Short Stories

Ild stared at the empty shelf. “Well.”

The gentle squeaking of mice filled the cabin as she stared. Tiny bodies, dressed in fur ranging from white to brown to black and back again, darted across the room like flashes of lightning in a thunderstorm.

“Well,” Ild muttered again. “This is a bit of a problem.”

A few of the mice stood on her shoulders and crawled through her hair, seeking warmth and comfort from the whispering mists outside the threadbare shack. Those that stared at the empty shelf did so with quivering whiskers and ears twitching in fear. Periodically, Ild reached up to gently brush their backs and heads with a soothing thumb. She glanced at the pane-less windows, where tendrils of dark mist were slowly seeping in.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered to her furry friends. “We’re safe. They’re not here for us.”

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The old man looked around, blinking in the fog. How long ago had he gotten lost? He had been wandering for some time now, and he didn’t recognize anything. He should have; he knew these forests like the back of his hand. Nevertheless, he had completely lost track of where he was. His cabin should be near, shouldn’t it?

Again, he was sure he had seen movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, peering into the fog. “Hello?”

Nothing. He was alone.

He kept climbing the steep path, (surely, his cabin wasn’t this high up, was it?) searching for some tree or rock that he recognized. Periodically a shape tickled his memory and he found himself turning on his heel, left or right, only for the shadow to vanish into the mist.

He wasn’t frightened — he had survived in the woods for weeks on end without flint or knife before — but he was confused. He wasn’t even thirsty, yet he had been walking for what felt like days…

Ild looked up at the sudden rapping at her door. It was fast and shook the whole cabin, so strong were the blows. Ild set aside her knitting with a huff and pulled herself out of her chair. “Yes, yes, hold yer horses! I only got so wide a stride, you know…”

The door opened to a terrified face, a man with pale skin and hollow cheeks. His wrinkles quivered as his head jerked back and forth, gasping for breath as he cast horrified glances behind him.

Ild knew what was scaring him. She had known since the shadowed mists had poured down the mountainside.

“Well, you’d best come inside, then,” she said, pulling the tall old man through the doorway. “Don’t you worry your head about it. The voices never harmed nobody, and they certainly ain’t going to start with somethin’ as tough and scrawny as you.”

The man wiped his forehead and sank heavily into the offered chair. The wood creaked loudly as he tipped forward, his head landing in his hands as he gasped for breath.

Ild hurried to the open windows and covered the openings with squares of fabric. “Not much for curtains,” she explained as she worked, “but they’ll keep out the worst of it.” She clicked her tongue as she adjusted the fabric. “Shadow mists, eh? Nasty bit o’ business, that. Been running a long time, I’ll bet. I was expecting you days ago.”

The purple fog rolled in like a flood. It curled up the side of the mountain, falling over itself in a crawling tide. The dark bruised color of the mists blanketed the river in shadows, until the entire river was hidden from view.

Ild gave a sharp sniff as she looked out the window. “Tough one coming in,” she muttered to the small squeaker on her shoulder. “Lost something, I’ll warrant. May not even know what. You think he’ll stop by?”

The tiny mouse nuzzled Ild’s withered cheek, jiggling her loose jowls with a gentle squeak. The tiny whiskers tickled and caught her own as Ild gave a gentle sigh. “Well, I’d better put the kettle on.”

[It contains] a total want of literary attractiveness ~ review of Sir Rodrick Murchison’s ‘Siluria’

There is a common question bandied about literary circles, when the band of brothers spend their restful hours in smoking rooms, and tongues have been well loosened with free-flowing brandy. It should be no surprise to anyone that when a group of seasoned men get together that questions of a potentially offensive nature get asked.

It is a ribald cliche of men that they are either ‘Sans or Serifs’ men, and focus their attentions on words or lettering that ascribes to this basic quality. I cannot deny that the distinction is a significant one, and I have several friends who will spend hours on the seemingly innocuous topic of Sans font, and the beautiful curves and long lines of a good Ariel typeset. I admit, I have always found myself drawn to Serifs.

Ratqueen, was created by transcribing the narrative created by playing the solo RPG: Rattenkönigin, by Abbax. What follows are the rolls I made during the first successful game I played.

Darkness scratching, the squeal of young, gnawing and ravenous, the HUNGER grows. Instincts many, a need to scurry, fnd the places safe and dark. Nowhere truly safe, nowhere to escape the clawing need for food.

We are many, and the many are safe. Smell of fur and flesh, air filled wit foul rot and dirt. A nest of castoffs, trash and refuse that hides our coveted treasure, our food, our young, our selves. They hunt us, but they do not find us.

Instinct. No time to think or plan, no time to prepare or horde. Survival. Bite. Claw Feed. Then scurry away to live another day.

We survive.

We dream.

The game Lighthouse at the End of the World uses the Wretched and Alone SRD, a system designed to tell stories of horror, sadness, and hopelessness. You’re not supposed to “win” these games often, and this play reflects that, I feel. What follows are the die-rolls, card-draws, and tower-pulls that created the events that I turned into my short-story.

Thomas stared up at the lighthouse.

When he had first arrived, it had looked like a beacon of hope, a place to hide and live out the rest of his days; a stone tomb he had interred himself in to rest at last. Now, it looked like a jail, a prison of intangible cell-mates who tormented him every day with their absent lives.

He used to try to ignore them. He spent his days struggling to do his work without acknowledging their presence, and it hadn’t worked. They had only begun to shout louder, manifesting as horrible images of suffering and half-eaten corpses.

He began to talk to them under his breath. Now he muttered to them without always realizing he was. He even muttered in his sleep; he had woken himself up several times with his own frantic gibbering.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a prisoner or the jailor.

The weeks were long in the lighthouse. Time passed slowly for Thomas as he muttered his way up and down the lighthouse steps. He cursed the chills and the heat, he spat on the creaking wood and sneered at the fragrence of rotting seaweed that permiated the stacks of flotsam that lined the walls.

“Ten,” he muttered, after counting. “Ten of you, eh? No matter. I’m ready for you. Got my own, see? Got my own.”

Tending the lighthouse was a simple enough job. He changed out the oil every day, adjusted the valves and chimney as required, and that was that. All he had left to do was explore the detritus of the sea and avoid any ghosts.