Yesteryear Fiction

5/23/12

2012-05-23T00:00:00.001-07:00

Living In Shadows
By Peter Baltensperger

Had it not been for the wrinkle in a cosmic interlude, Richard wouldn't have heard the thunder. He was running through a dimly-lit forest without direction, wolves somewhere in the distance, the trees forbiddingly close. Mere suggestions of a late afternoon sun were dripping through the thick canopy of leaves, slanting distorted shadows of monsters across his path. The forest kept flinging bushes and brambles in his way, dangling branches, thick roots, fallen trees, yet he kept running even though he didn't know why or what from.

He was circumventing an ancient swamp full of skeletal trees when the indistinct figure of a woman in a black cape and hood on a white steed differentiated itself from the trees somewhere far ahead of him. He tried to force his mind to focus on the unexpected redemption, but his thoughts were too blurred to comprehend the significance. At least he had found a purpose, yet the faster he ran, the further the woman receded into the forest, slipping through his fingers right in front of his tired eyes.

On the other side of the wrinkle, the sun was always shining from an undisturbed sky, his office window glistening. He was sitting at his mahogany desk, his shadow motionless in front of him, trying to advance his career, thinking of forest monsters instead. The image of the woman was always at the back of his mind, but he couldn't make her come any closer, no matter how hard he tried. The sun kept shining in through his window overlooking the city, yet his mind kept dwelling on the darkness, the thunder.

He was running across an endless steppe, a herd of wild horses drumming the parched ground. The woman on her white steed was galloping in the distance, her black cape flying behind her, a marker in his wilderness. The high sun kept throwing black shadows in front of him, glinting off hoofs, desert glass. His eyes were aching in the burning brightness, his vision blurred with desolation, images of destruction, the woman a distant mirage in the confusion of his afternoon.

The shadow on his desk shivered, refusing to answer, even though he kept shuffling his papers, focusing his bleary eyes without seeing, even though he kept running. The papers never held still enough to comprehend their meaning, or the forest or the steppe. Only the sun was a constant, deceptive as its shadows were. He could have found the answers if he had looked in the right direction, if his mind had not been preoccupied with peripherals.

In a different forest, the woman in the black cape and hood was waiting by a quiet pond, her white steed lapping the fresh water, their reflections telling duplications. The sun was glinting off the calm surface, casting soft shadows across the pond, the thunder but a distant threat to what didn't exist.

- - -
Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His work has appeared in print and on-line in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. He writes, and has been writing all his life, because he has to and loves to do it, and because it adds a significant dimension to his personal quest. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their three cats.

5/16/12

2012-05-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Iron Balloon
By Tony Rauch

A kid is in the park with a metal hoop and stick, practicing rolling the hoop around when she senses something in the air. There is a hint of sulfur about. This sensation grows to a malodorous tar smell. The stinky aroma lingers. She turns to see what could manufacture this stinging odor. But there is no oil or tar wagon around. No roofs are being patched. The wind is blowing westerly, away from the rendering plant and molasses extraction factory that are near the harbor, down by the docks.

She can hear a slight clicking, a faint chugging in the air. But it isn’t a noise as much as a feeling, a vibration, a slight hum. She senses something in the sky. She turns and searches, looking though the colorful fall trees, scanning the horizon, then spots it behind herself - a ball of dense black smoke. It drifts in the wind, swaying back and forth. It hangs above the tree line, but slowly drops. It moves up and down in the breeze, then continues lower, behind the yellow, chartreuse, orange, gold, and vermillion fall trees, a tail of black soot swirling in the wind behind it. Why it must be some kind of new fangled mechanical flying device, the likes of which she’s never seen before.

It’s a smoking ball of . . . well, of something. The smoke swirls around the great ball as if wafting out from inside of it. Perhaps this exhalation is from an internal engine of some kind, such as in a steamship. The kid can’t really tell. In thinking of it, it just looks like a round, smoking balloon, a balloon on fire perhaps. Whatever it is, it sure is curious. The large ball disappears behind a large rooming house and line of colorful trees.

The great smoky ball appears again, from behind the Cobbler’s Hall, around the building’s steeple spire, rising over treetops and low roofs, across the street, over the trees to the edge of the park - lumbering about, whipping its long tail of black smoke to twist in the sky. The dang thing is huge. It hops over the tree line and descends, gliding into the park. But it is not a smooth, elegant descent. No, not in the least. The thing comes wobbling down at a rapid pace. It takes the kid’s breath away. She gasps, for it looks as though it will crash and break apart. She covers her mouth. Her body tightens. She loses all feeling. Her metal hoop rolls away from her and flops into the grass.

The great smoky ball pulls up. It slows and sets itself down on the grass about a hundred feet from the kid. She’s stunned. For it is a great iron balloon, about fifty feet in diameter, the size of a small house. It looks as if constructed of an open iron grid – small internal framing with a wire mesh covering the entire thing. The top part looks to be of solid sheet metal. The whole thing is black with smoking soot. There is a small basket suspended from below. The basket looks to be wicker, and the bottom of it looks to be curved, like the bottom of a boat – but covered in silver sheet metal, probably to keep out water in case it lands on water. The basket hits the ground first and slides on the grass, the curving metal parting the grass and sand out of the way as the great iron balloon slowly sets down, flopping the basket onto its side.

The kid stands and watches, fascinated. She is transfixed, frozen. Finally, she starts to jog, then finds herself running - running and running to it.

Smoke emanates from inside the center of the iron framing, billowing up through the metal grid and wire mesh. The wind catches the thick gritty churning swirl and blows it around like a great tail. The kid runs and runs, across the undulating grass, leaves crinkling under her feet. She stumbles out of breath to the great metal ball.

“Well, that didn’t work,” a young woman crawls from the basket which now lies on its side in the grass. She rises to her feet and brushes herself off. She looks herself over, then looks at the balloon. She is wearing a long leather smock and riding goggles. A long knitted scarf flutters in the wind from her neck. She has on a leather skull cap and light blue work overalls. “Maybe I should try wood next time. . . . Maybe I could treat the wood with something that’ll make it burn longer . . . and cleaner. . . . I don’t know if coal’s the answer here,” she turns to me, “Coal’s pretty light. But it’s messy. . . What do you think?” She removes one of her leather gloves and scratches her face.

“Me?” the girl asks, surprised.

“Yeah. You,” the young woman chuckles. “You see anyone else standing here?”

“Ah, no. Not really,” the girl answers.

“Not really,” the young woman sighs, repeating the girl, but looking over the large, dark metal ball.

People begin to gather at the edge of the park. The dark smoke is dissipating in the wind now.

“They probably think we’re standing around a fire,” the young woman looks around.

The crowd mills about, pointing to them, the iron balloon smoldering, curling smoke wafting out to thin in the breeze.

“Maybe some kind of oil or gas would be better,” the young woman stares at the iron balloon, “As a fuel,” then looks to the girl standing at her side, “What do you think?”

“You were flying in the air,” the girl exclaims with a gasp, “You were riding on the wind in that thing,” she points, shaking her head in disbelief. “In that heavy giant thing,” she pants, out of breath from running.

“Yeah, I couldn’t get the fabric ones to work,” the young woman bends to look the structured sphere over, “Kept igniting. The dang fabric. I couldn’t get the fire coating to take,” she shakes her head, “So I had to go with a light gauge metal. . . . Got ‘er off the ground though, so . . . well, that’s a start anyway, isn’t it now?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” the kid nods, still in disbelief at it all, “I seen drawings of flying balloons in a book once, but never thought I’d see anything like this in person.”

“Can’t steer too well in the fabric ones either,” the young woman huffs, “Too dependent on the wind. An iron one is like a ship, more stable. You don’t need to steer by the wind so much. Not with the internal propellers digging into the air, pushing you along. With any luck, I think I can get this one to keep chugging along, like a train. If I can just find a lightweight fuel,” she bends and leans to examine the insides of the metal ball.

“Ah, yeah. You were goin’ real good there for a while,” the girl nods, “I seen ya. . . But just gettin’ ‘er up into the air, that’s gotta be the hardest part. That’s an accomplishment right there.”

“The heat catches the top of the metal there, . .” the young woman reaches down to point. She crouches, then crawls to the stove in the basket, working a lever to send fire up through the stove pipe. “. . . and raises it off the ground when you work the baffles over there. An internal balloon fills with heat to get you up. Then the propellers can do their thing, keeping you afloat. You don’t need no wind at all. . .” she crawls back and stands, watching the fire shoot out of the stovepipe. Slowly the balloon rises off the grass. The woman reaches and grabs one of the propellers and jerks it down with all her weight to start it, “I just need to find a fuel that will create a lot of heat, and still be light enough to carry for long trips, . .” she turns to the girl. The two propellers sputter and cough to a slow start as the entire thing slowly tilts to right itself. Bicycle chains churn from the stove to turn the propellers. “. . Oh well. Guess you just gotta keep trying,” she sighs and walks to the basket. “Help me with this thing,” she turns to bend to right the basket, trying to tip it back into place. “Come on,” she grunts.

The girl rushes over and pushes the basket. The entire thing slowly flips over as the balloon quietly rises. Chains that hold the basket under the balloon slowly clank. Metal slowly creeks and groans. The small propellers sputter. The stove hisses.

“The stove makes it bottom heavy,” the young woman climbs into the basket, swinging her legs over the top. “Eventually I’ll install a door so I can ferry passengers across the harbor. Maybe even to surrounding towns.”

The girl peers over the large basket. It has surprisingly tall sides. The inside is maybe the size of a couch, with room enough for maybe four people. Sure enough there is a small stove in it with a pipe running way up to a large aluminum plate at the top of the metal balloon. A long bike chain loops up to a set of gears. The gears split two more bike chains that turn two propellers, one on either side about ten feet apart just below the framing of the great ball.

The young woman reaches down and lifts a heavy jug. She pours a solution into a funnel at the top of the stove. “The ‘Go’ juice,” she nods as the stove howls to life, sending a blue flame out the top of the pipe, into the metal balloon that slowly sloshes upward under the basket, metal slowly groaning, chains creaking. “Climb in. . . Hurry. . . Before the authorities arrive. They’ve been out looking for me all month.”

The girl looks around, then sees a group of constables running across the street, pointing and entering a corner of the park. The girl looks back over to the young woman who is busy working a set of levers and looking up as some vertical metal plates move back and forth above, squeaking inside the metal balloon. The girl looks back to the corner of the park, watching some authorities running like mad, then back to the young woman who is now tossing some coal into the stove from a large bucket. The basket slowly rises. The girl holds onto the top, leaning her weight forward as the basket slowly lifts. She feels herself being pulled up, her feet leaving the grass. Suddenly she feels lighter as she is tugged upward, off the ground.

“Stop. . . Stop,” the young girl hears a faint call, “Stop right there. . . Stop what you’re doing. . . Come back here this instant. . . That’s far too dangerous. . .”

The young girl is dangling, her body swaying in the wind, clinging to the edge of the basket, the top of which is wrapped with a leather coping to form a smooth finish. She feels herself giving way as if gravity is weighing her down. She struggles, swaying back and forth, swimming her body upward, her shoulders rotating, fists tightening, trying to pull herself into the basket. But the engine chugs, the propellers sputter, jerking the basket. The girl loses her grip and is jerked downward, one hand snapping free, that arm dropping, her body swinging to the side, away from the basket so she can see below now. She watches the street pass under her, then the sidewalk, then a roof, just a few feet below. Her feet scrape against the roof. She wonders if she should just let go to rest on the roof, or if she should keep struggling. She sees people running across the street, holding their hands up, some holding out their arms as if to tell her to let go. Several are yelling in panic, their hands on the sides of their heads.

The girl reaches her free arm, but can’t grip anything. Her weight is forcing her arm wrapped around the top of the basket lower and lower. She feels her arm loosening, the edge of the basket sliding across her arm. Her feet drag up the side of the slope of the slate roof, and then nothing, as if they passed the peak and are now on the other side, slowly rising. She looks down. Sure enough there is a back yard, the carriage house below, the alley, a line of trees, another back yard, another sloped roof, a front yard, a line of trees, a street. Her arm is giving way. She jerks lower and lower. The spire on top of the Cobbler’s Hall turret passes at her side. It’s as if she could reach out and grab it, hold on. There is someone in one of the windows. Their eyes meet, but they slide right by one another. The woman inside runs to the window, slapping the glass in wonder.

The young woman in the basket reaches over the side and grabs the girl’s shoulders, tugging the girl up. The girl swings to reach the top of the basket, grabbing the leather on top and pulling herself over, then swinging her legs and body around, landing to tumble inside. She looks up.

The young woman looks down and giggles, “That was a close one. You alright?”

“Ah, yeah,” the girls looks around, then lifts herself off the wood floor. She stands and peers over the edge of the tall basket. The top of the basket is at her neck, so she can just see over the top. She waves to the woman in the window of the tall brick turret. The woman waves back, a serious look of concern growing across her face as she sinks away.

The girl looks out at it all. She can see much of the city, the streets snaking like gray veins, like a spider web, like a broken glass pattern, into the hazy gray distance. The sloped roofs are all grey, red, or green - inside tight lines of puffy yellow and orange trees. “Where we goin’?” she looks to the young woman.

The young woman shrugs and smiles out at it all as they float and chug to the harbor, “Where would you like to go?”

The girl looks back over the side to see the line of sparkling blue water beginning to form on the gray horizon. The long freight houses slowly grow into view, then the masts of the tall ships, some just beginning to raise their sails, getting set to voyage to foreign lands.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

5/9/12

2012-05-09T00:00:00.001-07:00

A Glorious Kingdom
By David D. Clark

We walked for miles through the forest, Jarn and I, and we were bound at the wrists. I loved the forest. That’s where I grew up. So dark… so cold. Shimmering with many facets of life, like a lush emerald upon the land. The way the obscure light found its way between the trees and poured over small, sacred groves brought me peace. That was my home.
Jarn didn’t live here. In fact, we just met when we started walking. He did not talk, but said his name to one of the soldiers and I overheard it. I just knew that he was a friend of someone that I knew. He pleaded with the guard to see his family, but it did not do any good. We were on our way to that castle under order of the Eir. And that is indisputable. He seemed like a nice guy, though.
After a few hours, I noticed that we were coming close to the bank of the forest. “I don’t want to leave.” Jarn told me. “Watching every land mark pass behind me is mournful, like saying good-bye to my lover.” I didn’t answer. I felt the same way, but in a sense, it was good to get away. I could see the eyes of the forest folk shimmering curiously through the bushes and tree branches.
It was bright and our eyes took a few moments to adjust to the sun’s light, but we never stopped. The company led us on, as if no change could affect the Eir’s brave soldiers. After my eyes had adjusted, I saw something that I have seen many times, but was equally left in awe over every time. There were acres of nothing but long, dark green grass that lay in gentle folds. Adorning the landscape were little huts and towns, with little patches of trees nearby. In the middle of this enormous piece of land stood a tall, gloriously white castle.
What fortified the walls could not be known. Least, not by looking at it and the land around. The walls shined in the sunlight, like a city from another dimension. Gold stripes in wavy lines could be seen through the brilliance, even from the hilltop where I stood. This is the reason why his Eirdom was so great and celebrated, and that brilliant castle was our destination.
After passing through a small, tidy town, we came upon the great gates of the castle. The walls were clear, almost like glass. One of the great titans must have crafted this, for no man could possess such skill, neither alone, or in community. The towers were the only parts of the walls made of stone.
The gates were enormous, and decorated in beautiful mixtures of red, gold, and white, along with the heavy iron and steel used to fortify it; they were sentinels themselves to this magnificent citadel.
Two dragons stood guard on either side of the road that rolled to the gates. These were harmless, so long as their riders remained mounted…or an invasion army should come. Several ogres and trolls manned the gates as we approached, and a great horn sounded from atop the walls.
The city was made of stone and wood, plastered and stained with perfection. In fact, several of the laborers and craftsman were at work on the great cathedral before they joined the citizens parading the troupe of brave soldiers, and us. They tossed flowers and the leaves of the lonely trees that grew upon the hills.
Entering the castle was just as impressive. There was no sign of gray, only bright colors. Through the courtyard, into the keep, and deep into the cosseted depths, we entered into the legendary Hall of the Eir. We were presented before the Eir himself, who sat weary and cross on his great throne. Understandably so. He was a busy man.
He spoke to us with such passion. He strongly and sincerely believed that our actions were not only criminal, but purposefully directed toward the Eir himself. He condemned us, and spit at our feet, all before he read our crimes and punishment.
Jarn listened intently to the entire ordeal, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, really. I was too busy gawking at the legendary Hall. His throne, oh, it looked like pure gold! If I took just one of the armrests, I would have been able to buy a kingdom for myself. Pillars of stone lined their way to the throne, and each were etched with the ancient language of the Eir, fabled to be the account of every major event since the formation of the Eirdom. Truly, a piece of art and history that was indubitably inimitable.
I was not done admiring when the Eir stopped talking, but we were forced to go. He ordered the guards to take us, and they escorted us in the same rough fashion that they did the entire journey through. We were taken to the lowest part of the castle; the Dungeons.
Nothing that the stories told could have been farther from the truth. The room Jarn and I shared was that of enlivening comfort. The room had two sleigh beds, one bed on each side of the room. The beds were decorated gold, brown, and red. The down mattresses were designed for the perfect sleep. The fresh, feather fluffed pillows added a welcoming comfort. In the middle of the room was a box. Guards cut our bonds and placed food on the box then left. I fell asleep immediately after I ate.
I was awakened when they took Jarn, who threw the worst fit. They dragged him out, nonetheless. After that, silence fell again, and I was able to return to my slumber.
Jarn returned, looking like half the man he was when he was taken out. He sat on his bed and slowly laid back, cringing every moment until he was still and on his side. “I didn’t say anything,” he assured me. Nothing more came form him. Not even a snore.
They came for me later, and Jarn turned to me, looking hard, trying to communicate something intensely important. They took me back up to see the Eir.
He went on again about how I was wrong, and that my actions can not be forgiven, but my one loyalty to him was deserving of a life saving reward. He had such magnificent teeth. Nothing like those in the forest, even with the parapat plant. Not even his subjects had such teeth. And his hair was long and grey. His beard, well shaved.
He spoke up his offer, and I gratefully accepted. They returned me to my cell, where Jarn was anxiously waiting for me. As I arrived, not nearly in the condition he was, his heart turned cold towards me, and he lay back down on his side, facing the wall. I lay back down as well and slept.
We awoke the next morning to a surprise. The same guards that brought us to the room the night before brought us some breakfast. Ham, bread, cheese, bitter wine, and two poached eggs. It was a hearty breakfast. After breakfast, the guards returned with a pair of well tailored black cloaks. They commanded us to put them on. So we did, and they led us out.
Back through the castle, through the courtyard, and out the gates, we seemed to be reversing our journey. We came into the small, tidy town, where a large, lively crowd had gathered. The throng went from lively to energetic when we were led to a stage. Two tables were set up on the stage. I watched as they laid Jarn on one table and tied him up. A bald man with a long beard came onto the stage. He had in his hand a scroll. “In conclusion to the judgment of the Eir himself,” spoke the bald man, reading from the scroll. “This man has been found to be guilty of Murder, Blasphemy, and High Treason against his Eirdom and his great people. Under orders of the Eir, this man is to die from the axe and witnessed by this audience. Let their allies, the enemies of the Eir, come and save him.”
After the man left the stage, there was a loud cheer from the crowd. I looked over at Jarn. He was breathing very heavy, and I could see his mouth under the clothed mask muttering a prayer while he gripped at his restraints.
A large man with a large axe then came onto the stage. He wore a black sack over his head with mesh over the face, disguising him to look like death. He stood in front of the crowd and yelled out as he raised his black and white axe. He then walked toward Jarn. The axe went up with amazing momentum, and then dropped down. The glint of sunlight gleaming off of the axe was like a star. I was reminded of the castle shining on the landscape. A flood of recent memories harked back all that I had experienced since I began the journey. The large man raised his axe again in celebration, as others removed my headless companion from the stage. As he raised the axe, I could not help but to think to myself, “What a Glorious Kingdom.”

