Episode of Stadbury - A Fist Awash in Flame

As the door creaks open and a swathe of light from the hallway cuts a path through the otherwise faintly moonlit room, neither of the soldiers sleeping in the beds on the room's opposing walls pays any mind: Their slumber is too heavy. Even when the door is pushed back into place, and the clicking of its settling tumblers sets the intruder’s heart into a wildly arrhythmic patter, the men do not stir.  

The diminutive Wilden holds his breath for a moment, half expecting the men to awaken the moment he exhales. Gradually he releases the air in a long, slow burst and when they remain in place, he sets to work, moving around the room as close to noiselessly as he can manage gathering as he does the weapons that are propped against the wall and stowing them under the beds of his new enemies. Once this small feat is accomplished he saunters up close to one of the beds and reaches under his robe removing a small sickle that had been strapped to his leg. "Unfortunate," he whispers, "That yet another life must be taken. Woe be to he whose allegiance falls on the wrong side of my own. Perhaps one day you'll be a footnote in the legend of Stadbury." Stadbury raises his sickle as a look of grim finality crosses his face and brings it down suddenly as the sound of cloth being sliced fills the room. 

Stadbury is blinking at the sickle now, which he notices, as he raises it is not dripping with blood. In the moonlight pouring through the window he makes sudden note of feathers floating around his head he hadn't seen before. He looks down at the man he'd attempted to kill and meets his eyes, very much alive. The pillow the man's head had been laying on however had recently been sliced and drained of filling. Stadbury connects the dots just in time for the man's fist to connect with his jaw. A solid hit for a man laying down, but the dwarfish Wilden sorcerer is not floored by this blow, unexpected though it was, his composure is quickly regained, and he leans forward and puts an open palm to the groggy man's gaping mouth. "Big mistake." he says through gritted teeth, "You can’t begin to understand the power with which you trifle.”  A burst of flame erupts from his flattened hand and into the man's mouth scorching his insides. The man gurgles in pain and goes limp, the sudden increase in his body temperature causes the sheets he is wrapped in to break into a smoky smolder.

“Well, what have we here?!” The other soldier calls across the room as Stadbury turns from his fresh kill to face him, “Why if it isn’t the littlest Tree-Fuck!” He had always considered the slur for his people (a forest dwelling “one with nature” type of folk) to be a bit uncreative, but it still managed to get on his nerves considerably. Add to that a jab at his height and it is more than Stadbury can manage to maintain his composure. Seething now, he rushes the other soldier and in preparation for another burst of fire, thrusts his open palm toward the soldier who is still quite nude from being freshly awoken. The soldier slaps the hand away with his left and delivers a fierce right-hook to Stadbury’s nose sending him reeling as his newly repositioned offense goes off; briefly illuminating the room before catching a bureau that manages to remain lit.

The room now lit, the man glares at Stadbury before speaking, “I recognize you. You’re one of those idiot “mercenaries” the captain hired to help the guard two days ago. What’re you up to?”

Stadbury climbs up from his position on the floor holding his now bloodied nose, “Training exercise, soldier! And you passed! As world-renowned soldiers of fortune, we were hired to whip this guard into shape. Now, I know our methods may seem a tad unorthodox, but—“

“Enough, Tree-Fuck!” the soldier barks, and Stadbury’s eye twitches a bit as he says it, “No ‘training exercise’ murders one of the participants in cold blood. Would you like me to beat you to death now, or would you rather extend your life by the length of your explanation?”

“Initially I hesitated to tell you, impudent little soldier,” Stadbury begins, part of him still seeking that magic combination of words that defuses the situation, or at the very least spares him another working-over, “because it would mean your death. But of course, then I realized, there isn’t an end to this conversation where you survive, so I’ll enlighten you as quickly as I can. We are mercenaries, this much is true, however we work for the Aldide Family, not for your joke of a captain. Thirty men have been signaled to attack this manor within the next five minutes, and my comrades and I have dispersed to do in the sleeping soldiers to even the odds a bit.”

“Why?” The soldier asks, not so much as blinking.

“We were hired to get what you are guarding. The artifact. The sword. Where is it? If you tell me now I might see you live as a cripple rather than take your life.” The soldier rushes now, aiming his punches downward so they won’t soar over the head of his foe. One blow misses but a second lands and Stadbury rolls backwards over himself landing, with agility that surprises even himself, in a squatting position on his feet. His thrusts his palm forward and lets fly with another burst of flame this one catching the soldier (already preparing to loose another flurry of blows) in the torso. The flames on the soldier catch immediately and the now flaming man shrieks in pain as the fire spreads up his torso and down his arms. Stadbury allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction before a flaming fist lands on the side of his face.

An incredulous Stadbury now gapes at his enemy, still screaming in agony, and must allow himself a moment to both relish the absurdity of his situation and begrudgingly acknowledge his respect for his opponent’s dedication to the fight. Another flaming fist finds its way to Stadbury’s bruised face and he realizes all at once that he can hear his heart thumping in his ears over all the screaming and bludgeoning going on. It occurs to him that he really ought to consider doing something. It occurs to him further that he really ought to lay off the fire.

Another fist to the face, another intelligible shriek of intense suffering. Stadbury rides this one backwards and uses it to make some distance between him and his assailant, distance which his addled mind correctly assumes would be advantageous. His back hits the wall and with nowhere else to go, he focuses his effort on swirling his hands. The soldier inhales and his lungs pop audibly as a luminescent orb appears in Starbury’s hands, filling the whole room with sickly greenish hue. He hurls it at the soldier and it splashes against him. The soldier mimes a scream, but is now incapable. His face melts away as the flames are extinguished and the flecks from the acidic orb land on the floor around him and eat through it. Gradually the floor around the dying soldier gives way and he falls through as Stadbury scooches back against the door to avoid the growing maw.

            Stadbury breathes a sigh of relief and lays his head against the door. The door swings open and knocks him on the back of the head. Agitated, he looks up, “Sorry Stadbury, did you get yours taken care—“ the slender dark-haired girl looks around the room and makes note of the burning bureau and the dripping hole in the center of the room. Her eyes finally land upon Stadbury’s own battered visage.

            “Mayfaire, you insult—“ he pauses momentarily to spit out a tooth, “You insult me, Mayfaire. Of course my two are taken care of! Am I not your glorious leader?! Are we not the Fellowship of Stadbury?!” He gestures grandly at nothing in particular.

            “Uh… Huh… Well, the others have their guards taken care of and we’ve actually managed to find someone who seems kind of important to take hostage. We think we might know where the sword is and the men are in the courtyard of the manor fighting their way in here right now. I uh… I hope you’ve still got enough left in you for a real fight.”

            “Of course, Mayfaire, of course. Naturally, the plan is going off without a hitch. Go on now, and I’ll catch up to you. I’ve got to finish some things in here.” Stadbury barely finishes the sentence before he collapses on the bed. Mayfaire leaves the room, shutting the door behind her and returning to her comrades.

            There remains much to do.

           

           

          

Flight of Fancy

I wanted to make sure I got at least one thing posted on here for the month of April, and I realized that most of the fiction I've posted here is either A) Horror, B) Horrible or C) A combination of the two I'm going to refer to from here on out as "Horrorbul". Anyway, here's an older story I wrote for a creative writing class I took a few years ago that's a bit more light-hearted and a bit less terrible. 

-The Management

“Okay, breathe in real deep. Close your eyes and… Fly!” Jennifer felt strong hands on her back push hard. She felt like a cartoon character: Her chest shot off the edge of the cliff first, the rest of her body followed, snapping back into form like a rubber band.

Now she was falling: Headfirst, arms at her side, face molded into a look of grim determination. The waves were crashing at rocks at the bottom of the sheer cliff she’d been pushed off of. She fell for a few more moments, the wind rushing through her hair before she began to scream. The determined look vanished, replaced by one of terror, her arms flew from her sides and her hands covered her eyes.

And then the rushing wind stopped. Jennifer’s long frazzled red hair fell over her eyes.

Jennifer looked up at the man who had caught her, he looked down at his little sister, clearly annoyed, “Jen, are you even trying anymore?” He asked, “Or have I become a personal bungee cord for you?” The pair were floating lazily up the side of the cliff; Jennifer was cradled in the young man’s arms, her left arm draped around his neck.

“Well, I’m sorry!” Jennifer said, frustrated herself, “But you’re not really giving me a lot to work with here. You’re shoving me off and just yelling ‘fly’” She made a flapping motion with her hands as she said the last word, “I’m sort of new at this and your ‘baby bird method’ isn’t really working too well, Desmond.” The two reached the top of the cliff and Desmond pulled his arms from Jennifer and let her fall in a heap to the grass-covered earth below.

“Oh, yeah, and I’ve been at this, for what? Three hours now?” The night prior Desmond had had one of those falling dreams; the ones where you wake up right before you hit the ground, and he’d done just that, only when he woke, he’d found that he’d rolled out of bed. Not particularly fascinating of its own accord, it happened often, this time, however, instead of landing face first on his carpet, he’d found that he’d simply floated above it. Upon further inspection he’d found that he could float freely through the air simply by thinking about it: He could fly! He hadn’t touched the ground all morning for fear he wouldn’t be able to do it again. “S’not my fault I’m a prodigy,” he touted smugly. Jennifer glared enviously at the empty air between his feet and the ground from her position in the grass.

She let a long burst of air escape her lips, “’Prodigy?’ You couldn’t even do it again if you touched the ground. You don’t know how you did it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Jen.” Desmond ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t know how I did it. How am I supposed to teach you? Now, please, can we get out of here? We’ve been at this all day and we won’t make any progress until I have some idea how this works.”

Jennifer stood up in front of him.  She was just a little shorter than him. She began brushing off her sun-dress. “Okay, fine. Just let me try one more time. “

Desmond hesitated, “One last time, then we’re out of here.”

“Oh, and I don’t want you to catch me this time.”

“Are you kidding? Out of the question,” Desmond said immediately, “If something happened to you, I don’t know what—“

“You don’t have a choice!” Jennifer lunged at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him down onto his feet. Desmond’s knees buckled. He hadn’t stood on his legs all day and it had taken its toll, he reached out helplessly as the red-headed girl bolted past him and dove off the cliff, smacking into his shoulder as she went and sending him into a spiral that left him facing the opposite direction on the ground. 

What followed was the most deafening silence Desmond had ever experienced in his life.

And then a scream shattered it.

That scream.

 The one that meant she needed to be caught.

Desmond began to well up. His legs were throbbing from their sudden exposure to his own weight. He crawled over to the edge of the cliff and summoning all his courage forced himself to look over the edge.

He was rewarded for his efforts by a fist to his jaw.

Jennifer had stuck her fist upward super-hero style as she’d flown past him, not expecting him to stick his face out. The blow had knocked Desmond onto his back. He found himself staring up at the girl floating above him. “Des, I did it! Did you see!?”

Desmond rubbed his jaw, “Yeah I saw you little brat! Get back down here!” She stuck her tongue out at him. “I said get down here. We’ve got to get home!”

“I’m just going to fly.” Jennifer jeered, “Why don’t you?”

Desmond fumed, “I swear, if you come anywhere near me, I’m throwing your ass to the ground.”  On the way home, Jennifer made it a point to keep her distance from her brother.

It's Stupid

I live out in the middle of nowhere on my own. I moved out here something like three years ago to live with my grandmother after grandpa died, she passed on herself not a couple of weeks later and now I'm living in this huge, out of place old mansion by myself. To be perfectly honest, it gives me the creeps, but I don't want to sell it. There's too many memories from when I was a kid. The house is about hour away from the town I was born and raised in and with the town, everyone I know. I can make it there in something 40 minutes provided I'm riding on the highway, traffic is good, and I'm really hauling ass. On weekends when I don't have work to catch up on, I cruise into town and spend the evenings drinking and fooling around with my friends. I don't like sleeping in any bed but my own unless it's completely unavoidable. Because of this eccentricity I frequently find myself making the long, lonely drive back to the house at two and three in the morning and sometimes even later.

On my drive home I follow the highway right up until it ends. It's meant to go further but right now it's under construction; my exit is signaled by the white and orange road-blocks and the reflectors surrounding them. I pull off onto the ramp and make a right turn. From here the rest of the way home is a series of winding country back roads. These are actually pretty pleasant to drive during the day, but at night... Well, it's stupid, because I've driven these roads a million times, but driving them creeps me out. I saw this video once on the internet, it was some kind of short horror movie about these kids that got lost on these sorts of road and were killed. Their camera picked up the murders. It's stupid, but it really got to me, and the back roads I ride to get home make me think of it.

Sometimes when I'm driving on these roads, I'll get a car behind me. It's stupid, but I can never shake the feeling that they're following me. The roads are only one lane, they couldn't really pass me if they wanted to. Still though, I can't get the notion out of my head; I think about how easy it would be for them to follow me back to my house where no one else lives; even comes by, and do whatever they want to me. It's stupid, but if the car that's behind me is following to closely I speed up. Just start tearing down the road in an effort to get away from them. Sometimes, but not often, they speed up too, which doesn't do a lot to help my anxiousness. It makes me think of that story. The one where the girl is driving home from a school dance? And the car starts following her and flicking it's bright lights on and off? Then at the end you find out there was a murderer in her back seat and the person following her was turning the lights on and off to keep him from stabbing her while she was driving. So I check the back seat of my car. It's so stupid! I'm laughing just thinking about it. Ha ha.

If they're still behind me, and they speed up after I speed up and I can't get get away from them, I pull over to the side of the road and let them pass. It just makes me way too anxious to have them following me for so long out there in the dead of night. I'm a very careful person, so I always turn on the caution lights when I pull over to the shoulder.

Here's where it gets really stupid, you're going to love this. I'm freaking out at this point, you know? I'm just losing it. If the car passes me, I just take a deep breath and keep driving home. Sometimes, but not often, though, they don't. Sometimes, they see the caution lights flip on and stop. They walk up to the window and tap on it a couple of times. Saying something I can't quite make out, although I can hear an upward inflection in their voice. Probably a question. It's so stupid, I can't even explain to you how embarrassing it is to tell you this, but once I know they're in range, I unlock the car door and kick it open. Usually it catches them off guard and the impact causes them crumple to the ground, but some are quick enough to jump back, or savvy enough to keep their distance. 

It's stupid, but once they're on the ground, or even if they aren't, I leap from the car and beat them with my bare hands. I really get in there, you know? Just waling on them. They cry and they scream and they beg me to stop and sometimes, but not often, I do, but never before they're beyond help. It's stupid, but the blood dripping from my fists gives me the courage to finish my drive home and I do. A lot of times, I'll even get another car behind me and do you know what? I don't even get scared!

And Good Will Toward Men

Because someone had to do it, I was stuck working the grave-yard shift in the Gas N' Go on the corner of West and Third on Christmas Eve this year. My boss had appealed to me desperately. He didn't offer holiday pay. He didn't offer over-time. But he did threaten my job, which was encouraging to say the least.

So it went, on December 25th at 2:30 AM, rather than being asleep at home, visions of Sugar Plums dancing in my head, I was standing behind a cash register slinging cigarettes and hard liquor to what I have to assume were the less than reputable inhabitants of Mansville, Alabama.

Mansville is not the sort of place that I belong. I think the fact that someone could waltz into an area, establish a town named, "Mansville" and have no one raise an eye-brow at that for two-hundred years sums up the general population of this quaint little community better than I ever could given the limits of the English language, so I'll just allow that to speak for itself. That said, deservedly or otherwise, I do have quite a high opinion of myself when compared to the other residents of the town. I mean, I'm no Shakespeare, I'm no Einstein, but I'll say this: The fact that I'm working in a gas station at the age of twenty five is a god-damned crime.

The bell on the door jingled, rousing me from thoughts. I looked up from the counter I had been absent-mindedly staring at to see one of our regulars, A Mr. Evan Schaal walking into the store. As usual I kept an eye on him as he sauntered around the store, glancing up at me every two to three minutes as he jammed various products into his pocket. Like I give a fuck. Finally he approached the counter and addressed me, "Pack 'uh Marlboros," he grunted as he slid a case of Keystone onto the counter.

I turned to get the man's smokes and heard a quiet little voice pipe up from beneath the counter, "Daddy, will you buy me this?" I spun back around and faced the counter. I peered over it to see a golden haired little girl standing beneath the counter. I hadn't even noticed her. Where had she been? I hadn't even noticed her. She was holding one of the little wooden dolls from our frankly lack-luster toy-shelf up towards her father.

"Gloria, if I told ya once, I told ya thousand times: We can't afford shit like that right now. Necessities only." Something about this outraged me. Evan Schaal robbed the store blind every time he entered. For the most part, he knew I didn't care (or at least cared more about my physical health than I did about the financial security of the Gas N' Go) and yet he still didn't have the time to steal a dinky little convenience doll store for his daughter.

I turned and set the smokes down on the counter, "You know, Evan, it's Christmas and stuff, so if you just want take the doll, I could cover it," I said to him, doing my best impression of someone who didn't utterly despise him.

Evan Schaal stopped and blinked at me rapidly in a stupefied fashion. What I assumed was that he had been taken aback by my self-less attitude and willingness to help out my fellow man. I actually had begun to feel pretty self-righteous by the time he finally opened his mouth. "Th' fuck did you say to me?"

I stammered, clearly confused, "I-Er-I was just offering to help out Evan. I just thought, your daughter really seemed to like that--"

"Zip it pencil neck." Evan barked at me, "I don't need your fuckin' charity. My family," He beat on his chest, "Don't need your fuckin' charity. An' where I come from? That's a damn insult."

"Listen man, I didn't mean anythi--" was all I got out before I woke up on the floor. Head throbbing. Someone was flecking water on my face. I groaned, "What happened..."

I opened my eyes and was staring up at my manager, "Looks like you got robbed again, Mitch. Who was it this time?"

I struggled to my feet, "Evan Schaal."

"Again, man, Mitch, if this keeps happening, I'm going to have to let you go."

"I know, Dave. Can I just... Can I just get the hell out of here? It's Christmas. I think my girlfriend got me an ice-pack." Dave sort of laughed. He really didn't want to, but I got him with that remark. I rubbed my shiner as I walked out the door. It was a two-mile walk to the apartment. It was snowing.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

He is Watching

It happens every once in a while.

A chill will run down my spine, I'll shiver and (curiously enough) I'll feel my nipples get hard. That's when I know he's watching me. Used to be I'd look for him, but he's been around so long that anymore, I don't even glance up from what I'm doing. Used to be I'd try to tell people about him, panic, get questions about why I'm looking so distressed. Used to be I'd pray for his departure and dread his arrival. Used to be I was frightened.

First time I ever saw him I was 6th grade. I was sitting in class. My math teacher Mr. Cross was babbling on about something and I was absent-mindedly staring out the window at the playground as I was wont to during my math classes. That day I was watching the girl's PE class play a particularly cut-throat game of soccer when he appeared. It was odd, because, if he hadn't appeared out of thin air, I hadn't noticed him up until that point, and I sure as hell know that he's not the type of thing you miss. At any rate, he stood there in the middle of the soccer field staring in the window and I felt the searing heat of being looked upon. The first thing I noticed was his lack of facial features besides his eyes. Where mouth, nose and ears were meant to be was smooth skin and nothing else. Upon my years of time spent with the wretched thing I would come to notice other strange physical attributes that only closer inspection could reveal. At this first, chance meeting, I couldn't see his eyes, that glowed fully with an uncolor that can't be described as gray, but can't truly be compared to any other color, and the extra digit on each of his hands. Sitting in math class that day, I tried to ignore him but found it impossible. This tall featureless man standing in the middle of the soccer game that no one seemed to notice. It terrified and intrigued me.

Weeks at a time. Every day. He was there. Broad day light. I asked other people about him and they only scoffed. Therapists dismissed the beast as the product of wild imagination or delusions. I was put on medication and the thing disappeared. For the time being at least. It wasn't till I was in high school that the thing came back. And he's been with me ever since. Not all at once, mind you, he comes and goes as he sees fit, and stays until he goes. There is no constant on the distance at which he appears, sometimes he's across the street, and for one horrifying weekend appeared in the doorway of my living room. Approaching him is out of the question. Speaking to him equally so, as when I attempt to do so, the ability alludes me.

That being the case, our interaction is limited, but we do have an unspoken understanding and it is this: Someday, he will end me. And I get to live until he does.