Just A Light Reading for the Holidays

Greetings Everyone,

I've found myself writing quite a few darker stories recently so I decided to do something a little lighter for this week's prompt. With the combination of my short story group using "Whodunit" as their weekly challenge theme and me having recently read "The Blue Carbunkle" to my son as a bedtime story, I felt inspired. Though I don't normally write fanfic, I thought this story would be fun and I can rarely resist the temptation of trying to mimic another author's writing style.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys it. I would love some feedback. And I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season!

James Meadows

"The Dirty Letter"

by James J Meadows III

It was a typical cool spring day in London, during the year of 1884, when the rounds of my practice drew me past Baker Street and the quarters I once shared with my illustrious colleague Sherlock Holmes. Finding myself with an hour or so before my next appointment, I decided to drop in upon my friend and catch up on recent events. My appearance found Holmes bent low above his desk, intent upon the study of a small parcel of folded parchment. He looked up as I entered, his face flushed with delight.

“Ah, Watson,” he cried. “Come in! Come in!”

“I perceive, I am interrupting,” I said. “Perhaps I should return at a later time. You are no doubt employed upon a case at present.”

Holmes gave a laugh then gestured toward my customary armchair beside the fireplace.

“Not at all,” he said. “Please stay. I always enjoy having my chronicler partake of my cases, though I doubt my current case will be much for your records.”

I took my seat beside the fire, basking in its glow. The long morning spent traversing through the crisp spring air, though refreshing, was far from ideal for a man of my constitution. I found myself quite grateful for a momentary escape from its icy chill. I turned back to Holmes and leaned my cane upon the table beside me.

“So, you are employed upon a case, then?” I asked.

“Not employed upon one at present,” he answered. “I have merely the prospect of one, promised by the words of this note, whose associated case may or may not prove to be of interest to me. In the meantime, however, I am dedicated to the much more instructive challenge of deducing what can be learned about the author of this note and solving those mysteries within our power to answer concerning the writer’s identity.”

He held up the parchment with his typical flourish before tossing it to me in a laissez-faire manner.

“Tell me, Watson,” he said. “What do you make of it?”

I caught the parcel in my hands. It turned out to be an envelope, composed of fairly inexpensive paper and labeled with a stamp showing a small white rose. A folded note lay stuffed inside the envelope, which I now extracted with appropriate care, lest an inadvertent slip cause me to damage or distort some trace of evidence otherwise useful in unraveling this mystery. The note was composed of similarly cheap paper, badly smeared with foul-smelling dirt, and written in a messy scrawl. Upon its surface, I read the words:

Dr. Mr. Holmes,

I need your help on an emportint problem. I will arrive at your house at 11 o clock.

Yours,

B.P.

I looked back at Holmes. He had now lit his pipe and sat smiling across from me with the familiar mischievous expression that often marked his more playful moods.

“Well, Watson, you know my methods,” he said. “What do you make of it?”

Lifting the note close to my eyes, I scrutinized the document, attempting to use the tactics I had more than once seen employed by my companion. For several minutes I stared at its messy surface looking for the slightest clue on its page. At length, I lowered it and handed the note back to him.

“I can make out very little, I’m afraid,” I answered. “The writing is untidy and unsteady, perhaps from the hand of someone intoxicated with too much drink. That might also explain the misspellings and the bizarre odor which seems to hang over the page.”

“Ah,” Holmes said smiling, “You have made some very interesting observations. I am afraid, however, that you have missed the items of particular importance and, in so doing, have drawn some erroneous conclusions.”

“What do you read then,” I asked reproachfully.

“I have only taken a precursory glance at it, so far,” Holmes answered. “Yet, from my abbreviated study, I suspect we shall find the author to be a rather careless, left-handed child,” Holmes answered. “One who is from the area of Yorkshire, lives on a farm, and spends a great deal of time outside tending animals.”

“Surely you jest, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “How can you come up with all that from just this simple letter.”

“Come, my dear, Watson,” Holmes replied, with the air of a man long-suffering. “Even after I have told you the conclusions can you still not see the simplicity of the inferences? Once I explain it to you, I am sure you will, no doubt, see them and say the entire supposition was plain as day. Then I will find myself relegated to the role of just another circus-style charlatan!”

My companion often went on such rants when forced to reveal the source of his conclusions. I waited patiently for him to finish, knowing his somewhat theatrical manner would be unable to resist the temptation of displaying his art.

“The most important clue is the stamp,” Holmes said, at last, indicating the image of a white flower stamped upon the envelope. “These generally show a symbol important to the region where they are printed. The white rose is the emblem of the county of Yorkshire. There are few major cities in Yorkshire, as the country is relatively unspoiled, and the majority of its citizens live on farms. The possibility of our mysterious author living on such a stead is advanced by the regular smears of dirt. Further, the dirt possesses a strange smell, indicative of the mud and grime associated with animal pens and stables. This suggests our author raises animals, furthering the suggestion of a farm. Finally, someone who works outside with animals is most likely male.”

“Well, that is simple enough,” I agreed. “What about the left-handedness and carelessness?”

“The dirt,” he responded, gesturing toward the letter. “The dirt is on top of the ink. This means their hand hit the ink after it finished writing the words. Such smears are a clear sign of left-handedness since the side of a left-hander's palm passes over their writing while the right-hander’s palm moves across the page before the writing. Carelessness is indicated by the fact that he drags his hand across the page as he writes, leaving these dirty smears, rather than making the effort to lift his hand up to avoid contacting the ink. It is further emphasized by his forgetting to add the apostrophe in the word, ‘o’clock’.”

“But a man could make those same mistakes,” I responded. “Why must the author be a child?”

“Because the writing is not rushed and yet the scrawl is untidy,” Holmes answered. “You will notice how hard he presses on the paper. Pressing that hard on the paper requires a great deal of effort and involves writing very slowly. Someone writing in a hurry would not take so long and press so hard. Only a child, trying to steady his hand as he works on making the unfamiliar letters, would press so hard and still produce such shaky writing.”

“Could he not simply be a drunkard, making an effort to steady a shaky hand,” I asked.

“That would be a reasonable suggestion, except that even while intoxicated, a drunkard, who is stable enough to write a coherent letter, will know how to spell the word, ‘important’. The word is quite a common one used in correspondence. It is much more likely the author is a child, who, lacking more advanced education, simply guessed at the spelling of a word he hadn’t previously written.”

“You have an answer for everything,” I replied. “What do you suppose he wants?”

“That, I believe, we will find out shortly,” Holmes answered, “For, unless I am greatly mistaken, that is his ring upon the bell.”

As he spoke, the doorbell rang. I heard Ms. Hudson’s steps as she crossed the room to open the door. No sooner did the door below issue its opening creak than a cry of dismay arose from the lips of our landlady. The visitor’s footsteps raced past her without the slightest hesitation or invitation to enter. This sound was soon followed by the noise of light feet scurrying up the stairs. Upon the following instant, we found the door to the chamber flung open and a little boy rushing inside.

He wore the poor clothing of a farmer and carried a long crooked staff in his hands.

“Mister Holmes,” the boy cried desperately. “You must help me. My name is Bo Peep. I’ve lost my sheep and I don’t know where to find them!”

The Voice

Greetings Again!

This story is the first completely new story I have posted to this blog - I just finished just yesterday - so I would love to get some feedback on it. It was written in response to my writing group's prompt for this week: Fireworks. It is entitled The Voice and I hope everyone enjoys it!

The Voice

By James J Meadows III

Some people might have felt sorrow. I did not. Looking out from the cavern’s mouth, high up on the ancient mountainside, I felt only anger as I surveyed the distance houses sprawled along the bank of an ancient lake, whose depths held mysteries mankind had yet to penetrate. What secrets lay concealed within its gloomy waters; what treasures waited hidden beneath its murky waves; what dangers lurked just below the glassy surface of the seemingly placid exterior, few speculated.

Most people were content to merely throw their nets in after the fish or sail their boats across to distant towns. Or, on nights like tonight, they were content to float their boats lazily upon the waters shooting fireworks high into the air for the amusement of children, who, somewhere in the distance, raced to and fro through the city streets shouting in excitement. This was my home. Once I had been one of those children. But I was not a girl anymore. I was a woman. And I would be even more than that when I returned.

“They look happy don’t they,” hissed a dark voice beside my ear. “Look how they laugh and play, oblivious to all except the shallow pleasure of the flashing lights distracting their puny minds from the darkness lingering within themselves.”

A chill rose up my spine. Not so much because of the words. Rather because of the icy tone of the voice speaking them. Hairs rose upon my arms, silent monoliths perched atop hills of goose pimples, forming a checkered landscape from the tips of my wrists to the tops of my shoulders. I didn’t turn to look at the speaker. I knew there would be nothing there. The stories said so.

“They are fools,” I said, trying to maintain my wits. “They revel in ignorance, abandoning curiosity, meaning, and the greater mysteries of life to seek safety within delusion’s shallow folds. I seek more.”

“You seek me,” the voice stated.

I said nothing. My heart was beating so hard and fast, I thought my chest would burst. I didn’t trust my voice to remain strong.

“Silence?” it hissed. “Do you give me no answer?”

“I seek that which you can give me,” I said finding my voice at last.

“Is that why you climbed the mountain?” The voice asked. “Is that why you risked your life to ascend the steep slopes? Is that why you ran away?”

“I didn’t run away,” I snapped, turning to face the open air beside me. Upon seeing nothing there, I turned to face the darkness of the cave behind me. “I’m not running away from anything! I’m running toward everything!”

“Oh, are you?” the words now came from behind me, drifting lazily to my ears from the open air beyond the cliff face. “Why must it be so? Money, family, homes, spouses, and security all lay below you. Don’t you want any of those? What more does a young woman desire than the town can give you?”

“Answers,” I said, whirling around as quickly as I could to face the direction from which the voice echoed.

I glanced all around me, desperate to see something. The voice’s every word, slithering through the gloom, sent shivers through my body, forcing my knees to buckle and quiver until I could hardly stand on my already weary feet. If I could just see the source of the mysterious voice, I was sure I could find my courage. No source appeared, however. Only darkness greeted my gaze wherever I turned.

“Why should you want answers?” the voice asked. “Are there really questions so enchanting that they are worth giving up all to know? Should you really be asking such questions at all?”

“People tell me I shouldn’t,” I answered, somewhat sheepishly.  “They say some questions shouldn’t be answered. They tell me I should remain content to be who and what I am, content to know who and what I know, to be like a child who refuses to open their closet door for fear of the monster which may lurk within.”

My voice grew strong as I finished the last sentence. Years of anger and frustration, of repression and revulsion burst from me as I yelled my words in defiance from the mountaintop. Fireworks added strength to my words as they detonated in a chorus of explosions, emphasizing each furious outburst erupting from the volcano of my lips, scorching the open air with my wrath.

“But I won’t do it! I’m not going to sit and bury my head in the sand! I refuse to spend my years slaving away like a simpleton, surrounded by ignorant buffoons lacking the courage to open their eyes and see the reality waiting on the other side of their shut-up lids! Too long have I lived in a greedy world that hordes her cryptic secrets like an insatiable miser clinging to his coins lest the least of them touch the starving masses banging upon his door? I want to know those secrets! I want to see the sparkling jewels of truth displayed before me! I want to feel them, to soak in their glory, to bathe in their riches! I don’t want to be the world’s slave! I want to be…”

Here I paused as I realized the words I was about to utter.

“You want to be its master!” The voice finished the words for me.

There was a twinge of delight in the voice which made me even more uncomfortable. I could only nod my head in affirmation, wishing more than anything else in the world at that moment, that I had kept my mouth shut; wishing that I had listened to all the people who told me to be content; wishing I were anywhere right now, other than here.

“Of course you do!” The voice’s hiss turned into a sort of coo. The gently spoken words only made the voice creepier and the chills sharper. “Why shouldn’t you? Why would anyone want to stay enslaved to the lies and laws of a cruel master like ignorance when they can weld the truth like a scepter over the head of that ancient slave driver? I can help!”

My growing apprehension told me I should shut up and say no more. Yet the pride and selfish desire, which had driven me with tattered skirt and battered tresses through the dark forests and up the steep slopes of this mountain; which had compelled me to trek for days without food or water and pushed me onward through cuts, tears, and bloody knees to ascend to the mysterious cave where no sane villager would go; refused to let me stay quiet. My eyes narrowed and my brow furled with unwavering determination as I uttered one word.

“How?”

            The sound of the distant fireworks faded as an eerie silence engulfed me. A blaze of light, clear and bright as the noonday sun, pierced the night air. It was coming from the cave behind me. I spun around to see a sight beyond comprehension.

            Row upon row of books stretched before me in an endless line reaching toward infinity. Like silvery monoliths glistening beneath the glow of a moonless sky, they basked in the illumination of a light lacking any visible source. Each tome seemed to call to me, whispering of secrets and powers long forgotten over the ancient eons of man. I found myself drifting toward them almost unconsciously as their magnetic allure drew me into their folds.

            “Go on,” the voice cooed. “Take them!”

A warning somewhere within the distant recesses of my mind tried to still my footsteps.

            “What are they?” I managed to ask, fighting to free myself from whatever hypnotic pull the vision had over me.

            “Knowledge,” came the quiet whisper. “All the knowledge of all the ages; secrets of this world and every world; answers to every question ever asked and even those not asked, since the dawn of this time and every time; all await you within. You need merely to touch them.”

            I drifted forward. Cries from the depth of my mind pleaded caution, telling me to go back, begging me with every footfall not to take another step. Their silent call touched my dazed mind. I took my eyes off the books and turned away from the cave gazing into the open air, trying to clear my thoughts. The fireworks were still going off above the faraway village. Their explosions came in quick pairs, the faint cracks taking the shape of harsh words echoing their gentle entreaty, the first pop saying “come” and the second “back”.

            “Take them,” the voice hissed again.

            Images swam before my eyes, ripples of light and color forming visions of glory and grandeur. I saw myself towering over the children on the school grounds who once spat upon me and mocked my bookish nature. Like a colossus, I rose over the teachers who once cursed me for questioning them and berated my arrogance. No more would I be the foolish girl who didn’t know her place in the world, no longer would I be the silly woman cursed with the plague of too much questioning and not enough obeying! I would have freedom! I would have power! I would have everything!

            As though responding to these images, a distant part of my brain fought to recall memories of playing with friends, the warmth of kind strangers, and the feeling of my parents’ love. These visions sought to take shape in my mind, yet they paled before the nightmarish memories of the insults, jeers, scorn, and abuse suffered at the hands of numerous hateful antagonists.

            “They should be punished,” the voice cooed, as though sensing my thoughts. “I know the pain they caused you. I know what it’s like to suffer slander and debasement from the spiteful masses who lack your curiosity; who want to keep you dumb and powerless. You don’t have to endure them any longer. Vengeance is within your grasp. All the secrets, all the knowledge, all the power they are too weak to seek is right before you. All you have to do is grab it!”

            I found my head turning back toward the cave and my body drifting through the opening. Again the warnings sounded but I silenced them. There would be no turning back, there would be no more stalling! I wanted this knowledge! I needed this knowledge! I needed it now!

            As though in answer to these thoughts, a book lifted on its own from the shelf and floated toward me. I drifted toward it, sinking deeply into the light until I stood just inches from its gleaming cover. It opened before my gaze, revealing words and letters written in some foreign alphabet whose bizarre markings assumed unfamiliar crooked shapes like stick figures penned in golden ink against the silver leaflets. Somehow I seemed to know their meanings. The words shaped themselves into letters, which seemed to float off the page and into my mind.

            Soon other books on other shelves were drifting off their cases and spiraling around me. The pages flipped and their words lifted, flowing like water through me. All the secrets of the universe; the secrets of the universes before the universe; all the mysteries of space and time and mysteries beyond space and time; all the wisdom and knowledge of ancient races, current races, and races yet to come; all coalesced inside me, melding with me, assimilating into my consciousness in a whirl of knowledge, insights, and revelations. The words soaked into my body.

            Or so I thought. A sudden and horrifying realization occurred to me. I didn’t have a body.

          

            A shout of surprise arose from me, echoing down the long hallway, though I no longer possessed a body to give such a shout. I had no feeling, no touch, and yet I could see all around me and hear all around me. Little more than a disembodied floating voice, I could speak, think, and observe my surroundings. What I couldn’t do, however, was move. I seemed to have melded into the light, a captive imprisoned within its glow.

            As I processed this revelation, I saw my body standing outside the cave staring at me. Or, at least, what had once been my body. It wasn’t my body anymore. A small, cruel smile spread across the lips and a wicked gleam glittered in the eyes, which had once both been my own.

            “You cannot imagine how many centuries I have waited for someone to take my place and release me to travel the world once more,” a cruel icy voice hissed from my lips. “And I cannot tell you how many centuries you shall have to wait before someone is foolish enough to take your place and release you back into the world. If it is any consolation, there is one thing I can tell you. The vengeance you dreamed of in your images and retributions you longed to inflict upon those who wronged you, shall come to pass. It won’t exactly be you who inflicts them. But they shall come to pass nonetheless. May you enjoy your newfound knowledge.”

            With these words, I watched my body turn and start back toward the town, resting on the shore of a lake whose dark secrets, I now knew only too well. From within my prison, I watched helplessly as the creature possessing my body advanced toward the unsuspecting village. And the fireworks greeted its return.

The Dark Discovery

Greetings,

I thought this short story was lost for the longest time. For the last couple of years, I tried to find it but couldn't figure out where I might have saved it. I finally stumbled upon it on an old flash drive a few weeks ago. 

The story was the result of a critique and challenge I received from one of my early short story groups. An individual within the group complained that the magical system in my stories was too simplistic. They felt using magic needed to be more difficult and costly to use. So, they challenged me to come up with such a system. So, when the next week's prompt was "Discovery", I wrote the following story. It is probably the darkest of any story I can remember writing. I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to get feedback!

Thanks,

James

Dark Discovery

by James J Meadows III

Gladia smiled as she gazed at the beautiful bonsai tree basking in the sunlight flowing through her bedroom window. The lush leaves glittered cheerfully before her eyes, tender emerald friends sending soft thank yous for the refreshing water she had just given them. Beside the bonsai, African violets rested on her window seal, their purple blossoms shining like amethysts plucked from the jewels of Solomon himself.  Next to them lay the pink and yellow hibiscus. Beside it stood her Oxalis.

Everything had its place in her bedroom. It was like a mini-arboretum housing her botanical family. She nurtured them, sang to them, and took delight in the growth of each new stem and the bloom of each new flower. She even gave them names.

They were not her only family, either. On a dresser nearby, her white hamster, Noah, rattled merrily away on its wheel. In a separate cage, her guinea pigs, Fluff and Puff, munched happily on their food while her beagle, Patches, slept at her feet. She loved her family.

Gladia loved her real family too. The problem was, they weren’t around as much. Her mother was a district manager of a chain of stores and spent much of her time traveling around the state. Her father was a lawyer and, though he did his best to feed her and show her attention, his work often left him locked in his room, rifling through important documents and typing long legal discourses, like he was today. It was a hard life for a ten-year-old. Fortunately, she had her other family to keep her company. Her plants and pets were always there for her.

She turned her gaze away from the plants and, with a deep sense of dread, her eyes fell upon her desk and the homework awaiting her. She couldn’t afford to distract herself from it forever or else she would fail her classes. That would certainly get her parent’s attention and not in the way she wanted. On the other hand, if she got straight A’s, her parents would buy her another plant or maybe even another animal to keep her company through the lonely days. She picked up her pencil and looked at the first question on the printout before her.

“Margaret has a chocolate fountain with 1 gallon of chocolate. It takes 2 ounces of chocolate to coat a strawberry. If Margaret coats 16 strawberries, how many ounces of chocolate are left?”

Gladia put her pencil to her lips, thinking back to the previous day’s lesson. If she remembered correctly - which, as one of the top students in her grade, she usually did - a gallon was 128 ounces. If she dipped sixteen strawberries into a gallon of chocolate and each strawberry took away 2 ounces what would she have? A really tasty treat, she thought, smiling in spite of herself. Cherries would be even tastier. She liked cherries much better than strawberries, although she imagined they would be harder to dip in a chocolate fountain.

She had only seen a chocolate fountain once, during one of her father’s business lunches. It didn’t have cherries, so she didn’t know for sure. She would love to find out, though. She stared ahead at the empty space above her desk fantasizing about a chocolate fountain. In her mind, she could smell the fragrance of chocolate wafting in the air above her, could hear the sounds of running chocolate flowing into the pool of brown paradise at the bottom, and almost see the chocolate rolling like a stream from the top of the mighty tower. She reached her hands out with a childish playfulness, preparing to run them beneath the waterfall of molten sweetness and to lick every delightful drop from each solitary finger.

As she held her hands in front of her, she noticed a slight tingling sensation in her palms. Staring ahead, she realized, to her amazement, that she really could see the fountain sitting before her. It was like a strange ghostly mirage growing more solid with each passing second. The tingling in her hands grew faster and a strong wind whipped through the room shaking her plants furiously. She heard the sound of the dog whining and panicked squeals coming from the excited guinea pigs. Scared, she yanked her hands away.

The vision faded, the tingling stopped, and the wind vanished, leaving her plants still again. She gasped for air, her heart beating feverishly in her chest. She looked around the room. Her dog was on his feet, looking at her with startled agitation. The hamster was off the wheel, his nose sniffing the air in the same manner as the guinea pigs, who had abandoned their food. She didn’t know what had just happened. It was like her desire for the fountain made one start to appear. The experience was strange and terrifying, yet exhilarating at the same time. She longed to try again.

She stared above her desk, willing the fountain to reappear. Nothing happened. She thought back to what she was doing the first time it appeared. She recalled carefully imagining every detail of the fountain. She tried this, focusing on the smell of the chocolate, on the sound of its fluids running down the sides, and the images of its savory goodness flowing like a river before her. Still, nothing happened. Then she remembered the sensation in her hands. Maintaining her vision of the fountain and the intensity of her visualization, she extended her arms in front of her with an all-consuming thirst for the fountain to return.

The strange tingling returned to her fingers. Within seconds, the wind arose again within the room, shaking her plants with the fury of a hurricane. The dog whined loudly. The hamsters and guinea pigs scurried around their cages frantically and Gladia let out a laugh of triumph. The fountain reappeared before her, chocolate oozing from its crown-like lava erupting from a volcano. It was a ghostly image at first, growing darker, clearer, and more substantial as the wind picked up and the tingling in her hands turned into a red hot blaze resembling frost-bitten skin plunged into warm water. Lost within the depth of her excitement, Gladia felt no pain.

The vision grew steadier and steadier until she gazed in amazement and delight at the newly formed fountain sending ripples of creamy chocolate cascading down its edges with a splendor befitting Niagara. She remembered her homework. She looked down at the blank worksheet, longing for her homework to be finished, visualizing words and answers taking shake upon the page.

Burning sensations scorched her hands like the fires of Nebuchadnezzar, so intense they turned the skin a violet shade more vibrant than the flowers on her window seal. The wind whipped through the room, almost lifting her into the air and stirring her blond hair into a furious swirling mass. Somewhere in the distance, she heard her dog howling with terror yet she paid it no might. Like a drunk intoxicated by the incredible sensations sweeping her body, she threw her head back and roared with unrestrained laughter.