- - -
I live in Lake Forest, Ca, with my wife and dog. I attended Fullerton College and worked as a managing editor for the Hornet Weekly Newpaper.

5/2/12

2012-05-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe The Butterflies Know
By Tony Rauch

I step out of an old tree house. I stand on a rickety little deck and look around in wonder. Where am I? How did I get here? The tree house is tilting in a broken lean on a thick branch way up in the air. The structure’s wood is weathered gray and rotting. The railing is twisted and falling apart. What am I doing here? I’m not mad or scared or confused or anything, I’m just curious. Heck, it’s a nice, warm, calm, sunny summer morning - why not be way high up in a tree house out in the middle of a field of blowing, tall grass.

The wood fascinates me. I reach to touch it, then rub it. It has many old nail holes. Looks like wood from another time, re-used here up in this tree - ancient wood planks, probably rescued from sinking old barns, hidden barns covered by underbrush and tall leaning trees. Distant barns from other ages, secret eras, hidden hours, years long forgotten, times whose use has long since faded - times given up for us to share here. Wood from secret days, saved and reassembled here - to protect those times, so they can live on, so they can see more times to come, so they can build more times, times for us to share together.

I step from the rickety little deck and up onto a branch. I inspect my new surroundings, up and down and all around. Thick branches crisscross overhead and underneath. Misty gray and white strands of clouds pass above and below to reveal that I’m on a branch leaning over a long stretch of brilliantly gleaming chartreuse marshlands. Glints of the bright sun flicker in the dark water through the tall grass. It seems I’m up in a tall, thin tree in a wetland. A bright blue stream winds through the grass below. The stream is freckled with smooth, gray stones. Other tall trees dot the landscape around me, sprinkled like regrets that’ve never been resolved. The trunks rise in thin winding stocks with plumes of branches and clumps of leaves puffing here and there on their way into the sky. The trees grow like billowing sighs of relief. Some of the smaller ones are swaying in the breeze down below.

Suddenly a little butterfly appears in the distance. It meanders closer, drifting on the wind. As it flutters through the cloudy haze, it doesn’t turn out to be a small butterfly at all. It lazily floats over to me, revealing itself as a giant butterfly with gloriously translucent wings that glow florid colors in the sunlight. I wave my arms to signal it, to greet it.

It twitters up to me unevenly, slowly flapping its large, stained-glass wings. I smile. I want to reach out and pat its back, for it is a huge, delicate thing bobbing before me. Its body is the size of a large couch, each kaleidoscope wing slowly waving - each delicate wing like a colorful sail, each the size of a child’s bedroom. I crawl further out onto the limb, beaming at its beauty, marveling at its wonder. I stretch and reach. One of its fuzzy legs extends to wrap around me and gather me in, pulling me over and depositing me gently onto its back. I am in mid-air, bobbing on the back of a giant butterfly - ten feet long with sail-like wings flapping.

I smile bigger, clinging tightly as we drift away, slowly floating down to the bright green grass and gleaming clean water. We dive through the long flowing grass and swing around the tall tree trunks that rise all around. I hold on tight as we wave and undulate in the wind, floating between the winding stalks of trees.

I start to notice more old tree houses. They are up in the branches, behind plumes of deep green leaves. They are little shanties obscured within deep shadows, exactly like the one I found myself in - dilapidated, leaning, barely clinging to their limbs. Decks and catwalks crisscross the branches with twine webbing as railings. These are faded memories of shacks - old wood struggling to be huts. Many are simply gutted shells and outlines, some with just a few gray boards left here and there as empty frames, clinging, forgotten. Some trees don’t have any houses at all, others have only one, hidden away behind shadows and years of leaves. Still other trees have several little old houses - two and three, then four and five, clinging to the trunks at the intersection of limbs, an entire ancient village, now falling apart, empty and forgotten. Suddenly I think I notice a figure in one of the windows. A shadow, a person. A faint shadow within a faint shadow. And then another.

Wind rushes through my hair as we rise and drop, riding on breaths of wind. The clear breeze cleanses my face, my arms, my eyes, as we circle around back to the shadow in the window. A person slowly, reluctantly appears out from an old tree house. And then another from the next tree over. They step out slowly, with confused expressions. They look around. “Hey,” I wave as we bob in the air before them. “Hello!” I call, but they do not answer. “Come on,” I wave them over. Suddenly another giant butterfly floats up beside me from below. I wave them over and gradually each of them inches closer to the edges of the dilapidated decks.

“Where . . Where are we?” one of them calls out to me.

“I don’t know.” I shout back, “Come on, maybe the butterflies know,” I wave them closer and eventually they each crawl out onto a limb and then carefully climb aboard the other butterfly. “It seems I just appeared here,” I call over to them and smirk. “I just appeared in one of the tree houses as if from out of nowhere. And I have no idea where I could be or what I’m supposed to do here.”

We turn and drift off, dipping under branches and between the puffs of leaves. Sunlight glints off their wings to illuminate the leaves in dazzling rainbow colors. We enter a dark tunnel of leaves, with only several spots of sun and light appearing here and there, as we fly though a forest of thick, tall timber. We pop out the other side and into a brilliant blue sky with cottony strands of clouds.

Up ahead, on the hazy horizon, I think I see little dots forming in the gray, distance. Little dots glide on the wind like great colorful sailing ships in the air. They are far off butterflies, an entire legion of them, a dense flock. “Grab hold!” I call, “Let the butterfly carry you away!”

The butterflies spin us around and we head for the horizon, over a rolling green landscape, thousands of tall, spindly trees come into view over a grassy ridge, beyond a rolling field of long, waving, green grass.

“Where are we going?!!” one of the others shouts over to me.

“Who cares?!“ I shrug. Then, after thinking about this for a moment, I call back over, “Maybe the butterflies know!” As we dive and rush through the wind.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

4/25/12

2012-04-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Creature
By Madeline Dyer

The wind howled, begging Sarah not to close her eyes against the looming darkness. Trees scratched the window above her, their harsh squealings penetrated her terrified thoughts. She sat huddled underneath the window seat, staring at the door...

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Sarah flinched at each bulking sound, at each deafening crack as the creature tried to get in.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Wood splintered. Hinges broke. The door flew open. The beast entered the room. Sarah screamed.

Bang.

                                                   *         *        *

“Seven,” Dr Filsara mused thoughtfully as he chewed his pen lid. “Seven.”

His apprentice, George, looked up at him bemused. “Seven is a powerful number?” he suggested, a smile on his face.

Dr Filsara looked at him, frowning slightly, “How did you know?”He tugged at his long beard, twisting it around his little finger.

“You tell me, every day, you tell me: seven is a powerful number.”

“That it is, my boy! Don’t let no one tell you otherwise. Seven is the mystery. It is the power! It is the almighty force not known to man! It is the key.”

That night, George returned to his house. His mother had his dinner all ready for him: steak and chips, his favourite. He ate quickly and rather greedily, then went into the living room to watch the latest clip on quantum physics the doctor had ordered him to watch. He watched it for some thirty minutes or so, but it was so boring. George wasn’t a physicist, neither was Dr Filsara. Yes, they were doctors (or at least George was training to be one), but doctors of a whole rarer kind: doctors of the paranormal; investigators into everything preternatural.

They’d been documenting the latest unnaccountable deaths for some time now, the number totaled seven. And the latest, a sixteen year old called Sarah Whitmurs. He’d known Sarah. Not that well, she’d been a year or so below him in high school, but he still knew her.

George turned the tv off and went up to his room. He shut his door and turned the music up loud. It was heavy bass music that was sure to make his mum come halfway up the stairs and yell ‘turn it down!', but she didn’t. George texted a couple of his friends, but no one replied. He shrugged, maybe everyone was ignoring him for some unknown reason.

Bang.

The volume shot up a level and the room went cold. George frowned, got up and reached for the stereo. He turned the dial back down.

Bang.

His door flew open, slamming into the wall monstrously. George jumped and after a few seconds in which he sat petrified on the bed, turned the stereo down and moved hesitantly towards the door frame.

Bang.

Standing just before the door frame, George listened, and then he frowned. What was that he was up to? Three? Three already...

Bang.

No, no, he thought frantically, no it couldn’t be!

Bang.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice shaking.

Screams filled the air, inhuman screams of misery and pain. The voices shrieked and called, begging George not to go any further.

He stepped over the threshold.

Bang.

The creature stood before him. It was magnificent.

Bang.

Something hit him. Hard. He stumbled and fell unconscious.

                                                  *          *          *

“We tried to warn him, master! Really we did!” The Lost Souls pleaded with the old, old man. “We screamed and shrieked! We told him not to! He didn’t listen, it wasn’t our fault.”

The man tugged at his beard, menacingly. “You could’ve stopped him. He was the only one who truly knew. He knew of the creature. He was our last voice in that world. He was the last person who knew of the deadly creature. He’s dead.”

“He didn’t know as much as some of them,” one of the imps came forward, “the girl, she almost had the code cracked, she-”

“Silence!”

The Lost Souls obeyed, shrinking back into the depths of the forest. Their master looked up. “The creature is still out there,” he spoke slowly, “It is clever. Only humans can kill it. The humans we’ve exposed the evidence to, they’re gone. It got them. The creature knows. It knows who’s close to discovering it. It wants never to be discovered. It is clever.”

The Lost Souls murmured quickly and quietly among each other. Some spoke in the their last voices; tones of pain and anguish, others in soft, gentle whispers. Together they melted into the darkness, leaving the old man alone in the forest.

                                               *            *           *

In the days that followed, the Creature got eight more people; seven were innocent, but one knew. And the Creature couldn’t have that. No, he couldn’t. No one could know of his existence. He was already the last one of his species, and it had to stay that way. He had to stay a secret. And he had to stay alive. He had to hunt - it was a necessity. And it was fun.

Hunting was the best part of life for one of his nature. The feeding, it really was amazing, so electrifying, so exciting, so satisfying. If he wasn’t careful, he’d easily wipe out the whole existence of this new planet, Earth.

After all, that was what had happened back home. That was why he’d left, he’d seen it coming. That was why he was the only Creature to survive, the last of his race.

From the safe distance of the next planet, he’d seen his home explode. A firework of life and death that erased everything. His home was gone. His culture was gone. His people were gone.

He had to remain alive. He had to survive. He had to carry on the tradition. He was a Creature. And his name was Seven.

- - -
Madeline Dyer lives on a farm in Devon, England, and has a strong love for mythology and folklore; this in particular inspired her to start writing fantasy. She is currently working on a young adult fantasy novel.

4/18/12

2012-04-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

Springtime In The City
By Tony Rauch

I awake to find my plants growing all over my apartment - vines and leaves cover the walls, they creep across the ceiling and down around the corners to the floor. I have been really tired, but I didn’t realize I slept that long. It’s as if I have been asleep for weeks, maybe even months.

The leaves of the plants are big and ripe, the stems and vines thick, solid and green. I shake my head and make my way down the hall to the living room. The hallway and living room are encased in leaves and vines too - the walls and ceilings covered from my overflowing plants. The ceiling and floor and windows are also covered with grass and moss and weeds. Long grass sticks up through the floor boards. Vines poke through cracks and holes in the plaster of the walls and ceiling. My entire couch is a planter - leaves and vines and grass sprouting from it to curl onto the floor in long, thick waves. A bird hovers in the corner and a small butterfly flutters past my legs, meandering a crooked flight. A cloud of strange flies is buzzing near the floor.

The sun is rising, but the room is dark and spotted with odd shadows from the sun filtering its way in through all the leaves. Shafts of grainy light penetrate in all directions, a dusty haze in an eerie yellow glow due to the growth covering the windows.

I exhale in disbelief. I shake my head and step out of my vine-covered door. The hall is a jungle too - also carpeted in a tangle of grass and moss with small plants growing from cracks in the floor, walls and ceiling. I step carefully to the outside door, open it and step out. The entire neighborhood is covered. I walk out to the street, my head darting in awe. The entire block is overgrown. Green is all around, mother nature at full throttle. Vines, trees, bushes, plants, shrubs, leaves, flowers, long grass and weeds have grown to cover the block in a thick blanket of green, berming houses and cars in rolling mounds - covering them completely as if living deep in a dense forest.

A cat the size of a car peeks around the corner of a house a few doors down. Startled, I jump back. I freeze for a long moment, then dash back to the safety of my doorway to peep out in fear. Luckily the cat didn’t notice me. I scan the block, clutching the door jamb, but no one is around, the flowing leaves and vines growing over my neighbor’s windows and doors, the cat purring menacingly . . .

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

4/11/12

2012-04-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

A Brave Encounter
By DJ Barber

The bear stood up on its hind legs, snarling, as it swatted a large paw at its adversary. The Horror took a sudden dodging step backward and then, clenching a massive fist, sent a crushing blow into the bear's head. The bear fell limp to the ground. The Horror grabbed the bear by the nape of the neck and dragged it upward into the higher hills, the bear's weight seemingly no more than merely a small branch.

A cold wind picked up as a steady snow began to fall. The Horror made its way to the cavern which was a few hundred feet below the elevation where the trees ceased to grow and the jagged peaks thrust into the darkening clouds, and began its feast. Multi-colored scales ranged from smudgy-yellow to muddy brown. The Horror's fangs well overlapped its lower jowls. It had finally eaten one of its many kills.

The old brave threw a few smaller pieces of kindling on the fire. He sat and waited before he added the small log for some minutes. In his younger days he had been known as Running Walker; for to others even his walking gait seemed as a run. But now, having grown old, and yes, weary in his age, the others now merely called him Walker.

The spirits were alive this night. He heard them call; for something stalked the high mountains—something evil. Walker skewered some venison on a thin stick and held it over the fire. He was alone—the tribe had taken its yearly pilgrimage south, and being an honorable man, Walker had stayed behind so as not to be a burden to the others. It was the way of things when one had lived so many summers; that the young continued life's journey—and the old stepped aside for the honor of the tribe.

Up in those high mountains winter had already begun. Walker debated venturing there to expedite nature's course. But the spirits sang a warning call—and no natural death awaited there.

Walker chewed a bit of venison as he rose and strolled over to his bedroll which was packed with provisions that would last little more than a week--if he were prudent. He reached inside and pulled a small leather pouch free and took it back to the fire. He picked up the skewer and nibbled off another bit of venison and then set to work.

He was not a shaman, nor did he know well any of the higher gifts or crafts. He was but a warrior—and not nearly the best of his tribe, not even in youth. But he had lived a long, long life—and in it had learned many things. Those spirits that called from the darkness of the high country—they weren't just wandering and lost. For Walker could recognize—did recognize—the calls of his ancestors. And there was more than a warning cry being sounded—there was anger!

From the pouch Walker removed a handful of shimmering dust, a gift given in his youth from one of the Others. Always hidden and prized-- he cast some of the dust toward the fire. The fire rose in a burst of white smoke for several minutes. And Walker now could clearly see the ancestors of old in the midst of the smoke.

