dust | Gregory M. Fox

The neon sign off the side of the road glimmers like an oasis in the wasteland of darkness Jack has been driving through.

“Spirits.”

The lights are low inside the bar, and the tables mostly empty. “What’ll you have?” the bartender asks as Jack settles onto a stool.

“Something strong.”

A nod. She turns around, grabs a bottle off the shelf, unstoppers it with a practiced hand and sets the bottle on the bar in front of him. No glass appears, and the bartender shuffles away without another word. Ah well, he doesn’t intend to go home tonight anyway. He reaches for the bottle.

“Duuuuuuust . . .” The woman’s voice is parched, broken, and a little spiteful.

“Who . . . ?” And then he sees the misty, ethereal glow inside the bottle.

“I loved a man who loved men,” the voice continued. “I got him to marry me for the sake of his career and thought we could be happy. Resentment. Anger. Infidelity. Fire. Dust. I burned it all down. All we built – dust. My bones – dust. You too and all you love shall be dust.”

The spirit’s words burn going down. Jack feels dizzy, feels sick, feels a cold numbness seeping into his bones.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

The tower’s columns soared as high as an eagle, a masterpiece of both architectural and magical construction. Still it shook when the dragon alighted on its pinnacle.

“Madame?” the servant said uncertainly. “There’s no time left. We must–“

“Must?” the mage answered sharply. “The only thing we must do is face death. You may do that now, or if you wish you must postpone it.”

The servant glanced upward, nodded, and dashed for the stairs.

Ignoring his retreat, the mage stepped to the balcony. “Beast!” she called out. “I’ve been waiting.”

A large, scaled head descended, the monster’s large yellow eye peering down at her. “Your bravado is wasted, witch,” the dragon’s voice rumbled. “No boasts nor screams nor pleas for mercy shall stay my fire. I will consume you, crush your tower, incinerate even the memory of your name.”

She smiled. “All are forgotten eventually. All comes to dust in the end. Even you.”

The dragon snorted, a cascade of smoke and sparks.

“Piteous,” she sighed, “that a creature of ruin would be too afraid to face the darkness that awaits us all.” With that, she turned her back.

No flames came.

The tower shook as the dragon fled.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox