Tales of Greg

Man… April and Irina sure are an odd couple.

Greg ambled down the cobbled alley, hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting absently to a lone tree beside the path. The thought lingered, gnawing at him. I really hope nothing bad happens to them…

The walk was part of his daily ritual. Gotta keep that heart and mind in tip-top shape. With practiced ease, he fished out a pack of herbals, lit one, and perched it between his pale lips. A slow drag, then an exhale—smoke curling into the evening air.

I should see what Tiger’s up to. He’s always been nice to me. A really nice guy!

A sudden burst of energy sent him skipping a few steps before he caught himself, straightened his coat, and resumed his stroll.

A procession of children in crisp party uniforms crossed his path, led by a man Greg recognized—Valentin.

"Righty-ho, kids! We’re going down this road, then we’re turning a sharpy righty, okay?" Val’s voice was all false cheer.

"Aye, chief!" the children chorused, their voices eerily synchronized.

Greg shuddered. Like a hive mind.

Val caught his eye and nodded. Greg mustered the fakest smile he could manage and nodded back.

Oh, it’s the YSD. Doing dumb YSD things. He rolled his eyes. What does that even stand for? Young So Dumb? The thought sent him into a quiet giggling fit ended by a sharp cough.

His destination loomed ahead—The Theatre, a den of smugglers and Tiger’s domain.

Greg knocked. A metal slot slid open, revealing a pair of beady eyes.

"Password?" The voice was like nails on chalkboard.

"Uhh… let me think…" Greg tapped his forehead, taking another drag.

"Hmmm…" Impatience dripped from the guard’s grunt.

Damn. Forgot to ask Tiger today’s password.

Then—"Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "Lumeni in the nightlight is the highlife!" He grinned, proud of his improvisation.

"C’mon, Greg. You know I can’t let you in without the password," the guard groaned.

"Brother, you know me. You know I’m cool. Let me in."

A sigh. "Fine. But this is the last time."

The door creaked open, revealing a mountainous man with a head so shiny it could blind a bird. "Get in quick!" he hissed.

Greg eyed the narrow gap between the guard’s gut and the wall. "I’ll just…" He sidled in, pressing himself against the concrete.

Then—stuck.

"Suck it in, man!" Greg flailed, panic rising. Nature, is this how I end? Crushed between a wall and a man’s beer-belly?

With a heroic inhale, the guard granted him just enough space to pop free. Greg tumbled forward, landing on all fours with a yelp. He sprang up, smoothing his shirt and hair with a dignified "Hm."

Counting doors, he reached the sixth and threw it open. "Hey Tiger! It’s me!"

"Hello, Greg."

A woman’s voice.

Greg froze.

Before him stood a feminine figure—big, curly hair, a revealing white shirt, long legs, black pumps.

"Who are you?!" he blurted. "Where’s Tiger? Oh my Nature—did you kill Tiger?!" His face twisted in horror. "Poor Tiger! He was so young…" He collapsed to his knees in despair.

"Greg, it’s me. Tiger." The woman sighed. "I know the change is a lot, but no need to be dramatic."

"You’re not Tiger!" He jabbed an accusing finger. "Tiger’s a guy, and you’re clearly not!"

"Yes, but I’ve changed." She knelt, placing her hands on his shoulders.

They stood slowly. Tiger released him, crossing her arms.

"But… how?" Greg’s voice was small.

"You want the truth or the truth?"

"The truth, of course!"

Tiger sighed, shifting her weight. "Well, the writer of the main story decided I should be a woman now. Better fits their female-dominated world." She tilted her head. "Probably ‘cause they suck at drawing guys. One less dude to sketch, y’know?"

They both turned to stare directly at the reader, deadpan.

"Wait, what?" Greg blinked.

"I dunno, man." Tiger waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, what’s up with you?"

"I came to see what’s up with you!"

"Just relaxing. Listening to the radio." She jerked a thumb toward the crackling speaker. "News, y’know."

"Oh! Anything good happen?" Greg plopped onto the couch.

"You heard of Cuzidora?"

"The famous Nyctosian artist? She’s amazing!" His eyes sparkled.

"Eh. Her work’s kinda samey." Tiger shrugged.

"Nooo!" Greg clutched his chest. "Her art speaks to the soul! A smorgasbord of emotion, woven by Nature herself into—"

"Dude." Tiger cut him off. "She just draws cute girls."

"Well, yes, but—"

The radio hissed to life.

"Thank you, my beloved fans." Cuzidora’s voice rolled with theatrical Rs. "Every stroke I make is guided by Nature’s hand. And so, after much thought…" A dramatic pause. "I shall write a book! My life’s story!"

The crowd erupted.

"Wow! A book!" Greg gasped.

