Ruins in the Desert

I do a lot of thinking when I'm traveling. Then again, I do a lot of traveling, so I guess you could say I just do a lot of thinking.

Thinking is really all I can do. There's nothing out here in the desert; nothing I've seen, at least. Sure, there are probably ruins and ancient strongholds deep in the dunes, maybe even little trinkets half-buried in the sand, but you just don't see all that when you're walking in the desert heat. You just see the dunes, and when the entire world is just one big desert, you start to stop expecting something new over every crested hill.

I've been told the world hasn't always been this way. They say that there was a Fall, eons ago. They say that things actually used to be pretty good, that there were oceans, forests, gleaming cities. I find it hard to believe. When you spend your entire life living in desert, only sand and rock, the only hint of something else existing solely in your imagination, you begin to think that there was always desert. When you can only see the spindle forests, the vapor farms, the fortresses built in empty husks and hollowed-out mountains, it's really hard to imagine that there could have been anything else.

Could we really have screwed up enough to turn our entire world into this? Sometimes I don't think so, that humanity couldn't really be that cold, but then I remember the things people have done to another simply to survive, the things I've done just to see another sunrise.

But I know that there was something that came before. I just came from a village formed in an old fallout shelter, buried deep underground. I stayed in the ruins of some kind of building only a few days ago, ravaged by the sands and the passage of time, still holding some old relics of the past. I walked the halls of the place, its original purpose long-forgotten, and through the sounds of my footsteps and the lonely moan of the desert wind, I could almost hear the murmurs and shuffling of long-forgotten people, back when this place was still alive.

As I strode through the ruins I began to think of what had happened to it. What it had seen, in all the years it stood silently watching over the sands, a lonely reminder of an ancient people. Was it really important enough to have had to endure these countless years? Or was it simply just some twist of fate that allowed it to survive until I came? I wanted to know the story of this place, and yet I knew I never could. All I could add to its history was a night or two of rest, silently moving through its corridors and letting my imagination run wild, like I have done so many times before, as it had seen so many others do before me.

I guess you could say that this is why I keep traveling. I live for places like this; I immerse myself in them, losing my sense of the present as I try to learn whatever I can about the past. By thinking about why these buildings are still here, I wonder why I'm even here to see them in this state. If there had really been an End, why were there still survivors? If everything was always like this, who had come before to build this lonely place in the endless dunes? Smarter people than me have said that we can look to the past to understand ourselves, why we are, who we are. As I wander through these ruins, I know exactly what they mean.

Maybe I'm just looking to define myself here. Maybe that's all anyone ever wants to do: understand and define themselves. They just go about it in different ways. Exploring these places is really all I can do with my life. Nothing else could ever seem to compare.

-----

Another Rachel Aensland story. I read an article about the appeal of post-apocalyptica, and got inspired to write about why my favorite wasteland-wandering gunslinger is wandering in the first place. I imagine this takes place while she's still traveling to Dahn.

The High Provost's Morning

Adam Quinn was a man who enjoyed his routine

He awoke at precisely 7:03 A.M, every day. No earlier, no later. He rose in a smooth but slow way, like a stone sliding down a path of moss. His bed was always an otherwise empty one, and while this left a sort of a tugging sensation at the back of his mind, one that almost seemed to urge that this was a thing not quite right, it was something that Adam often forgot.

He went about his morning routine always in the same way: dressing in his favorite midnight velvet dining robe, grooming himself, and taking his morning tea (with exact amounts of mint and lemon) in his oaken chair, next to the big window that displayed the lovely garden outside. He often relished these brief moments of relaxation and quiet contemplation, though he never got much contemplating done.

Right at 9:46 A.M., one of his aides knocked on the large, mahogany door that led into his room, and Adam put down his almost-finished tea and went outside to his duties. It was convenient that his place of work was in the next room over, where his councilors and viziers were always waiting for him, dressed in their colorful and exquisitely-ornate robes of office.

Adam Quinn much relished his career as His Altitude the High Provost, Sovereign of the Republic, Defender of All that Lies Within. The list went on, of course, and it was all said whenever he entered the room, all nine pages, each page representing a year of his reign. Adam quite enjoyed thinking of new titles to give himself in preparation for his awaited tenth year.

