Dark Days in Sharm EL Sheik

Her eyes stung from beads of sweat running in slow rivulets down her forehead. Here on the Red Sea the heat was miserable. Better than Cairo she thought, where she'd often offered more than just a massage. The sun burnt tourists were always friendly and tipped well. Her shift was almost over and her overweight American patient fell asleep some time ago. Miret could feel her stomach tighten as she thought of her next fix. Mustafa the Turk, always had the best and his price was fair. Best of all, when she had little money she could use other methods of payment.

Cleaning up her station she bid the new shift farewell and went out the back entrance heading over to the employee huts. The smell of garbage suddenly filled her nose and she thought about the contrast of the tourist areas and true Egypt. The Egypt she knew and hated was to Miret just one big garbage bin.

Her hut was small and it welcomed her with its cool interior. She kept it very clean. Miret understood, to make it in the tourist industry one had to present a tidy image. Once inside, she closed and locked the hut's thin wooden door with a soft click. She went into her kitchen and grabbed one of the little vinyl-aluminium chairs. Carrying it over to the door she carefully placing it under the knob and jammed the door closed. Management often tried to surprise their employees. Not Miret.

Exhaling deeply, Miret pulled out the old leather bound Koran and opened it to a grimy page near the back. She felt her pulse quicken as her heart beat faster and faster, her fix near. The little bag with its brown contents, her spoon and kit now lay on the commode. Her bathroom door was closed, locked tightly. Miret left Egypt; she moved body and soul to cooler and more affluent regions of the world. Places where women could be more than labor and pleasure. Time left with her and she was free.

Suddenly she felt something pulling her back. It touched her and she felt heat from its grasp, painful yet more. It was vile, truly evil a rabid darkness. She tried to escape, but it attached itself to her somehow, clinging to her very soul. She felt weary as it fed and grew.

*

Merit slowly came down and woke up with her back to the bathroom door. She had a sharp pain where her right leg fell asleep. Rubbing her leg vigorously and slowly standing up, Miret looked into her little mirror. Her tired eyes looked back and then for an instant, a flash, she saw it! She thought it was a dream, but no, she saw it. Looking hard it flashed again. "Yes my dear, we are one now you and I." No, no, cried Miret, what are you? She could hear it plain as day, its steely voice edgy and capable. She realized horrified. The voice, the voice was in her head.

Miret's mind screamed as she fought what was happening to her. The thing held on tight as she mentally pried at its degenerate grasp. "Give up girl, your mine now and we have work to do," again its voice, crisp and haunting in her head. No, please, she continued to struggle slowly realizing its hopelessness. Miret fell back to the cold white tiles exhausted, her mouth moving as if it had a mind of its own. What do you want from me, what have you done? "Oh dear, you don't know do you?" She could feel it smiling; somehow she knew it was enjoying her pain. I was hard to tell at first, its voice so strong and steely, Miret thought it was a man, but now as it spoke, she realized it was a female voice. A voice so utterly horrible she thought she must vomit. Tasting the sour bile she asked, who are you? "Dear, later, later. I said, we have work to do."

Miret felt herself being pushed as if she were a marionette. She saw her hand open the thin bathroom door, and as if with a mind of its own her body began to walk into her small living space. Quickly passing the sitting area Miret could hear her feet making soft padding sounds as she entered the kitchenette. Left hand on the worn Formica top, her right hand pulled the drawer's handle. It opened with a soft screech revealing her utensils and the two kitchen knives she’d brought with her from Cairo. Her left hand reached out and grabbed the larger of the two, her mind screaming as she saw its razor sharp edge glint and reflect the light. Miret was right handed but the knife felt so comfortable in her left, it’s as if it belonged there. She looked again at the knife and shuddered in horror, it reflected not her visage but that of a monstrous toothy grin.

