300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #22 -- VICTORY TO WRUTER!

Image credit: Mister_Oy

oh dear God

(This looks bad…)
Her face turns slowly toward the men standing beside her bed. As she moves, stark shadows cast across her gaunt features by the overhead bulb advance like dusk’s terminator traversing a barren landscape. One man takes her pulse; the other – a military officer – bends closer to listen:
“Looking skyward I see God Chameleon’s questing eye, where was the hunter’s moon...and Astral Tigers pursue rumors of my passing, against the DayGlo tapestry ornamenting dawn. These Omnipresent Beings seek to punish me...
“...extinguish me, because past Saturn I unleashed the Gravitonic Hyperdrive, whose fields of roiling devastation tore space asunder. Then beyond the rift...within the rift...exiting the rift: horror. ...
(...oh dear God…)
“...Now the Chameleon, the Tigers – the Body Universal’s immunological guardians – come to consume me, like white cell berserkers. Somehow they believe me Black Hole Mamba incarnate, Destroyer of Dimensions...foreign and contagious – reality’s bane. Please – sanctuary. ...” She becomes silent and attentive.
The doctor motions to the general; they walk to the room’s sole window, and gaze outside.
The general frowns. “She’s insane.”
“Yes. Nine years’ isolation in space. Invasive cosmic rays. Irresponsibly inadequate shielding surrounding the hyperdrive. We launched prematurely, and delivered her into madness.”
“Doctor, her ship’s computers are corrupted. We must understand the drive’s failure – the Chinese cannot reach the stars first. Fix her – or dissect her psyche – while there’s time.”
“You have no time.” She raises a withered hand and crushes it into a fist. The men stagger as intangible waves of hatred assail their minds.
“General, the moon – a giant eye, turning toward us–”
She squeezes harder.
“It’s exploding!”
“I AM YOUR GOD – ENTROPIC ANNIHILATION!”

(...AARGH! Interdimensional, demonic incursion via wormhole – pulp
rubbish! I HATE slush pile duty. Manuscript – REJECTED!
So, what’s next…
...*sigh* ‘Sex Slaves of Mercury’.)

A Ballad of Light & Night



Lem gulped down a lungful of air. His fingers were bloodied, mashed like tinned meat gone sour. His head throbbed, he tilted it skyward and smiled at the diamonds of light that winked back. We are winning.

"Basher Boys, hook up s'more amps. Pixie Druids, hit those bass guitars hard." He held up his hand. "Wanna see fingers like mine. "Sleazy Weazels on me, sing 'til you burst a lung."

Enemies and rivals had become more than friends. Tonight they wouldn't just write history, they would sing it. The endless dark would be ended. He clasped his guitar and gave the strings a tweak. One last chorus should do it

Lem gritted his teeth and led them. Fingers screaming and chest thumping as the other bands joined him singing to the light. A howl of guitars resonated around them, the clash of chords cracking the sky. Drums bellowed beating back cloud and wind, a spear of light crackled to life.

Father night turned crimson, pissed on them with flame rain before braking, a beautiful rock claiming his domain.

Lem laughed, the thing had a face. Perhaps it's laughing too.

They roared at their victory. Member's from each band kissing and hugging, others punching the air. Lem let his guitar sag on one shoulder, slumped down and lit the sweetest cigarette of his life.

It was won. Light would rule Night and Day both.

An Ode to Italo

I can still remember when the moon would come low over the Earth and it would feel as though it was pulling at our skin from the sky. The water would rise in our glasses and the oceans would reach upward with great arms only to crash down on harbors and floundering ships.

The extreme reaches of the planet would feel it the most. It was fashionable among the young men of the day to erect giant towers atop the highest mountains with a hook facing the approach of the moon. I was among them several times, my parachute strapped to my back, shivering in the cold night air awaiting its arrival. We would climb the tower in a line and wait.

As the night progressed, we would watch the moon approach low as we ate the meals we had packed and joked with each other to calm our nerves. I remember trembling as the bottom tip of the moon would scream toward us, flames rippling from the edges as it tore through the atmosphere.

Then the moment would come as the hook pierced the skin of the moon and tore our tower from its moorings. We would hold tight as we rode through the sky and were pulled up ever higher over the fields and villages of our land which glowed in the milky light of our host. Some would climb higher just to touch the surface of the moon. Some would stand on it for a moment before their leap to observe the grandeur of Earth rising above their heads.

A few stayed too long before jumping, and were lost as the moon pulled away. As for me, I felt the Earth tugging at my heart and chose to leap and glide home, never looking back.

It's Inevitable...


“That they have hurt us is undeniable. Their unprovoked destruction of our satellite networks has created a blanket of debris that our missiles cannot effectively pass through, yet the aliens are denied our surface in return. They have given us the gift of time, a gift we will make them regret. Already our greatest military strategists work to give us the upper hand in the struggle to come. The gears of war are turning and the will of industry is bent to the cause. Today alone, another 37 Abrams M1A3 battle tanks will roll from production lines worldwide. When these cowardly invaders descend to try and steal OUR planet, we will not only be ready, we will -”
“Why do you keep watching that over and over?” he asks.
I look up from the tablet, shrugging.
“Maybe they were scared of us. That we would have beaten them, if they’d come down.”
He scoffs and looks to say something, but stops himself.
“Hardly matters now, does it?” he eventually manages.
I watch him wander off, distracted, listless.

I never paid it much attention before, but now when I see it I can’t walk away. Tonight it’s low in the east, rising mottled grey and shining scars. The newcomers are up there as well, working on their grim project. Even to the naked eye, their torch is visible - the engine that pushed them between stars, now anchored to our last satellite. Soon enough they’ll succeed, they pour their efforts into slowing its flight. And us down here, though we raged and cursed and pleaded, we can do nothing but wait.
It’s not our moon anymore.

Amber Waves

Jake’s hovercraft howls over the wasteland. The monitor tells him it’s over one hundred degrees outside and bone dry. A typical autumn day in the American heartland.

The hovercraft is on full automatic. Its dome is set to maximum ultraviolet opacity, shading the barren landscape into dull pastels. Jake figures it’s about time to head home when he spots something shining in the distance. Even through the dome it blazes under the merciless sun. He sets the controls to manual and accelerates in its direction.

A pond glitters next to a golden field. Jake lands near it. The dome hums open and he hops out. The air is sweet with the scent of grass and pulses with the music of insects. Jake tastes the water. It’s pure and cool.

The field is like a prairie from centuries ago. The grass is taller than his head and there are more kinds than he can count. Some of it looks like wheat, barley, rye, even corn. Grains that haven’t been grown here for decades. None of this should exist, hundreds of kilometers south of the remnants of civilization.

Jake walks into the field. The ground is soft and yielding. The wind caresses his face. A woman’s voice, low and soft, singing without words, drifts to him. The grass parts, forming a trail leading to a clearing.

A young woman in a white dress is surrounded by dozens of old men clothed in rags. They dance around her. The woman’s long black hair covers her face like a veil.

Jake approaches her. The men take no notice of him. They bump into each other often, as if they are blind. The woman raises her hands. A breeze stirs her hair, revealing her eyes. Jake looks into them. He begins to dance.

A Cup of Moonshine

McGregor was on his way to market with his prize cow when he met a witch on the road.

“Sell me your cow, McGregor,” said the witch.

“No, I shall not,” said he.

“Then you and your family will be cursed for generations to come,” said the witch.

McGregor was afraid. “But I must sell my cow at market to feed my family. What will you give me in return?”

“A cup of moonshine,” said the witch.

Bitter, but fearing the witch's curse, McGregor sold his cow and received only a plain empty cup as payment. When he looked up to question the witch she had disappeared. McGregor turned and began his journey back home in sorrow.

He had not walked far when a troll stepped out to block the road. “Give me your treasure, human, or I will kill you,” it said.

