Short Stories

Oh, how their words plagued me! To possess the love of the Ophidians was a darker curse than their hatred. Their poison was slow, eating away at their targets with unerring rot. They cursed not only those who wronged, but those who erred, those who mistook, and those who failed as well. Even those who committed no greater crime than to show mercy or charity to the undeserving were to be torn apart by the witches’ hexes.

I prayed they would find no cause to act without my word. I tempered my fury and ire with swift and just punishments, to spare the guilty a horrible fate. I corrected the innocent with hammer and word, and found my heart swollen sore with the every stroke. How easy it was to return to my place of glory atop a throne of gleaming brass! Where once I had thought the Isle of the Gorgons would be a place of solitude, now I sought to rebuild something of a kingdom of my own. Spurred by the fear of the witches’ passions, I sought to embody the promise of Atlantis, a place of light and music, as beautiful as it was terrible.

For many generations I toiled to polish the gray stones of the Isle, to return the luster of Atlantis to the world, but for all my efforts it was a mockery, a misshapen jest of an empire. The mortals knew it, too. I could feel the lies they told themselves, the pleasure they took from pretending that nothing had changed, that I was no less than the Indigo Empress herself. They praised their good fortune and privilege to serve, enjoying the fruits of my Empire that were the envy of Kings and Queens of the less-fortunate kingdoms.

I found for myself a lonely spot to live, a barren cliff overlooking the ink-black seas. There is a village of barbarians nearby; I thought it an amusement at best, but they have been strangely gentle and welcoming. Perhaps they remember the glory and grace that we could bestow on those worthy. Perhaps they remember our terrible fury. Whatever the reason, they do not hide from me as others have. Instead they bring me tribute in the form of minor gifts. A basket of sour food here, a shawl of rough silk there. They do not know how pitiful these offerings are, how much they burn my throat and skin. Their softest furs are scratching burrs and their sweetest fruits are acid compared to even the memory of what I lost.

Through their prayers they spoke to me, and so I learned of a child who sought me harm. Word of my survival had spread throughout the region, and the son of a barbarian general — who saw himself as a bit of a regional governor — wished to make a name for himself. The townsfolk didn’t know his plans, but the renown of one who slew an Atlantean would doubtlessly impress the locals, turning him into a God-General of everlasting name.

No matter. I was the only survivor of my people. He would find me very difficult to kill.

Drowning. There is nothing more terrifying, more soul-rending than the feeling of being in the midst of an endless dark, unable to breathe as you sink further and further away.

How piddling a word it was for the humans. ‘Drowning.’ They even had a different word for the same emotion; ‘Overwhelming.’ They used it like children, ignorant of the true breadth of horror such a word contained. They threw such words around without a care. ‘Starving.’ ‘Awe-struck.’

Lonely.

I know what it is to drown, to feel the weight of the world’s oceans crash down on not only your head, but the whole world. The humans would use words like ‘culture,’ ‘civilization,’ or ‘Empire’ to describe what had been lost. Small, useless words. The meanest words of my people are as birdsong to the clattering bones of human-speak.

I am the last of my people. I am lost. I am lonely. I am starving. I am drowning.

Jorgo opened his eyes.

The room was quiet. Clean. It reminded him of the medical dome in the Colony, but there was no clean white surfaces anywhere. Instead, the walls were rock and stone. The bed he lay on was soft and warm. and the air was perfumed with wildflowers.

“Brother,” the voice was warm and gentle, an echo from years ago. Jorgo turned to see Sika rising from the chair at the foot of his bed. She leaned over him, her face lined with worry, relief, and regret. “Brother, how are you feeling?”

Jorgo raised a shaky hand and gently poked and prodded his aching body. He felt numb, like the world had somehow gone gray and lifeless. Even the pain was distant, reaching to him from a body far removed from his actual self. He wanted to cry out in despair, but he couldn’t; even his despair was muted.

Jorgo stared at his reflection in the blade. He looked so different than he remembered. An awkward and sickly childhood had filled his memories with pale skin and sunken eyes, with matted hair and a weak back. Now, he felt stronger. Taller. More of a man than he’d ever been before.

The eyes that stared back at him were clean and bright, full of joy and focus. He grinned at the idea that this was the man his foes would be seeing, standing proud next to his family.

“They approach, love,” Karna’s voice broke through his dreaming. “We must be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he laughed, sheathing the curving sword at his side and turning to pluck his girl from off her feet, swinging her around in the air. “Let them come! There is nothing to fear from a bunch of rotten old lepers.”

Karna’s laugh mingled with his as she pressed her lips against his throat. “You are so brave and strong, my love, I hope you are right.”

When Sika had finally finished her meal, the hum shifted again. “Now,” the monk spoke, “you are from the Colony of New Holden, yes? Why don’t you tell us what has caused you to brave such a difficult climb? We did not choose this mountain for its accessibility.”

“My father said it was because you didn’t want anyone from New Holden visiting you who did not need to,” Sika said through a mouth half-full of fowl flesh. She chewed quickly and swallowed a gulp of juice. “So you are not plagued with people begging you for help.”

The giant’s head twisted back and forth like a dog. “Your father is close to the truth of it. You must have a great need to have climbed so far…and a dark one, to seek us.”

Sika set the flagon down. She stared at the misshapen giant, watching as the skin-flaps of its face waved gently in the air like flower petals. In the span of mere minutes, the certainty she had felt while climbing the mountain had begun to show cracks of doubt. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, only to realize no words would come.

Sika’s hands ached. Her knees bled. The cold wind scraped against her cheeks and her back throbbed with fierce vigor. Nevertheless, she kept climbing. She was so close, just a few more feet, and she would be at the Monastery’s doors.

She wanted to pause and catch her breath, but she knew the moment she stopped would be the moment her strength failed her. She followed a thundering heartbeat in her mind; keep climbing. Don’t stop. Keep climbing. She didn’t look down, nor up. She had no idea how much further she had to go. She didn’t want to know. Knowing was for those who needed to risk despair for the chance to hope.

Sika was beyond hope, beyond despair. It didn’t matter how far from the Monastery she was. She would keep climbing until she reached it, or she died.

She reached upwards and grabbed at a protruding rock. She felt it shift, and in one horrible moment the mountain-side spun beneath her. She felt herself fall away from the icy cliff to be gripped by the winds. The rock fell from her hands…

George Henderson pressed the intercom buzzer, adjusting his scarf with his other hand. A faint mechanical beep pierced the snow filled air. Patiently, George waited for a reply, his breath fogging his thick glasses. Finally, a tinny voice pierced the dim night.

“George, is that you?” came the faint thin voice of his friend, Karl Winthorpe.

“Yes, yes it’s me.” he said, clapping his hands to his arms, warming himself as best he could.

“Excellent!” came the tinny reply. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m afraid the staff has gone home for the evening. I’ve left the door open; just head on into the library, and make yourself at home. I’ll be right there.”

There was a pause, and then a harsh buzzing following a loud click as the gate unlocked itself and swung open. George stepped through the gate and began to walk up towards the massive mansion that dominated the small hill.

The sound of the mines echoes in my head. After so long, I hear nothing else. The sound of iron cutting into stone fills the air. The Iridium drills engines whirring away like grumbling dragons, chewing up the resilient rock, our secret weapons in the war for our lives.

They shit out gemstone, these dragons. Out their backsides the dull gray lumps of fused rock that is our heat, our energy, our livelihood. If the dragons stop, if we stop, our people die in cold and hunger. The ice-age that blankets the land above will break through out blockade, and a billion soldiers dressed as snowflakes will sweep through the tight passageways and kill us all. Men, women, children…they will spare no one.

We must hold strong. We must break our backs to save our species. Every stabbing pain is a reminder that we are sacrificing our lives for our people. I die so that others may live.

My hands are calloused. My sores weep. My arms hurt and they do not stop hurting. I cannot take a deep breath without coughing. It is a small price to pay for the future of our people. I have no regrets.

CW: Descriptions of Suicide.

“Looks pretty cut and dried, Sir. Wrote the letter, pinned it to his leg, nicked himself as he did, and hung himself.”

Deputy Commissioner Rupert Keily stared up at the grotesque corpse of Bill Chesterfield, CEO of Cesterfield Inc. The slack form twisted gently in the AC from the overhead vents that were busy keeping the victim’s home office cool and breathable in the summer heat. Rupert slowly circumvented the corpse, noting the folds of the wrinkled slacks and rolled up dress shirt sleeves. He carefully lifted the left pant leg with a gloved finger, noting the small black clot of blood right beneath the safety pinned note. Deftly, Rupert unpinned the note, and inspected the sharp point. A small blot of dried blood tarnished the otherwise shiny pin. Rupert pulled the note off, and tossed the pin into a small evidence bag being held by Inspector Dryfuss.

“It does look simple, doesn’t it?” Rupert straightened up, gesturing for another bag. “Get that to the lab, check there aren’t any other fingerprints. Same with this note.”