and callousness, he couldn’t help but feel complete terror as he stared into the ever-closer watery ditch below. In this terror, he abandoned those convictions and said a quick prayer. 

Dear god, please don’t let some sick son of a bitch take this ring from me. 

*** Digging through some old computer files and found this story from high school ***

When I was little, my dad would spend hours telling my brother and me stories. He’d sit cross-legged by our beds, rattling off every fable and tall tale he knew. Usually, they were triumphant. Tapping on his chest like a wardrum, he’d tell us about the First Twins and how they outsmarted the Lord of Death. That was always Xbal’s favorite. Sometimes, they were scary. He’d tell us about the ghouls that roamed the countryside, eating up little children that wandered in the night. Those were always my favorite. But Dad, he liked boring stories. Stories where men spoke with wisdom and acted with valor, as he would say. Stories that we barely understood and never enjoyed. But we would listen anyway, because we loved him and he loved us. 

Mama didn't tell stories back then; she hardly spoke. She was always sick, always sleeping. Nighttime seemed to be the only time she would rouse, gasping and wheezing on the cold air. Nothing made her better. No medicine or magic that Dad could find, at least. Eventually he stopped trying to heal her and focused on protecting us from her slow death. We were never allowed to touch her, only to occasionally peek in at her while she rested during the day. But as she got worse, Dad put a stop to this as well. Most of my old memories of her were the sound of her nightly fits, which Dad tried desperately to drown out with his stories. Little Men and River Sitters were never as scary as the shaking wall between our room and hers. I think it was all too much for him. On our tenth birthday, he told us one last story. 

“Before men and gods lived together, the earth was whole and untouched. Men sat above the crust, wandering in the jungles. Gods sat below, ruling over spirits. Our age began when the Lord of Bats first took flight. He reached out to mankind, soaring to the top of the underworld. He and his minions dug through the limestone, erupting from the ground and forming the caves and the dark waters that lie inside. He brought us fire, magic, and knowledge. 

The caves are his realm, magic places that act like portals to the world past ours. They are very powerful and very dangerous. They draw men in, letting them see the future and the past. Some can grant wishes to those who know what they really want. They call those who dream, who dare to hope.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends found a cave like that. We were all very poor back then; no one had enough to eat or to wear. His mom had gone skinny from feeding his little sister. It was all he could dream about: that some day he would be rich and his mom wouldn't worry about feeding the baby. 

One night, he heard the cave call him, and he went without so much as a thought. He went deep inside, so deep he had to crawl. He thought he would never make it out, but he kept crawling anyway. Until he heard it, chirping. It was all around, echoing through the cave. So he made his wish. He wished for treasure, and then he left. He turned around and crawled until he saw light. He ran all the way home to tell his mom what he had done. She’d be so proud of him, he thought. 

But he had made a mistake. He didn't ask correctly. He found his mom, face down on the dirt floor of their home. He lifted her, finding her face covered in mud and spit. Through the brown mess, something shined. Her teeth, he thought, remembering her warm smile. He wiped at her mouth, looking for that familiar beam. But they were caked in grime too; the light came from behind them. He opened her jaw, and gently grabbed at the source. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. From his mama’s throat, a slimy string of dazzling pearls. He was rich!”

He paused for a long moment, just looking at us. His face looked heavy with some emotion that we couldn't register. I could hear Xbal breathing fast and deep, his little lungs clambering to hold on to the blubbering mess that sat in his chest. I felt my face sting, like wasps had crawled into my skin.

“No wish was granted for free. I hope you understand that when you're older. Goodnight, my angels.” 

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving us reeling. We could hardly sleep after such a story, and we didn't speak a word to each other, out of fear that any noise might bring down whatever darkness we felt hanging over us. We stared up at the ceiling all night, listening as Dad gently padded around the rest of the house. Before long, we heard the door shut and the sound of crunching leaves from outside. Dad walked headlong into the woods, and we never saw him again. A few days later, Mama was healthy again.

When I was little, my dad would spend hours telling my brother and me stories. He’d sit cross-legged by our beds, rattling off every fable and tall tale he knew. Usually, they were triumphant. Tapping on his chest like a wardrum, he’d tell us about the First Twins and how they outsmarted the Lord of Death. That was always Xbal’s favorite. Sometimes, they were scary. He’d tell us about the ghouls that roamed the countryside, eating up little children that wandered in the night. Those were always my favorite. But Dad, he liked boring stories. Stories where men spoke with wisdom and acted with valor, as he would say. Stories that we barely understood and never enjoyed. But we would listen anyway, because we loved him and he loved us. 

Mama didn't tell stories back then; she hardly spoke. She was always sick, always sleeping. Nighttime seemed to be the only time she would rouse, gasping and wheezing on the cold air. Nothing made her better. No medicine or magic that Dad could find, at least. Eventually he stopped trying to heal her and focused on protecting us from her slow death. We were never allowed to touch her, only to occasionally peek in at her while she rested during the day. But as she got worse, Dad put a stop to this as well. Most of my old memories of her were the sound of her nightly fits, which Dad tried desperately to drown out with his stories. Little Men and River Sitters were never as scary as the shaking wall between our room and hers. I think it was all too much for him. On our tenth birthday, he told us one last story. 

“Before men and gods lived together, the earth was whole and untouched. Men sat above the crust, wandering in the jungles. Gods sat below, ruling over spirits. Our age began when the Lord of Bats first took flight. He reached out to mankind, soaring to the top of the underworld. He and his minions dug through the limestone, erupting from the ground and forming the caves and the dark waters that lie inside. He brought us fire, magic, and knowledge. 

The caves are his realm, magic places that act like portals to the world past ours. They are very powerful and very dangerous. They draw men in, letting them see the future and the past. Some can grant wishes to those who know what they really want. They call those who dream, who dare to hope.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends found a cave like that. We were all very poor back then; no one had enough to eat or to wear. His mom had gone skinny from feeding his little sister. It was all he could dream about: that some day he would be rich and his mom wouldn't worry about feeding the baby. 

One night, he heard the cave call him, and he went without so much as a thought. He went deep inside, so deep he had to crawl. He thought he would never make it out, but he kept crawling anyway. Until he heard it, chirping. It was all around, echoing through the cave. So he made his wish. He wished for treasure, and then he left. He turned around and crawled until he saw light. He ran all the way home to tell his mom what he had done. She’d be so proud of him, he thought. 

But he had made a mistake. He didn't ask correctly. He found his mom, face down on the dirt floor of their home. He lifted her, finding her face covered in mud and spit. Through the brown mess, something shined. Her teeth, he thought, remembering her warm smile. He wiped at her mouth, looking for that familiar beam. But they were caked in grime too; the light came from behind them. He opened her jaw, and gently grabbed at the source. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. From his mama’s throat, a slimy string of dazzling pearls. He was rich!”

He paused for a long moment, just looking at us. His face looked heavy with some emotion that we couldn't register. I could hear Xbal breathing fast and deep, his little lungs clambering to hold on to the blubbering mess that sat in his chest. I felt my face sting, like wasps had crawled into my skin.

“No wish was granted for free. I hope you understand that when you're older. Goodnight, my angels.” 

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving us reeling. We could hardly sleep after such a story, and we didn't speak a word to each other, out of fear that any noise might bring down whatever darkness we felt hanging over us. We stared up at the ceiling all night, listening as Dad gently padded around the rest of the house. Before long, we heard the door shut and the sound of crunching leaves from outside. Dad walked headlong into the woods, and we never saw him again. A few days later, Mama was healthy again.

l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l

When I was little, my dad would spend hours telling my brother and me stories. He’d sit cross-legged by our beds, rattling off every fable and tall tale he knew. Usually, they were triumphant. Tapping on his chest like a wardrum, he’d tell us about the First Twins and how they outsmarted the Lord of Death. That was always Xbal’s favorite. Sometimes, they were scary. He’d tell us about the ghouls that roamed the countryside, eating up little children that wandered in the night. Those were always my favorite. But Dad, he liked boring stories. Stories where men spoke with wisdom and acted with valor, as he would say. Stories that we barely understood and never enjoyed. But we would listen anyway, because we loved him and he loved us. 

Mama didn't tell stories back then; she hardly spoke. She was always sick, always sleeping. Nighttime seemed to be the only time she would rouse, gasping and wheezing on the cold air. Nothing made her better. No medicine or magic that Dad could find, at least. Eventually he stopped trying to heal her and focused on protecting us from her slow death. We were never allowed to touch her, only to occasionally peek in at her while she rested during the day. But as she got worse, Dad put a stop to this as well. Most of my old memories of her were the sound of her nightly fits, which Dad tried desperately to drown out with his stories. Little Men and River Sitters were never as scary as the shaking wall between our room and hers. I think it was all too much for him. On our tenth birthday, he told us one last story. 

“Before men and gods lived together, the earth was whole and untouched. Men sat above the crust, wandering in the jungles. Gods sat below, ruling over spirits. Our age began when the Lord of Bats first took flight. He reached out to mankind, soaring to the top of the underworld. He and his minions dug through the limestone, erupting from the ground and forming the caves and the dark waters that lie inside. He brought us fire, magic, and knowledge. 

The caves are his realm, magic places that act like portals to the world past ours. They are very powerful and very dangerous. They draw men in, letting them see the future and the past. Some can grant wishes to those who know what they really want. They call those who dream, who dare to hope.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends found a cave like that. We were all very poor back then; no one had enough to eat or to wear. His mom had gone skinny from feeding his little sister. It was all he could dream about: that some day he would be rich and his mom wouldn't worry about feeding the baby. 

One night, he heard the cave call him, and he went without so much as a thought. He went deep inside, so deep he had to crawl. He thought he would never make it out, but he kept crawling anyway. Until he heard it, chirping. It was all around, echoing through the cave. So he made his wish. He wished for treasure, and then he left. He turned around and crawled until he saw light. He ran all the way home to tell his mom what he had done. She’d be so proud of him, he thought. 

But he had made a mistake. He didn't ask correctly. He found his mom, face down on the dirt floor of their home. He lifted her, finding her face covered in mud and spit. Through the brown mess, something shined. Her teeth, he thought, remembering her warm smile. He wiped at her mouth, looking for that familiar beam. But they were caked in grime too; the light came from behind them. He opened her jaw, and gently grabbed at the source. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. From his mama’s throat, a slimy string of dazzling pearls. He was rich!”

He paused for a long moment, just looking at us. His face looked heavy with some emotion that we couldn't register. I could hear Xbal breathing fast and deep, his little lungs clambering to hold on to the blubbering mess that sat in his chest. I felt my face sting, like wasps had crawled into my skin.

“No wish was granted for free. I hope you understand that when you're older. Goodnight, my angels.” 

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving us reeling. We could hardly sleep after such a story, and we didn't speak a word to each other, out of fear that any noise might bring down whatever darkness we felt hanging over us. We stared up at the ceiling all night, listening as Dad gently padded around the rest of the house. Before long, we heard the door shut and the sound of crunching leaves from outside. Dad walked headlong into the woods, and we never saw him again. A few days later, Mama was healthy again.

I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to titles, I go with whatever I come up with first usually. I’d love some help on what makes a good title. I’ve included a bunch of my titles below, and some blends in why I named it that.

**All I can Do is Burn** \- follows a young widow as she deals with the fire-based ritual practices of her community

**Bones in the Cellar, Blood in the Street** \- a Soviet researcher follows the story of a child possessed by a fossil, and the riot that followed his exorcism

**Circling** \- a time-loop story that starts with buzzards flying over head

**Gaggers in the Woods** \- a boy learns the truth about a local boogeymen, The Gaggers

**Never Answer Junk Mail, Unless You Want To Die** \- a man answers a promotional letter, leading him into a strange research center. Bro doesn’t even die so idk what I was on about

**The Gods of Death are in Our Neighborhood** \- the arrival of an old man and his servants bring bad omens, symbolized by the literal gods of death

**Faces of the Dead** \- follows a pair of ceramicists and undertakers who create urns / busts of the deceased

**Children’s Rhymes ‘Round the Campfire** \- a group of travelers share memories of a mysterious song from childhood

**Shall Death Have Dominion?** Or **Confession from Chilpilnonan, a Grieving Mother**\- I’ve posted this one under the two names, neither of which I like in retrospect. Follows the life of a woman and her relationship to death and the supernatural

What sticks out as good, bad, or just boring. What kind of titles usually catch your eye when you’re scrolling the feed? I’d appreciate any feedback or tips

I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to titles, I go with whatever I come up with first usually. I’d love some help on what makes a good title. I’ve included a bunch of my titles below, and some blends in why I named it that.

