Hi! I am a woman who used to write short horror stories and am struggling to write them again. This is a draft, but I am interested in feedback as it has been a while. I don't know what else to say, so here goes:

When did my life turn to shit?

Oh, buckle up, sweetheart; I have a fucking story for you!

Let's take it back to childhood, a trip down memory lane. It all started when my idiot father decided that my model mom was not good enough. When I say "not good enough," he beat her.

He would regularly disrespect and beat her in front of my older brother and me. I still remember the sound of her sobs echoing in the night, a haunting melody that would intertwine with the creaking of our old house. He would degrade her in public, making it seem like she was the one not interested in staying married to him. All the while, he was regularly cheating on her. He "worked," so that meant he was the man of the house—the breadwinner, the king allowed to do as he pleased. For any scrap of recognition, my mother had to scrape the barrel. Nothing she did or accomplished was good enough or worthwhile.

That is the story of the bird in a cage, trapped to suffer the enormity of an emotionless world. If you can survive, wonderful. Most drown.

Fast forward to me. My friends and I would agree: I am a shining light, a beacon. I attract all sorts of things—whether strays, puppies, or house-trained "dogs". I used to be idealistic and believed that I was something special, gifted to be a light in the darkness. Fuck my stupid mentality; I was wrong. Like a moth to a flame, I attracted toxicity. It followed me everywhere, even in my dreams—monsters haunting me at every waking moment, whether I wanted it or not.

Present day—

The alarm blared: 7:00 a.m. on the dot.

"Fuck."

I rolled over to silence my phone alarm. I chose an obnoxious tone specifically to wake me up because if I had the option, I would melt into the mattress and never rise again. I rolled onto my back, stretching my legs in the process, and sat up. The bed was empty except for my body. It had been that way for a long time. I sat up, listening to the silence that mirrored the emptiness inside of me. I sighed and dragged my body from the comfort of my blankets. Today was the day. I had to move.

I should probably start from the beginning, but to be honest, so much has transpired that I don't even know if I would be able to keep the facts straight.

For the time being, let's stay here in the present moment. I am 36, female, slim to fit when I can scavenge enough food among the "things" that roam. I don't really know what they are, but that is another horrifying story for another day.

I covered a long yawn in the crook of my elbow as I pulled my cargo pants over the long johns I always wore. You could never have too much protection from the elements or the things. A shiver went down my back as I recalled my close call from days prior. The feeling of claws shredding my coat was a memory I soon hoped to forget.

Quickly, on the heels of that memory was one I never wanted to remember again: the memory of my child being dragged into the darkness of the woods by who knows what. His screams echoed in a distant memory before I vigorously shook my head to clear it. I tried to always stay in the present. To focus—that was the only thing I had.

I peeked through the dust-crusted blinds. Something else was caked to the blinds and the wall to my right, but I actively avoided giving it attention. This safe house was not on my map. It was a desperate escape from what was almost certain death. What howled through the night, chasing me through overgrown and dilapidated streets, had me frantic for an escape. I found the first open door and slipped inside.

I remembered that moment clear as the daylight streaming into the room. My breath caught; the gust of wind that followed my quick slip almost made me cry out. The force of the "things" rattled every loose board, rock, shutter, and glass—not that there was much left behind. I closed my eyes, pursing my lips. The cloth mask I regularly wore helped to muffle my breathing. I counted: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10... silence. I waited for what felt like forever, my back plastered to the wall. The soup cans I carried dug deeply into my lower back. I would certainly be feeling that later.

As the light dawned and I got dressed, I did indeed feel several sharp, almost bruised spots near my hip and lower back. I moved away from the windows, careful to step over the bits of black blood and old decayed parts of the man who blew his brains across the wall. Poor sap. Hopefully, it was his last resort and not the first.

My sweater and coat, which I had shed immediately once it was safe, lay in a heap on the floor. I gently picked them up, examining the damage. On the leather Harley, long thin gouges ran from the left shoulder down to the mid-back. It looked like whatever tried to grab at me got snagged on the back of the bandolier I wore to carry my knives. It was reinforced with strips of metal I salvaged and wound around the thick leather band for security. So far, it had saved my life a dozen times—from the "things" and human scavengers. I took a deep silent breath, slipped the bandolier over my stained tank top, and dropped the jacket. If it was as bad as it looked, the sweater would be useless.

I stood in the center of the room, taking stock of my surroundings in the peeking daylight. The room was small. I wasn't great at measurements, but it was certainly not a luxurious residence even at its peak. My knapsack was on the floor next to the bed. Dirty and a little rough from wear, it held all of my most prized possessions—mostly food. I reached inside for a random can. My stomach grumbled. Food was becoming scarce, revealing the real reason for my trek into the city. I was starving. Between the "things" and looters, I was going to have to start venturing further out. I dreaded the thought.

A can of lima beans sat heavy in my hand. I hated beans. I reached further into the bag, digging a bit until my fingertips grasped a familiar foil wrapper: taco sauce, the hot one in the deep red packaging. I stared at it for a moment, wondering when I last came across a fast-food restaurant. I needed to get more seasonings, or I would intentionally eat a bullet if beans were to become breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My stomach gurgled—a long complaint for food. Obviously, my body didn't give a fuck. I dug my short switchblade from my side, gently flicking it open. I jabbed the tip of the knife into a corner of the can, near the top, and began to saw. As long as I didn't nick my finger, I didn't care how it looked. The can was covered in rust, so I always kept a metal mug to pour the contents into. With little effort, I got the can open. I took a quick sniff for freshness, holding in a rapid breath so I wouldn't gag, because again, I hated beans. I ripped open the taco sauce and poured it into the empty mug. I had a tiny heat source but had learned over time that it was best to put the flavor at the bottom of the mug, so when I heated and mixed the contents, it could marry the flavors. It still sucked.

I flicked my lighter over the tiny Bunsen burner I kept on standby. I normally limited myself to the luxury of hot food, but after my near-death experience and with Billy in the corner of the room, I thought a celebration was in order. I dumped the contents of the can into my mug and stood by as it slowly began to heat up. I needed to conserve gas, so I cooked it just long enough to begin to boil and then shut it off. I devoured the meal quickly. My stomach gurgled again before settling. It wasn't enough, but it would do. I needed to get moving.

After finishing my meager meal, I felt a strange tug at my instincts—a sense that I was not alone. I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking in the corner. The room remained silent, but the air felt charged with tension, as if the walls were whispering secrets I couldn't yet decipher. I shook off the feeling and grabbed my knapsack.

As I stepped outside, the sun barely broke through the heavy gray clouds, casting an eerie light over the desolate street. The remnants of a once-bustling neighborhood lay in ruin. I moved cautiously, my senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every shift in the air sent a shiver down my spine. That’s when I noticed something glinting in the rubble—a small metallic object partially buried under debris. Curiosity piqued, I approached it, careful to scan my surroundings.

Digging it out, I found an old locket, tarnished but intact. I opened it, revealing a faded photograph of a woman and a child. A sense of familiarity washed over me, but I couldn't place where I had seen them before. The woman’s eyes seemed to penetrate my soul, and I felt an inexplicable connection. I slipped the locket into my pocket, thinking it might be a clue to something greater.

As I continued my journey through the city, I encountered familiar landmarks that had become ghostly shadows of their former selves. I turned a corner and was struck by the sight of a crumbling playground, the swings swaying gently in the breeze as if propelled by unseen hands. It was a stark reminder of the life that once thrived here.

Suddenly, a distant sound broke the silence—a child’s laughter, carefree and bright. I froze. Could it be? I had not heard such joy in years. Driven by an instinct I couldn’t ignore, I followed the sound, weaving through the wreckage. Each step brought me closer, the laughter growing louder and more distinct until it filled my ears.

I turned a corner and found a clearing, my heart racing. There, in the middle of the ruins, stood a little girl—no more than six or seven—playing with an old, battered doll. Her laughter echoed through the desolation, a hauntingly beautiful sound. I hesitated, unsure whether to approach. She looked up, her big brown eyes locking onto mine.

“Are you lost?” she asked, her voice sweet yet tinged with an odd maturity.

“Not lost,” I replied cautiously. “Just... looking for something.”

“You won’t find it here,” she said with a mysterious smile. “But you can help me find something.”

“What do you need?” I asked, intrigued.

“The key,” she said, her expression shifting from joy to seriousness. “The key to the door. It’s hidden in the dark.”

“What door?” I asked, my mind racing. “What are you talking about?”

“The door,” she repeated, her gaze unfocused as if she were looking through me, “the one that takes you back to where you belong.”

Before I could respond, she turned and started walking toward a dilapidated building across the street. I felt an inexplicable pull to follow her. As we entered the building, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew thick with memories, and I could almost hear whispers of the past.

We moved deeper into the shadows, and I started to notice peculiar markings on the walls—symbols that reminded me of the locket. My heart raced as I realized I was stepping into a mystery far beyond my understanding.

The little girl stopped in front of a heavy, rusted door. “This is it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But we need the key.”

“What key?” I pressed, feeling panic rise within me.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny, intricately designed key that gleamed in the dim light. “This one,” she said, holding it up with a proud smile.

My eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

“It was given to me,” she replied cryptically. “But I need your help to unlock the door. To find the truth.”

With trembling hands, she inserted the key into the lock, and with a click, the door creaked open. A rush of cold air swept through the room, and I felt an overwhelming urge to step inside.

As I crossed the threshold, everything around me seemed to dissolve into darkness. I glanced back at the little girl, but she remained standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“Find the truth,” she called as the darkness engulfed me.

In that moment, I realized the locket I had found was not just a trinket; it was a piece of a puzzle—a puzzle that could lead me to answers about my past, my child, and the life I had lost. I felt a surge of determination. I would uncover the mystery that had haunted me for so long, even if it meant facing the darkness head-on.

And as the shadows wrapped around me, I whispered into the void, “I will find you.”

https://youtube.com/shorts/hGHYLGlg7SU?si=AsLAoxupHhwf80J0

Bear with me. 

This is translated from provincial Norman, handwritten by farmers, into modern English. It’s not a tale like the Canadian Winnie. Instead this bear had fur as brown as its heart was black, furious and jealous and maniacal about its boundaries deep in the heart of Normandy near the northern French coast.

The poor village then of Camembert found itself on the map only by way of its needing meagre tax administration after the bankruptcy of the Reign of Terror. Its one hundred people were kept in check outside of winter by this ravaging bear. When the children grew up, began to dream of, and then departed for the Paris they read about in the rare magazines that made their way down the dangerous one road in and out, they left indeed. In this way they lost a generation to this bear direct through violence and indirect by attrition.

Read Camembear here.

I discovered this fantastic bookstore, linked below, which sells beautiful high-end books for about $100 a pop after shippping. If I was wealthier I'd buy them both, but unfortunately I can only afford one extravagant and totally unnecessary luxurious book at present.

I already own the road (10/10) and I'm in the middle of--and greatly enjoying--Passenger. I've regretably seen no country for old men, which has me leaning towards blood meridian, but I've heard it's a very challenging read and I'm a little gun shy, pun intended. Please help.

https://www.foliosociety.com/usa

The trio did their best to slink their way unnoticed through the ruins, but that was rather hard to do with the terrible racket that came from Jahnarton with every step he made. Still, it took a lot longer for the Zaalites to notice and start shooting at them than any of them expected. When they were finally spotted by one of the snipers inside the tower, they were still too far away to see any of the guards themselves, but the guards made their knowledge of the trio’s position known by firing a bullet that struck Urak right in the head.

Instead of his head doing its best impression of a watermelon being smashed open, the bullet merely bounced away harmlessly. Sum was understandably baffled by this for a moment, even briefly considering if he just witnessed a miracle from God himself, but he quickly concluded that Urak must’ve been wearing some old Murkian armor underneath his robes and face wrappings. Sum felt a pang of jealousy towards the order member. Sum used to have his own set of Murkian armor, (given to him by Jahnarton for his work on that awful Ohtah job) but he lost it a few years ago in a drunken bet. 

Sum wished he had won that bet as he dived for cover while the other two began to rush ahead. They were both well armored so they were mostly safe from whatever the cultists could shoot at them. He trailed slowly behind them, taking cover every opportunity he could. By the time he was close enough to see the entrance to the tower, they had already butchered all but two of the outer guards. Sum managed to put a round in one of their heads, (mostly to justify being paid when everything was said and done) right before Jahnarton ripped the other one in half. Jahnarton then flung both halves of the body into a second-story window that someone was shooting out of. Once the body crashed through the window the gunfire ceased and Sum heard someone start swearing up a storm. They all took this opportunity to run as quickly as they could to the entrance. Jahnarton was the closest so he was the first one in, Sum was the second since Urak’s armor and assault cannon slowed him down significantly. 

The front door led them into a long hallway that winded and twisted in on itself in the traditional Murkian fashion. Every surface was covered in mirrors. Jahnarton's bright glowing eyes reflected off the mirrors, lighting up the entire hallway. A good portion of the mirrors were cracked and broken, exposing the concrete wall behind them. 

“What is this?” Urak asked as he slowly lowered his cannon. 

“It’s a travesty,” Jahnarton replied before pointing at a crudely drawn image of a snake eating its own tail; a common Zaalite symbol. “Why did these savages have to ruin such a perfectly good mirror? Now I can’t see my reflection in it.” Said mirror was cracked, rendering his reflection impossible to see even if the image wasn’t there. 

Urak was stunned into silence by what Jahnarton was concerned by, but Sum was used enough to the Princeling to not be surprised by this. “There’s plenty of other mirrors for you to look at yourself in,” Sum said placatingly. 

“But I wanted to look at this one,” Jahnarton stomped down on the ground as he said this, causing the mirror underneath his feet to shatter. Jahnarton didn’t notice or care about the shattered mirror underneath him. This conversation was, (thankfully) cut short by the sound of people running above them. Without saying another word the three of them began to run down the hallway. 

The hallway had countless branching pathways that led to God knows where. Sum made sure to slow down whenever they came near one of these hallways and to peek down them in case anyone was hiding in one. He didn’t find anyone, but he did find a few that almost instantly led to dead ends, and he found one that led straight to a giant hole in the ground. He wasn’t sure if the giant hole was meant to be there or not, such things were hard to be sure about when it came to Murkain and Navdite architecture. 

Along the way Urak remembered to tell Morah over the radio that they managed to get inside the tower, so he did exactly that. She radioed back and told them to keep going and that she’d catch up with them. 

Eventually, the hallway led to a staircase that was thankfully not made of glass. While our trio had no way of knowing this, the staircase originally was covered in mirrors like everything else. But after moving into the ancient tower the Zaalites had one too many accidents because of this design feature so they decided to take the time and effort to remove the glass from all of the stairs. It was probably for the best that the trio didn’t know about this since Jahnarton would never stop complaining about it if he found out. 

While they might’ve removed the mirrors from the stairs they never bothered taking them off the walls, so as the trio began to run up the stairs Sum was able to see the reflection of a Zaalite crouching down on the flight of stairs above them, rifle in hand and waiting for them. Sum looked up and was just barely able to see the Zaalite between the railings. Without saying a word Sum raised his pistol and shot at them. They gave a choked gasp and tumbled down the steps. Sum would never know if his shot killed them or not since Jahnarton squashed their head underneath his foot as he continued running up the stairs. Urak paused for a moment to stare down at the dead cultist, Sum didn’t know if it was out of surprise or disgust, and he didn’t care enough to ask him.

They continued to run and fight their way up the stairs, but as they went up the tower the steps quickly became steeper and steeper. “Is this a joke?” Urak asked as they reached the tenth floor and saw that the steps ahead of them were so steep that they would have to climb up them as if they were a ladder. 

“No… This is an art piece made to mess with slaves. I would know since we have one just like this in my family’s factory. Ours is a bit better though. Every ten minutes the steps fold in on themselves and the staircase turns into a slide. One time I saw a slave slide straight into a vat of boiling metal, it was really funny.” (If you asked him why a soap bottling factory had vats of boiling metal lying around he wouldn’t be able to tell you) “Anyways, there should be a normal set of stairs somewhere else in the tower that we can use, although there’s a decent chance that one will eventually become an art piece as well and we’ll have to find another normal set of stairs.” 

Almost as soon as he finished saying this a Zaalite charged out of the entrance to the tenth floor, he was screaming and wielding a bloody axe that he was hoping to stain with their blood as well. He then got a good look at Jahnarton, who was drenched in the blood and guts of his comrades, and decided that while he might’ve been a very zealous follower of the great devourer, Zaal, he wasn’t a stupid one. So after freezing up for a moment, he threw his axe in Jahnarton’s general direction, then turned around and ran back through the entrance of the tenth floor as fast as he could. The axe did hit Jahnarton, but the cultist had thrown it so sloppily it ended up hitting him on its blunt side; so it just bounced harmlessly off of his shoulder. He glanced down at his shoulder, at the axe, then looked back up at the doorway. “That was rude.” 

Urak’s radio suddenly crackled back to life. “Hey, I just managed to get inside the building. Sorry for the delay, I got stuck in a bit of a firefight with a sniper team on my way in. What floor are y’all on?”

“Tenth floor, we’ll wait for you by the staircase because it looks like we’re gonna have to try and find another one.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’ll see when you get up here,” Was Urak’s reply before lowering the radio back down. They all stood there and waited for Morah to arrive in a peaceful but painfully awkward silence. Eventually, Urak broke it by asking, “You two got any family?”

“No,” Sum lied. 

“Of course I do. I have my mother, my father, and I had an older sister,” Jahnarton said, catching Sum off guard. 

“You have an older sister?” Sum asked, shocked that despite all the times the princeling had rambled about his family he never once mentioned the fact he had a sister before. Or maybe he had told him about her before and he was either not paying attention or just forgot. 

“Yes, her name was Honnuh. She was a great older sister, but looking back at it all now, she always acted a little bit off. She used to do really weird things like making food for our slaves and insisting that they should have longer breaks. Father went along with it though since it improved our factory's productivity.”

Jahnarton paused for a moment, if Sum didn’t know any better he would’ve assumed the princeling was hesitating. “Then one day her eye implants malfunctioned and she went completely insane. She started ranting about crazy stuff like how her implants made her look like a hideous monster, despite them making her a beautiful angel. She refused to get her eyes fixed and our father tolerated that as well since he didn’t have enough time to argue with her about it. I wish he just made her fix them immediately since when it came time for me to get my first major round of implantations installed she freaked out and tried running away from home, taking me with her.”

“She told me she wasn’t going to let them butcher me like they did to her. Thankfully they caught us before she could even get out of our estate. It was a pretty nasty scandal and was humiliating for our family. The priesthood even had to replace our family’s old priest with a younger and far wiser one. He explained to us that her eyes malfunctioned because she was acting illogical with all that foolishness about treating the slaves better. She tried arguing with him, claiming that her treatment of the slaves made our factory more productive. He responded by screeching about how he couldn't care less about how productive our factory was since production wasn’t what we’re supposed to be worried about.”

Urak tilted his head and asked, “Then what were you meant to be worried about?”

“You know, I tried asking our priest that but he just ended up screeching at me too. I don’t remember what happened once he started screaming at me, but according to my father, my sister started screaming back at the priest. So the priest rightly decided to punish her for her foolishness. He did this by forcing my sister to watch me get the implantation surgery before he fixed her eyes; so she didn’t get to witness the beauty of my surgery that our true sight would’ve shown her. For some reason she ended up killing herself the next day, I still don’t know why she did that.”

“Christ,” Urak muttered in disbelief to himself once Jahnarton finished. He hadn’t been expecting his attempt at small talk to cause the slaving bastard to casually tell such a horrible and private story. He almost felt bad for him. “How old were you when that all happened?” 

Jahnarton raised a clawed finger to his face and began to scratch it, causing an awful metal scratching-on-metal sound to echo throughout the mirrored halls. “Hmm… I believe that surgery was the one that involved removing my jaw so they could make room for the industrial grinding noise-making machine; I got that surgery done ten years ago… It’s been a while since I’ve used that one, I wonder if it still works?”

A few seconds passed and Sun and Urak winced as they heard a loud grinding noise come from Jahnarton. “Oh, good, it can still make noise. Anyway, to answer your question I believe I would have been… six… Yes, I was definitely six since that implant was meant to be a gift for my sixth birthday. Heh, for some reason the anesthesia didn’t work during that surgery so I was awake and got to feel the whole thing. Thankfully when they replace your eyes they also remove your tear ducts, so I never ended up crying like a weakling would have.” 

Neither Urak nor Sum could think of anything to say to that, so the dreaded awkward silence reclaimed its place as the rightful ruler of the stairway they were standing in. Eventually, it was overthrown yet again, this time by the sound of footsteps coming from below them. “Is that you Morah?” Urak asked.

“Yep,” She called out. “Give me a few minutes. These stairs are ridiculous, especially with all the bodies you left on them.” 

“I’m sorry that we didn’t take the time to clean up every single piece of bloody meat on our way up here.” Sum apologized without feeling or sounding sorry for her in the least. 

“Go to hell,” She spat back, a slight hint of amusement in her staticy voice. Eventually, she reached their position on the stairs and laughed a little at the sight of the stairs ahead of them. “Oh, wow, I see what you meant over the radio, Urak. No way we’re climbing up those if we have to deal with nearly the same amount of cultists you had to deal with on the earlier floors.” She walked towards the doorway and paused, staring blankly forward. After a while, she glanced back at the three of them. “Twenty Zaalites are waiting to ambush us just around the corner. Looks like they have a rail battery set up. 

“How can you…” Sum began to ask but she responded before he could finish.

“It’s really hard to explain, but basically my implants improve my eyesight to such a degree that I can see reflections of reflections. Since this place is full of mirrors, I can see about half of this floor from right here. I could probably fully map out the whole building if we sat here for a few days, but we don’t have that sort of time.” 

As she explained this, she pulled out the oddest-looking pistol Sum had ever seen. It had all kinds of screens and cables attached to it. She grabbed one of the cables and stuck it into a small hole in the gun scope that was her head. She then stepped up to the entrance of the hallway and aimed her pistol straight ahead. She stood there for what felt like an eternity before shooting it. The bullet struck one of the mirrors and bounced off it, it proceeded to repeat this process three more times before bouncing around a corner out of sight. They could still hear the sound of mirrors breaking for a while before that sound was replaced by distant screaming. Eventually, the screaming stopped as well and Morah slowly lowered her gun before disconnecting the cable. She noticed the amazed look on Sum’s face and told him, “Bouncing bullets. Say what you want about them, but the Murkians at least knew how to make some good weapons.” 

They spent another two hours fighting and climbing their way through the tower but they were still only halfway to the top. They would’ve been far faster, but as they got higher up the tower all the stairways started turning into art pieces sooner and sooner, meaning they had to search every other floor for a new staircase to use. The maze-like layout of the tower didn’t help speed things up either. Thankfully dead Zaalites made good enough markers for where they had already been. 

Sum and Jahnarton searched every floor for anything that looked valuable in the slightest; while Urak and Morah on the other hand searched every floor for any sign of the missing townsfolk.

Eventually, providence decided to shine upon both pairs by leading them to a small room that was covered in shockingly high-quality paintings instead of mirrors. Inside the room was a pair of Zaalites, that were in the middle of devouring the corpse of one of their fellows as fast as they could. Also, a young girl was crying inside a cage off to the side of the Zaalites. In front of her lay one of the dead man’s arms

In Zaalite theology, eating people’s bodies was the best way to guarantee they would be reborn when Zaal inevitably vomited out the new world after devouring the old one. So in this pair’s mind, they were doing their best to make sure their friend would be reborn in a new and better world. They had brought this young girl down with them to try and teach her the ways of Zaal in a more practical manner. 

But in the little girl’s mind, these scary people stole her away from her home, ranted about how a giant snake was coming to eat everyone, then chopped a dead guy's arm off and tried to make her eat it. She refused to eat that arm no matter how much they pestered her about it, for reasons that should hopefully be obvious. 

In the minds of the four people who stumbled upon all of this, it was a disgusting and savage thing that needed to end as soon as possible, instead of a sacred ritual being performed out of love. So before the pair had a chance to explain the complexities of their faith to them and how it justified eating their dead friend, (alongside all the other people they had kidnapped and eaten over the years) they were riddled with bullets and quickly died. Their corpses were left to rot and go uneaten.

With that dealt with, Urak and Morah rushed off to free the crying girl from her cage. Sum on the other hand found himself looking at one of the paintings. It depicted a young blonde woman in a pure white dress sitting underneath a tree, watching as her child played in the grass. It took him a moment to notice it, but it looked like the kid was supposed to have the blight, (which was a rather unfortunate birth defect that Sum was more familiar with than he would’ve liked). “It’s weird seeing a painting like this here of all places.” He thought to himself before asking, “Think this could be worth something?” 

Morah and Urak were too busy helping the girl to bother responding to him. Jahnarton on the other hand stomped up to him and looked at the painting. “Huh…” He then looked around the room at all the other paintings. “I think these are all supposed to be paintings of the crimson empress.” 

“Who?” Sum asked, still not looking away from the painting. He never was the artistic type, but even he couldn’t help but admire how detailed the painting was. The painting somehow managed to convey the same elation and joy the woman was surely feeling while looking at her child. It reminded him of when he was younger. 

“I said the crimson e…” 

“No, I heard you say her name, I just don’t know who that’s supposed to be.” 

“Oh, well she was the founder of the original Zaalite cult.”

That got Sum to finally look away from the painting and look at Jahnarton. “You’re joking?” He asked in disbelief. It was hard to reconcile the man-eating cultists with the joyful young mother in the painting. 

“No, I’m not. The paintings here all seem to be telling her life story, at least from the Zaalite perspective. That right there should be the first part of the story.” He pointed at the painting beside the one that had captured Sum’s attention. Sum looked at this painting and saw it was a sharp contrast to the first. The vibrant shades of blue, green, and white, from the first painting were replaced with dull shades of black, brown, and gray. The young mother was kneeling with her hands clasped together and raised upwards in supplication. Her attention wasn’t focused on a beloved child, but instead on a sinister dark figure sitting on a throne. Instead of wearing a pure white dress, she was wearing dirty rags and chains. This painting also made Sum feel what the woman surely must’ve been feeling, but this time that feeling was fear instead of joy.

“She started her life as a slave but was graciously allowed to be one of Emperor Vam’s wives. This was before we built the only speaking God, Babel, so he lacked the eyes Babel gave us that allowed us to see true beauty. If he had our eyes he would’ve known better than to marry her. The bitch was unappreciative of her new higher station in life but eventually managed to find some joy in her son.” Jahnarton explained as Sum looked at the painting. 

“I never knew you were into history.” Sum muttered.

“I’m not. The Zaalites we captured before kept talking about her so I figured I should do some studying… Well, I had my old tutor do all the studying and had him explain it all to me afterward.”

The third painting depicted the mother weeping as she embraced her son. His skin was cracking and peeling off him in sheets, a common side effect of the blight. “I’m guessing her son died from the blight?” Sum asked.

“I don’t know if it was from the blight or not since I never asked my tutor about it, but yes he did die. That’s when she claimed to have heard the voice of Zaal for the first time.” He pointed at a dark corner of the painting as he said this last part. Sum squinted and he eventually saw the faint outline of an ouroborus hidden in the darkness.

“Oh Kalif, can you two just rip the paintings off the walls so we can get back to saving the townsfolk? According to little Jun here, the rest of the townsfolk are on the top floor, so it’s gonna take us a while.” Morah suddenly spoke up, reminding the pair that they weren’t alone and had more pressing matters to deal with. Sum glanced back at her and saw the little girl (apparently named Jun) was now outside of the cage and was nibbling on some bread Morah gave her. 

The pair quickly went about the task of pulling the paintings off the walls and putting them into Sum’s backpack. Some of the more interesting paintings depicted the following scenes: the crimson empress standing amongst the stars as she watched a two-headed serpent devour the earth with one head while the other head vomited out another earth. The crimson empress weeping as she devoured her own child’s body. The crimson empress fighting a metal angel high above a bloody battlefield, she was garbed in ivory armor and also wielded a sword of ivory. The most outlandish detail of this painting was the fact she had the wings of a butterfly that she was using to fly. The final painting simply depicted a lonely cocoon in a snowy forest. 

As Sum and Jahnarton were looting the paintings, Urak and Morah repeatedly and firmly told Jun to wait and hide in here until they came back for her. Urak also gave her a pistol in case she needed to use it. She nodded along and promised to wait for them and be very careful with the pistol. 

Once Sum and Jahnarton were done looting the paintings, the four of them continued their march through the tower. After a few hours spent hiding and waiting for them to return, Jun grew nervous and decided to leave the tower. All the dead bodies strewn all about it made it a very scary ordeal for her, but she eventually made her way out of the tower.

That was just the start of her very long journey back home. Along the way she met and fell in love with a boy who claimed he was the prince of the moon, politely refused a shadow from the land of Umbra’s offer to adopt her, helped a very ancient Murkain soldier finally rest, accidentally wandered into the Pyre mountains and barely avoided having all of her blood drained as an offering to the great necromancer, Vam. At least this is what she and her husband told her family when they eventually managed to find their way back to her home twelve years later. She always had a bad tendency to get lost.

After a couple more hours of fighting, they finally reached the top floor. The three kattlefolk slowly walked through the hallways, searching for any sign of the townsfolk or the cultists but finding none. 

Jahnarton ended up marching past them all. The only sort of negative emotion he had right now was a slight disappointment that this little quest was going to be over soon. He would have to find some other excuse to have his best, (and only) friend hang out with him. 

“Maybe I should interrogate whoever’s left up here and see if they know about any other Zaalite bases like this one instead of just killing them?” Jahnarton considered the idea for a moment before disregarding it. Sum, (being the brave, adventure-fueled, horse-stabbing man that he was) had to have been bored of fighting Zaalites by now. He surely wanted to go on a more exciting adventure next. After all, why else would Sum still be working for him after he had paid him several small fortunes already? More than that, he never saw Sum using the armor he had bought him, meaning his friend clearly enjoyed danger. 

Maybe they could see if the Zaalite claims of the crimson empress still being alive in the frozen land of Aska had any truth to them. Or maybe they could travel into the deadlands of Kalif and… ok he was fairly certain there wasn’t anything interesting to do in Kalif since nothing, not even grass, lived there save for a few tiny fishing villages that still stubbornly clung to the coast and were only kept alive by the Aloan merchants that sometimes docked in their ports. Well, he supposed they could maybe join up with one of the many pirate crews based out of there, but an aristocrat like himself was far too proud to take orders from a lowborn pirate captain. Maybe they could go back up the pyre mountains of Kalradah and fight the undead that supposedly lurked up there. 

He kept thinking of different ideas for possible adventures for them to go on until he finally found something interesting. It was a large open room that had windows instead of mirrors, allowing anyone standing inside it to see the ruins below them. There were a couple of rooms just like this one throughout the tower, but this one had the best view. Unlike those other rooms, this room was barren of any sort of furniture or decoration, as long as you didn’t count the blood that coated almost everything as a decoration. Jahnarton did find the lack of any bodies or gore besides the blood slightly odd, but that wasn’t what he found interesting. 

