Seidmadr Tales

Jack lay collapsed in the apartment as dark blood spilled from his mouth onto the wood flooring. His eyes fixated on his hand as the knucklebones fell from its weakened grip, only to collect them and futilely try again. Four men in black formal jackets appeared between two bounces of the bones. One carried a bottle of wine. One held a cane. One had a glass of rum. The fourth stood peering through the lens-less frames of his glasses at the newspaper clippings pinned to Jack’s wall. “My my my, haven’t we been a little hero,” the Baron commented, “and we’ve enjoyed watching you.” Jack let out a scratchy cough, that the Baron interpreted as a response. “You? No,” the Baron turned to Jack, shaking his head. “We’re not here for you.” Jack rolled his head back and forth on the floor as tears fell from his cheek as Jack endured the pain of forcing his words out. “No. Why don’t the dice work anymore?” The Baron stepped over Jack’s limp body to accept the glass of rum from his associa

Light the red lanterns, for the Nian comes. Fire the rockets, for the Nian feasts on man. Each New Year, the Nian comes down from the mountains, Hungry after depleting what little winter offered. I had been raised to always fear the Nian, And that one day the Nian would kill me. But I was not afraid, I was defiant. I would kill the Nian. All of them. I was allowed to light the lantern when I was eight It was the first year I did something to cause the Nian fear. At thirteen, I was allowed to light the fuse for a rocket. It’s loud explosion would drive the Nian away. On my fifteenth new year, I was ready to hunt, With a bundle of self-made rockets, smaller,  Designed not to scare away, but to hit. I fashioned armor from scarlet cloth. But the Nian didn’t come, the Nian never came, At seventeen, I outgrew the Nian. It was a myth, a lie, a story to frighten the young. I did not light the lanterns, I did not fire rockets. My father died when I

A subtle tugging attempts to pull me from our dreams. Visions of the twin orange moons over a tropical landscape I am too young to stand on begin to ripple. My vision adjusts from our collective slumber to the watery depths of my nursery. Around me, I see thousands of my siblings still enjoying their sleep, and below them a massive darkness that could be mistaken for a cast-free shadow by lesser creatures, but a form I recognize as my primagen. I am told that one night I will resemble him in both size and form. Eons from now I will fall into a sleep-like metamorphosis the rest of my body will form and my fringe-like fins will become wings heralding my future inheritance. For now, I am a brain-sized pod that is only a master of the ocean, or at least I like to think so. Vibrating my fins, I swim closer to the surface to view the constellations from here. They’re arranged differently than the ones from the dream, but I can pick out a few familiar stars based on their chimes. Along wi