Blog Feed – Page 148 – Simon A Jackson

Blood Halls

Oh look its Wednesday again, so that mean’s short story time! This is a fantasy piece around 4300 words in length and involves two mortals and a witch. That’s about all I’m going to say. So let’s go!

“Shit! This is such a bad idea.” Peter says as he follows his friend Vance down the length of the seemingly never-ending tunnel, the stones of which glow an ominous red, like blood.

“Relax.” Vance fires back causally as Peter’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.

“Relax! Are you joking! We’re in the Blood Halls!” Peter fires back almost hysterical, as his eyes dart left and right over and over. He is sure something is going to jump from a shadowy corner and grab him. Even though there are no shadowy corners, except for where the walls meet the ceiling and nothing could hide in those tiny black voids.

“I know. Now just calm down and follow me.” Vance says trying to reassure and distract his friend as they continue to edge forward, deeper and deeper into the tunnel system.

“Following you is what got us into this place.” Peter fires back accusingly in the moments before he whips his head round at a sound he thinks he hears; only to find there is nothing there. However, the lack of discovery does nothing to ease his panic as his head now turns on a swivel, while his eyes dart this way and that. He has no idea if it’s effective, but it makes him feel a tad better.

“Quiet. We don’t want anyone to here.” Vance says calmly and without breaking his slow continuous edging forward, or his gaze ahead for that matter.

“No shit!” Peter manages sarcastically trying to sound confident even though he can hear his heart thundering so loudly and at such a pace that he is sure Vance and anything else, the any thing else being key in Peter’s eyes instead of the possible anyone, can hear it too.

“Stop your moaning.” Vance scolds, his patience now having grown thin.

“Oh I’ll stop when we’re out of here.” Peter fires back angrily, his fear forgotten for a few seconds, until he thinks he says a shadow move again. His eyes and head whip round in response, only to find that again nothing is there, as his teeth chatter.

“Jesus really, you’re going to keep going for that long?” Vance remarks, rolling his eyes exhausted by his friends continual whining, which isn’t helping either of them.

“Of course I fucking am! We’re in the Blood Halls!” Peter spits reminding Vance who it seems, at least as far as Peter can tell, has failed to grasp the scale of the danger they are in being in this place.

“You’ve said that already. Now zip it before you get us caught.” Vance responds bluntly now, his patience for his friends all but gone now that he seems adamant on doing little other than keep retreading old ground. Vance doesn’t need a reminder of where they are, he knows full well.

“I don’t like this.” Peter says after a short silence during which his heart rate hasn’t slowed a single beat, much like the mass of fear he feels weighing heavily upon him hasn’t.

“I can tell, seeing as you won’t shut up about it. Now come on.” Vance replies now completely out of patience for his friend’s ramblings as he continues to push forward slowly, carefully, but only for a few paces until he stops suddenly and waits.

But as Vance waits he hears nothing, not a single footstep, and more worrisome no queries or questions from Peter. A lance of dread rips up Vance’s spine as he breathes deeply in and then out several times before finally he feels able to turn back and look the way he’s come. It should mean that he can look Peter right in the eyes. Only Peter isn’t there, in fact nothing is there, except for empty space. Vance’s eyes roll shut as he prays that he’s mistaken, but when he opens them again he is faced with the same thing, nothing. Peter is gone and Vance is now alone.

It is at this point that Vance no longer feels any form of calm. Instead he feels only worry for his absent friend Peter, a man that had refused to shut up while wandering about the Blood Halls. It was Vance’s fault; he knows it and Peter had made sure to remind him of it as well, until his disappearance that is.

“What now?” Vance says to himself as his eyes dart this way and that searching for something, anything that might give him an idea of where Peter could have gone.

As his eyes search the space the tales of this place sneak into his mind, reminding him of the claims of demons and undead who wander the halls taking anyone bold, or stupid, enough to attempt to traverse their routes. No one has ever walked the Blood Halls and returned to tell the tales, so the stories go. Vance hadn’t believed it until now. He’d always questioned the notion that if no one survived, then how could anyone tell tales of what lay within? Or, for that matter, be so sure of the outcome they would face if they did venture within these red walls? Now however, Vance doesn’t care about any of the tales or rumours. He doesn’t even care of how possible it can be that everyone who has ever entered this place has never been seen again. He just simply wants to find his friend.

“Aaaaaaaaaah!” A voice screams, the volume of the terrified voice ringing through the halls, echoing.

Vance knows the voice is Peter’s as he breaks into a sprint in the direction he is sure it has originated from. He knows he is throwing caution to the wind as he dives down a new passage, identical to the last with its towering pillars and carvings. Everything is soaked in the same red glow, but at least it helps to illuminate his path, he thinks as he presses onward.

“Aaaaah!” A second scream echoes forth. This scream is shorter than the first but somehow it sounds both no closer than the last and no further away. Vance doesn’t understand, but he takes solace in the fact that he is neither better nor worse off, as he rounds a corner. Before him is yet another stretch of hallway, he had hoped for a doorway or stairs or something, anything other than another corridor really. His shoulders slump for the briefest of moments in response to the disappointment before he goes barrelling down this new stretch of the halls. He gets maybe a third of the way down the length of red bathed stone before he hears a third scream.

“Aaaaargh!”

This one, Vance realises, is closer but also not in the direction he is facing as he comes to a grinding halt. He scans his surroundings, but sees only solid red glowing stone walls. The carved statues and faces pitched and angry beneath the red glow they emit. They’re visages that do nothing to help quiet his thumping heart as he inhales and exhales deeply as he rapidly tries to catch his breath.

“Come on. Come on.” Vance says to himself, annoyed and frustrated by his own failings as his eyes scan the walls desperately as he turns on the spot.

Suddenly something catches the corner of his eye. When he turns to face it however he realises there is nothing there, so he returns to scanning the space around him until again he catches something out of the corner of his eye. Again Vance turns to look at the speck he is sure he saw at the periphery of his vision. And again he comes to find that there is nothing, at least until he turns his head very slightly to his right, at which point he catches another glimpse of something at the edge of his vision.

Vance’s brow furrows with a mixture of frustration and confusion as he tries to use his peripheral vision to analyse what lurks at the corner of his eyes. Then suddenly it clicks and he realises that he can’t see whatever it is by looking at it directly because it’s an illusion. He tests the theory by again looking at the space head on and finds that all he can see from his position in the centre of the corridor is the red walls, but as he turns his head his vision catches sight of it. There it is! It’s a lever, Vance realises now and it’s the same colour and stone as the walls around it. The lever is perfectly camouflaged as it blends in with its surroundings, until it is viewed from a particular angel. Not that the cleverness of such a thing matters now, Vance reminds himself, as he hurries to throw the lever.

He pushes against the protruding stone arm, putting all his weight behind the object, but it barely moves a millimetre. Even when he redoubles his efforts and puts enough force behind it that he is straining and roaring with effort, it seems to do little more than flex. Then when he is sure that he has no chance of anything happening on his third attempt the mechanism suddenly activates. The lever springs upward and clean out of Vance’s hands making an audible snapping sound as it moves. Vance meanwhile topples over backward onto the red stone floor, blinking in surprise as a section of the glowing wall springs into motion. The section of wall, taller than him, starts to shift left, making a grinding sound as it does, until it comes to a stop with a dull boom, revealing a new pathway. The new corridor is dimly lit by small walled mounted torches set at regular intervals.

With the spectacle now over and having not been set upon by any horrors as yet, Vance clambers back to his feet, dusts himself off quickly and then leaps forward into the dimly lit pathway. Within seconds he can feel the air in this passage is cooler as well as being damp. It’s a tighter moodier space than the uncomfortably warm red corridors. Nevertheless he continues to push forward, the space barely wide enough for him to get through, he notes, as his eyes probe at the flickering dim lights that he has to weave back and forth to avoid slamming into.

“Aaaargh!” A scream roars again from somewhere ahead of him.

The scream is louder now, Vance is sure of it as he turns a narrow slight corner in the pathway just beyond he spies a doorway, devoid of a door but brightly illuminated.

Vance takes several deep breathes as he tries to calm himself, but in truth his attempts are mute. His deep purposeful breathing having done little to calm him, as he wonders if anyone would be able to manage to stay calm here, in this narrow dimly lit space. Thankfully it isn’t long before he reaches the threshold of the door less doorway. But he doesn’t enter; instead he stands there, on the cusp of whatever room lies beyond, motionless. He listens for a sounds, any sound, from the space beyond the empty doorway.

He doesn’t know how long he stands in silence listening to only his own muffled breathing, but decides he can’t wait any longer as he carefully peaks beyond the threshold and into the room.

It feels like he’s playing a game of dare with the devil as he inches his head far enough round the doorway to get a view of the room. It’s cavernous and filled with candles, all of which are lit, their flames blazing brightly, as they sit in circles in the centre of the space. But that is not all he sees as he takes note of a great green fire roaring from within the circles of wax and fire. A hooded figure stands with their back to Vance as the green fire spits violently. Vance then spots the cage, suspended above the green flames within which Peter is locked, clearly trapped and unable to escape. Vance’s eyes go wide with terror as his eyes drill into the sight of his imprisoned friend, until he realises he’s been staring too long and ducks back round the doorway. He presses his back, hard, into the stone wall feeling its cool damp surface leech into his skin. The coolness chills him as he scrunches his eyes shut and wishes he and Peter were anywhere but here. He knows this was all his idea and that because of his actions Peter is now trapped in a cage above a fire, a green fire. Vance notes that he has never seen a green fire before. Red, orange, yellow, yes, but never green. How do you even get green fire? Vance wonders to himself before cursing his stupidity.

“Oora arar entoo fesar…” Vance then hears a voice chanting quietly. He assumes it has to be coming from the hooded figure seeing as that is the only person, other than Peter, that he can see and seeing is definitely a stretch.

What he doesn’t know is whether the figure has been chanting the entire time or whether the chanting has just begun. Does it matter? A voice in his head asks. It doesn’t, he replies mentally, but for what reason he doesn’t know as he concludes he has only one path of action and that’s to get closer. So having made such a decision Vance breaks from his hiding place as he dives through the doorway into the fire-y room. He makes sure to keep low as he takes cover behind a pile of fallen chiselled stones. The stones had once formed a section of the ceiling that resides somewhere high above his head, masked by the inky black shadows that swirl and dance above him. It’s like they’re taunting him, he thinks, as he glances upward several times before ultimately deciding that he must consciously resist the urge to glance their way. All they’re doing is to help add to your already substantial trough of fear; he hears a voice in his head declare.

“…arkoo bevat polel dingat…” Vance then hears the voice chant as he peers round the pile of shattered stone, but he finds his new position does little to help him see anymore than he could already see from the doorway. He curses his luck as it dawns on him that Peter has, as yet, not made any further sounds. The realisation sends waves of fear and dread washing over him as he manages, with some difficulty, to silently gulp down a lump stuck in his throat.

Vance had been sure, prior to this moment, that such a gulp would have been audible, but somehow, he doesn’t know how, he’s managed to keep it silent. The achievement gives him a small sense of relief as he dares to peer out from behind his cover in search of a new position even closer to the hooded figure.

He scans the room from side to side, but ultimately settles, without much delay, on a low wall that is just outside of the rings of candles at the centre of the room. He is sure this position will also give him a better angle, but then he’d thought that about his current position and been wrong. So he wonders, what does he really know? But he quickly forces such thoughts aside as he prepares himself with a few deep breathes in the moments before he makes a break for his new position. He hopes beyond hope that the figure doesn’t turn as he keeps his eyes on the hooded robe for nearly the entire time. Only breaking his gaze on them for a split second here and there to make sure he is headed on the right track, as he makes sure to keep low.

Vance crosses the mainly empty space without issue, making sure to have made no sound that wouldn’t have been lost in the figures continuous chanting. He huddles behind the wall of his new position as he takes note of how heavy his breathing is. He is sure that it’s a result of the fear he can feel gripping him tightly as he doesn’t want to find out what would happen to him if he was caught. Would it be a cage like Peter? Or would it be worse? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to, he decides, as he slowly and even more cautiously peaks out above the edge of the low wall. Thankfully, the figure hasn’t moved and is still chanting. Though, he does feel a shot of disappointment at the fact that somehow, even from this angle, the figure is still partially obscured.

“…efferen telahen waraven iolo…” Vance hears the hooded figure chant now, as his listens to the words. If they are words he doesn’t understand them as he stares, eyes locked, on the cage, below which the green flames roil and flare.

Peter, his knuckles as white as snow, continues to clench tightly to the vertical bars of his cage. His face, Vance can see now, is vague and his eyes blank and cloudy, almost as though he is stuck in some form of trance.

“…bendoo inganuroo.” The chanting voice concludes with satisfaction moments before they turn toward Vance, who shrinks behind cover immediately. He is sure that he was fast enough to withdraw before the figure would have been able to catch sight of him.

“Come forth, I know you’re out there.” The voice of the hooded figure, female and haunting, says confidently and without any hint of an accent.

Vance recoils in shock at the voices declaration. He doesn’t know whether his shock is because they have spotted him or whether it’s because the hooded figure can speak his tongue with an ease that he has never heard from anyone. He’d assumed that whoever the figure is would be unable, or unwilling, to speak as he does. He curses himself for having been spotted nonetheless. His heart thunders loudly in his chest as he contemplates what he should do. Should he run? Should he stay hidden? He knows he shouldn’t comply, that would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do, but much to his surprise that is exactly what he does do. He rises to his feet, revealing himself, his subconscious having decided that it is the only actual option. He’d have never made it back across the room and even if he had where would he go? The Blood Halls are a maze. He’d never find his way out, not before this figure got to him at least.

The low wall before Vance stops just below his waist as he raises his hands in surrender. He doesn’t know why he does it. He just feels like he should. But as he holds his hands aloft the hooded figure throws back their hood to reveal their face. It’s the face of a woman, with eyes as green as the flames before her, beautiful and lively. However, that is where the beauty of the face ends, for her skin is shrivelled and even decomposing in places. She looks almost as though she has risen from the grave after having been buried for months. Single strands of wispy grey hair hang from what is an otherwise scabbed and bald scalp, her forehead creased with deep angry lines.

“What…what are you?” Vance mutters in fear.

“Come forth simple man.” The woman orders, her voice cracking as she speaks.

Vance’s legs oblige without pause, even as he tries to fight and beg for them to stop they ignore him. Instead he is simply a passenger within his body, which having navigated the low wall, steps over the lit candle circles. He feels the heat from the flames as he steps over them. The rotting face smiles cruelly with a mouth too wide, exposing the teeth within her mouth that are as black as rot can make them. Vance feels sick at the sight of her, especially when his legs finally bring him to a stop, not of his own doing, a couple metres from the woman, who is giving off a putrid stench.

He isn’t sure if it’s a real smell or just a fabrication of his mind in direct response to the sight of her. Nevertheless he feels sick, he can’t deny it. The rotting woman however, knows nothing of and cares little about how Vance feels as she cocks her head one way and then soon after the other, surveying him with her burning eyes.

“You’ll do.” The woman says in the moments before she turns her attention back to Peter, who is still staring blankly. Though, Vance realises now that Peter’s eyes are focused on the rotting woman and not simply just dead ahead as he had previously thought.

“I’ll do for what? Who are you? Why are you holding my friend captive?” Vance launches into his tirade of questions without a care or thought.

But the rotting faced woman answers none of his questions as her left hand falls to her side, hidden from Vance’s view. Her hand reappears seconds later, her arm outstretched after having moved as quick as a flash, holding something he can’t quite comprehend.

Vance stares at the termination of her arm, where her long skeletal fingers reach from her wrist grasping an ornate bronze hilt. He blinks confused as his eyes adjust and his brain notes that he hasn’t reached the end of the trail. So again, his eyes continue their route past the hilt, down the blade, that gleams and shines, toward its point. As moves down its length it dawns on him too late what he will find at the end of the daggers blade, but even when it dawns on him he can’t stop his eyes from looking at the sight.

Vance wants to screw his eyes shut, to tell himself this is all a dream, but he can’t. His eyes won’t obey, so instead he is forced to gaze upon the dagger, the point of which is punctured through Peter’s throat, his friends’ eyes wide as a gurgling sound manages to escape from his agape mouth.

Vance pleads again for his eyes to close, but they continue to refuse to obey him as thick, almost black drops of blood, drip from the wound in the caged man’s throat. The blood drips toward with the green flames, the fire almost seeming to lance upward to meet the approaching blood drops as though it is thirsty and desperate for a taste.

“No. No. NO! WHY?!” Vance bellows in anger, which mixes with surprise as he realises that he still has control of his voice. He didn’t expect that. He can’t control any other part of his body so why would his voice be any different. He doesn’t know, but he realises his voice sounds too loud to his ears.

Suddenly, the lancing green flames leave the confines of the burnt pile of embers that must have created it, as it instead floats in the air. The green fire having now morphed into a ball of flame, dances in the air for a short time before twin tendrils erupt from opposite side of the sphere. The tendrils quickly pierce the eyes of the rotting woman, but she makes no sound as the ferocity of the green flame tendrils and then ultimately the sphere of fire are absorbed by her eyes.

With the ball of fire, and its tendrils, now gone, the woman turns to look at Vance, who is at first blinded by her still glowing green eyes, the brightness of which is searing to him. Before long the glow subsides allowing him to gaze upon the face behind them, the one that had been shrivelled and decomposing, with a too wide mouth, black and rotten teeth, grey wispy strands of hair across a scab covered bald head. They were all items which had made him feel sick to his stomach, but they are not the sights that he is seeing now. The once rotting face is now flawless, with porcelain white skin, full red lips beneath which sit straight pearl white teeth, while from her head thick black locks of hair reach down to the small of her back.

“What…are you?” Vance stammers consumed with equal measures of fear and confusion.

“Your mistress.” The woman says with a smile.

Vance can’t tell if the smile is evil or sweet. Somehow it seems as though the smile is both at once, but he doesn’t understand how that can even be possible.

