Final Print

This week’s six-sentence story, based on the word TERM, was supposed to be a lightheaded one. That said, I have been reading The Stand, and so again, we have gone dark. This week we meet Joe, who violated the terms in conditions with dire consequences.


Joe was a healthy 32 year old man in the prime of his life, with a great job, a beautiful home, a wonderful wife, two amazing children, and less than a week to live.

The worst part was, that it could have gone on like this for years, him living the perfect life, but with an act of hubris he had ruined it all.

In the early days, the deal he had made weighed heavy on his mind, making him question his every decision, was this within the bounds of the agreement, would that violate a term or condition?

Eleven years later he had become sloppy, time dulling the terror he had felt in the circle of mushrooms as he was told what fate would befall him if he was ever to renege on the contract he himself had negotiated.

With distance, he started to doubt that it had happened at all, a vivid hallucination brought on by the drugs to treat an illness he never had, the last damning consequence of what the Doctor’s called a misdiagnoses of the highest order.

He had held onto that foolish belief until this very morning, when he looked out upon his garden of death, a coffee in had as he surveyed the leafless trees, wilted flowers, yellowed grass, and the only thing left alive was a circle of mushrooms, mocking his arrogance, letting him know that his hour had come round at last.


Part of the continuing saga, of why we don’t mess with the Fae.

The Library

Hi, this one was prompted by a the pun on Book Worm in refernce to librarians. I have a few version of this theme, I love the idea of hoarding books, and defending knowledge…I know, a writer who loves books, what a surprise. Hope you enjoy.


People came from far and wide to visit The Library. The books within it were some of the oldest in existence, and there were few other places that one could see a book like this, let alone be allowed to interact with it.

No one knew how long The Library had been there, it seemed like it had always been there, and when people began to question this, it’s age could not be verified. The strange thing was, despite the growing size, and the voluminous collection, The Library only had a single librarian that worked there. There had only ever been one, and it seemed there would only ever be one.

There were assistants of course who were known to help out from time to time, but they never stayed on for long before moving along. Even though the positions were voluntary, and the vetting process extreme, there was never a lack of applicants. Everyone knew that a good reference from the Library was worth it’s weight in gold. It could be used to gather all manner of positions in the world, not just in libraries, but in museums, archeology, anthropology, to have worked in The Library was one of those things that was coveted.

There were many attempts to sack The Library over the years, but none really ever succeeded. It seemed they reconsidered upon entry, or they mysteriously disappeared never to be seen or heard from again. No one knew who owned the library either, as many had tried, and failed, to purchase it.

The one person that no one had ever suspected in all of this, was the libraries lone librarian. At present the librarian was known as Kaida, though in her late 40’s now, had been a mere 19 years old when she had started her apprenticeship to the previous librarian Daniel. No one knew how one got an apprenticeship at the library, and it was assumed that Kaida had been head hunted in some manner to obtain it.

Behind closed doors though, there was only ever one, the other an illusion to satisfy the curiosity of others. After all, were it known that the librarian was the proprietor, and the original one at that, there would be no end to the questions. One thing that they had learned from the fall of their brethren, was that there would also be no end to the fear. Not until the other had been eliminated, and was not longer a threat.

While many of their kind had kept jewels, gold, even spices, they were likely the only one, or were at least the only one left of their kind to keep books. In the early days they were laughed at, because they kept nothing at all, only the stories they had been told, and it was hard to explain to the ignorant what the true value of knowledge was. When people had began writing things down, they were overjoyed, for now they had something physical, some proof of what they had acquired.

At first they had kept the collection private, but private collections implied one had something to hide, and the illusion work was tedious to keep inventing husbands and wives and children. At some point they would surely be found out, and so they had created The Library.

This Library was their greatest accomplishment, and by another name, their hoard. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, to give others access to their hoard, but it kept it safer. Strangely, it also helped it expand far more quickly, as people were surprisingly willing to donate books to a library, knowing that it would benefit themselves as well as others.

The Library got more donations than any in the world, as it was advertised that no book donated would ever be destroyed, or thrown out, like so many other libraries did. Even the most damaged books were treasured, and carefully restored, in what was assumed to be a world class restoration room. It was very hard to explain that one was using magic to fix them, when one didn’t admit to being magical.

What The Library gave them though. was more than a safe hoard, it also gave them the gift of companionship. It allowed them to meet the people who were most like them, that worshiped at the altar of knowledge. Here they would live out their days, content in what they had wrought.

Ephemeral Experiences

Once again I have taken a word like TREE and used it to write a dark, twisted, little tragedy.  I don’t even know how to explain this one really without giving it away.  I will say that its dark, and a lot of things are implied, but nothing stated outright.  Really just a single bad choice, and then some very improbable consequences…

The world spun, or was it is her that was spinning, round and round, faster and faster, and it felt like any moment she would fall, losing balance, land face first in the dew-covered grass.

When the moment finally came and her mostly numb feet left the ground, she fell forward, but the feeling on her face was stinging and warm and she wasn’t falling she was floating.

She turned up lazily and saw her reflection gazing back down at her from the mirrored ceiling, pupils blown, hair floating freely and she smiled at the serenity she saw there even as a part of her mind tried desperately to work where the mirror had come from.

All at once the serenity was gone, as she took a deep breath, choking, feeling like her lungs were on fire, knowing at once that she was having an asthma attack, and she desperately tried to propel herself back down to the ground, towards the bag with her medication.

Her limbs felt like jelly, as she struggled through air thick as molasses, floating upward as she fought for life trying to make her way back down, and then she stopped fighting, knowing she wouldn’t make it, wanting to enjoy her last moments in this warm feeling of carefree weightlessness.

It would be hours before her fate was observed by anyone other that the fake palm overlooking the heated pool, and weeks before anyone but that tree would learn that there was no foul play, just a trip gone wrong, a little girl lost to the easily avoidable, a tragedy.

Recovery

This was an experimental piece on setting tone in a story, I wanted to convey the feeling of recovery after a long convalescence, and not quite sure if I managed it. I will let you all be the judge of that.


Heavy curtains hung on every window, letting out only the tiniest slivers of sunshine where they weren’t properly shut. They gave just enough light to see the crutches, covered in layer of dust, sitting propped up by the front door. A pair of shoes sat beside them, with a yellowed price tag still attached. Around the corner, in the kitchen a broken cup lay on the floor, on top of a stain from tea long dried up, and the sink was full of dishes, with flies buzzing about them.

Alan stepped in with his cleaning supplies, took one look at the mess, and pulled out a garbage bag instead. He had hoped to be able to salvage something, but realized, with a wrinkle of his nose, that had been vacant too long for anything in the kitchen to be worth keeping. He opened the drapes, and the windows to get some fresh air and began the long, hard task of cleaning. He rewarded himself at the end, when he got to the crutches.

He considered keeping them, it would be practical, but the idea of never having to see them again was overwhelming, and he tossed them out too. He reached down, and pulled the price tag off the shoes, slipping them onto his feet. He wiggled his toes, and grinned; they were even more comfortable that he had hoped when he purchased them. He stepped out the door, feeling the sunlight on his face, took a deep breath of fresh air, and started to run.