The Lurid Cave

The flaming rocks seemed to glow when the sun rose so harmoniously, casting light shadows stretching to the west. It was a barren valley, with only the rough, red sand and few lean weeds to fill it.
It was beautiful, but eerie as well. The absence of life made me feel isolated and disconsolate.
I fingered my canteen, ignoring how light it felt, and lifted it to my cracked lips. The water was warm and tasted like plastic– an aftertaste I had grown used to. I guessed I had a few gulps left. That was definitely not enough. If I didn’t get mauled to death before I reached civilization, then I would be sure to die of dehydration or hunger. But that unnerving thought didn’t slow me. I continued to limp and stumble across the rocks, occasionally tripping and sprawling across the sand and pulling myself up once again. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to keep in that direction.
Only when I plummeted over a small, flat cliff did I notice the fissure in the wall of unbreakable rock. I inhaled sharply–something felt broken; but I was irrepressible. I got to my feet and ran my hands over the narrow opening. It was roughly wide enough to slip my arm through, and long enough for a tall man to step through without stooping. There was a chilly draft flowing inside, soothing my blistered skin. I pressed my face against the rock, peering inside. My eyes were not accustomed to that darkness, but when I called inside, my cracked voice echoed around me. I guessed it was a small cave—if not, a big one. It was useless to me, but unless it had an unlimited supply of water, I had to move on. And then I heard it.
Drip, drip, drip. I came closer to the opening and listened for that scarce sound. There it was again; drip, drip, drip. Was it water? I doubted it... but what else could it be? I would soon be delirious with thirst. I could drink anything.
I began beating at the crumbly rock with my bruised hands, trying to crush it, to shatter it. When I made no luck, I took the switchblade from my belt and stabbed the rock, wanting desperately to make the opening big enough to crawl through. I needed shelter. I needed rest. And I needed water.
When the hole was nearly wide enough to put my head through, a low, admonishing voice spoke to me. “You don’t want to come in here.” Horripilation rose on my arms, like other times when my adrenaline began to rush. Did the voice come from inside this cave? Who was he? Did he have water? The only explanation I could give myself was that someone had water and he didn’t want to share. Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I ignored his warning and continued to break the rock. After several minutes’ work, I could easily climb into it. Yet, when I slid my legs through, the deep voice spoke once again–irritable this time.
“If you come in here, sonny, you’ll be regretting it.”
Drip, drip, drip. The sound of liquid kept me from hesitating. I lowered myself into that dark, lurid room and followed my ears. I kept my hands stretched out blindly in front of me as I felt my way around the cold, damp cave. The walls felt like ragged granite—if I beat it too hard, my hands would surely bleed. The ground was of the same texture, and it was hard to keep myself from tripping.
I relied heavily on where the source of the dripping came from, and it eventually led me to a corner. The liquid was dripping down the wall into a little puddle. I got down on my hands and knees and lapped it up…but it didn’t taste like water. It was thick, and tasted of salt. Maybe it had picked up the taste from the minerals in the rock...? Behind me, the stranger omitted a low chuckle. His laughter bounced off the rock and stayed with me. What was so funny? Why was he laughing?
And then I recognized that flavor. I’d tasted it before, inside my mouth when my gums bled or a tooth was knocked out.
Blood.

