Gris Lee Stories

Whilst cavorting around the mystical islands of gods and magic, I played it safe so I could stick around a while. With such concentration of global cultures, I’d grown curious about how this affected their customs, or holidays. Time marched on, and soon we reached autumn. The islands were slowly painted over by bronze colours and spooky aesthetics. I’d been especially curious as to what they did with the over commercialised concept of the most spine-chilling holiday of them all. I was most certainly not disappointed. Turns out they’d developed their own version of the season, calling it Hallowed. It has a similar vibe to Halloween and Samhain, whilst also mixing in aspects of the various cultural equivalents of the locals. I’d spent the month attending various events, whether spiritual, or for silly fun. Today it fell into the latter category; a pumpkin carving competition at the Knask Eller Knep Patch. Someone informed me that it translates from Norwegian to ‘Trick or Treat Patch’. I ...

Exploring the mystical hidden islands, though fascinating, was a rather tiring venture. On my quest to provide tribute for the gods, I’d been hopping between temples, leaving gifts in my wake. From  my reconnaissance, the next on the list was the deity known as Charm. The list was long in what was deemed acceptable, though I’d be made to understand the gifts were somewhat reflective of themselves and another. Their partner, perhaps, I gathered from context. At the temple, I knelt down and produced a beautiful antique I’d been holding back for just the right moment. It was an old, handcrafted fan made by a Japanese courtesan I once shared a meal with. It was sewn together with thread and peacock feathers. Once the delicate piece had been laid down, I found myself growing quite peckish. To my great luck, there appeared to be a tea emporium connected to the deity in question’s temple. I made sure I looked presentable, then casually wandered over to have a look.  The emporium’s ar...

I was catering a wedding to the Calvetti family when it happened. The mansion grounds that day were filled with the merrymaking of mobsters. Don Calvetti’s son had just tied himself to a beautiful lady he’d met at a ‘business meeting’. The ceremony had gone quite smoothly, or so I was told. Myself, I was busy arranging the feast in the lavish gardens. I had no ties to the family; they simply reached out to caterers they could guarantee would not snitch. My reputation in New York at the time was fairly low key. I kept my face under a veil and my eyes on the job, to save my neck from the chopping block.  Once the alcohol had been circulated amongst the masses, the Calvetti heir himself took centre spotlight, calling for a toast. He held his glass of wine high, mouth open to speak. But, no words came. The silence was permeated by a bullet barreling through his teeth. It struck the wine glass. Shards clattered, liquid spilled, swirling into the trickling blood. Calvetti swayed forward,...