Friday Flash: The Prisoner

Hmm...
2011: 44 blog posts
2012: 22 blog posts
2013: 2 blog posts

If the trend continues, this will be my only one this year. 

(I hope not.)

This is a new story based on a dream I had.

---

Are my dreams memories?

If so…

Why do I wake up here?

Grey walls, grey men and a grey sky. Only outside do I see other colors: the deep green of the woods and grass. But when I dream I see blue, the pale blue of the sky and dark blue of ocean depths. I dream of fire and darkness, the ways that lie beneath the earth’s crust.

Why am I here?

My feet lead me down the stone steps. Round and round until I reach the bottom of my tower.

They’ve hung a tapestry on the stone wall: red flowers against green grass. One of the grey men stands before it. He lifts the silver mask from his face and smiles. They’ve never smiled to me, the prisoner.

“Anything I could do to make you comfortable?” The smile doesn’t waver and his voice is warm. Odd, now that I think of it I haven’t heard them speak before. The only sound they make is the shuffle of their feet and the metallic clank of their outfit.

His voice jolts me from my thoughts. “I understand you’re not keen on speaking to us.”

“No,” I whisper. Though I’m not sure why. I can faintly remember anger and despair, but it was not at the grey men.

“You’re going to spend the rest of your life here and I thought I should make things more comfortable for you.” A hint of shame in the man’s voice.

“Why?”

“You’re the easiest duty I’ve had—”

“Why am I here?” The words come out as a snarl. I flinch at the anger in my voice; where does it come from?

“I don’t know.” His hand is on the hilt of his weapon. A shiver runs down my spine. I’ve felt the cold touch of steel before. “I just guard you.”

“Why?”

“I keep those who would harm others imprisoned or protect those who other would harm.” He straightens himself and lifts his chin. The pale light catches the metal skin he wears. “A high calling.”

“Which am I?”

I cannot answer my question. I remember anger, but is it of one wronged or of one evil?

I lift my arms, the fabric slides away, revealing pale blue hands, fingers tipped with blunted grey claws. Is there blood on my hands?

“I don’t know.” He looks down. “I follow orders.”

“You asked if there's anything you can do for me. Ask someone who knows, why am I here?”

He nods. Before leaving I glance at the tapestry. I like it; I’ve been there in my dreams.

I remember a picture in her likeness, in a book long ago. The book told our story, the history of the Grey Men.

The library is smaller than I remembered; we have little use for books here. A thick layer of dust covers the book I seek, obscuring the silver letters.

The book slides from the shelf, eager to be read.

The pages fly. Then, I catch a glimpse of her.

On the page stands the prisoner: a slender being wrapped in dark blue cloth. Silver hair flows past narrow shoulders. Pale blue fingers tipped with talons grip the cloth. The eyes hold a kind, almost shy gaze.

On the other page a blue-grey feathered creature rises through the clouds. Sharp snout split into a grin, fierce joy lights her eyes.

Beneath reads:

The guardians have four forms. One for each realm: one winged and one earthbound, one of fire and one of water. They rose against the Breaker and failed. The Breaker showed mercy to the survivors and they were imprisoned. The Breaker set the Grey Men to watch over them.

A chill runs down my spine.

The Breaker of the world. The one we serve.

The door opens with a groan. I pull my robe tighter against the chill he brings. The question catches in my throat. What if he says “I don’t know” again?

“You’re a prisoner until time ends.” I turn to face him. Metal skin covers him from head to toe. A silver mask hides his face, but I can hear shame in his voice.

“Why?”

“You rose against a god.”

“A god? But I am weak. Why would I do so?” I remember magic running through my veins. Maybe once I wasn’t weak.

“You did what was right. You tried to stop the world from breaking.”

“I cannot remember.”

“They stole your memories and your magic. You’re a shapechanger, one form for each element. One for fire and one for water. One for the sky and the one you’re in now.”

“Who did this?”

Quivering hands rise to his mask and remove it. Pain reads clear on his face. “Us.”

