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************SUBMISSION PHASE INACTIVE************
THANKS TO ALL WHO ENTERED
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This thread is where all submissions will be reposted.
************SUBMISSION PHASE INACTIVE************
THANKS TO ALL WHO ENTERED
Untitled.
by Ramses II CP
'Glory!' screamed the King.
'Victory!' roared his generals.
'Attack!' bellowed their colonels.
'Advance,' nodded the weary captains, adding, 'again...'
'Over the top!' commanded the steel-eyed sergeants.
'Please, God, let it be quick,' begged the hollow eyed soldiers beneath their breath as they assembled.
The guns spoke, drowning all words and thoughts with their thunder. As one the men scrambled up ladders or leapt from their cover and poured onto the field in all their thousands.
Bullets met them and chaos overtook the ranks. With death before them and shame behind them the men fought on, furiously hurling themselves into the murderous fire. If they made the enemy trenches they could at least strike back!
Now screams burst forth from the men, screams with far more force than the words of their king, but screams he would never hear. With mere yards between them and their goal the men, decimated again and again by each passing moment, faltered. Eyes now rolling madly the fortunate few, too few, fell to the ground and sought cover. They found none.
A suitable pause to allow the generals to asses their success was followed by another wave. And another. On and on until darkness, seeing death's thirst sated for the day, descended to call a halt. On the field hundreds lay in puddled filth, helplessly clinging to life amidst the tens of thousands of dead. Some would creep back to their own lines, perhaps to face court martial for lacking the courage to find death with their companions. Some would creep to the enemy's lines to sell themselves dearly where possible. Most simply bled and waited for the end.
Now, though, another force emerged on the field. It's limitless armies swarmed out of the ground, the air, the water, but most of all out of the men themselves. Feast time had come for the horde, the true victors on this glorious day.
First to the table were microbes already dug into their positions on the bodies of the dead. The fungal blooms of trench foot, finding the flesh they infested suddenly undefended, advanced at a rush. Higher, on more exposed skin, the hardier warriors of propionibacterium acnes and staphylococcus epidermidis discovered that the dead men's adaptations to control them were no longer in place and underwent exponential population explosions. Next the organisms which had spent the entire lives of their hosts locked in endless war within the rich environs of the mouth ramped up their struggles for control. Streptococcus mutans, ever etching away the teeth of the men it infected, now found free reign to expand it's domain amidst hundreds of others. Streptococcus pneumoniae, seeing the defenses of the throat fall, spread like wildfire down the still wet and warm canal towards the stomach. On that desperate ground, constantly inundated by toxic acid, the ever patient helicobacter pylori found at last it's world was becoming more pleasant.
Indeed, throughout each man the majority of the microbes which, even in life, had outnumbered his own cells by a factor of twenty were discovering that harvest time had arrived. The unimaginably rich grounds of the intestines, home to tens of trillions, suddenly became even more fertile. The softer, gentler gram positive bacteria of the small intestine abruptly discover their once pleasantly fed garden is being invaded by hardier gram negative bacteria from the colon. Both sides will hold off the lesser hordes of their bacterial brothers as well as the alien fungi and protozoa as they vie for control now that the force which controlled them all has fallen.
Each corpse, bearing it's load of hundreds of trillions of microbes, has irretrievably lost the organizational capacity to manage it's tenants and they proceed to hold a series of orgiastic parties the likes of which human kind will never see. Quadrillions, tens of quadrillions, turn out in force every hour across the field where a paltry few thousand men were felled. Most individuals of that uncountable mass will survive less than a day, but will churn out a line of offspring also far past counting. Dwarfing the human cost in almost every imaginable way the hundreds of quadrillions of microbes there will wage war on a scale beyond conception, yet, in the end, they too shall pass.
