/r/shortstories

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This is a place to submit your original short stories and be part of a community of writers.

Welcome to shortstories!

 

Please contribute!

This is a place to submit your original short stories. Discussion threads regarding existing works are encouraged.


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RULES AND GUIDELINES



1. Keep It About the Writing Here

  • No advertisements
  • Authors are allowed to link to a personal subreddit or Reddit profile. Do not link to a site where you can monetise - including, but not limited to: Kofi, Medium, Patreon, Paypal, and Youtube - or to a website where you are selling things.
  • No requesting writing services, calls for submissions, or homework help.
  • The story must be posted on this subreddit in the text box, not linked to.
  • Please post only the story. Any commentary may be left in a top level comment.

2. Posts Must Be in English, and Good-Faith Attempts

  • Minimum of 500 words. You can check out r/flashfiction for shorter works.
  • Posts must have a properly formatted title. Not sure how to properly capitalize? Here’s a handy tool.
  • Plagiarism will result in a ban. Do not post other people's work.
  • No joke posts, copypasta, troll, fecal, urine, meme-based, or AI generated stories.
  • Only one short story post per user every 24 hours

3. Stories Must Be Properly Formatted

  • Unformatted walls of text will be removed. Code blocks that do not serve a narrative function or stretch on for far too long will be removed.
  • Use linebreaks for new paragraphs and changing speakers in dialogue.
  • Follow basic punctuation and grammar rules.
  • Stories should look like a revised draft. Think of your readers' enjoyment.
  • Use this tool to check what your post will look like before submitting!

4. No Reposts

5. No Harmful or NSFW Content

  • Includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture.
  • You are welcomed and encouraged to provide content warnings at the top of your story if you are dealing with heavy topics.
  • Use your best judgement, but mods have final say.

6. Avoid Racism and Political Debate

  • Slurs will result in removal and possible ban. Find a better way to vilify a character than them utilizing hate speech.
  • Political soapboxing and tirades of political parties, ideologies, or actions will be removed.
  • Avoid real-world drama such as current events or political climate

7. Be Civil in Discussion, Feedback, and Critiques

  • Users are held to a higher standard here. Think before posting; that is another person you are talking to.

8. All Submissions Must be Tagged

  • Add the tag at beginning of your post title. Basically, your post should look something like this:

[SF] My Sci-Fi Story Title

 

Using the correct tag will allow the bot to apply the correct flair to your post. This will help readers find the types of stories they enjoy.

 


Apply to Moderate /r/shortstories!


Submission Tags:


[SF] Science Fiction

  • Fiction dealing with futuristic settings such as futuristic science and technology. It often explores the potential consequences of scientific and other innovations, and has been called a "literature of ideas".

[FN] Fantasy

  • Fiction that commonly uses magic and other supernatural phenomena as a primary plot element, theme, or setting.

[HR] Horror

  • A genre of literature that has the capacity to frighten, scare, or startle its readers by inducing feelings of horror, terror, and in some cases loathing.

[MS] Mystery & Suspense

  • Fiction dealing with mysteries, usually about a detective or other law enforcer trying to solve a crime.

[RF] Realistic Fiction

  • A genre of fiction that is untrue, but could actually happen. Or predicts events that will happen in the near future.

[HF] Historical Fiction

  • A form of fiction where the settings are drawn from history, and often contains historical persons. Works in this genre often portray the manners and social conditions of the persons or times presented in the story, with attention paid to historical accuracy.

[AA] Action & Adventure

  • This is a genre of fiction in which an adventure, an exciting undertaking involving risk and physical danger, forms the main storyline.

[HM] Humor

  • A story that has humorous elements such as random use of words or nonsensical words. Humor stories can also be reflective of reality, portraying it in a funny way.

[RO] Romance

  • Stories of this genre place their primary focus on the relationship and romantic love between two people, or sometimes a love triangle.

[SP] Speculative Fiction

  • A broad genre of fiction that encompasses any fiction with supernatural, fantastical, or futuristic elements.

[TH] Thriller

  • Not the Michael Jackson, "Thriller" but rather a genre that uses suspense, tension, and excitement as its main elements.

[UR] Urban

  • A story taking place in a city landscape the genre is as much defined by the socioeconomic realities and culture of its characters in the urban setting.

[MF] Misc Fiction

  • Basically any fiction that doesn't fit into any of the other categories.

[NF] Non-Fiction

  • A story that actually happened, or describes real events.

[MT] Meta Post

  • For posts that aren't stories but meta questions/announcements.

[OT] Off Topic

  • Pretty much the same thing as the above, although more for user's use.

 

Rule breaking posts or comments may be removed without notice. Rule breaking may result in a permanent ban without prior warning. If you spot a violation, please use the Report button underneath the post. This is the best way to help! If you have an issue with other users, send us a modmail.

 

All content is © by the original authors.

 


Related Links


 

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  • Story - Tell your stories!

  • HireaWriter - A place for job postings as well as a place for writers looking for work.

  • shortscarystories - Because sometimes the scariest stories, are those that leave us to our imagination.

  • The Artifice - A community for discussion of art and literature.

  • Onewordstorys - Tell a story, one word at a time.

  • RisingAuthors - A place for new and aspiring writers and poets to promote their work.

  • WriteATale - A place to create a story with other writers, 20 words at a time.

/r/shortstories

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1

**Celebrity Slasher Island**

A man with gel-spiked hair so fortified a tornado couldn’t disturb it spoke gleefully, “Welcome to ‘Celebrity Slasher Island’ where if you don’t find them, they find you! We’re down to our final contestants who come from across the last millennia or so to fight it out for first prize. First up, Theodoraaa. You know her and love her as Emperor Justinian’s main squeeze. Give it up for this thicc beauty! ”

A stunning woman with long black hair strode forth confidently in her toga and sandals, waving to the audience. “What means this ‘thicc’?” Theodora hissed to the announcer. “Is it an insult?”

He shrugged before continuing in a monotone voice, “So tell us about yourself.”

“I’m one of the most powerful empresses of the Byzantine empire. Besides ruling alongside my husband, Justinian, I also worked tirelessly to protect women’s rights.”

The audience nodded with feigned interest.

“Fassssscinating, I’m sure. What did you do before you married?”

“I acted in theaters and was quite famous in my own right.”

The crowd whispered among themselves.

“An actress, eh? Not exactly a chaste profession, huh?” He looked at her slyly. “Just between us, were you a virgin?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your or their business.”

Loud gasps echoed.

“No answer is an answer, folks.” The MC winked. “Moving on. Next up, Veronicaaaa Franco. Everyone’s favorite Renaissance hookup, give it up for this fine piece of 16th Century ass!”

Veronica raised an eyebrow before blowing air kisses to the crowd. Her beauty shone against her maroon velvet gown.

Elbowing her side, the MC grinned lasciviously. “So uhhh, we know you’re impure—“

Veronica stared at him. “And what of it?”

The audience hushed and stared.

“They needed to know.” The man didn’t flinch or blush but carried on. “So tell us about your soiled self.”

“Many famous men, from poets to painters to politicians, have found me to be a muse. I believe women should have the same rights as men, and that includes having lovers. I assume you don’t have a problem with that in this modern era?”

“Of course not,” he huffed. “If you’re both done rambling though, let’s give it up for the real star of our show, Ann Onymous Virgiiiiin!”

A blonde-haired teen with thick glasses smiled shyly from her carriage that snowy swans pulled. Her modest white sundress covered her shoulders and down to her ankles.

“So Ann, tell us about yourself.”

“Well, like, I’m a Senior at Brightheart High School, and I’m, like, a virgin and stuff.”

Ecstatic applause followed.

“Do you do anything else?”

“Well, like, I read sometimes.”

The audience hooted and hollered at peak volume.

“Isn’t that fantastic folks? Pure and brilliant?” The gobsmacked MC crowed. “A clear winner here, if I say so myself!”

“So why are we here then, exactly?” Theodora asked.

“For contrast, of course! We can’t all be like the amazzzzzing Ann here sadly.” The MC lowered his head.

Veronica laughed, her eyes sparkling with wit. “Seems like times haven’t changed as much as I’d hoped.”

“Indeed,” Theodora sighed.

“Like, whatever and stuff. You’re just jealous I’m all pure and demure.”

Theodora and Veronica rolled their eyes.

“Let me try, Theo,” Veronica said, turning to Ann. “You know that just means you haven’t had sex, right, sweetie? Not that it’s some big accomplishment.”

“I know! I tried to tell them: I’m ‘like’ a virgin not that I ‘am’ a virgin. But they wouldn’t listen!”

Veronica and Theodora burst out laughing.

The Empress recovered first. “That’s hilarious! I guess it shows things haven’t changed that much, have they? No one ever listens to a woman. Sad, really.”

“Indeed. Neither since your era nor mine. And despite these modern inventions like streaming pictures, it goes to show much is still viewed through a masculine lens. I just wish I knew how these things worked and, Michelangelo’s balls, what is this show even about!”

“Right?! Like, what do those opening lines even mean?” Theodora chuckled. “‘Welcome to ‘Celebrity Slasher Island’ where if you don’t find them, they find you!’ Like, is there a reward? Do we get murdered? Do we kill someone else? It’s like this was all created by some higher power without much thought or reason beyond maybe some cheap morality play.”

“Ooh! I can help you here! Notflax will put ANYTHING on the air. It doesn’t matter if the premise and plot are completely lacking. So we can do whatever we want really as long as it gets viewers interested.”

“Huh. So, if I understand you correctly, this modern theater is quite a bit simpler than in our day.” Veronica mused. “What about scripts?”

“There are no formal scripts beyond what the MC says at the beginning of the show and a few other segments like that. This is ‘reality TV’ after all!”

“Interesting. So we can say and do whatever we want then?”

“Yep!”

Veronica’s eyes glinted as she looked over at Theodora. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“It depends. Are you thinking that this modern theater makes acting far easier? Like, why even pay real actors?”

“Oh, don’t be silly! You don’t get paid. Not for reality TV anyway. There’s usually a cash prize like here it’s five hundred thousand dollars. But the real reward is the chance to be famous.”

“No, not that, in fact, although that’s all very interesting. I’m thinking we can do whatever we want here as long as it’s entertaining for the audience. There seem to be what, a couple hundred of them? That’s a bit smaller than some of the ones back home, but we can definitely work with that—“

“Umm, Veronica, there are millions of viewers. They’re just not here. I thought you should know.”

“Oh, right! This remote viewing thing of which you spoke. How do they know what we are doing? Can they see and hear us now?”

Ann nodded, pointing up to the camera drones.

“Hmm, so theoretically we could do whatever we want to the audience here as well as to the MC as long as we entertain the larger audience wherever they may be…”

“I like your thinking, Veronica! What did you have in mind?” Theodora grinned. “We kill all the men? After all, it is called ‘Celebrity Slasher Island,’ and we are celebrities. No reason we can’t do whatever and kill whomever we want.”

“Now, now Theodora, we have to be open to the idea that some things may have changed for some of the guys at least. So, I say let’s kill that jerk of an MC first and then see where the afternoon takes us!” She looked up at the sky and smiled.

0 Comments
2024/11/03
02:45 UTC

1

[SF] How mind-reading devices almost ruined my company

The day I realized mind-reading devices were real, I almost felt like shutting down the whole operation. We’d known for years that companies in certain circles were dabbling with the tech, but everyone had the same reservations. It was expensive, technically illegal, and morally… well, in another universe entirely. But somehow, my competitors seemed to be pulling every move before I’d even thought of it. Deals were slipping through our fingers, negotiations that should have been simple were turning on me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that every big client we sat down with had already mapped out my mind.

The pressure was eating at me. I had our people scouring contracts for leaks, plugging any possible intel gaps, tightening up privacy protocols—and still, I’d walk into meetings feeling like they knew every detail we’d discussed in prep. I suspected they were using mind-reading devices, but I had no way to prove it. Not without accusing them outright and torching any trust we still had. I was stuck, and if things didn’t change, we were going to be bled dry.

Around that time, Billy started coming by the office for odd jobs. Billy and I went way back, and while he’d never really climbed the career ladder, he’d built himself a solid gig in HVAC repair. He didn’t have much in the way of stability, so every now and then, I’d throw him a call whenever something broke in our building. It was a nice way to give him some extra cash, and as VP, I could easily approve a few hundred bucks here and there without anyone batting an eye.

One day in August, our air conditioning decided to pack it in during the hottest week of the year. The office was sweltering, so I called up Billy in a panic, begging him to fix it before we melted. He came by within the hour, wearing his usual baseball cap and cracking jokes, and I felt the tension melt away the second he walked in. Billy could make a boiler room feel relaxed.

He finished up just before a major meeting with a client that I knew was using one of those mind-reading devices. I’d spent the whole morning prepping my strategy, trying to keep my mind calm. When Billy finished, I told him to hang out for a while, help himself with some drinks and cool off in a near conference room. It was August, after all, and it didn’t seem fair to send him back into the heat. So he stuck around, making himself comfortable, while in the next room I felt the pressure starting to raise again. What if they are using mind reading? Is our company doomed?

But that meeting went… different. The client looked flustered, almost lost. They weren’t steering the conversation like usual. For once, I actually had control, and by the time we wrapped up, I’d closed the deal on terms I’d never thought they’d accept. It was a complete 180 from every meeting I’d had in the past few months, and I couldn’t put my finger on why.

A week or two later, I called Billy in for another repair—this time it was the thermostat, and I figured I’d let him stay cool in the office again afterward. I didn’t expect much, but sure enough, we had another meeting with a big client, and the exact same thing happened. This client, too, was suddenly fumbling, unable to anticipate my moves like they’d been doing all summer. It was uncanny.

By the third time Billy came in to fix a rattling vent, I started to suspect something. I’d noticed a pattern I couldn’t ignore: whenever Billy was around, our clients seemed thrown off, unable to use whatever edge they’d had on us. But I couldn’t connect the dots until I went on a late-night rabbit hole, scouring every article, forum, and whisper I could find about the mind-reading tech. That’s when I stumbled on a thread from an insider who hinted at an exploit no one wanted to talk about. Mind-reading devices, it turns out, relied on picking up clear, coherent frequencies. But certain mental patterns—like ADHD—could scramble the devices, creating noise that made them almost useless. The kind of mental noise you’d get if someone’s thoughts were always bouncing around, jumping from one idea to the next.

Billy, I realized, was a walking, breathing jammer. His mind was a whirlwind of scattered thoughts, a perfect counter to the tech my clients were leveraging against us. Just by sitting in the back of the room, he was blocking their ability to read me.

From that point on, I made it a habit to call him in every few weeks for “maintenance work.” I’d ask him to check the thermostat, give the AC a tune-up, or just come by for a coffee. I’d tell him to “stick around for a bit, cool off before you head out,” and he’d relax in the corner, happy to hang out while I tackled whatever high-stakes meeting I had that day. He never suspected a thing.

Billy became my secret weapon, though he never knew it. To him, it was just a little extra work and some free AC time, a few laughs over coffee in the break room. But to me? Billy was my firewall. My competitors never figured out why they’d lost their edge, and I didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to keep us in business anymore.

One afternoon, after another flawlessly smooth meeting, I decided to bring Billy on as an official “consultant.” It was more of a creative title than anything, but it gave me an excuse to keep him in the office as much as possible. We set him up with a desk in the corner, an email account, and even a nameplate on his door that read, Billy Travers, Special Projects Consultant.

Billy thought it was hilarious when I asked him one day to come into the boardroom “just to keep me company.” I didn’t have the heart to explain the truth, and honestly, I didn’t think he’d believe me if I tried. To him, it was all just another day of getting paid to hang out and be himself. And for me? It was a rare, strange stroke of luck I’d gladly protect as long as I could.

Some people have firewalls, some have encryptions. I had Billy.

2 Comments
2024/11/02
23:15 UTC

2

[SP] Looking back to it, part 1.

Three humanoid beings approach an important research station and mining site in surface Neptune, cold air is bitter, none of them complain. Weapons ready, minds set to what must be done, acknowledging war is over, but, this outright suicidal job, MUST BE DONE.

Armors and helmets the soldiers are wearing, painted mostly matte red, with blue details and blue secondary colors. Door of the logistics wing opens, one of the workers look up at them, eyes widen from shock and terror. The silenced, have arrived. The most terrifying commando group that has ever existed.

Everybody doubts whether this trio is even human. The trio motions the worker to stay silent and kneel. One of them fires their gun at one of the cameras, second fires at a spying microphone. It won't take long for the trio to take over the logistics wing, wing's security forces have been killed without whole station going on alert. This was the easiest part, after a hour.

Whole station is in their hands now. They begin communicating to their command, and begin searching for answers asked for. Research logs yield something. "They discovered something from the age of gold..." Something relays what one of the silenced wants to say to it's brothers.

They descend deeper into the dig site again, they open the door, clearly ornate and regal, common from that age. Behind it, is many pods. After few hours, one of the members finds out that these are stasis pods, from the age of gold. They still work. Trio returns to relay the discovery to their command.

The silenced are given the power to choose what they should do. Trio discusses the situation quickly. They have less than sixty seven hours until their opponents send a detachment to secure the station and find out why it is broadcasting all clear in agreed manner but, hasn't sent any reports about the station.

They began preparing the station for a siege, redeployed a mining drill to dig an opening for the ones sleeping in the stasis pods, they set up several powerful outpost busting bombs. After sixty seven hours, their work was done in time, thanks to utilization of the station workers who had been subdued. Everything has been planned, now. It is the time to raise the curtains and let the play begin.

Three against the three hundred. Slowly, the commandos loose ground, but, every meter has a price. So many proud soldiers of the Corposium... So many war drones, dead or destroyed. They fight deeper and deeper in the station. Energy projectiles and bullets hitting where they are aimed, one of the commandos is injured, not long after, a second. Third motions them to evacuate, it will hold off the hundred remaining as long as it cans.

By now, the stasis pods have been opened and those within, have escaped. The two injured commandos make their escape, third, began to blow up parts of the station, limiting the approaches to it, causing more casualties on the Corposium. It is one to seventy, when the Corposium forces have finally inflicted a wound on the remaining Silenced commando.

Commando retreats to the dig site, signal is released, detonation of the bombs is soon. Upon exiting the elevator, pain elevates along with the elevator behind it. Plasma burns on left side of the chest two near the neck and one closer of the bottom of the rib cage on the same side.

Commando pushes forward, it's the only way. Moving through the tunnel, it noticed energy projectiles fly past it, clock is ticking, one more run. It gets out of the tunnel, zero emerges, a great blast knocks the commando forward out of sheer pressure emitted by the bombs at the station. The silenced is sent flying forward crashing onto rock, snow and dirt, thankfully to direction of it's evacuation zone.

Silenced finally awakens from being knocked out, it begins to crawl further towards the EZ. Pain is horrific, but, there is a job to be done. Upon arriving close enough of the EZ, it activates a transponder in the armor, takes a half sitting position against snow, dirt and rock. Cool air, slowly, begins to soothe some of the pain. Vision is becoming blurry, exhaustion is great. Commando notices movement to it's left.

It turned to look, silhouette is unidentifiable. It approaches the commando, and looks towards the station. Commando thinks quickly. Pushes the rifle towards the figure through the snow. If this decides to go there, better for it to be armed. Exhaustion and pain, finally relieve the commando from reality, to a slumber.

One could wonder how many knows about this incident. Well, that question, and many more would only be begun to be answered, little bit over ten years later. After so long? With sol now inhabited by beings from the age of gold, achievement of those three soldiers, long far surpassed by these beings.

Well, from here, story is to be told from perspectives of those participating in the research project of what happened back then.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
23:13 UTC

1

[FN] Autumn Woods

Save for the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot and the occasional chirp of a distant bird, the woods were steeped in a profound silence. Within this tranquil setting lay a secluded clearing, bathed in the last soft glow of evening. Shadows of tall trees stretched long and deep, framing the space in a blend of darkness and gentle light. Standing amidst the dimness was a boy, barely nineteen, his youthful face lending him an almost ethereal quality against the ancient, quiet woods. A student of the arcane, he looked both out of place and yet curiously at home here, his figure still and composed, as if attuned to the secrets around him.

His features were sharp yet boyish, with a delicate jawline and high cheekbones that gave him an air of youthful confidence. His skin was pale, contrasting with the deep hues of the forest, and there was a hint of flush in his cheeks, perhaps from the chill in the air or the thrill of his magic. Dark, tousled hair framed his face, with a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead, catching glimmers of the fading sun. His eyes, when closed, seemed almost tranquil, but when opened, they revealed irises that shone with a bright violet glow, a mesmerizing hue that hinted at the power coursing through him.

He wore fitted khaki pants that allowed for ease of movement, their fabric sturdy yet flexible, perfect for navigating both the physical and mystical realms. His snug black t-shirt hugged his form, accentuating the lean musculature that hinted at strength and endurance. Draped over this was a knee-length cloak, made of a soft, flowing material that billowed lightly in the cool breeze. The cloak was a deep obsidian, with subtle silver thread woven into its edges, glinting like stars against the night sky as it swayed.

His arms hung gently at his sides, his hands encased in finely stitched black gloves that appeared almost too elegant for the rugged environment. The gloves fit snugly, emphasizing the agility and grace of his slender fingers. On his feet were practical black boots, rugged yet stylish, the leather worn but well cared for. Cleverly hidden near his ankle was a thin blade, its hilt barely visible, a subtle remainder of his preparedness for whatever dangers the woods might hold.

With his eyes closed, the boy's lips moved almost imperceptibly, a low, hushed whisper beginning to permeate the serenity of the clearing. At his feet, the small fire crackled, its embers glowing with an eerie emerald green that danced like fireflies. The unusual hue cast flickering shadows across his face, adding an otherworldly glow to his already enigmatic appearance. He raised his arms above his head, as if reaching for the ancient tree branches, and as he did, his gloved hands began to emanate a strange orange light, vibrant and warm against the fast cooling air.

Slowly, he moved his hands through the twilight, the translucent glow streaking through the air like paint on an invisible canvas. Each movement was deliberate and fluid, as if guided by an unseen force. Chanting in a language long forgotten, his voice wove through the stillness, a melody of power and intention. Methodically, he turned to face each of the four cardinal directions, his body aligning with the energies of the earth, the sky, and the elements surrounding him.

As he invoked each element, he lowered his head and traced a symbol in the glowing light before his chest, the shapes intricate and alive with ancient meaning. The air around him shimmered with magic, thickening like a fine mist as he concentrated.

As the ritual neared its conclusion, emerald orbs of fire erupted from the pit at his feet, shooting upward through the dense canopy, illuminating the darkening sky in a brilliant cascade, like stars unfurling in reverse. Each orb left a shimmering trail of light that lingered briefly, twinkling against the deepening dusk before fading. After the fifth orb soared into the night, the fire below began to dim, settling into a bed of peculiar glowing embers. They pulsed gently, like the steady beat of a heart, casting a rhythmic glow that seemed to breathe with the silent woods around him.

The boy halted, his chant fading as he opened his eyes to a breathtaking sight. Above the clearing, the orbs floated like suspended stars, casting a ghostly green light over the trees and illuminating the mist swirling through the air. His mouth fell open slightly, and he whispered in awe, barely aware of his own voice. The surreal beauty of the scene struck him, the orbs seeming almost alive as they shimmered with an otherworldly energy, each one pulsing faintly as if sharing a heartbeat with the forest around them.

Suddenly, the orbs shot out in all directions, streaking across the sky like radiant embers swept up by the wind, scattering into the night as if carrying unspoken wishes into the vast unknown. A surge of triumph bloomed within him, warmth spreading through his chest and pooling in the pit of his stomach—a flicker of pride and awe that left him momentarily breathless. Slowly, the glow in his hands began to dim, the light fading as he lowered them to his sides, fingers trembling with the aftershock of the ritual’s power. He drew in a ragged breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around him like a heavy mantle, grounding him in both exhaustion and reverence. As his vision blurred and the world faded into darkness, he sensed that he had touched something far beyond himself—a force ancient and boundless, awakening a new purpose within him.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
21:59 UTC

1

[FN] The Tatzelwurms, the Warriors, and the Girl (A Cycle of Devastation)

Grass withered into ash beneath his feet with every step he took. His flapping wings kicked up wisps of embers and smoke as he traversed the mountainside. He could see just over the hills a campsite, so picturesque and quiet, as if it wasn't inhabited by those damned little murderous pests.

At least he could take solace in the fact it wouldn't be there much longer.

He lurked low to the ground, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. Baring his fangs to invisible threats, he crawled ever closer, leaving little brush fires in his wake. Their only warning, beyond the red scales that shimmered as dawn hit them.


Funeral bells rang in the streets, which had become the background music of the village. From dawn until dusk, they rang incessantly, not giving the townsfolk even a second to grieve before another left the world.

Yet in the one remaining tavern, seven of the survivors gathered. Most of them were the village's most respected warriors, those who fought and won their battles for various reasons – glory, safety, the rush. One, though, stood out amongst the rest – a child, no older than thirteen, who stirred the milk and honey in her cup.

“Thanks for the drink, but I told you, it doesn’t work like that,” she politely explained. “You can't ask me questions and expect me to know. I can tell you the future, but-”

“So then what's the problem, Kiya?” asked the oldest of the warriors, scarred by both age and battle. “We're strong fighters, and we need some kind of direction. Come on. You know how devastating the desiccation has been for us all. You watched your own mother wither as if she were rotting figs! You've got to help.”

Kiya sighed. “Fiiiine, I'll try, but I'm not responsible if it doesn't help or make things worse.” She squeezed her eyes shut and hummed a small song, not unlike that of the bells tolling outside. After a moment, the girl shot her eyes open and whispered, “Tatzelwurms, those great monarchs of the mountains, lurk nearby. They will destroy after great loss. Take care.”

She blinked as if she said nothing, before sipping her sweetened milk and asking, “Could I leave now? It stinks like unwashed men and alcohol in here.”

“Yes, of course,” said the elder warrior. “Take care.”

Once the child took her leave, the fighters turned to chatter amongst themselves. “So we should all kill the tatzelwurms that cause the desiccation, correct?”

Murmurs of agreement and cheers drowned out the bells, if only for a moment, before the six set out on a plan, still batter in a pan.


His black-scaled tail, decorated with gemstones and vines, swung as he watched his mate leave the cave. The smoke from the red cat-dragon dissipated from the opening, and as it did, the tatzelwurm couldn’t shake a feeling of deep loneliness. His beloved had to leave, of course – food didn’t (usually) just waltz right in – but he still hated when it happened.

With nothing else to do, he instead focused on cleaning his paw and manicuring his claws a bit. He only paused when he heard tiny little footsteps on the cavern floor, glancing to see what it was. Humans, six of them, their faces obscured in faintly familiar metals and wood.

He arched his back, stretched his wings, and peered at them with confusion. Sometimes littler humans would get lost and wander into the caverns, and all they needed was a little spook and/or guidance to get them away, but these ones were larger and didn’t look lost.

No, they must be there for a purpose.

With a thump of his tail, he pointed up at himself and made rhythmic clicks, mews, and hisses – his name – but they didn’t respond with their names in kind. Instead they said things that they only partly understood from what crows taught them of their language: “You foul creature, bringing disease.”

The tatzelwurm shook his head, flattening his ears as he did.

“You are, beast. To be killed.”

Again, he shook his head, but a spear lodged itself into his leg. Yowling, he sprung into action, fighting as hard as he could to survive.

But eventually, the wyrms of fate chose otherwise.


The wind howled, blowing faint wisps of smoke into Kiya’s face. She coughed bitterly as she approached the still-smoldering campsite, not far off from the village itself. The task was to find survivors, yet as she looked at the scene, it was clear that there were none. What had once been the greatest warriors of her village was now another number to add to the death toll.

She sighed as she slowly approached the clear perpetrator: a red tatzelwurm, slumped beside the camp, weary yet awake. “It’s okay,” whispered she, “I won’t hurt you. Promise it.”

Yet the tatzelwurm only hissed and snarled, and she could count every tooth, twice her size.

“You’re right to be mad. I… I tried to tell them that my predictions are unreliable, but I guess they thought otherwise, and-” Kiya made a sniffle, her eyes watering from guilt, pent-up grief, and the ash in the air.

The tatzelwurm stared for a long moment, seemingly trying to process what she said, before gently lifting their head slightly and snorting.

Her hand shook as she slowly reached out to gently stroke the dragon’s chin. The faintest of rumbles trembled the ground, an oddly soothing sensation. She closed her eyes and began to hum, just like she did just two weeks ago. She soon opened them and whispered to the tatzelwurm, “This cycle will soon break. The sick and mourning will heal, and the crows will bring both gifts of what they lost, as well as what they should have. Take care.”

She blinked, before giving the dragon’s chin a pat. “I have to go, just… don’t hurt anybody who doesn’t deserve it, okay?”

The tatzelwurm nodded, and with that, leaped and took off to the sky.

As the creature escaped from her vision, Kiya softly sighed. “Hopefully that one was helpful… I’m sick of everyone dying already.”

And with that, she went home, the grass-turned-ash taking to the skies with every step she took.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
21:51 UTC

1

[MS]Crawler Chronicles - The Promotion and one for the road

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.” ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

(1) [C.2019]

"You broke the rule, Patton", She says as if she is justice made manifest, if that could also sound flirtatious. Yeah, that's exactly how she sounds. I know she wants me to turn around, I know she wants me to respond with something more than, "Nic! pretend we're in public and you don't know me." She laughs, much to my surprise and sits down.

Nicole is still exceptionally beautiful; she always has been. Her 5ft 6in, frame adorned in a batman shirt, blond hair and I think yoga shorts. She's been on the road, I see. Seeing is to consider, that she is more beautiful than the last time we dreamt together. Pleasent, and/or sexy thoughts have a way of getting overshadowed quickly with our kind. Overshadowed by our reality, the reality of pleasantness at 4:30am. What a joke and let's face it. Sex, means nothing between two people who haven't slept in days. Almost overrated when you consider the dread found in post coital bliss.

Built different, the kids would say. That is a lot of bullshit in my opinion. Most like us, like Nic and I, just don't make it. Some become reckless and depressed. Some like her, consider us special and unique amongst the others. Maybe she's right. There is no free will to this. Just drive free time and hopefully and soon, sleep.

She is here! Not a hallucination, I can smell her; Key Lime Pie the one and only.

She tracked me, no way could this be random. 'The Tigar' is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and 361 days a year, no alcohol. Curious in why, she is at least two hundred and seventy miles away from any place she might call home. We have no business, and I never said I would follow their rules, blindly or with any degree of loyalty. The packs made us targets. Tribes created orgies; the decadence, greed and consumption corrupted every elemental bond between all of us. Some became Wendigo.

Today it's Uncia or Crawlers; regionalized, and situationally very territorial. Most go insane by thirty, some get into drugs and sex. Some like Nicole and I, try it all and then again do some more. Only to return back to this existence. She's here and all I can really think of is, fuck I need a drink...

Balance in all things. Balance is my peace; the balance is my rest.

She sits in front of me as she casually gathers her Malbroro Reds pack and pulls out a smoke. Her gracious and passive movements intrigue me. She hasn't looked in my face yet. She's been here watching me, for some time. Recalling how she closed the distance in equal strides, no wasted movement. A woman crawler is rare; well maybe not rare, but ones with and in positions of power, almost none. Worse, we have a history and a future. Neither able to deny what we really are. She is working up to something, there's tension all over her. Her Diet Dr. Pepper shows up, as if it was pre-ordered. It probably was.

She has a problem, and it's not just with me.

I grab a joint out of my pocket and reach for the lighter. She beats me to it, snatches it and slaps my hand with a swift gentle firmness; "wait your turn, I never smoke in the car; how've you been?" I almost believed her sincerity in the question. The thought brought a smile to my face, "why are you here, how's Lance?" I don't expect an answer, I just needed a slight distraction a small surprise can deliver. It worked, I swiftly swing my left hand, to snatch the lighter. Just after she lit the tip and with perfect timing, she will think later. I grab the lit cigarette with my right hand with atter like accuracy. Her hustler's smile is infectious, I take her first drag and hand it back.

"Balance in all things, Nic. You remember right? Speaking of, when will you learn to break the rules"? She drops her head, her tension changes. She pulls me deeper, in mind and spirit. We begin to really speak. "You broke the rule, the only fucking rule! He's furious and has sent me to 'promote' you". She casts my mind to images of sink holes in the middle of vast ocean deserts, and a family stranded on the side of the road. I send her their smell, peanut Butter and Oranges. She stops, opens her eyes wide. She is really trying to concentrate paining to each attention and every detail. She begins to cry, I was too aggressive, she needs to finish the thought.

I see snap shots, fast and aggressive but not with force. It was hurting her, that same family murdered, abused and tortured. Except not all of them, one was missing, which one? I couldn't remember and she began to speak. "Patton, the oranges were masking the other smell, the real smell is underneath! Don't you see, I mean smell or, something, fuck!" I close my eyes and take a deep drag and hold it in...

I am back to that moment I pulled over, reliving it as I begin to exhale. Driving through Arizona, the family the flat tire no spare. I remember the smells and now I remember them all, gasoline. "The oldest boy, he is the one?" I open my eyes and confirm. Exhaling the moment to bring her back into total focus. She seems surprised and more than a little relieved, "Yes, in two or maybe three days. East Texas, you were supposed to take care of it that night and this, fuck Pat. This all feels gross, wrong and and", before she can say it, I finish her sentence, "like a trap", "Exactly and you're walking right into it". She stops talking, I make no protest.

Moments pass, I think through it to nod subtly; "Yeah, I'll leave tonight. Be there in a day, scout and go from there. I am not a contract killer Nic. If he can live, I will see to it. Those are my rules, Lance can go fuck himself or come and get me.". The words hung in the air. Leaving both of us thinking through what shouldn't happen next.

She said nothing at first, "Listen Lance supports that, but you NEED to be certain Patton. You are a killer, we all are. If he does this later, it could put us all at risk". I nodded less subtly. Hence the trap, I think openly. As a tear falls from her left blue eye.

The only matter left was the bill and it's time to go, I muse. I take another deep drag and put my joint away. I can see the true her again, as always and as before. "I've been well, Nic. How've you been?" She thinks and shyly responds, "very much awake and seeing you around". I smile to stand up, and toss two twenty-dollar bills on the table.

Thinking back, I could have said more; but this is likely a trap. We both know it and neither of us is immortal. So, I send her the smell of sausage and eggs; hashbrowns and morning juice. Move her to the smell of the morning dawn. I see her succumb to the warm coffee brewing in the background. That Sunday morning every detail, I left nothing out, in her waking dream. I'm gone, before she remembers that she doesn't smoke in the car and lights up another. Whispers to herself, for the road.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
20:33 UTC

1

[AA] See You Later

Fenton's footsteps echoed in the narrow alley, the tall buildings on either side blocking the light of the otherwise luminous full moon. The chilly, crisp night air made mist of every breath. He was unconcerned with safety, as a tall and muscular mixed martial artist. That is, until an evil, foul-smelling demon from the furthest reaches of hell burst from the manhole in front of him.

He screamed.

The demon screamed.

His legs didn't wait for his brain to catch up, and he began to sprint to the end of the alley.

"Where are you going? Please, I've been stuck in the sewer for hours! Can you call my boss? My phone is done for, but you can reach him at the public sewage department number!"

Slinking back, Fenton felt like a very relieved coward.

Upon closer inspection, he could see that the demon was, in fact, a small man coated in multiple oozing layers of filth wearing what probably used to be a high vis uniform.

He called the public sewage department number and eventually got through to the man's boss.

"Thank God! I'm so glad he's OK! Please give him the phone."

"He's dripping shi...slime everywhere, and there is no way I'm handing him my phone. Here, I'll put you on speaker."

"Can you hear me, Sam? Are you all right?"

Against all evidence to the contrary, the slightly steaming worker replied, "Yeah, I'm fine."

The boss sounded very stressed. "What the hell happened? You were supposed to stay on the main path."

"I'm not sure I can tell you just now. It's about the reason we were working down there."

"You might as well tell me. Some reporter was snooping around, and everybody in Ontario is going to know by next week at the latest."

"I saw the alligator go down a side pipe and followed, but the safety grate closed behind me, and I couldn't get it open again. At least this narrows our search, though. I saw the alligator cross over into the eastern storm drains. We can shut the grates and catch it in the storm sewers."

Fenton didn’t think he could contribute anything constructive, but he had to say something. "An alligator. In Ontario. How?"

"Probably someone's illegal pet they released when it grew too large," Sam told him dismissively. "Now it's 10 feet long and wreaking havoc on some of our more delicate sewer components."

Fenton thought about this a moment, then said, "I'll catch it if you pay me."

"What do you mean?" Asked the manager on the phone.

"I'm from Florida." He said.

"That makes you more qualified than any of us. You're hired."

They worked out the details, and Fenton confirmed he was sure three times.

Sam's apartment was in the same direction as Fenton's hotel, so they walked together for a while.

"What brings you to Ontario?" Sam asked.

Fenton was alert to their surroundings given the time of night, looking around as he said, "I've got a mixed martial arts fight tomorrow night."

Sam scraped some muck off his arms and said, "That's amazing. How have you fared in previous fights?"

"I do OK," Fenton said modestly.

That was all the polite conversation they had in them, and they walked in comfortable silence a few blocks before Sam headed down a different street. Fenton took a deep breath of crisp, fresh air. He hoped he wouldn't smell like Sam after he finished catching the alligator tomorrow.

Fenton and the dozens of workers he met the next morning were able to find and close off the alligator in a bleak storm drain three blocks away from a large park. He got the OK to go down into it about noon, descending on a ladder with a head lamp on. He looked around, subconsciously looking for clowns or similar, but there was only an enormous, angry alligator. He knew what to do with that.

He got a loop around the alligators jaw first go and secured it to the bars of the metal grate blocking the next passageway. Now, he had to tranquilize the creature. He got close enough to the side of the animal to administer the injection in the right place, but that didn't save him. The furious alligator began a death roll that smashed him into the concrete.

Fenton was no stranger to pain and knew better than to move in the opposite direction of the roll, so he waited for his opportunity to get free. This came soon. The alligator was now having an unexpected nap. His right leg was still crushed under the immense animal. He pushed and pulled and twisted until finally he got it out, calling to the workers that it was safe for them to enter.

"What's going to happen to the alligator?" He asked.

"She'll go to the Ontario Zoo." The manager told him.

"He. Female alligators don't get this big." Fenton corrected.

"I don't care how the alligator identifies. I will not judge the alligator. I just want the mayor to stop calling me."

He and the workers hauled the heavy creature out of the storm drain on a big, sturdy piece of tarp. The alligator was successfully transferred to the zoo.

Fenton won his fight that night, but barely because of his injured leg. He made sure to tell his competitor that it was a good match and a close thing.


Back in the US, his first stop was the currency exchange.

"You took nearly 20%! That was my alligator catching money!"

The exchange lady was unimpressed. She looked like she took people's alligator catching money all the time.

She probably puts her cast iron skillets in the dishwasher, Fenton uncharitably thought.

Still, he walked out the door into the fading late afternoon light almost five hundred dollars richer, and he was happy.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
20:29 UTC

1

[NF]My sisters steal my friends and my friends don’t realise

What should I do?Im female(16) and have 2 siblings both females.Named Hannah and Helen.One is older than me and one younger. Its been 2 years since it happend,one day I was playing video games and my friend called me.She asked if we could play together and I said sure.We played everyday for weeks and one day I didn’t want to play with her but didn’t have the heart to tell her so I asked my sister to play with her which she luckily did.And the next day my sister wanted to play with her again and they played.I was helping my mom everyday and didn’t have time to always play with my friend so my sister did.My sister never helps my mom so of course I had to.With time they grew closer and closer and one day my other sister also wanted to play with my friend.But we only had one tv and only two people could play on the tv and so they all played without me.After they played I confronted my sisters and told them that I didn’t want them to always play with my friend because in the end she was my friend and not theirs she was my classmate not theirs we were friends together for 5 years and they werent.But they didnt care they said it was my fault and so they continued to play with her everyday without me.It got to the point that my friend bought something expensive for my sister.I was so mad but didn’t say anything my sister just flexed and said that my friend liked her more than me which was true.Slowly I didn’t care anymore it was both my sisters fault and my friends fault.They even went outside together.My friend first wanted to go out with the three of us but I told her that I had an argument with my sisters so they all went without me.We all go to the same school and in the cafeteria she always searches for my sister.It got so bad that my other friend also started liking my sisters and spent time with them.I thought I could trust her once she told me that all her friends liked her sister more than her and she broke down crying. I of course comforted her.But look who does the same.Last week I went out with my two friends and my sisters and they always played alone and not with me.My friend also only calls my sisters to play and never me.I don’t know what to do because my friends want to have a good relationship with my sister and they thinks its normal the way they’re acting.They actually very good friends and I like them but no human is perfect I even thought about breaking our friendship but it’s not worth it I know its also my fault.

2 Comments
2024/11/02
19:59 UTC

1

[MF] Through Their Eyes

Jayden’s eyes

As I line up on the ball, the cool air of fall on my arms. The sweat accumulating on my face. It feels me with joy, but also dread for some reason. It’s never done that before. My Dad is screaming at me from the stands,wanting me to break the town's record for most touchdowns in a single season. I call a timeout. I ask the coach to change the play and give it to our running back since he's hardly scored at all this season. We form back to the line and Jason snaps the ball. He hands it off to DeAndre and DeAndre gets tackled almost immediately. That's the game. My Dad is screaming at the coaches from the stands. Screaming at me. Saying "That should've been Jayden! That should've been my son." I knew I would get a mouthful on the way home from the game,but I didn't care. I had other things in mind. This game was for my mom. My mom would've been proud of my decision. I miss her. It's been almost 8 years since she passed. …..

Well I was right about getting a mouthful. My Dad started chewing me out. Telling me how worthless I was,and how I can't ever do one thing just for him. As much as I would like to say that was just the alcohol talking,I knew it wasn't. He yelled at me all the way home. We finally got home and I told him to stay the fuck out of my life,and he swung on me. So I swung back. We had a fight in the middle of the yard. Thankfully no one lives around us so no one saw me kick my sorry excuse for a dad's ass. After the fight,I decided to go for a drive and calm down. I was driving around town,I'll admit I may have taken some beers from the fridge before leaving. Not like Dad would care anyway. He's drunk and knocked out cold in the yard. My vision started to get blurry,and I knew that was my time to go back home. I turn around in the road,and I live on this mountain and below this poorly built bridge there's a giant lake. I had the sudden urge to drive into it,but I kept my eyes on the road. The urge kept getting stronger and stronger. I almost couldn't stop it. The thought of driving off the road,ending this life,and finally making my Dad happy,knowing that this sorry excuse for a son is dead. Then I crossed the bridge. The urge started to go away. I was going about 70 maybe even 80 when i realized i didn’t have my seatbelt on. Suddenly a car comes out of nowhere. I swerve into the ditch,rolling my car,hitting trees,and finally landing in the lake, the water freezing cold in the late nights of fall,and all i could think was "this is where it ends. I'm not getting out of this." Water starts to fill the car,eventually. It's over my head. I'm running out of air,and my vision is going black. The last thing that I remember seeing was that my car door was still open. ….

DeAndres Eyes

I still remember when Jayden called timeout and told the coach to give me the ball.  I still remember how hard that tackle was. I remember his Dad screaming at everyone in the stands wanting his son to break the record. It seems like it was just yesterday,but in reality it's been two weeks. The funeral is this weekend,and everyone is going. It seems like the whole town is going. Going to school without him is different. We hungout together all the time. Now it seems like I have no one. I can hardly focus on my own work,I mainly keep to myself and keep my head down. It was time for lunch. Lunch was the best time before Jayden died. The whole football team would sit at a lunch table and make jokes,talk about girls,and just have fun. Since he died though, it hasn't been the same. It's like the whole football team since then has disbanded. As I walked into the lunch room, i get an odd stench. Has it always smelled this bad? I seen Jason,and Aaron fighting,two of my teammates. "I think I'll eat alone today" I thought to myself.  As I got my food and go to sit down,Chloe comes up to me,she is-she was Jayden's girlfriend. She asks how I'm doing. I tell her I'm doing okay,and I ask how she is doing. She says "I could be better,but I'm learning to live with it." "I'm sorry about your loss." I said as I stare into her Amber eyes. The same eyes that made me never want to stop looking at her. She says "it's okay,I'm sorry about your loss too." "It's fine,things happen that are just out of your control." I said. The bell rings,we get up and start walking to class. We're just holding a normal conversation when one of Jayden's "friends" comes up to me and gets all in my face. "Why are you walking with Jayden's girl? Can't you just be respectful for once in your life about other people's lives?" "Fuck off Mark. We're just walking to class" Before I know it,he drops his bag and swings on me. Hits me in the right cheek. I get up and tackle him to the ground. Pounding his face into the wet concrete. The rain mixes with blood,and makes a dark reddish color. "We're all grieving. You don't have to be such a dick about it just because he was a friend of yours. He was my friend too." I say as I get up and put my bag back on my shoulder. Chloe was just sitting there watching it all. The second bell rang. Before I could say anything she said "I gotta go to class. I'll talk to you later." I looked down at Mark. I wasn't going to help him up. He brought this on himself. I grabbed my stuff and left. As I walked into my next class,the teacher got a phone call asking to see me in the office. Walking out of the class all I could think about is how much this school actually needed Jayden. …

Chloe’s eyes

After seeing the fight. I couldn’t stop thinking about what all has happened. Watching DeAndre beat Mark’s face into the concrete was a sight to see. I don’t know how I feel about it. On one hand I wish it didn’t happen,but on the other hand, I'm really happy that I got to see Mark’s face beat in. He was always fake to Jayden,and I’m glad someone put him in his place. Walking into class, everyone stared at me as if I was the one that killed Jayden. All of their soulless empty eyes,on me. I can feel the heat coming from their eyes,and the smell of morning breath from some people in the room. I sit in my seat in the back,Mark usually sits in front of me,but he is currently laying on the concrete still. Everyone asks where he is,they all ask me as if they know that I say what had happened. I just tell them I don’t know and carry on with what I was doing,which might I add was absolutely nothing. All I was doing was sitting there thinking about Jayden, thinking about how much this school actually needed Jayden. The whole class I wasn’t even paying attention,I couldn’t tell you one thing that I remember from that class. After class I go to my locker to get my math book,when I see Jaydn’s hoodie. I keep his hoodie in my locker for when it’s a cold day at school,and I don’t have my own hoodie. The night he got in the wreck was the night he told me he had to tell me something. I think he was going to propose,the cops found an engagement ring in his back pocket. I don’t know if I’ll ever move on. The bell rings, “shit,I’m late again.” I say to myself as I start to walk to my next class. Walking into math everyone asks if I’m okay,and if I need anything. I tell them I’m fine,and that they couldn’t do anything anyway they just wouldn’t understand. Nobody ever understands. All during school it was so hard for me to focus. Finally the final bell rings and I can go home. I was so ready to go home. I got in my car and I started driving home. Driving home I just realized I had to go across the bridge that Jayden crashed on. Crossing the bridge was terrible,the skid marks on the road were still there from where he swerved. I decided to pull over and just look at the scenery, all things considered, it really is a beautiful spot, how lucky he was to have passed in such a beautiful place and not in a hospital bed with countless wires around him. I get out of the car and walk over to where the edge of the bluff is. I look down into the lake,and I try to spot where I think Jayden’s car landed. Looking down for so long made me feel like I was having positional vertigo. I had to walk away before I fell in. I walked back to my car and started to drive home. When I pull into my driveway I see there are other cars there. Walking into my house,I see that Jayden’s family is all there. I walk in the door and they all greet me with a big hug. We all sit there in the hug for at least five minutes. I love them,and I miss Jayden. I’m wearing his hoodie now,and I never want to take it off now. ….

Mark’s Eyes Laying on the ground,the blood coming from my mouth,my nose,and just about anything that can bleed. I gathered the strength to stand back up,and look where I was laying. The blood and the water have mixed together to a very dark red,almost a brown. I grab my bag,and decided I’m going to leave school. I start to walk to my car,when the bell rings. I guess I was laying there for awhile. I keep my head down and continue walking on, I looked up and I saw Chloe walking towards me. She asks, “Are you okay?” I say “Fuck off. You let all of that happen,and you didn’t even try to stop it all. You just sat and watched like a puppy.” She looks at me with an annoyed,and aggravated look,and says, “You don’t have to be a dick to everyone,just because you don’t like Jayden,because he stole me from you. You never did anything right for me,you left me out to dry so many times. All you ever did was care about yourself. Someone just died,and you just fought his best friend trying to hold a normal conversation with me to cope with what happened. Get over yourself,you didn’t even care about Jayden. Stop acting like you did.” Then she storms off and leaves me standing like an idiot. Her words stung like a million wasps, and watching her leave is something i could never get used to. I walk to my car,and put my bag in the backseat. I get in the driver's seat and left the school in a hurry. Driving home I start thinking about what Chloe said. I really am full of myself,but man Jayden was a dick. I don’t know how to say it, I’m not glad he died,but I’m glad he is gone. If that makes sense. I feel bad for the people that were close to him,and are griefing. I don’t feel bad for Jayden as a whole though. I finally get home and I walk inside. Thankfully no one is home,so my mom or my dad can’t see my face. I decide I want to take a shower and wash all of this dried blood and fresh blood off. I stay in the shower for at least an hour thinking about what Chloe said again. She was so right about everything that she said. I am full of myself,and I only care about myself. I can’t change who I am though. That’s how I’ve always been. I don’t know what else to do though,I mean this is going to get out,and all during school, I’m going to be known as a dick that fought Jayden’s best friend for no reason. I can’t do anything to change that either. Maybe I should run away,or maybe I should just end it. Not for attention,but because after what happens, I’ll have no one. I go to our medicine cabinet,and find a full bottle of acetaminophen. I open the bottle,and I pour at least 40 pills in my hand,and then take them all. I get in my car and start driving. I drive out of town, no one would care anyway. I’ll be hated. I get out of town,and in the woods. I crash my car,and lay in my crashed car,so much pain in my stomach. My car smashed between two trees, the fall leaves just starting to change, i couldn’t help but think if this was maybe somewhat of how Jayden felt, that’s if he was alive for a little bit after he crashed. This was a bad idea,I can’t stop it now though, my vision is going black and my stomach is hurting even worse. I call my mom and say “I took a bunch of acetaminophen and I crashed my car on purpose I thi--”

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jayden Hammer. He was born May 9th 2000,and he died September 17th 2019. He left an impression on everyone,and all of this town"
1 Comment
2024/11/02
19:04 UTC

1

[FN] Paperwork

Here I am, commander of this outpost, in my office buried in a mountain of paperwork. Ration deployments, patrol schedules, reprimands, accolades, weapon shipments— it goes on and on. Yeah, it’s boring and tedious, but I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. This is way better than being out there on the “front lines.” There isn’t a war going on, though the Empire wouldn’t admit it. The active soldiers spend most of their time bullying various villages and cities for their supplies or gold. Incidents do happen, which is why we are required to be fully equipped when deployed. I suddenly become very conscious of my own armament.

Honestly, it’s ghastly to look at, but I suppose that’s the point. The dark red and black colour scheme, with all those jagged pieces around it, makes me chuckle to myself as I wonder how often someone accidentally hurts themselves just handling their equipment. What I’m wearing is nothing compared to what those out on the field wear. You could easily mistake them for some sort of foul creature, but again that is the intended effect. We are part of the Empire after all, and we are definitely not the good guys. That honour would go to Othuric the Destined One and his small band of allies who have decided to seemingly put themselves in harm’s way. They fight with the hope of one day shattering the Empire and defeating the Emperor, bringing freedom and peace to all. It all sounds way too risky for me; I’d much rather be a cog in an evil machine than end up as the corpse of a good person.

Not that I consider myself a bad person; I just chose what made sense. What was I supposed to do? Help defend some village somewhere and hope this Destined One just shows up when the Empire inevitably comes to take what it wants? Nope, I plan on living for as long as I possibly can. So, I joined the Empire and got myself stationed in this middle-of-nowhere launching point for other more significant outposts. Safe and isolated, with no stubborn villagers, no heroes, and nothing to do at all. Well, except for now— the paperwork. Apparently, my plan to stay alive gets you promoted by default and now I spend most of my time here in my office signing these documents and reports. I’m still alive though. Right? I don’t understand the thought process of some of my colleagues at all. They seem to go out of their way to look for trouble, like the first sign of discontent or a sighting of the enemies of the Empire and they rush to investigate. They all seem to have single track minds; they are drawn to danger like a moth is to flame. That’s why I jumped at the opportunity to come all the way out here and have refused any invitations to oversee other military operations. I consider myself unique in that respect, everyone else seems to be like puppets being pulled along by their strings.

Today there was excitement though, some of the guards reported seeing something unusual moving around in the forest next to the outpost. It was indicated that someone might have been lurking about or at least something that looked humanoid. There are old stories about the Wallowing Woods—stories of gods and creatures long forgotten. My men whisper about them, but I’ve never seen anything to take them seriously. I decided to go to the eastern wall and oversaw some of my men exploring the outskirts of the woods, but soon it became apparent that my men’s imagination had gotten the best of them. I returned to my office to finish the paperwork for tomorrow’s shipment of supplies. The ship is scheduled to come early, so I need to get this done before I retire for the day. I didn’t even bother to take off my combat armour when I came back since it wouldn’t take too much longer to finish.

I wouldn’t normally bother to personally take charge of an investigation, but there have been these rumors going around lately, and I felt it would help the men relax if I took charge. It’s preposterous, but sometimes you need to do these things for morale. I mean, come on! Why would- Wait, is that… running? The door to my office swings opens suddenly, “Commander!” It’s one of the men that I sent to the forest today; he’s in a panic. Wait, no... He’s excited? “Come quick! To the dungeon! It’s unbelievable!” The man is beaming. Something big must have happened for this breach in decorum. I stand and rest my hands on my desk, “This is no way to address your superior! What’s the meaning of this?!” My subordinate had a quick flash of apprehension before straightening themselves out, “Sorry Sir! I lost myself, but you need to come to the dungeon immediately! We captured him!” I move closer to the man who disturbed my precious peace, arms folded behind my back doing my best to hide how nervous I was feeling. “I don’t know who could be down there to make one of my men act like this; for your sake, it better be good.” He suddenly has this massive grin on his face, the kind a toddler gets when they show off their art to a parent, “It’s way better than good, Sir! We caught the Destined One!”

I’m now following this giddy soldier down to the basement to look at this prize my men have acquired today. He’s yammering about how it happened, “So decided to go back out…” I can’t focus though, I should be listening intently, I should be as thrilled as he and the rest of my men probably are. I’m not though, I am terrified. “…tried to hide in this small cave, but we…” I have read every report from every run in the Empire has had with this Destined One and it always ends the same way, death. No matter how unlikely the result, the Destined One and his friends manage to escape or evade or defeat us. There is nothing special here to give us the upper hand. Why would he even come around to this area? “…he managed to do this weird half somersault move and it took out…” What am I going to do? I came to this outpost for a reason, to avoid this very thing! I can’t die here, not today… But what can I possibly do? Our overall mission is to capture the Destined One and keep him confined until the Emperor can take him. “…so, then I decided to just go for it and ran at…” A mission I was perfectly content with ignoring, because this was supposed to be nowhere near anything important. A place safe from any real danger that the Empire seems to stir up and most importantly where a hero wouldn’t bother with. “Uh, commander we’re here.”

I’m startled, but quickly regain my composure. “Right, stay here. I’ll talk to him. Alone.” He opens the door for me, and I enter the cell they put the Destined One in and my heart sinks somehow lower. A part of me hoped that maybe my idiot men made a huge mistake, but there is no mistaking it. It’s definitely him. I just stare at this bound man, kneeling in his dank cell, the one who they say the gods selected to be their champion. I have no idea what to say and even less what to do. His friends must be near, maybe already in the outpost... I’m going to die tonight. “You and your foul Empire will fall! I am Othuric the Guardian of the Worlds! Release me or meet your end!” he shouts this to the floor as he didn’t even bother to look up at me when I entered, regardless it brings me out of my thoughts, “I- I am not going to-“ Wait would that work, can I just release him? No, the news must be all over the outpost. It’ll get out, and I’ll definitely be executed for such a failure. Othuric looks up at me, confused. “You’re in charge here?” It’s like he can see right through me. I swallow what saliva I have left, “Wha- “I close my eyes, “Why are you here of all places?” He glares at me like I’ve insinuated his mother is a loose woman, “I will never answer your questions, I am sure my companions are near if not above us right now. Make peace with your god, you’ll be meeting them soon!” A smile creeps over his face that I would think only a demon could wear and my blood turns to ice. I take a step back before turning around swiftly and making my way to the cell door. I open it ajar and notice that a crowd has gathered outside, these people are truly oblivious to the danger I, well we, are in! I shout angerly, “What are you worms doing here?! Everyone to their posts and triple the patrols, The Destined One’s allies must be near!” I slam the door shut and pray that the volume of my words masks the cowardice I feel.

I turn back to face this Othuric and I stare at him for a moment. My mind is blank though. This is hopeless, isn’t it? Well… If I’m going to die anyways then there is no harm… I quickly stride up to the prisoner, which seems to startle him. “What are yo—“ He stammers, but I cut him off “Shhhhh shut up!” I whisper urgently as I kneel to his level. “Hey, yeah, okay look I get it. I’m in the Empire and I am in charge here but look…” I glance at the door and plead a little quieter, “… I, uh, I need a way out of this. I don’t really care about this whole “control the worlds” thing we are doing. I just want to live, so how do I get out of this?” Othuric clearly wasn’t expecting this, “What? What is this?” I clench my teeth, I don’t have time for this, “Just, like, how do I get out of this? Alive of course!” My prisoner shakes his head in some mixture of annoyance and frustration, “Release me and I pledge that I and my comrades will not harm you!” I rub my hands and make a hissing noise from a sharp intake of air, “Yeah, then Empire will hunt me down and kill me. I need a better plan…” Othuric rolls his eyes, “Well, my options are limited here, but I promise you that I am the one destined to bring peace and freedom to these worlds. As I have countless times before, I will escape from here and no harm shall befall me.” Wait… That might work… I slowly stand upright as I grip the handle of the short sword on my hip. We are supposed to keep the Destined One alive for the Emperor, but maybe killing him wouldn’t be an executable offense. Maybe getting rid of this prophesied hero once and for all will cancel out the disobedience of waiting for the Emperor to show up for him. It’s a long shot and the best I could hope for is life imprisonment, but that would mean I do live at least. If I had more time I might be able to come up with something better, but what other choice do I have? Every second I waste brings me closer to doom! Othuric must have been reading my mind, “Hey, no! You wouldn’t dare! I am the Destined One, the Guardian of the Worlds! Chosen by the very gods to-“ like a flash of lightning I unsheathe my blade and plunge it into his chest. We make eye contact as his life slowly leaves his body; he looks like he has plenty of curses he wishes to throw at me but no time to do so. His corpse crumples to the floor and my heart is beating wildly as I stare down at the only life I ever took. All the reports talked about his unbelievable luck, his reality-defying ability to get out of any situation, and I’ve done the seemingly impossible. I killed the Destined One.

I don’t know why, but I start to laugh— chuckling at first, but I quickly build to hysterical cackling. What have I done? Did I save myself or just delay the inevitable? I compose myself and decide to head to my quarters. I just need a moment, just a moment to figure this out. I’m trembling as I leave the cell, but thankfully no one is around to see me in this state. Wait, that’s strange… it’s protocol to have two men stationed outside a cell when a prisoner is contained. Hmm, maybe triple patrols were over doing it. I hasten my way through the garrison to get to my personal chambers doing my best to listen for anyone whether they be intruders or patrol men. I nearly make it when I realize something, it’s deathly quiet. Even when operating normally I can always hear shuffling or soft talking in the distance and now with more men on patrol… where is everyone? I come to a complete stop and I stare for a moment at the entrance to my sanctuary, its bathed in an orange glow. Something is very wrong. I turn my head towards a nearby torch, the fire that normally dances on the end of the torch is completely still. There is no flicker from fire in the hallway or on my door, it’s only this eerie light covering everything. My attention snaps back to this unnatural silence and pull out my blade, still caked in Othuric’s blood. I drop it to confirm, and I don’t know how to even process this. My short sword falls to the stone floor with a clang, but that’s it. No echo from the equally stone walls… No echo? I shout, “Hello?” I hear my own panicky cowardly voice, but nothing from the walls.

I run to the nearest exit, shouting repeatedly “Hey!” Hello!” “Anyone!” But I hear no reply. As I am making my escape, I notice the rough stone becoming smoother and more uniformed, as if they are slowly turning two dimensional. I make it outside and what I see defies all reason. The usually inky black night sky has these large white patches that seem to be growing. The stars that dot that very sky are fading away, quickly, one by one. I watch, with my mouth agape, as reality itself seems to dissipate. The colour seeps out of the banners we fly on our towers until only their outlines remain, still flapping silently in a wind that I can no longer feel. This white void begins to eat the horizon steadily making its way towards me. I look at my hands and notice that they seem to be losing their definition. A water droplet falls onto my right hand, and I wipe the tears off my face. There is no sensation of wetness from my tears or warmth of the caress from my own hands, my very senses are failing me.

As the void closes in around me, I whisper, “Oh, I see... There was nothing I could do.”

1 Comment
2024/11/02
12:37 UTC

1

[FN] time loop limbo

the sound of keys being hit on a keybord resonated in the dark room.

" I won again......"

itori said with a sigh,

rubbing his eyes with his bony hands,

his oversized shirt shifting towards his shoulder side,

"maybe i should find a new game to play:"

itori put his glasses back on and returned his eyes towards the computer screen.

'its getting too easy for a supposed hard game,'

suddenly, his screen turned black.

'.......electricity outage?'

'boom'

a loud boom shook the dark room,

causing itori to fall from his chair.

before he could say anything,

the floor and the walls shook,

'wha...'

and the roof fall over, burying itori in the pebble.

(ability / time loop / )

the words sounded as itor's vision faded,

his bony body crushed under the rubble.

'is this how i die..'

itori could not finish his thoughts before his vision turned black,

an explosive force forcing him backwards....

'......hm?'

itori slowly opened his eyes,

the computer screen was in front of his eyes....

the game screen showed ' defeated '

'.....did'nt i win.....'

before he could continue, the same loud boom, followed by an earth quake sounded again.

itori rush towards the corner closest to the door with a jump, injuring his bony ankle.

......and sure enough....

'boom'

the roof fell on the spot he was just sitting on a moment ago.

'.........w.....so it was not a hallu...'

before he could finish, a loud roar sounded from the now open roof.

a beast with snake tail, elephent body, owl wings and a wolf head descended,

.....staring at itori with blood shot eyes.

before itori could react, its monsterous jaw was already near itori's head.

'chomp'

with a single bite, its terrifying fangs ripped itori's skull,

his brain spllatering on the ground.

(ability / time loop / )

yet again, he felt a force push him backward......

......and his eyes open once more

'.......that hurt.......'

itori was paralyzed by both fear and pain,

he felt his brain throbbing,

he could still feel his brain being crushed between sharp fangs....

'boom'

unfortunetly for itori, he did not manage to move from his spot in time,

',.....what is.....'

( ability / time loop / )

once again, the world faded to black,

as a force pushed him backward once more....

'........happening...'

his eyelids open once more,

to the familiar sight of his computer screen.

'......this is all.....a dream,,,,,,,it has to be...'

however, the computer screen turned black once more,

........followed by the explosion,,......and his roof crushing his ribs....

( ability / time loop / )

once again, he opened his eyes to the familiar screen of his pc.

'........this is......not a dream.....'

itori bit his tongue to wake himself from the pain of his organs being crushed,

and jumped, this time towards a different more hidden corner.

the roof fell as before as itori prayed the strange beast like monster from before wont reappear.

'roar'

however, his prayers were not answered,

with the flap of its owl like wings, the creature descended through the roof,

its bloodshot eyes fixated on him.

'......what is this beast......'

however, no answers came before the jaw of the monster was in front of him once more.

itori's body was shivering with fear, but he manage to dodge a little to the right....

'tear'

saving his life...

'AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH'

......at the cost of his right side being ripped apart.

itori's mind was numb with pain as he try to scream..

'AHH...........'

however, the chimera beast soon tore his throat apart as well,....

his vision turned dark once more...

( ability / time loop / )

......and his eyes opened once more.

..........like that,

( ability / time loop / )

he died.

( ability / time loop / )

over

( ability / time loop / )

and over

( ability / time loop / )

and over

( ability / time loop / )

......until he lost count.

itori's once prideful eyes were now dull....

he was a genius at everything he did....so he did not have to struggle in life.....

'...........'

however, his once overflowing pride....

he sat on the floor, at the place beside the rubble would be,,,

.......was now gone.....

'....is this purgatory for being prideful?.....'

'roar'

the creature descended once more,

'......is this my hell for being born different?'

itori looked at his bony hands, paying the monster no heed.

he felt disgusted when he saw how bony his hands were....

once he was a brigh young man......

........yet because of his pride.....

'...........how disguesting...'

....he had became a shell of his former self.

the wolf crunched his skull open once more.

'......how disguesting...'

( ability / time loop / )

'how...........HOW DISGUESTING!!!!!!!!!!!!'

he felt something crack within himself,,,,

but he opened his eyes once more.

'this is my hell? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, ILL SEE ABOUT THAT!!!!!!!'

This time, he looked around for anything he could use as a wepon.

as long as that chimera monster was alive, he would die.

itori grabbed his chair and walked towards a corner.

'ill just have to kill that thing, and ill continue being shitty damn it!'

itori said with a twisted eerie smile.

he had no idea why any of this is happening....

.......but all he knew was he WILL live.

( ability / time loop / )

he only manage to throw the chair at the beast before dying.

( ability / time loop / )

he manage to make the beast bite the chair, piearcing its mouth, died from its paws.

( ability / time loop / )

he manage to make the beast sharpen the metal handle of the chair using its sharp fangs, died in an attempt to test this.

( ability / time loop / )

( ability / time loop / )

( ability / time loop / )

'.......i can feel it.'

he did not know how many times it had been.

'this time is the time that damn dog die.'

adrenalin pumping through his veins, with a twisted smile,

he grabbed the chair once more,

he had became quite masterful at using the damn chair like a wepon.

the roof collapses and the beast arrived once more.

itori stood at a corner with a taunting smile.

soon, the jaws of the beast was within range.

......his smile became even more twisted.

he put the chair in its teeths, causing it to break.

the metal bits piercing the beast's mouth, causing it to became even more furious.

itori pulled the familiar metal rod with sharp end.

'.....checkmate.'

and using the beast's own speed and strength........

.......the sharp metal rod piearced its brain.

the fangs grazed itori's pale skin,

causing fresh but minor wounds.

'HAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHAAHHHAAHAH, I WON!'

......itori had lived...

2 Comments
2024/11/02
11:47 UTC

1

[SP]Chinese Whispers

In an ancient world well before established societies

Two brothers decide to walk to the woods they pass an old woman sat on a chair next to a river she smiles and waves at the boys. In the woods one of the brothers Adam finds a Strong Red oak tree in the woods towering high. Adam is impressed by it's colours and begins to climb it racing along the tree branches and swinging off the branches. Edward the second younger brother realises he wants to climb it as well. But they discovered only one boy can climb the tree at one time. Edward asks to climb the tree but Adam says "you can watch me but I don't want you to break it so you can't touch it". Edward begrudgingly accepts this and watches Adam for a little while. Edward asked can I play on it after you? Adam says "maybe but stay over there for now." Eventually Edward gets bored of waiting and decides to leave the forest . On the way out of the forest Edward encounters the old woman she reveals herself to be a travelling fortune teller who offers to read his palm. The fortune teller tells him "You will be very wealthy and have a large family that will spread far and wide and you have found a red tree that you will be able to climb and play on forever".

Edward runs back to Adam and shouts out frantically. "Adam Adam Adam I have just met the old woman who said I will have a large family and I will have a red tree to climb forever this is that tree I just know it.

Adam surprised by this says to Edward "that makes no sense I found the tree so I get to climb on It and keep it let me speak to the old lady".

Adam steps off his tree and walks out of the forest the old lady greets him with a smile and asks "how can I help" Adam responds "my brother thinks the red tree in the forest is his now because you said he could play with It forever?". The old lady smiled and said let me read your palm. Adam a bit confused by this shows his palm the lady reads the palm and says

"You will also grow to be very wealthy and with a large family and that red tree has been a part of your family for generations your parents climbed it and now you can it is yours to play with forever".

Adam smiles and runs back when he returns he sees Edward climbing the tree I said you can't touch it as you will break it". Edward stopped threw a stone at Adam and shouted "I won't break it" Adam was mad he threw a stone at Edward which resulted in him falling off the tree breaking a branch. Adam stormed over furious at the broken branch The old woman never said to me that you can play with the tree she told me it's been in my family for generations and it's mine you can't climb on it.

Edward responds with quivering lips "but I was told I will have a red tree and it's right here so why can't I play with it, You're supposed to be my brother"

Adam snapped "Because it's mine the fortune teller told me so leave me alone and find your own tree."

Edward swore and said "you are being unfair she said it's for me I'm leaving and I'm never coming back"!

Edward did indeed leave his brother Adam never looked for him preferring to protect his tree in case Edward came back and tried to climb it.

Edward wandered the world for many years growing wise and strong he birthed many children who in turn also birthed many children. Soon Edwards family was so large that a family member could be found in every country.

Meanwhile Adam aged as well he too grew strong and wise he joined the society of woodcutters and hunters met his wife and also birthed many children who in turn birthed many children each generation built houses around the forest in which the tree was found. The forest shrunk since the wood was used for the houses but the red tree remained untouched and protected and was eventually sealed in a glass case.

Both brothers passed down the story of the red tree However Adam did not talk about Edward when he told the story of the red tree. And Edward never talked about Adam in his stories about the red tree they hated eachother and they both believed the red tree only belongs to them and the brother was a lier.

Soon both Edward and Adam had died but they had many children each generation of children was told by their elders the story of the red tree and the story of the fortune teller.

150 years later Now Meet Sarah a descendent of Edward who is an explorer she has been wondering the world with her assistant Monty and they just discovered the land of the descendants of Adam.

Sarah watched the people in the communities Surrounding the forests they appeared to be a tight knit community strong walls encircled the cities, And the people spoke in a strange dialect.

She heard stories of a red tree kept at the centre of the land in a deep forest sealed in a glass case. Sarah was overcome by curiosity could this have been the fabled red tree of legend promised to the descendants of Edward.

She travelled deep into the city until she came upon the forest. As she proceeded to enter she was stopped by a tall man in steel armour.The man boomed with a deep commanding voice. "I am Simon the guardian Who Are You What Is your Business here.

I am Sarah of the descendants of Edward and this is Monty my assistant I come to seek the red tree of legend.

Simon commanded "The red tree belongs to the people of Adam you may not enter the woods."

Sarah responded but our legends and tales state we will find a red tree this is the tree that has been promised. We were told many years ago by a fortune teller that we will obtain a branch from a red tree and our people will never starve or suffer again.

Simon glared at monty and Sarah and scowled "The red tree has been in our family for generations it protects the people of Adam it fertilises our soil and provides food to our communities no one may approach it leave now or we will force you to leave"

Sarah responds "I am not leaving I only require a branch please allow me entry it is our destiny".

And with that Simon unsheathed his sword and with one sweep sliced Sarah's head clean off. Sarah's beheaded body slumped to the ground and Simon turned to Monty leave and tell your people that they are not welcome on this land.

Monty screamed and fled the city returning to the boat he and Sarah had previously arrived on.

What happened next you decide...In the comments

1 Comment
2024/11/02
07:52 UTC

3

[HR] Psychosis

Being colorblind, I’d never really put much thought into having a favorite color. Colors were just… there. People would go on about blue skies and green fields, but for me, those words were simply labels. I’d nod along, indifferent, feeling like an outsider, watching everyone else share in something I couldn’t quite reach. Favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite… anything, honestly—these weren’t things I’d ever cared about.

But then she blurted out, “Yellow! Yellow is your favorite color.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her certainty, as if she knew me better than I knew myself. “How’d you guess that?” I asked, amused. This whole idea of favorites felt almost silly, but she said it so confidently, as if it had been an undeniable truth all along.

“Because you just look like a yellow,” she replied with a playful grin, her eyes dancing with a light that seemed to radiate something I could never quite comprehend.

I laughed, shrugging inwardly. Yellow. Sure, why not? If she thought I was a yellow, then I’d be a yellow. She had a way of making things seem brighter, pulling me into a world I didn’t understand but wanted to. Her laughter felt like summer afternoons, and the way her hair curled in front of her eye drove me mad in the best way possible. The freckles on her cheeks seemed handpicked by the universe itself. She was light where I was a shadow, a breath of air in the suffocating haze of my indifference.

“So, what’s your favorite food?” she asked, leaning in with a teasing look.

I paused. Favorite food? I’d never given it much thought. Eating was just a routine, something to get through. But her voice made me want to pretend otherwise. “What do you think?” I asked her, curious to hear what she would make up.

She tilted her head, considering, then smiled. “You’re definitely a steak guy,” she declared, her voice warm with certainty. “You love steak, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding, “steak’s my favorite.” Her laugh filled the air between us, and even though steak had never really meant much to me, it felt right. Everything she said became truth, and that was enough.

Then I snapped awake, my head throbbing, the pain tearing through my skull like a shotgun blast. The dream had been so vivid, so perfect, but it was always the same: memories of her, memories that felt more like ghosts haunting me, clinging to a past I could never get back. She was gone, and I’d destroyed everything we’d had, leaving me with an emptiness that refused to let me go.

I sat up slowly, my body aching as I sank into the worn, sagging cushions of the stained and broken couch. The living room was a prison, and I was its sole inmate. Beer cans littered every surface, some half-empty and leaking stale alcohol onto the floor. The coffee table was covered in thick layers of dust mixed with spilled liquor, creating a grimy film that made the whole room smell sour and rotting. A pill bottle lay discarded near the edge, and I grabbed it, my hands trembling as I shook it. Empty. Always empty. I hurled it toward the kitchen, where dirty plates were piled high, broken ceramic shattered across the floor, catching shards of moonlight like shattered stars.

The house creaked around me, every groan of the old wood echoing the pain in my chest. The wallpaper hung in curling, tattered strips, stained with years of neglect. The air was stale, filled with the scent of decay and the ghost of her perfume. The light from the living room window was cold and pale, bathing everything in a silver sheen that felt almost mocking.

“You have to stop. You’ll kill yourself.” Her voice came from somewhere behind me, clear and haunting, like she was right there. I twisted around, heart pounding, but there was nothing. Just the empty, lifeless hallway. The walls were covered with broken picture frames, the glass shattered and scattered across the floor. In some of the less-destroyed frames, her smile shone back at me, frozen in happier times. My fingerprints, stained with blood from countless outbursts, smeared the glass. I’d punched these walls, these memories, over and over, as if somehow that would make the regret and self-loathing go away.

I stumbled into the kitchen, kicking cans and broken plates aside, searching for another bottle. The refrigerator door hung open, its light long dead, and the counters were cluttered with the remnants of a life that had once been vibrant. There were reminders of her everywhere. She’d filled this kitchen with laughter and warmth, always trying new recipes, dancing to old songs while making a mess we’d clean up together. Now, it was nothing but ruins, a graveyard of what we’d once shared.

I found another bottle, this one of cheap whiskey, and took a long swig, the burn numbing me for just a moment. My throat tightened as I swallowed, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Stop hurting yourself, please. For me,” her voice pleaded, softer this time. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to drown her out, but she wouldn’t leave. The guilt was relentless, her words slicing through me like knives.

I staggered into the bathroom, barely able to keep my balance. The medicine cabinet door hung crooked, the mirror cracked. I yanked it open, my hands shaking as I grabbed another bottle of pills. Swallowing one, then two, then three, I looked at my reflection. My face was gaunt, eyes empty, skin pale and waxy. Dried blood crusted around my knuckles, a reminder of how I’d lashed out, destroying anything that reminded me of her.

I’d started using pills to sleep, to escape the nightmares, but now they were a crutch to feel nothing at all. The bathroom was filthy, mildew creeping up the corners, water stains darkening the ceiling. She had once kept this space immaculate, her makeup and hair products neatly arranged, her scent lingering in the air like a warm embrace. Now, it was suffocating, a tomb where hope had died.

The house seemed to breathe around me, creaking, whispering. I heard her voice again, faint and full of sorrow. “You have to let go.” The bedroom door loomed at the end of the hallway, a place I hadn’t dared to enter since she left. Her clothes still lay folded on the bed, the room frozen in time. I’d left it untouched, unable to face the reminders of what I’d lost. My hand wrapped around the door handle, and I wanted so desperately to go in, to let the grief wash over me.

But before I could, the front door slammed open, the sound so violent it echoed through the entire house. My hands fell away from the door, and I stumbled back into the living room. The glass crunched under my feet, shards tearing through my bare skin, cutting deep, but I barely registered the pain. Blood pooled around my toes, thin rivulets mixing with the dust and dirt, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. The physical agony was almost a relief, a fleeting distraction from the relentless ache in my chest.

Out in the woods, something moved. My breath came in shaky puffs, visible in the moonlight. I could almost make out her silhouette slipping through the trees, disappearing into the underbrush. She had always loved the woods, dragging me there for picnics, telling me about the colors of the leaves, how the sunlight broke through the branches in golden beams. It was her sanctuary, a place she could escape to when the world was too much.

Her laughter drifted from the woods, soft and full of life, and it shattered me. I knew I shouldn’t follow, knew it was impossible for her to be out there. But her voice kept calling, leading me deeper into the night, and all I could do was chase it, hoping to find her again—or maybe just a memory of who I used to be.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
07:31 UTC

1

[SF]Good morning frog

The frogy man, draped in tangerine and beet-red socks, sits down slowly, edging towards the cushion of his stained and cookie-crumb-covered mesh seat. Each joint begs to finally snap.

Folds within folds squirm, appearing from somewhere behind his shirt down to the start of his knees, as he almost finds his perfectly horrid indent. His body sags uniformly around a thick, dull skeleton. Burdened.

A rounded nose, thin lips, and a square head that unflatteringly tapers towards the peak of a pompous head of foolish grey straight-cut hair.

This then makes the unfortunate shape of the one who sits before us. Slothfully scoffing handfuls of well-stocked cookies but no cream. It would waste room inside the abyss.

The dull workstation screen remains pointed away from peering eyes, his own eyes mostly looking down at a grease-encased phone screen, labored with prints and forced to adorn his reflection after each brief dark flicker between frames. Theo preferred using the CentralSoftware for his work, it was the standard way. However screens still worked, just not as well.

Catching a brief breath from being alive, he swivels around the cluttered desk, which houses many curiosities of unfinished work and ideas, and suddenly faces Theo. He slams his cookie covenant closed. Raises his lower lip up then out, riding along his bottom teeth, tightens his jaw. Blinks to start a deep breath.

Then, after all the theatre, from on high his donkey, utters this outer drivel with a voice a mother couldn’t listen to.

“You left some metal on the floor again, not good. No. Not right!”

“I missed that peice. I was working on the new ion thrusters for the hatching delivery system beta. I came to ask if you have finished your calculations?”

“No, not yet. Takes time. How can I do many things at once? You also forgot to clean the replicator, again. It’s not right.”

“The one you broke? Last week?”

Theo couldn’t help but stare and feel sorrow for the creature he was conversing with. To be this narcissistic. To obviously be covering over something and hiding insecurity with control. Determining whether to respond with the same aggression or just be the bigger man, metaphorically. Thoughts like these spun around the forefront of Theo’s mind often. Temptation to lash out, but Frogy man was very confrontational and Theo would rather, and best so, avoid the pettiness. We all deal with creatures from time to time that are narcissistic and toxic, however, to play the game he thought required strategy. Kill them with kindness, do not lay with beasts, this is to become one.

“Shit happens, can’t do anything about it.”

“So, anyway, I need you to make these components for me, I have added them in CentralSoft. We need to use tungsten carbide. Simulation says so. It says. Simon does. It’s all in the reports.”

“Hold a wee second, who says? You say?”

“The sim says.”

“Ah, so you say, okay, I will ask Loom then. You added them? No. Use the local drive".

Thoes Jaw tightens, click, click, final clack.

“But back to the replicator, you need to clean it after.”

“Yeah.”

Theo walks away.

Wait!

A command from inside Theos mind pours out of a thousand little voices, each from everytime he had been tampled and torn and scorned by another.

“Enough.”

Why should we always take and never give? Isn’t that rude of us? We endure all the shit of the dawn, from those who would crumble without their own arrogance, to inflat them, without it would be reduced to a pile of shattered dreams and salty hope—a mess of mismanaged goals and talent left empty.

We should focus on what we can control. In this moment, Theo accepted his worth, realizing that his idea of control was damaging him from the inside. Why? Only to benefit others.

Hovering over to the frog like a breeze, Theo could barely wait to confront the a true antagonist.

“Listen to me. I said to do it. That’s all you need to know. I’ll get Loom to tell you. You’re not the boss, you’re not perfect. Those drives are like using a cucumber to cut an apple. Its easier for you, thats all that matters? So why don’t you just sleep as usual and mention the cleaning when you clean that desk—and don’t break anything.”

Returning to their workshop, Mr Theo felt much lighter.

Once zoomed into centralsoft, navgating to the correct enviroment, inspecting the hatching vessels geometry theo noticed a new viewer has looked at it while he was away...

1 Comment
2024/11/02
03:30 UTC

1

[RO] The Journey Of Us Chapter 29 and Chapter 30

Days passed by. Josh came to my apartment. We were having fun. I showed him my album and photos. He was watching my photos carefully. Suddenly he stopped smiling. 

   I asked him, “What happened?” He stared at me looking shocked. He asked, “Is the bracelet you are wearing in that photo your’s?” I nodded. He seemed angry.

  I asked, “What happened? Why are you getting mad?” He asked me, “Where is this now?” I said, “I don't know. I guess I lost it.” He put his hand in his pocket and showed me the bracelet. “Is this yours?” He asked politely. I said yes with a smiling face. “Where did you find it?” 

   He looked mad and said, “It was in my brother’s hand when he died. Can you explain to me how it reached there if you never met him.” I looked at him with a shocking face. 

  It was Julia. I gave her my bracelet to wear at the party. Pattrick must have grabbed this before falling from the stairs. I can’t tell him about Julia. I said, “You won't understand it.” 

   He stood up and said, “Did you push my brother from the stairs? Because he wouldn't be that careless to fell from the stairs.” I said, “It's not what you think.” 

   He stepped backward and said, “I loved you and you killed my brother.” I said, “It's not what you think. It was an accident.” He moved backwards saying, “Maybe I should leave. And maybe we should not see each other anymore.” 

   I went towards him saying, “Please give me a chance to explain.” I begged him for a chance to listen to my explanation but he didn't. He told me not to call him anymore and meet him. 

     I was very sad. I started crying in my room. It was all a misunderstanding. I thought I could handle it but it got worse. It was all because of that stupit bracelet. 

   I was crying all day and night. I skipped my dinner. I was very sad. I tried to contact Josh but he didn't answer. I tried to text him but he blocked me on all social media. 

    It was the worst break up. I packed my things and decided to meet my parents in California. Maybe I could forget about this. I packed my suitcase and took a flight to California. 

Eight years have passed away. I was now living in Los Angeles. I was twenty-four years old. It was really hard for me to forget about the past. I tried to forget Josh but he always came in my dreams. It was hard for Julia too but she managed it.

 She was having nightmares at first when Pattrick died. But later it got solved but in my life eight years have passed and nothing happened. I was a fashion designer who made clothes for famous celebrities and rich people. I was living alone in my apartment. It was really hard for me to move on but I finally did it. I never dated anyone after Josh. 

   Eight years ago when I left my apartment, I went to my parents house. I met them. I was happy to meet them but deep down I still missed Josh. I wanted to see him badly. But I knew it was never going to happen again.

 He hates me now. He doesn't want to meet me and talk to me. I was hurt badly. I didn't tell anyone about our break up, not even Julia. I always had an interest in fashion so I studied it. And now I am a Fashion Designer. I work with many famous people, celebrities and companies. 

I was happy with my work. I almost forgot Josh after so many years before he showed his face. I had an appointment so I got dressed and went to my office to meet with them. It was eleven in the morning. I reached there when a staff member said to his boss, “Sir, your client is here. Should I send him inside?” He said yes to him. 

   I went inside his office. He said, “Please take a seat.” I took a seat. “So what do you want to discuss?” I asked him. He said, “There are many people who purchase clothes from our shop but one of the customers liked your clothes so much that he wants you to be a personal fashion designer. Well, it means he will just buy clothes from you directly.”

   I was happy and said, “It's great news. So when will we meet him?” He said, “Actually they are here. I will call them.” He clicked his bell to call his staff. He said to his staff, “Take the customers here with you.” 

   The staff went forward to bring the customers. He came back. The customers came inside and took their place. I couldn't believe it. It was Josh. 

   

1 Comment
2024/11/02
01:20 UTC

0

“Hush, Little Baby”

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sing a lullaby, Ann had said. Eric will nod straight off. Yea, right…thanks, Sis. Styx sighed, slicking back his jet black hair. He held the baby awkwardly over his spiked leather jacket, patting his back. “There, there.” Styx bounced the child up and down as Ann had shown in her crash course in babysitting lesson.

His voice ground out the words in a deep bass:

“Say your prayers, little one Don't forget, my son To include everyone”

And then more softly he sang, as he tucked Eric under a yellow, crocheted blanket in his crib.

“I tuck you in, warm within Keep you free from sin Till the Sandman he comes”

Stroking Eric’s light blonde hair, Styx bent down and kissed his forehead as the tot’s eyelids drifted downward.

Maybe this isn’t going to be so hard after all.

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Styx face palms.

Spoke too soon.

He stands up a little straighter, before exhaling slowly.

Maybe the kid just needs to be alone in the dark. Yea, that’s gotta be it. Kids always sleep that way, right?

Styx flipped off the light switch and slowly backed out of the room. As he drew the door shut, it squeaked loudly.

WaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Tears blossomed in Styx’s own eyes. Metallica always helped him to sleep. The nephew had to be down for it too. It’s in his blood after all. Very gently, he picked Eric up back into his arms and sang sobbed:

“Exit light Enter night Take my hand We're off to Never—, Neverland.”

“C’mon little guy. Cut me some slack. We both need some sleep.” He glanced at his phone. “Holy shi– shucks. It’s eleven!”

Ann’s gonna be home in an hour and Eric was supposed to be down by eight. I wonder if she will kill me or laugh her ass off. I shouldn’t have said this would be easy. Stupid Styx! I’m never gonna live this down either way. But c’mon, she should have known. Styx the slacker brother… Styx the metal head… Styx the loser. Yea. She’s gonna think I’m a failure. Again. Can’t even handle his own nephew for a few hours. No wonder he lives with Mom and Dad still. He will never grow up… Pull it together. You’ve got this. People have put kids to sleep forever and ever. They probably didn’t ALL know what they were doing. Maybe the kid’s a rocker. Maybe I should actually sing louder, not softer. Yea, I bet I would have liked that when I was a kid.

Styx grabbed Eric’s bottle to use as an improvised microphone. He belted out at the top of his lungs:

“Hush little baby, don't say a word And never mind that noise you heard It's just the beasts under your bed In your closet, in your head…”

Eric’s eyes drifted downward. He cooed and gurgled happily. Reaching out with his tiny fingers he gripped Styx’s index finger and held on tightly.

Styx roared the last lines, grinning. “…Take my hand We're off to Never—, Neverland.”

0 Comments
2024/11/02
00:45 UTC

1

[HM] / [MF] The Weirdest Short Story prompt I've had in a while 😅 How'd I do?

Short Story Prompt: Write a story about a dancing green octopus with a Doctorate in English Literature inside the headquarters office of FTX on November 3rd, 2022.

• ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ • ∾ ⁛ ∾ •

[Fiction] I'm a Mean Green Dancing Machine

My goodness, tis a great day indeed. Today, I finally felt useful, appreciated, and intelligent. For years I have struggled with feelings of inadequacy and what many people call "imposter syndrome", but not today! I know that most people have those same feelings and self-esteem challenges at some point. The thing is, I'm technically not people — because I am not a "person". At least not as defined in the realm of human beings that is. No, I'm not a monster or any other preposterous thing existing outside of reality. I'm just a mutated octopus with emerald skin that was picked up by my loving human family here in my home, the Bahamas. Although I generally can't do much outside to fit in with the human world, my Mom and Dad did the best they could to teach me their ways and include me in their everyday life (yes they are human beings, so yes I am adopted... and I am proud of it). This wasn't all that hard, because my father was the surviving son in a long lineage of premier island fishermen. Which as you might imagine, is how Dad found me — struggling in the sea of course. But that is a story for another time! I'm talking about today, which was an absolute trip... let me explain.

So here in the Bahamas, we get quite a lot of high-level traffic and visitors. Not long ago, this miserly, curly-headed smarty pants moved in and set up shop with his crypto exchange company. You may have heard of them — FTX. Well... ever since FTX and its "fearless leader" with a fro on his dome, Sam Bankman-Fried settled in, news about how great the company would be for the Bahamas just doesn't stop around here. Which, to an intuitive octopus such as myself, seemed like a bunch of ink in the water. That kind of hyped-up news usually dissolves pretty quickly — for one reason or another — and the gobs of recent press about it has been relentless and annoying! All of the headlines about FTX in the local news were poorly written, news anchors at night have been spewing a bunch of simpleton nonsense about good ol' Sammy boy as a revolutionary in the community. And to place a cherry on top of my personal annoyance sundae, everyone pronounces the tail-end part of his last name as FREED, when it is CLEARLY spelled Bankman-FRIED. Is it just my Doctorate in English literature and my passion for proper speech that confounds me, or is there a real reason to be driven mad by literary idiocy? I still have yet to figure that out... but what do I know, I am just a shiny green sea creature living amongst humans. Anyway, I digress back on the topic! Well... today was awesome because I was actually taken seriously, all while potentially playing a pivotal part in dissolving the aforementioned annoyances I've been experiencing.

You see, my (human) brother is a big-wig in the field of finance because he works as a high-level business strategist & advisor. He has carved quite the name for himself here in the Bahamas for his abilities to assist some of the wealthiest weasels that spearhead (at least in part) their shady business operations. Why would that be a thing specifically in the Bahamas? Well, if you are reading this as a human being and are asking that question – just Google 'offshoring + The Bahamas'. Enough said there...alright moving on. As a high-level advisor, my brother makes a seriously unique impression on his clientele by using me as a symbol and wow factor, which typically secures their interest in working with him. I tag along with him as much as possible because I am a part of his success. He and I collaborated on the epitome of professional first impressions at the start of his career like this: when he takes me along with him on strategically planned business meetings, he always asks new clients after the small talk and introductions, "I'm just curious, have you ever seen a dancing octopus?" At which point, after their faces twist into bamboozled expressions as their minds start to brew pensive thoughts about their current situation, I slowly climb out from under his badass business suit, and start grooving with conviction onto the nearest surface between him and the client.

Whilst I am climbing off of my brother, he calmly navigates his phone to play a recently viral song that I've rehearsed and I start singing as best as I can while grooving and moving with all eight of my arms. Mind you, the sounds that come out of my singing voice are not even close to sounding like a skilled human singer, but hey, I try my best with my beaked mouth-hole. Every time we execute that play when meeting with high-paying clients, it is honestly a blast for me, and the whole endeavor sets a tone. It never gets old!

Now before you start judging my brother for animal cruelty or taking advantage of me, I'll have you know that I not only volunteered for the opportunity to help my brother make a name for himself, but I actually enjoy interacting with humans. After everything goes down as described above, interacting with people as the mean green dancing machine octopus that I am gets easier after seeing the looks on their faces! I just love observing their expressions when their minds get blown by my slick moves and seemingly impossible antics. When the shock and awe of new clients wear off and they come to terms with seeing a conscious octopus that dances and talks, that is the point my brother capitalizes on such a situation. He does this by explaining how he guided me into learning dance, and how he helped me learn to speak. Then he humanizes our star-crossed interaction by showing off choice pictures of us dancing/studying together. Finally, he drives home just how smart he is by explaining how he rigged the post-education systems that allowed me to register as a bona fide student via an online university and earn my PhD. At which point he hones in on his ability to do the impossible with an improvised tagline, then looks at me followed by the client's gaze, I nod and wink, and they are 100% reigned in.

We do this often and it works like a charm; hook, line, and sinker — every time — it's genius. Did I mention I am a mutant octopus with the intelligence of a modern Einstein? That's beside the point though, so back to the story at hand. What happened today will (hopefully) bring my brother fortune and bring me peace from the nonsensical news surrounding FTX and the inept bullheadedness of its devotees who have inundated my beautiful island home.

Earlier this afternoon, I accompanied my brother for another seemingly normal advisory session. However, it was anything but normal. For one, the client was none other than the afro-touting king of crypto-bros himself, Sam Bankman-Fried. And for two, he was in crisis and was not in the least concerned with my presence. He had sought out the council of my brother as he had heard through the Bahama grapevine that my brother was the best of the best and a "miracle man" of business strategy. After being the audience to Mister Bankman-Fried and his inner circle inside their surprisingly humid corporate office, it was apparent that they are most definitely in need of sound advice and a miracle. My brother and I had no idea we would end up becoming good ol' Sammy's voice of reason today.

The advice that we spelled out was simple, logical, strategic, yet nuanced. We had to reaffirm to Sam and his team that our solution was probably for the best considering their precarious situation. I do hope that the solution works out for everyone involved because my brother and I could use a crypto-bro network in the future, and I would certainly be happier seeing FTX out of the Bahamas. Now you might be wondering, "What solution did they come up with?" Well, it's to sell FTX to an interested competitor (of course Binance was the best fit) and afterward, trudge through the backlash without being totally crushed by impending legal implications. Sam and his cohorts plan to go through with that later, and tomorrow we will know for sure whether we all get a happy ending. I can only hope that everything goes according to plan.

1 Comment
2024/11/02
00:37 UTC

2

[SF] The Perspective Bar

The neon sign flickered dimly in the evening fog: "The Perspective Bar - Walk a Mile in Different Shoes." I hesitated at the entrance, my hand hovering over the brass doorknob. As someone who'd lived with autism my whole life, I wasn't sure what drew me here, but my therapist's words echoed in my mind: "Understanding different perspectives can help us understand ourselves better." It was that constant drive to understand, to dig deeper into every subject that caught my interest, that had led me down this particular rabbit hole.

The familiar weight of my noise-canceling headphones rested around my neck, a safety net I wasn't sure I'd need here. Through the frosted glass, I could make out the warm glow of adjustable lighting - a promising sign that this place understood sensory considerations. My fingers traced the raised letters on the therapy referral card in my pocket, a tangible reminder of why I'd come.

The interior defied expectations. Instead of chaotic bar lighting, soft, adjustable LEDs created gentle pools of illumination that patrons could customize to their comfort. Charcoal-gray soundproofing panels, their hexagonal patterns reminiscent of honeycomb, lined the walls and absorbed excess noise. Each panel had a subtle texture that reminded me of rainfall on glass - something my fingers itched to explore. Private booths, each with its own environmental controls, offered sanctuary-like spaces. The temperature varied subtly throughout the room - cooler near the entrance for those who might be experiencing sensory overload, warmer in the cozy corners where people processed their experiences.

The bartender, whose name tag read "Sam," moved with deliberate grace, their understanding eyes meeting mine as I approached. Behind them, a wall of certifications and safety protocols caught my attention - everything from neurological monitoring systems to emergency response procedures.

"First time?" Sam asked, wiping down the pristine counter with smooth, practiced motions. "We recommend starting slow. Each experience deserves respect and time to process." Their voice carried the weight of someone who had guided countless others through this unique journey. "Before we begin, I'll need to review your medical history and current medications. All our experiences undergo rigorous testing and development in partnership with neurological research centers, but safety comes first."

The menu materialized before me, holographic letters shimmering like aurora borealis. Each option pulsed gently with its own distinct color pattern, the text floating at just the right height to prevent eye strain:

Perspective Shots - Effects last 2 hours unless combined

Base Experience:

  • Neurotypical Classic (Crystal clear, pure spring water essence)

Combined Experiences: (Each includes neurotypical base)

  • Autism Spectrum (Prismatic patterns, rain-on-leaves scent)
  • ADHD Focus Shift (Iridescent swirls, citrus scent)
  • OCD Clarity (Precise geometric patterns, mint essence)
  • Anxiety Awareness (Rippling waves, lavender undertone)
  • Depression Depths (Deep indigo currents, chamomile base)
  • Gender Dysphoria Glimpse (Shifting pearl essence, rose hints)
  • Bipolar Spectrum (Dancing auroras, bergamot notes)
  • PTSD Echo (Thunder-cloud swirls, sage infusion)
  • DID/OSDD System Experience (Kaleidoscope meshwork, vanilla warmth)

Note: Your medical scan indicates you have personal experience with some of these perspectives. Available shots represent generalized experiences as documented by our research team.

I studied the menu, particularly interested in the descriptions of the conditions I lived with daily. It was fascinating to see how they'd been distilled into these "average" experiences. Sam noticed my focused attention.

"You're looking at some familiar ones," they observed, gesturing to my medical scan results on their screen. "Many of our visitors who have personal experience with certain conditions are curious about how we've translated their daily reality into these temporary experiences."

"It's interesting," I replied, watching the prismatic patterns of the Autism shot swirl in its sample vial. "I can recognize elements of my own experience in the description, but I imagine it's quite different from how I actually process the world."

Sam nodded. "That's one of our biggest challenges - and most important disclaimers. These are amalgamations, averages drawn from thousands of documented experiences. Your autism, anxiety, depression, and PTSD are uniquely yours. The shots can only approximate a generalized version of these experiences."

"Why offer them to people who already have these conditions?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Some find it valuable to experience how their conditions are perceived and understood by the medical community," Sam explained. "Others are interested in comparing their personal experience to what we might call the 'textbook' version. It can be validating for some, frustrating for others, but almost always educational."

A small placard beside the menu detailed the development process: "Each experience is crafted through extensive consultation with individuals who live with these conditions, mental health professionals, and neuroscience researchers. The neurotypical base, developed through mapping typical neural patterns, provides a temporary framework that allows for the safe exploration of different neurological states while maintaining cognitive stability."

Near the bar's research corner, I noticed a sign detailing ongoing studies: "The Perspective Bar partners with leading neuroscience institutions to continuously improve our experiences. Voluntary participant feedback and anonymized neurological data (with explicit consent) help refine our understanding of neurological differences. Our neurodivergent advisory board meets monthly to ensure all experiences remain authentic and respectful."

A group of medical students huddled around a table, their instructor guiding them through the implications of their recent experiences. "Remember," she emphasized, "these simulations are teaching tools. Your future patients will have unique, individual experiences that may differ significantly from these controlled glimpses."

In the corner, a woman about my age was experiencing what appeared to be the ADHD shot, her eyes wide with wonder as she rapidly wrote in her journal, stopping occasionally to observe everything around her with intense focus before returning to her notes. At another table, someone sat in quiet reflection after what I overheard was the Depression Depths experience, their therapist sitting supportively nearby.

A neuropsychologist at the bar caught my attention as she discussed her experience with Sam. "The way the neurotypical base interacts with each condition is fascinating," she said. "It's helping me understand why some of my autistic patients describe certain therapeutic approaches as feeling unnatural - they're based on neurotypical processing patterns that might not align with their natural way of thinking."

I chose the ADHD shot first, partly because the swirling patterns in the liquid reminded me of my own thought processes when deeply engaged in research. The liquid had a surprising texture - effervescent but smooth, with a citrus scent that seemed to enhance its energetic quality. As it took effect, the world transformed. Suddenly, every stimulus demanded attention simultaneously - the conversation three tables over was just as prominent as the menu in front of me, while my thoughts raced between topics like a hyperactive pinball machine. Unlike my usual autistic hyperfocus, where I could dive deep into one subject, this was like having dozens of equally fascinating subjects competing for attention at once.

Between experiences, Sam guided me through integration exercises in one of the temperature-controlled booths. "The neurotypical base helps prevent sensory overload," they explained, "but it's still important to process each experience fully before moving on."

I found myself particularly curious about the Neurotypical Classic shot, with its pure, crystal-clear appearance. Sam noticed my attention. "That one's interesting for neurodivergent visitors," they commented. "Some find it uncomfortably constraining, while others say it helps them understand why neurotypical people respond to situations the way they do."

Later, after careful consideration and some grounding exercises Sam recommended, I tried the DID/OSDD shot. The liquid shifted like an opal, colors flowing and merging in complex patterns, with a gentle vanilla warmth that seemed to encourage inner reflection. The experience was unlike anything I'd imagined - a gentle awareness of distinct parts within, each with their own perspectives and ways of viewing the world. There was an internal communication system that felt both foreign and natural, like discovering a new room in a house you'd lived in forever. Though simplified, it offered a profound glimpse into how a system might experience the world.

Throughout the evening, I noticed mental health professionals taking careful notes after their own experiences. "Many therapists come here," Sam explained, "not to understand completely - that would be impossible - but to gain a deeper empathy for their clients' experiences. Though of course, these are just simplified echoes of incredibly complex realities."

A researcher who had just finished the OCD experience shared her observations with me. "It's fascinating how different it feels from my neurotypical baseline," she said. "I'm starting to understand why some of my patients say certain coping strategies feel ineffective - we need to develop approaches that work with their natural cognitive patterns, not against them."

As my temporary experiences wore off, I found myself deep in conversation with Sam about the nature of consciousness and perception. "The most valuable thing people take from here," they said, "isn't the experiences themselves, but the understanding that there are countless valid ways of experiencing the world."

As I made my final notes, I observed a meeting of the bar's neurodivergent advisory group wrapping up in one of the private rooms. Through the glass, I could see animated discussions as they reviewed proposed refinements to various experiences, their lived expertise helping shape how others would learn about different neurological perspectives.

Before leaving, I paused to read a new sign being mounted near the door:

"Remember: These glimpses are simplified echoes of deeply complex experiences. Real conditions are nuanced, individual, and not something to be trivially imitated. Take with you understanding, not assumptions. For those seeking deeper understanding, we recommend consulting mental health professionals and listening to the voices of people with lived experience.

Safety Notice: All experiences are monitored by our neurological safety systems. Please consult with our staff about potential interactions with existing conditions and medications. Integration support and professional counseling referrals are available as needed."

The fog had lifted as I stepped outside, passing a group of medical students leaving their training session. Their excited discussions about how the experiences would change their approach to patient care faded into the night, but their enthusiasm gave me hope. Tomorrow, I'd return to navigating the world through my own unique lens, but with a richer understanding of the different ways minds can work. And maybe that understanding, combined with my natural drive to learn and explore, would help contribute to a future where neurodiversity isn't just acknowledged, but truly understood and celebrated.

As I walked home, I thought about how places like this could transform understanding of neurodiversity in healthcare, education, and society at large. My phone buzzed with a message from my therapist, confirming our next session where we'd discuss my experiences. I smiled, knowing that every person who walked through those doors - whether professional, researcher, or simply someone seeking understanding like me - was contributing to a more empathetic and inclusive future.

The End

4 Comments
2024/11/01
22:42 UTC

6

[FN] The First Dragon-Knight

Lucas, the royal apothecary, had finally done it. He had developed a potion that would surely turn the tide of the war. The freshly-brewed, red-orange mixture sat in a small, cast-iron cauldron in his laboratory. He scooped a vial of it, put a stopper in it, and swished it around- he could feel the heat through the glass. The king had to see this. Now.

He covered the cauldron with a tarp, wrapped the vial in a hand cloth and left his laboratory, locking the door behind him. He went straightaway to the king’s throne room. He knocked on the large wooden doors and let himself in. He approached the king, who sat on his throne conversing with one of his knights.

“Your Majesty!” Lucas called.

King Richard turned his head towards the intruding apothecary.

“We are speaking, Lucas,” the king said with noted displeasure. “What is it?”

“Your Majesty, I’ve done it!” Lucas proclaimed as he held up the vial of potion.

The king observed the vial of red-orange.

“What is that?” he asked.

“’Tis the key to defeating the ogres, Your Majesty!”

King Richard looked at his knight, and they both turned their attention to Lucas. Lucas saw that it was none other than Captain Nathan who was speaking with the king. He needed to hear this too.

“It is a potion that draws the full might of any beast that drinks it,” Lucas explained. “We will feed it to the dragon, and it will be an unstoppable beast of war. Even an army of ogres will not stand against it.”

“Wait a moment,” Nathan said. “You mean to create an uncontrollable beast that we have to deal with on top of the ogres?”

“Captain, surely a seasoned dragon rider such as yourself can handle such a beast?” Lucas said.

“I’ve never handled a beast influenced by concoctions such as yours, apothecary. You risk subjecting the kingdom to a dragon attack the likes of which we’ve never seen.”

“Would you rather the dragon or the ogres, captain?” Lucas asked.

Nathan stood silently contemplating. He took the vial from Lucas and studied it.

“What say you, Your Majesty?” Lucas turned his attention to the king.

“How do we know what effect this potion will have on the beast? Have you tested it?” Richard asked.

“I have not, Your Majesty. If you wish, I can test it on a war horse or a male bull. However, I cannot guarantee-”

Lucas saw that Nathan had taken the stopper out the vial and was smelling the potion.

“Captain! Please be careful with that,” Lucas said.

“You said this potion draws out the full might of whoever drinks it, yes?” Nathan asked.

“Any Beast, captain. I made it specifically with the dragon in mind. I cannot guarantee survival if a man were to drink it. I dare not test it on any of your men, much less our citizens.”

“My men and I swore an oath to lay down our lives to protect the kingdom.”

Nathan looked at Lucas, looked at the potion, and threw the concoction down his throat.

“NO!” Lucas screamed. “Spit it out! Spit it right now!”

Nathan gulped down the potion, visibly displeased at the taste. King Richard rose from his throne.

“Doctor! Doctor!” the king called out.

The captain wiped his mouth and put on a foolishly defiant face.

“We’ll see how well your potion works based on how many ogres I kill.”

Nathan walked out through the wooden doors of the throne room. Lucas and the king followed. As they saw Nathan proceeding down the hallway, they heard hurried footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. One of the castle doctors, along with one of the nurses, came running to answer the king’s call.

“The captain drank a potion he wasn’t meant to! He needs to vomit it up before… I don’t know!” Lucas stammered.

“Let’s hurry, before he gets himself killed,” the king commanded.

The four of them caught up with Nathan and implored him to come to the infirmary. He would have none of it. He had nearly reached the front gate of the castle when he slumped over, clutching his chest. His body shook and he began drooling uncontrollably. They picked him up and carried him to the infirmary.

“God help us,” the king muttered.

***

Hours later, Lucas paced back and forth outside of the infirmary. The medics had pressed him over how to reverse the effects of the potion- his only solution was a tonic that would induce vomiting, but he had to be awake to drink it. He paced with the tonic in hand, expecting to hear any minute that it wouldn’t matter anymore. The doctor poked his head out of the doorway.

“You need to see this,” the doctor said.

Lucas entered the room where Nathan sat in bed. He stretched and yawned as if waking up from a pleasant nap. As Nathan yawned, Lucas noticed something about his teeth- they looked suddenly sharper, like fangs. Nathan opened his eyes and looked at Lucas- his eyes were yellow with vertically split pupils, like those of a predatory beast. Lucas froze.

“What’s wrong?” Nathan asked.

Lucas turned to the doctor.

“Do we have a mirror?” he asked.

The doctor handed Lucas a small, circular mirror, which Lucas handed to Nathan. Nathan studied his reflection. Lucas could see the shock in his beastly eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment before Lucas finally asked: “How do you feel?”

“I feel…” Nathan began, still looking in the mirror.

He then looked at his hand and made a fist.

“I feel… powerful.”

5 Comments
2024/11/01
21:36 UTC

3

[HR] A spooky story for my writing class! Enjoy: TOY BOX. (Accepting all criticism!)

