A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,43

door, was being beaten against it – no one could come to my aid if they wanted to.

Even in the midst of my passionate defense, I almost accepted it: that a wardog had finally gotten me, and I wouldn't live past the encounter. I was clinging to life with a fleeting means of adrenaline, and could not hope to dominate the force bearing down on me. I would be corrected in moments.

But then glass rained down around us, the chiming explosion a distant, confusing twist to this fate befalling me, and a silhouette dropped to the ground just down the wall. I had lost myself to the violent rhythm of my bashing, then, and scarcely noticed as this new figure came into the picture and went at the wardog with some new weapon.

The blow of the club-like addition succeeded in drawing the wardog's attention, and the weapon in question was corrected as quickly as I had expected to be. As the creature's attention was diverted, though, I scrambled into the cusp of a more advantageous bearing, dragging the opportunity into my hands.

The next few moments were wet with blood and saliva, and ripe with pain and the drive of life and hunger. The struggle rose in complication as the wardog whipped itself about, dealing with two adversaries at once. We dodged, wrestled, bashed and strangled until at last my accomplice plunged a hand through the smattering of glass splayed across the ground and dredged up a nice blade of it, and drove it hard into the beast's side between its ribs.

There was a sudden change in pitch as the snarling thing yelped, sustained a whimper, and its aggression buckled. The heroic culprit stood with another piece at the ready, but the wardog faltered further, backed up a step on unsteady legs, and then retreated entirely with confusion and hurt dampening its ugly features into a pitiful mask. Damaged, it turned from us and limped quickly into the brush, seeking recovery.

Only then did the heat of the moment drain away, and everything began to hurt. I couldn't help it; my eyes went down to my body, searching for the mortal wounds that it felt like I had, and that I could easily have attained. I was sullied beyond what would ever be socially acceptable, but I did not see anything immediately lethal. I felt as if I had been trampled by horses, but nothing was bleeding out at an overly-alarming pace or keeping me anchored brokenly to the ground.

However, that was surely only thanks to one factor: the ally that had dropped from the broken sky of Manor Dorn, all amidst a pool of glass and free-falling heroism.

All thanks to none other than Tanen, I saw as I looked up, and found him standing over me with bloody hands, and glass in his grasp, and good will written all over the face that I was loathe to love.

F o u r t e e n –

Paper Secrets

When Johnny wrote the paper, he did his best to get everything in. He had become a master scribbler. He was an expert at making everything as concise as possible, reducing great events to little blurbs that hit home. He captured that convicting essence, so often standing just shy of the fray, so that he could put things at face value in a way that struck just the right chords.

But not everything made it into the paper.

Johnny left some things out.

That isn't to say that Johnny kept secrets, necessarily, although some might have accused him of such if they knew as much. And maybe he did keep secrets.

But not everything made it in because, sometimes...

Sometimes, there were just no words.

*

Unlike some others, Johnny had seen things shift. He knew what it looked like. He knew what it felt like. He knew how it tasted on his tongue, how it smelled in the air. He knew it like a sailor knew the ocean, like a mystic knew the stars.

Nothing that vast could be documented. Nothing that great could have any justice done to it.

Nothing that terrible could be fully disclosed in good conscience.

Some things were never to be spoken of, even for the great voice of an era. Some things would never translate on paper. They would never let a voice speak them.

So Johnny stood at the precipice of these things and watched them, solemn and darkly privileged, brokenly rooted with his heart both numb and raw at once as they played out before him. Here