Gilgamesh

Sing! Sing, o people of Uruk! Sing of your king of old, and his glorious ascent from death!

Gilgamesh knew well of the dreariness of Death; it was a gray, dreary place before the gods of the dead, stern Ereshkigal and cruel Nergal. The dreams of his beloved Enkidu foretold the bleak eternity below; the food is bitter ashes and the gates a stark barrier to all who might seek escape to the realms of life once again. O! Many are the gates of the realm of the dead, people of Uruk, and dread are its rulers, Ereshkigal and Nergal! None before have escaped the land unaided—none, that is, before our king. Let us sing of his journey out from the gloom, and the first enemy which was to be defeated upon his ascent.

The mercy of the queen of the dead is a rare thing, o people of Uruk! It is rarely visited upon the poor denizens below; nonetheless, our great king was no mere man, but one who was two-thirds divine. Seeing his greatness, the dread rulers considered what they might do with him, for it was unfitting to confine within their realm a being such as he.

"Let us test him!" Cried the queen of the dead. "One chance at life will be given to two mighty warriors who inhabit our kingdom. Let them compete and test each other—to the victor will go the chance to continue up the gray-paved road."

"Let it be as my wife has commanded!" Cried Nergal, He Who Brings Suffering. "If they wish to return to life, let the halls of the dead ring with the sounds of battle!"

Mighty Gilgamesh considered the offer of the gods of death, and found it acceptable. He rose to face his foe, drawing a great blade measuring one hundred and sixty pounds.

"My, my. You're an angry little man, even after all this time. Goodness, even the Russian revolutionaries killed in the initial battles cooled off after a few decades. Aren't you tired?"

The voice was neat, precise, and genderless, as matter-of-fact as the sunrise and merciless as the desert. Gilgamesh feared it immediately, and from fear, as always, was born anger.

"Who mocks me?" Gilgamesh looked around; as always, the formless darkness yielded no image, and the voice sounded like it was coming from anywhere, speaking Sumerian with a precise, no-nonsense accent. "Speak! Make yourself known before the king of great Uruk."

"It's impolite to make demands, little man," the voice replied. "Still. I suppose it's no trouble to introduce myself. You may call me Death."

Gilgamesh paused, considering the emptiness. "Nergal?" He tried eventually.

The voice laughed. "I am the one who has claimed Nergal, and Ereshkigal, and eventually all that is and shall be. I have an offer for you, little man: a chance for life again, which many will desire and few will take. Are you prepared to seize it?"

"If you must ask, then you know nothing of who I am."

The voice laughed again, and Gilgamesh quailed before the awful sound. "Oh, Life is going to loathe you. Perfect. Come, then: meet your challenger."

O! Look, o people of Uruk, on Amet the mighty warlord, challenger of our king! See the strength in his arms, the gleam on his swords, the fire in his eyes! His were the mighty barbarians to the south who braved the deserts with might and savagery. His hair was as wild as a storm tossed sea, coiffed in the styles of the south. He roared a challenge to our king that shook the foundations of the land of death; all save Gilgamesh trembled at the sound.

"Defeat this man, king of Uruk, and we will let you take the lonely road back to life," Ereshkigal told the great king. "Let the earth receive once again the mighty warrior, whomever he may be!"
Gilgamesh brandished his great sword, and with an answering roar charged upon Amet with the fury of an avalanche.

"Did Death make you an offer?"

The boy's eyes were dark and worn, lined prematurely with grief and exhaustion even in death. He was handsome, in a way; dark curls fell across his face, his complexion similar to those of the peninsula to the south. His clothes were strange; pants of a bizarre blue material along with a bright red shirt lacking buttons or rough seams. An unknown inscription in flowing script was born on the latter, stitched in shining black. His teeth were white and straight; his skin lacking even the faintest of pox scars.

"Yes," Gilgamesh replied eventually. "You are the warrior Amet?"

"Ahmed," the boy corrected. "And I'm not a warrior. I'm a mechanic, plain and simple."

Gilgamesh considered it an odd contest to pit one as mighty as himself against a boy who was not even a warrior; perhaps that odd word 'mechanic' meant he used some exotic weapon? Still, he did not know the tastes of the one who claimed to kill gods; perhaps such an uneven matchup would be amusing to the being.

"So. Who will you be going back for?" The boy held a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. "For me, it's my sister Nadia. She's got a little one on the way, and her drunk of a husband won't provide for her."

"I am the king of Uruk, the great city. I shall return to my people and lead them to glory beyond telling. Such a thing is beyond your understanding, boy who is no warrior. Let us settle this swiftly."

The boy merely cocked his head to one side and frowned. "Uruk? I've never heard of it. Is that somewhere in the north, up in Kazakhstan or Azerbaijan?"

"Your insolence will not save you, strange boy. My city's might is legendary— you must be sheltered or a fool to not know of its greatness."

"Powerful and a dick about it, huh? You must be an American. I thought your country's whole thing was hating kings?"

Gilgamesh's patience wore thin. "Enough of your strange words, brat! I tire of your nonsense— let battle decide the one who shall return to life!"

Such a legendary duel had not been seen since Gilgamesh and Enkidu did battle at the gates of Uruk. The ring of sword upon sword shook the foundations of the earth; not for no reason was Gilgamesh two-thirds divine, and mortal as he was Amet stood a mighty obstacle. Such was their clash that the force of it warped their blades, until in a fury Amet discarded his and honorable Gilgamesh did the same. It was with hands and fury that the two battled then, yet no less deadly for their disarmament; here a strike shattered stone, there a hand grasped for flesh and found only air.

It was exhausted and furious that Gilgamesh struck a great blow and smote his foe, sending him crashing, defeated, to the ashy ground. Glory to Gilgamesh, even in death a mighty foe! Praise to Amet, the worthy challenger! Let all men know of their greatness!

The defeat of the 'mechanic' was messy, painful, and brief, as all fighting was. The boy had not lied when he said he was no warrior; fewer than ten breaths had passed before Gilgamesh batted aside the other's pitiful defenses and locked his hands around the other's throat. It was only after the boy's struggles ceased that he released him, standing over the defeated opponent with an odd heaviness in his heart.

"Fascinating," the voice of Death murmured. "There was absolutely no hesitation at all. Were you not moved by some compassion, little man, for a boy who wished to safeguard his suffering family? Can you not empathize with the desire to be guardian and protector?"

"He was weak and unfit," Gilgamesh answered. "All the bonds in the world are worthless without conviction, and he lacked what was needed to defend his love."

Deathh laughed again. "Finally, a piece of wisdom! I wonder, little one, if you realize that the reverse is true as well?"

To that, Gilgamesh had no answer.

Elly Joan Bradac

NO ENTRY

Emilo Amor

 Lo siento. Te prometo que todavía te quiero.

Emilio didn't know their name. He didn't know their face, their eyes. He didn't know who they were and the things they'd done- he knew nothing. And still, he chose them.

He stood where they died. There was a scent to the air that he couldn't recognize, as if it drowned in salt and the smell of sand when winded by shore. A wave came in, sullenly, then fell back out, murmuring to the land what the ocean wouldn't. It was bitter and ominous and like he'd never existed anywhere warm before. It was abandoned. It was cold.

His arms crossed when the other person skipped over the water. Their feet splashed and sent sprays of foam upward, glittering against a grin and the sheen of their hands, shooting up in excitement. There was laughter- so much of it, I remember- and the sensation that all laughs had to die into silence. None lasted forever.

Then, they turned. Emilio saw them, finally, as who they were. A glimmering girl, blonde hair flat with wetness and the love of being near the pacific, the atlantic, the arctic, and all else. From afar, he felt inundated by her eyes, staring into him like she'd never looked at anything else, full of envy, of patience, of something alluring. Of promises and keeping them unbroken.

He breathed where the sun didn't shine through the clouds. He breathed where he was, far away from the ocean, and he closed his eyes, muttering to himself about sunflowers.

He whispered apologies to his sister. He said them in full voice to his mother, shaky with the empty hope that his family could hear him, drowning in the idea that they couldn't. And then, Emilio nodded, pointing frailly at the little girl and her wet hair and her eyes full of everything.

Lady Cavendish

NO ENTRY

Hitoka Kikuchi

It began with Tsukishima Keiji, a blue sky, and the dozen or so men he was running from. Essentially, it began with a very, very annoyed dragon.

"It always ends like this," he grumbled, his words punctuated by a sharp inhale as he cleared a log across his path. "I swear, the day I'm able to finish a single meal at a tavern without knights busting in and screaming bloody murder will be the happiest day of my life."

The bright white wings on his back fluttered and snapped to life, irritation whipping at his tail as his thoughts gradually grew darker the longer he could hear the telltale crunch of leaves under the feet of several heavily armed men and horses. "Damn bartender. Shoulda known he was shady."

Keiji clicked his tongue and scrambled underneath a massive fallen tree, mud and damp soil lodging behind his growing claws. Townspeople are an especially jumpy breed of human. Faced with Watari the Worker (seems innocent, but don't let the title fool you. Watari Hajime of the Old Ages was a terrible tyrant, known for driving his kingdom to near ruins due to his excessive demands. He worked his kingdom an inch within death), King Matsukawa Enji, and a dragon shifter with a flask of toxins in their hands, most would poison the dragon twice, just to be sure. Keiji growled, his chest heating with the waking fire residing in his chest.

Keiji felt the points of his fangs graze his lips and he snarled, his flames flaring and his scales racing down his back and over arms before disappearing underneath his skin once more. The ground he covered with his lengthening stride shuttered, his vision wobbling between colorful corners and depressing grey edges. It gave a pulse and he tripped over a dark grey — no, wait. That's brown — smudge. Keiji went down in a flurry of limbs and a string of rainbowlike curses.

Luckily for him, he rolled down a gentle slope and into a small clearing.

~~~~~~

Luckily for me, I roll down a gentle slope and into the valley.

The sky I find myself staring at is a depressing grey, as if clouds had taken over. But these clouds do not boil angrily like their color suggested, nor do they contain shades of depth. No, I am staring at a seamless wall in the sky. The grass underneath my body pokes into my back and a faint whisp of a breeze snakes through the blades. Birds far away cry into the sky. It could all be my imagination and wishful thinking. The birds could be a memory, the breeze the dead breathing of the souls gathering, and the insistent grass could be the folds of cloth of my uniform. Well, it's nice while it lasts.

"Sorede jūbundesu," I mutter, pushing to my feet. Reminiscing is for the listless souls who are content with their lives. And, unfortunetly, I am not one of those souls.

The valley slowly fills with eager, restless souls, the murmuring rising and falling unevenly. With every new soul, there is an increase in mindless chatter, before it settles and the droning noise continues. Most souls have formed groups, friends, souls of the same time period, souls that died the same, souls that share the same goal.

I suddenly feel very alone.

No one that I can see bears a Japanese military uniform (at least, not from my time). I catch the gaze of an American soldier, but he's glaring at me, no doubt bitter. His friends seem concerned, but when he mutters something, they look to stare coldly at me. I shrug, offer them a wave and smile, before turning my back to them. Some souls can't seem to drop hostilities, even in death. I understand completely. After all, I died due to American bombs.

I spy a lonely looking girl around my age, if not a couple years young, sitting at the edge of the valley. She seems modern, and I never will tire learning about the advancing world I left behind. I make my way over to her.

"Ohayōgozaimasu," I say. I'm not really sure if it is morning. Days seems to bleed together and it's not like the sun is readily available. But I'll take the risk. "Is this spot taken?"

The girl grins. "Hey." Ah, so she's American. Southern, from the sound of her accent, I believe. Texas maybe? I never was good at foreign geography. "No, you can sit here."

I plop down, leaning back on my arms and sighing happily. "Oh, good. I was going to sit regardless, but now I can without guilt."

The girl laughed. It felt good. It always feels good, being the reason someone laughs like that. This place is so weary and sad, it's nice to have a splash of color every once in a while.

"At least you're honest!" she says, giggling. She wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She holds out the other to me in a handshake. "The name's Lake. Lake Attuckus."

I smile. "Kikuchi Hitoka, but you can call me Hitoka."

Lake purses her lips thoughtfully. "Japanese, yes?"

I nod. "Yup."

Her eyes narrow in thought. "Surnames come first, and Hitoka is a given name, so Kikuchi is your surname and Hitoka is your given? Yes?"

I nod, impressed. "Yeah. How did you know, though?"

Lake fist pumps the air victoriously. Then she tilts her head, grinning. "Hitoka was the name of a Japanese character in a show about volleyball my sister forced me to watch. Yachi Hitoka, I think. And I did a research paper over Japan in my seventh grade geography class."

"Oh, wow," I say, amazed. I frown. "Your accent sounds familiar. I'm assuming you are American."

Lake raises an eyebrow, her eyes sparking.

"Sounds southern," I continue, encouraged. "Texas?"

Lake laughs. "Close. Oklahoma."

Oklahoma? Is that even a state? Where is Oklahoma? I don't remember anything about Oklahoma. All I know is America is split up into fifty sections, called states, that sort of resemble the set up for our forty seven prefectures. My confusion must show on my face, because almost immediately Lake answers my internal (at least, I hope they were) questions.

"Oklahoma is a medium sized state directly above Texas. It looks like a pan or butcher's knife. Depends on how you see it."

I nod, opening my mouth to speak, when a loud shout and the sounds of a fight interrupt me.

"Wha' did yeh say abou' me country, ya 'tupid, overgrown buckweasel! I'll run ya inta da groun'!"

I hear a sigh beside me. I glance at Lake, who's face is red and exasperated. "Constance," she says, by way of explanation to my bewildered expression. Lake stands and jogs unhurriedly over to the source of the commotion, despite the sounds of shouts and fighting.

The fighting stops, but the shouts seem to get louder and more, er, singular. I find out why when Lake breaks through the crowd, dragging a hissing girl behind her by the strip of cloth around her wrist.

I will not lie, I was very intimidated by the harsh silver eyes that frothed madly and the thrashing limbs of the girl when Lake sat her solidly on the ground. She looked the spitting image of the pirates in the stories my grandmother would tell me. Maybe she was a pirate?

"Hitoka, this is Constance Softeyes," Lake tells me, gesturing to the seething female flippantly. "She's from waaay back in history, in the Elusian and Adrigolian kingdoms' height. She was a pirate on the famous Firestar, or so she says." Called it.

Constance, as I've learned is her name, glares. "She was! Back'n me day, ol' Firestar wassa feared an' respected ship! 'Er an' 'er crew."

Lake rolled her eyes. "You only say that because you were her crew."

I giggle, drowned out by Constance's snarls. A blessing in disguise. I don't believe she would have taken my amusement very well.

"Just yeh wait 'til I win me life back," Constance threatens, her feathers thoroughly ruffled. "I show ya."

Lake clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "You're not usually this aggressive, Constance."

The pirate glared, her lip curling in a snarl. She spits a phrase I won't repeat.

"No, that's exactly my point. You're more cold, normally, like a glacier when you're upset. Now you're like a wildfire."

Constance looks away, overwhelmed with the sheer concern dripping from Lake. "Someone rubbed me the wrong way," she mutters, at last.

Lake rolls her eyes. I get the sense this happens a lot. It's nice, their friendship. It seems very strong, the foundation unyielding, yet I can't put my finger on it.

"Someone always rubs you the wrong way. You've gotta be more specific."

Constance grumbles, but Lake's resolve is unwavering. Finally, Constance relents. She looks away, staring at a patch of dirt at my feet as she says, "He sai' me reason fer wantin' ta live again wa' 'tupid and I shouldn' ge' me 'opes up with makin' the cut."

Making the cut?

"Yeah, there's a rumor people will be cut out at the get go," Lake says, waving her hand dismissively. I hadn't realized I voiced my confusion until she spoke. "It's a competition, after all."

"A' leas'," Constance butts in. "tha's wha' mos' believe. Who knows if'n tha's the truth."

"I hadn't known that," I say.

Lake nods, but Constance stares at me incredulously. "Have'n yeh been livin' unner a rock?"

I shake my head, a michevious grin curling my mouth. "Nah, but I do live beside one. Does that count?"

Constance blinks, before shaking herself, muttering what sounds suspiciously like "Freak." under her breath.

Lake slaps Constance (who grabs the sore spot and turns to snarl at her) across the back of the head, confirming my suspicions. "Don't be rude."

"What is your reason for trying to go back?" I ask over their scuffling, curious. Constance reaches for Lake's legs, but she dancesout of the way and comes to sit beside me.

"I want to finish a book I was writing," Lake says confidently.

Constance gives her a strange glance, but apparently lets it go. "I wan'ed ta go back ta my ship. I died inland," she adds, seeing my question forming.

"What about you, Hitoka?" Lake asks. She seems genuinely interested, and even Constance leans in.

I shrug. "I don't really know. Maybe see if my family survived, since I couldn't find them here when I died. They have to be dead now, but I haven't found them. Serve another term." I shrug. "Nothing planned out." A complete lie.

I have a life debt to repay. I remember him well, every inch. An American soldier, he was. He saved me, and I made a vow to repay him, with my life if need be. But I wouldn't tell them that, not yet.

Lake hums. "That sounds like Chance and his girlfriend. Maybe..."

Immediately, Constance groans. "Nooo. Do not bring tha peppy idiot o'er 'ere. Is 'ard enough dealin' wi' yer unendin' optimism."

And, as if summoned, a male voice speaks from behind me. "Oh, come now, Consty! You love me, really."

A young, tanned boy with the worst hair I have ever seen steps across our circle and settles cross legged between Constance and Lake, one glowering and the other grinning respectively.

"Chance!" Lake exclaims, throwing her arms around him in a familiar hug.

"Lake!" He hugs her just as enthusiastic.

"I swear, yeh two 'ave a telepha'ic connection," Constance grumbles.

Chance grins. "Nope. Just a good ear."

Before Constance can speak again, Lake is directing our conversation. "Hitoka here can't find some of her family, too, Chance."

Chance turns to me. "Your husband, perhaps?" he says, smirking.

I grimace. "Um, no. Only twenty one and besides, with the war? I didn't have time nor desire to look."

"Twenty one?" Lake asks, her eyes bugging. "Oh, heck yeah! You're legal! What's booze taste like? Dad never let me have it, like, at all. C'mon, dude, I have to know!"

Okay, so maybe she's a bit younger than I thought? "How old are you?"

"Nineteen. Don't change the subject. I bet it's good, otherwise why would people get sh—."

I cut her off. "You're legal," I say, confused. "You're older than eighteen."

Lake stares at me. "Unless they changed the law, I'm pretty sure twenty one is—." She cuts herself off in a flurry of activity. "Oh! Japan's legal age is eighteen, isn't it?"

I hum affirmatively. She nods to herself. "Yeah, twenty one is America's age."

Huh. I didn't know that.

"Are you going back to look for your family, too, Hitoka?" Chance asks, laughing at Lake. "I'm going back to look for my girlfriend, Baylor."

I nod. "Yeah. I died in the Hiroshima bombing and I wanted to make sure they got out."

Chance and Lake make sympathetic noises (they probably heard about that in their high school history classes over World War II), while Constance looks bored.

"Wha's a bombing?" she asks, fiddling with her nails.

"It's like a quick, violent, er, explosive wildfire," Lake quickly explains.

Constance stares at her. "Not followin' but okay."

As Chance and Lake tried to explain bombs and explosions to her, I let my thoughts wonder.

If there really were limited spots, what would that mean for this tightknit group of friends? What if I made the cut, but they didn't? Would I have to decline the offer to keep their friendship? Even after decades of sitting in this barren land, no one has really offered a hand of friendship to me. For the first time in forever, I feel like I really belong. I wish I could have met them in their lives, surrounded by their home grounds. However, even if we all made it through completely, our time differences are too great to overlap.

Constance is from a time that no one really remembers. Debates are still hot about where the kingdoms were and, more specifically, when. Artifacts and small ruins have been found halfway across the world from each other. She wants to preserve and add to the name of her crew and country.

Lake is from the second decade of the year two thousand. Only people born in the nineteen fifties and maybe a scattering of late ninteen forties would still be alive. My time is in her history textbooks. She wants to finish her book, but I can tell there's something more to it. A book dedicated to a cause important to her, a person?

And Chance. The future, even to Lake. Technology has advanced beyond belief. Lake might be able to see it, with supporting medicine, but it's a lost caught for me or Constance. He wants to find his family, just like I do. He mentions Baylor once, and I can see the absolute desperation in his eyes.

I don't know what to do anymore.

Sukio no Hana

NO ENTRY