Category: Short Story

Three days of travel to get here and this happens? “A timeless classic,” I scoff out loud while kicking the tattered flat tire of the rental car. It’s annoying enough to have the rescheduled flight—but this too? Why does it feel like the world is always fighting me? It’s always the next problem. Why can’t I ever get a damn break from it all?

I take a deep breath. I’m out here for perspective and to challenge myself, right? What better way to do that than changing a tire 5,600 feet above sea level in six inches of snow? I open up the trunk to get the jack and tire iron and clear out a sizable area of snow where I can get underneath the SUV to pull down the spare tire—only to find that tire is flat. Good God, what am I doing? Nicole leaving wasn’t enough, the firm denying my promotion wasn’t enough—why do I always make decisions that lead me to ruin? Maybe I should just go home. Just drop the act, put my head down, and get back to work. I lay there beneath the fender for an indiscernible amount of time, letting my pants soak up the melting snow as I try to come to terms with my next move.

A truck comes to a stop next to me. I pull myself up to see a frail, bearded old man leaning out the window. He’s kind; he gives me the card of the local mechanic and even waits for him to show up. His name is Henry. I tell him about my plans to climb the mountain, and he tells me about the last time he went to the top— “’round forty years ago.” Of course, he makes sure to remind me that it was a bit more difficult and not as well maintained back then.

He talks about his wife and his kids who went off to get an education and now live in the city. He speaks with such pride that it actually lifts my mood. I’d never gotten that kind of consideration from my father; with him, the outcome was always expected, rarely appreciated. It feels good to run into people who prioritize their loved ones. That kind of perspective was foreign to me growing up.

My stomach sinks. That wasn’t my attitude toward Nicole. I never put her above my own selfish pursuits. It was always work, making more money, climbing the corporate ladder. She didn’t deserve how I treated her, and the whole time I just blamed it on us “growing apart.”

Henry leaves, and the mechanic fixes the flat tire so quickly I can’t help but to be impressed. After giving the tire a quick glance, he goes into his trailer, and grabs a replacement. In less than five minutes the SUV is on all four wheels, he’s paid, and we are left to continue on with our days.

As my car warms, I rub my icy hands together and go back and forwards on whether I should leave or not. If I’m going to let a small setback get in the way of my goal, then I didn’t deserve it in the first place. Those words rattle in my head, gaining new meaning with every ricochet.

I take a deep breath and continue to base camp.

The next morning, with all my gear ready, I face the first stretch of the trail. It winds for what seems like miles until it bends behind a crest, only to continue upward for what should be another 4,000 feet. It’ll be about two and a half days up and a day and a half down. My heart races confronting this prospect now that we are face to face.

I breathe and take the first step of many.

The first leg is relatively easy, but there are technical areas that require climbing jagged cliff faces about eight feet high. Unfortunately, a misplaced foot sends me tumbling down one of them. Luckily, I land on my backpack and only get the wind knocked out of me for a few seconds. I brush it off with a laugh and decide to approach it from a safer angle.

It’s unnaturally quiet on the mountainside. The few times my father brought me here, it was for hunting, but even then, it always felt like stepping into another world. No cars, no people—just the occasional gust of wind or snapping branch, the crunch of snow beneath your feet, and your own breathing filling your ears.

It’s incredibly peaceful.

Feeling pleased with my progress, I begin planning where to camp for the night. There’s a nice sheer rock that would be perfect for blocking the tent from the wind. I remove my glove and reach for the small pouch at the bottom of my bag that contains my map, pencil, and compass. I unzip the pocket and reach in—only to be met with cold, frigid air.

Panic sets in as I see a sizable rip that has donated its important contents to the mountain. A map or GPS is paramount when climbing; it’s one of the ten essentials. Lose one, and you should turn back immediately—lest you may never return.

I’ve already lost one.

There’s no point in turning back today. The sun has already crested the mountain, and the last bits of light barely illuminate my side of it. I’ll camp tonight and plan in the morning. After finishing the climb to my chosen site, I set up the tent and light my portable stove to make some well-deserved dinner. It’s freeze-dried chili—just add boiling water. As I blow on the steaming spoonful, the smell brings a memory: Nicole and I eating chili just like this at her family cabin, wrapped in blankets watching a meteor shower. Early in our relationship, not a worry in the world.

I always thought that moment would be my happy place. Yet I haven’t thought about it in years. I put the spoon in my mouth only to realize it’s gone cold.

At first light, I get up to assess the mountainside. It’s a clear, beautiful morning, and from this height the horizon stretches for hundreds of miles. In the distance I can see rising smoke from fires at base camp about three miles away. Going down should take half a day. I look up toward the peak and see people on their climb. They must be a day ahead of me, and it didn’t snow too much last night. There’s a chance I’ll be able to follow their tracks, and by the time I reach where they are, I’ll be able to see the summit.

It’s stupid, but something is burning inside me telling me to go on. Maybe I’ll be able to follow their trail down after I reach the peak. Unreasonably driven, I continue upward. After half a day of climbing, and nearly giving up, I finally find their footprints. With newfound vigor I smile and trudge along.

Soaking in the view, I forgot what brought me here. My past fades, and I can’t help but be present in the moment, something I haven’t felt in years. The daily monotony, the seventy-hour workweeks, the letdowns and disappointments… none of it matters up here. It is truly magnificent.

Late in the evening, I absentmindedly reach for my map to check my location—and laugh at my own misfortune. The summit is in sight. I’ll have no trouble getting up tomorrow, and as long as the forecast holds, it shouldn’t be too difficult to retrace my steps.

As if the god of mischief himself heard my thoughts, my emergency radio blares: three sharp static buzzes no mountaineer wants to hear. A blizzard is approaching. Thirty-mile-per-hour winds, one to two inches of snow per hour for approximately eight hours—and on a mountain, those numbers usually increase significantly. It’s going to be a rough night.

The blizzard started halfway through setting up camp, and I nearly lost my tent three times from the gusts. I do my best to find a spot where rocks can block the wind, but this high up there are few places to hide. After a grueling hour of building a snow embankment and re-staking the tent to avoid taking any magic-carpet rides in the night, I crawl inside to warm up. My eyebrows have sheets of ice on them, and the snot in my nose has started to thaw and drip. I take a moment to collect myself and begin making dinner.

How can there be this many obstacles in everything I do?
My boss Richard always sets unreachable tasks before me, and every time I finish them, he finds something wrong—something I missed or didn’t consider. I spend my life trying to appease a man who has no interest in letting me succeed. Four years wasted, ruining my relationships and missing opportunities, only to be told I’m not trying hard enough.

Why bother?

If I died here, what would I leave behind? I can already hear my dad: “That boy should’ve learned to step up instead of daydreaming,” or “Was the promotion at the top of the mountain? Dumbass!” If he was out in nature, it was for the glory of the hunt and the bragging rights to his friends. He could never just enjoy the time he had with his son. I never understood it. I always found the adventure with him and beauty in nature the most exciting part—but he never shared that sentiment. That disconnect pushed us far apart.
As I sit listening to the tent fabric snapping from the violent winds, a somber realization occurs to me:

Have I become just like him?

I have. Trying my hardest to please those who matter so little while ignoring those who deserve my all. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s a thought that chills me far more deeply than the cold.

I must have barely gotten three hours of sleep, most of it in the early morning after the blizzard ceased. I knock off a majority of the snow from my tent, now concave from the weight. After crawling through nearly two feet of it, I manage to get outside. The tent is hardly visible under the snowdrift. The mountain has taken a new form. Landmarks are unrecognizable from the day before. My trail is gone, and I only have a vague sense of direction. I’m lucky the blizzard only lasted through the night—but what now?

As I pack my tent, I hear faint crunching footsteps behind me. Coming over a nearby crest, the same group of climbers is heading down toward me. A weight lifts off my shoulders—people means hope. As they approach, I can tell they had a rough night too; they look exhausted and ready to return to camp.

“How was the night for you all?” I ask in jest.
They laugh quietly and joke that it could have been a bit warmer. When I ask if they enjoyed the summit, their faces immediately brighten.

“Incredible,” they say. They talk about the final stretch, the view, and how, even with some clouds, the sight was irreplaceable. A tinge of jealousy spreads through me, and I’m sure a little showed in my expression.

“It should be an amazing day for you though! It’s so clear out you could probably see your house if you live in-state,” one hiker calls out, followed by chuckles.

“Unfortunately, I lost my map on the way up,” I explain, “and with the snow, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it back down from memory. I was hoping to follow you all down, if you’d have me.”
The group exchanges looks, then an older man steps forward, pulls a laminated map from his pocket, and offers it to me. It’s clearly marked with points and trailheads that will lead me down safely.

“I can’t take your map, sir. How will you get back?” I protest.

He laughs. “I always carry a spare, son. All of us have at least two. We’ll be fine! Just don’t lose that one.”

I’m so grateful, yet all I can muster is a tearful, “Thank you.” Luckily, my snow goggles hide most of it. The group continues down, reminding me I’m welcome to join them if I wanted still.
But I set out to climb this mountain—and they’ve just handed me the ticket to finish what I started.

Three hours is all it takes. I climb with fervor and ferocity and reach the summit breathless—not from exhaustion, but from the intensity of what lies before me.

The wide-open world stretches beneath, under a clear afternoon sky, not a cloud in sight.

My struggles, however prominent in the back of my mind were silenced. No flat tires, no blizzard, no work, and no doubts to distract me.

I sit down, looking out at the corners of the world where my life has taken place, the sea of choices that led me here. I weep, then smile, then laugh.

I lay back into the cold deep snow and stare into the boundlessness above.

All the world lies beneath me—yet somehow, it feels above me still.

Tsukihiko Sakurai died two years ago.

Not for long, considering they were risen from the dead by Death themself and now they’re questing into a maze for the hope of coming back to life fully. Just for a chance to grow old beside those they hold dearest to their heart even though they were destined to outlive Tsukihiko mortal life.

“You both better come back to us,” Tsukihiko commented, narrowing their eyes at the young men in front of them.“I need my friends after all,”

My brothers.

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, get out of here!” Edgar grumbled, dumping their packs into their arms before pushing them past the maze entrance, which when he did do that a force field of what reminded them of a bubble came over the maze. “Oh! Uh, good luck? See you in five days? Don’t lose my sister?”

Xochitl flipped him off before turning to the maze, squinting her eyes at it before pulling out two ribbons of silk and lace.

She wrapped the lacy ribbon around her eyes which Tsukihiko made sure wouldn’t slip, having to use hairpins before helping her wrap the other ribbon which looked to allow 2 yards worth of distance if they needed it. Once it was tied around both their wrist the ribbons tightened, when they tugged it did not come undone or even budge despite the tie being a simple one.

They still think her being blind for this quest was pointless.

“Magic,” Tsukihiko commented, squinting at the barely visible shimmer. “That is good to know at least, can you see?”

She huffed as she made gestures. “Barely. I can see silhouettes and blurs but nothing else.”

They slowly nodded their head. That they could work with, hopefully. All they had to do was speak aloud to her so she understood them. “I’m nodding my head by the way.”

Xochitl let out a giggle “Oh? What are you doing now?” She asked, starting the walk through the maze.

“Making faces,” they stated, sticking their tongue at her before leading her down a path instead into a wall. “Think using your hand to touch the walls is cheating?”

From beneath her blindfold her brows raised as she raised her hands and lowered one hand at a time as she felt along the walls. “Maybe. Perhaps, but did they say we couldn’t?”

They smirked mischievously. “Loopholes,”

“Loopholes!”

Because they could, they giggled themselves silly as they wandered the maze which luckily didn’t have any traps so far, then again they just started. Luckily Edgar had put a piece of chalk in Tsukihiko’s pocket allowing them to leave marks around so they wouldn’t go around in circles and lose time, heck if they’re lucky they can get this done faster.

In the back of their mind however was a whispering of a voice. Fear. Their prize was just within reach but what if they mess up? They didn’t want to take that disappointment that they know they’d feel and everyone else will feel.

Every so often they checked her expression, how her lips pouted in concentration as she touched the walls, feeling them and when she went a little too off course they’d tug her back to their side, mumbling directions in her ear they knew she didn’t need.

She didn’t need them for this, she at least has the ability to hear and even though she was blind she knew her way around without their assistance. But their quest aligned.

‘Stop. That’s fear talking.’ They scolded themself, leading her down a different path since the one she tried to through was blocked by rubble that had fallen over and frankly they didn’t fancy the idea of climbing all over it.

“Sing to me?” She asked suddenly, biting at her bottom lip nervously.

‘She’s afraid as well.’ They realized, softening the shock on their face into understanding. “Of course,” taking a deep breath, they began to sing whatever popped in their mind.

Lover where have you gone?
Return to me, to our bed of willow
Lay to rest with me
Please
Please
Come back to me
Do not make me wait
Oh lover, why can’t I hear you?
Have the gods taken you…
From..me?
I shall wait. Wait. Wait.
Till you come and lay with me, once more, if ever again.
Wait, in this life, or the next..

Xochitl bumped their shoulder catching their attention. She pouted her lips as she placed both hands in front of her face, palm in and brought them down the length of her face.

Tsukihiko laughed softly “Yeah I know it’s sad. I didn’t mean for it to be so, it just came out like that. I was thinking of the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.” They didn’t have to see her curious expression to know she was listening now.

They kept their eyes on the walls, leaving a mark once it began to look unfamiliar before finally explaining their thoughts “A lot of people think those stories are sad, tragic. Especially considering some versions his head is kept to sing to mortals for all eternity so one assumes he never joins his beloved wife. I personally like to think he does return to his wife in the afterlife and they get to be reborn happy. But it’s the fact Orpheus went to the underworld for his wife, because he loved his wife so much that he even looked back, not because he lost faith but because he loved her. And she didn’t get angry, because she had been loved so much,”

“Hm, I suppose when I think about it like that, it does sound very loving,” she mused over, tapping her chin. “I think if I lost my wife, I’d never stop looking. Even if I died I’d seek my wife out in as many lives if I must.”

Tsukihiko could believe that she had the spirit for that. They shifted their gaze to her, watching the way her face screwed up in thought, how she nibbled on her lower lip knowing it’ll become bruised and plump.

She’d be the one to come for them if they perished there was not a doubt in their mind.

Not wanting to get lost in her face they looked away, looking down at the cobble floor which was now a thick layer of moss that their feet sunk into it. Wrinkling their nose as little bubbles of lights floated into the air. When they breathed it in it left a fuzzy feeling in their head that had them wanting to giggle, curious.

A rumbling in the earth made them perk up, looking to the side to see an entrance appear before their eyes, revealing a garden of different varieties of flowers and trees with hanging fruit.

At the top of the entrance in Gothic cursive spelled out; “Gluttony”.

“What is it? I can smell floral!”

They licked their lips. “A garden of many types of flowers and fruit trees in full bloom. Remember do not eat anything I don’t say is safe.”

Once they got their nod of confirmation they walked into the garden, looking over their shoulder to watch the entrance disappear by the wall putting itself back up rock by rock. With a sigh they looked forward and explained how everything looked for her;

The garden was..something to say the least, for some reason it was like the sky just in this part of the garden was soft pink, the clouds were like cotton candy and even the sun did not shine down as hard, seemingly farther away than usual. The grass was lively and looked comfy to lay on and the flowers all around were lovely, if not for the fact there were poisonous ones scattered about that anyone without the knowledge of them would fall victim to their beauty. At closer glance the trees with fruit had a glassy texture over them, like glazed donuts which did not sound appetizing so they hoped it was just how they looked.

Fingers dug into their kimono sleeve catching their attention to look down at Xochitl who had her head tilted down, her forehead bumped into their chest, horns digging lightly enough into it to not feel them through the layers. “Xochie?”

She signed hungry over and over, pressing her other hand over her mouth, when she pulled it back it was wet with saliva. A whine of hunger they assumed left her lips based on the vibrations and how she dug her fingers deeper.

Demigod hunger.

“Shh, okay don’t worry, my милая,” Tsukihiko cooed in reassurance. They looked around before landing their eyes onto a peach tree that had them lighting up as they spotted a big juicy looking peach “perfect!”