“I am Elenor, Witch Queen of the Hundred Covens. And you, my dear, will serve me ‘til your end.” Elenor says as he flicks the end of her pink tongue across her vibrant red lips, her long eyelashes batting as she speaks.

“I will never…serve you. You killed…my friend…for that I cannot…” Vance begins, but is cut off by Elenor who is unmoved by the loss of, at least to her, such a trivial being. To her Peter served as little more than a way for her to regain her life and looks. Peter, in her eyes, had served his purpose, the only purpose he was ever meant to serve.

“Silence pawn.” Elenor says cutting Vance off from his ramblings as her eyes glow brighter as she imposes her will upon Vance. Her powers replacing his free thought and free thinking with nothing but subservience to her.

“As you command, Mistress.” Vance replies. His voice is hollow and monotone now that he is under the complete control of Elenor.

“We have much to do.” Elenor then offers, her smile turning sickening and wide as she plots for her return. It’s a return that will signal the dawning of a new period in history, the Age of the Witch.

Anxious

You feel the fear well up inside
Can’t ignore as it won’t subside
You hope that it will end soon
Reality is it’s feeding off you

Another pit that fills with fear
Don’t even know how you got here
Clenching fists to direct the flow
Unfortunately it just won’t go

You gasp for air as you breathe
Your chest is filling mentally
You’d sell your soul to call it quits
But in honesty its not happening

You try to shift your head space
But now you’re stuck in this place
You dream of chances to be free
Afraid to say it’s here to stay

Fighting to get you back on track
Sorry to say it’s too late for that
Instead you will have to change tact
The enemy won’t raise the flag

Shaking hands are all you’ve got
Another blow that stops you short
Holding strong but falling foul
The truth is you backed down

You hear the words as they form
Another insult to you born
You scream aloud and hope to sail
But yet again you will just fail

You feel the dread deep in you
It won’t relent anytime soon
Its taken hold and taken root
Reality is it’s a part for good

Pretend

You pound your head against the wall
Hoping that you are dreaming still
But as the fog begins to fade
You realise you are the slave
Consumed by what you hate most
Will you ever face that ghost?

You slam your fist into everything
Sure that it will help your failing
Even as the anger rises
You still refuse to accept the blame
Swallowed by all your lies
Will you ever end the cries?

Kicking at the world in vain
Don’t you see you are the same?
Wishing pain upon the rest
You have never passed the test
Squeezing out the light inside
Will you finally decide?

Roaring for the whole world to listen
Still trying to bring division
Hoping no one will see
You are just the same as me
Waiting for a time to lead
Will you just stop your greed?

Killing all that lies within
You’re still not a good human being
Hunting for a new day
But you will never get away
Shattered now you hope and pray
Too little, too late is all we say

Vengeance

It’s Wednesday, so that means a new short story. This time I’ve got a fantasy story for you (Its about 3700 words long). Its set as part of a battle, and that’s all I’m going to say. So let’s get into it!

The two armies stand on opposite sides of an open area of grassy land. The cool spring morning breeze gently blowing amongst the chainmail and armour clad uniformed rows of figures that stand at attention with spears, halberds, swords and shields in their hands. Some sit atop large muscular horses adorned with their armies’ colours, vibrant and striking, as the horses stand proud, almost as though they too are adhering to the demand of being at attention as well.

The soldiers of the army of Morhan, several thousand strong, stare across the open green field to their opposition, the soldiers of Bendul, who outnumber them two to one. The Bendul soldiers emblazoned with purple and yellow, their crest a phoenix of black, leaving yellow trails of fire on a deep purple background. Their soldiers armour is angular and aggressive as they stand like statues, snarling beneath their helmet faceplates eager to do battle. They have marched the nine hundred miles from the border of their own territory, claiming each kingdom in turn in the name of their ruler, Emperor Cornelius Valen, saviour of the Bendul and most holy of Emperors. Few kingdoms have offered much resistance against their might, which is why Emperor Valen has only sent such a small proportion to take and subsume Morhan. After all, Morhan is also a small kingdom that borders the northern edge of the river Lensus. Taking Morhan will serve as the last obstacle between the Bendul and their march toward the southern kingdoms.

Nevertheless the soldiers of Morhan are prepared for battle, and death, if it will bring them victory over the Bendul, who have been declared the Unstoppable Tide because of their continuous victories. The Morhan soldiers aim to show that the Bendul are not unstoppable and can in fact have their progress halted before they reach the river Lensus.

Silence hangs in the air as the commanders of both armies wait, but for what Sam, a soldier of Morhan, does not know as they stand a few hairs shorter than those around them. However, Sam stands with sword drawn, ready for battle. Sam has a particular wish to be here, in this battle, and that is so they can avenge the death of their father. His death came at the hands of Marshal Nero Faustus, a violent demon of a man who stands well over six feet tall and is leading this detachment of the Bendul army. Unlike other men of his rank Nero doesn’t sit atop a horse as he holds a spiked mace in his hands, grinning in anticipation of the violence that will soon come. He thirsts for it, craves it. He doesn’t remember Sam’s father and even if he did he wouldn’t care. The enemies of his Emperor, the most holy of his position, are of little concern to him. A number of his fellow Marshal’s think him a monster, but he cares little of what they think or for their idea of allowing their enemies to surrender. Why, Nero thinks, should the weak and blasphemous be permitted mercy if they stand against the great Emperor who has orchestrated the Bendul’s return to power and unprecedented expansion?

Then the call for attack sounds as both armies trumpet the declaration for combat to begin, almost simultaneously. In most cases Marshal Faustus should declare the initiation of battle as that is a mark of his station, but he cares little for the traditions of his station as he flies into a rage that carries his legs forward, the rest of his soldiers around him, all roaring their battle cries with blood curdling screams. Their anger helps to fuel Nero who holds his mace high above his head, baring his teeth from below his faceplate.

Sam’s legs pound at the soft grass below as they race, alongside their fellow soldiers, headlong into battle. Sam holds their father’s sword high above their head as they descend the hill to the battlefield.

The two armies clash as shields clatter, spears jab and swords slash. Immediately the Bendul’s front line rolls right over the Morhan, slaughtering them, though not without suffering significant casualties as the next wave from both armies clash. The ringing of metal on metal as screams of pain and roars of rage mix with the cool air to create a cacophony of noise, while copious volumes of blood spills, staining the once green grass.

Sam ducks the first swipe aimed at their head before spinning a hundred eighty degrees, sure the Bendul soldier will continue their pursuit. Sam is right as the soldier, much larger than Sam raises their weapon high to strike, but Sam quickly thrusts their own sword forward. The blade sinks deep into the Bendul hulks torso, as they let out a howl, which Sam can’t tell if it is the result of pain or rage. Sam doesn’t wait to find out as they wrench the sword free, spin to avoid the slamming downward strike and then stab forward again. The blade disappears through the new Bendul soldier’s faceplate, caving in his skull, killing him instantly. Sam knows the weakest point of the helmet is the faceplate; father had drilled that into them at an early age.

Across the battlefield Nero swings his mace wildly roaring in pleasure as his mace claims life after life with but a single strike. He is sure the battle is already won. How could it not be? He thinks to himself arrogantly with a wide sickening smile, the blood of his enemies dripping off his bare arms, splattering his legs and chainmail covered torso. Nero has always elected for as little armour as possible. It never stops a sharp blade anyway, he knows, and he hates how it limits his manoeuvrability in battle. In fact, he even loathes helmets with faceplates, but he adheres to it only because it comes by way of request from his Emperor, who reasoned that without it Nero’s face would make an easy unguarded target. Nero had understood the logic in his Emperor’s words and so had heeded them from that day until this one. Though, that is not to say that the helmet will stay atop his head by the time the battle draws to a close. It often doesn’t, however, he doubts this battle will last long enough for that, as he grabs a man’s wrist and crushes it. The Morhan soldier had hoped he could get a quick slash at the Marshal’s bare skin, but instead with his wrist limp and broken and his sword at his feet he finds only death as Nero slams the pommel of his mace into the enemies’ unshielded face. The Morhan soldiers face caves in at the force of the blow, his screams silenced as his body topples to the blood soaked field without a thought from Nero, who continues on his bloodthirsty rampage.

Sam, now surrounded by three Bendul soldiers, deflects their blows deftly as another Morhan soldier joins the fray. The new soldier takes the focus of one of the Bendul brutes leaving Sam with two attackers. The first of which thrusts a spear aiming for Sam’s plated torso, but Sam dodges the jab before bringing the blade of the sword down on the bare wood. The wood shatters under the might of the blade as the second Bendul soldier slashes wildly. Sam dives out of the way just as three more Morhan soldiers collapse on the position drawing the attention of the two Bendul brutes who have forgotten about Sam, that is until it is too late. A blade stabs through the back of the sword wielding Bendul that had been one of the attackers. He gasps in surprise at having been impaled. The other Bendul, with the headless spear, turns and roars angrily having forgotten about the three other Morhan soldiers who cut him down without pause as Sam rushes forward heading for Nero.

