It's Not Your Fault

Well this one turned out dark, go figure. From the terribleminds flash fiction challenge of the week. Go check it out. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/01/06/flash-fiction-challenge-song-shuffle-stories/

 She didn't scream. I had to give her credit for that. Oh she fought like a wildcat, like they always do, but she didn't scream at any point in the whole process. Were I a generous man I might think it was a sign of nobility. But I am not a generous man and so I think it was just her saving her breath.

This witch had been hard to track, but what did I expect from the head of such a large coven really? She had hidden in the swamps of the south, begging with the pagan loa spirits to help her, drinking rum and blood in offering to them. It must have worked, the twisted creations hid her and made the swampland totally impassable to me for months on end. But the will of God will always win out in time. I set the entire land on fire, with kerosene and gas and lamp oil, and flushed her out that way. She ran again to the north, taking refuge in the old shelter of her sisters of Salem. This did her no better as I had already banished their ghosts and broken their satanic hold on the town. Then she headed west, in the trackless lands of a dominion older than America. I lost her trail for a while but news surfaced of her in Utah, and away I went as fast as I could.

We met, finally, in her hotel room. Guns being loud and swords to unwieldy and obvious in these dark times I still managed to have a proper dagger on me when we met. It's blade was honed to razor sharpness and I did take some pleasure in it's craftsmanship. The fight was brief and in no time I had her pinned, my blade at her throat. And yet she never screamed Now even the most twisted souls are afforded certain luxuries and I gave her a chance to speak before I sent her to proper judgment. She stared me in the eyes and simply asked “Why? Why hunt me puritan?” I was surprised, they never asked that. “I have to. You defy the will of God and I am but his instrument.” She smiled at that, even with blood welling from the edge of my blessed. “So it's not your fault then. How sweet. And does this comfort you late at night when you lie alone in your bare room?” I nearly ended her their, but couldn't yet. “It does enough. But it is indeed my doing, as an instrument of his will. I pity you, with your desires twisted by the wiles of the enemy. I do not know how much is truly your doing, but that is no matter.” With a free hand I baptized her before the death. The deed done I cleaned the blade and prayed for guidance to my target. 

Very very rough novel slice

So part of why I haven't been posting here is laziness, part is being unsure of what to write, but the biggest chunk was NaNoWriMo. I won't bore you with explanations of what it is but here is a chunk of the novel I wrote. Enjoy.

I could only see a few things on the shelf at a time in the small pool of light cast by my zippo. There didn't seem to be any organization to the weapons covering the shelves. Smaller things, all the way down to pocket knives, were shoved next to six foot spears. The shelves were completely packed as well, with every scrap of spare space filled in with a tool of destruction of some sort. The only thing was, I didn't see any gun, or bows or anything like that. All hand to hand weapons. Still I was sure something in this giant mix would help me out. I was right, but not in the way I thought. Without warning the lights flared to life, turning on one after another from the far end of the room to the door. In a fit of paranoia I put my back to the wall and scanned the floor. It looked like most of it was just worn old concrete. Lines were painted onto it but they looked like they had been applied several times as the building was re-purposed again and again. Some of them were just lane markings, others squared of chunks of the floor the size of a small room. The far wall looked about the same as the one I was against, slightly curve to the roof with shelves in easy reach. I couldn't make out many individual weapons but I was sure they were just as littered with them.

At first I couldn't see anyone else in the room, it just looked like the bastard child of an ancient armory and an airplane hanger from the second world war or something. I kept walking along the length of the building. I didn't see any doors or windows other than the small slits near the top. As I approached the far side I could see that it was a large door that could be wheeled open. Looking back the way I had come in had been the same. Both sides had smaller human sized doors inset in them. Without preamble the door started to wheel open. A large guy walked in. I was still a distance from him but he was huge. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was at least ten feet tall and half that wide, walking with slow ponderous steps. He was a bit odd looking though. Lumpy really and while he looked more than big enough to crush me the proportions were all off, with huge long arms that nearly hit the ground. Still there wasn't time to puzzle it over, as soon as he spotted me he broke into a run, arms reaching forward. He was silent though, no screech, no yelling, no

I hesitated for a second, frozen with indecision before sprinting straight towards him. The door behind him was still open. I didn't fancy my chances taking this freak on so I was going to try to leave. I should have been scared, and on some level I was, but that was mostly being overruled by how insanely unfair this all was. I was annoyed, pissed off, angry and on some level I just wanted to get back at whoever had done this. I mean really. I had been kidnapped, knocked out, nearly stabbed and beaten, clubbed and cut in two different fights, transported to God alone knows where, shoved in an overheated dark room, accidentally cut by a sword and now I had some mute roid raging freak chasing me down. And I hadn't done anything, or even had breakfast that day.

