Read InkStains January for Free Online Page A

staircase climbing
to an attic that had never existed in New York City. Maybe twelve
at the time, she’d ascended into darkness and discovered an extra,
hidden room, with a window overlooking the greenest garden that
never existed and a very old roll top desk. Every time she visited
her godmother after that, despite that there were apartments on the
floor above, and more apartments above that, she would check, just
to make sure, that another unseen door didn’t simply appear. It
never did.
    That extra door decided to make its real life
appearance in her rented house a week after she explored the empty
attic.
    The extra door had appeared between her
bedroom and the bathroom. She knew there would be stairs. She knew
the house had a second, hidden attic, and it would not be
empty.
    Once she saw it, she couldn’t look away, not
to get her phone to call someone, not to retrieve that flashlight,
not to put on proper clothes. A door like this only gave you one
chance to open it.
    Finally, she grabbed the knob. It turned
easily. She knew there wouldn’t be a lock. On the other side:
stairs led up into darkness.
    She ascended.
    She left the door open behind her, though she
doubted it would matter.
    At the top of the stairs she had to turn to
see the hidden attic. The top was lowered on the roll top desk. The
window looked out onto some other-worldly garden.
    There was only enough light to see by. She
went to the desk and opened it. She found papers, a fancy fountain
pen, a letter opener, several old photographs of people she almost
recognized.
    “ Cassandra.”
    At the sound of her name, she turned around.
Her godmother stood at the top of the stairs, looking just as she
had all those years ago in New York.
    “ My, you’ve
grown.”
    “ Am I dreaming?” Cassandra
asked.
    “ You are,” her godmother
said. “But you’re also awake.”
    “ I’ve seen this room
before.”
    “ I know. I’ve done a lot of
writing at that desk. I’ve spent a lot of time staring out that
window. But it’s not my room anymore, Cassandra. It’s my gift to
you.”
    “ I should’ve stayed in
touch better. I can call you today.”
    “ You can’t. But I’m here
now, Cassandra.”
    “ For the last
time?”
    Her godmother smiled sadly. “Yes.”
    She looked at the desk, the window, the
garden, then back at her godmother, who was no longer there.
    She stayed in the room a long time. There
were old letters to read, journal entries from her godmother
telling amazing stories about unbelievable things that were, in
fact, quite believable now.
    She didn’t want to leave.
    But she did. She still had classes, and
friends, and real world things to do. But anytime she wanted it,
Cassandra needed only look properly at the space between two doors
to find her private door and her hidden attic.

13 January
     
    The city is a stark vertical landscape filled
with rough textures, sharp contrasts, grit and shadow, and the ever
present sense of mystery, magic, romance, and passion. And the rain
on the city: nails dropping from an amorphous steely cloud,
accentuating the city’s height.
    Atop one of the anonymous tall buildings, two
warriors face each other, heedless of the elements, weapons ready –
sticks for one, long thin rods expertly balanced and just flexible
enough; a katana for the other, a heralded blade three centuries
old, sharp enough to slice the raindrops in half.
    They are both well-trained, experienced,
strong, fast, agile, smart, the best of their kind. In their minds,
they already know how the fight will go. Through neither has moved,
they have already fought. They know every strike, every parry,
every evasion. They are intimately familiar with the strengths and
weaknesses of their adversary – and of themselves. Neither weapon
can be said to be better, nor either warrior. No factor remains
unaccounted for – the shadows, the roof’s surface, the weather, the
cacophonous city sounds rising around them, the struggles each
overcame to