Flash fiction – Page 5 – The Word Worker

Spirit of the Tiger

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“Tenzin! Tenzin!” Dorji’s sandals slapped the floor of the quiet chamber as he nearly careened into his teacher. “You must come quickly! The cave!” He clung to the old man’s robes, panting wildly.

“Calm yourself, boy!” Tenzin surveyed the young acolyte with a mildly disapproving frown. “What has happened?”

“I wanted to pray where the holy Rampoche meditated, but I could not go in!” Dorji tugged on the monk’s robe urgently. “Red heat fills the chamber, and a demon’s breath echoes from the walls!”

Tenzin blanched. “Evil has returned! Ring the bell and gather every monk. Rampoche’s spirit has left us, and we must battle once again!”

Dorji stared with wide eyes. “But the holy man himself meditated for three and a quarter years before the demon was vanquished! And he was blessed by the spirit of the tiger! What blessing do we have? We will burn!”

Tenzin’s eyes flashed. “Then you will feed us while we pray. Perhaps three years or more of solitary service in the presence of holy battle will make you worthy of Rampoche’s mantle. Now ring the bell!”

Potion

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“Take this bottle. It holds everything you need to accomplish your quest.”

“This bottle? Are you sure?”

“Of course! This is my personal creation, the most advanced I have ever produced. When you arrive at the Dungeon, wait for sunrise. Set the bottle in the exact center of the trapdoor just as the red sky turns gold. It will cast a glowing key into the invisible lock, granting you entrance. But under no circumstances drink any of the liquid inside before entering the dungeon, or all will be lost.”

“Don’t – what? Why would I drink it? It’s marked poison! With a big skull and crossbones! Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! That is all part of the master plan. No one would ever want to drink poison, therefore I created this disguise to ensure the key remained in your possession until required.”

“So, if it isn’t poison, and you said don’t drink it before entering, when do I drink it? And what will it do for me?”

“Has your skull thickened? The liquid will kill you, it is acid of the highest potency! Unless you intend to rot in the Dungeon forever with your precious Cleric, you must pour it over the invisible lock before the trapdoor closes behind you and traps you inside.”

“You’re insane. If I do manage to rescue the Cleric on the strength of your planning, it will be a miracle.”

“Naturally. I will be raised to Eternal Mage for this. I promise not to forget you when I have been sanctified.”

Bride and Groom

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“We are gathered here tonight in the sight of the moon and the trees to join together Nob and Hob in trolly matrimony. Have you both come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”

“Yes, your stoniness!” “Where else would I be but with my Nobikins?” “I told you, don’t call me that in public!” “Oh, but it’s our wedding, Nobikins!”

“Harumph! Back to the matter at hand… Love is patient, love is kind. It stores up wrongs done to the other to wait for an opportune time for revenge. It reserves the best haunch at the cookfire for the other. It boasts of its deeds of maraudery to prove its constant provision for the other. It never trusts, and never leaves a window open to the dawn.”

“My little Hobby, oh the raids I’ve made to make our conjugal…” “NOB! Not in front of the family! What about the trollikins?!” “They know we’re getting married, for stone’s sake!”

“If we could… Nob, do you take this troll to be your wife? Do you promise to steal for her, tell her she’s ugly, and shelter her from the light all the nights of your life?” “Oh, your stoniness, my word on it!”

“Hob, do you take this troll to be your husband? Do you promise to never season his cookpot, to always muddy his loincloth, and to keep the cave dark for him all the nights of your life?” “Of course I do, my Nobikins! Oh, this is so romantic! Oh dear, I’m going to spoil my mudbath now!”

“If you’ll excuse me, your mudbath will last a moment longer. Trolls and trollikins, I now present to you husband and wife! Nob, you may kiss the bride.” “Now, my Nobikins, don’t tear the veil!”

The Castle

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“Hurry! We’re gonna get caught in it!” Jenny shrieked, stumbling over the rocks on her way down the hill.

“Don’t be a wimp!” Jake grumbled behind her, hopping from stone to stone instead. “It’s just water! Why are you such a GIRL?”

“I AM a girl, stupid!” Jenny stuck her tongue out, then pulled up short at the path, staring straight ahead with her mouth open.

“Woah, where’d that come from?” Jake hopped from the last stone into the dirt. A loud pattering of drops slapped the top of the hill, accompanied by a gust of wind and a clap of thunder. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“It’s creepy!” Jenny hung back, glancing from the shell of castle that had apparently sprung out of the moors to the sheets of rain darkening the clouds behind them.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Jake grabbed his sister’s arm and yanked her into the shelter of the stone tower at the corner of the castle. Despite the high, circular windows, the tower was dark, and the children shivered in the still air.

“Jake,” the girl whimpered. “I don’t like it here! I wanna go home!”

“Shh! Did you hear that?” Jake clapped a hand over her mouth and peered wildly into the darkness. The children huddled together, even Jake beginning to admit to himself that he was frightened.

Lightning flashed, and something far above split with a resounding boom that drowned the thunder. The walls of the tower shimmered and crackled with energy, their dim light reflecting from something tall and metallic in the center of the room.

As the light went out, Jake caught his breath. “Jenny,” he whispered, his voice quivering. “Did you see it move?”

A clank echoed against the stone, and Jenny screamed.

Grimdark

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He stood at the base of the bridge, his hands twisting behind him. Don’t show fear, they had warned. You don’t want to attract the grimdark, they had said. He kept his face carefully blank (he hoped), but his hands fidgeted. He wondered if the grimdark could hear his heart pounding.

