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

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

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

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

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

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Book One: Creator's Hope

First Tale: The Man Becoming A Tree

Chapter 1: The Old Hag

Plug speaks:

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

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

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

It is a hot afternoon.

“How hot?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If the Universe lasts that long, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, but there is one surprise.

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

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

Plug calls her \"The Old Hag.\"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That appearance is deceiving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But let us turn now to the occupant.

End of Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to write a story.

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

Shampoo

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

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

PART 1 GUS

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've never written fan fiction, not without the prospect of either pay or publication at any rate. It's not that I consider it a low form - Sebastian Faulks Devil May Care is pure fan fiction and brilliantly authentic to Flemming's written style - but written for pay, pure and simple.

If you're going to write - make sure It's for a commercial purpose or else publication.

Every year, Big Finish Audio run a thing called the Paul Spragg Writing Opportunity - also called The Short Trips Competition.

The great thing about a completion a lot of people don't get is - in offering the competition up, the rights' holder is issuing a non-exclusive licence allowing you to use certain properties for the purpose of consideration.

As limiting as that might initially seem - the operative part is non-exclusive licence.

You own the IP on whatever work you produce.

Granted, this isn't going to allow you to commercially profit from writing - in this case - Doctor Who short stories - but you do own the work - and it's the same with freelance gigs on platforms such as Freelancer, Fiver, etc - when a brief is posted as a competition - they're providing you with a non-exclusive licence to use whoever else's IP.

All you have to proffer is first refusal. If they turn the work down, you walk with the IP on the work you created....

It's a useful and often completely overlooked way of picking up IP.

The above short story is the full prose submission for this year's past The Short Trips Competition - it got past the synopsis stage but fell flat at the final hurdle.

Happens, you chalk it up and move on.

Like I say, I really don't write fan-fiction, this is probably as close as I get - but it's always for a commercial or publishing purpose.

Keep your goals real world, the reason so many people abandon their manuscripts is often not because it isn't any good - it's just academic - no primary reason to finish it other than one's own curiosity, which can often not warrant the time and isolation necessary to see an undertaking through.

Anyway - thought I'd share - if anything else it should give anyone interested a few pointers in how not to tackle a Doctor Who story...

Be kind. Enjoy: https://jmp.sh/0a2SjBz1

There it was.

That lipstick tube, lying in the trashcan. Its hot pink hue, crisscrossed with glitter and promises of "100% AQUA HYDRATION". Maybe its owner had forgotten it in a rush. One thing was for sure, though: she had definitely never used this brand of lipstick before.

And she was definitely sure her boyfriend would rather be dead than be seen wearing lipstick.

She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. Something tense within her seemed to loosen, to unwind, like the uncoiling of a rope twisted too tightly. Her breathing was short and ragged. She felt flustered, and a quick glance at the mirror told her that her face looked about as red as it felt.

She couldn't have this here. Not now.

A myriad of coincidences had led her to this moment in time. She had been away on a police case because an autopsy had been too challenging for the sole forensic pathologist in the small nearby town to carry out on his own. She remembered how she had packed her bags quickly, telling her boyfriend that she would be away for a week at least. He kissed her goodbye on the doorstep. 

And then he had been called away himself on an urgent business trip to Korea. She liked Korea. She hated it when he left to go there.

But her work had finished early and she was back now. On the drive back her mind had already started spinning with ideas on how to welcome him back. How everything changed in just a few fateful seconds! Weren't they just planning on getting married?

At least she had discovered it now. Better sooner than later. She was grateful that circumstances had led her here. It was rare to catch her boyfriend making a mistake. He knew how to deceive her too well, he knew the way to hide things in plain sight.

Slowly, methodically, she reached into the trashcan and picked the lipstick up with her fingertips. Placing it in the palm of her hand, she felt its weight. A premium item. A luxury item. Maybe that was what had attracted her boyfriend to this vixen. 

Her thoughts began to turn to the past. Where had it all gone wrong? A night at the club, perhaps? One drink too many? If this lipstick had come along, wearing fishnet stockings and a tight-fitting dress, would he have been able to resist? Or was this affair something more sinister, something the man she had loved for five years had been planning secretly all along? Maybe he had had enough of her. Her wispy brown hair, the way she trembled at the sight of any insect, her soft meek voice. She was nothing compared to the girls that could assert themselves. They knew how to get what they wanted out of the men they dated. She could hardly get the waiters to bring the correct order to their table when they went out for dinner. 

She dropped the lipstick into a clear bag, leaving the bag open on the counter. There was more work to be done. Starting from the kitchen, she worked her way over every piece of furniture in their small apartment, looking, looking, looking. The couch where she used to watch old rom-coms with him. What were the chances he found someone else with exactly the same taste in movies as her? The oak counter on top of which sat a vinyl record player, a birthday present from her to him. Did the lipstick even know what kind of music he liked? The cramped wardrobe that held most of her dresses and all of his jeans. Did they ever laugh about her, endlessly rearranging the clothes in this wardrobe for some semblance of order? It never worked. Without fail it would fall into disarray mere days after an "extensive" spring-cleaning. 

After three hours of hard work she hadn't found anything else that belonged to this other woman. But her work in the forensics department had taught her that people left behind more than just material objects.

She stepped into the shower. Here was her favourite soap that made her skin soft and scented. And besides that, the Korean face wash that he had been kind enough to bring back for her on his last business trip. The frequent travelling made things hard, she realised. They had acknowledged that and tried to find a solution, but sometimes the apartment lay silent for days on end, while the sink in their bathroom slowly gathered dust, and the insects that she despised so much grew more confident and crawled out of the shower drain...

The drain. She had almost missed it. Kneeling down, she saw a knotted tangle of hairs: some brown like hers, some extremely long and jet-black. She strode out of the bathroom and retrieved the clear bag from the kitchen. Her hand reached to the tweezers on the shelf and then she walked slowly back into the shower. Gingerly, she dislodged the tangle from the drain and dropped it into the bag. There were a few strands that still stuck to the drain cover and she had to pick these up with her fingers. Her face scrunched up in protest, wishing she had been smart enough to grab some gloves from her laboratory. 

The job done, she washed her hands thoroughly under the water from the bathroom sink. The faucet was still leaking as she shut the tap off. She would have to fix that another day, she thought to herself. She had been meaning to since the start of the year. 

With the damning evidence clutched tightly in her right hand, she took one last look around the apartment. There was nothing else to suggest that another woman had ever been in here. She glanced at the knife drying in the cutlery rack. It looked good. No bloodstains. She had done a good job here.

She stuffed the clear bag with the lipstick and the hair into her backpack and walked out of the apartment. The key felt cool as ice in her hand as she locked the door. Her mind was clear and she felt strangely euphoric.

With any luck the body with 100% AQUA HYDRATION lips buried in the backyard of the building would go undiscovered, at least until her cheating boyfriend was back from Korea. And then, well, the body might get a companion. She would have to wait and see. A lot of it depended on if he had remembered to buy the correct face wash for her.

Album Name: Vulnerable Slut
Artist: Sashay (Fictional artist)
Release Date: October 25, 2019
Genre: Pop, Electro-Pop, Dance, Queer Pop, Synthwave
Label: Velvet Kiss Records
Tracklist:

1. I’m Not Your Fantasy
2. Glitter Rain
3. Hurt Me Like a Stranger
4. Flicker (In My Mind)
5. Velvet Addiction
6. Vulnerable Slut
7. Skin, Glitter, and Sweat
8. Too Good to Be Bad
9. Cuddle Me, Then Leave
10. Electric Fever
11. Drama Queen
12. Bleed for Me
13. Falling in Love (With a Broken Heart)
14. Selfish Heart

Deluxe Ver. ‘Seasoned’

1.      Modern Family

2.      Hide N Seek

3.       

Album Concept:

Vulnerable Slut is an unapologetically bold, emotionally raw, and liberating album that became a defining anthem for a generation of queer youth searching for both self-expression and validation in a world that often rejects them. Sasha Sinclair's sophomore release taps into the raw emotional core of queer nightlife, self-doubt, and passionate vulnerability while embracing empowerment and the unapologetic pursuit of joy despite the brokenness of the world.

The title itself was intentionally provocative, aligning with the artist’s goal to reclaim the language of vulnerability often used to shame queer individuals and transform it into an expression of strength and agency. For many listeners, particularly the young, clubbing, LGBTQ+ community, the album became a manifesto—a badge of defiance against societal expectations and an invitation to freely explore their identities, desires, and heartbreaks without guilt or shame.

Album Performance:

Vulnerable Slut skyrocketed to the top of dance charts and became a viral sensation, especially within the gay community, gaining traction through social media platforms like Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram. The album’s catchy, pulsating electro-pop beats mixed with its raw emotional lyricism made it a favorite in underground queer nightclubs, with many fans declaring that the album "saved their lives." It provided both a safe space and a cathartic release, giving voice to the struggles of self-acceptance, navigating toxic relationships, and dealing with the isolation many LGBTQ+ individuals feel in a world that is still far from accepting.

In the first week of its release, Vulnerable Slut went viral on streaming platforms, charting at #1 in several countries' LGBTQ+ charts and #3 on the general pop charts. The album's success was particularly notable for the way it resonated with younger audiences, many of whom identified with the themes of loneliness, desire, and empowerment that permeated every track. Social media flooded with hashtags like #VulnerableSlutSavedMe and #SlutForSasha, with fans sharing how the album gave them the strength to be themselves unapologetically.

Singles:

1. “I’m Not Your Fantasy” – Released as The lead single, filled with synth-driven beats and sharp, cutting lyrics, speaks to the rejection and objectification that queer people often face in relationships. The single became an anthem for those who felt like their desires were disregarded as mere fantasies.
2. “Glitter Rain” A high-energy club banger about finding beauty in the chaos of life. With its infectious hook and shimmering production, "Glitter Rain" became a staple on dance floors, symbolizing hope and joy even during darker times.
3. “Hurt Me Like a Stranger” A slower, emotional track that dives into the complexities of love and the pain of feeling abandoned. The song is about searching for validation in toxic relationships and how sometimes the hardest love is the one that breaks you.
4. “Drama Queen” A playful, satirical track that embraces the theatrics of being a drama queen, poking fun at the over-the-top nature of love and heartbreak. Fans loved it for its campy vibe and cheeky lyrics.
5. “Vulnerable Slut” The title track, unapologetically embracing the duality of vulnerability and strength. The song became an empowerment anthem, reclaiming the negative connotations of the word "slut" and transforming it into a badge of pride.

Cultural Impact:

The album's popularity led to a surge in queer clubbing culture, with the song "Glitter Rain" being played at every major pride event and underground queer party. Vulnerable Slut was celebrated not only for its catchy dance beats but for its capacity to articulate the emotional landscapes of many queer people—navigating love, lust, self-worth, and the quest for acceptance. It also ignited larger conversations about the intersection of pop music and queer identity, leading to the rise of more mainstream queer pop acts.

The album’s impact on its fans was profound. Many LGBTQ+ individuals expressed how the album helped them embrace their sexuality, their flaws, and their desires with pride. The emotional weight of tracks like “Bleed for Me” and “Falling in Love (With a Broken Heart)” resonated deeply with fans who were struggling with their own relationships and self-acceptance. It was described by many as a "lifeline" during times of loneliness, and Sasha Sinclair became a voice for the voiceless—an advocate for both the beauty and the pain of living as an outcast in society.

Fans shared how Vulnerable Slut helped them navigate the often rocky terrain of finding belonging, whether it was in the arms of a lover, the embrace of a club full of strangers, or the confidence of standing in front of a mirror and finally feeling like they could love themselves.

Album Reviews:

Critics lauded Vulnerable Slut for its innovative blend of emotional vulnerability and pop sophistication. Many described it as a groundbreaking album for queer pop music, with its honesty and boldness never seen before in mainstream pop. Sasha Sinclair's ability to mix dark, introspective themes with addictive dance beats made Vulnerable Slut a compelling listen from start to finish.

The album was also praised for its empowering message, particularly for younger LGBTQ+ listeners who had long felt underrepresented in the music industry. "Sinclair’s raw vulnerability strikes a chord," wrote one critic, "but it’s her fierce reclamation of her identity that makes Vulnerable Slut not just an album, but a cultural milestone."

Fan Reactions & Impact:

Fans of Vulnerable Slut expressed how they saw themselves in Sasha's music. For many, the album became a soundtrack for coming out, healing from broken relationships, and reclaiming their right to exist as they are. Some described the album as a life-changing experience, providing comfort during difficult times and pushing them to live authentically. The album's ability to transcend being just music to become a symbol of queer survival and joy was a testament to its cultural significance.

