Category: Fantasy

Liquid Soul – Very Short Story

A boy wandered upon an empty road in the middle of the night. The air was cool and fresh and the leaves were turning yellow. After a couple of miles, he turned left into the thicket and went along an old path that had almost disappeared in the undergrowth. After some minutes, he came upon an open field. It was hilly and difficult to grow anything, thus it was abandoned for other, more dreary, purposes. He glanced by his feet and looked with a blank expression upon a wooden cross impaled in the ground. It was half decayed and tilting, yet he could still read the markings on the wood. “Gyordic was favoured by the gods and his life was a happy one.”

The boy smiled ruefully and continued on his path up one of the hills that overlooked the small valley. There were thousands of such crosses scattered across the field. And there were even more of them over the hills which he could not see. He sat on a rock, made himself comfortable, and stared blearily out on the view. His mind was empty, his life void of any great dramas or concerns. His life was simple and he took joy from simple things. He considered himself blessed to be able to take these strolls, while so many others could not. No, they were in no position to move at all.

The wind that had coursed through the leaves had become still and everything was quiet. He heard two dogs bark in the distance, but their howls soon died and the night was still once more.

A yawn escaped him.

Then, suddenly, there was a flash between the trees. It grew slowly, steadily becoming brighter until it shot into the air, almost as if a drop of water falling in reverse. The soul was much like water, he thought, and the light in his eyes became more lively, more awake. He now looked attentively across the sea of graves, hoping to spot another soul being released onto the heavens.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

To Hunt a Demon – Very Short Story

The wind rose to a storm. Rain drummed on his armour, soaking the clothes underneath. His eyes were heavy, and his body sluggish, as they walked on the paved dark, street. They had been up for many hours that night. They had trained for the danger they sought, the enemy that always lurked in the slums. He recalled the time of his boyhood when screams of anguish echoed through the night. Nobody would come to save them then. He thanked the stars when he proved himself and was able to join the army, only to curse them again when he realised which unit he’d end up with… The beast was rare outside the slums and he had prayed, morbidly, that it would stay there within his lifetime.

He spat on the ground and clutched his halberd tightly, determined to survive the night. 

Their unit was split into groups of four; too few for what they were hunting, he thought, but he had no say in the matter and followed his captain away from the others. At least he felt a bit safer when they were forced into a line on the narrow alley. He was at the centre with one man behind him and two in front.

He glanced up at the dark windows. Nobody would be out this night, not until their job was done. Earlier they had been surprised by a cat that had sprung from the shadows. They had to kill the poor thing, their nerves on edge. They reached the end of the alley and they stopped. Street Light shone in the distance but they did not look directly at it to preserve their poor night vision. The beast could not be heard or smelled, and when it was seen it was often too late.

It boggled his mind that man had made it this far into creation with their poor senses. Perhaps they really were protected by God? He said a short prayer beneath his breath that he recalled from childhood. He thanked his grandmother for teaching it. After some hesitation, the squad leader stepped into the open and left the alley. He had barely gone a few feet out into the open before he was flung away, his body arching through the air. It took a moment before he crashed loudly in the dark somewhere, his armour hitting the pavement. The light turned suddenly dark and the men screamed; some in defiance, others in fear. He was silent. Weapons were drawn and swung wildly. He felt himself being struck over his shoulder, then on his back. His knees buckled from the pain until he felt a force on his head and everything went black.

He awoke many hours later with a throbbing head. It was daytime and people murmured from the windows, keeping their distance. Around him, the mangled bodies of his comrades lay scattered. He slid in the blood as he tried to stand. When the people saw that he was alive, they swarmed on him, knives high. Everyone knew what happened to survivors after the beast’s attack.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Curious Gaze – Very Short Story

In the woods, along the river Great, there was a cottage far from any other homes. The forest was dark, with deep chasms and gnarly roots growing in a patchwork of threads, and nobody would set foot in these parts. Yet there the cottage lay, lonely from any curious gaze; which was how they liked it. In this home, there lived three witches, and their powers were only rivalled by themselves, for they had passion in what they did – to outdo the other – and surely, there was none more passionate than they.

They knew secrets about the world (and others yet conceived by any other) and they loved to outdo one another in their spells. Puffs of green and red would spark in the night, for nighttime was the only time for magic, they often said. At day, the world was as it has always been – it is what we all see. But at night, it is different, and many secrets can be found where normal people don’t look. And normal, they were not, at least not in the eyes of one man; a straggler that had wandered poorly, taking paths he thought he knew – moving against common sense towards the witches hut.

At first, the puffs of colours had sparked his amaze! And without knowing its source and intent, all he saw was the beauty that was manifested. But as he got closer, seeing now the cottage in its dilapidated glory, shabby, and part of nature, he heard the cackles of the three witches as they congratulated one another on another successful spell. But their congrats were only half sincere, for they were proud beings and they would do better than the other and show who had the greatest powers. Though his heart new the voice only spelt trouble, he moved forward for he had not listened to his senses from the very beginning, why start now? It was not hard to get closer unnoticed, for though the witches were powerful, they were not without fault. They did not expect any strangers to brave their forest, much less approach, thus they expected none.

The man, now trembling, peeked through the glassless window, showing as little of his face as he could, and gazed only with one curious eye. The inside was as dark as the forest, but every now and again, when puffs of colours engulfed the room, he could make out what the witches looked like. At first, he had a clear picture of their countenances, resembling more that of a rat and hog than a human being. But in other moments, and between spells, their faces were different and they laughed in their cackling ways as they outdid one another.

“Good, good,” one of them said, only immediately to supersede the other by a motion of her hand and a few choice words. PUFF! The colours sparked, and their faces were different anew. Indeed, the entire inside was not as it were before, but a burning landscape of charcoal trees and panicked animals skittering! The witches laughed and peered at their making, delighted in what they saw. But the man who had seen all of it, his nerves finally broke and he sent out a shriek as if his very flesh was burning of his bones. But as he lost his grip on the wooden frame, he landed in the grass and felt the cool wind blow against his face. The cottage was again lifeless and part of nature. But it was also silent, as if though none was ever there.

Indeed it might as well be, for the man did not recall what he had seen. He tried hard to recollect but as he came out blank, he began to wander home, whichever way he thought was right. But within just a few steps, he crashed into a tree on the left part of his face. He was baffled, how had he missed the giant tree? He felt upon his left eye, the very same he had spied upon the witches, to only find a hollow where the eye should have been. A spark of pain shot through him, for though his mind was lacking, his body recalled, and he listened for once to his senses and ran as fast, and as far away as he could, leaving once more the witches to practice their craft without any curious gaze. 

© Christopher Stamfors

Artwork by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

How the First Day was Born – Very Short Story

On the street we crowded, staring upward at a tower. We huddled with our loved ones. There was darkness all around, even the heavens was black. The girl in my arms shivered, the woman behind me, her teeth they clattered, and the man beside, he murmured, his breath felt upon the vapour.

Then, a small glimmer shone through a slither, in the cracks of the wall of the tower. The glimmer moved higher and higher, disappearing and reappearing as it moved upwards. We kept our eyes on her, and when the light reached the top, we saw our Godess in all her beaming light, sharing her glory upon us.

The light it spread all over the city. The dirt, that was black, turned brown. The clothes, that were grey, turned white. I saw the face around me. Our tears they glimmered and our bodies fumed. The warmth of her rays buckled us and we crumbled in the dirt.

She stretched out her arms, and in a single breath, we could see her no more but a blur of everlasting glory that illuminate everything. And so did a thousand years of darkness end, and the first day was born. 

