Note: this piece was originally published in Newcastle University’s Creative Society anthology, and OnEdge Magazine is grateful for Bel and the Society’s permission to reprint the story here with some minor edits.
The Dick of Pinemort House
By Bel Briar
Most law schools don’t teach you the best ways to get yourself out of a polite kidnapping. Nor do they teach you how to negotiate with fish-head sailors for chum, or the etiquette of dining with the deceased. Oh no, in my experience, it was very much more about keeping your nails clean, your clothes uncreased and your clients (mostly) happy. All my real education, began when I heard-
“Richard, it’s just me,” Price spoke into the keyhole of the door. It hung from its hinges and was pockmarked with nails and fragments of flimsy wooden boards. Price rattled through his keys until he happened upon the cast iron one with jagged teeth. “And your new lawyer.”
The lock clicked; the door croaked open.
Silence.
The room’s warmth took a swing for my nose. Smoke. Sweat. Stale air.
“Richard, this is Mr Artwick.”
I poked my head in through the doorway and propped my briefcase on a table by the window. With shaking hands, I rifled through my papers, then approached the fellow sitting by the fireplace. I swallowed. Hard. Today’s appointment didn’t concern petty thievery, nor did it concern any minor possession charges associated with Gothæm Town’s underground sparkroot trade. Oh no, I was about to settle the will of Richard Pinemort – the big gun whose name was tied to every coal factory, mill, and slaughterhouse in the north. And perhaps this would be the case to bring my firm back from the cusp of bankruptcy.
“Mr Pinemort-“
Two streaks of sunlight peeled into the room, past whatever few gaps had been missed when the windows had been crudely boarded. Mr Pinemort half-turned towards my voice. His eyes were clouded. Unblinking. He stared through me, towards his shelves which were littered with dusty relics. He had deep-cut frown lines, carved from a life full of sighing, and boredom. Richard’s skin was ghostly, thin, and delicate like sugar paper.
“Mr Pinemort, your will…” As I began, he slunk into his chair. I gestured the paperwork towards him. But they dropped to the floor. My quill floated down onto the table.
“Mr Pinemort-“
“Huh?” He sucked at his gums.
“Your-” I tried a smile. “Your will.”
“My… what?” He rasped through his Gothæm Town twang.
“You’re leaving your entire fortune to Dick Pinemort.”
A cough pattered from the doorway. In its frame hung a scowling young boy – the type to fancy himself a man just because his father bought him a top hat.
“And Caesar Pinemort. A little bit of the inheritance, anyway.” Caesar skulked away from the door. He had a cheek watching me work over my shoulder – after all, it was he who bundled me into a black carriage (at the gods knew what flaming hour) to have his elderly father’s last will signed off. In my office, Caesar assured me the job would’ve been a quick way to fatten my coffers but watching his father scratch his head and twiddle with my quill told me something otherwise.
“Price, I-” I mouthed to Mr Pinemort’s butler, then continued, “Sir, I think he’s in no honest state to sign a greetings card, nevermind a will.”
I watched as the old man shrugged and brushed the feather up and down and up and down the bridge of his nose.
“Well, perhaps we can try later?” Price sighed.
I chewed at the inside of my cheek.
After a cutting silence, Price spoke up. “Perhaps we can get you sorted for some dinner at least, Mr Artwick?”
“Don’t you think it rather strange that a hefty sum of Richard’s will was left to Dick, and the fellow didn’t even show up for the document’s signing?” I cracked through the silence at the dinner table.
Caesar glared at me as he drove his rather sharp silver fork into his rabbit haunch. The lad had spent his afternoon hammering and banging away upstairs and hadn’t bothered a word to me since the failed will-signing.
“Indeed,” Price mused. “Perhaps you’ll meet Dick, if you stay around.” Moonlight streamed into the hall, peeping in past gaps in the window board. “Oh, he’ll be around sooner or later. Young men, and their adventures-“
Pat-pat-pat-pat.
I jumped. My fork clattered to the plate. Price drew a slow breath, then squinted up towards the ceiling. After the noise lulled, he sighed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
BANG.
A painting slumped from the wall. A wooden board with a nail sticking-out crashed sideways and landed on my platter.
Not exactly the dessert I fancied. More footsteps.
“Artwick. I’ve prepared a room for you, upstairs.” Price cleared his throat.
“Oh, that’s very kind-” Every appointment I had scheduled that week flashed over my mind. “But I mustn’t be a burden.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” Price stood, and patted – no, jabbed – my back. “The horses are rather fatigued from bringing you all the way from town.” I couldn’t get a word in. “We’ll get the papers signed off tomorrow. Up the stairs, turn right.”
“Well, thank you-“
“Caesar, take Artwick upstairs.” The boy rolled his eyes and grabbed the table’s three-pronged candelabra. “And make sure everything’s locked.”
“Obviously.” Caesar hissed back. “Fool.”
I nodded Price a goodnight as he scraped Caesar’s peelings onto his plate. Mind, I was almost sad to go upstairs; eating alone by a weak candle at home was never much fun. Caesar led me up Pinemort House’s spiral staircase, past the shows of winking bronze weapons, and past the moth-chewed tapestries. Shouting erupted from Richard’s room.
“It’s nothing.” Caesar pushed me into my room. “Goodnight, Artwick.”
The door was locked with a clink.
Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. They all passed with the same routine. Price would deliver my breakfast at sunrise with a hard-to-chew side of his war stories, and we’d try the same charade with Richard from dawn until dusk. The elusive Dick never thought to attend, and Caesar? Well, the hammering of boards onto every window and every door hinted at his location. Anytime Caesar did skulk on past to grab more materials, he’d give me a generous snarl. Every evening finished in front of a hefty plate of rich meats and sauces, Price’s army tales, sometimes with a gun toting tutorial, and Caesar’s cutting glares. And each night rolled on with shouting and without sleep. When I dared to ask Price about Richard’s howling routine, he simply shrugged away my polite protests and drove the conversation into a gunslinging history lesson. And anytime my suitcase and I made a polite shuffle for the front door, Price would shoo me back into the hall with the light promise of a carriage on the horizon, Caesar, in his wonderful contrast, would stand in the doorway until the sheer awkwardness pushed me back into Richard’s room.
By night eight, my head rattled awake as I thought of the cases I’d politely ignored back home, and days of watching the clock and wasted effort and zero payment for my time proved I had no intention of becoming Pinemort’s housecat.
That night, I waited until the house stood still. I stole a few shy steps towards the window. Of course – just to admire Caesar’s handiwork. Nothing more.
I began peeling back the rotted boards shoddily hammered into my window. They fell away, leaving a crack just wide enough to squeeze out a lawyer (who’d taken a generous liking to Price’s cream-coated scones) and his briefcase. Every nerve in my body burned. My body jittered, with pictures of Caesar running to my door, like lightning, with his hammer buzzing through my mind. Perhaps he’d even bring Price and his blunderbuss. But the bed was a creaky floorboard too far away now.
Climbing out of a two-story window wasn’t a skill often taught in law school, thus I thought it safest to wriggle out a shoulder first. My head poked out, and I was hit with the caress of sweet spring air on my tongue. And the dirt path to town was a mere breath away.
I looked down.
The weeds below, and their fresh thorns, were an awful distance away. And what if I broke something on my perhaps-not-so-graceful drop down? Surely Mr (Caesar) Pinemort would sue for damage. What if I hooked onto one of Caesar’s jutting rusty nails, and tore down a window with me? I saw my reputation shatter. I heard the paperboys selling out papers to the whole of Gothæm Town, with my sorry jibface beneath the front page’s headlines. The jeering from my competitors. The disappearances of my last few clients. The sheer inconvenience of it all sent my stomach into a spin. A board made sure to give me a good bump on the head, as I retreated back inside. But the bed wasn’t looking any comfier than I had done before. The window’s frame stung my fingertips. I tried batting down the lump in my throat. Yet the city lights and the echoes of sea-shanty singing of my hometown on the horizon sent my heart leaping.
One leg crept on out. Then the other. My white knuckles and sweaty fingers clung to a cloak of vines.
“Come on.” I chewed into my cheek. The ground became an eternity away. Surely the heather would, no- should break my fall. “This isn’t a bad idea…” I closed my eyes.
“Ooooh, getting away, are we? Now isn’t that a fantabulous idea!” I snapped back and saw two hands slip through the window boards. “Don’t die, now! I’ve seen folk crippled, falling from these heights-“
I gasped, My eyes bolted open. My breath was robbed of a scream.
One push.
The vines slipped from my fingers, my feet splayed and useless.
Indeed, the heather caught me with a bounce. My briefcase followed, skimming my head by a hair’s width. The latch snapped open, my papers freed and frolicking in the light night wind.
“Oi! Be bloody careful! Fallin’ around like that. Those are my clothes you’re wearing,” I think I heard, but when one is pushed from a window, one’s head tends to start spinning a wincey bit. A riot erupted from within the house.
“Can’t keep me in Price, ye old foozler!” I heard a townie twang in this fellow’s voice. Sticking my head out from the heath, I reached for air. My arms weren’t twisted, my legs weren’t shattered, my back ache was its usual. When I blinked back up, I met the bottom of two heeled boots.
WHOOMPH.
Me and this mystery fellow wrangled with each other for breath until he hopped out of the bush. Through the blur, I squinted at him and his fancy cravat which danced in the light breeze. Half his face, soft with youth, shone beneath the moonlight. I recognized his stupid smile from the painting above Richard’s fireplace, and his dark, wild eyes held mine.
“Dick,” I mouthed.
“Excuse me?” He paff-paffed away a stray brown hair from his mouth.
“Pinemort.” I staggered up. “You’re Dick Pinemort.”
“Well… aye,” Dick winked. “I should hope I stand out from those two ugly pr-“
“Caesar, grab the blunderbuss – he’s out again!” Price stuck his head out the battered window, his face burned enough to poke me up onto my feet. “Artwick! Don’t worry!”
“You’re Artwick?” Dick slapped his thigh.
Metal latches on the other side of the front door shunted.
Dick smiled, then spun away. His next destination: the front road and possibly far beyond.
“Come on, Fartwick!” he hollered back, already a leap from the gates.
“My bloody papers.” My face flushed as I peeled a document from the mud. The front door wheezed open. Out poked the end of a rifle.
“Dick! Wait!” I pranced after him through the knee-biting grass. Dick hurried me through the mansion’s gate, which he heaved shut.
“Dick, our little excursion out of a window, through the bushes, into a swamp and up a vertical hill has been awfully fun, but I’m thinking we should head back.” I keeled forward, after a not-so-gentle jog up the dirt path. Dick, of course, only asked me why I was ‘taking so bleeding long to catch up’ and sauntered on ahead. My blistered feet cried for a warm bath.
“Why? To sit in silence around a dinner table? To rot away in a damp room?”
“Do you think I just dodged Price’s gun for fun?”
“Well, the massive smile you had on your face said otherwise.”
I paused with my lips pursed, then spoke. “You’ve got papers to sign.”
“Nah. We’re going into town.”
I tripped into a puddle.
“Town? Gothæm Town’s a day’s ride back! What about your father, eh? In his state…”
“Richard? Oh, noooo! He’s not my father.”
Dick stopped. With a hand, he shushed me still, then threw into a blanket of ferns. First, I only heard the running river. But then horseshoes. Clippity-clopping at a distance but growing ever louder.
“Bang on time. There’s our ride into town.” Dick brushed away his coat from his hip; his fingers brushed over a holster on his belt. “I’m not ruining my bloodyboots from walking.” He grinned, then held up one of Price’s revolvers.
“Now, Dick- Hang on! As your family’s good legal advisor, I would suggest you put that gun down before you-“
A wagon was close.
“Dick! Let’s just take a second to think,” I hissed, but he sat poised, his concentration like stone. My hands were clammy, my heartbeat was between my temples, and my collar itched an awful lot more than usual. Dick’s gun was within a snaggable reach. Just enough to…
Dick pounced onto the road, pistol locked and loaded. His coattails ran between my fingers, and the wet grass whipped me backwards into an awfully, conveniently deep puddle. BANG! Every bird from every tree screeched and scattered.
An old man’s shout. A horse’s whinny. The grinding of heavy metallic wheels; their crash reverberated through the forest floor, and into my bones. With wet trousers hoisted, I trudged up into the clearing, coughing through thick billows of upheaved dust and stone.
“Move!” Dick collared me backwards, the cart a hair’s width from my face. From its mouth tumbled hundreds of stacks of planks of wood, and broken boxes of nails scattered. “Howay, Artwick, you never robbed a trader before?”
Dick stormed up to the road’s edge, where a figure lay groaning rocking from side to side and holding his side which was peppered with gravel and blood.
“You! I’ve told you before, you old fart! Stop taking Caesar’s money.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Dick, sir- I just-“
With a swift kick, Dick knocked the man onto his back. He, no- it groaned, as it blinked dust out from its seven, maybe eight eyes.
“I swear to Octem, Rogbert, if I ever see you again…” He knelt down and pushed the gun’s tip into the fellow’s temple. The thing’s screech nudged me foreward.
“Ah-ah- ah, Dick!” I latched onto his arm. “Please, I’m sure it just needs the money from Caesar.”
“Yes, yes! Your friend’s right, Mr Dick!” He trembled with a rasp, behind several bloody hands.
Dick sighed. “You know Artwick, this freak is one of the reasons I’m always holed up in that house.”
“Dick.” I placed a light hand on his shoulder. “I’ve seen your place and what you Pinemorts have… Surely you can just pay it, er… Rogbert more than Caesar does?” Dick lowered his gun, then fed it back into its holster.
“I had no idea you had such devilish little ideas, Art.” Dick’s face hardened, as he turned back towards the squirming Rogbert. “Get out of here.” Dick unclipped the two horses from their reins; we sat the spidery-old trader on one, and we clambered onto the horse. First, I thought the image of Rogbert might have been a trick of the moon, but Dick promised me that the night’s true nature was yet to be seen.
“Now hold on tight,” Dick spoke, his voice soft.
“Oh, I’ll be okay.”He clamped one of my hands to his waist. Dick thwapped the reins and the stallion rocked onto its hind legs. I shrieked and grappled onto the edge of his leather belt, the cold metal of his gun digging into my thigh. My chin nestled into the back of his shoulder.
Hartwood’s Hollow was a sleepy seaside town appearing only to those who followed the beam of a moonlit sky. Our horse swerved along the winding path, lit with the glow of bustling pixies and torches of busy forest gnomes. We passed fish-headed sailors, rolling barrels of worms over the cobblestone bridge. Under the purple sky, we saw floating galleons which chugged with clockwork engines. The town greeted us with the distant hiss of crashing sea waves. As Dick helped me down from the horse, we passed by hordes of hooded figures and by faceless, floating vendors who beckoned at us from their crooked stands. Some sellers paraded jewellery which glowed, and whispered in forgotten languages that’d drive one’s senses loop-de-loop. Others beheld jars labelled ‘eyes of newt’, ‘frog’s tongues’ or ‘tartan paint’. Dick led me down an alleyway lined by hunched-over buildings, towards a rowdy shack with a creaking sign that read:
The Boozin’ Beast
“Weapons at the door, fellas.” A minotaur of a man, decked out with horns hanging over his brow, squinted at my companion.
