Telling the Story

Everything was normal before the incident. You heard a knock at the door, a call to adventure. There was hesitation. You weren’t sure you could do it. The incident was an incitement, a catalyst.

Life was normal, too normal. The incident meant you could never go back to the way things were. The choices were death or adventure, but there was still time for doubt, for debate.

The choice was made and you took up the quest. You met a love interest. They didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear – they told you what you needed to hear.

You made preparations. Events passed in the form of a montage. You chose a 1980s hair metal track to convey the passage of time. A mentor showed you your potential, but you were still not ready – you could never learn the forbidden secret.

You thought you had everything. Your confidence was your demise. A major event happened. The love interest kissed you. The clock started to tick. The mentor was killed. You vowed revenge, but still blamed yourself. You were told: “Something has to change.”

The antagonists closed-in. They chased you around. Things fell over. There were crashing sounds and a jazz-funk soundtrack. It was all very dramatic.

You were hurt by your own hubris. The love interest left you, perhaps forever. You had to face up to a harsh truth about yourself. That was the hardest lesson of all.

Wandering the city at night, neon signs flashed around you. Garish faces gurned at you, cackling and screaming as you clawed at the last threads of sanity. You had dark thoughts, but they led to fresh ideas. You knew you could never go back to the way things were. The love interest returned, pushing you towards the final confrontation.

You worked out the antagonists’ weakness. You had the knowledge all along. You knew you could win – but only if you really, really tried.

There was a battle and you almost died. The ticking stopped, and not a moment too soon. The love interest kissed you. You realised you knew the forbidden secret – it was inside you all along.

You won. You won.

You returned to the place of origin. All was normal, but it was a new normal.

You tried to ignore the hand reaching out of the ground – the promise of a sequel.

This text is copyright 2016 by Jon Cronshaw, released under a BY-NC-ND Creative Commons Licence.

Bound to the Seelenfalle

The sea was calm against her side as she stirred the stew and her footsteps creaked on the deck above. She looked out across the Braun Sea from the top of her crow’s nest, adding a pinch of salt to the stew as she pulled in a net brimming with silver and green fish.

She leaned and pulled against twenty-four oars as the net spilled out onto the deck. She looked back west to land from the crow’s nest as she added coals to the kitchen fire.

The Seelenfalle turned, adjusting its course as she awoke. Slipping down from a hammock, she rubbed her eyes and ladled stew to taste. Pulling the oars, she scanned the horizon from the crow’s nest and pulled on a pair of leather boots.

A ship poked over the horizon to the east. Wrapping a kerchief around her head, she heaved the oars in perfect unison. Emerging from below deck, she stepped out into the sun as she moved the stew pot to simmer.

Thin white clouds hung in the sky above as she tied the Seelenfalle’s sails to the mast, useless. She climbed the steps from the kitchen as she dragged a barrel along the deck. Stopping next to the fish, she locked eyes with herself for an instant, her blue eyes and blond hair, her grey eyes and brown beard. She dropped her gaze and turned to the fish, scooping them up in her arms as she held the barrel at an angle.

Looking across the Braun Sea, the ship was fast approaching. She adjusted her course to north-east, and pulled hard on the oars. She tipped a bag of salt into the barrel and sealed its lid as she frowned at the ship from the top of the crow’s nest. The ship turned to match the Seelenfalle’s trajectory.

Letting go of the wheel, she ran along the deck to the bow as the ship matched the Seelenfalle’s speed as it lined up against the sides, its rowers pulling their oars in.

“Ahoy there,” she said, trying to keep her tone steady, amiable. The ship’s captain was thick and bearded holding a sword and pistol.

She scrambled from her hammocks and pulled on her boots as she sought her own swords and pushed gunpowder into the cannon.

“I say, ahoy,” she repeated.

“Are you the captain of this here ship?” the captain asked.

“The ship,” she said. She stopped rowing and slid down from the crow’s nest.

“Sir, I’m afraid to say this is not going to be your lucky day. Prepare to be boarded.”

She fired off a pair of cannon as she drew her sword and burst out from below deck. The ship wobbled in the water as men slid down ropes with hooks. The ship’s captain fired his pistol and she fell to the deck, grasping at her chest and pulling her daggers from beneath her seats.

A rapier stung her arm as it cut through her flesh. She fired off another trio of cannon as she charged from the bridge and the bow to meet another group of boarders.

The water hit her with a cold shock as she tumbled headfirst into the sea, tackling a thin man to the deck as blood filled her lungs. Swinging from a sail, she kicked the head of a boarder as she pushed a shot into the cannon.

Falling into the water, she felt a sword pass through her stomach as the wild-eyed captain strangled her.

Footsteps creaked along the Seelenfalle’s decks as the sea splashed against her hull.

Her eyes and ears were gone. She was blind. She was deaf. She was helpless.

The souls bound to the Seelenfalle were no more.

This text is copyright 2016 by Jon Cronshaw, released under a BY-NC-ND Creative Commons Licence.

King of the Trees

Emily was King of the Trees. A little boy gave her the title – he was King of the Train.

She didn’t know the species names. She called her tree Paramine. It was the big one in the centre. She sat in its branches and surveyed her kingdom.

The other trees were short and thin. They were no more than twigs strapped to stakes with black rubber ties. She called them Paranagents. They weren’t impressive, but this was her domain. This was her realm.

Her trees bore no fruit so she ate burgers and chicken wings left as offerings by passing visitors. They respected her.

She looked for monkeys, but there were no monkeys. She told a half-remembered joke to those who passed beneath her tree. Something about a monkey being stapled to a dead monkey. Emily laughed as she told the joke, but always got lost in the words. She gave no punch-line, only a statement of fact.

She shouted at those who refused to pay tribute or pledge allegiance. A man from the council told her she was trespassing. She told him she was the King of the Trees.

She wore a dress made of leaves and fast food wrappers, and wove sticks and ladybirds through her hair. When she wasn’t performing her royal duties, she worked as a receptionist. Her boss smiled at her and her customers smiled at her. It was a tattoo shop, so people thought she was being alternative. She wasn’t being alternative – she was King of the Trees.

The day came when the man from the council returned – this time with police and a court order. They did not offer tribute or pledge fealty. They told her a complaint had been made.

She told them to bend the knee and to respect her kingdom. They did not respect her.

Emily shouted and spat as the police dragged her away by the armpits. She told them she was King of the Trees. She told them her brother was King of the Moon and her mother was King of the Bears. But they did not listen.

They told her she could never step foot in that car park again.

Emily vowed vengence. Emily declared war.

This text is copyright 2016 by Jon Cronshaw, released under a BY-NC-ND Creative Commons Licence.

Reaching for a larlun

Joster fell limp onto warm stone as she pushed free from her cocoon. Ice peeled along her spine as she breathed and streched. She listened to the drip-drip-dripping of distant liquid.

She smelled gold, and iron, and five types of stone. Straining, she moved her outer eyelids, still frozen shut. Reaching out, she sensed a mind – the mind of a larlun – clean, slippery, wide.

Joster was weak. She was tired. She slept.

The larlun’s mind prickled. The pangs of hunger prickled. Joster unfurled her heavy wings. Their surface cracked as chunks of ice tumbled to the warm stone. She licked the water pooling beneath her and reached for the larlun. The larlun was slippery, but cleaner and wider than before.

Her tongue was dry and her eyes were still sealed. Joster uncurled her claws and pulled them along the warm stone, scraping, sharpening.

She closed her mind and slept.

Joster smelled life as she woke. She reached for the larlun, he was taut, was wide, was open and clean. Silent, she called to him, reached to him.

She waited. The larlun was close. He brought grass in a container made from dead trees. The grass crunched as it froze hard in her mouth.

The larlun shivered. His teeth chattered. She reached to his mind, but he was not afraid. She searched – his mind was wide and wide and wide. His mind told her he was cold. She cracked her icy wings.

Joster reached and asked the larlun why he was cold. The larlun said it was because he was cold. The stones were warm under her belly, so she drew the larlun close. She felt him shivering more. She smelled his blood and fear. His mind told her he was colder than before.

Perhaps she could kiss life into him like her mother did for her. Perhaps she could make him a cocoon, then he would become more, then he wouldn’t be cold. She reached with her mind and breathed her icy breath.

Joster heard the larlun cry out with his voice and his mind. She breathed into him, filling him with the life kiss until he stopped crying out. She kissed and breathed, making a cocoon for the larlun. She knew he would become more, become like her.

She reached out. His mind was thin, stretched, liquid. Then something snapped.

Joster reached and reached and reached, but the larlun was gone.

 

This text is copyright 2016 by Jon Cronshaw, released under a BY-NC-ND Creative Commons Licence.