The Bow d'Longoria

"The Bow d'Longoria"

a short story

Gary Baker, December 2012

Desperately Esri drew the bow and let loose a sharp pang of heat across his fingertips even as a bolt of pure white struck down a man in the doorway below. Instantly the man became chars and fell to the floor in a crumbling mess.

It worked. The fabled bow had awakened.

Esri stared in awe, expecting it to be the disillusioned ramblings of a dying mind after an unseen deathstroke. It couldn’t have worked, not for him, not for the manservant with none of the abilities that made his race so noble.

He was the dud, the one man hidden away from the rest of the world in the garments and back alleys of servantry so that no one could ever tell such a mishap could take place for a race with powers over matter and energies from other realms. Yet they couldn’t kill him, either, not without altering empires-old legislature at the core foundations of their society.

And just as daunting was the awakened bow.

The Photograph

“The Photograph”

a short story

Gary Baker, September 2013

There’s something in the way that a sandwich cut in halvsies from the corners seems to mystify the world versus leaving it whole or cutting it like a grid. It’s like taking the first swig of an unshaken gallon of milk, or the singlemost first slice of apple pie when it’s still steaming from the oven and how the world magically contorts to make these as magical as possible. Or like how taking a bite of a chocolate bar made from fairtrade chocolate from Costa Rica or the Amazon in Brazil or something like that, where it’s meant to be snapped into smaller bits and enjoyed piece-by-piece yet choosing not to follow the unspoken rules results in a far superior taste of that one, lone, first bite.

Today was like that, for Savannah. 

The Summoning

"The Summoning"

a short story

Gary Baker, July 2013

I know this is mute, and I hate that I have said as much before.

Delicious ecstatic throes of awe drown out all but the remainder of what exists inside, a drilling, pounding surreal glob of what cannot be understood. It sits there, wondering what might be out and about if it could cease and be deceased, always out of reach of those in the vicinity.

See I was running when it came to me, when this bitch of an idea hit me square in the chest like rocket fire from a blaring trumpet of vinyl hell. I staggered like a drunk, suddenly void of air within my lungs, hands reaching for throats that eclipsed my grasping, groping fingers; my nails burned for blood, my eyes yearning for endless red, and my teeth longing for an ever-more violent form of red.

The Endgame, part 2

"The Endgame"

a short story

Gary Baker, April 2013

(part 2 of 3)

“Phase two,” the echoing voice came again, “begin in: three...”

Juskra turned to face the open room and the way he’d just come.

“Two.”

He flexed his fingers and light once again appeared at his fingertips... but this time it wasn’t orange and it wasn’t warm. Eyes wide in shock, Juskra looked to the yellow-green points hovering at the very ends to each and every one of his fingers.

“No shit,” he breathed.

The energy of the light pulsed happily within him, amounting to a greater sense of power hiding just under his nails, coursing through his veins, peering from his eyes. No one had ever seen this happen in all of history. Not one soul had ever seen the orange light change like this.

“What does this mean?” Juskra choked out.

The Endgame, part 1

“The Endgame”

a short story

Gary Baker, April 2013

(part 1 of 3)

Juskra reached his arms out to the sides, stretching his biceps and forearms.

“Three,” came an echo of the loudspeaker sitting at the apex of the arched ceiling. Lights set here and there flickered, then hummed to life with traces of a faint yellow glow left to streak across the placid slate flooring. “Two.”

Juskra grit his teeth and flared his fingers wide to bring about small globes of orange-cream light hovering like flies on his nails. His eyes shot to the speaker high, high above determining it to be about five stories up. Above that speaker hung the Gobosxes, a court of gods with infinite wisdom all sitting in throw pillow-covered divans drinking wine and ale, while watching the events below. These gods would judge him, they would sense his every thought as he completed the mission... and they would feel his cold embrace as he died at the end.

The Seer

"The Seer"

character working

Gary Baker, October 2010

A strong, burly arm thrust into the air to hoist a rather large sword, point-first, high above all the mans companions. “War is beautiful, young lass!” Boomed the warrior, decked in velvet red and black armor with silver engravings of a lion and a broad cape that reached his knees. He looked to the frail girl beside him to emphasize his point to her soft, loving face with a smile while nudging her nose with his own. “But you are fairer than any war to exist a’tall!” Slowly, and almost romantically, his left arm wrapped around her waist just above her buttocks to pull her so close that her breasts pushed around his chest plate easily.


She blushed. As usual.


Viggo Herena wasn’t a virgin priestess for nothing, and every time Farrow touched her sexually she showed just what she was. Out of the many priestesses Farrow had met, Viggo had yet to learn restraint over herself and that gave him hope for converting her. When he was done, at least. For now, she would service him with mystic healing prowess beyond anything he had ever seen.

Just Beyond

"Just Beyond"

character working

Gary Baker, March 2012

Drel watched the tall rectangular box strapped to the altar across from his dark form with thick coils of rope and metal. In the dim candlelight almost no one could tell just what, exactly, the box was, much less what it might contain.

All they see, he thought grimly, is white marble and planks. It took serious concentration to not react to what he saw, however, with the obvious reverberations of panic exuding from within the planks like oozing sewage. Adding in the incessant smells of horror of the same origin, Drel came closer and closer to insanity by the minute.

Tall candles stood like stalagmites in the cavernous nightfall cathedral built deep into the mountains of Morrah, with flickering shadows of loyal cult members awaiting their prize that Nahuum would soon reveal. The man of the hour stepped up from the eclipse of shadow beyond the altar revealing an abnormally tall man with gruff biceps and ripped jeans from ages passed as a lowly farmer. His unblemished sand-toned skin seemed to reflect just enough light to make the appearance all the more startling, and he traced a finger along the outer edge of the planks while he walked around.

It was all a show, Drel knew, and soon Nahuum would have his cronies -- initiates the cultists would call them -- upend the box and remove the lid. But the proprietor would give the moment time to climax, allowing the crowd to frenzy and the contents to give in on one easy act of stalling.

The Valiant Pink Knight

"The Valiant Pink Knight"

a short story

Gary Baker, November 2012

[*This story is not following my normal posting routine, 

I know, but this is my Thanksgiving gift to all of you!*]

Murky brown water splashed outward in arcing waves onto the asphalt road as a pair of pink boots thrust through.

Knight-Princess Miera smiled, proudly standing in her hot pink windbreaker, and yellow rain pants, with fists on her hips. It was a perfect day, the sun nowhere to be seen, instead replaced by dark gray clouds and the occasional flash of blinding light.

A deep roar rumbled across her kingdom as Mr Thunder said hello, followed quickly by his assistant, Mrs Lightning. Miera nodded, and waved her arms frantically at the clouds where her two subjects awaited her approval, knowing that they would grow impatient and annoyed if she let them wait too long. Afterall, that was what Daddy had told her back when she had yet to assume her royal position, back when she feared the rain and it's friends, and thus had also been yet to admit to them their benevolently needed wave.

The skies wavered slightly and she knew her two subjects were happy. Though who wouldn't be in a storm like this?

"Miera!" Her mother called from the front porch, "time to come inside!"

"But mom," Miera responded, "I still need to save my subjects from the evil puddle monsters!"

Her mother shook her head and played obeisance. "Then I guess I'll just have to eat these cookies all by myself, now won't I?"

A smile lit itself upon Miera's cheeks. Cookies! A rightful princess' favorite treasure! "Wait!" She screamed, suddenly sprinting to the door, "mommy, I'm coming!"

Along the way she found herself blocked by a wide pool of muddy water held behind her Daddy's white slug bug. Grinning, Miera ran faster, charging the unsuspecting leader of the mighty puddle fiends with her magical pink boots tight and ready.

Princess Miera! The leader called with it's grindingly bitter voice, we meet again!

Princess Miera grit her teeth and readied her leap, her legs pounded the road as she galloped like a horse leading the assault. But she dared not respond to him, this was her nemesis, his evil always made it hard for Daddy to get to work on time during the rain and now he was bound for defeat. And now there were cookies awaiting her arrival, and there was no way that she would let this beast keep her from such beauties.

Miera! The fiend called again, gaining a sense of worry and fear in his voice, What are you doing? You cannot expect to beat me this time!

Mr Thunder called out to aid Miera, and it was seconds before Mrs Lightning agreed to help as well, but this was it, this was the battle that Miera had been born for. She would save the streets from one more devilish puddle beast, by taking out the faction's leader with her allies at her back.

"Yaaaaaaaaahhhh!" She let her voice reach a crescendo as she lifted high into the sky, her arms reaching up like Superman's to carry her higher, and moved her feet to face the leader's head. She plummeted like a meteor, her mighty magical pink boots set and ready to hit the puddle leader where it mattered most.

And then she hit him, causing a great splash. And oh, how it was such a wonderful splash.

Nooooo! The fiend screamed as his body was sent out in waves as high as Miera was tall. Miera! How could you! My one weakness--MAGICAL PINK BOOTS!!

The princess hit the road at the bottom of the puddle beast's body, and the water reached back for her, rushing back to grab at her knees.

"No!" Miera screamed with fear. The boots should have worked, he had even shouted in his dying last words that her boots had killed it!

Yes!

"But how?!"

She darted for the safety of the sidewalk, struggling to reach it before the mystic maple leaves in the water could leech her power away. Her boots filled with the leader's liquid organs and he still came at her. The waves hit her then, reaching where her jacket armor wasn't able to protect from and soaked her shirt underneath. How had the puddle monster leader done this? How had her magical pink boots not worked?

Then it came to her as she reached the curb and jumped onto the part of the puddle that had overtaken the sidewalk: the fiend was even more powerful than she had thought. By the time she had reached the edges of the fiend's body as he recovered by mere magical wonder, the princess turned to face her foe. "No fair!" She screamed at him. "You can't use magic! It isn't fair!"

"Miera!" Her mother called again. "Are you still out there?"

Grumpily, Miera spun on her heels and darted across the flower garden, tracking muddy streaks onto the red brick walkway and toward the porch. "Mommy!" She cried, "Mommy the puddle monsters used magic!"

Her mother kneeled to catch her with a great royal hug on the wooden porch where an overhang of shingles and morning glories kept the rain at bay. Suddenly her mother pulled away and scowled. "Honey, you're soaked to the bone!"

Miera smiled, knowing that every drop was proof that she had valiantly fought off the beasts from taking over her kingdom--all except for their cheating leader. "But mommy it wasn't my fault!"

Her mother smirked with a curious glare, letting her sapphire eyes glint in the orange Porchlight glow. "Oh? And how," she tapped Miera's nose, sending the princess into fits of giggles, "might that be, little missy?"

Miera pulled away and pushed her lower lip out with a pouty face. "Well I was saving the kingdom from being flooded when I saw the leader trying to drown Daddy's slug bug! So I ran to attack it on the way back here and it didn't die by my boots!"

Her mother gasped, "no! It didn't die by your boots? But I thought they were magical!"

A great smile came upon Miera's face. "Mommy, they are! But the puddle monster used magic to fix it's boo-boo's!" Suddenly Miera's eyes went wide, "do you think that maybe my boots are out of magic?" She shook her head from side to side and found herself wanting to deny the possibility. "Maybe I defeated too many of the monsters and made my boots weaker against their leader!"

Her mother's arms wrapped themselves around Miera once more, and Miera was picked up into the sky as her mother stood up. "Well, then!" Her mother declared as she tossed her ponytail over her opposite shoulder, "I guess we're just going to need to have extra cookies to replenish your boot's magical power!"

Miera gaped. "Really?!" The valiant princess shook with giggles and cheerful excitement, kicking her dangling feet as she was carried into the kitchen. Her mother set her down at the table and reached to grab a steaming plate piled with nothing less than what must have been thousands of cookies! As she grabbed the largest of the pile, Miera began to rock back and forth in her seat, unable to hold in her glee.

"Cookies?!" Came a deep voice from behind Miera, "Now why didn't I hear about these?!"

Miera turned to see her daddy sitting on the sink counter with a white apron on over his business suit. "But Daddy, you silly," Miera laughed, "you made them!"

The Train

"The Train"

a short story

Gary Baker, October 2012

Rae inhaled deeply, taking in the musky scent of coal smoke and steam, of weary metal and warm rails. His heart raced with the pace of the surrounding crowd's murmuring. Each time the train left the screams got louder, he could hear them echoing in from outside the sky-lit hall of departures. Each time, the train entered the dark tunnel ahead of it and the impending deaths of the many on board began, never leaving, never ceasing.

He stepped forward as more mindless bodies stepped on to the next opened platform, orphaned of any previous passengers, then stopped when a silver bar fell in front of him, greased with the hesitancy of the masses before him that had reached into such looming deaths of the man-made death trap, of the human slaughter machine. But the machine cleaned up good--almost no one noticed the darkness on the seats where surely someone must have sat less than mere moments ago, most assuredly having died in that exact spot with machinations to clean up the blood and lessen the panic for the next to die.

And he was next. Sure, there was a current train being loaded, but as soon as this one left the next, which was surely being cleaned as he stood there, would glide up with heavy screeches of metal on metal, with a clenching smell of brake fluid, and would beckon him on just as this one had the current dead-ees.

Then the whistle blew.

Kailas

"Kailas"

Gary Baker, August 2011

(prologue for a yet-to-be-named longer project)

Thick wafts of brimstone choked out most life within the soupy expanse of fog and steam. Mirror-like silver plate armor cinched tightly around the legs of the light-footed Kaelar champion sliced through the thick steam clustering about tall mounds of sulfuric clay and soil, leaving tiny rivulets of clear air to quickly fuse back into the bleak grayness once more.

The champion paused, his dark gloved shield-hand resting lightly on the hilt of the sheathed weapon hanging upon his left hip. Without the steam his trek would have ended ages ago, but here he was sweating inside his portable steel oven lined with layers of tanned Farsmar hides with the long gray fur facing inward as padding, climbing ever higher in the rocky crags of Mount He’ulis. The dark leather glove of his dripping wet right hand came into view just beyond the edges of his helmets nose guard, holding a damp cerulean gemstone engraved with lightly etched runes. “Brot’an deev a Te desa minae,” came the rough grating of the champions voice, any echo that should have come was lost within the surrounding haze. In response, the crystal flashed white once then pulsed with a darker hue of near-pink.

At first all was silent, aside from the faded sounds of the champions heavy breathing but, as if waiting for such a cue, at his third exhale the fog drew back away from the crystal and then the man holding the stone, until it visibly withdrew in a bubble around him to give a wider range of visibility for his human eyes. “Finally,” he breathed silently.