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It is more nothing.

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If I could sigh, I would use the breath to release my frustration. What did I do to deserve having the glorious world of green and blue, of flowers and grass and sky, taken from me?

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Could there be worse punishment than being ripped from that and banished to this? Black spots appear before me, around me. I reach out to them without reaching out.

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The first something in…how long? The spots swirl and spin like birds wheeling across a distant blank sky, or perhaps they collect like a cloud of black flies waiting to feed. Either is welcome relief.

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They make me feel like I have eyes again, like I can see. If I do, I have not the lids to allow me to blink. The spots collide, whirlpooling against the white background and sticking to each other to make larger patches of black.


More bits of dark nothing are absorbed by the bigger pieces, expanding it, spreading. My fascination turns to apprehension as the bigger patches of black carry with them a feeling of dread. The last few pieces come together in unspectacular fashion leaving a single patch of black before me. It ebbs and flows, a blackened glob that might be tiny as a flea or bigger than the world, for I have no frame of comparison to know which it is or where in between it may fall. Its agitation slows and a shape forms. Or perhaps a cloak shaped like a person.

It lifts an arm toward me and the sleeve falls away to reveal a white hand, though not so white as my world. I gasp if I can gasp and feel something I recognize as hope. There is color at the end of the fingers. I cannot name the colors, but they are such contrast to where I have been. A tear spills from my eye leaving a trail down my cheek. It touches my lip, my tongue, and I taste the saltiness of my joy. This brings more tears. I am again. The figure floats closer as I smile and cry and laugh without sound. Maybe this thing, this person, was sent to take me back to my perfect expanse, or to whatever came before.

I reach toward it, wanting to touch the cloth of its cloak, wanting to feel something, but I am still without arms, without body, despite the feel of the tear on my cheek, the taste of it on my tongue. The black apparition comes closer. I search beneath its hood, my new found vision blurred by welcome tears, but see nothing.

Cover Reveal: When Shadows Fall by Bruce Blake

My blessed eyes find the fingertips instead, the color, and I recognize what I see. On each fingernail is painted a tiny picture of my paradise—emerald grass on one, cobalt sky on another, flowers of many colors on the rest, their petals stirred by an unfelt breeze. More tears flow, some in sadness, some happiness, the rest relief and fear. The painted fingertips touch where my shoulder would be. I feel it. The figure makes a sound. Phase: For Sale in Untold Stories. Phase: Editing. Do you want more stories every month? Build your fantasy world and get writing faster!

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Sorry, your blog cannot share posts by email. Share via. The parchment speaks of Small Gods, the fall of man, and the kingdom's savior— the firstborn child of the rightful king. It's his opportunity to prove himself to his father, the king, and assure his place in history. All he needs to do is find the man from across the sea—a man who can't possibly exist—and save mankind.

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But ancient magic has been put in motion by a mysterious cult determined to see the Small Gods reborn. Powerful forces clash, uncaring for the lives of mortals in their struggle to prevent the return of the banished ones, or aid in their rebirth. Named in a prophecy or not, what chance does a cocky prince who barely understands the task laid before him stand in a battle with the gods? When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.