Legacy:

Today, Vulnerable Slut remains an iconic album for queer pop music, one that helped define a new era of LGBTQ+ pop culture. Sasha Sinclair's unapologetic approach to vulnerability and self-expression paved the way for future queer pop artists, and the album continues to be celebrated in queer spaces worldwide. It’s a reminder that even in our most vulnerable moments, there is power—and beauty—in embracing who we are.

Hi long time lurker occasional commenter and first time poster on reddit. I'm looking for suggestions for future reading. my past favorites are generally syfy/ Fantasy/dystopian style

Previous finds have been.
long earth series Dune SM Stirling- dies the fire series ( highly recommend) Justin Cronin- the passage Atlantis gene gateway- Fredrick pohl any Robin Hobb etc.

FYI all are solid reads In my humble opinion. just looking for new rabbit holes. Thanks in advance

Who might I see?

My creator hoped to see his image in me.

I was wrapped in paper, unable to perform my duty. At lunch, he brought me home from his shop and hung me on the wall — wanting to surprise his family.

They never returned home that evening — or any day after. They were gathered and sent away. They were kind, secure people. They truly valued all life.

I didn’t sit lonely for long — quickly catalogued and rewarded to the highest bidder, Mrs. J.

Mr. and Mrs. J vainly admired me. Together they marveled in how I was able to show them their good sides — separately, they showed their truths.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them, I only reflect what they show me. Ironically, as inanimate as I may be, the J’s had less heart than I.

As generations passed, my story romanticized, I found a new home with Mr. and Mrs. B, outbidding a devastated Mrs. E —trying to substitute winning for lost happiness.

The B’s were busy — well connected. They were able to sniff out lucrative opportunities before others could catch the scent.

They believed they understood my story, but missed the origin.

D’s mom paid top dollar for me, not realizing the horrendous profit the B’s made. They convinced their close friend I meant more to them — even pretending they didn’t want to part with me, to sweeten the deal.

Surviving this frat house was no easy feat. D and his friends were spoiled little brats — drunkenly flaunting, yet simultaneously squandering, the privilege they denied maintaining. The parents of this lost generation, consider nepotism the silent foundation of their generational power. How embarrassed they’d be if their lineage portrayed a less-than-regal image.

D couldn’t care less about the pretty penny mommy spent — the day he dropped me in a donation bin.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall, simply hoping to find a home before I’m broken.

Yesterday, I piqued young and budding Mr. C’s interest. He changed his mind — this cheap fluorescent lighting painted his face, reminding him of his parents. He left the store with shame and rage in his eyes.

I find my home, now with Dorothy’s friend. He was immediately drawn to my elegance.

He has worked hard and is appreciative for all he has. He’s focused on bettering himself, while sharing his experiences and knowledge. He refuses to take the easy path — dimming someone else’s light, so his may shine brighter.

Although the odds seem stacked against him, he is someone that won’t sit idly by. He will use his voice. He is an observer. He will call out what he sees happening.

He allows me to tell the story I was born to tell. After the chain of those that already have, or eventually will turn, my creator can finally see his image —in me.

-----

And now’s the time to play the game and better understand what might happen to U. For Dorothy Thompson’s article, Click Here.

The three kattlefolk were just walking around a corner when Jahnarton was sent hurtling through a wall in front of them, causing broken glass and concrete to fly everywhere. He hit the next wall but only cracked the mirror covering it instead of crashing through the whole thing. The trio immediately stopped and looked down at him in shock. “Are you ok?” Urak asked. Jahnarton said nothing, his already shocked state not being helped at all by his brain being bounced around his metal skull. Eventually, his fear managed to overwhelm everything else and he did his best to scramble back up to his feet with only one hand. “Hey calm down and just tell us what happened,” Urak said placatingly.

“N…Need to… to get out of here… Now.” Jahnarton stuttered, which was something he didn’t know his voice synthesizer would let him do, (it wasn’t meant to, but being thrown through several walls had damaged its vocalization limiters). As soon as Sum heard this, he immediately turned around and began to leave as fast as he could. If the crazy princeling thought they needed to leave, Sum figured that was a clear sign that whatever was up ahead wasn’t worth dealing with.

The other two made no move to leave. “What, why? Do they have rail batteries set up ahead?” Morah asked.

Jahnarton hastily shook his head and struggled to think of how to describe it without sounding insane. Before he could, the voice of an old man echoed throughout the hallway.“Behind that door lies one of our lady’s children.” Urak and Morah exchanged confused glances.

“Do you mind helping me carry these barrels outside?” A completely different man asked just a few moments later.

His question was immediately followed by the question of a frustrated woman.“How many times do I have to tell you not to get mud inside the house?”

All of this just left the pair even more confused. Urak was going to ask Jahnarton if those voices belonged to the townsfolk they were looking for, or if they belonged to more cultists, but as he watched the princeling shake in fright he realized he wasn’t going to get an answer from him. So he looked back up at Morah and asked her. “Can you see who’s coming our way?”

“Sure, not a problem,” Morah said before looking at one of the mirrors, her scope implant allowing her to examine reflections of reflections.

While she did this Urak offered Jahnarton a hand and helped pull him back up to his feet. This was easier said than done since all of the princeling’s implants made him weigh over five hundred pounds. Urak finally noticed the oil-leaking stump where Jahnarton’s right arm used to be and was about to try asking him again what happened, but Jahnarton spoke up before he could. “We… We need to leave now…It… It broke my arm like a stick… oh Babel… oh Babel… oh Babel.” Jahnarton then attempted to run away but stumbled, only avoiding falling because Urak managed to catch him in time.

All of Urak’s misgivings towards him were temporarily forgotten as he instinctively fell back on the training his Order gave him in regards to calming people down. “Hey, hey calm down. You’re going to be fine, it’s just an implant; you can have that fixed. Just take a deep breath in through the nose and a deep breath out through the mouth.”

“I don’t have either of those things anymore!” His voice synthesizer could not convey the sheer hysteria he felt and left him sounding just as bland and inhuman as it always did, but Urak was still able to tell he was on the verge of falling completely apart.

“Sorry,” Urak apologized as he tried to remember his training meant specifically for calming down freed slaves from Navdah who might’ve lacked the necessary body parts to do the whole breathing in and out thing. Kind of funny that the first time he actually put this training to use would be calming down a slaver instead of a slave. “Can you turn your eyes off for a second and count down from ten with me?”

“Why in the name of Babel would we waste our time doing that instead of running away?”

“Because you’re panicking to the point that you're tripping over yourself. You need to calm down and tell us what did this to you and how. Then we can decide if it’s something that we can take on together, or if we need to retreat and wait for backup. Keep in mind running away is going to be far easier said than done since everything is so maze-like in here.” Jahnarton said nothing for a moment before his bright blue eyes winked out and he started counting down from ten with Urak.

