The machine began to spawn small, glowing orbs, each pulsing with energy. "We have to stop it," John muttered, eyeing the massive cannon at the center of the lab.

"Begin the sequence," his partner urged as they climbed into a battered taxi parked nearby. The very spray of mist from the orbs was already spreading, thick and choking.

In the distance, the capital’s skyline loomed. The smell of garlic filled the air as the taxi jolted, making John stumble forward, his nose hitting the dashboard. He noticed a label: "Prototype — Do Not Engage."

Too late now...

Day 10 (October 7th): The power has been going out frequently. We know what’s coming so we use whatever we have while we still can. First human I saw make it through the streets today they started going from building to building looting with their backpack on. They even had a spear with them slaying zombies left and right. They past the dudes from yesterday who got jumped. I consulted with Jared and we decided to send me out on a scouting mission to follow them to their home. I grabbed some water and a couple days worth of food, a gun (obviously) with the makeshift spear and armor and I set off on the road to follow this person.

Day 11 (October 8th) I was following the trail and finally spotted eyes on him sleeping inside an abandoned shop. He was in there for a couple hours then he set off deeper into the city until he stopped at a checkpoint in the city. Makeshift walls were set up and he talked to the guards before entering. Then I heard footsteps not from an infected but from someone trying to sneak up on me. I knew full well that a gunshot even from a .22 or 9mm could be heard from the checkpoint. So I got the next best thing. He walked up the stairs and THUNK! His head hit the floor and every single stair on the way down. A little water does the trick every time. I looted the body and found some binoculars that he used to find me probably and a little .22 caliber pistol he intended to use on me. I looked around and hid the body but not before saying my respects for him. That’s was all the information I needed. I headed home.

Day 12 (October 9th): The walk home was more stressful and slower because there were giant hordes in the street. I eventually made to the apartment building and I walked into it to find a zombie. I pulled out the spear and tried to take it out silently but he turned around and dodged it. (accidentally or on purpose I don’t know) then he lunged at me. He bit directly into my arm. The shock almost made me lose focus. How could I have been so dumb. I pulled out my knife and stabbed it putting the poor soul to rest. i hurry up the stairs and walk inside to see Jared eating. He saw the pale face I had and saw the bite. He rushed over and tied my mouth with a cloth before checking the bite. No pass through, the make-shift armor worked. It wasn’t even torn up that much.

^((Old, purposefully absurd short story I tried rewriting/updating recently; a peek into my brain half a lifetime ago))

Donner had a secret. It was a horrible secret, one that couldn’t be shared with anyone. The lives, the corporations, the systems, promises, backroom deals, realities… families… that he could affect, unravel, change forever.

Of course, Donner couldn’t remember what the secret actually was. He knew he had a horrible secret, just not what it was. Donner was always afraid that the secret would slip out during some polite, idle conversation one day. So, before he ever said anything, he began to stop and think if he was about to say something that was terribly revealing. Every few seconds while talking, he’d pause and a look of fright filled his face, occasionally forgetting to start the conversion back up and just wandering away. It was pretty annoying. He became so paranoid, that eventually he stopped trying to speak all together. He’s begun carrying these note cards with him for when he had no choice but to communicate. He sat down one night and wrote down as many commonly used words and phrases he could think of. It wasn’t enough. Even when asked simple, everyday, binary questions, he’d pause before flashing his “Yes,” or “No,” card. He figured a secret could be discovered by just denying or confirming something. Donner couldn’t even go to the store for food or supplies anymore. His secret could relate to the Jell-O 1-2-3 he craved. Or the path he took to the only store that still carried it. Maybe when he left the house they’d find a way in, plant cameras where he’d never see them. He started buying all his food over the Internet. The food would arrive at his doorstep with instructions to leave everything at the door, where he’d always leave the tip for the driver in physical, untraceable, (occasionally international) currency. Donner shelled out an extra twenty-five percent each time to have everything put into unmarked boxes and for the delivery to be made “as late or early as possible, preferably under cover of darkness.” For all he knew, SmarteeEats had something to do with the horrible secret: A plant in the store could be feeding information up the line, putting drugs in the foods they knew he bought, watching… Hell, the entire franchise could be a psyop installation to retrieve precious knowledge. Seemingly, Donner became suspicious of people tracking these Internet orders to his house. His computer was out with his trashbags one day, waiting to be picked up; ripped apart, dents and holes drilled through them, scorch marks around most of the parts. We were all pretty sure he was crazy.

Donner’d become something of a local legend or myth we’d all muse about. We’d discuss our theories, share what we’d seen, start online group chats about him. But then one day… there was just no new gossip. Everyone in the neighborhood started keeping extra close eyes on his house, looking for anything new. Weeks went by. Concerned (or, well, maybe just curious) neighbors eventually walked over and checked in on him. The door was unlocked; already pulled open just a tiny bit. Right inside, they found Donner. He was lying in the middle of a reddish-brown pentagram, any furniture shoved against the walls, large bits of carpet torn up and scattered, dozens of dead squirrels everywhere they looked, ashes from mostly burnt away cards, the candles’ wicks long extinguished... He was so pale and very, very thin. It looked as if he starved to death, but those who first saw him swear his hands and arms were all ripped up. The goat was in a dress. Whatever Donner’s secret was, he kept it safe, did his job. And we will never, ever know.

Or, wait… maybe his name was Brad…

She first saw him in December, when the city was drowning in shadows and winter had painted everything in shades of grey. Persephone stood at the entrance of his notorious nightclub, The Underworld, her breath forming ghostly clouds in the frigid air. Her mother's warnings echoed in her mind: stay away from downtown after dark, especially from that place with its obsidian walls and blood-red neon sign.

But botany graduate students didn't make enough to be choosy about part-time work, and The Underworld paid its florists well to maintain its elaborate dark gardens of nightshade, black dahlias, and midnight orchids. The gardens were what had first caught her eye—a slice of living darkness visible through the frosted windows, where flowers bloomed in defiance of winter's grip.

The owner emerged from the shadows like he'd been crafted from them. Hades wore a black suit that probably cost more than her yearly stipend, his dark hair swept back from sharp cheekbones. His eyes held the weight of centuries, though he couldn't have been more than thirty-five.

"You must be the botanist," he said, voice like smoke over gravel. "I've reviewed your credentials. Impressive work with rare species cultivation."

Persephone clutched her portfolio tighter. "I specialize in plants that thrive in darkness." A deliberate choice that had made her mother frown—Demeter preferred her sunny greenhouse full of cheerful daisies and practical herbs.

"Then you'll feel at home here." His smile held secrets. "Let me show you the gardens."

The Underworld's interior was a study in elegant darkness: black marble floors, walls draped in burgundy velvet, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic shadows. But the gardens—they took her breath away. Three stories of terraced indoor gardens, filled with the rarest specimens of dark flora she'd ever seen. Black roses bred in Turkey, midnight-purple passion flowers, hellebores in deep crimson.

"The previous gardener couldn't keep them alive," Hades said, watching her reaction carefully. "The darkness is unnatural. Most plants rebel against it."

"But not these," Persephone breathed, touching a black orchid's velvet petals. "They've adapted. Evolved. They're beautiful."

"Beauty in darkness is a rare gift." His eyes lingered on her face. "The position is yours, if you want it."

She should have said no. Should have listened to her mother's voice warning her about men like him, about places that blur the line between night and day until you forget which is which. But the gardens called to her with siren song of shadowed green life.

"Yes," she said.

The weeks that followed passed in a dream-like haze. By day, she attended classes and worked in her mother's sunny greenhouse. By night, she tended to her dark garden, learning its secrets. Hades was often there, a quiet presence in the shadows, watching her work with those ancient eyes.

They talked, at first about the plants, then about everything. He knew history like he'd lived it, art like he'd watched it being created. His knowledge of mythology was particularly extensive—especially the dark tales, the ones about the places between life and death.

"Do you believe in them?" she asked one night, up to her elbows in soil as she transplanted black hellebores. "The old stories?"

"I believe truth often wears the mask of myth," he said. "That some stories persist because they need to be told, again and again, in every age."

She looked up to find him watching her with an intensity that should have frightened her. Instead, it sent electricity down her spine. "Which stories?"

"The ones about light and darkness. About how sometimes we need both to grow." He stepped closer, reached out to brush soil from her cheek. His touch was cool, but it burned. "About how sometimes the underground calls to us more strongly than the sun."

She knew then that she was falling—had already fallen—into something deep and dark and inevitable. Her mother's calls went increasingly to voicemail. Her daytime life felt less and less real, like she was merely sleepwalking through it until she could return to the embrace of her dark garden and its master.

The night he first kissed her, black roses were blooming out of season. His lips tasted of pomegranate wine, sweet and darkly intoxicating. "Stay," he whispered against her mouth. "Rule this darkness with me."

She thought of her mother's sunny greenhouse, of the ordinary life laid out before her like a well-tended path. Then she looked at her dark garden, at the beautiful shadows she'd cultivated, at the man who moved through darkness like it was his birthright.

"Yes," she said again, and felt the word reshape her destiny.

Her mother's fury when she found out was biblical. "He's dangerous," Demeter raged. "That whole world he's built—it's not natural. He'll drag you down into darkness until you forget the sun."

