Tag / Short Fiction

by Colette

The Art of Swordplay

Written by Eruantien

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A longsword match between two men. Image // Fechtbücher (Commons)

“I’ll draw them,” murmured Garidth to Kurvello. “You lead the others further in.”

“Take the heat off you when they realise we’re already inside the keep?”

“Would be nice,” Garidth nodded to his brother and the others, and strode out of the undergrowth to the front of the gate house. Lowering his buffe to reveal his face, the young knight raised his longsword and his voice: “All glory to the true lord of Janakholm, Kurvello Karvelson! Let any who deny his claim come forth now and challenge me, Sir Garidth of Corlyn; or hide forever behind the skirts of your mothers, like that snivelling boy who calls himself lord!”

Two came forth and Garidth could see a third hovering in the gateway, only half armoured. The other two – wearing maille and open-faced helms – drew their swords and closed on Garidth. Garidth couldn’t help but smile as the words of his old tutor echoed in his ears, “if someone attacks you with his blade in a standard grip when you are in full plate, then he knows nothing of the True Art”. His blood singing, Garidth launched his attack, thrusting hard at the one to his left, but the man’s sword came up in time to glance the thrust to the side. Against the Hämähäkkan’s expectations, Garidth continued his push and quickly whipped his steel-clad left fist forwards in a straight jab, smashing into his opponent’s face. Already turning as the stunned man stumbled back, Garidth blocked the second soldier’s overhand strike with his right vambrace. Garidth couldn’t help but let out a grunt of discomfort as the heavy sword bit into the steel, but before the Hämähäkkan could recover his guard, he swung his blade towards himself and caught it in his left hand. Without pausing, he slammed the pommel into the bridge of his opponent’s nose and fractured his skull. The man dropped. His first opponent began to gather his wits a moment too late as Garidth’s sword got behind his knee and took his feet from under him. Garidth immediately thrust his blade down, two-handed, at the maille protecting the man’s throat. Steel rings split beneath the blade’s tip. Garidth paused for a moment to catch his breath, and withdrew his sword as the third member of the gatehouse came out.

Garidth eyed this new combatant; clad in brigandine, the way in which he held himself was different from the other two Hämähäkkans he’d fought. Unlike the others, this one had adopted a half-sword stance and had solid plates on his arms and legs complimenting the brigandine and visored helm. Garidth found himself suddenly wishing that he hadn’t lowered his buffe earlier; there was no time to secure it back in place now.

Blood dripped from the tip of Garidth’s longsword as he gripped it halfway down the blade. Continue reading →

by Colette

Teddy’s Tale

Written by Sparky

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We imagine this is exactly what Ted would do. Do not push that button, Ted. Image // Universal Pictures

I remember how it all ended. The story is almost legendary amongst what remains of my people. The noise, the smoke, the endless crush. But it all came later; this is how it begins.

In the centre of our planet was a machine and it ran the day-to-day business of the whole planet, ensuring the globe kept spinning, the sea had its tides and the volcanoes acted as they should. The machine even regulated night and day for those deep in the heart of the planet. Those at the heart of the machine acted as gods, controlling the fate of all who lived on the surface world. One youth of this tribe of stewards was responsible for our fall, unintentionally of course. His name is inscribed into our minds yet never spoken, lest we bring his fate on us once more.

He had a small teddy bear, handed down from father to son over generations. The ticking that emanated from its heart was a reminder of how even simple things could be enriched with technology. This bear had kept the boy company over the years when his father had to watch over the machine, in order to ensure its constant upkeep. They shared conversations of the past, of the hopes and dreams the two shared. But the bear longed to return to the surface world he originated from, before the time of control.

They went everywhere together, the boy and his bear, walking alongside the other. Their footsteps silent, the clockwork inside the bear’s chest the only sign of actual life between them. They had explored the machine’s various rooms and corridors over the lonely years; they knew every inch of their home. As a new day broke inside the machine, the bear seemed sadder than usual; he looked out on the complex with his dull, vacant stare. Between him and the boy there was an unspoken bond, they could almost read the other’s thoughts. That particular morning, the boy knew the bear wanted to explore again, to get closer to the machine than they ever been allowed before.

They got to the door outside the heart of the machine. The door that would allow those who entered the power to control an entire planet. The bear looked at it with a sigh as the control was set above the reach of either him or the boy.

The boy waved the bear toward him – he didn’t want to be caught here, he wasn’t allowed. The bear plodded along after him, silently calculating the best way to get into that room. He would get that opportunity sooner than he realised. The door slid open on its brass hinges to the slightest hiss of steam, and the bear hesitated then turned. It was open, the steward’s shadow retreating down the hallway. So the furry dog-eared bear hurried.

He only just made it inside, his little legs barely making it over the threshold before the door shut behind him. He walked to the large brass console in front of him and scrambled up between the chair and the panels. Looking out over the endless buttons and levers, his eyes fell on the wall of screens fizzing to life in front of him. And, in that moment, he remembered what it was like to breathe pure air, feel the warmth on his wool as the sunlight bathed him in its glow. If he could cry, a tear would have formed in the corner of his eye. He took a few small steps and reached down to flip open the protective cover on the centre button. The big red button. The big red button that read “Do Not Press”. The bear raised one paw and gathered as much force as he could and brought it to bear on that button. Alarms rang out across the complex and scenes of destruction began to fill every screen in front of him. The end had come, all because of a bear’s resentment at losing the freedom he once enjoyed.

The machine exploded in a giant fireball, consuming the bear within its inescapable heat, yet before it did, he smiled and whispered one last word.

“Oops.”

Sparky’s short fiction was inspired by an earlier Half Hour Challenge and written for our Inkwell forum. It’s an interesting piece that covers the idea of freedom and how one small change can become a catalyst for much bigger consequences. Sure it’s cliché and it screams to the “Lost” TV series fans, but buttons do come with consequences, they are just smaller in reality. If you enjoyed Sparky’s piece, make sure you check out his beautiful poem, “I Wish“. 

by Colette

The Servant

Written by Terrestris Veritas

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The Idle Servant by Nicolaes Maes Image // vispix.com

You were always better than me – more elegant, more sophisticated. You would say that I looked ‘dashing’ in my dark Italian suit, ‘sleek’ in my shiny black shoes and ‘ready for war’ in my white servant’s gloves. I remember how you gave me my orders, never harsh, always calm and sincere. You were always more polite than all the others, thanking me for my deeds, summoning me with a soft call, rather than a harsh snap of your fingers. You were concerned for me, always tending to my wounds, regardless of whether I deserved it or not. I remember how you once stayed behind for me, fearing not for your life but for mine.

My fellows always scorned how you cared, how I was your favourite. Often, they spoke out against you, but ceased their protests once they saw my power. They were always jealous of how I was never beaten, never punished. They didn’t understand my motives, telling me that I forgot myself and lost my purpose. But they were the ones who lost themselves.

My freedom mattered to you and that was your downfall. You always left me to myself if you foresaw no reason for me to be near. Because of my power, I was your only servant, your only protector and your only friend. Or so you thought.

I heard your call, felt your terror. My response was swift and instantaneous, as was the norm. But as quick as it was, I was still too late to help. Your body lay limp by the fireside, your killer strode away, expecting no challenge. I didn’t simply challenge him, I slew him where he stood. You deserved vengeance, you deserved peace and you deserved the fate you got.

Everyone said I had gone soft, fallen for a primitive human. You were a gracious person, but unlike the others, unlike those incompetents, I never lost sight of my goal. I never let hate cloud my judgement. For when you died, I was truly free. And dead you are: as it should be.

Written on behalf of the Half Hour Challenge’s theme Servant earlier this year, Terrestris’s piece certainly gives us the chills. Maybe it’s just that last line, or the strange voice of the narrator, but it feels eerie. The servant finally has his freedom, though it may not be how he ever expected to attain it. If you liked Terra’s work, feel free to check out ‘Lost in Transit‘ and ‘Umbra‘.

by Colette

Lost In Transit

Written by Terrestris Veritas 

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Solitary and in limbo. Image // sharioon.deviantart.com

A purple haze loomed in front of me. From the centre a waterfall of brains cascaded downwards. Somehow they saw me. Somehow, they spoke.

“Every time you fall asleep you die. When you die, someone else wakes up. When that person falls asleep and dies, you wake up then. Everything in your life is connected to that person. Déjà vu is a re-occurrence of what that person experienced.”

Bent double with agony, I could barely speak. “What are you?”

The brains seemed to snigger. “Right now? I am an informer. But once, I was like you, alive but dead. Undead, if you will. Now, I stay in this transit; in limbo.”

I tried to look at the brains but my eyes wouldn’t focus. “Am I… dead?”

