Category: Fiction

Concave of Concerned Catizens

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Today’s post is taken from a prompt from the wonderful folks here: The One-Minute Writer. We all love a good conspiracy theory, so here’s the purrfect one!

“You are the president of your local Conspiracy Theorist group. Unfortunately with the internet and all, most of your regular conspiracies have been debunked. You need something new, something that the group can really get behind. Create a new conspiracy theory.”

Concave of Concerned Catizens

There is something out there. I know it. The sheepish minions of conformity are always after people like me. They can’t wrap their minds around the fact that there is more than meets the eye, and it may not always be a crappiota latte or a pair of fuzzy moon boots in 60 degree weather.

I’m getting sidetracked. I need to think of something for our next meeting. The Concave of Concerned Catizens is counting on me. That last debunk was a slap in the face. The sheepish minions of conformity won’t stop until the world is made of lemmings!

We are not alone. They are out there, and they are among us. I will not succumb to society’s stubborn refusal to look beyond science. Okay. I can do this. Let me just put on my traditional foil cat ears.

There we go. It was never secret lizard people! I should have realized that. That myth was invented by the government to throw intellectuals like me off guard!  Not lizard people. It has to be some sort of mammal—no, a humanoid! How else can they pose as warm blooded humans?

It’s the Martians! Why is Mars suddenly popular? Why are we crazy about sending people to Mars now? It’s a trick. It’s an ugly trick. They want us to go there. I don’t know why, but The Concave of Concerned Catizens will find out! They conceal themselves from NASA’s spying robots.

They’ve altered the DNA on a select few super Martians who are walking around among us. Oh my, God. I should have known all along! The Martains are posing as restaurateurs! What better way to spy on us than to listen in on our lunch conversations! The next Concave of Concerned Catizens meeting will be held at McBurgerz Place! As we munch on our delicious burgers and fries, we’ll be watching. We’ll be the masters because we are on to them!

*We will also be voting on the font for our book; it’s a collection of our sightings and theories. I’m all for Comic Sans.

Fifty Years From Now

Posted on by in Fiction, Other Fiction

A grim future awaits us in this flash story of mine. Beware of the $ians, for they may snatch you up!

Original photo can be found on wikimedia commons! 
2065

Grandpa tells me that I was born ten years too late. I have no memory of what it was like before the world lost its way (though, he says that it had been riding I80 to Stupidville way before 2045). I frown as I gaze at his withered face. It looks serene in the candlelight. I sigh. The power outages have been getting worse. It’s been out for three days straight now.

When I see his chest rise and fall, I close my eyes and sit down. Good. I wrestled his mask on just in time. I glance over at the window. He likes to call the deep, dark brown hue “the marriage between a hipster and a trashy sepia filter.” I have no idea what it means, but I always laugh because he likes my reaction.

Sand begins to pelt against it. I rise and close the curtains. I’m sick of sand. It wasn’t this bad ten years ago. Resources were scarce then, and the only reason Grandpa, Mom, and me have a small cabin is because he was some sort of war hero before all of this.

Am I lucky that I’m sheltered from reality? I don’t know. Every once in a while the TV turns on, and we get a glimpse of the outside. The $ians like to parade their wealth by showing us how horrible it is out there. The sad thing is that there are just three factions left these days.

The VAl&ers, us. We live under the military pensions of old in decaying, manufactured neighborhoods–we are a dying breed.

The Fendrz, the ones left the fend for themselves in this mess. Grandpa says they were the working class way back before the world went to hell. They slipped through the cracks and were too poor to buy themselves out of the Disaster of 2045. He says they were always treated like shit.

Then there are the fat $ians, the ones who live in the famed *light City. They come from the upper classes of old or fendrz and VAl&ers attractive enough to be snatched up. Grandpa says that’s what happened to Dad right after Mom had me.

I shudder. Is he some Ms. Piggette’s husband now? Is he doomed to forever shovel horseshit? Mom says the $ians snatch us up to keep themselves from inbreeding. I don’t like to think about it. I keep to VAl&. I don’t dare go near the crumbling wall just outside the forest.

They’ve taken a liking to us in the past year.

Are the fendrz dying off? Have they stolen all the beautiful ones? I’ll never understand the radio broadcasts and government pamphlets we get in the mail…What is so wrong with the fendrz that they’re left in the ruins of the giant cities of old?

Grandpa remembers when the food shortages began and The Smarter You initiative started. He says it was a bunch of fascist bullshit designed to stop the dredges of society from breeding. They got blamed for everything. Grandpa blames society. People used to be selfish, infantile brats, especially with the rise of technology. He says there used to be gadgets for everything. They had bracelets that counted your steps and pocket ‘puters that could access other people–

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just know that the fendrz are dying off, and we’re next. M@t from the blue cabin has been missing for three days. Dela has been missing for three months. They were the most attractive people in our village…

Grandpa says I’m next.

~FIN

Number 54

Posted on by in Fiction

I’m going to be blunt: I could care less about Black Friday, and “I am thankful for…” posts are about as entertaining as waiting in line at the DMV. Does this make me a bad person? I mean, I am grateful for what I have and all…

With all the fear, hype, and false quotes floating around these days about special IDs and compulsory badges, here is a little “what if” writing experiment. I refuse to defend a certain business man gone politician, but he never suggested IDs and badges.

Photo of the DMV is credited to coolcaesar at wikipedia commons

You are number 54. You watch as the ticker at the DMV flashes 52. Good. Just two more to go, and you can hurry up and get on with your life. You shift the paperwork in your hands as it makes an annoying crinkle sound.

53

You double check that you have everything. In the name of security, the DMV wants everything short of a blood sample. Whatever. You just want to get on with your life and go to that new cafe near your house. You hear they have the best caffè americanos.

54

Thank the gods. It is your turn. You hurry up to the window as the DMV clerk yawns. He motions for your paperwork as you are already putting it onto the counter. He flips through it and marks several copies with a red stamp.

“Good,” he mumbles when he picks up the last document. “The amount of people I had to send away today for not providing this.” He looks it over, giving it more attention than he did to your social security card.

He types something into his computer. You wait patiently. You are being served, so there is no sense in being annoyed. I just want my coffee, you think.

“Would you like to volunteer for the Religion Acceptance Project? It involves wearing a pendant or necklace with your religious symbol on it,” he says and leans forward. The bored clerk stares into his monitor as he reads a disclaimer.

“In the interest of freedom and fairness, we are introducing the RAP, a social experiment which allows participants to immediately recognize another participant’s beliefs. The goal is to promote tolerance, acceptance, and to correctly address participants. Participants will receive a voucher for $100 and a pendant in the mail. Participants are required to wear the pendant for a period of six months and will document their observations. At the end of the test period, participants will submit their observations and receive $200.”

Three hundred dollars to wear a silly badge? Yes, please. 

“Yes,” you reply. His fingers click across his keyboard as he submits your information.

“Are you registered to vote?”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Stand to the left. Face the camera. No smiling.”  You obey.

Flash. 

You blink and face him again.

“Proceed to Zone C and wait for your number to appear on the teleprompt. Your license will be ready in ten minutes.”

You frown as you walk to Zone C. Another ten minutes. You try not to be impatient, but damn it, you want to try out that cafe! It has that rustic, cabin-in-the-woods feel you love so much, but would never admit, lest you be confused for a hipster.

You fidget in your seat. Adding your religion to your license was something you could care less about. It was just another item on a list, and the government already knew everything about you anyway. Besides, they were giving everyone a tax break for it. You could use the extra cash.

Your number flashes on the teleprompt. It is time to grab your license and to finally get your beloved and long awaited americano.

When the clerk hands it to you, you frown. A dark pit forms in your stomach as your heart nearly stops. There it is. Your religion. It is listed right below your date of birth. Shaking, you stuff it in your wallet and hurry out.

This is how it begins.

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 4

Posted on by in Fiction

Dráiden’s love is missing! He’s tried everything to get her back, but it is as if she’s vanished into thin air. When she is dragged before him, beaten and bruised, he will stop at nothing to make the elves pay. Little does he know that not everything is as it seems.

