September 23, 2012

From “The Castle Monster” by Rudolph Nelson Guzman

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There sit the ruins of Castle Dunkenny, and ruins shall they ever remain. Built no one remembers when, those walls were occupied by Celt and Roman, Free Irishmen and English, Parliamentarian and Confederate, British and Republican, Free Stater and IRA.

But none have truly held it.

Often it’s a simple thing that leads the men to leave. A strange scent, foul noises echoing in mossy hallways, feelings of unease where none should be called for. Others have reported being poked and prodded by unseen forces, cut and bloodied as they slept. Many disappeared altogether, with the legends painting them as being found, if at all, in tattered shreds.

Strange legends have grown up about the place, and locals give it a wide berth; all those who have entered since the oldest days have been interlopers from elsewhere, coveting the strategic location amid rich tilled farmland. Only one family, descendents of the lordly family that was among the first inhabitants of Dunkenny, dares farm there.

All this is ancient history to the head of that family, though he does find his way down into the other cellar from time to time (the one hidden behind the preserves shelf) to polish the family collection of bleached skulls.

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April 13, 2012

From “Pendant of Generations” by Hazel Pace Santiago

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“Oh, there’s nothing that special about the pendant itself,” Whelk sniffed, glaring at it through his jeweler’s eyepiece. “Your standard dull clay manufacture without a hint of the artifice and passion of fair or the elegant utility of fey construction.”

“You sound just like my great aunt Agnes,” Jennie sniffed. “I half-expect you to ask me to mow your lawn next, with getting yelled at for doing it wrong as the only reward. If it’s such a piece of trash, why did the wax model of Éamon de Valera come to life for the sole purpose of snatching it from me?”

Whelk’s red eyes flashed. “I said the pendant itself was worthless trash, clay,” he hissed. “What it contains is priceless. As I’m sure you don’t know, clay, items of a certain consistency–in this case silver–absorb a bit of their owner’s spark over time. Ordinarily it’s too small to bother with and quickly dissipates on shuffling off or sale, as you vile clay are wont to do.”

“But?”

“But if the object is passed to a close blood relative, the spark will grow. Exponentially. By itself, it can do nothing, but in the hands of one with the power to release that stored spark…it’s a necessary component of the oldest and most powerful magicks.” Whelk tapped the pendant with a twisted claw. “This has been in what passes for a family among you clay for many years?”

“Generations,” said Jennie. “I know my great-great grandmother had it, but it could be even older than that.”

“As I thought. The power in this item–especially if combined with the spark in other, similar items–is extremely rare, extremely valuable.”

“What happens if they release that ‘spark’?” Jennie asked. “What kind of engine does it start?”

“Any number of spells require its presence, and they are always the darkest of rituals–or so say meddlesome twits who make such distinctions,” Whelk said. “Part of the spark’s power is its link to the souls of past owners.” He eyed Jennie. “You are young enough that I expect the release would only devour ten to fifteen years of your candle-brief clay life. The others, though…their souls would be called forth from the Gentle Embrace and consumed.”

“We’re getting out of here,” Jennie cried to the Fáidh, who was examining a rack of shillelaghs. “How much for my pendant back?”

“I’m afraid it’s not for sale,” Whelk cackled. “You only bought an appraisal.”