Short Stories


A lacquered wooden door beset me, large. It was larger than large. Twice, three times, five times more large than any door was supposed to be. What could be behind it? There was importance in grandiose. It must be locked. Where would I look for a key? When my eyes tried to break free they met a room, a small room. Entirely too small to hold this door. Clutter blanketed every surface. Grey was the master of this space, not letting any colors in, be damned. Well, a key could be hidden amongst this ruinous clutter. With each movement of my pupil the room became more defined. Each detail came closer. There was a grandfather clock; why keep the time in such solitude? Two mirrors faced each other at the further corner, an infinite reflection. Odd, the oddest of all was the tiny chair that with each closer inspection grew more dusty and more spectacular. As if my very sight was the artisan and the bringer of ill-use. The situation was dire. Ticks and tocks rang with a dull thud, flooding the small space with expectation. I was drowning in it and it seemed the room was shrinking. My pulse quickened, the temperature a nonchalant musk, sweat turned to ice on my brow. Then I remembered the door. Hurry. It was a flight of fury, of escape. Could I outrun this ghoulish experience? I slid through the large wooden frame. Wasn’t that strange? Where was the key?


“…..You musn’t dream so much. It is ineffective.” “Your jealous, just jealous.” He was right though, each and every dream brought me stumbling into the next day with a weakened frame. It was as if the time of sleep was stolen from me. How beautiful these monstrosities were though, compared to the world I looked upon now.


There on the buzzing screen was the most unadulterated face I had ever gazed upon. Swirling in the dance of what must be the dance of the Gods themselves. Who could be so perfect? Why, everyone must watch in awe. They did too, he knew, or at least his systems told him they did. This was broadcasted across the land. The land he had never been too. That wasn’t my place. Still, those eyes of brown, full of laughter, menacing and sad all at the same time. A joy to behold. My only joy. Why couldn’t such beauty be here? What was so wrong with his kind. I was the only one of my kind. A non-thing, living on the other side. Oh, she twirls and twirl and it stings that much more. Yet my sight turns to honey, and i lick every droplet, sticky  fingers and all.


Some called this the land of junk but to me it was all i had ever known. My days were spent traversing the mountains of discombobulated machines, looking for ways to rearrange the pieces. Anything could be made into something else entirely. That was the lesson.

King of the Mountain

They call me the Mountain King. Everyone lived on, in, or around the mountain. Why had I, the King of the Mountain, not been seen by anyone for a thousand years? That happened when my shadow betrayed me. Murs was there before anything or anyone else and the day that he turned on me was the day I left the living. Who could rule without a shadow? Not I. Murs, with a tongue of honey, the first illuminus, cracked the Kingdom in half and started the war of substance. A friend who took trust and sharpened it into a blade that sealed an already icy heart. Who wielded a love more powerful than the word and blinded truth itself into ignorance. Oh how I miss my shadow, how I miss that friend, and how I miss the joy of the living. That is what I brew at the highest peak of peaks in my icy throne. I brew and brew, always brewing what was and what might be. No one can pity me, no one could understand the pain. I am a puzzling tragedy and wish to brew for another thousand years and wish even more to crawl back into oblivion. Some moments on the rarest occasions I wish beyond hope to get the courage to rise and stroll down from the highest peak and be a king again. No pity for me, I am a monument older than stone for everyone to whisper about. The topic of conversation on every tongue and a curse instead of a praise. Murs did this and I would be damned to let him know the pain I felt. Not I, the mightiest of the Ice Giants, the first to arrive, the Mountain King, protector of the highest peak and lifeblood of the Water trembles.

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