Monday, May 26, 2025

The Last Warrior

 


Thirty years ago, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer, and four days later – Memorial Day – I was on the operating table. I was thirty-one years old, married to my first wife for seven years, and our first daughter was only four months old. I was terrified, of course, but primarily because I didn’t want to leave my daughter without her father, and I didn’t want to miss getting to see her grow up.

 

There were a few minor snags – at first the surgeon couldn’t find one of my kidneys on my CT scan images (which is how I learned I have a pelvic kidney on the left side), and the spinal block I’d gotten along with other anesthesia somehow made it so if I tried to sit up, I felt instantly dizzy and needed to vomit. I spent six hours lying prone in the recovery ward with a very patient nurse who sat with me the entire time, until a doctor walked by, saw me, frowned, walked over to my bed, skimmed my chart, then asked the nurse, “What’s wrong with him?” She explained, and he told her to give me a drug whose name I don’t remember. “He’s young, he’s strong, he can take it,” the doctor said. Then he turned to me, said, “We’ll get you out of here,” then walked off. I never learned his name, and I didn’t know what they were going to put into me, but I didn’t care, so long as I got home. Whatever that medicine was, it worked – until I was within three steps of my couch. Luckily, I managed to lie down before I threw up everywhere. When I was discharged, I was told this weird effect would wear off by morning, and it did. Otherwise, the surgery was a success. And as a bonus, I felt absolutely no pain even though I had a finger-length incision on my abdomen the entire time I was healing.

 

I had to have follow-up CT scans for five years, but in general, testicular cancer has a high survival rate, and I was fine. I’d been writing and publishing short stories for several years, and when I got the opportunity to write a story for Marty Greenberg’s anthology Elf Magic, I decided I’d use my experience with cancer as part of the tale. The result was “The Last Warrior.” Elf Magic came out in 1997. My oldest daughter was two at the time, and I loved every second I got to spend with her, even the hard times when she was sick, or wouldn’t sleep through the night (I was always the one who got up with her), and when I had to change a particularly messy diaper. And I was privileged to experience it all over again when my second daughter was born in 2000.

 

“The Last Warrior” has never been republished, and I decided to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of my surgery by sharing the story with all of you. The sections that take place in our world are all drawn from my real life. As for the other sections, who knows? Maybe I lived them, too, somewhere and somewhen.

 

If you want to learn more about the signs and treatment of testicular cancer, you can go here: https://tinyurl.com/4aunh8p7

 

THE LAST WARRIOR

 

TIM WAGGONER

 

Originally published in Elf Magic, DAW Books, 1997

 

"Rise, Alfarnin!"

The voice—a woman's, he thought, an old woman's—seemed to come from a great distance. Alfarnin tried to open his eyes, but he was tired, so very tired...

"There is no time for this, elf! Get up! Skuld commands you!"

He felt a pair of age-weakened hands tugging on his arm. He tried to pull away and roll over so that he might shrug off the old woman and give himself up completely to the darkness she was so determined to drag him away from. But he found himself able to turn only partway. Something was blocking him.

He opened a weary eye and found himself staring into the horrid, twisted face of a troll. With a cry, he sat up, right hand instinctively groping for a weapon.

"Don't bother, elf," said the old woman disdainfully. "It's dead. Everything's dead here. Save you, that is."

Alfarnin saw she spoke the truth. The troll's eyes were wide and staring, its hairy chest a ragged ruin. He lifted his gaze from the fell beast to see he sat in the middle of an endless expanse of corpses, all clad in battle gear. A vast array of weapons protruded from the bodies—spears, pikes, swords, axes—and blood covered the twisted, still forms like a crimson blanket.

He looked down at his own simple tunic. Once it had been the plain gray of an elven farmer; now it was a stiff, dark red edging toward brown. He touched his long silver hair and found it clumped and matted with dried blood. He ran a hand across his chest and stomach, searching for wounds, but those he discovered were, for the most part, minor, though they hurt like blazes.

"Your weapon, warrior." The old woman sneered this last word.

Alfarnin turned to look at the woman for the first time. She wore a black robe, hood drawn forth to cover her head, completely obscuring her features. If it hadn't been for her quavering, cracking voice—and for her wrinkled, age-spotted claw which held forth his hand scythe—he couldn't have guessed at her age.

He took his scythe, noting that the dulled blade was caked with flaking red-brown. "I was working in my fields when I heard Heimdall's horn," he explained. "I had little time to prepare before the battle was joined." The final battle: Ragnarok.

He could remember little after Heimdall's signal had echoed throughout the universe, summoning all creation to the last great war. To Alfarnin, it had been a blur of images—flashing blades, thundering war horses, razor-sharp claws—and a cacophony of sound—the battle cries of the gods, the answering bellow of giants, steel clanging against steel. And above all, the screams of the dying. So many screams.

But it was over now. The warriors, both those who fought for Light and those for Dark, were still, their voices silenced forever. And somehow, miraculously, impossibly, Alfarnin, a simple tender of crops, was the lone survivor.

And then he remembered what the old woman had named herself. "Skuld, you said. You are one of the Norns, the three Fates."

"I am. She whose province is the future."

Alfarnin looked out across the endless open graveyard that surrounded them. There were no buzzing flies, no feasting gore crows. The air was motionless, flat and dead.

He spoke in a weary, hollow voice. "After this day, I would think there is no future."

Skuld chuckled dryly. "That, my dear elf, is entirely up to you."


Gerald Winnick, all of twenty-four years old, stood at the altar sweating and waiting for the Wedding March to begin. His rented tux was too loose around the waist and too tight around the throat. He was having trouble breathing, and what little air he did get in lay hot and heavy in his lungs.

His groomsmen stood beside him, three of his best friends from high school, but the way he felt, he might as well have been alone. They weren't the ones getting married today, they weren't the ones gambling their entire future on the next half an hour or so.

It wasn't that he didn't love Laura—he did—but the idea of being married to her, being her Husband with a capital H, freaked him out more than a little. Intellectually, he knew it was just a ceremony, a few words and an exchange of rings, a confirmation of a love that already existed, no big deal.

But emotionally, it felt as if something new was about to happen, something almost magical. His whole world—and Laura's, too, of course—was about to change forever.

The priest smiled at Gerald kindly, then gave a nod for the organist to start playing. As soon as the familiar strains of the Wedding March began (though Gerald had never heard them outside of a movie or TV show before), Laura appeared in the rear of the church, holding on to her father's arm. They stood there a moment, then began slowly walking forward arm in arm. Laura was beaming, and her father looked as if this were the proudest, and perhaps in a way saddest, day of his life.

Gerald started trembling. He loved Laura, but she was a bit self-centered, tended to think of herself before anyone else, and while she expected him to share every little feeling he had, she was reticent about sharing hers. And a dozen other things, minor complaints, really, mostly tiny quirks and eccentricities which everyone had, Lord knows he had his share, but when you took his weirdness and hers and put them together...

Laura and her father reached the foot of the altar. Her father kissed her on the cheek, then she kissed him. Then they turned to face the priest.

"Who gives this woman away?" the priest asked in a voice which filled the church. It seemed to Gerald as if God himself were talking.

"Her mother and I," Laura's father answered clearly. Then he gave Laura a last kiss and sat in a pew next to her mother while Laura mounted the steps to stand next to Gerald. Her maid of honor stepped down to arrange her train, then took her place once more.

The priest began talking but Gerald wasn't listening. He looked at Laura and she smiled at him, a smile full of love and hope, with not a hint of nervousness. Gerald felt her love for him, and while it didn't wash away his doubts completely, it went a long way toward blunting them.

He knew then that he had been waiting for something, for some sort of cosmic guarantee that he was doing the right thing. But it was a guarantee that wasn't forthcoming. He knew now that there were no sure things in life, and that a big part of love, real love, was faith. The question was, did he have that kind of faith in Laura? In himself? In them?