Right as they were about to say five, Morah gasped in shock, “Oh my God, what the hell is that?” Before either of them could react she yanked her pistol out of her holster and started the whole setup required for it.

Jahnarton’s eyes flickered back to life as Urak looked over at Morah. “You see it?” Jahnarton asked her as she finished plugging in the required cables.

She didn’t say anything, instead choosing to raise her pistol with a trembling hand and shooting it until the clip ran empty. They heard the sound of the bullets bouncing around, shattering mirrors along the way, until they finally reached their target which made a wet squelching noise. There was an oppressive silence that lasted for a moment but was broken by a simple question that echoed throughout the hallways. “Momma, can you tell me another bedtime story?”

“Wha…” Urak started to ask but stopped when he heard the sound of crunching glass that seemed to be quickly getting closer to them. Jahnarton and Morah proceeded to tear off running in a panic. Urak stood there for a moment, feeling very tempted to join them, but he forced himself to stand his ground. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was moving fast, far too fast for any of them to run away from, this applied doubly to himself because of all his equipment.

So instead of trying to flee in vain, he would stand his ground to buy the others whatever time he could. He was a humble servant of Christ and a soldier of The Holy Order of Saint Klaus, he would hold true to the vows he had taken and offer up his life as a willing sacrifice to Christ and any who needed his aid. He raised his assault cannon and patiently waited for whatever fate God had in store for him. All the while he muttered a quiet prayer for the others to escape safely.

It eventually rounded the corner and Urak froze in terror for a moment. “Oh don’t cry, little one, your papa should be getting back home any moment now.” It cooed at him in a loving voice that clearly didn’t belong to such an abomination. Time seemed to slow down for Urak as all of its many eyes looked hungrily at him and its arms began to reach out towards him. Urak yet again forced himself to push past his fear, this time to simply pull the trigger of his assault cannon over and over again. Blood and gore, broken glass, concrete, and smoke, all filled the hallway.

Meanwhile, the other two finally stopped running when they heard the sound of Urak firing his assault cannon. Morah paled as she realized that in her panic she had left him behind. “Oh God… please don’t let him die.” She begged her Lord. Urak was one of the few connections she still had left from her old life before she was taken away in a Navdite raid since he used to live in the same small border town as her. It wasn’t like they were close friends back then, but they were familiar enough with each other for him to be able to recognize her as soon as she told him her name, despite the mechanical butchery her former masters had forced upon her.

She honestly owed him her life too, since once she finally managed to free herself and go back home, she quickly realized she had no hope of living anything resembling a normal life since the entire upper half of her head was replaced with a goddamned gun scope. She had been thinking about ending it all until she bumped into him and he told her about how after the raid on their town he decided to join up with one of the Eccumenical church’s many Holy Orders, to help stop other people from going through the same sort of awfulness they had to go through. Hearing him talk about his work for the Order helped her realize that while she couldn’t live a normal life because of the butchery done to her, she could at least use that butchery to give others the chance to live a normal one. Since as much as she hated that stupid scope, it did make her a really good shot.

So all of this is to say that the idea that she had left him to die was devastating to her. The fact she did so without realizing it was no comfort at all. She was just about to turn around and run back to try helping him but was stopped by Jahnarton grabbing her shoulder and saying, “Don’t, he chose to stay behind so we could escape.” Jahnarton normally would've let her run back there and get herself killed, but the past few minutes have shaken him so much that he didn’t want to be alone right now.

She wheeled around and was going to tell him to shut up and that he couldn’t stop her from helping her friend, but then the sound of Urak’s assault cannon firing suddenly stopped. She waited silently, hoping to hear some sort of sound that would reveal his ultimate fate. “Come on, we need to leave now,” He told her again as he tugged at her arm.

She just kept standing there silently, although now she was trying to use her reflection trick to try and see if he was still alive. Unfortunately, all the smoke from his cannon made it impossible to see what was in that hallway. “You can run if you want to, but I’m going to see if my friend is alive or not.” She coldly told him as she began to reload her pistol despite knowing it wouldn’t be nearly enough to do anything to the beast.

“Please don’t, I’m… I’m too scared to keep going on my own.” Jahnarton admitted, too shaken to care about how humiliating it was to admit that to anyone, much less to a former slave.

This got her to look back at the Navdite. In all honesty, she was disgusted just by looking at the so-called noble. In her eyes he was just as much of an abomination as that thing they had run from. But something about his words reminded her that he was only fifteen years old. He was far from being some poor innocent child, but she doubted that Urak would appreciate her running off and leaving a kid all alone, even one as awful as this one. “Fine,” she spat and they resumed their run.

Meanwhile, just a floor below them, Sum was hopelessly lost. He had been doing a good enough job navigating his way through the tower earlier, but then Urak started firing his assault cannon directly above him, causing the roof above him to start violently shaking, which in turn made him panic and tear off running without paying attention to where he was going, which is what ultimately led to his current problem of being as lost as a Kalifian pirate crew that somehow sailed to the great salt lake.

After quite a bit of wandering Sum was relieved to see the entrance to a stairway. That relief quickly vanished when he saw that it was the staircase that led back upstairs. Before he had a chance to resume his search for the staircase he needed, he heard two sets of footsteps running down the stairs as fast as they could. Soon enough he saw that those footsteps belonged to Morah and the princeling. “Sum, you waited for us?” The princeling asked as soon as he saw Sum. Before he could tell him he just got lost, the princeling ran up to him and gave him a nearly bone-crushing, one-armed, hug. “I need to pay you double, no triple, the usual amount for that.”

Sum quickly dropped the idea of explaining the truth to him and just nodded his head and said, “Triple is good,” He very briefly considered asking about where Urak was but the assault cannon shots he heard earlier, combined with the fact that these two were still in a rush to get out of here made Sum feel like the answer was a tad bit obvious. So instead he just asked, “Do any of you remember the way out of here?” The other two slowly shook their heads and Sum pointed at the way he just came. “I don’t either, but I know for a fact that’s not the right way.”

After about ten minutes spent rushing as fast as they could without getting lost, the trio eventually found the next staircase. The trio quickly made their way downstairs, no words were spoken between them.

After doing this for about six floors, the trio ran into one of the many observation rooms located throughout the tower. It was much like the one Jahnarton first found… it, inside of, but this one lacked the blood that one had. What this room did have that made it stand out compared to the rest was a giant hole in the ceiling that led straight to the floor above them, (or would a hole be technically considered a lack of a thing rather than a thing in of itself?). Of course, none of the trio were concerned at the moment about the proper terminology to describe a hole, especially since right before running into this room they heard something running right above them.

As soon as they heard it, Sum and Jahnarton ran in the opposite direction, while Morah hesitated for a moment before weakly calling out, “Urak, is that you?” She looked up into the hall and tried searching for his reflection.

Before she could find it, a familiar voice called out to her, “Hello there, are you alright?”

That made Jahnarton and Sum pause and they glanced back towards Morah. They noticed her knees were shaking and her voice sounded just as shaky as she replied, “Yeah, we’re all ok. How about you Urak?” As she asked this she finally spotted Urak’s reflection. To her relief, he looked perfectly fine and was making his way towards the hole.

Urak gave no reply. The only noise they could hear was the sound of footsteps above them, Morah repeated her question and this time Urak answered her with a question of his own, “What?” His simple question left them all feeling just as confused as he sounded while asking it.

Morah eventually figured he must’ve not heard her so she repeated herself a third time. This time instead of silence she was answered by Urak slipping through the hole in the ceiling and clumsily landing on the mirrored floor, causing it to crack and shatter underneath his armored weight. “Urak!” She ran up to him and knelt beside him. “Are you ok?” She asked, her worry clear in her voice.

Urak’s response baffled all three of them. “Huh… and I suppose it’s just a coincidence that a Navdite is exactly where we were expecting to find the menstealers?” The three of them stared at him in various levels of confusion, but Sum’s confusion doubled once he realized why Urak said that, or rather remembered why Urak said that this morning.

“I think he’s repeating stuff he said this morning,” Sum told the other two. “I think whatever you two were running from hit him in the head or something.”

“Oh, if that’s the case we need to hurry up and get him out of here as fast as we can. You two mind helping me lift him?”

Sum did mind, but as annoying carrying Urak down the tower in his armor would be, he figured dealing with a nagging woman would be even more annoying. “Sure,”

He went to walk over to Urak but was stopped by Jahnarton grabbing his shoulder. “Wait, I…” Before Jahnarton had a chance to try warning them, the thing lying on the ground realized that it was about to be revealed. A more developed member of its kind might’ve tried to remember something a human would say to reassure everyone around it that it was in fact a human, but it wasn’t nearly that developed yet. The feast it had a few hours ago was the first time it had eaten in… well, the jumble of its prey’s memories crashing about its mind made it nearly impossible to remember anything about itself beyond its never-ending hunger, but any amount of time spent not eating was far too long in its animalistic mind.

The fact it had even been able to understand the concept of imitation, let alone attempting to act human was rather impressive. The practical (and painful) lesson its last prey had taught it about the benefits of not charging straight at prey that could fight back was still fresh in its mind. It ended up wasting far more than it gained by eating him. Although this lesson will most likely end up sinking underneath the countless crashing waves of conflicting memories its simple mind would never be able to comprehend.

Anyway, all of this is to say that as soon as it realized that it might be revealed, it didn’t bother trying to hide anymore. Before any of the humans in the room could react, what they had, (rather reasonably) assumed to just be Urak’s robes unfurled themselves, revealing the robes were actually leathery skin.

For the briefest and most terrifying of moments Morah’s implants allowed her to see that on the inside of its fake robes, were thousands of small half-formed child-like hands wriggling and writhing together like worms. Then, before she had time to even scream, the two halves of the false robe snapped around her and rapidly pulled her inside the beast. The false robes quickly wrapped themselves back up into the position they started in, causing a loud crunching noise to echo in the room.

Now that its false robes were back in their proper place it looked like a perfectly normal human again. For a moment the room was completely still and silent: the pair could only stand and stare at it in silent shock while it just lay on the ground like it didn’t just eat someone alive, but then it began to shake. At first, its shaking started as a slight tremor, but then the shaking grew faster and more intense. The shaking seemed to be traveling up its body all the way up to its throat like it was about to vomit. Jahnarton remembered the last time he thought it was about to vomit; which was enough to make his fear overcome his shock. He turned towards Sum, “We need to…”

Before he could finish he was interrupted by the sound of it gagging harshly. He looked back towards it, just in time to watch as its jaw unhinged, allowing it to vomit out gallons of blood, alongside whatever had been blocking its throat. It was hard to see what it had vomited out since it was drenched in blood, but Jahnarton eventually realized it was a small pile of crushed metal, shattered glass, and several feet of wires and cables.

If he wasn’t right in front of a monster that had just ripped off one of his arms, he might’ve considered the possible implications that vomiting out the metal and glass might imply. If he was self-reflective on top of being calm, he might’ve taken notice of how it didn’t even acknowledge his presence earlier until he slapped it. If he thought about these two details for long enough, he might, (rightfully) conclude that it had no interest in eating him since he was more metal than flesh and had only attacked him out of self-defense: meaning that as long as he left it alone it would probably leave him alone as well. Of course, he was neither calm nor self-reflective enough for any of that, so none of this occurred to him.

“What the hell?” Sum muttered to himself in disbelief, his hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. Almost as soon as he felt his hand wrap around the familiar cold grip of his pistol, the beast began to shake and crack open, allowing countless fleshly and bony limbs to burst free from it. It used these new limbs to slowly lift itself off the ground, but even as it did so more and more limbs kept bursting free from its body. Sum ripped his pistol out of its holster and fired at the beast. Despite how badly his hand was shaking, all of his shots successfully hit the beast; causing it to let out a pig-like squeal every time a bullet hit it. Other than those squeals, it gave no other sign that his gunshots were hurting it. He kept pulling the trigger even after his gun began to make a clicking noise that indicated he was out of ammo.

The beast decided to return the favor by trying to grab Sum with one of its many arms. The arm shot out towards him like a snake, stretching itself out an impossible distance to reach him. Jahnarton’s eyes allowed him to watch this happen in slow motion, giving him enough time to react but not enough time to think about how he was going to react. So without thinking, he grabbed the arm before it could grab Sum and ripped it off the beast much like it had done to his arm earlier. The beast howled in pain and the disconnected arm writhed in his grasp for only a few seconds before dissolving into blood.

Jahnarton had no time to celebrate avenging his missing arm or consider how and why the arm dissolved the way it did since its attention was now entirely focused on him. Jahnarton spent the next few minutes desperately fighting for his life; while Sum ran away as fast as he could. Jahnarton took some comfort in how it was quickly becoming clear to him that he was far faster than the beast. Still, despite being faster than it and having torn off a couple dozen limbs, it refused to slow down its attack against him. Body parts tore their way out of its body faster than he could rip them off, and the longer this went on the more inhuman the body parts became.

Calling it a beast by this point was being rather generous. It resembled no animal that ever walked the earth, to the point it couldn't be compared to any creature without insulting the entirety of the animal kingdom. This… thing was a mockery of the concept of organic life.

After about five minutes of fighting, it nearly managed to cut one of his legs off with a razor-sharp rib. He barely managed to dodge in time but the close call made him realize something very few Navdite nobles would ever humble themselves enough to realize: he was going to lose. This realization wasn’t the result of him being scared and in pain, (even if he was both of those things) but was the simple result of using basic logic. He only had one arm to fight with, while this beast seemed to have an endless amount of strange body parts to rip and tear him apart with. Normally, even thinking of a concept as abhorrent as admitting defeat, (even if it's only to himself) would make Jahnarton rush off to the nearest iron priest, so he could have them cut and rip out whatever disgusting fleshy part of his brain allowed such a disgusting thought to enter his mind; but his ego had been thoroughly crushed by the sheer insanity of the past few hours.

Oddly enough though, this realization didn’t make him spiral into despair, instead, it made his fear and pain sink into the background. He looked at the window behind the beast that overlooked the ruined city. He was going to lose to this beast no matter what he did… but maybe… just maybe… he could make it so this beast lost as well.

Jahnarton charged straight at the beast, his sudden change in tactics catching it off guard for just long enough for him to tackle it. The beast gave a startled cry as they crashed through the window and into the open air.

As they rapidly approached the ground, the beast began to panic and desperately tried to form a pair of wings to fly away to safety. Jahnarton on the other hand spent his last few moments hoping that the iron priests were wrong about there being no life after death. Since, if he wasn’t going to spend eternity in the halls of blissful enlightenment, (which was a real and physical place on earth, unlike the heaven and hell the horsestabbers believed in) he would like to keep on existing in some way or another. Who knows, maybe he could even get to see his older sister again.

If he had more time to think about it, he probably would’ve scoffed at himself for holding onto hope like that. Hope was a foolish thing that only peasants were stupid enough to cling to. There was no hope for the dying and the dead, only the knowledge that their once glorious metal would rust and any flesh that still clung to them would be devoured by animals. At least that’s what the iron priests always preached.

Fortunately for him, he had no time to scoff at himself and despair over his imminent death; so he got to die far more content than most other Navdite nobles get; and he received a far kinder fate than what would’ve awaited him if he had survived long enough to be deemed worthy to enter the halls of blissful enlightenment.

While those cursed halls did give those who entered it enlightenment and life never-ending, (at least until the inevitable blessed day that their idol finally ceased to function) said enlightenment and never-ending life were not blissful in the slightest. The first step involves having all of their cybernetic limbs removed since they will never need to lift even a finger while in the halls of enlightenment. They are then suspended by cables and wires in front of a grand mirror that belongs to them and them alone, so they can behold the majesty that is themselves forever. They are then finally given enlightenment, which comes in the form of having the filter that they have lived with almost their entire lives finally ripped away from them. This filter is what makes them see a false image of glory whenever they look upon themselves. With the filter finally removed, the poor wretches can finally see the hideous mechanical monstrosities they allowed themselves to become. They are then left all alone to stare helplessly at themselves, they cannot escape, die, or even close their eyes. All of those poor wretches desperately hoped and prayed to whatever god would listen for the same fate Jahnarton received as his body finally hit the ground.

It took Sum another couple of hours to finally reach the bottom of the tower. As soon as he stepped out of it, he began to desperately pant for air. It was probably just because of how out of breath he was from running for so long without taking a break, but he would later swear that air was the sweetest thing he ever tasted. As he took a moment to catch his breath before resuming his desperate escape from this God damned city, a single thought entered his mind. “This is the last time I will do a job for that slaving bastard.”

I’m planning on writing a series of essays on the subject of dystopian novels and how they reflect the anxieties of the time they were written. I need to have a secure starting point and I’m always curious to see how far these genres go back. The first book that Wikipedia can give me is Gulliver Travels in 1726 but I’m curious to see if anyone here knows of something that might have come before it.

This is a story that I originally conceived as a Teen. For the fans of Doctor Who, The X Files, Sarah Jane Adventures, Mona The Vampire, and anyone who loves young adult fiction. This is a very British tale of Teenagers helping aliens in the small fictional town of Brindley, in West Lancashire:

My name is Trinity Jones. I am 14 years old, I go to West Bank Secondary School, and live with my Mother and Stepfather Ryan. Dad lives in Scotland with his wife Kirsty, and the Baby, Roag. I like to sing, and I watch old episodes of Murder She Wrote with my Grandad. Life was pretty boring here in Brindley. At least until a couple of weeks ago.

I spend Wednesdays at Choir practice with 13 other kids, and Miss Loeb, the Music Teacher. Nice woman, smells a bit like Coffee, always wearing a long floral skirt and creme cardigan. As we were getting to the end of practice, singing Katy Perry's Firework, a text from Mum set into a motion a chain of events:

Mum: Hi Trin, stuck at the Hospital for a meeting. Won't be able to pick you up x

Me: No Probzz x

It was a probzz, but Mum has had a lot on at work recently, so I let it slide. As a compensation, she gave me £7 to go to Donna's for a kebab and some fries, so not all bad. I left school with Jess, my best friend, who always seems to have a new problem everytime I speak to her:

'...And Ryan is still Snapping her, and still liking her TikToks. I don't get it, she's a sucky person. She can suck lemons like she sucks-'

'JESS' I laughed 'You can't say that'. Jess' scrunched face and pouted lips suggested that she wasn't too happy with her brother's Tik Toking habits. I won't lie, she had a point about Indyah D'amica, the poutiest girl in Year 11, but her and Ryan are 2 years above us, and while I would love for him to like my TikToks, I know he probably won't.

'Yeah, well, I just don't like her is all. Anyways, got to get home. Dad's making Lamb chops tonight, and I would not like to miss out'. Jess quickly said, hugging me, and parting ways. Donna's was just down the road anyway, but it looked strangely abandoned. The lights were on, the door was open, but no one was inside. Full of a morbid curiosity, and love of putting myself in dangerous situations, I found myself compelled to go inside, and see why it was empty. As I entered, the various week old glossy magazines, newspapers, and other things I see on my Breakfast table were strewn across the floor. The fryer was still on, and food was left on the counter, with a single Can of Miranda rolling on the floor. I look over the counter, and I see it. It was horrifying.

