Sly Key: Part II

Malcolm Morgan
By Jem Morgenstern

Malcolm Morgan was impressive, although less than he himself thought. He willed himself to power with his words and built his fortune on a vague promise. Even in the lives in which he was loved, Malcolm was somehow insignificant. By his standards, he was unimportant. By any other person’s standards, he was unimportant. In the most dangerous way, this allowed him to become whatever he could imagine, unseen and unbothered by anyone standing beside him. Malcolm Morgan gently brushed through his obstacles. Now, he stands with an empire behind him: forever loyal, powerful, and willing. With all that he would want available at his demand, there wasn’t much left to be desired, which turned his sights towards time and its finite availability. Although he didn’t fear death or mind the inevitability, Malcolm was struck with a desire for immortality. With this desire, his crusades began.

They began with simple teams excavating, exploring, and investigating, but they were never meant to stay that way. From the beginning, Malcolm intended for them to become an aggressive invading force, which they now are. Before this, his followers had been ordinary people: average skills, average strength, average minds. As his crusades evolved, those followers vanished and were slowly replaced with brutes, unethical archaeologists, and thieves.

Despite being the leader of an evil empire, Malcolm was still an average person with an average mind. He was surrounded by mindless drones and found himself to be very lonely. Out of desperation for connection and companionship, he adopted a white persian longhair, which had yet to be named and never would be. During particularly difficult meetings with his pawns that might involve detailing punishment or the relaying of bad news, Malcolm would have his cat sitting on his lap because this would relieve him of at least some of the stress that came from these meetings. No matter how many years Malcolm spent leading, he never became comfortable confronting people. He rarely met with any of his underlings, which did good for his image in some ways. It created a cloud of mystery. Besides the few slightly more intelligent brutes who Malcolm shoved his leadership responsibilities onto, none of his followers were quite sure who he was or what he was like. This allowed any image of him bred in the minds of his followers to become his true image.

He sat comfortably on his throne-like chair, behind his desk at the end of the long, concrete room. He faced the window, eyeing the expanse of nothing, as if it were everything. The cat sat with him and relished the gentle petting and stroking of its fur. The door on the other end of the room opened. Four men stood at the entrance; two standing behind two others, who were being forcibly guided towards Malcolm’s desk. They were all dressed the same: heavy boots, sturdy coats, black. The arms of the two men in front were restrained by the two standing behind them and their faces were bruised and bleeding. Malcolm turned his chair to face the visitors, slowly. He wasn’t in the mood to handle any external issues and was hoping that the slow turn of his chair would come off as passive-aggressive, but it didn’t. The slow turning of the chair and the displeased expression on his face came off as intimidating and powerful. All four of the men were afraid of what might happen. A few feet in front of his desk, the men behind pushed the bruised ones down to their knees and held their heads in place by the roots of their hair, so that they were forced to look directly at Malcolm.

Malcolm looked at them with a forced expression of discontent, holding back the worry and guilt he felt inside. He wasn’t sure what the two had done, but he knew that he would have to order their execution. As the men with the accusations explained what the other two had done, Malcolm began building up the courage he needed to order the deaths of two men he truly felt shouldn’t need to die. He constantly regrets choosing to lead by fear, because of the terrible things he’s forced to do in order to maintain his merciless reputation. The accusing men finished their story and asked their great leader what to do with the two who had now been labeled traitors. Before Malcolm could answer, he had to turn himself back towards the window, so none of them could pick up on the miniscule expressions of discomfort that would surely appear. He took a brief pause to find his voice, unintentionally building tension. This time with a slight unease in their voice, the men repeated their question. Malcolm took a deep breath, and answered them with the most displeased and monotonous voice he could, ordering them to leave the traitors far out in the wilderness without so much as a thong to keep them warm. He knew their chances of survival would still be slim, but this was the closest he could get to letting them live without damaging his reputation.

Unexpectedly, the traitors were stripped immediately. The traitors were entirely cooperative, allowing the men whose accusations brought them to their banishment to undress them gently. The boots came off first, then their jackets and shirts. As they came to the belts, there was a brief pause, but the undressing resumed within seconds. With this happening so often, Malcolm could now expertly hide his curious interest. At first, many of his underlings were put off by the abundance of nude punishments ordered, but it has since become a part of their mundane routine and prisoners escorted around the fortress in their bare, raw masculinity aren’t given a second glance (with the exception of ones who are particularly eye-catching). As soon as the traitors were completely disrobed, they were escorted out of Malcolm’s concrete lair and he sat alone once again.

