Sworded Tales

“…wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he replied.

“Oh, come on, Michael, I’ll believe you,” the young lady pleaded.

“Janine, it’s just some old wives’ tale my grandfather used to tell us kids.  Really it’s nothing,” Michael turned his lanky frame to leave.  Janine didn’t make a move.  He paused and turned back.  She was giving him that look.  God, how he hated that look.

“Alright, but don’t blame me if you can’t sleep tonight,” he said as he walked back into the library, “Thousands of books in this library and you grab the most foolish one.” Continue reading

Vincent Cain had been teaching chemistry before the bombs hit.  He had always been fascinated by disease processes, but he lacked the dedication necessary to grind through the medical schooling.  The scientist in him was sated with the intricacies of the purer studies, and he comfortably found his niche in the educational arena.  Never in his wildest dreams did he envision having to dodge mutant and zombie infested areas or pay witness to the outbreaks of some of the most horrific diseases imaginable.  There was so much more he had wanted to pursue, to uncover…so much more to seek in the future.

Now.  What in jumpin’ Jesus’ name was he to do now?  The days were broken blurs of scavenging for the bare essentials to scrape out a meager existence.  His mind raced to the ignorance of mankind prior to the fall, and he snorted, “I would punch those fuckers in the throat, if I could.” Continue reading

Later that evening Elizabeth limped home cursing the boy for what he had done.  The chill wind blew her wet hair into her eyes as streams of anger ran down her face.  The night was deep and dark, and the girl did not notice the inky apparition traveling beside her.

Elizabeth started, noticing the slate colored companion that lurked at hand.  It spoke to her in a soft murmur, “Fear not, Elizabeth. I am here to help,” and with slick certainty the girl acquiesced, accepting its arm to help her walk. Continue reading

Two points about language:

1.  I cuss.

There’s not much more to it than that.  I’ve said it before.  I wanted to reiterate it.  That’s one of the reasons I sallied forth with a website instead of using one of the myriad free platforms.  I respect the language and the array of opportunities presented from choosing the right word to convey the desired meaning.  I don’t use vulgar language gratuitously, but if the tale calls for an f-bomb or a solid assmaster, then so be it.  As for character dialogue, they have minds of their own, and I cannot be held responsible.

I just wanted to address that relatively up front.  I have no interest in debating the semantics of morality in the written form.  If language doesn’t offend you, read on and enjoy.  If it does, the rest of the internet awaits and enjoy!

2.  I make shit up.

Words…if they sound right, I use them.  They may or may not be in the currently accepted ‘dictionary’.  If someone is vomiting hard enough to witness their liver, I might call it hurking.  Fake word.  Meaning conveyed.  I call that a win.

The essence of language, of communication, is so much more nuanced than what classical grammar and literature would allow.  Yeah, I’ve never really fit inside the standard box and have no real desire to do so.  Be unique.  Be yourself.  Speak your own language.

Anyone who says you can’t is a mind-controlling shit, and you should kick them in the jubilees.

A long time ago, there was a young girl named Elizabeth who lived not too far from this very lake in a small cottage.  A truly beautiful creature if ever there was one.  Long flowing sunrise hair, slim and lithe, with a smile that shattered dreams.  Young Elizabeth would often times spend her afternoons frolicking around the lake, chasing butterflies, or skipping stones.

Living around the other side of the lake in a run down hovel was a boy just about Elizabeth’s age who was called Horace.  He always spied on the beautiful girl when she passed near his dwelling, watching her and following her any chance he could.  Horace was enthralled with her magical nature and with the way the sunlight danced across her hair.  He had dirty brown hair, and often time people would make faces when they saw Horace coming. Continue reading

“Come on over, dear.  Humor an old woman,” the parched lips seem to audibly tear apart as the old hag waves a bony limb.  The creaking of the stained rocking chair on that disheveled porch is sharp.

“Come out of the hot sun.  I’ll bring us some lemonade.  Come on now.  Thaaat’s it.  Have a seat right over there,” foul breath dances past those few remaining rotten teeth, past the gnarled pointing finger and toward a small stool.

