#flash fantasy

If asked, she’ll say her height. Or her penchant for casual slaughter. War - she's particularly skilled at that. Fireworks. Badgers. Blood and crafting and teaching. A fallen Goddess, forbidden lovers - or perhaps ice cream. Something flippant, something dark, something impish.

But the truth? The truth is - well, she would never tell you.

She won’t admit it even to herself.

Perhaps, eventually, lies and jokes and pretends shape it all and force it into a box of their own design. It’s still there, snared within, but gaping grins and shrill cries and chaos weave into a tight mesh of feints and deception, and from those steely bars wrought from the tricks comes only a frantic beating, feeble from the depths.

A long-forgotten, locked away little bird, fluttering and panicked.

There is madness there, twining through the slats, but the origin? Inside or out?

Perhaps even she doesn’t know, now.

She merely rides its crest, siphons and folds it, building it into another layer. So many, now, each nested within the other and bleeding across borders. Dolls within dolls and her smile widens.

The years add grime and heft. A slick coat of venoms. A chess piece. A dark, shattered ring, roughly shoved into coalesced shadows. The bone-white wings of a pale crow, neck wrenched and beak broken. Mud and wolf shit. Dried, crumbling vines and bay-salty tears and hate. A flashing beam of light, warped and twisted as it folds around over jangling boot tramps, and then more mud, leaves, claws, nightmares, blood, a child’s doll, abandoned and pristine. A starfish, limbs broken off. Blackened plates of steel, a stony hammer.

...and, finally, a crown.

She tells herself it is fame, of a sort, and armor, in a way, and lets it be. It is who she is, she tells herself, this box she carries, and not the contents within, and she forces herself to revel in its beauty, in its dark, crooked, sloppy construction.

But a box is not its contents. No matter how it is shaped, the truth held within remains the same.

The answer?

Sir Eric grabbed Beatrix the witch and led her to a cabin hidden deep in the woods. As they watched through the window, Bezoar the wizard unrolled a scroll and let out a wicked laugh.

Sir Eric leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I've been watching him for days. He doesn't go out or talk to friends. He does nothing but endlessly reading spells. I believe he's trying to bring about the apocalypse."

The Dragon Killer Sagas: Sigmund son of Völsung #amwriting #fantasy #flasfiction #wordpress

Oh, the terror! With glowing serpent eyes the dragon Fafnir raises out of the water, his form no longer serpent, but now that of a Jötunn. On his dark face is a great foaming tangle of white sea slush and his powerful body is scaled with the rich blue of ice and water.

His strength has been bestowed by the Gods.

His anger is for what was taken.

With a mighty crash he brings the sounds of hell and…

(Mis)use of Power

“This is the deal,” his mother said. She had the grim look on, the one that, when he was younger, had meant punishments he couldn’t avoid and a week of having her Disappointed in Him, which, if he’d been forced to think about it, he might have admitted was usually worse than the punishments. He squirmed, because whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be fun.

“I just don’t think they’re that great,” Binh said, leaning back in his computer chair.

His friend Owen sat across from him turning a video game controller like a steering wheel when he suddenly paused the game to look at him. “You don’t think Queelos are that great? Are you joking?” he asked, sounding offended.

“Dude, they taste like knockoff Skittles or something. They make them all different colors, but they all taste the same.”

“They don’t all taste the same!” Owen persisted, putting the controller down. “Yeah, they make them all from the same foundational flavor, but they each have unique twists! None of them taste just like each other!”

“Wow, you’re one of these Queelos fanboys too?” Binh chuckled. “Oh my god, there are enough of you online. How is it that this many people are obsessed over candy?”

“They’re made from queeloberries, that new superfruit they found on Madagascar,” Owen replied. “They’re super nutritious, and they taste amazing. The more of them you eat, the better off you’ll be.”

“But people have been going a little too crazy over Queelos, dude. Like didn’t you hear about the people that died from eating too many?”

“They died from choking on Queelos, not from the Queelos themselves.”

“Fifteen people in separate parts of the country were all eating Queelos so fast that they stopped breathing. That doesn’t weird you out?”

Owen shrugged his shoulders. “I’m pretty sure it was less than fifteen, but whatever.”

“And what about those rumors that Queelos contain some kind of drug that the government’s been hiding?”

“Those are rumors, Binh. You a conspiracy theorist now?”

Binh squinted his eyes. “Why are you defending them so hard? It’s just candy. It’s not like the company cares about you.”

