Young Writers Society

Layla fanned herself uncomfortably, the heat was sweltering as she walked slowly down the glittering black aisle. She looked out the window at the blank layers of red and pink desert sand, nearly shouting she said, "This is my stop."

The bus driver was a large man. The type of man who ate a family-sized packet of chips each night and kept his large grey moustache perfectly trimmed - though it looked much more like a hairy worm - so he could feel important. When he spoke his booming voice quaked against the windshield, "You aren't from these parts, are you miss? It is miss?"

"Not yet. No," she said, ignoring his adulterous approach.

"Well, miss," he said heavily - emphasising miss, "You're in the middle of bloody nowhere." He pointed out the window, irritated at her lack of interest. "That there is the Painted Desert and you'd prefer to be sitting in Death's Row than get yourself caught up in there."

"Stop the bus!" she screamed, she had really hoped this wouldn't be so hard.

The old man slammed hard on the brakes so she had to quickly grab onto the steel railing to avoid falling over. The bus came to a steady halt and the door phished open. She stormed off the bus, trying to keep her composure as he mockingly catcalled behind her.

The heat struck her in waves and beads of sweat popped on her forehead as she glared at the small, fat man who obviously much too important - as every low-income bus driver should feel. He turned tail at her piercing gaze and quickly revved the engine, roaring down the dusty dirt road in a big red cloud.

She trekked slowly down into the red-pink of the valley, her wavy cape of hair sticking to her forehead in long blonde strands.

The cracked ground was devoid of life - simply dead, it seemed as if it hadn't rained in a hundred years. But Layla knew that wasn't possible, after all, she was on her way to her a new town with only a small backpack resting quite heavily on her shoulders.

At last, she came to the top of the low, rolling valley and spotted the tiny village resting lazily in a basin, a lush oasis sparkled in the wavering sunlight and she sincerely hoped this wasn't some type of mind trick.

The basin, which she edged down slowly in her tightly-clad shoes, was bordered by sharp mountains that seemed to rocket into the sky. If there had been clouds the steep peaks would have been by their greedy, white stomachs but there wasn't much water in these parts - the oasis was quite small, hardly the size of a lake already starting to dry up.

When she had finally reached the bottom without tripping or stumbling she adjusted the hem of her dark purple skirt and stood nervously looking at the quiet town - it seemed as lifeless as the desert itself. "Miss Norcross?" a cheerful voice interrupted her thoughts.

Nicholas Aspen

"Lavinia's Requiem" was playing in the only bar in town when Nicholas Aspen pushed open the door. He almost turned around when he heard it--it was Wednesday. He'd come here to drink, not get drunk. Getting drunk would mean making a fool of himself, and the last time that had happened he'd seen the frowning eyes squinting up at him from the pews, the whispered judgements behind withered hands. He wasn't letting that happen again, no chance.

"Afternoon, Reverend," Herman At The Bar called over the screeching of an off-kilter electric fan. "Early start today?"

"Modelo," Nicholas said flatly as he seated himself at one of the barstools. "Just the one."

"You got it." He turned toward the taps.

There were only four others in the bar besides Nicholas and Herman. Depressed Rick Pickering over at the back table with his face in a puddle of spilled beer, Eddie Sumner The Café Owner on the stool beside Nicholas's, Fred Johnson The Mailman, and Marie Pager The Butcher, who was having a hard whiskey and eating hot wings. The usual crowd, and more than enough people for Nicholas to feel safely part of a group but not enough for him to be smothered.

"Society meeting Friday night," Herman said conversationally, passing him the beer. "You skipping again?"

Nicholas shrugged, sipping at the beer and getting only foam. "If he won't let me preach properly at church then he won't be seeing me there again, Herman.

Esmond Synakrein

Today was getting tiresome.

There were only so many times you could yell at your college-aged employees to get off their phones and actually work, and so many times you could un-jam the feed-bag-stitching machine that'd backed up due to their negligence, and trips you could make between babysitting your employees in the back and serving your customers in the front of the house, before you were ready to send them all home for the day. Which he had.

His employees first, with the threat of replacing them if they didn't give him better work tomorrow. But he was bluffing. And they all knew it. As terrible as they were, they were literally his only option -- a pair of barely-nineteen-year-old boys home for summer break from their university courses. The only people, in fact, in town who were in need of an additional income from him.

But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

And he wasn't.

