Traveling Salesman: Astronomgonist

Chapter 1

In Kledbug-Levoy, a separate universe, a steam-powered plane flew overhead, the first of its kind in Phantasm Township and this country of Anagram on a sunny Sunday morning in 1959.

Anagram is a nation steeped in a strict combination of block-like structures made of exposed concrete or brick with upswept roofs, geometric shapes like boomerangs, flying saucers, U-shaped curves, atomic diagrams, parallelograms and artist's palette motifs and bold uses of steel, glass, neon and Art Deco style set into a settler landscape.

The odor of powdered coal and petroleum fuel from the contraption sailed on the warm breeze. Spectators watched, oohed, awed, and booed as it clumsily glided in the air, its wide shadow casting over the railroad where the crowd stood nearby. Some people took pictures. Radio and news crews broadcast the whole event live.

Further along the railroad was an old tack house. The red crutches propped up near the back door cautioned Libba as she went inside. She sat the bag of groceries down on the kitchen countertop, her eyes set on the familiar man at the table as the flying vehicle puttered above the tracks circling pathetically around like a wounded wasp dying from exhaustion, its reverberating sound echoing through the thin, wallpapered walls. 

"I didn't think you were going to get out. You were supposed to be behind bars for eternity," Libba said leaning up against the counter.

"You think because you left the country of Idiosyncrasies I wouldn't find you?" the man said standing up, hobbling towards her.

"I was born here in Anagram, why wouldn't I come back? I was trying to build a new life here for me and my..." she paused and sighed. "Why are you in my home? You weren't invited."

"Do I have to be invited? We are old friends, Libba."

"We're not friends and you'll never be invited. You are no longer my sovereign."

He smiled. "You were always mine to do as I pleased."

"I won't run from you," she raised her chin upward.

"I know. You were always a brave one. But I think you're only being brave in this situation because you know you can't fight me. You don't have the power." He sniffed. "You reek of sugarcane I can smell it on your breath," he said his lips almost touching hers. "Isn't that suicide before dying?" He said with a gravelly laugh.

"I'm sure it is now, since I had a cup of sugarcane tea this morning. I wanted to be neutral. I didn't want to be inhibited by the secrecy of what I am and my powers. The allergic reaction to the tea doesn't hurt me as much. I've been taking it only once a year to keep my powers bound."

Libba could be around sugarcane. But consuming it caused an array of adverse side effects to the molecular structure of her astral faculties.

She looked at the clock on the wall. The steam locomotive was coming. Her son would be home soon.

"How do you want your Death story to be told?" he asked, stroking her long, black hair letting it playfully fall between his fingers. She was half-Moroccan and Scandinavian. Her blue eyes shimmered with disdain. She had a dark olive complexion with light undertones. His lower lip trembled as his heart broke, his eyes traveling along the contours of her face. An oblique shudder sliced through her abdomen like an exacto knife.

"Like this," she said with a grin, throttling him.