Flash Fiction Friday: How Warren Got His Groove Back

      “All you have to do is pull the sword from the sheath.  It’s not rocket science, Deeling.”

      “Just a purely physical observation, Warren, but I can’t pull the sword out of its sheath if I can’t get to the sword in the first place.  And while it’s not rocket science, there are some logistics, are there not?”

      Warren smiled.  “Of course there are, but that’s nothing for you to worry yourself over.  I’ll kick open the door and man-handle any fool dumb enough to get in my way.  While I’m doing that, you simply need to move yourself to where the sword is in your, how do you say it, physical hands.  Easy.”

      Deeling opened her mouth to protest, but was cut short.  Literally.  She grunted as she fell, the top three-quarters of her body hitting the stone floor with a thud.  Her legs, she noticed, were still standing erect.  A knight stood just beyond her, his broadsword gleaming.

      Deeling screamed.  Warren had his weapons out in about two-hundred milliseconds.  He was always quick, like the brown fox that has been known to jump over lazy dogs from time to time.  Metal clashed on metal, but Warren Deadlyblades didn’t flinch at the discordant noise.  He moved with grace and precision, a lethal weapon bloodthirsty.  He leapt over his fallen partner (“Sorry, Dee!”), forcing the knight’s retreat.

      “Thou canst win,” said the knight, but to Warren’s berserker rage he misheard the man and took it as a compliment.

      “I know I can, fool.  And you will pay for what you’ve done to my partner.  If you’ve harmed her…” 

      The evil black knight laughed.  “Methinks I have, knave.  And I shall smite thee, too.  Hiyah!” Warren spun, catching the knight’s sword on the tines of his sai.  Worry crossed the knight’s visage; fury crossed it when Warren plunged his dagger into the man’s chest; pain blossomed into view lastly, and the knight collapsed in a heap.

      “And that’s why you don’t play with sharp things,” Warren said, though his catchphrase sounded forced this time.  Perhaps he’d been using it for too long.  He sheathed his dagger and sai and knelt to console his partner.  Deeling was still alive, but she didn’t look like she could hang on for much longer.

      “Listen,” she was saying.  “I never got to tell you about the time my friend Lucy baked me the pecan pie with the raisins in it.  She swore they were currants, but I saw through her lies.  But it was Lucy that told me about the prophecy and the sword.”  Deeling coughed, winced, gasped, and resumed.  “I don’t think I’ll forgive her, Warren.  Maybe I’ll haunt her when I’m gone.”

      “There there,” Warren said.  “You’re gonna be just fine.  We’ll put some wheels on you and you’ll be twice as fast as me.  Maybe even hook up some motors or something, eh?  It’s not rocket science.”

      Deeling grimaced.  “But it is, Warren.  That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.  It is.  Can’t you—oh.”  Warren shook his head.  A single tear fell from his left eye.

      “I will avenge you, Deeling.  I will avenge you.”

      And he did just that.

      Well, he tried, anyway, and that’s what really matters.  Results aren’t nearly as important as effort, right?  He didn't get the sword, but that's unimportant.  And the world did end prematurely due to his failure, but prematurity matters little when dealing with geologic epochs.  Had their mission succeeded the world might have survived another few thousand millenia, but who's to say?  Certainly not Warren Deadlyblades.

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Mostly an attempt at absurdity and humor.  Written primarily because I haven't done any creative writing in far too long.

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (Epilogue)

(Note, this comes a touch early because Friday is a busy day for me this week.)

This is the post-conclusion to the 6-part serial "Something Like Midnight."  If you've read this far, thank you very much.  If you need a refresher, follow the provided links.  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6.
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--Epilogue--

Sometime Later.
     The shopkeeper looked out at the bustling city through the streaked glass of his tiny shop. Buildings called skyscrapers literally pierced the clouds, constructed by machines of impossible power. Automobiles clogged the saturated roadways, ubiquitous and loud. Great, flashing screens covered nearly every flat surface, displaying advertisements for various and sundry goods. It was a city like so many others, filled with modern people with modern ideas and modern values.
     The shopkeeper had spent the better part of the past century living in obscurity. His only companion had been a half-demon with a heart of gold. They would spend a few years here and there, lending a hand however they could. The full-man wanted to make amends for his past deeds; the half-man just got a thrill out of helping. But they could never stay long or the locals would notice their anomalies: neither of them aged properly.
     The citizens of the current city barely paid him any mind, and the ones that did only thought of him as the eccentric owner of the convenient store at the intersection of Fate and 15th Streets. When asked he would happily talk about life in the Old Country Across the Seas and tell stories to any open ears. But more often than not customers spared him not a word and sometimes not even a glance. All were too busy, too wrapped up in their own devices and their own stories. He didn’t blame them.
     He stepped away from the window and surveyed the store. He had not sold much merchandise, not that it mattered, but it still had been a good day. He had shared a fable with a child with sticky fingers, explaining the importance of honesty and the rewards of hard work. He told the boy that he would not call the constables as long as the boy promised to never steal again. “And by what do you promise?” he’d asked.
     “By the, uhm. I don’t know. What do you mean?”
     “Promises are very important. Making a promise is one thing, but keeping it is something else entirely. When you promise by something, then you give meaning to the promise. The stronger your words, the more powerful your promise.”
     “So, like, I should promise by the money in my billfold or the shoes on my feet?”
     The shopkeeper scowled. “Money is a temporary thing, child. It has no worth. And shoes wear out and rot. No, promise by something that means something to you. A friend, a relative, a body part, an ideal. Something with life. Then I will know that you mean it.”  The boy looked uncomfortable. “It’s either that or I call the authorities. Your choice.”
     “So like a pinkie promise?” The shopkeeper’s frown deepened.
     “That no longer has any value, either, I’m afraid. Try again. Think hard.”
     “Okay, okay. I, uh, I promise by my, uh, by my quick right hand that I will never steal from you again.” He looked sheepish.
     The shopkeeper removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You’re a clever lad,” the shopkeeper said. “Don’t let it get to your head. Remember your words, son. Don’t you dare try and break ‘em or you’ll rue this day. Now scamper on.”
     The boy had jumped up from his seat and scurried from the shop as quick as old Jack Robinson. Ancient copper bells rang out announcing a customer, pulling the man from his reverie.
     “Hello,” he greeted, smiling wide and inviting. “Can I help you find something?”
      A young girl, perhaps thirty. Her eyes were tired and her face thin and ragged. The unmistakable look of a person searching hard for something hard to find. “You Corgan Mercy?” Her voice wavered.
     The shopkeeper dropped his smile. Few people knew that name. “I am. And you are?”
     “I’m in the business of storytelling,” she answered. “And I hear you’re one of the best in the world.”
     “Flattery is ill-becoming, dear.”
     The girl blushed, but continued. “A truth, though, surely. Least that’s what I’ve been lead to believe. Been hunting you for quite some time now.”
     Corgan raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? And how, may I ask, did you get my name?”
     Her eyes flickered around the shop. Satisfied they were alone, she licked her lips and dropped her voice. “A demon told me.” Her face darkened to an even deeper shade of red.
     “A demon, huh? And why would a young lady such as yourself be on speaking terms with a demon?”
     “I’ve got my reasons, same as you have yours for keeping your identity secret.”
     Corgan studied the deep bags under the girl’s eyes. She doesn’t look haggard, he thought. She looks haunted. “I suppose that’s true. Why are you here, miss? What sort of story you chasing?”
     “I need to know everything you can tell me about the Gyarmr,” she said, her voice now desperate. “I need to know how to escape it.”
     “Oh child. What have you done?”

