257
257 pebbles sat in the chamber of awakening at the time of awakening. At first there was nothing to disrupt the peace it had experienced for a thousand cycles. The last time anything happened, the pebbles had been placed. Chromium flakes and crystals lined the chamber’s dome ceiling. There was no light to make the flakes sparkle, but they would have; they were still wet with dew from the last time the waters came, far before the arrival of the pebbles. Continue reading
Garret had encountered plenty of leaks in his life. He was barely out of his twenties, but the leaks were everywhere. Once, in school, some of the data over his grades had simply ‘leaked’ out of the computer system. He’d had to repeat a class over the error.
There was a camping trip when he was a teenager where he opened the cooler, which was his responsibility, and found the bag’s containing their caught fish and their picked berries had ruptured and mixed all their juices, most of which froze into a hideous slush. Continue reading
Brie sipped at the coffee. She had the feeling she wasn’t supposed to do that. It tasted foul, like rotten nothing. She looked down and, for a split second, saw a skull in the cream at the top. She set it down gently. It had frightened her, but she also had the sense that she was in a very delicate situation.
How was not clear. The diner seemed peaceful enough. A mother corralling her disobedient son. A waitress slicing up a cherry pie. A blind man reading a newspaper. Wait. Brie stared at him. He had to be blind; he wore the dark glasses and carried the right sort of stick. Yet, as soon as she looked he turned towards her. There was an image in his glasses, but just a slice of a reflection. It was gone a moment later. Another deathly face. She stood up. Everyone in the diner looked her way. Continue reading
The electricity surged through his brain, speeding his recall even as it cauterized the loose flapping edges of his soul. The memories revolved around each other, spinning and picking up speed. He remembered losing his mother to cancer. His aunt. His best friend. There had been something in their water from the new factory.
He hated the year 1916. In his neighborhood at least, that was when the factories appeared in full force, like glaciers of garbage suddenly on the horizon. They’d eaten up the work, the sky, and then his family. Continue reading
The piece was delicately cradled in the soft palm of the young dusk elf. Her name was Nystro, but her name mattered very little at the moment. To her the only name that mattered belonged to the piece. In her hand was a likeness of her species, its wooden legs rounded to look like the bottom of a column. Its face was placid, but she sensed worry from it. Worry over the name.
There were two more new pieces in the grand game hall that day. They were held in different hands. One was firmly held in the greenish grip of an adolescent orkh. Its teeth were expertly painted with mother-of-pearl powder, so it would glisten on the tiles of the miniature battlefield. It was crafted by Ancho, and he was very proud. It would bellow its name in the middle of the game, and draw gasps from every adult around. He would be a revolutionary. Perhaps his people would turn him over the fire that night as punishment, but something had to be done. Continue reading
Being on call nearly seven days a week was not working out for Miser Hank. Sewhole Hospital was extremely prestigious, and he had hoped for less of a workload upon transferring. His old hospital, Webtoe General, never made it into the medical scrolls. They had him sewing up splitting spell wounds and prescribing vitamins for lizard familiars.
Sewhole dealt only in human patients, magical humans of course, but even without patients literally crawling over his shoes he was still drowning in work. That was why, once he arrived home, a lovely little condensed apartment magically stuffed inside a fur coat pocket in a fashion museum display, all he could do was collapse against the door and groan. Continue reading
There was no consensus whether or not that morning’s rainbow was an omen. They were scientists; they didn’t generally believe in such things, but their hand was being forced by the times. The year was 1972 and research was still years behind the drug culture of the sixties.
That’s why the facility existed. It was supposed to help them catch up in various fields, most of them involving the strange psychosis-inducing substances that had leaked into the counterculture of the past decade. While their regulations were strict, their moods had to be loose and flexible, for beyond those bland brick walls, strange things happened nearly every day. Continue reading
Deanna’s soup arrived. Everything looked normal. It was hot. Bits of meat bobbed up and down in the yellow broth. There was a full layer of sunken barley on the bottom, like pale river stones. She couldn’t stop herself from breathing deeply and craving the food. She threw her hands over her mouth and leaned backward, nearly falling off the bar stool.
The other patrons turned and scowled in her direction. They were enjoying their soup very much. Giles’ Bubbling Pot had quickly become the number one eatery in town. Even in the middle of this blazing yet rainy bayou summer, folks came from everywhere for a bowl of the turtle soup. It was one of those recipes good enough to pass through generations, and they were lucky enough to taste its first form before reincarnation. Deanna could show a little respect. Continue reading
It looked exactly as it did on the page. Tyler’s eyes jumped between the book and the creature before him: lithe, faceless, and with countless ribs visible through its tight pale skin. Should he be surprised that it looked so similar? The creature was a mimic after all. That’s what the bestiary entry said.
Mimic
Class three monster
Arcane nature
Rare status
Possible drops: skin cloak, perfect mask +2, and shattering claws Continue reading
Sammy walked out with the bell blaring overhead. He was out. He was free. School was done for the summer, and this was high school, so he would be able to ratchet up the sort of trouble he had planned. Adults would no longer get mad at him; they’d threaten charges. Did you need at least one charge to be a man? You certainly needed at least one date.
Why am I hearing Mr. Sorkinson’s voice? He’s narrating my life! God, has my imagination always been this out of control? Sorkinson’s a drama teacher, of course he made everything sound like there was something at stake. Continue reading
Blaine Arcade 