Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Another Random Scene from S.E. Gordon's Harry Potter Parody

The following is yet another vile, random scene from a parody I'm working on entitled:
Hairy Pinga and How The Prisoner of My Anus Shoved The Sorcerer’s Stones, A Goblin on Fire, and Half a Bloody Pint Up His Bunghole While in the Secret Chamber Passing Deadly Hollows with a Disorderly Phoenix


Character Key

Character Equivalent
Hairy Pinga Harry Potter
Atari Bumbledork Albus Dumbledore
Weaseldick Paisley Ron Weasly
Gingercooch Paisley Ginny Weasly
Hermaphrodites (aka Herpes) Hermoine Granger
Googley Twatfart Gilderoy Lockhart
Dildo Boytoy Draco Malfoy

Chapter 5: Groupies

Stepping to the podium, Headmaster Bumbledork adjusted his glasses, straightened his robe, and took a deep breath. "As always, this year at Fartworks promises to be even more fucked up than the last. At the suggestion of one of our students, the staff has decided to lop the student body into four grim pieces. These ‘groups' will compete against one another, fight to the death--that sort of thing--and in the end, one will be utterly annihilated. But do not fret, the losing party will be ridiculed, tortured, and publically humiliated before being executed. The four groups are: Dungtwerps, Mufflestuff, Asswipes, and Clitorin."
"Hey, who the hell came up with these names?" one shouted.
Bumbledork held up his hands.
"Yeah, those names really suck," another protested.
"Do they now? Then let's hear you come up with four names that adequately describe the snot-nosed, uneducated twits that roam these halls?" Bumbledork fired back.
"Really, Master Bumbledork, I must object." Googley Twatfart stood. "While I agree with some of the names, ‘Asswipes?' Really???"
The headmaster crossed his arms.
"We need to foster a positive environment, where students can achieve something greater than themselves through collaboration and community," said Twatfart.
As he spoke, one of the students flicked a booger in his mouth. The unsuspecting professor choked and gagged, before ultimately swallowing the slimy morsel.
"Oh second thought, it's perfect." Twatfart sat down.
"Anyways, all that's left to do is figure out who goes where. First, we need to identify each of the group's leaders. Dildo Boytoy!" Bumbledork pointed to a kid with bleached blonde hair and a devious scowl. "You and pussy go hand-in-hand, so you will be in charge of Clitorin." He tossed him a slab of wood. "That's right, back in the old clitoris you go."
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Dildo frowned.
"You are to carve the group symbol out of it; whatever you like. Afterwards, we'll staple it to one of the football helmets, and you can wear it around school all day long."
"I'm not wearing this crap!" Boytoy tossed the chunk of wood to the ground. "My dad's going to have you fired!"
"Whatever, you fucking tool. Next, we have Hairy Pinga. Even though he's barely a student, he's already the biggest Dungtwerp I know."
Hairy smiled at Weaseldick as Bumbledork tossed the slab of wood. The block of oak bounced off his head, knocking him out cold.
"Bumbledork?" Hermaphrodites rose. "I think Dungtwerp already needs a new leader. Hairy can't even handle a stick of wood."
The perverse old man scratched his chin. "Very well. In his absence, you may serve as deputy."
"Deputy? Oh, no. Hairy serves me."
"Fine. You and Hairy will square off in a friendly duel. Whoever gets the other to cry mercy will be Dungtwerp's undisputed leader."
Weaseldick helped Hairy to his feet. "Did you hear that, Hairy? You and Herpes are going to face off.
"Huh?" Hairy rubbed his head.
"I wouldn't take her lightly, Hairy. She's one ruthless bitch," Bumbledork warned. "She'll cut off your gizzard, and mount it to the flag pole if you're not careful."
 Hermaphrodites glared at Hairy. "You're dead," she mouthed.
"All right. Well that takes care of Clitorin and Dungtwerp. How about Asswipes? Weaseldick Paisley, I called up Wikipedia personally and had your picture permanently added to the section that deals with asswipes. Congratulations, you're their king."
"But I want to be with Hairy," Weaseldick pouted.
"Even if you were a Dungtwerp, you might still get Herpes rather than Hairy. No, I want the Asswipes to fail spectacularly, so I'm putting you in charge. This is one task that you truly cannot fuck up! And any other fucking Paisleys that exist in the universe are hereby summoned to the clan of Asswipes.
"Better to hoard them on a ship, and torpedo it as fast as humanly possible then let these bony bastards walk these halls," Bumbledork gestured. "Better to toss them from a plane, and fertilize the crops with their witless remains than to listen to their relentless, rudimentary rabble. Better to..."
"But sir. I want to be-" Gingercooch raised her hand.
"The king has been crowned! And no, you do not get your own symbol; I simply won't waste the wood on you pecker-headed kids," the old geezer snapped.
"And last, but not least, Mufflestuff. Oh crap, where is she?" Bumbledork scanned the crowd. "Douchebag? Oh, there you are!"
A concatenation of feminine hygiene products scampered down the aisle, and jumped on the old man. It bathed him with its tainted cloth tongue, wagging its tail.
"Douchebag comes compliments of the ladies' bathroom. She's made from 100% recycled parts and is completely biodegradable, unlike some of the sludge that festers here." The headmaster glared at Weaseldick.
"Are you kidding?" said a girl in the crowd. "That canine tampon is supposed to be our leader?"
"Trust me, she's light years ahead of anything that Asswipes can offer."
Gingercooch stuck out her tongue.
"Well, I guess that's it. The rest of you have been randomly assigned to each of these groups; may God have mercy on your souls. To find out which you belong to, go to your homeroom. Welcome back to Fartworks everyone, and as always, the gas always looks greener when it comes out your neighbor's backside," Bumbledork grinned.
The students looked at each other, confused.
"Dismissed, you bungholes!"
As the children scurried out of the hall, Hairy did not move. "What sort of fucked up place is this?" he exclaimed.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

A Random Scene from S.E. Gordon's Harry Potter Parody

The following is a random scene from a parody I'm working on titled:

Hairy Pinga and How The Prisoner of My Anus Shoved The Sorcerer’s Stones, A Goblin on Fire, and Half a Bloody Pint Up His Bunghole While in the Secret Chamber Passing Deadly Hollows with a Disorderly Phoenix

Character Key

Hairy Pinga
Harry Potter
Hermaphrodites (aka Herpes)
Hermoine Granger
Weasledick Paisley
Ron Weasly
Dildo Boytoy
Draco Malfoy

And without further ado:

Chapter X: Brokeback Biscuits

“Mmm…the meatballs are exquisite.” Hermaphrodites gobbled down another.

“Just do not ask whose balls those are,” said Hairy.

Hermaphrodites puked all over the kid next to her. “What is your deal, Hairy Pinga? Why are you not eating?”

“My family is poor; I do not have any money,” he frowned.

“Poor little Pinga. I guess you will just have to prostitute yourself out.”

“Perhaps you could lend me some money, Herpes.” Hairy lit up.

