Marten Rowsdower

Marten Rowsdower knows how to make fire with his mind. The fire is conjured with a certain specific thought. When called, it burns grey. It gives off no light and emits no heat, fuel is still consumed. Wood, cloth, flesh all burn normally, though instead of crumbling in ash, it wilts and rots. Marten's fire burns away the life of things. He doesn't like to use it. He gets very sad when he sees things wither and collapse.

Marten lives in a small, oblong house shaped like a bread-box. There is an old, chipped flower painted on his front door. He lives very close to the rail. The trains thunder by at all hours of the night. The noise shakes his little house so badly that Marten installed locks on each of his cupboards. If he happens to forget and leave one unsecured, the rattling of the trains might knock a few cans or jars from their shelves. Marten has had to replace too many shattered mugs and plates. These days he can not sleep untill he has checked every lock and handle in his house. It is his nightly routine.

Marten works as a steward for the Ministry of Untritefang in Lower Omswick. He serves His Majesty in a number of crucial undertakings. Not a month past, he negotiated a treaty between a few Westfield lobsters and the Labor Commission. The treaty freed up a thousand acres of prime real estate to be reforested. A stardancer descended for the very occasion, and Marten was given the honor of guiding the landing.

Marten has a girlfriend. Her name is Jelly, and her name is Bean. She responds to either, but never both. She is a very tall girl, and can't help but stoop when she stands. She apologizes for everything that happens around her, it is a habit. She works late most nights sorting mail for the local bank. She has very long, very dark hair that hangs straight down her back. Jelly or Bean does not have much luck with men. She suffers from night terrors. She wakes screaming about spiders and saw-blades, but never remembers the nightmares. She is not very fond of Marten, but she has been seeing him a long time. He is used to hearing the trains rattle at night and never wakes when she screams.

Marten will never be fired from his job. This is a thought that comes to Marten now and again. It should be a good thing, a reassurance. When he thinks about his job, he feels very troubled. He does not make very much money, but it is plenty for the simple life he shares with Jelly or Bean. He will be a Ministry steward until the day he dies, and he knows this. Still, when these thoughts descend upon him, he likes to think about the circus.

As a child he sometimes thought about running away as an acrobat or clown. That was all before he found his true calling, negotiation. Marten is a skilled arbitrator and counselor, and these skills prove most effecacious in service to His Majesty. Marten might join a circus if he could find one that needed a steward. They might put a spotlight on him, accompanied with a drumroll, as he worked out a settlement between two feuding farmers. They could stand right in the center ring. The farmers would sign a contract and the crowd would cheer and the vendors would sell plastic cups with Marten's face engraved on the side next to a tiger and a flying trapeze artist. The circus might want him to call his fire to amaze the crowds, but Marten does not want to do that. Marten would not like to be a part of a circus like that.

In his tiny house by the train tracks, Marten likes to wake up very early and walk around his neighborhood. Just after dawn, the world is bright and silent. He can walk past each of the houses on his block and look at them. Some are brightly colored, some have weeds overgrowing stone steps. One has a number of shiny bicycles tied up to a fence. One is having a front porch rebuilt, and maybe some rain got on the untreated wood. Hopefully the planks will not warp. Marten likes to watch and think about his neighbors. He has never met a single one of them, or even exchanged messages. He looks at their houses and lawns and thinks about the people that must live there. No one stops and worries when he does this, no one knows. Only Marten is awake at dawn. The morning has a certain smell, wet and fresh like celery. It is lovely. It is worth waiting the whole night to enjoy.

Them Chompers

In his heavy breath, "I bought them for you, Marie," with his big, stupid grin like a junkyard of rusting jalopies. He is banging away with his huge palm on the old piano his goons just dumped in my living room.

There were some flutes too. I think a saxophone, and what? A banjo? Those faceless lowbrows in black sweaters just keep bringing them in, throwing them around.

"I know how much you like music," he's shouting, but all I can think about are those chompers and how he must cut the inside of his cheeks all the time. "This is what you want," with a flick of drool arcing out. He's waiting for me to jump in here, yell at him, beg, accuse, scream. Fuck him.

"I want you to be happy," he bangs away on the piano again, the room rings with a hard, disjointed note. My head's leaking bad from that gash behind my ear, but I can still think straight. I stare at him, waiting for him to pull that pearl-handled piece out of his jacket.

"I wish it didn't turn out like this. This whole thing is such a mess," he pauses for me to speak. I clam up. Just get it over with, fucker.

He licks his lips over that jagged soup can lid sticking out of his gums. He gets in real close, leaning in, touching my face. "I want him to know it was me. When your man finds you here. I want him to know I did it. I want him to be real angry."

He wipes his sweaty palms on his grey slacks and draws that pistol.

"I want him to be angry enough to do something real stupid."

I close my eyes as he cocks back. I don't want those teeth to be the last thing I see.

Boise to Kansas City

"I'm not going back!" she shouts over the roar of the wind and the rail. I take a step closer and she pops a hole in my hat. The baggage car is rumbling and shaking, but her little hand is stone steady with the tiny .22 pointed right between my eyes. I have to admit, I'm impressed. She's only twelve and already a crack shot. Then again, maybe she didn't intend to miss.

"This is where you jump," she smiles at me, but her eyes are dead serious. She waves at the open side door and the corn fields blurring past. I watch her for a moment, she's only got one more bullet. No, no need to risk it.

I've fallen off of my share of trains, but never on purpose. I step off into the cool night and the ground rushes me like a squad of coppers swinging nightsticks. I curl up and try to roll with it, but its bad. Even when my body stops moving, my head spins like a top. I think I've got some gravel up my nose. My arms are numb, but my hip is stinging. The walk back to town is going to be long indeed. That's alright, I'll still get my payday.

I finally muster up the energy to stand. The train is already a speck in the distance. My hat is lying in a ditch. The wind picks it up and chucks it around. I have to chase after it.

The train's headed west to god-knows-where, but that don't matter. I know where she'll wind up. Her daddy's in Kansas City and so are the diamonds. I'll catch a bus in Boise and cool my heels till she shows.

I finally stumble over and catch my hat. The hole in the brim is hardly big enough to fit my pinky. She got one good shot off. Can't let that happen again. Next bullet won't be a warning.