‘Tiny Stories’ Archives

Tiny Story #5.5

Friday, July 31st, 2009

Holy jeez, it’s Friday already?! I nearly forgot… It’s been one of those days I guess. Anyway. Shall we continue?
BROTHERS: Part 2 of 2

Oliver climbed down the tree that grew alongside the house and dropped the last ten feet into the soft snow. He ran up the nearest slope until he was level with his mother’s window. He could see his father. His blade spun faster than Oliver could follow, but a crossbow bolt slammed into his right shoulder, and knocked him back into the room. The Captain looked once more out the window, and before the outlaws could stop him, plunged his blade into his wife’s heart. He turned to face the men once more. “You will not have her in this life.”

One of the men stepped forward, wearing a black tunic and brown woolen pants. He had a thick black beard and wore a plain half-helm with black iron-wrought wings along the sides. “Aye, she don’t need be alive, Captain,” he said with a cruel smile. “Aint that right, Paulo boy?”

Another man with the same black tunic stepped forward. He wore a black fur vest over the top and gray fur pants with gray fur boots. He wore an old bronze helmet that he must have stolen off some slain victim. “That’s the right of it, Sarge.” The men let out chuckles. “Just so long as they’re still warm’s good enough for the likes of us scum, ay Captain?” Captain Combe raised his sword with his left hand and parried several attacks, but they forced him back. Oliver turned and ran into the foothills, heading towards the mountain called Bhediya.

Another wolf howled and snapped Oliver back to the present. It was close. Somewhere just up the mountain. He twisted around and craned his neck, looking for a way up the rocky slopes… away from the wild animal. All he had was his father’s hunting knife. He wished he had thought to bring a bow. He knew the outlaws were just toying with him, but the sight of the rocky crags so close gave him hope. He pushed to his feet and within three steps was waist deep in snow again. He began to cry as he pushed through the heavy drifts. Oliver had to pull himself up onto the rocks when he reached the other side of the field. He looked up at the stony towers. They looked like rain-worn castles whose tops had been shorn off by some giant’s axe. They jutted into the sky like granite teeth. Rocks skittered down the slope somewhere to his right. Oliver went left and began climbing. He heard voices behind him, but still distant. He looked back and saw the men had abandoned their horses and were climbing over the rocks too. Oliver swore under his breath. A curse he had learned from one of the servants at his father’s estate. As he came to the peak of the mountain, he found it was only a false one. Before him was a small lake, frozen solid, and the true mountaintop towered high above the far shore. Gingerly at first, he made his way across. The slope on the other side was all scree and gravel, dotted with a legitimate boulder here and there, but as Oliver reached the foot of the slope he fell to his knees. It was too far. The slope was too long and they would be on him before he was halfway up. Their legs were almost twice as long as his, and their lungs twice as big. He began to sob. He didn’t know what else to do. Even his sobs were labored and sent knives down his throat with every breath. It was not long before Oliver heard their voices again. As he turned, blinking through tears, he saw the first one climb over the ridge on the other side of the frozen lake.

Oliver got to his feet and picked up stones, throwing them as far as he could. He ran up the slope a short distance, then turned and threw more stones. He had heard his father say something about “uphill is the upper hand,” but they had steel where he had only rocks. He threw more stones and whooped as one caught a bandit in the cheek and sent the man sprawling on the ice. Still, the others came on. When they reached the foot of the slope they stopped. They seemed to hesitate. A couple dropped their knives and swords and began to run back the way they had come, as others appeared to brace themselves. Oliver heard loose rocks skittering down the slope behind him and he turned, fearing an avalanche. But when he looked, there were no boulders bounding down the slope. Oliver was frozen. When he finally made to run back the way he had come, it was too late. They were on him before he could take three steps, then they were past, racing down the mountain like a black and white tide. The outlaws fled as wolves, seemingly innumerable came snarling out of the rocks. The wolves outnumbered them five to one. Oliver crouched and threw his hands over his head. He could hear them growling and barking as they ran past. His father had always said that wolves didn’t like the taste of highborn children because they were sour, but Oliver knew that was just to quell his fears of the night.

Olive chanced a peek just in time to see the last few animals fade into the rocks. He looked around wildly but he saw neither hide nor hair of the beasts of the mountain. The Bhediya was named for its inhabitants. But Oliver had never seen more than a few at one time. What he saw then must have been hundreds. And now they were just gone; all but one. A massive black creature with burning amber eyes. It stared at him. That gaze was unsettling, but not as much as the evil men had been. It loped toward him and he had his father’s hunting knife out before he knew. Oliver scrambled to his feet and waved the knife furiously, shouting and hollering curses for the animal to stay back. The wolf stopped and regarded Oliver for a moment. Then it just bounded off and seemed to fade into the rocks. Oliver looked around, perplexed.

He dropped to the ground. He was tired. His arms and legs ached and did not want to move another inch. Oliver jumped suddenly and screamed when the black wolf sat down next to him. He was afraid and embarrassed by his high-pitched wail. He slowed his breathing as he stared at the beast. It was just looking off to the horizon as he had been. With both of them sitting, the wolf was taller than he was. He was frightened, but the fear was quickly fading. It never looked at him, just gazed out over the mountains. So Oliver sat up a little straighter and did the same.

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Tiny Story #5.0

Wednesday, July 29th, 2009

Aaaaaand we’re back!! So let’s get right to it, shall we?

—————————————————————-

BROTHERS: Part 1 of 2

Oliver struggled through the waist-deep snow, pushing it aside with his arms as best he could. The drifts had gotten deeper during the night, but still he plodded on. There were men somewhere behind, following. Oliver knew they were just playing with him. Like the fat farm cat did with the mice. The men would let him think that he was escaping, then draw close enough for him to hear their raucous laughter and jeering. Though he had only seen ten years, he knew that much. And he knew they were bad men. “The dregs of humanity,” Oliver’s father had called them.

He climbed a small granite outcropping and took a brief moment to catch his breath. He pulled his wolf-pelt coat tighter and cinched the straps around his wrists and waist. He had his woolen scarf wrapped around his mouth, and a fox-fur cap atop his head. Oliver looked towards the peak of the mountain. The rocks were jagged and steep towards the top, and he knew their horses would not be able to follow him up there. But the air was thin so high up and every breath came a little more labored. He moved up the slope and hid behind a house-sized boulder still trying to catch his breath. Oliver lay down on his back and stared up at the low clouds. They were streaking across the sky. He felt as though he could reach out and touch them. It made him feel restless. He wiped away his tears and, reluctantly, pushed to his feet. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep, just for a couple hours. Maybe when he awoke, his mother and father would be there, no longer stuck like slaughtered livestock. He had not slept all night as the evil men harried him up the treacherous slopes of the Bhediya. Sniffling, he wiped his nose with the back of his fur glove and made his way up the slope, climbing over sunspots and scurrying over the exposed scree.

His legs were numb from running all night, but it was either run, or die, so he made himself keep going. He jumped as a wolf howled. It sounded close but Oliver knew his ears played tricks on him in the mountains, the Captain, his father, had said so. Ridges and cliffs bounced the sounds around in strange ways. The wind began to pick up as Oliver clambered up a cliff face. It was no more than thirty feet to the top and he had climbed cliffs three times that height around his father’s manor house, but he was winded when he reached the top and his limbs trembled. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the score of men ride over a low saddle. He could see one of them pointing up at him. He knew he must have stuck out plain against the stark white snow. Still, the ground was rough for the horses and it would take them time to reach his present perch. They would have to ride around all the jutting boulders, while Oliver could climb right over them.

Oliver’s father had hanged the bandits’ leader, but it was justice for all the murders and rapes the monster of a man had committed. And the Captain had been ordered to do it by the Caliph himself. But the bandits wanted their own justice, so they had come in the night for the Captain and his family.

Oliver had not run out the back door as his father had commanded. He had had to see his mother one last time. He climbed the stairs as fast as he could to her bedroom. The fire in the hearth gave the room a pleasant warmth, but Oliver felt colder than the snow that was falling outside. He looked at his mother’s ashen face, and tears welled up anew. She slowly turned her head as he lightly touched her hand. “Oh,” she whispered. “My baby boy.” She smiled weakly. She tried to raise her hand to brush through is hair, but she did not have the strength.

She was so pale. He had never seen his mother like this. Why was she so pale? She had always been strong with a ready smile and a musical voice. Her once raven hair, now had a light dusting of salt, and lay limp upon the pillow. “Hello, mother,” he managed.

“My sweet baby Jon,” she whispered through her teeth. Oliver had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.

“Jon… Jon’s not here mother,” he said between shuddering breaths. “I’m Oliver. Remember, mother? Your youngest son, Oliver?” Tears blurred his vision. Jon was his older brother, but he had died when Oliver was only three.

“Yes, of course.” His mother’s voice was thin and drawn. “Sweet little Olli,” she smiled.

“Yeah,” was all he could manage. Oliver heard the clash of steel from downstairs. He knew he should run, but he could not leave his mother, not like this. She closed her eyes and fell back asleep, as he held her hand. “Sleep, mother,” he whispered to her. “This is a scary dream. A night terror. Sleep, and don’t wake up. Dream of sunshine and being strong. Dream of Jon, of Papa; dream of me, mother.” He scrubbed the tears from his eyes and cheeks. He ran to his room and grabbed his wolf-pelt coat, his woolen scarf, and a fox-fur cap. Oliver ran back to his mother’s side to see her once more. His father burst into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it from the inside.

“Damn it, Oliver I told you to run!”

“I… I had to say goodbye.”

“Go, out the window. Climb down the tree and go!” The door shuddered and the wood around the hinges and bolt cracked slightly. “Go!” Captain Combe opened the window and hauled Oliver out onto the roof. “I’ve already lost Jon, I won’t lose you too. Off with you now. Hide, and stay out of sight. Remember this night, Oliver.” Captain Samuel Combe spun towards the door as it splintered open. The Captain’s curved blade was a blur.

To be continued…

I will post the second part on Friday… still working out the kinks… as much as I can work them out in just a day or two ;)

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Tiny Story #4

Monday, July 20th, 2009

DAKOTA:
RETRIBUTION BLOOD

Jago’s eyes opened. He lay with his head on the satin pillow for a moment, wondering what had woken him. A breath, the barest hint of something whispering across the tile floor. He bolted upright. A sawed-off double barrel appeared in his hand and he tried to point at every corner of the room. Belle started up and clutched the sheets tightly to her naked body. They were not alone in the dark. Sweat beaded on Jago’s brow and nose as his tongue nervously flicked across his lips. He rasped in quick half-breaths. He dared not blink. Shadows. That’s all he could see. The moonlight drifted in on a warm summer breeze. It was always summer on Atlantis. It never seemed to cool off. The summer breeze! That’s what had caused him to wake. All the windows had been shut before he lay down.

“What… what is it?” ventured Belle in a hoarse whisper.

“Shut up,” grated Jago in response. His pulse seemed to quicken. How long had the window been open? The moonlight on the white stone floor made the shadows nothing but black silhouettes. He dared himself now. Jago shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He laid the gun down gently beside him and propped his back against the massive headboard of the canopied bed. He folded his hands behind his head. A desperate grasp at appearing nonchalant, though he knew it was too late. He took another deep breath.

“I’ve been looking forward to this, Dakota,” he spoke softly into the night, slowly scanning the shadows and the dark shapes of the furniture, searching for a glint off some piece of metal, a weapon or jewelry. Nothing. He began to grow angry. He had never been cornered. In all his years of thieving, pillaging, raiding, taking what he wanted from whomever he wanted, he had never been trapped, never been caught, and he had never backed down to any man. And the thought that a woman, no, a girl had him jumping at shadows heated his blood to a boiling point. But he knew that to call her a girl out of spite was to liken a tiger to an alley cat. A dangerous mistake. The tiniest silver jingle was the only preemptor to the graceful shadow detaching itself from the wardrobe. Belle squeaked and clutched the sheets tighter. Countless nights Jago had been kept from sleep by the memories of those little bells and the earlobes they dangled from… Little silver bells chiming in time with her undulating rhythm…

“No you haven’t,” she whispered into the breeze as she stepped into the moonlight. “You’ve been tossing in your sleep, Jago.” The heavy silver earrings glinted with high polish. The rest of her was swathed in matte black suede that seemed to absorb any light that touched it. Dakota’s green eyes were ablaze in the moonlight. Her cool, fair skin made everything else seem hot and rough.

Jago just set a level gaze on her. One that had sent many men into sniveling pleas, but he knew, on Dakota, it would never have such an effect. His breath still came shallower than he would have liked. He wanted to take up his shotgun. He cursed himself silently for putting it down, but he dared not make a move. He said nothing, and the subtle hint of a mocking smile told him he didn’t need to. She knew him too well.

“Gun’s never really close enough, is it babe?”

“Who… who are you?” demanded Belle in a weak voice.

“Show some respect, doll, this is Rawhide Tayler you’re talking to,” said Jago with a sardonic smile. Belle’s breath caught.

“You? I’ve heard so many stories I never thought I would-”

“Shut up,” said Jago as his casual backhanded swing caught Belle in the mouth and knocked her head back against the headboard. She crumpled to the sheets unconscious. Dakota’s jaw clenched slightly. “I’ve missed you Dakota. I’ve often-”

“Bullshit. No, I think you’ve had women aplenty. Well, girls anyway.”

Jago took a deep breath and sighed, quelling a grimace. “More than enough of both, really. But none were ever like you. You’re a spectacular-”

“They weren’t like me because I, at least, was willing.”

“Those days are long behind-”

“Tell that to the little girl at your side.”

“Damn it will you let me-”

“Vexed, Jago?” Her tiny smile made his face burn. “I was willing and you repaid my love by slaughtering my people…” Dakota took a deep breath and her eyes grew icy cold. Jago suddenly felt the summer breeze wasn’t warm enough and his throat grew dry. “Still miss me?” Her soft whisper was like a razor covered in silk.

“How could I have known they were your people? I found you in a dirty pueblo on Apollo, hiding out from who-knew-what! I gave you a fuckin’ life and you-”

“All this power doesn’t suit you.” Jago’s teeth ground audibly. Dakota looked him up and down and a slight sneer marred her perfect face. “You’re fat. And uglier now.”

“I could still snap you like a damn twig, girl.” Jago chuckled. “I may be eating healthier, but I can still beat the shit out of anyone on this crappy moon.” Dakota just studied him. Her eyes were cold, distant, and merciless, but there was something else. Something suppressed deep inside. Jago was a master at reading faces. He’d had to be when he was a thief, and even more so now that he was the baron on his own little moon. She was not all stone as she would have him believe. She never could bring her self to do the truly dirty work that his cronies had relished in. But he had liked that about her. It made her seem more pure, and he had loved the thought of taking her purity every night. Now he wondered if she would have the nerve to finish the job she had set out for. It was a distant thought, one he almost dared not entertain, but however small, it was a chance. He took a deep breath. “After you disappeared, I wished I could take back what I’d done. Those damn peasants didn’t even have anything worth taking, and nothing that was worth losing you.” He searched her eyes for the slightest flicker, some hint of softness. “I would never have hurt you Dakota.”

“You called me a whore and told your men to bring back my head.”

“I may have lost my temper-”

“Because I killed you’re shit-eating asshole of a brother for murdering Uncle Ira.”

Jago gritted his teeth. Half of him still wanted her head for killing Paulo. The other half wanted her in his bed, under his massive bulk. “Three years I’ve wanted you in this room. Now here you are. Not in the capacity I’d hoped, but… beggars and choosers. You know.” Dakota took a breath and her shoulders slackened slightly, as much as a viper might slacken in the company of its prey. Jago smiled mischievously. “There you are, girl. You could come here and we could indulge in some more pleasurable kinds of pain. Old times and all that.”

Dakota smiled slightly, a hint of memory creeping into her gaze. “It was never pleasurable Jago. Only painful. You were my nightly punishment for every day of reaving. My nightly act of atonement. Now I have only one act left.” Jago snarled and snatched up the shotgun as he lunged out of bed, rolling to a crouch, sights leveled at Dakota. The deafening sound of the hollow click drained all the blood from his face and left his tongue parched. Dakota stood calmly in the moonlight, her long knife drawn. The slim, graceful blade gleamed like ice. She moved slowly, steadily, as though Jago was chained and unable to move. She glided across the floor like a ballroom dancer and stopped ten feet from him. Jago knew she could close that distance before he could even get to his feet. His shoulders sagged and his gun fell to the floor.

“I thought… it felt a little light,” he chuckled to himself. He took a breath and looked at her. “I really did love you Dakota. You’re an amazing girl. Who else has ever bested me?”

Dakota’s eyes moistened slightly. “You’ve gotten lazy Jago. It should never have been so easy…” She breathed deep and raised her chin, looking down her nose at the man as he knelt before her. “I have-” Jago gave a thunderous roar as he leaped towards her with a speed and agility that seemed inhuman in someone so large. Dakota never broke character. She sidestepped and slim blade seemed to trail languidly behind her as it flashed in the moonlight, sliding across Jago’s belly, sharp as a razor, and opened him up before he hit the ground. His eyes flew wide as Dakota plunged her knife into his heart, slamming his back against the hard stone floor and kissed him nearly in the same motion. Jago felt her tears fall on his face. He smiled weakly as she pulled away.

“Still the pure woman…” He whispered. Dakota shook her head slightly.

“No. Just happy no one killed you before I could,” she whispered back. “I loved you Jago. And you broke my heart…” she wrenched the knife free and Jago’s heart blood spurted into the air, a red mist carried on the summer breeze. “Burn in hell…”

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Tiny Story #3

Friday, July 17th, 2009

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