On this sunny first Sunday of May the WPN team takes pleasure in introducing to you a young writer by the name of Eoin Madigan.
Eoin was kind enough to send along this wonderfully gruesome piece of short fiction titled Falcata and in doing so has the distinction of being the lead post from authors of the outside world.
When reading Falcata, we highly recommend that you have a cup of hot and heavily sugared tea or coffee and perhaps even a furry animal by your side. (Fish and reptiles are acceptable but not necessarily preferable) This one is not for the squeemish. Enjoy!
I tightened the belt around my arm just below the elbow, grasping it with my teeth. I’d swallowed some ill-gotten clotting pills about an hour beforehand and was counting on their effectiveness. I poured half the bottle of vodka over my tender left wrist and the smell of it dizzied me. The chopping board was on the counter in front of me; dry but still hot from the boiling water.
I held my bruised left hand out in front of me and studied my fingers, rippling them like a wave. With my right hand I picked up the third century B.C. Celtiberian blade, in awe of its cruel weight. The single-edged sword was strange in that it curved forward and the better part of its weight was towards the point. My left hand shaking, I poured the remainder of the vodka over the two feet length of the sword. The horn scales of the weapon’s hilt dug into my right hand as I gripped it. I put down the empty bottle and laid my left hand flat on the chopping block.
I looked at my pale, drawn-out face in the kitchen window. Tears fell from my eyes as I closed them and took a very deep breath…