Flash Fiction Friday #22 - Solitude

Today's FFF piece didn't seem too compelling once I finished writing it and read it over, however, I can see that it's more of a character sketch and plot idea than it is a full-blown story. After watching the season finale of 24: Live Another Day, I felt compelled to write out a sketch of a character much like Jack Bauer, someone who has nothing and nobody left and who is captured by his enemies and left with little to no hope. I'm not sure how this FFF piece branched from that intention to a plot about a full-blown plague epidemic but I'll take it.

Solitude

“Solitude is man’s greatest comfort, yet can also be man’s greatest nemesis.”
 

I read that quote many months ago. It was in a book…no, a magazine article on the human brain and the effects of solitude and its connections to insanity. I was waiting in the doctor office for Claire. She was there to get a checkup on an infection that had manifested in her lungs. The doctor office was busy that day. I complained to her later that it was too busy, but now I would welcome that busyness with open arms and pursed lips.
 

These shackles have cut and bruised my wrists. Mildew fills the air – and my lungs – making it hard to breathe normally. I haven’t eaten in days – too many to count – and I am ravished. The water they bring me is simply a collection of the condensation from the pipes that run through this compound. Aside from the guard who brings me that water, I haven’t seen another living soul in this place since I woke here. Where here is.
 

Memories come back to me in painful flashes of light and color, but I can’t seem to recollect exactly what brought me here. When the plague attacked New Haven, Claire and I were packing up to move West toward Lockly. We weren’t able to leave before Claire died. I found out – too late – that the infection in her lungs had been spurred on by the Rack Plague, and I could do nothing to save her.
 

I fled the city, taking what few supplies I could transport in our small sedan. I made it into the Wastelands and set up camp at the base of Mt. Sel. I grieved Claire’s death for days. I almost killed myself, but resolved to do what I could to survive. It’s what Claire would want. It’s the only reason I haven’t killed myself in this place.
 

I was going to leave my camp, to head further West and hopefully reach Lockly, but…I can’t remember…bandits, maybe, ambushed me. I remember men with cloth over their mouths. I remember guns. I remember the smell of sweat and urine. Everything after that is shrouded in darkness in the recesses of my mind. I woke up here, chained to the floor, half naked and starving.
 

There is nothing left for me except for the memory of Claire and that hideous plague. I wish I knew where it came from, what caused it, and how to stop it. It swept through the continent within a matter of weeks. I have no idea how I escaped its clutches.
 

Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the guard in a day or two. I haven’t seen anyone in a day or two. I’ve only seen the beam of sunlight which pours through the dirty window and shines light across me, bathing me in warmth, for a time each day.
 

Has the plague reached here into the depths of hell?

(Click the Flash Fiction Fridays link at the top of the page to read past pieces!)

Flash Fiction Friday #20 - Mercy Springs

Today's piece of fiction was written because I wanted to explore some of the space/time continuum anomalies that occur in my Black Earth series - such as the appearance of the Mercy Springs Elementary School in the middle of California, mentioned in the second novel in the series, The Broken Daisy. Enjoy!

Mercy Springs

“What do you make of the anomaly,” Hendricks asked her.

Sybil shrugged. “I can’t really make heads or tails of it with what little information we have.”

“I have a theory,” Hendricks said as he took a seat at his desk.

Sybil tied her long brown hair back into a ponytail and held it together with a rubber band. “I really don’t care for theories.”

“I know. But you might want to hear me out on this one.”

Sybil took a seat in the chair opposite Hendricks’ desk. The thick leather made a loud noise as she settled into it. “Fine, let’s hear it.”

Hendricks leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “Okay, Nathan Pierce and his friends made contact with a school called Mercy Springs Elementary.”

“Correct.”

“Now, we have no record of there being a city named Mercy Springs in California.”

“I already know all of this, Hendricks. Get to the point.”

“What if Mercy Springs Elementary School is from another reality?”

Sybil straightened up in her seat. “You mean like the Black Doors?”

He nodded and stroked his beard. “Yeah, I do mean like the Black Doors.”

“But how would it have appeared in California? How did Nathan Pierce, Heather Rhodes, and Cynthia Ruin come into contact with a school from another reality? The Black Doors are small. And you’re talking about an entire school.”

Hendricks sighed. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but my theory is that the school appeared without the assistance of a Black Door. Mercy Springs Elementary came through a time rift. I know, it sounds very science fictiony, but I believe that’s what happened. After we went through the files from the Vector organization, I found detailed reports of a woman – Jennifer Glass – who could move through time involuntarily. That was until a young man named Griffin helped perfect the ring that now allows her to move through time and space at will.”

“Jennifer Glass is an enemy of our organization, Hendricks.”

He nodded and waved her comment away as if it were a fly in the room. “I know, I know. The Time Protection Society has been hunting Jennifer for years. Blah, blah, blah. But listen, I’m convinced that her journeys through time and space have actually been damaging the space/time continuum. Her very presence has been causing rifts in our reality – and subsequently other realities – and I think that Mercy Springs snuck in through one of these rifts. In fact, I have reason to believe that the entire city of Mercy Springs was caught up in the rift and was transported somewhere else...some other reality.

“I think these rifts have been interfering with the Seer device. They have to be. The Seer device – from what I’ve been told – can only search out events along the current timeline. But what if outside sources – the rifts – bring in anomalies that the Seer device cannot compensate for? It would mean that the TPS is moving on commands that are not made in sound judgment.”

Sybil stood to her feet. “I’ve heard enough. This is why I don’t like theorizing with you, Hendricks. You take it too far. Unless you have proof of one of these rifts that Jennifer Glass supposedly created, then I would suggest you keep your mouth shut and just do what Redford Raleigh wants you to do. Don’t ask questions, don’t push your agenda. Just believe that the Seer device works and that we are to follow all instructions given to us based on what the Seer device reveals.”

Hendricks shook his head. “No. No, I’m not going to just go with the flow around here anymore. I’m tired of taking orders without any context. We don’t even know where the Seer device came from, Sybil, nor do we know how Redford knows so much about time travel and the future. Aren’t you the least bit curious to know why none of us have ever been allowed to see the Seer device?”

“Stop,” she said. “Just stop now before they decide to silence you for your insubordination.”

“Nobody really knows why Macayle Harper defected. I’d like to know the reason for that decision. Don’t you?”

Sybil reached behind her and pulled the Glock pistol from her back pocket. Before Hendricks could protest, she fired a bullet straight between his eyes, splattering blood and brain matter across the leather chair.

“Sorry, Hendricks. But those who know too much don’t need to be a part of this organization. Just like Macayle Harper.”

Flash Fiction Friday #19 - Violet Dawn

I've been wanting to explore my character, Violet Dawn, a bit more since finishing the Black Earth series, and this Friday's piece gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. For those of you who have read my Black Earth novels, you'll know Violet Dawn from some of the quotes at the beginning of the books, and some of the artwork found throughout the series.

Violet Dawn

Donald Respy, a male reporter for the Violent Underground newspaper, took a seat on the red leather couch, afraid to touch anything in her apartment. Violet Dawn was known to be a germaphobe, and she hadn’t set the rules for her place when he first arrived at her apartment to do his interview with her for the newspaper. Instead, upon answering the door, she left him in her foyer and went straight back to the canvas she was currently painting: a lonely daisy, the flower rising tall above the blades of grass surrounding it. Behind the daisy was a field of trampled flowers of many varieties and colors. Violet was in the midst of painting one of the crushed flowers, a violet.

How appropriate, Donald thought. “So, how did you come to be a painter?”

“Artist,” she corrected as she dipped her brush in some purple paint set to the side of her easel. “I am an artist.”

