A Pound of Flash Read online

  He drifted slowly back to consciousness, more a gradual increase of awareness than actual clear thought. He didn’t open his eyes, preferring the dark of his eyelids. His head throbbed, a constant pounding that threatened to make him nauseous again. He rolled onto his side and dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach to expel.

  Pain assaulted him from every angle. His head felt like it had split open. His arm screamed a fiery curse at the rest of his body, and his left leg felt broken. But if he didn’t open his eyes, he could go back to sleep, and then the pain would go away.

  Through the fog of dizziness and pain, he caught a strange smell in the air. It almost smelled like smoke, but not quite. It smelled more like ashes. As if the world had burned to death while he was unconscious. He didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good.

  He tried to lose himself into the darkness again. But the more he tried, the more the pain kept him awake. Finally. He couldn’t ignore it anymore, and he tried to open his eyes. The lids were stuck together by some gummy, sticky mess - probably blood - and he had to open them with the fingers on his good arm.

  It took a moment for his eyes to focus. He lay on a rocky outcrop about twenty feet off the valley floor. He must have bounced along a little further down the slope after hitting the ledge. That would certainly account for the pain in his arm and leg, which shouted at him even louder now that he was conscious again. He had some herbs in his pack that might help, although if his leg were truly broken they wouldn’t do much good. He’d need a splint, and he damn sure wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

  The world around him had a soft, gray quality, as though he’d awakened at dusk or early dawn. He could not see the sun through the haze. The sky was thick with gray clouds. And it was snowing.

  Already? he thought. It’s not time yet. And it’s nowhere near cold enough.

  He took another look, noting the dingy gray color of the flakes falling from the sky. Not snow, he realized, but something else.

  One of the flakes landed on his forearm, and he noticed for the first time that there were hundreds of them covering his body.

  Ash.

  He brushed the ashes off his arm, immediately regretting it as another flare of pain shot through him. He almost screamed, but held it in, lest some hungry predators hear him and think about a nice, helpless meal.

  He coughed. A thick wad of gray matter shot from his mouth to smack into the dingy tree to his right. Not good.

  Down in the valley, no animals remained. As the ash piled up, it covered any tracks left behind by the stragglers.

  It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  A shadow fell over the valley, and he looked up into the sky. The soft gray clouds had been replaced by an angry black wall.

  More ash. Lots more.

  He coughed again, his lungs trying desperately to clear themselves. I should have just left with the animals, he thought. Too late, now.

  Then the black wall poured into the valley.

  Well, that’s all of them for now. I hope you enjoyed this second collection of disgusting, creepy, or just plain weird stories. Many of these were written with a zombie theme. I’m not sure why that is, honestly, except perhaps to say that because of Amanda Hocking’s Zombiepalooza I’ve had the Shambling Undead on my mind all month long. I guess that’s fitting, since it is October, after all. But whatever the reason, they seem to have invaded this book.

  If you enjoyed these stories, or even if you didn’t, I’d love to hear from you. Drop me a line at [email protected] and let me know what worked and/or what didn’t. You can also find me on Facebook (David McAfee), Twitter (DavidLMcAfee) or on my blog: mcafeeland.wordpress.com. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.

  --David McAfee, October 21, 2010

  P.S. Keep reading. The bonus stories are just ahead!

  Apology

  By Michael Crane

  Chucky gave his mother the evil eye as he sat on the bed. His arms were folded and he gave a wicked scowl.

  “Sweetie, I know you’re mad at me,” she said.

  He huffed and his eyebrows became one.

  “You’re right to be mad. I’m mad at myself, too. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Chucky said nothing as he continued to stare. His lips closed tightly, forming a straight line.

  “I swear, next time you tell me there’s a monster in your closet, I’ll believe you.”

  He looked down at the stump, where his right leg used to be.

  ***

  Michael Crane is a graduate of Columbia College Chicago with a BA in Fiction Writing, and is the author of the short story collection, IN DECLINE.

  You can check out his official author page at www.facebook.com/authormichaelcrane and follow his blog at http://authormichaelcrane.blogspot.com/. You can get in touch with him at [email protected].

