Jackie Lee Miles is the author of the critically acclaimed novels Roseflower Creek and Cold Rock River.  Her current project, All That’s True releases January 2011. Miles is a former Systems Engineer for Baker Audio Telecom, a forerunner in voice mail applications. When not writing she tours with the Dixie Darlin’s, four nationally published book-writing belles with a passion for promotion. Visit her website at www.jlmiles.com   Write to the author at Jackie@jlmiles.com.

 

 

  Judge Jackie Lee Miles said of Only A Game,

"This tale that weaves expertly between fantasy and reality is nicely paced, and the ending packs a punch that leaves you breathless." 

 

 

 

"Eu-ugh!"

Shara hefted the blade high above her head with two hands and brought it crashing down onto the skull of the orc before her.  The creature grunted and swayed a little, but didn't buckle.  Instead, he came at her again.  Dodging the wounded beast's retaliation, Shara took a deep breath, then raised the weapon once more, bracing herself for the impact as it shattered his armor.  This time, he did fall.  Exhausted and almost weeping with relief, Shara carefully wiped her blade on the bloodstained grass.  She sat down to rest, her strength almost spent.  It would be a while before she would be able to summon up the resources she needed to heal herself.

Contemplating the squat, wrinkled - and now, thankfully lifeless - form in front of her, Shara marvelled at her increasing strength and power.  It was her fifth such kill that day.  As she watched the corpse slowly vanish, another orc began to take shape in its place.  These creatures were like phoenixes, she thought, each one rising from the ashes of its predecessor.  Even though she'd known since she was very young that this was the way of things, she still found it a little unnerving.

Not wanting to push her luck, Shara gathered her wits and her weapons and prepared to move on.  She would head back to the elven settlement and barter her loot to replenish her dwindling food and water supplies.  On her way through the forest, she passed scores of people heading in the same direction - even at this late hour, the place was buzzing.  She approached the high, carved city gates and skipped past the guards, saluting as she went.  Moving around the ancient streets, Shara felt her stress start to dissipate.  She began to relax and enjoy the atmosphere.  This was her city, where she was known and accepted, and where she endured none of the stares and sidelong glances her elfin appearance often attracted on her visits to other towns.  Having purchased food and water for the next couple of days, Shara counted her remaining coins carefully.  Even with what she had in the vault, it wasn't quite enough for the faster, lighter weapon she coveted.  Sighing, she made her way to the ranger camp site at the edge of the main square, where she was hailed with shouts of recognition and greeting from her fellows, already seated around a roaring fire.

Sarah relaxed her grip on the mouse and looked at her watch.  Three-thirty a.m.  She had no idea where Ben was.  She hadn't seen him at all today.  He'd been fast asleep and snoring when she'd left for work that morning - hungover, judging by the smell of him - and he hadn't come home that evening.  She'd tried his cellphone several times earlier, but had given up hours ago.  Sighing, she stood up and stretched, feeling the familiar ache in her lower spine that came from hours of sitting almost motionless in front of her monitor.  She would pay for that tomorrow - or rather, later today, she thought, ruefully.  Getting up for work in a few hours' time was going to be a bear.

On the computer screen in front of her, Shara turned and raised her sword, swinging it in a practiced pattern, over and over again.  Sarah turned off the monitor and padded down the dark hallway to the bedroom.

It seemed like only moments later that her alarm went off. Dragging herself out of bed required the Herculean effort Sarah had anticipated. There was still no sign of Ben.  Chugging an iced coffee as she belted bleary-eyed down the highway, Sarah pondered the fact that the fantasy world she had inhabited for the past five days had become so much more real and immediate than the earthly one she had inhabited for the past twenty-seven years.  She would never have thought it possible that she, of all people, sane, sensible Sarah, had become so involved in something that a few weeks ago she would have regarded as "only a game".  Well, she wouldn't have, normally, would she?  It was just that it had become the only way that she and Ben could spend any time together.  And sometimes he didn't even want to do that.

Swerving into the office parking lot in a squeal of tires, Sarah flourished her permit at the security guard on duty.  He grinned and waved her through.  Thanks to the burly man's online alter ego, the two of them had an understanding.

In the corridor, the day was already in full swing.  Sarah grimaced as she almost collided with one of the Marketing girls, on her way to refill her Evian bottle at the water-cooler.  Probably been here for hours already, Sarah thought as she feinted a smile in the vague direction of the perfectly-painted face and sleeve-knotted, shoulder-slung sweater, and, panting, gained her desk.  Only twenty minutes late.  Again.

Sarah's day passed in a daze.  Some part of her brain processed emails, fixed broken links, drafted memos, fielded calls and harangued recalcitrant web designers.  The rest of it was entirely elsewhere, following her fantasy through Idlewild, the pixelated playground of her elven avatar.  It was a merciful release from the last few weeks of constantly worrying about Ben and what he might be up to.

Later that afternoon, having outlasted the rest of her coworkers by a token half-hour, Sarah raced home.  Finding the front door unlocked, she realized that Ben must be home.  She prayed that he'd be in a good mood.  Perhaps he'd even want to play tonight.  Pausing briefly to raid the otherwise empty fridge for the last Diet Coke and the fruit bowl for an overripe banana, she sprinted up the stairs to the computer room.

It was a room Sarah normally loathed.  It had always been more Ben's space than hers - the dark walls his choice, blackout blinds permanently drawn, his collection of Japanese weapons prominently displayed.  It was his space, his den, the hideaway where he'd spent the greater part of every day since he'd lost his job.  He was ostensibly applying for new positions via the Internet, but she'd realized lately that he actually spent most of his time playing computer games. She'd also realized that she should count herself lucky if he was feeling magnanimous enough to let her join him. 

"That's an hour's worth of experience down the drain," he greeted her glumly, as his on-screen avatar, Banjo, fell victim to a giant dog-man.

It had evidently been a good day.  Trying not to notice the trash can full of freshly-emptied beer cans under the desk, Sarah squeezed into the small space Ben had allotted her in the corner of the room, and heaved a sigh of relief and anticipation.  She tried not to think about the fact that Ben had probably spent the whole day playing rather than doing anything useful, like looking for a job or getting in some groceries. She decided not to quiz him on his whereabouts the previous night, and pushed the pile of unpaid bills and red reminders on the kitchen table from her mind.  Ben leaned back in his chair, drawing her close for a rare and unexpected hug while he waited for his screen to come back up.  It was an effort not to recoil from the unwashed smell of his skin, from the alcohol fumes on his breath.

Ben pointed to his screen.  "If you hurry up, you can help me take these guys out."

Shara made her way cautiously towards the tunnel, nostrils flared against the stench of rotting flesh that emanated from it.  As she entered the wide passageway, the rank, feral odor suddenly became stronger and she strained her eyes to look around her in the semi-darkness, elven ears alert to the slightest sound.  Sensing nothing, Shara moved cautiously forward into the tunnel, feeling her way until it opened out into a cavern.  Several people stood around what looked like a large, heavily-armored corpse in a corner, some wiping their blades off with leather cloths, others binding deep scratches with raw linen bandages from their backpacks.  A robed figure, obviously a healer of some kind, sat meditating against the damp wall.  None of the group appeared seriously injured.

"WATCH OUT!"  A snarling, clanking, growling blur rushed past her, heading straight for Banjo.  Shara reacted quickly, pinning the creature to the spot for a few seconds with a chanted charm and a blaze of blue sparks.  The binding spell wasn't much, but it gave her a few seconds' breathing - or sword-drawing - space.  Weapon in hand, Shara faced her aggressor - a mangy-looking canine warrior standing a good two feet taller than her, snarling and snapping at the invisible restraints that bound it to the spot, reaching out with clawed gauntlets to rake the air just inches from her face.  Dodging the razor-sharp steel talons, Shara swung her sword upwards, aiming for the gap between the creature's ill-fitting breastplate and its over-large cuisses.  She hit hard, enjoying the feeling of power it gave her as the sharp steel split the matted brown hide and opened a long gash across the beast's belly.  Enraged, the creature swiped at her, kicking out as her snaring charm wore off and its feet came free.  "GET IT! Snare it again!"  Sarah's shout was unnecessary - Banjo had already started casting, arms lifted, green sparkles pouring from his stubby hands and forming living, leafy vines that twined around the dog-man's legs from ankles to thighs, effectively rendering him immobile.  "Fantastic", she gasped, lifting the sword to hack at the creature's arm between gauntlet and vambrace.  This was more like it.  She felt strong, alive, more in control now than at any other time during her day. More, in fact, than at any time during the past few months.  She repeated the movement, taking out her frustrations on the virtual villain, relishing the knowledge that, for once, she was besting an opponent so much larger than herself.  She forgot everything except the adrenaline that fueled her, creating a kind of euphoric rage that eclipsed her everyday anxieties and turned her blood to fire.  The beast howled in pain, blood spurting from a largely severed forearm, as Shara's slicing blade found its mark again and again.  The dog-man swung out with its other arm, catching her on the side of the head with the heel of its iron hand, forged fingers cleaving her cheek.  "Argh!" Shara screamed with the pain and swung her heavy weapon again, full force this time against the animal's neck above the ill-fitting steel collar.  This time she hit the jugular, and both she and it were sprayed with hot, rank blood.  As the beast raised its remaining armored paw to its throat, its too-short breastplate rode up, leaving the vital spot below its ribs unprotected.  In one swift movement, Shara lowered her sword, then swung it forwards and upwards, running the creature through.  With a grunt almost of surprise, it crashed to the ground.