“But aren’t painters artists?”

“Not all painters are artists. You are only an artist if you bleed all over your work.”

Donald scribbled her quote on his notepad, unsure if he should ask a follow-up question. “So, how did you come to be an artist?”

“I took a risk one day. Remember that movie, The Matrix? Remember when Neo takes the red pill?”

“Yes.”

“That was a risk that Neo took to find the truth in everything. One day, I slit my wrist – figuratively – and bled my anger, my love, and all the emotions I felt in between upon the canvas. That’s the day I became an artist.”

Donald began scribbling down her quote, and stopped for a moment to study her figure. She wore blue jeans and a red blouse, and her figure was that of a perfect hourglass. Donald wasn’t sure how old she was – she never, ever gave her age in any of her interviews – but he could easily guess she was in her thirties. The white smock she wore over her blouse had a large black oak tree embroidered on it. Her sneakers were Sketchers.

“Your stare is burning a hole into my right butt cheek,” she said, dropping her paint brush on the edge of the easel before turning to him. Her bright red hair came out from behind her head in all directions, like a long cluster of fiber optic cable. Donald was certain his cheeks had turned the same shade.

She simply grinned and motioned to the painting.  “Done.”

He nodded. “Very nice.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking your opinion,” she said. “I’m just stating a fact. I’m done. Well, not completely done.” She picked up a piece of white paper and set it on the edge of the easel underneath the painting. “This will be the caption that goes with the picture.”

Donald set his notepad on the surface of the glass coffee table and stood to get a closer look at the canvas. “And the flowers were trampled under their feet,” he read. “All of them were. But the daisy rose above the others and stood tall, carving a way through the valley to the Mountain of God. Violet Dawn.”

She nodded. “I have to get the proper plating for the caption, but other than that, I’m done.”

“What does that caption mean?”

She shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Because you wrote it.”

“I did. Artists are simply conduits, Mr. Respy. Conduits to the emotions around us. Conduits to the darkness and light in this world. Conduits to the spiritual realm. Just because I painted this painting, and just because I wrote that quote, doesn’t mean I understand what any of it really means. It’s left open for interpretation. Open for examination.” She took a step toward him, leaning in near his face so close he thought – with a delighted expectancy – that she might kiss him. “The real meaning behind the painting is the meaning you apply to it. What does this painting mean to you?”

He stepped back, giving himself room to examine her artwork more closely. “It’s a daisy that has lasted some chaotic event. Maybe some global disaster. Or maybe some kid came by and trampled all of the flowers and missed the daisy because his mother yelled for him to come home.”

Violet crossed her arms and nodded. “I can see that. What else?”

“Nothing more. I don’t know what the Mountain of God is supposed to refer to in your caption.”

“It could be anything that means something to you spiritually. Or it could be an actual mountain that God has appointed as His own.”

Donald picked up his notepad and pencil from the coffee table. “Ms. Dawn, where exactly do you get your inspiration from?”

“No more questions, Mr. Respy. You know all you need to know about me by viewing my work. Like I said before, I bleed all of myself into my work. Everything you want to know about me is on that canvas.”

Flash Fiction Friday #18 - Red Crane

Red Crane

Detective Hale ripped through the strips of yellow and black police tape and entered the dark room, exchanging the warmth of the hallway for the cold of a crime scene. Blue moonlight pierced the long vertical blinds in the living room, casting cerulean stripes across the disheveled studio apartment. He shut the door behind him, wishful that none of the neighbors had seen him enter. The department knew nothing of his presence here. He had been ordered to stay far away from this particular crime scene, but he had no idea why. He wasn’t a suspect, and this part of Lysallis was under his jurisdiction.

He made his way past the small kitchen to his right and entered the living area. He scanned the room, making a mental note of the toppled lamp, the smashed computer desk, and the overturned couch. A struggle had occurred here. He approached the blinds  and peered out on the city. He marveled at the view of Lysallis from the vantage point of the twentieth floor. The Pleasure District, lit in a red haze, stood out like a glowing ruby in the distance.
 

Hale continued his search around the one-room apartment, checking the in-wall bookshelves, the big-screen television, and the small bathroom. Nothing stood out to him, aside from the various toppled items that filled the living space.
 

And then his eyes caught sight of the one item he had been searching for, the one item that would connect his assumptions with the truth of the matter. Atop the small end table that stood near the overturned couch sat a small crane made of origami.
 

Hale took a pair of tweezers from the inside pocket of his overcoat and used them to lift the  crane from its perch on the end table. He examined the paper bird and noticed that it was nearly identical to the other paper birds that had been left at the other half dozen crime scenes he had investigated in the last few months. The crane was made of paper, red in color, soaked in the victim’s own blood. A calling card left by the Red Crane Killer.

Flash Fiction Friday #17 - Edge of Babylon

There's a Switchfoot tune - "Where I Belong" -  that speaks of a song sung on the shores of Babylon. I heard the tune while I was driving through San Francisco the other day, and this new character - Solaris - came into creation. Here's a little piece I sketched out about her -

Edge of Babylon
Solaris stood at the shore of the Bark Ocean, watching the waves break against the sand. The moon cast its blue light across the waves, turning them cobalt, cerulean, and sapphire, while a cool and gentle breeze caressed Solaris’s face like the hand of a past lover.

She glanced over her shoulder at the massive stone wall that stood between her and the city of Babylon. She wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this place, but her directive was simple and clear. She had to enter the city and find Tibolt before they executed him for treason. It was no simple task to reach the shoreline, let alone infiltrate the kingdom, but Tibolt was the last friend Solaris had, and she owed it to the man to attempt her daring rescue.

Her gaze returned to the ocean tides, watching them slap each other like playful children. A strange scent filled the air, something that resembled grilled beef. Within that seemingly innocent fragrance, she was able to identify the putrid smell of burnt human flesh. The people of Babylon were performing their nightly sacrifice Arumash, their god.

Solaris felt a melody rise within her spirit, consuming her fears and her doubts. She hummed it loudly, watching with fascination as the sound carried across the waves and stilled the rambunctious children of the sea. She hummed louder, allowing the tune she was pulling from thin space to echo out across the deserted shoreline, causing the grains of sand to tremble and the water to turn to glass.

She stopped humming, in awe of what she had done. She heard voices behind her and turned to find a multitude of guards roaming the top of the wall. One of them pointed in her general direction. Solaris couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she knew enough to know she had to hide or she would be tortured and killed with Tibolt.

Flash Fiction Friday #16 - Sapphire

This week's FFF piece developed out of my Black Earth series. Pearl is a character from that series who was created by hand by the witch, Evanescence, in the bowels of the Depths. Even though she was destined for destruction and malevolence, Pearl managed to escape and carve out her own destiny. This new character that I introduce in today's piece - Sapphire - seems to have been formed within the same circumstances. And much like Pearl, Sapphire wants nothing more than to get as far away from the Depths as possible.

Sapphire

They say that a rose by any other name is still a rose. I don’t believe that nonsense. A name has more impact than most people give it. At least, I would like to hope so.

I sit in my bone chair, the smell of death rising from the seat, filling the air with the putrid scent of decay. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this place before I concede to madness. Looking around at the walls that imprison me, my stomach churns at the site of the splattered blood and the random skulls embedded within the walls. Hollow eyes searching me, wanting to know why I would despise a place such as this.

I was born here. Well, created here. My mother, Evanescence, pieced me together. She had high hopes that I would follow her and her army into darkness. But I will not. I cannot. Something else compels me not to. Something else pursues me. Something else is...drawing me from her.

