C.T. Hill's Blog

The blog has been around for a bit now and I figure it is as good a time as any to post the short story that started it all. The Wash was a story I wrote years ago purely to explore the intricacies involved with the townspeople of a feudal nation and their thoughts about a legendary character. I used a bit of a juxtaposition to transition between the narrator and main character, and the unknown individual who is asking the questions to the townspeople. The result was, at least in my opinion, a very intriguing look at a troubled realm from a wide array of the people who live in it. Obviously, some of the ideas and names in the story will correlate with the novel, and some will not. I did not go back and edit the original short story to fit in with how The Lost Prince ended up, simply for the sake of authenticity. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Without further ado, The Wash

I knelt down and dug my fingers into the dark clay earth; it was cold and hard, keeping it from absorbing the blood from my hands. I pushed the coarse grains through my fingers, working them into the crevasses of my skin, they were cool and soothing. The mixture turned a deep color of red and black; this unity of me and nothing, this insipient attempt at cleansing. Perhaps it was a ritual. One I rehearsed automatically and without purpose, as if I was looking for something. Like the earth held the very secrets I was searching for.

And then part of me would ask, do I even want to know them?

“There was a time before, long ago, when there were heroes everywhere. Don’t really see that in today’s world…suppose it’s just the way things are. To answer your question though, sure I know of him. I mean, I figure you could walk in any direction for a thousand miles and people would know his name. Takes a special kind of person to be that well known, feared even.” Fram Gooding, Town Elder

“You asking me if he is real, because if that is the case I might as well just turn my back and walk away from you right now, crazy question like that. Of course he’s real; people don’t just conjure up stories of a man that don’t exist, not ones like those we heard.” Mason Thatch, Halor City Guard

I looked east, down the steep slope to the village below. It was barren, it was quiet, it was still. It was a perfect display of that which we leave behind, an image of mortality dressed in nothing, standing forgotten and cold. And then, sometimes, I would wonder if we will ever be forgiven for what we do to each other.

“It does make a difference, especially in his case. I mean, you cannot sit here and tell me that he isn’t a monster. Even I know about what he has done and I’m not even looking to.” Mina Teller, House Wife

People would rush into their houses, like a great plague was washing through the streets and their shut doors were the only barrier against it. “Passover me please,” they would say. Watch carefully as the shutters peek open, hiding an invisible audience, creating curiosity through the presence of fear. I suppose you can never really know what it is that is so terrifying about oneself, though. They used to say the Vint caused that kind of fear, that it possessed that kind of power, but not anymore. Now there is something else to fear.

Give me virtue, take it away, and present the world my emptiness.

“Tis funny that you askin that, cause just the other day me n’ ole Jeb over there was just talkin about em’. You know what they says though, that no one has never seen him. That he walks from place to place, feeding on men’s souls and striking ‘em down by the thousands. I heard there in’t an army bout the world that he ha’nt beat. Tough to say though, honestly, cause ther’s jus so much we on’t really know, get what I’m sayin?” Grist Renal, Travelling Field Hand

“If youda’ asked me about a man, just any man, I coulda’ told you some stories, but you gone and asked me bout him. It ain’t right to speaka’ the gods so.” Imra Selvin, Servant Woman

They say you should never go looking for trouble, that enough finds you as it happens. Then I find myself asking, who is they and what the hell do they know?

“Problem is that it is all rumors. I mean, you are here trying to figure out the same thing that everyone else is. It would make sense that there is someone out there like him, for where else would the stories come from? But it is hard for me to imagine a man so powerful, so strong, so merciless. No, I have thought about such things before, a long time ago, and honestly, I always end up at the same place. If he really is, if he really was, then why has no one ever seen him?” Braise Filman, Shop Owner

With war, it is always the same story. Find me an army of squirrels that fight to the death over acorns, or boundaries of trees, or the fluffiness of their tails. You find me that and I will agree that the world is simply violent. But you can’t, not here or anywhere, and then you realize that it is not the world that is wrong, it is only us.

“Of course I’ve seen him, who hasn’t? He likes the north roads they says. Wants to stay away from the Vint they says. Try and find him in the south, or the east, but you don’t see no beeves in the mountains now do ya? I reckon he comes about this way twice a year, hard to say though, could be next month, could be next year.” Old man Pallor, Elder

“I heard that long ago he had him a wife, real pretty too. Even was talk about him being a farmer or something like that, maybe a hand. Something tragic happened though, wouldn’t ya know. Suppose that is the way these stories go, right? Yeah something terrible anyways, his wife ended up dead and then the rest is just rumors and fables. They say he was birthed that night though, or rebirthed I suppose, birthed in blood, the blood of his fallen wife, the blood of his loss. Eerie eh.” Unknown Traveller

The climb down is always the hardest part. The fields lay on the western borders at least ten kilos away. You can hear the horses coming for leagues, though that does not mean you can get back in time. It is like when you have a child. You hear them crying from the other room, this agonizing wail of fear and pain and you are moving before you know anything, but it is always too late at that point, whatever happened, happened, and is forever out of your control. Sure, you can be reactive, try and put the pieces back together, but they have a tendency to fall in places you do not expect.

And then sometimes… they are lost forever. 

“Please do not take this the wrong way, but are you sure you know what you are asking? Because this sort of talk only leads to one place, and it is dark there, darker than you can imagine. Well then, ask it quickly if you must, for we can but wait on the dead.” Helena Chiram, House of Manerion

The climb down is always the hardest part. Rain has soaked the ground for days and the rocks are coated with a slimy mold that might as well be ice. You do not think about it though, for if you stop to process what was actually happening, if you take the time to let your mind adjust, everything will be lost.

Shadows are cast everywhere amongst the fires, fires burning on your hope, on everything that you know. Push the feeling back that she is dead. Push the feeling back that everyone is dead, this whole town of your friends, of your family. Doors swing to and fro loosely on rusted hinges. Moans dance through the night sky, but these are not human. The wood cracks as the fires eat away at what is left of the broken buildings.

Pretend this is not your worst nightmare; close your eyes and dream of a better time, of a simpler time.

