Souls Will Seek Their Own Level

This one is vaguely inspired by the latest Radiolab.

Souls Will Seek Their Own Level

By Mark L.S. Stone

“Don’t you think it’s ironic that you must bargain with me, even though it will empower me to hunt your kind?”

The demon’s expression remained mild. “It is my nature to accept your offer. As water runs downhill, souls will seek their own level.”

“So you see no irony?”

“You are the one who fails to understand this situation. The nature of a thing will out. You cannot fight darkness with darkness. Darkness can only be defeated with light, strength with weakness, pride with humility. It is a lesson that you will never learn.”

Unfortunately, he was only half right.

The End

This is an idea that's been kicking around in my head for a long time. I've always had a thing for stories that explore the relationship between heroes and villains, and the way that they create, empower, and need each other. It's kind of fun to get to finally express it, even in such a small form. It's also fun to finally write a short story that's an ending, not a beginning, as most of my stories turn out to be.

Though I guess this one is kind of a beginning, too. Damn.

The End
By Mark L.S. Stone

Enhijar sat his throne of basalt and bone, smiling. The tortured sky boiled with black lightning.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“No?” Enhijar gaped at me.

I dropped my weapon to the broken earth. My companions followed my lead.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving, Enhijar. All this – this is yours.”

“Where will you go?” Enhijar asked. His voice was almost pitiful.

I turned to leave. “We’ll find somewhere else. You threw open all the doors. Or we’ll die in the waste. Enjoy your victory.”

None of us turned to watch Enhijar and his throne disappear into the distance.

To

I'm really not happy with this one at all. But, bed beckons. It's a story. It's a hundred words. It's quite possible that it's much better than I think it is. Goodnight.

To

By Mark L.S. Stone

From: drjacobs@sccal.science.edu
To: anne.djarmendi@sccal.science.edu

Anne, 

I know you’re upset, but I can’t believe that you would be this irresponsible. Have no idea of the consequences of this technology. If it works – if it doesn’t just fizzle, or blow out the power grid – it could have entirely unforeseen side effects. When the time wave reaches us – if the time wave reaches us – the changes will be swift and unpredictable. 

Of course, sir, I am happy to support you in any way necessary. And in reference to our earlier conversation, I would be honored to attend your son’s Bris.

Sincerely,
Tom Fuller

Potion

Sorry about yesterday! I'll have to make it up to you some time this week.

Potion

By Mark L. S. Stone

Krell pulled the vial out of the holster on his belt with his shield hand and wrenched the cork out with his teeth. He tilted back his head and let the stuff inside slide down his throat, shivering at the itchy sensation of his wounds closing.

Townsfolk liked to talk about healing potions: they’re addictive, all the injuries eventually come back all at once, they’re made of something terrible. The only concern Krell had was that one day, he’d come to like the taste.

Krell grimaced, grinned, and charged back into the fight. Today was not that day.

Fad Diet

Why, yes, I am starting a new diet on Monday. Wish me luck.

Fad Diet

By Mark L. S. Stone

Simon was starting a new diet on Monday. The refrigerator had gradually been filling up with strange new foods: pickled meats in cloudy brine, thick-skinned fruit covered with long tentacles, pungent spices.

“What’s this one?” Valerie asked. “It’s a stone jar.”

“Screw top or cork?”

Valerie frowned. “It’s sealed with wax, I think.” Valerie worked at the seal with one finger. Instead of a smell, a gust of wind blew Valerie’s hair back from her face.

Suddenly Simon was there, taking the jar from her hand and smoothing the wax back into place.

“That’s for the fifth week,” he said.

Sleepless

I know the actual poem is all about God and death and stuff. The Unitarian Universalist church that my family used to go to - the one that took us in after our synagogue kicked us out (long story) - used to read it on Christmas. However, something about the closing lines always struck me as a little sad, and a little sinister. Perhaps Robert Frost meant to say something about life, death, and the soul, but what I always imagined was something a little more like this:

Sleepless

By Mark L. S. Stone

I didn't think that the bloodstains would do any harm the motel’s hideous goldenrod bedspread, so I just sat down. I didn’t have the energy to change any of my bandages, but it was good to just sit. 

"How long has it been?" my reflection in the dark TV screen asked. “That nap in the semi doesn’t count and neither does that half hour sacked out in the MUNI station.” 

I shrugged. “Who cares? I have promises to keep.” 

My reflection in the TV laughed. “And miles to go before you sleep.” 

Then, I heard the sound of gunfire.

Balls

This? This is balls.

Seriously, it's been almost twenty days since I posted, and almost a year since the last time I wrote anything worth a damn. This is balls. Solid. Goat. Balls. Am I a writer or a wannabe, here?

Hint: the answer is that I'm a writer. I refuse to "wanna" anything.

Anyway, it's time to jump start this shit. Winter is over; this is spring. I have a personal trainer, a professional organizer, and two kinds of therapist. It's time to get things started, kick ass, and take names.

Starting tomorrow, this blog is a thing-a-day blog a la my friend Nathan's Mirrorshards. For the next year, or longer, I'm going to write something - a drabble at the least - every single day and post it. It may not be great, but it will be here. And you will read it.

And it will not be balls.

That is all, ladies and gentlemen. Watch this space for a 100 word burst of creativity, every single day. No balls about it.