He flipped the sign of his General Store to 'closed' and then locked the door behind himself, then strode down the sidewalk to the only bar in their podunk little town that they called home.

Esmond paused after he entered, sizing up all the regulars that he'd expected to see, right where they belonged, in their desolation. He smirked a little as he saw Nicholas at the bar nursing his Modelo. Hadn't the old fool had enough of drinking in public after the last little... incident? Perhaps he'd go rub his nose in it. Or, maybe he wouldn't. They'd see how he was feeling.

"Well if it isn't the Good Father himself!" Esmond said, forcing himself to sound cheerier than he was as he strode up to the bar and clapped him on the back. "How are you today, old chap?"

Nicholas looked up with a deep frown. Ah, his third least-favorite person in town. The gossip monger. Turning the other cheek was preferable to dealing with him. On the other hand, Esmond was persistent and likely wouldn't give up just because he was being ignored.

"Fathers are of the Catholic faith," Nicholas said curtly, sipping his beer and gazing up at the football game on TV instead of looking at Esmond. "You would know this town is Lutheran if you ever bothered to show up on Sundays."

Not that he wanted him there; Esmond struck him without doubt as a heckler and a blasphemer. Him coming into church would mean trouble. Besides, Nicholas was pretty sure one more sinner crammed into the poor old building would result in the whole church going up in flames. The Rainwater Society members made the situation precarious enough. One more would tip the boat.

"As cheery as ever, I see!" Esmond said with a smirk.

Which was part of the reason why Esmond enjoyed tormenting him so much. He was a glutton for the dry-wit and scathing remarks Nicholas always threw his way. Especially given how easy it was to get a rise out of him. He'd meant it as a compliment the first time he called him the Good Father and got taken down several notches; now it was just funny.

Esmond pulled up a chair, straddling it backward so that his arms wrapped around the backrest. "My ongoing apologies for missing your beautifully non-Catholic book club. I keep meaning to go--" he didn't "but I always somehow find myself occupied by... what did you call it? Debauchery? Or am I degenerate these days? I always get mixed up what tier of sinner I am..."



People always complained about Mondays, but it was Wednesdays that Biryn couldn't stand. 'Hump day' was such an idiotic attempt at rebranding the drag of the middle of the week. Too far removed from the previous weekend to have any sort of fond memories from it; and too far away from the upcoming one to have any sort of hope. It was just... Wednesday.

And he was bored.

Biryn was sitting in his office chair, very, very slowly and lazily turning himself in a circle on his rolly chair as he stared directly at the ceiling. The next Society Meeting was rapidly approaching. He should probably start thinking about his game plan for that; what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it.

His secretary, Liz, giggled from the front desk.

Biryn stopped himself, gaze flicking towards the door. What was she laughing about?

Whatever it was seemed more interesting than this. So he pushed himself to his feet and casually walked to the door and leaned against the doorframe in hopes of her noticing and deciding to offer conversation. Which she did.

"Oh, sorry." She was grinning mischievously even though she was clearly trying not to. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Not at all," he said coolly. "May I ask what's tickled your fancy?"

"Oh, nothing." She was still chuckling a bit as she shook her head. "Just a text from Freddy."

"At the bar?" Biryn asked with casual disinterest.

"Always." She rolled her eyes a little but was still smiling. "And you'll never guess who else is there."

Biryn raised an eyebrow, considering. With how gleeful she was, someone was probably making a fool of themselves. "... Nicholas?"

"...okay, maybe you will," she conceded. "But the funny part is who else is there..."

Biryn considered it for a moment, eyebrow somehow arched even further. "Mm?"

"Esmond."

That was enough to draw a snort and a smirk out of Biryn. God. Nicholas and Esmond were a dumpster fire waiting to happen. Literally all of the time. One 'Good Father' away from a potential flame. "I could use a bit of a show..."

He turned and grabbed his keys, then strode towards the door. "I'll be back later."

"You won't," she countered, passively watching him leave.

"...yeah, probably not," he agreed, then slipped outside without another word.

It was scorching hot, but he was wearing a black long-sleeved button-up shirt tucked into black slacks. He had appearances to maintain, after all. And, thankfully, the black helped hide the sweat that would no doubt accumulate on his walk to the bar to watch the disaster.

He strode inside and glanced around just in time to see Esmond looking smug and proud of himself. Biryn's eyes flicked to Nicholas to see the response.