Once the Reading of the Titles was complete, Adam sat down on his beloved blackwood Chair of Office and set to work managing the realm. Magistrates and advisers pelted him with all sorts of queries, complaints, and suggestions, and Adam took them all in, fingering the seam of his dining robe as he listened and didn't listen, waiting for the chance to speak.

"...and it is for this reason, Mr. Quinn, that we are in dire need of new sources of iron production. As it stands, our own supply is most exiguous..."

Adam brought up a hand, silencing the room. "'Exiguous'?"

The councilman, a smaller, stockier man, looked at him quizzically. "Y-Yes, sir. Exiguous."

"Whatever could that mean, dear legislator?"

The poor magistrate's left eye twitched, fearing the wrath this would undoubtedly bring. "I-I apologize profusely, High Provost, it was not my...my intention..."

Adam could hardly tolerate it. He would not permit such an errant word, enigmatic and strange. "Summon the Royal Dictionarian!" One of the aides bowed and quickly left the room.

The mood of the room changed in an instant. Most of the councilors let out soft sighs, some having experienced such an event before, others because it made no sense that there would be a Royal Dictionarian when there was no royalty. The newer councilors, oft-placed on a rotating schedule of administration, as per Adam's decree, were mostly oblivious as to what this could mean. The magistrate who first uttered that mysterious word was one of the experienced members, and moved to stop Adam in his tracks. "My dear Mr. Quinn, surely there is no need..."

He was interrupted by the opening of the main door to the modest assembly chamber, a young man of college age striding in. He was dressed in the official trappings of the Royal Dictionarian, which Adam had declared to be no different than that of any other young man of college age. What differentiated him from his peers, however, was that he carried a large leather-bound tome under his right arm - much larger and grander than any other book that young men of college age bore on city streets - which was labeled very clearly in golden calligraphy, "Royal Dictionary." The Royal Dictionarian walked over to Adam's right side and saluted. "Y-You have need of me, H-High Provost?"

Adam looked on the Royal Dictionarian fondly, reminded of how he had always wished he had held the office when he was that young, despite the fact that the position had only been brought into existence when Adam took office, much later in life. Still, he was envious of the young man's opportunity. "Royal Dictionarian, define for me the word...however was it pronounced?"

One of the younger aides, likely in an attempt to curry favor, enthusiastically spat, "'Exegesis', sir!"

An older aide, with lines of storm-cloud gray in his luxurious facial hair, groaned, "It was 'exeunt,' High Provost."

The original word-utterer, who was resigned to his inner prison of reason and logic until now, raised a stopping hand and sighed, "'Exiguous'. The word was 'exiguous'."

The Royal Dictionarian nodded excitedly and set the tome onto the large redwood Table of the Assembly, making a large slam that resonated through the nearby hallways. He deftly searched for the word, scanning through entries like a navigator plotting a course. The mood was tense, at least for Adam, as he watched the young man work, always afraid that the grand Royal Dictionary would not hold an uttered word, an event that would require either the marshaling of the entirety of the Republican military and a declaration of extreme emergency, or a summoning of the Grand Transcriber who would then add the word and its likeliest definition into the seemingly-ancient compendium. Adam found himself holding his breath, refusing to let it go as a matter of dramatic principle.

"I have found it!" The Royal Dictionarian declared, and Adam did indeed resume the act of regular respiration. The aide continued, "Exiguous, a member of the His Altitude's Adjectives..."

"A most noble group," Adam added.

"...defined in this most majestic guide as 'scanty in measure or number.' It may also be synomized as 'extremely small, diminutive, minute. So ends the definition."

Adam nodded in understanding. "I thank you for your services, Royal Dictionarian. You have once again provided me with the enlightenment that only you may provide. You may consider yourself relieved, and I bid you return to the Stacks, before they find themselves too lonely of your presence."

The Royal Dictionarian smiled and closed the Royal Dictionary. "I wish only to serve, High Provost," he said, bowing. He was then given leave to exit the room, doing so with the same stride as he entered with. Adam watched his departure, a hint of longing in his bright hazel eyes.

"That man holds more power than any other in this room. He has been given the authority to define all our language's vocabulary, whether it is as mundane as the common cobblestone, or as significant as Death Itself. On a whim, he could subtly redefine any word, and I would trust him implicitly. His is an office of honesty and truth, and yet it could bring down the very foundations of this world." Adam clasped his hands together. "A fascinating position, to be sure."

"But," Adam said as he returned his gaze to the assembled councilors, "where were we?"

-----

His Altitude the High Provost Adam Quinn is a character I originally planned for a steampunk campaign that I ran this past summer. Unfortunately, I had to cut out because I couldn't manage to fit him into what meager sessions I wound up having. I based the character mainly off of Auberon Quinn and Adam Wayne from G.K. Chesterton's fantastic The Napoleon of Notting Hill, hence the name. I loved the character too much to simply let him go, so I decided to write this little story. Hopefully there will be more to come.

Dahn

I walked an unmade path to the town of Dahn, two full weeks from anything else. Dahn could hardly be called a town. It was a gathering of cracked clay huts, numbering less than ten, surrounding a structure made of wood and nails. I wondered where they brought that in from; there couldn't have been trees this far out in the Sea of Dust.

It was no surprise to me, however, that this wooden building, the best-constructed in Dahn, was the bar.

The townspeople, few that there were, greeted me with curious indecision and heavy guardedness. They stared at the tough leather duster that hung over a tawny leather vest and a worn white shirt. Their gaze lowered to the holstered revolver that lay at my left hip, over black hide pants. Their eyes were caught by the reflective gleam of the bandolier strap I wore over my chest, also serving to keep my backpack securely fastened.

Perhaps what most astonished them was that I was a woman. Apparently they hadn't seen any female wanderers lately.

Ignoring the stares, I made my way to the saloon, black boots stirring up dust on the ground, more than whatever breeze that could reach this town. The bar couldn't have looked more generic, but was welcoming enough. A faded crimson sign hang over the main entrance, declaring in a yellowing script that this was indeed the saloon. Echoes of slow piano music drifted out on the lonely air, voicing how desolate and alone this town was in its subtle harmonies.

My right hand reached out and pushed one of the swing doors open, the groan alerting the few people inside that someone new had come to town. Card games stopped and the music slowed to a halt as these simple townspeople debated in their minds whether or not I was about to disrupt their afternoon. I spared them no glance as I walked over to the bar and sat, the wooden stool creaking from my lean build. The bartender eyes me suspiciously as he asked, "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," I stated. I didn't really like the taste of alcohol, but one has to keep up appearance with this sort of thing. I didn't think this guy had any tea in stock, either.

The bartender, balding and slightly plump, nodded once and got the drink ready. There wasn't much of a selection on the back wall; mostly half-finished bottles arranged in no particular order. I crossed my arms on the counter and leaned forward, looking out the window until I sensed something come up on my right. I glanced over to see a younger man, barely over 18, with curious but hard brown eyes darting over my figure. His clothes showed that he was a man not unaccustomed to hard work.

"Howdy," he said, trying to be casual. Hard sun-baked hands wrung in his lap. Despite his attempts at seeming cool and collected, we both knew that me being here was just about the most interesting thing he had seen in months.

I responded by glaring back with azure eyes. The bartender returned with my glass. I broke eye contact as I brought the smoky glass up and tasted the cool alcohol. It, like all others of its ilk, took an effort to down without gagging. Ice clinked as I set the glass down on the bar again.

"Lady of few words, ain't ya?" The kid started again.

I decided to humor him. Not like I wasn't doing anything else. "Yeah."

"What's yer name? I'm Kale."

"Rachel," I replied, downing more whiskey.

"Where didja come from...Rachel?" His voice ran over my name as if it would bite if he said it incorrectly.

"Dustshore. East of here."

"Never heard of it," he began, before his face suddenly turned to realization. "You crossed the Sea by yourself? How didja do that?"

"I walked," I said, taking another sip of the terrible whiskey. I noticed that I was rather hungry, having only eaten dried jerky and whatever small game I hunted and cooked on the walk. I set the glass down as I asked, "Bartender, what do you have in the way of food here?"

