unfinishedworksoffiction

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

A cool, swift breeze rustled through the seeding grasses of the high plains. Traveling briskly across the tall grass and occasional shrub was a cloaked young man. His name was Ishmael, a scholar of the arcane arts of Western Caelum and the apprentice of the legendary Wizard of Wentros, Dormire.

The dawning light of the morning sun flushed the amber sea with a gilded glow. Ishmael reached his hands out to feel the grass flow through fingers as he walked. It was still wet with dew. He administered his cool, moist hands to the back of his neck and knelt down for a brief respite. He observed the Sun crest a distant hill and drive the shadows of night beyond the west horizon. He uttered a short prayer to Cae.

Ishmael had first learned of magic at a ceremony to honor Cae in Wentros. Then, the practice was considered heretical. He had heard the priests warning those who had come to honor a shrine about sorcerers who bend reality.

"Defiance of the will of the gods is contempt for the law," he remembered one priest had shouted.

Nonetheless, he was intrigued and sought out the sorcerers that hid their practice in caves along the rocky buffs. He accepted by the wizards and even secured a position as courier through a connection in the court of Lord Summik in Castle Wentros.

Ishmael opened his bag and checked to be sure the message he was carrying was still safe and secure. The burgundy leather envelope reassured him, the wax pressed firming over the binding strings was done so with Lord Summik's house seal to ensure its recipient that this correspondence was private and unmolested. The secrecy implied a certain level of intimacy in the affair. Although, Ishmael had heard rumors of Lord Summit's deteriorating relationship with the Crown in Corcillia. Some, including Ishmael, speculated that the Lord of Wentros was desperate for aid or allies. Ishmael had been told my other couriers that no message had ever gone so far as high plains. It was clear, if Lord Summit was searching for help, he was searching far and wide for anyone who would give it.

Ismael stood and continued on his long journey, wondering if Wentros will still be standing when he returned and that of his job security. As he reached the top of a hill painted purple and blue with budding flowers, his goal was within sight: North Lake Castle, home of Lord Hemrien the Coward.

As he approached the small town that surrounded the imposing castle walls, the eerie stillness made the hairs on the back of Ishmael's neck stand tall. The air was stale and carried not a single sound. Turning a time of day when most would be up and about preparing for the day, there was not so much as a sturing from the vacant houses. Ishmael peered down the narrow alley was between houses and through small windows into the homes. The town was abandoned.

Ishmael held his arms close and walked quietly. His spine tingled with unsettling anticipation.

"Hello!" he called out from the town center. His voice disappeared into the dead air.

From down the main road going into down a deep creaking moan cried from the castle gates. Slow at first, then faster, the hinges whined until the great wooden doors were fully open to Ishmael.

"H-he-hello?" he whimpered.

He cautiously approached the castle. The muster grounds for the town guards was vacant. The sword racks were empty and the archery targets were unscathed. No men manned the walls or the turnstiles that opened the heavy doors. Alas, curoisity as much as duty compelled Ishmael up the carved stone steps to the Lord's residence.

Iron bars encased the entryway with its gate ajar. A majestic pair of dark-stained doors were all that stood between the courier and his destination.

He grasped the door knocker, styled to the likeness of a wolf ensnaring a rabbit its its teeth, and rapped. He could hear the bangs echo through stone structure, but nothing stirred within. After when felt like hours to Ishmael, there was not answer.

Ishmael was unsure of what to do. In his short tenure as courier for Lord Summit, he had never failed to deliver a message and he had certainly never discovered a town void of life.

"I suppose it would do no harm if I let myself in and wait for someone to return," he thought to himself. Is legs ached terribly from the long journey. His rations were nearly depleted and it had been over a week since he had rested his bones in a comfortable bed. Even the grassy bedding laid out in the sorcerer caves were preferable to the course earth and vulnerability of the open plains. Wind would pierce the skin like a thousand needles and howling dogs would keep the bravest up all night. Ishmael was not the bravest.

He tried the latch and it gave way with some effort and the door creaked open. The vestibule was dark, but ishmael could make out the candelabras, covered in wax, and the door into the castle. Ishmael stepped farward slowly. His footfalls made no sound on the decorative rug the spanned the length of the entry chamber. Nearly to the door on the other side, he blindly walked into the wide web of a weaver spider. He curled and flailed.

