davidlratliffstories

[davidlratliffstories]

Scrawled on a piece of bloodied parchment.

It has been weeks. No, months. Maybe years. I am not certain anymore. Time has been slipping away from me ever since I closed myself away from the rest of the world. Since I took refuge from the ever prying eyes in this decrepit hovel in the woods.

The smell of rot and mold permeates every wall, every board, yet still I stay. I have come here to seek answers. The answers. The answers that everyone desires but none are willing to know.

Why are we here? What is our purpose? Are we the masters here or are we simply the pawns of a greater game? Is our existence merely some small part in a scheme beyond our meager comprehension?

In my desire for this understanding, I called out to them. I called out into the open, endless void of the abyss, beseeching to the ones I most believed could lend me aid in my search for meaning. I wanted them to grant me a grander comprehension of the workings of this vast universe that dwarfs even the mightiest of souls. I called out to the Far-Worlders.

Someone, something answered my call. Yet, for all my pleading, for all my begging, for all my tears and howls of rage, it will not speak. It just sits there, lurking in the shadows at the edge of my sight. I see it now, off in the darkened corner of the room, its pale, yellow eyes shining with a soft light. Why will it not speak?

Visions flash through my mind as I continue to write and pray what I have written is still legible through my now trembling hand. It is showing me things, terrible, horrid sights that none should see. I see destruction, death, and endless mayhem. An undead king takes his throne as his hordes march across the lands. A light is extinguished. A dark flame burns from somewhere below as a great dragon, grander than any other, with scales like ebony and eyes of flame, rises up and sets the world ablaze.

No more. I do not wish to see any more. It will not stop. Day after day, night after night, it just will not stop. The creature, I see it still, off in the corner. It's grinning now. Oh Artheria, why is it grinning? That mouth, those teeth, it shouldn’t be. It just should not be. What have I done? Artheria save me. What have I done?

[davidlratliffstories]

The Madness of Henry Wilmarth- Entry 1

October 23, 2287

At least that is the date this old, rattled Pip-Boy is telling me. Given the state it is in, that may not be accurate, but the Vault is not in any better shape itself, so maybe it is true. Maybe I am two hundred years in the future.

No, that is not possible. This is just some dream. Soon I will wake up in my favorite chair next to a now cold cup of tea in my peaceful home. None of this could be real. For god sake there are giant roaches crawling around.

Journaling helps me think. It always has since I was in my teens back in the fifties. It has been a good way of sorting my thoughts and calming my mind. I definitely need it right now.

It all started, or seemed to start, early in the morning. I was listening to Eartha Kitt singing on Atomic Radio as I made myself a hot cup of black tea, two sugars, and was about to settle into my favorite chair when that Vault-Tec Rep knocked on my door. He said that, due to the injury I had sustained during my service to the country, I was accepted for entrance into Vault 111 just up the hill nearby.

However, I would not say that my injury was sustained during service to my country. I never got to see combat. I never got out of basic. Some other recruit, rushing to formation with a loaded rifle, fell and blasted a round through my shin. Now, I walk with a limp and often need a cane when I leave the house.

I have been well taken care of, thankfully. The home in which I live here in Sanctuary Hills belongs to an old friend who made a big name for himself with RobCo Industries. He pays for most things, though he himself took to living out in Vegas near his idle Robert House.

I wish they had let me serve. I suggested that if I could have a suit of Power Armor, my mobility would not be an issue. They refused saying that if it ever ran out of power or got damaged in the field, I would just get captured by the enemy.

The Rep got me to fill out some paperwork, then went across the road to Nate and Nora’s place. Meanwhile, I settled into my chair, sipped my tea, and let the worries of the damaged world beyond my door drift away. But then, it happened.

A news broadcast cut in. The Reds had done it. The bombs were falling. Bright flashes. Explosions. New York and Pennsylvania were lost.

I jumped up and made for the door as fast as I could. In my panic, I left my cane behind and hobbled my way to the Vault. People were running, crying, and clinging to loved ones. Vertibirds soared overhead while soldiers shouted over the chaos.

A crowd had gathered at the gate to the Vault, but the way was blocked by more soldiers, heavily armed and armored. I called out to one nearby holding a clipboard and gave him my name. He looked over his list and found me there. They let me through and I just made it to the platform as a massive explosion sent a towering mushroom cloud into the sky. The platform sunk below the ground as a large shockwave blasted above us. A large metal door closed only just in time to shield us from it, plunging us into darkness.

Some time later, what felt like an eternity, we reached the bottom of the elevator. There we were met by a man claiming to be the Vault Overseer who greeted us and told us to head up the stairs into the Vault. “A better future underground”, he said.

We were all given blue jumpsuits with the Vault number printed on the back. Others were already there, crying over loved ones presumed lost in the attacks or simply contenting themselves in their own survival. Thinking now, I doubt my parents would have made it somewhere safe before the bombs fell. My friend may have made it into the Vault where he was. Come to think of it, he may very well be the reason I was allowed into this one.

I really should not think the worst, but then what does it matter. If this is all real, truly real, they would be long dead by now anyway. Everyone and everything I know, even my friend who had given me so much, would be gone.

Things get a bit fuzzy at this point. They told us to get into these pods and said it was to decontaminate us before heading farther in. I took off my glasses, stepped inside, and the doors closed. A feminine voice started counting down. I started to feel tired. Then there was a sudden flash of cold and everything went black.

A moment later, my vision cleared. I tried to move, but my body felt sluggish. I saw a man and woman walk past. There was someone yelling and a gunshot. Then I felt tired again. There was the same flash of cold and everything went black.

Another moment and my vision cleared again. The pod door opened and I collapsed to the floor. The voice from before was saying something about a malfunction.

I fumbled around for my glasses, but I could not find them. I did find a different pair sitting on the Overseers desk. They are not my prescription, unfortunately, but I can see better with them than without them. 

No one else is moving. The computers say they are all dead. The walls are rusting and the paint is peeling. Skeletons, human beings, still in what is left of their clothing are scattered around. Then there are the roaches. The unnaturally large roaches.

I remember thinking that staying locked up in what is left of the Vault would be a waste of time. I knew I had to leave and go find someone, anyone, who could tell me what is going on, so I left. What came next, I still do not understand.

I used the Pip-Boy to open the Vault door. The elevator came down to meet me as I stepped out. I rode it back through the darkness up to the surface.

Upon arriving once more to the outside world, I was blinded by sunlight. Then, when my eyes adjusted and I could see again, I found myself looking out over an alien world, broken and desolate. It seemed that everything I knew was gone.

