The Gate of Longing

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

In the vision, she saw herself standing at the bottom of the stairs.

To her left a marble sentinel statue held the marble scroll etched with the warning:

“Beyond this Gate, your dreams, fulfilled. Consider well the Fate you willed,”

From the railing pillar to the stairs a raven watched, calling to his companion. 

As he descended, an angry call escaped him. He remembered those who’d cast the spell to confine him in this form. It had been long ago, but the hatred and fear never abated

As for the woman, she was aware of them watching her, but had no fear.

All she desired was to come out of her somber, ashen world filled with shades of black and see the colors of the world denied her when the curse descended. 

They fell silent, gauging her spirit and courage.

Time out of measure had passed since anyone stood where this woman did, but time had no real meaning or substance in a place like this.

The chilled wind was gentle, the fog was thick, the trees bare, and the ground cold and hard.

Above all else, the silence hugged her like an old friend, reluctant to let go and let her start her journey alone. 

The letters of the warning scroll gleamed in the white moonlight, a written whisper of warning that she would get all she asked, and though she never read them aloud they echoed in her mind like a spilled secret that only she would hear.

Choose!

Now!

The ravens spoke in her mind right after the warning faded, their patience at an end.

Dinner awaited them in the corpse of a boar that gored and killed the man who hunted him.

Blood’s copper scent filled the air, and they were loathe to be last to the feast.

One step up will change your life.

All the way, a different path.

Choose, now.

She remembered reading that somewhere, but like the colors, they eluded her. 

Choose. 

Now. 

After a deep breath, looking around at her lead-hued home, she did.

Dead Ringer

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

       Across the meadow from the new village were the abandoned ruins of the old  one.

       No one in the new had any knowledge of the old one’s history, why it was abandoned, and why they chose not to settle there. 

       No one cared enough to research it.

       They were content to tell their children not to play in there, since it was surely populated by vagrants and vermin, neither of which had good intentions toward children.        

      Of course the children played there almost every day, never seeing a vagrant, and making temporary pets of the vermin, until the first evening stars became visible.

      In the fading sunlight they ran pell-mell across the meadow to show off their treasures to their friends not bold enough to go. 

       At home, they’d end up  taking the scoldings and lashings in stride until the adults in their lives gave up or got too busy.

      After some time, as long as none went missing, and all returned home, nothing more was said.

      Because of that, the children grew bolder, and made plans to stay overnight.

      Scouting their sleeping spaces by day, when the stars came out, the daily run across the meadow didn’t happen.

     They knew the adults would be worried, and maybe look for them, scold them, and give them a lashing, but decided it was worth the adventure.

    They watched as the sky darkened, and a mist slowly rolled over the meadow like a creature exploring its new home.

      With nervous giggles, but drawing comfort from each other, they said their goodnights and took their places.

      No one knew when the dream started, but all of them remembered they had it.

                                                           ********************

      A man of medium build, stripped naked, was surrounded by angry people shouting and cursing his name as they pelted him with rocks, sewage, spit, rotten vegetables, and the bones and corpses of small animals.

     All of his efforts to cry out, get to them, and hear him were frustrated by the sheer volume and force of everything hitting his face, blinding and almost choking him to the point where he dared not risk talking again. 

     A large, bulky old man raised his right hand, and all the cruel merriment came to an abrupt end. Then he pulled the rope attached to the man and forced him to kneel.

     “Is this what you want?” He pulled the man’s head up by the hair, forcing him to look at the crowd through swollen eyes.

      They cheered in affirmation.

      He looked down on the man. “Bell ringer, you stand accused of having the preacher’s wife in adulterous carnality. Do you deny it?”

      “I’ve done so from the beginning. It’s she who seduced me, using the ways of witchcraft.”

      Yells, screams, and peltings until the large man held up his hand, again calling for order.

      The preacher came forward, his wife beside him, but he held her arm in a vice grip, and she was wincing.

         “This is my wife, bell ringer! Guard your tongue. Take back your words, and all will be forgiven. My wife will be restored to me, and your life to you. Say it.”

      The bell ringer looked at them all, but spoke to the preacher. 

      “Was it not you, preacher, who told us to speak the truth no matter the circumstances? Would you now have me lie to spare your own?”

      “We’ve been betrothed, man, long before this date, and she did not bewitch me. We spoke our vows in this very church, before our gods. You yourself rang the bells for the nuptials, and now you accuse her not only of adultery, but witchery?”

       “I swear it by my soul, preacher, she did make it so I could not help but look at her whenever she passed. One night I rose from my bed and stood in a forest clearing waiting for her, and at the hour of midnight she came, her clothes falling about her as she moved, and bade me kiss the mark on the inside of her thigh.”

      She paled, as did the preacher. 

      The burly man noticed this too, and as the crowd gasped and quieted, he looked at the preacher.

      “Is there such a mark?”

      “No.”

      “He lies,” the bell ringer said. “Pull her skirts.”

      The preacher punched him in the jaw, and a string of blood fell from his mouth.

      “Preacher…” the burly man warned.