“I have no treasure,” said McGregor. “I am only a poor farmer.”

“Do not lie,” said the troll. “I just saw you sell a magnificent cow to a witch. No doubt you received great riches in return.”

“All I received was this plain empty cup,” said McGregor, taking it from his pocket.

The troll snatched it from him and looked inside. Suddenly a bright ray of moonshine burst forth from the cup, and the troll, which belongs in the shadows, fell dead on the road.

McGregor searched its pockets and found all the gold coins the troll had stolen from its victims.

He filled the cup of moonshine to the brim and went home to his family in joy.

A SINGLE FALL OF HAIR

Night falls, so fast it seems the sun might hit the ground. Soft sounds reach me from the reed beds: the slap-slap of water, the dying calls of marsh birds, the first soft footfalls of the predators.

I draw back, into the shadows of the shrine and pull my cloak over my face, masking the stench of the swamp, promising the death the pack carry with them. I crouch, darkness within darkness in the only place of safety.

Misshapen figures pass me, not human anymore. Perhaps that pair were my parents - that loping gang my workmates from the forge.

Adele. One must be Adele. I count the shapes, as if the counting will reveal her.

The first human cries reach me from the west. Hilltown, I'm guessing, its streets washed in fear, its people running as mine did not three weeks ago.

Each night I promise myself I'll leave in the morning, and travel to the nearest clean town to give warning. I'll save someone else's Adele. Instead, I'll allow myself to sleep. After, I'll fish for sprat and eat them, raw and sour. It's no life, I know.

The last of the pack passes by. I lean forward, watching for the fall of red hair or the flash of green eyes. I won't leave tomorrow, or the next day. I'll stay, a half-man, and hope - without hope - for my Adele. Even if it's only to let her take me.

Blood Moon, Man and Beast


A red moon above. How appropriate.

I kneel, and I am suddenly buried in the tall, thick growth of wild weeds and grasses. Would that my sins were as invisible as I am in this moment.

But the gods have seen my crimes. And my only defense I have is the woman who made me what I now am. And how would her testimony save me?

For I have fed on man, woman and child. I have tasted the warm blood and tang of longpork. And I reveled, not only in the taste, but in the kills that fed me.

Looking upon that blood moon, I pray (not that any god would any longer listen to me) for salvation. For the sting of the hunter’s bow. For the sharp bolt of the constable’s firearm. For the blade in the back from a friend?

The moon may be red, but it is also full.

My legs shimmer. Pain strikes as muscle and sinew stretch. I cry out as ribs crackle and readjust. My jaw breaks, and I am reduced to sobs as I endure the unnatural reformation; the stretching of skin I fear must tear asunder.

Is the pain or the terror greater?

I am thrust onto all fours. My arms are gone, replaced by the beast’s limbs. My chest caves, then expands with an explosion of near debilitating agony. Again I cry out!

And all the while, I can feel the prickle caused by the horrible coat as it thrusts from my skin, covering me in the reddish-brown of my nemesis – my alter-ego.

I howl (for I no longer have a voice) at that blood-red moon. I demand of those silent gods.

Why, oh why, will you not end my agony?

Old Sun

Lajia sat next to Quint, happy to again be near her older brother and champion. They settled in, side by side, on a bench glider on the edge of the terrace. The sun was setting on this warm May evening while they both quietly admired the day's end. "Quinny dear," she spoke softly, "what do you know about the Old Sun?" "Oh," he paused, " ...just a myth." "I've heard else wise," she responded. "In fact, I've heard that you know all about it." Quint slowly shifted toward her, raised his hand, and pulled a small strand of hair away from her face. "Now Lajia, who possibly could have told you that?" "You know who Quinny."

While 14 years apart, Quint and Lajia remained close. Their father, Royce Marros, died on a survey ship, and their mother, Yolande, died just one year later of a bacterial infection. So from age 4, Lajia was raised by her paternal grandfather.

Aiden Marros never liked being call grandpa, papaw, or similar names. He instead insisted on being called by his first name, Aiden. He was known primarily for his 42 years as an electronic engineer at Space Products and Research, or SPAR as it was usually called.

It was here, on the terrace of SPAR's retirement village, that Quint and Lajia sat alone on this evening of the Beltane sunset. "It could only have been Aiden," Quint sighed. "Aiden," he repeated almost inaudibly. Lajia smiled knowingly.

Quint breathed deeply and then spoke hesitantly, "I'll tell you next year, after you've graduated from school. It would be too dangerous for you to know now. You could be expelled and sent to the labor farms." "But I have to know," Lajia countered. "I have to know because something's happening. Something's happening with the Old Sun."

Dust

“What is it Uncle? It’s beautiful.”

Wiseman smiled at Ana’s naivety, how to explain armageddon to such a young child?

“You know how sunlight filters through your bedroom window, illuminating dust particles in the air?”

“Mm hmm,” Ana nodded, sweet, earnest understanding written on her oval face.

“Well, it’s like that, except on a larger scale.”

“This dust is from the comet impact,” she stated.

“Yes indeed it is,” he acknowledged. Innocence aside, he wouldn’t sugar coat it.

“And that’s why we have move?” She asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why is Lucy coming? I don’t like her.” The storm outside turned to sparkles reflected in her eyes, as her awe morphed to a pout.

Or maybe that’s my imagination, Wiseman thought.

“Because Dr Mermkides is my friend, she has no one else to go with.” He ushered sternness into his voice, though it was hard to admonish a child who’d suffered so much.

“And our new house will be underground?”

He’d lost track of how many times he’d explained it, and wrestled for the willpower to remain calm. Instead he wheezed a sigh, like an old sofa cushion deflating under its patron.

“Yes darling, the Senate needs, Dr Mermkides, me and indeed many others, kept safe while we work on a solution to...”

...Billions of people dying. If not a coating of sugar, then a just dusting perhaps. “The problems we’re having with the air quality.”

“That’s why Lucy is coughing so much, because the air is bad,” Ana said, proving she’d listened.

“Quite bad yes,” Wiseman agreed. “Ana, if you’re packed, we must go.”

“But it’s so perfect, can’t I stay and watch some more?”

The old man smiled through his agony, “Just a while longer,” he agreed. After all she’d doubtless never see the sky again.

A Detective's Tale

"Lily, my secretary, is plain as an everyday newspaper, but sweet as a cheese danish. Over the years, our attraction to each other grew like dandelions. Whenever I needed coffee, she was there. Whenever I needed anything, including coffee, she was there. Lily was my guardian, she kept me on the straight and narrow. Even broke me of bad habits like, gambling, drinking, loose women and texting while driving. We met at Club DEVO. I'd been slam-dancing when...eh?"

"Easy, ya rat fink gumshoe, or my Plasma Magnum might go off. I knew I'd find you in your office narrating."

"Mugzee. Fresh outta prison, and hot for revenge."

"Yeah. Now get ridda dat gun."

(SPIT)

"I said your gun, not your gum."

"Oh."

"Where's Lily?"

"Getting me coffee. As if on cue, she came in, trips, scalding Mugzee with java. Blinded, he falls out the window."

"Who are you talking too?"

"The reader."

"Where?"

"Hi doll face."

"Hi...EEK!!" (SPLASH)

"ARGH!! Can't..see......AAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! (CRASH)

#

"I love ya toots."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I clean my toenails with my car keys."

"Marry me. I want my baby to look like you."

"Sure. Most are fat and bald."

"Cut the gab, and kiss me."

"The orange dusk does crazy things to your hair. In fact, it makes you look like a....."

"...a WEREFOX!"

"Leaping Lippizans!"

"Please don't be frightened."

"You kiddin'? You look awesome."

"I'm a Nocturnal Transformer."

"Now I know why you won't go out at night."

"I stay home and chat on science fiction forums."

"Come to my house and I'll show you the wild anthropomorphic sites I browse."

"Oh, my."

"Ah, who needs them. Now I'm engaged to the real thing. Aww. Don't cry."

"I'm..so happy. Kiss me you fool."

Penta

Dawn in Penta was exhilarating. Four of the planet's large moons circled in close planes, but not the fifth. Aptly named Rebel, it would rise today right after the sun at 40 degrees to the North.

"Marcul, what time does Rebel cross the elliptic?" I asked. My toast, eggs and Jamali juice were served.

"At about 25, sir. Then during the night at around 130 local. In fact, it will slightly eclipse Second Moon – you chose a good day to arrive. It will rise in 20 minutes. But tomorrow it follows Leader Moon, much earlier.” The hotel staff were obliged to know the orbits for at least five days to come. In a lifetime I wouldn't manage but then Marcul had probably had more than a lifetime.

The sun rose above the trees, shooting shafts of yellowish light into the misty forest, reaching the mossy ground far below. This effect alone would have made the place famous; I was anxious for the ground level experience tomorrow. Synchronous to the awakening of the Jamali flies, the red flower buds of the Setinum trees sprung open, revealing their snow-white insides. Penta’s Bloom. I walked around the veranda to follow it, saw Leader looming low over the marshes, then quickly ducked back inside away from the buzzing.

I had been virtu-here at Hotel Dzari before with my first-life partner. This time I splurged and chose a real room. We should have splurged then. Jadene would have enjoyed trying juice with fly larvae – very nutritious. I missed her.

“It’s 10,000 years for complete orbit decay, right Marcul?”

“Yes, Mr. Zal. Hexa’s terraforming takes another 4000 years.”

Then there it was. Rebel Moon appeared hurried, red, angry and eccentric, much smaller than the other moons. I choked on the memory of Jadene.

The Delta

I am watching him.

From the branches of a buckthorn tree, and he can’t see me.

It’s a thursdy and Bodie should be in school, but he’s not. He’s here, with a pouch he stole from Nan’s dresser and his fishing pole and he’s practising his smoke rings and blowing on his harp as the river slides past in its slow chocolate flow.

I’m watching him, and he don’t know I’m watching him at all.


I hear her before I see her.

Singing torch songs for some lover.

Bodie hears her too. Pricks his ears up and raises himself up on his elbows till he can catch a glimpse of her. She don’t see us though, me or Bodie though we’re not more than 50 feet from her as she pulls her shift over her head and hangs it on a branch.

He skin is smooth like chocolate, as she slips into the water.

I’m watching as he watches her and no-one knows I’m watching here at all.


I can’t swim like she can.

Slow and smooth and lithe.

Turning on her back and taking lazy strokes out to the centre of the river.

Bodie cranes his neck to watch her and e’en from here I can tell the hunger in his eyes.


I know how this ends.

This river loves my brother, and it ain’t about to share him.

The water picks up speed. Eddies and whirly-pools appear on the surface. Her back arches and her stroke ain’t so smooth anymore. She turns for the bank but she’s too far out, and her eyes grow round, and are looking right at me, dark like chocolate as the river drags her under.

I’m watching as he watches her.

I’m watching as he watches as she drowns.

Life's easter egg

The sunset was spectacular, broad strokes of yellow and orange in a multitude of shades across the sky from nature’s own brush.

Tonight would be his last. He’d known it for a long time and if it hadn’t been his age killing him it would have been his frustration.

To be so near and yet so far... it was galling.

No one was in his league. He was the ultimate hunter. His collection and achievements would stand the test of time; indeed the museum and statue were already completed.

Yet he knew there was one left.

Life’s own easter egg.

He’d spent his twilight years in preparation. There would be only one chance.

He blinked as the sun set and died.

A twilight landscape bereft of form greeted his nervous gaze.

What if he was wrong?

No, there it was. A tall figure cloaked and cowled in midnight black.

“I knew you would be here,” he called out gleefully.

The figure glided forward, movement without steps.

