Matsya Fartford could hold up a shaft if given a nail and a hammer, but he was never allotted those things. A sorry fellow with the lips of a fish and the eyes of a hawk-owl. Grey sand clings to his legs, frazzled hair damaged by the humid air.

  “There are two lands, the border and the line. Beyond the line is the gate to Gehenna, if one traverses to the edge of Gehenna they may be reborn into the World. Child of the river, one must achieve one great deed to touch a pillar. You are a fisherman, no? So catch the mightiest of sea creatures, Leviathan, summon of the great sorcerer of old.”

  Matsya shook his head in bewilderment, his bronze skin glimmered by the rays of sunlight beating down on him. How was he supposed to catch a being said to not exist? Scale wasn’t even the question, the idea of its existence landed him in the wiles of placated failings driven by a depressive attitude built upon the ever growing pressure placed on his shoulders. A rod of Prunus serrula rested along his back, fishing line woven from thin strips of ox leather, with a hook carved from ivory.

  The fishing rod held no mystical qualities, it wasn’t even good for the job of fishing; more so an ornate display piece. Matsya held onto the expensive tool not for the job he was assigned, nor for any sentimental value. Like a block of steel, a neat trinket by the night stalls, a quick find at an estate sale; a wasted product left for nowhere to go. Matsya held onto it for no reason other than the foolish desire to hold onto something.

  “How long will the winds blow today?” He whispered. “How long…

  “Fuck off!” A young man as tall as a dogwood shouted. His burgundy hair rolled into knots down his neck, pulling at his scalp. A lighter bronze tone skin contrasted his beige plaid cloak. Recently the age of a common fourteen year old, opened his mind to newfound anger. On this quiet evening he burned down an average neighborhood. The older boys he viewed unfavorably, turning them into charcoal. The culprit’s identity would not be discovered for he swiftly moved to the town over, quickly changing from one place to the next.

  By the end of his journey, he had reached it, the edge.

  “Call a doctor, Raido. It looks like one of them somehow survived.”

  “My goodness, who could do such a thing as this?” Raido, a young chap in black denim questioned with dreary eyes.

  “Who indeed? Why, may matter not, we need the help of an enlightened one.”

  Raido whipped his head around to look at the tall figure wrapped with sun belt designs. “You jest, Lord Hauke. We would not dare ask for their assistance?”

  “The range of fire cuts deep. Five children live in the connecting towns. I imagine our culprit would try to recruit them into the creed. If so, then we would find ourselves at war with children of natural might. Far stronger than we have willing effect to go against.”

  “I understand, but even still…” Raido pushed back.

  “Call him, Raido. We are unable to help these poor souls,” Hauke said sternly.

  “Understood.”Right as Raido spoke, the priest had arrived.

  “Hello, I heed the call of the needy. I am Father Cauldwell, Priest of the Holy Light.”

  “Father, this victim of a fatal flame needs your attention,” Hauke mentioned urgently.

  “The light pulls away from their flesh… I may not possess the ability to keep them, their soul fades as quick as the light nurtures.” With a wave of his hand, Father Cauldwell illuminated with radiant green light, but the child’s figure stilled. “Flames of Gehenna! Surely this land was ravaged by a demon!”

  “Father!” Raido exclaimed. Hauke placed a hand over Raido’s chest.

  “Calm, what do you mean Father?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “The exterior is surely the act of normal fire, but somehow a separate flame, the flames of Gehenna have taken the child’s soul. Even with live flesh, the vessel is empty. How one could do this, I am unsure. I am deeply sorry, this poor child. Even prayer can not save you.”

  “Dread not Father, you have come to aid as your duty dictates, it is our failings that we let such a thing occur.”

  “Shall I send you back Father?” Raido asked.

  Father Cauldwell sat, his knees deeply impressed into the dirt. A mind of coiling thought came to a conclusion. “No, I must see the face of this demon, exorcise them as our heavenly father would dictate. O’ Mah’Sha-La.”

  “Understood, another in our fold would help us deeply,” Lord Hauke vocalized.

  Milky, a fine young man with a smug look, patted Urjohar’s back with a blank grin. Far older than the boy who stood two heads higher. Picking his nose Milky asked, “Heard ya wasted some boys in the west, our wind whispers and sees all. So answer me this, Urjohar of the inked flame, why? Why did you do it?”

  Urjohar looked over his shoulder, “die.”

  “Hey—”

  With a swift snap of his hips Urjohar kicked Milky’s knee, bending it backward. A squeal and curl of the body left him slumped to the ground. Wind rushed over the pained Milky.

  The dark nights of Ontiganel, rampant depopulation, more than twenty primary and middle schools were closed, towns abandoned, homes left to waste. The elderly, vestiges left hanging in rotten boxes. There were roughly five hundred students in the Ontiganel mountain region, but since the most recent graduating year, fifty-two were cut from the number. It has been decided the nearest academy would close its doors in the coming months.

  Cherry sat at her desk, drooling on split wood, her hands dangling off the sides. Her blush cheeks and bright red lips were her signature look. She would turn to the boy beside her. His well combed blonde hair complimented his baby face. Charming hands were what he prided himself on, an element of confidence in the potential that he would grow to a tall height. He looked longingly at the half asleep Cherry.

  Oh Cherry. He thought as he covered his mouth. You’re drooling… I wish I was like Cherry, I even tried to style my hair after hers. Where has she gone, I barely recognize her anymore… I suppose his death really messed her up. Fester thought as he looked about.

  Horst sat in front of the two by one seat towards the right. He had flat black hair, but sadly one strand would always stand up, no matter how much he brushed. His hair wasn’t long, but rather even, so even it covered his head to face perfectly. Inevitably stopping him from seeing in front of himself.

  “Ah, Cherry, you’re finally awake,” Fester mentioned as he turned in his seat.

  “I saw him, he’s back,” she said to no one.

  “Who?” Fester asked.

  “Morning!” Dr. Dushyanta. “Where is Mekaisto? Has he overslept again?”

  “He’s outside,” Taiga said. Another lad, a buzzed head and thick glasses were his signature. “He just arrived.”

  “Damn!” Urjohar laid in the open, his face bruised. “Can’t protect myself without you, huh?” Fuck… Tears streamed. Urjohar could barely hold his stone cold look together.

  “A transfer?” Fester questioned with a smile.

  Horst looked at the girly fool with disgust. I bet he’ll ask if he’s handsome. The next words to leave Fester’s mouth were, “is he handsome?”

  “Eh… Oh, I don’t know,” Dr. Dushyanta said, “he should come by today though.”

  “Cherry, by the way, what do you mean by ‘he’s back’?”

  Cherry kept her stare to the window, or more precisely what was outside of it.

  In a whooshing city clad in cloudy white, scaffolding lined every building in sight. There he stood, at the highest point. Loud bangs, whaaas! Shouts, cries, screams, all noise the world could make. He stood still, wispy hair like that of the ocean and sky all at once. White flame that never moved. He had grown, very fairly in comparison to the rest. Who is looking at him?

  I’m back… Back to the land that killed you. Back…to avenge you. Within his closed eyes he could see the visage of Matsya. Jaromir reached out, his plea came along with the taking of another's wrist...

  “If you look from Avigne to Omore, you can clearly see that Ontiganel is a valley.”