With all the short story starters completed, I'm taking a survey to see which story people like best. Whichever one people seem to like the best is the one I'll finish off.

I've got five choices for you guys and I'd love it if you'd give these stories a quick read and let me know which one(s) you like. Click the link below and you'll be taken to a page with all five stories in one convenient place, as well as a survey at the bottom of the page to vote for your favorite.

Thanks again, everyone. I look forward following one of these stories to its conclusion.

​DFTBA

Well that's it! Five short story starters down. My time is very limited today (doctor's visit among other pleasant things) so I won't be putting up the poll today, but by tomorrow I plan to have everything in place.

I'm going to put all the stories in one easy to find location and then open one more poll to gauge interest and see which story I should push forward with. I'm quite excited to see where everyone's tastes lie. Writing these stories made me divert, at least a little, from what I usually write. Two were low fantasy settings, one arguably low-to-high fantasy depending on where the story goes, a paranormal experiment, and the weirdest one a sword and planet / planetary romance trope fest. The cheese is strong with that last one.

In any case, I had fun with them all and I'm excited to put my full focus on one of them. Please give a read to them if you haven't and I'll have that poll up soon.

​DFTBA

Here it is! The final short story starter of this little experiment. Before starting this I discovered the genre "Sword and Planet," a closely related genre to "Planetary Romance." It's filled with cheese and over the top goodness and never really tries to explain the science behind anything.

Keep that in mind when you read this. I probably reads like something out of He-Man or She-Ra, but I'll leave that up for you guys to decide. So... I guess the only thing left is for you to read and (hopefully) enjoy!

DFTBA

PS. I'll be holding a poll very soon to figure out which of the short stories you guys want me to finish. Keep an eye out for it.

The sun glinted off the Blade of Wyvern, held aloft by the strong, slender arm of the Xirian Knight, Lady Arwana. Her long, blond hair flowed in the oil-tinted breeze as her powerful boot ground into the chest of her defeated foe, Irloc the Devourer. Cheers raised from the throngs of soldiers in glimmering armor that surrounded the pair, the clang of swords and shields bashed together in celebration erupting through the air. There they stood, feet away from the Cliffs of Vengeance, a staggering drop miles long, straight into the Dark Lands. The beauty of Xiria, the forests, the fields, came to a crashing halt, the landscape littered with flames and cluttered with the broken remains of the robotic crusaders of the Red Hand.
The Twin Moons gazed down from their heavenly seat as the Lady Arwana brought the mystic blade to her foe's throat. The lizard-like fiend sneered and opened his mouth to curse her, but the glow of the blade silenced him. The Lady's Trusted assembled behind her, her siblings-at-arms, sworn to her service entrusted with her very life. The stains of oil and rust from the Devourer's Death Bots covered their armor, but they were alive, alive and ready to take on any challenge to their land or Lady.
“I hope you understand, Irloc, that your evil can never overcome lands where good people still live, work, and love,” the Lady announced. “You will answer for your crimes.”
“You are a fool, Arwana,” the lizard replied, his blue tongue flicking in the air, tasting the bitterness of his defeat. “This alliance you hold, this magic of camaraderie can never truly bring the order that Xiria needs.”
“I am a fool for believing in honor? In friendship?”
“No... you are a fool for believing I wouldn't have a Plan B!”
The lizard let out a raucous laugh and a thick cloud of blue smoke engulfed him, the Lady, and her Trusted. Their blades snicker-snacked through the air, but found nothing. Coughing, shielding their eyes, a single soldier pointed over the edge of the battlefield, past the Cliffs of Vengeance where a small, blue figure could be spotted in the distance atop his ram-jet.
“My Lady! He is escaping!”
“Leave him,” she commanded, sheathing her magical blade. “He is no threat to us today.” She stepped forward, reaching out to clasp the domed head of a Death Bot, lifting it for her soldiers to see. “We have defended Xiria once more! Let no man forget the honor we claim on this day!”


                                                          ****


Armor clashed and clamored as it dropped to the floor of Diri Castle's barracks. The sound of cheering soldiers was even more deafening than the metal as the young page, Art, scrambled to collect it all. She was small, with dusty brown hair and a face more freckles than skin. Her nose was wrinkled and body hunched over as she tried to ignore the sound and, more overwhelmingly, the smell of Lady Arwana's Trusted. Chest plates, helmets, shields, and swords, each gathered carefully and taken to the back to scrub as the Lady led her soldiers to the Mess Hall.
Art sighed as she looked at the stack of oil and mud stained armor. Sleep would elude her tonight.
“Art!” The young page turned to see her friend, Everee, peeking her head in, her black, curly hair preceding her. “Are you in there?”
“Somewhere beneath all this armor,” Art replied.
“Well, you better hurry up. The soldiers are eating; they're going to want their mead soon.”
“I know, I know. I'd be out there already if they'd just learn to drop their armor in the back to start with.”
“They're celebrating a victory, Art. You can't blame them for being preoccupied.”
“Oh yes, another great victory. What's that, three this week?” she replied, stacking a chest plate for later cleaning.
“Are you complaining again?” Everee asked with a small grin.
“Of course not,” Art answered, standing straight and pushing back her hair, affecting a regal pose. “To be in the service of the Knights of Xiria is an honor in itself. I should know, they've told me enough times.”
Everee chuckled as she stepped into the room, reaching out and mussing her friend's hair. “Come on. They're getting thirsty.” Art rolled her eyes and accompanied her friend out through the Mess Hall, watching as the soldiers and their Lady shouted and cheered, songs drifting through the air.
“I don't suppose I can con you into serving with me?” Art asked as she dodged the waving arms of a celebrating solider.
“If I could, I would. I'm only here because Sir Braun wanted me to bring the Lady another gift. I have my own room of armor to clean tonight.”
“Another gift? He's never going to woo her.”
“Art!” cried out the loud, but undeniably dignified voice of the Lady. “The mead!”
“Yes, m'lady!”
The two servants quickly ducked into the kitchen and made their way to the buttery. They giggled as they pulled open large barrels and filled ornate serving pitchers. The scent of fruit and honey filled the air as the mead filled the vessel, Everee helping her friend fill several and setting them aside.
“Do you have to go?” Art asked, hoisting a filled jug.
“I have my own duties, Art. And if you took yours more seriously, perhaps you'd be a squire by now.”
“Ugh...” she moaned. “Like it would matter. Trade me masters!”
Everee giggled and swatted playfully at her friend. “Good luck out there.”
“Art!” The Lady's voice echoed through the hall. The young page watched as her companion waved and disappeared. Heaving the jug to her chest she made for the Mess once more.
“Coming m'lady!”


                                                        ****


Blue streaks of light zapped across the target range, obliterating a series of crudely made clay pots stacked atop pink bales of Alura hay. Art squinted one eye, leaning closer to the energy crossbow locked tightly in her grip, squeezing the trigger and watching as the pot at the end of her lane remained stubbornly in one piece. One lane down she could see the pots of Everee popping into clouds of clay confetti with every loud zap from her weapon.
Concentrating, she lined up her sights once more, placing the pot halfway between the large orbs at either end of her weapon's muzzle. CRASH! The young page leapt up with a shriek of joy, her friend leaning over to check on her.
“Hey, you finally hit it!”
Art pulled the green tinted goggles from her face, the protective eyewear leaving red impression around her eyes and nose. “Finally! These things are terrible to aim with!”
“You have to get used to the sights. And they tend to pull to the right, too.”
Art stared at the chrome plated weapon in her hands, testing the heft of it as she thought. “Why don't all the knights use these? They seem much more useful than swords and spears.”
“Magic swords and spears, Art.”
The page shrugged and turned back to her lane. “Then why do they bother having us train in these?” She lowered her goggles and took aim once more. “You know, back on Elutheria, we wouldn't be doing this.” Her blast went wide.
“I'm aware. And they don't have Death Bots and Terror Bats that attack in the middle of the night, either,” Everee recited.
“Exactly!” she replied. The next shot grazed the pot, spinning it slightly. “You know what we'd be doing all day? School!”
“We go to school, Art.” Everee's pot shattered, bringing a grin to her face.
“No, real school. With teachers and books and lockers and sports and dances...”
“We have that stuff.”
“It's not the same, Everee! People there live without want. They have art and music and flying cars-”
“We have ram-jets.”
“That's not the point!” Art sneered as the fresh pot at the end of her lane mocked her. “I just...
“You want to go to the homeworld.”
“Yes!”
“And you will. Someday.”
“Sure,” Art replied, fidgeting with the sensitivity dial at the base of her stock. “But first I have to be a page, then a squire, then a soldier, then a Trusted, then maybe a full knight, and then, if I've been a good girl, maybe the King will grant me a title and I'll finally have access...” she paused, lifting her eyes up to the sky, glancing at the large moons hovering in the sky, “...to out there.”
Art stared at the sky for several moments as Everee awkwardly returned to her lane. She dusted three pots before checking to see that her friend was still staring into nothingness.
“Look, Art. I don't see what's so great about that place anyway. We have everything they do. The homeworld sounds boring. There's no excitement. No adventure.”
“There are people, Eve. People who solve their problems without stabbing someone. Families that love and protect their children. And don't send them off to serve the nobility.” Art lifted her weapon once more, sighting her target and squeezing the trigger. The clay pot shattered into a cloud of dust.


