Corner Bar Magazinecornerbarmagazine.com/pdfs/corner-bar-volume-05-issue-06.pdfCorner Bar Magazine Volume 5 Number 6 Page 1 — FRIDAY BEFORE SENIOR YEAR by K. Marvin Bruce. K. Marvin

Corner Bar MagazineVolume 5 Number 6

Page 1 — FRIDAY BEFORE SENIOR YEAR by K. Marvin Bruce. K. Marvin Bruce has pub-lished over twenty fiction stories among Calliope, The Colored Lens, Corvus Review, Dali’s

LoveChild, Danse Macabre, Deep Water Literary Journal, Defenestration, Exterminating Angel Press:

The Magazine, The Fable Online, Ghostlight, Jersey Devil Press, and The WiFiles. His work hasbeen nominated for a Pushcart Prize, the Write Well Award (Silver Pen Writers Association),and the Best of the Web Award. Page 6 — NINE LONG NIGHTS by Ashley Kemker. Ms Kemker is a native Floridian andfirst year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. She enjoys Norwegian blackmetal, obscure history, existentially terrifying her classmates, and eating midnight snacks withher cat. Her work has appeared in TERSE Journal, Psaltery & Lyre, and the audio chapbookseries EAT.Page 10 — SOURED LOVE by Luke Kiernan. He writes, “My name is Luke Kiernan. I live inIreland and mainly write Fantasy and Sci-Fi material, as well as occasionally horror material. Previously, my short story “Daggers and Heroes” was published by The Free Bundle Magazine.” Page 23 — CHARON by Pat O’Malley When he isn’t writing about dragons, hell hounds orclown sex Pat O’Malley loves to write the kind of quirky and weird type of fiction that he andhis friends would love to read. His work has been published on e-zines such as The Weird and

Whatnot, Teleport Magazine and Dark Face Fiction. On the rare occasions where he has theextra time for it, Pat also likes to travel, attempt stand-up comedy and study for the LawSchool Application Test (LSAT.) Page 31 — FREEDOM by Shainur Ullah. Mr. Ullah writes, “My name is Shainur Ullah and Iam from England. I like writing short fictional horror stories on the creepypasta site(http://www.creepypasta.org/user/ullahshy). I also have a reddit account called Shortstory1with more horror short stories. My most popular horror stories online have gone “viral” –“Crunched Up Paper House,” “The Camera Man,” and “The Guys Behind Hollywood.” Theyhave also been narrated onto YouTube - check them out!”

Her screams jolt me awake me like elec-troshock. Like she’s right in the room.Like she’s still alive. I kick off the saturatedsheets. I escape the Institute. “Pathologicalliar,” says my permanent record. Believeme. I steal a car and drive back to MontagFarm at midnight. I’ve got to find Lindsey.Why’d I ever read about Phalaris? Why’d Ibring Lindsey here? The burning, theburning of that summer! I throw theMazda into park and leap out onto thatbaked soil. I smell burnt flesh. I remem-ber that day. The accusations. The verdict.The sentence. We should never have gone to MontagFarm. Friday. Late summer. Before senioryear. What’d we know? Everything that I’dknown involved parental care. The ideas Ihave are untested in the real world. I’dnever even balanced a checkbook beforeand there I was sitting in Valley Savingsand Loan inquiring about money for col-lege. Dad’s collar is so blue that it’s black.Mom’s depression prevents long-termemployment. She sits in the car and sendsme into the bank alone. “You’re smart to start exploring lendingoptions early,” the banker woman says witha wet-lipped smile. “Most kids just assumethe money will come from somewhere.

Next summer, after you learn about scholar-ships, if any, you’ll need to decide howmuch money to borrow to cover your costs.Federally subsidized loans have a lowerinterest rate…“ her words have begun toform a mental jungle gym I can’t climb. Iknow, roughly, what interest is. I watch herthick lips flap and her jowly, well-fed facejiggle. I glance down at her elegant, cherrydesk. One of those giant green blotterswith real leather corners covers most of thepolished wood top, although it has a com-puter monitor and keyboard on it, with nodanger of ink spills. It makes no sense.Her fingers, black nail polish emphasizingtheir speed, clack on the keys like stilettos.Her name-plate reads Roberta Montag. School begins next week. Senior year.Another year editing the high school paperwhile all the other guys get the girls.Another dreary year wondering when it’sgoing to be my turn. That Friday after-noon Steed has Vicki in the crook of hisarm as he drives. “I kind of envy pigs,” hemuses. “They have thirty-minute orgasms,you know.” That’s a rare show of readingprowess for Steed. Vicki giggles. Lindseyfrowns. Steed continues his lecture.“Their penises are corkscrew shaped—Iwonder how that works.” Vicki rolls hereyes at Lindsey. He’s gone too far.

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“FRIDAY BEFORE SENIOR YEAR”by K. MARVIN BRUCE

Changes the subject. “It’s the Friday beforesenior year, let’s do somethin’ dangerous.” Everyone knows about Montag Farm.Everyone knows the police are afraid to gothere. Everyone knows about the brazenboar. “Pathological liar,” the doctor testi-fied. We drive out Dancing Ridge Road, outpast Wooddale, on the lonely stretch lead-ing to Montag Farm. Sere heat waves riselike we’re driving into a mirage. Weedswrestle their way from the pavement likethey’re suffocating, bursting into air at thelast second. Rusted roadsigns assaultedwith shotgun surgery. The fields havemostly gone back to nature, mostly. TheMontags, they say, claim all this land.Great mud-wallows churn the sour soil.The clapboard farmhouse sags with a dis-mal desolation of human neglect and fail-ure. Steed whispers that it’s haunted, Vickiclenches him like a ghost-hunting date. Ifeel eyes on us.”Don’t remember!” my ther-apist shouts. “You can’t trust memory!” Iremember. The Montags, they say in town, neverprospered as farmers. Along with thedecrepit house numerous depressing out-buildings remain. The tar-papered roof onthe barn has half-collapsed. Human handsno longer care for it. The chicken coopentrance stares out, resentfully naked withno door. An outhouse stands at a distance,a naughty child in the corner. Then there’sthe slaughterhouse. The bronze statue,they say, outside. The Montags were pigfarmers. That’s how the stories began. Lindsey, Steed, Vicki, and me. We

have to see the brazen boar. “Gabriel Deakle went missing out herelast year.” He was from our high school.Parents whispered feverishly. Montag Roadis off limits. Nothing to see at the aban-doned farm. There is no brazen boar.Rumors, they say. Lies. Why can’t wehang out at the mall, like normal kids? It’s the Friday before senior year. Steedsays “Let’s get some girls and go. Gotta seethe brazen boar.” He winks. Lindsey’s nota girlfriend. Just a best friend. In the back of Steed’s Frontier with acase of warm Miller stolen from his dad, wesit outside the melancholy house in the dis-solving light. Not a sound from the wastedfarm. Not even crickets. Cicadas avoidMontag Farm. Steed’s large for highschool. Football in the fall and lacrosse inthe spring. Assertive and confident, otherscall him a bully. I’m the sidekick. Howmany girls has he bedded? I try to imaginewhat it must be like. He really seems tocare about this month’s selection. On anapproval plan, a rent-to-own kind of deal.He’s never showed any interest in Lindsey,my friend since freshman year, so I goalong. Might get an idea for The Knight’s

Roundtable, September edition. “D’ya think the stories might be true?”he drawls. Vicki, blonde, perky, takes thebait. “What stories?” “’Bout the Montags. Pig farmers.They used the brazen boar to roast tres-passers to death. It’s a hollow statue with atrap door. Lock on the outside. Ate theirvictims.” The four of us gaze toward the


splintering clapboards of the house wherethe graying paint is peeling off in largescabs, revealing tortured, even grayer woodbeneath. Torn, moldy screens hang accus-ingly in the empty windows of the derelictfarmstead. Crumbling bricks have tumbledfrom its chimney stack over the years. Thecolors of everything seem to blend together,fading from one joyless shade to another ofdeeper despair. Is that a glint of bronze inthe setting sun? Out behind the silenthouse? A row of ancient, sickly, bleachedsycamores stands leprously white before thedismal porch. No leaves although it’s stillsummer. Angular branches furiously clawthe sky. Wind carries the screams of theburning victims. “Why isn’t the lawn over-grown?” Lindsey asks. Steed doesn’t answer questions. “TheMontags, they were sick bastards. Shunnedother people. They stayed out here andbred with their pigs. Burned all trespassersin that brass boar.” Steed the historian. “That’s sick,” Vicki interjects. “Peopledon’t pork pigs.” She laughs at her ownjoke. A desultory breeze wafts by. “Why’dthey wanna burn people anyway?” Time for the editor of The Knights’

Roundtable to contribute. “The story comesfrom Pindar,” I say. Lindsey squeezes myarm. “Who’s Pinhead?” Steed asks. He likesthe pieces I publish about his sportingfeats. A regular Achilles. “Pindar. Greek poet—lived in the fifthcentury BC. He wrote about Phalaris.” “Phallus? Never heard of ‘im.” Vicki’slooking Steed up and down. The wind

stops. Twilight silently reaches its embracearound us. “Phalaris was a king of Sicily who usedto roast people alive in a brazen bull.” Lindsey shudders beside me. “Brazen bull?” Vicki asks. “What’sthat?” “Don’t tell lies!” my therapist shouts,fingers on the dial. “It was a hollow bull statue made ofbronze. Big enough to hold a person.He’d lock an enemy inside and build a fireunder it. Roast them alive. Slowly. Tatiansays he used to eat his victims.” “You’re shittin’ us,” Vicki scolds.“Steed put you up to this.” She gives hisarm a slap. He withdraws his hand. “This Phallus guy ever come to MontagFarm?” he asks. “They had t’ get the ideafor the brazen boar from someplace.” “Phalaris died centuries ago. Montagsmust’ve known their classics.” “Did he really eat his victims?” Lindseyasks. She’s never sat this close to me.Tonight could be the night. “Cannibalism has a long history. InPolynesia they called humans ‘long pig’ upuntil last century. The ancients believedyou took on the powers of those you ate.” “Who’d eat their friends?” Vicki won-ders vapidly. “You didn’t eat your friends. Just ene-mies.” “Trespassers,” Steed adds. We gaze toward the decaying house justfifty yards away. Dereliction kisses dark-ness. The faint scent of charred woodwoven into the night being born. Steed’s


voice rises like smoke above us all.“Anyway, that’s what they say. TheMontags never left the farm. I hear theMontag kids had flat noses and black nails.They hadda stop sending them to school.” “I can’t imagine anyone slaughterin’ apig,” Lindsey says, glancing over her shoul-der toward the house. She pulls me to theopposite side of the four-by-four. “They stopped slaughtering ‘em,” Steedsays. “And started porkin’ ’em, like I said.That’s where the mutant kids come from.The brazen boar was for trespassers, anyonewho knew the truth.” Steed jokes aboutthe pig people. In the bed of his Frontierhe launches into his tale again, working hissmall crowd. Showboating before thetouchdown. After the girls groan theirprotests, I speak up. “Some scientists think it’s possible.” Lindsey elbows me. “No, really. I read this article by a sci-entist who thinks people evolved from apesmating with pigs.” “Maybe you read too much,” Lindseychides with a tremor in her voice. Theempty fields swallow the sound. “Differentspecies don’t mate with each other.” “Or they’re sterile if they do,” Steedchimes in. His new girlfriend looks imagi-natively impressed. “I’m serious,” I say. “This guy says cer-tain human features aren’t found in apes,but only in pigs. Maybe one chance in amillion it could’ve happened here. But it’sstill a chance.” Silence. Growing uncomfortable Lindsey says,“I wonder if animals ever think of revenge.”

The last light lingers like her fingers inmine. “Revenge for what?” Steed stands inthe bed and looks toward the house. “Notbein’ evolved enough not to get eaten?Let’s find out.” Lindsey shakes her head decisively. Ican’t chicken out. “It’s been abandonedfor years,” I reason. Vicki, it’s clear, willfollow Steed. Lindsey steadfastly refuses. You’ll behere by yourself,” Steed taunts. She won’tmove. We leave her in the truck bed. What remains of the driveway to thehouse is packed dirt that has long beenpenetrated with weeds and grass. Thedetails look more sinister as we approach,Steed in front, Vicki fawning after. We’veonly ever seen Montag farm from the truck,fifty yards away. As we step between therows of sickly sycamores, the abattoir beginsto disappear behind the neglected dwelling.The roof’s missing shingles, panes glintwith broken windows. Exposed claddinghas rotted black beneath derailed gutters.Steed motions toward the rear of thehouse. “That’s where they slaughtered thepigs. Wanna see?” Vicki doesn’t hesitate. “Hell, yeah!” I want to run, but the truck is Steed’s.If nothing happens I’d never live it down.If something does, none of us will. Thefarm’s silent as we skirt the scorned houseto the unseen rear. I glance back atLindsey, alone in the truck bed, huddleddown in fear. “Who cuts the grass?” I ask. “‘Smatter? Chicken?” Steed scoffs.His voice doesn’t sound as assured as he


thinks it does. Was that someone movingbehind the darkened windows? We clearthe south corner of the house. The sightsteals my breath. There, before the slaugh-terhouse, stands a brazen boar. Green withage, its belly blackened. The charred woodunderneath looks too fresh. “Bitchin!”Steed whistles. “The stories are true.” Vicki laughs. Lindsey screams. I race around the house. A pink shapedashes from behind one of the ancientsycamores, cutting me off. A sow. Shewears no clothing, but she runs unexpect-edly fast on short hind legs. In terror mymind flashes to a gangsta with pants downaround his thighs. Her bare chest sportstwin rows of human-sized breasts, herhideous face that of an enraged warthog. Steed’s shouting behind me. I hear hisfists slamming something like a heavy bagat the gym. Enraged squeals that soundalmost like English. I glance back to seehim falling between the weight of two ofthe creatures. Vicki’s disappeared. The smoke smell chokes the air.Lindsey! I’ve got to get to Lindsey. In thetruck. We’ve got to bring back help. Thesow charges. Reaches out for me with stub-by fingers tipped by tiny, hardened blackhooves. Vicki backs into me, stepping on myfoot. Her hand grabs my goose-pimpledarm. “Help him!” she screams. I rip my armfree as my stomach drops in terror. Thehorrid blend of species misses me andsnatches Vicki. They run on their hind

feet, have half-human hands. Their facesthe worst of both species, human eyes withno feeling, up-turned shovel noses, bristlyjowls with pointy, hairy ears right where aperson’s should be found. Blood smearstheir tusk-like teeth. Vicki screams. I’mrunning now. I rip open the passenger-side door.“Step on it, Lindsey!” I scream. Lindsey’snot there. “Oh God!” I cry as I scrambleover the console to the driver’s seat. I see alarge boar lumbering back toward thehouse with Lindsey squeezed to his longtrunk. The keys dangle. I’m shooting backin reverse. I skid a one-eighty, throwing upfountains of desiccated dirt, floor the suck-er back down Dancing Ridge Road. “Pathological liar,” my chart says. Tonight will reveal the truth. Lindsey’sgot to be here, just where I left her. TheMontags never left the farm, and anythingcan happen the Friday before senior year.v


If one who were a human hung herethey might feel blood rushing away fromtheir feet, past knees, and slender bonesable to be snapped at a mend or a will; pasta limp, sad groin; into bowels; into spleenand stomach; squelching kidney, hairylungs, sluicing through a panicked heartinto their head; the blood would blastthrough a hole where an eye should be. Tobe hauled away into the heaven brightBranches. Spinning in the bright nebulathat billows outsward, if a man were uphere as I am. Dusted with the sand of theuniverse, cold and dry. No food, no waterno mead no nothing or hope, no nothing.Just wound upon wound.

For nine long nights I hung woundedupside down in space, tied to the topmostBranches of a Tree by a rope around theankles. I do not have blood, only thicknight-black water streams out of me, ninedays constant, the drop, drop in the Wellfar below me. Above, the wheeling blacknight of time pierced through with stars,and a sound of stretching colossal wings.And they are there below me. The shapesthat I am not yet meant to see. Hauled ter-rifyingly to the great dome head night-thought of sky. Not even the tops of thegreat Tree, as tall as five million millionaurochs standing on each other’s shoulders,

brush the top of the head-dome. On eitherside, the wanderers, going through endlesslaps. The left scorches me, my skin burnsoff and grows again red and shiny as before.The water nearly boils as it leaves my side.And on the right, the cold is all hurt, lick-ing at the head wound, halting my uselesstwitching fingers until they are blacked andstill, they break off and are grown again.My sides burn and freeze, the left side’sskin burns up, sloughs off, and is replaced,the right freezes, breaks loose from the restof my suffering body, and it does this in cir-cles and never stopping, for nine longnights.

A garden sits below my bleeding head,glassy towers and domes unconcealed frommatter and sight; the others like me arethere. My wife and sons have the samenightwater running through them, thesame dark from corners of the universe I’drather not know about or go to. I am hungout of time. The not-blood barely missesthe dome of the garden sky as it races past.Below the garden are the lives of men.They go roving in their circles, and now Iam shown the first few figures, the glitter-ing sun moving light over their fatefuledges. Cattle, aurochs. Drop drop into thewater. Thorns. Your grandfather’s thornswhich they used to hurt your grandmoth-

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“NINE LONG NIGHTS”by ASHLEY KEMKER

ers. Or maybe a gentle husband thorn.Wound upon wound. Given over to myself,who is the one that walks beside you.In thewest under my right arm, the place of treesand snarled roots thickly plunging into theground, where bees are fat and honey dripsdown the bodies of the ones who look likemen and women. Wild things drink fromchilly creeks and sing into the trees forever.Embrace each other in the wheat fields.Forever. In that place, everywhere, onehears the stag bellow for his doe-girl. In theplace of men they do this too, all men madfor their girls in the rip of loneliness. Dripdrop. The dust wind sings where my eyewas, never to be put back, connected againto its sinews. There are more. Wagons andchariots. Through one eye burning in itssocket, I see all man’s ancestors, carved intothe Tree of Trees.

Under my shaking left arm is the placeof light, the things that live there are madeof it, sometimes leaving to help men andgods. No one can help me. Torches lit atnight, gifts from your wife. Or your concu-bine girl. Joy at the fire with your people.And there, right in the heart of every-thing—is the place of men. What were theydoing? Plowing fields, kissing, milking theirgoats, beating their servants, gutting theirenemies, burying their dead. Do they knowthat I gave myself to myself? I am the onethrown onto the rock face to tell abouttheir lives. I am there in their linens, ontheir bread, in their hearth, wrappedaround their backbones. The water is grow-ing clearer, through one eye, hung thereafter nine nights, I see hail, yearning, ice. A

ruined harvest. Under the place of trees and fragrant

mushrooms lies the underland. All the coldrivers broke from here. Began flowingwhen we woke the world. Men swam upfrom the icy spring, pale fish flung out onland and seeing that they had warm blood—and not nightblack water—began to woundeach other. That spring, underneath theground where strange things drift throughthe eons. Where, I suppose now they drinkthe black water leaking from my head andside which spills in drops into the Well. Inthat place of dark water and mist there is acold thing snapping at my falling blood, itseyes roll in misery, its body is freezing. Mysons and daughters, you could not imaginethe coldness of its scales or the eyes rollingin an icehard skull, or its glacial breath.Giant things move in that place; but theyfind nothing, not even each other, exceptwhen they touch hands through the mist.My one eye sees the dome giant sky, palebirch trees, running water life through theirwoody cells.

Opposite the mist place, under theplace of light is a place of fire. If a man’sheart beats he cannot enter. Who couldsuffer heat that sizzles tears on your face?Who could run from the liquid fire thrownfrom the mountain-burst places, I in myweeping torment could not guess. I amburned and frozen, and no one walksbeside you. Now my eye, which stings withblack water sees death, yew trees on a bur-ial-mound. We do not know the ones whocome back and we do not remember thefaces we loved when we return. Only I will.


I will go back half-dead to walk beside you.The cup of your wife’s body. The body of agreat elk. The sun, the shield of the sunwhich is the black sun that blasts its bore-alis through the sky. Who is the one thatwalks beside you. The place of spruceforests and rocks where gnashes their teethor gets their teeth gnashed for them, isunder the place of fire. The body of ahorse, the body of all man, which is awound to a world who wounds it rightback.

Under the place of men is the Sea,where the world-worm shifts in his sleep

and shakes men’s lives. Being leaks out ofme, drop by black drop, wound uponwound. And the ones who live in the citybelow my head can offer me nothing. Mywife weeps to pass me bread but I cannottake it. Men cannot see the things that hap-pen so far above their heads. Drop drop-ping into the dark Well, where my othereye is. Things die, men die, cattle die, theydon’t come back, and when they do, youwill not know them. Gone, never madewhole again, which is the way of wounds.In the realm under the mist place, leeringdark creatures snap rocks together to snap a


flint spark, and there is no light beyondthat. Men low like cattle. Upon the top-most place of the Tree, there are no handsto cup my freezing groin, no warm mouthto quiet my lowing. Beyond the river downat the very bottom of things, below eventhe Roots or the Well, are the weapons ofmen, clanging rushing river of mail andboiled leather, of helmets, axes, arrows,swords, hauberks and knives. Over thisriver, over the great wall, is the place of thedead, sleeping in each other’s arms. Andwhen they come out again—earth, water,and dawn.

Dawn below me. Wound upon wound.I hear one with a crazy, frenzied heartbeatcoming from the top of the Tree. Thescrabbling and ear-tufted approaches, passesin a furred wind, the sound fading bluelydown the Trunk. Sacrificed myself tomyself. The drops of black water from myside drop downwards, side of a man’s torso,side of a torso nothing like a man’s at all.Drop drop. Floating in the blackness untilsome infernal force pulls them down, drop-ping in the great Well below or steamingon cold rocks in the mist. Wound uponwound. Life is only ever a wound. Thewheel of the year is a lamprey bite into thesides of men and women. I threw myself onto my own spear, to see the runes. I gave upmy eye to drip into the Well. Death for life.

And life. What were the lives of men?The lives of men are a circle which isshaped like a wound. And the lives of menare a snarling at unbeing, a spear in theside of the universe that it can never shakeout. And the shapes carved on the Roots

back in the great unbecoming of time areshown in the lives of women and men.Cattle, aurochs, thorns, ancestors, wagons,chariots, torches, gifts, joy, hail, yearning,ice, harvests, yew trees, cups, elks, the sun.The sky, birch trees, horses, man, water,earth, and endless dawns. And I disappear-ing into them. Drop by drop. All my sonsand daughters with their upturned faces. Ifthey will only have me with them, who isthe one the that walks beside them. Still, Iam not emptied out. The wound in my sideis nothing compared to the shapes hiddenin the water. And what I gave to my chil-dren, myself to myself. All the wives andhusbands and slaves and soldiers and con-cubines and sons and daughters and unclesand grandmothers. The wound of theworld carried in all their blood, through allthe water, all the mare-roads and riversgoing through dark undersecret places ofthe earth. And the Well where the runesare, where I became one-eyed and wound-ed, forever, where black godblood mixeswith the water, where I can see them andtell them to my children so they can speakbeing into the world. Life is not only awound. I am the one who walks beside you.The stars are singing. The rope is broken,and I hurtle my shrieking way down towalk beside the living, wound upon wound.Wound upon wound upon wound— v

Copyright 2020 Ashley Kemker 9 Corner Bar Magazine

Silri was awake when the guards cameto her cell, as she was most nights. She did-n’t question why they had come; she’dlearned from experience that such ques-tions would only earn her a bloody nose.She was dragged from her cramped cell todimly lit corridors, to the grand hall. Thehall was impressive if nothing else. It’s elab-orately decorated roof was held up five mar-ble pillars, all of which were inscribed inrunes the divine tongue, which none couldread. A portrait of Emperor Ezuleus hungon the back wall. She had always despisedthe painting, as the Emperor’s dark eyesalways seemed to glare down at her. Theonly source of light came from the torcheshigh above, which gave the hall a grimatmosphere. Sargo, Duke of Askela, rightfulDuke of Grayhan, and her former husbandsat at the head of the long table in his self-styled throne. Though it had only beenthree summers since they’d last seen eachother, he looked as if he had aged ten. Hishair was still neatly cropped raven blackhair, but his once smooth face was nowleathered and weary. He wore a loose, plaintunic, a far cry from the regal garments hehad worn around her. To his right satJered, a monstrously large man, with apudgy face that always looked sour. Hewore rusted chainmail, looking more like a

common mercenary than the right-handman to a Duke. On the surface, heappeared to be a simple brute, but she’dlearnt firsthand just how cunning the mancould be. To Sargo’s left sat Malain, a with-ered old man with a wispy grey beard, anda shaved head. He scowled at her, his eyesbrimming with haughty contempt. She wastempted to flash him a jeering grin. “Silri,” Sargo said awkwardly. “You’re gracing,” Silri said, curtsying as

low as she could while shackled. Sargo’seyes narrowed, and it seemed there was aghost of a smile on his long face. “There was a time when you bowed to

no one.”“My imprisonment has changed me,

your grace,” she said. I’ve gone from his wife

to his beaten cur. Death would be a kinder fate

than this, but of course, he’ll never give me

that. It was hard for her to remember atime when she looked at Sargo with adora-tion rather than rage; a time when helooked at her with joy rather than cold con-tempt. “Yes, you have,” he agreed. “Pity. I rather

liked your feisty spirit.” The dungeon stripped

me of that.

“And her pretty face, though it ain’t sopretty anymore,” Jered sneered. Shecouldn’t deny it. Imprisonment had trans-

Copyright 2020 Luke Kiernan 10 Corner Bar Magazine

“SOURED LOVE”by LUKE KIERNAN

Copyright 2020 Luke Kiernan Corner Bar Magazine11

formed her from a famed beauty into aghastly creature. Dirt and grime had turnedher ashen hair black, had made her cheekssunken, more like a beggar than the wife toa Duchess. She had grown gaunt too; it wasas if the flesh had been sapped from herbody.“Free her,” Sargo ordered. The guard

behind her obeyed, unlocking her shackles,albeit with reluctance. “Come, sit,” Sargosaid, his tone now warm. He gestured tothe seat to the seat beside Jered. It was sur-real, being free of her shackles, somethingthat had only happened in her dreams. Assoon as she sat down, a slave, who seemednearly as miserable as she was, poured her agoblet of wine “It would seem that the gods have grant-

ed you’re a miracle, Silri,” Malain saidthrough gritted teeth.“How so?” She asked. “My Lord,” she

added hastily before Malain could object. “Because my nephew has need of you.”

She frowned. She had assumed that Sargowas in another one of his drunken stuporsand had finally decided to execute her. “Tell me, Silri; are you familiar with this

local holy man who’s been causing peasantsto revolt?” Sargo asked casually. In my cell, I

hardly knew whether it was day or night, let

alone the name of some local soothsayer. Butof course, Sargo knew that. This was justanother game he was playing, another wayto remind her of the years he’d stolen fromher. He was always one for petty games. “I don’t believe so, your grace.” The

Balhanan wine was foul, but then again,she never drank wine for its taste.

“He’s a fanatic, and not of the religiouskind surprisingly enough,” Sargo said weari-ly. “He spends his days preaching endlesslyof the woe I and my dear sister inflict onthe smallfolk, urging them to revolt. Nodoubt he’s conjured up some scheme tohave me overthrown, or worse as has hap-pened to some other noblemen.” Ah yes, of

course, only a fanatic could see the woe you

inflict. “To make matters worse, he’s man-aged to sway some of my men to cause. Justlast week, I caught three of them attendingone of his sermons; I had them hanged ofcourse, but Malian tells me this has donelittle to dissuade the others.” And you can’t

kill all your men, can you, my dear? Silristayed silent. Sargo, like most men, lovednothing more than the sound of his ownvoice. “Usually,” he continued, “a little bit of

coin is enough to make these men see theerror in their ways, or perhaps a flash ofsteel. However, this one has proved espe-cially stubborn; which is why I need you,to... deal with him.”“You wish to send me?” She asked, bare-

ly able to mask her shock. “Yes, Silri, you.” He sounded as if he

could scarcely believe what he was sayingeither. “Normally I would hire a profession-al for this kind of work, but alas, war beingwar I find myself short on coin. And itseems my men’s loyalty is dubious at best.”And mine isn’t?

“Why send me? Why not send anyoneelse?” She asked, sure he was playing somegame, though as to what end, she didn’tknow.

“Because I am a man of mercy and havegiven you a chance for redemption.” Yes,

how merciful of you to leave me rotting in that

cramped, stinking cell. It was an obvious lie,but she doubted she’d find the true answerby questioning him further. “It shall be an honour to prove myself to

you, your grace” Silri said, trying her bestto sound eager. Sargo, of course, sawthrough the charade, but she’d learnt it wasbetter to amuse him than to anger him. “Good. Do this for me, and I shall free

you.” She frowned. It was an unusuallyblunt promise for a man who was usuallyso careful with his words. Malian openedhis mouth to protest, but Sargo shot himan icy glare. Without warning, Jeredleaned in, so close that she could feel hisbreath on her ear. “If you try to run, then you’ll be begging

to be put back in that cell,” He hissed, hisvoice low and gravelly, and full of glee. “You’d better go now,” Sargo said, dis-

missing her. #The town, which was poor even by

Askelan standards, was little more than asmall cluster of wooden shacks coveredwith mouldering hides. Silri took in a deepbreath, inhaling the sharp smells of sea salt,earth, and smoke; smells that were deli-ciously sweet compared with the rank ofher cell; smells which brought memories ofhome. She embraced the gusts of wind,which was soothing after some many yearsof sweltering heat.Despite Jered’s threats, Silri’s first

thought upon leaving the Keep was of

escape. Then she remembered what hadhappened to the last prisoner who triedescaping. No one was quite sure what hadhappened to the man, but the rumourshe’d heard most often was that he’d beenflayed alive. She reckoned her punishmentwould be even harsher than that. Then sheconsidered fleeing to Sargo’s estranged sis-ter Shyla, but she quickly dismissed thatidea. Shyla, Lady of Grayhan, was said tobe even worse than her brother. Giventheir similarities, it always puzzled Silri whythe two siblings despised one another. Thewar between them started when theirfather, in a vain attempt to reconcile thesiblings, gave Sargo Askela and ShylaGrayhan. If only he knew his decisionwould cause a generation of bloodshed,perhaps he would’ve thought better. That’s

where good intentions get you, I suppose.

Most of the townsfolk had gathered out-side the holy man’s shack, eagerly awaitinghis morning sermon. She recognised ahandful of Sargo’s men hidden amongstthe crowd; trying their best to stay unno-ticed. Thankfully they hadn’t spied her yet.When the Holy man finally emerged fromhis humble home, the crowd greeted himwith a warm cheer. He was a middle-agedman, of average height and build, with ascraggly, unkempt beard, and shaggy brownhair. He wore a simple rotted grey robe thatwas stained with birdshit and dotted withsmall tears. He looks more a beggar than any

of these lot do. Is this really what Sargo has to

fret over? He began the sermon by dis-cussing the usual topics that holy menseemed so fond of: the glory the gods, the


importance of piety during harsh times, thedays of judgment. His voice, though boom-ing, was monotonous, and almost soundedbored. His words rang hollow to Silri andseemed just as empty to the townsfolk judg-ing by their slack faces. Is this what Sargo

regards as a fanatic? Then the priest changedtopics. “For some of you, all you’ve ever known

is this war. Every year since you were borneither Shyla’s or Sargo’s troops wouldmarch on your land; steal your crops, andsometimes your wives and daughters too.Then they demand that your fathers, sons,brothers, and husbands you fight in theirendless squabbles.“The women never return, and the few

men who do come back haunted husks oftheir former selves. Some of my fellow holymen call this the will of the gods, the natu-ral order of the world, or punishment forour sins. I’m here to tell you what theseholy men fear to tell you: this is not thewill of the gods it is your will. It is you whodo nothing year after year, you who letthem come and steal your crops and lovedones, and this disgusts the gods, which iswhy they will never heed your prays formercy!”Around her people’s expressions turned

from exhausted apathy to grim fury. Someof them even started roaring in agree-ment. And killing him would only stoke that

flame. Men like this Priest are weeds, rip one

out, and another will take his place. Despitebeing a man of impressive subtlety, Sargowas unusually blunt in how he dealt withdissent, much like all Dukes. But she sup-

posed that was the way of the world. Everyfew years a man like this priest would comeand rile up the smallfolk, who would thenrevolt. Sometimes they were successful:Dukes was overthrown, keeps were burnt,and noblemen put to the sword. Then,inevitably, the Imperial legion would comeand burn a few towns, which would terrifythe smallfolk into submission. Years later,their children, who had no memory of thehorrors, would revolt as their forefathersdid. They were oblivious of the viciouscycle they were locked in. And no matterhow many revolted, no matter how manyLords they overthrew, it was never enoughwhen Dukes had the power of Sorcery. She spent the day watching the priest

from the shadows; mainly to drag out herlast few hours of freedom. Despite her bestefforts to blend in, she knew her status asan outsider was painfully obvious. Butaside from an occasional stare or whisper,most of the townsfolk didn’t give her a sec-ond glance. The priest spent the day tend-ing to the wounded and the elderly. He lis-tened to their dying words and offeredthem water and empty comfort. Sargo hadsaid her freedom depended on her haste,but she knew better than to be ensnared byhis false promises. She had no delusionsthat killing the priest would set her free. So

why am I here? Why I’m here to kill some mad

soothsayer? Whenever she thought of killingthe priest, a knot would grow in her stom-ach. She was no stranger to murder, butkilling the innocent was taboo evenamongst her kind. She imagined that theman would plead and beg; she’d seen it


often enough, brave men whimpering atthe feet of death. Her sword would silencehis cries, snuffing out everything he was orcould’ve been. Most times she could getover it, tell herself she didn’t have a choicein the matter, that she had to eat somehow. Once evening fell, the priest, along with

the townsfolk, returned to their homes.Silri hid behind the abandoned shack thatlay beside his. The priest returnedmoments later with a long sword inhand. A sudden rush of fear gripped her,clogged her throat, and made her heartpound violently. Her sword suddenly grewheavier in her sweaty palm. He sat down ona dead tree stump and began to sharpeninghis blade with a whetstone.“You can come out now,” he called out

not lifting his gaze from the sword. Silrifroze in shock. “There isn’t much point inhiding if I know where you are.”“Suppose not,” Silri said. It was an effort

just to keep her voice steady. “I didn’t thinkpriests were allowed to carry swords.”“We’re not. But that’s the times we live

in,” he said nonchalantly. “I saw you watch-ing me today.”“Aren’t you observant,” she said, trying

to sound as if she were mocking him.“No. You just aren’t as careful as you

ought to be,” he said, “I assume you’re hereto try and kill me.” “Aye, I’m afraid so.” She saw no point in

denying it. Why couldn’t the gods make this

simple for me?

“Which one sent you, Sargo or Shyla? Orare you here of your own accord?” “Sargo,” she answered.

“Ah.” He seemed slightly disappointed.“Whatever he’s paying you won’t be worthit.” She snorted.“What would you have me do walk away?

