Kingmaker's Short Story Collection (Violence/Language. A Mature Thread)

[Kingmaker]

This is a thread of short stories/short story ideas/not-so-short stories. I'll now have everything BUT my original "BeauTiful" in here. A fair warning: I use commas like candy. I use them to show where I'd pause in a real sentence if I was speaking. So, if you come along and notice unnecessary commas, read it outloud in your mind, and briefly pause at each one. Ellipses are also in magnitude in some of my stories, indicating a wandering, trailing kind of ending to a sentence, instead of a definite stop.

Without further ado: My first short story:

View From A Watertower

I looked out over the town, that desolate, motherfucking town I've lived in for over twenty years. I sighed, unstrapping my wheelchair from my back, and set it up. There was a familiar, deep burn in my arms. Something akin to fire, but deeper. It was as if sulfuric acid was crawling through my veins instead of blood.

Blood, oh, God, blood. I was so familiar with it. Everything reminded me of it today. The color of the ketchup at the sloppy joint I ate breakfast at, the color of my eyes after a hard night of drinking. The stop signs I'd brazenly ignored, opting to blast straight to the watertower. Even the sunset over my tiny village-sized town reminded me of what happened that day. It reminded me of my lie.

Year, it had been years since the "accident", or what my family and remaining friends referred to it as. It wasn't pretty. At all. Well, I guess I'll have to tell you the story, considering you're reading this story. It was ten years ago, to the date. I'd been drinking, well, since noon. It was spring break, that's what you do when you're 16, right? That's what was so appealing to life in those days. You drink, you get fucked up, you die young, you get memorialized with a plaque and a donation box down at the local diner. Anyways, I was pretty wasted by the time the party was getting ready to start. My sister wanted to go too. Poor, poor little Andrea. She was 14, and looked up to me like I was God, or at least Buddha.

There... There was an accident. I was in no shape to drive, Andrea had told me that. So, of course, I slapped her and told her to shut the fuck up. We got into the car, and drove. I never knew there was a pond right behind the curve on that dirt road. I never knew the curve was so steep. I never knew not wearing my seatbelt would one day save my life. It's the seatbelt that killed her. She always wore it, said it'd save her some day. Fat lot of good it did her that day. The truck barreled over the corner, and into that cold water. That sobered me up quickly. I kicked the door out, bleeding from glass fragments in my face and neck. I looked over, and saw a dark figure squirming, screaming at me. But I ignored it. I was so scared. I tried to swim up, but something had me caught. I later found out that my arm bone had snapped, and hooked on the frame of the door. I didn't know that at the time.

It was eight minutes before I breathed again. I don't remember after two. All I remember is seeing red water floating around me, and blue water everywhere else.

From what's been gathered, the truck hit the bottom of the pond, and that jarred me loose. Andrea was knocked unconscious by the impact of the truck onto the bottom of the pond, and died because of the seatbelt holding her down. I survived, because I'm a dumbass.

And she died.

Because I wanted to get totally wasted and possibly laid.

What am I?

And after that, when I woke up in the hospital, I made a decision. Andrea had died, I had stolen that from her.

So I'd steal something from myself. I decided that I would never walk again. It confused the hell out of the doctors, who ran test after test. They all just chalked it up to partial brain damage from alcohol and not breathing. So I obliged them. For ten years, I was the town cripple. For ten years, I was the guy you'd talk about behind his back. And I don't even want to talk about school. Andrea had been loved, praised, smart. I had been the barely-literate idiot goof-off.

So I wasn't surprised at my graduation that I caught a teacher saying "Why Andrea? David should have died..."

And I can't say I blame Mrs. Appely. So that's why I'm up here, at the edge of the watertower railings. I'm gonna mourn my sister.

I wonder if falling is anything like flying.

I stand up, push my wheelchair back. My legs are shaky, but not emaciated. I had always clenched the muscles and excercised them when no one was looking. I take one step forward, crack my shin on the guardrails. I step up onto those guardrails, looking over my shithole town. I take a breath, my last, I decide, and scream.

"I AM DAVID BARKER! I CAN WALK BECAUSE MY SISTER DIED! Goodnight, Hamilton."

I didn't even mean to fall at that moment. I had a speech to give.

Turns out, falling is nothing like flying.

[Kingmaker]

Story 2:

The Ice King

Luke twisted his palm, creating a flurry of snowflakes that danced around his head. It was late, and the summer evening was muggy, but Luke was actually chilly. He always was. All around him, in all the trees hung icicles that created kaleidoscopes of colors dancing madly around the clearing. Minerva should be here by now. It was almost midnight, and they were supposed to meet at eleven.
“Make a wish...” Luke sighed. 11:11 and no sign of Minerva. A nervous twitch rocked his body, and a blast of icy coldness rocked the small clearing. The stream he sat by momentarily froze solid. Luke breathed in, recollecting his emotions. The ice in the stream melted, but the fish were still dead...
Minerva sat at the edge of the forest, looking in to its depths. Luke was in there. He’d changed since childhood, grown colder. Both literally and metaphorically. Minerva was the first person Luke came to when puberty woke his latent cryokinetic abilities. In other words, Luke came to his childhood friend first when he started freezing people solid. He had always scared her, even when they were young. She’d only talked to him because she was afraid that if she didn’t, she’d have no one to defend her against her father... The sick bastard who had stolen her virginity at 11. Luke seemed strong enough to defend her, and defend her he did. Four times in grade school, and countless times in High School, Luke had come just in time to save her from another sodomy. Luke had ended up with a broken jaw, and her father was now in jail, again. She still remembered his face when she told him she was dating Kyle, Luke’s cousin. She still remembered the cold waves that had frozen her tears to her face, and how later that week Kyle had ‘slipped and fallen down several flights of stairs’. A puddle of water had been found at the top of the stairs. The only problem? It had happened in a climate-controlled school, in May. No one would believe her that Luke was an icy killer. Luke hadn’t spoken to her until tonight, four long months later. She tried to move her feet forwards, but some magnetic force kept her from confronting her fear.
Luke was getting worried now. Minerva never ignored his requests. Whether it was fear or love, Luke no longer cared. People learned to respect men with power, and that’s what he was. He remembered the first time he’d slept with someone when his powers awoke. How their cold bodies squirmed away, trying to get away from the Absolute Zero that was Luke. He remembered how their tears and blood froze against their skin, so pretty, so beautiful. He remembered how the girl lived, but no longer spoke at all. “She had such a pretty voice...” Luke hadn’t been able to freeze that. Hr couldn’t get the sound back, and now she never spoke. “Small price to pay for the fun I had.”
He snapped his fingers, and cold air started to circulate all around him. After a minute, he was sitting on a blue chair of sculpted ice, waiting for his queen. Time ticked slowly, almost like it too was frozen by Luke’s astonishing power. 11:12, 11:13, 11:45... Time marched on.
Minerva could feel the tyrannical presence now flooding from the forest. Not just cold, but anger and fear. Love? Maybe, but a love for her pain, not for her. The gun shook in Minerva’s slender hands. She brushed a strand of red hair out of her face, and behind her ear. She’d never even shot the gun before. It was a simple 9 Millimeter pistol, the man at the pawn shop called it a “point-and-shooter, no real trainin’ necessary.” She hoped he was right. A sob escaped her throat before she could wrench it back.
Luke smirked when he heard the sob. Minerva had arrived. He sat back, and called out. “Minerva! Join your king, and I’ll make you a queen!” He smiled. She couldn’t deny her destiny for too much longer...
Minerva cried quietly. She couldn’t keep this up. She ran into the forest, tears streaming down pale white skin. She plowed into Luke with a vise-like hug, and looked up into his eyes. “I-I-I’m sorry...” A fierce slap sent her reeling back. His eyes glowed with a sadistic type of love.
“You kept your king waiting. What is your excuse?”
Images and memories flooded Minerva’s mind. She remembered when Luke first admitted to loving her. It was the same night her father tried to rape her the last time. Luke had been sitting in her Geo Metro two-door, an ice-pack strapped to his face. It seemed ironic now, that the self-proclaimed “King of Ice” had been using an ice-pack. All the little details seemed funny. Like how his eyes were brown then, but were watery blue now. Or how his hair had been frizzy and wild, but now was slick and well-maintained. The air conditioner had rumbled like a hungry beast back then, and it still would have, had the car not been currently repossessed for an outstanding loan Luke had made her take out. Back then, Luke had really loved her. Now, she was another object to be frozen and displayed. The first time he’d said it, he had to repeat himself over and over through a broken jaw. Finally, she understood. Their first kiss was a mixture of insecurities, fear, broken jaws, and blood. Never a worse omen, but she ignored it anyways. Two days later, she slept with Kyle. She snapped back to reality when his icy hand slapped her again. Her face felt bruised.
“I... I got you a gift.” She lied through her teeth. Luke looked at her quizzically. A sharp icicle tickled her throat.
“You better not be lying. I don’t like liars.” His voice was dangerous. Minerva smiled sweetly, and he lowered the sharp icicle.
“You’ll like this, motherfucker.” Minerva whipped the gun out, aiming it with a shaking arm at Luke. His face went from shock, to anger, to bemusement. He laughed, pointing at the small-caliber pistol.
“A peashooter against a king? Really? How do you expect to hurt me with that?” Minerva turned the gun around, and put the barrel in her mouth. The trigger moved back.
“NO!” bang. The bullet tore easily through the back of her head. It wasn’t the death she’d imagined. It hurt a lot more than she thought. The small bullet did the job, but for thirty seconds, the pain was unimaginable. Luke stared in horror at the scene that had unfolded. He screamed, and ice flew through the forest.
“You were my queen... MY queen...” A single tear fell from Luke’s eyes. He flung his hands over Minerva’s body, encasing it in a casket of ice. “Sleep well, my queen.” He grabbed the pistol, and aimed it at his head. He pulled the trigger...
Click.
It was empty.
Luke howled.
The moon and the stars moved slowly on.

