The New Creation #Fiction #ShortStory #Fantasy

Image courtesy of JayMantri – Pexels

Apprentice Ibel curses softly to himself as he rotates a gnarled root between his fingers. He takes a whiff and frowns.

“Doesn’t smell right.” he mutters to himself, using his dirty fingers to disperse the dirt. He lazily whirls a finger towards it, the granules of soil rolling back against the roots to tuck the plant into the earth. He yawns and stretches his arms through slits of sunlight, filtering through a shade of protracted branches and the green conical shape of bare-trunk trees making Jeford Forest.

Oblivious to the dirt on his freshly christened pants, Ibel spins on his knees towards the next botanic quarry for herbalist Corine Atman. The old man had finally let Ibel help him seek a cure for his ails – mainly, a specific plant found only in Jeford Forest.

“So sad… So ripe!” A voice slowly cries from behind.

Ibel’s shoulders hitch as he whirls about on his heels. Shaking hands shoot out in a offensive stance before he makes a disgusted sound in his throat.

“So saaaad… So ripe!” The Popuhari repeats, looming over him as awkwardly as it’s trunk body is able; the thin roots wriggle constantly through the ground even as it stands. The creature is harmless and Ibel grunts with annoyance as he works to control his shaking hands and thudding heart.

“Shoo. Go away.” He says too throaty for his liking, turning back to the plants he was plucking. His eyes rove over the brown-green gnarled things and realises he has no idea which one he was working on. In fact, they all seem to be same plant.

“Ugh. Fool.”

“Fooool! Saaad fool. Ripe fool!” The tree-like creature’s shadow falls over Ibel, forcing the apprentice to turn back to the creature. It totters back at the sight of the apprentice’s scowling face,

“What do you…” He begins then stops. His eyes take in the thin, lanky creature as though seeing it for the first time. There seems nothing wrong with the conical rise of flat petioles attached to the swaying “head” trunk, or the multiple greenish-white branches poking near the head like multiple arms. Ibel steps back too and runs through his knowledge of the creatures – as well as prepares a defensive spell.

“You speak?” He asks the Popuhari.

“Speak sad. Speak ripe!” It says. Where the sound comes from, Ibel can’t say. Nothing on its “face” moves.

“I didn’t think Popuhari could speak. Are you different?” He tries again.

“Popu-saaad. Popu-ripe!”

“Sad? Ripe?”

“Sad! Ripe! Sad! Ripe! Sad! Ripe! Sad! Ripe!” The air fills with the sound of wind rushing through leaves as the Popuhari shakes its head; the words seep through the sound in an intelligible garble. Apprentice Ibel lifts his hands to cover his ears as the leaves on the Popuhari’s head oscillate to a green/brown blur that sends the petioles aflutter.

It takes a moment to notice the sound comes from all around him. He turns and finds that the forest has grown in size, quivering Popuhari filing the gaps between the thick trunks.

Panic engulfs his body and senses as he draws in a long breath. The pounding in his chest has returned. Doubled. A ball of ice seems to have travelled from his chest down into his gut, bring with it an impending sense of doom.

He exhales.

An arm quickly lifts as he darts towards an actual tree. A ball of flame the size of Ibel’s head flicks from his wrist and crashes into Popuhari he’d been speaking to. At the same time, his other arm points to the ground. He jumps as a gust of air propels him upwards. Ibel grabs a branch and begins to pull himself up.

“Saaaaad!” He hears the creature wail.

“Saaaaad!” A chorus of Popuhari pick up its kins cries.

Ibel latches one foot onto the the branch, gasping from effort.

“Great Palaver, I need to work out more.” he breathes. Below him, the chorus continues.

Ibel manages to climb up, sighing heavily as he adjusts himself to sit looking down towards the Popuhari. Even before his whole body has turned, Ibel shivers. The adrenalin in his body filters out – but the fear remains.

The Popuhari he’d set on fire seems to weep more than cry in pain. The running around has stopped, and instead Ibel watches it tip it’s burning crown towards another of its kind, as it had been doing the whole time. Ibel looks around and sees more than one of them is on fire.