TOY BOX The screams rang out like nails on a chalkboard. Steve dropped his camcorder and smothered his hands onto his ears, hoping to get some relief from the voices. “I need to get out of here!” Steve thought to himself. The pain in his ears caused him to flinch as he ran towards the large oak door. He slammed his body against the door, daring not to take his hands off of his ears. The screams grew louder. Steve finally grabbed the door handle with one hand, the shrieks flooding his mind. He tried to turn the knob, but his hand slipped. He moved his hand back and saw his hand stained a dark red. He put his hand back onto his ear and slammed the door with his foot, but to no avail. Then all of a sudden, the voices stopped. Steve took his hands off his ears, only to hear what sounded like a small twinkle, almost like a faint bell coming from upstairs. Steve crept toward the stairs, looking over his shoulder with each step. He felt the chill of watching eyes behind him, though there was not a figure to match the gaze to. The stairs creaked with each step. The twinkling sounded closer, yet closer. It slowly grew from small rings to a melody. A melody Steve knew but couldn't place. The chandelier above him suddenly lit with a whoosh. He could see now, but did he really want to? A tattered rug sat on the rotting wooden floor, leading to a hallway full of doors, each one labeled with a number. Between the doors were portraits in elaborate frames, depicting men and women from long ago. Potted plants lined the hallway, withering away, which didn't help with the smell of rot. The light melody came from the room labeled “3”. He opened the door and stepped inside. Steve took his flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on, its light flickering through the dim room. Faint colored paint peeled from the walls, adorned with paintings of jungle animals. Each one of the faces was torn off. Steve took his eyes away from the paintings on the wall and turned to where a small bed sat. On the bed was a small bright colored box, the source of the melody. As he approached the box, Steve heard a shriek. Unlike anything he had heard before. Then came the thumping. The sound grew closer. And closer. And closer. Steve scrambled under the bed, hoping that whatever was approaching did not acknowledge his Presence. The door slammed open with a bang, splinters flying as the rusted hinges broke loose. All Steve could see were two slender, yet tall legs, colored a fleshy white. The creature’s claws drug on the floor as it shambled through the room, letting out small grunts and the occasional screech as it hunted for the intruder. Its inhuman arms reached for the music box, which slipped and fell to the floor with a crash. The creature let out an ear-piercing cry and got on its knees to get back its box. Thats when Steve saw it. It looked like a human, stretched beyond normal limits. Stained claws emerged from slender fingers. He met the gaze of the monster, with a cartoonish drawing of a tiger covering its face. Steve couldn't make out the monster's expression behind the makeshift mask, but he could tell one thing: It was smiling.
Panic set in. Steve slid out from under the bed as fast as possible, racing through the open doorway. The monster let out a sorrowful cry and shambled after Steve. One set of claws drug on the floor, while the other slid on the wall, tearing through the paintings on the wall. Steve threw his flashlight at the monster, which made it slump down onto the floor, yelping in pain, and rubbing his arm where the flashlight had impacted. Steve used this opportunity to run into another room, this one labeled number “5”. Steve shut the door behind him and barricaded the door with a dark oak nightstand, which a book fell out of as he was moving it. Steve opened the book to a random page. “April 12, 1956. I don't know what’s happening to him. He’s gotten angrier. I have hidden myself in the attic so he couldn't find me. I don't know what to do. He has already taken Laura, now he's hunting me. I'm so sorry my son. You didn't deserve this.” Steve put the journal down and looked around the room. He saw a large wardrobe sitting against the wall next to him. Steve opened the door, and stepped inside, trying to breathe through the smell of dust, rot, and death. He jumped as the door let out a sudden bang. It was here. Steve held his breath, praying that the monster would just leave so he could get out of here. It broke through the door, screeching and clawing the walls in anger. “Why does this thing want me?” Steve held his breath as it limped by the wardrobe. Steve peered through the crack in the door to see that the thing had switched masks, it now used the image of a monkey. Steve felt chills go down his spine when the creature turned to him. It let out a few short grunts as it peered into the crack in the doors. Right as the monster reached for the door handle, a loud crash came from another room. It shot up and shambled out of the room. Steve carefully opened the door and stepped out of the wardrobe. He could hear the creature screeching far away, so he determined it was safe. He felt his chest tighten as he stepped back into the dingy hall. The shrieks came from this floor. Steve turned and went toward the stairs. “Maybe I can find a way to open the door,” Steve thought to himself. “I need to get out of here...fast.” Steve crept down the dark stairs when he felt something hit his foot. a vase. The vase tipped, and right before Steve could catch it, it tumbled down the stairs and shattered with a loud crash. The shrieking stopped. The thumping started. The monster was coming. Steve raced down the stairs and sprinted toward the door. It came closer. It shuffled with a disfigured limp, which seemed worse than it was earlier in this twisted game of hide-and-seek. The monster reached out and let out a cry, and Steve heard it shrieking in a hideous, raspy voice: “Stay, Stay, Stay.” Steve screamed, rattling the door handle. He picked up a candle stick on the floor near him and began bashing the door handle. The handle broke, and Steve ran outside, only to feel two thin hands grab his sides. The creature got him. It turned Steve around, who saw that the thing had changed faces again. He looked through the holes in the tiger mask. He saw two small blue eyes that looked as though they belonged to an innocent child. The creature let out another human sounding shriek, although this time, it sounded like it had said “friend.” Before Steve knew it, the creature had wrapped him in a cold hug. Little did it know, its claws had pierced Steve’s sides in the embrace. The creature let go of its hold on Steve, hoping to see its new friend there. Instead, a lifeless figure fell from its hands. It screamed. It shrieked. It screeched. It cried. After a few minutes of sorrow, the creature grabbed Steve’s ankle and drug him back into the house, back up the stairs, back past Rooms 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. It dragged him up into the attic, and in sorrow, carefully laid his body among other items in a large box made of rotting wood, With the words painted on it: TOY BOX. EPILOGUE Lyla walked up to the decrepit house. She had been looking for Steve for a week now. His car was still at home, as well as his baseball card collection, so he couldn’t have left. He wasn't at O'Malley's or at his parents' house either. He was talking about going to explore the creepy house on the hill at some point, so this is the only place he could be. When she stepped onto the porch, she noticed the door was ajar. She crept inside the house, taking in the dust and rot. She started walking farther inside, when she kicked something. Steve’s camcorder. Lyla picked it up, and as she did, she heard an ear-piercing shriek. Lyla froze, then ran up the dark, red-stained stairs, hoping to save her husband. The door shut behind her. The chandelier lit. The creature screamed. THE END

3 Comments
2024/11/01
20:02 UTC

4

[RF] A Moment to Reflect

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 cataloged and rewarded to the highest bidder, Mrs. J. It’s important to remember this was legal at the time — a system of taking from those being held down.

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.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
18:16 UTC

4

[HR] Put On A Happy Face

BLOG POST DATE-08/30/2003

Oh thank God they haven’t shut off the internet yet. Listen, I don’t really have a lot of time for the fancy intros I normally write up, so I’m gonna be as straight to the point as possible. The government is literally lying to you. Whatever they’ve said regarding the recent quarantine of Orlando, whether it be a terrorist threat or an influenza outbreak or whatever, know that it’s all a fucking lie. 

And honestly, I don’t blame them for making up some bullshit cover story. Because the truth of what we’re dealing with here is so outlandish, so utterly bizarre in every conceivable way… I’m sure not a single one of you would believe it. You’d either just point and laugh at the silly man who’s forgotten his alzheimer's medication, or become irate at how incentive they’re being towards an ongoing crisis. But believe me, as someone who is currently trapped in Orlando as I’m writing this, I can confirm this is no joke. We are dealing with something truly horrifying, and we don’t have a damn clue on how to stop it.

Because we are dealing with a literal clown apocalypse.

Oh sure, go ahead and laugh. Laugh all you fucking want. But just know that while you’re having a chuckle fest, none of us here share in your sense of humor. We are currently under siege, held up in our homes and businesses, praying desperately for a way out of this unrelenting nightmare. We have seen some shit man. Shit that’ll scar us for the rest of our lives if we ever make it out of here. We’ve been forced to watch as our friends and family are ripped screaming from our arms, made to join the endless army of cackling, white faced freaks who started this whole mess. Hell, the clowns are probably the only ones who find this whole fucking thing to be even remotely humorous. But only because the joke is at our damn expense.

And when I say endless, I really do mean it. There’s hundreds of these damned things roaming all over Orlando, and their numbers are only getting larger with each passing minute. They are relentless in their pursuit, hunting us down like wild animals and nabbing whatever poor schmuck happens to fall behind. Men, women, children. It doesn’t matter to them. If you aren’t part of the horde, they will come after you. And they will do it with twisted smiles on their faces and a warped laugh in their lungs. And yes, I can still hear it even as I’m writing this. It’s… deafening to say the least. 

The faces are what really screw with me though. From what I’ve described so far, you would think these things to be nightmarishly monstrous, like Pennywise at the end of It. But the thing is… they’re not. No, these things have the most cartoonish, kid safe, damn near adorable faces you have ever seen. They vary from clown to clown, yet still retain the rounded cheeks, wide smiles, and bulbous noses you’d expect a clown to have. They’ve all got these same creepy eyes too, sporting bright neon irises and blank white pupils. Eyes that can pierce your very soul and make you shit your pants. It’s fucking horrifying, especially once you realize each of these goofsters look completely unique. They all have different kinds of face designs ranging from the mundane to just flat out bizarre. Some of them have painted-on beards, while others have big cartoonish ears and chins. Some are white faced, others are hobos. There is a terrifying amount of variety when it comes to these bastards. And to make matters worse, we can’t kill the fucking things!

Oh trust me, we have tried. Lord KNOWS we’ve tried! I’ve seen these giggling fucks get stabbed, shot, blown up, crushed, grinded, minced, power bombed off the top rope you name it! We’ve thrown everything and the literal kitchen sink at them, and they just keep coming! It’s like they’re made of rubber, their whole bodies impervious to damage. One time a neighbor of mine tried using a homemade pipe bomb against a crowd of them, and one of the laughing bastards picked it up and ATE IT WHOLE! Swallowed the whole thing in one bite and tanked the explosion like Bugs Fucking Bunny! Balloon belly and all. We just can’t kill them, no matter how hard we try we just can’t. The best we can hope for is to incapacitate them for a while. Leave them dazed and confused like a stoner at an *NSYNC concert. But that’s not a sure fire guarantee either. It’s a gamble, and Lady Luck is most certainly not on our side.

She definitely wasn’t backing up the cops or national guard when they finally showed up. Whole platoons of highly trained soldiers, with the latest and greatest in killing technology, never stood a fucking chance against these things. Because how the hell are you supposed to kill something that operates on cartoon physics? Something that can leap off a fifty story skyscraper and survive direct impact with the concrete below? Something that can be flattened by a steamroller and somehow reinflate once peeled off? You fucking can’t. That’s the hard truth. And let me tell you, it’s only because of their bullshit invulnerability that they were able to spread as quickly as they could. And speaking of that… oh dear lord, how they spread.

It’s horrible. That’s the quickest way I can describe it. It’s horrible for the person witnessing it, and it’s horrible for the bastard going through it. Because these shithead’s don’t use bites or scratches to infect us survivors, oh no. They have these horrifying rubber clown masks that scurry around like fucking facehuggers, latching onto whatever human they can find like a magnet to metal or some shit. It’s utterly terrifying, hearing this thing scurrying along the ground with this wet, squishy sound. And once it gets on your face it… it covers you in this… this thick goo that… it just… 

They got him. Max. He was my best friend since the third grade, back in Mrs. Craven’s class. We rented this apartment together. Had big dreams of becoming movie directors. We were gonna change the film industry together. But then the clowns showed up, and they managed to grab him while we were out shopping. They dragged him to the ground and slapped one of those fucking masks onto his face, without hesitation. His screams man… I can still hear them. Fuck I can still see it! Max struggling to pull the mask off, screaming blood murder like his skin was being peeled off. I wanted to help him but… I couldn’t. Instead I ran. I ran for the exit as fast as I could, like a coward fleeing from war. I didn’t see what happened to him after the fact, I was too scared to look back. All I remember was that eventually, the screams stopped… and the damned laughing began. A high pitched, soul shattering laugh that sounded like the devil himself was mocking me. And the more people they took, the louder and louder it got, and it was all so overwhelming I just… Oh God, what have I done? I’m so sorry Max. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m… I’m so sorry…

That’s the most horrific thing about these clowns man, they aren’t stupid. They’re smart. Dangerously smart. They don’t shamble around like the undead or move in predictable, robotic ways like the Borg. No these fuckers can think for themselves, change their tactics on the fly and take anyone by surprise. They hunt in packs, tracking one target for miles on end either on foot or in vehicles. I’ve heard stories of people encountering elaborate traps involving triplines, cages and nets. One of my neighbors even filmed a group of clowns using t-shirt cannons to fire multiple masks at once, converting dozens of innocent people in a matter of seconds. It was a hard thing to watch, and the poor girl who filmed it looked like she was about to off herself. And like… maybe she did? Because she kinda just left the building and we haven’t seen or heard from her since. With what’s going on right now, my guess is that she’s already joined the carnival horde that’s currently screwing us all. Thank God for that barricade Mr. Hanson managed to put up at the front door, otherwise we would have been turned a long time ago.

Which just makes me wonder what the hell the military thinks a quarantine is gonna do to stop this. Do those dumb fucks honestly believe a few tanks and som blown out bridges are gonna keep these clowns trapped inside the city? They’re just delaying the investiable at this point, because mark my words those damned things will find a way out and they will fuck their shit up! And I know I was just singing the praises of our resident doomsday prepper for putting up that barricade, but even I have to question how long we’ve got before the clowns figure out a way to-

Okay well fuck me I guess! Right as I was writing that last paragraph those blasted gigglers decided to break down the front doors with a fucking ice cream truck, and now they’re going floor to floor converting anyone they can get their hands on! The screams man. The fucking screams! They sound so close yet so far away! The laughing is getting louder and louder too, and to make matters worse I think my neighbor’s cat managed to climb into the damned vents again! The only reason I’m still standing is because Max’s parents are loaded and insisted on buying us the top floor penthouse, so thankfully I’ve got enough time to finish this fucking post before making my exit.

As for you guys, all I can say is this: run. Gather up your family and friends, pack your shit, and get as far away as you can. Go to Canada, Alaska, fucking Iceland! Just try to make as much distance between yourself and this damned carnival of horrors as you realistically can! And then… pray. Pray that they don’t find you. Pray that they never figure out how to fly a plane or drive a boat. Because if there is one thing I can promise you, it’s that once these clowns get out of Orland there is not a single fucking thing you can do to stop us! Oh yes all you silly little boys and girls, you read that right! Once we’re done in this dinky little sunshine state, we intend on taking this carnival of laughs out on the road, and visit as many towns & cities that we can! And why wouldn’t we? We’re clowns after all! It’s literally our job to put as many smiles on as many faces as we possibly can! And whether or not you want us to do that… well, let’s just say none of you goobers will really get the chance to make that choice, now will you?

So please oh please be ready for us! Open up your hearts, your minds, and especially your bodies, and be sure to give us the biggest gosh darn welcome you can muster! Because we are coming to a city near you!

And we will help you put on a happy face!

1 Comment
2024/11/01
17:57 UTC

2

[RF] The Space Between

Diary Entry #1 Age 15

I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a cop. The first time I saw one up close, I was five years old. Officer Jenkins, a friend of my dad, was in full uniform, with this calm, steady voice that didn’t seem afraid of anything. He was tall, powerful, sure of himself in a way that felt impossible for someone like me. But he talked to me, bent down to my level, and made me feel like I was important, like he saw me. I remember thinking I wanted to be like that—not just the uniform, but the whole thing: the presence, the strength, the quiet confidence. I want to be someone that people look to when things go wrong, someone who can make it better just by showing up.

I think about it all the time—what it would be like to protect people. I watch every cop show and read every book about law enforcement I can get my hands on. I try to memorize every detail, like I’m studying for the biggest test of my life. And I wonder if maybe, someday, people will look at me and feel safe. But if I’m honest, there’s something else. I don’t know why, but I always feel like I’m looking at myself from outside, watching this person that everyone else sees, and hoping they don’t notice I’m not really like them. Like I’m pretending, playing dress-up in my own skin.

It’s hard to say it out loud, even here, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel as sure of myself as Officer Jenkins did. Maybe this is just part of being young. But there’s a part of me that feels like I’m chasing something I can’t quite reach, like I’m always one step behind myself.

Diary Entry #17 Age 18

Graduation is close. I’ve got my acceptance letter to the academy, and it feels real in a way that both excites and terrifies me. Everyone in my family is proud; they say they always knew I’d be the one to follow through, to do something meaningful. And I’m proud, too—proud to be someone people can count on. But when I look around at my classmates, I see people who seem so sure of themselves, like they’ve got it all figured out. They look so…comfortable, so at ease with who they are. And here I am, wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling like an actor, like I’m playing a part someone else wrote for me.

I’m supposed to be ready to face anything. I mean, that’s what being a cop is all about—strength, resilience, toughness. But there’s something fragile inside me that I can’t explain. It’s like there’s this constant hum of discomfort, of being somehow out of sync with myself. I put on a good front, and I know people see me as confident, capable, steady. But sometimes I look in the mirror and see a stranger, someone wearing the mask of a man I’m supposed to be. And the strangest part is that sometimes, in my mind, I imagine myself differently. I don’t know where this is coming from, but there’s this quiet, persistent voice telling me there’s more to who I am than I’m letting myself see.

I want to be brave enough to face it, but I keep telling myself it’s just a phase, just nerves before a big life change. I’ve worked too hard to let doubts stop me now. But there’s a part of me that wonders if these feelings will ever go away.

Diary Entry #32 Age 22

Today, I graduated from the academy. Standing in line, hearing my name called, I should’ve felt elation—a relief, even. This was supposed to be the moment I had been working toward for years. I thought that finally, I would feel right, like everything would snap into place. And in some ways, it did; I felt pride, a sense of duty, and an honor I’d waited my whole life to carry. But, even as I stood there, feeling the weight of the badge in my hand, there was a sense of emptiness that I couldn’t shake, a feeling that everything was still a few shades off.

This has been lingering for as long as I can remember. I would look at other people around me—my classmates, my friends—and see how they moved through life so easily, so comfortably in themselves, and wonder why that ease escaped me. I’ve been trying to ignore it, telling myself it’s just nerves, that it’ll pass once I’m settled. But as the years go by, it’s only grown stronger. It feels like I’m always watching myself from a distance, seeing someone who looks like me, sounds like me, but isn’t me. It’s like I’m constantly putting on a show, playing a role, and hoping no one notices the cracks.

I don’t know how else to say this, but there’s this persistent sense that I’m living in the wrong life, like I’m out of alignment with my own being. The idea sounds absurd; I’ve been working so hard, building this identity of strength and masculinity, of what I thought I was supposed to be. But there’s a nagging feeling, deep down, that all of this—the uniform, the badge, the persona—is more costume than reality. And sometimes, when I’m alone and I let the mask slip, I can see a glimpse of someone else staring back at me in the mirror. Someone softer, someone more at ease, someone who feels like the real me. And it terrifies me.

I wish I could say these are just passing thoughts, insecurities everyone has. But they’re not. It feels like a truth buried just beneath the surface, something undeniable that presses down on me, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. It’s as though I’ve spent my life running alongside this hidden part of myself, catching glimpses of it in brief, private moments—like a reflection in the glass when I turn away too quickly. I keep telling myself it’s something I can outgrow, something I can rationalize away if I try hard enough. But here I am, years later, feeling that same unspoken presence, a version of myself waiting, patient and quiet, for permission to finally exist.

And I keep asking myself, why? Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be satisfied with the life I’ve built, the life everyone expects of me? I have everything I’m supposed to want—the respect of my peers, the pride of my family, a career that’s supposed to give me meaning. But when I’m alone, in those quiet moments when I can let my guard down, I feel a longing that goes deeper than anything I’ve felt before. It’s not just a curiosity or a passing thought. It’s a pull, a force so strong that no amount of logic or reasoning can explain it away.

There’s a part of me that wants to dismiss this as weakness, a flaw in my character. Maybe I’m not cut out to be the person I’ve tried so hard to become. Maybe there’s something broken in me, some defect that keeps me from fully inhabiting this identity I’ve built. But then there’s another part, a smaller, braver part, that wonders if this is who I’ve been all along. What if I’ve been running from myself my entire life? What if the real me—the person beneath all the roles and expectations—isn’t the man I’ve tried so hard to be?

I don’t know if I can accept that. The idea of letting this part of me out, of facing the truth, feels impossible. How would I explain it to my family, to my friends? How would I fit into the world if I stopped pretending? I’ve spent years trying to be the protector, the strong one, the rock that others can lean on. I don’t know if there’s room for someone like me—someone soft, someone different, someone who might be…a woman.

There, I said it. Even writing the words feels like crossing a line, like admitting to something shameful. But I have to be honest with myself: there’s a part of me that longs to let go of this image, to let that person—the woman inside—finally breathe. I want to know what it’s like to feel at home in my own skin, to live without this constant sense of hiding. But the fear of what that would mean, of what I would lose, is overwhelming. I want so badly for this feeling to go away, to be able to bury it once and for all and just move on with my life. But it’s not going anywhere. If anything, it’s only growing stronger, louder, like a truth I can’t keep ignoring.

I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to be both this person I’m supposed to be and the person I feel I am. Every day feels like a choice between being true to myself or living up to everyone else’s expectations. And the thought of letting them down—of shattering the image they have of me—is almost unbearable. But maybe, just maybe, the bigger betrayal is in denying who I am. Maybe, deep down, I’ve always known that I’m more than the role I’ve been playing. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.

Diary Entry #51 Age 25

It’s been almost three years on the job. Every day, I’m out there, doing what I set out to do: helping people, protecting them, sometimes even saving them. I’m fulfilling the vision I had as a kid, becoming the person I wanted to be. And on the surface, it seems right. I’m making a difference, contributing something valuable to the world, and that should be enough. It should make me feel whole, grounded, like I belong in this life. But the truth is, when the day ends and I’m back home, alone, that feeling of being…incomplete comes back, stronger than ever. It’s as though the quiet of my apartment lets all the things I try to ignore creep back in, reminding me of something I can’t quite name but feel deeply, constantly, like an ache just beneath the surface.

I keep asking myself questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I used to push away with excuses and reassurances: “It’s just nerves,” or “Everyone feels a little out of place sometimes.” But now these questions are louder, harder to dismiss, and they cut right to the core of me. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me to finally listen, and now that I’ve let my guard down, they’re flooding in. Who am I, really? Why do I feel this persistent sense that I’m living a life that doesn’t quite fit? I can’t stop the flashes—these moments where I see myself differently, where I imagine a version of me that feels…right. It’s not about wanting to be someone else entirely, but rather about peeling back the layers I’ve built up, layers that feel increasingly like armor instead of skin.

Because what would happen if I stopped fighting it? If I let myself feel the things I’ve been avoiding, if I allowed myself to look honestly at what’s been lurking beneath the surface for so long? The thought terrifies me—like opening a door I’ll never be able to close. But at the same time, there’s a pull, a curiosity, maybe even a hope that on the other side, I’d finally find something real. Maybe, after all these years, I could find a way to be…me.

Diary Entry #79 Age 28

I’ve finally come to terms with something I never thought I’d be able to face. I’m not a man. I’ve spent years trying to fit into a mold that never felt like mine, and now, I can finally admit it—I’m a woman. The words feel strange, foreign, like trying on a new identity and finding it fits better than the one I’ve worn all my life. I don’t know what this means for my career, for my life, but I know I can’t keep hiding.

I’ve started calling myself “Sophie” when I’m alone, letting the sound of it roll around in my mind, trying to get used to it. Sophie. It’s strange, isn’t it? How a name can hold so much power, so much truth. For the first time, I feel like I’m meeting someone I’ve always known but have kept locked away. I feel like I’m finally becoming real, like I’m stepping out of the shadows and letting myself exist.

I’m scared. Terrified, really. But also, for the first time in a long time, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, finally, I can be the person I was meant to be.

Diary Entry #85 Age 29, Post-transition

Returning to work as Sophie has been…complicated. I knew it wouldn’t be simple, that there would be questions, discomfort, maybe even some resentment. But I wasn’t prepared for how deep and isolating it would feel. Every time I walk into the station, I can sense the shift, the subtle but unmistakable change in how people see me. It’s in the glances that linger a second too long, the half-smiles that quickly fade, the way conversations suddenly grow quiet when I enter the room. There’s a hesitation in their eyes, a questioning, a slight narrowing as they try to place me in some category that doesn’t exist. To some of my colleagues, I’m a stranger, someone they feel they have to figure out all over again, even though I’m still the same person who’s worked alongside them for years.

Some have been supportive, treating me with the same respect they did before. They call me Sophie, use the right pronouns, and treat me like the officer I am. But even with them, there’s a difference—a carefulness that wasn’t there before, as if they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing, of stepping over some invisible line. And then there are those who simply don’t know what to do with me now. To them, I’m no longer one of the guys, but I’m also not a woman in the way they’re comfortable understanding. They don’t see me as Officer Sophie; they see me as “the trans one,” an anomaly, someone who doesn’t fit neatly into their understanding of the world. I used to be seen as a person, an individual with my own strengths and flaws, but now it feels like I’m reduced to this single, defining aspect of myself. No matter what I do, how hard I work, or how professional I am, it seems to some that I’ll never be more than “the other.”

What surprises me most, though, is how I feel like I’ve somehow ended up with the worst of both worlds. Those who do see me as a woman don’t see me as a whole woman; to some, I’m an object of curiosity, even fetish. The way they look at me, lingering just a moment too long, with a look that feels less like acknowledgment and more like I’m some sort of forbidden curiosity. It’s not admiration or even genuine interest—it’s something colder, something that makes me feel small, like a spectacle they can’t quite understand but can’t stop staring at. I’ve had a few well-meaning comments that I think were meant to be compliments, about how “brave” I am or how “unique” I look, but they’re hollow. They make me feel more like a symbol than a person. And those who do accept me as a woman often don’t see me as beautiful or feminine in any real sense; to them, I’m something in-between, a half-realized attempt at womanhood that doesn’t fully satisfy their expectations.

And then there are those who won’t see me as a woman at all. They don’t accept me as Sophie or even acknowledge my gender as valid. But at the same time, they don’t see me as a “man” in the way they used to, either. It’s as if I’ve forfeited my right to any masculine respect by choosing to live as myself. I’m neither fully one nor the other to them; I’ve slipped through the cracks of their understanding, no longer someone they can fit into a role that feels familiar or comfortable. They look at me like I’ve made some irrevocable mistake, something that’s taken away my right to be either a man or a woman in their eyes.

It hurts more than I expected. I spent so much of my life wanting to belong, to feel like I was part of something larger than myself. I thought that becoming Sophie would finally make me whole, that living as my true self would be a relief, a way of coming home. And in many ways, it is. But at the same time, I feel more alone than ever. It’s as if I’ve traded one kind of invisibility for another. Before, I was hiding from myself, from the truth of who I am. Now, I’m hiding from everyone else’s expectations, from the constant reminders that I don’t quite belong, that I’ll never fully fit into their categories.

But even so, I don’t regret it. For all the judgment, the stares, the whispers, I feel more like myself than I ever have. I can finally look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back at me. I’m Sophie—no longer hiding, no longer pretending. And even if that makes me an outsider to some, even if it means I’ll always be seen as something other, I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t trade this feeling of being real, of being honest with myself, for anything. This is who I am, and no one can take that away from me. For the first time, I am fully here, even if others can’t see it. And that, in itself, feels like freedom.

Diary Entry #102 Age 30

Today was rough. I walked into the station, and the room went quiet. It happens sometimes—this awkward, charged silence, like everyone is holding their breath. I can tell they’re not sure how to act around me, as if they’re trying to recalibrate, to figure out how to reconcile the person they thought they knew with the person they see now. Some people look at me with kindness, respect, even a little understanding. They see Sophie, or at least, they’re trying to. But others…they still look at me like an enigma, a stranger inhabiting the body of someone they once knew.

I can’t lie; it hurts. I joined the force to protect people, to be a figure of safety, stability, and justice. But lately, it feels like I’ve lost control over how others see me. Instead of being seen for my dedication, my skills, my hard work, I’m seen first and foremost as “a transwoman.” It’s like the essence of who I am has been stripped down to this single word, and everything else—my experiences, my hopes, my struggles—has been eclipsed by that one label. No matter how professional I am, how much I contribute, I’m reminded that, to some, I’m not really a cop, not really a woman, but some other category altogether. An anomaly. A contradiction. Something that unsettles them, something they’ll never fully understand or accept.

It’s strange, isn’t it? To be so visible and so invisible at the same time. I’m visible in a way that makes me stand out, that draws attention, curiosity, sometimes even suspicion. And yet, in another sense, I’m utterly unseen, hidden beneath the assumptions and discomfort of others. I wonder what it means to really be seen. Is it just about being recognized, about fitting into a category people understand? Or is it about something deeper? I used to think that a person was defined by what they did, by the values they upheld, by the ways they contributed to the world around them. I thought that if I did enough, if I proved myself enough, I’d finally be seen as I wanted to be. But now, I’m starting to question that.

What is a person, really? Are we just collections of traits and actions, judged by the boxes we tick and the roles we fulfill? Or is there something more? I think about the person I was before, the person everyone saw and accepted, and it’s strange to realize how thin that acceptance was. Back then, I looked the part; I did what was expected of me. I played the role well. But it wasn’t me—it was a version of me, a mask I wore so well even I believed it at times. The truth is, I wasn’t seen for who I was back then, either; I was just seen for how closely I fit the mold.

But now, even if people can’t fully see or understand me, I’m finally real. For the first time, I’m not just going through the motions. I’m living as Sophie, as the person I was always meant to be. I realize now that a person isn’t just what they do or how others define them. A person is a spark, a collection of thoughts, dreams, fears, and truths that don’t always fit neatly into categories. We’re defined not by how well we fit into others’ perceptions but by the courage we have to live authentically, to be real, even when it’s hard.

I used to think that if I was true to myself, I’d lose everything—respect, friendship, belonging. But I see now that living a lie would have been a far greater loss. I’d have lost myself, this real, honest version of me that no longer needs anyone else’s approval to exist. I’m still a protector, still someone who cares deeply about the people around me. I’m still here to serve, to stand by my values. But I don’t need to fit into a label to do that.

In the quiet of my apartment tonight, after the stares and whispers and silences, I feel something new: a sense of peace. It’s faint, a fragile thing, but it’s there—a happiness that comes from finally letting go of what others think and accepting who I am, without condition. I am Sophie. Not because I fit someone’s idea of what a woman should be or because I tick a box, but because I know myself in a way I never did before. I am enough, and I am real.

So yes, today was rough. And yes, tomorrow might be, too. But in this moment, as hard as it is, I know one thing for sure: I’m Sophie, and that’s enough.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
17:49 UTC

3

[SP] Battle in the Hazardous Kitchen

“Never underestimate a man who has nothing left to lose.”

His eyes were mad, wide open and darting about. I'm not sure how he got into the kitchen, or why, but he held the big rolling pin in his thick fist. Martin, the sous chef, was already knocked out cold beside the oven.

I dodged as the maniac swung his impromptu club. On my second dodge, I tried to grab the implement, only to come away with a throbbing thumb.

The knives were behind him; behind me, the doors to the tables. It was me, or the guests, and as the newly-appointer head chef, I knew my decision before I made it.

But how to take the freak down?

He made a swipe I could not dodge; at the last moment, I vaulted over the counter. Now, I had options, weapons. I glanced over the pan lid, the mallet and the cheese grater… my eyes settled on the spatula.

“Aha!” I yelled, slamming my tool against the worktop. The plastic handle snapped.

“Fool!” the lunatic screamed.

I had to think fast. Snatching the mallet, I parried blow after blow from the pin, but with each strike I was forced back to the walk-in fridge. If I got too close, he could lock me in, freeze me to death.

So I kicked him in the shin. With a yowl of pain he leapt back, giving me room to rush behind. I raised my hammer high, and brought it down on his head with a crack. He collapsed to the white tiled floor.

At last, I had won! I felt incredible, ecstatic, like I could do anything.

Then I saw the blood.

“Oh shit, I've killed him!” I cried.

Before I could come to terms with my crime, the doors burst open. Two men identical to the corpse flew into the kitchen, wielding rolling pins.

“Never under–”

I screamed louder than I thought imaginable. The intruders tilted their heads in tandem, before rushing me.

Rage overtook my mind. With the strength of a madman, I struck the pin from the hand of the left, and buried the mallet in the head of the other. The surviving clone grabbed my head in his hands, began to squeeze. My skull felt as if it was going to burst.

Until I jabbed my fingers into his eyes. He jumped back with a shriek, and while he reeled, I smashed his head into the wall.

He fell to the floor, lifeless.

“Take that, you sons of–”

Five more clones ran into the kitchen.

I leapt straight for the knives. Cleaver in each hand, I went to town on those bastards, cutting and slicing until the walls were crimson. More and more clones rushed through the door, until the kitchen was filled with their screams.

My vision went red. Everything was a blur, shapes and sounds all forming a single mass of existence. And I kept on fighting.

Until, at last, the final one fell. No more clones entered the kitchen.

“Fuck you!” I yelled, pointing a cleaver at the carpet of bloody pulp. “You lose!”

Someone murmured behind me. Martin the sous chef had awoken.

“What the… hell?”

“I won, man. I won!”

He stared at me wide-eyed, and gazed across the carnage around him, before passing out again.

Calling an ambulance, I ran from that kitchen, from the whole city in fact, not stopping until I stood in the woods.

That was where my journey as a survivalist began…

1 Comment
2024/11/01
16:11 UTC

2

[OT] A toaster body swap comedy story?

Hey all, I need help looking for a short story from the 2000's about a scientist, a cat? and a toaster who end up through mishap swapping their minds. The scientist was trapped in the chassis of the toaster and made futile attempts to contact the outside world by burning messages into bread.

I pasted it into a word format back in the late 2000's (it was about 2 pages). This was many computers ago and has certainly been lost. I've checked Wattpad for it and couldn't find it. My eyes are however scarred from the many slashfics with toasters.

Mods, happy to be removed if TOMT-style posts are not allowed here, I just thought that the discerning crowd in shortstories might be able to help me out of this jam and might appreciate the read if we find it.

Cheers!

0 Comments
2024/11/01
15:47 UTC

2

[FN] What The Clouds Think About

Lazy drifts of wind scour desert sands, sending the sharp little grains tumbling through the air over the dunes. Providing little relief from the baking sun, the breeze rolls over the desert like a wave atop a wave, twisting and turning at the whims of gods.

A mote of sand flies into Arlan's eye. In a moment of fury, he sends the grain away with flick, untying his red headscarf in the process. His camel groans in annoyance, while his wife Tarsha laughs. He gives her a withering look.

“Your own fault for not bringing a mask,” she says, adjusting her own green hood.

He sighs. “If I hide my face my face, I may be taken for a bandit.”

“A what?! You, with your puppyish eyes?!”

“I do not have… Look, we're nearly there, I can handle it.”

They return their attention ahead. Arlan stares at the back of their guide’s bare head, at his sand-blasted curls of brown hair. Every other moment, Janar gazes up at the thin wisps of cloud above the horizon.

“We are nearly there, right?” Arlan calls ahead.

“Yes, we are,” Janar says plainly in his surprisingly soft tone. “Nampur lies just over the next run of dunes.”

“Good, thank you.”

Janar nods.

“I hope we can find him here,” Tarsha says. Her hands tremble as she holds the reins. “I can feel it getting worse inside me. My legs, I barely feel them.”

“Don't worry,” he says. “The hunter stated that the healer is here, so here he shall be.”

She smiles wearily. “I believe you.”

First thing Arlan sees is the pale spire rising above the sands, like a needle puncturing the sky. As they ascend the dune, the rest of the city reveals itself: rings of sandstone and marble buildings curling up around the side of a mountain, the spire an extension of its peak. Carts scurry like ants up Nampur’s spiral roads.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Janar asks.

The word Arlan would use is imposing, yet he cannot deny its beauty. “Yes, it's quite something.”

“Absolutely wonderful,” says Tarsha.

After a short jaunt across a desert plain, they fall in with the other travellers entering the city. They move all together as a column, slowly filtering through the city's immense southern gate. Arlan listens to the conversations of those around him, not understanding most yet enthralled by the diverse tongues. He looks about, smiling, briefly meeting Tarsha’s gleeful gaze. Janar leads them onward.

Once beneath the gate's shadow, guards in bronze, lamellar armour lead them to the leftmost line.

“Busy this week,” Janar observes. “Must be a celebration going on.”

“So far from the solstice?” Tarsha asks.

“Could be a royal funeral, or birth. It's been some time since I was here last.”

The guards glance at them with frustrated expressions fixed on their faces. Arlan wonders how hot it gets under their pointed metal helms.

As they approach the guard post, Arlan brings his documents from his satchel. Janar hands his parchment to the guard first, who nods him through. Though he sweats before the man's stern visage, once Arlan hands his lot over, it takes no time at all to be sent on.

On the other side, he emerges into a small square of turquoise tiles, sand yellow arched buildings lining all three sides. The mountain looms over it all, the road around it curling up into the sky, terminating in that towering spire. Only Tarsha's raised voice averts his attention.

She glares down at the guard from her camel. His voice rises in response to hers, her documents gripped tightly in his fist.

“What's the matter?” Arlan asks, dismounting and walking towards the two.

The guard growls in his own strange words.

Janar coughs beside him. “Allow me to translate.”

“Thanks. Can you ask him what this is all about?”

After a short tirade from the guard, Janar says, “This parchment is made of goose skin, so is therefore not official.”

“What?!” Tarsha snaps. “In what world… Tell him that goose skin is no different from cow skin in our land.”

“I don't think that's wise,” Janar says. “Obey the orders, and they will take you to the captain, who will sort things out.”

“Fine.” She turns to Arlan. “Please, find the healer, then return here for me.”

“I will.”

Worried, he watches as guards lead her into the gatehouse. He looks to the city above him, at the rows and rows of walls jutting from the pale granite cliffs. And he gulps.

It seems to Arlan that there are people at every turn. Children in colourful clothes peer from out of alleyways, watching the people roll by. The roads are full of carts that slowly crawl towards the peak, their drivers seeking the markets around the palace, all while vendors stroll between the wheels, pawning their wares. Beside the chaos, guards stand weary in their roadside posts, likely hoping for trouble to sprout up.

Arlan feels the sun sizzling the back of his neck as he walks. There is little shade, with the carts and a wall on one side, and open space on the other. He glances up to find he's only reached halfway.

“Come on,” he huffs. “This is impossible.”

“You think you've got it hard?” says the merchant he didn't notice was behind him. The yellow-garbed man carries a pig over his shoulders.

“Why don't you… let the pig walk?”

“Hatri pulled my cart here, he deserves a rest.”

“You ride a pig cart?”

He looks at Arlan incredulously. “Oh, that's odd, is it? Me, Sar Senam, am being called strange?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean…”

“Yes you did. Don't be a coward and deny it.”

“I'm just trying to get to a healer, that's all, I didn't even start this conversation.”

The merchant's face suddenly brightens. “Huh. I wonder if we seek the same healer?”

“I… suppose that's possible.”

“Well, if you're there, I'll see you later!”

Sar picks up his pace, racing ahead of Arlan, who's mouth hangs open as he watches him go.

Finally in the upper city, Arlan takes his time on each street, reading every sign he passes. He finds plenty of swordsmiths, scribes and perfumers, grocers and butchers, tanners and alchemists and seers; yet, he finds no healers.

Heading for the backstreets, where the buildings are more akin to stone huts, he keeps on searching. The road is open on one side, and the plains stretch to the distant hills far below him. He tries not to look down.

After an hour, he spots a familiar flash of yellow. Sar Senam sits on a stone bench outside a two-storey house clad in flaking white plaster. His pig snuffles at the roadside weeds.

“Took you long enough,” the merchant says.

“Seems it did. This is the place?”

“It is. What is it that ails you?”

“Oh, nothing; I'm here for my wife.”

“Who is where?’

“She had to see the guard captain. I'll go and get her.”

Sar mutters under his breath as Arlan turns. “Wasting my time…”

“What was that?”

The merchant glares at him. “I rushed up here to see to your illness, and it turns out there was no need.”

“Wait… you're the healer?!”

“Of course I am.”

Arlan clenches his jaw. He wishes to throttle the man. “Then why are you dressed like a merchant?! And why didn't you say that's why you were rushing?! I don't… why?”

“I won't explain myself to you,” the healer says with a wave of his hand. “Go and fetch your wife now, or I shall refuse you my service.”

Face flushed and hands shaking, Arlan begins the gruelling journey back down the mountain.

Tarsha takes the lead to the house, as Arlan trails behind. He staggers across the uneven ground, chest heaving, his feet throbbing in his boots. Sar Senam stands as they approach, and opens the door.

The room within is large and lit by ornate oil lamps. Tapestries hung from ceiling hooks drape over the floor, atop which has been placed a red rug and pink cushions. Sar sits on the largest one, a sun over an evening field, and crosses his legs.

“So,” the healer says to Tarsha, “what troubles you?”

She lowers her head. “I had a fever last month, with shivers and pain in my belly. The latter grew worse and worse until it suddenly stopped, and I felt fine. But soon after, a numbness began in my gut, which quickly travelled down my legs and up into my chest. I… I cannot feel anything below my head.”

Sar frowns deeply. “I see. This is very concerning.”

“Can you do anything?” Arlan interrupts.

“Shush, please, I'm working. Can you move all your limbs and digits?”

“I can move everything,” she says. “The only difference is the numbing. It makes me feel so distant from the world.”

“As I'd think it would. But I have a cure, so don't you fret.”

“What?” Tarsha's eyes grow wide. “So quickly?”

He grins. “That is my skill, you see. I need but see a person, hear their symptoms, to diagnose right and true.”

Arlan swears the healer sits taller on his cushion.

“Do what needs to be done,” she says.

“Then please head upstairs, find a bed. I shall be with you shortly.”

Once she leaves the room, Sar turns to Arlan, eyes narrowed. “Your attitude will prevent my ability to heal, I fear. For your wife's safety, you must remain outside this house.”

“You can't be serious?! I should be with her!”

“Stay, and she may die. Do you wish this?”

“I…” A thousand thoughts run through his head. What healer is he? Why would my thoughts affect him?

But he relents. “No. I will remain outside.”

“Very good. The process will take three days, so I suggest finding a place to stay. You may visit her by noon on the third day.”

With shoulders slumped, Arlan leaves the healer be, closing the door behind him.

Having found an inn, Arlan settles down on a straw bed. He doesn't mind the discomfort it brings; after the day’s distance, he is glad just to lie down.

Sleep swiftly arrives. At first, the dark void fills his mind, but soon after a light emerges. He sees his wife, unconscious on a bed, covered in pins. Despite the sight of metal in her skin, an overwhelming sense of calm falls over him.

Sar appears from a beaded doorway. Taking a jug from a shelf, he pours water and rose petals all over her body. The saccharine aroma hits him even in this dream.

Then, the healer stops. He turns his head to stare Arlan right in his mind's eye. Focused on Sar's bright blue eyes and dark ashen hair, the room bleeds away. The two of them fly high in the sky, amongst the clouds, Sar a bright yellow giant in their midst.

There is a flash of lightning, and suddenly the clouds turn dark. A storm rages in Arlan's head, Sar at its centre; only, his bright yellow garb has turned jet black.

“Leave this place!” the giant bellows. “Your presence shall only bring harm!”

Arlan awakes with a start, sweating and shaking.

On the third day, he returns to Sar’s home. The house, which had seemed so ordinary before, seems an imposing fortress to him now. He stands by the edge of the road, thin air to his back, as far from the place as he can get.

The healer steps out to meet him. Despite wearing a black cloak, no sweat drips from his forehead.

“She is sipping a herbal tea downstairs,” Sar explains. “All went well, and now she can feel again. Now, she must rest.”

“So no travel for a while?”

“A week. Then she shall be fine.”

“Thank you. I… really appreciate all you've done.’

Sar smiles. “You're welcome. I'm glad you can see my worth now.”

“I can indeed. Sorry for how I was before.”

The healer takes a seat, and gestures for Arlan to join him. He slowly approaches the bench.

Once he sits, Sar says. “You are not a bad man, you know. I just cannot have negative thoughts in my presence, as I heal.”

“I understand.”

“And I think you truly do. I told, and you listened.”

Arlan frowns. “Was that… really you?”

“Hmm?”

“I… swear I saw you, while I waited.”

“Perhaps you did. I had to buy supplies yesterday.”

“That's not…”

Sar raises an eyebrow. “What did you mean then?”