Edited version of A VISITOR AT DAWN

The sanguine sun was just rising up over the hills, bathing the frosted earth in soft sunlight. I found this rather aggravating. How could nature continue its course, oblivious to the harm that was about to come to it? But then I paused, and realized that I would not be as confident as I was now if it were not for the faith that the earth had in me.
My fingers tightened around the frozen, splintered wood fence. I would have liked to feel the roughness beneath my fingers. But, as it was, I still could not feel. My breath was just a cloud as I breathed out, and I was trying to restrain from shivering in the chilly, early morning. What was taking him so long? Surely when a sovereign lord commands you to meet him in an isolated cattle field interspersed with beds of weeds, you would assume he would be there waiting for you, not the other way around.
Just then, my thoughts were cut off as that familiar, ominous, thick fog began to unfold upon the summit. I felt completely inert now. My heartbeat began to hammer like the rapid pulse of a metronome.
The sun passed behind a dark cloud threatening to storm, and abruptly I was washed of all my audacity and poise. My last effort to save Diya was going to be a failure because of the omens that I believed in. Sunlight gone, warmth gone, fog approaching, confidence lost. I no longer felt displeased with my weakness. If I were to die, I wanted Diya to come with me.
And then, so swiftly, a ray of sunlight broke through the gray barrier and blinded me for half a second before retreating. This was a good omen. I knew it was.
Fortitude regained just as quickly as it had been lost, I stood up a little straighter and shoved my hands in my pockets.
That was when I realized that the tip was missing. I buried my hands deeper into the wool, searching for that (what I would have guessed it to be, since I could not feel) acute, cold metal tip. But it was not there. Goosebumps shot straight up on my arms, replacing the minuscule ones.
Did it fall out of my pocket when I was running? There was no other explanation. I solemnly remembered placing it in that pocket. There was no other place to put it. If the people of Caradoc glimpsed it in my hands, they would be sure to scratch my eyes out next. Having the inability to feel was bad enough, even if I had lost that sense doing something I regretted.
What would I tell Lord Cevero? I couldn't bear to imagine what he would do to me if he saw that I had lost the last piece of Curtana. The most powerful blade in all the world was blunt and useless for drawing blood of enemies without its tip. I had never questioned why he wanted the weapon. It was apparent that all men, whether righteous or evil-spirited, that this sword had its own execrable personality – a personality that drew matter over the mind and want over common sense. A personality that aroused a hungry desire for blood in the bearer.
No, there was no question why Lord Cevero wanted it. And I was impotent and timorous enough to agree to bring a malicious man to power to save Diya.
He was wearing a long, hooded traveling cloak that shadowed his piercing eyes. The fog swirled around him like snakes as he sauntered towards me, the trembling, cowardly man trying to save a woman who seemed unimportant in this situation. I would have given it to him. I would have. Was this another omen? Did a seraph from heaven rescue me from a life of guilt and remorse?


------This is not over. There is still more that I will post if you like it.---------

The Envelope

The street lamps were the only source of light glowing off the uneven streets. Each dreary-looking suburban house had the curtains pulled or the shutters closed.
It was an unusually warm night, and the breeze could not be felt; although the leaves on the trees twitched and the grass shuddered quietly. The silence was almost unnatural. Even the steady chirp of the crickets was absent.
The eery, peaceful scene was interrupted by a pair of headlights peering down the street. A red Mazda crawled slowly toward a house at the end of the road; whose sprinklers had just started up. The Mazda slowed to an inaudible stop in front of the house, but the engine kept running. The passenger door opened, and a young girl with lanky, dirty-blonde hair and nervous eyes climbed out, taking caution to shut the door with as little sound as possible. She crept around the car, up the driveway, and to the front door in seconds, then grasped the doorknob. Before turning it, she glanced back fleetingly at the dark form watching her from the driver’s seat.
The door was locked, as the girl suspected it to be; but she simply removed the smallest stone on the wall and took the spare key, then turned it in the lock. Breathing shallowly, the girl slid inside and made her way through the darkness into the living room, and then the office down the hall. The door was wide open; a lamp dimly illuminated the cold steel file cabinets, the cluttered desk against the wall, and the rows of bookshelves that held stiff and dusty books that had never been opened.
Breathing an inward sigh of relief that the room was unoccupied, the girl approached the file cabinet marked B-C3. She slid the drawer open, thumbed the dividers anxiously, then paused as her finger touched the one she was looking for. She pulled out a thin manila envelope that was unmarked- except for the great amount of scotch tape that was wrapped around it.
Now that she had found what she was looking for, the girl stuffed it inside her shirt and tiptoed out of the office at a run. In the hurry, she had forgotten to close the cabinet.
Briskly, but deliberately, the girl locked the door behind her and flew across the lawn - through the sprinklers - and settled back into the passenger seat, letting out a shaky sigh and retrieved the envelope.
“È così?” asked the low voice of the dark figure next to her. The girl looked at it and replied, “Yes. This is it.”
The car stayed parked in front of the house - the engine still running - as the two passengers eyed the taped up envelope.
After a moment of disquiet, the man asked- “Pensi che se ne accorgeranno?”
And his question was answered. As soon as the porch light flicked on.

Untitled - by Kassi Baird

I've been thinking - if YOU are a writer and like to write, I'll actually be happy to post your stories on my blog. This story is by my friend Kassi. I still can't think of a title. (sorry!)
Enjoy and tell Kassi what you think! (By commenting on this story)




"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is what we start from."
~T. S Eliot.

Step, step, step, step, step ,step. I was so focused on running that I had almost forgot to breathe. The cold air surrounding me was the only thing keeping me from stopping to rest. I looked down at my watch. 4:37 - if I hurried, I could make it.
People stared at me as I ran by. I couldn’t help but pity them, for they didn’t know the fate that would befall them in a mere twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes.
The thought started my pulse of and I felt a new surge of adrenaline. I was so close I could almost smell the old house, feel the touch of his skin on mine. I smiled in excitement, then remembered the reason for this rendevous and my heart sank. I glanced back down at my watch, 4:45. I could feel the beads of sweat on my forehead expand and drip down the side of my face. I knew he wouldn’t care what I looked like.
Tension started to fill the air and I knew it wouldn’t be long until chaos erupted, and the people started screaming. I could see the old house on the corner, and my pace quickened. Soon, I reached the door. I knocked, then realized the formality was pointless, he wouldn’t care. I opened the door, and stepped in, my heart bounding, and my breath coming out in heavy, prolonged pants. I saw him turn the corner, and I could feel the corner of my lips turn up, surrendering to a full-on smile. He smiled back and my breathing quickened. He held out his arms and I ran into them without hesitation. My paranoia kicked in and I looked at my watch. 5:00- seven minutes left.
I could hear the few people outside sensing something, and soon whispering began to fill the normal bustle of a few minutes ago. I looked up into his eyes and watched as they changed from caramel, to a stormy blue-gray. My eyes once again darted to my watch, 5:05, I looked back at him and his eyes were filled with humor. He knew my paranoia was my weakness. Outside I could hear people screaming. Soon in the far countries, the screaming cut off, ending with a low strangling sound. I didn’t even have to look out my watch to know the dreaded time had come. Soon even the noise outside gurgled, and I gathered the energy around me and bottled it up. 5...4...3...2...1...I let it out. The last thing I remember was a brilliant flash of white light, and the noise outside reduced to silence. Then the world was black.

The Stranger & the Shipment

The harsh sheet of rain had quieted into a gentle drizzle, but the wind had picked up and was howling through the village, so loudly a regular conversation would have to be shouted.
The lamplight reflected from the wet, uneven streets, and minuscule droplets of freshwater formed small puddles on the cracked sidewalks.
A stranger with a rimmed hat and raincoat limped, head forward, along the path that led out of the village towards the edge of the forest, where a lopsided stone cottage was nestled up against the trees. The lights flickering from the windows was welcoming, and the stranger couldn’t help but feel already at home as he drew nearer to it.

Devraj Trevelyan turned his back on the window, more because of the pitch-blackness than lack of interest in the storm. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, and with the new installment of Franklin’s stove, Devraj felt very superior over his neighbors. Smoke no longer coiled up inside a room; it spiraled straight through the chimney and then into the outside air. Smirking to himself, Devraj settled himself restlessly into the armchair that he had been sitting in a moment before the latch on the window clicked open and an eery wind began blowing in.
Just as thoughts of steaming potato chowder entered his thoughts, there was a sudden rap on the door and Devraj, startled, strode over to it and pushed it open. A man, soaked to the bone, stood shivering in front of him. A fleet crack of lightning illuminated his pale, anxious face.
“Pardon me,” said the stranger, lifting a feeble hand to tip his hat. Devraj drew back slightly; misty rain was flying into the house, and the stranger’s hat dripped water onto his floor. “Could I warm up by your delightful fire for a bit?”
Devraj narrowed his eyes at the man, who was staring fixedly at him. A look of panic flickered in his eyes, and so Devraj, reluctantly, opened the door a little wider.
The stranger grinned at him, showing crooked yellow teeth. He stepped over the threshold, dripping water everywhere, and took off his raincoat and wide rimmed hat, throwing them into a heap on the floor. “Thank you,” he added, and hurried over to the fire, settling himself in Devraj’s armchair. Devraj scowled, thinking about how long the velvet would take to dry.
Devraj turned away from the stranger and pulled out a kettle and some tea bags. He would have to head out into the storm to reach the well. Resisting the impulse to badger his guest into getting the water for him, he sighed irritably and went outside.