“Dead again, you mean?” I could imagine the seemingly endless pattern of brains raising their eyebrows – well, if they had any. “Yes and no. You were dead before, and alive again while your double was dead. But now you have jumped forward, into a place with no dead or alive status, and thus, you stay here until your double passes on.”

“He won’t wake?”

“She, actually. And no, to wake up, one must fall asleep and die. But to fall asleep and die, one doesn’t have to wake up. But to experience, one must be awake. But to dream, one must be asleep and dead. You are neither experiencing nor dreaming. You are in transit with me.”

“But why?” I tried to shout but it came out as a croak.

“You cannot fall asleep and die here. You have jumped forward, which means sacrificing certain aspects of your life to abide by the law. You must wait until your double passes on. And after that, you shall lose yourself. You will see no colours, feel no touch, and sense no emotions. Until you and your double are together, you will experience nothing.”

The brains seemed to recede into the haze. “No!” I shouted. “Come back!”

“Your double has passed on. I must leave you now. While your mind dissolves, believe that you should have done more. For yourself, if nothing else. You are nothing now. All of it was for nothing.”

The brains disappeared, and I lay slumped on the ground, running what I had learned through my mind, as I slowly lost myself.

Lost in Transit was written by Terrestris Veritas as part of a Half Hour Challenge earlier this year. It was praised by Inkblots contributors due to its creepy nature, and many of us were left wondering what Terra would be able to do without a time limit. We don’t know about you, but the idea of talking to a number of decomposing brains inside a waterfall is just a little bit disturbing. If you enjoyed his work, make sure you check out Terra’s two-part fantasy drama, The Bunyip. 

by Colette

Neon

Written by Nonexistent Rose

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Beauty in the simplest of forms. Image // fanpop.com

I couldn’t remember the past twelve hours but I guessed that meant the drugs had worked. I’m sure it would have been much worse if they hadn’t. I felt light fingers touch the gauze around my eyes.

“I’m jealous,” Rosie spoke softly.

“Of what? Having your eyes ripped out because they aren’t good enough?” I felt my left arm tingle when she drew close, the hairs standing on end from the slight draft.

“Are you really upset about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You got new eyes, Charlie. They’re beautiful, they fit right, and they work much better than your old ones; I even heard your parents paid extra to get the eyes of an expert pilot.”

“My mother couldn’t stand to see her child walking around wearing glasses, like I’m one of those, you know, slum kids. So she bought me a pair of used eyes. Big whoop.”

Rosie sighed. I was being unreasonable, clearly. But she still leaned on me, choosing to ignore my petty attitude. I almost wish I could say that I was the jealous one because Rosie still had her own eyes, but I couldn’t because she hated her eyes. She would give up both of them just for one new one. They were such a dull blue they looked grey and their vision wasn’t perfect, but her family couldn’t afford to buy her new ones. I wished my family couldn’t afford to buy me new ones. I wished our money was directed at more important things than appearances, though my mother would throw yet another unnecessary tantrum. 

But normal people didn’t wish to not be rich so I kept my mouth shut. Rosie touched the gauze on my face again. 

“I wonder what they look like.”

“Why don’t you peel off the tape and find out?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to take off the gauze yet.”

“I don’t care.” I didn’t care if I went blind or ruined my vision back to its previous blurred state. I just didn’t care.

“I’ll be gentle.” Rosie whispered and I felt her stand up. Her touch was always delicate, as if everything she laid her hands on was as fragile as a butterfly wing. And true to her word, she was gentle with the gauze as she peeled it off. I was rough and impatient and my foot fidgeted until I nearly reached up and peeled it off for her.

I felt the air dance over my closed eyelids once she finally shed the final layer. I was scared to open them, to let these new eyes see the world. Would it look the same through someone else’s eyes? Would Rosie look like she always did, with her plain brown hair and dull grey eyes? 

“Open your eyes, Charlie,” she murmured like a mother waking her child.

Continue reading →

by Colette

The Sound of Silence

Written by Doishy

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But music? Who knows. Image // 20th Century Fox

They say in space it is silent. In space, no one can hear you scream. The latter part is correct but for a different reason. 

In space, all you can hear….is the music. 

My alarm shudders into dance next to my light control, and I slowly ease into a painful wakefulness. The auto injector immediately stabs into my arm, shooting stimulants through my blood steam, and kicks in roughly after thirty seconds. My time of wakefulness has begun. 

