Fic: Midnight Swim

My short story, Midnight Swim, won the monthly challenge over at WerewolvesAtHeart. June's theme was "Escape the Heat!"

"Midnight Swim": In the basement of a safe house, Finn struggles to keep cool as summer temperatures rise outside. When the full moon comes and he decides to slip out for a late night stroll to a nearby beach for a swim, he finds that he might not have made the best decision, for his own personal hunter has found him, and she never goes anywhere without her weapon...

Werewolves, mild horror (at best), and naked ocean swimming ;)

Horrifyingly Good News

So much news today. All good.

First, An October Birth got a DD over on Deviant Art. Really thrilling, especially considering this Daily Deviation comes after it was rejected three times by various magazines. One was a form rejection, and two were personal, explaining how it did not fit their 'zines. It's a tough story, I admit, with horror and sadness wrought by incest, and after doing a lot of research, I couldn't find a good fit. I guess DA was a perfect home!

*

Next, I've got two pieces of micro-fic in 101 Fiction's December issue, Hijo and Stages. The theme for the issue was a deliciously morbid two-fold delight: "undead" and "winter." And I love EVERY ONE of the stories in this issue! Each one is a perfect little gem, hard and glittery. Congrats to my fellow contributors, and thank you to editor, John Xero.

*

Last, voting is on for Fantasy Faction's monthly story contest (November's theme: doors), and my short story, "The Dragon in the Attic," is one of six vying for fame and glory! Despite the title, it's horror. Seems to be today's theme :)

The submission thread, where you can read the pieces (each under 1500 words) is here. The voting thread is easily found.

Please vote! I did; there were two that really grabbed me, and it was tough to decide which one to vote for, but I did it and SO CAN YOU, my pretties!

*

Well, this is a lot of horrifically good news. I feelz like a real writer today, yo.

While nothing else is under submission, two short stories and a creative non-fiction essay are finished... but I have no idea where to submit them. Sometimes my stuff is a bit wacky. I dunno. Maybe I'll start my own publishing company for weirdos like me. If there are any out there. Doubt it. Probably alone, playing solitaire.

/P.M. Dawn reference

xx

RS

Fic: Gifts to Give Goth Girls

Gifts to Give Goth Girls

He'd been preparing since the night of the horror that was Thanksgiving with his family; that is to say, staring into his plate of apple pie, he'd thought that he should think about what sorts of Christmas presents she might like, but he hadn't got much farther. With four days to go, and the Mayan apocalypse nigh, he thought maybe an LED lamp or Swiss Army-type tool. Practical, in case the end of the world did occur, and besides, the electricity in her apartment had just been shut off for the second time this year and it was quite gloomy after five o'clock.

Of course, when she broke up with him for giving her such stupid presents, she would have a lovely weapon with which to gouge, slice, nick and ram him to death. Perhaps a pashmere scarf: not pashmina, nor cashmere, but soft, and it came in black.

And the lamp, he decided at the last second.

So armed, he met her at the coffee shop down the street. They've never discussed exchanging presents, and he thought how clever of him to give her something this night: all the pressure off, really, and he could show her that he knew a little something about her particular subculture by wishing her a happy Saturnalia. Already seated, she rolled her eyes and responded that she wasn't Pagan, idiot.

He handed her the box with the scarf, and watched as she gleefully ripped the Jack Skellington paper off and took it out and fingered it. It was only a scarf, he saw now. Impersonal, made in China, and fringed. Fringed. What Goth girl wanted knotted fringe?

He gave her the second box. Showed her how the lamp worked. The grumpy barista shielded his eyes, spilled steamed milk on his hand, and made noises to his fellow employees that he was sure meant, "Uncool, dude. Uncool."

It was a disaster.

Except that she rose from her seat, black tunic flowing over black leggings, put on her puffy silver coat, and led him out the door, back to her apartment.

The bright white of the LEDs suited her. Washed in their light, her pale skin turned a luminous blue-white. They wriggled underneath seven layers of comforters, and the only thing she wore was the scarf, which she took off halfway through and wrapped around his neck.

If the world did end, he decided, that would be just fine. She kissed his shoulder with lips much pinker than usual and snuggled into him, the ancient radiator clanking into life like a grumpy barista. It was a non-holiday, faux apocalyptic miracle.

New: Take Her By The Heel now up at Nontrue

I've had a lot of bad sex in my time. I've also had some fantastic sex, but since I've written enough erotica to give Rick Santorum a heart attack three times over (yes, Mr. Santorum, women like porn), I thought it was time to give the other side its due.

Before you read Take Her By The Heel, keep in mind the following: I absolutely wrote a character based on actual people. Any resemblance to men living or dead is completely intentional.

And a piece of unasked-for advice: Skinny dip at night. Feel a guy up under the restaurant table. By all means, sit in the back row of the movie theater and make out during terrible movies, and learn how to unzip a zipper quietly. Put a big blanket down on the sand before you start getting crazy at the beach. Sand in sensitive areas is no fun. And above all, give as good as you get. Especially if you're sleeping with me.

This is the GTA version of "Dance Hall Days," but it's still awesome.

The Instrument of Fate now up at The Lorelei Signal

The Instrument of Fate is now in the current issue of The Lorelei Signal, with art by Lee Kuruganti. The Lorelei Signal is a fantasy zine featuring strong female characters. The story:

Moria, one of the ancient Fates, has the difficult task of keeping the newest
incarnation of Death in line. A task made more difficult by his 'I don't care about
this job' attitude -- and even more difficult when she must defend him from
termination. But there is something more powerful at work: could the mortal she
chose to replace the last incarnation be the ORIGINAL incarnation returned as
God promised he would after the rebellion in Heaven?

Having just re-read it, I was in tears. I'm not sure if it was the memories of writing that story, or that it became something beyond me, with characters that took on a life of their own. Even Erik, that bad boy, made me pity and love him. Anyway, I'm glad to have written it, and I hope you'll take a few minutes to read (or re-read) the tale yourself.

*

Currently reading GRRM's "A Dance With Dragons," and dare I say at this young juncture that it's worth the wait? Still holding my breath a bit, but overall, I'm remembering why I loved Martin's writing, his honesty in storytelling and his ability to fully flesh a character, no matter how small. The deaths, they are already coming. It is GRRM, after all. *g* But I am sincerely enjoying this, relishing everything, and trying not to rush.

And I'm realizing how much I've forgotten. What I've forgotten is EPIC. How does Martin remember it all? He must have walls covered in notes. May I never be filled with the flame of desire to write a seven-novel series. Goodness.

And now I make a prediction: The Wall will fall. Jon Snow will be forced back -- and to the seat of his father's reign. Ultimately, he will join forces with Daenerys, and it will be her dragons (one ridden by Tyrion! A ha!) that annihilate the undead Others.

That's a pretty simple prediction, leaving out lots of characters. But I'm going to go with it for now. Got one? Leave it here.

Short Story: Amber in the Belly

"Amber in the Belly": An exiled priest finds hope in a strange, scaly place. Fantasy, 5300 words.

Amber in the Belly

Caroling from the drunken revelers at the Broken Goat burst through the air as the pub’s door slammed open. Damon sidestepped a crowd of partyers as they spilled out, one man spinning a chime wheel wildly above his head. The door shut again, closing on the stench of spilled beer and overheated humanity. The group tottered off, no doubt towards the next pub down the lane. Damon stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and tucked his nose into his scarf. Home was ten minutes away.

Vendors called out to him as he passed. Hawking last minute presents and decorations for tomorrow’s celebration, their fingers showed pink through the cut-off tips of their gloves, their faces ruddy above swathes of scarves. He wanted to ignore them all, but the little carts with savory, hot food atop their steaming grills made his stomach growl. Damon paused at a cart selling fried potato puffs, the small round puffs browning in the sizzling oil. His mouth watered.

“How many, sir?” asked the cheerful vendor.

Damon scowled and moved on.

It wasn’t yet six, but already the streets were cloaked in night, heavy and still and cold. He thought of the brandy waiting in the cupboard, of the warming stone he could heat when he got a fire going. He thought of dinner: tins of beans, likely. Maybe bread, if the loaf hadn’t gone green yet.

There was a prayer that turned bread fresh again. His hands clenched into fists, released. He huffed out through the scarf, the wool damp against his lips. A prayer, yes. A prayer for everything. Every damned thing you could want – almost.

He hesitated before turning down the crooked alley that led to his door. Nothing moved in the shadows. Casually, he bent down as if tying his bootlaces. His fingers searched in the dirty snow, found a small rock. He stood, rock light in his hand.

A snap of his wrist, and the rock went pinging down the alley. Something screeched, and a streak of fire lit the narrow passage. Ah. No thieves in wait, then. Just dragons.

They were like rats. The city had, in recent years, become a refuge of sorts for the little ones, tiny cousins to the great beasts prowling the mountains further south. They crouched in make-shift caves under sewer grates and carriages; their scaly bodies wrapped around lamp posts, absorbing the heat and blocking the light. Of course, their increased presence meant that the actual rat population had seen a mighty decrease, but reports of burnt hands and boots were common, and the tiny dragons were quite the little thieves, cunning and with dexterous toes. The mayor had declared them a scourge to be wiped out. Dead dragons by the dozen hung from poles in the town square, their wings and claws sliced off for offerings to the gods, their bellies cut open for the powerful ambers that fueled their flame. It was said that one amber from a dragon’s belly could keep your fire stoked without extra wood for an entire night.

Damon thought about this as he made his way to his door. Wood was expensive. An entire night? A whole night’s worth of warmth, without waking up at some godsless hour to find all the heat from the stone against your feet had gone, and your fire was only embers? It seemed like a dream.

He peered into the shadows, a cautious plan forming. Now, where was the thing? He’d seen its fire just there, on the right, but then it had scurried away. Could be gone already.

“Here, dragon,” he whispered into the dark. “Dragon, dragon.”

Nothing but silence. He sighed. Really, he had no luck at all. Odd, since he’d once considered himself a very lucky man, indeed. A man who’d studied the prayers, worked them into miracles that few of his profession could manifest, and made a fine living teaching them to others. A man who had only to recite the words and — well, it was best not to dwell on that. That was the past. A short-lived fire and beans were the present.

His key slipped into the lock. Before he could open the door, something stirred in the snow at his feet.

A dragon.

It hugged the wall, claws clicking on the stones. Looking up. Watching him with glittering gold eyes.

A dragon.

Maybe his luck was changing, after all. His mind did furious calculations: a meager bounty for the body, claws and teeth and wings all parted out, and then there was the amber… If he moved fast enough.

The dragon’s lips curled back, revealing rows of pointed, white teeth. Smoke curled into the air from its nostrils.

Yes, he could do this. He’d once hunted fox with his father and brothers, and wasn’t that a clever, quick prey? And he’d never come home without one hanging from his saddle.

“Hello. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to pick you up.” The dragon’s lips curled back further, and Damon fairly pounced on the thing, grabbing it by the neck and wings. A shriek rang through the alley, the dragon’s bantam body thrashing in Damon’s hands. “Ha! Got you!”

The dragon stilled its struggling, fixed him with an angry golden eye, and drew a great breath. Damon had an instant of premonition before he let go, but already the thin streak of flame was loosed, directed at his face. He fell back, slipping on the slick ground, heat passing over his head.

As he scrambled to his feet, he looked for his would-be prey. It seemed he was alone in the alley again. The dragon had, wisely, fled. Well. It hadn’t been much of a dragon anyway, scrawny and young. Even its flame hadn’t amounted to much. If he hadn’t ducked, perhaps it would have singed his nose hairs. At best. That sort of dragon was probably not worth much at all. Practically useless.

His key still stuck out of the lock. And now his coat and pants were wet. He said a curse – equally as ineffectual as his prayers, these days – and went inside.

#

The fire glowed softly. Damon sat close to it on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, eating beans from the tin with a spoon that had once belonged to a great priest of the Shal-dur sect. He’d taken the spoon and a ceremonial mask after he’d been asked to leave. He’d reveled in his minor act of vengeance at the time, believing that his actions would hurt the priest in some way, or perhaps make some sort of statement. Now he wished that, in his spitefulness, he’d taken something of more value. The priest’s jewel-topped scepter, for instance. Each one of the gems set in the scepter’s head was worth a pretty penny, not to mention the silver handle. Damon hadn’t been as practical as he could’ve been.

It was a nice spoon, though. Perhaps he could sell it. But then, how would he eat his beans or stir his coffee?

The tin was scraped clean. Nonetheless, he usually put them out in the alley. He had no offerings for the gods any longer but these trifling sorts of things: a button broken in half, the last of the milk which had curdled, an empty bean tin. He hoped that they understood that he still respected them, that he still… Well, worshipped wasn’t the right word. But no matter. He carried them in his heart. They existed, and so did he, and these days, it was all one – god or man – could cling to with any pride. Perhaps someday… Ah, again, a thought that didn’t bear thinking. He got up and took the tin outside.

A dragon sat on its haunches on his doorstep. It might’ve been the same one, but how many green dragons were there currently slinking around the city? A hundred? A thousand?

He narrowed his eyes and set down the tin. “For the gods, you little smiter.”

He shut the door except for a sliver and peeked out. The dragon, as expected, barely waited before jamming its snout in the tin. He watched in amusement as the dragon tussled with the tin, until its entire head was stuck inside. It finally wrestled the thing off and sat back, long, thin tongue lapping at its face to get at the remnants of bean sauce. Damon shut the door quietly, the chill having seeped into his clothes, and went back upstairs.

#

An hour later, he was hunched over, just finishing a copy of yesterday’s newspaper snagged from someone’s rubbish heap, when he heard a noise at the door. He adjusted his glasses, considering who it might be. Beggars, most likely. Robbers, possibly. The chancellor, come to offer him back his job and petitioner’s license — he snorted.

Probably beggars, hoping to benefit from the holiday spirit. He picked the paper up again.

Another noise. As if someone was too weak to properly knock, so they were scratching, dragging their half-starved knuckles across his door. Annoyed, he put the paper down and sternly reminded his imagination to rein itself in. He got up slowly, dropping the blanket that had covered his shoulders to the floor and reaching for the ancient length of short, warped steel that stood in for a proper weapon. Walking quietly to the door, he unconsciously said a prayer for protection and bravery, a warrior’s prayer, under his breath.

He waited. It came again, a slight sound. The wind, maybe, although the night had seemed still. Perhaps a storm was brewing? Surely that was it.

“Who’s there?” he said to the door. “Go away. We don’t have anything to give you.”

The scratching became frantic.

“I’ve got a…” He stared at his pathetic, cheap knife. “I’ve got a sword and I’m a trained knight of the… Oh, for Mara’s sake.” He threw open the door.

No one. No one at all. It had to have been the wind.

But that wasn’t the wind tapping small claws on his sock-clad feet.

“Beggar! Is that what you’re here for? Well, I’ve got some unfortunate news for you. No more beans. So hit the road. Off with you.” He glared sternly down at the reptile, its head cocking from side to side as he spoke. “Be gone, dragon!” And he pulled his feet back in and shut the door.

