"Shadows and Dust" - A collection of short stories

[Doran_Bladefist]

I have a multitude of short stories and jots that I would love to share here. Here's three for starters, as I don't want to make a thirty-page-long monstrosity all at once. I'll bring more in periodically as I have free time. Any feedback or comments, I'd appreciate it if you shared!

One note though, pretty much all of this is six months old or more. As such, there are bound to be grammatical errors, punctuation horrors, and a general slathering of wordy nonsense. All I ask is that you take it with a grain of salt, try appreciate it for what it was intended to be, and take solace in the fact that I am striving to be better at the art of writing.

In a sense, these are the works that made me the writer I am today. Scary, yes, but we all have to start somewhere!

Thanks!

- Doran_Bladefist

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"A Dewdrop Blue" - October 26, 2007

- This was written for a friend who was having a rough time in her life. Glad to say she's doing better, though I doubt this had anything to do with it.

In the quivering limelight of dawn, in a small, unnoticeable corner of earth, a fragile vine broke through from the rocky soil. Pushing with all it's might to reach out to those fickle rays of starshine, the vine helplessly wound it's way amongst the craggy stones. Like a creature gasping for air, the vine struggled and fought to escape the surrounding darkness, desperate to bask in the life-giving radiance of the sun.

Just a little further, the vine repeated to itself, not knowing for sure what the day would bring. It's just around one more corner, it's got to be!

On and on the vine pushed through the clawing soil, growing bigger and thicker as it strived for the top of the canopy. Over sand, water, and rock it stretched until it though itself would break, feeling the burn of youth in it's veins.

Once in it's journey, the vine stopped and looked back, seeing how far it had come, but grew sad, as the journey was not yet complete; there was still a long ways to go. It thought about going back, deep down in the warm, inviting earth. Back into the shell that bore it hence into this dark place. The vine was about to give in but, as it turned it's face away, it felt a slight tingle on it's face.

Looking back at the hidden brightness in the sky, the vine caught the slight glint of the sun from a part in the wind-hewn trees above. Sensing the fleeting warmth bathe it's delicate frame, the vine's mind grew quiet in an immortal bliss, chasing away all the fear, all the doubt, and for that one moment, the vine remembered why it had fought so hard to get where it was.

Coming back to itself, the sun passing back into darkness, the Vine felt a little bud pop out about halfway down it's length. Looking down, the vine could see what looked like a little leaf, stretching out with all it had to capture the escaping sunlight.

Enthralled, the vine again surged forth towards the canopy with all the energy it could muster, pushing back the years of debris and grit that filled that small patch of earth until at last, the vine cut through the overgrowth and stretched it's July root out into the open air.

Consumed by the beauty of being immersed in the white-light, the vine shed a single tear from it's tip that gently slid down it's body. Spiraling downwards, the tear rolled until it came upon the vine's one outstretched arm, it's one billowing leaf. coursing across the verdant green feather, the tear came to the tip, hanging on for a moment until it plunged down into the craggy hole from which the vine had come. This single tear, this dewdrop blue, was a gift for the next vine, should it decide to sprout and leave the world behind.

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"The Fifty Year Fairy Tale " - October 1, 2007

Drifting amongst the feral leaves of time, the echoing stardust of creation claims it's first victim. Like water and wind corroding stone, the slow decay of passing eons grows tired; kings of a house long bereft of lordship. Wasting is it's name, wanting is it's teeth, and death is it's trade.

Long ago, in lands long since swallowed by the sands of memory, an oath was sworn. A pledge, under pain of blood, that they would live. A promise under threat of hell that they would conquer. A covenant with hands held firm that before even mighty god, death should die. Long since the passing of their footprints in the sand, they leave but a stain upon the weave, skewing it's luster with words constructed by the chains of old men and contrite warriors. To their very damnation they sang, and to their own immortality they cursed themselves.

Coursing through the passing ages, they lingered. As timeless as the passing of the morning sun, it's gentle rays speaking of home, they sit and wait for the one who would let them go. Trapped within the constantly turning hourglass, they lay entangled within their own devices, all but giving up hope for their souls.

Then, after the second millennia had parted, the demons awoke. Spewing fires rained down upon the universe and the sun ceased to burn, leaving all in darkness and despair. The dead, quietly resting, watched bemused as their progeny scrambled in the dirt, seeking shelter from the constant streams of dark light. Like reading a book about torn lovers, they felt the pain, yet closed the cover when the story ended; the fable now ashen with dust.

Lost, cold, and alone, the forsaken departed their lands, never to return to the once vibrant landscape that they called home. Cowering in the futile rocks, they hid themselves from the universe. In shame they closed themselves from the prying eyes of blindness and turned their hollow sight to more base desires, building hate within that temple of self-servitude, the once noble now twice destroyed with their own illusions of godliness. Disgraced, they lived as not but a shadow of their former selves, etched into the wispy smoke rings that soar up into the air, slowly dissipating into nothingness.

And now, here, at the end of all things, they stir from their slumber, ghosts and hollow men of the lost age, waiting for that day when life chooses to return. The day when the soul resembles something greater than the hands of the clock. The day when colors bleed true and honor again flourishes in our veins. The day when man ceases to be man. The day when we choose to be something greater.... and become human once more.

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"Among the Stars" - September 26, 2007

- This was written on a specific subject that is known to many. Five points to whomever can guess what it is!

No tomb, no hallowed ground, no honor is won this day. Lost amongst the glittering skies, not wishing to be home, not wanting to claim just reward, not willing to accept the end. A better fate was deserved, a greater justice should have been dealt, and yet, there was no dark thought giving way to malice.

Drifting off into eons, a long, cold slumber. Does he wake? Does she still draw power from his veins? Like setting off to Valinor from the Grey Havens, never to return, are they then set free? Do they not deserve to hear the clearing of the trumpets, calling them home? Will they be left with this as their kismet?

And so with heavy heart, yet clear soul, they wander, gazing upon worlds without number, stars without bearing, hoping one day the need to belong once more calls their names. Saviors. Gods. Friends. Saving the world, only to wish to never see it again. As certain as the sun draws the first blood of day, they are immortal.

