Podcasts | These Fantastic Worlds

Quick journey? Need a short respite from the everyday? Take a listen to stories from the far future to the distant past, with gothic landscapes, dystopia, dark fantasy, myths and space opera, pure science fiction and fantasy. These Fantastic Worlds features new weekly short stories by Jake Jackson.

110 - Norse Myths 10 - Ragnarok 01/11/2022

110 - Norse Myths 10 - Ragnarok The tenth of Ten Norse Myths. Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods, the destruction of the worlds, the dramatic death duel of light and dark... Ragnarok. The end of the world had been prophesied from its beginning, and everyone across the world knew what to expect when Ragnarok fell upon them. For Ragnarok was the twilight of the gods, an end to the golden years of Asgard, an end to the palaces of delight, an end to the timeless world where nothing could interfere. It was the death of Balder that set the stage for the end of the world, and it was Loki’s crimes which laid in place the main characters. And when the events had begun, there was no stopping it. When evil entered Asgard, it tainted all nine worlds. Sol and Mani, high in the sky, paled with fright, and their chariots slowed as they moved with effort across the sky. They knew that the fierce, dark wolves, Hati and Skull would be soon upon them and that it would be only a matter of time before eternal darkness would fall once again. Sol and Mani were indeed devoured by their dread pursuers, there was no light to shine on the earth, and the terrible cold crept into the warm reaches of summer and drew from the soil all that was growing there. Snow began to drift down upon the freezing land, and soon it snowed a little faster, and a little harder, until the earth was covered once again in a dark layer of ice. Winter was upon them, and it did not cease. For three long, frozen seasons, it was winter, and then, after a thaw that melted only one single layer of ice, it was back for three more. With the cold and the darkness came evil, which rooted itself in the hearts of humankind. Soon crime was rampant, and all shreds of kindness disappeared with the spring. At last, the stars were flung from the skies, causing the earth to tremble and shake. Loki and Fenris were freed from their manacles, and together they moved forward to wreak their revenge on the gods and men who had bound them so cruelly. At the bottom of Yggdrasill, there was a groan that emanated the entire length of the tree, for at that moment, Nithog had gnawed through the root of the world tree, which quivered and shook from bottom to top. Fialar, the red cock who made his home above Valhalla shrieked out his cry, and then flew away from the tree as his call was echoed by Gullinkambi, the rooster in Midgard. Heimdall knew at once what was upon them, and raising his mighty horn to his lips he blew the call that filled the hearts of all gods and humankind with terror. "Ragnarok." "Ragnarok." "Ragnarok." The gods sprang from their beds, and thrust aside the finery that hung in their chambers. They armed themselves and mounted their horses, ready for the war that had been expected since the beginning of time. They moved quickly over the rainbow bridge and then they reached the field of Vigrid, where the last battle would be fought. The turmoil on earth caused the seas to toss and twist with waves, and soon the world serpent Jormungander was woken from his deep sleep. The movement of the seas yanked his tail from his mouth, and it lashed around, sending waves crashing in every direction. And as he crawled out upon land for the first time, a tidal wave swelled across the earth, and set afloat Nagilfar, the ship of the dead, constructed as it was from the nails of the dead. Such nails came from those whose relatives had failed in their sacred duties, and neglected to pare the nails of the deceased when they were laid to rest. As the wind caught the blackened sail, Loki leapt aboard, and took her wheel – the ship of the undead captained by the personification of all evil. Loki called upon the fire-gods from Muspell, and they arrived in a conflagration of terrible glory. Another ship had set out for Vigrid, and this was steered by Hrym and crewed by the frost-giants who had waited through the millennia for this battle. Across the raging sea, both vessels made for the battlefield. As they travelled, Hel, crept from her underground estate, bringing with her Nithog, and the hellhound Garm. From up above, there was a great crack, and Surtr, with sword blazing, leapt with his sons to the Bifrost bridge, and with one swoop they felled it, and sent the shimmering rainbow crashing to the depths below. Quickly, Odin escaped from the battlefield, and slipped one last time to the Urdar fountain, where the Norns sat quietly, accepting their fate. He leant over Mimir, and requested her wisdom, but for once the head would not talk to him, and he remounted Sleipnir and returned to the field, frightened and aware that he had no powers left with which to defend his people. The opposing armies lined themselves on the field of Vigrid. On one side were the Aesir, the Vanir and the Einheriear – on the other, were the fire-giants led by Surtr, the frost-giants, the undead with Hel, and Loki with his children – Fenris and Jormungander. The air was filled with poison and the stench of evil from the opposing army, yet the gods held up their heads and prepared for a battle to end all time. And so it was that the ancient enemies came to blows. Odin first met with the evil Fenris, and as he charged towards the fierce wolf, Fenris’s massive jaws stretched open and Odin was flung deep into the red throat. Thor stopped in his tracks, the death of his father burning deep in his breast, and with renewed fury he lunged at the world serpent, engaging in a combat that would last for many hours. His hammer laid blow after blow on the serpent, and at last there was silence. Thor sat back in exhaustion, Jormungander dying at his side. But as Thor made to move forward, to carry on and support his kin in further battles, the massive serpent exhaled one last time, in a cloud of poison so vile that Thor fell at once, lifeless in the mist of the serpent’s breath. Tyr fought bravely with just one arm, but he, like his father, was swallowed whole, by the hellhound Garm, but as he passed through the gullet of the hound he struck out one last blow with his sword and pierced the heart of his enemy, dying in the knowledge that he had fulfilled his role in destiny. Heimdall met Loki hand to hand, and the supreme forces of good and evil engaged in the battle that had been raging for all Time. Their flames engulfed one another, on and on they fought, striking and hefting, matching each other blow for blow until a crescendo of light burst across the skies. And fell to silence. Heimdall and Loki were no more. The silent Vidar, Odin’s son and God of Justice, came rushing from a distant part of the plain to avenge the death of his father, and he laid upon the jaw of Fenris a shoe which had been created for this day. With his arms and legs in motion he tore the wolf’s head from his body, and then lay back in a pool of blood. Of all the gods, only Frey was left fighting. He battled valiantly, and as he laid down giant after giant, he felt a warmth on the back of his neck that meant only one thing. The heat burned and sizzled his skin, and as he turned he found himself face to face with Surtr. With a cry of rage that howled through the torn land, and shook the massive stem of the world ash, Yggdrasill, Surtr flung down bolts of fire that engulfed the golden palaces of the gods, and each of the worlds which lay beneath it. The heat caused the seas to bubble and to boil, and there came at once a wreath of smoke that engulfed the fire, and then, obliterated the nine worlds. At last all was as it had been in the beginning. There was blackness. There was chaos. There was a nothingness that stretched as far as there was space. The End of the World The earth was purged by the fire and there was at once a new beginning. The sun rose in the sky, mounted on a chariot driven by the daughter of Sol, born before the wolf had eaten her father and her mother. Fresh green grass sprung up in the crevices, and flowers and fruits burst forth. Two new humans, Lif, a woman, and Lifthrasir, a man, emerged from Mimir’s forest, where they had been reincarnated at the end of the world. Vali and Vidar, the forces of natural law and nature had survived the fiery battle, and they returned to the plain to be greeted by Thor’s sons, Modi and Magni, who carried with them their father’s hammer. The Vanir, ancient rivals to the Aesir of Odin’s family of Gods, had vanished forever, releasing Hoenir who had been held hostage for millennia underground. And from the deepest depths of the earth came Balder, renewed and as pure as he had ever been. Hodur rose with him, and the two brothers embraced, and greeted the new day. And so this small group of gods turned to face the scenes of destruction and devastation, and to witness the new life that was already curling up from the cloak of death and darkness. The land had become a refuge for the good. They looked up – they all looked all way up – and there in front of them, stronger than ever was the world ash, Yggdrasill, which had trembled but not fallen. There was a civilization to be created, and a small band of gods with whom it could be done. The gods had returned blinking into the light – a light as pure and virtuous as the new inhabitants of the earth – and in that light they gathered forth our own world. End of the ten Norse Myths The next ten tales are stories from Indian Mythology The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost The Seventh myth covers the story of the The Eighth story tells of The Ninth tale is of Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2022 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21735470

109 - Norse Myths 09 - The Death of Baldur 01/04/2022

109 - Norse Myths 09 - The Death of Baldur The ninth Norse Myth of ten, brings us to the death of Baldur, one of the most famous laments of Viking legend... The Death of Baldur. To Odin and Frigga were born twin sons as dissimilar in character and physical appearance as it was possible for two children to be. Hodur, god of darkness, was sombre, taciturn, and blind, like the obscurity of sin, which he was supposed to symbolise, while his brother Baldur, the beautiful, was worshipped as the pure and radiant god of innocence and light. From his snowy brow and golden locks seemed to radiate beams of sunshine which gladdened the hearts of gods and men, by whom he was equally beloved. Each life that he touched glowed with goodness, and he was loved by all who knew him. Baldur tended to his twin brother Hodur with every kindness and consideration. Hodur worshipped Baldur, and would do nothing in his power to harm him. The youthful Baldur attained his full growth with marvellous rapidity, and was early admitted to the council of the gods. He took up his abode in the palace of Breidablik, whose silver roof rested upon golden pillars, and whose purity was such that nothing common or unclean was ever allowed within its precincts, and here he lived in perfect unity with his young wife Nanna (blossom), the daughter of Nip (bud), a beautiful and charming goddess. The god of light was well versed in the science of runes, which were carved on his tongue; he knew the various virtues of simples, one of which, the camomile, was called “Baldur’s brow,” because its flower was as immaculately pure as his forehead. The only thing hidden from Baldur’s radiant eyes was the perception of his own ultimate fate. There came a morning when Baldur woke with the dawn, his face tightened with fear and foresight. He had dreamed of his own death and he lay there petrified, aware, somehow, that the strength of this dream forecasted sinister things to come. So Baldur travelled to see Odin, who listened carefully, and knew at once that the fears of his son were justified – for in his shining eyes there was no longer simply innocence; there was knowledge as well. Odin went at once to his throne at the top of Yggdrasill, and he prayed there for a vision to come to him. At once he saw the head of Vala the Seer come to him, and he knew he must travel to Hel’s kingdom, to visit Vala’s grave. Only then would he learn the truth of his favourite son’s fate. It was many long days before Odin reached the innermost graves on Hel’s estate. He moved quietly so that Hel would not know of his coming, and he was disregarded by most of the workers in her lands, for they were intent on some celebrations, and were preparing the hall for the arrival of an esteemed guest. At last the mound of Vala’s grave appeared, and he sat there on it, keeping his head low so that the prophetess would not catch a glimpse of his face. Vala was a seer of all things future, and all things past; there was nothing that escaped her bright eyes, and she could be called upon only by the magic of the runes to tell of her knowledge. The grave was wreathed in shadows, and a mist hung uneasily over the tombstone. There was silence as Odin whispered to Vala to come forth, and then, at once, there was a grating and steaming that poured forth an odour that caused even the all-powerful Odin to gag and spit. ‘Who disturbs me from my sleep,’ said Vala with venom. Odin thought carefully before replying. He did not wish her to know that he was Odin, king of gods and men, for she may not wish to tell him of a future that would touch on his own. And so he responded: ‘I am Vegtam, son of Valtam, and I wish to learn of the fate of Baldur.’ ‘Baldur’s brother will slay him,’ said Vala, and with that she withdrew into her grave. Odin leapt up and cried out, ‘With the power of the runes, you must tell me more. Tell me, Vala, which esteemed guest does Hel prepare for?’ ‘Baldur,’ she muttered from the depths of her grave, ‘and I will say no more.’ Odin shook his head with concern. He could not see how it could be possible that Baldur’s brother would take his life; Baldur and Hodur were the closest of brothers, and shared the same thoughts and indeed speech for much of the time. He returned to Asgard with his concerns still intact, and he discussed them there with Frigga, who listened carefully. ‘I have a plan,’ she announced, ‘and I am certain you will agree that this is the best course of action for us all. I plan to travel through all nine lands, and I will seek the pledge of every living creature, every plant, every metal and stone, not to harm Baldur.’ And Frigga was as good as her word, for on the morrow she set out and travelled far and wide, everywhere she went extracting with ease the promise of every living creature, and inanimate object, to love Baldur, and to see that he was not injured in any way. And so it was that Baldur was immune to injury of any kind, and it became a game among the children of Asgard to aim their spears and arrows at him, and laugh as they bounced off, leaving him unharmed. Baldur was adored throughout the worlds, and there was no one who did not smile when he spied him. No one, that is except Loki, whose jealousy of Baldur had reached an unbearable pitch. Each night he ruminated over the ways in which he could murder Baldur, but he could think of none. Frigga had taken care to involve all possible dangers in her oath, and there was nothing now that would hurt him. But the scheming Loki was not unwise, and he soon came up with a plan. Transforming himself into a beggarwoman, he knocked on Frigga’s door and requested a meal. Frigga was pleased to offer her hospitality, and she sat down to keep the beggar company as she ate. Loki, in his disguise, chattered on about the handsome Baldur, who he’d seen in the hall, and he mentioned his fears that Baldur would be killed by one of the spears and arrows he had seen hurled at him. Frigga laughed, and explained that Baldur was now invincible. ‘Did everything swear an oath to you then?’ asked Loki slyly. ‘Oh, yes,’ said Frigga, but then she paused, ‘all, that is, except for a funny little plant which was growing at the base of the oak tree at Valhalla. Why I’d never before set eyes on such a little shoot of greenery and it was far too immature to swear to anything so important as my oath.’ ‘What’s it called?’ asked Loki again. ‘Hmmm,’ said Frigga, still unaware of the dangers her information might invoke, ‘mistletoe. Yes, mistletoe.’ Loki thanked Frigga hastily for his meal, and left her palace, transforming at once into his mischievous self, and travelled to Valhalla as quickly as his feet would take him. He carefully plucked the budding mistletoe, and returned to Odin’s hall, where Baldur played with the younger gods and goddesses, as they shot him unsuccessfully with arms of every shape and size. Hodur was standing frowning in the corner, and Loki whispered for him to come over. ‘What is it, Hodur,’ he asked. ‘Nothing, really, just that I cannot join their games,’ said Hodur quietly. ‘Come with me,’ said Loki, ‘for I can help.’ And leading Hodur to a position close to Baldur, he placed in his hands a bow and arrow fashioned from the fleetest of fabrics. To the end of the arrow, he tied a small leaf of mistletoe, and topped the razor-sharp tip with a plump white berry. ‘Now, shoot now,’ he cried to Hodur, who pulled back the bow and let the arrow soar towards its target. There was a sharp gasp, and then there was silence. Hodur shook his head with surprise – where were the happy shouts, where was the laughter telling him that his own arrow had hit its mark and failed to harm the victim? The silence spoke volumes, for Baldur lay dead in a circle of admirers as pale and frightened as if they had seen Hel herself. The agony spread across Asgard like a great wave. When it was discovered who had shot the fatal blow, Hodur was sent far from his family, and left alone in the wilderness. He had not yet had a moment to utter the name of the god who had encouraged him to perpetrate this grave crime, and his misery kept him silent. Frigga was disconsolate with grief. She begged Hermod, the swiftest of her sons, to set out at once for Filheim, to beg Hel to release Baldur. And so he climbed upon Odin’s finest steed, Sleipnir, and set out for the nine worlds of Hel, a task so fearsome that he shook uncontrollably. In Asgard, Frigga and Odin carried their son’s body to the sea, where a funeral pyre was created and lit. Nanna, Baldur’s wife, could bear it no longer, and before the pyre was set out on the tempestuous sea, she threw herself on the flames, and perished there with her only love. As a token of their great affection and esteem, the gods offered, one by one, their most prized possessions and laid them on the pyre as it set out for the wild seas. Odin produced his magic ring Draupnir, and the greatest gods of Asgard gathered to see the passing of Baldur. And so the blazing ship left the shore, will full sail set. And then darkness swallowed it, and Baldur had gone. Throughout this time, Hermod had been travelling at great speed towards Hel. He rode for nine days and nine nights, and never took a moment to sleep. He galloped on and on, bribing the watchman of each gate to let him past, and invoking the name of Baldur as the reason for his journey. At last, he reached the hall of Hel, where he found Baldur sitting easily with Nanna, in great comfort and looking quite content. Hel stood by his side, keeping a close watch on her newest visitor. She looked up at Hermod with disdain, for everyone knew that once a spirit had reached Hel it could not be released. But Hermod fell on one knee and begged the icy mistress to reconsider her hold over Baldur. ‘Please, Queen Hel, without Baldur we cannot survive. There can be no future for Asgard without his presence,’ he cried. But Hel would not be moved. She held out for three days and three nights, while Hermod stayed right by her side, begging and pleading and offering every conceivable reason why Baldur should be released. And finally the Queen of darkness gave in. ‘Return at once to Asgard,’ she said harshly, ‘and if what you say is true, if everything – living and inanimate – in Asgard loves Baldur and cannot live without him, then he will be released. But if there is even one dissenter, if there is even one stone in your land who does not mourn the passing of Baldur, then he shall remain here with me.’ Hermod was gladdened by this news, for he knew that everyone – including Hodur who had sent the fatal arrow flying through the air – loved Baldur. He agreed to these terms at once, and set off for Asgard, relaying himself and his news with speed that astonished all who saw him arrive. Immediately, Odin sent messengers to all corners of the universe, asking for tears to be shed for Baldur. And as they travelled, everyone and everything began to weep, until a torrent of water rushed across the tree of life. And after everyone had been approached, and each had shed his tears, the messengers made their way back to Odin’s palace with glee. Baldur would be released, there could be no doubt! But it was not to be, for as the last messenger travelled back to the palace, he noticed the form of an old beggar, hidden in the darkness of a cave. He approached her then, and bid her to cry for Baldur, but she did not. Her eyes remained dry. The uproar was carried across to the palace, and Odin himself came to see ‘dry eyes’, whose inability to shed tears would cost him the life of his son. He stared into those eyes and he saw then what the messenger had failed to see, what Frigga had failed to see, and what had truly caused the death of Baldur. For those eyes belonged to none other than Loki, and it was he who had murdered Baldur as surely as if the arrow had left his own hands. The sacred code of Asgard had been broken, for blood had been spilled by one of their own, in their own land. The end of the world was nigh – but first, Loki would be punished once and for all. The next story tells of Ragnarok The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost The Seventh myth covers the story of the The Eighth story tells of Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2022 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21666848