They weren’t tall enough to stand on their tippy toes for it so they had to be lifted onto her shoulders that did not even tremble under the weight of them even as they struggled to reach up and wrap their hand around the fruit and tug it off, carefully (if not awkwardly), climbing down her shoulders to plop it into her awaiting hands.

She tore into the soft flesh with a happy grin and swishing tail, a strange rumbling sound came from her as they wiped away peach juice when she leaned her weight against them.

‘Feels like purring.’ They thought in amusement as they led her away from the fruit trees, eyeing the swirling path with flowers on all sides with great interest since they’ve seen some in that book of herbs and flowers she bought in the fall for a light read.

Lavender, chamomile, marigolds were some that they recognized and knew could be consumed safety for others they were unsure about they waved under her nose such as Nasturtiums, Borage and Anise Hyssop, at her hums of approval they stuffed them carefully in their Kinchaku Handbag attached to their waist, briefly they admire the Wisteria and cranes on it before glancing at a strange flower, it was like glass teardrops but at a closer look they were simply very thin petals, they faintly remember they were meant to put someone to sleep so they added it into their collection before picking at strawberries since they were the only fruit on the ground since they bush was still sprouting flowers.

Xochitl snatched one of the strawberries from their hands, humming in delight as she chewed. “Sweet..”

They snorted fondly “glutton,” their eyes flickered to something made of stone behind her, just beneath an apple tree. “Ah great.”

Reluctantly they led her to it, mumbling about how there is a statue of stone, a man with ram horns with his mouth wide open in terror, hands out as if to stop someone from coming closer. Carefully they watched her take a coin from her coinpurse and place it in the mouth of the statue, at first nothing happened (in fact they counted forty seconds of nothing) and like a pin needle drop, it all went downhill.

Tsukihiko grabbed her by the waist before she could attempt to climb the tree, squeezing tight as she fought back with an animalistic growl and snarling, kicking and trying to scratch at their arms to make them let go as they dragged her practically across the ground even as she dug her bare heels into the dirt, looking all around for an exit as she tried to buck them off.

The ground beneath them turned slippery, with a yelp they fell back painfully as they banged their head against the ground and as her weight crashed down onto their chest, giving them enough time to blink away the stars before being jerked forward “No!” They hissed, tackling her from behind sending them both to the ground, struggling to get up, hands pushing at each other’s faces which grew more erratic(childish) as a single apple fell to the ground, very close.

They threw their body onto her back, smacking their hand over the one that was reaching for the apple. Clumsily they searched through their handbag, snatching at the teardrop flower before forcing it into her mouth, pressing their forehead against the back of her shoulder as she trashed and fought back against them, until eventually she calmed down and then–nothing.

Wait. What was the correct and safe amount of consumption of that flower?!

Opening their eyes they checked her, sighing with relief knowing she was just asleep. They looked around and let out a gasp as the garden began to melt like butter, revealing a new scene around them; a poorly lit tavern with behind the bar a middle-aged, beer belly man with berries in his gray beard and hair. He let out a chortle as he raised his arms;

“Well done! Well done! I knew mortals still had use!”

Tsukihiko blinked incredulously at him. “Your words..are floating in front of you like subtitles!”

The tavern man chortled again “Ah yes, the divine of love told me of your loss of hearing. 90% correct?”

Politely they held back a grimace. “Oh uh, yes.”

He hummed, patting the bar. “Well worry not!” He hopped over the bar, not minding the way Tsukihiko bristled as he threw Xochitl over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Ah, forgot about that,” he grimaced at the lace ribbon connecting to the both of them “well follow me!”

“What are your relations to Yōltzin?” Tsukihiko asked, eying the back of the man as he led them to a sitting area in front of a fireplace, setting the sleeping Xochitl on the couch and covering her with a blanket. For some reason they couldn’t muster the justified skepticism towards the man “You can’t be divine, right?”

“Indeed I’m not!” He spun to face them, holding a plate of onigiri much to their surprise. “I’m simply a ghost of a man who once was. Stuck in this maze until your friend releases me,”

Their eyes lit up with recognition, taking the plate happily. “You’re a statue somewhere in this maze! Huh. I didn’t know they were actually people,” they picked up one of the onigiri, eyeing it for imperfections, they almost looked just like the ones obaa-chan used to make. “Will we get help from more of you?”

The man sighed, shaking his head regretfully “I’m afraid not. They’re mostly warriors, stuck here on these plains till they serve a higher purpose. However, until I’m released I’ll help as much as I can, it’s the least I can do..”

Huh?

Skeptically they narrowed their eyes, frowning as they situated themself on the couch beside Xochitl. “Why? We don’t know you. Unless you’re helping us because of one of the divine’s involvement. Even then they’re not supposed to be too involved, what’s in it for you?”

For a few moments it was quiet, their mind attempting to fill the silence with the faint memory of what crackling fire sounds like, like when they would roast marshmallows and corn in the Rodriguez’s backyard since their neighborhood was more lax compared to Tsukihiko’s parents neighborhood, so lax they even did big bonfires in the front yard. They thought of the sound of snoring, which they vaguely remember to be wheezy and high pitched, and finally the sound of their own chewing. Then the man sighed (strange to see the word in subtitles), speaking slow and careful;

“I forgot when demigods die, they lose memories of their past lives but nonetheless it’s still them. Humans aren’t meant to come back, but you do,” the man shook his head as he laughed. “Even your face looks so similar to your first one, it’s like seeing a ghost!”

“Wait what?” They swallowed the mouthful of onigiri that had spicy tuna in the middle. “My first face is–, I’ve been alive before?” they asked bewildered.

“Yes, you have been,” he sighed, eyes crinkling with forlorn “I’m surprised your soul can handle it, humans..so fragile..the fact your name is so similar to the first–,”

“My name?”

“It once was Tsukihime. Tsukihime Kurokawa.”

Tsukihiko remembers that name, faintly. Before they left for America their obaa-chan told them of a girl in their family, a runaway bride who chose to run in a winter storm for her oni lover–who she only ever saw in the woods–over a well bred man of fine wealth, their cousin even told them once that Tsukihime was scandalous enough to invite the oni into her bed when everyone would be fast asleep. She put such shame to the family name that her face was crossed and declared there would be no Tsuki, nor hime or hiko out of shame despite that whole controversy being back in 1734, which gave the Kurokawa family enough time to recover.

Funny. Out of all the names they picked for themself it just had to be Tsukihiko.

A headache began to form at all the information overload. Surely the similarities between the two had to be because of genes, right? Xochitl has a birthmark that apparently a great great grandma of hers had, surely this was a similar case. And they picked Tsukihiko because they liked the moon and depending on how they felt they could be Tsuki or Suki which are both very cute nicknames.

“I didn’t mean to cause you distress–i can check the balance of your soul if it worries you–,”

“Don’t worry about it,” they sighed, rubbing their nose bridge, feeling over the pearl piercings. “Just..a lot,”

“I get it. You were never meant to come back.”

Such a blunt statement made their heart ache. Suddenly they didn’t feel at home in their skin, not because they don’t love themself but because when they died they had to have a whole new body remade, everything about it is the same besides for the scar around their neck but nonetheless the same, untouched. But the possible knowledge of being people before this life, before Tsukihiko Sakurai.

“I’m like Frankenstein,” they chuckled dully at the blank look they got. “Or something along the lines,”

“If it lessens the stress to your heart, this life seems happier than the others!” the man attempted to soothe, handing a cup of chamomile from behind his back.

Gratefully they took it, admiring the wabi sabi of it, feeling where missing chips of the cup used to be before taking a little sip of the warm tea “Is that so? Even the death I experienced?” They found themself asking in murmur, gazing forlorn into their tea. “The horrors of death clutching at my ankles, threatening to pull me under any moment when I least expect it? When my heart is at its fullest?”

“Oh most certainly! You usually die before you get to be happy!” The tavern man chirped, obviously to the turmoil of an eighteen year old.

Tsukihiko set their cup on the trunk in front of them, looking down at Xochitl, their forlorn gaze becoming tender as they brought their hand to her curls, brushing them away from her pointed ears before cupping her cheek. “I’ve died already. Who would have thought that’s all I had to do to get this chance?”

They ignored as the tavern man told them to rest, to eat and drink till their energy was refilled to watch how fire light danced over Xochitl features, highlighting her cheeks and curls. Dipping their head they rubbed their nose against her fire flushed cheek with shut eyes, swallowing the lump in their throat.

Was it strange, to hope that in all the lives they’ve led, they lived in every single one with her? The man said that they weren’t happy for long but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t happiness, it doesn’t mean they were unhappy with her, something deep within told them they were happy.

Tsukihiko pressed a cool finger to their collarbone, knowing that in-between was a freckle that matched the exact same one Xochitl had. In fact they shared many moles and freckles with her, they only knew this because of the years they spent together that allowed them to map out everything about each other.

Perhaps though, it was their wishful thinking that led them to hope that they were by each other’s side in each life. Growing up with stories of The Red String of Fate only made that sort of wishful thinking stronger even if now they found the stories they grew up with unpleasant. Absent-mindedly they rubbed at the red dot on their fingertip.

Sigh.

Tsukihiko carefully got under the blanket and laid behind Xochitl, draping an arm over her waist in attempt to shield her protectively just in case (the man is nice but you can never be sure) while they used their other arm as a pillow, pressing their nose into her curls they shut their eyes, trying to get as much rest as possible before they had to journey in the maze for luckily longer than today. They pray they wouldn’t fall off the couch.

