Dreams of the Damned, Vol. 3

By Edward Fortman

The dark journey moves onward, into and finally through a forest where the trees' roots drink from the blood gathered by a path encrusted with razor-sharp stones. At the end of the forest, we meet, once again, the wretched soul that paints the dreams of the Damned in a whispering voice, full of death. We'll learn of a boy who plays a card game that was invented to see who lives to eat; the legend of a phial whose power is spoken of only on the darkest nights while the children sleep; the silly saga of the folks in Wickersheim, where puerile whippersnappers, old as may be, tug on pant legs, then trod forth with glee; plus, a vision where power stands atop a pedestal, looking down. More visions lie within this tome, painted by that whispering voice, speaking for the Damned, and granting peace to those lost souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Fortman
• Release date: Aug 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991399543

Edward Fortman

Edward Fortman lives in Canton, Ohio, with his gal and their two crazy boys. Aside from working on his own writing, he and his gal own and operate a small business, meaning that he spends much of his day cussing about how there's always too much work to do.

Book preview

Frontispiece (cont'd)

(A few notes, before we begin.)

Dreams of the Damned, Vol. III

Short Fiction, Poetry

& Miscellany

by Edward Fortman

Twisted Crapola books

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 EtherWind Communication Services, Inc.

Letter From the Editor

All of us here, at Twisted Crapola books, apologize for the lengthy wait for Volume 3. Since the wait was longer, the book is slightly longer, hopefully to improve your enjoyment. And, to anyone who considers themselves a fan of the Dreams of the Damned series of books, know that you are our most important and highly regarded fans. We don’t wallow in respect from others, since we’re not needy. Instead, we like to share such respect. So, we all bow to you, Gentle Reader, in a gesture of shared respect, and with the promise that Volume 4 will be out in a few months, for your pleasure. With a sloppy salute, we bid you good tidings.

Dedication

During our lives, a time may present itself when the quest for reason comes to an end and violence must ensue, caused not by the hand holding the sword, but by the fist seeking to destroy, not lofty ideals, but friends, families, our very selves. Such violence is personal, rather than political or idealistic, whether it strikes a soldier on the battlefield, a passer-by on a street corner, or even our selves, in our homes. Though we should always seek to avoid the call to arms, such a call may well be inevitable at times. So, I dedicate this work to many: to the unwilling victims of such violence, may they find peace; to those who’ve retaliated against such violence with unrelenting force, may they embrace peace afterwards; and to those who’ve successfully staved off such violence with either a grave threat or the promise of forgiveness, may they continually embrace peace.

Table of Contents

• Frontispiece

• Dedication &c.

• By Way of an Introduction

• Power

• Ad Interim • I

• A Quick Game of Death

• Ad Interim • II

• Dead in a Ditch

• Ad Interim • III

• The Phial of Angst

• Ad Interim • IV

• Hatred

• Ad Interim • V

• A Tug on the Pant Leg

• Ad Interim • VI

• Modern Knight

• By Way of a Parting

• Author Biography & A Note on the Artwork

• Contact, Legalese, Acknowledgements &c.

By Way of an Introduction

(At long last, Volume 3 is here! Published with the hope that you, Gentle Reader, will enjoy our offerings of fiction, poetry, historical artwork and the inimitable Painter of Dreams … )

( … who spins yarns and fables, myths and legends for not only you, but also for the Damned, who seek to have their stories told, so that they may rest easy, rather than float in the horrific realm between life and death … )

( … where visions reside and the other half of life does dwell, where stories are dreamt over and over and are only relieved with the telling of the tale by the speaker for those who’ve been damned, the Painter who weaves these unknown tales and untold myths.)

(And, let us remember the quest, its importance we may ponder but have yet to discover, even though we travel upon a road most evil through a forest where sharp rocks, embedded into the ground, awaiting a stumble or a trip in order to feed … )

( … the strangest earth, its packed dirt thirsting, in its slow manner, for the refreshment of what courses through veins, arteries, the very hearts of travellers who only seek to traverse this path, should only one, and maybe more, trip on these course rocks … )

( … only to land on a razor’s nest of blades awaiting a throat. But, you and I know better, we watch for the rock or root standing up to trip the aloof, the wanderer, the poor, forlorn sod escaping a life far worse than death … )

Yes, our trek through the forest has been long and rough. But, wonder of wonders! The trees finally opened their arms and spat us out onto a road, running alongside the edge of the forest. Not only a road, though. An inn sits directly across from us, across the road, with welcoming lanterns, sturdy walls, a solid roof and wooden floors and, most importantly for those with enough coin, a bath!

Such scant rewards that we hold dear; how silly it seems! Think, again, though, that we’ve not been proper city folk for an obscene amount of time. Remember the trollies, drawn by horses, along tracks of steel? Or the railroad, running along the outskirts of town, and locomotives pouring black smoke out their stacks and steaming to their stops, with mail, news and, most important of all to those waiting, people! Friends and lovers, countrymen and political enemies (at least so far as debate is concerned for, there, we tolerated no violence), and long awaited and sorely missed family all milling together on the deck, a joyous clump of simple humanity. And …

Wrong suggestion, perhaps? For, it was the train that brought us the news to travel west on foot, until we passed the cities and towns, and move onward to the edge of the forest, where we were to camp and begin traveling by night.

This, we did, as told. The forest was sparse at first, but after meeting the Painter of Dreams the first time, it began to thicken and turn into that funereal bloody path we trod, at the end of which we found the dark storyteller, cloaked in black, again. The scythe we received from the creature’s hand helped to stave off the blood lust of the trees until brandishing it and holding it while sleeping turned out to be enough. Perhaps the steel reminded the ancient trees of axes? Perhaps. But, no matter how you twist, turn, consider or conceptualize ideas, we traversed the forest alive, and that is what matters most.

And