"We've got salted beef and dried fruit. Depends on what you're willing to trade for."

I reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a thin silver coin. Tossing it onto the bar, I asked, "How's that?"

The bartender didn't even give it a glance. "What do you think we'll be doing with that?"

"Caravans still come out here, don't they?"

"We ain't seen a trader here in almost two years, girl. They've just about forgotten about us."

"The Alliance..." I started.

",,,hasn't done shit out here. Nearest Alliance settlement is three weeks by horseback. They don't care 'bout us, this deep in the Dust Sea. That silver ain't going to buy you anything, sweetheart. Now, if you were offerin' your...charms...."

I adjusted my wide-brimmed hat, a lock of long black hair gliding to my shoulder. I remained silent as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle of thickly-wrapped leather. I unbound it on the bar table, revealing five small, obsidian seeds.

"Rockfruit seeds. They come from far to the northeast, and can grow anywhere. Give them a little water every few weeks and you've got enough food to feed everyone in this town."

The bartender picked one of the seeds up, examining it. Kale looked on in astonishment. "...Looks like you got yourself dinner, little wanderer, maybe even a room for the night," the former said, "I would even offer you one of the whores, if'in you, ah, would enjoy that."

"The meal and the room will be enough, thank ya," I replied, flatly.

The older man dropped the seed onto the others. "But, ah, if these aren't...fertile..." he started.

"They are," I glared back.

"But if they aren't..."

"...I won't be leaving this town alive."

"Smart one you are, girl. I'll get your meal ready," the bartender finished. He moved to the far side of the bar and called for the piano player to get "something" ready for me. The musician - an old, wispy man - slid off the piano bench in an exaggerated motion and crossed into a back room.

Kale continued staring at me. "What is it now?" I asked.

"You, uh, you've been a lot of places, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," I replied, taking another swig of the half-forgotten whiskey.

"Where are you going now? Can't've come all the way out here to see this shithole!"

"No one's been to the far side of the Sea of Dust."

"Of course not! It's just endless dunes past here, nothing but sand and dirt!"

"Has to be something out there."

"But...why would there be?"

"Because the world doesn't just end, Kale. There's something out there, because there's always something out there."

-----

This stars Rachel Aensland, probably one of my favorite self-created characters. She's a post-apocalyptic/Western gunslinger in the fine tradition of characters played by Clint Eastwood, because I am actually surprisingly not that well versed in Westerns. This is probably the first part of a longer series of stories starring Rachel. One of these days, I might write a sort of self-introduction, to show you where she came from.

Rain

I miss the rain. It’s been years - I’ve long since lost track of how many - since I saw it last. Since anyone saw it last. It’s been so long that no one really remembers it anymore, except for what you'd find in dictionaries. I remember rain as being so much more than those bland descriptions. I remember falling asleep to it, listening to the soft, even sound of running water, distinct from yet blending into all else. I remember sitting by windows, letting my mind wander while tiny droplets formed patterns on the glass, ambient light casting tiny shadows. I think I’m the only one who remembers, but all I have are faint flickers of memory.

I live in a city of mist. An endless fog blankets the entire city, providing moisture without the need for rain. A fog that is unobtrusive, casting what it hides not in opaqueness but in shades of gray. No one remembers the onset of the mist; it simply was and now is. All that we remember was that before the mist, there was rain, and now there is none. With the mist came a loss of knowledge; we lost contact with the world, with our own history, where we came from. No one, save for maybe the City government, knows where the City is, what country it is a part of, how old it is, or even what its real name is. All we call it now is ”The City.” We know of nothing else.

One day, I tried to leave. It wasn’t because I was dissatisfied with City life; it's a laid-back place. It was due to wanderlust, an urge to see what was beyond. I wasn't really doing anything else, anyway. So, I packed my things and walked on the main road for hours. The City was big, but it wasn't infinite. Eventually, all that was left was the road itself, with no other ground I could see. The only sounds were my lonely footsteps upon the asphalt. Gray-white mist surrounded me, blanketing my clothes with a faint dampness I couldn't feel. The road kept going. I looked back to find that the City was out of sight, hidden by the now-opaque mist. I knelt down by the side of the road and reached for the ground beside it. It was a hard, unnatural substance, the same color as the mist. It felt almost like the steel used in buildings, but somehow more organic. It was wet with condensed mist seeping down into cracks I could barely feel.

