The Matildas

On the midnight of his 8^th birthday, when mom and dad were asleep, Jeremy flicked the ON switch of his little sister.

---

Post a Comment

The Glass-Dad

The hardest part about losing your dad is when your mom just can’t be a grown up about it. It’s even worse when she tries to replace him.

I look at the glass-dad with the transparent head sitting on the kitchen table and I daren’t even come in so I can get my cereal. My belly’s rumbling as I look at the waffles going cold on the table, but I won’t touch them, because I know that its microscopic camera-lens eyes are looking at them.

---

Post a Comment

The Mother of Monsters

Based on an image By Josef Fadel Simon

Behold Her, the Mother of Monsters
born of the Primordial Abyss and the First Winter

I remember my birth quite vividly: the sliding down the fleshy tunnel from where I was created, born from mortal seed and her blasphemous egg. I remember how I screamed, when I beheld the light for the first time, as I was dragged by pious men out into the world above.

---

Post a Comment

SINGULARIT-O!

THE TOY OF THE FUTURE, TODAY! (created by Spiros Meander Makridakis)

Heeeeeey kids!

Are you tired of your old toys? Bored of having to do all the work for them on playtime? Do regular robots disappoint you? Had enough of those same old transforming tricks?

Well have we got a treat for you! Introducing SINGULARIT-O, the toy of the future! What can it do that other toys can’t I hear you ask? Why , SINGULARIT-O is equipped with a highly sophisticated Artificial Intelligence, allowing him to not only take initiative for any game, but also to do a number of things!

---

Post a Comment

Argo by Vasileios Kalampakas

Under the harsh light of an alien world...

The sound of small, shuffling feet roused Penthesileia from an uneasy, troubled sleep.

She rolled to the other side of her bed and slowly opened her eyes; she saw Heraclea standing by
the bedside in the dim blueish light of the glowstrips. The child’s face was pale white and taut
with fright. Her mouth was half-open, as if her scream had been sucked into the silent void.

---

Post a Comment

At the foot of my bed

There’s someone standing at the foot of my bed.

Every night for the past week, as my eyelids grow heavy and I slip into unconsciousness he comes out, his hands grasping the metal railing, rising one inch at a time.

He peeks out his head first. Black and featureless, a pair of cobalt-blue eyes set high up where the eyebrows should be. Then out come his shoulders, then his chest until he’s fully upright. He looks like a store mannequin; sexless, starved. I know I’m sleeping but my eyes are open and I see him, but I can’t bring myself to talk to him, or reach out to him. The gaunt man just stands there, his eyes transfixed to mine, his breathing shallow and ragged.

---

Post a Comment

Simulated Children

We’ve all done it, when we’re bored with them. When their tiny little lives remind us so much of our own and their tiny little houses are digitized reflections of our own dream homes (which we find to be ridiculous and obscene, when we finally realize them). Other times, it’s when we grow tired of the adult’s constant pleas for attention or the children’s screaming in the middle of the night. Some set their houses on fire and watch with interest and a tiny bit of glee at the tiny things on screen screaming gibberish and pray to their gods as their lives are reduced to ash. Others remove their pool ladders and watch as the sims drown, their simple little brains addled by this minor hindrance.

Myself, I loved starving them to death. I’d build a wall around my sims at an unexpected time (at a point when their lives seemed to be going smoothly, picture-perfectly) and then watch them as they looked up at me and screamed pictures. First bathroom, then boredom, then exhaustion. I’d never speed the process up. I’d just watch as their pleas became much more frequent and erratic, muting my speakers when their gibbering began to annoy me and watch them soil themselves and slowly waste away.

---

Post a Comment

The Trials of the Great God

The Shaman's Daughter

Great drums beat in the jungle. Taut skins and hollowed logs echo with strange rhythm, as they’re struck with bare hands and short clubs, their ends wrapped in thick cloth.

Some beat a slow, steady rhythm every hour. These beats the animals do not fear, because they have found out that they mean them no harm. They also mean that there will be no hunt for today. They mean that they should not watch for any hidden snares, or fear the sudden appearance of stone-tipped arrows, aimed toward their hearts, their wings, their stomachs.

Sometimes, the drums beat a faster rhythm. This makes the animals feel uneasy, because it means that the great hunters with skins black as old tree bark have spotted fair game. They have learned that the short, rapping sounds mean big game; they mean antelopes, which run as fast as their long legs would take them. They mean zebras, which shake their manes and huddle together, pushing the weakest to the edges of the herd. They mean hogs, who grind their great tusks against tree bark and stone, sharpening them to a fine edge, their minds filled with murderous thoughts.

---

Post a Comment

By The River

Illustration masterfully brought to you by Vaggelis Ntousakis. http://www.facebook.com/the.grue (all rights reserved)

“I killed a man here, once. On this river bank. I think it was right...there. Yeah, that's the spot. You can still see the stain he left as he bled out on the ground. I remember looking at all this blood pooling ‘round him, flowing between the rocks, thinking ‘this can't be happening, can it? A guy can't have this much blood in him’. He whimpered all the time, though. It's the whimpering I can't stand. See, when a guy's about to die, he kind of...regresses. He turns back into a little sobbing ape, crying for help to the rest of his pack. Had to push him underwater to make him shut up. Little ape went down like a stone, met all the other dead apes in the bottom. It's full of it down there, you know. I bet if you stacked them on top of one another, you could build a house out of all the dead in just the bottom of this river. Hell, you could get some good furniture out of the deal too. Moldy beds, old couches that grampas died in, baby trolleys. I think I'm gonna make me house out of all those dead things, one of these days.