I was lost in the sight, until the sharp sound of static nearby pulled me back to my senses. Then I heard the voice of a child calling out, lost and afraid. Following the voice into the nearby wooded area, now dead and decaying, I thought only that there were others who had survived. I thought that I could find help. Then I saw it.

Unnaturally tall and thin, it blended in among the lifeless trees. Lengthy arms all but dragged along the ground as it moved. Its skin was stretched tight around its form like a mummified corpse. Where the neck and head would have been was a pole with two sirens mounted to it. Inside each siren were lipless, teeth filled mouths.

I froze. My breath stopped. My eyes stretched wide. All else dropped from my mind.

Then, a thick fog rolled in around me and the light faded into a deep darkness. The siren headed creature turned to me. The visage of the thing was all but hidden by the dark fog as it let out a screeching wail, forcing me to cover my ears.

From the fog came more sounds. New creatures rushed toward me. I turned to run, but a sharp pain through my leg dropped me to the ground.

Those things took that moment to leap upon me. They ripped, tore, bit, and clawed at my flesh. I tried to fight, but was overwhelmed. I tried to scream, but could not find my breath.

What was no doubt only moments of pain felt like an eternity. Then my strength dwindled, my vision faded, and I lost myself in the void. At least that is what it seemed at the time.

My eyes sprang open again only for me to find myself back at the bottom of the elevator as if I had never left. Not knowing what to make of what just happened, or seemed to happen, I retreated back into the Vault. Now I am just sitting here on the Overseers bed wondering what to do, even what to think.

Was that a dream? Is this a dream? Am I still trapped in that pod or will I wake up in the comfort of my favorite chair? Lastly, if this is not a dream, if all of this is real, how am I going to survive and not lose what sanity I may still have left?

[davidlratliffstories]

A quick story inspired by the driftwood figures made by Nagato Iwasaki (http://nagato-iwasaki.com/)

I was out playing in the woods one day when it started getting dark. Mommy told me not to be out there, since I could get lost or something bad could happen. I really like the woods though. I feel happy there and never got lost before.

This time it got dark too fast and I did get lost. It got so dark that I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down and started crying. I just cried and cried.

Then I saw a little light floating in front of me, like a firefly but not. When I looked up, I saw there was a person standing there, but he was not like a normal person. He was made of wood and had a bunch of the little lights floating around him. They floated around my face and it tickled.

Where his face would have been was just wood and nothing else. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have a mouth, so I guess he couldn’t. Though he seemed to see just fine for someone without eyes.

I asked him if he could help me get home, but he didn’t seem to know how. Instead, he took my hand and led me deeper into the woods. We went far deeper than I had ever been.

He took me to a river where I saw more wood people. The whole place was filled with the floating lights all dancing around. They flew down around me and it tickled again.

When the others noticed me, they started to gather around me too. I was a little scared at first. I had never been around so many people before, not without mommy or daddy with me.

Then this woman came up to me. She looked older than the rest of them. The wood of her body seemed more brittle and was covered in green moss.

She took my hand and led me away from the others to a big rock next to the river. She sat down on it and put her feet into the water. I took off my shoes and sat next to her. The water was cool but not cold and the rock was flat and smooth.

After a minute, the others all gathered together in the water in a big circle with smaller circles in the middle. I asked the old woman what they were doing, but she just put her hand on my back and pointed to the others. That is when the humming started.

My mommy hums a lot. She does it when she is working or doing other things. Daddy doesn’t hum, though. He says if he starts humming the milk will go sour.

This was different than when mommy hums. It was like music playing and the ones in the water began to dance to it. They were very slow, though. They barely moved the water at all as they moved in a circle and waved their arms around.

The lights started dancing with them. They didn’t just move in a circle like the people did, though. They would go up and down. They flowed in and out. They made a bunch of other shapes and patterns in the air. Yet, everyone followed the humming music.

I started to feel a bit sleepy after a little while. The old woman moved close and put her arm around me and I laid my head against her. I could feel the hum in her chest and I thought of mommy again. She would hold me like that at night and quietly hum.

I must have fallen asleep at some point. The next time I opened my eyes, the sun was out and everything was bright, but I was all alone. I called out and looked around, but I couldn’t find the wood people anywhere.

After a bit, I decided they must have gone home and I should too. Mommy saw me coming and she ran up and gave me a big hug. She was crying and kept saying that she thought she lost me forever.

She told me never to go into the woods again. She said there are things in there, sneaking in the dark, that would grab me and take me away. Daddy and some others from town went in there to look for me that night. It has been three days now and they haven’t come back.

[davidlratliffstories]

A rough start to a story based on the concept prompt below.

PostNeverland (https://postneverland.com/witchy-writing-prompts/):

There’s a little door at the back of the local bookshop that you’ve never seen anyone step in or out of. It’s only about four feet tall, but equally as wide. It’s soft blue with a porthole directly in the middle of it. One day you decide to go and see what’s on the other side, knowing that it’s probably locked, maybe even decorative. But then you step through and find an entirely different shop on the other side. “Oh, I was starting to think that portal was broken.” A man says. “Welcome to a land of magic.”

Auld Binds bookstore has always been the place to go around here for the true classics and forgotten gems of literature. Inhaling deeply, I step through the windowed door and am met with the usual sweet, musky smell of old books and manuscripts. The smell always leaves something like the taste of dark chocolate on my tongue and I take a moment to savor it.

“Heya, darling,” Gina greets me from atop a step stool as she sets about organizing a handful of books, some of which are missing part, if not all, of their covers.

“Hey, Gina. Did you get some new ones in?”

“No, I’m just doing some reshelving.” She puts the last book in its place and steps down with a sigh. “I swear, some days I think you are the only one who cares anything about these dusty, old tomes. Everyone else coming in here, usually from that new ice cream place across the street, just go about being loud and making a mess.”

“Well, I’m not the only one who comes here to buy. What about Mr. Thompson?”

“Sweety, he spends more time up at the counter flapping his gums than looking at books.”

“Maybe it’s not the books he is here to check out, then.”

“Don’t go starting that, now,” she starts with a huff. “I’ll knock you right upside your head.”

I throw my hands up in surrender as I laugh. “Okay. Okay.”

Gina gives a low hum of mock conformation. “Yeah, right. You best get back there and find something to keep you out of trouble.” She shakes her head as she walks over to the counter with a small grin on her face.

Still grinning myself, I go about browsing the various shelves for anything of possible interest. As I make my way to the back, I see the same soft blue door standing there as I always have. It is commonly blocked by boxes, but this time it was left completely uncovered.

