Tag: Supernatural

Posted on

Flash Fiction: Doors

Today’s story is inspired by Going Place by BoFeng

“I forgot my shoes,” Eric said. We had slide through the door with the wolves at our back. Jennifer was right. They can’t cross over. I don’t even know if they can see the doors. We didn’t wait to check as I slammed the panel behind us as quickly as we were over.

“I need my shoes,” Eric said in a low tone. The boy was distant, unsure, and I couldn’t really blame him. We had found him four doors ago, wandering here and there in mute confusion. Jennifer asked if we could leave him but Kathy had already started to approach him. It was good we did. He’d been the one who noticed the wolves before any of us although I wish he’d have more tack than to scream about them.

We had been in the water. I had already bathed and was sitting on the dock. Kathy, a mother before she ended up here, hadn’t been shy about getting Eric cleaned up. He had seemed oblivious to the nudity but I felt weird about it and Jennifer wasn’t even comfortable with me or Kathy around when she undressed. Kathy just took care of him with a mother’s hand.

He had screamed when he saw the wolves, and it had been enough warning for me and Jennifer to gather up Kathy’s and Eric’s things. She pulled Eric to the side of the water and started to get on her cloths while I shoved Eric’s shirt over his head. We had already known where the door was and so we bolted straight to it. Between the lake and the strange world hoping frame the two of them finished getting dressed, except for the pair of shoes Eric dropped.

“I think, I think we’re okay,” Jennifer said. She had the spear in hand again, holding it towards where the door had been. We each knew a little about how they worked. Whenever someone opened a door on one world, it appeared in the destination. Before then, there’s no sign of the exit. We had learned that one when Bradly tried to hunt us. He almost had, with that spear.

I paused a second while I thought about Oscar. Most of what we knew had come from him. Originally an old professor before this place, he had seen so much and been through everything before getting dumped here. He sacrificed himself against Bradly. Bradly had stabbed him, but Oscar still managed to get close enough to cut the mad boy with a knife. After the fight we found Bradly unconscious by another door, bleeding horribly from the wound. Jennifer used her own spear to gut him. I think that’s when she went cold.

“I need my shoes,” Eric said again.

“Shut up,” Jennifer spat. “Shut up about your damn shoes. Why the hell did you scream about the wolves? We could have gotten away faster if you had just come on shore first.”

“Are you joking?” Kathy said.

“What?” Jennifer asked.

“I said are you joking? You really think anyone would have kept quiet about seeing wolves bigger than a linebacker?”

“Especially an invalid,” I said.

“Don’t you dare,” Kathy said, pointing a finger at me. “He just needs attention.”

“He’s just going to get us killed,” Jennifer said. “He’ll just pull hunters onto us instead of being one. Why don’t we just take his essence now and be done with it?”

Kathy and I both stared in horror at her.

“I didn’t mean that,” Jennifer said. She let the spear’s tip lower down to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“We don’t do that.” My words were deliberate and hard. “Never. I don’t care what the maesters want with us. I don’t care what they’re doing with us. We don’t kill unless we have to. Only for defense.”

“Oscar killed,” Jennifer said. “Not often but you know he did.”

I did. Of course I did. I had been the one to touch him first when he was down. When he died. His essence and the sixteen boys and girls he killed entered me. Jennifer had Bradly and the boys he killed, but only because he didn’t kill girl. “I like them; I like you,” he had said when he held the three of us at the end of his spear before the fight. The essence made us stronger, faster, keener. We could see things and experience them at a pace I had never experienced in my fifty-four years. Even when I was a developing teen, as the body I was in now expressed, I could never move like I do now.

I looked to Eric, “Eric. How did you see the wolves?”

“Shoes.”

“Right, new shoes. We’ll get you some new ones. I’d give you mine but your feet are too big for mine or any of the others.”

Eric looked down at my feet and nodded.

“Too small. Need to find new shoes.”

“I don’t know how he saw them,” Kathy said. “When he started screaming I had thought the soap had gotten into his eyes.” She rubbed her shoulder. “But he seemed to know. Just like how Oscar was nervous when Bradly was following us. Before we knew.”

“But I’ve got Oscar’s danger sense,” I said. “I didn’t feel a thing until I knew about them.”

“Maybe the beasts can take essence too,” Kathy said.

“And maybe his innate gift is, what? Ultra-danger sense?” Jennifer said. She had the spear back up but was looking around the forest we had found ourselves in.

“Well, I mean think about Oscar and me,” Kathy said. “I can see the other side of a closed door. Oscar could too but not as well. And Bradly could summon a weapon, but Jennifer, yours is far more impress of a weapon. Maybe if it’s your native gift.”

