PodCastle 774: Yung Lich and the Dance of Death
Yung Lich and the Dance of Death
By Alex Fox
My Christian name was Thomas Kanfor but ever since that bastard wizard rose me from the grave I go by Yung Lich. On that moonless night he spoke some words from a tattered grimoire over my naked, somewhat-recently-dead corpse and voila, here I am. He called me a “Young Lich”. When you’re newly risen you don’t remember much else (other than the maggots), so I took that as my new name. I changed “Young” to “Yung” because I think it reads a bit fresher, and when you’re trying to break into the hip-hop scene, you gotta be fresh (though my body is not).
People can’t tell I’m dead unless I remove the mask. They think it’s part of my act. I stand outside of Times Square with my whole getup — long, black, hooded cloak, a ghastly off-brand Scream mask, an old gnarled branch. I lean and spookily sway and try to hand out my mixtapes. I mean, shoot. If there’s one cool thing about being given a second chance it’s that you know what’s important and what’s not. I never had the gall to pursue a career in music while living. Nah. Wouldn’t pay the bills, wouldn’t make my mom proud. But now? I’m free to be me . . .
“Want my mixtape?” I wheeze in my dry-as-sawdust voice to a small group waiting for the crosswalk. I extend a robed arm, a white CD in my hand. Across the front is the Sharpie-scrawled label Yung Lich — The Dance of Death. They hardly look my way, and don’t seem to appreciate my pestering.
A man shoves my arm aside and fingers an earbud out of his ear. “Ain’t no one got CD players anymore, pal. Try Soundcloud.”
The crosswalk changes and the folk quickly scramble across the street. My arm falls, dejected. Even though in this “life” I can pursue my true interests, that doesn’t mean anyone is interested in what I have to say. Been standing here for weeks on end and only four people have taken my mixtape, and I think only to be nice, as I saw two of them toss the CDs in the garbage once they crossed.
And what that man said rings true: not that many people have CD players these days. Guess I’m slow to accept change, but I know I need to adapt if I want to get my music out there. I’ve got an old laptop. I can look into Soundcloud — it’s something to go on, at least.
I gather my things and hobble to the Corner Café. They know me there. They let me use the Wi-Fi even though I never buy coffee. I don’t need to eat or drink much, or at all, really — tends to leak out of my swiss-cheesed stomach.
A few people idle in the café, and they look up as I open the glass door, a small bell tinkering to announce my arrival. I keep my head down, my hands well within my long sleeves, even as I hold the obnoxiously tall wooden staff. The staff double-bangs the bell as I amble through, loud as a cymbal crash, and I shrink into myself.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. Wooden chairs creak as the patrons turn to watch me, this weirdo in the horror getup. I try not to pay attention to them. I mosey on to my usual corner, sit, and pull out my laptop. Soon I’m forgotten, like all the other freaks of the city.
On my laptop screen glows a text file with the lyrics of my finest work, “The Dance of Death.” I read it once, twice.
I tap the bottom of my plastic mask. Reading doesn’t do it justice. These verses contain my story, my pain; my short, undead life. The beat is an old tinny snare drum, simple yet catchy. A percussive bassline comes in, and it’s simply intoxicating the way it punctuates the beat. I’m not sure if it’s my ego but whenever I listen to the song, I go into a trancelike state, and want to dance, and the beat stays with me long after the song ends. I must be a musical genius. Shame it took dying to realize that.
I notice a young woman watching me. I readjust my mask. Strange how my fears of pursuing my dreams left me but I still get nervous when a pretty girl looks my way. I glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s really looking at me. Oh right — I’m in the corner.
She rises and makes her way over to my table. If I had a heart it would be pounding now, my palms would be sweaty, but I’m dead (or undead) and so all I feel are these looping thoughts in my brain. How can I think if I’m dead, I suddenly wonder, but my thoughts are cut short as she sits down across from me.
She smiles. She has dark hair, dark eyes, white teeth.
“Hi there,” she says sweetly.
“Hi,” I rasp in my paper-dry voice. No saliva, remember. Guess it sounds more akin to a dry wind on the prairie. Not that I’ve ever been to a prairie.
“You’re different.” She leans towards me.
I sit straighter. I casually stretch my limbs (something a live person would do) and they crack ungodly loud. I hope I haven’t dislocated my shoulder again. “That’s ridiculous.”
“But you are, aren’t you?”
My eyes — gnawed and trashed as they are — dart around behind my mask.
“Yeah,” I whisper. This might be the first time I admit such a thing out loud to another. Save for my raps, of course. But those are more like a journal to me.
“The man who revived you. Old guy, unibrow? Long, gray hair?”
Now I’m curious. “How did you know?”
“He’s my mentor. His name is Raizmundo the Wise.”
“He’s wondering how your music is going.”
“Why’s he care about my music?” Hell, I think, since when does he care about me at all? Ever since I rose from the grave I haven’t seen nor heard from him. Figured I might’ve even imagined the fellow to begin with. I pull my laptop towards me, and push down the screen, to study this woman full in the face. Again I wonder how I can see with such ruined eyes. Must be more to my undeath than I know.
She shrugs. “When he found you — in that graveyard — your gift of music stood out to him. He can detect these things. He wanted to give you a second chance. And to practice his necromancy, of course.” She speaks in a hushed voice.
“Oh. Well. I’ve got a mixtape. Do you want to listen? Maybe you can share it with my creator.” I take a CD out of my bag before she can respond and pass it across the table.
“Sure. Sure. I’ll give this a listen when I’m home, thank you.” She smiles politely and puts the CD into her purse. “But Raizmundo, he’s heard your stuff before. He’s awfully fond of the track ‘The Dance of Death’. He thinks you should put on a performance at Central Park. He really wants to see one of his creations succeed.”
“He’s heard my mixtape?” Despite my voice being toneless, I can’t hide the giddiness of my posture. I lean towards her, grinning behind the ghoulish mask.
She smiles coyly. “Oh yes. He thinks it’s perfect.”
If I had eyebrows, they would rise. “Perfect? Wow, that’s kind of him.” A strange descriptor for a mixtape. Fresh, maybe. Sick, maybe. But perfect?
I think for a moment, and then blurt, “So why hasn’t he visited me at all?” I immediately regret asking such a question. My loneliness is for me alone. I don’t want to remember those long, six days of terror, when I was no more than a baby in that cold, six-foot hole, gibbering nonsense, wondering why my creator had left me. Only when I rap do I revisit that place.
“He’s been keeping an eye on you. He sees how well you’re doing, creatively. He’ll be at the concert.” She nudges something towards my feet, a big old tote bag. I lean and peer inside. It’s an amplifier and a microphone.
“It’s battery charged. Just pop your disk with the beats in. Maybe this Sunday?”
“Don’t I need a permit?”
She laughs. “I think once you start performing everyone will be glad for the chance to dance. Don’t worry about a permit.”
“Wait. What’s your name?”
“I’m Shayla.” She extends her hand.
“Yung Lich.” As we shake hands some of my gray, papery skin sloughs off and I quickly dust it off the table, glancing around, hoping no one saw. I shrink my bony hand back into my sleeve.
“Raizmundo and I are very excited for your performance.”
“Me too,” I say, honestly. A concert! It’s such a good idea I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it.
Sunday fast approaches. I’ve tested the microphone and the amp and it gives my dry voice a bit of a punch, and the amplifier is so loud someone nearly took a bat to my face to get me to stop saying “testing, testing” over and over. Wonder if Raizmundo put some magic in it.
The sky holds a weak, dreary light, and it’s colder than usual for April. I amble to Central Park with two totes: one for my amp, the other for my mixtapes. I’ve sawn down my staff a little and I’ve created a little holder for the microphone on it (using duct tape) so it looks really cool and thematic.
There’s no stage or anything so I set up at the top of a small hill, right on the cusp of the Great Lawn. I realize I might be starting a little early, but this is better for practice. Even the undead gotta warm up.
“Testing, testing,” I murmur into the microphone. Some joggers look my way but keep jogging. I clear my throat of nothing. Old habit, I suppose.
“Hi, everyone. My name is Yung Lich. Thanks for coming,” I say to absolutely no one, because no one is gathered, but it’s what I’ve rehearsed. I always get nervous before, well, everything. But I know once the music kicks in my anxiety will fade like dew beneath the sun.
“And now . . . The Dance of Death.” I figure I can always circle back to my main track once Raizmundo is here, and I want to make sure I get the delivery down perfectly. Because he thinks it’s perfect, and I can’t let him down. I need to convince him I’m worth his time.
I hit the play button so the track begins (without my vocals, of course), blaring out loud across the empty field. I nod to the tune and sway, getting a feel for the beat once more.
I begin with the opening chorus:
“Yea we all die,
Yea we all die,
Yea we all die,
But we don’t all rise.”
The snare drum works its magic. I find my bony hips a-swaying, I’m cradling the mic staff to my chest.
“They call me Yung Lich cuz I rose from the grave
But don’t get any ideas, I can’t be killed with a stave
Been there, tried that, tried to figure out what was
Happening to me, am I owned or am I free?
A bewitched Young Lich, running on that nec-ro-man-cy
Yeah, I got no heart beatin
No I ain’t breathin
Zombie husk, decomposing, free-flowing
Like the words I spit true
Coming to you live(ish) from a crypt near you.”
To my utter shock, a small group gathers. They whisper to each other, pointing. No doubt impressed by my commitment to the bit, what in my black robes, gnarled wood staff, and cheap mask. Still, I hope they like my words most of all. I peer out, hoping to catch a glimpse of my creator. The one who left me all alone. But I don’t see him, nor Shayla.
“The one who awoke me ran in fright
Like a thief in the night
I must’ve been quite the sight
Naked as the day I was born (the first time)
Cuz the rats ate my shroud, I was hopin to be found
For six days I shivered in that dark cold ground
Squallin, clawin, Tabula Rasa was my brain
Finally it came to me, my old name, my first name
But I did not want that name cuz I was not the same.”
I let the beat crescendo, vibing to it, as I always do. These things can’t be helped. The crowd claps intermittently, laughing; they’re trying to mimic the moves that only a human of incredible hypermobility can achieve. I hope my arms don’t fall off the way I’m vibing so hard.
I see him now. Raizmundo. He’s standing at the far edge of the hill, Shayla beside him, a little ways off from where the crowd has gathered. He’s wearing earmuffs, like the kind people working the airports do. I find this curious, but maybe he’s got hearing issues — the amp is loud, loud. He sees me looking and claps his hands together and gives me a double thumbs up. I feel a faux-flush of encouragement. Maybe we’ll have dinner tonight. Again, not that I can eat, but I could sit with him.
Maybe he’ll tell me the reason for doing this, for raising me.
Maybe he’ll tell me why he left me.
“Yeah they call me Yung Lich
Brushing ditch dirt off my shoulder
My body couldn’t be colder
But I stay fresh and don’t moulder
My raps are raw to the bone
Even though they’re well done
And I’ll flow til we’re gone
Raise my stone on the lawn.”
The crowd has grown even larger. I can’t believe so many people are out on such a crappy morning. They love me, they love my music, and I feel so happy I could die for real. They whoop and thrash their heads as the bassline drops, and I bend over and shake my hood so hard that three of my teeth dislodge and rattle about in my mask. These words, they’re my truth. They’re all that will remain once I’m truly gone (if ever that happens) and I’m hoping I imprint them into the very souls here before me. I scream as loud as my sooty voice can muster:
“I’m hoping to be
Immortal in my technique,
Let these words live long after me
If ever I see, that eternal peace,
For it was stripped away, unceremoniously
Yea I’ve been lurkin, hurtin,
This so-called life is what you might call a gift
But is a gift a gift, even if you didn’t ask for it?
I never wanted no second chance,
But since I’m here, I guess I’ll dance!”
The people throw their hands in the air wildly, jostling, swaying. Never before have I seen a crowd so alive, and their energy, it gives me energy, and more still come to the gathering. From my vantage point atop the hill I can see the people filtering into this open, green space like herded animals, all drawn by the power of my music. I whip my head and stomp about for the chorus.
“We are all alone (I’m alone),
We all live alone (I’m alone),
We all die alone (I’m alone),
We are all alone, alone yeah,
So let’s dance to the death now!”
The crowd dances so hard that clouds of steam begin to rise. Hundreds of people now, dancing wildly, hypnotic, all their hair and clothing whirling as though in a vortex, and I can feel the hot, swampy wind from their efforts. I laugh and for a moment I simply stand and watch in quiet admiration. My music has meaning. Even though they would be repulsed to know me personally — I mean, who wouldn’t? I’m a walking, talking corpse — this crowd knows the real me, through my words, my music.
Suddenly, all the people fall with a resounding thud. I gasp into the mic, and kick the pause button on the track.
“Guys?” I say. The mic squeals. The entire crowd has gone utterly lifeless and still, without even a moan of protest. I look around. Raizmundo and Shayla clap but their claps sound punctured and hollow compared to the ruckus that has just died, suddenly, snuffed like a candle. Raizmundo removes his earmuffs and attempts to step gingerly over the fallen crowd, but the bodies are too close together. He and Shayla just end up walking across the backs and faces of the fallen, holding their arms out to steady themselves atop the flesh-mounded field.
I look around for the cops, something. Ready to turn myself in. But the cops were at my show, they were vibing with everyone else; even their horses were doing a weird animal jitter, thrusting their noses in the air and wiggling their rumps. I don’t see the horses anymore, so I figure they must be lying out there, too, among the masses.
There’s no one but me, Shayla, and Raizmundo. Why didn’t she fall? Unless . . .
A fell glint shines in Raizmundo’s eyes as he nears me.
“That was excellent, Thomas. Truly.” He’s softer-looking than I remember. Less haggard around the eyes, cheeks full and ruddy, with false, white teeth as straight as new headstones. Must be living large, this wizard of obscene power.
“It’s actually Yung Lich now,” I say hastily. “What the hell happened?” I mean. What else can I say, really?
“Language,” he chides, and for whatever reason, I grow bashful.
“They danced to the death. Just as you wished.”
“I didn’t really want them to die —”
“Are you bothered by it?”
I look out over the literal field of dead. I didn’t know these people, but I never wanted to be a mass murderer.
“Uh. Yeah? I never wanted to kill anyone. I just wanted to share my story, I just . . .” I struggle to find the words. “Why?”
“You’re lonely.” Raizmundo’s unibrow dips as his forehead creases. “I wanted you to have company.”
“You couldn’t have just . . . visited? Had coffee with me?” I gesture at the dead. “Or . . . risen me a girlfriend from the graveyard? Not saying she would necessarily be into me or anything . . . but . . . I didn’t ask you to kill anyone.” Nor do I see how a pile of dead people can offer any company at all, but I have an inkling of where this might be going.
“I’m much too busy for that. And the corpses, they work better when they’re fresh. You were a lucky case. I learned a lot from you.” He reaches out and touches my shoulder gently. He looks out over the field, and a contented sigh escapes him. “This was much-needed practice for me.”
“So they didn’t really like my music? It was all . . . a trick?” I don’t know why, but this thought is more heartbreaking to me than the hundreds lying dead. I can’t help it. That’s just who I am now, what I am now. I’m living for a dream alone.
Shayla pipes up, “It was really very good!”
“They loved it,” Raizmundo says reassuringly. “Truly. They loved it so. That’s why they came to listen, to dance.”
I want to believe him, I really do. And when you’re undead and without a friend in the world, well, it’s easy to believe such honeyed words. I’m guessing we undead don’t have strong conviction, or perhaps I was always like this, and my cordial veneer sloughed away with my flesh in the grave.
“Okay.” I frown. None of this sits right. I look at Shayla. “So you’re undead too, huh?”
She offers a small smile, and a curt nod. My gaze darts from Shayla to Raizmundo to Shayla again.
“So you left me for a better model, is that it?” I say. Jealousy, now there’s an emotion I haven’t felt in a long, long time. She doesn’t even look undead.
“Nonsense, Yung Lich. This is all part of the journey. Our journey. Give me the microphone, and I shall begin the ceremony.”
I have so many questions, but I lean the mic staff towards him. He pulls a tattered, leatherbound book from his massive overcoat. A long, corded tassel dangles from the book’s spine, fringed in human hair by the looks of it. The grimoire. He adjusts the half-moon spectacles on his nose.
He begins to speak in a long-dead language, and it tickles something in me. I’ve heard these words before. On that fateful, moonless night when Raizmundo stirred life into my bones.
The dead, they begin to rise. I guess it’s not so hard for them to come back because they were only dead a few minutes. Someone starts screaming, another laughing, another dancing right where she left off even though there is no music.
“Everyone,” says Raizmundo. “Meet your new friend, Yung Lich. And I, I am your creator, Raizmundo the Wise. We will all be one happy family.”
Grumbles from the crowd. No one really knows what’s going on. Considering they were just dead.
“What now?” I ask.
“We must see if the experiment holds. And then . . . well . . . business as usual. Until the time comes that I will call upon you” — he speaks into the mic again — “soon I will call upon you all, for the wars to come.”
“Wars?” I repeat, dumbfounded. I’m not a soldier. I’m a rapper.
“Yes,” Raizmundo says to me. “And you shall be a general. General Lich. How does that sound?”
“Corny,” I mumble.
He doesn’t seem to hear me, or care what I have to say. “Until then, teach them. Show them how to be human. You’ve done such a great job of it, I am so impressed.” He hugs me then. I stiffen. I’ve forgotten what this is like, human touch, but I realize it’s been something I’ve been craving. I hug him back, as tight as my bones allow.
My creator, he loves me. And I love him. I need to tell myself that because even if I now have hundreds of potential friends, his approval, his friendship, it’s what I seek the most.
He puts back on his earmuffs. Shayla stands obediently beside him. She must love Raizmundo too, or his mind at any rate, because she watches him like a puppy watches its owner.
“Until next time.”
“You won’t stay? I still have six songs to perform.” I’m not about to let this crowd go to waste, and I feel a little music might cheer them up.
“I’m much too busy. Be on the lookout for Shayla in the coming weeks, with instructions on mobilizing the rest of the undead. We plan to march come summer time.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. They turn to go, back down the slope, into the bleary-eyed-and-blinking crowd. I wonder, march for what? Have we any say in this at all? Can he just control me with his silver-tongued spells? I glance at the amplifier. Is it my words, or the amp that has magic?
I watch them go, Raizmundo and Shayla, and I feel pain boil in my chest. Abandonment. Like that tight knot that gathers at the back of your throat before you cry, but I can’t cry, all I can do is write, and rap. Anger riles inside of me and I look out to all those hollow eyes, still reeling from their resurrection.
“I’m spittin’ this one on the fly now. Can any of you drop a beat?”
One kid scrambles up the hill and I let him lean into the mic and beatbox a little ch-ch-unsss.
I see the dead parting like the sea for Moses, for Raizmundo and his little dog Shayla, and pain courses through me. The arrogance of the man, to think I’d be okay with such a slight. That I’d be okay with being his warmongering zombie. Doesn’t he get it by now? I’m a rapper. This is my passion. This is what keeps me going. He may be my creator but he is not my master. I point at him with my free hand.
“The devil walks among us,
But you don’t even know him
Well let me show him,
Raizmundo the Wise!
That wizard over there,
Turning his back like I’m nothin
He’s lying, he’s tryin
To make his escape
To make more undead slaves
So seize him now, swiftly now
‘Fore he brings the world more pain.”
The music resonates even clearer than before, and my words seem to be strings pulling at the crowd like they’re puppets. They grab Raizmundo and Shayla and bear them back like an undead tide to the bottom of the hill. In their faces, I see fear. I’ve forgotten so much, but fear, I’ll never forget.
“Take his earmuffs off,” I say to a big, burly man who holds them both by the scruffs of their jackets.
Raizmundo struggles as the man rips his dumb headset off him. He has Raizmundo by the arms now, and Raizmundo kicks like a mad thing, spittle flying. Bet he wishes he memorized that haunted-ass book now, and maybe then he could stop me. I step forward and take the grimoire out of his jacket. I flip through the pages; he watches in horror. He begins to stammer and I nod at the burly man, who clamps a hand over the wizard’s mouth. I lean towards Raizmundo, the mic staff the only thing between us as I freestyle.
“Wise? Wise? What’s so wise about
You, Mr. Let’s-go-on-a-killin-spree
You done cursed me, I might need therapy
I might need ministry
I might need a friend or three,
Because I can’t shake this pain,
Pain, it’s all I’ve got
Not store bought, not self-taught,
What does undead even mean?
I feel like I’m coming apart, seam by seam,
Beam by beam, it’s an endless,
Pursuit of self discovery,
Yea, now, I’m doing me
The reaper’s here and he’s wanting a fee
So time’s up, Raizmundo,
Let’s hear your plea.”
Not gonna lie, those are some of the dopest lines I’ve ever dropped. I hope someone’s filming this. My newly minted bodyguard slacks his hand so Raizmundo can speak. I don’t know if the big man is magicked by the amp, or moved by my fresh-to-death freestyle, but I’m hoping we can be friends when this is all done.
Raizmundo stammers, “T-T-Thomas? Lich? What is the meaning of this? Stop at once — I command you to —”
I nod at the bodyguard, who clamps his hand upon Raizmundo’s mouth once more.
You couldn’t even spare me an hour,
This creation which you bore,
Raging down to my core
These poor souls, they just wanted to dance
And you, you denied them that chance
I think it’s your turn for a reckoning
The void, it’s beckoning.”
Raizmundo tries to cover his ears but my new undead bodyguard has caught on and twists his arms back, so my words resound with full force in his hairy, worthless earholes.
“You’ll fall, as they did, but this time it’s for good
So long, I hardly knew ya, not that I could.
Dance to the Death now!”
Raizmundo clutches his chest and his legs begin kicking, perversely, to the now-frenzied beat. The undead bodyguard releases him and Raizmundo’s doing the shopping cart, the worm (which causes his face to tighten as he flumps down upon his paunch), the twist. The crowd roars, egging him on, and he moves in such a flurry of limbs I can’t track him. And then, in a spray of dust, he collapses. Shayla screams.
I turn to her and shield the mic with my hand, the venom in my voice faltering. “Hey. Listen. I’m sorry, that was, uh . . .” I pause, reflecting on Raizmundo’s frenzied display. How to describe it — hilarious? Surprisingly dexterous? A well-deserved end for a maniacal murdering wizard? “It was . . . a bit much, I admit. But he murdered, like, hundreds of people. And worse than that, he was gonna force us to do his dirty work. I couldn’t let that fly, okay?”
She looks dejected. She nods, barely. Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk. I turn my attention to the crowd.
“Good people of N-Y-C
My so-called, army
Stand attention for your orders
You shall seed no disorder
Take this second life
And pursue your dreams,
Nix that 9-to-5, unless that’s where you thrive
You do you
And I’ll do me
And we’ll all be one, big happy
One more thing: I’m sorry
I know, today, you didn’t expect to meet your end
But I hope you like my mixtape
Please tell all your friends!”
I frisbee the CDs from my tote into the crowd. The people scream and yell and I continue to perform; I still have six songs left, after all. My mask comes off, and the people don’t flee, but cheer.
My name is Yung Lich and I’m giving the people a show they’ll remember for years to come.
The following week The Dance of Death tops the charts. This time it doesn’t kill folk, just sets them a-dancing, enjoying life. Those who were at my concert, my army of zombies, they walk the streets like everyone else. You can’t hardly tell that they’re undead, so quickly were they brought back.
I wonder if we’ll ever really die, now that we’re undead. Not like we’ve ever borne witness to such an experiment on a grand scale. Maybe we only have five, ten years before our bodies, depleted of their usual processes, give way. Or maybe we’ll be here forever, running on the remnants of Raizmundo’s necromancy. I don’t know what will happen, I just keep rapping.
Fame brings its own kind of loneliness, but I’m no stranger to that. If I was without all my pain, all my struggles, what would I write about? I’m Yung Lich, not Yung Bliss. I’ve made peace with who I am, and the people accept me for me.
I sit in my new apartment down in Queens. Yeah, I bought it. Yeah, I’m earning a living. Feels good to be living off my dreams, my words, my truth. Shayla sits across from me, tapping a melody out on the keyboard. We made amends, and she runs my webpage and Soundcloud. I understand why Raizmundo favored her so highly — she’s got a mind for organization, for promotion. But more importantly, she listens and understands, and I do my best to reciprocate. She’s been where I’ve been, risen up from the grave.
I open the windows and let the hot summer air waft in. My music sounds out in the streets, a never-ending block party, the cars bumping like they did back in the ‘90s. Glancing down I see people in black robes, wearing such a dazzling array of masks it’s like Hallow’s Eve all day, every day.
The people catch me watching them, and they throw their hands up and shout the refrain of my newest single: “Long Live Yung Lich! Long Live Yung Lich!”
About the Author
Alex Fox hails from the wintry Northeast, USA. She writes to explore unknown and forgotten landscapes, and frequently seeks to weave her love of music into stories. Alex has words in Martian Magazine, Hungry Shadow Press, Apex’s “Strange Libations: Dark Cocktails”, and words forthcoming at Grendel Press. Yung Lich is her first pro-rated short story sale. Find her terminally online, @afoxwrites (twitter) and https://www.afoxwrites.com/