The Only Promise Kept

Gabriella's blood pressure was up.

She replied via keyboard, "I don't know why you all are so mean to me. I go out of my way to help and support everyone."

Her left arm felt numb,

Clicking the 'ENTER' button, her last words: "I never do anything wrong. Don't you think?”

Entropy

"His eyes were green."

"No, they were blue," The guard finished the conversation by placing his mired boot against the back of a body and yanked out his long sword. It was filthy.

His head rang and his stomach was sour from last night's drinking of cheap wine.

The second entry guard sat on is iron helmet, his sword laying flat across his lap. Neither was prepared for the insane necromancer's attack against the village.

The first guard rolled the body over. It was other guard's grandmother, staring at him with bright dead eyes.

"He has been raiding the graveyards."


Matted long blond hair dangled like hemp rope, covering his face. Both hands were placed firmly on the stone altar; the cold feel of the granite was his only comfort.

"So it continues, as it must."

Sweating and breathing heavily, he was exhausted by the amount of power he had to wield to conjure and animate the six corpses for their attack.

"Those drunken fools, their luck exceeds their skill."

The necromancer did not plan for the guards sneaking drinks in the nearby tool shed. They were on him before he could accommodate their unplanned ambush.

"I am getting old."

Wearing her scratchy grey chemise, she ran into the moonless night. The blacksmith, that was dead and buried three weeks ago, busting through their hovel, woke her.

She fled through the one window they had, forgetting about the plight of her family members.

She slowed her pace; she was completely lost. She could see nothing; the croaking of frogs expressing their need to copulate was her only clue.

"Okay, it is okay. I am near the river."

She looked behind herself, noticing small distant lights. As she walked up the incline of a hill, the torches illuminated a standing figure.

The tinkling of the rushing river and the croaking of frogs dissipated as the villager trudged up the hill.

Desperate to escape the blinding dark, Daphne grew closer to the ominous standing figure at the summit of the hill. She stopped, re-thinking her decision. The figure was a man in a robe and his back was to her.

As Daphne Attempted to slip away, her plans were ruined by a strange low clanking of heavy wind chimes.

They were not chimes but the rattling of bones. A fire was lit; a walking skeleton with a glistening skull held the torch.

Hopping from one thatched roof to another, the magpie's feverish pinpoint eyes took in the scene. His trigger happy neck twitched with fierce accuracy, viewing the aftermath of the crisis that befell the village.

All six of her master's animated dead were destroyed. A makeshift pyre was built and the men were carrying the rotted remains to feed the flames.

One woman grasped at her neck, despairing. The magpie's head twitched, noticing a flicker of metal. The woman shrieked as the magpie's sharp beak snapped the weak leather thread of the necklace and flew off with the odd shaped moonstone.

Mateo lifted his head in excitement. Grabbing the ceremonial silver plated dagger from the altar, he gashed his left palm with the blade.

"Aaaah!"

As the fresh blood dripped from his hand, Mateo chanted, "Hayeehdaniyae-Ma. Dobbeleah Salleoooo!"

Mateo went blind, replaced by a circular vision that projected from his forehead. It was of the magpie with the prize in his beak.


"My pet, you have pulled victory from the jaws of defeat," Mateo's head turned to see another vision. From the point-of-view of the skeleton; a peasant girl stands frozen before him. "Grandfather, you honor me with an unexpected surprise."

Cauliflower, the village wizard, trolled his way to the front of the mob, heading toward the betrayer’s hide out. Wrinkling the corner of his sunken eyes, he spotted the fettered glow of dark magic. After an ostentatious burp, he pulled out an old apple tree twig and pointed.

A boned hand clasped around her neck, Daphne suffocated. A green bolt of energy shattered the skeleton’s pelvis. Free of his grasp, Daphne sputtered for air and in a panic ran.

Mateo fell to one knee, as if the bolt hit him. He sputtered, “Oh, Grandfather. What have they done to you?”

Spiraling, diving, into a free fall, the magpie descended. The magpie escaped his death roll and regained altitude. A surge of urgency flooded the creature’s body as he darted home to his master.

The clanking of dull iron against wooden shields congratulated Cauliflower’s success. Smirking with appreciation, he gestured for the troop to desist. “Thank ye, boyeez. How’ever, we aint out of the fray, yet.” Obediently, the village guardian’s got back in formation with their weapons drawn.

Spear-heading the rest of the locals, the one wizard and a handful of self-ordained militia charged up the hill to assault the necromancer.

