Category: ☆ BEST Stories

Some of my best or favorite stories — half finished, half not. Sort of the ‘Top 10%’.

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Honest? [Classic] (500 word story)

“Three weeks ago the doctor said you only had a month to live.” Wendell Anders sat still digesting the news. His wife went on: “He told me it would be best to wait to tell you until now.”

Wendell thought it through. So! His inoperable tumor was terminal. He had interpreted Dr Sloane’s casual brush off when he had asked about it as a sign that he had nothing to worry about – but now that he thought about it, the brushoff could be taken either way.

He had had no reason to doubt his wife’s word. One of the qualities that had endeared him to her when they met was her inability to lie. Even if she forced herself to tell ‘a little while lie’ for a good cause, the deception could be easily seen through. But anyway he asked, “Honest?”

She nodded and continued. “He said that, uh, death would be slow and painful, and that you should have enough time to, uh, consider other, uh, alternatives.”

Suicide! There was no question of what she was implying. “Thank you for telling me.” he said lamely. Wendell had at one time thought that the doctor and his wife were having an affair, but these thoughts were overwhelmed by others now.

The thought of dying occupied his mind all that day, and he seriously considered painless ways of dying. On his way home from work (he had seen no point in not going) he stopped by a drugstore and purchased a large bottle of sleeping pills. He figured death by overdose in his sleep might ever be quite pleasant.

After an unusually quiet dinner, his wife had gone to bed early leaving him to his thoughts. When he finally prepared for bed, he kissed his wife an extra time and, when she again dozed off, got up to get the sleeping pills. The recommended maximum dosage was two, so he took fifteen, and hurriedly slipped into bed – leaving the bottle of pills and empty glass on the nightstand – so there would not be any questions in the morning. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the pills to take effect. The lamp he had left on seemed to dim as he finally began to doze off.

He thought one last time of his wife and how she could never avoid a direct question. Honest Abigail he had called her. He would miss her.

Then at the edge of sleep, he felt – rather than saw – his wife climb out of bed. He was too tired to turn his head.

He heard another voice, and watched as she and Dr. Sloane came into his field of vision, arm in arm. He had to fight to keep his eyes open.

His wife said: “Yes Wendell, three weeks ago Dr. Sloane said you had only a month to live,” she smiled up at the doctor, “but he lied.”

Wendell’s last thoughts were – “Why – hadn’t – I – asked – herrrr……..?”

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Prize Fight [Classic] (200 word story)

The mob seethed in anger at the words of the lone speaker. The speaker’s face was red, and he was screaming vehemently to be heard over the roar of the menacing crowd. Somewhere, the chant began: kill, Kill, KILL! Then, as one, the mob rushed toward the platform and smothered the speaker with their mass. Another of their number stepped up to take his place.

“Those mindless fools,” a bystander commented, but the crowd kept up their activity until only a single speaker remained — yelling at a mass of dead bodies strewn at his feet.

“I agree,“ said another, “but how else can it be done?”

“I don’t know.”

Finally, the speaker realized that he was the last, and a smile touched his face. The man then picked his way through the fallen bodies. The few spectators that were there watched impassively as the newly-selected President of the United States made his way toward them.

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Murder [Classic] (1600 word story)

“He’s dead!” she exclaimed in her cutie-pie voice, her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Oh, my!” she added. I stepped past her into the room, the other guests crowding behind. In the center of a beautifully-colored wall-to-wall carpet sprawled the body of the late Mr. Edminson – a wealthy old codger who tended to spend most of his time in seclusion in this very room, his study. The knife in the back, and the blood on the carpet, left no doubt in my mind that he was dead, but I checked anyway.

Edminson was the owner of the magnificent hotel in which we were all borders. He was well liked by most – but obviously not by all. Не had no heirs, and had hinted that he had left his phenomenal fortune to one of the guests, not disclosing which one.

I looked about the room at the six guests other than myself.

There was Melissa Maypole, the buxomy little blonde who had first discovered the body. She was some little sexpot. Edminson and she were seldom seen together – at least not in public.

To her left was Andria Blarney – a plain, tragic wisp of a girl. Shy as a lamb, she seldom saw the sun, and was hopelessly in love with – Brad Baxter.

Baxter was the kind man you can’t help but hate. He was incredibly handsome, and incredibly conceited. He had no concern for others’ feelings, and would as easily crush a friend (if he had any friends) as he would an insect. He would lie, cheat, steal, and possibly kill – to achieve his way to the top. Не knew of Andria’s feelings, but callously hounded after Genneatte Margoli, the Italian goddess who graced our presence.

Genneatte was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She grew up in a small town near Florence, and at the ripe age of 17, made her way to America and California – where she had hoped to get into pictures. But here she was at the Hotel Blofaunte – doing apparently nothing for a living, and doing that extremely well. She was very cold toward men, but occasionally a bit of warmth showed through –  like the last flames of a dying fire. I sometimes doubted whether there was a woman more beautiful in all of San Francisco.

B. Asgard Hopkins was perhaps the only close friend of Edminson among the quests. Edminson and he were approximately the same age, but Hopkins had never made his fortune like Edminson. Perhaps he was living off his friend’s charity.  They played checkers and gin rummy together on Sunday afternoons, and sometimes could be found on the veranda in the early evenings sipping sherry and reminiscing about the good old days.

Also there was Christian Miller, a wholesome young lad just back from the war – trying to work his way through night school. Christian and I got along well, as we shared several hobbies in common: riflery and boating to name a few. He was the kind of man to whom Andria should turn her attention.

As a former police inspector, I naturally took charge. “Who was the last to see Mr. Edminson alive?”

A few murmurs, then Hopkins said, “Perhaps Mrs. Butler.”

Ah, Mrs. Butler! I had nearly forgotten about her. She was the live-in maid, nurse – and who knows what else – to Mr. Edminson. She prepared the meals for all of us as well as kept the hotel in working order. She was rather unobtrusive, and it was difficult sometimes to remember if one had seen her that day. I walked to the door, leaned out, and called up the stairs.

“Mrs. Burler!”

She appeared at the top of the stairs clutching handkerchief, her face blotched red from crying. She was already dressed in black (or did she always wear black?) and looked to be a serious woman in her late forties (about my own age). She was stout, though not heavy, and had gray hair streaked with silver. She started down the stairs.

I stepped back into the room, noticing that the group had broken up into pairs. Baxter was saying something to Geanette, who was looking my way. Hopkins and Melissa Maypole were talking of the murder, with Hopkins gesturing every now and then toward the body. Christian was trying to draw Andria into a conversation, but she was staring fixedly at a point somewhere above my head.

I looked again at the body in the still, red puddle of blood – with an ornately-carved knife protruding its back.

