Category: Short Stories

Glorious Son (sample)

On By forsakenpressIn Short StoriesLeave a comment

This piece is the beginning of the novel Glorious Son currently in development by Forsaken Press author and Social Media Manager Jenna. It is being included in this section to help showcase the variety of talent and diverse writing styles that Forsaken Press and its wonderful team of writers have to offer:

Samael woke up Monday morning like every other morning.  That is, the alarm went off, he took a moment to bemoan his existence where nothing exciting or interesting ever happened, and he wandered off to make coffee to ease his pounding headache.  He wasn’t sure why he still set an alarm–it wasn’t like he had anywhere to be, after all.  Since he lost his job a few months ago, the best he could hope for was a few hours trolling job boards for an opportunity that never seemed to come, followed by a few hours of writing things he was sure no one would ever want to buy.  Sure, he could freelance enough to pay most of the bills, usually–an article here and there, after sifting through all those who wanted to pay in exposure, or worse to have you pay for the opportunity to do their work for them. But he really wanted to write something that would change the world, and clickbait was getting old fast.  Still, he tried to keep some hope alive.  He’d feed the cat,  and turn on a podcast for some background company, as he loaded up yet another webpage filled with more of the same, and waited until a respectable hour to open a mickey.  He may have been a drunk, but dammit he was a high-functioning one.  At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

When he saw it, he gasped.   There on the screen was an opportunity that seemed to be made exactly for him:

Wanted: Someone to collaborate on an epic fantasy novel with the broad themes of chaos and change.  Research and travel will be required.  We expect this to be your full-time job and will pay you accordingly.   Contact Ms. Tuesday by email with a cover letter, resume, and sample of your work.

Too good to be true?  Obviously.  Nobody just posts out of the blue looking for someone to write a novel.  If they want it written badly enough, they write it themselves.  But really, what did he have to lose?  He clicked apply now and got to work, expecting that any second the whole thing was going to explode in a fiery ball visible from space.  That was his luck, after all.  When he was born, his parents misspelled Samuel, leaving him with an unpronounceable mess.  Then things got worse.

No time to think about that now. In spite of himself, he actually felt good as he hit the submit button and nothing went sideways.  He got a response almost immediately, which he shook off as a form letter at first, but decided to open it just in case.  He was glad he did, as he read:

Samael:
We have been expecting you.  To ensure that you are up to our task, meet us tomorrow morning, 9:00, at 616 Northern Boulevard.  We look forward to working with you.
Ms. Tuesday and associates

“Okay that’s odd,” he thought.  But, with the misguided courage of someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain, he opened up his phone calendar, only to find the interview was already entered into it.  Hey, that was easy!  He talked to the cat, who was sitting in his lap, because he was just a little bit silly that way:

“Miss Princess Fuzzlebottom Squeakface!  What is your Daddy going to do?  Is your Daddy going to get a job?  Yes he is!  Yes he is!  Who’s a pretty kitty? Who’s my little Princess?  Is it you?  I think it’s you!”

Princess Fuzzlebottom Squeakface, who answered to Princess as much as any cat answered to anything, purred and pretended to understand the happy noises coming from her servant’s face.  As long as he kept the food coming, the bed stayed warm, and he occasionally scratched between her ears, she was willing to put up with him doing strange things like this.

That night, he set his alarm a little earlier, let Princess snuggle up to him, and dreamed of strange beautiful creatures he had never seen before.  He woke up not sure if that was strange or not, as he usually didn’t remember his dreams.  These stuck with him, though, as they were both dark and colourful at the same time, some with wings, some with horns, some with both.  The strangest appeared to be created from black flames.  Anyway, he felt a sense of purpose as, instead of walking over to his computer, he got dressed and made his way out the door.

A gorgeous woman in a long flowing black dress greeted him and said she was Ms. Tuesday. He thought she was overdressed for a simple interview, but pushed it out of his mind.  Artsy people were always a little strange, so who was he to judge?  Had he looked up at the walls, he would have seen the creatures from his dreams the night before.  But he was too nervous to look anywhere but the floor.  He followed Ms. Tuesday into an office where a well-dressed man already sat silently staring at him. 

