Darkstone and Other Stories by Darrell Goza

WRITTEN WORDS

Welcome to the 2nd issue of the Text Novels. For those of you that read the first issue editorial, you’ll notice there’s be a bit of a shake up with the title. Mark Wayne Harris, who was named editor of the Text Novel line, has entered the ranks of professional writing and has sold two stories and one series to a pro company. Additionally, he’s been hired to design a comic book universe that he structured to have a definite past, present, and future. He’s tapped some of the ScriptGraphics creative team to help him with the transition. His moving on isn’t an ending because he’ll be contributing future issues and a three issue fantasy story which features covers by David McClain. Be here.

This issues lead feature is written by Keith Royster, artist and co-writer of ScriptGraphics first Destiny Squad character, Quasar. While working on Quasar he wrote a prose story and I remembered it and thought it’d be good for this Text Novel project. Unfortunately, it was only half as long type written as it was written longhand which meant this would be a very thin issue or that it would have to be made into a longer story. Keith didn’t have time to expand the story so Mark Wayne Harris stepped up to the plate again with two short stories in his inventory that we could use to could fill out the book. Both stories differ in subject and theme but we think you’ll like them all. We file this under excellent timing. So, having said the above, I present Darkstone and other stories... And as Goza used to say: Zine On! Fenwich ‘The Fenth’ Thaddeusford DARKSTONE.........................................................by Keith Royster HARQUAND’S EYE........................................by Mark Wayne Harris NEITHER OF BL00D NOR DUST...................by Mark Wayne Harris

Cover Art by Keith Royster & Darrell Goza

DARKSTONE Melissa Horning sat in the corner of the abandoned tenement weak with cold and rear, just as she had sat for the past two days. Twice her brother and his gang had tried to free her from the makeshift jail located somewhere in the Bedford-Styvescent area, and two bodies in the hallway served as mute testimony to their failure. She was a captive Or the Street Warriors, the largest and most reared gang on the east coast. Melissa was captured and was to be used as leverage to force her brother, the leader Or the Thunderbolts, to abandon his territory or she was going to be subjected to a slow and painful death. Melissa knew that her brother would fail in persuading the gang members to leave their turf, since the Thunderbolts would have to sacrifice their reputation in conceding to the Street Warriors demands. “Say, bitch, you think your brother’s gonna be able to get his boys to leave Bed-Sty?” The voice belonged to Demon’, the leader of the Street Warriors. He was the most ruthless and savage warlord in gang history, and was rumored to deal in the occult. Melissa said nothing. “You know, before we waste you, we’re gonna have some run with your ass. The other gang members edged closer to her with anticipation of what was to come.

There was a knock on the door.

Several Street Warriors were at the door immediately, grip ping pistols, knives, and chains. Demon unbolted the entrance and opened it.

“What do you want?” Demon challenged.

“Are you Demon, warlord of the Street Warriors?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I want to join your gang.”

“Who’re you?”

“My name is Darkstone. That’s all you need to know.”

The law of the Street Warriors states that anyone wanting to join the gang must defeat a gang member in combat with no-holds barred. Melissa closed her eyes; she knew enough about gang life to be able to guess what was to come. However, Darkstone was flashing a polished smile. A rangylooking gang captain stepped forward. Everything about the man oozed with cruelty. His race was as hard-bitten as an axe.

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In the doorway a massive figure was silhouetted against the light bulb in the hall. The man was made more of leather than flesh, and his figure could have been cut out of tinted steel. The dark, chiseled features clearly labeled him to be an Indian.

“Well Darkcrap, where’re you from?” the captain sneered.

“Arizona, I’m an Apache.”

“A redskin, huh? Well, this is what we do to injuns around here...” He spit fuIl in Darkstone’s face, reaching for the length of chain hanging from his jeans. No one saw the brown fist collide with sledgehammer force on the captains jaw. There was an audible crack in the room as the man was knocked off his feet. A gang member verified what everyone else knew.

“Damn, his neck’s broken,”

Darkstone said, “Apaches don’t think anything of love taps like that. Anyone else want to play games?”

Demon made a pitiful attempt at indifference.

“Alright, you’re in. But you mess up just once and we’ll kick your ass. Now you just keep an eye on this broad and keep alert for any noise outside.” Darkstone said nothing, but when Demon turned away, he gave Melissa a wink.

Demon once again turned his attention to Darkstone.

“Listen. We all take four-hour shifts guarding the door and the girl. You keep an eye on her now and relieve the guard at door. By then, it’ll be time to waste her.” pointing at Melissa. Darkstone sat down on a crate next to Melissa, without 90 much as a glance toward the girl. Then, once Darkstone was sure that the attention of the warriors was elsewhere, he said in a whisper, “Don’t worry. I’ve been sent to take you back to your brother. Watch my lead, and when the time comes, be ready to run. Again, the reassuring wink. The hours passed slowly. Finally it was time to relieve the guard at the door. As Darkstone did so, Demon said... “Well, since we’ve gotten no word from the Thunderbolts, I guess this means you’ve got no more time on this Earth.” He approached the girl. Suddenly, Darkstone leveled the front door with one kick, shouting, “Melissa! Come on!”

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Melissa bolted past the stunned men, and the two ran down the hallway. At the top Or the stairs, Darkstone and Melissa stopped to see some Street Warriors running up the stairs toward them.

“What are we going to do?” cried Melissa.

“Run for the roof, once there, we can chance a jump to another building.”

Darkstone and Melissa beat the gang to the roof, just barely. There was no time to jump to another building. Darkstone spun to face the Street Warriors, pulling a long sharp Bowie knife from his waist band. While the gang represented the deadliest, most ruthless kind of men; the dregs of society, Darkstone was the heir of centuries of warfare and slaughter, the descendent of a people who were born to struggle. In a few savage, bloody moments, it was over. A score of bodies littered the rooftop, and while Darkstone was tattered and bloody, he was alive. He and Demon. Grasping an oddly-shaped pendant, Demon shouted in a loud voice: ‘Gods of Storm and Shadow, look down upon your chosen one and send one of your own to slay my enemy...!” Darkness enveloped the roof, and something began to shuffle toward Darkstone in the darkness. In moments, Darkstone’s eyes had adjusted to the dark and he threw his knife, burying it deep in Demon’s chest. Darkstone knew that even the deadliest weapon in the western hemisphere would do no good against whatever came for him in the darkness, but the summoner was all too human. Immediately the darkness dispersed, as well as whatever hid in it. In Demon’s place was a charred silhouette of a man, with the knife lying in the center of the ashes. Without a word, Darkstone lifted Melissa as easily as if she were a rag doll.

“Why did you come for me?” she asked.

“To gain admission to the Thunderbolts. I’m going to be in town for a long time, and I’ll need some friends. Saving you puts the Thunderbolts in my debt.” Melissa stared in awe at the quiet, powerful giant who moments ago succeeded where a whole army had failed, and she wondered what he would do next... *********************************************** HARQUAND’S EYE Part the First

A thousand candles burned eerily in the chambers of O-Mand Blackheart, causing a thousand shadowy spectres to dance across the marble walls. O-Mand sat comfortably in his chair, for he was Senior Advisor to the Lordship himself, and that meant he was a mighty sorcerer as well. His aged eyes stared into the room’s center, and regarded a rather short, thin man standing there. The visitor was a criminal drawn up from the dungeons by O-Mand. His name was Kestrel.

Kestrel hadn’t changed at all since the evil Blackheart had last beheld

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him. He was still dressed in black and white diamond pattern stockings, black and white slippers, an ebon silk shirt, and the tragedy mask, that OMand had sorcerously locked onto his face for his crimes, was still there. He could not see Kestrel’s expression beneath the mask, but he doubted it was a happy One. But O-Mand himself smiled a crooked smile that stretched wickedly beneath his long, snowy beard. “Why have I been summoned here, Blackheart? You know I find my accommodations in the dungeon below so pleasant I can’t bear to leave it for long,” Kestrel sneered, his voice hollow. “Sarcastic as ever. Have your decades of imprisonment taught you nothing?” “Let’s just say ‘patience’ is the one that readily comes to mind. Why have I been summoned here? Does it strike your fancy to add another thousand years to my sentence?” “No, but there’s little doubt in my mind you’d live through it. Have you noticed you’ve stopped aging? I think it’s a side effect that occurred when I placed that tragedy mask on your face. It shouldn’t have happened, unless...” his voice trailed and his weathered brow wrinkled in thought.

“Unless what?” Kestrel mumbled half interested.

“Unless my first impression of you was true, you have latent magical potential. In fact, that is the reason why you’re here.” Kestrel relaxed and placed his hands on his waist. !’Sit down, please,” O-Mand said in a surprisingly pleasant tone. “I’ll stand. Your tone is entirely too polite, Blackheart. You want something, and since I don’t have anything to give this should be interesting to hear.”

“Indeed it should. I need a favor.”

“From me?”

“From you. “What would you say if I told you I could suspend your sentence given by myself, for that stupid attempt you made to assassinate the Lord ship,” he said, leaning forward.

“I’d say you were lying.”

“But I’m not. For a small favor I’ll allow you to go free, and that mask will be removed from your face as well.”

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Kestrel’s mask seemed to change expression in the candlelight to one that was piqued with curiosity. Imagine it. Freedom! “How small is ‘small’, Blackheart? Will it endanger my life?”

“Of course. Still listening?”

“Continue,” Kestrel replied coolly.

“Good. Since you are a thief, of no little experience, you have probably heard of an object of power called Harquand’s Eye. The task is simple. I want you to acquire it.”

“ Why? “

“That’s my business.”

“Why not get it yourself? Losing your touch?”

O-Mand sighed, trying to replenish his patience. “Of course not. It’s just that Harquand’s Eye is the stuff of the Higher Ones, something that I am forbidden to touch. But you, one with magical potential, some of which is beginning to emerge, can get the Eye for me.”

“And then what?”

“For now, just worry about getting it. Will you do it?”

“I’ll get it, but if this is some kind of set-up - -”

“Excellent!” ‘he said, standing. He walked slowly to the rear of the chamber and began digging into a chest. He removed a rose, one that seemed somehow unnatural in its beauty. He walked back to Kestrel. “You must go outside the castle to the neutral territory that lies between here and Morgana’s realm. There you will find a cave. Enter it, seek the Eye, steal it, place it in this bag,” he said, handing him a leather sack, “and return. Simple.” “Too simple. You said there would be danger. How do I defend myself?”

“’With this,” O-Mand said, tossing him the flower. Kestrel laughed.

“A poor joke.” He tucked the rose into his lapel. “How do I defend my self?”

“Don’t worry about it, little rogue- Let us go.” They began walking to the door. There were no guards about, Kestrel observed. The great draw bridge fell to the opposite side of the moat apparently of its own volition. Kestrel threw a scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and pulled the hood up to shield his face from the driving winds. The lands were desolate. There was no plant life, only dun, barren rock in every direction of the mountainous terrain. A terrible windstorm was in progress. Kestrel shrugged, accepted a staff from O-Mand, and set out.

He reached the base of the mountain with a swear, for he was not used to walking on rock. He lowered his head, said a few words to himself to lift his spirits, and began his trek. He walked for miles. Hours later he

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“Oh, and remember,” O-Mand shouted after him. “I still have a magical fix on that mask! If you try to escape before the task is complete I’ll order it to constrict and crush your skull open!” he yelled with a laugh. Kestrel waved him back inside and continued down the rocky cliffs.

stood in the neutral zone (why it was called this he could only guess), and Morgana’s castle was clearly in view on the horizon. He drew his cloak tighter, for he felt somehow watched and observed and the feeling was eerie indeed. Who approaches?” Morgana shouted, tossing her short jet hair from her eyes; that were illuminated with rage. Her chambers were dark and dusty, the multiple shelves that lined the brick walls overflowing with thousands of artifacts to help her in her evil conjurations. Her gown was the same color as her eyes, and her nails were lacquered black. ”Someone draws near,” she hissed. “I must see who dares. Bring me The Mirror.” There was a scurrying as several winged monkeys grasped a crystal mirror and dragged it slowly before Morgana. She waved her longnailed hands before the looking glass, and the figure of Kestrel winked into visibility. Morgana’s lips stretched thin and peeled back in an evil smile. “Kestrel. It’s Kestrel. I thought the day would never come when I would see that little thief again, I’d thought O-Mand Blackheart more powerful than this, he couldn’t keep one little man imprisoned. Unless, perhaps, he was freed purposely...” She observed silently as Kestrel approached the cave. “No, it cannot be... Yes! Kestrel is seeking The Eye!” She waved to her minions. “All of you! Prepare to fly!” She rose from her throne and threw open the windows with a gesture. The apes hopped to the ledge and took flight. “Let Kestrel get the Eye.” Morgana thought wickedly “and then I’ll get him.” A most haunting laughter shook her halls and it didn’t cease for some time... Kestrel stood outside the cave entrance, running his gloved fingers through his brown hair. There was no apparent danger. But that’s that scared him. The way was totally unbarred, and the strange buzz Kestrel felt around magic was not present. Something wasn’t quite right, it seemed walking in and just taking it was too easy. He shrugged, lit a torch, and stepped inside. The cave stank. Kestrel nearly choked from the reeking air. Thankful for the first time he was wearing that damned mask, he followed the most worn pathway through the ramiform tunnels. The path took him down into a pyramidal chamber with a pedestal occupying the exact center. Atop this pedestal rested an orb glowing an ominous shade of green, a shade that shifted constantly. At closer inspection it was indeed an eye, though Kestrel had taken the phase Harquand’s Eye to be symbolic. His hand reached for it shakily, waiting for something to happen. It was heavy, like it was solid glass. It was also just over twice the size of a human eye. Kestrel looked about cautiously, tucked it into the beaten sack, and began jogging for the exit.

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He peeked out. Nothing. All was quiet. He breathed a sigh of relief and began to head back for the castle and O-Mand Blackheart. “What was that? He listened. It was some kind of baying or screeching, very far off. He turned around and his eyes stretched beneath his mask.

sky was filled with a stream of winged monkeys pouring from Morgana’s castle. Even at that distance Kestrel could see they were armed and he knew they were coming for him. He had no choice but to run, which wasn’t really a choice at all since there was no place to escape to. He dared not reenter the cave, for who knew what horrors lurked within? No, he had to run and hope for a miracle. And miracles never happened. The apes reached him swiftly, for though slow in a mental sense they were swift and physically strong. One of them, spear in hand, swooped low. Kestrel whirled sharply, slashing the torch into its head and cracking its skull open. It dropped and Kestrel recovered its spear. The fight was on. Kestrel decided to head for a crop of giant boulders, figuring he could battle them better if he weren’t in the open. But he knew the effort was really pointless. There were hundreds of them. Two more fell before the shafted weapon, and Kestrel lifted an axe from the bloodied earth. He was already growing tired, he was in poor physical shape. An ape landed on the top of the boulder behind him and raised a mace over its head. It screeched with glee and slammed it into Kestrel’s head. The little rogue collapsed. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt himself lifted, and felt the wind in his hair and the flapping of his shirt. And before the veil of blackness dropped solid, he knew he was being borne to Morgana’s castle. The monkeys landed within the stone walls, and took a secret stairway down into the dungeons. Kestrel began to stir and realized he was being searched. They were looking for the Eye! If they found it his deal with 0-Mand was void! He struck out but he was pushed into a cell and locked in. It was so dark, both within the cell and in the hall, That he could hardly see. He peered about, eyes straining, and his fingers searched every inch of the cell. Nothing. He peeked through the grate and watched the apes shamble up the long staircase to the upper rooms. Had they found it? NO! Kestrel snapped to attention as he caught a faint green glow in a corner of the corridor. It had obviously fallen free of him during the struggle and the apes were too dim-witted to search the floor. But it as six feet away, and he had no means to get it. Upstairs, Morgana was in a rage. “You mindless...! I sense the presence of The Eye somewhere downstairs, Kestrel must be pulling one of his little tricks. Take your weapons and persuade him to give you The Eye. And bring me what’s left of Kestrel.” The monkeys nodded and began to walk back down the stairs.

The apes were advancing down the first few steps. They walked slow, thinking there was no rush. But they would be down in a feel minutes. “Kestrel knew his salvation lied in the flower he held, for he did indeed feel a buzz of magic from it. But there was a problem. He had absolutely no idea

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Kestrel’s attention was caught as he heard them. As he struggled to get a better view, the rose O-Mand had given him brushed his cheek. He looked at it curiously and removed it from his lapel. Was O-Mand telling the truth? Was the rose a weapon?

how to use it. And he didn’t have the time.

Part the second:

He couldn’t think of anything to do with the rose to make it work. He stuck it outside the bars of the door and waved it. “Come to me, oh Eye!” he whispered loudly. nothing happened. He cursed and wished he’d still had the staff O-Mand had given him. Then something happened. The rose began to shimmer in his hand, growing cold, shifting shape and density. Kestrel could hardly believe his eyes. The rose had become a six foot long wooden staff. Kestrel held it by its end and tapped the Eye through a crack in the base of the door. He picked it up and smiled. He had no idea what he did to make the rose work, but, perhaps that was the way it was supposed to be. The sounds of the approaching apes grew louder. They had reached the base of the stairs and were advancing down the corridor. “What to do now? He had the Eye, but what to do with it? The rose, returned its original shape after he drew it within the cell, began to shimmer again. This time it turned into a foot-long wooden knife. Kestrel did not understand at first what the rose was trying to tell him. But then it struck him. And his blood ran cold, The knowledge horrified him like nothing in his entire life had ever horrified him before. The monkeys reached is door. A key was fitted into the lock. The ape froze as a bone-tingling scream echoed from the depths of the darkness in Kestrel’s cell. The ape threw open the door. A sound like a miniature explosion rang out. A gunshot. The ape’s head disappeared from his shoulders as Kestrel leaped from the room firing a wooden gun. The other monkeys scattered, but Kestrel’s aim was uncanny, and the gun was powerful enough to shoot through two or more of them at a time. Blood was everywhere, but strangely, some of it was Kestrels. The front of his shirt was covered with it. He shot the last monkey through the brain and dashed up the stairs, consumed by a blood lust he couldn’t define. He reached the top and with unnatural strength smashed the door from its hinges. He aimed the gun at Morgana who was facing him, her mouth open in shock. But before he could fire, a winged monkey stepped from behind a curtain and slugged Kestrel on the back of the head. He dropped.

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head.

“Nice...trick...Morgana...love,” Kestrel murmured, unable to raise his

“You should have known better than to try something like that, little Kestrel. Morgana would have to turn you into something like a frog and boil you.” She reached out and grasped his hair. But when she snatched his head up she received a very unpleasant surprise. Kestrel’s right eye was not his own. His own eye had been gouged out by a knife and Harquand’s Eye had been crammed into the socket. It was not a very pretty sight. The socket had become deformed, stretched to twice the size to accommodate the Eye. “Don’t look so frightened,” Kestrel laughed. “The placement of the Eye caused my tragedy mask to fall free, and it gave me a power beyond

mortal imagining. Behold...” The eye flared emerald, and Morgana felt her will sucked into it. “You forget, I am a sorceress as you are now a magician, Kestrel.” She waved her hands. Now everything in the chamber was green, even the air seemed tinted. Morgana began to change shape, gain mass, rise taller, grow scaly. Kestrel held the sword of wood before him, the weapon that was only a rose a scant few moments ago. Morgana’s seven foot dragonshape conjured a blade also. They clashed. Kestrel found that the wood of the sword was as strong, if not stronger, than the metal of Morgana’s blade. In fact, spark after spark of chipping metal flew from Morgana’s weapon. Her dragon-shape roared, and the castle shook. Kestrel parried a thrust, feinted, then hacked down. Morgana’s arm was lopped off at the elbow, but it was not her sword handIn a rage, she struck out, and buried her blade in Kestrel’s heart.

“Learn young sorcerer,” she said.

“Learn, old one,” Kestrel said. The Eye looked into her soul, and the green about the room faded. Morgana screeched. It was Kestrel’s sword that was buried in HER heart, not as Morgana believed. “Your will became mine to manipulate, Morgana. I made you imagine many things. “You became no dragon. “You conjured no sword. But you are quite dead.” And Morgana fell to the floor. And Morgana died. The wooden blade became a rose once again and Kestrel found his scarlet robe. He put it on. He felt his eye. He winced, the pain flaring. He wished he didn’t have to walk all the distance back to O-Mand. “But wait, what was that?” he thought. “With the Eye he could swear he saw 0-Mand’s chambers before him, almost as if a single step could take him there. He stepped forward and 0-Mand’s mouth dropped in shock. “You did it! By his Lordship’s black beard, I had my doubts!’’ Kestrel remained staring for a moment. He then drew off his hood. “Aye, I did it. Explain all of this, Blackheart, my Eye sees into your soul, and it sees you have much to say-” O-Mand laughed much to Kestrel’s irritation. “Everything I expected, even a personality change. Is Morgana dead?”

“Very.”

“You knew things would work out as they did? How?” “I’m a sorcerer, boy, and all sorcerers have premonitions of the future.

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“As I planned. Kestrel, My boy, this was all a plan conceived by me to do his Lordship a service by getting rid of Morgana for him. I knew she couldn’t resist the chance to try to use you. She would have destroyed your will, placed the Eye in your skull, and sent you here to kill us. But I knew she wouldn’t get the chance. I only had doubts about your ability to accept the Eye without being incinerated.”

The more experienced the magician, the greater probability of that dream or the future coming to pass. Mine most always do. I can see destinies, Kestrel. This whole thing was part of yours.”

“You confuse me. Why couldn’t his Lordship slay Morgana himself?”

“Because Morgana was his first born’s mother. “Wouldn’t do for such a thing to happen, how would the son take it?”

“I see. And what about me? I should kill you for using me.”

“And I think you know better than to try. It’s no contest. But look at it this way, the mask is gone as I promised, and you have powers you always dreamed of. Go, Kestrel, seek your destiny. This part of your life is over.”

“You know something of my destiny?”

“I have an inkling, yes.”

Kestrel sighed. “I take my leave, O-Mand. I have much to learn about my abilities before I can come back and kill you.” Kestrel looked out to the mountain through the window. He concentrated, and it seemed closer... he stepped forward, and the wind was in his face. Whatever your plans for me, Fate, I hope it’s interesting,” he said, and began walking down. O-Mand observed him through the window. “You will discover many things, Kestrel, about both yourself and the Eye. I do not envy you, for none of them are good.” So ends the tale of Harquard’s Eye and so begins the Chronicles of Kestrel *********************************************** NEITHER OF BLOOD...NOR DUST!

Damp.

I couldn’t breathe.

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Life returned to my decaying limbs after decades of imprisonment in the earth. I was surrounded by cold blackness, as yet unable to muster enough strength to dig free. All my flesh had rotted away long ago, or so I assume, but my body still registered all sensations, including a dread attack of claustrophobia caused by my immobility. I waited as patiently as I could, until I felt I had the power to move my arms. But the effort was great. As my nail-less fingers began to labor, I was seized by a horrid feeling of suffocation, one that pushed my unstable mind over the edge into a sea of madness. I began to cackle in sanely, clawing faster and faster, harder and harder, until I felt my hand break the soil above me. Rain pelted my hand as it pushed up through the layer of leaves coating the ground. Yes, I remember. The fiend had buried me in a

forest. And had done the ghastly deed when I was still alive. I pulled myself out of the insect-infested hole, shaking worms and other creatures out of my body where they had made their homes. I shuddered, and coughed the bones of a decomposing rodent from my mouth. My audio perceptors scanned the area. I recalled the place of my creation. It lied north. I stood, shakily, grateful the metal of my limbs gave me support. Before I turned to leave, a flash of lightening illuminated my gravestone. It read: Here lies Total McFailure. Rest in peace, baby. I cackled again, wickedly. Yes, my creator had enjoyed putting me to rest. And I would enjoy haunting him. I am a ghost! But I am a deadly ghost. I turned north, and began walking. At first it was awkward and almost painful. But my automatic lubrication systems still functioned and I was soon advancing normally. But my lubrication process could do nothing to improve my posture. I was forced to walk hunched over. And soon after that my left leg became stiff again, and went crooked. I was misshapen, not the former thing of beauty that once had the admiration of man and robot alike. Now, I guess I was of a different kind of beauty altogether. Now my beauty was terrible. I laughed. Yes, terrible beauty. How much time had gone by? My internal clock had stopped after thirty years, but I didn’t let the possibility that my creator had passed from the world deter me. I lumbered on. I peered through the trees. I saw a dot of illumination. It was a cabin, the place of my origin. The light meant someone was there. Him! The rain washed away the dirt and my metallic skin shined as I approached the abode. I stopped before a blooming rose bush. I reached out and picked a flower. I sniffed. Nothing. My olfactory sensors weren’t functioning properly. As I regarded the thing I found myself becoming jealous of it. It was created by the hand of God. Thus, it was perfect, flawless. I thought of myself. I was created by the hand of man, who was created by the hand of God himself. Thus by logic, that meant that man was my God. But my perfection is a thing of the past. I am imperfect now. If perfection is not eternal, is it perfection at all? Thus, if my god created me imperfectly, how could he be considered a God? It was an answer of circles with no real answer. I balled my fist, and crushed the flower. I stared at the crushed petals floating in a puddle of water. Fire burned in my lubricant pump. I hated it. Inside the cabin, a man and a woman, quite young, were speaking to each other in loving tones. The woman was already naked and in bedThe man was standing next to her unfastening his shirt. He was my creator. But how did he stay so young? In fact, he was younger now than when he created me, and looked radically different. I shrugged. It was him because he was here. That was all the proof I needed. The man finished his unbuttoning but didn’t take his shirt off. He stared down at the girl. She looked up at him, confused. “Well?” she said in a high voice. “What are you waiting for?”

“My, my. Aren’t we anxious. Suppose I change my mind?” he said with just enough seriousness to tease her.

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“C’mon, Cory,” she wined. “Don’t play like that.” She grabbed his belt and tugged. “C’mon.” Cory smiled. He leaned down and kissed her passionately. “I was just kidding, Angie.” She returned his smile. “Your uncle lent us this cabin for the entire weekend, Mr. Hart. I wanna make you glad you brought me up here lnsteada what’s-her-face. I don’t wanna play games.” She undld hls belt and tore his jeans open as fast as she could. My audio perceptors noted her breathing rate increase as she did this and buried her tongue in his mouth. Cory didn’t have any objections to her anxiousness. I walked around to the door and rapped softly. “What was that?” the girl said. “I heard somethin’ outside.” She pulled the covers up over her heavy chest. Cory sighed.

“Now who’s playing games?”

“I’m serious, man. Did you hear it?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well maybe it was a tree scratchin’ the roof or somethi..., There it is again!” This time I knocked loud enough for the boy to hear me. “Damn,” I heard him say. I also heard a zipper fastening and the floor boards creaking as he walked to the door. “Stand behind the door,” he ordered. Soft padded feet went from bed to wall,

“Who is it?”

I knocked again, louder.

“I said, who is it!?” he repeated.

I knocked again, louder.

“Some asshole kid playin’ games,” I heard the girl say. Cory grunted agreement and began to move away from the door. I pounded harder, rattling it. Cory shouted, ”Hand me the gun!”, and I decided to get him now. I raised my fist and brought it down. The aged wood splintered. I entered.

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The man was stunned speechless by my appearance, and the girl fainted. I reached out for him, planning to mercilessly snap his neck, but he was very agile and dodged me. I growled, trying to speak but I couldn’t. He ducked my second attempt to seize him and ran out of the door into the woods. I turned to the girl, lying naked on the floor. I knelt to her. She was beautiful. I gently pulled the sheet from her, exposing every inch of her lascivious body. I can’t explain what I felt. I felt warmth, cold, pressure... I was very careful not to harm her. I touched her knee, and pushed it over, spreading her legs. I touched her breasts with the other.

I had tried to yell ‘No!’. I knew the feelings I had and the desire to do what I wanted to do were wrong. I tore myself away from her, and followed my creator into the forest. His trail wasn’t hard to follow, not that I needed the disturbed leaves on the ground to tell me his path. No, I heard him perfectly. He was running like a madman, tripping and bumping into trees, bushes, and rocks. This pace was no quicker than walking, so he hadn’t gotten much of a head start. He stopped running, but he WAS breathing so hard he was making as much noise. I caught sight of him, diving behind a patch of bushes. It was so convenient of him to wait for me like that. By the time he realized he hadn’t lost me it was too late. I gripped his throat and squeezed. His eyes bulged; tongue turned purple. With a savage twist, I tore his head from his shoulders, ignoring the spray of blood that splashed over me. I held it up to my perceptors. I knew I could finally tell him what I thought; how I felt about him. “ - - ,” I squarbled. I then crushed it, spilling his brains on the earth. My task was done. What to do now? I no longer had a reason to go on ‘living’. I trudged to the edge of a cliff. I looked down. So this is how it ends. I shut my visual preceptors off and toppled over. I felt my body smashed up on the rocks. My arm was torn off. My leg was crushed. My head broke away from my neck. As I lay there in the rain, shaking, I realized something. I was not human, but I had acted as a human would. I felt a desire for retribution, madness, envy, lust, and barbarism. But none of these attributes should exist in me. I was not created by the hand of God. Thus, I am not what a man is. I am unique. I was fading fast. But as I did, I was glad I was an artificial man. I am a species unto myself, neither of blood...nor dust... KLICK… The End.

In the tradition of ‘Lord of the Rings’, Mark Wayne Harris takes on his first epic multi-issue storyline for ScriptGraphics. It’s a tale of warfare, love, honor, betrayal, and power called ‘The Brothers of the Wood’. It is steeped in traditional fantasy lore but with its own voice and cadence. Mark is no stranger to narrative arts or storytelling, having created ‘Streetwolf’ and ‘Danse’ for Blackthorne Publications as well as doing guest editiorials for DC comics. Here he stretches his discriptive muscles to give us a story of vast grandeur and pathos. David McClain, Keith Royster and Darrell Goza provide the graphic cover for the first installment of this epic storyline.

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