Sworded Tales

The wind vibrated through the frame of Kevin’s Element.  A smirk formed on his lips as the boxy car wrestled with the elements for which it was named.  Aerodynamic it was not.  Versatile like a motherfucker though.  He had hauled more shit in this vehicle than he could recall.  That they stopped making this model didn’t sit well with him, and his eyes flicked down to the odometer.  The numbers had just rolled over a hundred thousand this month.  What was he to do when he needed to find another car?

The wind abated some when he cleared the bridge, but mother nature was not playing around today.  The clouds glowed with that eerie incandescence which sang of severe storms.  He was hoping to catch some serious lightning strikes, but he doubted his luck of late.

Traffic was thicker than he expected, and the throng of vehicles at the red light did not promise a timely transit.  The eighteen wheeler he coasted up behind added its own malevolence to that foretelling. Continue reading

This is not a tale of heroism.  There is no plucky heroine finding the means to outwit and defeat the killer that stalks the greenhouse.  This is a story of adrenaline, and fear, and luck, and the dead will outnumber the living before we reach the end.  If you’re okay with that, by all means read on.

Lyida had pissed herself a little, and she didn’t even realize it.  Her blood was pumping too furiously for her to sense such minutiae.  She could only hear the roar of madness as her mind imagined the sensation of metal sliding into flesh.  She crashed into the main corridor of the garden center, knocking a display of terra cotta over with a calamitous splash.  Everyone looked in her direction, including the blood splattered maniac. Continue reading

The risk was too great.  The flailing couple had fallen at the corner.  At her best, Lydia might have been able to clear the distance needed to reach the greenhouse door.  If she missed, they were all casualties.  She knifed sideways into the short aisle between the main aisles, her sneaker finding solid purchase on the moist walkway.

She hazarded a look over her shoulder.  The killer was coming.  Her mind rebelled at the notion, but that’s what he was.  A knife-wielding, blood covered killer.  Where had her dull reality gone?  She had gained a few feet on him as he advanced with casual purpose.

The fox and the hound zipped across her mind as she planted to make the next ninety degree zag, praying her knee would hold. Continue reading

A crazy man was birthed through the plastic slit in the greenhouse wall.  Lydia stood stupefied at the juxtaposition of realities.  Her serenity was being destroyed by a knife wielding lunatic, but her mind and her motor still seemed to be in disagreement.

“Oh my God, Gerald.  Look at that man,” the woman said, pointing with her manicured finger, “What’s he doing?”

It was the whine of her voice, not the squirming grunts of the maniac, which set Lydia into motion.  The tone and the choice of words summoned a B-movie horror soundtrack to mind and she bolted. Continue reading

We all have those moments that scar us.  Formative events that leave chalk outline memories.  Some are perfect bliss.  Some are exquisite horror.  Better yet, there are a select few that encompass both extremes.  Abominations of shadow and song that are turnkeys to the primal doorways of our hearts.

One I’m going to share is a spirit known as Lamb’s Navy Rum.  You can’t see the goosebumps from where you are…but they are there just the same.  Trust me.

Now, LNR makes a host of fine products and is actually known as the rum of choice for the English navy.  It’s actually difficult to find in the States, though in all honesty, I haven’t quested for it.  That’s a dragon I’ve sought out and slain enough for one lifetime.

My particular memories take us to the border of Canada and the U.S., where the lair of the 151 proof version of LNR could be acquired at the duty free store.  Eight adults were on a journey into the northern wilds to spend a week fishing for walleye and northern pike.

The stop at a small rest area shortly after the border was ritual, and this ritual was one of fire.  Decades have passed since I last experienced this special event, but I can still visualize the aisles of the duty free store.  Could draw for you a picture of the innocuous rest stop.

We would circle up, and the Lamb’s Navy would make its way around, each taking an initiating swig straight from that hexagonal bottle.  It was a hell of a way to begin, and one I cherish with equal degrees of desire and revulsion.  The LNR served as a kind of penalty beverage during our trip, and it would take those eight adults, all seasoned drinkers, an entire week to finish the single bottle.  The joyful cries that would come forth when that bottle ran dry.

I still don’t care for rum much to this day.  Is it any wonder?

My impression of the English navy rose a couple of notches when those scars were made, and each time I do raise a glass of rum, my mind turns to the stalwart souls who partook of the Lamb.  I am thankful for those crystalline memories but also grateful that such rituals of fire are ashes of the past.

A greenhouse wasn’t someplace Lydia associated with murder.  The toasty temperatures.  The fragrant breezes.  The rainbow hues and aisles of natural wonder.  Those were elements of serenity and reflection that engendered a holy atmosphere.  Muted library conversations and dappled sunshine were not cohesive with blood splatters and screams.

She was squatted down over a bed of dahlias envisioning the vibrant starbursts erupting in her own flower boxes.  A splash of liquid on the plastic wall behind her pierced through the sedate hum of the circulating fans.  They weren’t calling for rain, and Lydia turned expecting to see a worker wielding a hose in the next house.

Her mind had difficulty registering the bright crimson runnels on the plastic sheeting. Continue reading

Another screech of metal.  This one the Nix grating along the top of the Cherokee.  It crunched into the rear door, still open for unpacking the supplies inside.  Screams from the house.  Horror but not terror, but I knew those would switch if my wife made it onto the porch.

Amber sucked in air beneath me, sobbing and doe-eyed.  We rolled to the side and I hauled her up, guiding her toward the porch.  “The house, walk, do not run.” Continue reading

Triggers that drop adrenalin.  We all have them.  Most of them are instinctual.  Some are cultivated through training.  The screech of metal as the garage door went up was one of mine.  Too many search and destroys for it not to imprint.  The snapshot taken by my mind was crystalline.

I had just set foot in the kitchen, a box in each arm.  Jill was bent over the refrigerator, the faint light washing her look of disgust in rancid contrast.  I was looking at her ass though.  It was one of the reasons I married her.  I like to think that little bit of extra blood pumping helped save Amber when the Nix attacked. Continue reading

With a spindly insectile infrastructure and brazen plumage, any rational mind would have expected the Nix to be easily identifiable. Their cellular composition was versatile enough though to grant mimetic capabilities within a wide boundary range.  They existed in a semi-fluid state, though the staged reinforcement of tissue granted extreme durability to their frame.  As ridiculous as it sounded, their ability to assume the shape of a beach chair, lawn chair or lounge chair granted them virtual invisibility in certain settings, at least until the claws came out.

Once the screaming started, the presence of a Nix was pretty well assured. Continue reading

I’m not even sure why I wear the rings anymore.  The war has been over for years.  I guess once you’ve seen what a Nix can do to a human, you never really let go.  Then there are the news blips of sightings and the stories of attacks that never quite make the headlines.  The war may be over, but I don’t think we’ll ever be rid of them completely.

Their Colonizer crashed into Sonora about 80 klicks north of Hermosillo on a hot summer evening without tripping a single alarm.  Their gift for camouflage extended to their interstellar craft, though we didn’t piece that together until after the worst of it.  The impact drew enough local attention that the Mexican scrublands were painted red before any countermeasures were enacted.

Continue reading