Sam knows the size and shape of the target as Nero is unmistakable in his shape, as he throws a Morhan soldier at a group of his fellow countryman, who become pinned below the limp Morhan’s body. They try to frantically fight to get free as Nero comes to loom over them. Their struggles continue to mount even as Nero raises his mace high above his head ready to strike, but instead he feels a jab of pain at his left flank. Nero erupts with a venomous roar as his focus shifts to his wounded flank, a spear head protruding from his flesh, the end of the spears shaft gripped by a scared looking Morhan who freezes in panic as Nero swings his mace left. The spiked nodules on the mace pierce the Morhan’s helmet as the full weight of the sphere crushes his skull, killing him instantly. Nero however, simply wrenches the mace free as he feels another stab, this time from behind, grazing across his right shoulder. Nero rumbles with rage as he turns his head to see who dares try and rend his flesh. Stood before him are four Morhan soldiers daring and ready to fight. Nero laughs once as he swings and releases his grip on the shaft of his mace, which slams into the last of the still trapped Morhan soldiers. The blow kills him instantly as it crushes his chest, his two now free comrades left holding their dead countryman’s limp arms. They had been desperately trying to pull him free. But instead they are left standing shocked at the sight of their dead friend in the moments before they are set upon by Bendul soldiers.

Nero meanwhile, thunders toward the quartet of daring Morhan soldiers who explode into a frenzy of slashes and stabs, some of which hit their mark, many of which don’t. Nero, they realise, is a surprisingly agile man for his size as he punches many of their strikes away, much to their shock. His large fist reaching as he grasps one of the swords, wrenching it free from the soldiers grasp. The blade cuts into the flesh of his hand as he swings it like a club, deflecting further blows meant to weaken him, as Sam rushes headlong toward him, only to be cut off by a small group of Bendul soldiers who wear smiles of violence.

Sam knows what will follow as they launch into an attack that forces Sam to block over and over and over, each strike seemingly stronger than the last until suddenly a window of opportunity opens. Sam takes it without hesitation and slashes, seemingly wildly. The group of Bendul soldiers leap back in response to avoid the slash as they fan out to surround Sam, only to find the Morhan soldier is already upon them. They are shocked at Sam’s speed; as the one of the Bendul is forced deflect a blow that comes in at an odd angle moments before Sam’s blade is driven upward, vertically. The blade stabs through the base of the Bendul soldiers jaw and up into his skull. The point of the blade protruding from the helmet for a few seconds before it is withdrawn.

Sam spins away to evade the next round of vicious attacks, but they are slow and clumsy and present Sam with another opening, which they take as they cut down two Bendul soldiers. One felled by a quick slice to the throat, the other a deep gash across the chest. One gargles, while the other simply exhales in shock as their bodies crumples to the bloody ground with a wet thump. Rivulets of blood run across the saturated soil, which the boots of the soldiers on both sides sink into now, slowing their movements. Sam ignores this expected issue as they stab their sword forward, with as much force as they can muster. The blade impales a Bendul through the faceplate as Nero drops to one knee, slamming one of the Morhan soldiers’ backs into it. The Morhan soldiers back breaks, an agonizing scream erupting from deep within as Nero tosses him aside to die in the mud.

But as Nero rises back to his full height he feels several stabbing pains along his midriff. He looks down to survey the sight of the three swords and four spearheads jutting from his gut, but he doesn’t falter. Instead the hulking beast of a man simply lets out a deafening roar, his eyes turning blood red as smoke starts to rise from his bare skin, his face contorted into a grimace.

Sam’s eyes go wide at the sight of Nero whose muscular arms bulge to twice their size. But Sam quickly refocuses on their surroundings as a blade comes whistling toward their head. Sam dodges the attack, narrowly, before spinning and slashing with their sword. The slash finds its mark and cuts deeply into the last of the Bendul soldiers in the immediate vicinity. The Bendul soldier clutches at their gaping bloody throat as they turn on the spot, gurgling before their body slams to the bloody grass with a dull splash.

Sam, without an obstacle between them and Nero breaks into a sprint, while Nero collects the swords and spears impaling him in his enormous hand in the seconds before he wrenches them free of their wielders hands. He laughs and cackles savagely in the moments before he pulls the weapons free of his flesh and tosses them aside.

The Morhan soldiers stand frozen in place by fear as blood flows from the myriad wounds at Nero’s midriff. He knows the wounds pose no threat to him as he swipes his open hand at the soldiers, knocking them clear off their feet in the moments before he leaps atop them, punching franticly. His fists pummel the pile of soldiers into little more than blood, metal and bone before they even have chance to react. Nero’s laugh and smile somehow even more sickening than even the sight of his brutality, which takes only seconds for him to achieve.

But with his attackers dead, he surveys the state of the battle around him in the moments after casting his helmet from atop his head. He smiles as he sees that the army of Morhan is all but spent. He knows his enemies are defeated and he cackles loudly in response, even though in reality his own forces losses are severe as well. But Nero cares little about his losses. A victory is a victory, he knows, as he reclaims his mace. As he hefts the mace up and onto his shoulder he spies a single Morhan soldier. He notes that this soldier is smaller than most, but not usually so, as they race headlong toward him, blade in hand. Nero cackles a deep laugh humoured by the Morhan’s clear wish to die, as he licks his lips eager to spill more blood.

Nero lets the Morhan soldier get closer before he hurls his mace. The heavy weapon topples end over end straight toward the Morhan, but much to Nero’s surprise the mace never slams into the enemy soldier. Instead his enemy drops into a slide, the blood soaked ground allowing them to skid along the wet grass and mud, which permits them a narrow escape from his toppling weapon.

Nero howls with rage as the soldier jumps back to their feet, still running headlong toward him. Still he knows his victory is assured. He knows none can best him, he thinks, as he lumbers forward, building speed as he does until he is within striking range of the Morhan. Nero flails his arms wildly, but Sam evades his swipes while also managing to get in a few jabs of their own by jabbing at Nero’s giant swollen fists. The beast of a man thunders like an animal in a blood fuelled rage in response.

Nero lunges for the sword and wrenches it clean from the soldiers’ hand, with surprisingly little effort he realises, as he flings the blade back at the soldier. They dodge the projectile deftly as it sails past them a few feet and then pierces the mud. Sam scurries for the sword and takes a hold of it just as Nero swings his large fist. It hits and Sam is sent hurling through the air, sword in hand. Nero cackles in response to the soldiers failure as he turns to see them clambering back to their feet. Nero’s eyes go wide with shock. How can this be? He asks himself as his rage boils over to a whole new level. He can’t be beaten, he thinks, as he reminds himself of his Emperor’s own words, while barrelling toward the Morhan soldier. But Sam is ready for him and lunges forward at the last moment, too late for Nero to do anything about the thrust, which stabs through the chainmail and deep into the flesh at the base of his rib cage. He stops, mouth agape as he shifts his focus from the helmeted face and down to the wound in his torso, at which point he cackles as the Morhan pushes against his bulk, managing, remarkably, to unbalance him. Nero falls back, the point of the blade stabbing into the dead horse and soldier at his rear. But still he continues to roar with laughter.

“Foolish Morhan.” Nero rumbles as Sam stands before him breathing deeply, exhausted from the battle.

“No man can kill me.” Nero then thunders with a deep laugh, the sound leaking from his throat.

“Who says I’m a man.” Sam says as they remove their helmet to reveal their face, a woman’s face, dainty, young and pretty. Her face is splattered with blood, her long blonde hair hanging past her shoulders as she stares at Nero with angry blue eyes.

“What?” Nero exclaims in shock.

“This is for my father, Henry Eldridge.” Sam spits as she pulls twin short sword from her back. The short bladed weapons had been sat horizontal along her waist, overlapping one another to help conceal them.

Sam slashes them across one another. The twin blades cut deeply into Nero’s throat. His eyes remain wide and focused on Sam.

Nero hadn’t managed to beat his shock and react before the strikes had come. So instead, a long gurgle erupts from his agape mouth. Blood pours from the wounds at his throat. Nero is at a loss, but refuses to blink as Sam stands over him now, daggers raised high above her head. He doesn’t know if he expected her to say anything, but she doesn’t as she brings the daggers down with all the effort she can muster. Each blade stabs through one of Nero’s eyes and then deep into his brain. He lets out a final sound of pain and terror, knowing that he has lost and that he deserves his fate. It was a fate the Emperor always said he should be wary of.

Sam pants, her hands still clutching the hilts of the daggers as she watches the last seconds of life drain from Nero. Sam doesn’t smile or laugh or cry. Instead, she just stands there, staring at the hulking brutes’ dead mass, the battle over. The remaining Bendul soldiers run for their lives now that Nero is dead. But Sam doesn’t care about the Bendul or the Morhan or the war or armies or kingdoms. She only cares that vengeance has been fulfilled, and that it was achieved by her own two hands, just like her father would have wanted.

Hundreds of miles away Emperor Cornelius Valen braces himself against a nearby table in his tent. He inhales and exhales deeply feeling troubled.

“Your Highness what is wrong?” One of the Emperor’s other Marshal’s asks.