A toddler sized, brown creature sitting on the floor. It's oversized belly filled with curry sauce, grabbed from one of the partially empty tubs on the kitchen floor. Its head turned 180 degrees, and two illuminated eyes gazed at me. Its face was covered in a canvas of blue bubblegum soda, yellow curry sauce, and white mayonaise. I stood there froze, as the creature pointed at me and screamed, standing on its feet, and jumping on the counter, yelling, and getting its sharp, thick, black talons protruded to slash at me. I found then that my hand was grabbed from behind, and I was suddenly pulled out of the store by a lad from school:

'Terry?' I shouted.

It was Terry. The weird kid in Year 10. He was not wearing his blazer or tie, but he was wearing his usual black trenchcoat. His messed up mousy hair was crudely put into a quiff, as he reached for his spectacles.

'Hi, Trinity. What's up' he asked me, non chalantly.

'I...well...yeah...THERE IS A BABY SIZED ALIEN IN DONNA'S' I replied, struggling to even get a sentence out of my mouth.

'No. That's not a baby sized alien. But it is a Baby Charmiloid, from the Planet Kevlar IX' he calmly smiled, as my eyes bulged as much as the alien that nearly tried to eat my face 'They're not harmless, but worst she would've done is scratch you. Her Mum left her when their disguise was malfunctioning. Do us a favour, when I go in, shut the door, and keep it shut?'

That request sent me back into reality 'No, Terry. I am not letting you do that! IT IS EVIL' I pleaded, as I didn't know what a baby Charizard...Charziboid...whatever it was was. However, Terry was confident that he could do it, so I reluctantly joined in. I had my back turned as I kept the door shut. I could hear the clang of metal, a few swear words, and food being thrown against the window. I then heard a knock at the door, as Terry reappaeared, hair messier than before, scratch on his hand, and a little girl smiling, holding a lollipop, and wearing a teddy bear Onesie.

'What just happened?' I asked meekly.

Terry explained, once again in that calm, and relaxed manner he had 'Her Mum called us to get her home safely. She probably scared off the rest of Donna's staff. Don't worry, they're all fine, just getting their minds wiped'. Terry then asked if I wanted to walk the girl to her home, and I, again, meekly replied yes.

We then walked 10 minutes up the road, and Terry took the girl home, and handed the Mother a ticket. He then walked up the path, and we started walking home. The walk was silent, only interrupted by my attempts at awkward small talk. As we approached my house, Terry spoke again:

'Well, Trin' he said, before I interrupted him

'Don't call me Trin' I frowned.

'Sorry, Trinity. But I have to say you did really well then' he said, smiling that bright, clueless smile.

'Oh...Thank you?' I answered bemused, half expecting to be zapped by a Men in Black memory pen.

Terry became serious, his smile turned into a solumn stare, as he was delivering an important announcement: 'Yeah. In fact, I want to make you an offer. Now you know that Aliens are, well, here, you have the option of getting your memory wiped, or joining us'

'Us?' I asked puzzled*. 'Who else knows about...this?'*

'I am part of the Alien Detective Agency. A secret group of Teens and Adults who investigate crimes, incidents, and the many mysteries involving alien life. You have what it takes to join us. I saw you go into Donna's, and I saw that you didn't run from the Charmaloid. We need you.'

And like that, my world shattered. Everything I ever knew or will ever know changed right at that second. An hour ago, I was listening to my best friend moan about her Brother not being with me. And now? There's so much more. I can be more. I looked Terry straight in the eye, and I uttered one word that would cement this change forever:

'Yes.'

We met at the OneLife Center off Sunset and 73rd.

I'm sitting in my car with the air conditioning blasting, getting ready for the inevitably unpleasant, when I see her. She’s stalking forward, eyes darting like she knows someone’s watching her. Then she bends forward and plucks a weedy yellow flower from a crack in the pavement. She looks at it for a moment, smiles with just one side of her mouth, stuffs the weed into her pocket, and disappears inside.

I think she’s beautiful.

I check my hair in the mirror, but it’s hopeless. Whatever. So I grab my bag, turn off the car, and follow her inside the Center.

It’s not my first time, but I can tell it’s hers. She’s sitting on one of the stained chairs, bent over a holoclipboard, forehead furrowed. I watch her staring into the contract before her, trying to make sense of the terms and conditions. If I remember correctly, there’s 4,016 clauses, though I read online that over two thirds of them are reworded repeats, included only to pad the contract’s length and deter the reader from troubling themself with potentially dissuading information. I know I didn’t read it in full, not even close, clicked to the signature page immediately. My cousin and a couple of my friends had donated and were totally fine, so what was the point of wasting my time?

I watch her fight her way through what must be the first page, though, her annoyance palpable. Her fingers clench and unclench, and a little vein pulses in her forehead. Her lips look soft, mouthing the words on the contract to herself.

The woman behind the front desk clears her throat conspicuously and I jerk back to attention. It’s my turn. The woman’s arched eyebrow says, I saw you staring and I’m pitifully amused. I grab my punch card from my wallet and shove it and my license under the opening in the plexiglass window, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Having an engaging afternoon?” the woman asks me. I smile tightly. She punches a sixth hole in my card and doesn’t even look at my license before scanning it and handing it to me through the slot. One donation closer to a free meal at any Life Company subsidiary, and I love SliceLife.

The lady asks me if I’d like to open up a OneLife savings account, an opportunity to accrue one point per milliliter of Life donated with a three percent interest rate towards the purchase of my own OneLife infusion or products of choice someday. I roll my eyes. I know she has to ask these questions, but what are the odds someone donating at OneLife will have the cash to purchase any of their products, ever? Next to zero.

“No thanks,” I tell her.

She starts speaking before I even finish the ‘thanks.’ “Alright then, please take a seat and your name will be called shortly.”

I panic a little. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. Do I sit next to her? Is that weird? Across from her? My heart starts thumping, stupidly, but before I can turn around, I hear someone speak.

“Hey—would you mind helping me with this for a second?”

I turn around, and somehow, she’s looking right at me. I nod my head up and down like an idiot.

“Of course, yeah!”

I take the seat next to her, so close I can smell the strawberry gum she’s chewing. I don’t even know where a person would get strawberry gum if they wanted it.

