Category: Fantasy

The people who don’t die – Very Short Story

Not long ago I planned to travel the world, now I’m dying. My name is Brynn and this is my story:

I come from a beautiful country where death is rare and also cherished because it signifies a time of change for my people. I was born 998 years ago which makes me a child in the eyes of society but I never saw myself that way. There’s a great party when we turn a thousand and on our birthday we go into the forest and make a marking on our birthstone. We keep track of our age more easily that way. At a thousand marks we have our second birthstone and we celebrate yet again (we find many excuse to have a party) but alas, we are not immortal so getting old enough to have a third or a fourth stone is a real honor.  

I remember when my brother turned a thousand, he received lots of gifts, gifts that I was jealous of. Oh how I wish I could’ve received such an honor! Just two years away… If only I’d waited. Now I’ll die in disgrace without having accomplished a thing. The humans have always fascinated me and I don’t blame them for my death. Their lives are so short yet they accomplish so much. They destroy and create life like it has no meaning. It’s as if time moves faster for them which makes them unable to see the small things and appreciate moments of peace.

I meet my grandparents regularly. They are as old as some of the trees and their bodies are almost as rigid. They decided a while ago that they’ve lived long enough and stopped moving. You can’t kill yourself, that’s forbidden, so they let themselves waste away. I’m not sure if they still hear me but they’re breathing and it’s encouraging just to look at their peaceful expressions.

I am not afraid of death. My contact with the humans taught me a great deal about life and I think I’ve done and seen more than most people my age. I went and saw the great lakes, for instance, and the busted wall that once held millions of gallons of water in place. I could only imagine how grand it must’ve been back then, the lakes are still called Great and are still quite big. The wall kept the sea monsters at bay and they flooded into the ocean when the wall broke and from then they grew even larger. Smaller ones still swim in the lakes. I planned on traversing the ocean, going recklessly like humans do and sail on a boat made of wood… I wonder what my grandparents would’ve said about that.

Well, those are dreams that I won’t see to fruition. I believe being with humans I caught their vulnerability. I can see now why they rely so much on the gods and they pray for fortune so they might not die. Had I known this I’d prayed to the gods too, but now it’s too late. My death is certain. Yet I don’t regret it. Because of my disgrace I’ll live once more, reborn perhaps to the same parents? It’s not unheard of.

War is a big part of the human world, more than in ours, I think the last one ended a millenia ago and I’ve seen how the humans fight! They are merciless and brutal to their opponents because the enemy is in the way of their fortune. It was jarring. They are so sure they won’t die, that they will be the lucky ones. They are reckless and fascinating. It’s their fate to be at the whims of the gods, my kind has a different relationship with the gods. They say we were their first creation but they became bored with us and created humans; other’s say we were gods ourselves in the past but were cursed somehow, tricked into mortality. It makes us special. I don’t see it that way, we still die in the flesh like humans do. We don’t create or destroy, no more than humans are capable of. We simply don’t do it and in death we just disappear like a breath in the wind. Forgotten. We leave the world neither better nor worse.

In our country we have what we need and doesn’t seek more. The opposite is true for humans, they start with nothing and can’t have enough of anything. I’m not sure which fate is worse. My kind have all the time in the world but does nothing with it while the humans time is limited but they want so much. I thought I was special and could do great things for a long time. Perhaps next time, if the world will have me.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Dust People – Very Short Story

At the first day of spring, three strangers wandered up the mountain from the dust filled plains of the east and came down into the valley. They Valley people welcomed them with open arms, gave them food and a place to stay; this is what they have always done. The Dust people are a shy breed and they hide their faces behind masks and cloaks and only dark slits for their eyes could be seen. Many of the Valley people wondered what they looked like but they were too polite to ask. Some speculated that the Dust people didn’t even have eyes but that was too disturbing to talk about.

The dust people usually stayed for a couple of days before moving on deeper into the valley and over to the neighbouring town at the river. The people there welcomed them as well because having the dust people around made life easier, somehow, things didn’t seem as hard and life became a little silly and people laughed and were merry.

The Dust people wandered from village to village until everybody had had a taste, then the dust people headed back after sampling the Valley Peoples hospitality at the end of spring. Nobody knew why they did this. The Valley People were famed for their good food and suppose the Dust People didn’t have very good food where they came from. But it was strange that they came in spring, everybody knows the best food was in autumn during the harvest, it was so much richer and tastier then. They argued that the Dust People didn’t know about farming or the seasons, but still, it was strange.

None of the Valley People had gone over the mountain to look what’s on the other side, not since Geremy and his brother never came back. I always thought it was unfair that we remember the name of the one brother but not the other. Once in a while, dust storms carried sand across the mountain and rained down on the valley, turning the landscape pale until it was washed away by the rains. This was a happy occasion because the next harvest would be great, the greens grew larger and tasted sweeter, even the milk the cows produced was sweet. Everything that came from the desert was good as far as the valley people were concerned.