“I… never mind.”

With a chuckle, the healer gets to his feet. “Well, I have another patient to attend to. Your wife will join you soon.”

Alone, Arlan stares out to the horizon. In the pale blue sky, tendrils of cloud make their languid way to the south, their forms twisted by a storm long since passed. The plains below are drenched in their shadows.

“What did I truly see?” he asks himself.

The door creaks open. Tarsha emerges into the sun, beaming, her face radiant with life. Gasping, Arlan leaps to his feet and holds out his hands. Their fingers touch, and she rubs her thumbs across his palms.

He brings her into an embrace. “How does it feel, my love?”

“It feels so...” she says into his shoulder, hiding her tears, “I… can't quite describe it.”

They say nothing more, holding each other outside the healer’s house, until the sun goes down.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
15:18 UTC

2

[HR] THE YOU INSIDE OF YOU

You know, the strangest part isn’t the teeth themselves. It’s that they keep growing back no matter how many times I wrench them from their sockets. No matter how deep the crater left in its place, bleeding and raw. Still, row after row, they keep coming back. It's like I’m some human experiment gone wrong. But I think I would remember if I’d actually been held captive, locked in a cage, undergoing medical practices, wouldn’t I?

 

I slide my hand around the corner of the doorframe onto the cold bathroom wall, tapping my hand in the dark until I find the light switch. I flick it on. The single burning-white lightbulb crackles quietly to life.

My eyes immediately sweep across the countertop as I position myself in front of the mirror. I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief, knowing that everything is exactly as I left it. I would know if anything was out of place. I would know.

 

I drag my eyes up and down the red and yellow stained cabinets and floors in my bughouse bathroom, keeping my head down. I lean against the counter and tell myself to relax. When I’m sure I’m ready, I lift my head to find a perfect match of myself staring back at me with wide eyes. I flinch, jumping back with surprise. The sick imposter mimes my every move.

“Get out of my mirror,” I growl softly, watching in disbelief as his lips move in sync with my own. “Get out. Now. Or else!”

 

He doesn’t move.

 

I slam my fist down on the counter as hard as I can. A shock of pain shoots up my arm and my knuckles throb. But still, he doesn’t listen. I hear him chuckle under his breath. This infuriates me. I reach for the pliers, gleaming, begging to be held, to be used, and I point them directly at his face.

 

“One by one,” I begin to explain, loud and clear, locking my gaze with his, “I’ll tear out each one of your teeth.” But even still, he doesn’t budge—just stands there staring at me like a maniac.

 

I shrug, “I tried to warn you.” Spitting out the words as I lunge at his mouth with the pliers, but he blocks me with the same move. Of course he does; he’s antagonizing me, trying to set me off. I lower my hand and act nonchalantly, but I know what will make him drop the stupid act.

 

I open my mouth while I clamp the pliers open and closed. I steadily inch them closer to my mouth. He follows my every move. I lick the metal tip of the pliers; a burst of iron tang fills my mouth. I grip the most deranged tooth first. I figured he’d have been a bit wiser, but he still hasn’t given up yet.

 

So be it.

 

I don’t waste any more time; I just grip with both hands and pull down with all my strength. It pops right out without much effort. The imposter, on the other hand, writhes in pain, blood shooting from his mouth and dripping from his pliers.

 

He's more determined to protect this façade than I thought. I turn my back on him, hunch down, and drop my tooth into my palm.

 

That lousy idiot got blood all over mine.

 

I stand up, spin back around, and wash it clean in the sink. I watch it squirm in my fingers, like it thinks it could escape my grip, but I don’t let go. Even after it grows legs and stabs my fingertips with its ragged edges, I still don’t allow it to just run off. Once it finally gives up the fight, I hold it up to the light, marveling at the little thing. Then I line it up on my bathroom sink like a little white soldier, all neat and glossy. The same way I did with the others before. 

“You’re perfect.” I tell it, “Just perfect!” 

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of that freak show guy again. He’s trying to rob me—to steal my precious tooth.

 

I snatch it up from the counter. “It’s mine!” I roar, then quickly run into my bedroom. I moved through the room, careful not to disturb the delicate silence. I have a hiding spot under my bed where I know it’ll be safe from prying hands. I started collecting them in jars—seven jars to be exact—seven and counting, all safely tucked away in my stash compartment made to look like a tool box. My secret tooth sanctuary. Mine.

 

Then there’s the noise. I can feel it more than hear it—a rumbling sound, rattling my bones around, so sure and constant it almost feels like... well, like some kind of electric parasite lodged in my skull. I nearly fainted from the intensity of it.

 

I swiftly drop the tooth into one of the jars, then slide the tool box back under my bed. The room spins, and I lose my balance, falling back onto my bed. The sound surges louder, making my entire body quake.

 

I think it's been trying to tell me something, tapping out messages in Morse code against the backs of my eyes, but I don’t speak tap. So I just stare at the walls all night while it tries to drill its way out. If that isn’t bad enough, it’s been getting bolder, too—once, I swear, I heard it laugh. I pretend like I don’t notice it. I don’t want to give it any clues that I am on to it. I’ve got a plan to figure out, and I can’t have it getting ahead of me. 

 

I yawned dramatically, acting casual, pretending to be tired. I get comfortable in bed and pull the sheets over my body, just lying there, staring at the ceiling.

 

The noise fades little by little as the feeling increases, like tiny needles prickling just beneath my skin across the entire surface of my body. The laughing turns into a hiss, screeching through my head in this awful, monstrous whine.

 

And then—this is the part that gets me—it asks me questions. Out loud, in a voice that isn’t mine. It's flat and strange, distant yet close, like someone talking from the bottom of a well.

 

“Do you think you’ll miss them?” it asked. 

 

And the crazy part is, I knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t talking about people. It was talking about my teeth.

I just lay there, holding my jaw, feeling the pressure building again like something was about to split open. And sure enough, there was another one, poking its way out just below the gum line. A small, pointed thing, twisted in shape, almost like it had grown wrong on purpose, just to mock me. I reached in my mouth, wiggled it, then pulled it out. It felt odd. Rubbery, almost.

 

Then, I did something new—I tasted it. Not like some little nibble; I crushed it between my molars, and it felt like biting into ice. It hurt, sure, but not as much as you'd think, and for a second, everything got quiet—perfectly silent.

 

I thought I’d stopped whatever was inside me, just by doing that, by chewing through my own tooth, but then the voice came back, blaring this time, drilling words straight into my mind. 

 

"You can’t stop the cycle.”

 

It must have known I was pretending not to notice. The words were crawling, slipping, slipping inside, like they'd been waiting to do this all along—digging around in my skull. I covered my ears, pressing with all my might, but it only made the voice louder.

 

And then this vision came to me, bright and vivid in my mind. It was a single eyeball, enormous, beaming side to side, up and down. But it wasn't just looking at me; it was somehow dissecting me, layer by layer. 

 

My brain kept producing these images. I saw myself in this forest made of teeth, the trees snapping open and shut, their roots tangling with bones, with me in the center of it all—no skin, just veins and tendons, standing upright. I was covered in a layer of what looked like my own chewed-up teeth.

 

Then I saw my mouth move, speaking, but it wasn't me talking. It was that same voice again, but choppy, broken, spilling out secrets I didn't even know I had. It was telling me things I’d done in places I'd never been, speaking languages I didn't know I understood, and it was laughing all the while—hysterically—in ways that made my stomach twist into knots. I could feel the laughter, too, trickling down my spine like oil. It was burning me up from the inside.

 

I saw my skin, like a suit, fall onto the ground in front of me. I watched as the pink mass of veins and tendons, the mass of mush that was me, grabbed at the skin suit, pulling it over himself. He couldn’t seem to step into it. I watched as he fought with it, stretching and pulling, heaving it back and forth. Then, together, we realized that the skin—my skin—didn't fit right.

 

He started peeling parts of it back—just a little at first—one corner by the wrist, tugged at it, and it ripped in a jagged line up the length of his arm. There was another layer beneath, but it wasn't skin. It was something that shouldn't be in there—something black and throbbing, like a hive. As soon as I saw it, I could feel it spreading everywhere, wriggling under my fingernails, curling behind my eyeballs. I could swear I saw tiny legs scuttling up my throat.

 

That's when I realized it... the thing... the parasite or whatever it was, it wasn't in me; I was in it. I was the suit, the puppet, the thin little layer it needed to walk around in, just flesh to hide its colony of... something—a creature that wore people like we wear clothes. It's been in me, growing, making copies of my teeth as souvenirs, like little trophies. And it's been collecting them in secret, putting them in jars, labeling them, and building some kind of museum inside me. For what? I don't know. To remember? To forget? To mock?

 

And just when I thought I'd seen it all, I hear the thing whisper, "You're almost ready."

 

I felt the cold words freeze me to the core. But I couldn’t help it; I had to ask, “Ready for what?” 

 

The response? Just laughter again, rolling through me, vibrating in my bones until I thought they might shatter. The thing was savoring the question, like it had wanted me to ask, like it had been waiting for me to give in, to wonder, to finally prove to it, or myself, that I’d been trying to ignore it for so long. 

 

I tried to push it down, tried to mask the twitching, the crawling under my skin, but it was too late. It was seeping into my thoughts, reshaping the way I saw everything. My hands, my legs, even my own face felt foreign.

 

The vision ended with me staring directly into my own eyes, like a reflection, and it was just smiling. But I know it wasn’t me. I hadn’t moved a muscle. 

 

I snap out of it, still laying in bed. The room felt smaller than I remembered, as if it had shrunk in response to my return. I didn’t have time to process what happened when, out of nowhere, it took hold of my body and made me get up and walk. My legs moving on their own, feet dragging down the hallway, out the door, and into the street. I couldn’t control it; I was a passenger, just along for the ride. The thing was thrilled, guiding me past my neighbors houses, careful not to be seen. I tried to shout, but my lips were glued shut. I passed by all the places I thought were safe. 

 

I didn’t know where we were going, but it did. It knew exactly where. I knew because the movements were so calculated, so precise. 

 

We stopped at the abandoned lot a few blocks from my house, where the ground was cracked. A horrible smell seeped from it, like rust and mold. It forced me down on my hands and knees and plunged my face into the ground. The crack in the asphalt gave way, and I fell inside. It felt like I was wading through mud, my body moving forward, lifting my hand, reaching out to grab a hold of something, but I couldn’t see anything; I could only feel it. It was bulbous and cold, smooth like a doorknob. I felt my arm yank it open, and it was like a barrier, buzzing with some kind of evil energy, pulling me in, like a magnet.  

 

And then the voice came back, low, guttural, almost excited. "Ready for the unveiling?"  

 

It didn’t matter if I was or wasn’t, because as soon as the question was out, a bright flash of light illuminated the space around me, blinding bolts of electricity spraying in all directions. As my eyes were adjusting to the light, my fingers started peeling back, bending in ways fingers shouldn’t bend, stretching out, until they weren’t fingers anymore. They were something else, something long and stretching, something that was both mine and not at the same time. They were reaching into that buzzing void, dragging something out—something heavy, dripping a black, oily substance.  

 

It was me. Another me. An exact copy, with blank eyes and a slack jaw, like a puppet waiting for strings. It looked dead. I looked dead.  

 

I tried to scream, but still, no sound. Then the thing laughed one last time.

 “Congratulations. You’re the prototype.”

 

The other me jerked to life. It moved like it was figuring out how to use its limbs, stretching its fingers, tilting its head, and examining every joint, every creak, and every pop of bone. It looked at me with those empty eyes—my own eyes, staring back at me but expressionless, like a doll left out in the rain. 

 

And that smile—not just any smile. It was deranged, stretching far too wide, cracking at the edges, and splitting the skin like wet paper. It leaned in close, nose to nose, until I could feel its cold breath against my face. I was frozen, my muscles locked, trapped in this broken shell while the thing in my skin—the thing in my life—examined me like I was a failed experiment.

 

Then, in a voice that sounded like mine but was all wrong, it whispered, "Time to swap."

 

I felt a yank inside my chest, like something was being pulled out by the roots. My vision faded in and out, and suddenly I was inside it—inside the copy, looking out of those dead, vacant eyes, feeling nothing but a cold emptiness. And in that moment, I realized the awful truth: I wasn’t the host anymore. I was the husk.

 

I could see my own body from the outside, watching as it moved with a new fluidity, my own face now wearing that awful, gaping grin. And the worst part? It felt right. Natural. Like it had been waiting for this moment all along, like I was the temporary suit that’d finally been cast aside.  

 

Then, I spoke—or rather, it spoke through me, turning to leave me behind, with one last glance over its shoulder, wearing my face and my smile, and in a voice dripping with satisfaction, it said, "Better you than me.

 

And then it walked away, leaving me trapped, frozen, nothing more than a discarded skin, just one more forgotten piece in its endless collection.

 

I wasn’t just left there, dead and useless—I was conscious, aware, a spectator locked in my own shell. I could feel my body moving farther away, hear it whistling some chilling tune that I’d never known, but it seemed to know by heart. And as I watched it disappear into the distance, a sick realization crawled over me.

 

I wasn’t alone in here.

 

The others—the ones it had discarded before me—were still here, their low tones scratching against my mind, faint, distorted, like voices under water. They were stuck, too, trapped bits of thought and memory left over from whoever they'd once been. I could feel them pressing in, all around me, a crowd of voiceless forms—faces and features I couldn’t quite make out.

 

I understood then: they’d all been replaced, just like me, worn out and used up. And now we were piled together, all packed into the same vessel, just waste in its rotten core. 

 

And then... then they started speaking, their voices layering over the next, a chaotic chorus that roared like an angry mob. They begged, they cursed, they wailed—all at once, shouts of hopelessness and horror, scratching and clawing to be heard, but no one was listening. No one could.  

 

Except me.

2 Comments
2024/11/01
12:56 UTC

4

[MF] A Warm Hug

For the longest time now, life has felt overwhelmingly hard. I keep fighting, but it feels like a losing battle. Why is it so difficult to be happy? Sometimes I wonder if I did something in a past life to deserve the pain I’m experiencing now. Still, despite everything, there’s something that keeps me going, even though my life feels like an endless void of emptiness. I miss the days when I was young.

I remember a time in my life when everything felt bright and sunny. Each day, I woke up full of joy. Not every day was filled with rainbows and sunshine, but I was certain I was happy. Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t quite as perfect as it seemed. Life simply feels different when you’re a carefree child.

One day, however, stands out in my memory. It was a Sunday—a family day—and we went to the mall. Everything felt ordinary. We had lunch, wandered around, and ended up in a clothing store. My mother was browsing through the racks, and I was nearby, close enough that she could keep an eye on me.

While I was standing there, I noticed someone outside the store. They had teary eyes, a sadness that somehow caught my attention. Then, all of a sudden, this person entered the store, walked right over to me, and, without a word, wrapped me in a warm, tight hug.

I was young and confused. I didn’t know this person, yet there was something about the hug that felt strangely familiar. I can still remember its warmth—it wasn’t just a physical feeling; it was a warmth that seemed to touch something deeper, a comfort I couldn’t name at the time. It felt like this hug was giving me strength, a strength I didn’t know I’d need.

After a few seconds, my mother noticed and hurried over. The stranger let go, apologized softly, and explained that I reminded them of someone. With a final, lingering look, they left the store just as quickly as they’d come.

My mother asked if I was okay and reminded me about talking to strangers. I nodded, but I couldn’t quite explain how I felt. After that, life carried on. The days blended together, but that hug stayed with me. As I grew up, whenever life felt heavy or I was struggling, I would remember that moment. The memory of that hug became a quiet source of strength, a reminder that I was not alone.

Years later, I found myself back at that same mall. From a distance, I saw the clothing store, and suddenly, memories came flooding back, filling me with an unexpected wave of emotion. I was lost in thought when I noticed something—a child, standing in the store, staring directly at me from the very spot where I once stood.

For a moment, time felt suspended. I couldn’t look away. The child’s gaze felt like a reflection of my own memories, filled with the same confusion and wonder I once felt. I stood there, unsure of what to do, as the memory of that hug wrapped around me once again.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
12:21 UTC

7

[RF] Hush, Little Girl

“Hush, little girl.” Those were the first words my mother said to me.

Of course, I didn’t remember hearing them, but she remembered saying them. She hadn’t chosen my name yet, and wouldn’t for another couple of weeks — too busy feeding me and changing me and catering to my every whim with nowhere near enough sleep to function. By that point “little girl” had stuck. My first, true name to her.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words followed me through my childhood.

Any bump or scrape that brought the tears welling in my eyes. Any fretful new experience that I was scared to face. Any perceived problem that had me panicking. My mother whispered those words as she cleaned my wounds, placing a plaster over them with a kiss. She murmured them over and over like a mantra as she stroked my hair, until all felt right with the world again. She said them softly as she got me ready for my first day of school, and they followed me inside as she waved goodbye.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words grated on me as I grew.

“I’m not a little girl anymore!” I pouted and stomped my feet, oblivious to the irony of those words with that image.

She simply smiled that warm smile of hers — so full of love and life and laughter. “You’ll always be my little girl.” She sighed. “But I’ll try to respect your wishes. Because I love you.”

I tried my best to keep scowling, but I couldn’t keep it up long.

She tried her best to stop saying those words, catching herself midway through.

“Hush, little—.” Those words were soon missed, though I wouldn’t admit it at the time.

I wished that I could still run to her any time something went wrong. But big girls don’t run crying to their mothers. Any time I was in trouble at school and tears stung threateningly behind my eyes. Any time I fell out with a friend and feared I’d lost them forever. Any time it all got too much, and I felt like giving up. I missed those words from her lips more than anything. But I could still hear them, faintly, in my head when I really needed them, and I knew that I was going to be okay.

“Hush, little girl.” Those words watched over me when she couldn’t.

When she got sick, I had to stay with my grandmother. Gran did her best, but she wasn’t Mum. Her attention was split between me, and her little girl in the hospital.

I wasn’t allowed to visit as much as I’d have liked. I think they both worried about the effect it would have on me, watching my mother slowly die in front of my eyes. They tried to keep me busy with school work and a paper round and day trips with friends, but nothing could distract me. Not really.

Her absence from those moments was like a hollow ache in my chest. But whenever I felt it most keenly, I’d hear those words in her voice, over and over in my head.

Until, finally, the time drew near. I think they both realised that keeping me away wasn’t helping. And when all hope was lost, neither wanted to rob me of my last moments with her. I still remember how frail she looked. How thin. How grey. But that smile of hers was still plastered on her face — full of love and life and laughter — even as the tears spilled out of her eyes.

I tried to be brave, tried to be strong, for her, but it was no use. My hands trembled as I held hers. My vision blurred with unshed tears as I stared into her eyes, trying to memorise every detail. My voice cracked when I tried to tell her I loved her — tried to say goodbye.

“Hush, little girl.” Those were the last words my mother said to me.


Author's note: This story was written for a team challenge as part of Word-Off on the discord server, where we were given a title and had to come up with a story to match it.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
10:22 UTC

3

[FN] He who moves the world

Footsteps echoed behind me, as i stared at the man behind the counter ahead of me. Unsure of whether I heard correctly.

"Ah its you, you're from the train right?" The Footsteps paused as the man next to me greeted me with his hand held out, and a smile on his face...

It started as an average day, man i hate re-telling my predicament. I was just catching the train to work, when suddenly a bright flash erupted from the carriage ahead. The light moved slowly, creeping to our carriage, as everyone around me begun to panic and scream.

"Run!" A man beside me shouted, a look of horror on his face, his eyes open and wide, pupils almost nonexistent. The people in the carriage moved, climbing ontop one another trying to exit through the rear, though with no luck... yet I? I just sat there, my eyes looking once again to the light...

We woke up as a group in a white room, with a woman standing ahead of us, she looked... beautiful? I think? None of us could recollect what we had seen, only what had happened. She began to explain our situation in detail, with all those arround me arguing and listening, I however didn't bother. I sighed, just wanting the day to end...

We were in another world, filled with magic, monsters, and game systems. Some of the men and women were ecstatic, as if it had been their dream to abandon reality, while others bowed their head in silence, thinking of the world that they had just left.

We were given classes, skills, and stat points. Given free roam of how to live our future life, only told that we would progress much faster than those originally from this world. Everyone had split up, choosing their own adventures and how they would spend their lives.

I spent the majority of the time going on quests and meeting new people, levelling myself... however for whatever reason, i decided to dump all my stat points into luck, at first i barely felt a difference, until it reached 50, and simply throwing a stone had accidentally killed a goblin that startled me.

It took years, and i decided to venture forward and do whatever i felt like at the time. If i wanted to hike a mountain, i would. If i wanted to ride a dragon, again i would. It seemed like the world was working in my favour... yes.. my favour.

Almost 10 years had passed since arriving in this world, venturing forth into a new continent, where i was summoned by a king, given a simple task of meeting the bar keep down town, seemed simple enough.

I decided to take my time exploring the town, and eventually reached the bar that the king had mentioned, i walked through the shabby wooden door. The inside was plain, empty, and everything you'd expect of a bar. A man stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass.

"Come sit, we have much to discuss," he spoke as if he knew me, silver eyes to match his silver hair, his sun-touched skin sagging.

I sat down ahead of him, asking him why he asked to see me. Not knowing what would lie ahead...

"I am god, and you... what in the hell have you done." His words echoed in my ears, i did not quite understand what he had meant, and then the man from my past had walked up behind me, offering his hand as a gesture.

"It's been too long, how have you found the world here?" The man continued to stand with his hand held out, interrupted by... God?

"That's enough, you also, sit down." The bar keep mentioned as he slams the cup down onto the table, giving us a riddle next.

What is the difference between Luck and Wisdom? It was a simple question, you could answer it in many different ways... however we were entirely wrong.

"Wisdom, is understanding the world and walking through a desired path. Which you have maxed out." He spoke to the man beside me. However then quickly whipping his head to look at me.

"Luck. Luck on the other hand... moves the entire world for you." He stared at me blankly, with rage in his eyes.

1 Comment
2024/11/01
05:11 UTC

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