Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Fantasy’ Category

Secrets of the Blue House (11)

        “Wait a minute,” Nick interjected and then added after catching a stern look from the nymph, “Excuse me. But I’m not even sure I want this house and yet, you seem to have decided for me.”
        “Well, think of it this way: wouldn’t you do anything you could to ensure your survival?”
        “All right, continue.”
        “Mr. Fontaine, Sr used to have three children: two daughters and a son. His son would inherit most of his fortune, but his daughters would still receive a good portion of the money. I’m sure its a typical story, but they both were killed in the hedge maze and we didn’t want…”
        “Wait, wait. Killed? What happened?”
        “We don’t have much time to discuss it, but Mr. Fontaine, Jr. and his eldest sister decided that in order to prevent their sister and her soon-to-be husband from receiving the money, they killed her, leaving her significant other no reason to stay. Then they killed the remaining sister’s husband before Mr. Fontaine, Jr. turned on her and killed her. With no one else to receive the money and the house, he thought he would inherit it all and then sell this land to building contractors to tear us down and put up smaller houses on this plot.”
        “This seems like a lot more serious than you are making it out to be.”
        “Believe me, we are concerned, but there was nothing we could have done. The blood line and magic energy here were too weak for us to speak to the girls and warn them before it was too late. More importantly, Mr. Fontaine, Jr. has come to visit his father, but we’re sure he somehow heard that Mr. Fontaine, Sr. was seriously considering giving you this house. We’re afraid that he is going to try to kill you so that you don’t inherit this area.”
        Nick took a deep breath. “But I’m quite happy in the city and I don’t need a house out here.”
        “Please reconsider,” the satyr said for the first time in the conversation, “I’m rather fond of the flowers in the garden and I would hate to lose connection to the house.”
        “You don’t have to live here,” the nymph continued, “You just have to keep me standing.”
        Nick took a deep breath and looked at the hall around him. “All right. But what am I going to do about Gervais’s son?”
        “Just be wary,” the nymph said, putting a cold hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I wish there was more you could do.”
        “If he attacks you and you can get outside, I’ll help you,” the satyr said. “But don’t go near the hedge maze. Stay near the house if you can.”
        Nick nodded. “Well…thanks.”
        The nymph and satyr smiled and both wished him good night. In a daze, Nick ascended the stairs to his guest room and after undressing for the second time that evening, he fell back asleep.

Author’s comments on post 399: Part two of the section I wrote on Tuesday. Tomorrow, a small diversion and I might publish more of this story just to keep the ball rolling. Otherwise, you will get more of this story on Saturday.

Secrets of the Blue House (10)

        The sight through the door made Nick froze. The tree in the fountain cast a silver glow stronger than moonlight, but with the same sentiment. The water no longer flowed and pooled in the basin at the tree’s roots. The boobrie was sitting among its branches while the satyr and nymph sat at the edge of the fountain with their feet resting in the water, both laughing quietly. The nymph was the first to notice him and her warm smile was inviting enough to get Nick to step forward and allow the door to shut behind him.
        “Come, join us,” she said, though her lips did not move. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear us,” she answered to Nick’s unspoken anxiety. Cautiously, but not wishing to be rude, he made his way to the fountain and then sat down on the edge, his feet still planted on the tile floor.
        “I’m sorry we had to wake you,” she continued, “but it was imperative that we talk.”
        “What do you mean, wake me?”
        “I sent our messenger to get you from upstairs.”
        As if on cue, the boobrie flew down from its perch and quickly landed into the pond, splashing a little water from its great wings onto Nick’s back. “That is my purpose; to retrieve those whom the castle wishes to speak to.”
        “The castle?” Nick wished he could sound more intelligent than he was, but nothing else seemed to form in his mind. The adrenaline of the dream had worn off enough that he was getting sleepier, but not enough for him to nod off entirely.
        The nymph smiled. “He means the house. The Blue House, of course, where you are currently a guest. I am the voice of the house, and my friend here,” she indicated the satyr, who waved, “is the voice of the grounds. We were just discussing what to tell you when you arrived.”
        “Look, I know this isn’t real and that I’m dreaming, but could you at least try to make sense?”
        The nymph smiled condescendingly. “Unfortunately, this is real. Magic is a lost art to humans, but it still resides in objects deeply connected to a bloodline. This house is just a copy of the Fontaine Château, but it is connected because of spirit—love to be exact—and thus, holds some of the same magical properties as the castle in France. But all of this is technical and has nothing to do with you, my dear boy.
        “We don’t have much time to talk, so I am going to try to be as brief as possible. I’m sure you are aware of your connection to the Fontaines in France, but there are a few old households in other places in Europe where pieces of the Great Water Spirit resided. Millions of years before humans, the gods lived on Earth and then the wizards. During the time of the wizards, the gods started losing their connection to this planet. When the humans—completely magic-less creatures who worships wizards and gods alike—finally came around, the Great Water Spirit decided to split herself and spread the pieces far and wide to random humans throughout the land. Eventually these humans built households and manors around these pieces and each family called themselves “The Fountains” because they were protectors of the water spirit.
        “Somehow the piece that remains in what is now Spain was lost, but the family line remained. You, as you can probably guess, are the product of a merge between two Fountain lines, which means that you have a greater connection to the magic of the house. It enables me to talk to you and it also enables you to use a bit of the magic from the house for yourself.
        “But I did not call you down here to give you a brief history lesson nor to teach you how to control magic, I wanted to warn you about your role in the story of this house. Mr. Fontaine, Sr. doesn’t know this, but anyone involved in the inheritance of this house is in danger. As one of the strongest links on the Fountain bloodline, we feel that you are the best one to own this house and will do all we can to aid in your welfare.”

Author’s comments on post 398: Part one of what I finished writing yesterday. This was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, not because I didn’t know what was going to happen, but because I can’t seem to find enough motivation to sit down and finish it. The conversation will conclude tomorrow and then we’ll have a very interesting climax and "le fin." I started another story which I have a hunch will probably turn into a novel/novella, but I don’t really want to publish it until I have a good idea how long it might be. Also, I am working on something good to celebrate the 400th post on Friday. All in all, I’m super busy so I will go and finish what I need to do now and stop writing commentary

Secrets of the Blue House (9)

If you are starting here, please read the story thus far before continuing. Edits have been made to the story after the posts, so it might be a good idea to refresh yourself of the details.

        There was a tapping at the guest room window, even though it was nowhere near a balcony and on the second floor. Trying to ignore it, Nick continued surveying the closet where the guest set of clothes that Gervais had lent him were hanging. The tapping became more persistent, but when he finally looked towards the window, there was nothing there. After turning away again, the tapping continued, so Nick walked over to the window and opened it, sticking his head out and surveying the house and grounds.
        “You really shouldn’t do that,” a voice said behind him. He turned around and faced a rather horrifying bird, much like a heron but with feathers that seemed like spikes. Its eyes were dark and voluminous; they seemed to swallow the light and comfort from the room all the while masking emotion, although, Nick assumed, a bird could not hold such complicated emotions that could need masking.
        “You might fall,” it continued. “It would be so easy to push you.”
The bird flew right at him and though Nick never felt the impact of the great bird hitting him with incredible speed, he found himself falling. Panic gripped his limbs as the world started fading.
        Nick woke up with a gasp. His heart was beating loudly and the darkness suddenly seemed menacing. He propped himself on his elbow and tried to scan the room for any activity, lingering on the shadows longer as if they would become clearer the longer he looked. Suddenly there was a brush of wind across his bare arm, though the room did not seem particularly drafty. In the stillness afterwards, Nick could have sworn he heard feathers beat against the door, but there was no other movement to suggest a winged visitor and, after a quick glance, the window was closed. Nick moved quickly to the light switch but after finding nothing in the room, grabbed his clothes from where they were draped against the desk chair and dressed quickly. He shut off the light again and cautiously peered into the dark hallway, feeling foolish for expecting something that he logically knew should not be there. This time, though, he saw a shape go down the stairs. After the first initial bit of panic, he made his way as quietly as he could towards the staircase.
        The servants had left candles burning, for some reason, in the hall and it cast a meager, haunting glow to the bottom of the stairs. Nick couldn’t see anyone or anything at the base of them, though he did catch a thin line of silver light coming from under the door to the main hall. Just as Nick made up his mind that he had no reason to go and investigate, he found himself descending the steps towards the door and then gently and silently going through.