“You’re cold, right? I can see you shaking like a leaf. Want my jacket? No? That’s alright. You ain’t gonna be cold for long. Mind if I smoke?”

---

Post a Comment

That Faithful Spider and the Crafty Fly

Fantastical images provided by Lyatyvea

“Consider the spider, effenti” said the girl, the Grand Executioner’s hands wrapped around her slender neck, his thumbs pressing on her windpipe with just enough force to let her know he could break her neck with the minimum of pressure. There was sweat trickling on his brow; the girl had given him quite the chase through the palace gardens, as she was trying to escape him. The girl had given him a fight too: scratched his hand with her hairpin, a little bone needle with such ferocity that she drew blood.

“What of it?” said the Grand Executioner, his turban bobbing on his great head, the emerald at the center nodding in assent. His words sounded distant and distorted to the girl’s ears, as if formed by the rustle of the palm tree leaves above.

“It dwells between the earth and the sky, its home built from thin strands, lighter than air. It walks among them with its eight legs, gently dancing above the world and below the clouds with infinite grace. Its haven is built from its belly, woven like an impossibly beautiful tapestry, a testament to Allah’s wisdom, but it is torn apart by gusts of wind or the malicious grasp of man’s hand” she said and found herself looking into the Grand Executioner’s great green eyes, noticing the arch of his brow that signaled curiosity. Slowly, she realized that she could now breathe unimpeded, though his fingers remained wrapped around her neck.

The Grand Executioner

“But above all, the spider is patient. It does not plead with Allah, nor does it curse at the clumsiness of human hands. Whether its house is torn apart by accident or intent, it merely weaves one anew, creating a pattern of even greater beauty and complexity. Now consider the fly, effenti..”

The Grand Executioner’s hands let go of the girl’s supple neck. The bruises on her skin were like great blots of ink on virgin paper. The girl collapsed on the ground and the Grand Executioner sat on the base of a palm tree, motioning for her to continue.

“The fly is the complete opposite of the spider. It dwells in the sky, touching land only when hunger compels it to. It has no dwelling and no understanding of concepts like beauty or patience. Its life goes by as quickly as a song; it knows only greed and lust that make the entire world seem like a feast to its eyes, just waiting to be devoured. Its only acknowledgement to Allah is the rubbing of its forelegs as it prepares to dine, its only worry the propagation of its kind.”

The Grand Executioner smiled and weaved his hands together. The girl was a storyteller, employed by the Sultan himself, her tales for the great man’s ears only. But she had fallen out of favor, given him too many sad tales that had brought him in a foul mood. Eventually, he had the Grand Executioner kill her himself. And now here he was, enjoying one of the Sultan’s delights for himself, the girl’s very last story.

His profession was a macabre one (not that he did not enjoy it), but it had its advantages. The girl continued her tale:

“Once upon a time, there was a spider. Among her kind, she was considered the greatest, for her webs were like tapestries of great splendor and her faith was absolute and unwavering. Such was her renown, that she was even known among men, who always spoke her name with great reverence. 

And it is said that even the Pasha of Samarkand held her in such high esteem, that he had allowed her to spin her web between the two spires of the greatest mosque in the city. And such was its complexity and beauty that it is said that the winds never blew fiercely over Samarkand, for not even the efreeti of the air dared disrupt such beauty.

“On that web, the spider dwelt with her children, her grandsons and granddaughters and their children as well. They were all as devout as her and each shared her passion and her spirituality, though none of them were as faithful as her.

“On the other side of Samarkand, there was a fly. And even among the flies, she was considered the most foolhardy and arrogant. She had been born in the stables of the muezzins and grown strong and fat from the excrement of their horses, and had grown to consider herself the most favored creature in creation. Since a very young age, she had been sitting on the backsides of warhorses and had even sneaked and tasted the Pasha’s favorite dishes and always got away with a full belly.

“As the fly grew older, she realized that not even the delights of the Pasha’s table excited her anymore. So the fly decided to attempt her greatest and vainest feat yet:

“ ‘I shall go to the spider’s web’ she told her brethren one day. ‘And there, I shall lay my eggs on top of the hairy belly of the spider. When they hatch, they will have grown on the killer’s back and be even greater than even me!’ in vain, the other flies tried to dissuade her. They called her quest an obscenity, tried to reason with her, then pleaded with her, and finally they cursed at her. For the spider would catch her and devour her in an instant. But her mind had been made.”

The Grand Executioner slapped his hand on his thigh and let out a loud bark of a laugh. “What madness! How would she go about her business, then? Or did she trust Allah to save her on this one?”

“Surely not. The fly might have been arrogant, but she was no fool. She knew that Allah does no favors for any living being, especially to those that defy death. Instead, she flew around the web and watched the spider from afar for a week, to find out her habits. She discovered that the spider was truly devout and that she prayed at the appointed times. She also found out that the spider hardly slept, being as old as she was, but for the hours between the midnight and first light. This would give her ample time to fly over her, lay her eggs on her belly and fly away as fast as possible.

“And thus the fly waited for midnight, until the spider walked to the very center of her great web and curled herself into a ball and closed every eye on her great head. However, the fly had forgotten that that night was the first night of the month Ramadan and on that night, the spider shut every eye but one, in reverence.  She flew over to her and was about to perform her feat, when the spider shot up and the fly fell wings-first on the web, all tangled. She spun and beats her wings and moved her legs, but the more the fly fought, the worse she found herself trapped.

“The spider saw the fool hardy fly fighting against her invincible web and smiled at her pathetic pleas for help. Had it been any other night, the spider would have killed the fly and devoured her on the spot, but that night marked the beginning of Sawm, the great fasting and the sun was dawning. The spider decided to wait until Iftar, when the sun set, to taste the sweet flesh of her prey, knowing that its fear would make it taste all the sweeter.”

The Grand Executioner leaned closer, intrigued by the girl’s story. He felt a fierce itch rising from the scratch on the back of his hand where the girl had drawn blood, but ignored it. “What then?” he asked.

“The spider went about her business that day and read the Qur’an with her family. When the sun set and the muezzins announced the beginning of Iftar, the spider went to get the fly and found out something shocking: where the fly had been spinning and struggling in the web, a familiar pattern had emerged. The spider looked at it and rubbed each of its eyes; it looked at it from up close, then from far away and knew that there was no mistaking it.

“The fly’s thrashing had formed the first verse of Qu’ran on her web. This troubled the spider greatly. What was the meaning behind this? Was this fly somehow chosen by Allah? Was this a message? Was to eat her sacrilege? She summoned her wisest and most devout child to her side and showed him the pattern. He clicked his mandibles and shook his head in confusion and immediately set out to seek an answer to his mother’s trouble.

“He left the web and went into Samarkand’s mosque, seeking the advice of the moths that nested in the roof and hovered around the lanterns under which the faithful studied the holy texts. He told them of the strange happening on his mother’s web and the moths went into a heated discussion that ended in a maelstrom of mandible, wing and leg, but found no answer.

“The spider did not, however, lose hope. She turned to her most learned grandson instead, who had spent months inside the university of Samarkand and told him of her predicament. Her grandson ran four of his eight legs over his head and ruffled the hairs of his belly and set for the University, where he conversed with the bookworms that lived off the tomes written by the brightest theologians. The worms listened closely to his grandmother’s predicament, argued with each other, devoured a few pages off a tome dealing with the lives of insects, briefly feasted on a book on proper etiquette and told the spider’s grandson that unfortunately, they could not help him. Crestfallen, he told his grandmother the news and she despaired. Her great-grandchildren, who by then had heard the news, gathered around and tried their best to console her.

“‘What if he is making this up?’ asked the youngest of her great-grandchildren, a small thing that had not yet grown even a hair on its belly. But the youngling’s advice was not only unheeded, it also angered its elders. For its trouble, it only received a sound thrashing and was sent to the farthest corner of the web, to brood on its thoughtlessness.”

“Hah! The young one seems to have been the wisest among them!” exclaimed the Grand Executioner, removing his turban (which suddenly felt heavy and unbalanced on his head). “The spider’s faith had blinded her to her own folly and her children and grandchildren are swept along by the spider’s despair.” the Grand Executioner struggled to find the proper word. His thoughts seemed muddled and he felt a terrible weight on his chest. He blamed last night’s fierce lovemaking with his favored wife, feigned sobriety and said: “Why, had I been a member of her family, I would have seen through the bluff in an instant!”

“You would, but then again, you are not a spider. You are the Grand Executioner and your prowess and wits are renowned throughout the Empire. How, pray tell, could any living being match your exceptional faculties?” the girl flattered the Grand Executioner, but her words barely registered. There was a terrible sound in his ears, a ringing sound that reverberated across the walls of his skull and sent tremors through his eyes.

“Go on, what happened next?” asked the Grand Executioner, leaning against the palm tree, desperately trying to ignore the numbness that spread upward from the tips of his fingers.

 “The spider ordered her family to leave her alone in the center with the fly, to decide its fate. As she looked upon her, she saw that the fly had weaved two whole pages of the Qur’an now and was hard at work on the opening passages of the third. Feeling awed and choked by this display, the spider moved quickly and undid the strands that bound the fly together, releasing it. She wept greatly, feeling the weight lifted from her belly at last.

“But that night, as the spider slept, the fly landed on her bristles and lay her eggs and they hatched on her back and her sons grew from the back of the most skilled hunter among its kind. The spider was washed with great shame at this turn of events. She hung her head, crossed her forelegs over her eyes and wept and wept until she died of a broken heart.

“Because the fly, who had grown among the muezzins, had used her faith against her. He wove a deception for her that tugged at her heartstrings and allowed him to trick her and sire his spawn, using beauty to mask his true intentions. As did I, when I scratched you with this little bone needle as you were strangling me. I had it dipped in poison first. You would have noticed the ploy for what it was, of course, had you not been so preoccupied with my story.”

The Grand Executioner said nothing. The numbness had swept all over him and had gone, along with all feeling.

“Your momentary carelessness gave me another chance at life, Grand Executioner. And for that, I thank you.” Said the girl and kissed the dead man on his cheek. She walked away then, past the palace gates, into the streets and mingled with the crowd, never to be seen again.

---

Post a Comment

The Place He Can Call Home

Long ago, I met a traveler. I first saw him in his garden, kneeling over an exotic-looking flower, its blossom the color of lemon, like a babe wrapped in a blanket, sleeping peacefully. I’d seen him leaning over that flower, as he picked the weeds that grew around it, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger and pulling them off, his lips moving all the while.