Cornelius knows immediately the blow that has been dealt, as he steadies himself. The nine Marshal’s in his presence stare at him from across the large square table atop which sits a map of the region.

“Marshal Faustus is dead.” Cornelius manages after a few moments.

“A tragedy.” One Marshal offers before another adds: “A great loss.”

But Cornelius knows the Marshal’s better than they think. He knows they are smiling to themselves. They have always hated Nero for his achievements, and for that he hates them. Nero had been the best of them. The strongest, the most capable, the most…violent. He had led every single battle that had brought them victory and those victories had in turn permitted the empire to expand well beyond anything that had ever been achieved before, by any Bendul ruler. That means he knows what will come next, and that he must rail against it. One single defeat against the tiny kingdom of Morhan is nothing compared to their myriad of victories, he tells himself. But he doesn’t believe his own words. He knows they are not true. He should have recalled Nero. If only Cornelius had listened to that old druid, the one that told him he could achieve almost limitless power, so long as Nero never fell to a woman. The Emperor had warned the hulk of a Marshal and had even begged him to don a face plated helmet, but alas his greatest strength had still fallen.

Cornelius had seen the signs he’d been warned about, but he’d paid them no mind. He actually thought he could escape the pre-destined future he’d been warned would come. So for his hubris he has now lost his champion, the herald of his Empire. He wonders what he should do next, but he already knows the answer to that, and he refuses. He won’t take his own life. He will die at war, much like he has lived in it.

Curse that druid, he says, as that old wrinkled and mud splattered face appears in his vision. The druids face cackles, like he knew this was how it would always end, in the moments before he’d been put to death.

“Prepare the army to march.” Emperor Valen orders.

“Where highness?” One of the Marshal’s asks.

“To the Abyss.” Cornelius replies baring his teeth with rage filled eyes. If he can’t take the region without Nero then he will forge a thousand more like Nero, using the madness of that cursed place. And if he fails then at least the continent will drown in blood and bodies.

Actionless

Condemnation doesn’t mean a thing
Its just a word for the eternal victim
Masking hints of failed ascension
A race of people too busy fighting
While the elected bicker like children
The act of doing has been stolen

Restraint is just the new surrender
Claiming you are not the pretender
As you wash your hands of blood
How about you act for once?
Instead you bid for re-election
Failing to answer any question

Hands of blood stained all red
Would we notice if you were dead?
Plotting just to grow your wealth
We all know you have no stealth
Saying words you don’t believe
Just hurry up and leave

Retaliation is your cure
Why not just send the poor?
Blind to your own sickness
Would you like us to fix this?
Building up your walls of hate
Everyone is just a failed state

Red tape is your shield
You wield at as you feel
Stealing just to keep your place
Blood flowing up from the graves
Watching we are just as bad
Maybe we should all give up now

Total War

Carve at the face of the false Gods
Cry for vengeance and their blood
March for the home that they love
Make ash everything they adore
A knife in the gut
An end to the uproar

Strip from the forsaken their call
Burn down all that they made new
Still another shot of deja vu
They twist words to their view
A noose round their necks
Stop this mindlessness

Watch as the palaces burn to ash
Roar victory now they’re out cast
Rebuild what they did destroy
No more deceiving to enjoy
A gun to their heads
We need to bring an end to this

The Event

Right, well this one is a little different from the other story posts thus far seeing as this story is neither fantasy nor Sci-Fi. Quite simply its just fiction, set in the modern day, and follows two peoples very different paths after a traumatic event. The story is about 3600 words long, so lets begin!

“I saw the flash before I felt the wave of impact, invisible but present. It knocked me off my feet. The concussive blast that knocked me to the floor made it feel like a sledgehammer had hit me square in the chest. My lungs were empty as I gasped down air to try and re-inflate them. The air burned as I sucked it down, as did my chest, even as the gasps slowly began to subside and my breathing came under control once more. My body ached, I could feel every muscle consciously and it felt so alien to behold. But it ebbed away until it was subconscious once more. I still felt stiff even as I sat up, my eyes still blurred and full of moisture. I attempted to wipe it away, but that only seemed to make my vision worse, more out of focus. Finally though I cleared them. It was a simple remedy really. I just kept blinking until finally my eyes could refocus and it is then that I saw the devastation. The once green grass was ash, the soil baked to a solid crisp, the concrete square cratered. Debris floated in the air, raining down, mixing with the rain. I was soaked, but slowly rose to my feet, feeling the bruises beginning to form below my body armour. I’d been lucky I realised as the remains of people were littering the ground around me. Motionless forms, or half-forms to be more accurate, caked in dark crimson or black ash. As my hearing began to return I could hear the mayhem. Screams, sirens and shouts coming from all around, as I staggered forward. This wasn’t a warzone, though it looked like one. This had been a simple award ceremony, that is, until the explosion, the bomb, detonated at the centre of the crowd. I’d been lucky, I’d been near the edge; countless others hadn’t been. There were no remains of those closest to the detonation, that’s what I was told later. Those closest had simply been vaporised. The word vaporised feels so wrong to say in the context of people. This wasn’t some movie or game, this was real life, but it was the only word that could be used fittingly, I suppose. It was a word used to explain what couldn’t properly be explained. But that isn’t why we’re here. You want to know the details of what I saw. Not my own mental meanderings, just the facts.”

“I stumbled forward, my feet shifting on the broken, ash and water as it mixed below my boots until I felt like I ‘d regained my balance. Thing is I almost fall as I go to check on a nearby body. They were dead. It had been a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, but her chest was caved in and her neck sat at an unnatural angel. The force of the detonation had crushed her ribs and snapped her neck. I heaved as I turned away, not wanting to make her final resting place any worse as I clambered to my feet, sickened and dizzy. Still, I pushed forward, half stumbling as my boots slipped on the mud as I checked another body, a man, missing his left arm, he’d bled out from a cut to his neck, shrapnel I guess.”

“I don’t know how long I spent going from body to body, but each one was already gone. There was no one to save, but I’d known that as soon as I’d seen the carnage. I checked because it was the right thing to do, not because I thought there was anyone that could be helped. It was like being on autopilot. No, it was like I was watching as someone else did it, even though I knew it was me. I was detached from myself even as another officer grabbed me, to shake me loose, his right leg missing. The remains of the officers right leg spewing blood, his face pale and soaked by the rain. I didn’t recognise him and didn’t know where he’d come from, but I hauled him up and with him in my arms ran forward. I blocked out the other bodies around me. I should have checked them, I know that, but I focused on saving this one man. My vision tunnelled as I slid across the slick concrete to an enormous bank of flashing lights, where all the emergency services were gathered. People raced back and forth, shouting, crying, pleading, but I hauled this officer onto an empty stretcher, the white immediately becoming stained crimson by the blood oozing from where his lower right leg had been. The paramedic said nothing as she whipped into a frenzy of activity, trying to stabilise him. All while I stood several paces back staring, watching, frozen in place. Another paramedic joined her, a male; the pair shot back and forth, trying to save him. Injecting him with drugs, trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound, ragged and sickening to see, but he went into cardiac arrest. He’d lost too much blood they told me afterwards. They couldn’t bring him back. He was dead, soaked and bloody and left as the paramedics rushed off to deal with other cases, while I stood. No one assessed me, they didn’t need to. I was standing and I was in one piece. The sound dropped out again, so I couldn’t hear a thing, as I continued to stand staring at the now lifeless body of that young officer on the stretcher, being hammered by the pouring rain. I felt empty, I know you want the facts, but it’s a fact to me. I don’t know how long I stood there, I still don’t. I don’t even remember what happened next. It’s like I switched off only to spark back to life when bright lights were being shone in my eyes by a doctor, in the hospital. I didn’t even know which hospital I was at or how I’d got there.”

“And how long ago was that?” A tall slender man dressed in an expensive charcoal suit asks with an encouraging tone.

“Four months.”

“Have you returned to active duty?” The same man asks now.

“No.”

“That’s all the questions we have, your honour.” The tall slender man says with remorse filled finality.

“You may now leave the stand.” A woman says as she looks down from her elevated seating position with a comforting, encouraging and appreciative look.

“Yes, your honour.” Officer Billy Stahl says as he slowly and carefully rises to his feet, feeling only grief and panic as he steps down from the stand and shuffles, breathing deeply, out of the courtroom.

Outside, reporters from all over the world are gathered reciting pieces to the cameras pointed directly at them in whatever their native tongue happens to be. Their words and tone convey sadness, anger, despair and grief, but none of them had personally lost anyone in the attack. This had been a local catastrophe and no one local was represented here. The press never saw the horror or had to witness it, so somehow that made it worse for Anthony Briggs. He’d seen the aftermath. He’d been on scene. He’d lost his partner to the attack. He’d been the cameraman that survived when the reporter had not.

Its why all he can see when he closes his eyes is the shredded body of Frank Porter, the other half of their duo. The half that spent all his days in front of the camera. That’s gone now and Anthony feels lost. On medical leave until further notice, with full pay. He doesn’t care about any of that though. It doesn’t matter without Frank, his best friend and colleague, here. Instead he feels contempt for the reporters, they don’t know how it feels. So to him it feels like they are doing nothing but pretending. Whether that be pretending to feel or pretending to understand, it doesn’t matter to Anthony. Pretending is pretending. Which itself feels like an affront to those, whether they are living or dead, who were affected by the atrocity.

