Category: Fantasy

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

Book of Legacy: The Carrier

Chapter 1: The Tainted

The breeze is rarely still this high on a mountain, especially near the coast where the wind blows freely on the high seas. That’s why the people here are used to it; their houses have no glass windows, only metal bars and wooden panels that they close whenever the wind gets unbearable. I guess it makes the neighbourhood look more like a prison than a place of residence. Which is ironic since you’d be hard-pressed to find a more exclusive place to live. Well, there is the capital, of course; rich people live there too. But then there is also the Tower of Avos… there is no comparing the splendour there – so I’ve heard.

I don’t know much about the world, not really. I’ve read a lot about it, but never seen it for myself. Not that I need to go anywhere. My future is set here in the city of Vale, after all. It is my home, and always will be.

The wind blew through the paved streets, whining eerily and making wooden panels crash into the walls of the neighbouring houses. A large street snaked through the neighbourhood, connecting alleyways and smaller streets into one. Along it, a lone a boy walked with a stack of books in his arms.

Continue reading “Book of Legacy: The Carrier”

by Stamphers

Once Upon An Endless Journey – Very Short Story

The village looked like a dream, sitting by a large lake in the middle of nowhere – the trees growing tall and dense. I had not planned to seek civilisation while traversing this remote region, but upon finding the road that led me here, my inner voice told me to follow it; and like most of my adult life, I listened.

The voice guides me to paths I never knew existed, choices I never realised was available to me…

… Well, I should probably leave it at that. As it is the reason for my journey, to see where these “imaginary” roads can take me.

At the outskirts of the village, I passed a few quaint looking houses, all in red, as was customary on the countryside.

And upon entering the town, I immediately encountered a large crowd gathering at the centre of town. The town was buzzing with activity and vendors, which suited me as it made my presence all the more inconspicuous.

Continue reading “Once Upon An Endless Journey – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

The Exodus Journal: Vol. 1 End

Fantasy Monday

Fendreael stopped reading and slowly turned his head towards the shelf next to him. The moon no longer illuminated the room and only a few candles lit up the area around him. But even though the shelf was shrouded in the darkness, he could see what he was looking for in his mind’s eye.
He pictured a large, but plain looking book, that seemed neither new nor old, and at its centre, a medallion was encrusted into the cover. His heart pounded in anticipation as he recalled, the similarities all too striking to ignore. However, before rising, he glanced at the entry again and read the line over and over to make sure that he interpret the words correctly.
The item was shimmering in gold, with markings of an unknown kind. Around it, jewels were encrusted in red, yellow, blue…
Finishing the sentence, he rose hastily from the chair and put the journal gently back on the nightstand. He knew the books approximate location and he moved his fingers along the backs of the books on the shelf until he felt the familiar feeling of a cold and smooth metallic surface.
As the book was as big as his entire torso, he had trouble taking it down. The heavy book slipped from his fingers and it crashed into the floor, dust spewing all around him. Fendrael grit his teeth and glanced at the door at the other end of the room, but nobody came and the kitchen staff continued as loudly as before.
Letting out a short breath of relief, he managed to place the book carefully on the nightstand next to the journal. Hunched over the book, his eyes fixated on the medallion on the cover. The medallion shimmered from the candle light and four gems were encrusted around a colourless larger gem at the centre – the fourth one was in white…
Fascinated, Fendrael glanced at the journal again and read the description: (…) the item was shimmering in gold, with markings of an unknown kind.
He frowned as he read it, finding that there were no markings on the medallion, nor was the grey gem described either.
Fendrael let out a sigh and slumped on the chair, his body still tense from the anticipation. The longer he reflected of what he had read, he realised more and more inconsistencies. The author had mentioned something about “Three Great Tribes”, but as far as he knew, there was only one ruler of this world and their eyes were not yellow but in scarlet red… Perhaps it is fiction after all.
As he sat staring at the ceiling, the smell of grilled meat made his mouth salivate and he realised that he hadn’t eaten in a while. Hesitating, his eyes flicked between the journal and the door, but then he rose and headed towards the kitchen, finding the story to be less interesting since it contained nothing but lies.

Previous – Next (Coming Soon)

Read the rest of the series here: The Exodus Journal

by Stamphers