  Return to Ravenworld

  By Daniel Arenson

  Standing on the deck of the Lodestar, staring into the ocean, Captain Emran gave his cigar one last puff, then tossed the butt overboard. He watched mournfully as it disappeared under the foam, drowning like his hope and happiness. It was his last cigar, perhaps his last moment of peace.

  There would be no smoking in Ravenworld.

  Never in Ravenworld. Not there. Not ever.

  "Back into the darkness...," he whispered and shuddered as a chill, colder than the icy wind, ran through him.

  "Captain," came a hesitant voice from behind, and Emran turned to see First Mate Tem fumbling with a scope. "Captain, one of the men has spotted the first Ravenoid. Flying straight off the bow, Captain."

  Tem had always been a courageous sailor, as his many scars could attest. He had battled sea serpents, sirens, and dragons without losing a heartbeat. Today the wiry man trembled.

  "I see," Emran said, keeping a stern, cool façade as his insides roiled. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could turn back time, ten years, a month, even a minute so he could taste that last cigar one more time. "Raise the red flag, Tem. Let them know we've come with its head."

  Tem tightened his lips, which had begun to quiver. He saluted and gave a nod, his eyes watery. “Aye, Captain.”

  Barking orders, the tough old sailor lollopped across the deck, sending seahands scurrying up masts. Within seconds, a huge red flag unfurled, billowing over the Lodestar, shadowing its creaking old planks. The flag seemed to summon the wind, and the sails ballooned. The Lodestar drove through the water, splashing foam, leaving a wake like Emran’s fading dreams. Today it ended.

  Emran laid his hand upon the rail, caressing the lined, greased wood. This ship had served his father, his grandfather, his own ambition. Who’d have thought it would carry the Crunge in its defeat?

  Then he heard it.

  The Ravenoid.

  When the sound carried across the ocean, he shut his eyes in pain. Hearing a Ravenoid always seemed to freeze, then shatter his innards. So loud he could hear it miles away, it sounded like a drop of water falling into a pool, echoing in a chamber of stone. An organic sound, yet metallic. A beautiful sound, yet terrifying. He had tried to spell it in his journal once, and had decided the sound could never be described.

  He gazed into the indigo clouds, seeking the creature. He descried it there, black and willowy, descending toward them. Memories of his imprisonment flooded him, and Emran shut his eyes again as he remembered the pain those talons could inflict. He cursed the day he first sailed these waters, first came upon them, first became their servant....

  He heard the crew scurry away, then smelled the creature land before him, a smell like rainwater and oil. It landed without a sound, forever graceful.

  “Captain Emran.” It spoke with deep, guttural rasps. It had always pained them to speak human words.

  Emran opened his eyes and stared at the creature. It looked like he remembered them. Seven feet tall, they had humanoid bodies, thin as twigs and covered with black feathers. Their heads and wings were ravenlike, but more e
vil than ravens could ever look. Their eyes were azure, dead.

  “Vilardo,” Emran said, body stiff and chin raised. “You are looking ugly as always.”

  Vilardo’s azure eyes shone with blue flame. “And you look better; your wounds have healed. I will make sure they are returned tenfold. We have freed you so you may slay it. Where is its head?”

  Emran shook his head. “No, Vilardo. First return my daughter. Then you shall have the head of the beast.”

  Vilardo stared in silence, then tossed back its head and laughed. That old drop in a pond, echoing in a stone chamber, ruffled the flag and sails.

  “I shall humor you now, Emran,” it rasped, “before I make you beg for death. Show me it first.”

  Emran nodded, gestured with his cutlass. “Enfolded within that canvas.”

  The Ravenoid leaped into the air, flapped its wings, landed before the canvas, and ripped it open with its beak. It stared a moment at the thing inside, then tossed back its head and howled. “The Crunge! The Crunge has been vanquished! Scourge of our race, I spit upon thee.”

  Emran came to stand by the canvas. He too looked at the head of the beast. A huge head, larger than a cow, bloated and red and ugly, horned and scaly. The devourer of Ravenoids. The nemesis of Ravenworld. The Crunge--the beast whose head could buy his daughter’s freedom.

  Vilardo turned toward Emran. “Very well. The girl shall be freed from our torturers. Sail after me.”

  No ship could sail alone to Ravenworld; no maps lead to it. Following the wings of this black demon, the Lodestar would journey into its world.

  With another ethereal call, the Ravenoid took flight, soon becoming a stain below the churning clouds. The Lodestar trundled after it, red flag flapping, as the waters darkened and darkened, soon turning black. They were close to Ravenworld now. Stars swiveled above, shooting around the masts, just out of Emran’s reach. Sirens of waterdepth danced around them in the blackness, eyes shining with flickering dewdrops. Serpents coiled below, leviathans trumpeted, waves crashed underwater, boulders fell into the sky, oceans danced and collided and screamed. Millions of luminous whelks hovered, as between them swam belugas of deep purple. Ravenworld, hidden to all but who follow your spawn. I had forgotten your beauty, scourge of life....

  He lowered his gaze when he remembered his first day here. They had taken him and his daughter, tortured them so that he would hunt the Crunge, bring them its head for his daughter. At last I fulfill the deal.

  Finally Emran saw their fortress before him, a mountain of corrugated iron and sharp boulders, black and shiny, beautiful yet terrible to behold. Multitudes of Ravenoids flowed between its spires and gargoyles, gleaming, hissing, hating, shrieking.

  Ravenworld.

  A twister of its black denizens descended upon the Lodestar, surrounding it, covering its deck. The deckhands drew cutlasses and backed up into a ring, staring around nervously. First Mate Tem clutched his cutlass, just waiting to give the order to fight.

  Emran turned toward them. “Lower your blades, men. It is me they want. Tem shall lead you back, with my daughter, once the exchange is made.”

  Their lips tightened, the men lowered their blades, though still kept their fists clenched around the hilts.

  A glitter caught his eyes, and Emran looked up to see a golden figure, shining like fire, descending toward the ship, surrounded by slaves in purple and green livery. Here came Nabemo, King of Ravenworld, clad in armor of gold. Golden wire filigreed his beak, while a crown of burning manflesh encircled its brow.

  “Emran!” he shrieked. “Hand us the head of our nemesis.”

  The words blew the hair back from Emran’s head and shook the ship. Emran clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Give me my daughter first!” he shouted above the din of shrieking Ravenoids. “Then you shall have me and its head.”

  “Emran!” the king shrieked. “Emran, oh Emran you wicked spawn of filth. You shall pray and beg for death, Emran, yet it will never come for you. Oh, Emran, how you will suffer.” King Nabemo shook his feathers, snapped his beak, laughing. “Take your broken daughter, Emran, take your spawn which we crippled, so that for the rest of her miserable days she may know how her father screams in agony.”

  Vilardo, head torturer of Ravenworld, fluttered from a cluster of stone, carrying a human body in his twig-like arms.

  Emran tasted tears on his lips. His daughter. Taia.

  Vilardo placed her before him, not sparing a last chance to draw her blood with his talons. Emran ran toward her and embraced her, weeping. He tried to speak to her, but could not. His heart overflowed with agony, rage, despair. They had hurt her, left wounds that could never heal, but she lived. She lived. He had saved her.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Papa...,” she whispered, then her eyes shut again. She slept.

  “Now surrender yourself and the head of the Crunge!” shrieked King Nabemo. “Surrender your life and its head, or we shall sink your miserable raft.”

  Emran turned from Taia. The moment had come.

  He nodded.

  “I give you the head of your greatest enemy.”

  He stepped back toward the canvas, wherein lay the head of the Crunge. He gripped a corner of the cloth.

  “Ravenworld!” he shouted, fists clenched and eyes burning. “Ravenworld, cursed of lands. Nabemo, cursed of kings. A curse upon you, destruction upon you. I give you your foretold nemesis, your undoing!”

  As the Ravenoids screamed and fluttered, Emran pulled back the canvas.

  The Crunge’s head lay upon the deck. Its eyes opened.

  The Ravenoids screamed so loudly, the crewmen clutched their ears. With a howl, the Crunge thrust its body, hidden under the Lodestar, up through the deck. The hole through which its head had fit, a head feigning death, burst open as the creature emerged. A hundred feet tall, it leaped toward the Ravenoids, shrieking.