Part I:  Luthandra Raikin
Part II:  Dráiden Kaldor
Part III: Elven Tidings

Part IV: The Sham

Three days. It had been three days since Luthandra had gone missing. Dráiden folded his arms across his chest as he leaned forward in his throne. He had no idea what the master of the Blacksmith’s Guild was meandering on and on about. Her maid, Braynia, claimed innocence and ignorance of the disappearance, but he had her locked up anyway.
His groom was interrogating her in the dungeon below at this very moment. I cannot lose the only one who ever treated me with respect. I just…I can’t. He wanted the family that was his birthright. He wanted at least seven children, and he wanted to live to see–
“My lord?” The blacksmith asked, clearing his throat as though he had just repeated himself.
“Yes, yes,” he replied. Dráiden rose and waved his hand. “Proceed.”
“The Blackmsith’s Guild thanks you.” Before the man could bow, Dráiden was already descending the steps of his dais and heading out the side door. The interrogation was more important. If anyone get get someone to talk, it was Preston.
The grey stone walls of his castle were a blur as he hurried down the dark steps that would take him to the place he was loathe to admit he had. The air felt cooler as he continued his descent. A shriek echoed against the stone walls when he snaked around a corner.
The warden posted at the dungeon’s black doors opened them when he saw his lord approaching.
“I saw an elf!” came a wild scream. “Before I went to bed! That’s the only-” Something wet thudded against something soft. Dráiden marched past the rows of cells leading to The Iron Door. The two prisoners locked inside cried out to him in desperation, groping at him with feeble arms.
He did not hear them.
Candlelight flickered through the tiny slit of a window in The Iron Door. No rose petals ever adorned the dreadful room which it guarded.
“I’d never hurt her! She’s my friend!” Dráiden pushed the heavy thing open. The woman was laying on a blood stained table. His groom was folding a soiled cloth with his back turned.
“Please. Help!” The woman arched her back, struggling against the iron bands that secured her limbs to the table. “I swear it. I would never hurt her! It wasn’t me! I SWEAR!” Bruises adorned her otherwise homely face. Splotches of blood marred her not-so-white chemise.
“She speaks the truth,” he hissed. “Release her.” He knew a lie when he heard one. No one could stand Preston’s games for long.
“I was just about to finish up with the same conclusion,” Preston purred, wiping his hands on his cloth. “The elf…that’s the bit that makes me nervous,”  he licked his lips with a twitchy frown.
“We live no where near Avanduil’s kingdom,” Dráiden sighed. “King Ciallmhar of Alainn is many things, but,” he muttered and suppressed the urge to shiver. “I will send a bird.”  Dráiden paced the space between the table and his groom. He wiggled his nose at the stale stench wafting throughout the room. “It would behoove him to look into the matter, as we are neighbors.”
“Yes, sir. I shall have one sent at once.” He flopped the rag onto the table as Braynia whimpered.
“Get that cleaned up and send her to my beloved quarters first,” Dráiden scowled.
…
Five days.
Five days had passed, and not a word, a sign, or a bird…Nothing.
Sleep had escaped him, and he was gripping Arrowheart’s hilt, tempted to slide her out and destroy the balcony in front of him. It’s as if she’s vanished by some wizard’s trick. It all screamed elf magic to him, but Ciallmhar was not the type to instigate trouble. The elves kept to themselves when they weren’t trading with the neighboring lands.
A door swung open behind him, slamming against something hard.
“My Lord!” Preston cried. “Your betrothed! She has returned!” Dráiden spun around and ran past his groom. “Dark tidings…dark tidings are ahead.” Presten scurried in front of him, leading him to the throne room.
Luthandra trembled on her knees as two wardens struggled to grab her arms and stand her upright. Sobs escaped his beautiful bride’s face. When the wardens managed to get the woman to her feet, Dráiden froze.
The blood burning beneath his skin churned, and it was as if Winter had come screaming at him in a violent whirlwind of ice and snow. Purple bruises lined her skin. Dried blood caked her mouth and nose. Her chemise was nothing but brown rags, barely providing any modesty. Dráiden tore his cloak off.
Preston grabbed it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She shrank away from him, whimpering like her maid.
“My love,” Dráiden croaked, shooing Preston away with a wave of his hand. He neared her in three gentle strides, cupping her chin. A grotesque bruise marred her left eye. “My love,” he rasped again.
“The…the…” she wheezed, lowering her face. Shame dripped from the sorrowful expression in her eyes. Dráiden winced and scooped the light thing up in his arms.
“Get my healer!” he cried. “No one enters her quarters except Preston!”
…
Preston hovered over her with a mug of hot tea in his right hand. Dráiden had kicked the healer out as soon as Luthandra’s wounds had been tended to.
“My sweet,” he croaked, holding her weak hand. A bandage had been placed over her left eye. “Your wounds, as fate has blessed you, will heal. You will be beautiful in a few weeks time.”
His eyes washed over her face, and he leaned over her to stroke her cheek with his other hand. She shied away from him with a grunt, turning her face away.
“They…they,” she whispered. “I was taken. Raped,” she shuddered. “Beaten.” Preston arched an eyebrow and set the mug on the table beside her bed.
“Who?” Dráiden asked. “Who did this to you? How?”
“Elves. They took me with their magic in the night and…and.” The woman shuddered again and sat up. She buried her face into her hands. Sobs raked her form. Preston neared him.
“King Ciallmhar won’t know what hit him,” Draidon hissed, rising.
“My lord,” Preston whispered. “Perhaps we should wait a few days. Traumatic experiences warp one’s view-”
“CIALLMHAR’S ELVES DID THIS!” He clenched his fists. “And for that, the Kingdom of Alainn will know what it means to waken a Kaldor.” he thrust his arm out and pointed at the window. “Summon the wardens.”
“My lord if I may protest. We need more information. Perhaps her maid can question her about-”
“She is to be the Lady of Westridge! Undermine me again, Preston, and you’ll be the subject of one of your interrogations.”
The groom blanched, but he bowed. “I’ll summon them.”

