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Ghost 1

The beginning of something that may or may not continue. Title pending.

The sun shone incongruously. Had Laila been in charge, it would rain all day every day, but particularly today. There was something offensive about the way the light played on the spring leaves, of how the birds warbled and sang in the trees.

Laila huffed and went back to tying her herb bundles. She ignored the weight of the pale eyes she knew were watching her. They were always watching her. Had been watching her since that night, 9 months ago, when she’d failed the one thing she’d sworn to do: heal and preserve.

Jonash had been an old friend of hers, shared childhood memories binding them more tightly than blood. As with all people they had drifted as they’d gotten older, but never far enough away to truly forget about each other. She was accepted to the University of Science in the city, and he had joined the city watch.

Then the war came. She left for the battle fields as a healer, he a soldier. They had been in the same regiment, and spent many hours in each other’s company when they were able. When the war ended, Laila returned to the city and established a healer’s den with her commission and repute as a savior of many. Jonash remained with the watch for a month before wanderlust got the better of him, and he departed the city to become a member of the Ranger’s Guild.

Months, then years passed, and still they kept in touch.

Until his replies had grown shorter and distant. Until he’d stopped replying all together.

Laila, accepting his absence with a stoic heart, was content with the fact that he had finally met someone else and moved on.

And then he appeared on her doorstep in the middle night, bleeding and with an expression that frightened her. He swore at her in a language she didn’t know before falling at her feet, pale with blood loss and pain. She’d done everything she knew to do, even resorting to using what little magic she possessed.

It wasn’t enough.

After four hours of her trying desperately to save her friend, she held his head when he died. She closed his light blue eyes, unnerved by the hatred and fear she saw there. As she took her hands away something cold ran up her arms and through her body, leaving her feeling clammy and unclean. When she turned she came face to face with Jonash’s ghost. She screamed once before noticing that he was yelling and gesticulating at her. But he made no noise. He charged her, hands outstretched to strangle her, but they, and then the rest of his incorporeal body, passed through her entirely, leaving her retching on the floor. For some reason his spirit had remained, unable to leave the plain of the living. The ghost tried to leave and made it as far as the front doorstep before being pulled back as if on a string. He tried the window with the same results.

Laila tried everything she could to communicate and free Jonash, but it was all in vain. The priests had never heard of such a condition, the scientists wanted to study him, and the mages’ spells and incantations only hurt Jonash, much to their irritation. Magic always succeeded when science failed. Or so they had believed.

And so 9 months had passed. Jonash was invisible to all but Laila and those gifted with the Sight. And as he was unable to influence the world around him in any way, all he could do was stand around and watch Laila.

“If you’re done staring at my ass, maybe you could stand in the door and deter people from coming in?” Laila said. She had too much to get done today to be interrupted with petty calls about impotence and spots.

She was met with what she called a sulky silence, and threw a rueful smile over her shoulder at the ghost. Jonash looked up from examining his fingernails and drifted to the door, rolling his eyes. Though Laila struggled with the fact that she had failed to save her friend, she was glad that his ghost wasn’t covered in blood and gore. He looked as she assumed he had before receiving the injuries.

No sooner had he taken up his post at the door did someone gasp with surprise at walking through a ghost.

“I’m sorry, but I’m closed today!” Laila called.

“How the hell can a healer be closed?” Came the disgruntled response.

“Unless you or a loved one is bleeding profusely, has a broken bone, or is dying, please come back tomorrow.”

The voice on the other side of the door muttered something. Jonash stepped back through the door to shrug, expression as confused as Laila’s was annoyed.

“If you let me in, I can help you!”

Laila rolled her eyes heavenward and prayed for strength.

“When I want an assistant, I will post a listing at the University,” she said, thinking the person at the door was a hopeful student.

“No, not with that. But I could help you if you nee… No! I can help you with the other thing!”

Laila paused, glancing at Jonash. The ghost shrugged again and leaned against the wall. At some point he’d regained enough solidity to control what he fell through.

“May as well see what the child has to say?” He mouthed.

Laila stuck her tongue out at him.

“What do you mean, ‘the other thing’?” She asked.

The voice on the other side of the door dropped to a murmur. The speaker was clearly pressed up agains the lock: “I can’t speak of it out here, but I think I have a solution to your… mutual problem.”