They have formed a ring around his tree. They lift their faceless, burning heads towards him.

“So sad! So ripe!” The burning Popuhari chant.

“So sad! So ripe! So sad! So ripe!“

Ibel scrambles as quickly as he dares to his feet, which takes too long for his own liking. The next tree isn’t too far off and with another of those air-jump tricks, he could make it. Perhaps keep going all the way back home.

“Saaaaad!”

A roar rises. Ibel makes the mistake of looking down and sees the ring of fire rush the tree. A chortled scream escapes his lips.

Both hands shoot downwards, palms facing the branch. He channels his magic and lets it off. The Popuhari bash into the tree, sending shockwaves up the bare trunk. It’s enough to throw off Ibel’s aim as one foot catches magical air and the other slips on nothing.

Ibel lurches forward, a cry of fear rising in his throat as wavering arms and hands catch loose air.

“Saaaaad!”

A panicked shot of magic launches downwards again, throwing the burning Popuhari backwards and cushioning enough of his fall to let him scramble back to his feet. Roots snake around his ankles and tug him backwards. Ibel falls with a wheeze, wind rushing out of his lungs. He begins to channel magic again, haphazardly throwing fire at everything. A wall of Popuhari rush him. Roots entangle his arms and hands, throwing off his aim. There’s enough time to notice the slithering coiling around his chest, constricting his lungs as it rolled the apprentice onto his back.

A burning Popuhari, perhaps the same one he’d met, staggers towards him still aflame. The conical shape of leaves and branches is now a black/grey gnarled thing, sprouting molted leaves and branches at odd angles. Ibel wants to believe he has reached his fear threshold. That only death awaits now.

“Popuhari speak.” The voice quivers, and Ibel feels it come from all the Popuhari around him. The ground itches under his back.

“Popuhari think.”

Apprentice Ibel watches as the center of the creature’s head splits open with a loud crack. Splinters fly off in every direction but Ibel is looking at the thing nestled inside the Popuhari. A mass of wriggling forms weave back and forth over numerous larval sacs; multiple segmented legs hold the entire pink-white-gray flesh under its thorax.

“Popuhari… grow…”

“So sad! So ripe! So sad! So ripe!“

Ibel’s attention snaps back to the ring around him – and his bondages keeping him trapped. The fear he thought was gone, now rises again, and again, and again. A young sapling of a Popuhari emerges from the throng. Ibel feels the fear in him pour from the depths of his gut right up his chest and lungs and out his throat. He doesn’t realise he’s screaming. The chanting Popuhari harmonize with his screams.

The sound is momentarily broken as the saplings head snaps open and reveals another of those things. Ibel looks up and watches its spindly legs lift and loosen one of its larvae sacs.

“Popuhari… evolve…”

The Popuhari leans forward. The sac rolls off and lands with a wet squelch over Ibel nose and mouth. He feels squirming inside, tickling his face before wetness washes over everything.

He tries not to think or feel or imagine.

“So sad! So ripe!“

The words echo in his head as though only they exist.

Sad.

Ripe.

Ibel’s body shivers on the ground. The Popuhari are silent as they watch. When the roots slither off his body, letting the man sit up, they all turn towards him.

“Despair.” He croaks.

“Despaiiirrr.” They sigh into the wind.

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Regressions of Man

Image by FunkyFocus

“Regression is slow. Gradual. Unhurried in it’s bid to drive one to madness. Creeping tendrils digging further and further into the mind like forgotten seeds, sprouting forests of disquiet and skepticism as to ones’s true self; the conundrum of self-agnosticism.”

It was a thought that passed through his mind as quickly and as slowly as it took to say it out loud. The sprawling forest echoed back his stilted voice, rising with the muffled squawk of bird somewhere above and beyond the slits of light breaking through twisting vines.  A golden hue that saturated the world in blurred sepia.

He’d been walking for a while now, though it was hard to tell. The smell of pine was rich in his nostrils, overbearing and powerful against his senses. Muffled voices rose and fell about him, sifting through tree barks, carpets of grass and thickened tree roots about him.

Drifting between them were familiar songs  he’d heard in his youth, at church and at home with his mother’s soothing voice. He could almost see her silhouette against the golden aura of light seeping through the kitchen window. Could almost reach out and touch her…

 

The world fell into silence.

 

A crackling sound echoed above his head like thunder.

His body contorted into itself against the sound, frigid coils shooting through every nerve ending. Images of his mother slid away into the blurred vision of forest before him.

The sound shot through his mind again.

He took off through the forest, suddenly aware of the rising crescendo of wails that followed from above. Screeching his name through the cracking shots resounding all about him. Yet no matter how far he ran, the sounds blared through his mind and ears.

The slits of light were quickly fading, throwing him into a cold nothingness. The air around him grew thicker, making breathing almost impossible. A weight fell over his body, bringing with it a crashing realization; he hadn’t been running at all.

The stillness of his body kicked his fear into overdrive, bolts of it rocketing through his petrified limbs like lightning.

With what felt like superhuman strength, he fought through the syrupy air trying to keep him locked in the darkness. His arms shot forward, only to bounce against a barrier and flop back against his abdomen. His constricted body bounced again in the darkness, arms floundering against the barrier in futility.

He found his voice again and began to yell against the consuming darkness – despair his only hope against the nebulous confines.

~

A sea of shocked faces in an ocean of black cloth, gazed at the coffin as it began to thrum. Inhumane lamentations surging through the wood.

“Bury him quicker.” A woman said, stepping forward quickly from the crowd, bible clutched tight against hitching bosom.

“My real son is dead.”

 

The Epoch of a Reporter #flashfiction

300 words
News Reporter; Newsroom; Steampunk

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There’s a constant clacking from Cindy O’Toole’s typer in the other room, followed by the hiss and clang of the carriage setting back in place. A haze of smoke sits in the newsroom like a cloud of sulphur from the cigs in everyone’s mouth. We all puff endlessly.
It is otherwise silent – even Ben Johnson from the funnies has no quips to the rolling film that plays on the wall behind Editor Ken Dunham. Dunham’s bulky arms, usually crossed, hang by his sides in defeat.
As the film flickers to an end, he swivels to us, skin sicky pale.
“That’s… that’s all we have.” He says, tired eyes falling on each of us with the languidness of a dying ticker. “Who wants to report it?”
We sit silent. Glances are diverted to feet, blank notepads or the wall peppered with past editions of trivial occurrences here in New Melwell. Nothing this big.
“No one?” Dunham asks, before letting out a long sigh that billows smoke from the almost smouldered smoke in his mouth. He pulls it out and stabs it into the tray on the table.
Silence.
“I will.” I finally say, and there’s an almost audible relief across the newsroom.
“Davis. You sure you’re up for it? This… this is some bad shit for a greeny.”
I shrug. “Ain’t nobody signing up so…”
Dunham thinks for a moment, scans the room and sees no one coming to my rescue. He snaps the film from the tripod and slides it across the table.
“Detective John Falon is the guy to talk to.”
I nod. I know.
It had taken a while for my murders to be big enough for the newsroom. Now I could cover my own story while keeping abreast of the city bobby.
I hid my smile.

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#FlashFiction: Fees and Bodies Must Fall

“Fees and Bodies Must Fall” was my entry for Microcosms Fic for this past Friday. The prompt was:

(Gonzo) Journalist / House Party / Crime

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You would think the blood spatter, taste of copper, and underlying stench of faecal matter would ward me and the others off 17 Mahogany Drive that hot July afternoon. It wouldn’t. Journalists are the curious type and like the proverbial cat, death is part of the gig. Confetti is still strewn about the leather couch, right next to a Ms. Davidson, 22, student at the University of Johannesburg. We look over the shoulders of a police squadron on site led by a Constable Gumede who is all frowns and glares.

“This isn’t a puppet show,” he growls. But we know it is. And not because we can see the threads of bed sheets hanging off the balcony, angling Ms Davidson across the couch like a modern-day Death of Marat. It’s because we know the M.O. That this is the third victim in the repertoire of a man we journos have affectionately labelled The Neoclassic Killer. Just the previous month, a house party in the pseudo-glitzy Parktown area revealed students from Wits University arranged as The Death of Socrates. Bed sheets and all.

It’s difficult to remain objective when faced with the surrealism that our city has a serial killer. The fear radiating through our bones. Poisoning our hearts. Lining our street poles with headlines screaming murder at each corner. Yet we must remain objective so we may assess the situation without emotion. To notice that the killer targets these students not based on any merit of their own but the continuous protests sweeping our streets; Fees Must Fall – which Ms Davidson led as an advocate of.

I am not a prophet, it’s not in my job title, but as more pledges rise, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next classic we see, is The Oath of The Horatii. And death.

Submitting the Perfect Story

The year begins with a bang and there’s been much afoot since the clock turned the calendar over from 2017 to 2018. I’ll be meeting Nicky of Chasing Dreams Publishing this Saturday to work on getting my own novella published. What I hope to be a psychological thriller horror based on a short story I’m working on.

This particular short story is an idea I want to submit to FlashBack Fiction by the end of this week. The foundation for what is to come. The problem is that I keep running into the same wall every time I get to that 500 word limit; I find the story… boring.

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The Perfect Story

I sit at my desk and let the mind begin its usual marathon run through visuals and ideas until it latches upon a man in a high collar shirt, white, and sleeves rolled to the elbows. Perfectly tousled hair whips in the soft breeze as he walks through a bustling street filled with dames in flouncing dress and lace parasols. The men tip hats, lips curling up with their carefully trimmed mustaches. Others ride by nonchalant on bicycles with empty baskets leading the way. Many park against intermittent trees lining the paved walkways where cafes and curious shops have opened for the morning. Woven chairs are arranged around square tables draped in cloth, adorned with cutlery and obscure vases from the local artisans. Coffee. Bacon. Toast. Their scents fill the warm air. Accompanying the scent is the rustle of leaves from the nearby trees. The crinkle of newspaper as a man in a bowler hat turns his copy of Die Zeit. Tranquil. Peaceful. Happy.

It contrasts the thoughts swirling through my protagonist who watches with a careful smile hiding his darkest thoughts. The satchel at his waist portrays him as an artisan though none know of his particular work. Of the “museum” that awaits him in the bricked apartments right above the supposed serenity the scene in front of him plays. He knows behind the coiffed styles of both the men and woman, behind their rosy cheeks and wide smiles and oiled beards lie secrets. Fears. Worries. Dark thoughts. They aren’t that much different from him. Not much at all.

–

And this is where I begin my story. The above description is a cut scene from my mind and now we step into the protagonist’s shoes as the writing begins.

Only from here, as I try to slip the darkness into the serenity, I find the pacing too slow or too fast. The transition too drastic or not drastic enough. I’m failing to find the balance between writing style and effect. To add that gut-wrenching punch drawing breath from lungs as you wail “No!” in horror and squirm where you sit, glancing behind you as paranoia sweeps along your spine in cold tendrils.

That. That is what my perfect story would be. But I’m struggling here. Anyway let me get to writing the new draft and see if I can craft the perfect story so I can submit it. *Sighs

Friday Fiction: The Best Gift

Prompt comes courtesy of my good friend and fellow author/blogger, Rachel Poli:

Write about a character who gets something special they’ve always wanted.

The Best Gift

Words: 596

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The idea of a Secret Santa may as well be as old as the very concept of merry ol’ St. Nicholas. St. Dominic’s Primary School became the haven of such a tradition in its truest form since the school’s conception in 1895, when Sister Ignatius placed square, brown-paper packages within the 85 desks of her students prior the last day of school. The following day was followed by a chorus of joyous squeals as boys and girls ripped through paper and tape to find within the objects of their uttermost desire. The best gift.