The man chattered like a bird, hopping from one subject to the next as if they were tree branches. Small talk, she guessed. Though she didn’t really know what he was going on about. “Isak. I thought you told me it was just outside the town center,” Layla pried.

He turned around, raising pinkish-red dust and look at her up and down with his olive green eyes. “I’ll take your bag for you, pass it to me.”

He slung the small pink bag over one brawny shoulder and started walking, mouth moving infinitely quicker than his feet.

Layla blushed and pursed her lips together as she wiped a loose strand of hair away from her metallic grey eyes. Drifting away on thoughts she wondered how Bobby was doing. Had he even noticed? Or was he still out some bar drowning his success in gallon after gallon of stinging Scottish whiskey? She already missed the cold Winter sun and blanketing rainshowers but she was too far gone to go back home.

“Are you coming to church on Sunday?”

“Hmmm,” she mumbled at the sudden break in her thoughts.

“Are you coming to church? It’s down by the banks. If you want to I can show you the way on Sunday.”

“I- I don’t know,” she stumbled.

Isaac continued to speak as if he hadn’t heard her at all, “Nicholas Aspen runs the service. Nice man as long as he stay away from the bar.” Layla made a face, what type of pastor got drunk in front of his parishioners? “Loves his Lord. You should really come, he’s always in need of new members.”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” she nodded.

“The house is a mile’s walk from the city centre. At the very least you can keep fit. It hasn’t been occupied for the last 50 years. If you have a problem with rodents you can find me in town - though it would be a miracle. I know it’s not much but… it’s quite big.”

Layla lifted her ducked head as she panted, wishing she had of worn a blouse instead of her jersey. The house looked much older than 50 years. The cracks had been filled in and the old roof tiles replaced, but there was no paint covering the once carefully chipped out grey walls.

She grimaced as she followed Isaac inside. The house was a skeleton of a home. Big, maintained well - if anything could be considered a problem it would be the fine film of dust that covered the floors and yet it was empty except for a dusty mattress in the corner of one of the rooms. “Esmond at the General Store is still trying to get a bed brought in for you, hopefully in a weeks’ time.”

He plopped her bag on the floor and had her the key as she thanked him for all his help. To be honest, she was starting to get a migraine.

"Degenerates manifest debauchery wherever they go," Nicholas retorted, curling his drink defensively towards himself and taking a long, deep sip--perhaps deeper than he ought to. God knew he'd need another if Esmond kept talking, and he'd promised himself to only get one drink this time. Nursing this one might help stave off a second. "I would note that the Society meetings rarely overlap with my own services, but I'd be beating a dead horse if I did." Beating dead horses was what the clergy did for a living, come to think of it. But some weren't worth beating if nobody watched. And fewer and fewer people were attending his services with each passing week. The big event was drawing near--he assumed that was why. There was business to attend to, and in a community that only used his poor church to save face, attending Sunday service took last priority.

Nicholas was about to ask that Esmond leave him be when he caught sight of Biryn Malvado by the doorway. He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away, down into the urine-colored beer in his cup. No way was he going to be caught complaining in front of that one. Starting a fight around Biryn meant singling yourself out, and that didn't do anyone any good.
Especially since Marie Pager was right over there and, it seemed, doing nothing interesting at the moment.

"'Fernoon, yrhonor," Rick Pickering mumbled, blinking beer out of his eyes but not raising his head. "Busy day?"
Nicholas watched out of the corner of his eye, hunching his shoulders.

The moon shone through the cracked window in wavering tendrils of bright, white light. Layla on her dusty mattress with a fountain pen in one hand and a notebook before her. She spilled carefully through the pages reading her endless poems.

Is it love you wanted? Because in the end you lost it.

Our paths align through the groves, footsteps we followed back when we were alone.

Rock-a-bye baby. I'll hold you tight through the night.

She ripped out a piece of paper in frustration and tossed at the corner. Hand scribbling on the next until her other hand reached out and tore out. Layla twirled her as she stared at another blank piece of paper. If only all those years ago we could have loved. If only as a forest glows we could walk our darkest paths.

She smiled and continued to write, words falling from the tip of the pen. She traced the curving arc of each letter. Pressing hard it blotted and exploded, spraying the page and my clothes full of dark blue ink. "Come on," she whined to herself and stared out into the freezing exspanses of the desert night.

