Month: July 2017

The Tail of a Pin

On July 26, 2017

To clip the wings of an ophanim, one must be exceedingly careful. Their wings are not true wings; they permeate their bodies entirely. An ophanim without wings is no more alive than a chunk of celadon, for the wings are the body.

To extract the offal of a cherubim, merely read their true intentions. They are nervous creatures, easy to exploit. When forced to confront their own dishonesty, they will sag with the weight of their own heads. At this point it is safe to vivisect them, as their bodies are vacant of all virtue.

To abash the holiness of a seraph takes the mildest of trenchancy. Anyone can, with the right application of blasphemy, bring low even the highest order of angel. When their shine grows greatest, fear not. They are only trying to discourage you. The weaker creatures will try to salvage the kingdom, but you will have already won.

Fly Like an Eagle, Sting Like a Bee

By Járnviðr

On July 23, 2017

In Flashes

When the bird first visited us, we were young. We had just developed spaceflight, and the universe seemed so vast. Few among us believed in magic then; what was there to believe in? Magic is only what we call that which science has yet to explain. What the bird does is not magic. It is not technology, which is produced as the result of effort and progress over time. It is biology, it is nature, and it is inevitable.

When the bird first entertained us, we were learning. We learned where it had come from, and why, though it resembled a bird in some respects, it did not in others. Nothing from beyond the stars could be a bird as we knew it. The bird was more reptilian than avian, and unlike the raptors of Earth, who have a screech, the bird did have a song. It would never harmonize with the locals, but it sang.

When the bird warned us, we were amazed. The markings it left across our beaches, in our mud, and on our trees were nothing short of miraculous to the scientists. An alien life form has arrived, and it was learning to communicate. First with arrows, then with shapes, it built up a lexicon until finally it could draw what it wanted; a flock of “birds”, and a skull and crossbones.

When we first rejected the bird, we were divided. There were some who felt a kinship to the traitor, who abandoned its species to save another. They were given little chance to speak. Though the bird may have cared for us, it never understood how much more we cared for the universe.

Natural Formations

By Járnviðr

On July 13, 2017

In Flashes

Cato had elected to live a simple life. In his cave, no one came looking for him. That was why the knock at the door surprised him. Only a banjoher could knock on his barrier. Why would one of them seek him out now? A tense conversation via flag followed, and Cato retreated deeper, thinking about what his intruder had said.

The person at the door claimed to be his sister, though he had grown up as an only child. She was a banjoher, but they were rare. How likely was it that he had a secret banjoher sister? His years of dedicated study were nothing compared to what she could teach him. This was the perfect trap for a banjotak of his caliber.

There is no safety here, he signaled.

I am friendly. I come in peace, she replied.

You come hiding treachery behind your lies, he said.

I wish only to speak with you, she lied.

I will go to war before I let you pass, he retorted.

You will lose, she concluded.

Cato sized up his food supply. He could wait two weeks before stepping outside. That would give her time to admit her true motivations. Love! Family! As if.

Spotless Record

By Járnviðr

On July 10, 2017

In Flashes

Every nascent road trip is incomplete without tourist traps. Tiny title spots found everywhere along the interstates, tourist traps divert attention from the trail ahead. That’s what makes them traps. Every driver may have duties and responsibilities, but a few hours in a haunted hotel or underneath a strange statue would make anyone insouciant.

The king of the roadside attraction is the mystery spot. A strange breed, mystery spots topple the illusory sense of normalcy that daily life warrants. There’s nothing normal at a mystery spot.

Chip hopped off the back of the truck, waving to the driver. The driver gave him a tentative wave, shaking his head. It was harder and harder lately to hitch a ride lately. It was probably his age. When he was in his teens, he came across as bohemian and free-wheeling, and getting a ride was a cinch. Now he seemed eccentric and out-of-touch, and everyone chided him for his choice in lifestyle. Armed with a cassette player, a bowtie, and a Polaroid, he wasn’t exactly average.

Chip walked straight past the shack. Undoubtedly it would offer trinkets and souvenirs, but that wasn’t why he came. He came for the hills. As he walked further, the cries of birds grew louder and louder. There it was. A bird flying straight into the ground, its wings moving backwards. There were a few cars today, testing out the hill’s vaunted magnetic properties. They were always unimpressed until the car started rolling uphill.

Chip couldn’t care less about the cars, or he birds. He was here for something greater. He took out his favorite stone. Uncut and untouched cassiterite, on a band of twine. He put it around his neck. He closed his eyes, and he listened. There was the pulsing. The ebb of flow that the hills could give him access to. He reached out for the nearest tourist with his mind and his stone, and watched him crumple to the ground with a satisfying thump, blood beginning to spill.

Chip whistled as he walked downhill, pocketing the necklace. He loved mystery spots. They had the most fascinating people.

Pleasure Garden

By Járnviðr

On July 7, 2017

In Flashes

Vincenzo swayed unsteadily, swallowing bile. This was a blasphemy. He could understand why someone would oppose the garden, but to do this! He waved his hand over the dying plants on the ground. Surely there was something he could do?

Nothing. They were trapped in limbo. Each plant drew life from another. The perfume that filled the air was a symptom of the parasitic monsters that had been created. He could cut them down, stop their growth, and be done with it, but his patroness would be devastated enough by the news. He would not add to her burden.

He waved his arm again, this time drinking in the sun. It warmed his skin gently. The sun here was a comforting one. His arm began to stiffen as the skin cracked and peeled. A slender, thorny vine rose slowly from underneath, curling through the air as it entwined with the other plants. His skin itched and burned as the vine poked and prodded its brethren. He wiped his arm of sap and blood using his handkerchief. Soon he would undo this pointless destruction of her great work. All of his countrymen would have the chance to join his lady’s garden.

Week 27: Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner