The stench in the sewers beneath Amuun was nearly unbearable- but a boy must have adventures. This boy was called Slippy. He used to be called another name, but there are some humiliations so complete and devastating that they stay with you. You are known to the world by that terrible moment. It warps and becomes you. Down here, he was called nothing. He preferred that. The relative silence of this place made up for its wetness, foulness, and darkness. It was a different world from the city above it. Not a kinder one, not gentler at all, but a different world. That was all Slippy asked for. He shuffled his feet along the narrow ledge, which dropped down into the dark stream of sewage water, his palms feeling along the cold gray stones of the tunnel's wall. He didn't slip very often these days, so he wasn't worried. His eyes assessed the water. He was not the only creature that found sanctuary down here. Reptilian beasts with long, sharp-toothed maws swam beneath the surface. Were you to miss the sight of their shiny black scales in the water, then they would snap from below the surface and drag you down in a matter of seconds. Slippy had encountered one on his second excursion into the sewers, losing his cape and nearly his life. Since then, he had learned their signs and places, where in the sewers to avoid, what times they slept. In time, he became comfortable going further into the sewers, planning more dangerous expeditions and expanding the map of the place he held in his mind. Today had been a particularly good day. Begging had earned him an entire silver, and the baker's daughter had spared him a loaf that wasn't even very moldy. She was one of those rare, kind people. With a full belly and feeling emboldened, Slippy was determined to explore deeper into the sewers than he ever had before. He passed through the familiar tunnels and intersections, light pouring in from the street above. The sounds of the day were muted, held at a safe distance. Most people above were aware of the sewers, but Amuun was an old city. The network of tunnels extended much deeper and wider than most citizens suspected. Slippy found a shaft that extended downwards, into a deeper darkness. He lowered himself into the hole, dropping down slowly to avoid making noise. Sound carried well down here. He felt his way down this new tunnel, knowing that lighting a match in this strange and pungent air could have a terrible consequence. Committing each turn and length of the tunnels he passed through to memory, he pushed through the dark. Once you get past the fear of darkness, what remains is only blissful unknowing. His entirety was concerned with each second that passed. He didn't think ahead to the next, or dwell on the previous, but experienced the present blackness as he was being consumed by it. It was careless and peaceful. He came into a chamber illuminated by a small ray of light, which betrayed just how far underground Slippy was. In the center of the chamber a small tree had erupted, allowed by the ray of light and kicking up a number of displaced bricks around it. It was no lost civilization or dragon's hoard, but it might as well have been to a boy looking for something to find. He knelt down beside the small tree, admiring its tenacity. He was learning that things lived beneath the earth and had their own places.

Satisfied with this finding, he turned back into the darkness of the tunnel. He again felt his way through. Left... Right... Right... The tip of his foot hit an unfamiliar surface. Surprised, he felt around in front of him. He had hit a brick wall, where there shouldn't have been one. Once again, the ancient, primordial panic of being lost in darkness washed over him. He must have taken a wrong turn— but he was so careful! How could he have made a mistake? For a while, he stood paralyzed. He became aware of how real the possibility of dying here was. The boy sobbed in the darkness. With a final sniffle, he collected himself, and began to feel his way through the darkness again, trying to backtrack to the chamber with the small tree. Perhaps he could climb up to the source of the light. But it was as if the entire network of tunnels had changed. He was unable to find anything familiar. The cold, wet air became dry. The rough stones of the sewer walls ended abruptly at some point, being replaced by smaller bricks with sharper edges. Slippy was no longer sure that he was in the sewers anymore. He turned a corner, and saw orange light peeking out from a crack at the bottom of the wall. As he quietly approached it, he recognized that it was coming from beneath a wooden door. Was it a way out? It certainly wasn't daylight, but any light was divine at this point. He spotted an iron handle and cautiously opened the door. Inside was a small room lined with shelves, with a large burlap sack sitting proudly in the center. A small wooden table held a lantern that gave off the orange light. Strange knick-knacks lined the shelves; large books written in strange languages, idols from other lands, dice, bottled multi-coloured liquids, and more than a few knives. Seeing that there was no staircase leading to the surface, Slippy's heart sank. But that disappointment was quickly distracted by curiosity. What was this place doing down here? He approached the burlap sack in the middle of the room and tugged it open. His jaw went slack. Inside were more gold coins and jewels than he had ever seen in his life, nearly filling the sack completely. Without thinking, he grabbed a fistful of coins and shoved them into his cloak pocket. Thoughts of warm meals and warm beds filled his head. He could buy boots without holes in them, or a new cape. He could buy bread from the baker's daughter instead of begging for it. A blue coin caught his eye. Nearly the size of his hand, it was in the shape of a crescent moon and had a number of ‘X’ marks that had clearly been etched into its face. He flipped it over in his hand and saw that the other side had a tiny inscription along its edge: I'll take a gold and leave a penny, maybe two if I take twenty, but if a fellow has more than plenty, I'll be sure not to leave him any! It was funny and simple, like a children's rhyme. He may have even heard one of the other poor kids sing it before; it had that ring of familiarity. He noticed something red and wet on the crescent's pointed end. He recognized it as blood, but how did he not notice it immediately? There was more of it on his hand, and it was pooling in a red puddle on the floor. Only then did he begin to feel the sharp line of pain along his neck, just beneath the chin. Somewhere beneath the shock of sensation and realization, his vision blackened and his legs gave out.

Slippy awoke in a bed in a dark room. The air tasted wet and cold. A drip, drip, drip sound assured him that he was still underground. He weakly felt his pocket and found it was empty. Cloth was wrapped tightly around his neck. “Don't move your neck if you can help it,” said a gruff voice in the darkness. Slippy almost turned to face the voice, then having heard the warning thought better of it. Looking with only his eyes he saw a cloaked man, lit by a lantern on the bedside table. Under the hood, the man's face seemed to be wrapped in cloth, or maybe bandages. In a similarly wrapped hand, he held a knife by the blade, playing with it idly. It danced between his fingers, almost as if it was acting on its own- it was oddly mesmerizing. “Who?...” Slippy croaked, unable to get out the rest of his question. It hurt to speak. “Your throat will heal.” Said the man. “Probably. Sorry about that, but you were touching things that you really shouldn't. Thieves hate to be stolen from, you know...” he chided. “I'd ask how you found my hideout, but I'm pretty sure I already have a good idea. The tunnels down here sometimes change... You see, they never take you where you want to go, which makes them a very good hiding place if you don't want to be found. The only way to find that room is to do so by accident.” The man leaned in closer. Slippy could see his eyes narrow as if inspecting something. “You must be a beggar boy. But you're a poor thief, between the sobbing and the way you shuffle your feet... Then again, so was I when I started out...” A heavy pause filled the air. The man seemed to be holding words in his mouth. Then after consideration, carefully let them into the air.

“Under the moonlight they make their crusade those baneful youth, bless them they are children of the derelict and dying but the progeny of kings for this is a wicked seed that the holy have sown

a deliciously sharp irony for seeds, I say, are meant to be grown.”

It would be difficult to guess from within the city’s walls, but Amuun's countryside in summertime was beautiful. The hot air had a similar effect to a slow, lulling song played on the harp. It was a time for thinking sweet and selfish thoughts. Slippy sat under a plum tree outside the city limits, feeling and turning a scone in his hand. He enjoyed the crumbling texture. It was another gift from the baker's girl. She was always good to the street urchins, but Slippy secretly and stupidly hoped that this gift was something other than generosity... “You have a look of desire in your eye.” Said the sewer-man. Slippy jumped. Sewer-man (as Slippy had begun calling him,) had approached in complete silence. It was one thing to hide in darkness, with the shadows swallowing you and masking your presence. Could the same really be done in daylight? Sewer-man had shed his cloak for this hot summer day, but he retained the cloth wrappings which covered nearly his entire body. Bits of golden hair slipped through the bandages around his head. He couldn't be nearly as old as he sounded. From a distance though, he simply looked as if he was damned to some terrible illness. “You're late.” Said Slippy, aware of his cheeks becoming a shade of red. Sewer-man didn't allow the change of subject. “Desire is good. A thief without desire is like an artist without a muse.” A tone of amusement lay beneath his words. “You want something you cannot have.” Slippy frowned. This probing was irritating. “What I want is to learn blades!” He demanded awkwardly, resolving to stop this conversation at once. Since he had seen Sewer-man flipping the small knife in that dark room when they first met, he had become transfixed by that skill. Sewer-man snorted through his bandages. “Blades... Blades are hardly a thief's first weapon. Silence, darkness, nimble hands, empty words of sweetness...” His words trailed off. He often stopped mid-sentence and it seemed as though his mind had moved to some other thought entirely. “Alright.” He conceded, “I'm in a good mood, so I'll teach you some blades today.” Sewer-man had already taught Slippy how to hide in a good shadow, make his voice sound like another's, and how to read letters. He retrieved something from his bag. “Here, take this.” He said, holding out a small silver needle. “This isn't a blade!” Protested Slippy. “It's got a pointy end, doesn't it?” Said Sewer-Man. “That should be enough for someone your size.” He laughed, “You are only a boy, and so you do not know, that a blade can’t destroy if there’s no place to stow. A bee has its flower, and a clock points the hour.” Slippy crumpled his mouth. “Say what you really mean, for once!” “I mean what I said, but I’ll put it in simpler terms. That needle is just as useful as a knife, if you know the right places to put it.” He said. He pulled another item from the bag, a chest small enough to hold in one hand. It was cubic in shape and looked to be made completely from iron. “For a thief, the world is a world of doors and keys. That which you desire is behind a door, and everything else is a possible key. It is only a matter of finding the right fit. When you can unlock this little door with that needle, I'll give you a bigger needle and a bigger door... And eventually I will give you a blade. But in time, that little needle in your hands will open any door. Any treasure, anything you desire, will be only within a needle's reach of you. That is what it means to be in our profession- to hold the keys in a world of doors, and open them as you please.”

This is my article for Blogvember! Notevember? Noahvember? This is my article for Noahvember. It’s obviously a fiction piece, and it's one I’ve had kicking around for a long time, unfinished probably over a year.

As readers we love to read fiction, but as writers, we loathe it. This is because writing fiction is very, very fucking hard. Presenting ideas in a clear fashion is easy, but trying to present ideas with subtlety takes true precision and consideration. That’s probably why even this short story is really only a few vignettes from a pretty specific point in a young man’s life.

Poetry seems like the easier version of writing since the actual length of the work is usually very brief. It is pure emotion, without anchors.

Fiction and poetry when married together are a kind of sick indulgence- when you put them together you can sort of get away without totally doing one or the other, and the whole affair becomes much easier. Within the fiction, you can make a place for your poetry to live, and create a context. Within a context, a poem will likely just present itself. Likewise, a poem can carry the narrative payloads you just aren’t skilled enough to work into the story organically. Add some pictures to that, and we’re off to the races. It feels a bit like cheating, but I’ve already done the dark deed and there is no one who will stop me. There is no one who can stop me…

The drawings were the very last piece I did for this story, which I guess is the logical way to go about it. I realize after doing that, It would be so so fun to do the art for a text adventure game set underground. Just drawings of your items and vignettes of underground spaces. That would be super fun.

It shouldn’t surprise you that this is a backstory for a Dungeons and Dragons character who steals things professionally. When I was looking at my character’s sheet, I found that some of the techniques at his disposal were pretty sophisticated. With a wizard it is pretty straightforward where they learned their stuff; a wizard school, a tome, an apprenticeship. For the thief class, (which is common enough in these fantasy worlds to be its own class of character,) it's assumed that they learned these skills out of some necessity to steal things.

I guess that makes some sense, but I don’t totally buy it. At a certain point, you need instruction, or at least some model to base yourself on in order to become totally elite at any task. I believe that wholeheartedly. But, if you are a thief, your occupation is explicitly not allowed. A wizard, a warrior, or a cleric all have their place in society where they can find role models and conventional wisdom. The same seems less likely for thieves. While I appreciate the idea of a thieves' guild, it seems a bit out in the open for my taste. In this story, I imagine Slippy is being inducted into some kind of order, but one that is decentralized, almost to hardly exist at all. This order of thieves is a tradition, a culture, but not an association or group with a governing body.

The hardest part of all of this was the ending, which kept me stumped for a long time. In the end, I think just implying the rest of his journey is good enough. I really like Slippy, and I feel like I have a pretty good idea about what happens to him next, but if you’ve known me for any amount of time, you know that I have a hard time sticking to an idea. I’m erratic that way. Whenever a wheel starts turning, it kind of runs away from the currently turning wheel, and I have to choose which one to chase. This is the beginning of Slippy’s story, but nowhere close to the end. Whether I decide to check in on him again, we will have to see. For now, I'm onto other things.

~ Your friend,