A Day with the Dark Lady - a short story

It was late morning, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Not that you could tell, of course, for the sky was thunderously black and brimming with thoughts of imminent thunderstorms. The thunderstorms themselves materialised on occasion, but today they, like just about everything else within a fifty mile radius, seemed to be doing their best to appear inconspicuous.

It was late morning, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, and at one minute past three o'clock a large raven was sent from a high tower with an order for a new obsidian table attached to its leg.

Sitting in the remnants of said table, a small minion was beginning to have serious regrets about its career choices.

"Your Evilness . . . if I may ask . . . what seems to be . . . the matter?"

The stammering was not deliberate on the minion's part - not that that would have been an issue, what with the strenuous 'equal opportunities' policy applied by its employer - but rather because it was frequently interrupted by the need to dart out of the way of the titanic black-headed mace as it continued its path of desecration around the room. By the looks of it, the minion thought, the antique fireplace was not going to last half as long as the table had.

In fact, just at that moment, the mace crashed through the aforementioned's mantlepiece and lodged fast in the thick stone beyond. A few sharp tugs and snarls later, and the minion finally plucked up enough courage to approach its fuming, but thankfully noodle-armed, wielder.

"My Dear Dread Lady," the minion said, tugging at the edges of its silky black cloak nervously, "what troubles you?"

The tugging on the mace ceased, and a pair of surprisingly non-threatening blue eyes whipped around the room before spotting the minion, who sighed. For all it was convenient being scarce knee-height to their employer (it certainly made it easier to avoid her occasional attempts to behead them), it did make it rather inconvenient when you wanted to get her attention.

The minion waited in half apprehensive silence as the eyes lingered on him. He kept his swallow as infinitessimal as he could when she pulled off her helmet - a very impressive thing, even Sauron had sent several very envious emails upon seeing a picture of it on Evil Overlords Anonymous - and set it on the remains of the desecrated mantlepiece.

"Three weeks," she said at long last, to nothing in particular, "three weeks."

The minion sighed and held out his hands apologetically. "Three weeks, two days and forty six hours, Oh Great and Terrible Mistress. We are keeping a close watch."

"But three weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks."

The minion braced himself for a swift and painful death as his overlord (she insisted the title was gender neutral) threw her hands skyward and drove her steel-toed boots into the floor so hard that he heard the stone screech in protest. However, in a sudden swirl of cloak and armour, she stormed past him and flopped into her throne with such utter despondency that he began to wonder if he should call for an Emergency Chocolate Cake.

It had, indeed, been three weeks, two days and forty six hours since any heroes had assailed the fortress. In fact, it had been that long since anyone, heroic or otherwise, had come anywhere near the place. At first no-one had been overmuch worried - especially given the horror that was bound to spread through the land at the news of the terrible Death By Sausage that had befallen the last champion to brave the citadel's walls. A week had passed unremarkably, and the overlord had amused herself with extended games of charades with the denizens of her dungeon (those she liked, anyway) and teaching her kraken to 'play dead'.

By week two, she'd begun to get restless and had organised some minor Pillaging With Intent to Annoy across the borders of one of her tetchiest neighbouring principalities. As it turned out, its king was absent, fighting giants in the north, so instead she'd sent him a letter requesting an army to squish upon his return. Meanwhile, she'd caught wind of a champion coming from the west with a sword of fire, swearing upon the blood of his slaughtered family to bring down every stone of her fortress. She had giddily awaited his arrival for a full three hours before news reached her that he'd been eaten by rabid squirrels somewhere in the Insidious Forest. Though the news had caused widespread hysterical laughter, it hadn't solved the problem.

And this week . . . the minion shuddered. Three princesses kidnapped, twelve priceless artifacts stolen, ninety six false messages aiming at inciting civil war, two hundred and six towns and smaller cities burnt to the ground and six dragons down with flu after attempting to start a plague.

But still, not so much as a traveller with a faulty Sat-Nav had wandered by the castle. As the derth of entertainment persisted, Her Evilness' mood had steadily worsened until she had taken to attacking the furniture about six hours ago. When they dared to creep back into sight after a particularly nasty spree of catapult-related mishaps, minions had done their best to cheer her up, even volunteering for a paintball match (which, to anyone who knew anything about them, featured a large crossbow and several barrels of jelly). Yet still, with no Ye Anciente Prophecies scheduled to come to fruition within the next two years (give or take a planetary alignment), it seemed that nothing short of a disastrous miracle would save them all from an eternity of broken furniture and defenestrated lackeys.

"Your Malignancy . . ." the minion crept up to the puddle of furry-cloaked apathy puddled in the middle of the throne, "We are trying everything . . . It can't be much longer, we're sure . . ."

The overlord merely shook her head and burrowed deeper into the crook of her elbows. She looked very small, thought the minion, sitting down in front of the throne in the midst of a terrible guilt trip, especially for a being of immeasurable malice and delight in terrorising the well-intentioned. She looked very sad, too, and to the minion's mind, that was terrible. Black-hearted and frequently violent as she was, he was very fond of his employer. Hadn't she taken great pains to ensure practicality and comfort in their uniform, and turned the cook into a petunia after he failed to account for dietary requriements in the lunch menu? Heck, she'd even given him a holiday once, for a whole half a minute.

Then, suddenly, the air was split by the ring of a horn. It was a great ring, high and pure and resounding with such a power that it set the tips of the minion's ears trembling. Out of the window, a great wind arose, and carried with it the sound of a sword singing as it was removed from its scabbard. The minion leapt to his feet.

"The Long-Lost Horn of the Third King!" he cried. "And the Singing Sword! Why, it's said only the mightiest arm and stoutest heart may lift them, and that their combined power is all in the entire world that can rival the might of the Dark One! Well," he bit his lip, "other than those fifty two other swords . . . and that magic spear . . . and possibly the Spork of Wrath, but only in conjunction with the Wellies of Determ-"

The minion was flat on his face before he could even think of the rest of the word. An avalanche of plaster crashed to the floor as the mace was wrenched from the wall, and he barely managed to scrabbled out of the way before being knocked to back to the floor as the Dark Lady of Doom bounced in fits of squeaking excitement down the corridor, calling for her dragon, her sword, her absolute wittiest hero-demoralising monologue.

And hard on her heels came the minion, trying to make himself heard beween the answering screeches and howls of delight coming from every crevice of the castle.

"Dreadful Lady!" he cried. "Defiler of Light! Bane of the Righteous! You forgot your helmet!"

~ Charley R

The End of an Era

She stood on the cliff edge, staring out over the pale horizon, and knew it was over. She could feel it in the air around her; in the whispering breeze and the shimmering voices of the ripples on the lake below her. She sat down and knotted her fingers into the wet grass, pushing dirt up under her nails as a pleasant dewy cool spread down her thighs. Perhaps jeans were not the wisest thing to wear today.

The breeze danced by, tugging at her fringe and the loose sleeves of her shirt, pulling her like an excited friend as it ran out over the lake, darting through the sunbeams and sending up plumes of soft white spray. A diving bird gave a warbling cry and ducked under the surface to avoid the wind's teasing, only to shoot upwards in a shower of spray with a tiny silver fish in its beak. She smiled and lay back in the grass, looking down between her grassy toes to the horizon. The sun was shedding its brilliant golden glow and settling into a comfortable ochre red as it nestled into the clouds, dimming the sky's light to a soft array of pastel pinks and blues, ready to sleep and rest, ready to light the sky again the next day. 

As the light faded away, the earth itself seemed to give a little sigh. It was the end; the end of a day of the past, of old thoughts and old fears and old duties, of things that were no longer necessary. But it was also the beginning of a new time, a new future of opportunities and excitements and adventures.

She looked up at the sky and smiled. She would never have to sit another Maths exam again.

*insert crazed smiley here*

Hello everyone! Guess what a productive weekend I'm having!

* I've polished my army boots, then put on some parade gloss so they're all nice and purrdy for when I next use them.
* I've tidied my room, including my exceedingly cluttered desk.
* I've spent ten minute disentangling my headphones, for the six-hundredth time this morning.
* I've written eight thank-you cards, hunted out my address book, run at light-speed to the post office to buy stamps, and posted them all off.
* I've put a load in the washing machine (and am now praying it will all come out again)
* I've sent two poems off to a competition, and now have to wait until mid-September to get the results.
* I've sent another poem in for a school competition, and am currently engaged in an email conversation with the teacher who runs the competition about its "Wordsworth-like" qualities (*faints with fangirl overload*)

Oh, and I've burned down a village and killed several hundred people. I think I may also have given someone else a heart attack.

... In the novel, you sick-minded person. But I still feel like a mass murderer.
Anyone else ever felt like this? If so, leave me a comment below, and we shall all sit back, sip tea and laugh about our sadistic tendencies while mercilessly sporking the waiters.

On another note, has anyone seen my medication? xD

-Spook

From Somewhere Beneath the Textbooks ...

Hello everyone! I've just started my GCSE exams! Yaaaaaaaaaay!
Not.
Though I'm loving all the free time I get for study leave, the idea of taking definitive exams that could change the course of my entire future and possibly result in me being rejected by all the universities and end up living out of a trash can is a wee bit daunting. It doesn't help that every other minute of my day is spent calming down my hyperventilating housemates.

So here, courtesy of Google, are some pictures that not only make me laugh like a hyena that swallowed a helium balloon, but reassure me that, no matter what, there is still some light of comedy in a cruel, textbook-infested world ...

 ^ When I grow up, I want to be as cool as the person who made that. ^

And finally ... MONTY PYTHON!!! :D

My Villain is Scaring Me ...

Is it wrong to be exceedingly worried about the sadistic tendencies of a fictional character?
Well, what about if that character is one you made up yourself?

Yes, believe it or not, one of my own creations is starting to give me the willies. To anyone who is familiar with my "Aeserion Trilogy" and has read the second book, "Exile", then you'll doubtless be familiar with Danail. He's the problem.

To those of you who have not yet been introduced to my supreme git of a creation, you may be a bit mystified. However, to avoid boring you all with something you'd rather not know, suffice to say he's a second son of a powerful man and was, until recently, going to take over from a local warlord, 'cause he had no sons of his own and Danail was the nearest available kin. Unfortunately, said warlord's son reappears on the scene (don't ask me to explain that, read the trilogy if you want to know!)
Now, Danail's a wee bit peeved at this unexpected turn of events. So peeved in fact that he conveniently disappears during an ambush in the woods, then shows up at the last second and tries to shoot both the warlord and his unwanted rival.

I'm sure you're wondering how such a lovely personality could become any more unpleasant than he already is. After all, he's already shown to be a sneaking, traitorous, murdering, scheming, snarky little rat in "Exile", how could he get any worse in "Legend"?

Well, he has. He started out as one of those "I don't like you much Mr Hero, and I'm going to do all in my power to make life uncomfortable for you" types. You know, the guys who put fleas in your matress and hang your underpants from flagpoles for laughs. But he hasn't come out that way on paper. Oh no, he's getting more and more evil by the chapter! Looks like my (supposed) main antagonist might have some competition. He's already turned into an arsonist - I've got five villages burnt in only ten chapters! - and now he's getting really nasty ... I won't give anything away, 'cause that would spoil the plot, but some of the sick, evil and twisted things he's hissing in my ear are freaking me out!

Think heads on pikes and bloody guts strewn from trees, and you'll get the sort of inclination he's showing.

Should I be worried yet?

My Arch Nemesis

Behold, the monster that is the bane of my educational existence. Whenever I try to log into anything that could vaguely amuse, entertain or help me, this abomination plants itself firmly in my way.

This, my friends, is the root of all evil. I hate it with the white hot passion of a thousand blazing suns.

This, is Lightspeed Systems Content Filtering.

What Goes on in My Head to Produce Poems like This?

A slightly worrying poem I doodled in English, written to follow the pattern of "Time" by Allen Curnow. Gotta worry about my mental state eh? I couldn't quite think of an appropriate title, but I think it would probably be something like paranoia or guilt ... I dunno, see what you think!

I am the noises you hear in the night,

I am the shadows that swallow the light,
I am the plague, the sickness, the blight.

I am the monster under your bed,

I am the voices inside of your head,

I am the mem’ry of all that is dead.

I am the letter you’re too scared to send,

I am the grief your mind cannot mend,

I am the traitor you once thought a friend.

I am the doctors who check on your health,
I am the false friends after your wealth,

I am the knife, the assassin’s stealth.

I am the footsteps that follow you now,

I am the motive, the when and the how,

I am the cost of the king’s shining crown.

I am the screams and the grief-stricken shouts,
I am the fear that puts an army to rout,

I am the maze, one way in, no way out.

In shadowy corners, at the door, on the stair,
Wherever you look, I wait for you there.

Your constant companion, the very last one,
I know your secrets.
I know what you’ve done.