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Tales from the Wishing Well: In Extremis
Jul. 18th, 2008 11:35 amWelcome to the first installment of Tales from the Wishing Well, inspired by you! I am surprised (yet pleased) to tell you that the first story has actually gone over my word limit and will be split into two posts. You get the first half of "In Extremis" today and the second half on Monday.
Read, enjoy, tip if you're moved, and comments are welcome!
* * *
In Extremis
Part I
by Deborah J. Brannon
Marshall tossed a coin into the well, and upon this coin was inscribed: Abaddon.
They only come in winter or summer. In extremis, by extremes. In summer, my door opens upon Baghdad alleys, in dunes southwest of Mut, upon the infernal wastes of Ifrin and the trackless breadth of Death Valley. In winter, penitents must come through Moscow sewers, walk leagues north of Helsinki, dig through snows in the Ice Queen's realm, or steer fifth star to the right and straight on till morning toward the Antarctic.
They always know the ordeals, the way. They find the broken-latched door in shadows and water and snows and collapsing waves of heat. Though iron or wood, banded in silver or leather, it always bears my sigil: the staring hollow eye and the insatiable locust splayed across the pupil. The sigil is a chain, burned into my flesh as well, an invisible connection that means the door will always lead to me.
No matter where I run to, in this world or any other, they will always find me with their blazing eyes and their scrabbling hands. So full of burning guilt and freezing desire, they will never let me forget why it must be me.
Abaddon. Title, name, and purpose.
( Continue reading... )
Read, enjoy, tip if you're moved, and comments are welcome!
Part I
by Deborah J. Brannon
Marshall tossed a coin into the well, and upon this coin was inscribed: Abaddon.
They only come in winter or summer. In extremis, by extremes. In summer, my door opens upon Baghdad alleys, in dunes southwest of Mut, upon the infernal wastes of Ifrin and the trackless breadth of Death Valley. In winter, penitents must come through Moscow sewers, walk leagues north of Helsinki, dig through snows in the Ice Queen's realm, or steer fifth star to the right and straight on till morning toward the Antarctic.
They always know the ordeals, the way. They find the broken-latched door in shadows and water and snows and collapsing waves of heat. Though iron or wood, banded in silver or leather, it always bears my sigil: the staring hollow eye and the insatiable locust splayed across the pupil. The sigil is a chain, burned into my flesh as well, an invisible connection that means the door will always lead to me.
No matter where I run to, in this world or any other, they will always find me with their blazing eyes and their scrabbling hands. So full of burning guilt and freezing desire, they will never let me forget why it must be me.
Abaddon. Title, name, and purpose.
( Continue reading... )