As tradition wore on through the years, even when money seemed hard to come by, there happened to be one particular child with an almost unattainable desire. One that could not be wrapped save for in prayer. Furtive supplications cast to the Almighty in hopes of repairing broken families, sick fathers and mothers, dying brothers and sisters, and on more than enough occasion, for death’s repeal.

Where these gifts could not be attained, it was their next appealed desire wrapped and placed with the more modern school desks. The School Governing Body, with now over 300 students within the expanded bricked building, would question how such a tradition could be continued, and as with every Principal that had followed Sister Ignatius’ example would proclaim to those who questioned the gifts,

“The Lord provides.”

And truly, each year, He did.

As corporate and government and school slowly intertwined with the passing of time, and the education system turned into a business venture rather than a place of tutelage, the nuns of previous generations were replaced with CEOs and businessmen toting degrees and masters in Business Management. They did not, however, truly possess the spiritual depth and leadership of their predecessors. And yet, despite all of this, every year, the students of St. Dominic’s Primary School, received their annual gifts out of miraculous providence.

In the year 1995, on the last day of school following the newly elected Principal, as the muted excitement, and muffled bubbles of laughter echoed across the span of the school, there came a single ear-splitting scream. The school fell into utter silence. As though the wind itself had ceased to exist, the trees shaken to quiet, and the hum of traffic come to a standstill. Hairs on napes rose. Flowing blood seemingly turned to ice and coursed through each student and teacher alike as a virus through a body.

Young Francis had opened his package with frenzied anticipation, his particular gift sizable in comparison to his peers, and decidedly oddly shaped in almost rotund oblong contours. As the paper ripped between his fingers, he was struck by an odd smell. One that reminded him of his lunch tin when he had left it in the playground for a week and opened the lid to find the festering green and white mould growing within. Only this smell seemed different. There was also a sticky liquid trailing along the inside and staining his palms scarlet. By now the entire classroom had turned to see what he’d received. Curiousity emblazoned on rapt young eyes, lips parting in awe and wonder. At last Francis ripped the entire wrapping off, arms rising as expanded energy threw them upwards. For a moment he could only stare at the thing rolling out from the paper to stare up at him with glazed eye sockets and a gaping abyss marking misshapen ebony dentures. Only he couldn’t deny the jade green orbs gazing past and through him. For there sitting on his desk… was the head of his father.

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Word to the wise: Don’t read The King in Yellow, and expect your mind to remain the same. See the true face of horror.

Friday Fiction: The Dance of Death

Prompt courtesy of Chasing Dreams Publishing – Monday Writing Prompt

Prompt: They danced through the stars

Word Limit: 250 words

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They danced through the stars. Moonlit wisps coiling through vast expanse as amber-scarlet flares belched stagnant pale tendrils into the gaping abyss.

“Engine failure. Engine Failure” Droned the monotony of the ship’s A.I.

Red blossomed across the deck in incessant flashes as wailing sirens echoed off the walls. The control panel shimmered with lights, illuminating the captain’s chair and halo of gold-red-gold tresses pressed against cheek and forehead, the captain sweating against pulsing lights.

“Estimated crash time?” She asked quietly into the attached headset.

“At this rate I’d say a steady seventeen minutes and… about 23 seconds. Unless you get some balancé Cap.” The voice replied with just a hint of smile in its gruffness.

“Just keep those cannons ready.” The captain replied, a ghost of smile touching her lips.

“Better bring this crash-ballet to its finale.”

As though summoned by the remark, the emptiness of space shimmered in colossal prism-tinged glare. Then they were wholly and completely surrounded.

“Allegro, captain. Allegro.”

Trails of fire followed the diving ship as streaks of light boomed from the surrounding angular prisms of enemy forces. With as much elegance and grace a blazing ship could afford, the captain pirouetted through interminable fire,

“Fouetté!”

The ship spiralled, cannon extending outwards in explosive bursts of successive fire, tucking in to reload and extend once more for a repeat performance.

“Inbound photon torpedo.” A.I notified them. Hands and hearts froze. Silence pervaded.

“It’s been a pleasure dancing with you Cap.”