But still, people wondered, how could such a dead place bring life and how could such shady characters as the Dust People bring joy? They were questions the people were afraid to get answers to for they feared it must be sinister and would rather not know. As such, they kept wondering, never straying far from their valley, never learning about the world around them as everything was good in their little paradise and they were happy to share it with the strangers as long as they weren’t too many and as long as they left at the end of spring.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Waving Willow

There are giant bees, you know. They sound like buzzsaws and whenever someone hears one they run into their homes because they never know what bees will do, except looking for giant flowers.

There are giant flowers, of course, otherwise there wouldn’t be giant bees!

There are other strange creatures too, but none of them giant, for some reason. Scholars think the bees and the flowers were the only species that survived the Giants Period.

There’s this tree that’s called the Waving Willow: it’s a tree that has leaves that look like hands, and when the wind touches it (oh so lightly), the leaves start rattling, making it look like the tree is waving at you, beckoning you forward.

Some fairy tales say that the trees are born from kind spirits who warn travellers not to come closer, and when the danger is gone, the tree goes away. Others say the tree lures you (mostly unsuspecting travellers that have never seen the tree before) to something dreadful, to a swamp where you’ll drown or get eaten by some wild beast or some such.

I don’t know why anyone would approach a tree thinking it was beckoning them to begin with but I suppose the stories were concocted a long time ago and people thought differently back then. Whether it happened or not, there’s nothing good or dangerous under the Waving Willow trees anymore, it’s simply a funny looking tree, waving you good morning or afternoon or whatever time of the day you happen to see it.

by Stamphers

The Birthmark that Mapped Her Future – Short Story

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Em. 

She lived in a castle along with her six other brothers and sisters. Everyone got along with each other except with her because she was different. She was born with a birthmark, big and pale, that mapped itself from her neck down to her shoulder. “It’s the devil’s child,” they’d call her. “She’s been marked by the devil!” 

The only time they ever played with her was at Em’s expense. They would lunge at her and reel back just as fast, to see who got closest without touching her. Once, Em tried to grab them back, but when she did, they screamed and stared at her as if she was a monster. She never played with them again and avoided them altogether. Many years went by and her oldest brother was eighteen and he was sent off to another kingdom. “He’s such a good son,” her parents would say. “He’ll do great things for the country.” Em didn’t know there were other countries in the world and listened intently whenever she could. As long as she was quiet, and stayed out of their way, she could listen for as long as she liked because her parents didn’t care for her anyway.

Then there was her fifth sibling, who was married to a prince at sixteen and she was sent off to live in his castle. Em wondered if she’d be married off too someday… And so, one after the other, her siblings left the castle until she was the only one left. She thought, maybe now mum and dad will pay attention to me, sense I’m all they got? She tried getting their attention by singing and playing the piano but they would just send one of the maids and drag her away. “They are very busy,” the maid would say.

Soon, Em stopped trying to make them notice her and stayed in her room, where everyone preferred her anyway. All day she’d read or sing or play the piano. Other days she’d just sit by the window and look as the world moved on without her, dreaming of being sent away one day. The only time she ever left her room was when everyone was asleep and she had the whole castle to herself. Unfortunately, the castle was very dark at night and she would jump at every suspicious sound, or shadow. She was especially frightened near the kitchen where she heard strange moans at night. She asked her father for a lantern but he wouldn’t give it to her. “What would you need a lantern for anyway? He asked. But Em wouldn’t say, fearing he’d lock her up if he knew what she was up to. Then one night, she saw something glowing in the dark. It was a lit lantern that was resting outside the kitchen door. Pleased with her find, she snatched it and ran back to her room, never considering it might belong to somebody esle. The next morning, two servants were fired and the noise from the kitchen went away. 

Many years later (when she was twelve) after coming home from one of her nightly adventures, there was an old lady waiting in her room. Em almost dropped the lantern because she thought it was some sort of goblin that had followed her. But as the creature turned, Em could see it was a person smiling. Her name was Emma, which was funny because that’s what Em always thought her own name would be if her parents had bothered finishing it. 

As it turned out, Emma was very kind and she’d stay with Em all day long telling stories or brushing her hair. “I’m so glad you are here,” Em said. “I don’t ever have to leave my room and feel lonely again.” 

“Oh? Why wouldn’t you want to leave? The night is yours, nobody is gonna hurt you.”

Em scratched her neck. “I don’t really like the dark,” she said.

Emma put down the brush and said. “Have you ever heard about Vampires?”

Em shook her head. 

“They are tall and handsome creatures of the night and they got their eyes on you. They’ll come for you, one day, when you are ready.”

Em jittered out of her chair. “Me? Why?!”

Emma caressed Em’s neck which didn’t help to sooth her because nobody had dared touch her there before. “They’ll protect you because they know you’ll do great things. That’s why everyone is afraid of you,” she said.

Em thought about it. “Everyone? Even monsters?”

Emma smiled. “Even monsters.”

“But then… Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

The old woman quirked her mouth. “I’m too old to be scared of death.” 

When Em was left alone, she thought about what had been said. If everyone was afraid of her she could do whatever she wanted! That very same night she went without her lantern. She knew the castle by heart and at first, she was scared without it but as her eyes got used to the darkness she became more confident. She even went to the tower at the abandoned part of the castle, where the Wraith is said to wander up and down the stairs. And lo and behold, she came back without being hurt! Ever since then, the night became hers and she would sometimes frighten others that walked the dark. Sometimes she would even eves-drop on her father’s meetings which she wasn’t supposed to hear: apparently, things weren’t going well for her oldest brother in the other kingdom and rumour had it he’d been captured and locked in a prison somewhere. For some reason, this amused Em, thinking of her siblings being locked away in a dark cell with nobody to talk to and she secretly wished all her siblings shared the same fate. 

Two years went by and she was fourteen. She was looking out the window when a mysterious carriage drove up to the door. Excited, she snuck downstairs to have a listen. It was an old man in his 40s that came through the door. He had a large beard and a dreary look about him. Her father frowned as he stepped inside and didn’t seem too pleased to see him. They went into the parlour where her father always had his secret meetings. Em climbed stealthily down the stairs, relying on the dark to hide her, but then the stranger suddenly turned and stared straight at her. Her heart froze and she shot back. He couldn’t have seen her in the dark, could he? She went back to have a look but they were gone. Em was too nervous to go closer and it didn’t feel safe sneaking into her father’s meeting. She decided to go back to bed where she lay awake, wondering who the stranger was and what he wanted.

Continue reading on Tablo!

by Stamphers

The Secrets in the Attic – Short Story

A boy walked aimlessly down a hall. Voices of the adults disappeared in the endless corridors of the large house, becoming distant as he went. The old man, who lived in the house, didn’t care to lighten all of it and he probably didn’t use more than a third. The boy glanced from side to side, looking at strange paintings on the walls and flowers that had died and withered a long time ago. And the deeper he went, the darker and muskier the smells became. He’d never been to his grandfather’s house before, he barely knew he had one. His parents never talked about him and they had never told him why. But one day, the old man had a heart attack and suddenly the old man was whisked into existence… But it was all the same to him, his grandfather was very old and talked strangely. Thankfully, his grandfather allowed him to explore the house, so the old man wasn’t all bad. As he came to the end of the corridor, he followed a set of stairs, to the third floor, where there was a locked door. He peeked inside the keyhole but it was too dark to see anything. This made him all the more curious and he hurried down the stairs to the kitchen where the adults were. He stopped half way and tightened his collar and then headed inside. They were all drinking tea and all the excitement from before drained as he entered. There was his mother who had pink hair and a small frame compared to his father, who was tall but skinny. They sat straight with tired looks that brightened a bit when he entered. To his left there was his grandfather who slumped in his chair. He was clean shaven, though the hair on his head grew past his shoulders he was completely bald on top. The boy felt his eyes on him. “What is it, my boy?” The old man said. “Found something?”

“There’s a door to the attic that’s locked. May I look inside?”

“Sure, sure,” he said and dug into his pocket but hesitated. “That is, if it’s okay by your father.”

The boy looked at his father who nodded slowly. His mouth was a thin line and he rarely smiled so it was hard to tell what he was thinking. “You may,” he said.

“Thank you, father,” the boy said and bowed lightly. He received the key and headed out as quickly as he could. It was suffocating when adults were together… He loosened the collar again and headed upstairs. The door creaked open and the light from the hallway lighted the room a little. There were boxes and boxes everywhere, covered in drapes. He looked around and noticed a small source of light behind some velvet sheets and he pulled it down. Dust spurt around and tickled his nose, but there was now light and he could look clearly around the attic. It was filled with stuff and he stared at it all, excitedly. There could be anything buried in here, he thought, and began searching. Most of the things he found were regular stuff, mostly clothes, tools, and tableware. But sometimes he found something strange which he wasn’t sure what they were for, and he put them aside and dug for more. He found a pocket watch, nothing special, then he found a gold encrusted pen. Now that’s more like it! After a while, he couldn’t stand the itchiness in his nose as he stirred the dust around and he decided to take his treasure downstairs. The adults were outside when he found them, smoking. He hated smoke because it made his eyes water but he approached them and poured the contents of his bag over a table. “What have you got there, boy?” the old man said with a smile.

“Fredric!” His mother snapped.

Stunned, he found his collar was loose and he quickly tightened it. “That’s better,” she said and leaned back and drank her tea.

The old man dug into the pile and was very happy to see these old things that had once been very useful but had no use anymore, either because they had invented something better or it had gone out of fashion. The old man stopped for a moment when he got to the pen. “It’s gold, isn’t it?” said Fredric.

The old man examined it. “It’s gold alright, but I can’t remember where it came from.”

“Do you remember everything you owned, father?”

The old man looked askance at his son. “I suppose not,” he said and put the pen back in the pile.

“Can I keep it?” Fredric asked.

The old man smiled. “Sure, why not? Take the watch too, get some use out of it.”

“Thanks grandpa,” he said with a smile and sat in the corner and waited as the adults talked. They didn’t stay for long and when they got home, Fredric went to the kitchen and polished the pen until it shone. “Can I bring it to school?” He asked his mother.

“It’s not proper to boast,” she said.

“Yes, mother,” he said and pocketed it and headed upstairs. “Goodnight, mom. Goodnight dad,” he said and stood by the door to his room. Before entering, he pinched a needle that was stuck at the door frame and a thud came from inside. A rope hung in front of him with a large sandbag attached to it on the floor. He propped the trap back into place and closed the door. He skipped over several wires that stretched across the floor, and before he undressed and went to bed, he tapped the wooden frame of the bed three times and then crawled under the blanket, sleeping soundly soon after.

***

He went to school the next day. His clothes oppressed him, it was hard to move and the collar pressed up against his chin. His clothes were very expensive too, black and sophisticated, not at all like a schoolboy of 12, but that of a grown gentleman. It was how his parents wanted him to be, to be as far above the rest as he could be. His father even took away all his children’s stories when he turned 10, even his favourite one about the gnomes and humans who lived side by side. He remembered it clearly: the gnomes made magical things to aid the humans, but over time, the gnomes grew weary of being treated like slaves and they took back their magic from the humans and disappeared, bringing in an age of darkness until humanity brought themselves back with their own kind of magic of cogs and machinery. There are other tales about the gnomes but his father was insistent that he only read this particular one, or other’s like it. Fredric didn’t rightly know why.

On his way to school, he took the long way around, avoiding the houses of his classmates. He’d memorised them all and he knew which route they took. He walked between small dilapidated houses, and the tiny roads between them, where the grass had grown through the pavement, roads nobody cared about. For some reason he liked those roads, they seemed almost like lost ruins, but most of all, he liked it because he was alone. He’d tried to make friends once. His father never approved any of them and only belittled them because they were not good enough for his son. People stopped coming then, and after a while, Fredric stopped trying. Finally, he came out on the big road. He walked behind the school at the football yard which was empty so early in the day. There was only one or two who saw him (…)

© Christopher Stamfors

Continue reading the story over Here!

by Stamphers

Fortune In the Mire – Short Story

The night was quiet; the moon was full. It was a sleepy town with some old buildings dotted around, some as old as several hundred years! Little had happened here, somehow avoiding the disasters of time and progress. But that didn’t mean it held no secrets… Everyone was asleep, but there was one figure lurking on the rooftop. He moved slowly, darkly, as dark as one could manage despite the moon casting his silhouette on the dark blue sky. He could be quite easily seen if one were to look, but there was nobody to see him for all was a sleep. The roof plates wobbled dangerously as he moved forward, making his way to the next window and he huddled up to it. He brought out a crowbar and buried the iron into the dry old wood. It cracked and he opened the window stealthily. The weight of him made the floor creak, each step somehow becoming louder. He took a breath, brought out a flashlight and an old book and read it softly to himself. “Though it will be some time until I return to this place, I decided to hide the map in the cupboard on the second floor, the one in the main hall. The first layer of the drawer was easy to break and nobody would guess that something was hidden inside. I hope that I will return to it soon. I do not trust the captain and his men to honour their promise.”

He smirked and looked around. There was a cupboard down the hall and he opened the drawer. The old wood squealed when he pulled it open and he hesitated, seeming much louder in the night where sound carried far. He broke the first layer, revealing a secret compartment. He dug his hand into the dark and felt the coarseness of paper. A wide grin grew upon his face.

Continue reading “Fortune In the Mire – Short Story”

by Stamphers

Hephaestus Sanctuary – Short Story

A door opened and a man stepped out, squinting at the sun. The day was clear and he let the sun fully engross him. It had been a long winter, he thought as he went out to inspect the field. Much of the snow had melted, but the ground was still hard. It would be another month before he could sow the seed for this year’s harvest. He glanced up at the mountain that was tall in the distance. It was still covered in white but he knew (as sure as spring would come) that they would come knocking on his door.