An hour passed. His door opened again. Two new guards escorted a singular prisoner towards his desk. The guard to prisoner ratio was unusual. It was almost always one guard for one prisoner. The fact that this one prisoner required two guards for its escort excited Malcolm to a small extent. Malcolm turned his chair again, to face them and listen to their accusations. The lifted the prisoner’s head by its hair to face Malcolm, as is the customary procedure. Malcolm recognized this face and his initial realization of the familiarity nearly threw a surprised gasp from beneath his cold facade.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part II

Flower Stuck in Gums

By Jem Morgenstern

Anne is a recent high school graduate from West Kilby High School, which has no counterpart in the East, North, or South. It is the smallest high school in the city and is mainly reserved for the elitist children of the classist wealthy adults. Their sports teams are ranked as the worst in the region despite having the best equipment. West Kilby High School’s archrival is The Deng Xiaoping Catholic School for the Gifted, which is the school with the least and worst sports equipment and also ranks as second-best in the region despite their condemnation of extracurricular activities because, as quoted from their introductory guide, extracurricular clubs and activities distract students from achieving their full intellectual potential. West Kilby High School doesn’t have much to show for its overfunding besides its orchestral dominance over other schools’ music departments. This is mostly because the school is able to afford having a music department. Of the six high schools in the city, only three have musical classes to offer. Anne, although a student of West Kilby High School, didn’t play in the West Kilby Orchestra. Instead, she played for the Callcott Loyal Orchestra, whose home was Callcott Loyal Orchestral School for the Musically Talented. Callcott Loyal, although being dedicated to the musical arts, only had the second-best orchestra of the three schools that have music departments. This is mostly because the students of the school had no teachers. Callcott Loyal Orchestral School for the Musically Talented let the students teach themselves. Considering that many students at Callcott Loyal were completely self-taught musicians, them ranking second-best in the city is actually very impressive. Anne is a musically-gifted, 19-year-old, kind romantic. She often has a difficult time hearing what people say and is too shy to ask for repetition. She chews rose flavored gum, she hates talking to the elderly, and she too often drives over the speed limit. Her life had reached a stasis where positivity and negativity lifted each other up and dragged each other through the dirt. There was no movement in her emotional vortex, which left her with a pleasant blank feeling most of the time. This was what she had expected her life to feel like after achieving her ultimate goal, but she questioned how it could possibly feel this way if she hadn’t yet met her true love.

Anne had never cared about romance or marriage. She tried so hard not to care about romance or marriage. She almost succeeded, but she couldn’t stop herself. Love was what she wanted most, out of everything. She always had the feeling that it might be hiding around the corner, but every time she turned that corner, nothing was there. She sat in her room, listening to the wind and her neighbor’s radio that always played too loudly, thinking so fondly of her perfect future. She doesn’t want anything spectacular, nothing worth writing books about, nothing anybody would care to hear about. Anne wants a calm, sweet, clean future. Anne wants that future to be now. The love she yearns for takes time and patience - truckloads of patience - she understands that, but she can’t help it.

From outside of her bedroom window, he caught her eye. He: twenty-three and already dead inside, commonplace brown hair, commonplace white skin. His name is John, often referred to as The Gardener by Anne’s parents and - for the sake of narrative eccentricity - by me. In all honesty, The Gardener is such a boring character. He isn’t boring in a way that makes him interesting, unlike Anne, who is boring in a way that makes her quirky and relatable. The Gardener is so simply boring, but has won Anne’s love so simply by standing in her view. Henceforth, The Gardener - however uninteresting he may be - is now an important character. Anne looked at him. Only looked. She had not one thought of him, she did not listen to his rustling in the bushes beneath her window, she did not attempt to speak to him. Anne knew this was love, but how could this be it? It changed nothing and everything inside her, but how could this be it? She is drawn towards him. She wants to garden beside him so badly, despite hating working in the yard (as well as her parents, which is one reason why the hired The Gardener). She hated him already for cutting her bushes too short, but she forgave him immediately because her love would not allow her to pay mind to such a small thing. He finished with the bushes and turned the corner. Her heart bleeds with his absence, because she is so deeply in love. Anne is in love with The Gardener she knows nothing about. She does not catch another glimpse of him for the rest of the day.

It’s 8:45 PM, well past the usual 8:30 PM dinnertime. Anne glances at her clock, back at the screen of her computer, back at the clock, back at the screen of her computer, at the clock on the screen of her computer, back at the clock. It’s 8:45 PM and she has not been called down to eat whatever it is that John - The Cook, not The Gardener - should have prepared for her to eat by now. She brought herself up from her chair, casually so as not to seem angered or hurried. Then, casually, she walked to the door of her room. She opened her door, casually, as if just to use the bathroom. She stepped from her room and walked to the stairs that led downwards to the first floor of the house, which contained one of three kitchens on The Property. The first of the other two is in the basement level of The Home. The second of the other two is in The Maid’s Cottage, which is currently home to The Gardener, The Butler, The Maid, and The Laundryman. The Cook lives in The Home, along with The Breadman, The Tailor, and The Family. In all, The Property is home to only three people who are not men: The Tailor, Anne, and Mother Anne. Mother Anne is the mother of Anne, and those two are the only two women on The Property. The Tailor, who is not a woman and also not a man, is the only one on The Property to identify as either or neither. While still not identifying as either of the one-two genders, The Tailor prefers to be referred to with the use of the pronouns typically used for women: she, her, and such others that can be inferred from the given information. Of all the men on The Property, only two are not named John (John is a very common name in this city). John, the son of Father John and Anne’s younger sibling, is the youngest of the Johns. The youngest of Anne’s two siblings is one of the two men on The Property to not be named John. Mother Anne and Father John decided that naming both of their sons with the same name just wouldn’t be practical, so they named him Jon. The other man on The Property not named John is The Maid, who is named Anthony.