A glimmer of hope sprang up in Laila’s chest.

“Fine. But make sure no one sees you come in.”

She went to the door and unlocked it. She and Jonash watched, bemused, as a youth slipped through the door with a furtive look that befit a noisy thief.

“Thank you,” he said, brushing himself off. He looked around a moment before his gaze snagged on Jonash. The ghost flashed a nasty smile at the lad, who blanched and turned away quickly.

“You can see him?” Laila asked, surprised. The lad didn’t look like a seer, let alone a mage or a priest.

“Of course I can,” the lad said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, you said that. But how? And why?”

The lad sketched a bow, sweeping the floor with his hat.

“Clearly I have some explaining to do.”

Jonash mouthed “Clearly,” and reached out and punched the lad in the back, his hand appearing in his stomach folded in a rude gesture.

“If you could refrain from messing with my internal organs, I thank you,” The lad said, suppressing a shudder. Laila just raised her brows in invitation for him to continue. “To answer your questions, my lady,” he said, readjusting his hat. “I am Arthur Marín, and I believe I have a solution to your ghostly prob-”

“You said that before. But I don’t understand how you can s-“

“-lem. And I can see your Jonash because I am a necromancer.”

Sacrifice

A hero/villain piece

The night is cold, the sky a black, star-spattered canvas. The remains of a crescent moon hang low, obscured by a line of skeletal trees; their branches dance in a breeze.

The Hero shivers, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Though he’s surrounded by sleeping friends, his chest is tight with loneliness. The fire burns low, but as the party departs at dawn, there is little need to stoke it. They will be gone before the sun breaches the horizon. They should be on the trail now. The Monster that plagues the region doesn’t sleep, so why should they? The fact that any of them are able to sleep at all is a wonder to the Hero. Every one of them had seen what the Monster is capable of. It is why they’re here, in the middle of a frozen wilderness. Someone had to put a stop to the Monster’s rampage. Someone had to be worthy of the songs of old.

Sighing, the Hero looks at the faces of their companions, the weight of his decision suffocating him.

A barn owl screeches, the sound harsh and desolate in the dark forest. The Hero jumps, and one of his companions mumbles and rolls over. Under normal circumstances the sound would comfort him. It’s a sound of his home and childhood. But tonight it reminds him of the promise he made upon setting out on this venture. Tonight it fills him with dread.

A log shifts in the fire, casting a soft glow on his love’s face. Of all the company, he is going to miss them the most.

A rustle comes from behind, a branch breaks. The Hero knows it’s time. Standing quietly so as not to disturb his companions, he walks into the darkness.

The Monster is there, waiting for him. Four eyes glow yellow, its upper body and long, double-jointed arms covered in blood; claws and fangs shine like obsidian.

“Little human comes to me,” the Monster rasps. Its eyes flick over the Hero’s body, searching for something. “Without claw or fang. Foolish little human.” The Monster takes a step forward, surprised when the Hero holds his ground. Too much is at stake for cowardice.

“Aye, I come,” the Hero murmurs.

“A Monster wonders why.”

“To bargain.”

The Monster throws its head back and laughs, chitinous gurgling sound that sets the Hero’s knees shaking.

“Little human is foolish to think a Monster will bargain.” It sits back on its haunches. “But a Monster is curious. A Monster has never had little bargain human. A Monster will listen.”

“If I give myself to you, you must swear to leave the people in peace.” The Hero’s voice is strong, despite his terror. “If you leave, I will come with you and protect you from others.”

“If a Monster doesn’t?” The Monster hums, amused. “If a Monster eats little bargain human?”

“Then my death wish will be the destruction of you and your ilk.”

Wary of the Hero’s confidence, the Monster considers.

“A Monster agrees with little bargain human. But a Monster has condition.”

“What?”

A gleam comes into the Monster’s eyes.

“A Monster gets to eat part of little bargain human!”

The Monster lunges at the Hero and pins him to the ground, talons piercing his shoulders. Saliva drips from its fangs as it lowers its mouth to the Hero’s stomach.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT!” The Hero’s voice is shrill enough that the Monster stops and glares at him.

“Why? A Monster is hungry. Little bargain human prevents a Monst–“

“I can help break your curse!”

Silence stretches between the Monster and the Hero. The Hero strains to hear if anyone in his camp has woken up, but he hears nothing over the pounding of his heart.

“A Monster says nothing about a curse.” Its expression becomes confused and, dare the Hero think it, hopeful.

“Little bargain human knows stories.” The Hero says. “Little bargain human knows secrets.”

The Monster sits up, retracting its talons from the Hero’s shoulders. The Hero winces, but doesn’t cry out.

“If…” The Monster begins, voice husky. “If a Monster takes little bargain human, little bargain human helps a Monster?”

“Yes,” the Hero breathes.

“A Monster has to ask why little bargain human will help a Monster?”

The Hero fights the lump in his throat for a moment, unable to speak.

“Because even Monsters deserve a chance at redemption.”

The Monster studies the Hero, something like sadness creasing its face. After a moment it shakes itself, lips curling back over its fangs.

“Fine. A Monster will not eat little bargain human tonight. If little bargain human lies about curse, a Monster eats?”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair… enough…” The Monster replies, pleased with itself for being so agreeable. Suddenly it sits up, sniffing the air. “A Monster must take little bargain human. Yellow eye comes, and little bargain human’s humans come.”

The Monster lifts the Hero with ease, carrying him before its chest. The absurdity of the situation hits the Hero like a fist. He can barely keep from screaming as spindle legs devour the distance to the hills.

“Monsters aren’t the only ones that crave forgiveness,” he reminds himself bitterly. Glancing around the Monster’s side he imagines his companions waking up, realizing he’s gone. He can’t avoid thinking about pain his love will feel.

Guilt drowning his fear, the Hero whispers an apology to his companions and prays that he is not mistaken.

Evil Tea Party

A hero/villain piece

The Villain stood surveying the view, a cup of honeyed darjeeling held in their right hand. Mozart’s Requime played in the background. They’d always loved the city at night, but… there was something to be said for viewing it from a penthouse. They pressed the china tea cup to their lips, poised to take a sip, when a muffled groan came from behind them, followed by creaking ropes.

“Struggling will do you no good, I’m afraid,” they said without turning. “I tied the knots myself.”

An oath sounded, followed by more futile attempts at freedom.

The Villain smiled into their cup, taking the long awaited first sip.

Perfection.

Turning, the picture of composure, they surveyed their handiwork. The Hero sat tied to a chair, the knots textbook examples of the finest shibari techniques. The gag in their mouth was one of the Villain’s own cravats. The Villain set their cup on the edge of the coffee table.

“You’re undoubtedly wondering why you’re here. Why…” the Villain’s long legs carried them to the Hero’s side in three strides. “Why I chose you.” They gripped the Hero’s chin between their fingers, forcing their head up.

“You want to know, don’t you? I feel your curiosity burning in your blood.”

The Hero’s lip curled into a sneer, a growl rising in their chest.

The Villain shifted their grip, their fingers digging into the Hero’s cheeks. “I chose you for your spirit. A spirit I will enjoy breaking piece…” their fingers drifted over the Hero’s throat. “By…” they continued down, resting on the Hero’s exposed collarbone. “Piece.”

Bach’s Come, Sweet Death started playing on the stereo system, the throaty cello voices filling the space.

“An apt song,” they said, turning and striding towards the table on the other side of the dining room. The Hero’s stomach clenched with dread when they recognized the melody. They began their struggle anew.

Back to the room, the Villain considered the collection of knives laid out on black velvet before them. They touched the handle of a damask butterfly knife, smiled fondly at a stiletto.

“I’ve told you, struggling is–“

A crash interrupted them, followed by the shattering of china.

A muscle feathered in the Villain’s jaw, their smile morphing into a grimace. They turned with deliberate slowness, stiletto in hand, and surveyed the scene. The Hero had fallen over, still tied to the chair. But something else caught the Villain’s attention.

“You spilled my tea.” They said, their voice metallic. “That was rather rude of you. Then again, I’d expect nothing less of a Hero.” Their mask slipped for an instant, revealing the mania that lurked below the surface of their composure.

They’d been fingering the point of the knife, and were by the Hero’s side in a bound. They stood over the Hero, eyes flashing with bloodlust. Then a switch flipped. Inhaling, the Villain straightened their coat, brushed their hair back, collected as can be.

The Hero leaned away, taken back by the unpredictability of the Villain’s actions.

Head tilted, the Villain rested their boot on the arm of the chair, and rolled it to its back with a kick. The Hero gasped as the ropes dug into their arms, stomach, and thighs. Disdain was written across the Villain’s face as they stared down at the Hero.

“You Hero types have no respect, you know that?” They said. They crouched by the Hero’s side, flipping the knife under the Hero’s nose. “No respect for the greater picture. No respect for progression. I grow weary of it all.”

With a flourish they ripped the gag from the Hero’s mouth, tearing the fabric as they threw it to the side.

“Wha-“ the Hero rasped, lips stinging.

The manic gleam had returned to the Villain’s eyes.

“Why, my dear…” Funiculi Funicula began playing then. With a flick of the wrist, the Villain nicked the Hero’s chest, blood welling from the cut as they cried out. “All the better to hear you scream.”

Roles Reversed

A hero/villain piece.

The Hero fell to their knees. They coughed, spitting a gob of blood onto the concrete. Glass shattered, the flames leaping higher. At least smoke asphyxiation was better than being torn to shreds.

Their arms giving out, the Hero landed on their face. Everything hurt. But hopefully not for much longer. Boots appeared, stopping right before their nose.

“Is this what you’ve come to?’ The Villain asked, voice impassive.

The Hero craned their head up, glaring at their nemesis.

“Come to…” they coughed again, more blood dribbling from their mouth and nose.

“No, I’ve come to clean up the mess you made.”

The Hero closed their eyes, sighing.

“Why can’t you let me die in peace?”

“I never gave you permission to die.”

The Hero was about to reply when a hand rested on their shoulder, rolling them over. They cried out, cracked bones breaking, scabbed cuts re-opening.

“Oh please,” the Villain chided, gently sliding their hands under the Hero’s knees and shoulders. “It’s not like I haven’t put you through worse.”

Gritting their teeth, the Hero said nothing, surprised at the gingerness of the Villain’s movements.

As the Villain scooped the Hero into their arms they sank to a knee with a grunt.

“This would be easier if you weren’t so large. Heroes are so inconsiderate.”

The Hero choked out laughed at that and semi-reluctantly wrapped an arm around the Villain’s neck, hoping it would help.

With a massive heave the villain made it to their feet and moved as quickly as they could through the burning building.

As the cold night air replaced the smoke, the Villain gasped and nearly dropped the Hero. Sirens sounded in the distance. They continued to stagger another few feet before setting the Hero down as gently as they had picked them up.

Unable to believe it, the Hero watched on awe as the Villain straightened, removed their coat, and wrapped it around their chest, tucking the edges in.

‘God, if the cost of rescuing your pathetic ass is a thrown back, you’re gonna have to pay, get it?”

The Hero was still too shocked to reply beyond an incoherent grunt.

Cracking their back, the Villain turned and began walking away.

“Don’t get used to this, my nemesis.” They called over their shoulder. An ambulance rounded the corner, nearly blocking out the Villain’s last words: “Just know that when you die, it will be at my hand.”

A New Beginning

Hello again.

Sitting here, I have to laugh at the Kat that made this blog nearly 6 years ago. She was optimistic and naive, but a storyteller at heart. Her idea for a reader-based prompt site was somewhat ill-conceived, but not entirely without merit. All she needed to do was commit to the idea, and perhaps this blog would be different from what it’s morphed into. But she was filled with doubts, and wasn’t entirely convinced that she had what it took to be a writer.

Now she knows better. She has lived a little more. She has travelled the world. She has written at least one rough draft of a story, has plotted and half-written about 4 more, and has written any number of short stories, one-shots, scripts, narratives, poems, and bard songs. She is 13 weeks away from finishing college with a BA in Game Design and Art and a concentration in Game Writing (yes, it’s as badass as it sounds). She is a writer, and she believes it with every fiber of her being.

This blog, while it started as something of an ill-fated experiment, is a place for her to share some of her smaller musings. The title, Two Hour Tales, is a comment on the nature of the impending content: everything here will (hopefully) be written in two hours or less, with minimal editing. Things will be messy and error-filled. Things won’t make sense. And yet, sometimes, it’s best if they don’t. Everyone needs a little nonsense in their lives.

So there you have it. Kat has returned, armed with a plethora of ideas and a dedication to provide the world with a little more prose.

I hope you enjoy your stay.