"Maybe I want to forget," Persephone replied. "Maybe I've found my own kind of light."

But mothers rarely listen when daughters try to explain that darkness isn't always what it seems, that sometimes the most beautiful gardens grow in shadow. In the end, they compromised—as immortal forces always must. Six months in her mother's world of sunshine and conventional beauty. Six months in her dark garden with Hades, tending to their midnight blooms.

Two realms, two lives, two kinds of love. The world above had its charms, but increasingly, Persephone found herself counting the days until winter, when she could return to her garden of darkness, to the man who had shown her that some flowers only show their true colors in the absence of light.

And if sometimes visitors to The Underworld whispered about its mysterious owner and his wife—how neither seemed to age, how they moved through shadows like they commanded them, how the dark gardens bloomed with impossible flowers that glowed like stars in the endless night—well, perhaps some stories do need to be told again and again, wearing new faces for new ages while their hearts remain as ancient as the first winter, the first flower, the first time light fell in love with darkness and created twilight.

In her garden, Persephone tends to her shadows and smiles, knowing she has become exactly what she was always meant to be: a queen of the spaces between, keeper of beauty that thrives in darkness, proof that sometimes you have to go underground to truly grow.

Well it used to be a church. After the pastor who ran the church got too old to play enthusiasm, a local couple bought it and renovated it into a 24-hour diner. If you only took a quick glance, it might look more like a soup kitchen with real fancy windows. They took the crucified Christ down- respectfully! And donated. They built the counter where the pulpit would be. The back became the kitchen. The pews replaced with picnic tables. The couple added booths under the windows. The confession booths were left where they were.

Started coming here over Summer. Just driving home from some party one night and got a hankering for a burger. Pulled into the diner’s parking lot to turn around and go back to town, when I noticed the sign out front. You know, the ones that usually quote a scripture or… something else. This church’s sign read: Tuna melts $1.99 on Tuesdays. Thought I’d check it out. Practically live here now:

During the day, it’s easy to see the wooden boxes around the church. They look awful. Especially since they cover up the stained glass windows. Inside the boxes are floodlights. The other windows provide plenty of light during the day. Or, you know, at least enough on some. After sundown, the owners flip the switch. Aside from a few candles or small lamps scattered around, there’s no other light than the beaming shine from the colored glass that never expected to reflect so many lumens. Except for the dim spotlight on the painting. And the awful fluorescent glow from Jake’s kitchen, of course.

First night there, I went down the aisle, to the counter, and waited for someone to serve me. The menu was written on a blackboard under the painting. Almost lined up right. Nothing all that special, standard stuff. Burgers. Ham. Stuff with eggs. Diner food. While waiting, I looked up at the painting and started staring. It’s a choice. Munch’s Madonna. Better than Saturn staring back. Wasn’t long for a woman to come out. Sixties. Apron. Black. Hairnet. Already loved her.

“What can I get you, Sugar?”

“Burger?” I said that way you do when you’re somewhere new and know you’re going to sound like an outsider no matter what you say and it’s already too late. “How you want it?” She had a soft smile. Genuine happy-like.

“Medium-well. No tomato?”

“Be ready ina’bout fifteen minutes. Anything to drink?” She wrote a ticket without taking her eyes off me.

“Happen to have a cherry cola?” No one ever carried cherry, anymore.

“Sure, thing.” Oh, sweet. “Go grab a bottle from the fridge,” she said, pointing to a small fridge leaning against the wall. Not a cooler - the glass doors you see at the stores? - but an old refrigerator. Off-white. Silver handle. Will not save you from Hellfire. “Five fifty. No cards, no checks.” My attention snapped back to her.

I gave her six singles, smiled with my hand out not saying, ‘keep the change.’ Her smile never flinched. But she looked me straight in the eye. I was taking those two coins. Respectfully.

“Thank you, very much, ma’am.”

“‘Course, Hon. Pick a seat.” And off she waddled (just slightly!).

Nicole was a punk rock chick in the mid-90’s. At 19, she decided to put aside her punk rock ideals. The only machine she managed to rage against was her old boss at Big D’s. He only asked if she could work some more days. It was nothing fancy, but she really was just that good there. After dropping out of college the first time, there was that ‘start-up’ for a few years. Still doesn’t know what the company was supposed to be making, but she says still very proud of her work there. At first, you know. The second time, it was for those stupid skits her friends convinced her would make them all rich. You’ve actually probably seen a clip from one at least of them; the videos did pay a few bills. Third time, well, honestly, she started to feel embarrassed around all the kids. That were already graduating. She started helping her parents with their greenhouse some Sundays. Then… more after Mom. Then 9-5 every weekday in the flower shop, too. Levi just… came into the flower shop one day. ‘Okay,’ one specific day. May 10th. That’s the day they celebrate their anniversary. Not when they married. She’d just finished her art degree the summer I met her. Subs at local schools when they need. Stops every night for a steak salad with and glass of red wine. Sometimes ‘two.’ While graying, there’s always still a bright blue streak in her hair.

Against one of the walls, there they remain: The confession booths. Seemed a, possibly, unsettling thing to eat next to; one could argue worse than a dying God looming over you as you dine. With everything else that got renovated, why not this cabinet of sin? Of course I checked it out. The door where the priest would sit was locked, but the other wasn’t. Inside were slips of paper and pens from local companies in a “World’s Best Mug” mug. You’re encouraged to write a confession on a slip of paper, not pressured to sign, then pass it through an eye gap in the locked door. It isn’t religious or even faith. It isn’t irony or ‘post-ironic’ or whatever. Just still respectful, somehow. On the first of each month, the owners unlock the door and add each sin to the growing collection on The Wall. Maybe not forgiven. But not forgotten. If there’s a name on one? They cut it off anyway. Hundreds are pasted to the wall. More, maybe. Wonder what they’ll do when it’s covered? Dan was one of the diner’s first patrons. Walked in one Sunday, expecting to be greeted by the pastor at the door. He’d been out of town… a while. The owners told him he was more than welcome to stay. Kneel at a table and pray to Anyone he likes. Or not. Or… New church’s not far. Breakfast menu’s about to come down, though. He saw The Painting. Was it sacrilege? It’s still Her. Why did he even come here in the first place? He only used to come because of his parents. But ‘now’ is very different than it used to be for Dan. He almost left, but he noticed it was still there. Why he came. That feeling of before. What he needed right now, that nostalgia nearly manifested. So, he stayed.

Dan sat at a table; took more than a single moment to pick. He looked at Her, let go, felt the history. When Dan was ready, he noticed a friendly lady walking over with a pad and pen. He never misses a Sunday morning. To pray… or whatever it is. Then stays for the day. Some days he reads stories to kids (opposite the Forgiveness Wall). Others, he’ll join in when Drew gives his free guitar lessons. Others, Judy’s book club. Others, other stuff. He always wears his Army jacket. Won’t talk about it. Respectfully. Nothing personal. It’s complicated. I get it.

Still acclimating, not quite there yet… my burger was suddenly there. So was she. Still there, she’s still there. Standing over me. Why is she standing over me- did I do something wrong? I figured I did something wrong.

“Well? How it is,” she said, getting impatient. Respectfully.

“Oh.” I took a bite, chewed, and froze. “Wow.” There was no emotion in my voice. The burger was so good. It sent me into some kind of flavor shock; so good my taste buds went numb. I finished the bite and looked up, “Best. Ever.”

“Mm-hmm.” She knew. “Name’s, Fran, Hon. Take your time,” she said after she’d already left for the kitchen.

Tom won’t come to the diner at night. Says the floodlights coming through the stained glass gives him this sorta vertigo. He’s never been to the diner at night. Nobody knows too much about Tom. Each time someone new asks him an old question he gives a new answer. Except for ‘Tom.’ One night, he claimed to know a guy who made it into Area 51. ‘Gotta find the cave…’ Once, he told us he knew Jim Carrey before he transcended reality. One member of that one band with that song about some movie was a plant for the C.I.A. ‘Allegedly.’ Tom has mentioned more than once that he’s never even heard of D. B. Cooper. Whenever you’re in an elevator: DO NOT press the button for the first floor twice if the light for floor three is lit. ‘Nuthin! … just don’t.’ I like Tom.

Before I left I hit the restroom. Someone’d started a comic on the tiled walls. A way-too-detailed comic about a man attending U of P’s satellite school in Hell. He had friends in the form of devils and demons and Satan taught English Lit. The man shared a dorm room with some demon-nerd who always got more “action” than the man; leaving him to sit in the hallway for hours and hours, just counting the number of poo-wasp stings that accumulated. He’s originally from Ohio. One day, the man crossed an ex-girlfriend who shot two cops in a botched kidnapping that one time. They start meeting up on a regular basis. The man begins to have hope again. Even in Hell. Books seemed to bite him just a little bit softer. When professors ripped away the man’s skin and made him put it back on without screaming, it wasn’t quite as devastating when an eek would pass his lips and have to start all over. The icy, nerve-seeking, full-body-wrenching, repeated stings and resulting infections that caused pus that smelled like used diapers to ooze from your pores of the poo-wasps will always suck. Nothing makes them better. Keep your smoker filled. It started to look like Hell could almost be bearable. Anyway, in the end their baby ate its way out of the woman to expel her, crawl back in, and start again. The man had been placed in a grand theater where he watched his son from before the man’s death being born, growing up, falling in love, having children, falling out of love, losing the kids, losing all hope, the drugs, the sins, the slow, decades-long, knuckle to the gravel crawl to the grave. Over. And over. Each time just different enough. There was enough to fill hundreds of pages. Either the original artist or someone else had started to go back and color the comic in. With those markers with the real tiny point? They only filled maybe a fifth of it. Hope they come back someday.