She half smiles at me, the same way she smiled at the flower outside, and my heart swells. “Thanks,” she says, and closes her eyes in tired frustration for a moment. She shows me the screen of her holoclipboard, which has bits of static glitching over the words of the terms and conditions.

“I have no idea how I messed this up.” She lowers her voice. “Everyone else here is old, and the lady at the front is kind of scary. Do you know what’s up with this piece of garbage?”

She’s right. The only other donors waiting are a shriveled couple sitting together, blankly staring at the news playing on the reception room’s TV. It’s a special on TreeLife’s project to replant the Amazon. I can see the resignation in their faces, and I turn away. Older donors are pretty rare, and I really hate to see them here: the likelihood of Sudden Chronatic Death skyrockets for donors over 50. They must be in a pretty bad place if they’re risking it.

I grab the holoclip. “It is a piece of garbage,” I counter, “but it’s your lucky day.” She crosses her arms. “And why is that?”

“I’m an engineer,” I tell her, and bang the clipboard with the palm of my hand. Her forehead wrinkles and she looks at me incredulously. “What the fuck? I think you just made it worse.” I bang it again, and the circuits realign, the contract returning in crisp graphics.

She raises her eyebrows. “Okay, I’m impressed.”

I open my mouth to let her know that I’m just glad I could help, or ideally something more clever than that, when the overhead speaker calls my name in a robotic staccato, directing me to report through door two.

“Thanks,” she tells me. “No problem,” I say.

…

I follow the flashing lights along the floor to the central donation chamber. Flimsy curtains separate the stations from one another, and I stop outside the seventh, where the lights on the floor insistently pulse enter. Enter. Enter. I enter and sit back in the padded chair before the hidden speakers can begin urging me to sit. Sit. Sit. The left section of the chair unfurls, noting the preference in my client file, and I place my arm on the wing of the chair, soft side up. Two cuffs snap into place over my wrist and forearm.

I remember how confusing the process was the first time, how I fumbled around until the chamber triggered an AutoHelper to roll into my station and offer assistance. I couldn’t help but think the whole thing would have been easier with a nurse or something. I probably should have been able to figure it out, anyways, but I remember being irrationally nervous.

Now, it feels routine. Arm in place, a metal hand unfolds itself out of the compartment recessed into the chair. It secures a rubber tourniquet snugly around my arm and a thin needle telescopes out of the hand’s pointer figure. The chair’s cuffs holding my arm tightly in place, the needle whirls and plunges into my wrist, where the life flows most strongly. A twin metal hand inserts a larger needle into the inside of my elbow.

Though I can’t see it, I know the whole system is connected by tubes threading through the metallic hands into the wall, where I can hear a Life Reclamation System whirring. Through an advanced extraction process, the system separates out my Life from my blood, returning my blood cells, platelets, and some additional saline back into my veins through the second needle. The whole thing is supposed to be perfectly safe since Life, like water, is a replenishable resource.

Replenishable, but highly profitable. Since discovering how to extract Life, Life Industries and Life Pharmaceuticals swallowed up the botox and cosmetic surgery and supplements and wellness industries with an authentic version of what they were previously trying to replicate—a return to youth.

For the privileged few, injections or supplements of Life have been shown to have a range of cosmetic, physiological, and emotional effects: heightened life expectancy, smoothed wrinkles, eased joint pain, increased skin tautness, and a returned vigor that has been described only as ‘indescribable.’ Trace amounts of Life have been added to drugs like Viagra Platinum, too.

The extraction itself doesn’t hurt. But directly afterward, when the needle deposits the last of your blood, stripped of its Life, back into your veins, it hits you. You feel absolutely, utterly drained. There is a physical effect—the cuffs remain on your arm to keep you sedentary for the 15 minute waiting period so you can’t fall and hurt yourself— but it’s not the corporeal weakness that’s the worst part. It’s the feeling that the circles under my eyes could swallow me up and it wouldn’t even matter. Like my strings have been cut. With my Life drained, I feel totally disconnected from everything, everyone, even myself.

And then my body pumps enough replenished Life through my veins to restore me to me, and by ten minutes after the procedure’s end, I’m itching for the chair to let me go. I wonder how she’s doing, during her first donation, and if she’s scared. She didn’t seem scared. Pissed, maybe, but not scared.

She went in after me and had to figure out the whole process for the first time, so she probably still has a while to go. I’m trying to think of a good excuse to hang around outside the Center’s exit when the chair suddenly releases me with a cling. “You may now exit to reception and collect the payment for your donation,” the speaker tells me. I don’t wait to be told twice.

...

Check out the whole book here: https://www.amazon.com/LifeTM-Bevy-Daniel/dp/B0DKY5YCXY

I've written for many years, started but never finished any of it.
For many reasons ADHD just kills momentum once the initial hyperfocus drops.

A month ago I thought 'heck, I'll just start posting on Royal Road and see how things work out', and now I'm just passing 25'000 words.
If you're aspiring to share your work but too struggle with focus, I can't recommend this approach enough.
The instant feel-good reward of seeing the reader count grow is just the perfect motivation to dive headfirst into the next chapter.

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If anyone is interested please have a look at Euran - In the Forever Dark. I hope you enjoy the darker more grounded take on the classic isekai-trope. (Below you'll find the first page of the Prologue) - Stay creative!

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As the blurred torso of a young man hovered in the darkness, a veiled figure approached with floating steps. “So soon?” a chiming voice sounded through the nothingness, as the figure lay a delicate hand on his forehead. “I could have sworn this one was supposed to be blonde”. Softly, the figure brushed a lock of dark hair to the side, “Black again, why can’t it be red or golden for once!? The others will make a mockery of me for the hundredth time”. As the boy opened his eyes, someone else's, big and sapphire blue, gazed into his, “..pret..ty” he mumbled before she hushed him with a finger. Vision blurry, he stared past her, out into the void as memories, flashes of light and the sounds of a collision echoed in the beyond. Where? A thought bubbled up, but without saying anything, the robed girl before him shook her head. “Poor thing, as confused as they come, yours must have been a quick one”. She put her palm on his naked chest, “A fresh start, how does that sound?”, but before he could think of an answer, a searing light sprung from where she had touched. Burning, searing within, the light spread rapidly until it beamed out from his pores, and for a moment, it lit up the forever dark with a radiant glow. Darkness like tar, seeped in to fill the fracture left behind. “This one better do the trick.. I can’t stand being teased again!” her voice chimed. Once she had left and only the dark remained, a single thought echoed behind before fading. At least I left him something nice.

Cheers
BT

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.”