      “You’ll do no such thing. Hang him.”

      “What?”

      “HANG him! Drape him from the bell itself, that he might make a double clapper and ring his lies through the gates of hell itself.”

      The burly man turned to the crowd. “What say you?”

      “Lift her skirts, Elder!” 

      “Leave her!” 

      “Don’t you dare! 

      “Test her!”

       The preacher put her behind him. He wanted to run, but their backs would be turned, and they’d be overtaken. She clutched his body so they’d have to pry her off him.

       The Elder’s uncertainty grew, and the preacher once more spoke through the silence.

       “Hang him. See it done. We are leaving.”

                                                                 ********************

       The children woke at first light, quickly gathered, and too fearful to discuss what happened, began to make their way across the meadow, but the mist was still there.

       They hesitated.

       Behind them, on the gentle rise at the other end of town, the bell began to ring, alternating between soft and loud.

      “Don’t look,” the older kids told the younger ones. “Don’t turn around. We’ll wait here until the mist clears.”

       They never crossed the meadow anymore, and from that day on, at first light they always heard the echo of the tolling bell.

Forbidden Invitations

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

Nature does its best to shield us from the world of spirits and soul hunting fiends,

but we have an unhealthy fascination with living forever, fearlessly self-indulging with no fear of consequences.

That is the very essence of damnation.

Remove the promised threat of being consumed by vermin while roasting on a spit,

awake all the while, the pain so great that screams clog your throat, while the demons surrounding you baste you once more in filth of their own making, and laugh as you suffer.

But you viewed the possibility of such a penalty unworthy of you, only of others.

They fool you every time, these beautiful, succulent demons…

So we stand at the shield, pulling ourselves up to peek over as into our neighbor’s yard to see if they’re available to chat a while.

They answer us when we call with our spells and incantations, wishes, and rituals, bound to them by blood. Blood is the most sacred thing to heaven, and the most desired in hell.

Our soul-snatching, flesh eating neighbors don’t just respond.

They climb over the fence, and charge through the open doors and windows we so willingly, foolishly opened with our candles, crystals, cards and boards, diagrams of pentagrams, and animal sacrifice.

And at the darkest level, without a flicker of light, the bones of mankind are mired in the gory blood of their own sacrifices.

They come at our invitation, these fiends, and take us.

They slip over us like cold, clinging wetsuits, and snatch our minds and wills in clawed fists to bend us to their service.

Still, we take no heed of the rising pyres, believing ourselves the exceptions, beating the odds to live forever with no guilt as those around us scream at the vast, black abyss.

Me and mine, you and yours.

All of us.

Welcome.

Empty Alms

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

  “One coin to tear the veil between worlds, my friend,” the blind beggar said. “I’ll tell your future for a coin or two. The more you give, the bigger the tear, the more I can see what will become of you.”

     He was always around, this beggar. 

    The weather didn’t matter, nor did the amount of people on the streets.

    For him, there was only darkness, only the shimmering specter of the void.

    Or so it was told to me.

     “My sight for this world was shut off so I could use what remained in the next, you see?”

     He grinned at his own bad humor, but the explanation in and of itself made sense.

     It wasn’t something I’d want for myself.

     “Do you have anything to spare for me, sir?”   

     “I do.” I put the coin in his cup.

     A moment later he gasped, and blood trickled from his mouth.

     He licked at it, then smudged it with the back of his hand.

     “Why are you bleeding?”

     “I bleed for you, good sir. Your end is violent and sad.”

     “But why? I’ve made no enemies.”

     The beggar laughed. “Don’t be foolish. We all have them, real or imagined. You see, their hearts are poisonous and rotten, a briar patch alive with shimmering, wriggling clusters of worms. 

     “Their dark thoughts stoke the bonfires of dread nightmares, and so I say for you, sir, a violent end.”

     “Is there no way to avert it?”

     He shook his head. “It is an ending, sir. How does one avoid the end of a thing?”

     “Perhaps another coin…”

     He shook his head, put his cup away inside a pocket somewhere in his robe, and looked at me as if he could see right through me. 

     “You don’t have another coin. My time here ends. Be vigilant, sir; you’ll not see me again.”

     As he turned to go away, I felt a warm, light stream on my chin and wiped at it.

     Blood. 

     Why is there blood in my mouth?

The Moaning Trees

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Mark me here, children, and take a look at the forest around you. 

  For time untold, whoever once lived here used the trees for gallows, and every type of body was hung there: men, women, children, foreigners, criminals, those who practiced magic, or were believed to be doing so, and those who renounced it when the tables turned.

   Rabid and diseased animals were not spared, butchered where they were tied to the trunks.

   And as the spirits drifted and the flesh rotted, the tree bark grew paler, and the spring blossoms stopped growing.

   Tree roots grew twisted, with a reddish tint to them, and the pale bark flaked away as the corpses dried and swayed in the wind like old companions in rocking chairs on a porch.

   The last explorers that traveled through and briefly tried to settle here wrote that the soil was infertile, the turned earth littered with the broken bodies of predator and prey alike. 

