by Bill Tiepelman
Gutterglow Faerie: A Lantern for the Damned
The Lantern Liar The fae courts called her a disgrace. The humans called her a hallucination. But down in the alleys behind the alchemist's vape shop, they just called her “Glow.” Glow wasn’t your average pixie with flower crowns and sparkled opinions. No, she had chains on her hips, blood on her boots, and a lantern filled with something that definitely wasn’t oil. (Rumors ranged from bottled ghost farts to demon spit, but no one was brave—or drunk—enough to sniff it.) Tonight, the alley smelled like regret and burnt sage. Glow stomped through a puddle of something sticky that meowed at her. She didn’t slow down. “Where the hell is Tallow?” she muttered, adjusting her spiked choker with one hand and swinging the lantern like she was threatening the darkness itself. “That greasy bastard owes me two bone coins and a favor. And I’m not above lighting his pants on fire with this.” The lantern hissed in agreement. It liked pants-fires. Glow’s wings fluttered—thin, crinkled like a dead wasp's scrapbook page, and nearly invisible in the half-light. They hadn’t been pretty since the Iron War, when she dive-bombed a general and got clipped by an enchanted corkscrew. Good times. Trauma, betrayal, a metric ton of eyeliner—her core aesthetic. She passed a gang of sentient trash cans gossiping about a poltergeist orgy, gave them a sarcastic salute, and kept going. The lantern flickered green for just a second. Omen. She paused, spun slowly on the heel of her studded boot. Something was watching her. Not in the “what a hot mess” kind of way. In the “I know how you die” kind of way. She turned toward a pile of half-melted garden gnomes. One blinked. “Oh hell no.” Glow reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a bundle of salt, a fingernail file, and a half-smoked clove cigarette. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, threw the salt in the direction of the gnomes, and pointed the file threateningly. “Try me, you ceramic creeps. I’m not in the mood to relive my ‘cursed pottery’ phase.” The gnomes hissed, cracked, and sank into the asphalt with a sound like wet celery being chewed by a bitter god. She lit the cigarette on the lantern's flame. The glow turned red. Another omen. Or maybe just a flair for drama. “Tallow better be bleeding,” she growled, and kicked the nearest wall until a portal opened. Portals, of course, are rude little bastards. This one belched smoke and moaned like a haunted accordion, but she stepped through it anyway. Girl’s got places to be. People to stab. Souls to save. Maybe. The lantern pulsed ominously. It always did that right before a Very Bad Thing happened. Which could mean someone was about to lie to her. And Glow hated liars. The Contract of Screams The portal dropped her face-first into a carpet made of toenail clippings and whispered regrets. “Ugh. Tallow, you crusty testicle of a troll, clean your entryway!” Glow gagged as she wiped her mouth with the hem of her shredded lace top. The lantern gagged too—it had standards, despite being forged in the belly of a sarcastic volcano demon. The room was a cube of oily stone and uncomfortable truths. Dim light leaked in from torches made of haunted spatulas and regret-fueled tallow. In the far corner sat Tallow—part troll, part accountant, all sleaze. His skin was greenish-brown, like swamp scum had a baby with moldy sausage. He wore a three-piece suit that was either cursed or just from the clearance rack at Demon-Market. “Gloooow,” he cooed, smiling with far too many molars. “Looking... feral. You bring my payment?” She strode forward, chains jingling like a threatening lullaby. “You owe me, Fungus-Face. Two bone coins, a favor, and the head of that banshee who sang Justin Timberlake covers in my shower dimension.” “Ah, yes.” He scratched a boil on his neck until it squealed and ran away. “But see, darling, I was... restructuring my liquidity.” Glow raised the lantern. It flared neon green. The ceiling screamed. “You know what happens when you lie while this thing’s lit.” Tallow's slime glands twitched nervously. “Okay, okay. No lies. I spent the coins