The door is about four feet tall, just under my height, and about four feet wide. There is a small porthole window in the center of it that seems to be painted over black from the other side. A small silver handle is set on the left side of it.

Gina once told me that she thinks this door was used back in the day to bring in deliveries easier. However, it was walled up on the other side some time ago. The owner at the time may have left the door in as a decorative feature or was possibly just too lazy to remove it.

Turning around, I look to see if Gina is watching me, but see only the many shelves between us. Turning back, I take hold of the handle and ever so carefully try to pull the door open. It doesn’t even budge.

I sigh. I’m not sure what I really expected from it. What would I do if it did open? It would just be a solid, brick wall on the other side. It would make for a somewhat funny, cartoonish joke, I suppose.

Relaxing my hand, I start to turn away when I feel the door give, but toward the outside. Slowly, I push the door farther. I think it will soon meet the wall on the other side, but it continues to open.

Eventually, I am able to see through the space between the door and its frame. It is opening into another shop on the other side. Not another book shop or any other store I have seen around here. It appears to be something of a curiosities shop with weird looking plants, various nicknacks and dolls, and things floating in jars.

Without thinking, I step inside and look about. The windows have heavily frosted glass over them, only allowing the silhouettes of passersby to be seen. All the shelves are lined with the different peculiar items or decorations.

“Oh, my.” A voice comes from behind the corner of a distant shelf as a small man with a round and wrinkled face comes hurrying up to me. “Yes. Hello. How are you? Oh, it has been ages since anyone has come through there. I thought that portal was broken.”

His hands fly about as he bounces while talking. The small, round glasses on his face set precariously perched near the end of his pug-like nose, threatening to fall at any moment but still clinging on. What is left of his grayed hair in a horseshoe around his head dances about, unkept for who knows how long.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I should do the thing.” He clears his throat, steps back a bit, and stands as tall as he can. “Welcome,” he throws his arms up to his sides, “to Orvens Obscure Oddities. A land of mystery,” he puts one hand out in front of himself, “of wonder,” he puts the other hand out, “and magic.” He quickly closes his hands and then opens them with a sudden burst of fire from which a small bird flies out and comes to rest on one of the rafters above.

[davidlratliffstories]

Tree of Ghosts

This is a quick little story inspired by a painting called…

“Ghosts On A Tree” by Franz Sedlacek-> https://www.wikiart.org/en/franz-sedlacek/ghosts-on-a-tree-1933-0

Night had fallen again and again I went about my usual rituals. I took a lukewarm shower to wash away the filth of the day, brushed my teeth, and dressed myself in some loose-fitting clothes. Then I laid myself down on my bed, staring up at my old wood ceiling.

The first time I had been in this same position some long time ago, I was taken aback by the sight above me. Within the wood, with its twisted grain, my mind picked out a simple face. It was a seemingly empty face with dark holes for eyes and a withered grin. At the time, I found it somewhat amusing, if a little unnerving. This did not deter my eyes from drifting closed and my mind passing into sleep then, however, and it would not do so now.

As my eyes opened again, I was in a new place far from any I knew before. The landscape before me seemed mostly lifeless and barren aside from the harsh silhouettes of the distant trees. All color felt muted, grayed, as dark clouds threatened to block the sun from view and cast the world into shadow. I listened intently, seeking some solace from this bleak view in the brilliant song of the woodland creatures, but was met only with the whispering of the chill wind.

Some short distance away I saw an old and twisted tree, stripped bare of its lush greenery and likely its life. Upon it perched many strange birds, I took them to be vultures at first glance. They just sat there high up in the decaying branches without a single sound or movement to display them as more than some peculiar ornaments.

I moved closer to gain a better view and see if they may very well be just some strange attempt at decoration in this gray and dismal land. But as I drew near it soon became apparent to me that these creatures were not at all what I had once perceived. Looking up at the sight, I felt my chest clench and my breath catch.

They were men and women, clothed in black rags and in various states of decay. Some were near skeletal with scant skin stretched tight over protruding bone. Others seemed more freshly dead with only a paleing of the skin and eyes sunken back displaying the line of the socket more clearly.

Slowly, they turned toward me, but uttered not a single word nor gave any sign of intent. They just sat and stared at me with their dark eyes and shriveled lips. A deep terror welled up within me and I gave into my base, animalistic instincts. That which any rat or other vermin would turn to in the face of its predator.

I turned and ran. I ran and ran and ran. Across the barren ground and through the darkened trees, I ran. I heard no sound of pursuit or any call for alarm or attack, but still I ran.

In my panicked haste I soon found myself lost in a thick fog surrounding the area. Their stare still clung to me, or so I felt, though I was now quite far from their perch. I paused a moment to catch my breath while leaning against a nearby tree.

Then there was a rustle above me. A chill air creeped down the nape of my neck. Turning slowly and looking up I saw that same tree and the things that sat upon it. One of them had leaned down close to me, its worm-eaten face mere inches from my own.

“Will you join us, wanderer?” Its voice rang sickeningly sweet for the visage it bore. “The fog is too thick to travel through. Why not rest here for a time? We may look out over the trees together.”

Before I could reply or move, I was lifted up by many hands. My mind flashed with visions of the horrid acts these things could do, would do, if I did not escape. I thrashed about to loosen their grip and free myself, screaming and wailing all the while. I would not be taken. I would not be victim to their dark delights.

But then it struck me. The hands that held me were not harsh or grasping, they were gentle. I was not being clawed and torn, beaten or otherwise assaulted. I was being cradled.

They sat upon a high branch and covered me with a long black cloak. Its warmth gave me a simple comfort. I looked again into the dark eyes of the creatures, yet, with my new found clarity, I did not see evil there. I saw a light of kindness. I felt a sense of welcome.

The one closest to me set a withered hand on my shoulder. I turned to them as they raised their other hand up, boney finger extended to the horizon. Looking out into the distance I saw the vast expanse of the gray lands. I saw the silhouetted trees reaching out from the rolling fog. I saw the many hills, like small islands upon a misty sea.

A strange warmth filled me as time slipped away. The soundless serenity flooded my soul. Then, as the clouds drifted over the dimming sun, my vision faded out and my eyes opened to the sight of my old wood ceiling with the, perhaps, not so empty face.

[davidlratliffstories]

Decided to write a set of quick scenes from some dialogue prompts I found.

promptsforthestrugglingauthor:

The morning after the battle, her brain held nothing more than fog and regret. She pressed her fingers against the hot tin of her cup, hoping to find its usual comfort, but instead barely registered its burn.

She had lost friends. Allies. And she was beginning to think her faith would be next.

The sun creeped up over the horizon, illuminating the broken buildings and shattered tombs around her. Its golden rays glistened in the blackening pools of the corpse riddled ground. Talia’s nose scrunched up knowing that soon the chilled night air would fade and the stench would grow even less tolerable.

She just sat there, her back pressed against what remained of an old grave marker as she clung to her trusty tin cup filled with a hot, bitter drink. She stared out into the ruins trying to think, but found the fog of war still clouding her mind. The heat of the cup all but seared her fingers as she squeezed it hard, seeking the usual comfort from the burn, but barely registering the pain.

So many allies, so many friends fell here. She saw them cut down one by one. She felt the heat of their blood spray across her face. They were still there, laid out on the battlefield.

Was it really worth it? She stood up against those she saw as evil. She defended that which she believed to be true and right. Yet she did so by betraying and slaughtering her own people. Could the gods really look down and give her praise for this bloody deed?

promptsforthestrugglingauthor:

“Well, I admit this isn’t how I thought this would turn out,” A said to B as the jail cell slammed shut in front of them.

With a sudden clang and click, the cell’s iron door slammed shut in front of them, locking in place. Maric and Valen looked over the open wing of the prison as the guard wandered off about his other duties. The sound of hoots and jeers echoed from all around.

“Well,” Valen chirped, “this is not how I imagined things going.”

Maric turned to him slowly, “Oh really, because I thought it went just swimmingly. Especially the part where you decided to expose yourself on the stand In front of the entire jury.”

“That was an accident.”

write-it-motherfuckers:

“What’s your most precious memory?”

“.....Honestly? That time when we sat in that shitty little car park late at night, eating those disgusting chips from the petrol station with the broken sign.”

“.....Seriously? Why?”

“Because that was the first time I ever saw you smile for real.”

All was silent that night as they sat huddled together along the shore. The chill waters tickled their feet, left bare in the sand, and the not too distant, yellow street lamps bathed the scene in a gentle light. Mark would normally have some music playing on his phone, but it just didn’t feel right, not now.

Sarah squeezed his arm. “Do you have a memory so dear to you that you never want to lose it?”

“What?”

“Mine is of my grandfather. He raised horses.” She pushed herself closer to him. “My parents told me never to go near them, that I would get hurt. But Papaw thought otherwise.

“He would take me out to the stables where I would feed them carrots and help brush their coats. He even got a little pony and a saddle just for me so we could go riding together. We did too, every chance we had.”

She chuckled, “My parents weren’t too happy about it when they found out. But he talked them into letting it go.” She nuzzled her head against his shoulder and looked up at him. “What about you?”

Glancing down, he let out a sigh. “Truthfully?”

She hummed a confirmation.

“It was not long after we first met. I still had that old junker and we were sitting on the hood in that parking lot. We shared a bag of those nasty ketchup chips from that gas station with the broken sign.”

“Seriously?” she laughed. “Why that one?”

“It was the first time I ever saw you smile. Like really, truly smile. Just like you did a moment ago when you were talking about your grandfather. You were talking about him then too.”

She moved his arm up over her shoulders as she buried her head in his chest. “I always wanted to start a ranch of my own and raise horses like he did. I wanted to start a family there and we would all go riding every day. We would gallop across the open fields in the warm sun and stop to picnic on the side of a hill overlooking the trees. I always wanted that. It was all I could ever think about.”

He squeezed her close, feeling her tremble as she cried. “Yeah. I really like the sound of that.”

They fell silent again as Mark looked far up above the rolling waters. The flaming orb streaked the sky with its red glare, growing ever larger as it plummeted toward them. It would not be long now.

@awriterslifeforme:

“What did one wave say to the other?”

“I swear, if you make one more ocean related pun, I will murder you on this island and say you died in the shipwreck.”

“...well someone’s salty.”

Maric and Valen lied down on the warm sands of the small island. No boat, no food, no water, and not even enough material in the patch of greenery nearby to make a shelter. They just lied there hoping for someone to happen by.

“Ah-ha, I have another.”

“I swear by all that is holy, Valen,” Maric stated flatly, “if you make one more sea pun I will drag you out there and hold you under until the bubbles stop.”

“Well, you don’t need to be salty about it.”

Valen bolted away as Maric suddenly raised up next to him.

multiwhump:

"L-Let's go again," Protagonist's barely healed lips splits open again as they force the words out of their sore throat.

Antagonist raises an eyebrow, expression dull, "Excuse me?"

"What? You- you think I can't fuckin' take it? You think-" Protagonist coughs and Antagonist can hear a few drops of blood splatter on the ground in front of them. Their nose wrinkles, but Protagonist does not look deterred, "You think I'm weak? I can h-h-handle you."

It was hard to watch. The lad had some spirit to him, that was true, but he lacked the strength and skills to hold his own in so much as a simple tussle in the school yard. Now he was facing down the Dark Lord of the Wastes and losing, badly.

He never even drew his sword on the lad. With just another empty, back-handed strike, he put him back to the ground. Yet, even with his lip split and his nose angled, he dragged himself back up time after time.

“Again,” he choked out.

The Dark Lord looked down at him as he asked with a sigh, “Haven’t you had enough?”

“I can take it.” He coughed suddenly and a spray of blood spattered the ground as he swooned. Planting his sword in the ground, he balanced himself again.

The Dark Lord cringed at the sight. “This is the hero I came to see? Pathetic.”

“No,” he stammered, “I can take you. I will prove to you that I am not weak.”

[davidlratliffstories]

A Perception of Death

(My try at Surrealist flash-fiction.)

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock upon the wall sounds the seconds as they pass me by, one by one. A sound once drowned in laughter and song now accompanied by the monotonous retort of nearby machines to which I am tied by hoses and tubes. Tick. Tock. Beep. Beep.

A sea of white plagues my view in all directions with its pristine cleanliness and glaring purity. This only temporarily remedied by the timely flash of red as the realization of my current existence finds me unprepared to stand against it. That is when the grace appears. Tick. Beep. Tap. Tap.

An angel robed in that selfsame white wields a dagger of elixir to ease me from my awareness. A slow crawl of burning water flows up my veins before extinguishing itself and the red that I almost wished would remain. Then, with the extinguishing of the sun above my rest, she retreats behind the now closed door leaving me to myself and the sounds. Tick. Tock. Beep. Beep.

Tick. Tock. Beep. Beep. Tick. Tock. Beep. Beep. So flows the rhythm of time as the angels pass just beyond my enclosed world. Tap. Tap. Tick. Beep. Tap. Tap. Beep. Tock.

