Mirrorshards Flitterfics will be posted daily there from this point forward. (I'm cutting back on cross-posting to save my sanity.) See you on the flip side. (i.e. one which can be directly linked rather than being in a sub-layer of a forum, lovely though that forum may be. )
Mit eased into the room, keeping one hand on the insulated wall. Moving was dangerous at night. The storage room was dark. Kep and Surcey were already in their bags, wedged between the boxes so they wouldn’t make noise shifting in their sleep. The chem-light slipped in his sweaty grip. Mit slammed a shin against a metal edge. He fell, slamming against the wall. The muffled thump brought the others instantly awake. “What-?” Surcey clamped her mouth shut. Mit gestured sharply. They all stared at the ceiling, waiting for the telltale rumble of an enormous form pushing through the dirt…
The car whispered against the road. This far out, the only part of the road that was visible was the small segment the headlights touched. In the distance, another car’s headlights shone briefly, and then were gone. “It’s kind of spooky,” Shannon said, lifting her feet and tucking them under her. “What is?” Dan was concentrating on driving. “It’s like there’s nothing but the headlights, and everything else is just inky and dark. Like we’re on a little island over a void.” “You’re being dramatic,” said Dan. “Look.” He flicked off the lights. The car lurched and began to fall…
The phone rang. Crashbang answered it. Stiletto noodled idly on his deadly electric lute. “Who was it?” he asked when Crashbang hung up. “The dragon,” Crashbang answered. “He wants to know if we can push the slaying to January.” The room thrummed with the sound of a half-finished Thunderwave Chord. “No can do. We’re booked. The royal marriage.” “Does the king outrank the dragon?” “He does when he’s hired us,” Big Gunderson put in, setting aside his sharpening stone and checking the edge of his axe. “Old Firebreath is just gonna have to take his lumps,” Stiletto said, tuning up.
“And this one?” “Ah, the Book of Yrt.” He blew the dust away. “The pages are not paper, but rather some sort of flexible metallic alloy. Their exact composition is unknown, but they have yet to show any tarnish or wear.” He flipped the first few pages. “These prophecies predict all history, from the dawn of mankind until the terrible end. He who holds this book holds the very key of the universe in his hands.” “Amazing…” “Well, it’s a bit dry, and by the tenth chapter it really starts to drag. Yrt really hit his stride with the sequel.”
“I didn’t know they served those in here,” she said, her lip curling. She spoke softly. She’d heard that rhinos had excellent hearing. The rhinoceros lifted his spoon and sipped at his soup. The bar stool creaked ominously. “It’s not enough I have to sit next to them on the bus,” she went on, warming to her topic. “They ought to ship them all back to Africa.” “I think that’s an Asian one. Look at the horn.” “Whatever.” The entire restaurant went silent. The rhinoceros’ ears flicked. The lion removed his glasses and glared regally as he entered and sat.
The tour guide turned and faced the bench in the boat, speaking through her fixed smile. “Our next stop in the ‘Getting to Know You’ tour will be the putamen and the insula in the sub-cortex. These areas are known to be active in the generation of both romantic love and irrational hatred.” “Oh, Harold! How sweet!” Jane clutched his arm. “I wonder if we’ll see our first date there. Do you remember?” Harold didn’t answer. He was worried about what would happen when they reached the hippocampus and she saw the memories of that business trip to Hong Kong.
“Mommy, why is there glass in front of the TV?” “It’s to keep the little people inside,” she answered sagely, amusing herself. “Oh. What would happen if they got out?” “They’re very bad people,” she told him. “That’s why they have to stay in there and put on shows for everyone.” “Oh.” He stared at the screen, wide-eyed. Later, he was playing Inside Frisbee with his friend Jaron. They weren’t supposed to play it anymore. The Frisbee hit the TV and there was a sharp cracking sound. “Uh-oh,” he said, as the smoke coiled. “Mommy!” But it was too late.
The vast cities of man were rubble. The landscape blasted, bleak, covered in craters and dust, like the surface of the moon, or some alien world. Nothing moved in the empty ruins save for the hordes of vermin. The trees that remained were warped and stunted things. The lifeless seas seethed with acidic froth. There was movement. The armored transport lumbered to a halt outside of the sealed bubble which contained the last garden in the world. Josephine glared up at the cockpit and Albert’s hangdog expression. “No, not even now!” she shouted. “You didn’t have to take it literally!”
“It’s not quite ready yet.” “The Lord will not wait forever, cook,” snarled the guard. He brandished his spiked club. “Finish your work quickly.” “This cannot be rushed,” answered the chef. He dipped his spoon in and tasted, considered. “It must be sharper,” he murmured, “much sharper.” He quickly sliced a lemon and began squeezing the juice. “How much longer?” “I think it is nearly ready.” The chef lowered his hand into the steaming pot. He withdrew it with a rapid snapping motion. “Yes.” He nodded approvingly. “It is just sharp enough.” The guard said nothing, skewered on the soup.
“I’ve caught you!” cried Jerry exultantly. “Aye, ye have.” Jerry didn’t relax his grip on the little man’s ankle. “Now I get the pot of gold, right?” “Aye.” The leprechaun flipped a page of the magazine he’d been reading – The Economist – and puffed at his meerschaum pipe. “Aren’t you upset?” “Ach, laddie,” the wee man chuckled, “ye have no idea. But ye’ll learn…” When Jerry awoke, the first thing he noticed was the huge pot of shining gold pieces. He picked up his little green hat, adjusted the four-leaf clover to just the right angle, and settled down to wait.
They danced frantically, frenetically, writhing like fish, like eels. They leapt and pranced, rhythmic gazelles startled from the savannah of sound. The deejay closed his eyes and made his obeisances to the altar. The lights blinked and shifted, prodded uncomfortably by the twitching electric circuits. He emerged, wiped a hand across his face, sniffed twice. Adjusted his package. Melted into the pulsating throng. She emerged, more slowly. She dabbed at her face, at her running makeup, at her red eyes. Shoved her fist into her purse. Slipped away to the back. On the floor, the music changed, and they danced.
Marie found the angel in the Dollar Tree. He was sitting on the shelf between the plastic potholders and the seashells with glitter-glue. He looked up at her as she passed, his metallic wings rattling mournfully. His face was perfect. She cocked her head to the side and considered. “Shelly, can we use an angel?” “I dunno,” said her roommate, rooting through the piles of shirts. “I had one when I was little, but he was kind of crappy. Does it have a sword of fiery vengeance?” “I don’t see one.” “Eh.” “Sorry,” Marie told the angel. “Maybe next time.”
“Thus,” the Great Detective intoned, “the true culprit is… Jameson, the leatherworker’s apprentice!” Everyone gasped. “How can you know for certain?” Lady Altia said. “Elementary. The puncture wounds in the Colonel’s neck could only have been made by an awl, which the lad possesses.” “And the locked room?” “Stood on horseback and climbed in through the window.” “Why did the Colonel not see him in the mirror?” “The boy is far shorter than Colonel Dempser.” “Astounding!” “Yes, very. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” The Great Detective bowed and departed. He’d have to hurry, lest he be caught by the sun.
“Slowpoke! Ha! You’ll never catch me, not in a million billion years! You couldn’t catch a cold!” The Hare danced about, shouting similar taunts and jibes, as the Tortoise carefully placed another foot in front of him. The dirt kicked up from the Hare’s gamboling made him cough. “Seeya, sucker!” And the Hare was gone, a disappearing dust cloud. Racoon sighed from the branch overhead. “I wish he’d lose.” “He will,” said Tortoise calmly. “Why? Because you’re slow but determined? I think we all know that’s a big crock.” “No.” Tortoise took another deliberate step. “I poisoned his morning carrot-shake.”