Not a Herald, Just a Boy

[Note: It's been quite a while since I last posted a story here, so I've decided to let this one slip from the slush-pile parade, to reside here forever.]

            My comforter suddenly felt very heavy at my feet. I turned over. By the age of eighty you have gotten used to such nighttime oddities.

            A chill sprung up on the back of my neck. I tugged my blanket up over it. The cold came again, penetrating straight to the bone. My body went rigid.

            “Wake up, and face your end.” It was a young voice, but gurgled, as if spoken through a mouthful of water.

            I burrowed into my pillow. Nighttime oddities.

            “Don’t be afraid,” said the voice. I felt a hand on my back. It was warm, in stark contrast to the frigid breath pouring down on me.

            I reached up for my spectacles. The moon let a thin pool of light in through my window, just enough to see the silhouette. Despite the darkness, the form owning that awful voice was distinct. Its cloak was black, so black it glowed. Its face was chalky. And familiar.

            The Grim Reaper smiled. He held no weapon, so far as I could see. But his sea-green eyes sent terror into my heart. “Hello, Grandpa.”

            “Thomas.” I shut my eyes and begged for this dream to end.

            “Put your hand on my chest. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I just want you to feel something.”

            His breathing did not cease. I placed my shaking hand out to touch his ribs. Then the bone fell away. My hand went damp.

            “I was so excited to finally go fishing with you grandpa. My parents were worried at first. What made this time different, that you finally gave in to my pleading? They were only a little surprised when they received the news that I had drowned. An accident, of course.”

            “Wake up. Wake up now,” I muttered.

            “I gave you a year grandpa. To atone. To feel a single shred of guilt.” I felt his hand on my chest.

            “You are the Reaper, Thomas? Herald of the Dead?”

            “I am your Reaper, grandpa. Not a herald, just a boy.”

            My chest softened. I fought to breath. But it did no good. My lungs were sandbags full of the water.

Under Bendel's Sway

Unfortunately, I can't figure out a way to link directly to the story, but if you scroll through these comments a bit, you'll find my entry in the 80th iteration of the Microcosms flash fiction contest.  It's titled "Under Bendel's Sway," it's 300 words in length, and it can be variously labeled as thriller, horror, or fantasy. Find it here.

(Added Note: I got 2nd-place out of the 16 entries!)

Some Contest Entry Stories

"Usually the Arsenic Works" (Contemporary Fantasy; Special Challenge Runner Up that week)
"Two For Hell" (Horror)
"Rivulets" (Christian)

My First Two SpeckLit Drabbles

My first two drabbles published by SpeckLit.com can be found here and here.  The first is straight-up fantasy and the second is dark fantasy/horror.

The Day She Came to Hate the NRA

"The Day She Came to Hate the NRA" is a contemporary horror flash fic that I entered in the 23rd Flash Frenzy contest.  While it did not win, it's probably one of my better attempts to elicit horror in my readers.

Ten Shillings If It's Fresh

Today I'm linking to my first steampunk story, coming in at the maximum 500 words for the Finish That Thought weekly flash fiction contest (Warning: it's pretty dark): "Ten Shillings If It's Fresh."  (I did not win the contest, but it was still a good story, in my opinion.)

Another Zombie Elephant Assault

     A deathly trumpeting resonated throughout the camp.  The massive bulk of the beast followed close behind it, crushing the palisade wall.  One fleshless hoof crushed our forward guard.  “Attack,” he’d bellowed with his final breath.

     I tore out of the central garrison building, holding my warhammer high.  Two men flanked me on each side.  Their faces were almost as pale as the zombie’s patchy skin.

     “We’ll all strike at once,” I said, maintaining a sprint.  “Smash its left foreleg, as hard as you can.”

     The zombified elephant swept a single man away before collapsing, its leg shattered.  I silenced it.

Her Eyes

"Her Eyes," one of my best flash fics, in my opinion, was published by MicroHorror.com (non-paying) on the 6th of December 2013.  It was entered in the 2013 Halloween Contest.  Since then, the site has ceased working, so I shall be posting it below.  (I have all rights to the story.)

            Her crystal blue eyes were unmistakable, even from outside my bedroom window at two in the morning.  Lena Cummings looked down at me through the glass.  I opened the window a crack.  “Go around to the French doors in back.”

            A moonbeam illuminated Lena’s honey-blond hair.  I took a deep breath and let it out slow.  The doorknob wouldn’t turn at first.  I realized with a shake of my head that it needed to be unlocked first.
            “John,” said Lena.  She pulled me into a tight embrace.
            I shivered.  The lilac perfume I watched her use on the bus the day before smelled fresh in spite of the hour.  “What are you doing here?” I asked, stammering.
            “I wanted to see you.”  Her tone was so matter-of-fact it made my face go hot.
            “In the middle of the night?”  I laughed, stroking the back of her velvet coat.
            Lena put a hand to my cheek, caressed it.  Her skin felt soft as silk.  She lowered the hand to my shoulder, replacing it with her lips.  They kissed me once, twice, moved to my mouth and kissed me again.  I kissed her back.
            Wind shook the trees in my backyard.  I opened my eyes to see the bare branches dance in the gale at the corner of my vision.  I hadn’t noticed my eyes were closed.
            “Do you love me, John?” Lena asked, pulling away just far enough that the ends of her lips brushed mine.
            My heart went to jelly.  “Yes.”
            “Look me in the eyes, John.  Tell me again.  Please.”
            I gazed into her irises.  “Yes,” I said, my voice strong and blissful.
            Her eyes glowed in the darkness.  The pupils could have been ethereal pinpricks, islands in the midst of vibrant yellow oceans.
            I screamed as she placed her teeth on my neck and bit deep into the flesh.  A thick pulse of blood streamed from my jugular.  I went limp as she threw me to the ground in her flight, giggling in Lena’s angelic tone.

Definitely Not a Protein Shake

You can find my story "Definitely Not a Protein Shake" on MicroHorror.com.  It was published there on October 2, 2013.

Her Eyes

Head on over to Microhorror.com to check out my entry in this year's Halloween Contest, "Her Eyes."

F is for Fight or Flight

     I creep into the cave, my back arched to keep from hitting the roof.  There is a glint of light far off in front of me.  The darkness between it seems to stretch for miles.  I start on my way.
     The cavern alternates its width constantly as I progress further and further into the dark.  Bats fluttered close to the mouth, but none seem to live this far in.
     Stalagmites and stalactites jut everywhere, dripping, making it sound as if I’m under a waterfall.  I draw my cloak in tighter to keep out the moisture.
     The light ahead begins to illuminate my surroundings.  The walls are caked with blood.  A carcass lies broken in the middle of my path.  His throat is missing.
     I quicken my step and draw a cross from my pocket.  The polished wood gives me comfort as I move my thumb across its surface.
     The light is just in front of me.  A creature stands there, his torso twice as thick as his legs, even those heavily muscled and pulsating.  Its head has one massive, glowing eye.  The mouth is partially obscured by the glare.  All I see are teeth.
     “Be gone,” I yell, pointing the cross at it, my voice only quivering a little.  The creature swats it away with a strange, sinewy arm.  It’s fight or flight now.  I have a feeling neither will save me.

Not Even Satan

            My eyes seared in pain.  I took a deep breath, gulped, and consented only when I couldn’t handle it any longer.  Blink.  I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming.
            “Miss Mingles?” said the blue-clad policeman.  He sat at my kitchen table with an empty mug in front of him and a notepad in one hand.  The teakettle started screaming and I almost snapped my eyes shut in surprise.
            “One moment, officer,” I said.  I took both mugs from the table and filled them up with my pungent blend of black teas.  The steam refreshed my eyes as I set the mugs back down on the table.  “Yes?”
            “Can you tell me a little more about what this man looked like?” the officer asked.
            “I could tell you how many hairs he had on his head if I wanted to.  But I’d kill myself before I did.”
            The officer flinched.  “Height, weight, eye color, any information you have will be more than helpful.
            I frowned and turned my eyes downward into the depths of my tea.  Blink.  This time I let a little whimper slip.  “Not a hair taller than five-eight, a hundred and sixty pounds, dark blue eyes, brown hair.  Oh, and he had a white scar on his left temple.  I think it was an inverted cross.  Yeah.”  Even with my eyes open I shuddered.
            The officer tore the page from his notepad, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocket.  “Thank you, ma’am.  I’ll sift through all the files I can get my hands on back at the station.”
            “One more thing, officer,” I said as he moved toward the door.  “Can you give him a message if you find him?”
            “It’s not exactly protocol…”
            “I know.”
            “What do you want me to tell him?”
            “Tell him not even Satan would take his soul.”

Marrowsucker

I apologize in advance for the short length and low quality of this flash fic, but nevertheless enjoy.   

     Martha dropped her bagette and screamed.  An oozing serpent slithered across her kitchen floor, drawn out of thin air.  She tried to turn and run, but her eyes were affixed to some jewel-like projection on the creature's face, or at least what should have been its face, and her body wouldn't cooperate.  A slit opened beneath the gem as it stuck out from it a long grey projection, dripping with red saliva.  Or blood.  It could have been either or both.
     The monster rammed right into Martha's leg, sending shooting pains up her abdomen as the tongue penetrated deep through her skin.  She felt her marrow being syphoned out.  The pain was so sharp she almost couldn't feel the bone splintering.  Martha fell to the side.
     The serpent plunged his tongue in and out of Martha's crippling form.  She hollered and cried until all sound and tears had faded.  Her final breath came at last, a plea for death fulfilled.

Lunch

This is some pretty experimental rhyming horror that I wrote a while back.

     The hallway goes ever on. You wish you were gone. The lights flicker off. You scoff. A door opens far into the void. The being is humanoid. It has a vicious form. Like a solid storm. It dashes forward. You thrust backward. Your back is turned. If only you had learned. Never turn your back on darkness. The gap between you becomes quite less. It reaches out with one jagged claw. It pulls you to its maw. Razor fangs embed. They crush into your head. Crimson oozes. Skin bruises. Bones crunch. You're lunch.

Demise

You wake up with your mind in a blur.  “I think I’ll go out for a walk,” you say to yourself.  You put on some fresh clothes and eat a light breakfast.  As you pass into the next room you take a moment to light a small range in the corner.  With a sigh you open your door and exit onto a little side-street.  

You stride along leisurely and look at how plain your surroundings are.  You frown ever so slightly.  Buildings stretch endlessly along the sloped lane.  Minutes pass by calmly.  You manage to clear your mind of the stress that constantly batters you from your failing bakery.  All is well.

The sound of boots on cobblestone becomes evident.  You peer over your shoulder.  “Just an old drifter,” you think.  You look ahead and quicken your pace a bit.  A large cumulus shifts, covering the sun.  A shadow blankets your view.  The noise loudens.  You begin to jog.  You come to the bottom of the hill and turn left onto an adjoining street.   

A peddler shouts about his wares, but no one buys from him.  You pause to purchase a knife.  “My bread cutting knife is getting dull,” you tell him, and with a fair exchange of a doubloon you strap it to your belt.  You thank him and continue on your way.  The sound behind you has died off. 

After another moderate spell of pacing you turn back toward home.  “The dough needs to be made,” you think, increasing your speed a tad.  You turn the corner that leads to your little crooked lane.  You look up.  You frown.  The man is standing in front of you a toothless grin stretched across his shabby face.  He lunges forward with a broken awl and plunges it into your left eye, then your right.  You scream, but the shouts of the peddler must drown it out.

“My knife,” you think and pull it out of its scabbard.  The man must knock it out of your palm, for it clatters out of your hand with a force.  He takes his make-shift weapon and jabs it into between two upper ribs, making you feel faint.   You crumple to the ground and…light.

The Bill

I'm very tired, so I'm going to post two versions of one flash fiction piece I wrote a while ago rather than another part of my serial; sorry.

Second-Person Version

            You crouch behind fallen timber, faced pressed against the cold bark.  The moon casts faint illumination, the only light.  Your breath comes raggedly.  The last sprint was hard.  Fortunately, they seem to have lost you.  Or did they?

            You stretch weary hamstrings while keeping your body low.  With a groan, you arch slowly and rise to a stand.  Running feels natural now.  It feels as if you’ve run every day of your life.  Legs hungry for ground, you move forward, only stumbling slightly.  You can’t afford to trip.

            Wind tears at your face, yet no tears spring forth.  You ran out of tears hours ago.  Hope is one of few things you haven’t depleted.  Strength can be borrowed.  It can be bought for a price.  Eventually the total adds up to your life.  It makes a better death anyway.  The fate of weakness, of stopping for longer than a moment, is worse than a cool, moist grave.

            Safety feels near.  You spot a wall, the wall of a city.  Mouth feeling coarse, you vomit, last strips of energy harnessed to break into a dead sprint that rattles your whole being.  A dead sprint to salvage life.  How queer. 

            A man stands at the gate, stoic, bland.  He glances at you with steely eyes.  You smile madly.  What?  Pain erupts from your back as you collapse, clawing at the yellow grass in front of you to try to continue.  The man frowns.  “Sorry,” he utters, then rushes within the walls. 

            So close, yet so far away.  There seems no point in screaming.  You let out a cracking moan nonetheless.  Your lips contort into a smile.  The price, you must pay the price.  Even a scream has a cost now.  The toll is only half-pence perhaps, but you spent your last some time ago.   Black, white, you are weightless.  You see light, blessed light, with only a scar of darkness.  Light?  It seems that a bill has saved your soul.  

Third-Person Version

            Ivan crouches behind fallen timber, face pressed against the cold bark.  The moon casts faint illumination, the only light.  His breath comes raggedly.  The last sprint was hard.  I think I lost them.

            He stretches his weary hamstrings while keeping his body low.  With a groan, he arches slowly and rises to a stand.  Running feels natural now.  It feels as if he’s run every day of his life.  Legs hungry for ground, he moves forward, only stumbling slightly.  I can’t afford to trip.

            Wind tears at his face, yet no tears spring forth.  He ran out of tears hours ago.  Hope is one of few things yet to be depleted.  Strength can be borrowed.  It can be bought for a price.  The fate of weakness, of stopping for longer than a moment, is worse than a cool, moist grave.  They’ll steal it.

            Safety feels near.  Ivan spots a wall, the wall of a city.  Mouth feeling coarse, he vomits.  The last shred of remaining energy is harnessed to break into a dead sprint that rattles his whole being.  A dead sprint to salvage life.  How queer.  

            A man stands at the gate, stoic.  He glances at him with steely eyes.  Ivan smiles madly, then frowns.  What?  Pain erupts from his back as he collapses, clawing at the yellow grass in front of him to try to continue.  The man frowns.  “Sorry,” he utters, then rushes within the walls.  I suppose I shouldn’t blame him.

            The bushes directly behind Ivan rustle.  A sound from his nightmares comes to his ears.  I’m not going to make it.  So close, yet so far away. 

    He lets out a cracking moan.  Pain racks him.  The price, I must pay the price.  A weak smile forms on his face.  The toll is meager, yet more than he has left.   All turns black, then white.  He sees light, blessed light, with only a scar of darkness.  I’m weightless. 

    It seems that struggling isn’t futile after all.  A bill saved my soul.

 

The Destroyers

            I am not a survivor.  Time and time again I was warned that I would die.  I really should have listened.

            Far below me, at the bottom, a cloud rose out to me.  Fish swam vigorously up toward me, evading it.  I watched as my close friend, an amphibian verok like me, disappeared into the mud that could only be thought of as encroaching death.  He was the bravest verok I knew and arrogant in his courage.  I used to think the Destroyers could never hurt me just as he did.  I was wrong.

            I began paddling even closer to the surface, the light of morning a beacon.  My class had been taught what to do when the Destroyers came every twenty years.  I wished that I had paid more attention.  I realized that the knowledge would have been extremely valuable.  As I broke out of the water with a splash, I almost forgot to breathe.  When I finally did draw in a puff of air I had an overwhelming fear that it would be my last.  I dove.

            Which way should I go? I asked myself.  I jerked to a random direction and swam hard, never answering my own question.  Glancing downward, I saw that the cloud was rising slower now, giving me a boost of speed with the new sense hope.  I noticed nothing ahead of me to increase the emotion.

            Time churned away like the foam I stirred in my haste, bringing fatigue and little else.  There were more organisms surrounding me here, sharks and vibrant fish going through the same situation as myself.  A few of the younger ones called out to their elders, asking what to do.  They told them to continue swimming as fast as they could if they wanted to live.  Some of them, too weak to comply, moaned as they descended at a slant, screamed when they entered the killing cloud.

            If nothing else I am strong.  I’m still alive, aren’t I? I thought.  My rational side slapped me.  Arrogance is the thing that brought you here! it screamed.  If you still think you can survive this by yourself you’re stupider than I thought.

            I sped up for a moment and crept closer to a large grey shark.  That gave me at least a little bit of comfort.  Where is the rest of my kind? I wondered.  Veroks aren’t the most intimidating beings, yet I would have felt a lot better being with some of my own blood beside me.  Then I saw something that did even more for my confidence.

            Ahead of me stood a massive stone structure.  The cloud, now only an elder whale’s length below me, rose higher around its sides, although the effort was clearly futile.  My energy was wavering, but I swam faster anyway.  I was overjoyed.  I’m going to ma-   The gate hit me in the face as it swung shut.

            I really should have listened.

A Cat Lacking Curiosity

            Juggling knives requires high concentration.  Stalking through a forest a stone’s throw from an enemy camp does too.  Lander is doing both at the same time.

            Eyes set with a rigid stare at the hilt of the top knife, he creeps forward, bent low.  Undergrowth crumples beneath his boots, but it’s practically inaudible.  He is unfazed by the trees in front of him, sidestepping as if a wall required the action.  The tracks he is leaving could be from any creature to most on-lookers.  In fact, an animal is a more reasonable explanation than a man.  Lander is a little of both.

            Few people believe that he is truly of any beastly race, and they’re technically correct, just don’t tell his adversaries that.  Being raised by panthers between a traditional upbringing and military enlistment changed him.  He doesn’t have claws, he doesn’t need them, his throwing knives do the job just as well, but the strikes are as precise as cats’.  In addition, the naginata-type spear on his back tears flesh better than any feline can.  Lander has only one disadvantage: he’s in over his head.

            A bush rustles a few paces ahead of him.  He pauses, grunts, and continues.  It’s fitting to say that cats are vain and he isn’t an exception.  A snarl wouldn’t still him for much longer.  Curiosity is the one thing he’s lacking.  Lander drew the short straw on that one.

            As he reaches the shrub, a soft growl reaches his ears.  There’s nothing odd about that, animals growl, he thinks.  Lander gives the bush a swift kick and begins to move on.

            Some plants growl too.  This one enlarges spontaneously for added effect.  It’s much more deadly that way.  Thickly woven foliage splits into tendrils that cling to his arms and tug.  Flailing, a gash opens from one of his snatched knife blades, immediately followed by a shrill scream, yet everything proceeds.  His legs are captured, calves sliced by the restriction.  Lander can’t sprint away from this foe. 

            The creature spreads open at its wound, a maw opening to his height.  The mouth seems to be black in the darkness.  He struggles, using his teeth to gnaw at his restraints.  A single tear runs down his face, his eyes still hard and unbelieving.  They widen for a moment no longer than a blink.  The beast bends forward to enclose him and they soften.  Lander grumbles a curse and stills.