So - tired. Hurry my pet. They are nearly on me. Annoyed, Mateo knew he had to at least try to summon the spirits, to distract, to horrify all who remained on the hill. Drained from all reserves of manna within him, the necromancer went through the motions to wake them.

A bolt of mystic green whizzed by Mateo’s left ear. The surge of the missile damaged his incantation, causing him to fall to the ground.

Lifting his head from the stone tablets of the altar, he saw her. Daphne hesitated before turning away from his gaze – her last mistake.


Nearly to the summit of the hill, gaining on the mob, the magpie swooped past them and turned back. Cauliflower never saw it coming. A sparkling glint of the moonstone distracted him. The black beak, small razor claws, and the haunted flapping of wings wounded him.

Daphne, doe-eyed, drew closer to Mateo. Standing in dingy robes, he spread his arms wide, ready to enfold her.

Bouncing from his prey, retreating from the Cauliflower’s bleeding disfigured face, the Magpie flew as men came to protect their wizard. Within seconds, the magpie made it to the top and dropped its precious cargo.


“Leave me, you fools!” screeched Cauliflower, “He is getting away!” Beating their shields with their common weaponry, the militia and the remaining villagers charged the hill.

Her neck cut, Mateo pocketed the ceremonial knife. Daphne, limp within his arms, he looked to the sky and commanded, “Magana come! We must go.”

Squeezing the moonstone in his hand, Mateo caught the shadow of the magpie dive into Daphne’s slit throat. He said, “Grandfather, I have failed you. Your sacrifice will not be vain. I will return.”

Mateo escaped in a toxic cloud of smoke, a parting pandemic to his approaching enemies.


Waycko's Honor

"Jackal One, to Ring Leader -over."

"Romeo, Jackal One."

“What are we doing here, Walter?"

"The mission is to clear out the inhabitants."

"We need Infectorz for that, correct?"

"What's your point Jackal One."

“Where are they?"

"They will be here, in good time. Keep the line clear."

Smacking the canopy of his Prospero V corvette with his fist, Dalio chimed in, "Roll Call! Jackal One - out"

"Jackal Two - out"

" Jaaaaackaaal Three- out a here."

Twenty–five small star ships split and flanked both sides of the star carrier: Caliban's Wake.

Piloting the carrier, Commander Walter Waycko, chewed his lip. The 'Heads Up' display on Caliban's Wake flickered; three squadrons of guardian ships raced from the planet of Bolera.

Ignoring protocol Walter shouted, “We got a bevy of Crack Pipe Johnnies flying our way. Time to ball up and grind your way out of this love-fest!"

The Prospero corvettes split into five organized squads and flew to meet the enemy. Irritated, Walter popped the cap off of his bottle and poured a stiff one into a tumbler.
“Those poor bastards," Walter leaned over to wind an ancient egg-timer for nineteen minutes.

Glass to lip, he, greedily, drank his guilt away.

Bolera was rich in resources. When it came to planetary defense, they could afford the best. The Kraken P-class cruisers were circular terrors: tri-polymer shields, level 12 firepower, and long range attack modifiers.

The Prospero V corvettes, paled in comparison. Bearing a level 8-firepower and an 8 ground attack capacity, the Prosperos lacked the sophistication of the Krakens. “Just remember, it’s not the ship, but the pilot that wins wars –out.” Walter rolled his eyes.

Jackal 22 was the first to go. Neither bright or well trained, recruit Sandivol, broke point in Karl Whale's squad. Indulging in another shot of moonshine, Walter prepared for what high command called the "Glow and Burn". Sandivol's dented corvette lit up like a red dwarf. The ship flared bright and then was extinguished by Kraken lasers; evaporating into the abyss of space. The remaining Whale squad shot past the Kraken's defenses in four different directions.

Waycko watched the screen with interest. Very, smart - Karl. It’s unfortunate that your shyness has hidden such talent.

The rest of the squads flew with a uniform predictability. They assaulted the first line of Krakens. The thought of following Karl's lead of splitting up, escaped them. Walter sipped from his glass. Jackal 2, 3, 4, and 5 were extinguished. The Krakens saw no point for evasive maneuvers. Jackal 1 dragged his heels on the approach. Dalio yawed upward, abandoning his decimated squad.

Walter grinned. Dalio, your insolence barely exceeds your cowardice.

The Baleran pilots changed tactics; their third line of Krakens split up and chased Karl’s group of fugitives. The surviving Prospero squads flushed past the first line of Krakens and fired, full-force, into the second line. Three Krakens were destroyed with four others glowing, slightly, as their shields held up.

Walter’s com-link buzzed with activity. Squad leader Blane, Palin, and Goldbaulm were tearing up the air waves with verbal victory cries. Walter shook his head and yawned. Checking the egg timer, ten minutes had passed.

The trio of Prospero star ship squadrons pursued the second line of Krakens. Nodding his head, Walter watched the first line of Krakens rotate a full 360 degrees; aiming their guns to squad’s rear.

“Here we go.”

The second group of Krakens split into two separate, angled lines. The Prospero ships were contained within a triangular parameter.

Walter winced. He yanked his com-link off and placed it on his desk. It vibrated with panic. The volume of the voices could still be heard from the receiver.

“Ring Leader. Walter! Come get us! They have …”

Jackal 6 went black on the display: adding another digit to the casualty counter software.
Desperate demands howled from the abandoned com-link. Walter leaned back in his chair.

He whispered, “Here we go.”

The Kraken ships powered-up and shot an array of missiles and laser fire into the trapped star ships.

“Glow and burn.”

Six minutes later, Jackals 7 -19 shined brightly and faded from the display.
Jackal 23, Morell Jones, was the next sacrifice; decimated by the back posse of Krakens. Karl’s crew sped away for the far side of Bolera. Dalio, Jackal 1, sped in the opposite direction; retreating to Caliban’s Wake.

A different voice, crackled from the com-link, “Wally? Are you there –over?" Walter put on his head set.

"Romeo, Hades. Ring Leader – over."

“How you holding up?”

“Four diamonds flying in the sky.”

"Impressive. I'd figure you'd be empty handed, by now."

“Karl had moves. Who knew?"

"Can we bring him home?"

“That would be a negative, Hades. They have flown the coop."

"That is too bad. It is rare to find a gem in the bottom level dregs of the academy," Hades sighed, “Romeo that. All Infectorz accomplished their full dumps. Skirmish 'Burning off the Top Grass' has succeeded in distracting the Boleran forces. Your mission is complete. Congratulations."

“Romeo that, Hades, Just doing my job."

The com-link buzzed - from a different channel.

“One tick, Hades, I’ve got an incom-tran."

“Understood, Romeo."

Walter flipped channels.

Dalio screamed. "Over! What are you doing! Walter? Where are the damn Infectorz? "

"I am on my way, Dalio. Tractor beam in five seconds – out."

A wide magnetic light encapsulated Jackal 1 - drawing it in. Dalio pulled off his pilots mask; gasping in relief.

Walter switched back to the prior channel.

"My apologies for the delay."

The egg timer ticked away the last minute.

"It’s all good, Wally. Bolera will be a plague ridden in a matter of months. Was Jackal 1 salvageable?"

Smiling, Dalio shut down all the ship’s engines; allowing the beam to coast him back to Caliban’s Wake.

The egg timer alarm rang.

Laser cannons, from Caliban’s wake fired into Jackal 1: Glow and burn

.

“Negative, Hades. I'm coming home empty handed - over."

"Romeo that, Ring Leader. Out."


Funny Bunny Organ Farm


"Did you know that the human body can live without a spleen or a stomach?"

"Why, no."

"It's true. Also, you can live with only one lung, one kidney, and 25 percent of your liver, and about 20 percent your intestines."

Peter knew about the one kidney and one lung facts.

"Why, no," Peter leans forward from his chair, feigning great interest in what is being said. He was not lying - completely. Peter was unsure about the liver and intestine percentages.

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes. I can see its plausibility," In Peter's mind, he clipped extra points for bridging a dialogue of positive agreement.

"Also, the human body has a number of unnecessary or non-vital organs, such as tonsils, one's appendix..."

Francine Ruiz - Peter's last interviewer: the current owner of the family company - was distractingly attractive. Big eyes, full lips, soft triangular face, with, close to, no blemishes, and a minimal application of make-up, she blathered on.

"Anyways, here at the Funny Bunny Organ Farm, parts are parts - we focus mostly on kidneys. However, we will soon be branching out to accommodate the demanding market for pancreases. They say diabetes is only running close to fourth place, as the primary cause of death in America. But what they don't tell you. is that diabetes is a heavy contributor to the big top three: Heart disease, cancer, and stroke."