All I can Do is Burn - follows a young widow as she deals with the fire-based ritual practices of her community

Bones in the Cellar, Blood in the Street - a Soviet researcher follows the story of a child possessed by a fossil, and the riot that followed his exorcism

Circling - a time-loop story that starts with buzzards flying over head

Gaggers in the Woods - a boy learns the truth about a local boogeymen, The Gaggers

Never Answer Junk Mail, Unless You Want To Die - a man answers a promotional letter, leading him into a strange research center. Bro doesn’t even die so idk what I was on about

The Gods of Death are in Our Neighborhood - the arrival of an old man and his servants bring bad omens, symbolized by the literal gods of death

Faces of the Dead - follows a pair of ceramicists and undertakers who create urns / busts of the deceased

Children’s Rhymes ‘Round the Campfire - a group of travelers share memories of a mysterious song from childhood

Shall Death Have Dominion? Or Confession from Chilpilnonan, a Grieving Mother- I’ve posted this one under the two names, neither of which I like in retrospect. Follows the life of a woman and her relationship to death and the supernatural

What sticks out as good, bad, or just boring. What kind of titles usually catch your eye when you’re scrolling the feed? I’d appreciate any feedback or tips

I sat on the porch of my family home, looking out over the inky black chasm a few dozen yards away. Beneath the murky haze, an ocean of life. Spirits and beasts slipping through thickets and jagged rock, forming so many rivers of life and death. The ocean before me was beautiful, wild. 

But it was powerful; it could eat up a young boy like me. Its lashing waves and riptides could drag me under and drown me in a gnashing bed of thorns and teeth. 

And still, all life came from it. Our clothes, our food, or our water. The porch I sat on was a construction of the mud from its banks and thatch from its winding black trees. The island we called home was a refuge from the chaos, a gift from the primordial creation below who spared us the full brutality of her beauty.  She was everything. My community treated her as such. Our dead were left on the floor of her domain during the early mornings, to be taken up and remade. 

Every night, I snuck out here to listen to her song. A chorus of fluttering, gurgling, and crying. A ballad so tragic, She shrouds the orchestra in darkness to protect the sanity of us up here. Some men wander into her expanse, going mad as they are torn apart and made into abominations. 

During the day, I’d join my father and mother, and we’d venture down into her beauty. 

My mother would spear the many birds that flew overhead, blue and white plumage shimmering in the daylight. She’d weave these feathers into the plume capes that the men of our village wore. The bones would be crushed and bleached in the sun, the powder one of many strong medicines she could find down here.  

Father would scale the many rocky outcroppings that lay between our island and the next. He’d scrape lichen from the red and black striated stone and collect eggs that sat at the highest peaks before diving and flipping down from his post with the grace of an eagle. 

I would sit in the canoe we used to traverse the waterways of the expanse. I was no sailor; I remained tied by my wrist to the vessel, itself tied to wherever my parents worked during the day. I was allowed to swim a few feet from the boat, collecting clams and dead shells from the shallow banks. I’d marvel at the tiny guppies and river fish that swam beside me. 

When the sun reached the second half of its daily trek, my parents would gather me and their belongings back up into the canoe, and we’d join the caravan of families heading back to the island. The way down here was a quick one, a stony slide from the edge of our village down to the base of the expanse. The way back was much longer, fighting the current as we paddle upstream, and a long walk up a carved stairway when the incline becomes impossible to navigate. The pass is a mess of whining children and tired adults, sandaled feet slapping the hot stones and sliding into the grooves worn down by generations of traffic.  

I’d always cry, begging my parents to stay longer. They patted my head like all the other whining children. We all were drawn to it, the beauty of its painted stones and rainbow birds. But we didn’t see what wandered at night. The many predators that could pounce on us from the thickets. So, like all the other children, I was cooed at and warned of the Gaggers. Those who wandered the Night Sea, forever lost. Blue skin and red lips, shaggy black hair over the head and back. Beasts of men, driven mad by the Night Sea and all that prowls it. 

A joke, my young heart told me. I’d heard that chorus every night for as long as I could remember, and never once was I afraid. Gaggers, I would laugh to myself. Old men maybe, maybe wild men. But they weren’t monsters, just animals like all the others. I was not wild; I was clever. I was always told so. I could fashion jewelry from my gatherings at the banks, and as just a child, I already made beautiful art for the old ladies who lived by us. They squeezed my cheeks and cooed at me like a baby, which I hated. But they also told me how bright I was, how resourceful.

I stopped making jewelry when I was maybe ten cycles old. Mother had left Father. I tried to go with her, but he convinced the elders that I should stay with him. A boy needs his dad. I think he needed me. He drank a lot. He stopped climbing; he spent all his time gathering the barrel cactuses of the valleys. He’d hoard them away in our home, drinking their milk. Adults drank all the time in our village. I was often annoyed by all the parties we held, the laughing and singing of the drunk parents drowning out the song of the night. But that was together. People were always happy. Now my father always drank and never went to parties. He was never happy. 

When I was 12, I decided I would leave him, too.

We went down to the valley like always, riding our canoe down the stone luge and splashing down below as the sun began to rise over the neighboring island. We gathered all day. But when the sun hit its peak, and the other families began their journey upstream, we stayed. I watched as my father stumbled over a patch of his vice. He fell, landing on a large barrel. He cried out in a curse. I couldn't understand much of what he said after. He flailed about. The barrel was only a few feet tall, its spine not nearly long enough to have done the damage that he wore on his face. He was pathetic. He should have been the one tied to the boat. 

I sat for a while and watched him struggle, my attention swaying between his cries and a rainbow shell I had found right before his fall. I thought of the necklaces I used to make, and how this one would be a perfect centerpiece for one. Why had I stopped? 

“Damn it, help me!” he cried

That was why. 

I untied my arm from the canoe, jumping to the shore where my father lay. I looked to the island, seeing a thousand black specks ascending its painted walls for the flat refuge above. I looked at the sun; it was well past its peak now. I could never make it back in time, especially rowing by myself. The current had begun to pick up as the night readied to drop down on us. 

I looked back at my father. He reached a hand out to me. He was helpless. I was not. I was clever. 

I turned away, back to the water. I untied the canoe from its post and let it go, watching as it was dragged down the river. I didn’t bother to look back as my father let out a final plea. 

“Please… The Gaggers… remember?” 

A joke. I walked into the thicket before me, ignoring him. Within a few hours, the Night Sea fell on us, and I joined the choir. 

I thought I was very clever. And maybe I was. It made no difference. Before I knew it, I was torn limb from limb. A great beast, maybe a Rock Cat, yowled in blood-fueled fury as it unmade me. My blood, my soul leached into the dust below. 

I was remade. I awoke in the river, its torrents slowing to a gentle flow as the sun began to rise. I looked at myself in the sunlight, and I saw not a stretch on me. I looked for a while, not sure if what had happened or what to do. Soon, I heard the approaching song of my old village. I knew at least I didn’t want them. So again, into the woods. 

This time, I was untouched. I gathered berries and listened to bird songs during the day, basking in the sun. At night, I sat still and listened. Never once was I bothered; I was invisible to the forest, it seemed. A blood-stained wild dog stalked past me, passing me up for a dusty rabbit in the brush beyond me. I never saw a Gagger. 

I went like this for many cycles. Day in and out, I wandered. After a short time there, my appetite left and I abandoned foraging. I just walked. I never made clothes, as the old chill of the night now seemed a phantom to me. My skin turned blue as frostbite hit me the first winter, but despite the bleeding and sickly pallor of my skin, I felt nothing. I couldn’t even call it numb. I just walked and walked. My hair grew long and tangled in the thorns of the brush. It stank, growing whatever algae festers in the rivers that I sometimes spend days in, walking up and down their stretch. 

I’ve grown to hate this forest, the Night Sea, and its music. Sometimes at night, I holler and holler to interrupt it. No use. I’m dead to everything but myself. 

I’ve realized I’m the only truly bad spirit in this place, and I’m cursed in this form forever. Coyotes and Rock Cats, they tear flesh to live. So in the end, they are torn apart and remade. They get peace. All I can do is wander. I take no flesh, no water. In my boredom, I’ve begun to tear at the walls of rock all around. I scratch at them for hours, but my ghost finger leaves no marks save for red streaks. I rage at birds and fish and dogs. None feels my wrath. 

I also agonize in my thoughts. Knowing that I’ve done this. That I was a fool. That I was raised by a drunkard who cursed me to this place. Worst of all, I know he lived. Some straggler must have found him in his sorry state and dragged him back to the village. I wonder what he said when they mourned me on his behalf. Did he tell them that I left him? Did he tell them why? 

Whatever happened, it must have made no difference. He’s no different. I watch him now, stumbling through some damn cactus patch. Still alone. 