“Rats,” he mumbled to himself. “They’re like rats. Or small dogs.”

He added a single puny log to the fire, giving his fireplace one last, forlorn look before taking his blanket from the floor and getting into bed. He carefully removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table, pulling the blankets up to his chin.

Approximately four hours before the fire was well and truly dead. Four hours of decent sleep. He closed his eyes.

Within moments, there was a scratching at the window just over his head. He sat up and yanked back the threadbare curtain.

“You! I told you, I’ve got no more!”

Outside the window, crouched against the panes, the dragon stared in, steaming up the glass. The moon reflected in its eyes, full and round and bright. It scrabbled at the grilles, trying to keep hold of the rotting sill.

And it was shivering. He could see that much. He could also see the faint ochre glow of the amber in its belly.

Four hours.

The dragon’s lips curled back.

Dragon’s teeth, ground and used in certain potions. Not much individually, but there were one, two... A few. There were a few teeth in those jaws, certainly. And those feet, with their curving green claws: how much for those?

The thing obviously wanted in.

“… said the spider to the fly,” Damon mumbled, his fingers on the latch. The dragon’s mouth opened wider, its snout shoved against the glass. Light from the high, full moon permeated its leathery wings; Damon could see the dark tracings of veins, the long, slender bones as its wings beat wildly, trying to keep it aloft.

And that glow, steady but dull.

Really, how much was it worth, all together, all the pieces? How much was this one pitiful dragon worth?

His stomach grumbled, reminding him of morning. He’d heard it said that dragon tasted remarkably like chicken, once you’d boiled it enough so that it chewed less like shoe leather. A chill crossed his thin shoulders. He glanced at the table by the fire, where a coffee cup and a knife sat. An empty cup. A sharp knife.

It was just one beast. Barely worth the effort.

But still. He could let it in, if for no other reason than charity.

Yet charity was losing its battle within his heart these past few years; little enough had been shown to him, after all.

“I have nothing for you,” he said quietly. The dragon thwacked a paw against the window.

Dimly, he recalled sacrifices. They had been a lifetime ago, those bleating lambs, the cawing ravens. The wriggling, hissing dragons. Hadn’t there been one, a great big one, large as an ox? With black eyes, not gold. And there had been a sword, a real one. When he’d been a true priest.

His hands shook.

“I can’t let you in,” he whispered. “Please, understand.”

The mouth of the dragon shut. Its wings ceased beating. It fell out of sight.

Damon stared at the empty window, at empty night where previously, a small dragon had hovered, begging. He had the feeling of just waking from a dream, of not knowing he had woken and thinking that he might still be asleep.

He threw off the covers, crossing cold floorboards that destroyed any romantic notion of dreaming and waking, and cursing himself twenty times for stupidity. After all, he hardly had work; he could just afford this place, and maybe not for much longer. His coat had been patched and re-patched until the original material was in serious doubt. Coffee, the price of coffee had gone up again! To share these paltry resources was insane. No woman would have him, disgraced as he was and poor besides. Not an ounce of luck, no money –

Feet shoved into unlaced boots, he slapped his arms to keep warm as he tramped through the snow. Bitter cold. It had become, if possible, even colder than earlier.

“Dragon. Where are you? Dragon!” Damn it. He should’ve brought a stick from the fire. It was impossible to see out here. “Dragon! Show yourself, immediately. I did not come out here to waste my time…”

A flurry of sparks. At the bottom of a wall, limp and shivering, was the dragon.

Damon scooped up the scaly body, holding it close to his chest as he hurried back inside. There, by the crackling fire, he sat, wrapping himself in a blanket once again.

The dragon’s wings folded tight against its back. It trembled, clawed toes flexing and unflexing against his thigh.

“Ah, it’s warm in here now, come on.” Damon traced a finger along the dragon’s side, feeling the edges of ribs, down to the leg bones. “Starving, aren’t you. Not much of a hunter, eh? All right then. Stay here. I’ll see what I’ve got.” He stood, placing the dragon on the edge of the hearth. “Mind, it won’t be much.”

In the cupboards, he found a wrapped bundle of dried hunters’ sausages. He’d been saving them for tomorrow, to treat himself. With a sigh, he took the package down and opened it. He hoped the dragon was open to sharing, as those teeth, though small, looked fairly sharp.

When he returned, he was greeted by a strange sight. The dragon had climbed into the fire and curled there, eyes closed, smoke drifting peacefully from its nose.

Which did not prevent it, when it caught the scent of sausage, of waking up and slithering out. One sausage, two – it snagged the paper and dragged it into the fire before Damon could react.

“Wretch! Those are my only sausages.” Damon rested his chin on his knees, frowning. When he looked at the clock on the wall, he could just make out that it was after midnight. Tomorrow had come, after all. “Feast then, little vermin. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got moldy bread waiting.”

The dragon burped and rested a weary head on a flaring branch before slipping back into sleep. The fire danced around it. Damon watched until he, too, fell asleep.

#

It was summer. A field close-cropped by goats, and a boy and a dog at its edge. The sun warmed his skin and turned it brown, one long day after another. And as the boy watched the goats, he made up little songs, little rhymes: Callie gives milk, in buckets like silk, buckets too heavy to carry. She eats the clover from fields all over…

They were just something to pass the time, these silly songs. If Callie gave more milk after he’d sung it a few times, then what of it? He could sing-song the clouds over the moon, or turn his sister’s watery porridge into thick, hearty fare. With cinnamon, though they kept that secret between them.

“Damon, can you make this hole in my shoe go away?”

“No, but you can.”

“Damon!” she laughed, and he sang a song about patching holes and walking down the lane to meet a certain boy, and there was his sister a few months later, in her wedding shawl of white lace, shoes perfectly mended.

All summer, he sang to the goats and the chickens and the sun and the well. Then, at the very start of autumn, a man appeared, with a staff made of olivewood and a red and black cloak, and Damon left, twisting ’round to watch his home disappear as he sat on the back of a donkey.

For once, this dream did not end in darkness, or troubled fits. Instead, he drowsed awake slowly, aware that his head rested uncomfortably on the hard floor, and that the blanket covered him, but was not enough to keep him truly warm.

Yet he was. At his center, the sun itself, heat melting his muscles, spreading through him.

And spines. Sharp ridges, pressing against him, here and there. He pushed back the blanket.

“Dragon,” he muttered. Still dreaming, it seemed. Wait, no. The dragon, shining green scales and gleaming gold eyes, curled back its lips as it looked at him.

The dragon growled peacefully.

Well. This was something new. Who needed the amber from a dead dragon to warm them for one night, when a live dragon could radiate enough heat to keep a man warm every night? The ashes in the grate were cold, gray.

A dragon couldn’t keep a man fed, though. His stomach reminded him of the hour, and he shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes as he opened one empty cupboard after another.

A chair fell over. The dragon clambered upwards, scrabbling, pulling itself to the tabletop. There, it folded its wings and sat up, expectant. He tossed it the moldy bread. It burned it to a crisp before happily nibbling the remains.

One of them was fed, at least.

Outside, the snow had started again, fat flakes drifting down. Which wouldn’t stop the festivities, he knew. Damon rubbed his neck, staring out the window. When he was a boy, they’d made hoops of dried grass from the harvest, saved for just this day. He remembered chasing the hoops down the hill, shouting with the other boys. Chasing fire.

His heaviest coat, then. And both pairs of gloves, and both scarves. From the crock beneath the bed, a few coins. Why not? Today was a day of celebration. He’d worry about tomorrow’s meals when tomorrow came.

The dragon darted out the door as soon as he opened it, launching into the air, no longer the shivering, starved creature of the night before. He watched its tail disappear over the top of the next building, and in that instant, he marveled at his own good fortune at having had such a miraculous companion, even for a short amount of time. Had anyone else slept with an amazingly smooth parcel of warmth tucked against them? No stone, which cooled in hours and which dug into one’s flesh, but a living body, sharing its own resources. A miracle, and one he hadn’t even had to pray into existence.

Out in the lane, few walked. He hoped he hadn’t missed it. Down the narrow streets, out onto the boulevard. And there were the crowds, streaming out of the city in a joyous cacophony.

He joined them, noticing as he walked the stirrings in the shadows: the dragons that had found nowhere warm to spend the night, bodies twisted together or upon themselves like cats. Unblinking eyes watched him pass, a tendril of smoke floating here and there, marking their lairs under the eaves, between the cracks. He bought a packet of fried potato puffs, ate three, and tossed the rest surreptitiously to the dragons huddled beneath a merchant’s cart.

Damon stopped in the square, even as the crowd pushed past him. Dragons hung from poles, none larger than a common weasel. He noted the amputated paws, the slit bellies. Under his breath, he said a prayer for the deceased. Wherever dragons went, he hoped it was warm, and that there were plenty of rats.

On the outskirts was a hill, the Giant’s Hump. The road went around its base and then wound into the forest beyond, but clustered atop the knoll were children from town, with the mayor standing among them in his black greatcoat and top hat. Next to him, two priests dressed in ceremonial hibernal robes, dark blue and silver. Damon shielded his eyes against the snow, peering up. A weight settled on his shoulders, growling in his ear.

He seized the dragon. “You! Do you want to end up like your comrades?” He stuffed the dragon inside his coat, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Everyone’s eyes were on the hill, where a priest was shouting the words to a prayer welcoming the gods of the new season while beside him, the other priest put the torch to the first of the wooden wheels. Grass hoops were for country folk, he supposed.

The dragon’s claws scratched his stomach as it turned, tunneling about in his coat. He put his hands over it, hoping to keep it still until he could let it go somewhere safe.

A wheel wobbled, slow, and then began racing down the hill, bouncing over the snowy drifts, flames streaming behind it. A second wheel was pushed, and a third. The children shouted, running down the slope or tumbling in the snow, laughing and red-faced.

The symbolic suns raced down the hill and collapsed into the smoking darkness of winter, a new season begun. The people cheered and turned and gathered their children, and Damon pressed through the flow. On the other side of the hill, at the edge of the woods, he would let the dragon fly. Along with a stern warning to stay out of the town.

The dragon rootled southward, popping out from under his coat and onto his boots. It shot into the air, whipping around to come back down, landing triumphantly back on his shoulder.

People noticed.

“Off,” he muttered, brushing it away. Its claws dug into his coat.

“What are you doing with that dragon?” asked an incredulous man.

“What does it look like?” he muttered into his scarf, shrugging to get rid of the dragon. It clambered around to his other shoulder. A crowd gathered, watching him duck and swat at the creature, which danced about his person, clinging easily to his coat.

A man stepped forward. “Do you want me to kill it for you?”

Damon froze. “Kill it? Gods, no!” He grabbed the dragon by the tail. “Fly, you miserable thing! Go!”

The dragon yanked its tail free and rose into the air, flapping just out of reach.

He pointed at the gray sky. “Begone, dragon!” he commanded.

The dragon flew down and landed on his arm. The crowd laughed. Damon glanced around. Some were still unsure, and more than one hand rested on the hilt of a knife, but curiosity ruled. He brought the dragon close, staring into its gold eyes.

“That’s enough. Beat it.” The dragon growled and pounced atop his head, spreading its wings. All around him, he could hear people laughing.

“Did you train him to do that?” a boy asked.

“Yeah, are you a dragon trainer or something?” said someone else.

Or something, Damon thought. “Yes, I’m his trainer. He, uh, does many tricks.” He pried the dragon from his head, the reptile wriggling in his hands until he stroked it under the chin. Gradually, it ceased struggling and quieted, allowing him to hold it, his fingers deftly rubbing a circle. “This is how to put him to sleep.”

“Really? Let me try!” A man approached, hand out.

“Er…” Damon backed up, but too late, the man’s fingers brushed over the dragon’s neck. The dragon’s head whipped around at the unfamiliar touch, a burst of flame singeing the man’s gloves.

“Ow!” the man yelped, jumping back. “That beast is dangerous!” He pulled off his glove, inspecting the skin.

“Ah, you’re fine. Just a mistake. You caught him off guard, that’s all.”

“Dragons is dragons,” said the man, and the crowd closed in, not laughing anymore but whispering low and dangerous. “Can’t be trained. Should be strung up with the rest of ’em.”

“That’s a bit hasty. We — we haven’t perfected our act yet.” Damon’s fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the underside of the dragon’s jaw. “Today was a trial run.”

“A trial run?” asked a soft, clear voice.

The crowd parted, respectfully allowing a man in dark blue and silver to pass through. By the man’s apparent youth, Damon assumed he was an acolyte. He carried no scepter, no chains, his hands bare and folded before him. Cheeks red from the cold, he smiled. “So we can expect a show with more polish at some later date?”

“Yes, well, I hope,” Damon blustered. If he could just keep the dragon quiet for another minute, they might be able to make their escape. Already, its head darted around, glaring at the people milling about them. He could feel its muscles tensing, readying for flight. Or fight, which would be far worse. There was sure to be only one outcome if the dragon decided to defend itself.

“Did you, perhaps, learn your techniques from Karl Olfester?” The young man’s face was kind, his eyes flitting from Damon to the dragon in his arms.

“No. Actually, I’m what you might call self-taught.”

“Ah. Perhaps, if you should ever want to further your education, you might go to Ormsbad, where Master Olfester practices. By the sea. Do you know of it?”

Damon suppressed a scowl. Of course he had. As an acolyte and, later, third-step priest, he’d traveled to temples all over. And here this man supposed that he was just another townsfolk, perhaps even assumed he was uneducated, that he – Damon stopped himself. He glanced down at the patched elbows on his coat, his boots with leather so scuffed that their original color was all but lost.

“I have heard of it, indeed.”

“Indeed?” The acolyte seemed delighted. “Well, I wish you luck with your dragon.” He paused, staring at the little dragon, who stared back. “May I say a prayer?”

“A prayer?”

“Just a few words.”

“Of course.” One never refused the official prayers of a priest. “Er, he’s not very friendly to strangers, so…”

“Watch my fingers. Yes.” The acolyte’s hand hovered in front of the dragon, bare fingers spread as he began to intone the words of a prayer for fortune’s favor in endeavors undertaken with animals and small children. Damon’s lips moved in tandem, his own hands clutching at the dragon, lest it mistake this blessing for a threat, or worse, mistake the acolyte’s plump fingers for more tasty sausages.

“Felicity,” finished the acolyte. Damon looked up, realizing the man had been watching him murmur along with the prayer, and his cheeks flushed. It was impertinence, at best. “Are you – that is, have you ever--”

“I am not,” said Damon, quietly. “Now.”

“Ah,” said the acolyte. He turned to the crowd. “Our resident dragon-trainer! Be sure to honor him. On this day, especially, let your generosity shine upon him.” And he stepped back, letting the sprinkle of coins hit the ground around Damon’s feet. The dragon sprang from his arms and gleefully snatched at the bright coins, bringing back three in his mouth.

“Yes, I’ve,” said Damon, clearing his throat, “been teaching him to retrieve. Thank you.” He bowed low, the dragon on his shoulders, grinning around a mouthful of coin.

