What The Dead Don't See: A Short Story

By J.L. Shojosh

In a military kingdom where the king is selected through a series of challenges and through combat, with 600 competitors in the mix, a human warrior struggles to reach the top of an alien society and claim the throne. With his inclusion in the tournament, the first human in centuries to participate, Marcus comes to uncover a deeper and more sinister plot by the king that could see an end to tradition. Will he be able to survive the vindictive and malicious whiles of the sitting king, as well as triumph over his competitors, while winning over the racist judges? Who claims the throne once all is said and done, Marcus, Braga, or Kamie maybe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Shojosh
• Release date: Sep 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005603175

J.L. Shojosh

I hope to show the universal humanity inherent in all of us. There's more that we as humans have in common with one another than the differences that sometimes pit us against each other. Through stories, I hope to highlight a few of those commonalities. Love conquers all.

Book preview

Prologue

The sound of music was indistinguishable from nature. Perched on a boulder was a short, scrawny fellow on a guitar, on the tiny island that would perpetually halt the brazen marching waters to a caressing speed. For hours, his fingers would join the enchanting chants of nature’s orchestra, there, deep in the meadowlands. The spritely seated man had accompanied the sounds of chirping, singing birds, and the passing, splashing beaver tails, in harmony with the swish-swashing of the swaying trees, in the cool pepper-like-minted breeze.

The phone rang. The strange sound had knocked off-balance the meditative character on the flat rock. It carried on ringing. The delicate atmosphere of solitude had bitterly been shattered and wrought into irreconcilable pieces. Without hesitation, the longhaired, barefooted, swarthy character, having had dipped into the river in order to get back to his belongs ashore, would find half of his body drenched. He’d mercilessly driven forward his malnourished body, against the swift currents. Onto the verdure, the steady shores, the twig like figure would splatter. He crawled, at first, and then lethargically picked himself up. The bashful current had ended up skewing his return back towards his clothes and thus away from his panic stricken phone. He walked back to his belongings in drudgery.

He answered the phone. The loud speaker icon on the tiny oval screen was alit.

Marcus.

The flustered fellow would mutter as he identified himself.

Sir, again… you have to give me your rank-details when you answer each call. And you can’t just ditch your tracker and ran o-

Come now, Reginald. Do not all your phone calls have voice recognition software? –You know it’s me. What do you want? It better be serious, man. You just ruined the one day of the month…

He sighed, remembering the new role that he played and the burden that came with it, before continuing to address his best friend and body guard, Reggie.

…your wife better be filing for divorce or something. It better be that serious.

He concluded.

Cove meeting –You have one hour.

Reginald retorted, dryly, ignoring any second nature inclinations for reciprocal banter. It was straight to business.

Ah, shit. I’m pinging you my location now. Get here, quickly, brother.

Marcus scooped up his clothes, still topless, and shoeless, he’d made a mad dash back in the direction that he’d last been before he’d ditched Reggie. How Marcus had managed to evade Reginald was a matter of one military man, for the next couple hours, making the other elite-warrior classmate’s life a living, crawling nightmare. Strategy.

In a matter of seconds, Marcus could hear the sound of the glider, the vehicle that hurtled towards him. He clasped onto his black leather jacket in full on head bobbing manner. His red t-shirt was wrapped around one of his meatless metal kneecaps, and his pants had been pointlessly rolled up to the lower-thigh region. Both clothing articles were still soaked. Marcus left a dripping trail of his movements on the sandy path that was ever the prominent feature.

Beam me up, Scotty!

Marcus yelled.

His woolen hair was vigorously tossed about by the spinning turbines up above. He’d gestured energetically to Marcus. His freed-up right arm flung about, above his head, like a flag amidst hurricane winds. As if he were a character in a videogame, Marcus’ body would disintegrate, pixilated, and phased out of existence. The smooth metallic black aircraft, no bigger than a pick-up truck, which had had an extra passenger appear, just as sooner as he’d disappeared, was now full to capacity. At that instant, a female voice would out of nowhere rant on about the newly arrived guest.

Welcome. Commander Marcus Vera. Royal, First-class. Rank A2.

I see that all this power is going to your head, uh, mate? Forgetting the names of your mates… Who’s this Scotty, you speak of?

Reginald Blake had protested, oblivious to the pop-culture reference of another world, of another time.

See? Now you’re gonna get me figured out all wrong, just because you choose not to check out the movies from earth...pshh –never mind.

Marcus scoffed, brushing off the little water that the four turbines hadn’t dried out, before being translated aboard.

Lala, play ‘Cove-playlist’.

The loud cold burst of electric-guitar sounds was, as if by reflex, knocked down several pegs in volume. Reginald had pretty much lashed out at the screen. He was far from bemused.

Reginald’s ability to get his mark safe and quickly to destination was always being tested, as was everything he’d endeavored in as an extracurricular. It was a small price that he’d have to pay, or so everyone told him, since youth, and something that he’d wound up convincing himself. These were the monarchic elections, after all, and Marcus’ involvement in them, and thus Reggie’s