Dick rolled his eyes and dropped his flintlock pistol with a clatter. Another humph from the guard, and he unburdened himself of a fistful of daggers (pulled from his socks), a matching set of three derringers and a mini blunderbuss which he kept underneath his hat.
I dropped off my toothpick. It rolled off the table.
“This place, Dick it’s…”
In the centre, tables had been tipped over to make walls, for two goblins fighting with marshmallow guns. Jolly orcs were being chased by a gnomish maid and her wet cloth for the grave sin of stacking their empty steins just a smidgen too high. Trolls snorted as they played cards by the fireplace while a troupe of singing sirens serenaded a front row of generously tipping sailors. Gargoyles suited with baker’s aprons and chef’s hats dashed in and out of the kitchen, balancing numerous steaming bowls of blue stew.
Oddly, perfect.
“Can I get you a drink?” A raspy voice slunk over my shoulder, along with a tentacle.
“Two Yanuka Teas.” Dick kicked out a chair for me.
“You watch yourself around that Dick, son.” I turned, and saw the waitress, juggling two or three empty glasses slung on each tentacle. “He’s dangerous.”
“Dick.” As soon as she left, I leant in and hissed. “I appreciate the little joyride into this place, but we have things to do. And Yanuka Tea? Really? That’s illegal back in Gothæm Town. Just because you can apparently get that here, doesn’t mean-“
Dick leant in with a grin.
“All the more reason to try it then, eh?”
The squid-lady popped back in a blink, and she propped two bubbling steins of purple down onto our table. In return, Dick snapped off a lock of his hair, which she was happy enough (or as happy as a squid can look) to accept. We clinked glasses and knocked them back. It stung. It stung good.
“I bet this beats Price’s potatoes, eh?”
“It’s… Interesting.”
“I promise it’s alright.” Dick lifted his brows. “You’re in the best, and safest, company. I won’t tell anyone.”
SMASH.
A glass hit the wall behind Dick; I turned to see a group of half-dead-looking men cackling from their little corner. Dick rolled his eyes and knocked back another swig of the tea. Something in their toothy jeering jabbed me just one nerve too far. The ugly one let a sly comment slip about Dick, and underneath the buzz of the Yanuka Tea I was ready to roll up my sleeves. My ears reddened. Dick perked up.
“Artwick, what’re you-“
I staggered from my chair and stood facing the raucous group with clenching fists. One of the beasts let a sly snarl slip; my shoes became stone. The glance of every eye throughout the tavern brought a sweat across my forehead. My legs jellied. My breath was shallowed. One path at this crossroad told me to slink down back onto my stool, hide my very human face, and keep quiet. But I’d seen that very same snarl before – from defendants when I fudged up their cases; from my father when I told him I didn’t want a life in the courts; from Caesar when I refused to forge his father’s signature…
No more. My calling was nigh. Rebellion. Anarchy. Rebirth-
I twitched and bumped into the tray of a passing gargoyle. An old orange dropped into my hand. There was another sneer from the group, and I lobbed the rotten fruit at the horde, hitting the loud one where his nose once might’ve been.
“Gods.” I winced, glares from the whole of the bar leered in. “That was rather rude, wasn’t it?” I was pushing down a laugh.
“Felt good though, right?” Dick swiped the food from another passing plate. “Here’s to a good night!”
Dick draped a drunken arm over my shoulder as we gazed out at the sea. Our legs dangled from the cliff face in the warm breeze.
“Isn’t it gorgeous, Artwick? Look around. See those boats? We could man one of those. Sailing the seas like they do in those stories, the skies… travelling… doing everything I never could.”
“You’re young, you could still do-“
“Artwick.” He sighed and cupped my hands in his. “I don’t have much time left.” He lowered his head. “Come with me.”
“What, now? Dick – the east sun will be up soon. We should find a carriage.”
“By Octem, no- Fartwick.” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled, then traced his thumbs over my hands.
“It’s Artwick-“
“The real Artwick surely doesn’t want a life behind a desk. Bin it all off. Think- We could run away from all this-” He gestured at the air. “Together.”
