My Darling,

I know you hate the winter. The bitter, cold, forbidding of it all. You moved west as soon as you could and, of course, I followed, as I always have. You’ve been sick for a long time. Perhaps it was the cold that did it, doctors used to say. Your mother would prepare all kinds of medicines. Your father would wrap you up and hold you close. There wasn't much else they could do.

That’s why I’ve decided to come for you in the summer, a time that seems to be the most comforting. You’ll make a trip back home and go for a swim in the lake you always visited with your father. It’ll have melted by now because of spring, your second favorite season.

And when you dip yourself into the warmth, slow and careful, it’s been a while since you’ve done this, I’ll wrap myself around you. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. I’ll be careful, too. Because your lungs have turned weak, and the water will draw you in, breath by breath.

And I suppose, in slow, languid consequence, you will sink into my arms. I will drink you in. And oh, how lovely you will feel.

Though, sometimes, I may dream too much. Because there are moments I find myself yearning for another universe, another lifetime, one maybe where we could be friends.

I’d run into you in the cafe where you work. I’d smile, I wouldn’t be able to help it; your eyes would pull me in. I’d get something you recommend, because what do I know about coffee? And there we would exist, amongst the bustling world and the lives of those around us. You’d smile at how tense I was, because, of course, I’m nervous. I’m trembling. And then I’d say something sudden and perhaps amusing, because you’d take the words right out of my mouth and it would go dry. I would pay for my drink. And then perhaps you’d think about scrawling your number on the warm paper cup, and briskly doing it anyway. You’d notice how cold my hands are when our fingers touch, briefly, as I collect my coffee. And I would apologize, because it’s cold. So cold. And I’m shivering. Freezing. But for you, perhaps I’d make a trip to the sun. I’d pull fire from my fingertips and burn. I’d burn and burn until you found yourself warm with sweat.

We’d meet for dinner or a walk near the park, and I’d make sure you were warm all night. We’d talk about music and art and books. Places you’ve found to escape. Things I’ve found to sustain myself all these years. And when the night ends, you’d welcome me up to yours. We’d drink. We’d talk some more. I’d try to think about anything else but your lips. And when your eyes finally tire, you’d lay down against my body, my arm going numb and your mind slowly falling into darkness. I’d make sure you’d dream for as long as you liked. I’d be there waiting for you to awake.

Because I want you. Not for necessity or regulation. I’ve known of your time for ages.

My darling, I want you. I’m aching with hunger. I'm sore with desire. Perhaps I am selfish for thinking of you endlessly. I am selfish to crave you the way humans do. Needing you the way the religious pray. I know you may think of me, but not in the way I want. Not in the way I wish.

So here I write these words onto paper that your eyes will never read. Perhaps I will burn it when it’s finished, because I am a fool for thinking of things. I am irrational and hopeless. All I am in the end is an afterthought. An idea. A whisper.

In all this darkness, you are the only thing I see. But perhaps the only thing you see in me is darkness.

Even so, I ask you this: would you still dread me, if you knew I’ve been waiting for you all this time? Would you still fear me, if I hovered over your drowsy body, if I lured you to sleep with my stories. My whispers, my memories and my dreams of souls I've collected. Surely you know by now how long you’ve enthralled me. My darling. My dearest. And if I stand over you, murmuring good night, caressing your soft skin, would you still be frightened? Would you still curse me, if I decided to take you with me?

Would you still kiss me, if you knew I’d take your breath away?

To you, my love.

The End

“Damn, it’s freezing out here!”

The wind made it difficult to hear, so Lenore tried again, raising her voice against the blizzard of snow and ice. Chris, who was far too engrossed in snapping pictures, finally glanced in his friend’s direction. His smile was almost hidden by his beard, which was thoroughly caked with frost.

“It’s amazing, I know!” His snowshoes crunched over ice as he started towards a cave.He was observing one of the biggest snowstorms of the century. Collecting visual data, photographs, testaments from nearby residents who lived in Ashland Reign, the town cursed with perpetual ice. It was also the town cursed with something known as the White Beast. A creature that emerged in the bitter cold and devoured humans during the dark months of winter. It was a tale centuries old. So old, in fact, and so bizarre that Lenore claimed Chris had made it up simply for the sake of his documentation. And for the sake of having her come with him. He would need a witness, and a co-photographer, when he discovers the frosty creature.

Moreover, there was always something unsettling about the winter air. A strange type of quiet emerges in those cold months. Blanketing the town not only in frost, but something almost ominous. At least, that’s what Chris had read weeks before the trip. He was dying to uncover more information. Just imagine, he had said to her on the flight over, a front page heading. I’d finally be making a name for myself, Leni! He was being paid for his work, too. Compensated with a week’s worth of vacation in the best inn Ashland Reign had to offer.

