"Usher´s Return" by Michael Tresca

Darkness. Great buckets of memory splashed angrily against the walls of his mind, a beautiful smile sliding along one side, a baby’s piercing scream drowning on the other. Round and round and up and down, the waves of thought struggled and fought and consumed each other in a desperate battle to define its own borders in a hopeless quest for self. Somewhere, in its depths, a man gasped for air.

When Deren’s eyes snapped open it was as if he had been clawing his way out of the very earth, treading dirt and gravel and pieces of street. He was covered in debris, sprawled like an unused rag doll in the corner of an alley. As the warm relief that he was not drowning soothed him, it was stemmed by a rising panic which clawed its way through his chest. He did not know who he was.

The sky was immediately visible above him. The sun dropped its golden ichor on his head, the dim sphere of honey hanging limp in the air in the thick haze that seemed to blur all of the sky. No clouds were visible and it occurred to Deren that perhaps one had descended upon him in vengeance.

He did not know where he was. He realized, with a start, he knew very little of himself or his surroundings.

He blinked again, like a child discovering that he can blink, and then tested all his limbs, slowly rousing himself. A few curious rats retreated from his movement, chittering angrily at the intruder. Other than his filthy little companions, he was alone.

Deren slowly rose to his feet, dusting himself off as best he could. He was dressed in a ornate jacket of black velvet with silver trim. It fit snugly about his torso, flaring at the arms with wide cuffs and an arched collar. Deren’s vanity was pleased that he had the means to own such a jacket, regardless of what his profession might have been.

His boots were of riding leather, with the entrails of the earth spattered across them. His leather pants were likewise covered with grime, fitting snuggly up and over his waist to give him a sharper appearance than his tousled appearance might have deserved. That Deren’s hair was long became immediately clear when wisps of the black strands snaked over his face as he rose to his feet. He brushed them back in irritation.

His most welcome companion of all his accompanying accoutrements was the hilt that patiently waited to be noticed. Deren’s left hand had rested upon it immediately, as if he was accustomed to its constant guardianship. It was a rapier of combative length, no fencing foil. He stroked the intricate basket hilt thoughtfully, mustering the courage to draw the blade out. It was then that he noticed it was humming.

It was a low hum, the sound of a bee buzzing angrily within the scabbard’s confines, but it was consistent, the an unnatural vibration that never ceased. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Deren drew the blade.

The pencil thin blade was indeed a blur, the vibrations so small and so quick that only the very tip of the blade was impossible to make out. Deren gave up trying to do so after squinting at it for several minutes. He placed one finger hesitantly against the flat side of the blade, just long enough to keep the base steady. The words “FLICKER” were engraved in gold script along its side.

“Flicker.” Deren muttered in a voice that was gravelly and more than a little sinister. He cleared his throat and repeated the words, but it did not improve his pronunciation.