Military Science Fiction- JSgt. Jeanne Lankford- Part 2

     The Mess-Deck was mixture of khaki and olive uniforms. Info-screens were positioned in periodic intervals above the tables, displaying a commercial for the Interplanetary Marine Corps. They grabbed their trays and slopped food that reminded Jeanne of the stuff she was served in secondary school. Jeanne looked around for the familiar faces of her platoon. She spotted the silvery head of Platoon Sergeant Aesgir. She made her way past a pair of Ensigns discussing technical specs, and sat down at the table.

     “Ah look! The rest of Kitty Squad is here! Had a good sleep?” greeted PSgt. Asgeir.

     “I’ve had better,” replied Jeanne. 

     “How’s Ivanova?” asked a woman with orange frizzy hair. 

     “I’m fine Rolland,” rasped STpr. Ivanova as she plopped down next to Jeanne.

     “You don’t sound fine.”

     “She just had some trouble with the oxy-fluid, that’s all. I’ve already talked to Mom to give her a check up,” stated Sgt. Marlowe as she slid onto the other side of Jeanne. 

     “That’s the last thing Mom needs, another reason to worry,” japed Senior Trooper Noyla Rolland.

     “Don’t let him know that. You’ll get a firm scolding,” grunted Sgt. Marlowe chewing on a particularly tough piece of meat. “What the fuck’s this supposed to be?”

Jeanne leaned over to look, “Steak… I think.”

     “Mmph, it feels like rubber.”

     “Maybe it is,” grunted Ivanova.

     “Work continues as the search for survivors of the Government Complex Bombing drags on. Numerous people from dozens of planets have flocked to Jorrig in an attempt to help.” The Info-screen now broadcasted a news bulletin. Jeanne turned her attention from her food to the display. 

     “It’s been nearly two months since the bombing and work to clear the damage is still in progress. The official casualty count has not be released, but rumors estimate the total to be over two hundred thousand.” Jeanne’s eyes glazed as she remembered the letter she had received shortly before they shipped out of Port Erikson. It was from her mother. The contents informed her that her father, a government official, had died in the bombing.  

     She called up the memory of the last time they had all been together. She and her brother, Jack had been relaxing in the family pool, while her mother in her seemingly impossible youth sunbathed on the beach chair on the deck. Her father stood at the grill supported by a mechanical pair of legs, made visible by his shorts. The smell of freshly cooked burgers filled her nose as she asked her father how much longer it would be until they could eat. Before he could answer, Jack had performed a beautiful cannonball right next to her, spraying water over her and the pool deck. She remember taking a swing at him. She grinned, but that faded as she remembered how much she missed them.

     Then she was back on the mess deck, staring at canned corn, mashed potatoes and rubbery steak. She absent-mindedly pushed the kernels around with her spork.

     “Lankford? Lankford!?” Someone was calling her name.

     “Huh?” she looked around. Marlowe’s hand was on her shoulder.

     “Are you good?” asked Ruby.

     “Y-y-yeah,” she stammered, pushing a loose lock behind her ear, “I’m good.” Marlowe looked from her face to the Info-screen. She reached up and changed the frequency.

     “I can’t know how you feel Jeanne,” whispered Marlowe, “But I’m here for you, we all are.”

     “Thanks,” mumbled Jeanne.

Military Science Fiction- JSgt. Jeanne Lankford- Part 1

A while ago I wrote a piece called "Are You Sure?". This follows Jeanne Lankford, the wife in the couple depicted in that piece.

*****

     As she awoke, she was blinded by the fluorescent light overhead. She quickly blinked the tears from her lavender eyes as she tried to focus. Her stomach twisted. She leaned over the edge of the cryo-tube and gagged as oxy-fluid spilled from her lungs onto the floor.

Fuck, I hate cryo-travel, she thought as she swung her legs over the edge of the tube and straightened. She sucked her teeth as her bare feet hit the frigid metal. The film coating her skin began to peel as she stretched. She shivered and hurried from the cryo-bay and into the adjacent showers.  As the door hissed open, she was hit by a wave of steam; a pleasant change from the bitterly cold cryo-stasis chamber. 

     Her eyes barely open, she shuffled over to one of the spigots and punched the button. A heated jet of a mixture of cleaner and water rained down on her shoulders. She scrubbed her chestnut hair, washing out the stasis-gel. As she let the liquid wash over her body she felt someone move next to her. A girl with shorn mousy hair leaned against the shower wall, her eyes still squeezed shut.

     “Ivanova, are you okay?” she asked.

     “I… hate… cryo-travel,” hacked the girl. 

     “Me too.” She finished washing the residue off her body and headed into the locker room where her platoon had stored their gear before leaving Port Erikson. She pulled on her fatigue pants and slipped the suspenders over he shoulders. She pulled on her undershirt and jacket. She jumped as someone hugged her from behind and kissed her neck. She spun around and was greeted by the smiling face of Sergeant Ruby Marlowe.

     “Good Morning, Lankford! You’ve sleeping in again?” asked Marlowe grinning.

     “You know how cryo effects me, besides, I’d check on Cal, she was looking rough in the showers.” 

     “I’ll get Mom to check on her. You hungry?” asked Marlowe. Jeanne hadn’t thought about it. Her stomach growled.

     “Yeah… What’s on the menu?”

     “The usual, garbage.” joked Marlowe, “Though, it’s probably better than the shit at Fort Slyborn.” Jeanne smiled, she leaned forward to kiss her partner, but they were interrupted by a harsh cough. They stepped apart as Senior Trooper Calinka Ivanova, stumbled into the locker room. 

     “Cal!” cried Marlowe, rushing over to the wheezing girl.

     “I’m fine!” barked Ivanova, “Just give me a moment for fucks sake!” 

     “I want you to get Mom to check up on you. That’s an…” Marlowe was interrupted as another coughing fit over took Ivanova. The message got through though, as the mousy girl nodded between breaths. Jeanne smiled. She loved how Marlowe looked after the squad, kind of like a big sister. She scanned the locker room.

     “Where’s everyone else?” she asked. 

     “Oh, they’re already at the mess. I wanted to make sure you two were awake first.” explained Marlowe, “you can head over, I’ll take care of Cal.”

     “I’ll wait,” said Jeanne. Ivanova eventually coughed up the last of the oxy-fluid in her lungs and pulled on her fatigues. Marlowe gave her an another once over before they all headed for the elevators.

MacLismore Cycle- Part One

   

     The fields surrounding the keep of Gaer’Lismore were usually empty, save for the herds of highland cattle and sheep. But today, a small city of tents and stalls had sprung up as the clans under the Great Clan MacLismore gathered for the Comdhail and the following games. Caelach, a man of short stature and auburn hair wandered through the passages between the assembled pavilions. 

     By his side, a new addition to the clan; Bjorn Thal Velson, a replanted Skaldi from the north lands. Bjorn was much taller than Caelach, standing at least two heads greater. His fair hair  and beard danced in the breeze coming off of Loch Lismore. His chest was broad and his arms thick. 

The pair found their way to the central market, where clansmen peddled their wears and traded goods. Young children dashed in and out of the bustle of their elders, laughing, screaming and shouting. Caelach’s face darkened and he searched for the closest ale cask and filled his horn. He could feel Bjorn’s steel eyes watching him as he drained the horn and replenished it. The Skaldi moved in, brushing Caelach aside as he filled his own horn.

     “You drink very much,” grunted the northman. Caelach wiped a dribble of ale from his chin with his sleeve. He gave the northman a sideways grin. Bjorn had yet to fully grasp the Caerbic language, and it still made Caelach smile.

     “That is a deep praise coming from you.”

     “As I say in the north, you is éngi tvagallmák,” laughed Bjorn.

     “What does that mean?” chuckled Caelach. Bjorn’s face screwed up trying to come up with the Caerbic words.

     “Not weak gut,” he hammered out. Caelach raised his horn.

     “Kalg!” exclaimed the northman. They both pointed their horns to the sky and drained them of ale. Bjorn clapped Caelach on the shoulder.

     “Methinks you have found eyes,” whispered the northman.

     “Huh?” blinked Caelach. Bjorn jerked his blonde head towards a nearby stall. Caelach peered through the throng towards the direction indicated. His eyes fell upon a woman with hair like the feathers of a raven, and eyes of a summer oak. Their eyes met for a moment before her face turned red and she looked back down at the bolts of cloth she was inspecting. He recognized her instantly. She was Flora MacAmbraise-Evinyn. Bjorn looked down at Caelach.

     “She know you?” he questioned.

     “Hmm?” murmered Caelach turning his head, but his eyes were transfixed on Flora.

     “She know you?” repeated the northman.

     “Oh, yes. I’ll be right back,” said Caelach taking a swig before making his way towards the raven maiden.

     Caelach casually slid up next to Flora. Her emerald eyes shot towards him and blush filled her cheeks and she kept inspecting the folds of plaid. 

     “Hello Flora,” he smiled. Her face burned.

     “Hello Caelach…” she muttered. Caelach could feel the grin of the weaver. He looked at the greying woman. She beamed, winked, and stepped out from behind the stall, leaving the pair to themselves. Flora wore a simple blouse and bodice with a blue and purple tartan skirt. 

     “You look very beautiful this day,” said Caelach. Flora twirled a loose jet strand around her finger and bit her lip.

     “Thank you,” she grinned meekly.

     “Are you going to compete in the games?” she asked.

     “Of course!” boasted Caelach. He leaned close. “I plan to fight for your hand in the melee.” She gave him a weak smile and rubbed her neck.

     “Just be careful…” she murmured.

     “I always am!” he proclaimed. She allowed him a small chuckle and turned back to the fabrics.

     “They are so beautiful! Elfyn is so talented,” praised Flora.

     “Thank you lassie.” The greying weaver had returned.

     “What would you like for this one?” asked Flora, holding up a red and purple tartan. 

     “Hmmm, that one would be four boars.” Flora’s face fell.

     “Oh, I don’t think I could afford that…” she lamented. 

     “Here.” Caelach reached into the folds of his kilt and withdrew five golden coins with a relief of a boar etched into once side and handed them to the weaver. Elfyn counted the coins and made to give one back, but Caelach refused.

     “Keep it,” he grinned. The weaver’s face lit up.

     “Much appreciated!” she cried before lifting the bolt of cloth and handing it to Flora.

     “Here you go lass, you better make something beautiful with that!” she winked.

     “Caelach! How could I ever thank you!” she cooed. Caelach grinned, leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. 

     “Like so,” he said, giving her a wry smile.

Creation Myth of Heimurinn (Complete)

Here is the Creation Myth of the world called, "Madstrag" or "Duintraile" depending on who you ask.
But for simplicity, we will refer to it as "Heimurinn". The differing names are those given to the Companions by the Skaldar and Caerduine respectively.

*****

At the beginning of time, there was nothing. The Void, as the sages call it, was what existed; a great expanse of darkness. Despite the darkness of the Void, it was not empty. Creatures of unknown shape and figured dwelled here. This period of darkness continued for a millennium. The creatures of darkness wallowed in the grime and filth of the void.

This is when newcomers appeared in the Void, the Eight Companions. With them, they brought light. The creatures of darkness hated the light and recoiled from it.

Now like the world, the Eight are known by different names.

The leader was called Worgi -or- Wathain. He was the eldest of the group, and bore a blond beard.
The second was Valling -or- Malla. She was so beautiful that she glowed with radiant light.
The third is named Velfur -or- Spairod. These three were sibilings, though it is unknown who begat them.

Then there was Riggsi -or- Farthach. He was the biggest of the Eight, and stood twice as tall.
There is Fryigg or Dorcha, her hair was as black as the Void itself.

There are the twins, Kjallisi -or- Oghear and Bjarndur -or- Faohier. These two brought two of the most powerful things into the world, Ice and Fire.

The last of the Eight was, Laturan -or- Baseag. He was queer. Quiet and sneaky, he loved the darkness.

So the Void Creatures hated the Eight. They cursed the light and fled from it. One of the creatures, whose name has been long forgotten decided to try and kill the Eight. He gathered and army and plotted to wipe light form the Void forever.

Not there was one being who like the light and did not like the idea of it being snuffed from existance. His name was Madur -or- Duin. He told the eight of of the Forgotten One's plan. The eight began to argue. Worgi, Valling, and Velfur, trusted Madur; but Kjallisi, Bjarndur and Laturan didn't. Riggsi and Fyrigg wanted nothing to do with the conflict.

The Forgotten One, seeing the divide decided to corrupt the Eight. He poisoned them with a dark spell. Those who trusted Madur were able to fend off the poison, but those who didn't, succumbed to the pestilence and joined the Forgotten One.

Thus the battle began. Worgi, Valling, and Velfur were fallen upon by the hordes of darkness. Surrounded on all sides, the three fought valiantly, but it appeared that all was lost. Untill Worgi pushed his way through to the Forgotten One.

The Forgotten One raised his axe and mace and charged at Worgi. There in the middle of the field they clashed. The Forgotten One cleaved Worgi's shield in twain, and shattered his sword. Worgi stumbled backwards, feeling for a weapon. The Forgotten One Raised his weapons to the sky in victory and made to strike Worgi down. But luckilly Worgi's hand found the shaft of a spear and jabbed it into the Forgotten Ones throat. He fell and disappeared.

Upon their leader's death the armies of darkness fell away in retreat.

The three who had been poisoned returened to their natural state and the day was theirs. But battle is not with out price. Madur had fallen during the battle. The Eight gave him a funeral, which all funerals of man mimic.

Creation Myth, Part I.

Here is the Creation Myth of the world called, "Madstrag" or "Duintraile" depending on who you ask. But for simplicity, we will refer to it as "Heimurinn"

At the beginning of time, there was nothing. The Void, as the sages call it, was what existed; a great expanse of darkness. Despite the darkness of the Void, it was not empty. Creatures of unknown shape and figured dwelled here. This period of darkness continued for a millennium. The creatures of darkness wallowed in the grime and filth of the void.

This is when newcomers appeared in the Void, the Eight Companions. With them, they brought light. The creatures of darkness hated the light and recoiled from it.

Now like the world, the Eight are known by different names.

The leader was called Worgi -or- Wathain. He was the eldest of the group, and bore a blond beard.
The second was Valling -or- Malla. She was so beautiful that she glowed with radiant light.
The third is named Velfur -or- Spairod. These three were sibilings, though it is unknown who begat them.
Then there was Riggsi -or- Farthach. He was the biggest of the Eight, and stood twice as tall.
There is Fryigg or Dorcha, her hair was as black as the Void itself.
There are the twins, Kjallisi -or- Oghear and Bjarndur -or- Faohier. These two brought two of the most powerful things into the world, Ice and Fire.
The last of the Eight was, Laturan -or- Baseag. He was queer. Quiet and sneaky, he loved the darkness.

So the Void Creatures hated the Eight. They cursed the light and fled from it. One of the creatures, whose name has been long forgotten decided to try and kill the Eight. He gathered and army and plotted to wipe light form the Void forever.

Not there was one being who like the light and did not like the idea of it being snuffed from existance. His name was Madur -or- Duin. He told the eight of of the Forgotten One's plan. The eight began to argue. Worgi, Valling, and Velfur, trusted Madur; but Kjallisi, Bjarndur and Laturan didn't. Riggsi and Fyrigg wanted nothing to do with the conflict.

The Forgotten One, seeing the divide decided to corrupt the Eight. He poisoned them with a dark spell. Those who trusted Madur were able to fend off the poison, but those who didn't, succumbed to the pestilence and joined the Forgotten One.

Are you sure?