In his startled state, he had unknowingly advance farther down the hall, tripped on an limpy object that he had failed to detect, and collided with the inner door.

"Aah!" he explained.

"Aah! Aah, ahh," repeated the echoes off the stone walls, mirroring the cry with descending volume before promptly dissipating.

The disembodied voice sucked the soul from Ishmael's chest, as if his own voice had been stolen.

He cleared his throat and was reassured by it rattle that his voice had not left his throat. He then resisted the urge to speak for further confirmation. He did not wish to his his voice echo through the halls of the eerie estate.

From his position on the floor in front of the door, he looked from once he came. The object that had fouled his step. A fist-sized coin purse, was the culprit. Ishmael did not remember the rattle of coins as he stumbled. He crawled to it and took it in his hand. Some curiously soft fibers woven into thick velvet. The contents were packed inside- several stacks of uniform discs with shape and size common to minted coins that ease trade throughout the Kingdom of Caelum and are often used in the neighboring lands, too. However, it was much too underweight to be any metal Ishmael had ever studied. The bulging bag was bound neatly with tasseled twine. He pulled the strings and the knot slipped, releasing the tention amd spilling hundreds of dark coins onto the floor.

Ishmael picked one up. It was lightweight and smoothed or polished with great precision. He rubbed his thumb over the top relief, an elegant crown.

"Coin of Caelum," he thought. He flopped the coin over and thumbed the other side. This relief was smooth in the middle, with a circle of six stars around it. "And the Gates of Heaven on the reverse."

He left the bag and the other coins and stood. He gripped the handle and pulled. Like a sinister laugh, the strained hinges creaked into the vast chamber it guarded.

Through the crack Ishmael was mesmerized by colorful beams of light. Stained glass windows depicted a humiliated Lord Hemrien looking on as his son serving as the newest handmaiden of the ravenous Lord Hezel, who preceded his brother Summit for rule over Wentros. Vivid red glass forms a stream of blood from the boy's skirt.

The horrid scene reappeared, blurred on the floor in front of the Lord's throne. A husk of a man sat on the throne. Char-black skin clung directly to bone. Twisted fingers clutched the sharp stoney ends of the throne arm rests. Its face, although little more than a skull with burnt flesh holding the cracking bones in place.

The throne itself was charred as well.

"It's the dark whispers that corrupt a man's heart." The voice eminated from the ashen throne sitter, but the eerie stillness remained.

Ishmael recognized the voice as his own- echoes without a origin.

"It is the very evil that compels them to conquer, to consume, and to kill, inspiring the creative cruelties of which contemporary creatures simply are not incapable. A dark spirit from the woods, it feeds on our suffering. It will promise you whatever you desire, but it is all lies. You are warned that the cost is great. You promise to pay anything. It draws you in and allows you to drink and taste the wine. Your stuber numbs you when it latches ahold and plants its roots deep within you. It saps your very soul, feeding off you. The illusion collapses and you are alone in endless darkness, embracing pain to relieve pain, begging for an end, and burning alive ignoring your fantasies that someone will come along to end your suffering and to take your place in torment."

Stunned, Ishmael tried to retreat backwards, but former half of the room had vanished, cut off by a smooth stone wall, imbued with distinct azure aura. Panic began to root itself in his veins.

"It's been so long," the voice continued. "I am so glad you came."

The charred flesh of the Lord cracked and shifted. To Ishmael's horror, the cadaver began to stand and reached desperately towards him!

"I truely couldn't bare anymore," the husk added politely before disintegrating into a cloud of ash and dust. Ishmael had neigh the time to take note that the cloud failed to settle to the floor or dissipate into the air was would be expected with dust or smoke. Instead, the dark cloud lingered there where Hemrien had fallen before it flew across the chamber at Ishmael, who was taken by unawares. The black emanate charged his throat and nose. He choked and gagged on the fine powder as it embedded itself deep in his chest. It felt cold as it traveled through him, like a hole had been created over his heart.

Ishmael collapsed to his knees and slumped farward, unconscious for the shocking endeavor. The aching in his muscles and bones, accumulated during the long trek from Wentros, faded to numb tingles. He opened heavy eyes, but saw only darkness. The darkness seemed different from the darkness of behind his closed eyelids, as if this strange darkness were a vast and empty void, like the moonless night far from a torchy's light.

"You possess impressive will." The voice was deep and came from all directions in the emptiness. "I expect nothing less from a pupil of Dormire."

"You know Master Dormire?" Ishmael asked, his voice sou sing like the disembodied echo that had shuddered him previously.

"Know him?" the voice scoffed. "He came to me when he was about your age and begged me to make him a master."

"Master Dormire says the road to mastery is when makes you a master." Ishmael rebuked, confused by the account of his teacher's origins that contradicted the tales told by the associated arcanists.

"I told him that, but his insisted I had the potential to make him the most powerful sorcerer in the world. I obligated, but the power proved too much for his weak mind."

Ishmael felt the shadows move across his skin.

"You are much stronger than his was. As long as you serve me, you will be a conduit for my might."

"I bow to Cae and the King of Caelum!"

"You are a fool!" sieges the entity. "The hearts and mi ds of men are weak! Your gods are no match for eternal night."

Ishmael felt a hard jolt to his chest, but the hole had formed. Warm returned to his body. He shook violently against leather straps tethering him against a crude wooden gurney.

"Relax, boy," cooed Master Dormire. "Relax. It's over."

Ishmael calmed, but still trembled in his legs and hands. "What was that?!" he demanded.

"I am sorry to have intervened in the throne room, I had to see what it wanted from you."

"What is it?"

"A spirit- from the forests north of North Lake, in the Ker."

"The Ker?" The students repeated, knowing only tales the mysterious lands inhabited by men with wolf, deer, and eagle mothers and druids that could travel through roots across entire forests. "Is it a dark spirit?"

"Don't be absurd. You know there is no such thing." The master released Ishmael's hand before leaving g him to fi ish freeing g himself.

"So, what does it want?"

"Clearly it has an intrest in you, boy." Master Dormire answered. He sifted through a pile of scrolls and papers, looking for something.

"Is this the same being that is behind Eileen the Night Witch?"

"It is possible, but if it is looking for a new host, I am inclined to my doubts."

"Does it need a host to survive?"

"It doesn't survive, boy. It simply is. In can feed on several humans, horizons apart all at once. The most souls it can sap, the stronger it can become, but it is unlikely it would risk detection, knowing we are hunting it."

"What about the town of North Lake?"

"Likely an illusion to weaken your resolve."

"What if it wasn't?"

"There is one way to find out."

"Scrying?"

"No, we're going to North Lake."

"What I just walked that whole there!"

"In a vision!"

"Well, it felt real!"

"You are insuffriable."

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

Every day is another lifetime. The Sun rises to a new day, a new world. I try to capture as much of that world as I can in short stories that dream of being bigger, of sweet conclusion. This is where these worlds are stored.

I hope you enjoy.

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

"Mary?!" Jimmy called out into the apartment as he stepped through the threshold, over a busted in door. A draft sent a shiver down Jimmy's spine.

"Mary?" he called, softer this time, after seeing tables and chairs overturned in the living room and kitchen. The television was missing from the moving room and cupboards were left open in the kitchen, revealing their emptiness. Flour, dry pasta, and broken glass littered the kitchen floor, telltale signs of looters.

Jimmy reached behind his back for the revolver in the holster and held the firearm in front of him, ready. He tried to listen for movement around him, but could only hear a soft breeze through the broken living room window, carrying with it the sound of birds singing outside and the faint smell of fall. Jimmy shook off a sense of not belonging in such a familiar place, a place that had changed so much while almost seeming to have stayed the same.

Jimmy crept forward toward the bedroom. In the short hallway, he noticed the bathroom door was riddled with shoe prints and seemed to have been severely damaged by repeated attempts to break the door down.

Jimmy tried the knob and was not surprised to find it locked, but noticed the door was barely holding in the frame. He squared up and gave a solid kick. The wood cracked and splintered at the latchkeep, but held. He squared up again and put all his might into another kick.

The door gave in with a crash, the hinges and Jimmy fell backward onto the hallway floor with a thud. He gazed through the half-opened bathroom door, but the small, windowless bathroom was pitch black.

Jimmy flipped a switch on his shoulder-mounted lamp. The dull beam of light shined through the floating dust between Jimmy and the bloody bathtub inside. The foul stench immediately choked Jimmy's lungs and he turned his head into the inside of his elbow, gagging.

He pulled his balaclava over his face, followed by his shirt. This filtered enough of the smell for him to stand and investigate bathroom.

Jimmy wished he had not seen what had caused the odor. A woman covered in blood, clutching her abdomen. Jimmy could feel his heart in his throat, choking him with ever beat. Each rapid thump of his heart made him wishe he had not fought through hundreds of miles of Hell of Earth for this moment. Jimmy wished he was dead.

"Jimmy?!" A young voice called out from the doorway.

Jimmy wished he was dead, but he had something new to fight for. Wiping away tears, he called out to her, "Stay there; don't come in here."

Jimmy turned away from the rotting corpse and switched off his lamp. He stepped over the shattered bathroom door back into the hallway. In the corner of his eye, he could see Sarah in living room. He turned away from her to hide his bewilderment and despair. He proceeded down the short hallway into the bedroom and tried not to notice the signs of a struggle or to make conclusions as to where or what the struggle was over.

Blood stained the cotton sheets that reminded him of how he had dreamed of returning to a happy home and loving wife. Jimmy knelt down in front of the night stand on her side of the bed and peered through tearful eyes at a photo she had printed out, the two of them with giant smiles at a zoo, being photo-bombed by a giraffe.

Jimmy slid a ring off his finger and placed it carefully in front of the picture. He audibly whimpered as he fought back thousands of memories flooding his mind all at once.

As Jimmy passed through the threshold of the bedroom door, he saw a flickering light in the bathroom. He took a long, breath and stepped forward.

Sarah was looking at Mary's body, almost as if she were studying it. Her dim flashlight in hand, she shined a beam over the bloody flesh of a stranger. The beam would pause on Mary's boney hands clutching a deep wound just below a bare rib cage. When Jimmy noticed the light stop on a pair of panties, torn to expose the dead passage to human life, he pulled Sarah out of the bathroom and dragged her into the living room.

"What did I say?" he scolded. "I said to stay out of there, didn't I?"

"You act like I've never seen it," she replied rancorously.

"You ought to know this is different," he growled, turning away.

"Maybe to you, but I didn't know her," Sarah scuffed to Jimmy's back, ignoring the thought of how Jimmy must be feeling. She expected him to turn back around and yell at her, but he never did. He just stood there, hiding his face. Sarah thought hard about something to say to comfort her new friend, but nothing came to mind, nothing could begin to repair the damage that had been done.

"All this time, all that walking," said Jimmy into his hands. "Wasted."

"We never would have met. You wouldn't have saved me and I would be dead." For the first time since all this began, Sarah was fighting back tears and losing. She pulled her scarf over he face and lowered her hat over eyes.

She could see Jimmy's feet turn his body toward her and she felt his warm embrace. "I just-it's just us, then," he whispered. "Alone in the world... together." He added, after the thought of loneliness sent a shiver down his spine.

He held Sarah a little tighter until she could stop crying long enough to get herself into the truck. He told her he would be back in a moment and he ran back into the apartment. He stepped over the bathroom door and looked down at his lover's remains. I wish I could move you, or bury you, or give you any other form of a proper resting place, he thought to himself. He bent down to meet her face at eye level. He studied her until her youthful skin was restored and she smiled back at him. He took and deep breath and slid a diamond ring off of her left hand. His hand screamed in pain around his tight grip of the ring, it's edges digging into his palm.

He stood and turned away, finally able to relax his hand. He stepped out of the bathroom and looked down at the ring. He forced himself into the bedroom again and could imagine how it used to smell. He was shaking all over.

Jimmy walked toward the nightstand where he had placed his ring in front of the picture from another lifetime. He forced air into his lungs with long, hard breaths.

"Jimmy!" cried out a frantic, female voice from outside.

"Sarah!" he gasped.

