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.

Cleaning House

In an effort to make this place look slightly more professional, I cleared out a few early posts that I didn't think were really all that good. Mainly stuff about video games or me whining about my life that didn't really make this place look good. Considering this is going to be something of a portfolio (imagine that, this shitty blog I've had since high school), I at least want to look halfway-decent.

That of course means that there aren't all that many posts here, but maybe I can actually get off my ass this time and post more. If anything, it could help my work ethic. Maybe.

EDIT: Also changed the background, title, and basically everything else. Lookin' good.

The Drawing Room

Oh hey, I have a writing blog!

-----

It was autumn when I returned home.

The house was as it had always been, a silent white monument surrounded by trees of burnt red and shining orange, grass of jade and gold, with a shimmering gray river snaking around the west side. The house was simple, unadorned, with wooden steps leading up to a small porch where my mother-in-law sat on a wicker chair, smoking. The tail of my rugged coat rustled in the slight breeze as I approached the house, my gaze locked with hers. She knew why I had returned, without me having to say anything.

"Another fruitless visit," the old woman stated, flatly. Her graying wheat hair was tied tightly into a bun and she wore loose-fitting clothing that matched the colors of the flora that surrounded her. Her eyes glared at me, scathingly blue.

I nodded. I had not seen the house in more than a year, and yet it was unchanged. I could always count on that, at least.

"Come in, then," she said, "you must be tired."

I walked up the old set of stairs, each creaking softly. She stood up, smoothly, and walked me inside to the sparsely-furnished house. The living room was by far the most decorated of the place, with an ornate, traditional carpet and wooden chairs, desks, dressers spaced throughout. My mother-in-law bade me sit, and I chose a chair with dark green cushions near the door. She sat down across from me, into a crimson seat that looked as old as she was.

"What did you find?" She asked, taking the thin cigar out of her mouth.

"I traveled west, and crossed the sea at the end of the continent," I took out a cigar of my own, thin but long like hers, and lit it. "I sailed for weeks before we found land again, a large archipelago that ran down the width of the world." The smoke of our tobacco permeated the room, like cold air filling a warm space.

"But what did you find?"

"The people there were strange, but welcoming. Primitive and friendly. I visited their shamans, wise men, viziers." I paused, breathing in a puff. "They knew nothing," I said as I exhaled, smoke clouding my vision.

"They could not help?"

"They had never heard of it before. They doubted such a thing could even exist."

"So you've come back with nothing."

"I have."

"Again."

I nodded, taking another puff. This was how it always was with the two of us. We used to fight, each accusing the other of our shared pain. After years of grief and acceptance, we had grown complacent.

We did not speak for some time, neither of us searching for something to say. She broke the silence. "Have you eaten?"

I nodded.

"Are you tired?"

I shook my head.

"You want to see her."

"Yes," I said, then exhaled.

More silence. The seconds grew longer as we sat, waiting for each other to make the next move, the move that she dreaded and I anticipated. She stood up, and motioned that I follow. I rose, putting the cigar out on a nearby stone ashtray. We walked through the unadorned white hallway, our steps echoing on the dark hardwood floor.

We came to the master bedroom, bare except for a large bed in the middle, a dresser on one wall, and a desk and chair on another. There was a wide, sliding glass door at the back of the room, showing a view of the forested backyard. The last wall was completely bare, and this was where we stopped. A thin black seam ran down the center of the wall, a support for the ceiling. My mother-in-law pulled this seam apart from the center, showing an old stone door hiding behind the false wall, with an ancient iron lock keeping it closed. My mother-in-law reached inside her sleeve and produced a large black key, fit it into the lock, and turned. A bolt shot out of the lock and the chain keeping the stone closed fell limp.

With an exhale, she pulled open the gray stone door to reveal an unlit stairway leading down into darkness. A brass lantern laid on a shelf just inside the space, which my mother-in-law grasped and lit. She led me down, each step creaking with age, all still sturdy. The stairwell went down for some long minutes, and the stone walls surrounding us gave way to the dank rock of an underground cave.

The stairs finally ended at a thin passageway, leading into the cave. On our left was a series of torches, serving as fenceposts against a dark, rushing stream. Each torch was lit, casting flickering shadows on the cave wall. We proceeded wordlessly, she uncaring of my travels, me knowing better than to think otherwise. The cavern was damp and clammy, with a faint dripping somewhere in the darkness, in no particular direction.

I eventually spied a structure in the distance, a small stone shack built into the rock wall. It lay across a thin rock bridge, over a dark abyss. There were no windows, only a thick wooden door. Another lantern hung from a hook to the right of the door, smaller than the one we used to get here. We came up to the entrance, and my mother-in-law knocked twice on the door.

"Ariana? Ariana, are you there?" She asked, but with no answer. "...No matter. You have a...visitor. He is coming in." She stepped aside, opening the door to an unlit, cold stone hallway.

She turned, glaring at me in the torchlight, "You know what to do when you're ready to return."

I nodded, trying to keep my excitement in check.

"Don't...strain her."

"I won't."

She held my gaze for another second, then waved me off as she turned back the way we came. I took the small lantern, lit it, and walked inside, closing the door behind me. There was no sound inside the structure, but as I walked inside I saw and heard a faint flicker of candlelight at the end of the hall, leading to a small living area. A thin bed laid in one corner, a desk and chair on a wall, a thick, circular rug in the middle of the room. Candles were spaced throughout, casting dark shadows on everything inside. The room smelled faintly of foreign herbs and medicinals. My wife sat on the rug, reading a book as her legs peeked out from under her robe and rested on the cold stone floor.

