PREVIEW: Fumbleblot's Task
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Deborah Cullins-Smith's short story "Fumbleblot's Task" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Deborah Cullins-Smith. |
I’d rather face a nuclear explosion. Fumbleblot gulped back the bile in his skinny
throat. Living above ground has been so pleasant. I must do something, anything, to
avoid banishment to the Underworld.
“Yes,” said the silky voice of the figure by the fireplace. “And you’d better do it
quickly, for my patience is dwindling, my fumbling, stupid flunky.” The creature rose
to his full, dark height, shoulders silhouetted against dank walls. A black robe covered
the massive frame, but the eyes that glowed from that swarthy face vibrated with
fury.
Fumbleblot cowered, his chin practically scraping the floor, his knees shaking
uncontrollably. The master was angry. Not good, he thought morosely.
The dark figure paced leisurely before the fire, flames flickering every time he
whooshed across the hearth. The master does love his theatrics, thought Fumbleblot.
But an evil glare from Lucifer made Fumbleblot cringe, dreading the beating he knew
he deserved. He knows your thoughts, you fool! Fumbleblot berated himself. Stop
thinking before you get yourself fried!
Lucifer’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of seeing a servant’s abject fear. He didn’
t have to say a word to this little toad! One look melted the bungler’s bones into
mush. Lucifer fed on that fear, tasting it, savoring it, feeling it strengthen the sinews
in his chest. Those idiots, those creatures of clay and water, those . . . humans . . .
needed meat and milk to feed their stomachs. But all Satan needed was a good,
healthy dose of fear to sate his hunger. And this bumbling, blathering, blithering
excuse of a servant fed him a whopping meal with every encounter.
“I live to serve you, my master,” Fumbleblot said, groveling shamelessly, not daring to
look up.
“Well, you don’t do a very good job of it!” Lucifer shrieked, lips curled in a feral snarl.
Fumbleblot threw himself to the floor, drawing his body into a trembling ball. He held
his breath and waited for the lightning bolt that would send his cowering flesh
tumbling into the fiery pits.
But the pain didn’t hit. Fumbleblot peeked between curled fingers. Lucifer’s smile
sent shivers into his soul, but he felt encouraged. He hadn’t been reduced to
cinders, and he wasn’t burning in the pits yet. Maybe he would yet prove to be
worthy of the master’s appreciation.
“Yesssssss,” Lucifer hissed. “You foul worm. You shall have one more chance to
salvage your career in my service.”
Fumbleblot’s face broke into a ridiculous grin. “Master is most gracious,” he
blubbered. “I won’t let you down, my Lord. I’ll make you proud. I’ll succeed beyond
your highest expectations. I’ll—” “SILENCE!”
Fumbleblot almost melted into the stones.
Lucifer took a deep breath. This lump gave him a headache.
“I have a new assignment for you.” A woman’s picture appeared in glowing detail
against the dark wall as though cast by a projector. Lucifer pointed to the innocent
face and the tousled mop of red curls. “This creature,” Lucifer said, clenching his
teeth in loathing, “belongs to the Enemy. But you, my . . . servant . . . will cause her
to doubt.” His voice was thick with scorn, knowing that this toad would most likely
fail even in this simple assignment. “Her faith is new and she is easily swayed. It is
your task to shake the foundations of her beliefs.”
Fumbleblot’s heart sank to his toes. A believer! Why couldn’t he have been dealt a
hellfire-and-brimstone sinner to lead to the pits? A believer! They were the worst of
mankind. Once they’d submitted to the Enemy, it was nearly impossible to yank them
back from . . . His . . . Hand.
throat. Living above ground has been so pleasant. I must do something, anything, to
avoid banishment to the Underworld.
“Yes,” said the silky voice of the figure by the fireplace. “And you’d better do it
quickly, for my patience is dwindling, my fumbling, stupid flunky.” The creature rose
to his full, dark height, shoulders silhouetted against dank walls. A black robe covered
the massive frame, but the eyes that glowed from that swarthy face vibrated with
fury.
Fumbleblot cowered, his chin practically scraping the floor, his knees shaking
uncontrollably. The master was angry. Not good, he thought morosely.
The dark figure paced leisurely before the fire, flames flickering every time he
whooshed across the hearth. The master does love his theatrics, thought Fumbleblot.
But an evil glare from Lucifer made Fumbleblot cringe, dreading the beating he knew
he deserved. He knows your thoughts, you fool! Fumbleblot berated himself. Stop
thinking before you get yourself fried!
Lucifer’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of seeing a servant’s abject fear. He didn’
t have to say a word to this little toad! One look melted the bungler’s bones into
mush. Lucifer fed on that fear, tasting it, savoring it, feeling it strengthen the sinews
in his chest. Those idiots, those creatures of clay and water, those . . . humans . . .
needed meat and milk to feed their stomachs. But all Satan needed was a good,
healthy dose of fear to sate his hunger. And this bumbling, blathering, blithering
excuse of a servant fed him a whopping meal with every encounter.
“I live to serve you, my master,” Fumbleblot said, groveling shamelessly, not daring to
look up.
“Well, you don’t do a very good job of it!” Lucifer shrieked, lips curled in a feral snarl.
Fumbleblot threw himself to the floor, drawing his body into a trembling ball. He held
his breath and waited for the lightning bolt that would send his cowering flesh
tumbling into the fiery pits.
But the pain didn’t hit. Fumbleblot peeked between curled fingers. Lucifer’s smile
sent shivers into his soul, but he felt encouraged. He hadn’t been reduced to
cinders, and he wasn’t burning in the pits yet. Maybe he would yet prove to be
worthy of the master’s appreciation.
“Yesssssss,” Lucifer hissed. “You foul worm. You shall have one more chance to
salvage your career in my service.”
Fumbleblot’s face broke into a ridiculous grin. “Master is most gracious,” he
blubbered. “I won’t let you down, my Lord. I’ll make you proud. I’ll succeed beyond
your highest expectations. I’ll—” “SILENCE!”
Fumbleblot almost melted into the stones.
Lucifer took a deep breath. This lump gave him a headache.
“I have a new assignment for you.” A woman’s picture appeared in glowing detail
against the dark wall as though cast by a projector. Lucifer pointed to the innocent
face and the tousled mop of red curls. “This creature,” Lucifer said, clenching his
teeth in loathing, “belongs to the Enemy. But you, my . . . servant . . . will cause her
to doubt.” His voice was thick with scorn, knowing that this toad would most likely
fail even in this simple assignment. “Her faith is new and she is easily swayed. It is
your task to shake the foundations of her beliefs.”
Fumbleblot’s heart sank to his toes. A believer! Why couldn’t he have been dealt a
hellfire-and-brimstone sinner to lead to the pits? A believer! They were the worst of
mankind. Once they’d submitted to the Enemy, it was nearly impossible to yank them
back from . . . His . . . Hand.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
FUMBLEBLOT SCUTTLED ACROSS THE rough stone floor and
slithered into the Great Chamber. Heat from the massive
fireplace caused droplets of sweat to streak his forehead. Or
maybe it wasn’t the fire. Perhaps it was the forbidding
presence that lounged in an ornate wing-backed chair, long
claw-like fingers laced, pointed chin resting on the bony
knuckles. Fumbleblot dreaded these conferences. He never
lived up to his master’s expectations, and he cringed in fear of
Lucifer’s explosive temper..
slithered into the Great Chamber. Heat from the massive
fireplace caused droplets of sweat to streak his forehead. Or
maybe it wasn’t the fire. Perhaps it was the forbidding
presence that lounged in an ornate wing-backed chair, long
claw-like fingers laced, pointed chin resting on the bony
knuckles. Fumbleblot dreaded these conferences. He never
lived up to his master’s expectations, and he cringed in fear of
Lucifer’s explosive temper..
