The alley was so dark that even the light beams from the headlights couldn't break through the shadows swirling in the corners. A fused lantern hung precariously of a bracket on the rock wall, buffeted by gusts of wind swirling in the narrow passage.
The faded sign announcing the store's name was barely visible through the small window of opaque glass that occupied the center of the door. The dust accumulated in the joints and the old earth-colored pegboard made even more difficult to read the worn out capitals.
The dashed laughter of two kids echoed in the brick walls of the alley. Both figures were half hidden, crouching behind a pile of cardboard boxes at the entrance of the street. It was obvious that they were trying to hide, probably from anyone in the main street that could be watching them.
- Here it is! - The child's voice rang out in the alley.
A young girl, not more than 12 years old went into the dark hallway, glancing nervously over her shoulder like hiding from a possible pursuer. The smooth brown hair, cut diagonally from the back of her neck, unruly fell over her eyes when she reached down to cover herself from the walkers who remained in the main street.
Behind her, a young boy of about her age, messy hair and mischievous eyes, pushed gently, forcing her to walk.
- Lets go, Adhara .- He whispered restless.- Lets get inside.
The girl nodded. As imitating a movie of secret agents in which the hero must defeat his enemy in the most confidential manner, the little girl stood up and stuck her back to the wall of bricks. She turned her head towards her friend with a smile, and slowly began to move toward the battered, sinister looking entrance decorating the center of the alley.
The tiny bell hanging from the ceiling tinkled loudly as the two kids entered the store. They looked at each other nervous, with a mixture of fear and excitement in their musky eyes.
The room was small and dark. The tiny light bulb hanging in the alley could only lit up the landing of the shop, narrow and full of shelves and cabinets full of the most bizarre objects.
- I was waiting for you, girl.- A deep, hoarse voice came from the back of the room.
Adhara flinched, and her fingers closed clawlike around the arm of her friend.
All around them they could see stored countless antique looking books and small multicolored glass bottles which kept inside a liquid that she could not quite pin down.
- Uhm... Me? You were waiting for me?.- The girl asked confused, afraid to take a step further.
She had the door behind her, where her friend still kept it open. It was difficult to decide which of them was more scared. But that was what they had been looking for, the little shop of magic that came and went at will, never two nights in the same place. It had taken them forever to find it.
No, they would not run away. Not after having managed to enter, not after all the work that had take them to finally make it.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward, making her way into the thick darkness of the room.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
The hill
It was on 1234.
On the outskirts of a small town on York, surrounded by a fog so thick it was hardly possible to see just two steps beyond, there was a hill so high it was almost impossible to see its end, with slopes so steep and rugged that anyone who would have seen them would have desisted the effort of climbinf even before trying to.
However, on the full moon nights, when the silvery star's light traspassed the cloud of thick fog that hid the huge mountain, it could be seen in the distance, at the top, a small wooden house built precariously on the edge of the cliff.
Locals would say, that small cabana had been centuries ago the home of a poor family who could not do more than cultivate the barren land surrounding the cabin. By then, the sky was clear and the mountain could be seen from several miles away. The gentle slopes showed the path that leaded to the summit, surrounded by shrubs and wild flowers whose aroma accompanied the walkers throughout the journey.
Those who still remember the story, would say that at harvest time the father went down to the village driving a little cart pulled by a donkey, beside him two little kids too thin for their age, running around, and in the wagon, the few groceries they had managed to harvest from their lands. And every year, no matter how hard the winter had been, their vegetables were always the best, the largest and tastiest on the region.
Maybe that's why the Inquisition arrested them all, and sent them to the gallows that stood in the center of the nearest city square, where the fires burned them alive for the crime of being called witches. The two boys, ages 4 and 8, were the last ones to succumb to the flames.
Since that awful day, both the valley and the hill had been shrouded in a thick, dense fog that rises only once a year, for a heartbeat, always the same day, at the same time. The time the pyres that consumed the four villagers were turned on, that fateful dawn when the High Inquisitors sentence was fulfilled.
On the outskirts of a small town on York, surrounded by a fog so thick it was hardly possible to see just two steps beyond, there was a hill so high it was almost impossible to see its end, with slopes so steep and rugged that anyone who would have seen them would have desisted the effort of climbinf even before trying to.
However, on the full moon nights, when the silvery star's light traspassed the cloud of thick fog that hid the huge mountain, it could be seen in the distance, at the top, a small wooden house built precariously on the edge of the cliff.
Locals would say, that small cabana had been centuries ago the home of a poor family who could not do more than cultivate the barren land surrounding the cabin. By then, the sky was clear and the mountain could be seen from several miles away. The gentle slopes showed the path that leaded to the summit, surrounded by shrubs and wild flowers whose aroma accompanied the walkers throughout the journey.
Those who still remember the story, would say that at harvest time the father went down to the village driving a little cart pulled by a donkey, beside him two little kids too thin for their age, running around, and in the wagon, the few groceries they had managed to harvest from their lands. And every year, no matter how hard the winter had been, their vegetables were always the best, the largest and tastiest on the region.
Maybe that's why the Inquisition arrested them all, and sent them to the gallows that stood in the center of the nearest city square, where the fires burned them alive for the crime of being called witches. The two boys, ages 4 and 8, were the last ones to succumb to the flames.
Since that awful day, both the valley and the hill had been shrouded in a thick, dense fog that rises only once a year, for a heartbeat, always the same day, at the same time. The time the pyres that consumed the four villagers were turned on, that fateful dawn when the High Inquisitors sentence was fulfilled.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Selenne
The ground beneath her body rumbled. Shivers ran all the way up through her spine, making her all the more aware of the goose bumps on her skin.
Even if she actually knew it couldn’t be possible, she felt something smooth against her bare skin, caring it, protecting it from the chilly air. She could sense her fingers and her feet again. And she was lying on the top of something. It was soft, and shaggy, like some animals fur.
She tried to move slightly, knowing that wherever she was, she was not alone. Her arms barely obeyed her, and she found out quite difficult even to raise a couple of inches. She was tied up.
Suddenly, her eyes were wide open. She didn’t care about being noticed anymore. She was wrapped up on furry blankets and tied with ropes, securing her to the wooden sledge carrying her on.
She saw a muscular, blond young man watching her curious. She heard him saying something when he saw her eyes opening, but she just couldn’t make it through. Not like she cared, anyway.
Selenne closed her eyes again and tried to remember. Her head felt foggy, with random memories dancing all over her mind. She could recall the piercing slash of the frozen wind, the pain on her feet because of the snow, the lack of strength in her muscles. She remembered the sight of her ancient village, the one in which she had grown up.
It seemed to be so near, yet too far away. Everything was white. The little town was covered by a snow white carpet, buried under the weight of the hard winter weather.
And the blizzard. Above everything else, she remembered the blizzard.
Even then she could see it coming after her, chasing her. Then, just darkness.
Her silvery eyes looked for the boy kneeling besides her, observing her. She wanted to ask him where were they taking her, where were they going, what was gonna happen to her. But when she opened her mouth, all she could do was let go a soft groan.
By the way he was looking at her, she knew he hasn’t seen one like her before. He was human. And he was young. He just hadn’t live enough dawns to recognize her kind.
He was staring at her like she was some kind of prey, some kind of achievement that could actually make him look brave and grown up. Something he could show his friends when he got home.
She glared at him, and she could see how uneasy that made him feel. By the time he had taken her, she was weak and unconscious. She was vulnerable. Otherwise, he would have never succeeded.
She struggled trying to free herself, but the knots that kept the ropes around her were far well done. She wasn’t strong enough to tear them apart. The young man held his hand in her chest to pull her back on the sledge. He obviously didn’t want his prey to run away.
She scowled at him, her fists closing in anger under the furry blankets. Her liquid silver eyes glowed in the moonlight, giving her an even wilder appearance. She frightened him.
She realized she should have seemed fragile when he found her, completely naked, almost dead frozen in the ice. But that didn’t make her the least less dangerous. He just didn’t know with whom he was messing around.
But he would. She was gonna make sure of that.
