Under Glass

Chang'an, Hann Dynasty, 6 B.C.


     Ritual finished, Hann the Ascendant kicked aside the pile of sacrificed virgins.  Power beyond imagination surged through him.  Certain none could now stop his desires for ultimate rulership, he moved to the door his enemies were trying to break down and threw it open.
     With his new strength he slew the warriors with his bare hands, hardly weakened by the wounds from their weapons.  Their bodies were added to the others scattered on the floor of Hann's sanctum.  Even as they fell, Hann admired their bravery.  When the last warrior choked on his final breath, Hann was faced by an old man, eyes white with cataracts and dressed in priestly garb.  The elder bore a cushion with an object hidden under rich, red cloth.
     "Old one," said Hann, "Step aside.  Out of respect I will not slay you, but be warned no weapon you might have there can kill me."
     "I am old and weak, sir.  I could not kill you."  He bowed and slipped the cloth from the object on the cushion.  "I can only stop you."


     
Boston, Massachussetts, 2012 A.D.


     By themselves the items were odd, but taken all together it was the creepiest thing Michael had ever seen.  
     "Well, Mr. Brin, what do you think?"  The formally dressed collector seemed eager to know.  "Was it worth the trip to Boston?"  
     Michael covered his pause with a look around the cluttered sitting room.  Clutter was the wrong word; it was both too little and too much.  Mr. Woodrow's extensive collection of oddities was carefully arranged floor to ceiling, leaving just enough room for a path past each shelf.
     "Amazing, sir.  Quite impressive,"  Michael said in full honesty.  "I've never seen anything like it."
     "Oh, please, call me Ian." The old fellow held out his hand a little off-center.  Mike put his hand to one side, but Ian didn't see it.  
     "Of course," Michael said, taking the old man's hand and returning a firm handshake, "and you should call me Mike."  Apparently he was blind.
     "So, tell me, Mike.  Do you think we're worthy of an article here?"
     "At least, if not a feature spread," said Mike.  "Wonderful collection, blind caretaker, open to the public; what's not to love.  What fascinates me is how everything is right out where everyone can touch it."  He carefully balanced his curiosity with a reporter's indifference.  "In most museums there are glass and ropes."
     "That's exactly how I think it should be for these things."  Mike could see the old fellow's passion.  "They weren't meant as works of art, but they've grown into something special nonetheless.  Still, there are a few items I don't keep out."
     "Really?  I'd love to. . ."  Ian interrupted before he could finish.
     "No, no, I'm sorry."  The thought seemed to shake the old man.  "Too, uh, sensitive."
     "Indeed, I understand," Mike said with a nod.  He carefully noted Ian's blind glance toward the rear hall.  "Private collection."
     "Not - well, yes, something like that," said Ian, relief evident in his voice.
     After some further polite exchanges, Michael excused himself and trudged to his rental car.  Early sunset and lowering storm clouds had already blanketed the town with darkness and snow.  Neither would stop the heist.
     Mike mulled over the job during dinner at The Capital Grille.  No alarm, no pet; it seemed the old fellow had no idea that what he had was so valuable.  Either this would be the easiest heist for the money that he'd ever pulled, or he'd missed something.  Mike was still confident in his ability to overcome any obstacle a blind, old man or older house might present, but considering every angle was part of his process.
     It was a little after 3 a.m. when Mike made his move.  The snow had stopped for now, though the clouds still threatened.  He already knew there were no windows into the back of the house and now he thought he knew why.  It was a matter of five minutes and he was through the front door.
     A few more minutes of quiet search discovered the locked door he'd expected.  The lock was effective, but unsophisticated, and Mike was in the private collection before 3:30 am.  It only took one look around for him to understand why this stuff wasn't on display.
     If the rest of the collection was strange, this stuff was incomprehensible.  There were jars with macabre things floating in murky liquid, racks of shrunken heads, even a stuffed and mounted animal Mike didn't recognize.  He wasn't here to take the tour, though, so he kept searching rather than stop to figure things out.
     Between a ribcage with strange spikes, and a laquered box covered with geometric designs, Mike located what he'd been hired to steal.  Under the bell glass cover was a hand-made leather doll that vaguely resembled a teddy bear.  The thick skin looked slimy and none of the usual facial details were there. Crude stitching reminded him of Frankenstein's monster.  Mike felt aversion at the thought of touching it, but finally told himself he was here to steal it, not write a review.
     He examined the bell jar closely for alarms, but found nothing amiss.  Satisfied, he lifted the glass and -
     - fell to the floor in agony.  Pain overrode every thought, every brain cell.  Bones cracked and shattered under the pressure of shrinking skin; organs and muscles squirted out in all directions then withered to dust.  In seconds Mike was a near-duplicate of the doll, which went through a simultaneous mirrored transformation.
     Taking great care not to look at it, the Chinese man placed the newly-shrunken doll under the glass.  More quickly he dressed himself in Mike's empty clothing and moved to the door.  He paused there, fingers touching the wooden panel.
     "I am leaving, Ian," he said.  "My conquest was only delayed."
     "You know I can't let you, Hann," came the old man's voice outside the door.
     "Stop me if you dare," said Hann.
     "I'm far too old, now.  I can only kill you."
     With a shuddering thump, bright flame blossomed under the door.  Hann lunged away as the door shattered and a wall of fire burst in.




     The young fireman poked through the smoking rubble with a wrecking bar, searching for and extinguishing hotspots that might rekindle the blaze.  Dawn grayed the sky but it was still cold enough to make him glad for the protective gear  Twisting aside a charcoaled beam, he found embers and something sticking out of them.
     With a gloved hand he reached and pulled at the object.  What came out was one of the strangest things he'd seen in a house fire; a weird leather teddy bear that was not even scorched.  After a brief examination through his faceshield, he tossed it away from the burned structure; no need to leave a possible fuel source in the place.  He failed to notice the young Asian man snatch the doll from the slush and run away.
     The next thing Mike knew he was naked and cold, someplace he didn't remember, curled up facing an upside down fish tank over that strange doll.  He discovered that someone's clothing was piled under him, so he dressed and left.  Whoever wanted that damn doll thing could get it himself.




The End

Town Hall vs The Constitution of the United States

So, I've been wondering. . . does the Constitutional right to peaceful assembly override local city ordinances about the use of public areas? 

Asked this way, it seems an innocent, inconsequential question.  Yet that very question is in the news every day.  Occupy Wall Street has morphed into Occupy America and a young veteran is in intensive care in Oakland, California because of this question.

His skull fracture isn't the first act of violence committed against protesters.  Each one of these acts of police violence are directly related to the conflict of local ordinances with the Constitution of the United States of America.  Locally influential business and politicos feel local ordinances are more important than Consitutional rights and set the local police to enforce this belief.  Protesters believe their Constitutional rights of assembly are foremost and set out on their campaign of protest informed by this belief.

So far, legal response has supported the policy of local authorities enforcing local ordinances over Constitutional rights.  For instance, in Nashville, Tennessee, local politicos enacted an ordinance yesterday putting a curfew on a local park where protesters were gathered.  Dozens of protesters were arrested overnight using this ordinance.

This local response to legitimate, Constitutional protest isn't new, of course.  Protesters throughout American history have suffered the same tactics.  As long as local thugs are allowed to override constitutional rights, it will continue.

Good news?  Authorities are reacting to pressure from Occupy protesters.  This movement is facing the most entrenched and powerful foe to Constitutional, civil and personal rights ever faced by Americans, so this reaction is a good thing.

The bad news is this conflict will continue for a very long time.  Occupy America will need support from folks like us for years to come.  Do what you can; donate time, money, or just your voice.  Wall Street in all its corrupted forms must be forced to face the consequences of their crimes against America.

Dear President Obama

I hope this letter finds you well, because 99% of the rest of Americans are not.  Let me explain.

Those policemen who are supposed to protect and serve Citizens are acting like corporate goon squads.  They are treating fellow Americans gathered in peaceful assembly like criminals, even committing acts of illegal violence, violating civil rights, and suspending basic human rights.  I would appreciate it if you would call the Mayors of the offending cities and encourage them to rein in those men who are working to push Occupy Wall Street into Blood Bath Wall Street.

And while I deeply appreciate the sentiment of your recent mortgage help, the people who really need the help are those who have MISSED mortgage payments because of the economy, not those who are simply unable to sell their home for what they paid.  Americans are being kicked out of their homes because of unemployment caused by Wall Street.  Americans are being kicked out of their homes because corporate greed abolished their jobs and sent those jobs overseas.  Americans are being kicked out of their homes fraudulently by mortgage brokers willing to fudge the paperwork to make a profit.  I would appreciate it if you would ask Congress to pass a law that suspends foreclosures nationwide until affected Americans can protect themselves with bankruptcy, finding employment, or bailouts.

