June 1st, 2030
2:35 A.M.
As she gingerly maneuvers her immaculate, dainty, toes over the lava pits-hovering just above the ground- a meadow (or what could pass for a meadow) comes into view. Enormous red-crowned feathered beasts with blood-tinged claws, veined feathers, and drooping wings stick their beaks into the shallow lava pools. They yearningly imbibe the sustenance available.
Some of them peck violently at the bits of grass while others roll thankfully in the ash. Theresa scowls at them and they scatter hastily. A few of the beasts flutter frantically using their malformed wings while the majority sprint backwards through the ash paths. Patches of grass sprout from the lava pools and the ground slopes gently then smooths out. Yet, not just bits of grass peak through the ashen ground. So, too, do what at first appear to be sticks, or posts, haphazardly positioned in diagonal patterns. Theresa muses that there are at least thirty of them. However, many of her companions claim that there are over 2,000 posts. Others argue that only one post is visible and still others claim that there are none.
It is the biggest controversy among Commons and Anomalies alike, and neither party could ever agree on such a thing. It is discussed in hushed tones during secret gossip gatherings that only the human scum could ever agree on such a thing. Theresa suspects that they- the rotten human scum- could even hold the true answer. Yet, she would never associate with them. If she ever does run across one, the conversations of such musings will fade into the background. She has other plans for the humans, plans that lack idle chatter and tea time.
As Theresa continues to hover over the buzzing pools of lava, splashes of liquid pain sizzle. The fizzing droplets make contact with her porcelain flesh and eat through the fragile porcelain layers. Yet, the flesh reforms nearly as quickly as it fades, leaving behind burnt orange colored spiral tattoos, each one curved about the other. The tattoos may or may not fade, depending on how much Theresa wills them to fade. She decides that she finds them aesthetically pleasing and allows the majority of them to remain. That is, aside from one small squiggly shape that forms on her left calf. The squiggle faintly forms as half of a ring just below her sheer emerald skirt. She scowls at it, at its resemblance to him. Theresa spits forcefully into a lava pool, then curses as the posts reform.
They are no longer fence posts, haphazardly strewn about. Now, they resemble four-foot tall wooden swords, hilts gleaming golden. Each one lays trapped within a lava pool or buried in ashen sand. Some have frayed strings of royal blue tied about the hilt. Others are adorned with black diamonds or red stars along the handle. Theresa could care less about the designs each one displays. The sharp blade, much like a torn mouth, however, tugs at her fading resolve and draws her towards the katana garden. As she shifts her weight, the howls commence: low, guttural wild dog cries that change; change to desperate whispers.
"Wield me!" "Kill him!" "Feed me your blood, your soul!" The sounds manifest in cobalt and ruby shock waves. These waves materialize as visible triangular lights that move together in jerking circular movements, rising into the purple clouds of dusk above. The shock waves alone could annihilate her, could rip her inhuman limbs apart. Theresa screeches helplessly as she gallops across the terrain, no longer concerned about dainty toes or hideous tattoos.
She thrusts a blade up out of the ashen sand, the most massive of the blades measuring four and a half feet in height. Quite the impressive feat for a seven-foot tall Anomaly. Her kinswomen often joke that she is so petite that she could pass for a member of an elven clan. The blade caws, a crow starving for blood. In fact, it is a crow. The Crow Blade's neck is cocked to the side and its indescribably sharp beak held up in waiting. And then he materializes: a perfectly molded head of a boy with flame-red hair that falls in shaggy zig zags. Theresa recognizes the boy and counts his myriad dimples, each perfectly placed. Yes, he is, indeed, perfect, she muses, aside from the forked lizard's tongue and those arrogant, stabbing gold-speckled eyes.
Lips curled, he winks, a mere head that ends at the neck. Oh, yes, that would be the other flaw, admits Theresa. Her biceps tense, wielding the crow katana, aiming it at the smirking disembodied countenance. The crow strikes and Theresa strategically slashes, parries, and blocks against the handsome portrait and his vicious, poison-coated tongue.
YOU ARE READING
The Swift Anomaly
Fantasy" 'The common fallacy in thinking is that there is only one correct way to crash a car without harming yourself or the surrounding areas. It is true that we must consider the terrain and avoid a rollover crash, but it is far more complicated than th...
