The Battle of Hallowe'en (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

“Sir,” the elf scout barked, “no sign of the enemy anywhere.”

“They retreated?” the elf general cocked one bushy eyebrow.

“It appears so, sir.”

“Well,” the general told his staff, “that was one disappointing turkey shoot.” A ripple of high-pitched chuckles went around the tent. “But the Big Guy won’t care. We’ve seized Thanksgiving, with almost no casualties. With the former occupants deserting, we won’t have any trouble anywhere in November.” He paced in front of the staff, mostly for effect. “You know what that means, gentlemen?”

“We accelerate the timetable?” one of the elf colonels asked.

“Exactly. Hallowe’en won’t be an easy nut to crack, but now we can deploy our full force. No worries about supply lines or occupation. Once we take October, Labor Day will be a cakewalk. From there, the other holidays will surrender, and the Big Guy will have the gift he always wanted!”

“Christmas year-round!” the staff shouted. The forces of Christmas got back to work.


The general extended his brass spyglass and looked at the border. It was as dark and gloomy as the scouts said, and it gave him a shiver. Bah, he thought. Kids dressed up as spooks, and decorations, is all it is. Still, he wished the Big Guy had changed his mind about keeping the Nine close to home. Rudolph’s schnozz would have come in handy when they went in, not to mention possibilities for aerial recon. But you go to war with what the Big Guy gives you…

“Units, report,” he said into his handset.

“Infantry One, ready.” “Infantry Two, ready.” “Cavalry One, ready.” One by one, each unit signaled its readiness. The cavalry, mounted on prancing reindeer, armed with barbed branches. Infantry, carrying glass ornaments and dazzler tree toppers.

“Any word from the scouts?” a colonel asked.

“Not yet. They’re overdue.”

“How much longer do you plan to wait?”

“Not long. I have to assume they’ve been captured or incapacitated.” He lifted the handset again. “Units, move out, Plan A,” he ordered. “Have the troops keep an eye out for our scouts.”

The infantry marched forward, lighting their dazzlers. Cavalry hovered on the flanks, ready to charge in if needed. Infantry Unit One slipped across the border and into the gloomy trees. The major sounded tense. “Enemy sighted. Sort of. They’re staying just close enough where we can see movement—hold your fire!” A brief pause. “Some of the troops are a little eager, sir. No engagement yet… look out!” The transmission cut off.

“Cavalry, go!” the general shouted into his handset. Shouting battle-cries, the elves urged their reindeer forward, faster, faster, disappearing into Hallowe’en territory. The noise of battle carried back into November, and it sounded fierce. “Units, report at will.”

“Infantry Two— it’s— ohnoAHHHHHHGH!”

“Something’s wrong,” the general said, then riderless reindeer came bounding out of Hallowe’en. Eyes rolling, they dashed through the staging area and kept going, probably all the way to Christmas Eve.

“All units, retreat!” the general barked. “Regroup at the staging area!” He heard horns blowing the retreat signal, and stunned elves finally bolted from the spooky woods and into the staging area. Not a terribly orderly retreat, but not quite a rout.

The news was bad. Half the troops were still in the woods, presumed killed or captured, three-fourths of the surviving cavalry had lost their mounts, and the survivors were too shaken to give coherent reports. The only thing he could get out of them was something most said: we have to fall back before it gets dark.

“Sleigh bells, what a debacle,” the general muttered. Maybe the Big Guy hadn’t taken this as seriously as he thought. They’d done well with Thanksgiving, but it was one brief skirmish and then the inhabitants deserted. He always knew Hallowe’en would be the real test, and… well. “Form ranks!” he bellowed across the staging area! “Orderly march up-calendar! Fall back to Thanksgiving!”

Shouts and screams drew his attention to the border. The general stopped and gaped at the sight of zombie turkeys and pilgrims shambling forward. The dazzlers seemed to have no effect, and ornament grenades only stopped them when they took off the heads.

“They went Hallowe’en!” a colonel gasped. “What’s next?”

“Flying barbecue forks from Labor Day?” the general suggested. “I don’t think we want to find out.” He lifted the handset again. “Full retreat,” he said, deflated. “Back to December, elves. We’re beat.”

“Sir,” the colonel said. “If the Big Guy would loan us a couple of the Nine, maybe we could drop beachheads down-calendar. Something like ‘Christmas in July.’ If we get them established, we could come back and hit the We’eners from two fronts.”

“We’re not done for good,” the general said, “just for now. We’ll look into that idea, colonel. Or you will. When we get home, I figure myself for the scapegoat.”

Zombies by day, vampires by night, harassed the forces of Christmas all the way back to December. Only a few returned to tell the tale.

Sssssslither! (#FridayFlash)

Here’s another one of Mason’s stories that I embellished. The original follows…

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Image source: openclipart.org

Lee hung up and poked his head into the front office. “Kate?” he asked. “You up for a field trip?” He paused. “You have a problem with snakes?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.” Kate was already up and moving. Business had been good lately, and Lee hired Kate after the thing with the ants. She was a biology major at the local college, and did a fine job keeping the front office going. In between certain kinds of calls.

“You think this is another anomaly,” she said, as Lee followed the GPS’s directions. “Did they tell you what kind?” She reached to the dashboard to stroke the shellacked ant, as long as Lee’s forearm. It was already their good luck charm.

“They never do,” said Lee. “They’re afraid I’ll think they’re nuts and hang up. But you can hear it in their voices.”

Kate nodded and poked at her cellphone. “I’m putting the department on alert,” she explained. “What did they tell you?”

“She. There’s a bunch of snakes under her house. They’re either blue, or silver-gray. She didn’t hang around to get a closer look. But they’re nesting under her house. I told her to keep children and pets inside. I don’t think they’re poisonous, but it’s always best to be safe.” A few minutes later, he stopped the truck in front of a suburban house. “Gear up. Let’s do this.”

The nervous woman led the suited exterminators around the back of the house, to an opening in the foundation. “It’s in there,” she said.

“Okay,” said Lee. “You can go on inside. We’ll take it from here. We’ll let you know when we’re done.” The woman looked like she wanted to say something else, but nodded and bounded onto the porch and through the back door.

Lee set the cage off to the side, and extended the grabber. “Lights, camera, action,” he said, deadpan. They turned on their head-mounted lights and video cameras, then knelt in front of the opening.

“There,” said Kate, pointing. “Looks like a bunch of snakes, all right. Nothing anomalous… what the hell?” The entire group advanced, some rearing up, others slithering. “I’ve never seen behavior like that.”

“Makes it easy, though,” said Lee. “Come to papa… gotcha!” The grabber bucked and twitched in his hands, but held.

“They’re all striking the grabber!” Kate gasped. “I’ve never seen a group work together like that!”

“They’re all coming out at once, too,” Lee grunted. “With any luck, they’ll all hang on until I’ve got ‘em in the cage—what the…”

“It’s one snake! It’s one snake! Seven, eight… how many heads does that thing have?”

“Are you sure? The heads are all different sizes!”

“Look at it!” Kate yelled. “Never mind, you’ll see it in a second. I hope these cameras are working.”

Lee withdrew the writhing body and angry heads, and shoved the entire thing into the cage before letting go. He pushed the hatch closed and slid the grabber out, but the snake stayed well back. “Eight… ten heads. My God.”

“You caught it?” the homeowner poked her head out the door. “Thank God. Have you ever seen a seven-headed snake?”

“It has ten heads,” said Kate. “I hope there’s not another one under there.” She crawled in to look, grabber in hand.

“I don’t think so.” The woman gasped. “Ten heads? It had eight! My husband cut off one of its heads with a shovel, though.”

“Oh, great,” Lee groaned. “Cut off one head, and it grows three back? Kate and her profs are gonna have a party.”

“I don’t see another one under here,” Kate called. “But here’s the nest. There’s eggs!”

“Gather them,” Lee replied. “Your professors will want to see them.”

Kate came out and pulled the hood off her suit. She wore a big grin. “I’ll get a container out of the truck,” she said. “God, I love this job.”

---

And Mason’s version: “There was a snake under the house with ten heads! I chopped one of the heads off, and three more grew back!” (I’m trying to figure out where he gets his material, I could use more of it myself.)

Warmonger's Way (2/2) (#FridayFlash)

Last week: Warmonger and Jaguar broke into Bea’s Jewelers, grabbing raw gold and loose stones. But as they slipped outside, they were accosted! Who’s behind that alluring voice? …


Warmonger, who prided himself on self-control, snapped his head to a halt halfway around. Not the worst-case, he thought, but close enough. Only the Masked Warriors, the coolest customers of all, would be worse than Miss Siles. Warmonger was a meticulous planner (DeVine just called him “anal”), and he had contingencies for all the known quantities. He hoped Jaguar had followed orders, which for this case were run like hell. But that voice… that was something HNN didn’t mention. His lizard brain screamed Look! It was taking all his concentration and self-discipline to not just turn around and stare. If he couldn’t run, Jag was toast.

“Cute, babe,” he said, pulling the balaclava over his eyes to obscure his vision further. “Now make me a sandwich.”

He felt only a twinge of anger, not enough to use. That line always worked on Ultra Woman; but she was in Hollywood, filming a documentary. Warmonger thought quickly, and realized that this was likely Miss Siles’s first encounter with a supervillain. The only intel on her was what they’d shown on HNN, and he didn’t like being the one to acquire more. She’s a rookie, he thought, I can’t go down to a rookie. He thought quickly, doing his best to ignore the lizard brain. The slap rounds in his .45 were meant to take out any alarm sirens without making a lot of noise themselves. They wouldn’t kill, even if the target had no body armor, but they could bruise…

He gave in to the lizard brain, and turned to face Miss Siles, but drew his weapon. All he could focus on was that gigantic chest, but that was his target anyway, and he squeezed off three shots.

