Through long, dark tunnels, through subconscious labyrinths, finding his way through secret fungal forests, the pale figure came.
He was nearing the surface. The black-caped figure could tell–he sensed less weight of earth above him, and the heat from the world’s belly was increasingly supplemented by another heat, radiating from the distant star. That red giant repelled him even as it attracted him: he had been made to hide from its face, to draw sustenance from it only indirectly, in the night-shadows.
There had been obstacles to his trek. Now there was another one. He sensed it before he saw it. It barked a guttural yelp as it struck.
He ducked beneath the hairy arms, rolling several yards and springing back to his feet.
The towering, shaggy beast–fully three heads taller than him–proved faster than he anticipated. The moment he regained his footing, a massive arm batted him across the chest like a club.
With a hollow thud, his back slammed against the bole of a blood-red, gnarled tree.
The force of impact would have cracked a few ribs of a living man, but death had not leeched his bones and made them brittle; rather, they had grown tough as granite. No one had ever weighed a vampire, as far as he knew, but he suspected he must weigh twice as much as a man of his size. Paradoxically, he could move with the grace and agility of a jungle cat. It was not muscle and tendon that internally moved his limbs; it was supernatural force.
He scooted backwards up the tree’s trunk–a physical feat the sight of which would have been unnerving, had there been a human witness. He scurried from harm’s range like a spider, then launched himself from the tree and somersaulted in air, landing on the beast-man’s back.
His bony arms wrapped around his adversary’s neck, and he buried his face in its mane, nuzzling through the thick hair. His teeth found purchase.
The beast-man roared, trying to swat the parasite from its back. It suddenly went rigid, and toppled forward like a felled tree. A cloud of spores burst from the vaguely skull-shaped mushrooms in its wake.
He continued to drain, until he was sure the beast would not recover. Then he stood, irritably trying to brush the coarse, clinging hair from his cape.
Before he moved on, he glanced curiously at the beast-man’s feet–thinking of the moniker the above-worlders had christened such creatures. He decided that its feet were in normal proportion to its height–”big” only insomuch as every part of it was big. Curiosity and belly sated, he returned to his path.
He could smell fresh air before he came to the opening, the crack in the surface. “Fresh” was a relative term, for this air from above was saturated with poisons. He felt fortunate that his lungs were not finicky.
Clawing his way up, finding handholds on twisted pipe and blocks of cement and melted chunks of asphalt, he emerged.
He stood, a newborn from a crippled womb, and surveyed what was left.
He made his way to the object of his quest. His temple.
Cobwebs clung to his hair and cape. There was no light, but nocturnal predators didn’t need it. Still, he was hunting more than quarry. He procured a black candle from an inner pocket, and lit it with a kiss.
For hours he perused the stacks. Many of the books crumbled in his slim fingers, pages sloughing from their brittle bindings.
He held one a long while. A special book, written long ago by the Blessed Stoker.
He found books that depicted familiar foes on their covers. Here were the little grey men from the saucer. He had taken several of them down rather easily–strange, chemical taste to their blood–before the rest fled: All their weapons were of metal. And here was a picture of his latest adversary–kind of–it looked, rather, like a photograph of a man dressed in an ape-suit, mimicking it, walking away from the camera but glancing back over its shoulder. And here were the elves. They lived deeper down, much deeper down than he, and he feared them. Their magic was more powerful than his.
But nowhere here was there a sign of life. The humans were no more. The ones who had called them all into being, the ones who dreamed strong enough that their dreams manifested, were gone.
He had come to meet his maker, to embrace his father, to kiss his mother. They were dust.
He slumped onto a moldy, tattered high-back chair and stared at the books, all of them, too, inexorably turning to dust.
And he thought about the makers. The people who had written and bound and read and retold. When the sun rose and he slept, he dreamed about them. And he hoped that some of their subcreative faculty had been transferred to their creation. If so, then perhaps if he thought, if he dreamed, long enough, he could conjure them back. Through the life-germ they had implanted in him, they would be born again.
Nicholas Ozment teaches English at Winona State University. In his spare time he does his best to add to the clutter of libraries and the World Wide Web.