I drag myself out of bed, unhooking the auto injector restraint, and prepare to shower, get suited up and head to the mess, where I grab some sort of high protein, semi-decent snack. Forced into this dismal and annoyingly depressing routine, I pick up my bag of toys and head to my booth. 

In our little station there are six of us here on rotating shifts. It’s mostly self-sufficient, only requiring the occasional order of new parts – though if we get a break (which is never) then we’d be grabbed and deposited in another room for our time off, fashioned after those arcade crane games. Each of us has our own booths set up adjacent to each other. You can see the two people either side of you and they form a strange hexagon as they face one another. 

“I left you something slow on. Seems I got nothing, but for you it’s looking like a harsh one.” I nod in thanks. Something slow means a long song, ambient and calming so plenty of time for me to set up my gear. 

“Later.” I mumble back and head into my booth.

My little world of organised clutter greets me. The trinkets on my desk are all neatly arranged in no particular order and my monitors, five in total, slowly hum to life as if they sensed me. I boot up fully and dump my gear, then sit on my swivel throne and don headphones. Checking the primary channel, I hear a crackling and, peering in through the window on my left, the monitor shows me the time I have left.  Continue reading →

by Colette

A Wonderful Thing – An Alexander Short

Written by Dice

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Time travel can only be a good thing when stocking up on the good stuff. Image // flickriver.com

“What have you got there?” Alexander asked Jennifer.

“Just a chocolate bar,” she answered.

“No one told me there was chocolate,” chirped Alexander.

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” warned Jennifer. “There aren’t any left – this was the last one.”

Alexander looked like he was going to complain, but was struck with a recollection; “I thought you were going on a diet.”

“Starts tomorrow,” replied Jennifer simply as she ripped open the wrapper.

Alexander moaned and stomped out of the room. Moments later he was back, clutching something to his chest like a prized possession.

“What have you got there?” Jennifer asked Alexander.

“Oh, just a chocolate bar.” He answered.

“I saw those earlier, are there any left?”

“Afraid not, this was the last one, sorry.”

“Oh. Well, never mind, I’m supposed to be starting my diet tomorrow anyway…” mumbled Jennifer.

Alexander just nodded before sitting down, taking a large bite of chocolate.

“On a completely separate note,” started Alexander with a mouth full of chocolate. “Time travel is a wondrous thing, don’t you think so?”

Dice’s Alexander shorts are fast becoming a staple to his Half Hour Challenge entries, but we just can’t get enough of them. Completed under the theme of chocolate, Alexander has been devilishly sneaky with time travelling – not that we would normally recommend it under such selfish circumstances, mind. But it makes such an amusing story that we don’t care if Alexander accidentally changes the course of time. If you enjoyed Dice’s Alexander shorts, make sure you check out  ‘This One! An Alexander Short‘. 

by marleylilith

The Start of Something Beautiful

Written by Ricardo

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

The light which illuminated Grace’s front room was not the kind she was accustomed to. At this time (which was 21:03 on a Saturday night for anybody out of the know) Grace would usually have just landed on the sofa after spending exactly twenty-four minutes soaking in the bathtub and then dressing in her Marvel pyjamas; the television would be on Channel Four and she would begin watching her shows three minutes late.

But this time was different. Instead of the kit-cat clock which hung on her cream walls striking 21:03, its unblinking, unreal eyes gazing around the room as if afraid that she wouldn’t turn up one day and leave it with only its own incessant ticking for company, the clock showed 21:00 when Grace’s backside hit the sofa. This time, it wasn’t shielded from the eyes of her kit-cat clock with her usual Marvel pyjamas. Today she wore a Batman onesie. And to complete the utter anarchy which was her life in these few desperate moments, the light which illuminated her front room was the glow of the moon instead of her television.

And so Grace sat upon the sofa, alone except for her kit-cat clock, which for the moment she decided to called Terry, and looked around herself. And she noticed that by the light of the moon, everything was in fact a lot darker. And at 21:03 she turned the television on, and the light of a floating number four joined the moonlight in its game of showing Grace the darkest corners of her own front room. And she began to cry. Continue reading →

by Colette

Only A Smile

Written by Dice

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Such a fleeting moment. Image Courtesy of themetapicture.com

Part 1

Sitting there she was unassuming, but when she smiles you understood why someone thinks she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived.

