Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog, page 5

At World’s End

It was called the greatest cataclysm in Earth’s history.

Half the world saw the sun explode in a burst of light that temporarily blinded even those who closed their eyes and turned away. The clouds burnt off from the light pressure alone, yet it would be fourteen hours before the plasma burst hit the Earth.

Hysteria reigned, and in the western hemisphere, people woke to a sunless morning and the certainty of the end of the world. They wandered in shocked disbelief, having missed the main event that sent the rest of the world into chaos.

With only eight hours until the plasma shock hit the Earth at ten percent of the speed of light, humanity prepared in a very individual, very human way.

Many spent the entire eight hours in prayer. Many more found religion as the hours ticked down. Still others drank, and made love, and consumed every drug available, while others rampaged. They looted, destroyed, and killed wantonly. There was no law, and here at the end, nothing mattered any longer.

When it came, humanity met it head on, staring into the sky, awaiting their deaths.

When it left again, repelled entirely by the Earth’s magnetic field, they sang songs of joy and life, and soon turned on those who had revealed their true destructive natures at world’s end.

Scientists raced to come up with and test theories on their impossible survival.

And without a sun, the global temperature dropped twelve degrees overnight.

Meanwhile, one Aboriginal tribe in eastern Australia gathered ninety kilometers north of Cape Melville. While the world searched for an explanation, they told a story some fifty thousand years old, that exactly this would someday happen.

And at dawn, the entire tribe sat in lawn chairs and watched the sun tree give birth.

Image by Bessi from Pixabay

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A Church Wedding

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay



“I get wanting a church wedding.

No, I do. But why did she need to be this one?” Karl asked as he straightened Jason’s bowtie.

“She can be particular,” Jason said. “For instance, she questioned my choice of best man.” He gave Karl a pointed look.

“I’m not trying to spark trouble, it’s just I never left New York City for anyone, and now I’m inside the Arctic Circle. I hope you realize how much I love you.”

“Shh,” Jason said. The wedding march started, and Desdemona began her walk up the aisle. She was gorgeous, with her raven hair piled high, decorated in icy crystals. Her pale skin complimented by her frost-themed dress.

“At least it’s summer,” Karl whispered. “Could you imagine this place in total darkness?”

Desdemona arrived, taking her place across from Jason, and the ceremony began. Jason’s mind drifted as he took in the gargoyles staring back at him, overlooking the crucified Christ. They would have been okay outside, but here? Above the altar?

The murals between each column were bizarre as well. Odd sigils in golden paint on a field of seven-pointed stars. He’d never seen a church like it before.

The priest stirred him from his thoughts. “If there are any who can show just cause why these two should not…” Father Opunui trailed off as the ground shook beneath their feet.

Desdemona’s beautiful face twisted in rage. “Dad!”

The doors at the rear of the church flew open. A man, glowing darkly, hard to look at, with flames trailing from his eyes, stood in the opening. “I object!”

“The church is warded, Father. You can’t come in!”

Those few in the pews rose, running toward the altar.

“That’s your father?” Jason said. “What is he? A demon?”

Desdemona sighed. “No. He’s an angel.”

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Carpathian Retreat

Image by Reinhold Silbermann from Pixabay



For the third night in a row, Robert woke to the sound of a
woman crying.

When he won the opportunity to write for a month in a medieval
European castle, it seemed kismet. His novel took place in a Romanian village. Now
he spent his mornings walking through the nearby village, soaking in the true
Carpathian atmosphere, and his afternoons and evenings writing.

But if he couldn’t sleep at night, he couldn’t keep his
schedule up. His writing was suffering.

This morning, he’d broached the subject at the breakfast
table, but none of the other writers claim to have heard it, and if the staff
knew about it, they weren’t talking.

Tonight, he was determined to find the source.

Robert stepped out of his room with his fuzzy slippers and
flashlight. He paused, waiting for the sound again. Sure enough, it came; a
sobbing, wracking moan.

He turned left and crept down the stone hallway, with portraits
whose eyes seemed to follow him, and display armor that seemed so much creepier
than this morning. At the end of the hall was a locked door. The sobbing was
clearly on the other side.

Robert recognized the lock from his research. He jiggled the
handle and bumped the door at just the right time, and it clicked open. Stone
stairs led up and out of sight.

At the top of the stairs, another door stood unlocked, and beyond
it, a circular room with a window open to the storm. The only object was a
large oval under a white sheet. A speaker, perhaps? The crying came from
beneath.

Robert pulled the sheet off.

He jumped when he saw a figure before realizing it was his
own reflection. Then he saw the ghostly figure hovering behind him.

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Upheaval

Image by Simon Matzinger from Pixabay



“Doctor Walsinger!” the general shouted

above the roar of the C-16’s engines, sticking out his gloved hand. “General Gorman.”

Julius Walsinger shook the man’s hand. “I can’t count how
many forms I’ve signed, General. Are you the one who’s finally going to tell me
why I’m here?”

“I am.” General Gorman opened a folder marked EYES ONLY. He
pulled out a photo and handed it to Julius. “This way to the chopper.”

Julius walked along after the general, engrossed in the
photo. “What am I looking at?” he asked. The photo showed a typical seasonal
upheaval caused by the melting of sea ice. The block in the middle was
remarkably clear, but not entirely unheard of.

The General offered his hand again, helping Julius onto the
chopper. He signaled for the doctor to put his headset on. Once he had, Gorman
answered. “The arctic sea ice melts entirely every year, but has been happening
progressively earlier. What we didn’t realize until recently was that ice
lodged on the sea floor has also been melting. This object was dislodged. Our
best minds say it’s been down there for fourteen million years.

“Christ. Have you taken any core samples? There’s a lot this
ice can tell us.”

“Doctor, that’s not ice. It’s a resin of some sort,
impervious to our diamond tip drills. We’re bringing high powered lasers along
with you.”

Julius continued to stare at the ice as he processed this.
It didn’t look like amber or any natural resin he— “What’s this dark shape?”

The General smiled. “The upper half of an unknown creature.”

Julius’s grip went slack, and the wind whipped the photo
through the open door. “This is above my paygrade. I study climate change. Why
did you call me?”

“The creature asked for you by name.”

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Drubal

Image by Couleur from Pixabay

Drubal was a good elf, Christmas enthusiast, and talented
artist. At three hundred fourteen years old, he was still a child by elf
standards, and the older elves rolled their eyes when he was chosen for the
Frosting and Flocking Crew again.

“Drubal!”

Drubal drew his hat over his face so that only his potato nose
showed between hat and beard, but Dewer, head of the F&F Crew, had already
seen him.

“Don’t you hide from me, you giddy little puck! Santa says
you’re on the crew, so you’re on the crew, but if you pull any stunts like the
last few years—”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve learned my lesson,” Drubal promised.

“Then, what are the rules? There will be no…”

“Ice sculptures of cute animals.”

“Good, and no…”

“Snowbanks made to look like flower arrangements,” he said
reluctantly, scuffing one foot.

“Good, and lastly?”

“No decorative yellow borders, no matter how badly I have to
go.”

“Right. Just snowbanks, a little frost here and there, maybe
some icicles. We’re going for natural.”

The whistle blew, signaling go time. Drubal grabbed his
presents and popped into the snowgate, coming out in the Henderson’s backyard.

“Natural,” he said. “Natural.” Maybe with some artistic
flair…

Frost blew from his lips in concentric spirals. Snow flew
from his fingers with a plop, plop, plop, hinting at the shape of a snowman.
Drubal shivered, forming icicles under every tree branch.

He smiled, adding a few finishing touches, then climbed a
tree to get a different perspective. Satisfied, he popped back through to the North
Pole.

Later, midnight chimed, and the cheer went up, marshmallows
floated atop Drubal’s hot cocoa. Dewer stormed in to the celebration. “Drubal!”

“But it was natural!  …ish.”

“Oh, yes. But you left their presents in a tree, you tonk!”

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Mabon

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay



“Gather round sisters,” Maia said.

Okay, so it wasn’t perfectly natural. She’d spruced things up with some arts and crafts, but the leaves in the area were spotted with mildew. And the pumpkin was supposed to rest on an old stump, but the picnic basket was better.

Besides, if the empowered women who wrote this guide were
anything like Maia and the other ladies of her coupon club, they would have
appreciated her improvisational skills.

Caitlyn took Maia’s left hand, and Sylvia took her right.
Beatrice laid the ancient tome on their makeshift altar, and completed the
circle. Everyone’s excitement shone in their eyes, but as was due the solemn ceremony,
the ladies carefully kept their faces straight.

When a customer brought the grimoire into Silvia’s
second-hand bookstore, and it fell open to this Autumn Plenty ritual, it had
been kismet. They’d spoken over clipping days about honoring the strong women
of their town’s history by taking up witchcraft. This ritual was the universe’s
way of confirming how right they were.

“We gather on Mabon, giving praise to the Great Mother and Son,”
Beatrice read. She continued, but Maia’s mind was elsewhere already. Samhain
got the press, with Halloween and that new Dia de los Muertos, but Mabon was where
it was at. Sacrifice one home-grown pumpkin for a year of prosperity? Yes,
please.

“Sister Maia? Are you ready?”

Maia perked up at the mention of her name. “The knife. Right.”
She took the butcher knife from its Ziplock bag and knelt. If they did
everything right, and of course they had, butterflies will settle on the
pumpkin halves, accepting the sacrifice.

Maia sliced into the pumpkin gleefully. Blood poured out.
The halves separated, revealing a slowly-beating heart. As it stopped, the four
ladies clutched their chests in pain.

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The Metzgermann

Image by Tomasz Proszek from Pixabay



The woods can be a terrifying place,

full of wolves, and bears, and sudden ice falls. Parents around the world warn their children of the dangers of playing outside alone, lest they be snatched away forever by one of these.

Yet, in the small village of Brettlesdorf in Austria, to
this day, they tell a different story, as if the wolves and bears were not
enough. In the woods outside their village, the Metzgermann drives his sleigh.

It comes without warning, day or night, from the first snow
to the last. Only the sound of his whip precedes him, sounding like the
cracking of a branch overladen with snow. Quick as a hare it rounds the bend and
is upon you. Most will freeze in fear, and the Metzgermann will lean out of his
sleigh and snatch them up to drop into his blood-soaked sack.

The lucky few might hear his merry laughter upon snatching
up another child, for those may find a place to hide before he finds them.

The most pitiable, however, are those who neither freeze nor
hide. For if you run, the Metzgermann delights in chasing you down. Quick as
you like, in any direction, once the horses have your scent, there is no
escape. And those roan monsters that pull his sleigh have been raised on the
taste of flesh.

They dog the heels of such unlucky children, staying just a
step behind, taking nips out of them until the child falls, exhausted, and they
feast.

You may wonder why I’m telling you. It’s because the boring
beetles are killing local trees, and the Forestry Service brought in special saplings
from Austria because the beetles don’t like the taste.

And in Brettlesdorf, they say the Metzgermann is tied to the
trees.

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Half a Sandwich

Image by Pepper Mint from Pixabay



Henry sat on their favorite park bench.

The late autumn chill stabbed at his knees.

“I miss you,” he said to the empty spot next to him. If he closed
his eyes, he could feel the warmth of her cheek so close to his, the smell of
her hand cream. He reached into his jacket for his wax paper-wrapped roast beef
sandwich.

An orange maple leaf spun and settled on his leg. That would
have delighted Claire. She may have even pressed it between the pages of a
book. He let it sit on his leg as he unwrapped his sandwich, then flattened the
wax paper on the bench beside him, and set down one triangle of the sandwich.

They used to share a sandwich and watch the ducks in the
pond across the way. Half a sandwich was good enough for him now. It just wasn’t
as good as when she made it.

The sun reflected red off the skyscrapers of the nearby city,
signaling time to go. He rewrapped the other half of the sandwich and headed
home.

The beeping was the first thing he heard when he opened the
door, then it was the squeak of Marla’s tennis shoes as she came to greet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Kasich. How was your day?” Marla helped
him with his coat.

“Oh, fine. Fine. I stopped by the park today. How is she?”

“I just changed out her nutrient bag,” Marla said, putting
on her own coat. “She should be good until midnight.”

“Thank you, Marla,” Henry said, and made his way down the
hall as she let herself out. “Hello, Claire,” he said. He held his wife’s hand and
sat in the chair next to her bed, lulled to sleep by the sound of the machine
breathing for her.

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Pathological

“Come on, Nelson, no way you dated Gwen Stefani,” Kevin said.

“I did though! It was right when she and Tony broke up. You
know that song ‘Don’t Speak?’ There’s that line ‘Altogether mighty frightening…’
I gave her that.”

“You’re so full of it!” Barney laughed.

“It’s true, I swear on my mom’s life.”

“Dude, you’ve never been outside North Carolina.”

“They were looking for a house in Raleigh when I met them. I
was doing an open house and they came in. We hit it off, so I told them about
this club I owned—”

“Wait, you’re saying you have a real estate license?”

“No, it lapsed. But we went to the club, and Tony goes for drinks and then Gwen leans in real close—”

“Smells like bull.”

Nelson raised his right arm. “God’s honest truth.”

“You owned a club.”

“I was part owner.”

“What happened to it?”

“My partner burned it down and faked his own death for some
insurance scam.”

“Oh, really. Where is he now?”

“There’s rumors he’s doing snorkel tours around Barbados.”

“Uh huh. What was the club called?”

“Star…light?”

“You don’t remember your own club’s name?”

“No, I do. It was Starlight.”

“Like the character on that show ‘The Boys’ that you’re
always talking about? The hot one?”

“…It’s a common name. Look, why don’t you guys believe me?”

“Because you’re pathological.”

“Because if there was a club in Raleigh that the owned
burned down for insurance, I would remember it.”

“If I’m lying, I’m dying. Look, can I just finish my story?”

“No. I’m done listening. You wanna grab a beer, Barney?”

“Sure, Kevin. Let’s get out of here.”

Nelson watched his two so-called friends walk away. “It’s all true!” he shouted.

“Or may God strike me—”



Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Thbbpt.

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Supercooling

Image by Gentle07 from Pixabay



The fog prickled their exposed skin,

like ice crystals suspended in air. Even their exhalation became so many frozen droplets, falling to earth as they walked.

When they stepped out of the wall of fog, it was like being
inside a bubble, pristine and white. Trees, with intact leaves covered in
frost, grew out of the still waters.

“It’s called supercooling,” Dr. Orin said. “You’ve probably
seen videos where someone takes a bottle out of the freezer, pours the water
into a cup, and it freezes on the way out. Here. Watch.” He picked up a stone
with his thick glove, and tossed it in the lake.

It plopped through the surface, which rebounded and rippled
outward, but it froze in place as the ripple passed. Long crystal shard broke
through the surface until it reached the banks and the grad students gathered
there.

“But it’s one thing to happen in the controlled environment
of a freezer. How could it happen in nature?” Michelle said.

Dr. Orin smiled. “That’s why we’re here. Theories? Anyone?”

“Polar vortex,” Kyle said.

“We’re in Tennessee, Mr. Simpson. Anyone else?” Dr. Orin
said.

“A high-altitude microburst?” Claudia suggested.

“I like where you’re headed, Ms. Reyes, but the doppler
radar was clear last night.”

“What about seismic activity? Was this a frost quake?” Duncan
said.

“Explain,” Dr. Orin said, twirling one finger in encouragement.

“Frozen air is trapped in caverns deep underground until a
shift in the crust allows it to escape, flash-freezing everything above.”

“Excellent theory, Mr. Penning. Ten points. Can anyone
suggest a test for this theory?”

“Actually,” said a deep rumbling voice behind them. A frost-white
reptilian face, eight feet across, emerged from the fog. “That was just me
waking up.”

Massive wings beat away the fog as the ice dragon inhaled
deeply.

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