I continued. Nothing happened for ages, until I heard a sound. A steady, even sound splashing in the distance. A sound that I identified immediately, even though I hadn't heard it for countless years. My pace quickened as I heard the rainfall from my childhood. Eventually, I saw it: a shimmering form breaking the opacity of the mist. The white fog gave way into more color, a sickeningly gray-brown earth extending beyond the horizon. It was entirely featureless. The rain fell unceasingly, causing faint wisps of smoke to emerge with each impact. I slowed my pace, until I felt a thick pane of glass in front of me, barring my progress. It bore no seams or faults. There was no way in or out. Its only peculiarity was a plaque etched in the glass. It said, in large, plain text,

"The City is all that is left. There is nothing else. Turn back now."

The acid rain continued to fall on the remains of the world.

-----

The first story I ever submitted. Could be better.

A Walk Through a Forest

Dark, weightless leaves whisper a soft, ambient tune as a breeze flits through the forest. The thick black stalks that cradle these leaves extend down into the ground, ending somewhere below the omnipresent brush. The thin dirt path in front of me, mostly devoured by nature, is only slightly brighter, a slightly different color than the surrounding forest. A slightly-cloudy midnight sky hangs overhead, with a waning moon casting a meager light down to the earth. Stars twinkle in an unfamiliar pattern. The only other sources of light are a few lanterns, lit at irregular intervals and at varying distances. Most are far away from the path.

The forest is quiet tonight. There aren't many animals in this forest, let alone any human life. All I can hear is the soft rustle of the leaves, the soft whispers of holes in bark that trap wind. It is a very lonely sound, but this is a very lonely forest.

I walk here occasionally, when I'm feeling down. Sometimes, it's when I'm feeling thoughtful, or existential. Sometimes, I walk here when I just want to appreciate silence. There's a small cabin in the depths of the woods, which I discovered shortly into my nighttime jaunts. I started to repair it, little by little, so I could have some place to visit. Or, I fixed it up because I wanted something to do. It's not too far in, but it's not obvious from the outside, either. You have to search a bit to find it. I like that.

My thoughts wandered as I stalked through the forest. I had a lot to think about, and I sorted my way through the mess while listening to the soft sounds of the wood. I don't know how long I walked, thinking. I didn't really end up any better than when I started.

I was coming up on it now. A small, ragged fence lay broken to my left, the dark wood starting to blend in with the ground it was rooted in. I didn't try to fix it, it looks better that way. As I approach, the fence grows in strength, looking less like a broken arrangement of logs. A tiny clearing becomes visible ahead, housing the cabin that lays at its center. The fence parts to allow an entrance towards the cabin, with a small lantern post jutting out by the right side. The lantern was currently lit, casting the fence and the cabin in eerie, shifting shadows. The cabin itself is also made of wood, and is extremely small. There is only one room inside it, a very cramped one. The cabin looks very old, yet is still quite sturdy. There is nothing beside the cabin, looking like a curious part of the forest itself.

I walked inside. A small, well-maintained bed lay on the far wall, with a small stand next to it. The stand bore a tall candle, one that was often lit when I used the place. A wooden table and two chairs sat to the left side of the room, also well-maintained. Moonlight shone in primarily through a small glass window on the right wall. Cracks in the wood allowed small slivers of light in, as well.

I closed the door behind me and sat on the bed. I brought a book with me, and so I began reading by candlelight. It was how I usually spent my time here. Reading kept my mind off my thoughts, my troubles. I couldn't tell how long I read for, but eventually my weariness overcame my desire to continue reading. Putting the book down on the night table, and extinguishing the candle, I laid down on the bed and waited for sleep to claim me.

The lonely wind whistled around the cabin while the darkness of sleep began its slow, careful embrace.

-----

I felt depressed, so I wrote this. Nice beginning, but I don't like the ending. I could try to mess around with it for a few more hours but I felt like uploading what I had. Ambient music came in handy for this story.

