BUY THIS STUFF =
The following lacks words, plot, and characters enough to be as a short story, or even a piece of "flash fiction". In truth, it hardly qualifies as a vignette. Still, I had this fragment of an idea, and started typing.
As far as anyone could make out, there was no reason for Ogres to be the absolute best poets in the Known Lands. As a species, their command of the spoken word was dubious, their understanding of the underlying tenets of grammar and usage doubtful, and such niceties as simile, tone, and anapestic tetrameter demonstrably beyond their grasp. And yet, Ogrish poets consistently produced works of thunderous depth and soul-shattering truth.That the quills were most often gripped with a full fist and inked with the blood of unwary travellers was immaterial, as were the green-tinted drool spots that adorned the original texts. The spelling was horrific (the Guild of Prose routinely flung budding authors into deep ravines to appease Kairpoln, Undergod of Easily Corrected Errors, for lesser offenses), but such trivial blemishes only served to underscore the brilliance of the material. As Manumon The Exceptionally Long-Lived said: "To hear the message of a god is the highest honor, even if he is belching the words."
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
(FLASH FICTION) The Postmaster's Door
When it comes to correct postage, I'm somewhat obsessive. So it was that, while confirming for the third time that my bills were all properly stamped, Ethan slipped away.
Just around the corner, thank God, and not even out the door. Still, I panicked for a moment, flashes of kidnappers and police and will my wife ever forgive me numbing my brain, before I found him, staring up at the Postmaster's door.
My panic subsided, replaced with a muted, oily unease. In Norwalk, you see, we store our monsters in the post office, behind the door labeled "Postmaster".
Surely you've noticed that the Postmaster's door is far too large-- something like eight feet tall, and half as wide. Maybe you've wondered why the Postmaster never seems to enter or exit the door, or why in an otherwise shiny, modern facility, this one door reeks of antiquity and disuse. Perhaps you've even asked yourself, who is our Postmaster? Does anybody know?In truth, an imposing slab of oak and brass such as this has only one purpose: to secure, out of sight, our local crop of unspeakable horrors.Behind the door is a vault, and it is quite thoroughly impenetrable. Aside from two layers of stone and mortar behind a near-seamless envelope of blackened iron, the vault is wrapped in enchantment and sealed within the collective will of our Shadow Council. At each corner of the vault: the mortal remains of a fallen priest, bricked alive into the works centuries previous, long-dead souls paying an endless penance in service to the living. These eight spectres shriek and hiss at the vault's inhabitants, and though the imprisoned monstrosities rage at their captivity, they are afraid, and huddle far from the vault door.
Once every a few years, the guardians fall silent, the enchantments falter, and there comes a terrible pounding at the door. It is then that additional measures must be taken.
I have no immediate fear for Ethan's life. For now, the door and the vault behind are secure, and as the Shadow Council already took both of his sisters-- three and seven years ago-- they will not ask for my son's blood, even when the beasts inevitably challenge the door again.Still, I am afraid. It is clear that Ethan will come to know the vault… but from which side of the Postmaster’s door?
Just around the corner, thank God, and not even out the door. Still, I panicked for a moment, flashes of kidnappers and police and will my wife ever forgive me numbing my brain, before I found him, staring up at the Postmaster's door.
My panic subsided, replaced with a muted, oily unease. In Norwalk, you see, we store our monsters in the post office, behind the door labeled "Postmaster".
Surely you've noticed that the Postmaster's door is far too large-- something like eight feet tall, and half as wide. Maybe you've wondered why the Postmaster never seems to enter or exit the door, or why in an otherwise shiny, modern facility, this one door reeks of antiquity and disuse. Perhaps you've even asked yourself, who is our Postmaster? Does anybody know?In truth, an imposing slab of oak and brass such as this has only one purpose: to secure, out of sight, our local crop of unspeakable horrors.Behind the door is a vault, and it is quite thoroughly impenetrable. Aside from two layers of stone and mortar behind a near-seamless envelope of blackened iron, the vault is wrapped in enchantment and sealed within the collective will of our Shadow Council. At each corner of the vault: the mortal remains of a fallen priest, bricked alive into the works centuries previous, long-dead souls paying an endless penance in service to the living. These eight spectres shriek and hiss at the vault's inhabitants, and though the imprisoned monstrosities rage at their captivity, they are afraid, and huddle far from the vault door.
Once every a few years, the guardians fall silent, the enchantments falter, and there comes a terrible pounding at the door. It is then that additional measures must be taken.
I have no immediate fear for Ethan's life. For now, the door and the vault behind are secure, and as the Shadow Council already took both of his sisters-- three and seven years ago-- they will not ask for my son's blood, even when the beasts inevitably challenge the door again.Still, I am afraid. It is clear that Ethan will come to know the vault… but from which side of the Postmaster’s door?
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