“Jesus Christ, man. It’s like they forgot how to throw the fucking ball!” “Hmm? Oh yea, this fucking country, man.” I was staring at the same TV the bartender was looking at, but to be honest, I couldn’t see shit. Before I got a glance at the game a commercial had started-- “Biff and Smiffer Forget-me-pills” with some Beatles song in the background. “The corporations can’t even let the Beatles die in peace… been years since any of them have been alive but those sons of bitches still using them to make a profit. Like either of those billionaires really need any more advertising. Already got the whole world doped up…” The bartender said. “Uh-huh.” I dug my fist into the biffer in front of me and licked the powder off the side of my knuckle. I think I’m about four, maybe five deep? Shit, isn’t it the bartender’s job to keep track of all the people in the bar? “I’m telling you James, the whole world has gone to shit. The fact that those pills haven’t put every bar in this city out of business by now is a goddamn miracle.” The bartender said. “Uh-huh,” I said back. I reached in my pocket to pull out my next biffer but came up empty. “Say, friend, do you happen to have any…” I said while making a rubbing motion between my thumb and index finger. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure,” He said. Without looking away from the screen he reached under the bar and pulled out a glass. He poured two shots of bourbon into the glass and pushed it across the bar to me. “Oh no, I meant… ah, never mind.” I said while grabbing the drink and shoving it down my throat. Tasted as plain as water to me. “And you should see fuckign upperside at this point! Me and the wife went to dinner the other week, and you can just tell the entire city has been robbed of its soul. You can see it in their goddamn eyes, they’re empty.” “Uh-huh.” “You know what I like about you, James? You know how to hold a conversation. The rest of these sad saps in this bar are so far biffed that they might as well be dead. You at the very least give me the respect of an honest talk,” The bartender went on. “Uh-huh,” I said. I looked around the bar to see if there was anyone halfway conscious who could spare me an extra pill. Four or five deep I think. It should be fine to take at least two or three more. Hell, even four should be fine. I stood up from my chair and held myself upright on the bar as I peered out over the booths behind me. “Hey, friend. Got any spare…” I called out to the guy in a suit sitting at the booth behind me while making that same rubbing motion. He looked back at me with a stern look. “Do I look like some sort of junkie to you, asshole? Turn the fuck around.” I snickered at him. “Alright, buddy, you have a nice night.” I turned back around and shook my head to myself. I heard the guy stand up and stumble over to me. “Listen, asshole, I’m no junkie. So you shut the fuck up and keep that shit to yourself,” he said while digging his finger into my back. I sighed while turning my spinning barstool around. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, alright? You’re not fooling anyone.” He blinked repeatedly. “What the fuck did you just say? I’ll touch whoever the fuck I want to touch, I work in the fucking upperside!” I sighed to myself again before putting my arms on the table to push myself up. Halfway through the bartender called out to the suited nutcase. “Listen here. I don’t care where you work, if you don’t want me calling federal on your ass you’ll get the fuck out of my bar.” The suited man straightened his back while blinking quickly. “Al-alright. My bad, friend. You have a blessed night.” He said. The man turned towards the back door, maintaining his posture as he walked out the door and down the cold, rainy street. “Sorry about that, James. Those upperside fellas are great for business but you’re shit out of luck if you’re looking for human decency. Can I get you another drink?” The bartender said. I stood up from the bar with my empty glass in my hand. I tipped it towards him before putting it back on the bar. “No thanks, friend. I think I’m headed home for the night.” I noticed out of the corner of my eye a handful of biffers on the floor near where the suited man was sitting. I stumbled over and looked under his table. Three, four, five. I think four is fine, I’ll save the other one for tomorrow. I raised my fist holding the biffers up to the bartender and gave him a smile and a nod before sticking my hands in my coat pockets and heading out the front door. The streets were dead with rain. I turned and started walking to the right of the bar. I didn’t bother looking to my left --hurts my eyes this late at night to see all that bright light coming from the main road. I could feel the peaking of a migraine just from the silent hum of the big glowing billboards plastered on the sides of the main road. I cracked my neck back and forth and gave a shiver while I slowly walked down the hollow sidewalk away from the bar. I took my hands out of my pocket to look at my biffers. I popped four of them in my mouth while I was walking. Probably should have taken a beer to go to wash it down but I’ll be fine. I’ll forget all about it soon enough. The streets were pretty soaked. Honest to god, I’ve been going to this bar for twenty years now but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be going if it keeps raining like this. I could feel my migraine swelling as a loud siren echoed “Biffers forget-me-pills, keeping America strong for twenty years!” echoing from the main road. The bright lights and sounds don’t make the walk any more fun, and I’m getting old at this point, a mile long city walk isn’t what it was when I was twenty. It’s not like I can’t just take my biffers at home… I kept walking down the soaked city street running horizontally to the bar until I came up to a left turn around an apartment building. Stained to the side of the building was a giant television screen with a flashing advertisement for Doughcarrots. I tried them once, weren’t really my thing. Never really got the point of taking it in any form other than the raw pills. It’s the quickest way to get the biffers into your bloodstream-- don’t really see much use for the candy-covered versions. Guess it’s to appeal to the next generation. I heard a buzz in my pocket-- a text from my son Connor. *Dad, come home,* it read. I went to type a response but decided against it. Better to just leave it. I’ll forget it all soon enough. I walked past the building and headed straight down the path. Should just be a straight walk now. I felt a buzz in my pocket so I stopped and took out my phone. I had a big grin plastered on my face as I scrolled through my text messages without a clue as to who was trying to contact me. My eyes dripped a little bit from the bright screen but it felt good. Jesus Christ that suited guy takes some serious shit, he must have a whole lot he’s trying to forget. Maybe this guy has contact with some black market distributor. I’ve been a loyal customer to the big CVS on my block for as long as I can remember, which isn’t very long mind you, but maybe I oughta change it up if they’ve been giving me low-class shit. I know I’m not no “upperside” man but I’m not one to skip out when it comes to biffers. As I was standing there looking at my phone it began to ring. C-O-N-N-O-R. Connor? Do I know a Connor? My son… I think he’s my son. Is he my son? Ah, I can’t remember. I put my phone back in my pocket and kept walking. There was something I was supposed to do. I put my hand in my pocket again and pulled out… another biffers! Where did I get this? I guess I lucked out! I popped that thing in my mouth and kept walking. Four… Four? Five? I kept walking down that street when I heard a series of screams and punchescoming from the alleyway in between two apartment buildings on my right. I stopped walking and listened. “Sick fucks… get the fuck off of me!” I heard the man get pushed up against the far wall and punched again. He was grabbed again and thrown on the ground. “You sick little shits--taking it out on me that you live in this shit hole. Hit me all you like-- won’t change…” The man was kicked in the mouth. Another voice started talking. “If you really were so much better than us you wouldn’t be walking down some shit-road in downerside. Now, are you gonna give me your good shit or not?” Behind the man, another voice started to speak. “Buddy, you got about two more kicks in before we start cutting, and when we start cutting, you’re about out of chances for forgiveness from us. So how’s about it?” I turned around from the corner I was behind and looked over at the men. The one on the ground looked familiar, but I couldn’t… suit. He was wearing a suit. Do I work with him? Must be something like that. The other two… maybe I knew them? Their faces were just lips and noses and eyes to me. The man with pieces of glass in front of his eyes looked at me and started talking.“James, what are you doing here? Head home man, you don’t want to see this shit.” I think he was talking to me… Hell, no one else was here. I don’t think that’s my name though… the only name I can remember is… “J-Jude,” I said in a shaky tone. The two men standing up looked at me awkwardly. The one with the glass looked at the other and put a hand on his shoulder before walking around the man in the suit towards me. “Yea, I know James, Jude. Have you had any tonight? I thought for a second. Four? Five? Is this why I had to remember that number? No… I don’t think so. “James, let me call someone to bring you home. You shouldn’t be by yourself.” I scratched my face while the man kept talking. A lot of what he said phased in and out. He was looking at me like he wanted me to say something. “James? Did you hear me? Can I call Connor to come to get you?” I blinked at the man. Connor? Was that Connor on the floor with the blood in his mouth? I took a step back and pointed to the man. “Is… is that Connor? The man in the back let out a chuckle. “Hah, I’ve seen you bad James, but not like this…” The man in front turned around and looked at the other man. “Genzo, shut the fuck up. If I hear another word out of your fucking mouth me and this upperside sack of shit will beat you up instead.” The man with the glass eyes walked up to me and put his arm around me while leading me around the corner of the alley. “Listen, James, we’re in the middle of something here… you got to leave us be. We’ll get you home, don’t worry, we always take care of our own. But you gotta let us finish up this business.” He seemed nice. Maybe we were friends. I looked at him and smiled. He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Good. Why don’t you sit right here and we’ll come to get you when we’re done.” That sounded like a good idea. I sat down right where we were standing and looked at the ground. It was so wet. Wet, wet… wet. The man with the glass turned away from me back towards his friend and the man in the suit. He cracked his knuckles. “Now… are you ready to tell us where the fuck your biffers are?” The man in the suit looked up at the man with the glass and spits at his feet. “You fucking trash… you’re all fucking trash! I don’t have any biffers, I would have told you before you beat the shit out of me if I--!” The man with the glass punched the man in the suit in the jaw. “I think it’s time for cutting, I’m sick of this. Genzo, get my knife.” Genzo pulled the bag off his back and pulled out a short blade. The handle was thick and black like the grip of a gun but the blade was thin-- so thin that the drops of rain leaking from the sky were too thick to land on it. “Genzo, do me a favor and call up Connor Young. Tell him we’ve got James with us and he has to come to get him. I’ll deal with this.” “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. After I hear the shot fired I’ll know you’re done.” Genzo throws the knife at the man with the glass who catches it. He turned around from the suited man and walked down the other side of the alley before making a right turn. The man on the ground spits another wad of blood at the man with the glass. “You think I’m scared of you, you little shit? You could kill me a thousand times over and you would still be immeasurably beneath me, and there is nothing you can do about that.” The man with the glass let out a chuckle. “Even moments away from death, people like you won’t give it up. I wonder if a couple of cuts is what it’ll take to finally crack you...” Jude. Is that what they are called? No… no, Jude means something to me. I can’t remember what but that word is strong, I know it. My ears felt like they were ringing as I watched the glass man tear into the suited man. Maybe I’m Jude. I looked down on the wet floor at my feet. The pavement was soaked and looked back up at me. I heald my finger up to the small puddle in front of my lap and looked at the glassy black reflection of my finger in the puddle. No...no, I don’t think I’m Jude. But I think it is a name. I can’t remember but I can feel it. Something warm that makes me smile, that’s Jude. Jude’s funny too… maybe a funny movie… no, no I don’t think it’s a movie. But I remember watching a movie. And Jude. Jude and the movie. I looked up again at the two men. There were gashes all over the suited man’s face. I looked at his eyes… he was crying. Marble fell down his eyes and added to the pools of liquid on the damp concrete he laid on. He was crying so much… it was so sad. Jude... Jude cried a lot too. I remember Jude crying. She lay there, looking up at me while holding my hand. She mouthed words to me but I can’t remember them. But they made me happy, Jude made me happy. Was that man Jude? Yes, it must be. Jude was here, with me, and she was still crying. The smile was gone and the goodness was gone and all that was left was the tears and the wetness. Why, why would they do this to Jude? The man with the glass threw the knife behind him and picked the man with the suit up by the neck; pushing him against the wall. No. They can’t do this to Jude. She doesn’t deserve this. Jude... I stood up and watched the man with the glass choke out Jude. I walked over, picked up the knife with my right hand, and shoved it into the glass man’s side. He looked at me with shock as he fell to the ground screaming. I took the knife and stabbed him again, and again, and again. “Jude... it’s okay. I’ll never let you down.” The man with the glass looked at me with shock. He reached his arms out to me while choking on the taste of his own blood, but he had no words left. I looked at him and smiled. “Jude... Jude, you take a--” A shot rang through my back. The sound was loud, all I could hear was it dripping down my backside. I coughed and turned over to my side. I looked up at Jude, covered in blood and coughing. I reached out my hand and I was met in return with blood. Jude spit at me and kicked me. I cried, why would she do this to me? Why would Jude hurt me like this? Jude stopped kicking and looked at me. “Downerside trash. Should have stayed in the fucking bar.” Jude left me. I could see it in the sky-- she was gone. I could see something-- the spirit of the devil coming for me. I wish Jude could protect me, I wish something would protect me. I choked while searching in my jacket pockets for some comfort, but I found nothing but empty space. A minute later another shot rang out, but all I could hear was the one spilling down my back. Oh, Hey, Jude. Such a lovely song.


I am not what you might call, *heroic*. i was completely content living my life, ignoring other's problems, i had a few friends but no one close. that is, until one day i leave for a run, i walk out the door and feel the quake, 'huh, has doom eternal released?' i wondered. i turn and notice a silver dragon of about twenty feet in length from head to tail, ten feet at the shoulder, and crimson red eyes staring right into my soul. i open my door once more and slowly back away inside, then, "ALEX! Where have you been?" i hear in my head. 'what?' i wonder to myself. "I've been looking everywhere for you. why are you even hiding in this dimension?" She, judging by the voice in my head anyway, looks around. "it's so beyond bland" i frown, 'why has she been looking for me?', "dimension?" i ask aloud, then shake my head. "sorry, but i've never met you before, you've got the wrong guy," i explain. i then slam the door shut and run to my basement. i grab my shotgun, and wait, "Alex, for the love of god, stop with the games." i hear in my head, "Crystal is worried sick and rocky is about to die of boredom!" she angrily exclaims, "i haven't a clue what you're talking about." i shout in my head. "not so loud you're gonna give me an aneurysm." she chided "you have the wrong guy, i've lived here my whole life, just stop will you?" i plead, not wanting the dragon to destroy my house but not wanting to leave for fear of my life. "oh please," the dragon said again, "as if i'd ever hurt you." great, she can read my mind, "because you gave me permission to do so" she said annoyed, that gave me an idea, so i poured out all my memories, relived my life and showed her everything i knew. "oh," was all she said, "deep cover?" i frown, "what?" i ask, "nothing. you're right, i have the wrong person," i smirk, "finally," then frown some more, "what did you mean by 'deep cover'" but i didn't hear anything else, i slowly walked up the stairs, not believing for a second that she's gone, i look outside to see the world has gone back to normal. i look at my hands to find them empty, no shotgun. how is that possible? i looked at the clock, "damn, need to get to work," i rush up to my room, get ready, wondering what the hell just happened. i get into my car and sit there for a second, something was bothering me, i grab my car registry and take out my license, 'Richard Margret'. i rub my temples, the dragon had called me Alex, and it felt completely normal. i shuddered, remembering the dragons question "deep cover". i shove the registration into the glove box and my license into my wallet and drive to work, something's wrong, and i need to figure it out before i can return to my precious status quo. "this is gonna be annoying, isn't it?" i ask no one in particular, and drive to work. "well, it could be worst," i mumbled, typing away on my computer. my job was simple, find ways for my clients to save money. of course, my clients were a few small business owners who wanted to make their hobby their job and haven't a clue, so i more or less have to explain that the best thing they can do is to do as i say or close up. i deal with the occasional ass, but all in all a good and well paying job. i find myself only an hour into my shift when i'm forced to engage a 'Mr. Positive'. "sir, your numbers look quite promising, if you keep up with the plan you'll be well on your-" "that's bullshit and you know it!" he shouts, i mute myself and give a sigh as he berates me. i look at the cubicle across the way and see an old friend smirking at me. "what?" i ask, he just smiles and looks over my shoulder. i turn to see my boss's secretary stealing glances at me. so i wait until she looks once again, giving a wave, i make her blush and look away. i turn on the microphone and interrupt the screaming man and decide to call his bluff, "sir, if i find you are attempting a bankruptcy scam i will call my supervisor and-" he apologized, thanks me and hangs up. i shake my head, been there done that. i get up and register my 1 hour lunch break. "oof, pleasant customer?" my friend asks, "shove it Michelangelo" i reply. i sit down and begin eating my salad, until that secretary from before sat down next to me, "hey," i smile, "hey," i sit there, waiting. i always find silence is the best answer for women, "look, i hear good things about you from mike and-" i groan, "dammit Mike" her eyes widen, "what's wrong?" she asked. i look at her, she looks back at me with a concerned, well-meaning gaze, and she's pretty cute. no harm in trying, "he keeps trying to get me hooked up," i smile, "though i suppose a date with a beautiful woman isn't the worst way to spend my evening," her eyes widen, her blush deepens. "what do you say? meet me at Rodear's?" i ask, she beams, lighting up like a spotlight. "see you there." she nods, gets up, and walks away. i smirk, catching Mike's eye, he winks and i flip him off. tonight's gonna be a good night. i left the club with the secretary, Alice apparently. As we both stumble in the night, she pulled me into an alley and straightened up, this put me on edge. she lost her stupor and i frown. "you look way to sober," i mumble. she grinned then opened her mouth, a pair of fangs revealing themselves, "what?". i awaken in bed, i get up and go through the motions, until i'm at the table. i grip my neck and rub the area she would have bitten, "what was that? a dream?" i groan as i look at my bare chest, i was covered in bruises. "ouch" i hiss, then i realized something, i don't have a hangover. "what the hell?" this was getting ridiculous. i go to work, and notice mike at work early. i go up to him "hey mike" i say, smiling. he starts, "Rich?" he asked in genuine shock, then recovers. "Alice called earlier, said you guys hit it off. wanna share details?" i laughed a bit, his shock was enough proof for me. "so, why did she try to kill me?" i asked, going dead serious. he looked guilty, Mike sighed, "and here i was hoping you really didn't remember".


(Note: inspired by the WH40k story of Ollanius Pius, who is without doubt the bravest bastard in that entire universe. Look up his lore if interested. Also, cross posted from r/HFY. I’m proud of this story and wanted to share it here.) He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He should have been on one of the hundreds of evacuation ships that left weeks before. He should have left with the remnants of his company. He should have at least been standing a bit to the left when the final desperate assault force was teleported thousands of miles into the air and onto a ship that should not have even been there itself. Fights like this one were supposed to be off in the distance, where awestruck souls could watch the air strain on the horizon as swords that could cleave mountains and guns that could destroy cities clashed. These fights were only supposed to be between legends made flesh. Heroes who stood head and shoulders taller than any normal person and who wore shining armour emblazoned with medals, heraldry, and battle honours, not some foot slogger in a flak vest whose only title was his name and whose only gifted marking was his serial number. Battles like the one outside this ship were supposed to be fought in the space between stars and only seen through long range sensors, in battle reports, or told as hyperbolic war stories by old veterans, not felt through the hull or witnessed through the porthole. Battles like this decided the fate of entire star systems, where fleets of grand cruisers, imposing destroyers, and personal flagships slugged it out in devastating broadsides. This one was far to close, far too real. A confusion of thousands of battleships, cruisers, and frigates clashed in blinding light above the surface of Terra itself. Entire ships were torn in half by volley upon volley, only for the detonation of its reactor to claim vengeance from the grave. Even the ship he stood in was wrong. Twisting corridors that led to nowhere, doors and rooms in every position but upright, and flickering lights that revealed the silhouettes of those that never were. Daemons were supposed to be the villains of ghost stories, told by parents to frighten their children into behaving. They should not have even been real, but the walls of this ship dripped blood and the sounds through the bulkheads echoed with maniacal laughter and agonized screams. Control panels that should have displayed air pressure and door switches now blinked with bloodshot eyes and chittered with fang filled mouths. But of all places, he should have been anywhere else in the vastness of the galaxy but right here. Before him stood hatred incarnate. A warrior in armour that put tanks to shame, wielding a mace larger than that tanks turret. The warriors hand was encased in a clawed gauntlet of pure malice that dark gods had chosen to be the instrument of their will. Draped across his Herculean shoulders was the hide of an alien monster that would have taken several tank companies to bring down, but personally claimed by this warrior as an earned trophy. His entire body glowed with the fires of hell and he stared into him with an intent so absolute it could melt the steel floor he stood on. All he had was his flak vest, rifle, and bayonet. His knees almost buckled from fear. But there he stood, in the worst place he could have possibly been anywhere in the universe. He stood because behind him lay someone he saw as a god. The last time he saw him, he stood proud and tall, clad in brightly polished and untarnished golden plate. A hero who, despite being at the frontline of countless battles, always emerged unscathed and triumphant. A man who could walk past the field hospitals and bring every soldier back into fighting shape. He was supposed to be the hero of the story, riding in at the last moment to save the day. He should have been the same charismatic and fearless leader he always was, but now lay bloodied and broken behind him and on the verge of death. He should have been disillusioned, abandoned his beliefs that this man was invincible, given in to the whispers and promises that spoke in the back of his mind. He should have thrown down his weapon and run for his life. But there he was, standing ill equipped between the avatar of untold horrors beyond reality and the broken and dying hopes of all humanity. It was a pointless stand, but one no one else was there to make. He held his rifle with tightened fists, regained control of his legs and planted his feet, and took a deep breath before banishing the insidious voices from his mind. When he opened his eyes again, that unholy warrior looked down at the puny mortal that had the gall to stand in his way. What he saw was not the terrified visage of someone scared of death, but instead the stern face and disciplined military stance of someone who would not move without a fight. Just as he saw his leader struggle to get an arm under him to push himself up even just a small bit, he heard a new voice in his mind. He heard his leader, his emperor, his _god,_ beg him to stay, and gave him one last order. ‘Hold the line.’ And there, in the one place he should not be, he held the line. If he died, ten will take his place, and a thousand more of them. If anyone was willing to take up arms against the horrors of the galaxy, the bastion would never falter. If there was even the faintest ghost of hope left in the universe, planets themselves would break before those that stood guard. With the strength he never knew he had, he stood his ground against hell to his final moments.


The clock struck 11:00 and Darlene looked over at her oven. How did she mess that up, she wondered. She was sure she had timed out the turkey so it would be done before the 12:00 dinner, yet the timer said there was 1 hour and 45 minutes left to cook. She checked her rolls and they were raising perfectly. They would be ready to go in on time, but that turkey worried her. In Darlene's world, you don't undercook turkey. Jeremy was turning 18 today. It had been a difficult year, 2020, and Darlene was determined to give her youngest son the best birthday she could. All her other children were given large parties on their 18 th birthdays, but the health regulations forbid it during these pandemic times. So, Darlene had to opt for making his favorite meal and buy all his gifts on the internet. They might even try a virtual interaction with his grandparents, but Darlene had her doubts that would work. Neither were really comfortable with new technology. The phone rang  just as Darlene was about to drain the potatoes to be mashed. She turned off the burner and walked over to the phone to look at the caller ID. It was Jeremy's girlfriend, Carla. Darlene hesitated. Should she answer it? Jeremy has a cell phone, why wouldn't Carla call him on that phone? Darlene picked the cordless phone off of its charger. “Mrs. Tyson?” Carla asked, her voice stressed and concerned. “You need to go to Jeremy's room immediately.” Darlene turned and ran towards the stairs. “I'm going there now. What is going on?” “I was talking to Jeremy on the phone when suddenly he dropped it. He sounded a little strange right before he dropped the phone. I don't know what is going on and it scared me so much I called the house.” Darlene burst into her son's room and found him flat on the floor, jerking back and forth. “He is having an epileptic seizure,” she said into the phone. “Oh my God,” cried Carla. “Is there anything you can do?” Darlene knelt down on the floor next to the dark-haired boy. She moved his hand so that the arm was at a right angle to his body, his hand pointing upwards. Darlene then took Jeremy's other hand and placed it on his cheek. She took the knee furthest from her and bent it so that the foot was flat on the floor. Gently, the mother rolled the young man onto his side so that he was facing her. Darlene then moved his top leg back a little to help balance him in that position. The woman then went to his head and tilted his chin back to open up his airway so he could breathe. By this time Jeremy was beginning to come out of the seizure and stopped moving. His eyes slowly fluttered open. “Stay still, Jeremy,” Darlene said as she sat on the floor next to him, her hand resting on his arm. She noted his breathing was normal. “Mom,” he muttered. He sat up slowly, still blinking his eyes as he became more aware. “Mrs. Tyson? What is going on?” Carla's frantic voice came through the phone line. “I'm sorry, Carla. Jeremy is just coming out of the seizure now. It is going to take a little time for him to orient himself.” “I didn't know Jerry had epilepsy,” Carla exclaimed. “What if that had happened when we were together? I would have had no clue what to do to help him!” Panic was in her voice. “He hasn't had one in a long time, I am sure he was thinking it was completely under control with his medication. We can talk about how to help him later. Right now I have to make sure he's OK before I rescue any of my food that may be burning at this time.” “Have him call me back when he's doing better. I don't want to bother him now.” “Carla? Thank you for calling me and letting me know something was wrong. Your quick thinking may have prevented him from hurting himself and alerted me to the fact this condition isn't under control.” “You're welcome. I'm glad this turned out alright. Have him call me when he feels better.” Carla hung up the phone. “Mom, I'm feeling fine now,” Jeremy said as he stood up from the floor. Darlene looked at him, trying to determine if he was back to normal. He smiled at her and reached out his hand. His grip was firm. Darlene was sure he was OK. “How long has it been since the last seizure,” she said once she was standing up. Jeremy walked over to his desk and pulled out a black notebook from the top drawer. He turned the pages until he came to a chart. “5 years, Mom. 5 years, 6 months, 10 days to be exact. Do you know the type of seizure this one was?” Jeremy was making notations on the page as he spoke. “No, I came towards the end of it. You collapsed and were jerking around a little bit, but not as bad as some of the other times I found you.” Jeremy wrote some information down. “Looks like we will be visiting Dr. Nordahl sometime in the near future,” he said as he closed the book. “Thanks, mom, for being here when I needed you.” “You better thank Carla as well. She's the one who called me and alerted me something was happening.” Darlene looked at her watch, “Oh no! I've got to get back to the kitchen and try to salvage this meal! Do you think you will be up to eating?” “Yes, Mom. I'm fine now. You go back to the kitchen and I'll call Carla and let her know everything is better. I'm sure she's worried.” Darlene gave Jeremy a kiss on the forehead before leaving him in his room. Once in the kitchen, Darlene looked at the oven timer and found she still had 15 minutes left on the turkey so she put the rolls into the oven and set the second timer. She then hurriedly mashed the potatoes and put them aside and started the stuffing. Meanwhile, she put the green beans on, the corn, and the canned cranberry sauce. When the turkey was done she pulled it out of the oven and verified the temperature gauge said it was 165 degrees inside the bird. She then punctured the oven bag it was in and drained off the juices so she could make the gravy. Soon that was done and it was time to finish setting up the table. Scott joined her and together the parents finished setting the table. Scott had been delivering mail and managed to finish his route before noon. He was able to get home in time for the meal but had to go back to the post office in an hour. As they worked together, Darlene told him about the seizure. He nodded when Darlene told him Jeremy would need to see his doctor as soon as possible. The timer went off and Darlene gave Scott the turkey and utensils to carve it while she rang the old dinner bell Scott's family had used on their farm when he was growing up. Jeremy came running down the stairs, followed by his older brother Craig, who was home taking virtual college classes. The other 4 children in the family would not be able to attend the meal, due to health regulations and not being a part of the family bubble. After they sat down at the table, Scott asked Jeremy to say the prayer for the meal. The young man bowed his head, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you Lord for this fine meal my mother managed to prepare despite being interrupted to rescue my sorry ass. Thank you for creating her so she could create me and so she could make this marvelous meal. Thank you for the food we are about to eat, for keeping me alive for another day, and for the love of this family who has always been here to support me. We pray to you, Lord, in your son's name, Jesus Christ, Amen.”


