Burnt Offerings E-Book

Ripley King

• Herausgeber: Ripley King
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A collection of 20 short stories bridged together by a larger narrative.From Native American legend, urban detective, science fiction, to magic and love; alongside vampires, barbarians, presidents, elves, and (walking talking) toys. A little something for everyone.

Leseprobe

Burnt Offerings

Ripley King

Published by Ripley King, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BURNT OFFERINGS

First edition. November 20, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Ripley King.

Written by Ripley King.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Also by Ripley King

The 5 series.

One Last 5

5

5 More

Another 5

Again, 5

5 Omnibus Edition

Standalone

And Jesus Wept

Burnt Offerings

Earth Improvement Day

Lonely Hero Thing

Love Dark

Nightstrider: The Spaces Between

Shift Change

The Pre-dead Saga

Watch for more at Ripley King’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Ripley King

Dedication

Burnt Offerings

How the People Kept Their Power

Fit for Survival

Fire with Fire

For the Greater Good

Shoosh, it’s a Secret

Serve Revenge Hot

Only ___ Shopping Day(s) Left Until Xmas!

Abracadabra is Just A Word, Isn’t It?

Welcome To Machine

Origins: Little Demon Dolly

Lea Beth

Monkey’s Meat

Two Souls at Sundown

Have you ever felt real . . .

The Last First Hour

Wisdom Divine

Conjured from Stone and Steel

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Percible Traynor’s Quest for Immortality

Love’s Gift

Publishing Notes

Original to this volume:

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Further Reading: And Jesus Wept

Also By Ripley King

About the Author

 

To my family.

Burnt Offerings

A rugged well-muscled man suddenly appeared near the center of a crowded intersection, startling all around, screaming salvation or damnation to heaven-on-high and everybody who would listen, grasping at all who dared pass by. He was out-and-out naked.

The first cops on the scene noted the naked crazy man probably weighed two hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and decided to approach with riot batons out. Pepper spray was un-holstered.

The two officers approached the man together. The idea being the first officer would spray the disturbed man in the eyes with the pepper spray to blind him, throw him off his guard; then the second officer would cock the poor slob upside the head with his baton. Working together the two policemen would see him cuffed.

The plan would have been a good one, yet several problems remained to hinder it. The first of which was the pepper spray didn’t blind him. It enraged him. That plus the naked crazy man didn’t go down with the first or second or third blow to the brainpan. Instead he lashed out, becoming a danger to the two officers, as well as the mushrooming populace gathered to watch the highly unusual but unusually entertaining spectacle.

The first two police officers were quickly joined by four more burly men in blue, and together they had to work hard to wrestle the man to the pavement, into cuffs, and as an added precaution, plastic leg restraints. They, in a word or two, hogtied him.

The police were obviously dealing with a deranged, probably drugged lunatic. A man who was as much a danger to himself as well as others who happened to get in his way. A hospital with a competent psychiatric ward was nearby and suggested.

With the general public watching, some of them murmuring about the dozen or so blows to his noggin by their many batons, a decision was made by the senior officer at the scene to send the man there, rather than endanger other, more benign prisoners in lockup, avoiding a possible inquest if he was unfortunate enough to up and die in their custody.

The man was promptly bundled into the back of a uniform’s cruiser, and shipped down the road less traveled.

Brought in by the front door, bypassing the Emergency Room, creating a thoroughly unique spectacle for those in the lobby, the man was carried into the first elevator (going up) to open.

He was cut in several innocuous locations, bleeding all over himself, bloodying whatever and whoever he happened to bump against, and onto the floor.

When the heavy gage plastic the police used to turn him into a human suitcase was removed, he was quickly admitted to the well-lit third floor, still cuffed for his own protection. A large syringe of Thorazal was administered.

His body struggled less, yet his mind tumbled like it was profoundly out of phase with the rest of the world, and all around him flashed into focus for the shortest of moments, only to vanish into the unfathomable abyss of his confusion. A torment of sight, sound, touch, and smell.

He raged against the unknown inside of him as well as outside of him. Words that made no sense toppled from his lips, or were spat out at the cops who were not-so-patiently waiting for another large syringe of Thorazal to be administered.

The second shot calmed the man on the outside, but not on the inside. What was inside his mind frightened him, which provided fuel to the fight or flight furnace within, yet it was too late. He had been wrestled across the room, strapped to a Gurney, and wheeled into a patient utility room to be cleaned up, professionally stitched, and bandaged.

He remained in that room for some time covered neck to toe by a single, clean white sheet, screaming with little or no sound into his own mental black hole.

An attendant came by and checked his pulse, but that was all.