© Christopher Stamfors

Art by: ChrisCold

This was a snippet (or a concept) from a Novel that I’ve been tinkering with for some time. It’s a fantasy with a creation story and I hope you enjoy!

by Stamphers

The Siege – Very Short Story

His breath was heavy as Karl stumbled down a hill, with branches whipping his face through the thicket. Hoarse voices echoed his surroundings and men rushed down beside him. Karl grit his teeth as blood trickled from a gash on his forehead into his eye, turning the world red around him. But he carried on, even as men without breath fell along the way. At the base of the hill, the reached the banks of a river and Karl fell on his knees in the soft sand and wheezed. For a moment, there was nothing but him and the roaring river. But the serenity faded as battered men stormed out of the woods and feel to their knees in the sand.

Karl rubbed the blood off his face with his sleeve and the gash stung painfully. Other pains (wounds he’d not noticed) surged as his body rested and exhaustion crept over him. Karl looked at the men around him, recognising nobody.

None of his friends had survived…

Embers float near their faces and Karl jerked his head around and stared at the raging fire that burned their homes up on the hill. A tear tricked and he shivered; the man next to him cursed into the air, another stared blankly at nothing – their grief expressed in a multitude of ways.

Then, somebody shouted.

“For the Turda!”

Then there was a gurgle and blood coursing over the man’s chest that puddled the sand. The men looked at each other with hard expressions. No words were uttered, and they drew their knives, placing the egg of the blade at their throats.

Death on our own terms, Karl thought, and did the same with a trembling hand. He fumbled with it, and as the roars of the fire and the coursing of the river drowned every other noise, men on horses burst out of the thicket, trampling a man next to him. One of the men, furthest from the woods, stood and roared, bolting towards one of the riders. With an inch to spare, he dodged the blade that came for his head and he dragged the rider off his horse. They both fell on the sand, and he pierced the gap in the armour of their enemy, mercilessly stabbing until he was decapitated by another rider. All this, Karl saw as he huddled near the woods, unseen.

One after the other, his comrades fell while they downed more than a few of the riders in the process. But Karl could not move, seeing the madness of death anew, he wanted to live. He looked to the river, and without hesitation, he threw himself into the water. He sank quickly and he reached desperately around himself to remove his chest armour, but it was no use. Death drew nearer and he stared up at the surface. Bodies sank around him with the fire in the background, turning the night into orange. Blood trailed as his comrades sank to the bottom – their eyes wide and fiery.

He would not be able to face them in the underworld.

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

The Dreamer – Very Short Story

Madness is simply the description given to those that refuse to be a product of their time; to think boldly and to dream of things yet existing. This sort of madness can occur at anytime, almost always in quiet contemplation, for only alone, (and at a distance) can we look upon the world with sober eyes.

As I sit here in my elder years I cannot help but reflect on my life. I was a curious child. I saw things that got me into a lot of trouble, beatings, and even visits to the doctor a few times, before I learned what is and isn’t there in this world. It was difficult, at first, to not notice the strange lights whisking, the creatures scurrying, and the voices whispering; but as I forced myself to ignore them, they ignored me…

I had to constantly question my reality as I grew up and needed to be careful what I said and did. And though my strange sightings were completely gone around my 18th birthday, I did not fully trust what I saw and I became a nervous adult. I was easily startled and was unsuited for must work, and eventually, the stress got the better of me and I had a nervous breakdown. I was taken to a doctor that advised me to spend time out on the country every so often, as the fresh air would rejuvenate me. I cherished the idea and I spent every weekend from then on, on the Lonely Hills, a few miles north of town.

It was a special place, rich of lore and with a significance to my people. Stories of our struggle for independence and the very origin of our kind, with gods and everything. Unfortunately, there had been a lot of logging over the years and large swaths of the forest was now gone because of the industrial influence from the very people my ancestors fought to keep away. Though, despite its barren appearance, it still retains its magic – at least to me.

I liked it so much that I was miserable whenever I had to go back to town, and after many years, I’d seen everything on those hills… Or so I thought.

