A Collection, Vol. I

Ceeven

The other patrons of the bar and inn bustled around him as he drank. The tables were dusty and stained, but the beer was clean. He poured the mug of ale down his throat and leaned back into the chair as a traveler walked down the stairs from the inn's rooms above him. He watched the traveler thank the bartender for the night's stay and start walking towards the door. Another soul on a journey to who knows where. Lots of folks like that pass through this little town. Some lost, others having a destination, and some just going anywhere they could.

He took another swig from the half-full mug of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He heard music in the distance. It was faint. It wasn't there at all, and he knew it. Just another one of his 'gifts'. They were rare as perfect health, but the few other gifted people he had met in his life had all shared a similar experience: hearing music that wasn't there. Some melodies were strange and alien, some were familiar. And one he had heard before and hummed along with someone once. Everyone else called it the 'music from the other side', whatever the hell that meant. He just listened to the tunes. Enjoyed them. They were the softer, gentler side of his gifts and he would gladly take an easy day whenever the world threw one on his lap.

It was a different tune than the usual, though. It was...eerie. He had never heard such melodies before, such tones and such a beautiful symphony of notes. He could hear singing, but couldn't make out the words. Oh well. The music faded away as he watched the traveler stride across the floor to the door and grabbed the doorknob. The door flew open into the man's shoulder.

"Ceeven! I'm looking for a man named Ceeven, has anyone seen him?" a young man blurted out as he ran into the bar panting.

The man sighed and looked into his beer. The nearly-flat drink swirled around in the mug as he mumbled at the liquid and threw it down the hatch in a gulp.

"Please! I need to find him!"

The young man hustled around the bar, looking into the faces of the other patrons. He was begging for help. The man sighed over the empty beer mug and slowly turned to the bartender across the room. The old man behind the counter was already looking back at his drunk and rugged face when their eyes met. The bartender nodded towards the young man running around the bar. Old innkeep was a good man, an honest man, but he didn't want to help anyone. His gifts simply weren't helpful anymore. He shook his head back at the barman, who grumbled and called the young man over to the bar.

"What're you on about, boy?"

"It's my sister, she's run away! She has the Gift, and said something about finding something in Denver. I think she's gone there!"

The whole bar visibly shifted in their seats. Denver was a no-go...had been since The Fall. A fog had enveloped the entire city and some of the surrounding counties for longer than he had been alive. Only those with the Gift were able to traverse the fog - one of which was trying to enjoy a beer in the quieter corner of the room. He put the mug to his lips and noticed it was empty.

He stood up and grumbled to himself, heaving the rifle over his shoulder by its sling. His wobbly and drunken legs carried him to the barman across the room. He had gone into the fog a few times in his life - taken that journey. They say the Gifted were drawn to it like moths to a flame. It called to them, some even heard it talk to them. He understood to some degree...that's where the music came from. Every song that carried on the wind came from that damned fog. It sang its tunes to the Gifted like the endearing and loving call of a parent to their child. It was calling them home. Most of them answered the call.

Most of them never returned. And they called that sirensong a 'gift'. He leaned over the bar and slid some coins over the counter to pay for his last drink.

The young man didn't even take his eyes off the barman, "Please. I don't know how else to find her. She could die out there!"

The barman looked into the drunk's soul. The young man wiped his eyes and turned to the drunk, "Do you know where I can find him?"

He sighed and ignored the kid. The candle on the bar flickered and sputtered as it bathed his gruff and dirty face in its yellow glow. He ignored both of them. He was done helping people - had been for a long time. He walked out of the bar and stepped out into the street. The road was cracked and full of holes where a century of weeds and nature itself had started to reclaim its world. He took a deep breath and exhaled the moist, foggy air as he stared down the snow-covered street. The cloud hung in the air as it gently drifted down the road. Travelers came into town on their horses as the night started to grow darker. It was a quiet town.

Evergreen they called it. He had wandered to it following the call of the fog from out west. It was a small town in the mountains, far enough from the city to be safe from the stalkers. Far enough to live a decent life. He trudged through the snow-filled street, walking past the rusted and skeletal remains of cars and trucks hugging the curb of the sidewalks. Vehicles that haven't been driven in a century - gutted for materials over the years until they were nothing but a frame and the shredded remains of tires. Tombstones of the old world. He came up to his home and shoved the door open. There was no doorknob.

It was the remains of a shop from long ago. Ransacked by scavengers soon after The Fall, there was nothing much of use when he moved to this town decades later. But it had a roof and four walls. It was home. He shoved an old armchair against the closed door and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lighting a candle on a table in the middle of the room. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with the candle. The wisp of smoke curled out of his mouth and into the dark shop.

He hung his rifle on a piece of metal sticking out of the wall, tightening the sling he had tied to the gun. His fingers were trembling ever so slightly in the frigid air. It was the middle of winter up there. The candlelight danced along the walls of the room as the man laid down on the sleeping bag in the middle of the room. It was a pile of several sleeping bags sewn together into a makeshift mattress. He stared at the ceiling as the light of the candle flickered over the faded and worn paint.

The light danced over the texture of the rundown building's walls and faded into shapes and colors as he let his mind wander. Images. Places. People. They shifted and melted through the light of the candle as he watched with a tear in his eyes. He could feel that familiar weight in his bones as he grew tired. It was going to be one of those nights. Another night of his terrible, awful visions.

Vivid flashes of light pierced the back of his eyes as he watched helplessly as the images flew by him like snow in a violent blizzard. People walking through a bustling city. Planes flying overhead. Cars and trucks driving the streets. Music playing in the distance. He couldn't move - couldn't close his eyes as he watched. He was nothing but a passive observer forced to witness these lives from another time. The images extended over the walls of his little home and engulfed his entire being. An exhausted construction worker on the job. A carefree child playing in the street. A soulless vagabond in a musty alleyway. The moments of their lives blended together like a slurry of love and hate, of fear and joy, of sorrow and happiness. A violent and tearful fight between lovers. A warm hug between close and caring friends. A bloody suicide in a dirty, smelly apartment. A newborn crying for the first time in a hospital. He cried out for it to stop, but he knew no one was coming. No one would hear him - he was all alone. His cries would never leave his lips no matter how hard he screamed. It was another one of those nights. Another night of visions.

Another night of gifts.