  “Into the lifeboats!” Emran shouted, and his men moved. Emran carried Taia, leaping with her into one of the Lodestar's lifeboats. Behind him, he heard the din: the Crunge howling, the Ravenoids making their strange sounds. He dared not turn to look.

  He began to row the lifeboat, Taia lying before him. Around him, Tem and the other crewmen were oaring their own lifeboats. A Ravenoid dived toward them. Emran slashed his cutlass, severing its birdlike head. He kept oaring, eyes wide, teeth clenched, breath fast, sweat drenching him. Another Ravenoid swooped. Another blow from the cutlass severed another head.

  Emran glanced behind him. The Crunge, the foretold nemesis of Ravenworld, was slaughtering the Ravenoids like a boy killing ants. It toppled their towers, shattered their walls. It devoured Vilardo, King Nabemo, the Ravenoids who had tortured Emran and his daughter. For many days, the Crunge had lain with its head on the deck, its body hidden underwater, beneath the ship. For long millennia, it had dreamed of destroying Ravenworld.

  Its howls thanked Emran and blessed him on his new journey.

  The purple belugas swam above, and stars swirled and danced. Whelks and seaweed moved in rings, while oceans clashed and tumbled. Out of Ravenworld they oared, out of this cursed, crumbling land. The seas crashed around them, raining upon their boats. Serpents and sirens became twisted and oozing, screeching in rage. Around them, this world collapsed, and Emran strained his muscles. I will escape. I will escape it.

  As Ravenworld crumbled behind them, Emran, his men, and his daughter shot into the blue ocean. Behind them, the Ravenoids raised last shrieks, then were silent.

  Around Emran, the waters settled, and the clouds dispersed. Only a faint scent of rain and oil carried upon the breeze, and then it too drowned under the good scent of salt.

  “My daughter,” Emran said, kneeling before her, cupping her cheek.

  She smiled up at him. “Papa,” she said, the sunlight playing upon her. “Thank you.”

  ***

  Born in 1980, Daniel Arenson is an author of fantasy fiction, from epic to dark and surreal.

  Like many writers, he began his car
eer writing short stories. He sold his first story, "Worms Believe in God", in 1998. Since then, dozens of his stories and poems have appeared in various magazines, among them Flesh & Blood, Chizine, and Orson Scott Card's Strong Verse.

  Five Star Publishing, an imprint of Gale, published Daniel's fantasy novel Firefly Island in 2007. His second novel, the dark fantasy Flaming Dove, was released in 2010.

  Visit Daniel's website at DanielArenson.com.

  Locked and Locked Again

  By David Dalglish

  There is no lock on my door. I wish there was, but not from the inside. The outside. I’d jam it with a chair but my roommate might stumble over it in the hallway, or worse, remove it. Besides, a chair isn’t a lock, and that’s what important. The chest hates locks. It’s the one thing I do know about the damned thing.

  The chest was there waiting for me when I came back from Christmas break. Arms full of clothes, I opened the door to my room and frowned at the strange surprise. The wood was brown and rotted, the metal aged. It looked like it’d been underwater for decades, yet when I touched it the wood was rough and warm. On the front, like some pirate’s treasure, was a giant steel lock with a key opening the size of two of my fingers.

  An index card lay beside my bed. I tossed my backpack aside, set down the rest of my clothes, and then picked up the card. It read:

  Keep it locked. I’ll come for it at Winter Solstice. Do not open it. The locks won’t stay if you do.

  Keeper.

  I thought it was a prank. Of course I did. Wouldn’t any other rational person think the same? My roommate Gary and I had fought an unofficial war of pranks over the past semester. I would put his toothbrush in a cup of water and toss it in the freezer; he’d smear toothpaste on my car’s steering wheel.

  I scratched my chin and stared at the chest. Perhaps Gary was stepping up his game? I knelt down and stared at the lock. It was comically huge. When I pulled the top, the lock held firm. Bewildered, I stepped back. I was certain there’d be a dead animal inside, but how was I to find out? A search of the room was both quick and fruitless. No key.