Intrigued, I walked close to his fence and pretended I was trying to peek around the curb, as if I was waiting for the bus. I heard the old man say:

“…swam in the oceans of Ganymede and spoke to its people, who think of the outside world as an impossibility.”

---

Post a Comment

The King's March (Whiskey Bar)

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

Went the soles of his shoes as he kept walking, always walking.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

He’d crossed a whole continent, shore to shore, his heels clicking on dirt, worked stone, and later on, asphalt.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

He’d worn his first pair of shoes down to just leather strips, when he first considered stopping. He’d come across a little village, where the people spoke a language and held a faith that were like no other. They told him they thought that there was one God, like they’d heard the white shamans preach. But that God was, based on their beliefs, evil. That he had made a world that was full of suffering and toil only because the first world that he had made, a veritable paradise, bored him. They told him that their sole purpose was to hide from God, to avoid attracting attention to themselves at all costs. Only then would they truly be safe.

He heard them closely and admired their faith. He spoke to the men, who were hardy but intelligent. 

He flirted with the women, who were radiant and resourceful. He thought he should stay; become one of them, enjoy this life far from the malevolent God’s grasp. 

But then the cobbler handed him his shoes and he knew he had to go, as he always had.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

In a nearby town, he ran across a missionary caravan. There, he spoke with the priests and told them of this village and of their faith. Fascinated but also horrified by this, the priests took it upon themselves to teach the true word of God to that village.

 Tap, tap, tap, tap…

Six months later, the village was attacked by slavers. Its men were killed, its women enslaved. Its shaman was burned alive, with his own holy scripture used as kindling.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

The second time his shoes had worn out, he was trapped in the middle of a snowstorm. He was pinned and helpless and if there was any sort of justice in the world, he would freeze and remain there forever. Then again, the universe has not been known for its kindness.

He was found by a group of hunters who were returning to their town, their sleighs packed with freshly-caught seals. Their dogs bayed and snarled at him, but the men paid them no mind. Man frequently fails to heed a wiser species’ warning.

He was taken to the village and nursed there. He was shown into their great lodge and spoke to the people of the tribe. The villagers took care of him and traded stories with him. They told him of Crow, the trickster who stole the sun from the gods. They told him the tale of the war between the seasons, how Old Man Winter ousted Summer and Spring to the edges of the world and made Fall his wife by force.

All the while, the man listened closely. His lips moved in synch with those of the story teller. He took in every word, he noted every detail, mimicked every gesture. By the time the storm had died down and the Sun rose up again from the rim of the world, he had learned every story by heart. He thanked the people of the village and bought from them a pair of sealskin boots, then left.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

The next winter, the villagers gathered in the lodge and waited for the story teller to speak, to help them weather Old Man Winter’s reign. To his horror, the story teller suddenly realized that the words would not come. Terrified, he tried to summon up the images and verses taught to him from the day of his birth, but could not, for the life of him, recall them. He merely stood in the middle of the crowd, mubbling and murmuring like a fool, the history of his tribe forgotten. 

 Tap, tap, tap, tap…

He was halfway through crossing the great rice paddies, when his shoes failed him for the fourth time. As if some great veil had been lifted, the scent and sights of war suddenly struck him. As he pricked his ears, he heard the great roar of a hundred men dying. On his skin, he felt the gentle caress of a summer breeze, a touch of blood mixed with flowery scents.

There was a woman hidden in the paddies. She wore tattered robes, and her face was haggard and withered. A silent exchange took place between them, as they stared at each other, huddled inside a dark hole in the middle of the war. He reached out his hand and she took it. She smelled like flowers blossoming on the battlefield. He smelled like old laudanum. 

They stayed there, hidden in the rice paddy until the sounds of war died away. When the victors were done burning the dead, the woman led him out of their hiding place and to her house. It was a small cottage on a nearby hill. No plants grew around it and no trees cast a shadow over it. He felt right at home there.

For days, they stayed in her house and shared the same bed. When she was hungry, he’d go to the woods and call some small animal, a rabbit or a badger and kill it, bringing it for her to eat. When she was done eating, they would talk and trade their stories.

She was a witch; like her mother before her, had learned the secret language of unclean things and used them as her servitors. In the eyes of Buddhist monks, she was unclean. In the scriptures of Shinto, she was named anathema. But to the lords and rulers of this land, she was a valuable tool. She had placed hexes and killed from a distance many times in their name. But now, she had grown tired of the slaughter. She vowed never to marry, or bear a child. She vowed never to pass her dark secrets on to another being. Her art would die with her.

When she was done talking, he simply leaned in and kissed her deeply. She asked him his name, for the first time since they met. He said:

“They called me Mara, who wove misery into the pattern of history.”

 As they were making love, with her laying on her back, she saw the flicker of a forked tongue, the sign of a spirit beast. She gasped and tried to push him off, feeling suddenly very much afraid. He said: 

“They said that I was the one that drugged Brahma before he was done shaping the universe; that I was the one who lulled him to sleep before he could eliminate suffering.”

As he held onto her, the fear suddenly gave way to a wholly different feeling. She felt some sort of strange heat rising up from inside her belly, rushing down her loins. As she writhed in pleasure on the floorboards, he said:

“They say that I was the one who spat my black bile into the first man’s heart. And from my bile, there sprang out jealousy and pettiness and envy.”