In closing, let me assure you that I voted for you and will again.  Keep up the good work, sir.

Respectfully,
Citizen America

Citizen Rant

Dear Presidential Candidates,


Who gives a crap about tax rates?  Banks, investment firms, and most large corporations are robbing us blind every day!  And really, tax RATES are far less important than tax BREAKS - all the breaks go to the rich and the corporations.


What we Americans want and need is for our government to stand up for us, protect us, and represent us.  This means PENALIZING corporations who send jobs and money out of the United States.  This means DISMANTLING investment groups that try to profit by destroying our economy.  This means CLOSING banks that gamble on the stock market.  This means BANNING dangerous investment practices like derivatives and trading utility futures.  This means making mortgages and other long-term loans NON-TRANSFERABLE without the borrower's permission.  


And don't forget to look closely at government itself.  This means NO PAY for Congress if they don't balance the yearly budget.  This means NO WAR unless Congress approves.  This means NO CAMPAIGN FUNDING from corporations, foreign governments, PACs, unions, or other 'special interests' - require the media to equally issue and honor campaign 'air-time vouchers' as part of doing business.


Please don't give us the same tired lies; take a stand, make a promise, be an American!


Hopefully,
Mr. Citizen

Graphic Twist

     Tom Brand looked around the dark alley as he took a long draw on the cigarillo. He pulled down the brim of the leather Stetson until his squinting eyes were just red gleams of reflected light from the burning stogie. 
     Anger twisted Brand's cruelly scarred face; sweat and blood on his short beard glittered in the full moon above the roofs of San Fiera.
      He pulled the little cigar from his lips, blew the ash from the glowing end, and tossed the twist of burning tobacco into the storeroom of El Perro Grande Saloon. 
     "Adios. . ." he grated through clenched teeth as he turned and strode away, spurs chiming. 
     The glowing cigarillo spun through the back door, trail of sparks sketchily illuminating bags and barrels stacked high.  It struck the potbellied stove, careened off a small barrel marked 'Gunpowder,' and arced toward the floor as a bestial figure lunged across the saloon's storeroom to the back door.  Spotting Tom Brand, his hated foe, Lobo the bandit king loosed a howl and crouched for a killing leap. 
     The cigarillo ember hit the gunpowder-covered floor.
     Detonation flashes lit up the town.  Half the saloon was blasted into kindling and the rest into a heap of flaming wreckage, burying Lobo's gang in a fiery tomb.  Brand didn't flinch as deadly chunks of debri whistled past.
     ". . .ya stinkin' werewolves," he finished and lit another stogie.
     Silver spurs clinking with every step, Brand stalked across the muddy alley to where the smoking body of his enemy had been flung by the explosion.  The werewolf's unnatural vitality was already healing burns and knitting flesh.  Brand threw the front of his poncho over his left shoulder, exposing the infamous .50 caliber revolver, Silver Reaper. 
     "You're done hurtin' these folk, Lobo.  Your gang is dead." he said calmly.  "Easy way is you lay there and let them throw you in jail.  Or there's the hard way."  Brand dropped his right hand to the gleaming butt of Silver Reaper.
     A handful of townspeople had come out of hiding and were watching the confrontation.  Mayor Keller limped closer, graying fur silvered by the moonlight.
     "I have deputies on the way," he rumbled.  "Thank you, Tom."
     Without warning Lobo flung himself off the ground, fangs bared, claws reaching for Keller.  As fast the the bandit werewolf could move, he was no match for Tom Brand's fast draw.  The Reaper spoke once and Lobo sprawled dead at the Mayor's feet.
     "Hard way it is."


     Henri blinked when his bedroom light suddenly came on.  His Mom was standing in the door, disapproval in her blue eyes.  His face burned from being caught reading after bedtime again.  With a deep breath she smoothed back the fur on her snout and face with both hands.
     "Dear, we talked about this," she said as she sat on the bed beside the boy.  "Your Father and I don't want you up reading so late."  She gently removed the comic book from his hands and glanced at the garish, bloody cover, which read, 'Tom Brand vs. The Bandits of San Fiera.'  "Especially these things."
     "Mom, all the guys will be talking about the new Brand tomorrow at school.  I gotta read it or they'll think I'm stupid or something."  Ears laid back in supplication, Henri gave his Mom his best puppy-dog eyes.
     "Why this, dear?  You know there's no such thing as humans."
     "That's why they call him an anti-hero, Mom."  His youthful scorn at her supposed ignorance almost made her laugh.  She bared her teeth in a stern face as she stood to leave.
     "Well, whatever he is, no more reading after bedtime, period.  Do you understand, young man?"  She waited a moment to let it sink in, then dropped the comic book back on the bed.  "Now, finish up and get to bed for real."
     "Thanks, Mom.  You're the best."  They touched noses and Henri curled up with his comic again.

After the Apple

NOTE:  Lighthearted Blasphemy Ahead

       God wasn't having a good day.  However, reneging on His Forever Open Door policy was never going to happen, so when Archangel Michael messaged Him an angel was seeking audience, God sat up straight and nodded permission.
       "Presenting Angel M. Istake," rang out Michael's voice.  The Heavenly Host sounded their golden horns as the Angel hustled past.  In moments he was before the Throne of God, where he prostrated himself on the steps of silver.
       "Let Us not be so formal, Angel," came the Voice of God.  "Get up, son."
       "Thank You Sir, and thank You for seeing me on such short notice."  Eagerness lit up Angel Istake's face as he drew forth scrolls from his robes.  "I think I've a got solution for the Tree of Knowledge problem, Sir."  The Angel held out the scrolls for God's perusal.
       "Give the apple teeth?  Nice work, son; elegant," said God, "but you're a little late."  With a wave of His hand, the clouds parted and showed Adam and Eve being evicted from the Garden.  "Make sure that gets on the Cloud Server; it might come in handy later."
       "Oh, Lord, I'm sorry about this," the Angel cried.  "I really tried to get it done in time, but everything seemed to go wrong."
       "Hey, don't sweat it," said God.  "You aren't perfect."  God rose from His throne and stepped beside the Angel, placed His arm around the Angel's shoulders.  "Maybe you'd like to do Me a favor with another project?"
       "Anything, Lord!" blurted the Angel.  "Whatever You need, Sir."
       "No need for all the 'sirs' and such, son, " spoke God.  "We're all in Heaven together, aren't We?  You just call Me Yahweh, and I'll call you - what did you say your name was?"
       "Murphy, Sir, I mean, Murphy.  Murphy Istake."
       "Well, Murphy, I'm thinking of installing a new set of rules on Earth," said God, "something to encourage humanity to think things out a little more carefully in the future."
       "Wonderful, Sir, I mean Yahweh.  I'll get right on that," said Angel Murphy.  "I should have something to Beta test by tomorrow."
       "Outstanding, son.  Like your attitude."  God slightly smote the Angel's shoulder.  "What to you think about naming this project Murphy's Law?"


End

Deadly Secret

       What is a mask?  Just an object to hide the face?  We each wear our masks already, presenting the person we want others to see, hiding our secrets behind lies and smiles.  Why would we need another mask?
       Freedom.  I am my Beast behind this mask.  I am free here to snarl and growl, with no danger my neighbors will suspect or my victims flee.  Behind here my face won't belie my words.  Behind here I am free to be a predator.
       Stalking the crowds of masks, knowing they feel their own freedom, intoxicates me.  Someone here in this street, someone dancing and walking and breathing will end tonight.  And however briefly, another will share my Beast.
       Among so many people I walk alone, touching them, smelling them.  Soon enough I will choose, but for now the warmth of the herd sooths me.  Music blares from passing floats and people cry out in excitement.  Then I fall down.
      "Oh, dear, I'm sorry," she says, helping me up off the sidewalk with a white-gloved hand. 
       It was a strong hand.  She was tall and slender, wearing a fantastical red velvet outfit, including be-flowered hat and hood.  With the lovely, simple white mask she was a complete mystery to behold.
       "No, my fault I think," I said.  Here was fate; welcome to your last hours.
       "I'm sure I tripped you," she insisted.  "Such a crowd, isn't it?  Perhaps we could get out of the traffic for now?  I could buy you a drink in apology."
       "If you like, sure."  Still holding my hand, she moves toward neon lights off of Canal.  Her utter openness and trust unsettles me and I let her drag me along like a child.  I have the inappropriate urge to laugh madly.
       Instead of a bar, she turns into an alley lined with parked cars.  With happy laughter she spins and hugs me to her.  The rough play arouses me, but people passing on the street just a few feet away force me to resist my urges.  So we twirl to her merriment until we careen into an SUV and tumble to the pavement.  Tangled there, she rubs my erection.
       I can resist no longer.  I pull the switchblade from my pocket and press the button; the blade springs out with a muted click as her hand touches my mouth.  Then there is pain, something like a blowtorch held to my spine.  I try to scream but her hand holds it back; I thrust with the knife but she catches my wrist in a crushing grip. 
       Pain drowns me for a white-hot time before the numbness spreads and I become aware of her again.  All my limbs are weak and painfully held; somehow she seems to have four hands on me.   Fear and arousal throbs in my gut.
       "Even you are soft and weak," she whispers in strangely malformed words.  "Monkey hunting monkeys, so pathetic."  She frees my mouth and laughs, not the pretty laughter of before, but hissing and ugly.
       "Who are you?"  I ask the first question that comes to mind while I consider escape.  She responds with more laughter.
       "You monkeys, with your curiosity and ego.  Thought you came first?"  She pulls me very close, so close I can see facets of compound eyes behind the false human eyes of the mask.  "I own this Earth.  It was my hunting ground before the lizards and soon you mammals will be ripe for harvest, too."
       Through the numbness I feel something probe my crotch; I headbutt the creature, slam a knee low to her body.  In that moment of her pain and distraction I twist free.  Her outfit falls open, her mask twists askew and I cannot choke down the scream.  Evolution, facing similar needs, crafted her head into a cariacture of the human face, but the rest of her is pure insect.
       The egg-laying cloacae instantly retreat into her swollen abdomen as the foot-long black stinger extrudes.  Before the plates can close and shield her again, I throw myself back on top of her, jam the knife into the exposed tip of her abdomen.  I take another sting in the hip as I pry apart the exoskeletal plates, then plunge hand and knife inside her again and again.
       Her death throes are inhuman, but very satisfactory.  There are no sirens, no screams; it seems my kill has gone unnoticed by the thousands celebrating Mardi Gras.  No time to feel relief; I rearrange her clothing and pick her up.  Her venom weakens me, but I manage to stagger away from the parade route and back to my car without attracting undue attention.
       Her body secure in my trunk, I rest behind the wheel, enjoying the feelings of a successful hunt.  With any luck, the pool of her blood and guts won't attract more attention than the vomit it resembled.  Fate has finally brought me what I desire most and I would hate the authorities to get involved.  There would be scientists and soldiers, getting in the way of hunting.  No, I would keep this secret even more closely than all my other human victims.

     Finally, a worthy adversary for my hunt. 

The End

Window to the Soul

Window to the Soul

     "Oh, my God!"  Holli squeaked and shook her hands in delighted disgust.  "That's sick.  Does it hurt?"
     "Totally not," said Monica.  "Well, a little at first, y'know?  Like a stuck eyelash."  She rolled her eyes to the right again to expose her new I-Zomb. 
     The heart-shaped patch on her left eyeball was a bit smaller than the iris.  Holli watched as it flashed blood red then faded to cool silver.
     "I SO want one. You gotta tell me where you got it."
     "There's a new place in the mall, mega-creepy, called "Soul Windows", and -"  The warning bell rang and the two girls joined a general rush to class.  By the end of the of the school day Holli had forgotten her desire for an I-Zomb.
     The weekend passed in a rush of travel, cousins, and too much food.  Back at school Monday, Holli remembered; everyone seemed to have an I-Zomb except her.  But Monica was out sick and Holli was reluctant to go malling without her best friend; she felt like it was cheating or something, so she didn't go.  Tuesday morning Holli spotted Monica at her locker and rushed over, not noticing the lack of traffic in the hall.
    "Oh, m'God," blurted Holli, "I hope you're okay today, 'cause we need to go and get my I-Zomb, okay?  After school today, okay?"  Monica grunted and gave a nod before walking tiredly away, leaving Holli concerned.  She didn't want to, but if Monica punked out today, Holli was going without her.
     Luckily it didn't come to that, though Monica wasn't good company.  She didn't say a word the entire bus-ride to SouthCrest Mall, responding to Holli's monologue with the barest of nods and grunts.  When Monica walked straight through the mall without a moment of window shopping, Holli awoke to her friends strange behavior.  Taking Monica's arm, Holli guided her to the food court and made her sit at a table.  Sitting beside her, Holli looked Monica in the eye.
     The I-Zomb was black, no changing colors, and it seemed larger.  Worse, Monica's eyes were as dead as a drunken jock's conscience. 
     "Oh, my, God, you're high!"  Holli jumped up.  "I feel sorry for you.  Just stay right here, okay?  I'll make sure you get home, but I can't hang out with druggies."  She hurried away, cursing under her breath, not noticing the vacant stares and lurching stagger of some fellow mall-goers. 
     Before she knew it, she nearly stumbled into the open door of "Soul Windows."  It looked as creepy as Monica said, though not a Halloween kind of creepy, but a dark decor and funky smell creepy.  Chin up, Holli walked in.
     Once inside she could see much of the decoration was tacky; velvet paintings of slasher movie scenes, skulls so obviously fake she knew there was a tiny "Made in China" sticker on the bottom.  The goth-emo girl behind the counter didn't even greet Holli as she approached.
     "Hello.  Uhm, I want, that is I'd like to get an I-Zomb?" 
     The counter girl snapped her gum emotionlessly and raised the flap for Holli to pass behind the counter.  Another girl appeared through the curtains and guided Holli to a medieval-looking chair with straps and buckles.  A wild-haired old guy in a white coat greeted her.
     "Hello there, young lady, and welcome to my establishment."  He bustled around, got Holli in the chair, showed her a catalogue of I-Zomb images, chatting the whole while. 
     Almost before she knew it, Dr. Bayne was lining up his brass and glass 'matrix imprinter' on her left eye. 
     "This will sting a little bit at first, but it'll pass quickly.  I think the star is a good choice, very pretty."  He peeked out from behind the machine, smile full of  yellowed teeth.  "Just read the chart on the wall there out loud and we'll get started."
     "I, state your name. . ." she paused and giggled, decided to read ahead.  "Wait," she said, "what does 'surrender my immortal soul' mean?  I mean, I know what it means, but I don't understand."
     "Don't worry, dear," said Dr. Bayne cheerily.  "It's just a formality, it means nothing, really."  Impatience raised his voice.  "Just read it aloud, I'll explain everything after.
     "Actually," said Holli, "I just remembered?  I have an appointment with, uhm, a friend."  She got up from the chair.
     "No, no, this won't take long."  He waved his hands, moved to block her way.  "Please sit back down."
     "Sorry," Holli said, ducking past him and running out of the shop.  She fled back to the food court where Monica still waited.
     "OmyGod, get up, get up," Holli blurted, panting from fear and exertion.  "We gotta go, c'mon Monica."  She yanked her friend up and dragged her toward the nearest exit, weaving through the maze of tables and chairs.  "Hurry up."
     Suddenly Monica stopped, yanked Holli to a stop as well.
     "Don't you wanna be cool?" said Monica.  "Don't you want your I-Zomb?"
     "Not from that guy, I don't."  Holli tugged at her friend, but she wouldn't budge.  "Let's go!"  Holli dropped Monica's hand to get behind her and push, but stopped when she noticed a small crowd of shuffling youths closing in on them from all directions.
     "I-Zomb first.  I-Zomb."  Monica began to repeat the word over and over, and the teenagers around them took up the chant.  Holli screamed as reaching hands seized her and dragged her back to "Soul Windows."
     And so began the Teenage I-Zomb Apocalypse.

The End

bleh

Can't say I know why, but the last few days have been unproductive.  Atrial fibrillation acted up, also maybe the change of seasons contributed, but BLEH kinda sum it up.  Let's see if I can a get real piece done, now.

Girl in the Forest

"Daddy, why don't I have fur like you?"  Kay reached a soft hand and stroked his gnarled arm.  His rumbling chuckle was not reflected in his eyes.


"That's because you're special," he said.  "That's why we protect you.  Now, get ready for bed, squirt."  He pointed an ebon claw to the sky.  "It's almost dawn."


"Daddy, when will my claws start to grow?" she asked as they swung down from the dim treeways to the weedy ground and her sleepbox.


"I think they might be growing already," he answered, tousling her auburn ringlets with a leathery palm.  


Kay looked closely at her fingernails while he locked the manacle to her leg, then to the metal post pounded securely into the forest floor.  She crawled into the rusty, red sleepbox, curled up in the bedding of ferns and milkweed seeds.  He patted her head.


"Get some sleep, now, we have a special night coming."


"Daddy, when will it be safe for me to sleep in the bowers like everyone else?"  Tears trembled in her blue eyes.


"Soon, maybe even tonight."  He looked around then winked at her.  "Don't tell anyone I told you."  She nodded happily and he turned to leave.


"Wait!  Watch, Daddy, I'm going to make my eyes glow red like yours."  She grimaced fiercely and squinted hard.


"Yes, I see, good job.  Now, sleepy time.  I'll see you at sunset."  He shambled across the vale to the arching treeways, scaly tail twitching.


As usual, Kay had trouble going to sleep, even though she'd been up all night.  At first she tossed and squirmed, rattling her chain loudly against the sleepbox.  As the Sun rose higher she lay half-out of her sleepbox and watched the Day Guard slip from shadow to shadow, keeping the Homeground safe from what skulked in the deep of the light.


Eventually, the warmth of the morning and rustle of the forest soothed her restless thoughts and she fell deeply asleep.  She awoke to taunts from other younglings.


"Nyah, nyah, daywalker, daywalker, Kay is a daywalker, nyah, nyah. . ."  They started dropping leaves and twigs from the trees above her, but scattered when she grabbed up a stone; they'd come to fear the uncanny throwing accuracy of her five-fingered hands.


Before long her Daddy got her loose and led her to the main gate leading out of the Homeground and into the meadows beyond.  Kay was surprised and worried that almost everyone was gathered around, apparently waiting for her.


"Daddy," she whispered, "what's going on?"


"Time to be brave, dear," he answered.  "Tonight is your chance to show everyone what a good daemon you are."  He squatted down beside her, tail twitching in the weeds.  "I want you to go down to the river, by that big rock I showed you before.  Remember?"  Eyes big, she nodded.  


"Good," he continued.  "Go there and yell this word loud as you can: hkehlp."


"That doesn't sound like a real word, Daddy."


He agreed, but made her practice the word over and over until she could say it perfectly.  Now," he said, "go to the river where I told you and yell that loud.  If something strange comes around, you just scream and run home fast as you can.  Got it?"


"Strange like what, Daddy?"  She was becoming more scared by the minute.


"You'll know.  Go on, hurry now."


Filled with reluctance, but absolutely sure she wanted to prove herself, Kay ran to the river beyond the meadows.  She wasn't sure she wanted to see something strange.  For a short while, as sunset became dusk, she sat quietly on the rock, but finally got up her courage and started yelling the word she'd been taught.


Soon she heard a voice in reply from upriver and someone blundering toward her along the bank.  It was all she could do to keep yelling, but screaming wasn't difficult when the creature came into sight.


It was taller than  her, even taller than a daemon, and had ugly, patchy hair on its face and head.  The rest of the pale skin was bare where bits of furred leather and woven cloth didn't cover.  Gibberish spouted from its mouth as it crept closer.  While it had five fingers like her own hands, it didn't have claws or real teeth.  To Kay it still looked dangerous. 


She ran, and when she looked back it was chasing her.  Fear made her feet fly across the meadow and through the gate of Homeground, the creature in hot pursuit.  If her Daddy hadn't grabbed her, she might have run straight through Homeground and out the other side of the forest.


The creature blindly pursued her right through the gate, where a dozen daemons pounced and dragged the screaming thing down.  It fought like a mad daywalker, kicking, biting, even producing a knife, but it wasn't enough to save it.


"Don't worry, squirt," he said, lifting her to his shoulder for a better view of the kill.  "You did a good job."  


"Now do I get to sleep in the bowers with everyone else?" she asked.


"Yes, dear, you do."  He put her back on the ground and gave her a little shove toward the swarm of feeding daemons.  "Now, go eat.  Don't worry," he said when she hesitated.  "They'll let you in; you're a real daemon now."


The End

Target Audience

"Mr. Fuchs, allow me to introduce our first supernatural spokesmodel, Bloody Mary."  Ned Coulter waved his hand at the antique silver-framed mirror on a tripod in the middle of the lab.


"This is unbelievable."  Bernard Fuchs, VP of Advertising Technology Development, unbuttoned his jacket and slowly circled the mirror, fascinated but unwilling to get closer.  The gruesome figure within the silvered glass watched him with just as much interest.  "I just heard of this and here it is."


Ned moved to his computer.  "Yes sir, it is very new.  I think we have an advantage here, one we act quickly to exploit


The phantasm had a woman's face with black pits for eyes and mouth, outdated clothing that shifted style over time.  Blood coated the chin and streaked the cheeks like tears.  It watched Bernard, hands coyly behind its back, until he moved behind the mirror, and was still watching when he stepped around to the front again.  


Trading sports coat for lab coat, Ned also watched his boss, gauging the man's reaction to the presentation.  "Believe it, Mr. Fuchs," he said.  "And it gets better."  A few keystrokes at his computer dimmed the overhead lights in the laboratory and spot-lit other reflective surfaces.


At Ned's nod the apparition faded, then reappeared on every reflective surface in the lab.  No matter the angle, every one was looking straight at Bernard.  The man was chilled but impressed.


"And, uhm, she can do this anywhere?"  Bernard tore his eyes from the ghostly images to look at Ned.  "Great," he replied to Ned's positive nod.  "What kind of technology do we need to field?"


"That's the real beauty, Mr. Fuchs," said Ned in his best power-sell voice.  "Every home in America already has everything we need.  Our client's television advertisements will contain a subliminal component for the invocation.  Every time one of those ads play, bang, we're on everything shiny in the house."


"Excellent," Bernard said, pushing back his thinning hair.  He glanced at the nearest apparition and it winked at him.  He quickly looked back at Ned.  "Did you call Legal?"


"Yes, sir."  Ned was glad he'd prepared.  "They assured me it would be years before this technology could be regulated."  


"Actually, I meant possible liability," he said, beginning to sweat from the effort of not looking at those frightening eyes.


"Right.  Well, The research that originally confirmed the existence of supernatural persons also proved they are everywhere and unable to harm anyone.  That makes privacy a non-issue because the SP's are already there."


"Clear enough."  Bernard fought the strong urge to leave the lab.  "What about labelling?"


"That's why I asked you to come down, sir."  Ned raised the lights.  "She's done it!"  He motioned to the old mirror, where Bloody Mary was flashing a series of iconic logos in front of itself.  It even toned down the disturbing facial features.


"Brilliant," said Bernard happily, concerns forgotten.  "I'm blown away, Ned.  Let's go run this by Accounts and maybe Production.  I'd love to get this up and running by the holidays."


Ned turned off the lights and the two men left, happily discussing ways to integrate Bloody Mary into advertising schemes.  In the tiny illumination of LEDs glowing from various machines around the lab, Bloody Mary stretched clawed hands and bared ranks of fangs, then laughed silently as it waited to be released on a target audience.


The End

A Long Wait

A Long Wait

I miss blue.  How long has it been?  The 'Superlux' was all shiny, dark carbon nanofiber, the depths of space the color of nothing, and this planet nothing but green.  I only remember blue from home, from an Earth I'll never see again.


Such arrogant masters of knowledge we humans are.  We thought we knew every secret that nature possessed.  That arrogance built the 'Superlux' to take us to the stars and instead we flew headlong into our ignorance. . .

Despair mixed with hope felt uncomfortably like panic.  Everyone was gathered in 'Superlux's galley, sitting at the dining table except for the Mission Commander.  They looked ready to stampede, but not ready to speak.  Dr. Jeff Blayne finally stood up.


"To answer your question, Commander - no, we can't know," Jeff stated quietly.  "I don't have the time or genius to even postulate a theory as to why this happened.  What we thought we knew about spacetime is incomplete."


"Thank you, Dr. Blayne," said Commander Vince Lematt from where he slouched against the hatch to the central passageway.  "So, it's like those original explorers, like Magellan and all the rest.  We're lost, off the map here, and anything we do is new."  He stood straight and tugged his mission jacket.  "We're going back."


"Okay," said Jeff, standing as well.  The rest of the ten crewmembers seemed frozen in various postures of exhaustion.  "I'll work up a course profile factoring in for the 1,000 years we seem to have lost."  


"No, Doc," Vince said, a ragged edge on his firm voice.  "I'm going to reverse the original mission profile, try to run an exact mirror course."


I miss them.  They wanted me to go back with them, but I couldn't bear the thought of returning to Earth 2,000 years after my birth.  Dropping a Neanderthal into the 21st century would be easier - everything would be incomprehensible.  Mankind could even be gone.  Earth is dead to me and I could not bring myself to face that. . .

They named the new planet Emerald until they discovered what had happened; if they talked about it at all after that, they just called it 'down there.'  Science missions needed to be done down there, so the mission specialists nominally pursued them as the flight crew prepared 'Superlux' for their attempted return to Earth.