Continue reading “The Dreamer – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

Tales of the Old Coot – Very Short Story

Rain drummed on the copper roof, dripping through that which was missing to hold it together. Water streamed through the cracks onto the moulded wood, soaking through the third floor, then the second, onto the first. The musky smell that had been overpowering upon entry subsided as he ascended the stairs to the top floor. The wind was fresh but chilling and howled in between the gaps where the wall had once been whole. A mist came out his breath as he looked through old books, vials and trinkets. The vials still stood neatly on their shelves with green mould which fused the glass to the wood. The vials were filled with colourful substances as wide and varied as a prism. He didn’t know what they were for and he didn’t care to find out, it wasn’t why he was here, after all.

He searched the wall until he found a shelf filled with books. They were also neatly stored, except on the lower shelves, where they had been torn out in a flurry.

He grinned hungrily at the sight.

There was always something valuable to salvage in these ancient towers, especially in old spell books. Even if only half the formula was readable he would still get a fair price from a collector or a scholar, which the city had many. But a frown touched his lips as the pages turned into a slush as he opened them. The tower was old… too old, it seemed. He should have known it was too good to be true to find such a tower so close to a village, seemingly untouched. He glanced through a gap in the wall and looked down at his vessel – it was still there.

And why shouldn’t it? He was alone, after all. Though, there were the tales…

He shook his head and continued rummaging. He’d stayed one hour too long with the old coot, her tales getting to him. Course, the forest was haunted in one way or another, they always were; stories to keep children from getting lost in the woods or adults away from treasure.

He glanced through the gap again and saw his boat still there on the shore waiting for him.

He considered leaving then.

With his eyes fixated on the vessel, the building howled louder than it had ever before and he shot to his feet. He stood frozen with his blade half drawn, listing. The howl died as the wind did and he swore beneath his breath. He swore again, louder. He stomped on the floor to create noise but stopped as he saw the mushy footprint his shoe had created. The silence; the gloomy surroundings; and the stories, they were getting to him. He kicked the pile of books on the floor and rummaged much more carelessly.

“There’s got to be something…” He murmured to himself.

“Worthless… Garbage… Disgusting,” he announced as he found them. Everything in the tower seems to be one or the other, often all three at once.

After an hour of searching, and the floor littered with items, he sat by the pile and looked at them. This was pointless after all, he thought, letting silence engulf him, once more. Then, there was a faint growl, reverberating through the wood and his body. He stood, slowly, and looked out the shore – his vessel was still there.

It was time go.

With careful steps, he made his way down the first floor and to the outside. He jerked his head around and watched the tower, seeing how it was crooked and parts of the wall littered the surroundings. He wondered why he’d dared to set foot in it and then remembered the promises it had held; it didn’t seem as bad when it held potential treasure… He pushed the vessel into the muddy water and climbed aboard. The mist went thick the further from the tower he went, surrounding him in a dark, yet luminescent, green. Another growl echoed as he went, creating waves in the water. He turned nervously and saw a faint murky light shining, spiralling up and down the tower that was now fully out of sight. Maybe there was something to those old stories, after all?

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Macabre Profession – Very Short Story

The sky glittered in the moonless night, its rays hidden beneath the horizon. Things had gone well for Mr. Harrison, his business boomed in the absence of the king, and his daughter was out of the house, married to a sweet young man who would honour their trade.

Yes, things were looking well for Mr. Harrison and life was good.

He brought out his celebratory pipe that twirled in a fashion suited for the occasion and filled it with a blend of roots and herbs, gifted by his friend the Herbalist. Mr. Harrison grinned, knowing he was one of the few outside the Herbalist’s family who had ever tasted it. He sipped at the blend and let the smoke engulf his mouth, watching it sail down in front of him. 

This was how power tasted, he thought.

With a smile, he puffed another cloud of smoke that rose and fell until the balcony was in a haze. Wind soon caught in it and dragged it away into the night. But as he watched the smoke sail away, a cloud remained near his face that swirled without a sign to dissipate. He stared at it, not in fear but in bewilderment, and as it remained he puffed another cloud that soon merged into the haze. Mr. Harrison sighed and sunk into his chair anew, dismissing it as a mirage. But again the haze caught wind and the single cloud remained in front of him. Confused, he swung his hand at the spot but the cloud remained.