                                                            ****


“If you'll open your datapads and move to page 324 you can see a series of quotes. May I have a volunteer to read?”
Art watched as Jimmy raised his hand before the other students had even found the right page. He was such a teacher's pet. As Jimmy read some quote about Elutheria's first voyages into space, Art's attention drifted. She looked out the window at the beautiful, sunny day that lay just outside. Green grass waved in a light breeze and people in light, sensible clothing moved to and fro. The skies were filled with the exciting buzz of hover cars and a cleaner drone even dropped by, spritzing a clear solution onto the glass.
Art turned back reluctantly, sliding through the pages in her datapad and trying to catch up to Jimmy. He had, of course, read more than the single quote asked of him, forcing Mrs. Truman to cross the room and halt his overzealous recitation. She liked Mrs. Truman. She was strict, but fair, and never failed to answer any question Art might have about the lesson. She seemed as if she genuinely cared about the well being of her students. Then a sword pierced her chest.
The students screamed and scattered, tripping over desks and bags as the teacher collapsed onto the desk of the frozen Jimmy, his poor face locked in a look of absolute terror. Art, however, dropped her head backward and sighed.
“Guys,” she groaned, “do you always have to kill Mrs. Truman?”
Two soldiers, bearing the gleaming armor that took Art the entire night to clean laughed as one pulled his blade free from the woman's chest.
“Your time's up, Art! We have combat simulations scheduled.”
“Come on, guys! She didn't even get to the homework!” Art slid out from her desk, dodging as one of her classmates stumbled past her in a panic. “Computer, end school simulation.”
The classroom, the desks, the shrieking students, and even the once again deceased Mrs. Truman rippled and vanished, leaving only Art and the two soldiers alone in the simulation chamber. The black walls with seemingly random polyhedral protrusions always seemed so ugly to Art, but it was the closest she'd ever get to seeing the homeworld. Grumbling to herself, she turned for the door, but one of the soldiers called out to her.
“Oi. Before you get yourself too busy, the Lady has asked to see you.”
“Oh, great. What'd I do?” she turned and asked.
“Dunno. But let us know when you do; we have a pool going.”
Art suppressed the urge to sneer around her superiors, instead giving a casual salute before heading out the door.


                                                        ****


“Art, I've been concerned about you.”
The young page sat silently in the wooden chair across from her mistress. Since entering the Lady's chambers she hadn't uttered more than two words that weren't “Yes, m'lady,” or “Apologies, m'lady.” She never liked being scolded, but from the Lady Arwana it always seemed so much worse. Not that the Lady was mean or loud, but that her voice betrayed the disappointment she had, a disappointment Art was certain was shared by the entire barracks.
“The rest of the apprentices have been squires now for some time, but you still haven't satisfied the requirements to move up. Do you not want to advance?”
“No, m'lady. Er, yes, m'lady! I mean... Yes. I wish to become a squire.”
“Then why aren't you? Your rifle accuracy is low at best, your combat skills lack behind the rest of the squires, and you always seem to be a day behind on your duties.”
“Apologies, m'lady.”
“No,” the Lady replied, stepping closer to her ward. Her long, beautiful hair fell past her shoulders as she leaned closer, peering into Art's soul with those diamond-like blue eyes. “I don't want apologies, Art, I want results. I want to see that you're trying.”
“I … I am...”
The Lady pulled away, moving to the opposite end of her chambers. Shadows danced around her frame as the candelabras' light flickered. She stood in silence for several moments, a silence that Art dared not break. She simply watched the Lady's strong, form, her tall stature. She was everything Art wasn't. Brave. Beautiful. Confident. And absolutely in love with this world.
“Perhaps it is my fault.”
“M'lady?”
“I've been told that boredom breeds sloth. Trust and responsibility breeds maturity.”
Art cringed at the word “responsibility,” her mind drifting to the armor she cleaned, the meals she served, the halls she scrubbed, and the horses she cared for. This was, of course, not even considering the schooling, the shield training, the energy bow practice, and hand-to-hand combat training. “Perhaps I could double my efforts on the responsibilities I already have, m'lady?”
“No. I need to show you that I trust you with something important. Your friend, Eloree?”
“Everee?”
“Yes, she is … ugh... Sir. Braun's squire, correct?”
“Yes, m'lady.”
“Does he let her clean and care for his weapon?”
“The... the Spear of Gol? No! Of course n- er... I mean. No, m'lady.”
“I thought not.” Lady Arwana, moved to her closet, opening the ornate doors. Light shone from within, illuminating the entire chamber. Inside was a long, glimmering sword, the Blade of Wyvern. The Lady took it from it's hallowed resting place and held it before her. “For Xiria, for honor, and for victory!”
The room shook and blinding light bleached the room, forcing Art to shield her eyes. Her heart beat fast, threatening to burst from her chest. She had only beheld the Lady's transformation once, but then she was nowhere near this close. Lightening seemed to strike from the air around them, racing through the blade and arcing onto the Lady's body. Metal slid into place, bit by bit. The breastplate, curved to her form and inlaid with gold in the symbol of the Knights of Xiria, appeared, moving across her chest like water. Her bracers and greaves formed from nothing, engraved with ornate patterns and a series of studs. And finally her regal crown, it's band weaving itself in a tight pattern around her brow, wings of blades exploding forth from the temples and lowering down to shield her.
She was at least a foot taller to the young page's eyes, maybe more, and her hair seemed to flow in an unseen breeze. Her eyes glowed with a righteous fury and as she stepped closer to the young girl, she appeared both beautiful and terrifying.
“Art, my young page, from now on I will entrust to you the care and maintenance of the Blade of Wyvern.” With a quick thrust she stabbed the blade into the floor before her servant.
“W-what?!”
“I need you to know that I trust you. That I value you. I want you to take care of the blade when not in my use.”
“B-but-”
“I understand this is a great responsibility, Art, but I know you are equal to the task.”
Art, body shaking, breath failing her, stared at the mystic sword, it's glow shining against her. She leaned closer, as if verifying the sword was real. Her mistress smiled.
“It is pretty cool, isn't it?”

And here's the second part of Fallen. Now, I warned you that this story is weird. I don't know that anyone appreciated how weird it might get and you need to know that the final section is, indeed, mostly in French.

Why? I wanted to see if I could convey a scene with actions. The dialogue is still there and (mostly) grammatically correct. I had a volunteer help with the dialogue, but I'm sure it's still rough at best. No illusions that my French is passable or even existent.

That said, I hope you'll enjoy this strange little journey and get something out of it. Remember, after tomorrow (when I post the final short story starter) I'll be holding one more poll to decide which story I should focus on. Be sure to vote!

Be Excellent to Each Other

                                                              Visit 3
                                                  High Priest Varnus

    “I need more DOTs. Drew, that’s you! Damn it, Drew! Okay… the left, the left! I swear if we wipe-”
    Daniel paused in mid-command. A cheese puff fell down his shirt as he stared across the basement. In her usual, glowing splendor, she stood, several feet off the ground.
    “Oh, shit! Uh… my connection’s dropping!” Daniel scrambled to close the program.
    “The hell? What are you-” Daniel silenced the computer’s speaker before rushing through a pile of books, papers and taco wrappers. Finally finding a blood red fez with a ram’s head embroidered on it, Daniel fell to his knees.
    “Mistress Lilith, first female, I am yours to command!”
    She hung in the air, a strange glow to her. Her soft features betrayed her sorrow, but Daniel dare not question her.
    “Art thou my servant?” her voice echoed through the concrete basement.
    “Yea, my mistress, I art thy humble servant. Givest thou me more time and I shalt produce thy followers.”
    She hung silent, uncertainty plaguing her actions.
    “Nay.”
    “But, my mistress… their belief wanes… uh… wanest.”
    “Then they are no servants of mine. Prove thyself, herewith.”
    Daniel looked up with desperation in his eyes. He pushed his glasses back in place and clasped his hands together.
    “I wilt whatever thy… wouldst… have me do. But please, Mistress, thy other children, they long for thy voice.”
    “Silence!”
    Daniel cowered, bowing lower, touching his head to the cheetah print rug. The fibers tickled against his exposed gut as his fez threatened to tip off his pony-tailed head.
    “I have need of thee. Prove thy faith, my servant.”
    “W-Whatever thou askest of me… I shalt do…eth.”
    “A child is born, Servant. The child is of great importance. He is the One.”
    “The One?”
    “He must be kept safe, Servant. He must…”
    Silence filled the room. Daniel dared to lift his head, peeking up at his Mistress. Her gaze bored across the room. Slowly he turned his head, half expecting a great demon. Instead, there was only his poster of Dragon Lady Zaz. He turned back to his Mistress, her gaze intently on it. She screeched, Daniel covering his ears and cowering.
    “M-Mistress?”
    Realizing he was still there, his Mistress looked down at him in disgust.
    “You’re useless to me” she uttered, turning and disappearing.


                                                 Encounter 2
                                                 The Herald

    “That was a really stupid idea.”
    She stood atop a roof in Brooklyn, a water tank and pigeon coop decorating the flat top. Eyes piercing the night, she ignored the Painter, stepping across the night’s expanse to another roof top. The Painter followed behind her, his eyes filled with concern.
    “It’s bad enough you talk to them, but were you really going to use him?” She remained silent, stepping across the concrete roof top. The wind teased a string of laundry behind her as she stepped to the edge of the building, looking down at the city below. “The guy is a complete waste of flesh. What use could he possibly have been to you?”    
    She gazed at the flashing lights below, mindlessly counting the oblivious people skittering hither and thither. “Are you just going to ignore me? I’m only here because I’m worried about you.”
    “Your concerns are unwarranted” she replied, stepping off the edge.
    The Painter sighed, rolling his head back. He followed behind, stepping off the edge. The lights of the building streaked past him as he fell. Apartment lights, billboards, perimeter lights and finally, the traffic lights. She walked down the center of the street, cars speeding by on either side. The Painter jogged to catch up to her.
    “Wait up.”
    “Why?”
    “Because this attitude of yours… this… this blatant disregard for the rules… it’s going to get you in trouble!”
    “Rules?” she shouted, turning around. “Whose rules? Who exactly makes rules for us?”
    The Painter stared at her, eyes wide and hands fallen.
    “Him.”
    “Him? The Morning Star? Or perhaps you mean the First Born? I fear neither. Father himself could do nothing more to me.”
    The Painter’s mouth opened, but no sound issued. He looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. Cars rushed by, a few passing through him as he paced. She turned with a muffled sigh, walking through the traffic.
    “Wait! What were you going to use him for?” She continued on, stepping onto the sidewalk and passing through a throng of people. The Painter once again jogged to rejoin. “What was he supposed to do? Baby-sit your lover?”
    She turned, fire burning in her eyes. She rushed up to him, stopping inches away.
    “I don’t know” she explained in a strangely soft manner.
    “Then why-”
    “I was desperate!” she shouted.
    Several passersby turned, shaken by an unseen force. A few paused, halted by chills up their spines.
    “He’s getting older every day. What am I supposed to do?”
    The Painter reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder.
    “Maybe… maybe you should just forget about him.”
    Before she could retaliate, before she spit her venomous words at the Painter, a bright light blinded the two. Shielding their eyes, they looked up into the heavens. Quickly, the Painter dropped to his knee, head bowed. She, however, simply seethed. Fists clenched, she turned, walking away.
    “Halt thy retreat! I speak in His name.”
    Her legs froze and her body refused to move. Eyes clenched shut she screamed. “Flames and damnation!” Hesitantly she turned. The Herald’s feet touched down in front of the Painter, his golden armor shimmering. The throngs of people and cars continued on their merry, oblivious ways as the Painter shook and the Herald glowed.
    “Silence thy tongue, Poet.” Her body shook with rage as her mouth sealed shut. “I deliver a warning; cease thy actions toward the mortals. Thy path hath no merit. End it now” Watching her clenched jaw, the Herald gave an almost invisible grin. “Speak, Poet.”
    “Why?” she cried. “Why can’t I see him?”
    “I deliver only His words, Poet, never His reasons. He hath not an obligation to explain Himself to thee.”
    “What is He going to do to me? What more can He do to me?”
    “Heed my words, Poet. Pursue this path at thine own risk.”
    The Herald tilted back his head, stretching out his arms. His heavenly glow grew even more intense as he ascended. Her eyes narrowed as she followed his supercilious flight. Free from the confines of the law, she turned quickly marching off. The Painter looked up from his kneeling position, watching cautiously until the Herald had disappeared. By the time he stood, she was gone.


                                                          Visit 4
                                              Odette le Conteur

    Odette breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh Parisian air. The wire frame chair she sat in pressed a little uncomfortably at her back, but it was a small price to pay to be out in the city for once. She set her paper down on the café table and picked up the white, porcelain bowl, gently sipping her café au lait.
    “Très bon. Comment j'adore cette ville” she remarked as she took in the skyline.
    Something tickled her eyes and a smile crept along her face. Calmly, she reached into the bag hanging from the back of her chair, producing a notebook and pen.
    “Bonjour, Collette. C'a été un moment. Avez-vous une nouvelle histoire pour moi?”
    “Bonjour, Odette. Je suppose que j'ai une histoire pour vous” came her reply.
    Odette smiled widely as she brought pen to paper, scribbling a few preliminary notes.
    “Dites-ainsi moi, mon ami, ce qui est sur votre esprit?” she asked, turning to her pale friend.
    “Il a été né” she replied, turning her gaze toward the reddening sky.
    “Votre ami? Très magnifique” She shook her head silently. Odette lowered her pen.“N'est pas c'une bonne chose?” Odette questioned.
    She only shook her head in response. Odette chewed on her lip for a moment, waiting for her to elaborate. Quietly she flipped back through her notebook, looking over the previous accounts her ethereal companion had shared with her. A young waiter approached them, standing behind her. With a smile he bent close to Odette.
    “Vous avez besoin de n'importe quoi?”
    “Non, merci” Odette replied, waving him off.
    Odette let her head tilt a bit with concern. With a sigh she closed her notebook, setting it down next to her bowl. “Collete, quel est erroné ? Vous regardez très triste.”
    With a deep sigh she turned to look across the table at her friend. “Ah, Odette, je ne sais pas quoi faire. Je veux le voir tellement mal, mais je suis interdit.”
    “Pourquoi?”
    “Il est … compliqué,” she explained turning her gaze up to the darkening sky. “Qu'il suffise pour dire que les puissances merveilleuses veulent à rester à partir de lui. Et les atroces.”
    Odette nervously turned her gaze downward. In all the time she had known Collete, she had never once thought there might be negative repercussions.     “Ce qui vous a fait pour les rendre fâchés avec vou?” she questioned.
    Her sad friend rolled her eyes, anger beginning to stoke in her soul. “J'ai fait quelques choses stupides. Choses désespérées” she answered shaking her head.
    Odette reached out reflexively, pausing then placing her hand on the table near her.
    “Queest-ce que je peux faire pour aider ?”
    “Je ne pense pas qu'il y a quelque chose que vous pouvez faire. Au moins pas d'ici.”
    Odette smiled and leaned in close to her friend. “Je peux écouter.”
    Odette’s words brought a smile to her face. She picked her head up, staring at her friend.
    “Le ciel et l'enfer m'ont interdit de le voir. Que me pensez-vous devriez-vous faire?”
    Odette laughed defiantly. She opened the notebook, flipping through the pages and presenting them to her. “Vous m'avez dit qu'ils vous ont déjà condamné, Collete. Que davantage peuvent-elles faire ? Allez à votre amour!”
    “Il est un enfant. Queest-ce que je peux faire?”
    “Vous pouvez être avec lui. Soyez doux. Faites attention. Mais soyez avec lui. Quand il est assez vieux, indiquez la vérité!” Odette shouted with passion.
    A few of the other patrons looked over at her table, seeing the strange young writer speaking to no one quite passionately. The staff only smiled, continuing on their way without acknowledging her.