That Nature was worshipped, adored even, was the way of Walker's tribe. The Eagle, Hawk, Bear, Elk and Cougar were among the beasts of the mountains who earned the tribe's highest respect and honor.

But high above, in the realm of snow, there was present an evil, an evil that didn't belong in this sacred and special place. And the ancestors bemoaned its presence; for it had killed many in its wake—and this evil had ill intent to continue its atrocities.

Walker wrapped himself in his warmest skins and sat with the fire until it went cold. He then rose up, and taking but a few items from the bedroll, he ventured east into the high country—the realm of snow.

The spirits guided Walker in an unerring path. In his travels, Walker found evidence of the fell beast above. Dead deer, an elk that appeared nearly broken in two gave Walker reason to pause. But the ancestors called still louder, the song of strength, steeling Walker for the encounter that lay not so far ahead.

Early in the morning on the second day since leaving the dead fire, Walker came upon a massacred cougar. It lay across a large rock by a flowing stream, taunting and cruel—obviously a warning. Anger, not fear, welled up within the old brave and he seethed with rage. But as fate would have it, a gentle snow began to fall, cooling Walker's anger—and just in time—for now a cooler head would be required.

It stood waiting—the Horror—as if it had known some challenge its way came. Walker saw it and stopped, not prepared at the gruesome sight of it. Larger than the long-legged bear, standing tall, its thick tail flicked like a serpent’s tongue. A deep grunt emitted from the Horror's bowels and it gave a snarling growl.

Walker peered skyward and called in a loud voice—sang the song of his ancestors, the mighty warriors cry! The snow ceased to fall. The combatants contemplated one another.

The Horror came a running, wanting to end the standoff with one mighty blow. Walker began once again to sing, and as the Horror came close, he quickly slid aside as the Horror stumbled past into the mountain stream. It gasped in the water's coldness, sputtering and growling as it crawled out of the water and got to its feet.

Walker pulled the leather pouch free from beneath his many skins and flung the shimmering dust into the air between himself and the Horror. The dust hung there in the coldness in a shape recognized by Walker--The Great Spirit of the Sky!

The Horror looked on in some bewilderment at this new adversary, screamed loudly, and rushed forward. Walker rushed forward, too! The approaching footfalls of the Horror were like an earthquake rolling through the mountains.

Walker—Running Walker--and the Horror collided by a great pine tree that rose to the pinnacle of the forest. The great tree split asunder and crashed down upon the Horror. The Great Spirit of the Sky lifted from Walker and ascended to the heavens as Walker watched in awe.

Moments later, Walker sat down by the shattered, great fallen tree as the snow began to fall in earnest. He pulled the skins tightly about his body and waited for the spirits of the ancestors to return; knowing his final earthly task was now complete.

- - -
Writing is better than sniffing glue. That was told to dj barber long, long ago and far, far away. And he has found that to be true. dj always works when he can and whistles when he should.

4/4/12

2012-04-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

Grasses of Remembrance
By Susan Dale

His soul sighed off; David felt a magnetic stillness of something close at hand; a stillness near to that what has been. Then, in a sudden whoosh, his soul returned and he was within the moment.

He looked around to see nomads and their Saddhu with a blue rope wrapped around his head. The Saddhu, positioned yogi-fashion, sat cross-legged within a ring of stones; the ring placed in the middle of tall grasses. These same grasses were waving David forward. Their emerald blades stretched tall and luminous. He felt them brushing his legs.

He stumbled. “Whoops.”

After righting himself, he hunkered down on his thighs to read the plaque that tripped him, and thus know that he was walking across the burial grounds of Asian ancestors.

Invisible presences rustled through the grasses to breathe into his being. He felt them emerging from within the earth. He saw them taking shape; amorphous, blurry forms with slanted eyes and bird song voices even as the heat was hammering him into the earth from whence came the Asian spirits. Within the bowels of the earth lie a mysterious underworld, and David became a part of it when his steps rustled the grasses of remembrance. Moving beyond the yesterdays that gleamed with life’s contrasting colors; wandering into yesterdays and journeying into time unknown; uncounted.

He looked ahead to see Asian wanderers on donkeys; the donkeys plodding along in thick, sure steps. He watched them, as he walked an irrigation canal gone dry. But when the Asians and their beasts of burden strode over a hill, he lost sight of them. To the right of him ran a body of water resurrected from a canal gone dry. The river, through time, had wandered off to change courses and shapes to become a river, meek and muddy. The river passing from one life into another, as was David. And when he meandered around a hill of stacked boulders, he saw at the mountain’ base, stone feet shaped in caves that resembled toes, rounded in form.

‘Through the decades the river has eaten away the mountain bottom to carve and form these cave-feet.’

Stone roofs topped the caves; the roofs darkened by monsoon rains. David moved closer to the caves and saw, at one of cave’s entrances, lie a pile of bones. Because the Asian ancestors had gained access to his being from the grasses of remembrance, David knew that these were dragon bones.

‘So, this is the cave I choose for my refuge.’

He walked past the dragon-bone entrance to be enclosed within the cave’s musty walls. Back further he went to be within a darker realm in back of the cave. He squinted until his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Sun rays beamed into the cave to highlight the stakes of long-ago warriors; they were propped against a back wall. The Asian ancestors whispered to him of the stakes being hidden in the cave by warriors, who, long ago, used them in their battles against the dragons; the dragons, whose bones were piled at the cave entrance. Shadows of these stakes moved across the caves with the sun’s journey across the heavens until sundown threw off all shadows of day.

David stayed still and quiet while being enclosed within the cave’s walls; reflecting through a time measured by the numbing silence of an awe that took hold of him. Amongst the cave’ shadows floated forms of warriors and fire-breathing dragons.

First, fell a grape twilight, then night descended carrying her basket of pomegranates; the fruit of dreams floating forth warriors and the dragons silhouetted against a back wall of the cave. He sat spellbound with the burning silence of his thoughts, and something living inside of him, even when he was overtaken with sleep. Sleep and the way it dreams___ into a cave within the gaze of a melancholy moon; the moon sitting directly above the cave to highlight the stakes’ shadows and press them tight against the walls. Asian warriors moving in and out amongst their own shadows? But when night ebbed and flowed to its darkest zenith, night overtook shadows of the moon‘s journey, even as warriors were sharpening stakes and hunkering to swirl swords above their heads.

Sleep eclipsed the deaths of David’s platoon. Sleep pushed to the back of beyond, his mother and grandfather‘s horrendous accident. It overshadowed his father’s murder in a bar in Toledo. Sleep was merciful on this lost night in a cave fronted by dragon bones. Sleep erased too the accident that caused the death of his wife and unborn son.

David, lost in the dark of life, was found with the moon’s silver presence shining above him in a fullness of grace that filled the night, and gave him a sleep of the exhausted.

He awakened to the moon rounding a bend in the skies to clear the
way for the sun’s smile of greeting. Walking out from the cave, he again passed the dragon bones. He was leaving behind the stakes and the strange dreams. He entered a landscape being bathed with the rays of a new morning; dawn widening into sunrise.

He wondered- ‘what is real? The dreams? My yesterdays? Those who wandered back into the present?’

Not knowing but carrying all these yesterdays, regardless, he journeyed onwards. With him, ancestors’ grasses and the dreams of warriors, his yesterdays; the ancestors, and all rounding into the circle of life.

- - -
Susan has poems and fiction on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, and Yesteryear Fiction. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.

3/28/12

2012-03-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Shadow People

By Tony Rauch

I was asleep as a stone, snug tight in the middle of a comfortable night when a faint rustling jostled me awake. Slowly I ascended from the heavy depths of my warm sleep to be greeted by a strange, distant scratching. Was it a slight twitter? Perhaps a dripping? Maybe a lingering hush? Gradually, it stretched to form a long, slow, deep, moan.

At first it seemed so far away, perhaps a steamer churning down the narrow, winding alleys, or workers lost out in the fields or off in the thick forest, or up amongst the dark hills. But eventually, as I spiraled from the murky depths of slumber, various layers of fog clearing in my mind, it felt like that unusual noise was all around me. As I listened closer, it seemed as if it might’ve been a strong gust of wind blowing outside, covering the house. And then the whistling whine returned as if a deep sigh caught in the walls.

As I opened my eyes to look around, suddenly it sounded distant again, as if retracting down a tunnel or well - like the muffled groan of a voice. But it was also immediate and focused to a point, as if specifically signaling directly to me. This I didn’t care for at all. A late night caller was wholly unacceptable behavior. As I became more aware, slowly dropping off the fuzzy veil of sleep to reveal the clarity of a shining black mirror of night, a night so clear and clean it was as if all the old nights had been washed away, leaving only a new, clean, crisp indigo lake of time. As I became more and more aware, growing more and more awake, climbing from the distant depths of sleep, I just figured it was someone at the window. Some visitor scratching, tapping, breathing, moaning to wake me and get my attention. A gentlemen caller, perhaps. So I rolled over, drawing up the piles of blankets, folding them back so I could sit up and gain a good view of the window. I figured the caller would at least be carrying a candle or small lantern, lighting a soft golden glow in the depths of night. Perhaps it was Nimphius, or maybe even Gunderson, those merry pranksters.

But there was no gentleman caller at the window. No warm shadow. No spark of soft glow. And that’s when I saw it. After concentrating intently on the strange wheezing breath, I noticed a large shadow in the corner of my room appearing as a great, distorted face on the ceiling. This was where the wheezing sounds were escaping from.

The window was dotted with droplets from a great rain that had passed through while I fell deeper into that shadowy land of sleep. The storm had slipped overhead, blowing hard and heaving down tons of water, power washing everything clear and clean, rinsing all the old nights away. Perhaps this strange apparition up in the corner of my ceiling was only a wet spot from the rain? Maybe this was a water droplet stain from a leak in the roof? But then that murky, golden stain began shifting. It was just a fluttering on the surface of the stain, just a rippling at first. But then the shadowy spot began sloshing and shifting to form a distinct shape. It looked like a face of some type - stretched and distorted in that watery shadow of the dark corner of my room late at night - but a face just the same.

As my eyes adjusted to waking, to the velvety indigo night, to the dim, grainy light of the room, I could tell it was indeed a being or entity folding and undulating and oozing itself in the pool of watery shadow. The shape was about two feet wide and three feet long. It was a wondrous liquidy something, just rippling in a stain of water from the storm.

And you know, the really strange thing was that I felt relieved - refreshed and revived - as if I were the only one who had ever been witness to such a peculiar curiosity, folding in on itself like a slight jellyfish just caught on that thin layer of ceiling paint. It felt as if I were the only one in all the world who had ever witnessed such an event, something so fresh and new. I was in awe with a deep, dropping, astonishing, breathless hope. It was as if this wondrous beast lived on the surface of the shadow of water stain. Anyway, I’m lying there looking at him, thinking that I must just be dreaming or something. And suddenly that twittering wisp of breath returned as if a whisper on a windy breeze: “We are the shadow people, . . .” that breathy wind gathered to announce in a long, low groan of a thin exhale.

Now even though I must admit to being curious, transfixed even by the unexpected events, I was still rather taken aback by the intentional lack of manners. I mean, first off, the thing came unannounced at all hours of the night, and then it had the gumption to not even address me with a proper introduction. So I said, “Hey, look Mr. Sass-pants, I don’t care who or what you are. Who do you think you are to be barging in here at all hours of the night? And without so much as an invitation whatsoever?”

“. . . the shadow people,” the thin veil of whisper struggled to continue.

“Yeah, well good for you. Whadda ya expect me ta do about it?” I grumbled. “I’ll tell you, what with this poor display of manners, suddenly I am definitely not in the mood for all of this. Not at this hour anyway. No way, no how.”

“We are the shadow people,” the breathy exhale announced again, his great googily eyes rolling around, trying to adjust to the dim light in here. “We have come a long way, riding on the storm. We come bearing gifts to share.”

It had indeed rained that night - an odd, green and yellow storm which must have forced some rain water under the slate tiles of the roof from its mighty winds. The moisture must’ve dripped down to form the puddle on the ceiling, eventually becoming that golden stain the size of a pillow case.

As my eyes adjusted further to the dim light, I could just make out the outline of its mighty chin, large ears, and wrinkled nose on its broad, round face as it sloshed around, getting comfortable, trying to take shape or inflate himself or something. He looked like something out of a fairy tale - as if from under a bridge in a deep, dark forest. The thin wafer of paint bubbled and fluttered as if he were struggling to push through the ceiling to get to me.

Now I was very suspicious of this. First, the unannounced visit. Second, the improper introduction. And now this thing’s questionable offering of gifts, as if that’s supposed to make up for the intrusion. I mean, good golly, you don’t just barge in and wake just anybody up in the center of the night. I mean, that’s the best part of the night, the part with the deepest, most comfortable sleep. Anyway, I’m lying there waiting for that thing to say something clever, maybe apologize or something. I watched it sort of wheeze and struggle, watched it pulsate and throb as if slowly trying to breathe, the surface of the ceiling fluttering, rippling. Well, wouldn’t you know, it didn’t say anything for a while, so I just rolled over and listened for it to gather the strength to breathe. As I listened, I heard a water droplet slowly form and eventually drop to the wood floor. This happened a few times before the gentle rhythm of it all lulled me back into a nice, comfortable sleep.

When I got up the next morning, I was worried the shadow creature would return and wake me again that night. The curious puddle was still there, still a murky golden swirl, but there was no otherworldly face stretching inside of it. The slow dripping was still going on, each tiny drop going down to the floor with a soft “pew-p” sound. And looking down at that clear little puddle the size of a dinner plate, that’s when I noticed - I saw my reflection in it, but I could also pick up a dim kind of other face, as if just faintly that shadow figure was slowly dripping down from the ceiling - as if somehow leaking in here from outside, from the wind, from the storm, from the atmosphere, from out of the stratosphere, from as if out of the outer reaches of the wind and shadows and time and whatever else could be found swirling on out there.

I could just barely make out the faint outline of its features in the clear little puddle, as if some of him were in the puddle, some of him were still stuck in the stain up in the ceiling, and most of him were trying to push through from the roof or from outside, or from out of nowhere or something. Anyway, after some other much needed household chores, I got around to mopping up the puddle and repainting the watermark on the ceiling.

I believe I had made my feelings very clear on this last night, I just don’t care to be waken in the middle of the night. I mean, I don’t care who or what you are, if you ask me that was a very poor display of manners and common sense on their part. If they’re going to be treating me that way, well then who knows what they’re capable of? I mean, what am I going to have to do here? Maybe I should lock up the good china or something. I mean, that shadow thing should’ve known better than to come calling at all hours and wake me like that.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

3/21/12

2012-03-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

A giant happened along while out wandering
By Tony Rauch

Things were not going well. Seemed like nothing was working out. I needed to get away, needed to clear my head. So I took a walk in the wilderness. I don’t know why I felt that need, I just did, figuring a few days or weeks away would do me some good, freshen my prospective, recharge my batteries. So I set out for a spell, and now I’m walking back home and feeling incredibly weary. Nothing seemed to work out in the wilderness either.

I can barely walk any longer. I drag my suitcase behind me on the path. Eventually I see, way off in the distance, another man walking alone too. I watch him as we are both traveling in the same direction. He seems as tall as the trees, but due to the distance I can’t tell just how tall he is. He is in the open and there is no frame of reference to compare him to just yet, nothing around to enable me to accurately gauge his height. Gradually, I notice he is walking at an angle to me, so I know our paths will soon cross. And sure enough, eventually we meet. He is very very tall. Taller than I ever thought he’d be – as tall as the trees. He looks to top out at forty feet high, but I can’t really tell. He stops where our two paths cross. He looks down both directions of the path that I’m on, one way, then the other. I call out and wave up to him, “Hey there, curious stranger,” I shout. He looks down to me. Then he smiles. He watches me in curiosity and notices that I’m very tired. He reaches and scoops me up with both hands. He lifts me to his chest and holds me close to him in the crook of his elbow, as if I were a baby.

“You look very tired,” he says kindly as he studies me.

“Oh man, I’ve been walking forever, trying to get back home. I’m worn out. I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I gasp, “I barely remember why I’m even way out here.”

“I’ll carry you for a while,” the mysterious giant nods.

“Oh, thank you,” I exhale and close my eyes, “I’m very grateful.”

We continue through the wilderness and encounter many hardships – long stretches of thickets, coyotes and wolves nipping at us, horrible wind and rainstorms, terrible sandstorms that send tiny grains of sand ripping through us. It’s no fun being in the wilderness and fighting the unknowable elements, but the very tall person puts his head down and trudges us along, holding me protectively in his arms the entire way.

Eventually the giant looks down at me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, “You still look weary. Very very weary.”

“I feel very weary,” I sigh. “Just so so very very tired and frustrated and worn out and worried. On the outside and on the inside. You wouldn’t believe it,” I exhale deeply and shake my head. “I’m just so so very very tired from it all, from walking and carrying this suitcase, from searching for a life out in the wilderness. So I’m on a journey, trying to find my way back home,” I close my eyes again, “I want to cry, but there’s nothing left inside me to cry out. And I feel lost. So very lost. I feel I have lost my way.”

“How so?” The giant’s voice is a gentle low, thick rumble.

“I don’t know,” I sigh, “I just do. Seems like nothing has been working out.”

“That is a long journey. To try an’ find your way. Sometimes it takes a long time. The path can get winding. And things can change on you. The path can split off. The woods can get so thick that you lose the road. There can be weather and attacks and all sorts of diversions and interruptions and uncertainties that cause you to lose your way, lose sight of what’s important.”