Word Count: 827

Total Word Count: 6372

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First, a sketch of the Draughters.  They look mostly humanoid, but with slightly pointed ears and diamond shaped noses.  Weseley definitely has an aged look about him, and Wenton seems to be a bit fleshy, almost like he's been eating a bit too much...

Overall I generally enjoyed this story quite a bit, especially the worldbuilding going on in my head.  Some of that made it out into the story, which was nice.  As for the epilogue, I was conflicted.  The first draft had quite a different ending, where instead of the girl responding about a demon she said something like "A man named Dillon sent me."  This twist ending was abandoned however, and I think for the better.

All in all I'm not sure that the epilogue is entirely necessary.  It does provide a little extra characterization for Corgan, as well as a "happier" ending than that of Part 6.  Like I said, I was conflicted.  Nevertheless, I figured I'd go on and put it up here.

Thanks to all who've read.

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (6)

This is (mostly) it for the tale.  Many thanks to all you that have read and given me feedback.  If you need a refresher, follow the links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5.  Tune in next week for the (relevant and possibly non-extraneous) Epilogue.

--Part Six--

     “M-m-mister Merc-mer-mercy? Ca-c-c-can you he-hear m-m-m-me? S-s-sir?”
     Corgan opened his eyes. Weseley’s face peered at him for a second before the brightness of the sun blinded him. “Gah!” Corgan coughed, flinching. His head throbbed. He felt like he’d been driven over by a steam engine. “Weseley? What happened? Where am I?”
     A cool hand rested upon Corgan’s forehead. “Y-y-you’re ou-outs-s-side, s-sir. A-a-at y-your b-b-br-brother’s-s h-house. Ar-are you a-a-alive, s-sir?”
     Normally Corgan would have laughed at such a question. “I think so. Maybe, I... I don’t know. I...” Corgan pushed himself up, his hands falling into something cold and sticky. Blood, he saw. It was everywhere, dark and syrup-like. “Is this all mine?” He asked, painting red smears on his trousers.
     “No.” Weseley pointed up to the house. Corgan followed the blood trail, from the puddle that was below him to the propped-open front door. Dillon was sitting inside, strapped to a chair and gagged by what looked like thread from the infinite spidersilk. His head was the only thing sticking out of the cocoon. A decapitated corpse kept the door ajar. Wenton. “Bo-both o-o-of th-their’s, t-t-t-too. I k-kept y-your b-br-brr-othher alive s-so y-you c-c-could fulfi-fi-fil y-your oath.”
     Corgan turned back to Weseley and raised an eyebrow. “Remind me of this oath, Weseley.”
     “S-sir?”
     “Entertain me. My head is muddled from my recent... excursion.”
     The Draughter held up a solemn hand, palm outward. “I s-swear by th-the s-still blood of m-m-my b-b-beloved that I will f-f-fii-find the m-mu-murderer-er and I w-will k... k... k-kill him and his whole fa-f-family, and no p-pa-powers in heaven ab-bove or the d-d-depths below will s-s-st-s-stop m-me.”
     Corgan’s own part in the contract had been redeemed. His death had been necessary, albeit temporary. Dillon’s, on the other hand, would be as permanent as the sun. Corgan’s brother had to die, that much was certain, if only to stop the Gyarmr from taking everything. Still, it saddened him to think of his brother’s wasted life and the part he had played in it all. Had he been nicer to him things might have gone differently.
     “Thank you, Weseley. You’ve done me an unbelievable kindness with this, and I find myself in your debt.” Weseley blushed, shaking his head.
     “N-no, s-sir. You, you d-don’t owe m-me n-nothing. I was ju-just d-d-d-doing my d-d-duty.” Weseley stared at the blood on the ground.
     “Perhaps, but even so I sincerely thank you, my friend.” Corgan offered a bloodied hand, which Weseley took in his own. “I suppose I must finish this dark business, huh? No sense in dawdling.”
     Each step sent bursts of flames through Corgan’s legs and sides.  He felt like the knife was still in his flesh.  As he walked over the body in the door, the heady smell of gore overwhelmed him and he unceremoniously vomited on the dead body. Serves you right, Corgan thought.
     “Dillon."  He let the words fall, enjoying the surprised look on his brother's face.  “I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I never meant for this to happen. None of it. I didn’t mean to cause you grief when we were young, and I certainly didn’t mean to perpetuate that as we grew older.” Swollen black eyes stared back at him, unflinching. “I saw my... indiscretions just a few minutes ago after poor Wenton plunged his dagger in my back. I saw all of them, too many sins to name. I saw the damage I caused, how each choice shaped you into a monster. I had no idea that I was poisoning you. I didn’t think...” Dillon held an unblinking gaze.
     “And Veleste... What a wretch I was to her. She deserved better. Better than either of us. I poisoned her as surely as I poisoned you.” He was crying now. Crying for wasted lives and thoughtless words. Crying for the body at the door. Crying for what he had to do. “And the worst thing about it, Dill, is that I don’t have a choice in the matter. If it were up to me I would just leave you here and disappear, out of your life and out of mine. After all the hurt I’ve caused, I’d just leave and let you be. But I can’t. The Gyarmr...” He remembered its eyes, its teeth clamping shut, its hot breath on his face. “The Gyarmr’ll... I don’t have a choice! It’s either you or me, and I... I won’t face it again.”
     Corgan might as well have been practicing a monologue.  “I don’t blame you for the man that you’ve become, not really. Much of it is my fault. For that I truly am sorry. I wish that I could change things.” There were purple bruises on Valeste’s throat, he remembered. Her voice was mangled beyond the grave.  Broken.  Horrible.  Darkness came to him then, familiar and comforting. It poured into his vision, into his soul, filling him with bloodlust and thoughts of revenge.  His momentary pity for his brother vanished beneath the black.
     “I can’t take all the blame for your actions though. Each man is responsible for his own deeds, and yours are worthy of death. You murdered my wife, Dillon. In cold blood you tracked her down and killed her, and I swore that night that whoever did it would pay. I’ve paid my part, and now your’s is due.”
     Dillon narrowed his eyes. Corgan grabbed his brother by the throat, squeezing as he imagined Dillon had done to Valeste. Dillon stomped hard on the floor, but the spidersilk held strong. His brother’s tattooed face turned red then purple. Sweat beaded at his brow. A terrible wheezing sound escaped through gagged mouth and desperate nostrils. Something coughed in the corner of the room. Distracted, Corgan glanced up.
     The Gyarmr embodied the darkness beneath heavy purple curtains. It watched the brothers with idle curiosity and angry eyes. Dillon must have saw it too.  He began convulsing, trying to free himself.  His boots pounded against the floor like hammers on stones.  He screamed in muffled rage, a death wail, a curse, a confession, a plea.  Corgan held firm, wondering if Valeste would feel any sort of closure at her murderer’s death. Would her soul finally be allowed a measure of peace? Or am I just a character in her own vengeance plot, he wondered perversely. Dillon’s kicking ceased, but Corgan hardly noticed. He saw only the Gyarmr.
     It seemed to be made entirely of shadow, of a darkness born from midnight. It growled low and angry. Corgan growled back, feeling stupid and bold. “It’s finished. I’ve held up my end of the deal. Go on. We’re through, you and I. No more. I won’t be seeing you again for a long, long time.” He unconsciously clutched the necklace around his neck as if his soul had returned to it and not his own body. It might have, he thought briefly. “Leave me be, monster. You don’t belong here.” The Gyarmr bared its teeth, growled once again, and dissolved into shadow.
     The darkness lifted from his eyes and he saw clearly once again.  Corgan frowned.  He tried to think of something to say but could not focus. He closed Dillon's eyes and walked out into sunlight.