This one was very fun to write, largely because it's so experimental. It's weird, I won't dispute that. If you like, please let me know because this one's out there. It would take some creativity to make it work and not just be... weird. But I'm up for the challenge.

Also, this one's much longer than some of the others, so I'll be breaking it in two for your ease of reading.  Again, standard disclaimer, it's only be lightly proofread and edited.

Please enjoy Fallen  pt 1.

Don't forget to be awesome!

                                                              Visit 1
                                                     Father Durham

Father’s Durham’s office was dim. The light of a few candles flickered across his desk, danced over his large print King James, and rested merrily on his shelf, illuminating a baseball autographed by Mickey Mantle. Only the steady squeak of his old rocking chair parted the silence; it was past 8 o’clock, so his radio sat quiet. While Father Durham enjoyed the evening dramas, he wasn’t as fond of the jazz that followed for the rest of the night.
    The Divine Comedy rested comfortably in his hands. He adjusted his glasses then licked the tip of his finger to aid in turning the page. His eyes scanned the page, searching, but finding only the imaginations of Dante.
    “How close was Dante?” he asked aloud, his eyes never leaving the page.
    “I wouldn’t know,” came the soft reply. “I’ve never been to Hell.”
    Father Durham slowly lowered the book. She was once again in his office, quietly sitting in the large, green chair across from his desk, the chair where those who came to confess, to seek guidance, sat.
    “It never ceases to amaze me that you insist on sitting when you visit.” Father Durham commented, closing his book.
    “It’s a habit. I’ve found that it makes people more comfortable.”
    Father Durham stared through his Coke-bottle frames at her. Her soft features, sorrow-filled eyes and ghostly appearance still perplexed him. There and yet not there.
    “La Divina Commedia. It doesn’t really seem your style,” she said.
    “I’m just trying to understand you a little better. The Good Book says a lot, but it doesn’t seem to cover much in your case.”
    “Try Milton, then; Paradise Lost.”
    Father Durham smiled warmly and nodded.
    “I’ll have to do that.”
    Quietly he stood, laying his book flat atop a few others. He straightened his sweater and took a seat behind his desk. His large, brown chair gave a soft swoosh of air as he settled in.
    “So, Alicia, what brings you in tonight?”
    The cold girl sat quietly for several uncomfortable moments. Her lips trembled, and tears seemed to impossibly swell in her eyes.
    “Alicia?”
    “He’s been born.”
    Father Durham raised an eyebrow curiously. He pondered for a moment, then his eyes widened in realization.
    “Oh, yes, your friend.”
    She only nodded quietly, her gaze focused on the abyss.
    “Well,” Father Durham replied with a forced smile “it’s about time, isn’t it? How long have you been visiting me? Twenty-two years or something like that?”
    “I’ve been waiting for him for thousands,” she countered.
    “Oh.”
    Silence commanded the room again. Her eyes continued piercing the floor while Father Durham fidgeted with a pen. The grandfather clock ticked defiantly in the corner of the room.
    “Well,” Father Durham finally spoke “in any case, I suppose this is cause for celebration.”
    “What do I do?” she replied.
    “To celebrate?” he responded.
    “When should I see him? I could speak to him now, but it could do irreparable harm. Should I wait until he’s a child? If I wait too long, he may not believe I’m there. If I go too soon, I might injure his childhood.”
    “I’m not sure I understand…”
    “What if he grows up and he’s different?”
    “People change…”
    “What if he’s not the man I loved?”
    “Well, I suppose…”
    “What if he doesn’t believe me? You didn’t believe me!”
    “Well I…”
    “What am I supposed to do?” she bellowed.
    Father Durham sighed with pity. He wanted so much to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, even to hug her. This was impossible. Father Durham forced a sad smile as he leaned back in his chair, resigning himself to what he felt was the truth. “My dear, I’ll never understand why someone who’s lived so much longer than me would ask for my advice.”
    “I’ve never lived a day, Father,” she replied despondently.
    Without any fanfare or pomp, she dissolved into the air, leaving the old green chair empty. Father Durham’s eyes rested on the spot where she had sat.
    “If you need to talk, Alicia, I’ll be here.”






                                                       Visit 2
                                                   Little Cindy

    Cindy sat alone in her bare kitchen. Her studio apartment bore the marks of a single girl with little money to spend on adornments. Bare walls. A second-hand sofa. Her mind had drifted off as she sat at the kitchen bar, munching on some marshmallow-laced cereal. Her dark brown hair was a bit disheveled and her green tank top wore a wet spot where she had splashed milk on herself a few minutes ago. Her bare feet dangled from the stool as she considered the small pile of papers across the table, each baring the name of a different class she was taking.
    “Cindy?”
    Cindy choked on her cereal, coughing for breath. She leapt from the stool, searching the apartment for the source before she had even regained her oxygen. Eyes still scanning, she reached out for the hand towel she had used a few minutes ago, wiping the milk and red balloon marshmallows from her face and chest. Silence. Her breathing regained its composure, but her eyes refused to narrow.
    “Cindy?”
    “No.”
    “Cindy, please.”
    “No! Go away!” Cindy shouted, wrapping her hands over her ears. Quickly she rushed to a cabinet nearby, tearing through the contents until she found a small bottle of pills.
    “Don’t do that, Cindy!”
    Ignoring the voice, she quickly popped four pills in her mouth. She reached for the sink, turning it on and bringing her mouth to the faucet to drink.
    “Cindy, I need your help.”
    Cindy took a deep breath, walking back to her cereal. She stood over the bowl, her chest heaving and tears fighting to form. She picked up the bowl and spoon, forcing a casual walk to her sofa. She searched for a moment before finding her remote. Pressing the large red button, her TV sprung to life.
    “Please don’t ignore me, Cindy. I’ve spent a long time being ignored.”
    With the push of a button, the boy band on screen grew louder.
    “Please, Cindy. I need your help. He’s finally been born.”
    Cindy’s breathing was labored, but she ignored it as she shoveled more cereal into her mouth. She focused her attention on the four boys, probably younger than her, singing about some girl they thought they loved. Suddenly, Molly was there.
    “Shit!” Cindy screamed as she reared back.
    She had appeared. It had been years since Cindy had seen her.
    “Cindy, I-”
    “Leave me alone, Molly!” she shouted, trying to ignore the fresh milk spill on her pajama shorts and thigh.
    “Please, I need your help.”
    “Fuck you, Molly!” Cindy screamed, hurling her bowl at the pale girl. It exploded against the TV screen, sending marshmallows and milk across the wall. “You ruined my fucking life!”
    “I’m sorry, Cindy.”
    “No, you’re not! You never were!” Cindy shouted, leaping to her feet.
    “I never meant to hurt you.”
    “Then you should’ve left! It was all fucking cute when I was five! But when you’re twelve, thirteen, fourteen- then you’re mentally ill! I was in therapy for four fucking years!”
    “Please, Cindy, I need your help!”
    Cindy violently raised her middle finger at the sorrowful girl.
    “Fuck. You.”
    A knock came at the front door.
    “Cindy? You okay in there?”
    Cindy stood silent, retaining the gesture at her torturer. She, in turn, lowered her head in defeat and began walking, a little piece of her vanishing with each step. As her visitor vanished, she sank to her knees, body heaving as she wept.




                                                          Encounter 1
                                                          The Painter

    She sat at the edge of the canyon. The sun was getting lower, but it was still a while from sundown. Her legs dangled over the edge as she took in each mountain crest and valley, every band of color etched across the rocks.
    “I painted that, you know.”
    She didn’t have to look to see who it was.
    “You didn’t make the Painted Desert.”
    “How would you know?”
    “It was formed over a long, long time, Painter. The bands are nothing but layers of eroded rock.”
    The Painter smiled and took a seat next to her. “I know. I designed it that way.”
    She sighed, rolling her eyes, before turning to look at him squarely. “Neither you, nor God, designed it that way.”
    The Painter’s smile refused to dissolve. He turned and marveled at the sight of the canyon.
    “It still awes me, you know. The splendor. The beauty.”
    “Is there a reason you’re here?”
    “Is there a reason you’re here?” he countered.
    She furrowed her brow at the Painter, standing and stepping away from the cliff.
    “I can go wherever I want,” she stated defiantly.
    “You know he’s not happy about this whole thing, right?”
    “I don’t give a damn if he likes it or not. He can wail and gnash his teeth all he wants.”
    “You really should listen to him,” the Painter insisted.
    “Listening to him is what got me here!”
    “There is no hope for this plan of yours. Your boy isn’t ever going to remember you. You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”
    “We only have so long, Painter. Shouldn’t we look for whatever happiness we can find?”
    The Painter remained on the edge of the cliff, admiring the layers of the rock formations.
    “You and I both know there can be no happiness for us.”
    “No, I don’t know that. We don’t know everything.”
    “The sooner you accept that our fate is sealed, the sooner you can reach tranquility. And really… calm is the closest thing we can have to happiness.”
    “We don’t know how it ends, Painter.”
    “You know the law. You know how it has to be.”
    She walked away, her steps leaving not a single print in the soft dirt. “I’m going to do whatever I can.”
    “Good luck, Poet.”
    She froze, fists clenched.
    “I am not a Poet!” she screamed.
    She was alone.

These short story starters keep rollin' on! Thankfully I actually made some good progress with the final story of this little showcase and it should debut on time in just a couple days.

But let's talk about today's story, Lilly and the Vixen. This was originally envisioned as small branch of a much larger story that I was writing. Despite that, I feel it doesn't need too much set up and can be enjoyed on its own. 

Standard disclaimer, the story has been only minimally edited and proofread and is very much a first draft. I still think it's rather nice and I enjoyed writing it. I hope you'll enjoy reading it. If you like it, let me know if I should continue the story.

​DFTBA

Lilly sat inside her coffin, the lid pushed to one side. Arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze had been steadily locked, at first, on the wall of dirt in front of her, but now she stared up into the night sky, watching the pale moon slowly dance from one edge of the grave to the other. Her hand occasionally drifted over the wound in her stomach, fingers grazing over the rough edges that split her otherwise cold, smooth skin.

    Lilly wasn't stuck in the grave, mind you; in fact, she had already been out of it once. She had had the opportunity to speak with the man with the silver hair, the man who opened her grave. But that was hours ago. All she could do now was stare.
    “Where am I?” she had asked him.
    “Right now? Nowhere.”
    Staring up at the gently drifting moon, she recalled the Next World. It seemed... nice. But then beckoned to her in that Nowhere.
    “Who are you?” she had asked mere steps from Eternity.
    “A friend of … him.”
    In the grave, Lilly’s head dropped against her folded knees. She wanted to cry at the thought of him, but crying was only a memory now. A sweet part of her past she could never experience again. Just like Nikrose.
    “What do you want from me?” she had asked.
    “Only to give you a choice.”
    “A choice? I don't understand.”
    Her eyes crept above her knees. Her pale, golden hair had drifted in front of her. A small part of her wondered if it would grow any longer.
    “Lilly, if you step into the Next World, you will be happy” the Silver Haired Man had explained. She recalled turning back, staring, looking into that world with great longing.
    “But…”
    “But?”
    Lilly stood. She was done staring and waiting. Stepping on the edge of her coffin, she reached up and hoisted herself onto the ground. She sat on the edge of her grave, legs dangling. The endeavor hadn't tired her in the least.
    “But if you go, Lilly, you will never see Nikrose again.”
    She had turned from the Next World and looked back at the long Nothing. Nowhere.
    “Where else can I go?”
    “You can return with me.”
    The Nowhere was dark, darker than anything she had ever known. Only the Next World seemed to exist. Her long journey toward that singular point had led her down a lonely path, a road that ran only one direction, and with each step the trail behind her grew shorter and shorter. Now, standing at the edge of Eternity, in the company of the Silver Haired Man, the pathway was gone.
    “But the path; I cannot see it anymore.”
    “I will light your way.”
    With only a gesture, he had returned the light, the first few steps of the path showing themselves once more.
    “The choice is yours, Lilly Rosebloom.”
    She remembered watching the Silver Haired Man turn and start back down the path. She remembered looking back and forth between him and the Next World.
    Lilly rose to her feet, standing at the edge of the grave. The cemetery had far more graves than she recalled. She stepped through the motionless night, eyes darting from headstone to headstone. For the first time since she awoke, she felt something: pain. A searing, deep pain within her heart at each familiar name. Still, the pain did not consume her, did not end her, for the one name she did not find was his: Nikrose. This brought the second feeling since awakening: hope.
    “What do I do now?” she had asked, stepping out of the grave for the first time.
    “Whatever you wish. You are no longer held by the laws of this world. You are removed from time.”
    “Can I see him again?”
    “That is your choice, Lilly.”
    She had stared at the rising moon, then to the hills.
    “Why did you bring me back?”
    Her question had paused the Silver Haired Man. He stood silent for the longest time.
    “I… I wanted to make him happy.”
    Lilly stood now in the very spot where she had watched the Silver Haired Man disappear. He hadn't disappeared in a flash of light or a pillar of flame. He had simply ceased to be. Now, Lilly ceased to be. Or perhaps it was the opposite. Perhaps this was where Lilly started being all over again.
    She slowly, carefully thrust two fingers into gash that had taken her life. She felt its depth and breadth. There was no question that she was dead. The only question was, what was she going to do about it?

The short story train is moving right along, giving me precious little time to finish up the first chapter for the final entry. But I figure if I don't light a fire under myself, no one else will.

Again, there's been very little editing and proofreading done and the title is super tentative. If you have a better one, or really any thoughts or comments, please let me know. Feedback helps me know what stories I should pursue and which ones are dead ends.

Lastly, this is part of my little content of short stories, so when it's done, let me know which one you liked best and that's the story I'll through my effort behind. Thanks!

​DFTBA

Enrie was fractured. Pieces of a great masterpiece, now crumbling and broken. The Great War tore the kingdom into nothing more than a handful of separate, untrusting territories, all vying to hold what power they still had. The monarch left no heir, instead leaving to his people a host of lords and barons, all claiming themselves kings of their own kingdoms. Corruption from within, and to the west, the lands of Atol, now free to invade, to chip away and reclaim their ancient lands.

    At the center of the fallen kingdom, in Enrias, the shining capital of the Great Kingdom, a young man stood at the top of a tower. His hair blew lightly in the breeze as he looked over the emerald landscape, yet untouched by the conflict. To look out across this verdant land, one could forget the droves of lords and barons petitioning for help, demanding the use of the Enrias army to supplement their own. One could forget these same lords' silence when the same was asked of them. One could forget that just beyond the horizon was a dark army, waiting to destroy the last vestiges of the Great Kingdom.

    With a deep breath he lifted his foot from the window sill, hovering it over the nothingness in front of him. One step would end the torment, relieve the weight. The constant cries for help. The constant deafness to his words. One step would end them. Enrias, Ollen, Mya, Heroff... all the so-called kingdoms of the North would be left to fend for themselves. Councilmen, advisors, and diplomats waited below in the grand chamber, but their wait would be in vain. Today was the final day.
    “Let them have it,” he spoke softly to the wind. “If I cannot repair it, I will not bear witness to its demise.”
    