She was swept with wave after wave of pleasure, unaware of him placing his seed inside her, when he said:

 “They say I was the one who invented lies and whispered them in his ear. And the lies were so sweet, so enticing, that he ended up always preferring them to the truth.” 

She was panting on the floor, spent and suddenly very, very tired. From somewhere far away, she heard him say:

“I only reap the seeds that man sows. And when I am done, I salt the ground where wickedness has taken root.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw the glint of silvery scales. She noticed his features suddenly distorted, as if his face had grown longer, his nostrils growing long like slits. She saw the flash of green eyes and the outline of inhumanly long teeth. And as if she were in some fever dream, she saw a long, rubbery tail, whipping at the air behind him.

He had not given her his name, so she opted to give him one herself. From her chest of wonders she took a silver belt buckle, which had been given to her as payment from a neighboring lord’s cheating wife. In the next few days, when he was out hunting, she would take her hammer and chisel and carefully, with painstaking attention, etch its surface. Once she was done, she presented it to him. His badge of office. His name and sign for evermore. He accepted this gift with a smile and wore it before her. They slept together that night for the last time. She felt him get up and go out, in the middle of the night, but didn’t bother to say goodbye. She knew his name now. She could summon him to her side anytime she wished.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

Four months later, she was heavy with child. Desperate and alone, she summoned him, but he did not appear. Afraid, she tried to swallow herbs and potions that would make her miscarry and free her from the burden of the child, but none worked. 

So she asked a favor of a passing lord and begged him for help. Intrigued by the prospect of having a witch in his debt, he took care of her and saw that her child was delivered by his finest midwife. It was a success. The witch survived the labor and the child was brought into the world.

But the child was a monstrous thing, covered in silvery scales with a long, whipping tail and a forked tongue that flicked in and out of its mouth. The witch would not stop screaming at the sight of it, until the lord took it from her sight and killed it with his own hands.

Tap, tap, crunch, crunch…

He walked a long time, across the face of the earth. He walked through gleaming cities, down great boulevards and climbed his way on the face of great buildings that defied heaven.

He crossed deserts and saw them slowly turn to green and verdant fields.

He walked among the multitudes of man and where he stopped, he would inflict some terrible disaster, but it was not enough to break them. Instead, they adapted. They changed into something he was increasingly less effective against. He saw their numbers dwindle, then rise again. He saw them change before his very eyes and he saw them become less and less like the frail, gullible things he had preyed on.

He watched them build great sky-ships. He watched them board them en masse and leave their homeworld behind, seeking their fortune among the great orbiting rocks that swam in the night sky. He imagined their gleaming, wondrous mass orbit the distant stars, their home forgotten and spent.

His shoes failed for the final time as he climbed up a great pile of refuse, left behind during their exodus. Feeling the weight of millennia weighing down on him for the first time in his long life, he decided he needed to rest. So he sat on top of the pile, the sole lord and master of filth and looked down on the expanses of the dead planet.

He pondered on its dark, lifeless seas and marveled at its mountains of garbage. He gazed longingly at the great fires that burned across the world, where the sun had ignited the products of their civilization. He was done walking. He lay down and closed his eyes, letting his tongue flick out of his mouth for one last time, tasting the myriad flavors of disaster around him.

---

Post a Comment

Death and Sickness

Death and Sickness sat on a beach watching the sea, as it lapped hungrily at the sand. Sickness stared at the moon, her eyes tracing every outline, every crater and feature on its surface. Her fingers drew great imaginary lines on its face. In her mind’s eye, she imagined great canyons appearing on the surface, the ground cracking open for kilometers across, weaving a complex mesh. 

Death swiveled his head toward her and watched her all the while, his joints creaking as his sockets followed every motion she made with her hand, trying to decipher them, to find some meaning.

Say what you will about Sickness, but she is a romantic. 

Call Death any way you like, but he is a cynic at heart.

After a while, Death gave up on trying to make sense out of Sickness’s little game. He got up and walked toward the water. The tide rose up and lapped at his feet, but Death paid it no mind.

Sickness looked at him, as he stood by the edge of the water, grimly staring at the refuse that was being swept up to him. She saw the tattered remains of children’s toys, of beer cans and plastic containers, as they swayed back and forth between his legs. He looked like some discarded anatomy class aid, set on the beach as part of a prank, held up by invisible wires. She knew he’d be there for a long while, thinking big thoughts, all grim and brooding. He’d try to make sense out of the refuse, to look for some greater meaning but he’d find none.

He never did.

Sickness got up and moved toward Death, tiptoeing slowly. He hadn’t even realized she was there. When she was but a step away, she pushed at his bony body and shoved him into the water. Death stumbled, tried to steady himself and then fell into the water, face first. Sickness started laughing, her withered lungs hissing, as she saw him struggle to get up, water gushing out of his sockets.

Behind her, something blew up in the great city. A wall of flame swept through its streets, illuminating her sunken face, casting great shadows over her ever-hungry eyes. Windows shattered and its gleaming towers creaked once, and then collapsed. 

“There go the last ones. We’ll be done here, pretty soon.” 

“That’s strange. Frost told me the same thing, a long time ago.”

“Frost was a ham-handed fool, no better than Filth. He couldn’t have pulled it off in the first place. But this, this is for real. There’s no way they’ll shrug this off.”

Death shrugged his bony shoulders. Sickness could have sworn she saw the faint outline of a smile, briefly obscuring his perpetual grin. She crossed her arms and grunted. The old bony bastard always found a way to push her buttons.

The city belched fire once more. Another tower collapsed, raising a cloud of cement dust. Sickness could feel her grip on the city waning, as the last people she had claimed died in the flames or crushed under the toppling giants. 

“I have to go. Care to join me?”

“Not yet. Go on without me.”

Sickness took one last look at Death and was almost certain she saw a flash of longing in his bare bone face. Suddenly feeling mad at him, she snapped her fingers and disappeared, leaving only a pair of footprints in the sand. As if the sea knew she was gone, the tide swept in, eliminating her last traces.

Death walked across the beach and sat cross-legged at its edge, his back to the sea. He waited for a long time, his sockets fixed straight ahead. He waited till the moon dived beneath the fringes of the world, seeking refuge from the sun. He waited until the sun shed his golden scales and stood naked and raw before him.

By the time the sun faded from his sight once more, the flames had died down. Now there was nothing but rubble and the faint outline of buildings left behind. He got up and started walking across its boulevards, its avenues, its roads. He crossed its alleys, crawled in its underpasses and trekked across its tunnels. And everywhere he went, he encountered the dead. They looked at him with their spectral faces full of horror, their eyes and mouths grotesque O’s, their half-real hands grasping at his figure. To each, he spoke words of consolation. To each, he promised relief.

His work would have been over then and there, had it not been for the child. He heard it somewhere on the surface, its voice faint as it called out for someone. Death could not see it as it was trapped beneath the rubble, but he could tell it was there. Looking around to make sure none of his brethren was around, he started clawing though the rubble, until the child was revealed.

It was hurt and bloodied, its small frame a smattering on bruises on coffee-colored skin. Its mouth, a featureless red wound, spouted incomprehensible sounds. Who was it calling to? Death wondered. He leaned in closer and tried to make out the words, but he could not. There was no reasoning behind the child’s cries, only a constant pleading for release and the constant summoning for a familiar, comforting touch.

Death raised his bony arm and touched it on his bare grin. He blew through his teeth, feebly trying to imitate a human’s hushing motion, but the sound that came from him sounded like wind blowing ashes across a dead planet. The child was terrified, but it was finally quiet.

He looked around once more. He was alone. Then he started singing an old song he had picked up during his service here. It was a pleading song, a comforting thing that crawled up on your skin with its long spindly arms and nestled by your ear, whispering sweet little nothings. It was a song that kissed at open wounds and made them hurt less. A song that took your mind off your lost limb, your ruined eye. It was a song that turned the roar of bonfires into sweet purrs and made the cold just a bit more bearable each winter.

When he was done, there was a great hush. The child was silent now, its eyes tearing. Without missing a beat, Death reached out and plucked it from its body, before the respite from its suffering was done. With the child in his hand, content and beaming, Death turned to the multitude of the dead and waved them off, bidding them farewell. And they flew high in the air, poking holes in the night sky the color of tarnished silver.

When the last one was gone, Death took his scythe in hand and started walking. His gait was slow and uneven. It would probably take him a long while before he reached his next destination. His brethren would be mad at him for his delay. Unlike him, they were creatures that were affected by time, their existence and power intimately tied to human history. They had every reason to be in a hurry. When mankind was gone, they would be free from their work, banished back to sweet oblivion, released from their duties. 

Death of course, had never had that option. He was tied to time and history. He’d still be there even when the last man was gone, unlike his brothers and sisters. And if extinction was done, then time and history would be done too. He’d be pinned here, alone, trapped in endless now. He just couldn’t let that happen.

Death panicked and started running. All around him, time started slowing down, as the mass of humanity diminished. He felt a great weight rest on his shoulders, his motions getting all the more sluggish. For a moment, he felt as if his torment might start any minute now, but something happened.

The weight was gone. The terror faded. Death moved unhindered once again. He smiled. Time was moving forward. There were still some people left unnoticed by his brethren. Relieved, he once again started dragging his feet.

---

Post a Comment

Old Man Kuss

 

Illustration by Maria Kolaki

His name is Kuss. Once, he was known as Kuss the Destroyer, Kuss the Warmonger, Kuss the Undefeated and Kuss, the Scourge of Kings. He had single-handedly raised an army and had overthrown the Tyrant of Kallipolis, taking his kingdom for his own, and then subjugating every nearby province.

“Know, oh King…” said the old man, the wrinkles of his face contorting with each spoken word, his eyes fixed on his lord, sitting on his golden throne. Kuss had taken the throne he now sat upon from the Dragon Lord’s hoard, and had made his very crown from gold stolen from the Demon Prince’s vaults.

 “…that the Zukkara province has denied to give up their tenth of the annual harvest. Which, of course, will undoubtedly wreak havoc to our yearly revenue, especially considering the tremendous financial cost attributed to our Gurmoosh campaign.”

 Heh. Zukkara. A nation of merchants, potters and river sailors. None of them could ever fight. Even now, with the majority of his army fighting the rebels in far-away Gurmoosh, he could still invade, kill a tenth of its population and hang the hetman by his own genitals, with just a handful of men by his side. 

“No matter” said the Minister of the Golden Threshold, “Zukkara is a relatively small province and the tax we levied from them is insignificant. We can afford to let them get away with this one.”

He was about to protest, to speak up and call his Minister a putty-faced degenerate, when his Queen put her hand on his thigh and gently squeeze. His anger faded then and he lost his momentum. She spoke and his heart skipped a beat.

“Other regions will follow Zukkara’s example, however. If we let this go unpunished, then other nations will follow their example and where will we be then, Minister? No, what we need to do is-”

‘Burn their capital to the ground, kill every living thing, then salt the earth, so that nothing will ever grown again’ he thought, looking at his Queen with wide-eyed wonder. Had she changed back to her old ways? Had she given up the subtle, underhanded ways of civilization? Was she once again the warrior goddess he had fallen in love with, all those years ago?

“-oust their delegation from the capital, confiscate the wares of all Zukkaran merchants that are currently within the city walls. We will hold on to our policy, until they pressure their lords into giving up their taxes.”

“Capital idea, mother”, said the young man at the opposite end of the table, jotting down the minutes of the council. Kuss let out an expesperated sigh. The boy that had just spoken was his son. A pale, pudgy weakling of a scribe, who fainted at the very sight of blood. He would have fed him to the lions already, had he not been his only child.

His gaze fell to the map, laid out across the ancient mahogany table. He looked across the distant expanses that comprised his kingdom, at the mighty Jorrspine, that was the natural border to the mysterious kingdoms of the Orient, at the mighty river Horr, whose guardian spirit he had once beaten into submission, at the Horse Plains, where the Bronze Hordes dwelt, who had been the vanguard of his first army. In his mind’s eye, every single one of these regions was flooded with blood, the air ringing with the sound of clashing steel and the screams of men and kings alike, fallen by the hundreds from his blade.

“Not a wise course of action, my lady” said the Minister, waking Kuss from his reverie. He was old now, once again trapped in his throne, doomed to suffer the luxuries that weaker men desired for the rest of his life. “The Zukkaran Merchant Princes do, after all, control a large part of our exports in the Orient. Should we anger them, we could be facing a drawn-out embargo, which will in turn-”

He imagined drawing his sword from his sheath, climbing across the table and cutting off the Minister’s damn fool head, for wasting his time. He felt like screaming at the top of his lungs, with the fierceness of a lion at his council: ‘Cowards! Degenerates! Petty fools the lot of you! Enough with the talking, enough with the planning! Let us wipe Zukkara from the face of the map! Let us enslave their women and children and drown their men in quicksand! Lets us bury their leaders alive in the mortar of our temples! Let us do anything but talk!’

He said none of this, of course. He dared not. His Queen still had her hand on his thigh and he could feel the very weight of his kingdom pressing down on him, snuffing out the fire that once raged in his heart. He thought back to his father’s words, a lifetime ago:

‘A body fails, my son. It is a faulty thing that breaks and bends and twists and gets sick. You cannot rely on the body. But the body is commanded by the heart. And as long as the heart is young and there is fire in your chest, the body will keep going.’ 

“-cause a far greater…”

“The Merchant Princes won’t dare risk losing our favor, Minister! Should they anger us, they know that we will withdraw our troops that escort their caravans across their regions, thereby forcing them to spend-” his son butted in.

‘Never let your heart grow old, son.’ 

Kuss looked up, the bickering of his council a distant drone to his ears. He looked around the room, at the hanging banners of conquered kingdoms. He saw the torn banner of King Qurus of the Innurvel, the lion cleft in twain. He saw the banner of Lord Dumorn, Master of the Rivers, stained with Dumorn’s own blood, the stain surrounding the jagged hole through which he had stabbed at the poor bastard, as he begged for his life. He looked at each and every one of them, each a kingdom broken and forced under his rule. His eyes looked at his own banner then, where he could now clearly see his own motto, laid out before him, stitched in gold thread:

Fortune Favors the Brave.

“What say you, my liege?”

He looked at his council, who now stared at him, waiting for a response. He could hardly feel his Queens fingers now, as they dug into his thigh.

 “You’re the tie-breaker, father. Should we pressure the Zukkarans or not?” muttered the boy, his arm raised high, smiling his big-toothed grin.

Kuss cleared his throat and spat, then. His council gasped at the sight. Stretching his mighty arms, flexing his muscles, the King grabbed his sword and strapped it on his back. Carefully, he took the crown off his brow and placed it before him, on the map. The gold now ringed his capital.

“What is the matter, my love?” said his Queen, her words bearing a command, which Kuss ignored.

He undid the brooch that held his regal cloak and got up on the table. Tossing the garment aside with one hand, he ripped his shirt with the other. His chest was pale and the skin was wrinkled in places, but his scars were still there, unfaded. His council took a step back then. The head of his royal guard stared in amazement.

“Father-”

“My lord-”

“What seems to be the matter, oh King?”

“Kuss! Get down from there, this instant!” said his queen, the old lioness, and her voice made the windows around her rattle.

Kuss looked at her, then. He saw her wrinkled face, her mane of red hair raised up in a tight bunch, her painted lips and eyelids. He looked at her for a long while, but there was no sign of the woman he had fallen in love with. His Lioness had died long ago, swallowed up by the Queen.

No matter, he thought. Plenty more where she came from.

He ran, then, right before her hands grabbed him. This was his one and only chance and he had taken it and by the gods, no-one would stop him! No one would dare!

He jumped as he reached the end of the table, curling his body into a tight ball, bursting through the glass window, raining shards of glass and bronze down into the courtyard. Reaching his hand out, he grasped at the flag that waved in the autumn breeze and used it to swing himself onto the huge oak tree in front of his balcony. In a single, elegant motion, he grabbed a low branch, rode it till he was close enough to the ground, then jumped down, ran across the courtyard, punched a guard for no good reason and scaled the walls.

He was galloping fiercely on a stolen horse out of the capital by sunset. Behind him, the Zukkaran embassy burned. Before him, the world and its wonders beckoned. He spurred his horse on, like a madman, yelling at the top of his lungs, riding into the sunset.

Kuss the Undefeated had no more time to lose.

---

Post a Comment

21 21 21

21

21

21

Goes the old cassette player, its tape perpetually repeating its slow mourning. The man that sits slumped on the couch doesn’t bother stopping it; he’s hardly even hearing it in the first place.

“I was thinking”

Says the man. These are the first few words he’s spoken in days since she went away.

“I was never good enough for you.”

Stop it, says the voice in his head. It sounds so much like her.

“I wasn’t worth having you in the first place.”

Do i hear
21
21
21

 “All the while we were together…”

No. Don’t say it, you bastard. Don’t you dare say it!

“I always thought how good, how great it would be…if I didn’t have you.”

You don’t mean that.

“I meant it then. That’s good enough for me.”

But you never left, did you?

“No. I never did. Couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from you for even a day.”

That’s good enough for me, then.

“You don’t mean that. I could have given you more…much more…”

Did I ever ask for more? Did I ever pester you for more than what you could give me?

“No. But I could tell…sometimes, I could tell...”

You’re an idiot.

“I know.”

Do i hear
21
21
21

“I know I am. And I had to lose you to realize that.”

You never left me, you idiot. You never walked away, you never shied away from what I needed. You stood by me. That’s all I ever wanted.

“But…but I kept…thinking…”

Yes. Yes you did. I could tell what was going on in that thick head of yours.

“Of course you knew. You could always read me like an open book.”

You were an interesting read. There was a little twist, a surprise ending to each day.

“There was nothing interesting about me.”

Of course there was. There were unexpected developments, cliffhangers and abrupt chapter endings. You’d always come up with a crisis, a challenge and you’d always keep me on my toes.

“I was a pain in the ass.”

Yes. You were. Your head was full of worry. But your eyes…

“What about my eyes?”

I’d see your face frowning, I’d see you pace around the room and bite your nails, thinking big dumb thoughts like the ones you’re having and I’d worry, every day.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But then you’d turn around and look at me with those big puppy eyes and I’d melt inside. 

“You would?”

Do i hear
21
21
21

He felt better now, relieved. The pain in his heart had subsided, just a little bit. He could breathe now.

“I didn’t cry at the funeral.”

No. You didn’t.

“I couldn’t even shed a tear.”

Big tough bastards like you never can. Though you did cry a bit when Arthur got run over by that car.

“You knew about Arthur?”

You think that I wouldn’t be able to tell that you’d replaced him, did you?

“How could you tell? He was identical!”

I saw the way you looked at me. I saw that you had been crying. You looked heartbroken.

“I didn’t want to see you cry. So I made up the story about taking him to the vet, so I could get him fixed.”

Still, I got pretty damn well along with Arthur 2…

Do i hear
21
21
21

He quit trying to hold back. Leaning onto the coffee table, he started crying, his chest heaving with great big sobs. His fingers clenched the surface of the wooden table. He held on to it till his knuckles turned white, till his hands went numb.

“I could have done more.”

Like what?

“I…I could have gotten you a better doctor, I could have-”

There wasn’t a thing any doctor could do. I didn’t respond to the treatments, remember?

“No! It’s their goddamn fault! They could have saved you!”

So I could stay sick for another decade?

“So you could stay with me. So I could stay with you.”

There was nothing you could do.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Get off the damn couch, for starters. The cassette player needs fixing.

 Do i hear
21
21
*click*

He’d got up and pressed the stop button. The room was strangely silent now.

“I don’t even know why we kept it in the first place.”

Cause you kept making me dorky mix tapes so I could pass the time in the car. You were kind of a dweeb.

“Did you ever listen to any of them?”

All the time. Even the ones with the really depressing stuff you like.

“I thought you liked them.”

I only pretended to so I could get in your pants.

“My god. Look at this place. It’s a mess.”

You need to get off your back and start tidying things up.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

You also need to get out, get some air. Call the guys, go meet some girls.

“I don’t want anybody else.”

And I don’t want you sitting here, wasting your damn life away in this house.

“It’s so empty without you.”

Give it time. It’ll fit you right back.

“You think so?”

I know you will, tiger. Now come on, get going. You got your whole life ahead of you.

“Will I ever talk to you again?”

You never were talking to me in the first place. You were just having this conversation in your head. I’m dead, remember?

“How can I forget?”

You best not forget it. And you best not forget me. Now get going, tiger. There’s a whole wide world out there.

“Thanks, kitten. I love you.”

He stood silent for a while, listening only to the sound of his own breathing. In his head, there was the distant drone of mundane thoughts. He looked around and saw her smiling at him from the photo on the fireplace, nestled in his arms, her eyes beaming. He turned around and picked up the phone, carefully dialing a number.

“Barry? Hey man, it’s me. Listen, wanna go out? No, no I…I’m feeling much better, honest. Thanks. I don’t know, how’s eight o’clock? Yeah. Yeah, okay. Cool. Bye, man.”

---

Post a Comment