“Always Jarvis.” Tears trickling down, “Always.”

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Blogger Prompt Chain

I was tagged by my good friend, and fellow writer/blogger/gamer (and all round awesome) Rachel Poli to do a Blogger Prompt Chain. It was created by A.J. Alexander – you should visit her blog too. The idea is to create a “chain” of stories written by writers and bloggers across the blog-o-sphere.

Since I didn’t have a post for today, and Rachel so kindly invited me to participate, I thought, why not.

But first…

The Rules:

1. Pick one of the five given writing prompts (picked from Rachel’s blog – link above)
2. Set up the Blogger Prompt Chain banner and publish your story under the banner.
3. After your story, continue the chain by forwarding an invitation to five bloggers or writers. (In case a writer doesn’t have a blog, guest posts can be offered)
4. Don’t forget to link the writers to your blog and back to the one who invited you.
5. Publish the five writing prompts and rules!

The Prompts

The End of The Bucket List
Write a story about a character who finds out that he or she is dying and has been knocking things off his/her bucket list and has finally reached the last item.

Get Out of the Car With Your Hands Up
You’re driving to your favorite city when you’re stopped by a police officer. Sure, you were going a few miles over the speed limit, so you’re not overly surprised. But you are surprised when the police officer gets to your car and screams, “Get out of your car with your hands up!” This leads to an unexpected night for you. Write this scene.

Hiring a New Villain
Your old villain quit over creative differences, so you’ve put yourself in charge of hiring a new villain for your novel. What questions do you ask? What does the new villain’s resume say? Write this scene as if it were a job interview.

At The End of The Rainbow
You and a friend have decided to try and follow a rainbow to see if the end holds a pot of gold. But when you finally reach the end, you find something much more valuable than a pot of gold—and it changes your life. Write this scene.

The Letter All Writers Should Write
Write a letter to a person who supported your writing career, whether that be a friend, a family member, a teacher (even one that supported you at a very young age before you knew that it would blossom into a writing career), an author you’ve never met but have been inspired by his or her writing. Do you thank them? Do you blame them? Take the letter in any direction you want.

My Choice: At The End of The Rainbow

“You know, scientifically, we can never reach the end of a rainbow. You know this right? Right.” Chae says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“No science today buddy, only faith.” I reply. Chae shakes his head.  Dried grass crunches under our feet, the sun a welcome sight parting what little clouds remain. A rainbow, clear as day and completely translucent, arches perfectly ahead of us.

“I’m all sweaty. Not even five minutes and it’s searing hot.” Chae says. “That humidity.”

“It will be worth it. Trust me.” I say. In my pocket is a piece of concrete slab. Etched into it hours before, as the rain poured down around me, is an ancient symbol. One that grants access to a rainbow. A perfectly arched rainbow.

“I do trust you. That’s the problem.” Chae says, squinting against the sun. The rainbow seems to recede with every step we take.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Faith won’t fail me today.” I say, running my fingers along the sharpened grooves.

“Faith isn’t going to solidify a rainbohmygosh.”

The rainbow, which was seemingly far, and fading quickly, is suddenly a solid, hued path dropping right at our feet from nothing. It expands forward ahead of us in a path wide enough for a car.

“Impossible!” Chae says, taking off his glasses to wipe them. As though the smudges and dust creates the vision before us. Only we both know its real.

“Faith my friend.” I say, feeling a smile tug at my lips, “Let’s see where the rainbow-brick road leads.”

We step onto the path and immediately a cold shiver runs through me. I turn to Chae to find he has paled considerably.

“No.” Chae whispers, “No. No. No. No. Somethings wrong. Something is very wrong!” His voice screeches.

“No man, it’s perfectly okay.” I say although the pounding in my chest says otherwise. I know it’s not okay at all. However, if we have reached the end of the rainbow then there must be some nugget of truth to the whole pot of gold myth. If only the sudden menacing presence around us wasn’t so strong.

“Do you notice something weird?” Chae asks. His eyes cast about the veld that stretches out around us. I notice it then.

“The world looks transparent.”

“I think we should turn back. I really think we should turn back.”

Chae begins to whirl around but something glints just ahead of us. I grab his arm and whirl him around.

“Look!”

“We cannot continue along this… this fantasy!” He yells without looking ahead.

“We found it Chae!” He stops long enough to look, then he runs.”

“Dude! Wait what if…” But he’s already reaching whatever it is ahead of us. I go after him, seeing that it’s not a pot of gold after all.

“It’s…”

“A book?”

Chae lifts it up. The cover is pure gold, yet bends and flexes easily. He casually turns the blank pages.

“Well that was a waste of time.” He says, shutting the book with a snap.

“Maybe if we write in it, whatever we write will come to life.”

“That’s just stupid.” He adjusts his glasses, dusts his pants before pulling out a tiny clutch pencil from his back pocket.

“I thought it was stupid.” I say with a grin.

Chae shrugs,

“So is finding a gold-bound book at the end of a rainbow.”

We put it down and I take the pencil from Chae.

“Don’t write anything stupid.”

“Shut up.” I laugh. Thinking. Then I have an idea,

We turn around and there’s a pot of gold.

“That’s really stupid.” Chae says, but he turns around. “Oh no…”

I look up from the page and follow his gaze. There’s a pot of gold alright. A pot made of gold. I sigh.

“I guess we need to be more specific.”

“I wasn’t “oh no-ing” about the pot…” Chae says. I look beyond the path and feel my stomach drop. Shadows rise up around us in coils of smoke. They block the path back but worse than that, they each hold similar books. They begin to shamble towards us. Chae clutches his chest like he’s having a heart-attack. I look at the book in my hand, at Chae and at the shadows. An idea pops up.

“As the figures draw closer, they part long enough for us to run through. We escape unscathed.”

Only the words begin to twist on the page, and words vanish and reform.

“As the figures draw closer, Chae sacrifices himself, parting them long enough for me to run through. I escape unscathed.”

“Wait no!” I scream at the book.

“Run!” Chae says. I look up to find him launching himself at the closest shadows, who part long enough to create a path. My feet suddenly move on their own.

“No!” I scream as my body jolts itself forward and runs. My arms reach for Chae but he’s too far.

“Chae!!”

But the figures clutch him tightly and I am propelled off the rainbow-path and into the heat. I turn around, only to find the rainbow has faded into the distance.

“Chae!”

---

I Invite:

1. Carin Marais
2. Nicky – Chasing Dreams
3. Jen – Fictional Jenn (Where’s your site JEN!)
4. Kelly Griffiths
5. Tyron “Odly Otter” Armstrong

You don’t want to participate but it would be amazing if you did. If you do, please leave a link to your story!

 

 

Friday Fiction: The Playground

The four fundamental elements I spoke about in Genre Writing: Horror Fundamentals are: Atmosphere. Fear Factor. Character Flaw. Plot Twist.

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The sunlit jungle gyms and slides were half obscured by uniformed, screaming children. They scampered about like mice, eyes alive, front teeth missing, dirt and dust over their shorts and skirts and shirts and knee length socks. One of them, on his way down the scorching, silver pole leading to the graveled floor, looked across the playground. Three of the fourth graders were leading a second grader towards Big School. They weren’t allowed there during school hours. Not at all.

He slid down quickly and started to follow,

“Where you going Ted?” Leena asked. Ted shot her a dark look, index finger rising to his lips,

“I’m coming now.” Ted whispered, turning to see the other kids slip through the side gate.

Ted ran as quickly and quietly as he could. Were they trying to get the second grader in trouble, his mind asked. Was the kid in trouble? Why was he following them at all?

As he peeked around the corner, he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. They weren’t going to the Big School after all. They were heading to the disused toilets in the back corner of the old classrooms. A bricked wall separated the two halves of the school, which had cut off the toilets from being seen. Since no one used it, there were no lights inside, and to enter you had to walk through a small corridor. All in total darkness.

Ted shivered.

