Amy Laurens is an Australian fantasy writer. She lives with her husband and two dogs, one of whom has learned that bashing the keyboard gets attention. As well as writing, she loves art in all its forms, but most particularly working with charcoal. You can find her online at www.amylaurens.com
SCULPTING
By Amy Laurens
I don't hurt any more. I can't.
I know what hurt is, of course. I know what it looks like, I can still feel the edges of it when I close my eyes to sleep at night. But it isn't mine. I don't hurt.
It's the clay. The smell of it. It dampens all emotion, sucks the life right out of you until you can see it all and never feel it.
The clay lives off me--and I survive off it.
They moved away when I was six, my family. Left me alone and dying in a hut on the edge of the plains. There was nothing more they could do for me, then. Nothing more to say, only pain to feel. And the monsters were coming.
Each night the monstrous shadows thickened. Each night they breathed just a little more heavily while we slept. And one night, my sister screamed.
I was already dying. My family couldn't save me.
They could save themselves.
I don't know how I survived.
Not true. I know. I just don't want to.
I couldn't feel by then. Naught but pain. The disease wracked my lungs, tore the lining from my stomach, split open my bowels and made them bleed. Everything was pain. There was nothing else to feel.
The shadows didn't want me. They didn't want pain.
The shadows chase after wholesome things, things good, things pure and right.
They can't corrupt what's already corrupted.
Corrupted. Me.
Then there were no people left. No animals, even, in this part of the world. The shadows ate them all, glutted themselves on life and joy and light until the world was cold and dark and empty. And then the shadows left, because they had nothing left to stay for.
My family had nothing left to stay for. They left before the shadows.
I used to lie awake at night, listening to them breathe. Even when they'd gone, I could still hear the rush of air through their lungs. All I had to do was close my eyes.
They could be a million miles away, and still, no matter what, I'd hear them.
I heard my sister die.
There was nothing I could do.
The shadows let me be because I had nothing for them to eat; the disease let me be because the shadows scared it off.
Even fear was scared of shadows.
I was left a shell, and empty body with a half a soul intact. I could remember. I couldn't feel.
And then I found the clay.
The shadows had long gone and I'd been venturing outdoors. Always a little further, always a little wider; and the world was slowly turning green. The smoke of the shadows dissipated with the sunlight, and as the years passed so the smoke did too, and I heard again the chirp of a bird in the trees.
It stirred something inside me--but I couldn't feel.
Saved by not feeling; condemned by it.
I raised my hands to the sky, begged and screamed and pleaded with it to let me feel something, anything but the emptiness that kept time with my family's heartbeats, the family that had left me to die.
No one listened. Nothing came.
I fell to the ground, exhausted. And I touched the clay.
It sparked beneath my fingers, a shivery tingle. I scooped it up, not even sure what I would do with it. But I took it home.
That night, by the crackling of the fire, it possessed me. It demanded feelings, like the shadows - but unlike them, it promised something in return.
It wouldn't tell me what.
I caressed it with my hands, breathed in its earthy scent. I fed it, watered it, shaped it - and it took form.
A twisting, maddened pillar, lashing out at the air around. It reminded me of something, something I couldn't remember until I recalled where I had found the clay.
Anger.
The next day, I tried again. In my dreams I'd heard the heartbeats of my family grow soft and warm and lazy. I knew that was a feeling, too. Peace, contentment: calm. I fed it to the clay, and although I never felt it, I saw it in the mud. Calm took shape. I wept.
The walls of my hut are covered, now, with sculptures of emotions I have not borne in years. Long before the shadows came the pain eclipsed them all; long before the pain I'd learned it was safer to box them away.
My family's heartbeats race. They are in trouble; they will die.
They fear, they rage, they flee - and I can feel it. I press my hands against the clay and it unlocks the secret closet of my heart, and all at once I know the price I've paid. The gift of clay is life; the gift of life, feeling; the gift of feeling, pain.
Pain is a gift. Without it, my family would die, and I'd not care.
I sit, and embrace the clay.
