Shortstories

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.”

“You’re a cold-blooded bastard, you are,” Ronald tossed a thick sleeping-roll to Danial, grinning a sinister grin. “This must be twenty miles from town.”

“Or thirty at least,” Kenny sighed, lowering his body onto a large rock. “Seriously, Danial, why are we doing this? And don’t give us any of that macho ‘guy’s trip’ garbage, we could have gone to Vegas.”

“Hell, even L.A.” Ethan muttered darkly as he dropped his backpack to the ground. He had been quiet for most of the trip, opting to hike in silence through the dark forest. Danial opened his arms wide.

“Come on now, this is an adventure! I don’t want to spend all my time with you guys just getting drunk, gambling away my money, and masturbating myself to sleep in Vegas.”

I sit now at my desk, hand trembling to spite my dark intent. I have no recourse but to place in writing the terrible and ominous portents that have been visited to me this night, as I sat reclining in my grandfather’s chair, reading from one of the many ancient texts that line my library walls. Until now, I had thought these books were at worst a boast. A casual conciliatory gesture to my literary past, and a knowing wink and a nod to any guests I may once have invited to my home. Now I do detest the sight of them, these rusty tombs of crusty ink and decaying papyrus. I see them now for what they are — vile corpses of living plants, once full of seeds and spores, now skinned and drained of life, with acidic brackish ichor carving the feeble gibbering of children and mad men into their bones, all bound together with the dry skins of dead animals, long since past this mortal plane. Macabre collages of decay and madness.

Screams and fire. A blinding heat that soothed the icy blood. Through all of it, a cackling laugh that was barely recognizable. Crackling wood and snapping stone punctuated the charnel house that filled the world, as the Pack hunted for fresh meat.

We’ll fight ’till we drop.

The bumper sticker sat proudly on the bumper of the car across the street, it’s bright yellow lettering glowing against the deep purple background. The car looked brand new, daring the viewer to believe that it had even been driven off the lot. The silver chrome glittered brightly in the shining sun, hurting Logan “Sparks” Serminski’s good eye. He took a sip from his beer as he sat in his chair, waiting for the coals to heat. The sounds of the summer filtered through the haze of his cloudy mind: children playing in the yard, his cousins chatting about work, his wife rushing about with drinks and small talk. Even his brother was here, swallowing his elitist pride and deigning to allow himself to be seen with his youngest sibling.

He opened his eyes.

At first, there was too much. Too much sound, light, movement — his senses were bombarded from every angle. The pain was immense, rippling through his body like a wave, tickling every nerve ending like sharp tacks. Slowly, the tidal wave receded, leaving him crushed and bruised, as shapes began to emerge. Dancing forms waved in front of him like flames, a harsh hissing skittering through him like flies. Gradually, he began to discern the frightful demons that cackled and roared about him, tongues of flame flipping in and out of their mouths like silverfish, their black claws clacking and clattering around him in the air.

He was dead. He was in Hell.

Something was wrong.

Nicholas K. Linkletter III, ‘Slick Nick’ to his friends and Mr. Linkletter to everyone else, had started slurring his speech five minutes into the board meeting. Then he put his head in his hands, muttering something about smelling lemon tea, and collapsed on the desk. His fellow board-members quickly turned him over, loosening his tie, and called the ambulance. Mrs. Jennings had checked his pulse and tried to administer CPR — a sensation that Nicholas found quite odd, as Mrs. Jennings was an avid smoker. The air tasted foul to his tongue, and he knew he should be coughing.

The medics arrived in only five minutes, having been out on another call. They took over for Mrs. Jennings, feeding a tube down his throat, and forcing air into his lungs with a blue plastic oval. This was much less comfortable at first for Nicholas, but his lungs were breathing cleaner now, not filled with leftover smoke that had settled in Mrs. Jennings’ lungs. He felt the sharp stabbing pain from a needle in his arm, and his body was lifted into the air by two strong arms, and onto a metal surface that clattered under his weight.