Trespasser (Part II)

Posted on April 22, 2014 by R. Richardsson

The look on ole Sammy Dryden’s face was that of pure contentment when it happened. He was fixated on the shape of the ballerina, his one good eye staring as affectionately while the other remained hidden behind its milky cataract blanket. His heart had simply ceased to continue beating.

His smile softened, then faded altogether as the life slipped away from his old bones. First the knife, and then the figurine he had been carving, fell from his hands. The first clattered against wooden floor, spinning for several seconds before coming to rest at his feet. The other landed on its side with a crack. The right arm of the graceful dancer broke from the impact and shot into the air, bouncing off of the approaching forehead of its maker.

He had been known as Sammy Dryden to his neighbors, though some of the children often referred to him as ole man Dryden, or Sammy D. He had survived his wife Hazel, of sixty years. He had outlived both of his sons, Robert and Douglas, who had each served and died for their country. He himself had served three tours protecting the people’s freedom. There was no man on God’s green Earth capable of sending him through the Pearly Gates.

As the rains finally died and the water level in the street slowly vanished into sewers already swollen from the storm, it was ultimately time that had betrayed him.

Nobody had noticed when Bryer Street’s oldest resident quietly died that night. The storm had taken its toll on the community’s residents. Having become disinterested once they realized that it wasn’t going to be the end of all things, each family had moved into the interiors of their homes to fulfill their nightly routines.

By the time anyone knew he was gone, he had become as wooden as the figurines he spent his days drawing from the wood.

The Box (Part XX)

Posted on April 17, 2014 by R. Richardsson

From the shadows nearby, another set of eyes watched as the remains of the box crumbled through the hobbit’s fingers. Shards of the enchanted material clattered across the melted gold at his feet, while a clear viscous liquid oozed down from where the container had once been. Resting over the crack where his hands met was the eye of the Lich God, Necrodemus.

It was as one would expect an eye to be, a soft white orb with a long nerve trailing behind it. There was no coloring around the pupil. In fact, the pupil itself was narrowed very much like that of a venomous snake!

The cavern rumbled from the battle taking place on the opposite side, where the great red Wyrm and Sorcerer continued to battle the other’s wills. Even as the eye was freed from its prison, one of the two combatants was nearing the end of its life.

The watcher gasped as the eye began to levitate from the hands of the diminutive figure before him, so surprised was he that it still possessed any magic to do so. The nerve straightened like an arrow as the orb turned to face away from the hobbit, aiming for the empty ocular cavity.

What came next happened in a matter of seconds. The eye slammed into the skull of the hobbit, who in turn began to scream as his very soul became forever corrupted by the power of the long dead deity. His small head slammed backward, projecting the last display of pain and suffering he would ever feel unto the cold stone ceiling above.

Even as the little man shrieked, was he beginning to levitate slowly into the air. His clothes began to rot away from his skin, falling away in patches that in turn fell apart like ash when they hit the stone below. As the observer continued to watch, horrified, the pale skin of the hobbit became emaciated, withering inward until he was no longer recognizable as a male or female creature.

The sound of its screams became something inhuman, no longer reflecting anything even remotely like pain, but more akin to pure rage. A black oily smoke formed beneath its feet, swirling lazily around the mummified hobbit until it was covered with a robe born from the darkest pits of hell. The smoke rippled over the creature’s form, gradually smoothing into a material that to look at for too long was to become lost in its starless void.

It was then that the observer realized that the shrieking had ceased. He looked upward, seeking the facial features of the reconstituted Lich and was shocked to see that it was staring down at him.

“Ahh,” it sighed with gusto. “You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment.”

The Lich had been facing the battle when it began to rise from the ground so only its head was turned toward him. The eye that was once confined to a magical prison focused on him while the other darted about madly in its socket. To the observer, it seemed that all which was left of Joeshan was imprisoned inside.

“It’s been too long since last we met, drow. I have been thinking about you for an eternity!”

The observer, having been identified by the evil creature before him, stepped into light reflected from the battle between man and dragon. His features were elfin, but his skin bore the color most commonly attributed to his people. He wore clothing from the surface, bright and vibrant forest colors that complemented the color of his eyes. A bandolier was slung from his left shoulder to his right hip, from which hung a small hand crossbow and several bolts. Two longswords were sheathed from his waist, on a belt from which several small pouches were also fastened. The pommel of one was encrusted with a black diamond, while the other a deep magenta.

“Indeed,” the drow answered softly. “As have I.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt and tilted his right knee slightly outward, striking a neutral pose as he contemplated what to do next.

Thus ends the story of the adventurers three. Each came searching for The Box with motives hidden from the other, and it was their hidden agendas that brought them down. We have reached the end of one story, but we find ourselves at the beginning of another.

Who will prevail in the battle between dragon and man? Who is this mysterious drow and what is his relationship with the Lich God? And, with Joeshan seemingly imprisoned in his remaining eye, is there a chance that he will ever be rescued?

These are all good questions, but I’m afraid that’s an entirely different story.

~ END ~

Trespasser (Part I)

Posted on April 11, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Most days, Bryer street was full of activity. Children were playing in their yards, throwing their Frisbee or yelling “Ollie All in Free” as they chased one another from one hiding place to the next. Men pulled their cars out into the driveway and crawled under the hoods while the women hung laundry on clotheslines out back.

There were fourteen families along Bryer street. Five of their odd numbered homes stood solemnly across from their even numbered counterparts, while the remaining four filled out the cul-de-sac at the end. Each was built from the exact design as the other, with the only difference being the cosmetic differences that each owner had applied over the years. Where some had simply repainted their wood siding, others had replaced it entirely.

Some families proudly displayed the flag of their favorite home team on the front of the home. At the very back of the cul-de-sac, one home had gone so far as to design the entire color scheme of their structure to that of their favorite team! It was the only house of its kind, dark red with gold paint on the trim, and each year they placed life-sized plastic statues of the team’s players along each side of the driveway.

Everyone knew the names of their neighbors in the Bryer Street community. They had lived together for no less than a decade and congregated regularly at barbecues, block parties, or other themed events. Each year, the men met at a different house to watch the Superbowl, while the women retreated poolside and shared the latest gossip.

The families were tight knit and on most days they were full of activity. But then, today wasn’t like most days. Today, every family was nestled comfortably in their homes, watching television, reading books, or doing whatever it was that they do whenever the weather turned foul. Outside, the rain drummed on the hoods of their cars. It filled their gutters to capacity and the storm drains struggled to swallow the deluge.

The hours stretched into an endless eternity, or so it seemed to the pale faces peering out from the windows of their homes, and it felt like the day couldn’t get any worse. They watched helplessly as the waters flooded their gardens. The soil had long since become saturated and the sprouts were slowly drowning beneath the weight of the uncaring waters. Phones rang as they called one another. Some to comment on the severity of the storm, others just to hear the sound of their friend’s voice.

Nobody thought that it would last this long. Not a one of them thought it could get much worse.

It happened as the evening approached. The rains had lessened enough so as to allow the waters to seep into sewers which had long since filled beyond their capacity. Some of the families were either finishing dinner, while others were drying the evening dishes or getting ready for bed. The only constant was that every family had finally accepted the storm for what it was. You might even say that they had grown complacent with it.

At the house nearest the beginning of the street, Sammy Dryden was resting in his rocking chair, enjoying the fresh scent of rain. A retired widower, Sammy was the oldest of Bryer Street’s inhabitants. As he was wont to do, he spent his days on the front porch whittling various creatures to life from whatever material he could get his hands on. Tonight, he was patiently pulling the graceful form of a ballerina from a small piece of Basswood he had found while walking along the sidewalk in front of the Duncon’s residence.

His hands shook as he worked, but he pressed on with the patience of a predator carefully gauging its prey. And, as the ballerina continued to appear from the labors of his skilled touch, he reflected upon a time when he was much more agile.

It was a pose common to his neighbors, all of whom spoke fondly of the Old Man Sammy and his Wooden Figurines. Even beneath the quiver of age and deteriorating health, his hands continued to create the most beautiful creatures ever seen by the eyes of his friends.

He hunched forward as he worked, his elbows resting just behind his knees. It wasn’t the most comfortable posture for him, but he wouldn’t think of it until she danced free of her wooden prison. For now, he only watched as the wood shavings fell away with each stroke of his knife.