And so the people tilled their land and sowed their seeds. The harvest was good and the air was mild. The farmer went to bed early, knowing that tomorrow, they would come. And he was right, for later the next evening, a tall man knocked on their door. He wore a black cloak and a sombre expression. The farmer knew they weren’t much for talking and went to business. They exchanged food for silver. The stranger raised a large sack, filled with various animal produce, over his shoulders and was gone. The farmer stood by the doorstep and watched the stranger lumber away, carrying much more than any normal man ought to. He didn’t think of them during the winter, he didn’t like to, because they were not men, they couldn’t be. A cold breeze caressed his forehead. The summer was at an end and it would be another year before they descended the mountain.

**

In a small, dimly lit room, she was staring at a fire. The flames engulfed the pot that hung over it and she waited for it to settle before she’d pour water into it. She was not used to sitting alone, and her mind drifted away. She was reminded of her husband, sitting next to her, being silly and making the time fly by. The fire settled into a hearth and she poured the ingredients into the boiling water, tasted it, and waited.

She knew nothing of what was happening outside:

The sun had almost set, casting purple twilight over the horizon. Men in dark hoods wandered between the houses, disappearing and reappearing as they became invisible in the shade.  There were several of them, dashing ghostly from wall to wall, some standing like a sentry, watching the horizon. On the southern end of the village, one of those Sentry’s kept his eyes peeled, when a figure emerged from the horizon. Snow, that had collected on his cloak, crumbled as he dashed towards the stranger:

The stranger was a weary soul. Each step felt like a ton as his feet were buried knee deep in the snow and he did not notice when two dark hooded men emerged in front of him. They seemed to tower over him as he himself stooped to keep the wind from his eyes. “Are you lost, friend?” One of the Sentries asked in a dark sort of way.

Was he lost or had he found the right place? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that something drew him, something burning inside him that forced him to go on. The stranger glanced up at them and saw that half their faces were covered by a hood, their left and right eye respectively. When they saw his face, their one eye widened as if transfixed by his appearances. But nothing else revealed what they were thinking as their expressions remained cold and neutral. The stranger touched his face, wondering if there was something wrong with him when he realised he could not picture what he looked like. After a moment, the dark hooded men collected themselves and gently placed their hands on his shoulders, urging him to follow them to a small cabin where he could rest. But the burning did not allow him to rest. Feeling close to his goal, he quickened his step, but the two black figures lurched on him and grabbed him by the shoulders, insisting that he cooperate.

They pinned him down, and his chest burned more brightly, glowing in bright red and orange through his clothes. His weariness melted away and with new found strength, he broke free from their grip and rushed towards the village. The Sentries didn’t hesitate and drew their weapons. Beams of light zoomed through the air, hitting the walls on the houses, harmlessly melting the ice and snow that caked on the walls. They all missed and it seemed like the stranger would get away when he felt a pain through his ankle and he collapsed around the corner of a house. But when they came to collect him, he was gone.

Do you remember the woman from before? She had heard the commotion and she looked out to see what it was about. It was almost night now, only a slither of light still remained in the sky and it took a moment before she realised a stranger sprawled on her doorstep, half covered in snow. She stared at him for a while, conflicted. She wanted to help him, but what if he was dangerous? He squirmed in the snow. Her heart could not bear see him suffer and she opened the door and dragged him inside. Black liquid streaked on the floor from his ankle which she patched with linen as best she could. His clothes were soaked and she undressed him, wrapping him in blankets near the fire. For a moment, everything was still as she gazed down at the stranger on the floor. She noticed how his face was in perfect symmetry; his chin was strong and his hair curly and yellow. Everything about him was perfect and she thought he must be a god. She felt her cheeks flush and she forced herself to look away. Maybe this was a bad idea? He was a stranger and they were sure to come looking for him. What would they do if they found him here? As she contemplated her choices, there was loud knocking on the door that made her wince.

One of the dark hooded men stood on the other side, asking if she’d seen any strangers pass by? The woman glanced at her neighbours houses and saw that they were knocking on all the doors. She realised they had no idea where the stranger had gone and that they did not suspect her. “I haven’t seen anything,” she said and the hooded man nodded, thanking her for her cooperation and went away. Now, you might find it strange that they didn’t search her home? But you must realise, this sort of thing had never happened before. They did not question the villagers loyalty and they certainly did not expect it to be broken by a kind heart and a beautiful face.

When the door closed, she pressed herself against it. Her heart was at her throat and she breathed heavily. She had never lied before, but now that she had, there was no turning back. The stranger did not wake up that night, nor the following morning. The feast, that she had prepared for, came and went, and during all this time, she could think of nothing else but the stranger. But one night, when she was asleep, she heard bustling downstairs. She rushed down and saw the stranger rummaging through her drawers. He was completely naked and in any other situation, she’d look away, but now, she simply stared. His limbs were in perfect symmetry… and his muscles… He was perfection! Except for the bandaid on his left ankle. It took a moment before she became aware that she was staring and she quickly looked away and covered her face with her hand. “I’m sorry!” She shrieked.