Ryan used to break into cars at night and move them around the neighborhood. Not steal cars. He’d take one a few streets away, exchange it for another, then take it back to the empty spot he left. Then… a couple more times before dawn. Even got cars from closed garages. Assuming it was automatic. Back in the old, olde days, before everyone had a camera in their doorbell, Ryan would sneak into peoples’ homes. Sometimes he’d just move items around to strange, but not hidden, places. Sometimes he’d stage a haunting. Leave shopping lists on the fridge. Turn toothbrushes the other way around. Sometimes he’d bring props. Few of his own tapes or CD’s to leave in someone else’s collection. Toy soldiers set out in intricate battle formations. “Welcome Home!” decorations. Dominos. One time he found some things he didn’t like seeing. Things he still won’t say. After the phone call, Ryan started playing D&D instead. He teaches science at the high school now. Sometimes (‘sometimes’) he teaches students, and a few teachers, how he (‘used to’) rewire the automatic garage door openers. (‘Be surprised how useful that still comes in handy…)

On my way to the front door, I stopped. I just had to. How could I not? You know you would, too. I went to confession. Afterall… I already knew what to write:

!I never said sorry. !<

!C. Rodgers !<

I almost didn’t. Writing it down doesn’t absolve anything. Make it any less real. But as I dropped my slip to the rest, I got it. All these people get together and hang out; Chosen Family. But we don’t talk about some things. Not until we’re ready. It’s important to remember. Like how it reminded me when they wrote their number on my geometry book. The one still on my shelf. I mean, down low with the other dusty ones. But… I knew I could, now. Not that I have. Yet. But I could. I mean can- Will! It wasn’t like a weight was lifted, or anything. But it was, like… I remembered why I never let go. Caught a few side-eyed smiles when I turned to leave. Politely. On my way out, I got two see ya’s directed at me. Like they already knew.

Getting back into my car, I thought the place didn’t leave much of an impression on me. Not really. It was cool, I was totally going to tell my friends about it forever, but it was just one of those quirky, little places you see on vacation or get real, real lost. Right? A story you remember being really good, but seem to hold up over time...

Next day I was driving back from my sister’s and thought about stopping for a burger somewhere. Two days later, I went back again. When it came time to start school, I decided to get some local gig instead. Only served to pay for it. But this place isn’t anywhere else. Still hadn’t picked a major, and suddenly everything I wanted to know and learn was here. Why spend four to eight to more years to get a job to get a better job to get a career to earn money so you can one day, finally, take the time to find yourself when… you’ve found where you are?

I’m the new guy at a landscaping place, at the moment. Mowing lawns, mostly. It’s not how I saw things going, but it feels good. Right. Safe. Some days, I just come in and sit at a table, sipping a drink, nibbling at my meal, and watching the others. Some of them watching me. All of us watching any new folk. Most of us regulars can tell you who wrote nearly every confession on those walls. Or we’re pretty sure. We don’t name names, of course. Or take bets. Of course. Respectfully.

Few of us are planning some sort of get together or party or something. Some of the… “vintaged” members have some movies the rest of us “need” to see. And we have our own list. Gonna watch one classical classic, then a modern classic. No connection to the outside world, too. Internet, phones, not even radios. That’s as far’s we’ve got. Probably won’t plan out much more, either. None of us are all that organized. Maybe I’ll ask Fran if we can just keep a screen up all the time.

If you’re ever lost (we don’t get many tourists) and see an old church with wooden boxes stuck to the walls, advertising cheap tuna melts on Tuesdays, be careful: You might choose to stay.

Just wanted to share what I wish I could have done but it's better when it's on a piece of paper lol

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Qc4e4XceBVEnbXkv4XFdNacXs5dM5_XmMcXlJU-WiQw/edit?tab=t.0 This is the forth chapter of my story for those who are interested in my story. To those who missed the previous three check at the bottom link below.

https://www.reddit.com/r/fiction/comments/1gb4dfw/here_are_the_first_three_chapter_links_for_a/

Context:
This is a short story from My World. The setting is during the "Avian-Etherian War". Yes, you heard me correctly. I'm talking Humanoid hulking avian warriors against Mage-like warriors, the Etherians. I would love to tell you guys more about them.
This story follows two characters: Horatio Jones, an Etherian Calvary captain, and his mentor, Maron Orion. Horatio and Maron's relationship reflects the bonds between people in times of war or in times of service this is just a short story or a memory of Maron's because I have bigger plans for him in the main work.
Please Enjoy!!

It was mid-day when the cavalry finally reached their destination after riding in the harsh red desert. The men took shelter in a grotto; a stream ran through it; men and horses lined the narrow stream for water while the others pitched their tents and made arrangements for camp; their captain, Horatio, began to scout ahead with his spyglass. he began to grow with anticipation and worry that their mage has fallen behind."Where is he?" muttering to himself fearing worst that the drunk old fool has met an unfortunate fate from the monsters that plague these deserts. With one more sigh, he glances again through his spyglass. Off in the distance on the horizon, he could see a horse. A mage is sitting on top of it, his armor caked with sand, and his armor is almost dyed darker due to the red sand. Horatio gestured his horse to make way for camp to meet the mage and the entrance to the grotto.

The camp was already set up, Horatio could hear the men chatting, and he could smell supper wafting through his nose riding through the camp. At the entrance, the mage was tying off his horse when Horatio pulled his stead to a sudden stop, causing it to drift in the gravel and sand." Where have you been?" He asked as he hopped off his horse, removed his helmet, and sported a bandanna used as a standard among all the troops due to the heat and their armor. "Mages are an asset; it's bad enough that we are in enemy lands, but you seem to want to give away our position due to you smelling like a wine cellar." The Mage turned sharply, and the old mage withdrew his hood. "Your Uncle was a good man. Good man and a good leader; however, even he knew the importance of a good "spirit" before a fight," the mage said with a smile as he began to sort through his saddlebag." Haven't lost your wit in your old age, I see." " As you're still young and full of piss, no better except your helmet finally fits that head of yours," the mage smiled, turning to face the captain and give a salute to Horatio; the captain quickly ordered him at ease "No need for that Maron, you're among your family, Many men you trained and fought aside including myself no doubt." Maron smiled. " Well," Maron glanced at his saddle bag, "fortunately, I have plenty of wine." Horatio gestured for the mage to lead the way.

The two began walking through the camp, greeting the men as they passed each tent. Maron Orion was the previous captain of the cavalry unit known as "The Rolling Storm." A noble unit of men with their saddles passed from generation to generation, family lines that date back to the early days of Etherium. The Rolling Storm is known for its Flanking and assault tactics. Maron led the storm riders through campaigns against would-be bandit groups that settled near the Emerald Plans and Sylvan Woods. After many years of loyal service, Maron was promoted to Arch-Mage of the Brimstone Mage Corp by Emperor Solaris himself; Maron was not only a master horseman but also a gifted mage. His legend is that whatever Maron Orion could not ride through, he would burn through it.

The sun began to set on the camp. The Red Desert sands turn to deep indigo as the sun sets, and the calls of phoenixes and owls can be heard in the distance. The gentlemen finally sit for supper in Horatio's quarters. Salted pork, potatoes, bread, and a cup of wine. Maron sat by the fire, sighing with old age." how is your dear Uncle Amadeus? I Remember the day he passed command over to me". " Uncle has grown tired of politics. He has been attending on the accord proceedings along with Lord Voss. He does yearn to be out here with the men," said Horatio, sipping his wine. "I don't like the look of that Voss. Man has no love for this position he is in. Chief Emissary Of Etherium." Maron spat "Man so crooked he can't lay straight, no love in that man's eyes," he said grabbing his pipe from his bag. " Have you met him?" Horatio asked. "When I was a younger man, yes. Always went for the most extreme option he did. Between you and I? I think the emperor gave him that position to humble him." They both had a laugh. " no efficiency in diplomacy" Maron added laughing as he fell drunkenly on his back. Their stories and laughter continued until the moon rose and the fire dimmed.

Maron began to cast his eyes over to a halberd. Six feet in length, the head was made from steel it gleamed in the light; the pole was crafted from Sylvan wood sanded to a smooth finish with edged handles alternating along the pole, and gold and blue ribbons flow where the head meets the pole. Maron began to stroke his beard with nostalgia. He picked up the halberd, and it hummed in his hands; the pole-arm's head began to glow with a slight hue. "You can still wield her, I see," Yelped Horatio. The old mage turned and smiled. " Yes, however, she will do great things by your hand," said Marion. He placed the pole-arm down, silencing the hum of magic within it. " Tempest should be wielded by a Noble heart, or she won't sing for them," Maron muttered. The aged mage turned to Horatio and smiled. "I hear she sings for you just fine."

Just as Horatio was about to return the compliment, a soldier walked into his tent coming from his watch post "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there is a gravely injured mage seeking Master Orion and Yourself." Both men jumped to their feet. " Bring him here. Now!" ordered Horatio; the soldier flew out of his captain's tent shortly after bringing the mage into his tent. His robes were in tatters, and his armor was covered in blood and sand. Crying out for Maron, the mage rushed a cup of water to the mage. The injured man, contorting in pain from the burns and wounds, slaps the cup from his master's hands and cries, " The White Tree Corp!! Ambushed! Infantry slaughtered!! Help them!"

Using the last bit of his strength, he points out the tent's entrance: "East! Help!" suddenly, life left the young mage. He was cold. Horatio stood and turned to the soldiers on watch." Wake the men! We ride! Sound the storm horn!" He cried. Soldiers hastily made their way out of the tent. Great horns can be heard throughout the camp as Horatio dawns his armor. He smiles at Maron. " Got another ride in you, old man?" Marion smiled, "always," he said. With haste, both men left the tent, facing the chaos of the camp.

Horatio's officers quickly flanked him with the status of the men and the situation at hand "Sir, our men are ready; one flank has left ahead for better positioning. The rest we ride with you, " One Sargent said. " I will ride ahead as well to meet them, give these dirty birds a good pinch. from both ends," Maron said as he mounted his horse. "Ride well, my friend!" exclaimed Horatio before watching the mage click his heels and ride off into the night. Horatio mounted his horse and met the men mustered at the stream that ran through the grotto. He held Tempest high above his head; the head began to glow a bright hue; Horatio summoned his valor and courage and gave a mighty cry, "Sons of Etherium! Who are you?!" All two thousand men rose, weapon in hand high above their heads, and replied," Riders Of The Storm!" With his men's voices shaking the grotto, Horatio led his men out. They filed out of the entrance like a mighty river carving a path through the indigo sands of the desert night.

The full moon's light illuminated the night sky and the indigo sands. Horatio leads his men in two tight columns following the tracks of Maron and his remaining men. Fortunate they were, moonless nights in these deserts are prime hunting for nocturnal predators. Many stories of Sand Serpents eating groups of men by the dozen. However, monsters were not on the minds of Horatio and his men, for they could see a faint amber glow with bright flashes of light beyond the peak of a dune. Horatio clicked his heels, and his horse began climbing the dune with his men following suit. Once at the top of the dune, Horatio was given a vantage point. Pulling his spyglass out of his saddle bag, he scanned the area.

The dune leads down into a small valley surrounded by dunes, much like the men were on. At the base of the valley was a large ward spell; two mages with their arms up in desperation do their best to keep their concentration as one witch tends to the wounded; avian warriors fly tight circles around the massive ward, striking it with rage and frustration. Far in the distance beyond the chaos was a cave opening. Withdrawing from his spyglass, Horatio called his sergeants, Aramis and Athos, to him. " If we can hold their attention, we can buy the corps enough time to get the wounded in that cave entrance beyond," declared Horatio." Sir, the dead litter the field; we are also one rank short, shouldn't we wait for Arch-mage Orion? Porthos and the rest of his men?" asked Aramis "Knowing Master Orion, I believe he's waiting on us" replied Horatio. He continued, "First we split our ranks, cut our way through the dead, then reform the line, and hit them, hard! Remember to aim for the gaps in their armor" before gesturing his men to ride on.

Horatio took the point with his remaining men, Aramis and his men at his right flank, and Athos with his men on his left flank. Like waves of the sea, the cavalry rolled down the dune, gaining momentum and soon approaching the maze of corpses scattered about the sands. Casting a blind eye to the horrors of war, Horatio focused on the mages and their ward, now fracturing from the relentless avian attacks; remembering his training, Horatio began to concentrate on his breathing. He shut out any unnecessary noise until all he heard was the beating of hooves and his breath, and a calmness washed over him that almost seemed blissful; Tempest began to glow in its saddle sleeve, The storm maiden bringing her champion back into the fray. Horatio pulled the halberd from its sleeve, grabbing both reins with his left hand; he stood the halberd up straight, the glow of the halberd rallying his men to him. "To the captain,!!" cries from the men echoed through the valley, attracting the attention of their avian adversaries. As they approached, a dozen avian warriors broke off from their formation. Seeing the prominent avian figures in the distance, the moonlight shining off their feathers and armor with weapons in hand, they spread their wings and raised their weapons to taunt and intimidate their opponents. Horatio leaned Tempest forward, signaling his men to tighten the ranks and prepare to charge; with the ranks tightened, Horatio adjusted his halberd again, now parallel with his horse. "Wards! " cried the sergeants passing the command down the ranks; they snapped into motion, equipping a steel round shield thirty-eight inches in diameter bound in leather and wood, the face of a maiden embroidered on the shield's center point. It began to glow.

The air around the men began to crack and snap ferociously as wards began to cloak both man and steed in a hue of pale turquoise. With the storm approaching, the shaman among the avian ranks, using his great staff, summoned a firewall, trying to detour the cavalry. Once the walls came up, Horatio saw several specks of amber light that began to grow as he advanced; he ordered his men to brace as volley after volley of fireballs ricocheted off the wards like slag off a hot blade as the cavalry advanced. Horatio tightened his grip around Tempest. Its glow was blinding, cracking and snapping erratically as tiny sparks jumped for the pole-arm's head. Realizing their barrages had been in vain, the avian shamen sent two avian warriors to engage the cavalry. They take flight and pass through the wall. Horatio, seizing his opportunity, aimed the halberd at the Shaman; the pole-arm's cracks and snaps intensified until a mighty scream was heard as a large bolt sparked off Tempest's head and zipped through the night sky, cutting through the Shaman's spell quicker than and a cut can bleed. The bolt from Horatio's halberd surged forth with a storm's intensity, engulfing the Shaman in a blinding flash and unleashing a powerful shock wave. The impact was catastrophic, instantly incinerating the Shaman and several avians in its path. A midst the chaos, the remaining avians were left disoriented. Blood, bile, sand, and feathers filled the air. The screams of the cavalry snapped them back to the front. However, it was too late. The avian defense was trampled, crushed. Claimed by the storm.

With a clear path presented, Horatio ordered his men to charge forward. Realizing their impending demise, the remaining avians took to the night sky; a cloud of sand and dust covered the field; Horatio rose Tempest high following his signal. Aramis took his men and broke off formation to aid the Mages into the cave entrance while the remaining men reformed the line. Avian warriors fly through the night sky, moonlight shining off their armor; they begin to soar to the heavens as high as the eye and see until unseen. Horatio halted his men. The air thickened with anticipation and dread. Fear claimed Horatio as avian silhouettes broke the moonlight above him.

A loud cry echoed through the sky, shaking the men to their core as the avians descended like falling stars. Horatio ordered his men to scatter; their movements became sporadic as the avians began to engage the cavalry unit. The men's efforts are desperate; some men use their strength in numbers to overwhelm their avian foes. Yet, some men are not fortunate as avians cleave through man and steed with great weapons. Horatio's fear deepens as more silhouettes break the moonlight. Despite this impending doom, Horatio smiles. Fine! he said to himself, Let it be here! He pulled his stead to a stop, and it began rearing. Horatio gave a mighty sound from his great horn that began to rally what men he had left once again.

With the Mage Corps safely inside the cave, Horatio decided to make his stand just outside the cave, opening the avian warrior's descent in an attack pattern; the cavalry prepared for another charge as Horatio vigorously their wards, cracking and snapping around them. Let it be now! Horatio said to himself, watching the prominent avian figures appear, their numbers growing. Horatio clicked his heels as Tempest's fury began to spark and shine again. As they approached, Horatio chose a target. He was just about to strike when an amber light zipping across the sky across the battlefield caught his eye. Horatio pulled his stead to a sudden stop, ordering his men to do the same. The men watched as the projectile flew erratically toward the avian ranks. Suddenly, the projectile erupted into an explosion of blue flame that covered the battlefield. Man and steed were in shock at this display of the horrid cries from the avians as they desperately tried to fan the flames, dive in the sand, and pry their armor off them as the fire engulfed the flock. Beyond them, a sound of rolling thunder can be heard. Parthos and Maron were leading the remaining flank of the cavalry to dispatch the avian foe. Before Horatio could rejoice in the turn of the tide, he heard cries from the men at his left, flanked by another group of avians. Before Horatio could disengage, an avian warrior ran his great sword into his horse, sending man and steed into the air.

Horatio hit the sand hard on his face, rolling to his back and losing his helmet, but he was quick to his feet with Tempest in hand. A blast this close would kill them both. His only choice was to meet his avian foe, weapon in hand. As the avian pulled his sword out of Horatio's steed, he snapped his wings, giving him an aid of speed as he advanced on foot towards Horatio, sword in hand. Horatio began to run towards his foe, Tempest, glowing in the night. The avian dropped his low guard before Horatio could run the halberd through his enemy. Taking flight a fraction of a second, the avian shoulder drove into Horatio's diaphragm, sending the captain in the air again, crashing on his back and coughing. The avian landed and began to speak as he walked towards Horatio. "Rejoice!" he cried. "Rejoice! Child of The Deceiver, I will give you ascension! I will grant you forgiveness for the sins of your father!" he continued, grabbing Horatio's leg and pulling him forward, and Tempest was just out of reach. The avian pins Horatio to the ground with his talons with confidence of a swift execution. Before the avian could swing his sword, three fireballs crashed on his back rapidly. The avian turned and screeched in frustration, only to see a lone mage. It was Maron."Heretic!" the avian warrior cried as he made a furious dash for Maron, screeching in the night. With sword and staff in hand, the mage did not defect his foe's attacks but passively flowed with them like water around the stone, with only slight moments to attack between movements, chipping away at the avian's defense. The avian slaps Maron with his wing, knocking Maron on his back and creating a gap that the avian does not hesitate to close. Maron holds his staff up with both hands, blocking the avian's strike at the cost of his staff. The avian kicks Maron back in frustration, caving Moran's breastplate. "Tell me, pyromancer. Do burn to ash and bone like the rest of you're kin?" He asked, standing over Maron with malice burning in his eyes. The blade of his great-sword began to glow bright orange as if hot from a forge. He raised his weapon with glee to land the final blow to Maron. Suddenly, the head of Tempest sprang through the avian's chest with a sickening crunch as it began to discharge, shocking and burning the avian threat until death took him.

Without hesitation, Horatio made his way to Maron. The mage was gasping for air. Gesturing to his chest, Horatio sat Maron up and pulled a dagger to cut the leather straps on Moran's chest plate. The mage took a deep breath and continued to catch his breath. "You're still faster than me," said Horatio with relief, helping Maron to his feet. His mentor looked at him and laughed, picking up his chest plate. "Clearly not fast enough," replied Maron. The two look back at the chaos of the battlefield. Off in the distance, Porthos and Athos rode to their captain, informing him that the rescue was successful and that reinforcements were on their way. "Tend to the wounded; set a watch until reinforcements arrive," ordered Horatio. The two officers rode off as Horatio and Maron began the walk to the Cave entrance, sharing a bottle of wine.

here

President Yoon Suk Yeol's hands trembled as he arranged the documents on his desk for the seventh time. The motion steadied his nerves – barely. The manila envelope contained photographs: himself accepting white envelopes from a chaebol’s construction executives, each image timestamped and crystal clear. His secretary had arranged them chronologically, bless her eternally professional soul.

A coffee cup sat cooling on his desk, the steam rising in lazy spirals. He hadn't touched it. The headline would break in six hours. Six hours until thirty years of carefully cultivated reputation would—

His fingers found his tie pin, adjusting it microscopically. There was still one option. An unseemly option.

His hand hovered over the phone for three long breaths before he picked it up.

"Secretary Park? Would you join me in my office?" A pause. "And please bring contingency protocol K-17."

Twenty minutes later, Secretary Park stood at attention, clutching a leather portfolio. "Sir, implementing K-17 would require—"

"I'm aware of the requirements."

Yoon's voice was steady now. "Draft the declaration. Martial law. Use the template from the '79 precedent, but..." he brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve, "...let's add a note about North Korean collaborators. That should be enough to keep the press happy."

The secretary's pen scratched against paper. Outside the window, Seoul's lights twinkled, oblivious to the machinery of state grinding into motion.

The 2 AM darkness in Sergeant Hyun-Woo's barracks shattered with his k-pop ringtone. His dreams of his mother's steaming kimchi jjigae evaporated as the duty officer's voice crackled through: "Parliament deployment. Non-lethal loadout only. Fifteen minutes."

"Non-lethal?" Staff Sergeant Kim muttered as they set up barriers ninety minutes later. The pre-dawn air bit through their uniforms. "Sir, these might as well be water pistols."

Hyun-Woo ran his thumb along his riot shield's edge, feeling each scratch and dent from previous protests. "Standard protocol for legislative premises. We maintain order through presence, not force." The words felt hollow in his mouth, rehearsed from a manual written by men who'd never stood a line.

A news van's headlights swept across them. Then another. And another. Soon the street hummed with media vehicles, their satellite dishes rising like metal mushrooms in the gray morning light. Cameras began to flash. Protesters began arriving.

"Sir?" Private Lee shifted his weight. "The martial law orders say no press or protests allowed."

Hyun-Woo watched another van park. "I see them, Private."

"Should we..."

"I see them," he repeated, softer this time. The shield felt heavier with each passing minute.

Parliament Member Ji-Hye emerged from the crowd like a splash of iridescent watercolor in her pearl-gray hanbok. Camera flashes intensified, but she moved as if walking through her own garden, unhurried. Each step measured, deliberate.

She stopped three paces from Hyun-Woo's shield. "Sergeant." Her voice carried just far enough to be caught by the nearest microphones. "These halls belong to the people's representatives. I would kindly request access"

Hyun-Woo felt sweat trickle down his back despite the morning chill. "The building is sealed under emergency orders, Member Ji-Hye."

"Ah." She nodded, as if he'd made a particularly interesting point during a tea ceremony. Her eyes flicked to his nameplate, then his riot shield, then the practice weapon at his side.

Without another word, she turned and walked exactly twenty paces left. The crowd parted. At a ground-floor window, already open, several citizens had formed an impromptu assistance line. They lifted her up, in through the window. Ji-Hye paused at the window's edge, looked back at the soldiers, and gave a slight bow before accepting the protesters' help inside.

"Orders, sir?" Staff Sergeant Kim's knuckles were white on his weapon.

Hyun-Woo watched as more parliament members appeared, each following Ji-Hye's path. Some wore business suits, others traditional dress. All bowed before entering. Through the windows, he could see them removing their shoes, could hear the echo of the speaker's gavel as they called the emergency session to order.

"We follow protocol," he said finally. "No force against legislators. No exceptions."

Forty-seven minutes later, Ji-Hye reappeared at the window. She held a document embossed with the parliament's seal, the ink still fresh. "The emergency session has concluded, Sergeant. Martial law has been lifted by unanimous vote. 190-0." She extended the paper. "Your copy, for proper documentation and recordkeeping."

Hyun-Woo stared at the document, then at his shield, then at the crowd of citizens and journalists watching in complete silence.

He set down his shield and began to walk home.

President Yoon's coffee had gone completely cold when his aide entered without knocking. One look at the aide's face told him everything.

"They had quorum?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes, sir. Full attendance. Your party boycotted, but it wasn’t enough. All votes were recorded and notarized."

Yoon touched his tie pin one last time. Outside his window, the sun had fully risen over Seoul. Even now, he could hear the whir of printer presses running the morning editions. He wondered what they’d say, how they’d frame it.

He reached for the phone to make his final presidential announcement, officially ending the martial law order.

But he paused.

There was, after all, another way to end things.

I've always found greek mythology super interesting and want to check out some books based on it. I know about Percy Jackson and have heard good things about it but I'm wondering what else was out there.

For a couple of reasons, I've been trying to figure out if there are any works of fiction that focus on Christian fundamentalism. Initially, I tried coming up with works that specifically focus on televangelism, but that seemed a bit too narrow, so I'd like to broaden my horizons.

Thus far, the only literary works I was able to come up with were Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale (1985), Stephen King's Carrie (1976), and Chris Claremont's X-Men: God Loves, Man Kills (1982). Both Atwood's and Claremont's works feature televangelists as antagonists (Serena Joy Waterford and William Stryker, respectively) but as I said before, trying to find just works with televangelists might be too limiting.

As you might notice, all three of these works also fall into the speculative fiction genre, being supernatural horror, science fiction / dystopian, or superhero stories. So, my question is, are there any other literary works about Christian fundamentalism?

Ideally, I would like some recommendations that are American in nature or deal with Christian fundamentalism in the US. However, works from / about other countries could also work. They can be novels or graphic novels; possibly even a story arc from a serialized comic.

Also, I'd prefer if any recommendations, like the three examples I provided, fell into the speculative fiction genre. Lastly, if said works about Christian fundamentalism also feature televangelists as antagonists, even better, but not a requirement.

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Book One: Creator's Hope

First Tale: The Man Becoming A Tree

Chapter 1: The Old Hag

Plug speaks:

I'm Plug, your narrator and guide to the Universe

Picture a sunny day on the sidewalk of Fuller Street, Los Celestiales 90046, Goldensun, Unified States of Amerigon, Mother Earth, Via Galactica Galaxy, Universe.

More precisely, a few steps downhill from the entrance to a city park, Runyon Canyon.

It is a hot afternoon.

“How hot?” you ask.

“You feel like grilled cheese” hot. But it’s always hot these days, as in, “Remember when it wasn’t so damn hot?”

As if it weren’t already hot enough, a desiccating Santa Ana wind has been building all day with a faint but menacing whiff of wood smoke, pushing down the steep Runyon Canyon trails amid the scrub brush and occasional trees, out through the handsome wrought-iron gate just up the sidewalk from me, and on down Fuller.

These Santa Anas are more frequent now than they ever were before.

And so are the grand-scale arsons. Both are signs, in different ways, but parts of the same larger equation, that the social contract is tearing apart as habitable space dwindles here on our overheating Mother Earth.

Today, as every day, despite the heat, the canyon trails and the sidewalks leading up to them teem with hikers, most of whom are tethered to either of two companions: a phone or a dog – or both.

Every breed and shape of canine is represented here, from the smallest yippy white accessory dog with purple punk ‘fro to Great Danes, which, like very tall men, appear to be as embarrassed as they are by the attention their size draws.

Runyon Canyon offers a testament to the fragility of the human race’s claim to own the surface of Mother Earth. Amid the dense foliage in the canyon’s depths are the ruins of several stone-and-concrete walls left from the tract of houses that a real estate developer named Runyon started in your 1920s.

The housing tract was never finished. These ruins, now covered in graffiti, the rich language chronicling the long-raging war between Minions and the Enlightened, will be gone from sight in another 30 years.

If the Universe lasts that long, that is.

The wind begins to swirl ominously around a high-rise dwelling just below the park.

This skyward residential sprawl at 1901 Fuller Avenue, built inside the former boundary of the park on a foundation of zoning variances and a mortar of political palm grease, is typical of a Los Celestiales luxury high-rise condominium.

A semicircular driveway sweeps in from the street and under a broad portico. White-gloved valets park cars for a sleek, groomed clientele who ascend marble stairs to a glass-fronted, marble-floor lobby with a front desk, where uniformed staff members hover 24 hours a day.

Its hive of 300 luxury condo units is owned by a cast typical of a Los Celestiales high-rise: resident and absentee owners, some of them formerly famous or notorious, who used the spoils of their fled Moviewood fame to acquire the urban metaphor for property: a condominium or two.

They include a once-locally-famous jazz musician, now not; a former male porn star, now a producer of same, who “auditions” future female porn stars in, and, so to speak, with, his unit; a dentist skilled at selling $100,000* smiles; and a good number of glittering young tenants on their way up the social ladder (or fancying themselves to be).

They pause in the lobby, sparkling fashionably and noisily – always noisily, as if a quiet passage through the lobby would quell their very existence (or worse, social status), and who are denizens less of this place than of whichever Cahuenga Boulevard clubs are deemed this week to be the places to be seen.

*The “$” sign denotes a Unified States greenbuck; the currency in your iteration of the Universe might have a different name.

I dwell on this building, its surroundings, and its well-heeled and yet commonplace occupants because, in every way, its polished modernity is at odds with the character of the neighborhood – with both the few remaining Twenties movie-star mansions and the many Sixties and Seventies low-rise apartment buildings that replaced other old-Moviewood mansions.

The truly successful have long since moved their digs west to the Bird Streets or Bon-Aire or more distant enclaves of the super-rich, from Utopia Hills to Playa Mariposa and beyond.

It is this very contrast with its neighbors that makes this building exactly and precisely an everyday and mundane example of Los Celestiales as it is, and as any sentient resident would expect it to be: something new and gaudy, pushing out both recent history and the last remnants of Moviewood’s Golden Age.

And, as with any payoff worth spending, this high-rise has filched a piece of what had been public parkland in the process.

So, in other words, nothing about this luxury high-rise condo building is a surprise to anyone who understands the City of Celestials.

Ah, but there is one surprise.

Inside this building, each day, a frail-looking old woman, bent and wrinkled and not quite five feet tall, the sort of old person you don’t notice because you don’t want to, slowly makes her way with the help of a hundred-year-old Kentucky Basher M43 baseball bat (the “M” signifies a major league model), which she uses as a cane, down the hall of her penthouse apartment to the elevator.

Then, she rides down the elevator, slowly crosses the lobby with barely a nod at the front-desk clerk, and sits in a particular chair with a strategic view of the criss-crossing halls of the building in all four directions and out to the driveway, the street, and the passing foot traffic to and from Runyon Canyon.

Plug calls her \"The Old Hag.\"

This woman is not friendly and engaging to the staff, as one would hope from a woman of great-grandmotherly age. She is simply observant.

It is assumed that she watches the passing traffic because she is old and alone and has nothing constructive to do, and that the baseball bat in her hands, a pathetic symbol of her frailty, is for self-defense.

The first two assumptions are correct. She is indeed old (in fact, eons older than she looks), and for now, she is alone.

However, “frail” is the farthest antonym from what she really is, and she does have something to do:

It is her task to set in motion the quest to save the Universe.

Those of us who know her well call her the “Old Hag” behind her back, mostly for want of a friendlier thought about her, but also because the name is so ironic, given… But that is getting far ahead of the story.

Especially important to her, as she takes her seat, is the fact that this vantage point gives her an unobstructed view of the door to a condo, Unit 101, just down the hall from the lobby.

This door to Unit 101 is where reality shifts slightly, as if we were entering a movie set.

Every other apartment door along the halls of this building is of a typical flat-surfaced laminate, painted the same off-white as the walls, and decorated only with a plain, round brass doorknob and a small round peephole.

However, the door of Unit 101 is made of old, weathered wood. It is not rectangular. It is arched, but unevenly so, and its frame is like the supporting arches of tree roots, or like a column of the Sagrada Familia, or like a Hobbit’s front door in the Shire in Lord of the Rings.

Tiny roots and equally tiny branches with new leaves weave around the seam between the door and frame.

This door has an ornate bronze handle, and on the hinge side, it is guarded by a six-foot-tall bronze casting of a dragon ready to breathe fire.

The door of Unit 101 ... Where the departure from your reality begins

To a historian of Italian ecclesiastical matters, these would appear to be replicas of the ancient handle and guardian dragon on the door of the sacristy of the Basilica Santa Maria Sacra Nevischio in Rome.

In fact, it is the other way around; this is the original, and the door handle and dragon at Santa Maria Sacra Nevischio are now a perfect counterfeit, placed there to deflect the otherwise inevitable inquiries.

Why the Santa Maria Sacra Nevischio door handle and guardian dragon?

Because the dragon is a symbolic warning to ward off evil, and Santa Maria Sacra Nevischio is the site of a claimed sighting of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and before that, it was the site of a temple to the goddess Cybele, the Greek-Roman Earth Mother.

This borrowed door handle is a genuine, effective protective charm, thwarting any evil from opening the door.

It is impervious to nearly all evil Magic, as you are about to see. Nearly all.

The Old Hag, with the baseball bat for a cane, seated across the lobby, seems to pay no heed to this strange door. She gives the appearance of paying no attention to anything in her view.

That appearance is deceiving.

However, for the moment, let us leave the Old Hag.

Within, Unit 101, a small studio, is even more strange than the door — stranger by far. It has metamorphosed into what looks like a cave, or, more accurately, a space hemmed in by huge trees.

Everything in its construction has ceased to be rectilinear, almost as if the ghost of Gaudi had visited and redesigned this space as a forest.

Its dark, wooden ceiling rises in the middle to a pinnacle that protrudes several impossible yards up through what would be the apartments above if this space strictly obeyed the laws of Newtonian reality. It is overgrown with a tangle of vines and roots.

How does this forest hollow exist in a place so apparently normal as a luxury high-rise building? Is it because there is something unusual about the forest of Runyon Canyon, into which the builders of this upper-middle-class obscenity have intruded?

Let it suffice for now to say that this City of Celestials is a place where, if you dare to look, there is Magic, and not all of it is good.

But let us turn now to the occupant.

End of Chapter One

This is the end of Chapter 1 of the First Tale of Book One, Creator's Hope. You can read the entire First Tale free of charge at https://aprayerformotherearth.com and subscribe to the remaining six Tales of Book One for $1.99, 83% off the full price, through December 15, 2024 with this Discount Code: PLUGS-PRAYER-RF.

Built between the years of 1915 and 1916 in Goshen Shores by the Mecynan-based shipping line "Royal Commonwealth Line", the ship was the second largest ship in the world at the time of it's launching, being 292 meters long and 30 meters wide.

The ship was also relatively fast for it's time, reaching speed of up to 27.5 knots, transporting passengers from Silversea, Mecyna, to several locations, such as San Martin, Navenna and a few cities in Ingrea. it had a max. passenger capacity of 3.100 people, including the 700 crew members.

S.S Silversea had an uneventful career, apart from a small boiler malfunction in 1930. It would be transfered to Bededonia Line in 1936 after RCL's bankruptcy in the same year, and re-named "S.S Norwalk".

The ship would be sold for scrap in 1944, but it colided with an underwater rock formation off the coast of Altura, Cordinia, while being towed to the scrapyard and sank in about 25 minutes.

Today, the wreck of the ship is an artificial reef for local wildlife and an excellent location for scuba divers to explore.

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https://opengeofiction.net/ this story takes place in this world.

I want to write a story.

I want to write a story. I don’t really know if I have what it takes to do so. But here some rough work.

Shampoo

PROLOGUE “STOP USING MY FUCKING SHAMPOO! It’s mine!”-Naomi “I didn’t use it”-Gus “Dad August keeps using my shampoo!”-Naomi “Gus, are you using Naomi’s shampoo?”-Father “No”-Gus “Gus don’t lie, lying won’t get you anywhere. You have to stop. That shampoo is for girls.”- Father “Ya it’s for girls” -Naomi “I didn’t use it” -Gus “You never learn huh?” -Father

I don’t know much about Gus, but one thing I do know. Gus is a liar.

PART 1 GUS

Through the faded painted letters adorning a glass door, stands a silhouette of a man with long hair clad in formal attire, at least for Hawaii standards. (Aloha shirt and slacks)

“I’m sorry brah, but with your credit and nothing for collateral I don’t think we can help you” said the overweight employee with His Nike dry fit golf shirt stretched over his beer belly and his double chin filling his collar. From behind the front counter another voice emerges. “Nakamura huh? You don’t look Japanese!” Questioned a young man who’s hair was as damaged from the sun as his leather like skin. He stood looking beyond his desk holding application forms. The silhouette in front of the counter turns back to the glass door without uttering a word. Almost as if he didn’t hear the men speaking to him. Both men grimace and go back to their own lives as the silhouette steps out. The glass door shuts behind him. The faded paint reading “Pay day loans. Open 9am-6pm Mon-fri. 10am-2pm sat. Closed Sun.”. On the cracked sidewalk on a beautiful Aloha Friday in front of the pay day loans shop in the middle of Kalihi stood the silhouette. It was Gus. Who for some odd reason was smiling. He was new to it. Yet he was already familiar with it. Gus had found his pockets empty and his debts ever increasing. He could only think to himself. “I’m poor” and with that thought in front of the payday loans shop he spent the only thing he could. He began laughing. Until out of breath. As if he had heard a joke for the first time in his 24 years. He spent all the oxygen he had on those laughs. Maybe he’d gone mad. The two employees peered out from the window of the shop looking at the man they turned away. The older man looked towards the younger football skinned employee uttering “You suckin young boys getting all nuts nowadays. Something wrong with your generation or what?” “Don’t lump me in with him unko, that faka is off” said the younger man. Gus, after catching his breath, turned to the shop. Meeting eyes with the two men proceeded to wave goodbye to them. Holding his hand at a right angle twisting his wrist left and right. “Waving like the queen” he thought. “Sophistication even in rejection.” Odd. Empty stomach, empty pockets and a face full of joy. Plastering that smile along his face seems to be the only thing he is good at.

A bench. An old woman. A homelsss man. Then Gus. All four baking in the tropical sun waiting for the bus to arrive. The old woman and Gus standing on the curb as to not get too close to the stench of the homeless man who lay across the bench like a construction worker settling in on his couch after a long day at work. His mumbling, his stench, even the sight of him have just become a normal part of the island. Few are to acknowledge him. Not even an annoyance at this point. Not even a human. The homeless man and the bench are one and the same. Just part of the scenery. But not today. 
“Excuse me auntie, get dollar?” The homeless man asked aloud. Gus looked over at the man who was staring at the back of the old woman. Once more he asked. “Auntie? Can hear me or what? You deaf?!” 
The old woman. The “Auntie” looked at Gus ignoring the homeless man. Her eyes telling Gus to do something. He obliges. 
 “Here braddah, I get dollar” Gus reaches into his pocket. Pulling out four quarters. His precious laundry money will have to save this old woman. 

“Quarters? No more dollar?” The homeless man questioned. “Dollar is a dollar. Take it” Gus smiles. With the silver quarters now sitting in the dirty calloused palm of the homeless man, Gus turns back to the old woman. She smiles at him and he does the same to her. The bus arrives. 40 to Ala Moana center. As they enter the bus. Gus, one step behind the old woman, thinks to himself. “One wash cycle to save a stranger? Should’ve kept the quarters.”

Now on the bus. Three dollars poorer. Gus is lucky enough to get a bench seat closer to the rear. Prime positioning in his mind. An elevated seat close to the exit door  away from the old folks and handicapped. With it being only 11 am too, the bus is empty. Absent of annoying children finishing school or commuting adults. What else can you ask for? Music. 
Not the type to read. Or the type to get lost in his phone, potentially because there isn’t anyone on there for him to talk to, Gus enjoys music. Not a singer or a dancer. Couldn’t play a single chord or note of any instrument. The boy just listens. With his air pods in and the same six songs queued. Gus is at peace for the twenty or so minutes he is on the bus. It’s a welcomed break. 
   The Bus, a sanctuary. A person who gets on the bus makes the agreement that they are no longer in control for the duration of their ride. Only an absolute emergency can stop the bus and even then you get a free transfer to another bus. On the bus nothing else matters other than the destination and getting there is up to someone else. Responsibilities, relationships, life can’t be attended to until a rider steps off the bus. Peace of mind for a limited time at the cheap price of three dollars, until they raise it again that is. The tug of wire is all it takes to leave the air conditioned safe haven and thus it’s time. 


  Gus steps off the bus, his destination being the Mecca of boredom. Ala Moana shopping mall. Facing the mall he makes a 180 to Kapiolani street. Gus isn’t shopping today but is, in fact, going home. (Name of apartment complex tbd) tucked away in the busy streets of downtown Honolulu is where he resides. Convenient for a man who loves the bus. All routes lead here. That didn’t matter much to him three years ago when he first got the place. Visions of a car and a nicer apartment ran rampant back then, but life and his poor decisions made those visions more and more blurry every passing day. Now the 300 foot studio and the ease of public transport are more valuable than those dreams. After all, Gus still lives in paradise. 
  Taking a right and then a left through the intersection past the fire station aross from the don quijote. Gus reaches the front door of his apartment building.
“Happy aloha Friday, Gus” 
 “Oh, you too Gladys”
Gladys, an older Japanese woman. Short white hair and thick glasses. You might mistake her for a New York style door man the way she mans the lobby. Greeting residents and judging strangers. 

“The mail hasn’t come yet.” Gladys reports. “Oh darn it, well thanks” Gus forces a reply. Walking past the old guardswoman. Stepping on the elevator, they exchange goodbyes. Gus leaving her to man her station. As the elevator door slides closed Gus looks at Gladys. Gladys has lived a full life. She has earned the right to be bored. Which is why she cruises around the premises filling her day with meaningless conversations with random tenants. A feeling of envy. “To be retired. To be done” Gus thinks to himself. The chime of the elevator rings. The digital sign atop the door reads the number 6. With every step Gus takes closer to his door the feeling of despair grows. Reaching his front door. He accepts his fate. Unlocking the door to apartment 616. He steps into his home, alone. The one thing he set out to do that day being a failure. He trudges through the skinny hallway into his kitchen/living room/ office/ bedroom, a studio, setting himself on the cheap Walmart couch. Alone and having failed to obtain the loan he sits in contemplation for a moment. “I’m poor” he laughs. Pink, red and green. The instant ramen packs lay on the counter. $3.68 for a pack of six from Safeway. Surely a difficult decision. Pink, shrimp flavor. Red beef. Ever so flavorful green, chili and lime. Gus grabs the beef ramen plopping it into the boiling pot of water. Dinner. Fueling up for a night that’s only beginning. The ping of a new iMessage. Gus looks at his phone. It’s Kaena.

Hey buddies. I have a horror/sci-fi short story, Haunting Infinity, now live and free to read on my author home page www.smthygesen.com (under free short story section). I also just uploaded it on Wattpad and RoyalRoad. It is a ghost story of sorts, without wanting to give too much of the plot away. If you are looking for entertainment for ~30 minutes (17 pages) at one point, please feel free to look at it :) I really hope you enjoy it! All the best, S.M. Thygesen, Denmark

Absence, absolute absence. Unable to see, hear, or even think, but in the thoughtless a thought appeared, a thought that felt demanding even to one that could not be controlled. A simple demand simple enough for any being to follow… Exist. For the absence of nothing, is something.

A figure opened their eyes, around them they could perceive a lavender wall, an incandescent shine came from a white circle in front of the figure as smaller white dots filled the wall, rotating around the white circle. The figure’s sense of gravity allowed them to come to the conclusion that their current position wasn’t typical, they were in fact lying down on their back. As the figure reared their elbows behind them to prop up their body they realized that the wall wasn’t in front of them. The wall was in truth the sky above itself as the figure managed to comprehend this new information given by their surroundings. The figure had soon realized that they were in a valley, gray monotone hills covered in yellow grass covering most of the figure's vision. They slowly stood up on their feet upon realizing that lying down wasn’t appropriate at the moment. The figure stood there, not sure what to do, so they just did nothing… A moment of silence passes where they just did absolutely nothing but stand until the figure suddenly felt a presence within them. The presence seemed impatient, wanting for the figure to go somewhere, the figure decided to simply follow whatever desire the presence communicated with them. The figure looked around and saw a black flowing indentation in the ground, a river. A river black as one’s pupil and flowing calmy, although to the figure this was inarguably the most chaotic geography they’ve perceived when compared to the stillness of the land and the repetitive rotation of the white dots in the sky. This chaos lured the figure in as they came closer to it, unsure if they were doing it out of their own curiosity or in response to the will of the presence inside. They kneeled down looking into the dark waters, the river reflected the sky above along with the large white circle surrounded by white dots. The figure understood that this surface was a mirror of sorts and thus when they soon saw a person reflected back at them, there was only one logical answer on who, themself. Their hair was a dull shade of gold, fading into a black with a purple hue to it, their expression was calm. The figure had differently colored eyes, one lavender and the other golden similar to the environment the figure found themselves in. Their eyes sparkled as they too reflected back the white dots in the sky. The figure soon noticed parts of their body they couldn’t feel but now could see in the reflection, these extensions of their body were in actuality their clothes but the figure did not yet understand this fact… Soon the figure felt the will of the presence once more, it urged them to enter the water.