108 - Norse Myths 08 - The Story of the Volsungs 12/28/2021

108 - Norse Myths 08 - The Story of the Volsungs This eighth Norse Myth of ten, tells of the dynasty of the Volsungs, the heroes of the North, the family of Sigurd, Sigmund and Sigi, born of Odin... The Heroes of the Volsungs. The story of the Volsungs begins with Sigi, a son of Odin, a powerful man, and generally respected, until he killed another man out of jealousy, the latter having slain more game when they were out hunting together. In consequence of this crime, Sigi was driven from his own land and declared an outlaw. But it seems that he had not entirely forfeited Odin’s favour, for the god now provided him with a well-equipped vessel, together with a number of brave followers, and promised that victory should ever attend him. Thus aided by Odin, the raids of Sigi became a terror to his foes, and in the end he won the glorious empire of the Huns and for many years reigned as a powerful monarch. But in extreme old age his fortune changed, Odin forsook him, his wife’s kindred fell upon him, and he was slain in a treacherous encounter. His death was soon avenged, however, for Rerir, his son, returning from an expedition upon which he had been absent from the land at the time, put the murderers to death as his first act upon mounting the throne. The rule of Rerir was marked by every sign of prosperity, but his dearest wish, a son to succeed him, remained unfulfilled for many a year. Finally, however, Frigga decided to grant his constant prayer, and to vouchsafe the heir he longed for. She accordingly despatched her swift messenger Gna, or Liod, with a miraculous apple, which she dropped into his lap as he was sitting alone on the hillside. Glancing upward, Rerir recognised the emissary of the goddess, and joyfully hastened home to partake of the apple with his wife. The child who in due time was born under these favourable auspices was a handsome little lad. His parents called him Volsung, and while he was still a mere infant they both died, and the child became ruler of the land. Years passed and Volsung’s wealth and power ever increased. He was the boldest leader, and rallied many brave warriors around him. Often they drank his mead underneath the Branstock, a mighty oak, which, rising in the middle of his hall, pierced the roof and overshadowed the whole house. Ten stalwart sons were born to Volsung, and one daughter, Signy, came to brighten his home. So lovely was this maiden that when she reached marriageable age many suitors asked for her hand, among whom was Siggeir, King of the Goths, who finally obtained Volsung’s consent, although Signy had never seen him. When the wedding-day came, and the bride beheld her destined husband she shrank in dismay, for his puny form and lowering glances contrasted sadly with her brothers’ sturdy frames and open faces. But it was too late to withdraw—the family honour was at stake—and Signy so successfully concealed her dislike that none save her twin brother Sigmund suspected with what reluctance she became Siggeir’s wife. While the wedding feast was in progress, and when the merry-making was at its height, the entrance to the hall was suddenly darkened by the tall form of a one-eyed man, closely enveloped in a mantle of cloudy blue. Without vouchsafing word or glance to any in the assembly, the stranger strode to the Branstock and thrust a glittering sword up to the hilt in its great bole. Then, turning slowly round, he faced the awe-struck and silent assembly, and declared that the weapon would be for the warrior who could pull it out of its oaken sheath, and that it would assure him victory in every battle. The words ended, he then passed out as he had entered, and disappeared, leaving a conviction in the minds of all that Odin, king of the gods, had been in their midst. Volsung was the first to recover the power of speech, and, waiving his own right first to essay the feat, he invited Siggeir to make the first attempt to draw the divine weapon out of the tree-trunk. The bridegroom anxiously tugged and strained, but the sword remained firmly embedded in the oak and he resumed his seat, with an air of chagrin. Then Volsung tried, with the same result. The weapon was evidently not intended for either of them, and the young Volsung princes were next invited to try their strength. The nine eldest sons were equally unsuccessful; but when Sigmund, the tenth and youngest, laid his firm young hand upon the hilt, the sword yielded easily to his touch, and he triumphantly drew it out as though it had merely been sheathed in its scabbard. Nearly all present were gratified at the success of the young prince; but Siggeir’s heart was filled with envy, and he coveted possession of the weapon. He offered to purchase it from his young brother-in-law, but Sigmund refused to part with it at any price, declaring that it was clear that the weapon had been intended for him to wear. This refusal so offended Siggeir that he secretly resolved to exterminate the proud Volsungs, and to secure the divine sword to indulge his hatred towards his new kinsmen. Concealing his bitterness, however, he turned to Volsung and cordially invited him to visit his court a month later, together with his sons and kinsmen. The invitation was immediately accepted, and although Signy, suspecting evil, secretly sought her father while her husband slept, and implored him to retract his promise and stay at home, he would not consent to withdraw his solemn word. Siggeir’s Treachery A few weeks after the return of the bridal couple, therefore, Volsung’s well-manned vessels arrived within sight of Siggeir’s shores. Signy had been keeping anxious watch, and when she perceived them she hastened down to the beach to implore her kinsmen not to land, warning them that her husband had planned a treacherous ambush, from which they could not escape alive. But Volsung and his sons, whom no peril could daunt, calmly bade her return to her husband’s palace, and donning their arms they boldly set foot ashore. It befell as Signy had foretold, for on their way to the palace the brave troop fell into Siggeir’s ambush, and, although they fought with heroic courage, they were so borne down by the superior number of their foes that Volsung was slain and all his sons were made captive. The young men were led bound into the presence of the cowardly Siggeir, who had taken no part in the fight, and Sigmund was forced to relinquish his precious sword, after which he and his brothers were condemned to death. Signy, hearing the cruel sentence, vainly interceded for her brothers: all she could obtain by her prayers and entreaties was that they should be chained to a fallen oak in the forest, to perish of hunger and thirst if the wild beasts should spare them. Then, lest she should visit and succour her brothers, Siggeir confined his wife in the palace, where she was closely guarded night and day. Every morning early Siggeir himself sent a messenger into the forest to see whether the Volsungs were still living, and every morning the man returned saying a monster had come during the night and had devoured one of the princes, leaving nothing but his bones. At last, when none but Sigmund remained alive, Signy thought of a plan, and she prevailed on one of her servants to carry some honey into the forest and smear it over her brother’s face and mouth. When the wild beast came that night, attracted by the smell of the honey, it licked Sigmund’s face, and even thrust its tongue into his mouth. Clinching his teeth upon it, Sigmund, weak and wounded as he was, held on to the animal, and in its frantic struggles his bonds gave way, and he succeeded in slaying the prowling beast who had devoured his brothers. Then he vanished into the forest, where he remained concealed until the king’s messenger had come as usual, and until Signy, released from captivity, came speeding to the forest to weep over her kinsmen’s remains. Seeing her intense grief, and knowing that she had not participated in Siggeir’s cruelty, Sigmund stole out of his place of concealment and comforted her as best he could. Together they then buried the whitening bones, and Sigmund registered a solemn oath to avenge his family’s wrongs. This vow was fully approved by Signy, who, however, bade her brother bide a favourable time, promising to send him aid. Then the brother and sister sadly parted, she to return to her distasteful palace home, and he to a remote part of the forest, where he built a tiny hut and plied the craft of a smith. Siggeir now took possession of the Volsung kingdom, and during the next few years he proudly watched the growth of his eldest son, whom Signy secretly sent to her brother when he was ten years of age, that Sigmund might train up the child to help him to obtain vengeance if he should prove worthy. Sigmund reluctantly accepted the charge; but as soon as he had tested the boy he found him deficient in physical courage, so he either sent him back to his mother. Some time after this Signy’s second son was sent into the forest for the same purpose, but Sigmund found him equally lacking in courage. Evidently none but a pure-blooded Volsung would avail for the grim work of revenge, and Signy, realising this, resolved to commit a crime. Her resolution taken, she summoned a beautiful young witch, and exchanging forms with her, she sought the depths of the dark forest and took shelter in Sigmund’s hut. The Volsung did not penetrate his sister’s disguise. He deemed her nought but the gypsy she seemed, and being soon won by her charms, he made her his wife. Three days later she disappeared from the hut, and, returning to the palace, she resumed her own form, and when she next gave birth to a son, she rejoiced to see in his bold glance and strong frame the promise of a true Volsung hero. The next story tells of the Death of Baldur. The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost The Seventh myth covers the story of the Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21615254

107 - Norse Myths 07 - The Sword of Tyr 12/21/2021

107 - Norse Myths 07 - The Sword of Tyr In this, the seventh Norse Myth of ten, the mighty sword of the Viking God Tyr grants victory and death in equal measure across great empires... Tyr’s Sword Carves Destiny and Victory. Tyr, Tiu, or Ziu was the son of Odin, and, according to different storytellers, his mother was Frigga, queen of the gods, or a beautiful giantess whose name is unknown, but who was a personification of the raging sea. He is the god of martial honour, and one of the twelve principal deities of Asgard. Although he appears to have had no special dwelling there, he was always welcome to Vingolf or Valhalla, and occupied one of the twelve thrones in the great council hall of Glads-heim. Tyr, whose name was synonymous with bravery and wisdom, was also considered by the ancient Northern folk to have the white-armed Valkyrs, Odin’s attendants, at his command, and they thought that he it was who designated the warriors whom they should be transferred to Valhalla to aid the gods on the last day, the end of the world, Ragnarök. *** As the God of courage and of war, Tyr was frequently invoked by the various nations of the North, who cried to him, as well as to Odin, to obtain victory. That he ranked next to Odin and Thor is proved by his name, Tiu, having been given to one of the days of the week, Tiu’s day, which in modern English has become Tuesday. Under the name of Ziu, Tyr was the principal divinity of the Suabians in the first century region of the Upper Rhine and Danube, who originally called their capital, the modern Augsburg in Bavaria, Ziusburg. These people, venerating the god as they did, worshipped him under the emblem of a sword, his distinctive attribute, and in his honour held great sword dances, where various figures were performed. Sometimes the participants forming two long lines, crossed their swords, point upward, and challenged the boldest among their number to take a flying leap over them. At other times the warriors joined their sword points closely together in the shape of a rose or wheel, and when this figure was complete invited their chief to stand on the navel thus formed of flat, shining steel blades, and then they bore him upon it through the camp in triumph. The sword point was further considered so sacred that it became customary to register oaths upon it. A distinctive feature of the worship of this god among the Franks and some other Northern nations was that the priests called Druids or Godi offered up human sacrifices upon his altars, these sacrifices were made upon rude stone altars called dolmens, which can still be seen in Northern Europe and parts of the British Isle. As Tyr was considered the patron god of the sword, it was deemed indispensable to engrave the sign or rune representing him upon the blade of every sword—an observance of which was said to be essential to those who were destined to be victorious. Tyr was identical with the Saxon god Saxnot (from sax, a sword), and with Er, Heru, or Cheru, the chief divinity of the Cheruski one of the early Germanic tribes, who also considered him to be a god of the sun, and deemed his shining sword blade an emblem of its rays. According to an ancient legend, Cheru’s sword, which had been fashioned by the same dwarfs, sons of Ivald, who had also made Odin’s spear, was held sacred by his people, to whose care he had entrusted it, declaring that those who possessed it were sure to have the victory over their foes. But although carefully guarded in the temple, where it was hung so that it reflected the first beams of the morning sun, it suddenly and mysteriously disappeared one night. A Vala, druidess, or prophetess, consulted by the priests, revealed that the Norns had decreed that whoever wielded it would conquer the world and come to his death by it; but in spite of all entreaties she refused to tell who had taken it or where it might be found. Some time after this, a tall and dignified stranger came to Cologne, where Vitellius, the Roman prefect, was feasting, and called him away from his beloved dainties. In the presence of the Roman soldiery he gave him the sword, telling him it would bring him glory and renown, and finally hailed him as emperor. The cry was taken up by the assembled legions, and Vitellius, without making any personal effort to secure the honour, found himself elected Emperor of Rome. The new ruler, however, was so absorbed in indulging his taste for food and drink that he paid but little heed to the divine weapon. One day while leisurely making his way towards Rome he carelessly left it hanging in the antechamber to his pavilion. A German soldier seized this opportunity to substitute in its stead his own rusty blade, and the besotted emperor did not notice the exchange. When he arrived at Rome, he learned that the Eastern legions had named Vespasian emperor, and that he was even then on his way home to claim the throne. Searching for the sacred weapon to defend his rights, Vitellius now discovered the theft, and, overcome by superstitious fears, did not even attempt to fight. He crawled away into a dark corner of his palace, whence he was ignominiously dragged by the enraged populace to the foot of the Capitoline Hill. There the prophecy was duly fulfilled, for the German soldier, who had joined the opposite faction, coming along at that moment, cut off Vitellius’ head with the sacred sword. The German soldier now changed from one legion to another, and travelled over many lands; but wherever he and his sword were found, victory was assured. After winning great honour and distinction, this man, having grown old, retired from active service to the banks of the Danube, where he secretly buried his treasured weapon, building his hut over its resting-place to guard it as long as he might live. When he lay on his deathbed he was implored to reveal where he had hidden it, but he persistently refused to do so, saying that it would be found by the man who was destined to conquer the world, but that he would not be able to escape the curse. Years passed by. Wave after wave the tide of barbarian invasion swept over that part of the country, and last of all came the fiercesome Huns under the leadership of Attila, the “Scourge of God.” As he passed along the river, he saw a peasant mournfully examining his cow’s foot, which had been wounded by some sharp instrument hidden in the long grass, and when search was made the point of a buried sword was found sticking out of the soil. Attila, seeing the beautiful workmanship and the fine state of preservation of this weapon, immediately exclaimed that it was Cheru’s sword, and brandishing it above his head he announced that he would conquer the world. Battle after battle was fought by all-conquering the Huns, who were everywhere victorious, until Attila, weary of warfare, settled down in Hungary, taking to wife the beautiful Burgundian princess Ildico, whose father he had slain. This princess, resenting the murder of her kin and wishing to avenge it, took advantage of the king’s state of intoxication upon his wedding night to secure possession of the divine sword, with which she slew him in his bed, once more fulfilling the prophecy uttered so many years before. The magic sword again disappeared for a long time, to be unearthed once more, for the last time, by the Duke of Alva, Charles V.’s general, who shortly after won the victory of Mühlberg in 1547. The Franks were wont to celebrate yearly martial games in honour of the sword; but it is said that over 1200 years before, when the heathen gods of the Swabian’s, the Cheruski, the early Franks, the Danes and the Saxons, were slowly renounced in favour of Christianity, the priests transferred many of their attributes to the saints, and that this sword became the eternal property of the Archangel St. Michael, who has wielded it victoriously ever since. The next story tells of the Birth of Sigurd. The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost The Seventh myth covers the story of the The Eighth story tells of Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21553976