    An odor of decay became omnipresent, a patina of corruption clinging to the air like sweat on a hot body.

    And when night falls, children, one can hear the trees moaning. The stories and songs say it’s the cries of the condemned mingling with the screaming pleas of tortured bodies long before they die. 

    In autumn, the wind stirred leaves echo the sound of snapping necks and fluttery sighs of death.

    On nights of the full moon, the very trees seem to wail as the collected burden of their grisly growth overwhelms them. Others say the weeping, restless spirits cry as they wander, lost to time and memory.

   And when the seasons change, children, the spirits of those condemned in that time return to tell their stories to one another, again and again.

   Every night, no matter how fierce the weather, now empty the land, if you listen you can hear  the cries for mercy, then the raucous, mocking laughter from the hanging mobs that cheer on the savagery.

     Other nights, when the moon is new, among the trees you can hear the laughter of children as they run after each, their footsteps rustling and cracking the detritus beneath them..

    Daring campers have fled, hearing snarls and low, deep growling as their bodies were rolled over by unseen paws, their faces probed by wet, cold blots feeling very like the noses and tongues of canines they couldn’t see, and their chests suddenly heavy with weight they couldn’t get off before they woke up screaming, as if an animal had settled on top of them.

     Still others shared a sense of dread, waiting in thick silence as something watched them, but despite their risks in calling out, nothing was there. 

      No one answered. 

     All things considered, children, it’s best to avoid the moaning trees and travel the long way around these arbors of evil and grief, if you can. 

     You see, they have long memories, and don’t mind sharing them with you. 

A Portrait of Death

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, Uncategorized

 Part 1: A Late Arrival 

    The night sky was obscured by a hard rainfall.

      No thunder, but it felt imminent.

      Everything had been laid out for my guest, but he was late, and given the fact that our meal had gone cold and gelid, I stopped expecting him and enjoyed a cup of dark red wine that held a gem of amber firelight in its ruby hues.

      I sipped, savoring it, and was drifting toward sleep when the knock came, rousing me out of a drifting dream state.

     He’d used the heavy metal bar curved through the jaws of a badly sculpted gargoyle knocker I’d taken a fancy too and purchased; it looked more irritated than menacing, which is how I felt at receiving guests in general.

    But all of the servants were in bed, and in a flash of beneficence I decided to let them sleep, and went to answer the door myself.

                                                           *************

    He’d taken a human face for this session, an affectation for which I was grateful, but it was the shimmering black robe that caught my attention. For all the millenia he’d worn it, it wasn’t tattered, frayed, dirty, or worn.

     It seemed made of liquid obsidian, and rippled with his movements, seeming to surround him instead of adorn him, for when he sat down it didn’t spread out.

    “No scythe?” I asked.

     He grinned. “Not needed. It’s symbolism, mostly.”

    “Then how do you…?”

    “It’s fine, don’t worry. Are you prepared to start?”

    “W-well,” I stammered a bit, “it’s just that people are used to seeing you with it.”

    “There are countless pictures of me holding one, but tell me, do you really want to do what everyone else has done?”

    I started to answer, but the question in and of itself gave me pause.

    “I…I suppose not.”

    “Good. Are you prepared?”

    “Yes.” Then I clarified. “To paint you, that is, not to…”

    Again the small grin. “Of course.”

                                                      **************

    He posed himself just so, the gentle hues of candlelight reflecting off his robe as if underwater, clear and flowing, not obscured or murky at all.

    There was pristine quality to him that belied his calling.

    I chuckled as I sketched the outline. “Flowing robes.”

    “Pardon?”

    “Oh,” I said, flattered he was even listening, “I said, ‘flowing robes.’ It’s a term used to describe–”
    “I’m aware of its use. I just didn’t hear you.”

    “Well, the thing is, yours actually does, or seems to…”
    He didn’t answer, leaving my unspoken question drift into the air.

    In the distance, I heard the first roll of thunder herald the storm.

Part 2: An Early Departure

    The mix of the wine and lateness of the hour, and the patter of rain and low thunder began to wear on me.

    I thought I saw drops of darkness start at his sleeve, falling and coming to rest on the floor like ink, and slowly spread.

    I blinked, put down the brush, and rubbed my eyes, thinking it to be an illusion, but when I opened them again, they were still there, now drifting toward me.

   I ignored it, and looked at Death’s face.

   Nothing had changed from the time he walked in; his skin hadn’t paled, his countenance was still, and there was an emptiness to his gaze that brought to mind this was more of an annoyance he was doing as a favor to me than an honor. 

   Indeed, it was.

   The obsidian color never lost its shine as more of his robe dripped and pooled, spreading across the floor like an ebon fog.

   I was rooted to the spot, no longer painting.

   “W-w-what’s happening to me? I don’t understand…”

    Again, the grin. “The longer you paint me, the more of me you capture, I also capture you.”

   “But if  you take me, the painting will be unfinished!” I heard the plea of rising panic in my voice as the fog coiled around me and began its slow ascent.

   As the thunder rolled, closer than before, lightning flashed and the rain fell harder.

   His obsidian robe and human guise sloughed from him, leaving only his alabaster bones.

   He rose and walked toward me. 

   “Do you not yet understand, dear painter, that all the portraits of me were finished by me?”

  The flowing obsidian was cool against my flesh as the brush and paints fell, and my vision, as its color began to match his robe, was undisturbed by starlight, save for the amber firelight suddenly captured in the void of his eyes, and on the blade of his shimmering scythe.

Unkindness

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

The courtyards of the castles and the keeps of the forts were the roaming places of my friends and I when we were young enough to be fascinated by the thoughts of battle and glory, hearing the stories of the old soldiers they told by the bonfires, and seeing the eyes of the women glaze over with something akin to adoration, and the eyes of the men’s fathers full of pride.

   Others would turn away, aware of the blood price paid for victories, and the soul crushing pain of ruin and defeat at the hands of gloating victors. 

   It didn’t matter to us children until the land went bad, the money ran out, the jobs were gone, and hunger sat like a dozing toad over the place I called home.

   For our many crimes of survival, taking no joy in all we had to feed ourselves, the King had those of us caught in the act tied to stakes, and placed in the very courtyards we once roamed freely. 

   His guards placed us in the ones that had the longest stretches of summer sun, and no one was allowed to feed us or give us anything to drink, on the peril of joining our line of questionable criminals.

   As the days and nights passed, the flies came as our bellies emptied the last of their contents.

   They laid their eggs, and moved from waste to skin, then laid more eggs.

   We felt the maggots writhe as they feasted, seeming almost to dance.

                                                              *************

    The bindings never slipped. 

    The blindfolds never slipped.

    Rendering us helpless, the kingsguard had been thorough in their work. 

    Those who died from exposure were spared the worst that was yet to come, and in another day or so we heard them, made all the more terrifying because we couldn’t see them:

    The ravens came shortly after. 

     We heard the calls, felt the wind when they flew onto us to pull the blindfolds down, then fly off to a safe distance. 

     Every day, more came. 

     The screams were random, and horrifying; the blindfolds were tied anew every morning, but the ravens were relentless. 

      In the silence between screams, the sound of their beaks knocking against the eye sockets echoed in the yard as the sun set and darkness brought some relief.

                                                               ***************

     When my turn came, the scythe shaped beaks tore into burned, chapped skin that parted like gossamer at the hammering blows. 

     I screamed from the pain my nerves registered, and such tears as I had left inside of me never rolled out of the blindfold. 

    Floating in and out of consciousness in an ebon-shadowed dreamscape, I could see the bodies that still clung to their stakes, their sundered flesh gory and terrible. 

   And every day, more birds came and worked until I screamed myself hoarse. 

                                                       **************

     In the heat of the noonday sun, after days lost to pain and numbness in their dance macabre, I felt the fading of life.

     Footsteps approached, and the small clink of armor made me hope a soldier’s weapon would make a quick end, a hope that was dashed when I heard who it was that spoke the last words I’d hear. 

    “Give him water, I will speak with him now.” 

    “Yes, your grace.” They lifted my head, parted my lips, and poured.

    I didn’t know if the gods would grant me the time he wanted; I was fine with whatever they chose.

    “You understand why I imprisoned you so?”

    “No, my king. I would think you would see all your subjects fed.”

    “You feel I’ve done you an injustice.”

    “I know it.” 

    I heard the drawing of a sword. “His tongue grows overbold, sire.”

   “Stay your hand, Captain. Sheathe your sword.”

    I heard it go back inside the sheathe. 

    The king spoke to me again. “You knew the risks of stealing rationed food.”

   “It was not rationed fairly.” 

   “How so?”

   “Kings make war or trade to feed their people, You did neither, and gave the best to the nobles of your court to keep favor and avoid assassination.”

   He was silent for a time, but so was I.

   After a while, he spoke again. “For your words, I will not let the captain of my guard grant you a merciful end, and may the gods judge you harshly for your crimes.”

   They began to walk away. 

   I no longer wanted to linger, and I knew the bristly Captain would be the key to my departure. 

  “And may they judge you equally for your cowardice, ‘majesty.’

   I heard steps running back toward me. 

   “Captain, no!”

                                                 ***************

    After so long a time of piercing and bleeding slowly, the blade proved nothing more than the jab of a larger bird, and my body arced toward it as the captain pushed it hard through, breaking the stake in half, and sliding the sword out, he let me fall with it.

    What few ravens remained made a brief, excited racket, and then the darkness of the cosmos blended their feathers together, and blinded my heart to life, as my eyes had been to nature.

    The spirits of my fellow prisoners waited, greeting me, and together we left the fortunes of the generous earth to the tyrannical, childish whims of petty men, and went in search of Paradise, wherever it may be, by whatever name it calls itself.

Night Jackals (Enclave of Paradise short story)

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Chapter 1: Chased

  In the razed city he called home, now full of booby trapped debris and mines placed around by the infiltrators from Above, the Enclave was a lot more dangerous now than it had been since the rebellion failed. 