Word Count: 1210

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I dunno.  I'm somewhat disappointed by the conclusion.  There are definitely questions that weren't answered (like who or what are the Draughters?), but the answers are hinted at.  It also feels like this final scene is somewhat rushed and incoherent and possibly even anticlimactic.  I easily can see it being fleshed out a little more.  Even so, it is what it is:  a tragedy.

Thanks for reading and hope you all enjoyed.  Don't forget about the epilogue next week!  

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (5)

This is Part 5 of a still undecided 6 or 7 part story.  Maybe it'll be considered a 6 part story with the 7th being the epilogue.  I'm not sure yet.  Anyway, see Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 if you'd like to catch up or re-read.  Thank you!

--Part 5--

     The darkness enveloped him, choking him as it pushed down his throat and into his nostrils. Cold tendrils wriggled inside his stomach and the man retched a silent spew. The darkness was infinite. It was longing. Light did not exist here; it never would. The man knew this with certainty, but he could not explain how or why.
     In addition to the palpable darkness there was absolute quiet. The man called out but he could not make himself heard, and when he opened his mouth the darkness rushed in, an open hand down his throat. Sound did not exist and its absence was maddening. Voices screamed within his mind in languages he did not understand. The man did not need a translation to know what anguish sounded like.
     The man began to walk, pushing his way through the black as if he were walking in neck-deep water. Each step sent tremendous pain down his back, but he could not cry out. He stumbled and fell, plunging forward blindly. He did not hit ground, but continued to fall, moving deeper and deeper into the abyss. As he descended the darkness grew thicker. Pressure built up around him, swallowing, crushing him.
     Eternity passed and still he fell. He sank into despair, recalling names of people and faces of the living and the dead. Countless faces passed before him, each one bringing with it a piece of some grand story. He saw the kindly schoolmaster reading mythologies to a classful of pupils, instilling a lifelong desire for storytelling. There he sat, cross-legged and eyes wide, while his brother sat a few feet behind him staring longingly at the teacher. He saw the poxed faces of his mother and father frowning their displeasure, never satisfied with their children, never praising them. He saw his brother crying beneath a bed and knew that he was the reason for it. The face of the first woman he’d ever loved appeared, pure and porcelain, and she gave him the gift of heartache as she left him for another. He saw a gaunt, hollow-eyed child reaching to him for food, and he winced as he brushed by her, sparing not even a backwards glance. His brother trailed behind, a silent witness to the act. Another woman appeared--Valeste, he thought--her eyes dark and stained.
     It was his story he was seeing, his life he was watching unfold. He had thought himself the hero, out for justice and possibly a little vengeance, but he had been blinded. He was no hero, but the villain. It was his apathy and his absence from his home that had led to the suffering in his wife’s heart. It was his stubbornness sewing seeds of malice. Each of his actions had led to her transformation and ultimately to her eternal punishment. -the boon of the grave is knowledge-, a voice whispered in his head, silencing all others. The face of his brother darkened with age and filled with tattoos, mutating from a soft-faced boy to an unrecognizable stranger, changed by years of neglect and scorn. There was a smug look of satisfaction about him. The mental picture focused sharp and the man remembered everything.
     Corgan was suddenly on his feet. The weight of the darkness evaporated. Washed out whites and spectral greys blossomed into view. The light blinded him, and as his vision cleared he noticed one color among the grayscale. Red, in the form of two burning eyes. The Gyarmr had arrived. The monster exhaled, a sonorous breath reeking of death and rot. The creature seemed to smile, slightly opening its mouth as if in ridicule.
     Corgan stepped backwards, dread now filling him. His plan had failed. Wenton had betrayed him and ensured that. The grave was insurmountable and he had been a fool to trust the Draughter. The Gyarmr cocked its head appraisingly. It sniffed, no doubt smelling Corgan’s fear. Running was futile. He supposed he’d known that for five years now, but he had tried nonetheless. Time had finally stopped. Corgan resigned himself to his second death, unable to comprehend the infinite pain that the Gyarmr would momentarily inflict upon him.
     A loud, tinny sound reverberated all around them. It echoed within his head, louder than anything he had ever heard before. Like a child, Corgan put his hands up to his ears, but it made no difference. The Gyarmr growled and shook its head. The greys around them swirled, color spilling in. The Gyarmr lunged at Corgan, barking as it did, mouth wide and fangs bared. It was the sound of pure and fury. Corgan winced and closed his eyes as the teeth snapped shut around him.

Word Count: 777

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Question: Is this just a giant info dump?  Should it be heavily trimmed?

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (4)

Being the 4th Act of a 6 or 7 Act quasi-fantasy/horror short story.  Thanks so much for the Readers and the feedback.  You can catch up with Act 1, Act 2, and Act 3 if you're behind.
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--Part Four--

     “I swear by the still blood of my beloved that I will find the murderer and I will kill him and his whole family, and no powers in heaven above or the depths below will stop me.” Corgan’s words haunted him as much as the Gyarmr did. He had not slept in weeks, not fully. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the creature’s own stare back at him, watching him, waiting for him.
     The weight of stolen necklace had grown heavier about his neck, and each night Corgan refused to remove it. He had uttered the proper words and paid the required offering, and now all that remained was to see if the charm would work. The necklace had to remain on him at all times. Without it, his plan would definitely fail, and even with it Corgan barely held hope for success. He stared out the window to the place his brother called home. The house was an ancient thing, held together by clay and blood and prayers, built in an era when Gothic arches were just coming into style. Blackened with soot and stained with sin there was no wonder that the townsfolk called the house “a bit haunted” and its proprietor “a bit odd.” Dillon had been a lifelong recluse, most comfortable with his paint brushes and oils, spurning even his brother’s company from childhood. Corgan had not seen him since the funeral.
     The coach stopped. It was time. Time to confront his brother, time to fulfill his inane vows, time to gamble with things he did not understand. The side door opened and Weseley’s lined face appeared.
     “Wha-what wou-would you ha-have m-m-m-me, what would y-you have me do, Mister Me-mercy?”
     Corgan studied the half-man. Ever since the appearance of the Draughters, Corgan had always taken to Weseley. The boy showed respect and genuine care, and coming from a half-demon, that was saying something. Wenton, on the other hand, had always been a wildling. “Just keep an eye on the car for me, Weseley. That should be enough.”
     “V-very good s-s-sir.”
     Corgan stepped from the vehicle and stopped, staring the chauffeur in the eyes. “Thank you for everything, Weseley. It’s been an honor.” Weseley’s face flushed rosy beneath the noonday sun, but before he could reply Corgan was gone, walking up the steps. Wenton was talking to a half-naked man at the door. Intricate tattoos decorated his flesh, swirls and lines accentuating a lean and muscular body.
     “Ah, the prodigal brother returns,” said the man, and only then did Corgan realize that it was his brother. “What brings you back?”
     “Dillon? I didn’t recognize you. You’ve changed.” Corgan stalled, unsure how to proceed. “The tattoos are... interesting.”
     Dillon smiled, white teeth pearlescent against tattooed lips. “I was tired of my abnormal life, Corg. I think I should fit in better with the locals, no?” The man laughed, an unnatural sound that belonged confined to a sanatorium. “But I figured you’d be impressed. You inspired them, after all. I went on a bit of a vision quest after you left, looking to transcend this life, find a bit of meaning. Found them both it so happens.”
     Wenton nodded to the brothers and disappeared down the steps. Corgan ignored the Draughter, his mind working through scenarios, changing his planned method of attack. He had expected to find Dillon sickly and aloof, not a healthy man ready for a fight. But as far as Corgan could tell, Dillon was unarmed, and that at least gave Corgan a slight advantage.
     “Seems we’ve both done a fair bit of traveling then. Been all the way to the Indian Ocean and down to Cape Town looking for my answers. Threw myself in with everything I had after Valeste died.” Corgan kept his voice casual, but he saw his brother’s eyes darken at Valeste’s name.
     “Must have been some mighty tall questions to travel so far.”
     “Yes, questions I never wanted to ask and answers I never wanted to hear.”
     The smile dropped from Dillon’s face. “Like what?”
     “The only question that anyone ever really asks. Do you know what happens to a person when they die, Dillon?” Corgan stepped gently forward, keeping his eyes on his brother’s.  He did not have time for idle talk and was eager to wield the blade.