Anne is now in the primary kitchen. The time is 8:55 PM. The house is rather large, so it takes some time to get from room to room. The Cook is finished preparing dinner, twenty-five minutes later than usually scheduled, as requested by Mother Anne and Father John. Anne arrived just in time, along with her parents. Anne questioned her parents and asked for them to reason why dinner was scheduled twenty-five minutes later and they said plenty, but it could have been easily summarized with no good reason. They began eating: carrots and potatoes prepared in a variety of ways, caramelized onions with mushrooms, lentils, and pulled pork.

Anne needed to ask about The Gardener. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. The thought so fondly of him. Every minute of the time she spent watching him was etched into each each minute of the rest of her day and she could not stand living a minute longer without knowing who he is. The clock ticked dramatically, as if it were being held up to her head to taunt her with each passing second. She was nervous. She knew asking about him would raise her parents’ suspicion, but she had to. To herself, Anne promised that she would ask straight after swallowing the bit of mushroom that was in her mouth. She chewed slowly. Before swallowing, she paused and thought more. She made an agreement with herself to eat one more mushroom before asking her parents about The Gardener. The rearranging and rescheduling of her planned actions continued for some time, before she realized that it would never happen. She knew herself well enough to know that she would never be brave enough to ask even one thing about him. She finished eating, left her seat at the table, and began the long walk back to her room.

The time is now 10:01 PM. Anne is alone in her room. She regrets not having the courage to ask about The Gardener. She regrets not having spoken to The Gardener herself. She goes through every crevice in her mind, searching for anything to wallow over and regret. Her window is open, her room slowly loses its heat to the chill of the dark Autumn air, and her blankets have never felt more cozy. All she wants is to sleep. She wants her consuming thoughts to be brushed aside by exhaustion. Then, she wants to fall deeply into her sleep, so that her mind refuses to let those thoughts back in.

The morning came quickly (not literally any quicker than usual, but Anne felt it had). Anne woke with a startling sense of rest. She wasn’t tired and she didn’t mind the fact that she had awoken half an hour earlier than she wanted to. The sun shone brightly through her window. The Property’s figure was sharpened by the contrasting shadows and illuminations. The gentle sound of garden shears snipping at her bushes wafted upwards and into her ear. She could not believe he dared to cut her bushes any shorter, but she was glad to know that he was nearby. She peered through the immaculately polished glass, down at him. He looked just as perfect as he did the day before. The Gardener’s perfection, which is so obvious to Anne, is not obvious to most others. Even in his own narrative, The Gardener was less than important. That day, Anne was the only one to value him. He didn’t value himself, as a person. Mother Anne and Father John didn’t value him, as an employee. The Staff of The Property paid no mind to him and didn’t value him, as somebody who had shared an experience with them. His mother and his father didn’t value him, as a child. Even before speaking to him, Anne knew that The Gardener would be boring and valueless, but she loved him for being genuine. He was real. All she saw, all he showed: it was physically and limitlessly real.

After staring, watching, gazing, and glancing for weeks, Anne finally talked to The Gardener. They talked and they both enjoyed the conversations they had together. Their chats became more frequent. When Anne felt the timing was right, she asked The Gardener if he would like to go on a date. They went on a date. They enjoyed their date and they both agreed upon going on more dates, so they did. They went on many dates. This continued for many months. The Gardner changed Anne’s contact name in his phone from Anne to Anne(GF). Anne never changed The Gardener’s contact name in her phone to anything besides John. Despite their many dates and many efforts, the two never fell in love. In the end, it was Anne who put their dates to a stop. He was simply boring. Even in Anne’s ridiculously romanticized reality, his combined personality traits couldn’t create any dynamic of interest or allure. Anne’s first impression of him was completely inaccurate. It wasn’t even a struggle for Anne to decide whether or not she break her ties with the boy. One day, she simply said to herself, “Anne, it’s not going to work”, and she texted him right then and there. She didn’t take care to be gentle with it either. Anne knew that The Gardener would not flinch regardless of what it said. The day it happened, Anne removed his number from her phone, but The Gardener kept hers as Anne(GF) until the day he died. That was the first time he developed any character. He couldn’t bring himself to delete or even change the label in his contacts because, to him, it felt as if that would remove or alter a time in his life that he hadn’t even realized he enjoyed so much. For the first time, The Gardener was an actual being with actual feelings and a real personality. He acquired the trait of being sentimental. He acquired a genuine appreciation for time and memories. Now and then, he would come upon a moment he found to be beautiful yet he knew without effort that he would forget that moment only hours after. In these moments, he would strain himself to remember every detail, so that he could look back on it and recall the mundane sense of bewilderment that came from them. It was in one of these moments, only months after the day of Anne’s last text, that The Gardener died.