Sometimes, he and his friends would dare each other to run past. Once he’d dared his friend Johnny to knock on the door. Johnny did. A moment later he’d ran out crying, claiming he’d seen massive red eyes staring at him. They never did go back.

Ted wouldn’t have followed these kids today. Not since that day with Johnny. In fact, not ever. But what if the kid was going to get fed to that red-eyed thing Johnny saw. What if the fourth graders didn’t know? What if they did know?

He thought about calling a teacher but it was already too late. They were approaching the corridor and he could hear the older boy’s snicker. The other kid was crying. But what could he really do? He didn’t know but when all the kids stepped into the corridor, Ted hurried after them.

The entrance was dark. Just a rectangular wall of black. Ted had never seen the sun shine on this side of the building. From inside he could hear whispers, and the younger boy’s sobbing. Someone told him to shut up or they’d leave him inside. Then it went eerily quiet. As though all sound had been cut off from inside.

Ted waited at edge of the corridor, leaning in to hear better. He thought he could hear shuffling. Or maybe mumbling. He wasn’t sure.

Then someone screamed and all the blood drained from his veins and filled up with liquid ice. He stood frozen. Another scream jerked him backwards against the wall. He couldn’t see or feel the shivers that took over his body. He stared at the darkness and he felt it stare back at him.

Then two red eyes blinked open. Ted screamed. His body came back to life and he pushed away from the wall to run. A warm hand gripped his calf. He screamed again.

“Ted! Ted!” He turned around and it was the second grader. He was okay. Ted fought to calm down but then he saw the streaks of red on the kid’s arm.

“What… what happened?”

The kid smiled, revealing more of the red on his teeth.

“Well… we won’t be having a bullying problem anymore.”

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Did you pick up the four elements inside the story? What basics do you use to craft your story?

Friday Fiction: Hope

Earlier this week in my new segment, Genre Writing, I touched on two fundamental elements I use when writing a story. Today you get to read a short story based on these two elements. They are: Emotion, and Idea. Read the blog post to get the full explanation yeah? For those who have already, (or skipped reading it, it’s cool don’t worry) enjoy!

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Fundamentals: Idea – Image Prompt. Emotion – Sadness

Words: 385

None can fathom the depth of his sadness. Below the expanse of heaven, his people move about with self-righteous nonchalance. They harvest from fields with praise only to their hands and tools. They forget that the rain they depend on comes not from their efforts. The soil they churn has been there before them. The seeds they plant borne from the land they did not create. They craft their own god and call him science, technology, human advancement and other names. Had they forgotten him so quickly?

He descends from his throne to an unknown island where he dons the garb of a simple fisherman. Here his creations thrive. Two gargantuan trees, capped by thick foliage, lilt towards the dark waters like tired sentries. Their smaller brethren once sprouted across the land. Now bricked buildings stand in their way and a different breed thrives.

“Good evening sir.” A silhouette says. It’s attire is as dark as the sky. Crisp. Clean. Over the heart is a golden pin that reads Greg – Manager.

“Good evening to you.” He says to Greg the Manager.

“I didn’t know the fishermen were still working tonight.” Greg says. His eyes turn towards the waters where there are lights in the distance. No boats bob between.

“I was merely visiting.” He says. Greg smiles.

“No worries. Do you need a place to stay for the evening? We’re fully booked but I’m sure I can find a place for you just for the night.”

“I am a mere fisherman. I cannot afford this place.”

“Don’t worry about that sir. Also, I noticed there aren’t any boats left. How are you going to head home?”

The man turns towards the waters, then back at Greg.

“Are you sure?”

Greg turns to the water and sure enough a dinghy sits against the shore.

“What in heaven’s name…”

“Anyway Greg, thank you for your kindness this evening. You have given me some hope yet.”

“Hope for what?”

“Humanity.” Greg is still staring at the dinghy but when he turns to the man, he is no longer a fisherman. His robes glow gold and flow to the floor.

The man points to the sky. The clouds flare with light the colour of dusk, as flames of jagged lightning break across the sky. Then he is gone.

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Hope you enjoyed this little tale. May you have a grand weekend ahead!