Fiction – Page 12 – The Word Worker

Book Teaser: Chosen – The Vampyr

At first glance the figures gliding down through the trees seemed non-threatening, almost human. They wore leather jackets that hung low and had ragged holes worn in elbows and tail. As their feet touched the ground, my skin began to crawl. Three pairs of red eyes stared out of bloodless faces. One of them focused its gaze upon me, a smile snaking across its face to reveal the tips of sharp yellow teeth. His head slowly tilted to one side then the other as he moved with sinuous grace in a semi-circle around me. A finger tipped with a long, cracked nail traced a line up my arm, setting my hairs on end and sending a shudder through my entire frame. The finger traced its way around the back of my neck, and I could feel its breath in my hair, its scent oddly metallic, but I could not will my feet to move away.

“Enough!” Dagda’s voice cut through the fog beginning to fill my mind, carrying a sharp anger I would never have associated with the gentle Dagda of Earth legend. The creature sucked in a breath and stepped away, turning attention to him.

“Your Majesty,” he hissed, making the words an insult rather than an honor. He bowed low, sweeping an arm wide as greasy tendrils of hair trailed across the grass. I shrank in disgust to the protection of Balhon’s great side as I realized that everywhere a part of the creature’s body touched the grass turned brown and yellow, as if the land itself sickened upon contact with him.

“What brings you to Tylwyth, Grigore?” Dagda demanded, his voice icy. “This valley is far from Upir, and I don’t recall granting you safe passage.”

“Dracul rages against your enforced borders,” the creature sneered. “We starve in the dead lands; we need blood.”

“You are provided with blood in plenty,” Dagda responded coldly. “Live game is driven through your borders daily upon which your people sate themselves with disgusting abandon.”

“Animal blood!” Grigore spat. He eyed me with his tongue caressing the fangs revealed in his sudden feral grin. “What kind of life can be eked from blood with so little power? Dracul craves the blood of intelligent beings.”

The Legend

There he was, in all his lacy glory. I’d heard of the viscount, of course, from every local in every cafe and bistro between Paris and Calais. Quite the legend, apparently, that no one outside of France had ever heard.

No one remembered his full title, or even his family name, only that he was a viscount. A fact that had only fueled my dismissal of the story as a joke on gullible tourists, until now. Who could scoff with semi-transparent but gloomy dark eyes boring into one’s soul over the longest cascade of a collar ever seen in 18th century portraits?

“Je vous maudis, traitre!” The voice was bitter, but the lips set and motionless beneath the oddly unstyled black hair that streamed down both sides of a gray face. I glanced around, a shiver uncalled for in the warm summer night air setting my teeth chattering. Even my abominable French understood the word traitor.

“Th-the revolution is over,” I quavered in English. “I’m just a tourist.” Not that there was any point in speaking English to a dead French aristocrat, I thought. Even one that had managed to escape the guillotine only to be thrown from his horse into that widely spreading tree I could see through his face.

“Je vois maudis!” he shrieked, suddenly inches from me with his fist blending with my throat. My breath turned to ice in my chest and for a moment the world became as transparent as the viscount. Then it was over. I smiled with grim satisfaction, quickly twitched the lace on my cuffs back into shape, and turned back toward Paris. The traitors must die under their own cursed blade.

Vlad

How long had it been? One hundred years? Two? Locked deep within the castle vaults, skin burned black and then white by the silver of his sarcophagus, thirst that would not be assuaged by his own blood turning his mind to enraged madness. How long since his screams of pain had turned to bitter silence, how long since the silence had been broken by his own maniacal cackling?

He remembered companions. Barely. What companions had they been. Women whose blood slaked his thirst and woke already fading emotions. Sycophants who pleased him for what he could offer – wealth, the illusion of power, eternity. Dust all of them. Worth less than that in life. No matter, he no longer cared for companionship.

He remembered children. Children of blood who hunted with him in the night, children who had filled the earth with their fascination and their hunger. Children who had fallen to the mobs who would not bow to their new gods. No matter. There would be more.

This one who had freed him would be the first. She stood before him, unbending, unyielding, unworshiping, unafraid. She would turn, oh yes, and she would be a queen such as had never been. They would rule a world of their own remaking. The crumbling throne before him waited for the liege lord, and all others would soon bow before it or die.

Book Teaser: Chosen – The Sprite

With my first full-length novel tentatively releasing this summer, I will be sharing a teaser from the unpolished manuscript every couple of weeks until release. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

Laughter like the tinkling of a wind chime drew my attention to a small copse. I approached slowly, my heart fluttering, peering closely into the shifting branches. A delicately pointed ear nearly escaped my notice until a merry eye the color of deep indigo followed it around the trunk of a tree. It disappeared the instant I saw it, but the chiming laughter rippled through the leaves. I followed it, forgetting the strange path entirely as the mysterious creature led me deeper into the forest.

The laughter suddenly ceased, and a heart shaped face dropped from the branches overhead, inches away from my nose and upside down. Green hair hung like Spanish moss from a pale impish face, and slim fingers sprouting tiny pink flowers prodded my eyes and ears and pulled my hair. I tried to back away but my heel struck a root that had inconveniently pushed its way above ground behind me, and I crashed into the underbrush with my arms and legs flailing awkwardly. The creature laughed again, tumbling out of the tree and somersaulting through the air as it clutched its belly that shook with mirth.

I stared at the creature from the flat of my back, too astonished to even be irritated at its mischief. “What are you?” I asked, my heart skipping with excitement.

Fantasy Woman Golden Mythical Creatures Forest

Doorman

The floor undulated beneath me, its checkered waves lifting me although I could not feel a surface under my feet. I wasn’t sure I even had feet; I couldn’t seem to find myself. The door hung from nothing, stood on nothing, with light streaming through it from some unidentifiable source. A Fedora sat on top of it, incongruous and yet belonging.

“From where have you come?” The light flickered with every word that hung heavy in the blackness like a star.

“What are you?” I would have gasped, but could not find my lungs.

“I am the Doorman. From where have you come?” The stars increased and yet lit nothing.

“Um, Earth?” I would have swallowed, but could not feel my tongue. “Small town USA?”

“What is your purpose here?” The stars began to coalesce into nebula, filming the blackness with cloudy light that could not obscure the Doorman.

“I don’t know.” I would have shaken my head but the muscles had vanished. “You tell me, I don’t even know what here is.”

“Where are you going?” The light behind the Doorman intensified, searing into my unprotected soul.

I would have covered my eyes with my hands if I had possessed either. “I wish I could tell you. Where do you lead?”

“You have asked correctly.” The checkered waves froze, the fedora vanished, and the door opened.

Black and White Summer

This flash fiction was inspired by a photo prompt that I unfortunately don’t have the right to share. You the reader get to imagine the scene for yourself this week! Enjoy! *********************************************

Gramps kept the old black and white postcard in his wallet, folded up neatly to fit in a card slot. Sometimes he would take it out and gently unfold it, smooth it with a caress of his fingertips the way he touched Gram’s hair. I asked him once what was so important about a gray picture of a boat and trees. He gave me a long look and then handed me the creased and worn card.

“My brother was eighteen that summer,” he said. “I was ten. Wasn’t much we did together anymore, but we did like fishing.” Gramps put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair, staring into the distance with a half smile. “That summer he told me to pack my camping gear, we were headed upriver for a week. We threw sleeping bags, fishing poles, and a frying pan in an old boat he’d scrounged up and caulked and set off for a boy’s heaven.”

“Did you catch lots of fish?” I wondered.

“Enough to fry every day,” he chuckled, “but mostly we swam, chased each other up and down the bank, and slept in the sun. It’s a wonder the snakes didn’t carry us off; mosquitoes sure tried. Once, the boat sprung a leak. Not a bad one, but we were taking on water. Jack showed me how to stuff moss in the crack and caulk it with mud.”

“Did it work?”

“Well… not too well,” Gramps admitted. “But we were having too much fun to care. I’d never spent so much time with Jack, just the two of us.”

He sighed. “He enlisted the next day, headed to the Pacific. We were dirt poor and there were no photos, but I found this in a drugstore a week after Pearl Harbor. It may look like a boat to you, but to me that’ll always be Jack.”

Frozen

The elementals stood in time suspended, shadow almost entirely consumed by the union of water and light. Locked in the the throes of their own battle, they had gradually drifted to the surface of the watery wasteland. Thousands of years of forgotten emptiness parted as the blue ice pierced the sky, dusted with the snow of an antarctic spring.

The elementals reflected the frigid sun like the facets of a jewel. The glancing rays stirred the fringes of their battle, sending swirls of radiant blue dancing over the jutting rocks of broken ice wedged against the elementals. Within the swirls the shadow’s tendrils stretched and grew.

The seamless blue of the sky clouded with ice crystals as the elementals cracked. The shadow’s tendrils crept from every crevice, spreading slowly to darken the horizon. The crystal shattered as light and water drew from the ocean beneath them to explode the sky, banishing shadow into the darkest trenches of the sea. There it gathered, seething with resentment, as the world above drowned in brilliant fire.

The Christmas Gnome

Ellen switched on the light in the cluttered garage and sighed. She had put this off as long as possible but with the house being listed in a week there was no more time. Maybe she could just load all the boxes and junk without opening them, haul them to the dump, be done.

