Sworded Tales

Western civilization was collapsing, and not with the triumphant conflagration envisioned by the doomsayers and prophets.  A blood poison simply ate along the pathways of society long enough that the heart could not overcome the cascade failure of the internal organs.  Even when the wretched shit stink of corruption boiled into the daylight, enough blind eyes turned to allow the wounds to fester.  The world saw it coming, but the disease had spread too far.

The Chromes finally put an end to the misery. Continue reading

The seer’s entire body tracked the course of her crystal ball as it swayed in rhythmic circles around the palm of her oppressor.  The casual indifference to the fate of the ball horrified the zaftig woman beyond reckoning.  Her fingers clawed into wishful lengths, willing her digits to cross the distance and retrieve the heirloom.  She could not beg.  Such groveling would only spur the vindictive man on further.  She had witnessed the escalation of tyranny amply to have learned its finer nuances.

“Sire,” the seer said, dizzy gaze circling, “I would be unable to offer further insight should the crystal be broken.”

“I know that, wretch,” he snarled, allowing the ball to drop from one hand to the other, where he caught it with ease and lifted it up in defiance between them.  “But what good is it in truth?  When you babble such incoherence as to be indecipherable.  ‘Shadows in the orchard house.’  What by the sands is that?  There is no orchard within a hundred wheels.  We live — on the edge — of the desert!” Continue reading

The Maze didn’t frighten Luke.  Tweren’t much that did.  As the only child to a cross-eyed preacher’s gilly, the notion of fear wasn’t one that blossomed on your plate much.  Oft times, there were too many other boggarts to deal with to waste more than a back thought on speakin’ siss-a-ninny.

Simple truth of it was that Lucas Shaw learned to fight his way out of most constraints that harrowed the younger sort.  Knuckles leading the way was often a sound tactic, until he had the means to manifest hot lead that is.  Pistols were all well and good, scatter guns a sight better, but the projectile weapon of choice for Luke was the rifle.  Something about a length of stock and a pairing of sights that sang true to his heart, can I get an amen.  There was little arguing with a man that could knock you from your horse near on half a mile distant without batting an eye.  No, sir.  Rifles were scarce, and those who used them even more so.  To find one that excelled at such a talent?  Well, that was god sent, and Luke made sure that everyone knew it. Continue reading

Fair Weather Queen

The queen has departed, though her trail is not cold
Why has she abandoned her feline stronghold?
Two summer moons are passing through countless dreams untold.
She ruled here with an iron claw in the heart of dear Oakhold.
Yet now she hides from the hunter’s eye, the warriors so brave and bold.
She does not emerge to protect her lair, to hiss, to scratch or to scold.
Her kindred still seek to help, to show her the ways of old.
Show us where hides our sister, so we may return her to the fold. Continue reading

“Refuse?!” Anibel scoffed back at the ornery Halfling, “Why in the heavens would you do such a thing?”

“Peace, Anibel,” Gerard replied, raising a staying hand toward her, “I’ll abide by your wishes.  I simply wanted to see the size of your investment.”  The angst on her features was prevalent, even in her translucent state.  “And I have noted that it is considerable.” Continue reading

With the arrival of the horses and riders, though he wonders if the wild one should be described as a being that happens to be on a horse rather than a rider, the scribe puts up his book and pen.  Closing the chest, he places the vessel on his back and picks up his shield, walking toward the group.

After looking at the lizardman, dwarf and human, he gives the matron a glance and a smile.  “On the eve of the Spring Equinox.  Not that you can tell,” he says by way of greeting, glancing skyward and pulling his hood over his head. Continue reading

“…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

“…foulest flagon of siren shit I ever had to put in me mouth!” he grimaced, a toothless, foul-odored act, “I dunna care what you say.”

The creak of the hull as the rigger swayed heavily was noted by each man in the room.

“Yer fuckin’ wrong I say!  I’ve stomached it n’ar a few times…and ‘ere I stand!” a burly counterpart replied.

Lightning crashed and the pounding of thunder was barely audible over the roaring of the waves on deck.

“Yeah, but you look like a bucket o’ shit!” the first man barked.  The sweaty room erupted in a cacophony of laughter and insults. Continue reading

It’s good to have goals.  Objectives of all sizes.  Big ones.  Learn telepathy from an alien race and restructure modern thought.  Little ones.  Get grandma through today without sneeze-shitting herself.  And all the myriad sizes in between.  Goal structures are beneficial and can offer guidance throughout the years.  Don’t obsess though.  No one likes a zealot.  Seriously.  When was the last time you met someone on the extremist fringe and thought, “Here’s someone I’d like to know better!”  Balance, moderation and directed purpose toward a variety of life improving tasks.  Easy.  Or, as my father used to say, slick as snot through a glass funnel.

I always enjoyed the elementary school activities which were intended to offer insight upon later reflection, stories to yourself, wish lists, time capsules and the like.  There is nothing so crystalline as the lens of youth to cut through the daily domes of horse shit we encounter.  I am fortunate enough to have a mother who stored a great many of these creative endeavors for a very long time.  In her honor, I humbly submit an excerpt from my third grade vision, and what could very well serve as an aegis of peace for all humankind.

The goals were:

Drive cars.
Drink beer.
And disco.
And love people.

What else is there, really?  I particularly enjoy how my younger self felt the critical need to add ‘love people’ onto an already comprehensive, albeit selfish, list of goals.

Dream big folks and enjoy the simple things.  I know I do…and did.  Hell, I’ve already accomplished 75% of my third grade goals.  Perhaps it’s finally time to go for it all.