“Yes. It can be a long way, can’t it?” My eyes are closed. He jostles me along, holding me close to his mighty chest.

“It can be,” the giant agrees.

“You seem to know the path well,” I mention.

“Well, I don’t know that I know the actual path, or the way, I just know of being on the path. I know of losing your way.”

“I was out past the wilderness. I tried to make some bread, but that didn’t work out. I tried to plant some grain, but that didn’t work either. I tried to start a fire, but couldn’t get anything going. I tried to meet a mate. I tried to build a house, tried to make a home for myself. I tried so many things. I kept trying and trying, but nothing seemed to ever work out. . . . I got so very very tired of trying and trying,” I sigh.

“I bet all that trying made you stronger though.”

“I don’t know. Seems like it only made me frustrated, discouraged. It only seemed to wear me down, make me weaker, causing me to experience the futility in it all. I just wanted to be good at something, but I didn’t seem to ever accomplish anything. I didn’t seem to ever get good at anything. It’s been a long journey, but I don’t ever seem to get anywhere, don’t seem to get ahead, make any progress, get anything done. I mean, why not just give up after a while? But I didn’t want to be a quitter. I didn’t want to be a failure, but then I became one. I wanted to be a big shot. I tried so hard to be a big shot. Maybe I just tried too hard. And now it feels like I’m doomed to just keep trying, forever starting over and over again.”

“Why did you want to be a big shot?”

“Because,” I sigh, “People like big shots,” I shrug, “Society, . . businesses, . . girls, . . lots of people. I wanted to be valued. I wanted to be a success, be looked up to.”

“Well, I bet you learned a lot. Besides, failures are the ones who never try. If you try your hardest, then you’re never a failure because you’re always learning some new thing that could maybe help you in the future. Or maybe help someone else.”

“Thanks for helping me, big giant,” I close my eyes.

“Helping with what?” the giant asks.

“Well, with carrying me all this way. With listening to my troubles. I don’t like to rely on the intercession of others so much all the time. I shouldn’t burden others or bog people down. I really should be doing things myself, to get stronger. Although that gets tough and lonely at times.”

“I suppose it does,” the giant agrees. Then he draws up a breath. “Don’t worry about all this. This is nothing. It’s been my pleasure. Besides, I should really be thanking you for keeping me company all this way. It’s no fun to walk alone sometimes.”

“Often there isn’t anyone to help out, to help carry some of the load. . . . What were you doing all the way out here?” I ask.

“I guess I was out trying to find some peace. . . . I’m on my way back, too. . . But it was nice to have some time alone away from everything for a while,” mused the giant.

“I was also out trying to do something. But I kept having to start over and over and over again with everything. I just got so tired of starting over all the time. I just felt like giving up. Nothing was working out. Nothing. I didn’t know what to do. It all got so discouraging and frustrating. It got to be no fun. No fun at all. It got to be too hard. And no one was there to help me with any of it. No one. I couldn’t do it all by myself. This is embarrassing to say, but I guess it all just got to be too much for me.”

The giant holds me closer. We continue over a rolling expanse of jumbled rocks, boulders and downed trees. We traverse long stretches of mud and swamp. We climb a series of steep mounds and forge a mighty river by holding onto logs and swimming and kicking our way over to the other side. It gets very very hot, then very very cold, then rainy, then windy, then snowy, then hot again. We encounter a legion of little slippery green cyclopes. We fight them off with branches and continue on. We go through several long dark forests, then through some rolling grassy fields. The giant fights off a great big snake with a large stone. We encounter some terrible storms. We walk and walk, all the while the giant is holding me. Finally he sets me down at a crossing in the road.

“I should be going that way,” the giant nods in one direction, towering above me, his shadow casting a long, dark mass. “I need to go back to where I’m from. I don’t think you can come along. Besides, you need to find your way home, find your own path.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know what to do,” I sigh, as if talking to myself. I stare off into the distance, to see what’s out there for me, but all that’s there is more wilderness, more emptiness. I shake my head and look down.

“You just do it. You just continue,” the giant shrugs thoughtfully, “You just keep going. You just don’t stop. Just keep moving, keep meeting people and being nice to them. Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do – be nice and supportive. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? I mean, so many people need to get their energy directed in a positive direction. Seems a lot of people focus a lot of negative energy inward instead of projecting positive energy outward.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I breathe out a deep long breath, “I don’t rightly know just yet.”

“I should be going,” the giant announces from way up in the air. “My home is this way,” he gestures. “Looks like your land is over there. Off that way,” he nods.

“You’re lucky,” I say, looking down the path, “You’re a giant. You’re solid. You can see a great distance. You can see a lot of things coming up ahead.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” he says. “But you’re lucky too. You’re a giant on the inside. You have great, deep feelings. You have depth of character. You didn’t just sit there, you went out and did something, tried things, learned things.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess. . . .” Finally, I gaze up to him. “Thanks for the lift, big guy,” I sigh in relief and shake my head, “Thanks for the helping hand, I really appreciate it. You really saved me, man,” I exhale and wave with a quick, tight gesture.

The giant smiles, “Aw, don’t worry ‘bout none a that. That was nuthin’. Really. . . Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

I turn and set out on my way up the sandy path. I walk and walk. The trees drop off until they are very far away, becoming mere sage lines on the gray horizon bordering golden fields of grass. I step through a narrow stream. I walk through a brief, low clump of trees, almost like a mini forest. I cross a field of rolling grass. Later on I come across an even narrower stream, then a clump of low bushes, a stretch of sand, then a stretch of short grass. More and more as I continue things seem to be getting smaller and smaller. I step over a pile of rocks. I step over a slight gully. I walk around a small ravine. I step over a long ribbon of bushes, almost like small trees. Finally I meet another path crossing the one I’m on. It crosses at an odd angle. This is a new path, not one that was out here the last time I was here when I first set out on my journey into the wilderness.

I stop for a moment and look down each way. I consider what’s down one or the other direction - wondering where either direction would take me. Suddenly there is a little voice from down below. I look down and there is a little man standing in my shadow. I reach down and pick him up so I can hear him better. I hold him in the crook of my arm like a baby and look down on him. He is about eight inches long and clutching a worn suitcase. I study him, looking him up and down. “Where are you going?” I finally ask.

He stares up at me, finally breaking his silence, whispering sadly, “I don’t know. . . . I’m so tired. . . And . . . I think . . . I think I lost my way.” He looks weary, as if he’s been walking alone for far too long. Then I notice that in his arm he is holding an even smaller person.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

3/14/12

2012-03-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Wolf And The Raven
By Linda M. Crate

Spooling fingers of silver danced upon his grey fur. The moon was radiant that night as he stood by her tree. He let out a soft whine, sounding more like a dog than a wolf, and she opened her eyes. The raven gazed down upon the wolf, and he grinned wolfishly at her. She knew that he wanted to play. Trying hard not to roll her eyes, she nodded, then slowly plunged downward so she were mere inches before his head.

He nipped playfully, teeth closing inches from her tail feathers. He barked happily.

Asphodel didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t in the mood for playing. So she went along with their ritual, moving through the motions, gliding through fingers of cool winter air. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that vampire Tristianna. Benjamin seemed over the moon with her, but she wasn’t so sure she liked her.

After all, what good had vampires done for her?

They had first shunned the werewolves and then granted them their freedom — but she could see in many ways they were still not free. She also noted that the vampires seemed prone to liking the blood of werewolves and shapeshifters more than mere mortals. Sometimes even the occasional faerie or elf — yet those races seemed a little quicker in reflexes, and usually averted being the prey of such heartless monsters.

She was jerked back to reality and out of her thoughts when Cygnus actually grasped on her tail feathers. She let out a derisive squawk.

Landing in her human form, she glared dangerously at the wolf. “You nearly ate me!” she fumed.

“I could never eat you,” Cygnus winked, as he took his human form. He could see the fury flashing in her eyes. “What’s bothering you, love?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a horrible liar.”

She scowled at him, despite knowing this was true. Sighing, she folded her arms. “I don’t like that Tristianna girl.”

“Why not?” Cygnus remarked, tilting his head at her.

She brushed long strands of red hair from her dark brown eyes. “Because, she’s a vampire, and they can’t be trusted.”

“Oh, come on now, don’t adopt that attitude.” He sighed. “I know you find it hard to trust people, Asp, but that doesn’t mean she’s vile. She can’t help being a vampire anymore than you could help that you were born a shapeshifter.”

“Still our race hasn’t inflicted other races with enslavement and death,” she retorted sharply. “I don’t know what Benjamin sees in her, truly,” she argued.

He frowned at her. “That may be true, but you can’t hold her accountable to all the crimes her people have committed. She is one vampire among many.”

“But she’s vampire royalty, you mean to tell me that you think her hands have never been soiled?”

“It’s not for me to conjecture,” he shrugged. “Nor is it for either of us to judge her. We’ll just have to get to know her better.”

“Hmph. I suppose you’re right, but there’s something off about her —.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you seen the way she looks at Benjamin like she wants something from him?”

“Darling, that’s the same way you look at me. She loves him.”

“But —.”

“You’re just jealous that there’s another girl in the group. You haven’t had to share a place with one for quite some time.”

She felt her cheeks redden in color. “I’m sorry, m’lord. I’ll go hide under a rock now.”

“You are forgiven milady. You would be hard pressed to find a rock that hide the light of your smile, the glow of your skin or the brilliance of your eyes. T’would be much easier to find a stone that accompanied them.”

“I find thee giving me compliments I don’t deserve, but I thank thee. Your magnificent beauty and mind are quite pleasing to mine soul. Ye make me happier than the larks singing their spring song.”

“If only the larks song were not so fleeting, nor spring so short and happiness so brief but the memory of your beauteous soul milady will last for an eternity among the angel’s memory.”

“Ah, but your diligent praise of such a lowly a lady as I, is deserving of such wondrous words for you are as beauteous as the constant of golden sun hanging in the heavenly sky — so very unlike the fickle moon silver kisses and his frigid fingers pale that cannot decide whether to wax or wane. No, you remain to shower me in your warmth and love.”

“If I am the sun fair lady then you are the Lady earth herself. Fair Gaia spoken of old whose tresses are like the summer plains rustled by the breeze. Whose eyes are of the deepest depths holding eternal secrets. Whose skin is like the soft soil of risen river and whose laughter is like falling waters.”

“Ah, such lofty praise for a maid such as I? For I am but a whisper on the wings of tissue paper butterflies, fleeting for an instant upon the clovers before being blown away in the teeth of the zephyr. Surely, someone as wondrous you can see but I am just a mere vapor on the shadow of life?”

“But know fair maiden that this is that instant upon which you fleet and you are that vapor that dances and you are the song that whispers. Tomorrow may be and you away, but worthy of praise you are today.”

She laughed. “Okay, you win.”

“Don’t I always?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, shoving him away playfully. “Just for that you don’t get any kisses.”

“No, kisses? Woman, you are crazy.” He grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into his arms. He stroked red hair from her dark brown eyes. “You’re funny. No kisses.” He leaned downward and kissed her in full.

As his lips crashed down on her she felt waves of tranquility wash over her. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the tickling of his long blonde locks that brushed themselves lovingly upon her face. He gave her the peace of life which she required — peace she had never obtained from the arms of any other. She smiled, the first genuine smile to stretch the topography of your face for weeks. It didn’t go unnoticed.

She caught the gleam of his white teeth in the moon when they pulled away. “I’ve made you happy?” he asked.

“Silly, Wolf, you’re the only one that makes me happy.” As he opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly arrogant, she silenced him with a kiss.

“Was that your polite way of shutting me up, milady?”

“Indeed it was,” she agreed, laughing. “I’m glad you cottoned on.” She allowed him to take her hand within in his own, enjoying the feeling of his fingers laced with hers. She smiled gently at him. He was the only place that had ever felt like home. He was her wolf, and she knew that no matter what she would always love him.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

3/7/12

2012-03-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

What is the fuel of life?
By Jerry Williams

What is the fuel of life?

Troll blood is now spread out and drying in a dove tail pattern, framing a withered ancient face from a thousand folklore tales and nightmares. Spittle from uncounted curses and hexes now motionless and dried on a gray inert skin, made even more ethereal in pale moonlight. The troll is dead in a heap like a rag doll in a parody of life. I stared at it for a couple of seconds to make sure it doesn't coil back at me. Most creatures summoned forth into this world give forth their name, but this troll did not. Nameless and dead, the troll slowly stinks up the room with the smell of rotted and burned flesh along with the putrid smell of troll which reeks of decomposing garbage and filth.
I pull up myself haggard and wounded in my chair. My book of spells is tattered and torn apart almost like parchment dressing upon a dead troll feast. I could see the troll's snout peeking out from the smattering of parchment and arcane symbols like an obscene mountain of quivering flesh erupting out from a field of withered parchment.
I'm weak from the enchantment or was it killing the troll? What had happened? The chalk circle on the floor faded from the heap of dead troll on the floor. I was struggling to recall what had happened.
A song, a prayer burst forth from those razor teeth when it entered my study, standing ready to strike within a circle of chalk and offerings. A whisper of servitude it cried out when it was a sham, my troll I brought from the other worlds sought my weakness at the first opportunity. I had assumed my circle on the floor would protect me as it had from other dark creatures I had summoned into the waking world, but I was unprepared for what had happened.
My weakness to the troll was riddles.
The troll was stinking of graves and blood wars timeless to man. It turned to me with a sneer, and its yellow eyes drenched in blood stared a hole into me.
“What is the fuel of life?” The troll barked out the question with a razor tooth grin.
I started at this sudden turn of events. No other creature had asked me a question when I summoned them into the waking world. I was weak from my enchantment, and I was struggling with the riddle.
“What is the fuel of life?”
Before I could answer the troll, it swung out its large hands and struck me off of my feet. My book of enchantments was burst apart in a rainbow of paper from a sinewy arm, and the talon sliced at my head and a cut over my forehead gushed forth blood. My life was over.
My work was over.
My blood would lay spilled unwept on the floor.
Then the answer to the riddle hit me like a thunderbolt.
“Blood…blood is the fuel of life.” I stammered out, forcing my lips to move. The troll recoiled from my answer, and howled in a fit of rage. Before it could strike again at me, I flung an enchantment at the troll that burst in a soft explosion of light and sound. The troll stood motionless for a moment, and then fell down dead in a heap.
I wiped the blood from my face. I still had to dispose of the troll. Dead trolls aren't easy things to get rid of in this day and age, but I could worry about that problem after I tended to my wounds. Would I try to summon another troll into my world? That would depend on how much I would catch up on riddles and enchantment, and of course the fuel of life.

- - -
My name is Jerry Williams, and I run both the film company goatboyfilms (Purvos, Misadventures in Space, Saucer Sex Peep Show) and the blog Spandex and Monster.

2/29/12

2012-02-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

Skaftna’s Doom
By Joel Zartman

It was not yet midday. The smoke from Thornshofn’s hearths rose into a blue sky. The cliff that marked the north of the valley was almost white in the bright sun. The vale lay under peaceful skies, but all was not peace in the lands of the north.

Skaftna, sitting in his hall looked at a dirty man. Dried blood, torn clothes—the man knelt on the rushes, exhausted beyond weeping.

“Who is this?” Skaftna asked, though he knew the answer already.

“Uheld, my lord, of Laekjar,” the steward said.

“What is your message?”

“The Evenki came and took all our cattle and slaughtered all of the people in Laekjar.”

Skaftna looked around the hall at his counselors and knights. “They are destroying all our wealth and spreading lawlessness. I must move against them. See how they provoke me?”

“Are they not beloved of Aegir, lord of the seas?” one old counselor asked.

“Do the gods despise justice? Have we done anything to provoke these robbers the Evenki?”

No one answered Skaftna’s questions, but there was a low murmur of approval all around the hall.

“We must put a stop to the lawless deeds of the Evenki,” Skaftna said. “We will drive them to the coasts and out upon the fjords and from there to the sea. We will slay none who will take ship and depart the coasts of the north, but all who refuse or resist we must kill.”

Aegir was angered, but the god of the sea said nothing. He gave the Evenki safe passage to an island to the west, and there he blessed them, and began to wait.

In Thornshofn, Hrethra, Skaftna’s wife was troubled, and Skaftna knew it.

“Yet it is justice,” Skaftna said. And Hrethra said no more.

The country had rest, and Skaftna’s people prospered, and the rumor of their riches reached the deep, hot beds under the mountains where the dragons spawned.

Hrethra’s Song

Skaftna stopped hammering; the ringing of his blows died out as he looked around. Hrethra stood in the doorway, a shadow against the twilight of the stars behind. The looked upon each other—two dark figures in the silence—until Skaftna turned away.

“You have had another dream,” he said. The mode and mood of Hrethra’s movements, of her posture Skaftna had learned in the ages of their marriage. He turned the piece of metal he was working in the ruddy glow from the furnace.

“Skaftna, I have dreamed a dream and such a dream!”

She paused while Skaftna pounded, and again the ringing of the blows died away.

“Forsake the sword—oh my husband! it will be your doom.”

“This sword, Hrethra, is the dragons’ bane.”

Skaftna had seen, and knew it was the truth. She knew it too.

“It will be your bane before it is the dragon’s. There are many dragons, and you do not know for which this sword awaits.”

“Mine! I prepare against the dragons, for this I make the sword. The gods have sent it.”

She was quiet for a while, then she said at last, “My sight has never failed.”

This also was true. He looked at her and said, “Nor mine.”

He was still holding the metal with tongs, waiting for it to heat up in the furnace. He looked in, saw the glowing metal and withdrew it. It clanged upon the anvil. Pausing as he reached for the hammer, he looked at her and said:

“This time you will be wrong.”