Even if she actually knew it couldn’t be possible, she felt something smooth against her bare skin, caring it, protecting it from the chilly air. She could sense her fingers and her feet again. And she was lying on the top of something. It was soft, and shaggy, like some animals fur.
She tried to move slightly, knowing that wherever she was, she was not alone. Her arms barely obeyed her, and she found out quite difficult even to raise a couple of inches. She was tied up.
Suddenly, her eyes were wide open. She didn’t care about being noticed anymore. She was wrapped up on furry blankets and tied with ropes, securing her to the wooden sledge carrying her on.
She saw a muscular, blond young man watching her curious. She heard him saying something when he saw her eyes opening, but she just couldn’t make it through. Not like she cared, anyway.
Selenne closed her eyes again and tried to remember. Her head felt foggy, with random memories dancing all over her mind. She could recall the piercing slash of the frozen wind, the pain on her feet because of the snow, the lack of strength in her muscles. She remembered the sight of her ancient village, the one in which she had grown up.
It seemed to be so near, yet too far away. Everything was white. The little town was covered by a snow white carpet, buried under the weight of the hard winter weather.
And the blizzard. Above everything else, she remembered the blizzard.
Even then she could see it coming after her, chasing her. Then, just darkness.
Her silvery eyes looked for the boy kneeling besides her, observing her. She wanted to ask him where were they taking her, where were they going, what was gonna happen to her. But when she opened her mouth, all she could do was let go a soft groan.
By the way he was looking at her, she knew he hasn’t seen one like her before. He was human. And he was young. He just hadn’t live enough dawns to recognize her kind.
He was staring at her like she was some kind of prey, some kind of achievement that could actually make him look brave and grown up. Something he could show his friends when he got home.
She glared at him, and she could see how uneasy that made him feel. By the time he had taken her, she was weak and unconscious. She was vulnerable. Otherwise, he would have never succeeded.
She struggled trying to free herself, but the knots that kept the ropes around her were far well done. She wasn’t strong enough to tear them apart. The young man held his hand in her chest to pull her back on the sledge. He obviously didn’t want his prey to run away.
She scowled at him, her fists closing in anger under the furry blankets. Her liquid silver eyes glowed in the moonlight, giving her an even wilder appearance. She frightened him.
She realized she should have seemed fragile when he found her, completely naked, almost dead frozen in the ice. But that didn’t make her the least less dangerous. He just didn’t know with whom he was messing around.
But he would. She was gonna make sure of that.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Inocent Gaze
Can I keep his toys?
Abel looked down to see the four year old kid staring at him from the ground.
I just told you no; he answered wrinkling his nose; you already have yours.
Then, can I have some alike?
The boy raised an eyebrow and turned to where the boy pointed out. The big plateau of wood that stood in the village square was empty except for the hangman, who sharpened his tools in a corner.
Caín, those are no toys; he scolded upset.
Really? the little kid made a face; but he seems to have so much fun ...
Abel looked down to see the four year old kid staring at him from the ground.
I just told you no; he answered wrinkling his nose; you already have yours.
Then, can I have some alike?
The boy raised an eyebrow and turned to where the boy pointed out. The big plateau of wood that stood in the village square was empty except for the hangman, who sharpened his tools in a corner.
Caín, those are no toys; he scolded upset.
Really? the little kid made a face; but he seems to have so much fun ...
Friday, May 6, 2011
The Dreams Collector
The Closet
The apartment was empty. Empty and dirty, as if nobody had been there for decades. Faded curtains made of thick fabric, pierced by moths and rodents that roamed on their own through the whole house, let dim rays of light filter into the desert room laying before them.
Despite all the chaos and disorder, the old owner of the building could have sworn with a hand on the Bible that for years, every week without fail, the rent of the 8 º F appeared timely on his doorstep, on Sundays mornings.
Always.
From the room full of dirt that at some point had been the kitchen, a tall, slim shadow covered by a very long, black cloak with wide hood, came out slowly, supporting his weight on a gnarled wooden cane.
He walked slowly, his face covered up to the nose, his straight, white hair cascading to his shoulders.