I dart up from my bone chair, thoughts racing through my mind wondering where all of the bones came from. People. Dead people. Humans slaughtered by the army I am supposed to help command. I rush to the mirror framed by black-painted bone, and I look upon myself. My form is slender, my eyes are bright and beautiful with their cobalt hue. I want nothing more than to shed myself of this raggedy black gown. My hair, dark and flowing like oil, could be cut short and I would be happy. Very happy. I just want to be clean, to be rid of this filth.

Maggots crawl near my feet, scattering out of a rotten chunk of indiscernible fruit tucked away into the corner of the room. I leap backwards, frightened of the worms, terrified of the filth they carry.

I tuck myself into a different corner – the only clean corner in the room – and I work hard to stop my stomach from casting its contents across the cement. Suddenly, the skulls in the walls begin chattering, their jaws moving on their own accord, their hollow eye sockets looking upon me.

“Stop,” I whisper.

Their chattering increases, the annoying sound turning into words. My name. My old name.

“Sapphire. Sapphire. Sapphire.”

“Stop!” I scream.

Their chattering refuses to miss a beat in the steady rhythm of incessant droning. “Sapphire. Sapphire. Sapphire.”

“My name...my name is not Sapphire. It is Abigail. Abigail. Not Sapphire.”

“Sapphire. Sapphire. Sapphire.”

I rush to the nearest skull in the adjacent wall and grab hold of the bottom portion of its jaw. I break it free, scattering the fragments of bone across the floor. The rest of the skulls stop their chant.

“My name is Abigail. Not Sapphire. Sapphire does not exist. I exist. And my name is Abigail.”

I have to  wonder if Pearl went through this before she escaped this horrible place. 

Flash Fiction Friday #15 - Darkwielder

Darkwielder
Beatrice stood before the two story house on Hawk Street and looked up at the charred remains of what once used to be her home. The houses to the right and left were untouched by the blaze, shielding the rest of the block from potential harm. But Beatrice knew it wasn’t luck that prevented the fire from the spreading. The fire had been supernatural in nature, a violet-colored blaze specifically set to destroy only her home. A blaze that only could have been cast from a Darkwielder.

Beatrice approached the small set of stairs that led to what was once a beautiful porch area. Now it contained nothing more than skeletal remains of ash and sorrow. Her sneakers pressed against the sick wood with creaking and groaning, as if she were taking the last bit of life from the structure.

She walked through the empty doorframe into a room full of ash. Most of the walls had been burned out, leaving behind charred studs that revealed the true structure of the home before its unfortunate demise. She scanned the room and spotted a small purple shine glittering from under a mound of gray ash. She hurried to it, pushing the ash away, revealing a small cluster of crystals.

“You’ll do nicely,” she whispered. The collection of purple crystals – gleanathyst – could fetch her a high price on the magic market. But she had no intentions of selling it. More than anything, she wanted to use the remnants of the Darkwielder’s magic staff to create her own staff. She was long overdue for it, especially since the completion of her elemental training months earlier.

She tucked the gleanathyst into the inside pocket of her long gray sweater and stood to her feet. The house felt so empty, so cold. She heard the sound of neighborhood children playing nearby, and she remembered when the house was abuzz with life within its walls. Now it lay dead, like a Gurgant beast that had been slain by a dark magician.

“You came back for it,” a voice spoke out behind her. “I didn’t think you would push aside your fear to return to this place.”

Beatrice turned around, unsurprised to have a visitor in what was left of her home. The woman who spoke was none other than the Darkwielder herself. A tall and slender woman, the Darkwielder wore the gray silk cloak and tall black boots that most every other Darkwielder wore once they graduated from their training in magic. This particular Darkwielder had brilliant green hair that snuck out of the sides of her hood, surrounding her flawless pale face with green bushels.

“You took my home from me.”

The Darkwielder nodded. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Give me that cluster of gleanathyst.”

Beatrice clutched her sweater shut over her chest. “No. You burned my home down with your dark magic. In return, I am going to keep this for myself.”

The Darkwielder held her pale hand out. “I said give it to me.”

“No. You no longer have a staff, so you cannot use your fiery magic on me.”

“I still have other magics,” she said.

“But you’re not allowed to use them here,” Beatrice replied. She approached the woman, a wide grin on her face. “I don’t know why you burned my home down, but you’ll regret doing so.”

“I will –“

Beatrice put her hand up to stop the woman. “You will do nothing. A Darkwielder has to follow certain rules.”

“Members of the clan do.”

Beatrice stared into the woman’s green eyes. “You cannot fool me. You’re still in the clan. It was your clan who set you up to burn down my home. Were you trying to kill me?”

“We do not kill. We simply steal.”

“Yes, that is your philosophy. But to kill is to steal life, is it not?”

The Darkwielder’s thin lips curved into a grin. “You know nothing of our philosophies.”

“I do know about your rules though.”

The Darkwielder moved to the side, allowing Beatrice a clear path through the empty doorframe. “Be on your way, hunter.”

Beatrice smiled, patting the inside pocket her of her sweater. “Your rules were meant to give you freedoms in this world, but they have only chained you to your broken ideals.” 

Flash Fiction Friday #14 - Black Doors

Black Doors

The train started up and began its journey through the Wasteland. Veronica peered out the window every so often, but there was really nothing to see. There were no lights in the Wasteland, save for light bulbs of solo shacks, or random campfires of outposts adventurers made while journeying through the sand-drenched desert. During the day, black paneling came down over the windows, blocking one’s view from the Wasteland itself. Violence was a common occurrence out here, but more so were attacks from the random beasts which inhabited the Wasteland. A family sued the train company years earlier when their child witnessed a horrific dismemberment of an adventurer who came too close to a Riptosar.

At night though, at a time when the sun escapes the evils of the day and retreats to make way for the more courageous moon, there was no need to block the windows. In fact, the random campfire glows and electric beacons provided small tokens of hope, proof that life existed out here in the middle of nowhere. 

Veronica recalled history lessons about the Wastelands in high school. Adventurers went in, so few came out or made it to the other side. Either the wilderness killed the unprepared ego trip, untamed beasts of all shapes and sizes tore the ignorant limb from limb, or some actually managed to get lost in some of the Wasteland ruins, which were said to have existed many thousands of years before Anaisha was even colonized.

Veronica remembered one particular story about a young man – brash and full of spitfire – who led a small team into an underground ruin near the Sarlin mountain range. Montgomery. That was his last name, I think. Montel Montgomery was his full name. The ruins were said to be inhabited by dark creatures and a rare artifact, but Montgomery and his team never returned. When another expedition crew went into the ruins after him, they came back with reports of a large chamber full of doors. Black doors with silver knobs and strange symbols etched around the doorframes. The doors were said to float above the stone flooring of the chamber, no strings attached, no hover lifts. Whispers filled the chamber, but nobody in the expedition team could make out what was being said. Nowhere else within the vast ruins were the doors found, and when the doors within the one chamber were counted, the number came out to four dozen. The expedition team claimed they weren’t able to open any of the doors, and even if they could, each one of them said they didn’t want to know what was behind them.

After hearing that story, Veronica spent many weeks researching black doors. The Black Door Phenomenon, in particular, was something that had been experienced by a few dozen people across Enera, each in a different location. People would turn a corner or enter a room or even wander outside, and suddenly there would be a black door. Some even said they would go to their neighbor’s house and their neighbor’s door would be replaced with a black door, with the strange symbols around the frame. Each black door had a different set of symbols, making interpretation nearly impossible. Some people reported being able to open the doors by turning the silver knobs. Once opened, they said they saw a variety of different things: apartment buildings, futuristic spacecrafts, alien species, and sometimes horrors beyond explanation.

No research uncovered a report of anyone ever stepping through the doorways. Veronica figured it was because anyone who ever did step through the doorways – and she was sure there were people who did out of a curious compulsion – were never able to come back to tell anyone about it.

The going theory right now was that the doors opened to other realms.

Veronica leaned back in her seat and wondered what it would be like to come across a Black Door. She wasn’t sure she’d walk through one if she were able to open it. To explore other realms was something that kept her curiosity at its peak, even though common sense and self-preservation kept Veronica from really committing to the idea of jumping through one of those Black Doors.

Flash Fiction Friday #13 - Ignite

Ignite

“I’ve left my life in your hands,” Cery whispered. “If you leave me, I’ll die.”
 

Belm shrugged and brushed his palms together, wiping the dirt from his skin. “You speak as if I’ve loved you this whole time. You still don’t get it, do you? I never loved you. Not the first time we laughed, not the first time we kissed, not the first time we had sex.”
 

Cery tried again to push the pile of wooden beams off the lower part of her body, but they were too many and too heavy. Pinned, she knew she wouldn’t get free without Belm’s help. He had the strength to help her, the muscle to move the wood, but he lacked the will...and the love. She knew all along that he didn’t love her. That isn’t what hurt. Over the course of her life, Cery had grown to accept the fact that nobody could love someone as hideous as her. The face deformity she carried with her from her youth, from the house fire, scared everyone away. She was never surprised to find that Belm did not truly love her. What hurt was the fact that he lacked the decency to help another human being.
 

He adjusted the heavy armor he wore and clanked his way toward her, kneeling down so his face was just above hers. “It’s for the best that you die here, you know? Nobody loves you. Nobody ever has, and nobody ever will. You’re the beast in the castle, locked behind solid walls so nobody has to see you or speak of you. Did you actually expect me to fall in love with what you see in the reflection each day? Honestly, you have to be pretty naive to believe that. Maybe you did because it’s all you had to believe in. Maybe you just wanted a bit of pity and hoped by attaching yourself to me you would get it. You were wrong. I have no pity for the likes of you.”
 

Cery crossed her arms over her chest. “I loved you, you know?”
 

Belm reached his hand out and stroked her cheek with his fingers. “I know. That’s what made this so easy. Bringing the barn down on your pathetic form was so easy, as is the act of leaving you here to die. No food, no water, no help for miles and miles. I’ll fly away like a crow, and you’ll stay here and die like a helpless sparrow.
 

Cery suddenly grabbed hold of Belm’s wrist. “Please, stay with me a little longer. Give me that.”
 

Belm laughed, ripping his arm out of her grip. “You still cling to me, the man who is slowly killing you? You are stupider than I thought you were. Good riddance.”
 

“Please. Just one more kiss? One more time to experience the warmth of your lips?”
 

“Since you asked nicely, and you are a stupid, stupid girl, I will grant your wish.” Belm knelt down again and leaned in to kiss Cery on the lips. Once his lips touched hers, Cery grinned slyly. A blaze of fiery heat swarmed around Belm’s face, igniting his head in flames.
 

He fell backwards and plunged his head into the dirt, scrambling to put the flames out, but they would not die. He screamed and yelled and flailed around. Cery snapped her fingers as the wooden beams pinning her to the floor caught fire and burst into ash, freeing her to stand to her feet. The pressure of the beams had injured her legs, but not badly enough to prevent her from walking. Approaching Belm, she placed her hand on his shoulder and the flames surrounding his face died out, leaving him with a head full of melted skin.
 

“I hope you’ll have a little more respect for me now, Belm. You think because my face is scarred that I am unable to function or love or live? Now you’ll learn with your own scars, with your own burns and scorch marks."
 

“Wh...wha....what have....have....you....done,” he asked behind burnt, trembling lips. Smoke rose from his head and Cery could feel the heat emanating off his now bald skull.
 

She touched her finger to his chin and tilted his deformed face up toward her. “I have now made you like me. Unlovable.” She turned and walked out of the collapsed building before snapping her fingers and lighting it up in a heap of flames.

Flash Fiction Friday #12 - Crystals

Crystals
The red hue emanating from the fist-sized crystal shard reminded her of the lava pits of Endwon.

“You must handle the crystal carefully, your majesty,” Cedrick advised.

Breata huffed. “This is the fifth shard I have recovered in the last Universal Year, Cedrick. I don’t need a lecture on how fragile and unstable they are.”

Cedrick took his worn brown cap off and bowed. “My apologies.”

Breata brushed her hands, which were covered in sweat and grime, on Cedrick’s cap before he placed it back atop his head. “I would much rather have come to these caverns in more appropriate attire.”

Cedrick cleared his throat. “I sincerely think the blue gown you picked out for our excursion makes you look the part of royalty – which is what we needed the denizens of this planet to believe if they were to let you near this specific shard.”

She glanced down at the hem of her gown, covered in mud from their trek into the cavern. The glow from the red crystal shard made the brown dirt look black – like Legion’s dark form – against her attire. With much resolve, she thrust her hands toward the rock wall and took hold of the crystal shard embedded within.

“Careful!” Cedrick snapped. “If you break that shard, the magic energy within it will kill us!”

Breata sighed. “When we get back to Endwon, will you do me a favor and grow a pair?” She grasped tightly to the shard and pulled on it. The crystal came free from the weak rock. She held it up in front of her face, feeling its warmth against her skin, and grinned. “One step closer, Cedrick. One step closer to defeating Legion once and for all.”

Cedrick chuckled. “Hardly a step toward such a lofty achievement, your majesty. This crystal shard – well, enough of them – will simply keep Legion at bay, it will do nothing to destroy Legion.”

She took the burgundy-colored pouch fastened to her wrist and slid the crystal inside it. “That in itself brings us one step closer to defeating Legion for good. Have you no sense today?”

A loud click echoed through the cavern corridors. Breata turned to Cedrick, her earlier suspicions confirmed when she saw the energy pistol in his hand, pointed directly at her. He held his other hand out toward her. “I’m sorry to do this, your majesty, but I’m going to have to insist you hand that pouch over to me.”

“Your words don’t fool me,” Breata said, placing the pouch in his palm. “You’re not sorry. I had my suspicions about you since the day you requested to accompany me to this place.”

He grinned, shoving the pouch into his coat pocket. “If you suspected me for a traitor, maybe you should have done something to prevent this.”

“I hoped my suspicion was just that. I placed my faith and trust in you.”

“And look what you get for it,” he said, slowly backing up toward the entrance of the cavern. “You get abandoned here on a desolate world outside of your own star system. I’ll make sure to inform the kingdom that their royal majesty was killed valiantly attempting to retrieve the Sols crystal before it shattered and she was killed instantly by the magic residing within.”

“That doesn’t sound rehearsed at all.”

He stopped backtracking and tilted his head. “You don’t seem that concerned in regards to your predicament, your majesty.”

“Is that what you want to see? Fear? Begging? I will give you neither. I’ll find a way off this world and I will hunt you down and make sure I get back what is rightfully the Kingdom of Edwon’s.”

“Correction, your majesty, I will make sure to give the Kingdom of Edwon’s what is rightfully theirs: judgment.”

Flash Fiction Friday #11 - Legion Theory

Legion Theory

 “It’s only a theory, Rezmalfen. I can’t base decisions on theories alone.”

Rezmalfen sighed loudly, unafraid to let Snendinky know he was supremely irritated with the man’s lack of vision. “I understand it’s only a theory, but that is what our work is based on. We are scientists.”

“No, you are a scientist, I am a religious warfare expert. There is a huge difference.”

Rezmalfen scoffed. “Give me a break, Snen, there is no difference between religion and science. Science is my religion, and religion is your science. Simple as that.”

“The Legion Theory is only a theory. I cannot instruct others to follow precepts and guidelines based on a theory alone. Especially one as weak as this.”

Rezmalfen stroked the bottom of his icicle-shaped goatee and then dashed to the giant whiteboard. Using the eraser, he swept clean the myriad of formulas and scientific equations until he had an adequate space to begin his doodle. He began by drawing a stick figure – one with a triangle dress.

“Let’s say,” Rezmalfen began, “that this person here is your mother.”

Snendinky chuckled. “You would need a much bigger triangle if that is my mother.”

“No jokes!” Rezmalfen shouted. “This is science. Do not joke about science. Now, let’s say this is your mother. And let’s say she has been inhabited by Legion.”

“Okay, let’s start with that.”

“Okay. Now,” Rezmalfen drew another stick figure, this one with an upside down triangle. Then another, with a sideways triangle, and a final one with no triangle at all. “Let’s say your mother is destroyed and/or cured of her Legion possession. Now,” he tapped the next stick figure, the one with the upside down triangle, with the dry erase marker, “let’s say you run into this individual on the street. Let’s say she looks like your mother, has the same qualities and characteristics of your mother, maybe even sounds and smells like your mother.”

“You are giving me the willies, Rez. Move on with your point.”

“Let’s say the Legion entity that once inhabited your mother scrambled to find a replacement. It’s comfort would be found in someone who closely resembles your mother, correct?”

“That makes logical sense, if we are applying logic to the things of the spiritual and/or alien world.”

“Well, that Legion entity is going to reside within this copycat of your mother, until it is destroyed or chased out somehow. Then it will move on to another incarnation of your mother.” Rez tapped the stick figure with the sideways dress. “And it will keep doing so in order to accomplish familiarity. To add to this theory, since the Legion entity is the same entity leaping from host to host, it will begin picking up the characteristics, mannerisms, and qualities of each individual – include the subtle ones that have nothing to do with your original mother – and will keep reinventing itself as it jumps from host to host. Eventually, the last host in this line that the entity takes may not be recognizable as your mother, and will instead be a modge podge of your mother’s characteristics and the characteristics of those who came after your mother.”

Snendinky turned and stared out the window on the dark street below their highrise lab.

“What are you thinking?” Rezmalfen asked.

“I wonder how many of them are out there, Rez. How many people are wandering the streets, carrying the weight of that grotesque alien species with them. I believe you, Rez. I believe your theory – our theory – but the way you just explained it stirred something within my spirit. We have to warn the President. We have to warn everyone.”

“You are wrong, my friend. If you cast this theory out there into the waters, the school of fish will turn into a mass of piranhas. Everyone will become suspicious of everyone else, and each will turn on each other. We cannot allow that to happen.”

“Then what do you think we should do about this?”

Rezmalfen shrugged. “What can we do? Our situation, my friend, is hopeless.”

Flash Fiction Friday #10 - Light

After being sick for the past couple of weeks, I'm finally getting back into the swing of things. That means Flash Fiction Fridays are back, and this week's is sure to shine some light on another Black Earth survivor...

Light

A light flickers in the distance. It is the only light I can see from the window of the Mega Dollar Store. I can’t tell what the light is exactly – a malfunctioning bulb, wild electricity, maybe even someone attempting Morse code with light? I am too afraid to venture outside of my little trinket store, cross the dark parking lot, and make my way to that light. For all I know it could be a trap.

My time here in the Mega Dollar Store began a few days ago. I ran here to escape the menagerie of evil that has infiltrated our planet. Hellhounds and Trapors and Sceens and all other matter of darkness came after me as soon as the mark on my right wrist began to glow – the three horizontal lines with the small dot in the center of the second line. Bright white light poured out of the mark, yet I have no idea where the mark came from or how my body is able to create such light naturally.

I was in the middle of scrounging for food on the outskirts of town in an abandoned grocery store. My wrist lit up in a flood of light and the shadows suddenly came alive. I ran for it, lost them – somehow – and managed to get to this dollar store. I’ve been living off cans of stale chili and flat soda since then. The light coming from my wrist allows me the ability to see in the dark, but it also draws in the darkness. I use towels sometimes – most of the time – to muffle the light.

I move from the window and make my way through the cash register stands, using my wrist light to guide the way while shielding it with my left hand. I am glad I traded out my squeaky boots for quieter tennis shoes. They are more comfortable, but less durable. I wish I could find pants, but my skirt will have to protect my legs from the cold until I am able to leave this place and move on. I know there is a mall not too far from here, but I fear what may be in that mall now that Legion has overrun the city.

I wander down the educational aisle, full of pencils, stencils, poster paper, and...yes, music books. Cheaply made, highly generic, but they may do just the same to comfort my trembling soul. There is a book here with church hymns within its flimsy pages, and I thumb through to a random page of which I am unable to read the title of the song.

I clear my throat and glance around the dark store, confirming there are no glowing blue eyes anywhere. Then I began to sing, my voice a bit raspy, but melodious just the same.

Your mercy stirs my heart to sing,
a melody I was taught in creation’s womb,
Though the stars fall to the earth, and darkness plagues the land,
Your love will remain,
The flowers of the field will sing Your praise,
and all the world will dance for You,
You, oh Lord, give me light to battle the shadows,
You, oh Lord, give me healing with the pain,
You, oh Lord, give me shelter in the storm,
Oh Lord, I live to give glory to your name!

It isn’t until I pull my face out of the music book that I am startled by the fact that the darkness which once resided with the Mega Dollar Store is gone, and in its place, the light from my wrist is able to fill the entire area with a brilliant light, as if it were daylight within the store.

Flash Fiction Friday #9 - Astrid

Today's piece has no connection to the previous four pieces (which all interlock with one another). This is a fresh standalone piece which seems to me to be an intro to a new location on the planet of Anaisha - perhaps a location we'll see in the third book of the Expired Reality series?

Astrid

Laughter once echoed through these hallways. A joyous raucous. The people used to dance here, under a blue sky filled with sunshine and a dark sky bleeding with moonlight. Elaborate parties were once thrown here, filled with elaborate costumes, war-torn romances, and dazzling magic. Victories were toasted, glories were reveled in, and successes were shared. This was once a place of beauty and grandeur, a place envied by the outsiders. Here is where crops grew in excess of the population. Nobody here ever lacked. Food covered the surface of every table, and clothing covered all flesh.

This place lived in plenty...once. The Land of Plenty is what the outsiders called it. Me...I called it a mirage. I knew it wouldn’t last long. I watched as each took pleasure without giving thanks to the one they call the Invisible God, the one who blessed them with everything they possessed. None of what once was is anymore. The dark sky – filled with thunderclouds and constant rain – refuses to speak of the prior years. A heavy sadness fills the hallways, whispering regrets in the ears of those who are willing to listen.

I live here only because I have pity and sadness within my spirit for this place. It anchors me to these stone walls, refusing to let me pass through to the valley beyond. So much was possible in the days of Astrid’s glory. But the people became drunk on their own pride, drugged with their own arrogance. The temples which were set up for worship to the Invisible God were torn down first. Then the books – the tomes of the Invisible God’s edicts -  were burned in mountainous piles in the courtyard. Lastly, those who still spoke in secret whispers to the Invisible God were tortured and killed.

I was sent here to give the people one last chance to turn around, to turn back the clock and rebuild the temples, rewrite the tomes. They were given a second chance – and they spit in my face, cast me out into the Wasteland with nothing more than a sack full of fish bones.

And it was with that action that the Kingdom of Astrid fell.

Flash Fiction Friday #8 - Clouds

This week's Flash Fiction Friday entry is yet another continuation to the previous three weeks - Jed, Mr. Worth, and Scars.

Clouds
Jed stepped off the train with little to no idea of what he was getting himself into. He didn’t really want to work for Sarah – or whatever massive corporation she was being employed by – but he couldn’t think of anything better to do with his life other than sit in Saddle’s Sasspire and drink away his sorrows.

Jeran, his dead wife, haunted him day and night. The alcohol washed her away somewhat, but nothing – not even the few drugs he had dabbled in – wiped her away completely. She always sat aside him, her bright green eyes dazzling in any light, her hair brown and healthy, her chest always swelled with pride at calling Jed her husband. If there were a single trait Jed could say he loved about Jeran, it was that she was extremely supportive of his line of work. Even though she didn’t know each intricate detail of his assignments, she had a general idea of what he did – killed for money. And that money paid their bills month after month so Jeran could stay home and prepare for their coming child.

Jed sensed Sarah coming up beside him off the train. As attractive as Sarah was, nobody could compare to the beauty that Jeran held in those sparkling green eyes.

Sarah grabbed his arm and began to pull him toward the tall set of stone stairs that led to the tower that rose up before him. The massive cylinder spiraled up into the darkness, the surface of the tower smooth, dark purple, and lit up at each level in blue light, adding a wonderful color effect Jed hadn’t seen since Legion had brought darkness to the entire planet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sarah asked, pulling him up the steps. Large automatic gun turrets stood posted around the stairs at different intervals, held up on stone pillars. “The lights change color every other day. Tomorrow, they will turn green. Five hundred billion dollars is what this building has cost us so far.”

Jed could see the main entrance at the top of the stairs. The bottom level of the tower had been made completely of glass – at least on the outside. The front door of the tower stood wide open, two figures covered in black armor guarding each side. 

“Where did all of that money come from?” Jed asked, pulling his arm out of Sarah’s embrace. The further he kept himself from her, the easier his job would become. He held no romantic interest in her – nor would he – so there was no point in wooing her or pretending to be her friend.

“Donations.” If Sarah felt hurt by his rejection of her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she kept her pace going up the steps and calmly walked Jed into the front lobby of the tower. A line of small turret guns spread through the room, covering the entire front side of the tower. “These are the line of defense if anyone makes it into this building.”

Jed found himself impressed with the amount of weaponry Sarah had managed to gather around the building. He still didn’t know what the building housed, but he was certain it was something valuable. Maybe too valuable.

“Come,” Sarah said, grabbing his arm again. She pulled him toward silver-plated elevator doors which opened as they approached. Once inside, Sarah pushed a bright red button with a sideways eight on it and the doors shut.

As the elevator ascended toward the top of the tower, Sarah leaned against the wall and slid her hands into the pockets of her black pencil skirt. “You’re a distant soul, Mr. Worth. I don’t expect you and I to be friends. I have enough friends and plenty more enemies. What I do expect is that you treat me as your employer, to which I am from this point on.”

“I never said I’d take the job,” Jed grumbled. “This is just a field trip, isn’t it?”

Sarah grinned. “You really think I’d bring you into my tower just to show you around? This building consists of state-of-the-art technology that you – nor anyone else on this forsaken planet – has ever seen before. You’re in this now, Jed. There’s no turning back.”

Jed glanced at Sarah’s wrists. He couldn’t see through her blazer sleeves, but he imagined the scars she had just finished showing him on the train. “And if I try? You going to do to me like you did to that little girl? That child?”

Sarah frowned. “I’m ready to let you in on my secrets, Jed. But only if you’re willing to be an ally. If you’re not for me, for this tower, than you are against me.”

Jed shuffled his hand to his belt while he slid his other hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “I’ll gun you down if you threaten me like that again.”

Sarah shook her head. “You don’t frighten me. Mercenaries are a dime a dozen. The only reason I specifically picked you out of the fish barrel is because you have serious potential. You’re not quite like the other mercenaries I’ve done business with before. When you put your mind to something, there’s no stopping you. When you find a cause to fight for, you fight to the death. I need you to care about my cause.”

Jed took his hand out of his pocket and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What is your cause?”

The elevator came to a stop. As the doors slid open, bright sunlight burst into the small compartment, nearly blinding Jed who hadn’t seen sunlight since before Legion attacked Earth. “The hell?”

Sarah took Jed’s arm and pulled him out of the elevator. When he opened his eyes and adjusted his vision, he saw a floor of clouds as far as the eye could see, the sun blazing in the brilliant sky in the distance. Crystal blue sky filled the horizon above the clouds, and the air smelled fresh and cold.

“Are we...”

Sarah nodded, grinning at his awe. “We’re at the top of the tower. Above Legion’s darkness.”

Flash Fiction Friday #7 - Scars

Today's Flash Fiction Friday piece is a continuation of the previous two Flash Fiction Friday pieces, Jed and Mr. Worth.

Scars
The armored town car that Jed and Sarah rode in stopped at Aberfield’s airport, where they boarded a private Dirge Train capable of traversing the darkness of the Wastelands. They boarded a Model 7, which contained the heaviest armored plating known to the survivors of Earth. The inside of the train carried the most sophisticated electronic equipment, capable of detecting any known anomalies in the darkness and engaging anomalies with the appropriate weaponry, which was all state of the art.

Jed had never seen so much equipment aboard one vessel. He did his best to quell his curiosity and focus on the task at hand – to reach the Princeton and analyze its security risks. Sarah briefed him on the fundamentals first: the contract would last three months, his payment would be split three ways across the three months, and all room and board would be taken care of.

Secrecy was of the utmost importance, a fact that made Jed a bit nervous. Sarah wanted to implant him with a tracking chip that would allow her and her organization to monitor his whereabouts and all communications during the duration of his time at the Princeton, at the end of which the chip would dissolve and he would be free to  go about his merry little way.

Jed didn’t trust Sarah. Something about her – maybe the sparkle in her big brown eyes, maybe the lovely curves on her form, maybe the sharp and pointed way she snapped at him whenever he would ask questions she didn’t want him asking her – it all made him nervous. But he needed the money. And more importantly, he needed the work...to forget.

“You are lost in thought again, aren’t you, Mr. Worth?”

Jed snapped out of his daze. He had been staring out the window of the train for a while now, peering into the darkness, remembering the old days when he had his wife by his side. “Just thinking,” he replied, knowing he was going to get harassed by her for being so vague. She reminded him of his old teacher in Catholic school. Always riding him about his thoughts, about his life. He didn’t like people prying. He especially didn’t like his employers prying.

Sarah took a seat across from him, her blue blouse clashing with the black and grey shades of the inside of the train car. He caught a whiff of her perfume – heavy and sweet. “Short. To the point. I find you to be a man of few words, but also a man of deep, harbored feelings.”

“You know nothing about my feelings.”

“I’ve seen the world, Mr. Worth. Many times over. And I know trouble when I’m near it.”

He smiled. “I doubt you know what real trouble is. Your nails are manicured, your hair is permed, your makeup is put on just right. And you’re wearing perfume. Either you’re trying to seduce me – which I promise you I can’t be seduced – or you’re the one who gives orders in your organization, not the one who gets their hands dirty.”

Sarah turned and took her turn to stare out the window. The darkness outside was almost suffocating, and Jed had to keep from panicking at the fact that they were traveling right through the middle of it. He had been on a train like this only once before, during his escape from authorities when he killed the man who murdered his wife.

“I may keep my beauty intact, Mr. Worth, but I assure you that my soul does not contain the same level of naiveté that many of humanity’s victims do.” She placed her hands on the table between them. Jed noticed a very long scar running across the top of both hands and down around her wrists into the sleeves of her blue blouse. “These hands, they have killed.”

“I don’t doubt they caused death, but did they themselves kill?” Jed asked.

Sarah sighed, and then she retracted her hands into her lap. “You seem highly suspicious of me, Mr. Worth.”

“Can you blame me? You seem to know who I am, maybe a little about my past. But you’ve told me nothing about yourself, this tower I’m supposed to watch over –

“Defend,” she corrected.

“Defend, or why you even picked me for this job to begin with. I know a half dozen other mercenaries that you could have grabbed for this job, each of them just as capable and possibly more willing.”

“But you need the money, don’t you?”

He shrugged and rubbed the stubble on his face, realizing he was overdue for a shave.  “I like money.”

“You need it, Mr. Worth. I’ve seen the debt you’ve accrued over the past few months.”

“What is debt, Sarah? This world is at its end. If I run up a tab at the Silk Spider, I can just hop to the next safe town and start a new life. Nobody is going to chase after me in this darkness, not now, not ever.”

“You underestimate the evil in this world, Mr. Worth.”

“No, I give it just the amount of estimating that it needs.”

Sarah placed her hands on the table, only this time she turned them over so Jed could see the scars clearly.

“These were given to me by a child.”

Jed said nothing, only stared at the scars for a moment before peering deep into Sarah’s big brown eyes.

“A little girl...she was defending herself.”

“From the monster that is you?” Jed asked with venom in his voice.

Sarah nodded.

“So...not only do you recruit mercenary types like myself, you also kill children. Good to know who I’m dealing with.”

“Do you want to know why I tried to kill her?”

“Not really.” He caught how upset his voice sounded and he wanted nothing more than to calm himself down. The thought of this woman in front of him trying to kill a defenseless child – well, not completely defenseless – made him sick to his stomach. Part of the nauseous feeling was indeed the alcohol still working its way out of his system, but he had a rule that he kept in his line of work: kids are not collateral damage.

“I could tell you it was to save this world, to ensure humanity’s existence...but you probably wouldn’t believe that.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then I’ll tell you this, it was to bring you here. To bring you to Saddle’s Sasspire, to bring you where I could find you, to bring you aboard this train. Her death...it is still carrying you along the currents of time to where we’re headed now, to the tower. To the Princeton.”

The Black Hole of Writing

Well, it happened again. A short snippet of fiction meant to draw readers into my writing style has gotten the best of me and has now grown into a full-fledged black hole. It began with a simple piece of writing I did for my Flash Fiction Fridays: Jed. Jed's story then it continued to a second piece of flash fiction: Mr. Worth. And now this coming Friday will round out the third piece of flash fiction that continues the same storyline: a man by the name of Jed Worth is recruited by Sarah to defend a technologically wondrous tower from an impending raid by the red army.

These three flash fiction snippets don't compromise the story, rather they lead up to the main story which I am in the process of writing up for inclusion in The Crossover Alliance Anthology. This is what I love about storytelling. Sometimes you come across tiny stories that have to be told and once they are told then they are satisfied.

But then you have those stories which hunger for more. Those stories that begin short and simple and then explode like a dying star, creating a black hole which threatens to consume all of my writing time, energy, and other resources. My Black Earth series began small, a short story for an anthology I wrote for NaNoWriMo one year. It has since spurred four novels.

I can't wait to see what becomes of Jed and this strange tower he is hired to defend. Where did this tower come from? Why is he specifically being asked to defend it? And who is this red army? More importantly, can Sarah be trusted? That name...Sarah...sounds familiar, like maybe she's been mentioned in a book or two before...

Photo courtesy of NKZS

Flash Fiction Friday #6 - Mr. Worth

Today's Flash Fiction Friday piece is actually a continuation of last week's piece, Jed. 

Mr. Worth
A few hours from his first interaction with the woman in the blue blouse, Jed found himself far from Saddle’s Sasspire, in a fortified town car heading south. He had been reluctant to go with the woman, but something about her seemed familiar to him – he just couldn’t put his finger on what yet. His mind finally started to come out of his drunken stupor and a he was able to think somewhat straight, although now he felt the tiredness of the early morning hour seeping in.

The woman in the blue blouse sat to his left, a black panel of sliding metal between them and the driver. She made it a painfully obvious point to keep the middle seat clear between them, as if her presence would somehow tempt Jed into wanting to get to know her better. He didn’t. In fact, Jed didn’t even want to be around her right now.

Holding his head with one hand and tapping on the window with the other, he watched the neon signs flash by as they passed through downtown. Aberfield stood as one of the last fully functioning, fortified cities in the United States. After the Dark War, most of the planet had been decimated by Legion and Satan’s army. Not Aberfield though. Aberfield had been ready for the enemy’s attack many years before it even occurred. Massive raised walls surrounded the city, powerful pulse cannons guarded the only entrance, and an enclosed ceiling made of weatherproof material kept Legion’s darkness out.

Jed had no idea who was responsible for the building of Aberfield, and he was more than a little suspicious as to how whoever built it knew to do so ahead of time.

“What thoughts are running through that head of yours?” the woman asked. She didn’t turn from the window to ask her question, but Jed turned toward her, his stomach feeling somewhat nauseous.

“My thoughts are my business.”

She finally turned her neck and looked him in the face, her enormous brown eyes nearly engulfing him with their beauty. “You mistake my question for intrusion. It is mere conversation.”

“I’m not in the mood to converse.”

She smiled, her bright red lips reminiscent of a blood-red crescent moon. “Of course not. I imagine you’re in the mood to sleep off your hangover.”

Jed focused his attention on the outside of the car, particularly the neon lights. They did something magical to soothe his temper. They reminded him of his wife.

“I assure you, this will not be a waste of your time. I simply need you to meet with the project manager in charge of the building of the tower. Once he approves your employment, we can secure you passage to Fertain.”

“Tell me about this tower.”

“It would be best that that information come from the project manager. I am not at liber-“

“You want me to talk to your project manager? Then tell me about this tower you want me to watch over so badly.”

The woman placed her hands in the lap of her pencil skirt and looked at Jed as if she were debating on if he could be trusted or not. “Not watch. Defend. Protect. The Princeton is a scientific and technical marvel. I can’t really explain what it is without you seeing it first. Needless to say, you’ll have your work cut out for you. We have...many enemies.”

“What is the purpose of this tower?”

“You will address it as The Princeton from here on out, Mr. Worth. This is not a casual business relationship I am attempting to enter into with you. This is a serious employment contract. The purpose of The Princeton is to change the world. It is the key to ending this war against Legion and reclaiming this planet as our own.”

Jed scoffed. “I see what this is about. You work for some multimillion dollar corporation that is going to try and wipe out Legion and then take control of the United States. I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone rose from the ashes to grab the reins. You really think I want to be a part of that? I have no interest in a hostile takeover of this country. I just want to be left alone.”

The woman laughed heartily, her melodious voice driving railroad spikes through Jed’s skull. “You really are drunk, Mr. Worth. Either that or the death of your wife burned out the majority of your brain cells.”

Jed reached into the inside pocket of his brown leather jacket, but the woman shook her head and motioned to the pistol now sitting in her right hand, aimed at him.

“No, Mr. Worth. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He placed his hands on his knees. “When we stop, I’m going to make sure I’m the last person you ever point your weapon at.”

She slid the gun down to her side, between her and the door. “My cause is not to threaten you, but I will if necessary. Looking at me like some poor, defenseless woman who can’t defend herself is a grim mistake. You would do well not to make that mistake again.”

“I have no desire to enter into any kind of business agreement with you – whoever you are. I have better things to do with my time.”

The woman took Jed’s hand in hers. “You’re full of strife, Mr. Worth. Pain that came with the death of your wife. Emptiness that came with the death of her killer. Now you are nothing but a wanderer, aimlessly searching about for your purpose. I can give you purpose, reason to live. I just ask that you trust me.”

“What makes you think I’m ready to trust someone I don’t even know? Come to think of it, you haven’t even told me your name.”

“My name, Mr. Worth, is Sarah. And I assure you that I have humanity’s best interests in mind.”

Flash Fiction Friday #4 - Silhouettes

Silhouettes
My eyes may someday be my downfall. Would it be better to be blind? Would it be the best thing if I carved these tiny orbs out of my head and simply covered the dark recesses with a decorative blindfold? I’ve considered it many times. Many times. But I couldn’t do that. I have an aversion to pain. And I like being able to see.

But I don’t like being able to see the black and blue. I peer out across the concourse of the main subway station and I see a sea of black silhouettes – people. People like me, going to and from their daily routines. Nothing out of the ordinary. No terrorist bomber in the station. No nuclear holocaust. Nothing to cause alarm. Not with them, anyway.

Amid those black silhouettes the blue bleeds out like paint. Some have more than others. There are some I have to stare at for a moment to find the blue. But the thing about the blue is that it’s always there on each and every one of them. Each is a spotted lamb. Each is a marred creation.

Each has sinned.

The power I have been given is more a nuisance than anything else. It’s what I do with the knowledge this power grants me that is the real curse. I cannot help myself. The blue gives me desire to cleanse the silhouettes and make them black again. To erase the sin. To rid my vision of that horrible blue that reminds me of the sky in the middle of a sunny day.

There are some who I approach and convince to repent. Sometimes I get to see them weeks later and their silhouette is much cleaner than before. It makes me somewhat glad, but it does not take away this pain I have within me. The pain of insanity. So much blue. Some who I approach don’t listen to me, and I am tempted to purge them of the blue completely and finally.

There is one silhouette I cannot look upon though. One particular silhouette that if I were to see, I would fall off the ledge of anxiety and sink into utter madness.

My own.

Flash Fiction Friday #3 - Crash

Yes, Flash Fiction Fridays are back! After taking a bit of a hiatus for the holidays, I'm back with my weekly dose of writing nirvana. Enjoy!

Crash
Pain in my left shoulder tells me I’m alive. It’s funny how pain – something we dread when we’re alive – can actually prove to us that we are alive. The pain is minor compared to the new pain swelling up in my right leg. A great weight is bearing down on it, but I haven’t the strength to open my eyes and see for myself what that great weight is. I just know that I’m in trouble.

The sound of rain pouring down around me brings to memory the storm. I was on a plane...going down somewhere over the jungles of Peru. Why...the plane was hit by a meteorite. Took out the left wing. Much like my left shoulder has been taken out, only the plane’s wing wasn’t just wounded, it was disintegrated in the blazing fire the meteorite was hurling toward Earth in. That’s why we fell.

We. I wonder if the others are still alive.

I force my eyes to open. Splintered wood and charred metal surround me in tangled heaps. I can only guess that our plane crashed into a wooden structure of some kind. Maybe a house. Maybe a temple. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m on a cliff. The sky is overcast and the rain is coming down as hard as it was when the meteorite fell, only I have a large section of the plane’s belly dangling above me to shield me from its onslaught.

I try to move and look down to find my leg pinned by a massive beam of wood. Oak, I think. I don’t think my leg is broken. I pull on it to see if it will budge, but it refuses. It is a stubborn piece of wood.

“Help!” I shout. My voice echoes through the canyons, reverberating my voice, patronizing my efforts to seek aid. Nobody calls back. Why would they? Everyone is dead. I just know it. I can feel it in my bones, sense it in my spirit. I am the only one left.

Lightning flashes across the sky. Thunder peels a mere second later. The storm knows I am the only one left, and it seeks to finish me off. The rain comes down harder, shifting – little by little – the curvature of the plane belly above me. The belly sits on a haphazard formation of oak beams, slipping with each powerful droplet of rainwater that beats against it.

If I must die, I guess I’ll die knowing I was the temporary survivor of Flight 287. I’ll also die knowing that the rumors that came out of the United States regarding the falling stars were true. I wonder where that infernal rock that hit our plane actually went.

Lightning flashes again, and the rain comes down harder, shifting the metal curvature above me even more. The right side slips off the oak beam holding it up, and I breathe in the fresh scent of rain for the last time.

Flash Fiction Friday #2 - Avalanche

Avalanche
I put the last piece of bark meat in my mouth, savoring the smoky flavor before chewing and swallowing what may be the last piece of food I eat in this frozen wasteland. I enjoy my meal though as I stare out on the blizzard that is quickly making its way toward me, expelling curtains of snow a half mile from where I sit. Very light flurries of snow, white and blue – the color of the pixel blood that comes with a storm like this – dust my cooking stones, slowly putting out the fire I worked so hard to build.

“Great.”

I stand up and stare out on the coming blizzard some more, unconvinced that it will pass by me as my oracle suggests it will. The storm is headed straight toward me, and it only seems appropriate that it would strike me head on seeing as my supplies have run exhausted, my energy has nearly run out, and my clothes have run their course. Looking down at my tattered pants, I can see how white my skin has started to turn in the peekaboos of the heavy denim. I don’t even know what I will sleep in tonight. The long johns I have been using to keep me warm are at the end of their time. The thread has come loose and most of the fabric has unraveled. Blue pixel blood marks where the thorn bushes brushed across me while I travailed the wilderness last week.

I watch the snow come down in a curtain of white, leaving me to wonder if this really will be my last day here in Crystbeck. I have hated this horrible wilderness since I was banished here months ago. Most die within the first few days of being exposed to such brutal cold and unrelenting weather. Little did the Council know that I was raised in wilderness survival – especially in this type of climate. Unfortunately, even though I’ve bought myself a couple of months in this terrain, I still have yet to find the entrance to the Sacred City beyond this. I’ve even entertained thoughts of flagging down pilgrims who are in the midst of their journeys to the Sacred City, but I haven’t seen a single one since being banished here.

So maybe this is where I’ll die.

I pick up my cooking stones and carry them inside the shallow cave, placing them next to the pots and pans I haven’t used since last week. The blizzard is sure to destroy me by the morning. I have no more materials to make another fire. No more food to keep from going hungry. No more arrows to be successful in hunting. Everything is used up or useless.

The snow flurries make their way into my cave, forceful and without manners. The blizzard is dangerously close now. I will not bother trying to fortify my cave against it. It takes hours for me to move the boulders in front of the entrance, and I only just saw the blizzard while I was eating my last piece of bark steak.
The only thing I can do, the only action I am able to take is to wrap myself in my bark blanket and slide myself within the sleeping bag I serendipitously managed to find on one of my hunting excursions. I bundle myself in at the very back of the cave, watching the blizzard move closer and closer to the entrance.

Minutes later, the white curtain finally drapes over the entrance to the cave. I close my eyes, proud of the actions I took to get myself exiled. The world will be a slightly better place because of me. I made a change to things, and that change will resonate throughout future generations. I may not be around to see those changes, but at least I’ll die knowing I was responsible for them.

A thunderous boom shakes the air. I open my eyes to see rubble crumbling down over the cave entrance, blocking the white light that had at all times of the day pierced my eyes with its harsh illumination. Within seconds, the entire front entrance to the cave is blocked by dark-colored rock, all of which had somehow careened down from the mountaintop above me.

An avalanche. The rock will keep me safe and warm from the blizzard, but now I will die from hunger and lack of oxygen instead of the cold.

How ironic.