The crowd dissipated, finally, leaving Damon and the acolyte alone. The man — or boy, for his features were smooth as river stone and his mouth still kind — waved to the elder priest.

“I must be going.” He held out a hand. “Francis Brann.”

Damon shook the hand. “Damon Drury,” he said, the false surname slipping from his lips with ease.

“Well, Damon. I look forward to seeing more of you and your dragon.” His eyes casually fell on the dragon, its tail winding around Damon’s neck. “You know, the temple is in need of someone to help with the records. Of course, you’d need to be able to read.”

“I can read,” Damon huffed.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Then stop by tomorrow. You might want to leave the dragon behind, though, as old Granniver thinks they’re vermin.”

“Imagine that.”

The acolyte smiled. “See you tomorrow, then. And, if you wouldn’t mind — could you say a prayer for me? I’ve lost my gloves and I haven’t been able to find them anywhere.”

Damon stared, the acolyte’s eyes meeting his. “A prayer of discovery. That should be the easiest thing for an acolyte at your stage.”

“Indeed. It should be.” He smiled and began to walk away, robes floating over the frozen ground. His voice called back, “Until tomorrow, Damon.”

Both Damon and his dragon watched the man gracefully make his way to the elder priest, who stood waiting nearby.

“Francis Brann,” he said to it. “Was I that smart at his age? Doubtful. Well, it’s home with us.” He patted a pocket, coins jingling. “And I think we’ll be stopping to get a few sausages on the way. It appears I’ve got to feed you now.”

He headed off for town through the slush. “And keep you warm, and who knows what else. I never wanted a pet. Did you hear that? No pets.”

The dragon purred as he rubbed it under its chin.

“Priests can’t have pets,” he said. It was true. Priests were forbidden pets and wives and the amassing of wealth — all things which, as a rule, were circumvented in a number of creative ways.

But he wasn’t a priest anymore.

He was a dragon-trainer. Or maybe just a man with a dragon. Either way, things were different now.

Yes. Very different.

He walked back into town a new man. Hardly richer, no better looking, and with the same frozen feet. But there stretched before him an impossible horizon, a garden world of temples and friends and clothes without patches. And all around, the flutter and flap of leathery wings.

The dragon at the window was inside, and it had brought a new kind of warmth in with it.

They passed through the square, the dragon clinging to his shoulder and hissing at the dismembered bodies of its clan.

“Don’t you worry,” whispered Damon. “We’ll fix it. But first, we need to teach you some manners.” Teaching. Hadn’t he been a teacher before?

Yes. But things were very different now. And it had all started with one small dragon.

The End

*This was first up for an anthology that has since been canceled. Then I submitted it to Beneath Ceaseless Skies, a fantasy magazine with a stellar reputation and a 98% rejection rate. You can guess why it's posted here now. :) BCS is highly recommended for fantasy reading, and if you are interested in submitting, the response was fairly quick (2-3 weeks, I forget exactly how long) and it was a personal rejection, not a form letter. I appreciate the editor's thoughtful and concise summary of why this was rejected.

I'm still editing (or, more precisely, thinking about editing...) a short story, another goes up in a couple of weeks and I'm quite excited about that one, and I'm not around much because I've gone deep underground--in my head. The rabbit went down the hole, and I must follow. The book(s) proceed slowly but so enjoyably. If I'm not around the interwebz, I'm probably in my backyard with a notebook and pen, staring at birds in the trees and writing pages of random chapters. It's... a different way of writing, for me. But I like it.

I feel like I'm writing for me, for once. I haven't truly done that in a long time. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the story, and if not, that's fine too. Feel free to let me know, either way.

Kind regards,

RS

Fic: Nectar

Nectar

The oiled wings of hummingbirds, collected pair by pair, hung on wire in front of the floor to ceiling windows in his third floor apartment. A tiny quilt of ruby and emerald feathers dangled from the finial of a dusty black lamp. And in a jar full of curved beaks, one opened with a click muted by glass and a metal lid.

He studied his newest aquisition as the coffee brewed. Its eyes were closed, but in another room, something also studied him.

He drew the tip of a finger down the fragile sides, noted the stickiness where the bird had dipped its beak into poisoned honeywater before falling onto the silk pillows beneath. He thought how nothing could stir the tiny, still heart, jolt it back into its racing form, a watchmaker's aviary engine.

Another beak trembled, another; the jar like a house for bees, but he didn't notice the buzzing.

The gleaming quilt fluttered in a wind-less room.

The coffee sputtered to a stop, and he placed his treasure on a towel on the table. Poured himself a steaming cup of Chock Full O'Nuts. His nose came close to wading in.

The wire holding the wings shivered, and all at once, they engaged, Lift Off! Ping! went the little metal snaps.

Crack! went the jar as it tottered on the edge of the shelf and finally fell.

The quilt made hardly a sound as it float away from the finial.

The coffee nearly scalded his tongue. He grimaced, put the cup down, returned his attention to this newest jewel --

But where was it? Hadn't he only just set it there, on a bleached white towel? His eyes swiveled, taking in the kitchen. Could it have possibly rolled off? Was that the sound he had heard only a moment before? He bent over, looked into the shadows beneath the ancient table that had belonged to his mother, the cabaret dancer of great fame who had left his father and raised her son all by herself. No hummingbird. Something grazed his shoulder. He stood.