"So sweetie, where do we find this, Mustafa?" I-I- can't, no- what are you, no. "OK sweetie, then it's the hard way." Miret felt her mind ache as if it was being squeezed in a press. Arghh, the pain! "So, off we go. Next time simply tell me and save yourself some pain and pride dear." Miret turned on her heel and headed toward the simple door. Exiting quickly, the door slammed leaving flakes of cheap white paint flittering down to the cement of the entrance. Merit, her eyes squinting against the sunlight felt sickened by what the old crone had planned.

Still kick'n

Hi all, thought I'd take a minutes to say hello. I've had such a busy few months. My brother passed away and he was only 45. I flew to the US to ensure the burial went well and pay my respects.

The job is as busy as always and I find I have little time for anything but job and family. I am sorry my writing has paid for this lack of time but I'll try and write more soon.

Thanks for your patience and friendly mails.

Chris

The Gift

The Gift

A short story by Christopher S. Silva


It was a sunny summer weekend and I was outside working in the garden when something wonderful happened .The change was almost unnoticeable, then a rush of heat and a loud bellow, moist, acrid and hot.

My garden changed from a simple plot into a vast green field with huge craggy rocks and cliffs. I was behind a great boulder and could feel the heat of the beast on the other side. It bellowed again, I ducked, knees knocking. “Come man, grab your sword and shield ‘n we’ll go at him again.” Yelled an armored figure hunched next to me. I looked down and realized that I too was clad in rough armor.

“Heave up your sword, man! We must attack.” Again I searched and saw no sword just an old wooden branch lying at my feet. It was a mere twig. “Yes”, he yelled over the rancid breath of the thing opposite the boulder. I reached down and lifted the stick and it changed instantly, morphing into a heavy sword. I could smell the metal oil, and the hard leather grip felt just right in my iron clad hand. I gave it short swing and its balance was sweet and true. The armor clad knight made the sign of the cross over his chest and gave me a hard shove.

Stunned at the sight before me, I ducked, feet moving to gain solid ground. The giant dragon was awful, with huge yellow teeth and a kind of smelly mucus dripping from its bitter smile. Its voluminous body was all scales and rigid edges, sharp and dangerous. Its Stumpy giant legs ended in frightful talons.

The knight moved fast and sure, he struck like lightning and his blade reverberated off the beast’s scales with a mighty clang. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as if to say, move! Instinct took over and I leapt, swinging my blade with all my might. Surprised at my own speed, my broadsword landed hard, sinking deep between its scales just below its angular jaw line. It yelped and sent me flying with a shake of its huge head. Hitting the ground rolling, I came to my feet quick and stood stunned for a second. The right side of my armor was badly scratched and dented but held.

The beast teetered and I saw crimson blood ooze from the gash. It let out a scream. The smell of rotten eggs and a billow of smoke rose from its ragged maw. My comrade moved fast and swung hard at the dragon’s underbelly, the smell was awful as it fell with a heavy thud and began shaking uncontrollably.

“Aaha, we’ve beaten him mate!” said the knight pulling at his helm. He had thick dirty blonde hair. His worn silver helm now under his left arm, his right shot out all iron and leather. “Emanuel Silva, Knight of the Portuguese realm at your service sir.” What a great blow you dealt the beast today.” I smiled for our last names were the same. I took his hand and felt his strong handshake. His eyes showed the love for a comrade in arms after a rugged battle.

The ground spun and my hand was no longer in Emanuel’s but on an oar and I was rowing slowly and quietly.

The small boat hit the wooden dock and the other two passengers silently tossed the line securing the boat. Climbing out they looked down at me as if to say, are you coming? I nodded and climbed out, slowly looking about. We were near a huge French style castle and I could barely make out the towers in the soft fog and pre-dawn light. I reached down and felt a sword at my belt; I had knee high thick leather boots with a heavy flap on top. Soft worn leather gloves adorned my hands with an emblem on top, an M embroidered in the rich bordeaux leather. The palms of my gloves were worn and much lighter in color than the back. The right’s leather was worn thin in some places. I was obviously a swordsman, and it seemed, a Musketeer.

The large Musketeer leaned in close and whispered “we’ll have to scale the tower, and then somehow get Pathos through the bars. Our escape must be silent and fast.” I nodded and followed the two swordsmen. Both musketeers were similar in features one slightly bigger than the other and both had the same dusty blonde hair that the Knight had. The one on the right had a long rolled rope over his left shoulder and the grapple held loosely in his right gloved hand.

We sneaked slowly to the moss covered base of the high tower and the large musketeer turned and put a gloved index finger to his lips to ensure silence. He pulled off the long rope and began to swing the grapple in a wide arc. The oval of rope and iron made a soft whirring sound and with a light grunt he let it fly. I could hardly see where it went as it disappeared into the mist toward the top of the tower. With a soft clang it never returned. The smaller one pushed his larger comrade aside and pulled on the rope testing its seat on the tower. Like a monkey he scurried up the rope and his larger companion nodded for me to go up. I am an overweight IT manager not an athletic sprite, but here, I was lean and fit. I grabbed hold of the rope and hand over hand went easily up into the mist. I felt the rope being held taut by our giant companion below.

I quickly came to an oval shaped window with a thick stone sill. The window had two rusty bars running horizontally down its middle. The Musketeer balanced precariously and pulled out a long iron lever. He placed it in my hand and with one foot on the sill and the other wrapped around the rope I moved the lever between the bars and heaved. Snap, I grinned, surprised at how easily I broke the bars.

I heard a whistle from below and knew we had to move fast. I squeezed through the window and landed cat-like in a dark room that smelt of mold and food. There was a small dais in the corner with a blanket covered person sleeping. I walked up and leaned down to shake the man awake and to my surprise is was again Emanuel Silva, this time with the pointed goatee and sharp mustache preferred by the French of the time. I shook him twice and he looked up startled at first then smiled warmly when he saw me. He put out a hand and helped him to his feet just as the whistle came again. The whistle changed to a call and again everything spun softly.

What was a whistle became the soft voice of my wife “come on boys, dinner is ready.” In my hand was my sons hand and I was pulling him from a long cardboard box stood on end and cut in the shape of a castle tower. Alex my other son held a string tight in his little hand, one foot firmly pressed to the box smiling.

“Come on, the food is getting cold.” Again my wife, I realized there and then the gift of children.. The chance to re-live youth, to study a butterfly or an anthill for more than an hour, to be excited about the smallest thing and notice the trivial and all the simple wonders we have filtered with age.

This is truly a wonderful gift indeed.

Hi everyone, yes, I am still alive.

Just thought I would say hello. I have been real busy lately. My sons both had a birthday in the last two months and I have been working at a frightening pace.

I have been traveling a lot and was in North Africa and England recently, busy, busy.

I hope to take some time and write this week. I'll post soon.

Chrisopher

Latest published work

All,

the latest issue of Forgotten Worlds just came out; issue 8.

They are running my serial, feel free to go in and purchase the issue.

Here is the link: http://www.forgotten-worlds.co.uk/ hit the button latest issue.


Enjoy

CS

Lost Time

A short story by Christopher Scott Silva



He was a cranky old soul and no one listened to him anymore. He'd lost his grant years ago and was already lean and stooped when he moved in next door.

One day while mowing the lawn I noticed a bit of smoke swirling out of his small basement window in slow wispy loops. I let go the mower's emergency bar and ran to find out if the old man was in need of assistance.

The weathered door was unlocked with paint peeling and coming off in flakes. I pushed it open and called, "Hello, Professor Lenstein?" There was an odd smell, sweet and chemical coming from the rear and the room had a yellowish haze.

I let off toward the basement and hit the stairs at speed knowing the old teacher never left the house and I was fearing for his well being. The haze was thicker here and I coughed a bit pulling my t-shirt up to cover my mouth, my eyes stinging. The lights were on and to my surprise, the basement was empty. In the middle of the floor was a huge round burn mark with colored rings. I quickly ran and opened the two small windows hoping to let out the dangerously sweet yellow smoke.