     Something was wrong. He opened his eyes and turned to do discover his wife was missing. He sat up and looked around the bedroom. He tossed back the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A pair of metal dog-tags hung around his neck encased in rubber silencers; they rested against his toned bare chest. The alarm clock on the bedside table informed him that it was three-thirty in the morning. He got up, and stretched. Yawning, he headed into the hall. There was the distinctive woosh and thump of the back sliding-door. He made his way downstairs and through the kitchen. 

His wife was standing out in the backyard, staring up into the clear night sky. The stars twinkled like millions of candles. He slid the door open and was greeted by the cool summer air. He shivered, wishing he had put on a shirt. The grass was soft beneath his toes. His wife, in her tank top and shorts didn’t seem to hear him. Her brunette bob fluttered as a light breath blew past her. Her argent skin seemed to shine in the dual-moonlight.

     “Sweetheart?” he said. Her head adjusted slightly, acknowledging him. “What are you doing out her? Is everything okay? 

     “Yeah…” she muttered, “Just needed to think some.”

     “You had another nightmare, didn’t you?” He asked. She nodded. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and slouched to rest his chin on her shoulder. She barely reached his shoulder when she stood next to him. 

     “Whatchya looking at?”

     “The stars,” she muttered, turning her head skywards.

     “Thinking about the war?” he asked.

     “Yeah.”

     “It’s been a long time.” 

     “Yeah, but sometimes it feels like yesterday,” she commented.

     They stood there watching the sky until the sun’s rays began to peek over the horizon. 

     “Your daughter be up soon,” he yawned, releasing her from the embrace for the first time. She turned to him. Her natural lavender eyes looked into his hazel.

     “My daughter?” she hissed playfully.

     “Yuuuupp!” he stretched, grinning. She returned the smile and wrapped her arms around his neck.

     “I love you.”

     “I love you too,” he said before giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

     “Chris, I want to go back,” she whispered.

     “Back to Elysia? Are you sure?

     “Yeah. I’m sure.”

     “Alright.”

---------------

I created these characters for a Halo/Red Vs. Blue Fan Fiction I wrote a while back. Yeah, I wrote a fan fiction, deal with it. I thought I had lost all the files when my laptop crashed, but I was looking through my iCloud documents  I discovered two of the documents. I read through them again and oh my god how my writing has improved! But I remembered how much I liked the characters of Chris, Jeanne, Alex, and Liz. So I thought about for a bit and decided to bring them into this Far flung Sci-Fi Universe I had in the back of my head. Those of you that have read the Jack and Rubi stuff might be familiar with the planet of Elysia, but I can't remember if it was in my reboot or the original...

But anyways, after spending 80+ pages with the characters they got burned into my mind. I love war stories, and enjoy military strategy and such. I've been toying with the idea of a military type story, and might do it with these characters.

The Final Words of Jennifer Eclberg: Part Two

I found myself standing in front of a overgrown church. I was wearing a dress made of cotton, that was reminiscent of colonial times. As I looked around I could see I was alone. I was confused as to where I was. I heard the rustling of bushes behind me, and as I spun around I could see two red orbs crouched amongst the underbrush. I was frozen. I saw it draw closer. I willed my legs to run away, but I couldn’t. It moved out of the bushes revealing its self as a massive dog. It must have stood at least as tall as a human at the shoulder. I could see its massive yellow teeth glisten with spittle in the moonlight. Finally I found the ability to run as a wave of terror over took me. I sprinted into the cemetery, slamming the wrought iron gate behind me and sprinting through the solemn rows of graves. I tripped over a root, tearing my dress and bloodying my knee as I plummeted to the ground. I frantically searched for the pursuing beast, but it appeared to have disappeared. I stood and for some reason headed deeper into the graveyard. I approached a mausoleum. Suddenly I saw the beast step out from the behind the columned tomb. It turned to me with those burning eyes. Moving faster than I could blink, it pounced.

It was then, that I woke up. My scream waking my sleeping partner. She was concerned but I told her that it was simply a nightmare and to go back to sleep. I stepped into the bathroom for a glass of water.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I noticed something on my neck. Upon closer inspection I saw what could only be described by as bite marks from a massive dog. Horrified at the sight the drinking glass slipped from my grip and shattered on the floor. Alina burst into the bathroom, a softball bat in her hand. When she saw that I was alone, she relaxed. She asked what happened. I proceeded to show her the bite mark on my neck. But she claimed that there was nothing there. I insisted, tracing the teeth marks with my finger, but she only gave me a concerned look.

She led me back to bed, insisting that there were no marks on my neck. But I could feel them. I was bewildered on how someone as detail-oriented as my wife couldn’t see the marks! 

I didn’t get another minute of sleep that night. I sat upright in my bed staring out the window. I’m not sure if it was for the lack of sleep, but I saw something moving in the yard. I stalked to the window and peered through the glass into the street. I spotted movement on the other side of the road. As I squinted to make it out, I thought that it was simply a trick of the light, until a pair of searing red orbs appeared. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound could be heard. I watched it stalk between the trees trunks. Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth! I wished I could tear my eyes away, but I stared at it in dumfounded horror. 

As the sun began to rise the visage of the beast seemed to fade as night gave way to dawn, and dawn gave way to morning. Alina was concerned. Saying that I needed rest, that I had been pushing myself too hard at work. She had me call in sick and ordered me to stay in bed and sleep. I gave her a kiss goodbye and promised that I would get some rest. 

But as she pulled out of the driveway, I did return to bed. But instead of sleeping I opened my laptop and searched the internet for stories in the area about a giant black dog. I came across a webpage dedicated to North Carolina’s legends and ghost stories. There, I found the story of “The Demon Dog of Valle Crucis.” There was an drawing of a dog with burning eyes in front of the church I saw in my dream. 

I studied the page, as if I was studying for a test. Taking in every detail. How the morning mists seem to linger, and how the town had a bizarre silence, even on the nicest summer days. I continued to read, finding the story about the two young men, who were driving along Highway 194 around midnight, when a black shape leapt out into the road. They swerved and as they looked to see what they had nearly ran into; and thats when they saw it. A massive black dog with scorching red eyes, bristling fur and shining yellow teeth. They looked to each other and one asked the other if he saw the beast. The man simply replied, “No, and neither do you.” They sped off down the country road at breakneck speeds around hairpin turns. When they looked into the rearview mirrors they saw the beast not only in pursuit, but keeping pace with the car. It was not until they crossed the bridge where the two rivers that ran through the valley met at a perpendicular angle, when the beast gave up the chase, as if stopped by some sort of invisible barrier. 

My eyes had grown wide. My hands were shaking. I had seen the beast, outside my window; but I lived in Rosewood, Asigee County. Boone and Valle Crucis were two counties over. I slammed the computer shut and slid it away from me, as if it had transformed into some foul creature, like an opossum or a snake. My heart was in my throat. I drew the sheets up around me, like a young child, fearing the monsters that lived under the bed or in the closet. 

Welcome to New Angel City

 You seem like a good kid. Now, what a nice jasper like yourself is doing here is beyond me. You must have gotten off at the wrong platform, down at the train station. 

The only people who come here are people who are interested in making dough by getting wet. Not like a how a twist gets when when some mug she fancies plays with her snatch, though if being a roundheel is your goal, I’m not one to judge. But I mean wet, as in getting your hands wet with blood. “Wet-work” is what some of the gunsels like to call it.

The rain slicked streets and the shady back alleys provide the perfect nesting ground for the things that go bump in the night. Here you have horned-bastards that look like half-demons, and then there are those angelic sons-of-bitches; believe me when I say they are hardly angel-like.

There is nothing really here, except forgotten dreams of prosperity, a corrupt police force, twisted politicians, more crime and violence then you could ever beg for, and the incessant nearly-perpetual downpour. 

I’ve lived in the city my whole life. I’ve seen what it does to people. It turns the innocent red hearts of people into cold black stones.

Welcome to New Angel City.

A Storm is Coming...

     I can still remember the day this whole thing started. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon. I had drawn the blinds and popped open my windows, allowing for a brisk breeze to blow through the office. The cream and olive wallpaper was peeling around the edges, and the door had been misaligned when some lug attached it to the hinges; you couldn’t get it to stay shut unless you pulled up on the brass knob. A pane of frosted glass was set into the oaken exit; bold lettering across the window read, “Shadow Private Investigations”. 

     I leaned back in my chestnut chair, and propped by feet up atop the mahogany desk. I had found the thing in a backstreet in Rooktown. I couldn’t believe myself when I found it. It was perfectly good except for the ink stain on the corner, I liked the stain, gave the thing character. I had a black rotary telephone. I hardly ever used the thing I usually waited for someone to call me, someone always did. The lamp was opposite the phone and was joined with the glass ashtray. A glass of whiskey was perched within easy reach. The bottle was stashed in the second drawer on the right, along with another glass.

     There were two filing cabinets in there. One was a wooden one, which was behind me, and the metal one which was on the left wall. Shitty thing, and I mean the metal one; if you didn’t oil the rollers routinely the damn thing would get stuck or squeak. A small desk fan sat a top the wooden cabinet along with my typewriter and radio. I had some shelves on the wall too, mostly filled with books; my camera sat on the lowermost ledge.

     My diploma from St. Vincent’s Academy was next to a withering cork board which hung over a tawny davenport. The davenport was another item I found in a back alley. It’s amazing what those rich types throw away. A flat pillow clad in white cotton with a red strip around the opening was tossed haphazardly on the leather cushions, accompanied by a knit blanket. 

     There was a bathroom. I always hated the stupid tiled floor and walls but I never could afford to change it. It had a shower, no tub, a large basin sink, and a mirrored medicine cabinet. I kept my shirts, and underwear in the bottom two drawers of the desk, and hung my jackets and trousers in the closet with my coat and hat. 

I pulled a cigarette from the pack in my breast pocket. I flipped open my lighter, and held the flame to the tip. I puffed on the fag and a wisp of smoke floated upwards, but was soon dispersed by the cross breeze.

     My skin was pale with a tinge of red, though not for lack of sunlight, it was always like that. A pair of dark-wine horns protruded from my forehead, just below my hairline, and my tail hung off the seat and toward the floor, flicking rhythmically. Yeah, I’m a Setenak. Most folks just call us tieflings. It’s just easier in conversation; rolls off the tongue.

     I kept my raven hair short and parted. Sometimes if the light hit it just right it would appear as a dusky mauve. My face was round. It wasn’t distinctly feminine, but it wasn’t completely androgynous either. I’m not a looker, but I am a jane; though at a distance, you probably couldn’t tell. I always hated dresses and heels, they made me feel exposed and unprotected. I preferred my loafers and slacks. 

     My piece was tucked into it’s holster that hung from my shoulders. An Arnurson .45 Runekaster Double Action Revolver; In layman’s terms, it’s the style of gun that Felix Steel uses to fight outlaws in the flickers, and double action means, you don’t need to cock the hammer every time you want to throw some pills. A .45 was more powerful than the .38 that the coppers would carry; couple that with hex-slinging… Hell, I bet it could take down a aurochs; don’t quote me though.

     My thoughts drifted to my partner. Well, former partner, David Wolfe. He was one of the best gumshoes money could buy. He retired, found himself a cute bird and decided to settle down. She was a laekanorn, or mender, as most people called them. You know, healers. 

    David bought an automobile service shop up in Sabine; he sure did love his cars. Last I talked to him, he and Mary, were trying to have kids; that was almost five months ago. When he had decided to leave, I got a smaller office. Not out of spite or anything, I just couldn’t afford it. See, when you have two private dicks on a case, you can wring a bit more dough out of the client.

     The radio was rebroadcasting the Corsair-Tigers game from last week. The Tigers were up two runs at the bottom of the 6^th. I didn’t care for baseball all that much, it was just something to pass the time. I heard the creak of the floorboards out in the hall and there was a short rap on the door. 

     “It’s open!” I called. I quickly pulled my feet off the desk and hastily smoothed my blouse. That’s when she walked in. 

     Now understand, usually I don’t make scissors or daddle, though I’m not opposed to kissing fish. But this dame… If I had met her down at the bar after I’d dipped my bill a bit, you can go all in on me chatting up this chick.

     She dressed conservatively, not like those roundheels that you can find down in the Pearl District. Her gams would make any jasper swoon, and I felt my thumper quicken. She wore a muted cerulean dress, and a matching jacket. Her tawny curls framed a beautiful and mature face. A hand bag was slung over her shoulder, and a pair black suede gloves were clutched in her finely manicured mitts. She tried to close the door, but it hung open.

     “Here, Let me get it, please have a seat” I said, getting up from my chair. As I stepped around her, I could smell jasmine and rose. She sat daintily in the leather backed chairs positioned in front of my desk. She smoothed her skirts as I made sure the door was closed. I turned down the radio before returned to my seat.

     “Sorry about that, the damn thing never closes properly. What can I do you for miss…?” 

     “Skinner, Kathleen Skinner. But my friends call me ‘Kat’.” Her voice was like a babbling brook, bubbly and cheerful. She smiled as she talked, putting that perfect row of chompers on display; they made me think of my more defined canines. She held out her hand.

     “Vera Shadow, Private Eye.” She had a surprisingly strong grip, which took me by surprise. Most twists don’t give you a good shake. Their arms typically are like over cooked spaghetti.

     “So, what can I do for you today, Mrs. Skinner?” I asked, stamping out my cigarette.

     “I need you to find someone.” My eyebrow raised. Usually when a maid comes in asking for me to find someone, its because she thinks the lug she’s hitched too has run off with some young frill. The dish’s hunch is generally correct.

     “Miss, I'm not married,” she corrected. “A student of mine disappeared a couple days ago. She hasn’t been to class, and no one has seen her around campus,” she continued. I took a sip from my pony glass.

     “How do you know she’s not just ran off with some husky?”

     “She isn’t that kind of girl. She would never do such a thing.” admonished the wren.

     “How do you know? When I was in school, I knew tons of broads who ran off to shack up with their sugar daddies.” Her nose wrinkled at my language. She stiffened in her chair.

     “She’s on scholarship. Her very attendance of the school depends on her making good grades. I’ve seen how she studies. In fact she’s so focused she cut off her relationship with this young man she met during the summer once school started!” 

     “Now how does a teach know that stuff?” I questioned.

     “I’m her advisor. She comes to me with more than just school work. She’s loner, in a way. She’s comfortable talking with me.”

     “Let me guess, you think… What’s her name?”

     “Violet Morse.”

     “So, you think Violet has been kidnapped by some punk she broke up with?” I said bluntly. Her hand jumped to her throat, as terror washed over her.

     “I surely hope not! But it is one of my suspicions,” she exclaimed.

     “If that’s the case, why didn’t you go to the cops instead of rashing me?” 

     “I did. They gave me the same answer you did, and then they told me they’ll put out a call for people matching her description; but it could take weeks for something to show up! I can’t wait that long. She’s like a daughter to me.” I pulled another smoke out of my pocket and lit it up. 

     “Did you call her folks?” I asked the cigarette bouncing like a busty woman’s tits as she walked.

     “Yes. They live upstate. They said they would give me a ring if Violet showed up.” I finished my hootch and set the glass on the desk.

     “Alright. I’ll take the case. But it’s going to cost you twenty bucks a day, plus expenses.” I watched her face. A double sawbuck a day was twice the scratch I usually charged for this type of case. I wanted to see how she would react. 

Surprisingly, her kisser curled into a grin.

     “I can give you a hundred now to get you started, and I’ll pay the rest when she’s found.” She pulled a C-note from her purse, and slid it across the desk.

     “Looks like you got a private dick on the case!” I grinned nipping the bill off the table, and holding up to the light. I’d been slipped one to many split bills and it had become a habit.

     “Looks like your folding is in good order,” I said.

     “The dormitory is on the edge of campus. On the corner of South Bayville and Kenter Street. It’s not easy to miss. I’ll tell the guard you’re coming.”

     “Guard?” I’d never heard of a dormitory having a hard boy watching the door.

     “The academy isn’t co-ed. It’s against the school’s policy to have boys in the dorms. Besides, the city isn’t a safe place for young girls to be left unprotected.”

     “Alright… How am I going to get in touch with you?”

     “Oh, of course. How foolish of me! I’m the head of the Psionics Department. My office hours are from nine to seven. If you need to get in touch with me at any other time, my home number is 555-4123.” I opened the middle desk drawer and withdrew my notebook and pen. 

     “What was the number again?” She repeated it and I scribbled the digits below her name. I also took note of the location of the dormitory.

     “Thanks, I’ll be sure to throw you a line if I find something,” I said.

     “When.”

     “When? When what?”

     “When you find something.” I couldn’t help but chuckle.

     “Sure thing, Ms. Skinner.” She closed the clasp on her purse and stood. I matched her.

     “Please, call me Kat,” she requested. I agreed and showed her out. I couldn’t help but watch her pendulum hips as she walked down the hall towards the stairs. 

     As I ducked back into the office a dull pain formed in my right knee. I hobbled over to the window, and looked out towards the bay. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon; a storm was coming…

The Final Words of Jennifer Eclberg: Part One

I am writing this so that no one else may tread down the dark path as I have. As my driver’s license will state I am Jennifer Eclberg; born 1983 on the seventh of May. I am former head psychiatrist at Saint Christina Memorial Hospital in Rosewood, North Carolina.  I am married to Alina McGregor, who works at the Asigee County Library in downtown Rosewood.

This all began about a month ago, when a patient was transferred to our psych ward from Canton, a small town outside of Asheville. When he arrived, he was wheeled in, strapped into a straight jacket and muzzle; with an escort of six officers of the law. The man had deep pools for eyes and long, thin, ashen hair. He gave me the impression of having thick Cherokee heritage. 

His medical forms named him as Waya Thomas. A man of forty-seven, born on January 26^th at the Cherokee Indian Hospital. As I flipped through his brimming file, I found records of his state of mental instability. He had been charged with the murder of nine young girls, claiming that they were sacrifices to some sort of ancient forgotten god. Surprisingly, he did not plead insanity. 

He was imprisoned in the Cherokee County Jail, where every full moon he could be heard imitating a wolf. Initiating in barks, grunts, howls and yelps. The guards feared Thomas, and often refused to go near his cell at night, saying, “Something wasn’t right about him.” After he escaped from his cell one night, killed a guard with an improvised shiv and had, “painted his face with the slain guard’s blood, in the fashion of a Native Warrior”, the warden requested that Thomas be seen by a state psychiatrist. 

The psychiatrist that over saw the testing, was Dr. Howard Axler from Duke Regional Hospital in Durham. He was well respected in the profession, but had succumbed to fits of madness and eventually killed himself by slitting his wrists. As I read over the notes and reports of Dr. Axler, I noticed a distinct decline in his mental state. His usual neat straight penmanship slowly became a messy scrawl. 

The final diagnosis was that Waya Thomas suffered from delusions, hallucinations, Schizophrenia, and Anti-Social Personality Disorder. He was then moved from the Cherokee County Jail to the Canton Asylum, where he was treated for his diagnosis. His reason for arrival at Saint Christina’s was that the Canton Asylum was being closed and it’s patients were being moved into the new, Rosewood Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was to stay with us at Saint Christina’s for two weeks while the construction of the hospital was completed.

After reading his file and having his prescriptions filled, I developed an interest in talking with Mr. Thomas. I had him brought into my office. He had been released from the straight jacket, though the muzzle remained. His hands and legs were bound by thick chains, and he was escorted by two armed officers. He stood stiffly in the doorway, looking at me with those black animalistic eyes. I asked him to sit in one of the chairs in front of my desk, and dismissed the officers, so that I may have talked to him as a patient, not a prisoner. He sat and stared at me. It felt as though his eyes saw through me, and a shiver swept across my back. His greying hair hung over his face, obscuring his features. 

I gave him a smile, but his face remained as still as a statue. I asked him what his name was. He responded in his deep voice, saying that he was the hand of, a name that I can only inscribe as Ah’wi-se’hi. When I asked him what or who Ah’wi-se’hi was. I saw his lips part in a shallow grin, to display a set of teeth that were distinctly non-human; and now in reflection I realize that the teeth had a canine appearance to them. 

He told me that Ah’wi-se’hi was an ancient Cherokee god, who had long been forgotten by the tribe. I asked how he had learned about the deity, if it had been indeed forgotten. He said that there was an old church off Highway 194. 

He explained that the church was haunted, and students of the nearby college would often dare each other to spend a night in the eldritch ruin, but of course they abandoned the dare during the night, running screaming from the crumbling stone walls and back to the safety of their cars. One night he was dared to complete the task, wanting to express a crush, he accepted. I was amazed at the coherency of his telling of the story. I was enraptured as he continued. 

He said that he went to the church that night, explaining that the full moon was massive, and hung low in the sky. He recalled the cold wind and the howl of a lone wolf echoing through the valley. He had gathered firewood and build a small campfire behind the alabaster alter. He prayed to his ancestors that he would have the strength to last the night. 

He recalled waking in the middle of the night to the sounds of scuffling, whimpering and snorting, coming from inside the chapel. He had grabbed his flashlight and flashed it around his surroundings. 

He stopped his retelling and looked at me with those black eyes. My breath had caught in my throat. I felt like a Brownie Scout sitting at a campfire as the troop leader told us ghost stories. I urged him to go on. He looked around the room, as if expecting microphones to be hidden in the ceiling or my bookcase.

He told me that is when he saw it. A great black hound, snuffling in the corner near the entrance. It turned to look at him as he shone the light on it. He said it’s eyes glowed red. He recalled that the glowing eyes seemed to burn with an unnatural fire, as if the fires of Hell burned in the beast’s skull. Then the dog disappeared into the floor. He stalked over to the spot and found a trap door to a cellar. He pulled the hatch open and slipped down into the blackness. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

He said that in the cellar he found a tunnel, that led deep into the earth. As he followed it, he could make out tribal symbols and paintings on the hewn stone walls. Intrigued he pressed on and found a cathedral-like cavern. He said that is where he met Ah’wi-se’hi. He said that he met a nude man, who’s skin was like silver light, wearing nothing but a wolf pelt across his shoulder. The man welcomed him, saying that Mr. Thomas was to be his hand, and would help him grow powerful once again, but feeding him the blood of virgins. Now the Cherokee word Mr. Thomas used appears to have fled my memory. 

Mr. Thomas then said the nude man laid his hand upon Mr. Thomas’s chest, and he woke up in the chapel of the church, just as the sun was peaking over the ridge. When he had searched for the door to the cellar, he could not find it.

I had now heard enough. The man was obviously delusional, and I called for the officers to return the man to his room. As they entered, he stood in a flash and lunged towards my desk and gnashed his teeth at me, making the vocalizations of a rabid dog. As the officers dragged him away, he shouted, “You will be the final drink of Ah’wi-se’hi! You will be the final drink of Ah’wi-se’hi!”

Simply writing off the shouting as the ravings of a mad man, I pushed the obviously crafted to be disturbing story to the back of my mind. It wasn’t until that night that my thoughts fell on the black dog with burning eyes.

It Didn't Have to Turn Out This Way...

I can still remember the night... It was dark, like a lightning spotted blanket had been tossed over the city. The rain came down in barrels, a persistent curtain of grey. The blonde glow from the streetlight streamed into the alley at sharp angles, reflecting off wavering puddles. The somber shadows cast a penumbral atmosphere over the back street.