He had just enough time to think Damn, she’s fast. Miss Siles twisted, not enough to dodge the slap rounds, but enough to deflect them, then those huge knockers came around and slammed him across the side of the head. Taking that blow used up all his remaining energy, and he staggered backwards. His gun had gone flying, but there was nothing to do about that.

His vision was blurry, but he could see how Miss Siles stood gaping. He grinned. “That’s all you got?” he taunted. “You thought you could take the Warmonger out with one shot? Kid, you’re up way past your bedtime. You’re good, but this is the big leagues.”

This shot went home; he felt that surge of red anger. Ahhhh. It wasn’t enough to fill the tank, but it was enough. He averted his eyes just as his vision cleared.

“I’ll make you a sandwich!” she growled, and charged in.

Warmonger shouted down the lizard brain again, forced himself to move, and used his augmented strength to leap straight up, a good fifteen feet, to the roof of Bea’s Jewelers. He landed within reach of Jaguar, whose eyes were locked on Miss Siles. His hands strangled a piece of conduit. He looked toward Miss Siles, who glared up at them. “Catch ya in the funnies, kid!” he said, tasting another generous draught of anger, and dragged Jaguar out of sight.

It took a little shaking and a few ungentle slaps to snap Jag out of it, but he finally held up a hand. “I’m… I’m all right,” he said. “How did you stay… jeez.”

“I’m the Warmonger. I ain’t gonna let some artillery take me down. C’mon.” They leaped from building to building, Jaguar’s favorite way to cover ground, until Warmonger’s energy ran low. Having lost Miss Siles at last, they climbed down and went their ways.


“Jeez, boss!” Nick gasped, looking at the bruise covering half of Ward’s face. “You okay?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Or would like to handle, his lizard brain chittered. “Where’s the Jack?”

Nick slid him a glass and a bottle, and Ward poured a generous helping of whisky. That was too close, he thought. A rookie, and she almost took me out. We’re gonna be hurtin’ in a year, if we can’t come up with a counter. He tried to think, but the damned lizard brain kept going on about those… humongous…

“Hey boss,” Nick sipped at a mug of beer he’d poured for himself. Employees got free beer, off the clock. It kept them loyal. “You up to hear a pitch?”

Ward downed his glass, and poured another. “Fire away.”

“I was thinkin’. Maybe once a month, maybe the Saturday before a full moon, we could have a Ladies Fight Night. Get the baddest babes in town goin’ at it. I think it would pack the place.”

“Hmmm.” Ward usually dismissed suggestions right away, then came up with a justification, but this one… ah. “We could try it, maybe next month. Give us a little time to, you know, put the word out.” He discussed details with his employee with half his brain. The other half thought, and maybe I can recruit some of the winners. I bet Miss Siles don’t have that effect on other women. Meanwhile, the lizard brain kept up the running commentary. It would take a long time to shut it up, nearly as long as it took for the bruise to fade.

---

If you liked this story, there’s more of the Skyscraper City universe, including the supervillain Pulse and the arrival of Miss Siles on the scene. Or if you like superhero stories, but aren’t thrilled with mine, you can always give Tony Noland’s novel Verbosity’s Vengeance a shot!

Warmonger's Way (1/2) (#FridayFlash)

If it was under 1200 words, I’d just post the whole thing. But this one runs over 1400 words, and there's a convenient break right at the halfway point…

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Warmonger’s Way

“General” Lee Ward dabbed a little iodine on a cut over the customer’s left eye. The customer flinched and hissed, and released a little anger, a final taste from the weekly feast.

“God, it reeks in here,” the customer said. He was right; the little closet where Ward gave first aid held the commingled funk that two dozen brawlers had left behind. Ward, the secret identity of the supervillain Warmonger, believed in taking care of business. Especially when the business took good care of him.

“Yeah, I know,” said Ward. “Hold still. If you want one more, there’s still five minutes to last call.” The customer huffed, but tried not to move, and Ward pinched the cut closed with one hand and slipped a butterfly bandage across it with the other. Just another night at Warmonger’s Tavern.

“Last beer’s on the house,” he told the brawler as they emerged into the bar. “You want a shooter or a shot, that’s your dime.” The customer nodded, gave him a small lopsided smile, and picked up a bar stool to sit on. It hung together, which was good.

“That was the last one, boss,” Nick told him, sliding a mug to Ward and another to the customer. “Quite a night, huh?”

“Always is, on Saturday night.” Ward glanced across the last few customers and toward the small ring off to the side. Saturday was Fight Night. Most of the fights were drawn from a hat, but there was always room on the card for a grudge match. Patrons placed bets on the outcome, and often got angry when their guy lost. Often, as it did tonight, that anger could fuel a full-scale brawl. Warmonger fed on anger, giving him superhuman strength. He usually waded into the brawl himself, both to blow off excess energy and to break it up. Ambulance companies had learned to keep a unit nearby on Saturdays for the worst injuries; Warmonger himself patched up the others and kept a van to carry those needing more than first aid to the nearest doc-in-a-box.

“Last call!” Ward bellowed. “Taps shut off in three minutes, closing in thirty! Tell the barkeep if you need a cab!” The last dozen patrons, seated at wobbly tables or standing along the gut-high shelf around the wall, either nodded or ambled up to the bar. Two of the employees were fixing broken tables; Ward himself had designed a cheap breakaway system out of PVC plumbing parts that saved tons of money on nights like this.

“Nick, go ahead and close the place down,” said Ward. “I need a little air.” Nick nodded—good employee, that one, he never asked questions—and Ward slipped into the back room. He changed quickly, all black from balaclava to boots, and Warmonger stepped into the alley.

“You ready?” he asked the air.

Jaguar dropped down, a safe distance away. “Ready.”

Warmonger said nothing, but jogged away. Jaguar followed, fast and silent.

Bea’s Jewelry was well-lit, even the sidewalks outside were bright. They had reconnoitered the two blocks surrounding—nobody on standby, cops or heroes—and Pulse had located the alarm points a week ago.

Warmonger focused. Instead of breaking a window and setting off all the alarms for sure, he punched a hole in the wall. The force of that blow used a lot of stored energy, but he had plenty in reserve. He widened the hole, enough for Jaguar and him to slip inside. They wanted the back room; Bea’s specialized in custom work, and raw materials were much harder to trace. They filled several small bags with gold and rocks, a few hundred grand each if they fenced it a little at a time, and slipped outside—

“Hello boys,” an alluring voice said behind them. “Are you buying me a ring?”

continued…

How to Kill an Elder God (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

“How did you find me?” the elderly priest asked.

The youths shrugged. “Google.”

“And you modern youths, with your modern technology, think you discovered and awoke Tilgoth, am I correct?” They nodded. “Then how did you escape? I know all acolytes in my order, especially the ones skilled enough to bind Tilgoth, and you three certainly are not among them.”

“We don’t know!” another offered. “We were running like hell, with that thing coming up on us yelling FEED ME, and I threw down my backpack so I could run faster! Then it stopped and made all these weird-ass noises, like it was gagging on something, and we just kept running.”

The priest frowned in thought. “What was in there?”

“Spare batteries for my flashlight. A sandwich and a Coke. Some rope.” The kid smirked. “Maybe he got a shower when he opened the Coke. I know it was really shook up.”

“A sandwich.” The priest stared into the distance, long enough for the boys to start fidgeting. “Could it be that simple? Boy, tell me about the sandwich.”

“My name’s Jeff. It was just baloney and Velveeta, with a little mayo.”

“Jeff. You and your friends may take a seat. I must consult some of our most ancient manuscripts. I will have an acolyte bring you meat and drink.”


It took the priest two long hours to find the manuscript he wanted, his aging eyes driving him to concede to the vulgarity of spectacles and a battery-powered flashlight. When he returned to the reception chamber, he found the acolyte glaring askance at the three boys. The wine had made them merry indeed.

He dismissed the acolyte, then turned to the boys. “You three are uncultured, ignorant… and extremely lucky,” he said. “The key to Tilgoth’s destruction has been in our possession for over six thousand years, but you have uncovered it and placed it in our hands this day.” To his amused surprise, the boys stopped snickering and paid attention. “Let me read this passage to you.”

“Sure.” “No prob.” The third yawned, but nodded.

“Hear what was written: In the last days of the land that was called Bochim, where dwelt the abomination Tilgoth, the priest-king Hoat’goth ascended to the throne. In those days, a curse spread across the land, blinding many cattle. So many were blinded, indeed, that the yearly sacrifice to Tilgoth demanded all the remaining breeding stock.

“And so Hoat’goth consulted the priests beneath him, who said ‘demand from the land of Gograh a tribute sufficient for the sacrifice, and if they will not give the tribute, arise and conquer them.’ But these words were not pleasing unto Hoat’goth, and he thought to himself, ‘If Tilgoth could not preserve sufficient cattle, may he share our suffering.’ Seeing that Hoat’goth had determined to do this thing, and would suffer no objection, the priests shut their mouths and said nothing. But one priest raised his voice, saying, ‘do this not, for it will bring down destruction upon us all.’ Then he fled, before Hoat’goth could order him slain.

“Thus, on the day of the sacrifice, Hoat’goth gathered blinded cattle in sufficient number for the sacrifice, and slew them before Tilgoth on the altar. But when Tilgoth ate the impure sacrifice, he vomited upon Hoat’goth, and the vomit dissolved him. Such was the illness brought upon Tilgoth by the blinded cattle, that he rose and vomited across all the land.

“Now when the king of Gograh heard of trouble in Bochim, he arose to plunder what he could. But when he came to Bochim, he found only death and ruin. Only the priest who had spoken true, and fled the wrath of Hoat’goth, remained. He sat upon a stone and told the king of Gograh, ‘The god Tilgoth has cursed this land for three generations, and withdrawn to sleep in the uttermost west. Now slay me, for my purpose is complete. When your descendants see fire in the sky, south to north, then the curse is lifted and they may claim this land as their own.’” He looked at the boys. “Our order followed civilization ever westward, until we found Tilgoth.”

