A Winged Prophecy

People like to tell you how things are going to be. That's the problem with prophecy- it's just another case of "I told you so."

The oracles at Delphi didn't have to deal with the incessant whining of grubby teenagers. I did. And let me tell you, I would have chosen the creepy old Greek guys.

When the world saw dragons for the first time, it wasn't a storybook moment, unless you count the original Hans Christian Andersen's. The land engulfed in fire, the seas boiled, and the true Gods laughed.

This is part of the story where I tell you that I'm one of the resistance fighters or some hero with a burning tale of vengeance. But I'm not. I'm just a scout leader that got caught with his pants down. NO! Not like that. Bathroom. I saw the dragons return out of the window of a ranger waystation. I stopped to deal with some lingering dysentery (thanks, Ometepe) and found my scout troop missing. If I hadn't had just gone, I would have shit myself when I saw the dragon drop into the valley.

It looked like a fever dream. Nothing that big is supposed to fly. I know you're always supposed to worry about the kids first- but being in Glacier and seeing the winged incarnation of doom, all I could think was, no merit badge is worth this.

If there were enough people left to judge me, I'd be worried, but there aren't.

Global carbon emissions have plummeted as the human footprint disappears. I wish I had downloaded my music before this happened. Internet running out crashed the collective intelligence of our species. Most people don't realize their lack of critical thinking skills until their life depends on it.

Some places adjusted better than others. Siberia's population is the same, as with Alaska, parts of Montana, Minnesota, and Afghanistan. Say what you will, those people know how to survive.

Bicycles found a new love for a brief period. Until the nickname "meals on wheels" came into effect after some gruesome drive-by ingestions. Turns out, humans had to rely on their own two feet. Not exactly fair in a scenario where your opponent has four feet and wings. Tough shit, though.

Outside of the flying horrors and lack of company, life in a dragon ruled world beat the previous one. Not working at a Wendy's any was enough to praise the fire-filled serpents, but the quiet new landscape awoke a guilty peace. Before everything turned to guano, I kept questioning why I pretended I wanted to be anywhere besides the woods. Running the scout troop proved the only viable excuse to be in nature all weekend. Unless I wanted to be like the Zakowski twins, which given their moonshine and chili habits, I didn't.

Is life more mortally stressful with man-eating dragons flying through the skies, hoping to root out the last of my kind? Arguably. Do I get to enjoy trails and abandoned Trader Joe's to myself? Yes. It all shakes out in the end.

The Dance of Death

Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback.

The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose.

The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death.

The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish.

Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone.

An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins.

Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegan’s Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab.

Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees.

The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task.

Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand.

Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog.

So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.

The Saint for Sinners

Paul Greenberg was the nicest man that lived in Bushwick. No, honestly, he was. The type to possess that supernatural ability to stem the tide of personal disasters before the waves of misery could crash. Whether it took the form of a kind word, late-night phone call, or a surprise present, he lit the path of life with kindness for not only his friends but each soul that stopped long enough for Paul to flash a grin and share a laugh.

That's why it was so confusing when you faced his bright, kind, sympathetic face when he printed out your parking ticket. The anger inside you would burn into your guts as it struggled to release itself. Instinctively, your mouth would clamp shut or stutter as some essential subconscious part of you understood there was no malice coming from the man before you. Even worse, you could see in his warm, amber eyes a generous love for each person. You'd accept the ticket with a resigned confusion. A shock that comes from meeting real-life angels.

So it went through the boroughs as Paul continued to hand out tickets, smiles, and small prayers for harmony. Some took it upon themselves to try and muster an angry response or stern word for Paul, but it fell away like autumn leaves as his eyes crinkled with understanding. Life had yet to conjure a wave of anger too fierce for Paul to quell.

The day those sweet, amber eyes didn't accompany a ticket, the people revolted. Four different meter maids found themselves at the mercy of enraged motorists as a frenzy swept through the boroughs. The absence of Paul's light created monsters of mere mortals. They stalked the street in a vain attempt to locate their blue vested saint. The last light of goodness to flicker and die in the city that never sleeps. A frenzied chant of "Where's Paul" echoed through the boroughs as the citizens seek their unlikely savior.

The status of Paul Greenberg still unknown; the city fell to the riots within two weeks. But his legacy burns through the streets. Soon, every act of kindness met the battle cry of "You're not Paul!" even that quickly reduced to a screech that spoke only of hate. Hate that's born out of loss.

The world could only watch as chaos consumed the crown jewel of the United States. Eventually, even the Pope stepped in as he decreed Paul, a saint for his love. Only the crowds wanted more. Being a saint made Paul equal to other saints, and their Paul had no equal. He rose to a God, and with it brought the destruction of the church. The horde tolerated no false idols. No Jesus. not even God was safe from their fires.

"Let there be light; let there be Paul. Without his guidance, we shall fall. We shall fall. We. Shall. Fall."

And so they fell. Upon the land, the people, and the backbone of collective knowledge. Humanity was undone- by the Sinners of Paul.