New waves of microbes, drifting down from the air, find the rich environment relatively weakly held by the sundry warring bacterial colonists. The eyes, nose, ears and other points of skin penetration are their inroads. Molds, rarely present on living men, arrive to set up shop. Insects come bearing their offspring and their own unique bacterial loads. The nature of the human scale battlefield itself prevents the disruptive influence of larger animals from upsetting the developing ecosystem. Taken as a whole each man represents a fresh struggle on a scale to make the tiny little tragedy that cost him his life nearly a farce.
At new day's dawn, as the decadent King awakes to scream his challenge at the world once more, the quadrillions fight on ceaselessly, burning away the resources so recently granted them in a desperate bid for control of the now shrinking mass. Undisturbed their war might drag on for weeks and months, but the vigor of the first day's explosive battles will never be equalled. Perhaps as their world cools and collapses the older generations of bacteria, had they the capacity for thought, would look back on the day their world changed and wonder why the bounty had to come to an end.
Why, they might wonder, must all things decay?
Gone With the Mimes
by Lemur
He’s gone now, gone with the mimes. Everything I’ve made, everything I’ve planned, the people I have hurt, all of it was for him. My beautiful boy, gone now.
I’ll never forget the first time he was old enough to ask, “Daddy, what is it you do?”
I couldn't suppress a predatory grin as I responded, “Son, you know how furniture stores try to sell desks and entertainment centers and coffee tables, right?”
His big green eyes looked into mine, “Yes daddy.”
“Well, most people don’t have much imagination, so they can’t picture how that furniture would look with their stuff on it—that’s where we come in,” I said, pointing to a plastic mold. “We make simulated stereos and computers and televisions.”
“You mean like pretend? Like fakes?”
I was probably too rough when I shook him and pinched his arm. “Not fakes, son. No. Don’t say that word. They’re simulacra. They’re an evocation. A dream that suggests a better reality.”
And did this little boy have the faintest idea of how hard I had fought to get to where I was? Any notion at all of the meanness in my marketplace? Of course not.
Where are they now, my opponents, those men who forced me to expand my offerings and lower my margins? Where are their corporations now? Does anyone know where the bodies are buried?
Furnished Accessories, LLC of Shenzhen? I bought them for a song after cutting them out of Crate and Barrel, their last client holdout. I hear their Chairman committed suicide using the serrated edge of a simulated bedside radio. Serves him right, the coward. Don’t get into foldable home electronics if you’re a sad little weakling.
Plastic Dreams, Ltd.? They wound down in a Chapter 11 firesale. I bought some of their equipment, and that was it. The rest? Who knows. It’s all probably on EBay.
ImagiHome, Inc.? There was a fire. People got hurt. Do I need to say more? Things happen in business, and you don’t get to the top by playing nice.
My boy didn’t need to know any of this; his job was to maintain the empire and diversify, now that the dark and bloody business of creating it had been carried out by father dearest.
“So people buy our plastic, is that right daddy?”
“Not just people, son: retailers. Department stores. Places that need to show consumers how the side table would look with a boombox on it. They don’t want to pay for a real radio, so they buy a pallet or two of our imitations.”
“Can you take me to my class now, daddy?”
I looked at him. “Why do you like that class so much? Everything you need is in this factory, son.”
“I like them is all. Can Buford take me if you’re too busy?”
And so I sent him to his theatrical and performance class, just as I had a hundred times before. Why should I deny him? Why shouldn’t he enjoy the folding plastic fruits of my simulations?
I expanded into Europe and Russia; new nations were entering the consumer ranks, and they needed to see imitations of CD players and plasma televisions before they could decide on which endtable would match the throw rug. Who was I to deny them? Still my son took little interest in my work, our heritage, and still I allowed him to attend those damn classes.
“Why are you wearing a striped shirt?” I asked of my sixteen-year-old.
“Visibility on the road, man,” he sneered as he hauled out his transportation.
“And why can’t you ride a bicycle like a regular kid, eh?”
“Builds core muscles and balance,” he said, wobbling on top of his unicycle.
“What’s with the bowler hat, eh? Answer me that!”
“Keeps my head warm.”