“I suppose it is assumed that the Vint had something to do with Traemor. Though, you should ask yourself why and for what purpose? The Vint is vast, too vast to need worry about a small trader village north of the wall. Tell me, what is gained? It is absurd that I am even answering these questions, as if my husband needs defense. The Vint is above justice, the Vint is justice.” Helena Chiram, House of Manerion

After a time you just know that the sting will stop, that your vision will return; though after moving through the town for who knows how long it remains as a powerful reminder of what has occurred, the vastness of it all. I had been through building after building, yet the crumpled up bodies that I came across were not of her.

It is a haze; not the air, for the smoke did that part, but the memory of what happened. Push it aside I said, make it disappear.

“I heard you talking with the Lady Helena. It is a dangerous game you are playing, child. I tell you, I cannot understand why you are even here, but I suppose that is not for me to know. Be wary of the Vint, for it has eyes and ears everywhere. We are not talking now, you and I, for you are not of this court, understand? Good. Take the long road to the east, the old town of Haxley lies there not five days away. It is not a town that you would have heard of, for the Vint wishes it so, but it is there nonetheless. Go there and perhaps you will find what you are looking for, or at least some answers that may lead you down the right path.” Jansan Gumt, Butler, House of Manerion

Charred fingers grasped the remains of a love knot. I reached to it only to watch it crumble away into dust, leaving only a blackened hand.

These faces I have seen, they were everyone, they were no one; her face was not amongst them.

Take this gift, this lump of coal wrapped in silk, and pray that you receive no other.

“Are you asking me if I have heard the story of the tragedy of Kareth? Well child, I cannot perceive a more absurd question. It is only one of the most well-known fables throughout the entire Vint. Listen to me, peasant, I have tolerated you for this long, but your constant questioning bores me. Kareth is a fable, as is the burned town of Traemor. Look at the maps if you please, where is this town, and where are the people that resided in it?” Helena Chiram, House of Manerion 

I have heard people say that it is better not knowing whether or not we have lost someone that we love, as if not knowing will leave us a strand of hope strong enough for us to latch on to and ride out the rest of our lives on.

I suppose I chose a different path. I had lost her. That was the only thing I knew for sure. All of my pain, hope, fear, and love left with her. With what I had remaining, I decided to be something different, something terrifying. Though it was not always so, for in the beginning I can say that I was anything but.

“Haxley you say? Can’t say I have ever heard of it, but the empire is large, possible a town such as that has gone unheard of to my ears. There is only one way to go from here though. That’s right; the long road leads to all places. I tell you, if you figure this town is out there, the road is your best bet.” Unknown

“Picture the fiercest warrior in the world and you get a glimpse of Kareth. I cannot say for sure what his physical appearance entails, though, for I have never actually laid eyes on him, nor has anyone, at least not that I am aware of. And, if anyone says as much they are probably lying. Come to think of it, it would actually make more sense if he did not actually exist. Huh…well anyways, what is it that you needed?” John DeLaen, Bar Owner

It is that split second after you open your eyes, just before you realize where you are, who you are; that is the most peaceful part of life. And then it hits you, all the pieces of your life compiled into one fluid image of how you envision yourself. Perhaps to some this moment is dignifying, but here I sit torn between what I know and what I feel, this ultimate struggle of two things I cannot control.

Tell me that all of this has a purpose. Tell me that I am here for something more meaningful than simple existence. Tell me that I am not just a leaf hopelessly fluttering to the ground.

“Let’s say, for instance, that this town that you are searching for does exist. What reason could you possibly have for locating such a place? I believe that that answer in itself will give you the answer to whatever it is that is driving you. Ask yourself, I mean really ask yourself, if these doors were shut for a reason so long ago, are you sure that you want to reopen them?” Catherine Hest, Innkeeper

“I dare say I have heard of such a place, long ago though, and from the ramblings of an old man, I am afraid. There is an old farmer, lives over to the east, big ole house all alone. Name’s Edgar. Try and be courteous, old bastard has the shakes, scares easy. If this town truly does exist, or did, I’m sure old Edgar will know about it.” Bret Langston, Blacksmith

I thought that once I found the answer, that once all was said and done I would finally be content, that I would finally have found peace. And then I find myself standing in this clearing of what used to be a thriving village, of what used to be home to someone, to countless someones.

I look around and see what has been left behind. The once smoldering ruins of shops and houses. The trees lie parted where streets once set, burn scars still visible on their aging husks.

No, I am afraid that I have never laid eyes on this place, this slumbering tragedy, this abandonment of souls, this town they call Haxley.

“Pray you leave this place and never return. There is naught to gain from this quest but despair. No, I dare not say what I know, for his spies watch us even now, even here… Listen quickly and I will tell you how to find that which you covet most, that which haunts your soul, that which holds you prisoner. Go now, child, and do not lose yourself in these petty matters. Live your life to live, not to escape death.” Unknown Voice

And then you do find what you were looking for. You remember everything. You realize the truth of things and you hate yourself for it. Allow me this one moment of grief in hopes that I can finally put this behind me, that I can finally move on, but I had finally been shown the path. It was not an expected one, nor a visible one, at least not at first, yet there it stood nonetheless.

Take what you want from my actions in the past, some were justified, while others were not. None of that matters though, for we are forever left with the actions that we have committed; regardless of the outcome, regardless of our intentions. And through all of that I have left this mess of a world, this travesty that I have created. All of it based on a truth that I had denied to myself. All of it based on a lie that I had fabricated.

“I heard a story of this tragedy and it was not pleasant. You see… Kareth is a man of many names. He was the Night Terror, the Prince of Blades, and the Whispering Prince. He was the Dreamslayer, the Moon Prince, and the Shadowdancer.  One thing is for certain, he was the most feared warrior in the entire world. He was feared throughout the entire Vint, much less the surrounding villages; though you might find that this tragic story has more of a fold in it than most are aware of. Sit and take a listen as I tell you the story of the great Kareth. 

“His story started so long ago, even before he was born. Panthos was a Kingdom like no other, and the Silent King Maras wanted nothing more than to conquer it. His words were wrought with betrayal, and he tricked the beautiful Queen Lessandra into opening the city gates with a lie of love. Before they could be killed, Queen Lessandra and her unborn child were whisked away to safety on one of the Isles. The child was none other than our famous prince.