When the time came, Gerald said "I do," and, even if his voice quavered a bit, he was sure he meant it.


"Wake up, elf!"

Alfarnin opened his eyes and rubbed the sleep out of them. The sky above was the same dull gray it had been when he'd lain down. Skuld had said there was no time anymore, so there would be no sunrise, no sunset, just endless gray.

Alfarnin rose to his feet. Skuld stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, and while the elf still couldn't see into the shadowed depths of her hood, he had the impression she was looking at him disapprovingly.

"You certainly sleep a good deal," the Norn grumbled.

Alfarnin brushed dirt from his tunic. He had had to move several bodies in order to clear a space to sleep. There was no way he could move a giant, even though some of them were hardly larger than man-sized. Nor could he move one of the Aesir, not just because he was loathe to dishonor one of the gods even in death, but because despite their normal size, they tended to be made of sterner stuff than men and were far heavier than they looked. The dwarves, while less dense structurally, were still heavy enough, and, being a light elf, Alfarnin couldn't bring himself to touch one of the hated dark elves. So in the end, he had moved some of his own lithesome people and prayed for forgiveness to the spirit of Frey, who among other things was—or rather, had been—god of elves.

"I traveled quite a distance yesterday." Alfarnin realized such concepts as yesterday and tomorrow had no meaning any longer, but he knew no other way to express himself. "I was weary."

Skuld snorted. "An illusion, nothing more. Your body felt tired because it expected to. But without Time, you cannot tire." She gestured toward the endless expanse of bodies that surrounded them. "Have you not noticed that the corpses do not rot? That rigor has not claimed them? They are as fresh as the moment life fled them. No time is passing here, elf, because Time itself has died."

"If Time has died, then why do I seem to experience it? Why must I still walk one step after the other? Why do I still sleep and dream?"

"I told you, it's an illusion!" Skuld said impatiently. "You only think—" She broke off. "Did you say you dreamed?"

Alfarnin nodded and told the Norn of his strange dream, of being a young human on the day of joining to his mate.

Skuld said nothing at first. Finally, she made a dismissive gesture. "We exist in an in-between state here, between Life and Death, Existence and Nothingness. Odd experiences are to be expected in such a place."

Alfarnin shrugged. He was no mage or philosopher, just a simple farmer. Such weighty matters were beyond him. Still, it had been an interesting dream. Alfarnin himself had never been fortunate enough to be allowed to take a wife; the elf lord who ruled the lands he farmed had never seen fit to grant his permission.

Alfarnin put the dream out of his mind. He had work to do. "Are you going to accompany me this day, Skuld? Or are you going to remain behind as you did yesterday?"

"I have no need to walk with you, elf. When you reach your destination, I shall be there."

"Very well." He started walking, picking his way carefully around the bodies of the fallen warriors, stepping over them and, when he had no choice, on them. He walked in no particular direction, for according to Skuld, he didn't have to bother with that. He simply needed to concentrate on his goal and continue forward.

It didn't seem so simple to him. As Skuld had explained to him "yesterday," he was to find the body of Allfather Odin, and tear the heart from His chest. And then the elf was to bear the heart to Yggdrasill and use it to renew creation itself.

Alfarnin, as did all who lived, knew the prophecy of Ragnarok and what was to occur afterward. The gods and their allies would perish while bravely standing against the forces of Darkness. For a time, the world would be as ashes, cold and barren, but then a spark of life would return and creation would begin again, new and vital.

But the tales had never said exactly how the world would be restored. But Skuld had known. Being the Future, how could she not?

He remembered how she had explained it to him.

"Think of Existence as a wheel, elf," she had said not long after his first awakening. "A wheel which is constantly in motion, turning slowly from today to tomorrow, one day following the next in stately progression until the end is reached and the wheel grinds to a halt. But the Wheel is circular; it has no true beginning and end. All it needs to resume its turning is a push. A push which you shall give, elf."

"Me?" he had said, incredulous. "Such a task is for a god, or a great hero! I'm not even a proper warrior!"

"True," Skuld had agreed, a little too quickly for Alfarnin. "But you are all that remains. I would do it myself if I could, but I cannot. The Future can make itself known, but it cannot create itself."

Alfarnin hadn't been sure he understood the difference, but Skuld said that was the best explanation she could give, and he had no choice but to accept it.

"What will the new world be like?" he asked.

"Much the same as the old. The wheel has turned many, many times before this. There have been other Ragnaroks; this was merely the latest."

"Have I always been the only one to survive?" Alfarnin asked.

Skuld laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, elf! The cycle of Existence has its variations. There is always at least one survivor of the final battle, sometimes more, and I always guide them so that they might restart the wheel on its endless journey. This is the first time you have survived the battle. Last time it was Loki." She shook her head. "Getting him to start the wheel again took quite some doing."

Alfarnin hadn't particularly wanted this duty, what Skuld called "a great honor." After the horrors he had witnessed—and committed—during Ragnarok, he would have rather lain down and surrender to the ultimate darkness, so he might forget.

But if he truly was the only one left, he had no choice, did he? Besides, Skuld had assured him that when the wheel began its new cycle, he would eventually be reborn, quite likely in a higher station because of his actions.

"Who knows?" she had said, "you might even end up a lesser god."

So now here Alfarnin was, traipsing through the grisly aftermath of the final battle, searching for the corpse of the Allfather, without any more guidance other than Skuld's assurances that as long as he continued on, the elf would eventually stumble across—

He stopped. There, in the sky. Was that... Yes, it was. Off in the distance, circling in the air, was a large black raven. It seemed Skuld had been right; he had found what he was looking for.

Alfarnin hurried forward.


Gerald, all of thirty now, stood next to his wife, arm around her shoulders, and tried to radiate calm and strength, despite the fact he was scared to death.

Laura wore a blue housecoat and ugly green slippers, the latter provided by the hospital. Her hair was limp and mussed, her face pale, eyes red from crying. Gerald felt like crying himself, but he wouldn't allow it, not in front of Laura. She needed him to be strong.

Make that they needed him to be strong. Gerald turned away from Laura and looked through the window at the tiny being who, along with his wife, he’d made. Nurses bustled around the small (so small) infant, a girl, who didn't have a name yet because she'd come so early. Eight weeks, to be precise.

The nurses checked various tubes and monitors while Gerald's tiny daughter lay motionless within the sterile warmth of her incubator. It was a poor substitute for a mother's womb, but it would have to do.

Their baby looked so frail, so weak, so tired, as if it exhausted her just to breathe and pump blood through her not-quite-finished body. She needed a name, they had to think of a name. But right now, Gerald couldn't do anything except hope to God the tiny thing lived a few more hours.

Tears began to flow down well-traveled paths on Laura's cheeks. Gerald tore his gaze from his struggling daughter. "It'll be okay, honey," he said. He forced a smile. "She's a fighter, just like her mom." He didn't quite manage to sound as confident as he'd have liked, but Laura smiled at him gratefully and wrapped her arms around his waist. And they stood like that, together, and watched, waited, and prayed.


Alfarnin stopped, disoriented and dizzy. He stood before the shaggy, blood-matted corpse of a great wolf, many times larger than any ordinary lupine. This was Fenrir, child of Loki, and, according to the prophecy of Ragnarok, the slayer of Odin. And above, circling slowly, was the midnight-black raven.

Alfarnin didn't recall anything from the moment he had first spotted the raven in the sky, didn't remember crossing the intervening distance. No, that wasn't quite true. He had had another of those strange dreams. Only this hadn't been a dream, had it, for he had been awake. A vision of some kind, then. But a vision of what, exactly, Alfarnin wasn't certain.

"Something wrong, elf?"

Skuld stood beside him, as she had promised. Alfarnin started to tell the Norn of his vision, but then decided against it. It hardly seemed important, not compared to the task which lay before him. He shook his head and examined the body of the huge beast that had been the great wolf Fenrir.

From the tales Alfarnin had heard all his long life, he had expected Fenrir to be quite a terror, but despite the wolf's gigantic size, it made no more impression on him than the thousands of other corpses he had seen in the timeless interval since first awakening. Perhaps the horrors he had witnessed during Ragnarok and after had numbed him. Or perhaps even the dire wolf Fenrir didn't seem so fearsome when compared to the sick, helpless terror of a parent desperately praying for the survival of his ailing child.

"Elf?" the Norn prompted, a measure of concern in her voice.

Alfarnin shook his head once more and did his best to cast the vision from his mind. He was an elf, not a man of Midgard, and work lay before him.

Fenrir's jaws had been torn apart by Odin's son Vidar, taking vengeance for his father's death. Or so it must have been if the tales held true.

"It strikes me as odd, Skuld."

"What does, elf?"

"That Odin and the other Aesir, knowing how Ragnarok was to turn out, did nothing to try to change it."

Skuld's tone was that of an impatient parent lecturing a slow-witted child. "It was predestined; there was nothing they could do but play out their assigned roles. The Wheel turns, and both gods and mortals follow, whether they like it or not."

"They hardly seem like gods, then, do they?" the elf mused. "More like dancers stepping out their well-rehearsed movements to someone else's tune."

"Such is the way of existence," Skuld said.

Alfarnin said nothing. Instead, he pointed his hand scythe at a black form which lay partially buried beneath one of Fenrir's huge front paws. "Another raven." He knelt down and prodded it with the blade of his scythe, but it didn't respond. "Dead."

"Huginn," Skuld said. "The raven of Thought. When Odin perished so did it likewise, for the Allfather was done with thinking."

Alfarnin gestured to the other raven still circling above. "And that one?"

"Muninn, the raven of Memory. Odin may be gone, but as long as we are here to remember Him, Muninn lives on."

Alfarnin nodded, though the Norn's explanation made little sense to him. "What do I do now?"

"I told you—you need to retrieve the Allfather's heart." She pointed to the belly of the great wolf, and Alfarnin remembered: Fenrir was supposed to devour Odin.

He glanced at his scythe's dulled blade. It would hardly do the job. He began to search the fallen warriors, looking for a dagger—a very sharp dagger.


Hours later—or at least what seemed like hours later—Alfarnin stepped back from the wolf's open gut and dragged a gore-smeared forearm across his sweaty brow. His gray farmer's tunic was soaked with blood, which refused to dry: another feature of the timelessness of this place, according to Skuld. Alfarnin wished he had possessed the foresight to remove his clothing before beginning his grisly work.

"You are close, elf," Skuld said. "I can feel it!"

Alfarnin took a deep breath, ignored the pain from his unhealing wounds, and stepped back into the beast's carcass. After a bit, he reached what he thought was the creature's stomach, and with a final downward swipe of the elf's borrowed dagger, the leathery organ parted. A flood of foul-smelling liquid gushed forth, splashing onto Alfarnin. His gorge rose instantly, and he turned away, fully expecting to empty the contents of his own stomach, but though he retched violently, nothing came up. He didn't have to ask Skuld; this was no doubt yet another result of the strange nature of this place.

When the urge to vomit subsided, Alfarnin turned back to the cavity he had created in Fenrir and there, mangled and curled into a ball, reposed the body of Odin, Allfather, Lord of the Aesir and all creation.

Alfarnin had never seen Odin before, though he had heard many, many tales of the god over the centuries. And truth to tell, he was rather disappointed. He had expected to find an imposing, kingly being. But instead, Odin was a tall, lean old man with a long scraggly gray beard and a black leather patch over one eye, or rather, where an eye had once been. His golden battle armor seemed too large for the scrawny body, as if its owner were a beggar who had suddenly been pressed into service instead of being the all-powerful god of gods.

It was difficult for Alfarnin to understand why such a mighty being, forewarned of such an ignominious end, would not choose to take steps to avoid it. Unless, as Skuld had said, He had had no choice. Well, Odin had played out His part; so, too, would Alfarnin.

"Forgive me, Allfather," he whispered, then raised his dagger and returned to his work. A bit later, he held in his hand a blood-smeared orb of polished silver. The Heart of Odin.

Skuld clapped her withered hands in glee. "One more journey, elf, and you are through. You must take the heart to the base of Yggdrasill. As before, keep your destination strongly in your mind as you walk, and you shall eventually reach the World Tree. I shall await you there."

And then she was gone.

Alfarnin wiped the heart off on the cloak of one of the low-ranking Aesir lying not far from Fenrir, tucked his dagger in his belt, and then, even though he really did not need it any longer, he picked up his scythe. He had started his journey as a farmer, and it seemed only right that he finish it as such.

He began to walk, but stopped when he heard a soft thump behind him. He turned to see Odin's second raven, Muninn, lying dead on the ground. Now that the Allfather had surrendered His heart, what need was there to remember Him anymore? Alfarnin looked across the field of corpses. What need to remember any of this?

Reeking of blood and gastric juices, he resumed his journey.


Gerald was thirty-nine, too young to have to worry about words like tumor and chemotherapy. But his cancer hadn't bothered to ask for his I.D. before inviting itself into his body and settling in. Now, after three surgeries (one major, two minor) he sat in a waiting room of the outpatient care wing of Holland Memorial Hospital, wracked with nausea from his latest chemo treatment, trying to choke down a horrid concoction of powdered lemon drink mix and contrast dye that would make his innards more photogenic for the CT scan.

His oncologist said his chances for a cure were good; not great, but good. So Gerald endured the surgeries, the CT scans, the blood tests, the x-rays, the chemo, and worst of all, the soul-gnawing fear that in the end, none of it would be enough. Because he desperately wanted to live.

Not so much for himself. Given the choice, he wanted to squeeze as many years out of his life as he possibly could, but he'd lived to thirty-nine, and overall, he was satisfied with the time he'd had. And while he wanted to live for Laura, he knew he didn't need to. Their marriage hadn't exactly been storybook perfect, but it had, on balance, been a good one. But Laura was still young, at least relatively so, and she was a strong woman. If she had to, she'd get by without him, maybe even find someone and remarry. Knowing this comforted him.

No, he wanted to live primarily for Caitlin. She'd be ten next month, and even though she was getting to be quite a big girl, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving his daughter without a daddy.

And so he sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, his gut churning angrily, and concentrated on holding the contrast down.


When this latest vision released Alfarnin, he found himself standing at the base of what appeared to be a craggy gray mountain. He looked up to see, beyond the clouds, a vast canopy of green covering the sky. No, which was the sky. He had reached Yggdrasill, and as with Fenrir, he had no memory of traveling here. Perhaps Skuld had been right and there really was no Time in this place.

"Of course I was right."

The Norn stood before him, features still hidden within her hood. Her feet touched the edge of one of the World Tree's three gigantic roots.

"I remember the tales," Alfarnin said. "This is the root beneath which the Well of Fate rests."

Skuld nodded. "And where the gods themselves came to hold council each day. As guardian of the Well, I often listened in as they talked." She chuckled. "Or more often, argued."

Alfarnin frowned. "What of your sisters, Urd and Verdandi? Past and Present?"

"We are One." Skuld opened her robe to reveal not the body of a wrinkled old crone as her voice promised, but rather an empty black space in the middle of which hung the motionless shape of an ancient, crude spinning wheel. At the center of the wheel was a circular depression, just the right size, Alfarnin thought, for the heart of Odin.

"Past, present, future..." Skuld snorted. "Merely names. They are one and the same. See the Wheel. Does it have a beginning or end? No, it is a circle, unbroken. We are One, and that one is the Wheel."

"It isn't moving."

"The Wheel has completed its cycle. It's up to the last survivor of Ragnarok—to you—to give it a push and start it turning again."

Alfarnin didn't have to ask what was expected of him. All he had to do to renew creation was to place the holy heart in the center of the Wheel, and all would begin again. It was his duty, to his gods, to his fallen elven brothers and sisters, to all who had fought and died in service to the Light. But he hesitated.

"The visions I experienced, Norn—what did they signify?"

"They are nothing, elf," Skuld snapped. "Now fulfill your purpose this cycle and give me the heart!"

"Why here? Why did you not ask for the heart when I first removed it from Odin?"

"Because only here, at the base of Yggdrasill, am I truly one with the Wheel. But forget all that; the time for explanations is past. Give me the heart!"

"Why don't you take it from me?"

"I told you, the future cannot make itself! You must make it, here and now!"

"Tell me about the visions, Norn." Alfarnin smiled. "After all, if there is no Time any longer, then we have no need to hurry, do we?"

Skuld was silent for a while before finally sighing. "Very well. I told you that there is always at least one survivor of Ragnarok, and that it is this survivor's task to renew creation. During the journey to salvage Odin's heart and bring it to the World Tree, the survivor has three visions of what his life in the next cycle will be like, so that he understands why he must restart the Wheel and what his reward will be."

"My visions were of mortal life as a man of Midgard," Alfarnin said. "But a Midgard unlike any I have ever heard tell of."

"Being the Future, I am quite aware of the visions you experienced." She paused. "However, I fear that I cannot explain them."

"Perhaps the next cycle will be different from the last," Alfarnin suggested.

"Impossible. The Wheel is the Wheel. There may be minute variations in its turning, but the path remains ever the same. It begins with creation, then comes the rise and flourishing of the gods, and then Ragnarok, turning after turning, cycle after cycle, without end."

Alfarnin thought for a moment. "What if I do not give you the heart? What of the Wheel then?"

"You have no choice; you must give me the heart. It is the role appointed you by destiny."

"I think you are lying, Norn. You told me before that once the Wheel stopped, Time ceased to be. Before Ragnarok, I was just another of Fate's puppets. But I think many things have ceased to be now, Fate among them. For the first moment in my existence, I am truly free to choose."

Skuld said nothing.

"I repeat my question," Alfarnin said. "What happens to the Wheel if I do not give you the heart?"

"Without the heart—which is the heart of Creation itself—the Wheel cannot continue to exist. It shall cease to be, as will Existence itself."

"All existence?" Alfarnin challenged. "Or just this one?"

Skuld didn't respond.

"Your Wheel is a prison, Skuld. Perhaps it's time for creation to be free." Alfarnin held the heart of Odin in his left hand and raised his scythe above it with his right.

"Hold, elf! You don't know what you're saying! Without the Wheel to give shape and form to existence, all will be Chaos! Events will unfold randomly, and no one shall ever know what might occur next, for anything might happen, anything at all!"

"Considering the senseless carnage of Ragnarok—of Ragnaroks untold—I think not knowing what tomorrow will bring might be better." Alfarnin raised the scythe higher.

"Think hard before you act, elf," Skuld warned. "This other, lesser Midgard you would create would be naught but a bastardized world where uncertainty and ambiguity rule in place of the gods. There would be no fixed roles, no set future, no clear division between Good and Evil. In that world, you would be but a mortal man, weak, frail, doomed to fret over petty anxieties and frustrations all of your short life. Here, in Asgard, you were—and could be again—an elven warrior, fighting on the side of Light in the most glorious battle creation has ever known!"

"Glorious?" Alfarnin thought of the slaughter he had witnessed, and its aftermath. "Meaningless is more like it." He tightened his grip on the scythe. "And the man Gerald will be far more of a warrior in his quiet, unsure way than the elf Alfarnin ever was."

He brought the scythe down and plunged its blade into the silver heart of Odin. Skuld screamed, the Wheel cracked apart like thunder, and the world was no more.


"We're ready for you now, Mr. Winnick," the CT technician, a heavy-set blonde woman, said gently.

Gerald nodded, set down his empty cup, and stood too quickly. His vision went gray and he swayed dizzily. He thought for a moment he might fall, but then the technician came forward to take his elbow. His vision cleared, the dizziness passed, and he smiled gratefully at the woman, only a little embarrassed.

With the technician's help, Gerald made his way out of the waiting room and walked slowly down the hall toward the CT room, one unsteady step after another.

 

Friday, May 23, 2025

My StokerCon 2025 Schedule

 


My StokerCon Schedule

In addition to being on a bunch of panels, giving a reading, and presenting a writing workshop, I’m one of the Guests of Honor this year, I’m up for a Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Fiction Collection, and I’m co-presenting the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Short Fiction with Cindy O’Quinn. I am going to be busy!



If you’re at the con, feel free to talk to me anytime.

Here's my official schedule:

Thursday, June 12

·       6:00 pm   Public Domain Horror: Panel with Frances Lu-Pai Ippotito, Eric J. Guinard, Cynthia Pelayo, and Patrick Barb (Livestreamed session)

·       8:00 pm   Opening Ceremony

Friday, June 13

·       11:00 am   Horror University: Into Darkness I Go: The Horror Hero’s Journey

·       1:00 pm    What Horror Means to Me: Librarian’s Day panel with Adam Nevill, Paula Guran, Joyce Carol Oates, Scott Edelman, Gary Triana, and Lila Denning.

·       2:00 pm    The Tangled Skein of Short Stories: Panel with James Chambers, Ananda Lima, Lisa Morton, Norman Prentiss, and Crystal O’Leary-Davidson (Livestreamed session)

·       4:00 pm     Mass Author Signing

Saturday June 14

·       8:00 am     Breakfast with the Guests of Honor: With Adam Nevill, Paula Guran, De Howison, Scott Edelman, and Gaby Triana

·       11:00 am   Reading with Logan Alexander Johnson and Jessica Drake-Thomas

·       12:00 pm   Perspectives on the Writing Life: From Rookie to Veteran: Panel with Adam Nevill, Paula Guran, Joyce Carol Oates, Scott Edelman, John Langan, and Gaby Triana (Livestreamed session)

·       2:00 pm     Crafting Original Monsters: Panel with Cassadra Khaw, Nat Cassidy, C.J. Leede, S.A. Barnes, and Michael Arnzen (Livestreamed session)

·       3:00 pm     Writing Horror Novelizations and Media Tie-Ins: Panel with V. Castro and Linda D. Addison (Livestreamed Session)

·       6:00 pm     Bram Stoker Awards Cocktail Reception

·       7:00 pm     Bram Stoker Awards Banquet

·       8:00 pm     Bram Stoker Awards Presentation (Livestreamed)

Sunday June 15

·       12:00 pm   Closing Ceremony

I’ll have the following books available from the official con bookseller:

·       Old Monsters Never Die – Finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Fiction this year!

·       Lord of the Feast

·    Terrifier 2: The Official Novelization

·       X: The Official Novelization

·       Pearl: The Official Novelization

·       Maxxxine: The Official Novelization

You can also buy Old Monsters Never Die from Winding Roads Stories in the Dealer’s Room.

You’ll be able to buy Just Add Writer: Writing Media Tie-Ins and IP from Raw Dog Screaming Press in the Dealer’s Room. They’ll also have copies of Writing in the Dark, Writing in the Dark: The Workbook, and Let Me Tell You a Story.

And the big news...with luck, I'll have an unannounced extreme horror novella that will debut at the con!



For more information about StokerCon, go here: https://www.stokercon2025.com/