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Expedition by Aaron Dennis

Expedition By Aaron Dennis
Expedition By Aaron Dennis

King Eidon of Ilteriel learns of a new island, far to the south. He sends an expedition in search of new resources, allies, and power. Jorunhaal, Ilteriel’s greatest warrior, is to lead the expedition. Upon setting foot on the island, one disaster after another occurs. The men battle small were-wolves, fall prey to a foul sickness in the air, and uncover demons once sealed away.

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The rhythmic sound of low waves crashing onto the sand was a relaxing melody to the ears of Jorunhaal. He was a great and mighty warrior; legends of his triumph over an entire clan of Medsai, though exaggerated, stuck to him like his own shadow. He was young, yet, and taught the various weapons of Ilteriel by the finest warriors who preceded him. King Eidon placed him in charge of the team of eighteen men and women. His sole purpose was to keep the expedition safe.

A few weeks at sea brought the ship of warriors and workers to golden sands. They had arrived on the island as their king had wished. Jorunhaal methodically scanned his surroundings. The broad-shouldered and burly man saw hills in the distance, mountains stood beyond.

“Sotha, unpack the furs and linens first,” Jorunhaal ordered.

Having only just anchored the ship, he knew his fellow party members were weary, and erecting camp was of the utmost importance. Sotha, a lithe woman who bore her age well, was charged with inventory, logging discovery, and sound planning. She was tasked with returning accurate information to Eidon’s hands.

“Aye,” she replied while shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

She wore traditional clothes, heavy linens. Her hair was thick and dark. Her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence.

A warm wind caressed the backs of the party as they worked to erect tents, unload crates of supplies, and finally relax. During the hours that passed, Jorunhaal took stock of the immediate surroundings. About what I would expect, he thought. Blue waves continued crashing against golden sand. The beach before him was pristine, and the wind, heavy with salt. A few trees grew about. They had tall, straight trunks, light brown in color with a tuft of short, squat, green leaves at their tops.

Before long, night settled above the party. It was clear and many stars shone brightly over the island; prosperity seemed to be in the air. The men and women were glad to be in a new place. As they ate and drank around a large fire they conversed about what they might find, the proper steps to take, and much more.

“You think there are no men, here? No dangers,” Wilheim the mage asked in an accusatory tone.

The codger was balding and what little gray hair remained laid loosely over his shoulders. He had a hard face; years of magical practice left it worn and creased, a perpetual scowl. He continued arguing with another.

“I never said that, old man,” Durro, captain of the soldiers, replied.

Hunting by Aaron Dennis

Mr. Gray has been hunting zombies for a long time. Hiding, scavenging, killing-this is surviving now. As Gray moves from town to city, and city to prairie, he leaves a few notes for others in his travels, but who is looking out for him?

In the year 2017 a worldwide calamity befalls the population. Poison clouds cause strange afflictions relegating major portions of the populace as a sort of walking dead. Among them Mr. Gray is not affected and decides to go off hunting. Hiding, scavenging, and killing his way across the States Gray keeps sane by writing in his journal. After food and other supplies run low he moves from town to town before coming across a farmhouse.

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Mr. Gray is asleep in a storage unit. Before giving in to exhaustion, he checked it for rats and roaches. He hates roaches. They have a symbiotic relationship with some kind of worm, like the worm is piloting some biological machine; freaky.

In this day, in this age, traveling is survival. Mr. Gray has been traveling for some time. He abandoned the last town soon as supplies ran out. Supplies always run out quick. It’s a tough decision to leave when zombies are dead and there is clean water. There was no more food, though, and Mr. Gray can’t farm or hunt, but not because he is incapable.

The soil in town looked good, but there were no seeds. Even if there were seeds, they are useless. Today’s seeds are genetically modified. They can’t be replanted for harvest, so the food supply is not sustainable. Hunting is futile, too, unless one hunts zombies. Zombies don’t qualify as food. They make people get sick and die. It’s always time to move.

Many hills line the area between town, and the storage units. It’s been cold lately, and Mr. Gray stumbled across a unit with blankets. The plan was to get some rest and then check each unit for food and other supplies. He has to keep clean or run the risk of illness.

With a quiet groan, he does a full-bodied stretch. He wakes fully, turns on his LED camping lantern, and immediately starts a stretch routine to loosen his tightness. The soft, blue light illuminates the tiny room. Once the stretches are over, he wraps up his blankets and stacks them neatly in the corner. There wasn’t anything useful in the storage unit other than blankets.

With the folding done, he turns to his black backpack. From it, he pulls out extra clothing. Because of the lowering temperature, he knows it is unwise to wear all of his clothes when going to sleep, especially if it’s getting colder. The body acclimates. Sleeping while wearing everything to keep warm keeps the body from warming up by its own accord after waking. It’s best to sleep a little cold and then don the remaining clothing when getting up.

Mr. Gray Pulls out three, additional pairs of long, black socks and puts them on his feet. He pulls out his black beanie with the eye holes. He has a pair of black, leather gloves, too. Instead of slipping them on, he slips a black, wool sweater on over his black, long sleeve tee, and leaves his protective gear lying next to him.

There are a few storage bins in there, the colored plastic ones. He opens one. It’s full of pots and pans. He pees in it and closes it then goes back to his gear, rubber backed rugs sliced and diced to contour his body.

There are a few small pieces for his thighs, calves, forearms, upper arms, and one that slides over his torso. He uses a piece of wetsuit as padding in his trousers. The rubber pieces are cinched with belts through slots he cut with his knife. Like a ritual, he straps on all his gear. Next, he takes out a can of dog food.

Bon apatite. He pulls the lid and scoops the food into his mouth with his fingers and licks them clean. Now, it’s time for the gloves. Gloves are annoying. Every time you put them on you gotta’ rub something out of your eyes.

After more stretches to loosen his knees—a good hunter keeps his body in good shape—he slides on the gloves. One can’t afford injury. Health supplies are hard to find and an injury, no matter how small, can give a zombie the leg up.

Eudora by Aaron Dennis

Are we not all taught who we are supposed to be? What if who we are conflicts with who we want to be? She was taught to be Eudora, but she must be something quite different.

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Things have a funny way of working out. The irony is that no matter what one does, how hard someone tries to become something, to make something of oneself, those forces at large have a way of putting things back the way they were, the way they were meant to be. Eudora was no exception.

It was a balmy day. The sun was setting. Eudora, with her abnormally large teeth, thick rimmed black glasses, pasty white skin, stringy, black hair pulled back tightly—save the bangs; they hung loosely to either side of her face—she was not the image of beauty. Her big, blue braces moved up and down as she spoke. Maybe it was the braces, or the big, fake teeth in the front, but she spoke like her tongue was too big for her mouth.

They sat on the hood of the old, gray Cadillac, Eudora and her friends. They weren’t her friends of course, but she didn’t understand the difference. They were Charlie’s friends. He was her younger brother. They were quite a few years apart.

“You should just go ask him, Eudora”, Patty said. She was a tall, strawberry blonde with a light tan. “He’s been giving you the eye all day.”

“I can’t do that. I never even said hello to him before. He’ll just laugh at me.”

Eudora’s response was more out of knowledge and certainty than sadness. Sadness held no real meaning for her.

“Well, whatever, it’s not like he’s got anyone anyway. Larry ain’t exactly prince charmin’, is he?” Joe sniped.

He was Patty’s boyfriend, but not in the traditional way of family values. This time it was the 70’s, but before it was the 70’s it was just a dark basement with nothing to do, but scratch at the walls. People in the 70’s were a concept Eudora was unable to grasp—Eudora isn’t from this time; she isn’t from anytime, really….

Charlie was coming home from work. He was trying to make enough money over the summer to apply at the local, community college come winter. His grandfather helped him get a job at the mill, and Charlie was learning all sorts of things; how to work the lathe, the planer; he smoothed boards like it was no one’s business, but these things didn’t interest him. He, like his sister, was born in one life, but was learning to become someone else.

College was his ticket. He’d turn from a sweet, country boy to a calculating businessman, or that was the goal anyway. Unlike his sister, he was dark and fair haired. Most people never guessed they were family, except they shared their grandfather’s features; slim nose, big eyes, blue, all three of them.

Charlie pulled up in his Ford pick-up alongside the Cadillac. Dust kicked up. Joe and Patty covered their eyes and patted themselves off. Not Eudora, maybe it was her glasses, maybe it was something else; she never made an effort to dust herself off either. She just looked at her brother. Her oversized pearly whites and blue braces showed as she grinned.

“Hello Charlie,” she spoke with that chunky tongue.

“Heya’, Dora,” he replied and smiled back. “I saw Larry leaving. Did you say hello?”

“No, Charlie, maybe I see him tomorrow.”

“Well,” he was pensive. “Maybe we should have him over for dinner tomorrow. You and Gramps can whip up something nice.”