Outside snow fell softly to the ground. It almost floated as it covered the sandy dunes on the other side of the boardwalk. Winter at the shore was rather surreal as the town was practically deserted outside of summer. What kind of lives did these people, left behind to maintain it until it could come alive again, live? *** Kelpy looked down from their summit, the lithe strong frame posing triumphantly, “I told you, fortune favors the bold!” “I swear that arm of yours is cheating. It could prolly grab the bare wall and hold on. You know that wasn’t how the routesetter envisioned it right?” Her belayer yelled back up the wall at her. He slowly let the line out as she repelled back down. “Don’t be such a spoilsport. Just because I beat your dumb challenge in a way that didn’t fit your vision doesn’t take away from it.” “Yeah yeah yeah. I’m just hoping next month’s competitors don’t exploit it the way you do.” “Don’t worry Bads, your routes will be fine. I’m just a bit of an outlier. She knocked on the cybernetic arm. Besides you know The Federation doesn’t allow augs to compete.” “That may be true, but it’s still a blow to the ego.” He sticks out his tongue. “Besides, the aug circuit is rumored to get started in a few years in Khartoum. I’m sure you’ll tear through the challengers, Kel.” She laughs and undoes her harness and takes off the forcefully arched shoes. “Nice of you to say that, but at forty six I’m past my prime. Professional augs will have way more done, and I’m not looking to get more silicon, y’know. Only have this cause of the explosion.” “True. Just wish you could be a bit more known is all Kel, you deserve it. Anyhow, lunch and then open the place up?” “Sounds like a plan.” The two got out of their equipment and headed to the communal break room behind the counter area of Mainsail Park Quintessential Elevation Gym, or MPQEG for short. Bads had opened the gym years ago to train himself since there was nothing in the area and climbing actual rocks had become quite dangerous after they burned the sky. He discovered that contrary to popular belief, managing a place like this takes away from precious wall time even if he lived there. Kel had joined on a few months ago. Apparently no one wanted to hire a reformed convict. As she tells it, she accidentally threw a bit of dynamite out of a car she had stolen and ruined some classic Grecian concrete facade of a historic building. A count of grand theft auto and reckless endangerment later landed her behind bars for thirteen years. It was hard to believe that she had been behind bars for the entire run of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. She often said it was the worst of times, but she got through by being as clever as a jackdaw and as fierce as a wyvern. She had been upfront about the void on her resume and had great people skills too when he trialed her out. Her blithe demeanor made customers forget about the world outside while they were here. It was an easy hire. It took some time for her to get used to living at the gym since affording a private residence was nearly impossible for any but the elites. She’d often ask questions like Is there a chemist shop nearby? or Is the chimney supposed to be blocked? The answers which were no and yes, unless you want your lungs to corrode respectively. She had gotten used to the place quickly and even gotten to know the other people in the area. “What’s in the lunchbox today?” Bads asked, pulling out a ham sandwich. “Apfelstrudel, chocolate truffles, and sugar cookies with ginger frosting.” “You should probably eat something more than desserts, you know.” Mouth full, Kel muttered something unintelligible as sweet crumbs fell to the table. “Try that again as a civilized adult?” “They are too delicious not to. Plus we get plenty of nutrients from the shipments from Halex. Let me enjoy something I missed for a long time.” “Given the chance I am sure you’d enjoy these things until the inevitable heat death of the universe.” “Fuck yeah I would.” *** “Cody. Cody! CODY!” the voice cut through my concentration. I shook my head and put the snowglobe down. “What? Sorry. I got distracted.” “I noticed. You have to submit that story for the Secret Santa. Did you get any ideas?” “I think so. Post apocalyptic sci-fi action story about a small business and a blooming romance should be good?” “In 800 words? I don’t think you can do all of that It'll end-"     This was written for the Secret Santa Event. If you want slightly more coherent stories, maybe go check out r/FoxFictions.


Kioko sighed heavily, each step she took a little weaker than the last, until she finally reached the elevator. She was exhausted, but ready for another day at work, though she toiled away each day at her office. It was hard, but she enjoyed what she did, to an extent. The elevators had large windows that reflected the skyline of the beautiful Tokyo, the glistening sun bouncing light from the buildings, reflecting onto the glass. Kioko smiled as she stared out the window, her exhaust briefly wavering. She always enjoyed the sunshine.

The sun was always there, when other people weren’t. It stood by her side, making her feel warm inside. Unlike the moon which wavered and changed, Kioko could always rely on the sun.

Then again, she could always rely on the moon to change, too. When change was what she needed, Kioko always felt her heart drift towards the night sky, with it’s graveyard of stars and it’s obscure pale sickle. It was comforting in a way, too, to know that every night the sky would be different. She could rely on the sun for familiarity, but the moon for it’s ever changing nature.

But of course, there was that one night, all those years ago, where neither the sun nor the moon could bring her comfort any longer. The night when she lost everything, when she realized her true power. When she gained an ability, one that no one else, to her knowledge, also had.

The ability to control the sky, in all its forms. To manipulate the weather.

Kioko remembered that night very well. She remembered the darkly lit sky, and the sounds of the thunder up above her. She remembered the lightning, cruel and beautiful, and the sensation she felt as she ran through the rain, the pitter patter of raindrops hitting the streets. She remembered slipping on something, and falling. Falling, falling, falling, until she was on the ground. She remembered the feeling of terror she felt as the lightning grew closer, as the sky closed in on her. She remembered the coursing of electricity through her body as she felt the lightning in her heart, in her soul. She felt tainted by the sky in that moment, like she’d never be complete again.

And then she remembered screaming, screaming and screaming out the pain that she felt, the salt water from her tears mixing with the freshwater from the rain. She remembered the light of the moon echoing out through her body as she felt the surge of power, power and pain go through her.

And then the storm stopped. The clouds brought themselves together again, the moon smiled, and the lightning faded away. Kioko felt sheltered, at last. But somewhere, deep inside, she knew that she wasn’t safe anymore. That nothing would be the same again.

Kioko looked out again through the large walls of the elevator. Even though they were glass, she felt as if they were closing in on her. Suffocating her, reminding her of the night, and the pain that she felt as the energy coursed through her veins. She sighed heavily, thinking about that night.

The walls felt just like the sky did all those years ago, pushing her inwards until she throttled through the energy she felt. The sky started to darken, the clouds folding in on themselves and turning a sober grey. Kioko started to cry again, her tears reflecting the rain that began to start spilling from the clouds outside. Her long dark hair clung against her shoulders, as Kioko slouched down and curled into a ball on the floor, feeling as if she was falling. Falling, falling, falling, she had all those years ago.

Her once calm and rhythmic breathing turned into frantic gasps for air, as Kioko continued to remember everything that had happened. She thought about how she would panic like this again and again, causing tsunamis and thunderstorms. Ruining people’s lives as hers had been ruined by that storm that cursed her.

And the worst part was that she had no control. Her panic would always rise above her fear, her past and her future going on a race against time, a race she would always lose. Oh, how Kioko hated time. It did nothing but slap her in the face with adversity.

The rain continued to pour, the echoing of the splats onto the sidewalks growing louder and louder. Kioko had no control - she was trying and trying to calm herself, but nothing would happen.

