Tag Archives: Short story

Dead Night

Sleep sat upon his shoulders in the dim room. Yellow-red light spilled across the carpeted floor, corrupted and scarred by horizontal lines of shadow. He felt along the cold wall for the light switch. He winced and stumbled back as the sterile white light burst on. Sighing, he lay down in his bed. The frame creaked. His eyelids slid shut. His hand found the switch once again and the light snapped off.

Pulling the thick covers up to his chin, he felt sleep’s gentle fingers pushing down on his shoulder as he relaxed and sunk into the bed. Then he felt her ripped away. The roughness of worry replaced her gentle touch, forcing itself into his mind. His eyes snapped open. His hands snatched the covers. With a violent thrust, he cast them away. Sitting up, pain rushed to his head; it throbbed. He scanned the room, glanced out the window and saw one of the lamp-posts glowing. As he approached the window he felt her weight on his shoulders again; her fingers gently pushing his eyelids closed.His fingers played with the chord of the blinds, they tumbled shut as he dragged himself back to bed.

This time memory woke him. He regretted certain words. He worried about their retributions. Shaking his head, he scooted down in under the covers. Reaching into the crease between his bed and the frame, he pulled out his iPod. With his earphones in, he clicked play and the soothing movements of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons caressed his mind. They chased away the worry and memories, but sleep had abandoned him, betrayed him, left him to hang helpless in night’s dark grip. The shadowed room sucked all motivation from his body. He remained laying down, making no attempt to turn on the light, no attempt to turn off Vivaldi; he didn’t even hear the seasons anymore.

Something clicked on. Cold air trickled into the room; helpless to stop it, he felt it falling down on him, reflecting off his covers, and entering the stone walls all around. Another click and the fan came on, accompanied with a quiet, but unignorable rattle as the cold air poured from the vent in the wall. It was not so much the direct current that bothered him, but the chill’s ever present emanation from the lifeless stone. Something in him laughed, but the silence strangled anything audible apart from the rattle; he thought himself a corpse, dead without release from his body, laying on a slab of ice awaiting his burial and true, eternal darkness.

Something clicked off. The rattle died with the breeze. Silence still reigned in its lonely court, holding bound he, its only subject. The cold still crept into his bones. He shivered and the chattering of his teeth broke the rule of silence. Taking some small comfort in that sound, he made to run his hand through his hair but moved it away when he felt frigid beads of sweat on his forehead. He placed his moist fingertips against the stones. Cold as they were, they were at least always consistent, unlike that harlot, sleep, who would return briefly to him and then abandon him right before he fell into the comfort of her bosom. Silence was not loyal either. The cold stones, however, were steadfast, consistent, loyal, but they entrapped him with himself.

He spoke, hoping to hear the stones echo his voice back to him, some semblance of conversation. He hoped in vain. They absorbed his voice as if they devoured his soul and he did not speak again.

He only stared at the stones. He knew where they were. Everywhere. He knew they were white as fresh snow, but in the darkness they were black as starless space. Nonetheless, he stared at them.

He wished his roommate was there, sleeping or not, he would have at least provided the knowledge of the presence of another human being. But he was rarely around anymore. The cold stones replaced the warm companionship of human presence. Glancing toward the closed door, he remembered the last time he had been around a large group of people. They were loud. They were annoying. And he felt no less alone with them. He had even wished for the quiet solace of his room. Now, in the midst of the darkness and quiet of that place, he wished those people would come bursting in.

It was not to be. No one came into the room. Not one sound found its way past the door from the hallway. Nobody would be out there anyway. Not at this time of the night anyway. He glanced toward where he had once placed an alarm clock. Dropping his head back into the pillow, he chuckled at his own lack of memory. He had forgotten that clock at home.

Home. Now there was a thought. He had not thought of it since he had come back to school. The memories of May’s faint whine carrying through the house warmed him from heart outward. That noise which had once frustrated him. Now it was a sweet symphony of tiny, faint notes that faded out, leaving silence. This silence was a comfortable silence, a loving silence, a silence filled with the knowledge of her. His thoughts shifted to his father’s snoring and the drone of the narrator of a WWII commentary describing some forgotten battle. They shifted to his mother and how, even in his adulthood, she would visit him at night to wish him sleep well and to tell him her love.

He opened his eyes to the sunrise peeking through the blinds, casting light upon the floor. He sprang from his bed. Grabbing the thin cord, he yanked the blinds open, letting the light flood in and wash over him. He felt the slight warmth of the sun combine with the warmth of his heart as he remembered his family and enjoyed the beauty of the sunrise. The darkness was gone. The dead night was banished for as long as the sun reigned over the sky. For now he was awake—for now he was warm.

Copyright 2014 Joshua A. Spotts


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The Curious Experience of Isaiah Vates

           The sea and the sky are the same, the old man always said. At the time he had laughed, but looking out that morning—the cold sea-mist clinging to his naked torso—he knew the old man was right.

            The sea-mist transformed into an unbroken wall of sea-fog which possessed both sea and sky, morphing them into one. Yet, perhaps, the warm glow of the morning on the water of the sea and the water in the sky played tricks on his sleep-deprived eyes.

            He stood. The slick rock cold beneath his feet, he rolled back onto his heels and then forward onto his toes, feeling every ridge and rise. Behind him, invisible in the sea-mist, a path meandered by only ten feet away, back up a narrow trail through the underbrush. The sound of feet, but far too light, caught his ear. He whirled toward the path. Nearly losing his footing, he caught himself, stood upright, and strained to peer through the thickening sea-fog.

            A fog horn, hollow, deep, and long—like the wail of a mourning father—broke the silence between him and the path.

            “Goodbye,” He said, turning again and leaping off the cliff edge.

            In the timeless moment just before his body cracked off the rocks and sunk into the water, he heard from out of the morning fog the voice, fickle as a wisp of smoke in a rain storm, “No.”


            Her grandpa always enjoyed the morning. It gave him wisdom, he would say, that brief moment when the sun is just awakening, darkness begins to give way, and the voices of nature are in harmonious arrangement before the chaos of humanity is unleashed with the savage squawking of alarms and the growl of car engines.

            Despite how lightly she tread, it always sounded as though someone was raking the loose, lighter gravel over the heavier base layer. It sounded like rain in some way, but yet different in some other way. Lately, her mind had been foggier than usual.

            She stopped and looked out over the sea. The clear morning allowed the rising sun to warm the inbound waves. She saw a man’s back, hidden partially by the foliage, but she knew him to be standing at the cliff’s edge. She blinked and found herself locked in place with his blue eyes. Their cold gaze contrasted with the warm glow of the sun which framed his naked torso, glistening with water droplets. Tearing away from his gaze, she heard a ragged cry as though a mother was mourning her newborn child dead in her arms.

Looking back again, she saw him, as if through a haze of heat, leap from the cliff, the obscuring foliage gone. “No,” she cried before vaulting the railing and running toward the cliff edge.


           Isaiah Vates never enjoyed his Samhain morning walk. It was, however, necessary; and he would not abandon his duty. Tightening his grip on the worn, raven’s skull handle, he leaned heavily upon his bronze-capped walking stick as he limped up the gravel path into the darkness—away from the warm, glowing safety of his hut where his wife sat by the window holding a candle, awaiting his return with nervous hands and eager, tear reddened eyes.

            It would be wrong to say it was cold as Isaiah moved up the path, but it would also be wrong to say the morning was warm, yet neither was it in between; a more accurate description would be that it was in between the in between. It would also be wrong to say that the light morning fog felt clammy on his exposed hands, because it also felt warm as if it was smoke from a great fire, and yet neither.

            Isaiah set himself down in the ruins of an old house. He knew its owner—or had in what seemed a lifetime ago—he could not remember. Taking knitted gloves from his jacket’s oversized pockets, he encased his trembling hands in them. With a groan, which immediately died moments from his mouth, he stood. Leaning upon his walking stick, he used his right hand to pull the bill of his cap further down toward his round spectacles to shield against the misty sprinkle that had come when the fog had dissipated; though its disappearance, so sudden, would incline the mind to believe it was called away.

            Then he saw it happen. He saw them. He knew what they were and he started forward toward them. A young woman stood on the path gazing out across rock wet with morning dew. A young man stood on the edge of the rock, perilously perched at the cliff edge. No wind blew—and yet strong waves, tipped with green foam, crashed against the rocks. The young man turned his back to the young woman and cast himself off the cliff, but as he fell his face turned toward Isaiah, causing the old man to stumble back.

