Category: Fantasy

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.

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.”

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!”

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.

Not a Fairy Tale

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/treehouse-forest-composing-fantasy-1308108/?fbclid=IwAR0JvQrhTYyN8VnUR_sicgsf1GqiK9p_AgW0vabKOIrLuLCejt7ADz_W4NM

Once upon a time…

Oh please, not that trite old beginning again!

Well it did happen once upon a time. How else would you like me to begin?

As I struggled for breath, I reflected on the events that led to my current situation.

O-kay…  Anyway, in an ancient oak in the center of an Enchanted forest lived a…

Don’t say fairy.

Fine. What do you think lived there?

A were-rabbit.

Is it at least a nice were-rabbit?

Sure, all were-rabbits are nice. Everyone knows that.

I see. Well, this were-rabbit loved living in the ancient oak. She…

He.

Sigh. He had been born in a cottage beneath its roots, behind a lovely yellow door that seemed to welcome everyone who passed by.

But behind the door lay a terrible secret.

Look here, who’s telling this story, me or you?

You, but you aren’t telling it very well.

Alright then, what terrible secret could a yellow door and a nice were-rabbit possibly be hiding?

The tree had been enchanted by an evil wizard. Whenever a visitor approached the door, the roots came alive and twisted above the ground.

Oh, I see. So the door drew people in with false promises and the tree ate them for supper.

No! Why would a nice were-rabbit love living in a tree that ate people for dinner? You’re scary, you are.

Right, right. Do please go on. You were just explaining the terrible secret behind the door.

I don’t know, this is supposed to be your story.

Alright then. The were-rabbit was such a nice rabbit that he needed to share his enchanted cottage behind the yellow door with everyone. He had paid an evil wizard to turn the roots into his special security system. Visitors became permanent residents in the warrens beneath, protected from themselves and their misguided desire to leave by the living, twisting wood crawling above them. Everyone lived miserably ever after except for the nice were-rabbit, who never lacked for dinner company as long as he lived. The end. Goodnight.

You call that a fairy tale? Tomorrow night I’m asking Dad.

Gods of Pompeii

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/fantasy-people-mysticism-mystical-2964231/?fbclid=IwAR0LIckvjtgh_uupE0bncIz5FgIOfw7VUJjs7WVLTMjxYKa06D471iBgmcM

“Tilda, I think we found another set!” Mario fiddled with a button on his shirt, waiting for his partner to dig herself out of her usual mound of paperwork. “I can’t imagine what they were doing way up here.”

“What strange poses!” Tilda observed, leaning over his shoulder to view the monitor. “I can barely tell which is which, but they seem like they’re upright.”

“Wait, did you see that?” Mario grabbed for the controls, trying to sharpen the image.

“See what?” Tilda’s eyebrows met in the middle, not that that was a stretch. “Hold up, you’re shaking the camera, you’ll destroy the site!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no camera and we’re not touching the site. We didn’t move anything. They moved!” He stared at the screen, twisting the button completely off his shirt.

“Well, if there’s no camera, how come we can hear sounds from down there? It’s shifting against the rock, I can hear it scraping.” Tilda reached for the controls herself, then froze. “Does – does that sound like – like words – to you?”

Mario’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, the only sound coming out a whimpering moan. Voices like the whisper of falling sand and the cracking of gravel underfoot swelled and eddied within the lab. “Souls,” they said. “So long have we waited for sacrifice.”

Tilda opened her mouth, swallowed desperately, then tried again. “Sa- sacrifice?” She squeaked. The shapes on the monitor stretched in sinuous curves and began to glow a deep red. “I thought all our imaging was black and white.”

One of the stone bodies reached it’s cracked hands upward, impossibly locking eyes with Tilda. “We will wait no more.” The voices issued from Mario’s motionless lips, and the mountain beneath them rumbled. “We are so hungry!”

Desire

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/palace-starry-sky-clouds-candles-4320416/

Marble is dark, silent, and cold. My roots tenuous anchor hold.

Sing the song of the stars with me. Can you not hear our harmony?

Come with me, in the shadows dance. Stardust and bud, a sweet romance.

How shall I venture there alone? I fear the lure of earth and stone.

I cannot fly to you, my dear. Let tenderness assuage your fear.

My brethren, through the portals wind. Our nebulae in lanterns bind.

My sisters, petals open wide. This night am I to be a bride.

FWG Blog Thursday: Famous First Lines

This week’s response is provided by my kids. Following are two different stories using the prompt. Aside from a small amount of editing, these stories come straight from them and are written in their own voices. I hope you enjoy them.

Thor’s Hammer, by Isaiah

All this happened, more or less. I’ll fill you in on the whole story. I was sitting on the couch, veging out in front of the TV. All of a sudden I heard a CRASH. It was coming from the kitchen. Like any kid would do, I went to investigate. Now I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not the hammer sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. I cautiously advanced and slowly picked it up. It began to glow. Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out of the hammer at the microwave. The microwave might have exploded. All I could say was “Uh oh!” When my mom saw the cracked tiles where the hammer hit and the exploded microwave, she was going to freak. Just then a dog appeared, shadow except for brilliantly white teeth. Suddenly more lightning shot out of the hammer, and the dog disappeared. Then it hit me: this was Thors’ hammer. And if it was, then I was his son.

Wild Thing, by Sarah

All this happened, more or less. School. I hate school. In a classroom with twenty other kids. Two are my friends. Five are my siblings. Thirteen kids that I don’t know. And Mama’s teaching. Mama’s great at teaching. I’m just tired. I hardly slept last night. Then, all of a sudden, I’m not in a classroom learning about World War II. I’m out on the prairie with a bunch of wild horses. I’m not even scared. I just run up and jump on one’s back. It’s immediately tamed. I’m riding out here on the prairie with my new horse. It’s wonderful! Then I’m back in the classroom again. Mama’s still talking about World War II. Class is almost over. Aw man!