The house flickered madly with light and darkness, so even though there was no smoke people called the fire department. The firefighters arrived promptly but other than flashes of light amidst incongruous shadow, there was no indication that there was a fire. No flames, no smoke, no crackling, no heat. Just flashes and shadows. An electrical issue perhaps? The chief investigated. She stepped up to the front door and squinted at the bright lines of light flickering through the cracks. She knocked hard. Inside, she could hear shouts. She banged louder on the door, shouting that she was the fire department and that they should open up, but they didn’t. She nodded to the men behind her, who beat the door open.
They had to shield their eyes immediately. It felt like flashbang grenades were going off like firecrackers. They lost their vision from the brightness, or so they thought, until the darkness flashed away and all was bright again.
The flashes didn’t unnerve them as much as the shadows, though. Deeper than dark, they looked like the depths of the ocean or miles beneath the Earth. A blackness so black it had weight, a presence. Looking into that darkness wasn’t like closing your eyes–it was like being born blind, without a concept of darkness because there had never been light or colour or visual shape and depth. Darkness as absence, not blocked light.
Inside, where it was impossible to see, the lightbringer and the darkseeker battled. The seeker snatched shadow from beneath the stairs, from inside the closet, from between the floorboards, and gathered it with his will, with his power, and hardened it, sharpened it, crushed coal into black diamond, cold as crystal ice, and he held it as a sword that he used to defend against the bringer, who gathered the light of the running electricity, the pilot light of the furnace, the flashing siren lights leaping through the window into her hand, where she forged a blade of light, and the two weapons clashed and swept escaping light and darkness all around them, blinding one or the other but never enough to give either the upper hand.
The firefighters backed away, blind and confused, from the house. The lighthouse. The nighthouse. Only the winner would know which.
Day 327’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Firefighter,” “The lighthouse and the nighthouse,” and, “Red anger.
I need to write more of this world. It’s a little bit Star Warsy, but YAified. Could be big.