“It’s stronger. That makes sense,” I said. “Okay Eric, tell me, what do you see around us? Any shoes?”

Eric looked about the forest, and nodded.

“A bunch of shoes. Three pairs big enough for me. One pair your size, Izzy.”

“Three pairs? Four? Wait, is he saying we’re surrounded?” Jennifer asked just as my danger sense started to kick in.

Trying out some longer pieces. Not quite breaking out of Flash Fiction but getting closer.

Posted on

Serial Fiction: Hands – Ep 002

Just off of Lord, near where it crosses past Long Bridge, was the Avninder Theater. South Gaijin in design, with long sweeping roofs over each balcony decorated in a myriad of colors and wavy patterns. The exterior was mostly clean with a few spots here and there showing the age of the place. The inside had a large set of seats in a crescent around a raised dais some eighty feet wide. The house curtains were up and stored when he arrived, and three performers were practicing on stage. It was a dry a run with no energy, just movements. The fireguard stood off to the side, watching the performers while keeping an extinguisher at hand. Glen had seen performers get carried away in the rehearsals before and he appreciated the on call guard.

The Dragon was sitting center house. He was with the patron, Cameron Huntington, so Glen stood back watching the practicing trio. The piece they were rehearsing was one he knew by heart. It required physical strength to manage the lifting the two outer performers needed to do. The inner performer needed the dexterity to reach out and cap the shape the three of them would produce. All three needed perfect concentration to stretch their flames into a large seven pointed star. It wasn’t easy especially since two of the performers hands were tied up holding the third so the use of a leg each was required. Glen had been in all three roles at one point or another, and could feel the aches in his joints watching the two humans hoist up the shade woman.

The patron stepped away and Glen caught The Dragon’s eye. The director waved him over.

“Mr. Travis. I had not expected to see you today. I thought you had an appointment,” he said. The Dragon, Diarmad Aitken, was a fairly short orc but large compared to Glen. He smiled as Glen slide through the seats to the small worktable setup in the middle of the row. Glen could see the burns he had only noticed in passing before around The Dragon’s lips. It was the reason for his nickname, the fire breathing. Only now Glen wondered what troubles it had caused for his boss.

“I did, sir. This morning.”

“That does not sound like comfort when you say it that way, Glen. What is wrong?”

Glen rubbed his hand and brushed the blister. “Nothing good. Do you know what peripheral neuropathy is? And neuritis?”

“Oh no,” Diarmad said. “No, no, Glen. You are much too young for that.” He looked at Glens hands and moved to take one. Glen let him and the orc slide his fingers over the blisters, giving each of them a close look.

“How bad?”

“A year, maybe, and then no more hands. I don’t know what to say.”

The dragon sighed and then turned Glen’s hand over and cupped it before giving it a gentle pat.

“Yours is an exceptional talent, but I see now that I was mistaken to push you as I did. Your displays are miracles to the eyes, but while some say preforming costs blood, sweat, and tears, I do not believe that is to be taken literal, do you not agree?”

Glen nodded as Diarmad let go of his hand.

“Glen, the theater doesn’t have much in terms of discretionary funds. You know we are paid performance to performance, but I cannot ask you to burden yourself and your health in order to continue your livelihood. Perhaps then, I would like your permission to host a fund raiser, in your honor.”

Diarmad grinned, and the scars around his mouth glistened in ways Glen didn’t realize he was becoming hyper aware to.

“I, I would be honored,” he said, shocked at the offer. “I’m touched. But, does this mean I can’t perform with the troupe?”

Diarmad’s expression turned into a pained look.

“No, I am afraid I cannot allow it. If you are already so injured that your specialist warns you against the task, I have to consider the other risks. While I know you would not think of it now, lawyers and hoard seekers might encourage you to stalk our coffers if we knowingly let you perform.”

The director paused as this sank into Glen, and he wished he waited before coming here now.

“Additionally, and this pains me to say it young man, but if you are so burned it means your manipulation is more reckless than I deem acceptable. I cannot have a man combust on me on stage.”

That was a slap. At least it felt that way to Glen. He understood the legality issues. He understood the health concerns. That, however, was a direct challenge to his ability in the performing arts. He felt himself heating up like he had when he left Dr. DeProspero’s office.

“Ah, I see I have said to much. My apologies, young mister Travis. Perhaps you may need to cool off with so many uncomfortable things of the day. I will have Miss Cranes sent to contact you regarding the fund raiser. Until then, we must prepare for tonight’s performance. If you would be so kind,” he said, offering up his hand. Glen took it and helped The Dragon up. “Thank you, Glen. Here, take this for tonight. Have a meal with that fine young man you brought to the last performance to take your mind off today’s worries.”

He had given Glen a small silver key. Glen recognized it immediately. The shape was ornamental, but it would serve the function it was designed after. It was an access token to a five-star restaurant called Ilahi, a place Glen wouldn’t be able to afford without spending a month’s of Deron’s salary. The key was more than just the ability to go to the restaurant. Anyone in a nice suit who called ahead could do that. It was a token directly tied to a tab at the restaurant. Maybe this was how The Dragon apologized for insulting him. If so, it was quite a first step.

He’d need to change. This would be more than just a simple night out.

Hands is a serial fiction series set in the Draco Artificium universe. Read the first piece here. Find the rest of the series here. New episodes go up Wednesdays.

Posted on

Serial Fiction: Hands – Ep 001

I’ve always enjoyed serial fiction. Something about the episodic nature of short pieces of fiction linking together into a larger story is just fun. This piece, Hands, is the first part of a series dedicated to the setting of the current novel, temporarily titled, Doppleganger.

I owe inspiration for writing this piece to a few people. The most recent would be Christiana Ellis, and her 2016 project Phyllis Esposito: Interdimensional Private Eye. I also owe kudos to Andrew Eckhart’s original draft for his novel, Last Mage. The original version of his book was shared as a serial fiction series on the home site of the Last Mage series. Final call out to T. K. Eldridge, and her current serial project. Each of those is worth your time, so give them a read after you check out the below.

“It’s ergokinesis induced neuritis, Mr. Travis,” the doctor had said. “The pain. The numbness. Your difficulty handling small objects. I understand the requirements of your performances, but if you keep it up your hands will be paralyzed within a year.”

Glen looked at his hands. The tips of his fingers were all pale, the remnants of blisters almost done healing. Around them scars from burns and scabs dotted his digits and palms. He tried to flex the right hand but the pinky and ring fingers barely moved.

The doctor’s visit had been about an hour ago. Dr. DeProspero had been adamant about Glen’s treatment. About the magic. It just hadn’t seemed fair. Glen knew people decades older who still performed above his grade and had no problem with this. A few burns, but anytime someone handles a fire it’ll burn.

A window beeped at him and he cursed at himself. Glen had forgotten to call Deron after the appointment.

“What’s the good headline?” Deron said, his wide grin extending to the points of his gaijin ears. He was in his cubical in the heart of some office labyrinth. Glen tried to smile but Deron could read him too well, “That bad huh? What he say?”

“To cancel the show, wrap up and seek a more health inclined endeavor,” Glen said. He checked his surroundings to make sure he wasn’t going to be in someone’s way in the call. A few pedestrians but this part of New Castle was fairly quiet this time of day. Even the chariots on the street were pretty rare.

“He didn’t.”

“Might as well. He said I’d go into full ‘Peripheral neuropathy’ in my hands and possibly my arms if I keep working. Maybe twelve months. Tops.”

Deron frowned. “Not even if you lay off hand magic?”

Glen shook his head. “Not even that. He says I’m already showing signs in my feet, and there are patches on my back that are mostly numb. You know the ones.”

“The ones I see nothing there but you’re always asking me to scratch or rub.”

“Yeah,” he said, wishing he had one of those massages right now.

“Great. Good job turning something sweet about us into another dark spot.”

Glen cringed, “I didn’t mean.”

“Oh baby,” Deron said, his eyes going wide. “Oh I didn’t mean you! I meant the doc. I’d never say something like that.”

“I know,” Glen said. He sighed in relief but still felt a bit of heat on the back of his eyes. “I know you wouldn’t. It’s just been a rough morning so I’m a little easily set off right now.”

“I understand, Glen. Are you headed home?” Deron said as he glanced to the side of the cubicle at a wall clock.

“To the theater. Going to talk to the dragon.”

“Okay. I’ll be out of the office in about three hours. How about I come by the theater with a car and we go out tonight?”

“That sounds great.”

Hands is a serial fiction series set in the Draco Artificium universe. Read the first piece here. Find the rest of the series here. New episodes go up Wednesdays.

Posted on

Flash Fiction: Dark Hearts

Today’s story is inspired by Fallen Angel IV by Luis Royo.

The waters were cold. Between the rain and the wind her dress had become soaked, the fur on her wings was drenched, and every joint was starting to ache from her shivering. She desperately wanted to be away from this pit of despair and the aura of dread and loneliness her task projected didn’t help. She swallowed and forced herself forward.

The cold bog was the thing’s hiding place; an ancient lair she had pulled it kicking and screaming millennia ago. She used her scythe to test the mud in front of her as she moved. The bog was warmer back then but the world had grown cold over the years. When she was last here it was heat and sweat and hot pits of springs boiling up from the core that had kept her warry of a direct flight to him. Now the cold and frozen heart of the realm stayed her hand. The power coursing through her world be a flare to the fallen one. She did not believe he’d fight her, but she knew if he fled finding him again would be a challenge.

She needed his heart. Atonement for her sins could not be done alone. The guardian had said she would need three sinful hearts purified to pass through heaven’s gates. She had already taken the heart of another, a lesser angel who had been in line with the rebellion. That one had given her the female mortal form she had now, taking her away from the sexless thing she believed angels need be. The new one was also of that host, and she found they were the easiest to hunt. She had been there when the rebellion had happened, and had used the symbolic weapon of her host against them. The memory made the cold of this place worse as she desperately wanted to hold that flaming blade once more.

Her scythe sank deeper into the bog not touching mud until a foot or two beneath her current depth. A cautious step or two and she was certain she had found the entrance. Her body objected as she stepped deeper into the cold water, but she ignored its mortal needs. The cold couldn’t kill her. Drowning couldn’t kill her. Both could hurt.

The water in her lungs burned, and the body screamed for air but she continued to move slowly under the dark waters. The lair of the fallen was close, and she was starting to see lights ahead. The water warmed as she neared his resting space, and as the top of her head peeked over the surface, she felt intense heat in the air. There were two sources of light in the small chamber, a large brazier with logs and coals filling the bottom of it, and a humanoid figure curled into the fetal position with his hair and wings ablaze. The brazier’s flames had died down but the heat and coals still glowed heat, heating the spit above it. She knew the flesh on that rod at once, and now understood this fallen’s sin. Man’s flesh is for beast alone, as punishment from the divine. The grace would never allow this wretched thing to feast upon mortal flesh.

She pulled herself slowly from the water with her dress clinging to her skin. By the time her slow approached had cleared her mud caked feet from the entrance, the heat had dried the top of her dress and her wings were dry and starting to sweat. The fallen had taken on the look of a young man, cherub like in face and form. Like the first fallen she had slain, he was bound by mortal flesh, and possessed a gender of humanity. He clutched himself as he slept and this act of mortal need angered her. She raised her scythe. Droplets streaked along the blade as pockets of water were freed, and several of the cold beads splattered his face. His eyes snapped open and she swept down. Had he been a greater member of the host he may have had time to move, but as only a lesser fallen her blade swept through his neck as smoothly as it swept through the air. The fire of his hair and fur extinguished as the smell of divine blood filled the hollow.

An angel’s blood should bring life, but the fallen’s blood only darkened the earth. Where it touched the plants of the space withered and died. The remains of the carcass of the fallen’s human victim became rot and vile waste almost immediately. She leaned down and shoved her hand into the fallen’s torso. The blood clawed at her skin but she ignored the pain that her body screamed at her. Her hand found the heart and pulled it out. It was beating with thick black blood streaking down her arm and staining her dress.

She ate it, and even though it tried to resist her by becoming foul and putrid in taste, she was able to absorb it. Like the first she had eaten, the heart changed her. The angel became larger, bulkier, but still with feminine features. The hearts within them seemed to each take up rights on selecting the angel’s form, and they became no longer female but not quite male either. Despite the duality, the angel felt stronger, fuller. Its power had grown at they consumed, and a new hunger was filling them. The flesh of man taken readily from the spit did not fill their desire. Yes, they needed three hearts purified to seek heaven’s gate. But what if they had more?

Ah misinterpretation. How fun you are. I was reading a post from a friend who was discussing a character’s misuse of a wish in their story. Wishes, at least in gameplay mechanics tend to be very dangerous for players to take on. This mostly happens because dungeon masters/game masters are cruel evil beings who like to toy with our players, but they also happen because it serves as a barrier to getting the end goal. It’s reflected in our story today on how the angelic figure takes a literal approach to the charge of “three sinful hearts purified to pass through heaven’s gates” thinking they need to take within themselves three purified hearts to the gate. Except this has had the opposite effect than what the angel wants. They no longer accept their task may be over now, and suddenly seek more power. The three hearts in their chest now beat darker black ichor.

Posted on

Flash Fiction: Of Wax and Brimstone

Today’s story is inspired by What Are You Afraid Of, by Gabriel Picolo.

“I’m dangerous,” Malice said. I could only make out the glowing coals of his eyes in the darkness, but the warm heavy presence that came with him dominated the cliff side ridge where we were meeting. I could feel my wax already start to soften from his heat.

“I don’t care.” I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. My flesh sizzled as it touched the brimstone of his body. He pulled back at first and then sighed and wrapped his arm around my back. His fingertips brushing the edges of my feathers caused them to melt into his hand, leaving small puddles of wax and dye along his charcoal colored skin.

“You’re already losing yourself in me,” he whispered. “Exurbia, we can’t do this. We’re a bad mix.”

I pulled back until I held his waist and could look into his eyes. The coals had cooled from intense white and blues to gentle reds and yellows. I could see drops of my hair sliding down the heat of his chin, and pouring into the rocky breaks of the cinnabar deposits in his flesh.

“No,” I replied. “We’re perfect. I can survive your heat the way others couldn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said. He slipped from my hands, and stepped back to the edge of the cliff. My wax cooled immediately and I could feel my hair and feathers reforming, although I felt a little lighter from the lost mass. “I am sorry. I can’t control this heat.”

He slid onto the lip of the cliff; taking a seat and hanging his legs over the edge. We were on a peak somewhere between the mortal world and the heavens. One of the countless mountains left floating in the aether between creation and dream. We were both angels of flesh and reality. Part of the world’s matter and made alive as guardians of material flesh. Our guiding hands on the men and machines below that worked in our flesh was what lead us to connect. To find one another.

His burning wings were slumped down and it let me wrap my arms around him. I pressed my torso against his back and the sharp blades of stone and cinnabar cut into my stomach, but I let the pain pass. I just cared for him, and would bare whatever suffering let me be near. He sighed, breathing in our combined presence.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Malice said. “And I won’t let you be hurt by me.” He slipped from my grip and down the side of the cliff. I moved to chase after him but found myself stuck. His hand had pressed against mine and realized he had molded my wax into the rocks. I was reforming, pulling back from the stone but it was enough time for him to disappear below.

“Malice,” I screamed, but only forgotten reality could hear my cries.

Relationships can be troubling. Even non-intentional pain can spring up between lovers through their natures. There are those who can survive and those who don’t want to force their loved ones to have to deal with their troubles. These choices can leave each of them in a wake of pain, and sometimes that echo can be worse than what would have been suffered together.

Posted on

Flash Fiction: Mortal Line Express

This story is part of the archived and updated series of previous works.

Hello and welcome from the Mortal Lines Express Company; the next level in transportation for the corporeally deceased. You’ve chosen a multi-world leader in postmortem travel and we intend to make your journey to the religious iconographical promised land of your choosing as pleasant as possible

During your trip, there are a few rules and regulations you will need to adhere to in order to successfully reach your religious iconographical destination of choice. Please listen closely as you will not be warned again.

Be sure to keep all incorporeal essence of your ghostly apparition inside the cabin at all times. Do not inquire with the staff on the dangers of leaving part of your essence outside the train’s exterior. Should you insist on inquiring be careful not to damage the train during your expulsion into the cold disruptive terror of the phantom universe of the living world. The staff is here to make your trip pleasant, not fulfilling.

Remember to stay in the correct iconographical related cabin for your chosen destination. If your iconographical destination is not a registered cabin, please move to the end car at this time to avoid misplacement. A staff member will be along shortly to offer you employment until your iconographical representation is popular enough to warrant it as an acceptable destination. All offers of employment are one time and effective immediately. Failure to accept an offer of employment will lead to your immediate expulsion into the cold disruptive terror of the phantom universe of the living world.

Should a living person or persons board the train at any time due to a quest, mistake, talisman gathering, religious/spiritual/metaphysical mission, greed, or random wandering, be sure to report this incident to the conductor and avoid the inevitable battle as you may be disrupted and left behind in the cold disruptive terror of the phantom universe of the living world.

Please note that this last rule need not apply to necromancers, non-human entities, and other travelers to and from the mortal world that possess a special pass. You will know this pass when you see it as the mortal languages you are used to hearing could not comprehend the true description of such an artifact.

Should you personally cause a disruption on the train that causes a delay in schedule or damage to the train or employee, you will not be pushed into cold disruptive terror of the phantom universe of the living world. Rather, you will be imprisoned and have your incorporeal form twisted into part of the train to help repair or improve its functionality for eternity or until the services offered by the Mortal Line Express Company are no longer functional or necessary. Whichever comes first.

Again, thank you for choosing Mortal Line Express Company for your post-living needs. Your eternity is our business.

This story was originally written back in 2010 during my first attempt at writing flash fiction on a regular basis. While the majority of that fiction is evident of my skill level at the time, this one struck me as fun enough to bring forward. It’s had some editing since it’s original posting on March 11, 2010, but the concept remains the same.