“Whoa,” said Jeff, “a blind cow made him sick? He must have totally puked on a baloney sandwich, then!”

“Oh, I totally know what’ll kill that thing, then!” Jamal piped up. “I’ll tell, but you gotta take us with you.”

“Indeed.” The priest met their grins with a small smile. “It was you who awakened Tilgoth, so it is only fitting that you help with its final destruction.”


“Bring forth the sacrifice,” the priest whispered, and Jamal dug the gallon zip-lock bag out of his backpack. “Now, carefully, boys. Be ready to run, as you did before.”

“You got it,” Jeff replied. They crept forward to the altar, where they had ignorantly sat to take a breather.

“Lay the sacrifice on the altar,” the priest said, “then back away quickly.”

Jamal nodded, opened the bag, and tipped the misshapen ball onto the altar.

As before, Tilgoth awoke quickly, evidenced by the rumbling and hissing they both heard and felt. The priest shouted something in an unknown language, then hustled away to join the boys at what they hoped was a safe distance.

A roar became a retching noise, then a sound that none of them could ever describe. Other sounds, screeching, pounding, vomiting, gasping, followed them up the cave as they ran.

“What was that, anyway?” the priest asked.

“The ultimate weapon for killing a god,” said Jamal. “Spam, rolled in Monsanto genetically-modified grain, all covered in high-fructose corn syrup. My uncle says that would kill just about anything that wasn’t born in Texas.”

The priest chuckled. “The purpose of my order has been fulfilled, and I will soon send the acolytes home. Or perhaps we could become your acolytes. Will you teach us the ways of Google, that we may yet serve?”

Staff Meeting (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

A Nazgûl’s piercing shriek rang through the conference room. Orcs, trolls, balrogs, all cringed and covered their ears, their heated argument suddenly forgotten.

“Now that I have your attention,” said Sauron, his glowing eye piercing the attendants, “let us try to stay focused from here on out. We do not have the luxury of time.” He turned to one of the few humans in the room who had not fled or fainted at the Nazgûl’s screech. “Mouth, kindly open the slides?”

The room darkened, and the projector lit up the screen descending from the ceiling. “Our situation looks very good, at least on paper,” said the Mouth. “We have superior numbers, supernatural assistance, and we have co-opted Saruman.”

“I’m not so sure that last is a positive,” said a cave troll. Despite their brutish reputation, carefully cultivated, cave trolls were intelligent and usually well-educated. “He is turning our own weapons against us. If he manages to seize the One Ring, he could push both Gondor and Mordor aside.”

“Your concerns are noted,” said Sauron. “But Saruman is no longer a player. The forest rose up against him, and undid all his work.” He paused to let that sink in. “But even without that detail, my Ring is difficult to locate. The Nazgûl are scouring the countryside, especially in those rare moments when it’s used. If they cannot find it, then only a great stroke of luck will put the Ring in his hands.” He gave the Nazgûl king a dark look. “Your failures so far have not been encouraging.”

The Ringwraith bowed his head. “It is only a matter of time, my lord.”

“But time, as I mentioned, is not on our side!” Sauron’s eye blazed in the darkened room. “The King in exile revealed himself in the captured Palantir, and I believe the Ring is already in his possession!”

Murmurs rippled through the room. “My lord,” the cave troll opined, “if he has the Ring already, why has he not worn it?”

“I—” The Dark Lord came very close to blurting I don’t know, and that would not do. “But even that is not the greatest threat we face.”

More murmurs. “But what threat could be greater?” the Nazgûl asked.

“The greatest of all.” Sauron’s voice grew hushed. “The writer.”

“I thought he was a myth,” one of the balrogs blurted.

“He lives,” the Dark Lord said, in a near-whisper. “I have seen him. He’s some kind of goody two-shoes, despite having given us all the advantages. I fear he’s going to pull a deus ex machina out of his ass.”

“But what can we do, my lord?” the Mouth asked, looking even more pale than usual.

“We must talk to him,” said Sauron. “Convince him that the King must take up my Ring, fall under my power, and allow us to prevail. His story thus becomes a cautionary tale, and certainly a more realistic one.”

“There is certainly a market for dark fiction,” the cave troll added. “We can not only conquer, but be a commercial success!”

“Hear, hear!” the orcs chanted.

The Dark Lord smiled. “Then let us begin, without further delay.”

Adam and Steve (#FridayFlash)

Amazing, the ideas you come up with on a morning commute.

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“Yooooooohoooo. Adam… Earth to Adam.”

“Oh… geez. Sorry, Steve.” Adam patted the riverbank next to him. “Have a lie-down.”

“Dude. I could have swallowed you whole, just now, and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“Sorry,” Adam said again, as Steve dropped next to him with an audible whoomph. “Got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Remember when it was just you and me?” Steve gave a wistful sigh. “You’d ride on my shoulders on those evening walks, and we’d talk about the day? Paradise lost, man.”

“You could still come.”

“After that curse she laid on me? Man, that was just mean.”

“You caught her at three-quarter moon. I don’t know what it is, but she gets really horrid at three-quarter. Not that it’s all that much better the rest of the month, lately. Why haven’t you weeded the garden, when are you gonna put up that rain shelter, why can’t we eat the apples—”

“Whoa. She knows better about the apples!”

“She keeps asking what’s the point. Like there needs to be a point? God said no. It’s not like there’s a shortage of food or anything.”

“Wow. That’s a new one.” Steve rubbed his head against a tree. “Who’s she been talking with?”

Adam sighed. “Well, she’s been hanging out with the serpent a lot.”

“Jeez, not the serpent?” Steve sounded shocked. “There’s something wrong with that dude. Look, man. Tell her anything. Tell her… tell her you’ll stop seeing me if she’ll stop hanging out with the serpent.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

“You have to, man. For both your sakes.“

Adam gave Steve a sad smile. “You’re the best friend a man could ever have, Steve. If you had lips, I’d kiss you.”

“Ha, a T-rex is man’s best friend. I like that. Just see if you can get that curse rescinded. Having my descendants evolve into chickens would really suck.”


“Hi, honey.”

Adam paused. It had been quite a while since Eve had greeted him with a smile and a kiss. “Uh, hey,” he ventured. “You sound happy.”

“I know, I’ve been a real bear lately. I wanted to make it up to you.” She smiled. “I baked you a pie.”

Gods on the Mountaintop

A high fantasy of sorts, this week…

If you’re in the mood to catch a serial at the beginning, I’ve launched The Lost Years this week as well.

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Image source: openclipart.org

I

They were not gods, but neither were they mortal. To such as you or I, the distinctions are not terribly significant. They watch. They judge.

Sometimes, they intervene.

II

Two were sent to watch us. As it is with gods, they chose a mountaintop as their dwelling place, and they made themselves human bodies, that they might interact with us where needed.

But not being true gods, there was a mistake. Both had planned to live as men, but their handlers misinterpreted the genetic blueprints, and both found themselves in the bodies of women, full and ripe.

“We can make it right,” the handlers assured them, “but we will do it one at a time.”

“Let it be so,” said the gods, and it was done.

But before the handlers could repeat the change, the human bodies, male and female, looked at each other and at the gods within. They came together and joined.

God-like sex is exhausting to a human body, but bodies recover with rest. The gods watched, coupled, rested.

III

As a disguise, the gods’ mountaintop home was a rustic general store. The lonely road that snaked past was once the primary highway, but now the interstate went around (and through) the mountain. These days, motorcycles and the occasional RV made up most of the traffic.

One afternoon, the gods lay exhausted in their bed, after a particularly satisfying romp. A screech, then a crunch, penetrated their sleep.

“What was that?”

“We have to see.”

The gods forced their weary human bodies out of bed, and into clothes. They shuffled into and through the public part of their dwelling, and out the door.

A small car rested against one of the concrete pillars that guarded the old gasoline pumps, long disused. The fender was crumpled, and steam rose from the front of the car. Behind them, skid marks showed their path; perhaps the driver was distracted and missed the curve. The doors were open, and two young men were surveying the damage.

“Is everyone all right?” the god in the woman’s body asked.

The men’s heads snapped around, their eyes riveted on the woman. “Uh—yeah, we’re okay,” they stammered. “Sorry about the damage. I guess we’ll need to use your phone to call a tow truck. I can’t get a signal up here.”

“It’s not that bad,” the god in the man’s body assured them.

“Are you serious?” They stopped. “No offense, but the radiator’s busted, and the fender’s smashed up against the tire. No way we can drive it.” They spoke to the man, but looked at the woman.

Worshippers could be useful, they thought to each other.

“Come inside,” the woman said, and they followed her willingly. The other god made sure they were out of sight, then moved the car away. The crumpled fender straightened, leaving a scuff and a small dent. Radiator fluid ceased to hiss, and that which puddled beneath dried away, leaving only the scent of ethylene glycol. By the time all was finished, both young men were exhausted—and entirely devoted to their service.

IV

The two young men reluctantly took their leave, but were invited to return whenever they could. They brought offerings of books, magazines, music, video, and anything else requested of them. They were granted the power to repair their vehicle as necessary, if another mishap befell them, and they used their power to heal the cars of the poor. Quietly, they spread the word.

Gods live among us.

They watch. They judge.

If they must, they will intervene.

Crossfire (#FridayFlash)

Meanwhile, in Skyscraper City…

---

Image source: images.all-free-download.com

“What would really help,” Bijay said, “is if we could just feed it a spreadsheet, and the app pulls the parts list from the database and gives us a per-unit cost.” He paused, as the waitress came by with their beers and a big basket of chili cheese fries.

Jesse took a generous drink. Still holding his mug, he picked up a sloppy fry with the other hand. “If everything’s in the same place, every time—”

Hannigan’s Bar and Grill jolted, and a sharp whoomp followed hot on its heels. The table jumped, nearly upending Bijay’s mug. Jesse’s reflexive jerk sloshed some of his own beer. “Damn!” he snapped, over the growing babble. “What the hell was that?”