The orange light of the forest began to coalesce at the apex of the bridge while shadows advanced. He tried to make himself stand straighter, focusing on the light in front of him. He took a single step forward, his boot scuffing against the wood planks. The light pulsed and shimmered, and he paused, swallowing hard.

Low notes whispered to him, and he looked around wildly before realizing they came from inside his head. They swelled in volume, a deep bass thrumming against the inside of his skull. This wasn’t right! He clutched his temples, salt drops leaking from his eyes, and stared with growing horror at the light. Burnt orange flames reached for him as the pounding notes churned his brain. He screamed, and the light went out.

The Bell

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For generations the bell had rung morning and night, its peals joining the crashing waves in a symphony of sound. The five peaks of the landside bore the code for its messages. Fair weather, foul, days of worship, and days of mourning. The fifth mark, on the center peak, had long been ignored by the island folk, its meaning lost in the passage of years. The bellringer would learn his day’s duty by noting under which of the other four peaks the mission opened its doors at dawn.

When Ambros arrived to ring the bells as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, he stopped short, staring at the light streaming out of the center door. His eyes went to the symbol above it, incomprehensible to him, and his knees trembled. The crescent gleamed white, much brighter than the other four symbols, and an overwhelming urge to flee flooded him.

The lack of the morning bell would likely send the island into a greater tumult than a new message, however. Ambros gulped and forced himself forward, hoping that the dusty old bellringer’s manual would decipher the symbol. When he stepped through the door, the light went out, and the glowing mark above swelled to blend with the deep red of the sunrise. The bell tolled of its own accord, a single deep hollow tone, and the island sank beneath a calm sea.

Heir

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It was a strange place for a school, high in the Alps where the crags rose so steeply that the chateau stuck out of the mountainside like a hitchhiker’s thumb. Telian was sure the founders had been goats; no one else would have thought all these stairs would be a good idea. And, on the inside at least, one could have imagined it to be any of the wealthiest valley palaces. The icy winds of the peaks whistled by unmarked by those under the great glass dome of the courtyard.

Telian had been destined for the school since before he was born. Every firstborn of the Harkner line had come to manhood climbing those accursed stairs. He found the whole thing boring in the extreme; this was the twenty-first century, not the thirteenth. Why anyone would still want their sons to be educated in this backward, isolated fashion was beyond his comprehension.

The ancient bells rang from the turret at the highest pinnacle, producing echoes that even impressed Telian. He followed his fellow students as they pouted from their classrooms into the dusk of the sanctum, groaning inwardly. Lit only by the flickering of recessed candles, and smelling of crowded bodies, the room was his least favorite. Still, there was no avoiding meditation. Resigned, he gazed into the swirling pattern in the center stone as he had been taught.

This time, the swirl held his gaze, and instead of wandering into memories of video games and girls, he watched the swirl move and twist before his eyes. The room along with its occupants faded into darkness, and a voice reverberated with the sound of the bells. “Telian Harkner, heir of the Tenth Realm, it is time. Come and be counted among your forefathers.”

The Town

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The hot glue gun sat cooling beside his hand. A quick inspection of the board, a wiggle here or tap there, showed nothing loose or out of place. It was finally finished. How long had it taken him to figure out the right materials for those mossy roofs? He couldn’t even remember. It hadn’t mattered, really; the model had to be perfect.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly. He had woken one morning with an overwhelming need to build it. A town he had never seen, but he knew every detail. He’d looked it up one day, trying to convince himself it was just imagination and didn’t have to be so precise. There it was, a tiny town somewhere in the mountains clear across the world. How it could even be recorded on the internet he didn’t understand. After that he gave up fighting the urge; he never repeated his search or dug any deeper either. He had been too afraid of the reasons to want to know them.

Now, as he stood over his work, tiny lights flickered in the windows. He blinked, but they didn’t vanish. Music drifted faintly from the treeline on the far side of the model, and the tops of brightly-colored trees around the houses quivered as if a gentle breeze tickled them. The laughter of children rose from the house nearest him. He didn’t wait for more but stumbled to the door on legs that felt like jello. In his terrified hurry he forgot to shut the door.

Writer’s Block

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Louise tossed her glasses down on the table and massaged her aching head with tense fingers. How long had she been sitting here, trying to make the words come? Long enough for the tea she had made to be cold and bitter, at least. The rain made watching the passage of the sun impossible, and she had left her phone in her bedroom.

Coming up here to her grandmother’s farmhouse was supposed to solve everything. No distractions, plenty of open spaces and quiet, the perfect place to let the creative springs flow. Except they weren’t. She sighed. Maybe she should just face it; she was a one-hit-wonder. Writers could have hits, too, right? Maybe that one idea was a fluke, and she’d never have another.

She passed her hands over her face and glared at the notebook through splayed fingers. Wait, that key hadn’t been there before. She glanced around suspiciously, and hurriedly rose to check both corners of the porch for intruders. No one was there, and she laughed at herself. No one could have been on the porch without making the old boards creak just like they were doing under her own feet. But that key. Where could it have come from?

She sank back down onto the woven seat of the old straight backed chair. Slowly she picked up the old-fashioned bit of iron and twirled it between thumb and forefinger. An idea trickled into her mind, the barest beginning of something, but it was a beginning. She dropped the key to reach for her pen, then paused in consternation. What was it again? Of course, the one idea she’d had was gone just that fast. She picked up the key again, and her mind flooded with story. She stared with open mouth for a moment, then shoved the key into her other hand and snatched up her pen again. This was going to be a good one.

Stones

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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.