“Spent all my last days planning for this moment.” He cackled. “Well, have you not got anything to say? All the others did.”

“DEATH!”

“Ah, not as cute but that’s who you are I suppose.”

“DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!”

“Give it a rest. I could never understand why you had to repeat yourselves.”

Death loomed over him; darkness personified.

“Well here goes,” he said calmly and drew out a sphere, tossing it high where it split, washing Death in a nimbus of blinding white light.

Death vanished; the sphere clicking shut and landing on the ground where it rattled, once, twice, thrice and then still.

“Heh, gotta catch ‘em all.”

His joyful grin morphed into a frown of horror as realisation hit.

“Oh damn, I captured Death and I’m dead, what happens now? Anyone? Hello?”

Homecoming​

Around the orbit of Neptune concern was growing about the lack of communications. Certainly the drive was working flat out to slow us within the solar system, aiming at the sun, interfering with reception, but we should at least have been very obvious to anyone awaiting us. Cyberconsternation only, at first. We humans were in deepfreeze, catching a few snooze centuries while the mechanisms navigated us home. It would be decades before our trajectory brought us close enough to Earth to stabilise an orbit, decades we were not necessary - mechanisms would wake us if needed.

Closer, Earth still held life; maybe even human. A planet is big. But not technological civilisation. We'd be able to detect them. Less than a thousand years away, and nobody home.

And now we are going to try and land Ship, totally unconsidered option. We have enough power, and she's build solid. Parachute capsules could be improvised, leaving the ship in orbit , near enough for ever. Shuttles could be built, far more sophisticated, and loads of inhabitants carried down, considerably more accurately. But it's already ten years we've been turning, and this was a hiber-ship, not generation - conditions aboard are going downhill nearly as fast as we are going to need to. And medics have cancelled our sterility, triggering a vast orgy of demonstration of optimism among millennium humans physiologically in their thirties.

Magnetohydrodynamics directs the plasma of our adiabatic shockwave away from our hull, along our path, slowing us to synchronisation with the surface. Mach twenty sonic boom turns mountains to billowing dust clouds; any life will be pulverised, rent asunder. Probe pictures from our favoured touchdown showed serenity, soon to be the chaos we carry with us as humanity's birthright.

Ten Second Waves

“Marry me, kitten! Before the next wave come in…”

“Fool – you broke ma boat! Everthin’ I own’s gone to the fish.”

Tern turned a mournful eye towards the blue and white tip of the top of her houseboat, a single painted daisy still visible below the water.

“Sorry, Bebe. Wave knocked me over before I could git the anchor down. I’ll park it here; we’ll scavenge when the tide go out – ‘bout ten days.”

Bebe clung to the railing of Tern’s houseboat as the waves every ten seconds swallowed the trees and cattails, and then up and over like a carnival ride – they must be over her boat now. The skyline of Oklahoma City gleamed like shiny broken teeth against the moon that glowed orange in the sunset. Broken, like every other city she’d seen.

“You water-gatherin’, I hope?”

“You think I wanna be without water for two whole weeks? Filter’s back over ther – radio’s down the other end - “Tern gestured towards both sides of the boat."

Bebe chomped on her wet cigar, her wet dirty brown curls cascading down over her bare brown shoulders. “Whassat? Radio? You got a radio?”

Tern smiled, showing the gap in his back teeth. “You want a preacher? I can hail ‘im fer ya right now. Marry us good ‘n proper.”

Bebe exhaled. “I ain’t heard no radio, not since the Event. What else you git?”

“Anywhere, dahling. Since all the satellites run smack into the moon, my ham radio’s the new Internet. I get stories…I get music…people still out there, somehow.”

“Mnn…all right. I’ll ride with ya. Pull ‘im up.”

Soon Preacher Man Jack’s voice over the little box buzzed out. “Tern…you want her?”

“I do.”

“Bebe…you want him?”

“I does.”

“Yer good. Fix it up right then.”

His tribe called him a dreamer, bewitched by the moon from the earliest age.

No maid could turn his eye, no matter how they asked he would not sing; although his voice was beautiful, he never used it for anything other than plain speech.

Coyote caught his ear as he walked alone. Now Coyote was wily, long had he desired the rarest of things, a tear from the moon herself. And in the warrior he saw a means to that end.

"The moon is not just a thing of beauty, she is, in truth, a beautiful woman. If your voice is as they claim perhaps you can sing her from the sky."

He began, his voice bigger than his heart, for the silver lady alone he sang. He poured his love, his heart and soul into the melody. The moon smiled down on him, but did not descend.

"Climb higher," Coyote suggested.

So he did. Night after night, higher, higher until he stood on the peak of the tallest mountain. There he sang like never before. Of love and loss, of beauty and pain, he sang until his voice cracked and his heart burst. Then only silence reigned.

For a moment the whole world was still as Mother Moon descended, gathered him into her eternal heart and in his place left a single tear.

Coyote was so transfixed by the performance, the tear had gone, bled away into the ice and snow, no matter how he scrabbled he could not reach it, so he threw back his head and howled.

If he hoped his song would bring her down again he was doomed to disappointment.

Now the children of his children's children serenade her every night, hoping against hope that she might descend and offer up a tear once more.

The Lust of Avarice


The four men stood in silence. To honour a pact was of great pride among the villagers. 'You are only as good as your word', was the usual slur for those who might waver. And they were determined to not stutter in the face of their agreement.

Their childhood pact had plagued them, more so as the years took their liberties. But waiting in the growing dark with their woven leather nets at their sides, they became fearless. In just seconds they would fulfil their plan, and catch a slythral as it passed briefly through their mortal world. Just one... each. And one for their wives. And a few for their children. Any extra could always be sold for the wildest of wishes. But that's all, they weren't greedy men.

The lake rippled, and the moonlight danced against the trees as the portal opened. Hundreds of slythral swam and paddled to the surface, where they graced the skies with their shimmering majesty, on a journey toward the fullest, closest moon.

The men, steady as the skies, ripped through the display with their nets, stealing the mercurial beings from the air in a vivid act of desire. But the second the leather touched their wings they turned to dust, and any mythic chances of immortality were lost.

The silver powder stained the hands of the men, leeching into their blood and cursing their minds. A thousand voices now rattled through their heads, screaming nonsensical descriptions of lands never seen, dimensions that no one would believe. The magics intertwined with their souls, so a cure could never be given.

It wasn't long before they became the cautionary tail for those who do not keep their word. And as the secret of the slythral curse remained untold, the myths of immortality continued.

The Space Between

Small Dusk was already darkening the sky.

Dammit. How could he have forgotten? This day had been marked on his planner for eight years… And it’s not like he didn’t go there every single day anyway.

Street lamps flicked on ahead, and those of Para, looming directly above, did the same.

Gale charged around the corner, griping the stems tight and holding his hat against the wind. Through revolving doors, ignoring the doorman, who tapped his watch. Up the stairs, two at a time, until someone held the elevator.

Squashing the flower stems and gasping for breath, Gale made it to the roof, just as her building peeked over the top of a maple.

He stood tall, straightened his hair and held the flowers real gentle so they looked near as fresh as they were.

Staring up as Small Night winked out the last daylight, Gale smiled. She was so close he made out her soft pink lips and deep sapphire eyes. For the first time in a hundred years, she was close enough, and inching more with each heartbeat.

Now near enough to smell her perfume, drifting down like a misting rain only to be caught by the wind in his world. She smiled. “Flowers?”

With gentle strength Gale threw them straight up, they fell into her waiting hands.

He piled a box on a chair, and himself onto both. She did the same above. He stood on his tiptoes, and she on hers, both stretching towards their skies.

Any second now. Any second.

Fire brushed Gale’s fingers, soft and gentle. It spread through his body like a wild summer wave; and then there was cold.

They had passed. A lifetime of waiting for a single moment, and now to wait again; but, for love, it was worth it.