"Eh. I’ll read it." Tiger poured a drink. "But doesn’t she talk funny? All those rolled Rs?"

"I think it’s cute."

"Huh." Tiger smirked.

"So, what’s the plan tonight, T?" Greg stretched.

"Same thing we do every night, Greggy." She raised her glass. "Smuggle people outta this damn state."

The cold evening air carried a whispering wind, rustling through the fields like a melodious symphony. The lush wheat swayed in harmony, its hushed voice a gentle backing chorus to nature’s song. The serene bliss was interrupted only by the rhythmic splashing of a sponge in a bucket and the muttered curses of a boy named Greg—or Gregor, as his official documents insisted.

"Why did he have to… Who would’ve thought…" he grumbled under his breath. "Cameras! Who installs cameras in a glass dome?" He dunked the sponge again, wringing it out with more force than necessary before scrubbing at the vandalized surface.

With broad, impatient strokes, he erased the word "dye" from the glass. A quick glance to the left confirmed his task was far from over. He sighed deeply, shoulders slumping. Behind him, his father’s so-called "dogs" loomed, their watchful eyes ensuring he didn’t dare flee before the job was done.

"Explain this," he muttered, dunking the sponge again. "April wrote most of this junk…" He flung his arms out in exasperation, palms upturned. "...But I’m the one stuck cleaning it. Alone!" He shot a weary look at the jackals, half-expecting them to answer. "...Life isn’t fair sometimes."

Inside the dome, the circular metallic structure housed his father and sister. A door slid open, and out stepped Reinier, hands clasped behind his back, chest puffed with authority. His expression was one of thinly veiled contempt as he approached Greg’s side of the glass.

"You missed a spot," the man observed, tracing a finger along the words still visible: "I wear girl socks."

Greg stifled a snort. "Yeah, well, better buy a new pair, Pops." He kept scrubbing, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.

"You know, Gregor…" Reinier closed his eyes, tilting his head in that infuriatingly patronizing way of his. One hand cupped his forehead, the other crossing his chest in disapproval. "...You’re better than this. Come home. Finish school. You could take my place in the—"

"The what?" Greg snapped, finally looking up. "The ministry of lies and theft?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "I’d rather do things the old-fashioned way—out of the public eye. Thanks, but no thanks."

Reinier exhaled sharply, turning away with his hands in his pockets. "Have it your way," he said over his shoulder. "I suppose your sister will just have to fill your role, then."

Greg’s hands stilled. "...Yeah. Sure." He resumed cleaning, but the words had struck deeper than he cared to admit.

Time crawled. Eventually, the "dogs" retreated inside, leaving him alone with the last remaining insult: "You are not worth the salt." He stared at it, shoulders slumped.

"Well! That’s mighty rude!"

The voice was like rusty nails dragged across an old couch, a sound that sent instant dread coiling in Greg’s gut.

"Nature, please…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Tell me it’s not him."

Valentin gasped dramatically, stepping closer. "What sort of low-life deviant would do this to your house, Greggy?"

Greg glanced at the bucket of murky, paint-tainted water. If I drink this, will I go deaf? Anything’s better than listening to him.

"Hey… Val," he sighed. "Me and April did it. Guess who got stuck cleaning?" His stomach growled loudly, doubling him over.

Valentin tutted sympathetically. "You poor thing." He guided Greg to a nearby tree, its bark adorned with glowing bioluminescent fungi. "Sit. I’ll finish up, then you’re joining me and the family for dinner."

"I—I couldn’t—"

"Oh, but I insist." Val’s hands were already steering him down.

Greg relented, sinking against the tree. "...Fine. Thanks, Val."

"Don’t mention it! That’s what neighbors are for."

Exhaustion weighed Greg’s eyelids down. In his fading awareness, he saw Val reach for the bucket before darkness claimed him.

"Greg… Greg…"

The voice was dreamlike, distant like the call of a long forgotten saint. A gentle shake roused him.

Greg blinked sluggishly. Val crouched before him, grinning. "Come on, up you get!"

He took the offered hand, staggering to his feet. His gaze drifted past Val and froze.

The dome gleamed, pristine as new glass.

"How long was I out? And how’d you get it so…" He gestured spherically with both hands like holding big ball. "...shiny?"

Val tapped his chin. "A few hours? Lost track. Also raided Father’s beeswax stash."

Greg gaped. "I… don’t know how to thank you."

"No need! You looked dead on your feet." Val beamed. "Oh! I dumped the water and put the bucket in the shed—"

"The shed?" Greg’s voice pitched higher. "Next to those two hellhounds?"

"Puppies," Val corrected, bewildered. "Gaby and Mikey?"

"Puppies. Gaby and Mikey." Greg echoed flatly.

