Cinders
Good Tales For Bad Dreams Book 1
by V.M. Sawh
Genre: Dark Fantasy
As
a slave in the bawdy Black House, Rella longs to escape the whips and
chains of her existence. She is chosen for a dangerous mission and
offered a chance at freedom. There is only one condition: first she
must assassinate the Prince.
Quote:
"Death by god or death by man... but never as a sister of the
Black House!"
Welcome
to Good Tales For Bad Dreams, a short-fiction series of re-imagined
fairy tales. Each story is set in a different time and place. Some
will be familiar, others will not. So, strip bare your assumptions,
open your mind and see these tales told like never before.
Please
note that this is a short-fiction piece (approx. 28 pages or 10k
words) and only a taste of things to come...
(Suggested
for Mature Readers, 17 and up)
**Only .99 cents!!**
Hontas
Good Tales For Bad Dreams Book 2
In
this rip-roaring Wild West adventure, intrepid bounty hunters
Pocahontas and John embark on a dangerous mission to stop a train run
by a sadistic, slave-driving madman.
***
“How
many?” John was panting. His adrenaline kicked in at the sound of
the shot.
“One.”
“There’ll
be more. That car’ll empty out quick.”
That
was bad. They’d be outnumbered by at least a dozen.
“Did
you do it?”
John
shifted, scouting the opposite side of the train with a glance. “Not
enough,” he pulled his own silver Colt and unslung his rifle. “This
is more than a six bullet situation.”
***
Welcome
to Good Tales For Bad Dreams, a short-fiction series of re-imagined
fairy tales. Each story is set in a different time and place. Some
will be familiar, others will not. This tale shifts the story of
Pocahontas from Colonial Times to the Wild West. So, strip bare your
assumptions, open your mind and see these tales told like never
before.
GR3T3L-1
Good Tales For Bad Dreams Book 3
When
they are stranded on the surface of a hostile alien world, two
sentient robots H4NS3L-671, the military-minded combat drone, &
GR3T3L-1, the advanced surveyor prototype, find themselves with
neither memory nor mission.
With
no resources and no one to count on but each other, the robots must
learn to work together in order to endure the brutal landscape,
unlock the mystery of their missing memories, and plan their own
rescue, all before their power runs out.
What
they don’t know is that the dangerous planet holds a terrible
secret that could ruin their chances of ever escaping alive...
This
is “Hansel & Gretel” told like never before. This is
"GR3T3L-1."
***
Welcome
to Good Tales For Bad Dreams, a short-fiction series of re-imagined
fairy tales. Each story is set in a different time and place. Some
will be familiar, others will not. So strip bare your assumptions,
open your mind, and see these tales told like never before.
Setsuko & The Seven Samurai
Good Tales For Bad Dreams Book 4
Good
Tales For Bad Dreams invites you to take a journey back to 16th
century Japan for a wicked interpretation of a classic fairy tale.
This is the story of love, honour and revenge. This is your samurai
Snow White.
Jealous
of Setsuko's beauty, the wicked geisha Izanami orchestrates the
murder of her father, the daimyo of a mountaintop castle. After an
assassination attempt leads to a coup, Setsuko suffers a catastrophic
injury and is forced to flee the only place she's ever called home
and take refuge in the woods with a group of exiled samurai.
Orphaned, abandoned, and disabled, Setsuko must learn the truth of
what it means to be a samurai, if she ever hopes to reclaim her
family's honour and take her revenge.
Welcome
to Good Tales For Bad Dreams, a short-fiction series of re-imagined
fairy tales. Each story is set in a different time and place. Some
will be familiar, others will not. So strip bare your assumptions,
open your mind, and see these tales told like never before.
Good Tales For Bad Dreams
Excerpts
CINDERS
It was quite peculiar to her at first, how the stillness enveloped her body. She watched her limbs slide through the chilled water that swallowed her flesh. Their once-powdered surfaces were cast blue by the undulating shafts of moonlight floating down from the surface. The flotsam churned along with tumbled bits of ice and mud, the only markers of her passage from the world above to the world which yawned black below. Unwinding into the light like an uncoiled serpent, a single red ribbon floated above her, from her. Her hand drifted through it, not by her own volition, causing it to cloud. It was warm. Her hair floated about her face, the long strands gently caressing her skin. She kept her eyes open, straining her pupils against the water’s icy embrace. The pillars of the moon`s reach were darkening before her. She could no longer feel the cold nor the weighted tresses of her gown though she knew it was the latter that pulled her down. As the last of the light finally gave way to encroaching darkness, she smiled.
“Anastasia! Drucilda!” The shrill pitch of an operatic performer long past her prime echoed through the dull wood slats of the stacked house. “Come here girls!”
The eavesdropper dug her fingers and toes into the brick side-walls of her hideaway in the chimney. She held her breath tightly, lest the owners of the rapid approaching footsteps discover her. The sound of the older woman’s foot tapping against the creaky floorboards filtered up from beneath the eavesdropper’s feet. Though the narrow space was cramped, its unrepentant darkness gave her solace. The soot that caked her hair and fingernails was its price. She had often suffered ridicule because of it, from the two older girls now entering the room.
“Yes Stepmother!” They answered in unison as they bounced into the room. She could hear the resignation behind their gritted fawning when they spoke, though despite her best efforts, she could never quite imitate it.
“Girls, I want you to get the house together. Today is a very big day.” The eavesdropper could almost see Stepmother caressing the black feather boa that she often wore around her neck. “We have a very special visitor today.”
“Wot kinda visitor Stepmother? Is he a pony?” the younger of the two asked, running her tongue along her teeth. A pony, as he was known to all the girls of their house, was a fledgling nobleman, one often in need of a strong but gentle ride. Of the two of them, the younger was well-preferred by many of the ponies that stopped in for a visit. Though just shy of her twentieth birthday, her enthusiastic performance had already earned her a healthy list of clients.
“Oh not at all Anastasia,” Stepmother cooed, using her bejeweled finger to lift the girl’s chin. “This one will be one of our more unique clients. One in need of our specialized services.”
HONTAS 1880, Western Wyoming
Digging her fingers into the wet mud of a nearby bank, she dragged herself from the water and collapsed face down in the mud.
Get up, the thought pulsed in the back of her mind, if you don’t, then he wins.
She didn’t have much time left. Hontas could feel the warmth running down her torso. She rose, slowly, carefully bracing herself on her knees and moved her arm to survey the damage. Her wound, though chilled by the frigid river water, had not stopped bleeding. Beneath her ripped buttoned shirt, all that remained of her left breast was an angry red flower of mutilated flesh. The missing weight of it was replaced with deep, burning pain.
Her muscles and bones ached as she got to her feet and wrapped her leather duster around herself with a wince. She trudged forward, her feet unsteady in her waterlogged riding boots.
The distant light from the dawning sun made it easier to take stock of her surroundings. The bank gave way to the shore covered with lush green grass while heavy trees hung overhead. With every brush of the wind, rainwater showered from the branches.
Moving through the trees, Hontas felt herself steadily growing weaker. Her vision blurred. She felt the soft soil beneath her opening up, yawning wide, ready to accept her fall. It would be so easy. A simple buckle of her shaky knees and it would all be over. This would be her last sunrise.
She found her way to a clearing and spotted the burnt remains of small village comprised of several torched tipis, it appeared to have been abandoned long ago. Hontas gritted her teeth as she stumbled towards the only tipi that was still intact. When she lifted the flap of the tent, the action tensed the muscles in her chest, making her groan. She was dismayed to find that the rear wall of the tipi had collapsed, exposing the back portion to the elements. As she manoeuvred carefully under the flap, she spied a small buckskin pouch under a pile of wood. She shoved the wood aside with a grunt and snatched it up. Inside Hontas found small black pear-shaped seeds. She closed her fist around them.
Peyote.
GR3T3L-
1 Year: 2136
Day 1
Turning end over end as they plummeted toward the surface of the planet, the twin metal crates blazed hot and white in the glow of the setting sun. They hit with the force of a small explosion, scattering red sand on impact. A thick cloud billowed up around them, shrouding their bulk as the metal cooled. Despite their landing, both crates were intact.
There was a metallic buzzing inside one of the containers and the screws that held its walls in place began to vibrate. One by one, they rotated out of their housing and floated slowly down to the red sand. There was a small click and the wall came loose, drifting away from its container. It hung in the air for a few seconds, floating in low gravity, before sinking to the ground.