She ran her hand over the dusty top of the nearest flimsy carton, lifting the well-wrinkled flap in spite of herself. A flash of shiny red caught her attention, and carefully she unwrapped the tiny gnome from his torn tissue. A ragged smile played across her face as she rubbed the little fellow’s flowing beard.

The gnome had perched on the thick oak branch over the front walk every Christmas for as long as Ellen could remember. Once, when Ellen was about four, she had asked why, and Mom had told her he was the Christmas guardian. Nothing could steal the spirit of Christmas love as long as he watched over them.

Only when Ellen and her brothers had grown and gone did she ask Mom why the gnome still guarded the house. It wasn’t as if any children remained to believe in magic. Her eyes filled with tears remembering the gnome’s real story. Dad had given him to Mom their first Christmas, just days after they became engaged. The tiny presents held something that real packages could not; his vow to never leave her.

Dad had died when Ellen was two, a stupid construction accident. Mom set the gnome in the tree at Christmas, when her grief was deepest, to honor the promise. If she hadn’t died, he would be perched on that branch now, holding Dad’s love for her where she could see it. Ellen carefully closed the box and carried the gnome to the front walk. Dad would have wanted it this way, she thought. When she walked away, the gnome perched cheerfully in the stiff snow on that same old branch.

The Old Sleigh

Of all days for the truck to break down, Liam grumbled to himself. The coldest day of the season so far, and the only way to get the feed out was Gramps old wooden sleigh. Good thing he hadn’t sold Trix and Mule like he’d planned. The fat things were about to earn their keep again, at least for today.

Sakes! Those buckles were a job and a half! Trix danced sideways as the cold metal dangled against her coat, almost yanking Liam off his feet as he fumbled to connect the the stupid things. He shook his fist at her after he recovered his balance, and moved around to hitch Mule beside her. Even in his work gloves his fingers ached with cold, and his boots felt like ice blocks chained to his legs.

Why on earth did Gramps insist on using this old relic every year? The first thing Liam had done when Gramps died last year was buy a new truck; he’d been bucking for it for years but Gramps wasn’t having it. Liam managed to hook the last of the buckles to the sleigh and hung onto the reins as he clambered awkwardly into the front seat.

“Now to load up the bales,” he said aloud, as if it mattered. Mule, as usual refused to respond to the reins, and he ground his teeth. Stubborn animal. Gramps had always laughed and hollered affectionately at the dappled gelding, but Mule wouldn’t start without a feedbag of oats strapped on his face. It was Gram’s fault; Gramps had always said she spoiled that horse. Liam really didn’t have time for this, but he clambered back down and went for the oats.Oats.

It was Gram he thought of as he drove the team through the trees to the upper pasture. And it was Gram’s memory that stopped him at the crest of the hill, looking down at the little house and barn. Gone for ten years, she was the soul of the place, and even Mule knew it. Guess there was something to be said for Gramps’ hard head after all.

The Dust Siren

“Come with me, my lord,” she whispered in his ear. She was perfect, enchanting in her beauty. She laughed, silver notes of music, and caught his fingertips with hers as she danced lightly away. He followed, allowing the touch to remain. She twirled with delight, the hem of her robe indistinguishable from the dust on the path for one distracting moment.

“Where shall we go, my lady?” he asked, held captive by the gray that seemed to whirl in her irises. The city faded from memory, the path disappeared beneath his feet. He cared nothing for where his sandals carried him so long as that laughing smile flashed before him.

“Eat with me, my lord,” she crooned, leading him to a gray couch beside a laden table. She sat beside him as he lay back, a bowl of sweet plums in her hand. Her lithe fingers slipped one between her teeth, rosy lips closing over it just as its juice began to flow. His own mouth parted, and he leaned toward her, his hand reaching out to touch her arm with reverence. She blushed winningly and popped another fruit into his mouth with a giggle.

“Stay with me, my lord,” she pleaded, running a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, her scent of earth and dried grasses filling his senses. Her fingers stroked his forehead as he drowsed with his head in her lap. His own hands played with the folds of her gown as it seemed to flow through his fingers.

“I must sleep, my lady,” he whispered, arms drooping weakly from the couch to trail in the dust. She wailed in anguish, slipping from beneath his head to kneel beside him. He felt her arms around him, as if her skin blended with his. Strange, he thought as he fixed his eyes upon her face. The color faded from her cheeks, leaving nothing but gray that matched her eyes.

“Come back to me, my lord,” she wept to the skull that lay alone in the dirt. The tatters of her robe formed furrows in her skin as she buried her colorless face in one crumbling hand. The wind blew across the bare ground, lifting dirty clouds into the air to obscure the ruin of his city in the distance. She knelt there, cracked and crumbling, in the accusing gaze of his empty bones.