Commander Lematt found Dr. Cynthia Stewart standing at the nearby beach, gazing at the distant green horizon.  She spent much of her time there; most of her science projects involved life, useless on this dead planet.  He stood beside her quietly for a long time before speaking.


"Cindy, are you sure?"  He watched closely until she nodded.  "I can send the lander back down on auto-pilot."


"Vic, don't.  We talked about this already."  Cindy crossed her arms, half turned toward the Commander.  "You might need it and I certainly won't.  Good luck.  Goodbye."  They walked away in opposite directions.

I miss home.  Star positions changed so much that we couldn't find Sol, so I don't even have that to look at.  Home. . .

"The membrane of spacetime is hugely thinner between stars than science ever predicted,"  said Dr. Blayne to the press conference.  "The mass of our spaceship 'Superlux' deformed that membrane so much that we literally fell off the edge of our Solar System.  We exceeded the speed of light falling into our own singularity, resulting in motion through both time and space."  A reporter surged to his feet.


"Really, Dr. Blayne?  Time travel?"  The moderator's threat to holographically block the reporter from the rest of the interview stirred some discord, but Jeff offered to answer.  He continued when the reporters grew quiet.


"Yes, time travel, in a way, but not a way we can use."  For a moment he considered the explanation.  "The direction of this time travel is forward, into the future, but at the same time the traveller loses temporal energy; that is, time dilation occurs.  We seemed to be in the future on Emerald, but moving so slowly through time we could never travel fast enough to take advantage.  Only Commander Victor Lematt's intuitive leap to exactly reverse course made our return possible."


Later, over dinner, Jeff had another interview, this one with Vic.


"Not right away, but eventually, yes," Jeff said over coffee.  "Say, two years for development and testing, another couple to build a ship.  But, like I said, it won't help Cindy."


"Because she's still in dilation," Vic said wearily.


"Exactly," said Jeff.  "We won't be able to interact with her at all."


"And if we try to repeat the original 'Superlux' mission, five or six years would have passed and she'd be dead because we only left her a year of supplies."  He pushed his half-finished dinner aside.


"Right now she's alive," Jeff said sternly.  "When the new Balanced FTL ships get there she'll still be alive."  He leaned on his elbows to look Vic in the eye.  "Listen, she'll be one of the most researched objects in the galaxy.  We may eventually discover how to get her out of the dilation effect."


"What the hell do we do until then?"


Jeff sat back and crossed his arms.  "We make sure the world doesn't forget her or us."


Five years later, both men watched the launch of 'Transluminal' from the bridge.

I miss Vic.  Maybe they made it back. . .

The ships came and buildings sprang up like weeds - labs, dormitories, recreation halls.  A spaceport was built, became a major hub of human star travel.  Jeff guided research into Cindy's condition until he was buried near the original camp.  Research station and spaceport coelesced into a city of drifting buildings, which spread into a crystaline megatropolis reaching up into orbit and down to the magma.  Cindy remained, a relic of forgotten times.

I miss. . .

In an eyeblink the city became ruin, then rubble, then part of the patient green landscape.  Plants introduced by man struggled, spread, but eventually failed and died.  Cindy remained, never moving but now miles from the beach.  

I. . .

The beach swept back to Cindy's feet, like a wave of sand.  A passing dark planet lost a tiny moon to Emerald's sun, a moon which orbited less than a thousand times before impacting Emerald.  Chemicals from the moon and volcanic activity muddied the eternal green and again life was born to lifelessness.  It spread and evolved until sea and land teemed with all manner of beast.

miss. . .

The green landscape warped and buckled, the beach waxing and waning like an uneasy sea.  An intelligent race of cephalopods crawled from the sea, evolved to greatness, worshipped the eternal Cindy until they, like man and many others before them, passed on to transcendance.  Their existence disappeared in an instant and the green returned. Cindy remained as the outrush of energy and matter in the universe reversed and became a torrent pouring back to the center of everything, a maelstrom that ripped apart the planet as infinity fell back into itself.

blue. . .

The End

Spirit of the Hive

Wire wound on warrior's die
Sharp wing of steel dream
Brass heart, gemstone eye
Soul of singing steam

Wires and wings, brass and bone
Savage of my id
Edge carved with Darwin's hone
Formed as nature bid.

Neverending strife
In battle to survive
Success proved by life
Spirit of the Hive

Searching

'Don't worry,' they said.  Friggen government idiots.  Damn, not here.  'We can fix the global warming,' they said.  Anybody listen to me?  NOoo, course not, just an old fart.  It has to be right . . . no.  Crap!  'Persistent Solar Reflective Layer,' they said.  They couldn't say fog?  At least the dummies got the persistent part right, persistent like the wart on my ass.  Ahha!  Found it. . . no.  Where the hell is my goddam car?!




The End

Monster

So there I was, buried under a railroad track.  I may sound calm now, but I can tell you that wasn't the case then. 


I felt the rocks pushing into my flesh for the first few days and that was pure agony, but it was actually worse when the numbness set in.  Then the pains of my joints and insides from not being able to move nearly broke my mind.


It might be in your mind by now as to why I was there in the first place.  A few of the more thoughtful of ya'll have gone a step further and are wondering how in the hell I could be telling this at all.  If neither of these have occurred to you, well no shame there, higher education isn't for everyone, is it?


No need to deny it was mostly my own actions that put me there.  Nobody ends up where I was without fault, plenty and enough for anyone to put considerable effort to settling it.  Too bad I hadn't put that much thought into the start.


It wasn't a particularly beautiful day and I can't say I noticed all the pretty nature things around.  The sun was in the sky, the ground was underfoot, trees were all around, and blood was on my hands.


Someone else's blood, as circumstance would have it.


I had to admire the strength and precision of the attacker, demonstrated upon the dead body splayed over this log.  The girl had been opened like an axe splits kindling.  My back country post-mortem told me the liver was gone, likely other soft organs, but with the damage I couldn't really tell more.


Not that I needed to be all that exact.  It did this, the thing I was hunting.  There was a trail of the maimed and killed just like this across the state, starting at my parent's house.  I'd been after the monster ever since.


And now I was close.  This was a fresh kill; she wasn't even reported missing yet.  I was in its head, or it was in mine, and either way this was almost over.  I dropped my pack and commenced to stalk down a monster.


It killed, it fed, it rested, then it moved fast and far.  To my mind it acted like a criminal, not an animal - strike once and move, careful not to be seen, even cross jurisdictions between attacks.  It knew what it did was wrong, but did it anyway.  Like a criminal it felt guilt, and I knew all about that myself.  


Time was I acted a lot like that.  I blamed tequila, meth, or my Daddy, but I always knew right from wrong and too many times I picked wrong.  Time; I did plenty of that, but it was prison that saved me from worse.  I met a lifer named Peanut Grimes who taught me the secret of guilt.  Guilt was there to keep me from doing bad, not weigh me down afterward.  If I keep carrying it around, it gets easy to do more bad things, easy to tell myself, 'go ahead, ya done worse.'  I didn't recall if old Peanut said anything about revenge.


Just like I thought, it hadn't gone far.  It was getting more sure of itself and figured the body wouldn't be found until it was long gone.  It hadn't counted on me; I soft-footed right up beside where it was hidden in the brush.  There was my sister, Lily, curled up in the dirt like an animal.


"Lily," I whispered, "can you hear me?  Wake up."  I touched her shoulder gently.  We'd have more time if I didn't scare her.  She stirred and slowly started to come around; the monster would be deep asleep for awhile longer.  Then she rolled over on her back and opened up her eyes.


I couldn't help myself from looking at her naked body, but I looked away fast as I could.  She'd grown up since I'd been gone, a woman any man would be happy with.  "You're going to hell for that, Joshua Lowe," I said out loud, then I had to snicker at myself.  I took off my jacket and covered her as she blinked up at the trees above us.


"Lily, it's Josh," I said a little louder.  "Time to wake up, little sister."  She didn't look at me, but tears began to run out of the corners of her eyes.


"Go away," she said.  "Go away before I kill you, too.  Please?"  She trembled and sobbed; my heart turned over for her.


"Don't worry, you hear?  It's gonna be okay, I promise."


"Liar.  No, it won't be okay.  I killed. . . so many, so many.  Mama, I'm sorry."  I couldn't answer right away, so I scooted around and put her head in my lap.  We cried together for a little while, if you want to know, but I didn't dare let it drag on.


"Lily, listen," I said.  "You're sorry for what you done, I know, but we can stop it."  She blinked at that, swallowed, and rolled her eyes to see my face.


"Anything."  She shuddered and closed her eyes.  "I don't want to kill again."  So I snapped her neck.