     The place had a name of its own once, but he’d been born into the time of war and had been too young to say it.

     Now, it seemed no one remembered it. 

     They called it the Enclave of Paradise, as sarcastic and bitter a name as they could get without being openly profane, though he saw no reason they shouldn’t be.

      At the moment though, Chase was panting for breath, running from the night jackals who were hunting him in a pack of four. 

     He could hear them spatter and splatter through the chemically laced ‘rainwater’ from Above. 

     The Night Jackals were new. No one had seen them come, and no one noticed them until their numbers were sufficient, 

      Then they went on a few tentative hunts, feeding mostly off animal strays. 

     They picked off people walking alone or drunk. If they happened to be both, it made for an early night when the alcohol hit the jackals’ bloodstream

.

     He had a flashing thought that was supposed to be, of all things, humorous: They’re chasing Chase.

    He dismissed it as not funny, and turned to see the pack of four coming for him. 

    What was even more chilling was the fact that they ran completely silent, with no warning. It happened so fast that it was effective in keeping down the neighborhood population.

    The Night Jackals were killers in their own right, relentless, patient, and silent as Death’s reaper.

     His gun was charged, but he’d lose ground for sure if he stopped to fire it, and he was no good at running and shooting simultaneously.

     Chase’s breathing grew labored.

     The jackals closed, beginning to yip as the excitement of the pending kill gave them adrenaline. 

     You’re not gonna make the gates, Chase. Take cover in the rubble. 

      He muttered a curse. The rubble was where the traps, bandits, other ferals, orphans, street people, and who-all-else-knew what was in there.

      Still, it was now or never. 

      He changed course, and the jackals grew more cautious. They were clever animals, Chase would give them that much, but that’s as far as he wanted to take it. 

      He measured the jump into the pile of metal, stone, and glass.

      Ready? Three steps.

      Set? Two steps.

      Now! 

Chapter 2: Trapped

      There was no cover, but he fell into a hole and gashed his arm on something spiky.

      The thwarted pack of jackals growled in frustration, losing sight of him, but not his scent.

      He realized, only after he bit his lip and wiped the tears of pain from his eyes, that he trapped himself.

        He heard one of them climbing, carefully, picking its way up so as not to cut itself.

        It had the luxury of time. 

        Chase went to pull his gun, but his arm was shaking and he couldn’t land a grip on the handle. 

        He couldn’t see it, but the other three jackals circled the heap to find another way in on the ground. What he did know was that he was losing precious seconds bumbling his firearm.

       He gripped his right wrist in his left fist and breathed deeply despite the flaring pain along his forearm and biceps.

       The jackal now scented the blood that ran from Chase’s wound.

       It growled deep in anticipation of the feast, then slipped, losing its footing.

       Chase heard it yelp, and the others answered.

       After a tense silence, he heard them climbing, picking their way up once more as their paws struck tin. 

       He couldn’t stay there now even though he had the gun. Times were hard and they were hungry; they’d attack him as a pack even though space was tight.  

       Looking around, he saw nothing he could shove to dislodge them again.

       Another low growl came from above, and a drop of blood fell on his gashed arm.

       The alpha was staring at him, its paw dripping. 

       Having nothing to lose now, he screamed and fired.

                                                                      ***************

      Singed, the jackal barked, retreated, then growled low again.

      The other three cleared the top, and Chase circled as fast as he could, still screaming, still firing.

      He hit two of them in the face. One fell back down the heap as it died, and the other ran off with its lower jaw destroyed. 

      Two left. 

      The Alpha peeked over again, and snarled, 

      Chase felt his arm going numb and his fingers tingling; he had no idea how he was still holding the gun, or how long he’d be able to keep it. 

      The Alpha’s face disappeared again, and while Chase watched, the night jackal behind him jumped.

      Chase crashed into the opposite wall, the gun falling out of his hand.

      It became a race for throats, and Chase barely won as the jackal’s neck twisted in desperation beneath his hand. The scent of blood seemed to increase the jackal’s strength, and its eyes went from gold to red as it thrashed to make its escape. 

      Chase managed to turn it on its side, lest the claws scratch his almost useless right arm. 

      Putting his full weight onto the jackal’s ribs, he squeezed its neck to limit movement. 

      It seemed to take a long time for it to die; had his right arm been good, he would’ve broken its neck. As it was, he was so focused on killing it he forgot about the Alpha. 

      Powerful jaws clamped his bicep and the fangs sent a fresh wave of pain through his arm as he cried out.

      His arm jerked back and slammed the jackal’s head into the wall of junk surrounding them, hoping its head would get cut open, but instead it lost its grip and fell stunned to the floor. 

      Chase took the opportunity to stomp the other one’s ribs into its lungs, and it died with a loud yelp.

      Hurriedly, Chase looked for the gun; he’d fire it left handed if need be, but he didn’t see where it had skittered under a pile of rusted tin and busted garbage bags the rats had opened nightly.

      The Alpha was recovering. 

      Chase kicked it twice in the head, dropping it. 

        His right arm now hung useless at his side.

        He had to finish this now. 

        The rats were gathering after scenting fresh blood, some of them already at the dead body Chase made. 

        He grabbed the Alpha by its tail and slammed it into a side wall of horizontal tin panels, cutting it. 

        The noise from the jackal was loud and piercing, hurting Chase’s ears, but he swung it twice more, slicing is back open.

        Past the point of fighting, the jackal whimpered, its eyes turning red as Chase pushed its neck onto a rusted tin panel and scraped its neck back and forth in a sawing motion. 

       More chittering rats came as jackal blood spurted over Chase’s clothes and face. 

       A wave of exhaustion came too, and he found himself fighting to stay conscious.

Chapter 3:  Escaped

        Chase vomited.

        The scent of blood and guts, the increasing boldness and numbers of the rats, and the fact that he almost died were beginning to take their toll.

        Standing near a wall of rubble, he swatted at a rat that jumped on the wound in his arm. Slapping it off hurt it more, but it had to be done before the rat got its teeth and claws into him. 

        He just needed to get out, but couldn’t climb now without making a path through the rats. 

        For now, they were still concentrating on the jackals, but they were sniffing the air at his rising fear, and he had to kick the closest ones away to keep space around him. If they started to climb his body, he was lost. 

        Taking a breath, he carefully scanned for a handhold; he’d have to start with his right arm to see if it could take the stress. The climb wasn’t long or steep, but it would take effort. 

        The light coming through the holes in the ground above Paradise was starting to move west, and Chase knew he couldn’t afford to lose the light. 

          A movement in his peripheral caught his attention. 

          The rats were growing sluggish, even beginning to stand still.

          What’s happening to them?

          Clearing his mind, he went back to his search, and saw a space just above his head between two cast off doors that he could slip his hand through. If they held his weight, he’d use them to search for the next one.

           The rats began chittering. Some had fallen on thier sides, and others on their backs.

           The jackal’s guts….something’s wrong with them.

            He grabbed the end of the door above his head, the gash in his arm sending pain that made him bite his lip and breathe heavily through his nose as consciousness feinted to elude him again.

Once more it passed, and he pulled at the door. It held.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foot hold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Chase pushed up on his arms, and began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded a lot like the jackals.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foothold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Tensing as a couple of pieces dislodged and fell along with it, he kept still.

When nothing more crashed down on him, he  began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded not unlike the jackals.

Chapter 4: Freed

He lost track of everything but the next handhold and foothold.

Time faded, and the pain in his shaky right arm eventually numbed with adrenaline, but was still bleeding since he couldn’t bind it. It was slow, but it was there.

He was working against both as the last of the light faded and the adrenaline wouldn’t last.

Among the surviving rats, some began to pick the carcasses of their dead, and others tried to find a way up the pile to Chase.

He took a glance up, and liked his chances, but the rats were just as determined.

A beam of bright light lit the precarious catwalks above his head, and he muttered a mild curse of frustration as he lifted up enough to be able to reach the top.

Search party or patrol? Friend or foe?

He heard the sound of boots drawing close.

“He came this way.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? We’ll give it five more minutes. I don’t want to be down here when it’s dark.”

Chase knew the voices. “Over here, guys.” 

The sound of boots came faster.

The yipping of night jackals could be heard in the distance.


Seaspell

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Chapter 1:  Lure

   The old woman, the one who’d only seemed frail at first sight, stood on the rocks above the shoulders of a younger woman, partially hidden by the young woman’s billowing dress as the wind put their hair in back of them, silver strands and raven tresses dancing together in the brine scented breeze, like a thin spirit with a large shadow. 

   The sky threatened rain, but neither seemed concerned.

   Both looked out at the calm, gray horizon framing the restless waves of a dark gray ocean as they pulled their robes tighter around them for warmth.

   A rising tide roared into the stones, and hissed in foamy frustration as it receded to gather its strength for another surge.

   “Close your eyes,” the old woman said, “and be sure this is what you want to do.”

   The young woman obeyed as her elder began to softly chant in a quavering singsong.

    The gods of water, shell, and fish,

    And sunken treasure grant your wish

   The singing sirens long ago

   Now meet along the currents flow

   So let the weed wrapped hook we place

   Bring these young lovers here apace

   And let the rusted anchor’s weight

   Bind both their hearts in happy fate

   So the young maiden and the crone

   Do now release this chanted drone

  What we have asked, please let it be,

  Fulfilled for us by spell of sea.

  As the seaspell faded into the wind, the young girl saw the face of the man she loved.

  It was time.

  In one hand she held a kelp-wrapped hook, and in the other, an old anchor speckled with rust.

  Trembling, she knelt and tied one of the ends of the kelp around the anchor, and placed the whole between two gapped stones so it couldn’t be displaced by the water or sliding mud.

   “Good,” said the old woman.

   “Do you know how long it will take, Nan?”

   The old woman gave a knowing smile at the impatient longing of a young woman in love.

   “Not knowing where he is, or if he’s still alive, there’s no way to tell. Unfocused seaspells, given a purpose but not a  location, take longer to work.

   “Trust me, even now, the wind and waves carry your call. 

   “Let the charm do its work, dear. You’ve placed it well, and it will not move until he answers.”

    The next wave sprayed them, the tide coming in a bit faster than they’d realized.

     Nan gave a soft laugh. “Come, child. I’ve managed many crafts, but flying isn’t one of them.”

     It warmed the old woman’s heart to see her granddaughter smile as they linked arms to help each other make their way back up the rocks.

Chapter 2:  Catch

    At first, the journey hadn’t gone well. 

    Both men and supplies had been lost, as they had to defend their royal cargo more than once.

    Now, the wind had stalled for days

    Hunger and thirst had taken more of them, and the sharks visited daily to reap the harvest.

    The ones that remained would see the fins coming at dawn, silent as the sun itself, but a lot swifter in their killing.

     Surprised he’d survived this long, mostly using the memory of their parting kiss and how soft her lips had been, he’d given the memory over when he could no longer afford to be distracted by foolish thoughts of her form wrapped around his, her passion tearing through him as he released his own. 

     But now the sails were full, the currents kind, the night sky suitable for navigating, and the day one deceptively genial. 

    They’d made what repairs they could, and hoped the sea gods wouldn’t sink the ship in amusement at their feeble efforts.

    For now they’d been spared, so the captain told them the next port they made would be the last. Resigned to the end of his sailing career, he’d send the remaining cargo on the vessel of a trusted friend, the king be damned, and take the full brunt of his wrath for the losses.

    As they made their way, her memory came back to him. It was so seemingly random, and so stark in its clarity that he gasped in surprise. For an instant, it had been as if she were standing beside him.

     When the image faded, he rubbed the left side of his chest. It felt as if his heart was tingling, with just a pinprick of pain.

    The captain saw him leaning across the rail, dry heaving.

     “Are you all right, Mattias?”

     “I will be, Captain.” He didn’t remember feeling like he had to dry heave, but there it was.

     “Go lay down. All’s well up here at the moment. I’ll send a mate down if we need you.”

     “Aye, sir.”

     “And Mattias, if you need to help yourself to some leaking rum, I’ll not throw you in the brig for it.” 

     “Aye sir, and thank you.”

                                                         ************

   The pain in his heart eased, but didn’t go away;  it felt more like light pressure, like a small item held between two fingers.

    He couldn’t help but wonder why her memory came back to him just before that happened.

    She’d told them something of their lineage, but it seemed fanciful to him that such a thing as sea witches actually existed. He’d indulged her, wondering if she was daft, but not enough to call off dallying with her if it proved true.

   It would be nice to wake up to news that they’d made land so that the repairs they did so haphazardly weren’t just to delay the inevitable. 

                                                   ***********

   Chapter 3: Release

   He never remembered when or how he got in one of the remaining lifeboats, or why he’d even leave the ship to do so. His last memory had been of falling asleep as the ship made its way to the nearest port.

   He woke to find himself shirtless, rowing in the growing heat of a climbing sun.

   He tried to stop and get his bearings, see what he’d taken and take stock of what he’d need, but when he went to bring the oars out of the water, it was almost as if they were stuck.

   When he simply tried to stop rowing, he found that he couldn’t. 

   His mind racing, through the force of a rapidly shredding will he forced down the panic.

   He wasn’t in pain, and the curious pressure that had been around his heart had eased even more, but was still present, as if the fingers were taking their time releasing him, caressing him with slow, tender strokes, almost in a beckoning way. It felt pleasant, and oddly warm..

    She’d laughingly told him that if he were gone too long, there was a ritual to call him home.

    He laughed too, not believing for an instant that she had any power at all.

    It was then he knew, without knowing, that he’d been enchanted, and sea witches were real.

Chapter 4: Haul

    Standing on the rocks, alone now, next to the hook and anchor she placed, she saw the lifeboat, but not him. She thought it was the sun at first, but as her eyes adjusted, he was nowhere to be seen.

    Her heart skipped.

    Reeling in her panic, she clambered down the rocks to the beach proper, lifting the hem of her dress as she ran across the sand to pull him in over the shallows.

    Time was of the essence if he was hurt, unconscious, or both.

    The worst case passed through her mind as well, like a storm cloud covering the sun, but she dared not stop to look at it.

    In desperation, she waded out as far as she dared, at first thinking she might be able to swim, but the long dress grew heavy as the water soaked into it and stopped her.

    The boat drew inexorably closer, and the emptiness of it began to become more real to her the closer it came.

    What have I done?

    Nan’s quavering singsong played once more in her mind, and the ocean blurred as tears welled. 

    Have I brought him home, only to lose him?

    She found she was trembling, but not from the cool of the surf.

    The boat was now close enough for her to grab hold and pull.

    Grabbing it just behind the bow, she cried out as she saw him lying there shirtless, sunburned, and shriveled from dehydration.

    Frantic, she splashed her way to the back even as the dress grew heavier, and pushed with all her might as fast as she could go, not caring what the water did.

                                                   **********

    Her hands, sore from pushing the boat, placing it on its side, and pulling Mattias’ body onto the sand, now touched his chest with tender fingers as they searched for a heartbeat.

    Murmured words of encouragement for both of them was the only sound other than the susurrating waves. She hoped he could hear them, and that he’d fight for his life, and in so doing, hers too.

    In a small stream she poured fresh water she’d brought from the well at home over his parched lips, waiting for him to cough, blink, open his eyes…

   Nothing.

   The first gull flew overhead, and called a long, plaintive note that echoed across the beach.

   She panicked then; if enough of them came they’d not leave her in peace until they ran her off so they could have him.

   Forcing herself to calm down, she placed her hands flat on his chest.

   His flesh was cold, but something happened; a beat that seemed more of a light tap than a healthy pulse pushed against her palms.

   He’s alive, barely. She fought the urge to weep. 

   There was more to be done; she needed to be certain.

                                                     ***********

    At the beginning, the surge of power was hesitant since his flesh was cold, the magic driving the search for life in him uncertain of what needed to be done.

    She longed now for the gift of second sight, for something that would proclaim him living beyond her doubts.

    Pressing once, twice, she cried out as with the third push a flash of white light surrounded the both of them and singed the circling gulls to ashes in mid flight.

   When her vision cleared, her arms tingled from the power of what she’d done,  and her swollen fingers had punctured his chest, the nails not quite embedded in his heart.

    She looked up at his face.

    He was… 

The Baby Monitor

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Chapter 1: The Husband

    The nursery was done.

John had checked all the new tech to make sure it worked. He’d spared no expense on the bells and whistles, and stated to himself that if a spider farted in its web anywhere near the new baby’s crib, they’d know.

     Taking a step back to admire his work, he turned to his wife Megan and smiled. 

     She smiled back, but it was more like an attempt than an actual smile, and John’s brow furrowed in concern. 

    The baby growing inside her seemed to keep her wan and listless, so her smile was weak. He also noticed that her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were red and tired from fitful nights of sporadic sleep. 

    He knew she needed to see a doctor outside of their regular appointments, but she kept assuring him whatever was ailing her would pass, so not to upset her further he backed off to let her sort it out. 

     Looking down at her now, he couldn’t do that anymore. 

     Something was wrong, and what should have been a happy occasion was turning into something dark and maudlin. 

     Not meaning to make it about him, but doing it, John decided he couldn’t live with that if something happened to his wife because he was clueless.

     Also not meaning to make decisions for Megan, but doing it, he wouldn’t let her wave him off anymore; she was going to see a doctor whether she wanted to or not, and if she didn’t want to go to an office, there was enough to pay for a house call.

    Now that it was settled in his mind, he held her hand and pointed with his free one, explaining all the bells and whistles, what they did, and why he installed it. 

Chapter 2: The Wife

      He’d done a great job, she could see that. 

      He always did, and probably always would do a great job. 

      He did a great job selling you to marry him, after what you said…

      She smiled as he nattered on, remembering she’d told him she’d never get married. 

      Now here they were, not only married, but in a self-made nursery. 

      How did we get here, Megan? Where did you go?

      No, this hadn’t been in the plans, her plans anyway, but he’d been so excited when she told him that she actually got caught up in it. 

      The weeks flew by at first, and she enjoyed his attention, but at times he became cloying when she just wanted peace. He’d fire questions at her as if he’d never taken sex ed in school sometimes. 

     She knew it came from a place of love, that he wanted to look after her. He liked looking after her. He liked needing to be needed.

     That’s what husbands are for. He said it so much for so long, she began to get caught up in that too, but now, standing beside him, her belly stretched and stretching farther, she was simply no match for the seemingly endless waves of energy he exuded. 

     Seeing the concern in his eyes appear as his smile vanished, she knew then that whatever he saw in her face was not good.  She also knew what he’d say next when he finished his guided tour of shiny new tech she couldn’t care less about, and that she wouldn’t be allowed to say no this time.

Chapter 3: The Baby Monitor

       These human things, they never learn. They make it embarrassingly easy for us to enter their world, and make their lives unbearable before we make them ours. 

     The little ones, the portals, are the most vulnerable, newly cast from our own world. They are the easiest. They have no strength to resist us, but they know something’s wrong, and cry.

     The parents arrive then, concerned and fussing, soothing the portal until it goes back to sleep. 

     Some of us slip from the portals to stay and make sport until they all leave the house.

     Other times, they’ll summon their clerics to summon their gods to be rid of us.

     Some of us take the portals back, but to other places, and the big ones get sad and don’t stay together.

    In the old times they placed their wards and slept by the portal’s side, or had the portal sleep beside them so they could protect it if we sent our familiars. 

   Not so, now. They have given the care of their portals over to these things they call cameras, with machines that make hissing noises to sooth the portal and make it rest. 

    That’s when we strike.

    Even now, this one leeches the female’s soul as well as her body.

    I think it wants to come back and bring her with it. 

    The male will intervene, and have someone try to make her whole again. 

    We shall see, but for now we wait.

    And watch.