The Silence

Here's a little short story I wrote. Our culture has been pretty into zombies for the last several years, and I've wanted to throw my hat in the proverbial ring, but I have too many other projects on my plate. This short story came to me a few weeks ago... I enjoyed it so much I thought I better post it.

"The Silence" 

The silence would soon become eternal.

I sighed with relief as the fire at last took hold, burning away the kindling and grasping the logs with hands of flame. I’d settled between two dunes to block the wind, but even so my hands weren’t what they used to be, and lighting the blaze had taken time. I could hear the quiet, sliding whispers of the tides not ten yards off. In the distance, insect-song. Silence had already taken this part of the world. All that remained now were the old sounds, the sounds that had been here all along. 

Nearby, the hulking wreck of a ruined tanker leaned at a disconcerting angle. To see something so large from the wrong side, in the wrong position, it was dizzying. I didn’t like to look at the ship. I always avoided ruins, but there was something about the great ships that especially bothered me. A building that had fallen into disrepair could still be restored to use, but a beached boat with a ruined hull would never sail again. 

That was the greater ruin, a body that could never be used again. 

The world was full of ruins. 

Human ruins had once been everywhere. Humans that had once been alive with bright eyes and red blood had become monsters, living corpses that wandered urban wastelands, seeking easy prey. 

I poked the fire with a stick, staring at the flames until my eyes hurt. I didn’t want to look at the world. I just wanted to see the fire. The fire was my kin, in a way. I had wandered the wastelands of Earth for time out of mind, bringing an end to the shambling, skulking monstrosities that roamed, the zombies that had once been human. 

I had inherited their curse. The same disease that had brought down humanity had also made me indestructible. Pulling a chipped and well-used whetstone out of my bag, I began to sharpen my sword. The blade must be kept sharp and ready, lest it catch in the vertebrate of the living dead. 

I did not sleep. I no longer needed sleep. I just rested next to the campfire and I sharpened my weapon. A broadsword with a long, two-handed grip. 

I rose early, the sun casting vivid bands of color across the blues of sea and sky, and made my way North. In the distance, I could see ruins. The dark towers of fallen man skulked in the shadows, overgrown and unruly. My final destination.

Every one of the animated corpses on the planet has an extra sense, a prey-sense that tells when a truly living human is near, a beating heart that can be ripped out and devoured. This too had gone wrong in me. I couldn’t sense humans. I sensed only the roaming monsters. I had been using that ability for decades now. 

The signal was weak. There were almost none of them left. The world would be reclaimed by silence soon enough. I marched on across the beach. Ravaged beach houses lay to my left, all of them like giant tombstones, testaments to a long-gone past. 

I came into the city at dusk. I was weary again, but I was too close now. I had to finish. 

The streets were green. Weeds and creeping vines grew with wild abandon, snidely reclaiming their lost lands from human civilization. The signal was stronger now, but I could tell even more clearly that it was almost over. There was only one of them. 

Not the last. The next to last.

Every one of the skyscrapers rearing above me looked like it was ready to fall. Their shadows made me nervous. Finding it prudent to hurry, I stepped up my pace. I expected to find the last of the living dead in one of the buildings, maybe a basement or a closet, somehow missed the first time I’d been through. But no, the odd sense in my brain led me to Central Park, which now looked for all the world like a forest. 

The vegetation was so thick at the edge of the pavement that I had to slash my way in. I cut a path and found myself in a narrow green tunnel. Displaced stones lay on the ground like a miniature mountain range, rising and falling in peaks and valleys. After a careful walk, I stumbled upon a ruined brick plaza that was slowly being reclaimed by trees. A vine-choked fountain lay not far off. The creature was there. It had fallen into the fountain. 

I walked closer, sword held at the ready. The thing had no legs, and could not seem to find the coordination to haul itself out. Dingy water lay at the bottom of bowl, thick with grit and rotting leaves. The monster itself gave off a powerful stench. Its skin was green with rot, peeling away in thick swatches. This one had once been a woman. I could not tell what she might have looked like. Her face was little more than a grimacing skull. She snarled when she saw me, reaching out with fingers that were missing most of their knuckles. The nubs oozed pus and black blood.

It had come to this. I had killed every zombie in the world. Every zombie save this one, and myself.

I brought my sword down. 

The creature gurgled once, then went still. The battle was over. 

I turned my sword around. I would fall upon it, and the silence would descend. There were no people left, but there also no zombies. The world would be empty. I would have liked to have been able to save the world for humanity, but they had been gone too fast, and most of the immune like myself had worn out over time, their bodies unable to handle the strain of living forever. 

“Wait!” a voice called. I stumbled in shock and nearly fell on my sword regardless. I looked up and saw a young girl with startlingly blond hair was staring at me, one arm held out in supplication. “Wait,” she said again. Her hair was clean and bright like sunlight. Her clothes were rough, knitted by hand and ill-fitting, but they too were clean. She was whole, she was human. She was not a zombie.

“Are you the Wanderer?” she asked. The one who travels the world killing the zombies?” 

“I am,” I said. My voice was rough. I hadn’t spoken in years. I had almost thought I might never speak again. I had been so certain there was no one left to speak to. “There are… more, like you?” I asked.

“Yes, many! We hid in the subway tunnels. We hid for years, but we heard about you…” I saw you walking and I thought… I thought I’d talk to you.” 

"Where are these multitudes?” I asked. 

“Still underground. The old folks are afraid of the upper world.” 