“We ride tonight.”

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 3

Posted on by in Fiction

Luthandra must flee Westridge! To be sentenced to wed a man with a severe lack of hygiene is to be sentenced to a life of misery! Her elf companion returns and offers a way out, but little does she know that she is walking into a trap.

Part I: Luthandra Raikin
Part II: Dráiden Kaldor

III. Elven Tidings
Wind whipped the pine trees overhead, making their black silhouettes look like seething dragons with outstretched claws. Luthandra struggled to keep from nodding off. She dug her fingers into the handle on the saddle in an effort to force herself to be alert.
He had returned. He had come back for her. The mysterious elf from Adaina Pass had rescued her.
“I know of an elf lord, my lady,” he had said. “I’ve sent word to my people, and he’s agreed to offer his hand! I know I am but a lowly sword-smith, but he…a powerful elf lord with blonde hair. His blade is unmatched! Some say he’s even more skilled than Avanduil.”
Between the sobs and the lingering odor in her mouth from Lord Kaldor’s slimy, grotesque tongue, Luthandra felt she had no other choice. A shudder ran through her when she thought about that wretched kiss. The elf tightened his grip on her torso, mistaking the movement for clumsiness.
“I’m okay,” she cried. I can’t let him think I’m weak. I’m just tired and…She winced. Kaldor was a monster! Oh, the dreadful way he had embraced her! The putrid stench that nearly made her retch right then and there! Then there was the matter of his sadistic sentencing. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind…The blood…the fear in the criminal’s eyes as Kaldor sliced his left cheek….because beheading him wasn’t enough…
“Hang in there!” the elf called. “We’re almost there!” Half the night had gone by, and Luthandra supposed she only had a few hours left until Braynia would wake up to find her mistress gone.
The foliage grew thicker the farther they traveled; the trees seemingly banded together like some sort of dark, twisted symphony of the night. She caught the elf occasionally whispering in some unknown, ancient tongue. They were now in The Wunderlands, she knew, the long stretch of forest between Westridge and the elven kingdom of Álainn.
No one entered The Wunderlands unless the elves summoned you, and they never summoned you, or so Braynia would say in her stories. The horse slowed to a trot, and she sucked in a deep breath. Finally. Luthandra was sick to death of traveling! She wanted nothing more than to fall into her future husband’s arms and bury her face into his beautiful, elven hair.
Shadows drifted between the trees as three tiny blue lights flickered into existence. Another elf appeared with two dark figures flanking him. He was adorned in leather and chain-mail so fine that she couldn’t distinguish the different links in it. These don’t look like regular patrol wardens…Why wear such fancy armor? Is my new husband eager to meet me? She smiled at that.
She didn’t wait to be helped off the horse. Luthandra swung her legs over and landed on her feet in the cool forest bed.
“Celmyra’s Gift, Wench,” said the elf with the glimmering chain-mail. Her gem began to glow. Metal slid against leather, and she counted three swords being unsheathed as the two shadows stepped into the clearing to join their leader.
“I-” she paused, bringing a hand up to her jewel. She covered it. “I’m sorry?” Perhaps wench meant something else in their tongue.
“You heard me loud and clear. Hand it over, or we rip it from that unworthy neck of yours.”
Her companion slid down from his horse, and she heard him unsheathe his sword. Its pointy tip pressed against the small of her back.
“But…I…am…to be married to an elven lord with long blonde hair. We are to have children, and-“
The leader laughed, a sneer marring his pale face. “You had your chance.” He pressed closer. She covered the amulet with both hands. The elves proved stronger, for she was just a maid of eighteen years. They gripped her wrists and tore her hands from her neck while her companion sliced the chain that held her family’s heirloom in place.
“How dare you!” she shrieked. “My father will hear-”
Her companion backhanded her and grabbed the front of her dress. Luthandra winced. Tears came bursting forth, and she found she had no control over herself. Heat seared from her forehead as her blood boiled beneath her skin. She screamed a series of words she did not know and had no business coming from the mouth of a high born maid.
His hands tore the thick fabric of her blue traveling gown. Its sleeves fell down her arms as the thing coiled at her feet. Stars studded her vision, but it was no deed of the elves which blinded her fury so.
“I AM LUTHANDRA RAIKIN! I AM GOING TO BE LADY OF WESTRIDGE!”
“Glory and riches wants she, the Maiden Vain,” they laughed. The leader swept his torso into a mocking bow as his fellows continued chanting their impromptu song.

“How can you be Lady of Westridge if you run away from your betrothed?” he sneered. “Leave her with just her chemise,” he barked. The others dropped their haughty grins. “Let her wander The Wunderlands in her own misguided blindness.” There was a hiss, and the elves were gone.