J.F. Posthumus
About Me
- J.F. Posthumus
- Virginia, United States
- A computer tech and artist that thrives on writing fantasy to escape the harshness of reality.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Something A Little Different...
Anywhos, let me know if you think the story matches the picture.
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There had to be a way out of the mess I’d gotten myself into. The only question was which option was worse. Being banished from not only the island, but this world, also? Being chased by Royal Assassins of the
Fey kind who could follow a particular offensive fly for miles just to swat it? Or releasing the legions of undead and giving them to the crazy queen to rule? Decisions, decisions. It didn’t help any that Mom was a druid dedicated to the nutty queen and her spineless king to a sickening degree or that my father was already banished to another realm. The realm where demons lived, thrived, and tormented both the living and dead.
I’d been there once and I didn’t really want to go back. Sure, hot drinks and s’mores were easy to come by, but the torture, chaos, and spell of brimstone kinda outranked the coolness of smoking marshmallows over a fire; especially when the fire was actually a burning corpse. Fortunately, Daddy dearest was higher up on the food chain there and could visit often. I loved him, but that didn’t mean I wanted to live in his world, especially since I didn’t get my kicks out of torture. Well, maybe I would have if he’d had let me torture a few people I hated and were current “guests”, but apparently that was against the rules, damn it.
The sky was growing darker and waves near the shore were growing choppy. As always, the barely-there breeze that could almost ruffle dandelion fluff was biting. Considering I wasn’t wearing much more than my usual ‘sorceress’ clothes that reminded me of a few costumes I’d seen last time I’d gone to visit the mortals’ lands, it wasn’t surprising.
My birthday was nearing and I had to give the Crazy Queen of all Fey a reply to her question. Sitting on the rock that held the skeletons of an ancient tribe that had been ensconced by powerful mages millennia ago, I could feel them trying to break free of their prison.
Why couldn’t I have just remained the weird girl who breezed through her guild classes without worrying about studying? A forgotten member of this world who could paint and create delicate crafts? Oh, no, the damned Fates simply couldn’t let me go by unnoticed. Not when Mom worked for the royals, keeping their forests and orchards vagrant free, growing vibrantly, and bountiful fruit and game.
Dad, fortunately, was still an unknown. Everyone thought he came from the mortals’ realm or another dimension. No one knew he was a demon, despite the fact I could unleash the undead, summon imps and ifrets, and raise the hounds of hell. Quite literally, and they weren’t cute and cuddly pooches, either. More like canines with elongated heads, grotesque emaciated bodies with leathery skin. They always reminded me of a dried up mice Mom and I would find in crates or in the barn every so often. Even their tails were rat-like, except with barbs like a stingray.
The queen, losing followers like rats fleeing from a sinking ship and having been the target of a few so-far ill-fated assassination attempts, had learned of my paltry talents last year. Mom kept her at bay, saying to wait until I was twenty-five when my powers would be fully developed. I kept hoping someone would kill the crazy bitch, but none had succeeded and Dad didn’t dare. It would break some promise or vow he’d made. Figures. I have a father who can kick major ass and he can’t do a damned thing because of rules and regulations.
Yet I can release a legion of blood-hungry skeletons eager to slaughter without repercussions from anyone in this world, or probably even his. I was fairly certain he’d warn me if I’d spend life in eternal damnation, and not as a family member, either.
I sighed heavily, staring at the cattails and hoping maybe I’d catch my death from the cold, as the mortals often said. Not likely. The worse that would happen is it would start raining and I’d be soaked to the skin, freezing cold, and have muddy feet since I hated wearing shoes, slippers, or sandals of any kind.
Why couldn’t I just go back to the way life was before? Where no one remembered my birthday, except for family and a handful of friends?
A few drops splattered on my head and shoulders, trickling down my bodice, leaving icy snake trails wherever it went. Shoving off from the rock, I could almost hear the skeletons screaming in outrage, I trudged dispiritedly back towards my mother’s small cottage. Behind me, I could hear the howl of the wind turning over the ocean. Or was it the howl of the undead, promising to kill me the moment they were free? One could never be sure about these things.
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I'm liking the voice here, some great inner dialog, a lot of world building. And yes, I can see this all going with your illustration. Good job :)
ReplyDeleteI can totally see the story going with the picture. Your words really evoke the right mood here, and I love the idea of the skeletons in the rock.
ReplyDeleteThanks, ladies!
ReplyDeleteGlad you liked it (both story and pic)!
I guess I did things backwards... I did the picture THEN the story, lol. Most of the time, I think, it's the other way around!
again, thanks!!!
Hey,you find inspiration where you find it. I like the picture.
ReplyDeleteCool picture! I like the voice you have in first person--seems like you have a lot of fun with it! :)
ReplyDelete