Defying a Duke generally doesn’t end well.”He was silent for a few moments. “True enough,” he conceded wearily. He

stopped sharpening his blade. Before shecould hesitate any longer, she charged athim. He sprang up, and nimbly dodged herfirst attack. He parried her first swing withease. His sword whisked by, so close it near-ly took her head off. She leapt around him,waiting for him to tire, but it was she whowas beginning to be weighed down byexhaustion. He charged at her, the sheerforce of his blow sent her toppling back-wards. As he raised his blade to finish her,she lunged at him, her sword gashing hisshoulder open. Dark blood came gushingout. He howled in pain; his sword slippedfrom his grasp. Just as she was back on feet,she was knocked back over by a suddengust of wind. A wave of sharp pain struckher. She tried screaming, but sound refusedto leave her lips. It was the type of painthat seeped into every inch of your body;the type of pain that eliminated allthought. With her body paralysed all shecould do was thrash silently as tears andblood streamed down her face. Then thepain stopped. She dragged herself up, theworld spinning about her. Vomit eruptedout of her mouth. She stumbled, topplingback onto the ground. She looked up athim, and he looked back, his stern facetwisted in horror. #


She sat close to the fire, wrapped in acrusted blanket that stank of mould andsweat, the iron taste of blood still bright inher mouth. Each breath brought her a freshwave of agony.The priest sat beside her. Somehow his

wound had already healed. They sat in awk-ward in silence. “What are you?” She asked. “A sorcerer,” he replied, “well a former

one anyways.”“Former?” She asked. Sorcerer? He’s even

more powerful than Sargo, far more powerful1

“Aye. But sometimes magic comes outinstinctively. I did warn you.” Silri knewshe’d given him little choice; knew she hadno reason to be angry at him. And yet, itwas hard to stave anger when she was in somuch pain. “It would’ve been kinder to killme,” she muttered.“And why’s that?” He asked. “Because when I come back empty-hand-

ed Sargo will throw me back in that cell ormaybe he’ll show mercy and just take myhead this time.”“You’re his prisoner?” He asked. She

nodded. “What did you do?” Silri hesitat-ed. Memories of that time only everbrought her nostalgic agony, so she madean effort to avoid them. “Because I tried to leave him” He

frowned in confusion. “We were married,”she explained, “still are I suppose.”“Married?” He asked chortling. “Forgive

me, but you don’t seem like a Duchess tome.” She snorted. “I did a few years ago.”They sat in silence again. She pondered

what would happen now. Would she goback and be thrown in a cell? Flee, andhave Jered hunting her? Which poisonwould she pick?“What else can you do?” She asked, try-

ing to distract herself from these lingeringquestions. “Not much, in truth. There are others

much more powerful than I am.”“You’re much more powerful than my

husband,” she said. “If you could do that tome, then I reckon you could take care ofSargo and Shyla yourself with no problem.”He shook his head. “I wasn’t always a holy man,” he

explained. “Before, years ago now, I was aNorthern King. As far as I know, they stillsing songs of my deeds to this day up. Ispent most my life at war, trying to carveout my own empire.”“And now you preach against war. How

ironic” “I changed once I started noticing what

my men were doing. I saw how they wouldloot folk, butcher the men, and rape theirdaughters. I’d always known deep down,but folk have a way of ignoring unsavourythings. But at some point, I couldn’t denyit anymore. It’s a sickness, war, I mean.Men’s worst addiction.” “So you came down South and became a

priest.”“Which is why I can’t kill Sargo or Shyla

if I do, and then all of this would be fornought. There are enough men in the gravebecause of me as it is.” “So instead you try to persuade others to

do it for you.” He snorted


“They won’t do anything,” he said. “Imainly do this so I can sleep at night, andwho knows? Maybe when I face the gods,it’ll count for something.”“If you have the power to kill them and

you don’t use it, then how are you helpingthese people?” She asked. He scoffed. “As if you give a rat’s arse what happens

to them. You just want me to kill your hus-band, so he doesn’t throw you back in acell or have you hanged.”“True enough,” she admitted. “But that

doesn’t make me wrong.”“So what would have me do, kill Sargo?

Then Shyla will come and take his place,and if I kill her, another one will come toreplace her. There’s no shortage of power-hungry cunts in the world.”“You could make an example of Sargo,

show whoever comes after him what willhappen if they don’t treat the smallfolkright.” The thought of sending the wild sor-cerer to murder Sargo unsettled her, butwhat other choice did she have? “Betterthan doing nothing, I reckon.”“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded, let-

ting out a heavy sigh. “If you’re gonna kill him I should come

with you.”“Why?” He asked, “You’d only be endanger-ing yourself.” She didn’t know the answer,other than some vague need for closure.Terrified as she was of her capricious hus-band, something far stronger dwelled with-in her; anger that had grown within herover the years, anger which was now muchmore potent than her fear. She needed tosee him dead, to know she would be safe.

“I just...need to see this through,” shesaid. The priest nodded, seemingly under-standing her. #Silri and the Priest waited outside the

Keep’s outer walls, far enough so that theywere safe from the guards prying eyes.Makeshift Palisades filled the gaps in theouter walls. Silri had spent nearly a decadeliving in the Keep, so she knew it nearly asintimately as Sargo himself. There were theKeep’s dark towers, which resembledplumes of smoke, were choked with ivy,blackened by mould, and crumbling underthe forces of time and neglect. In theunruly gardens, weeds plagued the stoneterraces, and overgrown grass buried theancient statues of Sargo’s more impressiveancestors. Aside from the main hall, all ofthem keep stained glass windows were longshattered. However, despite the decay, shecould see traces of the mighty fortress theKeep had been times of far antiquity. Thepriest glared through the thick mists, at thetwo men standing guard by the Keep’smain gate. Then, simultaneously, both menvanished from sight. “Where the hell did they go?” She

asked, staring at the mists, expecting themto re-emerge. “Nowhere,” he said. Before she could

probe him any further, he started walkingtowards the drawbridge. She limped afterhim, still wounded from their recent skir-mish—two piles of ash lay by the main gate. “Is that them?” She asked. It was a

stupid question with an obvious answer,and yet she asked anyway, hoping the obvi-


ous answer was the wrong one. “What’s left of them anyway,” he grunt-

ed. Looking at the ash made her nauseous;it wasn’t the sight of it that sickened her somuch as the priest’s power to turn menfrom flesh to ash with such absurd ease.She turned to say something to him butfound another one of Sargo’s guards stand-ing where he’d stood a moment earlier.“It’s an illusion,” The priest explained

hastily. Though his appearance hadchanged, his voice remained the same. Hesnapped his fingers, removing the piles ofash, and barged through the double doors.Reluctantly, she followed him. What the

hell have I unleashed here? She led him up toSargo’s study, the chamber in which hespent most of his time. The study was acramped chamber, with walls that weremostly bare from a handful of paintings offormer Duke’s and Generals. Empty winegoblets littered the fine copper carpet.Sargo was nowhere to be seen; instead,Jered sat at study’s cramped desk, sharpen-ing his rusted blade. The chambers onlysource of illumination came from a dyingcandle by Sargo’s desk, shrouding Jered ina cloak of ominous darkness. She said nothing, waiting for the priest

to unleash his magic, but instead, he stoodmotionless. He was staring at Jered pensive-ly, and Jered was glaring back at him, aghost of a smile on his thin lips. Jered sud-denly started mumbling in a strange,incomprehensible tongue, and the priest’sillusion shattered. Silri stood, too shockedto move. He’s a sorcerer. The revelation wasat once unbelievable and obvious. It

explained many of the mysteries that sur-rounded him. It explained how Jered man-aged to expose her plans to Sargo, and itexplained why Sargo tolerated his constantmockery and occasional petty treachery. Asurge of panic jolted through her; shescanned the room, scouring for any meansof escape. There was none. The priest wasmotionless, seemingly as astonished as shewas. Jered sprang up from his chair right as

the priest unsheathed his blade from hisscabbard. Jered’s first swing was so fast itnearly decapitated the priest. The priestleapt around him, barely able to parryJered’s relentless blows. The priest’s facewas flushed, and beads of sweat rolleddown his forehead. Possessed by a sudden,mad instinct, Silri lunged at Jered, but justbefore her blade pierced through his chest,he turned, and his meaty hands caught herby the throat. His grip Her sword slippedfrom her grasp. Deciding it wasn’t wortheffort to kill her, he tossed her across thechamber. She sailed into the back wall ofthe study: the impact reopened old woundsand made new ones. Her head felt light,and her surroundings spun around her.She watched as Jered’s long blade slashedthe priest’s sword in half, and then struckhim in the knees. Blood and bone splat-tered across the copper carpet. The priestclutched his shattered knee, howling in tor-ment. She tried to force herself up, but itfelt as if she was locked in a drunken stu-por. Jered picked the priest up by his head

and slammed it against the wall over and


over. Blood matted the priest’s hair, andhis face was swollen and purple. Get up!

Something within her roared, but her bodyrefused to move, frozen by exhaustion andterror. The priest lay in a pool of blood,either dead or unconscious. Not that itmattered anymore. She tried standing upone more time, before collapsing. Shegroaned as the darkness engulfed her. #The guards had bound Silri’s wrists, and

ankles were to a chair and gagged her. Shedidn’t know why they bothered consideringthere was no one to talk to save for thepile’s bones of that lay in the corner. Theyhad stuffed her in one of the cells beneaththe dungeon, located deep in the bowels ofthe Keep; the cell that held those sentencedto death. She had no hope of rescue. If thepriest didn’t die in Sargo’s study, then hewas surely killed afterwards. The priest hadturned men to ash with ease and yet hadbeen nothing but a rag doll to Jered.The hours trickled excruciating slowly.

During her imprisonment, she had learnedthat boredom was its own kind of torture.At last, he hasn’t put me on the rack or had my

nails pulled out. Finally, the silence was bro-ken by heavy footsteps. The footstepsstopped by the iron door. The door creakedopen, and a figure stepped inside. Shecould tell by the smell of perfume that itwas Malain. He pulled the gag from hermouth.“Comfortable?” He asked, wrinkling his

nose. “Not especially,” she said hoarsely, her

lips cracked and bleeding.

“I ought to thank you, you know,” hesaid. “You’ve taught my dear nephew aharsh lesson, one I hope he’ll never forget.I feared he’d change his mind on your exe-cution, let mercy get the better of him andlet you live.”“How long have I been down here?” She

asked. She didn’t dare ask the guard whofed her, fearing a bloody nose, but Malianwas much too frail for that.“Two days.”“Only two days? It’s hard to track time in

here,” she said. “So how will it be done?Will I be impaled on a spike, burned at thestake? Or will he stab me in the heart? Isuppose that would be painfully poetic, andSargo always did fancy himself a poet.” Shepretended to be casual, tried to hide thecreeping fear that threatened to seize herthroat and made him beg for mercy.“His grace has yet to decide on the man-

ner of your execution.”“I see. I suppose there’s no greater tor-

ture than letting me languish here and pon-der these questions, eh?”Malain reached into a pouch and took outa small vial filled with a foul-smelling glow-ing green liquid. The implication was clearto her. “Ah, so it’ll be poison. How disappoint-

ing.” “It will kill you within the hour.

Painlessly, I might add.”“Did Sargo order you to do this?” He

hesitated before responding. “No,” he admitted, “consider it an old

man’s mercy.”“Mercy?” She snarled. “Do you take me


for a fool? This isn’t mercy. You think he’llchange his mind.” Malian shrugged. “I honestly don’t know what he’ll do.

He’s always been a mercurial man. The wayI see it, you can either take the poison orrisk a much worse fate. The choice isyours.” He held the vial up to her mouth.She mustered up what little salvia she hadleft in her dry mouth and spat at his face. “There’s your answer.” She expected him

to curse, or strike her; instead, he calmlywiped the spit from his face. “Have it your way then,” he said mildly,

storming out.She drifted in and out of sleep. The pain

of her wounds waxed and waned as thehours dripped by. She spent most of hertime lost in the depths of her mind, replay-ing past events, imagining what her lifewould’ve been had she only chosen anotherpath. She thought back to the day she metSargo. She and the other bandits had final-ly been caught and brought before Dukefor sentencing. Back then, Sargo had beenmuch more handsome. His face wassmooth instead of wrinkled; he, he woreelaborate garments instead of a basic waist-coat. Not only did he let her live, but he lether stay with him. It took years for her tolove, and years for that love to fade. Shehadn’t noticed it at first. It was the accumu-lation of many small changes; as the warwith his sister dragged on the bitterer, hebecame. Then one day, he sent his men toburn a village down for harbouring Shyla’smen, presumably to stop other villages fromallying with his sister. After that, whateverlove she had was gone, and so planned on

leaving, gathering enough coin to live.However, on the eve of her departure, herplans were exposed and once again, she wasbrought before him. Only this time, hedecided to let her languish in a dungeon;condemned never to see daylight again,condemned to die with the worst men ofAskela. Days would pass before she would

receive another visitor. This time she neverheard their footsteps. She watched the sil-houette of a tall figure approach her.Though his worn cloak and the cell’s dark-ness shrouded his features, she still recog-nised him. He pulled the gag from hermouth. “You’re alive,” she said, spitting out the

vile taste from her mouth. “Barely,” the priest croaked, his once

thunderous voice now scarcely a whisper. “How did you escape?” She asked as

untied her hopes, which still freshly burnt. “I opened a portal when Jered tried to

put a knife through my heart.” He gri-maced as he spoke, as though each wordpained him. “Why didn’t you do that as soon as thingsfell apart?” She asked, harsher than she hadintended. She tried standing up, but mostof her limbs were numb. He helped her upand handed her a wineskin and a slice ofbread. “I was only able to do it when I was

unconscious. Sorcery used out of instinctis the most potent kind as you saw first-hand.” He explained as she devoured hermeasly scraps of bread. “Besides, sorcery ofthat nature can take a heavy toll.” He


showed her left hand, a shrivelled limb, lit-tle more than bone wrapped in scorchedskin. “Jered should be asleep at his hour;that’ll be our best chance to deal withhim.” “Deal with him? Are you fucking mad?”

She asked, “are you fucking mad?” “Would you rather take your chances

and ride north?”“Yes actually, I would rather that!” He

laughed humorlessly. “You think you can hide from him? No.

You might elude him for a few months,maybe even a few years. But in the end,he’ll find you. And what do you think he’lldo when he does?” She could imagine.Death would be the least of her fears.“Why didn’t you to turn him to ash like

you did with those guards? Why did youjust bloody stand there?” She snapped. “You think I didn’t try? I told you I was

a weak Sorcerer, too weak to fight someonelike him.” “Then how do you plan on killing him,

might I ask?”“Simple,” he said, taking out a rusted

dagger with a crudely made hilt. “I’ll slit histhroat while he sleeps.” “Is that a jest?” “Slit throats kill Sorcerer’s just as easily

as they do men.” She wanted to flee awayfrom the Keep, away from Askela, awayfrom Sargo and his hounds. And yet thepriest did have a point; no matter how farshe ran, Sargo would spend the rest hisdays hunting her. One day I’ll have to con-

front him, why not today?

“Let’s go then.”

The hallways were lit only by a handfulof smouldering torches placed high abovethem; it was narrower than any of the otherhallways in the Keep and was built fromthe same oily black stone that formed themost ancient parts of the Keep. Theyclimbed up a winding stairway, arriving onthe Keeps second highest floor. The prieststopped by a plain wooden door, which wasidentical to the ones beside it.“You’re sure this is the one?” She whis-

pered skeptically. “Of course it bloody is. What do you

think I was doing for the past week?” Hewhispered back. “I disguised myself as oneof the guards and learned his routine asbest I could.” He slowly opened the doorand slid inside. The chamber’s only furni-ture was a bed in the corner of the room,and even that was just a plain mattress—thechamber stank of sour sweat and blood.The priest crept up to the bed; his footstepswere near inaudible. Silri waited close tothe door. He stood over Jered; his daggerrose just above his exposed throat. Thepriest suddenly cried out, Jered’s meatyhands wrapped around his throat. “You should’ve gotten as far from here as

you could, you stupid cunt,” Jered roared,shoving the priest to the ground. Silrididn’t dare move. She glanced at the door,wondering if she would be able to sneakout while Jered was distracted; he hadn’tnoticed her hiding in the shadows. That’swhen she noticed a familiar sword lying atthe foot of Jered’s bed. Quietly, she pickedup the sword. She was able to hold itdespite its immense weight; fear had grant-


ed her a preternatural strength. She dove atJered; slashing the blade across the back ofhis neck. Jered froze, staring at the bloodthat rolled down his neck. Silri swungagain, this time with much more force.Jered fell onto the floor, gurgling on theblood that gushed from his lips. She struckagain, and again, each time the bladebecame lighter. She stopped when she felt afirm hand grip her shoulder. “I’d say he’s dead,” the priest said. She

looked down to see Jered’s severed headrolled a few paces away from the rest of hisbody. Blood was still flooding from hisneck. Her hands, bare feet and ragged tunicwere all bathed in his blood. The sight of his grisly corpse and the

reek of blood sickened her, but shecouldn’t avert her eyes from the scene. “Come on,” the priest said, dragging her

from the bedchamber. #Once the priest had set two of the

guards aflame, the rest dropped theirswords and bolted. That didn’t stop thepriest from hunting them down. Some werelucky and died quickly. Most died slowly,burn to death or were torn apart. All thewhile, all Silri could do was gape at theabsurd brutality of it all. And what couldshe do to stop him? She didn’t dare inter-vene, not wanting to be caught in the cross-fire. They found Malain in his bed-chamberwith a dagger jutting through his head. Aguard had killed him in what she supposedwas some mad attempt to appease thepriest. Not that it worked. When all theguards were either dead or had fled, they

headed for the throne room where Sargowas already awaiting them. “I take it from the sounds of slaughter

outside that Jered is dead?” He asked hiseyes fixed on Silri’s blade, which was coatedin Jered’s blood. “Aye,” the priest said coldly. “And what of my beloved uncle?”“Dead as well.”“I thought as much,” He said sourly.

“He was right the end; my cock will be thedeath of me.” He smiled sadly, turning hisattention to Silri. “Oh Silri, sweet wife.How many lives could I have saved had Ikilled you years ago?”“You would’ve saved them had you not

left me to rot in that cell.” “You say that as if you didn’t deserve it.”“You think I deserved to rot for leaving?

It was clear that you didn’t care about thestolen gold.”“True,” he admitted. “I didn’t care that

you robbed me. However, my men certainlycared. Despite your best efforts, they alwaysstill saw you as the Bandit Queen, and yourtheft only confirmed their suspicions,” Heexplained. “Had I not done something, mymen surely would’ve revolted and had mebeheaded. Putting you in that cell was theonly way of saving both our lives.”She snorted. “I’m sure that’s what you

told yourself.”“Tell me, Silri, why do you think I sent

you to kill him?” He asked, gesturingtowards the priest. “To toy with me. How should I know

what goes in your head?”“I sent you as an excuse to release you,

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2020 Luke Kiernan 21

you fucking halfwit,” he roared.“Of course everything you did to me was

for my own good,” she said, trying to fillher voice with as much scorn as possible,but already her rage was starting to wane.His words made sense, almost enough forher to believe him. “Not everything, but a lot. I had to pre-tend to hate you to save my men’s respect,but I still loved you. Even now after you’vesent this mad dog to slaughter my men,even now right as you’re about to butcherme, I still love you!” He chortled. “But whyam I wasting my breath? Nothing willchange. Just be quick about it.” Heslumped back in his throne. Her rage hadvanished now, replaced by horror and guilt.She wanted to say something, somethingthat would mend the countless woundsbetween them, something to make himunderstand why she did this, somethingthat could end all the bloodshed andhatred between them. Just as she openedher mouth to speak, he exploded into athousand pieces. She stared at his vacant throne, too

shocked to scream. Flesh and bone spewedall across the back walls; some had splat-tered all across her ragged dress. The prieststormed out of the hall, without sayinganother word. #Even from a distance, the smoke of the

smouldering Keep stung her eyes. Thenewly freed prisoners were like newbornchildren, looking at everything aroundthem in awe, most unable to handle theintense summer light. Most hadn’t seen

daylight since the reign of Sargo’s father,perhaps even before that. The priest wasmounted on a black mare and was staringat the burning ruins of the Keep. She stoodbeside him, and though her body stoodoutside the burning Keep, her mind wasstill frozen in the hall gaping at the gore ofwhat remained of her husband. She hated him, though she knew she

had no right to. How many nights did I pray

for Sargo’s death? The priest did exactly what I

asked him too. What did I think would hap-

pen?

“You didn’t have to kill them all,” shesaid abruptly. “You should’ve just killedSargo and Jered.”“You told me to make an example. I did.

Death is what comes with war; you knewthat.”“I suppose so,” she said, too tired to

argue, too tired to do anything other thanstare at the smouldering ruins. He madean example all right, an example nonewould forget for years to come. Eventually,she mounted her own horse, and rodenorth, away from the burning Keep and themad priest, away from the memory ofSargo. v

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2020 Luke Kiernan 22

The Councilman walked towards thelight and saw the figure waiting for him atthe shore. To the best of his knowledge, he hadbeen walking for God knows how long insome sort of vast, underground river. Hecouldn’t remember how he had gottenhere, all he could do was stare in bewilder-ment at the ink colored waves that crashedinto the obsidian stones in front of him. Ashrill breeze sent goosebumps up his armsas he walked forward to the coast. Standing in a boat, rocking steadilywith the waves was a tall hooded figure in afilthy, reddish-brown robe. Two musculararms gripped a long wooden pole drippingwith seawater. The boat, a ferry it lookedlike, was a long, upturned crescent decorat-ed with what appeared to be human skullsall along the edges and front. At the tip ofthe boat’s mast, above a pile of skulls, was alarge lantern glowing a pale white light. Ithad been the light that the Councilmanhad followed. As he walked towards the ferry, theCouncilman struggled in vain to compre-hend the ghastly, nightmarish sight beforehim. Instead, the best that the ether of hisreptile brain could do was rationalize theterrifying visage by reminding himself ofthe romantic gondola ride he and his sec-

ond wife had taken on their honeymoon inFlorence. “Well, what are you waiting for? Hopin,” a gruff male voice came from underthe hood. “I-uh, hey wait, now hold on a second—what’s going on here? Where the hell amI?” He was a fifty-eighty-year-old CityCouncilman from Long Island. The edgesof his navy-blue blazer flapped with thepowerful cold gust of wind that filled thissubterranean shore. He was gray-hairedwith a solid layer of fat around his midsec-tion that had once been muscle. He was aman who liked to be in control of the situa-tion around him so naturally, he was visiblyuncomfortable. Even his usual confidentposturing that made him so endearing tohis voters was failing him. The hooded man sighed irritably. “No, I’m not doing this. Either hop inthe damned boat and ask all your stupidbloody questions or you can fuck off.” “I-“ “Goodbye,” the ferryman started topush the boat off the coast. “All right! All right!” The Councilmanclimbed aboard. Before he knew it, the two of themwere off, sailing through the dark rapids in

Copyright 2020 Pat O’Malley Corner Bar Magazine23

“CHARON”by PAT O’MALLEY

the skull-covered boat. Waves thumped upagainst the boat, rocking it side-to-side butthe boat held fast and sailed on. When hewasn’t shielding his eyes from the splashingspray of salty dark water, the Councilmantried to make out a better view of the facebeneath the ferryman. From what he could see, the ferrymanhad a very old, rugged face with a longwhite beard. What stood out the mostthough were his eyes. At first, theCouncilman thought that the hooded manwas blind but that didn’t explain why theeyes were glowing. True enough, glowingwith white fire, the ferryman’s eyes weretwo bright, fiery orbs like shining stars thatgazed upon the edge of infinity. As they sailed into the unknown, theair was filled with an undeniable awkwardsilence. “I’m sorry I snapped at you back there.I’m just tired is all,” the hooded mansighed without turning his gaze to theCouncilman. “Forget about it, happens to the best ofus,” the Councilman said. “You know, aslong as we’re talking; by any chance couldyou tell me just what the flying fuck isgoing on here?!” When the ferryman finished explain-ing, the politician was hyperventilating. “No, that can’t be right! Who the helldies from getting hit by a bicycle?! There’sbeen some kind of horrible mistake! I justwon the re-election dammit! Let me off thisfucking thing!” The middle-aged manwailed. “Get it out of your system. Nothing’s

going to change,” the hooded man’s glow-ing white eyes held no sympathy. The Councilman continued to rageand protest but soon enough those ravingsturned to sobs. The ferryman steered theoar as the boat bobbed and weaved throughthe choppy water of what the ferryman hadcalled the River Styx. “My name’s Charon by the way,” Thehooded one said. “Go to hell,” the miserable politiciansobbed. “Right then,” Charon gritted his teeth,stifling a cough. “What a fucking joke,” grumbled theCouncilman. “I mean I thought I lived agood life. Sure, I may have indulged in oneor two white lies here and there, but Iloved my family and I never did anythingthat I thought would land me in hell!” “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not goingto hell. Nay, you’re going to the same blackvoid everyone goes to. I’m just the sorrybastard whose job it is to drag every deadsoul to the Ether otherwise they’d never getthere. You’re one of the lucky ones too.Used to be everyone had to pay me ashilling to get their soul over to the otherside, but they did away with that. Deadsouls rarely carried coins on them.Purgatory was getting too crowded.” “You do this for everyone?” TheCouncilman asked. “Every. Last. One,” Charon grumbled. “Oh uh, well what’s the Ether like? Is itnice?” Charon pondered this. “Eh, I supposeit’s sort of like the void you were in before


you were born, only a bit more… sea-soned?” “Seasoned?” Just then, the Councilman realized thatthe sound of the waves against the boatbegan to sound less like water and morelike a chorus of agonized moaning. Thesound grew louder, the man cowered in theboat as his ears were filled with the pierc-ing, unholy sound of the damned. “What’s that sound? Where is it com-ing from!?” His answer came from a pair of rotten,translucent hands shooting out from thewater. They clutched the edge of the boatdirectly next to the screaming Councilman.Terrified, he watched as the hands tight-ened their grip and pulled up the howling,transparent torso of an androgynoushumanoid. “Help me! For the love of God help me!”