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

On a trail not far from where I grew up, there is one of those coin-operated binoculars overlooking the tree-covered hills. I have been up there a few times, but I never thought to bring a quarter. I wondered if anyone ever did. One summer day, succumbing to the the temptation, I lowered my face to the device and peered through the lenses. It was an empty void of blackness. I imagined what other people saw when they look through the binoculars. Then, the void took form and I was looking through the eyes of another. The eyes panned across the valley, pausing to study the fall colors.

The timer ran out and the eyes looked up from the lenses and took in a more beautiful sight, a smiling lover, I presume. I read her lips saying, "Well, what did you see?" I can only imagine my host's response, as the girl smiles again and moves closer with her hands extending, reaching for the host.

I fall backward from the binoculars and sit on the ground convinced I had not seen what I thought I has seen. A stood and studied the device, looking for I-don't-know- what. Anything to confirm I wasn't crazy would suffice, but nothing was found. It looked like any other device you might see atop a high building, bait for tourists who had never seen a city skyline.

Desperate for validation, I again peered into the apparatus, but again saw only darkness. I thought about if I had ever seen the girl before. In a small town like mine, you can at least pick up on family facial features. The details of her likeness eluded me; I was too shocked by what I was seeing- or not seeing. I remembered blonde hair, which indeed narrowed the list of possibilities. Then, shapes and colors began to take form again. This time, the image stayed stationary, as if carefully observing this particular view of the mountain across the valley. I looked deeply into the trees, hoping to determine why the host was so fixated on them. Before the timer ran out, I was ripped from the view and saw a man. This time I was sure to attain as many details as possible, but it wasnt necessary. I knew who it was. A signature black tee-shirt, a hiking backpack that I certainly recognized, even by just the straps, and the familiar way his lips moved as I read them mouth, "Let me try."

I never went back to that spot again. I dont even remember how to get there. The trail has become overrun with undergrowth and a truck stop replaced the turn-off where the trail used to start. Sometimes, I wonder if it was real, what I saw. I wonder, if I ever did go back, if I would see through someone else's eyes. How many people looked through those binoculars. I try not to dwell on it. After all, see things through soneone else's eyes is always free. You just have to know where to look.

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

I am chewing on two pieces of nicotine gum. The gum is characteristically soft and pliable. It is incredibly slicky when not covered in saliva. I knead the gum between my teeth, rolling it and folding it with my tongue, which occasionally guides it across my mouth to be chewed by another row.

I press the gum against the roof my mouth, flattening it into an oblong disk. Carefully, I slide the disk over my front teeth and position the gum over the narrow partition between my top and bottom chompers. I use my tongue to coax the disk forward towards my lips, forming a bowl shape. I tuck my tongue down inside my jaw while still allowing it prop the gum up against my teeth. I part my lips ever so slightly and softly blow. The air slips through a gap along the edge and escapes. I collect the gum and chew vigorously, as a sculptor might smash his clay to erase a failure. Conjured up are vague memories from grade school of peers trying and failing to pass on the art. Images of a despondent service desk worker performing the act with ease. It is apparent to me that I must already possess all the necessary tools required. I always must have, yet I have never achieved the great feats I have witnessed.

Determined, I prepare the gum once more. I am sure to flattened thoroughly and evenly. I press the mass into place. I blow, but fear I will sooner dispel the sticky lump before stretching it around a puff of breath. Over and over, I quietly sit and try to master a trivial skill that has illuded me my whole life. The result of one encouraging attempt is a tiny bubble, which bursts immediately. It takes some effort before my chapped lips are clean of the sticky mess the small victory had caused.

Perhaps you think it is strange that someone my age does not know how to blow a bubble with gum, or that he even cares. You may know there are at least a few reasons why someone would not. Braces in adolescence and a Navy career are two personally significant causes. Nonetheless, it has come up several times throughout my life. I do not consider myself an avid gum-chewer, but I have never abstained any time I could get away with it. I have always looked at blowing bubbles with gum as a skill I did not possess and left it at that. Is it good enough that I cannot do it? Would mastering it make me a better person? Would it serve my ego or be a statement of my character? I chew on these thoughts until the gum tastes sour and has become more taxing to chew and my jaw aches as a result.

I can spit out the gum, but the thoughts and questions remain, waiting to be chewed on again.