She pulled the page out quickly as it dripped and in the hallway she saw letters run forward in great streaming bundles. Layla read it as she crawled on her knees towards the full stop of the shut door.

Her brows arched like fine lines pointed up at the low ceiling and she let out a confused realizing this was no normal message but some type of prediction of the future inched deeply into the carved rock.

Huddle by the old fireplace
and steam the wolves out.
Boil and rid of water,
shout if you burn myself.

But let them burn you,
let their icy eyes stare alive.
Let their mouths gape open air.
And don't scream when they forget your water.

The oasis drys up
like an old well.
Watch the blackbifds
circle through their flight.

"Right, right..." Esmond agreed with faux-innocence as he chose to deliberately misunderstand. "Manifesting debauchery... hey, didn't Joel Osteen say something about manifesting your destiny? Living your best life now? Something like that? Maybe you and Joey should do book club together sometime -- I'd go to that." He smirked. He'd pay money to watch the crotchety old reverend take on a prosperity gospel televangelist.

...okay, that may be a bit cruel. Nicholas seemed to genuinely believe his faith. Perhaps Esmond should cut him a break... or perhaps he should just settle in and order himself a drink. He looked around trying to catch the eye of the barkeeper -- they'd know he wanted a stout, as usual.



Well, well, well, wasn't that interesting? They'd already devolved to throwing around 'degenerates' and televangelists. That didn't take long... or perhaps he was just late to the party. Either way, Biryn couldn't help but feel a prick of annoyance at Rick started talking to -- slurring at, more like -- him. Still, he hid it well and instead offered a smile, gracefully moving further into the bar. "Never too busy for a drink with friends."

"Joel Osteen corrupts the gospel and the minds of his listeners," Nicholas growled, casting another side eye at Biryn. "Not only does he lie but he spreads false hope to those who are condemned to the flame. There's no saving them, no matter how much prosperity you preach." If that were the way to save souls, Nicholas would have changed his tune years ago. This lot were a lost cause even with his correct efforts. "Besides, the manifestation of one's destiny followed immediately by the instruction to live one's best life very presumptuously implies that all of us are predestined to Heaven, when that isn't the case. It's a mixed bag."

Herman brought over a stout for Esmond with a nod.

"Big tdo soon yeh?" Rick patted the table wetly. "Big plansnall?"

Esmond smirked as he listened to the rant. The man was like clockwork. Calvinists were so dogmatic about being rigid and inflexible; it made them some of the easiest people to troll. And he lived for it. “Well if we’re all destined to hell anyhow, may as well live it up in this lifetime, no? What’s the harm in false hope?” He glanced up at Herman with a nod. “Thank ya kindly, sir.”

"But. We. Aren't." Nicholas jabbed the table with a bony finger to punctuate each word. "That's a Calvinist doctrine. I draw from that, certainly, but Lutheran doctrine states that we are not all predestined for the flame nor are we predestined for paradise. It depends on the individual. That is the belief I follow. Did you not listen to a word I said?"
Probably not. He was wasting his breath and making himself like a fool anyway. Best to shut up now before there was trouble. He took a long drink of his Modelo and glanced back over at Biryn.

Esmond looked at him innocently for a long moment, then dipped his head. It was more fun to draw this out. If he was too aggressive about it, then Nicholas would just clam up and the game would be over. “My apologies. Perhaps I should show up sometime; maybe I’d understand better.”


“Yes indeed,” Biryn murmured to Rick. “Excuse me.” He moved over to the show. “Esmond, Nicholas, how are you fine chaps today? You behaving yourself?”

Esmond met his gaze with a smirk. “Never.”

Biryn tsked but smirked and looked at Nicholas. “And you?”

Nicholas withdrew back into himself as Biryn approached, hunching his shoulders. "Im keeping busy," he replied shortly. "There are always more sermons to write." Even if those sermons had become much the same over the years. There wasn't much else for it, and these people didn't care anyway. They had Biryn to deliver the magnificent sermons about rain and lightning and all the other heathen nonsense. Two services had been enough for Nicholas to make up his mind about that cult; it broke far too many commandments for his liking.
That being said, it was too powerful for him to even begin to stop. He'd tried once, early in his time on the little town. It had been a catastrophic failure that was shoved to the front of his mind as Biryn loomed over him and Esmond. He'd rather let the general store owner do the talking; he was afraid he'd say the wrong thing. He shot a glance over at Marie Pager, who was watching the scene with the mildest of interest.