I unleashed at his throat. Tore at his eyes. His guts ran like rope through my hands. So I wished. He didn’t even know I was there. 

The sun was far beyond its peak when he began to shuffle back to his canoe with his haul of booze in tow. I slunk to the bank and down into the blue. He stood at the edge of the water, swaying and staring deep into it. 

“Father,” I gurgled from below. 

His face twisted, and he leaned down to look closer. 

“Father.”

He was on his hands and knees now, face inches from the surface. 

I reached out. My cold hand touched his face. He froze.

“Is.. is it..” he stuttered. 

“Father,” I said again. 

He began to cry. His tears rained down on my face, now just barely peeking from the water. I felt them. I tasted their salt. I felt his skin prickle and shiver beneath my touch. It was the first time I’d felt something since the day I’d left him out here. 

“Please, let’s go home.” 

I don’t know who said it. It doesn’t matter. I stood up, embracing my father again. He gingerly wrapped his arms around me and began to sob. 

I pulled my weight backwards. Without a fight, he fell into the depths. We sank and sank. We held each other tightly. My back finally reached the muddy bottom of the river. I put my cheek to his. I could hear him bubbling with joy as the water filled his lungs and he hugged me after all this time. He must have thought that his pain and suffering would come to an end now. 

He couldn't see that far above; the light slid away like flesh from bone. The oppressive night fell, and the water began to pull at our bodies. I bit down on his face and began to unmake him. Soon, he was but a mist of viscera that was carried away like common muck in the current.  

I walked back up on shore. I did not wait for the next morning for him to be remade. He’d have to learn on his own what he was now. 

Komvzvoda Entoni Ivanov, 2nd Lieutenant of the Soviet Army. Charged with cataloguing Mongolian life and superstition as part of a concerted effort by the Soviet government to disprove Nazi Racial Ideology and quell future uprisings from religious leaders 

Tavern in Chita, Buryat ASSR. Night of December 12, 1932. Following is a record of an interview with a merchant, Sasha (SH). Translated by Private Tsakhia Melschoi (TM), annotated in shorthand and later longhand Russian by myself (EI)

Click 

TM: Alright, let’s begin. Sir, you told us before about a boy who lives nearby.

SH: Lived. He passed away 25 years ago now, lived only {12 Miles} away from my post in the next hamlet. Lived with his pregnant mother and two brothers. Grew cabbage and onions for the {landlord}. Father dead from a fever-

TM: Did something happen to the boy?

SH: Yes. He had a hard life and was sick in the mind. Chotgor took his mind, and he was {pledged to a grave}.

TM: He speaks of Chotgor. I don’t know this thing, maybe some kind of devil? Sir, what do you mean by {pledged to a grave}

SH: In the cellar, the boy dug into an old burial plot. Two arms, bones as black and hard as {granite}. Entombed by {porous stone}. The Chotgor took hold when he touched its bones, its rotting body leaping from the wall and burrowing its way into his heart. 

TM: What is the Chotgor? How can it do these things? 

SH: {Little Demons}. Restless spirits who cause sickness and madness in their prey. They use their claws to crawl inside you. They cause fevers and infections, and draw on the {head’s vital energy}. Their prey have horrible visions and act themselves as {demons}. 

TM: And the boy? Was he {possessed}?

SH: Yes. He had dreams of violence and {spoke tongues}. The mother brought him to town for help one morning. A medicine woman tried to draw the spirit from him, and awful screaming could be heard from the hut. After an hour of the shrieks, dogs began to cry out. Babies too. Women became crazy with tears as their children grew red in the face and spat up blood from their raw throats. 

*It should be noted that at this time TM stopped translating aloud and began his own transcription in Mongol script to read back to me*

SH: By night, men were angry and paranoid. In the streets, fights broke out. One man was strung up between a team of mules and ripped apart. One of the poor beasts sort of froze, afraid of the mob, and two men took to beating the thing. The rest of the mob began to attack the other horses, who ran through the street dragging behind them gruesome streamers. Oxen were swarmed at random, kicked by muddy boots and prodded by blood-smeared hoes and pitchforks. Farmers overturned their own carts and stomped their cabbages and onions and chickens to a pulp. 