“Are you afraid?” I asked. I stepped forward, and the girl gasped. Though I had taken care of myself, my body was worn. My fingers were smooth, and almost bone-like. My face was little better. The skin was dry and brittle like old leather. I was not meant for this. I didn’t belong in the new world. I was an in-between man. Not a relic of the past, not a piece of the future. I had served my purpose in ending the zombie menace. I had thought the silence was my goal, but I had been wrong. It was this girl. This girl with bright sunlight in her hair.

The girl had not answered my question. She was staring, her hands at her side, clenching and unclenching.

“My time is done,” I added. I waved with my sword. “You should go.” I was tired and ready to die.

“Wait,” the girl said a third time. “Come back with me. You’re a hero. You don’t have to…” Her eyes were averted. She couldn’t look at the sword in my withered hand. 

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine being around… people again. It had been so long. So much time had passed in quiet solitude. 

The sun-girl reached out her hand. My whole body began to tremble. I looked down at my sword.

I dropped the weapon. 

I reached out, and I took the girl’s slender offering. We walked away together, out of the wilderness and out of humanity’s long dark night. 

The Prequel

“This is the End”

The jump clock was beeping again. I failed to notice. I was in the cockpit, and the clock was no more than a foot away, but still it didn’t register. I was deeply absorbed in an instruction manual for the Midnight Fire, my father’s ship. I’d just gotten to the technical description of her landing struts. They were fascinating. If you didn’t know, B42-756 class messenger ships have TACTILE landing struts. They can sense the type of structure they land on and adjust their grip-type accordingly. It’s really quite amazing, and…

“Thea Terrma, I do believe you’re about to miss another one,” my father said, slipping into the pilot’s chair to my left, arriving just before the obnoxious clock began to crow even LOUDER now that we were in the final ten seconds of the wormhole. He smiled, putting on his reading glasses so he could see all the instrument panels. I sighed and let my book fall to the floor with an impatient thump. I was learning how to navigate, so I was supposed to help with landings. “The chance to see a planet from space is a rare opportunity. It’s a sight many beings never witness.”

“What’s to miss?” I asked dismissively. The purple tunnel of the wormhole dropped away, and we emerged back into normal space. A planet took up most of the view outside the cockpit windows, a boring orb of brown and white and blah. We’d been to this planet many times before. I often waited in the ship, eager to be off to a more glamorous world like Coribus with its massive oceans. The Great Archive was another favorite, a literary oasis in the void, a planet covered in libraries on every subject imaginable. 

The planet grew quickly. Sunlight peered around the rim of her horizon, turning the edges to shimmering gold. I had to admit the sight was beautiful, even if the planet itself truly was not. The blasted thing was nothing but snow and rocks and ruins. My father was a courier. Most of the time we ferried messages to this particular world, sensitive missives my father refused to share, even with me. Today was different, however. Today we were delivering a package. I didn’t know what was in it. I had learned not to ask. Father was afraid someone would hurt me for information, I think, so he tried to make sure I knew as little as possible. 

“Where am I headed?” Father asked. His voice was gentle, not a hint of impatience even though I should have our course plotted already. He was quiet most of the time. I suppose I was too, but mostly because I spent so much of my spare time reading. I’m not much of a dreamer. I’ve always been more interested in technical manuals than fairy tales. It had made me a good student for my father, most of the time.

“Um, two klicks north by northeast,” I replied a little uncertainly. I thought that was what the navigational display was saying, anyway. “Here,” I added, remembering at the last second. “Turning on the beacon.” I flipped a switch and something on my father’s display activated. It would show him the right direction to fly in, so I wouldn’t have to continually call out directions. I had just learned how to use it last week, and I usually forgot it was there. 

“Very good, sweetie,” my father said. “We’ll make a pilot out of you yet.”

“Why would I need to learn how to pilot, Daddy?” I asked. “That’s your job.” I had no desire to drive. I liked reading and tinkering, not flying. 

“The more we know, Dorothea Terrma…” he let his voice trail off expectantly, waiting for me to finish.

“The more powerful we become,” I replied, trying not to sound bored. I knew I would always have my father around to pilot anyway. With navigation settled for at least a few minutes, I bent over to grab my book. The next section was on maneuvering thrusters, I thought. Or life support. Either way it was bound to be interesting. 

I was reading about carbon dioxide scrubbers when the ship touched down with a gentle bump. I looked up from my book as Father removed his glasses and threw a canvas bag over his shoulder. “Why don’t you come with me this time, Thea? It would do you some good to get out of this old tub.” He gave the wall a light tap in mocking condemnation. 

“She’s not a tub, Daddy,” I scolded. “She’s beautiful.” I sighed. Getting outside did sound sort of nice. Though it would be terribly cold. The tall, metal door to the docking bay was still open, letting in all that frosty air. “Fine. I’ll come,” I said. 

“I know, I know. Glad to have you, now get your shoes on. And be quick about it!”

I reached under my seat again, this time snatching up a slender pair of comfortable slip-on shoes. I was already wearing warm, wooly socks, so I wasn’t too worried about my feet, but I raced back to my cabin and grabbed a nice, thick coat to protect me from the elements.

I sort of wanted to grab Father’s hand as we descended the boarding ramp together, braced against the chill that immediately greeted us, but I decided not to. I was thirteen now, too old for that sort of thing. I didn’t like this world very much. I couldn’t help it, the place was just so dreary. And the people were awful. They wore breathing masks and shiny body armor, all black. They were called warts, but no one seemed to know exactly why. No one had ever seen their faces to find out whether they were warty or not. I suppose everything has to have a name. Human doesn’t exactly make much sense either. I mean what about girls? Shouldn’t we be huwomans?

Wart headquarters was a single, massive building. It looked like it had been very nice once, long ago. The floors were polished white and gold tile. The walls were all wood paneling. They were polished too, but very worn looking, and black in places were people had touched them too often. Along the corridor we walked, there were stone statues at odd intervals, but they had all been reduced to formless shapes, and I got the impression they were very, very old. 

