~~~
SWEAT DRIPPED from my forehead onto the reflective tiles as the pain of my transformation grew more severe.
Stay calm...don’t feel...just breath...
I kept my emotions hidden these past two years. Never engaging in after school activities or group exercises. Even at home, I’d isolate myself in my bedroom for hours.
Why? Why did I have to tell the truth? Why didn’t I stay quiet when Mr. Trillman asked who threw the school supplies out the bus window? So what if he threatened to take our end of year field-trip! The field-trip, I wasn’t even going on because my parents couldn’t afford it!
Stupid!
“You just had to tell on us!” taunted Russell.
“You just couldn't wait to get back at us!” Gram said, shoving my back.
Two long, sharp fangs extended out of my mouth as blade like claws swelled from my scaly, black hands. An amazing rush streamed throughout my body making me stronger and faster. My shoes shredded like paper from the giant claws that unfurled from lizard-like feet. The scales spread like a disease, crawling up my shoulders. A mane grew wildly, covering my entire head in a storm of fur.
Not hearing any laughter, I turned and looked at the two horror-stricken bullies. Their lifeless, pale faces and dumb struck expressions made my heart sink. I peered down into the mirror. A lion’s face stared back at me—eyes burning with pure hatred. My body was covered in scales as black as shadows.
The monster has won.
A loud and powerful roar rose out of my chest, shaking the walls of the room. The earth quaking sound shattered the mirrors and disfigured the room’s structure. Like a bomb eruption, the tiles exploded into tiny abstract pieces. The two boys ran from the disintegrating bathroom, screaming in terror.
I scraped my sharp claws down the walls, lashing out, enraged. The claws cut through the wall like ripping apart tinfoil. I couldn’t stop. It felt exhilarating to let the monster out! Swiftly, I launched myself at the closest wall and broke straight through it. I bounded up and down the halls of the school, clawing and smashing through the lifeless pale walls. I sliced up giant math books and entire class rooms. I battled the gym until all that was left was an ocean of broken benches and misshapen sports debris. During my rampage of the school cafeteria, I realized that the fire alarm was ringing. The sound echoed down the ruined halls and shattered windows. My breath caught in my throat. Pipes hung limp from the damaged ceiling. Walls trembled on the verge of collapse.
I did this?
I fled the school, running through parking lots, across streets, avoiding cars, all the while staying hidden from people. My eyes burned with tears, blurring the lines of my house. I snuck in the back, climbing up the screen porch and entering my room through the window. Clumsily, I crashed into the room and swiftly shut myself into the closet, clawing the walls in my haste.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs pounded my heart with panic. I held my breath, wishing I were dead.
I exhaled at my Mom’s familiar gasp. “Peter? Is that you?” she asked, cautiously.
“Yeah.” I whispered.
“Are you...okay?” she breathed with concern.
“No.”
She took a deep breath and sat next to the closet door. “Did you...transform again?”
“Yes,” I replied, tears streaming down my face.
“That’s what I thought. Can I see you?” she inquired, gently.
I pushed the door open, allowing her to peer inside.
“Bless your heart,” she said, reaching her hand under my fury chin to lift my face.
“You are not a monster,” she said, her gaze tender.
“Look at me Mom! I have fangs and claws...and a tail!” More tears spilled with my words.
“Don’t listen to the bad thoughts that crowd your head with fear and hate,” she smiled, cupping my face in her hands. “When I look at you, I see something beautiful.”
She grasped my scaly hand, pulling me from the closet, and wiping the tears from my swollen, red eyes. “I need to show you something,” she said, guiding me downstairs into the living room, where a scene scrolled across the flashing screen.
The news story featured my middle school, except it was completely overgrown with wild vines and giant shimmering leaves.
“I...I thought I destroyed it!”
“The news said two boys pulled the fire alarm because they saw a bear. Everyone was evacuated.”
That’s why I didn’t see anyone, I realized.
The newscaster was interviewing the school’s science teacher. “I’ve never seen plants of this size or color,” the teacher said, muttering something about a natural phenomenon.
“Why do you think these monsters are...evil?” Mom asked, studying me. ”All they’ve done is help you.”
“No!” I argued.
“When you ran from those terrible boys who hurt you on the playground years ago, you told me you wished you were invisible. Peter...you turned into glass—a crystal giant that no one could see...no one could shatter.”
I shook my head, turning away from her. She grasped my shoulders, holding my gaze. “Listen! Do you not remember running to me in the middle of the night when you were small. You were afraid of the dark. When I looked into your eyes, they were glowing like stars. You could see so clearly in the dark, you lost sight of your fear. You changed in order to conquer your fears.”
I opened my mouth in protest, but she stopped me. “You have a gift, Peter—not a curse.”
A warm breath settled inside of me, transforming me back into a boy.
She grabbed me and held me close.
“You’re very special, Peter...embrace it. Free yourself from doubt, believe in your gifts, and live in the light...that’s where you belong.”
MONSTROUS
Artwork by Daniel Pennystone
12th Grade
Fear
MONSTROUS
Artwork by Daniel Pennystone
12th Grade
Anger
SAVING ANNABELLE
By ms. annegirl
12th Grade
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Crossing Destiny
In loving memory of the girl with lensless glasses,
Thank you.
SHE HEARD footsteps. Soft and weighted footsteps.
Annabelle curled deeper into her mattress. Wolves, witches—WOLVES! She feared wolves the most. Their soft, weighted footsteps haunted her sleep.
From her top bunk, Annabelle peeked at the opposite wall. The shelf hanging there collected storybook figures. Father removed the villainous characters because she couldn’t sleep while they were watching. When the witch residing there had burnt the back of Annabelle’s neck with the acidity in her gaze, the child cried out until Father came and threw the wretch into the wastebasket.
Now, her trembling palm fell hard on her perspiring neck, to swat away the tension knotted there.
Annabelle peered below to see her younger sister, Bethy, who was sprawled across the lower bunk with one hand lost in a mesh of brown hair and the other corking the open faucet on her face. Annabelle smiled at the resting child as she lay—above the sheets!
Snake-like vines enshrouded Bethy, and a beastly hand latched onto her ankle. Imagining these horrors pulled Annabelle from bed and sent her sailing on bed-sheets over her sister.
Encompassing Bethy, Annabelle cocooned her sister and contingently sprung into her own bed. Folding within its sheets, her eyes squinched shut.
She’ll learn, Annabelle reasoned. She has to learn the rules.
Two deep pools of blue then gazed at the window facing them. The white eye in the sky beamed through the screen and cast tangled patterns on the floorboards. The wind whistled, twigs snapped, and the wolf prowled beneath the window with soft, weighted steps.
Crunch.
Rule #1) Stay tucked in.
SHE HAD to go. VERY badly. Annabelle wasn’t supposed to drink after seven o’clock, but her parents were hav
ing a party and had been negligent to remind her. She could hear the thuds of big feet and tall bodies outside her door.
Annabelle warily floated into the hallway and drifted, deaf to their music and numb to their grazes and apologies.
In her white nightgown, she hovered outside the bathroom door. It was shut.
Her heart beat raced, off-setting her steady stride to a cautious wobble as she approached. Toes to the door, she raised a fleshy, four year old fist and gently knocked twice. She waited. Nothing. She tapped once more and held her ear to the door. Still no response, so she turned the doorknob as though shaking hands with an old friend. Placing her barefoot upon the cold tile, Annabelle latched the door behind her and took a half step forward.
Before her were black tennis shoes beneath crumpled jeans filled by long, bare legs.
Turn invisible. Turn invisible! She shouted within the confines of her mind.
No luck. She’d been detected.
“Oh! What are you doing?! GET OUT!” the toilet girl shrieked.
The beration kicked Annabelle in the stomach and sent her flying out the door into the jungle of wild people. She ricocheted between laps, hip bones, and kneecaps— their music, deafening, and their collisions, disorienting. Ages passed before the girl reached her bed, away from the sophisticated chaos.
Neatly re-tucked in her pristine palace, Annabelle fastened her eyes shut.
In the days to come, Annabelle wondered which of the exposed that night was more frightening—the girl who saw a ghost, or the girl who wished she was one?
And silently, Memory’s ghost swaddled the girl like pristine white sheets.
Rule #2) Flip the switch.
“THE SUN did not shine. It was too wet to play, so they sat in the house all that cold, cold, wet day…” Annabelle thought as she and her siblings descended carpeted stairs with steps like rolling thunder.
Stumbling into the darkness, all giggling was silenced, and Laughter’s entire existence was forgotten until light flooded the playroom and the children roamed freely.
Almost.
Danger lurked along the left-hand wall—a deep hole, where, no doubt, night creatures nested and the final cries of foolhardy children were laid to rest. The area was concealed by placemats, and still the children ventured close to peer inside, but not Annabelle. Soft, weighted footsteps bid her to not tempt fate.
She watched the others stare down the cave’s throat, scoffing its mystery. Only Annabelle knew it stared right back as they built cardboard castles, defended by little boys, and large plastic candy canes.
Watching. Waiting for the slightest misstep to then swallow her down in an instant.
So Annabelle built her castle on the opposing wall declaring, “Watch if you must, and know that I, too, am watching. Always watching.”
Rule #3) No peeking.
THE FAMILY had made a habit of watching films every evening. Father said it was because they hadn’t outgrown their need for a story before bed.
The children had each developed a fair sense of right and wrong, and, as parents might hope, the persuasion of fictitious characters would not supersede their own guidance.
“Close your eyes,” Mom and Dad instructed, and obediently, little palms suctioned to little eye sockets.
Annabelle couldn’t tell why she did it. She just did.
Slowly her fingers slid apart.
Through finger-blinds, Annabelle witnessed the corruption of humanity. She wouldn’t have called it that, then. No, with not yet enough reason to question it, Annabelle locked the image away in a time capsule to be curated at a later date. But Annabelle had not performed a burial that night, for what she had welcomed into her mind was already dead. The stench of this decaying and lustful creature soon marred her mind. But the girl was aware of this, as much as a corpse is aware it is dead.
Rule #4) Look both ways.
“WE’RE JUST gonna run some tests,” a pair of glasses told her.
For what? Annabelle thought.
The only tests she had known involved times-table flashcards.
Today’s test was different.
She laid as a pharaoh might in her resting place, foreboding bystanders of her ill-fated curse. In the white tunnel, she was tormented by strange cackles belonging to the old witch who’d once presided over her sleep. Her neck began to burn, and Annabelle started to cry—first in soft streams, then in terror-stricken sobs. White gloves removed her from the tunnel, and the refugee gasped as she rose to scratch away the flames in her neck. The tension ceased, and Annabelle reclined in her mummified state until the white glove began swabbing her arm.
“What are you doing?” Annabelle murmured.
“We need to draw some blood,” the white glove hissed.
The white glove advanced toward her arm with a long silver tooth, and the easy green light in Annabelle’s eyes flicked passed yellow, straight to red. She violently protested until the white gloves permitted her to sit upright.
The girl looked to her left, scrutinizing the operator. She looked to her right at Mother clasping her hand, and then back to the white glove.
They’d cross this street together, Annabelle and Mother, like they always had. For Annabelle trusted the white glove the way she trusted drivers to obey traffic signals and be mindful of little girls.
She watched her life-blood satisfy vial after deep-red vial.
The depleted arm was wrapped ceremoniously, and Annabelle reentered the catacomb where old crones screeched and spectators fled, lest they be cursed, too.
Rule #5) Ride the bike.
THEY TOLD her she was sick, but Annabelle had been sick before. When the girl had a cold, she could still play hide-and-seek, but lately it seemed the whole world was hidden. When bed-ridden with fever or strep throat, the girl could color pictures, but now colors were absent, and her eyes couldn’t picture them. If not carried, the young girl clung to railings to escalate household terrain and received visitors like a hospice member.
Annabelle was very sick.
To the rhythm of soft, weighted footsteps, much of her body succumbed to disease, but never her mind. No, never her heart that dreamed of swampy forests ruled by tree fort kingdoms and endless sunshine to govern the skies.
Like any rising seven year old, Annabelle measured the wide world in pedaling cycles, and there came a time when her monsters could not detain her any longer.
On feet, light in both pigment and substance, Annabelle ventured from her tucked sheets, slid a reliant hand along the wall and, in vain, flicked off the light switch. The ghost girl followed the creaking floorboards to the stair. Annabelle’s head twisted right to confront the shadow there, then left towards Mother’s warm, salty scent.
Taking her hand, Mother and Annabelle crossed the threshold.
“Follow Mommy’s voice,” Mother called in wary faith to her sightless child, and so she did.
Atop her two-wheeled steed, Annabelle resisted the shocks of gravel and absorbed the folding grass that bowed as she passed.
Death could not have her that day, and so she lived.
In a world of nightmares, Annabelle lived—and she rode her bike, blind to the wolf’s advances.
THE RED RAPHA
By Brennah Whiteside
11th Grade
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Above and Beyond
HER VIOLET hair clung to the moisture coating her hollow bone structure, dusted boots planted in the fertile soil of the memories once known to be a proud kingdom.
The sun had grown darker that day—that dawn of betrayal, those hours of devastation.
Mirages of rustic towers and soaring eagles loomed over the deserted valley. Distant trumpets roared with victory far across the land. A broad ox blood flag vividly wavered among the mountains, the sunlight bursting past the constant triumphant flapping in the wind.
The girl’s darkened eyes saddened at the mere thought of her begotten kingdom's rule. A chord struck profoundly with sorrow in her heart
at the recollection of her past kingdom's fate.
Gruesome images flooded the valley—children shrieking, mothers weeping, fathers fighting for their families against the abrupt attack of the Nomaite Isle. She winced as she reflected on those times. Her ears rang with the cries of her people. Her heart weighed heavy with the forgotten ones. Helpless villagers, slaughtered at the might of a sin older than time. She cringed with the pain that only a leader can slave.
Falling to her knees, the girl could only stare at the ruins. Her cry broke the deadly silence, head buried in her shaken hands. Guilt gouged at her spirit, tears relenting in pain.
She felt defeated.
A soft breeze drew back her stifled breath. Lifting her eyes, she peered at a red tree on a far-off hill. Just past where the beloved kingdom used to prevail, a red-blossomed tree stood proud in the rays of the East. The girl knew this tree from legends, thought to be only folklore.
It was the Red Rapha.
She heightened with the strength that only hope can offer. It is a tree birthed from sorrow but nurtured by faith. The Red Rapha represents a future worth fighting for.
"All it takes is faith the size of a mustard seed," she recalled under her breath. She gazed at the miraculous sight in awe. For this end solely resembled the makings of a new beginning.
SEA OF RUINS
By Carter Lundgren
10th Grade
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Lords of Lankhmar
ZAER WAS alone. He preferred it this way. No one can bother you in isolation.
He leapt from pillar to pillar and stopped to gaze at the desolation—dilapidated buildings, collapsed towers, and giant stone slabs as far as the eye could see.
Zaer was quite fond of the Sea of Ruins. His parents always nagged him to stay away. "You'll injure yourself!" he said in a ridiculous voice mimicking his parents. I’d be long dead if I wasn't capable of traversing the ruins properly, he thought to himself.
He jumped from the ten foot pillar and landed with a roll. The roll stopped abruptly by a glass wall. Zaer writhed in pain on the ground for a good half hour. After the pain subsided, he stood back up and checked for blood or a concussion.
He glared at the tall figure reflected in the glass.The towering seventeen year old with his messy brown hair and vibrant green eyes had ruined his cool roll. "Heh," smirked Zaer, "the ruins ruined it."
It was getting dark so Zaer headed back, not wanting to invoke his parents’ wrath. On his way, he saw a wall just a bit shorter than him. He got a running start and vaulted over, failing to realize there was a large pit just behind it.
Crap, was Zaer's only thought as he plummeted down into the abyss.
Lucky for him, there was a deep pool at the bottom. As Zaer swam to the top and towards the shore, he looked around the crater. It was illuminated surprisingly well, with the sunlight glinting off the water. The mouth of the pit stretched into a long tunnel. Since the entrance was twenty feet above Zaer, he decided to look for a new way out.
He ventured into the foreboding passageway, his eye drawn to the strange markings that appeared on the walls with increasing frequency. He couldn't tell if they were scribbles or a different language. The farther he walked, the greater the markings appeared, until they coated the walls with solid black. Zaer pulled out a glowing bottle and held it out in front of him, to light the path sunlight no longer reached. A few steps later, he hit a dead end.
There was a small obelisk jutting from the ground—jet black like the walls. Just above it, a small diamond shaped rock floated, its ebony surface spinning slowly on its own axis. Zaer was intrigued by the hovering rock. I wonder what kind of magic this is, he thought as he reached for it.
Zaer grabbed the stone and held it in his hand, inspecting it. It had ceased all movement, laying still in his palm. Zaer's eyes grew heavy and he collapsed to his knees. "Oh, this can't be good," he breathed, moments before sleep stole over him.
Zaer dreamt of his home town, Aidera, in the Sea of Plains. The entire village was ravaged by floods. Zaer floated in the water on his back, gazing left and right at what remained of Aidera. The small stone and wood houses were swallowed by the currents, leaving a scattering of rooftops.
He turned his attention to the water’s mirrored surface, startling at his reflection. His body was wrapped in full battle armor, black as the night. The crimson water felt sticky and warm. Moving through its silky, iron depths pleased him.
A flash of white caught his eye, pulling him towards a sinking house. He swam closer, squinting at the rounded bit of ivory. The skull smiled at him as he drifted past. Zaer smiled back at it and waved. The dream was so joyous—he never wanted it to end.
But it did.
Zaer's eyes opened slowly. He felt an unfamiliar weight anchoring his hand to the ground. He raised his arm in disbelief. A jet black gauntlet covered his fist, fingers gripped tight around an obsidian sword.
Both were drenched in blood.
He then realized a few things. The first being that he was no longer in the cave. The second that he was back home. And the third...he was lying in a pool of blood. He yelled in alarm, wrenching himself from the slick floor and dropping the sword. The moment he released the sword, the gauntlet dissipated into nothing.
Thoughts raced through his head.
Whose blood is this? Is it mine? Am I dead?
Zaer felt his strength drain, forcing him to fall back onto his blood-soaked knees.
Why do I ache so badly? And why didn't anyone help me if this is my blood?
He realized that wouldn't make sense. There was entirely too much blood for just one person. He felt as if a stone dropped in his stomach and he grew pale. Slowly, Zaer looked up and studied his surroundings.
Corpses
Corpses littered the town. Shock rendered his voice useless. His eyes grew wide and he tried to back away. But it was to no avail, for he was in the center of the massacre.
His breathing grew erratic—his head pounded and his chest burned. He dashed home, averting his eyes from the gut-wrenching scene. He jumped over the bodies and limbs that littered the ground. When he made it home, he saw that his door was broken. It lay inside, cut into several pieces. He called for his parents and ran upstairs to their room. Their door was ajar—the stench of death poured from its gaping mouth.
Zaer stumbled into his room and collapsed on his bed. He cried until his pillow was soaked and his breathing slowed. He sat up and looked at himself. His clothes were covered in blood. Scarlet coated his hair and fingernails. It was everywhere.
He went into the bathroom and scrubbed it all away. He tugged on new clothes and stumbled into his room. Despair had taken Zaer. He felt nothing but pain. He stared at his hands and wondered why he continued living.
He had already come to the sinking conclusion that he had murdered everyone. He, alone held a deadly weapon and was the only one left alive.
He looked past his legs and saw the black diamond shaped rock. He picked it up and yelled, "Was this all your doing?" Zaer wrenched his hand back to smash it against the wall with all his might, when the rock suddenly vibrated.
He opened his hand. The rock floated up, a black cylinder materializing just above the diamond. The cylinder fell back into Zaer's hand. He stared at it, not sure what to feel anymore. Then, a large blade manifested above the cylinder. Zaer realized this was the same sword he had dropped. It was formidable, reaching a bit beyond five feet in length. The single edged sword was shaped like half of an elongated trapezoid. It was the same jet black as the rock. The strangest part was, it wasn’t one solid piece of metal, but many floating pieces, none of which touched. Four separate pieces all the same size and shape made up the two sides of the sword, and a different piece made up the top which was slanted, giving the sword its deadly edge.
The center of the wicked sword was hollow and within it swirled a restless dark energy. The sword disgusted Zaer. It had murdered everyone and used him as a vessel.
/> He grabbed the two handed handle and swung at the wall. It was easy to swing. The blades cut straight through the wall. Zaer looked out the window and saw it had buried itself in someone’s chest. Zaer went pale and felt sick again, remembering his current position. So he went out and looked for survivors. He checked every house and every room. In each one he found only more bodies and the sword. It was cursed to follow him but Zaer refused to touch it. He couldn’t bring himself to bury everyone, seeing them was traumatic enough. So he found all the flammable liquids he could and burned the entire town.
Aidera was no more.
Zaer had packed a bag of essentials and set off towards the Sea of Trees. He heard it was a place heavily influenced by magic. He turned back one last time to look at his burning town. "Goodbye, everyone,” he muttered in despair. “I'm sorry...I always wanted to be alone...but all I want now, is for you all to come back."
He turned away and saw the sword lying in front of him. "I'll bring you. But only because I need to find a way to destroy you." He said to the sword. He bent over and picked it up. It glowed and vibrated and suddenly disappeared, leaving only the diamond rock behind. Zaer reluctantly placed it in his pocket. He thought he heard a voice whisper, "Finally." He shook his head, thinking he must have been hearing things.
He was tired, broken, and lost.
And for the first time in his life, he was truly isolated.
Zaer was alone.
SEA OF RUINS
Artwork by Carter Lundgren
10th Grade
THE SECRET OF GENAVUM
By Braelyn Whiteside
9th Grade
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s God of the Drow
WE RUN down the corridors, the cold creeping down my spine like a virus.
Another sentinel comes around the corner. Besnik swiftly slips one of the spikes from his back and thrusts it into the enemy’s heart. The lump of fur brushes my foot as I step over it. I’m about to run ahead when a giant fist grips my ankle and my head meets the concrete floor. The beast rolls on top of me, his sodden crimson fur weeping scarlet tears onto my chest. Two of his hands hold down my shoulders, while another one palms my face, its serrated claws digging through my scales. Green liquid blinds me.
“Sudama!” The voice calls my name right before a thud echoes off the cave walls. I reach for one of the knives on my belt. The sentry’s last free hand takes hold of my wrist. My knee connects with his most sensitive area. The knife handle finally meets my palm and I guide the deadly blade through his skull. I push aside the lifeless Rubramalzek, and aid Besnik, hitting his opponent upside the head. Besnik kicks his knee from the side. The knee bends at an odd angle and I’m positive it’s broken.
“Nice touch,” I compliment the blue Draconem.
He responds with a wink as we continue our mission.
The hall opens up into a room with a ceiling so high, it’s difficult to make out. Besnik looks confusedly at the map Torem gave us. “This should be where it is,” he mutters to himself.
The doors across the room begin to open. Besnik and I hide in nearby shadows.
The leader of our enemy tribe comes through the entrance, his black cape flowing behind him. Turva stands in the very center of the room, eyes glowing yellow. “We’ve been waiting for you, you know,” He states, his voice dark and deep. The cold feeling comes back and I feel sick.
I step out from our cover before Besnik can stop me. “How did you know we’d be coming?” The very sight of Turva sickens me. His narrow eyes that search your soul for something he could devour—his scarlet fur the color of poison, his spikes, dripping with the screams of every soul he’s tortured from our tribe, Auctellio.
“If it’s your dying wish to know,” he snarls and another Rubramalzek brings out Torem, cut, bruised, and so weak they don’t even bind him. He throws the traitor on the ground, and Besnik runs over to help our friend.
Turva turns to walk away but I can’t let our mission end like this. “So where is it? The Genavum?”
He stops, but doesn’t bother to face me. “In…safe keeping.”
My heart sinks under the weight of his words. Our mission has failed. “And what will you do with it?” I whisper.
This time, he turns. We’re face to face and I can feel his toxic breath rotting my skin, but I stand my ground. “Whatever I please. It would be pleasant if your tribe was out of our way.”
Not only has our mission failed, but we’ve also failed our people. Shame taps me on the shoulder and I let it take over. Disgust, horror, and somberness force my shoulders to fall.
The ugly savage smirks and begins to walk away, signaling for us to be killed.
Troops file through doors on both sides of the room, surrounding Torem, Besnik, and I. More out of necessity than desire, I shake off all the emotions Turva injected me with and ready my knives. Besnik tugs more spikes from his back.
“You ready?” I challenge.
Besnik twists the spikes around in his hands. “Let’s do this.”
My legs carry me toward the enemy line, fueled by ire and terror. My knives slash in every direction, hitting some, missing some. I dodge a spear and counterattack with a blow to the gut and a blade to the head. The feeling of invincibility pumps violently through my veins. I am unstoppable.
A knife fails to penetrate the scales that guard my body, and one of my longer blades slice off his head. I forcefully step on an enemy’s foot, intending to stab him, but something hits my head. I fall out of balance from the surprise attack, and fall to the floor. A sword threatens to finish me, but I roll to the side and trip the perpetrator, throwing a knife into his chest.
Someone catches me from behind—holding me so another adversary could wrench the life out of me. He throws his blade at me, but I bend over, hurling my captor into the line of fire. I seize a knife in a nearby corpse just in time to shield myself from an incoming sword. The edges collide and I’m not sure I can overpower this one. He grits his teeth and the weight of his blade becomes heavier.
Over the hairy beast’s shoulder, I spy Besnik trying to keep up with all the swords raining down on him. Besnik sees me watching him. “Light the bloody ómva!” His voice sounds tired and strained.
I look my enemy in the eye. With every last ounce of fading energy, I fling his sword as hard as I can to the left. Before he knows it, there’s a knife in between his eyes.
The pouch on my belt reminds me we have the advantage. We have the ómva. A bomb designed by Auctellio’s best and brightest. This better be the right time to use it because there have only been three we’ve made, and one took us almost a centaetus to create. It specifically targets red Draconem DNA coding within a 200 foot radius, and separates the cells from its owner. It’s messy, but effective. I retrieve the small, rounded black piece of metal and place my claw inside the hole.
Something wraps around my neck and air no longer makes it to my pulmos. The ómva starts glowing green and flies up into the air. Black spots cloud my sight but I can feel it working. Maybe we will survive. Maybe we could defeat the Rubramalzeks.
A tugging at the back of my mind succumbs to the dark. I’m numb and out cold.
Heroes of Phenomena Page 6