GreatHites Season 2 Episode 15

King Arthur has returned and he has brought his sword.

This was the month long prompt for all of March.

Download This Episode.

This week we have stories by:

Arlene Radasky
Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll
And Jeff Hite

Theodora
By Arlene Radasky
March, 2010

"Theodora, get that door open before I swat you!"
Bit pulled her blonde hair out of her eyes, and pushed the door open with her hip. Lord in Heaven, she hated serving food. The trays were heavy and she was always afraid she would drop the soup in someone's lap. Taking orders from Claire was not easy either. Claire always called her by her given name and she hated it!
"Don't call me that! I won't answer if you do! You know to call me Bit."
Theodora. Her mom laid that name on her. "Your father never cared, he didn't stick around long enough to even see you born, so I thought about the best name I could find and there it was, Theodore, but I couldn't name you that, could I, you’re a girl aren't you?" As if she were confirming that for herself. So all the adults around her called her Theodora. And she hated it.
"Well, I wouldn't have to call you anything if you'd keep up with what you are supposed to be doin', and not always day-dreamin' , silly girl," Claire whispered as they got closer to the table filled with giggling women.
She had thought long and hard about her name, ever since she realized it was her name. She used to get teased, but as soon as she got old enough to fight, the teasing stopped.
Bit's mother had died when she was six and Claire, her aunt, brought her into the kitchen and started her peeling vegetables and serving. That was six years ago.
One day when she was helping Edward carry in a bucket of mead that was beginning to slop all over the floor and her, he, the King, stood, walked to her and easily took it from her, setting it on the table for his knights and guests to start dipping from.
"That was a big load for a little bit like you." And then he ruffled her hair.
After that she started insisting everyone call her Bit. It was easy to convince her pals but others were more resistant. Again, after some minor tussles, no one wanted to get hurt just because she wanted to change her name, more of the people her age started calling her Bit. But the adults were different, she was not old enough yet to demand respect from them. Someday, she told herself, someday.
She and Claire were placing the loaves of bread on the table when the lady of the castle, Guinevere, spoke. "I do hope you have a special meal planned for this evening meal. He will be riding in about that time, according to the boy he sent ahead this morning."
"Oh yes, m'Lady. We are having roasted boar. The hunters shot a big one and brought it in three days ago. We dressed it and I started preparing it last night. It will be ready to fall apart on his plate when he arrives, m'Lady."
"That is perfect. His favorite and I am sure he has not had time to do much hunting on this trip. He will be pleased. Would you please bring out some mare's milk? I have a desire for that today."
"Oh yes, m'lady. Right away. I'll send Theodora right away."
Bit winced at hearing her name. She had been day-dreaming again. When she heard that he was coming home today, the procession that accompanied his return came to her mind. There would be people in the road welcoming him, his knights riding in before and after him and his protectors on either side of his mount, swords at hand.
She wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.
She hated being a girl. The only time she had seen women ride with him they were dressed in their finest riding clothes, never a sword or knife to be seen. Bit wanted to dress in armor and protect him, not serve him his cheese.
Back in the kitchen, Claire turned to her. "Now off as fast as you can to the stables. Find James and tell him to milk a mare for the lady. If you get back here before she leaves the table, you can have a few minutes free before we have to set up for the evening meal."
"I'll do it but I'll hold you to my free time when I get back." Claire had not always kept her promises.
Bit ran out the kitchen door, down the path to the stables. The main door was not open as most of the horses kept in the stables were all gone on this journey with the King. Bit knew it had been an important journey. There had been talk of his visit to his sister's holdings at the evening meals for many nights before they left. Something about his sister and her son causing trouble in the land was what the servants had talked about. Bit didn't understand how it could be but she had also heard that the boy was the King's son. "How can he be the King's son and not live here?" Bit wondered this to herself because when she asked she'd had her ears boxed by Claire.
Bit ducked under the fenced corral and slipped into the stable. There were windows way up high but coming in from the bright sun, it seemed to be as dark as full night inside.
"Whatcha doin' here, girl?" boomed a voice right next to her.
She jumped and let out a small screech.
"James, you scared me! I'll be lucky to have enough strength to get back to the kitchen after that!"
A deep throated chuckle was his response.
"Here, I brought you a sweet roll. The ladies just had their meal and we made honey bread for them today. There was some left, they hardly seem to eat anything."
"Thank thee," he said, bit off half the roll and started chewing. Bit had known him for as long as she could remember. He used to visit her mother before she died and would tell Bit about all the colts born in the spring and training the huge horses the knights used to fight. The knight counted on his horse to know where he wanted to go without using the reins because with all his armor on, sword in one hand and shield in the other, all he could do was lean and press with his knees to give direction. That took a lot of training of the horses and James seemed to be able to train them without breaking their spirit, or so he said the King said.
"James, I'm in a hurry. The Lady G wants some mare's milk. Do you have a mare here that can give up some?"
"More milk? Oh yes, the King is due home tonight. I swear, I'd never heard of such a thing before she came. Mare's milk to help produce a baby. She especially always wants some mare's milk the night he comes home from a trip. All our ladies before her and around her seem to get pregnant without mare's milk and it doesn't seem to be helping her. Well, its not my place to question her. I am just lucky I have had mares feeding most times she asks. Edward! Come here!"
Bit's best friend Edward walked over from the shadows. "Hi."
"Did he send you in this morning?" Bit asked.
"Yes, he wanted me to let the Lady know he was coming."
Bit heard James gruffly whisper, "Probably to make sure her bed is empty." Bit didn't understand what he meant. He turned to Edward and continued, "Go to Faerie's stall and milk her for the Lady. Only take a cupful. Her foal needs it more than the Lady."
Bit's eyes were used to the dim light now and she followed Edward back to the stall where a mare and colt stood. "Stay outside until I get settled. She should be good, but with these feet, she only needs to shuffle and I will be maimed."
Edward talked to the huge horse and moved slowly. He was fourteen years old and tall for his age. He managed her well and she let him have a cup of milk without too much trouble. "Here Bit, cover it and take it to her as fast as you can, if you get it to her while it is still warm, she will thank you."
"How do you know?"
"I brought the last one in the middle of the night before he left."
"Edward, I will have some time free after, will you, since he is not here?"
Edward was now a page to the King but had been Bit's friend since they both started working in the kitchen. They still got to see each other sometimes around mealtime. He would often sneak into the kitchen when the King was eating.
"Yes, I will meet you at the steps to the tower. I have something I went to show you."
"Good. Until later.
"Yes, until later."
Bit walked as quickly as she could and not spill all the milk out of the cup. The kitchen was filling with the smell of the roasting boar filled with onions.
The door to the dining room was open and Bit heard Claire. "I'm sure she will be right here, m'lady. Here she is!" Bit sat the cloth-covered mug in front of her and the Lady smiled, reached into her pocket and pulled out a small quartz stone. "I found this on my walk yesterday, Theodora. It carries the color of the wild rose deep inside. It might bring you luck."
Bit took the small offering, still warm from the Lady's hand and curtsied, speechless.
"Say thank you, you ungrateful girl!" whispered Claire.
Th-th-thank you m'Lady! It is beautiful!" Bit's fingers wrapped tight around her gift.
Claire waved her hand and Bit took off to the steps to meet Edward. It was just a few minutes later that he arrived.
"I have something to show you," he said." We have to climb all the way up."
"All the way? How long will that take? I have to be back down here to set up for the evening meal before he comes."
"We have time, he will not be here until close to sunset."
Bit and Edward climbed the first three flights of stairs with no problem. The stairs at that level were crafted to be used by everyone gaining access to the other floors of the castle. The last set of stairs were the narrow, spiral stairs to the very top, the tower room. Bit had never been up this high. She started to wonder if they should be this high.
"Edward, wait. Are we supposed to go up there?"
"I have been up there several times. I don't think anyone else but the king goes up there. But he is not here and I want you to see something."
"Then let's go on," Bit said and started climbing the gray, stone steps again.
The thick-planked door was heavy. Edward had to lean, full body, into it to open it. Bit walked into a very sparse room. A chest against one wall, a tiny table with a small oil lamp and a cot were all that furnished the room. Everything seemed to disappear into the curved walls yet there was not much room to walk. Bit made her way to the cot, placed just under the only window in the room, climbed up and looked out. She could just see the road below. Farmers and vendors were haggling but she could barely hear them. A bird flew by and Bit reached out as if she could touch it. A rattle next to her drew her attention, she turned and Edward was on his knees in front of the plain, wooden chest. He lifted the latch and she saw several colors of folded cloth.
She climbed down, and joined him on the floor. He reached in and brought out a piece of very worn blue and yellow cloth. When she touched it, she was afraid that it was going to fall apart, it was so old.
"What is this?" she asked.
"He didn't tell me what the cloth was from but he showed me this."
Edward laid the bundle on the floor and unfolded it. The small sword was uncovered when the last layer was laid aside. Bit stared at it. It was very small. A man's hand would cover the hilt and part of the blade. As she looked closer she could see that it had been used and the blade was scratched and pitted. Bit turned her head up to look at Edward.
"Who does this belong to?"
"Him."
Bit could not believe that, she could not see the King with any sword except Excalibur. His hand was never small enough to fit this sword.
"I don't believe you."
"It's true. He brought me up here one night, just before we left on this journey." He said he wanted to think but wanted me to see this and remember where it is."
"But why? This is his private room. Why would he bring you up here?"
"I don't know, I just know he told me that this was his when he was little, before he found Excalibur. And he told me his son played with it, too."
"His son? Who is his son?"
"The man living with his sister is the King's son. I overheard them all arguing. Even Merlin was there. She was screaming that the kingdom was their son's to inherit and the King was yelling that he would have to take it by force. Merlin was trying to quiet them and I heard a laughing in the background that must have been Mordred, The King's son. The King stomped out of the room, with Merlin on his tail, saying 'Remember the prophecy, remember!' The King answered back, 'I remember but I do not believe it. I will not believe it! Leave me alone now, old man.'"
Bit watched Edward's face as he told the story. He did not look at her as he told it, but his mouth was lined with white and his cheeks flushed.
"I followed him out of the hall, and ran up to him outside. He asked me if I'd heard. I told him, yes, I had."
"Edward, I have tried my hardest to do my best with this land. You are the hope of the land, all you of your age. I charge you to remember what your life was like while I was King. Remember the good times we have had, the grain our land gave us and the peace we lived under. It has been good. Remember the small sword? That sword was part of my life before my responsibilities, before I had to worry about the lives of others. I want you to keep it safe. Take it to the crystal caves and hide it. I will come back to get it. "
"But you will be home and can take it to the caves yourself."
"No, I will not have time. The council will gather and plan our future. I am charging you to do it."
"I will take it Sire, I told him."
Bit saw tears fall from Edward's eyes. "Bit, he was crying! He had tears on his cheeks! He told me to go get some bread, meat and water, get on my horse, go home and tell the Lady he was coming. I came as fast as I could. Bit, I think there is going to be a battle. What I am worried about is Merlin's warning. The King has been in battles before but this all seems so different." Edward shook his head from side to side, his tears falling from his cheeks spotting Bit's dress.
She scooted closer and hugged him. They both heard the commotion through the window at the same time. She watched as he picked up the sword. It fit right into his hand. He looked at it, felt its balance and nodded his head as if he had made a decision.
The cot was just big enough for both of them to stand on and watch the parade of horses and men. There were many more than had gone from the castle two weeks ago. The King had called in his warriors from their fields and farms. They walked behind him, behind all the knights in armor on horseback. Bit had never seen so many men on the castle grounds.
"Oh no, these are the men he gathers before battle," said Edward. "His farmer soldiers he calls them. The battle must be soon. I have to go tonight and hide this sword. I have to go."
"Then I am going with you," she said.
"I knew you would," Edward said. "We can both ride my horse."
They both watched as Arthur rode home, holding Excalibur unsheathed, laid across the pommel of his saddle. Bit reached into her pocket and touched the pink stone the Lady had given her. It was cold.

King Arthur
Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll

t was a bad area of town in a town already bad enough.

Every morning, around sunrise, an old man walked up the street, thou no one ever saw where he'd come from. A worn out hounds tooth fedora pressed down, hard on his forehead, it met the bridge of his cheep dime store sunglasses.

He sat, everyday, on the corner of Fourth and T. He was old, bent over and wrinkled, but when he sat on his soap box he was straight and tall. He had such a commanding presence, he looked like a king in his court. His name was Art King but everyone called him King Arthur.

He'd been coming to the corner, where he held court for more years than anyone could remember. His smile was a permeant fixture on his time weathered face, and his good natured advice was freely given to any who asked. But you had to ask.

His one possession, besides the few clothes he carried on his back, was an old Marine Band harmonica. For a nickel, or a soda, or a cigarette, he'd play you a song. Most men ignored him, the children and old women all loved him. The punks, and toughs, and wise guys all left him alone.

One day, a stranger, he must have been passing through from a different neighborhood, saw him sunning himself on his box like an old cat. He pulled a knife on Art and said, "Gimmee everything you got."

"Well, let me see what I got here in my pocket," he wheezed cheerfully

He pulled out the old harmonica, held it out to the stranger, and said, "This is all I got. You can have it, and every disease I've blown through it."

He laughed until he coughed. Through the wheezing and spluttering, all the while he smiled.
Eventually his fit passed and he said, "if you want, I can even teach you how to play it. He laughed again, spat, and played a song.
"No one makes a fool out of me," the stranger growled and slapped the harmonica from Art King's hands.
The old man stared at his stinging hands, and then at the harmonica on the concrete sidewalk, his smile was gone. He got slowly to his feet, took the few steps to the shiny metal instrument and bent to pick it up.
"You think you're really funny, don't ya, old man," the stranger continued. "Well, I have a little joke here in my pocket, and it's gonna make us both laugh, don't ya think?"
He pulled a long switch blade from his pocket. With a snap, he flipped the blade open. He held the blade's point at King's nose where he remained bent over as he reached for the harmonica.
Art grasped the harmonica, his long coat hung heavily on his old frame. From his crouched position he said, "no, I'm not funny. Just old."
With a long sigh that spoke of centuries, he stood. As he did he pulled the sword from the very concrete of the sidewalk. It sang as the steel rose free of it's stone scabbard. It resonated in elation as it was held free toward the sky to receive the sanctifying rays of the morning sun.
The would be thief didn't hesitate, but ran his knife into the old mans heart.
Art King coughed at the impact of the knife in his chest and gasped for air to refill his shocked lungs.
Blood ran freely from around the knife in the mans clenched fist. The thief laughed at the shock on the old man's face. His triumph turn to incredulity as the pain in his hand made him aware it was his own blood, and not that of the old man that ran down his wrist.
On meeting something impenetrable on the old man's body, the knife stopped short of piercing King Arthur's skin. Instead the thief's fist continued forward, the razor sharp edges cut cleanly through skin and muscle to bone. The smell of well oiled chain mail was crisp in his nostrils.
As the thief fled, several men in chain mail or studded leather stepped from the ether to surround Arthur. As one they knelt, heads bowed, the tips of their swords pointed down, and hovered a fraction of an inch from the ground.
"My Lord," Lancelot said, "it is time you come with us. We have all drunk from the Grail. But as you must be, we are all now weary. It is time we drink a second time from the sacred cup and find our eternal rest."
"You have brought it with you," the king stated blankly.
Lancelot nodded.
King Arthur finally lowered Ex Caliber, and said, "Yes, let's go."
The knights fell into step behind their king and followed him down the street and back into legend.
As they began to fade from the vision of mortal men, Arthur asked Lancelot, "it was pulling the sword from the ground that alerted you?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, Your Highness, we have been looking for you for centuries.

Return of the King
Jeff Hite


"It was September, and not a nice September day, that much I do remember. There were no birds signing and the rain, though nothing new on this little island, was cold. I think if it had been a few degrees cooler it would have been just about painful to stand out in. But then I might be remembering today, because it is so much like that today. It makes my bones ache. Ache to the point of not wanting to be here. Here The place that I have come for the last ten years. Every year at this time, to remember, and hope that maybe this will be the year that he will return. That he will wake up and help to bring us back from this brink, this dark time that has befallen us. Though I know it will not. I even I am allowed to hope, and old man who has seen time forward and backwards. I am spent, I have nothing left to give this world, but I would find a way if he were to return to us."

I watched Merlin ramble for a few more minutes, as he stood before the door to King Arthurs grave. He had given more than his share in the king's time, and it was unfair what they was about to do to him, but life is rarely fair. I watched him move carefully away from the door, he raised his staff looking so much like the powerful wizard that he was and lock the door to the tomb. It was for the last time he knew. The last time that anyone would be able to open the door, unless it was opened from the inside, Or so he thought.
The stone melded together, forming a perfect wall of rock, without blemish. Then carefully he inscribed it in a writing that only another wizard like him would be able to read. "Here lies Kind Arthur, King of the round table, The once and Future King."
He coughed as he finished the last word and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Consumption, or whatever they called it in his day was eating him from the inside out. He would die soon. I knew that, and so did he. It was not something that I enjoyed watching, but I had seen it more times than I cared to count. He would lay down next to the tree to rest, with plans to make his journey to the place everyone thought he was already was buried. But he would never get up from the spot. After he stopped breathing, the lady would come. She would carefully pick him up, and undo what had cost him his life's energry with a slight wave of her had. The great door would open and he would be laid next to his king.
"Dr Mander, I have reviewed the logs and I think we have met the conditions you were looking for."
"Good Matt. Let's take a look."
"I have found the spot when they are all together. She is so much more powerful than the other two. Why not just get her?"
"She would not help us alone, She will not work for anyone, but to help the other two. To help the world. Now you are sure she was helping him, and now trapping him?"
"Yes, she was helping, but if we really needed it, why didn't it just happen on it's own."
"So many questions today Matthew. You disagree that we need the help now?"
"No I just wonder why it has not happened on it's own."
"Come with me, I will show you."
"What I am going to show you, I have never shown anyone else. It has taken me years to get this far, and your work, has allowed me to continue mine uninterupted. I really appreciate that."
"Your welcome Dr."
"This is very important, we have to complete our work so that we can wake the King."
"But what have you discovered that will allow us to do that."
"Let me show you." The Professor led Matthew to the back of the build and down into a basement room. When we stepped into the room the cold hit me like and arctic blast, and I shivered in spite of myself. Once my eyes had adjusted to the low light I could see there was very little actually in the room, a number of large pieces of equipment that I didn't recognize and there in the middle of the room, was a silver coffin shaped box.
"Ten Years ago when I was on a survey mission, I found her, I found the Lady you just saw watching Merlin into the the cave."
"But How."
"She was Frozen in the bottom of the lake. We were on a geologic survey of the area and thought she was another bog body. But then we found her, she was perfect. She looked just like this." He said pulling the lid back.
There laying before us was the sleeping form of the lady that I had indeed seen in the view screen only ten minutes ago. She had put Merlin in the cave with Arthur and sealed it up.
"Your research proves that most of the so called historical accounts of her were fictional. She seemed to be helping Merlin and not trapping him. Or at least laying him to rest with as much respect as was paid to Arthur."
"Ok that sounds about right but what are we going to do?"
"We are going to wake her up of course, and get her to understand what a mess the world is in. Ask her, no beg her to get the sword and wake Arthur and if possible Merlin up too so they can help get us out of this mess." We stood in almost reverent silence until my teeth started to clatter. "Alright it is time to get started. You will help me wake her up now." He said as he turned and left the room.

It took what I thought was a surprising like short amount of time to wake the sleeping lady. We had barely warmed the temperature of her chamber above freezing, and she started to stir, within an hour she was fully awake. That was when the trouble started.

"Who are you?" The now fully awake and surprisingly tall goddess of the lake as demanding of Dr. Mander.
"Madam, I am Dr. Mander, I, we have found your body frozen in the bottom of a lake and rescued ou. We woke you up hoping that you could help us with a problem."
"You woke me up. I wake up on my own time."
"Yes, I know," he said almost cowering, "But you have been asleep for nearly two thousand years."
"Two thousand years the earth has survived without the old gods why have you woken me now?"
"We need leadership and guidance that we think you can help us with."
"I am not a leader. I cannot do what you ask." She said as she began to walk away from him. "Where is my lake from here, I will need to return to my slumber."
"Madam, I beg your forgiveness, but we were not looking for you to lead us. We were hoping that you could help us find King Arthur and awaken him." She stopped then and rounded on him.
"King Arthur? You seek the leadership and guidance of him?"
"Yes, we are in dire circumstnaces, our governments are falling apart, we need someone who can help lead us."
"He was a Minor king, who managed only to untie his people for a few years, then he was distracted by a woman and sqandered the powers of the one man who could help him. Merlin," she said choaking a little on the name, "was a fool to have helped him. He swandered his life and his power protecting an even greater fool." There was silence in the room while we stared at each other and then she turned to walk out of the room. We followed her and Dr Mander continued his argument.
"But wait, with your help, he might still be able to help us."
"How?"
"His short comings are all but forgotten now, he was known as the great leader, and a man who could bring men together. If he were brought back he would be listened to and maybe just maybe he could help us turn our lives around before the human race kills itself."
"I think you put too much faith in a long dead king."
"What about Merlin?"
"What about him?"
"Can he help us?"
"Unlike Arthur, he died. Arthur was put to sleep before his wounds could kill him, if here were woken up he would need a doctor right away, or he would die too."
"So you can't help us."
"I tell you that you are as big of fools as Merlin was to want him to come back. He was an ancient king and would know nothing of this worlds problems. I have been sensing the world since you awoke me thought your communications devices and your in-ter-net and that fool man child would be utterly lost. He would not know what to do."
"What made Arthor who he was?"
"I did, I did and Merlin. Without our powers he would not have been able to do what he did. He knew what he wanted to do, but in order to convince people he was right he needed out help. but once he got a taste of the power." She trailed off and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I don't know why Merlin helped him for so long."
The room was scilent for a long time then, and only the hum of the computers filled the air.
"Take me back to the lake." She said finally.
"Yes, of course." Dr Mander relented.
"I need to get the sword execaliber. I think there is something I could do for you. You young man, What is your name?"
"Matthew."
"Very good sir Matthew, I will need your assistance. You know history?"
"Yes, me'lady," I said with a little bow.
"You will come with us. I can teach you what you need to know."

A week later, we had gotten the necessary documents for her to travel with us back to the coast of Enland where her body had been found. We sailed out in a small rented sailboat to near the middle of the lake, she got the sword and gave it to me.

So here I am, dressed as king arthor, Dr Mander dressed as Merlin, at my side. It has been like this in nearlly a dozen countries in the last two weeks. Merlin Knows who I am of course, but everyone else believes it, I mean really believes it. But now we stand before our real test as we stand at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial waiting. And even though I know what is going to happen, when it happens I am startled. From the center of the reflecting pool something begins to surface, slowly the blade of excaliber raises out of the water. I look around the pool and thousands of cameras turn their focus from me to the sword that is now fully above the surface. Now the hand that holds it is beginning to emerge. I know the hand, I know what it looks like because I have seen it do this before, when she gave the sword to me two only weeks ago from the lake were Dr. Mander had found her. The arm is now visible to the elbow and is moving toward this end of the pool. The clear water shows no one below the surface, and no matter how the camera's scan they will not see her. She is not there after all. She is in her lake at home, the source of her power.

"Now King Arthur," The presidents voice portrays how much he believes that is really who I am. "How are we to know that sword is for you?"
"Send your men out to retrieve it. If they bring it back to you, you can hold the power of Camelot, and bring peace to the the world." he nodded and three of the secret service men plodded out into the pool water not quite at their waist. They each reached for the sword in turn and all three hands passed over the sword without being able to grip it.
"What is this?" The president was angry now.
"Only the rightful owner the ruler may hold the sword."
"Then why did you send them out there?"
"You had to be sure it was safe, they would go with you anyway, would they not?" His face was dark but he nodded his head.
"So I am supposed to go out there not and try to grab it?"
"You are the most powerful ruller in the free world, if the the position is to be yours, you will be able to grab it."
"I was freely elected by the people. I have not tried to wrestle this position from anyone."
"I make not arguments to you claim. Go retrieve the sword for yourself." He Nodded again and started toward the pool, when it was clear the sword would come no closer to the edge five more secret service men entered the pool ahead of the president, sweeping the pool with their feet as the surrounded their charge. He stood before the sword and hesitated. In that was his mistake, she had said that there was a chance that if he were a true leader and reached for the sword right away, he might be able grab it, but becuase he hesitated it meant he was not the leader the world needed, and the sword again go to me. I had almost hoped that he would be able to grab it. Let us find a true ruler, the next king Arthur and then we would not have to go on with this charade.
The anger was clear on his face as I walked out to the center of the pool to meet him.
"So the sword is yours?"
"We will see," I said and reached for it. It came away from the hand and rested in mine as the arm disappeared below the surface. I stepped away from the president to the side of the pool and raised it above my head. Merlin was the first, but soon after everyone along the mall fell down on bended knee.
"King Arthur has returned, and I have brought my sword as proof."

GreatHites Season 2 Episode 14

This week I asked people to come up with stories based on a news article. We got two stories about some very interesting news pieces.

Stories this week by:

Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll
Ashley Redden


Download this week's stories




My article came from a website called Psych Central, psychology news. The artical is tittled 'Children, Alcohol, and R-Rated Movies'.

Movies and Real Life
Philip Norval Joe Carroll

The phone rang.
He opened his eyes. Floating red numbers on his night stand told him the time.
"Two thirty seven," he grumbled, "who would call at this time?"
"Only one way to find out, Jack," his wife said in an equally groggy voice.
He must have slept through the first few rings, the answering machine out in the living room picked up in the middle of the next. Jack waited. He looked at the clock again, two thirty eight. The clock clicked over to two thirty nine as the answering machine made its tone, indicating the end of the message.
"That was a long message, jack," she said, "you'd probably better go see what it says. You don't think your Dad had another stroke, do you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised, Sheila," he said, sliding out of bed to walk barefoot from the room.
"The way things have been going lately," he said, but didn't complete the thought as he headed down the short hallway.
The thick carpet felt good on his bare feet. Recently installed it still had the smell of new carpet and he was happy they had chosen the highest quality available. He passed his sons room and was surprised to hear the television was on. He paused a moment to listen. The sound of screeching tires, gun shots and shouting supported by an intense soundtrack was clearly audible through the door.
"What's that kid doing watching tv this late at night," he asked himself as he reached for the door knob. It was locked.
He pounded on the door and shouted, "Steve, turn that off and get to bed, you have school tomorrow."
"Crazy kid," he muttered as he turned back to his original mission.
Jack stepped down into the sunken living room and crossed it to drop into the white leather sofa and poke the flashing orange playback button on the answering machine.
The voice came loud and immediate from the machine, "Mr. Pettigrew, this is Sargent Wardlow, of the city police. Please call us as soon as possible at..."
The officer gave the number, but Jack just hit call back, and had Sargent Wardlow on the line in moments.
"Mr. Pettigrew," the sergeant said without preamble, "your son, Steve, was in an accident. He is not severely injured. We have him at the station and need you to come down and sign for him."
"Sign for him," Jack said, dumb founded. "At the station. Has he done something wrong?"
"Yes sir," Wardlow said, "there are several charges against him. Will you be coming down to the station now, or will you come by later in the day?"
"Charges," Jack said, questioning himself if he was truly awake. "Are you sure you have teh right kid? Steve never does anything wrong."
"Let me see," Sargent Wardlow said, "Steve Pettigrew, five feet, six inches, one hundred fifteen pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, date of birth, January sixteen, nineteen ninety five, resides at 4216 Popinjay Circle?"
"Ok, ok," Jack snapped at the officer, "that's my son. I'm coming down right now. I'll be there in a few minutes."
He hung up the phone and went to get his wife.

With each charge Mr. Pettigrews jaw seemed to drop even further.
"Consumption of alcohol by a minor, public intoxication, auto theft, driving without a licence, driving while intoxicated, resisting arrest, destruction of private property, destruction of public property, assault, and several other less serious charges," Wardlow said, and paused while Jack considered the list.
Steve slouched in the metal chair at the officer's desk, and scowled at the blank wall directly ahead of him, the alcohol still in his system made his eyes heavy and unfocussed.
"What's come over you, Steve. You've always been such a good boy," his mother said, sniffling and dabbing at the nose with a tissue.
The sergeant began again, "I spoke with Judge Wilson. He said, since this is the first time your son has been delinquent, we can release him into your care, without bail. But you will be held legally accountable for his actions while in such care until trial. If you don't want to take him, some parents like to let them stew in the cell for a while, we will transfer him to juvenal hall, later today."
"Well, Steve," his father said, "what do you have to say for yourself?"
"Are you gonna leave me here," he slurred?
Jack felt flush with anger. Here his son sat, serious charges against him, and all he had to say was, "are you gonna leave me here."
Furious, Jack stood up suddenly and asked, "what do I do, where do I sign to get him released?"
He signed the appropriate papers and soon had his son supported between himself and his wife on the way to the car. Steve slumped in the back seat and was snoring even before they had left hte parking lot. The drive home was long and silent. Jack fumed and ranted while Sheila stared silently out the passenger window.
Steve was slightly more sober by the time they sat at the kitchen table, each with a cup of coffee, father and son stared one another down. It had been may years since all three of them had sat together at this table.
"Steve," Jack growled at his son, "what on earth were you thinking? You got drunk, stole a car, and tried to out run the police when they tried to pull you over. I thought you were a smarter kid than that."
The coffee in his cup made little circular waves as Jack clenched it and shook with expanding rage.
"What was I thinking?" Steve spat the words at his father. "I was thinking what a dull uneventful life I have. I go to school, I sit in class all day, and come home and watch tv. Nothing happens around here. But then you wouldn't know, you're never around to see that."
Jack ignored the jab at his lack of presence in the home and made his own attack, "so you get drunk? That's supposed to create some excitement?"
"Yeah, that's what I though." Steve came alive. "Drinking seems to work for you."
"Well, That's because I'm an adult," his father countered, "with age comes the maturity and self control to know when you've had enough, and drink responsibly."
"Sure Dad," Steve said and stood, leaned on the back of hte chair he had just vacated, and sneered. "You call your drinking responsible? Like at the New Years party, and the Christmas party before that, and thanksgiving, and every other holiday you use for an excuse to get wasted?"
Steve wavered a bit as he looked quickly from his father to his mother and back.
Jack looked at Sheila as well to see she had gone quite pale.
Before he could open his mouth in rebuttal, Steve started in again, "You have so much maturity when you drink that you don't even notice how loud and obnoxious you get. You talk and laugh like you think your Jay Leno and everyone in the audience is hanging on your every word. And the jokes aren't even funny. When you talk to people you call everyone by their first name, and you use thier names with every sentence, like you have to keep reminding yourself who these people are. Or maybe you're afraid they'll think your as boring as you really are and will walk away if you don't keep calling them back."
Steve took a breath and squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to clear them.
"Then you start grabbing the women," he said and pointed at his mother without looking at her, "You do it right in front of mom. Right in front of her, and she laughs. But her eyes don't laugh. No, her eyes are crying, and you won't even notice, because your too mature, and too responsible, and too drunk to see it."
Steve turned and walked toward his bedroom, supporting himself with one hand on the wall. He said, before he left hte kitchen, "the people in the movies drink more responsibility than you do, and they're criminals and murderers."
Steve laughed a dry humorless sound and stumbled away, down the hallway. He shouted over his shoulder, "Now I'm a criminal, too. I wish I could just go live in a movie and get away from you."
They could hear Steve fumbling with the lock at his door for some time.
Jack was astonished by his sons behavior. "Can you believe that boy?" He said and looked to his wife for support for his rising indignation. She kept her eyes lowered and refused to look at him.
Down the hall, the television from Steve's room was suddenly loud and then muffled again as he finally opened the door and then closed it behind himself.





You can take the girl out of Gotham, but good luck getting Gotham out of the Girl
By Ashley Redden


Mayor Walt ‘The Bruiser’ Kagan wiped at imaginary filth from the starched white lapel of his suit. Everywhere Walt looked sparkled green. The plant life had really started to grow around here. Some of the lower buildings were already covered by the stuff. Walt knew that all this vine growth in the end was most likely his doing, what he didn’t know was why. But in the end why’s didn’t matter either. In the end, all that really mattered were results.
The scowl that coated his round face was anything but imaginary. The Mayor was not used to waiting on anyone, let alone someone who worked for him. The distasteful fact that he now stood in the middle of the South Yards only added to his discomfort.
If the city of Poulsonville had a slum, then the South Yards certainly fit the bill. The Mayor had remade his town into his own image, pristine in appearance, solid in structure and severe in personality, for this city just like any other, did have a definite personality. Mayor Kagan had taken a bankrupt town, one beaten down into submission and turned it into a mecca, though not in the usual sense, but a mecca nonetheless.
The city had once been shiny and new like most things when young, but corruption and bad business deals piled one atop the other had essentially killed the city. When Walt ‘The Bruiser’ Kagan arrived at town hall on his first visit, some stupid thug had attempted a carjacking on his Lincoln. Obviously, these people had no idea who they were messing with.
One of Walt’s henchmen, Lonnie ‘The Thumb’, had made short work of the guy. Walt would have been surprised if the carjacker had survived. He had never bothered to check.
Lonnie ‘The Thumb’ was so named for his propensity for breaking thumbs whether they needed breaking or not. Lonnie may kill you, but he would without a doubt break both of your thumbs in several places before doing so. Walt figured everyone needed a hobby and Lonnie’s fit into his work nicely, so Walt never complained. Besides, a man that found enjoyment in his work was a more productive employee, or so Walt’s philosophy went.
The other henchman could only be described as the polar opposite of Lonnie. Johnson, not even Walt knew the man’s first name, went by no other street moniker. Where Lonnie was tall and broad, Johnson was slim to the point of being anemic. He stood just under six feet in height, a full two to three inches below Lonnie, but for some reason always appeared taller. Lonnie operated as the tuff, while Johnson served as the brains of the pair. Walt could point those two in a direction and forget about it.
Walt had rolled into Poulsonville with a plan. He and his two lieutenants had executed that plan to perfection. Walt had first gotten himself elected mayor of Poulsonville, then went about procuring city rights to the property that was for the most part either in disrepair due to abandonment or well on its way in that direction.
For the next step Walt needed industry, but he concentrated on industries that were generally shunned by other cities.
The one industry tailor made for this project turned out to be herbicide production. After all there were always going to be crops right? And there would always be weeds growing and choking out those crops right? And add to that a sweet government contact and not long after Walt found himself rolling in the money..
So most of the city had been razed piecemeal and replaced with chemical manufacturing facilities to produce the herbicides and adequate housing for the new workers. Of course all this new building had greatly increased the taxation coffers of the city. And of course Walt had a deep tap there as well.
After all Walt ‘The Bruiser’ Kagan was a business man and business wouldn’t be business without a little corruption. Or, in this case…a lot. Most of those that lived in Poulsonville had then gone to work for one of the new chemical plants.
The one problem that neither of his lieutenants could get a handle on was all the bums. Transients, squatters, dispossessed and homeless seemed to spew forth from every nook and cranny down in the South Yards. Walt was beginning to fret that he would have to slaughter the whole lot of them, and he had no idea how many there were, just that they must have been breeding like rats because they were everywhere.
It wasn’t that he had any problem with issuing orders to have people killed; the problem was more of the potential for exposure. The title of ‘The Bruiser’ was certainly not an honorific. Walt Kagan had very much earned his moniker in his early days in Gotham City. No, he had no problem with violence be it justified or not. But problems with the cops were another subject entirely. Generating the interest of law enforcement from outside of Poulsonville was one situation that Walt could do without.
He was almost to the point of having his guys raise an army and burn the whole damn place down when she showed up. Walt remembered it like it was yesterday. He was sitting at his desk on the 25th floor of the Kagan industrial building. The mayor’s office had appropriated the entire floor.
He had just thrown a very expensive, and purportedly very rare, small round vase that had sat upon his desk in the service of a paperweight. Walt’s blood was up about something, he didn’t remember nor really care in particular what, so he had tossed, no check that, flung the vase at Johnson. Johnson, of course, had the good sense to duck. Walt distinctly remembered the satisfying sound of the vase smashing into the far wall.
That was when the door opened, seemingly by itself, and in strode a gorgeous tall red head. She walked like a woman to be reckoned with, but that was all body language and what a body she had. The pantsuit that she sported, or thought Walt, sported her, fit as though it had been made for its wearer.
She wore her hair down and though it had obviously been fixed, her dark auburn locks seemed unruly, as if it were a wild creature with many parts that refused to be completely tamed. She strode up to the mayors desk a casual smile lifted onto her full lips and stopped, folded her arms over her bosom and said, “So, I hear you have a transient problem.”
The mayor blinked, for a moment completely speechless. He wasn’t even sure how this broad got onto his floor much less knew about his bum problem. He was saved from his speechlessness by a loud throat clearing ehem from his immediate right.
The woman looked over at Lonnie, who stood to the right of the Mayor’s desk and frowned. Lonnie’s eyes were traveling up and down her person as if she were a main thoroughfare. He cleared his throat again as a nasty smile accompanied his leer.
Not taking her eyes off of Lonnie, the woman said, “Did I come to the wrong place or are you looking to get rid of some squatters?”
“Actually, we are,” answered the Mayor finally finding his voice. “And…who might you be?”
She looked back at Walt and her face blossomed with a sincerely bright smile. She said, “My name is Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley, I’m a botanist. You can call me Pamela or Dr. Isley whichever you prefer.
Lonnie drawled, “Pamela is it, well…I am sooooo very pleased to meet you.”
Pamela frowned as she looked back at Lonnie, the color of distaste washed again across her beautiful face. She answered Lonnie directly, “You may call me Dr. Isley or better yet, not at all.”
Lonnie made as though he was going to jaw back when Walt cut him off, “Lonnie, shut up.”
Pamela looked back at the Mayor and smiled anew. She continued, “So, like I said, I hear you have a transient problem. I am here to offer my services.”
The Mayor blinked, “You can get rid of the bums?”
“Certainly.”
“But, how?”
“Well,” said Pamela, “That’s my problem. I’m guessing that you are not a man that concerns himself overly much with the gears of the process. You look to me to be a man who’s primarily concerned with results. You expect results, probably demand them and that’s just what I can offer, results.”
Walt smiled, he didn’t know who this broad was, but despite himself he was starting to like her. He answered, “You’ve got me there. So, to acquire your services in this matter, what would be required?”
Pamela beamed. She said, “Why, nothing much. Just simply allow me to remove the population of the South Yards in my own manner and ask no questions.”
Walt frowned, “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You need the space without the people who, like cockroaches, just won’t seem to be good little children and die off or leave. Me, well, I certainly have no need of nor designs on the land, but do have a significant need of warm bodies that can, shall we say, disappear without a trace.” Pamela looked at her nails as she finished, “We all have our little secret projects, now don’t we?”
She looked again into the Mayor’s eyes and said, “So, Walt, what’s it going to be?”
The Mayor’s eyes hardened at the use of his name in such a cavalier manner and asked, “How long?”
“One month and no one goes in or out. I’ll clean the place up by then. On the first day of May, meet me at the South Yards for the conclusion of our business. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
The Mayor said, “Okay, you’ve got a month and we won’t bother you down there, we’ve got plenty to keep us busy with the day job. The first of May at the South Yards, see you there.”
The Mayor didn’t offer his hand, but it didn’t seem to faze Pamela. She smiled brightly and turning on her heels, cast a final lecherous glance Lonnie’s way and strode out of the office never once glancing towards Johnson. The door shut behind her.
Lonnie said breathlessly, “Boss, you gotta hook me up with that. Wow, what a woman. You know I gotta thing for redheads.”
Walt frowned and said, “You got a thing for every color in the book.”
Lonnie grinned like the Cheshire Cat; Johnson as usual wore a look of indifference.
Walt continued, “Don’t worry. When the deal is done, whether she gets rid of those bums or not, you can have her. Someone needs to teach the doc some manners.”
Lonnie sighed and said, “Yeah and I’m just the guy to do it.”
Walt and Lonnie laughed; Johnson stood to the side appearing as aloof and unconcerned as ever.

Snapping back to the present, Walt frowned and wiped his lapel again and stared daggers at the vines covering the nearest building. Something about the plant growth made him uneasy. Sporadically throughout the snarl of growth, dark red fruits could just be seen peeking out. The fruits seemed to be of different sizes from grapefruit to basketball sized.
Though Walt couldn’t be sure, but every time he looked back at that building, the vines that covered it seemed to have shifted, to have moved and rearranged. He shook his head ridding himself of the crazy thought. Though he did have to wonder at the purpose of all the vine growth, he had to admit that he was quite surprised at the absence of bums. This was the first time that he had heard of anyone coming near the South Yards and not being inundated by beggars. He had no idea what she had done with the bums, but they sure seemed to be gone.
“Hey Boss,” called Lonnie from the hood of the sedan he had driven to the meeting. “Look who just showed up.”
Walt turned and sure enough here came Dr. Pamela Isley striding confidently from in-between two vine covered buildings. The two-piece outfit she had on today was far more casual than when he had seen her a month ago but certainly no less striking. Despite himself, Walt thought, what a woman.
She walked to within about ten feet of both cars and stopped. Pamela smiled and said, “Looks like the Yards are yours again Mr. Mayor.”
Walt commented, “Looks like.” He shifted uncomfortably; for some crazy reason these stupid plants were making him nervous. But once the broad had left, he had several different chemical manufacturing facilities at his beck and call that made stuff to kill vines just like these. Let the broad garden all she wanted in the South Yards, with the bums gone, he would kill these plants to the root and then get rid of the rest of these trashy buildings. Progress marched on no matter what.
He couldn’t help himself, he just had to know. So Walt asked, “What’s up with all the plants?”
“Uh uh uh, remember our deal? No questions asked.”
“Right, well it was good to see you again doctor and thank you for helping with my little problem here. Now that those bums are out of the way, we can expand southward without any problems.” He smiled brilliantly, “Soon, we’ll corner the market on herbicides. We’ll kill more plants worldwide than smallpox.” Walt laughed as he seemed to think this statement hilarious, but his laughter was short lived as no one joined in. Pamela didn’t laugh but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Walt said, “Again, thanks doc. But I have to be getting back. Got a business to run you know worlds to conquer as it were.” Walt lifted his hand in a gesture to Lonnie and continued,” Lonnie here will wrap up our business deal. Good luck doctor.” Under his breath he said, “You’re gonna need it.” Then he got into his Lincoln, Johnson closed the door, entered as well, cranked the car and spun out. Within a minute, Pamela and Lonnie were all alone.
Pamela smiled at Lonnie who smiled back cracking his knuckles. Lonnie said, “So what was it that you said I should call you? Was it Pam or Pammy or hot stuff or maybe something else, hmmm?”
Before Lonnie could say another word, Pamela strode up to him and to his astonishment placed both of her arms around his neck, closed her eyes and planted a big wet kiss straight onto his mouth. Lonnie was too shocked to respond, he’d been expecting her to run, counting on it, really looking forward to the chase.
She leaned back, opened her bright eyes and smiled. Seeing the doc this close in the daylight, her eyes sparkling like emeralds sent a shock of excitement through Lonnie’s body. He placed both of his hands onto her mid section and shook his head slightly as a small wave of dizziness washed over him. He noticed that he had developed a mild tingle in his lips.
It was past time to show this one who was boss, so Lonnie squeezed her midsection, not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to get her attention and wipe that smug look off of her face. The problem was, his hands had stopped working, he squeezed and nothing happened. Another wave of dizziness blasted Lonnie.
Pamela removed her hands from his neck and placed both palms onto his chest and ever so gently pushed. Lonnie fell like a tree, stiff and silent and straight to the ground.
Smiling, Pamela removed a small bag from a pants pocket and after a short bit of digging, removed what appeared to be a lip gloss tube. She removed the top and swiveled out the gloss then puckered her full lips and ran the gloss over both, top then bottom. After placing the tube back into her bag, she returned it to her pocket.
Pamela then removed a handkerchief, folded it in two and placed it between her slightly open lips and pressed. Then, she placed the handkerchief onto Lonnie’s chest, tapped it twice and stood back smiling. Somewhere behind Pamela, Lonnie could sense movement; the movement seemed to be something large.
“Not exactly the tryst you had in mind eh?” asked Pamela as she smiled down at him. To Lonnie’s astonishment, two large plants lumbered up beside the doc. The plants stood on either side of the doctor, huge green trunks, as if hundreds of smaller trunks had been twisted to form the one large trunk maybe ten feet in height. From the top of the trunk to the bottom, vines sprung outward at all angles. At the base sat a huge upright jug or fruit or something that was deep red with a top that opened and closed.
Pamela said, “The lovely creatures that you see before you used to be called rat eating pitcher plants. Actually, they ate mostly bugs only the occasional rat. But with a bit of bioengineering, well, a lot actually, I’ve scaled them up and given them mobility. My friends here will rid this foul place of inhabitants and then I have some other specially designed botanicals that will destroy Poulsonville, once and for all.”
She leaned closer her eyes taking on the harsh glow of fanaticism and said,” In a week or two, there will be no more Poulsonville. This crummy city will never kill another plant again.”
Standing back up she wrinkled her nose and said, “The poison from my lips won’t kill you outright, though you may well wish that it had. The digestion process takes a couple of days to really get going good so I wouldn’t want to be you right about now.
Mammals have always eaten plants and plants have always been eaten, it’s a very old dynamic. But the dynamic in Poulsonville has just changed and salad is no longer the only thing on the menu.”
Pamela stood and walked away. After a few steps she stopped and turned. Lonnie could just see her head in a halo of glowing auburn hair straddled by two huge bulbous jugs the tops opening and closing with a small wet pop as the great plants moved towards him. To his horror, he could just make out what appeared to be a dingy shoe lace hanging from one of the jugs.
Pamela said, “By the way, you asked what you could call me? Call me Poison Ivy.” She smiled, turned and strode from the scene. Lonnie could not cry out, Poison Ivy had seen to that. She left and didn’t give him a second thought, after all who cares about plant food?

GreatHites Season 2 Episoide 13

In a time you will forget the horor, and then... That is what this week's stories are about, the forgotten horror.

We had five stories on the topic of a forgotten horrror by:

Jason A. Steves
Philip (Norval Joe) Carroll
Scott Roche
Ashley Redden
And Jeff HIte

Download this week's stories

Check out our Forums.


Tim Memorial
By Jason A. Stevens

"Heh, look at the stupid statue!"

"It's there for a reason, Jack. You don't have to be such a jerk."

"Yeah, whatever."

Jack dismissed Rachel as usual, continuing to mock the unusual statue. It appeared vaguely man-shaped, Rachel supposed, but something about it struck a deep chord of wrongness in her. Perhaps it was the lack of any distinguishing features, perhaps the numerous strange protrusions jutting out from it. In any case, listening to Jack criticize it made it all the worse.

She didn't know why she'd allowed him to talk her into following him down the overgrown path. Arriving at Maria's to spend the weekend with their friends easily would have trumped walking through the tangled brush, branches snagging painfully on her hair. Jack had remained adamant, though, insisting they'd just make a brief stop, as the pictures he'd found of the abandoned town on the website were, quote 'wicked cool.' From what she could see of it past the statue, she had to disagree. It looked much the same as any other town, albeit deserted.

"Let's just see what you want to see and go."

Rachel started to push past Jack towards they empty town, but first paused to read the statue's plaque. The top portion had broken off some time ago and she had to wipe away some excess dirt from what remained in order to be able to read the text. All that revealed themselves were two words, 'TIM MEMORIAL,' whatever context they may once have had lost to time. A cursory glance of the ground surrounding the statue didn't reveal the missing portion, and when she glanced back up, Jack had already gone past the statue and advanced into the town proper, looking impatiently at Rachel and standing by the door of the nearest house.

She sighed and advanced onward, suppressing a chill as she passed the statue. This place didn't feel right at all, and it was more than the general eeriness she'd felt at visits to other ghost towns. Here, that feeling seemed magnified considerably and she couldn't get rid of her gooseflesh. She wrapped her arms across her chest, unnerved at her unnatural chill in the nearly eighty-degree air. Jack just laughed and didn't even bother to show any concern for her. If she had the keys, she would gladly have left him here.

"Come on Rach, don't wanna keep the ghosts waiting!"

She ignored his condescending statement and walked--slowly--to where he stood, glaring at him the whole way.

"Keep it up, Jack, and you might find yourself among them. I'll wait for you by the statue."

"Why, scared?"

"Bored. Now see what you need to see, and let's get on with our weekend."

"Live a little, Rach."

"That’s why I'm trying to get to somewhere there’s life."

He sighed and entered the house as Rachel walked back over to the statue. She'd not stood there long before she felt a tugging on her arm. Looking down, she was startled to see a nervous little boy, though the look in his eyes bespoke someone far older. As he fixed his eyes on Rachel's she instantly felt a sense of overwhelming dread, only made worse by the silent tears that started to flow from his eyes. She could see he struggled against something, and when he finally spoke, it was in a robotic monotone incongruous to a child so young.

"You shouldn't have come here. So many have forgotten. Too many, and they rage. They will--" He broke off, widened his eyes and ran off into the town.

Rachel darted after him and quickly followed into the house the boy had entered. Upon opening the door, however, she saw no trace of the boy. Nothing appeared disturbed, and a layer of dust covered every surface she could see. Reflecting, she realized she hadn't even heard the door slam despite the boy’s quick movement, and tried to tell herself she had hallucinated the boy. Her logical assurances to herself did little to comfort her, though, and she decided that the sooner they were out of here, the better. She fished her phone from her jeans and was gratified to see five bars, dialing Jack.

"Hunnnngryyyy..."

She dropped the phone, in shock at the deep and rasping voice that had answered rather than Jack. Rachel cursed as it struck the cement porch and broke. She was further unnerved when she noticed that a fine fog had begun to blanket the town, despite no corresponding drop in the sweltering air. She chastised herself for it, but couldn't help but imagine this as a scenario from a horror movie, in which case it would be smartest to just leave and forget Jack. However, reality did not behave as in movies, and even if it did, Rachel cared too much for Jack to leave him behind, even if he was less than ideal. It would probably amount to nothing anyway, and if she ran off, he’d only laugh.

Mind made up, she jogged over to the house Jack had initially entered. She called his name to no response, then noted his footsteps in the dust coming out as well as from where he’d entered. The next two houses presented the same setup, but the third had only an incoming trail, which led to a basement. She called down to Jack from the top of the steps, but received no answer. He likely remained silent on purpose in order to frighten her when she came down the steps.

Fright did take hold when she had, but Jack certainly hadn't been the cause. No, for in the middle of the open basement, Jack's body hung limp and motionless in the air, his feet at least three inches from the floor. He gave no indication of seeing Rachel despite her calling of his name numerous times. She glanced around to find something to use to prod him out from the room's center, but nothing appeared forthcoming. She quickly ran upstairs and out of the house, towards the woods.

It took her what seemed far too long to find a long and sturdy fallen branch, and when she returned to the basement, the situation had worsened. In the air around Jack, small black tendrils appeared to blink in and out of existence. She stared dumbstruck for a few seconds before gathering her wits and extending her makeshift staff towards Jack.

Almost as soon as she did so, however, the branch was wrenched from her grasp and she fell to the floor. As the branch clattered to the ground on the other side of the room, its scraping against the basement floor revealed something else Rachel hadn't noticed. A large portion of the floor had been demarcated in a circle, and a number of intricate designs had filled the interior. She could see now where Jack’s foot had initially broken the circle, and winced as she saw the damage to the intricate whorls and patterns the branch had done on its way across the room.

Her stomach sank as she raised her eyes back to Jack. His body now lay virtually invisible under a mass of writhing black, nebulous tentacles. Rachel hurriedly regained her feet and began to hurry up the steps, but something grabbed her ankle from below and she found herself dragged back down. Splinters dug into her resisting fingers and she cried freely in pain and desperation.

All too quickly, however, she found herself pulled within the circle and placed directly in front of Jack. She saw one last glimpse of his face before the writhing blackness encompassed the both of them, soon replacing her terror and fear with a deep peace.

***

The car horn jolted Rachel awake. Her heart pounded as she reflected on the nightmare she'd just exited. The darkness, the overwhelming darkness, and the cold that also burned. The feeling of captivity, of inevitability. All now wiped away with the sound of a car horn, a sound foreign but familiar and comforting all the same. She looked at her arms, admiring the unblemished flesh, free of scars, scabs, or festering wounds, did the same with Jack and smiled.

He noticed and smiled back. Nothing to worry about, his expression seemed to say, and Rachel decided to impart the good news now instead of waiting.

"Jack, we're pregnant."

He smiled at her again, newly-minted black irises gleaming in the sunlight.

"And hungry."

She nodded.

"Yes, so very, very hungry."

She allowed one of her fingers to elongate out the open window, reveling at how the wind felt against her substance. Maria would ease the hunger, but so much more awaited. Smiling in anticipation, she looked down at the remainder of the statue’s plaque on her lap. 'TIM MEMORIAL,' indeed. Rachel let out a laugh and etched the missing letters back into place with the claws on her left hand before throwing the plaque out the window.

It clattered to the road, giving one last message to the sky.

TIME IMMEMORIAL.





Tim Memorial by Jason A. Stevens is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.