He stood there, silently observing her. “Where are my clothes?” He said.

She pointed to a coffin next to the cupboard. When he was dressed, he turned and said. “Thank you.”

Silently, she turned to meet his eyes. It was the first time she’d looked directly into them and somehow she could not draw her gaze away. He observed her too, for a moment, when he suddenly hissed and clenched his teeth, moving his hand towards his chest. “I must go,” he said and turned towards the door.

“Wait!” she said, placing her hand on his, hindering him from turning the doorknob. He glanced down at her hand, noticing she was missing her ring finger. She removed her hand as if burned by his gaze and hid it behind her back. She didn’t know why she did so; she had never felt ashamed about her missing finger, but seeing the perfection that was this man… She wanted to hide it. “I— They are still after you, you know. They’ll catch you if you leave,” she said.

But the stranger just looked at her vacantly and made another effort to leave. “You can’t!” she shrieked and embraced him around the waist. She didn’t know what had come over her. Why was it so hard to let this man go? She didn’t know, but, for whatever reason, she knew that if she let him leave, she’d never see him again and the thought alone made her tremble. The stranger did not resist her at first, but as she refused to let go, and the burning in his chest became stronger, he tried to force her off. Then, it all stopped. All the energy that had gathered within him drained and he collapsed on the floor. She held onto him, still, and he fell into her lap. For a while, he didn’t open his eyes, but when he did, it was as if he saw the world for the first time. His mind was clear and the urgency was gone. He noticed how pleasantly the room smelled of firewood; how the furniture was half-moon shaped to accommodate the rounded walls; how her front teeth peaked behind her lips; and how her soft breasts pressed against him.

They didn’t move from that spot for a very long time. Only at dawn, when the light shone through the windows, did it revive them. She was the first to rise. She held out her hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom. They spent all day in that bed, and only the next morning, did they finally talk: She felt his chest rise and fall and she thought there was nothing in this world that could make her get out of bed. A pang of guilt clenched her hand, scratching the stranger’s skin over his stomach. What would her husband think if he knew? How would she feel in his situation?

“Is something wrong?” the stranger asked.

She glanced up at him and their eyes met. Somehow seeing them made the guilt wash away. He was a god, she was sure of it, only a deity could make somebody feel this good. She sat up and locked her hands together and took a breath. “I have a husband,” she said.

There was no reaction from him, which surprised her. “He… He was buried in an avalanche a month back.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and placed his hand on hers.

She held it and caressed his hand with her thumbs. “Don’t be, he’ll return, eventually.”

His eyes grew wide. “Excuse me?”

“The Maker will get him back to me, when he’s ready.”

Her whole body quivered and she stared down her hands. How would he react to this? Would he leave her, or… would she make her leave her husband? Her cheeks flushed at the thought, both embarrassed and guilty for thinking it. But the stranger’s mind was somewhere else. He was seeing back to a time when he was still searching the world. He’d seen people die. He’d seen people buried or burnet when their bodies won’t carry them anymore. He’d seen people crying over the dead because they knew they would never see them again. The dead do not return, he was certain.

When no answer came, she tried to lead the conversation elsewhere. “A— Are you going to tell me about yourself?”

Broken from his revery, he blinked.

“Where do you come from?” She asked.

“I’m… I’m not sure,” he said, gravely.

“You don’t remember?”

“I…” He tried to recall, but all he could see was him walking, climbing, swimming; sometimes alone, sometimes with a group, but he was always moving, searching. “I don’t know… I have never considered it before…”

She looked at him, quizzically.

“It’s like I have never existed until now,” he said and placed his hand over his heart. He couldn’t feel it and he smiled. “It’s thanks to you,” he said and turned to her. “It must be… I wanna know more about myself, about you and this world.” Her heart skipped as he beamed at her. To make another person this happy…. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like. In her head, she decided that she’d do anything to help this man. “Do you at least remember your name?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She laid her head back on his chest. “Don’t worry. We will find out, together.”

He drew his finger through her black silky hair and thought of nothing when he asked. “What do you call yourself?”

“Jessica.”

Continue reading HERE

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Always Night – Very Short Story

I come from a prosperous family. This allows me to travel a lot. I’ve traveled along the great rivers and seen vastly different cultures with strange customs. But one thing they have in common, (as with my own) is they all worship the sun. Indeed, there’s never a time when the sun does not shine. It gives life and I could never imagine a land where it did not exist, unless it was dead and void. When I was around 30, I learned of a place such as this, only, it was not dead… In the farthest reaches of the north, there’s a land where people live and thrive, without the blessings of the sun… At this point in time, I had seen much of the world and I was ready to explore something truly alien.