“An earthquake?” Bijay’s eyes were wide. “I thought we didn’t get earthquakes here!” He looked across the restaurant, at the people gathering to look out the big window out front. “Must have been a big wreck outside.”

“Put it on Channel Fourteen!” several people yelled from the window, and the bartender complied.

“—on the Scene, live from downtown Skyscraper City.” Montana Rack took up one half of the screen. Behind her, the other half—

“Shit!” Bijay gasped. “That’s the office!” He pointed at a plume of smoke rising from the top floor.

“—daring raid on Republic Industries. All of Skyscraper City’s active superheroes are cooperating in the attack. We should have more information shortly, but the operation has just begun.”

“Oh, crap,” said Jesse, and got out his phone. Everyone at the window had their own phones out as well, taking video and adding their own commentary. “Hey, Ted. I took a late lunch with one of the engineers, to discuss the integration project, and it looks like all hell broke loose over there! What do I do? … Yeah, okay. I don’t think I could get back inside anyway, with all the supers running loose. … Sure, no problem. Thanks.” He pocketed his phone and turned back to Bijay. “Looks like I got the afternoon off,” he said. “Ted isn’t sure we’ll even be open tomorrow.”

Bijay was riveted to the TV. “The League of Devis!” he grinned, pumping a fist. “Go, you guys… uh.” He looked at Jesse, who only smirked. “Man. Talk about getting caught in the crossfire.”

“At least we’re in a comfy bar, and not really in the crossfire,” said Jesse, waving at the waitress. “What’s got them… hey, isn’t the executive conference center on the top floor?”

“Yeah,” said Bijay. “One for me, too,” he told the waitress, then turned back to his co-worker and lowered his voice. “They finally got something on Palmer, I’ll bet.”

Jesse looked around, and leaned across the table, nearly whispering. “Hell, I’m not surprised. He’s the biggest crook—oh, crap.”

“What is it?”

“Today’s the annual shareholder’s meeting. The whole executive team is up there, along with the biggest bigwigs who own the stock. And they’re all hiding under the tables, yelling sell sell sell into their phones.”

Bijay winced. “How bad do you think it’ll get?” On the screen, a helicopter lifted off from the roof of their office, but lost power and sank toward the parking lot.

“Well, that order I’ve got in to sell at forty-three isn’t gonna happen,” Jesse sighed. “Actually, things might get back to normal in a few days. Seems like everything runs better when those guys are out of the office. A little jail time might put the stock right back up!”

“Hey, look.” Bijay pointed at the TV. A familiar face stood next to Montana, wearing a satisfied smile.

“Here with us now is Skyscraper City’s most iconic figure, Captain Heroic,” Montana was saying. “Captain, have you come out of retirement for this raid?”

“No, Montana,” said the Captain. “It was a temptation, though. I’ve always considered Republic to be unfinished business, you know. But I helped plan the assault, and I’ve been authorized to speak for the team, today.”

“So what happened to trigger this action today?”

“In the last few weeks, we’ve had an anonymous tipster feeding us inside information—”

“Oh, crap,” Jesse moaned. “A mole? Security is going to be up our asses the rest of the year!”

“—to the City Court, and they issued warrants—”

“How? Who?” Bijay asked.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe Miss Siles flashed someone.” Jesse grinned. “I’d spill a few beans to get my hands on those.”

“Ha! Who wouldn’t?” They turned back to the TV, just in time to see a grey-suited figure plunge from a window. A brightly-colored Devi swooped in and caught the falling man, depositing him amidst a ring of awaiting police.

“Great catch!” Bijay exulted.

“This is certainly the largest superhero action in several years,” said Montana. “Captain Heroic, has there been anything to match this recently?”

“Not in the last few years.” Captain Heroic divided his attention between Montana and the camera. “Four years ago, Count Boris and I teamed up with the League of Devis in Operation Hockey Rink.” He laughed. “You know, the Samboni mob.”

“That’s right!” Montana gushed. “That was before the Masked Warriors relocated.” The camera zoomed in on a score of black-clad figures, climbing the glass walls of the Republic Industries headquarters.

“Man, the PR department is gonna have their hands full,” said Jesse.

“Everyone will have their hands full,” Bijay replied. “Hey. Maybe we can make this work for us, too.”

“Huh? Oh… you know what? You might be right. Beats getting caught in the middle.”

The two schemed and planned, as the supers lopped off the dragon’s head.

Method to the Madness (#FridayFlash)

Hiding in plain sight might be a cliché, but it was often a valid strategy. The supervillain Warmonger owned a bar in a rough part of town, one named for himself. The bar had a private room in the back, accessible only to those who had a key to enter the alcove, and the right palmprint to proceed.

When Pulse entered the private room, several others were already seated. Some nodded, some stared or glared. Not all supervillains are unsociable, of course, but neither is it a completely invalid assumption. So Pulse returned the nods, ignored the others, and crossed the room to the keg and mugs. Those who were allowed in the private room were not charged for their beer, but it was strictly self-service.

Jaguar waved Pulse to an empty seat, and let him settle before speaking. "Warmonger should be here any second now," he whispered.

Pulse nodded. "Perhaps he is bringing a keg of better beer. Are things improving for you?"

Jaguar snickered, then nodded. "Yeah. The title to my house came in the mail a few weeks ago, not long after you pulled that bank caper. Bank says I'm paid in full. Was that you?"

"Let us say, I watch my friends as well as my enemies."

"Good. Pulse is here," said Warmonger, coming through the door. "We can get started, then." Ever since a series of schisms a generation ago and more, supervillains did not have a formal organization. Still, they found it useful to meet on occasion, to cooperate on larger capers or resolve disputes. Warmonger, a third-generation villain, had a firm grasp of the history and motivations of his fellows. Thus, he was more coordinator than ringleader. The heroes might see it differently, but who cared what they thought?

So Warmonger poured himself a mug, and leaned across the end of one table. "Pulse," he said, "some of our associates are a little worried. There's talk about you possibly switching sides. Personally, I don't think there's nothin' to it, but you oughtta have a chance to clear the air." He nodded and took a seat.

Pulse drained his mug, and stood. "I rather expected this," he said. "Still, had I even seriously considered switching sides, would I have shown up today? If I were carrying a wire, I would have tripped the alarm. I set up that system myself, and even I have no way of circumventing it short of destroying it. Warmonger himself can verify that it is operating normally." He looked to their host, who nodded.

"My actions in the last few months," Pulse continued, "whether for vengeance or income, were for my own benefit. That they have benefitted others was a side-effect. Although that too has redounded to my own benefit, by taking some heat off me."

"So passing information about Republic Industries to the heroes was for your gain?" DeVine's tone and glare were disbelieving. "I can see the bank caper, but…" he shrugged.

Pulse frowned. "Republic's shoddy products killed one of my minions," he said. "Vengeance is always proper."

"How does handing the heroes the keys to the joint do anything for you?"

"DeVine, you lack vision," said Pulse. "The heroes will do my dirty work for me. And, there is some personal gain involved… and not only for myself, but the rest of you as well." He paused.

"Spill it, Pulse," Warmonger said at last. "What's the scheme?"

"Tomorrow, Republic Industries holds its annual shareholders' meeting. The heroes will go in, guns blazing as they say, to arrest Palmer Lanois and most of the upper echelons of the company." Pulse smirked. "I have shorted Republic's stock, and I suggest you do likewise, if you would enjoy a quick, risk-free profit."

The other supervillains, after a moment, joined Pulse's maniacal laughter.

Apotheosis (#FridayFlash)

Jean Auguste Dominque Ingres,
The Apotheosis of Homer
Source: Wikimedia Commons

Earth, Air, Fire, Water. I needed them all for this magic, and a shoreline gave me that. Spells combining all four elements were the most difficult of all, but I had studied long and hard. I knew what to do.

I was born on this long, narrow peninsula that foreigners call the Land of the Dawn Greeters. I was never able to rise early enough to join the People and greet the sunrise, as they claim to have done each day since the Creator brought the First Dawn to Termag, but I always knew I was different in other ways. More significant ways. It has taken a lifetime to learn what those differences are.

I leave my clothes on the sand, and walk across the beach and into the ocean. The water is cool, but not uncomfortable, and the salt smell reminds me of my childhood among the People. This one morning, I was awake before the People, but only because I had been up all night preparing the magic.

“Tropir.” I turn at the sound of my name.

“Komu.” My oldest childhood friend, now a woman grown. Nudity is not a tabu among the People, so I feel no shame before her. “Please do not plead with me,” I tell her. “I must do this. If it does not kill me, then I will learn who I truly am.”

“It’s true, then,” she says. “Have you another to bear witness?”

“I do not, Komu. I would be honored if you will be my witness.”

She says nothing, but nods and sheds her own clothes. Naked, she joins me in the surf. I feel no yearning, even though we had lain together, in an illicit pairing, the last night before I was sent into the wide world. It had meant something to who we had once been; but twenty years, whether in one place or traveling the world, remolds a person as it will.

With Komu at my side, I turn my back on the shore. This particular beach is shallow for a long way out, especially at low tide. It is nearly twenty reaches before I stand waist-deep. Earth under my feet, Water to my hips, Air above, and the morning sun brings Fire. I summon—or rather, connect with—each element.

“What have you seen, out in the wide world?” Komu asks.

“Many things,” I reply. “Places where snow covers the ground year-round. Mountains that smoke. People in mortal combat with misshapen, twisted things. A vast forest, where the trees are awake and speak, and the Unfallen roam. And people… simply being people.”

“What have you learned?”

“Many things. But one thing I never learned was how to awake an hour before sunrise.” We share a sad laugh. “Stand away, Komu. I know not how this magic will affect what is immediately around me.”