A nurse came by much later and drew blood, though he didn’t feel her hands on his restrained arm. She pried open one eye and asked a question, but didn’t get a coherent response. A smaller third shot of Thorazal lulled the man into a dreamless sleep.

It was some time later when the man suddenly woke that he had his first lucid thought. It was about the nurse. Her words had sounded . . . wrong. That was all, nothing more. Again, he slept.

He finally woke to a mind no longer inflated by the twisted or frightening. Two attendants were wheeling him into a standard bleached hospital room. Inside the hospital room was an old man with long bluish-gray hair, sitting on the edge of an early model, barely comfortable, white hospital bed.

With the old man watching the two attendants removed his restraints, dressed him in ward-specific green hospital pajamas, and placed him on a bed of his own. The word “catatonic” was casually tossed from one attendant to the other.

“What happens if he starts screaming again?” the second attendant asked the first attendant. Their words filling his empty mind with meaning, learning anew that their language was also his.

“The chief will let us know when he gets tired of it,” the first attendant said. “Right, Chief?”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” said the chief. “Aren’t you going to buckle him up?”

“Nope,” the first attendant replied. “I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere, or doing anything for a long while.”

The second attendant patted him on the head in a condescending way, and followed the first attendant out of the room.

Seconds later the old man stood, walked over to him, gazed into his face for a few minutes, and said, “You don’t belong here.”

The old man gently touched his numbed cheek, and he held onto the old man’s stare like a lifeline, and let the first images his mind could hold, form.

How the People Kept Their Power

When the Grandfather spread his hair, sparks from each strand became the stars. It was he who made the Sky Father and the Earth Mother. Also he made the Moon Sister, whose lifecycle affects us all.

I am old, and do not believe all the stories as they were told to me, yet know the universe is vast. I also know the universe is a bubble, and we are on the inside with no way out. It is the Circle of Life, and the Circle of Life is what we are.

The Moon Sister was pretty, yet was barren. The Earth Mother was not. It was she who made the bear and bird, the fish and wolf, and all other creatures. She also made man and woman, for we are also animals, and her knowledge is found in the hearts of all things. This made the Moon Sister angry and jealous, so she hid her face until the Sky Father spoke to her and asked that she smile, which she does now once a month out of joy. She knows the Sky Father loves her.

The anger and jealousy of the Moon Sister, what she kept hidden, soured, and a Black Warrior rode the darkness to infest the Earth Mother. This happens now and again. It was I who fought the last Black Warrior. I was young and impatient.

Mountains rumbled, and the Earth Mother shook. She had a secret to tell. It was I who went up the mountain to listen, to touch the spirit of the Earth Mother.

The insects were frightened, so did not bite. I am always grateful for small favors and thanked them. Snakes were to be avoided for they were angry, and would remain so for several days.

I was on a spirit quest, so took no food. I had nothing to drink, but knew I would find water enough to quench the most powerful thirst. I sheathed my knife, and also my pipe, so I could take counsel from nature.

I climbed the holy places, and when I looked down between my feet I saw Grandfather Peyote. I pulled the button from the soil and ate it, for contained within Grandfather Peyote is a powerful medicine. It makes the heart beat strong, and the spirit unfold like a spring bloom.

I found sweet grass, which I cut. I gathered wood and made a fire with the back of my knife, striking it against a stone, and smoked the sweet grass to purify my spirit and body. When my clothes vanished I knew my prayers had been answered. The spirits would protect me as long as I was not foolish.

I was thirsty, and could hear water as it tumbled toward the grassy plains below. I found the stream and drank, and as I drank I saw in my reflection the wisdom of two. Two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, man and woman, body and spirit.

I had been told to beware the spirit world if I was unprepared, so I asked the spirits if I was ready, and was answered. A black bear tore through the trees, and then lumbered up to me and spoke.

“You are unsure,” the bear said. “Perhaps you are not the warrior I seek. Do you have any food to eat? A bear is always hungry.”

“I have no food for you,” I said. “Are you the Black Warrior I must face?”

“I am, but you do not possess the strength to defeat me.”

“Then I must call to the spirit of the grizzly bear, for he is more fierce.”

So I called to the spirit of the grizzly. It came, and I was the grizzly.

We stood and roared our challenges. I knew my words and deeds were strong and clear, and charged the Black Warrior. His claws raked my chest, and his bite was deep, but the fur of a grizzly is thick, and his skin tough.

We rolled on the ground, biting and clawing each other until dirt flew into my eyes. I quickly cleared my vision, but the Black Warrior was gone. I was myself again.

The wounds bled, but I found the yellow root at my feet that halts the flow of blood. Once again the Earth Mother provided what I needed most.

I climbed farther up the mountain, and found some snow and danced. I did so to live. I danced, and an eagle’s feather fell at my feet. The feather was wide and long. I picked it up and asked the eagle for his power, and danced so to commune with his spirit.

I listened to the wind whisper that I could ride the currents, and heard the proud cry of my sky brother. Love filled his voice, and when I closed my eyes I saw with his eyes a puma, watching me as I dipped and wheeled in my joy. This puma was the Black Warrior.

I swooped and tried to rake the puma’s eyes with my strong talons. His paw swiped at me, but I tucked my wings against my body and rolled out of reach. With each beat of my powerful wings I climbed higher into the sky vault. It was then that I truly understood the Sky Father.

Water makes the clouds, lightning tears the clouds, clouds water the earth. That which is given birth will die and be reborn. Life is an endless ring with no beginning or end. The joy of being.

I whirled to attack, but the puma was gone. In his place was a rattlesnake. This was not the Black Warrior, but a temptation. To fight an angry rattlesnake is foolish.

I let my sky brother go to fly where the wind would take him, and noticed the sun was tired. I was also tired, and gathered more wood to throw onto my fire. The night would be long and cold for a warrior without clothes.

“Earth Mother, wind, forest, hear my prayer. Protect me this night that I may finish my battle and defeat the Black Warrior.” Then I made a brush shelter.

I smoked more sweet grass, and listened to my stomach complain for something to eat. It was then I heard the call of Sister Owl, who flies with the Moon Sister. I went to where she sat high in a tree, and asked her what she wanted. She threw down a hare for me to eat, then flew away to catch one for herself. I thanked her for the gift and skinned the hare. I did not know why Sister Owl helped me. It gave me something to think about.

The wood I had gathered provided a spit to cook the hare, and as the meat sizzled, I smoked more sweet grass and pondered my fate.

I was tied to the Black Warrior. Twins tethered by heritage.

We belong to our ancestors. One nation makes us strong. I had forgotten those concepts, remembering them was a lesson. This knowledge was earned.

I ate the hare while searching beyond the light of my fire. Darkness is a friend I was taught to embrace, so did not fear it. Shadows were made to hide our sorrows, and as I thought this, I noticed shadows gathering in the night like mists over warm waters on a cool morning. These shadows took the true form of the Black Warrior, whose eyes had a red glow. He looked like me.

“As with the birth of the life-giving sun each morning,” he said, “I am born. As with the death of the sun each night, you will die.”

His voice was that of the badger when angered. I was not sure I should speak to him in his true form, but did so anyway. “If I am dead in your words, I am dead.”

“You cannot heal your soul,” he said, “yet you try to free your spirit.”

“I was not aware my soul was damaged.”

“You are not free to follow the deer, the elk, what is left of the buffalo, which are free. You are not free to fish any wide river, or migrate like the goose when winter comes.”

I offered him a leg and thigh of the hare to eat. It was all I had left.

“I came to fight,” he said. “Not to eat.”

It was then I heard a wolf sing in the distance, and so did the Black Warrior.

“A wolf will fight to lead his people,” I said. “Rarely does he shed blood. His warriors are necessary. A dead hunter cannot catch food.”

“Does this mean you will not fight?”

“When Sister Owl gave me the hare to eat, I realized I had won this battle. You see, Grandfather Peyote gave me his wisdom, the Earth Mother gave me her sweet grass to heal my soul, and her yellow root to heal my body. When I drank the water I saw the wisdom of two acting as one, and with a child’s wonder I saw myself as a sacred being in the eyes of the Grandfather. Supernaturals like you, Black Warrior, are the teachers of new wisdom, or like for me, wisdom that has been forgotten. Like the grizzly my skin is thick, and my heart tough. The Earth Mother will never forsake her people. We fly like the eagle.

“I understand how the Sky Father makes love to the Earth Mother, and how I should love my people. Temptation will always have fangs, but to give in to temptation is foolish.

“We will speak our languages to our young until the white skins see this as wisdom. We will tell our stories so we as a people never forget who we are. We will dance our dances to free our souls. I will counsel this. Our history is our culture, our connection to our ancestors. We may die in spirit on these lands, these reservations, but the dead see things differently, and our spirits will be reborn with each story. With each dance will the people keep their power.”

With my words the Black Warrior smiled at me, and entered my heart to live as a part of me. The part of me that is just and wise. That was why he looked like me.

The reservations are still our homes, but that does not mean we are not one nation, and we are still powerful. Now our white brothers seek our knowledge, try to learn our ways, and because they were lost to us when the world was young, we give them our understanding.

The children of the Earth Mother are tied together like sticks in a tight bundle. What happens to one, affects all, or all our songs will remain silent, and all our prayers unspoken.

Go now and remember, peaceful are our lodges in the setting of the sun.

––––––––

“Why don’t I belong here?” the young man asked the old man when the images had stopped.

“Huh?” the old man replied, rising from his bed. “Did you say something?”

“Why don’t I belong here?”

The old man walked over to him, and the puzzled look slowly gave way to a gap-toothed smile below deeply rutted yet kind eyes.

“I said that to you yesterday, brother, and then they brought me my supper. It wasn’t very good. Boiled chicken and mashed potatoes. Very bland. Gassy, too. I miss a good steak with Tabasco sauce to throw on it. Maybe some Worcestershire sauce. Pepper. I miss pepper.”

“Why don’t I belong here?” the young man asked for the third time, realizing the restraints were gone. He sat up, rubbing sore wrists.

The old man shrugged his age-narrowed shoulders and said, “It was just a strange feeling I got when I looked into your eyes. When you have lived for as many years as I have, it’s good to get a strange feeling now and again, or any feeling at all.”

The young man grunted, felt around his bandaged head to see what was what, and lowered himself onto the pillow, slowly. He rolled onto his side, his back toward the old man.

And just before he fell asleep again, he told the old man, “They didn’t believe you, your fight with the Black Warrior, your message of peace. I’d go back and tell them again and again until they do believe you.”

“I would,” the old man replied, “but I’m dead. Several years dead. It’s hard to do things when you’re dead.”

“Become a ghost,” the young man said, and promptly fell asleep.

A young nurse with blazing orange hair and a sweet face woke him, he assumed, the next morning. The assumption made because she had a large breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, with buttered toast and orange juice next to her.

“I’m sure you’re hungry,” she said. “They pumped enough happy juice in you, you slept for two whole days.”

“Two days?” he said. “I am hungry. Thank you.”

“Manners. Very nice. May I check your blood pressure?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, but proceeded to wrap the black cuff around his exposed upper arm. She pumped, positioned her stethoscope, and released the valve. He could feel his blood throb strong down the length of his forearm, and then nothing. Afterward she gently held his wrist for a moment or two, gauging his pulse. Her touch was warm.

Her touch reminded him of a mother’s touch, but something was wrong. He suddenly realized he couldn’t remember his mother. He couldn’t say whether he had a mother. That area within his brain suddenly blank. He supposed he had a mother, somewhere.

“All seems normal,” she said. “Do you know who you are?”

The man had to think, searching hard the darkness within for the faintest glimmer of a name, and then said, “Not a clue. I’m in a hospital. Was I in an accident?”

The pretty nurse smiled, and said, “The police found you downtown, screaming at everything and everyone. It took six cops to cuff you. No identification. You were naked. We were hoping you knew your name.”

“Did I hurt anyone?”

Her eyes . . . they held such love and kindness, and she smiled to dazzle. He instantly liked her.

“They did a number on you,” she said, “but I think you only wounded their pride. No charges were filed.”

“Where’s the old man?” he asked.

“Mister Eagleclaw checked out last night. One of our voluntary psychiatric patients. He said he finally had something better to do than sit here and eat bad food for free. He was the sweetest man. I’m going to miss him.”

“You care about all your charges with that same devotion?”

“Yes I do,” she said, laying her hand on his arm in what he took as a gesture of comfort. “This is my life.”

And her last words seemed to echo inside his head.

Fit for Survival

Leslie Tharp roused tired, as she always did exiting hibernation. The light level was .03, but stabbed at her eyes. She would note the fact in her first report, and hauled herself out of the warmed sleep chamber, wishing for minimal cold-sleep cramps. She was needed.

With a hefty exhale she yanked the fat ventilation and feeding tubes from her throat. Painfully she swallowed until her saliva glands began production. She disconnected the webbing of electrodes strategically attached down the entire length of her torso, and began stretching long dense limbs.

Leslie Tharp. Warrior. The best Earth has to offer. Survivor of fifteen missions over the last—

“Computer,” she hissed, her vocal cords craving flexibility. “How long have I been in storage? It feels like forever.”

“Ten years,” came the canned male response.

—eighty-eight years of her life as a warrior. A hundred and eight years old. She had been twenty years old when they recruited her.

“Mission parameters?” she asked.

“Humanity has encountered a new and secretive species, the name of which translates as ‘Roundhead.’ Both species wish to colonize the second planet, system A-55, Sigma sector. One warrior has been chosen by each species as per Rules of Engagement. Combat will commence in two hundred terrestrial hours.”