by John Xero
Shuka was a mage of subtle magics.
While her peers waged wars for various kings, she became a queen.
Other wizards challenged and fought and ranked each other. They wrestled with fire till infernos were theirs to command, forged armies from ice or reshaped the very land itself. They were so mighty and so proud.
But Shuka stayed silent, and no one knew the power that welled within her. She simply smiled shyly, spoke softly and practiced unseen spells.
Now it was widely known her king employed no mages. Yet any sent against him, mysteriously, came back broken, empty, weeping.
Author bio: John Xero believes there are as many kinds of writers and writing as there are of mages and magic, more even. And that words can be obvious, and they can be subtle, and both can be powerful.
blog | twitter
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Friday, 23 November 2012
Bully
by Angel Zapata
The quarter sat face-up on the schoolyard ground. I squatted beside it, stared into Washington’s eye. I had expected to pick it up and be done with it, but then it spoke to me.
“I’ll make him stop hurting you,” it said.
I took it back inside the school; found Lucas alone in the second floor bathroom. He didn’t anticipate me turning the table, didn’t see me until I’d already pinned his shoulders down with my knees; pried open his mouth.
The newspapers printed his death as an ‘accidental choking’.
The coins in my pocket can barely contain their laughter.
Author bio: Angel Zapata knows money talks. His published and upcoming poetry and fiction can be found at Bewildering Stories, Devilfish Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Microw, and Mused: Bellaonline Literary Review. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
The quarter sat face-up on the schoolyard ground. I squatted beside it, stared into Washington’s eye. I had expected to pick it up and be done with it, but then it spoke to me.
“I’ll make him stop hurting you,” it said.
I took it back inside the school; found Lucas alone in the second floor bathroom. He didn’t anticipate me turning the table, didn’t see me until I’d already pinned his shoulders down with my knees; pried open his mouth.
The newspapers printed his death as an ‘accidental choking’.
The coins in my pocket can barely contain their laughter.
Author bio: Angel Zapata knows money talks. His published and upcoming poetry and fiction can be found at Bewildering Stories, Devilfish Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Microw, and Mused: Bellaonline Literary Review. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Eternal
by John Xero
Padraig was a little goblin of a man, wizened and bitter, always preceded by the tap-tap of his cane. He was old - ancient - but his tongue was still spear-sharp and keen as his eyes. His pale, piercing gaze flickered from person to person, scrutinising, judging their heart and soul.
He seemed eternal. Younger folk grew old and died, while Padraig tap-tapped ever onwards.
And in the world beyond this one, there was Padraig, waiting. He would judge folk, and guide them. And sometimes the path wound lazily upwards to light, and sometimes it sloped down, down to lakes of fire.
Author bio: John Xero is not eternal. But that doesn't mean he won't be waiting for you on the other side... Be good.
Twitter | Blog
Padraig was a little goblin of a man, wizened and bitter, always preceded by the tap-tap of his cane. He was old - ancient - but his tongue was still spear-sharp and keen as his eyes. His pale, piercing gaze flickered from person to person, scrutinising, judging their heart and soul.
He seemed eternal. Younger folk grew old and died, while Padraig tap-tapped ever onwards.
And in the world beyond this one, there was Padraig, waiting. He would judge folk, and guide them. And sometimes the path wound lazily upwards to light, and sometimes it sloped down, down to lakes of fire.
Author bio: John Xero is not eternal. But that doesn't mean he won't be waiting for you on the other side... Be good.
Twitter | Blog
Friday, 16 November 2012
Cobblestones
by Chris White
I don't watch the news anymore, the same flickering images of riot shields and snarling police dogs, of explosions in cafés - the lightning strikes of revolution.
The world captured in moments of violence, the voice of civilisation drowned out by the screams of the people as flames lick at their feet.
It started with people marching in the streets, demanding to be heard.
It ended when our governments stopped pretending, when Trafalgar Square became Tiananmen, revisited.
I don't watch the news anymore, pretending to be surprised.
I watch the streets outside and all I see are cobblestones, slick with blood.
Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia, which he realises is on the other side of the world. He writes mainly dystopian SciFi and speculative fiction. More of his words can be found (almost) daily at http://chriswhitewrites.wordpress.com
I don't watch the news anymore, the same flickering images of riot shields and snarling police dogs, of explosions in cafés - the lightning strikes of revolution.
The world captured in moments of violence, the voice of civilisation drowned out by the screams of the people as flames lick at their feet.
It started with people marching in the streets, demanding to be heard.
It ended when our governments stopped pretending, when Trafalgar Square became Tiananmen, revisited.
I don't watch the news anymore, pretending to be surprised.
I watch the streets outside and all I see are cobblestones, slick with blood.
Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia, which he realises is on the other side of the world. He writes mainly dystopian SciFi and speculative fiction. More of his words can be found (almost) daily at http://chriswhitewrites.wordpress.com
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Burglarised
by John Xero
A child's toy: a caricatured man: squat and broad, black trousers, black and white striped shirt, black domino mask, bulky bag labelled: SWAG.
What if the cause was the effect? Cause: effect.
Oh, the Earth is missing. Did I mention that?
Earth: missing.
A mishap, perhaps: misplaced. Or stolen, whole: thieved.
Burglarised or magicked? Stolen, or concealed.
Sleight of celestial event: "Look, supernova! Oh, where's you planet gone?"
Converted, maybe, to energy. Or thought: a conceptual theft.
Everyone in the world imagining a SWAG bag: the world in a SWAG bag in everyone's imagining.
Are you imagining it? Good. Bye.
Author bio: John Xero wants one of those sunlight lamps for the dark days ahead (otherwise known as winter). And not because someone's about to steal the sun. But if they do, it definitely wasn't him, no sir.
A child's toy: a caricatured man: squat and broad, black trousers, black and white striped shirt, black domino mask, bulky bag labelled: SWAG.
What if the cause was the effect? Cause: effect.
Oh, the Earth is missing. Did I mention that?
Earth: missing.
A mishap, perhaps: misplaced. Or stolen, whole: thieved.
Burglarised or magicked? Stolen, or concealed.
Sleight of celestial event: "Look, supernova! Oh, where's you planet gone?"
Converted, maybe, to energy. Or thought: a conceptual theft.
Everyone in the world imagining a SWAG bag: the world in a SWAG bag in everyone's imagining.
Are you imagining it? Good. Bye.
Author bio: John Xero wants one of those sunlight lamps for the dark days ahead (otherwise known as winter). And not because someone's about to steal the sun. But if they do, it definitely wasn't him, no sir.
Friday, 9 November 2012
Reformat
by Milo James Fowler
For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.
Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time-
Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!
The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.
Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time-
Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!
The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Farmboy
by John Xero
Gobbets of meat adorned the beast's barbed hide, like tufts of wool on a horrific hedgerow.
Harwen was on his knees, his crude sword hanging limply from a hand that a week ago had held a crook. Around him lay villagers and friends, armoured up and cut down.
The soldiers were gone to war but battle had come to Little Daleberry regardless, because Harwen had let his flock stray too near the caves.
The troll-thing, its rage sated, was shambling away.
Harwen tightened his grip, clenched his jaw and stood. He owed penance. He yelled and the beast turned back.
Gobbets of meat adorned the beast's barbed hide, like tufts of wool on a horrific hedgerow.
Harwen was on his knees, his crude sword hanging limply from a hand that a week ago had held a crook. Around him lay villagers and friends, armoured up and cut down.
The soldiers were gone to war but battle had come to Little Daleberry regardless, because Harwen had let his flock stray too near the caves.
The troll-thing, its rage sated, was shambling away.
Harwen tightened his grip, clenched his jaw and stood. He owed penance. He yelled and the beast turned back.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Circles
by Adam Lynn
The corn told a story none of the experts wanted to hear.
The boys from NASA stood by and scowled, repeated bad jokes and blamed the farmers.
The farmers stood by and scowled, bitched about the weather and blamed the teenagers.
The journalists stood by and scowled, talked to the NASA boys, farmers and teenagers, and blamed their editors.
Geometric shapes stamped into fields far from home tended to make people nervous and defensive.
So they hunted clues among the churned-up husks and clods of earth, failing, again, to imagine the truth just might be in the gleaming galaxies above.
Author bio: Adam Lynn writes nonfiction for a living but lives to write fiction. Follow him @spark1019.
The corn told a story none of the experts wanted to hear.
The boys from NASA stood by and scowled, repeated bad jokes and blamed the farmers.
The farmers stood by and scowled, bitched about the weather and blamed the teenagers.
The journalists stood by and scowled, talked to the NASA boys, farmers and teenagers, and blamed their editors.
Geometric shapes stamped into fields far from home tended to make people nervous and defensive.
So they hunted clues among the churned-up husks and clods of earth, failing, again, to imagine the truth just might be in the gleaming galaxies above.
Author bio: Adam Lynn writes nonfiction for a living but lives to write fiction. Follow him @spark1019.
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Lily
by John Xero
They say the pier is haunted.