"Aye! Perfect gentlemen. Minister Reinier has me feed them when he’s away."

Greg rubbed his temples. This guy’s insane.

"Now move! We’ll be late for dinner!" Val propelled him toward the path.

"Whoa, easy!" Greg mock-bowed. "Lead the way, sir."

Laughing, Val strode ahead, humming as golden wheat swayed around them.

"You remember my folks, yeah? My cousins?"

Greg sifted through dusty memories. "...Cristina and Robert?"

"Bingo!" Val elbowed him. "Bet you especially remember Cristina."

Greg’s face burned. He recalled all too well the time she’d shoved him into the river for "improving" her hair-tie.

"Vaguely," he lied, staring at the fence gate.

Val winked, making a path through the nearby hens pecking the ground. "She’ll be thrilled to see you."

The cottage loomed ahead, warmth radiating from its windows. Something unnameable tugged at Greg’s chest—something he chose to ignore.

Before he could react, Anisoara Ceciu had him in a bone-creaking hug. “Look at you! So tall! So skinny—have you eaten anything?”

“Uh—yes, Com—Ani,” he stammered.

She gasped, clutching his shoulders. “No socks? You’ll catch your death of cold! Vali! Fetch him woolens!”

“Really, I’m fine—”

“Nonsense!” She herded him toward the kitchen table like a stray lamb. “I’ll be right back, dear. Gonna call the rest!” Her thick frame waddled through the doorway with improbable grace.

Gregor studied her attire—the same white flax dress, black sash embroidered with red and yellow blooms, the red kerchief knotted tight around her head. Some things never change, he thought, smiling. The cottage air wrapped around him: woodsmoke, aged cheese, the faint musk of livestock. A time capsule of memory.

“There you go!” Val reappeared, brandishing a fistful of lumpy wool socks.

“Wah!” Greg yelped, clutching his chest. “Don’t scare me like that!”

Val’s grin turned sheepish. “Sorry, Greggy! Didn’t mean to!” He cocked his head. “Where’s Mama?”

“Went to call the others.” Greg wrestled the itchy socks onto his frozen feet just as Val plopped beside him. Warmth seeped in as he glanced around the kitchen—then froze. A wooden blade hung on the wall, its arms carved with cryptic letters: ΨΧ ΛΧ.

“What’s that?”

“Old religion,” Val said. “Ask Cristina—she’s the history buff.”

Outside, a shout shattered the evening’s symphony of clucking hens and rustling oaks: “Cristina! Robert! Ioan! Eating time!”

Val snorted. “Mama’s lungs could wake the dead.”

Anisoara bustled back in, wooden spoon in hand. “Well, look at you two, already settled!” She stirred the pot—white metal dotted with red—before nodding to Val. “Be a dear and set this on the table.”

“Sure thing, Mama!” Val mittened up, hefting the pot with exaggerated care before depositing it at the table’s edge. He resumed his post beside Greg just as voices spilled into the cottage.

First came Ioan—tall as a birch, beard wild, blue overalls stretched over a chest that seemed to exhale testosterone. Behind him waddled Robert, round and ruddy in his rumpled red shirt, followed by—

Cristina.

Braided hair cascading to her waist. Soft features. Blue eyes (of course). A dress mirroring her mother’s. Greg’s heart stuttered. He looked away.

Ioan slapped Greg’s offered hand aside. “Sir?! Is that any way to greet family?” He engulfed the boy in a sweat-slick bear hug. “You’ve grown! Shoulders like an ox—bet you could haul a bull!”

Robert clapped him on the back. “Been a while, friend! Glad you’re safe.”

Then Cristina stepped close, kissing both his cheeks before cradling his face in her palms. “My, my,” she teased. “Handsome and speechless?”

Greg’s ears burned as she steered him to the table.

“Since Greg’s our guest,” Ioan declared, “he’ll say grace!”

“I, uh… don’t know any,” Greg admitted.

“Town folk,” Ioan chuckled. “Cristina?”

They bowed their heads as her voice wove through the room:

“O Sacred Earth, who feeds and shelters,
Hallowed be thy soils and seasons.
Thy roots run deep, thy rains fall gentle,
In field and forest as in heaven.

Grant us this day our daily harvest,
And forgive our wasted plenty,
As we forgive the blight and locust.
Lead us not into barren winters,
But deliver us from famine.

For thine is the seed, the sun, and the harvest,
Now and until the land sleeps.
Amen.”

“Amen,” the table murmured.

“Hope you like potato soup, dear,” Anisoara said, already ladling a generous portion into Greg’s bowl.

The first spoonful hit like a time machine—sudden, vivid flashes of childhood: scraped knees, Val’s laughter, the unshakable certainty of belonging.

Tears pricked his eyes.

For the first time in years, Gregor was home.