Hon Jia knew he could change the world with just one word. A simple three letters that would punctuate his life-long efforts to make his mark. Three letters that would make every failure to find love a worthy sacrifice. Three letters to wash clean the heartbreak, the drugs, the suicidal thoughts. He dipped his quill tip in the ink and, with a satisfied flourish and flick of the wrist, scratched those three letters at the bottom of the page, establishing his place in theatrical—no, in world—history:

END

Hon stood, knocking back the rickety ash wood chair which—after the profits came in from his latest labor of love—he would relish burning in the hearth across the room. With a deep inhalation of breath and exaggerated sigh, he tossed the quill aside and braced his fingers on the desk.

You’re as magnificent a wordsmith as Glernarsk, as graceful a writer as Tir-Deoth. More poetic than Fronronos! Hon thought. He scanned the tattered show posters nailed to the wall on either side of the window that looked onto the plaza surrounding the Magister’s Theater. The patrons will be pleased, very pleased, I’m sure.

“I’ve done it!” Hon slapped the stack of parchment, hundreds of carefully manicured pages worth its weight in gold and jewels. “They’ll be lining the square just to try and peek through the doors.”

Hon waited, listening, then asked, “Tinbyc? You dense brick of a fool, did you hear me?”

His call went unanswered. What kind of assistant did I hire? The greatest playwright of the realm shouldn’t have to wait for an answer from anyone. Hon threw his hands up into the air, glaring toward the doorway, still closed. The mechanical clock fixed to the wall tick-tocked in the silence. He graciously waited an extra second, but the handle never jiggled and no pitter-patter of steps came.

Hon snarled, “Tinbyc!” and cast the pot of black ink across the room. It exploded on the door in a fantastic mess. He’d be sure to have the useless excuse for life clean it up … as soon as he could find him. Hon straightened his robe and stuck his nose into the air. This inconvenience was a minor setback. Nevertheless, this manuscript had to get down to the printers, and if that stub-legged gnome wasn’t around to earn his keep … Hon Jia would do it himself.

But what else was new? He’d grown accustomed to shouldering the burden of picking up for people’s slack in this world and was all the nobler for it.

“Off to the printer, and then to the guildhall to have the notices sent off to the backers. Three seasons from now, they’ll be bustling in for curtain call.” Hon scooped up the script, cradling it in his arms as a mother would a child. He left his quarters and descended the spiral staircase, coming out onto the right wing of the stage. Still no Tinbyc. He peered through the curtains, reeled back to reveal hundreds and hundreds of empty theater seats in the auditorium. Soon, so soon, the cavernous chamber would be filled with the excited murmur of an audience. The creeping chill, which was ubiquitous in the ancient structure, would be replaced with the warmth of nearly a thousand bodies.

“Stefan.” Hon inclined his head as he passed the nubile young man stretching in a form-fitting leotard at the edge of the stage. “Final night of the ballet, correct?”

“It is, Mr. Jia.” Stefan returned the nod. His eyes lingered on the older playwright long enough to be curious. Perhaps interested? Hon Jia shook his head; it wouldn’t be professional or befitting a prolific champion of theater like himself. What would the people say if they heard even the slightest scandalous rumor? It could stir up buzz though, and audiences might turn out. He descended the stage stairs onto the auditorium floor and proceeded up the center aisle.

“I’m sure you and Veria will exceed expectations. The Duchess and her husband will be in?”

“They always are,” Stefan said. “Opening day and final day. Without error.”

“Well, good luck.” Hon could hear somewhere at the rear of the theater the sound of other performers getting ready. The closing of doors and scrape of props dragged to new positions.

“Hopefully she won’t ask to come back to my dressing room again. I see you have your manuscript?” Stefan scowled then, in a motion Hon Jia couldn’t imagine performing, stretched one leg nearly vertically above his head.

Hon Jia shuddered and waved goodbye. “Masterpiece, my good boy. My magnum opus!” He shouted toward the empty box seats and galleries along the wall and stared out the glass skylights that showed the evening skies beyond: lavender streaked with the soft white of clouds. His voice echoed throughout and died somewhere in the rafters.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

***

The town square was warm and alive with the evening crowds that emerged this time of year after the heat of the day had passed. Gas lamps beat back the murky darkness settling over the mountain range which lay around the city like a slumbering giant. Wooden buildings spanned the blocks of surrounding neighborhoods and rose high into the air, corralling the cobblestone streets. They were great ramshackle structures with turrets that leaned lazily one way or another, belying their sturdy workmanship, and catwalks that stretched across alleyways and sewage canals. But even those impressive buildings paled next to the Grand Theater to which they seemed to bow.

A sharp snap of fabric going taut grabbed Hon’s attention, he glanced up past the theater tower to see a skyship listing away from him, bound for the lowlands no doubt. The sails which stretched out past the sides of the ship and reached high into the heavens looked like the fins of a fish. Their fabric bowed with the wind it held and seemed to strain to heave the bulbous vessel along its course. The buoyant rock which gave the ships their life—aptly named Lift Stones—were fastened along the hull. The ugly jagged-cut stone contrasted with the smooth wooden body to a great degree.

They better mind their course. Hon had always had a dispassionate view of the sailors that manned the great skyships. Never had he come across a more reckless, crude, and distasteful bunch of denizens—as incapable of appreciating a theater as they were holding a basic conversation that didn’t pertain to drinking or bedding women.

Hon Jia walked purposefully across the street, and the scents of a nearby restaurant known for its smoked boar set his mouth watering. He was met with knowing nods and a wave or two. The city’s printer was located two blocks to the west and one north, a tiny hole-in-the-wall storefront down an alleyway that opened into an impressively large printing shop concealed somewhere within the pile of buildings built atop it.

Hon turned down the alleyway, passing a pair of vagrants slumped in a corner incapacitated for one reason or another. He shifted the manuscript as far away from the wretches as was manageable as if their mere proximity would tarnish the life within. The quality of folk in this town has notably dropped—a real shame. Trash and other refuse had built up along the walls, and a prominent scent of rot added to the malaise that seemed to smother the surroundings. The print shop was just ahead, the door inset down a few steps.

Hon found the door slightly ajar, a rather odd instance as he knew Peterson, the establishment's owner, to be a rather compulsive fellow who made sure it stayed closed unless needed. He rapped his knuckles on the door frame, the rough wood making a hollow sound. “Hello?” he offered, seeing no one behind the counter. Queer indeed.

A bullish commotion came from the backroom office, the door on the left Hon remembered, rather than the right. It was the back-and-forth rise-and-fall of heated debate and argument. One of the muffled tones had Peterson’s familiar lilt, a musical quality Hon had found endearing rather than annoying as some seemed to think.

“Peterson, friend. Don’t mind me if I help myself here. Your counter is unattended, your assistants slacking I see? Also, some ruffians have taken up residence near your store entrance, you may wan—”

The exchange in the back halted. Hon tilted his head, listening carefully, and then finished his thought, “You may want to raise the constabulary to see to it at once. If not for our professional relationship, I’d have been hard-pressed to risk such unsafe conditions.”

Hon pressed his way inside and shut the door gently behind him. The almost-sweet scent of inks and other mechanical oils made up for the rather unpleasant stuffiness of the facility. But stuffiness was to be expected with machinery at work. He set the manuscript delicately on the cleanest part of the counter, tilting it slightly to avoid a dark stain of some sort that marred the marbled wooden surface. There was still no answer from the office, save for silence.

“I’m just a great and humble playwright, though. What do I know about business success? You have the chance to hold my life’s work in your own hands here, to get a chance to see it before anyone outside the theater. Even the King and Queen themselves! They’ll be at the opening, guests of honor of course.” Hon chuckled. Hijinx, the print shop’s resident feline, bound up onto the counter and greeted Hon with a ceremonious tap of his paw on the playwright's outstretched hand. The odd situation and one-sided conversation made for a rather uncomfortable air, but something was reassuring about Hijinx’s presence. “If you could hurry out and attend to this, I’d be much obliged.” Hon looked back at the entryway before the rattle of the office door drew his attention once more.

“Hon,” Peterson poked his head out from the room. His cheeks were puffed and slicked with sweat—or was it tears? “Friend, please …” There was a pause and low growl of words from behind. “Come back in if you will.”

“I-I can be back later.” Hon reached for the manuscript.

“No, no really, I insist.” Peterson’s voice wavered then cracked, as if on the verge of an emotional breakdown. “Please.”

Hon Jia regarded Peterson for a moment. Although he’d initially described their relationship as professional, he knew Peterson was perhaps one of his few genuine friends. And Hon Jia didn’t have to be a mind reader to tell when a friend was in need.

He started slowly around the counter, bringing with him the manuscript and noting the relief in Peterson’s expression.

Hon Jia vanished into the back office to help his friend in need.