Reader's Review: "After Impact" by Nicole Stark

Synopsis from Amazon:

Imagine a world where everyone you know is gone.

Avalon Adams wakes up 100 years in the future in a new habitat with few memories and lots of questions. At first, HOPE (Humanity's One Plan for Escape) habitat appears to be a well-oiled machine, preparing 5,000 carefully chosen inhabitants for a new Earth. However, a medical assistant named Ilium reveals that certain members of the habitat have been falling ill from a mysterious virus they were inoculated against. Soon, the tranquil illusion of HOPE habitat is shattered as Avalon plays a perplexing message left by her father. Thrust into this new habitat, Avalon must decide who she can trust before it's too late.
>>>>>>>

My Review:

 

Not long after I started reading ReAwaken, I received a message from an author I'd never heard of, requesting a review for her book. (I love that, by the way!) Never being one to turn down free books, I accepted. The fact that I was super-fascinated by the premise, and there were a lot of positive reviews got me really excited to read it. The premise at first glance might be similar to ReAwaken, but the same could be said for Hunger Games and Divergent, and look how well those turned out.

I have frequently said that great writing is a sort of telepathy—great stories plunge readers deep into the world of the characters, making them feel every sensation, every emotion. It's what makes the narrative come to life, to leap off the page and live and breathe in the mind of the reader. After Impact is a great example of the balance between showing and telling, and how important it is to have that balance.

Don't get me wrong, it started out okay: Avalon was disoriented, still learning, and a bit stiff from her long sleep. It was a neat way to introduce Illium and give her (and the reader) a sort of tour guide through the habitat that is the setting for most of the novel. However, Illium was a character that took a long time coming "off the page", as it were. The reader is told that Avalon developed sudden feelings for him, but I never really got a sense of what he looked like, much less his unique voice or any other kind of sensory description. The secondary characters were set up as one of two camps "Pro-Avalon" or "Anti-Avalon", and it was plain by the dialogue exactly where everyone stood.

I read features from various other dystopian novels, patched into this narrative in a very piecemeal way—it definitely gave the impression that the author is an avid fan of post-apocalyptic dystopian YA, and so she wanted a novella with all her favorite plot devices. However, these were so minced and piled into one another, rather than cultivated and explained as to "how" and "why" that it came off rather abrupt, and the ending fell flat.

In a sense, After Impact reminded me of my own early attempts at writing. Sci-fi is difficult, and with all the YA post-apocalyptic dystopian options out there, I understand the challenge of actually creating something new—but I also know that it is not impossible. I view this debut as very brave, even if a little rough, and I applaud it. In short, the novel left me wanting more: more about the setting, more variation between the characters, more emotion, more drive to the climax, and more closure in the ending.

I would give After Impact a rating of ***3.5 Stars***, but definitely I would also put Nicole Stark on a list of "Indie Authors To Watch", since this novella has demonstrated her marvelous creativity—so long as she continues to write, each successive release will be better than the last!

Further Reading: (Post-Apocalyptic/Conspiracy/Sci-Fi/Thriller)

Starstruck Saga--S. E. Anderson

       -Starstruck

-Countless As The Stars--Steve Trower 

-The Secret King: Letháo--Dawn Chapman

The Children of Dreki--N. R. Tupper
       -TYR 

The Red Dog Conspiracy--Patricia Loofbourrow
       -The Alcatraz Coup 
       -Jacq of Spades 
       -Queen of Diamonds 
       -Ace of Clubs 

-Anamatus--Derrick Tribble

The Chronicles of Lorrek--Kelly Blanchard
        -Someday I'll Be Redeemed 
        -I Still Have A Soul 
        -I'm Still Alive 
        -Do You Trust Me? 
        -You Left Me No Choice 
        -They Must Be Stopped

The Suggestion Box, Vol. 3: "One Thousand Words" List #34

Suggested by: Meaghann Ande

The List: 
-Rasputin
-modern day
-a bridge in Manhattan
-a bullet

The Result:

"Here Endeth The Lesson"

 

The streets of Manhattan rang with the clamor of metro trains and honking cars, the hiss of pipes exposed by construction zones. 

A young man climbed out of the nondescript yellow taxi and glanced around at the tall skyline stretching above him. The driver eyed the erstwhile passenger, noting the blank-black slacks and generic collared dress shirt, far outstripped in quality by the custom-cobbled luxury Italian leather shoes. The fare appeared on the screen at the driver's elbow, and he saw the flashing platinum card as the young man swiped without even checking the price. He stepped away, picking his way across the dingy pavement. The cabbie shrugged and moved on. 

The expensive shoes strode down the sidewalk in a controlled haste. He glanced at the corner of every block till he found the street he wanted, then watched the building numbers carefully, counting under his breath till he found the one he sought. Ducking through the rusty iron gate, he slithered his way down the crowded, hazy alley, stepping around puddles and over people completely addled either by drugs or alcohol. Only one man sat serene and aloof against the wall near the back of the alley. A rat nibbled a piece of refuse at his foot.

 

The man crouched before him respectfully to deliver his message.

"She is here."

The man's eyes flicked up. "Are you certain?" He spoke with a thick Eastern European accent, that a few dozen decades of life outside his home country could not erase.

The man held his gaze. "You instructed me not to attempt contacting you until I was certain."

The weird, beady eyes fixed on him. "And you swore it would be so."

The messenger nodded. "I am a man of my word, Lord Rasputin."

The man scowled and his eyes flared. "Idiot! I told you never to call me by name! I should have cast a spell over you as Lutia has."

The man tipped his head at the unfamiliar name. "As whom, my lord?"

Rasputin waved his hand. "Never mind! I accept her terms and I will meet her at daybreak tomorrow, upon the Manhattan Bridge."

 

The young man gaped in surprise, as he had just been thinking about those very same arrangements but he couldn't comprehend them. Now the time and place of the meeting—and the existence of two very powerful wizards in the city of New York—vanished from his mind, and he was once again Nick Anderson, a cubicle grunt from upstate who had no business in the Bronx—so what was he doing here? He stumbled out of the grungy alleyway to hail a cab to take him home.

Alone and shrouded by his secrets, Rasputin mulled over the impending meeting. Lutia had been one of his best and brightest pupils, coming to him nightly for lessons in his craft. But he had seen too much ambition and jealousy in her, so he sent her away, and did not contact her again.

Rasputin chortled in vindictive mirth as the old wound in his chest stung at the memory. That fool Yusupov had plied him with poisons and shot him at point-blank range, but he should have known the most powerful sorcerer in the world would have a contingency plan for this: a cursed crown so powerful, a single touch and its magic would not fade. It did not heal scars, of course, or prevent diseases, but Grigori Rasputin literally could not die. He merely woke up again a few hours later and continued with his life. He had thought to live out the rest of his days in the seclusion of filth and decay in America, but the arrival of the messenger changed all that.

"Lutia," he mused. "What are you planning?"

She could not know about the crown. Rasputin himself did not know anything was amiss until he had startled awake in a ditch on the edge of an abandoned field, riddled with the scars of bullet wounds, but otherwise unharmed. She might have been bitter about the "payment" he had demanded for her lessons—but to seek him out when the world thought he had been dead for one hundred years? She had to know something.

"Lutia," he murmured, "what are you doing, my pet?"

The next dawn broke over the New York skyline, and two figures stood opposite each other on a bridge shrouded by fog. Rasputin could barely distinguish his former protege on the other side. Her long black gown and straight dark hair gave her the appearance of an angel of death. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

"Well met, my young apprentice. Why have you desired to meet me here? Have you come for more lessons?"

Lutia raised but one hand, and all of the fog gathered behind her, billowing in a black cloud.

"I have all the knowledge I need!" She fired back. "Now you will pay as you have not paid ever before!"

Rasputin took a step nearer to her.

"Look closely, Lutia," he replied. "I have lived one hundred years. Men have tried to kill me—Nature herself raised all manner of illness and storm against me," he pointed a finger at himself. "And yet I live!"

Lutia grinned darkly from under the lengthy tresses. "But no man can cheat death completely. You have lived thus far, my mentor, but there is still only one thing that can kill you."

Rasputin felt the cold chill of horror wash over him as she reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew an object, which she aimed at him.

He relaxed and laughed long and derisively. 

"A gun?" He crowed. "Need I remind you, witch, that I have been shot before!" He bared his chest. "No bullet can harm me!" He marched toward the middle of the bridge.

Lutia swept forward as well, keeping the weapon trained on his heart. "You are destined to live, by the cursed crown, till the Sword of Might be lifted against you," she intoned softly.

Rasputin stopped; curses! She knew about the crown! He fought to hide the fact that he had not heard the last part of the prophecy.

"Sword of might, you say?" He echoed. "Then we both know that gun won't kill me."

Lutia never wavered. She glared at him. "It will if the bullets are formed of the melted blade." She pulled the trigger.

Rasputin heard the report, staggered backwards as the old familiar ache spread and raged in his chest. He had been shot before. He knew what it felt like.

This time it was different. Rasputin coughed, writhed upon the ground, the embodiment of his own psyche scrambling to regain the lifeline that had been all but molded to its hands, now severed suddenly, for the first time.

Lutia stood over him, a leering vulture surveying a fresh new corpse. 

"Here at the last," she mimicked his final words to her all those years ago, "the spirits make clear who is the master and who is the pupil." She leaned in and whispered into his ear as the world faded far more slowly than it ever had. "Begone, I have no more use for you."

 

Continuous Stories:

 

"Soul Mates": (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 7) (Part 8)

"Serenity's Light":  (Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) 

Crossover Parts: "Rendezvous" (SM 6/SL 2) "The Viking and the Lore-Master" (SM 9/SL 4)

Single Posts:

#33 "Natural History"

#31 "The Siren Song" Part 2

#30 "Perchance to Dream"

#27 "Beware of Fairies"

#26 "The Tides of Battle"

#24 "The Novice"

#23 "Occupational Heresy"

#22 "In Loving Memory"

#19 "Story Time"

#17 "Stranger Tides"

#16 "Chance Encounters"

#14 "The Trial"

#13 "Help Wanted"

#12 "No Place Like Home"

#10 "Yellow Fever"

#8 "The Siren Song" 

#4 "Inside The Impact Zone"
#2 "The Artist's Wife"    

#1 "Red of Morning"

 

The Suggestion Box, Vol. 3: "One Thousand Words" List #33

Suggested by: Raven Ramsey

The List:
-Lucia
-a crazy scientist grandfather's house
-tea time
-a velociraptor egg

The Result:

"Natural History"

 

Lucia Montgomery leaned against the train window and watched the green hills rolling by. It was a long ways to Tipperary, but he had promised that their destination would make the journey worthwhile.

“There is such lots to see at my grandfather’s house!” Tobin had enthused. “He’s a massive collector of rare and valuable things—and interesting, too.”

Of course, Lucia sighed as she envisioned a crotchety old man, glaring at them over his hooked, warty nose, calling them children and sternly admonishing them not to touch anything. Who knows? Probably everything in there would be boring old portraits or naked statues—who would want to touch those? She sniffed and played with the folds of her blue pinafore. Well, she wasn’t a child, anyway! She was thirteen years old, and quite responsible enough to take care of herself—she’d come all this way, quite alone, hadn’t she?

Lucia shivered and glanced around the sparsely-populated carriage. Yes, quite alone indeed; these lot of strangers gave her sidelong glances but not much else in the way of “how-do-you-do” or any other social nicety. She only wished the train could move faster so that she could get off and find Tobin and be back with someone who enjoyed her company.

“Tipperary Station! Tipperary Station!” cried the conductor, over the hissing screech of the brakes as the train pulled up alongside a small building. Few people milled about, mostly men for unloading luggage and maintaining a clean station, such as it was. Lucia stepped down from the train and stood on the end of the platform facing the road into town, carefully watching the faces of everyone around her, in case one of them might be Tobin. He did not appear to be waiting for her here—but then again, did he say he would be, or had she made that assumption herself?

Lucia sighed and sat on the bench outside of the station, kicking her black-booted heels in frustration. The sun was at its peak, it was nearly teatime, and she was wondering furiously whether this was such a good idea for one so young to travel so far with little means of being able to find her own lodging, in case something happened to the one she planned for.

A loud clatter disturbed her musings. Lucia looked up and shielded her eyes. A large wooden cart drawn by two horses thundered down the road, driven by a small shape she couldn’t quite make out until the cart rolled to a stop. The white-shirted figure looked out from under the brim of a wide straw hat and waved enthusiastically.

“Lucia! I knew you’d come!”

Lucia stood and carried her bags over to the wagon. Tobin extended a grubby hand to help her up. She saw that he wore his customary black breeches—but his feet were bare, as was the lower part of his legs. He smiled at her, taking off his hat to run his hand through his unruly black hair that insisted on sticking in every which direction rather than just one. “Are you ready to visit my grandfather?”

“Does he know that I am coming?” Lucia asked tentatively.

Tobin bobbed his head and snapped the reins, sending the horses forward and back down the road he had come. “Oh yeah; I told him once or twice—though if he was actually listening or not, I can’t tell. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He reached over and grasped her hand. Suddenly, the three-year age difference between them didn’t seem so very great a gap, and Lucia almost felt more womanly for the way they were behaving like two adults, instead of a sixteen-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl riding together in a wagon to spend a holiday with some wizened patriarch in Tobin’s family tree whom he had never met, and his parents had not seen in years. Things were certainly different in the Montgomery household; in addition to Lucia’s parents and six siblings, there also lived with them three aunts, two of which had multiple children about the ages of Lucia’s younger siblings, her father’s father, and her grandmother on her mother’s side. All in all a rowdy bunch—Lucia could not imagine going more than a few months without seeing another family member. What sort of man must he be, to seclude himself so? Or perhaps, as Tobin alluded, he might have “forgotten” his family—but what could be so important that it consumed his attention so?

They arrived at the foot of a very long hill with a winding path up to the mansion that crowned the hillside, so Lucia had plenty of time to imagine what sort of a collection this man might have.

“You’ll like it here, I think,” Tobin was saying. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things Grandpa has collected over the years; he was a biologist, you know—a real scientist. There are a lot of animal things in his house—practically a skeleton in every corner!”

Immediately, a terrifying vision of gruesome, morbid skeletons piled willy-nilly about a dark, stony, Gothic castle sprang to Lucia’s mind. She shuddered.

Tobin broke off his chatter. “You’re not cold, are you?” he reached over and tenderly swept a lock of her nut-brown hair away from her face.

“I don’t like skeletons,” Lucia responded in a small voice, afraid of announcing too loudly; who knew how well sound carried on a slope like this?

Tobin chuckled. “Not that kind, silly! I mean there are a bunch of animal bones—like statues of animals, but without the skin on.”

Lucia rolled her eyes. “If you can’t make it better, Tobin, dear, at least have the decency to refrain from making it worse!”

He shrugged and urged the horses onward.

They pulled up to the big black door. The house was very neo-Gothic in style, with high, vaulted arches and flying buttresses decorating the exterior. The door itself was tall enough that Lucia could have stood upon Tobin’s shoulders and still had plenty of room over her head. They made it as far as the foyer and stopped. Lucia gasped.

The entire house was crawling with the displayed skeletons of animals she hadn’t known existed. A staircase wound its way up the middle, but all around were skulls of every shape and size, including one with enormous tusks arcing out in front; the head of a moose stared at her from one side, while some large ancestor to the crocodile swam in midair far over her head.

Something brushed her ankles, and Lucia leaped into the air with a scream.

“Einstein!” Tobin cried, lunging for the small white shape. He stood with an armful of wriggling white dog. “Lucia, this is Einstein, Grandfather’s puppy.” He held the animal tightly until it calmed down, staring at Lucia with its tiny black eyes, wiggling its tiny black nose, and panting with its tiny pink tongue hanging out. It lunged for her hand when she reached out, but once she got her fingers buried in its fur, Einstein settled down and accepted the petting. Finally, Tobin set the dog down, but it kept fairly close to Lucia’s ankles.

“Here,” said Tobin, “Grandpa is usually upstairs; let me bring you to meet him.”

Lucia almost objected to being taken so soon to meet the crazy scientist who lived in such a terrifying house—but just then, both children heard a loud yell—but whether of surprise or pain they couldn’t tell.

Tobin’s eyes widened in alarm as they stared up the stairs, where the sound originated.

“Grandpa!” he cried, and charged up the steps.

“Wait for me!” Lucia cried, gathering her skirts and ascending after him.

They reached the top of the stairs, where total silence reigned.

“Grandfather?” Tobin called.

He received no answer. They moved deeper, past even more wonderful displays, to the little room at the back that held not another exhibit, but a desk and loads of books—obviously the man’s study. Slowly, the two friends crept inside.

Papers were everywhere—piled high on the desk, strewn on the floor. One half-filled piece of paper still rested on the blotter, with a thick stroke of ink right down the middle, as if something had interrupted his writing.

Lucia’s quick eyes found an errant detail in the room. She pointed. “Tobin, look!”

One of the paintings on the wall had been pulled away on one side, like a door. Inside the hidden compartment was a safe, also open.

“I wonder what Grandfather was keeping in there,” Tobin mused.

A whine from Einstein called their attention to another side of the room, just under the window. The little dog nudged at something round and whitish, like a rock. Closer inspection proved that it wasn’t a rock, it felt more like an egg.

“But what animal could lay an egg that size?” Lucia cried.

“I think I know,” mused Tobin, looking at the label left inside the safe. “Grandpa had been talking a lot about dinosaurs of late, but I always assumed he meant the fossils and the bones.” He brought the label for Lucia to see. “Apparently, he has found himself a perfectly intact velociraptor egg.”

“But what are we going to do with it?” asked Lucia.

Just then, the egg began to hatch.

Continuous Stories:

 

"Soul Mates": (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 7) (Part 8)

"Serenity's Light":  (Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) 

Crossover Parts: "Rendezvous" (SM 6/SL 2) "The Viking and the Lore-Master" (SM 9/SL 4)

Single Posts:

#31 "The Siren Song" Part 2

#30 "Perchance to Dream"

#27 "Beware of Fairies"

#26 "The Tides of Battle"

#24 "The Novice"

#23 "Occupational Heresy"

#22 "In Loving Memory"

#19 "Story Time"

#17 "Stranger Tides"

#16 "Chance Encounters"

#14 "The Trial"

#13 "Help Wanted"

#12 "No Place Like Home"

#10 "Yellow Fever"

#8 "The Siren Song" 

#4 "Inside The Impact Zone"
#2 "The Artist's Wife"    

#1 "Red of Morning"

The Suggestion Box, Vol. 3: "One Thousand Words" List #32

Suggested by: Me

The List:
-Kharrie
-empty house
-Christmastime
-a cell phone

The Result:

"Serenity's Light" Part 7

 

The motley group of tentative allies gathered in a nearby empty house within sight of Sarah Brighton’s front door. Kenneth looked around at all of them: the old woman who had seen him emerge from a magic portal with a wood-sprite in tow and acted like it was all in a day’s work for her; the burly warrior, who had rapidly adjusted to his new life, and was even picking up more English words than he ever thought possible; and now this strange woman who looked like she stepped out of a fantasy novel and knew everyone in the group by their roles, even if she didn’t know their names.

He sighed. “All right,” he said to the woman. “We’re alone, and we won’t be overheard. Now will you tell us how you knew who we were, and what you know about the Relics?”

The woman turned her strange gaze over everyone. “It is most peculiar,” she breathed. “You are all not remotely the sort of beings I envisioned you to be.” Nerissa dropped the somber demeanor and smiled at Agnes. “Please, tell me your names!”

Kenneth pointed to himself and then to each of the others. “I’m Kenneth, the wood sprite is Nakoma; that is Agnes—and apparently you have already met Jens.”

“What do you mean, you envisioned us?” Agnes demanded. “How did you know who we would be?”

Nerissa leaned back in the plastic lawn chair as if she was lounging on a throne. “I could identify you all because I devised the roles I would need to succeed in my quest, and set events in motion that would bring you all together right where and when I needed you.”

Agnes gasped, “You’re the one who sent the letter telling me about the Rift?”

“Then you also must have been the one who commissioned the exploration trip that brought me to the Duirfin forest, where I would cross paths with Nakoma,” Kenneth guessed, even as his rational mind tried to make him realize how bizarre the theory sounded as he spoke it.

Nerissa nodded. “I was the one, also, who struck the Northman here and left him at the site of the portal you knew as the Rift—and I was the one who sent the Relics to the museum you were just trying to get access to.”

Kenneth huffed, “So, what are these Relics you speak of? And why exactly did you need someone like me?”

Nerissa grew serious again as she watched him. “I am sorry for your loss, Kenneth; for you, this mission is much more personal, because you need at least one of the Relics, even more than I need all three of them.” Their eyes met, and Kenneth knew that she understood his desperation. Nerissa continued, “The Relics are three enchanted items that have as their source the light that I now carry: the Light that once gave light to all who lived in my realm: Serenity.”

Kenneth pulled out the brochure that displayed the three items in their display case. “So the collar I know about, because Nakoma told me,” he pointed to the item in question.

“The crown,” Jens supplied, “I touched the crown and it gave me eternal life.”

“Really?” Agnes asked, staring at him in surprise.

Jens nodded. “I was set upon by a pack of wild wolves, and rather than dying, I awoke some time later, with the scars you no doubt saw when you found me.” He pointed to his chest, where Agnes and Kenneth well remembered the state of his body and his clothes when they found him.

“What about the sword?” asked Kenneth.

“The sword holds the power of strength,” Nerissa answered. “It gives the bearer the courage and fortitude to achieve their goals.” She looked up at Jens. “I was the one to carry the sword when the Darkness first attacked in the Forgotten Wood, and it enabled me to acquire the Light of Serenity. I gave it to my friend Relaya, a Fae—and the next time I saw it, you carried the sword. Tell me,” her gaze narrowed, “what did you do to my friend?”

Jens drew himself up defensively. “No more than you did to me!” he protested. “The witch who discovered me and told me of the crown sent me through one of your portals, and she appeared in front of me. I knocked her down and grabbed the sword, and a large bird chased me through another portal, back into a time very close to my own.”

Nakoma perked up at the mention. “This bird you speak of, did it cry kharrie, kharrie?”

“Yes it did,” Jens looked at the little brown sprite warily.

“Please, can we return to the matter at hand?” Nerissa raised her hand urgently. She turned back to Kenneth. “As I was saying, these three Relics are parts and aspects of the power within Serenity itself, that divided when the Darkness took hold. Our legends spoke of a Lore-Master from another dimension who wanted neither power nor immortality, nor the destruction of memory, who alone would have the ability to use the Relics rightly and unite them once more to bring back Serenity and restore my realm.”

Kenneth pointed to himself. “And you think I am that Lore-Master from your legends?”

Nerissa shrugged. “You are the only Lore-Master for whom these Relics hold any kind of relevance.”

“Behold!” Jens cried out before Kenneth quite finished considering the ramifications of his new position. “The curator emerges!” He pointed out the window facing the Brightons’ house.

Everyone watched as Sarah scurried out, garbed in a heavy coat that obscured her face, and clutching something in her arms. She must have seen them enter the house, because she made straight for the front door, left her burden on the front porch, and departed down the street.

Kenneth stood up, but Nerissa put out her hand to stop him.

“I’ll go,” she said.

The others waited till she returned with a yellow mailing envelope. Inscribed in black marker across the front was the message, “WAIT FOR MY CALL. –S”

Inside the envelope was an old cell phone. Nerissa held it between two fingers.

“What manner of device is this?” she asked.

“I’ll take it,” said Kenneth, grabbing it from her.

Minutes later, a shrill trilling rent the nervous silence. Kenneth answered it.

“Hello?”

“Is this the man who wanted to speak to me?” Sarah’s voice sounded hushed, scared, and breathless.

“Yes,” Kenneth answered. “Why won’t you—“

“I don’t have much time,” Sarah interrupted him, “and I wanted to explain myself. I don’t know much about what is going on, either, but I just want you to know—I have been warned not to cooperate with you, and I am afraid they’re watching my house, which is why I had to contact you this way.”

“Warned by whom?”

“I’m getting to that! So you know about the artifacts that I have on display at the museum where I work—I’m assuming that’s what this whole thing is about, though I cannot fathom why!”

“Yes, the artifacts,” Kenneth confirmed. “Go on.”

“So anyway, I never connected the two events before today, but a few months earlier, around Christmastime, two men came to my door, showed me a ring that apparently belonged to a very important lady, and asked about a shipment. Of course, there hadn’t been any shipments like the one they described, so I had no idea what they were talking about, but then they told me that when the shipment came I was to be on the lookout for a gang of thieves—and the pictures they showed me were of every one of you!”

“What is it?” Nerissa had seen the startled look on Kenneth’s face.

Kenneth shook his head, wanting to get the whole story before Sarah had to leave. “How did they get our pictures?”

“I have no idea—and that’s not even the crazy part. So just a few weeks ago, I went to the exhibit hall to check on the artifacts, like the instructions told me to do—and there was this huge portrait in there that had not been there the day before. I asked my boss and a few others about it, but they just acted like it had been there this whole time, and I just never noticed it, when I swear it was not there!” She sighed. “What freaked me out was that the lady in the painting was wearing the same ring that those men had shown me! But the painting was from the end of the nineteenth century—how could that same ring still exist, and how could the people who have it find me?”

“So there’s this painting,” Kenneth prompted the frightened woman back to the story.

Sarah took the hint. “Okay, so there’s this painting just magically showing up, so I just took it down to examine it closer—and there’s a letter, addressed to ‘the curator of the Museum of Fine Art in New York,’ taped on the back! It had no date, but it was signed ‘Lady Jocelyn Stark.’ She said something like this was her painting, and that she was watching me, and that if I didn’t do exactly as she said and refuse to cooperate with a group of five strangers wanting my help for something connected to the three artifacts, then—“ Fear overtook her once more and she choked on her words. “Then she could put a plan in motion that would grant her legal custody of my daughter, Lilly. Please,” she begged, her voice very close to a sob, “you have to believe me; that’s why I put on that big show of slamming the door on you, and refusing to help. I want to—I just don’t want anything to happen to my family!”

Kenneth met the eyes of the people gathered around him. Nerissa had chosen them all—everyone knew the importance of this mission. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Brighton—“

“Sarah, please,” she allowed.

“Sarah,” Kenneth amended. “We will make a plan, keep you informed, and we will make sure nothing happens to jeopardize you or your family. Is this cell phone all right for us to keep in touch?”

“Yes, I’ve memorized the number, and nobody knows about it. You can call me at the museum and act like a patron setting up a tour, it would be much more difficult to track you that way.”

“Good idea. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you! And good luck!” She hung up right away.

Kenneth set the phone down and looked at the others. “That was Sarah,” he said, and filled them in on the whole conversation.

“This Lady Jocelyn Stark,” Nerissa mused, “she is, after all, the enemy who wants to acquire the artifacts for herself?”

Kenneth nodded with a pensive expression. “Something else she said,” he recalled. “This Lady Jocelyn who had her portrait painted almost two hundred years ago somehow had modern photographs of all five of us.”

“Does this mean she is immortal, as I am?” Jens guessed.

“Or perhaps she is Fae, and can travel through time with portals,” Nakoma added.

“How are we going to help the poor woman when we risk her losing her daughter every time one of us makes contact with her?” Agnes fretted.

As if in answer, a screech, “Kharrie!!” sounded over their heads as a large figure flew down toward the group.

“Kharrie!” Nakoma cried in answer as the golden eagle landed next to her and leaned over her shoulder. The two soul mates embraced.

When everyone looked back to Nerissa, another woman had joined her, with pointed ears and a dress slightly soiled as if she had come a long ways on foot. The second woman smiled at them, and Nerissa gestured to her as she spoke.

“Here is our answer,” she said. “Lore-Master Kenneth, you say that Lady Jocelyn has five photographs? Well, here is our sixth member, whom she does not know. Everyone, this is Relaya, and she will help us reclaim the lost Relics and outwit our enemy.”

Previously in This Series:

Continuous Stories:

 

"Soul Mates": (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 7) (Part 8)

"Serenity's Light":  (Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 5) (Part 6)

Crossover Parts: "Rendezvous" (SM 6/SL 2) "The Viking and the Lore-Master" (SM 9/SL 4)

Single Posts:

#31 "The Siren Song" Part 2

#30 "Perchance to Dream"

#27 "Beware of Fairies"

#26 "The Tides of Battle"

#24 "The Novice"

#23 "Occupational Heresy"

#22 "In Loving Memory"

#19 "Story Time"

#17 "Stranger Tides"

#16 "Chance Encounters"

#14 "The Trial"

#13 "Help Wanted"

#12 "No Place Like Home"

#10 "Yellow Fever"

#8 "The Siren Song" 

#4 "Inside The Impact Zone"
#2 "The Artist's Wife"    

#1 "Red of Morning"

Flash Fiction Friday:"Arthur and The Egg"

The Prompt

The Result:

They called it The Egg because of its shape: round, oblong, and slightly pointed at the top. It was the most perfectly formed piece of natural geology anyone had ever seen, plopped at the back of Echo Cave, "Fresh from the stone chicken's butt!" Sam would say.

"Yeah right," Arthur said this time, as they clambered around the uneven surface. "There is no such thing as a stone chicken!"

"Oh yeah?" Sam retorted, pushing the sweaty fringe of his deep-blond mop. "What else could have left this here?"

Arthur sighed, leaning back to let the nylon climbing rope take his weight to ease the soreness in his back. "Nothing left it, you dork," he scoffed. "It's just a rock, shaped like an egg." He stomped on it with his hiking boot. The two friends rappelled down to the ground and started packing up their gear.

"Hey," Sam suggested, "wanna meet for drinks later?"

Arthur shook his head. "Nah; Mom will probably have plenty to keep me busy when I get home."

Sam snorted. "So? You are a grown man, Artie! Just because people tell you what to do doesn't mean you can't have your own ideas!"

Arthur shrugged. He didn't say it, but more often than not he felt it was just easier to be told what to do, than make his own choices.

"See you around, Sam."

"Later, loser!"

Arthur climbed into his dad's old beat-up Chevy, turned the key, pumped the gas, and the truck choked and roared to life. His mom had been telling him the truck should have died when his dad did, but Artie was bound and determined to keep driving it till it did. He wheezed and coughed the old rust-bucket all the way back home.

His mother, a stern, wrinkled, formidable woman by the name of Esther, waited on the porch when he pulled up.

"Bout time you got back!" She barked, hands on her broad hips as she glared at him over the bib of her soiled apron. "What you been doing all day? I've been working my tail off since sun-up, washing clothes, cleaning the house, weeding the garden," she snorted, "pitiful as it is. Well, boy?" She folded her arms. "Have you made yourself useful today?"

Arthur sighed; he'd wandered into town, helped a schoolteacher herd a bunch of rowdy kids, assisted a perfect stranger with enough groceries for both of them to carry.

"Found a job yet?"

He'd wandered into a few establishments, but they'd immediately asked for some kind of credentials, and Arthur hadn't quite managed to fully navigate the educational field yet.

Esther shook her head and waddled back into the tumbledown shack they called home.

"What am I going to do with you?" She mourned.

Arthur felt his heart turn to lead as he saw the mound of bills and debts they owed, piling up as Esther fought and scrimped for every plug nickel. Mother and son sat at the table, staring at a dinner consisting of two old frankfurters and a single potato.

Esther huffed. "I'm getting paid tomorrow; I'll go shopping right off and get us enough food to last till the next payday."

Arthur chewed the tasteless beef gloomily. "Isn't there some way else we can make money, so we don't have to keep running out of food the day before payday?"

Esther glared at him. "You could go out and get a job," she grumbled.

"I'm trying," said Arthur. "But my people skills are better than my practical ones, and the people in charge of hiring don't often get to see that before they turn me down." He sighed. "Besides, even if I did get a job, would that be enough?" He gestured to the rickety table piled with red-stamped envelopes.

Esther picked at her potato and sighed. "No," she said softly. "I guess the only other option—"

Arthur knew what was coming and he tensed. "No, ma," he begged, "Don't say it."

"—Is to sell the truck."

"No!" Arthur protested hotly. "That truck is the last thing of Dad's that I still have! It's my only link to ever even finding a good job!"

"Well then," Esther fired back, "why ain't you got one yet? No, Artie; you're selling that rust-bucket first thing in the morning, and you make a profit out of it—and don't even think about showing up back here until you do!" She slammed a calloused palm on the table, and that was final.

Arthur lay on his cot to sleep, but he remained wide awake. He knew the truck wouldn't be worth much to anyone else in the world, but compared to the thought of never having that truck again, no price was good enough. 

But what choice did they have?

>>>>>

"Ye tha'un sellin' that-thar truck, m'lad?"

Arthur glanced up and appraised the speaker: he was a vagrant, as evidenced by his motley assortment of clothes, and the dirty, leathery look to his skin. His eyes, though; those eyes drew Arthur in, compelled him to see past the grungy exterior, to the wise man beneath.

"Yes," he answered the man's inquiry.

The strange man tilted his head to one side. "Ye don't sound too pleased with there merchandise."

Arthur shook his head. "Oh no, I'm pleased, all right. It's just..." He sighed, as his despondence detected a willing ear and an open demeanor in the stranger. "I would rather not, but I don't have a choice. I—we need the money."

"Aye," the man nodded. "I den't ha' much o' the moanies mesel', but I kin halps the folk who need it. Ye say ye den't ha' the choosin', but I kin make ye'n offer what gives another way."

Arthur squinted at the strange, glinting eyes. "How do you mean?"

"How would ye like a job, instead o' sellin' tha truck?"

Arthur bounded to his feet. "You would give me a job? What kind of job?"

The man chuckled and leaned against the cab of the truck. "Ever seen a dragon, lad?"

Arthur snorted. "No; dragons don't exist."

The man waggled his eyebrows. "But they might; I be searchin' fer one mesel'. Been searchin' everywhere I can, tryin' ta find one. Legend says they once roamed the world; now all that's left is pieces of their hoard." The man reached under some flap of cloth and pulled out a jingling leather bag. "And that's how I mean to find it."

The tale had just about taken root in Arthur's mind. Suddenly, the idea of a dragon wasn't so far-fetched, even if it was just a theory. "How do you use the hoard to find a dragon?" He asked.

The man dug into the bag with grimy fingers and pulled out a solid-gold coin. "A dragon's hoard isn't just money that it stole; when a dragon takes, it purifies the gold, melting it with its breath and fashioning it into its own coins." He flipped the coin into the air between them, and Arthur caught it. The coin certainly felt otherworldly, and the miniature dragon etched into its surface more ornate than anything Arthur had ever seen.

"The hoard is always trying to get back to the dragon, y'see," the man continued. "And so a dragon-hunter can search for the dragon by spreading these coins around, holding onto them. In the presence of a dragon, the coins will melt, seeping back into the dragon's scales, where they came from." He poured a handful into Arthur's dumbfounded palm. "Weel ya hilp me?"

Unfortunately, this last petition was one step too far for the man. Arthur felt the weight of the coins, but he also saw the fool's errand he would trade the truck for, and he pushed the man away.

"No!" Staggering blindly, he made for the cab of the truck. "You can't have it!"

The man poked his head through the passenger side window. He waved something rectangular and yellow at Arthur. "But wait, lad—"

Arthur turned the key and cranked the gas pedal, sending the truck bounding forward, forcing the man to pull out or be dragged under the jouncing wheels. 

Arthur steeled his mind against protests as he pulled onto the main thoroughfare, the one that would take him to Echo Cave. 

Tears stung his eyes, as remorse clogged his throat with a heart stony lump. Of all the interested parties for his beloved truck, the one offer he got had to be the kook with the melting coins! Arthur saw the looming form of the cave before him, and the truck sputtered to a stop without him having to apply the brake. He sat in the cab, gasping and grunting as the tears refused to come when his body so badly wanted to cry. Clenching a fist, he pounded against the door with his arm—

And heard something clank on the floor. Arthur glanced at his hand.

He still clutched two of the dragon-coins. One had dropped to the floor of his truck, and further inspection revealed one more fallen on the seat beside him and one somehow tucked into his pocket. Five coins in all; whether it was good gold or not, Arthur couldn't tell. His mother was superstitious, and suspicious to boot; if he came back with even one coin she would refuse to touch it, let alone spend it. A yellowed cover caught his eye; Arthur picked up the thing the man had dropped in his window: a small book, more like a pamphlet, really. He read the title: "On the Care and Feeding of Dragons and Their Eggs." On a whim, he opened it and read a few pages:

"No. 1: For best results, store the dragon egg in a cool, dry place, with plenty of room to grow. The larger it can grow before hatching, the better-behaved your dragon will be. Also, the more remote the location, the less chance of disturbance, which will only serve to exacerbate the incubation period.

No. 2: Proper hatching processes involve the use of gold and fire; gold to protect the hatchling, and fire to cure the shell for an easy emergence.

No. 3: An abandoned dragon will imprint on the first scent it detects upon hatching. Make sure to place a prized possession nearby, as the dragon will likely be as devoted to you as you were to the thing they imprint upon..."

With an angry bellow, Arthur tossed the book out the window. The charlatan had nearly had him; he had almost fallen for that whole dragon shtick. He would just have to find some other means of getting the money they needed.

Arthur sat in his truck, but the idea of that insane book still ate at him. He climbed out of the truck, and stomped on the book, grinding paper and ink into the dust and dirt. But it wasn't enough. Arthur felt the urge seize him: he needed to destroy the book, rid himself of every last shred of evidence that he had ever met the man. Digging into the glove compartment of his truck, he pulled out his dad's old lighter. He picked up the battered book and made sure all five coins were in his pocket as he made his way into Echo Cave, all the way back to the foot of The Egg. Tossing the book down, he dropped the coins on top of it, and torched the whole mess. The book burned quickly, becoming nothing but layers of blackened ash, as the coins seemed to lose substance as well, melting and pooling as if there happened to be a dragon nearby. Arthur watched the blaze.

"Artie?" He looked up as Sam's voice echoed through the cave. "You in there?"

Arthur trudged out of the cave, leaving his one act of vandalism behind. "Sam," he said, shaking his head and returning to reality, "what are you doing here?"

Sam clapped him on the back. "Heard you were selling your truck, and I just knew there would be trouble! Why didn't you tell me you were strapped?"

Arthur shrugged awkwardly as they headed back to Sam's car, parked alongside the truck. Arthur smirked; guess nobody was getting his truck now. Tow trucks weren't allowed this far outside the city limits; his dad's memory would be stranded out here till the last bolt rusted away. 

Sam nodded toward it. "You wanna—"

"It's dead anyhow," Artie informed him. "What's the point?"

Sam nodded. "Well then let me give you a ride home."

Arthur winced. "Actually," he said. "I think I'd rather spend the day with you, if that's okay."

Sam wasn't rich, at least, not in the traditional sense of the word, but he had a decent pad, consistent work, enough food for two people. He shrugged.

"Okay."

Arthur forgot all about crackpots and dragons as he hung out with Sam, doing odd jobs to assist his friend, and trying to be as useful as he could. He sank onto the "guest mattress" on Sam's floor that night, and merely dropped off to sleep without much preamble. 

Whatever his intentions, his psyche had other ideas; that night, Arthur dreamed of his little bonfire in Echo Cave, but in his dream the flames built and grew till they engulfed the entire surface of The Egg, roaring and licking over the rocky surface. Rather than burn out, the flames seemed to leave behind an oily sheen, and when they finally died, Arthur dreamed that they left behind an egg that really did look like a massive shell of glossy black stone swirled and flecked with gold. The "shell" split with a loud CRACK, and Arthur bolted awake.

Sam stood in the small corner that served as his kitchen, looking up sheepishly as he bent over the remains of an eggshell shattered on the floor.

"Sorry about the noise," he said. "I was trying to let you sleep while I got ready for work, but the shell slipped out of my hands."

Arthur placed a hand on his chest to quell his galloping heart. "It's all right," he finally managed. "I just had a really weird dream—"

Sam stood completely still, staring over Arthur's head with a strange expression on his face. 

"Dude...." He spluttered.

Arthur stood and followed Sam's gaze to the window. "What are you—oh."

Sam's window afforded a decent view of the skyline—and towering over that was an enormous, scaly form, stretching its neck and flexing its wings and moving its massive head, as living animals usually did. In the early morning light, the newly-hatched dragon raised its head and roared at the sun.

"Oh, we are so screwed," muttered Sam.

Further Reading:

"The Prince and The Rose" (Part 2 is >HERE<)

-"The Glow" (A 3-Part Story)

-"My Father's Business"

-"The Fairy Godfather"