But what is won? Those who gave the most, lost the most. Those who stayed behind, were left behind. Old men charged with the keeping of the dead, walking through the night, drunken with memories of war and valor. The valor of one. The one, who made us believe. The one, who now is laid to rest, somewhere deep in the darkness, waiting for life to return.

[Selah]

My favourite tale was A Dewdrop Blue. I love its simplicity, how like a fable it unfolds, and how you, down to the very language you use to paint the event, evoke the beauty and the struggle of the plant. True, Dewdrop was a bit adjective-heavy at points, but the message of the story gleams through well and clear. And what a story! Dewdrop is inspiring.

I enjoyed the pockets of delectable description in The Fifty Year Fairy Tale, but unlike Dewdrop, Fairy Tale is much harder to grasp, to understand and envision, and I found myself appreciating the surface beauty of a well-turned phrase rather than the story, having floundered up from trying to figure out what was going on between all those well-turned phrases, and failing miserably.

As for Among the Stars, my guesses as to what you were describing occurred like so: September 11th? No... Anne Rice's The Vampire Lestat? (I took that random thought from the second paragraph, xD). Superheros? King Arthur? (Legend has it he waits to return to life, if I'm remembering correctly.)

This is the part where I say, rather plaintively, "I can't begin to guess. :< I wonder what the answer is? It'll be something deceptively simple, and I'll chide myself for the remainder of the day for not guessing it. But anyway, what was the answer again?" xD

I look forward to reading more of your short stories. They inspire me to write and above all, finish my own.

[Doran_Bladefist]

Yes! Simplicity is my goal! My old works are just made up of many-many-many pretty words, to be sure, but now I'm actually trying to write stories, not just draw with unashamed ambition. A thesaurus was my greatest enemy at the time, though in the long run it has taught me more about the English language than any of my public school courses could have dreamed.

Sorry to say that none of your guesses on "Among the Stars" hit the mark, though the Arthurian legend is present within it's context; but, of course, what piece of modern literature doesn't have the soul of Camelot intertwined?

There's three lines that are the most prominent, as far as giving away the answer is concerned. Any over-hyped gamer would catch them, if they but remember.

A prominent visual - "Drifting off into eons, a long, cold slumber."
Another shameless lead - "Does she still draw power from his veins?"
This one is the most blatant of the clues. - "The one who made us believe"

Does that help any? Sorry, but I feel like I can't just give it away

Conjecture aside, Selah, you have my thanks for reading and giving input. Feedback is very important to me, even in works that I now deem sub-par. It's all little pieces that help me to be better, and in the long run will greatly increase the quality and craft of my novel (Of which I have decided to rewrite/super-edit about 130 pages. It's gonna be nasty, but it will increase the viability of it ten-fold!).

Thanks again!

[Doran_Bladefist]

Here's some more. Ah, the good old days. If I didn't know any better, I would call myself emo

"A Close Distance" - February 18, 2007

My eyes burn. My limbs ache. My lungs breathe fire. My mind spins through Borealis like wings of dew kissed satin and as I fall, rods of frigid iron and rotting dust claw at my fingertips. My senses begin to recede.

Through the eyeglass, I see a child.....and through the child I see a shaken darkness. A hollow twilight that ponders of it's own continuance. Oh, where is your master now? Gone is it that would spare your misled footsteps. Gone is it that would reclaim teardrops felt wasted and past moments bitterly held. A new Lord of the Dusk has taken seat, and with it, perhaps, a child is set adrift in the eventide of glass and shadows, shards of an imperfect paragon.

Now I see that it is too late, and to my sorrow, that I who have misplaced my reliance in base desires have learned of my fate. So I will continue to wander, and await my silent repose in Kismet, where all traveling souls go, and join the precious few that wait within the walls of air for themselves to return.

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"A Skewed Reflection" - February 25, 2007

His eyes sunken with tiredness, a man gazed across a barren landscape. Despair and sadness filled his thoughts and his eyes welled up with the emotion of seeing his homeland for the first time in ages. Ravaged trees and blackened grass was all to be viewed of a disposed settlement of men. No names could escape the man's lips as he scoured the recesses of his brain for some memory of what it used to be. Only a child when last here, he could only guess what was real, and what was made up fantasy as he dreamed of his displaced country.

"Oh how, once thought of as proud, does my past come to this ruin of a life?" the man spoke to himself. "When do the beautiful relics of antiquity become tarnished with the sword of evil and conquest? Why am I to be left with nothing but a flutter of nostalgia for time turned bitter?"

He dropped to his knees and grasped a handful of rotting dirt and charred foliage. "Now, here, after the end of all things once thought good, I am truly lost. Alone, to wander, I must elsewhere find my peace in this world."

He rubbed the dry, rocky earth between his fingers and with that, he was gone.

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"Cloudburst" - April 16, 2007

He felt heavy. His boots caked with oozing mud. His jacket soaked through with the habitual downpour. His dark hair matted and tangled, sweeping into his sunken eyes. The arduous strain of his interminable journey was beginning to wear him down. Slowly, ever picking at his chilled brain, hopelessness was creeping and gnawing at his will.

Where was he going? He didn't know. He didn't care. All he wanted was to push on. Never coming, never going, and never stopping. No life of his did he want to live, yet no death would suffice either. An impasse was reached and so he just left it all behind, never looking back.

His footing stumbled and gurgled in the muck, flecking bits of wet earth up onto his pale face and into his dry mouth. Curses escaped his lips again and again as he hexed those responsible for his plight. Names without faces and faces without names. Anyone and anything that he could bend to his wishes would make a decent patsy in his thoughts.

Then slipping on a protruding slick-rock, his body flailed wildly in the wind as he tried to retain his balance, but to no success. Colliding with a nearby weeping willow, he sunk down onto his knees and buried his sallow hands into the bubbling dirt, craggy rocks tearing at his flesh.

He then felt, for the first time in his short, ignoble existence, darkness. Not some intangible notion of melancholy, bitterness, or even sly evil. A darkness inside that only sprouts roots when the mind is lost. Some say there is no such thing as death of the soul. That may, or may not, be true but for certain, this man would agree to the death of the spirit and the overthrowing of reason.

The pain was gone. The aching muscles subsided. The cold and the fear faded into the blackness. The memories smelted in his brain until all that was left was a shell. A walking corpse with no name. A canvas painted with madness.

It was then that he decided, fallen angels hold no sway for those who care and fallen angels show no pity for those who merely pretend.

[Doran_Bladefist]

This is the prologue to The Dark Horse, a science fiction story I began writing back in high school; my very first foray into literature. No, this isn't the original version, as I did an edit a couple years ago, the original being too scary and embarrassing to post. If you want to read the prototype , ask me for it and I'll PM it to you.

It's old work, this one, but interesting maybe. Perhaps I may revisit? I have a lot more material that goes into the story, but for the most part it's hideous, to say the least. I'll spare you the pain....for now.



"The Dark Horse"



The morning dew beaded off the old man's flight jacket like autumn rain as he rested in his underground lair. Traversing along the worn cracks in the dusky leather, a single drop coalesced at the tip of the sleeve, dripping ever so softly to the cold earth below.

His slumber rigid and brittle, the faint sound of the droplet snapped his senses awake, the old man jerking upright and quickly reaching to the weapon at his side. His wrinkled hand clasping the grip of his pulse lance tightly, his heart pumping arduously, the panic soon passed, as it always did, and he again closed his eyes and resumed his exhausted repose in the darkness.

Unnerved by the sudden jump, he bit his lip and moved his head to the side, glancing over to his display screen: no uninvited guests present on his perimeter cams. Satisfied, he rolled over and faced his back to the panel, hoping it would stay quiet...even though he knew it wasn't going to be one of those days.

The panel flaring up with a softly beeping signal, the old man quickly curled back to the screen and eyed the details: shadows flashing across the screen with short trails of blue following behind them as they closed in.

"Scerti." The old man mumbled under his breath. "Some never learn."

Gently reaching out with his right hand, he powered down his energy cells and the display, hoping that a power trace hadn't outlined his position to the enemy. But somewhere, deep within his subconscious, he was begging for one more good fight with his former masters.

Keeping steady, he reached down and again gripped his pulse lance, the other hand silently removing the rusty buttons that kept the ancient tool of war within it's troubled sheath. Content with the feel of the weapon, he eases back against the rocky wall, using a protruding rock to rub out an itch in the center of his back.

He could hear them, his would-be-captors, thundering down his cave entrance with their armored boots. Fierce screams and grunts in alien tongues echoed into the dark, but the now calm beating of the old man's heart gives them no pride. He's been here before, more times than he could count. He just wished that one of them would have the skill to finish what they started all those many years ago.

He could smell them now, the aliens being upwind from the old man's position. Like a pungent sulfur mixed with whiskey, the foul odor that the Scerti gave off was unmistakable. His thoughts wandered to the first time he ever met a Scerti, back in his youth. He also remembered the scar on his chin for saying something about it's scent ti it's face.

The pounding footsteps drawing near, the old man leaned forward and set a keen eye on the entrance to his burrow. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he removed a thin tactical HUD and placed it around his ear, swiveling the view screen over his eye. The dimly-lit combat sensor softly booted up and gave the old man some targeting reticles; thirteen to be precise.

The old man grinned to himself. Always brash, proud, and foolhardy, the Scerti were always the first to charge into a situation, guns firing, and generally were always the first to die.

Scratching at the dark with their elliptical pupils, the Scerti scoured the underground for their prey; the one who got away; the one who destroyed so much; the one who broke the back of the Dark Horse.

The old man watched eagerly as his masters were scattered into the wind, a fair trade for the lifetime he had endured. He left them broken, lost, and despaired with little or no recourse. Even the ability to return to their home-world had been snuffed. Just as he watched himself fall into shambles.

They were close now, within thirty meters of the old man's position. Brazenly, the aged one fumbled in the dirt for a small rock and flung it outside his door, the Scerti responding with a hail of plasma fire.

Ready, the old man shuffled backwards on his hands and knees and placed a hand on his display system. Waiting for the gunfire to cease, he then padded across the screen with his fingertips and activated his flood-lamps, blanketing his guests in blazing white-light.

Rasing to his tired feet, the old man removed his shock lance from the holster. Letting his left eye adjust to the light, his right was entrenched in his HUD display, reading the exact movements of all the Scerti in the next room. Satisfied with the results of his flood-lamps, he flagrantly stepped forward to the threshold of his den.

"Looking for me?" He said gently into the thick air of the underground.

Reacting to his ignorance, the dark-armored Scerti stand tall and bellow out their battle cries for the old man to hear. They are a bipedal species, generally towering over humans by a meter or more, and have long, sinuous arms and legs. Their skin tone can vary from reds to blues, but these were commandos; specially bred with a hazy black exterior.

Normally one would cower in fear at the sight of a Scerti commando unit, as few live to tell of them, but this one had seen it all time and time again. And this one was tired of running.

The closest of the aliens, an infiltrator by the look of his light armor, was the first to react. Charging towards his target he flicked his wrists and activated his plasma shredders: claws of blue fire that could melt even the strongest of steels.

Cocking his head to the side with an emotionless stare, the old man quickly reached behind him with his left hand and produced a small repeater pistol that was tucked into his belt. Showering the Scerti with searing bolts, the alien fell backwards onto the floor, it's thick teal blood spattering all over the floor and nearby walls, glowing slightly as it reacted with the open air.

Seeing their comrade die so quickly by the hands of a withered human, all the other Scerti in the room actuated their plasma shredders and attacked, some staying behind to apply covering fire with their rifles.

Dropping the pistol on the damp ground, the surprisingly agile old man readied his shock lance and took it in both hands like a staff, the serrated end humming to life and glowing with a faint whiteness. Dashing towards the aliens with all he had left to give, he mingled amongst them to avoid the marksmanship of the shooters, dodging the branding talons as they vehemently swung through the air in the melee.

His disdain for the monsters building, the old man reached into his utility belt and retrieved an adrenaline injector, violently slamming the needle into his thigh. His senses and reflexes tightening, the burning sensation that built up in his chest only further enhanced his hatred for them.

Dodging energy blasts and swinging fists of flame that singed the hair off his body, the old man thrust his antique weapon into his foe, shattering armor, slicing flesh, tearing organs, and breaking bone as if they were bundles of wheat. To no end was the suffering he inflicted on his former masters. To him, it was all he had left.

The invaders all but vanquished in a few quick moments, the old man stood still and took in a deep breath as the let-down set in; the adrenaline wearing off and his mind turning groggy. His eyes closed, he made out the faint gurgling of one of the attackers, still trying to draw breath as it clung to life. It's body shaking from both pain and the fear of the human demon, it was trying desperately to drag itself away from the scene leaving an ardent streak of teal as it went.

Stepping back to the one he left alive, the old man stooped down and gripped the rim of the alien's cracked helmet, forcing it onto it's back and pulling it's face close to his so he could read the fearful malevolence burning deeply in the Scerti's red eyes.

"Tell your Deity, when you see her, that I'm still here." The old man said, pulling away and holding his lance over the alien's chest. "And I'm still waiting."

With the message eternally burnt onto the soul of the Scerti, the old man dropped his lance down into the alien's heart, it's body writhing for a moment but then going still.

Removing the lance and cleaning the teal blood off it's silvery surface, he replaced it in it's holster and surveyed the room. It was going to take a lot of bleach to get rid of the smell and the stains. Not to mention having to get rid of the corpses. This was the fourth team of infiltrators to come his way in as many months, and subsequently his dumpster was getting full.

"Maybe later." He said to himself, not wanting to partake in clean-up duty just yet.

Catching a glimpse of natural light from the corner of his eye, he glanced over to the main ramp that led to the surface. Wanting some semi-fresh air, he gingerly moved up the dirt slope until he came to the opening.

The blueish sun feeling warm on his face as it broke into a new day, he took in a deep breath. The smell of old was ever-present as he scanned over the towering grey ruins of Thraxis, once the most colorful and vibrant ecumenopolis on this side of the Dark Horse.

His eyes growing dim, the old man was losing focus. Falling to his knees, he gritted his teeth and stared up into the measureless heavens, looking for answers amongst the retreating starry void.

Barely conscious, he spoke as if to no one before he fell into a deep repose. "Home sweet home....but isn't something missing?"

[Hylian Princess]

I love your stories! I have no idea what the third one is...

Whoa, in response to the prologue. Awesome.

[Doran_Bladefist]

Thanks! It's always good to hear that what you create isn't total rubbish and junk!

[Doran_Bladefist]

This one was written in my *cough* anime days, so it would be fitting, I think, to imagine it as such. It is somewhat of a dark comedy, though I don't know how much it will make all you kiddies giggle.

Hope you enjoy it!


The smell of ruptured glycerol tanks and burning silicone was gagging to everyone still alive on the Colonial Airship 'Staircase Spirit'. Charred debris, spare parts, and exposed wiring cluttered the floors as the crew frantically sped through the ships systems to try and keep the flying can in the sky.

"How much longer?" Said an aged and awkward-looking man out loud as he carefully, but quickly, tore open a floor panel, throwing the rusty metal sheet aside.

A younger man of similar disposition was in front of a small makeshift command deck, anxiously pressing buttons on what looked like the base of a blender plugged into a transistor radio. "My guesstimate, twenty minutes"

"Dammit!" the older man swore out loud for all to hear. "What would the Gods need to give us another cursed pile of fecal-ridden twenty minutes!!!"

He grabbed a screwdriver that was missing the handle and jumped down into the service duct.

"That and you said your guesstimate was twenty minutes forty-five minutes ago, Jamais." commented the young, but sharp voice of a girl in the back of the cabin who was twisting sparking wires together. "If I were to give a guesstimate, I would say that we were already dead and we just didn't know it yet 'cause your sloppy driving got us lost somewhere in-between heaven and hell."

Jamais let go of his button mashing and slammed his gloved hands onto his workstation, giving all the jerry-rigging in front of him a good bounce. "By the gods Emile!"

He swiveled in his patchy chair to face the rear of the room. "If I have to hear anymore of your smart-ass, flea-ridden, man-hating, ship-destroying, team-killing...."

"Jamais!!" belted out the older man, poking his head out from under the floor. His white-bearded face was now smeared in black machine grease "Shut your face and watch where the hell you are taking us for once!!

The young man again swiveled around to face the other. "Seamus, how am I supposed to work when all I hear is destructive criticism? This is an art form, not some mindless science. I mean, good hell, I can't even see outside with the view-port cracked!"

Seamus jumped out of the hole with an agility that wouldn't fit a skinny old crust-bag like himself and wrapped his skeletal fingers around Jamais' faded leather jacket, lifting him foreword.

"In about thirty more seconds, we are all going to be mindless, and you, as you are closer to the front of the ship, are going to die first. Even if that means I have to strap you to the bowsprit, you go first. You get me, boy?"

Before the young man could rebuke, a strange grinding noise started to come from the blender. They both slowly turned their heads and looked at the rusty blades spinning in the open air. Emile stood up from her knees and walked towards the front of the cabin, arcing cables still in her hands.

The short silence was broken when Seamus spoke with a stuttering voice. "Remind me again, what does it mean when the blender starts to blend?" His cold gray eyes turned back to stare Jamais in the face.

"Well..." Jamais said, giving his lips a lick, his eyes never leaving the blender. "Human jelly smoothie?"

"Arrrgh!" whimpered Seamus as he threw Jamais back into his worn seat. He paced around for a couple of seconds, his hands over his face. "Not right. Not right. Not right."

Jamais twirled in his chair to face his instruments. "We've dropped below needed altitude for landing on the Aerodrome strip, and, with no propulsion system to speak of, I'd say we're done for."

Seamus was still walking in circles. "Why today? Why yesterday?" He gasped. "Arrrgh! Why tomorrow?!?!"

"Wait!" blurted out Emile as she dropped her fizzing circuits. "What about the cargo we were carrying for Carnelia?"

Jamais looked puzzled.

"Carnelia???" said Seamus deliriously as he snapped out of his self-pitying trance. "You mean the black boxes that got us into this mess in the first place? What, want to finish us of early do you?............I'm in."

Emile rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Jamais. "How much altitude do we need to make up for to make the air-dock?"

Jamais shrugged his shoulders and stared off into the wild space in his mind. "I dunno, maybe twenty meters. Perhaps a little mo......." Jamais trailed off and redirected his stare to Emile, his thoughts reading into hers. "What is with you and wanting to blow us up???"

"Well, here's how I see it." Emile started to grab miscellaneous tools from around the cabin. "We could try it and be blasted to hell, or we could wait and just fall down. I would prefer a choice of entrance myself." She said as she turned and hurriedly walked over to Seamus' open floor panel and jumped in.

"God." Said Jamais under his breath, turning to the old man gone-crazy. "I guess you were right for once, Seamus. That girl IS going to get us killed."

"Your on the com, jackass." Emile's voice crackled over the shabby speakers in the room. "Give me a couple of minutes, and then get ready to drop the emergency landing gear."

Seamus stared blankly at the blender and the radio. "What button, knob, switch, or bird whistle is for the skids?"

Jamais glared wildly at his creation. "I....um...I don't think I made one...."

"What?!?!" said both Seamus and Emile simultaneously

"But I can! The wires are here, I just have to find something to bridge them."

"Cripes!" Yelled Seamus as he started to tear the room apart to find some sort of connection hardware, Jamais following suit.

The loudspeaker again blared to life with the cutting voice of Emile. "This is ready to go, drop the gear now....if you can."

"I don't see anything left in here that would be suitable." said Jamais with his arms folded and his left hand under his chin. "If we just tie the ends off, the emergency systems would just short out, and then we'd be truly screwed.

"We need to find something that will absorb some of the power flow."

"God, I thought you were an engineer!" Seamus said spitefully as he grabbed the four wires and shoved the bare ends into Jamais' hands.

The boy yelped with the pain of live wires digging into his knuckles as the 'oh crap we are all going to die' gear settled into a presumably safe arrangement.

Just then, Emile popped back into the cabin with what looked like a remote controller for a kid's mini airship. "Jamais, you have to tell me at exactly what moment we are just a few meters away from the strip, else this will all be nothing but a flashy parade."

Jamais was cringing with the cables in his hands and it was starting to make him shake uncontrollably. "Put it in a memo entitled 'things to do when my vision isn't blurry'."

Seamus slapped the back of Jamais' head with his palm. "Pull yourself together and stop being such a whiney little punk! None of us, probably including you, can read this god-forsaken contraption you call a sensor station."

"Push........frappé." Jamais forced out from his chattering teeth.

Emile gave him a funny look and then turned to the blender. The frappé button had a big red sticker put over it that had 'Under pain of death, never push' scrawled hastily on it. "You want me to push the button that calls the reaper?!?"

"Need....see...DO IT!"

Without another thought, Emile slammed her small, dirtied thumb onto the red switch. Creaking gears and crushing metal could be heard throughout the ship and a slight, vertical sliver of light appeared at the front of the room. At first, it spread sideways very slowly for a few seconds, but then threw open to blind the passengers with light from the sun.

For a moment the view was beautiful to see. Bright blue skies with patches of angelic clouds spotted around on the horizon and, in the closing distance, the safe port of the Aerodrome.

After the blissful radiance the crew enjoyed passed, reality sunk in as a spiderweb crack started to crawl and spread over the entire glass view-port. The perk to instigating their own certain doom was that now they didn't have to rely on Jamais' 'light bulb oven' positioning software.

"Wait for it." said a now surprisingly calm Seamus to the nervous Emile, her death-dealing thumb hovering over a white button effectively labeled 'Turbo Booster'.

They could see an empty strip that would make a good space to crash if they could get high enough to clear the structured wall in front of it.

Seamus took the chance to walk towards one of the now open side hatches. Down below, he could see the gear towing a large net full of black boxes through the air.

He turned to Emile. "Flashy, huh?"

She gave him a weak smile. "Ya....flashy."

The moment the word flashy ended off the tip of Emile's chapped lips, the view-port collapsed, throwing the passengers and all the loose garbage into a whirlwind of debris and bodies. Jamais didn't seem to mind though, as he had apparently passed out, firmly strapped into his chair.

Unable to find anything solid to hold to, Seamus was able to get out one last screech before a wall jumped up and hit him. "Send us to hell, little girl!"

Emile, with one hand clinging to Jamais' swivel chair, took the remote and smashed the white button onto her hip. The resulting explosion, large enough to decimate a small city, propelled the now fracturing Staircase Spirit much higher than any of the three could have guessed.

The air bombardment sent them spiraling over the top of the landing strip, through a high lookout tower, over the city walls, and into a cheap lunch diner, grinding to a halt just before they hit the red and chrome counter.

Jamais awoke from his swirly dream. The power systems on the ship were totally shot so the electric current running through his body had ceased. He pulled the embedded wires from his blackened knuckles, not feeling any pain to his relief and probbable shock. He unstrapped himself from his chair, popped his neck, and stood up in the rubble.

Gingerly walking over to Seamus' hole in the floor, Jaimas carefully lowered himself down, expecting to hit the metal scaffolding below. Instead he found himself on top of a red, sparkly table that had some salt shakers and a jukebox radio on top of it.

"God I would have killed for that radio back there." Said Jamais to himself, only to be answered back by his shipmate.

"Yes, but it would have been the radio that killed us all in the end." Said Seamus who was eating a raw squid-hot-dog sandwich from one of the diner's fridges. "Any more 'I made it me-self' fixes from you probably would have doomed us all."

Jamais chuckled it off and took a seat on a bent barstool. He looked around the wreckage and had a thought. "Where is Emile?"

"Huh." said Seamus, bitterly chewing on his cold meal. "After we landed, the tramp took my wallet and ran. The death of us, I tell you! The absolute death of us!"

[Doran_Bladefist]

*edit* - I had the violin part of Frederic Chopin's "Nocturne" in mind when I wrote this.

The faint, restless cries of a violin could be heard in the distance as Lizbeth stirred from her sporadic, deadened slumber. Her vision was smeared as she peeled her eyelids open, the world about her vague and painted with mute colors. She lifted a priggish hand to her face, massaging the gossamer twilight that plagued her vision like a bad dream. Her sight sliding into focus, she panned across the narrow space searching for signs of life or familiarity, but only to find strange and almost frightening images decorating the rock interior.

Dark figures, fiery landscapes, and other unexplainable artworks and tapestries lined the walls, making the young girls heart start to quicken. Dear God, where am I? She thought to herself as her thoughts began to try and rebuild how she arrived at such a house so adverse to her own. She quickly sat up in the bed only to sink back in as her head pounded with intense pain. She clasped her hands around her auburn hair, closing her eyes until the pangs in her mind subsided.

Now, ever slower than before, Lizbeth tediously lifted herself from the warming embrace of the feather-filled mattress and carefully swung her feet out from under the covers, dangling just a few inches above the ashen chiseled-stone floor. The violin in the distance was still lamenting a sweet sorrow and Lizbeth, her mind now somewhat mended, gingerly rose out from the bed and walked towards the door, it's dark cherry complexion giving some warmth to the chilled walls of cadaverous stone.

Her hands were shaking as she reached out for the iron latch, for what could she know of who would be waiting on the other side? Still, no thought or memory made any sense of her circumstance. Her mind stood agape with foggy glass between thoughts and dreams.

The handle quietly slid through it's loops and the door calmly eased open into the faintly lit hallway. More otherworldly paintings and frescos decorated the arching walls and the ceiling in the hall, giving the manor a haunting feeling of apprehension and despair. Although she did not want to, Lizbeth could not help but peer into these images of fascination and mortality. Anxious became her thoughts when gazing into the eyes of inhuman shapes, but she almost felt a sense of belonging in their bone wings and feral gazes.

As she continued barefoot down the red carpeted hall, the violin seemed to sense her approach. Every step she took towards the desperate serenade made it almost sounded sweeter, perhaps more heartbroken than the step before it; a lover lost in the dark, it's passionate strings lamenting for solace like a wolf howling into the wind for it’s lost mate.

Lizbeth came to the end of the interminable hall, the aching call of the violin just behind it's foreboding oak slats, reinforced with strips of aged iron. Her hands were clammy as she gripped the folds of her white nightgown for comfort. For an age, it seemed, she stood there at the gateway with her eyes dimmed, just listening to the anguish emanating from the tortured soul within it's walls. She couldn't bear it, the pain flowing from behind the mask.

Now somewhat collected, Lizbeth lifted a hand to the latch, slowly pulling the door towards herself. The smell of Jicky perfume flowed into her senses as the heavy door swung wide into the hall and she again eclipsed her eyes and breathed in the sweet bouquet of lavender and citrus that permeated her brain. Akin to a cold marble statue, she stood there in the doorway with the emanating beauty taking her over.

She didn't know what to think, how to move, or what to say. Forever she could stay there with the delicate sliding of a beloved's hand. Man or monster, she did not know. But somehow she knew, without any sense of fear or doubt, that this phantasm of her prison could always bring her heart comfort with the gentleness of his tears.

[Doran_Bladefist]

This is an excerpt from a story I was writing way back when. It was never finished, as I came across another idea and moved on; parts of it getting cannibalized into this other story.


Kali's mind was awash with colors and maddened thoughts as she frantically gasped for air, jerking upright violently from the mossy stone floor. Stuttering, she breathed in the dense, clammy air, coughing out volumes of sand and dust from her throat, the sharp grains tearing her insides. Panicked, she tried to stand. Her head swirling with unimaginable gravity, she couldn't focus, couldn't react to anything. Nearly fainting from the dizziness, she slumped back down into the floor.

Rolling over onto her side, she laid her head on the moldy rock beneath her, taking in the smell of the dank mildew. With a shaking hand, she wiped the tears from her eyes and gazed out into the space. Nothing. Not even the slightest shadow or shape could see. Slowly rolling over in the other direction, the view was the same. Like being at the far end of a windy tunnel, only for your lamp to burn out.

"Six elements, Miss Rothem." Said a sharp, agitated voice from some indistinguishable space in the black.

Kali gasped as she deliriously searched the space for the source of the disconcerted words, only to find the room just as dormant as before.

"Six pieces of an unrealized paragon." The voice continued. "That has been my quarry for a good portion of my lifetime. And here we are, in a place we needn't be. A place I hate above all others. A place at the end of all things."

"And where is that?" Kali sputtered out, her throat shredding like sandpaper.

The space remained quiet for a few moments and then tore ablaze with blinding light as a match was struck. Kali shielded her eyes from the fiery timber and then, as her eyes adjusted, she gazed out at the flickering glow. A gray-gloved hand was holding the matchstick, lighting the end of a cigarette.

The figure stood still for a second and then, dropping the match on the floor, stepped back into the darkness.

"You have been here before, and yet you seem as if you have never seen it." He began to circle distantly around Kali in the dark, the soft red glow of the cigarette flowing around the room like a firefly. "Even with waking eyes you cannot, or perhaps will not, remember."

Never taking her eyes off the bits of smoldering ash that faded as they fell to the floor, Kali recalled what he first said to her. "What of the six elements?"

The stranger exhaled a deep breathe, smoke dancing around the cigarette tip. "Four have came, and four have left. Four plus one makes five, Miss Rothem."

Her mind beginning to settle, Kali sat up on the cold floor. "And I am five?"

"No!" Yelled the man in a fit of rage as he tore off around the room, the burning cigarette drawing lines in the air. "No! No! No! You are one, not five!! No one is five!!"

Cursing, the man continued to rant to himself as he paced around the room.

Alarmed, Kali rephrased. "What I meant was....am I the fifth?"

The fuming man quelled his madness and quickly turned back to the girl, the cigarette glowing off his wide eyes.

"One of five, you are, but five of one you are not." He softly hissed.

He stood there, heaving in the dark for a few seconds, and then hurriedly scampered right up to Kali's face, his rancid breath enveloping her senses and the end of the cigarette nearly burning her cheek.

"You are not!!" He screamed, flecking bits of ash and spittle onto her face.

Kali grimaced and turned away, nearly gagging from the putrid smell emanating from the stranger. "Please...." She uttered out lightly as she pulled up her hands for protection.

"Fool." The man scoffed at her as he pulled back and returned to the rear of the room, facing away. "I know the truth." He struck another match, lighting another cigarette. "After all that wasted time, I have learned of it"

He turned back to face her, his shaggy black hair drooping over his face. "And after it is done.....it will be mine."

Kali pulled her knees up to her chin and hesitantly asked. "And what is it, that needs to be done?"

The man slowly tilted his head to a side, quietly breathing out puffs of smoke. He placed his sheathed hands into his pockets, making a noise of jingling metal, like a handful of loose change. "If I told you the plan, the work, the ssssseeeecrets.......they would no longer be mine, now would they?"

He again began to circle his prisoner in the darkness. "I will humor you and tell you of the others. The four, the foul, the feeble, the frigid, the fallacies......." He stopped circling and hunched down over a large rock. "The flesh of fallen fiends."

Kali remained quiet as her captor began to recite his deeds, slightly giggling as he went. "One tore by winds, one scorched by flames, another engulfed by water, and the other.....earthly games." The man righted himself from the rock and continued. "And then we have five, sweet silent five...not like the others, quite....mad they were. No, no, no, not like you. My lovely, lavish, lady of lore. My goddess of the sand."

That last line struck Kali; almost familiar it felt. She wondered it for a moment, and then asked the man, her throat still dry and grating. "Have I met you, I mean, before you brought me here? Strange you are, and yet, I can feel you somewhere, deep inside my memory."

The stranger walked off a few paces, again dimming Kali's vision to just a wandering red eye in the blackness. "In a world without sun's set, wandering we go until we reach Kismet."

Kismet! Kali's mind screamed and her heart quickened. The city of the damned.

"Nyx." She uttered under her breath.

The man, hearing the slight echo of Kali's voice, wheeled back to the center. "That name, that creature, is a lie. I am not a lie! But....the lie and the lord find themselves quite friendly in times of need. In times of sorrow. In times of enders, Miss Rothem."

Silent they both waited for something, but something never came as the light from Nyx's cigarette went out.

"Now, my fifth element, my goddess of the sand, our time is spent and quartered." Nyx reached into his pockets, pulled out a handful of metal rings, and scattered them across the room. Like a million fairies escaping into a wood, the rings produced a high-pitched echo that filled the space. "One of five you are, but five of one you are not. And when it is done, I.....no longer Nyx.....will become six."

[Doran_Bladefist]

Corny and very dramatic; horribly written and overly cryptic; this story lay unfinished. I'd like to either rewrite it or continue it, but I have way too many projects on the burner as is. Maybe some other time?



“Whispering life away.” Replied the Dark Harvester to her shackled mark with a voice that would give a pulse to a corpse. “Ending a creation with the creation of an end; that is my purpose, young Gelder-spawn. You’d have to believe yourself quite the charmer to think you could romance your way out of a harpy’s nest, let alone my sheaves.”

The chained man adjusted his spine with rolling, grinding cracks against the splintering gray oak that was his keeper. The oily rag that blinded his sight was stinging his eyes like a slow dragging blade, and his bones ached from the tightly wound knots that held him to his fate.

“End me if you can, Lady Autumn, but do not waste my time with your liar’s tongue.” He said impatiently.

“Even with eyes as blinded as mine, you surely must see what you face.” She answered boastfully as she circled the man. “I am not a peddler of cheap mortality, instant ascension rewards, or pearly gates. Tribulation is what I market, and for you, I’m giving group rates.”

“Humph.” The man scoffed at his hostess, his head drooping towards the ground. “Rules of war, my queen.”

Autumn started to giggle. “Rules of war??? You really don’t see it, do you? No, I suppose you wouldn’t wish it, being such a fragile shell like you Gelders are. Wouldn’t want your mind to crack now, would we?”

“Cracked like, say, someone’s sickle?” Said the man boldly.

It turned sedated within the crimson realm and for what seemed like hours, no living thing spoke or thought a word. Only in a few instances of existence was the sound of silence so prominent as it was in that cavern at that moment.

As the dust settled the Gelder continued, his question left unanswered. “I’ve come here for an exchange.”

“You have a backer.” Autumn interjected softly, her empty sockets glaring bitterly at her captive. “And who would this Judas be?”

“The sun sets fast for those who run from it, Lady Autumn.” The man replied cryptically. “Sooner or later you become one with the darkness.”

“Or in my case, darkness becomes her. ” the lady reaper responded, grinding a skeletal foot on the craggy ground. “I may no longer have the blade, but the whetstone does the job. Would you like a demonstration?”

“Terrifying till the last drop.” He replied defiantly. “As I said before, I am here to trade. Anything you want out of me will have to come with...proper payment?”

Autumn sighed. “I never got a passing grade in equivalent exchange.”

“Perhaps I could come back later, after you’ve learned how to do your job?”

Angrily, the Dark Harvester ran up to the Gelder, her cavernous eyes only inches from his. “This place is dissolution, not a gas station.” She threw harshly at the man. “You only enter here once.”

“True.” The man returned. “But what good is a convenience store if it doesn’t even carry a light for a smoke?”

“You are damned, Gelder-spawn.” The lady reaper said with that dark, tinted glass voice. “Accept it or not, you are present and on the books.”

“Really?” The man said sarcastically. “What page?”

Autumn’s white jaw gapped open as to say what she always knew, only to find an empty nest. She stepped back and pondered the feeling for a moment as never before had she forgotten a clients name. Puzzled, she turned her hollow focus back to the man, her gaunt arms folded.

“A riddle, eh? Congratulations, you have just transformed from a dolt into a typo.”

"Seems I don't belong now, doesn't it?"

"Hmm...." Autumn mumbled to herself. If she had eyebrows, one would be raised with a captivated look. "I'm not sure what would be worse: to be brought into my care, or to not exist at all. Well, which are you? Captive or coaster?"

"I had many names." The Gelder replied. "Captive could be one, though I could hardly call it rape if I enjoyed it."

"Clandestine, but appropriate." Autumn answered, mulling over her thoughts in the background. "I have heard such things before...but not in this lifetime." She paused for a moment and then, most leisurely, sauntered over to the man. "There are very few souls who pass through these gates unhindered. Very few indeed. Annoyingly, I do not know you. And yet, you seem to know me. Not exactly in line with etiquette in these parts of misery."

"I wouldn't know." The man responded. "And I don't believe you would either, considering your legacy."

"Mistress Spring." Autumn said behind her eggshell teeth, certain of the cause bearing this man. "So, what is the Life Giver doing with herself these days? Not giving me any work that's for damn sure."

"An interesting situation we have ourselves in, isn't it?" The Gelder said. "Life without death, and death without life. Some would say it's a blessing."

"Yes a blessing, of course." The Dark Harvester said acidly. "You Gelders would think so. You cut yourselves in search of immortality, and then, when you have it, you destroy it, spending your days in search of pleasures, power, and pain. A waste is what you are. Wasting you are. Towards waste and wasting you always ran."

The bound man slowly nodded his head. "Yes, and, for a time, you reveled in it."

"Enough!" Autumn sternly blared in the man's face. "You want to see what is left of me? Fine."

She raised a skeletal hand, placing it softly on the Gelder's cheek. Gently moving up his face, she slid her deathly fingers under the blindfold. She held still for a time, and then lightly whispered as she pulled the scummy cloth away from the man's face.

"I am the ghost. What are you?"

As the tattered sheet fell to the ground, the man kept his eyes close. His pulse raised ever so slightly, and he took in a deep breath. Cracking open his transparent blue eyes ever so slightly, he panned upwards and viewed his keeper for the first time. Cloaked in a dark crimson shroud that flowed like mossy blood in the rain, she stood upright and towered over him. No flesh left to speak of, her picked-clean bones shone in the moonlight, and her eyes, though cadaverous, where still as piercing as stakes.

He then noticed what was known as the Crimson Realm. Instead of the fiery abyss that was sung of in folktales, he found himself in a wooded grove, in the dead of night. Muted blues and greens painted the trees and rocks, glimmering in the twilight.

He turned back to his mistress, bowing his head slightly. "Lady Autumn."

"And you, good sir." She said, returning the nod. "What would be your name? As a guest in my house, I would expect it of you."

"As I said before, I have many names. But, for consistency, you may call me Lawrence."

"Lawrence?" Autumn said, tilting her head to a side. "Not exactly a name for a character such as you, now is it?" Although she lacked a face, she was obviously sporting a jeering smile.

Lawrence returned the grin. “Even a man who is pure in heart, and says his prayers at night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms, and Autumn's moon is bright."

The Dark Harvester gasped, reeling backwards. Shattered, she slumped down onto a large rock in the clearing, covering her dead face with her hands.

"So," She said with a slight laugh, her peerless sight directed towards the ground. "The wolfman cometh. Funny, I always thought it literal when they would speak of you. I should have known when I looked upon your eyes."

Lawrence's naked feet stepped into Autumn's view. Somehow free from his chains, he lowered his left hand and, slightly touching Lady Crimson's cold chin, lifted her face up. Then, with a compassionate voice that gently echoed in the grove, he spoke to her.

"A long time ago, someone told me that your eyes were green once."

Autumn stared into the face of the man who moments before was just another of the dead. "If I had saved any of my tears from the Fall, I would've given them to you."

The Gelder gave her a weak smile. "And I would have given you my umbrella." Autumn returned the smile, if indeed she could. "If again you see my sister," she relented. "Tell her that I hope she dies."

"A kind gesture." Lawrence replied. "Funny it is though, what she said to me as I left the womb of her world. She said, ‘I hope she lives’." He pulled his hand away. "Wherever it is that you go...remember that you will always be my night sky."

“Fenris is your true name, yes?” spoke the submissive lady death in her grove, standing again to her own starved feet. Accepting of her own possible fate, she stared down the Gelder with those inquisitive hollow sockets.

“You’re purpose I do not doubt, but legends are but just. What do you want with me?”

The man quietly turned away from his mark, gently rubbing the stubble on his chin with his hand. Walking back to the gnarled tree that once held him captive, he softly rapped his knuckles three times on it’s splintered form, the aimless sound rowing through the grove in waves of muffled echos. Content with the result, he turned back to the Harvester.

“My Lady Crimson, I am here to reclaim what was lost and to set order to the cycle. My purpose is no secret, but truth is but a recollection of history as through the eyes of a soldier’s son. I need your help to put things right again.”

“Help you?” The Queen Reaper said, surprised at her guest’s request. “If I am not mistaken, you are here to end me. What possible use could I serve to one who would be my murderer?”

Without hesitation, Fenris replied. “Winter is blowing through your sister’s lands and, as I’m sure you have noticed with the apparent lack of steady work, drought is ever present here. The world that once was lay dying without death, and soon all that will be left of you is rotting dust. As for your sister, she will forever be entombed in ice, cursed to live out eternity in a frozen limbo without sleep nor consciousness.”

The man walked up closer to Death, glaring at her with a dark look of desperation and grief. “Either you do as I ask, or yes, you will truly die. But by no action of mine. With that inaction though, would come the end of us all. No Hel means no death, which, in turn, means no life. Unravel existence if you must, but do it in your own world; mine is no trinket of yours.”

“So you are human after all.” Autumn said, conjecturing her course of action. “To reach this plane and still be counted among the living is no easy task. For that you should be commended. Foolhardy, but no doubt worthy of praise. Now, do tell, what is it that you seek?”

Fenris articulated his words very carefully as the Dark Harvester turned away and started pacing in the moonlight. “Hati and Skoll.”

Autumn stopped treading through the grove and feigned a sigh, as she had no lungs to speak of. “The cubs. Of course, I should have guessed. And what do you need with the chaser-hounds? Do you not enjoy the perpetual twilight of the universe?” She spun back around to face her guest. “I wouldn’t think the notes would hold any more power than the composer.”

“We all have our own reason to exist, else we wouldn’t.” The man replied. “Where are they?”

Lady Death held up a lean finger. “And what is my reason to exist if not but to sit here, trapped in this void?” Her crimson robes seemed to start bleeding towards the ground. “I have been nothing but charitable over the centuries. And what is given in exchange? Old men, sickly women, and children. No, wolfman, I receive nothing, hence why I give nothing. I would rather not exist than continue ferrying the ungrateful dead through my tributaries.”

“Then we are at an impasse, aren’t we?” Fenris said while giving a readied bow. Slightly bending forward and leaning his weight on his hind foot, his determined eyes never left the empty nests of the would-be Goddess. “If you will not tell me of my children, then we are all to be doomed.”

“Perhaps we are.” Autumn said as she reached a bony hand into the folds of her vermilion cloak, retrieving a dull, blackened stone that was covered in deep scratches. “I, for one, do not believe you to be telling the truth. Only the whetstone will tell wether or not you are who you pretend to be. Let us see.”