That Guy Sitting Next to You in the Bar

I could go on and on and bore you with paragraphs describing my current whereabouts, my feelings, my general opinions on life. But I don't like being that verbose. So I'll keep it simple.

I sat in a shitty bar in a shitty city. Despondent patrons surrounded me, drinking their drinks, forgetting their worries for a while. Pretty standard setup, if you ask me. It was appropriately dirty, dingy; "wretched" would be another good adjective there. Certainly not a place you would bring the wife and kids. Not that I have to worry about that. Never had a woman for that long. Not that it's any of your business.

Women aren't important to me. Getting from day to day is. People tell me that I'm not living life to the fullest. I tell them there's nothing to live in a world as boring and harsh as this one. So I go each day working, drinking, sleeping. It's fine for me. But I'm not totally apathetic towards the fairer sex. I've got my baser desires, and there's no shortage of women wanting to fulfill those. But they're all meaningless.

Except for her. She's been attributed as The One, my Soulmate, my One True Love. I called her "Anna." I met her earlier in life, in my twenties, when life was still entertaining. I've wised up now, seen the errors of that time, but she was always the shining gem in the disgusting refuse. She had long, midnight hair, down almost all the curve of her back, shining for all its shade. Her eyes were a sort of gray-blue, the color of stones in a forested river. She had hintingly-dark skin, but I don't remember the nationality. I didn't care. She had curves like an artist's dream, a body almost too perfect for this hateful world. In short, she was beautiful. More so than any broad since, and maybe even to come.

I met her at a friend's party. We weren't initially attracted to each other. But we kept running into the other, kept having conversations near each other, despite never having met. Then we dropped the act and talked directly. We kept talking well into the next day, a sign of how inseparable we were to become. For months, we shut out the world and dreamed up our own little paradise. It was as blissful as it could be. But, we kept our pasts separate from each other. We both had our share of troubles that we wanted to keep secret. We were both fine with it. We had the present to be happy with, and the past to ignore.

How did it end? She left. Just up and left one day. Wrote me a letter, dried tears and all, saying that she needed to leave. Couldn't be with me anymore. So sorry, and all that wash. A part of me was angry by how clichéd it was. But the rest was devastated, angry, depressed, all the feelings you know so intimately when you've been left by the wayside for no adequately-explained reason. I sought her out, without success. She simply vanished into the night. Her disappearance was so complete that I started to doubt whether she was really with me at all. That day was the beginning of the man you see before - or rather, beside - you. The rest is history. A history you don't need to know.

Just keep the drinks coming. Play the tunes I remember so well. Leave me alone.

A woman enters the bar. Long black hair, down most of her back. Grey-blue eyes silhouetted by tinted sunglasses. Black clothes outlining a wonderful figure. Legs that could make a priest renounce the Good Lord. A woman I hadn't seen in years.

Of all the bars....

Shit.

-----

Inspired by my watching of Casablanca last night. Not that good a story, but I need the experience.

The Old Man

A slightly hunched figure stumbled in the shade of the night. A dark, jagged brick jutted out from amongst its peers, perhaps in defiance to its purpose. White snow glistened in the moonlight, encompassing the area. It had blanketed everything around in form-distorting depth. Only the sidewalk and the street beside it were cleared. Some stars peeked through the hazy veil of the sky, casting their tiny hopeful lights on the world below. The figure, a man, shifted the weight of the large, irregular sack he carried over his shoulder while softly grumbling and continued on. He headed to a dim house in the distance, almost camouflaged against its surroundings. He had already visited many houses tonight and wasn't close to done yet. It was always hard work. But even now, the old man didn't mind.

He was dressed simply. A large coat, thick pants, flexible gloves, and heavy boots kept him warm in the brisk chill that swept the lonely street. A small, fur-brimmed cap sat tightly on his head. Out here, he wasn't really distinctive, just a black brushstroke against a white canvas. He trudged through the snow at a steady pace, long since used to the strain.