    A knock at the door.
    “Sir? Are you in there?”
    The Lord of Enrias remained silent.
    “It... It's Kenneth. Everyone's waiting, sir.”
    The door to the Pray Chamber opened.
    “How did you know, Ken?” came the Lord's somber voice.
    With trepidation, a young man entered, adorned in colorful clothing. “Well, you always used to hide up here when we were – My Lord?”
    He stepped down from the window, gaze still locked on the world beyond.
    “Do not concern yourself, Ken. I will be fine.”
    Kenneth stared in concern. He knew better than to question his Lord's behavior. “They – they sent me to find you. The council is assembled and waiting.”
    Even all these years later, Kenneth knew his master – his friend, too well. If only he had been just a hair slower.
    “Very well, Ken. I shall be down directly.”
    The servant didn't move, instead waiting dutifully at the door.
    “You won't trust me to come down alone?” Kenneth remained silent. “Very well. You may accompany me.”

    
    The pair descended the long stairwell in silence, the Lord lost in thought, recalling their shared youth. He remembered playing with him as a child while Kenneth's parents served his own. He recalled the fight he had when he demanded Kenneth become his personal assistant and entertainer. He remembered the days when Kenneth would reenact plays, sing ballads, and play merry tunes. He would devour books from across and beyond the kingdom, all to relate them back to his master... to his friend.
    As they grew older, the sneers from the nobility were not lost to Kenneth. The appointment of such a commoner, his constant presence at the young lord's side, it was more than the other lords and barons could tolerate. And yet through it all, his master never wavered, insisting that Kenneth remain beside him, playing, singing, and reading.
    
    Kenneth stepped forward, entering the council chambers ahead of his lord, introducing him with a bow and an official flourish. The Lord of Enrias entered, eyes set, barely acknowledging the congregation. Several important looking dignitaries stood, following Kenneth's suit and bowing. It was meaningless pomp, unwarranted and most certainly unwanted. He was no king.

    The servant excused himself, knowing that he had no place at meetings like this. With a permissive gesture from his lord, Kenneth entered an adjoining room. His duty wasn't to listen to the pleas of dignitaries and offer wisdom. That was beyond a simple man such as himself. Taking up a large book from a shelf containing dozens more, bordered by others containing dozens each, the entertainer found his seat and began to read. His Lord would be busy for some time and when he was through Kenneth's real duty would begin, to bring some semblance of joviality back to his master's face. To lighten the hardships that his position demanded.
    And so Kenneth read. He read of forbidden romances. He read of great battles and genius tacticians. He read of folk tales about monsters. He read of heroes who sacrificed all. But through all the books, all the songs, all the plays, not a one told him how to bring back his master – his friend's smile.

    As the hours dragged on, he heard the clamor of dignitaries and politicians finally die down. He dared to step back into the chamber, seeing that his Lord had finally dismissed the last group of ambassadors. His face was ever stoic, but the weight on him was still visible.
    “Your Lordship? Perhaps I might favor you with a new song I've learned. It comes out from the Eastern Empire.”
    Before his Lord could reply a new cacophony of voices erupted at the entrance. A group of people, certainly not nobility, were attempting to barge their way in, pleading and shouting for the Lord's attention. With a sigh he dismissed his servant once more then bid them enter. Kenneth bowed his head and retreated to the previous room once more, lingering only long enough to hear their distinct Atolic accents. These people had certainly traveled far to seek the keeper of Enrias.
    Kenneth heaved a heavy sigh as he shut the door behind himself. The distractions would never cease, nor would his lord ever be unburdened again. It was up to him to act. His nerves were steeled. He gathered his books. He was naught but a performer, a fool, but with faith, with heart, and with – laughter? Kenneth turned and placed his ear against the door. Yes. It was unmistakably the laughter of his master, a sound he had thought he might never hear again. With the courage of the heroes in his books, Kenneth pried the door open, peeking out.
    There was his lord, a strange, twisted smile cut across his face. Before him a group of people, workers, commoners, looked crestfallen and defeated. A woman, hair tied with a dirty piece of cloth and face stained with tears, pushed past her comrades, fist balled. She cried out but before she could speak, his lord interrupted.
    “Wait.” He turned. Kenneth's eyes widened. His Lord was staring straight at him. He fumbled to find the seemingly vanished door handle, but failed before he heard his name called. “Kenneth. Come here.”
    Setting aside his books, the servant dutifully came forward. The crowd of Atolic paupers scanned him, seemingly interested in his clothing. He looked down. It wasn't the finery of a duke, but his Lord ensured that he dressed well. Certainly better than these people. “Yes, my Lord?”
    “I have changed my mind,” he replied, turning toward the woman with the outstretched fist. “Perhaps I can help.” Her scowl turned quickly to surprised relief, a small cheer rising from the group. “This is Kenneth, my most faithful of servants. More than any general, more than any soldier, I trust him. Today, he is yours.”
    “My Lord?” Kenneth questioned. He only smiled at his servant, the gaggle of petitioners celebrating. All but the woman. She stared at Kenneth in a way that unsettled the entertainer.
    “And he can do this?” she questioned.
    “He will not fail me. Go. I shall have him prepare and meet you for the long journey back.”
    “Journey?” Kenneth asked again.
    The group gave another cheer and followed the guards out, all the while the woman continued watching Kenneth until she was out of sight. The servant, nervous and confused, turned to his master.
    “My Lord, I'm not sure I understand what's going on.”
    “There is nothing to understand, Ken. An insignificant village from an area so remote as to be Atolic anyway has petitioned for my aid. Me. The Lord of Enrias, master of the largest army still standing.”
    “Sir?”
    “And you, Ken, will assist them.”
    “But I-”
    “Have never failed me!” he replied, erupting into raucous laughter. The halls echoed with the Lord's voice, that ceaseless, terrifying laughter. “Make ready, Ken! You depart immediately!”
    His master stood, swiping an arm across the table the dignitaries had sat at, sending papers and figures flying across the hall. Guards watched silently as chairs slid and tumbled across the floor and the laughing master of Enrias ascended the stairs once more.

                                                                 ****

    For the first time in his life Kenneth was forbidden from seeing his lord. For the better part of an hour he fought, only to have the guards repeat his orders: return with the Atolics. Aid them as only you can. What this meant was beyond the jester's knowledge. He was neither a warrior nor a strategist. Not a doctor or an architect. What assistance could he possibly provide?
    Kenneth took a deep breath. It didn't matter. His Lord had asked something of him and he would do it. From his chambers he took several small instruments; from the library, a stack of books. Maps, songs, plays, ballads, he packed them all together. He couldn't wield a sword, but with whatever talents he possessed, he would find a way to accomplish this task and, perhaps, that would remove at least a sliver of the weight from his Lord's shoulders.

    It wasn't long before Kenneth found the group waiting outside the castle grounds. There were only six people, all in a state not dissimilar from the woman he had seen before. Hair caked with sweat and mud, clothes stained with earth and... what he hoped wasn't blood. There were four men and two women; the one he had seen earlier and a younger girl, perhaps her daughter. When they saw him, a small cheer rang out, but the woman from earlier quickly quieted them.
    “Are you finally ready?” she asked, Kenneth having to take a moment to adjust to her Atolic accent.
    “Yes. I believe so.”
    She stared skeptically at the trunk he dragged behind him. “I trust that thing is full of swords? Or better yet, food?”
    Kenneth hesitated. He had no clue what calamity had befallen these people, but his Lord had ordered him to solve it. He stared at the case. It was ornate, with a fine gold trim. Likely the case alone was worth more than the collective belongings of this group.
    “It contains... what I need to assist you.”
    At the woman's command, two men came forward and hefted the trunk into a large covered wagon. There were seemingly more patches than original cloth and the wood frame looked as if even termites had rejected it. Still, it seemed to hold up under the weight of his books and the men, and Kenneth would count every blessing from this moment forward.
    “My name is Kenneth,” he said, giving a bow to the woman. Before he rose, she had already turned and moved to the front of the wagon.
    “Delightful. We move out now.”
    The meager looking oxen pushed forward, tugging the wagon along the road and forcing Kenneth to run to catch up. A hefty arm seized his own from the back, tugging him inside with a smile.
    “Dornt min' 'er. She jist takes some gettin' used tae.”
    Kenneth stared at the man for perhaps too long, forcing a smile.
    “Yes, of course.”
    The man laughed and clapped him on the back, sending him tumbling forward a bit. Carefully, adjusting to the pace of the wagon, he maneuvered himself to the front, poking his head out and smiling to the woman once more.
    “So... as I said, I'm Kenneth.”
    “I heard you the first time.”
    “Good, good. So... do you have a name?”
    “Of course I do, you glaikit divot!” Kenneth recoiled slightly, but pushed forward again, smiling. She sighed. “Rhona.”

For whatever reason, the actual short story part of my short story post yesterday didn't load in. I planned on showing the next story today, but just for those who came by and were confused at what I was doing, I'll post it once more today. Hopefully it actually shows up this time.

Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy this little story starter. Again, it's had very limited editing and proofreading, but if you like it, I'll make it my focus for the next story I work on.

Don't Forget to be Awesome

Well, I figured I was far enough along I could start posting some short story starters. I want to stress that this story has only had minimal editing and is very much a first draft.

If you like the concept and want to see the story continued, let me know. I'll be having a poll after all the stories are up so people can decide which one I should work on.

So without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter of the tentatively titled The Man Who Talked to Himself. (Please tell me if you have a better name. Please!)

​DFTBA

Variel winced, body trembling as he dragged himself up the burning stairwell. Flames surrounded him, the very manor itself threatening to collapse at any moment. Still, his heart beat, and while it beat he would not stop. Sword clutched in one hand, breathing shallow and ragged, he fought to the top of the landing. Time was running out, every drop of blood a grain of sand in the hour glass.
    With a loud crack the chamber doors gave way to his boot, revealing the Traitor's room. Flames gorged themselves on bookshelves and furniture as the Traitor, burned and bloody, waited, leaning against a large wooden desk.
    “So this is how it ends?” he asked, a smile crossing his lips. “You strike me down in cold blood?”
    “I assure you, when this ends, both our blood will be quite warm.”
    The Traitor's smile melted into a sneer. He screamed and swung his arm across the desk, sending papers and books flying into the flames. “You're a fool! No matter what we'll both die here!”
    “Then at least I die having made a difference in the world.”
    The Traitor opened his mouth to protest once more but was silenced; a long, thin blade buried in his chest. The Traitor collapsed. Variel fell to his knees, tired eyes looking upward. Through large windows licked by fire he could see the city. The mansion groaned and the floor beneath him quaked. Perhaps if he were younger, stronger, he could make it, he could leap free. No. The fall would surely kill him anyway.
    His time was over, his life well spent. Variel gave a short groan of pain as he fell against the desk. Eyes closed, he waited as the mansion gave way, flames and debris consuming him.

                                                        ****

    Nigel sat on the cold floor, sweat beading around his brow. The cold night air blew through the rickety hovel, the breeze playing with the end of an unfinished scarf lying along the arm of a wooden chair. Amelia's chair.
    He swallowed hard, eyes unblinking.
    “Nigel!” Pathinway's boys. They were finally here. “C'mon Nigel!”
    The door threatened to fall from its hinges under their incessant pounding. His eyes scanned the room for something, anything he might use to defend himself.
    “We got your sister, Nigel. 'Ow much longer before we 'ave your money, huh?”
    Nigel gripped the edge of a small table, forcing himself to his feet. His eyes settled on the window. He wasn't sure where he'd run, but what choice did he have?
    As the door fell to the ground Nigel leapt for the window. With half his body free, a strong hand grasped his collar, pulling him back quickly. Before he could say a word, a fist met with his midsection, doubling him over. He looked up to speak, but the three men gave him no chance, taking turns driving their oversized fists into his stomach.
    He spat blood, gasping for air as they finally stopped, kicking him over onto his back.
    “Now, Nigel, where is Pathinway's money, huh?”
    It took him several seconds to draw enough air to answer. “I... I need more time.”
    “Ooo... tha's not a good answer, Nige. You've 'ad plenty o' time,” another replied.
    The first one crouched beside him, the bright sunlight through the window silhouetting him. “How about this, Nigel? If we don't have the money tonight, we take your hand instead. If we don't have the money after that, well... I don't think Pathinway's going to let your sister go. In fact... pretty face like that...”
    “No!” he shouted. “Please... please just give me a chance.”
    “Tonight, Nigel. Or Amelia-”
    “No!” In a burst of rage the battered Nigel leapt at the larger man, screaming, arms reaching for his neck. He never got close. He slammed against the floor, the man's fingers wrapped tight around his throat.
    “Hey! Pathinway said to give him-”
    “Sod it! He ain't getting the money. Not tonight, not ever!”
    As his vision blurred and darkened, the last thing Nigel saw was a butcher's knife gleaming in the sunlight.


    His eyes opened. The smell of fire and blood was gone. His lungs filled with air. Where was he? He was staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. A sharp pain stung his arm as he felt someone slamming his wrist down against a hard surface. He turned. His hand was pinned against a small table. His hand? Only a moment of contemplation before the gleam of the blade caught his eye.
    In a flash his hand was clear and the blade was buried in the wood. Before his attacker could respond the table was flipped, knocking him back. His friend turned, drawing nearer. He needed a weapon. By the chair, a knitting needle. To his feet, dodging the new attacker's grasp, the needle gripped, finding its way to his assailant's eye. Blood. Screams. A third man entered, drawing a sword. The blade sliced through the air, but he dodged. His feet danced deftly across the floor. He caught the swordsman's arm, ducking under and driving his elbow into the man's stomach. The first man was up again. A quick spin, placed him behind the swordsman, a knee knocking him forward and burying the blade in his companion's chest.
    “Chris!”
    His assailant stared at his now lifeless companion, releasing his grip on the weapon. A quick kick flipped table up, the butcher's knife now free and pressed against the throat of the final foe.
    “Who are you?”
    “Wh-what?”
    “Who are you?!” he repeated, the blade biting into the thug's neck.
    “I's me! Jonny!”
    “Where am I?”
    “I – I don't understand.”
    “I swear if you don't answer, your blood will join your cohorts' in staining this floor! Now, where am I?”
    “Ollen! Uh... y-your house!”
    “Ollen?” He took a moment to digest the words. Ollen. The city of the Traitor. However he escaped the flames, he didn't travel far. “And you? You work for Moorin?”
    “Pathinway! Jim Pathinway!”
    An unfamiliar name. A lieutenant perhaps?
    “Pathinway? He wants me for Moorin's death?”
    “I dun' know Moorin! He wants yer money!”
    “I owe a debt to no man.”
    The thug nodded. “Yes!”
    “I have every reason to end you here. Do you understand?”
    “Yes! Gods yes!”
    “Good. I will let you live, but tell Pathinway I owe him nothing. And if he comes for me again I will do to him what I've done to your companions.”
    “Yes!”
    “Tell him this!”
    “I will!”

    The thug fell to the floor, blood trickling from his neck and urine from his leg. He scurried to the door, daring to look back only once before fleeing.
    With a quick flip the blade shot into the wall. It was a crude, uncouth weapon. But that sword? A disgusting squelch of blood and bile spilled forth as he took his new weapon, pausing only to stare at the hand that held the blade. This wasn't his hand. He lifted it, letting the light shine over the unfamiliar skin.
    “Variel,” he said, “what has happened to you now?”