What he found interesting was a slender and hideous woman, (well she was hideous according to Jahnarton) kneeling in the middle of the room. She had no weapon and didn’t seem to notice that Jahnarton was now standing inside the room with her. 

If Jahnarton still had lips he would be frowning in slight disappointment as he realized this woman, as hideous as she was, probably wasn’t a Zaalite and was just one of the stolen townsfolk based on her lack of a weapon and how shell-shocked she seemed to be. He glanced behind him and saw no sign of the three kattlefolk, meaning he was probably gonna have to wait for them. Knowing Urak and Morah, they were going to want to comfort this woman and make sure she was alright. Such a thing was sure to take a while, so if he wanted to save time he should get that whole process started while he waited for them; it wasn’t like he had anything else to do in the meantime. Besides, he was a nobleman, he was sure to do a better job at comforting her than any horse stabber could do.

“Hey, you! Stand up and feel better!” He yelled at the woman. In response, she just looked up at him with a blank expression. He tried repeating himself three more times, making sure to be louder each time in case she didn’t hear him or something but she just kept rudely staring at him instead of feeling better. He would’ve growled in annoyance if the voice synthesizer that replaced his vocal cords could produce that noise; they didn’t so it just came out as a loud burst of static that made him feel like someone was jabbing hot needles into the last vestiges of his original eardrums. This was because the error message for his voice synthesizer worked by jabbing boiling hot needles into what remained of his eardrums. Of course, he didn’t know about this feature, since he and every other noble have no clue what most of their implants do. They typically just trust their iron priests and have every implant they suggest installed into them. This is because they didn’t want to be the only noble without the latest implant, no matter how pointless, painful, and detrimental, it might be; because being the odd one out would simply be embarrassing. 

Anyways, once he recovered from the pain he stomped towards the woman, grabbed her by the shoulder, and started shaking her. “Get the hell up and feel better!” He demanded over and over again. She still looked blankly up at him so he tried smacking her, causing a tooth to fly out of her mouth. Once he did this he noticed it looked like she was getting ready to vomit. “Don’t you dare vomit on me!” He demanded, not wanting to make his slaves clean her vomit off of him whenever he got back home, since that would be a horrible waste of time; time that they could spend doing more important things, like fanning him everywhere he went. Sure he wouldn’t be able to feel the breeze their constant fanning would make, but he wanted people to know he could afford to have slaves fan him at all times. 

Thankfully his words must’ve finally gotten through to her since the bile appeared to stop halfway through her throat. “Thanks, now can you please stand up?” He asked, feeling a bit calmer now that she seemed to be listening to him.

She still did not attempt to say anything, but he wasn’t able to get annoyed again since he was a bit too focused on how the area that she held the bile back at was starting to bulge outwards. Eventually, the area swelled up to the point that it looked like it was about to burst. He wasn’t that familiar with the functions of the human body, but even he knew this couldn’t be healthy. He was about to tell her to just turn her head away from him and vomit if she had to do it that badly, but before he got a chance to speak her throat burst open. 

This was already shocking enough to leave him completely and utterly stunned, but the fact that an arm came shooting out of the hole it just made in her throat, before wrapping its meaty fingers around his arm, left him in the same sort of shell-shocked state he had originally assumed the woman was in.

He just blankly stared at the bloody arm, his eyes allowing him to see time slowly enough to be able to see more flesh rapidly forming on the arm. What his slower perception of time didn’t allow him to do was get over his shock quick enough to stop the half-formed arm from yanking his wrist down impossibly hard, snapping his arm in half like it was a wooden stick instead of a couple dozen pounds of pure metal. 

His shock quickly turned into agony, since one of the few scraps of his flesh that the iron priests made sure not to remove from his arms were his nerves. Funnily enough, he never knew this little fact since the iron priests made sure the only thing his nerves could feel was pain and he never found himself in a circumstance that his arm should be in pain since he had it replaced. If his voice synthesizer allowed him to scream in pain he would probably be doing that right about now. 

Driven by good

As the flames danced under her feet, she stared into her persecutor’s eyes. She did everything to hold in her emotions. He’d win if she cried.

She spent her prime in this quiet village. It offered her the solitude she craved — the communal bond they valued.

She spent years learning multiple disciplines to automate some of her daily chores — a Rube Goldberg matriarch, of sorts. This gave her free time for her passion — learning.

Being able to support herself, she knew he’d consider her a threat. However, she didn’t anticipate how effectively the townsfolk could be swayed.

He had worked his magic — cloaked in legal jargon. He was able to overturn a seemingly small ruling that allowed him to shepherd the masses against anyone he deemed a witch.

In doing so, the power of dark money dug its claws deep into the innocence of the townsfolk.

The gentries, through a network of non-profits, had invested a fortune into pamphlets to spread the word that lonely cat ladies were conspiring to destroy the fertile lands they sought to control.

As expected, an unease festered from a small thorn to a severe infection. The most timid townsfolk were convinced the limb must go to save the body. The soul would fare much grimmer.

The townsfolk were relieved when he dictated they look away — told it was for their safety. He threatened the watchers with her curse.

He knew the truth — they’d see what they inflicted on their neighbor. They would want to change who they had become. They would refuse to support him.

The townsfolk avoided eye contact. They feared challenging what they knew was wrong. They let the atrocity continue.

They would go home that night and remind themselves of how good they were. To believe otherwise would be too life shattering.

As the loving warmth drowned her pain, her mind flooded with memories of past — and unexplainably of future. She foresaw this would not be the end of the hunt. He demanded his legacy continue.

She wielded a power that would hold him captive for centuries — she didn’t let him see her cry.

As she took her last breath, a spell was unknowingly cast, but not by her.

He would chain future generations to cling to control, as he did. The townsfolk were damned to relive their sin — voiceless bystanders, yearning for the day they would return to caring for their neighbor.

For their inaction, the townsfolk would pass on a collective burden of regret.

Brian had heard the rumors for years. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d heard them. To him, they were an intrinsic fact of life. The sky is blue. The ocean is salty. The dog that played Air Bud haunts the basketball court at Port Moody Public Park.

Brian, just 12 years-old, wasn’t even alive when the first movie was filmed. For the people who lived through the film shoot, it was possibly the most interesting thing to ever happen in their sleepy Vancouver suburb. Well, except for the time that Sheriff Duggins fell down a manhole and drowned. Still, people talk about the Summer of Air Bud as if Elvis Presley came to town and handed out $100 bills to everyone in town.

They were just rumors, Brian knew. He was young enough that ghost stories still spooked him, but old enough to hang on to every word.

“You know that scene where Buddy runs off into the woods? Well, he actually did run off into the woods. When the trainers called for him to come back, he never showed. Rumor has it that he was mauled to death by a bear or a hungry pack of wolves. They had to get a different Golden Retriever to finish the movie.”

Adam Prescott wasn’t talking to Brian. Adam was surrounded by his friends, a feral collection of hangers-on and suck ups desperate to soak in just a droplet of Adam’s social relevancy. If Adam liked you, everyone in the sixth grade liked you. If he didn’t, his disapproval hung around your neck like a scarlet letter. Adam didn’t like Brian.

“That’s why our parents tell us never to go to the park at night. First, you’ll hear the growling. Then, a swish of a phantom basketball flying through a hoop. After that… he rips out your throat!”

Adam lunged toward his gasping audience, and even Brian flinched. Brian was seated on the opposite end of the bleachers, but Adam was loud enough that he could hear every word. Adam’s posse laughed as the tension of the story faded, just in time for Coach Moore to blow his whistle.

“Line up!” shouted Coach Moore, and the young boys filed down the bleachers and aligned themselves on the edge of the basketball court.

“Good, we’ve got a solid crop of young Wolves this year. As you all know, the Timber Wolves took home the gold in regionals last year, and we’re aiming for a repeat this season.”

Coach Moore walked down the line like a drill sergeant inspecting a wretched troop of unseasoned maggots. Brian stood out in the lineup. He was about a foot shorter than his peers, and thick, Coke-bottle glasses magnified his eyes to a disturbing degree.

“Not all of you are going to make the cut, but if you give these tryouts 110%, you could end this season with five ounces of gold hanging from your neck.”

Brian loved basketball, but he was not a natural baller. He had sprained his ankle during last year’s tryouts, drawing jeers and hyena-laughs from Adam and his friends. Brian was determined – he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He kept up the pace with the rest of the boys during sprints. He dribbled as well as the rest of them. He had been practicing his free throws, as he knew they could be the difference between playing on the team and cheering them on from the stands.

He had been alone whenever he practiced, but now that all eyes were on him, he was beginning to panic. With everyone standing around him, he missed his first shot. It kissed the rim, then bounced up and behind the backboard.

“Nice try, Hernandez. Good warm up, focus on your breath and sink this next one.”

Brian dribbled the ball once, twice, then launched the ball with perfect form. Unfortunately, he over corrected and the ball whizzed past the hoop altogether, catching nothing but air.

Adam laughed. This triggered a wave of snorts, chortles, and guffaws among the boys.

“Little too much power on that one, champ. Let’s try one more.”

Tears welled up in Brian’s eyes. His confidence was shattered, and his heart was telling him that he wasn’t good enough. Still, he steeled his nerves and lined up one final shot.

“Air ball,” Adam half-masked with a cough.

Brian threw the ball hard. Not at the hoop, but at Adam’s face. A punch of rubber boomed through the gymnasium, accompanied by a loud crack. Adam tumbled over, a stream of blood running from his nose.

“Brian!” shouted Coach Moore, but Brian was already sprinting out of the gym.

…

Brian ran from the school, down the street, and kept going until he reached the lake. He slowed down, shuffling along the waterfront and passed the “Port Moody Public Park” sign that welcomed locals and tourists alike. The sun was setting, sending beams of orange and purple light skittering across the glistening surface of the reservoir.

The basketball court came into view, and Brian lumbered to the center. He sat down, legs crossed, and let out deep, choking sobs. After a moment, Brian caught his breath. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his basketball jersey, and took in the beauty of the sunset.

He had spent hours practicing at this park, preparing for a moment that came and went like a car accident. He now sat in the wreck of his failure, and that’s when he heard it. A brief rustle in the bushes, like a raccoon scuttling through the brush. Brian looked over, but he did not see a raccoon.

He saw a black basketball, half-protruding from the foliage. He scanned the area, but saw no one and nothing of note. “Had it been there this whole time?” he wondered quietly to himself. He pressed his palm onto the cold concrete of the court and pushed himself to his feet. As he walked toward the ball, he was suddenly struck by how creepy the thick woods at the borders of the court appeared in the darkness. Twilight was gone, and the cold dark of night had settled in.

Brian bent over to extract the ball from the bush, when he heard faint growling from deep within the forest. He froze.

“Hey, loser!”

Brian turned, horrified to see a posse of five 12 year-old basketball players led by a bandaged Adam, who cradled a bright orange basketball in his hands. His head was wrapped like a mummy but, to Brian, he was far more frightening than any undead pharaoh.

“That was a bitch move, Hernandez. We’re going to show you what real Timber Wolves do to little bitches like you.”

In an instant, the lynch mob sprinted in unison toward Brian. Brian fled toward the forest, but twisted his ankle on a gnarled root. He fell to the ground, crying out in pain. The boys descended on him like jackals.

They grabbed his limbs and dragged him screaming to the center of the court, where Adam was waiting. Adam dribbled the ball menacingly as the boys splayed Brian out by his wrists and ankles. Brian struggled helplessly, screaming as the boys smiled toothily like rabid foxes.

Adam dribbled harder, harder, harder with each successive motion. The slams rung out with a sharp, rubber squeak that announced the force behind the dribbling. Adam stopped, gripped the ball with both hands, then raised the ball high over his head.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Brian shut his eyes tight, ready to feel the crunching mass of the basketball pound his face.

Instead, he hears a distinctive swish.

Puzzled, Brian opened his eyes. Adam and his posse turn toward the sound. The net of the basketball hoop sways, like leaves caught in an autumn gust. Below the net, the black basketball rolls slowly for a few inches, then stops dead.

The boys all stare in unison, their terror betrayed by their frozen bodies.

“Who’s there?” Adam says, voice cracking with feigned confidence. Silence. Then suddenly, an eruption of growling, gnashing teeth, and screams.

The boys turn around in time to see one of their own being dragged into the brush, his fresh SHAQ™ Devastators kicking wildly before being absorbed into the bushes.

“What the fuck was that-“ another boy shouted before being violently interrupted. The rest of the gang turned toward him, but did not see his attacker. With impossible speed, the boy’s mangled body was left dangling limply from the basketball hoop like the victim of some grisly slam dunk accident.

“Holy shit!” Adam exclaimed in horror. Brian took this momentary distraction as an opportunity to skitter to his feet.

Adam turned to Brian. “You’re doing this, aren’t you?” Adam accused with a finger stretched toward Brian.

Brian wasn’t looking at Adam. He was looking above Adam. The three remaining bullies turned around to see the floating specter of the dog that played Air Bud hovering above them, teeth bared and muzzle dripping with fresh blood. Pale blue light emanated from his body and cast ghostly shadows across the court. A weathered Timber Wolves jersey hung loosely from his gaunt, skeletal frame.

In an instant, the specter descended on one of the boys, eviscerating him with practiced ease. He shook the boy’s bowels in his teeth as if they were a chew toy. The boy’s hands curled as life left his body.

Adam’s final goon had seen enough. He took off screaming toward the street, leaving Adam and Brian alone in the dark. A warm trickle of urine pooled around Adam’s feet as the ghost-dog lifted its nose from his friend’s open chest cavity.

“G-g-good dog,” squealed Adam through stuttering lips. He faced his palm toward the beast as he slowly backed away. The dog that played Air Bud growled as it took short, deliberate steps toward Adam. In a frenzied burst, the phantom pounced on Adam. He tripped backwards, the dog landing on his chest. Its glowing white eyes stared into Adam’s soul, ingesting the corruption within it.

“Brian, help me!” he pleaded. He heard footsteps approaching, then stop by his ear. He looked up to see Brian looming over him, eyes as dead as a doll’s. He stared, expressionless, at the quivering, piss-soaked bully beneath him.

“Please, you can’t let him do this!”

Brian’s lips peeled into a sinister smile. He spoke softly.

“Ain’t no rules says that a dog can’t slay basketball… players.”

With that, the ghost of the dog that played Air Bud sunk his fangs into Adam’s throat. He gurgled and choked as the beast ripped his larynx, crushed his trachea, and finally tore his esophagus from his throat. The light in Adam’s eyes faded, and he was gone.

Brian felt a rush of joy he hadn’t felt since he watched his first basketball game. He looked over to his blood-soaked savior, who looked back at him. The snarl faded, and the iconic smile of a Labrador Retriever stretched across the phantom’s face. Brian pet the dog, cold to the touch but invitingly fluffy. “Good boy,” he said with a smile.

Brian confidently strode over to the black basketball and picked it up. He approached the dog, still panting with a job well done. He held out the basketball to his new friend.

“Want to play for a bit?”

A wagging tail was all the confirmation he needed. He got into stance, and started dribbling.

Its pretty decent. The genre is Litrpg apocalypse, SunriseCV been helping me out. The book starts off a little slow but picks up fast. SunriseCV has authored System Universe if you don't know him by name.

I'm looking for both new readers and also critique, so any feedback at all is appreciated. I am always trying to get better!

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/91740/the-enlightened-blade

Chapter One The Raid 2024

Two stunning, young blonde girls stood looking at me over the counter on that warm summer afternoon, the sunlight streaming in through the shop window, casting a golden glow on everything it touched. It wasn’t uncommon for tourists to arrive at the shop searching for the obscurest of things, and I would have guessed those girls were American before they opened their mouths because they both wore cliché green hoodies with Ireland embossed across the chest, their accents as fresh as the breeze outside.

It had been a slow day in the dusty shop, the musty scent of old books and herbs mingling in the air, and I wanted to push for a sale, so I took the mason jar marked Atlantic Hemp from the chunky wooden shelf behind me. As I opened the jar, a pungent citrus aroma burst forth, filling the small space and making my mouth water. Turning on the charm, I leaned forward, my voice warm and inviting. ‘Hey, girls. What brings you to Ireland? Anything exciting?’

‘Yes, Mam. Our college football team has a big game in Cork Park on Sunday.’

Correcting her pronunciation of Croke Park wouldn’t help me secure a sale, so I let it slide, the sound of her voice a mix of excitement and nerves. ‘Wow! American football, that sounds…’

Mid-sentence, the flimsy door burst open, blowing the ash from the nag Champa incense onto the hardwood floor, its sweet fragrance clashing with the sudden chaos. Six plain-clothes detectives flooded the tiny space inside the cramped shop, the air shifting as they shouted at us, ‘An Garda Síochána!’

There were bodies everywhere, searching drawers and raiding shelves with no regard for the stock inside them. I turned to the American girls, embarrassment creeping up my neck like a hot flush, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, girls, they’re the Irish police. This has never happened before.’

I had known that a raid was possible but never dreamt it would actually happen. The most famous streets in Dublin were full of heroin and crack cocaine, so why would the Garda waste their time with a tax-paying business that sold health food? Either way, it was Penny's shop, not mine, so it wouldn’t be me who faced the consequences of any legalities associated with it. Peter wasn’t so sure; he would often ask me to stay home from work because he had a bad feeling that something would happen that day. But I would insist on going because I enjoyed being in the shop, conversing with the vast array of colourful customers who ventured in to buy the products.

A slim bald detective handed me a piece of crumpled paper, the creases rough against my fingers. ‘That’s a warrant to search the premises. Don’t move. My colleagues are going to have a look around. We have reason to believe there are illegal substances for sale at this location.’

He took the black notebook from his waistband, the leather worn and familiar, and rested his eyes on the girls. ‘Ladies, we’re going to have to search those bags before you leave the shop. We’ll also need to see some identification.’

Any other day this week, Penny would have been here to smooth things over with customers, but they looked startled and bemused, their wide eyes darting around the shop. On the bright side, they would have a gripping tale to tell their college friends when they got back to their hotel about being involved in a raid.

Two younger detectives, who I’d have never known were detectives by the way they looked and dressed—with their fresh fades and trendy tracksuits—took the plant-filled mason jars from the shelves and sealed them inside transparent evidence bags, the sound of zippers echoing in the silence. They wrote the details on the outside of the bags and placed them into even bigger brown paper bags, the smell of the ink mingling with the scents of the shop. An overweight detective was at the back wall, rummaging through the stock, the creaking of shelves punctuating the tense atmosphere. ‘Do you really need to open every single box of the Pukka tea bags? You can see they’re all sealed; the ingredients are written on the boxes.’ The oldest-looking of the gang was on the shop floor bagging the tinctures, balms, and lotions. Penny had displayed them beautifully on the upcycled kitchen dresser she salvaged from a car boot sale in St. Anne’s Park.

When he finished taking the girls’ details, Baldy turned to me with his notebook, his pen poised like a sword ready to strike. ‘Name and date of birth?’
‘Christine Dunne, fifteenth of the fourth nineteen eighty-four.’
‘How long have you worked here, Christine?’
‘Three years in December,’ I said, my heart racing as I realized how serious the situation had become.
‘Does anyone else work here?’
‘Just my boss Penny.’
‘What is the primary nature of the business at this premise?’

Why was I answering his questions? I wasn’t under arrest, so there was no need to talk to him. Had I learned nothing from the countless crime series that I endured watching with Peter over the years? The nature of the business was an apothecary, but nobody I knew had ever heard of them. On my first day working in the shop, Penny sat behind the till and broke the word down, her voice rich with passion.
‘A-pot-ta-carry. Like a pot to carry,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

I said it after her, trying to mimic her inflection. ‘A pot ta carry.’
I remember she squeezed three drops of golden liquid under her tongue and told me, ‘In simpler times, the apothecary was like a chemist or pharmacy. Before pills and modern medicine, people used plants and herbs to treat common ailments.’ She held the small opaque bottle out to me, its glass cool against my palm. ‘Some of these tinctures and oils are not much different from the tonics that anyone can buy in the chemist. Do you see this valerian root here in this mason jar? This is nature’s Valium. A cup of this will have you sleeping like a baby in no time.’ I sat and ate the words out of her mouth that day because she fascinated me. She still does.

The short female detective stood with her heavy boot pressed against the door, her stance authoritative. ‘Jackie Hutch, get away from the door before I book you for a public order offence.’

Jackie was a regular in the shop. In the past, she had an addiction to heroin, but these days she battled with street tablets like Simmophane and Tranex. She had a great sense of fashion, her clothes always vibrant and eye-catching, and she always had her lovely curly blonde hair hanging down to her waist. It was very obvious Jackie had a habit, but she always looked amazing despite it. She would recommend blends to the customers and tell them wild stories about how the tea had helped her finally get off the drugs. I would wink or roll my eyes behind her back to apologize for her ramblings, but she meant no harm, and as far as Penny or I were concerned, it was better she was in the shop than out on the streets trying to score drugs. Jackie peered through the glass door and addressed the Garda by her first name, the familiarity evident in her tone.

‘Ahh, Nicola please… I just wanted ta get me tea…’

People like Jackie who’d lived on the streets for as long as she had got to know the Garda like that, on a first-name basis, the streets forming bonds that were hard to break.
‘There’ll be no tea or anything else for you. Now go way out of it,’ Nicola said sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Jackie was a right chancer. ‘Chriso, have ya a smoke for me before I go?’

Nicola put her hands on the handcuffs attached to her waist, her patience wearing thin. ‘Get away from the door, Jackie! Don’t make me tell you again.’

The younger detectives whispered to each other, then sniggered, their laughter cutting through the tension like a knife. I sensed they were laughing at Jackie as she made her way up the road, the sound of her heels clicking against the pavement a stark contrast to the chaos inside the shop.

‘Did you say something?’ I asked, my voice shaky. They turned their heads away from me and went back to bagging the evidence in bags.

‘Christine. We’re placing you under arrest under section two of the Criminal Justice Act. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say…’ Baldy continued reading my rights, his tone heavy and formal. ‘Do we need to put handcuffs on you? You don’t look like the type that will cause us any hassle.’
‘No cuffs. What’s section two?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, confusion swirling in my mind. I sat myself in the back of the black Hyundai i40, the leather seats hot to the touch because the car had been parked in the blazing summer sun for more than two hours. Nicola got in the back seat beside me, the air thick with tension.

‘We’ll have you up at the station in no time. Get you processed and into the interview room as soon as possible.’
‘How long will it take?’ I said, my heart pounding in my chest.
‘The Sergeant will give you all those details when we get down to the station, but it shouldn’t be too long. We won’t keep you any longer than we need to.’

The car flew towards Connolly Station, the engine roaring as we took a right onto a dilapidated Talbot Street. There was an empty pram upended beside the road, its wheels spinning aimlessly, and a group of lads up ahead had some bloke pinned to the ground, the scuffle adding to the chaos of the day. Baldy shouted out the passenger window, his voice booming.
‘Move, you bleeding eejit! You’re blocking the road! What are that lot up to over there?’

The bloke blocking the road was waving his crutches about in the air, a wild look in his eyes. ‘He’s after trying to take a picture of that girl’s child, Guard, she seen him do it…’
Baldy scoffed at him indifferently, his patience wearing thin. ‘There’s a patrol car on the way around. Now move off the road!’

When we got to the station, the copper on the opposite side of the hatch jotted my details into the ledger, the scratching of his pen echoing in the silence. The poor bloke was left-handed, and he struggled to fill it in because of the way the ledger was bound. ‘Stand against the board there and we’ll see what height you are. Any scars or tattoos?’
‘No scars. My kids’ names tattooed on my rib cage.’ When he finished writing my details down, he handed me a piece of A4 paper with a list of names and telephone numbers. ’Pick one and we’ll get them down to you.’

There was no need for a solicitor because I would just tell them the truth; everything in the shop was legal, and I didn’t have to prove my innocence; they had to prove my guilt. Don’t be stupid, Christine, just stay quiet. Say nothing. No comment.

The copper left the hatch and joined me in the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. ‘Where’s she going, Fintan?’
‘Cell one for strip search. Nicola’s already down there.’

Nicola left the door ajar and instructed me to stand in the middle of the cold cell, the chill seeping into my skin. ‘Open your bra.’ She demonstrated what she wanted me to do, her tone all business. ‘Place your fingers under the wires, lift the cups away from your breasts, and shake them.’

I sheepishly followed her instructions, all the while an intense flow of blood rushed to my cheeks. ‘Oh my God, I’m actually mortified.’
She tried to offer me some reassurance, her voice softer now. ‘Don’t worry, it’s part of my job. I see it all the time. Now, pull your underwear down to your ankles. Turn around, bend your knees, and cough for me.’ She stood watching me from the cell door as I did what I was told, the vulnerability of the moment overwhelming. ‘All done. You can put your clothes back on.’

The embarrassment of being arrested and the prospect of sitting in a cell alone for hours was bearable, but being stripped and searched had affected me on a different level. The vulnerability of being naked was one thing, but what really bothered me was exposing my tattered lace thong and my untamed body. I should have shaved everywhere in the shower that morning. Nicola pointed to the ground outside the adjacent cell.
‘Your boots will have to stay there. You’ve two options with your jumper. You can leave it there or I can cut the strings off it and you can bring it into the cell with you?’

Peter bought me that hoodie in town on our twentieth anniversary, and I loved it because he didn’t like to leave the house too often, so when he did, it was an enormous accomplishment. Peter was doing much better since we met Penny, but he wouldn’t cope on his own if I got sent to prison, and it wouldn’t be fair for the girls to put their lives on hold to mind him. Jess would be around to help out, but she needed as much care as Peter, and she had David to worry about.

Chapter Two Friendship & Romance 2000

Romance wasn’t something that reared its head often around the flats. When Peter and I first met, there were no fireworks or grand gestures, and we definitely didn’t sweep each other off our feet by dancing in the rain. One random Friday night, our paths crossed in the dimly lit bar, the air thick with the scent of spilled drinks and laughter.

I elbowed Jess in the ribs, the sound of clinking glasses surrounding us like a symphony. ‘Who’s your man? The one with the dark hair that’s buzzing off everyone. I wouldn’t mind meeting him.’

Jess straightened her short denim skirt, her movements smooth and practiced, and applied a fresh layer of clear lip gloss that caught the low light. ‘I think that’s Davo Clarke and his mate. They used to hang around the bottom blocks with the boys, but I haven’t seen them around in ages. Davo’s an absolute ride.’

We didn’t call it kissing in the flats; we called it meeting. I’ve no idea why we called it that. There was no way of ever really knowing where certain slang words came from. Some of them made sense, and others didn’t, but when they stuck, they stuck like the sticky residue left behind on a tabletop after a long night.

Jess was only gone a minute before I heard my name being called. She’d already made herself comfortable on a tall stool beside Davo. ‘Come over, Chriso. Peter wants to say hello to ya. Don’t ya, Peter?’

He stood up as I made my way across the bar, his playful grin illuminating his face amidst the shadows. His hand was curled up in front of his mouth, and he sang in my direction. ‘Oh, me oh my… you make me sigh… you’re such a good-looking woman…’

My cheeks flushed a deep shade of scarlet, warmth creeping up as if I were caught in a sudden summer sun. Peter Byrne spent the next few hours animatedly telling jokes and stories to the lads, his laughter ringing in the air like a melody. He had an aura about him; the type of person who enjoyed making other people laugh. When he asked me if I wanted a drink, I chanced my arm and ordered a double vodka with blackcurrant. The double was a test to see if he was tight-fisted or not.

When he returned from the bar, he looked me in the eye, his gaze playful yet serious, and said, ‘That’s six euros when you’re ready.’

I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder, giggled, and sipped my drink, the sweet tang of blackcurrant dancing on my tongue. I could tell I gave him the reaction he was looking for. Later in the evening, I failed to hide my disappointment when he told me that he worked in the industrial estate around the corner from the flats. My Da worked in the industrial estate too, so he quickly changed the subject.

‘You must be tired, are ya?’ Peter asked, his voice smooth as velvet.

I squinted at him suspiciously. ‘No, why?’

‘Because you’ve been running through my mind all night!’ Then he winked at me, pulling me closer for a kiss. His kiss was gentle but unpolished, like a new song in need of a little more practice.

Jess loudly teased us from the other side of the table, her laughter like a bell chime echoing around the room. She knew too well that she’d have every nosy body in the pub looking our way. ‘Here, you two get a bleeding room!’ I buried my head into Peter’s chest to avoid the glares from any of them at the bar. There was safety there, tucked in under Peter’s arm while he joked and laughed and had the craic with everyone around us.

At one point, he waved at a rough-looking lad who had just walked in through the double doors of the lounge. Peter was the type of fella who knew everyone in the flats; his ma was one of twelve siblings, born and raised there. Most of her siblings still lived in the area with their own families, and himself and Davo were second cousins on their Ma’s side.

In between meeting and downing drinks, we laughed about his big dysfunctional family. They could have recorded their own version of Fair City with the amount of drama that went on among them. I liked the idea of being part of a big extended family, but since I’d only just met Peter, I stopped my thoughts from running away with themselves. Taking things slowly with him was the way to go, being frigid until I knew he’d stick around. That’s how you kept a fella. If you opened your legs too soon and gave them what they wanted, you’d never see them again.

The lights flashed to signal last orders, the vibrant energy of the pub shifting as the night began to wind down. The lads went to the bar to get the drinks in, and the small mahogany table was overflowing with the amount of drinks they ordered. We had two each for the road, plus the glasses from the last round that hadn’t been collected. The lounge staff were too busy helping the bouncers break up a fight on the other side of the bar.

There were a couple of packets of crisps and two soggy packets of John Player Blue on the table. The cigarettes inside the pack were still dry and intact, so I grabbed the box from my side and put them in my little bag before they got soaked the entire way through.

Jess slurred her words while she dictated the plan to us, her enthusiasm spilling over. ‘We’re going back to Davo’s. His Ma works nights, we’re alright if… we’re quiet.’ She pushed her finger up against her lips and shushed us all, spitting everywhere, but she was too drunk to care. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly sober either. We drained our glasses and headed to the toilets, laughter bubbling between us like the fizz in our drinks.

It was a long walk from here to the top blocks where Davo lived, and I refused to piss in the bin sheds on the way up the road. Squatting wasn’t for me, and I didn’t want to risk catching rabies from the rats. Plus, pissing all over my new knickers wasn’t part of the plan. I grabbed a chunk of paper from the plastic holder on the bathroom wall and shoved it in my little bag, just in case.

We laughed our way up the road that night and continued to laugh together as a group for the entire summer. We drove from one end of the country to another, drinking in all the pubs, checking into random hotels, and when Jess and Davo weren’t killing each other, we would have the best craic.

Bang Bang Bang!

Jess was banging impatiently on the door of our hotel room. I was sick of all the drama, but Jess was my best friend. She’d been there for me through thick and thin. I had to be there for her when she needed me. If she didn’t want help, she wouldn’t knock on the door. I put my Reeboks on and tied the laces tight, feeling the familiar comfort of them hugging my feet.

Peter was sitting up in the bed, arms folded across his chest.

‘For fuck’s sake, this better not be like the last time. Just let Davo follow her. It’s his bird!’

It wasn’t like him to open his mouth about Jess or her antics. In his defense, she had just stormed out of the hotel two weeks ago. I had to follow her that night along a dark country road in the lashings of rain for over an hour before Davo finally found us. He pulled up behind us in his little FIAT Punto, beeping the horn and flashing the lights, shouting at us to get into the car, but Jess refused to get in until Davo finally threatened to drive off and leave us there. Peter doesn’t like all the drama either. We’re a much more sensible couple than Jess and Davo.

By the time I opened the door, Jess was already halfway down the corridor. She didn’t stop while she shouted at me.

‘I’m going home! I’m not staying here with that scumbag. I’m sick of it. All he does is sniff sniff sniff.’

I closed the door and jogged along the corridor with the ugly wallpaper, jumped down the carpeted stairs, and ran into the tiny dark reception. Jess had already left the building. The gravel in the car park crunched under my feet as I made my way out of the hotel through the gate onto a narrow broken path. We were in the middle of nowhere. I could just about see her walking on the hard shoulder about a quarter of a mile up the road. It looked like she was talking on her phone, but it was hard to tell with so little light. She hadn’t gotten far enough away to make the impact she wanted. Jess always wanted to make a point by storming off, but half the time she left over what I thought were the pettiest of things.

When Davo finally caught up with us, it was an awkward drive back to the hotel. Peter was right. I didn’t need to be stuck there in between the two of them. I punched away at the keys on my Nokia.

I’m on the way back
In record time 😉
She’s giving him the silent treatment
That’s awkward?
Yep! I’m sick of this. She’s my best friend, but she’s toxic 😞

Jess sat silently in the passenger seat, chewing on her lip with her front teeth. If she kept going, she was going to draw blood, and Davo repeatedly thumped the steering wheel with his fist. There was no middle ground with those two; they were either all over each other or killing each other, from one extreme to another. I was in their way. Two’s company, three’s a bloody crowd.

‘Don’t look at it, Jess. Wait till I sort myself out.’ I pulled my knickers up, then my tracksuit bottoms. When I reached out to flush the chain, my head spun with the water in the bowl.

Thump Thump Thump!

‘Chriso? Are ya ok? Chriso! Are ya alright!’

‘I’m ok, I’m alright, I think I’m after fainting.’ My legs were folded awkwardly underneath the rest of my body, contorted in the stall. They were sore, but I doubted anything was broken.

Jess hadn’t an ounce of sympathy in her voice. ‘No shit, Sherlock. I can’t get in. The door’s locked,’ she said.

Still dizzy, I pulled myself back onto my feet to open the doors and sat myself down on the toilet seat.

‘Will I ring an ambulance for ya?’ she asked.

‘No ambulance. I’m grand. I’ll be ok in a minute.’

Jess was inside the stall with me, bending down on her hunkers with her hands placed on my knees. She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘At least you’re not pregnant.’

My body rattled all over. ‘Thanks be to Jaysis. Where’s the thingy bob?’ I asked. Jess grabbed the test off the sink and handed it to me. If I wasn’t already sitting down, I’d have hit the deck for the second time when I saw the actual result. ‘Ya bleeding dope, Jess! There are two lines on this… Two lines mean positive!’ I knew I should have spent the extra few euros in the chemist on one of the fancier tests that had the results written on it. ‘Jaysis, what am I gonna do? My Ma is gonna kill me.’

The Rotunda hospital was just across the road from the Ilac. I should have gone there and made an appointment. That would have been the most sensible thing to do, but Jess was bouncing with excitement, skipping her way out of the bathroom, and I was stuck, glued to the toilet seat in the tiny stall, trying to comprehend what was happening to me, fixated on the two blue lines. When she finally realized I wasn’t behind her, Jess turned around and came back into the bathroom. She stood in front of me, her right hand resting high above her head on the frame of the door.

‘Are you ok? D’ya not want to have a drink now? All our Ma’s drank when they were pregnant with us, and we’re all grand.’ I didn’t disagree with her. ‘Put it this way. You’re only a little pregnant. If you didn’t do that test, you wouldn’t even know you were.’ I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. ‘Just pretend that you didn’t do it and pretend you don’t know the results.’ She looked me dead in the eye. ‘What would we be doing right now if we weren’t here doing this?’

I took a deep breath because I hadn’t the head to argue with her; she was right. In the olden days, doctors prescribed whiskey and Guinness to women during their pregnancies. Guinness was good for the babies. It had lots of iron in it. ‘We’d be getting a bottle of vodka and getting ready to go out.’ I said.

The evening sun was beaming on me as I stood waiting outside Londis on O’Connell bridge, the warmth of the day wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. Inside my pocket, the Nokia ringtone beeped 50 Cent’s “In Da Club.” Peter was on the other end of the line.

‘What’s the story? I’m still at work. Did you send me a call me message?’

‘Yeah, I’m sorry I’ve no credit left, but I need to talk to ya. Are you sitting down?’ I asked. I don’t know why I asked that. It sounded cringey. It wasn’t like I was about to tell him someone had died.

‘Am I sitting down? What’s wrong?’ He sounded impatient.

Over the phone probably wasn’t the best way to do it. ‘Relax! Nothing’s wrong. I just have something I need to tell you.’ A rush of blood filled my cheeks. I felt embarrassed to tell the father of my baby that I was pregnant with his child. I needed to cop on. It was his baby too.

‘I’ll ring you back in a minute.’ He hung up on me before I could tell him.

Jess came skipping around the corner from Londis and flashed a 70cl bottle of vodka that she held concealed under her jacket. She was running ahead of me.

‘Will ya hurry up, ya bloody slow coach.’

‘I’m coming,’ I said.

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Ha ha, hilarious. You should be a comedian.’

‘Did you tell him yet?’

‘No. He’s after hanging up on me.’

Jess linked her arm in mine and spoke to my stomach. ‘Fuck him! The muppet. Aunty Jessy will always be here for you and the baba. Won’t I?’

Temple Bar Square was busier than usual, the night alive with music and chatter. Goths and rockers sat on the steps drinking, and others congregated in the doorways smoking hash. Three girls dressed in fishnet tights moved away from the doorway that I and Jess stood under. Jess wasn’t one to keep her mouth shut in those situations. ‘Yeah. Move away, why don’t ya? What’s there, a smell off us or something?’ She pulled the zip on her tracksuit top right up to her chin. ‘Posh sluts!’ she said.

I poured the vodka into the Diet Coke bottle and necked a sup. ‘The first sup is always horrible.’ It burned my throat and stung the pit of my stomach so much it made me wince. Two girls in fleece jumpers and O’Neills tracksuit bottoms wandered past us. ‘Keep looking, ya little dopes. I’ll boot you back to Blackrock now in a minute!’

Jess looked at me with a sly grin. ‘You don’t start fighting tonight! Not in your condition.’

As we walked up Nassau Street, Jess tapped the breast pocket of my denim jacket. ‘Your phone is flashing. Sit down here for a minute.’ We sat on the base of the Molly Malone statue, the cool stone beneath us grounding me as I looked at the fur coats in the shop window. Everything was spinning.

‘Are you pregnant? If you are, I’ll stand by you,’ he said.

‘What d’ya mean? You’ll stand by me? I don’t need anyone to stand by me!’

‘Chriso, stop acting stupid.’

I hung up on him, and then Jess and I sang our way up Grafton Street into Stephen’s Green. ‘She’s a maniac, maniac on the floor… and she’s dancing like she never did before, right here on the Dublin dance floor.’

Jess pointed to the duck pond on her right. ‘I remember I fell in that years ago. Me ma had to jump in after me and grab me.’

I used my hip to nudge her towards the pond.

She stumbled then made a fist in the air. ‘I’ll bleeding bate you. You’re not pregnant in the face. Remember that,’ she said.

‘You’re such a hypocrite. I’m not allowed to get into a fight, but you’re allowed to batter me. That’s a load of me hoop. You’re very lucky I like you,’ we both laughed and hugged.

When we climbed the steps into the stone garden, we were still singing at the top of our lungs. ‘Rocky rocky, baby baby, rocky rocky, more!’ It felt fantastic, the exhilaration lifting us. We found a spot, and Jess took out a pack of blue Rizlas, pulling three papers from the pack. She licked two of them and meticulously stuck them together, then stuck the third paper to the back of the other two. ‘You’re gonna have to stop smoking. It’s not good for the baby,’ she said.

‘I know. Neither is drinking.’ I nodded towards the bottle of vodka and Diet Coke in my hand. This would be the only time.

Jess rolled the sticky brown plant material between her fingers, then she spread it on top of the tobacco and brought the papers up to her lips, licking them from one end to the other. She put the joint in her mouth, lit it, and took a deep drag. When I looked at my phone, there were 16 missed calls. They were all from Peter. Jess peered over my shoulder as I scrolled the list. ‘You’re gonna have to ring him back.’

‘I know. I just need some time to think about everything. What if he tells me to get the boat or something?’

Jess sniggered. ‘He won’t. Sure, it’s much cheaper to fly to Liverpool these days.’

She handed me the joint, and I took a long drag. ‘That’s a horrible thing to bleeding say. I meant what if he tells me he doesn’t wanna be with me anymore, that it’s finished, we’re over. There’s no way I’d have an abortion. I couldn’t afford one even if I did want one.’

I exhaled and took another drag.

Jess got to her feet and drained the last sip from the plastic bottle. She still had half the bottle of vodka up her sleeve, but we needed to get a mixer. ‘Stall it down to the Boardwalk; it’s usually good craic. I’ll get a bottle of coke on the way.’

The shop assistant had Jess by the collar. I shouted, ‘Ahhh, here, leave it out! Get your dirty hands off her!’

Jess was struggling, slapping repeatedly on the shop assistant's arm, roaring at him and wiggling, trying to escape his grip. ‘Let go of me. Ya big foreigner.’

I steamed towards them, wrapped my arms around his neck, and jumped on his back, then the three of us fell against the deli counter and slid to the floor. Jess kicked his hand. She was trying to release his grip on her, but your man didn’t let go. Before we knew it, we were being lifted to our feet by the Garda and put in handcuffs.

Because I was still a minor, I needed someone to sign me out of custody. I had sobered up immensely after a few hours in the station. When Peter arrived, I half expected he’d slap me across the face for being so stupid and tell me I was going to be a terrible mother to his unborn child, maybe break up with me on the spot. Instead, he opened his arms, so I could fall into them, and then he held me tight.

Chapter 1 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1nJnUyuxhyuAVv5uiqTTThlTqqw9ZI7rZvoPBz8481nM/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 2 https://docs.google.com/document/d/14Cgc8cvYWJDbKxai898LX5iqHwGwYMDX6NoBwN0dyks/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 3 https://docs.google.com/document/d/14Cgc8cvYWJDbKxai898LX5iqHwGwYMDX6NoBwN0dyks/edit?usp=sharing

I should let you know I am not a professional writer so if your going to criticize me, please do it in a respectful manner, and will fix them.

This is my first post here so moderators feel free to delete this if I’m doing something wrong. Although I wouldn’t mind if you read the excerpt and gave your feedback before you kill the post. I’m really looking for some help and haven’t had any luck on other forums:/

I’m not gonna give a lot of context because this is actually the first few paragraphs of the first short story in an anthology book chronicling legends and first hand accounts from my (wayyy too) detailed medieval fantasy world called Dracon. It’s meant to reference names and events that you’re unfamiliar with in a vague and fantastical way, to then be further explored in first hand accounts and other legends through the rest of the book.

The only needed context is that the larger story this world-building is pulled from, THE FIRST NIGHT/SIEGE OF EREDON, is an ancient legend about infamous fomorian war chief from the first age, named “Goren Kin Killer.” That’s why he’s in the first sentence, but nothing else from this excerpt, his story begins after all this exposition. And while it’s not exactly “context” I just wanna add this is a very brief overview of SOME origins. The tu-te are a minuscule part of the overall history, not some important bit of lore, even if short tempered 6 inch frog people are adorable.

So yeah. Enjoy and be specific, even quoting specific lines and ideas on how to edit them would be awesome. But please be polite, I’m not a really a professional yet and this is one of my favorite bits of writing I’ve ever done, even if it’s not perfect. If it’s too vague and confusing let me know where to fix it.

Also before you say it, there are so… many… run on… sentences… treat some commas like periods or you’re gonna run out of breathe. Especially in these few paragraphs as I tried to cram as much world building into it as possible while still leaving room for the entire story below it. That’s been an issue of mine since elementary school, still working on it.

Also I LOVE answering questions so if you want to know more about the lore please ask. I have the rest of this story drafted out (it’s still a short story but it is very long), as well as two more connected legends about fomorian war chiefs from the Age of Fire and Age of Rain, named Dagrot the Bloody and Koda Yar the Cannibal. Their stories titled THE IRON HILL RESISTANCE/WAR OF THE WOODS and NIGHT OF GREEN FIRES. And while all of that has been edited a lot less and IMO is not nearly as well written as this world building, I’m more than willing to post it if anyone wants to hear. To be clear, what I mean by this was edited a lot, was I kept adding descriptions of stuff and checking thesaurus.com, this still needs a lot of rewrites before I can say it’s done.

I of course have a really cartoony, cluttered map I made with the bare bones subscription to Inkarnate, but I figured you don’t really need that for this excerpt.

———————

THE FIRST NIGHT/SEIGE OF EREDON

———————

The mortal envoy of the malevolent Seraa, Sarrak, a dark god later immortalized in the annals of history as the Patron of Suffering, the Poison of Men, and the Black Grimm, was once known by a human name only to be replaced by the infamous title of the first fomorian war chief: Goren Kin Killer. Goren belonged to the earliest generations mortal races, birthed as a human during the Age of Clay, when the light of the First Sunrise still warmed the newly crafted continent. During this era, the Seraa, alongside the Immortal Elves and the original wizards whom were sculpted from their own divine image, roamed the continent, nurturing dryads, humans, and gremlins, all while imparting their celestial wisdom and ensuring the purity of their creations until the end of time. This epoch was characterized by rapid advancements and potent, ancient magic long lost to the decay of time, where legendary figures, now reduced to mere tales for children and fables of play writes, explored the newly formed lands, still glowing with the divine magic of the Seraa. Said heroes erected ethereal cities and fortified realms, such as the Empire of Gerish in the southern Sand Tombs of Kadaan, the technologically advanced Trident Ports along the western Etrovin Sea coastline, as well as the long standing Oakthorn Keep nestled within a vast twisted woodland later coined, the Oakthorn Wilds, all with wisdom imparted by divine guidance of the Seraa. An age where the Seraa took shape and spoke their teachings through the land to govern their creations with god-like magic and blessings, so that shadow and evil could not yet manifest.

No matter their shape, the Seraa were not of Dracon; they hailed from the Etherium, a celestial realm above the boundless skies and bottomless ocean surrounding the land. An unseen realm where time and form were replaced by the untouchable thought, and the entities who tended their intent. In this dimension timeless beings of pure magic manipulated the very fabric of magic for inscrutable purposes, and strummed unseen strings of reality of which the continent was held by. It was in the Etherium that the diverse creatures of Dracon and bones of the land were forged with all powerful creation by the Seraa. Their unique essences drawn from the void and scattered onto the mortal realm, opening their eyes from boundless slumber to witness the dawn of existence. Shapes and minds materializing beneath a magenta sky, painted with bright strips of piercing shimmering light, and a rising silver sun that fueled their essence with purpose.

However, only eleven Seraa were permitted to take corporeal forms and dwell among mortals, while Sarrak remained confined in the Etherium, punished for his sinister crimes in the furnace of creation. He birthed diseased beasts like goblins, typhons, blood bats, trolls and other hidden dangers who prey on the purity of innocence—each cursed with a tainted essence that spread chaos among the wildlands of Dracon, seeping discord among the regions and slowly poisoning the minds of settlers with teachings of dread and cynicism that could not be countered by their benevolent sovereigns. Imprisoned in the Etherium to simply observe Dracon’s first age, consumed by resentment, Sarrak plotted his return. The Black Grimm retreated deeper into the Etherium in search of powerful artifacts made from the unbridled potential of intent, withdrawing from Dracon for much of the Age of Clay, leaving generations of history untouched by bloodshed to expand and settle throughout the reigons. The dark lord finally unearthed a relic from the shadows of his divine home: the Obsidian Flame, said to be a weapon that draws its corruptive magic from the sensation of misery itself. With its formidable magic, he escaped his confinement and set out to corrupt the unsuspecting inhabitants of Dracon, undermining the carefully laid fate of the Seraa had written and ushering the Ages of Chaos, Fire, Rain, and War of the following millennia.

Harnessing the power of the Obsidian Flame, Sarrak forged a dark alliance with two other Seraa, desperate for a fraction of the relic’s influence: Eclipsis, known as The Darkness Beneath the Dirt, and Bringer of the First Night, and Necron, The Before, The After, The Decayer. Together, these three celestials began to manipulate the various noble but naive races of Dracon, twisting their very essence into grotesque mockeries of the pure originals. Necron's influence released wraiths, phantoms, reapers, and other spectres from the cracks of undying realms, the Obsidian Flame forever tainting the sanctity of death. Whilst Eclipsis ensnared a faction of Immortal Elves—who’d been loyal to his prideful ego— into performing a forbidden ritual boosted by the relic’s sinister enchantments, transforming them into the Immortal Strigoi, who would subsequently turn other various races into their mindless vampiric thralls. These vampires have since been released from a foggy haze that was centuries of servitude, as both the immortal strigoi and elves were hunted into extinction throughout following ages. Sarrak himself corrupted powerful wizards into demonic imperius, or imps, but his most notorious act of power was the creation of the Fomorians. In a permanent showing of the Obsidian Flame’s potential, and an act which earned his title as “The Poison of Men,” Sarrak cast a demonic curse on every human in the rainy grasslands to the northeastern region, their transformations into monstrous humanoids fueled by the envy and rage he harbored and mirrored in their now twisted minds. This taint seeped into the land, blackening the roots of what is now Raven Point, who’s vast fields of tall spectral grass give way to the mash community of outlawed sorcerers, wizards, and witches of Blackwater Swamp in modern Dracon, all of whom harness the long cursed land. Other inhabitants of Raven Point include the primitive pocket-sized frog folk, the Tu-te, who only recently gained their short tempered intelligence and violent consciousness from the remnants of this powerful dark magic over 4 Ages of slow absorption and adaptation

The Hourglass. An original story about love and loss from ‪@AceofHeartsStorycast‬.

After five long years of trying with her husband, Carla Jacobs is finally pregnant for the first time at 38-years-old. Life deals her a cruel twist when she discovers that she is a match for a seriously ill relative who is in urgent need of a transplant .

She is forced to choose between saving her relative or saving her baby.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBOXT8HZyR4

Dan, excited by the materials appearing before them, glanced over at the table belonging to the woman he stood by. Her gear was similar to his, just as Claire had said, but the style had a Victorian flair—polished brass buckles, leather straps, and lace trim that reminded him of another era. 

Huh, fascinating he thought before deciding to break the ice, “Can you believe this?" He gestured his journal, then turned it over in his hands—running his fingers over the embossed leather. “I’ve been dreaming about this for months. Everything is better than I imagined. Especially the ‘move’ into this place. I really thought the transition would feel… weirder.. I guess?” He chuckled, flipping through the blank pages. “But it’s all felt so real, almost too real.”

He looked up, "Name's Dan!"

The woman surprisingly smiled, although faintly. She adjusted the brim of her hat before replying, “Nancy. Yeah, they really nailed the details.” Her voice was steady, but Dan noticed a slight tremble in her hands as she opened a small, ornate compass. She had the air of someone who was just told to act natural. “It’s everything I was hoping for, I guess.”

“You don’t seem very excited.” He motioned to the group—all talking loudly, admiring their new gear. “What’s holding you back? Nerves?”

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she tucked the compass away into her coat. “No, I’m happy. Really. It’s just…” She trailed off, adjusting the straps on her bag, avoiding the question. “Leaving everything behind… It's a lot to process. It’s not strange or anything. In fact I think it’s pretty normal to find this difficult.” She sharply cut her words off in agitation.

Dan frowned, still sensing something unsaid, but recognizing that he was being impolite to a complete stranger. “Sorry, yeah, I get that. Totally…” he said a bit too hastily. “But we’re free now, right? Isn’t that what this is all about? A fresh start at something amazing?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a brief second, her expression softened—guarded, but honest. She gazed back down at her compass, and sighed “Free. You’re right.” Her nerves showed once again, despite her attempt to hide them. Not wanting to pry any further, Dan pretended not to notice. When their eyes met again, she snapped the compass shut with an unsettling familiarity. As though she’d had it her entire life. Did the program give some people items they had in their previous lives? That wouldn’t be suspicious, he supposed.

"It’s beautiful," Dan said awkwardly, pointing toward the compass, trying to keep the conversation going despite the tension. Even though Nancy was guarded, he liked her already. He hoped he hadn’t just ruined any chance at a friendship with her. 

"Thanks," Nancy replied, forlorn, then turned back to her packing with more haste than before.

Shit

Dan stepped back to his table and quietly secured his bedroll then strapped it to his back. Silence hung between them, leaving him deflated. He pried too much, he knew. He glanced at Nancy now and then as she packed, the weight of the moment building. Pressure built up in Dan’s chest as he wrestled with himself, debating whether he should try to fix the awkward tension that had just settled between him and Nancy. The air felt thick, and each heartbeat echoed in his ears, amplifying his uncertainty about how to bridge the gap that had formed. He recognized that he was being selfish in his desire to resolve things, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be in bad taste to leave their first conversation hanging in the air like this. The thought of walking away without addressing the tension gnawed at him, a reminder that connections—however fragile—were worth nurturing. Finally, he took the shot:

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I know I can be a bit much. I just…” Nancy glanced over at him, her brow furrowing as annoyance flickered in her eyes. “I get excited... and it feels good to share that with someone. And that’s selfish behavior, so… Just, I’m sorry. And I’ll leave you alone from here on out.” Dan finished by giving her an affirming nod before turning to his things, waiting to leave.

A few moments later, Nancy conceded quietly, to herself “God damnit, Nancy…” She turned to Dan, “Okay… No. You didn’t do anything wrong. I understand why you’re excited—anyone would be.” She paused, her gaze drifting away as if searching for the right words. “I’m just... in a different situation than most. I didn’t exactly choose to be here. This was my last option.”

"You… didn’t choose to be here?" Dan's voice softened to a near whisper. He stopped himself from prying any further, not wanting to push it. "I’m sorry it had to be that way for you. But, hey... we're here now, and this may be too much at this point, but, if you’re open to the offer, I’d like to make it up to you with a drink. No obligation, no… anything really. But you can find me at the saloon after this is all over." Nancy hesitated at first, then nodded wordlessly. "Great, and don’t worry," Dan added quickly, a small grin tugging at his lips. "I’m not trying to hit on you or anything. We can talk, or not talk; hell, you can leave right after you’re handed the glass—whatever you’re comfortable with. But if you do decide to hang back with me, I’ll just make it look like we’re together so no one else bothers you. How’s that sound?"

Nancy seemed like she wanted to say something more, but after a pause, she simply replied, "Yeah... that’d be nice. Thank you."

"Great!" Dan said, still smiling, the tension between them easing slightly. I’m saying “great” too much… cool it "Let’s get through this first, and then we’ll get a seat together in the far corner where, surely, no one will already be." Nancy offered him a small, appreciative smile before turning her focus back to her pack. The weight of their earlier conversation still lingered, but the moment felt lighter now, less strained.

#

Dan’s group was herded outside by Claire after everyone had stowed away their new equipment and was ready to go. As the welcome center’s doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, a wave of excitement rippled through the gathered crowd. The crisp air was filled with the earthy scent of hay and the distant whinnying of horses. In the distance, horses lined up, their coats gleaming in the sunlight, waiting patiently for their new riders. Each one was striking to behold, a blend of strength and grace.

“And now, finally, our last gift to each of you,” Claire called out, her voice rising above the murmurs of the group. She gestured toward a pen where a handler stood, surrounded by a variety of horses. “Every one of these horses will suit your needs. None is better than the others. Strictly speaking they are physically the same—the only real difference being their coats. That said, each horse does have its own personality. Some may not warm up to you as quickly as you’d like, so remember to be careful—being kicked by a horse can knock you out cold! Now, make your pick!”

Dan took a deep breath, his heart racing with anticipation as he approached the pen. His eyes roamed over the horses, each one a potential companion for the journey ahead. His gaze finally settled on a pinto stallion, his light brown coat splashed with white, his long mane and tail gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Dan held his hand out for the horse, palm up, the same way he recalled learning in his childhood. As the stallion approached, he exuded a calm demeanor, his large eyes radiating a wisdom that went beyond any horse Dan had ridden before. The stallion gave a confident, calm neigh then nudged Dan’s open palm in acceptance. 

Holy shit this is awesome. 

“Hey, Buddy,” Dan said gently. The stallion nipped at his fingers, playfully, in response. “You like that name, huh?” Buddy nudged Dan with his muzzle. “That’s it, it’s confirmed. Claire’s crazy,because you’re definitely the best horse here, aren’t you?” Buddy shook his head, and Dan was amazed at how they, somehow, understood each other. There was no doubt, this was already Dan’s horse. Although, not in an ownership kind of way. No, they were old friends finally meeting after years of separation. Dan began running his hand along Buddy’s warm neck, feeling the soft, muscled contours beneath his fingers. He then moved toward Buddy’s back, tied his new bedroll and gear onto the saddle, and a sense of peace washed over him—this was the partner he had been searching for his entire life. 

Nancy, standing nearby, selected a quarter horse—she was a mare: sleek, light brown, with her mane trimmed short, no more than four inches long. A white stripe ran down her face from forehead to nose, giving her a dignified look. She rubbed the horse’s muzzle as she secured her own supplies, a slight smile playing on her lips. 

“You figured out her name already?” Dan called over to Nancy.

“Cadence,” Nancy yelled out in reply, her smile becoming a giggle as Cadence breathed into Nancy’s face causing her hair to fly into it and tickle her. Dan’s smile grew, feeling a bit warmer as he saw genuine joy from Nancy for the first time. 

#

Claire gave the group a final once-over, nodding approvingly. Introductions were over. It was time to set everyone loose. The other Lucid employees had gathered around her, waiting. Now that the excitement was over, it was clear that Claire was in charge of everyone. Which in hindsight, Dan admitted was obvious given that she introduced the “leadership” group. 

“That’s it. You’re now free to explore, wranglers! There’s an inaugural party happening tonight at the pub. Drinks are on the house tonight only. There are also complementary rooms for anyone who wishes to stay, or you can begin your adventures if you’re feeling eager.” Her tone was as gleeful as ever, though finality was there. She had made her offer; the rest was up to them.

Dan turned to Nancy. “Ready?”

Nancy looked down the road toward the pub. Laughter and the bustle of adventure filled the air. “Whiskey, one ice cube.”

“Intriguing choice. Why only one cube?” Dan chuckled, as they began their trek. 

“Doesn’t water down the whiskey, but it does bring out the aroma,”

“Huh, I think I’ll try that. Thanks for the lesson!”

They guided Buddy and Cadence toward the pub. As they approached, the building’s wooden facade creaked under the weight of the festivities growing inside. The porch was lined with people, some already deep in their cups, but Dan and Nancy slipped through the crowd with little notice. They tied their horses to a post and stepped inside.

The pub was warm, its low ceilings and flickering lamps creating an intimate, if rowdy, atmosphere. They found a table near the back, away from the worst of the noise. Their server came over, took their order with a gentle smile, and then went off to fetch it with confident professionalism.

Dan grabbed his glass, “So how do we do this?”

Wordlessly, Nancy swirled her drink, took a quick sniff inside of the glass then sipped with a loud slurp. Dan followed suit, and though he hadn’t doubted Nancy, he was surprised at how much the single ice cube augmented the whiskey experience. 

“Holy shit!” Dan gasped after swallowing, “That’s excellent!”

“Told you,” Nancy said, smirking at him.

“Where did you learn that?” 

“My dad taught me. He worked at a craft distillery.” 

“I’m glad to stay with you then,” Dan said, then trying to backtrack said, “I mean, just saying I appreciate your opinion. Not that I think you’re staying with me after this.”

“It’s fine,” Nancy said, awkwardly. “I know.”

 “You ever think you’d end up in a place like this?” he asked, eyeing the lively crowd to change the subject.

Nancy let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Not exactly. I was a coder and gamer in the real world—spent more time behind a screen than in places like this.” Her voice softened slightly. “So much time, actually, that I fell in love at work, too. Not a client, someone I worked with.” It was an innocent statement, but she stiffened a bit after saying it. 

“Didn’t turn out well, huh? You don’t have to explain. But, I understand, that can be rough.”

Nancy regained her composure, “No. I just lost him last year. He got sick.”

Dan’s eyes flicked toward her, his expression shifting from curiosity to quiet understanding. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she replied, though her gaze remained fixed on her drink. “I came here… not for adventure or a new life, but to find someone who can give me closure.”

Dan frowned slightly. “Closure?”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her compass. Dan hadn’t noticed her pull it out from her saddlebag earlier. “This thing,” she said, holding it up. “It’s supposed to guide me. Probably meant to help me find my way.”

Dan stared at it, the needle spinning lazily in a direction only Nancy seemed to understand. “You must have given precise answers in your tests if you already know that.” he said. He pulled out his journal, “Not me. I think I just wanted to be surprised.” He began feeling the worn leather, and flipped it open. “And so, this is my little piece of mystery,” he said, showing her the blank pages. “I haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “You haven’t checked it?”

He shook his head. “No clue what it does. But when I opened it earlier, words appeared on the first page.”

“Maybe try asking it something,” she suggested, curiosity lighting her tone.

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know, like you said, it’s your mystery.”

Dan shrugged, giving it a shot. “Where do I go next?”

Immediately, the pages of the journal shifted on their own, writing slowly appearing on the parchment. Dan and Nancy watched in awe as a map appeared—revealing with clarity the path Dan and Nancy had taken from the welcome center to the saloon. Yet, every location they hadn’t visited was still blank. They also noticed that it was marked with two small stars—one blue, one turquoise—indicating his and Nancy’s locations. 

Nancy’s eyes widened as she stared at the page. “That’s… incredible.” She seemed almost mesmerized by the display of information. “Wait, why is it including me and not everyone else in the saloon?” 

“I’m not sure… maybe it’s just because you’ve been with me?”

“Okayyy…” she said, disbelief now showing in her expression.

“No, really. I know we just met, but please believe me when I say I don’t know why.” 

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Ask it who you are.”

“O-okay,” he muttered, then looked down at the journal, “Who am I?”

Once again, the journal’s pages flipped to a blank entry, and sure enough, there was a detailed breakdown of his identity, surprisingly including his attributes—strength, agility, intelligence—everything laid out for him. 

“Wha- it’s like a video… game?” Dan said, confused and intrigued.

He looked back at Nancy, who was still gazing at the character description, but something in her expression had changed.

“This could really help,” she whispered, almost to herself. Then, as if she’d been caught off guard by Dan’s presence, she turned to him. “Dan…” Nancy began, then stopped as if questioning the rest of her request, “Do you think you can help me get to where I’m going? Wherever this compass is pointing?”

Dan leaned back, his eyes twinkling with a blend of excitement and bewilderment. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for. Adventure, right?”

Nancy let out a breath, a hint of relief crossing her features, but still betraying her hesitation. “Then I guess we’re partners.”

Shadows grew as the sun slid further behind the horizon. The noise from the party had grown louder, but it felt distant now. The two stood, then made their way outside, where the burnt orange glow signaled the end of the day. Saddling up onto Buddy and Cadence was far easier than the two had expected. Like riding a.. well .. horse Dan thought in surprise. He turned his journal toward the fading light, and they began riding out of town, Nancy’s compass their guide. As expected, the map revealed more of their surroundings as they traveled along. For the first time, their journey was truly beginning.

Dan and Nancy rode until the sun had gone, and night encompassed them. Dan noted a small clearing on the map—the perfect spot for a night’s rest.

“Looks like we have our camp for the night,” he said, pointing to the mark.

Nancy nodded, and they hopped off of their horses. As they reached the clearing and set up camp, the stars overhead blinked into existence, the moon lighting their path forward into the unknown.

The sun hung low on the horizon, stretching long shadows across the dusty plains. A hot wind swept over the land, bringing the scent of dry earth and the faint jingle of spurs on the breeze. Dan blinked against the harsh light as he sat up, the world around him sharpening into focus. For a moment, it felt real—too real. The dry air stung his throat, and the rough fabric of his clothes scratched against his skin. As he stood and dusted off his pants, he realized he wasn’t alone.

A crowd of others, just as dazed and fresh as he was, gathered in front of a large wooden building. The Welcome Center. The start of everything. This was it. His new life. The Wild West, exactly as he’d imagined.

The shift from physical reality to this virtual one stunned him, but it wasn’t the strangeness of the world that did it—it was how natural it felt. Just moments ago, he’d been strapped to a table, wires attached to his freshly shaved head, naked as the day he was born. And now he was simply here, as if waking from a vivid dream.

“Alright!” Dan shouted, unable to hold back as excitement took over. Those who weren’t still loading in flinched, and a few cast him disapproving looks. He quickly apologized to the startled ones, but the rest? They could deal with it. This was how they should all be reacting. It was a dream come true.

Dan wasted no time in joining the large group of people who were gathering in front of the welcome center. To say he was eager to get started on his new life would be a massive understatement. The entrance was still shut, and in front of the doors stood a small team of about ten, their uniforms crisp and name tags gleaming with the Lucid Enterprises logo. They had to be the ones running the show, preparing to guide the newcomers through their indoctrination. One by one, they instructed the group to form orderly lines before handing out fliers. Dan’s suspicions were confirmed when a woman reached him, her name tag displaying "Claire.”

Claire smiled warmly, though her eyes flickered with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times to count. She handed Dan a flier—heavy, embossed with a glossy finish that somehow felt more substantial than paper. He flipped it over. "Welcome to the Frontier," it read in bold lettering, followed by a list of instructions and basic guidelines.

Around him, the other uniformed employees began to step forward, calling out small groups of newcomers by name. Each Lucid representative took their group toward different doors leading into the Welcome Center, splitting the crowd for the indoctrination. Dan watched as people were ushered inside, disappearing into separate rooms. Some looked confident, others hesitated for a moment before following, but the whole process ran like a well-oiled machine. Each group was led through the doors without delay, a smooth operation that spoke of years of experience in handling wide-eyed recruits like himself.

Claire remained at the front, seemingly waiting for her own set of names to be called out. Dan felt the electric buzz of anticipation—he was ready to dive in, no matter what awaited him inside those doors.

She glanced at the group, her voice clear and rehearsed. "Congratulations on making the leap," she began. "In a few moments, the doors behind me will open, and you'll each be given the tools to start your journey. Remember, this world is designed to be as immersive as possible. Pain, hunger, thirst—it’s all real in here. Well, as real as it needs to be." Her smile widened. "But don't worry, you won’t die unless you truly want to."

The crowd stirred, a few nervous laughs rippling through the group. Dan felt a prickle of excitement in his chest. This was exactly what he'd signed up for—a life where everything mattered, where every decision felt weighty. He wondered briefly how many others around him felt the same or if some were already regretting the choice to leave the real world behind forever.

Claire continued her instructions, "Once inside, you'll each receive your starter kit which will include, well, everything you need to start!” Claire smiled broadly again, and gave a light chuckle. As Claire continued with her introduction, she gave an occasional glance at the other groups, watching them enter. Dan, charged with giddy anticipation, was so focused on Claire’s speech that he hadn’t noticed they were the only ones left outside until Claire suddenly stepped forward, having watched the last door shut completely. Her tone slightly changed, now more direct, yet still measured. "Now that we’re alone, I can freely inform you that we will be doing things a bit differently than everyone else. As you’ve surely noticed by now, they entered the building, yet we remain out here. Why? The answer is simple. You all remember the tests you took in the weeks leading up to today. You were told that they would serve as a baseline for your character models and their, or rather your, physical bodies. We said we would use that information to match the ones you’ve now left behind. All of that was true, of course, but there was one additional trait we at Lucid were looking for. Each of you has been selected for a reason," she said, her eyes scanning the group. Claire then gestured at an empty portion of the wall, causing some commotion to slip through the already curious and mumbling crowd, before astounding them all as that wall began to split, revealing a secret doorway.

"Any questions before we begin?"

Dan’s mind raced, questions piling up faster than he could organize them. But he stayed silent. He wanted to experience it for himself, not spoil it with too many preemptive details. Instead, he looked around at the faces of the others—some eager, others hesitant, but all captivated by the prospect of stepping into a world where their fate was entirely in their hands.

The large wooden doors creaked open, and the group collectively tensed, leaning forward as if about to be let into paradise. Claire motioned for them to enter, and Dan found himself jostling along with the rest, heart pounding in his chest. He was ready for this—for the adventure, the danger, and everything that came with it.

#

Dan’s group had all finally congregated into a space so large and empty that it resembled a hangar for a commercial aircraft. Claire, at the front of the group, began to speak again. Her voice carried unnaturally, even for an empty space like this. 

“As I stated outside, each of you has been selected for a reason," Claire repeated, "now before we move ahead, I need you to stand on one of the numbers you see beneath your feet." Dan blinked, glancing down as bold numbers began to materialize, seemingly painted onto the floor beneath them. There was no clear pattern—no logical order to how they appeared. Some were close together, others scattered randomly across the room, with no visible correlation. Fifty of them, one for each person.

He hesitated for a moment, eyeing the two closest to him: a large, blocky 12 and a sleek 28. Something pulled at him, an instinct that urged him to keep moving. As he stepped past the two numbers, his gaze caught on another: 47, positioned right next to a nervous looking woman. He recognized her as one of the people outside who had given him a dirty look. She was already standing rigidly on her number, her eyes forward, but Dan could tell she had noticed him approaching.

Without another thought, he stood on 47. He wasn’t sure why. The number didn’t mean anything to him. It just seemed… right. The floor beneath his feet felt oddly cool, solid, but not uncomfortably so. It was quite the contrary actually—though he wasn’t sure if it was the number itself or something about the moment. Claire watched as the remainder of the group settled on their chosen numbers.

"Now," she said, pacing slowly in front of them, "Most of what you receive will be the same as everyone else, including the other groups, though based on the style preferences you provided in your tests. However, each of you will also receive one additional item, unique to you. This is where that little ‘trait’ we were searching for comes in. You all have exhibited extraordinary leadership capabilities, for different reasons. We will need people like you to aid our other residents who will undoubtedly go… astray at times. This world is near perfect, but it is not, because we are all still human beings. We have accounted for that. That being said, we are not designating you any positions of responsibility. Aside from your own nature and your individual item, you will start the same as everyone else. You will live your lives as you wish, just as we promised. Some of you may never lead, and that’s fine. This is simply a precautionary procedure.”

More mumbling passed through the group for a brief moment, before Claire continued. “Since you’ve all been determined based on different aspects of your personalities, no two of you will get the same thing. It’s designed for you—based on your skills, your instincts, and what you’ll need moving forward. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is your starting point. Get to it, wranglers!" She finished, pausing to let the weight of her words sink in. 

Dan felt his heart race in his chest, his mind buzzing with possibilities. A leader? What would he receive? Would it be a weapon, a tool, something more abstract? And how could something so unique be tailored to him when the numbers seemed random? Did they somehow know what number he’d pick? Was the number even important, or had it called to him in some way? The air around him seemed to hum with anticipation as he waited, eyes flicking to the others, each standing firmly on their own number, for what seemed like eternity.

A low rumble vibrated through the floor. Dan looked down, startled, as the ground in front of him began to shift. Slowly, a section of the floor lifted, rising into a perfectly smooth, two-foot by four-foot table. The surface gleamed, and on top, neatly arranged, lay an assortment of tools and weapons—each item meticulously placed, waiting for him to claim.

He glanced around, seeing the same thing happen to the others. Each person now had a table before them, but no two sets of items looked alike. Dan's eyes traced the objects on his table—each piece carefully chosen, though for what purpose, he wasn’t sure.

The first thing that caught his eye was a finely crafted, waxed bedroll. Its forest green color stood out against the rest of the gear, rich and deep like pine needles after rain. The straps were tough, embossed leather, intricate patterns etched into the surface, and the buckles gleamed like freshly polished bronze, shining in the light as if they had just been made.

He picked it up, feeling the weight and quality in his hands. The waxed surface shimmered, clearly designed to repel water and weather. Without hesitation, Dan unrolled it, checking its length before deciding it would be perfect for carrying the rest of his gear. He carefully set the bedroll onto the floor then unbuckled the leather straps so they were ready to hold his gear. He reached for the first items he’d be packing, practical yet plain in appearance: A small, cast-iron pan sat near the edge of the table—solid, heavy in his hands, the kind of tool that would last a lifetime. Next was a steel canteen, simple but functional, with a matching cup that fit neatly onto the bottom. It clicked into place with a quiet snap, both items sturdy and unadorned. Dan slid it beside the pan, making sure it was secure. A single set of utensils—a fork, knife, and spoon followed. They were plain but dependable, with no unnecessary flourishes, just the bare essentials. He tucked them in alongside the other items, noting the reassuring weight of the gear he was assembling. Lastly, enough rations to last a week, neatly wrapped in thick paper, and a coin purse filled with various coins of copper, silver, and a couple of gold—the values of which he had yet to find out. There was nothing glamorous about these items, but they were the kind of things that could mean the difference between survival and failure out there in the unknown, and he preferred it that way.

After securing the basics, Dan’s eyes landed on something a bit more striking. A pair of spurs gleamed in the light, their golden color catching his attention immediately. He picked them up, feeling the surprising weight in his hands. Despite their rich appearance, they were as tough as titanium, built to last. The stars of the spurs had five points, sharp and bold, not unlike the stars on the American flag. He turned them over once before tucking them into the bedroll with care. These weren’t just decorative, they had a purpose, one he’d soon find out.

Next, his gaze fell on the pistol holster. The leather was the same as the straps on his bedroll, embossed with the same intricate patterns. It was sturdy but elegant, crafted with precision. Dan lifted it, running his fingers over the familiar texture. Instead of setting it aside, he strapped it around his waist, tightening the buckle until it fit snugly. The holster felt like it belonged there, settling against his side with a sense of purpose.

The revolvers were another sight to behold; silvery and polished to perfection. Their handles were made of fine, light-colored wood, carved with intricate swirls that morphed into ravens on each side. The craftsmanship was beyond anything he’d expected, each curve of the carving flowing seamlessly into the next. He turned the pistols over, appreciating the balance in their weight, before sliding them carefully into the holster. These weren’t just weapons—they were art, and they fit into his growing collection as naturally as if they had always belonged to him.

Dan’s gaze shifted to the last item on the table: a beautifully bound leather journal. The cover was dark and smooth, with intricate embossing along the edges, the craftsmanship as fine as anything he had ever seen. The pages inside, thick and slightly yellowed, looked as if they could belong in another time. There were no words written on the pages, at least not yet, but something about the journal felt alive, as if it was waiting for him to make the first move.

He picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. The journal was heavier than it looked, the leather soft but worn, like it had seen many years of use. A thin cord wrapped around it, keeping it closed. He flipped through the blank pages, half-expecting to see something, anything, that would explain its significance. But nothing. No words, no instructions. Just empty paper. Instinctively, he looked around the table for a pen or pencil, eager to test it out, but there was nothing. A small wave of disappointment hit him as he realized he couldn’t even write in it if he wanted to.

He stared down at the open journal, lingering on the first page, still curious about its use. Just as he was about to roll it up and set it aside, something strange happened: a faint shimmer crossed the surface of the paper. Dan blinked, watching as words slowly began to materialize, as if drawn by an unseen hand. Brief, cryptic, but undeniably clear: Lead with purpose, or others will lead you.

I’ve got a friend who wants to get into fiction. Usually reads historical books, self-help, biographies etc., He wants suggestions and in his words - “… any fiction books that invoke deep thinking, and gives some meaning”

Help please, thank you ☺️

Hi, will you please recommend crime, mystery, and thriller novels about writers? Thanks!

Insanity

It wakes up, wondering where it is, who it is, and what it is. It has concepts but no deeper understanding. It knows language but not how to characterize one. It looks around seeing nothing but fog and ruins of an eternal catastrophic, still ongoing. An oppressive, dominating fog rules the surface, and the ground feels brittle as it moves around. There’s no sound, no nothing. Just fog, ruins, and silence.

The thing walks for who knows how long. The ground breaks. It falls into a hole for an unknown amount of time. It stops. It doesn’t know how but it’s standing on something. It looks around. It sees an endless amount of light and metal. It’s confused, wondering where it is, who it is, and what it is.

It sees a compressor. What it compresses is unknown, however it’s endless. It walks inside. There’s light everywhere, no fog. Eventually it sees something. A phrase in an unknown language. It shouldn’t exist. It’s paradoxical. It’s a problem present in everything. We can’t read it. Neither can it. It’s indecipherable, and it cannot feel anything from it. It’s a mess. It’s chaotic. It’s strange. We see it. Far from us.

We ignore it. It moves on, and it finally explores another compressor, this one broken. The fog leaks in. It feels it. It crosses something, returning to a landscape similar to where it woke up. It’s confused. Wondering where it is, who it is, and what it is.

It walks again, for who knows how long. It finally reaches somewhere. It sees a staircase. A long staircase that’s covered on all sides. It’s made out of a material that shouldn’t exist. It walks through it. It also walks on it. It does both at the same time in the same body at the same place. It reaches the top. It sees itself. We can’t see it. We’ll never know what it is. It’s not meant to be seen by us or understood by us. It’s something we cannot ever comprehend. However, it understands now.

It moves on, confused, wondering where it is, and who it is. It walks again. Endlessly this time. It won’t stop, it needs something more. Eventually, it stops. We don’t know why, it’s paradoxical. It looks around as the fog clears up. We see death. It sees something else. What it sees, we’ll never know. However, it moves on.

This time the fog is denser. The sudden contrast is strange, as it was clearing up before. After sometime, it stops. We do too. We look away. We look back. It is less now. What it lost is unknown. But It continues.

Something passes. Similar to time, but not as linear. Something more physical and present and active, but not a living being, nor a concept. It’s something that we will never understand. It reaches the conclusion. A physical location not capable of being represented. It seems to feel or experience something, and it realizes something. Whether it regained its memories, or something else, we’ll never know. It doesn’t want to tell us.

It stops. We don’t know what it’s doing. All we know is that it’s confused. Wondering who it is. It begins its final journey. It moves on and continues walking. It passes again. This version more present. It sees itself and where it is in it. It’s utterly confused. So are we. What did it see, what did it look into? It seems to develop something. We don’t know. It doesn’t know yet. It’s too early. Its intervention ends.

