"I'm here to pick up a ticket to San Francisco," I told a wizened woman behind a Greyhound kiosk. She had a glassy, faraway look in her eyes, blinking twice at me before resigning themselves to the lifeless allure of a boxy computer screen.

  "ID, please," she sighed at the screen. I handed mine over.

  As she typed in my information, I looked around.

  Fluorescent lights flickered over grimy beige floors. Arcade machines lined the walls, where a man slept, hunched over the handlebars of a motorcycle game. The smell of urine lingered menacingly. A man in many jackets slept on the floor next to a portable stereo blaring "Que Sera" by Wax Tailor.

  Gears crunched out my ticket, bringing my attention back to the listless Greyhound attendant, who ripped the ticket off and slipped it into an envelope. She picked up a black Sharpie and wrote a large number 8 on the back, circling it twice before handing it to me.

  "Get in the line behind Door 8," she muttered.

  I said thanks and grabbed my threadbare grey suitcase, supporting my backpack with my other arm, and walked into the crowd of poverty that is a Greyhound bus station. People with money travel by plane or train. Poor people take the bus, so naturally, you encounter a wide swath of humanity.

  Travelers of every color and background filled the cramped, neglected room. Several carried their belongings in black trash bags, unable to afford a suitcase. My clothes were deliberately nondescript: faded blue jeans and an oversized black cotton coat.

  I got in line behind a round man in a cowboy hat, then took out my spiral ring notebook. It would be a few minutes before bus 8 was ready to board, so I closed my eyes and went to Eden.

  Growing up, my family moved almost yearly, so I didn't keep many friends. Instead of friends, I had books. Fantasy stories, mostly, but also history.

  Years ago, I read about monks who built 'memory palaces' in their minds. They would imagine a castle or a church, for example, and then imagine building it, brick by brick, so they knew every crevice, every room.

  My 'memory palace' was a planet. Eden. I'd go to Eden whenever the real world was too awful, or when I was bored and waiting for a bus. Eden had a history, two continents, islands, people, drama, and adventure.

  In my spiral ring notebook, I wrote about Inari, an island volcano, boiling graveyard of the firefox people, destroyed 30 years ago in His Holy Crusade against magical creatures.

  "Boarding, door 8 to San Francisco." A screeching speaker brought me back to Earth, as the cowboy in front of me shuffled forward. I sat in a window seat and hoped no one would talk to me. My long legs bumped against the seat in front of mine.

  A woman in her early 50's sat next to me. "Hi, I'm Hellen," her voice was soft and deep. Silver streaks framed her face, reminding me of my mother. I nodded once.

  In the seat across from hers, a skinny woman with mossy brown hair looked over at me. "Hellen, you got a cute one!" the woman said merrily.

  My cheeks reddened. I wasn't used to being complimented and didn't know how to respond. "Aww, and he blushes! That's adorable!" she giggled in delight. I buried myself in the window.

  "Oh, don't mind her, love," Hellen said. "How far are you going?"

  For a furious moment, I wondered if I could ignore this seemingly-friendly woman. "San Francisco," I responded curtly and continued looking out the window, hoping she'd take the hint.

  "Oh, my daughter lives there! You'll love it. It's really something," she said, undaunted. "I'm getting off in Portland. My son's getting married!"

  "Congratulations," I said flatly, still looking out the window.

  "Oh, bless you," she answered. I cringed. "What's bringing you down to San Francisco?"

  "It's far from my family, and that's good enough for me."

  She paused with great concern. "Why do you want to get away from your family?"

  "I don't see how that's any of your business."

  She blinked several times. "How old are you, dear?"

  I hated that question. "I'm nineteen."

  "You're a baby!"

  My irritation must have been evident, as she felt the need to apologize.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. It's just that I have grandkids almost your age. Tell me, do you have a job lined up there?"

  "Not yet. I bought my ticket last night. I'll apply to places once I arrive."

  The lines on her face bunched together in concern. "I think you'll find that more difficult than you're expecting."

  I ignored her observation and picked up my spiral ring notebook. Hellen seemed hurt, but I pretended to not notice. Instead, I looked out the window. The bus was pulling out of the station. In the distance, I saw Mount Rainier, a sleeping volcano, Seattle's everlasting monument to doom and beauty, commanding the skyline. I imagined it erupting, spewing fire and stone into the sky. In my mind, it became Inari, and I was back on Eden.

  The smoking, boiling ruins of Inari could be seen from the nearest Vulpen Island, Crescent, a jungle of ancient trees with two urban spaces: a marketplace on the harbor of the bay and the slope that led up to Castle Moondial.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Built and carved into the stone at the highest point on the island, Castle Moondial towered over the rest of Crescent and cast a long shadow on the ocean below. Outside the castle, a crowd cheered wildly as two combatants faced off in a square.

  The crowd surged like a wave as Rafael Avalyn yelled a battle cry. Rafael was only fourteen, yet he had a strange magnetism. The audience held their breath as he attacked his opponent, feinted, parried, then danced around, spinning his staff beautifully.

  The sun was high and bright. The ocean breeze, cool and refreshing.

  Above the square and crowd, on a balcony built into the castle wall, sat Crescent's stewarding family. They could see the entire island of Crescent from their seats.

  Steward Arthur Avalyn wanted to watch his son compete, but his attention was needed elsewhere. Captain Reynard was escorting an unfamiliar guest to the shaded balcony Arthur shared with his daughters Morgan and Lyn and his mother Henrietta. Only Arthur and Morgan stood to greet the man. Lyn was young enough, and Henrietta was old enough, to get away with remaining seated.

  "Welcome to Crescent, Good Brother. We're honored by your presence," said Steward Avalyn. Captain Reynard stepped back to observe.

  Brother Timothy was short and gaunt, with strawberry blonde hair and black robes. A simple-looking man, except for the eye. His left eye was a vertical slit, like a cat's eye. It had a soul-chilling effect, like looking into the eye of a killer.

  "The pleasure is all mine, Steward Avalyn," said Timothy with a grin, and Arthur believed it. Expectancy lit Brother Timothy's face. The man was ecstatic, eerily so. They held hands in greeting, and a chill ran through Arthur's body like ice down an empty stomach.

  "Your… arrival takes me by surprise, Good Brother. Of course, accommodations will be prepared. Perhaps you wish to retire before we discuss this new change in policy?" Steward Avalyn offered, hoping the good brother would leave so Arthur could cheer for his son. Arthur heard the audience groan in unison but stayed focused.

  "No, not at all. I insist on watching the show," said Timothy.

  Morgan vacated her seat for the Good Brother and moved to sit beside her grandmother.

  Timothy dropped into Steward Avalyn's right-hand seat with pomp, still grinning. "I've been looking forward to this conversation. I'm here to inform you that the Lord Father assigned me to be your new Holy Advisor and your children's new governor."

  Arthur's response was immediate and well-rehearsed. "Of course, I bow to the wisdom of the Holy Father. Might I ask, why now?" Steward Avalyn chose his words carefully. "I only ask that I might serve Him better."

  The good brother remained silent, staring into Avalyn's eyes with a grin. Arthur glanced toward his son and saw Rafael was in the corner.

  "Dutiful of you," Timothy quipped finally, demanding Arthur's attention again. "It's the Lord Father's wish that all five Islands of Vulpex be consolidated into a single domain with a single emissary. Rafael is being considered for that position. I'm here to determine if he is deserving and, if he is, advise him."

  "That's-- wow! That's wonderful. We'll prepare your room for an extended stay, then?"

  "I suspect I'll stay here for the rest of my life," Timothy grinned.

  Arthur turned again to watch his son nimbly spin in the air, with the tip of his staff barely striking his opponent's hand, breaking several bones. The man's staff fell to the floor, and Rafael knocked it out of the square.

  Captain Reynard's voice magickt in Arthur's ear, "He's trying to provoke a reaction out of you. We need to find out what he knows. I'll send Apple to spy on him."

  "Excellent," Arthur cheered, but his mind was preoccupied. Good Brother Timothy was a snake if ever there was one, and Arthur invited the snake into his home! Not that he had a choice in the matter. Refusing an emissary of the Holy Father was suicide. The only response available to him was gratitude and humility. He hated it. Timothy's smug smile burned into Arthur's mind like an ugly brand.

  Meanwhile, the crowd below was chanting Rafael's name. He won.

  April 2008 - Greyhound

  "What's that you're writing, dear?" Hellen's question brought me back to Earth. The sunset reflected off Pacific waters. The toilet in the back of the bus was no longer in service, and the smell of human waste permeated. My back was stiff from sitting for hours.

  I looked at Hellen suspiciously. No one had taken an interest in my writing before. But in her silver-framed face, I saw she was simply bored and trying to pass the time.

  "It's just a fantasy story. You'd probably find it tedious," I answered.

  "Nonsense. I have eight grandchildren," she said, "and I love hearing their stories. Besides, still another hour or so before my stop. Tell me your story. What's it about?"

  "Well, I guess it started as a story about Adam and Lilith," I said.

  "Who?"

  "Lilith. Adam's first wife, before Eve."

  "I haven't heard of Lilith."

  "That's probably because she isn't in the Bible. The earliest references I could find of Lilith were in Jewish myths, as a demon who ate babies. She was later reappropriated in a profane book called the Alphabet of Sirach, which details her banishment from Eden for demanding equality with Adam.

  "The book was lewd and satirical. It wasn't supposed to be taken seriously; yet priests and rabbis took the story and re-reappropriated it as a cautionary tale for women who might rebel against the patriarchy. It's kinda funny because these days, she's been re-re-reappropriated as a patron saint of feminists. You might have heard about the Lilith Fair."

  "That's interesting. No, I haven't," said Hellen.

  "Yeah, I'm full of interesting, useless information."

  "So your story is about Lilith, then?"

  "More like she's pulling the strings. Lilith was banished to Nod, which is this harsh, bleak place where she lives underground because the winds are so deadly.

  "Meanwhile, Adam and Eve rule Eden. They were made perfect, so they're immortal, but because they ate the Forbidden Fruit, their children grow old and die. Millenia has passed. Adam is obsessed with breaking the curse that kills his children. Lilith is obsessed with revenge against Adam and even God. My characters live in Eden under Adam's rule."

  Hellen smiled widely. "That's fascinating! And you know the Bible! How wonderful. It's so nice to see young men who read the Lord's book."

  "No, I've never read the Bible. My mom raised me, and she claims to be Christian, but she isn't, really. She took us to church a few times, but I don't believe in the Christian God."

  That surprised Hellen. She looked offended. "Then why are you writing about Bible stories?"

  "Because I grew up on them. They're what I know, and they're entertaining, but I don't believe in Jesus any more than I believe in Superman."

  Hellen wrung her hands. "It's disrespectful to reduce our holiest icon to pop fiction. Even if you don't believe, can you at least show a little respect for those of us who do?"

  "Mm. No. See, because Christians systematically wiped out entire cultures. You devoured pagan myths and plagiarized them as your own. You demand the respect you deny others. So, no. The most I can offer you is my sympathy, and that's only when I have the patience to give it."

  Hellen was white in the face, stunned to silence.

  I leaned in for the finisher, whispering, "And by the way, I'm gay as Hell. That's why I chose San Francisco: I'm gonna go fuck some guys. Like a train of guys. It's gonna get weird."

  Then I picked up my spiral ring notebook and mechanical pencil, ignoring Hellen again. It was awkward for a minute after that. Thankfully, the bus pulled into Portland, where Hellen and her friend got off.

  "I'll pray for you," she said in lieu of goodbye.

  "Save your breath," I hollered back. No one sat next to me for the rest of the trip.

  As the Greyhound bus carried on to California, the ocean waves outside my window carried me back to Eden.