     “Depends on the religion, I suppose. Christians say you go to meet God and be judged for your deeds. If you have a relationship with Jesus then you go to heaven. If you don’t, you burn in hell for eternity. Mahāyānans and Theravadans believe in karma and rebirth, that we keep trying until we get it right. Atheists say that this is all there is. There is nothing after but darkness. There are plenty more, but my guess is that it’s somewhere in between these three.”
     “What of the Gyarmr?” Corgan stepped closer; Dillon didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Most religions speak of it. It is a monster created solely to inflict torment upon the wicked and give a proper welcome to the netherworld. It brokers deals with men and then devours their souls when they can’t pay. They--”
     “They tell me you’ve seen it,” Dillon interrupted. “They tell me its been after you for nigh on five years now.”
     Corgan narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. “Who tells you this?” The brothers were within striking distance now, separated by naught but an open doorway. Dillon had not yet moved from his post.
     “The Sons of the Draughters, of course. Who else?”
     And something as cold as a winter’s morning plunged into Corgan’s back--once, twice-- biting through flesh and muscle with ease. The storyteller staggered forward, landing at his brother’s feet. Darkness flooded his vision. Unimaginable pain clutched his body. Footsteps thundered up to him and Wenton appeared, staring down at him with a hungry look on his face. Red specks dotted the darkness, tiny pinpricks against the consuming black. Corgan tried to talk but could not form words. The specks grew larger, washing the black away with a crimson tide. Something snarled, menacing, powerful, ancient. Corgan knew an irrational and hopeless fear and then nothing.

Word Count: 1023

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (3)

I'm having too much fun with this story.  This installment is a bit longer than the last two, but it's action filled and packed full of goodies.  Thanks to all of you that are reading and letting me know what you think.  I really do appreciate it.  [See Part 1, Part 2 if you want to catch up.]
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--Part Three--

Three Weeks Ago.

     They stared down into the swallowing darkness of an unimpressive well. “So this is it, is it? The well. I thought it’d be more...” Wenton spread his arms out, palms upward, “Majestic? Ornate? Not a hole in the ground with a half-rotted roof and a rope three-quarters ready to break.”
     The storyteller shrugged. “I didn’t make it, and I wasn’t around when it was made. Who am I to say what it should look like, Wenton of the Draughters? Who are you?”
     Wenton stuck a pinkie finger in his ear and wiggled, pulling out a glob of yellow. “I’m just saying. No harm meant. Just idle pondering from a half-man, nothing more.” He wiped the finger on his collar.
     “H-h-he didn’t m-m-mean n-no offense, ma-ma-Mister Mer--”
     “I know that,” the storyteller interrupted, “but you must always be mindful of the words you say. Not every avenue your thoughts take is in the right direction, and some things are much better left unspoken.” The storyteller eyed the brothers severely. “Remember that, and you’ll do reasonably well in this world, so long as you’re in it.” He gave a half-hearted smile. “Sun’s a-rising. Best get the stuff.”
     The sky had taken on the pink hues of morning by the time they had the coach car emptied. Odd trinkets littered the grass, procured goods from the last five years. A pair of gilt scissors, supposedly made from gold that once adorned Old Solomon’s Temple’s finest tables. A spool of spidersilk that would spin its remarkable line as long as the stars remained in the heavens, stolen from a blind oracle in Hong Kong. A gentleman’s handkerchief, faded and stained with orange blood that did not belong to the selfsame gentleman. Two vials of a red liquid, one of a charcoal mixture, and one of laced quicksilver. The storyteller picked up a red vial and the silver one. He tossed the first into the Well, careful to drop it straight down the center of the pit.
     “Well,” he said, glancing from Wenton to Weseley and back to Wenton, “here’s to hoping.” The storyteller unstoppered the vial and tipped the mercurial solution up to his lips. Thick, viscous liquid stuck to his teeth and tongue, sliding down his throat like damp flour. The man gagged, but he dared not spit it out. Not after the trouble it took to get it. He fell to his knees, reeling from the effects of the toxin. Phantoms appeared before him, hollow eyed and silent, an unfortunate side-effect of mercury poisoning. Wenton handed him the black vial next. The charcoal flakes tasted of sulfur, foul and rotten, like sin and pestilence. Weseley gave him the final vial, its color and texture all too familiar. Half of the blood within belonged to the storyteller, but the rest was taken from dozens of willing and unwilling donors. The more givers the greater your chance of success, the shaman had told him, slicing into his own hand as he talked, spilling his own precious fluids for a stranger’s sojourn. And you need all the help you can get. Shuddering and feverish, the storyteller’s hands trembled as he drank the final vial, washing down charcoal with blood.
     The sun's rim exploded above the horizon, spilling brilliant light onto the meadow. A noise, sharp and metallic, echoed from within the well. Tktktktk. It sounded like a large bug skittering around. One by one the phantoms disappeared, ripped apart by a breeze. Hands still shaking, the storyteller pulled himself up and made his way to the Well. Tktktktk. “Come,” the storyteller choked, his voice a whisper of whisper. “Come out and speak to me.” Tktktktktktk. “By the blood of the living and the breath of the slain I adjure you to reveal yourself to me.” TktktktktktktKTKTKTK! Something grey and translucent shot out of the well, sending the storyteller stumbling backwards.
     -you travel with poor company, corgan mercy.-
     The voice was harsh and strangely familiar, a whispered shout. The storyteller’s world was spinning. He had not been called by that name in a long time. His stomach burned, his head ached, and his dead wife stood in front of him. She was wearing the dress she had been murdered in. The grave had stolen its vibrant colors and replaced them with translucent neutral tones, accentuating the purple bruises on her throat. “Valeste,” he said simply, stunned.
      -i did not take you for a murderer, nor a thief, nor a necromancer.- She moved toward him, disappearing momentarily in the sunlight. -i am thrice mistaken.- She was in front of him, behind him, inside him, gliding in and out of sunlight and shadow.
     “I...” He searched for an excuse to justify his actions, but nothing came. “Valeste, I... Who are you to judge me?” He blurted out suddenly. “If not for your immorality you never would have ended up like this.” This was not going according to plan.
     Blank eyes stared down at him, white and lifeless and shining like the moon against a blackened sky. -and you see where my immorality has led me. i know my sins; the boon of the grave is knowledge. but you, corgan, you do not see your actions as wrongs, do you?- Her words fell on him like hailstones. Of course he had known, on some level, but his deeds were for justice, for the greater good. -why have you called me, my love? you seek retribution, hmm? yes, i can see it in the swirls of your eyes. you want to avenge me. you want to find the one who killed me in the streets as i made my way back home to you, the one who grabbed me and held me down as he choked the life from my throat.- Her face changed into a sneer. -or do you want to know the man who stole me away from your heart and home and threatened me with the love and attention that you withheld? is that it? you want to find the man who loved me and cared for me and you want to kill him. you want him to suffer as you have suffered these past five years. that is not justice, corgan. that is foolishness.-
     Corgan flinched at the rasp in her voice. Or was it the truth of her words?
     The sun was almost up, burning through her as light through grey chiffon. Valeste spoke above him, her dead face inches from his. -you are twice lucky and twice cursed, my love. i know the vows you made, and they will take you to your grave. the men you seek are one and the same, corgan. my lover is my killer. he disapproved of my refusal to leave you, and he followed me home and killed me in tears and hatred.- She was a faint glimmer of smoke and an echoing voice in his head. -he is your brother, my sweet. it is dillon mercy you’re after.-

Word Count: 1168

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight (2)

Thanks for the compliments to you fine and dandy Readers out there.  If you missed Part One, read it here.  I appreciate any feedback that comes my way.  

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--Part Two--

     The storyteller found Weseley sitting on the front steps, gnawing on the leg of something large and well used. “Hello Weseley,” the storyteller announced. The boy startled, jumping up to his feet and dropping the haunch.
     “S-sir,” the boy stammered. “Wh-what’re you doing out here? I-i-is the d-d-deed f-finished up t-t-t-top?”
     The storyteller nodded curtly, making an altogether unpleasant face. “Yes, Weseley, the deed is finished, but I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a rush. I trust you’ve had enough to eat for the time being?” The storyteller motioned toward the gristly bone.
     Weseley looked to to the ground and back to the storyteller, his face flushing. “Yessir. Y-yessir, p-plenty sir. More than e-na-nanough. Full as, full as, full as... full as Boxing Day boxes, sir.”
     “Excellent,” the storyteller exclaimed, dropping a hand on the boy’s scrawny shoulder. “Bring the coach around at once. Your brother will be out in three minutes.” The boy leapt to his feet and sped off, disappearing into the heavy fog. The storyteller watched him until he vanished, and only when the lad was gone did he allow himself to sigh. He stared up at the ceiling of grey and wondered, not for the first time, if his plan would work. Many had tried before him, men and women much smarter than he, and all had failed miserably. Their bloody deaths were testament to that. So what made him any different? Could he do the impossible? Cross Beyond and return? It seemed like he’d spent a lifetime of planning and thieving and bribing... or at least five very long years. To be so near the end had was both thrilling and terrifying.
     Something jarred him from his reverie, sending a chill through the marrow of his bones. Two red eyes, two unmistakable red eyes, stared unblinkingly at him from the far side of the porch. Even the thickness of the fog could not hide their glow. The storyteller ran his hand over the stolen necklace in his pocket, silently praying for courage. The stories of the Gyarmr echoed in his mind, superstitions and folk tales proven true too many times for him to count. The Gyarmr is as tall as three horses and as heavy as four, with teeth like stones, made for ripping and tearing. Its eyes are two embers, lit by God Almighty, and eternal. The Beast shows no mercy. The Beast feels no pain. If anyone sees the Black Dog, he will die within the week, a gruesome and bloody death.
     “Go on!” The eyes remained motionless. “It’s not time for this yet. Now go.” A streak of red split open beneath the eyes, jagged and cruel. The storyteller felt as if he were falling into a bottomless cave, all stalagmites and stalactites, silhouetted against an inescapable inferno. He could hear the Gyarmr panting, a wheezing breath, like a victim of consumption. The creature growled then, cavernous and guttural. The storyteller stood firm, squeezing the necklace until his fingers ached.
     “I still have time remaining,” the storyteller choked, “now leave me be. I’ve not forgotten the terms of the contract.”
     A pair of pale, yellow lights broke through the fog, and the coach pulled up to the steps. The storyteller looked back at the porch, but the eyes were gone.
     “Well that’s that,” said Wenton, appearing at the storyteller’s side. The boy’s hands and face were crimson and crusted with gore.
     “Hmm.” Weseley opened the rear door and the storyteller climbed in, staring out the back glass as they drove away, watching the fog collapse in on Count Hombrek’s estate, searching for the eyes that would welcome him to hell.

Word Count: 609

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The Gyarmr, again, is based upon the folklore of hellhounds. See wiki article here if interested.

Part Three will come next Friday.  Looks like it'll be around six or seven parts.  Perhaps I should have done this as a Writing Wednesday post instead of a Flash Fiction post, as the whole piece is definitely not flash fic.  Oh well.  It is what it is.

And truly, thank you all very much for reading.  It's thrilling, humbling, and intimidating, but it's fun.  

Flash Fiction Friday: Something Like Midnight

--Part One--

     “The Gyarmr is something like midnight. Ill-begotten. Dirty. Ethereal. Deadly. Midnight brings with it mischief and magic and all manner of marvels unseen when the majestic sun is a memory and the moon is but a sliver of silver against the night sky. Little children stand in dark rooms murmuring old rhymes and foreign words at a mirror, telling one another that they aren’t scared of what’s on the other side, all bravado and hoping their knees aren’t knocking too loudly. Bigger children climb down their trellises at midnight, sneaking away from their safe houses and venturing out to meet up with friends and lovers. When they are too big to be called children, grown ups sneak into houses and take things that are not theirs, sometimes life, sometimes love, sometimes a box of jewels or a pair of wool socks or an irreplaceable brooch.”

     The young storyteller paused. This was his final story of the evening, and all eight of Count Hombrek’s guests were deeply under his spell. He looked around the room, relishing their attention. “Yes friends, midnight is the mystery hour, dark and evil. It has always been this way; it always will be. If you’ve not been attentive tonight, I beseech you from the bottoms of my enormous heart to hear me now. For this is no mere story I’m telling you. No, this story can make the difference between life and death. This is a story about midnight,” the storyteller dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “and midnight belongs to the Gyarmr.”

     At that moment something heavy crashed into the parlor door, buckling the wood. Men and women alike jumped. A scratching sound came from the opposite side of the door. The storyteller tipped a bag from his sleeve into his hand and tossed it into the winking fireplace. The other hand was already holding the two sponge-like buds for his nose. Thick, thunderhead grey smoke began billowing from the hearth, filling the room in seconds. Black flames licked up through the smoke, eerie and eldritch. A young gentleman shrieked. The storyteller quickly put the buds into his nostrils, taking one final breath before the toxin became too strong.

     “It’s the Gyarmr!” someone shouted. People began sobbing. The door handle rattled. Another thump sounded, now at the window.

     “Our Father who art in heaven...”

     “Oh God. I can smell it. The fires of hell!”

     “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...”

     “Stay calm! It’s onl--” Count Hombrek’s voice cut off, as if someone had clamped a hand over his mouth. The storyteller twisted violently and the Count dropped to the ground with a muffled thud. The storyteller knelt over the man, searched for his neck, found a faint pulse and the chain of a necklace, broke the clasp, pocketed the loot, and was back on his feet all with one fluid motion. 

     The last of the voices and sobs died away. The storyteller stood in the miasma for a long moment, breathing through the filtered buds in his nose. The sulfurous odor was still faintly present, even through the buds, but the paralyzing poisons from the black powder were blocked. Satisfied that the occupants were all unconscious, the storyteller made his way to the parlor door and knocked four times. “They down are they?”

     Not bothering to reply, the storyteller unlatched the handle and pulled the door open. The smoke rolled out of the room, desperate to find a place larger to occupy than the tiny, cramped parlor. “Any issues with the rest of the guests?” the storyteller asked his accomplice. 

     “Nosir. Justa buncha children and two servants. They were doped good from the dinner, sir. Out like stones now. Didn’t lay a finger on a one of ‘em, either.” The accomplice peered around the storyteller into the room. Eight bodies lie in unceremonious clumps on the floor. The boy licked his lips, unashamed of his avarice.

     “Your limit is one,” the storyteller said sternly. “You have five minutes, Wenton, and then we must be gone.”

     “Five minutes is sufficient, sir, though I should wish for more. So many pretties.” Wenton scurried into the room, eyeing the unconscious guests as much as the goods that adorned the shelves.

     “Five minutes, Wenton,” the storyteller reminded, already moving down the corridor. Behind him he could hear the ripping, tearing sound of flesh, wet and ghastly. The storyteller briefly wondered which poor unfortunate was chosen, but he’d been at the game long enough now that he was already thinking of the necklace in his pocket. Wenton’s giggles echoed down the hallway.

Word Count: 769

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The Gyarmr, though barely present in this story, is based upon the folklore of hellhounds.  [See wiki article here if interested.]  

Part Two will likely come next Friday.  Thanks for reading.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Clean Man (A Study of Mostly Realism)

THE MAN leaned back in his chair, cautious not to go too far.  Wouldn't want the back to break after all.  He idly wondered to which back he was referring, but then shrugged it off, not really caring.  He picked up his coffee, bitter with only the slightest taste of artificial hazelnut cream somewhere in its black depths.  Steam rose from the mug, hot and refreshing.  Probably the only warm thing in the whole room, he thought.  As he returned the cup to the table some liquid splashed over the side.  Brown stains freckled paper.  He winced at the accident, critical of himself for the mishap.  He was a clean man.  A tidy man.  A man who took pride in organization and order.  Accidents were things that happened to others, not to him.

Scowling at the drying stains, he blotted the coffee up with a folded paper towel.  He could no longer reuse it, as was his custom.  Paper towels were luxuries many could not afford.  He, on the other hand, had stockpiled a basement full, affordable at the time in thanks to his wife's coupons and his cunning.  A clean man must have towels, he thought.  He glanced at the clock.  0741.  The spill had altered his routine by a full minute.  Not a problem to most, but he was a punctual man, leaving home at 0748 every day, arriving to work at 0759, and at his desk by 0800, usually beating his boss and everyone else to the scene.

He dropped the paper towel into the bin, frowning as it disappeared from sight.  The man returned to the table and gathered the papers, organizing them neatly.  He moved to his desk and placed them in their proper cribs. 0743.  He had to go.  He could already see the horrific traffic accident, detouring the roadways, pushing his arrival time back by several minutes, if not hours.  If he was lucky, he thought, he would be in the crash, and then he would not have to endure the patronizing glares of tardiness.  A perverse smile came unbidden at the grim thought.

The man topped off his coffee mug, filling to the prime place just below the rim of the cup.  He screwed on the travel lid.  I'd like to see you splash about now, he thought smugly.  0748.  He really had to go.  The man scooped up his jacket, throwing it on like a smooth and well-practiced machine.  "Off," he said, and the overhead lights began to dim.  As the door slid closed behind him, the man had a peculiar feeling of despair.  He paused and did an inventory count.  Lights.  Phone.  Wallet.  Keys.  Coffee.  Something was different, he knew.  Something was off.

The man arrived to work without accident.  He quickened his pace as he entered the gates, ready to be in his seat and about business.  The nagging sensation still poked at him mind that something had happened, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was.  The office was still dark.  Good, he thought.  "On."  The lights remained unchanged.  Frustrated, the man spoke again.  "On, please."  Nothing happened.  He sighed, agitated, but did not let it deter him.  Someone else would fix it.  He was a clean man, not an electrician.

He thought nothing of it that his computer was already on and lit.  On any normal day, the monitor would be awaiting his password entry.  Today, however, the man was greeted with a different screen.  Fingerprints smeared across the glass, greasy and yellowed.  A rag was in a wad atop his keyboard, soiled and smelling of rot.  The man stared in horror at the scene before him.  Papers were everywhere, many torn to shreds or mutilated.  His inkwell had been unstoppered and its contents poured onto his seat.  A spasm worked its way to his left eye, twitching violently.  The man's hand quivered and his coffee mug fell free, clanging on the ground below.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there.  Time ceased to matter to him.  His already fragile mind was now shattered into pieces too tiny to ever reassemble.  The man's knees buckled, and he collapsed into a heap of broken bone, broken body, broken soul, and broken heart.  They found him on Monday, two days later, still lying on the floor and talking to himself.  People gossiped about his unusual habits and his horribly filthy desk.  His clothes were dirty and his face unclean.

The thoughts made him sick to his stomach.  0744.  He might have to drive a little faster today, he thought, scooping up his coat.

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Does this make any sense?  Too vague?  And how much is based on my own life?

Flash Fiction Friday: Waiting for the End

The world was supposed to have ended by now.  After the 2061 famine I thought for sure we were over.  Ten billion people reduced to three-point-one.  But we survived, somehow.  Rebuilt.  Then the year of the firestorms came, and then the plagues.  And who can forget the ninth World War?  

Still, through the many years, I can't tell that we're any closer to the end than we were back when there were seven habitable continents.  After OmniBiotechnics came up with the Life 2.0 serum, we're now farther away than ever before.  I've been walking this earth for four millenia and I like to think that things are better now, but I'm no longer sure.  Death is a rumor created to keep us in line.  The same is true with love.  There's not been a recorded birth in three thousand years.  I'm not sure I remember what a baby looks like.  My days are spent sifting through forgotten tomes of ancient history, looking for prophecies in dead religions and bizarre cults.  The Entertainment House wants to find something "new and exciting" to present to the populace, and where better to look than in the past?  "There is nothing new under the sun," I read in one of these books, and I'm inclined to agree.  From what I can tell, all of these religions point to some sort of Armageddon or some breaking of the earth.  Something that finally wipes us all off of the face of the earth.

I think it's safe to say that they were all wrong.

---

Dear Adelith, 

I know it's been over two hundred years since I last wrote, but I woke up this morning thinking about you and thought I might as well.  How've you been?  How's Averret doing?  Does he ever ask about his papa?  I imagine not.  He was so little when I started my sentence that he probably doesn't even remember me.  I hope you told him about all the good things that I did back before I screwed up.  What House does he work in?

This is stupid.  I'm not expecting you to write me back, and hell, I don't even know if this letter will find you, but if it does, I want you to know that I'm so sorry for everything I put you through.  Had I known I would have received a life sentence I never would have got involved.  You don't understand what it's like here, serving a life sentence when you're practically immortal.  The boredom is maddening.  The only new thing I see each day is a different color wall to my cell.  Today it's a blue day.  Tomorrow is black.  Those are the worst.  Reds are pretty bad, too.  If there was any way I could off myself in here I'd do it in a heartbeat, but the guards are rather vigilant, especially to people like me.

I don't know why you were on my mind this morning, but you were, and I just wanted to let you know that I still love you, even after all these years.  I think fondly of the days before the serum, when we were poor but happy.  I hope life is everything you wanted it to be, Adelith.  I love you with my whole heart.

-Pogue

---

Kee-yu dreamed of food. A rice paddy, vibrant green and teeming with millions upon millions of healthy grains. A gentle wind cooled her face, tussled her hair like Mama used to do when she was a child. She tasted rain in the wind. Uytugyo will provide, the shaman said. He always will.  Kee-yu wondered where Uytugyo was when the monsters swarmed in and stole her mother away all those years ago.  

She ambled through the paddy, fingers lightly touching the plants as she moved. The grains were full, and she idly plucked a kernel and popped it in her mouth. She made her way to the center of the field, stalks dancing all around her, bending and twirling with the wind.  Far in the distance, just beyond the Blue Mountain, she could see smoke rising from the Dead City.  You must never go there, Kee-yu.  Never.  The monsters live there and they will gobble you up if you wander too close.

A gentle kick pushed against her swollen belly.  "You like the rice?" Kee-yu asked, gently rubbing her hand against the child's hidden body.  The baby pushed back against her hand, and Kee-yu smiled.  

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This piece is similarly inspired by my flash fic piece titled "Waiting for the Rain."  Where that piece dealt Realistically with differing POVs as they waited for it to rain, this story offers three different POVs in a fantasy setting revolving around a series of futuristic events and an obvious leitmotif. Also, I presented this piece in 1st person, 2nd, and 3rd-limited, so as to stretch myself.

Flash Fiction Friday: Frost - A Myth

(This one doesn't quite fit the Flash Fic definition, but it's close enough.  Enjoy.)
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     “It’s called hoarfrost,” Gwyneth said, scraping at the flakes between her lithe fingers. Fragile as cobweb, the clumped glob turned into powder at her touch, flitting through the garden air into oblivion. 

     “Whore’s frost? Is their ma’am a nightlady or summin?” 

     Gwyneth rolled her eyes. “Hoar. H-O-A-R. It means old, grey, white. The oldfolk thought the stuff looked like an old hag’s hair.”

     Beatrice scratched at her moustachio, trying to look like she was in deep thought. If Gwyneth knew her twin--and she most certainly did--then she knew the girl wasn’t burning any brain cells. She was very likely thinking on roast pig and jammed tarts and spiced beers and boiled potatoes and most definitely not etymology. But like a good sister, Gwyneth suspended her disbelief for the sake of love. Just like she did about the girl’s unfortunate lip hair.

     “Ah,” said Beatrice, smiling wide. “Cause she’s got the dandyruff. Makes sense.”

     “Yes, sweet one, it’s the dandruff.” A wicked thought began pounding in her head, and before she knew it, Gwyneth was spilling lies. “Frost hasn’t always been white, Beat. You know that? No? Used to, back in 1603, I believe, frost was a brilliant gold color. Every morning men and women would wake up to a light dusting of gold, just lovely in the sunrise, and it was warm to the touch. But one day, Sir Edward Florent of Flora and his squire Peeping Joe from Boston went out and changed everything.”

     “You’re lying.”

     “Am not. GOD’S HONEST TRUTH IN ALL CAPS AM NOT. If I’m lying then He can just backspace and erase me out of existence and right off this page.”

     Beatrice wrinkled her brow so heavily that Gwyneth thought the poor girl was turning into an ogre. Her eyes crossed and Gwyneth had to fight every urge in her body to resist slapping her simple sister. Not everyone understands meta, Father had said one night after a rousing game of lawn croquet. They were in the den, sipping on cognac and eggnog, enjoying stimulating conversation and dabbling in the meanings of it all. Beatrice had tried to keep up, but as always, her sister was ever so slow and Gwyneth had soon lost her patience. It was then that Father requested her out in the vestibule for a private conversation.

     “Go on, then,” Beatrice said, enchanted. They sat on their favorite bench, its wrought-iron sides twisting and spiraling in no discernible pattern. It was one of the few things that they shared an interest in. Gwyneth fingered the tiny gargoyles perched on the armrests, collecting her thoughts. 

     “Okay, but only because you’re my sister. So, Sir Edward and Peeping Joe set out on a grand quest to find a mystical fount, the Font of Cheese or somesuch name, not really sure. Anyway, this fount was supposed to give all who drank from it a boon of unimaginable proportions. Many had quested for the Font, but none had ever found it.

     “They traveled long months, over hill and under water, through cave and desert, until finally they happened upon an oracle. This oracle pointed them in the direction of the Font but sternly warned them not to ask for a boon, but only drink from its waters. They promised, but their fingers were crossed, so it didn’t really count, but the oracle didn’t know this, so she let them go. Then, two hours later, they found it. The Font of Cheese.

     “It was massive. A hundred times larger than Fathers fondue, sweet, golden water flowed everywhere. And there at its mouth stood the hag. Bent with age, fattened from cheese, and uglier than the toadfaced boy, the hag scowled a one-toothed grin at the riders. ‘What brings ye here,’ she asked.

     “‘We’ve come for the Font,’ said Sir Edward. The hag nodded. Why else would they’ve come? She knew what they were after, but for traditions sake, she had to make sure they were telling the truth. Honesty and all that. 

     “‘Aye, and you’ve found it, but stay the night first and in the morn I shall take thee to it.’ So they agreed, both being wearied from the road. And that night the hag--”

     “Aha!” Beatrice interrupted. “So she is a nightlady then!”

     Gwyneth gave her twin a thump on the thigh. “I’ve already told you no. No, she’s a hag, and an ugly one at that. She was a lady of ill repute, so to speak, just not like that.”

     Beatrice winked at some imaginary joke. “Okay, Gwyn. Okay.”

     Gwyneth sighed. “Don’t call me that. My name’s Gwyneth, not Gwyn. Do you want me to finish this story or not? I can just stop there if you’d rather.”

     “No, no, go on. Sorry.”

     “Good.” Gwyneth coughed. “Anyway, that night, while the two men slept, the hag wove a spell over them, and when they awoke their vision was changed. Instead of seeing the old woman, a beautiful and nubile maiden stood before them. ‘Erm, who’re you?’ asked Peeping Joe, stretching out the ache from his joints.”

     “‘I’m Ilia, sir, guardian of the Font of Cheese.’

     “‘What about the other woman?’ inquired Sir Edward, donning his cloak.

     “‘Other woman, sir? There’s just me.’

     “The two knights looked at one another and then exploded in laughter. ‘Aye, sure,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘Now you’re a wagonload better than that old ugly hag that met us here last night, I say. Wonder where she got off to?’

     “The maiden shrugged. ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’ The two men were in a hurry to get to the fount, and Sir Edward thanked her kindly, but refused.

     “‘Our breakfast will be from the flow of the Font, if you don’t mind.’ said Sir Edward.

     “And so Ilia led the two men up a winding trail and to the outflow. All the while, Peeping Joe continued to ridicule the hag from the previous night, claiming he’d suffered a night terror on her account. To his credit, Sir Edward remained silent. At the banks, Ilia moved off to the side and rummaged around through an Amish cedar chest that just so happened to be there. Finally, she withdrew two ceramic mugs. On one, the mighty house seal of Flora was emblazoned, a one legged chicken atop the shoulders of an angry werebear; on the other, as proud as its partner, was a single birthday candle painted in pinks and baby blues. Silently, Ilia gave each their respected cup and motioned for them to dip and drink their fill.

     “The two men knelt and dipped. The golden water filled the mugs, and each man quaffed the liquid. All at once, the veil lifted from Sir Edward’s eyes and he saw the hag for who she really was. Peeping Joe, though, remained under her spell, for his rudeness in the morning had irked the witch. ‘And now you each have a boon,’ said the hag. 

     “‘Mine’s simple, m’lady,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘I’d ask to remain here with you for all eternity. Your radiance is as glorious as the sun, if I may be so bold, and I’d be content just to remain here and to hold.’

     “Sir Edward glared at his squire, troubled by the man’s sudden rhapsody of poetry. Poetry was nothing to trifle with, Sir Edward thought, though he did not correct his squire. Ilia nodded, smiling that horrible one-toothed grin. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to Sir Edward.

     “‘I’ll have your head, witch!’ And in a flash his sword was in his hand, steel glinting like fire in the golden light of the water. Peeping Joe bellowed a Noooo! The ceramic cups shattered on the cobbles. Ilia cocked her head and snickered. Sir Edward flew through the air, slashing wide, tearing through the hag’s aged neck. Off rolled her head, grin still on the face.

     “Peeping Joe stopped, suddenly confused, for the witches spell ended as her lifeblood spilled out. Water bubbled and churned, and in the quiet morning a faint whisper fell from the bodiless head.”

     Gwyneth stopped. She could almost hear Beatrice’s heart pounding. She licked her lips, suddenly regretting her lack of foresight. In the wintry air, her lips would be chapped for certain. After a respectable moment, Gwyneth continued.

     “‘Accursed. A cursssse. A cursssssseee.’ And then she died. Immediately, the Font of Cheese lost its radiance, and the head again transformed, only now to that of an even more beautiful maiden than before. Filled with remorse, Sir Edward turned to his heartbroken squire.

     “‘You must go and tell the world this tale, Peeping Joe. The consequences of my actions will be most severe.’”

     “‘And what about you?’ asked the squire.”

     “Sir Edward held out his soiled longsword, staring at the black blood on the blade. ‘Me? I shall bear my burden until I die. The Font is mine, and I must guard it. Now go.’

     “And so squire Peeping Joe of Boston fled from the Font. The waters were white and silver now, their gold color long gone. He rode all day and night, stopping only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. And when he awoke the next morning, the frost was white.”

     The two girls sat in silence for a second. Gwyneth smiled at her fancy. Beatrice was frowning, rubbing at her moustachio again. “Who was the nightlady?”

     “Ah, see, Beat, now hers is a tragedy. She was once the fairest maiden in all the world, but a small-minded and heavy-handed stepfather put a curse on her, changing her from ideal to hideous. She ran away from home and lived alone all her years. Eventually she learned she, too, could do magicks, but by then she’d forgotten what her true face looked like.”

     The Ten O’Clock Gong reverberated above, deep and sonorous. Beatrice shot up like she’d been struck by lightning. “Brunch, sister! I wonder if we’ll have poached eggs and marmalade pecans?”

     “I don’t--” but Beatrice was already zooming down the hedgerow, moving as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her. Gwyneth yawned, rolled her eyes, and took off in pursuit.

-----

An attempt at humor, plus a fun myth for your weekend.

Flash Fiction Friday: Medical Log Entry #16

Medical Log Entry #16
Patient: John Doe

You would think that in the midst of certain Armageddon--global thermonuclear war, devastating pandemic, cybernetic revolution, and the African continental plate disappearing, to name a few--that one would be accustomed to expecting the unexpected. I, for one, am no stranger to the bizarre. After my stint in deep space, my mind’s been programmed to think well outside the bounds of normalcy. Add that to the thirty-one years with the Force, I’ve seen it all. But when Nilo called me up and told me I had to hurry home, that I just had to see this, I could tell from the tone of her voice that something unique was waiting for me.

Nilo and I first met at UMBRA back in 0-13. I was newblood, straight from the uni’s proud and ancient halls. Still had the naive shine in my eyes. Still thought the earth tilted at twenty-three degrees. Nilo was already an old hound by the time I showed up. She’d been immersed in the strange for half a millennium. Everybody who’s anybody knows who Nilo the Cyrene is. Her fame is known from here to the outer sectors. She practically wrote the book on modern criminal psychology, as well as how to deal with the ramifications.

Needless to say, I boarded the next transport home. Of course, home was currently over two hundred and forty-nine million miles away, past Mars, past what’s left of Moon, back in tiny little Harrison, Michigan, United States, Earth. Traveling near Mach 100, the trip would take over a third of a standard year. That’s a long time for someone to wait, I had told Nilo, but she assured me I would be fine as long as I left soon.

It was day eighteen when it happened. Our transport was careening at speeds approaching oblivion (though nowhere near the higher realm of the mighty c), but inside the Argo everything was relatively calm. I excused myself from a fascinating conversation about fungus with the delightful Dr. Dame Wolffa and made a bee-line for the privy. It was there, standing in front of the mirror and watching the recycled greywater gush from the faucet, that the Argo experienced turbulence. I staggered. My head hit the counter top. Something massive crashed into the transport and the entire world around me shook violently. I heard a few gasps from outside, but the door on the privy was sealed shut and refused to open. I banged, as if expecting that to do anything, and again the world shook. It was as if an earthquake was loosed upon us, though, as I said, we were many million miles away from Earth.

The interior lights cut off, plunging me into sudden darkness. A moment later the emergency lights flashed on, a bright orange EXIT sign illuminating above the door. “Not hardly,” I said, pulling again at the latch. Open sobbing now sounded from without. I heard prayers and pleadings. Then the shuttle shook again and something massive crashed into it, grinding it and everything within it into dust.

Everything turned into colors. Sounds. Tastes. Smells. Indigo from a rainbow. The shade of dead wheat.  Mist from a waterfall.  The brightness of Sun at daybreak. How keystrokes sound at high WPM. Iris milky white. Bland oatmeal on a summer’s luncheon. Nilo’s perfume the night we went to Cloisters. The saffron hue of her lipstick. Darkness, encircling and pulsing, my body spinning in a billion little pieces, each turning and rushing along with whatever carried it away. An old dirge of trumpets and cellos. The grey of sepulchers and the gold of crowns. Salt on springmelons. Her laughter at the cine. Her hand inside mine. Dark blood red after a gunshot. Sand grains beneath fingers within cake upon grass under covers pork insulafoam bone masks joy inside you ache love numbers algorithms infinitely complex knowing knowledge knowing nothing spinning spiraling spewing splicing splaying splintering fragmentslightblackhopelostfoundyou...

Life coalesced; meaning reared its head; every road I’ve ever traveled was before me; every choice I’ve ever made; every possibility of everything, past, present, future. I was dead, and I wasn’t. There was still work to be done. Something remaining for me. All of this and more I knew, as if the Almighty chose to give me a glimpse into His mind. There was terror and there was certainty. Above all there was love.

I awoke here at St. John’s Hospital. I’ve no idea of the date. Every time I ask I’m told something about something called “January,” whatever that means. The orderlies all shun me. I see hate in their eyes. Distrust. There is one I may be able to persuade to join me, for I see sympathy in him. Still, I am lost without my Nilo. No one claims to know her, and I’m beginning to question her existence myself. I am no longer confident of anything. They asked me to write this all down, and looking back at it I can’t discern fact from fiction. They are trying to help me, so they say, but to me it’s more like an interrogation. Nothing makes sense. I am confined but for my writing arm and my neck. So I write, day in, day out, hoping someday that I can look back over this and find the truth. I know it exists. I had it in my grasp as I rode the comet back to Earth. But eternal fire is not meant for human minds, and I now must pay the cost. One day I will recover, and when I do, I will flee from this place and find Nilo. Until then, I must have patience.

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Word Count: 938

-Written as an exercise in futility, plus, it's been a while.