Years ago, me and Lily used to fool around under there. We had this secret spot at the top end, where it was always damp, always dark. Right below the seafood guy. People would be above us, eating their cockles and muscles and shrimps, and Lily would be trembling beneath me and I’d be kissing her hard to keep her from crying out.
But in the damp and the dark, our lust woke something, something old and lascivious. I made it out, but Lily...
They say the pier's haunted; it’s Lily’s moans they hear.
They say the pier is haunted.
Years ago, me and Lily used to fool around under there. We had this secret spot at the top end, where it was always damp, always dark. Right below the seafood guy. People would be above us, eating their cockles and muscles and shrimps, and Lily would be trembling beneath me and I’d be kissing her hard to keep her from crying out.
But in the damp and the dark, our lust woke something, something old and lascivious. I made it out, but Lily...
They say the pier's haunted; it’s Lily’s moans they hear.
Friday, 26 October 2012
Disease
by C.B. Blanchard
There. You see her? Hunched inside a filthy coat? Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking. See that sheen on her like on meat going off.
See her bump into that man, and touch that woman and cough on that child. See that queasy, greasy shine transfer to them. Watch them spread it further and further. In two days, the first of them will die. The rest will follow.
The woman sheds her coat, sheds the body. She keeps the rotten gleam. It suits her.
Disease will spread and cull the weak. This one’s the big one.
Her true masterpiece.
Author bio: C.B. blanchard is your future apocalyptic dictator. She blogs about the apocalypse over at incaseofsurvival.com and can be found talking a load of rubbish on twitter (@gingerkytten)
There. You see her? Hunched inside a filthy coat? Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking. See that sheen on her like on meat going off.
See her bump into that man, and touch that woman and cough on that child. See that queasy, greasy shine transfer to them. Watch them spread it further and further. In two days, the first of them will die. The rest will follow.
The woman sheds her coat, sheds the body. She keeps the rotten gleam. It suits her.
Disease will spread and cull the weak. This one’s the big one.
Her true masterpiece.
Author bio: C.B. blanchard is your future apocalyptic dictator. She blogs about the apocalypse over at incaseofsurvival.com and can be found talking a load of rubbish on twitter (@gingerkytten)
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Peacemaker
by John Xero
Sand gusted gently. The crowd quieted in taut anticipation.
A moment of tranquillity held the arena.
And in that moment, Bran didn't feel the shield straps tight about his arm, the battered helm forced onto his head, or his sword's grip beneath his palm. Everything focussed on one exhalation, one breath, one tiny huuuh of life.
Magatoria, king's champion, a sword in each of his four hands, his spirit anointed by the blood of uncounted humans, leapt at Bran.
Calm became chaos. Blades danced in veils and ribbons of blood. Life became death.
Bran closed his eyes.
Sweet silence returned.
Author bio: John Xero likes ambiguity. Ambiguity fuels imagination.
Twitter | Blog
Sand gusted gently. The crowd quieted in taut anticipation.
A moment of tranquillity held the arena.
And in that moment, Bran didn't feel the shield straps tight about his arm, the battered helm forced onto his head, or his sword's grip beneath his palm. Everything focussed on one exhalation, one breath, one tiny huuuh of life.
Magatoria, king's champion, a sword in each of his four hands, his spirit anointed by the blood of uncounted humans, leapt at Bran.
Calm became chaos. Blades danced in veils and ribbons of blood. Life became death.
Bran closed his eyes.
Sweet silence returned.
Twitter | Blog
Friday, 19 October 2012
Fullback
by Stephen Hewitt
Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels and let her sink like a cloud. Got it on his fingers. Even swallowed a bit. That was the end of Mercy and the beginning of a new 49ers season – every pert lookin’ groupie knew it. But now his kit is rotting in his locker, and he’s rocking backwards and forwards, watching grey mud totter towards him in fits and starts, reeking of sour seawater. It’s the final pass in the fourth quarter, coming in from a long, long way backfield, and Alamo ain’t gonna get a finger to it.
Author bio: Still suffering flashbacks from hacking 158 words down to 101, Stephen skritches his weird fiction over on Café Shorts.
Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels and let her sink like a cloud. Got it on his fingers. Even swallowed a bit. That was the end of Mercy and the beginning of a new 49ers season – every pert lookin’ groupie knew it. But now his kit is rotting in his locker, and he’s rocking backwards and forwards, watching grey mud totter towards him in fits and starts, reeking of sour seawater. It’s the final pass in the fourth quarter, coming in from a long, long way backfield, and Alamo ain’t gonna get a finger to it.