Wasn't that easy, of course.  Her eyes popped open again and gave me a look straight from hell, which wasn't too far off, I reckon.  It worked her mouth, but couldn't get much more going until it fixed her neck some, and I wasn't about to give it the time.  I got up on my knees, pulled my heavy hunting knife, and chopped at her neck.


My Granddad used to tell me stories about the monster before he passed, how only kinfolk could kill someone the monster was in, that it had been in our family a long time, like a curse or something.  I never really believed the old coot, not until I came home for crazy Aunt Darlene's funeral and found my parents ripped apart like Thanksgiving turkey.  


According to Gramps it was worse for kin with blood close to our origins, accounting for a lot of nuts and jailbirds in our family tree.  The unlucky ones, like Lily, went plumb scary movie werewolf from it.  Worst of all, if you did manage to murder your kin, or kick off like Aunt Darlene, the thing inside just hopped to someone else in the family.  


I'd been thinking on this the whole time I was hunting it.  As far as I knew, I was the last, aside from some distant cousins I might not know about.  If I kept Lily dead enough, it might give up on her and come after me.  Then it would be stuck with me and I had some ideas about that situation.


The human head don't just pop right off, but four good whacks with my knife got it done.  Then I emptied the can of lighter fluid over my jacket on her body and fired it up with my Zippo.  I propped up the head so it could see what was going on.


"I can keep this up all night, bastard.  Can you?"  It tried to make Lily speak for it, but without lungs or vocal chords it failed.  I was sure it could still see and hear me, though.  "I'm takin' her head with me. Come get it if you can."  Then I ran.


From there it was pretty straight forward.  Back at my backpack I pulled out a fifth of tequila, some sleeping pills, and started a party.  Lily's head in my pack, I ran about half-a-mile to the railroad main line.  I followed those east to where a line of machines were laying a new spur track.  Of the construction projects nearby, this one would best serve my purpose.


The workmen were gone until tomorrow morning, so I got to it, popping pills and swigging tequila.  Before I passed out I managed to bury me and Lily's head deep in the gravel bed.  I didn't wake up until, well, y'know.


So, there I was, buried under a train track.  I didn't like it, but the monster hated it and that was good.  He made me suffer for that, and that was bad.  We even chatted kinda like cellmates, after a fashion.  It bragged how much more powerful I would make him, how nothing could stop him when he got free.  I practiced cussing at it.


What worried me, when I was sane enough to worry, is that I thought it was learning how to shift the gravel.  Like now, it takes over and flexes just so, and sometimes I think I hear shifting gravel.  Of course, I may be worrying about nothing.


Oh hell.  I just saw daylight.


The End

Predator and Prey (a Tale of Ravenmont)

The travelling prophet and pulpiteer Jukner stood on a short dais before his multi-colored tent and preached.  "Before me rose a dark angel," he spoke impressively, "tall as a mountain and terrible to behold.  Under his feet were ashes and above his head he bore a great, flaming sword."


Glimmer lamps lit the warm summer's evening, casting a web of shadows from spectators and passersby.  Many other such holy men lined the cobblestone street, each adding to the babble with their own sermons.  In Ravenmont, City of Bells, itinerant blackcoats, prophets, and pulpiteers could only hold their services along the Way of Gods where the great temples stood.  


"And he said unto me, "Prophet, do you not see the smoke?"  And lo, smoke from the sword rose to the heavens until the sky was dark and full of storm."  Jukner slowly lowered his arms to the pulpit.  "This is how I know the smoke of storms and woe will precede the cleansing fire that ends the world.  Around the land there are wars, rogues, and all manner of evil, as the dragons of Elder Day." he said, waving expansively.  "Do you not see the smoke, my flock?  These signs cannot be ignored, and through me the Gods give warning."


The city bells rang out Hawker's Curb and Jukner bowed to his small gathering.  "Our time is at an end.  Blessings to you all," he intoned.  "Please give what you can.  Largess to the servant honors the master."


Of the few who had stopped to listen, only three remained as the holy man presented the bowl.  A richly dressed bald man graciously waved the other two before him to the pulpit, and the youth in rags did the same for the third, a bent, elderly man in dark business attire.  Murmuring thanks, he shuffled before the holy man.


"Prophet Jukner, let me not bandy words," he said in wavering voice.  "Other Gods have forsaken me and now I am ill unto death.  Will your gods welcome me and give me back my health?"


"I have no doubt, sir.  In these End Times any who seek comfort in my Gods will be welcome," said Jukner with a kind smile.  He touched his robe.  "Allow me to give you a list of what we may need for ceremonies."


"No need, prophet," the elder said quickly.  "I must attend an important meeting now."  He dropped a handful of gold decas in the bowl.  "Will this be enough?"


The holy man easily controlled his surprise at the ease of the man's surrender and eyed the coins as if tallying them against a list.  The elder saw this and added more, nodding hopefully.


"Oh, no, my son, that is more than we will need for this, I'm sure.  You should. . ."


The elder waved aside Jukner's slowly spoken objection.  "I shall return when I can, no more than two hours.  Can you be ready then?"


"The Gods are always ready, my son," the man intoned.  "As their servant, I promise my best effort."


Happy, the elder shuffled to a waiting rickshaw.  The boy stepped up next and dropped two grimy copper pennits into the bowl.  Jukner hid his disgust at the pennits and inspected the boy more closely.  He liked his boys taller, not so skinny, but this one seemed strong enough.  He smiled at the boy.


"Prophet, sir, I was wondering," said the boy.  "Did the angel say more?"


"Yes, my son, but by city rules I am not allowed to speak publicly beyond this hour."  He gauged the youngster's disappointment then leaned down and lowered his voice conspiratorially.  "They cannot stop a seeker.  What is your name, boy?"


"Fenner, sir, like the marsh rats."  


The man took a deca from the bowl and gave it to the boy.  "Go and cleanse yourself, then return here and I can tell you more before the Gods."


"Thank you, sir!"  The boy's face was lit with hope as he ran toward Old Town and the bathhouses there.  Jukner judged he must not have been on the street long; this might turn out more fun than he'd hoped.


Then the last man stepped up and shook the bowl, looking at the coins with interest.


"Juk, if you've been doing this well, I should charge you more."  He wiped sweat from his creased and lumpy scalp.  "Warm, isn't it?  


"Evening, Goodman Brecke.  Warm enough to cut my take," Jukner said as he counted the donations.  "I will admit tonight wasn't bad, but time to be moving on and let the Twenty Gods have peace from me.  Have your boys pick up the stand tomorrow."


"Speaking of boys," said Brecke with a smirk, "that little street rat's a bit young, even for you, eh?"  He chuckled.


"What do I owe you?"  Jukner didn't acknowledge the dig; no need to risk giving the weasel more than he already might know.  He would need to leave town before Brecke tried to take advantage of what he knew.  The two men haggled briefly over the fee for tent, dais, and other dressings, but Juckner made sure the rents-man got the best of it.  That might keep him quiet until Juckner was well clear of Ravenmont.


As soon as Brecke left, the holy man set to packing his mule and gray mare.  He'd learned long ago to travel light and move on without regrets.  Staying in one place too long could expose his hunger for boys and stealing from believers.  He wouldn't return to the City of Bells again. Too bad he wouldn't get a chance with the youth, but there would be others along the road. 


From behind a darkened tent across the Way, three men surreptitiously watched Jukner's preparations.


"Just as you wanted, Trinsk," whispered Brecke, "ripe for the picking, eh?"


"Good work as usual, Goodman Brecke," said the old man, looking considerably healthier.  "You will receive your payment in the usual fashion.  And, of course, you remember the cost of any betrayal of this business?"  


The very thought made Brecke tremble; he nodded quickly and hurried away.  Councilman Trinsk turned to the third man and motioned him into action before rushing off himself.


As Jukner finished his preparations a grey-bearded servant came running. 


"Sir, are you the Prophet Jukner?" he panted.


"Yes, but you'll need to come back later, sorry."


"My master sent me.  He was stricken and now lays near death.  He said you'd remember him and your promise?"


"Ah.  Sorry to hear that."  Jukner balanced the opportunity to fleece the old fellow a little more against possible risks, like Brecke making problems.  Self-preservation was overcoming greed until the boy came back.


Unable to resist both temptations, Jukner agreed to attend the old man if young Fenner could come along to lead the horse and mule.  The servant eagerly agreed and led them through the dark boroughs to an impressive estate overlooking Belltower Bridge.


Jukner felt both excited and nervous.  This was a huge opportunity, but men this rich often had small armies protecting them.  He started to regret the decision to come here but backing out now might do more harm than good.  The servant turned away from the well-lit front of the manor to a darkened side wing entrance.


"I apologize for this secrecy," said the servant as he worked a key in the lock.  "My master has many enemies who would take advantage of his illness, should they know."


"Of course," said Jukner.  Though he couldn't grasp why, his apprehension rose.  The door opened, revealing impenetrable darkness beyond.  "Are we not expected?"


"Just a precaution, sir.  After we close the door, I have a lamp just inside and I will take you directly to my master."


"No, the dark isn't my fear," said Jukner.  "I see no grooms or guards.  Is that usual?  I fear something already might be wrong."  He found it wasn't hard to sound a bit fearful.  He made a decision.  "Just in case, I shall return upon the morning."  He turned to his horse.  The boy stepped close and put a hand on Jukner's wrist.  Soft and warm, Fenner's touch shot a bolt of lust into Jukner's groin.


"Please, sir.  If we did this, I could prove myself to you, prove myself worthy of being your apprentice.  Then you might let me travel with you?"  His wide, pleading eyes nearly erased Jukner's fear.


"And from the mouths of babes shall come wisdom unbidden."  Confidence returned, Jukner moved to the open door.  "Come, then, Fen."


They followed the servant through the short, darkened entryway and into a softly glim-lit interior hall.  The servant replaced the lamp and guided them through the manor.  The boy oohed and aahed at every expensively furnished room and hall.  Jukner carefully catalogued items worthy of stealing later.


Finally they reached the top of a plushly carpeted stair ending at a heavy, polished wooden door.


"Here is his sick room."  The servant looked quite woeful.  "He is sensitive, so we keep it dim and quiet.  I will fetch glims.  Anything else you need, sir?"


"Brandy or other strong spirits and clean water."  Inspiration surfaced; a quick escape with loot might be the best course of action, and here was an opportunity.  "I may well need other clerical items from my mule.  The boy and I will fetch my satchel and meet you back here."  


"No need, sir.  The sick room is fully stocked with whatever such you may need.  Let yourself in; my master wanted to speak with you right away.  Just mind your footing until your eyes become accustomed, please."  With a bow, the servant set off.  Young Fenner scampered down the stairs and stood ready to open the door for Jukner.


With an internal shrug at the missed chance, Jukner tugged his robe into better lines and descended to the door.  The boy's admiring gaze and the blind trust of this old rich fellow helped Jukner back in control.  He knew the right moment would present itself.  At the holy man's nod, Fenner opened the door and Jukner swept in.  The was indeed dim, and Jukner stopped within the rectangle of illumination from the door.


The door slammed behind him, followed by the clack of bolts being shot home.  Only with rigid self-control did Jukner keep from jumping at the sound.  He could now easily see it wasn't a sickroom, but some kind of work place.  Then light filled the room and Jukner knew real fear.


He was in a Wizard's Sanctum and right across the room behind a metal grate stood the purportedly deathly sick old man.  Jukner recognized his peril, but also that panic would not help him get out of this.  He raised his chin to simulate outrage and spoke in his most pious tones.


"What is this about, sir?  Why do you risk the wrath of my Gods?  Why. . ."  Wizard Trinsk snapped his fingers; Jukner choked and was unable speak.


"Quiet, you fraudulent pederast.  No god would have you until now, I suspect.  Face the altar."  At a gesture pain lanced Jukner's hands and feet, rising up his limbs like spreading flame.  "Or else."


Screaming silently, Jukner turned to the carved slab of stone and the pain was gone.  Above the altar he saw a bas-relief of a dragon breathing fire.  Fear returned uncontrolled; dragons were the worst of the outcast Gods.


"Step forward, hands on the altar," said Trinsk and Jukner leaped to obey.  The wizard began a cant, the voiced musical code of magic, then finished with  "Breshkareth, I beg you attend."  Thick, red smoke immediately poured from the carving to the altar.


"This is your choice?" said a deep, hollow voice.  Jukner shivered and shed tears, but could not make a sound.


"Yes, my master," intoned Trinsk, "he is."


The smoke lunged for Jukner, tangible and strong.  He felt it slither under his clothing, probing everywhere.  A tendril pushed between his lips and ruthlessly pried open his jaw; another shoved between his clenched buttocks.  


For just a moment it paused, as if savoring Jukner's terror, then invaded his body and mind.  It poured into his body without mercy, but he hardly noticed the pain as Breshkareth attacked his mind.  Jukner watched in his mind's eye as the dragon cruelly excised and consumed everything that made Jukner human and aware.


After a time the smoke was gone and Jukner's body stopped quivering.  Trinsk entered the room to place a blanket around the shoulders, but was waved away.  What once was Jukner stood straight, blood dripping as it turned to face Trinsk and raised it's arms.


"Before me rose a dark angel," Breshkareth said in a voice not human, "tall as a mountain and terrible to behold.  Under his feet were ashes and above his head he bore a great, flaming sword."


The End
  


  

Hard Writing

So, I'm two stories behind with another on deck.  I knew a story a day wouldn't be easy, much less all of them horror, but I'm not giving up.  In fact, I will strive to catch up at least one that I'm behind and do one for today, as well.  Wish me luck 8)

Left

WARNING:  Adult-ish content - language and sexual situation

"Oh, badass," said Len as he slapped the Corolla into park.  "Check it out."


Having been painfully awakened by the tire-screeching stop, Megan refused to answer.  Instead she rubbed where her shoulder had struck the dash and lit a cigarette.  As usual, Len totally failed to get it - he scrambled out of the car without acknowledging her discomfort.  Resigned, she got out, too.  No need to broil while he ransacked the trunk for his Nikon and tripod.


The disused road was barely paved; WV County Road 8/3 declared a rusting sign just ahead.  All Megan knew was they were somewhere between Ohio and Pennsylvania.  If they'd stuck to the highways they'd be back in Greensburg by now, but Len always insisted on taking the long way after a show for just this reason.  She had respected his desregard for most other people when they first met, but not so much now that it extended to her.


She leaned the butt of her khaki short-shorts against the front fender and tried to enjoy the smoke, but the smell of decay struck her between puffs.  Apparently the road wasn't entirely abandoned; something small and furry and maggotty was flattened on the asphalt near the other shoulder.


"Oh, God," Megan muttered then raised her voice. "Len, how long?"


"As long as it takes," he snapped distractedly as he tried to get the tripod low enough on the shoulder to catch the road kill in the foreground.


Cursing under her breath, she shaded her eyes to look up.  The sun blazed down from an otherwise empty sky; there was no possiblility of relief.  The only thing that looked cool was the blanket of forest covering the hills around them.  With another curse she flipped the cigarette butt at the faded center line and lit another.  For a moment she considered thumbing down the next car that passed, leave Lenny in the dust.


They both had too much invested for that to happen, she was sure.  House, furniture, her job, his photography business - it was all too twisted together to abandon.  Still, she fondly considered the possibility of freedom until the cigarette scorched its filter.  Instead of lighting another, she leaned back over the hood, propped her left flip-flop on the front wheel and pulled up her spaghetti-strap tank top to let the sun warm her belly and breasts.  If Len wasn't interested, maybe someone driving by might enjoy a show.


Megan's pose had almost become a nap when the trunk slammed shut.  Pique mostly passed, she resolved to let the bad feelings go for the day.  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly, hoping the stress would go with it.  A shadow passed over her face and a warm hand gently caressed her left breast.


"Mmm, like what you see, baby?" she said with a smile and opened her eyes, but Len wasn't there, nobody was there.  She sat up with a jerk; Len was still fiddling with his Nikon on the trunk.


"What I see is a dumbass trying to get us arrested," he said, rolling his eyes.  "Cover your tits up."


Absently, Megan pulled her down her top and stood up.  She peeked under the neckline, checked the front, even looked over the road for anything that might have fallen and touched her like that.  The caress had been so real, so warmly sensual, that the girl could hardly believe she'd imagined it.  The only explanation was a dream, and that's what she decided it was when Len summoned her to the rear of the Toyota.


"Yeah, baby?" she asked cheerfully.


"Look at these shots.  They are gonna kick some ass."  He turned the laptop so she could see the screen  The first two were basic candid shots showing the decaying structure and the trees behind.  The third was different - the tumbled rock and weathered wood structure was the same as the first two, but the angle was different, showing the road kill in the foreground and emphasizing one taller tree in the background.  


The fourth was a better framed version of the third, but with something so different it took her a few seconds to actually make it out.  The blurred figure of a nude woman with glowing eyes kneeled over the dead animal in the foreground.


"Shit!  What the hell, Len?"  Despite the temperature she shivered.


"I know, right?  Definitely a show piece."


"Whatever," Megan said.  She crossed her arms.  "That thing is just creepy."


"It's just an old house," he said sharply.  "Get a grip."


"No, the girl."  As she watched him glance at the screen then give her a puzzled look.  "Right there," she said, "right there."  She tapped the screen.


"What?  What are you talking about?"


"Just look and tell me you don't see that girl."


"No girl, Meg.  Tree, house, dead thing," he said, pointing at each as he named them, "but no girl.  What's wrong with you?"


Before she could answer something licked her bare toes.  She gave a wordless yell and hopped away from the car.  Len's cruel laughter instantly changed her fear to anger.


"Why the hell are you screwing with me?"  Her fists balled unconsciously.


"Screwing with YOU?  Are you fucking kidding?  You've been a bitch all weekend!"


The fight didn't last long.  In minutes Megan was watching the silver Corolla speed away, Len's left hand out the window showing the bird.  Rage bouyed her courage until she figured out her cell phone was still in the car, but after a few tears she pulled herself together.  A thought made her smile; it looked like she'd get to practice hitchhiking after all.


"You are Left," came a hoarse whisper behind her.  


Megan spun around, hands up protectively.  Her heart was slamming in her chest but almost stopped when she saw the woman from the picture standing just inches away.  For a brief moment Megan seemed to sense everything around her; no cars in sight, how far away the crumbling house was, the sound of birds squabbling in a flowered bush near the house, the smell of carrion and something else, something musky and exotic.


What Megan couldn't see clearly was the woman right in front of her.  Taller than Megan, she was blurred, like rising heat waves distorted her body.  In that instant of hesitation the woman tenderly took Megan's wrists and drew her into a hug, humming a lullaby.


Somehow struggle seemed useless so Megan tried to think it through.  This all had to be some kind of bad dream.  Len couldn't leave her like this, and the blurry mystery woman was pure imagination.  Except she'd just thought about leaving him first and the woman's nude form felt very real againt Megan.


"There, there," the woman finally said.  "Don't be 'fraid.  I be Diane and I be Left, too."  Diane stroked Megan's hair.  Intense awareness of their shared contact swept disconcertingly over Megan.


"Please let me go," she pleaded.  "I won't run, I promise."


"In good time, little one, take comfort.  For now we be close or you cannot hear me words.  Here, I show you.  Hold you tight to me hands."  Diane stepped back until both women were at arm's length.  Like rising heat and smoke, Megan could barely see the other woman's body.  Fear of being left alone prodded Megan and she hugged Diane close again.


"What are you?" she whispered into the woman's dark hair.


"I be Left, like you.  Long, long ago a mon left me for dead, as your mon left you."  She nuzzled Megan's cheek.  "You would not see me unless you be wantin' what I found then - freedom."


"How?"  Sudden hot desire made Megan forget the road beside them, her abandonment, everything else but Diane's body and what she seemed to offer.


"I can show you," Diane answered.  "Will you lay 'pon the Earth with me?"


"Yes," breathed Megan.  She let the woman lead her off the road's shoulder and pull her down into the grass.  Between kisses and caresses Diane stripped Megan, then knelt between her thighs.


Megan closed her eyes and gave herself to sensation - gentle, roving hands; soft lips; questing, insistent tongue.  On waves of orgasm she felt herself moving in a strange direction with nothing to hold on to but Diane; it was scary, thrilling, and after a long time, satisfying.


She opened her eyes to see other nude women around them, but Megan could now see them quite clearly.  Most bore scars and all looked underfed. Diane rose lithely and joined the surrounding circle; Megan could see her just as well as the rest. Then she noticed the rest of the world had turned more or less blurred.  She rubbed her eyes and several of the woman laughed.


"Do not worry," said Diane, holding out a hand to help Megan to her feet.  "Your eyes be telling the truth, little one.  You be with us.  We walk outside the touch or sight of the living.  No man or animal can hurt us, nor we them.  We were left behind, left for dead, left with no escape; we are the Left.  Now nothing in that world can bring harm to you, not even him."


The circle of women parted, allowing her to see Len standing on the shoulder by the Toyota.  His blurred form was holding one of her flip-flops and screaming her name, though she could hardly hear him.  The women watched Megan with sharp eyes.


"He came back," Megan said in wonder.  The other women stirred restlessly.


"But did he come back for you?" asked Diane, "or for his own wants?"


"He came for me," she answered confidently and faced Diane.  "Can I go back?"


"Only the dead are in all worlds, little one."  The circle closed tighter and some of the women reached out to stroke Megan's skin.


A memory intruded on Megan's mind, the image of Diane hungrily kneeling over the dead, stinking thing in the road.  No harm, the woman had said, to animals.  What did they eat?  Only the dead - or the Left.  


Panic came too late to save Megan; the Left dragged her, screaming and struggling, into the surrounding West Virginia woods.


The End

Basic Mistake

Final Passage

On the day I go
Let me ride
If the dark must win
Let me ride

Choose my final roads,
Pass 'neath leafless trees,
Follow kind shadows;
Oh, but if you please -

Let me ride there.


Naerev looked up from the poem when she heard cheers. The carriage had rounded Silver Urn Hill and come into sight of Alfa, the last village of her Passage. With deliberate care the girl put away quill, ink, and her secret vellum journal. As soon as her attention was off writing the dim, grey, rippled sky whispered to her, a sibilant babble of many tongues.

"Shh," Naerev said with no little petulance. "There is a party, so leave me be!" The voice withdrew immediately, but her raised voice caught the attention of the horse.

"Mum?" he asked, proud neck bent so he could cast a wise and mild eye on Naerev.

"I'm sorry, Bareth, it was nothing," she said. "Could you slow down a bit, please? I'm not ready for the party yet."

"Mum," he replied with a nod and snort. His plodding slowed even more.

Gazing out at the trees with no leaves and fields with no crops, she choked down tears for her dying world.

But as in every village along her Passage, the Passage Day Party cheered her. Feasting and dancing, singing and gift-giving; three full days of celebration and always the center of attention was Naerev.

The girl did her Passage duty well. She told all the old stories - how the Original Crew traveled between worlds on ships of fire and steel, what happened when a broken Q-bridge pulled their new world into the chaos between nothing and everything, and when the first Teller faced the Between, sacrificing herself to make the sky. Though she dearly wanted to, she did not read from her journal; trainers had forbidden such new tales on the Passage.

And the time passed too quickly; too soon the Elders were silently helping Naerev into the carriage for her Final Passage. Everyone else hid in their houses, sad eyes peeking at her. The Elders urged her to remember her training and raise the light to save the world.

Now on the final path, she remembered how her mother cried the first time Naerev told her about the talking sky. The child she was then did not understood why until years had passed and her training was fulfilled.

The gift to hear Between was rare now, so rare the last Teller had taken her Final Passage years before Naerev was born. Now the sky was low, and so dim no plants thrived. Now Naerev was the Teller on her Final Passage, youngest Teller since records of such things were kept.

Too soon Bareth stopped and whinnied. "Mum?"

Naerev stepped from the carriage reluctantly and stood beside the horse, looking at the barren ground ahead. A faint path wound through the stones and freakishly twisted grass. Barely visible beyond was the towering Lander. To her it looked like a monstrous needle piercing a village-sized mushroom cap.

"Bareth, will you come with me?" Naerev placed her pale left hand on his nose. "I'm afraid and don't wish to be alone." Though the day was but half gone, twilight pressed in all around.

"I would, for you." He nuzzled her hand. "My mind would leave. I could not stay." He hung his head low. "I am sorry."

She stamped her foot. "Why me? Why do I have do this? Why should I die?"

"You should not die," said Bareth. He place his cheek to hers to catch her tears. "And still you must. We have a path. I walk this road. You save us all. To each a path."

The girl looked back at the carriage and wished she could hide behind the red velvet drapes. Other wishes raced through her thoughts and she clung to the horse's neck. Patient as all his race, Bareth waited. After a time her thoughts slowed and peace finally came.

"Bareth, you won't forget me, will you?" the girl asked.

"No, I will not." He neighed long in sorrow. "All will know you."

Clutching her journal, Naerev turned from the horse and marched up the path. Bareth watched until her pale form passed from his sight, then hung his head sadly and waited.

Before long the sky lifted and glowed brighter. Murky ripples of Between faded to pearlescent swirls that disappeared into a sky brighter than Bareth had ever seen. He huffed the smell of warming soil, shivered at the freshening breeze on his back.

Though he knew she wouldn't return, Bareth waited though the night, catching naps on his feet between rain storms. Only when the sky lightened with dawn's glow did he turn the carriage about, a carriage now an empty hearse. Then he began the long Honored Return through Alfa and Beeta and all the other villages of Fallen.

The End?