The red elevator was as terrifying as ever. It was a very deep crimson, exactly the color of spilled blood. I’d only ridden up once, a few years ago.   It always made a startlingly loud, sudden ping! every time it arrived. I won’t say the creepy elevators were the reason I’d never come back, but they certainly hadn’t helped encourage me. Still, I resisted the urge to grab my father’s hand. I gripped the red railing instead. Father pressed the button for the 22^nd floor. Father always met the warts there, I remembered that from my last time here, too.

The elevator rumbled downward slowly. A digital display above the button panel counted down the floors as we passed each one. 34, the vivid green numerals read. Then 33… 32… 31… Finally with a clattersome rumble the elevator stopped at 22. The doors opened onto a dimly lit corridor, half as bright as the one above. I squinted into the darkness. I could see shapes moving about, but I couldn’t see what they were doing. I imagined dozens of monsters in gas masks waiting for us, their lips parted wide in huge, predatory grins. I pictured dagger-sharp teeth just waiting to tear us to ribbons, and… decided such ridiculous imaginings were a waste of time and stepped out of the elevator after my father. 

The hallway was cold and drafty. We passed a few warts, but they all ignored us. Their voices were deep, bass rumbles, distorted by the strange masks they wore. Almost robotic. My father couldn’t afford a robot, but I’d seen plenty. When I’d asked him about the masks, Father had speculated that the warts couldn’t breathe normal atmosphere like the rest of us. They needed the masks to survive, probably.

It didn’t make them any less creepy.

Just like we always went down the same elevator to the same hallway, we ultimately wound up before the same door to the same room. There were no signs, no plaques on the doors. I’m not sure how my Father could tell one door from another, but I supposed he had been here more often than I had. I swallowed and took a deep breath as my Father opened the door. The room within was surprisingly misty. And warm, so warm I immediately started sweating in my winter jacket. 

I don’t know why anyone would want a hot, foggy room in the middle of their base, but whatever. Two warts stepped forward out of the curling mists. One looked like your typical black wart. The other, surprisingly, wore shiny silver armor and a red gas mask. I wondered how the machinery that kept them breathing worked, pictured pneumatic tubes and oxygen filters. A normal starship has a device for turning carbon dioxide into oxygen; maybe the warts needed something of the reverse. 

“You have the package?” the black one asked. The silver wart didn’t speak. He only stared at us with the dark, blank eyes of his mask. It wasn’t unnerving at all. That’s a lie. It gave me the creeps like nothing else. 

“Yes, yes,” my father said. He pulled a small cardboard box out of his bag and placed it in the outstretched hand of the normal wart. “My usual fee should be sufficient… is there anything else you need?” Father’s voice was calm, but there was a tension undergirding them. He wanted to leave as badly as I did. 

“The last piece of earthtech… finally!” the black wart blurted suddenly. The silver wart turned to regard him. I couldn’t read any emotions through the impassive red mask, but I was willing to bet the talker had said something he shouldn’t have. Earthtech? What could that mean? My father had taught me that the concept of earthtech was a myth, a misnomer for ludicrously overpowered gadgets that could only exist in rumor and fantasy. And I had no use for fairy tales. 

Then the silver wart finally spoke. 

“This is the end.” There wasn’t an ounce of distortion in his voice. I found myself surprised at how… normal it sounded. “Sorry,” he added, and pulling out a laser pistol he shot my father twice in the chest. “Your services are no longer required.” I screamed. I think I screamed, anyway. I have no memory of actually crying out. I just remember finding myself with my head buried in my hands, mouth open and throat raw. I had dropped to my knees, too.

“Next time you want to open your mouth,” the silver wart told the black, “you may as well stick your gun in there and pull the trigger. Now I have to find another courier.”

I wanted to take my father’s head in my hands, lay it in my lap as he lay gasping and dying. I wanted to be strong for him in these last moments. I wanted it so badly. 

But I was out of my mind with terror. 

I froze in fear, unable to think or move. Father was whispering something, I realized, but I couldn’t hear it. I was missing his final words. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt my heart breaking. Somewhere beneath the layer of fear that had taken such a thorough hold of me. 

“I despise cleaning up the messes of weaklings like you,” the silver and red wart said to his comrade. He stepped up to me and held his pistol close to my head. I began to tremble. A low moan tried to escape my lips, but they were shut tight as a vault.

“Well…” the black one coughed. “Allow-allow me then.” He pulled a pistol from his own holster and began to step forward. Still I couldn’t move. I suddenly became aware of pain in my knees. I’d slammed them into the rough stone floor when I’d sunk there. 

“So you do have a spine,” the silver and red monster said, taking a step back and lowering his gun. Before either one of them could murder me, an alarm began to clang out, saving my life. It was the most awful howl I’d ever heard. It made the emergency alarms on the Midnight Fire seem tame by comparison. 

“By the Drop, what is that?” the silver wart cried. 

“Could it be subject 1-4-9-9?” the black one asked. 

Suddenly I found my legs. I had to get out of there. My father was dead now. His eyes had gone glassy. I couldn’t think about that, though. I felt like the fear had made a fool out of me. I couldn’t seem to process anything. The only thing that had changed was that now instead of being immobile, all I wanted to do was flee. 

So I did. 

I raced for the door as fast as my skinny legs could carry me, leaving my father’s body behind. 

“I suppose it could be,” the silver wart was saying. “How should I—hey!” A laser bolt pinged off the door as I wrenched it open. Another nearly blasted my right hand off where I’d lain it on the doorframe. 