Author bio: Still suffering flashbacks from hacking 158 words down to 101, Stephen skritches his weird fiction over on Café Shorts.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Nihil
by John Xero
I was born in a place that is nowhere. No coordinates, no address, no website. Ground Zero.
I was created by no one.
I am not even real.
What you do not know, can hurt you. What does not exist, could kill you.
I am plague, phage, ageless, undying, death.
I am fear-borne, and I have gone viral. Is there any more efficient transmission vector than social media? Mind to mind to mind.
Warn your friends, vaccinate them. Just a little of me, a little nothing, inside you all. That's a lot of nothing. Enough nothing to swallow the world.
Author bio: John Xero continues to chart the ways in which the world ends. And he will always be right, until the end is witnessed and all the possible apocalypses collapse into one.
blog | twitter
I was born in a place that is nowhere. No coordinates, no address, no website. Ground Zero.
I was created by no one.
I am not even real.
What you do not know, can hurt you. What does not exist, could kill you.
I am plague, phage, ageless, undying, death.
I am fear-borne, and I have gone viral. Is there any more efficient transmission vector than social media? Mind to mind to mind.
Warn your friends, vaccinate them. Just a little of me, a little nothing, inside you all. That's a lot of nothing. Enough nothing to swallow the world.
Author bio: John Xero continues to chart the ways in which the world ends. And he will always be right, until the end is witnessed and all the possible apocalypses collapse into one.
blog | twitter
Friday, 12 October 2012
Learning
by Asuqi
”Come,” she whispers, dreamily, and I comply. Eagerly.
It´s been some time since she's been like this; relaxed, naked, inviting.
I've been reluctant to adjust her settings. I've checked and nothing seems to be wrong. So I've been waiting. There's some grand pain in that, it's like when I was little and touched my eyes after stroking the cat; the itching was almost unbearable.
Now, finally, she wants me.
I touch her perfection, she trembles.
I come too soon and search her beautiful eyes. But she's learned something new: she's crying.
And I think I've known nothing of pain before.
Author bio: Come visit me here: asuqi.blogspot.com =)
”Come,” she whispers, dreamily, and I comply. Eagerly.
It´s been some time since she's been like this; relaxed, naked, inviting.
I've been reluctant to adjust her settings. I've checked and nothing seems to be wrong. So I've been waiting. There's some grand pain in that, it's like when I was little and touched my eyes after stroking the cat; the itching was almost unbearable.
Now, finally, she wants me.
I touch her perfection, she trembles.
I come too soon and search her beautiful eyes. But she's learned something new: she's crying.
And I think I've known nothing of pain before.
Author bio: Come visit me here: asuqi.blogspot.com =)
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Savage
by John Xero
We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.
Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.
The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.
I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.
We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.
Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.
The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.
I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.
Friday, 5 October 2012
Flashback
by Milo James Fowler
Captain Bartholomew Quasar did not believe in living in the
past, and he abhorred flashbacks with a passion.
But finding him dangling here from the edge of a cliff on a
desolate moon - Arterion 789 - one has to wonder how he came to find himself in
such a terrible predicament…
"Don't you dare!" He digs in with both hands,
fingers grappling for purchase among the crumbling rocks.
How about a little exposition, then?
Grumbling curses, he adjusts his hold, boots swinging above
a two hundred meter drop, and shouts, "That's what got me here in the
first place!"
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Stowaway
by John Xero
Down in the dirty hold of an ancient, no name cargo ship Carmen was patching overalls.
Five days into the voyage an engineer had discovered her, and when the captain's solicitations got him nowhere they put her to work down here, with the rust and the rats.
At least they hadn't spaced her. She was alive, unlike most of her kind. She had witnessed the heaped bodies as she fled, enough fuel for a lifetime's nightmares.
She gazed through the porthole at cold vacuum and distant stars. Behind her, the needles danced on, stitching to the tune of her mind.
Author bio: John Xero is far too distractable. One day he will write a novel... one day...
Twitter | Blog
Down in the dirty hold of an ancient, no name cargo ship Carmen was patching overalls.
Five days into the voyage an engineer had discovered her, and when the captain's solicitations got him nowhere they put her to work down here, with the rust and the rats.
At least they hadn't spaced her. She was alive, unlike most of her kind. She had witnessed the heaped bodies as she fled, enough fuel for a lifetime's nightmares.
She gazed through the porthole at cold vacuum and distant stars. Behind her, the needles danced on, stitching to the tune of her mind.
Author bio: John Xero is far too distractable. One day he will write a novel... one day...
Twitter | Blog
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)