“Thank you.” said the stranger absently, taking the tea from Devraj and finished it in a few gulps. A little color had flooded into his pale cheeks, and after a moment of silence, the stranger jumped up as though something had startled him and handed his host the china cup.
Devraj took the cup, offended, and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no..” answered the stranger with a wave of his hand as he pulled on his raincoat and jammed the hat on his head. “...I’ve just realized that there’s somewhere I need to be.” With a pause, he reached inside his back pocket and took out an envelope, handing it to Devraj.
“I thank you,” he began, “and I am ashamed to oppose on your hospitality any longer, but I desperately need this letter delivered, and I’m hoping...”
“It’s fine.” answered Devraj, and he took the letter, intending to open it as soon as the stranger left. The former seemed to realize this, however, and held back. “It cannot be intercepted by anyone. This information is privileged. Do you understand?”
Devraj tried to hide his taken-aback expression and nodded. “Who do I give it to?”
“The addressee will find you in good time. Keep this safe.” And, with a few taps to the side of his nose, the stranger opened the door and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

The sealed paper stayed hidden under the straw mattress throughout the week, and just as Devraj was getting impatient and irritated, trying to hold off the temptation to snatch up the letter and read its contents, a smart knock on the door made his ears quiver; and he swung the door open.
He had fully expected to see a single person whom the stranger had mentioned to be standing there, waiting, but when his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight he saw that it was not one, but several men standing stiffly in crisp blue uniforms with brass buttons and polished rifles.
“Are you mister Devraj Trevelyan?” asked the soldier in front. He was trying hard to hide his impatient scowl, and Devraj nodded with abashed curiosity.
“Let me get right to the point, then. Have you recently become in contact with a man by the name of MacAllister Gebauer?”
Several men, Devraj noticed, shifted uncomfortably. He himself felt uneasy. He had talked to numerous people in the past few months who he had never thought to ask for their name. It could have been the delirious old man in the tavern last month, who had given him his box of fine cigars. Or it could have been the young man with a baby face look to him who he had helped load sacks of potatoes into the back of a wagon.
Feeling bollixed, Devraj shrugged. The soldier in front glared hard at him, then asked in a cold, mistrusting voice, “Would you mind if we searched your home?”
Devraj, alarmed, replied, “What would you be searching for, then?”
The soldier in front gritted his teeth and glanced at the men around him, then answered finally, “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps... a letter?”
Realization must have dawned on Devraj’s face, because the soldiers pushed past him and began rampaging his home, turning over the cushions in the sofa and armchair, opening cupboards and drawers, yanking back the sheets on his bed, and feeling under the mattress...
“Here!” bellowed one of the skinnier soldiers with a much deeper voice. He waved the parchment in the air. His fellow men gathered around him, and the angrier of the lot snatched the letter, turned it over in his hands, then ripped it open and read the few words on the page.
He then shoved the letter under Devraj’s nose, and Devraj straightened it and read with slightly shaky hands,
Alphard,
The shipment arrives at 3 o’clock on the 22nd of November.
Kill the man who has handed this to you. No doubt he has
already read this.
Ask for Sara.
-MG
Feeling even more bewildered than before, Devraj handed the letter back to the soldier who was looking at him as though he wanted some explanation.

The planks on the dock were splintered and rotting, and sincerely needed replacing. At least a dozen sleek wooden ships were tied to the posts. Sailors could still be seen peering at the little village from the masts, but most were scurrying here and there, either shouting orders or obeying them.
Devraj meandered aimlessly around the grungy sailors, telling himself he was never going to find the ship whose esoteric shipment waited to be picked up by a man named Alphard who probably had no idea that it was today.
A hard prod in the back made Devraj jump, and he whirled around to see himself face to face with that particular antagonistic soldier whom he had never liked. He had made a deal, though, which would keep him from being thrown in prison, or worse, executed on charges of concealment of illegal contrivances. Apparently, MacAllister Gebauer was smuggling something into the country. Illegal or no, he had tried to keep it from the King, which, in any case, most likely meant that it was illegal. But word had reached the village of several families found dead by the hand of MacAllister Gebauer, and somehow it connected with the shipment that Devraj would be picking up under a false surname.
“It’s this one, here,” the soldier said with barely a sneer, pointing at one of the most ordinary, middle ships. Devraj looked up, and most unexpectedly got the strongest impression that he should turn back straight away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as straight as pins, and he shivered inside his coat.
A woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever lay eyes on, was standing on the deck of the ship, one hand on a heavily padlocked truck. She had long golden hair that fell in natural curls down her back, with the most beckoning brown eyes that were staring right into his, making him feel extremely endangered and attracted to her at the very same time. Almost without thinking, Devraj swung himself onto the ship and hopped the steep wooden stairs. In one breathless moment he had reached her.
She was staring at him with a cognizant stare, and said almost surprisingly, “Mister Alphard?”
Devraj opened his mouth to correct her, to tell her his real name, but then he came to full awareness and nodded apprehensively. This must be Sara. He thought to himself.
She glared at him for a moment longer, trying to find a lie in his eyes, then dropped her gaze to the trunk.
“Well, I’m sure Gebauer–” (She glanced around to make sure no one had heard) “told you about this? How to handle it? What to do with it and everything?”
Devraj pursed his lips, then nodded again. Lies always escaped his mouth in a fallacious tone, so he found it better to use body language and try and keep his face composed.
Sara rubbed her hands on the pair of sailor’s trousers she was wearing, then motioned for him to help her lift it. Together, they struggled to carry it down the steep stairway, which proved to be very difficult on the contrary. The soldiers were not on deck anymore, obviously keeping out of view of Sara. They dropped the trunk onto a dolly and Devraj took the handle from her.
“Oh,” Sara warned him, snatching a piece of parchment from her trouser pocket. “Gebauer told me to give this to you, incase...you know...you forgot or something.” She slapped the paper into his hand and turned away. Feeling a little exhausted, Devraj turned his weary eyes onto the paper.
Alex Gadsby - Carcassonne
He knew the famous medieval village Carcassonne, of course, but what did Alex Gadsby want with it? What was concealed inside this temperamentally heavy trunk?
Was it something the soldiers expected, like stolen gold or dangerous drugs? Or was it something more formidable? Devraj could only guess at all the questions that flew through his mind. He wheeled the dolly, with the heavy trunk, off the dock towards the men that were waiting to open it.

The bad-tempered soldier ran a hand over the padlock, looking, if it were even possible, even more angry. “Do you have a key?” he growled, shooting Devraj a loathing glare.
When Devraj shook his head regretfully, the soldier gritted his teeth than barked an order over his shoulder, “An axe! Hurry!”
A soldier or two stomped off in search for an axe. Ten minutes later, one of them returned carrying a large wood cutting axe with a sharp, shiny blade and blood-red handle. He dropped the axe into the angry soldier’s hands. The angry soldier glowered one last time at Devraj, then swung it high in the air. The clash was loud, but it did not break immediately. Nostrils flaring, the soldier lifted the axe once more in the air and swung it down with all his might.
CLANG. The chain broke, and it slithered off the trunk with ease. The soldier grabbed the lid and pulled it open. Everyone gathered around and then gasped simultaneously as the sunshine revealed a furious but also startled face of MacAllister Gebauer.

The Spirit Bird

One moment, the ashen earth was still, not even the rustle of the bushes or the birds’ mournful chirps. Then, the deep cinereal clouds opened up and, drop by drop, droplets of water began to patter what was left of the lifeless wasteland.
From a jagged rock clinging to the steep mountain, lay a pitiful young women, alive but barely. Crusted blood coated her scarred hands, and a patch of her auburn hair was charred and shriveled.
As the rain began to fall more briskly, the woman’s blistered lips began to quiver, and in less than a minute her eyelids twitched and slowly they opened. The woman’s name was Ovelia Falck, and in the life she had once known, her surname was acknowledged by every human being across her country. But now her country was no more, and now so was her name.
Ovelia lifted herself up with shaking arms, coughing very severely. A bump began rising on her scalp, right where the patch of hair had been burned.
She then got slowly to her feet and peering around her in horror. The tens of thousands of bodies that had originally been lying there on the green grass were now covered in terrible, thick ash. The atmosphere smelled acrid, just like decomposing flesh and the putrid fumes of lava.
I’ve done it. The thought was not sorrowful, but relieved. She sighed contentedly, followed by a fit of coughing. The rain was still falling, slowly washing out the smell of death.
Just then, a perceptive chirp sounded from above, and Ovelia looked in the direction of the noise. A strange, multicolored bird was descending from the gloomy heavens, oblivious to the water hitting it. Ovelia’s eyes widened- this was not part of her plan. The bird trilled a wise warning, looking at her with oppressive red eyes.
Ovelia tripped on the rough, scaly stone, reeling backwards but catching herself before she fell into the ash. The bird flew in circles above her head, chanting Your time has come... Your time has come.Ovelia shook her head furiously. You don’t understand; she whispered, I didn’t kill my people for nothing. They were sick!
The bird answered, Liar, they were not sick. You killed them to satisfy your own evil nature. Ovelia clenched her teeth, sparks flashing in her obsidian eyes. You can’t do anything now...
Wrong, the bird replied, and clawed at Ovelia’s skin. Ovelia screeched, but then was still. Her body kneeled over backwards, tumbling into the bottomless ash that she herself had caused. The bird, on the other hand, flew away, carrying the spirit of Ovelia Falck to the dungeon where she belonged.

Utgangen (End)

Which One?

I've decided to finish one story. But the problem is... which one?
Which story is worth finishing?
Please COMMENT and tell me which is your favorite:

A Visitor At Dawn

The Door Of Immortality

The Rider

"Is It Time Yet?"

Isolated

Isolated

The caravan reached the little village of Dusken an hour past sundown. The air was still intensly dry, dusty, and so hot that the oxygen was hard to breathe.
Altogether there were nineteen camels in the caravan, each with a turbaned rider clothed for the long journey across the scene less desert. And that included Rahul, the lanky man with an olive-tone complexion, shaggy, dusty black hair that shone with sweat without the heavy-some material that usually covered his head, and the shaggy, greasy beard that he left unshaved.
Dusken was, unexpectedly, isolated. The streets were actually even and well kept, and the cabanas and mud-slapped buildings were not very old. Only human presence was missing.
Rahul dismounted his camel once the caravan stopped, feeling the blood flow back into his legs.
He took off his yellowed turban and wiped it across his sweaty hairline, then reached for his canteen, squeezing the last gulp of warm water onto his dry tongue.
There was some general confusion up towards the front. Adnan and Professor Ab del-Hali, the leaders, were arguing expressively about why their coming was not welcomed, and why there weren’t even any people, despite how healthy and recent the footprints in the sand were. They had important merchandise that they could clearly not sell to nobody, so in just a few moments, Professor Ab del-Hali decided something with his companion and began explaining to the group that they would be continuing on to the inner city, about four miles west of Dusken.
Rahul gazed around at the empty cabanas, having a strong impression that the sleeping mats were, possibly, still slightly warm from the owners' bodies pressing into them.
While the caravan began to move away, Rahul absconded from his friends and led his camel into the village. He knew the way to the inner city, so he was not worried about catching up to them.
Suspicion and a great deal of curiosity led Rahul to the cabana he knew so well. It was his childhood home, and old memories of his youth, before he had become a shephard and then a member of caravans, overwhelmed him.
Rahul stooped low in the doorway into the little room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. And when they did, they roamed over to the single mat on the dirt floor, where his brother lay, sleeping fitfully in a tangled position.

Ending #1 to THE DOOR OF IMMORTALITY

"Stop!" the boy pleaded, now sounding alarmed like there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Don't go in, mom!"
Marijka paused from pulling the door open. She tilted her head a little and asked, "What?"
The boy was silent, and Marijka shuddered as the melody came on her hard, tinkling a depressing tune as to lure her in. She turned all the way around to meet the boy's cautious stare.

"What did you just say?" Marijka asked again. The boy's expression turned from cautious to horrified at what he had just said.
"I said, don't go in.. please." The boy stared at her with such sadness that Marijka began to pity him.
"And what will happen if I do?"
The boy cast his gaze down and mumbled, "Then you will remember me. And I don't want you to remember me, because then he'll bring you here again and again... and you'll go through that door again and again trying to get out, then remembering again, and then you will go crazy and you won't come back anymore."
Marijka repeated the words over and over in her mind, not making any sense out of them. But nothing made sense here.
"I don't understand." she finally said. But she didn't stop to wait for him to explain more clearly. She turned back around and swung the door open.
The darkness was rich with something indescribable. It was completely silent now, and the blackness was pulling her in. She felt she desperately had to go in.
And she did.

