Category: Stories

“The Graves of Saint Paul” published at Hotel by Masticadores

On By Mike U.In Stories14 Comments

Hello, everyone. My new short creative nonfiction story titled  “The Graves of Saint Paul” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. I’m truly grateful to editor Michelle Navajas for sharing this piece with her readers at Hotel. It’s a bit of an anomaly for me as I generally write poetry exclusively. Back in my younger days (prior to giving up writing for twenty years out of frustration), prose was my vehicle for expressing myself, and although none of my fictional pieces from my early years found a home at a publishing house, they still hold meaning for me. It was a thrill to actually complete a short story again after thirty-three years, and I hope this is only the beginning and that more will come. This piece is based on elements of fact, with a bit of creative license included. Thanks a bunch, Michelle, for this opportunity.

“The Graves of Saint Paul”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

“My mother lay in the ground at my feet beneath sun-bleached summer grass and faded plastic flowers and a headstone I hadn’t seen for nearly ten years. Her name, Victoria, clung to the gray stone above a bas-relief of pines and wild flowers and blue birds. She’d asked for a cross on her headstone—made it clear to everyone that she desired her faith to be front and center after she died—but my father, in his infinite malice and pettiness, had chosen some random wilderness picture rather than honor her wish. Just one more reason I hated him.

And now, his name sullied my mother’s headstone.

Ten years. Ten years of shame and regret. I hadn’t visited my mother since the headstone was erected shortly after her burial. For months after her death, I made excuses to avoid the trip to town, to the cemetery. At first, it was too raw, too soon. Maybe in a few weeks, a month or two, then I could do it. And then my life flipped upside-down again and I relocated out-of-state unexpectedly and that felt like a more legitimate reason, but I always intended to visit her grave like a good son should. Except…except maybe I wasn’t such a good son after all…”

You can read the rest of my story here:

“The Graves of Saint Paul” by Michael L. Utley

Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.

“The Graves of Saint Paul”

On By Mike U.In Stories51 Comments

“The Graves of Saint Paul”

© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

My mother lay in the ground at my feet beneath sun-bleached summer grass and faded plastic flowers and a headstone I hadn’t seen for nearly ten years. Her name, Victoria, clung to the gray stone above a bas-relief of pines and wild flowers and blue birds. She’d asked for a cross on her headstone—made it clear to everyone that she desired her faith to be front and center after she died—but my father, in his infinite malice and pettiness, had chosen some random wilderness picture rather than honor her wish. Just one more reason I hated him.

And now, his name sullied my mother’s headstone.

Ten years. Ten years of shame and regret. I hadn’t visited my mother since the headstone was erected shortly after her burial. For months after her death, I made excuses to avoid the trip to town, to the cemetery. At first, it was too raw, too soon. Maybe in a few weeks, a month or two, then I could do it. And then my life flipped upside-down again and I relocated out-of-state unexpectedly and that felt like a more legitimate reason, but I always intended to visit her grave like a good son should. Except…except maybe I wasn’t such a good son after all.

When my father died two years later, that settled the issue, and I knew I’d never be able to look at that headstone now that it was desecrated by his name.

David. Wife-beater. Monster.

And yet, here I was, standing at the foot of the grave that held my mother’s bones and my father’s ashes, the midday sun hidden behind a thick overcast sky, rivulets of sweat accumulating beneath my baseball cap and running down my back, the world almost completely silent in my deafness, the scent of grass clippings in the still air. Here they were, together again, this time for eternity. My mother could never escape my father in life, and in death he had finally ensnared her forever.

I stood there, motionless as the stones that rose from this small acreage of sorrow, my mind blank, my eyes dry (still no tears after all these years–what’s wrong with me?), and my dead heart buried in my chest. I don’t know how long I was lost in that moment—time flows differently in places of death; sometimes it doesn’t flow at all. Not knowing what else to do, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom…” and lowered my head. I couldn’t bear the thought of my mother witnessing my guilt-ridden face anymore.

A few moments later, I noticed an old fellow approaching, moving gingerly among rows of crosses not far from my parents’ plot. He wore dull green overalls and a sweat-stained cap, the name Pablo embroidered on the left side of his chest, grass-stained work gloves jammed in his pocket, the butt of a Marlboro between thin lips, eyes buried in a crevasse of wrinkles. He stood beside me for a long moment, studying my parents’ headstone, then glanced at me and spoke.

I motioned that I was deaf—a little finger-dance between my right ear and lips, and pulled a small tablet and pen from my pocket and mimed for him to write instead of speak. He smiled and nodded and wrote, “Your family?”

After a pause, “My parents.”

Another nod, and this time he scrawled, “Victoria is a beautiful name, amigo.”

I looked at him closely. He was old, perhaps my parents’ age (if they still lived), and I wondered why the town would allow a fellow who was obviously pushing his mid-80s to tend the cemetery.

As if reading my mind, the man wrote, “I come here every day. Tend the plots, cut a little grass, gather the broken flowers—the dead deserve better, yes?–and talk to my Maria.” He pointed a crooked finger toward a cluster of pines and crosses. His attention lingered there for a bit, then he looked at me, his expression indeterminate, as though he were in deep thought.

“Your father,” he wrote. “David. I knew him.”

A gust of wind kicked up a few plastic flowers from a nearby grave, scattering them across the walking path. The man took a drag on his cigarette and eyed me intensely, then put pen to paper.

“Yes, I knew your father. Ese malvado matón… That cruel bully…”

I felt a headache germinating inside my skull and closed my eyes. A memory—completely unbidden—flashed in my mind, startling in its vividness and urgency.

“Michael.” My father calling me. I am twelve years old. My father sits on the sofa, an old photo album spread open on his lap. It is early evening, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen, my sisters chattering at the table. Some random sitcom plays on the hulking console television, a comedy laugh track in the background. I go to my father, terrified. What have I done this time? I wonder. He is grinning. This frightens me even more. “Look here,” he says, pointing a grease-stained finger at an old black-and-white photograph. My father smells of diesel and sweat and cigarettes. I am wary of his every move. It is a school picture dated 1949. My father’s second-grade class photograph. A dozen children stand stiffly, awkwardly, at attention before a run-down one-room shack, an elderly woman with a severe expression hovering beside them. “That’s me, right there.” His dirty finger moves to a dark-haired, cowlicked boy in a soiled white t-shirt with a missing incisor on the left. On the television, a man is arguing with a woman about a dog. “Now, see this little Mexican kid here?” He points to a diminutive Latino boy huddling in a ball at the far right, a dull expression on his grainy round face. “I used to beat the hell out of that kid every day at school.” My father grins wider, shark-like, and laughs. On the television, canned applause explodes and a commercial break begins. I swallow. I stare at the small boy with tousled black hair and knee-patched trousers and striped shirt, and all I can say is, “What was his name?” And my father beams at me. “Who gives a shit?”

I began to speak, but the old man waved me off. “Ah…it was many years ago, do not worry,” he wrote. “Life is long and hard, and we learn much or we don’t learn anything. Who’s to say?”

“Pablo. Your name is Pablo…”

A nod, a flick of the pen. “Yes, little Pablo, el niño pequeño. I was small, but quick. And I survived.”

“My father tormented you, and all these years I wondered who you were, what your name was, and why.”

“Amigo,” he wrote, “sometimes there is no why. Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes we must endure until we can fight back or escape.” His eyes softened. “If you’re looking for logic or sense in this lifetime, you’re on a fool’s errand. Just live. Just let go and live.”

“I don’t think I can…”

The old man flipped the page over and scribbled, “Look out there at all these graves, all these lives. Years and decades and centuries, gone and forgotten. But not quite, for old Pablo remembers them, old Pablo cares for them. When we are remembered, we live, and when we are remembered fondly, we live gloriously! Your mother–” and the old man motioned toward her headstone, “she is not gone. She remains forever in your heart because you love her. And she knows this.” He looked at me firmly. “And no matter what your father has done, he will never change her love for you. Trust me on this, amigo. I am old and wise, although my Maria might disagree with the latter.” He winked.

I glanced again at my mother’s name. It looked beautiful on the headstone. I will remember you well, Mom, I said to myself. The old man penned one final note on the tablet then returned it to me, squeezed my shoulder, and headed back to his Maria beneath the pines.

Just live. Just let go and live.

…..

Excerpt of Titan Quest fan-fiction story published at Gobblers by Masticadores

On By Mike U.In Stories30 Comments

Hey, friends. This piece is a bit different from all of my other pieces published on my blog or at Masticadores. Manuela Timofte, the estimable Editor of Gobblers by Masticadores, was kind enough to publish an excerpt of an untitled, unfinished piece of fan-fiction I wrote a few years ago when I was a moderator at a leading website for the PC game Titan Quest. We had a Stories section on the forum where players would post their stories about the game or any other topic. I began this tale and ended up with more than 7,800 words before finally hitting the wall and was unable to finish. I had a novel in mind; this is just a short excerpt from the beginning. So, it’s a glimpse into my style of prose-writing for those of you who may be interested in checking it out.

Excerpt from Untitled, Unfiished Titan Quest Fan-fiction Story
(c) 2011 by Michael L Utley

“The blade slipped quietly from the man’s sweaty grasp, taking soundless ages to hit the earth with a thud so faint not even the carrion birds took notice. It lay in the dust, stained with crimson and gore, like some ancient and eldritch dragon’s tooth, testament to the day’s labors…to his life’s labors. The westering sun turned the blade to fire for a time and then took refuge behind a scud of clouds, dimming the world and all in it…”

You can read the rest of this story exerpt here:

Short Fiction Excerpt: Titan Quest Fan-fiction

.Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.

“Flight of Icarus”

On By Mike U.In Stories8 Comments

(Author’s note: This is a story I wrote years ago which, after having earned its share of rejection slips, was filed away and forgotten. I enjoyed writing it, and I’m still fond of it despite its wonky sci-fi tropes, so I thought I’d post it here.)

…..

“Flight of Icarus”

(c) 1992 by Michael L. Utley

“Show me again…” The blonde stretched cat-like under the metallic-blue silk sheets, her hair a golden aurora about her high-boned face. Crimson lacquered nails beat a nervous, expectant tattoo on her sternum as she spoke, eyes the hue of overcast autumn skies steady, intense.

Gilt stood above her, buttoning his weather-worn light jacket. He noticed the tiny specks of white powder about her nostrils and a faint wave of revulsion swept over him. Her eyes, her stormcloud eyes… He imagined he saw minute flashes of angry blue lightning deep inside them, lightning strengthened by the drug but spawned by something else. He paused, checking to see if her right wrist was still handcuffed to the bedpost. It was.

“It’s late,” he said, but he began unbuttoning his jacket as he sat on the bed. Outside, distant sirens wailed senselessly, eternally, in the darkness beneath Grand Dome. The muted patter of rain drifted down from above as it had for the past three hours. Sporadic bursts of brilliant blue ball lightning (or was it that damned artillery? He no longer seemed to care) illuminated the interior of the room, throwing harsh shadows against the water-stained walls.

“You gotta go somewhere?” The blonde laughed. “Like where you gonna go on a night like this? Can’t you hear ‘em out there? They won’t stop just to let you through,” she said, grinning her gleaming, stoned grin.

Gilt said nothing. He removed his jacket and tugged off his black turtleneck. Sweat ran freely down his temples. The girl, whose name was Tassandra (he glanced briefly at the name and number inelegantly scrolled on her forehead—they all seemed to be marked nowadays, he thought), was right on that count, but he didn’t plan on hanging around much longer, artillery or no artillery. Besides, the street fighting had moved over into the Northeast Quadrant and, while fierce, was not an immediate threat here in Southwest Grand Dome.

Tassandra pulled herself up to a half-sitting position atop the pillows, the sheet spilling off her chest and exposing pert, upturned breasts. A small golden ring dangled from her pierced left nipple.

Gilt went to work removing a faded red t-shirt with an odd series of numbers on the left breast. The blonde had asked about these numbers earlier, but he had declined to explain them to her. He’d told no one about his stint on that god-forsaken rock which the authorities had so quaintly referred to as the Greater Io Penal Colony, and he didn’t plan on taking a shovel to his past to satisfy some cheap hooker. Besides, that had been five years ago, and even though there was still no statute of limitations concerning jailbreak, he’d managed to lay low this long. And low he’d stay.

“Why do you wear so many goddam shirts, anyway?” Tassandra asked, reaching across her pale breasts with her free left hand to grab the smoldering cigarette on the bedstand. “If it was me, I’d be proud of ‘em, show ‘em off, you know?” She took a deep drag on the cigarette, then expelled a faint cloud of pink smoke.

Because what I’ve got is highly illegal, he wanted to say. He sighed inwardly, congratulating himself on picking such a winner this time. He guessed the chick was too busy flat on her back all the time to pay attention to such trivial things as legal codes. Yeah, baby, he mused, what I’ve got could get me shot on the spot, no questions asked. Years ago, the sentence had been merely life in one of the penal colonies on Io and Europa or on one of the bigger asteroids, but lobbying by the World Congress had changed all that ten years ago. And so, as she had so profoundly stated, he wore a lot of shirts.

The faded red shirt slipped over his head and the lone remaining covering was a dull metallic sleeveless t-shirt made from some sort of green support fabric. A zipper ran up the front, and as Gilt prepared to unzip, Tassandra interrupted.

“Let me…if you don’t mind.” She reached for him but her handcuffed right hand held her back. A mild look of desperation crossed her face, and she grunted as she strained for him.

“Here,” he said, moving closer, not to please her but to prevent any kind of unwanted scene. It’s that new coke, he thought, that new stuff that no one really understood yet, not even the makers. Unpredictable.

Long, slender fingers grasped the small zip-tab and slowly pulled down. The girl moaned unconsciously, her stormy eyes now lit by some weird interior light, some caustic craving, some toxic lust. He wanted to pull away, but he remained moveless. She was just a cheap, ignorant prostitute. Let her have her thrill. Besides, how many people could say they’d fucked a man with—

“Ahhh…” she groaned. “There we are.” She settled back amid the pillows again as Gilt stood to remove the garment. The shade on the bedlamp interrupted the light, throwing him in shadows from the neck up. He peeled the dull green shirt off his chest with a faint static popping sound, then slipped out of it entirely.

“Turn around so I can see,” Tassandra commanded, her breath coming in quick little gasps.

Gilt turned slowly and faced the window and the night beyond. Dim whistles of mortar and muted explosions shook the night, but the rain seemed to hold dominion over all. Now and again the strange ball lightning lit up the troubled horizon, revealing a jagged landscape of towering spires, smoking craters and enormous pyramids. Puffy contrails of passing K-119s stretched like spider webs across the patches of velvety blackness when the lightning flashed, and for a moment he remembered the caves beneath the penal colony which he’d used to escape, the caverns which stretched for kilometers just beneath the surface of Io. And he recalled the things which inhabited them, big, clumsy, blind things which hid in lairs of webs. He shuddered.

Behind him, Tassandra moaned again.

He’d become accustomed to the Freakshow Effect, as some of his people had deemed it: the sensation of being inside a glass jar as spectators milled around, trying to decide just what in the hell you were. He’d never paraded himself like some of the others had; he’d kept hidden his anomaly, had tried to stay within the rut of normalcy. But there were the inevitable occasions on which he’d had to reveal himself, and the reaction was always the same. First shock, then wonder, then something akin to clinical awe, all held together by thick strands of revulsion. It was all-eyes-and-no-hands on the part of the viewers, as if they were afraid whatever he had was catching. And the hookers always reacted the same way, but after their kind. A little bit of disgust, soon displaced by a whole lot of lust. That was something he could never figure out, and he’d stopped trying years ago.

“Spread them for me,” spoke Tassandra from behind him.

He closed his eyes and mopped his brow with a rough, calloused hand. Be a good dog and spread them for me, the thought, but he obeyed. He flexed certain muscles on his upper back and along his shoulder blades, and the leathery flaps extended themselves out past his shoulders. Small, stubby, finger-like talons clawed lazily at the humid air as he mimicked the effect of a breeze under his wings. The mottled flesh was darker than that of his body, almost smoky-black, and each wing stretched about three feet to either side of his torso. Kinky, pubic-like hair grew along the folds of the useless appendages, and each time an artillery shell or a flash of lightning would light up the sky outside, a roadmap of veins and arteries became visible, prevalent moreso on the insides of the flaps.

“You like?” Gilt asked, trying to sound cheery but failing miserably. Actually, he felt like getting the hell out of there as soon as possible. Revealing himself always made him nervous and paranoid.

“Oh…I love them.” Her tone suggested his wings were a more powerful aphrodisiac than that potent new coke she’d snorted an hour ago. “They make me wet.”

He relaxed the span and turned to face her. One look at her told him of his effect on her. Her face was hot and high color rode her cheekbones like angry sunsets. Her stormcloud eyes were dark and looming and hungry, and they seemed to hold his in a tractor beam.

A long moment passed and then, as if some spell had been broken, Tassandra blushed and lowered her eyes. Gilt waited.

Finally: “Who are you…really?” Her voice was almost shy.

Gilt sat on the bed and reached for his green undershirt. “You don’t want to know.”

“Wait. Don’t. Please, not yet…” She placed her free hand on his right arm, preventing him from clothing himself. “I just…I just was curious, that’s all.”

He regarded her for a moment and then draped the undershirt across his knee. Outside, the scream of mortar tore through the night. He wondered, not for the first time since his arrival on Mars not long ago, when one of those bastards was going to blow a hole right through the Dome. One hell of a cease-fire that would create. He blew a soft puff of air through his lips. “I’m not a local. I’m an off-worlder.”

“You’re from Earth?” Her eyes lit up, as if some forgotten memory had resurfaced in her mind.

“Yeah. The States. At least, they used to call them that, before the damned World Congress took over. That was all quite a few years ago, and it’s been nothing but trouble there since.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“It’s…” he faltered. If he went on, he’d end up having to tell her more than he wanted. But, really, where was the problem in telling her the truth? Maybe it was true she was just a backworld tramp with a bottom-rung government-subsidized job, but she wasn’t asking much. Not too much. “It’s nothing but a big witch-hunt back there now. The World Congress…it’s a theocracy. I don’t know what happened exactly, but basically everybody’s so flipped-out over their much-beloved world leader that they treat him like a god. They worship the crazy lunatic. The whole planet is crazy. Except for a few, like me.”

“Like…you?” She motioned hesitantly at his collapsed wings, fingers reaching for but not quite daring to touch the dry flaps.

“Yeah, like me. There were other groups that went underground when the witch-hunts started. Mostly the few remaining practicing religious fundamentalists. They got it bad from the start. Just like the Holocaust.”

Tassandra’s eyes registered no knowledge of what that event was.

“But others got it bad as well,” he continued. “My kind…” He closed his eyes at the memories of the horrors back home. “The wings. The medical establishment called it the Icarus Syndrome. Couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t trace it genetically no matter how hard they tried. Some kind of mutation, they said. Could pop up unexpectedly anywhere. Just a weird medical anomaly. There were colonies of my kind, motley conglomerates from all races who…suffered, I guess you could say, from this unexplainable mutation. There were a very few who had functional wings—“

“They could fly? Actually fly?” Tassandra’s eyes were huge with odd, wistful glee.

“They could fly. And they were the ones who got the high and mighty World Congress after us. The damned World Congress…fanatics, heretics, lunatics… It was like the Inquisition way back when. You see,” Gilt said, suddenly feeling a great need to get this off his chest where the injustice of the situation had festered far too long, “their President, a self-proclaimed Hand of God on Earth, decided, on the basis of his cut-and-paste theology, that the Pit had finally opened and had spewed forth its obscenities.” His eyes were steady and tortured. “They declared us demons. Because of our wings.”

Tassandra said nothing. She simply sat there with mouth agape.

“They hunted us down, tortured us, threw us in prison. Their agents were all over the place. They’d raid our colonies at night, plunder our settlements, scatter their propaganda everywhere in the form of tracts and graffiti. Stormtrooper tactics. Prison camps. You name it, we got it. Some of the lucky ones were privileged enough to get an all-expense paid trip to the Greater Io and Europa Penal Colonies, where their quacks ran experiments on us, picked us apart, cut here, sewed there, grafts, drugs, anything. The ones they cut up got it easy. They were destroyed. All the rest, mandatory life sentences.”

“But you? What about you?” Her voice was soft and strained, as if someone were in the next room monitoring their conversation.

“Escaped. Greater Io Penal Colony just didn’t count on having to deal with someone with a little intelligence. The escape itself wasn’t that difficult, but it was hell waiting for the right moment. I ended up a stow-away on a supply ship headed back to Earth. Once back, I jumped another freighter headed off-world, anywhere.”

Gilt tugged on the dull green support shirt, tucking his wings neatly underneath as he zipped it up. He stood and pulled on the faded prison t-shirt.

“Did you have family on Earth, in the colonies? Did you go back to them?”

“No family. Nothing. Besides,” he said, slipping the black turtleneck over his sweat-moistened brown hair, “they changed the law while I was on The Rock. No more life sentences. Now, anytime someone like me shows up at a cocktail party or a bridge game, they don’t even ask questions. They crucify them. Fitting, in a way, considering that the head of the judiciary committee is also the head of the church.”

Tassandra considered this for a moment, and then she uttered a strange, almost self-conscious laugh.

“What now?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” Tassandra said, “but I just keep associating wings with feathers.”

“I’m not a fucking bird. I’m a human being. What did you expect?” His response was perhaps a little too harsh.

“Nothing, I guess,” she answered, lowering her eyes.

Gilt paused in the middle of buttoning his jacket, sighed, and said, “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s not your fault. None of this shit’s your fault…”

“It’s okay.”

Gilt finished the last button and walked across the room to the window. Without the jacket, he looked a little hunch-backed, but the layers of support garments and the loose-fitting flight jacket he’d picked up from a Grand Dome street merchant gave him the appearance of normality. He reached into his pocket and brought out several brightly colored plastic chips, set four orange ones down on the dresser, thought for a moment, and added a red. With that, he looked back and said, “I better run.”

Tassandra met his brown eyes with her own gray ones and said, “Where to now, Gilt? Where do you go from here?” Again, that strange, longing expression rendered her face almost vulnerable.

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I honestly don’t.” He went to the door and before he left he tossed a small silver key to her. She one-handed it. The handcuff key. She would use it after Gilt left to free herself before she telecommed Port Authority to report another Icarus sighting. “Good-bye, Tassandra.”

She smiled. “Good-bye, Gilt.”

He left.

Gilt strode out of the hotel into the pouring rain. Distant, muffled explosions echoed in the night, and Gilt reflected somberly that, like death and disease, war had followed man to the stars. It was impossible to separate the race from its humanity, and hate and violence and prejudice too often seemed to be at the core of man’s dark heart. Besides, he mused, what was civilization without war and hate? That paradox brought an ironic grin to his lips. He stopped and craned his face up into the cool drops of water, marveling at the fact that it was raining here inside the Dome. The rest of Mars was dead, except for the experimental terraforming sectors, but the climate-control specialists had certainly earned their pay when they’d constructed the Grand Dome. War or not, it was something.

He walked down the street, not minding at all the rain trickling down his face and neck. His mood was pensive, and he gazed up into the rain as he walked, seeking fruitlessly for the stars through the thick cloud cover. The stars… They called, and he would answer, as he always had. His wings were useless, but there were other ways to fly. And he knew he must do so soon.

Tassandra’s eyes. They’d spoken volumes.

She would give him time, he knew. He’d been kind to her, and while kindness counted for little in the dark vastness of this cold world, he hoped it would be enough. He’d given her the key; she’d give him one of his own: time.

Gilt blinked back the rain, lowered his face, and headed for the spaceport.

Short Fiction Excerpt: Titan Quest Fan-fiction

On By Mike U.In Stories7 Comments

(c) 2011 by Michael L. Utley

(Author’s note: This is an excerpt from an untitled, unfinished fan-fiction story I began in 2011 based on the PC game Titan Quest. I was a moderator at the leading Titan Quest forum at that time, and we had a thriving fan-fiction community filled with tales of valor and humor and destruction…and it was glorious! Anyway, I thought I’d share this as a change-of-pace to my usual poetry posts. Perhaps someday I’ll return to this piece and finish it.)

…..

The blade slipped quietly from the man’s sweaty grasp, taking soundless ages to hit the earth with a thud so faint not even the carrion birds took notice. It lay in the dust, stained with crimson and gore, like some ancient and eldritch dragon’s tooth, testament to the day’s labors…to his life’s labors. The westering sun turned the blade to fire for a time and then took refuge behind a scud of clouds, dimming the world and all in it.

The small battlefield stretched out before him, an abattoir, an open grave that proffered no dignity to the dead or the living. The fact that the man was the only one standing gave him no solace; he was alive and all else was dead and that’s the way it had always been for as long as he could remember. He no longer consciously contemplated such things as this. Perhaps, long ago, he agonized over this fate, this blessing, this curse, but now his mind was dulled, emptied of thought and conscience, his only refuge in a world of death and more death.

Acrid smoke burned his lungs and sweat stung his eyes. He squinted to better take in the carnage but didn’t bother counting corpses. There was no point in body counts. The dead were dead and the animals would take care of them—the vultures were already busy and other scavengers would soon appear to complete the indignity of violent slaughter. He looked to the sky where the late evening sun hid prey-like among the clouds, as if it would be next to taste his blade.

He reached down to retrieve his long sword and his entire body screamed in pain. This delayed onset of sensation after battle had fascinated him in his early years, his system so loaded with adrenaline that aches were a mere whisper and pain wasn’t even in the conversation. Then, several minutes after a battle had ended, everything arrived at once and with vengeance. Arms and shoulders would burn as if his very bones were filled with fire, tremors would find his legs, sometimes forcing him to the ground as cramps seized his hamstrings and turned them into knots of agony. His head would swim and blood would pound in his ears like drums of war. It made him feel weak and shameful and his only consolation was that there was usually no one else alive to see it happen. He used to believe that this post-battle reaction reinforced his own humanity, but that notion was long since forgotten, abandoned. It had been ages since he had felt anything near to being human.

The sword was heavy as he held it before him, its blade fouled with the blood of the dozen or so men lying in pieces in the glade, their bodies steaming in the evening chill. The blade had been a gift from…he couldn’t remember. Had it been a gift? Had he picked it up along the way in some forgotten skirmish years ago? Had he stolen it? It didn’t matter. It belonged to him and he belonged to it. He wasn’t the type to name his weapons like warriors from his former life had been wont to do. He shuddered at any thought of imbuing human traits onto this entity of destruction. The truth was, he feared this blade, but it was all he knew, and there was an almost lunatic dread at the thought of parting with it. The blade itself was nondescript save for a few notches here and there, and for the dark stains he could never remove no matter how he tried. The only thing of note was a single emerald in the pommel of the grip. It wasn’t pure enough or of the proper cut to be worth anything, but it did set the weapon apart. He hefted it, his arms and shoulders still shuddering from fatigue, and tried vainly to wipe the gore from the blade. He decided to clean it later; exhaustion was setting in and he wanted to put some distance between him and this mess before full dark fell.

Yet he lingered still, feeling the sweat beginning to dry on his body and the pain in his muscles settling down into a low, steady hum. The setting sun slipped from its cover and lay bare what had once been a small human encampment in a meadow near a copse of trees and was now a tableau of the grotesque. A small, distant part of his mind told him he had done the right thing, these men were enemies, murderers, vile beings no better than the animals which even now feasted on their broken corpses, who deserved what he had visited upon them, but even that part of his mind sounded less vital and less truthful as battle after battle piled up over time. And a smaller, nearly faded part of his mind trembled in fear that perhaps he had been wrong all along.