Selena Isn’t Really From Here.
The old saying “you can never really go home again” rings so true for Corpus Christi. The 70’s Corpus had a vibe and character long replaced by something almost unknown. I say almost because one thing is consistent: the homeless are affable, harmless and relatively benign. I credit it to the numerous peers jutting out into the bay that is a de facto public restroom. That and the beachfront view seems to provide an overlay of reverie missing in most concrete jungles. The Selena statue looms large, and for me strangely so. I have zero memories of Tejano music being front and center; Heavy Metal and New Wave were dominant as I recall. Ocean Drive seems less glamorous than I remember it. Some mansions are still intact, while others are dilapidated yet strangely show signs of habitation: manicured lawns and flowerbeds grace the yards.
The “seedy” parts of downtown appear to have lost that edge. But the replacement is soulless buildings and empty lots instead of coffee shops, yoga studios and condos. It’s been cleaned up, but not gentrified. Instead there is a sterile overlay where there was once an oddly appealing ecosystem. Itinerants of all kinds, addicts, Ladies of the Evening, Bikers, and other “creatures of the night” whose existence was far from Bohemian, but not uninteresting. Gone are the fedora wearing “Lowriders” with the Wayfarers and almost-vintage cars. They were all something, but the void has not been filled. There are no signs of pending construction, or even anything for sale. Abandonment is the theme.
Wienerschnitzel was such a treat. It ensured behavior during endless Sunday church services by visiting it as an incentive. Especially during those too brief winters, when it offered an oasis of warmth and relief. It’s still there, but the visit was only slightly redeemed by a heated argument between the staff and an irate customer involving forty nine cents. The interior was soulless plastic and no cushion. Staff were despondent and sullen (until confronted with accusations of financial chicanery; they then became animated and showed true coworker solidarity!). The “food” was barely palatable, and I still apologize to my children for the nutritional abuse they suffered on that day. The Sunrise Mall (now being demolished) was on its last leg; no serious food court or mainstream retailers. Padre Staples Mall has been rebranded as La Palmera. It offers nothing more that a generic mall in “Anywhere USA” would. Away from the beachfront, there is a less sterile Corpus Christ. But the neglect here is not benign; many homes are in need of renovation or complete demolition. Roofs sag, porches tilt, and yards are parking lots for cars that haven’t moved since the first term of George W Bush. Graffiti abounds, but none of it artsy or decorative; it clearly marks territory. Gone are Feudo Foods and Handy Andy’s with the meat, produce and cooking staples. Now Family Dollar offers empty carbohydrates and refined sugars in boxes. Small “Tex-Mex” restaurants are still around, some good, many not and all are overpriced.
The overall combination of stagnation, sterility and visible decline permeated the air. But is this assessment fair? Was it as great as I remember, and am I overly critical and disappointed that my nostalgia wasn’t confirmed? Hard to say. I may well have purposely clouded the lens I look through with shades of jade.

Memories Lost to Oblivion
The Siege of Forty
Where am I from? Factually born in San Antonio. I grew up in Austin. However, that’s not where my story really starts.
Memphis, Tennessee—to the world, a city of music; a place of joy, to me, a monument to a stolen past. It is a graveyard for a life I wish to prune away, a sterile reminder of the childhood I surrendered to be “cured.” It is a second home I no longer want to visit. Yet every other year I’m forced to journey back.
I HATE it.
It began with a younger me, or so I’m told. A boy whose vitality was under a constant, predatory siege: Epilepsy. To describe it is to describe a literal oblivion. It wasn’t a rare occurrence; it was a relentless rhythm. Forty times a month, the world would simply cease to exist. And it feeds on him.
Think of that—more than once a day, every single day, the sun would be extinguished. My location, my actions, my very thoughts—plundered by a neurological shadow. I would wake hazy, a stranger in my own skin, asking the same desperate questions: “Where am I? What happened?” And with every lapse, another fragment of my history was eroded. It was a daily theft of my soul, a curse that refused to be sated until it had taken forty pieces of me every thirty days.
I remember a story I was told but have no recollection of. I wake up, look around the room, and wonder, Whose toys are those? My parents look at me heartbroken. They are mine from the Christmas just before. Another history lost to oblivion, to my neurological shadow.
The Clinical Trials
My family searched for a sanctuary and found it in Memphis. They found the white knight who will cure me. But the “cure” was a marathon of clinical trials that demanded years of my youth. I remember being surrounded by specialists who spoke a dense, impenetrable dialect of medicine—talking about me as if I were a puzzle to be solved rather than a boy.
The rooms held cold, unforgiving tools that made me wonder what I was truly in for.
I wanna go home is all I think. To something that’s familiar.
They glued leaden wires into my hair, binding me to monitors like a puppet. Finally, there was the machine—a claustrophobic, humming void where movement was forbidden. These were the trials I endured just to reclaim a childhood that was already slipping through my fingers.
The Stranger in the Mirror
The day finally came. After years of work, the sudden descents into the dark finally stopped. I left Memphis no longer a boy, but a hallowed survivor. I was free, but that freedom cost me the very years I was trying to save.
Now, I am haunted by a profound disconnection. People speak to me of a boy I don’t remember. They offer me “nostalgia”—pictures, videos, and stories—but I feel nothing. I look at the child in those photos and see a phantom. I have to nod and perform the role of someone who remembers, pretending I know the boy they are mourning. There is no warmth in these memories, only the cold realization that the forty-fold theft took him before the doctors could save me.
The Bitter Victory
I look at my past with a shattered gratitude. I am thankful the “Oblivion” is gone, but I loathe the city that holds the remains of my youth. I want to forget and move on, but the tether remains. I am forced to return to Memphis, to walk its streets and be reminded of the vacuum where my childhood should have been. I found my cure, but I lost myself in the process.
This is who I am: a boy who had to grow up early, a man who is not ready for the world, a vessel still looking for his soul.

I’ve lived in the same neighborhood my entire life. I used to feel as though I was a mocking bird stuck in his fledgling stage, trapped in a condensed area with overprotection. My mother used to always tell me, “Each sunrise marks the start of a new day, providing a clean slate for a new chapter to be written.” As much as I wanted to believe her, I was never able to write a new chapter. Every sunrise looked the same. I eventually started to just sleep through them. There was nothing worth waking up for, and when I would finally wake, I would be jolted awake by an alarm. I dreamed of a time that I could wake up peacefully and happily greet my neighbors at the start of my day. Eventually I decided sunrises didn’t matter. I wanted to be like a mocking bird at sunrise, so I decided to migrate. I wanted to hear a Texas mocking bird sing its part in the dawn chorus

I wanted to live where even the smallest of creatures have importance in their community. I wanted to be in a land where just existing was the criteria to fit in and be appreciated. I wish that I could live in a place where hostility and violence within my community would be a necessity for survival, not an excuse for hate. I wanted to be in a world where every bit of life had a mutual understanding of their role in their environment. A universe where beauty was subjective and not a deciding factor of finding love.

