Makeshift Floating Walkway Thingy

Amanda stood on the edge of a cliff over looking a snow-covered mountain. The wind played with her hair while snow collected on her exposed skin. Thomas stood next to Amanda sharing the breathtaking view.  A hundred feet above them an island floated in mid-air.

“How the hell are we suppose to get there?” screamed Amanda.

“Exactly how I said we would,” said Thomas as he shrugged out of his climbing gear.

“We’re going to float, right?” said Amanda oozing sarcasm.

“That’s right,” said Thomas with a smile.

“What? Are you cracked in the head? Do you need some oxygen, old man?” Mocked Amanda. “You can’t just invent a floating-thingy and then WHOOSH, you’re all floating around straight up to an impossible island in the middle of nowhere!”

Amanda threw her arms up in disgust and attempted to walk away from Thomas. When the drop to the mountain below presents itself for the final walk away, Amanda turned and glared at Thomas.

“I don’t have to invent anything,” said Thomas while he reached into his backpack. “Not if someone invented it before me.”

From the deep recesses of his pack, Thomas produced an object about the size of a bread box. Amanda was opening her mouth to laugh at Thomas, but instead her jaw just dropped.

The object burst from Thomas’ hand and flew into the sky where it instantly began to change shape. Spheres, cubes, dodecahedrons, every shape of both science and the imagination. After a few seconds of this fantastic display, the object disappeared.

“Where did it-” began Amanda until a flash of pure white and a sound like falling tuna sandwiches made her stop.

“Don’t close your eyes,” warned Thomas “This is the best part!”

Braving the brightness, Amanda looked back at the object. It was now a spiral staircase, each step floating just above the last, reaching up to the floating island.

“When I say go, you run,” said Thomas looking at Amanda. “Got it?”

“What? No!” said Amanda taking a step away from “This has to be some sort of hallucination, or something. There’s nothing there; there can’t be. Did you drug me, you sicko?”

“I’ll say this once,” said Thomas as he took Amanda’s hand. “You can come with me, and I’ll explain, or head back down the mountain alone.”

Amanda looked from the stairs to Thomas.

“Go,” said Thomas with a wink. He squeezed Amanda’s hand, let go and ran up the stairway.

After a brief thought about her personal safety, and what she would tell her best friend Shelly if she didn't see this adventure through, Amanda rushed after Thomas. As they ran up towards the island, the stairs began fading from sight behind them. 

© 2014 Mark Fiske

Save Point

BEEP BEEP chirped a digital alarm clock. With the grace of a turkey, a man's arm flew from the recesses of his blankets, slamming down on the snooze button. The arm retreated into the warmth of the blanket, and the man was just snuggling back into his pillows when the phone rang.

"Damn it," the man groaned while flinging the blanket off of him. With a grunt, he swung his large hairy feet onto the cold wooden floor.

"I'm coming," the man muttered as he crossed the room. "What's the damn rush? Calling a guy before he's had a proper breakfast."

"Hullo?" The man questioned with authority.

"Is this General Malcolm Roberts?" Said the voice on the other lin.

"Of course it is, damn it," spat General Malcolm Roberts. "Now Who the hell is this?"

"I apologize General," said the voice. "This is The President."

"What the hell do you mean by 'this is The President'?" Said Roberts with confusion in his voice.

"General Roberts," said The President. "I need you to believe me, and listen. This is of the utmost importance. Do you understand Roberts?"

"Yes, um, yes. Certainly Mr. President," said Roberts as he sat down on the bed before his legs gave out in fear of what he thought might be coming next.

"Good," said The President. "Now Roberts, listen carefully. I've heard from mutual friends that you have a dated Save Point from your younger days, correct?"

"Yes sir," said Roberts with sweat rolling down his face. "My save is from the day I met my late wife. I always wanted to return there, when I got Game Over that is. Why do you ask, sir?"

“Well Roberts," said The President. "In exactly 30 minutes, every nuke in the world will be fired. We are talking about a 90% casualty rate. The only way to stop this is by changing history through someone's Save Point, but you're the only member of Staff who has a Save from earlier than this year, let alone earlier this century."

"I understand sir," said Roberts running his fingers through his sweat soaked hair. "What is it exactly that I must do?"

"Well... Shit, this is hard to say," said The President with a catch in his throat. "I need to you to have me assassinated. But after I've become President. Do you understand General?"

"Yes, sir," said General Malcolm Roberts, Brigadier General of the first rank while saluting the small flag taped to his bedroom mirror. 

"Thank you General," said The President. "And my God have mercy on us both."

Roberts hung up the phone, and reached into his nightstand, producing his 9mm pistol. Thinking  only of his wife and being able to see her face for the first time in years, Roberts used the gun to get Game Over.

Continue Game: Yes/No

© 2014 Mark Fiske

The Waiting Game

BANG! A gun fired in the darkness, it's blinding light illuminating the inside of a cavernous space. The noise startled a colony of sleeping bats that took to the air screeching in protest of the loud noise. As the bats receded deeper into the cave, a silence fell. Somewhere a drop of water landed in a stagnate pool, causing silent ripples to spread out unobserved.

From the darkest shadow, two glowing red eyes opened, banishing the darkness, but what they revealed was a nightmare come to life; it's scales shimmered, it's claws gleamed. When it smiled, teeth like swords glowed in the red light.

On the ground, a bloodied, dismembered corpse of a man lay twisted and broken. A gun rested in the man's hand; the only fully intact body part left. The gruesome beast used a broken stalagmite and pushed the gun away from the man. It's massive jaw broke apart with a sound that drove the bats even further into the cave. The creature's jaw reformed into a man-sized hole, surrounded by thousands of teeth and an impossibly deep throat. In one gulp the man was devoured, his gun the only remaining sign of his existence. HICUP the creature blurted, causing something distasteful to pop into it's mouth. After a moment's thoughtful chew, the beast spit out a bullet in disgust; it landed next to the gun.

With a hell of a grin the monster closed its eyes and waited.

© 2014 Mark Fiske

The Elder Dragon

The elder dragon looked down at the assembled heroes: The Fighter in her gleaming Armour and long broad sword, the Mage in his black robe and jeweled staff, and the Healer in his white robe already conjuring spells of protection. They had traveled far and defeated many evils in order to face the dragon that stood before them. Each adventurer had lived a life of woe and given everything up in order to vanquish the foe before them, thus saving the villages in the surrounding mountains. With a bone chilling battle cry the heroes charged the dragon.

The dragon sat on his hunches in a nonchalant way regarding the miniscule band of heroes charging towards him. With more of a yawn than any actually treat, the dragon opened it's mouth and let forth and great burst of magical flame and smoke. Before the heroes could react, they were vaporized in a poof of hydrogen leaving three piles of dust in their place. The dragon, feeling bored, decided to destroy a few villages before settling down for a quite night's dinner of roasted townsfolk.

© 2014 Mark Fiske

Opening Credits

"Hi, my name is Mark, and I'm addicted to writing," I said into a poorly grounded microphone. Static and hissing accompanied my voice which became tinny and dull.

"Hi Mark" roughly chorused those gathered in the dimly lit church basement. All of their features looked blank and hallow to me through the single fluorescent bulb that managed to work in this heaven hole. Here was where all the XA meetings were held; alcoholics, drug users, sex addicts, and now writers.Each group would gather, talk of their problems, feel a small sense of brotherly, and sisterly comradery. Each would sip their slightly darkened coffee-water (tm) and munch on stale doughnuts. The half & half was as real as the conversations that took place during the single break. The ashtray outside was overflowing on an hourly basis, and each group had it's official boy or girl scout that would cluck at the heaping, smelly mess, only to clean it up and never actually say anything to the constant offenders. 

"I'm here because I have a problem," I spoke from the heart. Unfortunately, I really didn't have my heart into it. It had only been four hours since my last story. I told my self I was finished. I could get through one day without having to write a little adventure, or play, or even a quick anecdote. But it was hopeless. Nothing could change who I was. 

"Most of you share this problem." A lot of heads bobbed in agreement. Some one in the back began to cry, not being able to stand the horror of it all. 

"I, Mark Fiske, as god's as my witness," I struck the podium to emphasize my point, "am addicted to writing!" A great-ish cheer went up from the huddled almost, but not quite, masses.

It felt good. I admitted it, and now the healing could begin. I smiled at everyone, but then noticed something that drained every ounce of color from my face. It was him. The one and only "we do not speak of his name in any chance he might be somewhere about and he'll pop over for a quick chat" fellow that stories are obsessed with and writers are infatuated with. It was Inspiration, the most fiendish adversary to writers and all those who create. Without him, tales are doomed from their first sentence, or word, or letter. Even just an idea void of his presence would wither up and blow away like so much dust in the wind. 

He was staring directly at me. No, that's not right. He was looking into me. My life was unraveling right before his eyes, and I couldn't, and didn't want, to do anything about it. I could tell this was a once in a life time moment, and I wanted to make the most of it. When he had seen his fill, Inspiration smiled, tipped his hat and gestured for me to follow. 

I looked around the room. No one else had seen him. They stared at me wondering what had caught my tongue, but having been up here they knew how a person could just freeze. For the moment they each held back, wanting to move the night along, but giving me some time to collect my thoughts. I couldn't. My mind was blank. Everything I had ever know, or thought, or dreamed was now in the hands of Inspiration and I had no choice but to follow.

"Uhhhh..... I'm sorry, but this just isn't me," I said in a daze. "Actually, I flipping love writing. If you know what's good for you, you'll quit your complaining, and just get on with it."

I sauntered off the dais, and made my way through the crowd. I knew some would follow, and others would continue this farce. Being a writer is who you are, who you become. At some point a person makes a decision; give your life over to words and let Inspiration come to you, or hide your head in the sand pretending that nothing matters and you'll just make do If you don't mind, thank you! 

I wrenched my head out of the sand at the exact moment I slammed through doors leading out of the basement room. There is no way I could have been prepared for what met me. Instead of a sad hall that led to even sadder rooms, I found a multi-lane highway that stretched to either side of me. A 1960's convertible Volkswagen Beetle sat in front of me, and Inspiration smiled from the drivers seat. 

"You ready for 'The Wild Ride'?" He asked in a deep, voice filled with joviality and humor. 

"Uhhhhh...." The dot's hung in the air right above my head. They turned into eyes, and looked at me like I was a shlub for not getting in right away. I stared back and one winked.

"Yes," I said. "Definitely Yes, I should think"

Inspiration smiled and motioned for me to join him on the highway to... somewhere. Without looking back, I jumped in the car, whooped in laughter, and felt the breeze through what remained of my hair as the car merged with traffic and we drove off to my destiny. 

What I propose to convey to you is something of a group of tales. Some I've lived, other's I dreamed. Some are nice, and you'll just love to tell your kid's someday and them their kids and so on. Others may be more like nightmares, better left under rocks where only unsuspecting Paleontologists would stumble upon them. My time with Inspiration was the most wonderful, disastrous, and mind blowing experience of my life. It would last for years, and decades. Now, I look back and see that he was always with me, all throughout my years, but I usually just ignored him; hid him behind lies, and half truths. Now I know we are actually one and the same, a whole, greater than the sum of it's parts. This is metaphorical mumbo jumbo of course. He currently resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I in upstate NY. Never the less we always send holiday cards, and the occasional story back and forth. 

I hope you enjoy some of my tales that are to follow. Know that a life of work is behind each and everyone. Some times more than one life time.

- Sir Fiskus

© 2012 Mark Fiske