Anthony can’t watch anymore of it. He has too much anger within him, all of which he wishes to direct at the monsters responsible. Though being here seeing the press it makes him want to direct his anger toward them as well, so he turns and heads the other way down the street, the sounds from the reporters growing steadily quieter and quieter. He’d been like them once, he knew that. But it was something that he’d never considered before as being a part of the problem. He knows now how wrong they had been when they had reported and said that they understood the despair and pain others felt from violent actions that affected their lives. Unless you experienced it, felt it, you would never be able to understand it. Compassion is not the same as sympathy and empathy.

Bill wishes he could do something. He’s spent four months at home, alone, surrounded only by the waking nightmare of that night. The medication isn’t helping and his visits to the police appointed psychiatrist were getting him nowhere. They just seemed to serve as reminders of what had happened, not help him work past it. In fact, the psychiatrist seemed more focused on what other issues may be contributing to his feelings. To Bill it was obvious, he’d experienced a massacre, that was it. That was the trigger for him. He’d seen a level of violence that he couldn’t comprehend. Sure, as a police officer he’d seen lots of violence, gang killings, murders, so on and so on. But he’d never experienced a massacre before, especially not on such a scale. Two hundred lives lost in all. It was, and still is, a number he can barely fathom. He doesn’t understand how anyone can hold so much hatred that they could then go and end that many lives. And that’s without including the countless thousands of others that were also affected by the death toll. It’s why Bill barely leaves his apartment since.

In fact, his attendance in court is one of the only times he’s left, but it’s not because he fears the outside world. No, it’s because he just doesn’t feel ready to be a part of it again yet. The world just doesn’t make sense to him anymore. Violent acts have been increasing year on year, no matter what the official figures say, and the world Bill looks at now just isn’t the same. From the windows of his apartment the world makes sense, it still looks like it always has, but being in it has become alien. People are so angry now, so wound up, violent, miserable and uncaring. He hadn’t noticed it before. He’d gone through his days without paying any notice to the world around him, but that night, that massacre had changed all that. He saw the world differently now, he actually took notice instead of blindly pushing through on autopilot. He felt better for taking in the world, but worse for seeing its reality. Behind the glass of his apartment windows he saw the beauty of the world. On the streets he saw only what humanity had become, a mass of selfish, self-contained, uncaring, false entities paying no mind to the vast beauty, or the achievements that have got them to this point.

Bill knows he needs to do something, anything really. He also knows they will never let him return to active duty. Not until he’s completed his mandatory psychiatric visits and been deemed, however long after, fit for active duty. That will be too long. Full pay or not, it wouldn’t be a life. He had to live. He’d survived, rightly or not, and sitting, waiting to be delivered your fate isn’t the way he wishes to live. He refuses to do it anymore. It’s time for action, for a change, however scary, and he’d start by leaving this city. He has no roots or strong ties here. His wife had divorced and left him more than a decade ago and all he’d had since was the job. But he didn’t have that now and maybe never would again. So he decides he’ll take what matters to him, shove it in suitcases and leave. Start a new life; find a new purpose, a new goal, a new world. This wasn’t an end, it was a beginning. He’d been a police officer for more than twenty years, his pension was secure, not that he’d thought about it, so he begins drafting his resignation. No one would argue, question or even dismiss him for being too rash. It was his choice and his decision and it had been made. Many would, no doubt, understand. Hell yeah’d even likely think it a result of the massacre, the event, but that isn’t the reason, at least not entirely. Sure, it was the catalyst that had started this thinking, which in turn has ultimately led him to this conclusion, but he isn’t running away. He’d faced the courtroom and answered the questions, told his story. That was done. This was rebuilding, forging something new from the ashes of the old. It was what he needed to do, because doing the same job again here, or anywhere else for that matter, would never be the same. So Bill is sure he needs change, to change, that is his choice, his decision.

Bill can’t even remember getting to the station, but he feels the eyes on him as he walks through. They know why he’s here. It doesn’t take a genius to work it out, especially as he makes a b-line for the Captain’s office, knocking and then entering before closing the door gently behind him.

The Captain doesn’t look surprised either; in fact he has an accepting expression on his face. In truth, the Captain had been expecting it and as Bill hands him his resignation along with his badge. Bill lost his gun when he’d been pulled from active duty, so with the formalities done the Captain offers his hand. It isn’t a forced gesture, it’s one born out of respect and Bill takes it as such as he shakes the grey haired man’s hand, thanks him, and then turns and leaves. He says nothing to anyone else as he crosses the precinct floor, even as a round of applause breaks out. Bill knows it to be a sign of support. Its thanks for his dedication and he takes it as such as he leaves the precinct for what will be the last time. In fact, he can still hear the clapping as his slides into the seat of his car. That is until he closes his car door, which silences the applause as he starts the engine, puts the car into gear and then drives off, heading out of the city. It’s sad for Bill to be leaving and scary, but he feels some sense of joy as well as anticipation for the future. It’s something he hasn’t felt in years and that makes him smile.

Anthony can’t do it. He simply can’t sit and watch anymore. The longer he watches the more the feelings of anger eat away at him. He returned to work a few days ago, but feels nothing but rage and disdain. It’s barely controlled and he’s snapped several times at several colleagues. They’ve been understanding and conciliatory, but that has only made Anthony angrier. He wants a fight, he almost begs for it. It never comes. He doesn’t understand how people have become so zombified. So willing to pretend they understand the pain of disaster and loss after a savage attack, but can’t display real emotion when someone tries to bait them into a confrontation.

Anthony slides out of the news van, slamming the door moments before he slides the side open, all while his new partner, Elaine, carefully closes her own door and begins to cautiously walk round. Elaine doesn’t like Anthony. He is nothing like she’d been told he was. He’s so angry and confrontational. Everyone justifies his behaviour by saying it’s a result of the loss of his best friend Frank, but she just feels unsafe. She keeps her distance and says very little, until the camera is on. In fact, she feels so uncomfortable that she has even requested a transfer from her boss. But the response she got was that she should just bare with Anthony for another week. Though her boss did say that if she still feels the same way after the week is up, he will get her a transfer immediately. She’d accepted it, begrudgingly, but knows that Peter pulled Anthony in. From what she has heard though that conversation didn’t go well. Anthony flew off the handle into an incandescent rage, throwing chairs as well as the coffee table in Peter’s office, all while screaming obscenities. She hadn’t managed to get the details of how Anthony was calmed down or how he didn’t get canned, or at the very least suspended for his actions though. Not that any of that matters now, because she is here with Anthony, who is wearing a face ribbed with rage, scowling and darkened, as he hauls the camera onto his shoulder and steps from the van saying they are all set. The man strides away from her showing none of the qualities that she’d been so feverishly told about him, like he’s a calm, light-hearted guy who loves his job. That isn’t the man she’s experienced. This man is one that is filled with anger and rage, ready to snap at any second, and for any reason.

Elaine stands before the camera and before Anthony as she composes herself. She tries to calm her nerves ready to deliver her piece to camera when someone nudges Anthony’s arm. Though the culprit, another cameraman, apologises immediately. But the apology makes no difference; Anthony explodes as his camera is left to slam to the floor. All his rage directed at the apologetic man responsible for the nudge, who continues apologising. But the apologies only fuel Anthony’s rage as others join the fray, in hopes of easing and calming the situation. It doesn’t work as all the acts and attempts of placation just make him angrier and angrier, as he spits vitriol and venom at the crowd around him until finally his ultimate break. He pulls a handgun; he’s been carrying it for weeks, illegally, and points it at the man who accidentally nudged him. Everyone around Anthony at first recoils in terror, especially with the events that claimed so many lives still fresh in their minds, before they then quickly drop to the floor, encircling Anthony as they do, creating a ring of fear around him. But their fear only helps to further fuel his anger, as he sees each and every one of them as little more than pathetic cowards.

Elaine however, is the one person that doesn’t drop to the floor. Instead she approaches him, slowly until she is stood right beside him. Her hand coming to rest on the slide of the handgun. She says nothing as she tries to encourage Anthony to lower the weapon, to bring peace. Anthony though, feels only venom toward her actions and wrenches the gun away as he turns to confront her. But as he does so an enormous bang rings out, echoing all around. The sound of the gunshot reverberates off the towering buildings as the people scream in the moments before everything falls to a sudden deafening silence, the echo of the gunshot having dissipated now.

At first Anthony doesn’t even realise what he’s looking at and then it hits him. He’s watching Elaine’s body fall backward in slow motion, a spray of blood coming from her body. His eyes go wide as time returns to its normal speed and her body slams to the hard asphalt. Panic tears through him as it dawns on him what he’s done and then he runs. He doesn’t even know why he runs, but he runs. He wonders why he didn’t just check on her, but it’s too late now. Now he’s a fugitive, a criminal, a murderer. He’d become so consumed by his anger, by his rage, that he’d become exactly what he hated most.

