An Atlas for Melancholy Dreamers by M. Chris Benner

Author:M. Chris Benner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Felterbush

—of metal as his thumb flicked the coin into the air—

—and he caught it.

CLINK—

—the coin glimmering as it shot up—

—and he caught it.

“We’re leaving,” Syd told the shirtless pudge.

CLINK—

—the coin went up—

—and he caught it.

“And what if I say you’re not?” answered the shirtless pudge, his eyes locked with Syd’s.

“Then I’d say…“ CLINK “—CATCH!” The coin flipped at the shirtless pudge, which distracted him—

Syd punched the shirtless pudge square in the noise. He fell backward—but he didn’t have time to come back at Syd because bedlam had broken out all around them. The fighting in the bar pushed into the den and cut their showdown short as fists and bodies piled in, shoving and rushing and moving and pouncing in all directions. Everyone in the den was caught by surprise when two people crashed through the wall. Candles fell from their sconces and, almost immediately, a fire started. The den area cleared out, Syd included, and he rushed toward the stairs.

Abby and Whiskers had gotten closer together, as he was keeping a watchful (unblinking) eye on her. The young woman in frilly lace stayed by his side, too, entirely smitten with him, but his attention was momentarily elsewhere, on the violence below. It was getting worse, more chaotic, broken glass flying everywhere, all of the people fighting—and then he saw the fire growing in the den.

Mya, Math, and Dezzy made it up the stairs and joined them.

Syd was close behind.

The Melancholy Dreamers were on the second floor balcony, staring down at the mayhem that had broken out, mayhem they had caused. The second, older woman in frilly lace had disappeared but the younger one was hanging on Whiskers, her body behind him, her arms around his chest, her chin on his shoulder.

Once again, Syd caught sight of a man that he had seen as soon as they had first walked downstairs, one that seemed the most out of place. As average as anyone back home, dressed in a rouge suede dress jacket, plaid button-up, and brown corduroys, this man seemed almost completely oblivious to the fighting and anarchy around him. He was at a table alone, sipping on a cup of tea, occasionally looking up at Syd and his group, or around him at the people fighting—he even lifted his tea up as someone crashed through his table. Sometimes he would turn his head to check the spreading fire, or move his feet so someone didn’t step on his shiny shoes, but he remained seated the entire time.

There were other people in the fighting that Syd recognized. The crimson beauty was in the middle of it all, screaming like a banshee, arms swinging and knocking out anyone nearby. The stout, fat man was chasing after him, fighting his way to the stairs. The giant in Viking garb was easily swiping people out of his way with swings of his cannon-like arms, as if they were nothing more than weeds. (He was still wearing the wide-brimmed hat that the crimson beauty had put on his head earlier, which looked quite comical given the situation.

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