Heads & Tales

By Karina Kantas

A diverse collection of flash and short fiction. Stories that will delight, fright and leave you questioning your sanity.

Heads & Tales - story collection

Short dark tales covering social issues as well as the fantastical.

In the genres of romance, thrillers, horror, comedy, sci-fi, fantasy, historical romance and the supernatural.

˃˃˃ From the sublime to the ridiculous with everything in between.

"What a wonderful collection of short and very short stories! If you don't have time to invest in a full-length novel, this is the collection for you. Each story has its build-up and then POW...the endings...they are something else. They aren't cliff-hangers because the story has ended satisfactorily. A fantastic sample of work that will have you wondering about the author's novels."

"Heads & Tales is an entertaining collection of quickly-read stories from across the spectrum of genres. From divine entities to supernatural creatures to relatable, real-world situations, each story gives you just enough to catch your attention before ending, leaving you craving for more, even as you move onto the next entry."

˃˃˃ No time to read a full novel? No problem.

"The lengths of the stories were perfect for those moments when you have a few minutes to kill."

"The short ones were very easy to get into and the plots were very clever, one of the best books I have read for a while."

"If you don't have time to invest in a full-length novel, this is the collection for you."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karina Karina
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781435708082

Book preview

HEADS & TALES

Karina Kantas

This collection copyright © 2007 Karina Kantas

Second digital edition Karina Kantas 2018

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Many thanks to my editor Steve Frost

https://www.stevefrostediting.com

and to Naomi Nakashima for the beautiful formatting.

and to Sarah Anderson for the fabulous pencil sketches.

Cover design by my talented cover artist, Sharon Lipman at Fantasia Cover Designs

http://www.fantasiacoverdesign.com/

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VIRUS

ESSENCE

FOOL’S RANSOM

HAUNTED BY HIS ABSENCE

JUSTICE SERVED

SOUL PUPPET

NOBEL HEART

EVE OF TERROR

DISCARDED

DINNER FOR TWO

THE HEREAFTER

CROSSED

WHERE EAGLES FLY

POISON

THE GATEWAY

TWIST OF FATE

FEAR

CRIMSON SPIRIT

MAN ON THE EDGE

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

WOODEN IT BE NICE

WASH & WOE

STRANGE WORLD

HALLOWED BE THY NAME

HEADLINE

DEATH CONTRACT

SPOOKY

BULLY

UNCLE BO

About The Author

VIRUS

W ell, that's it. Now we wait again, Maria announced.

Phil watched her sit at a cluttered desk to scribble yet more failure notes. His eyes did not linger for long though. He scanned the laboratory. It might be the last time he'd see it. Beds lined the walls of the spacious room, virtually hiding its sterile, white-tiled floor. How long until we see results this time — if any? he asked.

Same as the others. Twelve hours.

That doesn't give us much time to administer a vaccine.

No. And — yes, before you say it, you're right — there's no guarantee we'll ever find an acceptable vaccine.

On each bed lay a test subject. Even those that had succumbed remained, since the examination of their rotting bodies still offered the faint hope of a cure.

Phil knew though that the virus had won this war. There was no hope. Eight months of this. And nothing but 665. The committee was right.

Phil turned his face away from the stomach churning sight of the rotting, deformed victims, and stared at his co-worker. Although he knew what her reaction would be, it was time to tell her. Maria was obstinate — so certain she'd find a cure.

Phil walked over to his colleague’s desk. Each step weighed heavily on him, like the weight they'd shouldered as a team these past few months. He rested his hand on her shoulder.

Maria? he whispered.

Her eyes shimmered. Yes?

Phil blinked and spoke. The committee has decided if this last trial is unsuccessful they'll go with 665. They've already begun to manufacture it.

What? You're joking?

They say there's no more time to be choosey. It's 665 or total annihilation.

Choosey... Don't they realise what will happen? 665 has such awful side effects.

Sorry. Maybe choosey was the wrong word, and yes, they know the peril. I’m sorry Maria, I have to say I agree with them. What other choice do we have?

I'd rather die.

Phil turned and looked at the bed beside him. Clear plastic sheeting did nothing to hide its occupant’s demonic deformities. It was the only way to describe the state of this once-person. Its new facial appearance removed any identification of what sex, race or age test subject 665 had once been.

At least it's a life, Phil assured.

We'd be like a totally different species, Maria said. And, there may be other side effects.