            Shaking, Isaiah Vates clung to his walking stick and pulled himself up from the ground. He should have remained down. He should have kept his eyes closed. For there at the cliff edge, looking accusatorily at him, stood the young woman with the face of his long-dead granddaughter, Maria Vates.

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A Classic Tale

He both enjoyed seeing her and did not. Elation was there, but also retraction. He could not be fully himself with her, but more himself than he was elsewhere. Indeed, he lived a divided life. At court, he needed her presence and yet dreaded it. At war, he was thankful for her absence, but he also missed her.


The war ended abruptly. The heroes were honored. Traitors who had once sought refuge outside their native land were returned. Their tortured bodies dangled from the gallows, being finally granted relief. In his mind, the heroes fared no better than the traitors, only their pain was of the soul and of the heart. From these they had no respite.


He sat at the right hand of the king that first night back. His deeds were lauded. They claimed he had slain hundreds, that he had ended the war. He knew otherwise. He knew the exact number of men whose lives he stole, whose chances at love he took from them. He had looked into their eyes as his own were tinged with the red rage of battle. He had heard their last words, words that should have been spoken while lying old in bed…at peace.

Her voice brought him back from his somber speculation. He looked up. His joy shone through his eyes, but he only partly smiled. She poured him a glass of wine, spilling a few red drops unto the table around his goblet. She apologized and moved on.


He stole glances at her, ignoring his king as much as he could, deflecting the admiring comments of the king’s daughters as though they were blows in a battle, rough and sharp. Her blue gown stood out from the dull browns and flickering fire reds of the feast hall. She moved gracefully, yet with a vigor. A passion for life was obvious in the slight bounce of her walk, in the dancing of her hair, and in her very eyes. He laid his hands down and made ready to stand. He was going to approach her, admit his feelings, an act that took more courage than he had ever needed in battle.


Greasy, gelatinous animal fat covered the hand that grabbed his and raised it high. He heard his king proclaiming his name, then something about being an ambassador. His heart stopped. Then it sank. His determination turned to dread. He tried to smile, but it lost what mock sincerity it had when she looked at him and drew his eyes to hers. He steeled himself as the king bid him stand. He let one tear unsheath itself from his eye, allowing it to flee to the dirty floor below. Flight, retreat, escape, all things he could not do.


The morning after the next full moon came too quickly. He had talked with her some, but he never once confessed. He learned to treasure every moment with her, every sound of her voice. When she was gone, however, his thoughts always turned to his future and her place in it. Her place being one that he dearly wanted, that is, at his side, but he knew his new career was even more dangerous than his last. His enemy would no longer be in front of him, yelling and wielding shining weapons. His enemies would now be everywhere.  Nor did he want to take her with him into a place where even he, hero of the war, would not feel secure.


He looked down on her from his saddle. His robes were new, different from those of the warrior. He needed to look his part, but remain himself; a task more difficult than most would expect. But then she handed him a letter. They met eyes. He smiled and placed the letter next to his heart. Then, with a reverent bow, he left her behind. He laid his hand to that letter as he rode away, swearing that with it he would remain himself and that he would return for her.

Copyright 2013 by Joshua A. Spotts



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Filed under 1000 word limit, Flash Fiction, General, Short Stories

The Dervish

            The crazed look in his eyes, the sweat rushing down his wrinkled forehead, the fresh blood on his kukri, the sound and smell of his revolver firing, these things I will never forget. I stood steady, my brothers-in-arms formed rank and file all around me. Down the barrel of my rifle I stared, feeling its steady weight in the muscles of my arms and the rest of its butt against my shoulder.

            Hot rays of sunlight beat down on us as the wind threw wave after wave of heat against us. The enemy was closing fast. I, like my fellow soldiers, waited for the order. We waited, trusting in our discipline, in our commanders. Our faith did not betray us.

The commander’s voice rang out strong and clear over the screams of our enemies. “Fire!”

            Our muskets roared in parade ground unity. Our enemies toppled to the ground, raising more dust. From that dust, and over their fallen fellows, leapt more enemies. The man I had aimed at had not fallen. I knelt down on one knee when the order came, my gaze still fixed on him. I reloaded my rifle without looking as my brothers behind me fired at the enemy. When the smoke cleared, he still had not fallen. Another command rang out and I rose in response, readying my rifle, facing the bayonet toward the onrushing enemy, towards him. He would die; this I would insure.

            They crashed into us like the waves against the white cliffs back in sweet home England. Our bayonets took the first down swiftly, in then out, then in again with the next enemy. My bayonet took him in the side, that dervish whose savage image is printed so strongly on my mind, and he went down. I stabbed one of his comrades through the throat shortly thereafter.

           Hearing a scream, I raised my rifle to deflect a blow, but then I felt it and I knew I was too late. The rough blade sliced the skin on the outside of my left shoulder. The man was on me in an instant. I tumbled to the ground. When I opened my eyes from the initial shock, I found myself staring into his face, the hate filled face of the first dervish I had felled. He raised his kukri and in that moment I sent my last prayer to the Almighty.

           The expected blow never came. I never felt the rough metal of his kukri slash into my neck. I never felt my lifeblood rush from me. Within a moment, the dervish was knocked from atop me with a rifle butt. I felt hands reach under my shoulders and help me to my feet. A rifle was thrust into my hand. I moved forward into the conflict once more despite my blurry vision.

           I had only two things in my mind as I fought: kill and hold the line. It was the same for all my brothers-in-arms. We fought, we killed, we held the line…we died. The fighting wore at us; whereas the enemy, those dust covered, turbaned dervishes seemed never to tire in their fanatical quest to destroy us. Our weariness began to tell in the worst evidence, loss of life. But still we held our line, thinning as it was.

           Sweet relief arrived with the sound of a cavalry bugle and of four hundred ground-beating hooves. The cavalry smashed into the rear of the enemy, scattering them and running them down. We infantry, as was our duty, spread out across the battlefield in search of our own wounded. We also searched for the enemy’s wounded that we might, like civilized men, take them prisoner and tend to their wounds. The irrecoverable, of both our own and the enemy, were to be finished off with a thrust to the heart.

           The battlefield, as all are, was an image from a nightmare. Twisted, mutilated corpses lay everywhere, their faces contorted as if they had suffered days of torture before their deaths. I was used to such things, for I saw them both in the night and in the day. These sights most certainly took away a part of my humanity, a part which would never return to me, but no matter what a man goes through, there will always be some part of humanity in him.

           That surviving part of my humanity spoke to me as a meandered through those fields of death. I began to pity those who lay dead or dying all around me. I did not wonder about their past lives, I only pitied them for their eternal damnation. Even that pity, heartless as it is, was not appropriate for the battlefield. It was that pity which caused me to spare him, that dervish who had sought to kill me. I looked down at him. His eyes were fierce, the intention in them unmistakable, he lusted for my death.

           I pointed my bayonet at him, standing over him. The point hovered just above his heart. One thrust, that is all it would have taken. But that thrust I did not deliver. Stepping back, I called out to some of my nearby brothers-in-arms. We carried the dervish back to camp and tied him to a post. I called for the doctor, a rough man blessed with long, thick fingers and a deplorable sense of hygiene for his profession. I stayed with him while he attended to the dervish, who in turn paid no attention to the doctor, focusing only on me.

           It was that night that I realized the mistake my humanity had caused. I lay on my cot. My tent-mate had died in the battle, but it did not bother me. I never really liked him. When I heard that heavy breathing and when I opened my eyes to see those crazed features of the dervish staring back at me, I wished my tent-mate had not died. Indeed, in that moment I mourned his death.

           The dervish flung himself onto me, his hands finding my exposed throat. I punched at his gut, but it was firm; every muscle in his lithe body was focused on killing me. I flailed my legs, but he just straddled by midsection and kept choking me. I grabbed his forearms and pulled, but to no avail. My vision began to fade and the memories of my life began moving slowly by, every gory detail, even a depressing few happy moments like my nephew’s birth. Then one memory crept in among the others, so subtle that I almost missed it. I saw myself placing my bayonet beneath my head roll.

           Reaching back as I felt my consciousness slipping, I also felt the cold metal of my bayonet. With the last of my energies I pulled it out and plunged it in between the dervish’s ribs, right into his heart. His grip loosened and I gasped in a breath of life-giving air before ripping my bayonet from his side and plunging it into his gut. He collapsed dead on top of me, our bodies intertwined, the living and the dead. Such is the way of mankind.

Copyright 2013 Joshua A. Spotts


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The Lost Eyes

Lord William stood on his balcony. His wide, green estates stretched out to the horizon. Small hovels with dark smoke puffing from crumbling chimneys squatted near dying patches of trees. Lord William turned his back on his rich fields and poor tenants. His mind lingered on a subject far away. It lingered on things lost to mankind, things lost to him.

“He has hidden them away, Lord.”

“Witch!” Lord William shouted. He slammed his fist on rough table, which had suffered under all his ancestor’s blows before him. “Do you think I do not know this?”

The old woman stumbled backwards, falling from her stool. With a scream she landed on the rough wooden floor, something cracked.

Lord William grabbed the crystal ball from its stand on the table. He raised it far above his head as he towered over the old woman. “He stole them from me, from my family.”

Crouching down, Lord William held the crystal ball before the old woman’s face. He sneered, his thick brows drawing together, his bone white teeth shone in the torchlight which cast shadows across his dark brown eyes. “Do you even know his name, Witch.” He hissed, spittle flying into the old woman’s face. “Can you see that in your ball? Can you even tell me where he is?”

“Lord,” the old woman whispered through her pain. “He has shrouded himself.”

Lord William stood again, glowering down upon her. “Then I thank you for your services to my family, but it seems you have outstayed both your welcome and your usefulness.”

“Please, Lord, no!” The old woman’s eyes widened in fear as Lord William brought the crystal ball down upon her head. Lord William laughed as he brought the bloodied orb down again and again. His black hair lashed his face as he came down and then, as he rose again for another strike, it would fly back to reveal a face speckled with blood, framing eyes filled with savage madness.

Lord William stopped, frowned down upon the bloody, broken corpse on his floor, and turned toward the table. “What a mess.” He picked up a book from the table. A drawing of a pair of eyes stared at him from the word pages, coded, flowing scripts surrounded the eyes. Lord William placed two fingers on the eyes. “Where are you?”

Striding back to his balcony, Lord William cast the bloodied crystal ball down into the moat below. He looked up and stepped back in shock. There, only a few hundred yards from him, sat a rider clothed in dark blue and purple robes. Despite the shroud which covered the riders face, Lord William knew the rider’s eyes watched him in an unwavering gaze. He was of the Order of Aelra. He knew they were watching him; they had been since the eyes went missing, but this was a boldness he had not seen before.

“Guard!” Lord William shouted, never taking his eyes off the rider. He heard the commotion behind him, heard the slight gasp when the guard saw the old woman’s body, then waited for the guard to stand silent, before speaking. “See that rider?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Take a group of riders out and bring him to me.” Lord William leaned forward, clutching the balcony railing.

“Aye, sir.”

Lord William heard the door shut and waited, counting his breaths, until he heard the drawbridge fall and the sound of hooves pound across it. He then straightened and smiled as six of his best riders galloped across his estates toward his prey. Soon he would teach those arrogant warrior-priests what it meant to spy on him.

As Lord William watched, the Aelra rider dismounted. Lord William’s guards bore down on the man, but never did he show any intention to flee. A glimmer of steel shone as the man drew his sword and fell upon it. Lord William jumped back from the balcony railing, turned, and ran down the curving stairway that led from the tower to his central hall. His son ran toward him smiling and laughing, but he shoved the boy away. Out of the corner of his eye, Lord William saw the boy’s tutor, Henry, grab the boy by the shoulders and draw him away into another room.

“Jacob!” Lord William shouted, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Where is that boy?”

“Here, lord.” Jacob said as he bowed toward Lord William, his shaggy blond mane falling in front of his handsome face.

“Ready my horse.”

“Aye, lord.” The boy bowed several times before scurrying off.

Lord William moved to the main door and was about to lay his hand on the handle when it was cast open. He raised his hand to strike down whoever came through, but when he saw the dark blue and purple robes he lowered it.

“What is this?” He demanded as his guards carried the bleeding man into the hall.

“He is still alive, sir.” One of the guards said as they set the body down.

“Not for long.” Lord William knelt down, drew his dagger, and slit the man’s throat.

“Sir!” One of the guards began.

Lord William turned on him and placed the dagger tip right between the man’s ribs, pushing it in, smiling as the life drained out. He turned back to the rest of his guards. “He is of the Order of Aelra, he would not have told us anything in the few short minutes he had to live.”

Stalking to his chair at the back of the hall, Lord William slunk down into it, running his thumb along the bloody blade of his dagger. His guards followed him. He watched in amusement as they glanced at each other, at the wall behind him, shifting on their feet, but never daring to look him in the eyes.

His thoughts wandered back to the eyes illustrated in the book. They were the same shape as his own, same color too, but they had seen things he had not seen, things he wanted to see. He had spent long years searching the family crypt, only to find, on the night of his son’s birth, a night that should have been glorious that they had been stolen. From that day he had been searching for them, scouring the land for miles around, his agents lurked in every city. The witch lying dead in his chamber was just one of many he had employed and killed, the only difference being that this one had served his father before him. He did not regret her death; he only feared her fate would become his if he could not find those eyes.

“Lord,” one of the guards asked, jerking Lord William from his thoughts.

“What?” Lord William growled.

“Your agent has arrived from London.”

“Bring him to me.”

The agent was led in. He was a small man clothed in a long coat and a worn top hat. “Lord,” he said, bowing. “I bring word of the things you seek.”

“Tell me.”

“There is a legend among the Order of Aelra, whom I see you are acquainted with, of a boy with eyes that contain the secrets of lost technologies.”

“Are you certain it is a boy?”

“That is what I am told, lord.”

“You have been helpful to me. If I find what I am looking for I will make sure you receive your reward.”

“Thank you, lord.”

“Take him to the dungeon,” Lord William said with a flick of his hand toward the guards who then grabbed the man and drug him down into the depths below the castle. “Kill him when you get down there.”

“No, lord!” The man yelled. He struggled against the guards. “Please, please, spare me!”

“I do not enjoy groveling.” Lord William stood. “Kill him now.”

A guard drew his sword as his comrades stretched out the unfortunate man’s neck, baring it for the severing blow to come.

“I know who the boy is with the eyes!”

“Do you now?” Lord William walked over to the man, picking up the man’s fallen top hat along the way. He stabbed it through with his bloody dagger and held it in front of the man’s face. “Who is it?”

The man managed to smile as the guards loosened their hold. “Not until I am on a horse and outside your gates.”

“Are you bargaining with me?”


“Not a good idea,” Lord William placed the dagger blade to the man’s cheek and drew it slowly down. Blood welled and ran down the pale skin.

“You kill me and you will never find out who has the eyes.”

“Release him.”

The guards did as they were bid.

“Thank you,” the man said, taking his torn hat from Lord William and placing it upon his bald head.

“I am not giving you a horse, nor am I letting you out of my sight until you lead me to the boy with the eyes.” Lord William said. “I give you my word as a lord that you will be free and rich besides.”

“I do not need to lead you anywhere, lord. The boy lives here, under your vary roof.”

“How is this?”

“Did you ever wonder why the Order Aelra was watching your castle?”

Lord William frowned and nodded. “Guards, bring all the servant boys to me.”

“It is not a servant boy, lord.”

“No!” Lord William snarled. It made sense, the theft on the very night of his son’s birth. The rumors afterward that his son had been born blind, but miraculously received sight only a few hours later. The tutor, he was the one, it was rumored he was a wizard, only he would have had the power to veil himself and the boy from a witch’s spells. He threw open the main door and rushed out into the courtyard.

“Hold!” Lord William roared. His eyes widened in anger and panic as he saw the tutor and his son sitting on his prize steed, ready to ride.

“Now you know, Lord William.” The tutor said. “But I cannot allow you to know these secrets. You are unworthy.”

“Guards! Kill him!” Lord William shouted, pointing toward the tutor.

“Call them off.” The tutor said, his voice even, a crossbow pointed at Lord William’s chest.

“Stand down,” Lord William motioned to his guards who lowered their weapons.

“I shall give you one more chance to put aside your obsession. Answer me truthfully, I warn you, else I will end you here and now.”

“I will answer in truth, traitor, make sure that your own words are honest.”

“If you could obtain the secrets of the eyes only through the death of your son, would you kill him?” The tutor asked.

“I would.” Lord William said without hesitation, his body shaking in rage.

“Then you will never see your son again, Lord William.” The tutor raised his hand and smoke obscured him and the boy from Lord William’s vision. When the smoke cleared they were gone. Lord William turned, his heart filled only with anger, not regret.

By Joshua A. Spotts

Copyright 2013 Joshua A. Spotts


Filed under 2000 word limit, General, Short Stories

Oceanic Grand Canyons

Jonah’s career was that of an Oceanographer, his chief interest, the inspection of oceanic trenches, but he had never set foot on a boat. The very sound of crashing waves made him queasy. Rainfall simply annoyed him when he was underneath a roof; outside, however, it terrified him because he felt as though he were drowning. When he showered he did so with a snorkel and never stayed in for more than five minutes. Indeed, he much preferred dry land.

“You’re a genius, Jonah,” his friends had said. They came to him and begged his help with their assignments. He knew every fact there was about the oceans of the world; and, as he was an avid reader of scholarly journals on oceanography, he always learned the new facts almost as soon as they were published.

To illustrate to his friends what oceanic trenches were like he would always say, “they are like the Grand Canyon, but in the ocean.” His friends always laughed at that description as they hung out with him at The Well, the local bar. There his throat was never dry because of the beers his friends would buy him. Those had been warm days, safe from the elements outside, that dreaded rain, that frustrating wind, and that hated snow. But those were his college years, things were different back then.

When he graduated from college he was hired right away as an Oceanographer. But when they wanted him to go out on a boat to investigate the Puerto Rico Trench, things went awry for him. He refused to board the boat, no matter how much urging the company used. They even offered him a raise to his already substantial pay. He refused and resigned his job.

Now Jonah sits on a wooden bench in the snow, a park ranger in Northern Michigan because he could not overcome his fear.

By Joshua A. Spotts

Copyright 2013

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Filed under 1000 word limit, Flash Fiction, General


The evening sun burnt the cloudy western sky the color of blood. This bloody horizon hung just above a tight line of warriors, faces grim. Behind them and all around the glade loomed great oak trees. A tall stone stood in the middle.

One man stepped out from between two of the old oaks on the eastern side of the clearing. The line of warriors opposite him raised their shields and readied their swords.

“You are not permitted here.” The man said.

A few of the warriors chuckled. One of them walked forward. He wore a long cloak of bearskin. The other warriors followed him. “We go where we please,” he said.

“No more.” The man said as he drew his sword. Behind him a blackening sky lurked, creeping slowly toward the west as the sun fled. The man took a step forward, raising his hand. “Flee while you still can.”

The warrior wearing the bearskin raised his sword and beat it against his shield. The others mimicked him. They continued to march toward the man. They sent their war cries to the heavens. The man sent their souls to the pits at the drop of his hand. Arrows fell among the line of warriors and in turn the line fell. Their blood fed the ground of the holy glade.

The man walked to where the warrior in the bearskin lay. He kicked the warrior and smiled at the moan that escaped with the blood from the warrior’s lips. He knelt and propped up the warrior’s head with his hand. “I gave you a choice; you would have lived if you had left. Die now with that in mind.”

The warrior’s lips moved. The man brought the bloodied face close to his ear. “Who has killed me?”

“Cokavmorar Nightwind of the Deavan,” The man said as he slid a dagger into the dying warrior’s heart.

Nightwind stood, leaving his dagger in the corpse. “To me, my brothers,” he said.

Hooded figures entered the glade from all directions. Dark cloaks hung from their shoulders. Each man wore a leather breastplate. On each breastplate the seven pointed star, the star of eternity and guidance, was depicted in a light grey color with a red arrow through it. The figures threw back their hoods. Every face, every feature, was Nightwind’s. They were Nightwind and he them. Nightwind opened his arms wide, “come and embrace me, brothers.”

The figures all rushed toward Nightwind, vanishing into his chest as they hurried to his embrace. When all the figures had returned to him, Nightwind removed an amulet from around his neck, looked at it, nodded, and deposited it in a leather bag tied firmly to his belt. He rubbed at the red line on his neck from where the amulet had hung by a silver cord.

Nightwind touched the stone, turned north as night fell completely, shrouding the forest world in darkness. He exited the dark cover of the tree, coming to an open field. He saw the waves, glittering in the starlight far out. His feast hall stood on a hill above the shore. The cliffs at its rear plummeted hundreds of feet into the waters. A sea of grass stood between him and his hall. In the starlight the grass was endowed with an eerie blue sheen.

Taking a step into the open field, Nightwind froze, rigid. He had heard some noise behind him. His ears strained to hear it again. There it was. He whirled toward it, drawing his sword. His left hand reached into the leather bag at his side. He closed his fingers around the amulet. It was hot, scorching his fingers. One of the hooded figures appeared before him. He stared into the face, like looking in a mirror, and saw pain reflected there. It was the pain of death and he felt it. Then the figure reached out his hand and Nightwind felt himself growing older as his face on the figure grew younger.

That figure left and another came, the process repeated. Nightwind fell to the ground. He felt his face, the wrinkles forming there. His vision and other senses weakened, but his memory remained sharp. In that memory he heard the words of the wizard who had given him the amulet. “Do not use it often or they will grow fiercer and free themselves, each one taking from you the years they served.”

Now, as he lay there in those fields, within sight of his hall, Nightwind regretted not locking away the amulet as the wizard had cautioned him to. Now he would pay the price of his decision, now he would die, and for the first time in his life he felt the cold grip of fear. He cowered in the face of death.

Then, as his last years were drawn from his withered old body and he struggled to hold onto a last few moments of life, he felt the amulet snatched from his side. Someone, hunched over, pale white hands wrinkled glowing in the starlight, stood over him, facing the last of the figures. The amulet dangled from one wrinkled hand and a staff was clutched in the other.

The figure hissed and screamed. Nightwind’s eyes closed, but he cast them open again, refusing to give in to what he feared. He saw the figure flee into the forest.

Nightwind’s savior turned toward him, face shrouded by shadows. “Rise, Cokavmorar Nightwind.”

Nightwind tried to rise, indeed the thought was there, but his body would not cooperate. “Who are you?”

“I am Elerae.” There was something soothing in Elerae’s voice. “Rest now, Cokavmorar. I will heal you now, giving you back some of the years you have lost. I only ask that you remember my name and what I have done when the time comes.”

“You have saved me, Elerae, I will never forget.”

“That is good, Cokavmorar, you rest now. When you awake you will be well. Fear not, death will not touch you while I am here.”

Nightwind closed his eyes and drifted into sleep. His fear was gone and when he awoke he was in a valley at the base of a hill. He looked up, recognizing the looming pinnacle of his feast hall surmounted by a dragon’s skull. He rose to his feet, feeling his former strength. He laughed, deep and boisterous, and a challenge was issued from above. “Who goes there?”

“It is I, Cokavmorar Nightwind, your lord!”

“My lord,” the response came, “welcome back!”

Nightwind heard the doors of his hall cast open. Golden light poured out into the night. The smell of meat and ale filled the air. A crowd of people gathered in the doorway as Nightwind walked up the hill toward them. Most were warriors, but a few of the braver daughters and wives had shoved their way through the crowd to stand by their fathers and husbands. They yearned for a glimpse of their handsome lord. When they saw Nightwind’s face, however, they vanished back into the feast hall and fell to gossiping. Something in his eyes frightened them; even the stoutest of the warriors could not look directly at them.

“Come!” Nightwind yelled, his voice mirthful, but his eyes betraying his true temper. “Let us not stand out here in the cold. There is feasting to be done!”

The feast that night was filled with Nightwind’s voice as he went among his warriors, talking with them. The women avoided him, even his betrothed. When he finally laid his head down to sleep in the early hours of the morning he found no rest in it. Nightmares plagued him. His fear of death gnawed at his mind. He wished Elerae had allowed him to die, for surely he thought final death better than fear of it. He could not have known it, but Elerae had healed him for a reason, and his resolve to die when the next opportunity presented itself would never come to be.

By Joshua A. Spotts

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Filed under 1000 word limit, Short Stories