An Adumbrance Betwixt the Light and the Dark - A short story

An Adumbrance Betwixt the Light and the Dark

In a ghostly realm where shadows are formidable, and arguing influences of light and dark constantly dance, a beam of brilliance pierced through the ever-present cloud cover and hit the granite ground, which sizzled at the intense touch. The ghoulish patches of cropped grass wilted and burned. Nearby things of black and gray fled, yelping and howling as they galloped, dug, slithered and flew away from the harshness. One wrapped herself in darkness and joined the protective shadow of a nearby outcropping. Gray farseers atop the nearby hills emplaced tinted lenses on their orbs and analyzed this new phenomenon. They witnessed a man striding down the beam, perambulating toward the surface. The stranger was light of everything -clothes, skin, hair, eyes. An alabaster masterpiece. He even glowed slightly, though whether the light was from the man or the beam on which he strode was a matter of debate among the seers. Whichever the case, he was blinding to gaze at.

A sudden eclipse occurred as a large, blind, flying Thing encountered the beam of light and both were extinguished. The man fell the remaining distance to the surface, a tumbling star, as the realm returned to its natural level of twilight.

He pulsed on the ground, looking to all who saw as if he were an immense lightning bug, a beacon winking away in search of a mate. To all who could not see his light, his presence was warm and intriguing. Small points of light floated on a current of air in his direction.

He heard scuttling noises in the dark as he groaned and tried to sit up.

Silvery threads shot out from the surrounding landscape. A pair of large black spiders came into view from inky pools of shadow and crisscrossed hunting webs over his prone form, seeking to wrap him up in their stickiness.

The light stranger struggled to burn the webbing but could not keep up with the threads. He was soon tied up on the hard ground. The nightmarish spiders advanced, their mandibles making audible clacking noises.

Another piece of darkness, about the size of a person, broke away from the blackest shadows of a nearby outcropping of rock. It was a woman, dressed in draping fabrics of gray. She clicked and clacked, drawing the attention of the spiders. She threw up her arms and spread wide her cloak, which expanded to a great size and rippled with lights and darks like the ground under a leafy tree that shakes in the gusts of a hot summer day.

The spiders clicked and clacked. Then they turned and scurried away in search of easier prey.

The dark stranger dropped her cloak and approached the light being from the sky.

He had almost freed himself from the tangle of spiderwebs. His clothes however, were much grayer now with their substance. And his right leg was noticeably dimmer than the rest of him. And when he finally stood, it was easy to see the leg was indeed injured from the fall. He stood awkwardly, looking at her as he tried to remove the remaining webbing. He seemed unafraid, even with everything that had happened.

She held her hand in front of her face. “Dim yourself, sir. There are many here who feed on brilliance, as you almost found out first-hand.”

He concentrated and looked down at his outstretched hands. His light waned. He returned her look. “Who are you?”

“I am called Chia. Chia Ross-curo.”

“I am Epifanio. I have come to learn the secrets of darkness.”

She glanced around at the landscape, feeling many eyes upon the pair of them. She shook her head. He was still too bright.

“I cannot hide you, even within my umbra. You emanate much. Follow me, maybe we can hide in yonder shelter.” She pointed to the left.

He saw nothing and said as much.

“Your light blinds you.”

“The Light is my life! I cannot lower it any further. To do so would be to risk my death!”

“To not is to risk both our lives.” She raised an arm and covered him with a portion of her expansive cloak.

He was astonished at the clarity with which he now saw their surroundings. It was as if everything were outlined in a halo or glow. Their destination was obvious now: a small stone structure at the shore of an inkjet lake. He tried to look closer but the image shook and blurred in and out of focus.

He uncovered himself from the cloak. “Why adumbrate when you can elucidate?” He waved his hand and a blast of light flooded shot forth and illuminated the entire valley.

“NO!” she screamed.

*********************

Another response to the Two Word Tuesday over at Our Write Side. Adumbrate was the word. It means to foreshadow. I ran with it. Hope you enjoy it. This is my wheelhouse right here, the sort of stuff I really like to write. Sort of like Jack of Shadows from Roger Zelazny.

Picture for today: 

Maybe a future scene in the story?

Gato the Duck

13 MAR 18

From an Our Wright Side writing prompt, here's a story about a drug-addicted duck. Well, not really. Enjoy. :)

Gato the Duck

I knocked on the front screen door. It was a sturdy metal screen. Some rust here and there, but it would definitely stop someone from entering. I glanced over. The front window too was covered in protective iron bars. I remembered her saying her grandpa was a welder. He probably made both himself. I looked down, wishing I had nicer shoes, and then quickly brushed off the front of my shirt where flakes of Krispy Kreme frosting had wandered off my donut earlier.

Locks unlatched, one by one. This didn't really seem like a bad neighborhood. It definitely was a lot better than mine! The door opened as I had these thoughts and through the mesh of the screen I saw someone tall. 

He looked my age, maybe a little younger. While I had shaved off my peach fuzz before coming over, he was letting his darker face fur grow out. We grunted a mutual "Hey," and he let me in. 

"It's some Gringo!" he said as he turned around and walked away, back into the house. 

"Hi," I said to his back. "I'm Michael."

And then I saw her bounce into view. Elena. That smile was the reason I rode in the bed of my uncle's truck for over an hour in the hot summer sun. 

"Michael!" she said, giving me a hug. "You made it!"

I caught my breath for a moment. "Yeah, I hitched a ride with my uncle. He'll be back to pick me up at five." I turned around and locked the screen and door. The sudden darkness inside was jarring. Outside was sunny and hot. Odd sounds and smells assailed me. An unseen TV was blaring a Spanish channel. Food aromas, pet odors and roses all competed inside my nose. 

I followed Elena through the narrow kitchen. A pan of something delicious-smelling but unidentifiable was on the stove. In the living room Elena introduced me to her grandparents as 'her friend'. Grandpa stopped watching TV long enough to accept my handshake. Grandma, small and fragile-looking, got up slowly and asked me if I wanted something to eat. "No thanks ma'am." 

She went into the kitchen anyways and started making me a plate of food. They seemed very nice. The guy who let me in was nowhere to be seen. "Who opened the front door?"

"Oh that was my younger brother Manny. Come on. Let's go in the back." 

Younger? At sixteen I was still growing, but he was a giant! I followed Elena. We went out the back of the house and into a work area filled with odds and ends. A quack and a flash of white crossed my feet as I just missed stepping on a duck! The thought made me laugh loudly. When my dad farts, he always says, "Ooh! Must've stepped on a duck!" 

As I stood there grinning, my head whipping around to find the duck, a cat's tail brushed my thigh. This place was a zoo! "What cute animals you have! What are their names?"

Elena smiled. "Well, the cat's Pato and the duck is Gato. Though, really you can call them whatever you like because they never answer when you call them anyways. They just come and go as they please."

"Uh, Pato and Gato, uh?" My mind tripped over the few words I knew of Spanish.

"Yeah, my grandma named them. My grandpa wanted to call the duck Canard."

"That's a lie!" someone shouted from outside the work area. "Don't listen to her!" Sounded like Manny.

Elena shot back. "No it's true! My grandfather was learning French for a trip to Paris and he said he wanted to name the duck Canard because it means duck in French!"

We joined Manny as we went out into the heat of the backyard. Roses and bougainvillea were everywhere. We sat at a wooden picnic table under a wooden trellis covered in magenta
bougainvillea blooms. Elena's grandma called from inside for Elena. She went into the house and the two of them returned a few moments later with tortillas, lemonade and plates of food. 

We ate, sweating but enjoying ourselves immensely. The lemonade was iced and perfect.

In between bites of rice and beans, Manny spoke. "Did Elena tell you the duck can talk?"

I looked at Elena, then Manny. He was smiling but sounded serious. "Pato can talk?"

Elena slapped her brother on the arm. "Gato. His name is Gato. The cat's name is Pato. And neither one of them can talk! Manny's pulling your leg."

"No it's true!" Manny smiled. "He's a drug-addicted duck from East LA,-"

Elena put her hand on my forearm then and said, "Just like you!"

"Hey!" I protested weakly. "I'm not addicted!"

Manny glared at his sister, "Anyways. The guy we got him from said he should be fine as long as we kept him near the house."

"So, um, Gato is a druggie duck from East LA?"

"Yep." Elena and Manny both smiled at me. 

"No way!"

"Way! Watch, I'll show you." With that, Manny got up and fetched the duck. With the duck in his lap, Manny said, "Hey Gato, what's your poison? What drug are you addicted to?"

"Quack!" Gato the duck said.

We all howled with laughter. 

"What a Canard!"

***********************
Some after-tale comments. You don't need to read further to enjoy the story, but you might get more out of it if you continue reading. 

The writing prompt was to use the word canard and/or the word rumor. Also, for those who don't know, gato is cat and pato is duck in Spanish, so the animals are misnamed in the story, on purpose. Also, the word canard does indeed mean duck in French, but it also means a lie or ruse, like a false story or tall tale. The setting is modeled after the house of my grandparents on my mother's side. My grandfather was indeed a welder, though to my knowledge they never had a duck, of any name. 

Similar to one of my other short stories, titled Ghost Garden, this one was written with one of my children in mind. Love you son. 

Picture for today, along with a link:

Gato Pato: A book about Duck Cat, or is it Cat Duck?

Small piece of Horror

13 JUN 17
I wrote the following piece in response to a prompt. Not sure if it is the beginning, middle or end of a future story. Has the feel of somewhere in the middle, though I can't imagine the heroine later in the story yet!
EDIT: I was asked to put a warning beforehand, for the younger audience members out there.



TRIGGER WARNING: Horror




UNTITLED
She woke and the first feeling was pain. She felt beaten and broken from top to bottom. Her toes had throbbed all night in those sky-blue Christian Louboutin candidate pumps she had worn, so she wasn’t sure if that particular suffering was new or not. She hurt inside as well. Her dress! Her gasp changed to a grimace as a sharp pain lanced through her side. She had never had a broken rib, but she had watched a lot of football with her fiancé and remembered what pain he had complained about. She was pretty sure it was the same. She cracked open an eye, crusted with blood. The other eye wouldn’t open at all, it felt swollen shut. An aroma of metal, sweat, and drying blood drowned out her Chanel No. 5. Her tongue tasted blood and several new gaps in her once beautiful smile. She cried then. From the pain and the silly little thought of all the time she had worn braces and headgear to get that smile just right.

She tried to move, but found she was tied to a chair. Her elbows and hands were lashed to the armrests, her knees and legs bound by ropes as well. It was almost a relief. If she wasn’t bound to the chair surely she would have fallen out of it onto the floor by now. She couldn’t kick if she wanted to. Her head rolled weakly to the side and with her one good eye she noticed her left pinky finger was bent out at a wide angle. The deep blue nail polish on her pinky looked oddly out of place, away from the others. That’s not good, she thought. Luckily she couldn’t feel that particular pain at the moment, though the absence worried her in a different way.

More agonies were checking in from all over her body as she found enough energy from somewhere to look around. She was in a grey concrete room, maybe a basement. There was a sputtering vent fan high in a corner, maybe blowing air in or out, she could not tell. A metal table against a far wall drifted in and out of focus as her mind continued its slow climb to full consciousness. A quick scan of the table’s surface showed her some of the instruments of her torture. Pliers, a blowtorch, a hammer, hand saw, car battery, and her left shoe, strikingly colorful amidst all the other plain, industrial gear. With her foot and ankle still in it. The expensive sole was still red, the blue sides were now red as well.

That was what finally made her scream.

A door opened somewhere behind her. She tried to swivel her head, to seek with her one open eye, but her neck pained her. A man she didn’t recognize soon stumbled into view. Short, hard to tell since she was sitting down, but not even five foot tall she thought. Sharply dressed, his faced hinted at dark thoughts no manner of good clothing could hide for long.

He came closer, invading her personal space. He reached out and ran a finger along her cheek, tracing a ragged tear and making her wince anew at the feeling. “I like damaged goods.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I’m going to love you!”

She suddenly recognized him. Memories of her torture flooded through her and washed away her sanity. Her mind tumbled back into the sweet embrace of oblivion, her last thought was of her ending.

The sudden crack of gunfire shocked her awake. The smell of gunpowder overwhelmed the other acrid odors of the deathly room. Her eyes wouldn’t open. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard several male voices. The one nearest her said, “She’s still breathing. Looks like we got here just in time Cap’n.”

Picture for today is something horror-ish, to go along with the piece.

Guest Post over at Our Write Side

04 MAR 17: The good folks over at Our Write Side were kind enough to ask for a guest post on the writing process.  I gave it some due thought and the whole shebang is posted over on their site:

My post over at Our Write Side

The post is about how I write short stories. I am actually going to write the tale detailed in the article (The War of the Woods) when I get a chance. It is indeed one that is in the hopper for development. It was pretty cool to do the whole 'how do I get from point A to point B' when writing something. Never really done that before. 

Picture for today, a beautiful, mystical elephant. Will he turn into a story? Who knows what the future may hold.