“I’m not a charity.” Hermaphrodites flipped open her compact mirror and checked her lipstick. She pondered for a moment, and then snapped it shut. “I’ll tell you what, Hairy. I will pay you handsomely if you will dance around the schoolyard in girl’s underwear.”

“Like these?” Hairy twirled a pair of poka-dotted briefs around his finger.

“There they are.” She snatched them back. “You are quite a magician when it comes to ladies’ panties.”

“You have no idea,” Hairy grinned.

“So you will run around the commons in my panties and nothing more?” She slid a penny towards him.

“A penny? What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Hairy exclaimed.

The engraving of President Lincoln turned its head. “What’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” The penny relieved itself in Hairy’s face.

“Did that penny just pee on you?” Weaseldick exclaimed.

“I am not sure what happened.” Hairy wiped the strange substance from his brow.

A moment later a kid strolled by and snagged the penny from the table.

“Hey!” said Hairy.

“Furthermore,” Hermaphrodites slid a second penny, “I want you to lick a pair of donkey balls in front of the entire student body.”

The second caricature did not wait for a snide comment, and promptly tinkled on both Hairy’s and Weaseldick’s heads before hopping away.

“Then it’s a deal!” Hermaphrodites shook Hairy’s outstretched hand.

“You ruthless bitch! At least give me something in return.”

Hermaphrodites picked through her tray, and handed him the smallest item.

“A biscuit?” Hairy croaked.

“Eat my biscuit, bitch!” She rose. “And don’t even think about getting anything from me, Weaseldick. You should not even be here.” She turned and walked away.

Weaseldick burst into tears.

“There, there.” Hairy patted his moist mop. “Here, eat my biscuit.” He placed the cookie in Weaseldick’s mouth.

“You two should get a room at Brokeback Mountain,” Dildo Boytoy laughed.

“Brokeback’s a mountain--they have caves, not rooms,” Weaseldick corrected.

“Happy cave diving,” Dildo giggled with the others at Clitorin’s table.

“Come on, Weaseldick. Let’s get out of here.” Hairy smacked him on the ass.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

YUMMY! The Crusty Englishman - Chapter 3

As the men lowered the wooden coffin into the ground, the sky darkened, stealing a hint of the sea from Terrance’s eyes.  The wind swirled, whipping his dark locks in the air. Though a storm brewed overhead, the group proceeded, undeterred.

Sarah and Nancy Hilbert stepped forward, a pair of raven-haired beauties that caught his eye. They spread red and white petals over the casket, relenting to his gaze, if only an instant. As his heart quickened, Terrance licked his dry lips.

A middle-aged man stepped forward, and took off his cap. “It’s hard to believe I stand here before you, burying the one who cared for us so deeply,” said Timothy Benton.

“I bet he did--hopefully no altar boys were damaged in the process,” Terrance amused himself; glad the whisper in his soul did not come out his mouth.

“Father Wickum was a pillar of this community,” Timothy raised his hands, “devoting every restless hour to those in need despite the personal cost to himself.”

“Really? I always thought of him as a drunk,” Terrance pondered. If only he could share what was on his mind without getting shot.

“Terrance Thatcher, I believe you were the last to see our beloved pastor before he passed away,” he said.

“Tis true, my friend.” Terrance nodded.

“Would you be kind enough to share a few words about how he spent his final hour?”

“That crusty bastard,” Terrance shook his head, careful to purse his lips. “I would be honored,” he said aloud.

He stepped forward, and scanned over the crowd, resting his eyes on the two twins peering at him with devilish intent. Terrance grinned as the wind swelled, carrying a sprinkle with it. “Ladies and gentlemen, Father Wickum was not the person you thought he was. There was another side to him behind that gruff, monotonous demeanor; a side he so graciously shared before he croaked…I mean, before he passed away. Father Wickum had an addiction, and that addiction was…” He strained to heave the word onto his lips. “…love.”

“Yes, love.” He stalked the crowd. “A passion that pervaded every pore of his body. If he could pour it in a glass, and share it with you, it would be the finest vintage your lips ever indulged. And every day his bottle filled with more…love…more of that sumptuous, unbridled, steamy passion.” He looked into each of the women’s eyes. “Until one day he found himself, a untapped vessel, ready to explode all over Southminster in one gigantic, frosty burst.”

The women squealed as lightening erupted, though not from the thunder overhead. As rain fell in sheets, the townspeople scattered.

“And if he were here right now, he would want to share that love with you, despite the cruel, relentless downpour,” said Terrance.

The graveyard emptied until only three remained.

“After years of faithful service, the only thing Father Wickum begged for was a magnificent, wondrous, mind-blowing release.”

Lightening stuck in the distance behind him.

Terrance traced his fingers through his dark, wet tangles, his drenched shirt revealing the chiseled outline of his chest and stomach. He approached the twins, lost in his icy gaze. “I am sorry for your loss.” He kissed each on the cheek. “How will I ever make it up to you?”

The black carriage creaked over the hill, its lone passenger cursing all the way. As it pulled in front of the Thatcher mansion, a portly man wobbled out, leaving his bags behind, and stomping down the walkway.

“Sir,” the coachman uttered, but the old rascal did not look back. He thundered through the front door, pushing aside his servants as they greeted him, and headed straight for his office. As he opened the door, a familiar sight greeted him.

“Father, what a pleasant surprise!” Terrance exclaimed, not a scrap of clothing on him. Two dark-haired visions pawed at him, their naked bodies draping either side. Sinful smiles fell from their faces; they jumped up, scooped up their clothing, and hurried off.

“Terrance, what are you doing? Where’s Tess?” William Thatcher asked.

“Father, she was a whore!” He stood, the family heirlooms dangling in the air. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you. I drew up the annulment papers myself, gave her a few pounds, a smack on the ass, and sent her on her merry way.” He took a sip of wine.

“What? How could you?” William looked about the room. “You need my signature to do such a thing.”

“Come now, father. You know I’m better at your signature than you are. Instead you should be thanking me; I’ve provided an invaluable service. She was just another mindless whore after the family fortune,” Terrance smiled.

“The only whore in this family is you!” The father grabbed the rifle from the wall and fired.

Terrance ducked as the window shattered behind him. “Are you mad? I’m your son…your true flesh and blood!”

The old man reloaded and fired again, shattering the bottle of wine.

“Not to mention your only son,” Terrance added.

“I’ll have another.” Mr. Thatcher put a large hole in the desk.

“Fine, take it out of my allowance.”

He fired again.

“All right, take it out of my harem. Oh, bloody hell!” Terrance jumped out the window.

Gunfire erupted again as William chased his son through the field. “I loved her! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” He screamed. “You poisoned her, just like my wife before her!” He fired again.

Terrance gasped as three corpses stumbled out of the field, taking notice of the wagging meat before them. The miscreant stormed up the hill as the zombies limped after him.

“What’s this all about? He’s mine!” the father bellowed. Finding his range, he blasted each of the cadavers as Terrance scaled the hill, baring his buttocks to all Southminster.

William squeezed off his final round, splattering the zombie’s noodle over the cabbage patch. As its body rolled down the hill, Terrance staggered, and then fell to the ground.

