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Post by QueenFoxy on Aug 31, 2017 13:17:27 GMT -6
I love fairy tales and fantasy because of their haunting beauty and magical strangeness. They are set in worlds where anything can happen. Frogs can be kings, a thicket of brambles can hide a castle where a royal court has lain asleep for a hundred years, a boy can outwit a giant, and a girl can break a curse with nothing but her courage and steadfastness. ~Kate Forsyth Yes!! I do love fantasy.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 24, 2020 9:08:44 GMT -6
Valhalla Girl by Thomas James Having played the last song of the night, Christian glanced up from his guitar case, scanning the club patrons’ sweaty faces. His attention focused on a stunning blonde haired woman, who stood apart from the crowd. Or rather the crowd is standing apart from her and with good reason, Christian thought. He took mental stock of the woman. Her waist length hair shimmered beneath the club’s lighting effects, but not as brightly as her metal bustier and chain mail skirt, not to mention the spear. Christian turned and nudged the bass player, Vic. “Dude, check out Xena the Warrior Princess over there.” Hefting his gig bag, the bass player surveyed the mingling crowd. “Which chick are you talking about?” “The babe sporting the brass bustier, dumbass!” Vic frowned. “Where the hell are you looking?” “What are you blind she’s right –“ Christian stopped mid-sentence. She was gone. “Dude! I’m telling you she was right over there; all decked out like a Lord of the Rings action figure.” Vic shook his head. “Whatever dude. Let’s get rolling. Hey, you still down for skiing tomorrow?” “Huh, oh yeah, definitely.” Christian scanned the club one more time thinking, how did she disappear so fast? Christian and Vic stood on the snow-covered mountain top at the head of a ski trail, their breath pluming in the crisp December air. Christian eyed the warning sign with more than a bit of trepidation. The trail was clearly rated as black diamond. “Dude, I’m not sure this is such a good idea. I mean it’s not like we’re experts or anything” Vic snorted. “Funny, I didn’t think that it was cold enough to freeze someone’s balls off.” Bristling at the insult, Christian flipped his friend the bird, lowered his ski-goggles and pushing off with his ski poles, sped off down the treacherous slopes. Letting out a whoop, Vic followed after. The icy wind buffeted the skiers as they raced along the expert track, dodging trees and the occasional rock. Halfway down the slope, a brilliant gleam caught Christian’s eye. Standing ahead and to his right was the woman from the club, still attired in her battle gear. Surprised by her presence, Christian’s diverted attention caused him to miss a crucial turn. His left ski caught on an exposed root, sending the hapless skier tumbling through withered scrub brush, battering different parts of his anatomy. Ahead loomed a drop and Christian barely had time or the wherewithal to realize that he was no longer in contact with the ground. The earth sped up to meet Christian, exploding the air from his lungs upon impact. Christian lay stunned and gasping for breath. His eyes remained closed as he took inventory of any possible injuries. “Oh muh gawd, that was so-oo gnarly-I didn’t mean to startle you-are you ‘kay-did you hit your head-that is so-oo not cool.” Christian opened his muddy brown eyes and found his gaze locked by a pair of intense cornflower blue ones. A dazzling white smile beamed at him, making the surrounding snow muted by comparison. Struggling to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his lower back, Christian rested against the bole of a tree and contemplated the apparition before him. This can’t be real, he thought. “Well-are you going to say something or just sit there like a fallen snowman-you know it’s rude to stare like that.” “Er, who are you?” “My name is Mindy.” Still wincing from the pain in his lower back, Christian shifted to a more comfortable position. “Um, why are you dressed like Red Sonja?” “Uh-hello-o, Red Sonja has red hair, duh I mean like does this look like it came out of a bottle?” Mindy said, lifting a strand of her luxurious, blonde hair. “I’m a Valkyrie, you know like from history.” “Don’t you mean mythology?” “Uh hello, do I look like a myth to you?” Mindy said, giving a little twirl. Christian noted the slight inflection to her voice, Valley girl, he thought. “You’re from the valley aren’t you?” Mindy giggled. “Fer sure-I used to live there, but now I live in Valhalla-I’m like a Valhalla girl now.” The Valkyrie laughed at her own joke. Unable to keep a note of disbelief out of his voice, Christian asked, “Valhalla?” “Yeah, Valhalla, you know like the home of the Norse gods and stuff. That’s where Brynhild, that’s my mom-not my California mom Monica-she’s the one that adopted me when I was little-which was soo-oo cool of her, I mean like oh muh gawd to raise a child you didn’t give birth to-she is like such a good mom even if she never let me go to Cabo. . . Christian just sat in stunned silence while Mindy rambled on. “. . . but anyway she adopted me ‘cuz Brynhild wasn’t supposed to have a child in Valhalla, maybe she went to Cabo (Mindy giggled) and so then she comes to visit me right and I’m like wow you’re my real mom and so now I’m like the daughter of like one of the most powerful Valkyries of all time which is soo-oo totally awesome and she’s like-I want you to come to Valhalla with me and I’m like Valhalla, New York? But I mean like duh, who wants to go there when they die, right. Anyway so like Brynhild takes me to the Rainbow Bridge and then we cross over to Valhalla. And there’s this old guy, only don’t call him old to his face ‘cuz he has like no sense of humor, and when I hear his name is Odin, I laugh ‘cuz I thought they said his name was Odie (Mindy giggled some more) you know like from Garfield and he’s like sitting on this huge throne covered with this like ancient writing I think its like those whatchacallit Bruins or prunes or. . .” “Runes,” Christian offered. “. . . maybe it’s like that other writing colic, garlic. . .” “Gaelic,” Christian interjected, but Mindy did not seem to notice. “. . . anyway, there was like two wolves at his feet, I thought they were stuffed until one of them passed gas and boy did that reek, Oh and he had two ravens on either shoulder and they must have been trained real well ‘cuz they didn’t poop on him or anything and he had an eye patch which is so not even cool, so I says to him like you should get a glass eye or maybe even a collection of designer eyes and like you could where a different one everyday to brighten things up ‘cuz this really is a drab looking place and it probably explains why you don’t have a sense of humor and then . ..” Christian waited for Mindy to draw a breath . . . and waited . . . and waited. “. . . and then he told Brynhild to instruct me in the ways of the Valkyrie, which is so totally awesome ‘cuz they gave me a shield and this radical spear, but the armor plated brassiere is like soo-oo eighties Madonna, and Do you have any gum?” Christian blinked; the shift in topic gave him a headache. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed Mindy some chewing gum. Popping a stick of gum into her mouth, Mindy continued her tirade. “Oh that’s soo-oo cool thanks, I just love chewing gum. They don’t have any gum in Valhalla; all they got is mead and shanks of beef I mean like hello what about us vegetarians? Hey, do you want to see my Pegasus?” “Uh, sure.” Placing two fingers to her full lips, Mindy gave a piercing whistle and smiled as a white horse trotted into view. Christian stared at the wingless Pegasus. “Aw, I get it now; this is some kinda joke right. I mean if that’s a Pegasus, where are its wings?” “Duh, his wings are magical, they aren’t always needed-I mean like do you have any idea how big wings have to be to lift a full grown horse,” Mindy replied, running her hand over the heavily muscled flank. “Okay fine, say I buy all this, why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be out collecting soldiers’ souls or something?” Mindy smiled and replied, “My mom and her clique take care of all that, I’m still in training-anyway I heard about your band Valkyrie’s Cryand I’m like oh muh gawd I’ve got to go hear them play and you guys rock and then I started thinking like maybe I could get you guys to play at this major rave we’re having. I think you guys would totally rule.” His interest piqued, Christian asked, “Major rave huh, where?” “Oh, it’s going to be all over and I think that even though your music will be different than what they said that they would have you’ll totally rock anyway.” “What kind of music are they looking for?” Christian said while thinking, Dude this is one weird chick. “I think they said something like Reggae-Rock, Rag Rock or some junk.” “Reggae-Rock? Rag Rock? Do you mean Ragnarok?” “Fer sure, that’s it, Ragnarok.” Then thrusting one hand high, making horns with her fingers and thrashing her head back and forth, Mindy chanted, “Rag-na-rok! Rag-na-rok! Rag-na-rok!” Christian stared in awe for a moment. “Um, you do know that Ragnarok is about the end of the world, right?” Mindy stopped mid-thrash, becoming solemn. “Dude no way that is so bogus.” “Yeah.” After a few seconds of seriousness, Mindy perked up again. “Well not to worry, I mean it’s not like it’s going to happen anytime soon.” “Well that’s a relief.” “So I guess I’ll be going then but don’t worry, when the time comes I’ll make sure your band is there ‘kay close your eyes, I have to change.” “Change?” Mindy huffed. “Metal bras and cold air don’t mix and riding a Pegasus gets a bit chilly.” Complying, Christian shut his eyes and was startled when he heard a male voice. “Dude, are you alright?” Christian opened his eyes and looked into the face of a very worried Vic. Mindy was nowhere in sight. Man, what a weird dream he thought. Vic helped his friend to his feet. “Dude, I thought I’d find nothing but a splash down here.” Pushing up to his feet, Christian replied, “Nah, I’m good. Hey, did you see anyone else?” “Like who dude, we’re way off the trail.” “You didn’t see a woman and a horse?” “Dude, how hard did you hit your head?” Christian remained silent. Vic and Christian headed back to the main trail, trudging through the snow. Only their footsteps marred the soft white blanket. A dark shadow swooped over them causing both skiers to look up. Vic gasped, “Dude, did I just she a girl riding a flying horse?” Christian smiled. “Fer sure.” The End. 🦄
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 25, 2020 6:05:29 GMT -6
Ha ha, cool story  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 25, 2020 11:19:54 GMT -6
Thanks Rick. I liked it too.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 25, 2020 11:28:36 GMT -6
Whizbang the Magnificent by Brian E. Spivey Whizbang the magnificent, he had added 'the magnificent' himself, had finally done it. After years of searching and studying he had discovered a spell that would transform him into the most powerful wizard that ever existed. Now Whizbang was not, at present, a great wizard. He had some control over weather, and he was quite adept at handling lightning, but he dreamed of being WHIZBANG THE ALL-POWERFUL! He already had business cards printed, with bold lettering. Yet it seemed, after years of searching through dusty old tomes, he had done it. It was surprisingly simple; the spell, found under the listing of 'Spell to become all-powerful', consisted of only three magic words and a lot of energy. The energy Whizbang could provide by using lightning. The three magic words he had committed to memory, 'flauff' which would force the energy to obey Whizbang, 'eebun', which would transform Whizbang’s mortal body into an all-powerful form, and finally 'nee', which would bind the spell forever. Whizbang was careful with the magic words; it would be dangerous to use them too soon. One day, and not a day too soon, Whizbang felt he was ready. He stepped outside his humble cottage and called the storm. The skies darkened, black clouds rolling in to cover the sun. The wind began to swirl, thunder began booming loudly enough to nearly deafen Whizbang. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, but Whizbang held the lightning at bay until such time as he would need it. He confidently stepped into a carefully drawn pentagram on the ground and waited for the lightning to build a bit longer. Rain began to fall sideways blown by the swirling vortex of wind. The sky was as dark as midnight, lit sporadically by the ever brighter flashes of lighting. Whizbang raised his hand to the sky and called the first magic word....."FLAUFF!" The rain ceased immediately. Whizbang grinned and called the second magic word....."EEBUN!" The wind stopped as though it had hit a wall. Whizbang now called down the lightning. As the powerful bolt hit his hand, he called the last magic word to seal the spell....."NEE!" Whizbang was illuminated by the bright bolt of lightning and he could feel the transformation beginning. Again Whizbang called the three powerful words....."FLAUFF! EEBUN! NEE!" The flash from the lightning was seen from three kingdoms away. The clouds rolled swiftly away and a beam of sunlight illuminated the pentagram. There, sitting in the center of the pentagram, was a small, pink, fluffy bunny. The bunny twitched its nose twice and then spoke in Whizbang's voice......."Damn!" Some wizards have a very twisted sense of humor. The End 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 26, 2020 8:10:32 GMT -6
LOL ... the desire for more power can have major side affects!
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 26, 2020 15:38:42 GMT -6
Made me laugh, Rick. Too much power can be dangerous!!
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 26, 2020 15:56:35 GMT -6
Last one in the office by Brendan Wilhelm From the 27th floor window, through glasses he hadn't cleaned since the morning, Greg tried to see what was destroying Queens and Brooklyn. He and Becky were the last ones in the Manhattan office. It was Friday at 4 pm, when no one at Five Borough Press stuck around, especially in Sales, where potential clients weren't there to schmooze. From what they could see, smoke extended from Long Island City to the Manhattan Bridge in what resembled a still tornado. Helicopters flew back and forth along the East River. Below, sirens overlapped and howls of panic joined the already noisy November wind. ...the whole damn LIE and BQE are closed and we don't even know why...” Becky rambled into her iPhone, to an unknown listener. They'd gotten vague emergency alerts on their phones just minutes before, about a natural disaster warning. Greg had checked the web right away, finding a shaky video on 1010 Wins of something large emerging from the waters off of Staten Island. It looked like a B movie with A list effects. Halfway through the viewing it’d been yanked from the site. Becky came to the window, still shouting into her phone. "Smoke! That's all I see!" She dashed into the hallway, almost silently in her tennis sneakers. Then Greg saw an outline in smoke-covered Long Island City. Something symmetrical. And large. It must've been 300 feet tall, its movements slight at this distance. Whatever it was, it moved toward the East River. "Shit!" said Greg, his throat tired, having exhausted it after nearly 80 sales calls since 10am. He ran back to his cubicle and grabbed his shoulder bag. He peered into the hallway, looking for Becky. Should he check the ladies room? He was a fire and emergency searcher for the floor, after all (the fire warden and CEO, Pete Rosello, had given his usual "y'all don't have me to kick around anymore" and split for Mamaroneck around 1.) "Becky!" he yelled, into the quiet office, his voice sounding desperate. No answer came. He tried. He burst through the door of Stairwell B, the enclosed staircase, and bolted down. Doors were swinging open on the floors above and below him, with employees from all levels of all hierarchies flying out of them. There was something frightening about the sound of fast, stomping feet on the stairs all around him. Evacuees started to push their way past him. It reminded Greg of high school cross country track, when prep school boys would elbow each other out of the way in the hope of being one of the first 30 to cross the finish line. Greg pressed his body against the wall of the 16th floor, as a group whooshed past him. He was privy to a number of snippets from the hopeful survivors as they ran by. "The army it's the army..." "We're supposed to meet at the park..." "...Josh I can't reach him..." A woman in her mid-50s bolted past him, somehow managing to both write a text message and carry a confused looking Pekingese as she ran. A young dude with fake blonde hair and a cornfed complexion clopped past him in knockoff cowboy boots. The guy did well down the next flight until his body flew forward, looking like he'd jumped. Greg didn't actually see his facial bones break, but the sound alone gave him a spell of nausea that made him cry out. The crowd behind wasted no time stepping around, and on, the poor guy. Trying not to faint, Greg moved partway down the staircase and saw what had sent the young man flying. It was Becky. She was on her side, twisted, her head in a position that no one living could ever emulate. Her phone sat in the corner of the stairwell in several pieces, its glittery back sparkling. From where he stood, Greg could still smell her citrusy perfume. Greg heard himself crying as more evacuees shoved him out of the way. He craved his solitude. His quiet studio in Gramercy. His beloved vinyls. Netflix. Sitting down to that nightly rotisserie chicken from D'Agostino. Greg headed up the stairs, opposite the growing crowds. With little ease he weaved and elbowed his way back to the 27th floor, which thankfully allowed re-entry. Back inside the office, with thighs that throbbed and burned, and breathing he couldn't control, Greg collapsed onto the floor. He pulled off his shoulder bag, forgetting he'd had it. Greg was hungry. Sickeningly so. He moved toward the pantry on legs that felt like pudding. He found a box of fancy shortbread cookies in the fridge, a gift from a customer who he'd sold an ad to. But he needed meat. He pushed aside Becky's three different kinds of low fat yogurt, all marked by sharpie with her name and a smiley face. He found an unopened pack of Oscar Mayer ham and cheese and tore it open. With no regard for the expiration date, he dined on the processed meal and followed up with a long sip of bottled water. A distant rumble echoed through the empty office, sounding like a demolition. He hobbled back to the east window, catching a whiff of his own sweat as he went. The beast was now up to its ankles in the East River, headed this way. Its physique was more visible but lacked detail, the minimal movements stiff but menacing. It moved like a Roman statue come to life. A chorus of screams that sounded damned and hopeless erupted from the street below. There'd be mass evacuations from every office building, apartment, and crevice of the borough. Greg pictured the crowds fighting for the cars, for whatever last trains were leaving Grand Central and Penn Station. If he tried to flee now he'd be squashed even before the beast stepped onto Manhattan Island. Which was now only seconds away. Its face was slightly more visible, looking abstract, almost rock like. Its arms hung by its sides. Its head was bulbous, yet somehow proportionally smaller than it should be. Helicopters kept their distance from it, like hungry but cautious mosquitoes. Either the beast would topple this building to the ground and crush him, or perhaps it would detour north and pass him by, preferring Grand Central or the UN. Perhaps. "Oh my god," Greg said, still tasting his last supper of ham and cheese. And if God was there, watching the boroughs get stomped in the name of free will, Greg was sorry. To Mom and Dad in Massachusetts ("Maybe you could drive up this weekend?" Mom would always ask on the phone, her voice always sounding older and frailer when asking that question). For Paul, his only friend. The high school buddy from Broad Channel who was now a car mechanic, who he never called, Paul always called him. For the times he was Mister Slick on the phone, not exactly lying to the clients, but telling half truths about the press' effectiveness and visibility, or that he was going to "hold the special rate" for his renewing customers if they sent back the precious contracts ASAP, all to make that monthly commission. For Becky, who raced ahead of him and was now being stepped over like refuse in the stairwell. The beast got taller as it stepped onto the FDR Drive, from which the cars had already cleared. The step was a dull one that vibrated through Greg's body. All of the sirens and noise from the street ceased, as if that one step had hushed it all. With all else silent, its head turned in his direction. Greg was pretty sure it was looking at him. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 27, 2020 6:12:21 GMT -6
This was excellently written scary fantasy  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 27, 2020 12:29:17 GMT -6
Jimmy The Shrew by Andy Morris The bedroom was filled with a silvery darkness, save for the small pool of light spilling in from under the door. Most of the care homes elderly residents slept quietly, while the hushed whispers and soft footsteps of the night staff drifted down the empty corridors. Although there was no need for anyone to check on Albert at this late hour, the old man was woken by someone tapping on his door. At least it wasn’t another bad dream that that was waking him up, he thought groggily as the knocking came again, louder this time. Suddenly Albert was jolted fully awake. The sound, he realised, wasn’t one of the nurses outside: It was coming from inside his wardrobe.
The retired East End gangster was gripped by a momentary panic as a vague recollection stirred in his mind. A chilling, half-forgotten warning: Something was coming for him but because of his dementia, his dusty mind couldn’t remember who had issued the warning, or when.
There had always been someone wanting a piece of him, both on the outside and when he’d been a guest of her majesty. For Albert Grieve had been a bad boy in his day. Driven by a sociopathic animosity, Albert had been The Big Man and hurting people was necessary when you had a reputation such as his to uphold. He’d controlled various operations dealing in everything from drugs and women to shooters and protection. Back then he hadn’t been scared of nothing – people feared him!
Now, though the fire was going out and his addiction to violence and his unrestrained ambition was almost extinguished. Frailty of mind and body had diminished him so much that even the memories of his crooked past were just faded images. His dear Elsie, God rest her soul, had died a few years back and his kids, the ungrateful sods had disowned him as soon as they were old enough. With no-one to reminisce with he’d become a ‘nobody’; a fraud. He was just another grumpy old geezer, forgotten by the world.
The staff, of course, knew the name Albert Grieve. That’s why they treated him like scum, he thought sourly. It wasn’t so much their cold unfriendly attitude that bothered him or the scornful way they spoke to him. It was the way they disrespected him with cheap nasty food, when he’d been used to the best.
He glanced at the stale Rich Tea biscuits on his bedside table. He’d never liked Rich Tea’s and the carers knew it – that’s why they continued to give them to him. It was just one of the many ways they humiliated him. It may well have been one of them knocking on his door to wake him up out of spite.
The tapping from the wardrobe came a third time and Albert gathered what little strength he had left to issue a frail challenge.
“Oi! What do you want?” he growled testily into the gloom while he fumbled for his large gold-rimmed glasses. His body had been so corrupted by old age that his arthritic joints wouldn’t allow him to sit up. Instead he had no choice but to face this joker lying sprawled and helpless on the bed as the wardrobe door swung open with a theatrical creak and in the darkness something moved.
He tried to make sense of the jumbled images in his head. Had he really been told that something was coming for him? And if so: Why?
An uneasy tightness clamped onto his chest as something unfolded itself from the confines of his closet. Thin, elongated limbs reached out of the shadows. Whatever this thing was it moved with the predatory certainty of a large spider. Arms and legs, inhumanly long stepped into the bedroom, supporting an equally tall emaciated body covered in old rags. It stood up swaying rhythmically from side to side as it looked at Albert from the other side of the room with its red eyes glowing brightly in the gloom. Albert’s old worn-out ticker thumped madly in his chest. Likewise, his wheezing breath came in short sharp bursts and the creature’s cruel mouth twisted into a malicious grin, displaying row upon row of razor-sharp teeth. Albert knew then, in that terrifying moment, that it wasn’t only his ambition to be The Big Man again that was over – It was very probably his life as well!
As the impossibly tall creature loped towards his bed, Albert balled his gnarled hands into fists. It was a futile gesture, more instinct than conscious decision for he felt robbed of all his strength by this terrifying visitation.
Too late, he remembered he could call the nurses by pressing the alarm button hanging next to his bed. Not that it would have done any good because the monster was now at the foot of the bed, sniffing the air though a long thin ‘goblins’ nose.
Goblin!
The word echoed from a fleeing memory. The illusive thought was as slippery as a fish that he couldn’t firmly grasp it. As he struggled with it, Albert caught fleeting images; visions from his recent past. He’d seen this thing before, somewhere. This was the spectre that stalked his nightmares. The thing that made him wake up in a cold sweat in the dead of night. This was Jimmy-the-Shrew, he recalled, and he’d finally come for him!
This couldn’t be right – It wasn’t real! His mind shrieked in confusion: Maybe he was losing his marbles? This could be a hallucination; his dementia having finally worn away the rational part of his mind?
The creature known as Jimmy-the-Shrew sniffed again loudly before bending down towards the bedside table. It seemed to take an interest in those stale biscuits and Albert watched helplessly as the gangly creature picked them up and devoured them noisily in one go.
More synapses fired in Albert’s mind. Despite his condition he was still Albert Grieve and whoever this feller was, he was taking liberties; coming here uninvited, eating his food! The situation demanded a response and he had to show some front at least.
“Ere, I’m talking to you”. Albert protested. Back in the day he’d never allow anyone to get away with it but now, he conceded, he had little choice. The cold fire of violence was little more than a damp ember.
The goblin bent down towards him until its long ratty nose was only inches from his face. Albert could smell the biscuits on its foul breath. The mixture of sweet Rich Teas and rotten meat made him want to retch. Any more demonstrations of bravado were quickly retired there and then.
The creature was real!
Jimmy-the-Shrew raised one of its extremely long, pointed fingers to its mouth and made a Shh sound. Albert dared not move as he watched the creature pick up the alarm button beside the bed and press it. Then it replaced the device and slowly sank downwards beneath the bed. Albert watched in confused fascination as the goblin somehow folded in upon itself, like a contortionist. Silently it shrank away below the bed and out of sight.
Albert tried desperately to remember more about this Jimmy-the-Shrew. Vague, unfocused images rolled through the faulty projector of his mind but nothing substantial would come. Surely the answers were there somewhere. Losing his memory was worse than losing his bottle – it made him look more than weak!
Just then the bedroom door opened and Kelsey waddled into the room. She was a miserable Scottish tart, with a face like a slapped arse. She was the one that gave him those cheap nasty biscuits every night.
“Whit is it, Bert?” she asked briskly. It was too much effort for her to address him by his proper name! She’d often bustle into his room, talking on her phone and treating him like he was a real inconvenience to her. She’d often prattle on about becoming a singer one day: She was only here to get some money together before going off to stage school and become a star!
“I see yah’ve eaten all your biscuits tonight” she observed, before adding quietly, “I knew you would in the end, ya miserable old git”.
She then raised her voice as if he was deaf as well as senile; “Now, I asked ya Bert, what do ya want? Have ya had a wee accident?”
With that she suddenly yanked back the bedcovers without any warning and proceeded to inspect Albert’s pyjamas to see if his pad had leaked. He felt a flush of irritation but could do nothing more than scowl at her.
The fight was truly gone now. Fear, humiliation and general miserly had conspired to finish him off. Bitter resignation threatened to drown him. Power had slipped from his grasp and now he only had his delusions and broken memories for company. And he wouldn’t even have those for much longer!
Just then, Kelsey cried out in alarm.
One minute her chubby face was inspecting his crotch and the next she was on the floor with a heavy smack. Her arms flailed as she tried to get up. Something had grabbed hold of her ankle. She yelped and kicked but couldn’t stop herself from being pulled beneath the bed. Albert watched as Kelsey was quickly dragged out of sight beneath the white sheets.
He could try and help her or at least call for assistance? But then again, why should he bother for the likes of her? Kelsey shouted again but her cry was cut short in a gurgling rattle, and the scuffle was sudden over.
Everything became still again in the darkened room. Albert felt the stunned silence swell from under the bed like a pool of blood spilling out from a fatal wound.
Eventually, he recovered enough of his wits to realise; while the creature was busy with Kelsey he should do a runner while he still had a chance.
Albert tried to pull himself towards the other side of the bed where his wheelchair was parked. He stretched, fumbling for it but he couldn’t reach. He tried to roll himself but before he could get anywhere the goblin was back.
Albert felt rather than saw the shadow of Jimmy-the-Shrew rise up behind him like an old string puppet. Albert was tangled in his own mental strings: Unable to look away from the bloody gore glistening on Jimmy-the-Shrew’s long thin fingers, Albert knew he was next.
“I said I’d come back” Jimmy-the-Shrew gloated in a rough gravelly voice. Albert swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly very dry.
The goblin indicated to the empty plate where the biscuits had been. Albert didn’t understand at first but then something clicked. The black-hole in his mind finally spewed out the elusive memories he’d been searching for: Jimmy-the-Shrew was real and he lived here in secret. At night he silently wandered through the nursing home, sometimes paying a visit to the inmates. Most of the fruitcakes here were either too demented to know what he was or else by the morning they’d forgotten all about him.
The goblin liked coming to see Albert. He enjoyed his half-remembered yet often violent; tales of his earlier life in the East End. But, more interestingly, Jimmy-the-shrew had a fondness for Rich Tea biscuits!
“I promised I’d sort out that nurse if you found me more biscuits”. Jimmy-the-Shrew grinned. “Maybe if you could get some more, I could perhaps help you with other problems?” the goblin proposed rubbing his hands together evilly.
It took Albert only a moment to consider this. While in this lucid state the former villain wanted to take full advantage of the situation. He didn’t know how long his memory would hold out so he had to act fast before the opportunity was gone. With someone like Jimmy-the-Shrew in his pocket, Albert calculated, he could be someone again. The name Albert Grieve would command fear and respect once more.
“Okay, Son” he said to Jimmy-the-Shrew “Let’s talk business”. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 28, 2020 7:55:23 GMT -6
Evil talking with evil ... an intense story.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 28, 2020 13:42:54 GMT -6
Lions of Kraam by David Tell Jensen “Leave me! You are loathsome, ignorant, maddening!” the old lion grumbled, as he trudged through the depths of some forgotten forest. A sweet peal of laughter rang in his ears.
“You know, I think you enjoy my company, you old cat!” she giggled again and flew around among the tree branches above him. “And your grumbling entertains me to no end.”
“Sadistic. Detestable!” The old lion let out a whining roar. “I think I may understand why you don’t have your own people to bedevil!” He roared again. Helion was this old lion’s name. He was of the Lions of Kraam, but he had lost the grace of his people at some point in his youth, and with it he lost the power of his people. Now he wandered the world in shame, his head hung, honor gone.
She flipped upside down in the air and floated along next to him as he padded along. “What’s so bad about little old me hmm? Sometimes I feel like you really don’t want me around!”
For a flash his eyes widened, and the lion had a crazed look in his eyes. Then he ground his teeth and huffed a few deep breaths. For weeks upon weeks the fairy had been following him around just pestering him with questions and meaningless banter! This is what I get, Helion thought to himself, this is exactly what I deserve. She really wants me to go insane. I’m going insane.
“I love it when you do that,” she said with a smile. “Your face scrunches up, and it’s like you’re grumbling some inner monologue.
Helion had tried everything in the book to ditch the fairy. He ran away for miles and miles but to no avail. He lay down in a comfy grass patch, and just sat there for a week straight! All she did was plague him with her presence. Insults did nothing to affect her, and she was all but untouchable. He had already swiped at her several times, but all that seemed to do was throw her into fits of unending laughter. Then she would dance around taunting him to do it again.
The old lion tromped over to a small tree, and crashed underneath its foliage that had grown close to the ground. He closed his eyes and dozed. At the very least that infernal fairy respects the resting hours, thought Helion. And she’s still out there just waiting for me to awake.
“There’s that look again. What are you thinking about, lion?” She appeared out of thin air right in front of him.
Helion’s fur ruffled and he nearly jumped out of his skin, and he roared again. Then he grumbled some more and rolled over facing away from her.
“You know, I think we might be more alike than you think,” her voice sounded small and meek as she said it. But the old lion was asleep. The fairy sighed and went about flitting among the trees and playing with the birds.
When the lion woke, a bright moon lighted the forest. He rose to his feet and continued through the trees. Helion could see the fairy flitting in the trees ahead of him.
Then things started to change. The trees lost their foliage as he went along. They had knobby protrusions, and the branches grew at strange angles as though they no longer wanted to grow straight. Helion did not notice. His mind was groggy from sleep so he kept his eyes to the ground.
“Lion. Something is wrong,” the fairy told him. She flew next to him a foot off the ground.
“You’re still here is what’s wrong,” he replied with venom in his words.
“We shouldn’t be in this part of the wood,” she scanned the trees ahead.
“Ha! Leave if you like!” Helion had gotten so used to contradicting everything she said or did in an attempt to rid himself of her. He did not give a second thought to what she had told him. Then something happened that shook him from his reverie. It was quiet.
He looked up from the ground, and he looked around. The forest had changed drastically, and he hadn’t noticed. The trees around him had no leaves at all quite contrary to the lush green he had been travelling in. He searched the sky around him. No fairies to be found, and not a critter in the whole forest was making any noise at all. It was dead silent.
“I just love the courage of lions. To find one in the center of my domain is just,” the creature speaking licked her lips, “positively delicious.”
The speaker stepped from behind a tree into the light. She was a creature Helion had never encountered, but he had heard of her kind. She was a Shayakin. The only thing known about them was their strength and speed were unmatched, and they were near extinction. That and they ate their prey alive. Her upper half was near human, and her lower half was that of a mountain goat. The creature’s entire body was a deep blue, but most disconcerting were the huge malformed horns on her head and her black beetle-like eyes that glinted in the moonlight. She smiled as Helion surveyed her. She wore nothing at all, and her chest would impress any normal male human. However, Helion was not human, and he was not impressed in the slightest.
“Shayakin. What an uncomely figure you have. Tell me, are all Shayakin as ugly as you? Helion chuckled to himself. He had been waiting for something to take his anger out on. He’d been going crazy the last couple months, but now it was time for a reprieve. My people have a name for one that looks like you, “Straak ven ke poorsh.”
With lightning quickness she flew at Helion and struck him hard on his left shoulder, throwing Helion to the ground. Then she pressed down hard on his neck with her hoof. “Now there will be no need for name calling,” she reprimanded him. “But if I could think of a name for one such as you I would call you…disgrace, perhaps? That’s why you’re away from your precious people isn’t it lion?” She puffed out her lower lip in a pout. “Have you lost your honor?”
A deep growl bubbled deep in Helion’s throat daring her to say one more word. Where is that damned fairy now? Helion thought with grim humor.
The meddling fairy flew right out of the light of the moon catching the Shayakin unaware. The fairy picked the hoof up off Helion and climbed into the air with the demon. With a scream the flailing Shayakin was thrown head first toward the trunk of a huge oak. Just before impact the Shayakin righted herself, planted both hooves on a big knob on the tree, and launched herself at the fairy.
A soft thud sounded when her fist met the fairy’s jaw, and a louder thud when she fell to the ground. A joyous cackle of laughter tore the silence of the night in half as the Shayakin landed on the ground next to the fallen creature. “I do believe this is the most fun I’ve had in the last century. You creatures of light can be so cunning! But in the end we have the last laugh.”
Helion wasn’t paying attention. He was barely able to pick himself up, but he did it. He looked at the lifeless heap lying on the ground ten feet from him. His legs were shaking with anger, and his heart was beating loud and hard. Inside him bloomed a fire that burned through his entire core. His claws raked the ground, and a pain erupted in his limbs. He arched his back and looked up at the sky. His pupils dilated, and his body changed. With several furious cracking sounds his bones were deforming and reforming, and his fur was dropping to the ground in heaps. His muscles lengthened and bolstered, and his tail disappeared. He roared long and loud at the sky in an attempt to release some of the pain. Blind anger was the only emotion he could feel. It raged and crashed within him until sense and logic had left him, leaving only a cold fury. After a few grueling minutes a monster of a man stood in the place of the lion, seven foot tall and heavy as a young ox.
Steam rose from his body in the light of the night. His transformation complete, he had regained the power of his people, The Lions of Kraam. He looked again at the helpless fairy on the ground. Then he stalked over to the Shayakin who stood in mute astonishment.
Then she smiled, “So you got a little taller. Like it matters!” She threw a fierce haymaker at his jaw, and when it hit he bared his teeth in a snarl. His opponent swung a flurry of furious jabs at his torso, to little effect. The Shayakin looked up at his face with fear in her eyes for the first time.
In one lightning quick blur of motion Helion grasped the Shayakin’s neck with his right hand and picked her up off the ground. He brought her face up close to his, and growled, “Let me hear you laugh now.” With a little squeeze of his hand he rid the world of one more Shayakin. He let her drop to the ground and walked over to his friend. Helion knelt down next to her. She opened her eyes for a moment and smiled then closed them again. She was just fine. Helion could hear her strong heartbeat and slow breaths. He picked her up off the ground and carried her into the forest toward the east where they would soon see the light. The End 🦄
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 29, 2020 7:24:45 GMT -6
Hellion is aptly named; such evil  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 29, 2020 10:27:28 GMT -6
The Watch by Ken Camacho Despite checking it only minutes earlier, I looked at the calendar on my laptop again. October 25th, 2014. I sighed. How could I have made such a stupid mistake? I looked down at the watch on my wrist. Black hands hovering over an embedded silver SC showed 4:30. I tried spinning the dial. Nothing. No more turning back now – I went too far. I focused my attention on the sound of my parents’ conversation coming through my bedroom door, waiting for the right moment.
“Bananas, yogurt, oatmeal…”
“Yup.”
“Not the instant kind.”
“I know.”
“Bread, turkey, ham…”
“Yup, yup.”
They would get so fixated on the smallest tasks. Didn’t they realize how much bigger the world is than tonight’s grocery list? I patted the pockets of my jeans. Yes, I still had my father’s keys.
“Carrots, potatoes...”
“All on there.”
“Do you want the chicken strips again?”
I needed to get the timing right, like I did that first time. If my math is right, I’ve lived almost five years since then without any time passing, and yet this night is still fresh in my memory.
“Let’s try something new next week.”
That was it. That’s the last thing my father said before...
“Aaahhh!” My mother shrieked.
The house turned black. My whole neighborhood did. Even now, I think the freak power outage was the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me. The unluckiest was the damned watch that was around my wrist. Considering how connected the two are, this night was probably packed with enough positive and negative luck for a lifetime.
“Danny, are you okay?” Came my mother’s voice.
“I’m fine,” I answered, climbing out of my bedroom window.
“We’re going to the basement to grab flashlights. You’re still grounded.”
“Okay!”
I hopped down from the window and walked along the side of my house through the brisk air. In front of the black kitchen window that would have normally illuminated my exit strategy sat my father’s navy Explorer. I quickly opened the door and started it up.
If I wasn’t grounded, my father would have allowed me to borrow his car. I felt guilty stealing it, and redoing this night forced me into situation a second time. I couldn’t wait to ditch the watch.
I soon arrived at the carnival where it all began. Things felt very different this time. For one, Jenna is no longer important to me. I tried out a relationship with her but it became clear after some time that things weren’t going to work. Of course, she didn’t know that right now. She would be waiting for me at the cotton candy vendor like she was the first time.
I looked down at my watch. 4:50. I remember that I caught the mage on his way into his tent, so I walked to the only part of the carnival untouched by relentless glowing lights where I found him before. I don’t remember at exactly what time I found him, but it was definitely before 5:00. Out of curiosity, I tried turning the dial back on the watch again. Nope, still busted. My only instructions were to never go back to the time before I got the watch, and I blew it.
“You’re not supposed to have that. I am.” I turned around to see him standing in the same hooded brown robe that he was wearing the first time I met him, with the same yellow eyes looking out at me.
“I was wondering where my Second Chances Watch had disappeared to.” I think he was smiling under his hood.
“I want to return it.”
“Why, young man?”
“I don’t care about second chances. They turned me into a manipulative monster. I’m never happy with where I am or who I’m there with. I can’t accept anything that doesn’t go my way.” My voice started shaking. “I always want to control, control, control. Even if the slightest thing goes wrong, I always turn back time. It’s become a habit now and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Ah, regret, the incurable ailment. How funny it is – after attaining a life that could be free of regret, you go on to regret that you have chosen this life.”
“It’s not about regret. It’s about acceptance. I want to accept whatever happens to me. I want to live with it all.”
“Well then, I regret to inform you that you’ve turned back too far. You can’t return something you haven’t yet bought.”
“I know, I know. I just want to get rid of it.”
He ignored my plea. “There is a failsafe built into the watch. It commenced when you turned back to a time before you were the rightful owner of the watch. Its purpose is to prevent you from journeying back too far.”
“What do you mean? What failsafe?”
“The dial lost its ability to turn backward, but it can turn forward instead. If your previous experiences with time travel have taught you anything…”
Eager to test, I turned the dial forward five minutes. It worked. In an instant, I was standing in front of Jenna at the cotton candy stand where we planned to meet. I was overcome with nostalgia.
Filled with a new energy, I led her by the hand to the ferris wheel where we would have our first kiss. It was stupidly romantic. She would tell me how afraid of heights she was, and I would tell her to close her eyes as the wheel rose. At the peak, soaring above entire carnival, our lips would come together. I don’t like her as much as I used to, but I still wanted to relive that vivid memory. The only thing that stood before me and that moment was the long, boring queue before the ride. I always hated waiting in lines. There’s so much more to life than standing around. My finger lingered on the watch’s silver dial. It would only be a few minutes. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 30, 2020 10:45:51 GMT -6
The potent desire to control time is apparently difficult to control; an intriguing story this is  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 30, 2020 19:30:20 GMT -6
Bear Hunt By Thomas James “. . . and so the animal activists remain disappointed as New Jersey’s Black Bear hunt began at dawn today. We are live from West Milford, New Jersey. Angelina Urisdae. Fox 5 news.”
Randall Beck switched off the television, picked up his hunting gear, checked his permit and headed out the front door. Outside he paused, breathing deeply filling his lungs with the cold, crisp December air. Great weather for hunting he thought until a piercing voice disrupted his musings.
“Good morning Mr. Beck.”
A frustrated sigh escaped Randall’s lips as he turned to regard his neighbor, Margaret Cassidy, or “magpie” Maggie as he called her. Beck glanced longingly towards his battered Ford pickup that sat several feet away from him. I’ll never make it he thought. Having no other recourse Randall dropped his backpack, put on his best ‘how-nice-to-see-you’ face, and greeted his chatty neighbor.
“Good morning Mrs. Cassidy, you’re up early.”
Glancing at the hunter’s attire and especially at his rifle, Margaret’s eyes filled with disapproval. Patting her gray-black hair, Maggie said, “I was just watching the news. You’re not really going to participate in that awful bear hunt.”
“Mrs. Cassidy, I really don’t have time for ─
His neighbor interrupted, “You know, everything has a right to live.”
Antsy to be on his way, Randall let the false smile slide from his face and said, “Mrs. Cassidy, the law says that I can hunt, so I hunt. I enjoy hunting. This is what they call a management hunt. All classes, male and female black bears are legal to harvest. I’m actually doing a public service. These animals wander into people’s backyards and go where they don’t belong.”
“Don’t belong? Really, Mr. Beck these bears were here long before you or anyone else. I-
Randall cut her off, “I’m sorry. I have to be going.”
Hefting his backpack and rifle, he walked to his pickup and tossed his gear into the truck bed. The driver side door creaked alarmingly as Randall yanked it open. Stowing the rifle on the gun rack behind the truck seat, the hunter climbed into the pickup, stuck the key into the ignition, and turned it. Nothing happened.
“Seems it isn’t just me that doesn’t want you to go hunting,” said a smug Mrs. Cassidy.
“Funny,” muttered Randall.
Silently counting to ten, he tried the key again. After a false start, the truck roared to life, belching blue smoke from its tail pipe. Randall reached out and closed the driver side door. As the hunter began to drive off he said, “See you later, Mrs. Cassidy.”
An odd glint in her eyes, she replied, “I expect you will, Mr. Beck, I expect you will.” She stood watching Randall drive away as her husband, Herb, joined her.
“Off on a hunt is he?”
Pushing back a stray lock of his gray hair, Margaret replied “Yes dear, I’m afraid so.”
Randall arrived at the hunting grounds full of energy and determination. He would bag himself the biggest bear around. He drove his truck to a secluded spot and shut off the engine. The pickup rattled for a moment and then gave a dying gasp. Leaping out of the truck, he snatched up his rifle and backpack, and strolled into the woods.
After an hour of walking, he picked up the trail of a bear, its tracks pressed into in the soft soil. The hunter found other obvious signs along the trail: A worn spot on a tree where the bear had stopped to scratch itself, bear droppings and broken branches. The scat was fresh, which meant the animal could not be that far from Randall. Closer inspection revealed human footprints among the bear tracks. Damn he thought someone is ahead of me.
A short while later, Randall edged into a clearing and stopped. Before him sat the biggest bear he had ever seen, especially for the normally small black bear. Upwind and its back to the hunter, the bear sat oblivious to its imminent danger. Slowly Randall raised his rifle, taking careful aim at the blue-black furred creature. A sound to his left attracted his attention, barely giving Randall enough warning. Trying to avoid a swipe of a bear’s claw, the hunter raised his rifle as a shield.
The hunter stumbled as he backtracked, the bear ripping the rifle from Randall’s loose grasp. A roar erupted from the bear. Randall could see that this second bear was even bigger than the first. Forgetting his rifle, the hunter turned and fled through the woods, all hunting knowledge lost in the moments of terror. He had never been so close to a wild animal.
Tree branches scratched at his face and hands as the hunter ran for the truck, followed closely by not one but two black bears. Randall tossed his backpack down, hoping the food contained within would distract the bears. A glance showed the bears still chasing after him. Reaching his truck, the hunter scrambled to get the diver side door open, but it resisted his attempt. Randall kicked at the door, just as the bears came into view. With a frantic tug and a protesting squeal, the door finally opened and the he practically dove into the driver’s seat.
Randall jerked the truck door shut, fumbled the key into the ignition and turned the key but nothing happened. Panic welled up inside the hunter, who pounded his fist on the dashboard. Suddenly, the passenger side window exploded inward, showering Randall with glass. The hunter screamed in terror as the blue-black bear attempted to reach in and grab Randall. The truck rocked back and forth as the other bear pushed on the passenger side.
The hunter tried the key again and this time was rewarded with a sputtering engine cough and a blue plume of smoke. Slamming his foot on the accelerator, Randall drove away, his worn tires sliding on the loose soil. The truck fishtailed as the hunter fought to regain control. Coming around a bend, Randall overcompensated and the truck slid off the road into a gnarled oak tree. His head bounced off the steering wheel, opening a gash over his left eye. The truck's exhaust belched blue smoke once more, as the engine sounded a death rattle and shut down.
Randall groaned as he sat back, wiping the blood from his eye, trying to clear his vision. The hunter attempted to start the heavily damaged pickup, but the engine refused to cooperate. With no other options available, Randall shouldered open the driver-side door and stumbled out of the vehicle. Not wanting to wait around to see if the bears were still in pursuit, Randall ran for the main road.
Two minutes later found the hunter gasping for breath and standing on the blacktop. A lone vehicle approached, slowing down as Randall, waving his arms stepped into it the car’s path. The weary hunter shambled to the passenger side door of the stopped vehicle and climbed in.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
The driver studied Randall for a moment then responded, “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”
Rubbing his forehead, Randall said, “I’ll live, I just had an accident.” For the first time the hunter looked at the driver, a flicker of recognition danced in his head. Suddenly it came to him, “You’re that reporter, Angelina Uri-something.”
“Urisdae. Yes I am,” she replied and then asked, “And you are?”
“Randall Beck.”
As she put the car in gear, the driver said, “Judging by your wardrobe, I would guess that you were out hunting.”
Randall snorted. Here we go he thought. “Listen, I saw your report this morning and I am not in the mood for some bleeding heart conservative crap.”
Angelina did not respond as she steered the car off the main road onto a rut filled side road. Randall, too frustrated to hold a conversation, sat silent until the driver stopped the car at what appeared to be a hunter’s lodge. “Where are we?” Randall asked.
“Family home,” replied the driver.
The driver and her passenger exited the vehicle and walked to the front porch. Before mounting the steps, Angelina halted and turned to face the hunter. “One question Mr. Beck, do you believe that it is okay to hunt living creatures just for the sake of hunting?”
Randall hesitated. Something in the tone of her voice indicated that there was a right and wrong answer. “I, uh-
A rustling noise interrupted him before he could finish the sentence. Looking over his shoulder, Randall’s mouth dropped open as his neighbor Margaret Cassidy stepped from the surrounding woods, followed by her husband Herb.
“Hi mom, hi dad,” Angelina said.
“Mom? Dad?” A stunned Randall asked.
“Yes, Urisdae is our original family name. My parents wanted to fit in when we came to America, so they changed it.”
An icy finger of fear caressed Randall’s spine. “What’s going on here?”
“My guess is that my parents are here to join the rest of the bear hunters,” Angelina said.
“That’s ridiculous; your mother is against hunting. In fact she tried to stop me from hunting today.”
A wicked grin appeared on Angelina’s face. “You should have taken her advice.”
“Wha-What are you talking about?”
The door to the lodge opened, spilling forth several men and women, each with a look of disdain etched upon their faces.
“When I say bear hunters, I mean bears that will be doing the hunting," Angelina said.
Randall licked suddenly dry lips, his heartbeat increasing. "Hun- Hunting what?"
"Not what, whom and that sir would be you."
“Hunting me?”
“Here’s a little lesson in Latin for you; the Black Bear is of the family Urisdae, order Carnivora.”
The would be hunter stepped back as the flesh on Angelina’s face began to undulate, her nose and jaw elongating, with dark black fur erupting along her arms. Margaret and Herb dropped to all fours, their bodies contorting, loosing howls of pain and rage. The other people tore at their clothing, stripping down and exposing heavily muscled torso's thickening quickly with coarse black hair.
Randall turned and fled, pursued by large and angry black bears. The End. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 31, 2020 7:07:10 GMT -6
Hunting magnificent animals for 'sport' is terrible so ... I am okay with this ending |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 1, 2020 12:39:06 GMT -6
Section Guards by Liam Campbell Sitting with his back pressed hard against the trunk, Tobias cowered, his head in his hands, as the battle between the Section Guards and the Outlanders raged wildly below. The high pitched whine of steel against steel and Light cannons screaming overhead made him want to run and not stop until he was miles clear of this godforsaken place but he felt too scared to move. This war had been going on for at least three months now and had devoured almost all of his countrymen. He levered himself up slightly with his feet delicately balanced on the periphery of the branch above to get a better look at the carnage going on below. Sweat dripped from his thick black hair into his eyes as he peered through the crisp brown leaves, he wiped them clear. The midday sun blazed on, causing a blinding glare on the canopy which he could barely see through. However the noise of battle and smell of dead bodies were more than enough to make him recoil to the safety of the massive branch. Removing his broad sword he plunged it into the thick brown bark. Treacle like sap oozed slowly out stopping just shy of the edge, he removed his gloves to mop it up and put them into the side compartment of his satchel. Opening the satchels food compartment he stared into its dark void. It was empty. He hadn’t eaten for around three days now; he leaned against the sword as exhaustion took him into a deep slumber. A strange rustling forced Tobias awake. The moonlight made strange silhouettes as he struggled to focus on where the noise was coming from. Standing on the branch looking out into the darkness, he listened for the sound but met only silence. Knowing he would surely have to stand before the Elders with the possibility of death for deserting the battle, he slid down the tree as swiftly as a primate and landed effortlessly on the Ner grass. Trying to find his bearings in the pitch darkness, he heard rustling again, this time louder. Weaving in and out of the trees trying to pinpoint the noise he saw flickers of light. He slowly fumbled his way towards the light, careful to stay as silent as possible. Getting closer, he realised it was a small fire. Fear struck him hard and fast as he peered through the clearing to see two Outlanders throwing a corpse onto the fire. Edging closer and squinting hard to see who or what it was, the tales he had heard as a child from lord Marchment came flooding back to him. He had been told of the Outlanders’ strange rituals and practices and how they ceremoniously burn all of their fallen warriors to give them safe passage for their next life in the Kingdom of Versta. Jingling filled the silent air; Tobias quickly glanced down to see his leg tangled in a long thin piece of wire. Quickly tracing the wire he could see it veered up into the trees where attached to the end, he reckoned must be a small bell. Instinctively he drew his sword and placed his back against one of the tall trees. Standing in the darkness he thought about running but knew the Outlanders would track him down within minutes. He stood his ground scanning for the slightest movement to lock on to. A spear jammed, inches from his head deep into a tree. Tobias rapidly turned only to be met with the electric blue eyes and bright white teeth of an Outlander. It stood so close he felt its icy breath on the tip of his nose. His bones rattled as his sword bounced like rubber off the Shattle skull shield of the Outlander. Tobias frantically swung his sword again manically chopping nothing but the air as the Outlander easily dodged every swing. Crack! Tobias’s mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood as it flowed like a burst tap from his nose. Fumbling on the ground for his sword he could see the soles of the Outlanders’ leather boots. Grabbing the sword and stabbing it so violently into the air his ears vibrated with the high pitch wine scream as the Outlander landed face first on top of him. Wriggling free from its massive bulk Tobias checked it was dead by kicking it in the stomach. Arrgh! Tobias screamed as an axe skimmed past his right arm its ultra fine blade slashing him just above the elbow. A succession of blows from the shattle skull rained down on his face .Hitting the ground and curling up Tobias waited for the final blow to come, a few minutes passed. Nothing. Tobias spun round to see that he was completely alone. Still dazed he set off through the maze of trees to find what was left of his kinsmen. Spending the best part of two days climbing to the highest point he could find, Hanfax hill, he looked out over the whole of Bunberg while struggling to keep his eyes open. Seeing the Harden River shining like a newly born star gave him the determination to carry on as it had been too long since he last felt its freshness on his skin. He would find his people and tell them that although he was in the wrong to flee the battle he single handily fought with two Outlanders and lived to tell the tale. An Empire eagle glided silently through the air and dived bombed the Harden River reappearing with a massive fish in its beak. Looking west, watching the path of the eagle Tobias thought he could just about make out the trailing edge of the mobile camp of the Section Guards. He wasted no time and manoeuvred his way down Hanfax hill. Travelling for three days straight through bog land and forest; ravaged by hunger with only four hours sleep Tobias reasoned he was only a few hours behind his kinsmen, The dark grey embers of the fire they had set were still warm to the touch. Setting up camp for the night Tobias trapped, skinned and ate a wild Hare, each mouthful landed in the pit of his empty stomach. He picked the excess meat out of his teeth with a small bone while he stared into the fire. Through the dancing flames he saw a shadow weave in and out of the trees. Taking no chances he quickly leaned back and pulled his sword from its sheath. As he turned back round he caught a blow to the right hand side of his jaw which started to burn intensely. Rubbing his face to ease the pain he could see the Outlander waving a fiery log, like a deranged insect. Stumbling to his feet he ran straight through the fire, sword thrust straight out in front of him. The Outlander made a yelping sound like a small animal. Tobias looked down at the injured Outlander, its eyes were fading out of existence. He lifted his sword high above his head to finish the Outlander. Tobias’s sword clunked to the ground as he stood staring in disbelief. What had he done? He was a monster. The Outlander was clearly pregnant. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Jun 2, 2020 6:45:15 GMT -6
There is so much violence in this story.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 2, 2020 12:02:13 GMT -6
That....and it had a very unexpected ending. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 2, 2020 12:08:51 GMT -6
Samael, the Half-Malachim by J.G.Parker
The Nazerites, they trust me with their very lives. They depend on my command to preserve the lives of every soul behind these borders. Without question, we are the legion most equipped for such responsibility.
We hold the line, we are the only ones who can.
We are the only hope that matters, for we are the last hope. And I, Samael of House Thrandiin, lead these gifted vandun, this Nazerite platoon, into the fray yet again. Under the ever watchful eye of Omniabba, and with the endorsement of Melek Tau, our High King.
Each time we grip our Yad Shaddai, those 'Almighty Hands', the face of evil stands opposite us. We are the hope that stands between them and the peoples who we protect. It is our duty to destroy those dijin who plague the realms of the innocents.
We will stop this army here. For if we do not, then who will?
Look now, how they celebrate with relief at the sight of our approach. They see us as the embodiment of salvation. And will you make liars of their eyes? Will you discredit the comforts those mothers offer their children, as they look upon us and promise hope to those young ones?
No. If nothing else, we are The Order of the Nazerites. Life and Death know this and they hold true to the allegiance they owe us. None of you will fall in this hour. Omniabba, the All Father, will not allow it. The Malachim, those spectacular Heavenly Hosts, will not tolerate it. The Nephilim, the elite and royal high guardsmen, would not expect it from their elder brothers.
We are examples to many. We are symbols to them.
Asmodeus, who calls himself 'high prince of the second circle of Hell and champion to the Quintessence of Sin that is Lust', will know me, this day. Leave him for me. He is delusional and has defrauded himself of the truth that we all know. That foul thing, he is no different than any other dijin.
"And what are dijin, Nazerites?"
"......"
Precisely.
Half the city is in ruin, as that dijin horde sprawls through it. We fly over it all and I can see they have already laid waste to hundreds: children and their brave but innocent mothers and fathers.
I received a report from a captain to the west claiming that a notorious dijin was on the move; one of the alleged 7 Princes. When I accessed those images and saw that it was indeed that pompous dijin, Asmodeus, I issued a general command calling forth those few that I would have accompany me. Three systems later, I have tracked him here.
He will not move this army any further into the realms under my protection. Those distinctly made to be separated from dijin by Him.
My Lord Commander, what is our formation?
"Shower them in pairs..." ...encircle them between, and close in on their necks... "I am set on Asmodeus."
"Ase..." ...Commander
"Manoah..."...you are with me.
Ase, Commander.
"Mine are the blades. Yours..." ...are the swords. Yours are the daggers. Yours "...are the hammers", and yours the staffs, and so on, and so on... "...The dijin below us, Nazerites, will know them all."
"Ase, Commander"
There, against the wall of that home, there is my entry. A man at the end of his days is surrounded there by dijin, no doubt they plan to tear him to pieces. I must leap from this vessel first, and to his aid. No vandun ought to be followed if their actions cannot testify to their worth. In this event, I will be the first to touch ground on Egnatia.
This planet is home to these people and port-world to many others. Surely it was Asmodeus' plot to steal this planet as a pivot for his ambitious campaign. Likely, others of the 7 are rallying for similar maneuvers, more likely still to lay siege on Congor; the epicenter. We will deal with them as well.
Descending from on high, the Lord Commander and his right hand, his First Captain Manoah, aimed for the failing man, determined to save him. Unfortunate for the dijin, that they would be the first victims of the two astounding champions. They crashed into the ground with haste, but in impeccable form, they disturbed the dirt beneath them little. The dijin instantly ceased their advance at the sight of them.
Samael was tall. His hair grew naturally dreaded at the root, as was the case for all vandun; a phenomenon for their kind. It was fixed into one braid that formed at the top-center of his hairline and continued down to the middle of his back. His boots and armor were light, and mostly crafted of a material akin to leather, though it was more dense and durable. The only hard-stone in his garb, unlike other warriors from Congor who were bathed in it, rested at the end of his braid, at the clasp of his boots and belt, and on one solitary shoulder-piece that was strapped across his body.
In place of the traditional chains that a vandun would adorn around their neck, the Nazerite is wrapped in the Holy Shrouds; the Qadosh. It is embossed with the deeds of it's bearer, and reflects the character of their heart. As they live, the markings appear on the Qadosh. Much like the etchings would appear if they wore chains bearing the sigil of their house.
Samael was wrapped in this covering every piece of skin, save his hands. From his wrists draped two extensions of the Qadosh which grew on par with the need for open space. As for Manoah and the others, there were minor variances here and there but for the most part, they all resembled the same uniform as Samael. But now, before these dijin, the Qadosh began to illuminate from a flat grey to a bright and glowing gold.
"It's... it's you.." the old man said propped against the wall behind them, already braced for his demise.
The Lord Commander turned his eye to this innocent, the lower-half of his face covered with a black mask that seemed to stick there without binding. His eyes, like all other vandun, were black with golden irises; they too were glowing.
"Yes, it is you! Samael, the legend, the Half-Malachim!... Oh, glory! I have heard your tale since I was but a boy! And now, when I am in need, He provides! Oh, glory!" More to come. Stay tuned. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Jun 3, 2020 6:50:48 GMT -6
I really like this one ... looking forward to reading more  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 3, 2020 12:36:22 GMT -6
In front of the two, the fallen ones stood at the ready. Nervous and in truth afraid. Their black wings filled enough gaps to make their number look staggering and their power great, and to most lesser than the Nazerites and even some Nephilim, they were. Old, pale, and creviced skin with seemingly young faces, covered in torn cloths and decaying broken armor. They reeked of former glory. These dijin were shadows of the Malachim they used to be. While Samael looked upon the old man, Manoah broke off and laid waste to these foes. The man watched, but could see only glints of golden light and the ashing dijin bodies that fell behind them. Their speed was too great for him to witness. Samael joined him. Nazerites rain down from the skies, and I among them. And where is Asmodeus? I snatch the heart of these abominations from their chests with ease, but that one eludes me. I cannot smell him in this horde, but I know that he is not far. Samael moved swiftly, fully synchronized with his First Captain at his side. To the outside world, the Lord Commander and his Nazerite brothers spoke rarely, if at all. To them, their discourse was as frequent as any other. They were born gifted, which is why they are Nazerites. As such, they could choose to share thoughts that their brothers could hear, without speaking. They could anoint their hands and their Yad Shaddai to burn the hearts of the dijin with an inextinguishable flame. These, among many others, were talents of the Malachim that were born into only the exceptionally rare of the vandun. In this, Samael was the incomparable paragon to all. His mastery of these talents earned him the name and the legend 'the Half-Malachim'. With fruitless resistance, the dijin fell at the hands of Samael and Manoah, who paid little attention to their strikes. Not neglectfully so, but because the Nazerites were so well practiced that this required so little of them or their focus. Golden streams stretched through this horde. They moved through these waves of dijin as a spoon through a warm broth. Samael surveyed the field with his third sight. It would not be long now. I see the hearts of these ruins through the bodies of the ones before them. I see their wicked spirits and the Nazerites who destroy them. But no - ahhhh, there! My quarry. Asmodeus. I should have suspected that he'd seek a high vantage, arrogant as he is. But the slaughter is now upon them, and I upon him. Manoah, there. Asmodeus in his makeshift throne. The dijin hold him up, just on the rise of the field's southern edge. Look now. There, I see him. Let us end this, then... "...On me." Ase, Commander. The Nazerites had already encircled their foes and were now closing in on them. Samael and Manoah moved swiftly across a now open field, their brothers to their backs dousing the enemy, and ash at their feet. Asmodeus leaned forward on his throne, frightened by the sight of them. Samael leapt high into the air. Six dijin held the rails of that throne in rows of three. Sprinting towards them, Manoah put his two spears through their hearts with a precise throw from each arm. The throne fell and the impact shook Asmodeus, who fell from his seat. Three higher ranking dijin stood before these now smoldering carcasses, they advanced on Manoah. From on high, Samael fell upon the first of them, thrusting his blade clean through it's heart and body; ash became it. From over his back flipped Manoah, who made quick work of the second. A downward thrown elbow to it's face, he lifted the dijin with his left and slammed it, cratering the dirt beneath it; it's heart ashing in his hand. Spinning forward around Manoah, Samael moved on the final third, sweeping it's legs with a kick and decapitating it's falling body with an upward thrust from his right. Extending his left, Samael caught the head of the dijin and spun again planting his right blade into it's heart; the body still in midair. In a full turn, he threw the dijin's head towards Asmodeus and caught his suspended left blade, with his now empty right hand. The head struck Asmodeus' stunned face with force and opened a vein in his nostril, black blood streamed down. Regaining his senses, he scrambled up from the ground and fled in retreat. The Nazerites were too many and defeat was upon him. Dijin were never taken prisoner, and so Asmodeus feared for his life. Manoah stood and waited, remembering his orders. Samael watched his retreat but for a moment. "Justice is thorough and pays the wicked in full. Dijin are no exception. Death calls you, Asmodeus" Striking out, with blade in hand, Samael quickly closed the gap that Asmodeus had built. Samael readied his arm. The taste of victory was on his lips. And without warning, Asmodeus was swept from Samael's path. Sliding across the dirt Samael looked out. There Asmodeus stood in the cold embrace of the naked one; Lust. She was one of the Quintessence of Sin, those who cannot be killed before Omniabba allows it. She stared into Samael's eyes. And in flash of black smoke, the two were gone. The Lord Commander stood, stoically studying the spot where they once stood. The cheers of the Egnatian peoples ringing from afar, in his ears. Th End 🦄 |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 6, 2020 13:45:38 GMT -6
The Imp, The Shade and Cerberus by Thomas James The dead cried out, some with remembrance of former lives lost, others with fear for the retribution to come. Ignoring the wailing specters, the imp Deil trudged through the warped corridors and caverns of the Underworld, wringing his clawed hands all the while. Head down, tail and wings dragging, Deil presented himself before the dark lord, Hades. Cringing and stuttering, the imp gave his report.
Sitting upon his shadowed throne, Hades stared down at his lesser minion. The displeasure written upon the dark lord’s face would make even the most stalwart heart quake. Shifting its weight from foot to foot, its barbed tail leaving tiny scorch marks where it struck the obsidian floor, the pitiful imp withered under the master’s probing gaze, awaiting judgment. The silence stretched on, growing oppressive, as if a weight were crushing the tiny imp. Finally, the master spoke.
“Tell me once more,” commanded Hades, “and Deil, this time leave out the sniveling.”
Deil swallowed past the lump in his throat, thankful that it yet remained intact. Drawing in a sulfurous breath, the imp spoke. “While making my rounds, I happened by the Infernal Gates and rather than the normal sounds of Cerberus harrowing the Shades, all was s-still. Drawing closer, I discovered the Mephistopheles chains lying in the dust and the hellhound g-gone.”
“And how, pray tell, did my Gate Guardian slip his unbreakable bonds?”
“I-I m-may have f-forgotten to reset the c-chains after exercising Cerberus last eve.”
Before Hades could respond, the imp interrupted. “Th-There is another matter, m-master.”
“Go on,” Hades ordered, his voice deceptively smooth.
“I-It also a-appears that a S-Shade has escaped, my lord,” said the imp, its voice drifting off into silence.
Deil’s eyes roamed about the cavernous hall, afraid to look at his lord, unconsciously shifting through the various light spectrums. In the gamma spectrum, the imp caught a glimpse of the felos-de-se, the elite guard of the Underworld. Unbelievably, Deil’s fear raised another notch.
The lord of the Underworld leaned forward until his smoldering, scarlet, eyes were in line with the imp’s dull, yellow orbs. Hades reached out and grasped Deil around the throat. With mounting anger, the ruler of the Underworld squeezed tightly, increasing the pressure as he spoke, “You will find my hellhound.”
“You will find the renegade Shade.”
“You will return them both.”
Releasing the imp, Hades held out his hand and a flaming ebony orb appeared in his palm. The flames subsided, leaving a square of parchment in the dark lord’s unmarred hand. “Take the Hell-Writ and be gone from my sight.”
Retrieving the parchment and securing it in the pouch at his waist, Deil hastily made to exit the throne room, with the voice of his master ringing in his ears. “And Deil, do not fail. The vilest pits of Tartarus will seem a haven after I am done with you.”
After serving as the Infernal Gate guardian for several millennia, Cerberus the three-headed hellhound ran free. Six pairs of eyes stared into the nighttime sky wondering at the points of light. Wraith lights thought one head. Soul fires thought another. The third head remained ambivalent.
A mixture of sensations confounded the hellhound: sights, sounds, and smells. A solitary odor stood out above all others: mortal. Cerberus had only ventured onto the mortal plane once, but the encounters with mortal kind left the hellhound resentful. The hackles at the back of his thick neck rose, as the hellhound recalled two such encounters: the Greek brute Heracles, who had battered Cerberus into unconsciousness in order to present the hellhound to Eurystheus, the king of Tiryns and the sneaky Orpheus, whose soft, sweet lullaby caused the hellhound to sleep, thus allowing the Thracian singer to enter the Underworld. To Cerberus, mortals were evil, devious creatures not to be trusted.
A large bright orb appeared in the night sky, unlike anything Cerberus had seen in the Underworld, yet the hellhound felt an instinctual need to howl. The first head rose and produced a low mournful baying, followed by the second and then the third. The eerily harmonious crying filled the night. For several miles around, mortal men whimpered in their sleep. As the echoes died out, Cerberus loped along a wooded trail. Stay tuned for more. 🦄 |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Jun 13, 2020 12:03:08 GMT -6
The Shade arrived on the surface world shortly before dawn, basking in its newfound freedom. Over a century had passed since it had last walked the earth. Disturbing not a single blade of grass, the Shade glided forward. A soft breeze blew through the trees, igniting the Shade’s faded memories. It could recall sitting under such trees, enjoying the pleasures of sight, sound, and touch. The pleasing memories quickly turned to anger. While incorporeal, these sensations were beyond the Shade’s ability to experience. If it would experience these feelings once more, it must find a living host. Only with the usurpation of a mortal shell would the Shade be truly free of the Underworld and return to its former glory. Coming upon a small lake, the runaway Shade stepped upon the water, leaving ringlets of frost in its wake. Cerberus continued along the path, eyes and ears alert, pausing occasionally to sniff at a tree. Trees here confused the hellhound. They were not stunted or twisted and retained their foliage. Of course, after Cerberus marked his territory, the trees resembled those of the Underworld. Days later, park rangers would wonder about the sudden spoilage. Arriving at a small clearing, the hellhound caught the scent of a woodland creature, its small, fuzzy tail twitching, exciting Cerberus who gave chase, barking gleefully. The hellhound chased several odd creatures, one of which disappeared into a small burrow, where Cerberus patiently rooted for an hour. Unable to reach his quarry, the hellhound resumed his trek through the wooded area. Near a row of hedges, Cerberus paused in his frolicking. Voices sounded on the other side, mortal voices. Cautiously, the former gate-guardian pushed his three heads through the hedges, espying two mortal men. Cerberus paused as he watched the mortal men approach a darkened domicile. Although their language was foreign to Cerberus, he could smell their evil intent. “Are you sure there ain’t nobody home?” asked the first man, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Stop worrying, and help me with this window,” replied his partner. As the first thief attempted to force the window, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?” “I thought I heard something.” “You’re starting to get on my nerv─” a low growl cut off his words. Both men turned, peering into the darkness. “Damn, they must have gotten a dog.” Cerberus pressed out of the darkness into the moonlight, his middle head leading the way. “Damn, would you look at the size of that bulldog’s hea─” The sentence hung in the air as two more heads came into view. The stubble-faced man screamed out, “What the hell is that! Must be a mutant or somethin’.” Both men backed slowly until they could go no further. The growling hellhound pressed in, preparing to rend the life from the untrustworthy mortals. Mystic strength coiled, ready to pounce, when a familiar scent wafted by Cerberus…Shade. Eons of training overrode any desire to harm the vile mortals. Directing a final growl at the mortals, the hellhound bounded off in pursuit of the fugitive Shade. Breathing a sigh of relief, the would-be thieves turned to flee, only to find themselves bathed in light. “Freeze!” commanded an officer. Deil appeared on the surface world, slightly disoriented, never having set cloven hoof on the mortal plane. A brightly burning ball hung in the sky, frightening the imp and stinging his light sensitive eyes. Deil had heard stories of a burning orb but until now had never had the displeasure of seeing one. As his sight adjusted to the brilliance, Deil sought out a likely path taken by Cerberus. The notion occurred to the imp that if he found the hellhound first, he could use the beast to track the Shade. Shifting his gaze to the infrared spectrum, Deil located the hellhound’s fading paw prints. Following the wayward hellhound’s obvious trail (desiccated trees, sere grasses, and a few dead, oddly bleached surface creatures); the imp came upon the secluded clearing that Cerberus had recently vacated. Voices drifted from the other side of the hedges. Using his innate powers of invisibility, Deil edged closer, listening in on the conversation. “Can you believe it? Right here in our own neighborhood,” said a rather corpulent woman, dressed in a bathrobe and hair curlers. “It’s just not safe anywhere these days,” replied another, cigarette dangling from her lips. “I heard that a stray dog interrupted the thieves,” said an elderly man. The first woman scoffed, her hair curlers shaking, “Way I hear it, they claimed it was some kind of monster.” Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the other woman said, “Whatever it was, it scared them somethin’ awful. They wet themselves.” All three laughed. Deil had heard enough. Cerberus had revealed himself to mortals. Hades would be less than pleased. Sighing, the imp sped off after the hellhound, hoping to catch him before any innocents came to harm. The sun continued to rise, painting the sky with blushes of pink and gold. Unhindered by terrain, the Shade quickly made its way across the small wooded park. A bright flair of colors appeared though the trees, drawing the Shade onward. A lone female ran along a dirt trail, oblivious to the incorporeal Shade. Anticipation ran through the Shade as it moved to intercept the running woman. Matching her pace, the Shade imposed its essence upon the unsuspecting woman. The woman stumbled to a halt, leaning on a tree for support. The Shade exulted in the feel of the rough bark beneath its stolen hands, the feel of the caressing breeze, the aroma of flowering plants, and most of all, the thudding of a beating heart. The Shade’s pleasure at its new surroundings was short-lived however, as Cerberus appeared on the trail. A menacing growl rumbled in the hellhound’s throat. Slowly Cerberus stalked in, sensing the Shade within the mortal shell. The hellhound cared little for the mortal; Cerberus would allow no one to stop the retrieval of the Shade. Deil came upon Cerberus as the hellhound accosted the mortal woman. Altering his eyesight, the imp witnessed the missing Shade attempting to force out the host’s true essence. Deil knew that once removed, the true self would appear as a runaway Shade to the hellhound. Before Cerberus could attack the innocent mortal, Deil swept in and slapped the Hell-Writ against the host body. Ebony flames ensnared the woman, sending the fugitive Shaded shrieking to the Underworld. As the ethereal flames subsided, the woman fell unconscious to the earth, virtually unscathed. Cerberus leaped upon the imp, dragging Deil to the ground, happy to see his retainer. After several swipes of his tongues, Cerberus sat back and allowed the imp to rise. Wiping the drool from his face, Deil leaped up and grasped the hellhound’s collar. Relief in his voice, Deil remarked, “Let’s go home.” With Cerberus back at his post, Deil made his way to the great hall. Small even by imp standards, Deil felt even less significant, standing before the colossal throne, wondering if his bones would join those of the eon’s dead creatures that made up the Eternal Seat. Hades sat staring at his servant. After several moments of tense silence he spoke. “It seems you have been successful.” Deil felt somewhat relieved. Hades continued, “However, it also appears that additional Shades have escaped.” Deil swallowed hard, wondering if the Tartarus pits would be so bad. The End 🦄 |
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Post by mac08 on Jun 14, 2020 0:55:56 GMT -6
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