She faced away from me, her long hair running down her back, black as obsidian. She wore a long cloth robe, simple yet elegant, caressing her form without overstating it. It was the color of a midsummer's night, with thin strands of gold and scarlet snaking around and forming a pattern that spoke of lonely winds and empty skies. She was barefoot.

"Ariana," I said.

She made no movement, but she heard me. I could almost feel her eyelids close as she took in the sound of my voice, like a breath of mountain air in this dank cavern.

"You're back," she said in her light, airy voice.

I walked inside, setting the lantern down on a nearby stool. I moved over to her, setting down just behind her left side. I caressed her cheek, fingers cascading down her silken hair. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I haven't changed," she replied, turning a page.

"Is it too cold down here? Should I get a thicker robe, for you?"

She smiled, us having gone through this routine countless times before. "No, no. I'm fine," she replied.

"What are you reading, then?"

She brought the book up so that I could see it. It was a book on philosophy, likely collected essays of some great thinker. She loved philosophy. "Existentialism," she said, bringing the book down again.

"How is it?"

"I'm reading it." We sat there in silence for a time, taking in the experience as we always have. I pretended to read over her shoulder, but I was far more focused on her scent, her very form, finally putting aside my memories of her.

She was the one to break the silence. "Where did you go?"

"West," I replied. There was only one way for this to happen, after all.

"What did you find there?"

"Nothing of use," I said with a sigh.

She turned, focusing her black eyes on me. There was no white on them, just a deep black with irises of gleaming silver. "Tell me," she said, with a slight insistence.

"Ariana..."

"Please." Her eyes, boring into mine, held no emotion.

I stood, taking her up with me. She slid over to the desk, pulling out a small brush set and a roll of thick paper. I rolled the carpet up and laid it aside as she rolled the paper out onto the floor, then opened the painting set to reveal a set of thin brushes and paint of myriad colors. She picked up a brush in her left hand and looked at me expectantly.

And so I began telling her my story. I told her of the paths west, of the mountains, the white deserts, the clear turquoise oceans beyond. I told her of the port town where I bartered passage on a galley, of the old captain who could not speak our native tongue, of the tiny room they gave me to sleep in with two other sailors. I told her of the waters we crossed for weeks, before we came to the island chains at the end of the world, stretching like a barrier against whatever lay beyond.

As I told her all these things I gently held her right hand. Her left moved across the canvas stretched before her, painting everything I told her, exactly as I had seen it. Her eyes did not move from the canvas, not even when she loaded her brush with paint, or even when she mixed colors on the upturned cover. We sat together in the candlelight for hours, the only sounds being my soft voice and her brush stroking the canvas.

I spoke of the village huts, of the endless jungles, of the palaces of ivory and white stone. I spoke of places that she had never seen, might never see, and yet she painted them exactly as they were, like she had lived there all her life. I could see her eyes darkly shining as I told her my story, seeing everything as I had seen it, guiding her hand as she worked. I never let go of her other hand, an unnecessary gesture that I refused to go without.

After an eternity, she had reached the end of the canvas as I finished my tale. There was no need to touch up, no second coats. We laid the painting out to dry as we stood up, still holding hands. Wordlessly, I led her out to the cavern, her stepping gingerly behind me, unable to make out the way ahead. I opened the front door and she brought her hand to her eyes, as if she had stepped out into the bright midday sun. We paused as her eyes grew acclimated to the dank torchlight of the cavern, then sat together on the steps of the house. I held her close.

"They didn't have anything?" She asked, futilely.

"They had never heard of it before."

"Nothing similar?"

"When I described it, they thought that you were some kind of monster, touched by evil."

She smiled. "You married a demon."

I returned it. "You weren't when I met you."

She looked away. "That was a long time ago."

"Summer, right? Deep in the forest, where the sun was blocked out by the golden leaves..." I began.

She continued, "...and where the grass was too light to step on, and the streams tasted of sap."

"Yes, that's how it went."

"Like you would forget."

We sat in silence, then, listening to the soft rustling of the water, the flickering of torches, our quiet breathing. She looked down, eyes half-closed.

I was the one to break it this time, "They say that southeast of here, there lies a dense mountain range that stretches up to the stars. A tribe lives there, making their homes in the rock and the ice. A man I traveled with in the desert told me that these people are learned in ancient arts, passed down through countless generations. They are secluded, but I am told that the righteous who would seek their knowledge will find them."

"Do you think they can help?"

"My companion in the desert assured me they would."

"You believe him?"

"He would have no reason to lie. We relied on each other. I...wouldn't be here if not for him."

She closed her eyes tightly, "Don't talk like that."

"...Sorry." She opened her eyes and turned to stare into mine, her eyes darkly glimmering in the light. We held each other's gaze, before I reached out and kissed her.

We sat huddled close to each other, watching the flickering torchlight push away the darkness, almost imagining the mountains of mist that lay beyond.

----
Sort of based off of the anime Mushi-Shi, which I'm going through right now. It's not meant as a fanfic or something related, just a little tale that I thought of.

Now that I've graduated, I'll probably be writing more short stories now, which means that this blog should hopefully be updated on a more regular basis.

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.