She moves away, and I gather all four elements, my intent combining them all. While Fire and Water can never be combined on their own, the moderating influence of Earth and Air can allow all to join. The sea bottom churns, a hot mist rises around me, blown by strange winds. The elements pull at me from without, the magic pushes from within, and I feel the changes they work. There is some pain, but not as much as I would have thought. I will not die, but rather…

Komu gasps as I leap into the air, the sun making my skin glow like fire. I slam into the water, skimming the bottom, and leap once again. I release the magic, for I no longer need it. My witness shouts with joy as I leap and splash, leap and splash, flying into the horizon to join the rest of the lesser gods.

Past the Witching Hour (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

Tap tap tap.

“Hmmmm.” Hattie the Swamp Witch opened her eyes. It was dark. The only other sound was the comforting tick of her windup alarm clock. A warm pressure on her feet told her that her cat, Mr. Sniff, slept on.

Tap tap tap.

“Not again,” she groaned, wrapping the pillow around her head. The cat squirmed and shifted off her feet. Again, the infernal tapping.

“I’m comin’!” she called, flinging the covers off the bed and scrambling to her feet. Mr. Sniff moved over and curled up, giving her a reproachful look. “Like it’s my fault?” Hattie grumbled at the cat, as she threw on her black dress. “Now where’s my—ah.” She jammed her pointy hat over her mussed hair. “Least this fool won’t see my bed head.”

The tapping came once more before she stomped across the living room floor and flung the door open. “What’d ya want?” she mumbled around a yawn.

“Miss Hattie?” It was one of the girls-almost-women from town, looking frightened. “I think I need your help. I’m… late.”

“Yer really late, if you come knockin’ on my door in the middle of the night. Don’cha know what’s out here in the swamp after dark?”

The girl looked confused for a moment. “No. I’m late late. Like with a boy.”

Hattie huffed. “Well, get inside, then. If the Swamp Critter don’t eat’cha, these bugs will.” She stepped aside, and the girl hurried in ahead of the mosquitos.

“Why is it so dark in here?” the girl asked.

“Contrary to what you and every other fool in the wide world seems to believe, witches gotta sleep just like everyone else. Only time I’m up at midnight is when one of you come a-knockin’.”

“I’m really sorry, Miss Hattie. I can come back tomorrow mornin’ if it’s a better time.”

Hattie sniffed. “Well, yer here now, so ya might as well get yerself taken care of. Besides, I suppose problems like yours are best dealt with when the rest of the world’s abed.” The witch scrabbled her hand across the table until she found the matches, then lit the kerosene lantern hanging above. “Here. Sit.” They took seats across from each other.

“This is real nice,” the girl said, looking around the room. “Cozy. Not what I expected.”

“Well, women like their places just so, ya know. I guess you was expectin’ a freak show.” She waved away the objection. “So, who was it?” Please don’t say ya ain’t sure.

A moment’s pause. “Cam—Cameron Lindsey.”

Hattie thought a moment. That name hadn’t ever come up before. “Wait. The smart one? Got a full scholarship to Loosyana State? He ain’t the kind to…”

“It’s not all his fault,” the girl admitted. “We both kinda got carried away. He promised he’d use protection next time.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t let there be a next time. Protection or no. Ya know he’s gonna find a girl at that college. One with an education. A future of her own.”

A sigh. “I know.”

“Well, gimme your palm. We’ll see what you got ahead of you, then we’ll take care of your other problem.” Hattie took the girl’s hand. Not like she’s got much future if she don’t get herself outta here. And get damn lucky. “Says here you… you got tough times ahead, but ya got a better chance of gettin’ by if you do good in school and finish up. Coupla years of tech school after ain’t gonna hurt neither, if you can find a way to pay for it.” She poked a random spot on the girl’s palm. “This here says, don’t take the first offer that comes along. Aim a little higher.”

“That’s what I was doin’ with Cameron. And look how that turned out.”

“Yeah. Not everything you try’s gonna work out. But if you got any friends or kin in Baton Rouge, maybe you move there. Find honest work, get some more schoolin’, and keep Cameron from forgettin’ about you.” Hattie stood. “Wait here. I’ll get what ya came for.” She trotted into the kitchen, and mixed up the recipe in a chipped coffee mug. She knew the recipe by heart; out here in Nowhere, Loosyana, there was a lot of call for it.

“Drink this down,” she said. “It’s gonna taste horrid, and yer gonna wanna chuck it back up, but don’t let that happen. It’s gotta be in ya to work. Then yer gonna have the worst cramps you ever had for a day. You can drink a little milk or something if you want, it ain’t gonna hurt.” She watched as the girl choked down the recipe, wincing all the way but only gagging once, then slid the glass of water across the table. “Here, drink this. It’ll get the taste outta yer mouth. But remember that taste, ‘cause you don’t wanna have to do this again. Ya hear?”

The girl nodded. “What do I owe you?”

“You got twenty? Good. That’s enough. And promise me you’ll be more careful from here on out.”

“I will. And thanks for not turning me into a toad.”

“Eh. I didn’t turn Martin Fontenot into a toad. Damn fool got off the path, and the Swamp Critter got him. You think about stayin’ on the path, and maybe you won’t think about chuckin’ that stuff back up.”

Hattie watched the girl go, and Mr. Sniff rubbed himself around her ankles. “Fool kids,” she said. “Y’know, kitty, I think I’m gonna make me a sign. Witching Hours, 9 to 5, closed at sunset. Yup. Stick that out there along the path, and maybe we can get a whole night’s sleep.”

The Staff-Stealers (#FridayFlash)

This one runs a little long, I hope I’m forgiven…

---

Once, in the time of Camac That Was, before the Makers departed Termag for the City of Refuge, Thurun was the First Protector. Now Thurun was also a Maker, the most powerful of all mages—and among Makers, Thurun was the strongest. Some call him the greatest mage ever. But even the greatest mages have duties, and they do not forget how to laugh.

At times, one Protector or another might travel to grand Camac, to seek Thurun’s advice and wisdom on certain matters. Weather permitting, he would take such guests to a favorite tea garden, where they could enjoy the quiet and speak freely. It was on one such occasion that Jira and Pyanya, two young and mischievous girls, were walking in the garden. Seeing the First Protector in deep conversation with a colleague, they crouched behind a hedge to watch, whispering quietly and straining to catch an occasional word. After some time, the two sorcerers stood and walked away, perhaps to attend to necessities.

“Look,” said Jira, pointing. “Thurun left his staff. Let’s take it.”

“What would we do with his staff?” asked Pyanya.

“Whatever we wish!” Jira giggled. “We’ll have anything we want!”

So they burst from their hiding place, and snatched Thurun’s staff. They ran away, laughing and shrieking, as Thurun and the other Protector were returning to their table.

“Foolish children,” the visiting Protector sighed, watching the girls disappear. “Such impertinence cannot be tolerated! Go, and we’ll complete this matter after you have taught them a lesson.”

Thurun smiled. “It is only a stick of wood,” he said. “I will find it, and I will indeed teach them a lesson, and many more besides. But for now, your problem is more important.” So the two great mages returned to their discussion.


Any sorcerer worth the name can locate a missing item, especially a possession that he or she carries often. So Thurun found his staff, as easily as if it were calling to him. The girls had taken it to Jira’s house, in a scruffy district of the great city, and Thurun understood that they only wished to improve their lot in life. Hidden in a quiet corner outside, he sent his vision and hearing through the walls of the house. He saw the girls standing at a table. The family cat watched them from a cabinet, and a dog lay at their feet.

“Let me try now!” Pyanya insisted. “You’ve been at it for an hour, with nothing to show!”

“Take it, then!” Jira snapped, and thrust the staff at her friend.

Thurun smiled. They do not realize, it is only a stick, he thought. He prepared his lesson.

Pyanya waved the staff over the table. “Staff, I command thee,” she intoned, “bring us a stack of gold octagons!”

Thurun snickered and extended his Making magic.

“Look!” Pyanya gasped.

“Only three coins,” Jira sneered. “That’s not much of a stack.”

“It’s better than you managed!”

“But look at them!” Jira picked up one of the coins, and laughed. “That’s not the Queen’s face—it’s yours!”

Pyanya gasped and dropped the staff, snatching the coin to take a closer look. “That’s not me!” she protested. “Look, there’s a mole on her chin!”

Jira picked up the staff before Pyanya could recover. “It’s you in every other wise, though! Now stand back. I’m going to try again. Maybe it took a while to awaken the staff.” She waved the staff, and spoke in a booming voice, as Pyanya had. “Staff, I command thee: bring us a stack of gold octagons!”

Again, Thurun Made three more coins.

Pyanya looked at the new coins and giggled. “Now it’s your face. But there’s a mole on the end of your nose!”

Jira scowled at the visage. “Nobody would notice the face,” she said. “Three octagons each? We can buy anything we like with that kind of wealth!”

“But if we can make the staff work,” said Pyanya, wide-eyed, “we won’t need money! Let me try again.” Jira handed her the staff, this time without protest. “Now… staff, I command thee. Make me a beautiful dinner dress!”

Jira laughed at the shimmering blue dress that Thurun Made for them. “That dress wouldn’t fit a baby! It might fit your rag doll, though!”

“Here, you do better!” Pyanya snarled and pushed the staff into her friends hands.

“Maybe we need to be very specific,” said Jira, becoming thoughtful for the first time. “Staff, I command thee: make a beautiful dinner dress, that will fit us!”

Thurun thought a moment, then grinned and Made what they had commanded. The girls squealed at the dress, then moaned when they picked it up. “It fits us!” Pyanya pointed to the four sleeves.

Now, Thurun decided it was time to finish the lesson. “Silly girls.” The girls gasped and looked up at the cat, as Thurun spoke through it. “What do you know about working magic?”

Jira sniffed. “Well, we made you talk,” she said, trying to sound brave. “That’s something.”

“I’m hungry,” the dog said.

“You’re always hungry,” Jira protested.

“And he’ll let you know, now and forever,” said the cat. Jira gave the cat a horrified look. “Unless, of course, you do the right thing.”

