FFF - Yet Another Don & John, Now with 100% more magic

Yep, I'm using Don and John again.

This week the Terribleminds challenge was to take two words from the given lists &, using them as the title, write a story from that title.  Last time this challenge came up I wrote a pretty fun western (fun to write at least).  As always with the list challenges I randomly generated a few combinations; Dead Boy's Curse, Scarlett Gunslingers, Amaranthine Promise, Junkie's Breakfast.  All of which had great potential but none of them were really speaking to me.

I saw the potential combo of Unlucky Beetle and the idea of Don suffering from bad luck was too entertaining to pass up.  Also I've been wanting to experiment with adding magic to the 'Baugmann & Baugmann' universe, so I used this as an excuse.  If anyone isn't familiar with the past stories/adventures for Don & John You Should Start Here

I'm going to try to not make every Friday story about these two, but since I'm tentatively using them as the basis of my first novel, expect to see more of them in the future.

B & B – The Unlucky Beetle

            “Have you filed a report yet?”  John asked the museum curator.

            “Yes, the officers have already cleared the scene.”  The man shook his head, “I thought to call you because…”

            Don tuned them out, knowing John would get any pertinent info.  Looking around the remains of the exhibit it was hard to tell what had been damaged during the burglary.

            ‘Rather than what Michael’s tromped over.’ Don thought, nudging some broken glass with his shoe.

            The display case had held an entire collection of antique jewelry, apparently notable because no one had been able to nail down exactly where it had come from.  Now all that was left were shards of glass and crumpled ID placards.

Don noticed a gleam of light coming from the far corner of the display.  Reaching out he picked up a small golden beetle, about the size of his thumb.

            ‘Why leave this behind if they took everything else?’ He wondered.  ‘They couldn’t have missed it, the case was picked clean.’

            Holding it up to the light Don tried to get a closer look but hissed when the figurine cut his finger.

            John looked over as the beetle hit the floor.  “You ok?”

            “Damn thing bit me.” Don said, scratching at his hand.

            “It couldn’t have bitten you it’s…”  John trailed off, staring at Don’s hand.

            They both stared as Don’s scratching revealed a black tattoo of the beetle forming on his skin.

Don's curse filled the office as he leapt from his seat.

John looked up from the couch.  "What's wrong?"

"My damn mug broke,” Don said, shaking spilled coffee from his hands, “that's what’s wrong."

John turned back to his books, "It's just a mug Don."

"I don't care about the stupid mug, I care about the hot coffee all over my pants."  Don said.

"I warned you something like this might happen."  John said.

Don scratched at the beetle mark on the back of his hand. "Tell me you've found a way to fix it?"

Shaking his head John said, "Nothing so far."

"You're the one with magic, can't you just wizard this away?"  Don waved an imaginary wand.

John shook his head, "You know it doesn't work that way.  Besides, I'm an empath.  I need time and resources for spells outside my range."

"So spell this damn thing off my hand."  Don held out the beetle mark.

"I don't think I could.”  John sighed.  “We need to get the brooch back to the collection to get rid of the curse."

Don huffed and grabbed a smoke from his pocket.

"Please don't smoke in here." John said reflexively.

"Oh for-“ Don threw his hands up.  “I'm going for a walk!"

He stormed out of the office slamming the door hard enough that the glass cracked.

"God damn it." John heard Don mutter.

As Don stomped down the hall John heard a crash and a thud followed by a terse "God damn it!"

An hour later Don staggered back into the office holding his hand out looking ready to cut it off.

            “Get.  It.  Off.”  He ground out.

            John took in his partner’s appearance; coat torn, tie missing and pants stained with more than just coffee.  Carefully clearing his throat he spoke.

            “I might have an idea.”  He said.  “But you’re not going to like it.”

            “At this point,” Don said, flopping down at his desk. “I don’t care.”

            “Well,” John pointed at an open page, “I think we can track the magic causing your bad luck back to the source.”

            Don glared at the mark, “The beetle is still at the museum.”

            “That’s just it,” John’s eyes lit up the way they always did when he explained magical theory.  “The beetle isn’t the source.  The curse is designed to punish anyone who removed that item from the collection.  It was probably left behind because the original thieves didn’t want to take the risk.”

            Don rolled his eyes, “I’m going to assume there’s a point here?”

            “The collection is the source of the magic, Don.” John said.

            “So you want to use the curse that’s on my hand-“

            “To track the rest of the collection.  Exactly.”

            “What’s the catch?”

            “There’s a…” John hesitated. “There’s a strong chance that this will make your bad luck worse.”

            “Exactly how much worse?”  Don asked.

            “Your curse will feed off my tracking spell, and the closer we get to the collection the stronger my spell will become.”  John explained.

            “The worse my luck will get.”  Don finished.

            As Don sat considering their options, a sharp creak came from his chair before one of the legs gave out and dumped him on the floor.

            “Ok.” His voice floated out from under his desk. “Let’s do it.”

Friday Fiction - The Collector

So for this week the challenge over at TerribleMinds was to write a story that involved Hell in some fashion.  I kicked the idea around, almost went back to Don and John and added some supernatural elements to their story.  But then this came to me.  I'm not going to say anything else, I think it's pretty clear.  But I will warn that suicide and depression are main themes so...

The Collector

He drifted around his mark.  Whenever he came to close his presence left a dark stain on the young boy’s aura.

The cracks in the boy's psyche were clear.  The damage ready to rend his soul to fragments, one final push would be enough to drive the point home and send him over the edge.

He knew some Collectors that would take advantage of those cracks.  Worming through them like oil and taking over the host, turning the pain of suicide into a wrathful strike against the tormentors.

The boy rushed to his room, moving with the hurried walk-not-quite-run of a child trying to hide something.  Holding back the pain of the day as he sank to his bed, shoulders hunching tightly with stress.

He watched the boy reach under his bed for the knife that sat hidden for weeks, only coming out when the pain needed release.

As the boy held the knife in a shaking hand, he drifted closer and whispered a trail of smoke in the youth’s ear.

"Do you know what Hell is child?" He asked.

"Hell is pain, Hell is suffering.  Hell is misery." He said with the crackling hiss of brimstone.  "It is knowing, knowledge burned deep in your soul, that your world will never change.  Never improve."

"So go, kill yourself," he trailed a finger over the blade, the iron burning his ethereal form.  "We're waiting for you."

He caressed the boy’s cheek, "And once we have you, do you know what we'll do?"

The soft touch turned to a harsh grip of the boy's throat.  "We will put you right.  Back.  Here."

"You will live the same day of pain, of torment more exquisite than any fire could burn.  That will be your Hell.  And you will never, never escape it."

He let go of the child’s throat and laid his hand over the boy's own.

"Unless you put the knife down.  Unless you face your pain, now."

He thought of that day, when the knife tore a line of red into his skin, tore a piece of his soul away and cast the broken remains into the fire.

Sometimes you have to let yourself break.  And no, you will never, ever be the same again.  Once you shatter you will never be able to put those broken pieces together.  It is your choice then what to do.  Do you fall?  Do you fall and let the sharp edges tear into you?  Or do you take them, do you use them?  Build them together, not into what they once were, but something else, something new.  A beautiful mosaic that shows the world who you truly are.

Fiction Challenge - Sub-Genre Mash-ups

So I did skip a week on the fiction challenges.  I have no excuses, I just couldn't get a way to make the topic work for me.

Totally not an excuse.

Anyway, this week the topic was to take two sub-genres of fiction and crush them together into one story.  I bounced through a few different combinations; Superhero-fantasy, Dying Earth-Dieselpunk, Magical Realism-Techno Thriller, etc.

Then the first line of this story popped into my head, enjoy my insanity.

Deathiversary

            Cassie stuck her tongue out and giggled at how the pool of blood gave her reflection some color.

“Cassie stop that,” Robert waved to her.  “Come here.”

            Making one more face at herself Cassie glided over to the couch, leaving a trail of ectoplasm as she passed through the end table.  She sat down in the air, hovering just above the cushions.

            Robert put his arm across the back of the couch and Cassie leaned back just enough to let them overlap slightly, her incorporeal with his physical.  She sighed contentedly, cold fog gusting out as she spoke.

            “You always know just what to get me.”  She said.

            “Well you’re not hard to please,” he said with a gesture to the corpse still dripping blood on the floor.  “I figured you’d prefer the whole package instead of just a red mess.”

            “True enough,” she smiled.
            “Anything you’d like me to do with the body?” he asked.

            “Leave it for now,” She looked around at the dust and grime.  “I like how it adds to the décor.  We’ll let Fido have it on the next full moon.”

            “Where is that mutt anyways?”

            “He’s wandered off again, something about ‘escaping this accursed place.’  He’ll be back once he gets hungry.”

            “Why do we put up with him?”

            “Oh he’s just going through a phase, you know how werewolves are, always with the drama.”

            A wet scratching sound caught their attention.

            “Victor,” Robert shouted. “You get out of there!  Bad boy!”

            The vampire backed away from blood it had been sniffing at and started to back out of the room eying the puddle pleadingly.

            “Oh, I’ve had my fun,” Cassie said. “Let him have it.”

            Robert waved his hand at the mess and the vampire began lapping at the blood, purring happily as it did.  Drinking its fill it turned and skulked from the room, disappearing into the darkened hallway.

            Turning his attention back to Cassie he asked, “So do you remember what tonight is?”

            She frowned thoughtfully for a moment, “Halloween?”

            “Well yes, that.” Robert shook his head, “But I was thinking of our anniversary.”

            “Oh sweetie, you remembered!”

            “Of course I did, it’s hard to forget the night you killed your wife.”  He laughed, “And you know, I have a bit more of a present planned for you than just a bloody chuck of meat.”

            “Oh really now?”  Cassie asked.

            Robert held up his hand, “Just wait, it should be any minute now.”

            “Robbie, you know ghosts have no patience.” Cassie put her hands on her spectral hips.

            Unmoved he asked, “Really?  What else do you have to do with your time?”

            “I’ll have you know I’ve a very busy schedule, it takes a lot of skill to rattle chains in just the right way.”  Her smirk betrayed her amusement.

            Before he could reply the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway came through the broken windows.  Cassie flew off the couch and stuck her head outside, missing the window in her excitement and looking through the wall.

            “Teenagers!”  She shrieked, “You brought me mystery hunters?!  Oh you’re the best murderous psychopath a girl could ask for!”

            Robert looked out the window, keeping himself out of sight and watched the four teens climb out of the van.  Two boys; one muscular lad in a football jacket, the other all in black, including his makeup, got out of the front.  The girls; one a mini-skirted beauty queen and the other a sweater-wearing bespectacled bookworm, climbed out the back.

            “I may have spread the word about our little ‘abandoned house’ when I was a few towns over hunting down your present.” Robert said with a wave to the corpse.  “I saw those kids helping arrest a petty thief and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

            Cassie latched herself onto Robert in a hug, ending up halfway through his body. “Thank you so much!  Just promise me you’ll let me play with them first?”  She said, looking up at him through his collarbone, her hollow eyes pleading with his soulless heart.

            “Tell you what,” Robert grinned, “let’s make it a race.”

            “But there’s only four of them.”

            Robert’s expression turned thoughtful and he didn’t say anything until the barking of a large dog came from outside.

            The two smiled and said together, “Tie-breaker.”