                                                     ****

    A mirror. He had to find a mirror, had to confirm his suspicions. He wandered through the city, the same city his army had invaded. Eyes darted from unfamiliar building to unfamiliar building. No signs of battle, no burns or ash. The city was by no means clean or prosperous, in fact is was run down filthy, but the signs of warfare were absent.
    He tried to orient himself. If he could find the Traitor's manor, he could find his way from there. Perhaps even to a mirror.
    Focus. He had to maintain focus. So many questions running through his mind, it was enough to make him dizzy. First, he had to figure out if he was truly in Ollen. Next, find the local authority, figure out where allegiances lay here. After that, eventually he would have to return to his unit, to his king. And maybe somewhere in there he'd find a damned mirror and figure out what happened!
    Variel had never spent considerable time in slums or even lesser neighborhoods. Moving from building to building, shop to shop, he became more and more concerned with the lack of mirrors. Did no one in this city care about their appearance? He looked around at the rags the people wore, the dirt that stained their faces. Clearly not.
    Finally stopping at a tavern, the warrior scanned the darkening sky. Clouds were drifting in and out. The air was muggy and he could feel the moisture around him. Well, it certainly felt like Ollen. As he lowered his gaze, the shine of light on water caught his eye. It was a rain barrel, glinting in the light, standing beside the tavern. It would do!
    Variel rushed to the container, rotating around it to let the light hit the water. A stranger stared back at him from the rippling surface. Where was his golden hair? His blue eyes? A mess of a human being looked up from the water, hair matted and dirty, face darkened with filth. He couldn't take it.
    The water splashed and run onto the ground as his dunked his head into the barrel, scrubbing and washing, hoping that he might somehow strip away the stranger's face, but still, it stared back at him from within the barrel.
    “'Avin a bath, Nigel?”
    He turned to see another pitiful creature stumbling from the tavern. It couldn't be much past noon, but this man was clearly intoxicated already.
    “Do you know me?” Variel asked.
    “Wha-? You 'avin a go at me, Nigel?”
    Variel smiled.
    “Of course. Just... thought you might not recognize me clean.”
    “Ha! 'Bout as good a disguise as I figured you'd come up with. Hiding from Pathinway, eh?”
    “Possibly.”
    “You ain't staying 'idden for long. I 'eard he had thugs looking for you. Best watch your back.”
    “I'll be sure to do that,” Variel replied, looking for an escape. “Best keep moving then, right?”
    He turned, making for the tavern door.
    “Oi! 'Ope things work out for your sister.”
    “My what?” Variel replied instinctively.
    “Still got water in yer ear?”
    “Oh, sister! I... thought you said something else. I'll give her your best.”
    “Pff... good luck with that.”

    The stranger didn't elaborate, only dismissing him with a wave and moving out into the street. This raised several new questions for the hero. Stepping into the tavern, he looked for an out of the way table to think. Sliding in, he began laying out the information he had: this wasn't his body, something was off about Ollen, and whoever people thought he was apparently owed money to someone named Pathinway. And what was that bit about a sister? It was a lot to process, but he had to figure out his next move. He'd need a place for the night. That thug had mentioned his house. Or at least his generous host's house. No. If someone was after him, or more likely the body he was using, they already knew that place. And likely they weren't pleased with his handiwork.
    “Hate sleeping next to corpses, anyway,” he muttered.
    “Oh, is that how you pogue the hone these days?”
    Variel, lips curled in a most offensive frown, turned to see a young woman, ratty hair tied back and clothes marked with various unknown stains. She might be pretty with a proper miracle, but as she stood he wasn't certain if she was a beggar or an employee of the tavern.“I beg your pardon!”
    “Beg all you want, Nige, you ain't getting' any of this. And you ain't getting any drink until you pay Darrel what you owe.”
    Variel quickly composed himself, trying to ignore the woman's vile tongue. Her profession was quite clear now, and that deduction made it impossible for him to hide his sneer.
    “What? Got nuffin to say? That's a first.”
    “Madam, I've had quite the day and I could use some quiet and solitude.”
    “Ooo... look who learned some fancy new words. Amelia teach you those? Bless 'er heart, girl doesn't deserve a brother like you. Now if you haven't any money, you can piss off, Nigel. Darrel doesn't want you taking up room.”
    Variel stared at his hands for a moment, absorbing the information this woman had inadvertently shared with him. It was helpful, but he had more pressing concerns.
    “Perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot,” he started, checking his person for money of some sort. There was none. “I've had quite the distressing day and I could use a friendly face and some place to stay for the night.”
    “Pff... well it ain't with me.”
    “Well of course not; I wouldn't have the coin in any case.”
    Fire flared in the woman's eyes as she reached for a large, metal decanter. It was the last thing the hero saw before his world went black.

                                                         ****


    “Oi! Emma! What'd I tell you about beating the customers!”
    Nigel rubbed the side of his head, slowly moving up to his knees. He could hear Darrel and Emma going on about something behind him, which made him wonder why they were in his house. He wiped off bits of straw and dirt the floor left on his face, taking a moment to suss out his surroundings.
    “The Mule?” he wondered aloud. That couldn't be right. Last he remembered Pathinway's boys were... “Amelia!”
    He scrambled to his feet, only stopped by the pain digging through his skull like an ice pick. He stumbled for a moment before falling into the bar, gripping the surface to steady himself.
    “And you,” Darrel said, seizing the man and hoisting him straight. “You know I don't want to see you 'less you got my money.”
    “Oh, please Darrel... I don't need anyone else giving me that line,” Nigel muttered, rubbing his temple.
    Darrel pulled his hand away, inspecting the large bruise that was forming across the side of his face. “She dun a right number on you. Emma! Get him straightened out. Then get him out of here.”
    “What? He said I -”
    “I don't care!” Darrel said, disappearing back behind the bar.
    Emma growled lowly as she repeated her boss's actions, peeling Nigel's hand away from his face. “You deserved it, you know.”
    Nigel tried to think of what she could be talking about, but thinking hurt. Agreeing was easier. “Probably. But... how'd I get to the Mule?”
    “On yer feet, I reckon,” Emma replied, rubbing a rag spotted with brown and green stains across his feet.
    It felt nice. Cool. To be honest, it felt nicer just to have someone treat him like a human being, to show him a measure of compassion. At least he could always count on Emma for that. As her touch grew less gentle and the pain returned, so did thoughts of his sister.
    “Amelia!”
    “What about her?”
    “She – she's...” He looked around, pulling away from her touch. Last he remembered he was being roughed up by Pathinway's boys. A quick look down confirmed his hands were still attached. But what was – Oh Saints... he had Jonny''s sword. Why did he have Jonny's sword? With dreadful curiosity he pulled the blade free, causing Emma to recoil. She barked out a warning about the weapon, but it didn't register. He was too busy inspecting the blade. It couldn't be Jonny's, could it?
    He sat the blade along the bar. It wasn't particularly intricate, but most folks in this neighborhood relied on clubs and knives. This sword... it was unmistakably Jonny's. But what did that mean? Why would the people he owed money to give him a sword? And why would he be at the Drunken Mule without any money? Darrel hadn't served him in weeks. Darrel.
    “Emma...”
    “What?” the tavern girl asked cautiously.
    “I think I'm supposed to kill Darrel.”

Well, four out of the five short story starters are ready, but that fifth one is a bit tricky. It's the only brand new one, a freshly made, from scratch, sword and planet fantasy. Seeing that I wasn't starting with an idea in place, this one is giving me more trouble because, well... it's completely new. I had an idea of where I wanted to take the other stories, concepts for characters and obstacles, but this one? Nothing.

On the other hand, focusing on it has been a strange experience. I've mentioned that the genre conventions tend to eschew factual science and lean heavily on the cheese, so I've been trying to give myself creative license to just... blurt out plot elements and names. Unshackle my brain from the creative restraints I've placed upon it with rigorous world building and consistent logic.

But like a man with a blank canvas and too many paints, I find myself unable to decide what to do with all this freedom. Like a dog unchained for the first time, I'm tenderly stepping forward, waiting to feel the limitations of my craft and genre squeeze tight around my neck, but when there is nothing, I find myself a little afraid. It's unfamiliar. Much like the abilities the Dark Side is a pathway to, this feeling is unnatural. 

Or perhaps I'm just overwhelmed. The last time I wrote a story with so little constraints on logic and plot, I was five and it was called Super Gecko. Maybe I just don't know how to write without the constraints of rules and guidelines. Maybe the cheesy nature of the genre is too much for my gruff, grisly writing outlook. And yet, still I endure, pressing forward, like Dorothy stepping into the technicolor land of Oz, overwhelmed and yet awed, desiring to see just a bit more.

This story may not be a masterpiece, but there is something here. Something that is pulling at me with wonderful colors and fanciful names. Something pure. Something from a Saturday morning cartoon. I am scared, but my curiosity cannot be slated until I have finished this quest, written this story, and embraced the cheese. Yes, my friends. You read it here first. Embrace the cheese.

​DFTBA