Sadly, it seems that places like that are becoming more of a dream. Even for mocking birds. Maybe they are the unlucky ones. Every tree that gets cut down for construction of houses, begins the demolition of a neighborhood. Millions of lives in the wilderness were forced to evacuate and find a new home and travel through miles upon miles of land that is no longer familiar.

I wanted to connect with nature and visit my neglected neighbors and explore the little land they have left. I decided to walk through a trail at sunset. and try to process every little detail from the remains of a vandalized work of art. It felt as though I was passing through an oasis of what was once a highly populated and welcoming society.

My migration was cut short when I was awoken by rhythmic patterns and sounds. However, it sounded unnatural. It sounded like an orchestra that was conducted by someone who had lost all sense of creativity. When I opened my eyes, I slowly turned my head like an owl questioning its wisdom. After surveying the environment, I saw visual relief fill my parents face. They knew their little fledgling was safe and didn’t wander off too far. When we got back home, I decided to take in the sunrise, and as I heard a Texas mocking bird sing its part in the dawn chorus, I felt ashamed to be its neighbor.

The ache in his jaw is unbearable. His canines protrude, scraping the dead skin of his cracked lips. Attempting to swallow only irritates the dry lump in his throat. He can’t catch his breath despite his short, focused inhales. He needs to find shelter, quickly.

The desert sun is beginning to rise. The night’s frost is slowly melting. He can hear the shuffling of critters stirring, but nothing large enough for him to feed. Hunters ran him out of the last town before he could book a room for the night, much less find a suitable meal. He’s spent his entire waking hours losing the bullets on his tail. He doesn’t have much time before his lightheaded hunger grows ravenous.

Wisps of orange light lead him to the outskirts of a small town. It’s about another thirty miles for a place to rest, but he can’t risk getting caught again. The outskirts are decrepit and abandoned. A few shacks with their roofs caved in and a simple rundown church. He doesn’t sense anyone nearby except a few chickens snoring in a coop several yards away from the church. His stomach eats away at itself. The pain is getting worse; he’ll have to stop here.

Cautiously, he pulls the cloak to cover his face and opens the church doors. It’s quite small, just enough for a few rows of pews and a pulpit for the priest to give service. He walks down the aisle to place his traveling bags away from the two stained glass windows on either side of the building. It was dark now, but there was no telling how much light could seep in come noon. He’d have to keep himself covered in his cloak and sleep under a pew just in case.

When he glances up, Christ is nailed to His cross, looking down on him. The ache of his hunger is forgotten in favor of the pain in his chest.

Despite how long it’s been, the wound feels fresh. The papers’ printing about the anniversary only fueled the flames. Hunters are recognizing much sooner. Cities are panicking, and surveillance is at an all-time high. Families have been interviewed, recalling the lives of their loved ones so their memories wouldn’t be forgotten. All of those people he killed, the weight of his sins haunts him more than anyone would know. He shouldn’t be reading any of it; it only depresses him further, but he had to learn their stories. He must carry the responsibility and pain of those he hurt.

He’s never been the praying type, but he finds himself walking to the first pew. He kicks out the stand and kneels before Him. With his hands clasped, he bows his head and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t pray for forgiveness; he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Instead, he prays that those he hurt have found their way to Heaven. He prays for the safety of those loved ones left behind. Men, women, children, siblings, grandparents, everyone.

His mind begins to wander into unwelcome feelings. Shame and rage bubbled in his stomach. Self-loathing has become a familiar friend, leading to useless stunts like failing to rip out his teeth. He knows now the consequences of refusing to feed. As much as he never wanted this life, God chose it for him, and he must learn to accept it.

Yet the screaming and crying rings in his ears, night after night. The warm, sticky blood that coated his hands and mouth stuck under his skin. In his dreams, he’s desperately scrubbing and scratching the blood off, only for it to spread over his entire body. He wakes gasping, choking on tears before falling into fitful sleep once more.

He hates the creature he has become. If he had been strong enough to stop the man who bit him, they wouldn’t have had to die. More than anything, he wanted to be an honest man. No one had the right to choose who lived or died. Even if it was now for his survival. He sinned the moment he couldn’t satiate his first hunger, and he’d spend the rest of his life making up for it. He owed it to those people to survive. He won’t let their lives be in vain.

He’s broken out of his prayer by a creaking floorboard. Startled, he raises his head to meet the eyes of a young priest, standing at the pulpit. The priest gives him a knowing smile.

“Awful early to be repenting before the priest can even open the church doors now, ain’t it?”

A shiver runs down his spine. No one should have been able to make it past him. Even as the priest begins to walk towards him, he can’t hear any footsteps.

He fibbed with a sheepish smile.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry, Father! It’s been a long night of traveling and I needed some guidance from our Lord before heading into town.”

This is bad; he needs to leave now.

“I didn’t mean to startle ya. I appreciate a man who knows how important it is to build a connection with God. Morning prayer is the first step to a fulfilling life.”

The priest stops beside the pew he’s kneeling on. Any sudden movements would reveal him too soon. Hunger is still gnawing at his stomach. He needs to act quickly if he wants them both to make it out alive.

“Of course, Father. As much as I like to join you for service, I’m afraid I must get going now.”

He goes to stand up, but the priest is suddenly behind him, pushing his shoulders back down.

“No need to rush. You seem upset, a bit rattled even. It wouldn’t be right of me to let you go without lending you some comfort. You came to be forgiven, right? I can hear your confession now before ya leave. Shed your sins and leave a new man.”

He forces a laugh.

“Must we really do it here? Don’t we need a confessional booth?”

The priest chuckles darkly.

“It’s a bit too small to cram a booth in here. But if you really needed a push…”

A rush of air is all the warning he gets before a wooden stake is at his throat. The hood of his cloak is grasped tightly in the priest’s hand, keeping him in place.

“Alright now… what is it that you’d like to confess, Vampire?”

The vampire raises his head to meet the priest’s eyes. A cold glare has replaced the fake pleasantries. The painful reminder of what he is and the hatred from a loving child of God stings more than ever. He keeps his mouth shut.

“I assume you’re here to feed on another town, then? What is it now, the fifth anniversary? You must be feeling pretty antsy after so long, but your reign of terror ends here.”

Before the stake can pierce his heart, the vampire slips out of his cloak and into the aisle.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I really must go.”

The priest whirled around to face him and lunged. He’s much too weak to flee fast enough, just barely dodging the stake as they both hit the ground. The priest goes on the offensive, avoiding the vampire’s mouth while the vampire attempts to find an opening to run. The speed and strength to even keep up with attacking a weakened vampire make it clear what he’s fighting against.

“If it’s the bounty you want, hunter, I’ll pay you double. Please, I have to leave now,” he cried out.

The priest lets out a startled laugh.

“I’m sorry to say, I haven’t been a hunter in a long time. I don’t need your money. I have people I need to protect.”

“Please, I’m begging you, if you want to keep them safe you have to let me go!”

The ache in his jaw is all he can feel. The adrenaline pumping through the priest’s blood is calling to him. Despite the priest’s determination to kill him, he can smell the terror. The priest is just another human trying to survive, willing to die trying to protect those he loves. The priest knows he’s no match for him. It’d be so easy to flip their positions and feed, but he can’t, he won’t do it. Perhaps this is his fate. Maybe the only way to repent for his sins is to die by the hands of God’s child.

As they continue to struggle, the first rays of the morning sun shine through the windows. The vampire takes in a breath, gagging on the stench of illness and decay several yards away. A rooster begins to crow loudly. A desperate idea forms.

The vampire gathers the last of his strength to overpower the priest, tossing him a few feet away. The priest groans in pain. The vampire quickly ties the priest’s hands with his cloak and holds a hand to the man’s throat. He can feel the priest’s pulse against his palm, but ignores the temptation.

“Those chickens, how many are sick?”

The priest just scowls at him.

“You can’t eat any diseased hens or their eggs, just tell me how many are sick. I’ll take them and leave town. Please, we don’t have any more time. I need blood now. If I don’t feed soon, everyone you love will die. Please, Father, I’m begging you.”

As much as it pains him, he squeezes the priest’s neck harder. It’s a last-ditch effort to get through to him how dangerous the circumstances are. How quickly the vampire can kill him right here and now if he doesn’t agree.

The priest slumps in defeat, but his resolve doesn’t break.

“Let’s go.”

The vampire takes his hand off the priest’s neck. He doesn’t have time to blink before the priest’s hands are untied and the cloak is over his head. The priest wraps an arm around his neck and presses the stake into his back.

“Walk out the door.”

They awkwardly shuffle outside and several yards to an outdoor chicken coop outside a shabby house. The priest uses one hand to open the door. The chickens cluck excitedly and begin filing out of the coop.

“The only sick hen is the one in the back. Grab it.”

The vampire takes the hen into his arms. It doesn’t even fight back. The poor thing is so tired, she likely will die this afternoon. He holds her close to his chest.

The priest walks them out of the coop and away from the house. They’re on the side of the church, facing the desert and blocking the house from view. He guesses the priest’s family must live there. He’ll do his best to avoid it when finding somewhere else to hide. The priest finally loosens the headlock, but presses the stake harder into his back.

“Leave now. If you ever come back into this town again, I’ll kill you.”

The vampire turns in the priest’s hold.

“You’re a good man, Father. I’m grateful for your kindness. You’ll never see me again.”

The vampire slips away into the desert. The priest watches him go until he’s a speck on the horizon.

The priest’s heart thuds in his chest and ears. The moment the vampire vanishes, he runs.

The priest rushes back to the shabby house. He locks the doors and windows. The caretakers panic when he warns them about the vampire in the church. He forces the orphanage into a lockdown. Guarding the perimeter as the children play inside all day, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking. He circles the area over and over again with no signs of the vampire returning.

It was idiotic how close he let that creature get to the children. If he knew about the chickens, he had to have known they were just a few feet away.

But he couldn’t let the vampire kill him. There’d be no one else to protect everyone; he had to make that deal, consequences be damned. Nevermind the depressed and defeated look in the vampire’s eyes. The desperation and fear the creature had of his own damn self, ignoring his own obvious hunger to bargain for one sick chicken rather than feed from the dozen people.

It was stupid to feel anything for something that wasn’t even human. Yet the way the vampire silently cried as he prayed said otherwise.

The priest doesn’t get any sleep that night, silently waiting downstairs, regretting ever letting the vampire leave alive.

At dawn, the priest hears shuffling at the front door. Cautiously, he opens it. No one is there, but he can feel someone watching him. He glances down to find a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread.

He looks around to find that lingering presence, finding nothing. Deep in the shadows, the vampire watches as the priest searches for him. As the rooster crows and dawn rises, the vampire slips away.