Shara grimaced as she leaned forward and grasped the hilt of her sword, still buried deep under the beast's ribs.  This was always the part she dreaded.  The killing itself wasn't hard - although she didn't exactly enjoy it, there was a certain satisfaction to be gained from ensuring that fewer of the marauding, dog-man invaders were free to terrorize her people.  The squelching, sucking sound that accompanied the removal of the jagged blade from her victim's body, however, always set her teeth on edge.  She really didn't like to get close to the corpses either - the feral stench the things gave off when they were alive was bad enough, but mixed with the smell of fear, sweat, bile and gore...  Shara shuddered and yanked the blade free.  Wiping the creature's blood off on its own fur, she stepped back, looking about her for Banjo. The little halfling always enjoyed being the one to rummage in the dead's belongings, every coin and artefact grist to his magpie mill.  She didn't mind - it was a small thing, and it made him happy. This time, however, he was nowhere to be seen.  Puzzled, Shara turned - and suddenly caught sight of him slumped against the cavern wall.

"Ben?" Sarah spoke the word out loud into the silence of the computer room from where she sat.  Except that, for some reason, she wasn't sitting. Instead, she found herself standing, braced between the desk and Ben's chair, her arms raised.  And Ben was... Sarah looked down.  Ben was slumped over, blood oozing from a wound in his chest.  Feeling suddenly sick, Sarah realized that she, too, was covered in blood.  And there was something in her left hand - something strangely familiar.  It took her a moment to realize what it was she was clutching in her clenched, upraised fist - the curved hilt of the ornamental katana from the computer room wall.

  Enjoy Nahum Finkelstein's story:

 

 

Twin calamities.  Drought, and the end of his world.

Johan Nel sighed.  He sat on the verandah beside the French windows that led into the cool of  the living room and looked over the dried out cornfields, a glass of brandy and water in his hand.  His lands stretched from the verandah to the horizon, an unbroken, parched plain covered with the withered hopes of the Spring planting; three years without rain.

It was the end of another scorching, cloudless day, a day like all the others that summer.  The wind had died down, leaving a light haze of fine dust to blur the horizon.  The sun was less intense now, as it dipped towards the line of low hills to his left. An expanding swath of yellows, oranges, and reds radiated in an arc which became more crimson, and more angry as the minutes passed.  Sundown on the veldt is raw and bloody and violent — like the country itself.

 

Johan Nel had been a large, masculine man — well over six-foot tall, muscular, athletic — and his deeply tanned skin attested to years of work in the open.  Although he was still a handsome figure, with a full head of white hair, and strong, even features, his skin was deeply furrowed and hung loose beneath his jaw and in bags below his pale blue eyes.  He appeared to have shrivelled from within, like the seared plants on his lands.  He sat in the chair thinly, brooding; there was no humour in his eyes.

 

He had watched the sun set over these fields almost every evening for the past 60 years, as had the three Nels that had preceded him.  Today he felt neither the love of the land and the pride of ownership that once had filled him, nor the deep worry of the bad years.  There had been droughts and crop failures before this one; he had known locusts and blight and hail.  But it was different this time.  He had to contend with more than the failure of a crop — the collapse of his way of life and the overthrow of the society whose conventions had moulded him — and he had to cope alone.  Now  he realised how much he had relied on the sympathetic ear and supportive voice of his Marie.