Ok hello everyone ! First of I want to apologize for my English idk if everything is understandable but I hope it is. This is just a random question I asked myself and I wanted to know what people think about it. (Also I wasn’t sure about it being fit for /fiction but I thought that fillers needed to be wrote at some point so guess I ended up here)

As a producer of episodic fiction (such as anime adaptations, series, movie sagas, …) There are times where you might catch up with the source material (mainly thinking abt one piece). These situation might cause some fillers and a decrease in quality compared to what came before. What I was thinking about is : could there be a way for production studios and everything (I rlly don’t know what I’m talking about rn)could hire writers specifically for the show (hear me out) to work together with the source material’s author towards developing some other parts of the story (such as side characters backstories (allies or antagonists), world building, hinting at next arcs and giving sorts of ‘’what’s leading to the next arc’’ type of shit) in order to avoid mindless and ‘’non-canon’’ fillers ? I rlly don’t know if that even make sense rn (kinda high at 5am watching a 21h YouTube manga analysis video) it’s just that I’m wondering if that could be technically 1 possible and 2 great or not

I'm about to drop my 20th chapter and hit 100 pages tomorrow(11/20/24), and this is a good milestone to cement my path and fix up my writing style. If your down to give some proper, specific feedback, or just want to read it, here's the link: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/91740/the-enlightened-blade

PS: DM if you want to give me critique, and feel free to be as harsh or positive as you want. I'm also flexible with how we communicate(Discord, messages, reddit, snap, wtvr).

Its been a rough time, and by rough time, I meant a few years.

I'm currently at university studying for a degree that I've lost passion for but will continue if I see there to be a lack of light in this career.

Writing and the idea of exploring unique fantasy worlds whether it be another's or mine, is what I love so very much.

I haven't written much in a very long time but I will still send this (eventhough its a bit old) just to see if there really is any hope.

I'm also open to review and edit anyone else's book whether it be unfinished or not, so let me know!

Heres the first two chapters to my book called "JOYKING"

Let me know what you think regarding its pacing, if theres too much info dumping, etc.

Chapter 0 (only chapter written in first person, doing this to give the readers a feel of my character):

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YGl7pChSO6x2ufQPsv-_erNd7JoO8vLXBGbDTfElj_s/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 1: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xdqrXm3U5PibnqPpt48z1VwEIvElmc9SD702QFQvUBw/edit?usp=sharing

In a quaint village nestled by the forest, there lived a man known for his dedication to chopping wood. One day, while working by the village walls, he noticed the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Despite his distraction, he focused on his work, telling himself the right time would come to approach her.

The woman, intrigued by his diligence, asked him how he managed such demanding work alone. With a peaceful tone, he explained that his family had been doing this for generations. "My father taught me, and his father taught him," he said, pride evident in his voice. She was amazed by his dedication and wondered if he ever got tired. He replied that his father's words kept him going: the key to never giving up was to have the strongest will, no matter the challenge.

Impressed by his resolve, she asked if he was free later. Shyly, he said yes, and she walked away smiling. That night, they walked through a beautiful field, her favorite place during tough times. It brought her peace. She shared that her father was the village leader and her mother had passed away. Being an only child, her father was very protective of her. He reciprocated by sharing the story of his father's tragic death while gathering wood for the village. "I promised to keep his legacy alive," he said.

Moved, she expressed her sympathy, and they shared a kiss under the starlit sky. The next morning, as he prepared for work, his friend told him the village leader wanted to see him. Confused but compliant, he went to the leader's home.

The village leader greeted him warmly. The man, anxious, asked why he was summoned. The leader assured him there was no trouble and acknowledged the growing bond between him and his daughter. The leader stated that anyone wishing to be with his daughter must prove themselves. She protested, saying he had already won her heart, but her father insisted.

The leader explained they were short on wood and the best supply was beyond the mountains. If the man could bring back enough wood before sunset, he would have his blessing. Warned of the journey's dangers, the man, determined, accepted the challenge.

As he packed, she pleaded with him not to go, fearing for his safety. He reassured her, promising to return. The journey was arduous, but his love for her fueled his determination. Finally reaching the wood, he worked tirelessly. However, the logs were too heavy. Exhausted and despairing, he collapsed, tears streaming down his face, feeling he had failed.

At that moment, Death appeared. "Are you okay, young man?" Death asked. The man, sobbing, said he couldn't do it and feared he'd never see her again. Death revealed that he had known the man's father, who had chosen to die for his loved ones and village. "It wasn’t just willpower," Death explained. "It was love that kept your family going."

Reflecting on this, the man realized his true strength came from love, not sheer will. Back in the village, everyone anxiously awaited his return. Just as the sun began to set, she spotted him on the horizon, carrying the logs with Death’s help. The village erupted in cheers.

The leader, both shocked and impressed, embraced the man. "You deserve my daughter, and more importantly, she deserves you," he said. Tears of joy filled the man's eyes as he hugged his beloved. Death told him, "All your strength came from love. Your future will be bright and full of happiness. Never waste it."

The man, puzzled, asked why Death had helped him instead of taking his soul. "Even the strongest need help sometimes," Death replied. "I've never seen such love in a man's heart." With that, Death vanished into the wind.

The couple shared a passionate kiss, their love destined to last forever, unyielding and eternal.

Thinking about Dune (Duke Leto) and Game of Thrones (Ned Stark) in particular, and how in 20th century fantasy there seems to be this archetypal character that:

• Has paternal qualities or is the father of the protagonist
• Exhibits the moral framework with which the protagonist first executes actions in the plot - but is usually discarded due to conflict
• Is betrayed by the antagonist/brutality/“the system”
• Is lawful good

My question: where does this archetype originate in western writing? Is it Shakespearean?

Our story takes place in the year of 2000, the start of a new millennium. A lot has happened in that year and since, but we are focusing on a little city named Tankshire, in the American state of Nevada. There, a shocking event has happened.

It is February 29th, a random man walks home from the local community college. As he walks home, he starts having a weird feeling of suspicion that something isn’t quite right. After thinking about it for a second, he shrugs it off and continues walking home. He makes it to his house, a small ordinary house you’d find in any suburb. He puts the key into the keyhole, turns it and opens the door to enter his house. As he closes the door, a black silhouette appears seemingly out of nowhere, behind a nearby lamp post. It was no wonder the random man felt a sense of suspicion. Oh why am I observing such a thing? I need to get out of here! 

It is later in the night, the light in the man’s bedroom and the rest of the house is turned off, implying he is fast asleep. The black silhouette returns to the lamp post. It now makes a move to the house. It tried to open the door, but as it had expected, the door was locked. It puts its palm onto the door for a few seconds, after a few seconds, the door is unlocked. It opens the door and closes it to ensure nobody gets in. It slowly walks up to his bedroom.

 It opens his bedroom door, creaking in the process. It closes the door, then slowly walks up to his bed with him sleeping in it, snoring mildly loudly. It stands creepily to the side of the sleeping man. It pulls out a small bag and puts its hand into it. Inside is a cactus colored powder. It pulls a sprinkle of the powder and puts it into the man's mouth seamlessly and quietly. It crouches when it stops hearing his snoring for a moment. After a couple seconds, he goes back to snoring. Though as he is snoring, he starts to look scared, moaning every couple of snores. 

Once it knows he is sleeping and scared, it gets back up. It pulls out a weirdly shaped knife, as if it wasn’t made by an ordinary smith, then holds the knife up in the air. Then after a couple of seconds, it strikes. 

The man who was living before he slept has left the world, and it was all thanks to a killer. Speaking of which, it had left the scene shortly after striking down the man. Leaving behind little traces of the incident.

This story caught me completely off guard. I went in with no idea what to expect, and it was much shorter than I anticipated—just 30 pages. But wow, it achieved so much with so little.

One of the most intriguing aspects is how little context is provided about the lottery itself. It’s a tradition, but the reason behind it? We’re left in the dark. Even the townspeople don’t seem to remember why it started, and that mystery adds to its impact. Honestly, I think if we were given more explanation, it might not have hit as hard.

Shirley Jackson’s writing is masterful. It’s short, sharp, and direct. The prose is sparse, yet it manages to pack in an incredible amount of emotion. The characters are just ordinary people—we don’t know much about them, but that simplicity is part of the story’s strength.

What really stood out to me is how the tone shifts as the story progresses. At first, the lottery feels like a festive event, almost exciting. But as it unfolds, a sense of dread creeps in. The tension builds and builds until the final, chilling reveal. It’s fascinating how Jackson manipulates your emotions in such a small amount of space.

The world-building is another standout. In just 30 pages, Jackson vividly sets the scene, making the story’s setting feel grounded and real. It’s a testament to her talent that she could create something so immersive in such a short format.

I’m thoroughly impressed by this story’s depth, themes, and emotional weight. Shirley Jackson’s skill is undeniable. This experience has made me want to pick up The Haunting of Hill House—I loved the Netflix adaptation, and I’m sure the novel is even better!

Lastly, it’s clear that The Lottery has influenced pop culture in major ways (Hunger Games, anyone?). It’s an incredibly written story, packed with thought-provoking ideas and an unsettling atmosphere that leaves you thinking long after you’ve finished.

If you haven’t read The Lottery, I highly recommend it. It’s short, impactful, and an excellent starting point if you’re looking to get into reading more fiction.

I created this as a post for my new blog here's the link if you want to check it out: https://blog-on-books.blogspot.com/