Elaine, lying splayed out on the asphalt, pants heavily as the other reporters and cameramen, as well as some passersby, surround her. They’re all in a panic, but one man orders them to move aside, claiming he’s a medic. Several of the people move to allow him passage as he comes to kneel at Elaine’s side. He asks her questions, but even as he talks she can’t remember the words, though she can hear herself answer. She takes that as a good sign, but she could be wrong. She’s never been shot before, so has no idea if she’s dying or not. Then the man, the medic, having checked her over declares it’s a non-fatal wound. That the round, has in fact, hit her in the shoulder. That, Elaine tells herself, explains why it feels like her shoulder is on fire. She smiles as the medic demands everyone step back to give her room. He uses her name she realises and wonders how he knows it as her eyelids grow heavy and flutter in the moments before everything goes black.

Hunted

Tearing chunks just to survive
As you stare into the glowing eyes
Teeth on show and sharp as knives
The snarled growl just before the cries

Plead for help that will not come
Lost among the towering fern
Stepped into a wild old world
As the barking continues to whirl

Injured and caked in mud
The blood makes them salivate
Sniffing out your wounded leg
The howl of death does await

Cornered by the wolf pack
With only a rock at your back
Stick in hand you lash out
But its too late for that

As the end you accept comes
A gunshot rings from the sun
The wolves run and hide
As the saviour steps from the sky

Villain

Carve a hole into the heart
Aim to build a whole new start
As you take aim and fire
Make sure to pray for desire
Wings of ash and insanity
A spear of hatred breeds indecency

Slice to ribbons your enemy
Bring forth the new disease
Weave into the fabric of pain
Soon the world will be dead again
Halo forged of shattered bone
The war within is your true home

Fill the grave to the top
Mass of bodies, you can’t stop
Bullets fly and bodies fall
You dream of complete control
With plans of lust and death
You crush all that have no place

Cutting tears across the face
This old curse with new disgrace
Born to rise time and time again
Eyes so cold they scare everyone
Fate runs from the vengeance
Army made from your desolation space

Overwrite

Here we are for another short story post. This one is Sci-Fi like the last story post was. Its about 3500 words and I don’t think there’s much else to say, so here we go.

“Hey Joe, wait up!” Francis calls as he tries to run to catch up to his friend, Joe.

It’s been a long couple of weeks at work without his lunch buddy. But as Joe turns to look back in Francis’ direction, the world cracks. Not the ground, but his entire vision. It’s like he’s looking through damaged glass and then it goes black. Not the kind of black you get from passing out. Just the kind you get when there is no light for your eyes to see and Francis has to admit, it’s eerie.

“Is this really what you want?” A voice from the dark ether asks, with a harsh accent.

Francis knows the voice and rolls his eyes, thankful that Piotr can’t see them.

“Yes, it’s what I want. Why else do you think I’d ask for it?” Francis replies in a calm yet sarcastic tone.

“Just thought I’d ask. Never known anyone want something…so…so…” Piotr says trying to find the right word in English.

It’s rare for Piotr to take this long searching for whatever word he wants to use to complete his statement, Francis knows. But still he decides to offer his own take.

“Normal?” Francis adds trying to be helpful.

“I was thinking…boring.” Piotr replies bluntly.

Francis doesn’t have to see the great bear of a man to know that’s he’s grinning from ear to ear. His several gold teeth almost certainly on display as he no doubt chuckles to himself.

“Just put me back in.” Francis asks conscious of time. Even though he can’t see a clock face anywhere.

“As you wish.” Piotr says unable to understand how a man like Francis, that has so few extra credits and so little unregulated time, can be content with whiling away in such a boring sim world. He knows he’ll never understand it. Most of his customers, in contrast, want the high life, or the danger. Those options all makes sense to Piotr. Not that you would ever catch him in one of these sim generators, his or anyone else’s, no way. Bear of a man or not he suffers from claustrophobia and no matter the pretty images and projections his brain knows he has a bucket on his head and he can’t stand that.

Piotr flicks the switch to send Francis back in. The sim begins again, seeing as it was only a few seconds in, from the start. Francis smiles, in the real world, pleased to have returned to this fake one.

“Hey Joe, wait up!” Francis calls for the second time trying to get his friends attention.

It works as Joe turns and waves back at him, smiling. A few weeks without seeing him had been hard for Francis. In fact, it had been nearly unbearable at times. The long hours, the crappy commuting, the pills, the sleepless nights, all of it had drained the life and energy out of Francis.

“How’s it going Fran?” Joe asks as they meet in the middle of the mass of people, who continue on their way, flowing round Joe and Francis like they’re some sort of island.

Francis finds it pretty funny in the moments before he realises he hasn’t answered Joe, who is staring at him, waiting, patiently.

“Yeah good. You?” Francis replies.

“Ah, not too bad. Single again though?” Joe replies with a simple shrug and a matter of fact tone.

“Again? What happened?” Francis exclaims shocked. He’d met Joe’s now ex and been speechless. He doesn’t know how Joe does it. He always manages to pick the best looking women around. He wishes he could do the same. But he isn’t Joe, though he does wish he could be. Even if it lasted for just one single day. That could never happen though. This was the ‘real world.’

Francis chuckles to himself as he says that. He knows this isn’t real. Everything he’s seeing is a projection being fed directly to his brain, via his eyes. You couldn’t grow old here, die, or take it with you. It’s just not how it works. Pity, he thinks as he and Joe resume walking up the street, side by side now.

“Oh I don’t know. She said something about me never paying attention.” Joe starts.

“And?” Francis replies.

“I don’t know I wasn’t paying attention.” Joe says erupting into laughter as people, walking faster than them, pass them by giving them disapproving looks for not keeping up pace with everyone else.

“So what will you do now?” Francis then asks curious.

“About what?” Joe replies casually.

“Jessica.” Francis clarifies.

“Oh, Ica will be back before you know it.” Joe replies confidently.

Francis has never been sure why he refers to Jessica as Ica. It had always been an odd way of shortening her name. Usually people said Jess, but then Joe could never be considered to be like everyone else. Not with his thick brown hair, always perfectly styled, his pristine gleaming white smile, moisturised tanned skin, muscles, six pack, piercing blue eyes. Hell, Francis had to admit that the man looked like a model. He still couldn’t understand why he worked a desk job, shuffling papers.

Don’t go down that route Francis, he tells himself. You know if you pick at the sim it will all come crashing down. I know. I know. He tells himself. It’s an issue with this program. It’s one of the reasons it was cancelled. Well, that, and the fact that it was widely unpopular. Very few people wanted to run a sim that was essentially just a normal life. Like Piotr said, most considered it boring. But Francis loves it. Bar the best friend who doesn’t fit in, that is.

“How can you be so sure?” Francis asks.

“She always comes back. It’s her thing. She gets pissed, storms off for a few weeks, maybe a month, then floats right back in saying we should pick up right where we left off. You know that. Or have you been away too long?” Joe says in a way that it makes it sound like it’s inevitable and Francis, like always, buys it. Mainly because Jessica is just so…wow. He can see her in his head. Well, technically it’s in the head of the sim, which is also in his head. As he thinks that the sim shudders. Ok, I can’t think like that or it’ll crumble and if it does that Piotr will kill me, but only after he’s not the maintenance charges from me to cover his repairs and the downtime of a unit.

“Do you want her back?” Francis asks making sure not to think about what this may or may not be.

“Honestly, not this time.”

“Really?” Francis exclaims surprised.

“Yeah. It’s too much hassle. Ica’s a great girl, but…Why don’t you ask her out?” Joe says changing the conversations direction mid flow.

“What?” Francis exclaims a lot louder than he meant to. People around him glare angrily at him as he stands on the spot in the middle of the street again. Just like before the masses flow around him like they’re a school of fish and he’s an rock.

“You can’t be serious!” Francis says making sure his voice is quieter now.

“Why not? I know you like her.” Joe offers casually as he motions with his head that they should start walking again before the flowing mass of people become agitated and perhaps even aggressive.

“Wait, you do?” Francis says surprised as the pair resume walking.

“Yep and I think she might like you too.” Joe replies as he rolls his shoulders clockwise and then anti-clockwise.

“Yeah right.” Francis says without thinking.

“No seriously. I think she might like you. After all, she was always asking about you and how you’re doing and so on.”

“And she says you don’t listen.” Francis offers with a chuckle.

“I do as long as she’s not trying to start a fight. Then I tune out.” Joe flashes his usual wide smile, showing pristine sparkling white teeth between his parted lips as they reach their stop. The towering grey office building dotted with small mirror surface windows that stretch upward high enough that Francis can’t actually see where the building truly ends.

“Ready?” Joe asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” Francis replies moments before they enter the revolving door. Francis steps into the section of the revolving door behind Joe, who as he steps out of it and into the foyer is collared by another of their department, Justine. Francis rolls his eyes wondering what that gossiping busybody wants now.

“No, its fine Justine, I’ll ask around.” Is all Francis catches of the conversation as he steps out of the revolving door and into the hundred foot high foyer with its polished stone floors, reception desk, black and white couches and line of turnstiles.