That someone sat opposite her on the train. He usually found himself on the same carriage as her during the commute to and from work. If he was honest, he often made sure he was on the same carriage. He wondered if she noticed, she’d probably think he was a “weirdo” if she did. Today he had been luckier and she had come onto the train after him. He had wondered where she was, she had almost missed the train.

The man often battled with himself over whether he should say something, but no one ever talks to strangers on the train, she would surely think him weird. Would she even answer him? She’d probably just give a curt reply and return to her book. What if he mentioned the book? He read it himself and really enjoyed it. But wait, what if she wasn’t enjoying it, maybe she’d think he was a geek for reading it.

Just say something, say “hi”. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she doesn’t like him? She’s probably wondering who he is and why he’s glancing fervently. There was no point in talking to her. But what if she did like him? But what if she doesn’t, was it worth the risk? Just say “hi”, just say “hi”.

She probably doesn’t like me.
Coward.

Part 2

He glanced again. He looked a little serious, but when he smiled he was cute. Did he smile because he liked her? Don’t be silly, he was just being polite.

He’d probably think she was a creep or something if he knew she had chosen this carriage because he was on it. She’d done it a few times before, that’s creepy isn’t it? Maybe that’s why he was glancing. It couldn’t be because he liked her too, could it? He would have said something. Maybe he’s shy. But not even a “hi”. He didn’t like her. What if she said something? Is it odd for the girl to say something? Does she look “easy” if she does? He probably didn’t think the same as her. Even if he replied, he’d probably take what he wants then move on. If he wasn’t interested, it would make the journey to work awkward, she’d have to avoid the carriage he was on.

Just say “hi”. What’s the worst that could happen? She could be embarrassed, she could embarrass him. There was no point in talking to him. But what if he did like her, he doesn’t. But what if he doesn’t, was it worth the risk? Just say “hi”, just say “hi”.

He probably doesn’t like me.
Coward.

Dice’s flash fiction was written on behalf of the HHC theme for February – unfortunately, he missed out on the love-themed month, but we’ve managed to pop this piece into our Simple Pleasures theme for April. A fleeting glance with a good-looking stranger on a train, bus, or plane has happened so many times, it’s hard to count on one hand. But what happens when you pluck up the courage and strike up a conversation with them? They could be the partner of your dreams. We’re hoping for a part 3! If you like Dice’s writing, why not check out some of his other work, including ‘Keep Smiling Through‘ and ‘The Writer’s Block‘.

 

by Colette

Aldrick The Mad

Written by Dice

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Ready for a sacrifice? The Stone Table in Narnia is calling…
Image Courtesy of Concept Art from the Chronicles of Narnia

Here follows the final moments of Aldrick The Mad’s life written by his scribe, who had been ordered by Aldrick himself to watch from a hidden location and record all that he saw. The scribe was not entrusted with the knowledge of what Aldrick was attempting in the forest, gold was the penniless scribe’s only reason for being present.

“Yes, yes a sacrifice, poetic in your demand. I understand, I understand. Elven by birth, elven she is, eleven too, ha! That’s why I chose her, a little humour between us.

“No, no my lord, not a time for joke, time for joking is not now. Soon we will laugh though, soon in our victory… your victory, you will be the victorious one. Yes victory at last against your sister, our mother, the betrayer of our Lord.

“Betrayed you she did, like the mother of the sacrifice, she never bore a male of your line, honoured though she was with the strongest men your temples could find, she failed them all, but her daughter, she’s survived six years, more than most, but find her I did. She is found and will make a perfect key for your cell, won’t she hmm?”

Aldrick drags the young nameless girl in front of him and lifts the frightened child onto a large, yet cracked stone dais; the centrepiece to the clearing Aldrick now stands in. The clearing is a strange place with an unnerving feel to the air, even the trees surrounding the stone dais seem to grow and lean away from the clearing. As such, the ground is devoid of any life, the soil is dry and black with large cracks, as if the ground had been burnt. The four mercenaries Aldrick has hired to protect him ignore the situation, a couple even twiddle a coin to remind them it’s all about the money.

Tears stream down the gagged girl’s cheeks, and Aldrick ties her down. There are stone hands protruding from the edges of the stone dais as if  grasping for the ropes which tie down the sacrifice.

“Bring the knife, no, no, he disappeared, useless servant, never really useful, fun though, fun to order someone, others don’t listen. These do, these here. You, Mercenary, bring me a knife.” Continue reading →