The 23rd Horror
By Philip (Noral Joe) Carroll


Kevin shined his flashlight across the brick work and asked his friend, "why do you think they filled a doorway with bricks?"
Jason held his own flashlight in one hand and ran his other over the uneven masonry. "I don't know. And they didn't do a very good job either. Look at these bricks compared to the walls in the stairwell, they're not straight at all.
Kevin stepped up close and shined his light into a gap between two of the poorly lain bricks. "It looks like whoever put the bricks here, didn't really know what they were doing."
He peered over the top of his flashlight, trying to see through the small space in the bricks. He continued, "what's weirder, is I've been on the 23rd floor, my cousins girlfriend lives in 2318. I've never seen this brick wall. It should be two apartments away from her front door."
Jason shined his flashlight on the stenciled number on the door. The faded white paint was barely visible in the beam of their flashlights, but was undoubtabley 23.
"I know. Lets go up a floor and take the elevator down one, we can come back and check this wall from the other side," Jason suggested.
Without further discussion they charged up the stairs through the dimness illuminated by a single skylight twelve more floors above. They leapt up the stairs two steps at a time and in a moment opened the door with the number 24 stenciled in the faded white paint. The two boys began their adventure from Kevin's apartment on the tenth floor and had counted the number on each door as they climbed.
Without a second thought they pushed through the door and down the hallway to the elevator.
Half way down the passage Kevin shouted, "Jason, wait."
Jason stopped and walked the few feet back to where Kevin stood looking at an apartment door.
"What's up," he asked Kevin?
"Look at the apartment number, Jase," Kevin said, "2310. According the the apartment numbers, were on the 23rd floor now."
Kevin turned and walked four apartments back toward the stairwell and knocked at number 2318.
After a few minutes, the peephole darkened as someone inside viewed the two boys. The door opened and a slender, smiling, teenage girl said, "Kevin, what are you doing here? Is Will with you?"
"No, Cindy, Will's not here. We were just coming up the stairway and ended up on your floor," Kevin said, when Cindy cut him off.
"The stairway," she said as she shook her head and wrinkled her nose in an adorable way. Kevin knew what his cousin saw in this girl. She was about the prettiest girl he had ever met, but she was always kind and approachable.
"No one ever uses the stairway. What were you doing in there," she asked?
"Oh, we were bored, and went exploring. But that's not what's important," Kevin said, "have you never been in the stairway?"
"Nope," she said, "Dad said we should use the fire escape outside my window, if there was ever an emergency."
"Cindy," Kevin asked, an idea dawning, "can we go down your fire escape?"
"I guess so." She shrugged and asked, "why, what's up?"
They walked through the small living room and down the hallway to her bedroom. Jason asked, as they reached her door, "do you ever hear people from the floor below you?"
She stopped so abruptly the two boys ran into her.
Even as the color drained from her face, Kevin thought how beautiful Cindy was. A worried expression creased her brow. "Yeah," she said, "once in a while I hear an child crying. She cries kind of loud, like her parents are ignoring her, and she's locked in her room. It goes on for an hour or more, late at night. In the morning I've asked my parents if they heard her, but they act like I'm being silly. 'You can't hear through these floors, they're five feet thick,'" she ended with an imitation of her father.
They climbed through the window onto the fire escape and descended to the next floor down and peered into the window.
"I can't see anything," Jason said, "not even curtains, or blinds."
Kevin shined his light into the window, the beam reflected back. "It's painted black on the inside."
Jason checked the other window with in reach of the fire escape landing, and said, "these ones too. They're all painted."
"What's going on," Cindy asked, clearly shaken. "Why would someone paint their windows black?"
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," Kevin said, pushing up on the window. If moved a fraction of an inch, but stopped.
"Hey," Cindy said, "you can't just climb in someone's window, and besides, it's locked. You're not going to break it are you?"
Kevin was fishing through his wallet.
"Cindy, this floor, right here, is the 23rd floor. We counted as we climbed the stairs. The door from the stairway on this level said it is the 23rd. The door to your floor says 24. When we opened the door the door to 23 the hallway is bricked up. You can't go in. And when you think about it, the elevator must skip this floor when you go from 22 to 23. The windows are painted over. Something is hidden in there."
He pulled his student body card from his wallet and said, "if the lock on this window is anything like mine, it's not hard to open.
Kevin slipped the card through the gap under the window near one edge and slid the card along sideways. Almost halfway the card contacted something. Kevin smiled and withdrew the card a half an inch, slid it an inch further along and then pushed it forward again. There was a click. Kevin withdrew the card and returned it to his wallet.
Jason stepped up to help Kevin push upward on the window.
Silently and effortlessly, the window slid up.
Somewhere, inside, a door slammed. A rapid, wet, thump-slap, thump-slap sound came from something hurrying from the room, and the three teens were assaulted by the overwhelming reek of rot and putrescence. Kevin was only able to control his gorge by sheer force of will, while Jason wasn't so successful and vomited over the edge of the fire escape.
His head swam, but Kevin had to know what was on this floor. He buried his nose in the crook of his arm to filter the noxious odor, and shined the beam of his flashlight into the room. In size and shape it was very similar to Cindy's room one floor above. In this room the walls were black and shiny. They seemed to pulse and flow, as if the walls themselves exuded and oozed with ebony ichor.
The only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room was a child's crib. In it stood the desiccated, blackened body of an infant, its empty eye sockets a silent appeal as the flashlight beam crossed its tiny jaws frozen open in an eternal scream.
Kevin fell backwards, the flashlight slipped from his hand and skittered across and off the edge of the fire escape. He gasped and shuddered as he tried to regain his feet. He was gibbering, "I dunno, I dunno, what the, what the, what the..."
As soon as Jason and Cindy helped him to his feet, he shakily lurched for the open window, reached inside and up to flip the latch. With both hands he slammed the window shut with such force that several cracks bloomed up and to the sides of the black glass. Three black, oily finger prints remained on the window from the hand he used to flip the latch. He stared at the rancid oily ink on his fingers, unable to move, to wipe it from him. He grasped the wrist of the offensive hand with his other hand and squeezed it as if to strangle a small rabid animal. He held it in front of his face and stared at the fingers like they were some unimaginable, horrifying, foreign objects.
"Come on," Cindy urged to bring him from his stasis. "I have something in my bathroom that should take that stuff off."
With the help of Jason, she lead Kevin back up the stairs of the fire escape to her apartment. While she scrubbed at his fingers with make up remover, Jason spoke to his friends reflection in the mirror, "Kevin, you look awful. What did you see in that room?"
Kevin's own eyes were a reflection of the horror and emptiness he had just witnessed one floor below. He couldn't tell them what he had seen, and promised himself he never would.




Vicious Cycle
By: Scott Roche


The cold chewed at Bogdan's coat. The weather in the little seaside village of Yantarny remained constant even if the rest of the world seemed to be going increasingly crazy. He stood before the small, rough stone pyramid that served as a monument to the thousands that died here, gunned down by Nazis almost a hundred years ago. Some said that this was the last act of the Holocaust, one of the many efforts to erase all evidence of the death camps. Whether that was true or not was almost immaterial, especially in light of the fact that almost no one in this village remembered the event. Even in the face of such evidence people turned a blind eye to the uncomfortable facts of history. He tried to cry, but tears wouldn't come. It was almost as if they were afraid that they would be swept away or frozen by the wind.

He turned away from the reminder and walked towards the ocean, tasting salt as it crystallized on his face. Maybe it was from tears finally falling. Maybe it was sea spray blown in by the gale. He didn't know. All he did know was that the atrocities of the past had been forgotten, not just here, but increasingly all over the world. It wasn't just the slaughter of the Jews, Gypsies, Africans, and other "undesriables" by hte German people that had earned holocaust its capital H. Other horrors began to fade in the increasingly artificial light of this brave new world. What use was remembering such "unfortunate" history when we seemed to be on the cusp of such a bright and glorious future?

A bitter laugh chuffed from his lungs. The new New Russian Democratic Movement, the second of its kind in thirty years held that as the new party line. He was sick of it. Sick of hearing how things had changed. Oh he couldn't deny that in ways mankind had moved on. The children in this country were almost all fed and warm and healthy. The mega-corps, present here as they were in the West, saw to that. The history that they were taught by the soulless machines was every bit as whitewashed as it had been in his grandfather's day when the Soviet government was in charge. He had no way to be certain, but he guessed that even in his great-great-great-grandfather's day when the Czars ruled, it was the same. It was that fact that would truly hold people back.

George Santayana said ""Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." Bogdan was inclined to agree. It was that very thing that put him where he was now. He faced the backs of the company of soldiers. Their uniforms identical to his, black and foreboding. The only difference was the red piping at the edges and the nova-bursts at the points of his jacket's collar. He led these thirty men into battle. They were equal to a hundred soldiers from decades past in terms of their capacity for destruction. Any one of them could defeat a heavy tank from the late twentieth century. Their weapons were trained on the dissidents kneeling in the snow.

Word had come down that this cell was responsible for taking down a data cluster in this sector. That had cost the government and the mega-corps backers hundreds of billions in the course of hours. He and his men tracked them down, fighting from house to house, neutralizing them. Orders were not to kill them, not right away. No, they were to be made examples of.

Each soldier had a camera integrated into their gun sight and another in their helmet. These recorded in detail the shivering men and women in front of them. This event would be broadcast to the Bureau of Information. From there, once it was properly edited, it would be ready for the general populace. Then and only then, citizens would see what fate befell enemies of the state. So even if he took a stand against the atrocity he was being forced to commit no one would bear witness. Without an audience would it matter? Of course, even if there were an audience and he rebelled, he would fail. What purpose would that failure serve? These questions ate at his soul.

The leader of this crew of rebels locked eyes with him. Sergei Karamazov was his name. Bogdan knew that, knew the name and his dossier by heart thanks to a computer chip that stored what he willed it to, without fail. Everything Karamzov stood for was the practical antithesis of everything Bogdan stood for, at least officially. That man needed to survive even if Bogdan didn't.

Bogdan gestured at Karamazov. "You. Rise and come here." Butterflies danced in his stomach. He had no idea what he would do next.

The rebel leader paused, unsure what to do. After a cluster of heartbeats, he did what he was told. The soldiers parted for him. Smooth, mirrored face plates showed no emotion.

Karamazov finally came to stand before the captain, at ease, jaw set firmly. The proximity of his death lent him boldness. There would be no begging for his life. He said nothing, merely waiting for Bogdan to speak.

Bogdan pitched his voice low, even though his soldiers would still be able to hear him. "Why did you do this? Have you not learned that standing up against ... what you perceive as tyranny does no good? You will die here on this field as others have before you."

The resolve on Karamaov's face became pity, or something very like it. "We will die. But we will do it on our terms, having done what we think is best."

A thousand martyrs screamed from the abyss. Every one of them died for what they thought was best. How many more would die? How many more men like himself would be responsible for sending them to their graves? Maybe he would break the cycle, maybe not, but he had to at least try. He nodded at the man. "Spoken like a true zealot. We all do what we think is best, don't we?"

"Maybe, maybe not. All I can say for sure is that you and your government haven't been doing that in some time. We decided to fix what we could of that. The rest is up to you."

There was some truth in what the man said, but most of it seemed to be the sort of rhetoric he'd come to expect. "Perhaps if you asked for forgiveness, renounced what you did, and tell us who you did it for, I could show you leniency?" Another scan of the records showed that nothing he had done demanded penalty of death. "If not for you then for your people?"

Of all things a smile creased the man's face. "You don't have the power to do that." He cocked his head. "Look, Captain, you're not the guilty one here. It's been decided by those above you that we're going to die. It's obvious to me that you don't want to be responsible, so I hereby absolve you."

The last four words struck Bogdan's heart like a dagger. He needed no one to forgive him. It was this scraggly freedom fighter that was in the wrong. After all, he led his people into an unwinnable war against the state. It was him who had too much pride to beg for forgiveness. In fact, if it hadn't been for Karamzov's pigheadedness, there would be no need for the slaughter that was about to occur. "Absolve me? It is you that should be seeking absolution." Anger replaced sadness like a rush of ice water over live coals. "Get back with your men."

Karamazov nodded and shrugged, returning to take his place on the snow covered ground.

His eyes had a light in them Bogdan did not understand. Under different circumstances the captain would have said that he was laughing at some inside joke. "Men, form ranks." The soldiers snapped to attention. "Take aim." Rifle butts slammed against shoulders. He waited, drawing out the moment. At the last, he let his eyes shift to the sea. "Fire." The flat pops seemed almost anticlimactic, but he knew that rounds would find their targets and bodies would now lie twitching.

If only man could learn from the mistakes of his predecessors. How glorious that would be.




A Little Bit of Faith
By: Ashley Redden

A wave of Baz magic swept over the clerics that made up the third ring of the Thaumaturge. Two of the clerics’ knees buckled and they fell each moaning pitifully as they began the long painful process of dying from Baz magic.
When Baz magic succeeded in planting itself inside a human, simply put, the human, be it man woman or child, rotted from the inside out. The granting of a quick death would have been a mercy, but Baz magic shielded its victim from such things as poison, blade or any other type of rendering of the victim’s life. Death would come from the Baz magic and the Baz magic alone, after days or in the worst cases, weeks of torment. No form of cure or inhibition in the process had ever been found. A death worse than that caused by Baz magic did not exist.
The remaining twelve clerics continued to chant not even glancing back at their fallen comrades. Over twenty of their order had fallen already; two more were of no immediate account. All were prepared to die to rid the world of this abomination, this great historic evil.
The cleric chant wove a magical aura around the half ring that nearly encircled The Baz which roared up and cast another wave of Baz magic outward towards its encroaching enemy. The Elder Boffin stood fast. The four rings continued their advance.
The Elder Boffin called out orders keeping the Thaumaturge operating as a unit simultaneously buffeting The Baz into retreat and protecting the Thaumaturge as the magical army advanced.
“Order of the Samain, send that thing back to whence it came, conjure well and together, do not mind the fallen for they shall be avenged,” said The Elder Boffin. His words were spoken softly, but his voice carried as if bellowed.
“Mages, advance and attack as a unit, use triad magic. Lotans do not cease work on the spells, kill the creature.”
The Elder Boffin watched as five more fell to the Baz magic.
“Move forward brothers of magic, brothers of all that is good. Drive the creature back, kill it. Keep the faith brothers. We will prevail. All that is required is a little bit of faith in your power and together, we shall succeed.”
The words of encouragement and direction continued unabated. The battle had already lasted for many hours and would continue until either The Baz threat was eliminated or all of the Thaumaturge lay dead. When the assault began, the Thaumaturge had consisted of hundreds of magical warriors making up the four rings of assault.
First strode the clerics, whose order used white magic for healing and the benefit of mankind. They had to be nearest the beast to best deflect the powerful magic that The Baz unleashed. The clerics were the buffer, the shield in this attack, were all the clerics to fall, The Baz would win the day.
Next followed the Samain in whose person practiced the mathematical arts. Their magic consisted of the formulation of order from chaos. A strange and enigmatic sect, they were few in number, known for the generations that produced them.
Samain were not trained in the art but born to it. And many were the Samain that lay dead and dying strewn about the ground behind the advancing Thaumaturge, writhing in agony as their insides slowly putrefied from Baz magic. The Samain worked together, moving and working as one. Together, they stripped the magic from The Baz.
After the Samain, marched the Lotans. These sorcerers were adept in the magic of the earth, fire and water. They consorted with and controlled the elemental magics. Endlessly and ceaselessly they worked, spelling the creature with their most powerful magic, that of fire. A small knot, not much bigger than a grown man, at the feet of The Baz glowed as if the air itself was molten.
Dozens and dozens of the Lotans had succumbed to the onslaught of their foe. Most of the Thaumaturge had consisted of Lotans in the beginning. They had proved to be least sturdy. Now, the third ring of sorcerers had been so decimated, that less than ten remained.
The last ring consisted of the Scarlet Mages. These sorcerers practiced magic of the blood. Power, raw and pure, lay at their beck and call. Working in triads, they built magic, bristling with power, and then flung it upon The Baz. Of all the methods of attack so far, each and every bolt of power sent from a triad had elicited a scream of emotion from The Baz. The Elder Boffin sincerely hoped that the screams were of pain, but could not be sure, but hope he did. Though the Scarlet Mages were few, perhaps twenty four in the beginning, none had fallen
When the attack had initiated, the Thaumaturge encircled the creature and began their assault, the magic emitted by the The Baz battered the sorcerers much like a wind driven tide, relentless coming wave after wave after crashing wave of Baz magic. But now, the magic that The Baz threw upon them came in gasps and spurts, but it seemed to be stronger than before, perhaps more desperate?
The Elder Boffin took this as a sign and rallied his troops onward, ever battering The Baz.
Suddenly, as if by animal instinct detecting weakness in its prey, the Scarlet Mages, all eight triads, broke and ran at The Baz. The Elder Boffin was so shocked by this act that he did not for a moment respond but stood pointing, mouth agape. His entourage of four Lesser Boffins paid scant heed and continued to generate the powerful shield that protected the Elder Boffin, the general of the Thaumaturge.
The scarlet mages ran as a loose unit below and what looked like inside of the lower portion of the roaring and gnashing Baz which stood twenty to thirty feet tall it’s ever changing body morphing from one visage to the next as to appear almost molten. As the scarlet mages passed through the legs of their foe, The Baz seemed to waver and flicker somewhat like a coal oil flame during the ides of March.
The mages gathered around the orange glow centered at the feet of The Baz into a tight circle perhaps twenty feet across and began to pound the ground with wave after wave of power. The Elder Boffin, along with the remaining sorcerers of the Thaumaturge stopped attacking and simply watched all startled and dizzy with fatigue.
The image of The Baz shimmered, and then vanished. The scarlet mages began to fire from one triad after the other, proceeding around the circle from left to right. All the triads built power as one fired then the next followed by the next strobing around the circle of mages.
The Elder Boffin blinked away tears of exhaustion as he watched the mages pound away at the ground within their tight circle. It began slowly at first, perhaps a slow blink or long heartbeat between each bolt, but soon the magic ripped the ground in a torrent of power, one after another faster than the Elder Boffin could count or keep up with. The light from each of those powerful strikes grew and grew until it was nearly impossible to look upon.
The bombardment went on and on, the barrage from the scarlet mages seemed never to end. And then, just as quickly as it started, the onslaught stopped. Most of the mages fell upon the ground bonelessly, some dead from exhaustion, many others very nearly so. Those few that stood wavered as if drunk.
The Elder Boffin pushed past his retinue of lesser Boffin, those four charged with his personal protection, and moved forward as if a moth drawn to a flame. He stepped gently over the mages that lay sprawled upon the ground and gazed at the crater. Within a blasted hole lay a thing that was the size of a small man, maybe five feet when standing. It resembled a human in that it had two feet, two legs and a head, but that was where the resemblance ceased. The creature was a hazy opalescent gray in color and its skin had the look of being covered in mucous.
As the Elder Boffin stared, it looked up and into his eyes and he knew without a doubt, the Elder Boffin knew that here lay the enemy of mankind in its true shape. The Elder Boffin gasped. The Baz snarled and tried to rise, but fell meekly back on its side breathing loudly, raggedly.
Without requesting that it be done, the melding chains were brought forth by the lesser Boffin and flung upon the creature in the hole. It twisted and wheezed as it grappled with the magic permeated chains that seemed to come to life upon contact with the creature.
The Baz spat, but did not speak as the chains pulled tight around its flaccid body.
“Behold, we came as sorcerers to stop or kill an ancient enemy of mankind, a thing that has fed upon our ancestors since before know history. We came as sorcerers, united in our task. We shed our life blood upon the chains, forging a link that cannot be broken so long as the five magical disciplines remain intact, practiced and remembered. We came here as members of the great Thaumaturge, the great magical army, but we leave as brothers.” The Elder Boffin looked slowly around at those still alive and said, “We leave closer than brothers.”
Snickering drifted up from the crater followed by a slurred inhuman voice
The Baz said, “I am timeless. I am the undying. I am The Baz. I can not be exterminated as if some mangy rat found gorging upon your siloed grain. No, fools, I am perpetual. Even after all of humanity is devoured either by me or itself or some other less worthy ephemeral thing, I will endure.”
The Baz laughed again, a wretched hair raising sound. Though not loud, the sound of the laughter was sinister and mocking and carried on the wind like a bad smell.
The Baz closed its eyes and said, “Do your worst. I care not. I will speak no more to those who are less than I. Now, I feed.”
The Elder Boffin blinked at the creature huddled in the hole, wrapped by now glowing chains. His eyes narrowed, and then widened. He looked back over his shoulder at the dozens of men lying where they fell, rolling and moaning, some crying out. Several of the sorcerers standing near the Elder Boffin followed his gaze to the men, their brothers, slowly dying from the rotting torment of the Baz magic.
“He’s feeding on them, even while bound by magic, he’s feeding on our fellow sorcerers, our brothers” said the Elder Boffin as he looked at several of the sorcerers standing in his immediate vicinity. He looked down upon the prone creature in the hole. The Baz wore a smile of pure malevolent joy. The lip of the Elder Boffin drew back baring teeth.
“Together, we will find a way to kill this evil once and for all,” he said looking from man to man, fierce determination in his eyes. Another snicker drifted up from the crater. Despite his anger and disgust, the Elder Boffin shuddered. He noticed several others do the same.
One, a scarlet mage, leapt into the hole and with a mighty swing smote The Baz upon the head with a short sword that suddenly appeared into the mage’s hand from somewhere beneath his billowing scarlet robes.
The elder Boffin blinked in surprise, he hadn’t even known that any of his fellow sorcerers were carrying conventional weapons. The strike landed solidly but stopped abruptly as if the mage had struck a large tree, enough to bite and rock the mans shoulders but not rebound.
The mage picked up his sword which lay upon the head of The Baz on edge. The mage looked upon the creature, no mark shown; The Baz had not even stirred. He gazed upon the sword as he turned it before his face. The scarlet mage found no mark upon the blade, whole and hale, undented and gleaming. The scarlet mage looked at his fellows gathered around the hole and shook his head. He cast a final lecherous parting glance upon The Baz, the hate and disgust for his enemy clearly evident in his eyes, and turned smartly and walked away.
The elder Boffin looked at the sorcerers gathered around the crater. The sorcerers gathered around the crater looked back. They all stared at each other for a long moment, no words were spoken. Then all eyes fell upon The Baz, several swallowed. Though none looked beaten, not a face gathered above the bound creature wore any expression of victory either.
In the days that followed, killing The Baz though magical means turned out to be more difficult than expected, in truth, beyond the ability of any sorcerer that currently walked among the living. So they gathered in council and decided to imprison the beast since that was essentially the only choice available.
The Elder Boffin knew already of a suitable site for imprisonment, a honeycombed cave deep within a remote mountain. The remainder of the Thaumaturge took their enemy, bound in magical chains, down into the bowels of the earth and left it there. They sealed the entrances and placed magical traps for those who would attempt entry. Here they left The Baz to rot and hopefully, to die.
The Thaumaturge vowed to never again let the evil of The Baz walk upon the land. They made oaths of each discipline, bound in blood and spirit that as long as the purveyors of the five magic’s lived, the chains holding and subduing The Baz would remain secure. They, the members of the Thaumaturge, would make it so henceforth, forever. They had faith.
After all, faith in each other had won the day against the godlike evil of the Baz. The battle had brought together the bickering magical factions. Yes, together the sorcerers of the five magics had faith. The Baz would trouble mankind no longer.

The warrior stood upon the hill and stared silently at the small hole that marked the entrance to the cave of the eater. The warrior sighed. He would have to crawl until he reached the end of the tunnel which opened up into the larger caverns beneath the mountain.
Going into battle against man or beast or creeping into the realm of an enemy and dispatching a target were all tasks that the warrior would revel in, but this? He shook his head and took a deep breath looked around a final time and with a great sigh, got down on his hands and knees.
He carrier no light as the tunnel was too restrictive and the gale of wind that screamed out of the hole in the mountainside allowed no flame to remain lit. The warrior knew not where or how the wind came; no doubt it was caused by the magic of the eater who dwelt deep within the mountain. No matter.
The warrior entered the tunnel, the noxious wind billowing his hair. He closed his eyes and attempted to ignore the smell upon the wind. The smell was unlike any he had ever encountered anywhere else in the world. It was not terrible as the rancid aroma of the many varieties of decay can be. No this singular smell was not unendurable, but it was not pleasant either. He associated this smell with the eater. With this last thought on his mind, the warrior entered the hole and disappeared from the mountainside.
Deep within the mountain, the nameless warrior reached the cavern to which he journeyed. Inside the cavern, small whirl winds danced here and there, swaying back and forth but not moving across the floor. The warrior was careful to avoid touching anything that reeked of magic. The whirl winds he avoided with great care.
At the center of the cavern, a diminutive creature lay bound in chains. The thing appeared as a naked smallish human that had been liberated of all its hair then oiled, or perhaps coated in slime. The color of the skin upon the whole of the creature always reminded the warrior of a plucked goose, hazy grey. But the resemblance was in color alone, for the skin was as devoid of imperfections as a placid pool of water, liquid smooth. The warrior fell to one knee and bowed deeply to the eater.

The Baz watched placidly as his minion approached and bowed before him. He did not move. The minion reported that his task was fulfilled, the human targets lay dead. The Baz sighed a happy sigh.
He said to his minion, “You have done well, my child. Upon you and you alone do I grant the most high of prizes. For your unwavering service you shall receive the greatest gift of which I possess.”
The minion did not look up, he remained submissive.
The Baz whispered, “I grant you the great honor of feeding the eater.” The last came out with a hiss. The minion looked up suddenly, his eyes wide with surprise. He stared into the eyes of The Baz, now known only as the eater, for less than a heartbeat. The Baz flicked his finger towards his minion and the look of surprise turned to anger then the cold withering shock of pain. The minion fell and began to writhe, his agony becoming absolute.
The Baz smiled as he fed, smiled as he thought of the continued fruition of his plan. Systematically, he was ridding the world of those that practiced the five magics through his minions. Already the five magics were scarce in the world of men a world of technology that had sprung up from the bowels of the magically laden Earth upon which The Baz walked thousands of human years ago.
Very soon, all of those that practiced or even had knowledge of the five magics would be dust. Then The Baz would again walk upon the surface of the world and feed upon the humans which were his cattle. And feed well he would for the humans had gone forth and multiplied. Yes, once the knowledge that had trapped him here, deep in the recesses of the world, was lost, he would be The Baz no longer. When he left this cave for good, The Baz would remain. He would go forth as the eater, taking no chance that his erstwhile name would lead those who would surely oppose him to the magical weapons, the knowledge, that had been his downfall in the war with the ancient Thaumaturge.
The Baz would soon be free. After thousands of years what were a few decades or centuries to wait? He smiled as the screams of his minion began in earnest. The Baz would consume this victim, completely, clothes and all. How could he ever recruit new minions if there were bodies laying about?
His smile deepened as he thought of his growing number of minions loose upon the world of men hastening his return one execution at a time. The Baz could wait; time was his ever present companion.
Soon, he would be free. All that was required was patience and a little bit of faith. The Baz settled in to feed and dream of better days to come.


The Horror
By Jeff Hite


With so many people on board the small vessel, there really was not much room to get things done, but despite that I was not about to complain. They needed to be here, if they were not here they would be on the planet below and that really would not do at all. They had to be here. So many people on the planet had died already there was no need for more to die as well. Not, down there, not alone in space, away from their home world.

"The flu." the doctor announced suddenly
"The flu?"
"Yeah, can you believe it, they were dieing of the flu. This is the first case of it that I have seen, I will have to check the medical records archive to find out f any other colonies have ever experienced it."
"Are we at risk here?"
"Frankly, yes, but since we know what it is, we can counteract it. I already have the cultures growing to vacinace the crew. I suspect that we will end up with a few cases, but only a few. and like I said, knowing what it is means that I can keep the problem to a minimum."
"Alright keep me informed. I don't want any more deaths from the flu. Of all things. Hey, Doc do you know of any cases of the flu being reported. Not just on the colonies, but in the fleet as a whole in the last say ten fifteen years?"
"Hmmm, well now that you mention it, no."
"I wonder how it got down there." He walked out of the sick bay and toward the bridge. He would have to keep a closer eye on his crew, to see if any of them seemed to be coming down with the flu. What did the flu look like, no one he knew had had the flu in his life time, and he was not even sure that he would know what the symptoms would look like. He made a mental note to look it up from his station on the bridge so he would know what to look for. With all these people in such close proximity, he hoped the vacine would be ready soon.

When we left the planet it was for home. A home we had never seen, like bird leaving the nest, or a newly married couple leaving their parents homes to go to thier newly rented apartment. It was a new world, but it would be home. But then we all started getting sick, we wanted to be held by our mother.

"What seems to be the problem?" The Captain knew he was sick, but there was no rest of him. He had to keep the ship going. They had to get home.
"The Problem Captain is that all but two of my crew are sick with the flu. The Doc gave most of them meds and sent them to bed. I am not feeling the greatest, and the ship needs people to keep her running. The engines are running on auto, They always do, but the air systems and the heating and cooling, have needed constant attention since we left the planet. It is too much for just a couple of folks."
"Alright I will see what I can do about getting more people down here. I will send whatever extra people the other teams can spare, can you handle telling them what needs to be done?"
"Yes sir, It is not hard work, just work that needs to be done."
"Alrighty then. I will see what I can do for you."
"Thank you Captain." The captain, left the engineering section for what seemed like the third time today. He had been down there this morning when no one had showed up for duty, to help relieve the two men that were sick.
As you turned a corner to head to the medical bay, he swung his head around too fast and nearly crashed into the wall as his head began to swim from the extra movement. He caught himself and made a note not to do that again. He would have to ask the doc if there was anything he could take for the constant feeling of nausea.

The new planets offered new hope, a chance to grow and expand. Like a new life, a baby being born, each day was a new adventure. There was nothing we could not do. Then the baby died, and there was nothing we could do, and we despaired. It was time to go home. It was time to return to the home planet. It was as it should be. People should not leave. Family is your support system, without family what could you do. You have to return home eventually. My work was hard, and most people would not like it if they found out, but it was necessary. carefully pulled my mask over my face and dumped the contents of the vial into the air recycler. This ship would be a sick for a very long time.

"This is not going to be easy to explain admiral. We have a ship full of sick people. They are from the planet in the Nextilian system. They want to um, come home. There were so many deaths, and after three generations they have had enough. I don't know of any settlers who have ever wanted to come home but these folks do."
"You are right about one thing Captain, I don't know of anyone else who has tried this. I guess there is no harm in them coming back home. the last reports I read said that earth was back to a sustainable population. What are a few tens of people. What is it that every one is sick with?"
"Can you believe it. We have the flu."
"The Flu? As in influenza?"
"That's the one."
"What are you doing about it?"
"We have all been vaccinated but most of just were sick before that could happen. at least if we run into this again we won't get sick."
"That is true. Do you think the rest of the fleet should work on a flu program."
"That would probably be a good idea. The Doctor said that all but the smallest ships should have everything they need to make the vaccine, and the docks should be able to provide those with them with what they need. I have a file here from the doc on how to make it."
"Alright, send it over and I will start sending it out to everyone in the fleet. Meanwhile you continue on your journey home. I see no reason why these people cannot go home if that is what they really want."
"Thank you sir." He signed off his terminal and lay down on his bed, at least the room was not spinning this time and he had not vomited all day. Maybe he was finally getting better. He hoped that after six days he was going to finally be able to get back to normal. It had only been six days but he could barely remember what normal felt like.

We we return home, we will bring with us the things that we learned while we were away. Our parents will treat us like children for a while but they will soon understand that we are not. They will have to reset their expectations. It will take time, but we will work our way through it. And we will show them that we are strong and we have grown.

"Admiral, it is worse that any of us could have feared. The Virus is spreading like wild fire. The only people who do not have it are the folks we brought with us from the planet, because they have already had it. So many people are sick, earth seems to be crippled. We have tired bringing folks in from the moon and Mars to help, but even thought we vaccinate them they seem to get sick, and it just seems to exasterbate the problem."
"Who would have thought that the flu something nearly forgotten would be able to do this."

And the parents will learn, they will learn that they should not scorn their children, and send them away. They are strong now and the parents are weak. They have grown old and well need us to take care of them in their illness. This time we will show them what it means to be ruled over with such a tight grip, and why they should not treat their children in such a way. This time I will show them.