Borrowed Strength
Page 5
There was no place safe to go.
But he knew what he wanted to do: the worst had happened, he was "demonspawn" anyway now, there was nothing worse they could do to him than they already would. It was liberating, in a way. There was no reason to be good anymore.
There was no reason not to curse the fuckers who had done this to him.
It was amazing, the places a smashed-in face could get you in the bad part of town. There were real demons there, clinging to seedy bars triple-spelled for protection against anything holy. They were certainly unnerving to look at, particularly the ones with the teeth, but they were unfailingly kind to him.
They gave him a drink (he was underage, but what did that matter now?) and sat beside him, rubbing his back with clawed hands. "Easy, kid," said the succubus on his right. "We're gonna get you cleaned up. What happened, you went up against the angelkids?"
He spat blood into his beer, then regretted it. "Pretty much."
"Guess they're looking for you, then."
"Yeah." He took a swig of bloodwashed beer. "They called me demonspawn - no coming back from that."
"You smell human to me, kid."
"Yeah. I am. Just gay."
She clucked her tongue in sympathy, rubbed his shoulders, and sent him off to the bathroom to get cleaned up. By the time he'd washed most of the blood off his face the numb shock was starting to wear off, and he curled up in the corner shaking, crying, trying to keep from screaming.
By the time someone came looking for him he'd worn himself out and was back to the numbness. He stared blankly at nothing as a red-skinned imp took his hand and urged him to his feet. "Hey, now," said the imp. "I know a guy who can help."
"What's he going to do?"
"He can help you stay hidden, at least."
Jeremy clenched his fists. "Can he help me curse them?"
The imp whistled low. "Yeah, could be. You'll have to ask him. Come on."
They went through underground tunnels. Sewers, in all likelihood, although some of them were clean enough that they must have been unused for decades at least. It was safe here: the angels couldn't come underground.
They ended up in front of what looked suspiciously like an underground cathedral.
"This -" Jeremy stopped walking, despite the imp's beckoning. "Who is this guy?"
"Yeah, I know what this looks like. And yeah, he's a monk, but it's cool, it's cool - he's underground. Fights from below, like. He's not with the angels."
Trust didn't matter: Jeremy had no choice. He had nowhere else to go.
The monk was a man in dark robes, and he radiated peace and calm and holy light. He blessed Jeremy when he saw him. He listened to his story. He promised sanctuary.
When Jeremy told him he wanted the guys cursed, he smiled.
"I will help you, Jeremy," he said. "They shall meet the angels."
Chimera
Challenge #15: write a piece that prominently features both summertime and a multi-headed entity, contains a word beginning with F in every sentence, and grows progressively more insane. It must be written in the form of a 369er: three separate stories of 69 words each, connected by a common theme and meant to be read together.
On midsummer's morning a boy found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a lioness.
She spewed fire into the sky, and said: "Child, be ever proud: be ever regal: fear not the fire, but wield it as your own. You shall find strength, and all barriers shall fall before you."
Awed, and frightened, the boy carved her words into his heart.
On midsummer's midday a man found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a serpent.
She spewed fire into the earth, and said: "King, you have forgotten yourself. You have forgotten your people. Too long have your eyes gazed heavenwards: frail is your might, and brittle: you must bring yourself back to the earth."
These words he heard; but he forgot them.
On midsummer's evening a beggar found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a goat.
She spewed fire into his eyes, and said: "O Graybeard, you have fallen far. All your fancies have led to failure, and the fury of your heart has freed your mind from reason. Also, your beard is on fire."
The beggar flung his head back and laughed.
A Severely Subjective Appraisal of this Author's Experience with the Event
Although I'd been meaning to give FFM a try sometime for well over a year, this has been the first year that I actually do so. I hope it will be the first of many.
I'd like to say that I began the month with vim and vigor and vitality and all those other V-words that make beginnings a place of optimism and joy; but that would be a lie. In fact I began the month feeling distinctly unwell. If not for the event, I would have avoided writing entirely on those first several days. This is the first lesson taught by FFM: write, regardless of circumstance.
I was still warming up in that first week, and several of my stories may have meandered a bit. Those early challenges were easy enough to meet, for the most part; the days without challenges were all the more challenging, because they gave me nothing to structure my thoughts around, and I was very much unused to converting ideas to stories in such a short period of time. There wasn't much room to be choosy. This is the second lesson taught by FFM: ideas must not be discarded prematurely. A silly story is still a valid story.
The second week was the worst. Even though I started out the month without any of those happy V-words, I somehow managed to run out of them all over again by the second week: I was worn out, worn down, weary, and seriously wondering whether I'd even be able to make it through the month. What gave me hope was a comment made by another FFMer with more experience: Week 2 is always the worst. This is the third lesson taught by FFM: keep writing, even in the face of difficulty.
And indeed, the third week was easier. I had found out what worked for me by then, and was able to come up with complete stories in a shorter period of time. I was also far less overwhelmed by my reading load, in trying to keep up with my fellow FFMers: many of them had given up somewhere in the second week.
By the fourth week I thought I had it all figured out; but the challenges were also getting more and more complicated, and indeed the collaborative challenge was the first that I seriously considered skipping. I was quite pleased with myself when I did not. This is the fourth lesson taught by FFM: to stretch limits, to push boundaries, to step out beyond one's comfort zone.
The fifth week had only three days, and all of them challenges. But by then the end was in sight. There was no more question of giving up, if there ever had been.
Overall the month was grueling, difficult, and exhausting. When it was over I wanted nothing more than to spend a week or two doing nothing at all. But it was also immensely rewarding: I feel I have measurably grown as a writer, and many of these stories would never have been written if not for the event. Whatever else FFM may have been, it was certainly worth it.
Next time, I think, will go better.
Closing Words
This is it. You've reached the end. There are no more stories.
Well, not in this collection, anyway. There will always be more stories.
If you've enjoyed this collection, you may want to consider taking a look at Melianarrheyal and Sahta, First Child: they aren't quite comparable to Borrowed Strength, being respectively a novel and a novella rather than a flash fiction anthology, but they are nonetheless written by the same hands. If you've particularly enjoyed "The Isle of the Dead", keep an eye out: it doubled as worldbuilding for a novel coming sometime in the next few years. And if you think someone else might also enjoy this collection, please consider sharing it!
And as always, thank you for reading.
Find G. Deyke Online
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