“I don’t care about that,” Owen said, reaching in his pocket. “Queelos are the greatest things I’ve ever tasted, hands down. The first time I ate them I thought they were a little overrated too. But the next time, it was unbelievable. The flavor captivated me, and washed over my entire body in waves. I’ve never felt anything like it in my entire life. I thought about how stupid I was for brushing them off that first time, and I cried. Seriously.”

Binh got up from his computer chair. “Owen, you’re acting a little weird man.”

“How many times have you had Queelos, Binh?” Owen asked, finally grabbing the aluminum pack of Queelos from his pocket. “I bet you’ve only had them the one time, haven’t you?”

“Dude, I’m not trying them again. You sound like a fucking addict.”

“Just try it one more time, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. If I’m wrong and you don’t like them, I’ll shut up about them forever. You can talk shit as much as you like. Just try them one more time.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Binh said, resisting the temptation.

Owen sighed. “I’m not letting you leave here without trying them again, Binh. As a friend, I can’t let you do that to yourself.”

“Listen to yourself, Owen! You’re fucking crazy! You’re about to hold me hostage in my own dorm room over some fucking candy?”

“You’re the one that’s crazy! You wanna act all high and mighty and above everyone, but you’re just jealous that you don’t like anything half as much as I like Queelos!”

The words stung more than Binh wanted to admit.

“Try them again Binh,” Owen said, walking closer. “Try them again and you’ll understand everything I’m telling you.”

Binh shook his head, wondering whether he should believe his friend or not. Was he blowing this out of proportion? What if he ended up liking it? Was he really being cautious, or just bitter? He couldn’t tell anymore. However as Owen continued to approach him, something still seemed off. It took Owen finally being two feet away from him to notice.

Owen’s eyes were slowly swirling around in their sockets.

Before Binh could react, Owen tackled him to the ground and opened the bag of Queelos.

The Dragon King looked down at his five hundred subjects, confused. They had all barged into the central chamber of his golden throne room at their own volition, and were staring up at him from his rightful place at the Throne of Solstice. His guards outside were strong, but none of them could have been prepared for such a bizarre circumstance. He leaned on the stone guardrail in front of him, unsure if he was witnessing some kind of revolt.

“On an unimportant day,” he began, “within an unimportant week in an unimportant month, the entire Voleri people choose to storm into their king’s palace and address him directly. Why?”

The people below him began to look amongst each other, as if searching for their leader.

“We address you today because we have become unsure as to whether you have any right to rule us after all,” a voice declared. It was a tall man near the front, who dared to look the Dragon King in the eyes.

The king couldn’t believe his ears. “You question my right to the throne?” he began, his voice quaking with anger. “I am the Dragon King! My father and his father before him lived their whole lives on this throne! I am the Anointed Child of the Sun itself!”

“We are all children of the Sun.”

“But you are not all kings!”

“And how are you so sure of this?” the tall man asked, turning around and inviting a small child with coily black hair to step in front of him. “This child was visited by the Sun God just last week, most of us witnessed it with our own eyes. I have brought him to you every day since, and each time you refused me. You refused me because you are afraid of your father’s words ― that you would be the last of your line. But the Voleri people are not afraid. We will usher in the next generation of kings, whether or not you are prepared for it.”

The Voleri people began to rally around this man and child and began to speak louder amongst each other. The Dragon King looked at his left to his advisor, who had already taken a few steps back and was looking in another direction. It was clear that he was losing this battle.

“You dare to carry out this insurrection in the hope that you can talk me from my throne? Guards, seize these fools!”

“Sir...your father said you would respond like this,” the lead guard to his right said. “This is not a dynasty. Your father made sure that truth conquered all. We shall not act against the truth.”

It was then that the Dragon King realized what was happening. His father must have plotted this against him the entire time, angry that he usurped the throne. He looked up at the skylight on the palace ceiling, watching the glimmering sun shine through. He closed his eyes, and hoped with everything he had that this would be the moment that the Sun God came down to visit him. Then they would know they were wrong, and they would beg for his forgiveness. But when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.

Maven pulled the bowstring back as far as it would go, then aimed his arrow at the small fire coming from the candle in the tree. There were candelabras jutting out of every tree around him for at least a half-mile, but he made sure to only light each candle one at a time. This was his second day running away from home, and he had to make sure no one thought he was still in the village, much less camping out right inside the training grounds. One of his dreadlocks fell in front of his eyes. He whipped his neck to get it back around his ear, annoyed.

After a deep breath, Maven closed his left eye and shot the arrow. A half-second passed before the fire suddenly went out. He had hit his target perfectly.

“Dammit!” he growled. He punched the tree next to him, startling the birds inside to fly out.

Over and over he had shot his arrows at the candle fires, and over and over he hit them without worry. But that’s not what he’d been out here for. In these training grounds, his father discovered his ability to make his arrows invisible and completely silent once he shoots them. He used his ability to earn his spot as the Prime Hunter, and he’s fed everyone in the village for more than twenty years. Less than a year ago his older sister discovered that she could change the speed of her arrows mid-flight, whether she wanted them to move in slow motion or past the Blue Mountains before you could blink. She became a hunter as well, refining her power and bringing her skill to new heights in order to provide for the community. She liked to remind him of this often.

But when was he going to get his turn? He may be only ten years old, but he far surpassed the other children in the village. He was ready. So why won’t his power come to him?

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Instead he took his flint and knife out of his pocket and walked back toward the extinguished candle.

Suddenly a rustling sound came from the bushes.

Maven jumped into the tree behind him in an instant. The branch he stood on was thick, allowing him to cross its surface without any noise. It wasn’t long before he’d made it to the other side of the tree, peering through the dark leaves at the spot he was certain the sound came from.

“Maven?” a strong voice called out. His father’s voice. “Maven, come out here. Now.”

Dammit, Maven thought. How did he find me? He heard his father’s footsteps as he approached the area he was just in. His father wore his embroidered cotton tunic ― the symbol of his status ― and a pair of pants made of animal skin. His dreadlocks reached his elbows and were tied with a tall weed, like always. Through the moonlight, Maven could see the dark skin on his father’s face contorted in worry, betraying his firm tone.

“I know you’re here, boy! Your tracks are as fresh as a spring flower!” Maven’s father called out louder.

He could call as much as he liked, but Maven was never going to come out. He couldn’t face his father, and definitely not his sister with nothing to show for all his effort. He knew exactly what his father would do if he came out: first he would yell at him for a while, then pat him on the head and maybe commend him on working so hard, but tell him ― again, like always ― that he was just a child. And then he’d give him the whole “your time will come” speech the whole walk home. No, that would be worse than Hell. He would stay out here for as long as it took for his powers to awaken.

“This isn’t right, Maven!” his father yelled, as if sensing his son’s resistance. "Come out!"

Maven stayed where he was, motionless.

After a long pause, his father dropped his head in resignation. "Maven, I didn't want to tell you like this," he began, sitting down in the grass, "but I wish you didn't feel like you had to run away from me. There's a reason I'm not very...supportive of your efforts to grow." He scratched at the thin beard on his cheeks before he continued. "I'm afraid for you, Maven. I'm afraid because I was just like you when I was younger. I worked very hard for my powers. Every chance I had, My friends and I would sneak away to the training grounds and shoot at candles until someone came to pick us up. All that effort paid off when we got our powers. But once I got them...that's when everything changed."

Maven narrowed his eyes.

"We were all made hunters after that and left our old families behind. But none of us knew what we were in for. Moving as a unit while trying to sneak up on animals would be foolish, so most of the time you're by yourself. That first hunt none of us caught anything, but one of my friends didn't make it back home. I tried to tell the other hunters, but they didn’t bat an eye. The next hunt, two more friends were gone. I knew there was something going on, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out.

“I’ll never forget when I found my last friend’s body, bloody and limp, in the maw of a giant four-legged predator. It glared at me before it dashed away, as if I was next. None of us were told what was out there. I don’t think the villagers even know. But the hunters do. And when I told them what happened, they said it was better this way. They told me that I should be proud I survived for this long, that they were looking for new hunters like me to carry the next generation. I couldn’t believe it. I spent the next year tracking down that monster, and by the time I finally killed it I had already become Prime Hunter, and I knew the truth. That monster was just one Predator, Maven. There are so, so many things out there waiting for us to make a mistake. To slip up. And when we do, we’ll never be seen again, and we won’t be missed. That’s the only thing that awaits the hunter.”

After another long pause, Maven finally jumped out of the tree. Upon hearing him land, his father turned to face him.

“What about Lessa?” Maven asked, looking his father in the eyes. “She’s...not going to die, is she?”

“You’re not scared for yourself?”

“I’m more observant than her. She’s the one we should both be worried about.”

His father chuckled. “That’s true. I’ve watched over her all this time,” he said, standing up. “I’ve seen her grow as a hunter, kept her safe more often than she realizes. But I can’t do that for the both of you at once. If I let one slip past…”

Maven was quiet, but he continued to look at his father. For once, he understood. “Alright, I’ll wait,” he said. “But once you think Lessa is ready to hunt on her own, then I’m getting right back to training!”

Maven’s father smiled. “Your time will come, boy.”