All the while Lenore stood in the shivering cold, rubbing her hands along her arms to keep warm. She was the only one who agreed to accompany him. And her reason was simply, “I could use a vacation before next semester begins.”

But, alas, here she was. Trudging along the snow with a backpack heavier than the one she used for college. Her stressed and exhaling breaths a mixture of exhaustion and borderline hypothermia.

“I thought you said we’d be able to check in first before you start working?”

“Nope, not yet!” Another snap. “We check in at four.” It was only two fifteen, and Lenore couldn’t feel her face anymore. She looked back to the rental van and sighed, her breath floating into the icy air. “Besides, we can collect more data now before the blizzard gets worse.”

Lenore reluctantly nodded. She was freezing her ass off, but if it meant that he’d be able to work on his assignment, she’d muster through the frozen cold. And Ashland Reign’s Inn did have a spa and a fireplace (at least, that’s what the brochure said). She sighed, rubbed her dripping nose on her scarf, and marched forward.

Chris was standing at the opening of a cave. Lenore could only see so much before it disappeared into the depth of the mountain. He looked to Lenore and called out, in his reporter voice, “This is the Broken Cave, where dozens of Ashland Reign residents and tourists have gone to seek shelter, but have never returned.”

A pause. Lenore adjusted the weight of her backpack.

“Let’s go in!”

“Wait!” She stumbled after him as he entered the mouth. It was much quieter. And twice as cold. “You want to go inside? I thought you needed pictures of the snow?”

“Well, yes, but.” Chris took out a portable lamp from his backpack. It clicked to life, illuminating the space around them. “I need more story, and since this cave has more questions than answers, I figure we can start here.”

“I-I don’t know.” She turned to look back at the opening and stopped in place. “What if something bad happens? Don’t you think we should--”

“It’s going to be fine, Leni. Plus, I’m pretty much an expert.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder and smiled. “ I don’t want to pressure you if you want to stay behind. But I need to do my job.” And at that, he gestured to the camera strapped around his neck. Almost as if it was some kind of sacred weapon.

Lenore offered a hesitant smile. She readjusted her backpack and slipped out her phone to use as extra light.

“Alright, fine. But this isn’t what I was thinking when you said ‘Hey, let’s go on a winter vacation!’”

His laugh echoed around the darkness of the cave. And for a moment, Lenore thought she heard another sound. Something low and deep. But before she could question it, Chris nudged her to keep moving.

They continued on, with Lenore close to Chris, gingerly brushing against his arm to make sure she doesn’t lose him. They had been walking for almost an hour. The cave getting colder and darker. The air getting quieter. Chris taking more pictures. Lenore eventually steeling herself to his side, wrapped around his arm like an anaconda.

And then, she heard it again. A dark drawl. Almost like the sound of a growl. The ground beneath her feet seemed to shake. She gestured for Chris to stop.

“Hear that?” she whispered.

“No, what?”

“That sound--”

It was like she was falling through thin air. The ground beneath their feet cracked open. Swallowing the two into the heart of the cave. She was slipping through time and bathing in the coldness of space. It wrapped around her like a blanket. She couldn’t stop screaming.

<><><>

When she awoke, her eyes adjusted to the dim blue around her. Her body was slick and sore, pulsing with pain. She could but only lift her head. “Chris? What happened?”

She struggled to sit up, to speak again. Pain was locking her muscles in place. Binding her legs and arms.

And then, in the azure darkness, a voice rose, floating on the cold air of the underground.

Dark and echoed.

And it said, “Who dares enter my realm?”

You don’t know the feeling of my skin, or the sound of my breath. You don’t know how touch-starved I am, do you? How eager and desperate to please. I don’t think you know my name, or the way my lips form around yours. Oh, but how I wish you felt the longing in my chest. The aching pain. For you must know that it astonishes me still, how broken you’ve made me. How cold you stand, shivering in my soul. As I fall apart, engulfed in my own flames.

He was an exhibit. With honey-colored skin and hair dipped in gold. They would gather around him, morning and evening, inhabiting the cold, linoleum space of his new home. Breathing in the residue of the artist’s fingers. The air she left behind when she couldn’t color any longer. And when they read his name, etched below his body, they lamented. For his beauty was as tragic as the Devil.

Fatima hated the color green. It always gave her a headache if she stared at it for too long. It was sickly and unpleasant. Envious. Judgmental. And it reminded her of that dreadful shade of eyeshadow she wore to prom five years ago. Sometimes she still shudders thinking about it.

Nonetheless, it was the only nail polish in her bathroom cupboard that survived a pipe burst last week. And she had plans later that night, or as she had told her friend Jasmine, “A hot date with Saul’s Pizza and his friend Netflix.”

“Ugh, lame,” Jasmine had said to her over the phone. “Just one night, come on.” She had stretched the last words of her sentence into a whine. “You don’t go drinking with me anymore.”

“Jaz, I’d love to but I’m dead.” She had been cocooned into the cushions of her couch. Her cat, Moony, sitting against her abdomen, purring his whiskers away. “I can’t feel my legs.”

This was physiologically true, as Fatima had just come home from working a double shift at Rico’s Mexican Restaurant. It was almost midnight and she’d seen enough drunk customers for one day. She started fantasizing about going to bed without setting an alarm.

“Please, just for an hour, Mima...” But as Jasmine droned away on speaker, Fatima scrolled through her phone, selecting toppings for her online pizza order. She grinned when her redeemable points allowed for a free drink.

“I hate drinking with Carla. She always has to puke after, like, two shots.”

“Jasmine, I love you, but I’m sorry. If you need a ride home or if you run into Jason let me know.” She’d yawned and made sure the gesture was audible through the phone. “I’m just gonna stay in tonight, hon. Okay? Love you, bye.”

And at that, she had hung up, a part of her feeling bad for declining her friend's request, but another part of her feeling relieved, specifically her feet which were throbbing immensely.

So she’d decided a massage was in order. Then an ice pack and, why not, a pedicure. Her feet were sore, blistered, and she wanted to bring some life to them. Even if it meant smearing on her least favorite color in the whole world.

So here she was, nestled into her couch, thumbing through movies on Netflix, her toes drying against the coffee table. Her pizza order out for delivery. When something in the left corner of her eye caught her attention.

“What the—?”

Moony, who had relocated to the window sill, lifted his head in curiosity.

It looked like nothing at first, so Fatima squinted, sitting up a little, trying to get a better look. It was probably some dust or a scratch in the bookcase, as one of Moony’s risk-taking habits involved climbing all sorts of wooden structures. But it was bigger than that, darker, and when Fatima realized what it was, she shrieked, dropping the remote on the floor.

Moony meowed annoyingly and left the window sill to stretch out under the table.

It was a spider. A large, black arthropod that forced Fatima to bring the couch blankets up to her chin. She moan-cried into the polyester.

“Shitshitshit, no, come on, really?!” She watched its slender legs, thin and wiry as they hugged the bookshelf. If she looked away now, it would disappear from her eyes, and she’d have to light a match, burn down the apartment, and relocate to Canada. Rico would understand. He’d hire a replacement; his business was flourishing anyway. She gulped, the insides of her palms clammy.

Her phone suddenly vibrated from somewhere between the cushions. She yelped again, trying to grab the device while still keeping an eye on the atrocity of a creature sitting in her bookshelf. It was twitching towards her copy of Pride & Prejudice. As she sacrificed an eye to read the notification--Your Order is Almost Here!--Moony leaped out from underneath the table, and the spider scrambled out of view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Who could she call? Not Jasmine, as her friend was equally terrified of spiders. Not any of her neighbors. Not her brother, as he lived four hours away. She predicted she’d have burned the apartment down by then if she had to wait that long. This forced another desperate moan-cry to emanate from her mouth.

Finally standing, she muttered to the intruder, “All I wanted was a lazy Sunday, but now I have to kill you.”

She looked around quickly for something to use to smite the unwelcome guest and found a slipper laying by the couch. She held it to her chest and carefully circled the bookcase.

Someone knocked suddenly on the door. “Saul’s Pizza, your delivery is here.”

Fatima gasped, jumped to unlock the door, and without a moment’s hesitation pulled the arm of the delivery guy into her apartment.

“Hey, woah—“

“PleaseohmyGodIneedyourhelp!”

She proceeded to explain the situation in one full breath as the guy, who’s name tag read Leo, stood there with a hot box of pizza and tired eyes. This wasn’t the weirdest thing that had happened to him that day.

He wasn’t technically allowed to, but if it meant he’d get to leave soon and clock out for the night, he agreed to deal with the unwelcome arthropod.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered, examining the bookshelf with Fatima’s slipper in his hand.

When the spider emerged, Fatima screaming in both joy and disgust, Leo simply scooped it up into the shoe and let it free onto the open apartment window sill. It inched its way up the brick walls.

“That’ll be 14.73, please.”

Fatima beamed, fished the total out from her handbag, and squeezed in an unnecessary hug.

When he left, she smiled and said to Moony, “I didn’t think my savior would be so damn cute,” entirely ignoring the fact that Leo had donned a dreadfully green polo shirt.