Without paying attention to the almost solid darkness that reigned on the floor, or the spiderwebs that had invaded all the white plaster walls, the mysterious figure crossed the desert room, raising huge clouds of dust everywhere under his feet.
With ease and quietness, the old man stood upright in a corner, setting aside with unprecedented sensitivity a little spider hanging from the ceiling, just in front of him. With trouble, he bent down to put it on the ground, watching it run away as far and as fast as its tiny legs allowed it before getting up again and face the wall.
Practically nil, completely covered with dust and dirt, a small metal cabinet remained half hidden in that area of the department. That was the only furniture in the flat.
The hooded man pulled out a tiny silver key from the folds of his robe, put it in the lock and turned gently until he heard the gears flick. The doors opened by themselves.
The insides were divided in two parts, right down the middle. On the left, a hanger that barely reached his chest, displaying several racks of cloaks and robes identical to those he was wearing. On the right, just two shelves with some photographs and a pair of drawers plated in aluminum.
The old man's bony hand caressed one of the pictures frame and pushed it gently toward the depths of the closet. In the empty room echoed the sound of the pulleys starting to wheel.
Beyond the clothes in hangers, a thick metal wall began to rise in a clumsy, struggling against the rusted guides and ripping squeaks from the sides, until leaving on the sight a little entrance to a dark, narrow passage. Impossibly tilted stairs disappeared into the blackness of the passage, down as far as the eye could reach.
Not far from the hidden door, a transparent glass torch hung from the wall. The aged man clutched it in his fist, and a faint glow lit up the hallway in front of him.
Closing the closet behind him, the hooded elder started down the stairs step by step, floor after floor, until reaching a depth nearly equivalent to the basement of the building.
The room then extended before the old man was full of shelves, each packed with hundreds of glass beads, the size of a child's fist.
He placed the glass torch in one of the supports of the wall, and the magical glow it emitted instantly deployed to the half dozen identical devices occupying lecterns along the wide room.
Under the supernatural light of the crystals, in the spheres lined by thousands on different shelves, a heavy fog began to emerge from their very heart until they were entirely full of it. In some, the smoke was white as snow, in other gray, and in less, black as coal.
So were dreams, and nightmares, of a lifetime as a wanderer.
Dreams of children, youngs and adults, of elders. Illusions, breathtaking nightmares which could choke anybody in fear just with only approaching to look their essence.
All sorts of fantasies and dreams locked for all eternity in the secret room.
The old man slowly wen over to one of the shelves further away from the door, and carefully placed two new orbs in separate engraved silver bases. And once again, the mysterious hooded man turned around to slowly climb the stairs that would lead him to his next discovery.
The apartment was empty. Empty and dirty, as if nobody had been there for decades. Faded curtains made of thick fabric, pierced by moths and rodents that roamed on their own through the whole house, let dim rays of light filter into the desert room laying before them.
Despite all the chaos and disorder, the old owner of the building could have sworn with a hand on the Bible that for years, every week without fail, the rent of the 8 º F appeared timely on his doorstep, on Sundays mornings.
Always.
From the room full of dirt that at some point had been the kitchen, a tall, slim shadow covered by a very long, black cloak with wide hood, came out slowly, supporting his weight on a gnarled wooden cane.
He walked slowly, his face covered up to the nose, his straight, white hair cascading to his shoulders.
Without paying attention to the almost solid darkness that reigned on the floor, or the spiderwebs that had invaded all the white plaster walls, the mysterious figure crossed the desert room, raising huge clouds of dust everywhere under his feet.
With ease and quietness, the old man stood upright in a corner, setting aside with unprecedented sensitivity a little spider hanging from the ceiling, just in front of him. With trouble, he bent down to put it on the ground, watching it run away as far and as fast as its tiny legs allowed it before getting up again and face the wall.
Practically nil, completely covered with dust and dirt, a small metal cabinet remained half hidden in that area of the department. That was the only furniture in the flat.
The hooded man pulled out a tiny silver key from the folds of his robe, put it in the lock and turned gently until he heard the gears flick. The doors opened by themselves.
The insides were divided in two parts, right down the middle. On the left, a hanger that barely reached his chest, displaying several racks of cloaks and robes identical to those he was wearing. On the right, just two shelves with some photographs and a pair of drawers plated in aluminum.
The old man's bony hand caressed one of the pictures frame and pushed it gently toward the depths of the closet. In the empty room echoed the sound of the pulleys starting to wheel.
Beyond the clothes in hangers, a thick metal wall began to rise in a clumsy, struggling against the rusted guides and ripping squeaks from the sides, until leaving on the sight a little entrance to a dark, narrow passage. Impossibly tilted stairs disappeared into the blackness of the passage, down as far as the eye could reach.
Not far from the hidden door, a transparent glass torch hung from the wall. The aged man clutched it in his fist, and a faint glow lit up the hallway in front of him.
Closing the closet behind him, the hooded elder started down the stairs step by step, floor after floor, until reaching a depth nearly equivalent to the basement of the building.
The room then extended before the old man was full of shelves, each packed with hundreds of glass beads, the size of a child's fist.
He placed the glass torch in one of the supports of the wall, and the magical glow it emitted instantly deployed to the half dozen identical devices occupying lecterns along the wide room.
Under the supernatural light of the crystals, in the spheres lined by thousands on different shelves, a heavy fog began to emerge from their very heart until they were entirely full of it. In some, the smoke was white as snow, in other gray, and in less, black as coal.
So were dreams, and nightmares, of a lifetime as a wanderer.
Dreams of children, youngs and adults, of elders. Illusions, breathtaking nightmares which could choke anybody in fear just with only approaching to look their essence.
All sorts of fantasies and dreams locked for all eternity in the secret room.
The old man slowly wen over to one of the shelves further away from the door, and carefully placed two new orbs in separate engraved silver bases. And once again, the mysterious hooded man turned around to slowly climb the stairs that would lead him to his next discovery.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Leenas Dream
This is what happened. What happened as remembered by those who were present and lived to tell.
Those who survived the fury of Fear.
Around him, everything was ruined.
The body of his enemy shone, as if on his skin had landed millions of fireflies dancing in the dark.
He took an easy step. His eyes fixed on the celestial weapon wielded with force in the mans right hand. Strong, but with no bravery.
The sword was trembling in his fingers. He didn't know if it was fear or nervousness, or simply terror inspired by his presence. Maybe all of it.
The demon, his torso naked, defenseless, without any shield but his own hands. And yet he was calm.
He smiled. He seemed to expect his first move.
Another step. The angel strained. He looked into his eyes and noticed his insecurity.
One more. He raised his hands in surrender, but his expression revealed the desire to fight that seized him.
A sharp fang showed up between his lips when a fast and accurate blow disarmed the stunned angel before he had a chance to counterattack.
The face of the demon was drawn with a pride and victory expression. As fast as a breath, his right fist stuck in his enemy's chest, twisting his insides.
The angel could not restrain a cry of pain. Among death rattles, he tried to save himself from the inevitable, to unfold his inmaculate wings and fly away from the cruel fate awaiting for him. But Fear was not willingly letting him go.
He clenched his fist inside the angels chest, his eyes full of rage. And before the light of his soul leaked, floating in the darkness of the night, he peered out a cynical smile, and without regret, ripped off the heart of the celestial being with his bare hands.
His heart became translucid amongst his fingers, catching the last breath of life leaving the divine warrior he had in front of him.
He raised the jewel proudly, shouting his victory to the nocturnal breeze. The huge ruby in which the stolen heart had turned into, glowed with intensity under the silver accusing rays of Mother Moon.
Blood still oozed through his fingers, sliding hot over his skin when, with a creepy smile, the demon hid his trophy between his tattered clothes and disappeared in the depths of the night.
Those who survived the fury of Fear.
Around him, everything was ruined.
The body of his enemy shone, as if on his skin had landed millions of fireflies dancing in the dark.
He took an easy step. His eyes fixed on the celestial weapon wielded with force in the mans right hand. Strong, but with no bravery.
The sword was trembling in his fingers. He didn't know if it was fear or nervousness, or simply terror inspired by his presence. Maybe all of it.
The demon, his torso naked, defenseless, without any shield but his own hands. And yet he was calm.
He smiled. He seemed to expect his first move.
Another step. The angel strained. He looked into his eyes and noticed his insecurity.
One more. He raised his hands in surrender, but his expression revealed the desire to fight that seized him.
A sharp fang showed up between his lips when a fast and accurate blow disarmed the stunned angel before he had a chance to counterattack.
The face of the demon was drawn with a pride and victory expression. As fast as a breath, his right fist stuck in his enemy's chest, twisting his insides.
The angel could not restrain a cry of pain. Among death rattles, he tried to save himself from the inevitable, to unfold his inmaculate wings and fly away from the cruel fate awaiting for him. But Fear was not willingly letting him go.
He clenched his fist inside the angels chest, his eyes full of rage. And before the light of his soul leaked, floating in the darkness of the night, he peered out a cynical smile, and without regret, ripped off the heart of the celestial being with his bare hands.
His heart became translucid amongst his fingers, catching the last breath of life leaving the divine warrior he had in front of him.
He raised the jewel proudly, shouting his victory to the nocturnal breeze. The huge ruby in which the stolen heart had turned into, glowed with intensity under the silver accusing rays of Mother Moon.
Blood still oozed through his fingers, sliding hot over his skin when, with a creepy smile, the demon hid his trophy between his tattered clothes and disappeared in the depths of the night.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Selenne, Moonlight shine
Against all odds, the small village of Krawl had survived.
Half hidden among the mountain slopes and partially buried by the continued snow avalanches, the tiny village remained, unchanged from the ravages of time.
There had been years since the last time she had passed by, decades perhaps. Now she walked down the wide valley, leaving a faint trail in the vast snow-white carpet that covered the earth.
Half naked, half frozen and barely having the strength to keep going, Selenne rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm.
She blinked several times, trying to bring down the light snowflakes consistently adhered to her lids.
Her breath condensed in her lips nearly at the same instant of breathing, and her fingers tucked under her arms most of the time, began to acquire a cyanotic hint.
She could feel her lips dry. Her soaked red hair hung down over her face, covering most of her vision. She didn't care too much.
It had been hours since she had ceased to feel her feet, and still kept going.
The mirage of her native village persuaded her not to give up, gave her the spark of hope she needed to continue. And yet it was not enough, and she was aware that without fire, or food, would not stand too much.
Her big, liquid silver coloured eyes, rose to admire the sky one more time.
The full moon was watching indifferently from his throne full of stars, deaf to hear her pleas, immune to her exhaustion.
The half-elf let out a groan before losing her consciousness and gave her mind to the darkness depths. The world was finally off for her.
Soon the snow will erase her tracks, and with them, the mere memory of her existence.
Half hidden among the mountain slopes and partially buried by the continued snow avalanches, the tiny village remained, unchanged from the ravages of time.
There had been years since the last time she had passed by, decades perhaps. Now she walked down the wide valley, leaving a faint trail in the vast snow-white carpet that covered the earth.
Half naked, half frozen and barely having the strength to keep going, Selenne rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm.
She blinked several times, trying to bring down the light snowflakes consistently adhered to her lids.
Her breath condensed in her lips nearly at the same instant of breathing, and her fingers tucked under her arms most of the time, began to acquire a cyanotic hint.
She could feel her lips dry. Her soaked red hair hung down over her face, covering most of her vision. She didn't care too much.
It had been hours since she had ceased to feel her feet, and still kept going.
The mirage of her native village persuaded her not to give up, gave her the spark of hope she needed to continue. And yet it was not enough, and she was aware that without fire, or food, would not stand too much.
Her big, liquid silver coloured eyes, rose to admire the sky one more time.
The full moon was watching indifferently from his throne full of stars, deaf to hear her pleas, immune to her exhaustion.
The half-elf let out a groan before losing her consciousness and gave her mind to the darkness depths. The world was finally off for her.
Soon the snow will erase her tracks, and with them, the mere memory of her existence.
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