The ashen deluge bounced of the brim of my hat, as beads of water dripped across my face. My frock was soaked, and my feet were drowned. I had loosened my ermines tie, which hung askew from my neck My face was coated in salt and pepper stubble, and a cigarette was tucked in the corner of my trap; a twist of smoke hung in the humid air. In my hand, clad in leather, was my piece. A silver finger curled from the barrel.

I stared at it, the body. She was young and beautiful. Hell, I'd never seen a dame like her. Her coat was splayed open, revealing a cardinal silk dress that clung to every curve of her body. Her eyelids were dark and her lips shone with a glossy crimson sheen. Her gams were encased in sheer nude stockings, ended in pumps that complimented the dress. A slug had drilled a neat hole into her chest. Shame really, to ruin a rack like that. She had worn a hat, though it had gotten lost somewhere in the dusky alley when I dry-gulched her. The pins that held her tawny hair back had made with the feet; probably took off with the hat. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead, while the rest was spread over the pavement. A lagoon of blood had formed around her as she laid there. Something about her deadpan expression made me sad. What a fucking waste.

It didn't have to turn out this way... All she had to do was give me fifty percent. That was the deal, to split the loot fifty-fifty. But she got selfish, wanted it all for herself. When I found out she had decided to skip town without giving me my cut, I knew I had to fog her. I found the briefcase, and peeked inside. There it was, ten-thousand berries.

I tossed the iron into a dumpster, and left the alley in a bustle. I hailed a cab, and took off towards the airport.

806 Wheatwood Road

There is a house in Rosewood. It is located at 806 Wheatwood Road. Now Wheatwood Road is located in West Rosewood. It connects with Tecumseh Ave; a major roadway that runs through the city.

806 Wheatwood is an old decrepit building, though it’s glass window panes seem to be regularly cleaned. The walls are covered with cracked and pealing white paint. A rusted wind chime whose bells must have disappeared many years ago, hangs above a burgundy door. The roof is made of slate and numerous shingles are missing.

I pass by 806 Wheatwood every day as I head to the cafe located at 800A Wheatwood. I’ve never truly looked at it. My eyes tending to glaze over, focused on fueling my caffeine addiction.

I’m not sure what it was that captured my attention on Tuesday, January 27^th but I stopped to look at the place. It was a cold day and a light dusting of snow clung to the grass. As I looked at the aging building I could have sworn that I saw one of the curtains move. As if someone brushed them as they passed by the window. Odd, the house was supposed to be abandoned.

For some bizarre reason I decided to investigate. I stepped up to the door and tried the brass knob. To my surprise and amazement the door swung open. As I stepped inside I could see that the house was completely empty. The only light was that which streamed in through the gaps in the drapery.  The floorboards creaked below my feet as I stepped into the living room; or at least the room that I would have designated as the living room.

There was a fireplace built from grey bricks. I gouged a line into the dust that had collected on the mantle piece. I wiped it on my jacket.

Next I moved into the kitchen. The floor was tiled, cracked, and faded. The sink was coated with a brown film and the refrigerator door hung ajar. The stove was blackened and what I can guess was mold occupied the corner.

From the kitchen I found my way into a bedroom. The bar that held up the stained curtains had fell from the wall and lay crumpled underneath the window. There was a trunk of dark-stained wood in the corner. As I opened it, dust flew into the air causing me to cough. My sputtering halted as the dust settled.

Inside I found various framed photographs. They were relics of a time long passed. They depicted stern faces of people long dead. I set them aside and continued my search of the trunk. 

Wrapped in a silk cloth, I found a human skull, sans jaw. I looked into the cavities that had once held eyes. Something about being in this crumbling house, holding a jawless skill felt oddly poetic; Shakespearian if you would.

Underneath the skull was a tome bound in black leather. Its pages were not paper, but instead canvas. The calligraphy was gothic in style, though I could not make out the words, nor did I recognize the language. I thumbed through the pages, admiring the beautifully illuminated artwork. There were diagrams and charts; renderings of strange plants and unknown beasts, and detailed drawings of human anatomy.

I heard a creak behind me, and as I turned to look I saw a figure of anthropoid outline, standing in the doorway. It must have stood at at least eight feet tall. It  appeared as a black mass, void of color. It was if light simply did not exist in that space.

The tome fell to the floor with a thud. I let out a scream. A scream that was muffled, as if my ears were at the bottom of a lake. I blinked and it appeared in the room, it’s head brushing the ceiling. I threw my hands up as if to push it away, but my hands passed through it. It grabbed my throat with its shadowy tendrils. I felt myself being lifted off the floor. My vision began to fade. I was falling… falling… falling….

The Lay of Frithgar and the Snow Maid; Part II. Frithgar & Fridjolti the Giant

From the Heimurinn Cycle

The Lay of Frithgar and the Snow Maid

Part II. Frithgar & Fridjolti the Giant

Thus Frithgar left his home and aett behind.

This, of course, was a grave misfortune for Blasith.

The gothi he planned to slay had disappeared,

So he asked all those he could find,

Where the good gothi had ran off to.

A young boy gave him the answer he sought.

“He set off along the north road,

He left in the night, I saw him with my own two eyes!”

Furious, Blaisth set off along the same trail as Frithgar.

The whole while planing the best way to slay his foe and claim his lands.

Frithgar was unaware,

Of Blasith’s treachery and schemes.

He traveled north,

Until he came upon a cavern,

Who’s yard was strewn with bones.

Before he could hurry past,

A booming voice called out to him,

“Lo! Who approaches?

Who dares to cross the threshold of Fridjolti,

The great troll of Midgard!”

Thinking quickly Frithgar shouted his answer.

“It is I, Frithgar!

I am but a simple traveler making for the north!

I did not mean to intrude upon your lovely home,

And certainly meant no offense by it!”

There was laughter,

And then the earth trembling footsteps of a massive beast.

The giant strode out of his cave.

Frithgar could see that the etinn stood as tall as ten men

And was more hideous than a rotting corpse.

Frithgar sought concealment from the creature,

Among some boulders.

He could hear the giant stomping around.

“Where are you treeling? I can smell you, but I can not see you!

Or are you a craven!? The troll bellowed a mighty laugh.

No man can resist the challenge of cowardice

So Frithgar climbed atop a boulder and drew Steelclaw

“Lo! Here I be, abomination!

I Frithgar, be no coward or craven!

And I shall slay you beast!”

The giant looked at Frithgar

And began to laugh.

He laughed so hard,

He fell to the ground. 

It was then that Frithgar saw his opportunity.

He fell upon the troll with a mighty roar

Steelclaw sang, 

As it bit into the giant’s hide

Howling, Fridjolti the Trol swung wildly

Trying to drive Frithgar into the ground.

Now, giants may be massive,

Towering over humans and gods alike

But they are stupid and brutish

And not very thoughtful 

And most of all… Giants are slow

Frithgar danced away from the giant’s blows

And back among the safety of the boulders.

The troll cursed him and plodded around the yard

Crunching the litter of bones.

The troll yelled in frustration.

Frithgar snuck up the hill,

And stood atop the mouth of the giants cave.

He threw a stone,

And hit the giant in the side of his ogreish head.

The troll spun and shouted.

“Ahh!!! Stealthy this one is!

Light on your feet! 

Yes, this will be a challenge!

But you should not worry treeling!

I will make a meal of you anyways!”

Frithgar called back,

“Oh my mighty foe,

I’m afraid that your desire is for naught!

See, I shall make a terrible meal!”

He chuckled.

There was a roar,

And the giant leapt towards Frithgar

Frithgar fell upon the ogre again.

And leapt into the beasts mouth

And buried his sword in the roof of the giants maw.

Taking care to not slip down the creature’s throat,

Frithgar climbed atop the ogres bulbous nose.

He said, “Hullo!

I warned you, Fridjolti the Dead!

I would be a awful snack!”

The Lay of Frithgar and the Snow Maid; Part I. Prologue & Frithgar's Dream

From the Heimurinn Cycle

The Lay of Frithgar and the Snow Maid

Part I. Prologue & Frithgar's Dream

Here begins the tale of Frithgar Cold-Heart,

Son of Ivrik Arnbjornson,

Gothi of the Haekkadings, ruler of the mead-hall, Lindsulla

Widower of Ren and Rihildr

Slayer of Andgith Silver-Tongue and Rurik Unnurson

Frithgar sired no sons or daughters,

And his brothers and sisters had gone forth,

To sit among the gods

To feast with their ancestors,

In their great halls.

He was granted his name by his aett.

Named as such due to his frozen core.

As being left alone and weary,

Drives a man to hate the world.

And wish for death.

Hear this, the world is full of wicked men.

Who seek to gain much

With no effort

Or with sly words or tricks

And this brings us to Blasith the Trickster.

Blasith was a queer man.

Round and plump,

With breasts larger than the most buxom of maidens.

In fact, many have said that he was not actually a man at all

But a woman who could grow a beard.

No one ever saw Blasith bathe,

Nor change tunics 

Nor trim his shaggy beard.

And every small child knows,

Never trust a man who does not keep a neat set of bristles.

Now Blasith was welcomed by Frithgar

Into Lindsulla, the mead-hall

He was given a place by the fire and a hot meal,

And Frithgar shared his bed 

As is expected of any host.

While he sat next to the fire 

And ate his host’s food,

Blasith learned of Firthgar’s troubles and loneliness

He listened and played sympathetic

To the ails of his host.

It is known to all people of Midgard,

That should a gothi be slain,

He or she who does the slaying

May take the seat of the fallen

Assuming the challenger as the favor of the aett.

This task,

Blasith set out to do.

So he went to all the Haekkadings,

And began to sow the seeds

Of mistrust and doubt

Once the time was right

Blasith was to appear at Lindsulla,

Challenge Frithgar to single combat,

Slay the gothi 

And rule of the Haekkadings would be his.

While Blasith talked among the people,

Spredding falsehoods

And embodying, Loki the Frost Giant,

Frithgar had other things to think about

In fact, many believe, Blasith was actually the Trickster God in disguise.

Now Frithgar was beset by a dream.

This dream, was of great distress to Frithgar

And he could not discard what he had seen,

And one night he made a journey,

To speak to the Seer.

Hear that when a man or woman

Is distressed or has a question for the gods,

They must make a pilgrimage into the mountains

And there, they will the speak to the Seer.

The Seer had asked Firthgar, what he had seen while he slumbered.

He said, “I have seen a spring, cloaked with mist,

I have felt it’s warmth and smelt it’s pines

And heard the rapids it feeds 

And seen the light dancing across it’s bed

And seen the woman bathing in the pure waters.”

“Her hair was the color of wind-bitten cheeks of a Fjallar maid, in the dead of winter.

Her eyes were portals of the sea, during the calm after a great storm

And her skin, shone with the light of Sunna, And was smooth like that of a newborn babe,

And as pale as a freshly fallen snow.

And she sings sweet things in my ears while I sleep!”

Since the Seer knows many things of the world, She knew at once who Frithgar spoke of.

She told him, “I know of the maid, of who you speak.

She lives far away, in the frigid north.

She calls for a husband, as she is sad and alone.

Just as you, Frithgar, feel at Lindsulla.”

Frithgar who still mourned,

For his long dead wives,

Did not know what to make

Of the Seer’s words.

The Seer told him, “You must go questing to find her.”

He replied, “I cannot leave my home.

Winter is fast approaching 

And the north is covered with snow

Up to the eaves 

And lowermost braches!”

The Seer, cast a fist of herbs into the fire

And breathed deep.

“Leaving your home now,

May be the best course, for you to sail.

Renounce your position, and you will find your bathing maid.”

Frithgar asked, “Lo, you are very wise Seer! But how will I find this woman?”

The Seer breathed in the herb-smoke,

She said, “Find the lair of the giant,

Then you must walk along the serpents spine,

And in the dark forest, you will find your singing bath girl.”

Frithgar heeded the Seer’s words,

He left Lindsulla,

Only taking with him,

His cloak, and shield,

And his blade, Steelclaw.

The Chucking Mice of Morton Place

My story begins when I moved into the house at 3 Morton Place, Rosewood, North Carolina. It was a small house that gave off the feeling of warmth, comfort, and homeliness.  It was built in 1923 or so I was told by the realtor. It was a single floor with the living spa
ce connecting to the bedroom and kitchen. The kitchen connected to a room that I planed to use as an office, and to the mud room which connected to the bathroom and the rear porch. The house had a cellar, which was accessible from the backyard.

It was after the first week I had begun to notice them. Late one night I was awoken by what sounded like laughter. Nervous that someone had broken into my home, I found the oaken walking stick that leaned in the corner next to my door or stepped into the living room. I could hear the laughter more clearly now. It was coming from the kitchen. I peered inside and flipped on the lights. Sitting the center of the round table I ate my meals at was a grey mouse. Strangely, the giggling had stopped when I made the discovery.
He sat on his haunches, standing erect. Having grown up on a farm with a father who kept rats as pets, the sight of the rodent did not make me squeal and recoil. He rubbed his front paws together, like a villain plotting a hero’s demise. I scooped him up and set him outside.
Over the course of the next month I began to see more and more mice; scurrying about the wood floor, skittering through holes in the walls. Every now and again I would hear the disembodied laughter.
Not wanting to hire an exterminator, I adopted a tomcat from the local shelter. He was an orange tabby with emerald eyes and he took to hunting the mice rather quickly; making a game of hunting them, and leaving their torn corpses in front my door as some sort of morbid offering. The tom helped with the problem, and I saw less and less of the rodents.
But one day the tabby disappeared. I searched the neighborhood and called for him with no avail. Slowly the rats returned and I began to set out traps baited with cheese. Every morning I found each and every one with a mouse who’s neck had been broken by the iron arm.
The laughter continued, and were joined by whispers. I searched and searched for the source, thinking that a radio must be on, or someone was playing a prank on me and had hid a walkie talkie somewhere. But no matter how hard I searched, I found nothing.

One dreary afternoon, I found myself in the cellar moving boxes, when I found a pile of bones. They were small, to big to be a rat. I inspected them curiously, and that’s when I saw it. A tuft of orange fur. Standing in horror, I felt someone watching me. A pair of rats sat atop a shelf. Looking down at me with their beady black eyes. Their noses twitched. They began to laugh, quietly at first. Their eyes glistened. I pinched myself, certain that this was a dream. A dream. But I did not wake from a slumber as I had expected. I sprinted from the cellar and to my car, refusing to look back. I squealed out of the driveway, never to return.

Even to this day, I still wonder… What sinister things the mice had to laugh about. But what man would be able to decipher their high-pitched language. Who knows the business of the chuckling mice of Morton Place?

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This story was inspired by a strange wrought iron mouse statue that Snowflake told me about, that appeared outside her mother's work. She said it appeared a few months ago, and no one knows where it came from. I jokingly said, "Maybe it serves some eldritch purpose". She mentioned that sometimes when the wind would blow it looked like the statue was laughing, and I came up with a line, "Who knows the business of chuckling mice?"

The house it's self is based on my friends place. But I promise he doesn't have a mice problem.

Rubi: Revisited First 800 Words

     Rubi Rascke woke up to the startling vibrato of an operatic soprano; her emerald eyes popped open.She ran her fingers through her inky black hair; a red streak framed her face.

open. She sat up and stretched, yawning loudly she looked around her. She threw back the sheets. A swallow was tattooed on her left hip. A spiral of branches dotted with thorns, and toped with roses wrapped around her right leg and up to her hip. A series of lines mimicking the design of a motherboard circuit crisscrossed her right shoulder and a line of Cyrillic characters were placed vertically on her left forearm, translated the message read, "The sin our fathers sinned was that they did not trust liberty wholly”.
     For a second she didn’t know where she was, but as her mind began to clear she remembered the previous night. She swung her legs over the bed and began to feel around the floor for her clothes. She found her underwear and her acid washed jeans, but she couldn’t find her shirt. What the fuck, she thought. She stumbled to the door control and hit the open button.  The door slid open She could smell food cooking and she was hit by the full force of the music, she recognized it as Richard Wagner’s “Götterdämmerung”. Danielle and her fucking classical music, thought Rubi.

     “Jesus Christ…” she mumbled. She found her way to the InfoScreen and turned the music down.

     “Hey! I was listening to that!” came a voice from behind her. She turned around. A young woman with cropped brunette hair stood in the doorway that opened into the kitchen. She wore the standard issue camouflage pants of the Planetary Colonial Defense Force, which were unbuttoned and hung low around her hips, and a Kindstod, band shirt. Rubi recognized the shirt immediately.

     “ What are you doing with my shirt?” she grumbled.

     “Why did you turn off my music?” asked Danielle.

     “Don’t change the subject!” hissed Rubi. Danielle rolled her golden eyes.

     “I like it,” commented Danielle, “And I thought that wearing the shirt of the person that slept with you, is like planting a flag.” Rubi couldn’t disagree with her, Danielle did look good in the shirt. Despite her current state of dress, Danielle usually leaned more towards the feminine side of things; pretty make-up, dresses and heels were her style. Rubi often teased her about how she was only marine that liked to be pretty.

     “That’s for, like… the first couple of times you fuck someone!” stated Rubi, “Not after you’ve been dating them for almost a year and a half!” Danielle slid up to Rubi and wrapped her arms around her. Danielle was much shorter than Rubi and her face pressed against Rubi’s breasts. 

     “You like it, don’t lie baǒ-beì!” exclaimed Danielle, looking up into Rubi’s eyes. Rubi grinned and kissed her. 

     “You do look really cute,” complimented Rubi. 

     “Xièxiè!” grinned Danielle, “Come on, I have breakfast cooking.” Rubi allowed herself to be lead into the kitchen. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs filled her nose. 

     “How did you get this?” marveled Rubi. Meat was expensive, due to its extensive manufacturing process.

     “The perks of being a marine! The government wants us to be healthy and protein just doesn’t cut it,” grinned Danielle as she slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, and handed it to Rubi. Rubi rarely got to taste real meat and she savored the bacon as it melted in her mouth.

     “Ooohh…” purred Rubi, “It’s soooooo good!” Danielle simply smiled and served herself. The ate in relative silence and when they were finished they each dropped the plates into the dishwasher.

     “What time is it?” asked Rubi. Danielle looked up as if the time was displayed on the ceiling tiles.

     “Six-ish, abouts?” she guessed. 

     “Oh shit! I’m going to be late!” shouted Rubi, “Gimme my shirt!” Danielle pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it to Rubi. Rubi caught it, but before she could pull it on she became distracted by Danielle’s toned body. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts were perky and smooth.

     “Rubi! You don’t have time to admire the scenery!” scolded Danielle. This brought her back to meat-space. She pulled the shirt over her head and skidded back into the bed room. She found her holster and pistol and tucked it into her waist band and hurriedly ran her belt through the loops. She skittered back into the living room and began to pull on her boots; hopping around on one foot. She pulled on her leather jacket whose lapels were studded with badges and pins, and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder. She gave Danielle a quick kiss before pulling her respirator over her mouth and nose and sprinting out the door. Once in the elevator she pulled her earbuds out of her pocket, hurriedly untangling them she put them in her ears and chose a playlist from her mobile terminal.

Jack: Revisited; First 900 words

     Beads of rain ran down the window casting flickering shadows across the bedroom and a rumble of thunder would shake the glass every so often. A series of drawers were set into the wall along with a closet, only thin lines outlined where the compartments were. Clothing was strewn about the floor and the sheets where crumpled. A small red light pulsed slowly on the wall next to the bed, below a black thirteen inch screen.

     Jack Aric O’Callahan sat propped up against the cool glass, his muscular chest rising and falling rhythmically. His thin, coarse brown hair was slicked back which made his receding hairline slightly more obvious. A silver chain with a single dog tag hung against his chest, a momentum to his past. Cordell wore it’s companion around her neck. He had given it to her as an engagement gift, since he couldn’t afford a ring. In his left hand, a cigarette was balanced between his fingers, and his right arm, a series of wires, servos, and circuits was incased in a flesh-colored carbon fiber-kevlar blend casing, was wrapped around the shoulders of a naked woman, laying asleep next to him. 

Cordell, now she was a special type of woman; she had stuck by his side through everything for the past seven years. She worked down at Yutani’s Gentleman’s Club. Jack knew that she did more than take her clothes off an strut around naked for rich snobs in three-piece suits. He didn’t care how many exec knobs she fiddled with, as long as she came back to him at the end of the day. 

     Cordell had choppy, heavily layered purple hair. Protruding from the top of her head where triangular ears, similar to that of a cat’s, that twitched occasionally, and folded back against her hair when he ran his hand across the top of her head. Protruding from her lower back was a  fluffy purple and black stripped tail, that flicked happily over the edge of the bed. Jack inhaled through his cigarette causing the ember to glow bright for a moment. He looked down at the woman. He could see her eyes moving behind her eyelids. He envied her for being able to sleep so easily. He was haunted by visions of horror, violence and gore every time he closed his eyes. The therapist he had been assigned to told him it was called “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” and had prescribed him some sort of drug called, “clora-prostate,” or some other bullshit medical name. They helped, but not as much as he would have liked. Instead he enjoyed his cigarettes and booze, preferring to smoke away, and drown the memories. 

     They had talked about moving to one of the colonies; to get away from the clutter and pollution of the City. Jack liked the colony of Elysia, a green jewel of a planet. It was known as a vacation destination, and was mostly a farming colony. It was calm and peaceful. Jack thought about lounging on the pale beaches, splashing in the waves with Cordell. Paradise, he thought. But they would never have enough money to move out there. Travel alone would cost him two years wages, and buying a house, maybe four years. He took a good long drag off his cigarette.

Cordell shifted and wrapped her pale arm around his waist and pulled herself close to him. Her warm, honey soft breasts pressed against his leg, causing him to stiffen slightly. 

     He rubbed the back of his neck with his mechanical arm. The finger tips felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand as the colder carbon-fiber touched his neck. There was a round metallic hole at the nape of his neck, his neural connection port. He hadn’t used that for ages, not since he retied from the mercenary work; seeing as his current job as a warehouse worker didn’t require it. Everyone had one, though not everyone used it.

     He reached over and touched the screen with the pulsating red light.  The screen flickered to life and a displayed a simple monochromatic UI that illuminated his chiseled jaw with soft blue light. He tapped the symbol that looked like an analog clock eclipsing a sun. The screen flashed to black and back to blue before displaying the weather, date, and time.

MAR.3.2184//04:13:21

100%HUMID//THNDRSTRM//45ºF

     He hit the window with the back his head in frustration. It looked like it would be another sleepless night. He ran his fingers through Cordell’s hair and a purr of pleasure slipped from between her thin lips. He stamped out his cigarette in the glass ashtray sitting on the window ledge. The rain seemed to let up for a moment. He heard a door close in the other room. His muscles tightened as adrenaline shot through his veins. He pushed on one of the panels on the wall which silently slid open to reveal .45 Automatic. He took it in his hand; the metal against his skin and the weight of it felt calming. He gently released himself from Cordell’s embrace. She stiffened as he got up, but soon relaxed back into sleep. Jack slipped over towards the door control panel. He hit the manual override switch and slid the door open softly and slipped into the room beyond, sliding the door shut behind him. He could hear someone moving about in the kitchen, but when he peered inside, no one was there.