When they arrive on their machine, landing near the Crescent, General Feran appears unnerved. He tugs at the royal armor around his neck. There’s something strange about this one, he tells Jules. And when they reach the dust of the purple hills, stepping out of their transport, Jules asks him to elaborate.

“Well, Princess, it’s just that our technology was unable to identify their spacecraft.”

Jules hums in response. Four palace guards, donned in thick, purple armor, march in place surrounding the pair. Their heavy shoes beating footprints into the lavender-gray sand.

“It’s not from Derin, or any of the other Galactic warrior planets.” Feran steps into pace beside her, but this is always a challenge. Jules is several feet taller than her General, taking in larger strides and leaving Feran to scramble after with the translating device sinking in his short arms.

“They may not be looking for war, then?” Jules says. Her staff, iolite in color and decorated with gems, guides her forward.

He stutters as they near the spacecraft. Under the purple sky, it’s white in color, with a stream of smoke leaving what appears to be the engine. “We, uh, well, we might not know that for certain--”

“Well, then.” Jules adjusts the staff in her hand. “I guess we’ll find out.”

He rushes after her, his armor clinking against his body. “We must take precaution, Princess!” He gasps for air and when one of the guards slows to support him, he brushes her off to say, “We don’t know what they are or what they’re capable of!”

This is routine for their planet, Aster, as it remains one of the few forms of life for lightyears to come. More often than not, the foreign metal ships are of galactic travelers, star searchers, or famished creatures of space looking for refuge, refuel or recharge.

Sometimes they may even be of wandering souls lost in space.

“Guards, surround Princess Jules!” Feran says, out of breath and shaking, the device nearly slipping from his hands. “We must pro—” But then, something happens. The doors of the spacecraft burst open and something emerges.

The Asterian guards step forward in defense. But to their surprise, the being doesn’t attack. It wanders forward, swaying in its place, and suddenly collapses to the ground. Jules steps forward but hesitates when two more beings rush outside, kneeling beside the first body. They don't seem to notice the Princess, or a frantic Feran, or four palace guards wielding broad iolite swords.

“One of them is injured,” Jules says, stepping forward. She is close enough to see their outerwear, white and billowy and swollen with air. She decides that they resemble much of their moon which sits above them in the stars. “General, notify the King. We are to extend our resources to them.”

“Princess, we cannot--”

“Crisa,” Jules gestures to the guard on her right, “if you would please accompany me.”

When they close the proximity between them and the alien creatures, the two who had been kneeling scramble to stand. Their eyes, which appear smaller than Jules', are colored and wet and blinking with fear, and this is when the Princess realizes “You’re human.”

“You can speak our tongue?!” one of them says. “Please,” they gesture down to their companion, who has since remained unmoving. “We don’t want to hurt you; we just need some h-help--”

“Princess!” Feran approaches her, frustrated, spewing Asterian as he looks between the creatures in the sand and Jules standing above them. “We mustn't, we cannot share our resources with humans.” The translating device slips from his hands. “You know of them. You know of the stories the Elders have told us.” Jules lifts a hand to silence him.

“Yes, they are human,” Jules says in Asterian. “And, yes, every creature has stories written of them. But it is for me and the Asterian Counsel to decide the fate of our visitors.” She takes a gentle step closer and kneels down to observe the one laid against the ground. She notices a spatter of blood around the human’s mouth. “Their blood is red.”

One of them begins to plead. “Please, if you could just--” But Feran surges forward, shifting his tongue to match their own. “You have no right to speak to Princess Jules--”

“Feran!” Jules says, slamming her staff into the sand before his feet. His nervous green fingers tremble with shock and frustration. He starts tugging at the clothing around his neck again. “Take the wounded one with Miven. Tell Healer Riva a healing room must be prepared. Jona and Crisa will see to it that the rest of them arrive at the Palace safely.”

“But Princess--”

“That was an order, General.”

When Feran reluctantly departs, Jules and Crisa escort the other two into their transport. And Crisa asks in their tongue, “How many of you are there?”

“There used to be thousands, but we’ve dwindled down to just a few.”

The transport continues through the dusty sand. Above, Aster’s moon casts a glow on the planet.

And Jules offers them a reassuring smile, something Asterians are not greatly accustomed to. She had read years before in the book of the Elders that humans have a preference for positive facial features. She had read a number of other things also, but decided they would be brought up at a later time.

“You will be safe in Aster for some time. Your machine is foreign, but our technologists will see to it that your spacecraft be salvaged for your return home.”

“Home?” one of them says slowly. There is something uncertain about their voice.

“Are you not of planet Earth?” Jules asks.

The humans share a glance as Crisa looks behind them to where their spacecraft lays near the Crescent. Their engine still smoking.

“There hasn’t been life on our Earth for a thousand years now.”