 Illustration (c) 2010 Walter Simon Thorlin struggled forward, the marble floor beneath him hard and unforgiving; he felt weak and cold. Blood covered his face and chest, most of it his own. He had tried… tried to protect the Dragonstone. He fought them, but he was not strong enough to do his duty.
Ilerya, Goddess of Light, had to understand and could not condemn his soul to eternal torment; he had tried. His blood-crusted hand clutched for his pendant, the image of Ilerya’s shimmering face emblazoned on the circle of sliver. His groping fingers fell short as one last gasp of breath rushed from his lungs.
* * *
Roland squinted, the bright summer sun blinding him as he walked through golden fields of wheat. He wore a white tunic and leather pants; his armor was packed away in the satchel he carried on his back. His sword rested comfortably on his hip. His steps were light and agile without the heavy armor weighing him down.
A well-worn dirt path came into view. Just a small break in the endless grass, but he stopped and stared at the brown, dusty soil as if it were a snake. He ran his hands through his dark-blond hair, a surge of nervous anticipation running through his body. He was home.
Home. It was a dim memory of safety and warmth. He barely remembered his village. His father died when he was twelve, and his mother, Mira, could not feed all of them. Roland, the eldest, took it upon himself to leave; that was sixteen years ago.
In all that time, the village of Veltin had not changed. Memories came flooding back to Roland as he walked. Everything was the same. The path still ran next to the Cold River inn, and the elders still gathered in front of it, trading tales of times long past. The village even smelled the same, a mixture of green, growing grass and freshly baked bread.
“Ho there, good sir. What brings you to Veltin?” a soft female voice called.
A young woman in an apron appeared from the side of the inn. She carried a large bucket of water that sloshed to the side as she walked. Her hair was jet-black, and she looked familiar to Roland, but he had no name to put with her face.
“I seek Mira, the weaver. And her sons, Thorlin and Daemon,” Roland replied.
“Oh… I am sorry for your loss. If you hurry to the cemetery you might catch the end of the ceremony.”
“Ceremony? What ceremony?” Roland asked, the words coming out in a rush.
Continue reading Seeker of Vengeance, by Alva J. Roberts
 Illustration by Romeo Esparrago The first time I saw the Man of Light, he was feeding sea gulls on the beach. The day was cold, bleak, and windy. The sun was little more than a rumor in the afternoon sky. I approached him with my hands buried deep in my pockets and my head tucked against the wind. He was an old man with a stark-white Santa Claus beard, a faded Army jacket, and an ancient pair of jeans with holes in the knees. The birds flocked around him so thickly that he was partially covered by their flapping wings. At a comfortable distance, I stopped to watch, delighted by such an unlikely sight for a day such as this. I had walked miles down the beach in the cold, my steps just beyond the breaking waves, heartbroken for the usual reasons. But the sight of this old man sharing his bread with dozens of ravenous birds caused me to smile for reasons I could not understand.
His expression puzzled me. He must have done this deed for joy, but there was nothing joyful in his manner. His expression as the birds flocked about him was far too serious for the deed he did. I watched him until his bread was spent, and the final bird had given up. He paid me no notice, and I would have continued on with nothing more than a nod of greeting if he hadn’t spoken.
“Hello, young fellow,” he said, smiling.
“Hello,” I answered. I noted that his smile was a beautiful thing. There was a kindness in his eyes I had not expected, although the sadness remained as well. The smile moved me to add to my greeting.
“Cold day for a bird feed,” I remarked.
“Oh, they’ll eat in any kind of weather, the little gluttons.”
“Wasn’t anything wrong with their appetite, from my view.”
Then we stood regarding one another awkwardly for a moment. It seemed, somehow, that we should have more to say, but neither of us knew quite what it was. Just as I was about to bid him farewell, he spoke again.
“How far did you walk down the beach today, young man?”