“Oh let her go,” I heard the black one say. “She won’t get far, and we need to…” I didn’t hear the rest. As soon as I made it back into the hallway, I flat out booked it for the elevator. I’d lost my coat. I don’t know how. I’d never taken it off. Maybe it had come loose while I ran. All the while the alarms rang incessantly. I didn’t know what had happened, but it had surely rescued me from certain death.

I pressed the button for the elevator eight or nine times before I managed to calm myself down. The corridor was empty now. None of the lurking, skulking shapes we’d seen on the way in. Something had happened. 

I should look for stairs, I realized. I swung my head wildly, to search, but it was too late. The elevator opened with that same quick ping! I stepped back as it did, afraid more monsters would come out to kill me, but the elevator was empty. I quickly punched the button for my floor, slipped and hit the next floor down too. 

The elevator stopped on 33, but I couldn’t see anything. “Ho there!” someone called. “Hold that elevator!” Someone with a distorted voice. Fat chance, I thought, tapping what I hoped was the door close button over and over again till the doors finally began to rumble closed. 

Once back on floor 34, I made another run for it. This level was as empty as the 22^nd had been, and I made it back to my ship with no further trouble. It was when I tapped the entry code and stepped up the gangplank that it hit me.

My

Father

Was 

Dead

I slumped against the wall in the Fire’s tiny cargo hold and lost myself in tears. I sobbed myself sick. Eventually I had to stop, gasping and hiccuping. I couldn’t believe it, that fear. I’d let it ruin me. Never again, Thea, I told myself. Never could I let fear rule me like that. I would be brave next time, no matter how hard it was. I started crying again, quieter this time. I had a feeling it would be a long time before the hurt went away. 

If it ever went away.

I’d been so sure I’d never need to learn how to fly. Now here I was with a starship and no one to fly her. I tried to force myself to think practically. I needed a weapon, so I could defend myself, and somehow I needed to find a pilot. I got up and made the short walk to my little cabin. I had a pistol there. I’d never used it. Father had made me hide it, just in case we ever got boarded while I was sleeping. 

I had a little trunk next to my bed filled with most of my possessions. I rummaged around inside until I found it. A slender silver model with a needle-thin nozzle. I checked the power pack. Still good. An image of my father flashed into my mind, the stunned disbelief on his face as he’d been shot, then the pain and terror. I laid down in my bed and curled up. I knew I needed to be strong, but it was so hard. I didn’t sob anymore, I just cried softly and tried to think about what I would do next. It all seemed so hopeless. I thought maybe I heard footsteps outside, but when I lifted my head and listened I couldn’t hear a thing. 

Never again, I told myself once more, then said it aloud just to make it real.

“Never again.” 

This is not the end of Thea’s story… to find out what happens next, read Earthbound, coming soon!”

The Saturday Ember

Welcome, llamas. Today's post was going to be a bit of a school assignment, but  neither one of them are all that interesting out of context, so I changed my mind. Instead I have a little treat for those who took the time to read "That Hideous Slumber" It's a rough draft, and it's only half finished, but it neatly divides into three chapters, so this first section I present is at least a somewhat complete thought.

SPOILER WARNING: This story WILL give away plot details that pertain heavily to the conclusion of That Hideous Slumber, so I recommend finishing it first.

The Two Deaths of Atlas Kinnley

A companion to That Hideous Slumber

I.

I do not know how death is supposed to work for most.

I can only tell you how it felt to me, having experienced it more than once. I slipped into the beyond not once, but twice. The second time was perhaps a little more permanent.

Firstly, I can say with confidence I was born to be a soldier. As a boy it was all I ever dreamed of. I fashioned myself a sword from a broken branch and fancied myself protector of all Eldara, the tiny province southwest of the Eastwold where I was born.

When the Rabbitheart conquered our little country and initiated a draft for young soldiers, I was perhaps the only one who delighted at the opportunity. I would right wrongs, rescue innocents, and win the hearts of beautiful maidens the world over.

And so, though I felt I’d been a soldier all my life, it became official on a hazy morning in May when I turned 16.

For I, Atlas Kinnley, it was nothing short of destiny fulfilled.

I became a loyal citizen of Nicculus and its newest champion on the same day, and I never looked back or second guessed a thing. Ours was a conquering nation, but the conquered were generally treated fairly. As long as they paid their taxes and fulfilled their duty to provide young men for the draft. King Asriel, nicknamed the Rabbitheart by his ungrateful subjects, was a just king in the way he treated his subjects.

I distinguished myself early in my career by helping to conquer a bookish land known as Tychos. With giant libraries and tall, marble buildings, its capital was a beautiful city. It would have been an easy task, but for the wizards who counted it home, wulfren they called themselves.

Men capable of transforming into enormous, wolf-like beasts. They drove us from the city with the ferocity of their attacks. I was a corporal at the time, but ambitious. I knew if I could put an end to the woes brought on by the wulfren, I would be a commander before the year was out.

Word spread of my ambition quickly. Not to move up the Rabbitheart’s ladder but to ruthlessly put an end to the wulfren threat. I could not abide such a thorn in my side as Tychos had become in refusing to relent to our rule. I received a message from the queen of a fiercely independent monarchy by the sea known as Argenta.

She offered me a solution, a way to neutralize the powers of the wulfren if I were willing to meet with her. I rode hard for her far-flung Silver City, a strange and beautiful place with high, gleaming walls that gave the place its name. As it turned out it wasn’t so hard to get to, just a little north and east of Tychos.

Queen Victoriana was an odd specimen, a youthful looking blond woman with a small wide-eyed girl playing at her feet. Of the child’s father I never saw or heard a thing. Her palace was filled with frightful creatures born of living stone. It was a ghastly court, and one I couldn’t wait to free myself from the moment I entered.

The queen’s plan was as ruthless as it was absurd. Apparently, the woman was also a witch, for her plans were based entirely around a strange magical spell. Mostly all it required was a betrayal. I had to falsely negotiate terms with the wulfren, as though willing to grant them some concessions. According to Victoriana, a broken treaty was a part of the curse she intended to cast.

The plan was simple. I would draw up a contract, get the wulfren to accept it, then kill one of them once all was ratified. I knew it was more complex than that, knew the queen would be working some sort of occult magic from the safety of her silver palace, but the betrayal was my end of things, and all that concerned me.

It rankled a little to do something so dishonest, but the things it promised for my career as a soldier were far too tempting. For further rationalization and justification, I told myself that it would save the lives of my men, keeping them out of combat.

And so it was that I sent a messenger into the city bearing a white flag of peace to determine some sort of time when I could meet with the odd wizards.

The following day, I found myself walking through a quiet city street, the dead zone between our encampment outside the city and the great library where our enemy were holed up. I’d left all my weapons behind, all armor, carrying none of the usual trappings of war, save one. A tiny dagger hidden up my sleeve that would slide forward when needed to shed the blood that needed spilling.

The library of Tychos was a beautiful building made of white marble that had a feeling of permanence about it, as though it had weathered the world for some time already and would continue to do so well into the future, protecting the vulnerable paper within. And this regardless of one ambitious soldier’s scheming. 

Humbled by the enormous library, I ducked inside to find a dim labyrinth of bookshelves inside. This dark and dusty was wholly unfamiliar to me, having never been much of a reader. Instead of letting the place cow me, I went to all the dependable fallbacks for a trained warrior. I figured out my exit strategy, gauged a secondary egress in case things went wrong, and took stock of the room, memorizing the layout in case I needed to fight my way out.

I was met by one man, a black haired fellow with a scar across his cheek that looked recent. He grinned and led me towards a table inlaid with black and white squares like a large chessboard.

When both of us were settled into chairs across from one another, he looked me square in the eye and spoke confidently. “Come to discuss the terms of your surrender?”

I took a moment before speaking, hardly able to believe the man’s nerve. “Something like that,” I replied, letting a deadly smile cross my lips. I could play this game. I comforted myself with the knowledge that the man would be dead soon either way.

I forced myself to be as servile and humble as I could while talk turned to a treaty. I made self-deprecating remarks, I kept my voice quiet, and I always let the wulfren speak first. I let him think he had me at an advantage through every minute of our conversation. The agreement we finally wound up drawing up and ratifying was a horrible sham, something I would never have been able to accept under any honest circumstances. Putting my signature at the bottom of that document would be the biggest lie of my entire life.

The moment his quill finished its neat scribbling and my opponent set it down, I struck. My blade slid forward and accomplished its treacherous work quickly. The man’s arrogant, snide smirk fell away, and he dropped to the table, blood pooling over the parchment we’d just signed.

It would be the last death in the battle for Tychos.

A dozen of the wulfren began to dart from hiding places all around me. They leapt from balconies, from behind bookshelves and counters, all thirsty for vengeance. As they transformed to wolf-beasts, I simply stood by the door, waiting calmly. If Victoriana had betrayed me, I would die. If she had been successful, I expected nothing would happen.

One after another, the creatures found themselves impotent to harm me. There was much snarling and snapping of jaws in frustration, but I was not harmed. Claws that swiped at me simply never hit their mark.

We conquered the land within a day of my treachery. After I stepped out of that library, I never saw a wulfren in Tychos again. They were all indentured servants to the queen of Argenta now. What I didn’t realize at the time, (and what my superiors thankfully never did either) was that we’d just made Argenta unconquerable.

That next day, when Tychos became yet another province of Nicculus, I was promoted to lieutenant. I never told anyone the particulars of what happened in the library, merely that I convinced the wulfren to see things my way. This was a shared mistruth, for Victoriana would never tell the truth about where they came from either, claiming to have created them herself.

A lieutenant I was, but having distinguished myself, I wouldn’t stay one for long.

                                                                          

 

The Frog Prince

"The Frog Prince"

It is a universally accepted collation that frogs and kissing go together like bees and honey, pigs and mud, beer and protuberating guts. However, it was not always so. Once upon a time, there was a frog.

And he was just that.

A frog.

No amount of smoochery was ever going to change that, despite his direst of wishes. The frog had been told that if a fair maiden would only kiss him on the lips, with no regard to his ugliness, or basic sanitation, or plain old fashioned common sense, he would transform into a beautiful maiden himself. Not ideal, perhaps, but better than being a frog, he'd assumed.

This frog, this humdrum ordinary frog with strange wishes in his head, was swimming in the Nile one day when he saw a fairly convenient fair maiden playing with a golden ball by the shore.

As the frog watched, too shy to beg for a kiss, the girl dropped the ball into the Nile. "Oh dear me," she cried. "That river is full of crocodiles, I'll never see my ball again."

At this, the frog saw his opportunity. Heedless of the crocodiles swimming all around him, he dove deep and snatched the ball from amongst the silt and pebbles. None of the crocodiles were in the slightest tempted to eat him, because they were french crocodiles, and had recently had their fill of frog in the finest of Parisian restaurants.

The frog burst from the water with a splash, frightening the fair maiden. She did not know what to make of the little frog, until she saw her treasure caught in his webbed grip. "Oh!" She cried. "You saved my golden ball that I dropped into those crocodile-infested waters just as you happened to swim by!"

"That I did," the frog declared with flourish, bowing low. "And I shall return it to you on one condition. I must... have..." Now that the moment was upon him, the poor frog was more shy than ever. "a..."

