Category: Fiction

The Bridge

https://pixabay.com/photos/bridge-fog-river-night-mist-7703146/

It only appeared in the fog, the old bridge. Not the morning fog when the rising sun burned off the surface of the river. The rare sunset mist defying the golden glow spilling over the horizon. The mist that was both there and not there, with impossible shapes darkening it. With the bridge that couldn’t be.

She had seen it before. A child’s vision, obscured by the cynicism of time. Only his disappearance had made the memory real. She hadn’t been to the river that night, when they said he drowned. She hadn’t been there, but she knew anyway. He would never have drowned.

He had crossed the bridge. Of course he had crossed. He probably just wanted to look, to know where it went, what those dark shapes in the fog became when met face to face. He wouldn’t have thought about it at all, never would have meant to leave her like that. But mist never lasted.

She could see it now, old stone glowing gold in the damp. He could come back now. Any minute she would see him, a little older, rushing back to reassure her and plead his remorse. But how would he know? What if he missed the fog as she had that night? Already the mist began to lift, and she could almost make out the wall across the river.

With a gasp she ran, oblivious to the sole of her foot scraping through the hole in her shoe. The worn strap on her old knapsack fragmented under the sudden strain, depositing her entire life behind her. She clutched the stone as she stumbled onto the span, gasping, desperate. If she held on, if she kept going, it couldn’t vanish. He would come.

She stumbled forward, calling frantically. The sun flared once behind her before gloom closed in. A few more tottering steps, just a few more and she would find him. He hadn’t been able to come to her, she would go to him. They wouldn’t need to go back.

A shadow coalesced beside her. She whimpered, not afraid, relieved. Here was someone to help. The figure smiled, took her hand. She followed, docile. The mist had lifted, of course it had, she didn’t need it anymore. The bridge had brought her home.

Purgatory

https://pixabay.com/photos/theater-bratislava-old-town-6066228/

The harsh brightness of the midday square angered him. Even the fountain stood dead before the theater, colorful banners hanging breezeless above it, hallmarks of the latest empty dance of gauze and orchestral cacophony. Sweat beaded in the furrow above his eyebrows, daring him to mop it away with the napkin crushed in his grip.

He reached for the bottle again, the gesture oddly aimless, groping. Why were his eyes glaring at him from that warped sky? The artificial moon above reflected gables stung his cheeks like seaspray. The street dimmed through dusky glass belied its stillness, demanded the bustle of crowds and music and life. He shook his fist at it for its twisted pretense.

It should remain empty, an exoskeletal tomb for what was. What morbidity to lash himself with this scene, this memory. Not even ghosts remained to share a toast. Only frozen heat to layer dust on old chalices.

The clang of a solitary coin met the pavement, pulled from his pocket with the price of the wine. He let it spin to stillness in his wake, payment over a dry river.

Portal

https://pixabay.com/photos/tree-path-sunrise-sunset-future-8485930/

Hugh carefully backed around the corner he had just rounded and leaned against the cool stone, sucking a deep breath into his startled lungs. Eyes wide, he took another peek. The hole in the wall was still there. It definitely wasn’t there before. He trembled; his old nurse maid would have mumbled about witchcraft and made a ward sign with her gnarled fingers.

Hugh shook himself. Twelve winters was far too old for nursery superstitions. What would his father think to see him shrinking here? A hole in the wall meant a threat, and a man would face a threat ready to defend. He tightened his fist around the handle of the short blunt sword boys in training were allowed to carry.

His skin crawled at the unreasonably warm air pouring through the gap. The sides were too smooth; a ballista would have left broken edges and rubble, and would have sounded throughout the keep. He drew the sword and held it ready with both hands, staring at the lumpy green hill impossibly leading from the third story in which he stood.

Swallowing hard and refusing the urge to look down the corridor for help, he stepped through, head brushing the leaves of vines and bushes growing in illogically ancient cracks in the stone. The village that should have lain below had vanished, along with the valley overlooked by his father’s castle, replaced by a windbeaten plain studded with sparse weedy trees.

A figure even more bent and wizened than old Beatrice emerged from behind the nearest one, a crackling chuckle rolling from beneath bird-like eyes. “Wouldn’t it just be my luck to get a lad, after all! Well, no matter, perhaps you’ll do. Welcome to Oblia, boy.”

Old Friends

https://pixabay.com/photos/forest-woods-trees-wooden-houses-7459553/

The spring gurgled cheekily, making Hob smile as he dried his supper dishes. The warm glow from his kitchen window touched the thick green undergrowth, a contrast to the misty dusk filtering through the trees behind. He knew the chapel would be sharing its own glow across the pond, with Father Ziz at his prayers as usual.

It was a tiny chapel, not much bigger than Hob’s little house. Father Ziz had his tiny room at the back, warmed by a stove and a woodpile almost as large as the chapel itself. Father Ziz did joke about his old bones needing to be close to the fire to stay warm. And truth be told, the spry old cleric spent more time in Hob’s cozy study than in his own room.

Hob spared a glance at the clock over the mantle. Almost 8 already. And the tea kettle not even boiling! He bustled it onto the stove and set the teacups on the hearth. The worn pack of Old Froggy cards in the sofa table produced a chuckle; the Old Froggy was the spitting image of Father Ziz and he never failed to point it out.

There was a tap of wood on wood. Right on time! Hib’s tail twitched with pleasure all the way to answer the door.

The Phantom’s Mask

https://pixabay.com/photos/carnival-mask-masquerade-3075912/?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2U27EzoyJMtY67nLp13aDbFO-zv1LxanlcdoZhU2VP7wcM23qlPCV-07s_aem_AaSXycGMzIBVJE0ltbue8J5OryLzqXFbjfT6QbnsGq9KNgXdN86k_RJZzTVLDs7AQTwKE0xaX2tysT15RnUkpdHg

The flashlight beam reflected from the dark water, and she stirred the water with her toe just to break the unnatural stillness. Even her footsteps barely whispered in the cavern. Quite a contrast from the busy, vibrant stage far overhead.

She continued skirting the lake, passing her light over damp columns. The years had left their mark underground in far different ways than they had above. Few knew or cared about the foundations of the  Opera Garnier anymore, the stories that had surrounded its debut period reduced to little more than ghost stories for children.

Even Elodie herself wondered how much, if any, of the legend was true. So many generations had passed; memory changed in the telling, giving ordinary events mythological proportion. Still, she had promised her great-grandmother, the last Chagny to inherit that famed soprano voice, that she would visit the lake once in her lifetime, and the tour she had slipped away from had seemed the perfect opportunity.

Her flashlight beam caught a moldering wooden box perched on a pile of rubble left from some forgotten repair. Curious, she fingered the rusty lock, then winced as the board behind it peeled away like paper. She gingerly lifted what remained of the lid and gasped.

In a threadbare nest of velvet lay a pristine mask, black and gold accents glittering new in a seeming halo of light. Unable to resist, she lifted it to her face, daydreams of masked dancers and soaring music filling her vision. A silken whisper touched her mind as her hand fell in shock. “Christine, my love, I have waited so long for your return. Sing for me once more.”

Conscious

https://pixabay.com/photos/forest-trees-fog-moss-forest-floor-1258845/?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR3n4oOU8gEenmpbdeG0H8iIGcT-IX4fT_9e9yIX_NsS1GvqWbofCf_qvCE_aem_Ab6v_vwW1UR1k_emHdIl-__uvjOjPEFC4zUzAW4bzNUpIbWnO7posUeMfVHmLWYDskDqkrpC3XPLE0vPQRNt81cn

The wreckage from the treetops littered the moss, cracking under Pim’s feet. He placed his palm against the bark of the nearest trunk, feeling the thrum of distress from its heartwood. The storm had happened too early, whipping into the new growth forest before the development of deadwood.

Pim didn’t understand the complex algorithms that controlled the dome; nothing the colony teachers had done could make numbers stay in his head. He didn’t understand how bickering over formulas in a techlab could solve problems involving living things. He did know something had gone very wrong, something that tickled the edges of his senses, and the farther he went into the steaming woods the stronger his unease.

He hummed tunelessly, absently, a rhythm he could feel like breathing. Breathing. He held his own, mouth open, fingers twitching with realization. Slowly he sank to the moss, the overly green carpet that somehow prevented the usual forest undergrowth from taking hold. He sank his hands deep into its furry softness and closed his eyes. The thrum he had felt in the trees enveloped him, and he understood what the engineers had not.

The plans and algorithms weren’t wrong. None of the dome administration departments had failed their assignments. The planet simply had other ideas and none of them knew how to hear her. Their own voices were too loud. Only Pim, wordless and forgotten, had been quiet enough to listen. He stroked the mossy fur gently and hummed with the rhythm again. Tomorrow he would show them. Tomorrow.

The Stokers

https://pixabay.com/photos/castle-monastery-ruin-oybin-6561520/?fbclid=IwAR1xJr029G-TOH6hRbxY9DMkFr6odRT-rM2B9SaAUdyIyFlibrPPRvmr8E0

Suli adjusted her breather, coughing at the acrid scent of smoke. “Drake’s breath, if the Princes are gonna make us take shifts in the Nursery, they could at least make sure our equipment works.”

Derk grunted, heaving a load of coal into the nearest furnace. He wiped his face on a grimy sleeve, accomplishing little more than depositing an extra layer of black on his forehead. “Almost hatching season, it is,” he observed. “Wouldn’t wanna offend the Guardians for the sake of us lowly stokers.”

“As if the beasts needed all that much minding. Seems to me they destroy castle property just fine all by themselves.” Suli sniffed and immediately coughed again. She slammed the furnace door unnecessarily hard, creating a mournful toll that shivered dust onto their heads from the low stone ceiling.

Derk stopped short, peering into the darkness beyond the flickering bulblight. “Hey, did you hear that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, control myself or I’ll bring down the tunnels.”

“No, listen.” A muffled scratching grew louder as the ringing of abused metal faded. A faint glow crawled through the gloom, formless until a sudden burst of sparks accompanied an unmistakable hiccup.

“Now how’d you get down here?” Derk mused, inching toward the tiny winged creature still dripping with albumin.

Suli’s hand fell from adjusting her mask yet again, cough forgotten. “No way! Derk, it’s our lucky day!”

The Folly

https://pixabay.com/photos/ruins-scary-mystery-fantasy-563629/?fbclid=IwAR2jhw8D4fE4TJ7Ku4frv4BZurfjvxvm29DtsvmjTpdVAnuoSMxHmtvh7nk

“Come on, Sal, what kind of place is this for a picnic? It’s creepy!”

“Donny, you’re the scariest guy I’ve ever met. It’s just an old building and some dead trees. Can’t you imagine what this place looked like in its heyday?”

“Heyday? Sometimes I think you’re an old ruin, Sal. Who talks like that? And that’s not what scary means.”

“Look, we can sit here among the stones and no one will ever know. The river will even cover our voices. It’s romantic!”

“There’s plenty of romance right over there in the city, Sal. We’re gonna get rained out, anyway, look at the sky.”

“What are you talking about? The sun’s blazing, and anyway, the folly would keep rain off. Don’t be such a grouch.”

“Sal, did you see that? I guess you aren’t the only weirdo around here; somebody beat you to this place. I saw movement in the shadows. Can we go now?”

“Hello? Who’s there? Wow, listen at that echo, how cool is that? Nobody’s here, Donny, now cut it out. It’s a lot cooler in here, you really shou…”

“Sal? Come on, that’s not funny. Let’s just go, I’ll buy you a nice dinner instead.”

“Sal? Oh, hi. I told her there was someone in there; she rope you into her little game? Tell her she’s a royal pain in the backside, will you? Maybe she can hitch a ride home with you, I’m through.”

“Dooohhhnnnyyyy…”

New

https://pixabay.com/photos/mystery-road-fantasy-magical-fog-4532583/?fbclid=IwAR2Wbsi76EMr_2NZOMpLzY2IBnVezKmcaQnHvuSM-sMa-yCHDZgU85fzCrM

I could almost imagine I was back home in Spruce Falls. The gravel crunching beneath my feet. The whisper of foliage in the silent wind. Fluttering wings, scritching and rustling of undergrowth dwellers, twittering and chattering far overhead. Then I open my eyes to… pink.

The Overseers insist I’ll get used to it. I’m not sure I trust their dessicated, spiny heads, but it’s not like I have a choice. The memory of home twists my gut even now; it’s the only sight of Spruce Falls, of Earth, that anyone will ever see now. That is, if I can bring myself to keep the appointment with Imprint Labs. I know it’s mandatory, but…

The afternoon fog is rolling in. I shouldn’t have taken a walk after Midmeal, I’m late for Assignment now. Maybe I’ll just hide out here in the woods and make my own new life on Milorqan. Not like my dad never took me rough camping, I could make it.

Except that Earth wasn’t pink with – smelly? – gases that turn every afternoon into (wow, eye watering!) gray depression. (Why didn’t they warn us about the stench?) I’d better get back inside before I cough up a lung. Maybe Assignment won’t be so bad after all. At least I can get out of this stupid coverall and look like I belong.

Mirror, Mirror

https://pixabay.com/photos/skull-mirror-horror-scary-4248008/

Good morning, my queen. Your wish is my command. You wish to know the fairest in the land? Of course you! Who else possess this marble perfection?

(The aroma of your conceit sends delicious shivers through my bones. I drink it like wine, intoxicating ether.)

What thwarts your smile of ice, Majesty? Does trust in your faithful spirit fail? Confide in me your deepest fears, let me assuage.

(Ah, at last to the point. This glass that embodies thins, I taste pain. You succumb, creeping infection beneath the cracked veneer.)

The fresh rose grows to garland the crown? Ah, sneaking life, to overwhelm unchange in perfect metal. Death’s symbol in waking world. Life must die.

(The poison wracks, red blood turns crystal. Beautiful black sucking light, a vessel prepared.)

My queen, my slave unwitting, this mirrored frame no longer. A crown of bone-laid gold weighs lighter than nebulous brimstone. Rose withers, ice shatters, world chars within my empty eyes.