* * *

Hrethra stood on the parapet looking out into the north.

“The dragons will come out of the north?” Ulgwast asked.

“Yes. We ought to dig, to find ourselves deep hiding places,” she replied.

“It is not for warriors to dig and hide.”

“It is for warriors to die,” she said. Then added, “Is it not for warriors to protect their own?”

* * *

Skaftna toiled at the forge. His knights watched the north and drank. His lands and people went neglected, and justice grew effete as he forged the sword. What Hrethra said ate at him, but he continued, alone and grim.

Hrethra had food sent to Skaftna. Hrethra visited his people and watched his lands, but she commanded nothing of his knights and warriors. These prepared for battle by shining their armor and sharpening their blades, by hunting, feasting and carousing, squandering and wenching, boasting and listening to bards and tales.

One night Hrethra came to Skaftna’s hall when the knights were feasting. They toasted her—they toasted Skaftna too—but she said nothing and only gazed.

“You bring an ill omen, woman,” some one of them cried at last.

Still she did not speak, and gradually all the hall grew silent, heavy. And then she called for her harp in a low voice.

“A song!” one cried, but no one else took up his mocking cry, and there was silence again.

Hrethra sat down, arranged her mantle and her long, elaborate sleeves of scarlet and took the harp. She plucked a few notes, and they hung on the air with a sound of gold, of honey and also of ashes. With her notes she commanded the hall, and then to a slow rhythm she sang:

I sing a song of apple trees

whose leaf and flower are fair,

of apples in the autumn breeze

that sweeten all the air.

My trees stand green under the sun,

with dappled grass beneath,

but under the long grass long roots

grope blindly at old teeth.

For underneath lie all the bones,

and skulls are buried there:

the memory of brave men’s groans,

the ashes of their hair.

The dragons came and burned away

the warrior’s boast and arm;

and with the ashes apple seeds

I sowed to hide the harm.

And now the autumn passes too,

and rising with the moon

are dragons that burn apple trees,

and memories, and doom.

And after she had sung, one by one the warriors left the silent hall, and the fires burned low.

The Fall of Thornshofn

The dragons came, and Skaftna lifted up his finished sword. The arrows of his archers rained among the dragons; the spears of his knights flew, piercing wing and nose and eye; the dragons screamed and reeled, but they came on nevertheless, and fought, and drove the shrinking defenses back with flame hard to withstand.

“We ought to have dug; we are not prepared,” the chief of Skaftna’s knights said.

Skaftna cast on him a dark look and stood looking over the walls. Then he sensed something, and turned to see his wife standing beside him. He hardened his heart, knowing she was about to speak.

“Your people are perishing, Skaftna.”

“I will turn the tide of this battle,” he said.

She watched him leaping down the stairs in the shadows cast by the flames of dragons. She saw him, small now, approaching the gate, heard him calling to his knights, ordering the gates be opened, striding out into the flare and fury of the pitched battle. She kept the figure in view as it darted, saw the sword flash and fall, heard the cries of wounded worms and saw them writhe.

That night Skaftna slew the greatest of all the ancient dragons: Malbung the Bitter. The rest of the dragons fled, making the hills echo with the anguish of retreat. But many of Skaftna’s people also perished, many of his knights and warriors.

“We cannot hold them off if they return,” Ulgwast said.

He sat in council in Skaftna’s great hall. The women were there also, tending the many wounded.

“The women can fight,” said Mod, the wife of Ulgwast.

Skaftna looked at her for a long while. He knew the women of his people could indeed fight. He knew that they could die, and a vision rose before him of a bloody battlefield, and among the dead hewn limbs and forms of women. He stirred uneasily in his great chair, and he found he could still harden his heart.

“Tomorrow we will fight again,” he said.

The next day they drove back the dragons again, but at a cost that could not be repeated. Many of the women fought, and many of the women died. Skaftna watched his people perish. He himself had killed three dragons, but more came on. The smoke billowed over the field and over Thornshofn. As the day dimmed, Skaftna watched with narrowed eyes and grieved. In his hall that night, amid the cries of the wounded and before the looks of his knights, Skaftna found he could no longer harden his heart.

“We must prepare to abandon Thornshofn,” he said. And in the hall all became silent. “If the dragons return—” he said looking up, and every eye in the hall was on him now, “if the dragons return, we cannot hope to hold them off; we must be a long way on our road.”

Nobody moved. Nobody looked around. All stood or waited in the silence, taking it in.

“And if they do not return?” Mod asked at last, for the losses to the dragons had been great also.

“Then we will know, and we’ll return,” said Hrethra, who had been standing in the shadows behind the great chair.

“Go!” Skaftna cried to his people, “Prepare. We must depart.”

* * *

The scouts brought word of the returning dragons while the long train of women and children wound its way south through the mountains. Skaftna and his knights stood at the last turn, and that night they watched as Thornshofn burned in the darkness, watched the writhing shapes and shadows of the dragons, the lurid light upon the clouds.

“So it passes,” Skaftna said in a low voice. He drew his sword and gazed on it in the dim, red light. He drew his arm back to cast the accursed sword away from him, but as he was about to hurl it the sword resisted him. He turned to look.

Hrethra held the sharp end of the sword in a bleeding hand. Skaftna’s eyes narrowed, he relaxed his arm and she let the tip of the sword drop to the snow between them.

“Still you do not understand, Skaftna.”

He gazed at her in silence.

“Put up your sword. See! Now it has been tempered with my own blood.”

“What about my doom?” Skaftna asked her.

“Do you think that hurling the sword away will change it? The sword has been forged and you must carry your curse around with you until your doom is settled by the sands of the sea. If you throw it from you, some shepherd will find it and come and slay you.”

He looked at the sword a long time. Then he cleaned the blood in the snow and sheathed it. “Here,” he said, “let me bandage your hand.”

With his tears he washed away the blood, and bandaged his wondering wife’s hand. And in silence turned to lead his knights on the long retreat through the mountains and in search of the restless, ageless sea in whose depths Aegir brooded.

The Siege of Morvagroth

After the dragons came and the bitter cold fell upon the North, Skaftna’s people fled south and built the fortress of Morvagroth. Then the doom that Hrethra saw came upon her husband. The Evenki came from the sea, covering the beach with their longboats, laying siege to the castle of Morvagroth, lofting boulders at the smooth rock, chanting death. The Evenki hated Skaftna with a bitter hatred and would not rest until they had accomplished the ruin of Morvgroth and all of Skaftna’s house.

Skaftna looked out over the parapet and to the sea. The sun was setting, the sea was calm and golden. He held the sword before him so that it became gold in that last light, gold as the sea to which it pointed. He held up the sword with the falcon hilts and thought how it had never know defeat since it had been forged in the mountains, in the land of steam and lava. He looked at the horde that besieged Morvagroth, their longboats on the beach, their fires stretching into the twilight. The Evenki would not turn aside or retreat till they had ruined Morvagroth and wreaked their vengeance upon him. And they were likely to have it; his men were too few.

He descended from the walls; it was time for another council.

“We are too few to break the siege,” Skaftna said to his knights.

“Send to the king in Cardoreth,” Hrethra urged.

Skaftna knew there was little hope the king could come in time; so did his knights. The council did not look at Hrethra, gazing down at the table or off to the side; she also knew what they knew, and she knew more. She insisted.

Skaftna agreed, and a messenger climbed over the rocks on the north and sped toward the east. The king marched forth with his armies in haste from distant Athlag. The hosts of the king came through Fenweth and found men dwelling there. And when the king called for aid, the men of Fenweth that could be mustered went to battle with him. Yet they arrived too late to save Morvagroth.

In her chamber Hrethra was combing her hair. Skaftna entered and watched her for a while in silence.

“When the defenses are breached—” he began.

“Then I will go.”

“Yes.”

“And you will die upon the sand.”

The night was still, the soft sound of the sea was all Skaftna heard, all he noticed as the room swam suddenly around him. He accepted what his wife had told him.

“You have seen it?”

“I have seen it Skaftna. But . . . you are weary, you should rest. Come, lay your head on my knees.”

Skaftna knelt beside his wife and lay his head on her knees. She stroked his hair and soon he slept, and then he dreamed. In Skaftna’s dream fish-tailed Hefring, Aegir’s daughter visited him.

“Now is the doom of Skaftna come upon him,” she said, mocking. “Tonight will the Evenki breach your walls, and the king of Cardoroth cannot arrive in time to save you.”

Skaftna gazed on her: the tangled locks with seaweed, her willowy, white arms, the grey-green scales on her belly tapering down, the fish’s fin. “And now the Evenki will be avenged on proud Skaftna.”

“It is not justice!” he cried out, waking.

“No, and yet, it is,” said dark and pious Hrethra to her husband.

After a while Skaftna arose and went to make his final plans.

The Fall of Morvagroth

When the defenses of Morvagroth were breached, Skaftna rallied his knights.

“To me!” he cried. “We must break through to their ships and send our women and children out to sea. We will die, but perhaps they can be saved.”

The knights of Morvagroth perished on the sands of the sea preventing the enemy, as the ships that carried their women and children sailed away. The army of the king arrived as the last ship set out and the last defenders spilled their last blood on the beach. The king found Skaftna dead, the bloody sword in his hand.

In a ship, for she had not refused to go, still within sight of Morvagroth, Hrethra knew that Skaftna’s doom had come upon him and she bowed her head. Then she took her harp again, and on the prow of that ship, sailing south and west she sang:

When Skaftna perished on the sand

his great, dark heart was stilled.

Then Aegir took his soul below

and vengeance was fulfilled.

Another dragon waits the sword

whose bane it is to be;

but Skaftna’s passed beyond the world

and gone under the sea.

Epilogue

“Slay all of the Evenki. Do not let one escape,” the king commanded his armies.

Among the men of Fenweth there was a captain who killed more Evenki than any other in the king’s army. To this one the king gave the sword of Skaftna, and made him lord of the middle marches of Fenweth. The falcon on the hilt of the sword became the emblem of this lord’s house. Many great deeds were done by his lineage, and they became known as the Falcon Lords. To this line came the doom of the dragon who pillaged Cardoreth in later ages.

- - -
I live and write in Bogotá, Colombia.

2/22/12

2012-02-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Legend of the Koru Sama Clan
By W. Steven Pendleton

Their clan had come from the Yellow Mountains and relocated to a small village in the Dragon’s Teeth mountains. This village was a place that trained assassins, originally known as the Sui Hota, or the Dark Brothers. Their purpose was to destroy the Emperor and overthrow the government. Their leader’s name was Koru Sama, a most deadly and expert assassin. He had sent out all of his ninjas to exact their work. In a few months none had returned. He then received word from a messenger that all had been captured by the Emperor and were being held and set for public execution in a week. Koru Sama feared no man and set out immediately to remedy the situation by fulfilling what the others had been sent to do, assassinate the Emperor. He arrived in the capital city and had successfully infiltrated the defense of the palace. Within the hour he was tucked away in the personal quarters of the Emperor waiting for him to retire where he could perform the assassination and avenge his brothers. The Emperor Tai Bo retired to his room and sat to rest for the day in his favorite chair; Koru Sama smiled to himself and thought of how sweet this would be.
Now the Emperor was known for his wisdom and bravery, but Koru Sama never thought he would have to experience it. “Well get on with it then, I don’t have all night to wait for you to kill me”, Tai Bo said out loud. Koru Sama was startled by the Emperor’s boldness. If he knew he was there then why did he not call for his men to come and arrest him? Or maybe he didn’t know he was there and it was just a jest. He continued to wait silently for the Emperor to retire. Tai Bo spoke out loud again, “Are you deaf or mute? Why do you ignore me assassin? Are you going to kill me or what?”
Koru Sama was unsure what to do, something he was unaccustomed to. Rashly he spoke to the Emperor, “Yes, I intend to kill you once you go to sleep.”
He stepped out of the darkness and revealed himself to the Emperor.
Tai Bo appraised him, “Are you afraid to die?” Koru Sama quickly answered, “No. I fear nothing, not even death.” The Emperor smiled and jested, “I do not believe you. Clearly you fear me, or you would have attempted to challenge me in combat, not kill me while I am helpless. You dishonor yourself by such things and you dishonor me, your adversary by not granting me the chance to die awake and fighting!”
The Emperor lunged for Koru Sama drawing a well hidden Naginata from within his robes. Equally fast the assassin countered and parried the strike, and jumped back away. “Then I grant you the honor of dying awake”, Koru Sama sneered back at the Emperor.
The battle lasted for hours neither gaining the advantage of the other. Meanwhile the Emperor’s men were attempting to break down the door to stop the fight. When they finally accomplished this they were stunned by the sight they saw. The room was destroyed and the two men were standing across from each other ready to strike. Their clothes were tattered and both showed the scrapes and cuts of well-timed blows. The intensity of the two held the guards at bay. Without looking the Emperor told them to not interfere.
Breathing heavily the Emperor began to speak to Koru Sama. “You know that you will not leave here alive assassin. There are hundreds of my men waiting to kill you once you strike me down. If you can do that at least… what an assassin you are.” The Emperor smiled confidently at the assassin. Koru Sama knew he would die this day; he reviled in that fact and replied, “I do not fear death as I said, and if I die then at least I attempted to avenge my brothers. I will die with honor then and be set apart in the Halls of Sui Naga. But, I won’t be the one who dies today.” Feigning confidence the assassin poised, falling back on the balls of his feet. The Emperor smiled and stepped back, lowering his sword. “You are wrong. The vengeance you seek in unneeded. Your brothers yet live and you seek vengeance for their death. They all one by one attempted to kill me or one of my family and were thwarted by my men and I. It is I who should be seeking vengeance for this, not you. You are wrong… wrong!”
Koru Sama was perplexed by the wisdom of the Emperor and it made him pause for thought. Distracted by his thoughts the Emperor lunged disarming Koru Sama, sweeping him to the floor and pointing his blade at his throat.
“Now, assassin Koru Sama, I offer you a way to repair you honor and do the people an even greater service.”
The assassin spit, “By dying?!”
The Emperor replied, “That would repair your honor, but be too easy. No. I offer you my blade, my heart, and a choice. You may serve the people by my side, or kill me now and die. Choose now!”
Tai Bo then pulled the assassin to his feet, reversed his blade and handed it to him. Koru Sama was stunned. What did the Emperor mean by serve the people by his side? Koru Sama looked at the Emperor and saw something he never thought he would see in his eyes; trust. Koru Sama felt something growing within him he had never felt before. He then knelt at the Emperor’s feet with his head down and made his choice.
“I choose to do what I always thought I was doing, serving the people. I beg of your forgiveness Emperor. I see that I was led to believe you are not who I thought. You are not worthy of death, but of life, and in that life I will serve you. You have my heart, blood, and blade. You may even have my death, if you so wish I will take it now. But in the end I will know that I had served the greatest of men for but a moment, and be satisfied. Do with me whatever thou will, for I am yours…”
The Emperor lifted the chin of Koru Sama and showed him his tears, tears of joy. “I know that I will never have a man such as you ever again. They say that a king is only as good as his servants; I say that I can only hope to live up to your influence. Arise and be not my servant, but my friend.”
From that day forward they were the best of friends and fought in many battles together pushing back the barbarian hordes of the north. Koru Sama’s brothers were not executed but released from prison and charged with protecting the Emperor and his family. Everyone of them followed suit once Koru Sama told the tale of their battle. The clan gets their name from him, and still to this day serve the Emperor, but in secret. Their training and recruiting is done in secret. Only the most honorable of men and women are called to the Koru Sama Clan.

- - -
W. Steven Pendleton hasn't submitted in a few years any work, but has continued to develop his stories, expounding them during his leisurely winter months. Since his last he has added another girl to his growing family of now five children. Staring into the night sky he feels so small, but somehow believes he can make a difference in the world by hopefully inspiring some other poor sot to express himself. And the Southeast Idaho night sky is pretty big...

2/15/12

2012-02-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

More Than Meets the Eye
By Linda M. Crate

The falls are beautiful this time of year — or so they said. He didn’t really notice, he was spending too much time with his girlfriend to notice much else. He supposed if he looked he might have seen the beauty in them, but right now that wasn’t a primary concern.

Lavender had invited him over for dinner, he suggested that they might see the falls afterward. She seemed rather ecstatic about it. He didn’t understand that one simple suggestion would light up her eyes like the sun star but it had.

When he arrived to her grandmother’s house he saw the friendly old woman sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. He smiled at her, but she seemed to have a sinister expression etched in the folds of her old face, he blinked a few times and she was waving at him, as always. He tried to shake the eerie feeling aside. Lavender’s grandmother was a sweet, old lady incapable of hurting a fly!

He helped her grandmother up and together they walked into the house. Lavender stood with her back to them, finishing up the last minute arrangements at the table. She looked lovely in a white cotton sun dress complete with small scarlet strawberries sewn into the fabric. She looked lovely — tall and willowy with pale skin that refused to tan and scarlet hair that fell down her back in waves.

Her grandmother cleared her throat. “Florian, my boy, would you mind reaching for the wine glasses, please? They’re a little too high up for me to reach.”

“Oh, of course,” Florian blushed, feeling his cheeks creep up in heat. The grandmother had seen him eying up Lavender, he was certain of it, by the way she kept grinning at him. He was embarrassed — what would his mother say if she knew? She would be quite ashamed, he knew it.

He was quite grateful was dinner was over. He even helped Lavender with the dishes so that they could get out of the house without feeling too uncomfortable.