Hounds, mad after hours of whelping, ran headlong into the underbelly of stampeding mules and oxen. Hooves rained down on the mangy pelts. Skulls and spines of suicidal, rabid dogs were mangled. Jagged teeth bore red blood. When there was no more violence to muster, the last of the mob dropped unconscious to the street.  Till light, all lay battered and mutilated in that stew of mud and gore. Man, beast, dead, alive, there was no distinction. 

Women stayed inside and were spared the violence, but when morning broke, a few maids found their babies dead of exhaustion. One took the blanket and wrapped her child around her bosom. The blood stain was placed to the back, so that it appeared the woman was bleeding and not the babe. She came out into the street around noon and lay down for a few hours. By this time, most everyone had regained their senses and began to clear debris. She was taken in with the corpses and burned.

We only learned of our error when we heard her cries from the inferno. We learned the next day that the boy had died early into the ceremony, just before the dogs began their first howl. It sounds like a madman’s tale, and I would never believe it myself if I heard it relayed just the same. But I swear on that poor mother, {may she rest in peace}, I witnessed the event of that day and a half from my post in the village. I personally lost an ox and half my teeth in the commotion. I will not speak anymore of what I experienced directly that night. 

*TM was silent for a moment after the story was over and began again. Unaware of what had been said, I chuckled at TM's expression, which seemed to offend SH.

TM: After all this, what happened?

SH: We went back to normal. We did not know who to blame for this incident and concluded that Chotgor took hold of us all after the boy passed. 

-SH provided us with a map to the village and gave us the name of the medicine woman.

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Transcript of Interview with Medicine woman LE December 20th, 1932. Shetka Village, Buryat Mongol. Translated by TM

EI: Ok, can you start by telling us how you came into contact with the boy, Ariun 

LE: Tell the {Russian} this: The boy's mother came to me. He’d become bedridden, and she was advised by an aunt to seek my help. 

EI: What kind of medicine do you perform?

LE: Nothing a {Russian} would understand. My medicine is old; TM can explain if he wants. If not, you shouldn’t know. 

EI: This report is very important; I am charged with recording folklore so that our Union may grow stronger. 

LE: Tell this {Russian} we have no union. I am bound to my people and their land. Boy, you wear his Union coat and his arms. But are you a Mongol or a Russian?

TM: I’m a Soviet, ma’am, but I am a Mongol too. I was born in Chita. 

LE: You may be a Mongol, but you do not know the true ways. You think I speak of fairy tales. 

TM: EI, let’s go; this is going nowhere. 

EI: Hold on. Tell her I don’t care for fairy tales; I want her story. Tell her we want to understand 

TM: Ma’am, I do not know the ways of your village, but I would like to understand. My comrade and I are interested in the truth of your land. 

LE: I will tell you this. The boy was brought here by ox when he was fit, but he arrived here on death's door. He tore at his own skin and gnashed at our hands. He spoke tongues. Rolling from his mouth and wounds was blood, burning black tar that raised steam against the night air and his icy skin. I performed many of my ceremonies over him, and for a while I thought he might be healed. But darkness was wrapped around his heart, and when forced out, the boy was left with nothing. He fell quiet and died. Peace came over his little face. At that time, dogs began to howl. I’ve heard many things about this night in the years since, but I witnessed nothing. I stayed with the mother and the aunt, and we grieved for her boy. We cried for many hours until peace was in our hearts. We washed his body and wrapped him in clean cloth and skins. We prayed for many more hours, and the two women departed the next day for their farm to burn the body with the family. I gave the mother instructions for a proper funeral and sent her off. I couldn’t go; I was exhausted from the previous events. That is all I will say on this. 

EI: What about-

LE: I will not answer any more of his questions. Now leave me. 

*TM and I made a few more pleas, but she stood silent. We gathered our effects and were about to leave when the old woman grabbed TM by the arm and whispered to him grimly. He told me later what she had said.

LE: Do not tell the Russian this. I spoke to all of my sisters who know these ways, and I sought advice from the elders. None could explain to me what had happened that night. If you are any kind of mongol, you will understand this. When that boy died, and the beasts of this village began to cry out, I will tell you I felt an evil even greater than what was possessing that boy had been unleashed just beyond my threshold. But after that, it was over. We should keep it this way. I suggest you and this Russian go and find a different story. 

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Part of a story I wrote a few years ago, inspired by Soviet Cryptozoology and this Deinocheirus fossil from Mongolia. Would y'all like to see more of this story or a rework? Lmk in the comments what you think!