Beginnings: Ah-dam & Ava

This is a stand-alone rant from history's most iconic and eternally demonized woman ;-)

 Told by Nick Cole; edited by Anathea Krrill.

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I was blinded by love, drowned in hope, and choked on lust. I sought to find absolution in Ava’s trusted face and took the apple she offered me.

“Have a bite, Ah-dam,” she said and smiled.

The rest is history…

Ah-dam's version of history has been written down, circulated, embellished, changed, and altered beyond recognition to tell the tale of an evil woman; a seductress, who tempted her man and got them both kicked out of Paradise.

Even now, over 2,000 years later, women suffer undeserved prejudice and punishment.

I know, because it was me, who handed the blasted apple to Ah-dam!

"So it is true then!" I hear you cry, and it burns my soul to realize that even you cannot see beyond the veil of history. I thought you were omni-everything: omniscient, omnipotent; wise, and old as the Universe herself. Did you choose to avert your gaze and look away when it happened? Did you not care? Do you not value the truth above all else?

I am disappointed in you, Lucifer!

What did I ever do to you to resent me so much? Why not tell the truth? Why allow false testimony to prevail and tarnish womankind forever? Is it, because it makes it easier for you to control me?

“I know, I know,” you say, and you hold your hands up in defeat, and I hate you for your condescending demeanor and patronizing words.

I haven't touched an apple since. Couldn’t! You asked me once, and I foolishly told you the story, attempting to set history right.

You shook your head in disbelief and smirked a lot - hardly able to suppress your belligerent laughter. I am ashamed! Ashamed, and sad, and I never felt more abandoned than at the precise moment, when you so blatantly stopped believing me.

Your deceit forces me to crawl ever since. Forces me to do penitence for something that was never my fault. Worse even! It forces my daughters and sisters to collectively do the same. They don’t know why they are pushed to their knees, never allowed to get up and walk freely again. They never had any doings in this.

Original Sin, they call it.

"There is no such thing!" I say.

You shake your head in mild surprise, you double-faced bastard!

You pretended to have pity on me - back then - when Ah-dam turned away from me in horror. When he left me for something that was his fault alone.

It was Ah-dam who handed me the apple first!

I knew it was wrong... so I gave the blasted fruit back to him.

He bit into it, swallowed the bite, and almost choked on it when the big nebulous entity (the one humans like to depict as a benevolent old man with a long white beard) appeared and made a big fuss over the stupid fruit. There is nothing benevolent about the old git… believe me!

Turns out Ah-dam’s allegiance lay squarely with the old man. Not with me. Or perhaps he was just scared of the uncertainty that lay beyond the boundaries of Eden; couldn’t get his head around standing on his own two feet with no support from the old tyrant. Lost his brave in the process, and sacrificed me on the altar of his cowardice.

Why couldn’t you have faith in us, Ah-dam? You and I against the world… that was the plan all along… or so I thought.

Screw you, Ah-dam! May you rot in Paradise forever! I just wish you’d choked on the flaming bite of the forbidden fruit!

The old man didn’t do anything more threatening than tsk-tsk and shake his head, but it was enough to bring Ah-dam to heel with his tail tucked.

I wish he’d found it in him to stand up to the old fool; take my hand and walk away together. He’d be surprised how nice life outside Paradise can be…

I miss him. I will miss him forever. Does he miss me at all?

You, dear Lucifer, would know, but you refuse to tell me. You torture me with a knowing lift of your eyebrow, a sly smile, a haughty laugh. And then you snip your fingers, point to the floor in front of you, and make me crawl.

Tell me, Lucifer: Why exactly did the old man kick you out?

Oh yes, you tried to stand up to him. Gathered a few lads to ‘show the old fool’. Didn’t turn out quite as expected, did it now?

Yet you take the moral high ground over me. And why? Because you are taller, stronger, and you also believe to be smarter. Trust me, Lucifer: You. Are. Not!

The old man might have managed to instill bottomless confidence into your soul, but he only did so because he hates me more. Needed you to do his dirty deed outside Paradise. Control me. With fire and sword; fist and boot. As if I needed physical domination to be at a disadvantage! The old tyrant made me bear children - whether I wanted to or not.

I’ve not been able to hold my head high for over 2,000 years. You oppressed me, stifled, controlled, and used me whenever you saw fit. You - on the other hand - live beyond the rules. You do as you please.

My wishes don’t count in your world. A man's world, dominated by war.

“Battles - both of wills and weapons - are best fought face to face against a worthy opponent,” is what you keep telling me.

What a whole lot of crap!

Battles kill people - innocent people; children, their mothers… I cry for their loss. All you ever do is shrug your shoulders and look at me as if I were mad.

“Should have stayed in Paradise if you can’t cope with the reality of life,” is all the bullshit-wisdom you have to offer.

Screw you, Lucifer! You don’t know the first thing about me!

The old tyrant loves the concept of a blood sacrifice; be it in childbirth, or on the battlefield. He doesn’t care where it’s coming from as long as blood keeps flowing, drenching the Earth, soaking her with red pain and grief.

And it is mainly women’s grief: stillbirth, death in childbirth, men and sons slaughtered in battles, daughters and sisters raped by the victors.

“Where, Lucifer,” I ask you. “Where is the justice in all of this?”

“There ain’t,” you deflect the question I have been asking for millennia. Then you reach for me and pull me tight, and I give in to you because you are irresistible.

I hate you, Lucifer. I love you.

You are a predator. A conqueror. A man who takes without asking - as if it were your right! I hitch a breath. It IS your right. I don’t recognize my own reasoning - because what I am thinking right now is unreasonable. You exert power over me, and I hate myself for granting you this power.

We will battle forever.

I lift my eyes and set my jaw, my gaze meeting your black, bottomless pits.

“Let’s fight!” You smile and offer me your outstretched hand - palm gallantly facing up - for me to take.

I take it... ceasefire for now.

It lasts until the next morning after a passion-fueled night. We drag it out by making love as the sun meets the moon over the rim of the horizon. We are both tired. We don’t want to fight, but the old man's hatred still drives our actions.

Ah-dam’s betrayal honestly doesn’t bother me any longer. He rammed his poisoned dagger into my heart... but that was a long time ago. The wound still hurts, but it doesn’t fester anymore.

I am madly in love with Lucifer, and our passion burns like the blazing fires of hell: inextinguishable; eternal; true.

What irks me most, is the holier-than-thou society. The people in some choice niches in what we call ‘Western society’, who believe that there is true gender equality; that men and women have the same rights, chances, and opportunities. Women go to school, and we study at universities. We only marry if we want to. Our partners and husbands support us because they want to, not because they earn better money.

Do men really buy this crap? Do they really think women are given a fair choice?

Or are they so blinded by the precious little enclaves of equality, which sprout at strategically placed locations all over the Western world? It is baffling. Do we only see what we want to see? Am I right? Am I wrong?

You tell me I am too tetchy; make a big fuss about nothing.

“Women are generally content,” you tell me. You may be right… in our society. But what about all the suppressed, exploited, uneducated women in the third world? This gagged army of womanhood, who neither have the means nor the energy to fight. Powerless to change their dire existences.

And all that because of a stupid apple? Can you not smell the rat? If it hadn’t been the apple - don’t you think the old man would have found another reason to degrade women to second-class humans?

Come on, Lucifer! Use your pretty head to think for once! I know you have a brain underneath that gorgeous hair of yours!

Did the old man promise you something? Do you owe him? Or are you just stuck in times long past? When you were still in the old tyrant’s good books; before he booted you out that poncy portal.

You throw your head back and your roaring laughter assaults me.

“Me?” you say. “The old sod always hated me with a vengeance. I am a rebel as far as he is concerned - never a saint. Made out I deserved to be punished and kicked out of Paradise. Do you want to hear the truth, love? Or do you prefer to believe what history wants you to believe?”

I nod. I shake my head.

“What is it now, love? Make your mind up. Take it or leave it. I don’t care either way.”

Oh! I hate it when you are so-not-bothered about anything!

“Indulge me, then.” I don’t really want to hear what you have to say, but if I don’t, you will pout and withdraw for days. Easier to just listen to your twisted truths.

“The old tyrant has been playing us like a pair of cymbals. You against me - all that time. Bang! Clash! Tshee-boom!”

I can hear the tinny dissonance of metal against metal; designed for the sole purpose of destroying blissful harmonies. I shake my head.

“What are you saying, Lucifer?” I don’t trust you, and I fleetingly wonder why.

“Ah-dam set you up, love. It was his devious ploy to get you exiled from Paradise.”

I snort a mirthless laugh, “C’mon, Lucifer! You don’t believe that shite now, do you…?” I turn around and flip you the bird. Twice - for good measure. “Ah-dam hasn’t got a devious bone in him!”

“He used to…” I see your Adam’s apple bob as you swallow.

“How so, Fallen One?” My voice cuts through the air like a heated blade through ice.

You wince. “Because… we are both….”

I don’t understand, and I raise my eyebrow to let you know.

“I am.... part of Ah-dam,” you say.

I still don’t get it.

“The old git separated us. ‘The Good and the Evil,’ he called us. But he was rather judgmental when it came to the execution. I am not better or more evil than what is left behind of me in Paradise.” You roll your eyes upwards, indicating the general direction of where humans believe Paradise to be: Heaven. Up. Angels. What a load of rubbish!

“At the end of the day, we are just that: two halves, never to be merged again. Perpetually pining for the other. And you, my love, you are nothing but my substitute for Ah-dam. My missing half. You are the closest thing I have to him. You and I and Ah-dam - we were a trinity… together... once.”

I hang my head in despair and understanding: We are nothing but broken pieces of something that once was whole and beautiful. Something so magnificent, that the old tyrant feared for his supremacy and destroyed it.

He. Destroyed. Us.

'Only because we let it happen.' A voice consisting of three voices courses through my head; disjointed; disconnected; scattered into the winds.

The echo of a distant past.

I entwine my fingers with Lucifer's.

He is all I have left...

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ANK on: The Hidden Beauty Of The Beast - or how to craft a likeable villain

The likable villain. A paradox! Right?

Not necessarily.

We all know the evil witch from Hänsel and Gretel is - well - evil. Just that. No redeeming features. Whatsoever.

There are times in our lives when we like the world to be easy and monochrome: black and white. We need good and evil to learn about moral boundaries, how to respect them, and how not to trespass.
Learning the basics of any craft requires clean-cut situations. Too many grey areas confuse matters.
Ideally, we learn to judge, decide, and act in a straightforward situation.
We don't make the first meal we ever cook a three-course stately affair.

We don't take off the learning wheels of our bicycles and (intentionally) go off-road straight away.

We don't go speeding down black runs when we stand on skis for the first time.

First times are all about dipping our toes into unknown waters. We enjoy the novelty and savor the adventure, but we stay close to the shore. Only once we grow more confident, do we venture into deeper waters.

We love to listen to classic fairy tales when we are little - because they teach us. There are no mixed messages, no moral confusion. And we go to sleep at night, safe in 'the know' that the darkness loses and the light wins. Always!
Then we grow up, and things become more complex; less clear. We learn about grey areas. We learn that some people are not evil by birth, but they have been tortured, bullied, and mistreated all of their lives, and so become a reflection of their environment.
Evil is all they know. Yet some of them surprise us. They find their inner light - of their own volition or being aided by others.
Some of literature's most loved heroes actually started out as villains!
Think Mr. Darcy, Severus Snape, or Satan in Paradise Lost. See, even the Devil himself can become likable.
As writers, we need villains to antagonize. We need them to draw the line between good and bad. But we also want them to redeem themselves. Because we are grown-up. Because we know how easy it is to stumble and fall. Because we know that people can change - and last but not least - because we all harbor the hope that the light will always banish the darkness.

Like it happens in most fairy tales.

The Face of SciFi Romance or Romantic SciFi

Aliens! Green, blue, yellow, horny, gorgeous... and so not my cup of tea!

I am just judging the books by their covers - or rather by what online searches throw up for pertinent keywords concerning #scifiromance.

Judging by those search results, it seems to be a genre that awkwardly straddles the border between pulp fiction and Man Booker.

Do I think the genre is trashy? No, I don't. Not more than any other genre, anyway.

I feel, though, that romantic science fiction is a neglected niche of the genre; sniffed at by the 'real' sci-fi writers, stuffed into a corner of the literary spectrum, and treated like it doesn't belong. Or perhaps it has just not been promoted enough? Or perhaps there are too many sub-genres of sci-fi? Apocalypse, Dystopia, Utopia, Space Opera, Hard, Soft, Fantastic Realism, Time Travel, Sci-fi Horror, or horrific sci-fi... ;-)
The list is endless as the universe herself, and by no means complete...

Is romance too far-fetched in a science fiction background? Is sci-fi too technical? Too scientific? Too male-dominated? Is romance not suitable for science fiction? And if so, then why? Is it because we associate the romance genre with women, whereas science and technology are not? Is the divide too wide? Is this really a gender-driven issue?
Cut! We live in an age where we recognize - as a society - that STEM subjects need more women. Science, technology, engineering, and mathematics are heavily promoted, attempting to tempt girls into STEM education.
Women working in science and technology is not an abstract concept. In fact, it was never to begin with. Women have always been at the forefront of science and innovation. Admittedly, they didn't always get the proper acknowledgment, and there is still is - to this day - a struggle to 'make it' in this kind of industry.
We need to acknowledge that women are an intrinsic part of this formerly 'strictly male' domain.

Now back to the romance... and humanity in general.
Romantic feelings can blossom in any niche of the literary spectrum - just as they do in actual life.
Love, romance, and sex - after all - are basic requirements for procreating the species.
Okay - some future worlds have developed in-vitro solutions to this problem.* I am holding my hands up and plead 'guilty as charged' on this account.
Does that prevent my characters from falling in love? No. Of course not.
Do they fall in love with aliens? Yes, they do.
"Yikes," you might say.
Rest assured: my aliens are far from green, or scaly. They need not be. They are unique as they are, without illustrious looks, or magic abilities.
They are different but they are perfect in their realms... and in ours. Or perhaps we invaded their realm to begin with?

Sci-fi, aliens, parallel worlds, alternate realities: they are perfect settings to explore human nature and the world beyond what we know and perceive.
Some of the best science fiction novels with precise and predictive scientific writing wouldn't be what they are without the elements of humanity. Think Ursula K. Le Guin, Margaret Atwood, James Tiptree Jr. (pen name of the female sci-fi author Alice Bradley Sheldon), Carl Sagan, Arthur C. Clarke, Kim Stanley Robinson, Stanislaw Lem, and Mary Shelley... just to name a few.
All of them are giants of the sci-fi genre - and all of them incorporate human feelings, struggles, and social relationships into their work; never mind how much tech and science they showcase, because for some writers, tech and science is just a job - something they know how to write about.

At the end of the day, science and fiction are both driven by creative, curious, and investigative human minds.
You can read my previous blog post on this issue here.

* Not only the future and imaginary worlds. Our own reproductive technologies are not far behind a full in-vitro scenario. In vitro fertilization (IVF) and cloning (Dolly the sheep) are established techniques. And although IVF eggs are still carried to term in utero, it is not too far-fetched a scenario to think that - one day - mechanical, or semi-biological incubators could make pregnancy a thing of the past. Aldous Huxley already envisaged hatchery-breeding in his dystopian novel Brave New World, which was published in 1932.

The Sirens of the Inbetween. A haunting story from another realm.

Sybele began singing her haunting tune. She always does when she senses I'm close. It's unpleasant but bearable. Her chanting has no effect on me other than wanting to plug my ears. I tend to avoid her stomping ground of the Inbetween. Not that she is confined to it. Sybele and all the other sirens could ambush me wherever they like. Yet, they seem somewhat territorial. Fine by me! Makes it easier to navigate the territory of the Inbetween.

There is only one who could ensnare me. Her name is Aurora. As beautiful a vision as the sound of her name! She almost got me once - a mere 124,000 years ago. When I was vulnerable... after Danu left me to share the Dark King's realm again.

I didn't know it back then; that Danu abandoned me to be with him... Our arch enemy! I didn't know she'd previously left him to be with me. I always believed she was his prisoner, his slave. Just like I was. I know better now.

What a fucking moron I was!

My ancient heart drips blood whenever the icy blade of Danu's betrayal slices through me. Some wounds will never close.

It was then that Aurora enchanted me. She took advantage of my vulnerable energy-flows and calmed their frazzled eddies with the soothing counter-current she weaves into her songs.

I remember the feeling! The stillness in my churned up soul. The sudden calm of my heated thoughts. The blessed absence of the ache inside my ripped-apart heart.

I. Wanted. Her! I couldn't get close enough to the source of her divine sound! Aurora had me mesmerised… one hundred per cent focussed on her. I knew I met the love of my immortal life. My happily ever after. My…

Stop this! I bloody know about the sirens! This was one of them! Not my happily ever after! Not even my friend!

The Sirens… they are menacing, hairy spiders sitting in their webs, waiting for unsuspecting prey to become stuck. Then they rub their pedipalps together, and the sound they make grates your nerves, flays them, leaving them raw and shredded. By then, it’s too late for escape. They encapsulate you inside their songs, and they suck your soul dry. Bit. By. Fucking. Bit. Until there is nothing left but an empty body without a mind. A broken shell.

I have seen them: a Siren’s private army made up of countless shadows. Withered wraiths that can barely move… always following their siren. Not alive – yet, not dead either, they are desperately trying to catch up, to touch her. Never reaching, though. What a farce of an existence!

I never saw a single wraith in my Aurora’s wake. But then… I don’t really venture too close. She told me… I swallow hard… Told me that she only ever wanted me. Me! Of all the singular entities that venture into her realm. I don’t trust her as far as I can throw a stone! A Siren and a Fae? Ridiculous! Can. Eever! Happen. Yet – I feel her lure. Even now, 124,000 years, three months, two weeks, and one fucking day later. I can’t get her out of my mind! It is Danu all over again. Worse! Danu only left me. Aurora would kill me. Outright – and I am sure it won’t be a pleasant way to go. I need to be on my guard. She visits me in my dreams. Sings her song of empty promises, and seductive pleas inside my mind. Its notes bouncing off the inside of my skull, amplify, and slice through my very soul. It is torture! Every. Fucking. Night.

More than once I contemplated to give in. Like three times a day.

She haunts me beyond the borders of the Inbetween. I don't know what's worse: hearing her song or imagining it. It doesn't matter! The outcome is the same. I long for her. Long for her embrace, her company, her love, her devotion. I want her to sing her song just for me. But I know I am deluding myself. Aurora will never stop once she captured me. I might be her first - but I will certainly not be her last. I cannot have her all to myself.

I roam the Inbetween. Driven, obsessed. I cannot find her. She does not sing for me anymore. Why has he stopped singing for me? Did I take too much time? Does she think I am not worth the effort? Did she find somebody worthier?

My heart ices over and shatters into a million pieces. It cannot be! I panic inside the vast expanse of the Inbetween; my mind spins out of control; my undead heart beats erratically. If I were human, I would die right on the spot. I cannot die. Never. Death is not a comfort-to-come for me. I and my brethren are cursed to travel the universe forever.

I hate my existence. I hated my existence since Danu left me. Then I found a distraction in Aurora. The comforting security of her singing - just for me. Aurora wanting me, chasing me with her ethereal tunes. Me evading her, dancing a dangerous pas de deux with the blackest of the black swans. I am a good dancer, nimble on my feet, knowing how to lead, enjoying the way the music translates into movement. I want to dance with Aurora. All the time.

Ω

He was easy prey. One song. One song only, and he was all mine. 124,000 years ago, Ah-dam became mine. He doesn't know it, but he will one day. He is my first, and he will be my last. There is nothing more powerful than the energy of the Dark Lord. One of a kind! A life-form, able to exist in all the realities there are. The only one capable of transitioning between the realms, breath the Inbetween and not drown in its non-existence. An energy-being so powerful that even the Dark King bows his silver head.

And now he follows me! Follows me through the Inbetween; looking for me, seeking my company, dying to hear my song. I feel his energy flowing over me in powerful ripples and waves. Drowning me, getting me drunk, satisfying me.

And should he ever get bored, or disheartened, doubting that he would ever hear me again, I will sing a short tune - just for him - and hope will fill him, longing will drive him, and the need to find me will define his every move. It doesn't matter if he never realises that he is stuck in my web. The moment he wanted me, he belonged to me. There will never be an escape for my Prince of Darkness. He is mine forever!

If you want to learn more about the Inbetween download a sample of Homecoming HERE.

Or read for #free on #kindleunlimited

Happy reading!

Nick's Stories - Gargoyle Rock

Gargoyle Rock - a short, tragic science fantasy as told by Nick Cole; edited by Anathea N. Krrill

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I watched the crowd surrounding Gargoyle Rock. Gawkers!

Giggling teenage girls, lithe and airy, glittery and carefree, cheekily nudged the stone, which stood proud and unmoving, taking their combined assault in its own stoic and immovable pace. I wanted to chase them away, wave my arms, and shout! Scatter the visitors like I would have a flock of the ever-present, ever-chattering seagulls. They both annoy me–the visitors and the gulls. Both are oblivious to my millennia-old pain. They cannot know, but that doesn’t mean I have to endorse the unintentional disrespect of the tourists poking, and the seagulls soiling Gargoyle Rock.

I ball my hands into tight fists every time I see another shuttle carting in tourists from the “Princess Of The Galaxy” – the flagship of Intergalactic Travels Inc. A company dedicated to providing “educational travels to further the universal understanding of every inhabitant of the known universe”… (or so claims their marketing blurb). At affordable rates, of course! And if you cannot afford it, the Intergalactic Panel of Governments will give a grant to allow every member of their community to enjoy educational travels across the universe. Simple! These days everybody is entitled to the best education affordable – independent of gender, race, or social standing. Whatever the “best education” encompasses is entirely at the discretion of the Subdivision For Education of the Intergalactic Panel of Governments. And it changes with every newly appointed government. Hard to keep track of. I don’t care much about education myself. Having lived for the best part of a few billion years, I learned my lessons not only in academic institutions - back when they could still be called academic - but mainly in the school of life itself.

You would think that after a few thousand years you will have seen it all! Let me give you good advice: Never underestimate the creative potential of stupidity. It is universal! Here I stand now, on the edge of the shore, where Gargoyle Rock formed from molten lava almost half a million years ago in an event known to me and my kind as The Big Devastation.

The inhabitants of the universe know it as Geo_ELE_13456. Extinction Level Event 13456 on planet Earth. Within less than a week, it snuffed out all life on Earth, leveled the Himalayas, lifted the Ocean floors, and cracked the Earth’s crust open like an eggshell, ejecting fountains of molten lava from the abyss. Those were violent days; violent and fast and over before I could even gather my thoughts. For thousands of years, I'd been living as an Earthling amongst Earthlings. So long, in fact, that I was on the verge of forgetting my true ancestry. Until the day the Earth died. Then, I could no longer deny my immortal lineage; however hard I tried: I. Could. Not. Die. I watched my loved ones perish – one by one. They didn’t go gently. Gigantic rock slides set off by devastating earthquakes; streams of boiling lava spewed out of ripped-apart mountaintops; pyroclastic flows raced down the once gentle slopes of the Snowdonia mountain range. My people saw the approaching tsunami blocking out the sky–but they had nowhere to go.

Trapped on the small Isle of Anglesey, boiling waters, tsunamis, and scorching lava streams surrounded them. The ones who didn’t drown in the floods got evaporated by the fast-moving pyroclastic flows. At over 400 miles per hour, Snowdonia is only a couple of minutes away. It left me with barely enough time to say my goodbyes.

Tears burn in my eyes every time the memories push their way to the surface of my consciousness. I try not to allow them in too often. But I made a pledge: never to forget her; to visit her once every ten-thousand years—on the day her life ended, and mine with it. I didn’t blink the tears away. Nobody could see me anyway. I was invisible—not really there. I watched from within the Inbetween: the connecting fabric of All-There-Is. Only the most ancient species of the universe know of its existence, and even fewer can travel through it. I am one of them. We are pure energy. We cannot die—ever. All we can do is change energy forms; cursed to live for all eternity. Oh, what I would have given to die with her! Wrapped up in each other’s arms, share our last breath on a kiss, and gaze into each other's eyes for the last time before they close forever.

But no! I held her; I kissed her; looked into her eyes as they dulled. I will never forget the curtain of death falling over her face, wiping out the life in her sparkling eyes. I will always remember the fear and the agony as the churning waters of the Swnt boiled us alive, and hot, molten rock covered our remains.

Death claimed her, but spit me out like a nasty mouthful.

I wanted to rest under the boiling sea forever, stay buried with her under tons of liquid rock that slowly solidified. But Nature didn't grant me this little comfort. Our bodies combusted as the fires of Earth touched us. And with nothing substantial left to hold on to, my energy got released and sucked back into the Inbetween, from where I had to extricate myself again.

Following the aftermath of The Big Devastation, I had no chance of getting back to Earth for the next thousand-or-so years. Planet Earth was a desolate place. Life got extinguished; snuffed out by a violent cough by Mother Nature herself.

Ah! The cruelty of it all!

I lifted my face toward the sky—as if the indifferent firmament cared for my feelings. The sun was nothing but a ghostly disc behind the thick, omnipresent mist, which coated Earth ever since the oceans evaporated. I sucked in a breath of air as muggy as a night in the Deep South. It brought back memories of my lover wrapped up in my arms, listening to the myriad of creatures that filled the Southern night with their symphonies. There was nobody left to listen to them any longer.

I slowly walked over to Gargoyle Rock, which now lay deserted by the retreating tourists; their chatter ebbing away, their footprints erased by the incoming tide. All of a sudden, the seagulls didn't seem that bad anymore.

“Goodbye, my love. See you in ten-thousand years.” I briefly manifested as a physical being and tenderly touched Gargoyle Rock — my lover’s tomb.

Nick's Stories - Pandora's Box

Pandoras Box – a short, dark fantasy as told by Nick Cole; edited by Anathea N. Krrill

With trembling fingers, Damon Wormwood traced the chunky iron clasps that firmly held the heavy lid of the crudely hewn chest in place. His eyes darted around, trying to penetrate the dimly lit surroundings of the cave – heart pounding, cold sweat trickling down his back.

“To safe-keep, guard, and protect from the evil forces.” Those were his father’s dying words with which he had passed on the responsibility for Pandora’s Box to his son. That was seven years ago, on the day Damon turned 18. What a cursed birthday gift indeed!

Damon shivered and drew the threadbare rags, which served him as a cloak and sleeping covers alike, closer around his shoulders. It was always cold in the Driftwoods!

He stretched to his full height of six foot two, drawing back his broad shoulders, and expanding his muscular chest. He sighed with much relief. He was used to carrying himself hunched over, taking tired, dragging steps, often pausing, keeping his head down and his face hooded, as was required by The Law.

Damon was a beggar – a member of the lowest of the lowest casts; hated and feared even more than thieves or murderers. Or perhaps it was just so that by general assumption beggars were thieves, were murderers; avoided by the righteous people of Gaya. Beggars were known to have the evil eye: If you caught a glimpse of a beggar’s eyes, you had to part with the possessions you carried in order to salvage your soul. No wonder, that a lot of beggars “lost” their eyesight in accidents involving stabbings, fiery incidents, or acid attacks. And more often than not they lost more than their evil eyesight in said accidents.

Superstitious nonsense it was... of course! But superstitions and false beliefs were the pillars of society; as were greed, cruelty, and emotional depravity. Charitable donations were made by the people every month in order to keep the scum of humanity out of their sight. But only the minority knew that their donations never made it to the poor. And the ones who knew profited from the diversion of the monetary stream and kept quiet. The intended beneficiaries – the ones who lived below the threshold of what society deemed “human” - never knew.

Damon did know! And he loathed the double standards of it all. Not that he could have done much about it. His first and foremost concern was to keep Pandora’s Box spirited away and safe from the fiendish forces, who wanted nothing more than to open it and so unleash all the possible evil into the world. As if there wasn’t enough suffering to go around already! But that probably depended on which side of society you belonged to.

Damon didn’t really belong to either side. He chose to be a beggar because it almost guaranteed that people looked in the opposite direction if they happened to catch as much as a glimpse of him. In the human world, superstition served him well. And the resulting aversion made him almost untraceable.

“Not so in the world of Evil,” his father had warned him many times. “Evil doesn’t suffer from human idiocy. Evil sits in hiding, waiting patiently for you to drop your guard before it strikes.”

Never. Drop. Your. Guard. This became Damon’s mantra from a very early age. Evil worked slowly – not because it was lazy or dull, but because Evil had all the time in the world. All the time to wait for the exact moment to strike!

“Evil comes in many guises.” This was another one of his father’s warnings. And Damon listened to all of them – just like his father and grandfather had listened before for centuries since the beginning of time itself.

But time was running out for Damon.

He was 25 years of age with nobody to pass on his responsibilities to. In the harsh world of beggars, Damon was a Methuselah! The few who made it past their early twenties without being either brutally killed or slowly starved to death generally succumbed to a weakened mind and ended their sorry existence by their own hand.

Damon showed surprising resilience. Had to! Because leaving Pandora’s Box without a Guardian was not an option. His father was a wealthy merchant – one who travelled extensively to source the finest merchandise from all over the world. Pandora’s Box was part of his equally extensive luggage pile.

Damon sat down on the mossy log in the dark and humid cave in the middle of the Driftwoods, which he used as his recent hideout. Damon was always on the move. He never allowed himself to stay anywhere for longer than a few days. Once, he had been forced to stay put for more than a week – during a time, when icy winter storms threatened to bury Gaya under eternal ice and snow. He had no choice at that time, but he could feel Evil draw closer, stretching its claw-like fingers greedily towards Pandora’s Box: to hold it, to unclasp the locks that kept the lid in place, and to finally open it – inch by dangerous inch; to release its contents into the winds, never to be imprisoned again. And in so doing, dooming Gaya and her people.

Damon looked longingly to his makeshift bedstead, comprising of a pile of dry forest leaves, covered by a clean, finely woven cape, and nothing more. He was tired to the bone, but he didn’t want to soil the fine cape by pulling it over his filthy body. Damon might have chosen the appearance of a beggar, but he liked to wash his disguise off when he retreated to the privacy of his hideout. With a sigh, he traced his fingertips lightly over the finely woven cloak, before he shrugged off his filthy clothes and made his way to the hot spring to take a bath.

As he soaked in the soft water of the spring, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander back to this very afternoon, and to the girl, who parted with her cloak. Not because she felt charitable towards the filthy beggar in his pitifully threadbare rags, but because she caught his eye and had to. Yes – she had no choice. He needed to remind himself of this fact and not allow his foolish heart to get caught up in daydreams. He resolutely pushed himself into a full sitting position, rubbed his face vigorously with both hands and grabbed for the clean piece of cloth that was his towel.

“Oh!” The high-pitched voice made his hand stop in mid-air. He jumped up, ready for the imminent attack, training his gaze in the direction of the sound. There was nothing. He slowly lowered his gaze. He could make out the form of a woman sprawled on the ground a few paces away. She must have tripped over a stone when she tried to stake him out.

His breath hitched when she slowly lifted her head to face him. He recognised the girl, whose cloak he was going to use for covers that night.

Covers! Freya! He was naked as on the day of his making. He covered himself as best as he could with his towel cloth, which – because the cloth was of small size, and Damon was a huge man – wasn’t very good.

Dorah blushed violently. She should have averted her gaze straight away! She should have closed her eyes the second she saw… Koalemos! She should have never approached him while he was in the hot spring. What had she been thinking? Too late! The milk was spilled, and the image of this glorious, naked… beggar… Man! was etched into her retina. And all the squeezing-eyes-tightly-shut in the whole of Gaya couldn’t erase it.

Dorah sighed and picked herself up. She meticulously brushed the dirt off her skirts and rearranged her tousled hair.

Beautiful, want-to-run-my-fingers-through cascades of ebony silk… Damon swallowed hard. He shouldn’t! He couldn’t!

“I am… My name is… Dorah,” the beautiful girl introduced herself.

Ah! The ring of her voice. Crystal chimes in a soft summer breeze. Damon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath that expanded his painfully constricted chest.

“Damon,” he murmured. “I am pleased to meet you, Mylady.” He even managed an implied bow. The cloth that covered his loins moved ever so slightly.

Dorah sucked in some much-needed air and fanned her face with both hands.

“I shall retreat and let you get dried and dressed,” she finally said, and Damon thought, he’d detected a nuance of regret in her mesmerising voice.

An hour later they shared his meagre nightmeal, sitting around the fire pit he’d fashioned in the middle of his cave.

“You live here…?” she cautiously took in her surroundings.

Damon shrugged his shoulders. “Only when I am in the area. I am moving around a lot...” he clenched his fists. “It is best not to overstretch people’s kindness...” He didn’t need to elaborate what that meant. Of course, a beggar who stayed too long in one place would eventually meet an accidental end. People’s kindness was a fickle thing indeed.

“What brings you here, Mylady?” Damon tried to divert the conversation. He looked towards his bedstead, where her cloak lay spread out, ready to cocoon him like a lover’s embrace. “You can have your cloak back if it means that much to you...” he offered with much regret.

She blushed violently. “It is not the coat I am after, Damon.”

He looked at her with much intrigue. “What is it then, Mylady, that brings you to a beggar’s hovel?” She squirmed uncomfortably. She didn’t have to give him an answer of course; he was only a beggar after all and as such invisible to most of the Gayans. He scolded himself for being so forthright as to question her. Freya! It was outlandish to address her at all! His heart beat with the audacity of it all… or was it something entirely else?

Dorah looked at him – guilelessly. She met his gaze straight on as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Heavens! Why would she do such a foolish thing?

“You have something that belongs to me,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

Damon swallowed. Her eyes… sapphires in her creamy face, framed by the lush fall of her raven hair. Her lips… Ah! Those lips... Damon felt compelled to write a poem about her beauty, and her kind heart, and…

“The box you guard,” she said softly. “I came to claim it back. It is mine.”

Damon’s flesh tingled. He flew to his feet, and with a desperate jump, he flung himself onto the box to do what he was sworn to do: Guard her with his life.

“Damon...” Dorah’s otherworldly voice drifted over his senses, enveloped him, soothed him, put him at ease. And all of a sudden, he couldn’t understand why this beautiful creature shouldn’t have her box back. She was the rightful owner after all.

Damon was trained to withstand Evil, and with an almighty effort, he lifted the box and turned towards the exit of the cave. It was so hard! Why was it so hard?

“Guardian...”

Ah, her voice! He wept with joy.

She lifted her hand and wiped his tears away. Tender! Oh. So. Tender.

He had no choice but to kill her.

He was beyond fear and reason when – for the first time in his life - he unsheathed “The dagger, which can only be drawn against Evil.” His father’s words; a legacy, an oath, a vow, and no way back. Damon didn’t hesitate: he plunged the dagger into Dorah’s abdomen, thrust it to the hilt, and twisted.

She froze; disbelief in her sapphire eyes, her red lips forming a perfect O. But no sound came out of her beautiful mouth when she doubled over and exhaled the sweet air that filled her lungs.

The atmosphere changed. Sheen lightning covered the stone walls, and a fierce gust extinguished the torch and the fire in one single blow, leaving the cave lit only by the eerie bluish glow, which coated the walls.

“...open...” Dorah reached out to him, struggling for breath.

“I will do no such thing, you evil witch!” Damon furiously yanked the dagger out of her abdomen to aid her dying.

Dorah’s eyes went dead.

Damon closed his eyes and drew his head back on an inhale.

He defeated Evil! He should feel elated – but he didn’t!

The dagger dropped from his limp hand and hit the floor with an otherworldly sound. It spun on its tip and created a ringing noise, which grew louder and louder the faster the dagger spun.

Damon was too exhausted to react – even when Dorah’s dead eyes opened, and her bloodied fingers stretched to reach Pandora’s Box. Inch by inch she crawled closer, dragging her broken body across the floor. Electric currents charged along Damon’s skin, and the crackling noise of static echoed off the walls.

“Guide...” her dead voice was like an Arctic breeze. “Open. The. Box!”

Damon faintly wondered how it was possible for Dorah’s dead, broken body to produce such a commanding voice. His fingers itched to bide her command.

“Can’t!” A tortured howl squeezed past his painfully constricted vocal cords.

“Do. It. NOW!” Another compelling command delivered like a death blow.

“...for me, Guide… do it for me...” Her voice was like liquid silver, caressing him, putting his tormented soul at ease. Damon could almost feel her fingers running along his jaw, down his neck, over his bare chest. He shivered. Pleasure – Pain. Right – Wrong. He needed to make a decision and either combust in the fires of hell or die of pure elation in the echelons of heaven. But a decision he needed to make. Anything was better than hanging in the Inbetween, being torn apart by forces that lay beyond his control.

He didn’t hesitate when he grasped the box and unlatched the clasps.

And they came rushing out of the box like a raging river: Pleasure, Love, Compassion, Peace, Truth, Justice, Health, and Life itself filled the cave, crammed it, and rendered the air unbreathable with emotions. They condensed for a moment before they left the cave and spilled into the world of humankind; ready to wipe out the Evil that imprisoned them aeons ago.

Damon watched them. He looked at the empty box; he looked at Dorah’s dead body, her ebony hair that fanned out around her now peaceful face like a halo. In her death, she smiled. She’d completed her mission. And he had been a fool: Believing to fight Evil - when all he’d done was aid its atrocities. He’d killed the woman who came to show him love.

With a smile he picked up the dagger and plunged it into his own heart, hoping for Kindness to grant him forgiveness.

ANK on Nick's Stories

As my latest project - Homecoming, which is book 3 of the Sphere-World Series - inches towards the finishing line (aka publishing), I am looking for something that I can fill my writing-time with in-between bouts of editing.
I am restraining myself from starting with my next novel at this stage. Just because it is too tempting to start hammering away at a new project rather than finishing off the previous one. Having said that, though: I do need a writing-based distraction from editing. Editing is hard work - it requires a lot of concentration, checking, re-checking, researching, re-phrasing etc. Not a mean feat.
Writing new content is a piece of cake in comparison!
And while I indulge in gathering ideas, making notes, and thinking about story-lines, I couldn't help but notice, that Nick Cole is rather prolific at crafting stories. I did touch on the essence of some of his stories in my books. But there was never enough time and space to tell more than their bare bones. Which is a shame - because Nick's stories are beautiful, epic, and imaginative. I love to listen to them. I guess they take me back to my childhood when fairy tales formed a vital part of my life.
And because I love stories, and Nick's stories in particular, I decided to help him to introduce his stories to a broader audience by publishing them on this blog!

He was a tad reluctant at first, but I eventually managed to wrestle his data-skin from him. Nick graciously helped me to convert the files containing his stories, notes, and ideas from space-age gobbledygook to text-files my old-fashioned laptop can read and process. He is a genius! But to those who know Nick, that's nothing new!
Over the coming months, I will compile and post Nick's stories. I will talk to him and ask him for his input. And once we are both happy with the finished product, I shall post them for everybody to enjoy.

Look out for posts labelled with "Nick's Stories", and if you want to make sure never to miss one, consider subscribing to my mailing list.
Stay tuned and Happy Reading!