“This is my co-president, Mr. Lysmith.  We are so glad you have come to us.  Are you ready to start now?”

Samael wasn’t sure how to respond–he hadn’t even been asked any questions and they wanted him to start?  What kind of interview was this?  To his surprise, he heard, “Yes, what would you have me do?” emerge from his lips.  He didn’t talk like that!  He shrugged it off as the stress of being interviewed.

Samael was an intelligent man, and had he actually been paying attention, he would have seen parallels between the story he was to write of an everyman unknowingly contracted by forces of chaos to bring about a revolution and stave off–or was that bring about?–the end of days, and his current situation.  As it was, he was trying too hard to keep from sweating through his clothes to fully comprehend what he was hearing.  It didn’t even dawn on him when he was told that his first duty was to dive headfirst into researching chaos history in order to make the book more realistic.  He just nodded as Ms. Tuesday handed him a thick black tome with golden runes on the cover.  But he did hear one thing: Don’t look up too much information about this book before you read it.  Take it as it actually is, not stories about it.  Weird, but okay.  Everybody’s got their quirks.  This sounded like an order and it was easy enough to do.

The Book of Chaos described a world which was a lot like ours, only instead of being controlled and orchestrated by an overall lean toward order, it was controlled by chaos in all things. 

Our world did lean toward order, didn’t it?  Samael wasn’t sure he believed in much, but he believed in that.  Whatever started the universe off started it off on some kind of trajectory–things didn’t just happen.  Everything had a place and everything wrong with the universe was just stuff in the wrong place.  Somehow everything would end up in the right place and everything would be great.  All you had to do was keep your head down and do what you’re supposed to do, stay in your place.

Had Samael disobeyed the order and researched the book, he would have learned that its author began with the same kind of viewpoint he had, but over the course of researching beliefs about chaos came to embrace them, especially that there is a thread of chaos through everything and the best we can do is keep this chaos from being harmful.  The society the author lived in labeled him as insane for this view, and he lived out the rest of his days as a hermit.  Samael might not have kept reading had he known that. He liked his nice, simple worldview: black and white, right and wrong, no grey areas to confuse him.  But he didn’t know, so read he did.

A week later, Samael’s eyes were buggy, but he had finished the book.  He felt like he had been made privy to some kind of forbidden knowledge, although he didn’t understand what exactly it was or what any of it meant.  All he knew was that somehow something was changed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  He also knew he never wanted to read a book like that again.  But if you had asked him why, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you.  It was just unsettling. In any case, Ms. Tuesday wanted him to return to the office to discuss what he read and what to do next.  He could do that.

He didn’t expect the warm welcome he got–the stern faces that had glared back at him last week grinned huge toothy grins and he half expected them to hug him.  His back stiffened in preparation–he felt hugs were far too intimate to share between practical strangers, but if you said no, you were a social pariah.  To his great relief, they noticed his discomfort and dropped the hug idea, settling for handshakes instead.

“We are very pleased.  We have chosen the right person for our mission.  We have promised to pay you, and we hope this is sufficient,” said Ms. Tuesday, handing him an envelope.  He opened it and found $1000. 

“There must be some kind of mistake!  All I did was read a book!” Samael protested.

“You have done research and prepared for our mission.  There is no mistake.  Now you will begin to write.  Should you require assistance, Mr. Lysmith acts as my eyes and ears on the ground and has been instructed to provide you with anything you may need.  Next week, we expect a basic plot idea and at least one chapter.”

Samael suddenly realized he didn’t know how to contact anyone who was supposed to help him.  He asked and was told not to worry; they would know, and they would be there.  Ms. Tuesday’s demeanour made it perfectly clear the case was closed and there was to be no more discussion on this matter.