gambling in a centaur pit-fight. The banshee's now a K-pop idol. And the favor…” He hesitated. Glow stepped forward. The floor cracked under her boot. “Speak. Or I swear I’ll replace your spleen with a bag of rusty forks.” “The favor’s been called in. By someone above both our pay grades.” Glow froze. That was rare. Her blood ran a little colder. Her wings itched. The lantern dimmed, whispering things in a tongue older than daylight. “Above our grade?” she said, voice low. “You mean the High Courts?” “Worse.” Tallow leaned in. “You ever hear of the Thorned Accord?” Glow’s heart did a thing. Not a beat—more like a choke. “That’s a myth,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual don’t-mess-with-me edge. “Nope,” Tallow grinned. “Real. Ugly. And they want you.” Glow lit another clove and paced, leather creaking, eyes narrowed. “Why?” “Something about a soul you snatched a while back. One that wasn’t yours to take. Some whisper says the Lantern remembers. And now they want it. Tonight.” Glow blinked. Once. Slowly. Then laughed like a hangover. “Oh, that soul? The cursed jester prince with the obsession for taxidermy erotica? He traded it! Fair and square! I gave him a bottle of vintage nightmare ink and a mixtape of screams.” “Did he know it came with eternal torment and spontaneous glitter burps?” “...It was in the fine print,” she muttered. Suddenly, the room shuddered. A ripple passed through reality like someone stepped on the universe’s tail. The lantern screamed—a high, keening note that shattered Tallow’s wine goblet and set his eyebrows on fire. A black rift opened in the air, crackling with thorns and velvet. From it stepped a creature in a double-breasted cloak stitched with blood contracts. Its eyes glowed like unpaid debts. Its voice? Velvet dipped in a meat grinder. “Glow of the Gutter. Bearer of the Lantern. Breaker of bargains. You are summoned.” Glow tilted her head. “You’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?” “Silence, wretch.” “Rude.” The creature unfurled a scroll with a satisfying *snap*. “You are bound by contract 661, subsection damnation, clause betrayal, to return the soul of His Former Majesty Jester Prince Fleedle the Screech. You have until moon’s rise. Or we will rip the Lantern from your bones and feed your name to the void.” Glow took a slow drag of her clove. “Well... sh*t.” Tallow made a small sound like a dying gopher and ducked under a desk made entirely of weeping wood. Glow gave him the finger. “Fine,” she said. “Tell the Thorned Accord I’ll get their damn soul. But if I’m going back to the Echo Market to dig through the spiritual dumpster fire that is Fleedle’s essence, I’m charging triple.” The creature bowed, then dissolved into spiders and unpaid parking tickets. Glow turned to Tallow. “Give me a map. And some soul-proof gloves.” “I have a cursed GPS and a condom made of ghost hair?” “Close enough.” As she turned to go, the lantern flickered again—first purple, then black, then...pink. Glow stopped dead. “No,” she whispered. “Not pink.” The lantern hummed, soft and sinister. It was an omen. And not just any omen. A *romantic subplot* was coming. “Nope. Absolutely not,” Glow snapped, stomping into the dark. “If anyone tries to flirt with me while I’m soul-diving through Fleedle’s trauma palace, I will eat them.” The lantern snickered. The Soul, the Snare, and the Smooch Nobody Asked For The Echo Market wasn't on any map. It existed in the folds of regret, just outside the timeline where all your worst decisions live. To enter, Glow had to sacrifice a chicken nugget she’d been saving in her sock since Tuesday and whisper her second-worst secret into a pile of self-loathing gravel. “I once dated a selkie who wore cargo shorts.” The gravel wept. A gate opened. Glow stepped into the chaos. The Market swirled around her in sensory overload: haunted vending machines screamed about expired souls, spectral baristas served steaming cups of existential dread, and a mime was locked in a cage made entirely of invisible guilt. Just a normal Tuesday. She pulled her coat tighter, adjusted her lantern—now pulsing with horny energy, thanks to the pink