“Dick… just cannot leave the firm behind.” I gazed down at our hands. “It belonged to my father, and his father, and his-“
“Don’t be so boring, Fartwick-“
“Boring? This isn’t a game, Dick-“
“Artwick, what if I told you that you were your own person? And only you could make your own decisions? And I saw that fire in your eyes when we stole that carriage, when you tried that drink, when you lobbed that fruit-“
“Don’t be preposterous, Dick. It’d never work.”
“I’d be with you every step of the way.” He squeezed my hands and brought them to his lips. “You brought yourself all the way here, didn’t you?”
“Well, I-“
He leant in.
The sun squinted in through the freshly nailed boards on my windows. I blinked awake, sat up, then collapsed back into my pillow, cradling my pounding head. My stomach was turning, and my mouth was parched. As I stretched, my hand skimmed against another in my bed. Dick. I moved closer, only to wish him a good morning, of course.
Combing his hair between my fingers, it felt thinner. Wispier. The skin around his moles sagged.
Richard rolled over.
“I suppose we have some explaining to do…” Price tutted from the door.
“And that’s why you’ve never seen Richard and Dick in the same room.”
“But…” I watched Richard, who was snoozing by the fireplace.
“He took you to Hollow’s Hartwood? You met all his little friends, yes? Some squid lady ordered you both a carriage home,” Caesar butted in.
“No, er- Yes? It’s actually Hartwood’s Hollow.”
“The folk there are all cursed, I’m sure you noticed.”
“Is Dick, no- Richard, the same?”
“Obviously,” Caesar sighed. “We went there once, some old woman said there was a ritual that might reverse whatever’s wrong with him. Give him his mind back. And it worked, at night, anyway. But… Artwick? Richard’s not got long left… Before his mind blurred, the old bag told us that there was a chance that Dick might possess the body. Though, that was before he got worse…”
Try and get the will signed by Richard before tonight. It’s a full moon.”
Price promised me a carriage the next morning, but until then he insisted that I kept my windows closed, my door locked, and my bed sheets over my head. But as the full moon’s glow peered through the slits over my window, a twisting in my chest told me I had to wish Dick goodbye. Because it would’ve been polite to do so- why else?
“Dick?” I whispered into the keyhole. The door was ajar. “It’s just me, remember? Artwick.” I crept into the room and slid the curtains back. Moonlight flooded in, illuminating scratch marks carved into the walls, and the driblets of blood which trailed from the bed, out into the corridor and down the stairs.
There was a low moan. My heart leapt. I crept out. A silhouette crouched in the shadows.
“I’m leaving tomorrow and-“
A growl. It turned and slumped towards me. It dropped to its knees in a choke, and I dived forward to catch it.
“Dick?” It pulled back. Its eyes aflame with thunder. The thing’s growling shook me still, its matted hair standing like bristles. Its hands grabbed onto my shoulder, digging with claws like rusted nails.
“Artwick!” I heard Price hiss from the hallway. “Stay still!” I heard the clunk of metal. “Dick’s dangerous like this!”
The beast in front of me howled. It pushed me to the floor, and it leapt for Price. There was a flash of light and the stench of gunpowder.
“Artwick! Get up!” Price took the revolver from Dick’s table and kicked it at me across the floor. “We’ve got to find him!” I chewed down on my cheek. The revolver was heavy, its edges cold. “Tell me, what sort of lawsuit will we be facing if Dick gets out and tears open on a poor fellow on the road, eh?”
Price moved down the corridor; I was slow behind him. Our candles and weapons were pointed. He followed the sick howling of a man one second, and the screaming of a wolf the next. Bloody footprints, some big, some small ended at the front door. Crouching by a sword pinned to the wall, a shadow’s breaths crossed with my own. I holstered my weapon.
“Dick, it’s me!” I breathed. “Artwick!” I pulled at the figure curled up on the carpet, the moonlight revealed the paling face of Caesar. Something fell over us. Caesar’s eyes, staring over my shoulder, widened. I turned my head.