 

The evening’s silence was absolute.  No sound disturbed his thoughts.  There had always been workers on the farm, always a background of noise from their huts in the far corner, as the men came back from the fields, and the women and children prepared the meals, singing, always singing.  He had complained about the row and considered doing something about it.  Marie had laughed at him: “You can’t change the nature of those people.  Forget it.  It would just make you angry.  Let them be happy.”  He missed the hubbub now.  Few workers remained on the farm.  With no crop and the new labour regulations, he could not support them.  That’s what the Black bureaucrats and the unions had achieved in their efforts to improve the condition of the workers: the loss of their livelihood.

 

 “Stupid Kaffirs” he said out loud.  The sound of the word stopped him short.  He examined it.  Kaffir.  All his life it had been part of the vernacular.  It was the most natural way to refer to the black people.  There had been no stigma to it once.  It was just another word.  It had been used for other things as well: Kafraria was an area in the Cape Province ; the Kaffirboom was a spreading tree with shiny coral-colored seeds.  Now the word was unacceptable, even dangerous.  You had to be careful about it these days.  But not in my head! Not in my head …they can’t get into my head.  My head is still the same.  They would call him a racialist because he clung to the word, but he did not think of himself as one.  Of course, he recognized that the Blacks were different from Whites — that was obvious to all— but they were human beings, creatures of the Lord, and should be treated as such.  Had he not dealt fairly with his workers?  He had never beaten them or cursed them, as did many of his neighbours.  He had expected them to behave respectfully, and do a good days work; and he had provided them with generous rations, set aside ample space for them to build their huts and bring up their families, and had encouraged them to attend their church.

 

He noticed the bulbous brandy glass that his hand enveloped.  “Petrus!  Where are you, boy?  Get me another drink!  Can’t you see my glass is empty?”

 

“Here, my baas.  Yes, my baas,” came a voice from the deep shadow of the living room.  Petrus was sitting at the door to the kitchen on a low, rawhide-thonged stool. 

He had been gazing intently at the farmer’s head and shoulders, silhouetted against the crimson glow of the sky, as the hunting trophies on the walls of the room, and the heavy upholstered furniture were gathered into the gloom.  He too had been pondering the situation, as he had done constantly in the past weeks.   This was something new for him, to think of the big picture.  He had always accepted things the way they were. Born and brought up on the farm, he had worked as a labourer in the fields, then as a ‘house boy’, a cleaner, in the big house, and finally had become a cook under the tutelage of the Madam and the old cook.  He had enjoyed his life, on the whole, had married and seen his two sons and his daughter grow up on the farm.  There was always enough to eat, and the Missus and the Baas treated them relatively well.  He knew what his place was, and accepted it.

 

He had gotten to know the master and his wife over the years, and shared the good times and the bad.  Despite the insuperable barrier of colour and race, there was a deep intimacy and trust between them.  True, the white family’s attitude towards his own father had irked him as a boy.  He had had difficulty in reconciling the servility, with which his father behaved towards the Whites, with the respect he demanded from his own wife and children.  In time Petrus came to realize that the anomaly was part of a life that forced the black people to live in two cultures, one of which held that the Blacks were inferior and unworthy of respect.  Like most of his people he had learned to live in this demeaning role and had buried deep the hurt to his pride, and his resentment.  Not so his children.  They had grown up in changing times, and learned to read and write at the local school.  They also learned to question.  They questioned the Apartheid system, they questioned their elders, and they even questioned him, their father!  How could he take this treatment?  Why did he not stand up for himself?  Where was his pride? Why did he not leave the farm?  “Where would I go?”  he would reply. “I am used to it.  I do not notice.  You will also get used to it in time.”

 

Petrus rose to his feet, a slight wiry figure.  His short, tightly curling hair was almost completely grey, and he walked stiffly.  “Ow, these legs of mine!  They’re too old ... too old … just like you,” he said to himself with a short, grating chuckle.  He poured some van der Ryn brandy and an equal measure of iced water into a glass, and carried it over to the table beside the rocker.  He replaced the empty glass — “Here, my baas.  Your brandewyn.” — and shuffled back to his seat at the kitchen door.

 

But his sons had not got used to it.  They had left the farm after a heated argument with the master.  “Your boys have become cheeky, Petrus.  That’s what they teach them at the school.  They are troublemakers, and disturb the other workers.  I don’t want them on my farm any more.  If I see them here again, I’ll call the police; or I’ll beat them myself, with the sjambok.”

 

From then on, he had seen very little of his sons — furtive visits at long intervals.  Like last night, when they came to his hut with three others, well after dark.  His daughter, too, had left the farm for the city.  He had lost touch with her, and was frightened to think what might have happened to her, or what she was doing.  Such things could not have happened once.  These days the youth did not care about the old ideas.  Their way of living had changed, and their attitude was different.

 

Changes had also come to the land.  Mandella had been released from prison, there had been elections, and now he ruled the country — a black man! It was a wonderful thing even though Mandella was from the Xhosa tribe.  He had called for harmony between the different tribes, and with the Whites.  Petrus found it difficult to imagine such a thing.  It was said that things would be different if he voted, and he had — but life had gone on as before.

 

He continued to serve in the house.  There was less work, because the Master’s children had left, the Missus had died, as had his own wife.  There was generally only himself and the master in the big house.  They had grown up together and were comfortable with each other.  It was a quiet life and one he was used to.  He saw no need to change it.  What good would it do him at his age?   However, it looked like change would be forced on him.  They had said it must not continue — his sons and the unsmiling strangers from the city — when they slipped into his hut last night.  He must think….

 

The chimes of the clock in the entrance hall broke the silence, seven slightly dissonant, brassy strokes.  Johan Nel opened his eyes with a start.  The sun had dropped abruptly; the horizon had eaten the bottom of the fiery disc away.  He must have dozed off.  He noticed that his glass lay empty on the table at his side.   Hadn’t he ordered another brandy?  He could not remember drinking it.  A flash of anger crossed his face.

 

“Petrus!” he shouted.  “What happened to my drink?  Come on, Boy!   What are you doing?  Are you asleep? Wake up! Hurry up, move yourself, Boy.  I don't pay you to sit on your black arse.  I want that drink, and right now!”

 

The words jerked Petrus out from the depths of his thoughts.  Boy, Boy, Boy!  He recalled what the youngsters had said.  “Where is your pride?  Are you still a child, you with five grand children and your grey hair?”  Now he saw it.  They were right.  Where was the man in him?

 

“Coming, my baas. Sorry, my baas.”

 

As he repeated the familiar mantra, he rose grasping the kierie he had placed under the chair as he always did.  He had carried this wooden club, with its smooth round knob at the end of a meter-long shaft, for years, more as a sign of manhood and belonging than for defence.  In his youth, it had served him well in mock stick fights.

 

He moved soundlessly and surely towards the sitting silhouette.  There was no sign of his arthritic limp.  He stood over the figure for a second, then deliberately lifted the kierie, and brought it down on the top of the skull.  As he raised the club again with a practiced rhythm, the head turned to face him.  The wide-open eyes gave it an almost comic look of surprise, which changed to anger as the old farmer tried to rise from his chair. Petrus’ instinct was to submit — he could not look into the furious eyes — but only for a moment.  He slammed the club into Johan Nel’s temple, then twice, in quick succession, onto his right cheek, smashing it in and breaking the nose.  The man slumped to the floor.  Petrus moved swiftly around the wildly rocking chair, and landed another blow as the body came to rest.  The eyes were closed, and a rasping sound arose from the throat.  Blood oozed onto the brightly polished concrete floor.  He danced lightly and rhythmically about the prostrate figure, kierie upraised, and greeted each choking breath with another blow, until no more came.  He lowered the kierie and stood over the corpse, breathing heavily.  He spat on it, and turned away.

 

Petrus walked, slowly now and painfully, through the lounge and the kitchen, to the back door.  He opened it and threw the bloody kierie into the gloom of the back yard.  He could barely make out the shadowy figures around the trunk of the old wild -fig tree.  “There.  It is done.”

 

A shout of approval arose, “Amandla!  Amandla!”

 

Petrus retreated into the house, as the figures began to dance, chanting.

 

The memory of the day still suffused the sky over the desolate cornfield, and threw a dim light over the remains of Johan Nel.  Petrus squatted beside the body, and then gradually eased himself into a sitting position.  He pulled the shoulders and the battered head onto his lap, and began to rock back and forth.  Tears ran down his cheeks.  “My master, my master.  Aye ya-yaye ya-yaye.  Aye ya-yaye.  My master.  Sorry, my baas.  Sorry, my master.  Sorry….”

 

Suddenly, the glow left the sky.  There were no stars.