“What did she want?” Francis asks as he pulls up beside Joe.

“Nothing important.”

“You didn’t listen did you?”

“You know me too well.” Joe replies with a smile.

“Come on. Before we’re late.” Francis says looking at his watch. He thinks it’s a nice watch, but truth be told he knows nothing about watches, so for all he knows it could be some cheap piece of junk. He just thinks it looks like a nice watch as they circumvent the turnstiles, a perk of Joe knowing people, so they can get to the thirty fifth floor quicker.

They board the lift filled with its terrible jingles, all of which sound nothing like the songs they’re supposed to imitate. Francis wonders who comes up with them and why anyone would even pay for them. He has no answer to either as the doors open to permit him and Joe access to the thirty fifth floor.

They’d been the only ones on the lift. That meant today was looking up. He always judged how good the day was going to be by how crowded the lift was. So it gives him hope, that is, until he rounds the corner only for Clark to walk right into him. The other man’s coffee stains his shirt. Thankfully it’s cold, so it doesn’t burn him. Nevertheless Francis curses as Joe reassures Clark that it’ll be ok and that he gets another coffee on him. Clark thanks Joe as he scurries off; looking fearful that Francis might lash out at him. Francis, at least in part, would like to, but knows it was an accident.

Maybe, today isn’t going to be a great day after all, Francis thinks as he stands in the men’s room trying to clean himself up. He knows he can’t do anything about the coffee stain that covers his whole left shoulder. He just hopes he can mop up whatever excess may not have been soaked into his white shirt. If only he’d worn grey or black, he thinks as he finally gives up the futile attempt at removing whatever excess there might be. He knows there isn’t any, but it has helped him kill time before he’ll have to start filling in fields. Who even employs people to collate data anymore? Francis wonders as he takes a seat in his cubicle. He fidgets for a while as he wonders when this sim is even supposed to be set. Maybe the nineteen nineties? He doesn’t know and as his desk shudders he decides to instead focus on his work. But he knows it’s going to be long, boring and filled with the stench of coffee. He hates coffee.

“Come on. Time to go. Can’t leave you sleeping at your desk.” Joe says having sprung up beside Francis, who has been so focused on his work and on trying not to slam his head against his desk because of how mind numbingly boring it is, that he hadn’t noticed the time.

“Thank God.” He exclaims as he reclines back in his seat, feeling the stiffness in his back and the aches in his shoulders from sitting in the same position for too long.

“Really? Don’t want to put in the overtime?” Joe mocks as he laughs.

“Only if they pay me quadruple pay and then I don’t have to come in for a month.” Francis answers as he stands; his legs protest the sudden use after such a prolonged period without movement. He promises he won’t do it again, sit for so long without a break, but he knows it’s a lie.

“Don’t forget what I asked you?” Justine says to Joe as she passes by.

“Yeah Justine. I won’t.”

Francis looks at Joe who suddenly feels his friend’s eyes on him and looks his way.

“What?” Joe exclaims.

“Nothing.” Francis says with a shake of his head as he finishes stretching his legs, which are giving all signs that they are now willing to comply.

“We going?” Francis then asks as he peels out of his cubicle with Joe in hot pursuit.

“No really. What was that look? It had to be something.” Joe starts questioning.

“Hey, who, or should I say, what, you do in your own time is nothing to do with me.” Francis responds while trying to keep a straight face, but it isn’t really working. Instead it looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon.

“Come on, it’s not like that. And you know it.” Joe protests as they step onto the lift.

They aren’t alone on the lift this time and have to squeeze themselves into positions that have been left by the other workers, from other floors that are trying to not just leave work, but also do so without their personal space being violated. Good luck with that, Francis thinks, as he squeezes into a space just big enough for him between a balding guy and a miserable looking woman.

Joe and Francis say nothing to one another on the journey back to the ground floor. Especially as Joe is wedged, quite literally, between the side of the lift and a sour looking man whose face is etched into a scowl.

“Hey, I know nothing.” Francis says resuming the conversation now that they are on the ground floor and shuffling towards the exit.

“Really? And here I was about to give you Ica’s number.”

“No you…” Francis starts but never finishes his response as everything goes black, the simulation having ended abruptly. Francis exhales in exasperation at his luck.

“Piotr, come on man. The hiccup. We started late. Just a little more time. Please.” Francis says trying to plead with the sim bars owner. He knows Piotr is a hard man, but he’s always fair and this doesn’t seem fair, he thinks, though he gets no response.

Francis realises that he’s never known the man to be silent. A man of few words sure, but never the silent type. But as the seconds tick by Francis begins to get the feeling that something is wrong. So he lifts the headpiece up slowly, carefully until he can see the room around him again.

“Oh shit!” Francis exclaims as his eyes focus and he sees Piotr dead. A pool of dark crimson, thick and pungent, sits around his head. Francis can’t see any wounds from where he is, but is in no way inclined to take a closer inspection as he feels suddenly starts to feel nauseous. Francis had never known, before now, that blood had a smell, but he is sure that is what he is smelling and its making his stomach flip, violently.

“Well, well. Looks like the sim junkies awake.” A male voice says from a doorway off to Francis’ left.

Francis turns his head too fast as the room starts to spin and he is sure he’s about to be sick.

“Think he’s gonna pop.” Another voice, this one female, says with a giggle.

And with that statement and as if he is on cue, Francis vomits all over the blue, white and brown rug at his feet.

“Argh and Piotr kept the place so clean.” The female voice says with a laugh.

“Don’t think it’s gonna matter though. He’s kinda dead.” The male voice replies laughing.

“Who…who…who are you?” Francis manages as he feels his head spin, while strands of spit, not vomit, hang from his lips.

“Well my little chum…that’s none of ya concern. Though, you would have done better to have kept that bucket sim generator on yer head. That way ya would’ve been able to make it out of ‘ere with a pulse.” The male voice says, sounding closer now as the female voice erupts into a sickening cackle.

“No…please…I’ve seen nothing…just…just leave me here.” Francis begs.

“Oh we’ll leave ya ‘ere. Not just breathin’.” The female voice manages before another hyena cackle.

Suddenly Francis feels his head pull back, but he knows it’s not him lifting his head. No, instead it’s the owner of the male voice, the face of which is covered in a mixture of scars, tattoos and piercings, as well as dark, almost shark like, eyes, a pointed crooked nose and a wide evil smile.

Francis curses his fortunes as his head still spinning tries to process what he’s seeing, even as the knife in the man’s hand is paraded in front of his eyes. He can guess now how Piotr died.

“Why?” Francis manages.

“Sim bars are a good place for dough. Simple as….” The man, a killer, a thief, offers in response while still smiling.

“Say night night darlin’.” Francis hears the female voice say as a flood of images flashes before his eyes.

They aren’t images of his life, or his dreams, or fears, or any of what people have always said you see in the moments before death. No, these images are something else. Francis doesn’t understand them. He’s never seen them before, yet they are definitely a part of him, he realises as the man pulls the knife back ready to jab it into Francis’ throat. But the man never makes it. Instead Francis grabs the man’s balls and squeezes tight, crushing them in his hand. The man lets out a deafening high pitched scream as he tries to break away from Francis, flailing his arms. Francis catches the arm holding the knife and violently snaps it at an unnatural angle. The man bellows again, cursing as he does. But Francis has the knife now as the woman, also tattooed and pierced, but with a shaved head and no scars, lunges for him. Francis, as though she is attacking him in slow motion, dodges her once, twice, three times before he drives his fist forward. The blade of the knife between his curled fingers. The woman realises too late as the blade pierces her cornea and lances right through her eye and into her brain. She dies instantly, but Francis pays no mind as he releases his grip on the knife. Her body falls backward as stiff as a board. Thudding as it comes in contact with the floor.

The man screams bloody murder, a mixture of his pain and anger at Francis having killed his partner. The man rushes head long at Francis who calmly, unusually so, simply rolls his shoulders anti-clockwise once waiting for the attack. The tattooed and scarred man throws a punch, but Francis dodges it, then catches the second, spins the man around and snaps his arm violently at an unnatural angle. The man collapses to his knees as he howls in pain. He has no more arms to fight with as he starts to plead for mercy. Francis though simply stands there looking down at the killer before him and wonders how many innocent lives he’s taken.

“You should have walked away.” Francis says calmly.

“Fuck you!” The man spits back as he raises his head to look at Francis’ face.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man then spits.

“I’m Joe. And this is my show now.” Francis says as he grabs the killer by the throat and squeezes. The man struggles and kicks at first, trying desperately to break the man’s grip on his windpipe. His legs thrashing as he is lifted clear off the floor. He thinks that if he can just get a solid hit in he might have a chance, but he doesn’t and before long his vision goes black and his struggling and thrashing becomes little more than a slight twitch. Then he stops moving completely and at that point the grip on his windpipe is released and his now dead body crashes in a heap on the floor. Francis, as he had been, Joe, as he now is, again rolls his shoulders a couple times, casts his eyes over the carnage and then shakes his head.

“Looks like we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do.”

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