This is a very rough (un-edited) beginning to a dark fantasy I’m currently calling The Heretic and the Confessor. It’s an idea that came to me recently that I just sat down and wrote “off the cuff” and one that I hope to work on sometime in the next – maybe as a serial to start. Please forgive typos and lack of proper development but comments are certainly welcome.
From free photo section of MorgueFile.com
“You must understand, what Id did, what I have done, it’s because of what I was. I’m not who I was then. Then was a time of darkness, mindlessness, aimless, hungry wandering. It was when I was dead.”
“Don’t ask me how I know I was dead, I just was. Something changed one day. It was like nothing I every knew before that time. I knew the world, experienced it but only in shades of dust and ash. Everything I ever di, ate, loved and drew pleasure was in truth ash on a dead kernel that never lived.”
“I could say that it was a subtle change but there is no way to explained light to the blind or sensation to dead flesh but when I experienced that jolt of light in my gnawing mind it shocked me to my knees and I lost all concept of being as I had thought I was alive.”
“I woke and all that I saw was different though not unfamiliar. Trees swayed in the wind and clouds passed in the sky. But my eyes, I noted what I never understood before that time and I knew all of me had been dead with unquenchable hunger.”
“You speak in riddles.” The shade before me, the priest, my confessor, scratched meaningless symbols of the language I once knew and cherished. “Tell me the truth.”
“”I can only tell only speak of what I was and who I am now.”
“Who are you?” The dessicated hand paused with the featherless nib.
I leaned forward and touched that his cold, pallid hand. “I am alive.”
“Never touch me again, heretic!” He snatched his hand away sloshing the inkwell, it’s stench wafting into my face, offending my living senses.
“If you only understood, if only you could understand what it is to live.”
The shaded cowl tilted back with hollow laughter. “I move, I speak, I gnawed the bones of a screaming animal for my last meal. What else am I but alive.”
At sat back from the stench, my eyes watering and my throat tightened against gagging. “You understand death an nothing else. Once I was the same.”
He waved his hand and his voice lowered to a growl. “So you paint your skin and wear something over your eyes, perhaps use a magic or superstition but you nothing different from me.”
“I’m not and I am.”
“Just get on with your telling. I grow weary of this drivel.”
“You’ve come to hear everything, yes? Well, I have nothing to hide and much to share.”
“They want your secrets most before they crack your bones.” He dipped the nib and held the pen ready.
“I have none, you’ll hear it all and may you’ll understand.” I flinched at his other hand slamming into his book, dust rising from the writings of others before me.
He pointed. “I’ll have none of your way, heretic. Now speak!”
From free photo section of MorgueFile.com
I squinted. “You can barely see me. My words sound distant. You hear me from your tomb existence. I know. It was like that for me once also.”
“Enough!” He slammed the book closed, stirring more dusk. “When next I visit in mercy you will tell me all and cease this mindless rambling.” He turned and hobbled to the door, his shoes scraping on the grit of the cell floor. “I’ll come night-morrow.”
I swallowed, though not in fear. Night was day to these and day was night. I skulked in the light. “I look forward to our little talks, Moru. You are welcome any time. There are so few to share with at times.”
The grated door creaked and boomed shut in his leaving, the sound echoing through the passages beyond.
And I sat in light, glorious light that they thought tortured me with uncertainties. But I saw all that they never did.
End of this story sample.
About the Author
H. Solomon lives in the greater Birmingham, AL area where he strongly dislikes yard work and sanding the deck rail. However, he performs these duties to maintain a nice home for his loved ones as well as the family’s German Shepherds. In his spare time, P. H. rides herd as a Computer Whisperer on large computers called servers (harmonica not required). Additionally, he enjoys reading, running, most sports and fantasy football. Having a degree in Anthropology, he also has a wide array of more “serious” interests in addition to working regularly to hone his writing. The Bow of Destiny is his first novel-length title with more soon to come.