Maxwell Stegner, originally hailing from Ukiah, California, now resides in the vibrant Bay Area with his wife and two children. As a masterful storyteller in the realm of dystopian thrillers, Maxwell has captivated readers worldwide with his immersive narratives and intricate world-building.
Maxwell's journey into the literary world began with his critically acclaimed trilogy, which has consistently ranked in the top 100 on Amazon. His skill in creating gripping, thought-provoking tales has not only earned him a dedicated following but also led to numerous interviews where he shares his insights and experiences as an author.
Currently, Maxwell is hard at work on a second series, promising even more thrilling adventures and deep explorations of human emotion and experience. As he continues to push the boundaries of dystopian fiction, Maxwell invites readers to join him on this exhilarating journey, delving into the darkest corners of society and the human psyche.
THE SPRITE’S REVENGE
by
Maxwell Stegner
The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows that danced like sinister marionettes on the surrounding trees. My friends and I were huddled close, the warmth of the flames barely warding off the creeping chill of the forest. We had all grown up hearing the legends of the Malice Sprites that haunted these woods, but no one truly believed in them. It was just another spooky story to tell around the campfire, a way to make the nights more thrilling.
Laughter echoed as Mike recounted the tale of Old Man Jenkins, who supposedly lost his mind after an encounter with the Sprites. His voice dropped to a whisper, and we leaned in, the firelight reflecting in our wide eyes.
“And then, just when he thought he was safe, they swooped down and—”
A rustling in the bushes cut him off. We all froze, exchanging nervous glances. Probably just an animal, I thought. But then the rustling grew louder, closer, until it sounded like a thousand tiny feet skittering across the forest floor. My heart thumped in my chest, and I gripped the edge of my camping chair.
Suddenly, the night erupted with high-pitched, maniacal laughter. Tiny figures burst from the underbrush, their wings shimmering wickedly in the firelight. They were no taller than a child’s action figure, but their sharp teeth and glowing red eyes were anything but cute.
“Oh, shit! It’s the Sprites!” Mike yelled, scrambling to his feet.
One of the creatures flew straight at him, cackling as it brandished a minuscule but vicious-looking spear. It jabbed the weapon into his leg, and he let out a yelp, swatting at it like a pesky mosquito. Blood trickled down his calf, and I could see the tiny spear embedded in his flesh.
I grabbed a stick from the ground and swung at the nearest Sprite, the wood connecting with a satisfying thwack. The creature flew backward, crashing into the bushes with a squeal. My brief moment of triumph was cut short as another Sprite lunged at me, its claws aiming for my face. I ducked, feeling the whoosh of its wings just above my head.
“Sophie, help me!” Emily screamed. She was on the ground, a swarm of the little bastards pulling at her hair and clothes, their tiny hands tearing at her skin. I rushed over, swinging my stick wildly. I managed to knock a few of them off, but there were too many.
“Get off her, you freaks!” I shouted, stomping on one that had fallen to the ground. It let out a satisfying squish, greenish goo splattering onto my shoe. Emily scrambled to her feet, her face streaked with dirt and blood.
“We need to get out of here!” she panted, her eyes wide with terror.
We turned to run, but they were everywhere, their numbers seemingly endless. They darted through the air, their shrill laughter filling the night. One swooped down and slashed my arm with God knows what. I cried out, the pain sharp and immediate.
“Guys, the car! We need to get to the car!” Mike shouted, limping toward the edge of the campsite. We followed, dodging and swatting at the relentless onslaught of freak bugs.
As we reached the car, I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, my hands shaking. Finally, I managed to unlock the doors, and we piled in, slamming them shut just as a swarm crashed against the windows, their tiny bodies smearing the glass with blood and guts.
“Drive, Sophie, drive!” Emily screamed, clutching her bleeding arm.
I turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. I floored the gas pedal, the car lurching forward as their sharp little claws clung to the windows, their little faces twisted with rage. The gravel road flew by in a blur as I sped away from the campsite, the Sprites slowly losing their grip and falling off one by one.
As we reached the main road, the last of them tumbled from the hood, its body bouncing off the asphalt. We sped into the night, the forest and its horrors receding into the distance.
We drove in silence, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving us exhausted and battered. Finally, Mike broke the silence, his voice shaky.
“So, uh, I guess the stories were true, huh?”
Emily let out a hysterical laugh, wiping tears from her eyes. “Yeah, no kidding. Who knew Malice Sprites were a real thing?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a swarm of glowing red eyes following us. But there was nothing, just the empty, dark road.
“Well,” I said, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound calm, “next time we go camping, let’s pick a spot that doesn’t have a history of homicidal devil bugs, and maybe some stronger fucking bug spray.”
The laughter that followed was shaky, tinged with relief and lingering fear. We had survived the night, but the memory of those tiny, vicious creatures would haunt us forever. And as we drove further away from the forest, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we hadn’t seen the last of these things.