The Box

"Hey, uh, bro. What's in the box?"

The grizzled man turned lowly, shifting the box slightly on his knee as he did so, to fix the speaker with a bright blue eye. The other eye-socket was covered by a surprisingly posh looking eyepatch. A grumbling mutter with the timbre of an imprecation bubbled forth from the scraggly beard.

The curious man moved a bit closer, uncowed. "Look you look pretty hungry, I'll give you five bucks to show me what's in the box?"

Silence.

"Ten?"

A subtle change of posture, nothing more.

"Twenty? Look man, that's good money-"

Suddenly the man reared forward and spit, mostly on the solicitor's shiny shoes. This elicited little response.

"Wow man, it must be something pretty snazzy in that box."

The bearded man turned away a bit, but nodded his head slightly.

The younger man walked away, his curiosity unsated. He'd always wonder what was in the box.

Bells

The bells tolled slowly, one after another. It was no funeral that they proclaimed this time, nor a marriage. It warned of death, and a union that could not be stayed, The dark valley echoed with the sound, its dark trees seemed to sway slightly in the harmony. The sun had long set, but the moon was full and high and the clear sky. The cobbled streets were empty, even the animals had been taken away in the exitus.

The time had come again, it had long been anticipated but the specific time of its coming had been a shock to the denizens. No life stirred in the shadowy windows, no people came and went through the many doors. No cattle lowed in the barns, the sound of the bell went on and on, uninterrupted and uncontested.

For one had stayed when all others had fled. It was his duty and his vocation. He must warn of what would come, and warn he did. High in the churchtower he swung on the bellrope, pulling with a rhythm he had learned long ago.

He had kept few of his belongings, sending most of them away with the others. He kept an old letter, addressed to him and clearly written. That was all.

There was one more soul in the church that day. One that long ago found himself on the wrong side, on the side with the bell. Now was his chance to return to his place, though a home it was not. Long had he waited for this night.

The two worlds were coming together, as they had before and would again. And those with shadows must remember their names, their homes, their old lives. Or they would lost in the fog and the wandering souls. The wanderers must recall that they had none.

But the warning must be given. The bell tolled on.

Truth

A silhouette in an old fashioned hat leaned outside the brightly lit window, smoking an obscure brand of cigarette. The man's nonchalance was remarkable, considering the climb he'd had to make to attain the seventh story fire escape. Within, his reward seemed to be in the offing.

"The job on Mark Cedars went off like a charm. We just went with your plan and it was smooth as a baby's bottom."

A cough followed. These brainy types do not object to the cash of their inferiors, but talking to them was often a burden.

"Of course it went well, moja podruja, my plans always do." He could almost picture the uplifted eyebrow of the man within. One man wondering whether "moja podruja" qualified as fighting words, and the other wondering at his own patience.

"Well Professor, your money will be deposited as planned. Seeya around!"

The door slammed loudly. There was the tinkle of beverage preparation and a sigh or two from the lone man within.

"I wonder," the professor began, talking to himself as he often did (finding himself the most intelligent and remarkable man of his acquaintance), "when I should do away with that little man."

The silhouette finally stirred, shaking out the match of second cigarette, and spoke. "Perhaps another day, Professor. I believe much of your calendar will be filled for the coming years."

A gasp, a smash, and the splash of displaced alcohol. A scramble for a a gun, perhaps.

He stepped into full view and tapped his cigarette on the intellectual's windowsill, the ashes fluttering down to the rich carpet inside. "You pull that gun and I'll give me an excuse to drill you right between the eyes."

The drawer closed and he flopped back into his chair, a beaten man.

Ashes

I was once the brightest star in a flourishing empire. My warriors were innumerable, my lands were wide beyond wide. My craftsmen were brilliant and ever advancing; I was clad in mail and girt with sword that far surpassed my contemporaries. Yet I was not alone in my glory, I too was under the emperor, I too had both masters and servants. There was one man and one flag to whom I must bow my head.

Long I was content with this, and my star burned brightly among its companions, and under the one highest star of all. After a time I began to suspect that this fire above me was not far lighter than mine. Indeed, some nights mine shone the fairer of the two. Both waxed and waned, as do all celestial things.

When the nights were darkest, all the barons stood with the emperor, our armies acted as one and none stood before us. But in the milder hours, such vigils did not hold. We would speak among ourselves of small things, and each would try and outshine the others.

The fire burned on, and the empire spread far. Mountains, cold and high, rivers, wide and swift, jungles, dense and foreign to us; all of these we overcame, one by one. But the more we conquered, the more we saw there was to conquer. This is a wide world.

But as a fire spreads, it often weakens, or separates into many smaller fires. The emperor waned as we waxed strong with battle. His flame flickered, and many thought to blow it out that their own lights might better be seen. But of its own accord, in its own time, it fell and did not rise.

Then all the flares and blazes on the distant borders of the realm whirled back to the center from which they had sprung, long ago. In our very capital our armies clashed, drew back, and clashed anew. The northerners in their white mail, the jungle fighters with their paint and their battle cries, and my own men, with their gold lances and high horses.

That day, all the fire burned down to ashes, and that was all that remained.

Sleep

He stumbled onward, each foot moving irregularly through the dust. His ragged hat was pushed down far over his eyes, blocking out the sun setting slightly to his left. He did not fall, for if he did he could not rise again.

His numb brain heard a rhythmic sound, at first he thought it was merely a new drumming in his ears. The sound became louder and more defined, and suddenly he recognized it. They were still after him, and today they would get him again.

He did not look back, he knew what he would have seen. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, striving with his last breath for freedom. He stood a little straighter and walked a bit steadier; they would not see him fall.

With one hand he fumbled under his coat, searching for his last link to his old life. It was interesting that this very link both drove him to escape and saved him when he failed in his endeavors. Each attempt began and ended with the little silver pin.

The rhythmic sound ebbed and was suddenly drowned out by the thudding boots of soldiers. He finally slowed to a stop, and and, with a dirty dignity, turned to face the oncoming warriors. He raised one hand to his hat, and with the other he held his badge at shoulder height.

There was a word of command, hissed in a language that he wished was as unfamiliar to him now as it once had been. The soldiers lowered their weapons and surrounded him.

The officer's jeep rolled up next to him and stopped gently.

"I beg you to get in, Major. The game is over again, and you have lost."

"It is no game to me." He returned, and he faced away to sweep the horizon once more with his gaze.

As he did, he caught a sudden glare of light between the trees. It was not too far distant.

He started to get into the jeep, but with a sudden movement, his young self shining through for but a moment, he whipped the pistol from the officer's belt and pointed the man's own gun at him.

"Go away now and you might still save yourselves. Or sue for pardon from the ones who are coming.  They are coming at last, and they are coming for me."

As he spoke the detachment of tanks came out of the woods and into full view over his shoulder. the officer's eyes bulged with fear.

Tonight, that ragged tired man would sleep once again.

New (Sequel #4)

"Six dragons?"

"Or seven, yes. Six and one Knocker in Dragon form."

"A grown Knocker in Dragon form would be both wise and strong. The eggs should be destroyed. Now, before they grow any larger."

"The king will have my head if I do not bring him a dragon for his armies. Surely with proper precautions, the Knocker could be held safely? If not here, then somewhere, deep and dark, with many walls. Perhaps a cavern with an entrance too small for a fully grown dragon to escape from?"

"But you must take such precautions for all seven,. since you do not know which is the one to dread. nor, even do you know when the Knocker will speak the tongue of the Knockers and reveal himself. It might be many years, no one knows how they develop in dragon form."

"All the more reason to keep it, to study it, to converse with it! What power, what knowledge, what secrets would be hidden from such a one? The inherited lore of the ancient dragons combined with the speech and genius of a spirit... It would be..."

"Unspeakably dangerous to the kingdom and perhaps much more. Destroy them all, from a litter of six or no, do it."

"The king would have my head, when he comes to fetch his charge."

"I will have your head now, if you do not take precautions."

"Precautions I will take, but orders from you, never."

A hush settled over the darkened room as the voices ceased. A sword was drawn, a cloak flung off, a hand flexed and stretched into readiness. But one does not fight a magician in his own place. Too many spells have been said there, too many powers have come through those walls, never leaving those walls quite the same.

The was no flash, merely a hiss, and the sword clattered to the ground. The dragons would live, whether for good or for ill is impossible to tell. With dragons, however, can there be any doubt?

New (False start)

Always nice to see something new. I've been around more than a little. More than a lot actually. I've been around a ridiculous amount. I travel. Through space and time, in a blue box, yes. But the details are unimportant.

It's strange how large the universe is. I've seen so small a fraction of it I don't even know what fraction that would be. And it seems like so much.

New

The magician counted on his long fingers. He paused and started over. A definite furrow appeared on his always wrinkled forehead. Seven?

"I could have sworn there were only six yesterday." he intoned. Magicians are usually dramatic men. Even the ones who are not men are at least dramatic. Though in this case any drama on his part might be excused by the gravity of the situation, it is merely a reflex resorted to by the students of the arts in moments of stress.

And when one is breeding dragons, there are many such moments.

As everyone knows, the only dragons that might ever be tamed by man are those that come from a littler of six, born under the newest moon. "Perhaps that moon was not quite as new as they said it was." he muttered.

But now he counted the shining eggs before him and what he found distressed him. One of these had not been here before. He had counted them over seven times to be absolutely sure. There were six, he had counted them when they were born, before putting their mother to sleep with a hard wrought spell. Six he had taken from the heat of that cavern, from the golden nest their father crafted with his claws, so dexterous in combat, but clumsy in construction. It is the only instance from the cracking of their egg to their death that they are ever seen to build rather than destroy. Creatures of fire and blood are not meant for such labor.

"Of course, I have heard of such things before." he said, one thin eyebrow raised with the effort of the recollection. Where? What precisely? Memory spells are awkward things at best.

He took a giant book down from a high, dusty shelf and returned to the golden casket that housed the eggs. He flipped through it somewhat aimlessly, now pausing to read a fragment of some spell or ancient wisdom, now flipping through page after page with hardly a glance. The Knocker.

The Knocker is a creature. It joins a litter, of any species, within a fortnight of their birth and takes on their form. It is a spirit, and this is how it takes a body and begins to age out of its childishness. It will do this for humans, monster of the sea, bears and all kinds of natural creatures. The magician stuttered, "And dragons."

That Tree

 (Written for an art theme, based on this image)

"That tree," the foreman said solemnly, "Is an ill omen."

He surveyed the gathering he had convened, all the top foremen and the Contractor himself.

"it's not just an ill omen, it's dangerous. If that girder breaks it could bring down half the building." a workman rejoined, "And who will want the other half after that?"

The crew shook their heads morosely. That tree was a problem.

"I suppose the question is how to get rid of the thing. It wasn't there yesterday, does anyone know how it got there? Maybe we could get it off the same way," the Contractor scowled, his ire evidently raised.

"I suspect it grew there, sir." said an anonymous but respectful voice.

A vein bulged on that mighty forehead, but the Contractor restrained his wrath. "Chainsaws it is then, gentlemen. I want every man with limbs to be up there at dawn, and to hack at that thing until there's nothing left. We can turn it into mulch for the accursed playground, though that is more out of revenge than economy."

"It will be done sir," the assembly intoned. Someone accidentally said "sire." He is, no doubt, forgiven.

But the tree was not done yet. They had done engineering miracles, it was true, but of such miracles as this tree they knew nothing. The very iron-like bark of it's sides seemed to quiver with gentle laughter at the touch of the chainsaws.

They hacked at that tree with axes, pickaxes, and Axe. They brought out explosives, incendiaries and long fingernails. But nothing availed them. The tree grew on the girder, on and on, bigger and bigger. The Contractor was seen burning papers in his shiny office. A grim line or two was added to every face at the work site, and several nearby poems. They saw and end in sight, and did not like what they saw. The Contractor called a meeting.

"Gentlemen," he said, with undue respect, "The bad news is that our building project may be crippled beyond any hope of repair. But the good news is we have the world's largest, most bizarre tree."

The assembly broke into confused cheers. They'd take that.

Tunnel, Sequel #3

 (Sequel to Tunnel by Velox)

How much we would regret those steps and that journey I will never be able to express. A child's love of adventure can be a dangerous thing, though a beautiful one. Beyond that dark door, it's broken padlock in my pocket, heavy and cold against my leg. Some doors are best left closed.

My brother and I were not disappointed by the apparent featurelessness of the tunnel, to us it was important merely as a passageway to an unknown place. Images flashed through my head of glistening treasure troves, a magician's sanctum, perhaps mummies. The nature of darkness is that it obscures, and to me all questions had happy answers, all mysteries glad solutions. I was young.

We left the door yawning open behind it, and my brother yawned a yawn of his own. It was very late now. Too late, though we didn't know it.

I heard a creaking sound and spun my flashlight back to the door. It shut with a quiet click, and our route of escape was gone. My brother didn't cry, and nor did I. A midnight's romp, that was all this was supposed to be.

There was a crackle, and a voice boomed, wordless at first, but gaining clarity with each moment.

"Curiosity," it boomed.

My poor brother clutched at my arm. I am glad I did not ask him on this journey. If only he had not come.

"Curiosity," it repeated, more quietly.

"A gift of the One not granted to any others in such abundance. The humans of Earth overflow with it, and it will lay a stain across the universe not seen in many Revolutions."

What can a child say or think to such a statement, past midnight, in a dark tunnel too far from home? I thought perhaps it was a joke, with one layer of my mind. The rest rebelled; I knew this was serious, deadly serious.

"I do not understand curiosity as well as would be beneficial to myself and my people. That is why I have waited here, for a far shorter period than I anticipated, for someone to break the lock and peer beyond the door to nowhere. You have come."

I shuddered, not for any particular reason. I could hardly breathe. Yet I spoke.

"Who are you, and what will you do with us?"

Tunnel

"Sir? A tunnel?"

"Yes sergeant. Dismissed."

The soldier came to attention and strode out the door, confusion marking his brow. The old man behind the desk unbuttoned his jacket slowly, and pushed his gray hair back from his forehead. This siege had gone on too long, too many lives lost and forever changed by the charges and fire of the enemies defences. To many soldiers died on the battlefield, opening their helmets for a last breath of Earth's good air, sullied though it was by innumerable toxins and contaminates.

The enemy had prepared well for this battle. Their food supplies and solar cells would last long, just how long no one could say. This battle needed to end, and swiftly.

The walls of the city were strong. True iron covered by an impressive array of generated force fields. Scanners of all kinds and missile defences that were the best in the world watched the skies ceaselessly. The Elite Infantry fought constantly and never seemed to tire. Drones and AI made circuit after circuit of the city, until their tracks made trenches in the dust.

But there was a weakness. There's always a weakness.

The rules of war had gone to far and left behind too much. A tunnel, dug swiftly and silently, far beneath the city walls, filled with the best troops and breached at precisely the right point.

The general smiled to himself, just a little bit. It would work, he felt it in his bones.

Removed

It had taken hold, they said. Too deep, too secure to remove it now. Too late.

Why had I let them do this to me? Those few, but long, long years ago. It would help me in the battles to come they told me. They did not know or did not care about the battles that would rage within me.

Just one chip. A tiny little thing. Just one cut. Nothing more. It would make me more likely to see the dawn after a night of war.

But I would know, always, exactly when that sun would rise. I would know the weather, the tides, the very movements of the earth. I would be aware of the enemies around me, seeing in a long complex curve through the cameras of the drones. I would know where those cameras were in the sky, I could order them without a word or an action. Just a thought.

Maybe it was the size of the chip that was the real problem. If it had been just a little bigger, it might have had an off switch. They said that it would be good practice to have it on all the time anyway. It would be useful, even. I used to oversleep, but now I never will again. Or undersleep. I'll just wake up perfectly on time. It wasn't supposed to do that.

They put a little bit of code in it. A military grade infiltration program. It seeks out all kind of internet enabled technology to see what it can see. It sees much. And tells me all of it. Just little pieces of information, data. A man enters an elevator on floor 7. A woman and another man enter the same elevator on floor 9. And so on. So much from so little.

I want it out now, I never much wanted it in. it seemed the logical thing to do, another little tool to help me keep my skin and my country safe. And it has. I've lived through confusion and violence beyond anyone's comprehension. I comprehended it, and wove my own pattern through it. People are so predictable. I found order in the madness, and a path to victory using my internal light. I am a master of war, a master of madness and chaos.

They will not end it for me, and I long ago resolved never to end myself for it. The battle is not over.

Good One

"Look Micah, I found a stone."

The mic crackled a little and he said back, in a cautiously optimistic tone peculiar to this kind of situation, "Is it... a good one?"

"Um yep, I think so. It's got the right color to it and it has a decent weight to it."

The voice at the other end seemed to mutter a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. They'd been searching so long, they'd mined so deep, peering and prodding, breaking and blasting the stones far below the surface. They needed a Brightstone, and a good one. The city far above them was besieged by a force far greater than they could ever have hoped to defeat, and the city had long ago run out of power for its larger weaponry. The strong walls would hold off the attackers as long as the men had the strength to man the battlements. But they knew they were fighting a losing battle against a force that knows neither rest nor abatement, time itself.

The miners of the city were as hungry as the rest, but unlike the others they had a plan. With enough power the city would blaze again, its weapons would be able to unleash an unexpected and possibly unprecedented barrage upon their foes. The attackers grew weary, and their boldness under the eyes of the watchmen was galling. Their weapons were next to useless, knives and pitchforks, and a few archaic gunpowder weapons. Many a citizen cursed the day they had discarded their old arms in favor of the new energy weapons. But curse was all they could do.

At first the miners had manned the walls along with the rest, but they quickly saw the fruitlessness of the task. They knew that there was still a chance of salvation, but they dared not breathe it to the hopeless people. The miners had little hope themselves, but occupation took its place.

But here, far underground, not in the deepest but in one of the old, shallower tunnels, a stone had been found. And it was a good one.

The miner held it in his hand, its bluish light twinkling over the rough walls. That light would soon sear the very air it passed through, and their enemies would feel their vengeance.

Camels

"You know what we really need," he said,"Are some camels."

A deep and slightly humorous silence fell over the room. In Arizona? After the fall? Camels.

He tapped the desk meaningful, though superficial order had been perfectly maintained he realized that mental order had been completely lost after his statement.

"Yes, of course I know that it's a crazy idea. But believe it or not, there are some camels around here. I saw the tracks and I would swear on my mother's grave that they were camels. I propose a expedition to track down these camels, capture them, and bring them back here for the journey outward."

A mutter spread through the small assembly like a fire. With the water running low and even though the sun shone only dimly through the haze, they knew they wouldn't last too much longer in the desert. The place had never been designed to stand on its own, it was a beautiful solar farm, way off in the low dunes of the Arizona deserts.

The meeting voted quickly in favor of the plan, and the adventurers would soon embark.

When it hit, whatever it was, the gleaming rows of panels harnessing the very beams of light out of the sky were rendered useless in a moment. The society they fueled luxuriously was no more.

So they fell back.

All the way to camels.

Theme

The man leaned forward, resting his chin on the desk before him, staring intently at the papers neatly arranged on its surface. They were not so neatly arranged in his mind. There they clashed and jarred against eachother, there was no pattern or rhythm about them. And yet there must be.

The fourteen papers had all been found hidden in various bizarre places across the city. One in the hollow of a tree, one half concealed in a dry gutter, another simply placed in a seemingly random mailbox. As they turned up and their bizarre contents were revealed the public became frightened. That's when they landed on his desk.

Some were drawings, some were rambling stories or diaries, others were merely lists of numbers that went on and on over both sides of the page. Some were all of these indiscriminately thrown together on a single sheet. All had apparently been done in the same steady yet careless hand. There was an intelligence behind them all though, a sense of purpose and an intense aura of seriousness. Perhaps if he overlaid this one with this object that it had in common, and then this one here, this flipped over...

The puzzled man thrust back his chair with a sudden frustrated movement and strode over to the open window. If it wasn't so hot out the air may have cleared his head. He pushed his glasses up onto the top of his head and rubbed his eyes. These things were madness.

He froze, a horrible thought striking him. What if they were the fevered exhaust of a deranged mind? Then there were be no actual meaning, perhaps a pattern of a sort, but one that only made their meaning more abstruse and had no basis in logic.