"YES?" The girl replied a bit impatiently. The fair maiden was in fact a princess, and not terribly used to anything being withheld from her.

"a... smooch," he finished in a veritable whisper.

"A what? A smooch? You want me to kiss you?" The increasingly befuddled girl was absolutely mortified. "But... you're a frog. And I'm... not. And why would you call it a smooch? That's just creepy."

At this the frog blushed, his dreams shattered. He hung his head low, but something in him made him cling to hope. Rather than give up, he wrapped his tongue around the little golden orb in his hands and devoured it.

"There," he said, a little more confident. "Now you can't be rid of me without losing your treasure." The frog was certain if the girl got to know him, she'd pucker up without hesitation.

But it wasn't so.

"Fine. Yes. Please. Come home with me." She grabbed him roughly by one leg and carried him all the way home to her castle... a castle built entirely out of skittles. This was no ordinary princess but Princess Hannah, daughter of the Skittle King, who lived in the clouds. Princess Hannah did not see her father often, only when an extraordinarily fat person sat on a rainbow, necessitating a repair. Until the rainbow was fixed, it would relentlessly rain skittles down on the unsuspecting world. Sometimes Hannah would run out into the skittles and make skittle angels, their scent reminding her of her often absent skittle dad.

The servants at the castle greeted Hannah as cheerfully as they could, but it was clear she was in a foul mood, angry with the frog for devouring her golden ball. When she got to her personal chambers, she tossed the frog into her bathtub.

"Spit it out at once!" She demanded.

"Give me a kiss!" the frog replied calmly.

"Spit!"

"Kiss!"

At this the wide-eyed chambermaid, who had been straightening up the princess' rooms, quickly vacated. She was never seen in the kingdom of Skittlonia again. She would remember that moment as a defining time in her life, and indeed she left not a moment to soon. For had she stuck around, likely it is she would have been scarred for life.

The princess relented first, desperate to be reunited with her treasure. "You... promise to spit it out... if I give you a... smooch?"

The frog, spirits buoyed by the nearness of his victory, stood up on two legs. "Madame, not only shall I return it, but I am certain your kindness will be rewarded further somehow."

This Princess Hannah pondered with deep ponderance. So great was her pondering that her brow furrowed and her bowels churned. She had heard once a story, of a fair maiden kissing a frog and having it turn into a handsome goose. This she desired more than anything, for goose eggs were her favorite breakfast snack.

"Alright... but no tongue... I beg you." She let the frog sit on her hand and raised him to her lips. The frog puckered his lips in anticipation, and the girl closed her eyes, bracing herself for the horror that was to come.

And then... it was over. One moment they'd been kissing, the next such a thing was no longer possible. The frog was not transformed into anything handsome, man, goose or otherwise. As he'd expected, he'd transformed into a beautiful woman.

"That's a bit disappointing," he muttered, examining himself, and his new dress.

"You think YOU have a reason to be disappointed?" Hannah cried.

She had in fact become a goose.

THE END



Author's Note: I called this story "The Frog Prince" because I borrowed heavily from the Grimm's fairy tale of the same name. However, in most original versions, the frog had to sleep on the princess' bed, or be thrown against a wall, in order to transform. The origin of the idea of kissing the frog is actually a mystery. I was going to stick with throwing it against the wall (with the kissing only included as a gag) but the ending just sort of came out, and I ran with it.

The Orange Farmer's Daughter

"The Orange Farmer's Daughter"

Once upon a time, there was an orange.

It wasn't just any orange, but the king of all oranges. Now now, don't be so quick to scoff. This orange grew in a secret grove filled with golden trees. It grew among its peers into a fruit without peer, the most delicious orange to ever live. This amazing orange's tree grew near a brook that babbled like no other brook had ever babbled. If this were a story about a little brook that babbled, you would no doubt be moved to tears in an instant, but it's not. So please hold your kleenex to the end.

One day, a squirrel was leaping through the trees, trying to find a decent meal. It sniffed at each and every orange in the tree, finding none to its liking. He was about to give up when it caught the mouth-watering scent of that most special of oranges.

The squirrel plucked the orange and took a deep whiff, snuffling with its snuffler. Immediately its mouth began to water. If that squirrel did nothing else with the rest of his life, he had to eat that orange. He was about to claw his way into the little fruit's tender flesh when the orange cried out in protest.

"Wait! You musn't eat me! I taste like poo!" It cried in a surprisingly shrill British accent.

The squirrel was convinced that the orange would not taste one bit like poop, but there was something about the orange's voice, the quality of its globular body. The squirrel melted dreamily into the citrus' lack of arms.

"I can't eat her! I just can't do it!" The squirrel cried in his inner monologue. But the allure of her scent was too much for him to bear. At once he knew there was only one to save the little orange's life. He threw her into the brook.

Down the river the orange floated, surprised at this sudden turn of events but happy to be alive. She floated from river to lake to sea and finally all the way to the ocean. The orange lost all track of time as she drifted, making shapes out of the clouds by day, and constellations out of the stars by night.

Finally ocean became sea once more, and sea became lake. Soon the orange was floating down another quiet little river. She drifted right near a farm that had been down on its luck for the past decade. The little farm was mere weeks from foreclosure and ruin.

When the orange saw the state of those dilapidated buildings, scrawny farm animals, and withered orange trees, she knew this was where she belonged. It's important for you to understand this, that the orange had a tongue. Why, you ask? Naturally because this tongue was the only way the orange could control her destiny. She used her tongue to paddle her way right to the shore, where she became trapped amongst the rocks.

The orange's plan was simple. She would give her life to become a tree with beautiful oranges that would save that failing farm. The farmer did not have much help left to him in those days, only his daughter Ruthy.

Ruthy was ambling along the path beside the river with bucket in hand, eager to collect M&Ms from the nearby M&M tree. When she saw that glint of light in the water she stopped, wandering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. There lay the orange, waiting to sacrifice itself.

Ruthy eagerly dropped her pail and ran to the river, snatching up the fruit whose seeds were as valuable as gold. Without hesitation, Ruthy's fingertips ripped the orange's flesh apart, and she ate it in one enormous bite.

The orange screamed all the way down.

The Bear and the Bow

"The Bear and the Bow"

Once upon a time there was a Princess named Bethie. She lived in the faraway land of Emmhummm, a land of vibrant forests and beautiful lakes, ringed by mountains on three sides, and the sea on another. Princess Bethie was good at a lot of things. She excelled at archery, at horseback riding, and at hunting, but there was one thing she was rather terrible at.

Being a princess.

She loved to sneak out in the early mornings while the bakers were still warming their ovens in the castle's mighty kitchen. Bethie would steal a warm loaf of bread and sneak out barefoot into the wilderness, hair a tangled mess.

Eventually the king's men would find her, somewhere deep in the evergreens. Even as a little girl the forest was her second home, and as she grew up, she learned in secret the ways of the forest. She learned how to track deer, to climb trees, and often went swimming in some of Emmhummm's crocodile infested lakes. Meanwhile, her mother the queen struggled in vain to teach her how to be a princess.

Music, art and entertaining, a world within a world seemed to live within the castle. Servants and teachers and guests in an endless array, but Bethie had no patience for any of it. It was too small of a world, and far too stuffy.

On the morning of Bethie's nineteenth birthday she was nibbling a loaf of bread, racing through the trees, when she suddenly realized something unusual had happened.

She was lost.

The princess wandered for hours until she stumbled into a clearing she had never seen before. In the center of that clearing was a bear, a bear far larger than any the girl had ever seen before.

Bethie tried to shrink back, but the enormous bear had noticed the girl at once. "Come forth, child." The bear commanded. Bethie was many things but fearful was not among them. She stepped forward, curious.

"What sort of bear are you?" she asked.

"I am no bear! I am the prince of Danefield!" The bear replied.

"Oh," the startled girl replied. "You look a lot like a bear."

"I was turned into a bear by a wicked man with a magic bow. He launched an arrow and transformed me into this beast you see before you."

"That sounds like a tall tale to me," the girl replied.

"But a talking bear doesn't give you any trouble?" After a bit of explaining, the princess decided she ought to help the prince. Not because he was a prince, especially, but because he was a bear. He seemed a part of the peaceful forest she loved so much.

The selfish prince took her help without a second thought, and the two set off. They journeyed far, to the edge of Emmhummm, where the trees faded into snow capped mountains. There they found a smallish hut perched out upon the edge of a rocky cliff.

Princess Bethie rapped upon the door and found a leather clad hunter soon stared her in the face, a hunter with a bow and quiver strapped to his back. "What is it, little wretch?" He replied, even more gruffly than the bear-prince. Bethie did not like that at all. Then the hunter saw the bear. "Getting a lassie to fight your battles for you, eh Gerald?" The hunter asked, guffawing.

"Well, I wouldn't need to if you weren't using a magic bow to fight yours!" Gerald the bear replied.

"Perhaps you ought to turn him back..." Bethie replied, a bit uncomfortably.

"Perhaps." The hunter replied. "But he was poaching on my land, and I did as was my right! So perhaps I ought to turn you into a duck!" He began to notch an arrow to his bow, but Bethie was faster. She whipped her arm up and hit the hunter's wrist before he could fire. The arrow thudded harmlessly into the cabin's thatch ceiling, turning a bit of hay into a very surprised duckling.

Bethie slipped behind the hunter and grabbed an arrow from his quiver. She tapped it against the man's neck, and was suddenly dealing with a very irate hog dressed like a man. She quickly snatched up the bow lying on the ground and relieved the pig of his arrows. So armed, she burst from the house, and ran out into the night. She ran all the way back to her castle, taking a great deal of time to find her way back.

By the time she arrived, it was very late. The king and queen were waiting by the fire in the dining hall, hoping to hear word of their daughter's return. When she burst into the hall, filthy with mud and bear fur, they ran to greet her. But before they could, she tapped each of them with an arrow.

Soon enough, the king had become a llama, and the queen, an unexpectedly massive goose. In later years, long after Bethie had become queen, she would still wander through her beloved forest. Sometimes she would hear the sounds of a bear and a pig arguing. Sometimes she took her llama father, other times she rode upon the back of her mother goose, soaring through the air. She used the bow to rule all the land, governing fairly in most cases, although at times she was as hotheaded as one would expect a woman who had ruthlessly turned her mother into a goose might be.

Strangely enough, Bethie's mother goose became a great listener in her avian state. She took note of all the stories she heard, no matter how strange, and transformed them into nursery rhymes.

And that is how the legend of Mother Goose began.

The Princess and the Pee

"The Princess and the Pee"

Once upon a time there was a princess named Bethie who lived in the land of Puponia. She was settling in for bed one night high atop her pile of mattresses when suddenly she felt an extreme discomfort in her bladder. "Drat," she muttered to herself. "I knew I forgot something."

"BUTLER!!" Princess Bethie called out.

From across the castle she heard a loud commotion as the butler roused himself from his own bed and scurried through the halls. It was the king's orders that the princess be escorted to the bathroom after she had fallen from her pile of mattresses in an effort to obtain a ho-ho forgotten on her bedside table far below.