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19 Responses to “THE MANIFESTATION • by Nicholas Ozment”
Comments
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August 21st, 2008 at 2:31 am
I like your writing but that one just didn’t work for me. Maybe it needs a longer story form.
All the people are gone and all that’s left are the myths they created? If that was so the world would be teeming with life.
August 21st, 2008 at 3:37 am
I found the opening extremely powerful and some beautiful descriptive passages. I loved it.
August 21st, 2008 at 3:52 am
Not normally the sort of thing I read, but an interesting character in a strange situation. I liked it, but was occasionally taken out of the fictive dream by some of the expositionary internal dialogue, such as this.
“No one had ever weighed a vampire, as far as he knew, but he suspected he must weigh twice as much as a man of his size. Paradoxically, he could move with the grace and agility of a jungle cat. It was not muscle and tendon that internally moved his limbs; it was supernatural force.”
Other than that, cool story.
Thanks for the read.
August 21st, 2008 at 3:58 am
Powerful imagery here; but “pale figure” and “black caped figure”? Isn’t that contradictory?
August 21st, 2008 at 6:19 am
Very evocative; I felt myself drawn in and reading was effortless. Well done!
August 21st, 2008 at 6:42 am
Some very nice moments in this. I enjoyed the concept.
August 21st, 2008 at 7:49 am
Excellent work in creating such an imaginative, detailed world in a work of flash fiction. A tale well spun, this one.
August 21st, 2008 at 7:58 am
Hi Nicholas, you served up some rich fare here. Hard to believe it was told in so few words. Very other-wordly and effective.
August 21st, 2008 at 8:56 am
Nice stuff, Nick. Just what I have come to expect from you!
August 21st, 2008 at 9:18 am
A special book, written long ago by the Blessed Stoker.
Love it!
August 21st, 2008 at 10:39 am
Great story, Nicholas. Excellently set up in the first paragraph.
I love that the vampire has tasted the other “myths”.
August 21st, 2008 at 11:09 am
Good story! Dead humanity lives on through the myths they created.
August 21st, 2008 at 11:25 am
Overall, really good story! It took me a while to get into it — probably because action sequences aren’t my favorite — but you had some really good imagery. And when he got to the library… then I was totally hooked! Great concept.
August 21st, 2008 at 11:47 am
Loved the concept and the delivery.
–dj
August 21st, 2008 at 8:02 pm
Thanks for the comments, kudos, and criticisms; they’re all much appreciated!
Some specific responses:
Gerard said, “All the people are gone and all that’s left are the myths they created? If that was so the world would be teeming with life.” Well yes, that’s right, but at this stage they’re still archetypes in the subconscious “ether,” here portrayed as literally underground. They’re only now emerging into the landscape that humans have vacated. If the story went further along it would be just as you say.
Thanks, Joel, for taking the time to make that observation.
rumjhum said, “Powerful imagery here; but ‘pale figure’ and ‘black caped figure’? Isn’t that contradictory?” A figure can have pale skin and be wearing a black cape. Granted, better parallel structure would be “pale-skinned figure” and “black-caped figure.” Should the opportunity to revise the story ever arise, I’ll change that. Thanks!
Kevin said, “I love that the vampire has tasted the other ‘myths’.” I couldn’t have said it better myself!
Scott said, “Dead humanity lives on through the myths they created.” You’re dead-on, Scott. Man I’m relieved this story didn’t leave a lot of people scratching their heads!
And again, to everyone else, thanks for the kind words and taking the time to share them–I’m glad you enjoyed the story. I’m kinda fond of this one. Maybe I’ll have to visit this world again.
August 22nd, 2008 at 1:56 am
oh. Wonderful! He completes the circle
August 22nd, 2008 at 4:01 am
“I’m kinda fond of this one. Maybe I’ll have to visit this world again.”
I think it’d work better in a longer form. A Dying Earth for the fairy folk. Maybe there are even still some people out there.
August 22nd, 2008 at 4:25 am
There’s a book here, Nicholas
Written by the blessed Nick Ozment 
September 1st, 2008 at 10:16 pm
“the blessed Nick”: Saint Nicholas?
Thanks for the book suggestion. That’s, of course, if I can ever finish the three I already have going!