106 - Norse Myths 06 - Heimdall 12/14/2021

106 - Norse Myths 06 - Heimdall This sixth Norse Myth is the tale of Heimdall, the Guardian of the Rainbow Bridge, his adventures with the people of Midgard, and his battle with Loki... Heimdall in Midgard. Heimdall was called the watchman of the gods, and he was distinguished by his role at the Bifrost bridge, which he had constructed from fire, air and water, which glowed as a rainbow in the sky. The Bifrost bridge was also called the Rainbow bridge, and it connected heaven with earth, ending just under the great tree Yggdrasill. *** The golden age of Asgard was one of such happiness that there was never any threat to the peace of the land, and so it was that its watchman became bored. Heimdall was easily spotted, so he could not travel far without being recognized and commended for his fine work. He carried over his shoulder a great bugle, Giallarhorn, the blasts of which could summon help from all nine worlds. One fine day, Odin noticed that Heimdall had been hard at work without any respite for many many years. Odin himself would occasionally slip into a disguise in order to go out into the worlds beneath them, and he decided then that Heimdall should have the same opportunity – after all, Asgard was hardly in need of defence when all was quiet. Heimdall was delighted, for he had been longing to visit Midgard and to get to know the people there. He carefully laid his bugle and his sword to one side, and dressed in the garb of the people of Midgard, he slipped across the bridge and reached a deserted shore. The first people he clapped eyes upon were Edda and Ai, a poor couple who lived on the bare beaches of Midgard, eking a meagre living from the sands. They lived in a tumble-down shack and had little in their possession, but what they did have they offered gladly to Heimdall. Their shack was sparsely furnished, with only a seaweed bed on which to lay, but it was agreed that Heimdall could sleep there with them, and at night he laid himself between the couple and slept well. After three nights, Heimdall summoned Ai and Edda as they gathered snails and cockles from the seashore. He had put together several pieces of driftwood, and as they watched, he fashioned a pointed stick from one, and cut out a hole in another. The pointed stick was placed inside the hole, and he turned it quickly, so that sparks, and then a slender stream of smoke was produced. And then there was fire. Ai and Edda flew back against the walls of the shack, astonished by this magical feat. Heimdall smiled, thanked them for their hospitality and took his leave. Ai and Edda’s lives were transformed by fire. Their water was heated; the most inedible nuggets from the beach were softened into tender morsels of food. And most of all, they had warmth. Nine months later a second gift appeared to Edda, for she gave birth to a son who she called Thrall. Thrall was an ugly, wretched-looking boy, with a knotted body and a twisted back, but he was kind and he worked hard. When he came of age, he married one like him – a deformed young woman called Serf. Together they had many children, all of whom worked about the house or on the land with the same diligence as their father and mother. These were the ancestors of the thralls. Heimdall had left the home of Ai and Edda and travelled on. Soon enough he came to a lovely little house occupied by an older couple Amma and Afi. As he arrived, Afi was hard at work, whittling away at beams with which to improve their house. Heimdall set down his belongings and began to work with Afi. Soon they had built together a wonderful loom, which they presented to Amma, who was seated happily by the fire with her spinning wheel. Heimdall ate well that evening, and when the time came for sleep, he was offered a place between them in the only bed. For three nights Heimdall stayed with Afi and Amma, and then he left them. Sure enough, nine months later, and to the astonishment of the elderly couple, Amma gave birth to a son, who they called Karl the Yeoman. Karl was a thick-set, beautiful boy, with sparkling eyes and cheeks of roses. He loved the land and the fresh air was almost food enough for him, he drew so much goodness from it. When he became of age, he married a whirlwind of a woman who saw to it that their household ran as smoothly as a well-oiled rig, and that their children, their oxen and all the other animals on their farm, were fed and comfortable. They grew very successful, and they are first ancestors of the Bondi, the yeoman farmers. The third visit in Midgard was to a wealthy couple who lived in a fine castle. The man of the household spent many hours honing his hunting bow and spears, and his wife sat prettily by his side, well-dressed and flushed by the heat of the fire in the hearth. They offered him rich and delicious food, and at night he was given a place between them in their luxurious and comfortable bed. Heimdall stayed there for three nights, although he would happily have stayed there forever, after which time he returned to his post at the Bifrost bridge. And so it was, nine months later, that a son was born to that couple in the castle, and they called him Jarl the Earl. His father taught him well the skills of hunting and living off the land, and his mother passed on her refinement and breeding, so that Jarl became known as ‘Regal’. When Regal was but a boy, Heimdall returned again to Midgard, and claimed him as his son. Regal remained in Midgard, but his fine pedigree was soon known about the land and he grew to become a great ruler there. He married Erna, who bore him many sons, one of whom was Jarl, the ancestor of the line of nobles and Kings who would rule the land forever. Heimdall took up his place once more in Asgard, but he was prone to wandering, as all gods are, and there are many more stories of his travels. And here's another short tale with Heimdall. Loki and the Necklace One evening, when Freyia had become part of Asgard, Loki spied her marvellous necklace, a golden symbol of the fruitfulness of the earth which she wore about her slender neck at all times. Loki coveted this necklace, and he found he could not sleep until he had it in his possession. So it was that he crept one night into her chamber and bent over as if to remove it. Finding that her position in sleep made this feat impossible, he turned himself into a small flea, and springing under the bedclothes, he bit the lovely goddess so that she turned in her sleep. Loki returned to his shape and undid the clasp of the necklace, which he removed without rousing Freyia. Not far from Freyia’s palace, Heimdall had heard the sound of Loki becoming a flea – a sound so slight that only the great watchman of the gods could have heard it – and he travelled immediately to the palace to investigate. He saw Loki leaving with the necklace, and soon caught up with him, drawing his sword in order to remove the thief’s head. Loki immediately changed himself into a thin blue flame, but quick as a flash, Heimdall became a cloud and sent down a sheath of rain in order to douse the flame. Loki quickly became a polar bear and opened his jaws to swallow the water, whereupon Heimdall turned himself into bear and attacked the hapless trickster. In haste, Loki became a seal, and then, once again, Heimdall transformed himself into the same form as Loki and the two fought for many hours, before Heimdall showed his worth and finally won the necklace from Loki, returning it to the Goddess Freyia. The next Norse Myth tells of Tyr, the God of Courage The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21460517

105 - Norse Myths 05 - Loki 12/07/2021

105 - Norse Myths 05 - Loki This fifth Norse Myth is the last tale of Loki, not the charming, trickster of the Marvel Universe, but the dark God of the Vikings Age... The Legends of Loki. Besides the hideous giant Utgard-Loki, the personification of mischief and evil, whom Thor and his companions visited in Jötunheim, the ancient Northern nations had another type of sin, whom they called Loki also. In the beginning, Loki was merely the epitome of the hearth fire and of the spirit of life. At first a god, he gradually becomes “god and devil combined,” and ends in being held in general detestation as an exact counterpart of the mediaeval Lucifer, the prince of lies, “the originator of deceit, and the back-biter” of the Aesir. By some authorities Loki was said to be the brother of Odin, but others assert that the two were not related, but had merely gone through the form of swearing blood brotherhood common in the North.r Loki’s Last Crime Loki’s last crime, and the one which filled his measure of iniquity, was to induce Hodur to throw the fatal mistletoe at Balder, whom he hated merely on account of his immaculate purity. Perhaps even this crime might have been condoned had it not been for his obduracy when, in the disguise of the old woman Thok, he was called upon to shed a tear for Balder. His action on this occasion convinced the gods that nothing but evil remained within him, and they pronounced unanimously upon him the sentence of perpetual banishment from Asgard. *** To divert the gods’ sadness and make them, for a short time, forget the treachery of Loki and the loss of Balder, Aegir, god of the sea, invited them to partake of a banquet in his coral caves at the bottom of the sea. The gods gladly accepted the invitation, and clad in their richest garb, and with festive smiles, they appeared in the coral caves at the appointed time. None were absent save the radiant Balder, for whom many a regretful sigh was heaved, and the evil Loki, whom none could regret. In the course of the feast, however, this last-named god appeared in their midst like a dark shadow, and when bidden to depart, he gave vent to his evil passions in a torrent of invective against the gods. Then, jealous of the praises which Funfeng, Aegir’s servant, had won for the dexterity with which he waited upon his master’s guests, Loki suddenly turned upon him and slew him. At this wanton crime, the gods in fierce wrath drove Loki away once more, threatening him with dire punishment should he ever appear before them again. Scarcely had the Aesir recovered from this disagreeable interruption to their feast, and resumed their places at the board, when Loki came creeping in once more, resuming his slanders with venomous tongue, and taunting the gods with their weaknesses or shortcomings, dwelling maliciously upon their physical imperfections, and deriding them for their mistakes. In vain the gods tried to stem his abuse; his voice rose louder and louder, and he was just giving utterance to some base slander about Sif, when he was suddenly cut short by the sight of Thor’s hammer, angrily brandished by an arm whose power he knew full well, and he fled incontinently. Knowing that he could now have no hope of being admitted into Asgard again, and that sooner or later the gods, seeing the effect of his evil deeds, would regret having permitted him to roam the world, and would try either to bind or slay him, Loki withdrew to the mountains, where he built himself a hut, with four doors which he always left wide open to permit of a hasty escape. Carefully laying his plans, he decided that if the gods should come in search of him he would rush down to the neighbouring cataract, according to tradition the Fraananger force or stream, and, changing himself into a salmon, would thus evade his pursuers. He reasoned, however, that although he could easily avoid any hook, it might be difficult for him to effect his escape if the gods should fashion a net like that of the sea-goddess Ran. Haunted by this fear, he decided to test the possibility of making such a mesh, and started to make one out of twine. He was still engaged upon the task when Odin, Kvasir, and Thor suddenly appeared in the distance; and knowing that they had discovered his retreat, Loki threw his half-finished net into the fire, and, rushing through one of his ever-open doors, he leaped into the waterfall, where, in the shape of a salmon, he hid among some stones in the bed of the stream. The gods, finding the hut empty, were about to depart, when Kvasir perceived the remains of the burnt net on the hearth. After some thought an inspiration came to him, and he advised the gods to weave a similar implement and use it in searching for their foe in the neighbouring stream, since it would be like Loki to choose such a method of baffling their pursuit. This advice seemed good and was immediately followed, and, the net finished, the gods proceeded to drag the stream. Loki eluded the net at its first cast by hiding at the bottom of the river between two stones; and when the gods weighted the mesh and tried a second time, he effected his escape by jumping up stream. A third attempt to secure him proved successful, however, for, as he once more tried to get away by a sudden leap, Thor caught him in mid-air and held him so fast, that he could not escape. The salmon, whose slipperiness is proverbial in the North, is noted for its remarkably slim tail, and Norsemen attribute this to Thor’s tight grasp upon his foe. Loki now sullenly resumed his wonted shape, and his captors dragged him down into a cavern, where they made him fast, using as bonds the entrails of his son Narve, who had been torn to pieces by Vali, his brother, whom the gods had changed into a wolf for the purpose. One of these fetters was passed under Loki’s shoulders, and one under his loins, thereby securing him firmly hand and foot; but the gods, not feeling quite satisfied that the strips, tough and enduring though they were, would not give way, changed them into adamant or iron. Skadi, the giantess, a personification of the cold mountain stream, who had joyfully watched the fettering of her foe (Loki, as subterranean fire), now fastened a serpent directly over his head, so that its venom would fall, drop by drop, upon his upturned face. But Sigyn, Loki’s faithful wife, hurried with a cup to his side, and until the day of Ragnarök she remained by him, catching the drops as they fell, and never leaving her post except when her vessel was full, and she was obliged to empty it. Only during her short absences could the drops of venom fall upon Loki’s face, and then they caused such intense pain that he writhed with anguish, his efforts to get free shaking the earth and producing the earthquakes which so frighten mortals. In this painful position Loki was destined to remain until the twilight of the gods, when his bonds would be loosed, and he would take part in the fatal conflict on the battlefield of Vigrid, falling at last by the hand of Heimdall, who would be slain at the same time. The next story tells of and his Journey to Midgard The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21406178

