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rememberthe4th · 5 years

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Ticks

This lil beauty is something I whipped-up for the Scary Stories Told in the Dark podcast. I thought I’d share it with you as well, so that we may cross our fingers together! I hope you enjoy my rendition on a classic-style, and PLEASE support them and their other projects at https://www.simplyscarypodcast.com

Deer-season had finally arrived, and Matthew couldn’t wait to lose himself in the thrill of the hunt. This was his fourteenth year in the stand, but only his third without his father beside him. Before his dad had passed, Matthew vowed to keep their tradition, and bring the family a winter’s worth of venison. Having asked-off months before anyone else, he was in the woods on that first weekend.

Despite his preparation, Matthew’s hours in the tree-stand were wasted. Not even a doe wandered into view, much less anything worth taking a shot at. When the Sunday morning threatened to turn to noon, his frustration overtook his practiced patience. Taking the stand from its perch, and packing his truck, he headed home.

Matthew, to his relief, wasn’t the only hunter having trouble this year. Most folks in the county seemed to be complaining about the lack of game. Fish weren’t biting, ducks weren’t landing, and the deer seemed to have headed for safer pastures. Knowing he wasn’t alone in failure offered Matthew some cold-comfort, but the fear of breaking that long-standing-tradition was unbearable. So, when the next weekend came around, he was back on the hunt.

That first week set the tone for the two which followed. The woods were empty of prey, and the hunter was at his wit’s end. Matthew knew his usual spot wouldn’t suffice this year, so he started thinking outside the box. A solution rose pretty quickly, and the boy mentally-beat himself for not coming-up with it sooner. He’d ask Paw for advice.

Now Paw wasn’t of any blood-relation to Matthew, but a friend of his father’s. The old-man lived alone on a lovely slice of 60-odd acres. The woods there had grown with wild-abandon as Paw became too tired to keep so much land clean. If he couldn’t offer Matthew any wisdom or trick to attract the deer, he could ask if Paw would let him hunt there. Half the county knew the old-man kept his woods free of hunters, so surely there was deer a-plenty.

After enduring several anecdotes from years gone-by, Matthew got to the point. The answer was the same one Paw gave whenever someone asked that same question. Matthew knew it was coming before he finished his plea, just by the scowl on the old-man’s face. “You don’t crap where you craft, boy. Same goes for hunting where you call home.” But to Matthew’s surprise, Paw continued with an even more ludicrous excuse, “Besides, can’t go out there right now. Ticks are bad this year.”

Matthew left shortly thereafter, wondering if Paw even knew it was winter. Surely he would have offered a rational defense if it wasn’t for his dementia. Their conversation did nothing to dissuade Matthew, and even as he let the screen-door close behind him, he was already piecing together his plan. By the time his trusty pick-up brought him home, his plan was ready.

Matthew would readily admit it wasn’t the most ingenious plan he’d ever devised, but he’d then argue more wasn’t necessary to outwit a demented senior. That Friday, an hour before the sun even peeked over the horizon, he was setting-up his stand. Paw had taken to waking-up later and later as time passed, so the earlier, the better for Matthew. In-case this precaution wasn’t enough, he’d also chosen the furthest corner from Paw’s little farmhouse. Even if the old-man was awake for some reason, his hearing was lost in the war. He’d never hear the gunshot from this distance.

Dawn found Matthew waiting in his stand, some 10-feet off the frosty forest floor. Rifle at the ready, he kept still, waiting for something to move in the pines and oaks around him. From the moment he’d stepped foot onto Paw’s property, he’d know this was the right move. Even the air here felt more alive than that of his usual spot.

It wasn’t long before something caught his eye. Moving cautiously despite his pounding heart, he lifted the scope to get a closer look. Sure enough, two-hind legs poked from behind a curtain of shrubs and briars. He felt a smile creep across his covered-face as the tail between them flicked, flashing a little strip of white underneath. He kept watch while it wandered from his sight, obscured by the flora. Shifting no-faster than a branch bending in the wind, Matthew aimed at the other-side of the brush.

Each second his prey spent out-of-sight spanned hours for Matthew. Surely it was long-gone by this point. It had noticed the foolish boy, and vanished from sight. It probably took all the others with it.

Before his confidence could completely collapse, antlers dipped into view of his scope. They bobbed and swayed, their owner still hidden. Pushing his heart back into its proper place, Matthew tried his best to count the points. Certain it would be a trophy rack, but unable to get a precise count with the animal’s erratic-movements, he steadied his aim.

A head followed the antlers, and when a neck followed that, Matthew took the shot. The thunderous-report from his rifle broke the forest’s silence, tossing birds into the open sky. A shot that would make his father proud, it felled the beast instantly. Shaking, the rush of the kill flooding his mind, Matthew departed from his perch. His rifle hardly had the time to settle on his back before he was mantling down the shoddy, steel ladder.

The distance between them wasn’t great; certainly not worthy of bragging about. He crossed the frost-coated forest with a fevered-pace. It wasn’t until his prey came into full-view that he so much as paused.

Beyond the thicket and pines, the young buck lay motionless on the cold ground. Its jaw hung open, tongue limp against its teeth. The alluring-antlers forced its neck into an unnatural angle, allowing its eye to stare blindly towards Matthew.

This wasn’t what caused the hunter’s hesitation, though it served to make the scene before him all-the-more bizarre. Sacks of brown-stained grey hung from the deer’s coat. There had to be over a dozen sprouting along its ribs. They varied in size; some just a hair smaller than Matthew’s fist, others could feasibly be used as basketballs.

Hoping the strange growths were just patches of snow playing tricks on his mind, Matthew ventured to the deer’s side. Despite his best attempts at blinking them away, the masses remained, along with a growing certainty within his gut that something wasn’t right. When he he stood above the body, he struggled to accept what lay there. The thought of it turned his blood colder than the frost beneath them.

With the steel-toed tip of his boot, Matthew struck one of the masses. Even through the thick-leather around his foot, he felt its fleshy-surface give under his weight. With the sound of a wet magazine being torn in two, the blob fell free. Several banded legs, each ending in a sharp hook, clawed at the sky as it plopped to the earth.

That unease which festered in Matthew’s gut blossomed into a nauseating terror. Eyes flicked from the squirming wad, and back to the corpse he’d knocked it from. A portion of his mind recognized what was writhing there, but the rest refused to accept it.

After another moment of struggle, the tick managed to flip onto it legs. Nonplussed despite having its meal so rudely interrupted, it turned to face Matthew. Several eyes of black-glass, set between the folds, watched him without emotion. A scream broke from his stomach as the tick skittered towards him; as he heard sound of its breakfast sloshing inside with each movement.

Another gunshot echoed through the morning, this one fired in desperation rather than hope. Again, Matthew’s aim was true. As the bullet tore through the tick’s thin, sack-like skin, its bloody bounty cascaded across the frosty forest-floor.

Still shaking, Matthew watched steam rise from where the buck’s life stained the ground. As he began to collect his wits, others began dropping off the carcass. Unlike the first, they landed with grace. Most were already ambling closer by the time he began to stumble backwards. Fear fought his every move as Matthew fired again and again, blasting away at the swarm. Each successful shot was rewarded with another brilliant burst of hot blood. With a spare-clip in his pocket and each bullet hitting its mark, he was making quick work of the monsters. As the ninth shot brought forth the ninth geyser of gore, a spark of pain pierced Matthew’s focus. Embers, growing by the second, burned beneath his camo-pants. A groan slipped from chapped-lips when his eyes found a noticeable bulge at the inside of his left-thigh, a few inches above the calf.

Their prey distracted, the diminished swarm closed-in.

Screaming with abandon, Matthew slammed the rifle-butt against his own leg. Roaring from the fresh-agony he’d caused, he glanced down again to find the others were already scaling his boots. Kicking wildly, Matthew stumbled backwards only to slip on one which was preparing for its climb. Cleated-soles skating across the slick surface and several extra pounds weighing on his legs, Matthew toppled to the earth. To his credit, two or three burst beneath him, but he was unable to savor such a small victory.

Stopping the flurry of kicks only to draw his skinning-knife, Matthew lashed-out as their weight drove him further into the dirt. His left leg, no-longer feeling like apart of him, was cold and weak. He screamed as they burrowed into the space where jacket met pants, slipping under the layers to find his quivering belly. Hungry mouths peeled flesh and probed with serrated-tongues. Each new bite brought a chorus of cries from their host.

More crawled from the forest, excited by the sounds of breakfast. They piled and poured over him, pinning Matthew as they explored each and every entrance beyond his clothing. Razor-like legs raked his bare skin, painful precursors to the agony their teeth would bring. He thrashed in-spite of the certainty that he was dying. His legs refused his pleas to fight, the weight of empty-skin too great to overcome. His arms had vanished beneath the fattening tide of grey and red.

When at last he stopped fighting; when the morning sun was blocked by bulbous sacs growing with his very life, Pa’s words returned to Matthew. As pain dwindled to the cold darkness, the old man repeated himself. His tone changed as they echoed, as if he was speaking through a gritted-sneer, “Ticks are bad this year.”

#horror #short story #writing

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales of the Hunt: What Remains pt. 1

It has been a long time coming, but we’re finally wrapping up this ‘arc!’ I hope those who have followed along this far enjoy what I offer this time, and know there’s more to come! Here’s to tomorrow! -PAE IV

For a refresher: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/179288927232/tales-of-the-hunt-a-flower-under-the-frost

Ribbons of smoke curled from where the roof was anchored to the shack’s walls, curling in tiny spirals beneath the night-watcher’s yellow glow. More billows out from where the front-door once stood. The room within crackles and groans as a growing-blaze eats its way through insulation.

Just outside the fire’s reach, the Old-Hunter slowly stems the flow from the holes Kakisi left in his shoulder. “You ought to warn me next time. Lucky I didn’t decide to keep those teeth.”

Kakisi responded with a wide grin, his mouth still stained with blood, “No promises, brother. Can’t think, much less talk, on such an empty stomach.” His thick-accent would normally make understanding him a challenge for some, but the words fell from a languid tongue. Enunciating each with a sluggish care, “Better bite when they don’t know it’s coming. Tension makes the meat tough.” He carefully works each joint and muscle with tired-fingers, stretching and cracking each limb.

“I’d like to think I’m a little more than ‘meat.”

“And I would like to never spend more than a minute in another closet.” The thin tails of smoke reached through the threshold as Kakisi massaged the last of his cramps. “And what is that you have cooking? Enough for two?”

“Just the strix. That cocky little sorcerer slipped through my fingers.”

Kakisi turned to the Old-Hunter with a perplexed frown, “Really? A strix? I did not have the chance to see her in action, but that is quite the surprise. What cause is worthy of one so reclusive?”

“The chance of a new day. They called themselves ‘Children of the Black Sun,’ so I can only assume they seek to bring about the end of this era. They present themselves as a force great-enough to consume the Order, and have shown their potential to draw our attention. However, most of this is hearsay until confirmed. Right now, our concern should be recovering what remains of the strix, and getting the hell out of here. Headquarters will want to hear about this.”

Kakisi strolled to the furthest-wall, “You finish-up with the barbecue. I will worry about making our exit.” Smiling, he gently patted the wall, which violently contorts under his touch. With only a nod of agreement, the Old-Hunter disappeared into a low-hanging cloud as rolled-in through the threshold.

Lucas let his ghostly-steed join the others. With the herd complete, their whirlwind began pulling the loose snow and debris from the ground around it. Even the Young-One felt its strength from several yards away. She tried to focus on staunching the flow from her wound, but the cyclone of ice and snow dancing beneath the silvery moonlight was slightly distracting. Cries were barely audible from within the spinning walls, but she could feel the beast’s panic. She pried her eyes from the vortex for a moment, gauging Lucas’ focused expression. There was confidence there, and that wall all she needed.

Lucas clasped his hands before his chest, fingers lacing tight between one-another. Eyes still locked to his trap, his voice cut through the cacophony, “Hear me and heed these words! You have trespassed upon this world, and tainted it with malice and bloodshed. You have been weighed against the laws of our world, and deemed Unholy. I, Lucas Blackfeather, on behalf of the Woodsmen Clan and the Holy Order, sentence you to return the otherworlds. I bid you safe-passage by the hooves of Grani.” The cyclone came to a reaching-peak, like a twister flipped upside-down. Its point stabbed through the night-sky, plunging through the abyss, and opening to somewhere beyond. “Farewell.” The winds rose to a ear-splitting shriek. The pounding of hooves grew. And when the Young-One could hardly bear its presence, the vortex began to lift off of the ground. Like a living-veil of white, it peeled from earth.

Lucas let a lungful of air free as his spell resolved. He was careful not break eye-contact, but let himself relax for the first time in far too long. Like cloth pulled through a metal ring, the cyclone was whisked into oblivion. All that remained in its wake was a circle of frost-starved earth, and the shape of two people at the center.

As the moon’s pale light touched the ground, Lucas and the Young-One watched a thin stream of mist rise from the figures. Without a word, they both rushed into the circle.

A man, naked and shaking in the frigid air, knelt there. Clutched to his chest was what remained of Yoko. Her robes still sparkled under the moonlight, but their color had waned as countless year caught up to her. The rest of Yoko fared far worse; unblemished and smooth skin turned a brownish-black and drawn tight against the bones. As the two came to his side, they could see tears falling onto Yoko’s cheek. The Young-One looked to Lucas for an answer, but the pain he wore was enough to tell her there was no easy solution. He couldn’t make this problem vanish like before.

“You should go back to the truck. You can wait there for me. No need for you to see this. Even the Old-Timer wouldn’t blame you.” His voice was hoarse, fists clenched at his sides. From the corner of his eye, he could see the Young-One shake her head. Sighing, “Sometimes… Sometimes there’s not a neat and tidy ending to these tasks. Sometimes you have to make mercy out of a mess.” Speaking to the man, “You, can you hear me?” The man only shivered as the night stole the heat from his bones. Lucas’ frown deepened, “I didn’t think so. If she’s anything to go by, they’ve been at this for at-least a century, so he could have been raised knowing a now dead-language.”

“Why does it matter?” The Young-One asked, wondering why Lucas didn’t just put the poor guy out of his misery.

Another sigh, this one heavier than before, “He needs to know why, child. He must not leave this world believing us to be the hands of darkness. I doubt he had any memory of his change; no concept of why this has happened. Such sorrow, such pain, can corrupt the soul. I’ll not have the end of one monster bring about another. And… I need the body clear of any blood that might be spilt, there’s a chance it could bring just enough of her back to cause trouble.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’re fluent in… every language?”

“No such luck, but I have a ‘friend’ who could lend us a hand.” Lucas pulled what appeared to be a small doll from his pocket. He let it rest in his palm for just a moment; long enough for the Young-One to get a good look. It seemed to be molded from clay and grass, several strands poking out from its finger-smoothed surface. Despite the severity of the situation, she couldn’t help her heart’s hop when she recognized the shape of a rabbit with two comically oversize ears. In his other hand, Lucas held that emblazoned lighter. With a quick flick, a tall flame rose from the flint. Carefully, he fed the figurine to the flames. The doll was engulfed in a flash, like a strip of phosphorus. Its ashes hung in mid-air for an instant, before being swept off in a sudden gust. From the shadows which caught the remains, a shimmering silhouette of gold came forth. A tiny, semi-transparent, nose poked from the darkness, sniffing hesitantly at the night-air.

The rest of Lucas’ “friend” followed its nose, and the Young-One could barely restrain the urge to squeal as it came into view. The creature had an ethereal presence; the snow behind it just visible through its soft-gold form. It moved across the snow in steady hops without leaving a trail. It was undoubtedly the fattest, fluffiest, and most long-eared rabbit the Young-One had ever seen. When it came to a rest between Lucas and the man, she realized it was also the largest: reaching Lucas’ shin without sitting-up.

Knowing it purpose, the rabbit went right to work. It gave the man a quick sniff, to which he took no notice, before sitting onto its hind-quarters. With both ears stretched straight-up, it reached Lucas’ shoulder.

Taking one last breath, Lucas began, “I’m sorry for what you have lost.” As each word left his lips, different words left the rabbit’s. The spoke with Lucas’ voice, but the Young-One could hardly decipher a single syllable. The man perked-up immediately upon hearing a familiar-tongue. As Lucas continued, the man stared only at him, as if no-one else was speaking on his behalf. When light found the man’s face, the Young-One could see frost forming along the path of his tears. Her heart broke at the sorrow in his eyes.

“There are no words which can ease your suffering, but know you need not prolong this pain. We offer you release, as we too have had our lives twisted by the Unholy. We-” The man’s grip started easing with each word Lucas spoke, until he made mention that his companion was something corrupt. Catching both off-guard, he bared his teeth before curling himself around the corpse.

Though his words were muffled by the silk robes, the rabbit echoed them in a tear-choked voice, “You lie! Yoko was my child, my world! You do not know her as I do!”

“Even the worst fire will provide a gentle warmth to those at the right distance. Only from afar can we see its destruction. You knew her as your heart wanted you to, not as she truly was. Let us take the burden of what was done by her hand. We will bear this memory. Please, accept this mercy.” The man leaned back for a moment, studying the one laying in his arms. With a sigh that seemed to carry the last of his strength, he let Yoko slide from his grasp. Lucas gave the Young-One a distinct nod, “Go ahead.”

Trying not to show how heavy a burden he’d just placed on her, the Young-One creeps beside the man. Making each slow move deliberate and as obvious as possible, as-if she were dealing with a drowsy-beast, she slid her arms beneath the body. As she tried to pull it away, the man resisted. In that instant, she could feel how weak the cold had made him. Knowing he couldn’t resist her for long, he releases the corpse before turning back to Lucas. The rabbit spoke again, hope just barely heard over his broken tone, “Will… will she be there?”

Lucas held the man’s gaze, “If you hold her in your heart as you pass, perhaps you’ll find her.” The man searched Lucas’ eyes for a sign of deceit, but all he found was pity. Another tear cut across the frost forming on his cheeks as he turned to face the moon above them. In its somber light, he found something which a brought a smile to his lips.

The moment Yoko was clear, Lucas pulled a Bowie knife from beside his boot. When the man offered his throat, Lucas swung wide and fast. That razor-edge slipped through flesh and muscle without hesitation. Steam poured forth alongside warm life. With only a few final shudders, after so many years lost to madness, Li left his shell behind.

It didn’t take long for Lucas and the Young to have what remained of their foes wrapped and secured within the truck’s storage. They shared a silence as they went about their grim task. When they could finally rest within the warmth of the cab, she broke the quiet, “Was all of that a lie? The stuff about finding her?”

Lucas, who had been pondering over a three-quarters-empty pack of cigarettes, lit another. “Does it matter? That devalue having peace in his last moments?” The Young-One didn’t have an answer. All she had were questions to be saved for a better time. As the heavy odor of smoke filled the cab, they waited for the Old-Hunter’s return.

#writing #series #fiction #fantasy

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales of the Hunt: Love Remains

Another pickup pulls by, taking more than their fair-share of the median. Undoubtedly as a hearty “screw-you” to this hitchhiker, they swipe the mud-puddle between us. Taking cover in the culvert, I pray to karma that I find them half-a-mile down the road, flipped.

The spears of corn wave goodbye as I brush the dust from my jeans, and hop out of the ditch. Was that the fabled “Southern-hospitality” I’ve missed for so long? Maybe so. Maybe it’s a cold joke on the Stockholm-esque way we’re groomed to focus on the chipper old-timers as the embodiment of our culture, despite them being outnumbered by pariahs of ignorance and narcissism. Maybe these archaic ideas of nationality and xenophobia are a more “American” mindset, and everyone-else is too busy huffing chem-trails. Maybe the titular “comfort” of this region is only accessible through the bottom of a bottle, or the crackling bowl of a crystal-pipe. Maybe the heat is getting to me.

I pull the straps on my pack, hoping to stir Tucker from his slumber. Despite letting him bathe beneath the full-moon only two nights ago, he hasn’t made a peep. Not since our… interview, with the Woodsmen’s representative. He made his opposition to accepting their employment obvious, but I still think this is the best move for us. There is little doubt we can take care of ourselves, but we need to think ahead. We’re going to need something, or someone to fall back-on when things get rough. What better to catch us than one of the world’s oldest secret-societies?

I’ll admit the title of Huntress hasn’t changed much in the way of living-conditions. We still sleep in a pup-tent wherever we think no-one will cause trouble. We still roam without aim, only knowing we cannot go where we have been. It just… feels better knowing someone knows who and what we are.

The distant hum of another vehicle comes from behind me, and I can only hope this one is feeling a bit more friendly. I shrink to the opposite shoulder, holding tight to the bag’s straps. I miss Tucker’s voice. He’d know what to say to keep my spirits from sinking so low.

A white pickup, at least two-decades old, rolls into view. Without another soul on this desolate highway, it’s going well-above the limit. Passing through shimmering heat-waves, I see two silhouettes bobbing along with the unkept road. I know beggars shouldn’t be choosy, but I’m not riding between strangers. I’m sure as hell not riding in someone’s bed either. I turn back to road ahead, but not before noticing the glow of the truck’s brake lights.

Eyes locked on the horizon; feet keeping a steady-beat on the pavement, I give them more than wide-berth. I can hear the truck slowing now, and something in my gut begs me to run. Matching my measly-pace, I can feel their eyes upon me. The driver’s window lowers, but I don’t turn to see who’s behind the wheel. I keep facing-forward.

“You lost, sweetheart?” He’s gruff. Maybe in his mid-30’s. I ignore him, but my obvious disinterest isn’t enough. “You need a ride?” A small ball of fury sparks in my gut as the passenger chuckles. Breathing-in calm; breathing-out rage, I push on.

That uneasy feeling from early returns tenfold as the pickup veers ahead. Cutting his tires to the left, they block the opposite lane and shoulder some five-yards ahead of me. The driver, a middle-aged man with a wreath of red-hair encompassing a polished bald-spot, and a bushy beard. The passenger leans forward, gaped-teeth exposed in an inbred-smile aimed my way. He seems to be a few years younger than the driver, and is at least one-hundred-and-fifty pounds lighter. A pronounced Adam’s apple hovers in the middle of his slender neck. Both wear grimy tee-shirts, much like my own.

“Now there’s no need to be rude, darlin’. It’s a long way from here to the closest gas station, much less civilization, and we’re just looking to help!” That rosy-beard splits to reveal a stained smile. Both doors on the little pickup open.

“Thanks, but I know my way.” I pull the straps of my pack tight, looking to the rows of corn as they offer to hide me.

“Come on now! You’re just being honery! Me and Jim here are just two good-Samaritans!” The driver hops from his seat, and Jim’s head peeks over from the other-side of the roof.

“Again, thanks, but I’m good.” I stand my ground, but don’t look either of them in the eye. Without another vehicle in sight, options are running slim. They have the road to themselves, and all the time they need, I’m sure. “Jim, was it?” The tall yokel chuckles in confirmation. “Okay Jim, get your buddy back in truck. Then both of you can go about your business. Please.”

Jim turns towards the driver, who meets him with a sarcastic scowl. “Jim, you don’t take orders from little runaways, do you?”

Snorting as he laughs, “Not today, Chuck. Not today.” Jim steps to his partner’s side.

“Last chance guys.” They continue mocking me as they move closer. Before they can get within a few yards of me, I hold my palm towards them. “HOLD IT!” I shout. Both freeze mid-step as my voice rolls across the field of corn. “I want to ask you guys a question first.” Knowing I won’t have them off-guard for long, I quickly sling my pack off one shoulder. I hold it as it swings against my chest. My shield of nylon is then flipped, and I slide the zipper open. Concern rises in Chuck’s eyes, but he’s not close enough to stop me now. “Have you guys ever seen a dead body?”

We stand there for the longest-instant, frozen in this curious tension. Both the creeps wear puzzled expressions as they turn from one-another back to me. Gravity finally catches up, and the contents of my pack spill out. Small bones, fingers and toes, fall first. They clatter against the concrete. Larger ones follow once they’re freed; ribs, femurs, tibias and the sort.

Jim starts to stutter as the color drains from his face. Chuck’s jaw just slips further down, framed by his brillo-pad beard. The final few pieces plop from my pack, those which draw looks of horrid recognition from both. A lower jaw and the rest of its skull land amongst the pile. Tremors work their way through Jim’s lanky limbs, forcing him motion. He dips to the right, running along the rim of the pickup’s bed. Chuck backs his way to the door, unable to tear his eyes away from the bleached bones at my feet.

“Not so fast, fellas! You haven’t seen the best part!” I can’t help but grin as I drop my bag. The vibration seems to echo within each bone, bouncing back-and-forth against the others until the entire pile begins to drum against the road. Crescendoing, the bones rise before crashing back, in beat with their skeletal tattoo. Chuck nearly knocks himself over as he clambers into his seat, eyes still locked to the bizarre spectacle at my feet.

The engine roars into reverse before Chuck can close his door. Tires squeal as a cloud of dust and gravel is thrown from rubber struggling to find grip. Several of those small bones streak across the pavement, slipping into the pickup’s cab before the driver’s door slams shut. The tailgate comes within a few feet of me, nearly crushing the pile between us. As I see Chuck’s arm slam the stick-shift into drive, an additional hands takes hold of the wheel. There’s a steel-muffled scream as skeletal fingers start to steer. The truck veers hard to the left, cutting-off the oncoming lane again. It screeches to a halt just as its nose takes a sharp dip towards the open-arms of corn.

I take this as my invitation, and hop across the tailgate into the bed. Sliding open a little glass partition between here and the cab, I give Chuck a grateful grin. “Sorry you had to fit one more on this trip, but we really do appreciate the charity.” The remaining bones slip through the window as I speak, unnoticed by either occupant. “So, you guys heading anywhere near Amarillo?” Chuck and Jim exchange looks of confused terror, but neither offer an answer. “I mean… Even Channing would be fine! No pressure fellas.”

Jim moves faster than I gave him credit for, pivoting in his seat to level a snub-nosed revolver at my face. I see no triumph in the eyes which meet mine, only survival. His grimy forefinger squeezes against the trigger.

Contained within the cab’s carapace, the gunshot rattles each window, and nearly blows the eardrums of both occupants. A small sunburst erupts from the barrel before I can recoil, my breath and heart stopping in place. The explosion rocks my skull as the vibrations are funneled through the only opening: the window between Jim and I. A sharp ping is hardly heard as the bullet penetrates the cab’s roof. Seconds pass, and the only pain I feel is from my now pounding head. Peeking through squinted lids, I see the shape of a pale hand wrapped around the revolver’s barrel.

Tucker’s arm assembles at his wrist, the bones rising from behind Chuck’s seat. Elbow and shoulders follow suit. His skull rolls up the length of joining vertebrae, stopping as it secures itself on the base of his neck. Gripping both the gun and a good portion of Jim’s hand, Tucker points it towards the floor. His other hands leaves the wheel and connects to his left wrist. Jim, slack-jawed and unable to resist, can only watch as a fleshless fist knocks him unconscious. While Jim falls limp, Tucker takes hold of the gun. Sliding the pin, he rolls the cylinder into his other hand. With a flick, bullets and all, it’s tossed out the back-window. The chunk of steel sails past my head, off into uncaring rows of corn. Tucker then snaps the hammer back. Pressing against its side, he bends the slip of metal around the guard; ensuring the weapon is all but useless. Setting what remains of the revolver in Jim’s lap, Tucker gives his knee a friendly pat. He turns his hollow sockets to Chuck. For a moment, that eternal smile of his seems a few shades more sinister. Chuck’s eyes grow wide, his neck turning side-to-side as it curls backwards as far as possible. Tucker angles his head upwards, letting the sunlight carve black valleys of shadow along the myriad of spells and charms written in bone. He gives me a quick thumbs-up, before collapsing back into the space behind Chuck’s seat.

“Hey, thanks again! I know Amarillo is out of your way, so I really do appreciate this!” I try my best to hide how badly the gunshot shook me. Chuck scowls at me through the rearview mirror, but sets the truck into motion. Seeing the conversation had run dry, I slide the window shut and settle against the tirewell. Rows of yellow blur into a blanket as we pick up speed.

Following the Order’s command, down roads cutting through the fields, Sheila makes her way south. A Huntress, young but capable, left the agriculture-quilts of her youth for a harsher place. A place where the sun stole life, instead of giving it. A place where an old goddess was being reborn.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little aside. Its a teaser for the next arc, and lets you get to know the newest addition to the Woodsmen’s ranks. Thank you as always for reading, and we’ll see you soon! - PAE IV

#writing #series #fiction

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Before You Fall

We both watched him die.

That pain we shared.

So why,

Why want him back?

Why try to walk his road?

He left a loveless life.

A man of pride,

Not of compassion.

Why cherish that memory?

He made the distance

Made the grudges.

Don’t inherit them

Let them rest with him.

We both watched him die,

So why do the same?

All he ever tried

Was to die with his pride.

Even that he was denied,

We both watched

While he just died.

-PAE IV

#poetry #poem #writing

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales of the Hunt: A Flower Under the Frost

Don’t get lost! Start here: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/158085616082/tales-of-the-hunt-vampire-beast

The previous tale: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/178952936767/tales-from-the-hunt-diversions

It’s going to be a longer story this time, but stick with it! Enjoy:

In a time before the Woodsmen; before the founding of the Holy Order; a time when legends were birthed, Li was welcomed into the world. Born to a family of farmers, Li knew little of the world outside their home and village. His hapless nature and weak demeanor cast him as the runt. When he’d grown enough to loathe his surroundings, Li embraced the wanderer’s spirit.

The marshlands and paddies of his home turned to vast grasslands. The trade-towns and commerce-hubs these hosted were easily twice the size of his village. He savored each new sight, and eagerly listened to rambling locals. Working small-jobs to earn his keep, Li led the life of a joyous pauper.

Though he adored the vibrant energy these busy lands and busier-people radiated, nothing filled the aching within him. He sought something more, so his feet found the road once-more.

Years passed before Li found himself visiting seaside-cities, the famed land of royals. Scraping by was never easier than inside those hives of culture; coin was tossed without qualm to those who begged. Those without worry painted themselves, drawing perfection on faces they were born behind. Buildings sat shoulder-to-shoulder, and the streets were never without foot-traffic.

Li’s time there taught him the difference between physical and spiritual satisfaction. The lack of symmetry in his day-to-day kept this towns from seeming monotonous, and his belly had never felt fuller. Despite finding a place where he needn’t worry over survival, Li still sought something more. Without a word of warning to those who had come to adore him, he turned back to the roads.

Skirting the shores, Li wandered through untamed forests and wilderness. He found solace in nature’s feeble silence, but the solitude wore on his spirit. While he marveled at the majesty of exotic beasts, he longed for the meaningless conversations of his time before. He took-in the land’s loveliest vistas, if only to share the story with the next soul he crossed.

The wilds faded to river-cut mountains, and at their feet, Li visited mining-communes. Though gruffer than those he’d known before, the locals welcomed this wandering lad. Over village-wide fellowships, he shared stories of his ventures, and they shared folktales carried through generations. Many of these warned of the snow-coated mountains which bordered their home, of the dangers which they harbored.

Li lived there longer than he had in any of his other stops, and for awhile, he felt happy. He began to believe there was purpose behind his restless desire. Why else would the world drive him so? He knew there was somewhere he was needed; a place and time to match his purpose. All he needed was to listen, and obey the whims of his soul.

It wasn’t long after this revelation that Li’s heart bade him onwards. With a remorse he’d never felt upon prior departures, he left for that place to meet his purpose. Despite the omens they’d filled his head with, Li trekked into the mountains.

Bitter-cold and an unending snowfall was all which welcomed him. Life seemed absent around him, and it took a heavy-toll on his spirit. Those bleak landscapes of white and grey drained Li. As his resolve and rations ran low, the world presented the place he sought. Nestled amongst the mountain-peaks, carved from the earth itself, was a shrine.

Larger than Li first suspected, the temple boasted several living-quarters, and a welcoming hearth. With reserves of firewood already stocked, all he needed was to get a fire started. He found himself quite comfortable, with several hours left before evening arrived. He spent the last ounce of daylight foraging for food in the area around the shrine, and returned with a bounty of berries.

The remainder of that first day was dedicated to showing his gratitude this oasis. He cleared ages of dust from the rafters, swept dirt from the stone halls, and offered-up prayers of

thanks as he labored. By the time that night settled over the temple, Li felt certain he’d found the place for his purpose. The snowfall picked-up, and he retreated to the comfort of the hearth. His quaint bedding ready to catch his weary head, Li was stolen by a deep-sleep.

Though none would call Li wicked; he was afforded no rest that night. His brief slumber was cut-short by a scream in the night. What he hoped was the remnants of a nightmare came again, and he was forced from his bed. Li was led to the entrance.

Beyond the curtain of falling snow, a woman staggered towards him. Even in the dark, despite her distance, Li could see her startling-beauty, marred only fear. She moved with the same grace as a feather dancing atop a pond, but the winds threatened to carry her from the mountain. Half-dressed, Li leapt into the kneehigh-snow. He met her a few yards from the temple stairs, and she fell into his arms. Hair, the same shade as the night sky, with the scent of lavender and wildflowers, cascaded across him as her head rested upon his shoulder. The snow seemed to hold its place in the air as her warmth married his. Li broke the spell, feeling the cold taking its toll on his bare feet, and brought her into the safety of the shrine.

Under the fire’s light, Li found himself speechless in her presence. Her dress and shining-bangles marked her as royalty. Despite this, Li couldn’t keep his eyes from her for long. Her skin caught the hearth’s glow perfectly, drawing shadows across features only a god could’ve carved. In their silence, she found him staring. Li averted his eyes as quickly as he could, another fire alive in his cheeks. Raising a half-sleeved hand to her mouth, she was unable to stifle the sweetest-sound Li had ever heard. She giggled, and Li was awash with embarrassment, and a love who’s depth he could hardly fathom.

Despite the hearth’s best efforts, a chill crept over them. The beautiful stranger crossed the room, and Li took her in his arms. They shared their warmth, and they shared the night. Each moment was a rebirth for Li; each kiss a baptism of ecstasy. As the hours grew long, she laid her head upon his chest. With love radiating from the points where her skin met his, Li fell into a blissful rest.

Hungry and fighting for survival, the fire woke Li only a few hours later. Having memorized her every inch, he knew immediately she was missing. Her weight, her warmth, and his heart were gone. Only her scent remained.

Li tended the starving flames, all the while trying to convince himself his love was but a vivid-dream. He cursed the shrine for beckoning such spirits to haunt his sleep, yet he held hope she was flesh and blood. He wanted so badly to be proven wrong.

Absent from himself; lost within memories he had to deny, Li wandered back to his bedding. He’d only closed his eyes for a moment when he heard her call again. The cry was unmistakable, and he was rushing towards the entrance before a second passed.

His love was waiting just outside the temple’s threshold, the snow still smothering the mountain around them. She was hunched over where he could not see her face, and a bundle was held tightly to her chest. Li ran to her as moonlight slipped between the cloud coated sky. Within arms reach, that light fell upon what remained of the woman he loved.

She had aged countless years in the moments apart. Skin like unsullen cream turned to rotted leather drawn tight against her bones. Dark hair faded to a stormy-grey, thin strands falling-out before Li’s eyes. She stared blindly at him, her hazel-eyes having sunken as two putrid berries.

Decaying as she explained herself, Li’s lover was truly a cruel spirit born of those lost to the cold, and he was to be her next victim. Was, but no-longer, as Li was different. Li harbored a pure, innocent love for her. What was supposed to be another soul lost to the legend of these mountains turned to something more. Li’s love brought life to a entity of death. That life was what she left him with.

Li held the swaddled-child in his arms, feeling its heartbeat next to his own. He watched as the first love of his was taken by the winter wind; her remains joining the layers of snow. Lingering there for a moment longer, Li fought the storm of emotions raging within. This madness was killing him too, but grief would make for a much slower death. A soft cry came from between his arms, and Li was granted clarity. His search for purpose had at-last come to an end. Yoko would become that purpose.

His daughter aged at an inhuman rate, walking within weeks, and finding her voice shortly after that. Yoko resembled a child of eight-years at the end of her first. She learned quickly from Li, and happily helped him clean their home. She was terribly clever, causing Li to fear their solitude was detreamenting her childhood.

When the spring of Yoko’s second year came around, the pair prepared to leave the temple behind. They offered their thanks to the shrine before making their way through the mountains. Li was careful to skirt the villages he’d visited in a previous life; not wanting the unwanted attention Yoko might bring. By the early days of summer, they’d found themselves resting in a quaint, seaside town. Just as he had before, Li paid their stay through small-jobs, which Yoko insisted she help with. They never remained in any place for longer than a season for fear that someone would question why Li’s child aged so quickly.

The five years he spent roaming the land alongside Yoko were the happiest of Li’s life. Through her eyes, even the darkest days were brief storm-clouds against the brightest of skies. Her alarming growth had slowed to the natural pace, leaving her on the cusp of womanhood. She favored her mother, and Li noticed the wandering-eyes her beauty attracted. This age brought a desire for independence, which he was reluctant to afford her. She was as precious to him as she was unaware of her true-nature.

Yoko became more and more absent from the days Li spent toiling to keep a roof over their heads. She would disappear for days at a time, returning to offering her father nothing for quelling his qualms. Arguments rose from the smallest disagreements, and soon Li came to understand what was taking his daughter from him. Yoko was changing.

The morning which followed one of their squabbles held this awful realization for Li, as the village’s crops had been coated in a thick frost. The locals grew suspicious of the newcomer, who could only stare in shock at what his daughter had done. They fled that night, Li unable to explain to Yoko the reason for their sudden departure.

This was only the first of a short-string of incidents leading to Yoko’s change. As winter loomed, she could no-longer find rest in sleep. Her nights were lost to horrid-visions and an unearthly pain. Li spent those same dark hours at her side; praying for this spell to pass.

On the last of these nights, Yoko couldn’t help but screaming-out at the pain. Li tried to calm her, but the fit was the worst he’d seen. The innkeeper came rushing to their room, just in-time to see the rings of ice forming along the floor beneath Yoko; the fractals of frost forming on the walls. He ignored Li’s pleas to let them be, leaving for the village’s doctor, and priest. Knowing time was fleeting for them, Li attempted to carry his child. The moment his hand touched her arm, that ice eagerly claimed his fingers. The cold became like a fire to Li, forcing him to release her. All he could do was kneel at her side, and pray.

The father of this half-human child prayed with every ounce of his heart. He called to those puppeting this world. He offered himself as payment, if only they would spare his precious daughter. No price was too high for Yoko.

Li’s answer came as an irresistible urge to place his hand on his child once more, and he obeyed. The fingers of ice swallowed his as he took hold of Yoko’s arm. The pain was immediate, but he knew hers was much worse. He held tight as rime spiraled up his forearm. A moan slipped from between his gritted-teeth as it reached his shoulder, but the sight of Yoko relaxing renewed his resolve. She had stopped shaking, the tension of torment falling from her face. He focused on the love which gifted him Yoko. Li kept it before the pain, and it kept him from giving-in. His last human-moments were comforted by the certainty that his daughter wouldn’t suffer.

The village priest was the first to answer the call to action, and the first victim to a new legend. He found Yoko, a beautiful young-woman, embracing something unnatural. She met his gaze with cheerful-eyes, and whispered something into frost-tone fur. The beast stood, its neckless head and shoulders scraping the roof. Before the priest could plead for his life, it had ended. The monster tore his torso from his waist with one awful swing.

Only the wife of the innkeeper was witness who lived to describe the two which left their village that night. She watched over the room while her husband was out, and she was just outside when the priest was murdered. She hid in another room as a gorgeous girl walked-out with a bloodstained beast at her side.

Legends hold that particular village is still punished by terrible winters. Today, the residents are still quick to get home on snowy nights. They fear the night which will bring an irresistible-beauty, and a unstoppable-monstrosity. The mountains far from there still houses an ancient-shrine, undisturbed in a world of eternal-ice.

Within the temple she was raised, Yoko lived many lifetimes; never far from the protection of her father. It was only when hunger overcame them that they ventured beyond their home. Travelers, traders, and any fool who wandered too close was suitable prey. It became a game to them; one which they were quite good at. So few who she lured escaped her father’s grasp, but enough to keep their legend alive.

It was these stories which brought the Children of the Black-Sun to Yoko’s doorstep. It was her hatred of the world they fed upon which drove her to accept their offer.

As always, thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please, let me know your thoughts, if you like the longer-entries or if you prefer the bite-sized bits, and share with those who might enjoy it as well! -PAEIV

#writing #fiction #series #fantasy

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales from the Hunt: Diversions

New to the Hunt? Start here: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/158085616082/tales-of-the-hunt-vampire-beast

Previously: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/178681220007/tales-from-the-hunt-reunion

Time proved itself again as the Young-One’s greatest rival. An eternity had passed since the Old-Hunter had left them, but the digital-clock set in the truck’s dashboard insisted it had only been half-an-hour. She did her best not to watch it’s syrup-slow pace, but a growing anxiety kept her eyes returning to the irksome set of numbers. Lucas seemed to feel it as well; a cigarette rarely absent between his fingers. He quietly combed the darkness beyond the trees.

Another few minutes drug-by, and Lucas was fumbling for his fancy-lighter when something catches his eye. The Young-One watched alongside him, as several shimmers, like starlight, appeared outside of the headlights’ beams. Twinkles of sapphire and silver shone brighter as they seemed to move closer.

The Young-One couldn’t help but gasp as one of the most-beautiful women she had ever seen stepped from the darkness. The woman looked as though she was in her mid-twenties, and moved through shin-deep snow with astounding grace. She was dressed in a ceremonial-robe of rich, blue silk, accented with silver stitchings of snowflakes. Her dark-hair was brushed and bound in a bun by a dazzling hairpiece, which matched the dress. Half-sleeved arms outstretched and mouth open in a silent-plea, the woman beckons to them. Her desperation was palpable.

Lucas made it out first. His history with this land’s winter, not to mention his height, allowed him to reach her before the Young-One could manage a step. The woman hurriedly spoke to him, gesturing towards the darkness behind her. The Young-One couldn’t hear her, but she could sense the urgency. Before she could leave the truck’s side, Lucas signaled for her to stay. The thought of being left-behind not once, but TWICE, ON THE SAME MISSION nearly drove her to refuse. She reigned that rebellious spirit as Lucas slipped into the distance, the woman trailing behind him with that practiced-poise.

The Young-One waited as long as she could, but the night air tore through her coat, and the shivers had become unbearable. She struggled back towards the truck. As her hand found the latch, another hand found hers. Its skin was colder than the steel beneath her fingers.

The Young-One couldn’t help but yelp as she leapt from the passenger-door. There, wearing a look of pleasure rather than distress, stood the woman Lucas had just disappeared alongside. Her vibrant lips of ruby-red curled upwards as she saw the icy-understanding settle in the Young-One’s eyes.

A bestial-roar tore through the quiet of the night, not far from where Lucas had vanished. Terror overtook the Young-One’s certainty as she turned from the sound. The woman cocked her head to an inquisitive-angle, like a predatory-bird watching its floundering prey. .

You’re in danger, my beloved doll.

Doing her best to shake his unnecessary warning from her thoughts, the Young-One squares-off her stance. Her facade of courage brought a giggle from the woman, which was all she needed to forget her fears, “I don’t care who you are; what you want, or why you think this is a good-idea. Just know: you’re messing with the wrong bitch!”

The serenity worn on the woman’s slender face faded to a mother’s disapproval, “Tut tut! Such language is unbecoming of a lady. If your life were not forfeit, I would teach you discipline.” She raised an arm, her dress shimmering under the moonlight. Pointing her palm towards the Young-One, an inferno of pain blossoms from where their hands met. “Now be a good girl, and die quietly.” Hot agony and an overwhelming chill combined, dragging a heavy moan from the Young-One. Fractals of ice sprout from the back of her hand, spreading as they freeze the flesh underneath. They crept in thick veins; reaching her forearm at an alarming-rate.

You mustn't let her hurt you!

Whatever whisked Lucas into the night roared again, and the woman turned her disapproving gaze that direction, “Sounds as though your friend isn’t being so cooperative.”

Icicles dripped from the Young-One’s arm, allowing this infection to continue onto her upper-thigh.

Don’t let her break my precious doll!

Teeth instinctively ground against one-another, all she could manage was, “Please.... Please st-stop.”

The woman waved her away, hardly giving her a sideways glance. “All will end soon enough.” She headed towards the others, ready to leave the Young-One to a cold and lonely death. Ice had nearly consumed her entire arm, and was quickly getting to work on her torso. She was unable to resist the scream which forced its way past her teeth as an awful cracking-sound filled her mind.

Stop her!

The Young-One scrambled to find her feet before the Old-Hunter could land another blow. She managed to force herself into a kneeling position when his boot came crashing into her ribs. “What happens when your opponent won’t let-up?” She tumbled onto her back, unable to catch a breath. “What will you do when there’s no-one coming to your rescue?” That boot rested against her throat. “What will happen when they find you alone?”

She could hear him screaming from the back of her mind, but the Old-Hunter’s boot silenced conscious-thought as it pressed on her windpipe. “Well? Will you fight?” His weight was too great for her to wiggle free. “Or will you die without changing anything?”

The world went grey for the Young-One, with bursts of fuzzy-black threatening to consume all that she saw. Before this darkness overtook her sight, she heard something shatter within her. It started as the sound of glass at brink of splintering, rising to a cacophonous rain of ceramic against concrete, undercut by his wailing.

The next moment the Young-One could recall was waking-up back in her bed. The familiar walls of the Woodsmen’s Lodge surrounded her. She felt confused, but a bone-deep exhaustion pushed her head back to the pillow.

It had been the first, and last, time she sparred with the Old-Hunter.

Fissures formed beneath the layers of ice; canyons of black coursing along the Young One’s skin as her scream faded. The as they encompass her, the light-blue irises and the pupils within them dissolve to a porcelain-white. All she knows is the sound of breaking.

The frozen coffin exploded, casting shards into the air around her. Some struck the woman’s back, but fell without leaving a mark. As she stopped to turn, the land surrounding them turned to a dull-shade of emerald. Shadows dance under this unnatural glow, and the woman found its source waiting behind her.

Fragments of glass-like flesh, fallen from between the cracks, were held aloft by an ethereal static. They floated a few inches from their origin, like a puzzle frozen after being tossed from the table. That crackling aura came from underneath them. Jaw slack, eyes of milky-marble, the Young-One was lifted from the ground. Strands of lightning rippled from her, scorched trails of jade-fire left on the bark of surrounding trees. Thick tendrils of living electricity drag her closer.

The woman’s look of confusion was caught in a shutter-flash of light as a stream of energy tore through her. Screaming, she was flung backwards in a thunderous explosion. Ribbons of smoke trailed her descent, lit by the moonlight.

From the distant darkness, Lucas’ foe howls in fury, “YOKO!!!” The forest around them trembled as it barreled towards them. The truck’s headlights showed glimpses of snow-white fur, enormous teeth stained a slight-red, and a shape which towered some twenty-feet in above the ground. Charging into sight, the beast moved on all-fours; long arms on the front pushed it forward while shorter back-legs kept its balance. Without a neck between its broad shoulder, its appearance was made even more inhuman by the two black-pits set beside the center of its head. Resembling empty sockets, these remained locked onto Yoko’s motionless body. Skidding to a stop, it gingerly inspected the woman.

Time was short; the Young-One floating closer to finish the job. The beast left Yoko’s side. Its squat face distends, revealing a moist cavern of asymmetrical fangs. From within that abyss, a roar erupted. The beast charged. It reached ramming-speed within seconds, and launched itself some fifteen-feet into the air. Winding its body as it rocketed towards the Young-One, it prepared a punch packing unimaginable force. Four stubby fingers curled to make its fist, which was thrust forward a moment before impact. That constant static around the Young-One intercepted the strike, entangling the beast’s arm in a sizzling web. It hung there, its hollow-eyes seeming to widen in shock. With the sound of a god snapping their fingers, its arm was reduced to ash.

Somewhere dark, a carved-figure of an animal; a totem, is held above an open-flame. The orange light cast strange shadows along the statue’s surface, giving it the illusion of drawing breath. The flames caressed its hoofed-feet; tongues running up its long legs. A gold-plated lighter was held closer to the totem, allowing the fire to consume it. As the ancient wood was consumed, the winds gathered. Behind their shrill wailing rose a rumbling-thunder.

The rest of the monster landed a few feet past Yoko, who was already getting back-on her feet. She rushed to its side, screaming curses towards the Young-One as she examined its smoldering stump. Rage brought blooms of red to Yoko’s pale cheeks. Three javelins of ice began to form above her, their tips aimed at her foe. Snow is pulled from the sky and ground; spiraling as its twisted into the growing spears. Pointing a single, shaking finger at the Young-One, Yoko bade the salvo to strike. As-if fired from an unseen bow, the cones of ice hurtled toward their target. That web of lightning ensnared each as they approached, and two were dissolved almost instantly. The last managed to slip through.

Still suspended by her aura, the Young-One recoiled as the spear pierces just above her right-hip. A trembling hand went to the wound as the energy around her began to recede. The floating-fragments of her flesh were pulled back to their proper places. Cracks left between them were sealed by the emerald-light, before it vanished under her skin. The Young-One descended, still holding her side as her feet slipped beneath the snow. She sunk to her knees, still absent from her own shell.

The Young-One’s moment of weakness was all the beast needed to charge again. Head resting on her chest, she was oblivious to the danger. Its remaining arm angled to knock her skyward, the monster is sideswiped by a flurry of snow and ice borne by a swift wind. The white-wave swept the beast off its feet as it formed a barrier between them and the Young-One.

She woke to the sound of hooves. Thoughts surfaced as half-formed and filtered through a haze. All the Young-One knew for certain was she was hurt, and pretty badly at-that. Wild winds tossed her hair back, yet she felt no chill as they beat against her nose and cheeks. A cyclone of snow manifested at the winds’ whim, reaching from the earth to high above the treetops. Through the violent veil of white, the Young-One could see silhouettes racing along the spiral’s path.

“You did well,” beside her, atop an otherworldly stallion of soot-grey; was Lucas. The Young-One had to crane her neck to see him, but the look of pride he wore made it worth her effort. “Thank you for holding them off, and I’m sorry I couldn’t help sooner. The big-guy caught me off-guard.” He ushered his steed towards the cyclone, “Rest now. I’ll show them the mistake in taking-on the Woodsmen. I’ll teach them the strength of those who protect the Holy Order.”

I just wanted to say thank you for reading, and if you have, for keeping-up with this series. It’s the least I can do to show those who believe in me that their faith is not going to waste. Thank you all again for supporting my path as a writer; as an artist. Here’s to what’s to come! -PAEIV

#writing #fiction #series #fantasy

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales from the Hunt: Reunion

Seeing as it is the season of spirits and specters; I thought there to be no better time to bring one of my series back from the grave! Enjoy, PAE IV

New to the Hunt? Start here: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/158085616082/tales-of-the-hunt-vampire-beast

Need a refresher? Here’s the last entry: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/160876782037/tales-of-the-hunt-poor-timing

Kakisi woke only for a moment as the Old-Hunter crossed his barrier. A familiar pang of discomfort pushed him further towards consciousness. His eyelids were swollen and heavy, allowing him only a narrow-glimpse of his surroundings. It was dark, and terribly cramped. Kakisi tried to shift to more comfortable position, but the thick-ropes binding his hands above his head prevented it. Panic blossomed alongside a primal-fury at the concept of being captured, and he strained against his binds. The twine-bundles yielded under his immense strength, but retracted the second he relaxed. With a curse aimed towards the rope and whoever had made it, Kakisi submitted before trying to recall how he’d wound-up here. A faint-scent from beyond his prison drives thought away. It called to something he’d locked-up long ago. He prayed for the strength to persevere until the Old-Hunter arrived.

Nearly a mile of snow and trees stood between the barrier and a quaint ranger’s shack. Several fluorescent night-watchers led him there, and thanks to their unnatural-glow he could see the shack’s simple, tan siding standing-out against the forest. A set of tired wooden stairs led up to the front-door; a single camera perched at its side. The Old Hunter kept to woodline’s shadow as he crept closer. The hollow-sound of boots atop a wooden floor came from behind the shack’s walls, and the Hunter held his breath. The boots leisurely made their way from one end of the building to the other; pacing back and forth.

The Old-Hunter’s gut could sniff-out a trap twice-as-clever as this, but he knew time was his luxury, not Kasiki’s. He crept from the shadow’s cover, slipping across the moon-soaked snow like a fox. He ducked beside the stairs, just outside the camera’s view. The door seemed sturdy, but it wouldn’t hold when the time came. Ear against wall, the Hunter could hear the steady-pace of bootsteps. They showed no sign of alarm. He counted alongside their beat, waiting till they reached the other end of the shack. Breath steady, he triple-checked his equipment before vaulting over the wooden steps.

A black-crescent; a veil of darkness obscured the endless white held within the camera’s frame. It hung there for a moment, an instance of flesh visible between its folds, before arcing towards the earth and slipping out of view. The bootfalls ceased as a display of the camera’s capture returned to that field of snow.

The Old-Hunter landed without a sound. The silence was shared by whoever waited within the shack, and he knew he’d been spotted. Swallowing a curse to his luck, he sprang forward, turning his shoulder to where the door met its frame. Wood and thin-metal around the latch gave-way with an awful crack. The door swung-wide as the latch tore itself free. He didn’t miss a beat; keeping his momentum as he barreled into the ranger’s shack.

The raw-odor of blood and entrails rushed through the new opening, swallowing the Old-Hunter as he charged. The foyer floor was near coated in a thin-layer of viscera, forcing him to slow, lest he slip in one of the many gore-piles. Several lengths of intestines were draped across the adjacent-wall, like a string bizarre garland. A small dining area was set-up to his left, complete with a full-stock of whiskey and rum to keep the chill away. To his right was an unlit-hallway leading to where the boots remained; where the voice came from, “Come on in, I suppose!” A male, the Old-Hunter estimated, anywhere from eighteen to the late-twenties. Wasting no time, he dives down the hallway towards the youth.

In a silent, careful, sprint, the Hunter passed through the threshold between foyer and hall. As he crossed into the curtain of shadows, a horrendous-force slammed him against the nearest wall. A shape, somewhat human, held him there with one arm. The other, ending in a fist-sized talon, rested against his throat. “Pay patience in kind, codger!” The voice called from just a few yards away, and the Hunter noted its Eastern-accent. “We’ve waited some time for you to arrive, so the least you can do is offer us a moment’s attention.”

Still trying to discern his aggressor’s shape from shadow, the Old-Hunter replied through gritted-teeth, “Consider it yours.”

The boot’s owner chuckled, for which the Hunter silently-swore he’d bleed the boy, “That’s the spirit! I always prefer a cooperative, captive-audience.” A olive-tone arm beckoned from the doorway, “Now come-on down!”

As the Old-Hunter turned back, the shadowy-foe was absent. He was alone in the hallway’s darkness. Nothing moved amongst the gore behind him. Nothing left but to face what waited.

The ranger’s office was immaculate in comparison to the mess in the other rooms. A desktop and screen rested on a black-steel desk, both unplugged, unlike the CRT television beside them. Its static-ridden display showed the empty field of snow outside. The other finally came into view, standing against the furthest wall from where the Old-Hunter entered. As assumed: the other was a young-man of Middle-Eastern descent. He was fit, but lanky. A collared, black shirt was left unbuttoned just enough to frame a silver-medallion resting on his chest. He wore a handsome, but scheming, smile as the Old-Hunter stared him down. The other opened his mouth to continue, but the Old-Hunter cut him off, “Where is he?”

The corners of the other’s grin fell for an instant. Masking his annoyance, “All in due time, codger. Introductions come first. We already know who you are.”

The Old-Hunter couldn’t help butting-in, someone had to in the Young-One’s absence, “Oh really?”

Again, that mask of condescension cracked, “Yes. We know you, and those you work for. That’s why we’re here, silly codger. We had to draw you out.”

“If that’s true, then you should’ve known this was least likely way to meet me, and leave alive.”

The other shook his head, “We don’t fear you. This is a new day, and with it comes a new empire. The old must fall so that the new may rise. It the way of this world.

“You may call us the Herald. We have brought you here to bear witness, and to relay our message to those who rule you.”

“Say it while you can kiddo, as that tongue is mine when this is all said and done.” With a thumb, the Old-Hunter lifted the brim of his hat to look the other eye-to-eye, his face mirroring the other’s grin.

“The dawn comes from the East. With it, our day. Children of the Black Sun gather as storm-clouds outside your walls, waiting for the winds to tear down your palisades,” the other’s eyes sparkled as he delivered this sermon. He began to gesture, punctuating his words with broad motions. “By our Mother’s will; we will erase the testaments of yesterday. We will incite a faithless inquisition and raze what you’ve deemed sacred. Without the chains of the pasts, tomorrow is ours to make and mold. When the wheel is broken, we are free.”

Silence hung between them, the other blatantly searching the Old-Hunter for some reaction. He stared back, as if waiting for the other to finish. “That’s it?”

The young-man stuttered for a moment, “I-I… Do you not understand?”

“I thought you were being purposefully vague. Was I supposed to glean something from that New-Age spiel?”

The other was stunned. His eyes darted from the Old-Hunter to the floor, and back again. “Maybe we were wrong about you. We thought the Order’s lapdog would prove a perfect envoy. How the hell have you even-” The light returned to the others eyes as inspiration struck, “And you will! Minor-change in plans: don’t worry about trying to remember our message. I’ll have Nypheria carve it into your flesh, and we’ll ship you back home!”

The Old-Hunter spun on his heels as the hall’s shadows distended; bulging from the threshold as it took shape. The rippling darkness birthed a woman; her head and raven hair emerged first. From under her unkempt and frizzy locks, the Hunter could see pale, down-like feathers surrounding two eyes of polished-jet. Beneath them; protruding from flesh, was a short-beak of bone. Skeletal shoulders and arms which nearly scraped the ground followed from the shadow’s seam. One ended in a hand with spider-leg fingers; the other a age-yellowed talon. Nypheria lunged towards him, her face splitting as she belted-out a ear-piercing scream. The distance between the doorway and the Old-Hunter was spanned in seconds, though his eyes caught every motion. Black-hair streaming behind her, that curled-talon was aimed to behead him. In a delicate-dance whose steps move like lightning, the Old-Hunter slipped to the side as he brought his left-hand from the folds of his cloak. Nypheria could only watch as she sliced through the air where he once stood, before that hand collided with her eyes. With the pop of skin striking skin, a cloud of white-dust burst from their connection. The Old-Hunter continued past as she hissed, those bony-fingers trying desperately to claw the salt from her eyes. Standing with a back to both his foes, he stopped just a few feet from the hallway.

Nypheria cleared enough of her vision to make another swipe at the Old-Hunter, but before she closed-in, he drew a crossbow from under his cloak and fired. As the bolt left the rails its phosphorous-tip ignited; bursting into a brilliant ball of light which sailed into the shadows of the hallway. Nypheria froze. The other seemed dumbfounded. Both struggled to grasp why, or how, he missed so profoundly. The spell over the room was broken by glass shattering in the dining-room, followed shortly by the excited-sound of flame taking to fuel. Nypheria screamed again, not from rage, but panic. Too focused to attempt another attack, she teared into the hallway.

“Now then, where were we?” The Old-Hunter jeered, and before the other could come to terms with the situation, another bolt pinned his collar to the wall behind him. Air was pulled through clenched-teeth, and a small red-river trickled across his exposed-chest.

“You-” the other’s words were cut-short by a gloved fist.

“No more.” the tired and scarred face of the Old-Hunter was only an inch-or-so from the other’s. “I ask; you answer.”

“Why wo-” A fist collided with the other’s jaw again. His teeth rattled against each-other, and blood ran freely from his lower-lip. Nypheria’s howls echoed from across the shack; the cry of a wounded-beast.

“I ask. You answer. Got it?”

The other looked back, tears welling in his eyes. The lower-half of his face was already turning from it’s natural-brown to a irritated shade of purple and black. He nodded. Nypheria’s wailing had become whimpers.

“That’s better. It’s easier to work with a cooperative, captive-audience, right? Where is he?”

Hate burned behind the other’s eyes. Through swelling-lips, “He is here, and safe. Safer than you, and much safer than your friends.”

“What do y-” It was the Old-Hunters turn to be cut-short. The other vanished for a moment, the Hunter’s fingers grasping at the air which was just occupied by shirt. Strands of black-smoke and the scent of burnt-ozone hung around him. A moment later, the other blinked back into existence, still pinned by the bolt. For the first time in their exchange, the Old-Hunter could see fear in the other’s eyes. Without a word, the Hunter snatches the silver-medallion from around the other’s neck, shearing links of chain effortlessly. “Not so fast. We’re not done.” Grabbing-hold of the other’s shirt with his free-hand, “What were you saying? About my friends?”

“Every moment you waste with me is another in which they might not survive. Even if they do; all of you will perish in the coming war. The Order will fall.” His bruised-features peeled back in that cocky-smile before his complexion shifted to black. Lines like shadows cracked the silhouette and flaked free. These portions drifted as ash to the wood-floor, but turned to roaches there, and scurried from sight. His body slowly crumbled; leaving an empty buttoned-shirt in the Old-Hunter’s hand. Thousands of black-backed insects flood from the legs of his trousers, crawling out from his shoes before slipping-away.

The closet-door just to the Old-Hunter’s right swung-open. Inside, with hands bound by rope above his head, was Kakisi. His skin was almost colorless, and there seemed to be no sign of life within him.

Waiting only for the last roach to escape, the Old-Hunter carefully examined Kakisi. He was beaten almost to death, and abandoned while they waited for rescue to arrive. An uncommon-sensation burned in the Hunter’s stomach; a hate which he could only satiate by recalling the satisfaction of punching the other into silence. He untied Kakisi, catching him as he fell with one arm. Kakisi’s head slumped onto the Old-Hunter’s shoulder. Knowing there was little time before the fire spread, the Hunter started towards the door. He only managed a step before Kakisi sank dagger-like fangs into the meat of his neck.

#writing #fiction #series

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Of Death and She (part 3)

Our tale begins here:https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/173774631817/a-tale-of-death-and-she

(Part 2): https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/173964551172/of-death-and-she-part-2

The only god they had known was made near-speechless by her blatant blasphemy.

“Child. Oh, foolish child.” He spoke slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I have owned the lives who gave life to those who gave yours, and I will own those after. This night is no more yours than any of those before it. Each day, every night, and the instances in between, has been, and will be mine. Now, I’ll offer you a chance to plead forgiveness, and perhaps you shall see the end of this night. After all, the festivities wouldn’t be the same without you, She.”

The spear offered her repentance. Death, wearing his shock quite openly this time, shifted from the spear’s path without moving a muscle. He had become fluid-shadows. When his features resurfaced, the smile returned with them. “Delightful... I find myself in a rare moment of indecision: do I take restitution for your errs, or is there a greater use in such a soul; if I were to let you live until you have repaid this debt.” Death shifted away from her in that same unnatural fashion, wearing a pondering expression when he reformed. “Allow me a few moments She. Go as you were, onto the night you’ve dreamed of for so long; as if we had never spoken.” He shifted once more, this time far from sight. She was left frozen in place, her spear still ready to pierce the skull of a cruel god. A warm-wind and a few gleeful shouts from far behind barely rose above the sound of her own pounding heart.

By the time she’d joined the women awaiting her, She had regained her composure. She feigned the joy she’d been filled with before Death had left her with so many infuriating questions. Lost in moments which should’ve been savored by the second. Her mind was far from where the elders cooed and complimented their work. She nearly jumped at each child’s joyous scream. She could hear Death’s soft whispers festering just beneath.

When the time had finally come, She was forced herself to be as present as she could muster; not just for her father and Ko, but for the peace of their people. She had a part to play for those who needed something to remind them a life is worthwhile, even if it’s one enslaved to Death. The drum-beats and rhythmic stomps outside the Hall began to pick-up pace, swelling in an inspiring crescendo which She rode into the crowd. Sparkling silver strips of linen trailed behind her white-cloth wrappings. The firelight which slipped between the dancers cast an exotic shade of crimson across her figure. Transcendent in her beauty, the villagers parted to allow her passage. Every head turned to take-in the spectacle of She: the woman. The way was clear straight to the already roaring-pyre. Her every motion was perfectly stepped with practiced grace and poise. The many gems adorning her gold arm-bands bathed her in starlight.

She took her place beside her father, letting the warmth of the flames, and the love of her village, wash over them. The drums pounded on, and on. Soon her feet took up their rhythm, spinning; twirling; and leaping along with the dying-cinders. The villagers began some strange chant, no-one knowing its language despite it flowing fluidly off each tongue as their voices merged with the poundings drums; all in-time with She’s racing pulse. The music turned to the heartbeat of her people. Time lost structure as the dance took only moments and an eternity in the same instant; yet beneath it all She could feel something underneath. Something dark and toxic lingered just below each note. Try as she might, She was unable to ignore those putrid fingers which wormed their way between her and what could’ve been a perfect memory.

Death was eating away at her. The moment began to slip from She. He pressed in that instant of weakness.

She stumbled. The rhythm; their chants; the heartbeat ended as She lost focus. Panicked; pained, she scanned the crowd. One-by-one, loss crossed each face as they slipped-free from the trance. When confusion turned to terror, She knew the true guest of honor had arrived.

The pyre was quenched without so-much as a sizzle or plume of smoke. The village gave a collective gasp as they were swallowed by night. His laughter rose from their cries.

She felt Death at her side before his presence was known, “Apologies for the interruption my dear. I’ve made my decision, and I thought it impolite to keep you waiting.” She kept her shoulder to him, refusing to give Death the satisfaction of seeing the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “You shall serve as my vassal; venturing far from your home in search of a few relics which I desire. Do this and, assuming you survive of course, I shall not only forgive you of your transgressions, but I will grant a single wish as well.”

She couldn’t believe what was being offered, that Death had the capacity for mercy. Those around her kept their heads pointed to the ground, unable to offer the support she now desperately needed. She tried not to feel betrayed: knowing they acted only out of survival. “Do not keep me waiting, She. There is work to be done.”

Despite her people’s display of misplaced loyalty, She still loved them, and knew if any other had been given this chance, few would let it slip away. “You already know what my answer will be. You knew before you even asked.”

The others shared a shudder as Death reeled with wild laughter. “Perhaps! Ah, perhaps indeed, dear She. I can only take credit for finding the kindling and digging the pit. You will have the sole responsibility for lighting the fire, and tending it until your time is served.”

“What do you ask of me?”

“Is this the way a servant calls upon their master? Try again, She, but with more understanding of your position.”

She turned to Death, and for the first time in his recollection, a mortal held his gaze without fear. Her jaw taut, brow furrowed, and lips peeled to bare her teeth, “Isn’t there work to be done?”

Unshaken by She’s icy tone, Death howled again, “I suppose we can skip the pleasantries this once! Don’t worry though, by the end of our time together, you shall end your every word to me with ‘Master.’ Even the wildest of beasts can be tamed in time, you will see.”

Sorry for the delay! We’ll see things return to schedule shortly, but in the meantime: leave a little love or share with those who might find some enjoyment if you’d please! -PAE IV

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Of Death and She (part 2)

The start of our tale: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/173774631817/a-tale-of-death-and-she

Death visited time and time again. He came as an omen of the impending despair; of chaos yet to be wrought on lives he claimed as his own. Relishing in his role as their harbinger of loss, he would leer from the forest’s edge as children who ventured too close to the shore were whisked-away into the ocean’s depths. He would wander within a shaman’s dreams while a pack of beasts quietly feasted on those housed on the outskirts. His laughter echoed in winds that shortly brought devastating-storms. His reign lasted for generations, and each new-life brought into the world was born by his blessing.

Their master would have remained uncontested for as long he allowed, if it were not for She.

Born the only child to the village’s fifth Chief; She was a compassionate child, having learned from the kind and caring Chief her father had become. His wisdom showed her not to hide from Death, but to revel in every second they have with those who might be taken in the next. Death’s return was as inevitable as its timing was a mystery. Life was a constant choice of how to spend that ever-fading time. She took those lessons to heart, becoming a beacon of hope and happiness to those whose lives she touched.

This was why Death let her live. She would breed a hollow-faith in the mortals, just before he dismantled their beliefs one-life-at-a-time.

Or perhaps even a god can be naïve.

Perhaps he thought that holding their very hearts in the palm of his hand would be enough to keep them in-line.

The village held a celebration at each season’s end, and this year’s festival held a ceremony to honor She’s 13 year. This was a night She had waited for since her earliest memories. She had dreamed in the nights before of stepping through the ring, hearing the gasps and awe as she stood before them: a woman. In fantasies she’d never share, her betrothed and childhood friend: Ko, would take her in his arms. Together, they would steal-off to seek solitude beneath the moonlight while the others revelled well into the night.

The day had come, and She was still a child. She left her hut to sneak to the Elder’s Hall, where several women waited to prepare her for the festivities. She would be bathed, draped in the family’s traditional robes and bands, and her hair oiled and combed so it would shine rubies while the fire danced beside her.

Something held her as she slipped between the other homes. Something that came as a pitfall for the heart. It was a presence they had grown to loathe. She scanned her surroundings, seeking out that uninvited guest.

He stood just beyond the forest’s borders, his eyes glimmering amongst the shadows.

She had grown to smother her fear, and in its place grew a fire. Death could see the blazing rage he sparked in her soul, and his grin only grew as She raced back home.

As quickly as her legs could carry her, She returned. Brandishing the ornate-spear she’d carved with her mother before Death stole her, She charged to the wood-line. Her foe waited not but a few feet from her. Curiosity crossed the dull eyes peering from under his hood when, instead of fleeing or crying-out for mercy, She centered herself and aimed the spear.

That curious expression rose again when She, without fear; without hesitation; called to him, “You have no business here. This is my night, and I’ll die before I let you soil it.”

As promised, here’s more with little wait! I’m hoping as this tale winds-on, it garners a few new friends and followers. So with that; if you’ve enjoyed what we’re making, please share or leave a little love before you go!

#writing #stories #series

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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A Tale of Death and She

In times long before man learned to record their experiences through the walk of life, at-least in a lasting fashion; days shortly after first man stepped from the Cradle: a once nomadic tribe settled upon a swathe of seashore. They prospered for generations; thriving off the sea’s bounty. Their northern-border was lined by a dense forest, which provided plenty for their growing family. Even then; little stayed pleasant for long.

The sea held the village’s debt for many years, and the villagers had little to repay it. One night, late into the year’s second season, the sea brought to them a storm like they’d never seen before: one of roaring winds and four-man-tall whitecaps. The waters reached beyond their usual borders, pulling two night-watchers into the foaming water. Their screams, barely audible over the pounding rain, woke the others from restless slumbers. Most merely peeked out from their huts to keep from being soaked through in seconds. Several echoed the lost guards’ cries as they tried to comprehend the impending-end. The tides retreated. The sea gathered in the distance to form a massive tsunami. Terror swept over the onlookers as the living wall of water swallowed the moon, leaving only the storm’s odd, green-ambience to light the night. Parents desperately tried to wake their young, while the old held one-another in hope the gods would grant them passage together.

Barely-visible under the sickly-light; an elderly-figure hobbled from shadows. Those who saw him knew him to be foreign. Wrapped in a tattered-cloak dark as midnight, he limped out to the shoreline. Onlookers followed this stranger’s gaze as he surveyed the tsunami, craning his neck to see its peak. Seeming satisfied, he hobbled into the moist sand which was underwater only moments before. Sand became sea as he ventured further. When his feet touched the water’s surface, they stood upon it as though it was solid earth. The stranger’s ailment vanished from his stride as he quickly strolled across the churning sea, leaving rippling-ringlets of calm in his wake. Though the winds wouldn’t ease; despite the rains’ incessant assault, the villagers huddled beneath an angry-sky to watch. One last spectacle before the sea claimed its debt.

The stranger approached the tsunami, he with his arm outstretched as if to welcome the wave. He stood still, letting it come to him. The churning-pillar barreled closer, and as the two touched, it seemed as if time held its breath. Only the rhythm of a-hundred panicked hearts marked the moments’ passing.

In an instant their demise vanished, replaced by rolling sheets of fierce rain and salt. The villagers retreated to cover once more,none fully understanding what they had just witnessed. The storm subsided before dawn, and the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

The morning-sun rose to find the village already alive and bustling. Their elders and shamans had called a gathering in hopes of explaining what was beyond rationale. Their ancestors knew nothing of a god who would wear a frail-mortal form. Who, or what, was responsible remained a mystery, until the stranger manifested amongst them. He came without warning; their shadows seeming birth to his cloak. Under the sun’s gaze, the others could see a pale grin peeking from his hood, proudly displaying putrid and greying teeth. Even the newborn-day’s warmth couldn’t suppress the chill which swept across the tribe. Each member instinctively stepped away to clear his path. Taking their chief’s place at the pyreside, the stranger turned slowly, savoring their bewildered expressions.

In a voice only heard in the nightmares of youth; the stranger spoke, “Your master walks before you now, and know me as Death. You have known my touch: in the withered-breathes of those your prayers couldn’t spare. I have watched since your first cries; waiting only to hear the last.” Death circled the fire, lifeless-fingers repulsing even the flames as they fled his touch “From now until I tire of your ancestors; your every-moment is taken at my grace. Know it was Death who bought your worthless-lives, and know it is Death who know owns them!” Cruel-laughter echoed from every shadow as he was swallowed in a swing of his cloak. Cloth and flesh turned to vile smoke. The coiling mist was inhaled by their pyre, snuffing the great-blaze in an instant.

Of course I’m making this a series!!! But don’t worry: this short is already written! I’ve had it ready for.... awhile now; revisiting and editing whenever the thought came to mind. I’ll pop these out twice a week until the tale is told, and PLEASE leave some love or feedback before you go!

#writing #shorts #series

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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The Journey

Once you watched the world from afar;

Aloof in that dark and endless wonder.

Bright and bold, another shooting-star,

You broke through heaven like thunder.

Though the descent tore you to parts,

Your pain ignited a flame in our hearts.

#poetry #writing

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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XIII

Take it from the Tarot: Death is change. An end of an era, A time of a different you; That too is a death. The worm must die, The cocoon to be torn, For change to take flight. Know your dark desire Not as lust for eternity, But as an urge; A drive, And spread your wings.

#writing #writers on tumblr

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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She turned from him, tears in her eyes, “You’ve changed.”

“I think it’s for the best,” he replied, before slithering from the room.

#writing #humor #wordplay

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rememberthe4th · 6 years

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Tales of the Hunt: Detour

Something in our country’s endless-network of concrete fascinated the Old-Hunter. It wasn’t craftsmanship, nor the quality that called to him; it was the ingenuity. He had seen these mountains and plains when they were untamed. Trails of those days had been sealed beneath feet of solid-gravel, but this was just as natural. Like ants, we set our eyes on any space semi-safe to inhabit and begin converting it to needs. We draw veins through virgin-earth, giving life to another limb as its settled. What was gave way to what is, just as what is will succumb to what will be. The Old-Hunter could feel this new-world’s pulse as he wandered from street to road; from highway to dirt-path. The Woodsman Clan and their incessant-requests had become silent for several months, and in work’s absence the Old-Hunter grew restless. Without giving word or warning to his associates, he set-off to roam. They would find him if they needed him, just as they had so-many times before. The Old-Hunter paid no-mind to the ceaseless-stream of vehicles passing beside him. Their headlights cut thin-cones through the dark-around the wanderer before fading into the distance; as unconcerned with him as he was with them. He had become entranced by that pulse. His feet were married to its rhythm, and his mind willingly-followed. A thinning-moon watched from its cloudless perch, as the Old-Hunter roamed. Hours went without his noticing; his heart in tune the soft-rumbling below. It was only when the well-tended asphalt and gravel of the highway turned pitted that the Old-Hunter began to return. His eyes found a harsh and unkempt path before him, scarcely paved with tufts of dense-grass breaking through. Sky-brushing pines towered all around, the road ahead only visible by the dimmest of moonlight. The Old-Hunter stopped then. The air had grown-heavy, its sudden-cold piercing his poncho in seconds. Sounds of humming-engines and diesel-roars were soft enough for the passing-breeze to drown them out. He knew not to look-back then, just as he knew to trudge-onward before time ran-short. His unease grew as a soft-mist began to roll-in from the bordering-pines, soon smothering the hand-shewn path-ahead. The sense of life; the heartbeat, was gone. Something moved in the fog; a shade of grey passing under that creamy-veil. The Old-Hunter didn’t dare to hesitate. He kept his pace, and concealed his concern. The mist retreated as he approached, revealing only a few-feet of the dirt-road ahead. Pinpoints of light started to poke through the fog, and several shades could be seen not far from them. As if passing-beyond some unseen threshold, the Old-Hunter left the curling-mist and tall-pines behind. The road had opened-wide to a small, riverside-camp. A variety of characters milled around rough lean-tos, unaware of their visitor. Several sun-kissed men dressed in poor-fitting clothes sat in a semicircle, some idly chatting while the others played cards. All middle-aged; each with well-worn straw-hat resting nearby. Further towards the river rested six-or-so women, perhaps still girls. They carried on a silent-conversation; enthusiastically-miming as the Old-Hunter watched. A trio from some modern construction-crew enjoyed a smoke at the fog’s edge. He wandered past their gatherings, eyes taking-in all they could before his persistent-feet past it by. Their clusters formed near his path, but none touched it. They carried-on despite him. Nearer to the lively-river, only children played. They seemed to come from different times and different places than one-another. Some shared the baggy-cotton garb as the card-players, others were dressed and ready for a day at school. Their differences didn’t seem to matter here. A few raced about the shore in a game of tag. Others sat and wove fantastic-tales for any who listened. The Old-Hunter’s path cut beside the children, following the river upstream. There, those who time weathered, watched the others play. They rested at the bases of the scant-pines which lined the shore. Tired smiles and foggy-eyes gazed out at old-friends and newer-playmates. As he passed, a paling-boy rose. The child’s smile had fallen, and the light had all but vanished from his eyes. With its final-breath, he forced his body away from the others, further alongside the Hunter’s path. The Old-Hunter stopped to watch as the child dragged himself towards a bend in the river. The others didn’t glance away from those who still-played. He gave the child time, as his affair was a private-one. A few moments after the little-boy had limped from sight, the Old-Hunter continued upstream. When he’d past the last of the weary-ones, the beneath the Old-Hunter’s feet began to take shape once more. Patches of pavement joined one-another just ahead. The pines returned, bringing the fog to blot-out the world beyond them. It wasn’t long before he found the boy, along with the rest this place had consumed. The lay where they’d fallen, heads turned to where they’d come from; as if to seek some final comfort, or greet those that come to join them. Their skin had become bleached, stretched-taut with mouths agape in a silent-scream. Their eyes had burned-out to black-hollows staring back at the Old-Hunter. In turn; he kept his eyes on the returning-road. Their numbers grew the further he followed. As the concrete took him from the river’s side and back into through the woods, they were piled atop one-another. Hundreds of these pale-faced husks watched him as he passed, the bones of a variety of animals strewn amongst them. The Old-Hunter’s trained-eye could-make out the distinct skulls of countless dogs, cats, deer, their sockets as dark as the other's cold-stare. Piles became heaps, heaps became mounds, and the mounds were near the Old-Hunter’s height before he finally found himself on a familiar-road. The pines here were free from that crawling-mist, and the moon was watching once-more. He didn’t dare to turn back. Not when he was so close. He could hear the growing-growls and groans of the highway up-ahead. When the Old-Hunter walked from that nameless-stretch of road, he stopped to savor the diesel-fumes and earthy-scent of the living-world around him. There was no shock when he turned to find no road behind him; only a field of low-cut grass leading to a wall of pines. Before following the highway back home, the Old-Hunter went to that forest’s edge. With a short-machete produced from his poncho, he collected two thick-branches, and a length of vine. He drove the makeshift-cross deep into the soil just beyond the highway’s shoulder, and left as the rose behind him. If it lives; it eats.

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