“Take what you will from the stories of the Vint King, but one thing is for certain, the man is a kinslayer, and his actions could not be forgotten, least of all by the young prince. It was not until much later that the prince found out that his mother had been slain and that his unlikely companion had disappeared with naught to tell. Some say he secretly loved her, though he was a man of honor and would never have moved on such a feeling, while others say that his companion had more of a blood tie to him than first thought.

“No one knows exactly when the Kareth we know was born, but the day happened long ago with the screams of an empire to greet him. He was born of fire, he was born of tragedy, and he was born of rage. He went on to be the plague set against the entire Vint. He was a vigilante they would say, a curse on those that did wrong. However, others would say that he killed at will, regardless of moral standings. None of that mattered though, for he was known nonetheless. I beg to guess that he did what he felt was necessary.” Unknown Storyteller

You know all that you have done in your life. Of course some of it becomes foggy, and some of it we choose to forget, but all in all you know what you have done, you know who you are. And then, through all of that which has happened, you finally realize what created all of this, what is ultimately responsible.

The answer is that it was I. I refused the Vint long ago when I was young. They knew what I was capable of. They knew how important I was, but I chose a different path… and that choice cost me everything, that path changed the entire world.

Looking back, I believe that it was her smile that changed the world. What I used to look at as a place where only violence and destruction lived, transformed into something I would not have abandoned for all the gold and silver in existence. 

I chose her. I chose life. And because of that I was given death.

I created this monster inside of me; I created it by my own ambitions of happiness, ones that I should have known were out of my grasp.

And so here I stand, this life accomplished, this life wasted. I am a hero. I am a nightmare.

I am Kareth, and I am but what is left. I open my arms to that which is in store for me. I accept all that I deserve.

I cherish all that I have lost. 

Wash me, cleanse me.

Hey everyone. Well, I feel like I have slacked as of late, and decided it was time for a new post. This particular story is one of my favorite ones. It was also written for a contest, and this one actually won it! The theme for the contest was to write a Thriller piece, and Desolate was my best attempt at that. I don’t want to give anything else away about the story, so read on!

         A rasping breath echoed off the dumpster, lost to the night. Erin tucked herself into the dark corner as the patrol roared by, shaking the pavement. She relaxed and let out a long, slow sigh. A shudder made its way through her body. After taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, hoping to calm her nerves. Everything was so surreal, bogged down by a reality she could not comprehend, a past she could not recall. She rubbed her hands through her auburn hair, attempting to stop the flowing images that made no sense to her. The destruction of the city was evident. Even in the night’s sky the smoke was visible, the flickering of fires a constant reminder.
         “Get it together, Erin,” she said to herself.
         She had a Walther tucked into her belt, though she wasn’t quite sure where it came from. Something shuffled just down the alley from her, spiking her heart rate, coursing adrenaline through her veins. Erin produced the small pistol and stalked out from behind the dumpster. Each step proved to amplify her anxiety. A dark figure leapt at her from behind a pile of trash and caught her shooting hand in a crushing grip. A scream escaped her lips just as her feet were swept from under her. The air rushed from her lungs after she crashed into the pavement. She gasped for breath.
         A figure stood over her, pistol trained at her head, features shrouded by the night. A confused look crossed her face after the man placed the pistol in his belt and offered her an outstretched hand. “Come now, they will be looking for you.”
         He pulled her up with minimal effort and headed down the alley. Erin, despite every fiber telling her to flee, followed the mysterious man.
         “My name’s Erin.” she said, matching his pace.
         He looked over his shoulder. “Trace.” 
         “Okay, Trace, where we are going?”
         He stopped for a moment. “Nowhere.”
         “Well, can I at least have my pistol back?”
         “No,” he said.
         Erin huffed. “Why, are you afraid I’d shoot you?”
         “I’m afraid you don’t know what you are doing.” He peeked around the corner. “When I say, move across the street. Keep a low profile.” His directions didn’t leave much room for argument, so Erin only nodded.
         He nodded, and they set off across the street, heads down, bodies crouched. They flattened against a stone wall, hidden by the shadows. Trace pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for her to get down, though there was little cover in the alleyway. A Humvee crept forward. A soldier sat in the gun turret on top of the vehicle.
         “We are going to have to make a break for it,” he whispered. “On my go.”
         Erin nodded. The Humvee stopped at the alley entrance and the spotlight began moving back and forth, clearing the narrow space.
         Trace produced a large pistol from beneath his jacket and launched into action. The spotlight found him, but not before he had buried two shots into the gunner, slumping him over his weapon.
         “Run!” he bellowed. Erin jumped off the wall and sprinted away. Trace unloaded the rest of his clip into the side of the Humvee. He took off after her once the pistol emptied, just before the alley exploded in a symphony of gunfire. They ducked their heads and ran faster, harder. Bullets crashed into the walls, spraying them with fragments of broken concrete. They darted left and dove down a small flight of stairs. Trace landed a kick on the sweet spot of the door, crumpling it in. They entered the building and continued moving. He replaced the spent magazine and chambered a round.
         “They will come in force now,” he said, hardly out of breath.
         Erin struggled against the oxygen debt. “What?”
         Trace paused at a doorway. “They authorized a citywide cleansing operation.”
         “Cleansing?” It made no sense.
         “Anyone they deem a threat of infection they will put down.” They continued on through the large, empty building until they reached an outer door. “Where have you been?”
         Unshakable images flooded her mind of piles of countless dead. She possessed memories, but they lacked any sense of time. Instead, the onslaught of images left her disoriented, confused. “I… I don’t know.”
         Trace raised an eyebrow. “Then you are the lucky one.”
         “How bad is it?” she asked, her eyes scanning the broken city that surrounded them.
         “The last report established mass casualties in the major cities on the east coast. They were quarantined, though no one is sure if it worked.” Trace placed the pistol under his jacket. “Soldiers have been grabbing up survivors, promising a cure,” he said, disgust latent on his voice. “But, the truth is that they want them for their blood.”
         Erin frowned. “Their blood? Why?”
         “The virus jumped, which means that every soul in the city is infected, or has the potential to be infected. The virus has an almost ninety percent kill rate, yet only about seventy percent of the population died of it. They want to know why.”
         “Human testing,” she gasped.
         He glanced back. “You are surprised?”
         “How long ago?” she asked.
         “Months, I can’t say for sure, maybe four.” 
         Her face slackened, she wondered how much of her life she was missing.
         “How did it—” They felt the rotor wash before they heard the chopper. They broke into a sprint, dodging debris as they moved. Bullets rained down on them, cratering the pavement and smashing holes in nearby cars. They dove behind an SUV. Trace pulled out his pistol and unloaded a clip at the hovering chopper. It veered away, allowing them enough time to dash across the street and into a small alcove that led to an office building.
         “Where now?” she said, panting.
         He loaded his last magazine and chambered another round. “There is a group of survivors a few blocks down in the basement of an old hospital.”
         They made it inside after avoiding a few patrols and ducking through a broken window in the back of the building. Erin was surprised at the large amount of people there. At least a couple hundred people were gathered in the main room alone, some of them sick and dying, others injured, but mostly they looked tired and hungry.
         “You are bringing in the sick?” she asked.
         Trace nodded. “Everyone who isn’t sick at this point can’t get sick. Besides, what kind of people would we be if we abandoned them now?” He could not bear the thought of needlessly losing more people.
         Erin smiled. “Perhaps the world isn’t lost.”
         He flashed a subtle grin. “Come, I’ll show you around.”
         The tour was quick. They ended in a series of labs that, despite the disaster, remained in stellar condition. A small, pint-sized man appeared from one of the offices in the back.
         “Trace.” The man half walked, half waddled in front of them, and looked Erin over closely. “Blood workup?”
         Trace shook his head. “Just showing her around. Erin, Perry, without a doubt the best doc—”
         A series of muffled gun blasts permeated the walls. Trace straightened up, his face a mask of concern. His eyes met Erin’s. They bolted out of the lab and down the hallway that led to the main room. The door leading to the room was locked. They peered through the window, watching in horror as people, healthy and sick alike, were dragged out of the large room. Soldiers were moving systematically through, taking those that cooperated, shooting those that didn’t. A soldier looked towards the door.
         “He sees us,” she said, her voice taut with fear. “Is there another way out?”
         Trace nodded and they took off down the hallway. The gunfire was consistently growing closer. They bounded up two flights of stairs, but gunfire turned them into a vacant room. Trace glanced out the window as the pounding of boots moved closer. He positioned himself between the door and Erin, his pistol at his side, his face calm.
         The soldiers stopped outside the door, but didn’t enter. Trace and Erin waited in the room, dipped in apprehension, when a man in an expensive suit stepped in, hands raised. 
         “I come in peace,” he said, and let out a quiet chuckle. His eyes met Erin’s. “I know you can’t remember, it will wear off.”
         Trace tightened his grip on the pistol. 
         “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here for her,” he said, his eyes returning to Erin. “And I must thank you, my dear.”
         Uncertainty wrapped her face as she glanced to Trace then back to the suit. “I’m sorry?”
         “For leading us here,” he gestured to the hospital surrounding them. “We could have never found it without you. They were careful.”
         “I don’t understand,” she said, but she did understand. It was all coming back to her—the bodies, the test subjects. Vertigo overwhelmed her and she took a step backward.
         “You are patient zero, dear. The only remaining untainted, non-mutated form of the original virus, right there in your blood. Somehow it remained asymptomatic in you. So, as it turns out, you are kind of important.”
         The pistol slipped from Trace’s hand and clattered to the floor. He flicked his gaze over his shoulder to Erin, and slid a small, cylindrical grenade out from his pocket, just out of the suit’s line of sight. “It’s okay,” Trace whispered, and a moment of understanding passed between the two.
         The world slowed down as Trace pulled the pin and tossed it towards the door. He jumped in Erin’s direction. They both dove behind the large hospital bed. The grenade blew. Soldiers screamed and wailed in agony. Trace stood just as the suit came around the edge of the bed, pistol out in front of him, hair partly singed off.
         A bullet escaped the barrel just as Trace checked the gun with the side of his arm, knocking it from the suit’s hand. Trace ducked a cross, dodged a jab, and landed a devastating hook just under the cheek bone of the man in the suit. He caught the suit’s wild counter-strike and stuffed his elbow against his side, breaking it in a clean motion. The suit screamed in agony as Trace threw him over his shoulder, slamming him into the tiled floor. Trace scooped up his pistol and stood over the man, the sights trained at the center of his forehead.
         “I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said to the writhing man.
         A hammer cocked back with a threatening click, but it wasn’t Trace’s. He looked back into the barrel of a small Walther pointed directly at his skull.
         “Don’t look so hurt,” Erin said. “I liked me better before as well.”
         Trace didn’t take his eyes off of her. “Why?”
         Erin shrugged. “I worked in a special weapons program, long before the outbreak. We didn’t know what the virus was capable of at first. As it turns out, occasional amnesia is a side effect, but most people just crash. I guess I slipped out after an episode, not aware of who I was.”
         “But why this? Why kill us?”
         An evil smile snaked across her face. “Who do you think created the virus?” She pulled the trigger and felt the hammer sound a harmless, empty clank. Astonishment covered her face as she noticed the missing magazine, the empty chamber.
         “Let’s just say I have trust issues. You deserve worse,” Trace said. His trigger worked. The bullet tore through her forehead and sent her sprawling through the window behind her and to the pavement. He turned the gun back down to the suit and put two in his chest.
         He tucked the pistol in his jacket and looked out the broken window, at a world he no longer recognized or understood. He lowered himself from the window and stepped off into the night, not quite sure where he was headed.

Ingeminate is one of those stories that I wrote off of a picture. It was actually written for a small contest. The picture was of an old cowboy smiling, I’m sure you will kind of understand that once you read the piece. There were limits on the word count and some other aspects of the story, which is why it is kind of short and you don’t get a ton of answers, but I think there is plenty to get the point across. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story!

Ingeminate

by C. T. Hill

“A smile is limitless,” the old man once told me.

I swung my feet off the pine studded bed and tried to brush away the sleep that clung to my mind. Something dawned on me that I could not explain; a deep, unnerving feeling crept up my spine. I had been here before, and not long ago. I shook the feeling away as I rubbed my hands through my hair.

“Of course I’ve been here before,” I said in attempts to calm myself as I searched for my boots.

A light breeze snuck through the open window and swayed the threadbare curtain. The sheets rustled behind me, fluttering the white cloth over the curves of her body. Golden brown hair draped over her face, shrouding her features, features that I was sure had shaped my every thought, my every memory. I did not wish to go back down the path that gazing upon her beauty would take me; it was all too familiar, all too painful.

I pulled my boots on and grabbed my shirt. It was time.

The tarnished silver timepiece read five after nine. I dropped it back into my pocket and moved quickly down creaky wooden stairs. The barroom was peppered with the salt of the town, braving whiskey just after dawn in hopes of escaping the day. My arrival warranted a few sullen glances and was dismissed with equal heedlessness.

I lowered the brim of my hat as I pushed through the saloon doors and into the almost blinding light outside. I paused and glanced across the street, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The town was all but empty. Curious eyes flickered from behind wooden blinds in search of some sign of life returning to normal.

The revolver at my hip was heavy. I stepped off into the middle of the street and headed towards the bank. I heard the hinges squeal, followed by two sets of boots entering the street behind me. I turned once I was across and nodded to the two men.

“A smile can buy you trust,” the old man would say just before spitting a gob of chew onto the stained wood floor.

Grey and Paul walked side-by-side across the street and to the awning just in front of the bank. I pulled out the timepiece and nodded once more at the two. They glanced at each other and drew their revolvers before pushing through the bank door. The yells were muffled through the rafters. The effect was successful, apparent due to the lack of gunshots.

I strolled back across the dirt packed road and into the quiet saloon. The same sad eyes greeted me once more. The barkeep stopped polishing a glass mug and nodded to the few patrons who, though reluctantly, downed their drinks and meandered out of the room.

“A smile can buy you admiration,” the old man would say as he sniffed the amber liquid just before throwing it back.

At the bar I checked the timepiece again. The barkeep slid me a bottle and three small glasses. I pulled the cork out and poured a generous portion. I threw it back and reveled in the warmth that crept through my chest. It tasted like honey and burned like fire.

The doors swung open. Grey and Paul sauntered to the bar, the bags over their shoulders almost bursting with crisp green bills. They sported easy smiles and dropped the bags at my feet. I returned their grins and poured three more glasses.

“But most importantly, a smile can buy you loyalty,” the old man would say between puffs as he lit the dark, dry cigar.

I flashed a smile that could have eased the minds of even the most cautious men. Grey and Paul grabbed the glasses and tossed them back greedily. I watched their faces change as they noticed the barrel of the revolver, as their eyes widened with understanding.

The gunshots stung my ears as they echoed through the large room. I turned the barrel to the barkeep who gasped something between “No,” and “Please,” before the final shot filled the air. My eyes traced the bodies of the three men. Blood pooled under them, adding to the collection of stains that permeated the wooden baseboards.

The puff of smoke behind me smelled of fine tobacco. I turned and saw the old man, as if he appeared out of nowhere, sitting at a table not three feet from me. His wind-beaten skin was dark and leathery, wrapped tight around black eyes and a crooked nose. He tapped the ash from the end of the cigar and took a long, hard pull.

“It’s all there,” I said through a clenched jaw.

The old man exhaled a large plume of smoke and sat the cigar down on the table. He looked me over quietly, dissecting my every thought as if he wished to anticipate my very desires. “You can keep it, you know.”

I looked back at the bags of money, and then to the old man. “We had a deal, no?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Yes, yes we did have a deal,” he said as he rose from the table. “Tell me, this deal, will it be the same as before?”

I shot him a confused look. “As before?”

“Have you forgotten the original agreement?” He stared at me for a long moment, musing at my obvious confusion. “The room, the girl.” He moved to the bags slowly. “There is enough money here to last two lifetimes.”

I thought about the oddities that surrounded me. Something was different about the saloon, the town. How had I arrived here? I thought back, searched my mind for some kind of understanding.

“We have spoken before,” the old man said through a mouth riddled with missing teeth. “In this very bar.”

His voice, his thoughts, resonated through my mind. I remembered a time before that we sat across from each other at the same table, though I could not place when or how long ago.

He smiled an awful smile, a cruel smile. “I can bring her back,” he paused. “For a price.”

I looked down and tugged at the rusted badge pinned to my vest in attempts to avoid his daunting gaze as he laid out his plan. “This is all I must do, and you will save her?” I said, trying to hide the desperation in my voice. My love, I though of her. She was as moving as the setting sun, and I knew that I could not live without her. Her golden brown hair fluttered through my every waking thought. Her smile made my heart dance.

The old man nodded with a trusting smile. “If the price is paid, she will live, Sheriff, she will live.”

I turned back to the old man as he dropped the bags at my feet. “What price?” I managed to croak through my suddenly parched throat. “What price did I agree to?”

A final gunshot erupted through the room. I looked to my left where Grey laid sprawled on the floor, his smoking gun was shaking in his hand. His eyes rolled back into his head and the gun clattered to the floor. I felt a chill of frost creep through my chest as my eyes refocused on the old man.

“You, of course,” he said with a smile as my knees began to falter. “The price was always you. ”

My legs gave out. I crumpled to the ground. The world slowly faded to black.

“A smile is limitless,” the old man used to tell me.

I swung my feet off the pine studded bed and tried to brush away the sleep that clung to my mind. Something dawned on me that I could not explain; a deep, unnerving feeling crept up my spine. I had been here before, and not long ago…

The Lost Prince is on Wattpad!

I sometimes have a lot of trouble expressing why anyone should read The Lost Prince. In all honesty, I wrote the novel for my love of the high fantasy genre, not for anyone else. I wanted to bring a different aspect to the genre without stealing any of the luster that comes with epic fantasies. The Lost Prince is reminiscent of Game of Thrones, Name of the Wind, and Assassins Creed, though trying to truly compare it to any of those three story-lines would be exceedingly difficult.

The Lost Prince is an extravagant struggle for love and understanding in a world that is anything but. It is a unique look at the unfortunate yet empirical differences between a power-hungry father and a betrayed, yet benevolent son who only wants what his people deserve—the freedom to live.

I truly hope you enjoy the novel, and I can’t wait to hear from you.

The Lost Prince, a synopsis:

The Lost Prince is the first installment of The Shadowdancer Chronicles, a series based on the life and trials of the Prince of Panthos, Kareth Maneiron, the son and heir to the Throne of the Vint. 

Panthos fell amidst the chaos of deceit and betrayal. The war lasted less than a week, the genocide that followed stretched across three decades. 

The world changed the night King Maras, the ruler of the Vint, took the hand of Queen Somara, the ruler of Panthos. They were married. They were bedded. And, while the city of Lilanth slept off the celebration, the Vintish King opened the city’s gates and brought forth his knights, stealing the life from thousands of Panthosi as they slumbered. 

The Queen escaped. Kareth was born. 

The Prince of Panthos went by many names. He was the Moon Prince, the Whispering Prince, the Dreamslayer. He was the Night Terror, the Prince of Blades, the Shadowdancer. By his birth he was Kareth Maneiron, son, and mortal enemy, of King Maras Maneiron, Ruler of the Vint. 

Kareth’s cousin, a member of the ancient and deadly Uthari Sacred Guard, taught Kareth the ways of combat, the costs of killing, but it was not until he became a Child of the Shadows that his true potential surfaced. The world had not seen a fiercer warrior, not since the Man of a Thousand Faces, not since history was written on stone. 

Amidst the scramble and burdened by fear, the Silent King turned to an ancient evil, one that he did not understand, and, in his dread, he released a member of the Vorai into the realm in hopes of defeating his son. 

Kareth teamed up with an unlikely ally, a young serving girl named Selene, and he was forever reminded of the price that he must pay for redemption, for freedom, and for his people, at least those that had survived, to defeat persecution. 

The price was more than Kareth possessed, but not more than he was willing to pay. 

Note to the reader: This is a short story told in first person by an unnamed narrator. Two separate time frames take place and, in an effort to avoid confusion, I have separated the them by italicizing each time a setting change occurs. Hope you enjoy!

Permeation

by C. T. Hill

Let us pretend that everything is the way it should be. That life happens exactly as planned. It is odd for us to imagine life in such terms. We are born into this stale cone, filled with spoiled ice cream, dipped in rancid chocolate. This marvelous thing we call life. This beautiful thing we call existence.

People write entire books about bettering your life. These cardboard encrusted triple stitched gobs of changing you. Alter your appearance to be attractive, they say. Enhance your personality to better interact, they say. Trade your soul for fame, they say.

“Tell me something about yourself that bothers you,” says the pudgy therapist of I don’t know what. The wrinkles of her face like canyons mapping the outline of her mouth, nose, eyes. I get lost in the entirety of her appearance, in the hair that peeks out of her nostrils.

She says again. “Come on, it’s easy, just open up.” She smells used, that deep aroma of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. She strums her hand on the cherry-wood veneer and chews wintergreen mint gum. “I see a great deal of pain in your past, pain that seems too terrible to resurface. It is handcuffing you, crippling you.”

I didn’t even care enough to roll my eyes. I hadn’t cared in who knows how long.

It becomes apparent that everything is misplaced in the mash of things. The fan whirls. The clock ticks. The copy machine hums. The room stops swirling as my chair loses momentum. Bill’s forehead peeks around the carpet wrapped particle board.

“You okay man?” He re-positions his glasses tempestuously, as if he couldn’t quite see me. Bill is the empirical acceptance of subpar genes and years of building a foundation apart from exercise. Bill has a wife and two kids that he secretly loathes. Bill is in dire need of change, of rebirth.

I look at him indifferently, wondering if he applied the tongue in cheek method while dressing this morning. I thought about answering sardonically, but the meaning would be lost on him, like trying to explain satire to a pigeon. Feet stomp off in the opposite direction, towards the boss’s office. I force down the rest of the day shard by shard. 

Back in the therapist’s office she says, “It is okay to talk about what happened. It is not your fault. It was never your fault.” Her chin jiggles as she nods her head, as if she believes the lie even before it leaves her lips.

I would have laughed but for the sedatives.

She sighs through wire framed glasses and pushes a tuft of lumpy black hair behind her ear. “These sessions are required, but that doesn’t mean you cannot get something from them. Reflection? Fulfillment? Closure?” Her eyes try to decipher mine. “I can’t help you unless you help yourself.”

Bill comes back with Jim, the boss. “Is everything okay?” he asks me. His hair is parted to the left in that eighties car salesman way. He wears a navy blue suit he is too fat for, and drowns himself in Old Spice after every shower.

I watch as he grabs the phone and dials the number by memory. There is no answer, but then again there wouldn’t be. He sports a confused look as he hangs up the receiver. “Your wife isn’t home?”

It was a statement in the form of a question. And here I thought I was the evil one.

“Accepting it is the first step, after that you can move on with your— well you can move on.” She replaces the wintergreen with Nicorette, cycling the two to avoid losing that tingly feeling. “I know what you are facing. I know it can be daunting. That is why this is all so important.”

I thought about stepping into oncoming traffic.

By now the entire floor is packed with people staring at me. Whispers dance across the room as I resume spinning in my chair. “Listen … going … be okay. Help … coming.” Jim is trying to comfort me, but I only catch every other word as I spin off into a torrent.

Phones ring in the background. Crowds gather. Nausea ensues.

She is getting frustrated. Her nostrils flare in pig-like elegance. “We are required to sit here for the full sixty minutes. It would go by much faster if you would participate.” She is tapping her foot now.

Paramedics rush through the room, dodging copy machines and darting through waist high hallways of corporate individualism. They say things like, “Get back everyone,” and “Make way,” before they surround me with medical bags and breathing machines.

The young paramedic looks me over, moves my clothes around, checks my pulse. He moves a pen light in and out of my eyes. His colleague has to hold the chair so I will stop spinning in it.

“Just explain to me what happened that day.” It seems like a simple enough request. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It is like the feeling of paralysis present those few seconds after you wake from a deep sleep.

The paramedic seems confused. He looks me over again to be sure. “It’s not his blood.”

Perhaps I would have told her the story in its entirety, but none of it mattered, least of all to her. This court appointed thought analysis paid for by you and yours. She closes her notebook with a grunt and looks at me incredulously. “Even now in the face of all that is to come, you remain silent.” She struggles out of her chair and storms out of the room.

Jim, my affluent boss, grabs the phone again and hits redial. Concern is written on his face, the beginnings of disbelief. I am almost certain I was smiling. It’s his eyes that give away the truth, or possibly my eyes, but there is no doubting that he knows.

He screams and curses and flails. “What the fuck did you do to her? You son of a bitch, what the fuck did you do?!”

In a fury, he lunges over a desk. Somehow, a pair of scissors appears in his right hand. One employee tries to stop him, but he pushes through relentlessly. He shoulders a paramedic to get to me and brings the scissors screaming down towards my neck.

There is a rap on the metal bars as the guard walks by with his nightstick. He barks some order halfway between stand up and hurry. They told me this would be the longest walk of my life.

I can see beyond the glass into those pale white eyes that are present to witness the end. They are all appalled at what I’ve done. Contemptuous looks engulf the crowd of people who mean absolutely nothing to me. My boss wasn’t there. He didn’t make it out of the office.

The chair spun. It’s as simple as that. The chair spun and the scissors missed my neck but found Jim’s thigh. I watched as his blood pooled inside of my cubical. The paramedics scrambled to plug the artery. It only takes three minutes to lose four liters of blood. It is all quite shocking, actually.

“Do you have any last words?” The warden says in to the hand microphone.

I thought about saying something repulsive, or laughing hysterically, but as I stared through that glass words simply didn’t seem important. Only she knew the meanings of my words, only she felt the damage of my wrath, and only she could ever forgive me.

The warden nods and the machine compresses the tubes, sending vials of clear liquid coursing through my veins. I saw her face then, the face I swore I never wanted to see again. It was all supposed to unfold differently, this lapse of emotion, birthed by the evidence in front of me, but the truth is that none of us would ever be the same.

She cried when I walked through the door moments after his exit that day. “You eat lunch at the office. You always eat lunch at the office,” she mumbled through disbelieving eyes as she tried to cover herself. The entirety of that moment reverberated through time over and again. Something awful took place that not even I could comprehend, not until now.

It is all so painless, the beginning of the end. My eyes get heavy and time seems to fade away as I drift into an endless sleep.

The Fog

by C. T. Hill

A haze had settled on my soul, one that I was not sure I could escape. It was weighted and powerful, and it grew heavier with each passing day. I found myself asking the age old questions of why, though they continued to remain unanswered. All the while, angst painted a picture in my mind, one that even I had no desire to be an audience to.

Sleep had long since abandoned me, and I remembered not the last time food touched my mouth or water graced my lips. That moment so long ago left the world empty. I was lost in a fog.

One evening, I went for a walk to gather my thoughts. It was as an evening should be, cool and quiet. Yet, despite these comforts, my nerves stood on edge. I find it hard to explain, though I suppose it felt as if something was out of place, like the very fabric of the universe had somehow changed, and I was the one left without knowing.

I looked back. Lights from the town were barely visible in the dusk and fog. The village was small and my cottage was removed from it, nestled in the hills, hugged by the woods. It was home, and it was all that I knew.

I made my way into the forest, to the stone—our stone. I moved carefully. The underbrush pulled at my feet and legs. My breath caught in my throat as I stepped close enough to see all that was left of her. No matter where I had intended on walking, I always ended up at the same place. I knelt down slowly and kissed my fingertips, pressing them against the cool stone.

“Do not forget me, my love, for I will be with you soon,” I said, pushing back the tears.

I know not how long I sat there, for time seemed to slip past me when I was with her. Sometimes, an entire day would pass with only the chill of night to brush me away. This evening, however, was different, for the wind carried with it a hum of deception.

To say that I was completely unprepared for what stepped out of the brush would have been an understatement. I stood slowly as I watched her move into the small opening that surrounded the stone. I was dumbstruck, for the figure was no more than a girl, small and fragile, young and pure; yet she had an aura of wisdom revealed in each movement, confirmed with each step. She moved gingerly through the underbrush, her bare feet picking their next placement with careful consideration. I could have been mistaken, but it seemed as though she had yet to notice me.

My eyes followed her lithe body as she continued her silent dance. Sheaths of waning light glinted off of her porcelain skin and shimmered through her golden white hair as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. My heart skipped a beat when she passed by me. She smelled of flowers. She smelled of spring. She reminded me of the moon.

She knelt down in front of our stone and spoke, but her voice was soft, and I was unable to make out any words. After a moment, she turned her head and faced me, her hand still touching our stone.

“Could you tell me about her?” Her voice caressed my ears and eased my soul, as if she were a messenger from God Himself.

Words escaped me.

It is quite hard to explain, for, as long as I could remember, she was all I could think about. It was as if every thought were intertwined with her whisper. Yet then, in the face of that which I could not explain, I was breathless. I was mute. I searched for the words to explain my love, my pain, but the thought occurred to me that perhaps explaining love, really explaining it, was impossible—like trying to decipher a beating heart or solving the mystery of a prayer.

She cocked her head to the side with a curious smile as I stumbled through my thoughts.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you had words with her?” I regretted the question as soon as I asked it.

Her face tilted up, and she gazed upon me with lenient eyes: eyes that undressed my every thought, eyes that whispered deep into my soul. There was not a trace of evil in them, and my spirit danced as a smile softened her face.

“My name is Cassidy, and I would love to hear your story.” The words flowed from her mouth as the morning light spills over the countryside. I found it impossible to deny her further.

“Her name was Emily, and she was my beloved.” I took a breath in search of the words to speak my heart—words that I was sure could not tell the tale the way intended.

And so I told her, “I met her once, years ago, and knew instantly that she was capable of changing the world—perhaps not the entire world, but at least that of my own. I remember the way she looked at me the first time we spoke, as if I were the only person in the world worth talking to.

“I was new, you see, and had spent months wandering about the town, all the while hoping that the curious stares and unwelcome frowns would end. I suppose they never really did, though after I met her, I no longer noticed. When she looked at me, nothing else mattered.

“To say I courted her would be a lie.” I caught myself smiling at the memory. “I was but a breath in the wake of a monsoon, and she could have commanded the wind had she desired to.

“We came here often, passing the days in each other’s arms.” I paused for a moment as I struggled with the memory of her. “And then, as if I had been violently woken from a dream, she was gone.” I focused my gaze onto the stone, our stone, and fought back the tears. “It pains me to say that I have long since forgotten her face.

“Sometimes, I wonder if the picture I have of her is the truth. Have I morphed her into an image of what she means to me? The way people imagine angels? The way people imagine God?”

The young girl gazed at me, her face covered with compassion. “It is not easy losing those that we love.” She stood and moved away from our stone. “Will you walk with me?”

I looked back at our stone for a long moment, trying to decide if I had the strength to leave—as I did every time I departed—and then I nodded to the young girl.

I followed her as she weaved through the forest in silence. I was about to ask her where we were going when we arrived at my small cabin. She stopped in front of it, looking it over for a long moment before she turned to me.

“I lived here once.” She turned back to the house. “A very long time ago.”

I knew not how to respond.

“My father built it. He was a great man, a gentle man.” She was smiling at the memory of him. “He worked so hard. I remember him leaving for work every morning. I used to watch him go, hoping that he would make it back for dinner, knowing that he would barely miss it.

“It broke his heart, not being able to spend time with us. At first I was angry with him. I could not understand why he had to be away or why he chose to work as much as he did. But one night while I was walking, I heard raised voices. I recognized my father’s, though the other was unfamiliar.

“I followed the sounds and saw my father standing on the edge of the footpath that led from the road to our small cottage. There were two men behind him and another standing in front of him. Father was arguing with him. I moved closer, struggling to make out what was being said.

“I heard a yell, and then the man in front of my father hit him, knocking him to the ground. The two men behind him grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up. The man hit him again and again. I wanted so badly to cry out, to help him somehow, but I knew that it was hopeless.

“I watched as they beat him over and over. Tears streamed down my face. Finally, when I could bear the pain no longer, I ran to him. I screamed for them to stop. The man in charge turned and looked at me. I remember an evil smile snaking across his face.”

The girl stopped and looked at me, tears filling her eyes, and she gently grasped my hand. I followed her as she moved into the house, into my house.

“The next morning, I woke to the sound of my mother sobbing. She sat at the foot of my bed, her face buried in her hands, tears dotting the wooden floor at her feet. I moved towards her and asked her what was wrong. She looked at me, or through me, but did not answer. She only wiped her face with her sleeve and moved out of my room, leaving me alone.

“I followed her. Our small sitting room was filled with people, mostly friends and family, but some of them were town folk I had only seen in passing. As I moved through our quaint house no one seemed to notice me. The entire room was somber, as if something very major had taken place. I tried to speak with a few of them but was met only with blank stares and silent sobs.

“Tears had long since filled my eyes when I moved to the front of the house. There were flowers everywhere, and people came and went. It had dawned on me that something was not right, though my mind could not comprehend what it was.

“It was then that I saw him, my father. He looked into my eyes, and I nearly fell. He smiled at me; it was the most tender smile I had ever seen. I went to his outstretched hand, and he spoke to me, his voice as soft as a whisper, as gentle as a kiss. ‘Come, my dear, we can stay here no longer.’

“I looked into his eyes and said, ‘But Papa, what about Mother?’ He smiled a sad smile and replied, ‘She will be with us soon, that I promise.’ Then, hand in hand, I walked with him. We moved behind our house, and I saw the two boxes perched on stands, surrounded by flowers and chairs.

“He looked at them and whispered, ‘I am sorry, my darling. I am sorry I could not save you.’ And that was all he said before he disappeared.”

She looked at me again with soft eyes; her face seemed to light the world around me. She took my hand and led me back to the clearing with the stone.

“He loved me more than his own life, just as you did her. It is why you saved her. It is why you are now here.”

I felt the weight being lifted, and I looked into the fog. I tried to remember the last time I had spoken with someone or even the last time I had eaten, but all I could remember was her. I stood and moved around the clearing to our stone.

“We have been waiting so long for you to come home,” she said as I tried to make sense of it all.

I thought back, trying to remember the last time I had seen my Emily. We were walking home from a party, her arm in mine, my gaze unable, unwilling, to leave her face. I noticed the three men walking towards us on the dark road before she did, but I thought nothing of them. They stopped in front of us, eventually surrounding us, and I remembered telling her to run. I felt pain as I fought them off, but it did not matter, for all I could think of was my Emily. The world went black as I saw her running away, and when I woke, she was gone, and I was alone.

I looked to the young girl in front of me, and she nodded with an outstretched hand. I took it, and the world crumbled away, showing me a different world, a brighter world.

I saw my Emily. I saw my love. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and my heart dropped as I watched her. She was sitting near the stone, our stone. She kissed her fingertips and placed them softly on its cool surface as the softest whisper escaped her mouth.

“Do not forget me, my love, for I will be with you soon.” And a tear rolled down her cheek.

Hey everyone, thanks for stopping by. Well, I am fairly new to blogging and so I will just skip right to the good stuff. The purpose of this blog will be to put up some short stories that I wrote in the past, short stories from other very talented authors, and any news or information that comes down about The Lost Prince that I don’t feel is extremely boring. The first story I will post is The Fog. I wrote The Fog a couple of years ago. When I started it I had no idea where it was headed, but wouldn’t you know, it ended up being a sappy love story. I attribute that to my wonderful wife, whom I was courting at the time, which makes for a very good love story indeed. Anyways, it is a short tale of love and loss, and those that are hurt in the process. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks again for stopping by!

Without further ado, welcome to the blog!