Marijka sat bolt upright, her eyes adjusting in her dimly lit, black cascaded bedroom. Her husband still wasn't home yet, but she didn't blame him. She knew he was going through a rougher time than she was. He was closer to Ryan.
Ryan.
Suddenly her dream came back to her, and she screamed. Pulling on a bathrobe that she had dyed black since the death of her son, Marijka ran out of the house and down the street, to the cemetary across from the playground.
There, in the far back, was a small headstone inscripted with Ryan's name, date of birth, and the day that he died. She fell to her knees and clutched the rock as if it would bring her closer to him. She didn't know what her dream meant, because she was slowly becoming insane.
No wonder that melody seemed familiar. She had been there before... numerous times... looking for him. Looking for Ryan.
But she didn't want to go there again, because the dream scared her.
No matter what it meant, or how much sense it made, she didn't and wouldn't go back.
And she let go.

"Is It Time Yet?"

One ordinary man stood on the corner of Eighth Boulevard, twirling his bowlers hat impatiently.
The stars were just appearing in the twilit sky, and a few wisps of stratus clouds were still visible.
Very few people were still out roaming the streets at this time of night, and the shops had long since closed up. But that excluded the one particular who was rounding the alley, his coat pulled up over his chilled ears.
When the ordinary man, whose name was, in fact, Henry, spotted the other making his way towards him, his bowler dropped to the pavement and he didn’t bother picking it up.
“It’s a beautiful night,” the man, Edmund, offered to his friend.
“Indeed.” Henry answered. The two stood across from each other, each slightly anxious since their last meeting fourteen years ago.
Edmund rocked on his heels. “Eh, how is Maryanne doing these days?”
“She is dead.” the other confirmed. A door slammed somewhere in the distance, and a stray cat crept in the shadows of the alley.
The two men nodded at each other and stood side by side, searching the sky for the north star, finally spotting it behind the bank roof.
“Is it time, then?” asked Edmund, glancing at his companion. Henry fiddled with his pocket watch and nodded. “Almost.” replied Henry.
A young couple passed in front of the two men, oblivious to the great danger that would be happening minutes from now. They were cuddled close, keeping the warmth between themselves.
Henry glared at his watch until it showed 9:15, then tucked it into his trousers and rubbed his hands together nervously.

The Rider

It was windier than usual that night. The wind howled through the tall, shadowy woods making the hallow wood whistle. The owls could not even be heard over the breeze.
A bearded, shaggy young man with a tattered uniform galloped through these woods on a wild horse, leaning forwards to keep the wind out of his eyes.
In his saddlebag was a scroll tied with a cord of leather. And this man had determined means to deliver it. He didn’t know what it said, unfortunately. All he knew was, that if he did not deliver it, the fate of the future would be on his hands.
An hour flew by, almost as fast as the old horse was running. An hour of branches tearing his clothes and trying to hold him down. But he had eyes and senses only for the path ahead.
Eventually, in the distance, he could see the old cottage nestled in a bundle of trees. The bricks were old and could barely hold up the structure.
Mother Gothel was standing on the porch, waiting patiently. A hood was covering the top of her scraggily grey hair, and her purple eyes were ablaze with curiosity.
The man pulled the reigns harshly as he skidded up to the house. Clambering off the horse, the man took up his saddlebag and made his way over to Mother Gothel.
Mother Gothel opened the bag and pulled out the paper and unraveled it, her eyes skimming over the words faster then one could comprehend.
Finally, with a grunt, she handed the man a gold coin.

PS

[I added some more to the story "A visitor at dawn"]

Thanks,
Becca

PSS- I'm angry that not very many people are commmenting.
If I don't get at least 5 people rating my stories, I'll.....!!!