I made my preparations and headed north. Settlements became fewer the further from home I went. Daylight became dimmer and days became colder. It was uncomfortable, but I was determined to see this strange land and headed on. Light became a slither on the horizon and soon there was only darkness. My eyes could no longer see the people but I sometimes heard them in their low voices. These people don’t like to be seen and is hard to approach. They are weary of strangers and they are oh so few.

Contrary to popular belief, they are indeed humans, not nightly creatures of the unknown for they still worship the light. What drove them here to begin with? I cannot say, for they won’t tell me, or perhaps they simply don’t understand me? In either case, there isn’t all complete darkness as there are many singular lights in the sky. When I first saw the night, I was amazed! I could see now what drew them here, somewhat. Was it worth abandoning the sun for the majesty of the night sky?

I stayed with them for many weeks, and already, I began to feel sluggish. I became melancholic and moved slowly and spoke lowly, as the locals. I wondered if this was how I was gonna die because though I longed for home, I dreaded the long journey back. Then, one night, the people urged me through the dark, with a solitary light in their hands they lead me to a large group of people. I was amazed as I didn’t realise they were so many. Despite their numbers, it was all quiet and soon it was entirely dark as they put out their precious light. I felt my mind was going insane in just those few moments when I saw and heard nothing. Thankfully, I felt their breaths and their shoulders rubbing against mine. After sometime, I was begging for light, when, one peculiar star seemed to grow on the nightly canvas. It grew to engulf my entire vision and was indeed as large and bright as the sun itself, if not more so. I closed my eyes and felt it’s warmth and rejuvenating rays on my body. It only lasted for a couple of moments before the sky was mostly black again, but instead of solemn silence, as I was used to, people talked and cheered. They moved energetically to wherever they belonged. I felt a rush too, from complete exhaustion to reinvigoration, I had never felt happier as I was then.

I understood then that this was a way of living. They endured the suffering to be blessed with the gift of light. I never found out how often this occurred, for though I stayed for many months, I never got to know any of them. They accepted my presence, but that was all. It’s the allure of their kind, the mysteriousness, their reclusive happiness that only they could understand.

With my strength regained, I took the opportunity to head home and I don’t think anyone ever believed what I told. Regardless, I saw what I saw and felt what I felt. It is up to others to experience the same thing I did, to visit the north and experience what true happiness surely is like.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Truth Sayer – Very Short Story

They talked. The strangest group there ever was of four creatures of childlike stature. Their eyes wide on the man that sat across to them. Well, in reality, it was he who talked and they listened. He were their patron, showering them with words of value, of truth, which is valuable. He said many things, spellbinding things, things only he would say.  They were also words of truth for if there was one thing all four of them had learned is that he always spoke the truth. He was also the handsome sort, with a fair complexion; straight nosed, tall, and well built. The opposite of them. He was a rare breed, in these parts. Yet, with all his fairness, he hid his face under a hood. His visage always partly shaded wherever he sat or stood. One would never see his true countenance, not at once. But they, who had listened to his words of truth on many occasions were not concerned with his appearance but what he said, what he could do!

There’s a reason they believed his words and it was because he never said what he couldn’t do or show. There’s profit to be made from his words that danced from ear to ear, their grotesque deformed ears… The room was dimly lit by the hearth of the fire place and murk from pipe smoke that surrounded them in a mist. It was starting to get cold, or maybe it was his words that made them shiver, for this day he spoke of terrible things, things gruesome and void. And what we have already established, he only spoke the truth, which made it all the more terrible, terribly real!

There was a peculiar quirk about his words and that was they could never be recounted. They were words one felt. You didn’t hear them, not a singular word but the whole tale at once. It lingered and only they knew what was said. The stranger left that night, like he always did at the first howl of the night, and left the four ugly creatures to lament. They looked at each other. They knew what the other thought for they had heard the same thing, and they were friends, at least as friendly as creatures, such as them, could be. On the left end of the table, smoke rose and evaporated from the lips of one of them, the one quickest to words, and he said. “He must die.”

The others knew this as well, and nodded slowly in agreement. But the question was how and when? Next time, they agreed. The next time he came to speak, and they to listen, the stranger would die. Then how was he to die? With the means that they were able, for they were all able. Even creatures as small has them had their own ways to make problems go away…

The night came and they acted well enough, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was not a difficult feat for whenever they gathered they simply listened, and they listened, like always. And it was in that moment they realised: the ‘when’ and ‘how’ had been determined, but ‘why?’ Why had he to die? Like the strangers tales, it was felt, not understood, and now when they heard his words once more speak of pleasant things, their determination wavered. Why must he die? A man who made their hearts stir so? The only thing they knew was that he must. And so, as they were creatures of emotions, they struck the moment the wolf howled, breaking them from the strangers spell.

The one nearest stabbed the stranger on the side with a long nail hidden in his coat. The one on the left, furthest away, threw acid on him and the one to the right simply stayed his hand, for he was last and he saw that there was no one there. And more horrifyingly, it was not air that they smote, but themselves. Dumbfounded they looked, blood trickling from their sides, their ugly faces melting away until they were no more but one, one remaining horrified and frozen. For a full day, he waited, until there was night again, and the stranger emerged from the shadows. The stranger spoke as nothing had happened, and the creature listened and was lost in the magic that was his words. 

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

A Tall Tale – Very Short Story

The man in front of him was the nervous sort. The sort of man that had seen things – still saw them. Someone who didn’t want to believe what they saw, for nobody else did. It wasn’t the first time Arnte had interviewed such people, in fact, he’d built a reputation on them. He didn’t really care if they told the truth because they always had good stories for him to use. He eyed the young man who looked like any other peasant boy; strong built with a bowl cut, only, his mannerism didn’t match his appearance. The young man looked nervously from side to side, his shoulders timidly raised over his ears and sipping sparsely on his beer, even though it was provided for him. Arnte licked his lips and brought out his notebook and said. “So, Herr Frans. I’m ready when you are.”

Frans gave him a quick glance then jerked his head to the right, then to the left. Arnte noticed that Frans body was never fully still, as if he was constantly shuddering. Arnte was getting impatient and he cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like to remind you that you requested this interview. You’re wasting both our time.”

Frans suddenly heaved the contents of his drink in one great gulp and placed the mug back on the table. Arnte noticed that Frans stopped shuddering. Arnte sighed and gesture the waiter for another beer. If I’d help him talk… He thought.

Frans touched the mug and drew his finger around the edges and then lick his finger, as if to test if it was poisoned. Then said. “They are in the walls, you know, under the floorboard and even in our pockets if they want to.”

Arnte noted it down. “Who are they, exactly?”

Frans snorted. “I envy your ignorance. They might have left the consciousness for most of you, but they are still around, even if you don’t see them.”

Arnte raised an eyebrow. He was well spoken despite looking like a peasant. He noted that down too. “Can you tell me what they look like?”

Frans took another greedy gulp of the beer and his shoulders slowly slumped back below his ears. “Unfortunately, it would be pointless to describe them since they have no form. They appear differently from person to person, they change shape, and even then, they don’t like to be seen.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

Frans glowered at him. “I see one right now. In the crack on the wall there. Ah! too late, it’s gone.”

Arnte crinkled his lips. This was a mistake, he thought, and reached for the tab when Frans stopped him. “Look, you can’t see them unless they allow themselves to be seen.”

Arnte leaned back against his chair. “What makes you so special, then?”

Frans eyed his empty glass and Arnte called for the waiter, reluctantly.   

Frans licked his lips. “Special is not the word that I would use. They keep me reminded that they are always watching… Where I come from, they are normal. It’s a place where few outsiders visit, or leave for that matter… You remember the tales of elves and trolls from your childhood, surely your parents must have told them to you?”

Arnte nodded.

“Well, my village, is where it all began, the origin of these creatures in our world. It is where they like to be, nowadays, now that men are everywhere. Even on the tallest mountains and the deepest forests they cannot be alone, which is what they want in the end… Alone I mean.”

Arnte wasn’t sure what to make of all of this but was intrigued. “Then why did you leave?”

“Look, there are some nice creatures, I’ll admit. And I suppose I could’ve gotten used to the terrors at night once in a while; things disappearing and having to be extra polite to a certain stub near my house; however, I could never get used to the whispers. That was the worst of it. I never understood how the others managed. Perhaps I was just weak like that, perhaps their zealously towards her shields them somehow. Yet, I cannot put my faith in her. I know what she is. How the others didn’t run away with me is a mystery.”

“Where is this place, exactly? What is it called?”

Frans eyes grew wider. “What would you do if I told you?”

“To verify your story, of course.”

Frans started laughing and rose from his seat. “How can you do that if you haven’t even listened to a single word I’ve said?” He finished his beer. “Thanks for the drinks,” he said and walked away.

Arnte scratched his nose and looked as he walked away. He read his notes again and crossed them over with his pen. A bust then… he thought. He paid for the drinks and was about to leave when he turned and peered at the crack in the wall which Frans had alluded before. There was nothing in it and he sighed and looked down at his notes again. His eyes flashed as images popped into his mind and he began to furiously write down his thoughts. It was almost morning before he finally put down his pen. 

They had appeared to him.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers