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The Entries

The Werewolf

Part i.

     Houses lined parallel to each other on both sides of the street. The yards were for the most part evenly trimmed, although not identical. It was a typical Thursday evening. The moon was full, and until about ten in the evening, the night had been quiet. However, to the neighborhood’s dismay, a sudden shake of womanly terror poured down a dead end street.

     Horrific moans screamed through the neighborhood as blood dripped from the monster's mouth. The murder of the neighborhood echoed screams into the dark wintery night, and sirens were only heard after the beast had already scampered away from the dismembered body. Investigators were brought to the scene shortly after.

     And there it was, another unexplained dead body. The town was clueless as to who was the causing the murders.  People were beginning to grow weary, and the talk about moving was becoming more than empty threats.

     It was five minutes past midnight when Father Sergius received the phone call, "F-Father Sergius," a young woman's voice shook over the phone.

    "Yes, this is Father Sergius," his older voice shook, as well, but for a different reason. His spare hand put the bottle of slivovitz on the kitchen counter. 

    "It’s my mother, Father…"

    "Your mother?" The man's voice was weary and tired, "May I ask who this is?" He tried his hardest not to grumble. People always assumed he had mind reading powers and could remember everyone's name and know exactly who everyone was, not just at the Chalice but over the phone, as well. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it was still a stab in the dark as to exactly who the woman on the other line was.

    "It's Xenia... Tomasevic, Father… the d-daughter of Petra Tomasevic…" her voice stuttered, and he could hear a small strength holding back tears. Something terrible must have happened to her mother.

     His hand dove into his pocket, fiddling with fabric and the wool of his komboskini, "Ah, yes, Xenia, my dear. What has befallen your mother?" His voice was kind and concerned now, even with the slight shake.

    "She…'s," Xenia was quiet, a slight whimper came from her choking back the truth. Admitting it seemed to be the hardest for her, which was also true for her confessions.

    "It's alright. Take your time," he assured her, as he also did at the Confessional. His eyes glanced at the bottle of slivovitz. He might not have mind reading powers, but he could deduce what Xenia was about to tell him. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

     His voice was reassuring to her, deep and low and comforting like when he heard her confessions, "She's been murdered," Xenia finally admitted before falling into a bed of tears, "She is dead… Father…" He had never heard her voice sound so ridden with despair. 

     He took a deep breath. This was  just as he had deduced, "Oh my dearest, I am sorry to hear. My heart aches for you and your father. May her memory be eternal and may God grant you and your family comfort," he spoke with a gentle automatic response, "Does your father know?"

     There was a pause on the other line.

    "No," Xenia explained with a stern sadness, "He has not answered his phone. I have tried calling several times…"

     Vladimir had flown out of town for a Byzantine Chant workshop this weekend. He was more than likely still on the plane as they spoke. 

    "Lord have mercy. Let me know where you need me.  I will be there as soon as I can" His hand removed itself from his pocket and took to the bottle, once again. "Ah, your home address. I will be there soon. My prayers are with you. May your mother's memory be eternal," he slowly lowered the cellphone from his cheek and pressed the red button on the screen.

     His lips closed as his gaze looked downcast at the kitchen counter. There were two intertwined crescents of incomplete coffee rings on the counter that had been there for several weeks. He had asked his son Aleksandr to clean the top this morning, as cleaning is a pious endeavor, but it appeared, his son had forgotten, once again.

     The mess in the kitchen now meant nothing to him. He had to make his way to the Tomasevic household. His eyes scanned through the living room and towards his son’s bedroom. There was a dead silence coming from the room. Father Sergius sighed and picked up the cellphone again. He swiped his thumb across the screen and tapped the code to unlock the screen, “There’s been another murder. One of our parishioners this time. Be safe. We can talk in the morning. Love you Dad.”

Part ii.

    On Sunday morning, the Church service proceeded as it usually did. However, there was one difference. Even though Vladimir Tomasevic had flown back into town, he was standing with Xenia and not minding the Choir as he did on most Sundays.

     It seemed most of Father Sergius’ parishioners had made the service this morning. However, the only person he wished to see standing among the congregation was his wife Sophronia. Unfortunately, she had passed away when Aleksandr was only at the age of twelve.

     After Sophronia’s death, Father Sergius began taking to the bottle, and it was a couple years after her death, the archdiocese transferred him to another Church. Shortly after the transfer, the murders began happening. By the will of God, his parish seemed untouched for a good while, but Petra was the third parishioner to get targeted.

     The murders were never clean. No victim was ever recognizable, and all three victims’ disfigurements were scarred memories that Father Sergius knew he would not forget, even if he wished he could. They all reminded him of Sophronia’s death, and Petra’s murder was no different. The priest often wondered if he ought to retire, but he knew even if he was older in his age, he was still much too young for such a decision.

