Category: Fantasy

Stones

https://pixabay.com/photos/ancient-house-middle-ages-san-gemini-2925168/

The house had been around longer than living memory. According to tradition, it had been built by the first settlers on the coast, the ancestors of the town’s founders. Supposedly, the patriarch of the clan, banished for some offense and accompanied only by his wife and baby son, had scavenged loose stones from the base of the cliffs and stacked them one by one, room by room, until he had created the mansion.

I wasn’t too sure about tradition myself, people tended to make stories bigger than the truth, but I wasn’t too sure about the house itself either. Something had always thrown me about it, something that made my vision want to skip over it. I had spent more hours than was good for me staring at that thing, but I thought I had finally figured out what was off. I just didn’t know why.

The windows didn’t fit. The stone frames were long, as if once the openings had been much larger, but the stonework was seamless inside the frames. The same hand had obviously stoned all of it. It didn’t make sense, but when I asked anyone about it they just peered at the house with a confused expression and said they didn’t see what I meant.

I couldn’t stand it; I had to know about those windows frames. I waited for the owners to leave on their annual month-long jaunt and snuck up to the house during siesta. I expected the stones to be hot when I ran my hands over them, but my skin sizzled on contact with the frames and I jerked my hand back with a cry. The windows and front door vanished, leaving three dark apertures gaping in the wall. Whispers called to me, insistent. I chose an opening and stepped inside.

The Accident

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Something was wrong. She must have hit her head harder than she thought; could a concussion make you see color differently? She touched her forehead gingerly and pushed herself to her feet. What had she been doing? Oh yes, running. She had tripped and hit her head because…

Something had been in the woods, and she had looked over her shoulder. She’d tried to catch herself. Why hadn’t it worked? And seriously, why were the trees pink?

Green light lit the trees from behind, and she took an involuntary step back. A wild glance all around only disoriented her and made her head hurt worse, so she stood still, breath coming ragged in her throat.

An old man stepped out of the trees, kicking purple dust into the roadway as the toe of his boot caught in the loam beside it. “How do you come to be here?” He demanded, his brows lowering above sharp cheekbones. “This is not the way!”

“I must be delirious,” she muttered, but ice crawled up her spine all the same. She touched her aching head again, just as the old man stepped toward her, his stride impossibly long. Deep purple eyes smouldered inches from her face, and his voice rose to a screech.

“Where is the Artifact?”

Kizi

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A ray of sunshine peeked into her nest, softened into a pink glow by the delicate petals beginning to unfurl over her head. She blinked in wonder, and yellow dust clung to the green tufts of her hair as she raised her head from her flowery pillow. Gossamer wings fluttered from her back, unexpectedly bouncing her into a curving petal.

The flower wobbled on its stem, and lavender eyes blocked the light. A giggle followed, then the bud was pulled open by two pairs of hands and a gentle breeze from a dozen sets of wings blew the pollen away. She reached up to touch them in delight, but her own wings waggled, lifting her unsteadily from her soft bed. She spun in jerky circles trying to see them move until, dizzy, she clung to the tip of the bud and panted.

One of the watching sprites flipped headlong through the air and blew a raspberry in her direction. Another zipped after him, yanking a lock of hair and folding its own arms with a frown. Kizi giggled and covered her mouth in glee at the mocker’s predicament. She narrowed her own eyes and focused on making her wings do her will. With a wobble, she rose into the ranks of the sprites, who welcomed their tiny new sister with dizzying acrobatics and a chorus of chuckles that set every bird in the grove singing.

Visit https://books2read.com/u/baDgr6 or https://www.amazon.com/Chosen-Heather-N-Russell/dp/B09BF7W792/ to see more of Kizi in _Chosen_, the first installment in the Magicborn series.

Yellow Eyes

This story is brought to you courtesy of my ten year old son, with a few slight changes on my part for clarity. I hope you find it as entertaining as I did.

One night a family of four was driving out in the woods. They heard a howl, and the dad said, “It’s just a few wolves. We’ll be fine.”

While they were driving they heard another howl, closer this time. It was way too loud to be a regular wolf. They heard heavy breathing coming closer, growing louder and louder, followed by the rustling of leaves. Then a man jumped into the road; no, he appeared to be half wolf!

The dad jerked the wheel and they went into the brush. All of a sudden, they heard a scream, unlike anything they had ever heard. The parents turned and saw two yellow eyes above two sets of brown claws clutching the children by their necks. Then the eyes disappeared along with the children.

The truck had crashed into a tree; with no other choice, the parents fled on foot, headed for their home. As soon as they reached the house they placed a frantic call to the police, but unfortunately all officers were tied up. It was the next morning before someone arrived to investigate.

The policeman followed them into the forest. After hours of searching they finally found the children, strung up by their toes in the branches of a tall tree. Each had two welts rising from the backs of their heads, and the fire department had to be called to retrieve them. Emergency medical personnel checked their vitals and they were alive, but barely.

Only later when the children revived did anyone learn what had happened. The yellow eyes belonged to a werewolf. No matter how good-natured a werewolf may be, when he gets hungry he becomes very grumpy. The children led the police to the werewolf’s home. The officers kicked in the door, which had been firmly bolted shut, and found the carpet stained with blood. The last thing they ever saw was a pair of yellow eyes.

Fallen Faerie

The wooden towers of Crann still soared above the forest floor as Sean passed the mighty gate posts. The gates themselves were long gone, eaten away by time and exposure. Loam crunched beneath his feet and he winced at the now familiar twinge between his shoulder blades.

How long had it been? He couldn’t remember now. How beautiful Crann had once been, full of color and graced by its delicate queen. Even after all this time the gossamer of her wings filled his memory, and his throat closed in anguish.

The castle loomed over him as he stood in the center of the great courtyard. Once brilliant in the sunlight, now it cast deep shadows that threatened to engulf him. The spectre of death hovered between the once fine towers, death that he had brought.

Well, he had paid dearly for his crime. The queen, whose life fueled the city, had died, poisoned by the creature he had innocently tried to save. The council had cursed him, cut his own wings from his body as the price of treason. His loss could not save them, however, and without the queen they one by one faded into mist. Crann stood empty and silent, its spires growing green and soft as its floor decayed.

He gazed up at the remnants for a moment, hunching his aching shoulders. He didn’t know why he had come back; nothing but pain remained for him here. He turned slowly back to the shadow of the gate and froze. Barely visible under the drifting leaves, something gleamed, something so small he might have stepped on it. He bent and retrieved it, cupping it reverently in his palms where it glowed ever brighter until it took gauzy shape. His back itched, and she smiled up at him as tiny green points broke the earth around him.

Spring Sale 2022

The weather is warming rapidly, flowers are blanketing the world, and (sometimes) peaceful breezes whisper through the trees. It’s the perfect time to curl up on a porch swing or in a backyard nook with a great story. That makes it a perfect time for a book sale!

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“Pure of heart and human
A chosen warrior comes
The barrier shall be broken
Two worlds unite as one.”

The Sun Tree

https://pixabay.com/photos/tree-sunset-clouds-sky-silhouette-736885/

She stopped on the last rise overlooking the coast, breath catching in her throat. She swallowed painfully around the lump of it and sank to her knees. Shades of red and purple bathed her, along with the waving grasses that now slid around her shoulders in the ocean breeze.

For a thousand years her people had told tales of the sun tree. The great tapestry in the Hall of Ancestry depicted the Leaving, when the Ilanga had been forced from their beautiful sea haven by marauders from the Invisible Lands. They had built a new life for themselves in the deep forests, and the Sun Tree had become the myth of a far off Heaven where one could join the ancestors in eternity.

They had mocked her quest in the Hall, declared what she sought reachable only in death. When she persisted they denied her aid, believing she would abandon her purpose. Her heart drew her on, however, and she had slipped away in the darkness, living on what the land provided.

And now she faced the Sun Tree itself, its light held in sacred trust in the embrace of wide leafy arms. She rose on shaky legs and stumbled forward down the slope, her own arms outstretched. She stumbled with a cry of pain and, still bent double gripping an injured foot, failed to see the red and purple sails rounding the nearest point.

Time

https://pixabay.com/photos/living-room-victorian-historic-581073/

At first glance the room seemed frozen in time, it’s antiquated charm untouched by the decades. A closer look revealed a different story entirely. The light streaming in the windows cast shadows that hid threadbare patches in the aging carpet. In a far corner, disguised by carefully arranged furniture, a square of plywood barely covered a hole where the floor had begun to rot away.

Worn depressions in the chair cushions told the story of generations, the books whose spines crumbled behind the glass testifying to the many hands that had opened them over the years. One windowsill showed more evidence of water damage than the other, its tracks rubbed nearly free of paint. Perhaps it had been the favorite spot of some long-gone housewife, a pleasant breeze blowing through loose strands of her hair while she mended some article of clothing.

The one thing not fading stood beneath a glass dome in a place of honor on a central table. The roses could have been placed there within the hour, so fresh and full of life were their white petals. Only the photograph the visitor held belied the impression. In it the room itself was newer, black and white print capturing the faces of a young family who couldn’t help glancing at each other instead of the camera. The same bouquet stood in its case, every blossom and leaf exactly the same.

The visitor hesitated, rumors in the town holding his foot at the threshold. With a laugh he replaced the photograph in his pocket and shrugged. He stepped into the room and froze. With a shriek of horror he clutched at his face and tried to flee, but there was no escape. He could only watch in the mirror as his body grayed, wrinkled, stooped, and finally crumbled to dust. The photograph caught a small draft where it lay on the carpet and fluttered across the threshold into the hall outside. The white roses stood motionless in their case, endless life in the midst of decay.

The Quarter

Photo by Becky Strike, French Quarter, New Orleans LA

Jean rested in the relative darkness of the tiled alley. The fan, incongruous against the ancient brick, did little to improve the sticky New Orleans heat pouring in from the open courtyard. Why couldn’t he have died somewhere cooler, he grumbled to himself.

He’d certainly had the opportunity. Born the younger son of the old city elite, he had craved adventure and excitement. The river had offered both, and his father had been only too glad to send his troublesome offspring north with the traders, away from the gambling halls that threatened the family fortune and reputation.

Ironic, then, that it should be fever from the delta swamps that took his life after all. Why he had been cursed to eternal boredom skulking in the darkness he had never learned. Two hundred and fifty years had brought bewildering change to the old city, at times almost its destruction. He would have welcomed that; perhaps he would have been released from his spectral prison.

He sighed at the sound of amplifiers whining on the other side of the wall. The courtyard still reflected the brilliance of the coastal sun through the dirty arched panes remaining overhead from some discarded doorframe. Apparently it was never too early for nightlife in the new old city. If only he could be part of it.

The Key

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“Do you see that?” Shana’s forehead creased, and she side-eyed Jesse as he stepped beside her.

“See what?” He glanced around, eyebrows raised. His gaze slid easily over the stump in question, and she knew he couldn’t possibly see what she was seeing, but she persisted anyway.

“That stump over there,” she pressed, pointing with a finger that trembled slightly. “Don’t you see anything?

He peered with a slight frown into the underbrush. “You mean, that moss-covered rotting thing that’s half buried?” He turned to look at her, head cooking to one side in that usually endearing little habit of his. Now it just irritated her; if he couldn’t see it, she was definitely hallucinating, and she could not be hallucinating. Not again.

“Yes, that one!” Shana half-screeched and clenched her fists at her sides. She stomped over to the stump and glared at him. “How do you possibly miss something this weird?” She bent down and snatched the key from where it lay on the smoothly cut surface of the wood and thrust it toward him so hard she almost threw it.

But he wasn’t there. Instead, an old man smiled at her and reached out to catch the key as it fell from her nerveless fingers. “Ah, there you are! What luck! I’m never sure I have it right, you know. And you’ve missed it so many times already.”

“Missed it?” Her voice quavered, barely audible even in the quiet under the trees.

“Nevermind all that now, you’re here now and that’s all that matters.” The old man tossed the key and caught it casually before slipping it into a voluminous pocket in his robe. “Come, we must get you settled in and ready to assume your duties.”

He turned and strode off into the woods, leaving Shana staring after him with her mouth hanging open. “Come… where?” She demanded, her voice trailing off as he ignored her completely. She slowly followed him with a wild glance back at the empty, rotting stump.