A metal hand extended out from the open container, flexing its four fingers. The bronze coloured plates which made up the hand’s metal skin shifted in geometric patterns, revealing a fine mesh of sensors underneath. The hand rotated smoothly in every direction, taking readings and measurements of the surrounding area. It was joined by a small metal foot which sank its angled treads into the ground with a crunch, testing for stability and density. Once satisfied that the terrain was sound, the roughly humanoid body emerged. Its form was monochromatic, illuminated by a spread of small blue and yellow lights embedded along its chest, shoulders, arms, and legs. The motors in its neck whirred as it looked left and right before stepping out of the crate. A fine layer danced just above the surface, scattering as it bounced off the robot’s bronze metal skin.
Reaching down, the robot scooped a handful of red sediment up, allowing its tactile sensors to analyze the composition. The robot brought its hand close to its glassy face and watched the sand drift from its fingers.
“Curious…”
SETSUKO
Japan 1543, Kagoshima, Kyushu, Japan
The cool cast of the moon through the open window gave birth to creeping shadows that tugged at Izanami’s elegant form like a long, black cape. Padding softly into the bedroom on the balls of her bare feet, holding aloft a lit oil lamp, she let the mountain breeze part her evening robe and chill her skin; a greeting that made the fine hairs on her neck prickle. Out of habit she reached back and smoothed them into her neat, upswept bun - which yielded not a single oiled strand out of place. Her throat tightened as she laid eyes upon the lone form shrouded in blankets on the thin mattress. Setsuko…
Izanami crept closer, holding the lamp out in front of her, pouring its dim yellow glow over the younger woman’s sleeping form, and drank in all the details.
She was curled on her side, her face blank and peaceful on the soft cushion she used for a pillow. Wisps of fine, silky hair fell across her cheeks and brow, undulating over her porcelain skin like incense smoke. Her lips, flushed pink in youthful perfection, were full and plump. And striking down to shade Setsuko’s high cheekbones were long dark lashes, which fluttered like butterfly wings as she dreamed. Her slender fingers were splayed against the mattress, casting crane-wing shadows in the lamplight.
Izanami stared, unblinking at the sight. She soars, even when she sleeps. Izanami crouched down by the mattress, blocking the moonlight from the open window and creating a dark pocket between herself and the sleeping girl. She leaned down, bringing her face close to Setsuko’s, till she could feel the girl’s exhalations on her skin. Izanami opened her mouth wide and sucked it in. She let Setsuko’s breath fill her mouth and cascade into her throat before she swallowed it down. She could almost taste it - that which made this girl so beautiful. Izanami leaned closer, extending her tongue, greedy for more, when Setsuko stirred. Izanami drew back, lowering her lamp. For a few seconds, it looked as though Setsuko would wake, but instead the younger woman kicked a little before snuggling back into her pillow.
Infuriated by the interruption and for nearly being caught, Izanami’s expression darkened. She raised a hand, tipped with pointed fingernails, to touch Setsuko’s perfect face. To probe and pierce. To see if she could fracture the beautiful visage before her, even for a moment, and reveal whether Setsuko’s blood ran red. Wretched girl. You do not deserve this gift.
But she stopped herself. She caught sight of her hand. Her knuckles bloomed like skeletal roses sitting atop a garden of teal veins and white tendons, all held under a layer of translucent skin. So many flaws.
Izanami wrangled the thunderclouds brewing in her breast with chains of iron will. Not now, she thought. Not yet.
She rose and departed the room, wrapping her robe around herself as the moon cast its silver light on her back, hiding her shadows from view.
✽✽
V.M. Sawh didn't always know he was going to be a writer, but from the age of six he's been putting pen to paper, creating serialised fiction. Hailing from the humid jungles of South America, Sawh crossed oceans to arrive on Canada's snow-covered shores at age nine. He continued writing, creating serialised fiction year after year until he challenged himself to write a novel. His first trilogy of novels was completed by age sixteen. He continued writing poetry and fiction for the next decade and a half until a chance meeting with Academy Award winning director Guillermo del Toro changed everything and led to the release of Cinders, which landed at #1 on Amazon.
V.M. Sawh is a proud supporter of independent artists and authors. His Good Tales For Bad Dreams series of dark fairy tales is currently available on Amazon.
V.M. Sawh resides in Toronto, with his beloved wife and three cats. He continues to spin fairy tales that will haunt your dreams.
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