We don't have time to find out. The countdown has begun. Half the population is infected. Six hundred and sixty-four test subjects died, 665 was the only survivor.

Yes, but with diabolical consequences.

Nevertheless, the committee has decided.

Maria rubbed her eyes. But what of our future? What about our children? Maybe – maybe, they won’t be born with mutations. Who'd be the freaks then? She ran a hand through her hair in frustration.

I can't give you the answers you seek, Maria. No one can.

Maria sighed. So we wait. And in eleven and a half hours we'll know our fate.

Two heads simultaneously turned towards the large, white clock on the wall. The thick, black hands held a new responsibility now — to count time down for 666 — the number of the beast.

ESSENCE

A h, I was wondering when you were going to show, John said, in his singsong tone.

It has been some time since we last met, Ezabath answered.

Ezabath stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene.

The two stood facing one another; a shrouded body lay on a metal slab, between them.

It bothered Ezabath to see John in such a state. Gone were the crisp shirts and ironed slacks, replaced now by soiled, green trousers, a worn, grey sweatshirt, and a cream Macintosh coat. John looked like a traveller who had journeyed far and hard. It also angered Ezabath that John hadn’t bothered to wash his hair before their encounter. John’s normally shiny, blond hair was now lank and dry looking.

Ezabath, prided himself on his own personal appearance. His straight black hair was neatly tied in a ponytail, and his outfit looked as though it had come straight from the dry cleaners.

Do you not desire alternative battle grounds? Ezabath asked.

If you would allow me to perform my task, there would be no battle. John answered.

Ezabath remained in his position and laughed, his deep tone bouncing off the bare walls. Then, as if a switch had been operated, his laughter ended as quickly as it had begun.

Where is the fun in that? he asked.

Fun? John questioned.

Tell me, John, do you not tire of these games? Join me. I hold my hand out to you once again.

Ezabath stretched out his hand over the corpse, knowing that John would not take it. The swift movement caused Ezabath’s familiar scent to waft into John’s face. He had no choice but to breathe in the odour of burnt wood and sulphur. John’s own scent, similar to candyfloss, was just as repulsive to Ezabath.

For a moment, the hand lingered, and then it was withdrawn.

Before we begin, Ezabath said, tell me why he sent you. Why is this mortal’s soul so important?

John stared into Ezabath’s eyes. Behind the blackness he saw powerful intelligence and intense anger. John looked up to the ceiling before replying.

Mine is not to question why. My Lord wishes the soul to be saved. I am here to carry out my Lord’s command.

My Lord desires this too. However, the soul belongs to us, as well you know. What interests you? Why this man? It is not often he claims a corrupt soul. What has this man done in his life to deserve your Lord’s forgiveness?

John did not answer. He concentrated hard to block his thoughts from Ezabath.

The man’s eternal salvation had nothing to do with his mortal life, as he had led a wicked and unholy existence. It was what would happen in the after-life, which called for John’s intervention.

The man had knowledge, which if possessed by Lucifer, would cause a rift in the Heavens. God’s only alternative was to claim the dammed, thus, removing Lucifer’s weapon from his grasp.

Ezabath’s thin lips pursed as he attempted to break into John’s thoughts. Eventually he gave up his struggle and shrugged off his annoyance.

Why do we spend eternity in battle? Ezabath sighed. For what? These pathetic mortals for whom I care nothing? Tell me, John, why do you care what happens to them? Why does he send his messengers to watch over them?

For love, Ezabath, John answered. My Lord loves them all, but then you would not understand the word, would you? All you know is hate.

I loved once, Ezabath answered distantly, his face etched with the sorrow of forgotten memories.

Return to your master, Ezabath, inform him he has lost this battle. But there will be others.

Ezabath smirked.

Lost, he sniggered. Hardly.

With that, he tore away his long black coat. Two huge feathered wings opened and flapped, grateful for the freedom.

In answer to Ezabath’s action, John did the same. As his cream coat fell, his white wings opened out to span the width of the morgue.

Two angels faced one another, prepared to do battle for the right to possess one man’s soul.

FOOL’S RANSOM

T here is only enough money for the payment of one ransom. So, the other dies, the gypsy declared.

Both husband and wife were blindfolded and tied to a large tree in the forest where the ambush had taken place.

‘They can keep her,’ the husband thought bitterly. ‘I will not pay a single sovereign to have the unfaithful slut back.’ And. as he would not stoop so low as to beg for his own life, he decided to leave the