“What is that?” Pyanya asked, nearly frantic.

“He whose staff you have stolen is even now walking up your street,” said the cat. “Return it to him, apologize, and offer to do whatever penance he demands of you.”

“I will!” Pyanya snatched the staff. “Jira, you too!” Jira nodded, and the girls dashed into the street, almost bowling Thurun over in their haste.

“Here, take this, it’s yours!” Pyanya gasped. “We’re very sorry!” Jira added. “We’ll do anything to make it up to you!”

Thurun took back his staff, and tried to give the girls a very serious look. “This is your penance,” he intoned. “You will become my apprentices, or my attendants if you have not the Talent for magic.”

The girls looked at each other. “Apprentices?” Jira squeaked.

“Indeed. You will work hard, and learn all that I can teach you.”

“We’ll—we’ll have to ask our parents,” Pyanya stammered.

“I will ask them for you,” said Thurun. “But I am sure they will be happy to know you will begin to make something of yourselves in life.”


It was so: the girls’ parents were elated to see them apprenticed to the great Thurun. In time, Jira and Pyanya learned that Thurun had tricked them, and the three of them often played merry pranks on each other. The girls grew into sturdy women, and strong sorcerers. Pyanya became a Protector, some years after Thurun departed Termag with many other Makers. They bore children, who were worthy sorcerers themselves, and their bloodlines continue to this day.

Chomp! (#FridayFlash)

I don’t know if Mason dreamed it, or just made up a story, but I thought I’d embellish it a little for this week’s #FridayFlash. Yup, I co-authored a story with a three year old. I’ve included the original at the end.

---

Image source: openclipart.org

“Holy crap.” Lee stopped and stared at the enormous anthill. “That thing’s as tall as me!” He hefted his little bag of fire ant poison, and looked at it and back at the anthill. “Yeah. I’m gonna need more.”

Two hours later, he returned, pulling a wheelbarrow laden with bags of Ant-I-Ant and more safety equipment than he usually needed for one of these jobs. The clearing was deathly quiet. The gnats that followed him through the woods seemed content to be left behind. Lee gave the area a nervous look, then towed his load forward.

He wasted no time, donning his jacket, gloves, and mask. Tearing open four bags, Lee threw the contents across the near side of the anthill, then scuttled back to avoid the dust. When that settled, he’d take the wheelbarrow around the other side—

The loose dirt on the anthill squirmed and shifted, and the ants burst out.

“Oh fffffffff—”

Each ant was 20cm long, easy. Lee gaped, and walked backwards, unable to tear his eyes away—

Something started up his leg. Lee screamed, jumped, and batted at the ant on his calf. It caught his wrist and clamped on. His jacket protected him from the worst of it, but it still hurt!

“Why you son of a!” Lee bellowed. Before he realized what he was doing, he brought his arm up and bit into the ant’s abdomen, crunching through the shell. His mouth filled with the sour taste of ant juice, then it blew a high-pitched warbling fart, squirting alarm pheromones, as it let go. Other ants poured out of the mound, coming to help their comrade.

Lee flung the huge ant across the clearing; the other ants veered away to follow the flying pheromones. He caught a glimpse of more ants piling onto his wheelbarrow as he ran for it.

Spitting and gagging, Lee ditched his reeking jacket and kept running. This wasn’t over. He had a job to do. But he needed some special equipment. Maybe napalm.

And a video camera. Nobody was gonna believe this shit without video. Nobody.

---

And here’s the original story, as told by a 3-½ year old Mason:

I saw this anthill, and it was huge! Holds hand out at head level So I dumped poison all over it, and the ants came out. One of them bit me, and I bit it back!

Authors Behaving Badly (#FridayFlash)

In a parallel universe, this is on one of the cable channels…

---

Remixed from graphics
on openclipart.org

SFX: upbeat theme music.
Animation: hand dips quill pen into black inkwell, marked with a skull and crossbones. Writes show title.

Voiceover: Look out, readers and reviewers, it’s Authors Behaving Badly!

Animation: hand scribbles across title, revealing:
Interior, library. Penny Dreadful leaning on a table strewn with books and eReaders.

Penny: Welcome to this week’s segment of Authors Behaving Badly. I’m your host, Penny Dreadful. I may host the show, but you make it go! If you see an author behaving badly, let us know! Send the particulars—we love video if you can get it—to abb-alert@abb.example.com! If we use your author in one of our segments, we’ll send you an official “Ink-Splattered Bystander” t-shirt!

Now, let’s go to our first misbehaving wordslinger.

Chyron: CODE YELLOW CODE YELLOW…

Penny: Gator Scott caught indie author Leonard Konrad getting a little huffy in his response to a review on Goodreads. The reply inexplicably disappeared, but Gator saved a screenshot. Mr. Konrad wanted to know, “Did you really read the book I wrote? Maybe you just skimmed it? Or do you have a pink Kindle, like in Stephen King’s UR, that downloads books from parallel universes? I suspect the latter, because your review details have a superficial resemblance to Magic Trip. But anyone reading with a little care and comprehension would have understood that Chapter 1 leaves off in mid-summer and Chapter 2 picks up at the beginning of fall. I could have included those six weeks where the lovers develop their relationship, but then you would have complained about the story being long and boring, instead of overly brief with abrupt scene changes.”

When we emailed Konrad about his outburst, he admitted to writing, then deleting, the reply. He explained, “I thought I knew better than to read reviews when I was drinking, but I went one click too far.” Well, we’ll let you off the hook this time, Leonard, but we’re keeping an eye on you! Makes the “I’m watching you” gesture.

Cut to commercials.

Black screen, giant red letters flashing CODE RED!. SFX: buzzer.

Cut to: exterior. Penny, holding microphone, standing on small-town sidewalk. Low palm trees sit in corner planters.

Penny: For our Big Blowup of the Week, we travel to Houma, Louisiana, between the swamps and the sea. Houma is known mostly as a bedroom community for oil services companies, but it’s also the home-a best-selling author Andrea Wheat! Wheat has made a lot of dough off her blockbuster horror series, Biker Ghoul of New Orleans, but the critics were unkind to the fifth book, Hurricane Nights.

Animation/overlay: cover of Hurricane Nights tumbles onto the screen, landing in the corner. Penny continues.

Penny: Many suggested the series had run out of gas, and now it was time for Andrea to put down the kickstand and start something new. But undaunted, her publisher released Book 6, Floating Crypts, last month. Even some of her long-time fans had trouble finding nice things to say about this one. “After Hurricane Nights, I really hoped that would be the end,” said one. “She’s dragged this one out too long.”

Closeup of Penny. But if the fans were dismayed, the critics were apoplectic. Reviewer Kim Flameside wrote, “It’s appropriate that Wheat writes for Random House, because this story was completely random. It seems to be nothing more than scenes from previous books, thrown into a blender, and poured onto the page. This series is two books past its prime, but the temptation to stick with a moneyspinner is hard to overcome.”

Cut to: interior, apartment building. Wheat took particular umbrage to Flameside’s review, spotlighting what she called the “nastier passages” on her blog and inviting her enormous fanbase to share their thoughts. And share them they did! Not only did they inundate Flameside’s blog with insults and outright threats, some tracked down his address and phone number.

Cut to: interior. Man on sofa, face pixelated. Title: Kim Flameside.

Flameside: When I started getting death threats on my answering machine, I got out of Dodge. I’ve changed my town, my car, my phone, and I’m thinking about changing my name. All this, over one review of a seriously flawed book!

Fade to: answering machine. Penny voiceover. This is the message that Flameside said was the last straw.

Voiceover: woman’s hysterical voice. Titling: transcript. You’re jealous, you stupid bleeep! If you had one percent of the talent that Andrea Wheat has, you’d be writing your own books instead of tearing down the hard work of great people! When I come to Memphis and find your bleeep little powder-blue Accord, I’m gonna run you off the road. And then, I’m gonna bleeep you up! You better have your will in order, is all I got to say. Click

Penny: Andrea Wheat turned down our request for an interview. Her publicist had no comment, but Wheat did have this to say in email: “I can’t be responsible for every random person who uses my name to justify their actions. I don’t condone violence, or threats of violence. But maybe reviewers shouldn’t hide behind a keyboard and take potshots at authors’ hard work, without expecting a little backlash from time to time.”

And that’s where it stands. We had dozens of people send us this sordid tale. So many, in fact, that we’re putting your names in a hat. Ten of you will receive our official “Ink-Splattered Bystander” t-shirt. As for Kim Flameside, he tells us that he stands by his review, and will review other books, but with comments turned off for now. ABB has offered him a co-host spot. And Andrea Wheat has earned her place in the not-so-coveted ABB Red List!

Fade to: logo animation. That’s all for this week. Remember to support your local authors… unless they’re behaving badly!

End. Begin. (#FridayFlash)

Just a reminder, the Pickups and Pestilence release party goes on through the weekend. Links to free books, 99-cent books, and a chance to win a Kindle 4, a $20 Amazon gift card, and books....

Image source: clker.com

The bartender waved from his post as Nick entered. One or two curious patrons turned to look him over, then went back to their own pursuits.

“You must be new,” the bartender greeted him. “What’cha having?”

“I need to make a phone call,” said Nick. “I totaled my car about a mile back, and I don’t know what happened to my cellphone. It must still be in the car, somewhere.”

“Bad one, I guess.” The barkeep began filling a huge mug from a keg behind him.

“Yeah. I don’t know how I walked away from it. I don’t even remember getting out. Musta been a helluva jolt. I need to let my wife know I’m okay, and get a wrecker out there. I’m sure the cops will want to know, they won’t pass up the chance to write me a ticket.”

“Yup. First one’s on the house.”

Nick looked at the mug in front of him. “First and last, for me. I’ll be working on that all night!”

“New guy?” A woman took the stool next to Nick. “Buy a girl a drink?”

The newcomer looked to be about Nick’s age, not bad looking, especially for forty. Still… “Um, sorry, miss,” he said. “I’m married.”

“Gina, give the poor guy a minute,” the bartender admonished. “He’s got a lot to deal with.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” said Gina. “Don’t worry about your marriage. ‘Till death do you part,’ right?” She chuckled, then waved at the bartender. “Gimme what he’s having.”

The bartender gave Gina the requested mug, and a wireless phone to Nick. “Good luck,” he said.

Nick wondered what that meant, but nothing happened when he pushed Talk. “No dialtone,” he said. “Do you hit nine to get out?”

“Phones don’t work here most of the time.” The bartender shrugged and laid the phone on the shelf.

“So what happened?” Gina asked Nick, taking a generous drink.

“It was stupid,” Nick sighed. “I was playing music off my phone. Dark Side of the Moon finished up, so I started pulling up another album. I took my eyes off the road, next thing I know I’m looking at the wreckage.”

“Well, at least you just have you to worry about.” Gina looked miffed. “Some stupid drunk kid plastered me.”

“Ow, that—”

“It’s all right,” she said. “It wasn’t you. Besides, it didn’t hurt for long.” She gave him a significant look.

“Pink Floyd’s a good one to go out on, though,” said the bartender. “I could think of worse.”

“Highway to Hell,” Gina laughed. “Definitely not a good omen.”

Nick looked back and forth between the two. “If that’s a joke, it ain’t funny,” he said at last.

“No joke.” The bartender locked eyes with Nick, and Nick shuddered at what he saw in those depths. “You’re here with us. Your body… well, it’s back there in what’s left of your car.”

Nick took a big drink, emptying a third of his mug at once. “Um, aren’t you supposed to wear a hood and carry a sickle?”

“Scythe. That was a scythe. I’m like everyone—almost everyone else. I change with the times. I did the Grim Reaper thing back in the plague days. I’ll wear different guises for different people, different cultures. The important thing is, I took you out of that mess you made and set your feet in this direction. You ready for another?”

Nick nodded and pushed the mug across the bar. “If I—well, what do I do now? Isn’t there some kind of judgement or something?”

“Not right away. You screwed up, and it killed you, but you weren’t hurtful or selfish in life. So you get to hang out a while. It’s like being reborn, in a way. None of your ties in life come with you.”

“The band will be starting up soon,” said Gina, putting a hand on Nick’s arm. “Grimm usually gets someone decent. Not Elvis or Jimi Hendrix, but still good. We can dance forever.” She grinned.

“I—I’ve never been a guy who hangs out in bars,” said Nick.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Death. “Everything changed for you when you hit that tree. The two of you will learn who you really are, together, and then it’ll be time for the next step.”

“Which is?” Nick and Gina asked together.

“That is not for me to know,” Death sighed. “But you might go to your final reward. Or you might be reborn. All I know is, when you’re judged, you will judge yourselves.”

“That’s scary,” said Gina, and Nick nodded.

Death poured a third. “A toast,” he said. “To endings. To beginnings. They are one and the same, after all.”

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Casting about for an idea, it was +Helen Howell who gave it to me in a guest post about the Tarot. “All things go on even in death, it’s just that they may not go on in the same way as before.”

Stonebelly the Dragon (#FridayFlash)

To celebrate the release of my new book, Pickups and Pestilence, I’m running a giveaway for my anthology Oddities through Saturday (May 11). If everyone who reads this #FridayFlash downloads a copy, I’ll be a happy writer!

Oh, and check out the Release Day post—there’s other goodies, links to interviews and reviews, and a Kindle 4 up for grabs!

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The Unlikely Tale of Stonebelly the Dragon

Image source: openclipart.org

Once upon a time, in the Strange Lands north of Aht-Lann-Tah, in a cave dug into the side of a mountain, lived Stonebelly the Dragon. Stonebelly mostly dwelt in peace, having roasted and eaten all the brave (but stupid) knights that thought to spit him on their lances. Mostly.

One summer morning, Stonebelly awoke to the scent of a human, walking up the steep path to his cave. He raised his head and peered over the edge. He saw: one old man, wearing a uniform but no armor, leading a cow by a halter. The cow wore a bell, and the clunking noise preceded them up the mountainside. Being an old dragon, Stonebelly was patient. He laid down to wait.

“Good dragon?” he heard at last. He lifted his head to see the old man, standing at the edge of the cave mouth. The cow looked resigned. Stonebelly understood the languages of most animals, and this one told him, Just eat me. Better that than walking back down the mountain.

The dragon snatched up the cow and swallowed it in two gulps. It didn’t suffer much. The old man, however, looked ill. “Please don’t eat me, too,” he begged.

“I had to quit,” Stonebelly assured him. “You’d give me indigestion these days. I presume that you want something from me? Humans don’t exactly bring free gifts.”

“Aye,” said the old man. “Crown Prince Chowming is held captive by the Rival Kingdom. We need him returned, by any means necessary.” He wrung his hands. “Just bring him home safely. Does that sound alright?”

The dragon put a huge claw to his flinty face, and scratched himself behind the ears. Humans still didn’t realize that was a secondary erogenous zone. “Needs more cowbell,” said Stonebelly, lowering his claw. He jiggled his head; the cowbell, dangling from a lower tooth, clunked again. He gave the human a significant look.

“Oh, aye, there’s plenty more where that came from!” the old man beamed.


Stonebelly flew among the clouds, contemplating the habits of humans. Not for nothing are these the Strange Lands, he thought, not for the first time. But he thought he might enjoy this little task—the Rival Kingdom had shortchanged him a (human) generation ago, when he had done a little service for them. They’d likely forgotten, but a dragon’s memory is long. Wreak a little havoc, rescue the prince, wreak a little more havoc, take the prince home, gorge himself on cattle. Not a bad plan, he thought.

Reaching Rival Castle, he loosed a resounding, roaring belch of flame. I need to slow down when I eat, he thought, but the effect was most entertaining. Guards on the castle wall ran for their lives, or fainted on the spot. He swept over the wall…

Oh, no. In the great courtyard, he saw Prince Chowming, bound hand and foot, propped up next to a stern young woman in a flowing white gown. Humans get so irrational when you interrupt their mating rituals, he thought. The guests—and the bishop—scattered to the winds. Prince Chowming stood his ground, only because he couldn’t move, and the bride-to-be-bereft slipped behind him.

“Begone, foul dragon!” the woman snarled.

“Glad to,” said Stonebelly. “But the prince comes with me.” The prince raised one eyebrow, and Stonebelly winked. Chowming gave a sigh of relief.

“Never! He’s mine! I stole him fair and square!”

“Look,” said the dragon, growing annoyed. “I’m taking him home. If you don’t give me any grief about it, I’ll forget the little matter of your mother cheating me, back in the day.”

The young woman’s eyes grew wide. “You remember—” She stretched out her hand, and a swarm of wasps leaped for Stonebelly’s eyes.

The dragon recoiled, and loosed a tiny puff of fire—just enough to turn the swarm into a constellation of sparks, fluttering to the ground. He stomped, making the ground shake. “Enough, puny human!” he roared, and the woman fled, letting Chowming fall over.

“Climb on,” he told the prince, offering a claw. Chowming hopped to him, and Stonebelly sliced through the ropes with a talon.

“I’m so glad to be out of that!” the prince sighed. “She was going to make me…” he shuddered. “Princess Hatchet is not subtle. Or kind.”

“Aye,” said the dragon. “I have the urge to wreak a little havoc. Payback, you know. Would you rather I leave you somewhere safe while I attend to it?”


After gorging himself on the cattle of the royals and rich families, Stonebelly flew Chowming home before returning to his cave. There, he curled up and slept for four months. Princess Hatchet tricked a traveling merchant into marrying her, and Prince Chowming played golf and drank beer whenever he pleased. And they all (except the merchant) lived happily ever after.

Up, Always (#FridayFlash)

Thanks to Helen Howell for looking this over!

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Image source: openclipart.org

Up, always.

The stairs are endless. I’ve forgotten everything but the need to stay ahead of whatever it is coming up after me. Sometimes, I think my pursuer has given up the chase. But when I stop to catch my breath, I hear footfalls from below.

Up, always.

I think I’m in a fancy hotel. The center of the building is open space. I can’t see the bottom, though. And when I look up, I can’t see the top. Forever down, forever up. But…

Up, always.

The stairs are beautiful, when I pause to look. But they’re not always the same. Sometimes, they’re carpeted. Sometimes, tile. Even marble. Sometimes, the stairs are split by a wall of sorts. Occasionally, I’ll jump on it and scramble up. I don’t think I go any faster, but it’s a change of pace.

Up, always.

My pursuer is gaining. I think about just stopping. Whatever happens, let it happen. But I must have had a reason to run in the first place. If only I could remember it.

Up… or I could jump. If it’s forever down, whatever it is could never catch me.



“Whoa! Temperature just dropped big!”

“What’s the reading?”

“Just a flicker. It’s already back to normal.”

“Hey! It just passed here, too. It must be coming up the stairs. Lynn, get ready—”

“There it is! And gone.”

“You think it’s her?”

“Probably. If she’s a repeater, she’ll be back around in a few minutes. Get the cameras ready, let’s see if we can get anything on the next pass.”

At the Crossroads (#FridayFlash)

I went to the crossroads…

As always, I got a round of polite applause after my first number. I try to focus on the positive. This bar beats most of the gigs I’d played. The audience was polite, and tipped well. The stage wasn’t much—just a raised platform—but I had mikes for me and my guitar, and the acoustics were great. I played too many gigs where I deafened half the patrons, and the other half couldn’t hear at all.

“Good evening, folks,” I said. “And welcome to The Crossroads. Paisley’s the name, folk and blues are my claim to fame.” Again, polite applause. “I’m gonna go up-tempo with this next number, a little ballad called On the Centerline.” The lyrics for this number were rude, and I wouldn’t sing this song back home, but here? No problem.

I called Ma after the gig. She thinks I’m in L.A., playing different bars and trying to get discovered, and I won’t try tellin’ her different. “How’s things at home, Ma?” There was a time, not too long ago, that I would have done just about anything to keep Ma from tellin’ me everything that her neighbors were up to. Now, I just let her rattle on and on to her heart’s content. “Zach will be walkin’ soon,” she told me after about ten minutes. “He stood up by himself this mornin’, right in the middle of the kitchen, and took a look around before he sat down.”

“He’s growin’ fast, ain’t he, Ma?” I asked. Some dumb chick I met at one party or another, Amber or Opal or something, dropped Zack off at Ma’s place one day. Said he was mine, and took off as quick as she could. He sure looks like me, so he’s probably mine.

“He’ll be needin’ his father soon, Pay-pay,” she said. “When you comin’ home?”

“Soon as I can, Ma,” I lied. “You got the two hundred I wired, right? I think I’ll be able to send two-fifty this weekend.”


To make a deal with the devil…

Me and school were never close friends. I made my first money playing a gig at someone’s party, back when I was thirteen. I got straight As in music class, passed math, but I couldn’t bother with the rest. It was drop out or flunk out, and I got my pride. That and my guitar.

I hitched along the Gulf coast, playing gigs where I could get one, putting a hat on a street corner where I couldn’t. It was enough. Usually. Then that big mess with the oil rig, a few years back, gave me the opportunity for what Ma called “a real job with an honest paycheck.” So I worked for a while. I didn’t see the attraction. Sure, I could afford better booze, but I don’t have fancy tastes. Give me food, guitar strings, and a six-pack, and I’m good.

I was out on the road when Ma told me about Zack. I came home to see him, tried to remember the girl, and got back on the road. I had more than myself to support now, and I needed more gigs to cover the expense.

So, I figured trading off my soul for a better paycheck wasn’t a bad deal. Not like St. Peter would let the likes of me in, anyway, you know?


But someone else showed up.

I got everything I asked for, and then some. Ma might complain about my lifestyle, but she don’t complain about the money they conjure out of a computer and send to the Walmart across town for her. All my wants are taken care of—what I think is kinky, they think rather quaint. I can have pretty much everything I want, except for one thing. And you know, going home is something I never would have thought I wanted.

It’s time for me to go onstage again. I thank God for the bright lights shining down on me, so I don’t have to look at what’s out there watching me. Ma and Zack are provided for, so I guess it don’t matter that I’m traveling ever farther away from home, at half the speed of light.

It ain’t the devil I struck the bargain with. Maybe I got a better deal. Maybe.

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #4 END (#FridayFlash)

And now we come to the part you’ve all been waiting for… the end…

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3

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Photo Credit: Keith Survell,  Flickr (Creative Commons)

“Thou art no friend of mine,” Dower intoned, “nor of any man who calls himself a servant of the Lord.”

A darkness flowed over and above the altar. “Must it come to this?” the voice whined. “Once I was worshipped as a god, and then I had a place under the glorious stars. And now? Now I languish in this swamp. Thy God has forsaken those whom I hunt on the darkest of nights, old friend. He has not sent any to replace Reverend Martin. Who, I might add, was most tasty.” It paused. “Ahhh. Is this thy consort, or have thou brought me a morsel to feed upon?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Sally snarled.

“A saucy one!” the voice held a hint of amusement. “Joab, I’m surprised. All this time, I thought you preferred boys.”

Dower held up his sword. It glowed in the firelight—or perhaps of its own internal light. “Twice have I defeated thee, Tolet. And the Lord has allowed me to curse thee thus: for thy pride, thy name shalt be ever used for that which receives the unclean things that come out of a man. This third time I confront thee, and thou shalt be banished from this world forever!”

The darkness seemed to recoil, but regathered and grew. Even the fire seemed to dim in this great shadow. “Joab Gideon Dower, I entreat thee a final time,” it said. “Take this woman unto thee. Satisfy thy desire in her flesh, and I will withdraw to a far place where thy kind shall not come, unto the third generation.”

“Never!”

“Then give her to me. Look at her, Joab. See how she grubs in the dirt, like a pig rooting in the midden? She is not worthy of thy attention. Perhaps she might be worthy of mine.”

In a showy maneuver, Dower flicked the sword upward, and shifted his grip to the hilt. He brought it around in the same motion. “Thou hast twice tasted the sword of God’s wrath, Tolet. Now, thou shalt taste it for a final time!”

The whining tone returned. “Men such as thee never see reason.” The darkness coalesced into a shape like unto a man’s, and a sword took flame in its hand. “Then have at thee, Joab. But thou will not find the battle so easy this time!”

The demon Tolet sprang at Dower, who brought up his sword to meet the assault. Light and darkness met, clashed, recoiled.

Sally, casting about in the fickle firelight for what she’d seen in the twilight, spared a glance for the nearby battle. The demon pressed Dower hard, but the preacher seemed to be holding his own. Lord God, she prayed, let me find what I thought I saw here. Let it do what my grandmother said.

Dower held up a crucifix. Wielding it as a shield in his right hand, he slashed and thrust with the sword in his left. Where the demon’s flaming sword struck the crucifix, the flames guttered and flickered, but soon regained their strength away from the symbol of the Devil’s ultimate defeat. Slowly, slowly, Tolet gave ground, backing toward the pagan altar that had housed it for a time. Placing a hand on the stone where so much blood had been shed over so many years, it fed again on the power the altar contained.

“For thy pride!” Tolet shouted, and struck Dower’s sword a mighty blow. Dower was thrown, landing on his back near the fire, his sword falling out of reach. He yet clutched his crucifix, and thrust it at his adversary.

“Ah, Joab.” The demon stood over him. “Where is thy God now?” It brought the sword down, but not where the crucifix could stop it—instead, it laid the flames along Dower’s left hip. Dower gritted his teeth against the searing pain, but did not cry out.

“Oh, Joab, thou will scream,” said Tolet. “I will have that satisfaction. First, when I deal thee a mortal wound, one that will not kill thee right away. When I have done that, I will have my way with thee, and thou will scream again and again. Thou will beg thy God for release. But first, I will tell thee a secret, dear Joab. Thy God has forsaken the world of Man. He is disgusted with those who do my Master’s work in God’s name, and has abandoned thee—indeed, all men—to their own devices. So when I have sated myself in thy dying body, Joab, I shall tear thy soul from its moorings, and carry it to my Master. We have prepared a place for thee, where thou may forever preach to the other damned. And they will laugh in thy face, as the living now laugh behind thy back—”

Tolet’s blasphemous taunt ceased, with the flat report of a pistol shot. A great wad of—something—struck it in the face. It screeched and clawed at the wad, and screamed more as it drove the stuff into its smoky flesh. Dower wasted little time, rolling heedless of the pain in his hip, grasping his sword and slashing through Tolet’s legs, bringing it shrieking to the ground.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” Dower snarled, “I consign thee to the depths of Hell, for all eternity!” He took the sword in both hands and drove it into the demon’s chest. Tolet’s final scream rang inside his skull, but the shadow faded and was gone.

“You—you got it?” Sally’s voice was shaky.

“By the hand of Providence,” Dower panted. He lowered himself to the ground, favoring his hip. “What saved me just now?”

Sally sat next to him. “My grandmother said this certain concoction of herbs would repel all evils,” she said. “I thought I saw what I needed to complete it, before it got dark, but then your demon came out. You kept it occupied long enough for me to find it again and make what was needed. It wasn’t enough to send that thing off, but it gave you enough time to get back on your feet. Now let me see to that burn.”

“Nay, woman, do not—”

“Oh, hush.” Sally reached through the remains of Dower’s trousers and laid a hand along his seared flesh. She lowered her head and whispered something, too low for the preacher to catch, but the pain faded.

“What witchcraft was that?” he gasped.

Sally laughed. “You think the devil would heal his mortal enemy? This is a gift that’s been in my family for generations. We can talk the fire out of a burn. It’s a certain Bible verse, that I can only pass on to a descendant. No witchcraft, only a gift from God. You won’t even have a scar.”

“If it is of God, why have I not heard of such a thing?”

“Are you so prideful, that you think you know all of God’s gifts to all His people?”

Dower lowered his head. “I accept your rebuke,” he said. “Now let us pull down this altar, that we may ever rebuke those evil spirits that would make it their home.”


With the altar laying in rubble around them, no stone left standing on another, Dower looked up. “Lo,” he said, “the clouds recede. The darkness upon this land is no more.”

“Amen to that!” Sally grinned.

“I am in your debt, Sally Harper,” the preacher said. “And frankly, I am at a loss as to how to repay it.”

“Well, let’s get back to town, first,” she said. “I don’t want tongues wagging at our spending the night alone in the swamp.”

“And how shall we do that?”

Sally pointed at the sky. “Follow the Irishman.”

“Irishman?”

“O’Ryan!” She laughed. “My mother was Irish, and she loved that jest. In June, his belt points the way out of the swamp.”

“Then we shall be on our way. But returning you home does not fulfill my debt.”

“Good. Because in the morning, I’m going with you.”

“You—what—I say thee nay—” Dower sputtered.

“Oh, hush,” Sally said again. “There’s nothin’ for me, here. And it looks like you could use a little help from time to time. You can teach me the trade, and I know more than what I showed you tonight.”

Dower followed her down the hill, and they struck out across the swamp. “I must pray about this,” he said. “And I suggest you do the same.”

“Oh, I will. But I’ll be up at dawn and ready to go. Now watch your step, the swamp is tricky at night.”

THE END

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If you liked this story, you’ll love my anthology Oddities, now available in the Kindle Store and (for Prime members) the Kindle Lending Library. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, Oddities brings you, as book blogger Eric Townsend said, “one entertaining story after another.” Some flash fiction, some short stories, some stories which have never seen the light of blog. Helen Howell said, “what could be better than a nice cup of coffee and a good short story to read” — and at 99 cents, you can still afford that cup of coffee!