The phantasm screamed. The Councilman covered his eyes asthe glowing pleading body pulled itself clos-er to him. As the screaming soul reachedfor his face, a loud “thwack!” of the ferry-man’s oar swatted the howling ghost backinto the black water. It didn’t even splash, just dissipatedonce it hit the darkness. “Sorry, best to ignore that,” Charonsmiled apologetically. “What the hell was that?!” TheCouncilman roared. “Nothing for you to worry about that’sfor true.” The skull-ferry lurched forward, knock-ing the two of them about as more glowing

transparent bodies began pulling them-selves on to the boat. They were all nakedand confused, decaying and healing, stuckbetween who they were and what they’vebecome. All the worse were the confusedscreams and pleads each one elicited. “Where am I?”

“It’s so cold! Get me out of here!”

“The horror! The unspeakable, endless hor-

ror!”

In a series of rapid swats, each deadsoul was smacked back into the dark oceanby the powerful whacks delivered by thewooden ore. “Go on, get! Shoo! Shoo! Get out ofhere! Damned things making me workextra hard,” Charon’s frustrated grumbleswere in stark contrast to the horrified,trembling Councilman. “Oh God, oh Jesus. I-is that where I’mgoing?” The Councilman asked. “Ah, don’t be such a Mary. It’s not so


bad.” “Not so bad?!” The Councilman cried. The boat sailed onwards as the moan-ing pleads from the dead souls graduallydied down. Before they knew it, the chop-py, narrow River Styx had stretched into awide ocean. Above them, the cavernousceiling grew higher and higher until a thou-sand shining stars appeared where the cav-ern’s ceiling had been. Wherever they werenow, there was no land anywhere to beseen, just the two of them in the ferry, sail-ing in obsidian while millions of alien starsand planets shined above. Beneath the heavenly cosmos, Charonhummed to himself as he steered the poleleft to right. The awkward silence betweenthe two resumed, only broken by the hood-ed man breaking out into periodic cough-ing fits before hastily regaining his compo-sure. There was no possible way of deter-mining how much time had passed. Evenso, after what felt like several hours hadpassed with no destination in sight. The Councilman was growing restless.“Are we any closer to where we’re going? Itfeels like we’ve been sailing forever.” “Pipe down, don’t talk to me about‘forever.’” Charon sneered. “Look I’m sorry guy, but is it too muchto ask how far away we are?” The hooded man whipped his headback. The glow of the lantern illuminatedhis old face, but the fiery glow of his agitat-ed eyes burned brighter. Charon’s wrin-kled, bearded face was gone, in its placewas some kind of fanged ghoulish night-mare that looked like it belonged to a

demon from deepest depths of hell. “Forgive me,” this new Charon snarled.“Perhaps I am mistaken, but are YOU theimmortal ferryman whose sole purpose forall eternity is to sail billions of souls to theafterlife? Hmmm?” “Uh, n-no?” “I see, well then if it’s not too muchtrouble, would your grace allow it if theACTUAL immortal ferryman did his joband we get there when we damned well getthere???” “I-uh, yeah, s-sure,” The middle-agedman couldn’t look at the angry demonicface. “I JUST want to make sure it’s okaywith you,” Charon growled. “Fine! Yes! I swear it’s fine!” “Hrmph,” Charon’s old face returnedbut was immediately overcome with anoth-er hacking cough. His body violentlyheaved as he coughed and leaned on thepole to steady himself. “Are you all right?” The Councilmanasked. “That sounds like a bad cough andyou’ve been doing it for a while.” “Fear not, it’s only allergies.” “How can you have allergies downhere?” The Councilman asked. “You are truly a test of my patience. Ido free labor for millennia and you’retelling me I’m not allowed to have allergiesevery now and then?” Frustration drooledfrom the ferryman’s mouth. “Fair enough,” The Councilman con-ceded. The choppy water splashed against theboat, rocking it back and forth. The


Councilman was at least thankful that hedidn’t bring his habitual sea-sickness intothe afterlife with him. What a nightmarethat would have been. Eager to prolong the inevitable returnto awkward silence, the Councilmanfeigned interest in the ferryman. “You really have been doing this foreverhaven’t you?” He asked. “It certainly feels that way,” Charonsighed. “Feels almost longer than that ifI’m being honest. I’ve been ushering soulssince the Gods figured out what to do withyou. I’ve long since gotten used to thefreshly dead souls of men and women. It’sthe newly deceased children that will alwayshaunt me. They cry and don’t understandwhat’s happening. It breaks my heart butthere’s nothing to be done. All I can do istell them stories and try to make themlaugh until we get to the end of the line,”he sighed. “I’m sorry, that sounds awful.” Charon shrugged. “Yes, well its all thesame. The forces of life and death needundertaking. Since my brothers are toobusy taking up space someone has to dothe heavy lifting in the family.” Since the conversation began, thethrashing river they had been sailing onhad steadily faded. Now, the River Styx hasbecome eerily calm. Even the terrible sound of the moaningdead souls had vanished. From what theCouncilman could see, the boat was glidingsilently across a silent, boat of water thatseemed to stretch on into infinity. The boatlooked as though it was sliding on a sheet

of glass that reflected the trillions of shin-ing stars above. Abruptly, the boat stalled, bobbing gen-tly in the dark water. The Councilmancraned his head back, he thought he heardthe Charon mumble something to himself.If he didn’t know any better he’d swear thatthe ferryman was looking at their surround-ings with a look of confusion burning inthe twin sun orbs he called eyes. “That’s-hmmm,” Charon mumbled. “Everything all right?” TheCouncilman asked. “Fine, just fine,” Charon picked up theoar and paddled on. For a plane of existence where time nolonger existed, it still damn well felt likehours had passed for the Councilman.Even though he wasn’t in a rush to reachtheir destination, he was growing increas-ingly anxious sitting in this boat with noland in sight. The anticipation of theunknown was driving him mad. Just howlong was this ferry ride supposed to take? It wasn’t long before the milky wayabove them disappeared and their sur-roundings changed. Blood-colored shoresbegan creeping in the distance almost as ifthe horizon was closing in on them. Theicy black water had turned to a scorchingshade of amber that bubbled. He rubbedhis hands together and patted his thighs,unable to sit still. What fresh hell was this? “Quit your fidgeting, you’re rocking theboat,” Charon grumbled. “Do you know where we’re going?” “I already told you, we’re sailing on the


River Styx to the land of the dead.” “Has the River Styx always been madeof lava?” The Councilman asked incredu-lously. Indeed, an ungodly amount of heathad filled the air. Looking down outsidethe ferry, the Councilman and Charonwatched as the boat sailed undamagedthrough what appeared to be molten lava.The Councilman ducked as a bubble ofmagma burst near his side of the boat. The worst came when the Councilmanspied land. On the red, brimstone shore-line, to the Councilman’s horror, werewhat looked like strange humanoid reptil-ian creatures covered in green scales stand-ing on their forelegs. A cluster of themstood on land staring at the boat withblack, oval eyes. The Councilman tried toavoid their uncanny, human-like gaze andcowered in the boat. The distinct sound ofhissing made his skin crawl. Charon scratched his beard andcoughed. “I suppose it’s a bit peculiar,” hesteered the oar, twisting the ferry into asharp left turn. It wasn’t long before they had left thebrimstone and reptilian creatures behind.The boat found itself back in the chill blackocean underneath the galaxy of alien starsand plants. The moaning howls of the deadin the water had returned too. The ferrywas back in the cold sea of dead souls fromwhich they had come. All that insanity and they had onlymade it right back to where they started? The longer they sailed uncertainly, the

worse the Councilman’s anxiety grew. Hefound himself longing for an actual Hell toreach at least that way the journey would beover. This had to stop. He had to takeaction. It didn’t matter that he had zeroclues where to go, he just had to get off thisGod-forsaken boat. The icing on the cake came when theboat abruptly stalled again in the river.With wild eyes, the Councilman stared dag-gers as Charon once again turned his gazearound with an alarmingly panicked lookon his face. It was the same expression theCouncilman had on his own face wheneverreporters asked him where the money forthe community’s budget came from. “Something the matter?” TheCouncilman asked, gritting teeth. “Fine, I’m-er fine,” Charon’s facebetrayed his words. “Really?” The Councilman’s voice wasrising. “Because it looks like we just went inone big circle!” “What? How dare you!” Charon’sdemonic face was back and furious. “You know something, Mr. ‘ImmortalFerryman’ I’m starting to get the feelingthat you don’t know what the hell you’redoing!” The Councilman was livid. “No! I am the shepherd of dead souls!I-,” Charon’s nightmare face shrank backdown to normal. He looked like a confusedold man as he frantically looked aroundthem. “I am older than time I-uh-I….,” Those burning white eyes of his filledwith horror. Charon gripped the oar withboth hands as if for security. The


Councilman had had enough. He got upfrom his seat on the rocking boat and slow-ly approached the hooded man, careful asthe boat lurched in the waves. “You son of a-we’re LOST, aren’t we?!” “Stay back!” Charon cried. “Give me that damn oar!” TheCouncilman lunged at the ferryman. Charon thrusted the oar trying to stophim, but the Councilman was fast enoughto duck. The Councilman made a grab forthe oar’s hilt, gripped by two old whiteknuckled hands. Both of them shoutedincoherently at each other as the twofought and tugged over the wooden paddle.The sea of moaning dead souls ragedaround them, sending the boat spiralingunbound in the water. Thousands of white arms shot out fromthe ocean desperate to grab on to the boatbut the violent waves pushed and pulledthe boat just out of their reach. “Let go damn you! Where are yougonna go?” Charon yelled. “I don’t care anymore! I just need toget out of here!” “I said-let go!” With a powerful shove,Charon pushed the Councilman to thefloor of the boat. The Councilman was struggling to pickhimself up when he heard the ferrymenspasm into another throaty coughing fit.Charon tried steadying himself with the oaras he hacked and wheezed. It wasn’t doinghim any good and he was rapidly losingcontrol of the boat. “Hey, are you all right?” TheCouncilman asked squeamishly.