[Kingmaker]

Story 3:

Untitled (Also Unfinished. I need help with this!)

The midnight was dark, cool and oh-so calm. Petals of roses blew in the wind, yet no roses grew for miles. The petals were that dark red; almost black that many a gardener pine for when they plant roses. They danced in the cold air, stuck in what appeared to be eternal Brownian motion. The stars glinted above, free, unaltered records of the past, shining billion-year old light onto the Earth from above, below, everywhere. A single silhouetted figure stood within the maelstrom of petals and starlight. He took a breath, and stepped out. The night air bristled his skin, raising pale white Goosebumps against dark, tanned brown skin. His blackish-red hair covered his left eye constantly, stuck in place by some Magic force. Not even a hurricane could brush aside the locks of hair that wove together to keep that eye hidden. The rest of his hair was a lighter red; a grim comparison to it’s enchanted brethren right next to it. The point at which the black/red hair met the red was quite defined, with no mix in-between. His other eye beamed a bright blue, with veins of darker blue mixed in. It had once been described as “The color of ice broken on a cold lake”. The image suited Zaleas, so he used it. If one could see the other eye, it would, (before they fled) look like purple lightning zagging across an orange October moon. The pupil on the hidden eye was X-shaped, an unusual pattern even for someone as unusual as Zaleas himself. His white shirt was hard as armor, yet flexible as cloth, and covered his chest leaving his left his dark arms bare. His legs were covered by white cloth of the same variety, but his feet were bare.

“Jesus. Forgot how beautiful this real world was.” The voice came from behind him, startling the warrior into sudden defense. Zaleas whirled about, and came face-to-face with a problem he should have dealt with earlier.

“Oh. Is that so? I’m glad you had had your last wish, cuz I’m gonna beat your ugly ass so hard-” was all he had time for before the calm Daemon slammed a fist into his chest. The blow knocked him back, and also removed any trace of breath from his chest. Zaleas landed on his feet in the cool sand of the desert. No vegetation grew for almost a mile, and he could pick out every detail of his opponent without even using the X-Eye. The Daemon was taller than the average human, 8’9”, and was built with a body that would make professional wrestlers whimper in fear. It was dressed in a black Armani suit that screamed “I’m Rich!” It adorned a gilded wristwatch with obsidian clock-hands. The only thing (besides the height and physique) that was wrong with it was the pair of wings. Large, and downy, they extended like forming clouds from his back, and reached to a height of almost 13’.

“What was that, Zaleas Half-Thorn?” the Daemon mocked. Zaleas’ temper rose dangerously. Of all his surnames, that was the most demeaning and vulgar for a Daemon to utter. And of course, they all used it. But Zaleas just smiled, and placed a hand at his sheath. A blue-tinted sword hung there, thirsty for the next bit of action. The Daemon’s eyes cut to slits, and it’s wings beat nervously. “Here? Of all places. You are cruel, Zaleas. Cruel. At least let me fly once more…”

“You already got your wish. You saw the real world. Now you will die, Azreawul.” The Daemon screamed at a Mortal using his name, and dove at Zaleas. Within a second, Zaleas was on the other side, holding in one hand a feathery now-red tinted wing, and in the other, his blue sword. Azreawul looked back in utter defiance of what just happened.

“I’ll KILL you! No one touches an Angel’s wings!” But he paused. Zaleas’ hand was at his hair, pulling back the dark red strands. His purplish orange eye gleamed dementedly in the chilly air, adding a layer of fright to the demon it had never felt before. In his pupil, Azreawul could see itself dying. Screaming, clawing, bleeding. It fell to its knees, sobbing tears.

“You know as well as I that Angels are only Angels when they are holy… You are a Fallen. You are scum. And, I commend your Spirit.” The Daemon, or Fallen as it was, crumpled in pain, holding its abdomen. A thick blue strand of smoke flooded out of its grievous injury, and curled around Zaleas. Within seconds, it was still. The purple smoke poured to Zaleas’ left eye, covering it, and dispersing throughout. If one had looked closely, they would notice a brand new streak of purple crossing the orange iris. “Better luck next time, former friend.”
With a stamp of his foot, and an uttered phrase not of human language, Zaleas dispersed in the same maelstrom of petals in which he had appeared. The Fallen’s body lay still, slowly fading into the sands that seemed eager to come up and swallow it.