When the butler arrived, he let out a world weary sigh and grabbed a ladder that was leaning not far away. He laid it against the great stack of mattresses and Princess Bethie carefully descended.

Hand in hand, princess and butler made their way across the castle to the building's only royal bathroom. There had been more than one bathroom once, but in the Great Toilet War with Japan Puponia had had all their toilets stolen except for one. This one toilet was now exclusively for royal use, being the only toilet remaining in all the land.

The butler waited outside the door, trying not to think about his own need to use the bathroom, which in this case would require a long trek into the cold to use an outhouse. The butler grumpily contemplated stealing the miraculous toilet plated in gold, truly a fitting throne for a king too cheap to buy his subjects more porcelain.

All done, Princess Bethie emerged from the bathroom, humming and wiping her hands on her nightgown. "Didst thou wash thy royal hands?" the butler questioned, thankful that was the only thing he was required to ask about. Previous butlers had been forced to ask more specifics, such as whether "number one" or "number two" had been the reason for the late night visit to the commode.

And heaven forbid the answer was ever number two. A change in policy had been necessary when too many butlers quit over the indignity of being forced to question the princess on whether she'd remembered her "wipey poo".

The princess shook her head then returned to the gold plated sink and spent nearly ten minutes playing with the bubbles made by the soapy water while the butler struggled to maintain his composure, and the integrity of his bladder.

Finally the butler and the princess made their way back to the princess' chambers, which were (naturally) on the far side of the enormous castle, opposite the building's only operable bathroom. The butler wished to hurry, but Princess Bethie was no longer interested in returning to her chambers. Instead, she brought up all the things she thought that she and her servant should do instead.

Thereby the butler was forced to inform the princess that there would be no roller skating through the ballroom, no playing with dolls in the dungeons, and certainly no construction of dynamite out of nitroglycerin and play-doh.

Upon returning to her chamber, Princess Bethie once more carefully climbed her ladder and relaxed into bed. The lights went out and the ladder was pulled away. The butler withdrew, moving with more speed than she would have thought possible. The princess however, could not sleep. She could not put her finger on the exact reason why. She rolled back and forth, wondering if a pea had been slid underneath her lowest mattress.

And then she realized the cold, brutal truth. A pea wasn't the problem at all.

She had to go again.

"BUTLER!!"

The Little Manatee

The church I visited today was somewhat abysmal. Basically the worst sermon I have ever heard. So I got kind of bored, and mentally composed a short story. Here it be.

"The Little Manatee"

Once upon a time, there was a manatee named Charlotte. Every day she traveled to the edge of the florida swamp, to a sandy beach where fisherman brought their boats, hoping for a good haul.

Oftentimes she would catch sight of a particular fisherman who caught her eye. He was the only one who was careful with his boat. Others had hit her manatee friends, bumping them on the noggin without care. Charlotte liked to watch the kindly fisherman work, and wished she could talk to him. The manatee had come close to his boat before, but the fisherman had taken no notice of the comely sea cow.

One day, Charlotte decided to do something about it. She traveled away from the marshlands, out into the deep ocean where the waves grew as tall as sailboats. Further from home than she'd ever been. The dark infinite sea scared her, but once she left she did not look back.

Charlotte the manatee traveled for miles till she found a cave where a giant squid dwelled. Charlotte was frightened of giant squid but was reasonably confident they did not eat manatee. The giant squid stared at the sea cow with one giant, unblinking eye.

"What do you want from me?" the massive creature demanded gruffly.

"I have heard that you can grant wishes," the manatee replied timidly. "I would like to have my wish granted."

"I can indeed grant the wishes of manatees. Unfortunately I can only grant the wishes of manatees, not a specialty that has served me well so far from Florida. Business has been poor, so I will be happy to help you, if you do one thing for me."

"What must I do?" Charlotte asked.

"Travel to the coral reef to the west. A great white shark has been terrorizing the fishes there. Defeat the shark, and you shall have your wish."

Charlotte didn't know how to stop a shark, but she felt she had traveled too far to turn back now, and she was a very clever manatee regardless, so she felt she might think of something. The manatee traveled west until she found the coral reef, a beautiful place of strange plants and even stranger fish.

She asked all of the fishes where she might find this terrible shark, but no one would tell her, terrified for the naive sea cow's safety. It wasn't long before the shark appeared however.

Upon seeing the bulky, out of place creature floating about, the shark's stomach rumbled. The manatee seemed to transform into a giant cheeseburger before his eyes. His mouth began to water as well, but it was difficult to tell, since he was underwater anyhow.

Immediately the shark charged Charlotte the manatee down, eager for a meal. Charlotte stood her ground, or rather floated in place. She was terrified but determined. Closing her eyes, she braced for impact.

It never came. For all the fish, seeing how this brave manatee stood up for their safety, all the fish in the reef rallied together and attacked the shark as one. Apart, they had never been able to accomplish anything, but together they were able to drive the great white shark away.

He was never seen in the coral reef again. Charlotte traveled back to the great squid's cavern and made her request. She wished to be human. Immediately the manatee fell into a deep sleep. When she woke again, she felt sand beneath her flippers.

But no, that wasn't right. Her flippers were no more, replaced now by hands. Long red hair flowed past her shoulders, just as she'd always longed for. Struggling awkwardly to her feet, she saw the kindly fisherman walking towards her.

Upon seeing the stranger washed up on his beach, the man dropped his catch and ran to her aid. With strong arms he helped her to her feet. "Hey, are you alright man?" the man asked her.

Man? Charlotte took a moment to examine herself, and realized the cold, brutal truth. She hadn't been terribly specific when she'd made her wish, and that made all the difference.

She'd gone from being a manatee... to being a man.

The End