Suddenly, the cloud changed form and the contours of a man emerged. His heart made a jolt when a face stared back at him, then the cloud dissipated. Mr. Harrison looked around nervously, as if being watched and he let the ember in his pipe die from neglect. Hesitant to light it anew, he grunted defiantly at the otherworldly scene. A Harrison was not squeamish whatsoever, especially considering the field in which they worked. So he lit the pipe again, now with a steady hand, and he watched how the smoke sailed and dissipated. For a moment, everything seemed back the way it was when the cloud slowly formed again, this time, the face emerged disfigured and his heart raced when he recognised his handy work.

So shocked was he that he swung his hand around like one who would swat a bee and his pipe arched over the balcony in his exertion. When the smoke dissipated once more, he entered his house and closed the door. Then, as if closing the door made him exit one world and enter another, the furniture swirled and bent in shapes not possible by solid objects. The tools on his wall seemed to leap out after him and he shrieked in fright as their sharp edges lurched towards him. Mr. Harrison rushed into the living room where no dangerous tool hung and he rummaged through his cupboard with trembling hands. Finding what he was looking for, he filled a glass with a golden liquid.

Calm washed over him from the liquors warming grace and he saw his home as it was, and he breathed out. “What the hell was in that blend?!”

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Terrifying Beauty – Very Short Story

I stared in awe at things of imagination, for what else could they possibly be but a fabrication of my mind? Yet I was not alone gawking at the sky that bloomed in light of shaded blue, illuminating the night like the stars we were used to. The people boomed their thoughts of evils lurking and blessings approaching, the only two possible explanations such a magnificent, yet terrifying, display could reveal.

Though nothing we said that night could accurately describe what we saw, we neither ran nor cried for help when the orb like globes descended upon the earth. My inner mind told me to step away as they came nearer, and when I did, another took my place as she reached out her hands to catch it. Such is the mind of humanity, irrational and filled with hope, hope that the globes (that poured over us), did not have evil intent.

All around the people watched as she made contact with the orb. It floated on her palms like it weighed nothing despite being twice her size. Yet the wind did not catch it, indeed, the woman was not sure if it was there at all for she expressed that she felt nothing of what she saw.

Others gathered around and drew closer for it had been a while and no evil had emerged, or of any blessing. I heard others yelp in the vast crowd around me, and I do not know if others caught the globes, nor did I witness what happened when nobody caught them, for my attention was fixated at the woman.

As nothing of malice occurred, people dared to touch the light the orb emanated. But when many hands felt it, the globe popped like a bubble; and all its rays, that were harboured within, shot across everything and our bodies. At first, it was pleasant, for the lights warmed wherever it touched in the cold autumn night. But screams soon engulfed the area as the burning of those sparks grew more intense. I felt it all over my torso, head, arms, and legs for I had faced the light when it burst. The pain was searing and I could no longer make use of my legs. It was as if the very flesh melted off my bones… but it was there… it was still there attached when I rose and the burning dissipated. Screams, that had engulfed us, soon faded and we all rose to find darkness all encompassing. People shouted, the stars were gone! Others that the moon was too. Indeed, I saw nothing of any kind as I wandered in the darkness, touching and stepping on those in my path. It was only later, when the people who had hid from the strangeness, and thus had not been burned, emerged, that we learned the stars were still there and that the moon still shone brightly in our path.

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Duke Junior – Very Short Story

My father was a very kind man. Every year in midsummer, instead of going to the King’s annual banquet, he made sure to arrange a huge party for his subjects at his own expense. I lived in another noble house at the time, such as all young noblemen do to acquire knighthood, and had never experienced one of my father’s celebrations – not one that I could remember anyway. As a result of being away from my family, I had been taught to despise my father’s practices. But I had also heard great things about my father and I was determined to give it an open mind once I returned a man and a knight.

Despite the ridicule my father suffered because of the celebration, he kept doing it year after year and in the end, I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the contempt the other highborn showed us, things that didn’t even seem to face my father, which made me all the more angry. Why doesn’t he care?

Continue reading “Duke Junior – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers