* * * * *
Arbid was intrigued.
He had never gone anywhere outside of the clearing (except when his father took him into the woods), and he was familiar with all the pretty strands of color that were there. The green permeating the plants and trees. The blue blanket of the sky. The white lattice of snow and cloud. The flickering, angry red of the cooking fire, the sun. The brown of dirt. The myriad combinations of color that arose when these strands merged together, overlapped, intertwined. Even the chill black that wove its way around and through the compost, smothering the butchered animals, the tree stumps—all of these were familiar to him. All of them were normal. But these colors.…
It wasn’t really that they were so different—they were shades of gray, black, dark brown—but the combination of them was disquieting, unnatural. They pooled together, moving as a clump into the clearing, and the other colors seemed to want to get away from them. The blue strands of the sky parted, allowing them to pass beneath them. The brown flattened and buried itself in the dirt as they trod on it, but it couldn’t quite escape. The green, the life-giving green, quivered as it passed and withered where the clump touched it. The black and gray of the compost pile stretched outward, trying to merge with it, trying to consume it or be consumed by it. Only the warm red strands of flame seemed to be unaffected, seemed to penetrate into the lumpy mass as if it belonged there.
He needed a better look.
He took a step toward the door.
His mother didn’t notice.
His father was outside.
He made his way to the front porch and sat down in his favorite spot. He tested the old, familiar strands, but instead of feeling their muted power held in abeyance, they tingled, as if they were alive with energy.
He studied this new dimension of the strands. He toyed with them. He tasted them. He wrapped them around his finger, his arm. He drew them in.…
Then the clump of new strands came into view, nasty, writhing, black and gray blobs that he didn’t like.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You don’t belong here.” He reached out with his mind to draw a distant white strand toward him, toward the blue he already held in his fingertips, the brown wrapped around his forearm, and waited for it to respond. He really didn’t know how he knew it would respond, that it would obey him, but he did it anyway, and it did obey him. He was so focused on luring in the white strand that he didn’t even notice his father running past him, leaping up the porch steps and almost breaking down the door as he barged through.
He didn’t really see the ogres; they were covered in the writhing miasmic mesh of unfamiliar colors, and even this was only in his periphery. He had tunnel vision, and it was focused on the approaching white strand. It was gaining speed, and when it reached him, he plucked at it with a pinky and began weaving the three strands together, gently tatting them around the deep red strand to form a complex network of knots held loosely together in a radiating spiral. He worked feverishly, adding knot after knot, each one trapping a twisted loop of the pulsating strand of flame.
He almost lost himself in the process, almost forgot why he was doing it, almost—but not quite. He looked at the spiral disc, held onto the strands at the open end, and flung it outward, toward the encroaching, offensive blob, letting the strands flow through his fingers like a fishing line. Just before it reached the blob, he let go of the strands and they began to separate, gathering whip-like speed as the strands approached the knotted spiral disc—which had been engulfed by the gray-black-dark brown clump. When it struck the first knot, it paused—and then the strand of flame broke free, releasing some of its energy in a sudden puff of invisible flame. Where it struck, it punctured through the strange mass of color, allowing some of the energy from the other strands to permeate it, to push it just a little bit away.
Another knot gave way.
Another.
He reached out for the strands and called the white one back before it could escape. He began weaving.…
* * * * *
Arbid’s father stood in the doorway and stared.
He stared at the fleeing ogres.
He took a breath.
He stared at Arbid.
He took another breath—and another.
He stared at nothing, trying see something that only his son saw. He couldn’t.
He stared harder.
He took another breath, a deep one.
He still couldn’t see it. Whatever it was.
He stared at the garden. The ogre had mangled the tomatoes into oblivion. Everything else was fine, but the tomatoes.…
He stared at nothing, again. It was better than staring at the tomatoes. He liked tomatoes. They were a staple in their diet. His children needed food. His children—
“Arbid,” he said.
“I know, Dad,” Arbid said. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
Arbid’s father shook his head. He still couldn’t see it. “I have to go to Mungo’s.”
Arbid smiled but didn’t say anything.
His father turned around, went inside, and climbed out the window. It would have been easier to walk around the house, but he didn’t want to disturb Arbid.
Arbid was strange.
Arbid frightened him.…
###
Thank you very much for reading these sample stories. If you enjoyed them, I hope you will consider purchasing the collection(s) from which they came. Also, a review would be much appreciated! Thanks again!
Robert
About the Author
Robert P. Hansen teaches philosophy at a community college and writes fiction and poetry in his spare time. His work has appeared in various small press publications since 1994.
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