I know it’s been a while. Sorry about that. Here is the result of a little experiment I’m doing. Maybe making video content will be a more active thing instead of written posts. Who knows.
I’m calling this Worth 1000 Words, and the video will explain most of it, but what I’m trying to do is find artwork and writing short stories of exactly 1000 words. Thought it would be a fun challenge and a way to get more content out there.
Artwork by Andis Reinbergs
Andis’s profile: https://www.artstation.com/andisreinbergs
Artwork: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/4bAK2W
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.
The Story
The birds. They swarmed the tower like flies on a corpse. Dark thoughts, but those were the only kind he could muster for the last few leagues.
He held his sword to eye level as if it could measure the distance he had yet to travel, the height of the door beyond the broken path.
A quarter blade. That’s how tall it was. Back in the village, old Hemster would use a brush to measure the proportions of his subjects while painting. The only artist in the village, Hemster was a bit of a celebrity. Men watched with curious eyes from the fields they worked in, women desired to be his subjects. These thoughts, these light thoughts, burned away the mist. He held on to them tightly, tighter than his sword, which two fists grasped. But his mind didn’t last nor his hands. His shield dragged him back to reality by the crook of his arm.
They will not see you.
A voice in his head, not his own. It crawled from the stones, the thousand upon thousand steps that drifted behind for as far as he could remember. That feeling of stone had become all he knew. The loam of the black hills, and the lowlands before them were not a feeling he could recall, though recall he tried, twisting the heel of his boot on the smooth step, then toe. Not the scrape of sand, not a whisper.
They do not have what you seek.
He was convinced the voice was his own. What did he know of sounds any longer? He could feel, yes. He could see. But hear? Nothing but the constant breath of nothingness.
Your eyes will not bring them to you. Your eyes will not bring you to them.
The voice had a direction now, and that direction was to his left, atop a rise of steps, marked by the tatters of banners with no meaning. His eyes he could trust.
Between the banners, as still as the dead trees, sat something. Someone. It didn’t matter which at this point. Whatever it was, it was the source, a well with a conduit into his mind.
He twisted the sword in his grip, angled his shoulders before finally turning his head instead of peeking from the corners where his helm obstructed most of the horror.
There you are.
A genderless voice. With his gaze upon it, it felt more real. He swore he could see the thing shift in its nest of stone and root.
Many steps you have come. I have felt every footfall, every breath. But this road is not meant for the likes of you. Though you set out with hopes as high as the dreams you shared with her, as high as the mountains that protected you in their warm embrace. As warm as stones can be. And, young one, I know of stone.
Ignore it. Turn your head. Not far to go. Maybe one hundred yards. Maybe less. These were messages from an island, floating in the deepest of waters. Ink. Mud. Mud hiding the bones of the dead.
Forgive me. I should have warned you sooner. I mean you no harm. I am not here to be a burden. I am not here to hinder your journey. Just know that it is over.
His boots were staked to the step at his feet. He glanced down to see the step split with moss, a cushion he didn’t notice before. It hadn’t been there. He was sure of it. Roots would rise from it, roots like the ones that weaved through the thing that would not shut up.
A step. It was all he needed to prove it was wrong.
Try.
He did. Nothing. His legs weren’t his own any longer. Could he feel them? He felt his hands, the shield hanging on his arm, the wrap of the hilt, the weight of the crossguard, the effort of keeping the sword upright, as strong and tall as the doorway burning like a hearth he so desperately needed.
Do not fear what you know already.
He knew he was going to move forward, cross the threshold of this creature, walk proudly across the distance to where he would find Them. The ones who could help him, who could bring back what he had lost. No. Not lost. She existed. In his mind. And that was all that mattered. They were as real as anything. Her touch, her sight, her voice.
Seen the others, had you not? The steps are littered with them. You thought them ornamental? You thought them placed with hands? With purprose?
He would have turned his head if he was able, but it was now as immovable as his legs. Lowering his gaze did nothing but provide the the blurred edge of his cheeks, split by his nose. A tuft of mustache.
The ground felt good though, and he cursed himself for enjoying the pleasure. It was the last thing he could feel. The sense of mass was all else he could perceive. But he reached out for the warmth of the distant portal. It was real. It was close. It was his for the taking. Golden sun, breaching the curtains, disturbing them with a gentle touch before the breeze followed, crawling across the floor, over flattened nails that held floorboards together, smooth with wear. Across the table where meals were had if they were lucky. Through a small crack in a door that was thought to be closed, should have been closed. Up rumpled sheets tucked around hay, to a hand. So pale, fragile. Pink nails biting into palm where the crust of dried blood marked a painful struggle. To a bosom that lay motionless, scaled with the salt of dried sweat. To a face, nested in hair as golden as the light that sought it.
No, young one. Like you. All of them. Your journey took you farther, but it ended all the same. Sleep well.