As the haze cleared, I saw an old oak roll top desk with some papers laying on it in tidy little stacks. I had a look, now very curious and worried as to the professor’s whereabouts.

There were designs in pencil on the parchment and next to objects complex mathematical formulas. The documents showed a cylindrical object large with a type of command center at its crux.

Under the stack of undecipherable papers was a worn leather bound journal. Flipping through it, there were many references to chemicals and equations, metals and elements. I flipped quickly to the end. The last page was in a clean almost beautiful script.

"Time can be folded, and I have finally proved them all wrong!"

I called the police and fire department. The old professor was never seen or heard from again.

#

Just this morning, there was a bothersome knock on my front door and two men in clean cut black suits were there displaying government service badges. They asked about my craggy old neighbor and I told them some of the odd tale of that day.

Sadly, I explained, I was in a hurry and had little time to discuss the issue more. They left suspiciously and I returned to the door.

I went down the stairs leading to my basement and again was pleasantly amazed by the clean yellow green glow. The shining cylinder was reflecting the tungsten lamps in an phosphorescent metallic way, causing refraction.

I wiped off a bead of sweat and realized that I had just a few tweaks left.

A Comets Tail

A Comets Tale

By Christopher S. Silva

It was just getting dark and James was eagerly going through his tackle box looking for just the right hook and lure. He loved night fishing and the thrill of catching a large Catfish always outweighed the long waits and sometimes fruitless evenings.

His small rowboat was taking on a bit of water and he would have to bail soon. Normally his son James Jr. was with him and bailed the water every hour or so, but tonight Jr. was ill and he was sorely missed. Nights like this were when James and his son would and could talk about anything, girls, drugs and school problems. He treasured such chances and checked the water level again as he tossed his line in and turned the reel three times, never more never less.

Setting the dented pail down and leaning back, he raised his jacket’s zipper a bit to fight the chilly night. James opened a beer twisting the top off as quietly as possible and waited watching the line and the sign, a bit of vibration and a pull. Smiling and thinking again of his son and the quiet time were they would watch the line together for stretches, just fixed on the thin line that disappeared into the onyx water.

The line had gathered some dew and it was running down it in rivulets, the moonlight softly refracting causing the dew to look colored and oily.

James saw the twitch, a soft jerk he leaned forward and took the rod in his hands, finger on the line waiting, sensing the bite two meters below. He felt a vibration and gave the pole a quick jerk to set the hook and with a grin began to reel hard and fast. The rod bent a lovely arc that told of a heavy cat and a good dinner tomorrow with the family.

The placid lake lit-up with and orange glow and at first James didn’t notice, so concentrated he was on his catch. When he noticed, it was fast and frightening. A ball of fire seem to be coming strait for him. The fishing rod fell from his grasp to the bottom of the boat landing in the rising water. Stunned, turning to follow the fireball’s trail he almost fell overboard.

With a whump, the ground shook and the whole lake seemed to vibrate for a few seconds.

“Holy shit!” “What in the hell was that?” James sat down, fishing rod forgotten; he began to row with all his might in the direction of the sound and the fireball.

Jumping out of the boat winded from the effort a bit of water going in over his rubbers he rushed pulling the boat ashore. Reaching into his tackle box he fumbled a bit swearing when he hooked his own hand trying to find his flashlight. Pulling the flashlight out and putting his finger to his mouth he ignored the copper taste and moved forward toward the soft glow in the wood line just a short distance away.

Branches pushed aside and rubbing his high rubber boots making an odd noise James noticed how quiet it was. An outdoorsman, he knew the woods were many things at night but quiet was not one of them. As a child he’d had to overcome the cacophony of insects and animals to be a good woodsman like his father.

Pushing through the soft ferns he approached something he had never seen before, stunned, he looked down. There was a warm heat and the thing glowed soft orange like an old coal by a fire. The comet or meteor (all his mind could think of) had penetrated deep into the ground and there was a huge crater with sizzling and burning trees at its extremities. He knew he should run and inform someone or get help but his legs were frozen in place.