“Goodness gracious, what have I done?” William gasped. “Terrance?” He tossed the gun aside, and charged up the hill.

“Damn you, father,” Terrance moaned. “Better to shoot my bum clean off than to tear to shreds like you did.” He lay face down in his bed while housekeepers hovered over his throbbing rump.

“Hold still,” Old Man Wiggins mumbled as he wrenched a fragment from his cheek. “I’m low on supplies, so this will have to do.” He poured wine over the wound.

Terrance grunted as vintage flowed over his pale rear. “Give me that!” He reached around and grabbed the bottle. He took a swig, and then offered it to his father.

William seized the bottle, and gave it back to Wiggins. “You’ve really done it now, Terrance.” He shook his head.

“I merely exposed her for what she is, father,” Terrance groaned as Wiggins fished another scrap of metal from his rear. “I even managed to purge her from the will.”

“Is that all you care about, Terrance? Your bloody inheritance?” William exclaimed.

“Course not, father. I want you to be happy, not raped by a band of witless waifs,” Terrance replied.

“You of all people should know that marriage is not built on love alone. Perhaps I wanted to indulge a fantasy a bit, however fleeting. So be it. Clearly I knew she did not love me, but that did not change how I felt in her presence. Tess had a tender heart, and would have made a fine wife if you hadn’t dug your claws into her.”

The father scanned over the enamored faces around him. “What are all of you doing here?”

“It’s all right, father. I wanted the staff to be on hand to lick the excess wine from my crotch once the handyman patched me up,” Terrance grinned.

Wiggins dug deep, pulling out the last shard of metal. “That should do it.” He smacked the rogue on the ass.

Terrance grimaced, and then snatched the bottle back. He swallowed a mouthful and looked up. “You really should have a taste, father; it’s some of your best work.”

“You are impossible, Terrance.” William crossed his arms. Slowly his eyes wandered back to the bottle.

“Do you remember the last time I shot you?” William chuckled, slamming his hand on the dinner table.

“How could I forget? I still have the scar.” Terrance pulled back his brown mane, exposing a short white line across his forehead.

“Turns out I was aiming for the wrong head,” he cackled, and drained his glass.

“Indeed.” Terrance took a sip of wine. “You could have saved several bullets, not to mention years of your life, if you would have just put a bullet in Old Willy.”

“Nah, I’m saving that for the woman who will bite it off one day.” William poured himself another glass. “So what’s the story with those hideous creatures in the garden?”

“Those were the gardeners. I buried them in the field the other day.” Terrance gestured.


“They attacked poor Tess; what was I supposed to do? I smashed one over the head with a shovel until I wizened up and grabbed my sword.” Terrance inferred the saber on the wall behind him.

“What possessed you to bury them in the field?” William asked.

“I don’t know; it seemed convenient at the time.” Terrance rubbed his backside. “Oh, my tush.”

“You big oaf, that’s what graveyards are for! Why would you bury them in the very soil that we plant our crops?” The old man shook his head. “Did Tess say anything before she left?”

“No. I just asked why she never inquired about the sausage. She smacked my face, and galloped away.”

“How rotten of you.” William sipped his wine. “The truth is, I have not yet wrapped up my affairs, and must leave again in the morning.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Terrance droned.

“Believe me, I’d rather be here with you, but I’ve just received word that a plague has broken out near Canterbury. I hope to reach her before the plague does, for this might be the last opportunity to visit for a while.” He finished his glass. “But the trouble is I never know what to expect when I journey home; I find myself worrying about you constantly.”

“Come now, father, I must have some wits about me; otherwise, I would have fathered half of Southminster by now,” said Terrance.

“Perhaps that’s the half I haven’t met.” William raised an eyebrow.

“Touché.” Terrance toasted, and polished off his glass as well.

“Terrance, if I am to catch a wink of sleep while away, I must be sure that you are well attended. That’s why I’ve enlisted the aid of your sister.”

“Lizzie? Are you serious?” Terrance balked.

“Dead serious.” The father made a gun with his fingers and shot. “She’ll be here by morning. Since she’s studying to be a nun, perhaps she can relay some of her virtue.”

Terrance’s face darkened. He put his glass aside, and leaned forward. “I’ll show her a thing or two about virtue,” he vowed.

Friday, March 25, 2011

YUMMY! The Crusty Englishman - Chapter 2

Terrance stepped behind the curtain. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been…bloody hell...I don’t know, twenty years since my last confession?”

“Son, you are in the house of the lord. Please refrain from using profanity.” The elder whispered through the screen.

“My apologies, father.” Terrance nodded.

“Please, take a seat, and tell me your sins.”

“Where to begin?” Terrance rubbed his freshly shaven chin. “Well, for starters, I’ve been having sex with my mother three times a day for the past month.”

“Excuse me?” The priest pressed closer.

“Stepmother, actually. My real mother is a corpse at the bottom of the sea. Do not worry; I would not think of such a heinous act with her, even though I’m certain she needed plenty of sexing up in her day,” said Terrance.

“Pardon? Did you say that you had sex with a corpse?”

“Ha! I said no such thing, you old goat,” Terrance chuckled. “Corpses around Essex only wish I’d stick my seed in them. Their bones might even rise from the grave…or be shit straight to hell.”

“Son, the profanities,” the priest gasped.   

“Right, where’s my head?” He brushed his dark locks aside. “My sincerest apology.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to confess?” The priest shook his head.

“Fucking hell…well, come to think of it, I guess I poked my previous stepmother as well.”

“Your stepmother before your mother?” The priest pondered. “You mean your grandmother?”

“No, you fool. One of a string of foolish knaves who my father married after my mother croaked. I’m afraid I’ve done the whole lot of them.” He leaned back. “You’re married, aren’t you father?”

“I’m a priest, how could I-”

“Then you know how it feels gazing at a woman’s firm breasts, knowing full well that one day gravity will have its way with them. And in addition to those sagging loafs, her unwashed twat keeps creeping on your scruffy chin every morning with terrifying frequency. To think that there is one woman worth sacrificing for, one who can redefine age and beauty is absurd. In the meantime, I’ll keep my melons ripe and fox holes clean; thank you very much.”

The priest’s mouth was agape, but nothing came.

“Say, you have a wine cellar on the premises, don’t you?” Terrance smirked. “Perhaps you could break out a bottle, to help our conversation flow easier?”

“Blasphemy, that is the blood of Christ,” the priest snapped.

“Of course it is, father,” Terrance grinned.

The old brute spit out his wine. “You caught him with a chicken?” He howled. “He only confessed to me about pigs.”

“Goodness gracious, father.” Terrance chuckled. “How deliciously profane.” He snatched the bottle back, and poured himself a glass. “Those poor little piggies helped feed the Thatcher estate for the better part of the year. No wonder their meat was so tough and pale.” He shook his head. “Good thing I smashed his skull while I had the chance.”

“Good heavens. Did you just say you killed a man?” the priest gazed at him in the dim light of the cellar.

“Nothing of the sort: I was defending mum. Truly I don’t know what came over the dunderhead. He ran up and bit Tess, and then after we made love, he came after me,” Terrance replied.

“Wait a minute…what?” The clergyman choked. “Are you saying that while this lunatic was chasing you around, you stopped and shagged your stepmother?”

“Indeed.” Terrance drained his glass.

“You are hopelessly disturbed, my child.” He made the sign of the cross, and flicked wine in Terrance’s face. “So what next? No, let me guess: you’re going to sneak into the church, and have a romp on the holy altar?”

“Afraid we’ve already done that.” Terrance patted his face with a handkerchief.

The holy man spit out his wine again. “Damn you, Terrance. Would you at least let me swallow a mouthful?”

“My deepest…oh, to hell with it.” He raised his glass and drank. “So how goes the rest of Southminster?”

“The normal slop,” said the preacher. “As usual, Mr. Beauford is having an affair with his three housemaids. Old man Wiggins accidentally shot off a toe while waxing his candlestick outside Betty Hammill’s window. Then, of course, there’s the chicken lover you knocked off.”

“I’m surprised Tess did not pay you a visit. Surely she’s been in a dozen times cursing my name,” said Terrance.

“Actually it’s funny you mentioned it; she came by this morning.”

“Really?” Terrance was not the least bit surprised. “And what did she say?”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

Terrance poured him another glass of wine.

The pot-bellied priest gulped it down. “Actually my heart sank the moment she opened her mouth.” He belched. “She told me she hadn’t seen her family in a year, and that she was confused; didn’t know what to do.”


The holy man hesitated. “She said she didn’t love her husband, nor the lover who used her so frequently. No names were mentioned, but it’s hardly a surprise it’s you.”

“Go on. Did she mention anything about the inheritance?” Terrance asked.


Terrance kept his glass full.

“Well yes…she said that she could no longer live with herself anymore; even though she saved her family from poverty, she felt like she sold a piece of her soul. Tess feared that the only reason she lingered was to get a better settlement before moving on.”

“I knew it!” Terrance slammed his fist on the barrel. “Thank you father for indulging me with your company.” He set down his glass. “What’s my penance?”

The priest tossed the bible, hitting Terrance in the head. “I’m throwing the book at you.” He cackled.

“Hopefully that’s not how you hand out the Eucharist on Sunday,” Terrance quipped. “So what is the penalty for deflowering the hillside? Execution?”

“I’ll have you read the bible, cover to cover, and come to church every Sunday,” the elder hiccuped.

“Damn it to hell! But what if I’m happily condemned?” Terrance inquired.

“What better way to torture a narrow soul than to force him to read about the very salvation he can never have?”

“You are a wicked man, father. Here, choke on this.” He poured him another.

“I think you have the wrong idea about me.” The priest pushed the glass aside, and went straight for the bottle.

“My, old man. You are steadfast in your devotion,” Terrance giggled. “I think I’ll go join old man Wiggins, and see if Mrs. Hammill will put on a show if we throw coins in her window.”

The priest choked. “Cut it out, Terrance.”

“Perhaps I can get a discount if Wiggins and I compare bacon rods, and I came out ahead.”

Waving Terrance off, the priest continued to choke.

“I’d imagine that between the two of us, we could get a group rate. Hell, if you tag along, old man, she might throw in a second show for free.” Terrance winked.

The clergyman’s face turned purple. He clutched his throat, and fell to the ground.

“Come, father.” Terrance jumped off the barrel. “Let’s go into town, grab a few whores, and play a hand of strip poker so I can talk you out of my penance.” He nudged him with his boot. “Father?”

He bent over, and checked the priest’s vitals. “Bloody hell.”

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Enura - Chapter 62: Release

Photo courtesy of Peter Griffin
Lawson gazed into her pale face, running his fingers through her long, dark hair. “Endolyn?” he whispered, but she did not stir. He kissed her forehead, and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

He sat down at his workbench, and turned the lantern clock over. Opening its back, he gazed inside, and noticed a brass gear slightly bent to one side. He reached in, and fished it out, setting it on the table.  Banging down with his riveting hammer, he straightened the metal disc, and eased it back in place. Lawson turned the clock upright, and watched the pendulum begin to swing.

As the clock chimed, Lawson spotted his wife across the room. “My love, what is it?” He jumped off the stool. “You should be resting. Come, have a seat.” He led her to the table.

Endolyn sat down, gaping at her odd surroundings. As he took her hand, the skin darkened and bruised over. She whimpered, and placed her head on the wooden table.

“Hang in there, dear.” Lawson patted her softly. “The doctor will be here by morning.”

She beat down her fist, over and over until it bled.

“Endolyn, stop. What’s wrong?” He grabbed her arm.

She tossed him over the table as keen, ivory fangs knifed out her gums. The vampire hurled the table aside, smashing the miniature clock. As the clockmaker stood, Endolyn grabbed him by the neck, and pressed him against the wall. She wrenched his head back, exposing his jugular.

“Mommy?” Elena opened her door, and rubbed her eyes. “Is everything all right?” She brushed aside her silky, black mane.

“Yes, dear.” Endolyn smiled, exposing her new fangs. “Everything’s exquisite.” She tossed her husband aside.

“Elena, run,” Lawson choked.

“You’ll do no such thing.” Endolyn stepped forward. “Do you love your mother?”

Elena nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

“Good girl.” She opened her mouth wide.

“No!” Lawson struck Endolyn with his hammer, blood spraying over Elena’s face. The girl cowered, crumbling against the wall.

The vampire turned, catching Lawson’s wrist as he struck down again. “I will kill you delicately, while you watch me feed.” She snapped his arm.

Lawson screamed as she twisted his broken arm. “But she’s your daughter.” Tears streamed out his eyes.

“Sweet is the blood of the innocent, and the familiar.” She licked the essence pouring from her forehead. “Come, join me.”

Sparkling like a diamond, light shot out Endolyn’s skin. Thorny brambles spun around her, shedding the guise. “Let us feed together.” The crystalline’s smooth facade split open, unveiling rows and rows of wicked teeth.

“Feed on this,” Lawson uttered. The front of his crossbow snapped open, revealing half a dozen arrows. The hunter thrust the bow into her mouth and fired.

Six arrows shot as one, humbling the crystalline. The tangle gem shattered, blood and fire erupting from the brambles. Blossoms wilted, incinerated by the blast. Charred thorns scattered over the valley, no longer edging forward.

The hunter gagged, and ripped the blackened vines from his neck. He screamed as he got to his feet, snapping tangles from his arms and legs, and tearing off his tattered coat.

As he stumbled out the smoky crater, the last blossom spit out its tongue. Talmot sprang forward, skewering it with Essinger’s blade.

“Allah blesses you, my brother.” The Muslim nodded.

Lawson looked over the crowd assembled in the valley as dawn broke across Vissorouy. Smoke uncurled from the rooftops; the town still in good favor. Mortals and vampires alike stood by, the enlightened bundled in dark, loose robes.