Mrs. Butter entered behind me, her eyes desperately trying to avoid the body.

“Mrs. Butler,” I asked softly, “when was the last time you saw Mr. Edminson alive?”

The flow of tears started anew, but the voice was steady, with a hint of Irish brogue in it. “At tea time today, sir,” she replied.

“Thank you.” I turned to address Melissa Maypole (what an odd name). “Miss Maypole, how did you happen to enter Mr. Edminson’s study at this hour?” It was quarter after five, dinner was not until seven.

“I was going to ask him if he would take on another border,” she replied, “a girlfriend of mine desperately needs a place to stay.” She said it, with a special emphasis on ‘desperately’, as though she was trying to convince me to accept.

“And you found him dead, and immediately came to get the other guests without entering the study?”

“That’s right. I thought with you being a former inspector, and all…” she sounded almost apologetic.

“You did the right thing,” I assured her. Thinking aloud, I went on, “So we know that Mr. Edminson died somewhere between tea-time, 4:00, and when Miss Maypole found him dead, call it 5:00,” I smited wryly, “and I believe that we can rule out suicide.”

“I would like you all to go to your rooms now, and I will question each of you individually. Compose your thoughts – because you must have a verifiable alibi before you are removed from suspicion.”

I gave them all time to return to their rooms, while I composed my own thoughts.

No one is above suspicion. Mr. Edminson was murdered between four and five o’clock. The murder weapon is a knife with a carved handle, reminiscent of southwestern Europe, Italy perhaps. Would Geanette be so foolish, or is someone trying to frame her, some jealous party such as Andria? Or…

This speculation is getting me nowhere; as would, I believe, checking for alibis. I myself have no alibi, and most of the guests were in their rooms alone. Maybe if I call them all together, I can frighten the murderer into giving him (or her) self away. Calling the police now will bring them here in a quarter of an hour. If I can’t find the murderer in that time, I doubt that I could in any length of time.

I stepped out of the study, and used the telephone at the foot of the stairs to call the police. After I explained who I was, they agreed to my request to use their sirens when they arrived. I hoped this would incite the murderer into flight – if my other tactics failed.

I climbed the stairs, and knocked on Mrs. Butler’s door – the only door to my left. All the other guests’ rooms, including my own, were to the right of the stairs. The door must have been unlatched, for it swung open part way and I poked my head in – only to see a glint of a flying object, and heard Mrs. Butler shriek, “No!”

I jerked my head back out of the way of the flying knife, but still felt it deflect off my scalp. I heard the knife embed itself into the wall as I slammed closed the door. Blood was welling down into my left eye, and down my face.

I searched for a weapon, and snatched up a silver tray that was lying upon the table in the hall. This should serve as a temporary shield, I thought.

With I running start, I burst into the room and, holding the tray in front of me, ran blindly at the spot I had last seen Mrs. Butler – but she was not there. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, drawing her arm back for another throw. Fortunately, I was headed toward a large sofa – so I continued, and dove behind it – only to receive a knife in my left thigh.

I looked down at it, as I lay panting behind the sofa. The handle matched the one in the back of Mr. Edminson downstairs. Almost screaming in pain, I drew it out slowly – and prepared to use it against Mrs. Butler. I was not unfamiliar with knives, but took little time to examine it, and I threw it with all my might – which, by that time with loss of blood, was not what it could have been.

I had thrown it wide of the mark, and it would have missed her – had she not stepped into its path while preparing to face the figure now entering the door. It struck her under the left shoulder blade and, by the angle at which I threw it, I could tell that it had reached her heart.

She made gurgling sounds in her throat, and fell to the floor – blood slowly oozing from her mouth.

I collapsed at almost the same instant – and through the engulfing blackness, I could see Christian’s face leaning over me while, in the distance, the dim sound of sirens pierced the evening air.

Written before I moved to California. It’s funny to me that one of the characters targeted the film industry (“hoped to get into pictures”) but she’s living in San Francisco — which is nowhere near Hollywood.

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Nilrem [Classic] (1000 word story)

The old timer didn’t know what to make of it. He’d o been mining these mountains for fifty years, but he’d never come across anything like this. He scratched his head and looked sideways at the thing. He was standing belore what appeared to be a cave – only there was this wall of what appeared to be water over the entrance.

It had the appearance of a mirror, and rippled in the wind just as a lake would – but it was upright. If he thought about it as a pond, it made him dizzy, and he got momentarily confused about what direction was down, until he closed his eyes. Maybe it was a giant soap bubble, he thought. But when he touched it, it didn’t break. Ripples just spread out from where he touched, bounced off the sides, regrouped in the middle, bounced again off the sides… until they died.

He had tried sticking his arm into it, and determined that it was at least as deep as his arm. He touched the water again (he was convinced it was water) and watched the ripples expand, bounce, and contract until they were swallowed up by the waves made by the wind. Thinking about the waves, he had the momentary feeling that he was suspended horizontally above the pond – and found himself falling toward it. He stumbled toward the wall of water, and was engulfed. His ripples too eventually were swallowed up by the waves. His donkey brayed in remorse, and the wind howled its condolences.

The feeling of vertigo continued until he found himself floating at the surface of a small pond (this one was in the ground) in the center of a circle of sword points, The prospector looked around in bewilderment as he was ordered out of the pool and escorted to a large tent topped by a red flag with a dragon upon it.

“My liege,” one of his escorts said by way of an interruption. A small, but impressive man turned toward them. He wore rich blue robes and had blond hair and air of nobility about him. But this was not what drew the prospector’s attention. Seated next to the noble was the prospector himself – or his twin – wearing sky blue robes with astrological designs on them. The old timer fainted.

When he awoke, he found himself on a fur in the corner of the same tent – alone with his twin and the noble. He lay still and listened.

“As I was, saying earlier M’lord,” his twin was saying, his voice sounding exactly like the prospector’s, “there exist other worlds, other dimensions that differ from ours by time, space, and circumstance.”

“This man is undoubtedly me,” the room grew dark and spun, but the prospector managed to retain consciousness, “…comes from a different dimension. He has no idea who he is, or the power he possesses.”

“That’s all well and good, Merlin,” interrupted the other, “but how does this help us in our upcoming siege against Troy?”

“We know that he is unaware of his connection with us, as are we. He may be part of our past, or we part of his, or our worlds may never coincide. I can still use him as a channel to increase my power eightfold times. This increase will almost certainly make a victory oven the murderous Trojans certain. But remember as I said before, this is a one-time spell, and he will remain with us for only forty-eight hours – no more, no less.”

“If we march at once, we will make Troy by sundown,” said the noble. “Good luck, Merlin.”

“And to you, Arthur,” as the young king departed from the tent.

Merlin turned to the prospector. “Good morning, self,” the magician said – and the two began a dizzying (for the prospector) conversation about dimensions and identities.

At nightfall, they were camped a mile from Troy – separated only by a level field.

The prospector had grown to like the magician (and why not?) and was seen the next day with him as the two wandered here and there discussing plans for the siege at nightfall.

“All you have to do is repeat along with me the spells and incantations, and our powers will combine to demolish the gates of Troy. This shall all be done when we ride up with the army at our backs.”

“I understand,” replied the prospector, and they prepared to ride to Troy.

The army halted three hundred yards from the city, and the magician and the prospector rode up together to accomplish their Herculean task.

The prospector repeated the chants with remarkable ease considering that some were in strange tongues. He felt a mighty force surge through him and directed it at the gates – as did Merlin. An incredible brilliance emanated from their hands, and enveloped the gates with its blaze. They both cried out in joy at the incredible feeling of power and, in a short time, the gates of Troy were shattered, and the army rushed in.

The city fell during night and, as it neared sunrise, the magician turned to his double and shouted over the rejoicing that they had better see to returning the prospector.

Merlin took the old-timer aside and, with a simple spell, the two were back at the small pond from which the prospector had emerged.

“Goodbye, and good luck,” Merlin said as the prospector lowered himself into the pond.

“Goodbye,” the prospector replied and, with a wink, submerged himself – never to be seen in that world again.

Again the vertigo, and the prospector fell out of the wall of water, hit his head, and blacked out.

He awoke a while later with his donkey standing over him, nudging him concernedly.

He thought back, shook his head, and smiled. Rising to his feet, he patted the animal on the shoulder saying, “No more Mexican food for me, huh girl?” The donkey brayed in agreement.

He shook his head again and, with a casual gesture behind him, a flash of light from his hand closed up the portal of water – and he continued down the trail with his donkey.

“Nope. No more Mexican food for me, that’s for sure.”

I don’t remember writing this, and was half convinced — even hoping — that the ‘twins’ were going to swap places — either through mutual consent, or by one tricking the other.

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A Face in the Crowd [Classic] (100 word story)

“You’ll never get me, you dirty copper!”

Gumball Turner felt that he was safe in the crowd. He knew that there was always the chance of him being found, but he knew that those chances were slim. The anonymity of the crowd had saved him before. He felt it safe to yell again.

“You’ll never get me, copper!” Those near him looked at him oddly, but most had eyes for the impressive copper coming toward them.

The copper came, found Gumball — and took him away.

“Noooooooooooo!” Gumball cried, but he was ruthlessly popped into the mouth of the expectant child.

So, to clarify… the ‘copper’ was a penny (not a policemen) and Gumball Turner was an actual gumball from a gumball machine.

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Revenge [Classic] (unfinished story)

4000 words! And unfinished…

The judge glared down at me, wiping my saliva from his face with a bright yellow handkerchief. He was scarlet with anger, tendons bulging outrageously from the sides of his neck. The crowd behind me sat in stunned silence.

The courtroom was filled to overflowing, men and women were packed into the back, the rear doors, and out into the street. Children were perched on shoulders, relaying what was happening to their parents. The tall, narrow windows of the courtroom — which seemed to capture and intensify the midday heat — caused me to wonder if this building were not used incongruously as a church on Sundays.

I stood before the judge, my hands bound behind me as the two men with guns who flanked me shifted nervously on their feet. A droplet of sweat made its way lazily down my cheek as I watched him in unconcealed amusement.

The silence was broken by a girl’s giggle from the back of the room.

The judge came to life. “Take him away!” he shrieked, his own spittle spraying. The entire courtroom exploded into sound, everyone trying to be heard above his neighbor. I was surprised that the judge had controlled his temper for this long, since my courtroom demeanor includes far more than spitting in the judge’s face as he passes sentence. The vocabulary I had used today would have burned even my father’s ears, master curser though he was.

I struggled as the men beside me grabbed me by my upper arms and dragged me toward the rear, pushing their way firmly through the crowd. I found time to wink at the girl who had giggled. She was no more than seven or eight, and was dressed in a spotless white dress. She smiled back, but I was hauled quickly away and out of the noise and stifling heat into the bright noon sunshine.

Either it was normal procedure to hang people immediately after sentencing, or they made an exception in my case, because they dragged me along the main street toward the gallows that was located at the edge of town. On either side of the wide street were closely-spaced wooden buildings which grew scarcer nearer to the gallows. My efforts to free myself kicked up thick clouds of dust from the street which looked as if it had not seen rain in months. The gallows, now distantly visible at the end of the street, drew ominously nearer. Word of the inside festivities had spread swiftly, because the street was now lined with people in twos and threes hurrying to ensure a good view.

After what seemed like years, I was supported, shaking from exhaustion, at the foot of the gallows. An air of expectancy hung over the crowd which was nearly three times as large as the one in the courtroom — and was probably composed of every man, woman and child in the town. I was somewhat surprised at the presence of the children, but I guessed that perhaps the parents were trying to show them why they should be good and not break the law. I wondered how many hangings this crowd had witnessed, how often a body could be seen silhouetted against the evening sun as a silent reminder of their self-appointed superiority.

The stairs leading up to the platform were wide enough for three to walk abreast, which is how we ascended, the sun beating relentlessly upon my head. The wooden stairs creaked under our weight, but showed no signs of collapsing. I struggled as we climbed, trying to buy time.

We finally reached the top, and I was herded toward a four-by-four foot trap door with a lever upright next to it and the noose hanging long enough to be resting on the platform. One of the men produced a hood from somewhere, and raised it toward my head. I told him that I did not want it. “It ain’t for you,” he said, “It’s for them.”. He motioned with his head toward the crowd, “Hanged men aren’t too pretty.”

“I still don’t want it,” I repeated, “don’t I even get this last request?” He looked at me, shrugged, and tossed it aside. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief. That had been close. I needed to be able to speak clearly, and that isn’t too easy inside a hood.

They positioned me above the trap door, whose unsteadiness caused me to wonder whether or not it would give way prematurely. When the noose was placed upon me, the slack hung down to my knees. They pulled the knot tight and positioned it on the left side of my neck. Then they waited.

I looked out over the crowd, noticing that they were eager to watch, but careful to avoid meeting my gaze. I caught sight of the judge excusing himself through the crowd. He separated himself from the others and strode solemnly forward to read the charges and formally condemn me to death.

“Amos Jackson,” he intoned, which wasn’t my real name — though my fathers’ name was Jack. “You have been duly tried and found guilty of the murder of Cyral Blackwood.” Not his real name either. He went on to speak of my “lack of Christian morals” and “intolerable criminal character” — finally ending with, “And may Almighty God have mercy on your soul.” He paused for a moment with bowed head, and then looked up and nodded to the man on my left.

I glanced up at the sun. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. I had to stall.

I looked to my left where the man was reaching toward the lever. He stopped when I yelled unoriginally, “Wait!” I took a breath and couldn’t help but smile as I felt the power flow into me. I thought carefully back to what I was supposed to say. The crowd was intensely still as I opened my mouth to speak.

It was a pity that my execution would not be in the same world as my birth. I would have liked to have had my family and friends, and even poor Greshem, witness my escape. They would appreciate a show of power more than these people who lived in a world where magic was nearly forgotten. Maybe next time.

I was born Amonsl, second son of Jack the Cooper of Smithton. Smithton, located where the Brine and Capering rivers join to form the Leewater, is also one of the closest approaches to boatable water that Blackwood Forest makes. These two factors make Smithton the leading center of trade for the region, which in turn made my father, the leading cooper, a very prominent man.

Up until the time I was twelve, I was content with the idea of following in my father’s footsteps. The understanding was that when my father died, my brother Mordel, who is ten years my senior, and I would take over the coopery. Like my brother, I had nearly grown up in my father’s shop, the workmen and I becoming good friends, while I learned the trade at an early age. The noise and bustle of the shop kept me dazzled for many years. As I grew older and my interests broadened, I was intrigued by the fact that visiting merchants and tradesmen always seemed to bring their eligible young daughters along with them when discussing business with my father. They were apparently trying to insure good, inexpensive relations with my father by marrying into his family. Approaching my teens, it was not unreasonable to be thinking of marriage. My father had married at fourteen, my brother at sixteen. My brother’s son Will was only eight years younger than I.

Life went without incident until one day an eastern magician came to Smithton to perform. My father received a written invitation offering free admission for him and his family (an odd courtesy to extend to the rich). The name of the magician, it said, was Greshem of the Eastern Hills. He would perform an hour after sunset. Attending with my family, I didn’t know what to expect and did not imagine that it could change my life so drastically.

Word spread rapidly, and the crowd began to gather shortly after sundown. By showtime, most of the town were waiting eagerly for the magician to make his appearance. Suddenly, he was there, dressed in red and silver, emerging from a cloud of smoke. He seemed to me to be the oldest living human I ever seen, but his voice was young and strong. His eyes blazed like embers, and seemed to single me out, to burn into my soul. Throughout the entire act, I felt that I was the only one in the audience, that he and I were the only things in the universe. The splendor of the show was indescribable, though I now realize that it was composed of simple parlor tricks that require very little magic, if any at all. Nonetheless, the crowd went home feeling that they had gotten their money’s worth.

I stayed after everyone had gone, wanting to speak to him — to tell him how much I wanted to be a magician also; but I hid in the shadows, too afraid to find the words. I watched him for a time, packing up his equipment — until he turned to me and said, “Come over here, boy,” as if he had known I had been there all the time. Stepping out into the light, I walked warily over to where he had sat down.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice much older than it had been during his act, his eyes no longer blazing. How could he not know?

“Sir,” I had said, “can anyone learn to be a magician?” He studied me carefully for a very long time. I thought uncomfortably that he wasn’t going to answer, but at last he spoke.

“No, not anyone. A student of the arts should be young, bright and willing to devote himself entirely to learning.” I was silent for a time, summoning up courage for my next question.

My heart sank as he stood and began to walk away, carrying his few belongings. I felt like crying, but was too stunned to do anything. When he was nearly gone from sight, he turned to face me. Again, we were the only two things in the universe, and I heard him as clearly as if he were standing beside me. “Be ready with a horse and two days of provisions at sunrise.” Then he was gone, and I was left overflowing with emotion. I was halfway home before I realized that I had never actually asked if I could come.

I couldn’t sleep that night, and was in the stables an hour before dawn making preparations. Leaving word with my mother, as I was unable to face my father, I was hurrying toward the east end of town as the sky began to brighten. Greshem did not acknowledge me as I caught up to him, but I rode proudly in his wake as we journeyed to meet the rising sun.

It was three years before I returned to Smithton. I found that during that time both of my parents had died of a devastating plague during one of the rainy seasons. My brother Mordel, who had kept the business running successfully, was not especially happy to see me — for fear that I would claim my half. He was saving it for his son Kellen (Will had also died in the plague). I stayed for only one night, and then went back to my home in the Eastern Hills.

“It is essential for a magician to be able to see through illusions.” Greshem stood before me in red and silver. I had been apprenticed to him for eight years — most of which were spent in the small cave in which we now were. The cave was located high in the Eastern Hills, ten miles from the nearest town, and nearly thirty leagues from Smithton. I had learned much during that time. Delving deep into obscure disciplines and the archaic branches of learning, I had come slowly to understand the lore of the magician, I had also grown slowly to despise Greshem — because of the humor he found in my mistakes, and the joy he took in humiliating me.

Ten feet away, Greshem unconsciously smirked, anticipating my failure. His tone, that of a lecturer, was in odd contrast to the dagger he held loosely in his right hand. My eyes were on the dagger. “Illusions affect sight, hearing, and smell. The important difference is that illusions do not have the aura of the objects they appear to be, a difference you should be able to detect by now.”

Actually, I wasn’t as good at auras as I should have been — and the pressure of one of Greshem’s tests would only make things more difficult. The idea was simple though — a dog made to look like a cat still has the aura of a dog — a difference that a trained magician should be able to recognize at a glance. I chewed my lower lip and watched his right hand.

“An illusion can totally lack reality,” a flower appeared then disappeared in his previously empty left hand, “or it can be an alteration of reality,” the dagger in his right hand became a snake, “but one cannot hide reality behind nothing,” the dagger vanished for a moment, but even I could still see its aura.

Suddenly, his shoulders tensed and he threw the dagger, or did he? Time seemed to slow as I concentrated on the weapon e flying toward me. Did it have an aura? I couldn’t tell, and decided to play it safe. I dodged, and the dagger disappeared several feet in front of me leaving no aura. Illusion.

He was smiling openly as he threw the next dagger. I watched it hurl toward me. Illusion, I decided. Even if it weren’t, it would only nick my left arm. Standing still, I met his amused gaze — and the dagger painlessly creased my left shoulder drawing bright blood. Damn.

He laughed, “Not guessing very well are you?” he taunted. With a gesture, my wound vanished. It had been another illusion, damn him!

He threw another dagger and turned his back. Dodging, I heard it crash into the wall behind me. Inconclusive either way. Years of persecution stoked my anger. Drawing my own dagger, I raced toward him and dove at his back. I passed through him and hit the ground hard at the entranceway, my dagger clattering harmlessly out into the night. His laughter boomed loud from the shadows at the side of the cave — where my subconscious told me he had been the whole time. I glared at him, still not totally sure if he were real or another illusion. Getting to my feet, I ran shamefacedly out into the darkness.

I rushed aimlessly away from the cave. My eyes were filled with the red haze of anger. After perhaps fifteen minutes, I found myself beside a jagged outcropping of rock overlooking the eastern desert. I was at one of the highest points in the mountains. I marvelled silently at the good fortune I had had in not falling to my death along the way. Travel in the mountains is dangerous enough in full daylight, but to charge about recklessly at night is folly. I looked out over the desert as my breathing slowed. The moon was beginning to rise to the southeast. Long, silvery fingers of moonlight stretched bleakly across the desert floor casting dark silhouettes of the scattered rock formations. I watched the shadows shrink to half their size, but still my anger did not lessen. I would kill Greshem if I could, but should I try and fail…

I heard some rocks scatter behind me as someone approached. Greshem? Seeking to make amends? I was thinking of ignoring him until I remembered my attempt on his life. Fearing reciprocation, I spun around. Before me was a tall, bearded man much younger in appearance than Greshem. He was dressed in blue with a red cross upon his left shoulder. His staff glowed dimly. I checked automatically that it was not another of Greshem’s illusions.

“Cephus!” I hissed. This man was a rival magician as great as Greshem — but, if tales can be believed, far more evil. Greshem was often complaining of Cephus interfering in his plans. I made preparations to defend myself.

“Come now, lad,” he said smiling broadly, “I come in peace!”

“Why should I believe you, dog? Your very breath reeks of lies!”

‘You believe me evil?” he laughed good naturedly, “Where I come from, tales of Greshem’s atrocities are terrible enough to curdle blood. He looked at me penetratingly. “Don’t believe everything you hear.

I relaxed somewhat. “What do you want?”

I stood at the cave mouth, staring at Greshem’s back as he sat cross-legged before the fire. I thought back to my encounter with Cephus. He had stated that he had a plan where I could humiliate Greshem without fear of retaliation. As I asked him to explain, I already knew that I would accept. My eyes narrowed as I recalled the many times I had been humiliated and disgraced by Greshem. Savoring my hatred, I thought about the fact that soon I would no longer be his apprentice. This act would be a fitting farewell gift.

Greshem misinterpreted my pause in entering. “All is well,” he said, “I forgive you for your rashness.”. Biting back a sarcastic reply, I entered the cave and found my bedroll. Lying down, I closed my eyes — but was too anxious to sleep. The waiting seemed endless. Unbelievably, I must have dozed off for a time because the fire suddenly seemed much lower than it had. Greshem finally retired when the fire did, but I lay still another hour before rising and creeping carefully toward him.

As a magician increases in knowledge and power, he discovers after a time that there is a limit to the amount that he can accumulate. To increase further, the magician must employ some outside means to relieve the burden of further gains. The typical solution is to store portions of previously-obtained wisdom in some personal magical item called a ‘token’.

Once a magician acquires a token, he is said to be at the ‘master level.’ Many masters store the bulk of their knowledge in their tokens. This being the case, tokens are carefully guarded and protected. Since it is possible to become attuned to another magician’s token, it sometimes occurs that a younger magician gains the powers of a much more experienced magician, thus saving many years of studying and training.

Standing beside the fire I had just made, I turned Greshem’s token over in my hand. It was a small crystal, the size of my smallest finger, fastened to a gold chain. It flashed  brilliant yellow in the firelight.

Cephus had given me a tiny mushroom that he had picked up in his travels — whose spores, when inhaled, render the victim unable to perform any magic for twenty-four hours. The mushroom must be crushed beneath the very nose of the victim. As Greshem’s apprentice, I was the only one whom he trusted enough not to set automatic magical guards against. Therefore, I was the only one who could get close enough to him — even in his sleep.

I had asked Cephus what he would gain if I agreed to his plan. He replied, “The satisfaction of Greshem being defeated by a lesser magician, and also the respite gained by preventing him from meddling in my own affairs for a time.” Spurred on by thoughts of revenge against Greshem, I probed no further.

I looked down at Greshem as he sat against the wall, powerless, his hands and feet bound. Turning to go, I knew that he would be able to free himself once what powers he had left returned. “Worthless lout!” he cried after me, “ungrateful goat! I curse you a thousand times! I shall revenge you into my grave!”

Laughing, I strode from the cave, putting his token safely within my pouch.

Midday found me approaching the woodcutter’s shack Cephus had described. He had instructed me to bring him the token so he could show me how to attune myself to it. Reining in my horse, I dismounted. Cephus met me at the door! “Where is it?” he asked, his eyes bright.

I put my hand to my pouch. “Not so fast,” I said confidently, stepping past him into the building. The world went painfully dark.

I awoke only a short time later, judging by the sun. My brain throbbed in agony, and I had a large knot on the back of my head. My pouch was gone.

I made to cast a spell that would tell me Cephus’ whereabouts, and was perplexed when nothing happened. Going through the motions again with the same result, I came to the conclusion that he must have used one of his mushrooms on me while I was unconscious. All my magic was gone.

I cursed my stupidity. Cephus was by now the most powerful magician in centuries — having certainly taken time to attune himself to Greshem’s token, and I was powerless. Locating my horse, I mounted. There really was little doubt to where Cephus had gone. I hurried back the way I had come to avenge Greshem’s certain death.

Night had fallen before I drew near the cave that had been my home for many years. From many miles away, I could see and hear the battle raging like some multihued thunderstorm, but now, all was eerily silent. It was almost exactly one day since I had robbed Greshem of his powers. If his defenses could hold for a few more minutes…

Suddenly, I was standing beside him, amid a landscape charred and blackened. Though his lifeblood spilled from several mortal wounds, his eyes blazed with a cold fire. He had regained his power. I marvelled at how Greshem could have survived for so long. How little I knew of his power. It was then that I knew fear — for I realized that he could kill me now should he wish.

As if sensing my fear, he smiled weakly. “I have one more task for you Amonsl.” For the better part of a minute, rugged coughing shook his body. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth as he fought to hang on to his rapidly-fading life for a few more moments. At last, he was once more able to speak. “Destroy Cephus. Follow him to wherever he may lead, but destroy him. Give me your word that you will do this thing.” Afraid to do anything else, I gave him my word.

Breath rattled in his chest as he hurried to finish what he had to say. “Cephus will travel through time and space trying to escape. Do not lose him. Once he is no more, you will wish to return to this plane — but you lack the necessary lore. Merely say these words,” he whispered a phrase in the Old Tongue, “but only after you have slain him! Thus shall I have my revenge.”

He was gone then, upon his face a peaceful, if crooked, smile.

I looked up and saw Cephus standing on a nearby ridge. He sneered at me, then turned and walked away, his laughter louder than the thunder. I sighed and trekked reluctantly after him.

I know where this is going — can you guess? Maybe I’ve written the ending already, but it’s not stapled to the rest of the story.

So I’ve gone through all my papers, and I do not have an existing written ending — but here’s what will happen: the main character (Amonsl) will pursue and eventually kill Cephus, then say the words that Greshem told him — but… those words won’t transport Amonsl back, they will instead kill him (‘thus shall I have my revenge’).

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Stowaway [Classic] (350 word story)

The small craft weathered the storm surprisingly well. Harsh as the storm was, it did not discourage the voyagers in the little Phenonecian craft coming home after a long voyage from the land later to be known as America. Each voyage had taken three months. Added to the two months they had spent in America — made it three-fourths of a year since they had left their home on the eastern shore of the Mediteranian Sea. They were but a day’s voyage from Pheonecia when the storm started; and, although it was carrying them eastward, Ramyn, the captain in charge, estimated that it would still be nearly two days before they could safely land.

They had been the first craft sent out for the purpose of reaching the legendary land past the East Teeth which formed the eatsren mouth of the Mediteranian. They had spied out the new land for possible colonization, and had collected various representatives of the fauna, including some brightly-plumed birds (killed for easy transport); an opossum (dead when found); a pair of monkeys (which they named Kip and Kep) with extremely long, mobile tails (Kep the female has died on the return voyage); and the skin and head of a very long snake (the rest they had eaten).

The fruits they had collected had also been eaten, but the gold they had discovered was still in its pouch at Ramyn’s side.

Suddenly, the boat was unexpectedly wrenched apart. Ramyn showed nothing but surprise as he went down beneath the strom’s crashing waves. His last thoughts were him wondering how his extremely sturdy craft could have done in by this average-strength storm. The only survivor of the trip turned out to be Kip, the monkey, who scrambled for shore and immediately began searching for food when the wreckage he had managed to cling to reached land two days later.

Kip had no way of knowing that the downfall of Ramyn’s boat was not due to some oversight in construction, or even a particularly bad strom, but was brought about by another example of a fauna once limited to America — the termite.

I wrote this while young — probably after learning that termites originated in America.

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Solving the Riddle [New] (unfinished story)

Below is a passage from the story that I’m writing that will be similar to Alice in Wonderland — more here. Note that this post is my 100th. Pretty exciting milestone.

Bound to protect
Ordered for a purpose
Giving more and more
Until the very end

Jillian considered the riddle as her eyes glanced around the room, taking in the details.  Objects of every shape and size littered the desk and shelves. Paintings and other artwork covered the walls.   The floor had piles upon piles of boxes and debris, some toppled over, which made it difficult to navigate the room.

Jillian had never seen a room filled with such a wild variety of…of things packed so closely together. Any of which could hold the answer to the riddle!  Jillian’s heart grew heavy as she imagined the giant task of examining every object in the room to find the answer.

Jillian recited the riddle to herself.  ‘Bound to protect’, ‘Ordered for a purpose‘. It sounded like the description of a knight who vows his protection and his life, and receives orders to protect the kingdom ‘until the very end’. That could be it!  She began searching the room for anything related to knights — a suit of armor, a painting depicting a battle, anything…but after more than an hour of searching — under things, behind things, seemingly everywhere — she could find nothing related to knights or battles.

The hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed Jillian, and she felt tears in her eyes as she sank to a rare open spot on the floor. Her hand came to rest on a nearby stack of books — her fingers casually tracing the cover of the top book.  She looked down, realizing that she hadn’t noticed these books before.  The riddle replayed in her mind: bound, ordered, giving more and more until the end…  The answer had to be — a book!  A book fit all the clues.  But which book?

Jillian started looking through the stack.  As she moved from book to book, her initial excitement turned quickly to dismay.  There were dozens and dozens of books — thick and thin, big and small — pages upon pages, many in languages, even alphabets, she didn’t recognize.  How long would it take her to study each page in each book and find what she needed to escape this room? Days? Weeks?  She felt the hopelessness returning as she neared the bottom of the stack of books — and then she stopped.  In her hands was a vaguely familiar book — a favorite picture book from her early childhood — about a princess searching for treasure within her father’s castle, exploring room after room, only to realize the best treasure wasn’t gold or jewels, but was instead the everyday memories and keepsakes of a happy life and loving family.

Jillian smiled as she opened the book and started flipping through the pages, momentarily forgetting the seriousness of her situation.  Then she stopped and realized — this must be the book she was meant to find!  Her heart beat faster as she turned the pages, searching each for some clue about how to escape the room.  She grew more worried as she neared the end of the book, wanting both to hurry and find what she was meant to find, and to go slowly so as not to miss it.

As Jillian reached the last couple of pages, she slowed, fearful that she might reach the end of the book and not find what she was looking for. Finally, she held the last page in her hand, dreading to turn it over to see the final picture — fearing it might not give her the answer she sought.  She closed her eyes, flipped the page, opened them, and saw…herself.  On the last page was a drawing of a girl that looked just like Jillian did now, even wearing the same dress and shoes, sitting in a cluttered room exactly like the one she was now in. She stared at it in disbelief, and then looked up and glanced around the room, half expecting to see the book’s illustrator standing there, drawing pad in hand, recording the moment.  She looked back to the page, trying to make sense of the fact that she seemed to be living a moment that was recorded in a book written years ago.

Jillian shook her head. It made no sense, but then neither did many of the events of the past few days. She took a breath, accepted the situation, and began to study the illustration to discover what she was meant to find.

It quickly became clear which detail in the image was most relevant to Jillian’s need to exit the room.  Beyond the surprisingly accurate depiction of the room and its clutter, the one item shown that she hadn’t yet found in her search of the room was a dim but noticeable glow originating from low under the desk.  Further, the light in the illustration had straight, sharp edges as if it were shining from behind something with a clear geometric outline, like a box or a piece of furniture.  She got up and moved to the desk, keeping an eye on the illustration in the book, half expecting the girl in the picture to move with her — but of course the girl didn’t.

Jillian bent down to look under the desk and was disappointed to see no glow.  In fact, the space under the desk was uncharacteristically uncluttered, with only a few small items on the floor.  She examined each object: a pen, a cup, a small lidless box, inspecting each from all sides, listening, shaking, looking for something unusual, but each seemed completely mundane with no suggestion of being about to do anything unusual such as start to glow.  She grouped them nearby, just in case, and looked again at the now-empty space beneath the desk.  She ran her hands over the floor and discovered a rectangular section, different in material than the rest, with a wide groove around its edge. Could it be some kind of door?  She rapped upon it with her knuckles, pushed down on the section, and even squeezed her fingertips into the groove at its edge searching for enough grip to lift the panel, but the section remained in place.

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Provocation [Classic] (550 word story)

Another silly old story. Classic ‘Tom’ formula (plot twist + death). More old stories here.

The klimmer rolled itself into a ball as the dog approached. The dog sniffed cautiously at the creature, not knowing what to make of it. After a few nudges and a bit of pawing, the klimmer decided to put up with no more and attacked.

Two powerful tentacles lashed out and wrapped around the dog’s head. Tiny teeth along the tentacles sank into the flesh, further supplementing the vice-like grip, making it impossible for the dog to shake the creature free. The dog yelped and whipped its head about in panic as the klimmer began secreting digesting juices, instantly blinding the dog and rapidly dissolving away hair and skin. The dog’s struggles ended abruptly as the juices ate through its skull and into its brain.

The gathered scientists applauded in appreciation. The klimmer began consuming the carcass by enveloping it with its elastic body, much as a snake engulfs its prey, digesting the flesh and bones along the way. It progressed rapidly, and was already past the shoulders and at work on the rib cage.

“Notice, gentlemen,” began Dr. Mumford, the proud ‘father’ of this demonstration, “that the klimmer will not attack unless provoked but, as victor, it does not stop until it has devoured its opponent completely. The clear liquid you see on the floor is almost pure H2O discarded by the klimmer as it focuses on absorbing the more-valuable solids. After consuming this 25 kilogram dog, this 8 kilogram klimmer will nearly double in mass.”

The klimmer had already finished with the dog, and then once again became as motionless as the rock it resembled. Dr. Mumford stepped into the arena in which the demonstration had taken place, careful not to slip on the liquid. “After a kill of sufficient mass such as this one,” he continued, “the klimmer retires into a period of dormancy during which it prepares for reproduction. The unusually fast metabolism of the kilmmer – its inner body temperature has been measured at nearly two hundred degrees celsius – allows it to undergo its high-level mitosis within a few minutes of a sufficiently-large meal. This high temperature also aids in the manufacture and lethalness of its digestive juices.”

Dr. Mumford reached down and picked up the klimmer with some difficulty, as it was deceptively heavy for its size. “During the reproductive phase, the organism will divide into eight to ten parts – each a functioning klimmer in itself capable of devouring the dog that the parent devoured. This should happen any moment now.”

Dr. Mumford set the klimmer down on the floor outside the arena and, a few moments later, the creature seemed to dissolve into many little pieces – each then recognizable as a fully-formed klimmer. He had just enough to hand out to the eager scientists.

“It seems that, at close range, the offspring can communicate telepathically – or perhaps have some sort of shared hive mind. Often, their actions seem synchronized, as nearby klimmers react to a stimulus applied to one individual.”

Dr. Mumford smiled in satisfaction at how well his demonstration had proceeded. “I’m sure each of your respective zoos will be quite pleased with this new addition.”

The scientists examined their klimmers. After a few nudges and a bit of pawing, the klimmers decided to put up with no more and attacked…

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Vic [Classic] (unfinished story)

Hey! I found a big chunk of the Vic story, which I was writing during college. It’s enough to give you a flavor of what it’s about (this might be all that I’ve actually written). The concept of the Vic story is — a janitor at a college imagines that he’s sort of mythical, like a knight.

This passage contains slightly expanded versions of the two Vic memories that I previously posted.

It’s interesting because the paper on which it is printed is old tractor-feed paper with the tear-off perforated edges along the sides. Those of you who are my age will know what I mean.

One interesting Vic note — I started writing this a couple of years before the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip gained wide exposure. Once everyone was reading Calvin’s imaginary adventures, I was worried that they would see the Vic story as a knockoff — so I shelved Vic — until now.

It is late at night, in the twilight time between when the last of the night people retire and the first of the morning people awaken. The stars twinkle coldly with a chill that foreshadows the coming winter. On the streets of the college campus there is no movement, no sound. Everything seems frozen in time. All the school buildings are dark, save one. A lone figure can be seen darting down deserted hallways, ducking in and out of doorways, pausing occasionally to listen, then hurrying on. The jangle of a large ring of keys at his belt contradict the figure’s imagined stealth…

Still running, Vic dives into the classroom and rolls, ending up behind the teacher’s desk. “Settle with your God, varlet!” he screams to the darkened room and, rising quickly to his knees, flips a chalk eraser toward a student’s desk in the second row. Vic pauses a moment to listen but hears nothing. Still haven’t lost the touch, he thinks. Chuckling triumphantly, he goes to retrieve the dagger, pulling it out of his opponent’s eye, wiping it off, and returning it to its sheath. With eraser tucked under his belt, Vic strides from the room.

But wait, what is this? Vic looks down the deserted hallway. A joust? He surveys the brightly-costumed spectators in the stands on both sides of the jousting green. The morning sun shines golden on the multi-colored pennants which mark the sidelines. One hundred paces away, the Black Knight, his heavy armor blue-black in the afternoon sunshine, sits astride a restless black charger. It is a huge animal, perhaps a hand taller and a few stone heavier than his own steed. The excitement of the upcoming event along with the smell of the freshly trimmed lawn and the musk odor of his beast’s own nervousness combine to make Vic feel somewhat light-headed.

Vic can’t make out the blazon on the Black Knight’s shield at this distance. It appears to be a large black animal with red eyes on a deep blue field. A bear perhaps, or one of the large cats of the tropics, or maybe… something worse.

Vic clears the rags and bottles of cleaner from the top of the cart he had left in the hall. His squire hands him his lance and shield, makes sure he is firmly seated, and steps aside. The Black Knight’s squire does the same. Ready flags are waved. Vic looks to his left toward the royal grandstand as the fanfare begins. His eyes are drawn to the princess and, as always, he marvels at her beauty. Their eyes meet across the distance and he gives her a confident smile. When the trumpeters finish, the king pauses, then, with a great flourish, signals to begin. The field judge drops the white flag. Vic lowers his visor and runs, pushing the cart ahead of him. Jumping on, he points a mop at his adversary with the mop’s head against his right shoulder. The Black Knight gallops forward, his own lance aimed at Vic’s breastplate.

As the riders draw nearer, Vic concentrates on form as his instructor, old Gabel, had taught him to do. Shield angled to deflect the blow, body leaning forward to minimize the chance of being de-horsed. Now only a few yards away, Vic can see red eyes gleaming through the eye-slit of the Black Knight’s visor. All sound is drowned out by Vic’s ragged breathing echoing within his helm and the heavy pounding of hooves.

They meet with a bone-jarring crash which sends Vic flying as the cart spins out from under him, crashes into a wall and tips over, the contents of the lower shelf tumbling out onto the floor. Vic shakes his head to clear it and gets slowly to his feet.

Looking at the mess, Vic shakes his head again, this time in disgust. He rights the cart and starts replacing the cans and bottles. Still shaking his head, he carefully scoops together the shattered remains of one broken bottle and absently reaches toward his back pocket for a rag to soak up the spill.

A younger Vic and his father at a vacant lot near their house.

The autumn breeze ruffles the boy’s hair as his father, tall and dark, squints in the sunshine.

“This is the baseball and this is a bat. You take the bat and hit the ball with it. Like this.” Vic’s father tosses the ball up, swings gently, and hits it about twenty feet. He smiles hopefully at Vic. “Okay, now you try it.”

Vic with bat in hand and father twenty feet away.

Vic swings the broadsword, testing its balance. Not bad, he decides. Vic’s father does an exaggerated windup, and tosses the ball. Suddenly, Vic looks up and catches sight of the brightly-plumed roc winging toward him, talons spread in anticipation, eyes riveted on his throat. With one mighty swing, Vic cleaves the monster in two.

“Good!” Vic’s father calls and turns to get the ball, which flew over his head.

The roc is no more, Vic reflects; best to vanquish the evil magician before he can summon another. With sword raised, Vic lets out a fearsome battle cry and charges.

Cart intact, a whistling Vic pushes it leisurely down the hall and around the corner. The sound of the cart’s wheels on the tiled floor echoes the length of the corridor. Looking down, he stops and, smiling at his find, bends over to pick up dime. A hint of movement jerks his head up and his eyes meet those of an enormous serpent slithering out of its lair in the wall. Its scales gleam a polished ivory, and from its fangs fall drops of clear venom that pop and sizzle as they hit the floor. Treasure forgotten, Vic leaps backwards reaching for his dagger – but discovers it gone. The serpent strikes out, misses, yet succeeds in entangling Vic’s feet. He falls and struggles frantically to drag himself away as the serpent coils its way relentlessly up his body…

A younger Vic lying in his bed, his mother and father arguing in the next room.

The lamp on his night table casts a circle of light on the far wall. Some evenings, Vic occupies himself by casting hand-shadows in the light of creatures both real and mythical. He always conjures the creatures in the same order, one after another, each more terrible than the last, always stopping before the final creature with red eyes. Not quite cat, not quite bear, but something much worse — a shadow-pattern his hands know well — though they have never before made it. Most nights, like tonight, he is afraid to form the shadows for fear that the creatures won’t disappear when the light goes out.

“He is not crazy!” his mother‘s voice is the screeching of harpies, “I’m not going to let you put our son in an institution!”

“Take it easy. I didn’t say anything about an institution. There’s this psychiatrist…”

“Aaagh!”

“You didn’t see the look in his eyes when he came at me with the bat. Jesus, Gloria, the kid scares me.” Their voices fade in and out as Vic drifts off to dreams of knights and dragons and kingdoms to conquer. Tonight his dreams are uneasy — blended pictures and colors – and always just out of sight is the cat-bear-thing. Shifting in his sleep, his brow creases and he lets out a small cry.

The screeching of harpies reaches deep into his dreams and drags him awake. “You’re not going to send him away!” Vic’s mother wails as she rushes into his bedroom to protect him.

Vic looks up to see his mother swooping toward him in the dimness, her eyes red and puffy from tears, hair in disarray. The screeching of harpies echoes in his ears as the filthy beast stretches out its claws. Eyes wide with terror, Vic screams.

Vic stares impotently at the cart three feet out of his reach. The serpent is coiled around most of his body, leaving only his right arm and head free. Breathing becomes difficult as the monster squeezes tighter with every exhalation. The serpent’s head bobs before him, noxious venom dripping from its fangs. Watching the venom eat small craters in the floor, Vic wonders if the serpent itself is immune to its own venom. If only he had…

Vic turns his head and notices a rag lying against the wall. Eyes fixed on the serpent, Vic slowly stretches, closes his hand around the rag, and draws back his arm. Taking aim at the serpent’s mouth and silently praying his plan will work, he lets all the air out of his lungs. Acting quickly while the serpent hurries to tighten its coils, Vic thrusts the rag deep into the serpent’s open mouth. Vic struggles to retain consciousness as the serpent suddenly squeezes even tighter threatening to crack his ribs. Vic’s lungs scream for air and the world spins and goes dark.

A younger Vic hops down from the leather chair and looks about.

Brass and cannons. Here a brass cannon. And here. Here, here, and here brass sailing ships, their rigging finely-drawn wire. The walls are Escher prints and Rorscharkesque abstracts. A pair of nondescript seascapes signed ‘LeChrist’ frame a heavily curtained north window. What draws Vic’s attention though is the west wall. Corner to corner, carpet to ceiling, the wall is covered with a mural — a slice of forest so rich in detail that it appears real. The leaves filter golden sunlight and the widely-spaced trees rise smooth-barked and true. The overall flavor is European. He half expects to see a mounted knight appear thundering along the blanketed path. Thah-thump, thah-thump, thah…

“Very realistic, isn’t it?” Dr. LeChrist closing the office door behind him. Vic turns back to the wall. LeChist continues, “Almost feels as if you can step right into it.” Vic has that feeling so strongly that he is afraid to reach out and touch the wall for fear of breaking the spell.

After what seems like an eternity, the serpent’s coils loosen and Vic dazedly crawls free. The serpent convulses violently, shudders once, and lays still. Vic closes his eyes and painfully breathes a sigh of relief.

Vic dusts himself off and bends to collect the unrolled fire-hose to roll it back onto its reel. Removing the rag from the end of the nozzle, he mops up the drips of water that had fallen, and then goes to pick up the dime.

Bent over, Vic stiffens. He senses something behind him. Afraid of what it might be, he breaks out in a cold sweat. His heart beats faster and his breathing quickens. He turns slowly and peers down the length of the darkened hall. He catches his breath and puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a scream. There in the blackness at the far end of the hall are the pair of glowing red eyes that he had only fleetingly seen in his worst nightmares. Vic is nearly overcome with fear. Trying desperately to keep quiet, he walks slowly and deliberately back in the direction from which he had come. Unable to help himself, he turns to look again just before turning the corner. The eyes are gone.