Peter was losing focus; her voice was soothing and melodic. For a job interview, it was becoming easier to ignore that Francine's comments and demeanor were strange, bordering on inappropriate.

Secretly pinching his thumb nail into the fleshy soft finger tip of his middle finger, Peter came back to a proper level of vigilance. Don't look at her chest. Don't look at her chest. They always know when you do this. Don't look at her chest.

"Here at FBOF Xenotransplantation is our industry. "

Peter gave away a subtle look of confusion

" I know. It is are really big word. It means we impregnate animals like pigs and rabbits with animal egg cells that have had foreign DNA added to it.

This causes the creation of the vital organs. Once the process is complete, we harvest the organs from our pseudo-pregnant rabbits and ship them to our needy consumers. I know your position as night watchmen is not related to all of this, but I like to still brief our potential employees of what we are all about. Who knows? The position has led many of our new employees on to more advanced assistant roles.

"That is good to hear."

"Yes, we have steadily grown as a company and prefer to hire from within, in regards to higher positions. Please don't think your night watchmen job as a dead end scenario. We have extensive training programs."

Peter stared directly into Francine's forehead, slightly above her set of eyes; showing the proper attentiveness in what she was saying. He was following all of the rules of body language that he learned from the job networking websites. With $45 dollars standing between him and three weeks before his eviction notice, Peter had to land this job.

"Did you have a chance to check out our company web site?"

Showtime

. " Yes, yes I did. Impressive. I found it, highly, informative. So you supply big cities like L.A. and most of the remaining west coast cities, yes. I was impressed with the wide variety of synthetic and semi-synthetic organs your farm has to offer."

"Absolutely! Our family farm has been going strong for over 30 years. Being the top orchestrator of this industry. I have complete say on the quality and dimensions of our products and…"

Francine broke from Peter's gaze and looked up in the distance at nothing in particular. After a few seconds, she broke from the odd trance and faced Peter, brandishing a professional smile and said nothing. For 20 grueling seconds she kept Peter's rehearsed gaze. Trapped, Peter held his position, refusing to speak first. Not this time

. I will only say what is needed.. I will not fall for these mind games and ramble

. It's a test . You know it's a test.

Francine's left hand began to twitch, flopping like a half dead fish - fighting with a desperate will. Peter held firm. Even when Francine's left hand began to, unbutton the first few snaps of her conservative blouse, Peter bore his vision into her forehead like a surgical laser.

Francine broke the silence, as she used her right hand to control the antics of her left hand.

"Questions? Do you have any further questions about the position we are offering?"

"The position. hmmm,"

Francine's left hand was defying her right hand's attempt to subdue it. The left hand started to flap about wildly.

"Uhh, uhh, yes the... a question..."

Francine's left hand, fraught within a spasm, slapped her across the face.

Breaking proper interview protocol, " Ah, no, no further questions, at this time. I believe most of my inquiries have been answered. Thank you."

"How disappointing, well, I understand." Francine offers her right hand.

Determined, Peter grasps Francine's right hand and briskly shakes it.

"Thank you for considering me for the position."

Francine's left hand insists on slapping at her own face, sometimes making full contact.

"Oh you are most welcome, Peter. My assistant Porsche, will be contacting all interviewers in the next few days. If we do not find a position for you immediately, we will still keep your resume on file for the next three months. Thank you , so much, for coming in, today."

"Thank you Francine, it has been pleasure meeting you."

As Peter reached for the office door, it rushed towards him and clipped him in the head.

"Oh dear, I am so sorry." Porsche, touched Peter's forehead where the door hit him. " I saw your brother Jacob just enter the parking lot. Are you going to be in?"

Francine's panicked hand continued to flail about." No, but thank you for taking the initiative to alert me, Porsche. Consider me not in the office for the rest of the day. I have too much unfinished business to tend to."

Porsche nodded her head in agreement. Realizing that her hands were still on Peter's head and that she was blocking the exit, she dropped them and allowed Peter to pass. They both smiled at each other, politely, as Peter excused himself.

As she closed Francine's door, Porsche asked, "How did it go?"

Looking down at the floor Peter replied, "I believe it went, well."

Porsche smiled, "The slapping hand got to you, didn't it?"

Peter looked up startled and lied, "Slapping? Slapping, yes well I didn't really notice..."

"Save it, I apologize for putting you through further awkward situations. It is unkind of me."

"Yes well thank you, again."

"Thank you, as well, Peter - for coming in"

Before Peter could exit out the front door, "You know, she only does that when she is nervous. I think she may have liked you." Peter turns around. "It's a condition, you know."

"Oh, I see."

" Yes. It is called 'Alien hand syndrome' - a side effect from a past surgery."

Peter nodded.

" Well, you can look up the syndrome on the internet when you get home. Good bye, Peter. Best of luck."

"Goodbye Porsche and thank you."

Peter held his stoic non-committal appearance all the way to the elevator, down to the lobby and three blocks away from the Funny Bunny Organ Farm.

Peter knew he blew it. You are always supposed to have questions to ask about the job you are applying for - it's a given. Francine's beautiful face being assaulted by her own hand, it devastated him. He was lucky to hold his tongue and not say anything at all, but he knew he blew it. He needed it too bad and his nerves got the best of him. Only one chance to make a first impression. Nice work

. Peter, further, berated himself inside his own head, walking to the bus stop. Stepping onto the bus heading downtown, Peter thought, At least Porsche was nice enough to give me some hope - as false and empty as it might be

.


'O'


"Ah yes, the atomic number eight," Meg spoke softly.

The mass of knuckle dragging pupils, grumbled in confusion to her spoken words. They were more interested in finding a stick and emerging it into red ochre or black manganese.

Multiple creases sullied beautiful Meg's forehead. Calmly she continued with her lesson, "And it is represented by the symbol O."

Meg pulled out a stick that she was hiding behind her back. Immediately, she gained the attention of the whole class. They fell silent, looking up at her in awe, staring at the length and thickness of her stick. Feeling uncomfortable with all the attention she was receiving, Meg, hurriedly, drew the symbol O in the dirt. The students rushed around the symbol, admiring the magic she just conjured before their eyes. Slyly, one student tried to pry the stick from her hand.

Meg recoiled her hand and reprimanded, "Stop that! How dare you. You have to earn your right to wield it. That is why we have removed all other sticks from the vicinity." Wounded and sad, the shabby looking student scrambled away from Meg and returned to the refuge of his fellow classmates.

"Now listen up. Oxygen is the third most abundant element in the universe. Because it comprises most of the mass in water, oxygen is a dominant ingredient that resides in all living organisms."

Her students stared at her blankly and then leered greedily at the stick.

Meg shot them a sideways look, fearing a mutiny on her hands. Slowly, she said, "Oxygen makes up about twenty-one percent of the Earth's atmosphere. It accounts for nearly half..."

Even with her guard up, she could not imagine the speed at which they pounced on her. Hands, arms, and the stench of their bodies were only out matched by their ignorance. Fighting off their frenzied attempts, one of the students succeeded in snatching the stick from her grasp.

He ran to the nearest wall, dipping the stick in a small pot of red ochre and feverishly sketched images of humans. The remaining students released Meg and gathered around the savage artist - marveling at the beauty of his creations. They cooed and gurgled with wild pleasure and acceptance of his work.

Meg was furious. The lack of continuity and the way he was brandishing the stick, almost breaking it with every violent stroke, she could not stand for such desecration. The gall of these cretins was too much for her to endure. They had no respect for her, for themselves, and for the high honored standards of proper stick wielding.

She had to put an end to these pariahs and finish up her lesson about the power of oxygen, immediately.

Meg let out a banshee scream that flung the gang surrounding the primitive artist in every direction - kinetically with her voice. As the students shunted further away from Meg, the artist fell to the ground, curled up in a fetal position, dropping the stick, fearing the witch. With a flick of her wrist and the whispering of an incantation beneath her breathe, she summoned the stick from the dirt floor to her right hand.

Meg continued, "Each breath you take provides the much needed oxygen you need to live," She twirled the stick in a figure eight in the air, followed by the symbol O. All of the students grasped at their throats- choking. "Simply put, dying begins when your body does not get the oxygen it needs..."

Her eyes focused and bulging, Meg pointed that stick at her class with vigilant fervor; she covered more bullet points on facts regarding oxygen. As her students throats shut closed, the lecture ran on for over eight minutes.

Exhausted from the strain of her lecture, sucking up great gulps of air, Meg grew high with the excessive amounts of oxygen entering her lungs. In contempt, as she viewed the slumped-over students littered about the dirt floor, Meg said," There is just no enduring such disregard for rules and structure. It would be remiss of me to allow such low standards to flourish and sully those who strive for excellence."

Impressum

Texte: Happy Dagger
Bildmaterialien: Happy Dagger
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.12.2012

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