“I don’t know. Two or three miles, probably. I had some things on my mind.” I was not one to speak personally to strangers, and even this small confession shocked me as it left my mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “I could tell by the look on your face. I ought to know. I’ve had some thoughts in my own mind for quite some time myself.”
I found myself moving closer to the old man, so that we could speak without raising our voices to be heard over the wind and the surf. An onlooker could have taken us for father and son rather than the strangers we were.
“Do you always feed sea gulls on days like this?”
“No. Not always. I came out today to mull things over as I often do. I think about what might have been sometimes. I’ve been coming here off and on for a very long time, actually.”
“I came out for the same reasons, but only for today.”
“The ocean is a fine place for it,” he said. He turned his head to study it and I followed his example. For a time, we watched the waves in silence as they crashed like marching soldiers against the sand.
“Would you like to hear a story?” he asked. “It’s a true story, but impossible to believe.”
“I’d like to hear a story.”
“I will tell it as it happened.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and his voice never wavered.
* * *
“I once lived in a city you have heard of: a place of legend and mysticism. But it was as real as you or I. It was as real as those waters in front of us and the cold wind that bites our faces. I am the last living citizen of that city that was once the jewel of the Earth. It was a city of silver streets and gold-plated buildings. It was a city of peace and knowledge with wise governors and beautiful people. The name of this city was Atlantis.
Continue reading ‘The Man of Light’ by Charles Parramore
 Illustration (c) 2010 Romeo Esparrago Through the surface of cratered moon,
shining dimly out to open space,
celestial devices, collecting dust underground.
Among the first exhibits included:
the sandglass, Cupid’s arrow, the scale,
balancing pans of good and evil.
Floors down, one could stumble upon
the stables of the charioteer, Helios,
the dark wet cellar of Tartarus.
But undoubtedly, tucked in
at the back, the main attraction was
a narrow hall leading to rebirth.
Where walls of dark-blue crystal —
chipped, cracked, smashed, and flaked –
captured the colors and shades of their faces
as Gods, led by foreknowledge of Man,
followed the path of that narrow hall
and traversed into Past until undone,
leaving the world to be run by other devices. *
About the Author: Robert William Shmigelsky is an aspiring fantasy writer taking English courses at Okanagan College to improve his writing. Robert has been writing fantasy for himself in his spare time for the last seven years, but only now has begun writing for others. Besides reading and writing, his hobbies include computers and history. He has a dry sense of humor, for which he blames his stepfather. Also, he has a habit of making history jokes that no one but him understands. He is currently working as a certified residential care aide (nursing assistant) in beautiful British Columbia to support his writing. Email: shmglsky@msn.com Story (c) 2010 Robert William Shmigelsky
About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago is an artist with a sketchy past. Illustration (c) 2010 Romeo Esparrago
 Illustration copyright 2010 Romeo Esparrago Last lecture delivered from the podium of the Department of Philosophy of the Free University of San Francisco.
- July the 4th, 2184
Friends, academics, and fellow mutants, I address you today in my capacity of new Chairman of the Socratic Society, on the first, and probably the last day of my tenure.
Thank you for electing me. Thank you for placing your trust in me. Thank you for trusting my intellectual credentials in spite of my outer deformities.
As you can see, I am one of the last of the old humans. Those of you who resemble me have become so rare that we are seen as “mutants”; though, of course, we are not a new variation of species, but the last representatives on Earth of a human life form that has been dominant for more than thirty-thousand years.
From my point of view, and from the point of view of those of you who resemble me, we are, of course, not mutants at all.
Permit me to explain the world as seen through my eyes. At the risk of being controversial, I want to enlighten you, I want to open your eyes to a perspective on our history which is fast becoming obsolete. In fact, this perspective has become so utterly unfashionable that this may very well be the last lecture of this sort ever to be delivered from this podium, or any university podium, ever.
In the presumed words of Thomas Beckett, and with due apology to T.S. Eliot, who so eloquently dramatized the demise of that great man: “Death comes to us all, my lords.”
I shall begin my lecture from a position of inaccuracy. I am thus making a declaration of ignorance – however painful for me, especially as newly elected Chairman of this prestigious Society, to admit to such a fallacy. Fortunately I am by no means alone in my uncertainty.
I don’t know, and I am not sure if anyone knows, exactly when and where the change began. Some say it is a recent development; others believe that the evolution of Man had already reached its pinnacle with the development of the large-brained, gentle-natured Neanderthals, who were shoved into extinction by the first competitive, patriarchal Cro-Magnons. Be that as it may. We can only begin to see the bigger picture now, in retrospect, the few of us who escaped the results of the latest massive reversion.
To describe the change as a “reversion” or, even better, a “regression”, is an utterly discredited statement, I know. But bear with me for the moment, while I lead up to my central argument.
Continue reading ‘The Last Coffee Shop Philosopher’ by Koos Kombuis
 Illustration (c) 2010 by Walter Simon Sir Gossabel mounted his steed, then beheld his opponent from across the field. What was going through the mind of that wretch, he could only guess. And what did Princess Gertrude see in him? He didn’t want to think. This duel would settle the matter.
At the signal, the opponents goaded their horses, and they galloped towards each other, their swords drawn and ready.
Gossabel knew better than to glance at the spectators. That could be fatal. The hazy image at the extreme periphery of his vision still showed the curled blonde ringlets of the princess’s head next to the grey locks of King Redbert’s, surrounded by all the important people of the kingdom. No doubt she was tense — as she had been when Gossabel had taken the liberty of looking.
Her father looked solemn, though some of the lords took the whole affair in a light-hearted manner:
“Let’s see which of these two upstarts will be left standing!”
“I could have told you it would come to this!”
“Ten Ducets says Norbert’s blood will flow…”
“I say Gossabel’s…”
The peasants were also gambling what few Ducets they had, calling out their favourite champion. But those who cared which one lived and which one died, weren’t so jovial.
Gossabel now approached Sir Norbert. Their swords clashed…
* * *
So far so good, thought Mark. This new medium had a special feel to it. They had said this would render images in greater than 100 percent reality. Mark had wondered how that could be so, but now, as he was creating the cinema footage, he could feel it. Re-running it, he could even sense the flippant attitude of the lords who were being entertained by the potential fate of Sir Gossabel and Sir Norbert, the deadly vibrations of iron sword clanging against iron sword — he almost didn’t know, himself, who would be left alive at the end.
How could I not know? I am creating the story! Mark was the expert who had been commissioned to test this medium on a feature-length production.
Yet, why was he telling himself he might have to end up making Sir Norbert the hero of the story in place of Sir Gossabel? In his whole career of film-making, he’d never experienced that kind of thought.
Continue reading The Film Maker and the Sceptre, by Robby Charters
 Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago (The following is an excerpt from an, as yet, unpublished novel, ‘When Blood Runs Cold’.)
Peace would not come to him. The ache that the Abbot had repeatedly told him would lessen and fade away still stabbed at his heart. Four years! Four years of brutal, gruelling training of both mind and body. Studying the arts of potions and poisons and their delivery systems. Developing his skills with all manner of weapons, from the smallest darts to the large and cumbersome broadswords. He had been taught that anything, including his own hands, could become weapons of destruction. And Jon Firevan had learned well. Of those who had begun training with him, he alone survived. The rest had paid the ultimate price for failing to master their lessons. He alone stood poised to become the next Artinen assassin.
Today, Jon was practicing. The Artinen monks, an order that traced its beginnings back into the earliest mists of time, had trained him to find the shadows in even the brightest rooms and how to use them to become invisible. It took discipline to slow one’s breathing, still the mind, find the balance between light and dark, and then seemingly disappear. But the ache interfered with that concentration.