I pointed my cane at him, and jabbed it for emphasis, saying, “You’re hanging out with mimes, aren’t you? You aren’t studying Bolivian monkey-form kung fu, like you said—it’s mime, all mime!
He grinned from the height advantage imparted by the ’cycle, “And what’s so bad about mimes anyway?”
I growled. “They’re scum. Scum! Hanging out on streetcorners, begging for change, pretending they’re locked in an invisible box, pulling themselves along an invisible rope … they’re dirty little roustabouts.”
He didn’t respond, just made an exaggerated face indicating surprise.
“Don’t you dare mime at me, young man!” I shouted.
He shrugged his shoulders slowly, then raised his hands in a “I don’t know what to do” gesture, before turning his unicycle in the driveway and wobbling off toward the street.
“You come back without any greasepaint on your face, or you’d better not come back at all!” I yelled after him, although we both knew it was a lie. He would return in the small hours of the morning, face made up in full whiteface, stinking of alcohol and sex, and collapse on the couch.
I made the ungrateful little piece of dirt some eggs in the morning.
“Why don’t we have a real television?” he asked through his mouthful of breakfast.
I stared at the comically long handkerchief trailing out of his left jacket pocket. It was soiled in several places. “That TV is as real as it needs to be. We use what we make, kiddo.”
“But why do you work so hard if it means you can only have a fake television?”
“Don’t you dare call it ...”
“Fine, fine, simulated television. Why?”
“I’m not home much, son, and I don’t really need a TV at all.”
“So why even have a fake one?”
“I don’t want the neighbors looking in and wondering why we don’t have the usual things,” I shrugged.
Push it forward two years. High school was over, and my beautiful boy was eighteen, ready to take on the plastic with his old man, or so I thought.
“Hey da, there’s an article about you in Retail Monthly, have you seen it?”
“I don’t read that tabloid trash,” I said.
“They say you’re a monopolist and that your company …”
“No!” I shouted, “No, that is completely inaccurate! That’s just yellow journalism.” I grabbed the magazine from his gloved hands. “Everybody knows Retail Monthly has a literal bias.”
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Besides, you know what a monopoly is? It’s when nobody else is allowed to compete with you. Ever. It’s when the government makes laws saying that only your product can be used.”
“Says here you did get a law passed in New Mexico that …”
“I know what happened in New Mexico, so you don’t need to rub it in my face. Look, if someone wants to start up an appliance simulation corporation, they’re free to do so. Nobody’s going to stop them.”
“Did it ever occur to you that mime is a lot like what you do? Pretending something unreal is real until it feels realer than real?”
“Mimes are unwashed sex hippies! We have nothing in common! ENOUGH!”
And for the rest of the day he would do nothing but make faces, press his hands against invisible walls and pretend he was walking down a staircase. It drove me nuts, but that was probably the idea.
As the weeks wore by, he spoke less and less, and spent ever more time hanging around with his mime buddies. One night he didn’t come home at all. I knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier when it happened.
I sent my man Buford to heck out the local mime bars and see if Junior could be persuaded into returning, but days passed and Buford found no word of my boy. My beautiful boy.
Today I took that copy of Retail Monthly into the commode and read it while I moved my bowels and wept. I suppose there’s nothing more pathetic than an old man who can’t stop crying.
Says in the magazine that retailers are moving toward displaying related merchandise in their furniture showrooms. Says there’s even talk of holographic appliance simulators, which you would only need to buy once, and refresh the designs over the internets.
There was a time when I would have made a move on these people. You want to replace my plastic with a hologram, is that it? I got your number, buddy, and I know everything there is to know about you. Make your move, and I’ll make mine, and we’ll see who’s standing in the morning. That’s how I used to do things.
But today? Let them have their Cuisinart cross-marketed synergy “enhanced product exposure” displays. Let them invest in holographic simulacra generators. The market for folding plastic simulated home electronics will continue for long enough to see me out. Why should I struggle and fight to preserve my empire of the fakes? I built this for my boy and he’s gone now, gone with the mimes.
Defeat
By Alexanderofmacedon
The honor of Bretagne had been crushed in the eyes of Nicolas. Only seven months ago Nicolas’ unit of Gendarme had fled the field of battle at Pavia. He had watched as the glory of France was crushed by the Imperial army under Charles V and his king, Francis I, taken captive. Nicolas remembered how great the year 1525 started, and how sour it had gone.
As Nicolas approached his home village in southern Bretagne, the peasants stared sympathetically at him. His mangled hair showed under his battered helmet. Dirt caked his face, and only a resemblance of his family crest remained on his armor. His eyes were cold as his body bounced to the trot of his horse. Everything about him screamed, defeat.
When Nicolas arrived at his home he slowly dismounted his horse and walked to the stable. After loosely tying the horse he dragged himself to walk inside. Sitting at the table was his sister Anne. She jumped from the table, nearly spilling her food, and walked with open arms towards Nicolas. It had been four years since they had seen each other and as she came closer she saw a changed man.
“My Nicolas, how have you been?” she exclaimed as she squeezed him
“I am fine. Where is father?” he replied, simply
“I believe he is out at the market” she said
Nicolas walked out the door without saying another word. The fact his father was at the market troubled him. When Nicolas had last been at home, his father’s business had been doing great. From his study his father controlled the sale of cowhides and leather across the entire southern region of Bretagne.
Nicolas moved sluggishly towards the market. The wind blew harder now and even in armor a slight chill moved over his body. For the first time in months the breeze touched his face as he removed his helmet and dropped it to the ground. He spotted his father and headed directly for him.
“Father, it is a surprise to hear you are at the market. What happened to Antoine buying the hides for you?” questioned Nicolas
“Nicolas, is this anyway to address me after being gone for four years? Give me a hug my son.” Responded his father, Joseph
“Let me finish this trade and we will go home. We will talk then” Joseph said
After purchasing hides from the local farmers, Nicolas and his father began the short walk home. His father explained to him how poorly the business had been going. Antoine and all the rest of the servants had stopped working when Joseph could not pay them any longer. His father’s company was in shambles, his name tarnished by utter defeat in battle, and still it would get worse.
After briefly discussing the past four years in a couple of sentences, the two arrived at their home. Nicolas went to get firewood before nightfall. His experiences had left him bitter and broken. He did not wish to talk to any member of his family. He had made up his mind to work with his father until his confidence was high enough to speak to Gabrielle again.
Gabrielle was Nicolas’ life before he was sent to battle. She was the only one he wanted to spend time with, and the one he was to marry before the outbreak of war. Nicolas cursed Charles the V for ruining his plans and his life.
“I hope he rots in the deepest pits of hell!” mumbled Nicolas to himself as he chopped some more wood.
Nicolas carried the wood inside and went out to bring water into his house for his first bath in almost a year. He had gone long before, but not while toiling in battle. Afterwards he felt refreshed, but no amount of bathing could remove the shame he felt. He went to sleep in his bed without whispering a word to his family again.
In the morning he awoke to the sunlight pouring through his window. His parents must have removed the cloth covering the window and used it for something else more important after Nicolas had left home. Nicolas walked downstairs and found nothing to eat. He had always remembered plenty of food available before the war, but the war had almost impoverished his family. He saw a small loaf of bread and tore a small piece to eat. He washed it down with only a small bit of water he had brought in the night before for his bath. It was not nearly enough, but it filled his stomach to begin looking for work. Nicolas was part of a rich family, but was brought up well. He realized he had to work for the things he wanted in life and would not have liked to sit idle at home anyway. He sought out his father to ask what was required for the day.
“Retrieve some feed and give it to the livestock” his father demanded
Nicolas moved to do his tasks. He was slow, but deliberate. He had always wanted to get things correct; a true perfectionist. At this time, however, it was all the longer he would spend working instead of thinking of the war. At every idle moment he thought about the war and what it had done to him and his father. How Gabrielle was ripped away from him at the worst possible moment.
Despite his hardest efforts, he could not stop thinking of his love. Nicolas finished feeding the livestock and went inside. He found a bit of wine, drank, and went outside again. This time in search of Gabrielle, not work.
When he walked upon her house the trees were bare, the grass was brown, and the house was on the verge of falling apart. Such a grim sight, but it was of no consequence to Nicolas. Once again he slowly walked to the front door. It could have easily been opened by a hard knock, so he softly tapped on the door. An elderly woman came to the door; someone Nicolas recognized.
“My goodness Nicolas, what has happened to you?” she exclaimed
“The war my good mother. The war” he replied “Where is Gabrielle now?”
“You must come inside. Come, come” she waved her arm and opened the door further.
The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. There were cracks everywhere, and the emptiness of the house spoke volumes of the economic hardships of the family. After brief insignificant chatter the elderly woman uttered words he wished he’d never heard.
“Nicolas…, Gabrielle, has been married. After the taxes Francis has imposed, we could no longer think to pay for her to live with us. She was married to Bertrand, your old military school friend.” She explained
As a military arms dealer, he had made plenty of money from the war. The families of his business labored endlessly on swords, spears, and armor for the armies of France and their king, Francis.
The words burned holes in the heart of Nicolas. He felt as if he’d be hit in the stomach with a club. He looked at the dirt stained floor. A tear trickled down his cheek and mixed with the dirt. His hands covered his face, wiped his eyes, and he looked up.
“It was nice to visit with you. I have work to do, and must be leaving” he abruptly explained and left the room.
Nicolas was utterly broken. He neither noticed, nor cared any longer for the bare trees, and brown grass. The small beauties were no longer important when his world had crumbled before him.
He walked home in a daze trying to completely understand what had happened. A numbness fell over Nicolas as feeling slipped from his body. His entire life had been ripped from him over this short period of time. As he neared his home he thought to himself “There can be no happy ending here”.
Visions from a Cut-out Man
By Rythmic
1
Softness. Nonetheless hardly extraordinary, the light dancing across the rifting ripples as it did every evening. A sight he had grown used to overtime, that harbour. (I must point out though, that despite his cynicism you might actually have enjoyed this sight). Especially the way the tidal breath would play with the light, and cast the mist from slope to slope. While the daily shipping would curtly push the waves aside, reaching for that grey dock, wherever it meandered to now.
Yet perhaps, well maybe certainly, he had seen it too often. To him, looking at it now was like staring at something through a curtain. Little more than a dull representation. After all it is not like it wouldn’t be there in the morning, or the next morning, or the morning after that. It’s not exactly something that could go missing, or be misplaced.
I had better stop there before I lose myself, and perhaps you too, in my own rambling thoughts and return to our man. He was sitting where he would sit almost every evening. Sitting in the kind of silence that fills the spaces between acquaintances who unexpectedly meet in the street. And on the rare occasions that his wife did join him they would talk, and by talk, more sit opposite in silence. The sort of silence that is only ever perforated by even more silence.
How rude I am for not mentioning his wife, or rather who she is, or maybe was. She was hardly a refined person, content, or at least her husband thought so, with the simplest of things. Then again, he may have had a point if her cooking repertoire was anything to go by, consisting of a range of rices, pastas and potatoes, all white and about as flavoursome as a Christmas gift from your mother-in-law. Her name, well that’s hardly important, it may have been Greek like her father’s, my memory is not what it used to be. So let me continue, his wife was a housewife in the most literal sense of the word. I’m not certain if she loved her husband, more tolerated him, and in return he tolerated her.
And, in routine, as with every other evening she would call him to his supper. There they would sit, each opposite the other, inflating the room with an atmosphere usually breathed out by the queue at a supermarket checkout. And as the time slowly ticked by he would gulp each mouth and forkful down, hoping to taste as little as possible. (Not that that was much of an issue mind you, with his plate usually covered in a grey, tasteless paste). And with luck, and I must inform you that he was a very unlucky man, he would keep his eyes down and the small talk to an absolute minimum, almost as if he was attempting to break a world record for the smallest talk ever spoken.
As awkward as this was, it was his, what he knew, the evening. That evening and every evening that would follow, maybe even every evening that could ever be conceived or at least I could conceive. Because, I must note, the evening did not scare him like the night ahead. It’s not that he was afraid of the dark. More that he was afraid of the whole night, well maybe not the stars, moon or cicada song. Yet, something about it caused him to sweat and strain. Very strange though, I find at least, considering he was an insomniac.
2
It was day, which day, it doesn’t matter. (I must say I am glad though, because it is hard to tell a story when it is too dark to see what is happening). And, just like any day, he would make his way into some office building where he would spend the rest of the day’s sunlight. York Street comes to mind, but instantly disappears again. Never mind, all that matters is that it was almost certainly across that endless vault of blue, crowded in on all sides by the sorry cliffs, each and every gazing off into the hazy distance.
He would take this path everyday, and everyday the look on his face became more and more like the frayed edges of a well used book. So that the pinstripes in his suit could be seen extending from the lines that traced their way down his face. Sitting in those recycled places, that lined the bus, he would attempt not to stare. While dodging the eyeballs from all those dappled, sun stained faces. Faces, he would consider wordlessly, not that he was a considerate man though, far from it.
His thoughts passed over to a seat near the front and a pretty young thing, and it is probably better that I don’t mention his thoughts, they were hardly pure. A pretty girl with fair features, maybe twenty, and she probably was someone’s daughter, but even I can’t be sure. In any case, I do not believe you should worry over it. A glance left to notice a young man standing, a man much his junior and with swagger that could be felt right at the back of the bus. That knowing smile, the one that hides more than it reveals, passed from the young man to the pretty girl.
“Was I once like that?” he thought, “How I have changed.” His face coming as close to a tear as it had ever come. Yet, at once it was gone, with the sight of even a homeless man trying to get into someone else’s pants, albeit for entirely different reasons.
Stop. Just for a second he noticed it. Yes, it was definitely there. He had noticed it before, but paid no attention to it. But make no mistake, it certainly was visible for a split second at least.
“Ah ha, so it was behind me, I thought I noticed something last week!” he thought, almost grinning triumphantly, “I wonder what it is? It can’t be a person, surely it’s not. No, no, it must be.”
Glancing quickly round, but it was gone, a cloud passing overhead.
“I had better tell the police I am being followed if it happens again. Ah, but I’m being silly. Ah, never mind!” And again he dosed to a blank glance out the streaked glass.
3
Atop a hegemony of toaster-like shapes arching off into the grey, echoless sky, each with their tops barely visible to the naked eye, he stood. Weeks had passed, and he couldn’t stop his mind from meandering to whatever had been following him. Even his wife had noticed the concern on his face, and she never noticed anything! He had surely aged with every word I have written, the years gathering with every fleeting glimpse of that black outline that would make but the briefest of appearances behind him.
“Why am I being stalked? I don’t deserve this!” he pondered, “By God the Police are useless, telling me I’m mad. I’m not mad! I’m being stalked for Chrissake!”
“I know I’ve made enemies, work, it’s, it’s do or die. Yes, yes. Somebody I’ve surpassed is trying to get revenge, get me to quit, to lose it and have to retire. No! I’m not going to do that, never, I’ve worked too hard… done too much… yes!”
“I’ll get them back. Damn those useless detectives! I’ll do it myself. I’ll catch them in the act. Evidence, yes evidence and I’ll get a restraining order … teach them a lesson!”
His eyes travelled a path down to the streets below, the streets where only this morning he had caught that shady figure hiding, sneaking behind him once again. Following, so quietly I might add that no one else noticed them, in the low growing bushes of the park, some park, Hyde Park perhaps, but maybe not. Yet, the moment he had turned it was gone, light blocked above.
4
Nothing had calmed him, and sleep had stayed well away, more frequent his insomnia. He had seen it, softly creeping all the past week, not once, never, had it taken rest, even on Sunday it chased! Damp, the glimpses through the mist, as broken darkness chased, unrelenting. He had seen him, touched him, well almost, that blackened image, whatever he was named. Always a step behind, slinking, placing feet with feet, colour with shade.
It had followed him here, as he had hoped; how he may have planned it in his mind.
“Yes, yes! Fool, idiot, follow me here. Ha! I’ll get you back… all the hassle you’ve put me through… Goodbye!” he whispered.
The salt breeze played its way across his body, cooling, maybe even gentle. A long sigh travelled from his lips, as he stepped out from the stone pier.
“You’ll drown fool… you’ll drown…” he thought, body limp, eyes slowly, fragilely enshrouded by the cooling, sapping waters, clasped into the grey, until there was no pain. Sad, that I did not know him.
Untitled.
By Stephen Asen
He was slowly moving in the ill-lit corridors of the monastery. The staff he used to support his body methodically echoed as he made his progress towards his aim. The pain was growing but his determination was also increasing. He was not alone. Trusted guards were coming with him.
He was approached by a monk. The long white beard of the monk was not only a prescription of the Holy Orthodox Church. It also seemed to be a proof for his wisdom. The monk did not object. No, he looked up and stared under his hood. He saw his face getting slightly pale and his eyes opening widely. The clergyman had recognized him, the megas logothetes Nicephorus Doukas. The monk made a step back. Nicephorus continued his slow advancement at the bottom of the corridor where single door was situated. A moment later Nicephorus made a sign to his men to wait and nodded at the guard at his right. Constantine Matsakes immediately understood it and followed his master into the cell. Having his rear secured Nicephorus concentrated on the man he had come to visit. The cell this person inhabited told much about him. It was small and had almost no furniture. There were no stools – the man expected no guests. The food on the table was almost untouched. The air also told a story to the experienced senses of Nicephorus. The monks had tried to air the room and to prepare it for the noble guests. In vain. It still reeked of death.
Nicephorus approached the sick man who was lying on the bed. The face was puffy as a result of his kidney insufficiency. The eyes of the man were opened widely. He was not dead, though. Not yet.
“Nicephorus -” the man uttered. Probably he expected that visit. Or simply hoped the hooded figure was not someone else. But he was right. Nicephorus removed the hood from his head and replied,
“You are right, Alexander” All formalities fell. They knew each other for a long time. “I came to see you”
A forced smile appeared on the face of the sick man who made an attempt to bend on the cushion.
“Thank you, my friend. I really appreciate that – “His final efforts to raise his weak body interrupted him but this time he was successful in taking a more comfortable position. He was smiling no more and his eyes were focused on his guest. “I had the strange feeling you would come to visit me before the end, my fellow. “ The ends of the mouth of Alexander shivered under his short and well cut moustaches. The monks had been taking care of him well, Nicephorus thought.
“I am not your fellow, Alexander, “he said. He was satisfied to see that the sarcastic smile of Alexander faded away.
“I thought you would show more respect in the face of a dying person. Alas, I overestimated you,” the man said with a weak voice.
“No, you did just the opposite. I outsmarted you”
“Did you come to relish the last moments of my life? Or did you come to see your poison eating my body and my life ebbing from my remains?”
Nicephorus felt his thin lips curling into a venomous smile. He made a step further and focused his dark eyes on his victim. He had crushed Alexander once in the prison of Constantinople using only his words and his enemy fears.
“It seems the illness had darkened your mind, Alexander”
“You are either too arrogant or too cowardly to name the truth, Nicephorus. But I have accepted my destiny, Nicephorus. The problem is how you would meet yours “
The man was mocking him but he would return his irony. He only had to be patient. Alexander would make one final effort to hurt him. But Alexander’s body was very weak. Contrary to what many clergymen said body and soul were intertwined into the human personality. Broke the body and the soul would collapse. And he, Nicephorus Doukas, would receive what he wanted. The truth. Then he was useless. Constantine could finish him off with his poisons.
“At the time this happens you will be burning in hell for many years.”
Suddenly Alexander’s sarcastic smile died out as he was stabbed with a blade. For a moment the sick man hesitated but he finally judged there was nothing to be lost. He was ready to do anything but to make his enemy suffer in front of his eyes now. Nicephorus read all this in his eyes.
“I see the bruises on your face. My friends had avenged me. You are not invincible”
Nicephorus laughed nervously, “I know that “
“No, this is only the beginning. Your power will start fading. Your methods will not save the Empire. And then you will follow the fate of your father”
“How do you dare to mention my father “
“I dare because I have been a friend of your father. And I think he made a mistake: instead of thrashing you like an animal he had to simply cut your head. Thus the snake that betrayed and killed him could have been stopped. “
“This is non-sense”
“It is not. For you copy him. I see your own family. Your wife is dead probably killed by your own hand. Your single daughter hates you and wants to marry away as soon as possible. Your youngest son Alexius will grow as a cynic and he will not love you. And of course Manuel… the heir. He is nothing but a ruin. Drinking, whoring… and who knows what else… people often do not restrict themselves with spoilt women…”
“Shut up!”
“ Men… animals -”
For a moment Nicephorus forgot about his rank and pride… he wanted to put his bleeding hands on the throat of that scum and to shut his mouth forever. He forgot about his own aching body and tried to rush at his victim. He intended to grab his cushion and then… But instead the softness of the cushion he felt the strength of his guard’s body. Constantine Matsakes had interfered dragging his master’s body towards the wall. The staff fell on the stone plates and Nicephorus was completely helpless in the hands of his servant. Then he felt pain and the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue in his attempt to protest… Then he heard the giggle.
Sense swiftly returned to his head. Once again Constantine Matsakes had proven his loyalty towards him. He had saved him from a scandal that could cost him much in his delicate position. He, Nicephorus Doukas, had not lost his temper for years… Constantine had always been like his shadow and a strange mixture between a pupil and a friend…and a guard… and a teacher… They were almost like brothers. Lovers… almost… Yes, he, Nicephorus Doukas loved no women but preferred to sleep with men… but no, despite his strong body and charming face, Constantine never became one… But they were soon to separate… He could read it in his eyes, he could see the hints in his movements… Even now when he fulfilled his duty, Constantine seemed slightly unwilling to approach his master… He feared to feel his breath… Because he knew he was a leper… It was a stupid mistake of his or probably a punishment from the Providence that mixed his blood with that of a dying leper - Christakis, an old ally of his father and then of his son. His father was poisoning his life during all of his lifetime… and even beyond.
After this moment of weakness, Nicephorus focused his dark eyes on the sick man.
“Drop me, “ he hissed at Constantine who reluctantly obeyed. His wounds from the attempt were hurting but he could afford no weakness. His gouty feet were also aching… And Alexander finally stopped giggling. He looked exhausted.
“You dared to mock me and my family, Alexander,” Nicephorus hissed emphasizing on each word. He removed a lock of hair from his face and put it behind his ears as he wanted full contact with his victim. “But hear my last words. Your children are defenseless”
“You won’t dare – “ Now it was his turn to look pathetic. Nicephorus almost thought the man was going to faint
“No, I will not kill them… For I know what is worse than death. I will take their souls… Corrupt them, humiliate them… destroy them “
The man was shocked choking for air as if enchanted by Nicephorus’ killing sight. At the same time Constantine gave the staff to his master and the megas logothetes slowly made his way to the door without turning back… The days of Alexander Raoul were not numerous… It was a waste of time… He did not learn anything new. This was simply an attempt of his conscience to save what has left from his soul… Waste of time…