My world, once white and pure, now stares back as a darkened grey lit by the horizon of day below my now closed door. I stare back into it, envisioning the shadows twisting and churning. A flit of color passes. Was it blue? No, green? Yes, perhaps. Tick. Beep.

My eyes search and I find the little speck. It is red. Yes, violet. Nearby stands yellow waiting, impatient. Soon more join. Green, magenta, cyan, and more. I gaze and watch as they flit and flutter, soar and swoon, dance, prance, and lazily drift on the gentle currents of air.

One bends close and kisses my nose. “Sleeping, friend, or dreaming,” she asks.

My throat dry and my body still, I can only breathe in reply as she laughs. Tick. Beep.

The dance grows faster. The pace much quicker. Their feet a blur of joy and mirth. The swirling, twirling, twisting, and curling blending color into color and light into light. Ever twisting, ever twirling, ever whirling, curling, swirling. Then as darkness creeps over my vision, a man, pale and placid, reaches down a thin appendage as if to beckon me to move and join the flowing light as it escapes into the closing dark.

My lids fly open upon a scene both new and somehow drawn from some long forgotten memory. The sky, the grass, the flowering fields, and the forest and mountains out beyond scream with color and light. I must close my eyes to deafen myself and then, upon opening them again, I find myself standing in an old dirt path.

I look forward to find the end but see it pass well beyond the distant mountains. I look behind to see where I’ve come from but see only the expanse of open plains. Looking forward again I find myself at a crossroad. The new path shows no more than the first.

Turning again I see a man sitting on a rock. He is wrinkled and old. His long beard, twisted, knotted, and curled, swam about him as an eel in the muddy night of his robes. His eyes became fixed upon me as a broken grin drew upon his face.

“I greet you, son,” he crows, “I’ve waited here for sometime.”

“For what?”

“You,” he exclaims with a twisting of his head. He stands and strides over me with his spindly limbs, crawling to a spot in the wheeling grass.

“Who are you,” I slide close to him.

“Death,” he lies upon his face. “Yes, perception is silly. It makes burning cold. Yet, I am me.”

“What?”

“Turn and look.”

I turn to see the forest behind me full of reds and blues, yellows and golds. I turn back to the winged thing as she continues to speak. Her gentle hands caress her youthful face.

“All will know me. Many have seen the forms they give me. Some fear me, worship me, try to appease me.”

She reaches toward me and takes me by the shoulder. The sharpened claws dig into me. I kick and I scream. I push back against the scaly face and dragging fangs. The dark creeps in as the world dies. Then a sudden embrace.

I feel warmth flow through me. I feel comfort fill me. I hear a voice, long lost but never forgotten, call me by name. A love yet buried and still carried over all these long and lonely years.

A flash of light and the world is gone. A world of color replaced again with a world of white. The angel returns with no dagger in hand. With her are faces and voices, both warm and familiar. The pallid man and his formed formlessness may wait another day. Tick. Tock. Beep. Beep.

[davidlratliffstories]

Looking forward to the new year.

I will be posting regularly starting January 2nd with posts every Monday and Wednesday with videos every Friday for my YouTube account under the same name.

I have many projects planned for the coming year that I am wanting to get to and hope you all enjoy what I post.

Have a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Year.

[davidlratliffstories]

Tales of Therafell: The Smith and the Chicken

Isolation can be a wonderful thing, from time to time at least. A simple escape from the worries and tiresome nonsense of the world around you. A time to sort your thoughts and breath the fresh air as you relax into a comfortable spot. But one cannot remain in such isolation for long. As beings whose based our very nature around our interactions with others, we must find some means to coexist with at least a few beyond ourselves. If for nothing else than to maintain our own sanity, to ground us in reality. For though the dark places of the world may hold some dangers, the darkness that lives within the mind can be far worse.

In this tale there was once a small town nestled in the middle of a forest. This town wasn’t much to speak of as it was the same as any other little place with its crops and livestock. But here there lived a man that folks around there called Old Jack who lived and worked in the smithy off at the far edge of town, out away from everyone else.

Old Jack had grown up in the town, the same as everyone else, but had also grown to distrust or outright despise everyone around him. This was because he had always been the butt of various pranks over the years. From the simple surprise scare to having cow dung shoved down the back of his pants, their was no limit to what they would do to anger him or cause him trouble.

There was a time, back when he was around thirteen years old, a group of the other boys had led him out to an old, abandoned barn in the woods. They had told him that some sheep had wandered off from the flock and headed in there. Claiming to need his help in rounding them up, they pleaded with him. He was a bit wary about the story at first, but didn’t want to risk losing any of the towns sheep should he be wrong. So he marched into the dark barn in search of the sheep only to have the doors slammed shut behind him. He pounded and screamed from within as the boys put a heavy bar across the door to hold it shut. It wasn’t till after nightfall that they came back and let him out again.

From that day onward he would never trust a single soul and shut himself away from the world until his father died and left him to run the forge. Having to take up his father’s work forced him back out into the world again and many people from the town came to him to have their tools mended and new shoes crafted for their horses. Though, never once did any of them every apologize for the things they had done to him in all those years. So his distrust and destine continued to grow day by day and, beyond the stone faced business arrangements he had to deal with, he would never come to speak nor spend any amount of time with those who lived in the town.

One day Jack awoke to the sound of clucking and a soft, sharp scratching noise in his room. When he sat up and looked around he saw a small chicken with white feathers clawing at the floorboards in search of a morning meal. He didn’t know what to think of it at first, knowing he had latched every door and window before lying down to sleep. Then he figured that it must have came through some hole in the wall that had gone unnoticed till now.

Rolling off from his bed, he slid his way over to the bird and lifted it to his chest. He then carried it over to the nearest window, opening it enough to slip the bird out before lying back down again. A short time later though, the same sound of clucking and scratching roused him again. So again he took the chicken and tossed it out the window.

After rubbing his eyes and giving a long yawn, he decided to give up on sleep and went to the wash basin to clean himself up and start his day. Then he fixed up a bit of breakfast with some eggs sizzling away in a cast iron pan next to a couple slices of old bread. He dug around in the cabinets for a bit of cheese he had stowed away but could not find it. Searching about, a sudden cackle shocked him back into focus and there stood the chicken once again.

Jack uttered a curse and stomped at the bird but it took no notice of him. Then taking up his breakfast, he plated it and began to eat, thinking to ignore it as well. But the chicken jumped up on the table in a flurry of feathers and scurried across his plate before jumping down on the other side and started to run. Old Jack gave chase, tossing obscenities at the thing like darts as it weaved this way and that through his home.

After a time, winded and red in the face from exertion and rage, he soon fell to his knees. His chest heaved as a thought of what a joke this was and what a sight he must seem, chasing a chicken about his home. He froze for a moment.

“Why those sorry,” he cursed aloud, “I’ll give them a right good piece of my mind,” then stomped out the door and down toward the town with the skittering chicken following close behind.

The first door he came to, as the little town was beginning to rouse from sleep, was the that of a man named Dale, a simple farmer who tended to the town’s wheat and corn. Jack pounded on the rough wood of the door, shouting out obscenities and demanding an answer. Dale soon stepped out with his eyes wide at the commotion.

“What wrong, Jack? Has something happened?”

“You know blasted well what’s wrong,” he shouted, “I don’t know how you and the rest of them pranksters did it, but it ain’t funny.”

Dale cocked his head, “Did what?”

Thrusting his hands down toward the small chicken at his side, Jack stared daggers at him. “This right here is what.”

He took a moment to look down before looking back up with an eyebrow raised, “I don’t see what your talking about?”

“The chicken,” he curses, “It’s been pestering me all morning and I know it has to be you lot whose done it.”

“What chicken?”

It took all Jack’s will not to punch him then and there. “Don’t you dare try that with me, Dale. I know better. You lot have been doing this kinda thing our whole lives and I’m tired of it. If I see you or anyone else wandering around my house at night, I’ll whip the lot of you.”

Dale looked on, eyes narrowed and mouth agape as Jack stormed off back to the smithy.

The day dragged on as he went about his work mending some old axe heads and butcher knives. All the while the chicken kept finding its way into one bit of trouble or another. It was knocking over racks of tools, jumping in the way his hammer in mid swing, and many other issues. Yet every person who came by claimed to not even notice it was there.

The hours soon past as the day drew to an end and he had had more than enough of the bird hopping about causing mischief. So he took it, killed it, plucked it, and fried it up for a late dinner. The savory meat felt like a fair reward for all he had put up with that day.

“That’s the end of that,” he said to himself.

However, as the sun rose on the next day, he found himself again awakening to the sound of cackling and scratching. Another chicken had found its way into his home. But he wasn’t having it again and immediately slaughtered the bird for breakfast before getting on to work once again.

The next day was the same. Another chicken, another meal, and another days work. Then the next day followed suit. Then the next day as well.

“Enough is enough,” Jack shouted with a curse, “This has gone too far.”

The latest chicken looked up at him and cocked its head sideways a bit too far.

His face crinkled up as he looked at it. “This one ain’t quite right either,” he thinks aloud, “I’ll toss this one out to the dogs.” He killed the bird and tossed it over into the woods for the wild dogs to eat before storming off into town again to give Dale another talking to.

Again Jack pounded on the rough wood door, shouting and cursing. Dale then answered, his eyes narrow and mouth tight as his tone struck bitter. Jack held his ground.

“What is it now, Jack?”

“This joke your playing has gone to far. I’m tired of it.”

Dale sighed, “What joke? We haven’t been playing any joke on you or anyone else.”

“Your a lying cuss and a stupid one too if you think I’d believed that,” he cursed.

“I’m telling you, Jack. We do not know anything about this chicken you keep going on about. It may be that all that time keeping to yourself has messed with you mind.”

His eyes went wide as his jaw tightened and his fists clenched.

“If your going to get angry about it and hit me, then go ahead. But what I’ve said is true.”

Fuming, Jack turned away and stomped his way back home.

The days continued by with a new chicken showing up day after day. On the twentieth day when Jack awoke to the then familiar sound, the condition of the bird he saw shocked him. Several patches of feathers were missing and large, black splotches covered its body from head to claw.

He leapt from his bed with a series of obscenities flowing like water from his mouth. “It ain’t enough that they pester me with this nonsense, now they got to give me the blasted diseased birds too?” He grabbed the chicken by the neck along with his hammer and a large, iron nail. “I’ll show them how sick of this I am.”

Marching down to the center of town, he found the old well and presided to nail the chicken to one of its posts. Then he returned to his home, a sly smile on his face, to await the coming complaints and fury about his actions. But no one ever came. The day fell to night and no one came.

The next day, curious about the lack of action over what he had done, Jack wandered back down into the town to see what was going on. It was quiet. No children playing in the streets. No baker announcing his wares. No farmers nor herdsmen tending their duties.

He went door to door pounding and shouting but received no answers. The last door he took to trying was Dale’s. As he rapped his knuckles against it, it swung on its hinges, emitting a soft groan.

The room was dark. “Dale,” he called out, “You at home?” He gazed about through the open door until his eyes fell upon a bed against the far wall where Dale lay, his back to the door. “Dale, you lazy cuss. Get up and greet me.” He didn’t move.

Jack stepped with caution into the room, wary of some new prank. “Dale,” he cursed, “Get up right now. Get up, I say.”

He grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him over before jumping back with a gasp. His eyes went wide and mouth agape, as Dale’s face came into view, eyes bulging out of his head as a thick black ooze drained from his nose and a large space on his head looked caved in. His ashen face and deep red lips terrified Jack.

Jack ran from house to house busting in the doors to find everyone else in the same state. Whatever had happened spared no one. He stumbled his way out to the center of town and fell on his knees by the well.

“No,” he repeated again and again, “It can’t be. What happened?” Tears welled up in his eyes. “No,” he continued to repeat.

Then a familiar cackle rang in his ear. He turned around and saw, standing there in the shadows, the same diseased chicken he had nailed to the well. The long, iron spike was still protruding from its neck and the black splotches had grown larger. He stared, dumbfounded and terrified, as it opened its beck in a large grin, revealing a set of almost human like teeth and a tongue like the tail of a snake trying to escape. He backed away until his back pressed against the stones of the well as the thing came closer to him.

He could not speak, breath, nor even think beyond the desire to get away. Yet as the creature came ever closer, he found himself frozen with fear. It was soon standing at his feet, staring back at him with those large yellow eyes. The stare seemed to pierce his mind as he envisioned his own death by the beast. A cold chill ran through him as his mind reeled.

But then, in a moment of either instinct or panic, he reached out, snatched the thing up by the throat, and tossed it, with as much force as he could muster, down the well. He stood for a moment, waiting for the sound of a sudden splash below. It never came. Fearful that it had grabbed on some where and may climb up again, he grabbed the nearby wood covering and slammed it in place before heaping stones on top.

Without another thought, he began to run. He returned home long enough to grab up some clothes, money, and his faithful hammer before heading northward. He needed to get away. He needed to tell someone about what had happened. Who would believe him, though? No, there was nothing he could do other than save himself from suffering the same fate as the them.

After many miles, he found himself standing at the door of an old inn. The sign above had the image of a bear painted in red and the sound of music and singing rang into the night as clouds began to cover the sky and rain and thunder rolled over the land. He stepped inside out of the cold where the innkeeper, a tall well built man with a thick black beard, greeted him.

“Welcome, sir,” the innkeeper began, “How may I help you? You’d like a place to sleep I’d wager, what with this weather moving in, and nice, hot meal too?”

Jack avoids looking him in the eye, “Yes. On both accounts.”

A bellowing laugh, “I thought as much. Head over to the hall and I’ll get you a bit of something.”

He followed the man’s suggestion and took a seat at the corner farthest from the other patrons and their marry making. The small, wooden table, wiped clean, was still covered in scratches and nicks from years of wear. However, the straw cushion was comfortable enough.

The crowd was small for the most part. A mix of adventures, travelers, and tradesmen stopping in for a good meal and warm beds. One of them, a young boy who had yet to grow his first beard, held up a lute and was strumming on it as another sang some song he had not heard before. He sat and listened for a time, letting his worries melt away.

The innkeeper came to him minutes later with a bowl of hot pork stew, a cut of bread, and a cup of ale. Jack drank and ate his fill before asking to see his room for the night. Many of the other patrons had taken to their rooms as well by then. The man led him up two flights of stairs to a room at the far end of a short hall. He opened the door and motioned for Jack to step inside. The man bid him goodnight before closing the door, leaving the room dark. Jack listened as his heavy foot falls faded into the distance before dropping his bag on the floor and plopping down on the straw stuffed mattress.

The linen had been recently cleaned and the fresh scent calmed his mind as he drank it in. His mind then took to questioning his future. Where would he go from here? How would he make a living on the road? Would someone find his town and think him responsible for what happened there? These questions rang through his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams he found himself back in the town standing once again before the old well. The rock covered wooden seal was still in place. But then the earth began to shake beneath him and the rocks fell one by one until the covering itself soon followed. From deep within the dark depths he heard a soft scratching and cackling. Then long, dark tentacle like appendages spilt up over the rim, seeping out onto the ground as the sounds grew louder. Soon a shinning pair of yellow eyes crested the edge and a great, unnatural smile shone out from the mass of dark before lunging forward at Jack.

Bolting upright in the unfamiliar bed with a shriek, covered in sweat and shaking, he looked around the room with his eyes wide and teeth clenched. Nothing was there. He looked beneath the bed. Nothing was there. Still terrified, he rummaged through his bag until he found his hammer.

He sat curled up on the bed, sheets tossed aside, clutching the hammer in his fists. He waited and listened for any noise, any sign that it had come back. A sound down the hall caught his ears and he tensed.

“It’s here,” he repeated to himself in a shaking, soft voice.

The sound reached the door and then there was a soft scratching noise before it began to open inward, the hinges protesting at the slow movement. Not wishing to wait for it to make the first move he leaped from the bed with shout and lashed out with the hammer. He fell through the doorway out into the hall, swinging wild with each strike meeting its mark as he screamed through the haze of fear.

After several blows, Jack fell to the side and scrambled for a moment to place his back to the wall, hammer held tight and knees to his chest. His eyes, large and red with fear, glared down at the place where it had lain and a soft whimpering escaped his throat. It was the innkeeper, his face bloodied and smashed.

“No,” Jack choked as other patrons began to leave their rooms to see the commotion.

They saw the innkeeper laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and Jack sitting by with the murder weapon in hand. It took only a moment for them to lunge at him in an attempt to restrain him. But he lashed out with the bloodied hammer as he screamed and then ran.

The sound of their voices trailed off as he ran out of the inn into the pouring rain. Every time he dared to look back, a yellow glow shone out at him as a familiar grin crept over a now distorted face. He screamed and cried as he scrambled through the darkened woods.

He ran as fast as he could, but it was never enough. With each flash of lightning, he saw its shadow through the trees. With each crack of thunder, he heard its cackling laughter. He kept running. His legs ached and his chest burned with the effort, but he kept running.

A flash of lightning blinded him for a moment causing him to trip over the root of a tree that stuck up from the ground. He scrambled to his feet again, raising his hammer high above him as he planted his back against a tree, expecting an attack. But nothing was there. Lightning flashed, illuminating his surroundings. Nothing but the trees and rocks surrounded him. He listened, but heard only the boom of thunder.

He found a small cave in the side of a nearby hill. Drenched and freezing he huddled as close to the rear wall as he could manage. His mind was blank and his breath was shaky as he fell to his most base instincts to survive.

Then he heard it. The soft scratching and that horrible cackling. He raised his eyes to the opening of the cave and there it was, silhouetted in the flash of lightning. More demon than chicken now, with its dark form covered in writhing tentacles, eyes shining like yellow flames, and jaw unhinged in a twisted abomination of a smile as its tongue like a snakes tail lolled out.

It came toward him with slow steps, its tentacles reaching out for him. It gripped around his arms, legs, waist, and throat. He stared into its eyes. The flames seemed to scorch his mind but he could not fight back against it. It showed him visions. He saw the town. He saw himself. But it was wrong. He was going door to door killing everyone with a smile and a laugh.

“No,” he cursed, “Stop it. That isn’t me. No.”

The creature laughed as the visions played over and over in his mind.

Soon he fell silent. Then he began to laugh. It was nothing more than a soft chuckle at first. But then it grew and grew until it was a booming and blusterous cacophony echoing off the cave walls. His stomach ached and the world spun as the shadows grew over him.

“It was me,” he thought, “I finally got them back.” He continued to laugh until his eyes rolled back in his head and his laughter died.

The next day, a herdsman from a nearby town came wandering by in search of a lost sheep that had separated from the flock, grumbling all the while about how everyone was far too lazy to help. He came armed as tell of the murderer at the inn had already spread. He looked inside the opening of the cave in the nearby hill to see if the sheep had sheltered there. What he found was the body of a man, cold and gray, with a large and unnatural grin frozen on his face and a hammer, coated with dried blood, clutched in his hand.

The man turned to head back to the town, intending to tell of what he had found, but stop as he heard a soft cackling behind him. A small white chicken was standing there looking up at him. Thinking it had wandered off from the farm as well, he took it up and brought it back with him. Though as he did, he thought for a moment that he saw it smile. But who ever heard of a smiling chicken?

[davidlratliffstories]

Story Hook Prompts

(That I may get around to writing eventually.)

1) “The Princess Regent”

As the first stars of evening come alight, illuminating the rough cobblestone road below, a lone carriage bounces along, carrying its occupants toward a large and ornate manor currently filled with the sound of jovial yet elegant music and the sophisticated laughter of nobles. One such occupant, a princess, face free of wrinkle or blemish and hair as golden as the crown she would one day wear as heir apparent to the throne, stares out the window, her gaze lost somewhere in the distance. The other, a woman shrunken by a long life written clearly upon her soft face now fallen slack as she finds herself instead gazing with dropping eyes upon the princess herself. With effort, she forces up the corners of her mouth, eyes still betraying her concern.

“Do try to perk up, my lady. We are off to attend a party after all,” her voice catches on the words in a way that gives evidence to her less than noble birth.

“I am off to be drooled over by some lusty, power hungry, old nobles. Do forgive me if I am not thrilled by the thought.”

Keep reading

[davidlratliffstories]

Legends of Therafell: The Artificer’s Daughter

...or The Tale of the Toy House

Round about fifty or sixty years or so ago, in a small village at the base of the Blue Mountains, there lived a tinkerer named Gan. Now old Gan, back when he was younger, had served as an artificer for the Grand Academy of Magic, helping to make and maintain their vehicles and golems and such. But one day he just got too tired of all that noise and bustle and decided it was high time to move off some place quite to settle down. He kept himself busy though, what with fixing clocks and making little mechanical toys for the young ones.

Yet time ticks on as it always does and the other folk living about began to notice that something wasn’t quite right with old Gan. His gait was getting slower, his smile was getting dimmer, and every time he spoke there was a hint of melancholy in his voice. Some just attributed it to old age, but the wiser of them knew that age can bring many things, including the sorrow for having spent that time with not a soul to share it with.

He had been living in that there little shack with it full to bursting with all kinds of knick-knacks, what-nots, odds-and-ends, and all those little toys for many years, helping out others and bringing a smile to their faces. Yet, he never once in all that time sought out someone he could truly bond with, someone more that just a smiling face. No matter what anyone told him, he would just sit at his bench and tinker and build and fix what broken things got brought to him.

One day the local folk found a note pinned to his front door. It read, “Artificer at work! Do not disturb,” scrawled in big, red letters. None knew what to think of it. Some wanted to find a way inside to check up on him, make sure he was okay. They all thought better of it though. You never know what trouble you might cause bothering an artificer at his work after all.

First days past, then weeks, then months without a show nor sign of old Gan. Some thought he was working on some sort of top secret project for the Academy. Others thought that he had ended himself out of loneliness. There were even a few who thought he had gone mad and was building some kind of impossible machine. But no one knew anything for sure.

After some time, enough had been enough. He had locked himself away for far too long. So they marched right up to the door of that little, wooden shack pounding on it hard and demanding an answer. None knew what to expect on the other side, but not in their wildest dreams would they have given thought to what happened next.

As the door swung slowly open, creaking on its worn hinges, the slender and supple figure of a lovely, young woman came into view before them. Her wispy, auburn hair framed a fair, round face with smiling lips colored a soft red and bright, amber eyes shinning out from beneath a gentle brow. Her long, dark dress with its high collar almost up to her chin, flowed loosely about her seemingly long legs as she stepped toward them.

“Hello. Are you looking for my father? I will go and fetch him for you,” she had said in a voice so sweet and tender, yet made all the more off putting by the fact that her mouth never once moved.

The people stood there confused and unable to speak as the strange girl dissappeared among the various devices and such littering the shack. Eventually, the tinkerer himself came striding out from the mess, his ward in tow and a great, beaming smile on his face. He seemed to stand a bit taller and his eyes shone just a bit brighter as he looked out on the gathered crowd.

“Well,” he had said, “You have all met her then, so what do you think?”

They all just stood there, still dumbstruck for a time, until one worked up the courage to ask, “Who is she?”

Old Gan lifted his head high as he wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders, “She’s my daughter,” he told them.

“Where did she come from?” had asked another.

“Why I made her, of course.” he had answered.

The folk there had question after question for the old tinkerer and he answered each in turn. He told how he had felt so alone for so long and had even given thought to just ending it out right when a sudden idea had jumped into his mind. If he couldn’t find someone to spend his life with, then he would make one.

“I had always wanted a child,” he had said, “A lovely young daughter that I could pass down my trade to and watch as she grew and built and made things more marvolous and magnificent than I ever had,” he had explained.

They had all thought this quite an odd way to go about it. But they had also never once seen old Gan so happy in all his time among them. So they just let it be and went back to their own lives as such, leaving the tinkerer and his mechanical daughter to theirs.

As time past, the folk around there became much more acquainted with the girl. She’d often be helping her, so called, father at his work, making them toys and fixing things. She would also go out from time to time to collect the groceries and run errands about the village. When she wasn’t doing all that, she’d sit out in the front of the house or in near the middle of town and play games with the young ones. She had become such a fixture among the community there that it was almost all but forgotten that she was a collection of gears and wires. Everyone seemed all the better for her being there.

Then one day, as was bound to happen, old Gan had grown ill and the local doctor could do nothing more than make him comfortable as he awaited his final hours. The young girl, whom everyone had taken to calling Gena, had sat by his bedside and cared for him till the time of his passing. At his interment, all who had seen the girl, even though knowing her mechanical nature and the immovability of her face, had sworn that she somehow had borne a look of grief. It was something in her eyes, they’d say. They seemed just a a little less bright. She shut herself away in the old shack after that. Not even a notice posted on the door or a sound from the inside to let folks know she was okay.

For days, weeks, and even months after, all the children from around about there had gone knocking and crying out at her door to no avail. Some had brought some of their little toys with them hoping to play or to get them fixed and many left them there knowing nothing else to do. One day though, as they had gone to plead with her one last time, they found that all the toys that had been left about were lined up in nice neat rows by the door, fixed, shined, and painted up right. There were even a few new ones there among them.

That old shack is said to still be standing there to this very day, with all kinds of little dolls, trains, tops of all shapes and sizes, and all other kinds of wonderful toys just sitting about for the enjoyment of the little ones. Even more are said to seemingly just appear there every day, each more fantastical than the last. Now, wheather it be out of respect for old Gan or for simply not wanting prove this here tale false, the village will not allow any to enter into that house, keeping it safe from all on the outside. Sometimes, should you go out that way, you may even hear the children go to up the door and begin to sing, “Gena, Gena, wont you come out to play? The sun is high and we’ve no school today.”