I’m trying too hard, he thought. I must let go of everything to become my own shadow. Finally he crossed over. He reached the shadow state where he felt and acted like a wisp of smoke from a dying fire. Jon felt and thought nothing. He was invisible, even to himself. Shortly thereafter he saw them.
* * *
Jon remembered later being a little surprised to see his mother with the Abbot as they came out of his office, but at that moment he was simply a mirror on the wall of time, reflecting and absorbing whatever passed his way. His parents had wanted him to become a teacher at the academy run by the order, and he had agreed until he understood that they really wanted him to become a monk first and a teacher second. His mother especially wanted him to dedicate his life to the church, so to complete her prayers and promises to the Abbot. Seeing her with the Abbot was not, then, all that odd. The conversation between them, however, was.
“We have a moment or two before my aide will join us.” The priest spoke barely above a whisper. “Ruth, are you sure you wish to pursue this contract with us? I understand your motives, but do you really understand the cost? Will you sacrifice yourself to us to be rid of someone who may be gone soon anyway?”
“Not soon enough!” Ruth responded hoarsely. “As for the sacrifice to you, dear Ruddit, well that’s something I have thought of for a long time.”
The two stood, staring into each others’ eyes until the aide appeared.
“You have a duty for me, Abbot?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied. “Take Ruth to the spa and prepare her.
“She will be spending the evening with us.”
“Certainly, Abbot.” She smiled at him and turned to Ruth. “My name is Aerial. Please follow me. You are about to discover the definition of being pampered. There are few pleasures that cannot be found in the Abbot’s spa.”
The Abbot watched the two women disappear down the hallway. As he turned to reenter his office, he looked directly to where Jon was standing. For the briefest moment it seemed to Jon that the Abbot would walk over to him, but instead he returned to his office and shut the door quietly.
Continue reading ‘Killing is What I Do’ by Jonathan Saville
 Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago Before dinner that Tuesday, I sat back in my leather-bound chair and indulged in a few moments of feeling quietly safisfied. Recently I had even felt the beginnings of optimism. After years of cloud and storm, the sun had broken through and I could at last bask in the success that I deserved. After all, who else now stood between me and the ear of the King?
On Tuesdays I always dined with the Treasurer, Flacio Abs: friend, rival, and sometime co-conspirator. We commonly held our meetings informally after government work was over. Roast quail and plum wine topped with gossip were the usual agenda items. As a side order, we touched on issues related to our two departments – Flacio’s Treasury, and the Chancery that I ran, source of the King’s letters and proclamations of state.
The meal that day was adequate, the talk good, but not startling. I felt that Flacio was holding something back. As we ate our dessert and finished our second bottle of wine, I asked him if he had anything he wished to share with me.
Flacio grinned. “You know, Benetus,” he said, “I was wondering when you would ask. Now that our meal is over, the news is ripe for me to pluck.” Flacio stood up then, which surprised me as I was hoping he would now share his news.
“Where are you going; aren’t you going to tell me the news?” I was annoyed with his play-acting. He was a bean-counter, for Viest’s sake, not a paid entertainer.
Flacio nodded and smiled. “It might be best if I show you. A picture is worth a thousand words, they say.”
“Not a thousand of my words, Flacio.” Nevertheless I stood and followed him to the door. I was concerned by Flacio’s behaviour. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that he knew something I didn’t. If I was ignorant of something important, that could be a big problem. Life as a courtier could be very short, and I had lived as long as I had only by knowing absolutely everything of significance that happened within the walls of the palace.
The air was warm outside the tavern; the warm evenings of summer were just beginning. The gentle waters of the Gulf of Storms lapped at the harbour walls as we passed revellers in the sailors’ quarter. Walking north, I realised we were heading back to the Palace District.
“Something in your rooms you want to show me? Why couldn’t you have brought it to the tavern?” Flacio’s apartments were near his place of work, a stone’s throw from the administrative buildings of the Western Annex. This journey, however, took me farther from where I lived. I preferred a place in the city, hidden in the anonymity of the crowd.
“No, no, but you are right to think we are heading towards the palace.” After that I could not get another word from him on the subject.
We nodded to the guards as we entered the palace complex, fierce-looking Usure tribesmen from the north. We had both passed the same men a hundred times or more. Still they demanded to see the seals of office that proved our identities. But this was wise practice when enemies threaten from so many sides. Their discipline and loyalty to the King was a comfort to me.
We walked past more guards, knights of the King’s own familia, into the central atrium of the palace, through the exotic gardens designed personally by the King with help from a Nukushite natural scientist. This was the heart of the palace, where one might expect to pass princes of the realm, members of the royal family and even the King. From nearby, somewhere hidden by the foliage of the garden, came the soft rhythm of poetry being read. The fuzzy glow of dim lamps indicated a gathering on the far side of the atrium-garden. The smell of strong Abatian wine and rolled tirbic sticks met our nostrils. The gathering was of the King and his closest familiars. A group that on many occasions in the last year I had been proud to belong.
I brushed the sleeves of my silk coat and started towards the group, thinking of a witticism with which to greet my beloved king, but Flacio stopped me with a tug on my sleeve.
“No, wait. There is something here I wish to show you.” He ushered me towards some shrubs and low trees that screened the King’s gathering.
Continue reading ‘The Easy River to Success’ by Mark Lord
 "Saphi" (c) GaiaGear / Leo Lin The Jacques Richarde Building shook. Students and teachers alike considered their escape route, but before they had the time to follow it, the shaking stopped.
“Was that an earthquake?” Madeline Mullaney asked the attractive blonde next to her.
“I think it was an alien landing on the roof,” Maria replied, to the surprise of everyone in the room.
“Just being a cheerleader and a blonde doesn’t give you the right to be a total ditz,” Professor Kottonen told Maria Mulcahy.
Maria hung her head.
“When I was growing up in Lapland, far in the North of Finland, we didn’t have cheerleaders. We only had reindeer. Oh, what a better world that was.” Professor Kottonen smiled to herself.
“Are you kidding me?” Madeline muttered. “We just had an earthquake, and all you can talk about is reindeer?”
“It wasn’t an earthquake,” Maria protested. “It was an alien landing on the roof.”
The Finnish woman at the front of the class, clad in an austere, academic outfit, sighed and shook her head. All of the students knew what was coming next.
“Miss Mulcahy…” she looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “You are a senior in an American university. You should be proud of how smart you are, but unfortunately…” — she turned her gaze to the startled cheerleader — “you are a total moron.”
“I know it’s…” Maria stammered.
“And how do you know?”
Maria knew that resisting would only get her into more trouble.
“That’s what I thought. Now let us get back to the lecture. Oh, where is my brain today?” she commented with a self-appreciating laugh.
“Faaaarrrr in the North of Finland…” Maria snapped, imitating the accent.
“Maria, Maria, Maria…” the professor said with a sigh. “Get out of my classroom if you are going to be a racist.”
Maria wanted to say more, but she thought of how it would affect more than just this class if she were to continue rebelling. Ultimately, she gathered her books and walked out of the room.
She had not gone far when the sound of a howling wind resonated through the hallway, and yet, she felt no wind at all. She had just walked past the stairway to the third floor when she felt, somehow, wanted.
Continue reading 'An Alien's Love' by LB Knowles
Dear Editor:
I recently started a new flash fiction site called “Weirdyear Daily Flash Fiction”, and I was wondering if you might be interested in putting a link to it up on your site.
www.weirdyear.com
Thanks!
Earl S. Wynn
Odyssey’s online classes are designed for adult writers of fantasy, science fiction, and horror. Each class is focused on a particular element of fiction writing and is designed for writers at a particular skill level, from beginners to professionals.
More information (and resources for writers): http://www.odysseyworkshop.org.
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