flicker—and ducked beneath a vendor hawking pickled prophecies. “Where would a narcissistic jester soul hide...” she murmured, dodging a floating ad for demonic insurance. She didn’t have to wonder long. A smell hit her like a glitter bomb dipped in desperation. Yes. Fleedle. The scent trail led her to an abandoned theater made of stitched regrets and rhinestones. Of course he’d be here. Drama king to the end. Inside, the ghost of a fog machine coughed, and curtains swayed despite the lack of breeze. She crept forward, lantern held high. On the stage stood the spectral projection of Fleedle himself: grinning, wild-eyed, wearing a ruffled codpiece and a cape made entirely of fan mail and unresolved trauma. “Gloooow!” he sang. “My favorite thief! Come to return my soul or kiss me goodnight?” Glow sighed. “I came to shove you into a containment jar and maybe hit you with a shoe.” “Ooooh, feisty! As always. I kept your mixtape. The screams were so... theatrical.” “You sold your soul, Fleedle. The Accord wants it back. And frankly, I need to not die by bureaucratic implosion.” Fleedle pirouetted. “But I like it here! I’m the star of my own eternal cabaret! Why would I give that up to be shredded into ectoplasmic debt collection?” Glow raised the lantern. “Because if you don’t, I release your browser history to the spectral tabloids.” Fleedle blanched. “You monster.” “Thank you.” He pouted. “Fine. But I want one last kiss.” Glow squinted. “From me?” “No, from the lantern.” She blinked. The lantern purred. It purred. “You are such a weird little freak,” she muttered. “Pot, meet kettle,” he replied, and then leapt into the lantern. There was a musical sting, several sparkles, and an ominous belch. Glow stared at it. “Did... he just... flirt his way into eternal imprisonment?” The lantern burped again. Pink flicker. Satisfied sigh. “You're gonna be insufferable now, aren’t you?” The lantern glowed innocently. She pocketed it and walked out of the theater, barely dodging a roaming saxophone demon. Back in the alley, she kicked the gate closed and snapped her fingers. The world returned to its regular shade of gloomy beige. Then, from the shadows, stepped the Accord’s messenger again—cloak more dramatic than ever, face hidden behind swirling shadows and unpaid debts. “Do you have it?” it rasped. Glow tossed the lantern in a lazy arc. It hovered midair like it was doing a hair flip. “All zipped up. Complete with jazz hands and emotional damage.” The creature nodded. “You have fulfilled your obligation. Your name shall remain intact... for now.” “Great,” Glow said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a cursed tea party to crash and a sentient tattoo trying to crawl off my back.” “One more thing,” the shadow murmured. She groaned. “Of course.” It tossed her a coin. Bone-white. Engraved with thorns. “Payment,” it said. “For services rendered. Do not lose it.” “What happens if I do?” “Your skeleton will be repossessed.” “So… Tuesday, basically.” Glow tucked the coin away. “Tell the Accord if they ever want their egos roasted again, I’m charging double.” The creature bowed and vanished into a scream. Glow stood in the alley, smoke curling from her hair, the lantern pulsing pink and smug. Somewhere in the distance, a cat coughed up a rat that looked suspiciously like it owed someone money. “Time for a drink,” she muttered, pulling on her spiked gloves. “And maybe a nap. Preferably not in a coffin this time.” The lantern flickered in approval. “And no romantic subplot. I mean it.” It glowed pink again. Glow stared. “You're lucky you're cute.” Take Gutterglow Home If Glow lit up your dark little heart (or just made you laugh-snort in public), you can carry a piece of her chaos into your world. Explore our framed prints for your dungeon walls, snag a sleek acrylic version that even Fleedle would approve of, or capture her spirit on-the-go with a spiral notebook for scribbling curses—or poetry, we won’t judge. There’s even a perfectly sized sticker version for your spellbook, laptop, or lantern (if you dare). Gutterglow Faerie is available now via the Unfocussed shop—support independent art, and feed your weird.