Charon tried to say something but thecoughing wouldn’t let him speak. Afteranother coarse, raspy cough, Charon’s con-fused burning eyes met the Councilman’sbefore keeling over, falling flat on his facewith a loud THUMP. The un-manned oarwobbled back and forth uncontrollably asthe current of the waves sent the boathurtling. Panicking, the Councilman ran to fer-ryman’s body. He turned Charon over, try-ing to shake him awake but his only answerwas silence. The white-hot fire in his eyesthat had fascinated the Councilman hadbeen extinguished. Instead, it seemed asthough the white cataracts of an elderlyman were gazing up at the Councilman. “Charon! Charon! Hey, come on, wakeup!” The Councilman yelled shaking hislifeless body. The boat veered sharply sidewaysknocking the Councilman back. Now what?He looked up to see where they were head-ing. Directly ahead of them, was a blackswirling, whirlpool that was drawing thecurrent in. The lantern at the front of theboat flickered as the skull-ferry drew closerto certain doom. In the spiraling current ofthe whirlpool were uncountable waves ofmortal souls helplessly flailing in terror asthey were sucked in. “Oh, fuck me!” The Councilmanscreamed and held on to whatever he couldgrip in the boat. The Councilman shouldn’t have beenscared seeing as he was already dead butgetting sucked into a whirlpool would be


frightening for anyone. The boat wascaught up in the pool’s unrelenting currentnow, spinning uncontrollably down anddown until it disappeared into the center ofthe ungodly drain. The Councilman’s screams were inter-rupted as the boat was pulled underwater.A muffled cry of bubbles shot from hismouth in pitch-black water. Everything washappening so fast, the Councilmancouldn’t tell which way was up anymore butjust as suddenly as the boat was suckeddownwards, it was then violently propelledstraight up. In a huge splash, the boat shotout from the depths and emerged in anunfamiliar river. Still holding Charon’s body, the soak-ing wet Councilman timidly raised his headto see where fate had brought them now.He found himself missing the whirlpoolwhen he saw his surroundings. This was the land of nightmares anddying thoughts. The boat seemed to be oncourse for what looked like the entrance tosome kind of dark cyclopean necropolisilluminated by a sinister emerald glow. Large, green flames flickered all aroundinside the underground lair. The echoingmoans of tortured souls accompanied theflames as the boat slowly sailed onwards. Inthe center of the cavern stood a colossalthrone the size of a skyscraper. Beneath thethrone, was a seemingly infinite pile ofhuman skulls. Reclined on the mountain-ous throne, was an enormous, beardedman. Jesus wept, the first thought to occur inthe Councilman’s feeble human mind was

that the figure on the throne was a night-marish, twisted version of the Abe LincolnMemorial. Before he could get a better lookat the giant, several loud, angry barks thun-dered through the underground lair.Instinctively, the Councilman screamed,covering his ears. After willing the courage to look up, hefelt his jaw drop. Leering and barking mali-ciously before him was the legendary three-headed hell hound Cerberus. The ferociousguardian of the underworld leered just out-side of the shadows beside the giant’sthrone. Two of the legendary canine’sheads continued to bark snapping theirfangs while a third snarled at the intrudersin a boat. In the center of it all was thegiant with one gargantuan hand holding along trident and the other scratchingbehind the ears of one of Cerberus’ hungryheads. Curious at this intrusion, the giantleaned forward. A terrible, booming voicedrowned out the sounds of moaning soulsand the mythical beast. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE,

CHARON? WHY ISN’T THIS SOUL

BEING DISPOSED OF? CHARON?

ANSWER ME!” The Councilman stared, speechless andtrembling. This had been quite the day.There he was, petrified and dripping wetlike a drowned rat in some fucked upGreek version of hell, holding on to thefilthy soaked corpse of his old’ buddyCharon. The dead ferryman’s eyes, extin-guished of their fire stared up at the loom-ing giant with a dead gaze. Charon’s stone-


dead eyes might as well have been twowhite X’s. “…C-CHARON?” The giant askeduneasily. “I-uh-well, he-,” The Councilman bab-bled. “OH MY-IS HE DEAD? HOW?! HOW

DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN?” “I don’t know!” The Councilmanwhimpered. “I swear, I don’t know whathappened! One second he was fine, thenext he just keeled over!” “JUST WHAT MANNER OF DEMON

ARE YOU?” “I’m not a demon! I’m from LongIsland! I was killed by a bicycle! It’s not myfault!” The Councilman cried. “EXPLAIN YOURSELF,” the aston-ished giant thundered. After the Councilman recapped hislong, horrifying boat ride, the giant did notlook very happy. By his side, the threeheads of Cerberus arched upwards, produc-ing a somber howl. Perhaps they were inmourning of the filth covered ferrymanwho always remembered to bring them bis-cuits when he visited. Gigantic shoulderssank from the mother of all frustrated sighsas the giant’s large forefinger and thumbrubbed his glowing yellow eyes as if tryingto make sense of this mess. “ALL RIGHT, THIS IS WHAT WE’LL

DO. FIRST, DUMP THE BODY.” Not in a position to ask questions, theCouncilman hefted up Charon’s corpseand pushed it into the water. It fell into theblack water with a powerful splash, floatingthere for a moment before finally sinking

into the infinite underwater darknessbelow. Small bubbles trailed off from thebody as the Councilman watched it fade toblack. “NOW, SAIL BACK TO THE BEGIN-

NING. RETRIEVE CHARON. RETURN

HERE AND WE SHALL PLAN FROM

THERE.” “Wait…what?” “I AM HADES, GOD OF THE

UNDERWORLD. WHAT I AM NOT, IS

THE GOD OF REPEATING MYSELF.” “But that’s impossible! Just how in thehell am I supposed to know where to go?Also, Charon’s dead!” “SAIL IN THE DIRECTION BEHIND

YOU. THE CURRENT WILL BRING YOU

TO THE HEAD OF THE RIVER STYX.

THERE, CHARON WILL BE WAITING.

WHERE ELSE WOULD HE BE? SEEK

HIM AND RETURN HERE.” “Wait, so can I-?” “AWAY WITH YOU, DEMONSPAWN!” Hades pointed his giant staffinto the air. The river was overcome with thethrashing of a violent current. TheCouncilman scrambled and grabbed theoar. He had no idea what he was doing.Story of his life. All he could think of wasto steer the oar left to right all while tryingto keep the boat steady. The dark waves car-ried the skull-covered ferry away from thegreen fire, away from the angry Lord of theUnderworld and away from the fadingsounds of Cerberus’ mournful howls. Alone and adrift, the Councilmansailed. He clumsily steered the oar to keep

31Copyright 2020 Pat O’Malley Corner Bar Magazine

the boat straight but fortunately, it was justas Hades said, the current seemed to bepulling him in a specific direction. He hadsome trouble ignoring the moaning deadsouls caught in the black ocean but aftersome time he surprised himself at how easyhe was able to tune them out. It was impossible to say for how longhe sailed. Years? Minutes? It didn’t matter,the Councilman was already dead, so henever felt hunger or exhaustion. Hiswillpower was recharged thanks to having aclear objective of sailing back to the shore.It made a world of difference. Now with atask in hand, the Councilman was able topreserve the remaining shreds of his sanity.Or at the very least, for now. Regardless,there were more important matters toattend to. Meanwhile, Charon walked towards thelight and saw the Councilman waiting forhim. Just as Hades predicted, the RiverStyx’s current had brought the skull-boatback to the obsidian shore where the mad-ness began. The shrill cry of the oceanbreeze blew sharply as the Councilmanlooked down at Charon, standing thereawkwardly, with his filthy reddish-browncloak flapping in the wind. The old beard-ed man tried to mask the confusion on hisface, but even without looking into his wor-ried glowing eyes it wasn’t difficult to seethat he hadn’t seen any of this coming. “Ahoy there,” the Councilman shout-ed. “Hello,” Charon muttered uncomfort-ably, averting his gaze.

“Fancy meeting you here,” theCouncilman smiled. “Yes, this is hard for me to ask but-didI-erm-,” Charon struggled to find thewords. “You croaked, old man. Now hop inthe boat. Don’t worry I’ll drive.” “Ah, so that did happen. Damnedestthing. Well don’t just stand there, help meup.” Charon took the frowningCouncilman’s hand and climbed aboardthe glowing skeleton ferry. The long oarpushed the boat off the shoreline and thetwo of them sailed the River Styx backtowards the Underworld. Charon sat in thefront, not quite sure what to say as theCouncilman tried to look busy by pretend-ing to steer the boat. “Hey, I’m sorry about that whole “tyingto take the paddle” business before. I wasunder a lot of stress,” the Councilman apol-ogized sheepishly. “Don’t feel bad,” Charon smiled sadly.“You were right, we were lost. I hadn’t thefoggiest idea where we were. For the firsttime in my long life, the waters were astranger to me. Still, actually dying? It’salmost refreshing to feel surprised.” “Yeah, it’s been a very strange day forall of us,” the Councilman murmured. Charon turned to the water. There alook of sadness beneath his hood. “I know that I took this job for grant-ed, even became grumpy with it and mypassengers. Now, just like that, it’s all over.What happens to people like me after wedie? Who will take care of guiding newly

32Copyright 2020 Pat O’Malley Corner Bar Magazine

dead souls to the Underworld? Maybe soulsdon’t need that anymore, maybe that’s whyI died,” Charon said. The Councilman considered this for amoment. “I wish I knew what to say that wouldmake things all right for the both of us. Allthat’s left now is seeing what will happenwhen we get there. God knows I’m scaredbut I feel a little better knowing that I’mnot in this alone.” “Perhaps you have a point,” Charonsmiled sadly. “That reminds me, you stillhaven’t told me your name yet.” “Wow, ain’t that just the way? We gothrough all this insanity and I don’t eventell you my name. It’s Alexander; AlexanderStavvros.” “Ah, a fine Greek name and a politi-cian too. Your ancestors would be proud.” “Guess I’ll see for myself if I meetthem. I bet my obituary must have beensomething else. ‘Councilman celebrates re-election by getting killed by speeding bicy-cle’,” The Councilman laughed. “Oh well, Ilike to think that I did the best I couldwhile I was alive. At this point, that’s allanyone can do.” Charon didn’t say anything, instead hepatted the side of the boat before tryingunsuccessfully to stretch his legs. “It certainly feels different riding theferry as a passenger,” Charon said. “Do you think you’ll miss it?” TheCouncilman asked. “Eh, you know it’s funny. Sitting hereI’m beginning to realize how grueling theresponsibility of this duty was. The more I

re-evaluate it, I the more I think I fuckinghate boats.” They burst out laughing. What elsecould they do in universe where demigodswere just as vulnerable to fate as humans?No one, man or God could say. The skull-boat’s lantern shined brightly as they sailedon the River Styx closer to Hades. Closer toan uncertain eternity for both of them.Strangely, the current carrying the boat did-n’t seem to be in any rush. Who could sayexactly just how long it would take them toreach the Underworld? However long it took, they laughed theentire way. v

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2020 Pat O’Malley 33

Ed. Note: Welcome to episode four of ourserialized short novel Freedom. In thisstory, alien beings feed and survive off thefreedoms of humans, who can only com-bat them by restricting their own rights,even to the point of slavery. See episodesone through three in our 2020 issuesissues to catch up and...enjoy....

Episode 4

We were almost asleep on the sofa,when a voice was heard, "wake up, my love,wake up, I need you, I will take away all thesadness and suffering", I woke up with aheart accelerated, and I saw her fixedly, wasthe creature, had The shape of his wife, butI rarely seemed much younger, I guess hedid recognize her correctly, he stood upand told her it was not real, that he walkedaway, she made a face, but decided that per-haps the Affection would make him fulfillhis task in that house, he stood up and toldhim to leave, as he threatened the creaturemade me think it was clear that this manwould win the battle, however, minuteslater, this would be under a trance, inwhich he thought it was much easier toleave, with his wife and his children, he wasstunned by the words of the child, heapproached her, who promised him the

most beautiful things with his family, thenthe creature looked at me again, told menot to I would tire until I was completelyfree; At that moment I realized that notonly had to deal with a couple of problems,but that I must add an alien who hasalways wanted my soul, who wants to takeme as it may. Mr. Wilson never left the trance, hewas lost in the words of the beings that hadused him to increase the number of his vic-tims I was holding him to take him fromthis creature, it was very difficult to sepa-rate him completely from the creature, butI made use of all my strength. A secondcreature came in, but this time he wantedto take me, I refused many times and hesaid "sooner or later we will set you free, mymaster wants to meet you". What a horriblefeeling to think that they still wanted totake me with them. I thought that duringmy childhood I was an easy target and thatI would never again be tempted by thesebeings. We were cornered, then Mr. Wilsonsaid he would go with them, I tried to stopthem, but this person had more security inwhat he was doing, and every minute thatpassed, the influence was getting stronger,Mr. Wilson gave me a look and thank you,invited the child to take his hand, that's

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2020 Shainur Ullah 34

“FREEDOM”by SHAINUR ULLAH

how Mr. Wilson's life became extinct, thecreatures have taken him horrible, I have toadmit that they also love me and that Iknew, this brave Mr. endured until the end,but I could not resign myself to want totake me with me, once the body of Mr.Wilson touched the floor, I ran out toannounce to the authorities what had hap-pened in the house of Mr. Wilson, oncetaken my statement, I indicated that I wasgoing to my hometown and that of course Ineeded to get all the new information thatthe spokesperson had provided. I took my things and went to my town,to tell my parents everything, so that theycould live without having to suffer muchmore for my cause. When I arrived I want-ed to make a meeting inside the house, thespace of the room is huge and nobody usesit, I even thought of inviting more neigh-bors, but my priority was my parents, I hadto tell them everything that happened. Thetime had come to converse with them, theyhad become quite nervous, surely theythought that there was no way to avoid thefate that this aliens offered us, however theforecast was much more encouraging, fortu-nately. "There are indications that these crea-tures seek to feed on our freedom, that is,these aliens seek to take the lives of thosemore complete and free people who exist insociety, for this reason slaves have beenlooking for ways to return all changes thatwere made since they were called workers,they do not currently want freedom. All thechanges that arose lately attracted thesecreatures, for this reason the cases increased

alarmingly,” I said. My mother's face wassoaked in tears, I had understood perfectlywhat all this implied, she knew all the sacri-fices we would have to do to protect our-selves, my father was quite calm, asresigned, or perhaps very sad, in any waythis It would be a challenge for all of us, forall the people and all the peoples whowould have to submit to certain situationsin order to be able to keep these creaturesaway from all the people who were in dan-ger of losing their freedom and their lives. We needed to draw up a plan to beable to live a little more calmly, but weknew in reality that we would never have anormal life again, life as we knew it wouldnever be the same again. My parents wanted to become slaves,they wanted me to do the same, but Ialways felt that I was born in the right placeand social position, submitting to thewhims and mistreatments of others was notan option for me, however I was consider-ing all the matter, something we should dofor our sake and that of others. We did notstop looking for options, we decided thatthat night we would not take any of these,we would consult with the pillow, we wouldsleep that night in peace, we would try toenjoy these hours of normality. The days that passed were quite confus-ing, there were many people who gavethemselves to what they called "inevitable,"others decided to end their lives throughdifferent means; This was going to be a hor-rible crisis for many families, since most ofthem were accustomed to living in a veryostentatious way, and like many, they had

Copyright 2020 Shainur Ullah Corner Bar Magazine35

full freedom to carry out any activity thatwas needed at the moment they wanted. All the people of the town decided thatit was important to meet to find a solutionthat would be "beneficial" for everyone, notto say that we needed an effective solution,regardless of the consequences, as long aswe could all be kept safe. Many thought togo voluntarily to the neighboring towns, togive themselves like slaves, to move away ofthe evil that the creatures could cause tothem; particularly this seemed very risky tome, especially because everyone was goingto give their lives to unknown people, whowould probably take advantage of them,who would not respect ages or conditions,they would simply force them to take thejobs they needed at that moment, no mat-ter nothing else. I felt the need to help everyone, thetown was not very big, and there were most-ly many adults, people who did not havethe need or the strength to work forcefully,maybe my destiny was to help them all, Iquickly thought of a solution, as long asthey agreed. I took the floor, in the middle of thesquare, I told everyone that if slavery wasthe solution, obviously there would have tobe a figure of a boss, immediately everyonestarted volunteering, because they did notunderstand what my proposal was about; Itwas obvious that something like this wouldhappen, everyone would want to governothers, it was the dream of many, but thissituation was much more complicated thanpreviously thought, I said a few wordsagain, in order to make myself understood

better. "The person who assumes this position,should be able to give a treatment notexcessive but quite strict for those under hisorders, that is, should not be a loving pat-tern, but a little understanding, this figurewill also need a great mental strength, notto let the aliens be able to end their lives." Ithink that all this was very exciting to manyof the people who were there, a part of meknew that this scene would happen just likethis, and that they would not be ready forwhat would come next, so I decided to con-tinue with the idea, "and most importantly,this person will be the one with the greatestrisk of contact with the aliens, because the-ory would be the only one with the free-dom to do what he wanted, he would bethe most vulnerable person before anyattack, for this reason make sure you haveincredible will power, because you will havethe full weight of taking care of others andalso of making the right decisions that canlimit enough to everyone, so they are notattacked." A very big silence took over the wholetown, nobody wanted to be easy target ofthese aliens, it was to be expected thatbeing the only person with liberties in thetown, you would automatically become theeasiest target, the most vulnerable person,and who of course would have morechance of dying, and by that time therewere no volunteers, nobody wanted to takethat role, people began to propose to cer-tain people, claiming any crazy reason thatthese had occurred to them. They began tosay that certain people had lived longer


than others, began to exclude themselves,one of my father's friends said that he hadwitnessed the visits of the creatures manytimes, and that he was still alive, they werevery much in agreement , they had foundtheir guinea pig, and I was not willing forthis to happen, my father had suffered toomuch and I could not carry a responsibilitylike this on his shoulders, at that moment Iraised my voice, I volunteered, I would bethe I would carry that burden, it was myresponsibility, and above all, I could neversacrifice my father in that way, I could notallow him to suffer more. The people agreed that I was the bossof everyone, and since I already hadenough experience in handling slaves, Idecided that I would begin that same after-noon to do everything necessary to takethem all as slaves, and as I said before, Itwould not be loving, but not ruthless, aslong as this level kept us away from all ofthem. First of all, I decided that all the vil-lagers would have to hand over a large partof their fortunes, that is, almost completely,this money would go to some charitableorganizations, worse far from that place,money was never a problem for me, so Idid not need it, I preferred to keep it away,I would take some part of it to do the shop-ping for the food and other things theslaves needed to exist. All the inhabitants had to submit towork without receiving any payment, thatis, they would have other "benefits", thenormal way to survive. I could not forgetthat this deal would also include my par-

ents, in one way or another, I knew thatthis would hurt them. And that was mybiggest test, to turn my parents into myslaves, of course I would, only then could Idefend them. The following days were full of silenceand uncertainty, nobody had any experi-ence with the aliens, nobody had seenthem, and they had not come to the town,for those days we believed that everythingthat we had planned would work, and untilthen it seemed to work in the best way, thepeople were happy but very exhausted,changing their rhythm of life had caused adeep emotional wound and terrible physi-cal exhaustion, from children to adults hadto meet a very strict day. Many did notresist these types of work, and decided thatsuicide was the most reasonable way to befree without surrendering to these beings,many others were very unhappy, and Icame to hear from another group of peoplewho wanted the aliens to reappear so thatend the misery they felt they were livingright now; this last thought seemed absurdto me, they all formed a contract wherethey were given as slaves to my orders inorder to protect themselves from that exter-nal threat, I could not understand whythese people wanted to be carried by thesame creatures from which they sought toget away It was a very stupid idea for me,however I came to think that maybe noteveryone was born to do a job, of any kind,and they preferred the easiest way out. The aliens visited my house more thanonce, as I predicted, they sought to disturbmy peace, they sought me to give myself to


them, each day their visits were more fre-quent, more dangerous more insistent, theyhad come to me in the most varied ways, aspriests, beggars, and other people who wereknown but did not see it long ago, and hadno idea that they had already died.Although their attempts increased in fre-quency, I felt quite prepared to face them, Iwas growing stronger, in mind and body, Ithought maybe one day I could face them,but I did not know how, if I touched them,I ran the risk of taking my life, or at least Ithought so, I had become obsessed withknowing more about these disgusting andsoulless beings, I did not know what else todo for everyone, just bear the burden wewere carrying. One morning my father woke up verysick, he was very tired, and I was very wor-ried, I was being much less condescendingwith my parents, since these were the clos-est to me (my mind convinced me thatevery night), but the physical exhaustion Itwas becoming more and more evident, so Idecided to take a little work from both ofthem, in a certain way looking to free themof some burden, however small, I needed tosee a little relief in their eyes. I won thecontempt of many who did not want to ful-fill their part of the deal, also of otherswho considered an atrocity that kept myfamily members much more busy, manycalled me a monster, because, after a fewyears, the attacks they began to increase, soI had to become a stricter master, butalways maintaining a bit of respect for therights that we all should have, after all wewere not prehistoric beings that knew no

norm in society, we were still a community,forced to behave like slaves, thanks to thepresence of beings from other worlds thatdecided to feed on all the good that existedinside us, forcing us to become oppressed,but above all, forcing me to become anoppressor, a title I never wanted, but I waspretty good at it, I had control of the wholetown, I made sure that my orders werealways fulfilled, that everyone would appre-ciate that I am a person with scruples, I donot know what other beings with a darkersoul would be capable of. The next steps I had to take included afeeding schedule, they could only eat at thetime I had proposed for them, and notwhen they were hungry, at least not imme-diately, for this reason I began to emphasizethat, the slaves and the new slaves fedequally well, so there was no problem withthat. This measure led to the aliensapproaching few of the inhabitants, thenumber of attacks decreased. I felt exhaust-ed, I did not want to continue playing thisrole, but it was necessary, somehow I haddone this job quite well. But one night they came to my house,they sat in my chair next to my parents,and they began to offer them the freedomof all the punishment and all the years thatthey spent protecting me, that they wouldnot have to do it anymore if they surren-dered or handed me. Of course, my parentswere not going to give me up, but theywanted me to. I was at the top of the housewhen I heard voices, I felt a great fear run-ning through my body, because a visit tomy parents was what I least wanted to hap-


pen, I stayed there, standing, thinking of aquick solution, terror I did not leave, Iremembered the medallion that my mothergave me when I was little, the one who hadaccompanied me for a long time, I put iton my neck, in full view, this time I neededall the courage that this had for me, I need-ed fill me with immense courage to facethese beings face to face again. I went downthe stairs slowly, taking the medallion pen-dant tightly, I needed to hold on to some-thing that would allow me to feel that I wasin control of this situation. I stared at myparents, who seemed quite confused, as ina trance, I had seen that look, I knew theywere convinced to go with them, I had toavoid it. I put myself in the middle of thecreatures, and my parents, who werealready standing, they told me that some-one had to leave of their own volition thatday, the cause for which they had workedso much was practically lost, that is, theycould no longer much more, my parentswere in the middle and I was willing to sac-rifice myself for them. I had not realized that I still had themedallion in my hands, I pressed it evenmore, and while saying the words theywanted to hear, I let go, and had not yetfinished accessing their requests when theylaunched a scream, the most creepy that Iheard in my life, and disappeared in theblink of an eye, silence took over the room,my parents did not understand what washappening, that is, these creatures weregoing to achieve their goal, and could noteven let me complete my sentence, on theother hand I understood what had made

them run. Immediately I turned to see my mother,I knelt in front of her, with her hands shetook my face, and I said, "Mother, tell mewhat material this medallion has beenmade of, it is a very important piece toachieve to remove these beings definitively."She could not articulate, was in shock,could not believe what happened, I neededher to return to herself, I needed to knowwhat they had made that medallion, sincethese beings could not resist the presenceof it, retiring in a way Immediately, theypractically vanished before our eyes. I donot know how long I stayed with her, andall she could say was "I do not know", thatnight I took the medallion to detail it, thependant was very small, and it was aquama-rine green, a kind of metal and also ofglass, it did not look like any stone knownto me, so I decided that I should travel to aplace where they had more informationabout precious stones, I should go to thecapitol, although I did not know how riskythe trip could be, It was crucial to discoverthis. My mother had told me that the peniswas always in her family and that her fatherdecided to give it to her on her deathbed,so that she would be brave now that shefaced the world without him, she was theonly daughter, just like me, for which Shewas always surrounded by people who lovedher and protected her. His father never told him about the ori-gin of it, only that it was always believedthat he had great strength within it, andthat it gave value to those who carried it, sohe decided to give it to me that day when I


felt powerless to continue fleeing fromthese evil creatures. I decided to make thistrip as soon as possible, but when I left Ileft the medallion with my parents, I didnot want to feel that they were unprotected,I would not be a good son if I wanted toleave knowing that they could die duringmy absence. I asked him not to mentionanything about this matter, because therewas a lot of pressure on this issue, that is,people would be able to commit any act inorder to protect themselves from these crea-tures that had completely ruined their lives,therefore, it was better that nobody knewthe scene that occurred in the living roomof our house, I made them swear that theywould not tell anyone anything until I man-aged to find out what material the pendantwas made of, and until then we would haveto think how we would approach that issue

with the rest of the inhabitants of thetown. So I undertook my trip, to variousplaces, looking for an answer, and invent-ing stories about family relics of great senti-mental value, describing the material sothat they showed me different stones, nonecoincided physically with the medallion, Ieven arrived in the capitol, and nobodyknew about the incident or the material, soI returned home, this time with a new mis-sion for all, the search for this material. Idecided to put this task to my most reliablemen, who would be in charge of searchingthis material in every corner of the earth.But I really did not know how long thiscould take.v

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