Words appeared on the pages before her. One letter appeared, followed by another, followed by another. Numbers and lines manifested across the once-blank surface like invisible ink revealed by the heat rising from a smoking stove. Pages flipped, as though they were coins tossed through the air by invisible hands, and the writing scrolled faster and faster until the entire packet was complete.

Gladia lowered her arms. The wind stopped. The tingling sensation in her hands died down to a dull throb and the strange euphoria gave way to clear thought. Everything was still. Her breaths came in sharp gasps and her heart pounded from the intensity of the moment.

A chocolate fountain towered above her in breathless grandeur, more glorious than the Eiffel Tower, spouting its endless sugary essence as an offering to her palate. Beside it rested her completed homework. She examined the front and back of each page. Every question was solved and each equation was drawn out in flawless detail per the teacher’s specifications.

In between these two masterpieces, lay a small plate filled with cherries. Heart pounding, she grabbed one and held it into the chocolate. The rich milky-brown liquid coated the red orb with thick layers of tasty decadence. She stuffed the cherry inside her mouth, savoring the tart flavor blending with the bitter chocolate taste. Her eyes closed in ecstasy and a sound of sweet pleasure escaped her lips. She sighed and opened her eyes, beaming with joy.

“It worked,” she said excitedly. “Patches, look what I did.”

She turned to her dog. Her countenance fell instantly and the excitement waned like the light of a failing moon. The beagle lay on his side, his eyes staring blankly ahead of him, his chest still and devoid of movement.

“Patches?” she said. Her voice cracked as the realization set in. She fell to her knees beside the dog, shaking him anxiously, hoping he was playing some silly game and would spring to his feet. His body was as limp as a rag doll. Patches was dead.

Tears filled her eyes. She shook him harder, crying, “Patches, Patches” over and over as though her desperate pleas could force life back into his body. At last, she buried her head in her hands. She turned toward the window where light flowed into the room.

“Dear God, please don’t let him be dead,” she wailed, gazing into the light. It was then that she saw her plants. Their once vibrant leaves were crinkled and dried like charcoal and their former flowers drooped over the side in withered despair. Her bonsai, her hibiscus, the African violets, they were all dead.

Gladia stood up, backing away from the plants and the dog, backing away from the fountain and the solved homework. Her mouth fell open. Her lips moved in wordless agitation as she pressed herself against the wall, shaking her head, trying to escape the nightmare she found herself trapped inside. She turned toward the cages. The sight was no better. Her hamster lay on its side while empty sockets glared where guinea pig eyes once rested.

She had killed them. She had killed her plants. She had killed her pets. She had killed her adopted family; all for the sake of some chocolate and homework. This couldn’t be possible. They couldn’t be dead. They mustn’t be dead. It had to be some horrible dream.

“Daddy!” she screamed. Turning on her heels, she raced out the door, leaped down the stairs, and charged toward her parent’s room, still shouting for her dad. No voice responded to her cry.

In the Necromancer's Lair

Greetings,

This short story was inspired by a short story prompt called "Dramatic Entrance". The story is written to stand alone, although my long-time readers will recognize the characters from the adventures of Annie and her Psuedo-Dragon which I first started writing in My Grandmother's Pendant and continued in Voices and Visions in a Dark Wood.

As always, I appreciate and enjoy any feedback! Let me know what you think. Also, if there are every any story ideas or prompts you'd like to send my way for me to try, let me know!

Have a Great Week!

James

"In the Necromancer's Lair"

by James J Meadows III

                “To restore balance to the worlds, you must retrieve the Pendant of the Last Kingdom. The ancient mystical talisman can be found in the stronghold of the Necromancer, the ancient lord of death. Find his lair, hidden within the secret kingdom of Radash, and return the pendant back to us. Or all will be lost.”

            Those were the seer’s words, which started this whole mission almost three weeks ago.

Now, I stood at the door to the Necromancer’s lair. Disguised as a small stone house in the middle of the city, it was the perfect camouflage, one which sent me on a two week long goose chase around town trying to find it.

Who knows? If not for the tip from a stranger at the local bar, I might still be searching for another three weeks - perhaps longer.

            “Remember, if all the legends are true, getting the pendant from him will not be easy,” whispered my invisible pseudo-dragon companion, Llander, his high pitched voice coming from just to my right. “He is said to be extremely powerful, capable of roasting us with nothing more than a flick of his wrist. We will need to move fast before he can do so.”

            I nodded, still staring at the door. Summoning my courage, I approached the barrier, advancing up the sidewalk until I stood almost directly in front of it. This was absolutely nuts.

I was just a simple teenage girl, with no notable powers, skills, or talents. Heck, I wasn’t even from this world. How could the great seer expect me, of all people, to defeat the mysterious necromancer, recover the lost Pendant, and restore balance to the worlds?

“Alright,” I said, my head spinning as I tried to wrap my mind around what I was about to do. “We will need to catch him off guard, I will try to keep him distracted while you rush in and grab the pendant.”

“How do you plan to do that?” my companion asked.

“Not sure,” I answer. “What I need is some sort of dramatic entrance, something no one will expect?”

“You are going to enter doing a theater routine?”

“No, not dramatic like that,” I replied, feeling a rush of annoyance at my companion’s usual inability to understand figurative language; it was a flaw all pseudo-dragons possessed. “I mean, dramatic as in do something big and grandiose!”

“You are going to make yourself larger?”

“No,” I said, my annoyance increasing. “I mean like bursting into the door, creating a lot of noise, something that will catch him off-guard so he won’t be able to take immediate action.”

“Oh,” my companion mused. “You are going to burst through the door? But won’t it be locked?”

I hesitated. Come to think about it, I never considered how we would actually open the door. In all the fantasy novels I always read, or various video games I played, you typically just walked inside the evil villain’s dungeon and confronted him.

“Um, I don’t suppose you have some sort of magic that can unlock a door?” I asked.

“That isn’t really a part of my race’s abilities,” he answered. “Maybe you can kick the door in?”

If I could see my companion, I would have rolled my eyes at him. I was five foot two and weighed one hundred pounds. I was more likely to get blown away by a breeze than kick in a door.

“Why don’t you kick it open,” I asked. “Your race is, like, part-dragon or something, isn’t it? Don’t you have some sort of supernatural strength?”

“I’m one foot tall and weigh about ten pounds, what do you think?”

“Well, we’ve got to figure out some way in!” I said, with no small amount of exasperation.

“If you’ll step aside, I have the key,” a deep voice sounded from behind me. “I can open the door for you.”

            A chill ran up my spine as I turned to see a tall black-robed figure towering above me. He had narrow grey lips, thin sallow skin, and long white hair flowing down from beneath the low hood.

            For a moment, I stood paralyzed with fear, gazing into his bloodshot eyes. I didn’t need an introduction to know I stood in the presence of the mysterious Lord of Death, who the seer had told me about; the one capable of turning me into a pillar of dust with just a word. He had apparently walked straight up to us while we were debating, without us even noticing. Now, we would pay.

            I stood there, holding my breath, waiting for my doom.

Nothing happened. He just continued standing there staring at me for a second, before making a slight gesture with his right hand, which I now realized was holding a key, as though requesting me to move out of the way.

            With a quick nervous step, I moved aside. To my surprise, he proceeded right past me, with complete nonchalance, placing the key into the door, twisting it, and pushing it open. He then turned around, looking at something behind me, and waved his hand. I looked back and realized there was a small cart full of vegetables, meats, and various other supplies sitting on the lawn, a short distance behind where he stood a moment before.

            In response to his wave, the cart rolled forward, advancing through the door and down a short hallway visible within. He took a couple of steps after it before turning around.

            “Are you coming?”

            I stood irresolute for a second. This was not in any way what I was expecting. My instinct was to look at my companion for advice. Then, I remembered he was invisible. I was on my own with this decision. Still, it wasn’t like I had any better plan of what to do next. So I went ahead.

            He led me through an entry hall, into a large sitting room attached to a kitchen. I followed him in before giving a sudden scream of fear, backing into the wall behind me. The kitchen and sitting room were filled with walking skeletons, their bones, teeth and eyeless skulls devoid of all flesh, organs and decorations, save for the dirty, moth-eaten clothes hanging from their frames.

            Our host ignored my outcry.

            “Roger,” he called, addressing one of the skeletons. “Fetch some drinks for our guests.”

The skeleton replied with a rather rude gesture, involving one hand and one finger.

            "Don’t you give me any lip,” our host snarled. “Just do it! That’s an order!”

            The skeleton retreated into the kitchen as our host turned back to us. Meanwhile, other skeletons began collecting the various foods, wines, and supplies from his cart, placing them into cupboards and spaces around the kitchen.

            “The undead can be such a pain at times,” he said, with a small sigh. “But if I don’t keep them in line, the wandering hordes will go wreaking havoc across the kingdom like they used to. Please, sit down.”

            He gestured toward a series of plush armchairs and couches. I took a seat on the nearest one, feeling completely bewildered.

            “Anyway,” he said, taking a seat across from me. “You must be Annie.”

            “How did you know my name?” I asked, rather surprised, not just at his knowledge of my name but also at the fact that he called me by it. Though I always introduced myself by name, so far no one else in this world had used it.

            “I know a lot of things,” he answered. “Your name is just one of them, though if you’d rather me call you ‘Light Child’ like everyone else, I will do so.”

            “No, please, call me Annie,” I said, feeling a rush of relief.

In some ways, it was nice to actually have what seemed like a normal conversation with someone; though, at the same time, considering I hadn’t met a single other person in this world who seemed capable of such conversations, this only added to the already surreal quality of the scene.

            All-in-all, though, holding a conversation was much better than the alternative. I only hoped my companion was taking advantage of this time to look for the pendant. As I had no way to tell, I decided I would just keep the conversation going as long as possible and hopefully buy some time.

            “Do you have a name?” I asked.

            “Probably,” he answered. “I couldn’t tell you what it is, though. No one has called me by it for centuries. They always call me by various pseudonyms and titles. After a while, I just forgot what it was.”

            “Oh,” I replied, unsure quite where to take the conversation from here.

            Fortunately, the skeleton, dubbed Roger, came back about that time carrying a pair of glasses and a small ceramic container, which reminded me forcibly of a dog bowl. He handed one glass to the Necromancer, one to me, and placed the bowl on the ground beside me. They were all filled with a strange, glowing, greenish-liquid. The drink in the bowl started getting lapped up as soon as it touched the ground - so much for my companion scouring the place for the pendant.

            I studied the drink, feeling somewhat apprehensive.

            “It isn’t poisoned or drugged or anything,” my host replied.

            “That is okay, pseudo-dragons are immune to poisons,” came my companion’s voice from beside me.

            “Yeah, I know,” the necromancer responded. “I was talking to her – Earthlings aren’t.”

            “How do you know the world I’m from?” I asked. I was growing more than a bit unnerved by his seemingly vast knowledge of me. “And how do you know what my race is and isn’t immune to?”

            He gave a small laugh.

            “My dear young lady, they wouldn’t have appointed me Keeper of the World Pendants, if I didn’t have a pretty good knowledge of the various worlds,” he replied. “I suppose that is what you came here for, after all. Here you go.”

            The necromancer reached into his robes, withdrawing a large golden medallion, featuring a bright blue circular gem situated inside a ring of gold, attached to a thick chain necklace. I recognized it instantly as the one my grandmother used to always wear. He tossed it over to me in a haphazard manner. I caught it, even more confused than before.

            “You’re just giving this to me?” I asked.

            “Of course,” he replied, “Why not? You’re the rightful bearer, chosen by the previous bearer to take over their legacy. Plus, you passed the first test.”

            “What test?” I asked.

            “Finding me,” he answered, “and having the courage to confront me.”

            “But, you haven’t been dangerous at all,” I replied. “What kind of test is that?”

            “A real one,” he said. “Many of the greatest fears people face are in their heads. Being able and willing to face and overcome your own internal fears is the first step to facing the real fears and dangers which confront you the rest of the way.”

            “The rest of the way…” I said, my voice trailing off as the realization dawned that this might only be the first test.

            “My dear, did the seer not talk to you about the many vile forces seeking to throw the worlds out of balance for their own dark schemes?” He asked. “Do you really believe obtaining the pendant and returning to your world will be so easy with such enemies?”

            “I guess, I hoped,” I replied.

He smiled at those words.

            “But what does this pendant have to do with anything?” I pressed. “This is just a simple necklace that my grandmother used to wear. What does it have to do with bringing balance and safety to the worlds?”

            “Each world in our multi-verse of worlds has a pendant associated with it,” he answered. “This world, being the center of all worlds, is the repository from which they are distributed. Within each world, there is one bearer of their pendant, who is tasked with guarding and protecting it.”

            “Your grandmother took on the responsibility when she came to this world ages ago,” he continued. “When she passed away, she willed you to be the next guardian.”

            “Then, why didn’t she just give it to me herself?” I asked. “Why did I get brought into this world?”

            “The pendant must attune itself to the wearer, if it will give them the power of their world,” he said. “While you wear the pendant in your world, you will attract all the blessings, joys and happiness of your world; or else, you will attract all the pain, grief and suffering of your world. It all depends upon you! If you are to unlocked the good and benevolent powers of the pendant, you must learn to attune yourself to it and unlock its secrets. These things can only be done here.”

            “So, what do I do now?”

            “Now?” He asked. “Well, you can finish your drink for one. Then, I would put the pendant on. Afterward, I encourage you to head back to the seer. I expect as you travel there, your next step will be revealed to you. Be open to the power of the pendant and its messages. Do so, and the whole world, and the secrets of all the worlds, will open up to you. Protect it, for dark forces want the medallion for themselves, and will try to prevent your unlocking it.”

            I studied the pendant, twirling it around in my hands. I felt myself reeling from the shock of all I had just heard. I took a sip from my drink as I thought about everything I had gone through. The drink possessed a odd, sweet flavor which reminded me, strangely, of flowers. My mind was too preoccupied to enjoy it, though.

Only ten minutes ago, I had stood at the door, trying to figure out a way to make a dramatic entrance so I could get the pendant. Now, a part of me wished I could make a dramatic exit to get rid of it.

            Yet, the weight of the obligation, and the knowledge of the faith everyone had in me, stayed my hand. I could see the concerned faces of the seer and her people, asking me to help them. I couldn’t let them down. I put the pendant around my neck, placed down my drink, and rose from the chair.

            “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your straight-forward answers. You are the only one who has given me any. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll see myself out.”

            With those words, I strode boldly back toward the door and the waiting world beyond. 

Harbinger of a New Age

Greetings Everyone,

This week's story was based on my short story group's writing prompt "New Age". What makes it a little different is that the story is geared more toward the Young Adult genre, with a focus taking place in high school. I am considering making a longer novel out of it as I get the time.
In the meantime, I would enjoy getting any feedback!

Hope everyone is having a great week!

James Meadows

"Harbinger of a New Age"

by James J Meadows III

                Even the darkest tale of depravity, corruption, and power begins somewhere. Mine, I suppose, began as I crossed the hallway to my ninth grade reading class.

                “Hey!” I shouted, as my books were batted from my hands and scattered across the crowded hallway.

                “Oops, sorry,” snickered a large, robust black-haired boy holding a soda in this hand.

                His name was Broderick. He and the three friends flanking him were four of the school’s best athletes, biggest bullies, and most arrogant jerks. Not that they were alone in most of those traits. Since moving to Huntington, I had gotten the rather distinct impression that the last two categories covered about 90% of the students, all of whom could get away with it if they happened to fall into the first category.

                I, on the other hand, being one of the shortest and scrawniest kids in the entire class, only about four and a half-feet tall, was far from falling into any of those categories. As such, I was a perfect target to be picked on by all of those who did.

                Intent upon not giving them additional reasons or opportunities to abuse me and eager to get to my next class, I bent down to collect my books, which were being not-so-helpfully, kicked around by the passers-by rushing back and forth down the hall. No sooner did my hand touch the first book, then my efforts were awarded by a large spray of coke splattering across the back of my shirt, showering my head and neck.  

                “Oops,” Broderick snickered again, to the guffaws of his entourage. “Someone bumped into me.”

                I tried not to let my anger show on my face. That was exactly what they wanted: to see me react and get upset at their childish antics. Still, I found myself unable to resist the natural urge to shoot a dirty look at them while they laughed. This only caused them to laugh harder. I was about to look away when Broderick’s cell phone rang. A surprised look passed over Broderick’s face.

                “I thought I turned the volume off,” he muttered, yanking the phone from his pocket. I saw him swipe the phone, most likely entering his unlock pattern, and press a button with the words, “Some stupid text.”

                There was a brief pause. I didn’t know what he was reading. What I did know was I had never seen the color drain from someone’s face so quickly in my life. His jaw dropped, his eyes went wide, and I saw him start glancing back and forth down the hallway, as though trying to spot something. What he could be hoping to see amid the ocean of people swarming past was beyond my guess, and from the lost look on his face, he obviously didn’t see it.

                His friends were looking at him puzzled. He just shook his head, staring back at the phone with a look of abject terror. Slowly, he lowered the phone and slid it back into his pocket, looking both nervous and uncomfortable.

                “Here, let me help you pick up your books,” he said in a dazed voice, very foreign to his usual manner.

                Broderick’s friends stared at him in utter disbelief as he bent down and picked up the books. Soon, he and I had collected all of my materials. He even extended a hand to help me off the floor, offering to get me napkins for my hair and face, the latter of which I declined.

                Without another word or look at me, he darted off toward his next class. His puzzled friends followed, demanding to know what had just happened. I stared after them, equally perplexed.

                “You alright?” I heard a voice behind me ask.

                I turned to find myself face-to-face with a young woman I had never met before. She was short, about my own height, with an average build, thick glasses and a severe case of acme, which blended with the divots and freckles already lining her face. If this wasn’t enough to make her stand out, she was wearing a baseball cap, without the slightest hair visible underneath, only smooth skin extending up the length of her head and neck, like the cancer patients one sees on TV.

                More important, though, she had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Just as beautiful, were her eyes. The emerald green orbs sparkled in the light filling the hallway, leaving me breathless as I gazed back into them. For a moment, I just stared at her, completely lost for words. Finally, I managed an embarrassed.

                “Yes, thank you for asking.”

                She continued smiling at me.

                “I don’t think we’ve met before,” she said. “My name is Clarise, though most people tend to call me Claire.”

                “I’m Scott,” I said.

                “Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I just moved here last weekend, but I’ve seen you walking on the way to school in the morning. Someone said you are new here too!”

                “I am,” I said. “Apparently, that gives people a free right to pick on me, although I’m still a bit confused on why Broderick acted the way he did at the end.”

                “He did it because of me,” she said. I looked at her surprised. She was still smiling at me. “I sent him a text on his phone warning him that he better be nice to you or else…well, let’s just say…I made it clear he’d regret it.”

                I wanted to laugh at the idea of a skinny young girl intimidating a big jerk like Broderick. The way she said the words, though, made it clear, they weren’t a joke.

                “Why would he be afraid of you?” I asked.

                “Oh, he didn’t know it was me,” she said. “I just made the message pop-up on his phone, and I turned the volume on to max so he’d hear it.”

                “How did you do that?” I asked, intrigued.

                “Easy,” she said. “He left his Bluetooth on.  I used an app on my phone to find his signal and was able to connect to it. I imagine the pure randomness of receiving an unknown message like that and having someone mess with his phone was enough to throw him off.”

                “That is pretty cool,” I said.

And I meant it. I am something of a nerd when it comes to technology and this trick was something I had never heard of before. She seemed flattered by my interest.

“I can show you how I did it,” she said, excitement evident in her voice.

At that moment, the warning bell sounded, signaling one minute until the start of class. Claire looked around in alarm. The hall was practically empty.

“Oh no, we better go,” she said. “Hey, want to meet at lunch?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll spot for you!”

“Great, see you then,” she flashed me another smile, turned and darted down the hall.

When lunch came, I spotted her sitting in the back corner of the cafeteria, several seats away from everyone, except for another boy and girl seated with her. She spotted me as I entered and waved excitedly at me, her face beaming.

Sack lunch in hand, I crossed the cafeteria toward the group. She signaled for me to take the chair next to her, which I did gladly, once again finding myself admiring the beauty of her smile.

I recognized the two other kids in her group. The overweight and somewhat geeky-looking boy, as if I had a lot of room to talk on the later, was Roger. The girl, a rather shy brunette, with a noticable underbite, which had messed up some of her teeth such that a few were pointed at odd angels and others had large gaps between them, was Samantha. Both of them were a lot like me, kids that were teased more often than not by the bigger and more popular clichés at the school.

Taking a seat, I joined in the light conversation about the school, teachers, and recent homework. As lunch dragged on, however, Claire turned the talk toward more sober topics such as bullying.

“I know I’m new here but I think I’m pretty safe is saying, from what I’ve seen so far, that something needs to be done about the problems of bullying inside this school,” she said. “I mean, look around. Look at the way so many of the people here are treated. The popular kids and the jocks bully around anyone they like, pick on whomever they want, and treat anyone below them as scum. And, because they’re cool or great athletes, the teachers and administration turn a blind eye. Am I right?”

“Well, yes,” said Samantha. Her voice was rather high pitched, which I supposed explained why so many people called her ‘Squeakers’ - I only wished I could say they did so behind her back. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much anyone can do about it.”

“Actually, there is,” Claire said. “If you’ll help me, I can show you how to protect yourselves and all the other kids like you from the bullies.”

“You mean like stand up and fight back?” Roger asked. “No offense, but they are all a lot bigger than us, and I’ve already gotten my face shoved in enough toilets for not doing something they tell me. I’m not eager to invite it.”

“I don’t mean physical force,” Claire said. “I mean, handle them like I handled them today when they were picking on you, or you, or you!”

She pointed at each of us in turn.

“One doesn’t need to use muscles when they can use technology,” she explained. “Look around, the age of brute force is over. There is a new age coming, and it won’t be ruled by people like them. It will be ruled by people like us!”

She paused for a moment, for dramatic effect. We all stared at her, somewhat caught off-guard by the direction this conversation was taking, yet at the same time somewhat inspired by her enthusiasm, which was quite a contrast to the drab and hopeless experience of our school year so far.

“Look, I know I probably sound nuts,” she said. “And I know what I’m saying may be ridiculous on the face of things. But this is a new day. The Bible says, ‘the meek will inherit the earth’ and, I’m here to tell you: that time is now. Technology is opening a new world and those who cling to the old one will be destroyed with it. I’m not trying to be all dark and forbidding, but the truth is: the world is changing. The strong, the athletic, the good-looking, the popular, all who rely upon their little games to get ahead are going to fall to the wayside. It is people who know the secrets of technology who will rule the world.”

“Think about it,” she continued. “In the old days, assassins had to infiltrate places with their guns and find ways to kill their victims. Just last month, a politician was assassinated when a hacker took control of their car over its wifi connection and drove them off a bridge. Then, there was the recent death at a hospital where an attacker killed someone by hacking into their medicine dispensing device to administer an overdose.”

“Wait a minute,” Samantha said. “I will not be involved in killing someone!”

“I’m not asking you to kill anyone,” Claire said. “Sorry, that speech came out all wrong. I’m just trying to say…all I mean, is that we’ve entered an age where wealth, physical fitness, popularity or good looks are no longer the source to power. Knowledge is the new power. And, with it, we can defend ourselves, our friends, and the others at the school, who are just like us, from having to be bullied, beaten, and mistreated. I can teach you tricks that will allow you to protect yourselves the way I protected you from the people who were picking on you earlier. We can be a team.”

“Like the Avengers?” Roger asked. “You mean like heroes using technology to defend people from bad guys and bullies?”

“Exactly,” Claire said. “What do you think?”

“I like the idea,” said Roger. “It would be pretty cool to be a hero and defeat the bullies.”

“Great,” Claire beamed. She turned toward me and Samantha.

“I don’t know,” Samantha said. “I really don’t want to be part of something illegal.”

“You’re saving yourself and other kids from years of being treated like dirt scum,” Claire argued. “Isn’t making the world a better place worth a few risks?”

“Maybe,” Samantha replied uncertain. “I don’t know. Let me think about it. I’m gonna go get a snack from the machine. Anyone want anything?”

No one else did. She got up and left the table, leaving her tray behind.

“What about you, Scott?” Claire asked. “I can show all of the cool things you can do with technology. I know we’re both new here. This is a chance for us to hang out together, get to know each other, and maybe make some new friends like Roger here.”

The thought was tempting. True, I didn’t really want to be involved in anything illegal, but I did like the idea of actually having friends, for a change, and maybe making a positive difference in the school. Truth be told, though, I think the idea of hanging out with her and getting to spend more time gazing into those eyes appealed to me the most.

“Well, I mean, yeah, I’ll give it a try,” I said. “I mean, we can see where things go. I’m always up for learning new things.”

“Good, I’m glad,” she said.

She rested her hand on mine for the briefest moment, giving me a smile, before pulling it back with a nervous gesture, as though she felt she had done something wrong. Thankfully, the awkwardness of the moment was broken by a loud crash. We looked up to see Samantha laying on the floor about halfway down the tables, a bag of chips slipping from her hand and sliding a short distance away.

There was cruel laughter ringing out from everywhere across the cafeteria. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that someone had intentionally tripped her. Now the crowd was enjoying the moment. One of the boys rose from his chair.

“Are you alright?” He asked, in a not very genuine sounding voice. “Here let me give you a hand up.”

He took a step toward her, his large foot coming down directly on top of the bag of chips, which crunched and exploded, sending shattered pieces of Lays across the floor.

“Oops,” the boy said, with a nasty laugh. “Here, let me get them for you.”

Samantha had picked herself off the ground, looking furious. The boy handed her the crunched bag of chips with a smirk. She snatched them from his hands, marching away at a brisk pace while everyone behind her laughed. She reached our spot at the table, slammed down the chips and leaned over the table at us, her eyes blazing.

“I’m in,” she said. “And I want them to be the first people we fix!”

“You got it,” Claire said, her smile taking on a more malicious tone as I watched her eyes drift toward the crowd, still laughing at their prank.

About that moment, the bell rang and everyone began collecting their stuff to go to class.

“Let’s meet here tomorrow and we can start discussing our next move,” Claire said.

Everyone agreed to this plan and we all grabbed our stuff. Roger and Samantha continued toward their classes but Claire grabbed my arm.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you a question,” she said. I noticed she was blushing slightly and she seemed a touch nervous. “I was wondering…I mean, it’s okay if you don’t…if you do, though…I mean, want to meet after school and walk home together.”

She fidgeted slightly from her nerves and her smile wavered momentarily as she gazed anxiously into my face. I smiled.

“I would like that very much,” I said.

Her face broke into a relieved grin.

“Great!” She said excitedly. “See you after school.”

She blushed, looking away, then turned and hurried from the hall, looking back only briefly to give me a small, nervous wave. I watched her go then started toward my class.

            

            For the rest of the day, I found myself thinking of her non-stop, so much so I could hardly concentrate in class. Yet I also found myself thinking about the statements she made, regarding the new age and how the world was changing. There was something dark about the prophesy, though its full impact didn’t strike me at the time. It would, though. Soon, I would understand it only too well.

                  

The Final Panacea

Greetings,

I apologize that I missed my last bi-weekly post. My new daughter Symphony was born last week and has been keeping me a little busy as my wife and I adjust. Fortunately, I'm back in the swing of things right now and am excited to bring you my newest short story. 

I'm also excited to announce that this story was a winning story in W.S.S. Online Magazine for their weekly competition and was posted on their website. Here is the link for anyone interested:

https://wssmag.wordpress.com/2016/05/10/weekly-308-winners/

So I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear any feedback.

Thanks,

James Meadows

"The Final Panacea"

by 

James J Meadows III

Scaly hands gripped each of Carrie’s arms as the two reptilian creatures, slithering along on their snake-like bodies, guided her toward the large podium in the middle of the room. Glistening in the slimy hand of the beast on her right, was her carefully designed dart gun, it’s lethal contents and the mission for which they had been compiled beyond her reach, for now.

Inside the room, numerous metal platforms, elevated high above the underground complex below, wove around towering columns of blinking lights and sparkling gems, stretching beyond sight into the dark abyss. Standing along the rails and edges of the various platforms, gazing at her from above, below and everywhere in between stood a host of creatures, each as hideous as her captors.

Some possessed grotesque bull-like heads resting atop human bodies, while others possessed monkey like bodies with human heads, and still others, like the octopoids, had no discernable shape whatever, besides what they chose to have. There were other creatures, too, far too numerous to list.

Above them, mounted to a control panel, stood a massive crystal, its light rays shooting outward, connecting all the smaller power stations dotting the tiny moon her people called home. Below it, in the center of the platforms, leaning back in his chair, his arm resting lazily upon the central control panel, sat the man she once thought would be the salvation of her people.

The beasts led her forward until she stood only a few yards from him. There, they released her, one advancing past her to place the gun on the control panel beside the man, before retreating back to join his companion.  The man glanced at the gun then at her.

 “So, you are the one they sent to kill me?” He asked. “Wow! I’ve heard of audacity before but this takes the cake; you of all people.”

Carrie thought fast, trying to come up with some way out of this predicament.

“They didn’t send me,” she said. “I volunteered.”

She brushed her long black hair behind her head in a flirtatious gesture.

“I wanted to see you again,” she said, casting him a playful smile that she hoped would hide her anxiety. “I’ve missed you.”

He scowled.

“Pathetic,” he snapped, rising from his chair. “As much practice as your race has telling lies, one would think you’d be better at it.”

“It’s not my race,” she said, indignation evident in her voice. “It’s your race too! You are one of us, not one of these monsters!”

Loud sounds filled the room as the various creatures howled, growled, or shouted in response to her words.

“You better watch who you’re calling monsters,” he said. “They don’t like being called that.”

She fidgeted nervously, feeling beads of sweat form on her forehead as her breathing grew faster.

“Look, Garland, listen to me,” she said, taking a step forward.

“Garland?” he repeated, in mock confusion. “Who is Garland?”

“You are Garland,” she replied, fighting to restrain her annoyance.

“I have a name,” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “How exciting! And here, I always thought I was simply, ‘Subject X13-05CR’!”

He spoke the last words with a furious shout, taking an aggressive step toward her, from which she backed away.

“It was just an identifier,” she said. “We needed a way to…to…”

“Dehumanize me?” he answered. “To turn me into a reference number, like I was just another random genetic creation, bred and grown in a vat, like the rest of them - unworthy of having a future; unworthy of having a life; unworthy of having love.”

He turned away from her, staring over the rail into the flashing lights and darkness beyond. There was a long moment of silence, during which, Carrie could hear the sounds of battle and chaos outside. Soldiers, intending to provide a distraction for her and the team of Special Forces soldiers, had attacked the facility’s near impregnable defenses. From the sound of things, they weren’t having much better luck than she and her now deceased team found.

“Garland, please, listen to me,” she said. “It wasn’t like that, you weren’t like them.”

“Really?” he asked, turning around and taking another aggressive step toward her. “What was I then? Tell me!”

“You were my success,” she said, extending her hands like a beggar, pleading with him. “You were the pinnacle of my creations! You were everything!”

“And what were they?” he asked, gesturing at the others.

“They were failures,” she said. “All science has experiments that go wrong! But I had to keep trying. Don’t you understand? I did it for science!”

This was what she always told herself. From the very first day at her father’s lab, when she was just a teen, to the day she resumed her deceased father’s work, this was her mantra. She was a scientist. The knowledge and the end always justified the means.

“So you locked them up,” he shouted. “You imprisoned them in cages, running endless experiments on them, like animals.”

“They are animals!” She protested. “They are made from animal genes.”

“They are also made from human genes,” he responded. “They can read, think, speak, and feel!”

“Only because we taught them those things,” she said.

“And why do that?” he asked. “If they are nothing but animals, why even bother?”

“It was for science,” she said. “It was an experiment. We needed to know what they were capable of. It’s the same reason we taught you!”

“Of course, it was,” he said. “Because I was just an experiment too, wasn’t I? I was just another test tube baby to poke and prod; another creature to pump full of diseases.”

“We had to,” she argued, pleading for him to understand, tears filling her eyes. “You were special: the experiment that was the culmination of all experiments, with the best genes of every animal and human, a human capable of regeneration.”

“Exactly,” he snapped. “Someone you could pump full of every disease, virus and bacteria until I developed an immunity. Then you could pump out my blood to make a cure for every disease: a panacea to fund your ambitions and further your experiments.”

“It was for science,” she said. “We were trying to create something amazing, something capable of saving lives.”

“But not entitled to one of my own,” he said. “You just wanted to keep me locked up in a small room, attached to hundreds of machines, pumping out my blood while forcing enough liquid and food down my throat to keep me alive.”

“Please, Garland,” she pleaded. “Try to understand. You were unique, a prize creation, the poster boy for our government’s years of endless studies. We had to protect our result, keep it in a safe environment! It was for science! We tried to be fair to you. We gave you videos to watch, books to read; heck, we gave you access to the whole central electronic library of the planet.”

“For science?” he asked, “Because you wanted to see what I was capable of, right?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “We needed to know the limits of our experiment’s capabilities.”

“I’m not an experiment,” he roared. “I’m a man!”

She backed away, fresh beads of sweat forming on her face, tears flowing from her frightened eyes.

“Garland, please,” she pleaded, stepping forward, reaching her hands toward him.

“Get away from me,” he roared, causing her to stumble backwards, into the guards.

“You want to know what we’re capable of?” he hissed. “Let me satiate you ‘scientific curiosity’! Look around at what we’re capable of. We are capable of infiltrating and taking control of the most important and well defending power station on the entire planet! That is what we are capable of!”

“Garland, please!” she pleaded. “Listen to me.”

“Listen to you?” he asked. “Why? So you can tell me more lies?”

He turned away from her again, staring into the abyss.

“I used to listen to you,” he said, his voice growing soft. “You used to come visit me, tell me things. I believed you. I believed the things you told me, the things you said to me; I believed in the things we shared together. I thought they were more than just another lie, more than just another experiment. But that was all they were. You wanted to see what I was capable of. Could a simple experiment, like me, truly feel desire; feel passion; feel love?”

He looked back at her over his shoulders.

“Garland, I…I’m so sorry,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “Please.”

“No,” he said. “I won’t listen anymore. You wanted to know what I’m capable of. Well, now you know! Now everyone knows. The whole world can at last see the results of their science!”

“Garland, I beg of you,” she shouted.

She tried to race toward him, but two sets of scaly arms seized her, holding her back.

“I wrote a song, to express my feelings toward your science,” Garland continued, sitting back down beside the control panel. “Want to hear it?”

He began pressing buttons on the control panel in rapid succession. Each button made a different boop, beep, or chime to confirm the key press. They did form a sort of melody, but it wasn’t one Carrie wanted to hear.

“Garland, no, stop!” she screamed, straining against the guards.

“But why?” he asked, assuming a mocking, innocent tone.

“You’ll flood the system,” she shouted. “The power grid in this station…”

“Is connected to the crystal grid powering the entire planet,” he interrupted his tone cold and cruel. “I know. I had lots of time to read while imprisoned in my cage.”

He continued slamming on buttons, sending bolts of electricity across the machinery on the walls. Multicolored lights, inside the central crystal, swam and swirled, bolts of electricity shooting through them, like the clouds of some rainbow colored lightning storm.

“Garland, stop it, please!” She screamed. “You’ll destroy everything we’ve build! The whole world will be plunged into a dark age! All the knowledge, creations, and science of centuries will be lost forever! The whole planet will be decimated!”

“That’s a good thing!” Garland screamed back, still slamming buttons. “For thousands of years your science has treated the world and its creatures, creatures like us, as pawns to abuse, create and destroy at will, mere experiments for your games! Well, no more! You wanted to create someone capable of curing all the illnesses in the world, of purging disease, of healing all creation! Well, congratulations! You have! I’ve found the disease corrupting this world, and it’s about to get cured!”

The room was practically glowing with the excess energy flooding the defense grids. On the control panel, warning lights flashed danger, while computerized voices announced that the safety switches, designed to prevent overload, had been overridden. Smoke rose from the machinery and creaking noises issued from the crystal. The pressure was building. An explosion was imminent.

“No, Garland, please,” she screamed, tears pouring down her face as she pleaded and struggled. “I beg you, stop! I’ll do anything! I swear, anything! I don’t want to die! Garland, please! They’ll all die too!”

She screamed the last sentence in one desperate attempt to get him to see reason, gesturing at all of her former experiments. Garland paused, his eyes sweeping over the hundreds of half-human creatures watching him from their various posts. His eyes came to rest on Carrie.

“They are like me,” he said, in a calm, sad voice. “We never had lives to begin with. We were just experiments.”

With the last word, he slammed his hand against a lever, smashing it up to the very top. Sounds like a thousand mirrors breaking filled the room as cracks formed on the massive crystal, shooting light in all directions. Tremors, greater and more powerful than anything Carrie had every felt or imagined, rocked the facility, sending creatures staggering against walls, crashing into comrades, and plummeting off railing into the depths below. Even Garland, was shaken out of his seat and hurled onto the floor.

The sentries, holding Carrie’s arms, lost their grips and fell, sending her crashing forward. The fall nearly tossed her off the platform. Fortunately, she managed to catch herself and, with a burst of strength, born of terror, she raced to the controls.

She had to do something. She scanned the board, looking for anything to press, anything to do. The problem was: she didn’t know the least thing about engineering, electrical working, or any of the controls managing the facility. Maybe the engineer, who had been part of the Special Forces team, might have known something, yet it wasn’t going to do her any good now.

Pulling various controls and levers, she tried desperately to find anything to stop the escalating cycle, probably only making the situation worse. More lights shot from the crystal, going all directions, causing explosions as they touched the equipment around them.

She spotted the gun sitting on the desk near the controls. Grabbing it, she spun around and pointed it at Garland, who had now risen to his feet.

“Stop it,” she screamed. “Make it stop!”

Garland stared at her, saying nothing. He took a step toward her. She retreated from him, her back pressing against the control panel. All her emotion, fear, and terror burst from her in a wave of tears.

“Please stop it,” she sobbed. “Garland, please!”

He took another step toward her. His fist shot up, seizing the gun in her hand and directing it straight toward his heart.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” He asked. “Why couldn’t you have cared?”

“I wanted to,” she said, still weeping, tears racing down her cheeks. “I wanted to so badly. But I couldn’t. You were just an experiment!”

Pow! The gun sounded as Garland squeezed her hand, firing the dart into his chest. His face went still as her poison interacted with his body. Then, he fell to the floor, dead.

“No!” She screamed. Dropping the gun and falling to the floor, she cradled the body of her greatest creation. For a second she stared into his lifeless eyes, her voice breaking with her sobs. “I’m sorry. I never meant it to be like this. It was all for science!”

She screamed the last sentence into the sky. It was her lifelong mantra. Now, it would be her final words to the world. The power station exploded. She knew no more.