SHORT STORY - FLASH FICTION

SHORT STORY – FLASH FICTION TUTORIAL ASSIGNMENT

TASK: Walk from the classroom to another section of the University, taking note of sights, sounds, smells that we experience with the goal of writing a short story which will twist and turn depending on events we are given at times through the writing process.

Once we arrived at the final area where we would write our piece, we walked around the area further. The area was a nature area. In a notebook, I sketched out things I saw, as well as taking photographs for later use. These will be featured at the end of the post soon.


BLURB:

 University Student Chris McEwan thought his day was just like any other, unwilling to get out of bed until the latest possible moment before heading to his 9am class, but making it to class on time wasn't going to be a problem when he gets there Five Hundred years early.

After blacking out in his classroom, Chris awakens in the not so familiar surroundings of the 1500's James Graham building, but education isn't a high priority for the denizens Chris soon finds there as they begin to hunt him down in a brutal game of cat and mouse.

Chris soon discovers that he's not alone in fighting back against the robed maniacs who are baying for his blood, turning the tide in the heavily one-sided fight posed by resisting their attacks.

From the secluded compound of James Graham to the horrors of the Chaos Gate, the unlikely partnership find themselves making a final stand against the murderous Cult of Redemption in a last ditch attempt to escape back to their own eras and put an end to the time hopping, apocalyptic cult before their self fulfilling prophesy can be realised, unleashing an eternity of death and despair to all who oppose them under the red robes, ornate masks and the death call of the Cult of Redemption, Redemption! Redemption through fire and through blood!

The silent slumber was broken once more. Not by the cat seeking attention and food, diving from windowsill to the sleeping lump under the duvet, no, that ball of purring fluff had ran downstairs. I had heard him bound down the wooden, carpeted staircase, probably 5 steps at a time as usual, in that mysterious realm of half sleep. The intrusion to the dream plane was from the phone alarm next to my pillow. The incessant ringing jolted me to life as though using it's power source itself surging through me.

“Thank God for Snooze,” was all I could think.

Snooze, however, is a double edged sword. Longer in bed, harder to get up. 10 minutes to get ready and leave the house. Morning routines were raced through, but not overlooked. Breakfast was an “eat-on-the-move” affair, slicing off a piece of brioche and downing a glass of water. What I wouldn't give for a cup of tea, even with the clinically clean taste of Sensodyne toothpaste lingering in my mouth.

The weather, like my brain, was muggy. Leeds was cast in a muted grey, the sky was a seemingly still, unchanging grey, the misery added to by the slight drizzle dotting my winter jacket and phone as I loaded up a podcast into my headphones to block out the monotonous drone of the commuters and school-runners. The weather was deceptive, looking cold but in actuality was pretty warm, the cloud cover sealing in the precipitation, making the air warm and moist. I was rapidly regretting wearing such a warm coat and a jumper...

8:30am on the nose. Right on schedule. The voices of Stephen Brooks and Rob Yulfo reviewing the new TMNT film starting my day with humour as I still creep gingerly from the grips of sleep. I can feel myself heating up insanely fast as I reach a slightly wooded area with concrete pathway which leads up to the entrance of the university. I was getting pretty self-conscious of how hot I was getting, feeling as if I was about to start pouring with sweat and knowing that once I get in the classroom and take off the coat and jumper there was going to be a blast of heat and probably sweat that would be unbearable.

Rounding into one of the James Graham building's corner stairways and taking the stairs two at a time, footsteps reverberating through the tall, empty stairwell, it never struck me as odd that I hadn't seen anyone since I got into the University grounds, just the little ginger cat that had made the Headingley campus it's home since I had started my course two years ago. As I entered into the classroom, another corner room full of dual-boot Macs (not that I ever used the Mac setting), these were the only things in here, joining that “academic” smell from whatever cleaning products the government had deemed standard for all educational buildings, but seemingly more pronounced today. I looked at my phone, 9:00am. I didn't understand what was going on. There were usually about a dozen other Level 6 students in the room waiting, turning their heads to see who was entering the classroom, voices lowering as they try to register who it was. Not today, however. I walked over to what had become my regular seat and began to punch in my username to get on the computer system.

Then Blackness.

I awake with a thud. The world had walked up and punched me in the face, then lay down beside me. I was on the blue carpeted flo- no, wait... There is no carpet here, just bare wood. The silver covering on the desk legs were also wood. Carved with an ornate pattern, the smell of Oak permeating my senses. My arms felt heavy, like my veins decided it would be fun to guide gravel around my body rather than blood. The groggy, sleep mist in my brain was back and in a big way. Everything I was trying to take in just wouldn't sit with me. The computers in the room were gone, with them the dull hum of the fans. The warm white light from the florescent lights replaced with the dull flickering lights of candles on sconce's in the walls. The light was enough to make out a face that stared at me from the wall. Where the whiteboard had been affixed previously, in it's place now was the portrait of a portly, bearded man of obvious stature. The gold and bejewelled accessories on his clothing told me clearly this man was of massive wealth without even having to know who he was. Middle school history lessons came flooding back, lifting the mist in my mind. This was the portrait of King Henry VIII. The man who famously had his wives executed for being unable to give him a male heir. The man who founded the Church of England so he could divorce some of his wives.

“What the hell is going on here?!” I exclaimed aloud to myself. But, it would appear, not just to myself. I heard the scraping of chairs in another room. The slamming of a door and the rush of footsteps towards the room I was in. The door exploded inwards as I was rushed by a robed figure wearing a metal mask. The mask was a terrifying face, seemingly in excruciating pain, with horns curling from it's temples. The figure, presumably a male, wore a crimson robe with leather shoulder pads forming a type of armour for his chest and shoulders. The trim on the bottom of the robe was adorned with a flame motif. He brandished a blade at me. The blade was an unusual shape, not straight edged, but more like a snake, curved in a repeating “S” pattern. It must have been some form of ceremonial knife. But whatever it was for, it's being pointed at my throat and the maniac was chanting at me,

“Redemption, Redemption, through fire and through blood!”

He repeated this mantra as he charged forward, turning up to a blood curdling scream rendition of his line. He was closing in on my rapidly. He turned 15 feet to 5 in a second. I could only imagine the fevered expression under the unchanging mask he wore, saliva foaming in the corners of his mouth, his eyes wide and bloodshot...

I snapped out of my shock of being charged by this maniac, dropping to the floor and raising a foot to his groin.

“Underhanded,” I thought to myself, “but I don't think he would extend much courtesy to me as he was brandishing a knife at my face.”

He sailed through the air and collided with a solid Oak table which snapped a leg and collapsed him again into a heap on the floor. Blood began to pool on the floor, the dark wood becoming gradually darker of the crimson, copper smelling ooze flowed upon it. The mad man must have landed on his own knife.

“Better him than me,” I coldly muttered under my breath.

Leaving the James Graham building the way I came, down the reverberating stairwell, I heard the rush of more footsteps, sounding like bare skin slapping the stone stairs, making it sound like an army was pursuing me.

The weather outside was how I remember it, the solid sheet of grey cloud choking the landscape, refusing to betray the location of the Sun with it's thick presence.

I made a dash across the Acre, the large field dotted with trees, to put as much space between me and the crazed Tudorian cultists. More doors exploded out, this time actually being removed from their hinges, remnants of door frames settling to the ground as I turned to see the origin of the noise. Probably a dozen cultists dressed similarly to the original mad man I saw in the classroom saw me across the field and began chasing. Small knives were brandished above their heads as they gave chase, their screams could be heard clear as day, carried easily by the otherwise silent, still air. One of the maniacs tore at me with a massive battleaxe hurled backwards. The hood on his robe had fallen back, his leather armour was nowhere to be seen and a mass of dirty ginger locks billowed behind him with the momentum he moved at.

The damp grass squealed under the rubber soles of my black trainers. Sliding slightly as I rounded a tree ahead and broke off towards the wood I could see before me. The maniacs were behind me still, sounding like they were getting closer, but it may have just been my mind focusing on them, drowning out anything else around me.

The ground became a worn mud path bordered on each side by hedgerows, badly kept and growing wild.

“Keep to the middle!” I told myself, but too late. After dashing around a corner, I was along the outside of the path and before I could get back into the relative safety of the middle of the path, I was grabbed by the arm and dragged into a bush. I began to thrash, just looking to connect with something so I could gain a target for more attacks. I found it. The forced exhale from my assailant as I forced my fist into his gut was followed with a barrage of punches until I was free from their grip.

Free from the grip of my attacker, I prepared to salvage any weapons I could from them, mentally kicking myself for not taking the blade from my first attacker when I had the chance!

He was dressed differently to the robed maniacs that I could hear rushing past my location on the other side of the hedgerow. This man was wearing a totally different style of dress. He wore a brown cloth outfit, apparently some form of uniform, possibly for a militia. A hat lay nearby, a fur hat with a tail, raccoon by the looks of it. Next to that, a rifle with “DC” etched on the butt stock.

The man gained purchase on the ground and raised up slightly, looking me dead in the eyes, and in a thick Tennessee accent he introduced himself,

“Davy Crockett, Second Regiment Mounted Riflemen... That's quite the punch on you, son!”

I eyed him cautiously. I don't know much of Davy Crockett, but I'm fairly certain he never came to Britain in a Tennessee Militia, thirty years before he was born. I extended my hand to him, he grasped my hand and I helped him to his feet,

“I'm guessing since you' not killed me, you ain't one of those there unhinged fellas!” Davy laughed, holding his gut still.

“Luckily, no. But I guess if one person will understand my situation, it's you. I've just got here, wherever 'HERE' is”

“Well, you got a name, son?”
“Chris. Keep down!”

We both crouched down, the sound of the robed crazies running our way again clear as they slapped through the mud. Davy passed me a hunting knife I had strapped to his leg. I grasped it and held it ready to strike, should we be found.

He had already took his rifle and readied it, a round charged, ready to fire. The maniacs went straight past us again, shouting something about clearing the garden of Chaos.

Davy picked up,

“Garden of Chaos..? I've heard them mention that before, a couple-a days ago. They were preparing somethin' they called a 'Chaos Gate' in there. Something about a portal to the future?”
It struck me there and then. The Chaos Gate had been dragging people from the future to these maniacs. But why?

“Davy, do you know where the Garden is?”

“A little further back here, why?”

“I've got a feeling that's our ticket out of here.”

Davy led me to a large wall, being careful to not betray our position to the enemy. If we were to find out how to get back, we needed the element of surprise. The time playing Paintball competitively had taught me a lot for keeping as silent as possible when behind enemy lines. Crockett himself was a famed hunter in his own time, making our concealment a little easier. We scaled the wall and dropped to the other side. The dead trees, blackened fallen, the stone floors were uneven and slippery with the moisture. Beside us was a pond, the water covered with algae. The only way to know there was water, or some other liquid – who knows with these maniacs - was because the algae moved slightly with the ebb and flow of whatever was beneath it.

Cages were stacked around randomly, most had people in them in varying states of decay. The only thing that they had in common was that the heads had all been removed. Visions of the massive axe carrying cultist beheading the victims sprang to mind. I shook my head to try and remove the horrible sight. Davy dragged me forward to the side of a greenhouse. Our footsteps were muffled by the grass on the stonework so we were able to get close to where we heard voices. We had got close enough to them that we could hear clearly what was being said,

“Malakev will have our heads if we cannot find both of the travellers!” one cultist said harshly to a clearly younger, smaller member in dirt encrusted white robes.

“Can we not just bring others from the Chaos Gate to offer up as sacrifice?” the younger asked much to the amusement of his elder,

“And are YOU going to offer your soul to the blood cairn to open the Chaos Gate, Karloth?” he pointed to a large brass chalice in front of them, “You know Malakev's wishes, that our numbers be placed through the age of man to spread influence of his teachings and foretell of His return to lead His flock to triumph at the time he deems fit! We must only sacrifice those deemed unfit of life in His world or the Gate will can only send a brother and then seal shut and we have not the numbers to reopen it.”

We moved ourselves to better see the area. Beside the greenhouses were stacks of logs. They looked like funeral pyres, prepared for the burning of their victims, if they had not just been left to decompose slowly.

They gathering had taken on a more members, eight of the robed maniacs stood in front of another stone wall with a large circle through the centre. Red Ivy hung around the top of the arch, but it was the colour of blood, the colour of the robes of the cult. Davy adjusted slightly, bringing his rifle level, using the pyre as a stable platform and taking aim at one of the cultists stood above the Blood Cairn.

“Chris, we need to get you back to your time,” he whispered, “I'll shoot one and once the Gate opens, you get through.”

“What about you? You'll be stuck here!”

“When I was taken from my time, I was about to be killed, Chris. I had a sword coming towards me in the Alamo. I was unable to protect my comrades and we were being executed. Here, I can protect you. I can die with honour.”
“Davy, your story lives on forever. You DO die with honour!”
“Too late, son!”

Davy pulled the trigger. The crack of the rifle filled the still air, the muzzle flash almost blinding as the projectile is fired from the barrel of the gun, towards one of the cloaked maniacs and finds it's target easily. The blood begins to pour from the chest of the cultist as he falls onto the giant chalice. His brothers stare at their fallen member, the air silent, filled with the smell of burning flesh and gunpowder.

I hand the knife back to Davy and set off as a shock wave erupts from the Chaos Gate forcing the cultists to go scatter with the force. Davy charges at the foes with his knife out, slicing the air in front of him, streams of blood and cries of pain splitting the air. He is surrounded. Wildly slashing, hoping to make contact with anyone, to cause as much harm as he can.

As I dived through the portal, the last I saw of Davy Crockett was a curved sword being thrust into his chest by what appeared to be a Priest, who I can only assume was the Malakev they spoke of.

I awoke back in the classroom, still empty of my classmates, but with the familiar hum of the computer fans. As I opened my eyes, I saw the carpet, the table legs, the whiteboard, the lights.

I left James Graham again, everything looked how it had when I first entered the University.

“CHRIS!” a voice called from behind.

I turned to see who called my name. A red robed Priest stood before me.

“So we finally meet, Chris. Your traveller friend sends his regards.”
Malakev had managed to fulfil his prophecy and he came after me. A vendetta that spanned 500 years. Although I never found out why I was chosen as a sacrifice, I did find out that a sword to the chest hurts. It hurts a lot, if only for a moment.

Then Blackness.