Sculpting by Amy Laurens
Creepy Pasta Offering by Adam Golden
Saving Faith by J. Jay Waller
Henry the Hero by Alva J Roberts
Regression by K W Taylor
Angle in the Night by Courtney Rene
Master and Servant by Gustavo Bondoni
Creepy Pasta Offering by Adam Golden
Not many people realize how long ago telephones were invented. The idea was first thought of 1844, and the first successful transfer of human voice came in 1876. Because of the outstanding practicality and genius, problems with the early phones were ignored--the most alarming of which were strange phone calls people would receive.
Sometimes it would be horrible screaming or crying. Other times it was laughter. Even more disturbing was when people received calls from dead friends or family. Most people claimed that the deceased would repeat the same words over again, or just call their name. Even more peculiar, the calls usually increased in frequency when you tried communicating with the voices.
Most people didn't understand the science behind it, so proponents found it easy to downplay this morbid defect. Voices of the deceased? Simply old calls that were "stuck" in the wires, getting delayed for months after the individual passed away. With the advancement of the telephone and more systems and operators to screen calls, these defects became extremely rare. Each decade saw less and less reports of these defects, with the exceptions of the 1920s and the 1940s.
Despite over a hundred years to work out the problems, every now and then these phone calls still come in. So if you ever receive a strange phone call from a loved one, saying your name over over again, or just a voice crying inconsolably - At least you now know it's just a defect. Maybe you can take some comfort knowing that by far, most of the calls you would have gotten have been blocked out.
Alva J. Roberts lives in western Nebraska with his wife and two dogs, when he is not writing he works as the public library. His work has appeared in various small press magazines and anthologies. He is also an editor at Pill Hill Press.
Henry the Hero
By Alva J. Roberts
Henry marched forward. He was a Hero after all and there were certain forms that had to be followed. A hero couldn’t just walk, he had to march.
He resented it. It wasn’t as if he had asked to be a Hero. He had been tending his sheep when the dragon flew over, then old Millie’s cow had ran away with young Mille’s braids caught in its tail. Anyone with a heart at all would have cut the childfree. Even if they had known that the ungrateful wretch was going to kick them right in the unmentionables.
Henry had rolled around in pain for a bit, until he ended up rolling into the lake, were he found the Sword. It was most definitely a Hero’s sword. It was long, it gleamed in the sun, and it had all kinds of gold do-dads on the grip.
When old Millie came along to thank him he’d already pulled the Sword out of the lake and had it sitting on the beach in front of him. He was just trying to decide if he could get more money by melting the thing down or selling it whole. Old Millie proclaimed him a Hero the second she saw the blade.
Being a Hero had been fun for a little while. He drank for free at Black Bob’s, a local tavern famous for it‘s microbrew. And Horse Face Cara had even let him kiss her. She did threaten disembowelment if he told anyone, but a kiss was a kiss. All in all it was pretty nice.
Then the dragon came, demanding treasure. The beast ended up with all of the villagers silver-plated spoons. Which Henry had to admit, was rude of the fiery monster. The villagers thought he should do something about it and had been very upset when they found him under his bed. Not that he was hiding, no, he had simply been cleaning and decided to take a nap under there. The villagers had no call to banish him.
So now, he was on a Quest, for silver plated spoons of all things. In his own head he had renamed the word Quest, changing it to, Long Damn Walk For No Good Reason. He had been on his Long Damn Walk For No Good Reason, for over a month now and was returning home. Not because he was done, but because he’d found the Map of Belios, that led to the cave of the Dragon. And as it turned out the cave of the Dragon was only about an hour from his house.
The caved loomed before him, ominous in its, well, looming. Henry sat his Sword, that he had named Damn’eavy, on a rock next to him. He could go home, he could probably trade the map for enough money to buy off the village elders, but if he did Horse Face would never kiss him again.
So he did the only thing he could. He slinked up the hill and slithered into the cave. The method of movement was unbecoming in a Hero, but Henry didn’t give a damn. There was a time to follow protocol and a time to slink and slither.