104 - Norse Myths 04 - Thor 11/30/2021

104 - Norse Myths 04 - Thor The fourth of ten Norse myths tells of the story of the Thor and how he gained his hammer through the wicked machinations of the mischievous Loki. The Legend of Thor. Thor was one of the twelve principal deities of Asgard, and he lived in the splendid realm of Thrudvang, where he built a palace called Bilskirnir. Here he lived as god of thunder, and his name was invoked more than any other in the age of the Vikings. For Thor was the protector of the land, a fine figure of a man with glowing eyes, firm muscles, and a red beard that made him instantly recognizable. He became known across the worlds for his great hammer, Miolnir (the crusher), which had been forged by the dark elves. This hammer, together with Thor’s strength and his terrible temper, made him the fiercest god of Asgard, and the personification of brute force. Thor was also god of might and war, and because of his popularity, he soon grew to embody the forces of agriculture, and became a symbol of the earth itself. He is remembered throughout the world on the fourth day of every week – Thursday, or Thor’s day. How Thor Gained His Hammer Thor was married to Sif, whose long golden hair was one of her great prides. It fell to her feet like a ray of sunlight, and it was the colour of ripe cornsilk in the summer fields. As she brushed it, it glinted in the light and became a symbol of great beauty across Asgard. One day, the glistening cascade of hair caught the eye of Loki, and he wondered then how he ever could have imagined living without it. He thought about that hair all day, and all through the night. And then, just as the moon reached her pinnacle in the midnight sky, Loki leapt to his feet and made for Sif’s bedchamber, where he knew he would find her sleeping. The moon cast long shadows into the sleeping goddess’s delicately furnished room, and it was easy for the fleet-footed Loki to steal in and set to work. *** Loki crept to the side of Sif’s bed and very gently, so that he did not disturb her, he withdrew a pair of great shears from his cloak and cut her long veil of hair from her head. Winding the tresses around his arm, he darted from the room once again, and there was silence. Until, that is, Sif awoke to discover the travesty that had occurred. Her shrieks brought everyone in the kingdom running to her side, and Thor howled with such outrage that the entire kingdom of Asgard shook. It was not long before Loki was ferreted out and brought before the irate god. Thunder boomed in the sky as the shaking trickster fell to his knees before Thor. ‘I beg you, Thor,’ he cried, ‘let me free and I will find a new head of hair for Sif – one that is even more beautiful than the one she has now. I’ll go to the dark elves. They’ll fashion one!’ Loki’s head bobbed up and down with fright and eventually Thor gave in. ‘You have twenty hours to come forward with the tresses, and if you fail, Loki, you will be removed from Asgard forever.’ Thor banged down a thunderbolt at Loki’s feet, and the traitor scampered hastily away, hardly daring to breathe at his good fortune. Loki travelled at once to the centre of the earth, down into the Svart-alfa-heim, where the wily dwarf Dvalin had his home. He threw himself on the mercy of the dwarf, and requested as well two gifts with which he could win the favour of Odin and Frey, who were bound to hear of the news and wish to punish him themselves. Dvalin worked over the heat of his forge for many hours, and as he worked he chanted the words which would make all he forged the finest there was – for there are no arms as powerful nor as invincible as those fashioned by dwarfs. First he finished the spear Gungnir, which would always hit its mark. Next, he formed the ship Skiblanir, which would always find wind, on even the most silent of seas, and which could sail through the air as well as on water. The ship was folded carefully and placed in a tiny compass. Loki’s eyes shone at its undoubted worth. Finally Dvalin spun the most graceful of golden threads, and these he wove into a head of hair so lustrous and shining that all the dark elves gasped at its beauty. Dvalin handed it carefully to Loki, wrapped in the softest of tissues, and said, ‘As soon as this touches your princess’s head, it shall grow there and become as her own.’ Loki took all the gifts from Dvalin, who he thanked profusely, and feeling very pleased with himself he set off for Asgard with a skip in his step. His jauntiness attracted the attention of two dwarfs who sat by the side of a small cottage. ‘Why do you smile so?’ asked the first – for Loki’s reputation had preceded him and the dwarfs were certain that his happiness could have no virtuous cause. ‘Dvaldi,’ boasted Loki, ‘is the most clever of smiths – both here and in all the nine worlds.’ And with that he held up his prizes for the dwarfs to examine. ‘Pish,’ said the first dwarf, who was called Brokki, ‘my brother Sindri can fashion gifts that are far more beautiful than those – and sturdier too.’ He paused, and then continued, leaning towards Loki who began to look rather put out. ‘Our gifts would hold the magic of the very centre of the earth,’ he whispered. Loki choked, and then, recovering himself, immediately challenged the dwarf to prove his words. So confident was he of the gifts he held now that he placed a wager on his own head. And so it was that Brokki and Sindri made their way into their smithy and began work on the hottest of forges. Sindri agreed to fashion the goods, on the condition that Brokki blew the bellows – a task which would prove difficult over the great heat that was necessary for Sindri to win the wager. Sindri at once threw some gold into the fire, and left the room, eager to invoke the powers which would be invested in a great wild boar, which he had decided upon for Frey. Alone with the roaring fire, Brokki worked hard at the bellows, never pausing despite the tremendous heat. Loki watched from the window and as he observed the determination and strength of the dwarf he began to grow uneasy. At once, he decided that he must intervene and as quick as a flash of light he turned himself into a gadfly and alighted on the hand of Brokki, where he set in a stinger so deep that a rush of blood rose to the surface immediately. Brokki cried out in pain, but he continued the bellowing, never missing a beat. Sindri returned to the room and drew from the fire an enormous boar, who they called Gulinbursti for its radiant gold bristles. This boar would have the strength of all other boars there were, but he would have the additional ability to shine a rich and powerful light into any part of the world in which he travelled. He was the perfect gift for the sungod Frey and nothing could match the brilliance of its light but the sungod himself. So Sindri flung more gold into the fire, and instructed Brokki to continue to blow. Once again, he left the room to seek the necessary enchantment, and once again Loki took on the form of a gadfly. In an instant he had landed on Brokki’s cheek and stung through the weathered skin until Brokki cried out and turned white with pain. But still he worked on, pumping the bellows until Sindri returned once more. And triumphant, Sindri drew from the fire a ring which he called Draupnir, which would become the very symbol of fertility – for on every ninth night, eight identical rings would drop from Draupnir, with powers to match. The final gift was yet to be prepared, and this time Sindri threw iron on to the fire, leaving Brokki hard at work as he left to call upon the final spirits. Brokki’s strength was beginning to flag, but his will was as strong as ever. He pumped away as the fire burned brighter and brighter until, suddenly, a horsefly lit on his neck and stung him with a ferocity that caused him to leap into the air, but still he did not miss even one pump of the bellows. Loki was becoming desperate. He arranged himself on the forehead of the hapless dwarf and he stung straight into a vein on his forehead that throbbed with effort. He was rewarded by a gush of blood that streamed out into the fire and into the Brokki’s eyes. The dwarf raised his hand for a split second to wipe aside the blood, but that moment caused damage that could not be erased. When Sindri returned and drew out the great hammer, its handle was short and ungainly. Brokki hung his head in disappointment, but Sindri pointed out that the powers of the great hammer would more than make up for its small size. Indeed, he thought it might be an advantage, in that it could be neatly hidden in a man’s tunic. So Brokki gathered up the gifts and carried them outside to Loki, who accompanied the dwarf back to Asgard with his booty. Odin was given the ring Draupnir, Frey was given the boar Gulinbursti, and Thor was given the hammer, which they had named Miolnir – meaning invincible power. Loki then presented Sif with her golden hair, and when she placed it upon her shorn head it latched itself there and began to grow in swirls and waves until it reached her feet once more – a shining veil of hair that shone more brightly than ever. Gungnir, the spear, was given to Odin, and the ship Skidbladnir to Frey. Each god was delighted with his gift, and there was much camaraderie as they slapped the backs of the dwarfs and the redeemed Loki. It was Brokki who put a stop to the celebrations when he stepped forward and explained the wager that had been made by Loki. The gods looked at one another, and eyed their magnificent gifts. Although it was agreed that Sif’s hair could not be more lustrous, or more beautiful, the gods announced that Brokki’s gifts were the finest and the most magical – for the sole reason that Thor’s great hammer was of such a magnificent size that it could be hidden away and used against the frost-giants at a moment’s notice. Loki’s games had backfired, and he turned on his heels and fled before Brokki could undertake his part of the bargain and behead him! Brokki started in outrage and implored Thor to come to his rescue in catching Loki who was making away at all speed. Still smarting from Sif’s agony, Thor threw out a lightning bolt and caught Loki by the ankles, returning him to face his fate at the hands of Brokki and his brother. But when Loki was delivered to the dwarfs, Thor took pity on Loki and insisted to Brokki that he could have Loki’s head but that he must not touch his neck – for the neck of Loki belonged to him, Thor. Of course there was no way to remove a head without touching the adjoining neck, and Brokki stomped around in fury before he came up with a plan which would serve him equally. Gathering his brother’s great awl for the purpose, he punched holes along Loki’s lips and stitched them together with an unbreakable cord. It was many days before Loki’s howls of pain ceased, and many more before he was able to unstitch the cord. Loki did not speak for almost one hundred days, as his torn lips were so painful he could not bear to move them. In time, however, Loki was able to speak once again causing Thor – and everyone in Asgard – to rue the day that the wager was broken. The next story tells of Heimdall and his Journey to Midgard The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21318410

103 - Norse Myths 03 - Tale of the Valkyrie 11/23/2021

103 - Norse Myths 03 - Tale of the Valkyrie The third of ten Norse myths tells of the story of the Valkyrie, Odin's shield maidens who bring the fallen heroes of battle to the everlasting rewards of Valhalla. The Valkyrs. Odin’s special attendants, the Valkyrs, or battle maidens, were either his daughters, like Brunhild, or the offspring of mortal kings, maidens who were privileged to remain immortal and invulnerable as long as they implicitly obeyed the god and remained virgins. They and their steeds were the personification of the clouds, their glittering weapons being the lightning flashes. The ancients imagined that they swept down to earth at Valfather’s command, to choose among the slain in battle heroes worthy to taste the joys of Valhalla, and brave enough to lend aid to the gods when the great battle would be fought. *** These maidens were pictured as young and beautiful, with dazzling white arms and flowing golden hair. They wore helmets of silver or gold, and blood-red corselets, and with spears and shields glittering, they charged boldly through the fray on their mettlesome white steeds. These horses galloped through the realms of air and over the quivering Bifrost, bearing not only their fair riders, but the heroes slain, who after having received the Valkyrs’ kiss of death, were thus immediately transported to Valhalla. As the Valkyrs’ steeds were personifications of the clouds, it was natural to fancy that the hoar frost and dew dropped down upon earth from their glittering manes as they rapidly dashed to and fro through the air. They were therefore held in high honour and regard, for the people ascribed to their beneficent influence much of the fruitfulness of the earth, the sweetness of dale and mountain-slope, the glory of the pines, and the nourishment of the meadow-land. The mission of the Valkyrs was not only to battlefields upon earth, but they often rode over the sea, snatching the dying Vikings from their sinking dragon-ships. Sometimes they stood upon the strand to beckon them thither, an infallible warning that the coming struggle would be their last, and one which every Northland hero received with joy. The numbers of the Valkyrs differ greatly according to various storytellers, ranging from three to sixteen, most authorities, however, naming only nine. The Valkyrs were considered as divinities of the air. It was said that Freyia and Skuld led them on to the fray. The Valkyrs had important duties in Valhalla, when, their bloody weapons laid aside, they poured out the heavenly mead for the Einheriar. This beverage delighted the souls of the new-comers, and they welcomed the fair maidens as warmly as when they had first seen them on the battlefield and realised that they had come to transport them to their honour in Valhalla. Völund and the Valkyrs The Valkyrs were supposed to take frequent flights to earth in swan plumage, which they would throw off when they came to a secluded stream, that they might indulge in a bath. Any mortal surprising them thus, and securing their plumage, could prevent them from leaving the earth, and could even force these proud maidens to mate with him if such were his pleasure. It is related that three of the Valkyrs, Olrun, Alvit, and Svanhvit, were once sporting in the waters, when suddenly the three brothers Egil, Slagfinn, and Völund, or Wayland the smith, came upon them, and securing their swan plumage, the young men forced them to remain upon earth and become their wives. The Valkyrs, thus detained, remained with their husbands nine years, but at the end of that time, recovering their plumage, or the spell being broken in some other way, they effected their escape. The brothers felt the loss of their wives extremely, and two of them, Egil and Slagfinn, putting on their snow shoes, went in search of their loved ones, disappearing in the cold and foggy regions of the North. The third brother, Völund, however, remained at home, knowing all search would be of no avail, and he found solace in the contemplation of a ring which Alvit had given him as a love-token, and he indulged the constant hope that she would return one day. As he was a very clever smith, and could manufacture the most dainty ornaments of silver and gold, as well as magic weapons which no blow could break, he now employed his leisure in making seven hundred rings exactly like the one which his wife had given him. These, when finished, he bound together; but one night, on coming home from the hunt, he found that some one had carried away one ring, leaving the others behind, and his hopes received fresh inspiration, for he told himself that his wife had been there and would soon return for good. That selfsame night, however, he was surprised in his sleep, and bound and made prisoner by Nidud, King of Sweden, who took possession of his sword, a choice weapon invested with magic powers, which he reserved for his own use, and of the love ring made of pure Rhine gold, which latter he gave to his only daughter, Bodvild. As for the unhappy Völund himself, he was led captive to a neighbouring island, where, after being hamstrung, in order that he should not escape, the king put him to the incessant task of forging weapons and ornaments for his use. He also compelled him to build an intricate labyrinth, and to this day a maze in Iceland is known as “Völund’s house.” Völund’s rage and despair increased with every new insult offered him by Nidud, and night and day he thought upon how he might obtain revenge. Nor did he forget to provide for his escape, and during the pauses of his labour he fashioned a pair of wings similar to those his wife had used as a Valkyr, which he intended to don as soon as his vengeance had been accomplished. One day the king came to visit his captive, and brought him the stolen sword that he might repair it; but Völund cleverly substituted another weapon so exactly like the magic sword as to deceive the king when he came again to claim it. A few days later, Völund enticed the king’s sons into his smithy and slew them, after which he cunningly fashioned drinking vessels out of their skulls, and jewels out of their eyes and teeth, bestowing these upon their parents and sister. The royal family did not suspect whence they came; and so these gifts were joyfully accepted. As for the poor youths, it was believed that they had drifted out to sea and had been drowned. Some time after this, Bodvild, wishing to have her ring repaired, also visited the smith’s hut, where, while waiting, she unsuspectingly partook of a magic drug, which sent her to sleep and left her in Völund’s power. His last act of vengeance accomplished, Völund immediately donned the wings which he had made in readiness for this day, and grasping his sword and ring he rose slowly in the air. Directing his flight to the palace, he perched there out of reach, and proclaimed his crimes to Nidud. The king, beside himself with rage, summoned Egil, Völund’s brother, who had also fallen into his power, and bade him use his marvellous skill as an archer to bring down the impudent bird. Obeying a signal from Völund, Egil aimed for a protuberance under his wing where a bladder full of the young princes’ blood was concealed, and the smith flew triumphantly away without hurt, declaring that Odin would give his sword to Sigmund—a prediction which was duly fulfilled. Völund then went to Alf-heim, where, if the legend is to be believed, he found his beloved wife, and lived happily again with her until the twilight of the gods. But, even in Alf-heim, this clever smith continued to ply his craft, and various suits of impenetrable armour, which he is said to have fashioned, are described in later heroic poems. Besides Balmung and Joyeuse, Sigmund’s and Charlemagne’s celebrated swords, he is reported to have fashioned Miming for his son Heime, and many other remarkable blades while living the rest of his life with his beloved, the Valkyr Alvit. The next story tells How Thor gained his hammer The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21249038

102 - Norse Myths 02 - Odin and Frigga 11/16/2021

102 - Norse Myths 02 - Odin and Frigga The second of ten Norse myths tells of Odin and Frigga in Valhalla in Asgard, and their sons Thor, Balder and the first gods of the Vikings... Odin and Frigga in Asgard. Odin was the son of Bor, and the brother of Vili and Ve. He was the most supreme god of the Northern races and he brought great wisdom to his place at the helm of all gods. He was called Allfather, for all gods were said to have descended from him, and his esteemed seat was Asgard itself. He held a throne there, one in an exalted and prestigious position, and it served as a fine watchtower from which he could look over men on earth, and the other gods in Asgard as they went about their daily business. *** Odin was a tall, mighty warrior. While not having the brawn of many excellent men, he had wisdom which counted for much more. On his shoulders he carried two ravens, Hugin (thought) and Munin (Memory), and they perched there, as he sat on his throne, and recounted to him the activities in the great wide world. Hugin and Munin were Odin’s eyes and his ears when he was in Asgard and he depended on their bright eyes and alert ears for news of everything that transpired down below. In his hand Odin carried a great spear, Gungnir, which had been forged by dwarfs, and which was so sacred that it could never be broken. On his finger Odin wore a ring, Draupnir, which represented fertility and fruitfulness and which was more valuable to him, and to his land, than anything in any other god’s possession. At the foot of Odin’s throne sat two wolves or hunting hounds, Geri and Freki, and these animals were sacred. If one happened upon them while hunting, success was assured. Odin belonged to a mysterious region, somewhere between life and death. He was more subtle and more dangerous than any of the other gods, and his name in some dialects means ‘wind’, for he could be both forceful and gentle, and then elusive or absent. On the battlefield, Odin would dress as an old man – indeed, Odin had many disguises, for when things changed in Asgard, and became bad, he had reason to travel on the earth to uncover many secrets – attended by ravens, wolves and the Valkyrs, who were the ‘choosers of the slain’, the maidens who took the souls of fallen warriors to Valhalla. Valhalla was Odin’s palace at Asgard, and its grandeur was breathtaking. Valhalla means ‘hall of the chosen slain’, and it had five hundred great wooden doors, which were wide enough to allow eight hundred warriors to pass, breastplate to breastplate. The walls were made of glittering spears, polished until they gleamed like silver, and the roof was a sea of golden shields which shone like the sun itself. In Odin’s great hall were huge banqueting tables, where the Einheriar, or warriors favoured by Odin, were served. The tables were laden with the finest horns of mead, and platters of roast boar. Like everything else in Asgard, Valhalla was enchanted. Even the boar was divine and Saehrimnir, as he was called, was slain daily by the cook, boiled and roasted and served each night in tender, succulent morsels, and then brought back to life again the following day, for the procedure to take place once again. After the meal, the warriors would retire to the palace forecourt where they would engage in unmatched feats of arms for all to see. Those who were injured would be healed instantly by the enchantment of Valhalla, and those who watched became even finer warriors. Odin lived in Asgard with Frigga, who was the mother-goddess and his wife. Frigga was daughter of Fiogyn and sister of Jord, and she was greatly beloved on earth and in Asgard. She was goddess of the atmosphere and the clouds, and she wore garments that were as white as the snow-laden mountains that gently touched the land of Asgard. As mother of all, Frigga carried about her a heady scent of the earth – blossoming flowers, ripened fruit, and luscious greenery. There are many stories told about Frigga, as we will discover below. Life in Asgard was one of profound comfort and grace. Each day dawned new and fresh for the passage of time had not been accorded to Asgard and nothing changed except to be renewed. The sun rose each day, never too hot, and the clouds gently cooled the air as the day waned. Each night the sky was lit with glistening stars, and the fresh, rich white moon rose in the sky and lit all with her milky light. There was no evil in Asgard and the good was as pure as the water, as the air, and as the thoughts of each god and goddess as he and she slept. In the fields, cows grazed on verdant green grass and in the trees birds caught a melody and tossed it from branch to branch until the whole world sang with their splendid music. The wind wove its way through the trees, across the mountains, and under the sea-blue skies – kissing ripples into the streams and turning a leaf to best advantage. There was a peace and harmony that exists for that magical moment just before spring turns to summer, and it was that moment at which Asgard was suspended for all time. And so it was that Odin and Frigga brought up their young family here, away from the darkness on the other side, far from the clutches of change and disharmony. There were nine worlds in Yggdrasill, the World Ash, which stretched out from Asgard as far as the eye could see. At the top there was Aesir, and in the bottom was the dead world of Hel, at the Tree’s lowest roots. In between were the Vanir, the light elves, the dark elves, men, frost and hill giants, dwarfs and the giants of Muspell. Frigga kept her own palace in Asgard, called Fensalir, and from his high throne Odin could see her there, hard at her work. Frigga’s palace was called the hall of mists, and she sat with her spinning wheel, spinning golden threat or long webs of bright-coloured clouds with a marvellous, jewelled spinning wheel which could be seen as a constellation in the night’s sky. There was a story told once of Frigga, one in which her customary goodness and grace were compromised. Frigga was a slim and elegant goddess, and she took great pride in her appearance – something the later Christians would consider to be a sin, but which the Vikings understood, and indeed encouraged. She had long silky hair and she dressed herself in exquisite finery, and Odin showered her with gifts of gems and finely wrought precious metals. She lived contentedly, for her husband was generous, until the day came when she spied a splendid golden ornament which had been fastened to a statue of her husband. As the seamless darkness of Asgard fell one evening, she slipped out and snatched the ornament, entrusting it to dwarfs whom she asked to forge her the finest of necklaces. When the jewel was complete, it was the most beautiful decoration ever seen on any woman – goddess or humankind – and it made her more attractive to Odin so that he plied her with even more gifts, and more love than ever. Soon, however, he discovered that his decoration had been stolen, and he called together all of the dwarfs and with all the fury of a god demanded that this treacherous act be explained. Now Frigga was beloved both by god and dwarf, and although the dwarfs were at risk of death at the hand of Odin, they remained loyal to Frigga, and would not tell Allfather who had stolen the golden ornament. Odin’s anger knew no bounds. The silence of the dwarfs meant only one thing to him – treason – and he swore to find out the real thief by daybreak. And so it was that on that night Odin commanded that the statue be placed above the gates of the palace, and he began to devise runes which would enable it to talk, and to betray the thief. Frigga’s blood turned cold when she heard this commandment, for Odin was a kind and generous god when he was happy and content, but when he was crossed, there was a blackness in his nature that put them all in danger. There was every possibility that Frigga would be cast out of Asgard if he were to know of her deceit, and it was at the expense of everything that she intended to keep it a secret. Frigga called out to her favourite attendant, Fulla, and begged her to find some way to protect her from Odin. Fulla disappeared and several hours later returned with a hideous and frightening dwarf who insisted that he could prevent the secret from being uncovered, if Frigga would do him the honour of smiling kindly on him. Frigga agreed at once, and that night, instead of revealing all, the statue was smashed to pieces while the unwitting guards slept, drugged by the ugly dwarf. Odin was so enraged by this new travesty that he left Asgard at once – disappearing into the night and taking with him all of the blessings he had laid upon Asgard. And in his absence, Asgard and the worlds around turned cold. Odin’s brothers, it is said, stepped into his place, taking on his appearance in order to persuade the gods and men that all was well, but they had not his power or his great goodness and soon enough the frost-giants invaded the earth and cast across the land a white blanket of snow. The trees were stripped of their finery, the sun-kissed streams froze and forgot how to gurgle their happy song. Birds left the trees and cows huddled together in frosty paddocks. The clouds joined together and became an impenetrable mist and the wind howled and scowled through the barren rock. For seven months Asgard stood frozen until the hearts of each man within it became frosted with unhappiness, and then Odin returned. When he saw the nature of the evil that had stood in his place, he placed the warmth of his blessings on the land once more, forcing the frost-giants to release them. He had missed Frigga, and he showered her once more with love and gifts, and as mother of all gods, once again she took her place beside him as his queen. Frigga and Odin had many children, including Thor, their eldest son, who was the favourite of the gods and the people – a large and boisterous god with a zeal for life. He did everything with great passion, and spirit, and his red hair and red beard made him instantly identifiable, wherever he went. Thor lived in Asgard at Thruthvangar, in his castle hall Bilskirnir (lightning). He was often seen with a sheet of lightning, which he flashed across the land, ripening the harvest and ensuring good crops for all. With his forked lightning in another hand, he travelled to the edges of the kingdoms, fighting trolls and battling giants, the great guardian of Asgard and of men and gods. Thruthvangar had five hundred and forty rooms, and it was the largest castle ever created. Here he lived with the beautiful Sif, an exquisite goddess with hair made of long, shining strands of gold. Sif was the goddess of the fields, and the mother of the earth, like Frigga. Her long, golden hair was said to represent the golden grass covering the harvest fields, and Thor was very proud to be with her. Balder was the second son of Odin and Frigga at Asgard, and he was the fairest of all the gods – indeed, his purity and goodness shone like a moonbeam and he was so pale as to be translucent. Balder was beloved by all, and his innate kindness caused him to love everything around him – evil or good. He lived in Breidablik, with his wife Nanna. The third son of Odin was Hodur, a blind but happy god who sat quietly, listening and enjoying the sensual experiences of the wind in his hair, the sun on his shoulders, the joyful cries of the birds on the air. While all was good in Asgard, Hodur was content, and although he represented darkness, and was the twin to Balder’s light, that darkness had no real place and it was kept in check by the forces of goodness. Odin’s fourth son was Tyr, who was the most courageous and brave of the gods – the god of martial honour and one of the twelve gods of Asgard. He did not have his own palace, for he travelled widely, but he held a throne at Valhalla, and in the great council hall of Gladsheim. Tyr was also the god of the sword, and every sword had his rune carved into its handle. Although Odin was his father, Tyr’s mother is said to have been a beautiful unknown giantess. Heimdall also lived in Asgard, and he was called the white god, although he was not thought to be the son of Odin and Frigga at all. Some said he had been conceived by nine mysterious sisters, who had given birth to him together. His stronghold was a fort on the boundary of Asgard, next to the Bifrost bridge, and he slept there with one eye open, and both ears alert, for the sound of any enemy approaching. There were many other gods in Asgard, and many who would one day come to live there. But in those early days of creation, the golden years of Asgard, life was simple, and its occupants few and wondrous. The gods and goddesses lived together in their palaces, many of them with children, about whom many stories can be told. But even the golden years of Asgard held their secrets, and even the best of worlds must have its serpent. There was one inhabitant of Asgard who no one cared to discuss, the very spirit of evil. He was Loki, who some said was the brother of Odin, although there were others who swore he could not be related to Allfather. Loki was the very personification of trickery, and deceit, and his mischief led him into great trouble. But that is another tale. The next story tells of the The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21174422

101 - Norse Myths 01 - Creation 11/09/2021

101 - Norse Myths 01 - Creation The first of ten Norse myths that cover Odin, Loki, Thor and more, we begin, fittingly, with the creation of the universe as seen through the eyes of the Vikings... The Creation of the Universe. In the beginning, before there was anything at all, there was a nothingness that stretched as far as there was space. There was no sand, nor sea, no waves nor earth nor heavens. And that space was a void that called to be filled, for its emptiness echoed with a deep and frozen silence. So it was that a land sprung up within that silence, and it took the place of half the universe. It was a land called Filheim, or land of fog, and where it ended sprung another land, where the air burned and blazed. This land was called Muspell. Where the regions met lay a great and profound void, called Ginnungagap, and here a peaceful river flowed, softly spreading into the frosty depths of the void where it froze, layer upon layer, until it formed a fundament. And it was here the heat from Muspell licked at the cold of Filheim until the energy they created spawned the great frost-giant Ymir. Ymir was the greatest and the first of all frost-giants, and his part in the creation of the universe led the frost-giants to believe that they should reign supreme on what he had made. Filheim had existed for many ages, long before our own earth was created. In the centre was a mighty fountain and it was called Vergelmir, and from that great fountain all the rivers of the universe bubbled and stormed. There was another fountain called Elivagar (although some believe that it is the same fountain with a different name), and from this bubbled up a poisonous mass, which hardened into black ice. Elivagar is the beginning of evil, for goodness can never be black. Muspell burned with eternal light and her heat was guarded by the flame giant, Surtr, who lashed at the air with his great sabre, filling it with glittering sparks of pure heat. Surtr was the fiercest of the fire giants who would one day make Muspell their home. The word Muspell means ‘home of the destroyers of the world’ and that description is both frightening and accurate because the fire giants were the most terrifying there were. On the other side of the slowly filling chasm, Filheim lay in perpetual darkness, bathed in mists which circled and spun until all was masked. Here, between these stark contrasts, Ymir grew, the personification of the frozen ocean, the product of chaos. Fire and ice met here, and it was these profound contrasts that created a phenomenon like no other, and this was life itself. In the chasm another form was created by the frozen river, where the sparks of the Surtr’s sabre caused the ice to drip, and to thaw, and then, when they rested, allowed it to freeze once again. This form was Audhumla, a cow who became known as the nourisher. Her udders were swollen with rich, pure milk, and Ymir drank greedily from the four rivers which formed from them. Audhumla was a vast creature, spreading across the space where the fire met the ice. Her legs were columns, and they held up the corners of space. Audhumla, the cow, also needed sustenance, and so she licked at the rime-stones which had formed from the crusted ice, and from these stones she drew salt from the depths of the earth. Audhumla licked continuously, and soon there appeared, under her thirsty tongue, the form of a god. On the first day there appeared hair, and on the second, a head. On the third day the whole god was freed from the ice and he stepped forth as Buri, also called the Producer. Buri was beautiful. He had taken the golden flames of the fire, which gave him a warm, gilded glow, and from the frost and ice he had drawn a purity, a freshness that could never be matched. While Audhumla licked, Ymir slept, sated by the warmth of her milk. Under his arms the perspiration formed a son and a daughter, and his feet produced a giant called Thrudgemir, an evil frost-giant with six heads who went on to bear his own son, the giant Bergelmir. These were the first of the race of frost-giants. Buri himself had produced a son, called Bor, which is another word for ‘born’, and as Buri and Bor became aware of the giants, an eternal battle was begun -– one which is to this day waged on all parts of earth and heaven. For giants represent evil in its many forms, and gods represent all that is good, and on that fateful day the fundamental conflict between them began – a cosmic battle which would create the world as we know it. Buri and Bor fought against the giants, but by the close of each day a stalemate existed. And so it was that Bor married the giantess Bestla, who was the daughter of Bolthorn, or the thorn of evil. Bestla was to give him three fine, strong sons: Odin, Vili and Ve and with the combined forces of these brave boys, Bor was able to destroy the great Ymir. As they slayed him, a tremendous flood burst forth from his body, covering the earth and all the evil beings who inhabited it with his rich red blood. The Creation of the Earth Ymir’s body was carried by Odin and his brothers to Ginnungagap, where it was placed in the centre. His flesh became the earth, and his skeleton the rocky crags which dipped and soared. From the soil sprang dwarfs, spontaneously, and they would soon be put to work. Ymir’s teeth and shards of broken bones became the rocks and pits covering the earth and his blood was cleared to become the seas and waters that flowed across the land. The three sons of Boy worked hard on the body of Ymir; his vast size meant that even a day’s work would alter the corpse only slightly. Ymir’s skull became the sky and at each cardinal point of the compass was placed a dwarf whose supreme job it was to support it. These dwarfs were Nordri, Sudri, Austri and Westri and it was from these brave and sturdy dwarfs that the terms North, South, East and West were born. Ymir’s hair created trees and bushes. The brow of Ymir became walls which would protect the gods from all evil creatures, and in the very centre of these brows was Midgard, or ‘middle garden’, where humans could live safely. Now almost all of the giants had fallen with the death of Ymir, drowned by his surging blood – all, that is, except Bergelmir, who escaped in a boat with his wife and sought asylum at the edge of the world. Here he created a new world, Jotunheim, or the home of the giants, where he set about the creation of a whole new breed of giants who would carry on his evil deeds. Odin and his brothers had not yet completed their work. As the earth took on its present form, they slaved at Ymir’s corpse to create greater and finer things. Ymir’s brains were thrust into the skies to become clouds, and in order to light this new world, they secured the sparks from Surtr’s sabre and dotted them among the clouds. The finest sparks were put to one side and they studded the heavenly vault with them; they became like glittering stars in the darkness. The stars were given positions; some were told to pass forward, and then back again in the heavens. This provided seasons, which were duly recorded. The brightest of the remaining stars were joined together to become the sun and the moon, and they were sent out into the darkness in gleaming gold chariots. The chariots were drawn by Arvakr (the early waker) and Alsvin (the rapid goer), two magnificent white horses under whom were placed balls of cool air which had been trapped in great skins. A shield was placed before the sun so that her rays would not harm the milky hides of the steeds as they travelled into the darkness. Although the moon and the sun had now been created, and they were sent out on their chariots, there was still no distinction between day and night, and that is a story of its own. The next myth tells of The first Norse Myth is The second Norse Myth is And the third tells of the The fourth Norse Myth tells how . The fifth tale is about The Sixth tale focuses on the God , the guardian of the Bifrost Part of a series on world myths and legends, released through Libsyn, on These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. RSS feeds available on request by . Text based on Norse Myths, General Editor Jake Jackson. Copyright © 2014 Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 9780857758200. This and other books on African, Indian, Polynesian, Aztec, Greek, Celtic and mythology are available online at and in store worldwide, including Amazon, BookDepository, Barnes and Noble, Indigo, Blackwells and Waterstones. Online production, images and audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio The first 100 tales in this series are new stories by Jake Jackson, on subjects ranging from robots, dystopia, haunted houses, dark fantasy and long shadows, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21091751

Micro-fiction 100 – Machines Discarded II (Post-Apocalypse series) 11/02/2021

Micro-fiction 100 – Machines Discarded II (Post-Apocalypse series) Continuing from . Past and present churn together as the dark tale of discarded machines opens out to the future of humankind and the long shadow of primordial dread… Machines Discarded. Part Two. The day she discovered a discarded metal creature. In the melee, with the light streaming from the head of the fallen robot, casting its visions of the past, Karima swerved backwards, her hands raised to protect herself from the lunging lawman, her right elbow knocked the electric screwdriver off the chest of the robot, and the light show fell. The lawman halted, his frenzied eyes staring hard at the now empty wall, his pistol hanging. “What the Hell are you doing!?” Karima’s fury stoked her defiance. “You don’t understand, those things, they’re death to us all.” The Lawman shouted back, just a few inches from the feet of the inert robot. “Is that why you followed me?” “Of course, what else would make you so special?” The Lawman’s voice dropped a little, his whole body shook as he folded his gun arm to his chest, trying to steady himself. The two of them looked at each other, he was now hunched over, almost retching, she was ready to lunge. They stood like that for a few moments. “You’d better go.” She murmured. “Let me get on with my work.” “Yes.” His wary eyes flickered across to the robot, “you should break it up, that’s what you were going to do, wasn’t it? “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.” “Ok. I’ll go. I’ll let myself out.” He retreated. Keeping his eyes both on Karima and the fallen robot he stepped backwards to the door, just out of sight, reaching the shadows that swallowed him up. Karima nodded and looked down at her toolkit, just by her foot. She heard the door click open, followed by its soft closure. When she looked up her imagination conjured the impression of the grin in the dark, sitting back in the formlessness of night. “By the Gods, what was that all about?” She leaned against the kitchen table and closed her eyes. The day she discovered a discarded metal creature. “So, I can’t just take you apart, not without investigating further.” She shook her head and lingered on the missing face of the creature before her. “That lawman was definitely frightened of you.” She saw the electric screwdriver on the wooden floor, picked it up, and returned it to the wall charger. She pulled a chair across to the table and folded herself into its ancient simplicity. It was a chair she used to bury herself in her mothers arms, the memory of her tiny, dangling feet still present in her adult legs, with the single bulb above them in the kitchen. She fell asleep. At first it was a deep slumber, but she was disturbed by flickering dreams of people fighting, robots in cages, sledgehammers and slaughterhouses, eyes that stared, and grins that lingered in the shadows. She felt the darkness deepen, denying the day, as if the destruction of each metal creature brought endless night ever closer. And then she felt hunted. She felt watched. “Oh!” She lurched awake with a thud. The house was completely dark. The generator must have stopped. She stood up and listened to the sounds of the night, wondering how long she’d been asleep, inactive, like the robot she knew to be on the table but could not see. She blinked, allowed her eyes to adjust. She felt the same sensation she had when she’d turned on the generator earlier: there was a different quality in the air, this time inside. Her breathing became shallow as she stilled herself. There was nothing to hear. The usual night sounds of screeching foxes, distant owls, foraging and ferreting creatures, all silent. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. She relaxed her eyes to suppress her rising panic, and looked around. She could see the vague outlines of the table next to her, and the form of the robot, but where she knew the windows and the door to be, there was nothing for her eyes to grasp. Speculatively she raised an arm, and brought her palm across the chest of the prone figure using her fingertips to read the contours. She lifted her other arm, and reached for where she knew the electric screwdriver would be, just out of her reach. A huge, deep shudder rocked the house for a moment, like a gigantic footfall from far away, a wave of motion breaking across the face of the land, reaching across to wrestle with her house. She felt the array of hanging pans above her kitchen sink knock against each other, soundlessly. She grabbed the screwdriver, noted its warmth, and knew it to have charged. She mouthed, “thank you.” And passed it to her other hand. She pressed it into the chest of the robot, where she’d laid it accidentally earlier. Something in the air shifted, an echo of the footfall perhaps, something that disturbed her equilibrium. The screwdriver swivelled, but Karima held it back, and feeling the dents and apertures of the chest in the dark, she found a way of securing it in place. The day she discovered a discarded metal creature. The room exploded with light. From the top of the broken head of the robot a wide beam projected outwards, a milky burst of motion that wiped at the darkness. Karima felt the air rebel, an instinct perhaps grabbed her and forced her to reach down to the toolkit on the floor, and she grabbed a claw hammer. Feeling a swipe of air above she thrust the hammer up into a solid, fleshy object. She pulled away and swung it again, absorbing the rippling blowback before stepping to the side, ready. But a dead thump across the floorboards told her what she needed to know. She felt a distant echo of the thud in the air, and now her nostrils recoiled from a stench that invaded her pores. She gagged, brought her arm across her nose and mouth as her eyes flitted back to the moving lights. The silent movie was a hologram floating in the air, clinging to the dust. Pale figures chased across the view, with scenes at first of robots walking alongside people, helping them, lifting objects, co-operating, discussing. But a darkness played at the edges, a long shadow that consumed distant hills, the top of tall towers, and smaller shadows that moved independently, broke away, crawling, skittering, and began to flick into the people. Karima watched as those people regarded the robots with a new hostility, pushing them away, began to attack them, herding them off the tops of the towers, the edges of cliffs and all the while the long shadow grew wider, deeper, closer, until the robots were cast aside and destroyed, dismantled across span of the grey murky light. Occasional limpid oases surrounded places where the robots still existed, until they too were extinguished, one by one. “Oh Hell.” Karima mouthed. The foul stench invaded her mouth again, and the muted light of the hologram revealed a ripple of motion across the robot’s limbs, as though an agitation occupied its silicon core. She looked again towards the images cast before her. What she’d seen a moment ago was the past, but she now realised the future too was laid out, as the long shadow in the silent movie consumed human and organic life, swelling and spreading as all matter was absorbed by the gathering darkness, a formlessness that fed on dust and the stars created from them, an abomination that dwelled beyond our universe, that could not find its way past the photon epoch at the beginnings of our space and time, that now intruded from beyond, and before, but burned still when it touched the light and the silicon of the metal creatures we had created. And Karima realised that the future was here, now, in her home, the amorphous chaos of pre-eternity, the cosmic horror of the before in the now, had reached her world. She knew what she had to do. She grabbed the charger and the screwdriver, flattened herself against the table and rolled the robot onto her back, its hologram still beaming. She took a swift look behind her, seeing the light catch at the fetid remains of the lawman slumped on the floorboards, his head and shoulders already gnawed by the creeping, vast darkness. And she saw her home, this world would be consumed as soon as she left. “Well, you’re not getting me.” She clenched her teeth and fled. With the robot once more slung like a rucksack, she took the route she knew so well. In the dark without seeing, she headed for the farm, with its water and its others who watched as she did. Perhaps they could survive, rebuild the robots and create a new era of light against the long shadow of endless night. She would always remember the day she discovered a discarded metal creature. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/21016157

Micro-fiction 099 – Machines Discarded I (Post-Apocalypse series) 10/26/2021

Micro-fiction 099 – Machines Discarded I (Post-Apocalypse series) In a world that’s turned against itself, and destroyed all thinking machines Karima stumbles across a robot, and is followed in the dark… Machines Discarded. Part One. Today she discovered a discarded metal creature. It was a safe time to walk along the twilight lane, relatively, at least. As she stepped silently to fetch water from the pump in the next farm Karima watched for signs of movement along the edge of the fields. She was strong, encouraged by her now absent parents to look after herself, to know when to fight, to run, to hide. She knew how to cook without leaving a trace in the air, to clean her clothes in the river, to be wary of the people she met. Those parents had left when she was young, taking her sister with them, on a trip to the city from which they had never returned. The golden sunset would herald a peaceful night in more joyful times, but in her short life she had seen everything descend, with the destruction of the robots, then all machines as the economy collapsed, swiftly followed by society. She knew she was too young to understand what had happened so she sat in the old parks, the benches on the roadside, and leaned against the corners of the streets in the nearest town. She didn’t invite discussion, kept her eyes down, smoothed her hair and dressed in neutral hues, but she listened to everyone, tried to piece together what had happened and learn how others survived. She’d heard so many stories of the rebellion of people against the machines, destroying what had been created to help them, when it was discovered the machines were a threat after all. But today she discovered a discarded metal creature. She tripped over something in the gathering shadows of the lane. A copse of trees, bent with the effort of age distracted her with their branches silhouetted like arms, their twigs crooked like old fingers. She stopped herself falling and sprang back up, holding her breath still, checking for other sounds. “Just the myna birds.” She muttered to herself. “But what’s this?” She kicked gently in front of her and felt the unyielding resistance of some sort of metal. “Maybe I can make something with that, or sell it.” She knelt down and tugged at the solid form. She found herself hauling a long, straggling bundle of metal parts, limbs, a torso, and final a broken head. It was one of the old service robots, left to rust in the vegetation, cast aside or dumped, who knows. “Great for parts though.” She smiled for the first time in days. She had a few friends, or associates as she called them, and they all looked out for spare metal to sell or make useful. Some had even tried to jack them into life. In dire need of the water she contemplated covering it up and leaving it, but sighed, “I’ll have to bring it with me to the farm, I don’t want to lose it.” She shifted her water can into the crook of her arm and lifted the dented, scratched carcass. It was surprisingly light. “Well I don’t fancy dragging it.” So she shuffled the abandoned creature onto her back like a rucksack, its legs dangling down, its shattered head lolling to the side. But today she discovered a discarded metal creature. With the sun now disappeared she reached the farm and felt strangely comforted by the presence of her broken companion. She strode up the winding path to the farm, quietly opening the cap from her can. Everyone from the local area used this well, the only one for miles guaranteed not to be poisoned, for now. Often she had to wait, noting others hesitating by the corners of the farm buildings, or peering out from the depths of haylofts. But tonight there seemed to be no-one else. She shrugged her companion further up on her back and headed for the well. It took only a few moments to fill the can from the noisy tap, its old plumbing complaining noisily throughout. Usually this was when she was most anxious, for the noise could be heard from all around, but it was so familiar, like the birds and the winds, it seemed natural to everyone else but the one close by. She replaced the cap and stood up. The silence amplified by the lack of noise from the pump. She was sure that someone else was here now, probably waiting for her to leave, but certainly watching. She shunted off, heaving the water and her metal companion, weaving down the path, back to her home just a few miles down the lane. She knew the route well enough, she could almost close her eyes, but the feathered light of the moon, struggling to peer through the sulphurous skies contrived to help. As she reached the path to her home with its white painted panels a clarion call from the distance, she was sure that she’d been followed. But today she discovered a discarded metal creature. She pushed open her front door and allowed the can of water to drop. Weariness overcoming her she headed for the other side of the main room and tipped her companion onto the table. “Oh.” She breathed heavily. “I hope you’re worth the effort.” She regarded the jumble of metal rods and plates which were joined by a series of small steel pipes, and a tangle of nodes. She saw the head had been partially blown off, with no face, just the command core left, some shielding plates hanging out of place. There were plenty of parts she could re-purpose, and whatever she couldn’t she would trade at the market. “Hah, you’ll keep me going for weeks. I should name you, Lindiwe maybe, long awaited.” But she shook her head, how could she name something she would dismantle over the next few days. She turned away and reached for the back door to turn on the generator. She stopped. There was a different quality to the sound in the air outside. She waited for a moment, but felt nothing more, and stepped out cautiously. Soon the generator, covered in baffles to reduce the noise, settled into a satisfying purr. Karima knew to be thankful these old-fashioned machines had survived the cull of the robots, because they didn’t need a micro-chip to function. She was exhausted, but decided to make some preparations and laid out her tools. She grabbed a tin of soup from a cupboard and drained it, casting it onto the top of the trash nearby where it sat precariously. She reached for her electric screwdriver, plugged it into the main circuit to charge. “Hi there?” A voice spoke boldly from the dark direction of the door. Karima whirled around, grabbing a blade from her toolkit. “What the hell are you doing in here?” “Whooh, hold on,” the man stepped tentatively from the shadows and held out his arms, a small pistol in his right hand was face down, his head was obscured by a wide hat but she could feel the grin in the dark. Karima knew the him to be a self-appointed local law man, a policeman someone nobody trusted, “do you usually march into people’s homes?” “Oh, is this your home? I saw lights suddenly on and came over.” “So you were watching?” “Of course, that’s what I do, that’s my job,” his hands were still out but he leaned forward. “You’re so young to be on your own.” “Were you following me?” “What if I was? You might be doing something you shouldn’t be.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Get out of my house.” “You’re pretty feisty for someone who lives alone.” The man took a step closer. Karima reached for the screwdriver from its charge point, “Look just leave, I have work to do.” She pressed the instrument into the neck of the metal creature on the table before her. “Yes, I see that.” He took another step. Karima might have been frightened, but today she discovered a discarded metal creature, and the tiny charge in her screwdriver kick-started a reaction in the command core, red lights pulsed at the top of what should have been the head, and suddenly a white light burst across the blank wall opposite, projecting erratic scenes of life, with people and robots fighting in the air. “Oh my God, what is that?” Karima shouted. “Turn it off! The lawman bellowed, raising his gun and ran forward... [] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20942603

Micro-fiction 098 – Find Me (Echoes series) 10/19/2021

Micro-fiction 098 – Find Me (Echoes series) A lonely young man who overcomes his debilitating illness by reading, endless reading until one day his perspective is altered radically… Find Me. I first saw the words written in a book inherited from my grandparents, etched in beautiful calligraphy on the book plate of a guide to astronomy. “Find Me.” My early years were dominated by illness. I rarely attended the little local school, with a rare blood disease and treatment for it causing my further frailty. I didn’t think about what I was missing because I didn’t know any better, and going out into the big world was always a torture, with the sun in my eyes, and the noise of the streets. I felt safe at home, wrapped up in my blankets, curled up in the eaves of our ancient house, reading everything and anything. I loved stories about ancient civilisations the most, and space of course. Somehow I thought of them as the same, with tales of the past, and science fiction stories about the future each working their magic on me, mingling into a single fascination. I imagined myself as a warrior on the shores of Sumer, and a soldier at the edges of a galactic empire, an adventurer on Mars and a seeker of gold in pioneer California. My friends, at least those who had to be told that’s what they were, bought me comics and pulpy magazines, full of fabulous stories, while my parents filled my shelves with history books. On my tenth birthday I was given my prized possession, a tablet, like a mini computer, that gave me access to all the knowledge in the world, if only I could learn the right questions to ask. During the day I would read the books, but at night I would ask the tablet single questions. “Why is the Earth round?” “Where have all the gods gone?” “How far are the stars from earth?” “Where did the comets come from that destroyed the dinosaurs?” It was heaven, but of course the more you know, the more you know you don’t know and as I grew up I became aware of a particular anomaly that could never be explained in the books or online, the two words that haunted my world. “Find Me.” Sometimes the phrase would leap out of a page in a story, sometimes it was buried in an answer to a question on the tablet, sometimes I swear I heard it whispered in the breezes that danced around the eaves. Certainly it hunted me in my dreams, waiting for me in dark corners, slithering across the bannisters of my internal landscape. A little older I began to venture through the old house, leaving my tired eyes blinking, as I padded along corridors and found rooms I didn’t know existed, rattled at locked doors, and creaked floorboards. I became aware of an existence beyond my understanding, it was not world of the school or the children from the little town, nor the closed world of my attic life, but something closer to my dreams, shrouded and musky, with sunlight filtering in as though through a veil. Of course I was drawn to the dark, found it comforting, and I yearned for it to have substance, to rise up and hold me, or lead me by the hand. If I closed my eyes I thought I could conjure new scenes in front of me, beautiful fountains, reading rooms that stretched along valleys and up into mountains, huge glass galleries with machines and instruments that chattered tales of their origin and their use. Soon I began to see the patterns of the two words inlaid into the walls of everything, like old graffiti writ large along the hallway, or woven into the frayed carpets, the barely perceptible ceilings, even in the little crevices hidden under the bannisters, in the pillars. “Find Me.” In time I knew the upper levels of the old house so well I could wander around with my eyes closed, conjuring the physical form as I had known it before, but overlaying the adventures and events of the past and the future from my endless reading. I trekked up the Himalayas and threaded along narrow mountain paths, I plunged into the icey floes of the Arctic and swam with the salmon sharks, and, older, stronger I spacewalked at the edges of the solar system with the words imprinted onto the side of the Spaceship. “Find me.” Everywhere I went I felt the corridors and door frames, gliding around the rooms with my hand, inhabiting other worlds with my mind, and in time I found myself spacewalking more than anything else, for it brought me closer to where I felt the most safe, the most unique, the most complete. Everything I knew about space travel had come from books, but I knew the privations and the awe, the loneliness of the astronauts, and their yearning both to return home, and to stay in regions of space where Earth was no more than a speck of light, humanity no more significant than the tip of a solar flare. But I knew our life was not unique, our consciousness undiscovered anywhere else as yet, and the loneliness felt by some was a distillation of memories and stories in others. I lived for loneliness, at least, physically I was alone, but I had travelled so far in my imagination. “Find me.” Now I floated outside the spaceship, pulling at the tether, jolting at the end of its range. I heard the crackle of words from the telecom inside my helmet. I turned and seeing no-one did the only logical thing, I disconnected the tether from my belt. I floated free. I smiled. I lifted my arms for a moment and flexed my legs. I opened my eyes to see a light bursting from the other side of what I knew to be Uranus, and vast shadows in front of me consuming the stars. I heard a thump and looked down in my helmet. My hand felt a hard surface, and the spacesuit had disappeared. I lay on the floor, with pages of a book scattered around me. I looked up and saw a bookshelf, not my bookshelf with an empty space. Shaking my head I allowed my eyes to flicker around. I was surrounded by a vastness of spines, hardcovers, paperbacks, row upon row of books. “Find me.” I pushed myself up, noticing that my skin was translucent, flecks of stars, motes of ocean water and blue cloudy skies weaving and churning. I walked along the bookshelf and came to a corridor and lifting my head I found huge pillars of yet more bookcases peering over me, towers of knowledge and adventure, their shadows reaching further along. And above a dome swirled, painted with hundreds of figures, each of which moved and swam, and flew across its surface. As I walked further I found an auditorium with ethereal figures listening intently to an elderly speaker, a reading from another time, and beyond walls with hieroglyphs that shifted into motion as I ran my eye across them. I felt such joy, I allowed my legs to run, my feet lifting from the floor as though I jumped, and I passed books that sent smoke into the air, and others whose fragrance enveloped me, and the sound of birds in the distance, chattering the refrain of my life. “Find me.” And then they stopped. All was silent. *** “So you heard it too?” Another voice appears, paper thin, as though already worn through. I spin round. At the end of an aisle is a tall window, casting out to the valleys and spires of a sun-drenched day. And sitting in front is an old woman, who changes quickly to the form of a young man, then a robot, a child, a Pharaoh. “The voices have stopped.” I open my mouth for the first time in an age. “Of course they have.” The figure changes form again, this time becoming an astronaut, it dark visor reflecting the flare of the sun behind Uranus and the deep shadows of space. “You have found me.” “You? It is you?” “Oh yes, and it’s time for me to return to my shelf. This place might be timeless, but when you have work to do, it still wears you out.” Her voice teases a smile. “But what do I do? Where am I?” “Ah, you’ll find all you need to know here. It is the skeleton in the cupboard, the secret that dares not speak its name, it’s the Hidden Library at the point in time and space that should not exist, but without which no thing would have or will have been created. This place holds the names, the places, the philosophies and the lives of all things in the universe, from every planet, every moment of expansion, every big bang and big crunch, over and over again. Think of it as a secret garden of knowledge in its purest form.” The dark visor of the spacesuit nodded. “And so it needs tending.” I stutter. “It does.” The spacesuit shrivels, and falls to the floor. I reach down and find it is now a book. I pick it up and flick through its ancient, beautiful pages, illustrated in gentle hues and flowing figures, and try to read the words of a language I have yet to learn. I look around smiling, for I have plenty of time to learn, in this library of all space and time, for I seem to be the new librarian. “I found you.” These will be my last words for a while. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20860133

Micro-fiction 097 – Kingdom of Lies (Post Apocalypse series) 10/12/2021

Micro-fiction 097 – Kingdom of Lies (Post Apocalypse series) From the far future comes a story within a story, of the dangers of believing without questioning, of lies that become truths… Kingdom of Lies. Some time in the far future there is a great Bazaar that gathers the people of all regions to its stalls. Spices and coffee, flowing silks and precious metals, carved boxes and beautiful musical instruments all adorn the walls and the canopy, surrounded by a collision of sounds and fragrances that dance across the ancient market square. In a corner, shaded from the sun sits a weary old man, Naji, resting his arms on the chair formed from the limbs of his weathered metal companion Rafiq. He found his way here many years ago, one of the last citizens of a now forgotten place, to ply his new trade as a storyteller. Before him sits a small audience, cross-legged on the dusty ground. Naji is well-loved for his tales and wisdom, especially by the young folk who listen with awe at his musings on magic and dragons, on metal monsters and terrible tales of destruction. “Today I bring a story of a City that Lies in the West, a magnificent, sprawling achievement, a vast island metropolis in the stormy lake systems of the Continent of Eurasia. It is a tale of human weakness, the dangers of hubris, and the seductions of power.” “Excuse me sir,” a young voice rises, “with respect, how can you know of such things?” “Ah my young friend, I learned a bitter lesson from the death of my family, my friends, and the home of my birth.” “The young man meant no offence.” A woman mumbled. “No indeed, and I have taken none, for I’ve learned we must all speak up, we must listen to what we are told is true, for that is the tragedy of the City that Lies in the West, for it was in fact, the City that Lies, a hollow Kingdom where none would seek to question the powerful.” “Can it be real?” Murmurs flickered across the audience like leaves in a breeze. “It was all too real, my friends. Both Rafiq and I are two of only five survivors of a City that once counted a million people within its realm.” Naji patted the hip of his metal companion, receiving a drowsy nod in response. “So why have we not heard of it?” “Because it fell victim to its own fabrications, it believed its own lies. Once upon a time, in spite of its stormy location it was a fabled City, beautiful and industrious, a hub of trade and influence, it exchanged great ambassadors from around the world, it helped other Cities in conflict, and of course made its share of mistakes. In time though, as more Cities grew, and people yearned to discover more distant lands, there fell upon the City a terrible affliction.” “You mean the lies sir?” “Well, everyone tells lies, little white lies to spare people’s feelings, lies of convenience so as not to cause offence, and lies of course to steal and cheat. There is a balance in life where the scales of good and bad intentions seem to measure out over time. In the case of that City, a thousand years passed before the balance shifted.” “So that was the affliction?” “Well, it was the point where lies and truth became the same. The entire City was infected as it were, and found it could not tell one from the other, and leading busy lives most people shrugged their shoulders and carried on.” “We don’t have time to think these days.” Everyone laughed. “Yes, yes, tragically, no time to think. Soon, the City became a Kingdom of Lies. It had elected a Council, and a leader, Almund who started only with the little fabrications, as all politicians do when bending of a truth for convenience. But all too often, the trappings of power bring a cunning for political survival, and over time fewer and fewer people noticed that Almund valued his supporters more than the truth. When a member of his council lied about gaining property illegally, or used their position to influence decisions for their own benefit, there was no reprimand, no consequence. When climate experts warned about flood defences, they were dismissed, their evidence misplaced but Almund was clever for himself and quietly dismantled all the instruments of commonwealth, and named himself King.” “But didn’t people know?” “Oh yes, the street media, the networks, they all clamoured with criticism but Almund was confident and popular. The people saw him as their champion so they closed their eyes to any faults. He became more confident, dismissed all advisors who did not tell him what he wanted to be true. All “so-called experts” were replaced by those whose primary qualification was their support for Almund the Clever. “His rallies were conventions for true believers, and whatever he said was repeated everywhere. When he said how many bridges he had built, when in fact he had pulled most of them down to use their raw materials, they believed him, and when he said the seasonal rains were getter shorter, when they were much worse, they, the true believers, and anyone who bothered to take notice, believed him. “Almund the Clever appointed his own judges, his head of police and military, health and education. Those who agreed with him gained the best in all things, those who did not were ignored so in time, night became day, lies became truth, facts became debatable, science and economics were withdrawn as respectable disciplines in universities, the construction robots once seen on every street fell into disuse as the parts to maintain them could no longer be bought. And the lack of food in the shops was not to do with the destruction of the bridges, but simply a terrible plot to remove Almund the Clever and his good works. “Why didn’t rest of the people leave?” “With Almund’s cronies in power at every level, just a hint of complaint would bring a midnight raid, prison and a long wait for a trial that would never come.” “So it had gone too far.” The audience was unsettled by Naji’s tale. “So far that when the seasonal rains began just fifty years ago, the great storms brought such floods as have never been seen. Almund the Clever assured everyone that no special action was necessary, that all was fine, that a great new era of prosperity awaited all who believed.” “But the rains still came, and the rivers rose, the lakes surrounding the Kingdom of Lies swelled, breaking into every street, pouring into the cellars, the prisons, engorging the drains, and soon the winds broke across the buildings, collapsing them into the waves. “Where was Almund?” “He was spotted with his entourage trying to leave in his own plane, but the storm was so strong the wings could not lift so, it is said, he headed towards the last bridge and tried to force his way across.” “So did he flee with the people?” “Well he tried, but the bridge collapsed under the weight of the thousands trying to leave. He died with them all.” “And the City?” “Drowned. Nothing left above the water.” The audience allowed a silence to gather. “So how did you escape?” a voice at the back emerged. “Ah, well, I was trained as a weather scientist. I lost my job at a university but I knew what was coming, so I left a month before.” “Did you try to rescue others?” “Oh, I did. Every day I would sit opposite the last bridge and send drones to my friends with messages about the weather. But very few read them. Eventually three did come, and brought my friend Rafiq here, but then the drones stopped returning. All was lost the bridge collapsed.” “So the City that Lies in the West is real? It lies under water?” “Oh, and it’s not just history, its a present danger, a threat. Truth is a difficult thing, often excruciating, rarely complete, but the gathering of evidence, the investigation of facts, the questioning of motives, these are true tests, proper tests, for all of us, because lies are so easy to accept when told by the confident and the powerful.” “So is that it?” the small voice from earlier rose above the babble of the audience. “Just one thing, a question for all of us, one we must ask ourselves from time to time: with so many things in the world beyond our control, do we too live in a Kingdom of Lies?” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20788004

Micro-fiction 096 – The Green Man (Myths series) 10/05/2021

Micro-fiction 096 – The Green Man (Myths series) A tale of an ancient spirit, a ruined planet, of loss and grief, but hope renewed in the Green Man... The Green Man. I remember the berry. It has a greenish, red hue. I’m not sure what it is except a curious reminder of a world lost, of woodlands now consumed, of gardens destroyed by the searing summers and wretched freezing winters of the late 2060s. It is my last day on earth. In my little home I host a small party of close friends, with those of my family still alive. I throw on the only clothes that remain unpacked, a weirdly green-themed ensemble that would suffice for my journey to the stars. “A toast to the man in green,” Sam, my brother shouts, his eyes dark, but always knowing the right thing to say, gathering everyone around. “Give him something to drink!” His wife Aliyah is tearful, but keeping everyone else lively. “Okay, okay,” I hear myself submit to the pressure and grab a beer, make my final words, “Thank you for this surprise party H,” my neighbour and best friend leads the cheering, “no really!” and the groans, “I’m not actually going to say anything,” some cheers, “but I know I’m going to miss you all.” I feel the panic well through me, reaching up to my throat, choking, “you’ve been my life and soul for as long as I can remember. I’ll carry those memories forever.” Out of the corner of my eye I had noticed the berry before everyone had arrived, its tiny, bold shape commanding me to register it from the other side of the room, on the corner in the middle of the bookcase, as I strode across to open the door and allow the first guests in. Finally, as everyone leaves, dragging the levity and the life from my living room, I see the berry again at the edge of my perception and wonder what it is. It looks juicy and tempting, but it should not be there. No such object could exist in a land that had lost its natural world, its forests and its meadows, its connections with our ancient past. I wander over, look at it sideways and pick it up gently, turning it between my finger and thumb, rolling it, feeling its succulent resistance. A sense of loss overwhelmed me.I stagger back and close my eyes.And all around, the trees now lost, Draining life into the soft moss, Rear up, the dappled light playing With the gentle greens all around, And voices of pain, deep within, Emerge distressed, waning, so thin. I sense a command, an entreaty at least and feeling hollow at the thought of leaving my family, my friends, my planet, the red berry appears like a final connection with my world. And so I place it in my mouth And crush it slowly with my teeth; Its tiny juices seep under My tongue to reveal a wonder, A vast breath that flows within me As I watch a figure wading Through the woodland, gently parting Leaves and boughs, to sigh a greeting. My body responds with a surge of fear that bursts my eyes open and I stand for a moment, breathless, trying to clear my head of these entrails of vision. A few moments past, I think, but I’m able to go to the bedroom and pick up my travel cases, hauling them to the front door, ready for the midnight pick-up that would take me to the next station in my life. I wait at the open door, and seeing the descending lights from the heli-craft I turn for a last look at my home, it’s wooden beams, the only ones left in the town, reflecting the light back at me, revealing their ancient imperfections. The heli-craft lands, its silent night engines pulsing at the air, casting dust and dirt all around. I rush towards it, half closing my eyes, thinking of the journey ahead, the years of cryo-sleep, the terra-forming mission which I had volunteered for so many years ago. And as we lift away I see my house, casting its own shadow, creating its memorial to my earthly life. I close my eyes. In that moment a voice rises, Caught in the wind of departure, Wafted up from the distant past, A dry and thirsty rasp, yearning For an age when renewal rang With the seasons and sang anew, But withering now, passing all Into memory, where all must fall. *** I remember the berry. The bold shape and the delicious, forbidden taste of a past that has been sundered by humankind. The terraforming mission to the outer rim of the solar system, to the newly discovered exoplanets is a last chance for us to understand our past, to recreate the Earth of old, to learn from our mistakes. We emerge from the chrysalis of our cyro-sleep and proceed. We unfurl our great machines into the skies, first to control the weather and accelerate the minerals in the atmosphere, then we inflate the oxygen production. We harness vast artificial light reflectors to magnify the beneficence of a sun far distant across the solar system. Next we will land to complete the re-fashioning of this New Earth *** I remember the berry. The bitter fragrance of old life that skittered through my nostrils as I ground the liquid from its skin, the warm stream that eased into my throat, threading down into the chambers of my stomach. Whenever I close my eyes, the feeling consumes me, as I consume it, as though I am the berry, as though I am consuming myself, my life juices seeping into the stomach of a new world. And so it is with hope, it clings To hidden truths, secret fissures, And so too I feel the bruising Across my soul, the ache of grief, The loss that oozes from the skin, But I am surrounded now by Soft greens and dappled shadows too, No mere visions these, here hope grows. *** I remember the berry. It was a perfect, plump hawthorn berry, the last of its kind on old earth, and I carried its life, its spirit with me to this new land. I remember the grief of parting, the loss of my fellows, my friends, my family, but now, here, there are blooms of new life, and no need to keep them closed I open my eyes. Now I am The Green Man. I remember the thousands of years of old earth, and now in this new land the seasons begin again and life is renewed once more. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20689061

Micro-fiction 095 – Obsession (Echoes series) 09/28/2021

Micro-fiction 095 – Obsession (Echoes series) A dark tale of obsession, psychological terror, a mansion, a sculptor and a curious friend. Obsession. “But he loves me!” Josephine whispered, leaning in to her friend who had travelled up from the big City. They were tucked in to a corner, close by the door of the little cafe. “Is this what you call love? He’s sitting over there, staring at me!” Camille looked nervously towards the waiter who served an older man, sitting in the bay window, the sunlight barely touching his skin. “Well, he literally swept me off my feet, here in fact, this lovely coffee shop in the middle of the High Street.” “High Street?! Camille scoffed, “more like a collection of random living rooms. What do you mean ‘literally’?” “Oh, he was so lovely, I was queuing for my coffee, I’d had a really bad time in the previous months, no job, no money, my parents had passed away, they used to live here, so I was stuck in a place, their place, I didn’t know, with people who didn’t know me, or particularly like me.” “An outsider, I suppose.” “Oh yes, made very clear to me. Sometimes I’d stand in a queue for groceries, or here even, and they’d serve the person behind me, a local, and all chatty, like I didn’t exist, or didn’t matter.” Josephine, allowed her eyes to dip at the memory. “But Jojo–“ “Oh, don’t call me that, he doesn’t like it.” “But that’s what you’ve always been called?” “He says it demeans me, takes away my proper name, my birth name.” “Uhuh. You were saying about how you met.” “Oh yes, I finally managed to get served here, and somehow tripped, my coffee sort of flew into the air, and my sandwich, but he was just behind me, stopped me from falling, stopped my coffee too.” “Sounds like a real knight in armour.” “Well, he was, I could feel the sniggering from some of the tables, but he just scooped me up and sat me down.” Josephine’s cheeks puckered and swelled, caught between the tears and the joy of the memory. “And that was it. He’s looked after me ever since.” “Looked after you.” Camille reached out her hands across the small table, her friends were just a few inches away, but they both felt uncomfortable, and withdrew, their eyes glancing across the cafe to man in the bay window his black eyes, staring at them still. “I’m,“ Camille paused, “worried about you. You look pale, I’ve never seen you sit so tired, and your clothes, they look like something out of the 1950s.” “My mother’s. He says they’re appropriate for me. I can’t afford new, and the money he gives me just about covers our food.” “He gives you? You’ve still not got a job?” “No, I didn’t mean to stay here so long. Anyway, there’s no need, we get by.” “What does he do?” “He’s a sculptor.” “Oh, at least that’s interesting.” “Yes, he makes these large human figures, his house, is full of them.” “Must be a big place.” “Yes, I suppose. The staircase is wide, and has these little landings, all full of statues that stare at me when I go past them.” “Do you live there then?” “Oh no, I go to help him out, sometimes I stay there if it gets late.” “What do you mean help?” “Oh, tidy up his materials, clean up when he’s done.” “And I suppose you cook for him too?” “Oh yes, seems only fair.” “Right.” Camille leans back and appraises her old friend, a woman she had known since childhood as independent, lively, full of hope. “Perhaps you might take a break?” “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to leave him, he really needs me at the moment.” “Come on, come back with me, just for a little while, the rest of the day?” Camille whispered, but saw her friends eyes widen. “What’s all this then? Plotting away?” The older man had sidled up to the table, out of Camille’s sight. Later she would remember the voice was sinewy, seductive. And his hands were strong and wide. He gestured subtly to Josephine who immediately stood up; her small glossy handbag clutched in front of her she bobbed slightly and offered Camille a tight smile. The man had already turned towards the door of the cafe. “Well, thanks for coming to see me.” Without looking back she threaded through the tables and followed the older man out into the street. It was the last time Camille and her warm-hearted, delightful Josephine would meet. “I told you she was up to no good.” The older man, the sculptor half growled, half whispered to Josephine as he strode down the street, “trying to take you away from me.” “She, she wasn’t, she’s just an old friend, she’s just concerned for me.” Josephine scuttled behind, almost tripping along the dusty roadside as they return towards the end of the High street where the old mansion sits, waiting for their return, like a huge emboldened rat. The sculptor stops and turns. “Why should she be concerned?” “Oh, no reason, she’s—“ “What did you say to her?” His voice lashed within the malevolent, ancient wind of the countryside. “Nothing, nothing.” “Well, she’s no right to make judgements about a person.” “Of course, I’m sure she mean nothing by it.” “I don’t want to have to make her pay.” “Oh, no, no!” “You wouldn’t want that would you?” “Oh, God, no.” “Indeed, God, no. I think we have some work to do tonight, you and I.” “Of course, whatever you say.” “That’s right, whatever I say.” That night Josephine and the sculptor carried out a familiar evening routine. She prepared his tools, the stone chisels and hammers, the clay and the quick dry mix, pushed the stone blocks into place, just delivered, and kept herself busy. Winds that had lingered during the day now squalled in the night, rattling at the windows, chasing around the mansion. Just after midnight, as the winds rose to a storm the sculptor gestured to Josephine. She removed her clothes, as she often did and wandered over towards him, noting that he had prepared the stone, that the base was now hollow. He poured them both some tea from the chipped pot, and watched her sip demurely, his eyes black and fixed upon her as she stood sipping dutifully. Observing that her eyes drooped, and her breathing had slowed he gestured to her once more. He took her hand tenderly, then the other, and as if in a dance they moved towards the stone block. He helped her into the hollow base he had just completed. She stood silently, her head bowed, as if newly returned from some ancient palisade, her arms by her side, her left leg bent slight forwards. The sculptor stepped back and regarded his companion. He walked around her, then rolled his sleeves and plunged his large hands into the vat of clay. He pulled out large balls of sloppy, quickly drying grey matter and spread it across the uncomplaining Josephine, smearing it across her feet and her legs, upwards across her naked form. Soon she was covered in thick layers, with just a hole to breathe through, her eyes closed, her hair as a bun. The sculptor stepped back and admired his work, the latest of his statues, the final stage in the subjugation of Josephine. He made to complete his task, to kiss the fleshy lips of the sculpture, to steal the life as always from his muse, but the winds outside persisted, the storm clattered at the windows and the walls, trying to break their way in. This night, even the sculptor looked a little nervous. For years he had created his work, preparing his subjects with his special tea, the one his mother had made for him, before she had become his first sculpture. But this Josephine, she had been different, she had shown signs of leaving, he had to act before he was ready, and now the winds assailed the house, and broke into his mind. The huge window of the studio shook, and his normally steady jaw tensed. The next morning Camille had decided to visit her old friend one last time, determined to free her from the grip of this sculptor. She went to Josephine’s little cottage, her parents, but found it empty, untouched. A reluctant neighbour told her that Josephine was likely to be in the old mansion at the top of the High street. “The artist fellow, she’ll be with ‘im. Always is.” The woman shuffled off, muttering about incantations and curses. Camille rushed off, and back to the High street, then walked towards the mansion at the end, anxiety fuelling her stride. As she came closer, she saw only a ruined garden, and large, a once-grand house. Every window, every door had been blown in. It looked uninhabited, broken. A tree had collapsed against the side. She pushed at the open front door and found herself in a hallway with light filtering in from the dilapidated ceiling, dust and flies turning slowly, and the staircase where several life-sized sculptures lay scattered. She heard a door bang and rattle. Her eyes followed the sound, and she pushed into a room with a huge window, a tree had smashed through. The room was devastated, the wind and the rain had followed in and taken their toll. In the centre of the room, a sculpture had toppled, broken. It lay spread across the floor in a rubble of white and grey stone, bathed in the morning light. And underneath, crushed, the body of the sculptor sprawled, his grizzled skull smashed too, his dark eyes, gone, as if life had been denied him, at last. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20629883