Several heartbeats later the aged screen door slams against the solid doorjamb.

“Here you are,” she delivers a coldness unlike the deepest winter, “Yessirree!  Indeed a hot one!”  A multitude of grunts and snaps accompany her descent into the swaying rocker.

“I see you came from the lake.  Mud on your shoes and all,” she pauses, hollow eyes scouring head to toe.  Falling trance-like, her words drone deeply on.

“Maybe I can help clear things up a bit here.  See, the lake can work funny things on ya’.  Some of the folk around here even say it’s…” she pauses, glancing over both shoulders, “…haunted.”

The sight, the knowing is enough to drive anyone indoors.
Where the safety and solitude of cold porcelain encircle all comers.

Crashing fire.
Raining dark stones of flame.
Children running for the battlements.
The evil smiling down upon the chaos.
Feeding on the fear, the terror.
Every dying scream, music to the scaled ears of the invaders.
The walls won’t hold much longer.
The city glows with fire.
Our hero is lost.
The dark horizon holds no ray of light.
The morning will fall on a graveyard of ruins.
And a storm rolls down from the north.
Perhaps, at least, a blast of freshness before eternal sleep.

When forces gather and the times of power near,
When the hearts pound faster in anticipation of the final beat,
Souls collide, often by the choosing of others.
Your kindred one may yet await, patiently.
What will you do, if you meet across the field of battle?

Cherry Charges

The money was always good for an exotic dancer named Cherry Popper. The hours and the maw pawing of hands? Not so much. Especially where the mob was concerned, but a girl got by no matter how many greaseballs tried to liberate her from her tassels.

Cherry took to the pole with a finesse and ferocity that hinted at talent buried deep within her genetic past. Headlining at the Barracuda Lounge brought about the performances which eventually landed her in the lap of Damiano “Cheeks” Mancini.

Dodging the mafioso’s advances for months lasted until their dance culminated with a public slap to the face that sealed her fate. Her next performance was supercharged with a pole that rocked her with electricity when she grabbed hold.

The scorched body that disappeared off of a stainless steel morgue tray wound up in the Rogue Isles with a new name and a new plan. The latent energy burning within her multiplied each day, and soon she would return to the Rogue Isles to give Cheeks his sweet goodbye.

Continue reading

The veteran scout had seen his share of berserk rage, and frenzy, and bloodlust within numerous species across the galaxy, and this was no different.  Driven to the brink of starvation and teetering on the edge of madness, all beasts revert to primal instinct for survival.  This was not monstrous behavior.  This was simply hunger.  Deliberately forcing someone to live like this, that was quite different. Malicious intent equates to monstrosity, and the Falleen intended for Ussyr Shryytor to understand as much before the light of life vanished from his eyes.

But there were slightly more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

Skelsar was fast.  This shadow of Illia-Vae Victis was faster. Continue reading

For long moments you sit in silence watching the candlelight dance across the pallid surface of the ouija before you.  The delicate breezes brush against your skin, playfully tugging at the long tresses flowing down over your shoulders.  The sound of commonality disintegrate into the night as your essence begins to slowly take shape, weaving itself into existence from the very threads of the great fabric.

You take in a full breath, opening your mind to receive the visions which will grant you clarity into what lies ahead.  Closing your eyes, you exhale deeply, listening to the beating of your faerie heart, lub dub, focusing on your place, your purpose, within the grand scheme.  Lub dub.

Whispers emanate from the darkness all around you, creeping slowly forward against the light.  Lub dub.

Your eyes open and fall on the ouija as nearly invisible hands edge the pointer across its glassy surface.  Lub dub.

The rhythmic flash of light pulls your eyes slightly upward toward the candelabra.  Lub dub.

The flames flicker and dance…seething with light…  Lub dub.

…pulsing in time…  Lub dub.

…with the beating…  Lub dub.

…of your heart.  Lub dub.

Transfixed on the beating flames, your eyes only vaguely notice the ouija spelling out the words that are whispered all too clearly in your ears.  Lub dub.

Is…he…lost…  Lub dub.

One of the candle flames flares brilliantly, and in its heart you see… Continue reading