There, framed by the peeling doorway, was a sparkling vision, a humming, distant vision that retreated and then, with the gentlest of roars, descended upon him in a rush.

His arms flew, flapping like an ungainly seagull as he was engulfed by a swarming, bright parade of pieces of birds. A tiny tornado of pin-point beaks took aim at his eyes, into his ears, and the beating wings muffled everything, like pillows around his head. The wire, chosen for its slenderness, now sliced delicated into his neck, behind his ears, and blood ran into his shirt collar.

When at last he slumped to the floor, and his body stopped its intermittent jerking, the final hummingbird rose up from the settling swarm. Its heart beat a trillion times a minute. It waited for someone to come and open the door.

*

hummingbird by nerdbird.org

Today's theme: Zombies! (not as good as tigers, but they're okay)

This post has been majorly zombified. You are warned, if you're here for the story.

I wrote a book review and dated the post for August, but it still posted today. I have now deleted it, and I guess I'll just re-do it on August 1st (I have my reasons, LOL!). If anyone knows how to do that whole post-dating thing, let me know. And no, I'm not talking about being friends with your ex after the break-up. Because after we break up, you are fucking dead to me. But not actually. Like zombie dead. Which means that if I ever see you out again, I will be sorely tempted to put a spike through your brain.

And yay! It's Three Word Wednesday! Remember that you don't need to blog to do it; if you've got a LiveJournal or Deviant Art account, do it there, and go back to 3WW and link. Your words, if you choose to accept them: abuse, cramp, hatred.


Twist of Fate

You can only abuse a body for so long. At some point, it's going to rebel.

Across from me, Janie sips her mocha, legs crossed, one foot jittery. She smiles, lips pulled tight over her teeth. I'm holding my index finger, twisting around and around it.This isn't going well. I knew it. I never should've come, never should've let Rob talk me into this. I mean, it just can't work.

I tried to be presentable. Extra Aramis to cover the smell of putrefaction, a Mariners hat to cover the hole in my skull (I don't care what they say, I am not getting cosmetic surgery -- that hole marks the day I got undead!), and two sneakers even though I've only got one foot. Duct tape is truly wonderful stuff. I saw this article the other day on keeping your ribcage intact using the stuff and...

Janie is horrified when I babble on about the miracle of Duct tape. I can't help it; when I get nervous like this, I tend to go on and on. I change the subject. She doesn't golf. Next. Her favorite movie star is Mel Gibson. What? Doesn't she know -- oh, it's a joke. I laugh. My tongue almost falls out. I stop laughing. It really wasn't that funny, anyway. Bad timing. Like, you can't make Michael Jackson jokes yet.

She asks where I work. Now she's just being catty. She knows how hard it is for us to get work. No one wants to hire someone who might eat their other employees, which, I would like to state, hardly ever happens anymore.

I feel like my poor finger is cramping, but I'm getting worked up, and I can't stop twisting it. Rob's my best friend, and he probably meant well, but he should've known that lifers and undead just don't mix. And this is why. I'm trying to have a conversation, be brilliant, show interest, and what is she doing? Sitting over there, looking at her watch every two minutes.

I ask her if she likes to cook. She says she should get going, she has to be somewhere. I say that my mom used to cook all the time, like, every night. Spaghetti, pork chops -- I'm babbling again. Her eyes fall to the table, and she freezes. I look down. Sure enough, my finger's come unattached. I'm just holding it in my other hand -- which, let's face it, isn't in that great of shape, either -- and she's staring and I try to casually tuck it up my sleeve, but it's too late.

She pushes her mocha away. "Disgusting," I hear her mutter under her breath as she stands. She won't look at me. I say, please, please stay. But she's getting her purse, her jacket. And that's when it hits me.

The red. We call it that. When you just can't be like them anymore, no matter how hard you try, and something breaks inside you. You look at them and see red, red, red. Pure, focused hatred. You're consumed by it.

Janie doesn't notice the change, because she isn't noticing me anymore. I say her name. She starts to pass by me. I grab her arm, and her head whips around to snap something at me, but then she sees. She notices me, finally. She's actually looking me in the eye for the first time since she sat down at the table. I feel the panic hit her, hard. And I yank.

I pull and claw and rip, and when I'm finished, the whole coffee shop's silent. I stand over her, gnawing on a mouthful of Janie's cheek, when the little bell goes off. We all turn. It's my ex, Sarah. She pauses, looks at what's left of Janie on the floor. Snorts. Then she goes up to the counter and orders a vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso on the side. Minutes go by. The barrista hands it to her with shaking hands. She comes over and gives me the shot. I do it. Caffeine doesn't do anything, but the liquid sears my tongue and that feels good.

"Idiot," she says. "Come on." We go out into the parking lot and make out in her car. I don't know why I ever broke up with her.

*

Another reminder! xTx's Zombie Summer is on-going. Today's entry, Bob and Steve Coming Together by David Backer, ripped my brains out and replaced them with a car battery. I feel pretty good about this.