falconesse's Stories

Beyond the Snow

2008-05-09T15:29:01Z

“Tell me,” said the sorcerer, “what do you see beyond the snow?”

His apprentice, ten summers old, squinched his eyes and huffed. “Nothing. Just more snow.”

“Look further. Longer.” The old man added a pinch of powder to the fire and dragged a gnarled hand through the smoke, wafting it toward the boy.

He tried again, the acrid smoke making his eyes water and his nose run. “Still nothing. Maybe I can’t – ow!” He sucked on his finger and glared at his master.

The old man ignored him, flicking the drop of blood off the tip of the needle and into the fire. “Again.”

Outside, the flakes swirled, white upon white. The boy stared until his eyes ached, his finger throbbing.

The storm shifted.

He spiraled down the mountain, past battened-down farms, across frozen lakes and along the Old Road, all the way to the lord’s manor, into a room behind the kitchens. There knelt a girl of ten summers, staring into the fire. An old woman sat behind her, coaxing.

He followed her gaze.

Snow. Cabin. Boy.

The vision snapped.

Awakening (Déjà Vu Challenge)

2008-05-05T14:58:29Z

The dream goes like this: I wake up on the far side of midnight. It’s summer, heading towards fall, and the night is dead quiet. No cars passing by, no crickets chirping, nothing.

I get out of bed and realize I’m alone. The silence has me spooked, so I go outside and I know – just know – the houses on my street are all empty.

Maybe there’s no one left in the world.

There’s an old white church around the corner, built in colonial times. I’ve never been inside, but it seems like the place to go in case of Apocalypse. I try walking there calmly.

In the end, I run.

The streetlights glow yellowish-amber, painting the front of the church a sickly, jaundiced hue. The bells in the tower begin ringing, more cacophony than hymn.

I go in and I am on a ledge, looking down. There are no pews, no altar. Instead, it’s a cave, a gaping wound in the world. The door behind me is gone. A hand falls on my shoulder.

Now, here I am, awake on the far side of midnight, and the world is dead silent.

Except for the bells.

Let Down Your Hair

2008-05-02T14:56:38Z

The castle loomed, as castles are wont to do. Its towers scraped the bottom of the sky. Within, princesses slept on silken pillows, piles of lumpy mattresses, beds of nettles. A few were awake, wishing for the Princes Charming to gallop across the drawbridge below.

Rapunzel grew tired of waiting.

Tying the end of her braid to the hook on the wall, she rappelled her way to freedom. When her feet touched solid ground she severed her locks at the nape of her neck with a sharp-edged stone.

The king’s soldiers didn’t stop her; she was the witch’s ward (or one of them), and they’d never liked witches. Those hags turned unlucky men into frogs or stone or geese on a whim. Who could blame a girl for wanting to get out?

Instead they gave her ale and apples, a warm cloak, and a magic flute confiscated from a giant. The shoemaker brought her a pair of elf-made boots for the road. The East Wind ruffled her boy-short hair and whispered a name in her ear.

Rapunzel bade all them farewell and set off to find her fortune.

Pomegranate

2008-04-30T17:17:01Z

Persephone drags herself up endless stairs, her mother’s touch more hindrance than boon.

In her grief, Demeter had starved the world above while Persephone starved below, not daring to eat from Hades’ table. Not until she knew their love was more than fleeting.

He watched as she grew gaunt, as her fine silks hung loose about her form. He pulled her into his arms on his ebon throne and bade Hypnos grant her sleep while her belly growled. The lord of the dead went himself to Lethe and brought water in a silver ladle. She drew tiny sips, enough to take pain but leave memory intact.

Then came Hermes, with news of the barren world, and she knew she must return. The lovers wept as the swift one waited, and Persephone began her ascent.

Now she climbs toward daylight. She nearly doesn’t see Hades’ final gift scattered on the stone steps, his plea for her heart encapsulated in three blood-red seeds.

Pulling free of her mother’s grasp, Persephone gathers them up and lifts them to her lips. Love tastes bittersweet.

The Sound of Thunder Heard Remote

2008-04-28T19:17:33Z

“It’s ending,” she said, stretching her hands to the sky, arching her back. One last look before everything went to hell.

He watched, unashamed. “Everything always is.”

“Not anymore. Not after this. Not for me.”

Their legs dangled over the edge of the roof. She kicked her feet, lost a sandal. “Huh,” she said as it tumbled down. “I liked that pair.”

She kicked off the other one, wiggled her toes.

He ran a finger down her cheek. “What will you do?”

One shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. She eyed the bottle between them, separating them, wanting a drink more than the distance. She lifted it, took a swig. The wine tasted thick and bitter, like blood and ashes.

The glass barrier removed, he stayed put. It shouldn’t have made her sad.

“I loved you once,” she said. “You were my favorite.” Accusation.

“I know.” Acknowledgement.

Not that it mattered anymore.

“It’s all yours now. Your turn to play god.” She stood. The concrete warmed her feet. “My turn to fall.”

She stepped back, plummeted.

Lucifer rose.