“Hello. Anybody here?” Henry whispered.
“Who want’s to know?”
“I’m a Hero, on a Long Damn Wa-ur, a Quest.”
“Why didn’t ya say so?” A dwarf appeared out of nowhere.
Light blossomed all over the cave. The place was huge. Magical stairs moved of their own accord to a higher level. Small empty booths lined the walls.
“What is this place?” Henry asked.
“I call it a Maul. Where every hero can gather whatever he needs before facing the dragon. Of course so far my shop is the only one done, but I did finish the food court,” the dwarf said proudly gesturing to the empty stalls.
Henry couldn’t understand why the little man thought anyone would want to pay attendance on food. If you had the desire to be at court, you might as well go to the top and be at the King’s court.
“What do ya need?”
“Well the dragon has stolen all my villages silver plated spoons.”
“Oh have I got just the thing for you.”
Hours latter Henry left with a patented dragon finder, a huge spear, a package of new socks, a colander, three apple peelers, a set of dice, a quill and ink gift set, bath salts, a copy of this months Dragon Slayers Quarterly, and large bucket of water, which he promptly spilled down the front of his shirt. Damn’eavy rested in a new sheath on his belt. He had already named the spear, it was Reald-amn’eavy.
Henry was ready. He rushed through the cave entrance. Reald-amn’eavy held in a white knuckled grip. He yelled “Ha” as he jumped through the door, striking his most heroic of poses. Only to find a huge empty room, the back wall had a strange leaf pattern.
“Anyone here? Hero calling.” He yelled.
“What do you want?” A voice shook the room. Henry looked up and up and up. The leaf pattern was not a wall.
“Crap!” Henry yelled dropping Reald-Damn’eavy, running for the exit. The door slammed shut blocking his escape. He pulled Damn’eavy out, the blade gleaming in the half-light of the cave.
“I will not give you ‘crap’, that is just disgusting. Oh, I hope you aren’t here to slay me. Because that makes me soooo angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.” The dragon said in a lisping rumble.
“Umm. No. Nope. Just thought I’d show you my sword, see how shiny it is?”
“What a fine specimen. It is just fabulous. It would totally match the décor, what’ll you trade for it sweetie.”
“Umm. Some silver plated spoons would be good.”
Henry left the Dragon Cave, free of the Sword and of being a Hero. But with enough silver plated spoons that he was sure he’d get another kiss from Horse Face Cara.
J. Jay Waller and his wife currently live in Anchorage, Alaska. He just started writing fiction, which takes up most of his time when he is not outside skiing, hiking or enjoying the beautiful Alaska scenery. He also likes to spend his time painting and working with digital photography. He has had short works previously published in Alien Skin Magazine, Sideshow Fables, Butterfly Affect Anthology, Hungur Magazine and the New Bedlam Project.
Saving Faith
By: J. Jay Waller
Sandy closed her eyes and turned away as the alien’s laser sliced through Rachel’s neck. Her friend’s head bounced on the church floor with a sickening thump. Holding back a surge of nausea, Sandy’s mind scrambled through countless sermons for guidance, but everything came back to one rule: Kill and forfeit your immortal soul. Her friend had shown the strength of faith, dying rather than fighting back. Sandy had no doubt that the remaining handful of church members would be just as strong.
But would she?
A claw shook her shoulder. The reek of the Bracass filled her nostrils with a stench, like the smell of a wet dog. Opening her eyes, a mottled-skinned muzzle stood just inches from her nose. Bristles of fur stuck out at random angles from its thin head. Light from a small stained glass window stretched across the alien’s dull body armor.
The Bracass emitted a string of grunts and squeals that were translated by its computer. “Soldiers, weapons…where?” It was the same question he had asked Rachel and the other slaughtered church members. Sandy didn’t bother repeating the oath of non-violence. It hadn’t helped her friends.
The invader pointed his laser at her neck. The weapon looked too large for his spindly arm, but he held it steady.
Sandy’s heart leapt into the back of her throat and lodged there, a stone too big to swallow. She had to do something, but the church teachings didn’t mention alien invasions. The closest it came was prohibiting taking sides during war. There had to be an answer in the scriptures. She needed time to think.
Her eyes slid over the headless bodies on the floor. She didn’t want to die like that. If she told a small lie, she could lead the aliens to the abandoned mine in the mountains. That might give her and her friends time to escape. She glanced at the church elder, wishing she could ask Chris whether a little sin could be forgiven, but the Bracass didn’t allow them to talk to each other.
The alien growled, demanding an answer.
Making up her mind, Sandy nodded. “Soldiers, take.”
Chris and the other church members shook their heads in disagreement, then turned their backs toward her.
Moving along the trail wending through the trees, Sandy led her friends and three Bracass across the mountainside. She remembered coming this way years ago. She had been out horseback riding with Brent, a dreamy-eyed young man who talked about peace, love, and the church. They had followed the path to a cliff overlooking an abandoned gypsum mine that was overgrown with kudzu vines.
Sandy thoughts returned to the present as she glanced at the fading sky through the trees tops. It would be dark by the time they made it down the mountain. When the Bracass hurried into the mine looking for soldiers, she and her friends would slip away.
If she remained calm, it could work. Repeating the church tenets would help her relax. Love the Maker and his Children. She glanced back at the scruffy aliens, clattering along in their armor. Could she love the Bracass? She shook her head, took a deep breath and continued. Only the Maker may take life. If only the invaders understood this…but, maybe there was a reason
they didn’t. The Maker loves.
Tripping over a large branch covered with leaves, Sandy stumbled into the small clearing at the top of the cliff. A hundred feet below on the valley floor was the mine. The kudzu had been stripped away and replaced with lights. People loaded supplies into trucks.
Sandy stood staring with her mouth open. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here. Now more people would be killed by the aliens. What had she done?
The Bracass rushed forward, firing their lasers. A truck below exploded. A man engulfed in flames writhed on the ground. His screams made the hair on the back of Sandy’s neck stand on end.
She retreated until her heels bumped into the large branch she had tripped over earlier. The trees behind her were draped completely in shadows. Sandy hurried to Chris, grabbed his face and forced him to look her in the eye. She inclined her chin toward the trees. He pulled away from her grasp, shook his head and then stared at the ground. The other church members refused to meet her gaze.
Stepping into the undergrowth, she moved quickly into the darkness. More screams echoed across the mountains. Sandy clamped her hands over her ears.
She looked back toward the cliff. Her friends stood in the twilight, waiting for death. The Bracass were at the precipice, killing the people below. Only the Maker may take life. But, Sandy had seen the people in the church kill rats, and slaughtered animals to eat.
Was this so different? The Bracass were sentient, though. But, no one would refuse to protect their family from ravaging wolves even though wolves were intelligent. That’s the difference.
Sandy felt a surge of peace, like a calming spirit, confirming that she was correct. The teachings applied only to humans. She knew the truth of it as soon as the words formed in her mind.
Rushing down the slope, she knelt beside the branch. Sliding her arms underneath, she lifted it as she stood. The Bracass remained intent on the soldiers below. The occasional crack of firearms sounded as the humans fought back. Balancing the branch in her arms, she dashed toward the cliff.
Her body and the tree limb crashed into the backs of the aliens, knocking them forward. The two on the ends toppled first, their arms flailing as they plummeted. The third Bracass kicked out his legs while falling. His feet tangled with Sandy’s legs, snatching them out from under her. The branch dropped from her hands as she tumbled over the edge. She looked toward her friends as she fell.
They turned their backs toward her.
Assorted Flash Fiction Stories for when you just want something short...and not so sweet.....
K.W. Taylor is a writer and college English instructor in Ohio. A contributor to the Dayton City Paper, Taylor writes in a variety of fiction and non-fiction genres, including horror, science fiction, urban fantasy, and media criticism from various literary theory standpoints. Other areas of academic interest and research include world cinema, gender studies, French language and literature, and the use of fiction writing as a rhetorical tool of argument. Taylor is also a Victoriana enthusiast who lives in a restored nineteenth-century home.
