The Eagle...er, book...has landed

Special thanks to Julie Rey for my wonderful new cover. © Julie Rey Photographies [www.juliereyc.com]

The MC Dreams

He walked the beach alone, this man. As he made his way--destination as unknown as origin--he troubled his mind for his own name. This only for a short while, however, before caving to the realization that he’d none. No name. Nothing. No true recollections, just a scattering of disjointed thoughts and images that made no sense. Either the wanderer had been a blank slate to begin with--not very likely--or there was something of him somewhere along the way behind him but that path was lost now. He couldn’t be certain either way.

It was of no consequence. Being alone as he was there was no one to tell his name to, no one to ask anything of him. The knowledge was almost liberating. Almost. Excepting for the fact that it was also disconcerting.

The dun beach was a wide swath and fell away both before and behind, lost on each horizon without discernable change or landmark. To his right a crest of rolling dunes and nothing more.

He was moving along the water’s vacillating edge, and despite the looks of it--dark grey and swirling and churning in angry motion as if mirroring the overcast sky above--it was not cold as he would have expected. He paused. Over his bare feet the sea washed and then pulled away, eroding and shifting the sand beneath his soles and toes in its retreat. In that moment of looking down to observe the foam-flecked water, he caught that he was naked. The wind pulled between the gaps of his thin thighs and tickled his groin.

Curious. He didn’t recognize his body. It wasn’t that it didn’t appear to be his body, but more that he couldn’t be certain if he knew it as his own or not. These might have been his arms. The hands that cupped his crotch might have been familiar. Perhaps. And yet this skin, these cold toes and sore gums might have been a stranger’s. All he felt with a certainty was that in this place, in this moment, it was the shell of flesh his mind inhabited. This was his place for now.

He looked back up the beach then, to confirm he was indeed alone, only to find he was not. Far off in the distance--far enough that they were hardly more than amorphous silhouettes--a handful of mysterious figures stood atop a dune. He could not discern if they faced him, but the man’s nakedness made him nervously suspect they did. But more than that was the accompanying dread that crept into him even as the next wave took hold of his feet, eroded his footing. Somehow he was aware of their intentions; these strangers meant him harm. They meant to make death.

The Option

The knuckles hidden beneath the knight's gauntlets were white, much like the breath that escaped his lips in quick succession as though a dwarven smith worked feverishly the bellows within. His heart too seemed part of that forge, pounding like hammer on anvil, the blows resounding in his ears. Held out before him was his great sword, entwining gold dragons blooming from the hilt as pommel guards. He had always fancied the sword thanks to those dragons.

Now, as the great black wyrm rose up, gathering the coils of its body about it, swelling and shimmering obsidian scales, and with teeth each the size of long swords that cracked together while claws clacked upon marble in great chipping assaults, the knight wished he’d never even known the word 'dragon.'

To run was futile. There was no turning one’s back on a beast such as this. The knight would stand his ground. He would mount his feeble offense. Perhaps he might cause the serpent a wound before he was rent in two, before acid reduced him to a bubbling mass of goo upon the hall’s marble floor.

The bold man’s prediction proved accurate. Even as he screamed and rushed the dragon, he was met by a stream of viscous red. Turning his head away, he met the foul creature’s assault with shield. But the steel of the legion was no match for the dragon’s fetid spit. Like boiling water meeting spun sugar, the shield as well as the better portion of his arm evaporated away in a red mist.

The knight fell to his knees. His sword clanked onto the marble. He fought to bring it before him. He could not. The great wyrm opened wide slathering jowls and reared back to take him in whole.

And then the world froze.

A large black tile appeared in the air between them. Upon it were words rendered in gold lettering which read: ‘Resume, New Game, Options, Credits, Quit.’ A golden arrow appeared next and moved over the word ‘Options.’ The tile changed once more and among new words the phrase ‘Immortal Mode’ was chosen followed by ‘Resume.’ The large black tile blinked away then as suddenly as it had appeared.

The knight was restored. Shield and arm both made whole once more. He rose from his knees and roared. His was a mighty voice and the strength of it rippled the air before him causing the creature to wince back in both pain and fear.

The knight rushed. The great wyrm lashed out. Claws were cleaved away as it did. More red spit spewed from its throat. But this time the foul discharge was displaced by shield and armor. This time the knight stepped in and drove his blade until the golden entwined dragons on its hilt were one with the scales over the flailing beast’s pierced heart.

The wyrm withered and fell dead. The large black tile appeared once more above the triumphant knight. This time reading: ‘You Are Victorious! Play Again?’

Anticipation

The old man waited for the mail to arrive this day, same as every day. Not too many days left. The window was closing. It wasn't the mail in general he waited on. He waited, sentry-like on the front stoop, an old soldier prepared for the arrival of one very specific letter. It was almost ten years to the day in coming. No, he calculated as the afternoon waned, this was the tenth anniversary. Oh how apropos if it should arrive today of all days.

The woman who had replaced the man before her brought her little jeep to a gravel grinding halt, skidding up to the weathered tin mailbox like a ballplayer stealing third. The mail went in with a resounding 'thunk' and she and her jeep were off. The man she'd replaced used to wave. No matter. Just something to mutter about in the amble down the drive to the box.

Yes, a letter. Not a bill. Addressed by hand! His wrinkled fingers quivered as he drew it nearer to the thick of his glasses. Ten years to the day! To the day! He knew it would come! And here it was....

No. Not his letter. Wrong address.

The fine folks over at eight cuts have a new exhibition up entitled Once Upon a Time in a Gallery. It was my honor and pleasure to contribute my short story The Littlest Dream.

I hope you'll spend some time wandering the virtual shelves to enjoy all the wonderful gems eight cuts has put on display.

Be warned, however, some links NSFW.