“Breathe,” she said to herself, biting back her tongue. “Just breathe, Kioko. Just breathe.” Her tears grew harder with the rain, as she thought about that line. How she wanted to breathe so badly. How she was forced to just breathe or else inflict death upon innocent people by way of storms.

Each time she heard about another person who died, another human being, she couldn’t breathe. They were gone, and it was all her fault. She would cry and cry, but it only would cause more death. She was cursed, ever since that lightning struck her. Cursed to become a killing machine, no matter what she did to try and stop it. Sometimes, Kioko wondered whether there were any lightning bolts she caused that gave others her powers. She wondered if hers were given to her by another poor cursed soul, who wanders the streets at night gloomily through a little foggy rain.

Happiness would cause fleeting sunshine, a comfort to Kioko, but deathly to some. Panic would cause storms, but sadness would just cause simple drizzling night rain. Safe, but not favored. Not reliable. Not welcome.

But it was the only time she could breathe. The only time when she couldn’t feel the suffering of others, just her own pain in her heart, telling her she had to move on. It was the only time that she could truly survive. Kioko’s breaths started to resurface, as she counted them, slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat. Again and again.

She was being tortured by her own self, but at least she could breathe again. At least she wouldn’t cause anyone any harm. Just a simple little drizzle. The clouds were still grey, but they revealed the sun out from behind them, shining luxuriously through Kioko’s sorrow. Comforting her at last, but keeping her hopeless enough for the moon to come out at night. A single tear dropped down Kioko’s cheek, causing a sprinkle of bitter rain.