REGRESSION
by K.W. Taylor
A curtain at the rear of the tent parted. Out stepped a lanky man in his mid-forties. He had a scraggly goatee. His hair was swept back into a short ponytail. “Ah, you returned,” he said.
“I brought a friend,” Denae said, shoving Chrissy forward.
“Chill, woman!” Chrissy barked, barely keeping her balance. “Denae, you are super rude.”
The man flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and held out his hand to the table. “Please, have a seat, ladies,” he said. “Your friend is encouraging you to learn a bit about yourself?”
Denae climbed atop a cushion in the corner of the tent and pulled out her cell phone as Chrissy sat down at the table across from the man.
“I guess,” Chrissy said, shrugging. “You told her she was a Persian princess or something?”
The man nodded. “Not everyone learns they were royalty, though.”
Chrissy snorted. “Oh, please, if she’s royalty, I know I am.” She whirled around to regard Denae over her shoulder. “I mean, hello, which one of us made cheer captain? Oh, right, not you!”
The man sighed. “I can only help you if you take this seriously.”
Chrissy shrugged again. “Hey, I’ll try anything once. I dated a Mathlete last year. What do I do?”
“Just place your hands on the table like this,” he said, demonstrating. Chrissy mirrored his movements.
“Marilyn Monroe, I bet,” she chirped. “Dude, I bet I was totally Marilyn Monroe in my past life.”
The man closed his eyes. His breathing became deeper. “I see you on a street at nighttime.” He smirked, his eyes still closed. “Your clothing is quite fashionable. I imagine you would appreciate that.”
“Darn right,” Chrissy said. “Hear that, D? I was always hot.”
Denae looked up from her cell phone. “Hotter than a princess? Unlikely.”
“Whatever, hater,” Chrissy said. She turned her attention back to the man. “I was a movie star, wasn’t I?”
The man frowned. “I believe this is a period prior to the motion picture era.”
“Then I’m probably some awesome socialite in the olden days.”
Suddenly, the man gasped, and his eyes flew open. He looked from Chrissy to Denae and back again. “We must stop.” He rose, fumbling around the table to the rear of the tent, and then disappeared behind a curtain.
Chrissy pouted. “Not fair!” she called after the man.
“Eh, we didn’t pay him,” Denae said. “Sorry I wasted your time, Chris. We can find the guys and do the bumper cars if you want.” She got up from her cushion and slid her cell phone back into her pocket.
“I’m not leaving.” Chrissy folded her arms across her chest. “You talked me into coming here to find out about my past life, and I’m not going until he tells me what the deal is.”
Denae frowned. “You’re always stubborn in whatever way will annoy me most,” she said. “Fine. Text me when you’re done.” She flounced out of the tent.
Chrissy stood up and poked at the curtain through which the man had retreated. “Psychic dude?” she called. “Come on! I need to know what you saw!”
Getting no response, she batted the curtain away and stepped outside. Chrissy spotted the man a few yards off, just to the right of the main midway, buying a coffee from a vendor.
“Hey!” She started to span the gap between them, her heels turning up divots of spring mud behind her. Even as she approached him, Chrissy wondered what she was doing. The guy was a carnie, after all, and he was old. Why bother chasing after an answer when she’d never cared about the question before?
Because nobody ignores the student council president, she thought to herself. Because I’m somebody, and I don’t get treated like this, even from a fake psychic crazy person!
“Dude, I’ll pay you no matter what you tell me!” she insisted.
The man leaned over, his face red. “You do not want to know,” he said, his expression grave. “Miss, trust me. Please.”
“I don’t care if I wasn’t a princess. But you saw me wearing nice clothes! It can’t be all that bad!”
The man looked her up and down and sighed. “Fine. You want to know? I see girls like you all the time, town after town. Girls with cruel streaks and ambition and pettiness. But I have never seen a girl like you have such a dark past.” He shook his head. “You were someone special, all right,” the man went on. “Dressed in your finest suit, you walked the streets of London on foggy nights making quite the name for yourself.”
Chrissy felt something like déjà vu tugging at her, and she imagined a Victorian gentleman approaching a shabbily-dressed woman. She could almost see white-gloved fingers tap the brim of a top hat, then the flash of a small silver blade across the woman’s throat.
“You feel yourself in competition with your friends, girls like the Persian princess,” the man said. “But there is more to that competitiveness.” He gave her a steely look. “At least you were clever enough to never get caught.”
As his words sank in, Chrissy began to smile. “I was somebody,” she said. “And this time, I’ll be somebody, too.”
“I hope this time will be less bloody.”
Chrissy beamed at him. “We’ll see.”
Courtney Rene lives in Ohio with her husband, two girls, her dogs Champion and Patch, her cat Luna, and a school of fish. She has been writing since she was a child and has learned many things along the way. Feel free to contact her at ctnyrene@aol.com
ANGEL IN THE NIGHT
By Courtney Rene
Death comes to us all. Maybe it comes loudly and with a bang. Or maybe it comes softly like music on the wind. It came for me in the night on a cold winter breeze.
A gallon of milk that was all I was thinking about, just a gallon of milk for my mom, who'd been sick for what seemed like forever. My boyfriend, Chip, and I trudged towards the Buzy-Mart.
"It's so freakin cold," I complained, shivering deeper into my warm black wool coat, "I hate winter." Chunks of my now damp brown hair had escaped the confines of my hat, and swirled around my face, tickling my cheeks and nose.
"It's not so bad," Chip said, "Look at the sky. It's so clear tonight, you can see the stars." He shot me the crooked smile I just loved and gave my gloved hand a squeeze.
He was right, there were a bazillion stars out. I didn't really care though, as in spite of it being clear, the wind was blowing already-fallen snow in my face. All I wanted to do was get to the store, get the stupid milk, and get home.
"Emma, we haven't had much time together lately. Enjoy the night. It's ours. Just you and me."
Chip was right, I knew he was, but I wasn't feeling it. I was tired. I was sad. I went to school all day, I worked all night, almost every night, and the spare time I had I spent helping out my mom at home. Plus, the weather was depressing me.
"Chip," I started, but then I felt it, a cold chill shivering down my spine, like someone was watching me. I stopped walking and looked around, but I didn't see anyone. The shadows though, they appeared to come alive. They shifted and moved before my eyes.
I took a step in closer to Chip. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I was jumping at shadows.
"What is it, babe?" Chip asked.
I looked around us once more before answering, "I don't know. I just felt funny for a sec." I shrugged my shoulders once, and then we set off once more.
I tried to put the feeling away. I tried to believe that I was just scaring myself, but I could feel the dark oily presence hovering around us. It skipped noiselessly around in the dark. It made the air around me feel thick and smothering, hard to breathe in.
This section of the block was so dark. I hurried to get back into the light. The moon was out and shining as brightly as it could, but the night, the dark, it seemed dangerous now.
I could see the light from the store up ahead and I rushed us along even faster. I gave a quick look behind me, trying to find the danger that I was feeling, but nothing was there. My breath was coming out in smoky puffs, and I realized so was Chip's when he said, "Hey, slower down. What's the rush?"
I gave him a smile. It was fake, and wobbled a bit, but it was the best I could do with the rising terror closing in on me. "I just want to get back. Come on," I said tugging him along toward the safety of the light.
Just as I stepped into the light on the sidewalk, shinning out through the store windows, I felt something grip my coat by the scuff and yank me back. My foot hit a slick patch of ice and slid out from under me. I was falling. I felt the black smack of my head on the rough, salt covered sidewalk, and the world went dark.