Zaleas appeared on a dreary rooftop in pre-morning New York. The night was still black, but the edges of the sun were casting orange hues far into the sky. He sighed, and opened the door to the apartment complex on which he stood. He had no desire to watch the sun rise. They say they’re all unique, but after seeing a majority of the 45673-odd sunrises that had occurred during his life, he’d say they got old quick. This one would probably inspire some young poet, or painter, or maybe completely ignored by the public as they slept on. He half-stumbled down the first flight of stairs to the ninth floor, and hastily opened his door. He hated being seen by the public in his Battle Garbs. The last time it happened, he had to use the Eye to convince five people that he did not in fact, just teleport to the rooftop, and had been beside them the whole time. He hated twisting mortal minds, though in fact, he was a mortal. A mortal destined to live until Armageddon, Ragnarok, or whatever-you-will-call-it. And for what? He hadn’t pissed off any God. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was simply destined to go on and on, remaining ever 19. All the others like him have died off. Nowhere else on earth could you find someone with the same shade of tanned skin, high cheekbones, slightly upturned eyes, and rich, unique hair.

“Where’d they all go…?” He whispered quietly to himself. There had been hundreds of ones like him, each uniquely beautiful. But they had met their demises around the time that human got nailed up to a tree. Zaleas closed his eyes as he fell onto his bed on the ninth floor. He had a deal with the landlord, ensuring for $50 extra per month, no one would bother him. In fact, the only readily available entrance to the ninth floor was from the roof, which was accessible only by jumping, climbing, or to someone of Zaleas’ caliber of magic. With a flick of his wrist, the tired warrior turned on a stereo that was across the room. The first lines of Ravage Ritual buzzed into the static air.

“I remember the first war, the way the sky burned. The faces of angels destroyed. I saw a third of Heaven's legion banished, and the creation of Hell. I stood with my brothers and watched Lucifer's fall, but now, my brothers aren't my brothers anymore…” Zaleas quietly whispered along with the song. It was true. He couldn’t remember the first war directly, only stories. Stories passed down by his father, Thorn. He abandoned his Angelic name after he shunned the life that it entitled him to. Instead, he lay with a mortal woman out of pride, and was father to possibly the world’s weirdest mortals, Zaleas and Kei Tynan. Oh, god. His brother. He hadn’t thought of him in almost fifteen years. That poor soul… He inherited the wrong side of the family traits, namely deception, pride, arrogant beauty, and a sense that all life is below him. It didn’t help much that he received the angel’s wings also.
It made life hard to deal with, being shunned by humanity. Kei Tynan was driven to the brink of insanity, only to be left with enough wits to try and kill the humans who had driven him from every city, every town, and every home he’d ever had. But Kei also had a lighter side. He’d produced many a play and poem under various names throughout the ages, his pseudonyms including Homer, Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens. Zaleas flicked his wrist again, silencing the stereo and sat upright. He heard something. Being a Half-Fallen Angel had its benefits, including a little alarm in your head whenever another Fallen appeared. Without this alarm, Zaleas would have been Swiss cheese.

The blasts came suddenly, leaving Zaleas with only enough time to duck and roll for his Battle Garbs. Strapping them on, he looked around, suddenly wild-eyed and very, very perplexed. What he saw brought rage to his clinched throat. A Daemon. An actual Daemon was outside his window, bound and determined to release all the torment of hell on Zaleas’ poor apartment. When the barrage stopped, a hole replaced Zaleas’ wall, and he was not happy about it. He rose to full height, his hair moving though no wind willed it to. The Daemon grinned with alacrity at the destructive forces that were being collected at his fingertips. Zaleas screamed, and leapt at him.

If you’ve never done it, colliding with a minion of Hell nine stories above ground is not a good way to start off a day. It’s even worse if the said demon is built like a pile of bricks, and you nearly chip a tooth on collision. The only possible way this theoretical situation could get worse is if one would start to fall with the Daemon towards the ground, whilst beating it with all the might you could muster.

This being said, Zaleas had possibly the worst start to a day ever in recorded history.
They struck ground at terminal velocity, creating a spiderweb series of cracks that zigzagged like lightning on a clear night. Zaleas shoved the Daemon off of him, and immediately jumped up, ignoring the vast amounts of searing pain that filled every corner of his left arm. A ball of blackish purple energy collected at his fist, and before the Daemon could even utter a single cantrip to stop him, Zaleas released it.

“DarkWing, Awake!” The ball of blackish purple sunk into Zaleas’ left eye, parting the hair and turning it solid purple. His body shook, and quaked. A massive black wing shot first from his right shoulder, then two from the left. His hair’s color faded to black, and his skin paled. Zaleas looked nothing like the man who had stood there moments before. DarkWing was indeed awakened, and he looked pissed.

“He called me, for you? I thought I was his most trusted Configure, his most beloved Transmod! And to be beseeched to attack this thing?! Oh, I have some reddish work to employ when I am back within your head, Zaleas.”

The Daemon looked positively stunned. It went slack-jawed, and stared at him, desparately trying to find human words to convey the shock of what it saw. DarkWing didn’t wait long enough for him to reply, however. He too five short steps over to the bleeding Daemon, and jabbed his hand into its chest. A dark purple light filled the Daemon’s eyes, and he violently shook, until he exploded in a cascade of visceral body parts, and glistening energy. The massive black wings shed their feathers, eventually falling into nothing. Zaleas’ hair returned to it’s natural color, and he found himself at a scene of destruction.

“I might hate you, DarkWing, but you do good work.” He felt light headed, and sick. But thus was the price of annoying spirits that you allowed into your body. He looked up and noticed something that would change his life forever. A young girl was staring at him, with wide green eyes from a tangle of dyed black hair. Her Van’s were plastered with Daemon, her mouth slightly agape. Before Zaleas could decide whether to kill her or spare her, she ran over and tackled him. For a 1253 year-old Half-Angel, being tackled by a 19-year-old was… Odd. The 5’3” girl came at him like a trained football player, head lowered, shoulders braced. The air came out of Zaleas with a wild “whoosh”.

“WHAT ARE YOU?!?!”

Zaleas jabbed the girl’s neck, and she passed out. He picked her up, for it was too dangerous to leave a mortal here, after such a recent attack. He closed his eyes, and teleported to his meditation spot in a flurry of rose petals, the girl went with him.

The view from the cliff was absolutely breathtaking. It was a view that Zaleas had seen plenty of times, but it still filled him with joy every time he saw it. The cliff was suspended in time, a trick that had nearly killed Zaleas when he had tried to do it. The pure power required to pull off such a stunt should have killed even a Son of Thorn. But here it was, a cliff no one else could reach. It was relatively small, only an area of three-hundred or so feet inside a glistening purple veil. But the view was a sunset that had made Zaleas want to protect the earth. As long as there were sunsets like this one, like the one he had frozen in time, he would defend the world from anything.

Weapons laid strewn about the area, swords, shields, halberds, all with the same blue tint as his sword. But there were also beddings, mats, containers of food and drink, and a large pole with a bright red branch growing out of it. With two leaps, Zaleas reached the top of the pole, and froze in place. He cleared his mind, and let go of all the junk that had collected in his head since the last time he had been here, nearly fifteen years ago, after the last fight with Kei Tynan. It flowed out of him in a thin line, polluting the air and drawing images into the sunlight.

She stirred quietly, and rose with delicate footfalls. Her dyed orange hair fell in fiery waves around her face, framing her face with a halo of hair. Her head hurt, but not terribly so. She felt like she was forgetting something… The light of the sunset finally brought her to, and she looked up at the pillar. The odd man was sitting up there, a thin line of something flying out of his head. She sighed.

“Um… Hello? Yeah. It’s Aimi, the girl you kidnapped! Just wanted to know when you were, oh, thinking of LETTING ME GO HOME, YOU FREAK!” Zaleas’ head snapped downwards to Aimi, and his eye locked to hers. He smiled, and she bared her teeth, white canines flashing in the orange light. Her Aphex Twin shirt was covered with traces of black, spots where the Daemon’s blood had burnt the fabric. Her Vans weren’t in much better shape, adding to her pissed attitude.

“Ma’am. Would you kindly silence your arguments? I saved your life today. Had I left you there, more Daemons would have appeared, and ripped you apart, searching for signs of my Spirit Trace. I didn’t think you’d like that, so I brought you here.”
“And where is ‘here?”

“Somewhere inside my mind. You and I don’t exist right now. I could send us back to exactly the moment we left, but you wouldn’t remember a thing, because we wouldn’t have technically left. It’s all metaphysics, but it comes down to this: We don’t exist right now. We’re in my mind, but my mind doesn’t technically exist. We’re in a world within a world that doesn’t exist.”

Aimi stared confusedly. Her tongue darted out to her lip ring, a habit she had when she was thinking. “So. We’re in your head, but your head is in here, so we’re in a world, inside a world that doesn’t exist in your head.” Even her minor in Physics wasn’t helping with this. Her head swam…

“No! Don’t focus on it! The only thing keeping us tethered here is our concentration! If you don’t think this place exists, it won’t. I’m taking us out soon…” Zaleas jumped off of the pillar and pulled out his blue sword. Holding it in his hand, he stabbed it into the malleable ground. The sword melted, turning into a puddle of blue metal. He plunged his hand into the pool, and withdrew it. A long spidery trail followed him and kept coming. He whispered words of power, and the steel took on a white appearance. When he was done pulling, a spear head emerged, glowing black with white veins. The rope-dart was ten feet of rope with a two-foot spear head. It looked powerful and menacing, just like the owner. Aimi stared at the magics flowing in and around the pool, and then once again at the man who had both knocked her out, and taken her inside his mind. He grabbed a weapon off the rack, after he had finished and tossed it to Aimi.

“Focus. Think of yourself, and the Adaman will form to you.” His single blue eye caught the light, making look almost angelic. She closed her eyes, and thought of every detail of who she was. A writer, a fan of breakcore, a hopeless, hopeless romantic. Every detail came easily to her, and soon she was surprised to find a weapon in her hands. It was a thin sword that wavered as it went upwards. From hilt to blade, it measured three-and-a-half feet. And it was light as a feather. She soon knew that all of this was real. But before she could say anything, Zaleas grabbed her and whispered.
“We must leave. The wolves of the mind are more dangerous than the wolves of flesh and blood.” Aimi understood what he meant. Since they were in his mind... All his dreams were real. She put the hilt of the wave-sword into her belt loop, and slid the sword into the sheathe. She latched onto the odd man, who smelt of roses, and felt her body become unreal…

Kei Tynan blinked his gray eyes. The mist swirled and eddied inside the mind of Zaleas, but it didn’t stop him. His brother was coming… Oh yes, he could feel it. He was hiding again within his Solus Sanctum, his sanctuary. For all his strength, Zaleas had one weakness, he had pity. Instead of slaying Kei, he merely killed his body, his vessel. But his soul was free to live on inside Zaleas’ very mind… All he needed was a body.
Zaleas took a deep breath. This was possibly the hardest part of the journey, a venture through a section of hs mind where Kei still had reign. The two had never been apart in their early years, giving them an odd psychic connection that didn’t fade after they fell apart. Leading a regular woman such as Aimee through this was as dangerous as dragging chunks of meat through pirahnna infested waters. He could feel Kei’s prescense, and it raised the hair on the back of his neck.

The misty air didn’t help, as it hid all but the strongest Spirit Traces from him and… He stopped, the Rope Dart emerged from a pocket in his Battle Garbs. Kei’s prescense swirled stronger, making a windy, screaming noise. Aimi covered her ears, and fell to the ground. The mist, thicker now, and glowing black at the edges, flew to the prone form of Aimi. She screamed, flinging her arms, but the mist clung to her. It wrapped around her, glistening as it solidified. Zaleas screamed an inhuman word, and turquois fire burst from his left palm, flying past the garbs that covered it. The fire hit the mist, but it affected nothing. Several blisters raised on Aimi’s arms, but nothing more. Zaleas knew what was happening, and he couldn’t stop it. Any damage inflicted onto Kei’s mist would instantly be transferred to Aimi. The tanned, Half-Fallen Angel screamed at the top of his lungs. Aimi stood, but it was not Aimi. She had her face, but it was more masculine, she had her body, but it was streamlined into a fighter’s shape. She even had her eyes, but a deep, searing anger flowed out from them. And two white wings stood high from her shoulderblades.

“Hello, Zaleas Half-Blind.”

“And good to see you, Kei White-Wing.”

The pleasentries exchanged, the brothers glared at each other. Kei made the first move, dashing out at Zaleas with teeth bared. Zaleas braced for impact, but the blow knocked him sideways through the fog. He looked up, and saw Kei pulling a long, serrated sword out of nowhere.

“You are weak. You left me alive, allowed me to breed within your mind. Now that I have this body, I can show humanity what fear is again!” The serrated edge cut a shallow swath across Zaleas’ face, drawing red blood. Kei swept his sword upwards, deepening the gash, until blood gushed out at a rate alarming to even a warrior such as Zaleas.
“Kei! What are you planning?”

Kei smiled through Aimi. “I name you Zaleas Half-Thorn, King-Of-Dreams, Knightmare, Palladin, Half-Blind, Sealer, Unforgiven, X-Eye, Warrior-King, First-Born, Last-Fallen, and Demakouchui!” The blood from Zaleas’ wound turned a blackish shade of purple, and flowed up around Kei. The Names of Zaleas in ascending order of secrecy filled the blood with charged magic, unsealing all the binds that Zaleas had woven through the years. He could feel Thorn’s presense double within his blood. Only his very will kept his father’s anger and power from erasing who Zaleas really was.

“You won’t make me into Thorn… You already tried!”

“Who said you would become Thorn? This body shall be the gateway for my transformation!” Half of the purple blood splashed back into Zaleas’ wound, sealing it and tracing his veins in black. The other half levitated to Kei’s eye level, where it filled the pommel of his sword, which was hollow. Kei’s facial features began to show through more prominently, his scars were beginning to form on Aimi’s face. For a split second, he could see Aimi deep down within Kei’s intoxifying soul, her face was contorted with love and agony. In that split second, he found out a brand new name for himself. Zaleas The Loved.

Kei laughed as his wings lifted him into the mindmatter of Zaleas. With a single slash, he cut a pathway to reality, leaving Zaleas alone in his mind. Zaleas felt the prescense of his dark father, Thorn, growing within him. Every breath felt neon-red hot, every thought was filled with blood, lust, or some odd mixture of both. He stood up, feeling horns begin to sprout from his head. The safety measures he’d taken, the magical bonds he’s placed to seal his blood were failing, and the charged magic that Kei had placed in him were awakening the darker half. Suddenly, the gray mist was dark red, and he could hear wolves howling. He tried to move, but chains lashed around his ankles. The wound on his face trickled purple blood. The wolves of his mind emerged, containing the knowledge of his sins, and the faces of those he’d killed. They stood on two legs, but howled like wolves. The Rope Dart flew out, sinking into a throat and whipping out sideways. The wolf didn’t even flinch as it’s throat left it’s body. It kept it’s ghastly advance, blood flowing from it’s nonexistant throat. Finally, it succumbed to the bloodloss, and fell dead. The other five or so were closer, and sharpening metallic claws on the stony ground.