     A small memorial service was chanted shortly after the service, and the two broken ones, stood with their melting, lit candles by the powdered wheat. The daughter was crying, and her father was hugging her with one arm. An elder lady stepped from the front and wrapped her jacket around Xenia, patting her back with as much nurturing care, the elder woman could muster.

    After the service, Father Sergius turned from the altar. There was a silence as the acoustics of the choir quit echoing.  “Thank you for attending Liturgy today,” he managed to speak calmly, with his hands out and his palms facing upwards. His speech was longer than it sounded.  He could see the congregation’s wavering spirit. It matched his own, and he wished he could be of stronger faith, if not for his own salvation but for the salvation of his parishioners.

     However, despite the disposition of the entire Church, there appeared to be a gentleness in the mourning of the Tomasevic family. There was beauty in their lament, and Father Sergius wanted to believe that Petra's soul would be preserved amongst those who have successfully been remembered in the kingdom of heaven. This thought was of some solstice to him.

     After Dismissal, he ordered his son to help the mourning family offer kolyva to the rest of the congregation.

    "I'm sorry about your loss," was all Aleksandr could manage to Xenia and Vladimir Tomasevic. "May her memory be eternal." He looked at Xenia's face. It was swollen with a sick sadness, even if there was a determined beauty behind it.  All he could feel was a forbidden sense of disgust within himself. 

    "Thank you," she mouthed automatically. 

     The monster had not only devoured her mother, but it was devouring what was left of Xenia's heart, mind, and soul. She was like a person who was missing the very life that had first made her human.

     As Aleksandr began to help scoop the kolyva, he did not bother to ask a simole, "May I?" 

     The situation was tragic, but Xenia was definitely acting too terribly shaken, and if he could have avoided her, he would have. Suddenly and awkwardly and without warning, Aleksandr dropped one of the plastic cups of kolyva. The boiled wheat spilled over the floor. 

    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the boy quickly lamented while getting to his knees to clean up his unintentional mess. 

     Xenia left her own, and began helping him, “No… it-it’s alright,” she forced a smile through her despair. The smile was so broken, Aleksandr could feel its wound through his own cage of emotions.

     The story went that a next door neighbor heard her mother shouting for help, and saw some giant beast ripping her apart. He tried getting his gun and shooting the animal, but he scared it away instead. There was no blood trail despite the bullets fired. With no other eyewitnesses, it is hard to say what happened. Her neighbor, still in some sort of trance, refuses to disown what he saw. The authorities have been investigating him as the potential murderer.

    "Thank you, Aleksandr," Vladimir stepped into the eerie quietness between the two. His eyes had a bleak, grayness that Xenia's had. "Your father and you have been so good to the Parish," was all he could mouth. He believed the unfortunate timing of their arrival must be hard on them.

     His words stung Aleksandr further. "We are under your mercy," Aleksandr replied, "Your family does so much for the Parish, as well." His hesitation was obvious, and although, he had wanted to say more, he found himself unable, “I… I wish I could hear your wife sing again.”

    "In Heaven, Aleksandr. Godwilling," VThe older man shook his head as he drew in a longing, deep sigh. It was a sigh that only a man could make. He was invisibly holding back tears in fear of upsetting Xenia further, and Aleksandr could see the stoic pride in the man. 

    "Of course, in Heaven. She… might as well be a martyr," Aleksandr stood up. There was not one thing he could imagine the Tomasevic family having done to deserve this type of anguish. In fact, the entire town did not deserve this kind of monstrosity, but as the Church preached, not everyone deserves the conflict that happens to them. In a fallen world, sickness can devour anyone for any reason, good or bad.

    "Why a martyr?" Xenia spoke with a sudden courage as she stood up, as well. Her face looked straight at him and with eyes that pierced through her veil of sadness, "What kind of comment is that?" Her voice remained soft even with the demanding tone. She had tears swelling under her eyes, now.

    "I meant…" His voice was silvery, as he glanced at her, trying to avoid her sickened gaze "I meant, I meant… your mother’s a beautiful woman. She, she served God with all her heart, and her murder seems…" He paused, finding himself running into a wall as tears streamed down her blushed cheeks. Her emotions were a labyrinth of despair, and he was trapped inside the walls of them.

    “S-Seems…?” Xenia’s weakness continued streaming after what he had said.

    “It…” He paused again, “It reminds me of my own mother’s death. She was murdered… as well,” Aleksandr did not want to take the center of the conversation, but it only seemed necessary, now. “She was a very devout Christian.”