“I am alone then.”

I feel his arm on my shoulder. The metal skin feels cold even through my robe, but his voice is warm.

“No, you have an ally.”

A memory fills my mind, a field of green filled with red flowers. Laughter fills my ears. My sister’s hand holds mine. Don’t worry little sister. I’ll keep you safe.

For the first time I remember joy.

#DiceGames: Day Two

My second DiceGames prompt is: “Write a love story. Blood and gore is mandatory.” I first started writing a Mr. & Mrs. Smith type of story, in which lovers try to kill each other. But then I came up with an idea that was more along the lines of what I write.

Unfortunately I can't complete the challenge because I'm going to Menorca for a week's holiday, and I didn't have time to write the third story. I'll post the story and visit the other participating blogs once I get back.

They had followed the trail of blood and prints through the woods, and found the deer in a clearing, an arrow jutting from its haunch. He watched her as she stepped lightly ahead of him, leaving shallow prints in the snow. As always, she wore a coat of grey fur with darker shades running along her sides.

A drizzle of frost fell onto her back, revealing yet another carrion bird had arrived. The crows clutched spindly branches with crooked claws. Their thick beaks opened and closed as they squawked, awaiting a true predator to open the carcass.

He snorted in contempt at the presence of the foul birds. Should any of them dare attempt to steal, he would run them off.

A ripping sound caught his attention. Skin and fur came loose as she revealed their prize. Her long face disappeared amidst the carcass of the stag. She gorged on the dark red flesh, reveling in its taste and texture. He padded over to her side and joined the feast. Once they had their fill they would call to the others; there would be enough food for the whole pack.

He watched her with pride: her belly was round with their unborn pups. They would enter the world in the den their ancestors had found decades ago. They would be greeted and raised by the ruling pack of the Weeping Woods.

Gently he nudged his mate. She looked at him, yellow eyes glinting with joy. They lifted their snouts to the sky and howled in calling to the other wolves.

#DiceGames: Day One

Timony Souler's DiceGames challenge: three days, three dice rolls, three prompts. My first prompt is: “A red-haired vixen is trying to kill you. Deal with it.”

Auburn slammed the young woman against the wall. She lifted a hand to her victim’s throat, resisting the urge to finish her writer. Maybe she had a good reason for torturing her and the other characters.

“I’m sorry about what happens to you. I’m sorry about what happens to your… uh, family and friends.” Emilia peered over crooked glasses. She lifted a hand to push them back, but the though died under Auburn’s glare. “But you’re in a story and a story needs conflict or it suc—”

“Shut up!” Auburn’s fingers twitched. Her nails grew longer, sharpened into claws. “I don’t care what the parrots of writing blogs are repeating.” The shapeshifter lifted a hand from Emilia’s throat and set it on her shoulder. After a moment’s pause she continued through gritted teeth, “First you sent me to anger management and now you’re doing horrible things to me and the other characters.”

“I’m a writer! That’s more or less what we do.” She tried to shrug.

Auburn rolled her eyes. That was her writer’s excuse for everything. Why couldn’t she write something nice like children’s books? Then again that would mean no profanities, bashing heads or seducing people.

“Then stop writing.” She arched an eyebrow. “Or I will stop you.”

Emilia’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “I can’t…”

Auburn lifted a finger and drew it slowly across Emilia’s throat, leaving behind a white line. “Then I’ll have to kill you.”

“I know you, I created you. You don’t kill unless it’s necessary.” She pressed against the wall, trying to disappear between the stone’s seams.

“Try me.” The shapeshifter grabbed her hand and lifted it before her face. “And I can always cut off your fingers. We’ll see how you write then.”

“If you stop me from writing you’ll kill yourself. You only live on the pages and in the readers’ imagination.”

Auburn’s finger went lax, allowing Emilia to wrench her hand free. She stared at her writer, or tried; the smudges on her glasses almost hid her eyes. On impulse Auburn wiped her glasses with the sleeve of her dress. There, now she could see her writer’s fear better.

“You have a point.” She stepped back. “And the thought of hurting someone nice, it just doesn’t feel good.”
Emilia sighed and pushed her glasses up again.

Auburn crossed her arms. “You’re going to make this up to us. I want a happy ending for everyone.”

“Even the villains?”

“What? No, of course not.” She leaned against the wall. Anger tightened her features as she spoke, “The villains deserve my fist in their face and a life in a dragon’s gut.”

“If a happy ending makes sense, then I’ll write one, but I can’t annoy the readers.” She lifted her hands as Auburn opened her mouth to object. “You want your part of the story to be read? If I had you ride off into the sunset on a white fool’s dragon, with a strapping young lad, while chomping down a chocolate pastry…”

“All right! But if you kill me off, make it a big scene.” Auburn spoke the words slowly, “No off-the-page death.”

“I don’t think I’ve created anything capable of killing you, but all right.” She lifted her glasses off her nose and stared at them in disbelief. “Did you just spit on my glasses?”

The shapeshifter gave her a flat stare.

“Never mind, just go back to Verannia.” She waved her hand in dismissal. Auburn turned to leave. “Wait, how do you know about blogs?”

The shapeshifter shrugged as she opened the door. She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “I go through your mind when I’m bored.”

Emilia’s jaw dropped. “Just go. I need to plan a scene where you knock the marrow out of a skeletal demon.” She buried her face in her hands and muttered, “Pihkura*, what did I get myself into.”

*Emilia likes to use obsolete finnish swear words, such as “pihkura”, “pahkura”, “kehveli”, “himskatti” and “himputti”.

Extending Vret's Story

I recently took part in Timony Souler's MarchMadness blog challenge. I've written a lot of short flash fiction, and sometimes I feel there's more to the story than can be told within the limits of the word count. I guess my problem is that I'm trying to stuff too much story into too few words.

For this challenge I came up with a character called Vret, whose story I couldn't really fit into those 4 x 200 words. After the challenge I began writing a longer version of Vret's story. It's currently around 4000 words, and the end is not in sight. I'll be posting the story in parts, starting next week.

BTW. Myth the purple (occasionally red) banner dragon got lost while migrating, which is why it's still snowing in the banner. Meanwhile in Helsinki, it seems like spring is finally coming: weather forecast promises 15°C (59°F) for tomorrow! Oh, and it smells like cows, a sure sign of spring.

MarchMadness Blog Challenge 4

Wet moss squished beneath Vret’s bare feet as he walked towards the edge of the woods. The branch of a willow pressed against his arm, leaving behind dots of moisture on his sleeve. He stopped, before him opened a clearing. The one where he’d met his demon.

She’d found him half-dead, offered to heal him if he allowed her to possess him. When her finger trailed along his skin he’d felt power course through him. His wounds had knit themselves shut and the pain faded for a moment. Then his own magic had begun to fight the demon’s.

His mind had blurred from the mix of pain and pleasure, but he must have spoken for he woke with the demon beneath his skin.

“You yearned for me to end your existence as a weakling.” Her words from his mouth jolted him from his thoughts. ”We are both stronger now.”

“Yes, we are.” He’d cheated death and the strongest form he could take was no longer a mere wolf, but a nightmarish creature this world did not bear. He had to bow to Sana’s will, but becoming a strong puppet was better than being weak and free.

MarchMadness Blog Challenge 3

Vret bowed his half-changed head before the bigger shapeshifter. A hand settled on the back of his neck. Fingers entangled with his hair and the remnants of a mane, a quick tug pulled his head back.

“Sana, couldn’t you curb your vengeance for a little while longer?” Brell stared through his eyes and into the demon’s. “Vret’s too weak to resist. It had to be you.”

Beneath his skin he felt his demon writhing. Sana’s curses echoed through his mind, her anger rang through the words he spoke: “She says she will rip your head off if you ask her again.”

“Then answer me Vret, what were either of you thinking?” Brell released his grip. His hand lifted to his temple. “Our task was to expose the cruelty that takes place within those walls.”

“We were successful.” Sana bared his teeth into a snarl.

“Your former tribe mate saw it all.” His demon shrunk beneath the tone of Brell’s voice. “She also saw you drag that man here, unconscious, but alive. Now he’s not. See how you’ve risked our work?”

Vret swallowed hard, and then nodded.

“Good.” Brell slapped his hand onto his shoulder. “To redeem yourselves you’re going to back to the village. I have a new task for you two.”

Leaving the Guise at Haunted Waters Press

Copyright © 2012 Haunted Waters Press

My flash fiction story “Leaving the Guise” is featured at Haunted Waters Press website. It takes place in Verannia, and tells the tale of a young shapeshifter who is deciding on his true form.

Also check out the beautiful Spring 2012 issue of From the Depths, the literary journal of Haunted Waters Press.

MarchMadness Blog Challenge 2

The weak wind carried the scent of resin mixed with rotting leaves. Vret turned his face to the breeze, its sound mixing with the steady breathing of the prisoner. Leaves rustled as the king’s man shifted in his spell-induced slumber. The thought of toying with his former imprisoner crossed his mind, but he cast it aside.

But the demon had already decided.

His skin thickened and its tone changed into mottled greens. Pieces of cloth fell off his growing body as he stepped towards his prey. Leisurely his claws grabbed the human and slammed him against a pine, breaking the spell. The man’s mouth opened and closed in a silent plead.

Maw hanging open he breathed in the fear the human exuded. He needed more. Gently his demon pushed him aside.

“Little human.” The words flowed from his mouth, in his voice, but they belonged to the demon. “My puppet shall enjoy watching.”

Thick needles pierced the man’s skin, growing trough his flesh. The screaming would alert the hunting party. They’d take him away, keep him alive for questioning. No, his fate does not belong to them. The tip of his claw rested on the man’s throat for a moment before piercing it.

MarchMadness Blog Challenge 1

Timony Souler has a new blog challenge again. Take a look at the prompts on her blog. Didn't have much time to write, but I managed to scrape this up.

The cell door opened with a groan. Vret lifted his eyes from a rat to the man who entered: he bore the King’s insignia on his clothes and in his hands he held scroll and a phial.

“I was possessed by a demon.” Vret’s mouth moved slowly, the poison he’d been forced to drink sapping away his strength. “A greater one.”

The man shoved the scroll into the shapeshifter’s hands. “Verannian law dictates that a shapeshifter must prove they were not aiding the demon.”

“No one can.” He shook his head feebly. “Some would allow a demon to possess them for power, but not I.”

“Your fate is sealed, shapestealer.” The stopper of the phial came free with a pop. Steps echoed in the small cell.

“Please, no! Mercy—”

The king’s man wrenched the shapeshifter’s mouth open. A growl warned him before Vret’s teeth sunk into his hand.

“Thought I was weak and helpless?” Vret’s hands curled around the man’s throat. He fell limp, sliding onto the floor where the rat still stood.

Vret knelt down. He placed a finger beneath the rat’s snout and lifted her eyes to him. ”They would have killed me. Tell the others what you saw.”

First Campaigner Challenge: Tainted

This is my entry to the First Campaigner Challenge. Here are the rules:

Write a short story/flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, including a poem. Begin the story with the words, “Shadows crept across the wall”. These five words will be included in the word count.

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), do one or more of these:

• end the story with the words: "everything faded." (also included in the word count) (Check)

• include the word "orange" in the story

• write in the same genre you normally write (Check)
  

• make your story 200 words exactly!

Tainted

Shadows crept across the wall and along the floor, attaching to clawed feet and thick tails that scraped along the ground. Arre watched her kin pass. She wouldn’t take part in the search for survivors. A shudder ran along her spine; the creatures were like mirror images of herself. Stunted wings folded against drawn skin, black tongues writhing in their maws, awaiting the taste of flesh.

What a distorted, hated being she’d become, marred by the use of tainted magic. One time wouldn’t affect her, she had thought. She’d protected her village from the onslaught of monsters, but they never stopped coming. Each time she changed a little, until she became one of them.

She opened her maw wide, wishing she could devour herself and end her cursed existence.

Rays of light flowed along the earth, bouncing off the armor of a hired warrior. She’d killed him. Even he had failed to defeat her, not once had the blade touched her. Awkwardly her clawed fingers curled around the blade’s handle. She lifted it, pressed the tip against her chest, shifted it a little to the left.

Relief mingled with pain rushed through her. Everything faded.

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If you enjoyed the story, please like it here. I'm number 163.

Nightgale Blog Challenge: The Unfinished Tale

Fourth and last entry to Nightgale blog challenge. Thank you Glitterlady and other participants for the great stories. David A. Ludwig has written a summary of the challenge, read it here.

Emma sought the words her father would have chosen. Did the dragon’s scales glint or gleam as it shifted atop its mound of treasure? No, he would have first described the gold, rubies, and magical relics strewn into a pile and then revealed the dragon lying atop the fortune.

The words were right, now she had to write them down. She held up one of her father’s pages, studied the form of the letters. How the top of t’s curved, how the i’s were a little slanted and how the ink stains became more frequent when the pace of the story grew faster.

Like a muse, the memory of her father guided her hand. She worked throughout the night, studying the pages her father had written before death had claimed him. When her work was done she snuck back into her father’s study and hid the papers below a cupboard. As if they’d fallen there.

Come morning, she pretended to find them. She held her breath for a moment; she would have to sound surprised and elated at the “discovery”, otherwise they would see through her ruse.

“Mama! Lil’ brother!” Emma held one of the papers in her hand. “Come see what I found!”

“I’m not little!”

“I found some papers. The letters look like dad’s handwriting. ” She swallowed; mother had furrowed her brow. “And they pick up where father’s story left off.”

“Mama, read it to me!” Her brother bounced up and down, brown locks mimicking the movement. He’d believed the lie. Not much else mattered. “I want to know what happens next!”

“You’ll have to sit down and listen.” Mother had a knowing smile on her face as she walked in to the den holding the papers and began reading her daughter’s words.

Emma smiled; father hadn’t told her the ending of the story, but it had been clear to her. The beggar boy would outwit the dragon, not slay it, and return to his family a rich young man. Her little brother liked simple, happy endings. They made him smile when nothing else could.

Nigthgale Blog Challenge: A Final Gift

My third entry to Glitterlady's Nightgale blog challenge. Takes place in Verannia.

The earth mage plodded through the woods, fingers touching rough bark of a pine and naked limb of a birch as he walked past his old friends. Snow crunched beneath his feet and clung to his boots.

Weariness forced him to sit under a pine. The tree was old, wounded by the years and twisted by the wind. The mage studied the signs of great age with mild envy; he had lost the opportunity to grow old.

He had healed the ill and lifted the spirits of those in need for ten years now. But when the plague had come to North, he had spread himself too thin trying to help everyone, and caught the damn disease himself. It was a mistake and he had to pay the price, but he refused to die behind closed doors, surrounded by sorrow and decay.

He would die in the pure snow; his body would feed the earth and the trees which stood sentry between his home and the Ice Barrens. Gently he touched the scaly bark of the pine. Perhaps he could help the tree survive a little longer.

He reached outwards, grasped the threads of life flowing beneath the smooth bark, and began binding his body to the trunk. The predators would have to find something else to eat; besides, his diseased flesh might sicken the animals.

Tears appeared along the surface of the tree, resin seeped down onto his shoulders. The golden resin flowed down along his body until it touched the ground, where it hardened. More resin covered him, reaching up to his neck. The mage sighed out his last breath as he left the world behind. But a part of him would stay in this world, feeding the old tree.

Nighgale Blog Challenge: The Sacrifice

This is my second entry to Glitterlady's Nightgale blog challenge. I'm sorry it's late, I had a busy week and hit a wall with the story.

PROMPT:

Immortality comes to you, you do not go to Immortality.

The sacrifice had ceased screaming. Blood from the tear on his throat trickled down the sides of the stone altar, dripping on to the white flowers laid around the slab. Gibbet smiled; the first victim had been hard, but the time he got to the tenth he’d gotten used to the pleading and the threats. All a part of his quest for immortality.

The deity of life had ignored his request for years, but he could not ignore the death knells of his followers for long.

The dead man’s hand twitched and Gibbet quickly stepped back. Was it time?

Slowly the corpse’s hand rose to the gaping wound on his throat. Pinching the wound close, the man sat up and stared Gibbet in the eyes.

”Stop killing my followers!” The corpse’s face was beetroot red from anger. “I’m busy enough as it is without having to resurrect them.”

Good, he had the deity’s attention now. “Give me what I prayed for and the slaughter will end.”

The man’s mouth twisted as the deity considered. “Eternal youth is only for the High Priests.”

Gibbet’s mind wandered to the painting he had walked past every morning. Men like him being ripped apart by monsters, drowning in waste, subjected to horrors beyond his imagination. He’d committed murder several times. It was either immortality or the Underworld for him.

“I will continue killing your followers until you strike me down.”

The deity arched an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t I do that right now?”

Gibbet hid his fear in false scoff, “What kind of deity of life would you be?”

“Hmm… you are correct. I cannot kill.” The deity lifted the man’s free hand to rub his chin. “Ah, if you will stop slaughtering my followers, then yes, I shall grant you immortality.”

The deity set the dead man’s hand atop his head and muttered in a low voice. For a moment Gibbet feared the deity would twist his head, snapping his neck, but the god of life couldn’t kill.

He felt the deity’s voice more than heard it. The words settled on him and slipped beneath. He could feel a change, something fundamental leaving his body.

“You’re now an immortal, bastard.” The deity spat the words.

Gibbet smiled as he bowed his head. “I will never grow old, I am forever young.”

The deity burst into laughter. “Forever young? Hah! No, you will rot, but you will not die. I was impressed with you, working and praying diligently. I would have answered your prayers and given you eternal youth, but you strayed from the righteous path.”

All expression faded from the man’s face. His hand fell from his throat; the deep wound had knitted shut, leaving behind only a thin scar. The priest’s eyelids slid down, then shot open widen.

“You slit my throat!” The man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Gibbet, who just stared at him blankly. This had gone all wrong. Perhaps the god of death would grant him real immortality or at least take back his brother’s curse.

Character Anger Management

When I saw the prompt on Timony's blog, I immeadiately thought of Auburn, one of my characters :)

Auburn lifted her head from the table, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she stared at the odd man. So he was going to teach her how to resist the urge to threaten the other characters.

“Welcome to the Character Anger Management class of 2012. I’m Bert, your instructor. I’ve written many stories with placid characters and with my help you too can become calm and collected.”

It was her writer’s fault. She’d talked about how people made a resolution for every New Year. Hers could be to tone down the anger, since the other characters were afraid of her. No one had outright complained, though, likely because they were too scared to do that.

Auburn’s eyes wandered up and down his odd attire. “What the hell are you wearing? I’ve seen my writer in weird clothes, but…”

Bert frowned. “They’re called jeans. And where’d you learn the word ‘hell’? Aren’t you from a fantasy world?”

“My writer uses the word all the time. Oh, and ‘for the love of all that is good’ and ‘perkele’, although I don’t know what that means.” Her brow creased as she sought other words her writer used to describe her and other unruly characters. “Well, too many to list.”

“Uh, huh... Well, let’s get to know each other, shall we?” He nodded to a thing of muscle and horns. ”You can start.”

“You annoy me, I rip tongue out!” The ogre lifted a club above his head.

“If anyone annoys me, I will rip their tongue out, clean the window with it and insert it in their—” She fell quiet. Everyone stared at her. Even the ogre was giving her a wary glance. Didn’t they recognize creative threating when they heard it? “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The instructor’s mouth hung open, his pen dropped to the floor and rolled to the far end of the room. Silence fell again.

“Overkill.” The ogre muttered.

“Ahem, we’re trying to learn not to use such language.” He walked over to pick up the pen.

Auburn shrugged. “Well, I haven’t learned yet.”

“I see…” Bert gnawed the end of the pen. “Moving on, we’ll now discuss what pushes our buttons.”

“When people interrupt or try outdo me!” The ogre growled.

“Don’t blame others if you can’t come up with better threats than ‘rip’ or ‘tear’.” Auburn snorted as she brushed a curl of hair of her face. The corners of her mouth began to tug upwards, next to the ogre sat a rather handsome pale young man with dark hair. “Hello there.”

The man smiled revealing sharp fangs.

“Look at me when talking to me!” The ogre stood up, his club lifted high.

“No longing gazes here. I’m sure your writers have plans for you—” Bert’s word and possibly life was cut short by the ogre’s club.

“You interrupt me!”

“My writer was paying for this!” Auburn pulled her dress over her head as she changed. Coppery fur covered her body and fingers sharpened into claws as a shriek of fury escaped her maw.

She dodged the ogre’s clumsy swing easily. Her jump landed her atop the beast’s head, her claws scratched futilely the thick skin. The eyes would be vulnerable.

“Stop it!” She heard Bert shout, but it was too late. The rush of battle sang in her blood, nothing could stop her.

“Why is my character bound like Hannibal Lecter?” Emilia’s mouth gaped as Auburn was rolled in. The shapeshifter rolled her eyes. “I know she has a foul mouth, but a muzzle?”

“Your character started a fight with an ogre and almost killed the poor monster. Then she tried to… passionately kiss a vampire. When he tried to bite her, she knocked his teeth out. You’re lucky they have surgery for that nowadays and that the ogre lives,” he drew a deep breath,” otherwise you’d be in deep trouble, missy. Goodbye!”

“Sorry Auburn, I had a chat with my boyfriend and turns out you’re his favourite character.” She pushed her smudgy glasses back up her nose. “It got me thinking, maybe other people will like you too, and if you did tone down your temper you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

“Mmh.”

“I’ll let you go when we’re back in Verannia.” She gnawed her lower lip for a moment before adding, “I don’t want you attacking any characters on the way there.”

“Mmh!” Auburn’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And please don’t attack me when I release you?”

“Mmmh…”

“Thank you, Auburn.” Emilia grabbed the handles and began rolling her back into the story.

#DivineHell: Treachery

We've reached the end. Hope you enjoyed the five circles of Hell. Ya’ll come back now, y’hear?

“Lucifer is in his office. I wouldn’t disturb him I were you.” Rowan shot Edwin an annoyed glance.

“Oh god, shut up.” Edwin’s fingers curled around the doorknob, shaped like a demons head.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain!” The Tour Guide bellowed in anger.

“What?“ As he turned around, a thick book with a cross embedded on the cover smashed into his face.

Something moved in the darkness of the closet. “Sir?”

“God demanded that the damned have a day off once in a while. I disagreed. Rowan shows up, then I wake here.” Lucifer shifted into a more comfortable position. “Now that he’s ruined my life’s work he’s posing as a bloody Tour Guide! It was supposed to be damnation without relief!”

“I though you and God had an agreement. How do we—“ A sharp glance from the Devil silenced Edwin.

“We wait until Cerberus finds help.”

#DivineHell: Violence

Welcome to the Seventh Circle. There's no turning back now :)

“Listen to me!” Edwin’s pale face had reddened from the shouting. “I am not one of the damned!”

Rowan’s brow furrowed, lines appearing on his forehead. “Well, what are you then?”

“An above ground employee.” He buried his face in his hands. “Now, please take me to Lucifer. I have a message for him.”

“You’re lying to get out of your punishment.” Rowan flung an accusing finger at Edwin, who returned it with a flat stare.

“You - asked for this.” Fear was written clearly on Rowan’s face as he hit the wall. Edwin’s free hand was drawn back, fingers in a tight fist.

Eyes wide Rowan uttered: “You wouldn’t dare.”

Leisurely Edwin’s fingers curled around The Tour Guide’s throat. “I work part-time for the Devil.”

Rowan looked down, then up. This was not what he had signed up for. “Alright! I’ll take you to Lucifer!”

#DivineHell: Fraud

DivineHell challenge continues. Congratulations for making it this far down :)

The Tour Guide waved his hand in greeting. “Ah, hello Edwin, did you find your level?”

“I'm not—” Edwin sighed wearily. “What’s happened to the punishments of the damned?”

“The Boss decided the damned needed a little break.” The smile on Rowan’s round face was innocent.

“What?” Edwin’s jaw dropped. Slowly an expression of realisation crept across his face. “You don’t work here, do you?”

“Of course I work for the devil.” Behind his back Rowan crossed his fingers. “You calling me a fraud?”

Edwin crossed his arms across his chest. “Well, what’s the devil’s favourite song?”

Rowan’s face went utterly blank. “March of Mephisto?”

“Yes, you’re right…” Edwin said. No, he thought. What the hell was going on? Lucifer loved “Fire” by Arthur Brown. He always started the day by shouting “I am the god of hellfire!”, everyone knew that. He would get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

#DivineHell: Heresy

Second part of the DivineHell challenge. The tour of Hell continues…

The Tour Guide of Hell fanned himself with the list of the damned and their punishments as he walked downwards. Stopping at the lip of a pit he waved his hand and said: “And here are the heretics.”

“God is dead!” A solitary fist rose from the dimness.

“Well then, who put you in here?” Rowan pushed a young man in a cape and pointed hat into the pit. “Off you go, pagan.”

The youngster stumbled down; once he regained equilibrium he threw off his hat and stepped on it. “I died while live-roleplaying, I’m not a real heretic!”

“That’s what they all say!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Now, begin writing the Hail Marys. You’ve got plenty of work to do before the end of times.”

A damned lifted his hand. “What happened to the flaming tombs?”

“Are you complaining about your punishment? They were a bit of an overkill.”

#DivineHell: Limbo

Lady Antimony continues to supply us with fun challenges. This week is all about Hell, burn, baby, burn! Unfortunately, I don't seem to be able to write seriously about Hell, death, or things of that nature. But I hope you like it anyway :)

“Welcome to Limbo, the first circle of Hell! I am Rowan, the Tour Guide of Hell,” a man in bright red and orange bellowed. “I’m sure you’re all excited to be here.”

Silence filled the room to the brim; a few of the damned ones shuffled their feet as they cast wary glances at each other.

“So glad to see so many happy faces.” The tour guide grabbed one of the damned by the shoulder. “You’re one of the lucky ones moving downwards. What’s your name and how did you end up here?”

“Edwin, I think I took a wrong turn…”

“Don’t they all, walk right off the straight and narrow.” He shoved Edwin towards the gaping black hole. Before it someone had placed two sticks supporting a low-lying pole. “Now go ahead, do the dance. I’ll see you down below when you’re through having fun!”

From the Depths from Haunted Waters Press

The Winter 2011 issue of From the Depths, a quarterly literary journal from Haunted Waters Press, is now available. This first issue of From the Depths features poetry, flash fiction and short stories and “pays tribute to water, the source of our inspiration.” It contains a piece of flash fiction called “Thalassa” (p. 21), my first published story. I hope you like it and the other works. I think the people at HWP did a splendid job with the design and the layout.

You can read the journal below by clicking at the Expand button or at Issuu.

Open publication - Free publishing