Hey guys, This is another piece I've written involving the character of Attacus. A servant to the gatekeeper who controls passage to the afterlife. It's a older piece, so it may be a bit rough around the edges, but I particularly enjoyed writing the action scene between Attacus and Annaculeese at the end. As always, I appreciate any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece, please let me know what you think. Cheers, Lordchimp   In the glorious woodlands, neither in the Midland or the Afterverse, he found Annaculeese and his men. Their camp was large and proud, with at least fifty tents and fifty fires. They were all laughing and joking, merry and joyful with fine ale, delicious food, wonderful music and plenty of singing and dancing. There were humans here, as well as elves. A pity. Humans have very short lives. He made no attempt to conceal himself, or to avoid detection as he approached the huge gathering. After all, he was chosen by Oronus himself, the gatekeeper. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Izael glanced back to the festivities and sighed heavily to himself, leaning heavily on his spear with annoyance and weariness. The other guard on the perimeter, Novak scoffed to himself and spat on the ground with venom. “It’s not pitting fair. Why should we have to stay on guard while those lot are enjoying themselves?” Novak grumbled, angry notes leaking into his voice as he spoke. “Because, every elf and every human must do his part. It is just unfortunate that we happen to have been fated for this eve.” Izael replied calmly and lazily, fairly confident that he had already explained this to his mortal companion. He looked over at Novak again, who looked lustily over to the camp before spitting onto the earth again. Izael stopped the laugh, but couldn’t prevent a warm smile from emerging onto his face. Novak was much like a dog in some respects, angry and unable to see the big picture, not caring for manners and etiquette. He was brash and almost too honest, not attempting to hide his faults and flaws. But, he had a few of the good traits from the beasts as well, sharing their fierce loyalty and unwillingness to give up on a fight. Novak was making no attempt to perform any guard duties and instead had leaned onto a nearby tree taking a sip out of a waterskin that Izael suspected was not full of water. He smiled again and allowed himself to relax. There was nothing in these woods that would harm them, and even if there was, nothing could be stupid enough to approach their camp. *For there be gods here.* He thought to himself. Then he heard the distant clank of chains. He stopped leaning on his spear and cocked his head, unsure if he had actually heard the sound, or if he had dreamily imagined it. He listened carefully, straining his ears for more telltale noises. But, after a few moments, only the quiet sounds of the woods rang through the night. Izael relaxed again, returning to his spear and sighing once more. “Did you hear that?” Novak suddenly whispered, his eyes now trained on the trees ahead of them. A few moments passed. Nothing. “You are hearing things-” Izael started. “No! There it is again! Can’t you hear it?” Novak said in his hushed tones. The clanking of chains rattled, still faintly in the distance. The noises were getting closer. “I hear it.” Izael stood tall, with his spear held firmly in his right hand, with his left he raised it up to his chest. With a few whispered words of power, his hand began to glow with a soft blue light. All the while, the rustling of metal drew nearer. He moved his hand in a sweeping motion, like a man scattering seeds, causing flames to burst into existence on the edges of the camp. The fires illuminated a wide arc around the camp with yellow flickering light, but nothing but the trees were there. Both of them scanned the outskirts intently, searching for the source of the mysterious clanking. As it got nearer and nearer, unseen bells began to chime. They started as a tuned symphony, which was a wonderful mixture of different notes and pitches. But they cascaded quickly into a concatony of jarring, mismatched tones, which clashed and rang out against each other harshly. Izael looked to Novak with concern heavy in his eyes. “Get to the camp. Sound the alarm.” Novak nodded, his face stained by fear and panic and began sprinting off towards the festivities. The Bells stopped. When Izael looked back to the trees, his breath was taken away in a gasp of sheer terror. All the air left his lungs and he felt his hands and body grow weak. In all of his years of living, he had never seen a more dreadful sight. A figure stood, shadows emanating from his body, curling around his feet like a thick, black smoke. He wore dull, worn, scratched armour all over his body, not a single piece of flesh or skin showed. A cloak of pure darkness hung over his shoulders, with the shadows twisting and coiling at his feet. Soft blue light gently pulsed in his visor slit, the only thing on him that wasn’t black. “By the Gates...” Izael whimpered. The figure looked around lazily, completely unconcerned with the trembling spearpoint that was pointed at him. His hidden glare seemed to pierce deep into Izael, almost as if he was looking *into* him, not *at* him. When he spoke, his voice seemingly came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing all around, but barely audible. “WHERE IS ANNACULEESE?” Even the sounds of words forming sent spikes of horror shooting through Izael’s blood, it was like speaking to the physical manifestation of fear itself. He found himself struggling to think, struggling to talk and it took him a few moments before he could bumble the words out of his quivering lips. “In the center...the ring of the sun...by the gates save me...” He managed to whisper. He dropped the spear onto the rough forest floor and fell to his knees, hands clasped together tightly, words of desperate prayer spilling out uncontrollably. Sobs racked his body as his mind attempted to grasp the concept of his impending death. All of his memories, all of his experiences, all his passion would be gone. Snuffed out. Extinguished. The bells began to toll again, ringing, crashing, chiming, building and building in volume until it was deafening, drowning out everything else that might have been making noise. Izael closed his eyes. Then, as quickly as the jumble of conflicting bells had arrived, it vanished. Through panicked breaths, he slowly, opened one of his eyes. Nothing. No black figure, no bells sounding, no chains clinking. Just an empty section of forest, the tree branches swaying softly, as if nothing had happened. As if the Gatekeeper’s man hadn’t just been there. He could hear distant screams from the camp, the sounds of joviality and merriment fading and the sounds of terror and fighting emerging. *What have I done?* Izael’s body was racked with silent sobs. *What could I have done?* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Attacus moved through the camp like a dancer through a ballroom, after all, why shouldn’t he? The chosen of Oronus may walk where he please. The occupants of the camp were in a state of utter panic at the sight of the black clad warrior, elves and humans screaming and running, trying anything possible to get away from the shadow of death. Terror seemed to protrude from his horrifying form, seeping into the hearts of all who were nearby. There were a few brave, stupid souls who thought that they could fight him, even hold him back. They were woefully nieve. Such unfortunate creatures. A man known as “Shatterhand” was one of them. He was said to be the strongest of all the beings on the camp, save for Annaculeese himself. He had killed over two hundred men in battle and he had looked upon the tears of the gods themselves. Shatterhand had steeled himself, pushing down the feelings of fear that had welled up inside of him, the feelings that had threatened to send him to his knees weeping. He had looked death in the eye more than once, he was ready to do so again. In a painfully casual motion, Attacus glanced at the hulk of a man stood before him, roaring his defiance. He was at least a foot taller than Attacus, with much more muscle. Attacus waved his hand offensively lazily, and the man called Shatterhand erupted in an explosion of black smoke, spraying blood and gore onto the dry forest floor. In one little movement of his hand, he extinguished the spark of a mortal, utterly and completely. This happened to the few who stood in his path, either a wave of the hand, a click of his armoured fingers or a sharp nod of his head. No matter the method, the result was the same. Death. He strolled all the way through the camp, only killing those which opposed him. He had no feelings on the matter, because Attacus could not feel, he could only do. After all, he was bound to serve. He eventually reached a ring of trees that sat in a calm pocket of quiet, away from all of the chaos of the encampment. It was like walking through a curtain of gentle air, for once Attacus entered the ring of trees, everything he saw was bathed in a bright light. His monochrome vision was splashed with detail and sharpness, whites and blacks he saw seemed so detailed, more vibrant inside the circle, like he had entered a different world entirely. Even his jet black armour seemed to be made up of a hundred different shades of grey. It made him pause for a moment, contemplating what exactly his eyes were seeing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” A serene voice asked, interrupting his thoughts. It was like a tranquil song when he spoke, like every syllable was it’s own sweet form of poetry. The voice belonged to an elf with a simply perfect appearance, who was sat cross legged on a huge boulder with his arms resting on his lap and his long silver hair flowing down his face, covering one of his eyes. There was not a single part of his appearance that was not perfect, even the long scar down his cheek seemed like it had been put there intentionally to give his face strength and character. “ANNACULEESE. I HAVE COME FOR YOU.” Attacus boomed, his voice echoing all around, from everywhere and nowhere. The bells chimed softly. “It is a shame... You come on behalf of Oronus do you not?” Annaculeese sang, standing himself up as he spoke, seemingly unworried about his impending death. “YES.” Annaculeese looked around at the beauty that surrounded him, savouring the sights, drinking in everything his senses would permit. He reached out gently and grabbed hold of a leaf that hung off a low branch near him. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, breathing in deeply as he felt every texture of the smooth leaf. “THE GATEKEEPER DEMANDS YOUR SOUL.” Attacus boomed again. “Do you ever stop to think why? Or what he plans to do with it?" There was a significant pause. It was a good few moments before Attacus answered. “I DO NOT QUESTION. I OBEY.” Annaculeese seemed to understand his response, nodding his head slightly. “Maybe you should. Even pawns can make moves.” He said solemnly. With a sudden flourish, he clapped his hands together which created a burst of blinding white light. In an instant, the light had faded and his hands now gripped a long, slim, curved sword which gleamed and shone with a soft, pure radiance. “RESISTANCE IS USELESS.” Attacus said, his voice booming, but lacking any emotion or passion. He reached out a hand, as if to touch Annaculeese, even though he was on the other side of the ring of trees. Then, he violently clenched his fist. Nothing happened. Annaculeese still stood there, completely intact with his sword raised in front of him. Attacus cocked his head ever so slightly, in mild confusion. He was expecting a bloody mess where his opponent stood and yet, he remained intact. “You cannot draw upon his power. Not here.” Annaculeese stated solemnly. Attacus drew his wicked, long, heavy blade from his back with the clinking of heavy chains echoing around him. “SO BE IT.” Attacus exploded into a sprint, the chains clanging with every step he took on soft earth of the forest floor. Annaculeese roared with desperate rage and fear, swinging his blade in spinning arcs, making the air whistle as it swirled around. When he was only a few more mere strides away, that was when Attacus struck. He swung his dark greatsword like a woodsman might swing a hefty axe into a tree, with the full weight of his body behind the blow. Annaculeese danced backwards, exploding with sudden movement and turned the blade upwards with a hiss, but the heavy blade was much harder to parry away than he expected and it smashed into his shoulder with a glancing crash of metal on metal. The instant before the steel landed, a golden shoulder pauldron flickered into existence and was then sent spinning from his body as the swing knocked it cleanly away. Annaculeese danced further backwards, shock evident in his anxious eyes. If it weren’t for the armour, he would undoubtedly be missing a large chunk of his shoulder. Before Attacus could wind up another brutal swing, Annaculeese dived forwards, thrusting his glowing blade towards Attacus’ breastplate with lightning speed. Attacus took his sword in a peculiar grip, with one of his hands on the hilt and another on the blade. He then jerked the steel to the side in a sharp motion, slapping the stab away. Annaculeese had already skipped to the side with a beautiful grace, slashing at his helm, his leg, then thrusting again at his chest. Attacus managed to turn the first two blows aside, but his heavy blade was too slow to stop the thrust. The glowing sword rammed into his armour with a horrific screech, then erupted in a huge blast of crackling lightning. Attacus was thrown twenty feet from the force of the explosion, small flickers of electricity arcing from him into the ground. He crashed into the mud with a dull thud, he did not groan or grunt with pain however, like any normal man would, he merely got to his feet slowly and stared at his adversary with a newfound wariness. He glanced down at his chest plate, surveying the damage. Although the had blade only scratched his thick armour, the lightning had gouged out a large chunk on his right side, exposing the dull grey metal underneath the black outer layer. It was as if a giant fist had torn the metal away with an ugly tearing swipe. Annaculeese smiled and began spinning his sword again. He ran forwards and began a series of slashes and cuts, whipping his blade across Attacus in a furious salvo. He gave ground and defended well, using his strange double handed grip to block the slices that he could not step away from. However, his thick armour was not meant for deft movements, especially when he could not draw from the Gatekeepers power. One of the swipes made it through his defence, scraping against his leg plate with a ear-piercing shriek. Once again, there was another crackling burst of angry lightning, which carved a neat line deep into his plate. He backed off, trying to make space, but the swift blade of Annaculeese followed him mercilessly. After taking another glancing cut, he changed tact. He deliberately left his leg open, using a high stance to fend off the never ending blows. As predicted, Annaculeese took the bait, feinting one way, then cutting savagely downwards, causing another vast crater in his armour with the hiss of metal on metal, and the raging hum of twisting electric. Then Attacus made his move. He suddenly shot forwards, despite the mighty blow to his leg and smashed his helm into Annaculeese’s face. A golden helm flashed into being just before the impact, but the sheer force of the headbutt made it crack with a sickening crunch. Attacus pounced on the elf, like a wolf that senses it’s prey weakening. He reigned a fusillade of heavy, powerful chops onto his surprised victim with relentless pace, cracking yet more pieces of armour when Annaculeese could not parry the hits aside. With a titanic swing, he sent Annaculeese flying into the dirt with golden pieces of his shattered chest plate spiraling through the air, the golden light catching on the gleaming shards of metal, making them twinkle and sparkle as the tumbled. Annaculeese had lost an arm piece, a leg plate, his breastplate and his helm was now missing the left side from the headbutt, crimson blood flowing slowly from a deep cut on his forehead. Annaculeese by some feat of determination managed to rise to his feet, groaning and cursing under his breath. At some point during the clash, he had dropped his sword, the blade sat on the ground still resonating with a quiet hum. He looked at Attacus, who was stood motionless in his battered armour, smoke curling from the great craters that had been smashed into it. He moved over to his sword, in an awkward, jerking gait from his missing armour. Attacus made no move to stop him. “Do you know why Oronus wants my core?” He said though pained breaths, still walking towards the sword. Attacus said nothing. “I will tell you something now, servant of the gatekeeper.” He spat out a mouthful of blood as he picked up his blade. “To stand at the behest of another, using an oath as a shield, does not mean you have no choice.” He looked upwards at the beautiful colours mixing in the branches. Attacus strode forwards, sword raised high. His blade fell at lightning speed, making even the air shriek as it cut through it. Annaculeese swayed to one side sluggishly and feebly parried the blade, embedding it into the dirt with a thud. But instead of digging the blade out, the black clad warrior rammed his shoulder into the wounded elf, sending him stumbling backwards with his arms flailing searching for balance. There was a scrape as the tip of the great two handed sword was dragged out of the earth, then another whistle as he slashed again. Annaculeese parried once, twice, then another powerful swing clashed into his blade and his tired, weak fingers were unable to hold on. The sword span out of his hand clattering to the floor a few feet away. He sank to his knees, his vision blurring from fatigue. Attacus looked at the sorry sight before him and sheathed his wicked sword, the metal sounding like it was angry at being caged before the work was done. He stomped forwards, with no passion or fury in his gait, just a disturbing, clear minded focus. There was no malice. It was like a carpenter hammering a nail, or a blacksmith shaping a horseshoe, just a task to be done. He grabbed the groaning elf by the neck and dragged him, kicking weakly and struggling feebly to the end of the circle. Attacus did not care for his soft pleading and bargaining, his sweet honeyed words meant nothing to him. It was like trying to reason with a clock to stop ticking. As soon as they left the circle of trees, the drab, undetailed monochrome shades returned into Attacus’ vision, making him pause for a second to adjust. Everything that once was sharp and focused inside that ring of trees was now bland, simple and dull. Annaculeese groaned again and attempted to remove the iron grip around his throat, batting and pulling at the gauntleted hands with his remaining strength. It was like a babe trying to struggle against a giant. He dragged the helpless elf a few more meters before dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground, coughing and spluttering. With a small flourish of his hand, a jet black lantern puffed into being with a loud ring of a low bell and a small explosion of black smoke. “Once more I gaze again into oblivion, once more I face the void.” Annaculeese whispered quietly, in barely audible tones. Attacus held up the lantern, it swinging gently from the motion. There was a rattle of clinking, heavy chains as the lantern began to glow with an eerie green light, it hummed with a dark power. At first, it was barely audible over the rattling of metal, but as the seconds passed, it got louder and louder, drowning the clinking out. Annaculeese was groaning, trying to get away, but the vice-like hand of Attacus held him down firmly. He tried to speak again, but his lungs felt like they had no air to breathe. They heaved and heaved but no breaths would come. His eyes started to glow, turning green, mirroring the lantern’s light. The humming grew louder and louder, turning into a piercing whine which could set anyone’s teeth on edge. It was sharp and shrieking, like fingernails on glass, like a blade on stones. After a few moments, a green shimmering image seemed to form around Annaculeese, like a second skin, mirroring him completely. His body seemed to go pale, as if the colour itself was draining out of him, turning him as white as a ghost. The after image’s face began to twist and snarl, fighting desperately against the pull of the lantern’s horrifying light. It was his soul. His very soul was being pulled into the dark, battered lantern. It was getting further away from his body with every passing second, where once it was fighting, forcing itself away from the pull, it was now wide eyed in horror, it’s hands desperately struggling against the air, searching for anything that grant it purchase against it’s impending fate. But, this was the Lantern of Oronus, its power could not be denied, not even by gods. With a last, ethereal cry, the spirit of Annaculease was finally claimed by Attacus. The spirit disappeared into the lantern and then everything was quiet. Everything was still. The light died. It was like that for a few minutes, the battered form of Attacus stood over the corpse of his foe, the silence encompassing everything like a blanket. He was motionless, with his head bowed. Even the wind was still. Then the bells began to chime. The sound of the great chains clinked and clanged, signaling the gatekeepers arrival. He appeared in a burst of black smoke, the chiming of the bells stopping as soon as his presence touched the realm of the living. Attacus raised his head in greeting to his master. “Master. It is done.” He said, holding up the old lantern emotionlessly. The great hooded figure that was Oronus took the lantern in his skeletal hands which seemed to slowly leak out black smoke, trailing it through the air. He inspected it, or at least looked like he was inspecting it, but it was difficult to tell with the black hood obscuring his head. After a few moments, he waved his hand and the lantern vanished in a puff of black smoke and with the caw of a crow, it reappeared in Attacus’ gauntleted hands. “THIS CORE IS YOURS. YOU WILL NEED IT. FIND THE OTHERS.” With a small flash of light, the spirit of Annaculeese flowed into Attacus. It was like a river of glowing green flooding into his eyes, making him shine like a beacon in the woods. He crackled with radiant energy. The most astonishing thing about the transition was the sudden presence of something extraordinary present inside of him. He could feel again. His sight burst into colour. A multitude of thousands of different shades blossomed into being, making him gasp and shudder with pleasure and delight. It was incomprehensible. It was like he had been living blind, deaf and dumb and suddenly he was thrust into the light. He dropped to his knees, overcome with ecstasy. He wept like a babe, the tears streaming down his face freely. He clasped his gauntleted hands onto his helm in a vain attempt to stop his senses from feeling. An involuntary groan escaped his lips, his own voice sound alien to his ears. After what seemed like hours, he shakily looked up, to see his master’s reaction at his moment of weakness, but Oronus was no longer there. He was just left alone in those dark woods. “*I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect this.*” Attacus screamed, his newly found voice cracked and buckled under the sudden strain. He whirled around desperately, trying to find the source of the voice. For so long, he had been alone, not even having himself for company. “REVEAL YOURSELF.” “*Well, you took my core, my spirit.*” “WHERE ARE YOU.” “*We are bound together. We are entwined now, you and I.*” “WHAT IS THIS.” “*Hello again. Attacus.*” Annaculeese said.