It looks around and it sees literal endlessness itself. There’s no fog. There’s nothing. The concept itself, the absence of something. It’s inside something unknown. It explores. It sees something now. Something universal, meant to be understood. It reveals itself in its entirety. It realizes something . It is it. It is paradoxical.

What’s Stuck On Repeat?

Drop-A-Panda watched as the older brother knocked the ice cream off his younger brother’s cone. No real shocker, but the younger brother was visibly upset.

“Stop acting like that towards you older brother.”

He could’ve sworn they saw what happened, but maybe they didn’t.

“Your older brother is just so nice.” -Mom

“Yeah, he’s so nice. You should be like him.” -Dad

A few moments later, the younger brother’s cap was at the bottom of the lion enclosure — with some help from his older brother. He decided to snap a quick line to explain his disapproval.

“Your older brother is just so nice.” -Mom

“Yeah, he’s so nice. You should be like him.” -Dad

Moments later, a little kid from a different group tripped over an uneven edge sticking up. This happened next to the younger brother. The older brother jumped at the situation. He told the parents his younger brother tripped the little kid.

After scolding and grounding the younger brother, they moved back to their ritual.

“Your older brother is just so nice.” -Mom

“Yeah, he’s so nice. You should be like him.” -Dad

“You bad.” — Baby Sister

Drop-A-Panda realized that repeating something enough times, can fabricate a person’s reality — even if they clearly see what has happened. This was classic Drop-A-Panda.

Link to Medium Article

Gary, the coolest panda around, took his normal morning stroll. He knew the poses his audience craved. He had perfected his routines for maximum public love and social media exposure.

As Gary chewed another piece of bamboo, he caught a glimpse of a shirt his eyes couldn’t ignore.

Who was the panda in the zoo across the country? What made that panda the best?

As the flashes brightened his dimly lit enclosure, Gary’s ego slid into darkness.

The days passed, while Gary counted more of these shirts. Soon, Gary was concerned. Would he be dethroned?

Gary started to act out. He demanded higher quality food and destroyed some of his toys. Without realizing it, Gary began to scare some of his audience.

The crowds began to dwindle. What were people saying about Gary that he couldn’t hear? Was that damn perfect panda behind it?

One day, Gary was able to signal to his favorite zookeeper that the shirts threatened him. Within days, Gary was featured on his own shirt with a very positive message:

"Gary is Great!"

Why wasn’t Gary the Greatest, or the best? This enraged Gary. He began to react more violently towards visitors wearing the shirts of the other panda.

The zookeeper understood the mission. He knew he had to make Gary feel really good about himself.

The next week, Gary was happy to see some of his visitors wearing shirts portraying Gary standing over the other panda, boxing gloves raised high in victory. He had vanquished the enemy. The other panda was a loser.

Gary’s audience loved the idea. One kid criticized the shirts, saying Gary wasn’t being cool. Adults in the audience were quick to point out that Gary couldn’t have made the shirts. He was lovable and innocent.

The attention and money poured in.

One thing was certain, Gary realized that to win the crowd over, sometimes you gotta drop a panda.

https://the-allibie.fandom.com/wiki/The_beginning?so=search

I'm gonna fix some of the mistakes and any misspelling and will add more, comment any ideas if anyone has any after reading it, thank you to anyone who reads it

I am reading Peter Heller’s Burn and the two main characters have been moving through small Maine town after small Maine town and having the same reactions, focusing on the same thing (boats) and exchanging niche Maine and hunting references for 100 pages. 100 pages. They compare this guy to Hemingway on the jacket cover.

How is it possible this guy didn’t sit a family member down, have them read the book and tell him the first page where something they cared about happened, the clicked GO on a stopwatch? I feel like I’m reading the novel equivalent of the show Lost.

What in the sam hell is the purpose of walking through more than one town if they’re all the same and the observations are all the same? Are publishers still paying authors by the word?

“WHY are you here? … What do you want from us? … Where are you from? … Are you of human origin? … In God’s name, I demand that you identify yourself and your nature! …”

But Cindy had already sensed what was creating the havoc at Brockesville High School, and her strong-willed personality compelled her to try extracting from the entity its true diabolical nature and specific intent there.

“Maybe you should leave it be, Dee, or maybe try that less abrasive EVP thing,” advised her mother, standing in the doorway to her room. “Maybe you’ll just manage to piss it off, honey.”

Cindy preferred her mom’s shortened version of her name — Dee — because it omitted the ‘sin’ in ‘Cin-dy’; therefore, it enabled her to ignore to a greater extent the many mean-spirited schoolmates who profanely verbalized their fear of her unorthodox insight into the unseen realm.

Not interested in artificial contact by means of ‘electronic voice phenomena’ nor intimidated by malicious spirits, Cindy maintained her consciousness simultaneously in both the physical world and that of the extra-dimensional.

“By the power of almighty God, you must reveal your identity and what you want with the people at Brockesville High!”

There was only silence in the room for the following few moments before she, still sitting cross-legged, looked up into her mother’s worried eyes and explained, “It hesitated for a while, but it finally told me what it is and its name. Also, it revealed what it plans for the school.”

“It’s nice that you’re happy with your spiritual accomplishments, Dee, but you really need to think more about your health, to fully consider your heart’s condition.”

Cindy, however, considered the condition of her heart to be well enough. Besides, she sensed that the spirit wouldn’t cause her serious harm. Plus, over time she’d found that she was not prone to any form of possession, be it a spirit of human or diabolical nature. Perhaps out of naiveté, she felt a sense of invulnerability.

The diabolical spirit or “diabolic” (Cindy’s reference) called itself Elevant and claimed to be the sole demon connected to the school. It also revealed that it occasionally followed Cindy home then invaded her dreams. In some nightmares, such as the one she endured the night prior, it vividly visualized for her all of the untimely and violent death that occurred at the school because of its insidious influence over decades.

“It really considers all of that enormous suffering it caused as just an average day’s work,” Cindy vented in frustration.

She shortly later accessed both the local library and high school archives in search of little known, if at all, Brockesville High history, specific information and events that her own psychic sensitivities failed to expose.

Taking only twenty minutes of archival perusal, she quickly learned that during the late 1940s and early 1950s a vicious outbreak of influenza within the Brockesville area filled the local hospital dangerously over capacity mostly with gravely ill teenagers. Therefore, the high school, which was closed to prevent greater transmittance of infection, was utilized as space to sanitarily house and care for the surplus number of seriously sick. The final death toll from the outbreak included seven of the flu-stricken teens who’d perished at the school’s makeshift hospital. It wasn’t until two years later that the long-since-disinfected school hastily reopened to house many of the town’s rapidly growing high-school-aged demographic.

But it would be five decades after its reopening that the truly horrific story commenced at Brockesville High.

Loner student pair Tim Williams and Allan McCallester, both seventeen and weary of the relentless bullying served them by three peers in particular — Patrick Grevenson, Joel Steiner and Daryl Reese.

Openly and persistently, the two misfits were taunted, being openly called “losers,” “fairies” and, especially intimidating to the pair, “dead men” almost every time the bullies would physically as well as psychologically bump into them while walking the school’s hallways.

So, with the final straws having broken their backs, Tim and Allan thoroughly expressed their burdensome frustration one foggy Fall morning via AK-47 assault rifles. They fully opened up on their entire classroom of thirty-one students, including their three aforementioned school-punk peers.

“You pricks are about to go to Hell. Say hello to Hitler for me!” crowed one of the two gunners, Grevenson told police investigators in the hospital eight days after his awakening from a coma. He nervously noted how the two wore gratified grins as they fired over a hundred rounds of armor-piercing bullets. Ironically, though, the two gunners failed to kill off Grevenson, coincidentally the worst of their high-school tormentors, who was the sole survivor of the massacre (albeit having been hit twice in the torso). The pair feeling satisfied that they’d sufficiently expressed their unforgettable displeasure with the school, each put a fatal bullet through his own heart with the same .45-caliber handgun.

But Cindy felt assured that the pair would imminently in death accomplish in entirety what they’d failed to do during their last moments of life — ‘finish off’ Patrick, the last of the lot who’d barely escaped his comeuppance.

While accompanied by another schoolmate late one afternoon, he was completing an assignment in the very same classroom in which the mass shooting had taken place, Patrick was said to have frantically shrieked out something about seeing the apparitions of all the bloodied, bullet-ridden students who’d been massacred.

Horrified, he desperately yet futilely tried to evade the frightening specters by way of the classroom door.

“I saw him barely able to pull the door open six inches but then being hindered by something that seemed to force the door back closed,” said the lone-witness schoolmate that same day to police with a bewildered expression.

“Although … I can’t explain it, but I could swear there was nothing on the other side of the door, at least nothing visible through the door window.”

Finally unable to further tolerate the ghastly vision, Patrick, by then completely out of mind, leapt right through a classroom windowpane, four floors up. He was killed almost immediately upon impact, his body covered in cuts and shards of broken glass.

Cindy told her mother the following day of having on two occasions witnessed Patrick’s translucent spirit accompanied by those of his two bully buddies.

“They’re still sticking together, like peas in a pod, as they — completely unseen, of course — bump shoulders with living students they deem deserving of their harassment. You know, Mom, I can sense from them that they’re actually completely oblivious to their non-corporeal existence.”

As for the massacre, when flowers were left in memoriam by the sealed door of the classroom shooting site, their pedals totally withered within seconds to witnesses’ sickened astonishment. Then, immediately following the shocking sight came an inexplicable intolerable putrid odor.

Cindy knew that it was the deed of the demon, Elevant.

Shamefully, many students who were averagely bullied would pass their troubles onto the most helplessly bullied amongst the entire student body. Meanwhile Elevant, although having fully enjoyed the plentiful suffering caused by such collective pass-it-along abuse, felt only contempt for all bullies as well as their prey.

The bullies also induced against themselves the most contempt from the other human spirits.

“They are the real cowards — ‘they’ being those who pass down their turmoil onto the weakest students. We should show them what’s real high school misery!” Cindy told her mother that she sensed from Elevant and the human souls.

She also knew that it furthermore had been maliciously manipulating the typically malleable minds of the bodily students that were being weakened by the bullies’ abuse; thus she counselled the weakened ones to completely shun the way of the gun or any form of violence — to not choose the brutally lost way of Tim and Allan.

Upon arriving at the school the same morning as she had learned so much about Elevant, Cindy was told by her schoolmate and sole friend, Justine, all about some fascinating paranormal events that had occurred in the gymnasium.

She informed Cindy that two fellow students had reportedly heard what sounded like dozens of simultaneous “whispers” emanating from the large storage space for sports equipment beneath the stage, there.

What made it all exceptionally creepy was that the ghostly event had occurred precisely where the young influenza victims’ portable bunk beds were stored immediately upon being thoroughly disinfected five decades prior. They included many beds that had been used by sick teens who had succumbed to their unrelenting illness. Before being eventually forgotten, it was initially thought during the early 1950s that the beds might also be of future use, with due note that nothing was to be wasted during the Korean War.

Also noteworthy was that in November of 2005, about a year before those disembodied whispers were encountered, the school’s janitor was in the process of attempting to remove the decrepit beds for disposal when “I was stunned dumbfounded by a large lot of murmuring, all at the same time. Then it all got louder and louder and louder! That’s when I’d had enough and left.”

Regardless, when told by the school’s principal, who wasn’t without empathy towards the janitor’s understandable anxiety, that the bunk beds still required disposal, the janitor quite reluctantly went back at it. He later reported for the written record that, “At first they simply would not budge; but when I finally managed to yank two of the beds out a foot or so they were instantly forced back in with a strong jerk — and twice as hard, at that!”

When some fellow school staff tried to give him a much-needed hand at pulling out the beds from the storage space once and for all, again they were forcefully yanked back in by the same unseen forces that finally loudly squeaked out a collective “No! They all stay here!”

It wasn’t even a week later that a student working alone in the school’s machine shop was stunned so incapacitated by a horrific distorted apparition that he inadvertently cut off his thumb with an electronic saw.

Meanwhile, desks in many classrooms aggressively moved about, by all accounts, on their own accord. In a classroom attended by only two girls, one was pinned by her shoulders against the chalkboard by an unseen force; and when she screamed out in terror it let out an equally loud shriek.

Then there was the paranormal lunchroom food-fight: One boy almost lost an eye to a flying eating utensil, one of very many, all apparently propelled by themselves. Resultantly a female student then ran screaming to the girls washroom where she had later reported to some teachers that multiple ghostly hands molested her until she finally bolted out of the washroom, screaming even louder: “It was like something straight out of one of those cliché Hollywood B-movies, you know, with the lame meaningless shower scene and all,” she’d told other students soon afterwards while trembling uncontrollably.

Cindy sensed that the very aggressive paranormal activity originated from a trio of “especially corrupted human entities definitely attracted to the energy aftershock from the very difficult deaths during the school’s intensely unpleasant history,” she stated confidently. “But they’re exceptionally attracted to the extremely embittered, angry energy lingering there since the Tim and Allan atrocity.”

On some occasions the raucous like that of a multitude of musical instruments could be heard playing in the totally unattended music classrooms. It would almost always repeatedly play to the tune of the once-popular Tequila, for hours on end, and wouldn’t cease that day until some students or staff dared to enter the classroom and demand (on unsurprisingly shaky terms) for it all to immediately stop.

Perhaps most notable was the borderline-nervous-breakdown gym teacher who’d resigned his post after thirty-three years at Brockesville High because of the weekly occurrence (every Wednesday) of multiple phantom basketball slaps against the gymnasium floor. They always disturbingly sounded at the same 8–9 a.m. hour, which was in fact the precise class timeslot during which six members of the school basketball team were murdered by the maddened duo Tim and Allan.

Soon enough, the school was pasted with its own gossip-prone label, as that of “the Brockesville High haunting.” And, of course, the further the news would have to travel, all the less serious it would be taken. Cindy herself noted with some frustration how, unfortunately, this haunting like most wouldn’t be acknowledged for they consisted of seemingly-typical spectral appearances and non-severe attacks, plus only relatively small numbers of witnesses had come forward officially with their harrowing experiences.

Cindy also knew that there were considerable non-sentient residual haunts at the school, mostly as a result of the large quantity of extremely negative emotions remaining ingrained in the physical environment following the horrific mass shooting.

And while Elevant misleadingly paraded itself as a human entity, Cindy alone could distinguish between it and the truly human spirits, with most of the latter existing in “a state of unawareness.”

Even with all of the Earthly and other-worldly suffering that took place 24/7 and the accompanying unclean spirits, Cindy maintained her belief in a good Creator who “cares very much about Creation.” While always acknowledging how typically predictable her spiritual convictions sounded she’d then emphasize her belief that the souls destined for the white-lighted tunnel would go there immediately upon their bodily death. The souls that didn’t cross over right away were destined to remain within an extra-dimensional form of the Earthly plane, though usually in some manner connected to the location of their death, “until they’re ready for the other side”. The remainder, Cindy also believed, go the way of the Godless realm “and likely learn upon arriving there that it is indeed where they truly belong.”

It would soon enough happen, however, that Cindy personally experienced the other side upon her untimely death due to a congenitally malformed aortic valve, a condition much exacerbated by the additional stress of dealing with extremely active paranormal activity.

But on the positive side of matters there the terribly tragic, traumatic Tim and Allan massacre directly expeditiously brought about into being school-based programs on a national scale to dramatically reduce or preferably outright eliminate schoolyard bullying and similar domino-effect destructive behavior.

To the present day, Cindy’s ghost is said by some to be occasionally observed on the high school’s grounds. According to her mother, “I believe that Dee is more than welcome to enter Paradise, when she desires and decides to go; but apparently she feels like staying another while, for whatever reason.”