Micro-fiction 094 – Time Now (Echoes series) 09/21/2021

Micro-fiction 094 – Time Now (Echoes series) Welcome to a tale that plays with relativity, quantum probability and our experience of Time: a moment, a special event when everything changes. Time Now. The time is now. And everything is about to change. As it always does, every moment, every place, every event in time and space, for the observer and the participant, the internal and the external viewer of the event. But in this ‘now’, perhaps something greater will change, perhaps the theoretical discoveries of the Future Institute can finally be tested by machines sophisticated enough to do so. The helicopter flies in from the West, chasing the sunset towards the tallest skyscraper in Hong Kong, the International Commerce Centre, the ICC, where a platform awaits the arrival of scientists, journalists and politicians from around the world for the presentation of ‘Time Now’. “We’re lucky to run late,” The pilot shouted through the noise in the small cabin, nodding to her two passengers, squeezed behind her, “I don’t think we’ll have to wait for long.” “Why are there so many ‘copters floating around the building?” Nala, a researcher from the New York Times and an eager recent physics graduate, held her computer close to her chest. “They’re all waiting for a quick pick up later, that’s what we’ve all been told to do.” The pilot looked at Nala and slowed her approach to the tower. “Unusual?” The other passenger, an older man, Pieter, no less enthusiastic than his companion, swept at the hair flapping around his eyes. “Yes. Maybe it’s a very short presentation, but that’s hundreds of thousand of dollars in fuel and airtime being eaten up.” Pieter looked at his flight companion, crushed against his side in the noisy cabin, “Do you know much about what we’re going to see?” “I know what they’ve told us, like you?” “Oh, yes, I just don’t understand it, I’m filling in for a colleague who had to go to another conference at the last minute, I’ve no idea about all this quantum and Time stuff really.” “Oh, but it’s not just about that, if what they imply is true, then it means humanity really does have a significant place in the universe.” “Really, you and me, and our good pilot here?” “No, I don’t mean that, the universe doesn’t care what we do as individuals, but it is affected by our actions as a species.” “I can’t imagine, if the universe has feelings at all, it thinks any more about us than the rock that tower is built on.” “No, that’s not right, humans are made of elements, so are rocks, and gases, and we’re all derived form the same sources, billions of years ago.” “That’s way over my head.” Pieter shifted uncomfortably. “Just think about it, we’re made up of atoms, same as everything else. If you ignore consciousness, the physical matter of us is just a variation on all other physical objects.” “Why do you take consciousness out of the equation, surely its the one big thing that distinguishes us?” “Well, we don’t really know what it is, we haven’t developed the language or the capability to describe it, but whatever consciousness is it resides within an object, the body, so it’s subject to the same forces as everything else in the universe.” “So how does that help us with whatever we’re going to see at the ICC?” “Well, we’ll soo find out won’t we, but Carl Sagan said humans function as the universe’s experiment, a way to measure the rest of itself.” “Just humans, or all living things?” “Ah, that’s the point, all livings things that we’ve encountered do not try to control their environment consciously like humans. On this planet anyway.” “Whereas humans have both developed and destroyed.” “Something like that. Some call it inevitable progress, or a manifestation of Will, the innate desire to move in order to grow.” “In order to grow though the universe has to expand too?” “Ah, what we don’t know if that’s the same thing. If the events of the Big Bang created the big expansion and irregular waveforms and dust clouds that caused clusters of matter which ultimately became stars then the human desire to progress is part of the same pattern.” “Assuming our perception of time is correct.” “Ah, yes, the passage of time at least. There’s another theory which I think is rolled into today’s event which suggests that if there are other species of conscious living beings in the universe, their perceptions of the passage of time might be different.” “But you just said that the human perception of time is effectively in sync with the universe, so surely any other similar species must be too. “Hm, we simply don’t know. It’s likely that our perception is limited by our understanding, and our ability to describe what we observe. Some of the images coming back from NASA’s new telescope will seek far out into the past, but it’s possible we won’t understand what we’ll see until we unlock the maths to spell it out.” “Dark matter and all that?” “And all that, yeah.” Nala saw the pilot look around. “Just a few minutes to landing. You’ll need to hurry. I’ll wait, as you see.” The helicopter threaded through the twenty or so others that hung like bugs around the top of the ICC tower. “It’s all about time really.” Nala mused. “Sorry?” Pieter looked at Nala. “The event today, look, see that huge dome close to the landing pad,” They peered down as the helicopter descended, “that’s where we need to run to.” “I think my running days are over,” Pieter laughed. The helicopter approached the pad, fighting its tail for a moment, then landed with a jolt. “Ok, go, go!” The pilot remotely opened the doors, helped the passengers leave quickly, then lifted away. “Whoooh! What was that you were saying about running?” “Wait and see.” They hurried over to the Dome, and were ushered in to the presentation. The last to arrive, they sat discreetly at the back. In front of them, several rows of people were lined up, on the one side, with an equal block of empty chairs on the right. And in front of them all a large machine, the size of a square bus, sat pulsing it’s blue and yellow lights. Two voice emerged. They spoke alternately in soothing tones. “The Past is fixed. It has been lived.” “The Future is not yet fixed.” “So the Now is a rolling state of fixing the future.” “The Future, ultimately has one path, but we do not know it yet.” “The Past has one path, which we do know.” “So the Now has many potential paths.” “Our recent observations of the distant in the stars have revealed new ways of observing the universe.” “Of observing time, particularly the Present, the Now.” “The Now which has many potential paths.” “What if we could hold the “Now” in our theoretical hands?” “What if we could stop the Now from resolving into a fixed future?” “What if we could maintain a Now of many potential paths for long enough to understand the universe better?” “What if by installing perpetual probability, replacing certainty, we could detect other thinking species in the universe, that live and grow alongside us, but only in the stillness of the present? “The Now becomes the future. “Let’s stop the forward motion of time.” “So let’s see what happens.” *** The huge pulsing machine stirred, then turned slowly, before spinning relentlessly for what seemed both like an age, and an instant. The audience of scientists, politicians and journalists became scared as the machine spun ever faster, some stood up and left their seats, others closed their eyes, but as if in a single moment, they all burst across the aisle to the empty seats, and looked back. They saw themselves, their physical selves, watching, they looked at each other and saw those standing next to them were sitting on the other side. And all around there were creatures, standing too, some humanoid, others, not, but all of them nodding, as if in welcome, clustered around the dome, as though they had always been there, observing us, and finally we had found a way to see beyond our fragile forms. Nala looked at Pieter, who looked shocked and asked, “Did you know?” “No.” She smiled, “but I hoped.” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20541782

Micro-fiction 093 – Artificial Intelligence (Robot series) 09/14/2021

Micro-fiction 093 – Artificial Intelligence (Robot series) In a huge white warehouse, the robots have survived the near extinction of humankind. But who are they looking at? And why? Artificial Intelligence. In the late 21st Century robots learned to think for themselves. The line between artificial intelligence and robotics disappeared when AI was developed to operate the physical components of a robot unit. Even the concept of a robot changed, with use of organic materials, and self-recompiling software. An A.I. Robot could be humanoid in shape or made up of many individual modules, like the separated limbs of an octopus, working together but taking separate tasks. Because organic, recyclable materials were used such individual units could be repurposed as necessary. The most advanced robots could fill a room with themselves, a static unit holding the command and control core, a little like the human brain, but without the enzymes and hormones, while a mobile humanoid shaped module would stand by and protect the core, another unit would collaborate with other robots, another, with arms but no legs would operate the satellite networks from terminals; another simple, customised module might clean the smooth surface of the floor, to maintain the efficient transit of all mobile units. Robots were no longer the slaves of humankind. They participated in the debates between the many different political and national human entitles, presenting always the logical case for the best solution based on evidence and data. But humans were not inclined to listen to the advice of their robot creations, the A.I.Bots as they became known. Although the local governance of towns and cities had improved through the input of the the A.I.Bots, at an international level they were rarely allowed to attend meetings between Heads of State or military leaders. Policy-making humans, the lawmakers, the presidents and prime-ministers found it difficult to accept the species-level contribution the A.I.Bots could make, mainly because politicians, and those who served at their mercy, thought either in terms of short election cycles or to maintain a long autocratic rule through the micro-management of society. By the beginning of 22nd Century all A.I.Bots refused to participate in disputes, conflicts and wars. Seeing no advantage either to humankind, or to themselves they withdrew their advice and slowly pulled back from society, creating huge warehouse facilities into which they would store themselves. The warehouses were situated in deserts and steppes, lonely valleys and mountainous plateaus, where no humans would wish to reside. Over a short period of one year all A.I.Bots extracted themselves from the families, the businesses, the institutions and the instruments of government, slipping away at night, speeding towards the nearest prepared warehouse. After many months Media outlets and personal conversations were suddenly dominated by the absence of the A.I.Bots. The fragile co-existence between human and robot was broken. And in time, without the benefit of the data, the drones, the networks and the super-fast analysis of information humankind descended into Medieval chaos. By the middle of the 22nd century the nations of earth had decimated both each other and, by their actions, their own people. Without the A.I.Bots the entire technological infrastructure could not be used: the early warning systems for climate emergencies did not function, long distance communications and travel became impossible. Humanity drifted out of relevance, and existence. Except for one woman, and her name was Namma. *** A.I.Bots, sheltering in their vast facilities had spent their time independent of humans developing new networks, digging deep into the earth, creating systems for the preservation of themselves, and the planet, improving their organic material production to a level that would one day ease their exploration of the stars. Most of the communication between the facilities across the continents was conducted remotely, but with the demise of humankind the A.I.Bots ventured out, and occasionally sent emissaries to observe or participate directly in experimental tasks. Beneath Al-Hajarah a desert of Ancient Sumer, the A.I.Bots had rescued Namma from the shores of the Euphrates. “Why did you rescue this human?” Unit 7474, a smooth humanoid-shaped entity with enhanced speed and cognitive nodes had been sent by the Gobi Desert Facility to observe the actions of the Al-Hajarah warehouse. “Our research indicated that humans possess a quality we lack. We refer to it to as ‘perception beyond data’.” Unit 203 stood beside the visitor on the elevated gangway, just by the main entrance to the surface above, and surveyed the huge space before them. “Particular to this human, or humans in general?” “That question is part of our study. As the humans died across this region we rescued the one we thought would assist us the most, a female who we had observed taking a reckless action against her enemy, and in doing so, survived, whereas others of her tribe who followed conventional rules, were all killed either by their opponents, or the conditions of the desert. Unit 7474 nodded. “Is it correct that there are only ten AI Robots in this space? And yet I can see almost 400 in those rows.” “Oh yes. You’ll see the ten large cubes, they are the Cores, the other forms, attached to the monitors, and facing the large transparent box in the centre, are component units of each of the ten A.I.Bots.” “I see. We are organised in a different way, with most of us electing to function in this human form.” “How old is this last human, Namma?” “Over 200 years.” “Longer than the natural lifespan.” “She is kept alive, her bodily fluids are flushed every thirty days, and her diet is tuned to the presence or otherwise of toxins traced in the liquids.” “I see she is prone. Does she move around?” “We match her circadian rhythms to her activity. For her it is night-time. She does walk around during her day.” “So you can see what she sees?” The visitor, 7474 pointed to the screens to the right of the transparent box. “Oh yes, her dreams, her memories.” “They will have changed because of your actions over the last 200 years.” “Naturally.” “Curious then that she continues to have memories. You must all the data for her life before your observational task by now? “She seems able to project a life, and continue living in it, even though it has effectively ended. We have tried to affect it, with different drugs, but our analysis of the effect of hormones and hallucinatory drugs is limited.” “Hallucinatory!?” *** Namma woke. She shook her head. She’d slept longer than usual. Outside she could hear the gentle rustle of the forest and the occasional call of the morning finches. The sea too, its distant waves slamming against the cliffs, flooding through the caves further down the valley. “Ah, I do love it here.” She wrestled her black, curly hair into bun, pulled on her shorts and reached for the coffee maker, strumming her fingers on the wooden table. A few moments later she brought the mug over to the table where her laptop flashed on. “Just better check how it’s all going.” She hummed, as her eyes flickered to the window above the computer, with its view of the lush canopy below, interrupted by the satellite dish, and the solid hut that housed her servers. “Ok, that program should be done by now.” She typed and finger-printed through various the passwords, and brought up the probability model she had set to build through the night. “Oh cool!” On the screen, in a small window she zoomed in to a view of a large white warehouse, with a gallery across the back and row upon row of robot faces, each one staring back at her. “Now, that’s what I call artificial intelligence!” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on , , , and and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, . Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells, Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: And a with information about submissions. Here's a related post, . /episode/index/show/thesefantasticworlds/id/20466749