Beside him on both sides of these streets, lay a sprawling field covered with snow. It extended out towards the horizon, yet was mostly bare. As far as he could see were shifting white dunes. Snow flew off these round hills, giving the area around it a windswept look. Nearer to the road lay a row of power lines, extending to the town in front of him and beyond into civilization. The poles were old and tattered, yet still sturdy. They bore paper flyers proclaiming garage sales, campaigning politicians, independent bands. He passed a lonely mail box, halfway covered in white. Snowmen and snow angels, snowballs and forts came into view, the signs of children still living in bliss.

The house ahead grew ever larger, ever brighter. It looked like all its peers around it, differing little. He could start to make out shapes inside, furniture that cast strange shadows on the walls. But he spied the place he needed to go once inside. It looked unassuming, set off in the corner where normally it was the center of attention. But these people had the right to decorate their houses in whichever way suited them and the man had no right to judge. He now spied a few cars in the cleared-out driveway, belonging to the adults of the house. They looked new and expensive, clean and shining despite the snow.

He moseyed up to the front door, sliding past the numerous gewgaws on the lawn. He reached inside a coat pocket to take out his lock picks.

It had taken him years to learn how to pick open locks reliably. It had taken him even longer to learn how to do it well on main doors, with multiple locks and deadbolts. He hated it. He thought it was grossly immoral. But he didn't have any better options. The idea of breaking or cutting open a window was abhorrent. After he lost his main mode of transportation and since anything like it was impossible to travel unnoticed with nowadays, he had only this method of surreptitiously entrance. Without anything else, he grudgingly took up the art of lock picking. Not that he would ever call it one.

It took him a few minutes to get the door open, but he made no sounds during the effort. Thankfully, the door was not alarmed. Those houses were never fun. The door silently and slowly opened into a modest hallway, with the living room on his right, the kitchen on the left, and stairs heading upwards into darkness in front of him. He sidled inside and closed the door, slowly easing his pack through the doorframe. Satisfied, he slid into the living room.

A large, flat-screen television adorned one wall, with media players and video game consoles set in small cubbies below. A large, comfortable-looking couch sat facing it, with large chairs off to its sides. Another wall was made up of a large window, viewing the street, adorned with pictures and decorations. Behind the couch were more pictures, either of the family or of generic paintings or photographs. A small end table stood off to the left end of the couch, bearing a small plate of cookies. Likely, the homeowners went off to sleep and forgot to clean up after themselves. The man helped himself to some of them as he moved over to the far wall. Yes, this is what he spotted on his way in; this is where he would work.

The man set his pack on the ground and got on his knees, suppressing a strained groan. He pulled a PDA out from his coat pocket and looked up who, exactly, lived here. He absentmindedly ate his cookies as he searched. It took him a few moments, but he had gotten the small list easily enough. He then opened the pack and silently rummaged inside for the appropriate parcels. He tried not to mutter to himself as he worked; that was a bad habit of his. He picked out a number of boxes, looked them over and, satisfied that they were for this house, set them in front of him. When he was finished, there were about a dozen or so packages of all shapes and sizes arranged neatly in this little, highly decorated corner, where they should be.

The old man closed the sack, put his PDA away and slowly stood up, hoping his knees wouldn't crack. He grabbed a few more cookies on his way out. A smile now adorned his wizened yet jovial face; this was his favorite part of the night. He wished he could see the joy and harmony that would warmly blanket this house in the morning. But that was not his charge. He was content with simply laying down the foundation.

As he withdrew from the house, he locked the door and slid it firmly shut behind him. He headed to the next house on his route with renewed vigor.

"Merry Christmas to all," he whispered, happily, "and to all a good night."

-----

I wrote this in a few hours today, after finally fleshing out an idea I've had for a few months now. I think it turned out pretty well, after I extensively proofread it. Though, maybe I should have put this out during Christmastime...not much Christmas spirit in the midst of summer. I think the idea of a modern-day Santa wouldn't be unlike this, given the fact that chimneys aren't very large nowadays and that many houses are alarmed. Not to mention the advent of radar and GPS makes locating things easy. This story's extreme for entertainment's sake, but I'd like to see how Santa would have changed over the years if he was real.

At least, if he was in the real world. He'll always be real in my heart, heh. I'm still a child, to be honest.