The Door of Immortality

It was the cold, piercing breeze that woke Marijka. Her eyelids were heavy, but she managed to pull them back to take in the scene around her.
She was lying sprawled across a cold stretch of concrete that was as cold as ice.
There were no windows in the room she was in, but tall concrete pillars led to a door on the other side. It was a simple door; a silver door with a straight, green border.
For a moment, she thought she heard a faint chime of a music box coming from across the room.
Marijka lifted herself up by the elbows, and tried pushing herself into a sitting position.
Once the dizziness passed, she felt the pain on the back of her head and rubbed the goose egg, wincing. She then looked down at her short, stubby fingers. Something didn't seem quite right. These sun-browned hands didn't look familiar.
Footsteps echoed somewhere in her mind, and Marijka clambered to her feet and whipped around, searching every corner of the windowless, cold room.
She didn't spot the little boy at first, but he had approached her from behind. Marijka screamed when she turned, stumbling back a few feet.
The boy looked no older than ten, with bleached blonde hair and a crooked, trusting smile.
"Look at my watch," the boy said, grinning and holding up a gold pocketwatch for her to examine.
Marijka glanced from the boy to the watch in horror for several long moments, then swallowed loudly and took it from him to look at it more closely.
It was a roman numeral watch, but the surface had a small crack in it and the secondhand was ticking backwards.
"That's... wonderful." she told him, and handed it back.
Too intimidated by the boy's wide, electric blue eyes to look away, Marijka edged in the direction of the door. The closer she came to the door, the better she heard the distant, depressing melody tinkling behind the wall. The boy realized what she was trying to do and his eyes grew wide with fright and tenacity.
"You can't go through that door," he told her in a concerned tone.
Marijka's heartbeats quickened slightly, and without thinking or questioning, she turned away from him and ran the distance to the doorknob.
She could now hear the music. But she didn't stop to think about how familiar and mournful it sounded.
Marijka reached up to pull her long blonde hair away from her neck, as she often did when she was frightened or confused. But her hair was too short to cover those goosebumps on her neck; her hair was now chin-length and dark.
Taking a few deep breaths, she grasped the doorknob and turned.
"Stop!" the boy pleaded, now sounding alarmed like there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Don't go in, mom!"
Marijka paused from pulling the door open. She tilted her head a little and asked, "What?"
The boy was silent, and Marijka shuddered as the melody came on her hard, tinkling a depressing tune as to lure her in. She turned all the way around to meet the boy's cautious stare.

To be continued. (With alternate endings)

A visitor at dawn

Jashon peered dubiously through the thick fog that wrapped itself around the summit. He couldn't see farther than two feet from where he was standing, and that wasn't good.
If anyone were to approach, he wouldn't know until it was too late.
Jashon leaned back onto the fence, waiting, as he had been doing for the past hour and a half.
The sun was still hiding behind the hills and the rooster had a long wait until it could crow.
Just then, through the stillness of the morning, came the creepy rustle of weeds in the pasture ahead.
Jashon nearly lost his footing as he tried to stand up a little straighter to greet his guest. A broad, cloaked figure made his way over to Jashon and held out his hand.
Jashon shuddered very notibly as he took the pale hand and brushed his lips over it.
"What news of my daughter?" a deep, raspy voice questioned from under his hood. Jashon hesitated for a moment then said,
"She has been annihilated, sire."
The cloaked man was still for a moment, then reached up to pull off his hood. He was an ancient, wrinkled man whose skin was as pale as parchment. His eyes were large, round, and completely black. Jashon was caught in the man's gaze and couldn't for the life of him look away. The man narrowed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm himself.
"..Who did it, Jashon?" he demanded, in a voice not as friendly as he had intended. Jashon's knees started to wobble, but he resisted reaching out for the fence to stable himself.
Finally, after taking a small gulp, Jashon said, "You killed her, my lord."

It was the man’s expression that awoke Jashon that morning. He sat up in bed, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. Warm tears were escaping down his cheek.
Jashon sat until his shaking subsided, then swung his feet out of bed and stumbled out into the hallway to his daughter’s room. The pink, lacy curtains were shut tight and the princess lamp was still glowing, illuminating the sleeping girl’s innocent face.
Assured that his daughter was safe, Jashon made his way into the living room to lie on the sofa. He tried to block the haunting dream from his mind as he buried his sweaty, tear-stricken face into the pillow.
Hours passed and the sun began to rise up in the east, yet Jashon could not rest. Eventually, he sighed and pushed himself up. The living room was just as he had left it; there was no sign of an intruder. Books with the binding ripped, wrinkled papers, protractors and an old compass scattered the dining table, and continued onto the coffee table and a counter top.
Jashon glanced over at the table in the corner of the two couches that held a lamp and a few photographs. He reached over to the family portrait and stared long and hard at the woman with the long brown hair and wide, sincere eyes. Her hand was resting on his shoulder and also on the shoulder of the little girl.
The woman was smiling radiantly, yet she also stared back with such knowing eyes that he felt she knew what he was thinking.
“Jashon,” she whispered, and Jashon even looked up to see if she was standing there. But she was still in the photograph.
“It’s time to tell my father.”

Yo!

Welcome, you guys. This blog will be for my short stories and poems ONLY. If you are looking for my other blog, please go to www.hobobecca.blogspot.com
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Thanks!

The Wacky Writer. [Becca]