Author’s comments on post 397: Things are slowly picking up. What or who is behind the door? You shall have to wait and see.

The Pond

        The water looked deep and inviting. Heat hung on the air along with thick clusters of flies and gnats. Though the sun was orange, the light was gray and becoming darker. Jason glanced at Carol, who smiled seductively. She dove beautifully into the pond and moments later came up with a gasp, flicking her hair backwards and flinging water in a perfect arc. The scene was almost too perfect and for once, Jason hesitated before jumping in next to her.
        Unsurprisingly, coldness shot up his limbs. He couldn’t see his feet for the thick sediment in the water. For all he knew, he had just jumped into a cholera and leech soup. Carol was swimming towards the center of the pond in perfect stream-line motion, but Jason stayed a bit at the edge pretending that he was watching her for enjoyment and not hesitating because of a growing feeling of fear.
        “The water gets warmer the longer you’re in it,” she yelled back to him from the center of the pond.
        “I think I’ll get out, anyway. I’m not much of a swimmer.”
        “Party pooper,” she said, laughing. She watched him pull himself out with genuine interest and then started to swim back. He heard her rhythm change as she made a large kick but when he turned to make sure she was all right, she was swimming towards the edge of the pond just as smoothly as she did traveling to the center.
        “That was weird,” she said, getting out. “I felt something grab my foot.”
        As she reported this to him, her leg began to throb and she pulled it forward to look closer. She screamed. Jason turned his head and caught a glimpse of her footless limb being consumed by a slithering purple blob of color making its way up her leg. Then, he blacked out.

        He wasn’t sure how long he was in the hospital or how he got there, but when he awoke, he was aware enough to notice the IV tubes, white walls, faded chairs, and antiseptic smell that reminded him of his short internship as a medical student.
        “Oh good, you’re awake,” the nurse said as she entered the room. “You can now swallow your pain medication.”
        “Where’s Carol?” he asked.
        “Honey, I don’t know. The hiker who found you brought you by yourself and if you’re talking about someone else entirely, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
        “No. thank you,” Jason said quietly.
        So she was gone…somehow, Jason thought. If he was going to find out, it wasn’t going to be by himself or at night or from the hospital. Images of the purple…blob…ingesting her leg was the only clue he had and he knew if he was going to get anywhere he would need a lot more than a picnic basket and pair of towels. Whatever it was.

Comments on post 386: I don’t really have much to say about this. I haven’t done horror in a while, so this was a treat. Really, that’s about it.

That Easy (Epilogue)

        A month later, the phone was ringing off the hook. Samson had even hired an agent in desperation; work, gigs, and fame were starting to push his blood pressure and it was easier to say yes than make educated decisions. Music became more than his life; it entered his lungs and his blood stream. He wanted to explore and discover, change his routine and even though he was widely accepted for any and all changes he wanted to live on the edge and unconditional love gave him none of that excitement that he wanted that came from risk. Performance highs became passé and then non existent.
            One night, he found himself—by choice—staring at the ceiling above his bed. In the dim light from his cell phone charging on the bed-side table, he could see patterns from the texture of the dry wall under the paint. The patterns became faces screaming with joy, some smiling, others nose-less or mouth-less, still others looking more like rabbits or rabid beasts. He massaged his naked hands and thought about the crowds. He knew why the previous owner had sold the gloves. He knew why a desire for fame and fortune usually led to the Devil; why it was a vice; why one should be careful what one wished for. But despite learning a lesson, being tired, being sick, he had a stronger desire to win. Against what or whom, he didn’t know and didn’t want to figure out, but through thick and thin he was going to stick with music unless it killed him. Maybe he was getting tired, but there was so much more to do and without worrying about talent or mistake, so many opportunities to do them.
        With that small, meager thought germinating among doubt, he went to sleep and woke up the next morning with unparalleled determination. A new record in the works and he felt invincible. Maybe vanity was a sin because people didn’t stop to look for the silver lining.

Comments on post 385: I thought that the previous post could use a bit of an explanation. I know that it was not written in the same style as the previous section of story, but I was more concerned with writing than matching style. More at a later date. I am trying something new alternating between writing practice and drawing practice, so I probably won’t have something up every day, although I’m still debating whether or not to post the sketches. Thoughts on anything would be appreciated as long as they’re polite.

That Easy

        Reason stated that Samson probably shouldn’t have been in a dark alley in a part of the city he didn’t know following a man who just looked trustworthy on his word that his shop was not accessible from the street. Reason noted the sunset between the buildings and that the street lights only stood by the main street. Reason noted where his car was waiting parked by the curb with the meter running. Reason also made sure his left hand felt the full ring of keys he had in his pocket just in case he had to hit and run. But reason couldn’t beat desire and he continued past the high, damp walls and carefully dodged puddles as he followed the elderly man moving at a surprisingly fast pace through a small maze of passages between buildings.
        True to the man’s word, they stopped at an awning that said “Lou’s Magical Trinkets” in peeling white letters. Stairs led down to an iron door with peeling white paint and rusty edges. The man grunted a little as he went down the stairs, keys jingling. Samson followed him into the large dark basement that despite its location was clean and tidy. With a flicker of florescent lights, shelves of knickknacks were revealed in an eerie suspended-animation way. The old man had already toddled toward a shelf at the right side of the room which was cast in shadow due to the burned out light above it.
        “Here it is,” he said, proudly, with a shaky voice. He dusted off the object with a large breath and patted it down. “Here’s what you need.”
        The old man handed Samson a pair of fingerless leather gloves. They had a faint odor of salted peanuts, but otherwise seemed ordinary.
        “This is it? This is the secret to fame and fortune?”
        The old man nodded as if it seemed obvious from the cracked leather. “If you wear these you can play any instrument you can get your hands on like a virtuoso. And sing, too. If you want to be an expert musician with anything, you wear these gloves. And in my experience, that’s all you need.”
        Samson was still skeptical, but he agreed to pay for the gloves. A wad of cash poorer and more disgruntled, he walked back up the stairs and noticed that the alley running parallel to the door led directly to the street. His car was mysteriously parked right by the entrance to the alley, though he knew he hadn’t parked it there before.

Author’s comments on post 384: Whew. Well, I’m trying to get back into the swing of things. This was influenced by this story. I’ll write more when I have more time.

The Creature

        They found it in the middle of the woods one midnight that neither could sleep. Neither one knew each other before that night, but by necessity they became friends. She had been crying in her room and angrily snuck out the window; he had been fighting tears and took a walk to find a private place to cry. They ended up finding the exact same spot of the forest.
        It wasn’t chance, something had led them there. She was driven by the sound of a familiar voice and he had been driven by the sound of silence. They both saw light but it was only when they reached the clearing that the saw the creature.
        It looked like a small rock, but then it unfolded and became something between a dragon and a ki-rin. It turned its head and the glittering eyes on either side of its head happened to see them both at once. It thought that the two were its parents and tried to follow them both home. Confused when the two people bolted opposite ways it let out a heart-wrenching cry that brought both she and he back to the baby creature. The two met and arranged a plan for their newfound child, shook hands, and walked back to their respective houses.
        Leaves fell, snow drifted and melted, buds grew and blossomed and the cycle repeated for five years. They managed to keep it a secret until the creature got too big. Once it was the size of a pony and frustrated by keeping its wings too close to its body, they drove across the country to the desert. She was crying, but he held his resolve. The creature in the back was confused, but knew something was wrong.
        He stopped the car at the edge of a canyon. They wouldn’t be observed as they led the creature out of the car and let it flap its wings. Then once they were sure it had gotten the hang of that, they pushed it off the edge of the canyon.
        Angry squawking met their actions, but they both persevered, getting closer to each other than they had ever been in five years. Finally they won, the creature fell of the edge and by inherent survival instinct flew away.
        He started crying and she held his hand as she watched the creature keep flying away. Then they ran back to the car and drove back. After that, they never really saw each other again.

Author’s comments on post 354: I’m undecided about whether or not I like this one, but I’m going to publish it anyway. I’m not sure about the style and tone although I like the small details in character actions and growth, despite being matter-of-fact. Thoughts and critiques are appreciated. Hopefully another post tomorrow.

The Pseudo Gods

        Ours was a world of pseudo gods. No one knew how these people came about—or rather why they were born—but it seemed that any wish anyone had would be personified in these supernatural beings. They looked just like everyone else; including varying shades of skin color, personality, charisma, gender, and sexuality. It was the legends and rumors associated with them that made them unique. Every so often someone would claim to be one, but their charade wouldn’t hold up to the claim and the imitators stopped trying.
        First was the Key Master. She first appeared among black market rumors. The law enforcing officers hated her because criminals could run loose with merely a good word from someone in the know. Her appearance remained unknown because no one outside the criminal market would realize it was her, but she was infamous, none-the-less.
        Her claim to fame was in fashioning keys. She possessed two keys to every single lock in the world. Whether she had informers give her copies, she fashioned them herself, or both, it didn’t matter. For every lock, she held the key and maintained her monopoly by an intricate web of trust and intuition.
        Then came the Weather Maker. He was less human in his qualities, though more famous. A flamboyant figure, he never hid his ability to predict and control the weather. His visage was well known as he assumed he had nothing to hide and seemed to always let people know who he was and take advantage of it.
        Then following him, the Story Teller. For every tale there was to tell—fictitious or fact—the Storyteller knew it. Truth never eluded him and people would be frightened of everything he knew if he wasn’t so charismatic.
        Then came several others—real and pretend—before the trend died away. But the world had changed with these new beings walking among mortals and the potential for their powers were yet to be imagined.

Author’s comments on post 353: Hey something in the fantasy category! Seems like I’ve just been writing realistic fiction, so something new. I’ve had the Key Maker and Story Teller in my head of a while, but in seperate spheres and I thought "Why not combine them?" and the story just flowed out on its own. I’m quite pleased with the premise and I might add on to it at a later date (but no promises).

In other news: I go on break in 2 weeks and I’m hoping to plan and start writing a short story based on a science fiction piece I did a while ago. I have new plans for it and I hope that to publish sometime in March. If I don’t get around to it then, I’ll have it in May or June.

Possibilities

        Condensation clung to the windows desperately trying to get inside and escape the winter air. Warm festivities continued separated from the night; music, laughter, and light teased the water droplets. Suddenly the balcony doors were flung open and two rosy-cheeked dancers stumbled outside laughing. The man took a deep breath.
        “It’s nice to get a breath of fresh air.”
        The woman laughed and panting, stammered out, “Yes it is.”
        They paused for a moment and the man gently placed his hand on the woman’s. She shifted her hand so it held onto his. When she sighed, her breath came out in a fog before dissipating as she inhaled again.
        “You look lovely tonight,” the man said turning to her.
        She looked down at her pink silk ball gown sheepishly. “Thank you,” she replied.
        He smiled. “Sorry if I embarrassed you.”
        “No,” she said, “it’s nice to get a compliment once in a while.”
        “I’m surprised you don’t get many compliments.”
        “Oh, that’s very kind, but I hardly go out. In fact,” she added before he could reply, “no one around here does.”
        “No one? I don’t think—”
        “It’s true. Only occasionally will someone rich throw a party like this; never more often that once every two years. I’m not sure why they do. It’s quite a large event and the whole town always comes.”
        “Well where I come from, the rich have parties like this fairly often. At least once a month, I believe. But there are so many people that it’s impossible to know where all of the soirées are. I haven’t been to very many and I haven’t been to a masquerade in a long time.”
        “That’s the only parties we throw here.”
        “Why is that?”
        “I don’t know and I don’t really care to know. I for one am glad I don’t have to show my ugly face.”
        “Come now, I’m sure your beautiful.”
        “You’re wrong,” she said sharply.
        “Prove it,” he said, equally strong, but his tone was more playful than hers.
        “No, I can’t,” she cried.
        “What if I show you my face?”
        “Oh no,” she wailed. She sobbed into her gloves and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
        “All right, forget I asked,” he said, disappointed. He put his arm around her shoulder gently and let her sob. The music continued in the hall, but the dancers were just blurs of colors moving about.
        “I’m just being silly,” she said, finally. “But…take off yours first. And promise me you won’t run away when you see my face?”
        “I promise I will stay here.” He reached behind his head and loosened the ribbon to take off his mask. He had very handsome features, two brown eyes, a nose and mouth. She felt embarrassed when she saw him, perhaps at her own inadequacy, perhaps at her attraction. He smiled at her and held her hand. She looked away and took a deep breath before reaching behind her head to loosen her own ribbons.
        While he had expected a vastly misshapen face, what he saw instead was nothing at all. She had no features, but a blank slate that strangely held a world of possibility.
        “Oh, I told you I was hideous. I can’t tell by your expression you think the same thing.”
        “No,” he said. “I was just surprised.”
        She sobbed and put her head in her hands.
        “Surprised because you’re not ugly at all.”
        “Oh, don’t lie.”
        “No, really. There’s nothing ugly about you.”
        “But there’s nothing pretty about my face.” “Name me one thing you think is ugly.”
        “Well, you tell me one thing you think is pretty.” He smiled.
        “The possibility that you can be beautiful.”
        She stopped and sat in thought and then, stood up and looked out over the balcony. “Well, I guess you have a point.”
        He took her hand gently. “It’s always better to see potential than to wave away what you think is a disappointment.”
        She tied her mask back onto her face and then retied his before leading him back into the ballroom, out of the hall, and into the night again.

Author’s Notes on post 338: Well, it’s nice to get back to writing again, especially something substantial. Unfortunately, I have too much to write and too little time, but I’m slowly working on all my projects and keeping my head above water with school work. Just a quick reminder to start thinking about Best of the Blog and maybe buying new prints of old favorites. Thanks for reading!

Pointless

        The sky outside the window was ashen as was the rest of the world underneath it. Only the track for a few meters ahead of the engine was visible and the faint outline of a roof and pillars to mark the station outside the train doors. He watched her as she waited for the doors to open and then glide up the steps into a compartment to sit on a red velvet seat just like everyone else. Her mahogany hair was pulled back into a tight swirled bun so that the contrast between her hair and the sharp line of her mask was even more apparent. She wore an overly ornate Venetian mask that he had seen photos of amidst other marks of tourist fascination with Mardi Gras’s madness. A dark smear of blue acted as a thick eyebrow arching over her left eye and then down her nose bridge where it landed in a neat circle of purple. The eye underneath the blue smear was a golden brown whereas the other one, beneath an exaggerated array of black lashes on her mask, was blue. She wore a summery, strapless dress with a black bodice and empire waist raining down a skirt with every color imaginable—even some without names.
        He reached to adjust his own mask, painted black with white and red swirls like vines or drips dancing around the face. She glanced at him before sitting down a couple seats away from his. He moved over so as to be closer to her, but she refused to acknowledge him and kept her bicolored eyes on something outside her window. But what he saw was nothing but a wet, shimmery gray.
        The conductor yelled out into the open space before shutting the doors with the slam of hollow metal. The train whistle screamed into the mist before the steady chug of the engine kicked in and sped the cars into the fog.
        “You seem nervous,” he said. She turned sharply to face him and he extended his hand. “Max Blackbourne.”
        She glanced at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it and giving it a hearty shake. “Forgive me,” she said in a lavender voice, “I don’t remember my name.”
        Max shrugged. “I didn’t either, I just made that one up during the ride.”
        “Oh?” she said in a more relaxed voice. “Then I’m Ivette Campo. Pleasure to meet you.”
        “That’s a pretty name.”
        She shrugged. “I heard it somewhere. Probably the opera. Do you like music?”
        “Not that kind of music.”
        “Then you probably haven’t been introduced to it properly. I don’t suppose they have a phonograph around here?”
        Max shook his head. “If they do, there aren’t any records.”
        Ivette sighed. “Of course, that would be the way of things, wouldn’t it?” She shifted in her seat so that it was more natural to speak with him, but she faced the opposite side of the car and put her hands in her lap. “Where are we going, anyway?”
        Max shrugged. “I don’t know.” (more…)