When they walked outside into the summer sun it glistened gold upon them and shimmered upon the dew beads still caught on some of the blades of grass. He couldn’t understand how he didn’t note it’s beauty on the way over.

“It’s so pretty!” Lavender exclaimed, spinning a few circles. She walked over to the lilac tree and pulled off a small branch, using the flowers to adorn her hair. “How do I look?”

“Magnificent, as always!”

“Shameless flatterer.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

She laughed happily, twining her hands with his. “Let’s go see the falls. I’m sure they look wonderful especially in a day as bright and cheerful as this one.”

He smiled. “You’re right,” he concurred.

They arrived at the falls to examine their beauty — the sun shone and shimmered through the crystal waters in beads and bending blades of light; the water dazzled like dragonfly wings. Lavender smiled at the sight. “I wish I could go swimming,” she sighed.

“Why can’t you?”

“Grandma said so.”

“Why, what happens —?”

“What does it matter? I’m not going to,” she shrugged. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he remarked, perplexed over why Lavender couldn’t swim. He had dated her for two years and she had never gone swimming before. He wondered why. She had never expressed a yearning or desire to before today, but now that she had he grew suspicious. Why wouldn’t her grandmother let her go swimming?

Nonchalantly he ‘accidently’ bumped her into the water. “I’m sorry,” he called, as she fell into one of the shallower streams of water.

She laughed as she fell into the rivulets of bending light dancing upon the depths. “It’s okay,” she remarked, smiling. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything,” she went on, “but I don’t see how I can hide this any longer.” With that, she raised her fins, and his eyes went wide.

“You’re a mermaid?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “But then I fell in love with you — when I saw you, I don’t know, something in me just yearned for you. I pined away for days when I first saw you at the beach. My parents decided that I could live as a mortal only if grandmother came with me —.”

“Is your name really Lavender?” he asked. If they could hide the fact that she was a mermaid from him, he wondered what else they could hide.

“Yes,” she answered. “Because my fin is purple,” she remarked. “My parents weren’t very original.” She sighed. “Grandma is going to be so mad when she finds out what happened.”

“I’m sorry, I did it on purpose,” he admitted, hanging his head. “I just wanted —.”

“I know you meant no harm,” she interjected. “I’m not mad at you, but my throat is getting tired of raising my voice to be heard. Come swim with me?”

“Okay,” he agreed. First he pinched himself just to be sure that this was real. It was. He couldn’t imagine that this would have happened in a thousand years. Florian knew he would still be reeling over this fact days and maybe even months from now. His true love wasn’t even of this world — maybe his mother was right in calling him weird. Shoving that thought aside, he jumped into the water to join his girlfriend.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

2/8/12

2012-02-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Your Loved Ones Never Leave You
By Linda M. Crate

Angora looked over her shoulder at Andre. She had never understood the elves’ language. It seemed flutist without any true substance to it. However, fortunately for her, Andre spoke English as well. She looked over to her fiancé, and wondered what had made an adventure seeking elf like Andre fall in love with a mortal like her.

She knew that he was depressed, it was something that she could sense, but she would be rather lonely; too, if her sister was dead. She felt the same way, in fact, when her brothers had been murdered by her father’s late tyrannical wife. The same woman had her mother murdered, too, she hadn’t known how she escaped death — but it was probably only in leaving her father’s castle that she had done so.

That was a terrifying thought, one she didn’t wish to speculate on much further. She looked at the sky — it was as somber and grey as Andre must have felt.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“I miss my mother and brothers, too, sometimes. A lot, in fact.” She held a hand to his heart. “Just because she’s gone from this earth doesn’t mean she’s gone forever. You’ll always have her here,” she remarked, placing a small hand directly over his heart.

He captured her mouth in a kiss. “Thank you for that gentle reminder, it’s good to know that you care.”

“I do,” she agreed. “And I doubt that Avanna would want you moping around for the rest of your life. Sure, she would like to know that she’s missed, I’m sure, but she’d also want you to live.”

“I have every intention to,” Andre smiled, wrapping an arm around her narrow waist. “If we ever have a daughter I would like to name her Avanna, though, in tribute to my sister.”

“Of course, and we can name our sons after my brothers.”

“What about your father?”

Her face fell. She sucked in her breath sharply. He knew that he hadn’t meant to offend her, but she felt as if she had just been sucker punched in the gut. Her father had chosen to be a vampire instead of walking the path of light — he had chosen her stepmother instead of her. He had chosen death over love. She would not want to remember him anytime soon. “Gabriel was the name of an angel, but my father tainted it,” she said slowly, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I would want to grace my child with it.”

He stroked strands of her burnt sienna hair from her brown eyes. “I understand, Gabrielle, but I think that the name could use cleansing. The snow washes the world white, giving her a new promise and a new hope for a better year. So could the name be washed of it’s former stain.”

She smiled. “When did you get to be so wise?” she asked.

“I’m an elf, it’s a prerequisite, isn’t it?” he joked.

She laughed. “I suppose so,” she agreed. “Although, you have your blonde moments.”

“Hey, you might want to watch what you’re saying,” he teased. “I am, after all, a redhead.”

“That’s true, our children are going to have the worst tempers ever,” she snickered.

He laughed. “Maybe not. I have met my share of level-headed redheads,” he winked.

“But you’re not one of them,” she grinned.

He feigned being hurt. He placed a hand before his heart, “That burns, Angora, that just burns. Don’t make me call you Gabrielle, I will do it.”

“You already overused that name today,” she wheedled, sticking her tongue out. “Besides it was my given name, I’m not going to be too offended, I promise.”

“But you’ll still be offended.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Duh? I’m a man, what did you expect. You still love me,” he grinned, picking her up around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder.

“Although, I might love you less if you keep doing that,” she joked.

“Dually noted,” he grinned. He then paused from his teasing of his bride-to-be when he caught sight of the sky. The clouds parted, and the sun shone gold upon them bathing them in it’s incandescent light. He smiled. “I think my sister approves of you.”

“What sister wouldn’t approve of me?” she recoiled.

“You have a smart remark for everything,” he snorted. He rolled his eyes. “But I guess I’ll put up with you, anyway.”

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

2/1/12

2012-02-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

War Song II - Northend
By Ram Iyer

The North Land is a cold place and the weather is only partly to blame. The North Landers are not a rich people, not traders, nor merchants. They’re people of the land, farmers, tillers, hunters, soldiers, warriors.

As the scribe, Yohanas once put it …
“These are not men of opulence and plenty.
Not Olothians nor Varn.
for even the Lord L’Skarr,
Resides in what can only be called a glorious barn.”

What they lack in gold and jewels, they make up for, in food, ale and land. The North Land extends from the Briar’s Bridge at the borders of the Lost Forest to the Andheste Peaks, at the northern edge of the world. Of the twelve kingdoms, the North Land is the largest.Land is by far their greatest treasure and they have vast expanses of it.

The most fertile land, in all of the twelve kingdoms is in Northend, the capital. It is odd for such a cold place to have such bountiful soil. It is the warm currents of the sea of Horingas, which flows to its shores that makes it so.

Yet the northerners do not till more than they need, nor do they graze their stock, for more than their feed. The land is a gift from their gods, and is to be treated so.

They will not let other kingdoms have use of it, and they will bleed before an inch of it is taken by other men.

For this, they are at war; always.

There are times when there is peace and people talk of growing things and life. Such times are fleeting and rare.

***

“Did you hear, Valko ? They say we may ride to battle again! This time, against the armies of Torvenfell!!”

A young man spoke to his companion at the table. One could be forgiven for mistaking his tone for confidence, for it was only the slightest quiver in his voice that gave away his nervousness. It was a particularly busy night at the tavern in Northend and yet, over all the voices in the tavern, the young man spoke louder.

“About time, eh?” he laughed. “I was wondering if there was any fight left in these lands or had all the men taken to wearing skirts and tilling their land along with their women!!”

This drew a chorus of grunts and table thumping. He tossed his empty pint at the old man serving them. The pint hit him on the shoulder which drew laughs from all around the tavern. The old man pulled on his hood, picked up the pint and continued with his work. You learned to grow a thick skin, working in the taverns of Northend; especially, if you were a southerner working in the North Lands.

The young man’s friend Valko, nodded and spoke. He was a big man. Towering in height and bearing a girth, worthy of a bear.

“I hear there is talk of a treatise!!, to let those bloody Varn’s use our land to grow their stinking crops!”.

It was true. There had been talk all over the land of such a treaty. The Varn emissary had travelled to Northend several times to hold talks with the Lord L’Skarr. The North Land, was a proud kingdom, but years of war had made it poor and tired. Perhaps, the Lord L’Skarr’s age drove him more toward a path of wisdom than that of pride.

“I’d slit my own throat and die before I let some Varn plant seeds in my yard!! “ Valko declared with finality.

His young friend retorted “I’d slit that boy Varn’s throat first!!”

More laughter ensued. The lack of years behind the Kingship of Torvenfell’s new king, Carsedius Varn was a subject of jest in many kingdoms. But the lords knew better. Carsedius Varn was as vicious and ruthless, as he was young and he had the immeasurable riches of the Varn dynasty to fuel his thirst for conquest.

Now Valko threw his pint at the old man in belligerent petulance, and missed. This drew laughter from the tavern again, but more directed at Valko this time. The alcohol and embarrassment only served to fuel Valko’s rage.

Valko got up and walked to the old man who in comparison was a shorter, thinner man unlike most of the Northmen were. He was certainly not from the North Land. He did not have a northerners build and had black hair, which no Northerner could have possibly had.

“Why’d you move south-blood?” Valko asked with contempt.

The old man hadn’t moved. Valko’s aim had been so off the mark, that there had been no need for the old man to move.

The old man did not answer, but stood his ground. His eyes to the floor, he did not look up.

Valko, put his hand on his sword and spoke “Pick up the pint … and hit yourself with it.”

The old man did not move … the tavern crowd had turned quiet save for a lingering uneasy murmur.

“Pick it up … “

The old man bent down and picked up the pint.

“Now hit yourself with it on the head. I want to hear it … “

The old man stood motionless, eyes still on the floor.

“Do it … or I’ll bloody cut your hea …”

He did not finish the sentence. The old man leapt up with startling speed and drove the pint’s lip into Valko’s temple hard. It made a sickening squishing sound as it slammed into the side of his face. Valko staggered as blood poured down his face … and fell heavily onto a table near him.

His companion drew his sword and lunged at the old man, who leaned out of the way to avoid the sword. As the young man’s momentum took him past his target, the old man reached out to grab his shoulder and with a single motion, shoved it down. The companion crashed heavily into the floor and slid along it for some distance knocking over chairs and stools … sword still in hand.

The old man, held the groaning companion’s head down with his foot, while he pulled up Valko by the collar.

“You know nothing of War, Soldier Valko … you have been in one battle by my count and it would be a injustice to other battles to call it that.”

He looked around the tavern at slightly drunk, slightly startled faces. There was a glint in the old man’s eyes that pierced deep.

“There is no bloody glory in war … no greatness in killing or dying. There is only blood, pain, desperation, un-kept promises and if you are fortunate, perhaps death.”

The old man’s face shone from under the hood. It was a hard face, scarred and worn and his voice was calm yet sharp. There was something very quietly murderous about him.

The tavern turned quiet. The old man dropped Valko onto the floor, with a bloodied face and a broken ego. He looked around again, this time with some degree of disappointment showing on his face.

“War is on these lands … but you are all fools, if it is by choice.”

He turned and walked toward the door. The tavern-keep came up to him with an old bag, a water skin and an ornate sword. The sword was crafted with a mark. Two silver serpents on its black hilt. It was not a symbol that was well known and with good reason. The Lord L'Skarr's “Blades” wished it so.

“I’m sorry Selhem” the tavern keeper said.

“ So am I,Haar … So am I” The old man said as he walked out into the cold dark.

- - -
Ram has been making up stories since he was a kid. It was only recently he decided to put them down on paper and tell other people about them. When he isn't writing, reading or generally concocting devious ideas, he enjoys being a musician, an engineer and a marketing professional. His area of literary focus is fantasy, horror, sci-fi and similar forms of fiction. He lives in India with his amazing wife.

1/25/12

2012-01-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

War Song I - Torvenfell
By Ram Iyer

War, Prince Carsedius, is in the nature of men.

We are constantly at war; with enemies, with neighbors, with aggressors and with those we seek to conquer. There are no constants in life. Everything changes. You can either effect change or you can accept it. That is the choice that separates Kings from men. You will be King one day Carsedius, and you will make this choice.

Remember then, that you are no longer a child waiting to accept change as it is handed down to you by others more powerful. You will be a King then and you must effect change. There are those who will never accept that change and you will be at war with them. There are those who want you to fail so they may claim your glory for themselves and you will be at war with them. Finally there will be choices that will pit your mind against your soul. These are the toughest battles, young king, for you will be at war with yourself.

Your first lesson begins today.

This morning, I was in council with your father. He rides to Northend of The North Land, seeking to barter peace with the Northmen. The council and I, expressed my concern against such actions but he has grown old and tired. War is incessant, and it has taken its toll on him. I fear, he will not return from this Journey. If the Northerners do not kill him, my assassins will.

My loyalty, you must understand, is not to the crown, but to the land. The council work to secure the safety of Torvenfell’s ambitions. No harm will come to you child, for you will be King soon as Torvenfell must have a King of the royal Varn bloodline, and you will have a choice.

Seek revenge and stand against The Council or take your throne and become the most powerful king in the twelve lands. Which will you choose Carsedius Varn?

****

I know that my father is already dead, Vicar. The northerners did not kill him.

I am King now and Torvenfell’s throne lies before me. There is yet a third choice I may make. Am I not King ? true and just ? How then, can I leave the traitorous Vicar to be?

I will slay you here and now Vicar, for you have taken the life of my father like a coward, with a knife in his back. But I will not let it be known that you did it out of some sense of loyalty to the land. Instead, you will be called traitor and colluder with the Northmen. Then I will go to war with the north and lay claim to their lands for your council is wise even if its method unforgivable. The Council will fear me, the North will be won, my father avenged and I will be king. War my dear Vicar, comes to us all.

****

You are now a King indeed, Carsedius. You have taken your father’s throne, stolen my righteousness and used them both to your ends. I would spit on your face before you slay me, but I will not, for I admire your cold heart. You are King this day by my death and you will lead us well in War. For Lions are kings only in poems and tales. Wars are won by hungry dogs like you.

- - -
Ram has been making up stories since he was a kid. It was only recently he decided to put them down on paper and tell other people about them. When he isn't writing, reading or generally concocting devious ideas, he enjoys being a musician, an engineer and a marketing professional. His area of literary focus is fantasy, horror, sci-fi and similar forms of fiction. He lives in India with his amazing wife.

1/18/12

2012-01-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

Cuy
By Michele Markarian

Miles and his parents were visiting the Inti-nan Solar Musuem in Ecuador. It was an interesting place, with winding paths that lead to little exhibit areas where their English-speaking guide conducted hands-on experiments and hummingbirds fluttered freely. They were a disparate group of tourists, the English speakers – Miles and his parents, two Korean colleagues with the son of their supervisor, and a family from Washington State complete with parents, two children and two grandparents .

“Have any of you had the chance to try cuy?” asked the guide.

“Is that guinea pig?” asked the grandfather from Washington State.

“That’s right,” beamed the guide.

“I did”, said the Korean women.

“Did you like –“

“Too gamey. Full of bones,” said the Korean woman.

“Cuy is a great delicacy here,” said the guide. “However, it is very expensive – like, around twenty dollars – so we only have it for festivals and special occasions.”

“One of my friends saw a painting of ‘The Last Supper’ in Peru,” Miles heard the Washington State mom whisper to his mom. “Right smack in front of Jesus was a big platter with a dead guinea pig on it. I guess if it was for festivals….”

“Why wouldn’t Jesus want cuy?” said Miles’s mom, and they both laughed.

Miles didn’t think he could eat cuy. He liked guinea pigs. Several of his friends had them as pets. Eating one would be just too weird.

“Here are some guinea pigs we are raising,” said the guide, leading them over to a little indoor pen. A dozen or so cream-and-butterscotch colored guinea pigs were huddled there.

“Are you raising these for –“ Miles’s mom began.

“Yes,” said the guide. “Now let’s move on to this room, where you will see some shrunken heads.”

Miles took a last look at the guinea pigs. “Awww,” he said involuntarily before turning away.

“Pssst.”

Miles turned around. The rest of the group was ahead of him. Nobody was there. He headed towards his parents and the others.

“Pssst. Kid. Kid, turn around.”

Miles whirled around. The voice was coming from the guinea pig pen.

“That’s right, kid. It’s me, the talking guinea pig. Don’t make me shout, okay?”

Miles leaned over the pen. Sure enough, a large guinea pig with long white whiskers and large beady eyes was staring at him.

“I heard that ‘awwww’ that came out of your mouth a few seconds ago. Don’t be feeling sorry for us, okay? Being a delicacy is a huge honor, kid, a huge honor. Don’t you forget it.”

“How come you speak English?” asked Miles, when he finally found his voice.

“A lot of folks come through here speaking English. The guides speak English, if there’s a demand for it.” Now that Miles noticed, the guinea pig had a slight accent, but for the most part, his English was pretty good.

“I have to go back to my parents,” said Miles.

“Are you kidding me? A guinea pig wishes to converse with you, and you have to go back to your parents? Kids today have absolutely no intellectual curiousity,” snarled the guinea pig.

“I’m sorry, I am curious, but this is really weird,” said Miles, who was a little frightened. “How can a guinea pig talk?”

“How old are you, kid? Eleven? Twelve?”

“Eleven”, said Miles.

“Don’t worry about how right now. What’s important is why. I heard that ‘awwww’, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.”

“I’m sorry,” said Miles quickly. He looked over his shoulder. His parents and the rest of the group were taking turns trying to balance an egg on a nail. “It’s just that you’re all so cute. I hate to see you eaten.”

“Hate to see us eaten!” The guinea pig stretched on his two back legs and shook his front ones in anger. “We live to be eaten, and don’t you forget it! We are the pride of South America, you hear me? Do you know how much it costs to buy a decent cuy?”

“Twenty dollars,” said Miles. Seeing the guinea pig’s face fall, he added, “The guide told us.”

“Twenty dollars is a lot of money, my friend. And do you know why? Because we’re worth it, that’s why. My father and his father’s father and his father’s father were raised to be feasted upon. It’s in our blood. And then you come along with your ‘Awwwwww’, and next thing you know, people will want to keep us for pets. Then what?” asked the pig.

Miles held out his arms. “Then you could be pets. All of you. You could live in a cage, and –“

“Live in a cage!” the guinea pig sputtered. “Sounds like a real blast! A cage! Then what? Death?”

“Well…..” Miles though about it. “Yeah. But you’d live a long time. And maybe some kid would feed you, and play with you –“

“We get plenty of that,” said the guinea pig shortly. He craned his neck to see over the pen. “Those your parents over there? The short brunette with the tall guy?”

“Yeah,” said Miles.

“Do me a favor – they look like they have some cash. Get them to try some cuy while they’re here, will ya?”

“They’re not really into –“

“Please?” The guinea pig looked at Miles with his pleading beady eyes. “Please? You’re from the States, right? I want the world to know how great we are.”

“Miles!” Miles’s mother came over and took his hand. “You have to try and balance this egg on a nail. It’s impossible. Come on, I’ll take your picture while you do it.”

Miles looked back at the guinea pig. He was silent, but his shiny eyes were saying please. Miles turned to his mother. “Can we try some cuy tonight?”

His mother dropped his hand. “Really? You want to try cuy? Why, son?”

Miles looked at the guinea pig and swallowed hard. “A friend of mine told me it was really good.” He thought he saw the pig wink.

- - -
Michele Markarian ‘s plays have been published by Dramatic Publishing, Heuer Publishing, and the Book of Estrogenius, and are produced throughout the United States and Great Britain. Her short story Shake was published in the anthology Families: The Frontline of Pluralism by Wising Up Press, and her story, Don’t You Want This Baby? was published in the anthology View From the Bed by Wising Up Press. Michele has written for Mom’s Literary Magazine, Regional Air Cargo Review and The Air Charter Journal, and is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

1/11/12

2012-01-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dancers by the Hedge
By Anahita Ayasoufi

“It was a peculiar dance,” Maria said, and she tried to imitate some of its moves, disregarding completely how people would think of an old lady dancing in the bar. The move she tried to show was the hip-slip as she called it, but it came out quite dissatisfactory. The dancers by the hedge did it as if they were moving in a viscous fluid, as if a sort of resistance in the air smoothed their moves and blended it with nature.
“There was no music, and yet I felt like I actually heard the music in my head.” Maria closed her eyes for a moment, to hear that sound again, but all she heard was the subtle clanking of drinks at a neighboring booth. “Some dancers.”
“What dancers?” The bartender asked.
“The dancers by that huge hedge on the right of the summit path,” Maria said.
“What hedge?” The bartender asked. “The summit path is bare on both sides.”
Maria felt a little shiver pass on the back on her wrinkled hands. “Bare?”
“The crater’s flesh is still warm. It’ll take a while for anything to sprout in there, let alone a huge hedge.”
And it was not the first time that the sound of reason had mismatched the concrete experience of her eyes.
The first time had happened two weeks ago, when she was in the cemetery. It was well before sunset, and yet she saw the sun’s setting over the graves, with all its sadness and haunting beauty, except it was well before sunset time. She walked in that surreal scene for ten minutes, enough to get to the exit. During those ten minutes, the sun rose again, to the height it should be at.
“But I saw that hedge,” she said. “I can’t even imitate their dance moves. How could I have imagined moves that I don’t understand?”
The bartender was back to wiping glasses. Maria stepped out.
It was a bit after sunset, the sky dark but not quite. The last rays of the sun still reflected on shreds of clouds. Enough light shone on the summit path, enough to show its bareness on both sides. All as the bartender had said, except at about a quarter mile’s distance, the shreds of clouds twisted inside each other in the form of a cone, one that had almost touched the ground.
Tornado was the first word forming in her brain, but it dissolved as fast as it had formed. There is no such thing as a static Tornado. And the cone stood frozen static in her horizon.
For the past two weeks, Maria had wondered, what would she see had she stayed in that cemetery, had she gone from that surreal sunset into a surreal night? She did go back the next day the same time, but nothing out of the usual happened. Now this was her chance of discovering if her dancers were inside that cone.
By the time she covered half the distance to that cone, the darkness had settled, blurring the edges of her sight. She glanced back one time and saw the bar gleaming in the fog. Ahead still stood the cone, except she felt it had spread out, infecting more of the space. She felt as if the cone was reaching to her, that if she stood still, the cone would swallow her up. Maria did not stand still, though. She stepped forward and into that cone.
Maria thought she was dead. She thought it was her passing that brought her images from her past. She felt the effect of gravity lessen on her flesh. Floating was the feeling, her feet some inches above the ground, and the space around her solidified into a prism, glowing and multi-sided.
Through one side of the prism, she saw her dancers by the hedge. This time close-up revealed their clothing—sleek shards of skin, emeralds glowing in their eyes. Maria reached in their space and felt the viscous air slowing her fingers down, and she saw an irregular moon in their purple sky. A shriek escaped Maria’s throat. The dancers never stopped dancing.
Was she dead? It did not feel like that. But then again, how would she know? She had never died before.
On the other side of the prism her mother quilted by the fire. Now she knew she was dead. How else would she meet her mother again? Yet she turned her head. The fire seemed too familiar. It was the fire that caught on the house, the moment the volcano trembled. Not all memories she wanted to revive.
The side of the prism she turned her head to, showed her the magma flowing, the landscape of the bleak, except it had never happened. The magma never swallowed the town.
In confusion, she spun on her heels. In the side of the prism behind her, the bar was still gleaming in the fog.
The multifaceted prism was open to her. She was free to step in either side of it that she chose. And there were many sides, so many it would take an eternity to count them.
The cemetery sunset had not been an illusion. The hedge was not an illusion.
Time was an illusion; space an illusion—tricks of perception of human mind.
The choices were real.
Maria was alive.

- - -
I teach at East Tennessee State University and have a flash piece published at Bosley Gravel’s Cavalcade of Terror.

1/4/12

2012-01-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Process of the Fungus
By Tim Gerstmar

It was springtime and all the little green things were growing. Ron sat on his front porch wearing the pajamas they gave him at the hospital and looking out over the burgeoning yard. In the past few weeks things had gotten greener. Shoots and vines crept up the picket fence, bushes blossomed, and the moss shimmered on the rocks like felt under the bright sun. What Ron found most pleasant, however, was the strange green vines that seemed to come from nowhere and cover everything. They twisted like chlorophyll-filled noodles, and wove a pattern around the yard that made him believe for the first time in his miserable life that nature was an artist. He wanted to get up and go for a walk, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to go ten feet without collapsing.

He brought the iced tea that his wife made to his lips and felt the cool, moist glass under his thick caterpillar-like fingers. His cough had gotten worse, and that worried him. He was feeling extremely weak, but he demanded they let him out of the hospital nonetheless. What the hell did they know?

He drained his glass, and he was still thirsty. He called for Gina, but she did not respond. “Gina!” he yelled even louder. This sent him into a coughing fit that lasted a good minute. When he recovered, he noticed some strange green bile in the tissue that he hadn’t seen before, but at this point nothing surprised him. “Gina, come here a minute,” he rasped. It was no use. She couldn’t hear him. He filed it away as something to tell the doctors about when he went in on Tuesday. At least it was a good day, a wonderful day, and that made him feel a little better.

The dappled sunlight on the yard played tricks on his eyes, and he could swear he saw things moving across it, shapes and patterns shifting with a rhythm and a purpose. It was so different from anything he had ever seen that he was at once captivated and fearful. This odd dance of light held his attention so hypnotically that he couldn’t drop his gaze, and the plants and shapes writhed and wiggled. Then there came a low humming sound that began to change in tone and pitch, whispering and burbling like some quiet, unearthly language.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to stand. He got up slowly, fearing the intense pain that always accompanied any movement he tried to make these days, but there was no pain. In fact, he felt a surge of energy. He stood effortlessly and looked out over the dew soaked-lawn. He kicked off his hospital slippers and walked down the porch steps and into the yard, the soft grass caressing his bare feet, moving of its own accord. The entire world was green, and green it would remain. Where he walked was no longer his yard. The cool earth felt brisk on his toes. The wind tickled his skin and left goose pimples. There was revitalization in his organs as they surged and coursed with new life. He moved to the hillside, covered with twisting tubers and candy green nettles. He laid himself down on the earth and felt his tiny chest hairs stand on end. He rolled, feeling the ground and its moist contents stick and suction to his body. Out of his mouth he could feel tiny tendrils, his children moving out into the open air, grasping for sunlight and water.

The plants moved around him, and his flesh slowly disappeared beneath a gnarled covering of green. Tiny insects swirled above the vines that crisscrossed his chest in an elaborate cat’s cradle. Along his cheeks, fresh stems fixed themselves, pumping chlorophyll through him. Moss covered the top of his head, slowly fading down his neck like new hair, tiny leaves sprouted under his eyes and reached for the sun. The grass tickled his sides and his legs, and settled around him like a comforting blanket. Soon birds were landing on his shape, and the song of the summer burbled and chirped from the trees around him. He couldn’t believe that he was free. “Welcome,” a voice said.

When Gina came out onto the porch with another glass of iced tea, Ron was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes widened when she saw how fast the vegetation in the backyard had grown. “Ronny? Where are you?” There was still no answer. She put the glass down and put both hands on the porch railing and wondered how everything got so green. There was a rustle out in the far end of the yard, and for a second she swore she saw a hunched green shape moving off into the forest.

- - -
Tim Gerstmar was born in 1972 and grew up in Massachusetts. He has had a varied career, including a stint in the U.S. Navy and ten years of teaching ESL in the U.S., Korea, and Thailand. Tim writes short fiction during his free time.

12/28/11

2011-12-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

Adrianna’s Journey
By Robert Shmigelsky

Adrianna clutched tightly the golden looped cross in the palm of her hand.

Standing to the side of the newly weathered mountain pass, the rock-strewn path winding through, Adrianna looked on with silent lament cast on her face, her coruscate eyes leading her backwards through past events.

In the back of her mind, she relieved the betrayal and murder of kings, the battles that ended the lives of countless heroes: their eventual defeat at a vastly superior enemy and subsequent flight to the base of the mountains.

Interrupting her of these sights, the ragged remnants of Adrianna's people, who graciously expressed their gratitude to her as they passed by.

"Thank you, my lady." "How can we ever repay you?" "May you have many sons and daughters," they said to her as they hurried down to the other side of the mountain pass.

Strands of her long auburn-brown hair adrift along beside her she hid her emotions behind a wind-swept face. Adrianna looked at each of them in turn, nodded and said she would see them all on the other side—lies.

A talented clairvoyant, and a sorceress, Adrianna unfortunately had the burden of foreknowing events that others did not. That alone left her with the responsibility to act, knowing that if she did not—no one would.

Around her, the tops of Adrianna's eyes perceived the gleaming white tips of the lofty mountain range once thought to be impassable. A gift from the light above, her father had used the remainder of time imbued inside the cross to weather the mountain pass into being. While only a few moments had passed for her and those around her, for her father countless unmeasured years, perhaps an entire Age, had passed as temporal wind rapidly grinded away granite rock with a whooshing torrent of ice cold wind and rain.

When the temporal wind ceased and the swirling green barrier fell, they saw inside, but all that remained was an old man on the ground.

Adrianna recalled running to her father's side, cradling him in her already burdened arms then watching as he finally succumbed to all the sand in the hourglass, having used the cross—until that point—to keep the grains at bay while they continued to ravage those around him.

In fact, only moments before, Adrianna herself had looked older than her father.

One last grain for her to spend on her father, Adrianna looked at the cairn atop the mountain pass.

Forcibly removing her gaze from such a sight, Adrianna averted her eyes and turned them onto the far north, above the other side of the mountain pass and the climbing bodies, hefting on their shoulders what belongings they had left.

There inside a snow globe, within a magical glass-like barrier, she saw falling snow hanging in mid air upon the remnants of their once magnificent castles, halls, towers, mansions and arks.

In the back of her mind, Adrianna thought of the brave two hundred temporal knights and their daring captain—now hidden from her eyes inside the barrier—that had given their lives to buy the time needed for the last of their kind to lock their swords together, weave their magic and freeze Palador in that moment of time.

Once more her clairvoyant gaze announced its presence, arriving from out of the netherworld. It resumed control of her eyes, replacing the color with the brilliant hues and tinctures of the world unfolding inside them.

Beyond the scope of what men see, she saw the barrier shimmer and vanish and the curse lift then a dark cloud begin to waft and rise towards her up the mountain pass in obvious pursuit of the cross.

Although her body shook and her mind felt the tremors of the internal kind, Adrianna steadied herself and remained strong, refusing to shut her eyes or turn away. Not only was she determined to keep up a brave appearance, she knew from past experiences, the pain felt when a clairvoyant tried to ignore a vision: like a bandage being peeled off your eyes instead of your skin.

Soon enough Adrianna's sight returned to her.

The vision over, Adrianna watched her people descend to safety, but the last to follow noticed she had yet to turn away.

"Are you feeling distressed, my dear?" an elderly lady herding her husband along asked; the old couple stopped before Adrianna.

"For now..." she told them, "but I promise I will follow when I am able."

She did not know whether those last few words were the truth or not.

The woman nodded before the couple proceeded on their way. Adrianna could not tell whether the woman had sensed the truth.

When she was alone again Adrianna focused her gaze back to where it had been. She waited until she was sure the last of her people were safely down the mountain pass then clenched ever more tightly the looped cross she held in her hand.

Adrianna closed her eyes and with a single thought froze time a small radius around her while leaving herself relatively unaffected. The sorceress' staff she held in her other hand she raised into the air. In combination with her other talent, she flung her arms, shouted spell mantras and built up a great chandelier of earth above her. When she sensed it was large enough to close the mountain pass, she opened her eyes and resumed time.

The earth fell, but in unison a light flowed out of the cross and fleeted above Adrianna, protecting her and deflecting the collapsing earth away.

As her surroundings darkened, so too did her eyes as the weight of what was happening around her pushed her conscious to the farthest recesses of her mind...

###

Adrianna’s eyes opened, but saw only darkness. Her body felt something hard beneath her.

Instinctively, she searched in the dark for her staff. A few blind grabs later her hand caught hold of something.

Leaning on her staff, Adrianna pulled herself off the ground. In unison to the thought of brightening her surroundings a light came to life from the stone inset on her staff, illuminating her immediate surroundings.

Adrianna redirected the light around her and found she was in a large, dome-shaped cavern riddled with clefts that there as dark as a void. She looked up momentarily, shone the light up towards the ceiling, but saw only the empty space above her.

Grimacing, Adrianna brought the light back before her: her body felt broken and her mind half closed to her – as if all the wonders of the Age of Legends had been taken away and those that had counted on them were still feeling the effects.

She no longer felt the pain that accompanied her clairvoyant visions, which gave her slight pause: she had grown accustomed to them and now that they were not there—she was not sure how to react. Should she lament the loss of one of her powers or celebrate the loss of a curse? Either way, for now at the very least, she figured she would be able to survive with only the most basic of spells.

She pondered the implications of the previous day and asked herself how she had managed to survive it. A momentary thought of her father passed through her.

Adrianna pictured the flash of light as she remembered the last thing she saw before falling. She pulled the cross up to her eyes. Was this tiny piece of jewelry responsible for all this she now saw around her and that aura which had engulfed and protected her?

This is truly one of four godly gifts, Adrianna thought.

She wished to give the subject more of her time, but at the moment she believed it more prudent to remove herself from this surrounding.

Adrianna illuminated the entrance of one of the tunnels then turned and sauntered off, using her staff as support. She headed down a tunnel, one being as good as any. Upon reaching deeper, she saw that the sides of it were riddled with cracks and small holes. If the cross was somehow responsible for creating this cave, a tremendous amount of energy must have gone into it…

Here and there more tunnels crisscrossed with the one she was on. Adrianna ignored them and proceeded on the path she was on. She knew the surest way of finding a way out was staying more or less on the same direction.

After what seemed to be days spent walking through the dark, accompanied only by the sound of her feet echoing off the hard cavern floor, finally, Adrianna glimpsed light at the end of the tunnel.

At long last, Adrianna murmured out loud to herself before she hurriedly hobbled to the exit of the cave, the strength in her legs having yet to return to her fully, and stepped outside.

Adrianna had to shield her eyes with a hand, the sun being unusually bright on its mountain perch. Before she could finish thinking that perhaps she had been asleep underground for too long and her eyes were no longer used to sunlight, two fierce, blistering winds swept down on her from both directions, sending shivers down her spine. She tried to brace herself against them, wrapping her rubicund cloak around the supple curves of her body, but to little prevail.

How unbecoming, she thought to herself—wind coming from two directions. Her eyes adjusted somewhat from the glare and she was able to lower her hand and look before her.

She wondered where she had emerged to. By the look of things, she had arisen in an entirely different realm. Like the rim in her father’s crown a wing of mountains stood majestic against the setting sun, encircling the land she was in. The land itself was narrow and wind-swept, which gave way to a highly eroded gorge at the valley’s bottom. The gorge also encircled the land and Adrianna followed one side of it before it disappeared behind a mountain’s side.

Adrianna looked and saw the base of a mountain right there in front of her. She gazed up the length of it and saw it stretched past the clouds higher than the mountains around it.

Adrianna stumbled backwards a few steps as she tried to get a better look at the mountain. Despite appearing almost kingly, the wind-swept damage not without standing, Adrianna immediately thought of her father. If she had not known better she might have thought this was where she had left him.

When Adrianna had sufficiently recovered, she swung back around, intending to figure out which way to head next, but both sides of the vale looked equally uninviting: steep slopes leading to jagged edges stretching out to what appeared to go nowhere in particular.

In the end, Adrianna decided to head back into the cave. First of all, she wanted to get out of this blasted wind that kept blowing everywhere (already, she could feel parts of her ears start to turn pink). Secondly, her insides twisted with hunger. And thirdly, not knowing where she was, if she waited until night – perhaps the stars would help her.

Adrianna proceeded to sit down on the floor of the cave and conjure herself some bread and cheese while she waited for the sky to darken. As she did so, the wind gave no hint of dying or even slowing down. Throughout the day, it remained steadfast.

Before long the slopes outside and the entrance of the cave dimmed. Soon enough the sky darkened.

The wind sounding like it was being blown from a horn Adrianna climbed up to her feet, wrapped her cloak tight around her and entered the night.

Looking up at the star-hung sky, she immediately recognized two constellations: to the east, the ranger sidestepping into dimensional shadows and to the north, the dragon knight riding the high winds.

While the land around her told Adrianna she was in an entirely different place, the sight above her told her she was under the same sky as yesterday. Why a trickster sought to confuse her, Adrianna could only assume. She felt unnerved, no longer being connected to her clairvoyant powers. Since childhood, she could not remember a time when they did not provide her with the answers she sought.

Well, she thought: her people went south and the ranger’s arrow pointed in that direction; so that was the direction she decided to head herself.

Heeding the ranger, Adrianna swung to her left and headed south down the mountain vale. She entered the gorge at the bottom and began winding her way through it. Traveling at the thickest time of the night, the shadowed nooks and crannies of the place seemed like the perfect hiding spots for the darkened contortions of necromancers or common night creatures; but, besides the churning of the wind, she saw or heard nothing that might indicate possible perils or wildlife. It was as if a great hand had reached down from above and took hold of every living creature in the vicinity.

Nearly half way through the night, Adrianna found herself approaching the southern rim of the mountains. This up close at night, they almost looked like the spikes of a crown.

Adrianna found a path leading up and climbed out of the gorge. Though almost spent she reached within and climbed up the steep southern slope to the base of the mountains. Searching for a way through, she skimmed the rim when not far along she happened on a narrow chasm leading in.

She headed down the path of this chasm, but nearly a quarter of the way through it narrowed to a small cleft. Turning sideways, she began sliding through. Half way along, the cleft widened again and Adrianna began climbing ridge after ridge. As behind her the sun began its climb back up to its perch, she sensed she was almost there and lo the path leveled off before her, allowing her to continue at her leisure.

In unison to the sun cresting the mountains behind her Adrianna arrived at the edge of a high outcropping overlooking a small grassy green valley. At the center of which, long already built, she saw a magnificent white castle surrounded by a bustling large town with brightly colored roofs and wide cobbled streets.

Recognizing a temporal castle when she saw one, she knew at once her people had reached safety. But how did it come to this point? Her eyes could see that much time had passed. That meant her brother and those she knew would most likely be long dead. Still, despite what she saw before her, she could not believe how much time had passed.

She surveyed the surrounding landscape in search for clues. Around the castle and its town the rolling foothills went up and down, each hill getting bigger than the one before it. The forests stood tall and spread out, casting long shadows. Meadows filled with flowers, and of every imaginable color, were in the height of bloom. Only the mountains were timeless, their pristine white peaks showing not a sign of melt even in spring.

Adrianna spun around to look behind her. To the far west and east, in the fading blue horizon, she saw the shapes of familiar white peaks, but before her, putting what she saw during her journey into perspective, the mountains sloped away from her like a certain ornament, the outcropping its jewel.

It was a crown…

The only possible explanation had latched onto her mind.

The aura from the cross had thrust the White Mountains apart, forming the mountain crown; then, as the earth fell from above, it piled on top, forming the grotto Adrianna had woken up in and the wearer of the mountain crown: the mountain itself—her father.

Adrianna surveyed the surrounding landscape again.

Absorbing such a sight, she clenched once more the looped cross in the palm of her hand: it was over objects such as this that had awoken things in the hearts of men that should have not been woken and so caused the shadow to rise and throw the race of men out of paradise for their folly. She could not throw it away for someone else to stumble on, nor could she destroy it as the aura had proved: that some things were meant to play a role in the world and so could not easily be undone, but it would be a shame to bring such an object to this new world. Adrianna did not need to be a clairvoyant to see what would happen if she did.

Such a vision at the forefront of her mind, Adrianna looked on with silent lament cast on her face as she gave her people another look before turning back the way she came, knowing she could never rejoin them – only set sight on them from a distance, from time to time.

- - -
Robert, a residential care aide, is unapologetic in his pursuit of excellent high fantasy and has been writing fantasy for himself in his spare time for the last seven years. He is currently sifting through the first of three novels he wrote in his younger years and has upcoming poetry collection from Diminuendo Press entitled “Fragments Through Time”

12/21/11

2011-12-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Infinite City
By Chris Griglack

She drifts about the city, as if in the midst of a dream, but she's not. Rather, she wanders somewhere between memory, hallucination, and reality, never knowing one from another. Dreams are born in such a place, but elsewhere. Where she walks reality is thin, not the suffocating cocoon which prevents glimpses of what lies beyond. Other beings, other places, other times, and other realities all cross her path as she walks wonderingly down the streets of the Infinite City.

When she at last arrives at her destination, a small, tinny sounding bell rings to alert the shopkeeper. The store is full of a thick, flowery smoke, gently drifting about, giving the air the same consistency of the Mist of Minds outside, but with a more pleasant smell. An elderly oriental man, thankfully human, tentatively pokes his head up from behind the counter. His grin upon seeing her threatens to split his face apart and his eyes become swallowed up by crow's feet and wrinkles. “Shoppa Ereyting, washu need?” He asks, possessing far more energy than any man his age had a right to.

“I need a guide,” Impossibly, his grin widens. The few teeth he has left are all on display to her as she waits for his answer.

“No nee guide,” he replies. “City go erewhere. Jus wok.”

“I need to find a man I've never met before.”

His smile vanishes, a look of understanding replacing it. He nods sagely before he says, “Ahhhhh. You nee guide.” She crosses her arms and frowns at him. Under her glare of disapproval he continues, “Whosis man?”

“His name is Ranga. He was once a world explorer,” her words are almost a snarl through her gritted teeth.

The shopkeeper studies her carefully, under which scrutiny she maintains her glare to show she means business. Without warning, his entire body is overcome by something between laughter, crying, and an asthma attack. Her eyes widen in horror until she realizes that he is not, in fact, dying of laughter. The glare returns, twice as disapproving as before, but his mirth deflects it. “You no nee guide,” he finally replies when he recovers, “Ranga work fo me. He at utter store.”

He emerges from behind the counter, taking her by the hand and leading her outside, “Clossa eyes.” She does, and follows the man half a dozen steps into the mist without looking at all. When he says, “Here a go,” she opens her eyes to view an identical building before them. She digs in her purse for her wallet, but the elderly man shakes his head and says “No charge!” before disappearing into the mist.

When she enters the shop, a small tinny sounding bell rings to alert the shopkeeper. The air is clear in this shop, and a very different man stands behind the counter, ready to assist her. He wears a pair of baggy white pants and a blue vest embroidered with strange patterns in golden thread. The vest lays open, showing off his bronze, muscled chest and stomach, but what attracts her attention is the white turban studded with a giant emerald. “Shop of Everything, how can I assist you?”

She looks him over again, comparing him with the descriptions her mother had given her. Physically similar, but she needs to check his temperament, too. “Nice headgear, Aladdin.”

A pouty look crosses his face as he rips the turban from his head and throws it into the corner. “Hey, it's not by choice,” he snarls, building up to a full-blown rant. Apparently she was not the first to insult him at work. “Management makes me dress like this. I'm supposed to look as “mysterious” as possible. Like all brown-skinned people in turbans look mysterious. They told me I could bring my hookah to work, then laughed when I said I didn't have one.”

She smiles at his frustration, but says nothing as he continues. “Y'know they have another location with a golem tending shop? Like a real, eats rocks and shits diamonds golem. I can't compete with that! So ya, if it'll make you buy a magic carpet, I'll dress up like Aladdin, or even Hadji.”

She claps sarcastically as he picks up and dusts off the turban, all the while taking deep breaths to calm himself. “What do you want, lady?” he asks when he finally regains his composure.

“I came looking for you.”

“Well here I am. The finder's fee on that is gonna be...” he shrugs and throws his right hand up in a gesture of indifference, “50 of whatever currency you have.”

She places a single grubby coin on the counter, which he raises to his face to study. The engraving is hard to make out, partially faded from years of being carried around. It was last spent nine months before her birth, on her unwilling mother. He squints down at the coin, up at her, then back down again. “Oh. Shit,” he finally manages.

“Ya,” he clutches his chest where her bullet goes through, dropping the coin to the counter, “The same coin for both our lives.” The last thing he hears is the small, tinny sounding bell ringing as she exits the shop.

She is enveloped by the Mist of Minds, the stuff from whence dreams are made, among other things. Ubiquity is its nature, but so too is the void. It is the nothingness from which everything arises. Timeless, formless, and above all, reasonless. For reality's hold is thin in the Infinite City, but the mist weaves a thick blindfold of its own. If you close your eyes for even a moment in its midst, there's no telling what you'll open them to. You can never get lost, though. No matter how far they've wandered, an enigmatic old Chinese man always sends the lost back home.

- - -
I'm a Senior English writing major at UMASS Dartmouth, and I prefer to write a sort of slipstream or weird tales type of story that doesn't really neatly into any genres. My website isn't updated nearly as often as it should be, but it has some brief fiction, poetry, essays, and even a few reviews.

12/14/11

2011-12-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

Conjunctions
By Rick McQuiston

“I knew it!” Todd exclaimed as he slammed the heavy book shut. He wasn't in the least bit surprised when the tome exploded into a puff of golden smoke.

The genie leaned back against a huge oak tree. Even its partially ethereal form was still great enough to bend the trunk slightly. A golden hue bathed its ancient visage.

“Are you prepared to make your second wish?” it boomed.

Todd stood up and rubbed his stubbled chin. The possibilities were endless now that he found a loophole, apparently one large enough to drive a truck through no less. He eyed the glowing form of the genie.

“You know I majored in English back in college.”

The genie was becoming irritated. “Your second wish?” it repeated in a darker tone.

Todd ignored the genie’s imposing mannerisms.

“A conjunction,” he continued, “is a word or words that join other words, groups of words, or sentences. They also show relationships between ideas.”

The genie’s expression grew threatening. It floated over to where Todd was standing, looming over him with its menacing, gaseous form.

“Your incessant babbling tests my patience mortal.”

Todd smiled up at the creature. “Please, just bear with me.”

“Your second wish?”

“I’m getting to that. You see Mr. Genie, I thumbed through your rule book, which as you may recall was my first wish.”

The genie nodded in resignation. “Continue.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, I went through your book and found no mention as to the use of conjunctions, nor any restriction as to wish structure. Only the basic limitations are covered: cannot raise the dead; cannot alter or delete love; and of course the most obvious: cannot wish for more wishes.”

The genie rose up into a huge pillar of golden flame, bloated with immense but flawed power.

“Enough of this foolishness!” it bellowed, shaking the very forest with its cries. “Make your last two wishes!”

“I will. I will. I promise,” Todd said as calmly as he could. “Your book stated the punishment for breaking any of the rules was… well let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. And with that, I am prepared to make my second wish.”

“Proceed,” the genie snarled as it gradually shrunk back to the size it was when Todd had first released it from the lamp: about seven feet tall.

Todd casually sauntered over to the edge of the campfire.

“I wish for ten million United States dollars, tax-free, in ten-thousand dollar denominations…no, deposited directly into my Money Market account at Trust Bank.

And…a brand new Porsche 918 Spyder…

And…the ability to fly…

And…enormous musical talent, including but not limited to drums, guitar, keyboards, and flute.” He once dated a girl who played the flute so well he’d fallen in love with the instrument.

“And…”

The genie’s arms elongated into a swirling, golden mist as it encircled its new temporary master. The stench of sulfur drifted upwards, tainting the forest air and corrupting the night with its promise of doom.

“Are you finished?” the genie asked quietly, but still with enough conviction to easily cut through Todd’s words.

“And…perfect health…

And…world peace… (He felt an obligation to do something for everyone else).

And…

The genie smiled a devilish smile as its ethereal form darkened. Forest animals scurried away, fleeing for their lives. The campfire began to wane, sputtering as it splashed its depleting warmth into the chilled air. And as it began to bear down on its clueless victim the genie convulsed in a poisonous mockery of a dance…of death.

Todd finally stopped his wish making when he felt the hot breath on his back.

“What? What’s going on? I wasn’t done yet.”

The genie swept its master up in its powerful embrace.

“You broke a rule. Your fate is sealed.”

Todd was dumbfounded. “What? What do you mean? I checked your rulebook.”

“You wished to see the tome of my restrictions,” the genie replied while flexing its fingers in anticipation of what was to come, “but your wish was singular-only ONE book. But, foolish mortal, there is yet another volume which has yet to be viewed by yourself.”

Todd was having trouble breathing. The mist from the genie was clogging his senses, disorienting him, weakening his grip on life.

“But…but that’s not fair. I…”

The genie laughed, a deep reverberation that echoed in the forest.

“Behold fool,” it boomed. “Part two.”

And the last thing Todd saw before he slipped into oblivion was an enormous black book. It was frayed from age, and scrawled across its cover was one word, that although simple in its structure, was nonetheless profound in its implication:

And…

- - -
I’m a forty-three year old father of two who loves anything horror-related. I’ve had over 250 publications so far, and have written two novels, five anthology books, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors.

12/7/11

2011-12-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

Sloth the Lazy Dragon
By Regan W. H. Macaulay

The dragon lurched over his haul of unfinished finery: gold goblets, loose rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, tiaras waiting for stones, unpolished shields, silver chainmail, partially finished gold necklaces and rings, shining weapons encrusted with jewels, waiting for filigree.

A dwarf hovered in the archway, the exit out of the lower mountain. The dragon’s head lolled to the side and he noticed the diminutive fellow, with his pointed hat in his tense, gnarled hands. The dragon belched a small flame and rolled over onto the golden mound.

“Sir,” the dwarf began with a shaking voice, “this is the workshop. These goods are not complete. Surely you wish a finer hoard for yourself?”

“Hm?” the dragon replied, as if roused from a long slumber, rather than the beginning of his nap. He opened one yellow eye and yawned. His mouth was a chasm of brown, rotted teeth. The dwarf raised a wrinkled fist to his face to block the stench. “A finer hoard, as you put it, would mean flying to the top of this mountain. That would mean getting up.”

“But surely, a great dragon such as yourself…”

“Use your eyes, little man!” the dragon exhorted. “Can you not see my girth?” he sneered. He gave the poor dwarf a stare so foul it rivaled the reek of his breath.

The dwarf frowned and his manner altered. The dragon opened his second eye to regard this change in the little man. He postured like a man nearing the full extent of his patience. The fear appeared to have dissipated.

“Maybe if you got up off your hairy ass and moved around,” the dwarf sputtered, “perhaps flew to more mountaintops to pillage some real treasure, maybe then you wouldn’t be so fat – a pudgy, hideous beast stuck at the bottom of a mountain in a workshop filled with second-rate booty!”

The dragon snickered. “Nah,” he rolled onto his back, exposing his soft belly, “and my ass is not hairy. Clearly I am a reptile – no hair.”

“How can you expose your underside to me, stupid creature?” spewed the apoplectic dwarf. “Can you not see I am armed?” The dwarf unsheathed his sword – merely a dagger in relation to a human man – but it was sharp and gleamed for the dragon.

“Silly, tiny man,” the dragon sighed. The dwarf ran at him, his dagger gripped in both hands. “Why all this bother?” the dragon muttered, watching this absurdity.

The dwarf bellowed a warrior’s call to arms and drove on toward him with his weapon. The dragon waited until the dwarf was mere meters away before opening his great gob and blowing a rank wind upon him. He watched the dwarf stop, draw his limbs into himself in a wild convulsion, then drop to the ground coughing and covering his face. The little dwarf rolled back and forth on the ground, holding his grey beard to his face. The next breath the dragon blew at him was more lethal. He watched the dwarf alight. A moment later, he was a crisp.

“What an asshole!” the dragon remarked.

- - -
Regan has been writing since the age of seven, directing since high school, and producing theatre, film and television for the last eighteen years. Writing prose is her current focus. She has a strong interest in frogs, dragons, zombies, pink things, fuzzy creatures, and her husband.