An unexpected weight landed on my chest, pinning me to the cold ground. I looked up into a pair of endless deep black eyes. The face that went with the eyes was angelically beautiful. White blonde hair, a colorless face, and lips so red they looked blood kissed. He stared into my face, into my eyes, searching. For what, I don't know, but I could feel him searching around in my mind. It was not painful, but it was disconcerting, knowing he was seeing my life, all the good, the bad, and the embarrassing moments.
I don't know how I knew he was Death. Maybe he whispered it to my soul. Maybe my soul just recognized him for what he was.
"Why?" I whispered to him. I was asking why me, why now. Truthfully, I was wondering why not someone else.
"Why not?" He replied back, his unblinking eyes never leaving mine. Even his voice was sweet and lovely. How could something that represented such ugly darkness have so much beauty? I finally understood where the term 'Angel of Death' came from.
"Please." With that one word I was begging for everything. I was begging for a chance, for life.
Death leaned back from my face, cocked his head to the side and regarded me for a moment. Then he said, "You haven't been living for a while, Emma. You hide. You survive. But you are not living your life. You can't see the beauty in the world around you anymore. Why should I spare you, when you aren't thankful for the gift God has given you?"
I could have lied and said that was not true, but it was. He could see inside me, where I hid my sadness and hopelessness. He could see the defeat in me. I could not deny the truth of his words. How was I supposed to show death that although I was down, the world had not yet beaten me?
I wasn't ready to die. I wasn't ready to give up. I needed to show him my strong will, my true desire to make it through and find the beauty again in the world around me. Find life in the darkness.
"Please," I whispered again. He could see my thoughts, read my mind. He could see my will if he but chose to look. He leaned down close to my face, and I thought that was it.
"Wait," I said, in desperation. I placed my hand against what I thought was his chest, expecting to feel the beat of a heart inside a warm body. Instead, I found nothing but cold emptiness.
I closed my eyes, thinking of all the things I had yet to do. All the things I had yet to see. I wasn't willing to accept this fate. I wasn't!
I was ready to feel again, ready to know that I was alive. Ready to face my life head on, not shy away and hide. I had to find a way to make him see.
I felt the warmth of his breath slide over my cheek, and then the softest caress over my lips. With a new determination to live, I opened my eyes to stare deep into his icy depths, silently demanding he look inside me once again. He smiled at me. Just a slight lift of his lips, but it was a smile all the same.
The weight lifted from my chest along with the darkness, and with a shivery gasp, the world around me came alive and into focus. Chip knelt next to me on the cold pavement. His green eyes clouded with worry.
"Thank God! Thank God!" he said when our eyes connected. Then he buried his cold face against my neck and held me close for a moment.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in, his warmth, his solid embrace, him. When he sat back up, I looked at him and realized, "You have eyes the color of moss. They are very lovely. I never noticed that before."
Chip gave me a funny look and said, "You alright?"
I gave a small laugh at that, and said, "Yeah. I'm good."
After we got the milk, and were headed back home, I heard the word live, whispered on the wind.
Chip didn't hear it. I didn't expect him too.
But I did, and I would. No matter what the world dumped on me, I was going to live.
Master and Servant
by Gustavo Bondoni
“We’ve completed our analysis, Sire,” the minister of war said.
“Proceed.”
“I don’t wish to encumber you with details beneath your notice, but our strategists have decided that the planet will be easy to subdue.”
“This is the rocky world, third out from that yellow star you’ve been telling me so much about?”
“Exactly, Sire. We believe that a single strike might leave the entire planet open for colonization. The oceans would be an ideal hatchery for our young, and the proportion of oxygen in the atmosphere is just about right. Likewise, the land vegetation and algae are of the correct chemical composition to support adult life.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But wasn’t that the one you’d told me held aggressive inhabitants who had access to advanced weaponry?”
“Yes, Sire. We had initially recommended not to attack the planet. The race we’d identified as dominant had weaponry much more advanced than the rest of their technology, a certain sign of an aggressor race. Though they seem not to have mastered interstellar flight, their armament is more than a match for anything we have in our arsenal.”
“So going in would be suicide. Why are you recommending it?”
“We’ve looked through the data again, and found an error. The bipedal primates we thought were the dominant race are actually servants.”
“Servants? Armed to the teeth and dangerous to everyone including themselves?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Astounding. How did you reach this conclusion?”
“It’s quite simple. Once we decided that the planet was a good spot for a hatchery, we went further into the records. The probe in this system has been collecting data on all nine of its major planets for thousands of cycles.”
“And what did it tell you?” The Emperor was obviously becoming impatient. The war minister hurried to explain.
“That the bipeds are mere servants for at least one race of quadrupeds, possibly two or three. And also likely a particular avian race.”
“How do you conclude this?”
“Various factors: in the first place, the bipeds are entrusted with the care of the quadrupeds. The servants feed them, groom them and insure that uncomfortable bodily fluids are removed in a timely fashion. While the bipeds are doing this, the quadrupeds themselves exist in a state of relaxation and meditation, free to roam the countryside as they please and think about life.”
“How do we know they aren’t kept as pets?”
“We thought about that, Sire. But one observation made us reconsider: the bipeds are allowed to go to war against each other, but seem never to attack the quadrupeds. And there are starving bipeds all across the planet, while the quadrupeds seem to starve or die of diseases much more infrequently. Also, the bipeds never seem to build large modern cities unless the quadrupeds are nearby – as a matter of fact, in one of the larger concentrations of bipeds, living on a peninsula in the northern hemisphere of the planet, the quadrupeds actually live inside the biped cities and supervise them directly.”
Interest shone from the Emperor’s eyes. “And how are the quadrupeds armed.”
“We believe they are linked telepathically to the bipeds, since they prefer to live an agrarian existence while their servants sully themselves with technology. That lack of armament ready to hand is their blessing, but we think it will also be their undoing.” The minister off war knew it was time to convince his liege. “We think that if we attack them decisively, the primates in the surrounding areas will simply revert to form and just climb back up their trees.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Then you may lead the third colony fleet on its way. Hit the quadrupeds where the concentration is heaviest.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“Lieutenant, what’s our status?” The general was sweating bullets, trapped as he was deep within the emergency command bunker.
“Reports are just starting to come in, sir. I couldn’t really give you a full status yet.”
“Then give me your best guess, dammit!”
“Yes, sir.” The young officer hesitated, but forged ahead. “It looks like we’re winning, sir.”
“What? Winning?”
“Yes, sir. The alien invaders don’t really seem to have much in the way of weaponry. Some kind of beam weapons and a gravitational anomaly burst which can be tricky, but no really heavy stuff. The Raptor run ended up tearing through them like a tornado and doing a huge amount of damage.”
“That was supposed to be a suicide attack to see what they had up their sleeves. We expected force fields and hyperwar.”
“Not at all. We lost just one plane, and the ground attack by the 36th infantry division out of Austin seems to be advancing steadily as well. They’re taking a beating, but giving a whole lot better than they’re getting.”
The general scratched his head. This wasn’t the way an alien invasion was supposed to go. The kind of intelligence needed to cross the gulf between stars should have produced technology that seemed like magic. The human defenders should have been swatted aside like flies, and resistance would have to be moved to underground bunkers where scientists rushed madly to try to create the technology needed to free the human race and take the planet back. The aliens most certainly shouldn’t be getting their butts handed to them by a National Guard unit and a bunch of fighter planes.
“Talk me through it slowly. Is there anything in the reports that might indicate a trick?”
“The army hasn’t seen any evidence of hidden capabilities, sir. In fact, they’ve seen just one thing that puzzles them.”
“What’s that, son?”
“The placement of the initial strikes. They were delivered with pinpoint precision and seem to have destroyed every cattle ranch across four states.”
“Have the analysts in the field seen any strategic reason for this?”
“No. As a matter of fact, their last message simply said: ‘we are convinced that the aliens really, really don’t like cows.”
A Creepy Pasta story is a creepy story that gets passed around on the internet...and there are those that believe, truly believe that a deep, hidden truth lies behind the tale......do you believe?