    “No doubt,” Vladimir interjected. His black eyes looked at both young people. It had been a long weekend for the man, and although she was gone, he felt his wife was closer to him now than he could ever imagine. But for the time being, the sunken hollowness that was clinging to him, would have to wait before it could heal. Only time was needed, and now was much too soon, “Your Father would not have settled for anything less, Aleksandr,” his weathered face nodded quickly and humbly as he spoke. He took a small pause and continued, “Despite how they passed, both women, it would seem, are in a better place now. Free from such monstrosities that had befallen them. May God keep and remember them.” 

Part iii.

    “It was kind of you to help the Tomasevic family pass out kolyva, today,” Father Sergius remarked to his son, on their way home from Church, “May Petra’s memory be eternal.”

    “I was only being obedient to what you asked of me,” Aleksandr remarked half-heartedly. He meant to be more respectful to his father, not just because he was a priest, but because he knew he was in debt to his father for a plethora of reasons. He also wanted to forget how foolish he had looked in front of the remaining Tomasevic family.

    “Of course, but you did not have to mind your old dad,” Father Sergius mused while ignoring his son’s angst. It was a difficult time, not just for the parish. The murders were occurring almost every month with little rhyme or reason, and he knew he should stop turning a blind eye. The slivovitz only made him see clearer, nowadays, “I was worried when you were not home the other night,” he began. He let out a scraggly sigh as his hands gripped the steering wheel, “No one is safe…”

    “I’m sorry,” Aleksandr interrupted his father in a muttered voice. His tired eyes stared out the window. The scenery passed by slowly as the car came to a stop light. The sidewalks looked bleak with the people and buildings rummaging inside their perimeters. They seemed trapped, and all he could do was watch from the outside. They were like caged animals, unable to escape the monotony of their fate.

    “You know,” Father Sergius began, again, as the car came to a complete stop, “Your mother was murdered under a full moon.”

     There was a long pause between the two. The silence spoke many words, and the two indulged in the quiet moment, until the light turned green. Father Sergius pressed his foot against the gas, and the car’s engine made a low growl. 

     Finally, Aleksandr spoke, but this time, a little more audibly than his last response, “I’ve never liked a full moon.”

Fin.

X
The Dissenter

Ankle-deep in blood, she slogged through the endless, red night, every minute afraid of what was behind her, every minute fearing what would reach out of the copper-reeking swamp beneath her feet. The only features left on the landscape were bent and blackened trees, and the Mountain in the distance. 

Always, in the distance. 

She slogged on and on, but the Mountain never moved.

Neither Closer, nor farther 

Always, always just close enough to see, but still too far to reach.

But then! Just a little larger to her bleeding eyes!

Just a little-

Red hands ripped through the surface of the swamp. They grabbed her ankles and drug her away from the Mountain. Slinging her form through a cresting wave of blood, the hands disappeared. 

She stood up again, and started walking, again, always whispering to herself alone, for she saw no one else to hear as she again took up the journey that once began upon a beach. A single word, again and again. 

“Unworthy.”

But,
on the Other Side of the mirror she walked upon, a Monster crawled just behind her.

She took a few steps, each slower and more tentative than the last before she stopped again, for once, still standing.

She stared at the Mountain. Unmoved. Unchanged. It sang to the weeping somnambulist as she wandered through a nightmare of her own making. 

One can only stare for so long, though.

She turned around, and began walking towards the Great Red Moon instead.

XX
Mausoleum for a God

On that same crystal planet, the Moon rained blue light on a Green Valley. Wildflowers sprung from every stalk and the nightly breeze, constant but soft, rippled through the grass. The Elysian Facet had but one occupant as well.

One occupant, and a Ghost.

The Ghost of a God, and His Mausoleum.

The Verde River ran right through the core of the temple, which once had been just another Mountain made into a masterpiece by the diligent hands of a Sculptor now nowhere to be seen.. Tender new vines pulled huge white flowers towards the Blue Moon while they still dipped their fresh tendrils into every rise and fall carefully chiseled into the Mausoleum’s bared bones.

Across the River arched a bridge and in the midst of the bridge, there was a Well without Water.

To look into the Well was heresy, for what the Well had to tell made all men go mad.

Dripping with Truth, a hand reached up… 

…grasped… Somebody Else…

…and pulled them Down to the Bottom to whisper,

“Drown.”

At the utterance of the word, an atom split.

XXX

The Core

Like all things, stars were made to die.

Children of Saturn, each and every thing born to be devoured by the gnashing teeth of Time eventually. 

There, at the core of all things, a delicate skeleton lied.

To lie was to survive, wasn’t it?

And so, Delilah collected dust, while the final ember of an empire long since burned smoldered endlessly, safe with the shadow of a still-beating heart.

Both, still dreaming of Erebus’ Ascension.

The sun had set, and the sound of the singing birds had been replaced with crickets and the occasional owl. An almost full moon bathed the field in a silvery light, which two figures gratefully used to their advantage, both carrying a stick with a net at the end and a bag on their back that sounded like pottery was in it. There was just enough light to see where they were going without the need of a lantern, which would make their task a lot easier.

“Madam Lidhe, how far away are those moonfrogs?” the young man asked in a whisper, even though they didn’t need to be quiet. There was something about the night that made him reluctant to speak out loud. Everything was calm, serene, and he didn’t want to break that with a sound that would even be considered gentle in the daytime.

“We’re almost there.” Lidhe whispered back. “Listen carefully, Moern. You’ll hear them.”

They continued down the small path and soon enough they heard the first frogs croaking. It wasn’t long before they reached the edge of a pond and they watched the moonlight reflect from the silver-backed frogs, more commonly known as moon frogs.

“Catch them and put them in a jar,” Lidhe whispered, as she lowered her bag and reading her net. “Make sure to keep them between yourself and the moon, that way they won’t see you coming.”

“Really?” Moern whispered.

“They have terrible eye-sight. Daylight blinds them, so they only come out at night, but with the almost full moon the light hinders them.”

The two set out to catch frogs. With the moonlight reflecting from their backs, they were easily spotted when they swam in the water or sat in the grass. It didn’t take them long catch sixteen of them, and each carried eight jars back to the village and Lidhe’s house. 

A lantern with a candle hang outside the door, and Moern unhooked it before opening the door and bringing the light inside. Soon all the jars were in a crate next to the table, the frogs still croaking inside. Occasionally a jar wobbled when a frog jumped to try and escape.

“What are you going to do with them?” Moern asked as he placed the last jar in the crate. “I heard they can be used for alchemy or magic.”

"Magic?” Lidhe repeated with an amused smile. “You’ve been listening to bards too much. There’s nothing magical about these frogs.”

“Then what will you do with them?”

“Skin care.” 

Moern seemed confused.

“They excrete an oil through their skin,” Lidhe explained. “And, you know, rich ladies aren’t going to catch these frogs themselves and rub them all over their cheeks – the oil doesn’t really smell that good either – so I catch the frogs, scrape off the oil, mix it with some flowerwater, herbs, and beeswax, and sell it to them.” She winked. “It’s good money. We’ll make a new batch tomorrow and sell it at the market in ten days.” She stretched her arms and yawned. “We’ll sleep first. Go home, we’ll meet around noon and get started.”

Moern left the house and went to the place he shared with his sister and her husband. He was grateful Lidhe had accepted him as her apprentice; he enjoyed learning about the different flowers and herbs that grew everywhere and what they could be used for, although he had never expected to hunt frogs with her. 

Herbalists were primarily female, because men were supposed to do the hard labour, but Lidhe had accepted his apprenticeship saying there were plenty of woodcutters and farmers already, and she could use an apprentice. Most people in the village knew how to make remedies for themselves, but there was money to be made selling it to those living in the cities. He couldn’t imagine living in place surrounded by stone and lots of people though; he much preferred living in a village like this. 

The next day he returned to Lidhe’s house, and she showed him how to make the ointment. In an iron pot above a candle, she melted the beeswax and added some herb powder and a bit of flowerwater to it. Then she put on leather gloves, grabbed the first frog, held it over the pot, and with a wooden scraper she removed the oil from its back and let it drip in the pot.

“They look a lot oilier than last night,” Moern commented as he examined the wet skin of the flailing frog.

“They produce more when stressed, it’s why I leave them in the jars for a bit,” Lidhe explained as she put the first frog back in its jar. “We will be returning them to the pond later today. They’ll need to feed.”

After Moern and Lidhe scraped the oil from all sixteen frogs, Lidhe gently stirred the mixture until everything had blended together. Once it cooled down, they filled small containers with it and stacked them on the shelf.

“So, nothing magical about them,” Moern sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Lidhe replied with a smile. “I like a bit of magic in stories but working with me you’ll learn that magic can’t be found in plants and animals. Certain parts of plants and animals can make people better and that is magical in a way, but it’s nature looking after us. And a potion will still be the same potion whether it was made under sunlight or moonlight. Recipes demanding something be brewed under the full moon are nonsense, it doesn’t affect how they work at all.”

“There’s no such thing as magic then?” Moern questioned.

Lidhe smiled. “I didn’t say that. I’m certain there is, but it’s not in herbs and potions.”
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