“Ares, Svetra!” An armored figure solidified out of the mist, and hit the ground. It stood seven feet tall, and held an axe that would put an executioner to shame. The only good thing about this situation was the fact that he still had mastery over Magic. The Armor, Ares, smashed his axe into the unexpecting wolves, sending hairy bodies flying through mist. The axe severed a head, and took an arm off of one, but still, the others advanced.
“Blindr! Reisa, DVARTHRAM!” His Rope Dart glowed, and rose above the crowd. Soon, it was arcing out in eight different directions, and growing. Ares fell to his knees, succumbing to the injuries inflicted by the pack. The thick mist from his wounds flew to the 8-headed Rope Dart, and made the intense light glow even brighter.

“You might’ve reopened my seals, but you forgot… That makes me STRONG.” The Rope Dart was no longer a weapon, but an eight-headed serpent. The serpent rained fire and venom down on the wolves as they fled for their lives. A crack appeared in the misty sky, and Zaleas leapt towards it. He floated amongst it, and then he was out.


The city was nearly burnt to the ground. The skyscrapers were gone, replaced only by columns of black teeth. People’s bodies littered the ground, each in various stages of death or injury. Zaleas carefully stepped over one, when the woman reared up and bit his ankle. Screaming, he stepped back, kicking at her head.\

“But Zaleas… We’re family, right?”
The warrior froze, bewildered by the comment.

“That’s right. Kei shared his blood with us. We’re related to you now…!”
Suddenly, her left eye twitched. It was orange, with purple zigging across it. The pupil was X-shaped… Zaleas barely had time to whisper “Oh shasta daisy” before the first blast of magic ripped through him. Thered blast took out a chunk of intestine, a few ribs, and poured dark purple blood everywhere. Zaleas stumbled back, right before the second magical blast from her eye ripped apart his chest. He clutched his stomach, or where his stomach should have been, and fell silently to the ground. The woman stood over him, her mismatched eyes gazing at his mismatched eyes…

“How… How had you learned to use your Eye so soon? Y-You couldn’t have gotten it before too long…”

“Zaleas, Zaleas, Zaleas. You’ve been gone for nearly a decade. Trapped in your mind, fighting wolves. Kei’s far on his way to becoming Thorn, and he’s given his followers gifts, like this eye. I know it’s only a copy of yours, but surprise beats strength any day…”

Zaleas closed his eyes. He felt himself drift away, far away. Dark fingers grabbed him.
“What do we have here? A Half-Thorn!”
The voice was empathetic and understanding. Zaleas cracked an eye open, staring straight into the beautiful face of Death. She was staring back at him with warm eyes.

“Did I … Die?”

“Yes, hun. But I know why… Thorn kept you from doing anything. If you drag the remnants of Thorn, AND Kei Tynan, I’ll let you live…”

“But. But I don’t want to live. I’ve lived too long already.”

“Fine, then you’ll only die when you’ve done this task. Thorn’s been a prick in my side for too long! Haha! And they say Death doesn’t have a sense of humor! Come back when you’ve got both of them, and I’ll take you to Avalon, with everyone else.”

With a shove, Zaleas was back at the hellish city. Zaleas felt his skin stitching back together, his intestines regrowing. Blood pooled from the ground, and returned to whence it came. The woman looked on in shock as Zaleas returned from a mortal injury.

“Come now, let’s dance!”

“Please, call me Elaisha. I’ll kill you again, you traitorous bastard!"

[Kingmaker]

Short Story 4:

Watching

I watched from your ceiling, stuck there through some odd twist of fate or mechanics of physics. I'll never know. Once you're dead, you don't so much as learn as slowly remember.

But I remember watching you.

I remember watching your lifeblood leaking out onto those cold, slowly reddening tiles. I remember trying to reach you, but you shut me out.

Then came your sorrow. I remember that well.

Do you remember that day? The day we met? It was your first day in High School, and you looked all too worried. You were looking beautiful, but shy, with your long, auburn hair down, and glasses perched on your nose. You always said you'd change your nose if you could, and you'd laugh when I said it was cute. I remember the first time I walked you to class, not willingly, of course. The counselor had asked me to guide you through the day, so I did. And I fell for you, sometimes literally. There was that time, right before lunch, where you sneezed and shoved into me. It wasn't too bad, had we not been going down stairs. The bruised bones were totally worth it to have you fauning over me for the next five minutes.

But that's all in the past. I'm stuck watching you dying, and I can't do anything. Then, you got up. The knife was slick with your own blood, but I guess that's why it slipped into your skin so much easier the second, third and fourth times. I thought you'd be dead soon. I thought I could see you again...

But you lived. And I thank whatever's watching over us that you did.

Your past isn't what will define you, it's the future. I've seen what you'll do. And God, your kids are beautiful. I knew we'd never last, I knew you'd end up with someone better... I just made the wrong choice.

I chose a bullet over an apology.

I would smile, and ruffle your hair like I used to, if I had hands. I'd pick you up off that floor and make sure you knew how special you are.

He'll definitely know.

I just hope you love him as much as he'll love you.

And remember, I'll always watch over you.

[Kingmaker]

Short Story 5:

When The Stars Cry (Also unfinished)

He who sees the light is blind, not of being able to find his way out or the darkness that approaches, but to hear the voice that makes no sound. It is so loudly overwhelming, it cries out to him! Like the sound of men screaming out for help, begging, crying for mercy. His heart begins to beat like the war drums. With anger and readiness for death, the darkness approaches. He knows his time is nigh.
From the Rua Parma, Book of the Elves

The night sky was frigid. He could see his breath splayed in front of his mouth, so much like a soul escaping from a dead body. His armor stuck coldly to his skin. The sword was clinched so tight his hand became numb; his breath came in short gasps. The men at his left and right each readied themselves in their own way. Some drank, some prayed for survival, and others simply cursed wildly, but he was silent as the grave. He knew that most of the men next to him would die, but he knew not who. The men all expected him to give them a rallying speech, but no such speech came to mind. The sword in his hand raised high above his head; he screamed “let’s go!” With a roaring cacophony of noise, the men charged forward into the pitch black darkness of the night. The Elven defense was more than ready. Tristan gripped his sword tighter than before, so hard that he feared his knuckles would pop from his skin.
“Sir! The battalion to our left has spotted thirteen hostiles due north!” A gasp from all the men echoed quietly into the night. That made a grand total of thirty-four battle-ready elves versus five-hundred men, each a master in the heat of battle. Tristan did not like the odds.
“Men! Stand guard! Group in the phalanx formation. Listen closely now, for if I give word, retreat, and never look back.” A noticeable shiver went through the spines of the men. Their Captain never gave the word to retreat, they’d never even heard him mention it before. All men present felt the weight of the approaching slaughter like the moon pressing on their shoulders.
This was about the time that all hell broke loose.
The previously hidden enclave of Elves leapt from their hiding positions, ripping into the flank of the phalanx formation. There were only five Elves in the ambush, but that was about four too many. The Elven Commander spoke first in Elvish, but quickly translated into English. “Shr’atu Enquivne! Leave none standing!” Elven armor shone with enchantments, and their weapons glistened with magic. The iron armor never stood a single chance against weapons of elvenkind. Arms, legs, heads and torsos hit the ground, separated with the ease of swatting a fly away. The human regime’s blood turned the dusty ground to a thick, reddish mud.
And the Elves hadn’t even used magic yet.
Half of the regiment of human soldiers fled, panicked, and half-crazy. The entire left flank was decimated. The largest piece left was a half-cleaved helmet caked with the red mud. Tristan stood his ground, much like the captain of a sinking ship. He ordered the remaining men with shields to repair the now non-existent left flank. Those who were left responded with alacrity, and shoved the Elves back, shield to sword.
“Archers! Light arrows!” In the midnight darkness, hundreds of points of light appeared surrounding the Elves on two sides. Within seconds, hundreds of beads of light became lethal projectiles, raining down like a typhoon of fire and steel. The Elves screamed. But not a single one dropped. Before the blazing arrow struck unprotected flesh, a wave of Magic rose from the five. It raced along the arrows, and turned them on a dime, now instead of the Elves dodging fire from the heavens, the archers were facing their own arrows.
Tristan cursed. A quick head count showed many deaths. His archers were all but demolished, and the five Elves were still standing, laughing. Something inside of Tristan beat nervously. He raised his sword, and called out bravely, “Blitz! Attack from all sides!” The remaining men each dropped their shields, and unsheathed their second sword. The vast number of men swarmed the now nervous Elves from all sides, cutting off any escape route. Tristan smiled silently. Three hundred and twelve men, including Tristan charged erratically, swords drawn, voices raised. The Elven Commander cursed in Elven tongue. The sheer numbers of the Human force washed over the five elves like a wave pounding a solitary shore. The swords of the men snapped against the Elven armor, but enough tips sunk between the cracks to draw dark red Elven blood. Four fell before the army, and the Elven Commander could see Death approaching on a black horse. Before he died, the Commander called out to Tristan.
“Here... Come here. I wish to see the man who has bested my troops in battle...” The onslaught of soldiers stopped as suddenly as it had uproariously begun. Tristan walked over, sheathing his sword as he walked. By the time he was there, the Commander could speak not more than a whisper. Death was closing in.
“Commander. What’s the real reason you called me over. Do you wish to kill me? It will not save your life. My men would pounce on you faster than you could throw them off.” Tristan’s dirty blonde hair hung in front of his face, hiding his placid green eyes and rounded face.
“Oh, Tristan. You misread my intentions. I wanted but one survivor from this failed battle...” Tristan realized too late what the dying Elf meant.
“Men! RETR-!” He was cut off quickly by the roaring of stone against stone. From the ground rose a monolithic hand, slowly clinching into a fist around the entire right half of the battalion, dragging them into the ground. The men on the left were too stunned to run when they saw the might of the Commander’s magic. Before a single soldier could escape, the heavens opened up, and lightning poured down like rain. The air itself seemed to glow with the heat and power of the storm as it razed through men’s bodies before arcing off to the next in line. Even Tristan was not spared from the devilish arcs of electricity. His armor cracked, sending shards of metal deep within his chest and arms. Darkness rushed up to greet him, and he unwillingly passed out.
The Elven Commander raised his hand, and a veil of rain poured down from above. His hand fell, and he was still forevermore. Within the trees, leaves shuddered. The remaining twenty-nine Elves each dropped to a knee, praying for the countless deaths on both sides. Only one noticed that one was still breathing....
Tristan awoke in a place of intense white light. Bright enough to make him think he’d finally reached Heaven... But a face entered his sight, and he instantly knew where he was.
“Take it easy, atani. Your wounds are still fresh with caked blood. You should have known better.” Long, rich blonde hair framed the Elven Priestess’ face. High cheek bones, and pointed ears distinguished her from humanity. She was gorgeous; Tristan thought for sure that he was in heaven.
“Am I dead?” Tristan whispered to himself. He turned his head and immediately noticed his head was not lying gently on a pillow but on the softest grass he had ever felt.
“No you’re not dead. You very well might have been if it weren’t for my expert healing spells.” As he looks upward he sees the sky, bright blue and perfectly cloudless. There was a slight breeze blowing threw just enough to make her long blond hair sway in the wind and light up her face. He knew from this moment on that he was destined to be with her...

Chapter Two
“Who the Hell Loses a Fight with a Deer? “

Quincy never thought he would end up being a hero, or tossed out of the military, for that matter. All he’d really done was steal some weaponry to sell for food money. Was that really so bad? Fate has always had a way of surprising him. Every tree he passed looked exactly like the last. He could spend the rest of his life wandering in circles out in the dark forest. With any luck that wouldn’t be too much longer. It was only twenty-five years since the almost mythical destruction of Battalion thirteen at this very forest. He gripped the stick he found loosely in his hand.
“Stupid military. Can’t even give me a weapon.” He guessed the sun was setting from the orange light that filled the forest. His belly rumbled loudly in annoyance. He then remembered it had been a full three days since his last full meal. He looked eagerly around for any type of sharp object. He found a rock with a somewhat sharp edge one it. Wishing he was taught how to really hunt he began sharpening his stick to a fine point. Almost three hours later, he was left holding splinters, and the rock. He sighed, and picked up another stick, and started again. This time he got some semblance to a spear, depending, of course, on what you’d call a spear. He raised his stick high, and attempted to sneak through the forest. Within five steps, he had tripped, broken his spear, and given himself a bloody nose. Quincy ripped a section of his shirt out, and stuffed it into his bleeding nostril, hoping that he wouldn’t die from something as lame as a bloody nose.
He heard a noise, and turned to his left. He could see a silhouette, but nothing more. Something was rustling in the forest. He raised his stick fragment high, and leapt...
Right into the side of a sleeping Buck. The Buck reared its head, and gashed Quincy right above the eye. Quincy leapt back, swinging the stick fragment furiously at the fleeing Buck. Quincy sank to his knees.
“Goddamnit! I can’t do ANYTHING right! God? Any god. Please. Send me help. Food. Something?” He sat there for a while, sulking about his situation. Then it hit him. Literally, it hit him in the side of the head. He stared down at the clump of dirt that had seemed to magically strike him. His jaw dropped.
“What’s the matter, atani? Never seen someone hit a target from seventy paces?” Quincy immediately looked to the trees. Far above, and to his right, an Elf laughed lividly. Quincy picked up his stick, and pointed it at the Elf.
“Come down here and say that, you dirty... Uhhh... What the hell are you?” The Elf hopped down, and landed lightly on the balls of his heels. The tall Elf stood almost a head above Quincy, and looked down on him like he was a bug stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“I am Issac Vra’bael, future king of the Elves. You will come to respect the name, atani.” And with a single punch, Issac both dislocated Quincy’s jaw, and knocked him out. “Hey. S’drana, grab him, please? V’lana, go ahead and tell them we got another atani on our hands.” Issac leapt back within the trees, and bounded off without a sound. The elves did as they were told.
“Just put the atani on the in my hut.” Demanded Issac. The men kicked the door to the hut made of tree branches open and gently laid him on a table. In a very orderly fashion they stood tall in a straight line off to the right and left. An even amount of Elven soldiers surrounded him on each side. Quincy awoke very painfully and slowly. He overheard the Elven soldiers speaking in their native language. Then, almost as fast as he had been knocked out; the room fell in silence. Issac barged in and shouted at the soldiers, “V’la erslm”, the men move quickly out of the room. “You were lucky today; I spared your life for a reason that is still yet unknown to me. The Rua Parma, our holy book; tells me that I should have spared your life. Now sleep. Your head is banged pretty badly.”
“Wait! Where am I? What am I doing here?” Quincy shouted, trying to keep his composure. “Where are you going? Get back here!”
“You shall know soon enough!” Issac glared at Quincy, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“Yeah. And I should trust you why?” Quincy glared back at Issac, their eyes locked in a battle. Finally, reluctantly, Quincy blinked.
“Remind me, atani, who was it who saved you?”
“You.”
“And who ordered the soldiers to carry you here? Who is about to introduce you to knowledge that will one day save your life?”
“Um... You?”
“And who lost a fight with a deer? Oh, wait! That was you!”
Without another word, Issac walked out, smiling to himself. Quincy cursed himself, thinking of what he could have done to piss the gods off this much.
“By the gods. Who the hell loses a fight with a deer?” Issac walked back in, pulling out a drawer that had been perfectly flush with the wall.
“You think you know the gods? They wouldn’t take this so lightly you know…” he then pulled out a book that read Rua Parma. He threw the book at Quincy; with a thud it hit him right in the chest. Quincy glared at Issac, his eyes glinting like knives thrown with lethal precision. After a minute, he flipped open to a random page.
“The dark is coming. All consuming, ravenous, destructive. The forces of Atani and Hi’antna shall bond together, and enforce light into the inky black abyssal night. Even though darkness cakes the night sky, stars still shine out and birds still sing. From the ink of night come the blossoms of day, and the hope of the sun. He who is born as Atani shall lead the Hi’antna to glory, the second to survive the forest. He who is born Hi’antna shall condemn the Atani leader to death. The stars tell all. And fate shall only bend when the stars cry.” Quincy closed the book, and stared at Issac.
“Appropriate that you would read from the Book of Prophecies. In fact, you read the passage deemed ‘The battle of faith” or Dagor Umbar. Who this speaks of is unknown, which is why you’re alive, atani.” Issac picked up the Rua Parma coldly, and sneered as he walked out. Quincy slept, and dreamt. Cold air was rushing in. The wind suddenly began to flow through the hut, as if there were no walls to the hut itself. His dream came overwhelmingly swift. In his dream, his view faded to a ghastly white, and he saw a spectral figure approach him in the distance. He looked around to try and get an eye for a land mark, so that he might know where he was or what was happening to him. Quincy found no such object. The figure was a person, a man in fact. He was about the same height as Quincy. The man had dirty blond hair that ran down his face, and he had pale green eyes. The man stood in front of Quincy, he began to speak in a voice that was hauntingly close to Quincy’s own, but with more intellect, fighting experience, and confidence. Something told Quincy that this man had never even considered the possibility of losing a fight to a deer.
“Do you know my name? “ Quincy thought it was a dream, and smiled, but did not reply. The man spoke again, “I am a long forgotten solider of an even older, more useless war, I speak to you boy; what is my name!?” Quincy started his own furious barrage of questions.
“Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?” The man appeared to be holding something his hand. He couldn’t quite make out what it was. In the blink of an eye he was standing in the middle of a muddy red field. He had seen this land before, but there was something different about it. He gazed at his feet; the ground was a reddish color that didn’t mix very well with the mud. Quincy then screamed out for someone to help him, but no one came to his call of hope and desperation, no one came to find out what was going on.
The man’s voice rang out loudly and oh-so clearly. “There are three types in this world. There are the Atani, or humans, the Hi’antna, or Elves. Then there are the V’roc, the Forsaken. A war is coming to the turning point, and you, Quincy, will be at the epicenter. The world lives and dies with your choices. As the dead have seen, the dead shall show.”
The vision disappeared as abruptly as it began. The breeze that had been blowing through the hut sent a chill up his unsettled spine. Somewhere in the back of his cluttered, confused mind; there was a sick sense that something was not right among the stars. It seemed to be something that he had felt in the past, but just ignored. Now all of a sudden it was stronger, bigger, more overwhelming by the second. A presence tapping at the back of his mind... Quincy fell into a blank stare.





Chapter Three
“Training, or as the Hi’antna call it, Hell.”

Birds were chirping in the distance, the air was still cool and the sun was just on the horizon. Quincy stretched his arms above his head, and blinked out the sleep from his eyes. He thought to himself that the room didn’t quite seem the same as it was before he passed out. His head felt like someone had beaten him with a pointy stick several times in the exact same spot. His surroundings were oddly, gloriously colorful. Time felt like it was standing still; he saw that the floors were somewhat pale green, just like the man’s eyes... He glared at the beam of heat that was the glorious midday sunlight, twisted to a shade of green that had entered that hut and was shining on his face. He could see the dust particles floating in it as if gravity itself didn’t exist. In the beginning, it seemed all so simple, but when he began to think, he quickly realized that it wasn’t exactly that. Things often seem so simple when you think of them as Quincy did. He spent the next few hours thinking. Thinking of the past, present, and his future; something he had done all his life. In actuality, he spent most of his time pondering his home life. Though sometimes remembrance of his past often brought himself into depression, he loved to think back to a time that he so often dreamed about. The vivid memories splayed throughout his mind like a spider’s web torn into random segments. Memories of his mum were dear to him, but for some reason he couldn’t remember much about her. This was a mystery even to him. He looks toward the ceiling.
“Oh dearest Mother of mine, if you can hear me at all give me a sign, let me know that you’re there, watching over me.” He fell in silence, hoping to hear or see some kind of a sign. Once again he found no such sign. But that’s what it was like for his entire life, disappointment after disappointment.
“She can’t hear you; now sit down, stupid atani!” Issac stepped out from behind one of the walls that lead off to another room of the small hut. Quincy looked at the open wall, and his breath exited in one fell swoop. It was not a tiny room, but an entire maze of rooms interconnected by the hallways that Issac stood in. He had been there the entire time, listening to Quincy shout towards the heavens.
“So tell me again where exactly am I?”
“I told you, you’re in our sacred forest. In Dra’Valcul, village of the Trees. You’ll see the expanse of our village later. Don’t you ever listen to what you’re told?” muttered Issac with a sarcastic tone. “Now go on and get dressed, you have a big day today, you’ll need all of your strength, well, you’ll need more than that…for you’re training.
“What training…what are you talking about?” Quincy cleared his throat nervously. Issac walked forward, and turned. He jumped down, landing lightly. He smiled, and walked off. Quincy followed him, but the Elf had disappeared. He stepped forward, grabbing a random vine that connected to the ground. He slid down, but that wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. The thick, strong fibers of the vine ripped, tore, and damn near immolated his hands as he slid down. When he reached the bottom, he blew on them. As one would predict, it did no good. A quiet voice laughed behind him.
“JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST! Who is that?

[Kingmaker]

Short Story 6:

House of Blades (I've given up on this, but here's the starting part of it)


“I can feel them squirming even now. I can feel their will to live depleting, their focus breaking. But it’s not over. They can’t die. I won’t let them... They’ll have no easy way out!”

He woke up at 8:36, screaming. Once again, he had the nightmare of that hellish house, that mansion of insanity. He rolled over, staring at the cool blue of his digital clock. It took him a whole thirty seconds before he jumped out of bed, cursing. He had four minutes until school, and three-and-a-half blocks to cover in that time. He stumbled over the pile of debris that passed as his laundry, and launched himself at the closet. His head struck sickeningly hard against the old wood of his closet. His head won. The wood came loose in tiny chunks, sticking painfully into his skin, drawing blood. He gasped, yanking his head away from the age-old wood. He picked the inch-long slivers of splintered timber out of his skin, cussing all the while. He yanked the door open, and pulled out a thick jacket. He grabbed his Tripp pants, and flung them on his lanky legs. The jacket was slipped over his black Demon Hunter shirt, and zipped up halfway. His brownish-black hair was matted and sticky with blood, but he couldn’t stop now.
He jumped down the flight of stairs, twisting his ankle painfully at the bottom. “Goddamnit.” He muttered, slipping on his shoes. He burst through his front door as fast as his ankle could take him. The sun peeked out from the clouds, momentarily blinding poor Merdoc. He leapt off the curb in front of his street, suddenly thankful that he didn’t have to worry about the morning rush. As soon as he landed, he took off in a dead sprint.
His feet pulsed downwards, almost as if a metal drummer was dictating his pace. His heart raced ever faster, making him think it might burst, but yet it raced on. His vision reddened, he’d never run so fast before. But he couldn’t stop the memory of his nightmare from catching up to him... It always did. Soon, in his mind, he was staring upon the House of Blades. A demonic structure that looked Gothic in nature, but step inside, and you’d find hell. Every room was infinitely different, some were as small as closets, and others contained stars, moons, and worlds. But each and every one was deadly, tricky, and malevolent. It was like a sick, sick game that tried its hardest to make you lose.
“Merdoc Gallowsen! Merdoc Gaaaaallowsen!” The voice was sickly sweet, like honey sprinkled with despair. Merdoc stopped on a dime, and did a quick 180. He found himself face-to-face with what everyone called the misfits. They were all the kids who were too dark for the Goths, too depressed for the Emos, and much too scary for the Satanists at Gannelly High School. At their front was Ally Denvel, a girl kicked off of the cheer squad for assaulting a girl with a dagger covered in runes. Ally still wore the vial of blood she drew from that girl in a vial around her neck. Her blood red hair hung down across her face, hiding the jagged scar that was rumored to be made by Satan himself. She whipped her hair back, and Merdoc noticed the troupe of people behind her. He recognized a few, like the kid who was sent to Juvenile Hall for killing his family’s Bull Mastiff, or the girl whose parents disowned after she confessed in church to urinating in the holy water. The other four or five faces were, however, anonymous.
“Merdoc...” Ally said, stepping forward. Her Cradle of Filth t-shirt seemed stained with blood. She got to his face, and ran her black fingernails over his cheek, before suddenly raking down across. Deep red trenches appeared, leaking blood. Merdoc gasped, and fell backwards, cracking his head open on the concrete. He fell asleep to Ally and her troupe laughing...
The House of Blades was waiting for him. But there were others this time. For once, he was not forced to walk the ethereal place alone. He looked to his left, and saw a girl, no older than he, staring at him. They both gasped, and touched one another, making sure they weren’t hallucinating.
“I... I thought this was my personal hell...” Merdoc whispered, staring deeply into the blonde girl’s eyes. He didn’t know how, but he could feel a deep connection with this girl.
“Me too. Th-the demons would torment me... Telling me that this was eternal, and I’d never see anyone again...” The girl stopped, choking up. “I-I-I believed them!” She cried, and thick, black tears fell down her pale face. For the first time, Merdoc noticed the girl’s throat. A vicious gash went from the upper left side of her neck, to the lower right. He could see pale veins slashed, muscle without color hiding right behind flesh. Merdoc’s breath caught in his throat, and he screamed...
He awoke to a threatening slap across the face. The slap drew blood from the scabs across his face and hairline. Ally stared deeply into Merdoc’s wild, Hazel eyes. Her sick, honeyed voice issued forth yet again.
“Aww... Poor Merdoc Gallowsen. Strung up from a cross. Do you know the origin of your name? It’s old, Merdoc, old. It means ‘The Son of the Gallows’. You’re born from death, Merdoc. Or at least, your family was.” Her giggles infuriated Merdoc. He tried to swing his arms, only to find a nail shoved through each. He looked at his surroundings. He was barely clothed, the cross was made of a solid black material, inverted so his feet hung, and his pressure was on the nails through his arms. Ally was holding a long, silvery knife. On the knife, curses, blood, and evil permeated. He could feel the screams of those who the blade had slain screaming at him, telling him to run. But alas, his arms were nailed to the inverted cross, and he couldn’t move an inch without immeasurable pain. Merdoc instantly knew he was going to die.
“Fuck a pig, bloody whore!” He spat, cursing her with all the four-letter words he knew.
The knife drew a thin, deep scratch across his face, drawing even more blood. He winced, but wasn’t about to cry out in front of these freaks. “Now now now, Merdoc. Is that any way to treat us after we’ve bestowed an honor upon you? You don’t know, do you? You’re going to be a gate, Merdy. A gate to a certain house.”
Merdoc froze, his eyes suddenly blades that he thrust into Ally’s eyes. “Wha-What house? What fucking house?” He ripped his right arm through the thick nail holding him, and slapped Ally across the face. He tried to close his hand into a fist, but the pain was too great.
“Oh, great. There’s probably nerve damage there... I’m not gonna last long in a fight like this. I can take her out, though!” He thought, silently reassuring himself against his imminent demise. He wailed on her as hard and as fast as he could, raining down the blows as chunks of gore fell from the inch-wide hole in his wrist. She caught his arm, and drove a black-tipped fingernail into the wound, digging as hard as she could. Merdoc fell, crying in pain. The movement twisted the other nail, sending shots of red-hot pain lancing up his left arm, into his brain. His vision clouded, went red. Breath came in short gasps, leaving him winded. He looked up into the cruel eyes of his murderer, and found not a drop of pity. She dragged him up, until her soulless eyes filled his line of vision. The knife in her hand danced below his chin, tickling his throat. With a sudden, unexpected thrust, the ritualistic blade pierced Merdoc’s throat, letting thick blood drool out from a smile-shaped wound. Merdoc tried to gasp, but his throat wouldn’t work.
His thoughts grew lucid through the panic, and he saw the object that epitomized his life: The House of Blades. It shined, growing clearer through the fog that always ensnarled it. The eyelike windows shone with a red, ruddy light. The gaping, rotting door gleamed like a smile, welcoming its old friend, Merdoc, back home. He was pulled by the same strange fascination of it that always brought him in. His feet moved, but not by his accord. The black, desolate ground that surrounded it swirled, and eddied like water. Soon, Merdoc realized what had happened. The House of Blades was no longer in a desolate corner of his fractured psyche that his foster parents tried to medicate, it was on his street. In his town. Standing ghoulishly on the road by his house, its door smiled its damning, enchanting smile to the entire town. Immediately, the air grew cold. The clouds gathered, swirled, formed unimaginable symbols in ancient, evil languages.
And Merdoc stepped on. He found himself inquiring to the graveness of his injuries, and inquiring further, why he was not locked in some dismal basement of torture. Much to his surprise, he was not bleeding at all. His skin had that haunted, white pallor that besmeared the girl he had met before. He gasped, realizing finally what had happened. The House was real.
But more importantly:
He was dead.

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