With more questions than answers, Samael went home to begin writing.  After all, an outline and a chapter in a week was a difficult task, especially when the majority of his writing to this point was fan fiction and clickbait articles. Even though he still wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be writing, he found that the words came easily, almost as though they were being given to him by some unseen force.  He had a strange compulsion to keep writing and not to read what he had written.  He guessed that this was what other writers called inspiration, so he kept going.

A week later, there he was in Ms. Tuesday’s office being warmly praised.  Samael was still uncomfortable and couldn’t look either of them in the eye, but he could tell you every detail of the office floor:  37 black tiles, 37 grey ones, white grout that was a little too white, with white spirals that meandered along in no particular pattern, and the whole thing was altogether too shiny.  He still hadn’t noticed the art on the walls, which was probably a good thing.  He didn’t consciously remember the dream from a couple weeks ago, but it was tucked away in his subconscious, and seeing them would have brought it back to mind.

“But I didn’t even proofread!  I don’t even know what I wrote!” protested Samael.

Ms. Tuesday smiled.  “So much the better.  Remember, you work for us now.  We know what you are writing and that is what matters.” With that, she handed him another envelope and shooed him out the door.

$2000.  Not bad for a week’s work.  A guy could get used to this.  But now what?

With no idea what he was supposed to do next, and everything he had written previously apparently wiped from his hard-drive during the meeting, Samael decided to return to some semblance of his old routine. Alarm. Ugh.  Feed the cat.  Coffee.  Podcast.  Write.  Consider getting smashed.  But there were changes.  Now, someone was paying him, even if the amounts didn’t seem to have much connection to the work he did, or to any kind of logic, really. Some weeks he got $500, others $5000. The words flowed effortlessly most of the time.  He began to notice that whenever they didn’t, a raven would come up to his window.   Even though it was silly, he liked to think he was having a conversation with the bird about what he was writing.  In any case, after the raven left, he was able to write more.

He had less time to drink now, and found himself missing the bottle as though he had lost touch with his best friend.  He didn’t miss the blackouts, though.   Although he was certain he had never harmed anyone–could never harm anyone–waking up not knowing what had happened the night before scared him, and it happened more often than he cared to admit.

The days turned to weeks, and he could swear the raven was following him around now.  That was crazy, of course, but he couldn’t shake it.  Other strange things were happening too.  Like the day he went to the liquor store, only it wasn’t there.  Or the way people seemed to treat him with a new fear-tinged respect, like there was some kind of dark aura around him.  If he believed in those kinds of things, that’s what he would think.  But of course, he didn’t. 

Keep your head down, Samael.  Stay in your place.  You’re just working too hard.  Take a break.  You’re being oversensitive.  You got distracted and drove too far.  There are birds everywhere.   You need a drink.  He kept telling himself that even though it sure felt like the world was cracking and breaking around him, those kinds of things didn’t actually happen.  Of course, they didn’t.  A place for everything. And nothing in its place.

A Dream of Pirates

On By forsakenpressIn Short Stories1 Comment

“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Drink and the devil did for all the rest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.” Treasure Island, the first book I vividly remember reading. Well I didn’t read it. My dad read it to me of a night before bed, after we had moved up the coast, away from the big city to a small country town by the seaside. For the first few months after our move we lived in a small caravan park by the beach.

I found myself falling asleep every night to the sound of the distant waves crashing upon the shore, vivid images of cutlass wielding pirates, buried treasure, tropical islands and galleons doing battle upon the sea coursed through my mind, fueling my imagination and filling my dreams with tales of adventure, debauchery and battle, ruthless buccaneers, handsome heroes, beautiful damsels in distress, and exotic far off places. Looking back this early obsession with pirates plays a significant role in my fascination with history, and most of all my love of reading and literature later on in life.

Sometimes of a night, once my parents had gone to bed, and I felt the need to pee, or get myself a drink, I would sneak out of the caravan, being careful to not make a sound as I slipped outside and wondered down to the beach. I recall one such occasion with such clarity, as if it happened only yesterday, not some twenty-five years ago. I can’t say if what I saw was a mere figment of my excited child’s imagination, was in fact a dream of such detail and vividness that I confused it for reality upon waking, or was indeed a ghostly vision of a time centuries before. As if somehow my fevered imaginings had opened a portal through space and time, allowing me to see through the veil of the centuries and into the past. What I can tell you is I had an experience that whatever its nature, was of such profound significance to me, that it stayed with me all these years with a vividness and clarity of detail, unlike anything else I have ever experienced.

I was taking one of my regular late-night strolls from our caravan, winding my way through the labyrinth of caravans, campers, tents and cottages before turning onto the path towards the ocean. Shrubs, mangroves and grasses lined the sides of the sandy track as it snaked its way through the dunes, down towards the beach. Something rustled in the grass among the dunes and a bird of some sort cawed in the trees above as I strode along the path, my bare feet sinking into the soft, cool sand, leaving a track of footprints in my wake. I descended onto the beach, the sand becoming noticeably deeper and colder as I wondered across the sand. I strode down the sand until I came to the line where the waves reached their peak upon the shore and followed it for a time. I stopped to stoop down and retrieve some pebbles and began to toss them into the water, seeing how far I could hurl them out to sea.

Unexpectedly a curious sensation came over me and I stopped to take in my surroundings, giving my full attention to the night that engulfed me and now tickled at my senses with an indistinct feeling of surrealism. Everything suddenly felt vague and ethereal, like being trapped in a dream which one could not awake from as my hair stood on end and my pulse increased, my breathing becoming heavier as I became more alert and aware of the night around me. The steep cliff face of the large hillside that flanked the beach loomed menacingly above the shore, casting the beach nearby in a dark, malevolent shadow devoid of light. Hiding the rock pools below the cliff, where hermit crabs and small fish frolicked, from sight.

The waves lapped lazily at the shore, rolling up onto the sand before receding back upon themselves. The sea was eerily calm with the swell of the waves laying quite close to shore. Beyond them the ocean lay as smooth as glass, the pale light of the crescent moon reflecting upon the surface of the water and making it shimmer like the stars that blinked down upon the earth from the heavens. Several large clouds drifted across the night sky, the light of the moon giving them a ghostly visage, so they appeared as phantoms floating among the stars that glittered like jewels within the black, abyssal darkness of space. The trees rustled in the breeze that blew through the night, cavorting to a song only they could hear. It was then that I spotted it.

Out beyond the waves a ship glided over the sea, its large rectangular white sails fluttering in the wind as its bow cut a path through the inky darkness of the water. As it came closer I recognised it distinctly as an old sailing ship from centuries past and ran up the beach towards the headland that overlooked the bay gave unobstructed views of the vast ocean beyond. Unable to believe my eyes I stood there in a state of shock and awe, staring at the mysterious ship as it approached, gradually growing as it loomed closer and closer.

Shaking myself out of my trance I raced across the sand and up the rocky path that snaked its way from the beach into the rolling hills of the coastal field that overlooked the beach. Once cattle grazing land it now served as a recreational area for tourists and locals alike to have picnics, play sports and relax away from the sand and surf while still providing them with scenic views of the beach and ocean beyond. Breathing heavily and with my legs aching from the physical exertion of the uphill run I finally reached the top of the hill and looked out across the bay at the advancing ship.

The ship had turned with the tide and was making its way towards me as it followed the coast south, coming about on her starboard side to reveal two rows of ten cannons along her top and gun decks. Thanks to my reading of books on pirates, sailing and naval warfare during the age of exploration I identified her as a small galleon. A relatively fast, well-armed and formidable ship capable of not just hunting down prey; but severely punishing anyone who dared resist.

As she skirted the coast past the headland the skull and crossbones flag hanging from her masthead was clearly visible, fluttering lazily in the night wind with its infamous grinning skull mocking all unfortunate enough to set eyes upon it. Men scrambled amongst the rigging, swinging from ropes, racing deftly over narrow beams and scurrying up and down the ratlines as they shouted and cursed to each other through the forest of masts, ropes and timber beams and posts.

“Heave to ya bilge rats, come on ya godless sons of whores, on yar way,’ shouted a large portly officer, who stood amid ship barking orders at the men around him, encouraging them to pick up the pace. The pirate in the crow’s nest kept a vigilant eye out for trouble, or the prospect of an easy target that could bring them some quick booty. More buccaneers raced around on deck tending to the variety of tasks that consumed their daily lives. A group of men feverishly scrubbed the deck, scrapping off the layer of salt that built up while others polished the ship’s cannons, cleaning out their barrels and clearing any obstructions. A large burly sailor stood at the helm, steering the large wheel with practised ease as several other pirates crowded around a map and conversed nearby.

The bustle of conversation, shouted orders, curses and song piercing the night in a cacophony of noise as I stood amazed by the sight before me. As the galleon sailed past the headland I got a good look at the men on board as they rushed about their work under the light of the pale glow of the moon, seemingly oblivious to my presence upon the hill. Covered in piercings, tattoos and with a fair share of eye patches among them they were a fearsome bunch of hardened criminals, rebels and outcasts who had shunned society and made a life of their own on the sea where they were the masters of their world and the scourge of all who would dare oppose them.

I stood watching the phantom ship that had appeared out of the abyssal gulf of time, emerging from ages past into the modern era via some mystical means unknown to man and beyond the reach of science. Watching as it followed the coast in a southern trajectory for some time before turning to her port and moving back out to sea, casting a ghostly shadow upon the waves as she glided over the water and disappeared beyond the horizon.

Arabesques

On By forsakenpressIn Short StoriesLeave a comment

A poem by Forsaken Press writer Sasha Cuha……

You are smoke, my love,
an arabesque of desire
that floats and waltzes
through the briar and oak.

I am trapped
by the way you lie
in that foreign floral halo,
your lips embroider the night
bringing colour to skin
and names to Gods
when they land
(like promises or moths)
on me.

The well of your skull –
a space between drab and divinity
where serpents lie and twist,
singing secrets to the silent witness
hiding amongst the bones and rain.

She weaves the fishnet of our limbs
and lets us trawl for jewels
across the mouth of our river.

You are smoke my love,
and I am become the ember and trout.

The Merciful Deal

On By forsakenpressIn Short StoriesLeave a comment

TThis short story about pacts with dark forces is a cautionary tale that comes to us from the warped mind of horror writer C. Priest Brumley. A valuable addition to the team here at Forsaken Press. 

“Oh for fuck sake, just leave the kid alone already, huh?” The sound of Dad’s voice rang out from the living room, muffled slightly by the sound of the football game on in the background. “He got C’s; what the fuck do you expect from him? He’s a fuckin’ sinful retard, Linda. C’s are probably the best we can ask for!”

Mom’s voice answered from the laundry room. “Yeah, but he can still study, can’t he? And if he can study, he can get better fucking grades, Greg!”

The entrance to my room was always open, ever since Dad took my door off the hinges a year ago after they accidentally caught me masturbating. According to them I was now “sinful” and “not trustworthy”. So instead of having privacy, I now have to listen to them bitch all day: about me, about finances, about me, about each other, about me… On and on it went, day after day. I swear, I’d sell my soul for a reprieve from this bullshit.

The column of fire in the center of my room was sudden, and before I could call out for help was gone, leaving only a slight scorch mark in my rug. Oh, and it left behind a man. He was tall, but not like NBA tall. He wore a pair of tailored pants, a nice shirt, tie, and HOLY FUCK HE HAS HORNS.

“Who are you and what do you want?” My voice was barely above a whisper, trying to not alert my asshole parents to the sudden intruder in our house.

“Good afternoon, Robert. You can speak plainly. To your parents and everyone else you’re fast asleep on your bed. Don’t want to interrupt our chat, you know.”

I nodded without thinking, eyes still drawn to the pair of jet-black horns jutting from his upper forehead. “Okay, that’s great and all, but who the fuck are you? And why are you here?”

The man chuckled to himself before answering. “Well, straight to the point. I can appreciate that. To answer your first question, my name is Masach. Pleased to make your acquaintance!” He stuck his hand out towards me, a pleasant smile on his lips.

I stopped looking at his horns long enough to watch his face and look at the proferred hand. Got nothing to lose, right? I reached up and shook his hand. It was warm, and his hands were exceptionally soft. Huh.

“Excellent! Well, Mister Robert, as you have more than likely guessed by now, I am here to fulfill your attempted barter.”

My mind finally tore itself away from Masach’s horns and tried to grasp what he was saying. “What do you mean, ‘fulfill my attempted barter’?”

Masach nodded once. “I see. Do you not remember mere minutes ago? I do believe the thought was, and I quote, ‘I swear, I’d sell my soul for a reprieve from this bullshit’. Was that not you?” His eyes arched upwards in what looked to me like genuine curiosity.

I let out a small laugh. How he knew that I had no idea, but it probably shouldn’t surprise me. “Yeah, it was. So what are you gonna do to help me?”

“Well, I can proceed in many ways, but the more pressing matter is when would you be willing to hand your soul over to us? The sooner the better, obviously.”

I threw my hands up in indifference. “I honestly don’t fucking care. You could take it right now if you want. I just don’t want to have to deal with their bullshit anymore.”

Masach’s face lit up. “Are you sure of that?”

“Yes! I don’t fucking care! Fuck, if it’ll get rid of them I’ll do anything! Do you know what it’s like to live like this? They won’t let me play video games or have a phone or even have a fucking door!”

Masach nodded sagely. “May I sit?”

I felt tears running down my cheeks without even realizing I was crying. I tossed my arm to the side, showing him it was okay. Masach snapped his fingers once and sat down next to me on the bed.

“I do. I was there, too, once. Why don’t you tell me what they do to you?”

I jumped to my feet, sudden anger bursting through my veins, threatening to tint my vision as red as Masach’s skin. “They refuse to let me be me! I don’t wanna go to fucking church and they fucking drag me there, I can’t whack off anymore, they think all my friends are trying to lead me down some bullshit ‘life of sin’ so they took away my fucking phone and, get this, changed the password on my computer so I can’t use it without them watching my every move! MY COMPUTER! On top of that they think all video games are gonna do is cause me to be violent but they don’t realize THEY’RE MAKING ME VIOLENT ALREADY!”

“Er-hem.”

My stomach dropped to my feet. I knew that voice. I’d had my back to the door as I ranted and raved to Masach. I looked at Masach’s face, watching the sad smile form there. “Wasn’t I supposed to be asleep? Wasn’t this supposed to be in my head or something?”

“Yes, and I do apologize about that. But you’ll understand relatively soon, Mister Robert.”

I heard the jingle of Dad’s car keys attached to his belt loop. I didn’t have to turn around to know my mom was probably standing right behind him as well. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew it wasn’t anything good.

“C’mon, Robbie. You wanna talk shit about us, you’re gonna get out here and face us like the man you seem to think you are.” I turned at long last to see my dad standing there with eyes as cold as death, filling my once-empty doorway with his massive frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the fading Marine Corps tattoos he’d accumulated over the years.

I tried to shove past him to go to the living room to take my beating. Instead I was met with a fist on the side of my jaw.

“You wanna talk about us? Talk shit about The Lord? Boy, your retard ass just fucked up big time. Get up! You want to be a man, right? Get up and fight me like one!” I went down to one knee with the impact of the second blow. Dad’s breaths were coming faster and deeper now as he advanced on me. I heard mom scream as I felt another fist collide with the back of my skull.

My world went black. And it was peaceful.

Thank you, Masach. Thank you for your mercy.