The hunter staggered, lacerations covering his body and face. As Laurent came to his aid, Lawson pushed him aside. “The time for diplomacy is over.” He hobbled forward. “Today Vissorouy strikes back.”

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

YUMMY! The Crusty Englishman - Chapter 1

“I cannot believe I agreed to this.” Tess gazed over the rolling hills. She pulled her blond hair in a bunch, and tied it with a blue ribbon matching her dress.

“Come now, mother,” said Terrance. “Is it really such a chore to indulge in a splash of wine and a quaint meal with your dashing son?” As he set down the basket, his lace shirt fell open, exposing his muscular chest.

He opened a bottle, and spotted a man below. “Oh no, not that fool again.”

At the base of the hill, a gardener staggered over crops, chasing away the family dog.

“You must get better at staffing the estate,” said Terrance.

“That’s your father’s business, not mine. Besides, what do you think is wrong with him?” Tess asked.

“Isn’t it clear? Without proper education, the mind is nothing but a rotten core.” He poured a glass of wine. “That mindless twit doesn’t have a lick of academics under him. Ask him to read a book, and watch him stare at it like a hairy arse; ask him to spell it, and watch him struggle to squeeze it out that very same back end.”

Tess grabbed a sandwich, and took a bite.

“In fact, the other day I caught him deflowering a chicken,” said Terrance. “I did not say anything since you were serving poultry that evening.”

She spit out the sandwich. “That’s not funny; I ate that chicken. Is that why you declined so sharply?”

“There, there, stepmother.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, gazing into her with his deep, blue eyes. “I did not say you ate the very one he defiled.” The wind swept through his long, dark hair. “All right, perhaps I did,” he smirked.

“Rotten child.” She tossed the uneaten portion at him, and glanced down his shirt. As their eyes met, she turned back to the gardener. “No, I think something is genuinely wrong with him. Hatters are more likely to go mad; laborers tend to lose themselves with the bottle.”

Below, the man spun around, tearing up onions and radishes, and devouring them whole.

“Does it really matter?” Terrace took her hand in his.

“No, not here.” She pulled away.

“Is it my fault that father and I share the same taste in women, especially those younger than I? Or that he left you for so long, in the care of his eldest son?” He swallowed a mouthful of vintage.

“We’re going to get caught,” she whispered. “Why don’t you bother the duchess of Harlow?”

“The one growing hair out her ears?” Terrance balked. “And what if I explored regions father south? Would you send a rescue party to extract me from that jungle of hers?”

“Damn you, Terrance. Shut up!” said Tess. “Oh my, he’s headed this way.”

“Perhaps he would like to sleep with you as well.” Terrance drained his wineglass.

“Shh…I’m serious. Why aren’t you pouring me a glass?”

Terrance ignored the request. “Maybe you could give him a taste? The closest that chap has come to a pair of real melons are the ones in the garden.” He pinched her breast.

“No!” She slapped him away. “I would never do such a lowlife.”

“Well, you’re doing me, why not him? Hell, why not the both of us together?” He poured himself another glass. “I could even throw in a chicken, just for fun.”

Tess slapped Terrance across the face. “Enough of your banter. I am no whore.”

“Truly it would not be an exquisite day without your loving touch. My apologies, stepmother. You are not just a whore.” He snatched her hand, and kissed it. “You’re a raging whore.”

Tess jumped. “Get your hand out of my dress.”

“Sweet mother, I did no such thing. It must have been a random gopher wandering these lands.”

She jumped again. “Stop it!” Her caramel eyes darkened.

“They must be frisky this time of year. I believe we have an epidemic.”

Tess stood, and scooped up the basket. “You are a bastard, Terrance. I loathe the day I met you,” she uttered.

Terrance lingered on the ground, fidgeting with a dandelion. He peered up with his icy, blue eyes.

“I shall lunch elsewhere; and stop gazing at me with those puppy dog eyes.”

Terrance got to his feet, and tossed the weed aside. “I’m having trouble with this shirt; I cannot seem to keep it on.” He peeled it off, revealing his broad chest and shoulders.

Tess could not help but gaze at his chiseled frame as it blocked out the sun.

“To a prosperous day, mother.” He held up the bottle of vintage, and took a swig.
As her eyes lingered over him, the disturbed gardener crept over the hill. She screamed as he lunged forward and bit into her arm.

“Have you lost your mind? I was only kidding about the whole sex thing,” Terrance tried to peel him off. “Oh dear, mention twat and the whole countryside comes running from miles away.” He peeked over the side as more laborers scaled the hill.

“Terrace, do something,” Tess cried.

“Right.” He polished off the bottle, and then smashed it over the lunatic’s head. Terrance pushed him over the edge as two more crept up. He swatted the others with the picnic basket, before ultimately handing it to them.

The madmen fished a sausage from the basket, and fought over the pork tender.

Terrance sighed. “And I had such ambitions for that slab of meat.”

He smashed their jaws with his fists, and kicked them off the hill. “Dung-eating fools!” He picked up his shirt, and wrapped it around Tess’ bleeding arm. “Now let’s get you cleaned up,” Terrance grinned.

“No.” She pulled him closer, aroused by the sight of blood. “Take me here.”

“Are you mad? With these lunatics lurking about?”

She thrust him between her breasts. “Devour me,” Tess murmured. “Lower.” She pushed his head down. “Lower still...oh yes, that's it...” She arched her head back.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Enura - Chapter 61: Entangled

Photo courtesy of Peter Griffin
The hunter galloped up the cobblestone, raising his repeating crossbow as Vissorouy fell away. As brambles swept over the hill, he squeezed off three successive bursts. Arrows whirred through the air and erupted, incinerating the thorny tangles, and flattening the hill. Dirt and thorns flew high into the air, blood spurting out the broken vines. While the brambles smoldered, Lawson veered off, thundering up the path, and snaking around the flank.

As he whipped around the bend, the hunter unleashed a second volley. Silver needles arced into the valley, detonating one after another, and severing the lines extending from the forest. Blackened tendrils flailed, desperate to shake the flames from them and rethread with the core.

From beneath the charred coils, white flowers blossomed, flinging their poisonous quills. Picking up the fire as they flashed by, stingers rained down, grazing the hunter’s coat. Lawson dug in his heels, outrunning the blast, as the firestorm tore up the trail behind. As the florets launched a second volley, the wind swirled, tossing the daggers back into the valley, and preventing any response.

As he turned his eyes back towards the path, a wall of thorns rose up. Lawson tugged his reigns, jerking Taurus’ head abruptly. As they spun, the path crumbled. Stumbling down the slope, the Vanklass barely managed to stay erect as it infiltrated the valley.

“Why do you resist?” a voice whispered in his ear. “Is the black rage really in you? Come, let me wash the stain from your heart.”

Lawson pressed Taurus back up the slope. “Stop playing with me, Enura,” he uttered.

“If only I were so graceful,” her voice resonated.

As the horse staggered, thorns whipped around Lawson’s neck, and yanked him from his steed. Tripping the bow as he fell, an arrow shot over the cliffs, and splashed harmlessly into the sea.

“There you are,” she sighed.

Brambles soared like a wave, cresting over, and smashing down. Prickly vines seized his arms and legs, twisting him back. Tortured faces peered at him, heads swiveling on thorny tangles, as the brambles conveyed him deeper.

“Be with me now,” her voice echoed.

Blossoms uncurled as he drew closer. As he caught sight of her crystalline skin, purple tongues licked his cheeks. Eight arms extended from her frosty core, obscuring her timid face. One by one she peeled them away, revealing a blank, icy slate.

“Let me have a taste of you.” She reached forward. Frigid spikes shot from her fingers, spearing his arms. “Share with me your darkest delights.” She drank from him.

Thorny tangles tightened around the hunter’s bow, but still he would not give it up. As life trickled away, he held fast as the brambles claimed the rest of him.

“Stay with me awhile,” she beckoned.

As he gazed into her, darkness fell before his eyes, seizing him in its cold embrace, and ushering him into the abyss.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Enura - Chapter 60: Founder

Photo courtesy of Vera Kratochvil
Buckets sloshed from hand to hand, running along a human chain from the pier to the street. Snails squealed at the steady onslaught of seawater, pressing forward defiantly, and backing the men into the dock. One pounced, snapping a man in two, and tossing his remains into the sea.

Essinger cut off the advance, striking out with both swords, and fracturing teeth as they snapped down. “More seawater!” he shouted.

Saltwater splashed against the snail’s wounds, scorching layers off its amorphous mass as the vampire carved it to pieces.

“Brothers, your women and children lie at your back. Do not founder!” Essinger screamed. “Hold fast; do not give an inch. The community is your shield; together we shall stand!”

As the demons closed in, the vampire plunged both swords into the fallen behemoth, and gashed it open. Steaming bones and appendages spilled out, a foot deep. Prodded by their hunger, the slugs slithered from their domiciles, and gathered around, devouring the sultry meal.

Talmot joined the fray, slicing the dinner party to ribbons. Blubber and eyestalks flew into the air as a cascade of seawater doused the wallowing remains.

“You are needed down the pier,” said Talmot.

“Whatever do you mean?” Essinger chopped away.

“Look to the bay, old friend, and forgive that I cannot swim,” said Talmot. “I will succeed your good work here.”

“Then I shall leave you my sword.” Essinger stabbed one of his blades into the walk.

“It will not do any good.” Talmot raised his cauterized stump. “I can only wield one at a time.”

“Still, you will make good use of it.” Essinger turned and ran. He veered through the crowd, tears moistening the damp planks. Sprinting to the end, he stopped and gaped. “What in the devil’s name?”

The Chasseur rested in the middle of the bay, a dozen smaller boats steering towards it. Nearby, a member of Salander’s gang slit the fisherman’s throat, and jumped aboard his ship. Quickly he joined the fleet, no more than three men to each vessel.

“So that’s how you stack the deck?” Essinger stripped off his black coat and hat. “Then let me reveal my hand.”

He sheathed his sword, and dove into the frigid waters. Dipping under the waves, he swam length after length before surfacing for air. As his head poked out, he grazed the bloated corpse of Claude Didier, riding the waves to the shore. “Claude, dear friend.” Essinger genuflected, and said a prayer. He pulled his eyelids shut as a wave crashed down, and slipped back under the current.

Essinger thrust forward, intercepting a boat near the Chasseur. Holding his breath as long as he could stand, he prodded the boat’s hull, and pounced on the two men as they looked over the side. He fed each his sword, painting the tide a darker shade of black. “May God have mercy on us all.” Essinger pulled the lifeless corpses under.

As the last ship approached the Chasseur, the vampire dove under, and poked holes in it. The man jumped onto the fishing nets as his boat foundered. Knowing he could hold his breath longer than the entire crew above, the ancient warrior grabbed his ankle, and dragged him under. When his flailing body eased, Essinger slit his throat, repaying the fisherman’s debt.

The crusader climbed the anchor, and snuck aboard the ship. He drew his sword, spotting the captain at the wheel. As he crept from shadow to shadow, lookouts in the fore and main masts alerted the crew below. Men flooded the decks, swords and pistols drawn.

Exposed, Essinger sprang from the shadows, shattering swords and skulls with his unyielding blade. He darted up the railing, and bounded over a group of men. As he cut his way through the stern, the captain turned. “Salander Roach?” the vampire exclaimed.

Salander fired his pistol, blasting Essinger through the railing. “Continue firing.” He pointed. The crew shelled the sea until a fireball erupted at the far edge of Vissorouy.

“Great heavens, what was that?” Salander gasped.

Enura - Chapter 59: Precious

Photo courtesy of Amy Quinn
The crusader bounded from rooftop to rooftop, glancing at the street below. Zombies pawed at the townspeople as they fled, aroused by the commotion. As they pursued, slugs exploded out of the mud, tossing women and children aside, and devouring the witless cadavers.

Essinger peered over the rooftops, and spotted the brigade ahead. Fifty men idled by the docks, staring listlessly as families screamed and fled.

“Hey,” Essinger called out; but before he could jump down, the roof jerked forward. He tripped over the crown, smashing clay tiles as he tumbled, and snagging the edge of the roof with one hand.

“Please, help.” A woman cradled her child.

Essinger gazed at the mortal through an open window as the house soared into the sky. “Do you trust me, my lady?” Essinger dangled, gray strands falling from his hat.

She shook her head, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.

“Then give her to me now.” He reached forward.

The lady kissed the child. As she held the baby out, the floor collapsed.

“No!” Essinger screamed, releasing the overhang, and plucking the child from the air. He bounced off creature’s side, and slammed into the earth below.

“Bethany?” A man ran up to Essinger.

The vampire held up the infant, shaken, but unharmed.

“Where is her mother?” He took the child. “Sara?” he screamed.

“Up above,” Essinger managed, favoring one side. As he snapped his ribs back into place, the abomination bit down. The crusader rolled aside as it took in a mouthful of dirt, and scurried up its back. The mollusk hissed and flailed wildly.

He slipped inside the house, and burrowed through felled walls and piles of refuse. “My lady?” Essinger called, but only the house moaned back. He squeezed through to the opposite end as the dwelling teetered, still unable to unearth her. The house tilted abruptly, splintered boards and rubble racing towards him. Essinger held fast, braving the wayward debris as a body rolled out. “Sara?” He shook the young lady, but there was no response. Behind, pieces of the wall gave way, exposing the town below.

Knowing they had only moments before the wall crumbled, and deposited them below, Essinger took the lady in his arms, and sprinted through the house as it slid off the demon’s back. As the angle steepened, he exploded through the window, flipping over the jagged end, and landing atop the creature’s back. The structure splintered, kicking up a cloud of dust, and entombing a batch of unsuspecting cadavers.

The behemoth eyed the vampire on its back. As it exposed its fangs, a shadow jumped down, and sliced off its eyestalks.

“Getting soft, old friend,” said Talmot as the creature screeched. “How are you to defeat a mujahideen if you cannot kill a snail?”

“I’ve more up this bag of tricks,” Essinger replied.

“One would only hope,” the Muslim chuckled.

Talmot and Essinger hopped down, and sprinted towards the docks.

“Oh, Sara,” the husband sobbed as the vampire spread her over the boardwalk.

“She has slipped into the great sleep, my friend. Hopefully one day you will stir her from it.” Essinger turned to Talmot. “Lawson has a ship in the harbor; the Chasseur, I believe. Get them aboard immediately.”

Talmot nodded, and scooped up Sara. “Come, brother, I will ensure your exit.” The husband kissed the bawling infant, and hurried after.

Nearby, a group of men downed bottles of vintage, poking fun at the carnage.

“Who is in charge?” Essinger approached.

“No one.” A man scowled, crossing his arms.

“Good, then you have a new master. Take the seawater, and cast it over the slugs. It will extinguish them as it does fire.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“That was an order, not a request,” said Essinger.

“Fire is our specialty, not wild game.” He took a swig. “Besides, why don’t you ask that precious vampire hunter of yours?”

The men cackled and prodded one another.

Essinger stepped forward, and lopped off his head. “There is no quarrel.” He wiped his sword on the slumping corpse. “If you wish to stand by and do nothing, then you will entertain my blades.” The vampire unsheathed a second sword. “Come, help your brothers and sisters in this desperate hour.”

The men considered the blades, and then walked away, leaving their comrade’s decapitated corpse on the walk.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Sweetest Stalk

Author's Note

The following was entered into Writers Weekly's 24-hour Short Story Contest on April 25, 2009. Aside from a few minor tweaks, one notable modification has been made--the main character's name changed from Scilla to Smira.

Here is the original writing prompt used for the contest:
"Silly Scilla, silly Scilla," the young girl sang, as she pushed another tiny blue flower into her hair. She knew she would have to remove these adornments before they returned to the house. When Mamm gently cleared her throat, the girl remembered the tiny celery seeds that had been spilling out of her apron all morning.
She sighed and settled down in an empty row, digging her bare toes into the cool soil. She froze when her foot bumped something hard. Scooping the dirt aside with her fingers, she found a tiny, tattered purse. Glancing at her mother to ensure her secret treasure was still a secret, she opened the clasp...
As you can see, Scilla is stamped all over the prompt. How original of me. So where did I come up with the name Smira? I suspect it had something to do with an old friend I stumbled across on Facebook--Samira.

So if you out there, Smira, this short story is dedicated to you.

The Sweetest Stalk

Smira of the swampland was she; daughter of hollow, goblin princess of bog. And heinous she was, even to goblin eyes, and it seemed nothing could be done of it. Then one day she sent herself on an errand, leaving behind a trail of seeds.

"Silly Smira," said her half-brother Kamm, a radish-hued swampling with her father's cruel brow. "Celery cannot grow in swamps. Foolish are you to think one day you could be queen."

"So it shall be," said she. "You will see." And off she went, deep into the tangled wetlands where wandering eyes strained to see. At last she arrived at the spot she'd been told and thrust her claws deep. On and on she toiled, dredging deeper into the mud, kicking up sickly shades of brown in the emerald waters. As fatigue crept in, she dug in her heels, until at last she bumped across something stout. "This is it," she pawed with renewed vigor.

From the muddy pulp she fished a tattered purse, the one the faery chimed about. She filled it with seeds hidden under her dress and buried it again. "On and out they shall sprout. Till the magic binds and stalks unwind," she danced.

The aid of faery magic was a certainty, especially if she hoped to grow anything in these lands. It saddened her to think what her brethren would do if they happened upon the faery. Darklings had a keen taste for faery flesh and wings and were cruel scavengers at heart. To save her soul she did not lend an ear to their dastardly tales of faery treachery.

At last the swamp illuminated. Eagerly she scooped up her shambled host. From its feeble cloth she plucked out a single seed, unlike the hundreds she'd poured in. Closer still she peered, at the seedling that shined like a star. Something danced inside, ever more radiant still. Suddenly it hopped in her hand, bursting from its gelatin shell. She gawked at her hand. Droopy spidery leaves.

"What am I to do with this weed?" said she and tossed them into the mire. Bubble it did, all around, until the waters steamed into a fowl broth. A creature of the swamp's refuse rose, bemoaning its labored rebirth. "Slumberwort, why do you steal me from my sojourn?"

"Not I. A faery made you be. I came to her, seeking stalk for murky haven and instead she delivered you, o servant of stringweed."

"A faery? From what divine quarter?"


"Underwood is fowl," it replied. "A boggie's bowl of fright found you in place."

"Indeed," she frowned. "What shall I do? A touch of celery I must find--to love, to grow with my kind."

"Must you?"

"If I do not raise stalk, these lands will forever be deemed a wasteland, as will I. No suitor of noble lore will have me."

"A goblin prince? Does such a thing exist?"

"Aye. And celery is the goblin gold that springs them from their muddy holes. A princess am I," she curtsied.

"Indeed," it replied. "Pure of heart, take mine of kale; from it all things may grow. All I ask in return is the purse from whence I came." Smira thought it a fair exchange and handed over the purse. And in her hand he placed his final offering before recoiling into the muddy stew.

Back she traced, skipping from puddle to puddle with glee. In her father's dying oak she placed the heartling and at once a stalk of celery shot into the sky. Creatures gathered from all around, gaping at the vast vegetable. Some even offered their hand, goblin and human alike. "Stalkers" her father called them. And he would have none of it.

All fared well until the giant stalk grew seedlings of its own. More and more stalks shot up and soon its legion sang. Not sweet songs of fae, but screeching rants that shattered the ear. The celery would not stop growing, nor singing.

Desperate to stave off the masses from fleeing his kingdom, King Gondegook called for Smira. He inquired about her trip to the mudlands and when she told him about the faery and the beast, his face darkened. "I warned you about playing with faeries. Now they have played us."

"But father, all the beast wanted was the purse from which it sprouted."

"Purse? From whence?"

Smira frowned. "My mother's stash. No more did I imagine its use."

"Twas not a purse, but a faery trinket," Gondegook gasped. "Reclaim gifts, faeries cannot. Duped into returning the harvest bag, have you."

"But gave me his heart did thee, this creature of the bog."

"A trick. Twas the faery all along. And how many seedlings drop thou into it?"

"Hundreds," she replied.

"Then hundredfold they shall rise. Faeries they are, forged from the singing stalks."

Suddenly, the celery sprung to life, ripping out their roots and dancing in the bog. Horrified, the king and his loyal following fled. All, that is, but one.

Smira stared in awe at the faery folk, her accidental bogling. And from them, the sweetest helping stepped forward. "Beautiful creature, art thou a princess? Surely you must be." Soon after, he offered his hand and this one she accepted. And so Smira became a queen many times over and although she was the richest goblin queen, she was also the most loved.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Enura - Chapter 58: Carrion

“My lord!” Lawson dragged aside Lord Vangley as the cobblestone walk crumbled.
Demons erupted from beneath, black and gold stripes adorning their amorphous forms. One slithered out, spearing a cadaver with its crooked teeth. As it took the zombie in its mouth, a second monstrosity snapped off a piece for itself.

Laurent gasped. “They are nearly the size of a house.”

“Any other infestations I should be aware of?” Lawson raised an eyebrow.

The behemoths snaked forward, twitching eyestalks dangling from their bulbous heads. They prodded the adjacent grounds, snatching up the remaining corpses before setting their sights on the hunter.

Laurent cocked his bow.

“No Laurent, you are too close!” Lawson screamed as he pulled the trigger.

The metallic arrow hummed through the air and detonated, shattering the advance, and tossing the hunter through a window. Pockets of gray sludge rained down, dousing the courtyard in a warm bath.

“Get if off, get it off,” Dionte and Deverrell screamed, rubbing their faces against the Taurus’ coat.

Lawson shook his head, and scanned over the store. A punctured barrel lay next to him, white crystals pouring out in a steady stream. He tasted it, and spit it out. “Perfect.”

Scores of heinous shapes crept into the courtyard.

“I fear there are not enough arrows for all of them.” Laurent got to his feet. “What should I do, father?”

“Salt kills slugs.” Lawson stepped forward, hoisting a barrel over his shoulder. “Quick, help me toss it into the air while the other shoots.”

“Allow me, sir.” Essinger crawled down from the rooftop. He grabbed the barrel and chucked it into the air. As it soared, Laurent fired. The barrel exploded in a white plume of smoke.

The slugs wallowed, squealing at the crystalline hail scalding their skin. One by one they receded from the courtyard, poking their heads into nearby residences. Families shrieked as they slithered inside. Splintering the houses from the foundations, the giants hoisted them atop their sprawling backs.

“What are they doing?” Laurent asked.

“Improvising,” Lawson replied. “A dusting of salt is inadequate; they are simply too big.” He scratched his mustache. “But a steady barrage of seawater might do the trick. Send word to the brigade.” He turned to Essinger. “Tell them to treat the snails as they do fires. Also, use the boats in the harbor to evacuate the women and children. Go, now!”

“Yes, sir.” Essinger nodded, and scaled the building.

“Lawson, they are back.” Laurent pointed the bow.

The snails ambled forward, houses and storefronts creaking on their backs.

“Lord Vangley, take your family, and hide in the tunnels below. Laurent and I will solve this,” said Lawson.

“Vangleys do not cower in their castle,” the elder replied.

“Very well, sir.”

As he backed up, Lawson’s glove snagged the pouch on his belt. It fell to the ground, glowing orbs spilling out. The mollusks lunged forward, and scooped them up. Heaving the bag across the courtyard, Lawson stood beside Laurent’s ready bow as they turned and fetched.

“Wait, don’t fire.” Lawson raised his hand. “They are only after the seeds.”

The snails exited the courtyard, and engaged a swarm of listless corpses.

“Perhaps they are doing us a favor,” said Laurent.

“Blasphemy,” Lord Vangley hissed.

“I am sorry, father, but Lawson extracted the seeds from their bodies. It was the only thing keeping them alive,” said Laurent. “None of them were in their right minds.”

“I know, son. I know.” Vangley buried his head in his hand.

Lawson gazed over the courtyard. “Clever girl. Fire was never a consideration; instead Enura wished to crack open Vissorouy just long enough to-”

In the distance, a bell tolled.

“Brambles!” a voice echoed.

Culverins exploded up the street, igniting the sky.

“I am sorry, my lord.” The hunter jumped atop his steed. “But if I am to protect you, I must break my word.” He pressed forward, snatching the bow from Laurent’s hand, and galloped up the street.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Reflecting In

The ocean
In your eyes
The fire
In your hair
Have you hidden away
So long

Frightened are you
That you are
No longer beautiful
Yet here you are

Embarrassed are you
That the image
You hold dear
This fantasy
This ideal
Is not one
In the same

Celebrate yourself
For you are an angel
In the eyes
Of the world

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Enura - Chapter 57: Ruse

The hunter dropped the cadaver, and sawed it open. “More seeds,” he uttered. “No doubt this is a fabrication, but how did Enura plant so many so soon? Graveyards are scattered throughout town; even plots exist by the estate house. Surely we would have seen her.”

“Perhaps they came with the rain,” said Laurent.

“Seeding clouds would be impressive, but not feasible,” Lawson replied. “Besides, why not just poison the rainwater?”

“I know from whence they came,” said Deverrell.

“And so should you, just the same,” said Dionte.

The hunter crossed his arms. “Well, speak.”

“As you and Enura wandered the streets,” said Deverrell.

“Arm in arm, cheek to cheek,” said Dionte.

“I noticed a trickle fall from her hand,” said Deverrell.

“Baby seedlings, tiny bits of sand,” said Dionte.

“Surely you took notice, vampire hunter,” they said as one.

“Surely I did not. Did you try collecting them?”

“With our mouths, a bit of fun,” said Dionte.

“But they scurried away, before indulging our tongues,” said Deverrell.

Lawson gazed at the five orbs in his pouch. “If they are indeed one in the same, only hours passed before they harvested. Could it be that a hint of water was all it took for them to engage a host, and rekindle the flame? If so, to what end?” He pulled the pouch shut.

“Oh, Sparky,” a man howled, as a group of undead staggered after his dog. The mutt sprinted ahead with a moldering hand in its mouth, kicking mud in their faces.

Amused by the outburst, Lawson continued down the street, and noticed a pair of zombies devouring a sack of oats. “I can see where this leads, Laurent, and I fear they are beholden to a familiar design: first, consume all vegetation, then the crops and grains in the storehouses. Once this is done, slay the livestock and their owners, before ultimately, each other. It is a clever plan, orchestrated by a simple seed, but I sense it is merely a ruse.”

“For the brambles?” said Laurent.

“Perhaps, but my heart says no,” said Lawson. “Do I dare listen?”

A voice called in the distance.

“Wait.” The hunter angled his head. “Is that your father?”

Lawson led his horse from the stable. “Come, and tread carefully with the bow.”

The five walked down the street, careful not to encumber the cadavers as they stumbled by.

“My goodness, Lawson, what do you have in this thing?” Laurent clutched the crossbow with both hands.

“Rocks,” he grinned. “Scores and scores of rocks.”

As they approached, they caught sight of Lord Vangley pleading with a corpse atop a bench.

“Mother, get down from there!” The elder’s voice echoed through the courtyard.

The cadaver gnawed on the last bit of the horse’s head, snapping and clawing at her son. Catching the scent of the tiny morsel, zombies slowly closed in. Even her crippled husband wriggled forward without any legs.

“Should I ready the bow?” Laurent asked.

“Not under any circumstances. My lord, get out of there!” Lawson shouted.

Suddenly something exploded out of the ground, devouring the defiant corpse with splintered teeth.

“Mother!” Lord Vangley cried.

Taurus rose on two legs as more of the slimy beasts cracked through the cobblestone, and snapped up the wayward carcasses.

Lawson gasped. “Carrions.”