Page 3 of The Tricksters Deception

The deafening crack of a gunshot split the night, echoing through the empty park. The force of the sound hit me like a physical blow, my body recoiling as if struck.

Chapter two

Idon't die there.

After the gunshot, my senses are engulfed in a strange void. A burst of purple flashes before everything fades to black, and suddenly, I find myself in an unfamiliar place. At first, I think I'm still in the park, but something is amiss. Winter has vanished, replaced by an unrelenting summer sun beating down on me, the heat oppressive and unforgiving. The air is thick and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp chill I remember. Desperate for shade and water, I frantically search for my bag, only to realize it's gone, along with my phone. I stand on what seems like barren ground, devoid of paths and the familiar hum of traffic. The dry, dusty dirt beneath me and the prickling sensation of tall grass against my legs make everything feel even more surreal.

I wrap my jacket around my waist to let my shirt breathe. Normally, the convenience store enforces a strict uniform policy, but the absence of any witnesses prompts me to disregard the rules. As I gaze around, I marvel at the towering, lush trees with fiery autumn colors, reminiscent of pine trees but grander in scale. Their thick canopies cast dappled shadows on the forest floor, providing brief respite from the blazing sun. Despite the surreal setting, I press forward, my heavy winter boots trudging through the forest. The sound of my footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and twigs fills the silence, adding to the eerie stillness. Wild theories concoct in my mind to explain my predicament, from human trafficking to circuses with talking monkeys, anything to stave off the encroaching panic.

An hour later, I stumble upon a dirt road marked by bike tracks that hint at human activity. The road is narrow and winding, bordered by dense underbrush and wildflowers that sway gently in the warm breeze. Eager to find civilization, I choose to head left, only realizing after another twenty minutes that hunger gnaws at my stomach. Suppressing thoughts of food, I move on, catching snippets of distant chatter that hint at the proximity of people. The voices are faint but unmistakable, a mix of laughter and conversation that grows louder with each step. As I approach a large gated area surrounded by stone walls, a semblance of safety washes over me. The gate is wrought iron, ornate and imposing, with intricate designs that seem out of place in this wild landscape. The stone walls are weathered and moss-covered, hinting at age and history.

However, that feeling doesn't last.

There, amidst the few people in the distance, I see her.

As I approach the closest person, I stop abruptly as they turn to face me. My breath catches in my throat as I stare in disbelief. Standing before me is a satyr—a creature I’ve only ever read about in mythological tales. Her horns, which curve slightly upward and out to the sides, emerge gracefully from her forehead, partially obscured by her long, flowing dark hair. The hair shimmers like midnight silk, cascading over her shoulders and down her back, blending almost seamlessly with the shadows around us.

It’s only then that I notice her attire—her pants are cut open at the front, revealing a pair of hooves instead of feet. They are polished and dark, blending into the earth beneath them. The contrast between her elegant upper half and the bestial lower half is jarring, a surreal reminder that this is no ordinary encounter.

My heart pounds in my chest as she speaks, her voice soft yet tinged with confusion. “Are you alright?” she asks, her eyes—large and doe-like—searching mine with concern. The words, spoken in clear, fluent English, jar me even further. How can this creature, this being from ancient myths, be speaking my language?

For a moment, I wonder if I’ve somehow stumbled into a fairground or amusement park, one with an elaborate renaissance theme that includes actors dressed as mythological creatures. The thought is absurd, yet it brings a fleeting sense of calm. This has to be some sort of performance, I tell myself.

“Wow,” I say out loud, astonished by the level of detail in her costume, “, no, I’m fine. Just wondering what country am I in?”

Raising an eyebrow, she responds, “Skiora.” My geography wasn’t the best but I was fairly sure that wasn’t the name of a country or state.

“Uh, what continent am I on? What main city am I close to?” Now she’s looking at me funny and appears concerned. “I’m lost, I have no idea where I am.” Looking me up and down she fully turns to me,

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from America,” I state. Her face is puzzled.

“I’m not sure I’ve heard of it, is that near here?” And I’m back to being thoroughly confused.

“You haven’t heard of America? What about Europe? Am I in Europe? Asia?” I ask, my voice tinged with desperation. She stares at me oddly, her expression unreadable, and then decides to turn away without answering. Why doesn’t she respond? My confusion deepens as I look around.

An assortment of creatures begins to file in through the main gates, and I decide to follow them. This feels like something out of one of my books, a fantastical scene brought to life. The stone walls, resembling bright sandstone, evoke memories of visiting the beach when I was younger. The sunlight glints off the surface, casting warm hues that contrast sharply with the dark, imposing gates. These gates are made of spiked iron, an intimidating barrier that is both functional and decorative.

Guarding these gates are two figures, who I assume are men, dressed in scale mail. But there’s something off about them. Their bodies are covered in green, shiny scales that catch the light, making them look almost reptilian. Their helmets are adorned with protruding face masks that resemble lizard heads, complete with intricately designed eyes and snouts. The attention to detail is astounding, almost as if they are real.

It’s a lot of costuming effort for someone to go through, attaching hundreds of scales to their bodies and creating such elaborate masks. Absolutely crazy, I think to myself. However, as they stand vigilantly at their posts, I assume they are playing the roles of guards and must work at this place. Their presence adds to the surreal atmosphere, making me question the reality of my surroundings even more.

“Excuse me,” I exclaim as I approach them, “, I’m a bit lost, can you tell me where I am?”

“Aynor.” He scoffs. In response, I nearly jump out of my skin, he had somehow connected his mask to move with his mouth and it made it so realistic.

"Uh, thanks, is there someone inside that might be able to help point me in the right direction home? A travel agent maybe? American embassy?" I ask, my voice wavering as confusion and a hint of panic seep into my words.

"Mapmaker, near the marketplace," the guard responds, gesturing with his head in the general direction to go. Nodding politely, I pass him and enter through the wide-open gates, my heart pounding in my chest. The place is wild and teeming with people in elaborate costumes. Everywhere I look, there are food stands selling fruits, clothing, or gear. The vibrant colors and bustling activity should be reassuring, but something feels off. Where are the merchandise stands or the information kiosks? They seem to be going for authenticity to an extreme degree.

I decide to keep walking until I find some sort of help, but as I look around, I collide headfirst into someone. "I'm so sor-" I stop dead, my breath catching in my throat as I look up. In front of me stands a tall, burly, long-haired man - with the bottom half of a black stallion. It's a centaur. This time, I can no longer deny what I see. His feet move with impeccable, lifelike motion. He is real. An actual, real centaur.

"It's not at all a problem," he says, smiling at me. Words don’t come out. I want to respond, really, but it just isn’t happening. "Are you alright?" he asks, eyebrows raised in concern. Managing to turn away, I face the crowd I had just walked through, now seeing it with new eyes. It is flooded with unusual creatures that are absolutely not wearing costumes. I feel lightheaded, my mind reeling from the shock. I need to get out of here. I stumble towards an alleyway, away from the crowded streets, tripping over the uneven path at least twice.

I find my way to a secluded spot, shadowed by the taller buildings around me. Leaning against the stone wall, I try to catch my breath, my heart still racing. The dusty scent of the old building mingles with the myriad of aromas wafting from the marketplace. These were meant to be creatures of legend and myth, not real flesh and blood. Clearly, I am not in America, because a place like this couldn’t possibly exist so openly without being smeared all over the news. Another possible thought occurs to me: perhaps I’ve gone back in time to where these creatures actually existed.

I see children in the marketplace, but they are all non-human. Some have tails, others scales, or fur. The adults and elders look just as unusual; many don’t resemble any creatures I’ve heard of in mythology. Yet, everyone I’ve spoken with so far has responded to me in English. I’ve studied history, and there is no way I’ve traveled back in time. What is happening here? Where am I? How do I get home?

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