Tag Archives: fiction

April 2, 2013

The Great South Gate of Jeonju: Pungnammun Remembers

The Prosperous South Gate they named me, and I have borne that name with pride for centuries. I have been a rampart against attackers and a conduit of prosperity to my people within; the First Fortress of the Honam region, I was the first, the greatest, and now I am the last. I am Pungnammun.

I do not track the passage of time itself beyond remarking the change from the bitter cold that grips at my mortar to the sweltering heat that bakes my stones and slate roof. Still, I remember. I remember the people, the little ones that have walked over and through me and I feel for them in their brief little lives, so full of tragedy and desire.

I remember the day when they passed judgment on three of their kind for worshipping a deity from a faraway land. They beheaded them and hung the heads from my walls. That night the skies poured down rain and soaked my stones with tears that I was unable to cry, washing the martyrs’ blood from my walls and into the eternal soil for burial. I remember an endless stream of peasants and goods entering in to sell at my markets; I remember the bodies being carried out for interment on the mountain slopes. I remember each and every one of them.

Pungnammun in the 19th century. Source.

What I remember most happened long ago, back when my walls were intact and people and animals passed through me every day. Invaders were attacking the country from the east and a young lieutenant of the city guard left to aid in the defense. The night before he left, he met his beloved in my gatehouse and pledged to return to her, if he could. Her name was Seon-Mi; I know because he said it over and over as they held each other. I did not know his name, for she called him only “my lord”.

I never saw him again, or felt his feet on my stones and planks. Seon-Mi came every day to sit in my gatehouse and watch for his return. The tears that she shed soaked into my planks and I kept them for her, pledging silently to hold and guard her until her lord could return. I kept the rain and snow off her as she sat and waited through the years and then, one windy night, I held her body as her soul flew at last beyond the reach of my protection and help.

I am alone now. The wall has been demolished and my sisters and brothers, the North, East, and West Gates of the city, have been torn down to make way for the insatiable step of progress. Their places are forgotten, but I remain. And I remember.

The above account is a mixture of fact and fiction concerning the iconic south gate of the city of Jeonju, South Korea, written in part for the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge, whose theme this week is “Iconic”.

38 Comments | tags: DPchallenge, fiction, gate, history, iconic, Jeonju, Korea, love, Pungnammun | posted in Dusk

April 1, 2013

Ain-Mai – Fantastic Travelogue #13

By David Stewart

Sometimes you have some amazing adventures you just have to tell everyone about. Read the rest of this account here.

Synopsis: I was hiking in the mountains of Korea when I got lost at night and came out in a strange valley. I couldn’t understand anyone, but I found out they knew Chinese characters. I met a young woman name Ain-Mai, and later, her brother Sing-ga. While I was there, a creepy woman appeared. Ain-Mai and her brother told me that the creepy woman was named Hengfel and came from another world. Hengfel eventually captured all three of us and brought us back to her world. They separated us, and gave Sing-ga and I a drink to subdue it, but it had the opposite effect on me. We got out and I rescued Ain-Mai by fighting off dragons by punching and kicking them. We escaped into the air vents where the potion wore off, leaving me in terrible pain. Eventually we collapsed and slept.

I woke up, thinking that my wife was calling me, but instead I saw Ain-Mai bending over me, her long hair forming a curtain around my head. I tried to struggle up and almost screamed at the blinding pain that erupted from all over my body. I had never been in such total pain in all my life. I fell back, gasping and trying not to cry.

Ain-Mai took my hand and caressed it, murmuring soothing words like a mother over a child. It worked, at least enough to calm my mind. It was frustrating to have to lie there, when only hours before, I had been doing feats of superhuman strength and endurance. There is a price to pay for everything, it seems.

The light was greater than before and the tunnel was brightly lit. I noticed Sing-ga wasn’t there.

“Sing-ga?” I asked.

She pointed back down the tunnel and said slowly, “Govre hilisru swai Sing-ga.” I recognized the word swai as “water” from hearing them talk before and I nodded. He had gone to get water, I assumed.

We sat there in silence for a while. The floor near the open end of the tunnel was covered with a dusting of fine, brown powder and I pulled myself onto my side enough to write in it with my finger. “Do you have a mother?”

“I have a mother and father,” she wrote in Chinese characters. “I have two siblings, Hi-Run and Sing-ga.” She read each character as she wrote it so I knew the pronunciation of the names.

“Are you married?” I wrote after a moment. She shook her head and gave me a radiant smile that made my chest hurt a little, it was so beautiful.

“Do you have a mother and father?” she wrote after a moment. I told her about my mother and father and my sisters and as much about my life as I could back in Korea and when I was young. But I did not tell her I was married. It’s not that I was planning on cheating on my wife; the thought had not even entered my mind, but I remembered the smile she had given me and perhaps I thought she would act differently towards me if she knew I was married. I’m ashamed to say it now, but that’s what happened.

My throat was dry and screaming in pain for even the least amount of moisture. I had been holding out, hoping Sing-ga would be back at some point soon, but finally I mentioned it to Ain-Mai. She nodded and put a hand on my forehead for a moment, then stood up and said something. Then she was gone, down the tunnel, leaving me alone, in pain and dire thirst.

I must have dozed because the next thing I remember was warm, but blessedly refreshing water trickling into my mouth. I opened my eyes and saw Ain-Mai leaning over me. She had removed her outer shirt and had soaked it full of water. She squeezed it slowly into my mouth. Normally this idea would have seemed rather disgusting, but I gloried in the water and thanked her over and over again.

Next, she took off my boots and washed my right foot that had been scraped and torn by the dragon’s teeth. The right boot was barely there at all; pretty much all that was left was the upper part, still laced together, and a few scraps of leather. Ain-Mai torn thin strips from the bottom of her long skirt and wrapped them around my wounds. She had the gentle touch of a born nurse and I reveled in the comfort that her ministrations brought. She moved next to my hands, which were a brutal mess of dried blood and bruises. I couldn’t have made a fist with either hand if my life had depended on it. She washed them gently and wrapped them with more strips of cloth from her skirt. I stopped murmuring thank you and just closed my eyes and let her work. Later, I felt her washing my face, her delicate hands running gently over my skin. I remained still, hoping she didn’t notice my heart beating faster.

I woke up suddenly. The light outside was fading into black night and through the steel crossbars, I could see bright, blood-red stars hanging in the evening sky. I moved my hands and found them totally bandaged with strips of cloth. A deep scratch on my arm that I don’t even remember getting was also bandaged.

There was movement beside me in the dark and I realized that Ain-Mai was lying curled up next to me, her back against my side. I looked around for Sing-ga but there was no sign of him. I forced myself into a sitting position, ignoring the protests of pain from my body. I heard Ain-Mai wake up suddenly as well.

“Sing-ga?” I asked her. “Sing-ga? Where?”

Ain-Mai jumped up with a start. “Sing-ga,” she said—the worry evident in her voice—and started down the tunnel. I sat up, trying not to groan, and listened. The world had gone quiet; even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

The next sound I heard was a distant scream that stabbed at my heart like a needle. I tried to stand, but fell down with a fresh burst of agony. Still, I struggled down the tunnel until I reached the intersection. In the cold light that filtered down into the tunnel system from behind me, I saw Ain-Mai appear, trying to support Sing-ga, who staggered and fell with almost every step. He was covered in blood and my heart seemed to freeze when I saw how much blood he was leaving behind on the stone floor of the tunnel. I took his other side and the three of us struggled back up to the opening.

(to be continued…)

1 Comment | tags: blood, escape, Fantastic Travelogue, fantasy, fiction, fortress, injured, other worlds, travel, travelogue, tunnels, wife, woman | posted in Travelogue

March 30, 2013

Conversations with Obstinacy

By David Stewart

“I can destroy the whole world.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s true. If I close my eyes, the world just disappears.

“Only for you.”

“But if I close my eyes, there is no one else. They disappear too.”

“You can still hear them.”

“Not if I put my fingers in my ears.”

“I could spank you. You’d feel that.”

“Then I’d move to a desert island. It would be me and only me, in my own little universe.”

“Just go clean your room like I asked you.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“It would take you five minutes.”

“Too late, I closed my eyes. There is no room anymore.”

Source

8 Comments | tags: children, cleaning, conversation, fiction, flash fiction, funny, obstinacy, room | posted in Light

March 29, 2013

Motivational Drill Sergeant Meets His Wife

By David Stewart

My dad, the Motivational Drill Sergeant, is hard to get to know. Still, we have our moments, when we bond. Sometimes he’s not even shouting at me.

We were out in the backyard, building ferret traps. We don’t have ferrets in our area, but my dad likes to be prepared. I was feeling bored, so I asked, “Hey, Motivational Drill Sergeant, how did you meet Mom?” I asked this because my dad hates personal questions and I figured it would get a rise out of him. You get him on a good enough rise and he’ll start ranting, which is wicked fun to watch. He once ranted about taxes, automatic transmission, Assyrians, the undead, and Hannah Montana, all in the space of ten minutes.

“Are you saying, Boy, that I have never told you the account of how I met your mother?” He always phrased things in a shouty sort of way, but his tone was casual. He had just finished yelling at a senator for an hour and that always put him in a good mood.

“No, sir,” I said.

“It was before you were born,” he said, and paused. I considered this rather obvious information and waited for him to continue.

“Your mother was a political activist. She was into politics like a badger is into a termite mound: is wasn’t really her thing, but since she was there, she thought she might as well try to take down the whole thing.

“She would call up members of congress in the middle of the night and say, ‘It’s 2am, do you know where your constituents are?’ She wouldn’t hang up until they told her the location of all of them. Then she’d call up the constituents and tell them their members of congress were spying on them and that they’d better elect another one. She still does that sometimes, if she’s bored.”

“Were you a political activist too?” I asked him.

“Are you crazy, Boy?” he shouted. “I hate politics. No, I’d go to rallies and shout at the protesters: tell them to wake up and don’t be so angry all the time. Better ways to change things than walking around, waving a bunch of fruity signs. Then I’d shout at the police and tell them to stop oppressing citizens and standing in the way of progress.”

“So, you yelled at everyone?”

“They all needed a good dose of the Truth,” he said, with a small nod. He stapled the last piece of barbed wire to the ferret cage he was working on, hooked up the battery, and picked up another one.

So many people to yell at.

“Anyway, I was at a rally in Washington D.C when I saw her. She was pretty. I noticed that about her. So I went up to her and said, ‘You call that a sign? I’ve made better signs while I was passed out drunk on the side of the road. If you allow me, Ma’am, I will take you out to dinner and instruct you on how to make a proper sign.’

“She said, ‘You call that a pick-up line? I’ve worked in sewers that didn’t stink half as bad.’

“‘That’s disgraceful!’ I replied. ‘A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be working in a filthy sewer.’

“‘So now you’re telling me where I should work?’ she asked. ‘Just because you think I’m pretty?’

“‘I tell it how I see it, Ma’am,’ I said. ‘And you being pretty is all I know about you so far. I cannot ascertain more without further reconnaissance.’

“At that point, she hit me with her sign. ‘Listen up, you chauvinistic pig of a stuffed shirt,’ she yelled. ‘I will rip your crew cut from your head and use it to scrub my toilet if you don’t back off right now! If a miserable worm like yourself has the gall to insult a woman like me, I will feed you to the sharks!’

“‘Will you marry me?’ I asked her. She hit me with her sign again.

“‘We’ll see,’ she said. We were married six months later.”

“Is that true?” I asked him.

“Are you calling me a liar, Boy?” he shouted. Then his tone softened. “Go ask your mother.”

(Read more Motivational Drill Sergeant stories here)

12 Comments | tags: father, ferrets, fiction, funny, love, marriage, Motivational Drill Sergeant, quirky, wife | posted in Light

March 27, 2013

The Light of Times Past – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

This Friday Fictioneer prompt was an interesting challenge. To me, it said primitive technology in the midst of modernity. So that was the jumping off place for this story. Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the picture.

The Light of Times Past

“Great job, Shane. Those cybos didn’t have a prayer.”

Shane smiled and nodded. He stowed his blaster rifle, flew home, and threw the main breaker.

That time was precious—that hour he spent daily in the oil lamps’ glow, with not even a single LED breaking the spell.

Shane was proud of his job defending humanity from the cybo attacks.

But still . . .

He missed those days—doing homework and saying prayers by lamplight in that old wooden house, with its blue door and freezing outhouse.

He took out the old German Bible, opened the cracked cover, and began to read.

53 Comments | tags: Amish, Bible, cybo, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, nostalgia, robots, science fiction | posted in Dusk

March 27, 2013

A.W.A.R.D.S

By David Stewart

I woke in a room that smelled vaguely of peanut butter and wasabi. It was the kind of smell that slapped you awake and made you write home to mom about it. Once I was fully awake (and had written a short note to my mother) I noticed I was in a long, pearly-white corridor. It was shiny and plastic, like something from a 1970’s sci-fi movie.

I stood up and noticed a plaque on the wall that said Ancient Wasteland And Robotic Doughnut Society, or A.W.A.R.D.S. for short. An arrow pointed down the corridor with a friendly reminder written next to it that said “I’m pretty sure this is the way you want to go.” I took the wall’s word for it and started off.

Before too long, I came to a door with a computer screen next to it. On it, were the words:

Most Influential Blogs of 2012. You were nominated for this award by Alastair of Alastair’s Blog. Do you accept? (Y/N?)

Blink. I wasn’t expecting that. Of course I hit yes. To be nominated for anything by Alastair, who posts such amazing photos and cool music was a honor.

The screen changed. There are no rules for this award, it read.

“Is that true?” I said.

Yes, the screen said.

“Can you hear what I say?” I asked.

No, the screen said. I was suspicious. Please enter blogs you have found influential.

That was an interesting challenge. Hmm, I thought and started punching in names.

– Arjun Bagga of http://arjunbagga.wordpress.com/ I love his beautiful pictures and stories and actually I was inspired to write my Fantastic Travelogue after reading one of his posts. I love the way he captures the souls of common people.

– Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addicted to Purple http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ I have had a lot of fun and learned a lot participating in the Friday Fictioneers, a group she runs. I love the way she comments on every story that’s posted.

– Sharmishtha Basu: http://sharmishthabasu.wordpress.com/ Sharmishtha has been very influential to my writing, from inspiring stories, to using pictures of mine in her writing. I love her fantastic stories, great artwork, and spirit of activism to help those in need.

– Written Words Never Die: http://ericalagan.net/ Eric has been a very influential blog for me. I love his dark and fantastic stories and his short, but powerful flash fiction.

I stopped for a moment and the door suddenly opened. There were others that I found inspiring, but the screen had turned dark, so I continued down the corridor. I walked for a while and was passed by a robotic doughnut that was playing with a yo-yo.

I came to another door. This one was glowing and next to it was a screen with cherubs on it. The cherubs were playing cards when I got there but when they noticed me, they jumped up and shoved the cards out of sight.

“Welcome!” they said in unison (they said everything in unison, which was a bit disconcerting). “This is the Shine-On Award. You got nominated by Kim, from Unwalled. Do you want to accept?”

“Of course,” I said. “Kim is awesome. I don’t have any other friends in the Bahamas (that I know of) but I could have a million and still not have one as nice as her.” They nodded enthusiastically.

“So what do I do here?”

“You have to nominate 15 people that you think really shine,” they said.

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

They conferred for a moment. “That’s up to you. Also, you have to nominate 7 blogs that tickle your fancy.”

“I just put in some that were influential. Can I skip the ‘tickle your fancy’ part?” I asked.

They conferred for another moment. “Fine, as long as the influential ones also tickled your fancy. Did they?”

“Assuredly,” I said. “Can I nominate Unwalled back?”

“Uh…No. But you can thank her.”

“Very well.” I started to think of some blogs that I thought really shined in one way or another.

“Would you like to add why?” the little cherubs asked. “It’s optional.”

“Will the people see this?”

“Mostly likely, yes.”

Very well. I started typing.

1. Teacher as Transformer: http://ivonprefontaine.com/ A source of inspirational thoughts from a fellow teacher.

2. Miss Four Eyes: http://missfoureyes.wordpress.com/ Really, what’s not to love? Adding a little joy to my daily reading.

3. Mindful Splatter: http://marilyndavies.wordpress.com/ Great stories and pictures of daily life.

4. An Evil Nymph’s Blog: http://evilnymphstuff.wordpress.com/ Wonderful photographs and stories from the island of Mauritius and the mind of an evil nymph.

5. Ironwoodwind: http://ironwoodwind.wordpress.com/ I love reading his great, compelling stories every week.

6. Rambling and Other Nonsense: http://matronbell.wordpress.com/ She posts beautiful thoughts and great stories. I just finished her novel, Planet Atlantis, and really liked it.

7. Josie Coccinelle: http://josiecoccinelle.wordpress.com/ The only French blog I follow. She has such a sweet heart. I wish I could comment more confidently on her posts, but I’ve forgotten a lot of my French.

8. The Urge to Wander: http://theurgetowander.com/ She goes all the places I wish I could, or remember going. I travel the world through her pictures.

9. ABC of Spirit Talk: http://abcofspiritalk.wordpress.com/ Such great thoughts, especially those that use animals as metaphors.

10. Diary of a Lost Girl: http://completelymistaken.wordpress.com/ I love everything I read from her and am always happy when I see her around.

11. Boomie Bol: http://boomiebol.wordpress.com/ What a great and kind poet. Passion and love exude from her writing.

12. Life in Kawagoe: http://cocomino.wordpress.com/ My window into the world of Japanese culture, sharing the simple side of life.

13. Luddy’s Lens: http://luddyslens.wordpress.com/ A wonderful look at the world through photographs.

14. Elixir: http://bradleyball.wordpress.com/ One of my oldest friends. I love reading his perspectives on life, family, and Christianity.

15. Jodies’ Journies: http://cutenosegrl.wordpress.com/ Inspiration and thought-provoking posts.

I could have kept going, of course (my blogging friends really do shine on) but as soon as I had put in the fifteenth name, the door slid open.

“Bye bye!” the cherubs said in unison and then disappeared.

By this time, I had no idea what to expect next. I came to a staircase and starting climbing up and up. Lightning flashed. Somewhere, off in the distance, the Inspector Gadget theme was playing. I came to a third door. Actually, it was a portcullis. The screen next to it was 3D and when I approached, a booming voice shouted:

“You have been nominated for the Epically Awesome Award of Epic Awesomeness!”

“Is that a real thing?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. You were nominated by the Blog of the Imaginator, a very epically awesome person in his own right. Do you want it or not?”

“Of course,” I said. Who wouldn’t want an award for being epically awesome, or awesomely epic?

“There are rules!” the voice boomed. “First, you must tell me ten things about yourself…and write them on pieces of fruit!”

“I don’t see any fruit,” I said.

There was a rattling sound and a wagon-load of fruit rattled down the corridor towards me. “Sorry!” the voice echoed. “Our cook quit today. Now get writing!”

I picked up a banana and wrote: I hate getting up in the morning.

“Be more interesting!” the voice shouted.

I wrote I have watched the entire Simpsons series in order on a rather large apple. The voice didn’t say anything else, so I got down to work.

3. I abhor long sleeves (written on a mango)

4. The longest I’ve been unemployed since I was 12 is five months (written on a bunch of grapes; one word on each)

5. I’ve always lived on either the top or bottom floor of a building (written on a watermelon)

“These are becoming pedestrian!” the booming voice warned.

I picked up a cantaloupe and wrote: I love coffee. The voice huffed a little, but shut up.

7. I am currently listening to Don Francisco on Youtube (written on a jack fruit)

8. My current cell phone was obsolete when I got it in 2008 (written on a mandarin orange)

9. I really want to go camping in Greenland sometime (I tried to write this on a strawberry, messed it up, ate the strawberry, ate a few more, then wrote it on a musk melon.)

10. I hate it when I maek typos (written on a papaya)

“Are you being sarcastic?” the voice demanded, but then noticed that I had ten things and continued. “Next, you must nominate 10 people whom you think are epic. Get cracking!”

I stepped up to the screen and started to write.

1. Monk Monkey: http://monkmonkeysblog.wordpress.com/ A great, funny blog

2. Music and Fiction: http://musicandfiction.wordpress.com/ Music plus fiction equals a great combination

3. Oh God, My Wife is German: http://ohgodmywifeisgerman.com/ Hilarious cross-cultural fun. When people think fun, they think Germans.

4. Chosen Voice: http://chosenvoice.wordpress.com/ Seriously, check out her artwork and stories. Epic is the only word.

5. Tales of a Charm City Chick: http://talesofacharmcitychick.com I’ll read anything I can get from the inimitable La La.

6. waldotomosky: http://waldotomosky.wordpress.com/ Sweeping sagas of brawling Norsemen are just the beginning.

7. Christopher de Voss: http://chrisdevoss.wordpress.com/ Great quirky fun that’s right up my alley. Plus, he’s the guy that made up the name Edward “the Squid” Morrison.

8. The Bumble Files: http://thebumblefiles.wordpress.com/ One of my oldest blogging friends and such a great wealth of quirky stories and great thoughts.

9. Dysfunctional Literacy: http://dysfunctionalliteracy.com/ Where I go to feed my love of great and weird books, as well as the continuing saga that is the Long Story.

10. Moments with Millie: http://momentswithmillie.wordpress.com/ I love reading her inspirational thoughts every day. She has a beautiful, loving heart.

“Next, you have to tell the people that you nominated them!” the voice shouted.

“But won’t they know when they get the notification that I linked their blog?” I asked.

“Are you that lazy?” the voice shouted. “Where is your netiquette? Now go tell them!”

“Are you going to open the door then?” I asked. There was a pause.

“Fine.” The portcullis clattered up and I walked forward. Soon I found myself looking out of my own Green-Walled Tower. The land of A.W.A.R.D.S. makes you feel good but it sure can be strange sometimes.

For those who are interested, here is what the original forms of the awards look like:

http://kattermonran.com/2013/03/01/most-influential-blogs-of-2012/

http://unwalled.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/the-shine-on-award/

http://theimaginator.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/awesome-again-only-epically-so/

40 Comments | tags: blog award, blogging, epic, fiction, green-walled tower, influential, shine-on, writing | posted in Uncategorized

March 25, 2013

Like Rats in the Air Vents – Fantastic Travelogue #12

By David Stewart

Sometimes you have some amazing adventures you just have to tell everyone about. Read the rest of this account here.

Synopsis: I was hiking in the mountains of Korea when I got lost at night and came out in a strange valley. I couldn’t understand anyone, but I found out they knew Chinese characters. I met a young woman name Ain-Mai, and later, her brother Sing-ga. While I was there, a creepy woman appeared. Ain-Mai and her brother told me that the creepy woman was named Hengfel and came from another world. Hengfel eventually captured all three of us and brought us back to her world. They took Ain-Mai away and put Sing-ga and I in a room with a bunch of other men who all looked drugged. It looked a bit like a harem. They gave us something to drink, which made Sing-ga very sleepy but had the opposite effect on me. We got out and found Ain-Mai in a cage, hundreds of feet above the floor, in a room with thousands of cages. I rescued her, fighting off dragons as I did. We got away, but they tore my right foot up a bit.

I have never been on drugs, so I don’t know what it’s like to come down from a high, but after my experience in that cavernous, dragon-infested fortress, I think I have some idea.

Ain-Mai, Sing-ga and I were moving as fast as we could down the corridor we had come from, away from the room with the cages. I was in the lead and was at first thinking of going straight back to the round transporter room—just powering through everything and risking everything to get back right away. Then the pain started. This was troubling, since I hadn’t felt any pain since they had forced that potion down my throat, even when I was punching dragons in the face.

It started as a dull ache in my foot and hands and just kept growing. I looked back and realized I was leaving bloody footprints from my right foot where the dragon had ripped off my boot. After that, it only took a few minutes for the pain to grow to the point where I could barely walk. Sing-ga was still lethargic from the potion they had given him, and Ain-Mai was shaken up from being in the cage and being attacked by dragons, so none of us were in great shape.

The pain was starting to overwhelm my senses. I felt Ain-Mai take me by the arm and lead me to the side, into darkness. We were walking through a small, fetid passage, barely big enough to stand up in. The floor was rough and bolts of pain shot up through my injured foot with every step. After a while, we were in total darkness and felt our way forward with our hands outstretched. The air was moist and warm and smelled like mold.

I don’t how long we went like that, but it was probably about an hour. Before long, I was crawling on hands and knees. We passed shafts cut in the walls with water pouring down through them and even drank a little. The water was hot and tasted metallic, but it quenched our thirst. Ain-Mai was leading us now. I don’t know where she thought she was going, but we followed her instinctively, going further and further into the dark labyrinth.

We seemed to be in a system of air vents. They criss-crossed at intervals and strong, warm wind blew in from some. We heard snatches of sound from cross-tunnels: rumbles and roars as of huge machinery, and screams and yells of monstrous beasts, or something worse. The sounds rose and then faded and died away, like the turning of a radio dial.

At last, when I thought I could go no further, we saw light ahead: warm, tan daylight. It was coming from a cross-tunnel and a strong, dry wind blew out of it. We pushed against the wind until we came to the end of the tunnel and looked outside.

The opening was barred with a cross of metal, but we still could have squeezed outside if we had wanted to. We were very high up—at least 5000 feet, I would guess, and I looked out over a wide, desolate landscape. Far below were the remains of towns and cities, dry riverbeds still crossed by bridges, and roads bordering dead fields. Everything I saw was brown and withered.

As I watched, a dragon floated into view far beneath me. I craned my neck to see where it was going and saw that we were in some sort of monstrous tower, with walls that fell away almost straight down. The outside surface was covered with plates that stuck up, just like the cage room. Here I could see dragons hanging off them and I realized that was what they were for. The dragons used them to hang on and rest, like birds perching on a branch.

Sing-ga was already lying down on the passage floor. I mimed sleep to Ain-Mai and she nodded. She lay down in front of Sing-ga and motioned for me to lie down in front of her. I lay down on the hard floor and felt her warmth behind me. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I felt her hand on my shoulder. With that simple act of human contact, I realized how much I had missed it. Ain-Mai’s hand on my shoulder filled my mind with peace and helped to soothe some of the throbbing pain that wracked my body. Still, when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of my wife standing far away, across an abyss that I could not hope to cross.

(to be continued…)

6 Comments | tags: drugs, escape, Fantastic Travelogue, fantasy, fiction, fortress, injured, other worlds, travel, travelogue, tunnels, wife | posted in Travelogue

March 24, 2013

Slumming on the Ceiling – Visual Fiction

By David Stewart

Taken in Daejeon, South Korea

Drunk. Bum. Loser. Deadbeat.

Freddie had heard them all and much worse as he sat in his underpass and watched people go by. He had a battered cardboard box in front of him with a few coins in it. Occasionally, more would be thrown in, but not usually. If the police chased him out, he waited until they walked away and then went back.

Thursday night had started as a good night. He had been able to buy a bottle of cheap liquor and had found a new blanket in a donation box. Half the bottle was gone when he suddenly began to feel lighter. Light began to filter in through the stairwells, increasing until it became as bright as day.

This is it, he thought. The angels, the angels are coming for me at last. One too many brown bag comforts, I suppose.

Freddie rose off the floor, floating up until he hit the ceiling. His perspective shifted and he found that the ceiling was now down for him, while the floor was above him. He sat in surprise and watched his handful of coins disappear into a light fixture. He tried to get them but burned his hand. It didn’t seem like he was dead.

With a shrug, he took a swig from the bottle and laid down on the ceiling. Freddie was used to life handing him surprises. Might as well make the best of it.

~*~

This is an alternate perspective on a couple of other stories I did, called What is it? and Why it’s bad to destroy the Earth.

11 Comments | tags: aliens, bum, fiction, homeless, Korea, photograph, science fiction, underpass, visual fiction | posted in Visual Fiction

March 20, 2013

You can Bait a Fool with Water… – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

I figured that this picture would inspire a lot of heart-warming tales (although we do get a lot of variety in the group). In any case, I decided to go in a slightly different direction…

You can Bait a Fool with Water…

“Careful.” (Nervous girlfriend.)

“Don’t worry; it’s got a blindfold on. It can’t see us.” (Cocky boyfriend.)

Just a little closer. (Horse looking at two oblivious humans through the fly-mask.)

“Hey, it’s doing a trick! It’s holding the hose in its mouth.” (Boyfriend, gawking.)

Yes. Trick.

Water splashes on electric fence, splashes on cocky boyfriend. Sizzling, sparking, collapsing, convulsing. Girlfriend runs to help.

More sparking, collapsing, convulsing.

She couldn’t help. Two unconscious humans.

Fall, my dainties, fall. (Horse smiles.)

Snaky tongue emerges from horse’s mouth, dragging unconscious humans under the fence.

Body ripples, teeth and claws grow.

Horse no more.

Dinnertime.

58 Comments | tags: creepy, fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, horror, horse, monster, trap | posted in Dark

March 18, 2013

Motivational Drill Sergeant

By David Stewart

I don’t know my father’s name, but I think it’s Gary. Everyone calls him Motivational Drill Sergeant—even me. I don’t know when he got the name, since he’s never been in the Army—actually I’ve never known him to ever have a job. He just sits around the house, brushing his crew cut, playing solitaire, and waiting for someone to come. Then he yells at them for a while, and they give him money and go away.

I was home one afternoon when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a one-legged frog sitting on the doormat.

Source

“Is this the house of the Motivational Drill Sergeant?” it asked.

“Yes,” I said, quite unfazed. I’ve seen stranger things show up at our door. “How did you knock on the door?”

“I waited until some Girl Scouts came selling cookies. They knocked but then they saw me and ran away. I’m not well-liked, you know.” It lowered its head.

I gave up trying to talk to people—or animals—who come to see my father. “You want me to carry you in?” I asked.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” the frog said and set about trying to struggle over the threshold. After fifteen minutes of waiting, I gave it a boost and it pretended not to notice.

“Motivational Drill Sergeant! Someone here to see you!” I yelled. My father immediately appeared in the door of his office. He had been listening and waiting for me to call him.

“I see, I see!” he said. “Boy, go get my shaving kit.” He always calls me Boy. I don’t mind; it was better than those two weeks last summer when he kept calling me Girl, or those weird three days when I was Puffy McPastry.

I went and got his shaving kit from the bathroom. My father has the words SUCK IT UP tattooed on his upper lip. Whenever someone comes to see him, he shaves off his mustache to make the point. I gave him the shaving kit and he marched back into the bathroom.

“Right!” he said several minutes later, striding out. The words SUCK IT UP stood out clearly. “What’s the matter with you, frog?”

“I—”

“And how did you lose that leg?” My father was slowly getting his yell up. It took him a few minutes after playing solitaire for several days.

“I went to Paris on vacation,” the frog said. “Somebody ate it.”

“You are the sorriest excuse for a frog I have ever seen!” my father bellowed. “I’ve seen better frogs at the zoo gift shop—those plastic hollow ones with the squeaker in their mouths that you buy your kid, to piss off your wife. If you were in a not-sucking race with one of those, it would beat you hands-down.”

“But I—” the frog began again.

“Shut your fly-hole! You think you’re special? You think that all it’s going to take is for some dame to kiss you and you’ll turn into a prince? You are not a prince! You’re nothing but a measly, one-legged frog who needs to grow up. Now get out there and be the best one-legged frog you can be!”

I thought he had gone too far. The frog was crying now. “Thank you, Motivational Drill Sergeant,” it said at last. “Thank you so much.” It gave my father $500 and then hopped away, falling over the threshold and out onto the front step.

“That’s right,” my father said, pointing to his upper lip. “Suck it up.” Then he went back to playing solitaire.