Tag Archives: speculative fiction

Blood Rain

“There is blood in the rain,” stated the Deep One, matter-of-factly. He stood at the deck railing, staring out over the city spread out below.

“What do you mean, sire?” Kolster asked, looking up at the imposing figure looming over him.

“There is blood in the rain,” the Deep One said again, as if repeating his previous statement automatically lent it additional clarity. “Someone has broken apart a rain god and sewn it among the clouds.”

Kolster looked puzzled and turned his attention to the cloudless sky above. The moon was full this night, lighting the landscape in white light.

“But sire,” Kolster said, “it’s not even raining.”

“Nevertheless,” the Deep One said, turning away from the railing and walking back toward his chambers, “it is raining somewhere — and there is blood in it.”

Kolster sighed and followed after his master.

Corners

I drag a finger along a wall as I walk around the room. I can feel the grainy surface of drywall and paint. Approaching the corner, my fingertips lift off the surface slightly, pulling further away as I draw closer to the junction of the adjoining wall.

“Why’d you do that, Linds?” Jubal is watching my progress, at my request. I need a witness.

“Just watch,” I breathe quietly. I step closer, and the laws of physics break and bend. The closer I step the further away the corner gets. My hand draws closer, but the corner pulls even further away.

“Whoa,” I hear Jubal say from behind me. I can hear the shock in his breathless tone. It mirrors my own the first time I experienced this.

I press closer still, and now the space between hand and corner visibly distorts. My fingers twist and the walls warp, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot touch that corner seam. Nor any other. They are all beyond my reach.

“What. The. Hell,” Jubal whispers.

I pull my hand back and rub my fingers. “An excellent question.”

ɹəɥʇᴂN

Grey mist sails past his face, and it is enough to shake him from his reverie. His mind is sluggish, slow, as though he is awakening from a dream. Perhaps he is, but then he has woken into a nightmare.

He looks down at his hands, outstretched before him, palms up. His skin is grey, wrinkled, gnarled. He doesn’t remember being old, but he understands that there is much he does not remember.

Past his fingers, the ground is an even deeper shade of grey. Anywhere else, it would be green, but here the grass, like everything else, holds no color at all.

At his back a dark building looms, blacker than shadow. This he knows — somehow — without even looking. Entry is forbidden, and impossible. A fence of smoke encloses him in this tiny yard, and again he knows, without quite understanding how, that to cross that line would expose him further to the nightmares of this place.

But cross it he will, eventually. He must. There is… SOMETHING… out in those mists, and its call will allow him to do nothing else.

Everywhere I Go

You’ve heard the expression, “Everywhere you go, there you are.” Well, I’ve got a variation for you.

“Everywhere I go, there you are.”

Frankly, I’m getting tired of it. At first I thought it was just me. You know, how you see a familiar face in a crowd, only to look again and it’s not who you thought at all and the resemblance is only passing. Thing is, it was clearly your face.

It happened infrequently at first, then with increasing regularity, to the point where it was unsettling. And I don’t get unsettled easily. But you already know that.

I tried catching up to you once, to confront you, but by the time I got to you, you were gone.

And then things got really strange.

I had a day recently where I saw you, through a glass storefront, then glanced to the side and saw you again, across the street. Moments later, I saw you twice, walking side by side, holding hands with yourself, having a conversation.

Has the world gone crazy, or have I? All I know is this:

Everywhere I go now, there you are.

Dream Mist

“Anything?” Bantu asked.

“Gimme a sec,” replied Shari. With a gloved hand she reached into the mist hovering before her, dipping a small test tube into it and filling it as best she could. With the other hand she stoppered it before withdrawing it and gently placing it into the analyzer set up on the path next to her.

Shari pulled off the gloves and glanced over at Bantu, who was engaged in his own work. “It’s going to be a few minutes, but I don’t expect the results are going to be any different here than they were at any of the other three sites we’ve been to today.”

Bantu grunted in acknowledgement. “Vapor, not unlike smoke but with properties of mist, that hangs in the air like a bubble over the site of the detonation. Right.”

Shari nodded. “And prolonged contact with it results in very specific types of entropy, depending on material and mass.” She glanced at her discarded gloves, which were already beginning to break down and crumble.

She sighed, troubled. “I just wish we knew what it was.”

Exalted by Fiery Touch

This entry is part 13 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

At long last, Orthael returned the sword to its guard position and stood quietly for several seconds before realising there were no foes left to slay. That was not to say that he was alone, however. There was someone in the clearing beyond the trees, a silhouette that knelt low at the very centre of a circle of destroyed bodies.

Lycans, thought he. Not the Dead. Ashmar’s touch lies not on these.

The flame that tugged was still now, burning low. Neither spark nor smoke nor ember spoke, and so Orthael approached. The figure was slight, young, female. She rose to a full kneel, lifting and displaying a sword that rang clear with power.

Orthael strode on until he reached the very edge of the clearing and waited, for though he could not see her tears he could feel the grief within her crackle – fierce and hard like the wrath of the Fire. He stood, patiently.

Surely the Fire had brought him here, moving through the world on its mysterious and benevolent dance. There was no need to rush the moment.

Distant Whispers

This entry is part 12 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Onwards and forwards, path guided by faith, Orthael strode on. He did not see where his feet feel, he did not know where the end of his journey lay, he did not drive the weapon that tugged him onwards on its lethal dance. The golden light at the tip of the sword traced across the hearts and throats and claws of the Lesser Dead that swarmed from the trees as if to overwhelm him with the weight of their bodies.

Now and again he murmured prayers of supplication and delivery, words of comfort and delight that kept the darkness within at bay. Then he would shout promises of retribution and redemption to assault the darkness without.

All throughout, the Dead were returned. Scores were flung backwards or even vaporised where they stood by scintillating bolts of flame. Some were swept away by sword and mailed fist. Others yet dissolved where they stood, the Fire’s divine presence sufficient to send them on.

This way, tugged the fire in his heart. The night is not yet over.

A True Beginning

This entry is part 11 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

She heaved, great, gasping, shuddering sobs, still clutching the sword in her hand. Her tears that fell on the blade glistened and glowed blue, etching fine, dark lines into the metal as they traveled along it. She was oblivious of the carnage she had left around her. She only knew the pain inside.

Eventually, her weeping subsided and she pushed herself upright again, though still on her knees. She had fulfilled her purpose for entering this gods-forsaken forest. She held the sword up before her eyes, examining the now-perfect metal, fresh and new as the day it had been forged. The blood of these beasts had fed it, restored it, returned it to its former glory.

As if in acknowledgement, a voice spoke in her mind. Mistress, it said. It is time. There is work to be done.

Malika nodded. “I know,” she replied. “This task that has been given me is great, perhaps too great. Just allow me this time with my grief.”

Would that I could, Mistress, came the sword’s reply, but another approaches.

Silence after the Storm

This entry is part 10 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

The forest lay in perfect stillness around her, the bodies of the beasts she had slain strewn haphazardly all about. She stood, head tilted forward, listening for the next attack. It never came. She held the sword aloft, the blue raging flames towering over her. No sign of rust remained anywhere on that ancient blade. Instead, there was only perfect, blue-satin steel.

Malika’s body trembled, both from emotion and exertion. Her chest heaved as she sucked in huge lungfuls of air. Sweat poured from her body, soaking through her blouse and leggings. She posed the figure of the mythic destroyer there in the darkness, lit only by blue flamelight. She stood there for several long moments.

And then, as if a spell had been broken, the flames chuffed out and she collapsed to her knees, weeping. All the pain and fury, grief and anguish she had contained before, that had fueled her need to fight and exterminate, tried to flee her body all at once, and she felt as though the surge of emotion might be the end of her.

A Chosen Tool

This entry is part 9 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Orthael stopped by a small crossroads, the signpost and its accompanying shrine to the Fire covered in a sick, black tar. It oozed away from the point of Judgement, peeling back wetly when he swung it close and returning when he lifted it away.

Distantly, he was aware of a faint alarm. In his contemplation and studies there had been numerous mentions of this substance – but all attempts to recall them faded before the peaceful calm that seemed to blanket the world now.

He tried again, aware that this was important. But the concern and insistence seemed to belong to a man, just a man, and he was something greater now: an agent of the All-Consumer, chosen and prepared and transformed for just this point in time.

Just this point in time.

He listened to the flame that illuminated his days and chose the centre path. His Judgement burned a little brighter, as if to light the way.