Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #2

by Iulian Ionescu

I found more of their kind to the north, living on top of one another in piteous shambles of clay. The sound of my approach drew them out of their holes in scurries and staggers, some fleeing in terror, some falling to their knees in reverence like those at the temple. In a moment of charity, I weighed the fates of these a heartbeat longer than the last, nevertheless reaching the same end. The sea could not find that place on the hills, so I called to the heavens above, raining hail and lightning between each mirthful heave. Soon their earthen abodes were but dust on the wind, and those still living spent their last breaths begging for mercy as the maelstrom of my will took hold and ground the life from them.

  All but one. One stood in brazen defiance of my wrath as the ashes of her home billowed about her. One dared look up at my form with malice in her eyes and fire in her heart. She stood at the center of the ruins, boiling with a fury so palpable I could taste it on the breeze. In my merriment, I set aside the desire to extinguish the stubborn light behind those eyes and decided to indulge this fleeting curiosity.

  "Speak, insignificant one," I said, half expecting the sound of my voice to cleave her in two.

  "And what would I say to a beast who laughs at the scattered lives of the ones I love?" she said. "I will not play at your mercy, destroyer. I can see it would be of no use."

  "A fool's bounty has been sown, and I am the reaper. I destroy but for the good of these lands, to purge them of the ignorance that brought me here. Only the unwise would invoke that which can summon the likes of me."

  "Were they not doing the bidding of their creator? Was it not your sigil carved into the very face of the mountains? They followed your commands. They called out to you, seeking guidance, and you reward them with death."

  My laughter shook the hills and stoked the flames in the woman's eyes. "What arrogance, to think those words were written for you! You and your foolish ilk have deemed yourselves central to my design, never pausing to consider the likelihood of your own insignificance. Do you think the birds hold their own kind to such high esteem, even as they soar above the valleys? Do the slithering vermin of the fields think themselves masters of the cosmos, favorite of the gods? I wrought this world and it wrought you. But I have no more love for you than a baker's love for the mold on his bread."

  She tested my patience with a spell of silence then, which I allowed only that she might have learned something before I destroyed her. "You are a pitiful spirit," she said at last. "You don't deserve the power you wield. What kind of demon destroys the fruits of his own labor?"

  "You're not listening, little creature. These lands were not made for you. I forged this world as a beacon to the divine. I sought to attract an equal, that I may quench the loneliness I've endured across the eons and share the breadth of infinity with a mate. Imagine my disappointment when I answered the summons to find you people gawking at me. Your entire existence makes me regret ever having labored over these lands. The least I can do is cleanse them before I depart."

  "You are the disappointment, old one. And you are as blind as you are vile. Your equal stands before you — and has judged you unworthy."

  The moment the words left her lips, her perfection became apparent. As realization struck, the ground opened beneath me and I fell into the arms of darkness. I called to the heavens and the sea, but they did not hear me; they did not come. Earth enveloped body and soul as I plunged into the black embrace, haunted by visions of what might have been.

  © 2014 by J.W. Alden.

  * * *

  J.W. Alden always had a fascination with the fantastic. As such, he's made speculative fiction his domain. He lives just outside West Palm Beach, Florida with his fiancée Allison, who doesn't mind the odd assortment of musical instruments and medieval weaponry that decorate his office (as long as he tries to brandish the former more often than the latter). Alden is a graduate of the 2013 class of Odyssey Writing Workshop and a member of Codex Writers.

  Verdure

  Brandon Barrows

  The sun is finally starting to come up, but I don't feel any safer. Little rays of sun filter through the mass of vegetation that surround us in a nearly three-hundred-sixty degree radius, but it's still only barely enough to notice, let alone shed any actual illumination. The green is all around us — wet and dense and, it seems to me, angry at the intrusion of the squad stomping our clumsy way through. We don't belong here; we know that, but the jungle keeps on reminding us all the same and the dangers it presents aren't lessened by daylight.

  If it's sunrise, that means we've been marching for a good eight hours already. And if that's true—

  Bang.

  A single shot. The report rings for only a split second before the sea of hungry flora swallows up the sound, pulling it in and absorbing it like the ocean does a weak swimmer. In that instant, I stand frozen: a greasy, dirty, green-and-black statue in the overgrown yard of a planet whose seemingly-random alphanumeric designation I can't even remember right now. It's not what they trained us to do, but there are some things even rote memorization and screaming drill instructors can't overcome. I imagine everyone else does the same, bound by a ligature of fear.

  I'm wrong.

  I see movement from the corner of my eye and simultaneously hear Sergeant Rickard screaming for everyone to drop, find cover, return fire if you have a shot. Without making a decision, my head turns toward the sight rather than the sound. Not three feet away, the guy everyone calls "Spank" takes an awkward, sideways step toward the nearest tree trunk — trying to find support or trying to obey orders, I'll never know — and crashes backwards, his hands clutching the growing spot of red sprouting from his belly. His eyes catch mine and silently ask a question, but damned if I know what. A plea for help, perhaps. Maybe it's, "Why me?"

  Maybe it's, "Why not you?"

  The sergeant yells for cover again; one of my squad-mates takes the initiative and pulls me down into the organic detritus coating the jungle floor. He looks as scared as I feel and I want to thank him, but I can't remember his name, or even his nickname. Everyone gets a nickname within a few days of basic training whether you want one or not. I want to thank him but the fact that I can't remember what to address him by crowds out all other concerns. In that moment it feels so very, foolishly important.

  Instead, I nod and he mirrors the gesture.

  We lie on our bellies, waiting, clutching rifles many of us have only fired on training ranges light-years away, trying not to make a sound and instead breathing so heavily I'm sure half the continent knows where we are. It's been two weeks in this soggy hellhole without so much as a peep from the other side; guess our luck's run out.

  All around us the scene is repeated in various permutations by our squaddies, though I can only make out a couple of other friendlies from my narrow perspective. It doesn't matter; I know the other guys are out there. So do They.

  I wonder if They're as scared as I am. As we are.

  They're the faceless enemy we've never seen outside of holo-stills and tri-vids, wrapped head to toe in environment suits that we're told They need simply to exist in an Earth-variant environment. I wonder why They want this world so badly if They can't even breathe the air. I wonder if to Them we're They: anonymous and endless, an obstacle to whatever plans they have.

  Bang.

  Another shot. I'm so amped with adrenaline and pointless thoughts that the sound barely registers before it fades into the verdure. I haven't learned to accurately gauge distance through the thick foliage yet, and I'm not sure where it's coming from. The sergeant says you learn quick or you don't get the chance. I think I'm finally getting the hang of it, though, because I'm sure this shot isn't as close as the last one. I throw a glance toward my still-living neighbor, but he's peering intently at the green wall before him, carbine held in a white-knuckled death-grip.

  A wet shuffling sound signals movement behind me. I turn, bringing my weapon up without conscious thought; guess I am learning, after all.

  My eyes lock with Sergeant
Rickard's as he crawls a last yard through the mud, then springs into a crouching position. He lifts his right hand, separating the five fingers out as far as they'll go, signaling me and my nameless buddy to spread out, move forward and reconnoiter. It's an enduringly-useful gesture that any soldier — from centurions in ancient Rome all the way up to United Systems Colonial Forces grunts like me — would recognize. Something about the planet's magnetic field plays hob with communications, so we rely on the classics more often than not.

  The sergeant waves us forward impatiently. He hasn't even spared a look for Spank, lying crumpled in the mud. He probably figures there'll be time for that later. Maybe he just doesn't care.

  Marcus.

  My friend's name is Marcus. It pops into my head while we're regaining our feet, as quietly as possible. I still can't remember his last name or whatever nickname he goes by, but it's a start and somehow it makes me more comfortable in his presence. It's the two of us against however many of Them are hiding out there. Probably a lone scout or sniper, otherwise we'd be full-on engaged by now. Marcus plunges into the green ahead of me and I make a mental note to thank him later. It's important.

  I sneak forward in a duck walk, hot on his heels. The sergeant doesn't follow, but I catch flashes of movement all around us and what little I see tells me enough to know it's the rest of our squad spreading out in a circle, hoping to surround the enemy. It's one of the standard engagement plans we've been taught — one of the most basic, but part of me is still proud to remember it.

  When I think I'm in position I stop, drop to one knee and listen. I can see Marcus not far off and another guy who calls himself Dozer Dave; stupid nickname, but a nice guy. He catches my eye and gives me the barest nod. I don't bother reciprocating; he knows, he'll understand.

  Another minute of fearful silence, then the sergeant's voice rings out a little ways off. "All clear!"

  I get to my feet, trying not to think about the miles of marching yet to do, the hours still to go in my greasy, mud-soaked clothes, or how chafed I already am. Dozer Dave walks over, smacks me lightly on the back as he passes and grins without saying a word, before heading off in the direction of the sergeant's voice. Marcus begins that way, too, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

  "Hey," I say, trying to keep the shaking in my knees and the ice still sitting in the bottom of my belly out of my voice. "Thanks. For back there."

  He sneers. "Save it. Next time someone says 'cover', you drop or get shot, dipshit. Your ass ain't my responsibility."

  I don't know what I expected him to say, but it wasn't that. I guess it's as valid a response as any.

  I swallow, avert my eyes and nod but he's already walking away. I hurry after him to avoid being left alone, feeling stupid and ashamed but trying not to show it. Not that he could see it anyway with his back to me.

  In a clearing barely big enough for two men, the eight remaining members of our squad crowd around Sergeant Rickard, who stands with his hands on his hips, staring upwards at the jungle canopy. "We'll call that a 'dry run'." He doesn't bother looking at any of us as he speaks.

  "Wherever that bastard was, he's long gone now and since he got his 'prize shot', I doubt he'll trouble us again." He sniffs and wipes a bit of mud away from his cheek, like he's stalling to think about what he'll say next. "For a first engagement, most of you did just fine," he continues, finally turning his head from the branches and vines above us and now looking directly at me. "The rest of you'll get it or you won't. Even I can't make a soldier out of everyone." He clears his throat, looks around at the rest of the young men standing near him. The sergeant probably isn't even forty, but most of us are half that.

  Rickard turns away from me, points at a pair of guys somehow less muddy than the rest of us, standing on the opposite end of the little clearing. "Davis and Ronstadt, go grab what's left of Private Spancyzk. No man left behind, useless or not."

  I was right the second time. He doesn't care.

  We resume our march without incident. Six hours later, my belly is cramping from hunger and my legs are so tired I can no longer feel them when we stop at last and make camp on the edge of a rare stretch of open, unforested land, covered in tall, tawny-colored grasses.

  As I peel off my boots and the sodden, disgusting rags that used to be socks, the sergeant walks by, watching me as he passes. He doesn't say a word, but the corner of his mouth twitches and I know what he wants to say: Useless. Only difference between you and Spank is he wasn't lucky.

  I turn back toward the campfire someone else built and I'm only sharing, knowing he's right. My face is hot, but it's not from the flames. I couldn't make it back home: couldn't cut it at university, couldn't find a job after dropping out. What made me think I belonged out here where I can't even run away again? I'm not a soldier — I'm a liability.

  Someone taps me from behind; I turn my head and see it's Dozer Dave. He's smiling as he claps a hand on my shoulder. Before I can think of something to say he says, in a voice calculated to reach only my ears, "Fuck 'em," and walks away, leaving me to dry my feet alone.

  I stare into the fire for a while then pull an MRE box from my pack, thinking of how bad they taste but glad they'll at least assuage the pain in my gut. It's then, thinking of taste, I notice there's a saltiness already on my lips. I swipe at my face and my fingers come away wet. I look up to see Marcus sitting on the other side of the little fire, shaking his head in disdain. Damn it, am I actually crying? How long has he been there, anyway?

  I start to wipe at my eyes with my palms and remember what Dozer Dave said. Fuck 'em.

  Maybe he's right. I can't be the only one who feels like this; the only one who had no idea what he was signing up for. I know I'm not the only one who misses home and I'd bet I'm not the only who's shed desperate tears, thinking about how hopeless his situation is. I'm just the one who got caught.

  I look over at Marcus again, now wolfing down a meal ration of his own. Marcus who saved my life then called me a dipshit. His gaze flicks up toward me, and I flash a little grin, tears still crawling through the filth coating my cheeks. His brow furrows a little in confusion then he turns his attention back to what passes for food.

  I shift away from the tiny strip of grassland we've made camp on, back toward the jungle. Though we cut a path as we traveled, it's already beginning to disappear; the brush is rushing in to fill the gap, unnaturally fast by Earth standards. Within a couple of hours, it'll be like we were never here. I spent nearly a full day stumbling and sweating through mud, vines and lord knows what else and it's almost like it never happened. I realize once again that I was wrong: this place isn't angry at our intrusion — it's completely indifferent. The jungle has been here forever and maybe it always will be. We're merely a passing irritation, an inconvenient blip in the cycle of its life and it won't give us the satisfaction of its attention. The sergeant was right; the verdure does have a lesson to teach, just not the one he thought.

  I smile again as I peel open the plastic food container on my lap and dig in. They may never make a soldier out of me, but Dozer Dave, with two little words, has somehow awakened my inner philosopher. Just like that I'm an adherent of what may be the universe's simplest, but most profound school of thought.

  Fuck 'em.

  © 2014 by Brandon Barrows

  * * *

  Brandon Barrows lives in the shadow-haunted hills of Vermont with his wife and a pair of elder spawn cats, writing comic books, prose and poetry. His detective comic series Jack Hammer is published by Action Lab Comics and Voyaga, a science fiction graphic novel, was published by AAM/ Markosia, both with art by Ionic. His horror one-shot Red Run was published by Alterna Comics, and he has contributed to the New York Times-bestselling anthology Fubar from Fubar Press.

  Million Hearts in the Valley of Death

  Savannah Hendricks

  The stack of red is rather high, but I toss mine in anyway. A few others slide down, like unstable tomatoes piled strategically at the
grocery store. I arrived sooner than one would anticipate, but I'm far from alone. A steady line of men and women slowly walk up to the pile and toss, adding to the stack. Over time I can no longer see mine.

  The wind hits the dust and we cover our eyes, getting only glimpses of the sand caressing over the red. Then the wind passes and it's calm once again. Miles of small mounds covered in a dusting of sand remain like grave markers.

  "Where do we go now?" I ask a man to my right, rethinking the question… "What do we do now?"

  The man laughs. "We go home and start over again."

  A rusted silver bus pulls up and we meander near, robotically boarding one at a time. I take a seat next to the man with the greedy laugh minutes ago.

  "I hope you aren't already looking," the man states.

  My hand moves up to cover my lower neck. "Already? No, I mean why would you even assume that? All I did was sit down."

  "It starts that way, every time. I never should have even answered your question, yet it seems that is the flow of it all."

  "The flow of what exactly?" Looking around I noticed every set of seats has a woman and man in them.

  "Love. It doesn't matter what caused it; we always return, trying once again."

  "Oh, well I'm not looking for it anymore. I," emphasizing with boldness, "don't need it."

  "Of course you don't, neither do I." The man extends his hand towards me. I'm Randal." He shakes my hand with great gentleness.

  "Beth," I say, shaking his hand in return.

  Randal gives an auspicious smile, taking his time to let go of my hand.

  © 2014 by Savannah Hendricks

  * * *

  Savannah Hendricks is the co-author of Child Genius 101: The Ultimate Guide to Early Childhood Development (Vol 1, 2 & 3), with her first picture book, Nonnie and I releasing this fall. Savannah’s career has included working with special needs preschoolers, a nanny, and a case manager. She holds degrees in early childhood education and criminal justice/criminology. She loves spending time with her two dogs and loves football season. Her stories have been included in over 20 children’s magazines, and she has been a member of the SCBWI since 2006.