Pulled Molars

Blog of current wish-he-were, will-soon-be author, Boyd A. Harrod.

The Credoroium (flash fiction)

I slammed my hand down flat on the page. The Credoroium responded with a sizzle, its pages corroding, some kind of flame shooting out from the tips of my fingers reducing the paper to ash. The walls of the tomb shouted, thunder clapped about my ears causing them to pop before deafening the sound. I slumped as the bones of my spine pushed themselves apart as though wedged by opposing magnetic slates. All my energy was being syphoned by the book and was taken with the ash as it floated towards a hollow point in the ceiling.

The patterns inside the empty funnel sparkled, for every piece of ash sucked up through it an ember twirled down and flew around the room. I remembered Hudson telling me that the book would ask I touch it and no matter what I was not to oblige. But it had beckoned me, convinced me that through nothing more than the wander of my palm I would be given my dreams and more and I whispered back to it ‘Anything.’

Imagine Hudson’s face if he stood beside me. There, a gleam in his eye, his worry about the Credoroium’s power and my complacency forfilled. No doubt, he would try to wash it away with premeditated concern to no avail. I would be scorned at, at times he might run out of things to yell at me, struggling between sounding fearful on my behalf and jeering at my dismay. If I’ve never seen Hudson terrified, I surely would have now. If he were here.

But I was alone in the tomb with Credoroium pulling the life out of me, surrounding me with it in some kind of automated ritual.

My eyes sunk in, my cheeks thinned. I felt the horror of my face as the muscle deteriorated and my skull fanned out from behind my skin. Thankful to have not been able to see myself in such a state, soon, to my horror, my arms followed suit. They became thin, too, and it frightened me greatly to see every bone in my hand and forearm, every vein, nerve, and the space between where there was once pockets of flesh.

It took all that was left of me to tear away.

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101, 101

It’s 1:01 AM when it occurs to me I must be tired, because I have totally just noticed those numbers are a palindrome, and I’ve told myself time and time again that one shouldn’t make palindromes from digital clocks. That would make for fifty-seven palindromes per day (sixty-five if you’re the military type), and I think we could all agree that’s far too many to be watching out for.

A palindromist that excessive, obsessive, would never get anything done. Frightened to miss the next turn of the clock, presumably beading with sweat (or shouting some nonsense about Scheherazade).

I know I have to stop watching the clock when it displays 1:11. Did I really just wait for those consecutive Ones? I should get something done. A primary blog post, perhaps. To introduce myself.

(Arbitrary, really).

My name is Boyd A. Harrod, and I just didn’t want to leave this space blank. I’m an aspiring writer of mostly science and speculative fiction. I live in Brisbane, Australia.  As of 1:21, the day of this post, I am twenty-three years old.

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