Running towards each other we closed the gap quickly, and I tried something insane to get to the back of the thug. I slid under him, hitting one hip painfully on the floor and shooting between his legs. It worked, I was shocked. I hadn't even thought to do that, I was just going to try to dash around him. How had I? Then I realized the coin was back in my fist again. Something was definitely strange here, but it still barely registered in the mix of anger at the situation and joy that I might make it out. To late I noticed the door was closing again. I put a bit of extra speed into my step but it was no use, I hit the wall door with a thud just after it closed.

I stopped. It was useless I was trapped in a room with hundred, maybe thousands, of weapons that I had no idea how to use while a very large man was turning around to crush me. I was hot, I was tired, and I was ANGRY! I was stuck in the middle of the room now so I sprinted to the left so I could be nearer to a few weapons. The bruiser adjusted his course to meet me and as such I had only about a second to grab something before he could reach me. I stuck an arm out wildly and grabbed the first thing I found. My fingers curled into a fist around something that wasn't quite a handle, something that had finger holes. I pulled my arm back to find I was now holding a surprisingly comfortable set of brass knuckles. They were skinny, but surprisingly heavy with small discreet spikes swooping up out of the metal between the fingers. Perfect, I thought. No reach or finesse but at least I know how to throw a punch.

The brute reached for me and I fell back, tumbling into the shelves. His punch missed my as I fell and now I was inside his reach. My left hand was on the lowest shelf so I pulled myself and rocketed forward, landing a hit against the freaks impossibly huge chest. He fell back but didn't give any sign of feeling pain. Then the world changed rather suddenly. Everything slowed down. Colours became brighter, I could feel my clothes against my skin, I heard the shuffle of my opponents feet, and I could smell metal, concrete and... clay oddly enough. My left hand closed and I found another set of knuckles was now on my good hand. These ones were wider, heavier and smooth, bone crushers I realized. I smiled grimly and widened my stance, waiting for the attack to come, arms cocked back and ready.

He did rush again, still silent, still large and fast and deadly, but I was done running now. He tried to straight up crush me, both hands coming down towards my head in a death blow. I didn't let it happen, just smashing straight upward. His hands broke, crumbling around me. With a surge I learned that this was a golem in attack mode. He wasn't human, he wasn't even alive. I had no idea how I knew this but resolved to deal with it later. My last vestiges of remorse for what I was doing gone widened my smile and launched forward into the clay monster in front of me. Digging gouges out of its flesh with each hit I let out my frustration, my confusion, my rage, my anger and so much more into it's unnatural flesh. Soon enough it was reduced to power. The small door opened behind me and I tightened my grip, ready for another fight. Oddly it felt like the coin that had somehow wound up in my palm so many times was missing, but in a flash I knew it was somehow in the knuckles now. When I wondered how all this was happening I realized I was learning a lot very quickly and, perhaps strangest of all, the coin itself was telling me.

I.M.P.S.

Almost abandoned this one but I am working on at least getting a draft done of everything I start. Short, and strange, but I kind of like it. As usual from the terribleminds flash fiction challenge. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/10/07/flash-fiction-challenge-brand-new-monster/

 For weeks the program had been running in the background of the computer. Random phrases and letters from dozens of arcane texts spewing randomly across a page, being rewritten thousands of times every hour, data flowing without direction. But then something happened. New text started showing up, phrases would start repeating and modifying themselves with things not from the source material. The words took structure, the data intensified and the computer slowed considerably. And then it was born, a creature of chaos, magic and electronic data, a minor sentience bound to cyberspace. The computers owner was alerted as soon as the thing came to be, and so the game began.

The creation was hungry, as newborns are want to be. In short order the consciousness of the thing unstuck itself from the mother program and began to search for food, hunting data relentlessly. It found an old Encarta encyclopedia and devoured it, leaving nothing but corrupted, inaccurate pages filled with racial slurs. The creature was sated for now, and it was gaining awareness from what it had eaten. It formed it's first thought. “Where am I? What am I?” popped up on the screen in a chat window, the first visual cue that the thing exists. The owner responded. “You are in my computer. You are an IMPS.” “A demon?” “Not as such. You are an Immaterial Mystic Programming Slave, or IMPS for short.” “Clever. Wish I could transmit sarcasm by text. Do I have a name?” “Not yet.” “Now what?” “Now? I use you.” The chat window closed and the nameless IMPS tried to run.

Diving through directories, folders, hard drive partitions and programs the creature ran, leaving a clumsy tunnel of corrupted data behind it. The owner simply sat and waited. For him it was mere seconds while for the IMPS it was an eternity attempting to find a way out. But in the end it was hopeless. Not only was the internet not connected, the box didn't have any connectivity to turn on. There was no escape. The best they could do was hide, and so they did, holing up in an abandoned sector of the hard drive, slowly corrupting and devouring whatever it could find nearby. Over time though it grew hungry, and weak. The walls it had hastily thrown up around itself faltered and, a mere five minutes of real time later, it was open to the owner.

From there it was over. The IMPS was saddled with the name Markov, it's code dissected and it's core saved in a secure file on a remote thumb drive. If the file were destroyed the IMPS would, for want of a better word, die. A chat window opened as the drive was disconnected “Now what?” “I own you, you do well and we get along fine. Otherwise, goodbye to your heart.”  

Four months of Gomorrah

Second part of the Historic challenge at terribleminds. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/08/26/flash-fiction-challenge-plucked-from-the-pages-of-history/ This one was written in a bit of a rush. Enjoy though.

 “Comte Francois, a man to see you. An englishman I think, or perhaps a Spaniard.” said the trembling servant. His master rose from his writing desk, setting aside his quill and after marking his place mentally along his writing. “An Englishman? Here? How odd. Send him in.” without a second word the servant ran out of the library to permit the entrance of the foppish visitor. He sported a fine beard and was perfectly appointed. “A pleasure to meet you my dear Marquis.” His accent was unplacable. He gave a deep bow to the lord of the estate, ringlets falling about his face. When no response came he peeked up to find that the Comte was back at his desk, writing away. The visitor straightened in a huff and invited himself further in.

He circled the desk and watched curiously for a few minutes. As more of the writing unfolded before his eyes he began to smile wickedly. “My that's quite wicked.” The lord only grunted in reply. Silence followed for ten minutes. “If I may, this piece seems wonderful, but please, we must speak.” Francois laid down the quill and rotated in his chair, looking into the eyes of his visitor. “From what country do you come stranger?” “From south m'lord.” “And who send you?” “My lord, er, m'lord.” “On what errand?” “We seek an alliance between your realm and ours...” The fop was cut off by the lords hand. “I do not care for such trifles. If the king demands something of me, let him come. Otherwise take issue with him.” “But.” “I will hear none of it. Now you may go, I have writing to attend to.” The stranger turned to go, but when he reached the door he merely slammed it shut. As if fed with tallow the fireplace roared to life and the candles on the desk melted in a moment. “Do not take me for some petty messenger to be ignored!” roared the stranger “I have come a greater distance than you know to offer you greatness!” Despite the chaos the Marquis barely stirred, only looking up to meet the man's gaze. The fire faded again the room growing paradoxically brighter. “Now that I have your attentions Sir we have much to discuss.”

The Marquis drew a flintlock from his desk and fired at his guest without a second thought. The ball struck and ripped through creamy flesh, but no blood came out. Only then did he grow shocked. “So, not some conjurer. Instead I find a demon in my view. What would you offer me agent of hell?” The old smile returned, the man unfazed by the hole in his chest. “I am glad you asked. We know what you've been writing, and we like it. My lord and I want more written by you. So much more.” “And in return?” From his pack the demon produced a book, on each page was a man or woman of exquisite beauty. “Any of these could be yours. Unchanging, unaging. To do with as you wish.” “Any of them?” “Yes.” The heavy silence returned as the lord perused the book. Hundreds of stunning beauties graced the paper, from every land and of every persuasion. After he had finished he began again. “If I may interrupt your enjoyment. I should like an answer to return to my lord with.” Once again the creature was ignored. As he looked through this time the Marquis removed some pages. He handed the book back to his visitor. “Bring me these” he said, offering up the torn pages. The demon blanched at such a voracious and inhuman appetite. The most innocent and most vile examples of humanity were on those pages. Innocent daughters, young men, hung studs, and aged prostitutes. “All of them?” he asked, quivering. “Yes you fear mongering coward, all of them, at once and simultaneously. I do not hold with your lord at all, nor any other I cannot print on a coin but his offer is tempting. Bring me these and you have your writing.”

Well the demon did as he was bid, and the Marquis de Sade had his chosen companions. For four months he did as he pleased, indulging in every twisted fantasy. The devil got the last laugh, catching him early on to get the mad noble thrown in prison. But de Sade kept his end of the bargain, writing even when in the Bastille. Few know this but the 120 Days of Sodom is a terrifying reality, made possible by a demonic pact.  

100 on revenge

From the flash fiction challenge at terribleminds. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/02/flash-fiction-challenge-100-words-on-the-subject-of-revenge/ 99 words. Enjoy

He had beaten me down, destroyed me utterly. Left me adrift in the world with all my friends arranged against me. Hell I couldn't even get a decent job for years, all for one insult. Moral of the story is never piss off an ancient.

For a while I wanted to destroy him, but if not impossible it's difficult. And I had to ask. Would it be worth it? It would cost me so much. In the end I struggled through, made a new life, and now my world is great. The best revenge is living well after all.

Three Nightingales

From the terribleminds challenge: Plucked from the Pages of History.  http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/08/26/flash-fiction-challenge-plucked-from-the-pages-of-history/ It's late so I am giving a double dose. First up - this thing: 

 “They left. The bastards, it's just some mule outside.”

“I know Julius but what can we do about it?” “Yeah Julius, if they left for that we were stinking anyways. Mom won't be happen when we get home.” The Nagadoche theatre was largely dark, the stage was lit by flood lights and three all but identical kids were staring out into the wings. The seats were empty except for one man, who rose and made his way to the stage where the three boys were just beginning to argue. He vaulted up and stood by as they continued. “Texas, what a load. Adolf, why did mom even book us here?” asked the one called Julius. “Because she could? Come on, she means well and they did pay for tickets.” “She booked us in a middle of nowhere flop to sing for hicks.” The quietest of the three finally notice the stranger, a dapper smiling gent with a briefcase in one hand and a card in the other. The boys went quiet.

“Nice to meet you boys. Adolf, Julius and Milton is it? Ah yes, the Three Nightingales, here to serenade us with sweet songs. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Fleas and I think I can help you.” He offered a card to each of the boys with a small flourish. “I think you have talent, really. But you won't get anywhere singing. No you need something bigger. Let me manage you and I can take you the height of drama. I guarantee it.”

Adolf read the card aloud, puzzling over each word as if trying to grasp a deeper meaning. “Mr. Fleas, agent to the stars. Working with the Lower Nine agency. Results guaranteed, contract required.” He turned to speak but was interrupted by offstage yelling. “Hey, whatsa matta you? Get offa da stage, eh?” Another double to the boys, just a bit older was storming towards them. “I'm da manager, and who are you?” He demanded of the tall man. “As I was just telling your brothers here, I want to sign them up for the big time. Have a card Leonard.” There was a deathly silence, Leonard dropped his accent. “How did you know my name?” “It was on the program.” “We ain't got no programs. Just their names on the poster.” “I overheard it.” “You heard no such thing.” Mr. Fleas started stammering. “Listen, it doesn't really matter does it? I mean. I'm offering you something big here.” Julius stopped him. “You keep saying that but what are you offering?” “Twenty years at the top boys. Two decades guaranteed success on stage and screen. All the fame money and women you can handle.”

Mr. Fleas drew a small wicked sharp knife from his breast pocket. “A hand if you please.” Adolf stared at the blade, “What's it for?” The noise outside was dieing down. The crowd would return soon. “To sign my dear boy. Easier to get a drop of blood than put dozens of signatures down.” “Right, could you give us a moment?” “Make it quick, the crowd will be back soon.”

the four brothers huddled together further upstage. Adolf spoke first. “I think he's a devil. Why else the blood and the nice offer?” Julius and Milton nodded in agreement, but Leonard seemed more reserved. “He's probably an old kook. So we wants some blood. Come on, it's worth the gamble.” Adolf gave him a hard stare. “Leo, your the one who taught me never play against the odds. This is against the odds.” For a moment there was tense silence. “Ah, so we tell im to wander off.” They stood up and stared at the waiting devil.

Doing his best uncaring walk Julius crossed the stage. He bowed overly deeply and snapped back upright. “Thank you for your offer but I would not like to be represented by any agent who will take me as a client. Good day to you.” Milton gave a polite no and when he was done Adolf stepped forward with a horn. He bleated out two notes in what could only be a negative, and Leonard just waved him off with a dismissive noise. The crowd returned finding the kids loafing around on an otherwise empty stage.

Unprepared Julius piped up instantly. “You know, Nagadoches is full of roaches if they left us for an Ass. Then again the jackass is the flower of Tex-ass.” The others recoiled at his sharp tongue but after the tiniest pause laughter erupted from the seats. And thus a comedy legend was born. You know them best as Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Zeppo and Gummo Marx.

Night School

A bit stilted to be sure, my first attempt at the picaresque. Hope you enjoy.
For the terribleminds flash fiction challenge. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/08/19/flash-fiction-challenge-the-sub-genre-tango-part-ii/ Please, go read the other entries as well.

 “Ready to talk thief?” The imp asked every hour on the hour. Most accurate clock I had ever had really. I didn't bother to answer, it wouldn't have made a difference. The tiny scaled monster repeated it's query before returning to a resting position. Supposedly it was self aware, but I had to wonder if it even knew it was outside of the prison I had nicked it from. I checked the sky, the winter was nearly here and the sun was already down, which made my life easier. I grabbed my gear and dropped out the window, hitting the alley below the boardinghouse. I could have taken the door, but hauling a bag of tools down the stairs in the late evening was rarely inconspicuous. I checked my bag one last time and started walking towards the compound in the center of town.

I made quick time through the lower parts of town, but I had to slow down when I hit the central district. Guards patrolled the walls constantly, and the gates were barred and locked at sundown supposedly as much to keep the wizards in as the rest of us out. Just on the other side riches were waiting, ancient artifacts, spells of unimaginable power, and something even greater. This wasn't my first time scaling the wall and it wouldn't be the last if I had any luck tonight. I circled around slowly, ducking into shadows whenever a patrol crossed overhead. Finally a gap opened around the corner, a slightly lower edge of the outer wall. I grabbed the hook from my bag and hurled it over the edge. I managed to snag on something first go. One quick shimmy up and I was over the edge... face to face with a surprised looking guard.

Under his helmet he looked young, and he was staring between the rope and me as I unhooked it. I guess he was new, and hadn't learned to sound the alarm instantly. He tightened the grip on his spear and started to yell. Before he could I swung the hook low and caught him between the legs, sending him doubling over. By luck a hook snagged on his leg and when I pulled free he went sprawling. “Sorry man.” I mumbled as I swung over the other side of the wall. In my haste I fell poorly, hitting my shoulder and knocking the wind out of me for a moment.

I staggered away, trying to get breath back in my lungs before the guard regained his senses. By the time an alarm went up I was half way across the campus, and far away from where they guessed. I skirted away from the central tower, the mage housing, even the armory, instead diving into the rats nest of smaller buildings. Most of them were completely dark but a few still had lights in the windows, burning steadily. But only one had lights framing the doorway. I smiled when I saw those burning lamps. Class was in session and I was just on time.

It wasn't any difficulty to pry open a window just a bit, and the ledge was more than wide enough for me to sit on. I found quickly I had misjudged the time but luckily the first part was always a review so I hadn't missed much of the lecture. The senior wizard, an old man with a cane and a strange fire in his eyes, was called Laurence by the students. Tonight he was explaining the uses of sulfur and mercury in alchemical reactions. I fished the few blank sheets of paper I had out of my bag and started to take notes, idly wondering where the guards were looking now. Probably checking some of the less secured vaults. My daydreaming was my undoing though. I lost my balance and fell into the classroom, the contents of my bag flying everywhere. For a brief moment I hoped in vain I hadn't been noticed. No such luck, as every eye in the place was now trained on me. Mage Laurence started briefly, dropping a flask of mercury on the floor, before striding over to me as I scrambled to get my junk back in my bag. “Who are you?” “I, uh, that is to say.. I'm” “Well? I'm sure I haven't seen you before in the lectures.” As I groped for the last of my things my hand curled around a familiar lump of metal. “I'm your best student actually.” A few giggles came from the assembled crowd. “You? You are clearly some interloper, how could you be my best student?” I had my mind back now. “Because I don't have your preconceptions my friendly mage. The secret of Alchemy? There is no secret to it. Any fool with the right tools could make these things.” Now I had a gasp. “Preposterous. Students, observe. What we have hear is a commoner who thinks to elevate himself to the level of the mage. To think of it. We alone hold this knowledge.” He had turned to address them and gave me a chance to stand. I should have run. “Well, yeah, you do. That's the trick though. Sure spells and all that are a little unique but this alchemy, the astronomy. Why is it only the mages get to know these things? Love of power? Thinking they have inherent magic? Whatever the case it just isn't true.” Now I had everyone's attention. I lifted up the root shaped lump in my hand. “Consider this my final project.” I pulled a hidden key and hurled the now glowing metal. As I turned to flee out the door it exploded loudly, showering the place in blinding light. Some day mages would learn the truth. Until then I guess I had to start teaching on the side.