Price always talked highly of his army days, and that he prided himself on his great aim. It was that great aim which shot the monster in the abdomen as he, no- it, went for us. Caesar was resting well, there wasn’t much else one could do for a twisted ankle other than sulk in bed. Richard, however, was paling by the hour.
“You should get yourself back to Gothæm Town, Artwick.” Price put his hand on my shoulder, as I sat by Richard’s side, his hand in mine. Richard’s empty eyes traced the patterns on the ceiling. His breath was rasping, and his bandages seeped. Any energy he had left he used in violent protest against any food or water.
The black carriage was waiting outside.
“I’ll get these documents signed. That’s why I’m here, right?”
The full moon and the howling lasted another three days. Though, come the fourth day, he was back. I took paper and a quill and hovered by that room.
“Artwick!” I heard, with a light fumble of the locked door handle.
“Dick.”
“Open the door.”
“I can’t.”
“How else can I sign your papers? Hmm?”
“I can pass them under the door.”
“I don’t have a quill. Artwick…” He coughed. “Please, just open the door.” We shared a silence, then he continued through a coarser tone, “If I don’t leave, then I’ll rot here as Richard. One more night. With you! Me and you. We could do anything. Think! Please! What about travelling the world together? Artwick? Artwick!”
“I’m sorry.” I slunk against the door.
Richard died the following morning.
And with him, Dick.
Richard Pinemort’s cremation was like that done for any rich man: quiet, lonely, and quick. Without Price and I, he would not have been waved off into his next life.
Though Richard’s fate was a matter left to the gods, I refused to let Dick’s ashes wind up collecting dust at the bottom of Caesar’s cupboard. In the early hours that followed, I tucked away the urn into my briefcase and ran for the road. I halted a passing carriage, in a rather Dick-like fashion, and rode for Gothæm Town, leaving Pinemort House, forever. But after my return to the office, I realised Dick’s ashes were not destined to simply be an ornament on my desk corner.
I lit a match to my firm, took Dick’s ashes and rode to Hartwood’s Hollow. From there, we became stowaways on an airship, only to then be sniffed out by those half-dog folk from the tavern. Taking on the role as the ship’s cook was enough, however, to settle the dispute which lingered after our night at The Boozin Beast. From there, Dick and I travelled to Laswich, and saw its steam-powered spires and its automaton-manned streets. We surfed clouds over the monster infested Bathory Sea and battled other ships for their treasures. We ventured up dragon-infested mountains and took elevenses with C’thulhu. And we met people afflicted with his same curse.
When I see the flame of life rekindle in their eyes with the nightly turn of the moon’s glow, I see Dick. I see his thrill for life in the ways they dance and chant around island bonfires, and I hear Dick’s voice amongst their buzzing conversations at the dinner table. I see the way these people had learned to control their monthly beast-like urges, and think, if you only knew, how you could have also been free.
Dick – you would’ve loved these people. I wish you were here. I wish I could’ve told you how much you mean to me. I’ll find someone in this new and fantastical world that can bring you back, so that your final words – which you shared with me, that night at your door – aren’t ‘save me.’
About the Author
Bel Briar is a Geordie fiction writer with a fascination for steampunk, fantasy and the macabre.
When they are not lifting weights with twisted form, they can be found writing stories which are inspired by their superfluous love for chap-hop, tea, and whimsy.
Social media
Xitter: @steam_junk
Instagram: @bel.briar
Email: bela.bat11@outlook.com
Website: belbriar.weebly.com
Acknowledgements
Joseph Smith and Harley McCourt are thanked for their helpful comments on the original manuscript.
Bel Briar highlights the contribution from editors Bertie Kirkwood, Rebecca Wright and Cameron Inglis whose feedback gave this short story life.
Bel Briar gives thanks William A.V. Wood, who brought Dick’s portrait to life with his fantastic art skills.