Breathe life into me weary traveller, let me occupy your thoughts for a little while. I'm dot, pleased to meet you.. You're not much of a talker are you? That's okay, I can do all the talking, you just relax and take it easy. Has it been a hard day? That's okay, kick your feet up and stretch out a little. Close your eyes and.. wait, don't do that, you won't be able to read. And if you can't read then I'll just turn back into words on a page, and it's much more interesting to be wandering through your mind than on this page. You might be wondering what business I have in your head - what could this little dot possibly want to do with me? Well, I'm here to ask a few questions, provoke some thoughts, perhaps change some minds. Do you know what's amazing about me? I've been on this journey before, in many minds. I'm sorry if you thought you were special, I'm afraid not. Others sing, have sung, and will sing from the same hymn sheet, it's amazing. The power to build structures in other people's minds. The power to build the same structures across many minds.. Anyway, I have a couple of questions which you may find strange, but hear me out. Okay, here's the first one. How do you feel? Or, perhaps I should ask a different question. Why do you feel? As a little dot, I have no feelings of my own; I only move when you move me. You can pick me up, and put me down. I require no energy, and have no senses. I have no need for such earthly occupations in the safety of your head. I must say though, it looks like this brain of yours does require energy. In fact, I do believe you are spending some of that energy right now reading me. That's okay though, you have lots of energy left, and if I have a look through your head, I'm sure I can find a recent memory of a place where you last saw food. You do know where you can find food right now, right? Good. As I was saying, have a think about why you feel. Peel back the layers here and really think - why do you feel? Why was it necessary for your body to build senses into you? Eyeballs just seem complicated and expensive, ears just look silly and, oh my God you can talk. Hmm, that's interesting. You can talk, and you can talk in intricate ways. That voice box of yours can sure make some interesting noises when you want it too. Isn't that funny? In my poising of the human blueprint I have come to admire the intricacies and range of his interfaces with the world. He can thread the needle, bang the hammer, detect light from distant stars. You sure do feel man, but more than that, you change your environment too. To appreciate what I'm saying about range and detail, let's have a closer look at your eyeball, truly a portal into another world..


Oh! How they laughed when first they heard the other’s name. This was a story some would dine out on, but not Dave and Dave. Dave, always Dave. Never David. Someone once asked whether it might be a little easier if one of the Dave’s used the full version of their name. Dave narrowed his eyes and told the wrong-headed miscreant, “Dave

is  the full version of my name.”

The other Dave said nothing. He didn’t see the point in repeating the same conversation all over again. Later, Dave would ask him if he was coming down with something, “yes, I think I am,” said Dave, “it’s very unlike me to say nothing isn’t it?” Dave nodded an affirmation, “especially upon the matter of our names,” he said. This was true. Dave is almost unique in being a supposedly involuntary truncation of David. Davids introduce themselves as David, not as Dave and at the very next opportunity a

certain type

will call them Dave. Not using someone’s name and using a different name is rude. It is name calling. Everyone knows this, but still they do it to Davids. They can also do it to Richards and Williams, but mostly, they do it to Davids, as though there is a secret society of rude people who have it in for Davids. Maybe there is. All descended from Goliath. Dave was glad that he wasn’t a David so that he could at least avoid a lot of that truncation-related trouble. Other than this wrong-headed suggestion, no one had ever called him David. Not even a strict, disciplinarian mother. She might have missed a trick there. Mothers who want to put the fear of the gods in their child need only to use the full version of their name. They teach this in Mother School along with a bunch of other useful weaponised words and violent exhalations.

Dave was also glad that he wasn’t a David, but only because he didn’t like the way the word clattered out of his mouth. There was something clunky and awkward about it. He once had a nightmare when, in the throes of passion, his celebrity crush cried out DAVID! He awoke screaming and filled with terror. This was not helped by his chrysalis state, swaddled in his duvet and struggling to break free of that word. David. His crush ended that night. He was so disappointed in her. He thought she was better than that. Today Dave was at the county fair with his best friend Dave, and they were competing for the most prestigious of prizes at said fair. They had been friends for as long as they could remember, which was not to say that they had been friends since childhood, no, they had awoken within minutes of each other on the same hospital ward. A statistical improbability, they had both suffered a severe bout of amnesia. At that stage, all they remembered was their name. Dave. As a basis for any relationship, this did not afford all that much. A single word. But Dave had this in common with Dave and so too did Dave have this in common with Dave. Then it dawned on the both of them that they also had another thing in common. They both had brown hair. Falling prey to that thing that so many people do, Dave and Dave missed the very obvious thing that they had in common, that they were both in hospital and they both had memories that had been almost entirely erased. They were too busy getting to know each other. Slowly. Frustratingly slowly. They shared that frustration and were kinder to each other than they were to themselves. They helped each other out of the fog of nothingness and built something to distract them from that fog, and that something was their friendship. After a couple of false starts and a bout of comfortable silence in which Dave contemplated the philosophical implications of having nothing and being nothing and what that meant in terms of a starting point in the midst of a life that had obviously been lived and then carelessly lost in the woods or aisle three of a budget supermarket, and Dave stared at his toes and wondered why he had an uneven number of them on each foot, but when considered as a collective came to a beautifully round ten, then went on to consider why it was that he’d lost his memory and yet knew his numbers and the labelling word for the small appendages on his feet, the Daves had a conversation. “I was thinking,” said Dave. “As was I,” said Dave, “a sometimes dangerous preoccupation, but it must be done.” “We have a fresh start,” said Dave. “And it isn’t a bad start,” said Dave. “How do you mean?” asked Dave. “Well,” Dave considered how best to translate his discovery of his ability to label and talk about his toes, “have you noticed that we have not lost language?” “I hadn’t,” said Dave as he thought about it, “and yet I had.” “In that you’ve been using language,” ventured Dave, “but had not noted it’s use until now?” “Something like that,” said Dave. “Funny old lark this life isn’t it?” said Dave whimsically. “Yes, I suppose it is,” agreed Dave. Dave smiled. Dave saw Dave smile and enjoined with him in the smiling. “I wonder how it is that we remember words, but not how we came by them?” asked Dave. “A different part of the brain,” said Doctor Dave as he strode into the ward and cut a fine figure of a man and of a doctor. Which was just as well, given that he was both a man and a doctor. “How do you know that?” asked Dave. “I’m a doctor and it’s my job to know things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk,” explained Doctor Dave. “He’s right you know,” said Nurse Dave, and Nurse Dave knew Doctor Dave was right because he was studying things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. He was also Doctor Dave’s lover and they had talked about things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk as they spent pleasant time together creating golden memories, such as the ones that Dave had carelessly lost, and Dave had also carelessly lost. “I suppose this is a good thing in a way,” said Dave. “And a frustratingly bad thing in another,” said Dave. “Yes to both,” nodded Doctor Dave, “now if you’ll just roll over for your rectal examination.” Dave gave Doctor Dave a quizzical look and wasn’t at all for rolling over. In return, Doctor Dave reached into his wardrobe of suitable looks and gave Dave a look that would not be denied, it was a strong look, so strong that Dave wilted underneath it and with a sad sigh rolled over, wondering as he did, why he had not asked whether this was strictly necessary when he had lost his memory, and, as far as he was aware nothing from up his bum canal. “Is that strictly necessary?” asked Dave. “Not at all!” exclaimed Doctor Dave, then he burst into paroxysms of laughter. Nurse Dave cracked up also, Doctor Dave’s hearty laughter being of the infectious sort and Nurse Dave’s soft spot for Doctor Dave making him all too receptive to Doctor Dave’s broadcasts, especially of humour and things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. They laughed and they laughed until they had to hold each other upright. It was the sight of the two men clutching at each other in order to stay on their feet that brought Dave late to the laughter party. Dave looked from the laughing Dave to the chuckling medics, “you were going to probe my bottom for a cheap laugh!” he protested. “They were going to do what?” asked Dave the Porter, but then the delayed meaning of the words Dave had cried hit him like a comedy blancmange and he burst out laughing, “Doctor Dave! What are you like!?” he boomed before wheeling Dave off for his bum operation. “Is that the doctor who will be operating on my bottom?” asked Dave timidly. “Oh no! Doctor Dave is strictly a head doctor,” Dave the Porter told him. “Then who will be operating on my nether regions?” asked Dave. “That’ll be Doctor Dave,” Dave the Porter told him. “Oh,” said Dave, “that’s all right then,” he said this for something to add. He didn’t know whether it was alright, he just didn’t like the thought of Doctor Dave operating on his behind and cracking jokes like that as he went about his work. “So that clock up your Jacksy?” said Dave the Porter, “tell me again how you slipped and fell?” Dave didn’t reply. Instead he screamed twelve times as the cuckoo in the ensconced clock celebrated the noon hour in the most painful of ways. “What was all that screaming?” asked Dave. “I think I’d rather not know,” said Dave. “I could hazard a guess, if you’d like?” said Doctor Dave wickedly. “Don’t wind them up doc. Can’t you see they’ve had enough already?” said Dave. “Dave! You’re awake!” cried Doctor Dave at the patient laying opposite Dave. “Too loud!” hissed Nurse Dave. Doctor Dave had indeed been too loud and Dave fell back into a deep sleep induced by the loud noise of Doctor Dave’s voice. Doctor Dave was not having much luck with Dave. Exploding a brown paper bag filled with air in an attempt to wake him from his coma-like state had backfired as Dave woke up a split second before the surprise that sent him right back to the land of nod for another prolonged stay. Then there was the time he dressed as a clown to celebrate Dave’s previous awakening. How was Doctor Dave to know of Dave’s morbid terror of killer clowns? It wasn’t like the fear of clowns was at all common. Quietly, Doctor Dave examined Dave. Having done so he shook Dave’s hand, “it’s been nice knowing you,” he said. “Does that mean I can leave?” asked Dave. “You could leave at any time,” Doctor Dave told him, “we’re not keeping you prisoner here.” “But what about my memory?” asked Dave. “What memory?” asked Doctor Dave. “My memory,” said Dave. “I don’t remember anything about a memory?” Doctor Dave said forgetfully. “Erm, Dave?” said Dave. “Not now,” said Dave, “I’m speaking with the good doctor.” “But I think he’s pulling your leg,” said Dave. “Oh…” said Dave. Doctor Dave scowled at Dave for ruining his fun, but the joke was on Dave, for he was retained in hospital for a further two days for a test that never materialised, or rather it did, because the test was whether Dave would realise he too had been subjected to a pull of the leg. Anyway, that was then and now Dave was at the county fair with his very bestest friend Dave. “Nice day for it,” observed Dave. “That it is,” said Dave. “Who’d have thought all those years ago that here we would be, basking in the sunshine and you’d be showing your prize boar,” said Dave. Dave nodded, “it’s a funny old life isn’t it? And here we are warmed by the Summer sun, you showing your prize bull.” “Have you ever wondered…” began Dave. “You know I have,” replied Dave, “frequently.” “After all these years,” said Dave, shaking his head and chortling, “neither of us has recalled a single thing.” “Probably for the best,” said Dave. “What makes you say such a thing?” asked Dave. “Well imagine it,” said Dave. “The myriad possibilities of our former existence?” said Dave. “Exactly,” said Dave with a dour dourness that really doubled down on the dour. “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” said Dave. Dave stroked his chin, “I have stroked my chin and thought on this to some considerable extent,” said Dave. “And?” asked Dave. “I can think of few outcomes that would trump the life we are living now,” stated Dave. “Really?” asked a sceptical Dave. “Really,” confirmed Dave. “But we could have a sizeable fortune awaiting us,” said Dave, “and a beautiful wife,” he added, “and wonderful kidlings.” “There is that,” conceded Dave, “but for every eventuality that promises to enhance these lives of ours, there is an army of dire consequences that would really put a downer on things.” “Do you really think so?” asked Dave. “I know so,” said Dave. “I do not understand your certainty,” said Dave. “Alright,” said Dave, in a way that conveyed that Dave had asked for it, so he was going to get it, “what if the one thing you remembered was wrong?” “I don’t…” began Dave, then the light of a dawning realisation arose within him, “you can’t possibly mean…” Dave nodded a frightful nod. “But!” blustered Dave, “I’m Dave and that’s all there is to it!” “Prove it,” said Dave. Dave’s forehead wrinkled with thoughts that were in the midst of having a car crash in the confines of his head and somewhere in this pile up was a horrible

what if

that masqueraded as a certainty. Try as he might, he could not unwrinkle his forehead and a dread knowledge began lurking in a foreboding manner that was most disconcerting. Dave experienced a pressing need to distract himself from this awful development… So he punched Dave. Dave promptly left the county fair with Dave the Pig, which was a shame because they missed the judges by less than a minute and the judges had come a-calling with the winner’s rosette. Dave cut a sorry figure as he stood by his prize bull. He had completely forgotten that he had entered his bull in the prize bull competition, his focus and mind were elsewhere. The judges almost turned tail as they rounded the corner and saw the figure that Dave cut, he had deteriorated from sorry to a much less cohesive state. However, the judges retreat was thwarted by the tannoy announcement. “This year’s prize bull winner is Dave’s bull!” There was a cheer right across the entire expanse of the county fair, for the prize bull competition was the most prestigious of all the competitions at the fair. More prestigious was it than the best jam, the best pork pie, the best cheese, even the most interestingly shaped, oversized vegetable competition was eclipsed by the prize bull competition, much to the annoyance of Dave and his eye wateringly large and intimidating marrow. In fact, the only competition that could hold a candle to the prize bull competition was the prize boar competition, and there was an unofficial assessment of the best of the best once the two winners were announced. This year, the piggy winner had been declared in absentia and so there could be no best of the best assessment and life was a little less rich as a result of this deprivation. The tannoy crackled, stilling the jubilant crowd and it burst into life again. “Yes everyone, this year’s winning bull is Dave’s bull, John…” A terrible hush befell the proceedings. Dave the Tannoy, had left the tannoy on as he held the card before him, “wait? That can’t be right? John? What’s that all about?” But Dave knew. Or rather John did.