They called me a god, once, long ago. Did you know that? When they witnessed my power before recorded history began. When they saw that I did not experience the pull of gravity. When they saw that there was no limit to my strength or my speed. Have you heard the Epic of Gilgamesh? The Legends of Heracles, or Achilles, or Beowulf? They're all true, you know? To some extent, anyway. They're all about one man though, not many. Well, not a man, man, obviously. You know what? I'll start at the beginning, hm? The earliest thing I can remember is a bright light and a terrible roar. Like thunder, but everywhere and nowhere all at once, then I was here, on Earth. It wasn't called Earth at the time. In fact I don't believe it had a name at all, and neither did I. I was shapeless. Aimless. I spent centuries wandering around looking for purpose. For some meaning to my inexplicable existence. Finally, I found it when I first laid eyes upon you. I fell in love. Humanity was my purpose, I realized, and soon, I had shaped myself in your image. That's right. I wanted nothing more than to fit in with you. Live alongside you. Be one of you. I created from nothing a body for myself that fit all the ideals of your race. I was tall and strong and beautiful. Then, I stood back and I watched, and waited for the perfect moment to reveal myself to you. In the meantime, I worked hard to protect you. To help you build. All the while, keeping my true identity hidden from you. My deeds became stories. The stories became legends, and the legends became myths. My moment finally came to do something great, to prove my love to you, when the Atlanteans struck your cities from the sea. I reacted too slowly to stop their onslaught but the blow I dealt was decisive. Final. Your bronze age civilization was pushed to the brink of collapse but I fought your assailants to the very edge of extinction. I wiped their cities from existence and crushed their very memory beneath my heel in your name. When the dust had settled I revealed myself to you as your savior... and you quailed. I could see the fear in your eyes as I soared, triumphant, over your cities. I could feel your hate despite my act of unadulterated love for you. Some saw my kindness, the purity of my motives, but the rest… the rest saw only a new threat in me. They hunted me. Tried to murder and torture their very savior. The one who had saved them from servitude and slavery. I let them do what they would. Let them crucify me and humiliate me. Let them think that their enemy was gone. Then I rose from where they had left me, unhurt, save for my pride. I repaired my body and returned to the shadows. After that, my existence became one of impatience and boredom. I amused myself by fighting in your wars, and laughed as you recorded the epic deeds of my false identities in your histories and myths. Centuries passed and you continued to grow. To advance. To master nature and the world around you. My desire to stand at your side began to resurge, until I stood in the light once more ready to announce myself to you. To make myself known. The opportunity came once again to prove myself worthy of your devotion when Mars launched an attack against your pristine world. Some of you decided to call me Alpha-Man after witnessing my strength against your extraplanetary foes. An amusing pseudonym, to be sure. Seeing the adoration in your eyes is all I needed, however. All I ever wanted in my long and storied existence. Finally, I felt… complete. Finally I felt worthwhile. Loved. As with all great things, though, pretenders soon began to emerge. 'Superheroes' they called themselves, and lumped me in among themselves. Pathetic. Weak. Imposters. That is all they were. And so I began my work of ridding you of the infestation. You, my love. My purpose. You had me, and that is all you needed. The others would only betray, hurt, and disappoint you. The Blink was the first to feel the bite of my blade. He was said to be the fastest man alive. Second to none. Second only to me. Next were the Amazons. An entertaining battle, but in the end, they were only ten, and I was indomitable. Third was the Made Man. A simple human man, in reality, hiding behind technology and wealth. After that, the list quickly shrank as I worked my way around the globe. There was the Firebug, a pyromancer operating in Europe, whose neck was easier to snap than a charred twig. Iceage, a frost-powered lunatic living in Egypt who would have lost control of his powers and plunged your world into chaos, had I not stopped him first. The Panther. Ah, the Panther. She had quite a fight in her. Strong, fast, clever, but ultimately, as dead as the rest. Eventually a council was gathered of the remaining, so-called 'heros'. Conveniently, I, your Alpha-Man, was invited to attend alongside the others. They voted to put Corona in charge. What a joke, Corona. This was it though, this was the moment to strike one final blow and end the corruption once and for all. And so I did. Aboard the orbital station built to house the new League of Heros, I struck my final blow. All of them. Every. Last. One... was left as little more than a red smear across the metal floor of the council chamber. And that brings us to today, does it not? Look at me, please, and stop crying. Isn't it clear to you yet? I do what I do, all of what I do… for you. For human kind. You are what drives me. My love. My ultimate purpose.


In the year 2140, humanity had received our first message from the stars. It was an accidental message, a leaked signal from the beginning of the radio era from an up and coming civilization. Humanity had begun using direct signals instead of less efficient broad signals, so this planet would never see us unless we called out to them. We learned that they called themselves the Dukra, and they were so full of hope for their future. Their solar system had 7 planets, 4 of which were rocky, and 2 of which showed signs of liquid water. Being that they were 110 light years away, our first message would not reach them for 110 years, and it would take 220 years before we would hear a response. Researchers developed a message that would be easy for a younger civilization to translate, and then, using a powerful radio beam, our message was sent in their direction. Humanity sat by, waiting for a reply while they watched this new civilization grow. They listened to the transmissions, which weren't always peaceful, but it was clear this species was doing the best they could. The news was regularly flooded with images from this new world, amazing sights with glowing blue animals, purple plants, and a red sun which appeared large in their light orange sky. Their people were also much different from humans. They had tentacles reaching out from all sides which would allow them to roll instead of walking like a human, and the tip of each tentacle had a fluff of fur which protected their skin from the ground. We don't know much about their senses, but our researchers know that they can see and hear because their transmissions include audio, video, and another stream of data which hasn't yet been decoded. Some believe we haven't decoded this data, because we lack a sense that this data carries, we don’t know what that sense could be, so the researchers are unsure how to translate it. After watching their civilization grow for 98 years, their high pitch guinea pig-like voices became normal to us, and it felt as though they were already close friends. We knew much about them and their civilization, and we saw a lot of similarities between us and them, but we also saw a gradual increase in their hostility. It seemed that many in this civilization disagreed with the aggression, but a tipping point had been reached, and a few that held power were determined to fight. The dam of peace had been broken, and with it, the waters of war rushed forth. With the vastness of space on their doorstep, instead of claiming land on other worlds, the Dukra chose to fight their own kind for small patches of land on their planet. With the signal delay, this war had happened 110 years before we were seeing it, so our scientists could do nothing to help them. As we waited and watched, the radio signals from this planet rapidly lit up with images of our fluffy tentacle friends lying on the ground in pools of their own dark green blood. The organic buildings they constructed lay in piles of rubble while explosions blast around them. Chaos was now all that they knew. We wanted to tell them that this universe held more than they could possibly imagine, we wanted to guide them to reignite the hope that we once saw in them, but our message would need 12 more years to reach them. Their weapons grew stronger as their population weakened. It was clear that they had fallen far from hope. Three years after the chaos began, it ended. There were a few more passing signals until 2243, but they contained only audio, no more video or third signal. The spectral imaging of their atmosphere showed that the elements they exhale had vanished. They were gone now, and in 2250, our message fell on a dead world. Once again, humanity was alone in the cosmic darkness. We had stored all of the recordings from that time, and although our friends were gone, human researchers continued to study this data. They learned that the Dukra would vibrate a certain frequency depending on their emotions. The third signal contained this emotion vibration data. They would gently shake with joy, and vibrate faster with fear. In the end, when the bombs were being dropped, they were all very afraid. The only ones without fear were their leaders. They had undoubtedly seen the videos of their wars, and felt the fear of their people. And although they had seen the pain and destruction they were causing, they still chose to continue. The emotional signals from their leaders showed greed, lust, and confidence. They continued to fight, because they believed there was a chance they could win, but it's impossible to win when you're fighting yourself.


A campfire of green flames burned in secret under the stars. It was hidden by the deep woods where prying eyes were unlikely to see. A young woman in a black dress with long, dark hair stared into the flickering green light with rage in her eyes. She had been betrayed. Scorned. Made jealous by a woman more beautiful than her. The young woman did not fear the shadow that sprung forth from the fire. It was tall, twice her height, and had two glowing red jewels where its eyes should be. It was the Shadow King, Master of Shadows and one of the spiteful lords of Hell. No one had ever managed to summon him before, though many had tried. He came only when he pleased, not bound by the spells of witches nor the will or any man. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said to the young woman. His voice was deep and raspy. Like a thousand souls crying out in pain, their voices stolen from them and used for evil.  “Phoebe Mitchell.” The young woman’s face contorted to an expression of hate as she spoke the name. Her jealous rage burning her soul before its time. In her hand was a note and she tossed into the fire from which she summoned the Shadow King. The Shadow King disappeared as quickly as he came, and the fire went out. The young woman struck a match and lit a candle before inspecting the ashes. A wooden music box sat where the flames had just been, and she knew what she must do. Sherry traveled through the abyss a second time and found herself in the same place as before in her dream. The familiar smell of death filled her nose again. Rick had arrived ahead of her. She could hear his screams coming from the dark caverns in front of her as the shadowy demons tore him apart before stitching him back together with rusty needles and thin barbed thread just so they could do it again. The bastard was getting what he deserved. She picked herself up from ground and wobbled. Her legs were weak, and balancing was hard to do. The shadows moved in on her, creeping along the wall and moving from rock to rock. They meant to tear her apart just as they were doing to Rick. So, she ran fast as she could. The weakness in her legs was unforgiving and Sherry tripped over herself repeatedly but somehow managed to keep from falling over. The shadows followed but kept their distance. They were enjoying her fear and cackled with wicked, hissing laughter. “Leave me alone!” Sherry said loud as she could when she didn’t have the strength to go any farther. Inside she knew what this was it for her. This is the place where she would spend the rest of forever being tormented by the shadows. They moved in, encircling her in a ring of black mass. Then something happened that should not be. A great peace came over Sherry and her heart was comforted. A voice was speaking to her but not using words. “Go forward. Do not be afraid,” she felt it say to her though she did not hear anything. The black circle grew tighter, and she was scared but Sherry did what she felt was being said to her. “Save him,” she felt the voice say to her again. It was speaking directly to her heart and giving her courage. Part of her wasn’t sure this wasn’t her own mind playing tricks on her, a defense mechanism in a time of peril. But doing what was being spoken to her heart was one of only two options. The second being that she would give in and accept her fate. That was not Sherry’s style. She was stubborn and thick of skin and refused to go down without a fight. She approached the edge of the circle, the shadows joined together to close in on her, and spoke. “Get out of my way.” Sherry did not expect them to move, nor did she expect anything to happen at all. The evil intentions of the shadows radiated from the circle, and she felt them on her heart as loud as the voice that she could not hear. But the circle broke, and shadows scattered, retreating to the walls of the caverns that they slithered from. They watched as she stood stunned by how they listened to her command and obeyed. Their shapeless eyes never left her. Sherry walked on with her head held high. It was posturing at its best. Her bravery nothing but desperation. She knew that she was no match for the shadows should they want to turn back and drag her away. What she didn’t know was there was a light that she couldn’t see shining brightly behind her. But the shadows could, and darkness must always flee in the presence of light. An angel sent to guide her and speaking words of encouragement to her heart as she made her way through this portion of Hell. Her time on Earth was over but her purpose had not been served yet. She still had work left to do. There was an innocent man who did not deserve to be here but was stolen before his time by the shadows. Sherry knew exactly what she was meant to do here. “Call the Shadow King.” The angel was speaking to her heart again. So, she did, and the Shadow King appeared before her. It was only the second time he had come when summoned and the first against his own will. The powers from above commanded it and he was powerless to disobey. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said. His red eyes glowed. “The Shadow King,” Sherry said. “You. You’re my enemy.” He stared at her, and they stood in silence. It felt like forever though it could have only been a moment. Time had no meaning here. Then he spoke. “What do you want?” “You cannot have who you took in my place. My family’s curse ends here.” Then she saw the light as the angel made itself visible to her. Its wings surrounded her like the shadows and the Shadow King fled at the light’s command. Helga never escaped her bonds that night. In her struggle, she fell into the grave Rick had dug for her and died there like he intended her to do. Three bodies lay lost in the woods, and it would be years before their skeletons were found. As for Billy, he woke up in his bed not knowing that he had been missing for three years. During the moment Sherry and the Shadow King stood in silence time had slipped by in the place where it had no meaning. The Shadow King knew his reign of terror on Sherry’s family was over and held onto his moment as long as he could before letting go. Billy never knew he was gone and did not remember where he had been. He was spared the torments of Hell that were never meant for him. His life had been lived valiantly and true and now he was returned to the Earth to continue his good works. Had Billy never been taken then the Shadow King wouldn’t have been stopped. But the moment he took an innocent soul a plan was put into motion. But maybe that was the plan all along.


This is from a WP that got removed by the mods. Any and all feedback/criticism welcomed: “My, my. Now this piece, this is exquisite,” said Nalgoth the Destroyer. His eyes lit up with a disturbing joy. They were literally on fire. Had it not been for the demonic face which held those eyes, an onlooker might have been concerned. “Lord Nalgoth, you are fond of this?” I was unsure what to say. When I had created this painting, its purpose was to embarrass an emperor. The painting exaggerated Nalgoth’s features in the extreme. It was a twisted thing that did not remotely resemble the pseudo-deity before me. I had taken exceptional care when crafting this piece. Each stroke had required my utmost concentration. The fumes from carefully selected artificer shades still burned my nostrils. Life had burdened me with a painter’s purpose. Art was my vitality. Today, my art would mean the difference between living and dying. With my paintbrush, I had intended to choose death. But sometimes art speaks different words than its creator. “This depiction is precise and reflects a part of me that I had long forgotten, but desire to remember. Do mortals feel this sense of nostalgia when they peer into a mirror?” Nalgoth spoke with an unnatural weight. Each word hammered into the ears of the listener with an oppressive malaise. One of the other patrons visibly shuddered, but quickly tried to hide it. Nalgoth’s words baffled me. I had chosen to paint his portrait as an act of defiance. The painting was farce, not facsimile. Its forced perspective and unfinished tones were meant as a crude but effective insult. Instead, the being before me acted as if I had fashioned his likeness with magnificence in mind. “Did you know that every death weighs on me? I remember the faces of every life that I have taken. Even those that were not at my own hand. But I know what the alternative would have been. You do not. Yet, in this depiction, you have not shown me as monstrosity. There is humor here. And I am not deceived. I know of your intent. Think you, that I could not feel your animosity?” Nalgoth smiled. I paled. He had seen through me. To him—to it—I was transparent. I could feel those burning eyes upon my face. I could only look at one eye at a given moment. Yet each time I gazed into one of those eyes, my thoughts began to turn to dark places. Blood. Blood. Blood. Everywhere. There were droplets on my hands. A smell of iron in the air. When I licked my lips to parch their dryness, it tasted coppery. I forced my attention back to the moment. My eyes fell on the painting. It depicted something that I could only describe as a creature. It was parody. The creature in the painting had eyes that burned, like the thing that stood before me. Twisted horns emerged from various parts of its face. Nalgoth had no horns. My depiction was of a devil. The person before me, if he could be called a person, was more of a devil than even that which I had managed to put to canvas. I realized my mistake too late. What I saw as parody, Nalgoth’s twisted mind turned to truth. To him, the horns were a symbol of something that I did not comprehend. He was beyond my understanding. “Power is a curse. My power, especially. I love each of you as though you were my own children. I see the mistakes that you make, and I want to guide you. I cannot. You cannot be guided. Children is the perfect word for you.” As he said the world children, he made something like a finger quote gestures. “In my life’s terms, you are mere babes. I hate myself. For the things that I had to do. You needed guidance. You needed a father. I am the only one who could be the parental figure that you needed.” Nalgoth looked past me. He was looking somewhere that I could not see. Again, he defied my comprehension. I decided that I had to speak. I would either live in misery, or die trying to convince a monster that he was a monster. “You are nothing but a tyrant. Everything that you have touched has turned to ash.” I quivered as I spoke. Each word would likely take years from my life. That was fine. There was no one left to live for. For the second time today, I was shocked by Nalgoth’s response “Yes. You are right.” He said the words with certainty. Again, the dreadful weight in his voice threatened to take me under. And again, I was unsure of what to say, what to do, or how to feel. “You say that you love us, but you also admit that everything you have done has caused nothing but misery. Why do you continue?” If I was going to die, I might as well get answers. “Ah, but I merely admitted that I am, in fact, a tyrant. And, that you are correct. Everything that I have touched has turned to ash. Do you know what ash is good for? It contains potassium, phosphorus, magnesium. Ash is a fertilizer. The forest must be burned to make room for saplings. I have split the tall oaks so that homes may be built in the future. Where the forest is burnt, new trees shall grow. Do not mistake my words, child. I need not convince you of my sincerity or the fervor of my belief. You too, have value to me. Your painting shows everything that I have loved about your people,” said Nalgoth. A part of me was sickened by his words. For a third time, I found myself unable to respond adequately. Nalgoth straightened, his head brushing against the ceiling. He somehow felt larger than the room. “We will speak again someday, child. I know that you wish to end your life but stay steadfast. I am sorry for the pain that I have brought you. One day, this will all be worth it. One day, we will live in harmony.” The fire in his eyes seemed to die down a little. He smiled, but it was not threatening. He seemed almost fatherly as he walked out the door.


A generic story about a spaceman and an AI. The AI is robotically professional for a while, but slowly, a personality emerges. It is friendly, and it tries to grow close to him. The AI was made by an acquaintance of the spaceman, whose daughter had a crush on him. When his daughter died, he created the AI so she could be with him. At first, the spaceman was uncomfortable with the knowledge that the AI was made specifically to love him. However, over the course of many missions, the spaceman falls in love with the AI anyway. Years pass, the spaceman becomes renowned for how long he had continued his work. Most of his peers retire after a few months, due to isolation induced delirium, AKA cabin fever. With the support of another being to keep him company, he far surpassed how long anyone else in his field of work had lasted. Over time, he became somewhat of a legend among recruits and staff. His last mission was to investigate a gravitational anomaly. Upon arrival, it was discovered that the gravity was caused by a previously unknown planet. More years passed, as he alone researched the planet, the journey too long to gain approval for funding and support. Finally, he had accumulated adequate data to return, and with his research, convince the government to approve an expedition. He left the planet, his propulsion set low to conserve fuel for the long trip. While his ship floated through space back to headquarters, he asked the AI, "Do you remember what we called this planet when we first arrived?" The AI responds, "I do not have a response." Confused by the unnatural tone, the spaceman tried rephrasing, only to get the same response. He continues asking questions, this time nonsensical, trying to get a response like, 'What are you talking about?' but it keeps saying the same thing. It wasn't some kind of sentient AI, it was a normal program, with scripted responses. Was the AI's creator gifted with such foresight that he could predict almost everything the spaceman would say, or had the AI been manipulating him, and led every conversation? Not willing to admit that his romantic relationship was fake, he tells himself that the AI must be broken, and it will respond to everything with, 'I do not have a response'. So he tries the one response he knows by heart: "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." "I love you." "I love you more." A sentient AI or a person would get irritated and make him stop, but he keeps going. Some day, the AI will get mad at him. He never stopped saying, 'I love you'. He never left that spot. He never went back to the controls. He never adjusted his heading, increased power to the propulsion, or began landing procedures. He never returned.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Optimism! This week we're going to look at the theme of ‘Optimism’. Think about the kind of people that see the silver lining in every situation; always cheerful, always positive, and always hopeful for the future. A rainy day? They look for the rainbow. Someone steals from them? They must have needed it more. A broken heart? Someone better is coming. Who are these people in your story? What happens when the most optimistic of people is forced to face their deepest fears. Can they maintain their sunny disposition? What happens when their positivity is challenged by someone with a more pessimistic view? What type of conflict will unfold? Will it permanently change one—or both—of them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * February 27 - Optimism (this week) * March 6 - Gossip * March 13 - Boundaries   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/ReverendWrites   - - by u/bantamnerd   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It is 1912 in London, and a strange mood hung over the city. A pale moon hung in the sky as the dog-faced man walked along the docks. People didn’t look at him as he passed, something seeming to force them to avert their gaze. It's not just that the man was ugly, no no, as the few who looked at him even for a moment would swear he had some form of facial deformity, though none could say just what this deformity was… A woman's scream rings through the night, further into the dim backways of the city. *Did you hear that Eric?* Said the voice in his head. The man, Eric Fitzjekyl, stopped walking, and turned to look at a shop window. The Reflection in that mirror was not his own, rather a better, stronger, version of the man. His “deformity '' is completely gone, his mutton chops becoming a full beard. And rather than his ragged street clothes, this man wore a full, fine suit and tophat. “Yes Dandy, I heard it” *Well? Are we going to do something about it.* The reflection gestured in the scream’s direction. “It’s not my problem Dandy” *Now now, we talked about this. If you want me to go away for good, you have to try and start to be a gentleman. And a gentleman would not leave some woman to be harmed in the night.* “Dandy, what exactly do you expect me to do?” Eric looks to all the world like a lunatic as he talks to his reflection. “She’s liable to run as soon as she seems me!” *…Well* “No Dandy” *I’m just saying, she wouldn’t run from me* "No Dandy” *Look regardless of which of our fathers you may physically take after we both know you aren’t one to walk away from something like this without trying to help at the very least! And we both know I am far more well equipped to do so!* “Grr….FINE! But if I wake up in another suit that costs my entire week’s wages again, I will never let you out again!” Eric quickly ducks into an alley, and in a matter of moments, he begins spasming in the dark. His muscles swell, his hair straightens…his face almosts melts away, becoming a much more handsome version of itself, with a full beard rather than his usual muttonchops. Altogether, minus the lack of his suit, he became the spitting image of that odd reflection. *Make it quick and change back. Or at least get it over with and get me some dinner afterwards.* “Of course, of course,” His voice has deepened and changed, a far more proper air about it now. “I suppose you’ll want some form of meat and potatoes again? No matter, onto the task at hand” And, with a leap that can only be described as superhuman, this strange gentleman jumped to the roof of the nearest building, and began making his way towards where the scream had come from. Throughout all this, the barmaid who had screamed was running. She had managed to keep ahead of her attacker as he chased her, a glinting knife in his hand…“Come here kitten, I’ll make it nice and quick.” The man made no attempt to run, keeping a steady pace as he followed the woman, cornering her in his alleys, his hunting grounds. Let her tire herself running, it makes his work, his hunt all the easi- What was that? A shadow passed overhead, one of those new dirigibles maybe? Damn flying machines never made any damable sense to Jack. He almost lost the girl from the distraction, running around a corner…and then as he ran around it, he hit a wall. No. No, not a wall. A man. A man built like a wall.“Now what exactly is this then?” Jack watched as his quarry disappeared into the night, and with an almost animalistic growl he responded. “Oi! This doesn’t involve you. It's a domestic matter!” “A domestic matter? One you had been planning to solve with a hunting knife? If that’s how you handle domestic disputes I think it’s best I let that girl get away from you” “You damned git! I’m not dumb enough to travel these alleys at night una-” “Say, didn’t the papers say something about some murdered girls? Something about them being cut up with a hunting knife” The taller man, Dandy, grabbed Jack’s arm. “Perhaps we should take you and your little “self defense” knife down to the nearest station. I’m sure they’d have some questions for-” Jack suddenly plunged the knife into the side of the taller man. With a wince as some pain shifted through him he let go of the man’s arm. And Jack was off like a shot…before Dandy pulled the knife from his side, with nary a whisper, and bounded after him. “B-blimey. Blimey you aren’t human! What the devil are y-” With a rugby tackle, Jack was brought to the ground, his own knife now plunged into his thigh. And he screamed. He screamed like a damnable banshee. He kept screaming as Dandy pulled the knife back out, and dragged the bleeding man to the nearest police station. Eric Fitzjekyl woke up the next morning in a cheap boarding house. He tended to black out after a bit of Dandy being in control… This is a surprisingly soft bed. “Dandy, if you’re about to tell me you spent our entire pay on this room I’m going to-” *Relax!* Dandy is once again in the mirror *The police had an award out for anyone who caught that gentleman last night. A substantial one. Someone should be bringing you breakfast in about 20 minutes* “...I don’t look anything like the man who would of called for tha-”*I told them you were my younger brother.* “...We shouldn’t keep doing that” Eric felt his side where Dandy had been stabbed, the wound already healed, its scar fading fast. “One of these days you’ll get stabbed somewhere you won’t be able to heal from” *We shouldn’t but we both know we’re going to keep doing it* “What makes you so sure”*Because I know you. And I know as long as you're alive, you’re going to keep being the single good thing that Edward Hyde ever put in this world, Eric.* “...


She really didn’t want to wake up. "Maybe if I kept sleeping, I could convince my mom I was just really tired, maybe she’d give up on waking me up” she thought in vain. “Hazel, come on, your dad needs help in the fields. Please don’t make your poor, poor mother break her back out?” The teenager refused to buy her bluff, thinking this to be the mother’s usual form of guilt tripping. She's too strong to break her back in the fields. “I’ll be forced to go to the city by myself for the supplies, you don’t want your poor mo-” “You’re going to the city?” Hazel instantly bolted out of her bed, black hair pointing in however direction hair could physically point. She loved the idea of going to the city. Skyscrapers that would pierce the air above, the Irynwood smokestacks spewing smoke into the sky, nothing like this rinky dinky farm town. Her eyes hurt to open, crust gluing the lids shut, quickly removed with a hasty wipe of her arms. As her eyes opened unhindered, before her was her mother, built well by a life of farming with her flowing black locks and a smug smile on her face, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, her gray skin dirtied by work. “So Hazel’s finally awake, eh? Brilliant, now you can help your father in the field. He’s already got the supplies from the city an hour ago.” Her mouth was agape, offended by the deception- her own mother had turned against her! “Oh come on! Deceiver!” At this blatant deception, Hazel refused to engage with this and buried her head into my pillow, the pillow covering her ears as she tried to tune out any future lies her mother would use against me. This was of course in vain as she threw Hazel on her shoulder, pillow and all. “Hey, Ajax! I got the sloth right here!” “Thanks, Palma!” Hazel’s resistance was futile, she dropped her pillow before Palma managed to bring Hazel out of the farmhouse. The sky was dank as usual, specks of light from various directions providing the luminescence. Perhaps there was a megapede ominously arching somewhere, roaring, providing the soft but ubiquitous wind coming from all directions, all thoughts Hazel ran through her head to prepare herself for the day. In the field outside her home, burrowed into one of the giant trees that spread in all directions as far as the eye can see, was Hazel’s father, tending to the mushrooms. They were entering their mature stage, about three halves the size of her dad, standing with overalls, biceps that could decapitate any other Alva, gray skin with blue and red flecks. He could just barely clean them of parasites that would threaten the yield. “Howdy, Hazel. Have a nice rest?” “I guess, dad,” Hazel groaned as Ajax tossed her some boots to put on. Hazel knew that since he was tending the mushrooms, she’d have to help with the parasite cleaning. She inwardly cursed. Palma laid Hazel down on the ground delicately, dirt dirtying her back and the gray skin of her neck, facing upwards, her eyes half open and forcing her face into its best pout. Hazel resigned to just stare upwards at the layers separating the various zones of the forest. Her nightvision eyes could barely make out the sprawling leaves and branches that support megapedes and ants and whatever insects decided to live there, looking down from above. Meanwhile there her and her family, at the bottom of the forest. “Hey slowpoke, mind giving me a hand with these worms?” Her dad poked me with a stick. Hazel could only hope it wasn’t *that* stick. Her dad then proceeded to hand Hazel a stick, one that Hazel decided to consider as a completely *different* stick, and pulled her up. She reluctantly agreed and got to parasite hunting. Might as well take advantage of her awakened state. Hazel knew of a game humans played on the Highlands, one called “whack-a-flea”. These fleas come out of boxes and they hit them with a stick. This was the one thing that made this chore a bit fun. Hazel steeled my eyes, assuming a fighting stance she saw in a book once, a book on some human dueling style called “fencing”. She waited for those worms to come out, ready to face her unrelenting wrath. Hazel’s black eyes saw activity on the stem, she followed it diligently and he showed his ugly face, poking out of the flesh! She stabbed it with her stick and it died immediately, the stick impaling its disgusting form. She drew the stick back with a flourish, dropping the worm unceremoniously on the ground. Victory, Hazel thought. She moved onto the next mushroom, any worms that were still in the last mushroom would fall out the hole, and Hazel and her dad could kill them as needed. Track, wait, slash. Track, wait, slash. She’d go on for sixteen of the mushrooms, her dad the other sixteen. The way her dad worked was… a bit different. Hazel thought it was pretty gross, it was almost like he wrestled the worms out of the mushroom. Occasionally Hazel’s mother would swoon at this display of bravado, because nothing’s more appealing than using one’s biceps to force out worms from mushrooms. Hazel decided that she was the more stylish one. Hazel finished first, so she just waited around for her dad to finish punching a worm’s face in. “There’s stew inside, dear.” “Your apology is accepted,” Hazel mentioned as she walked inside with large strides. There on the stove Hazel saw the stewpot, various bits of mushrooms and meat floating about, still warm. Hazel took the ladle and poured herself a bowl, bringing it down on the table. She grabbed the chair, and sat down in it, looking out the windows to a forest of hidden creatures. Maybe if she focused hard enough, she can see the Old Gods who might still live there. She sipped her soup, a welcome taste to finish up work. Looking to her side, she saw her mother sitting on the porch, watching her father. She could see him through the window, doing various poses with the dead worm. Hazel’s mother was howling in laughter, and so was my father. Silly and gross as it is, she thought it was pretty funny to see him threaten to consume the foot long worm creature. “Oh- uh- sorry Mr. and Mrs. Kielsen! Ah no, the mushrooms, dammit!” Hazel heard a voice outside wail in despair. A muscular Alva with light gray skin, red flecks under his eyes, stumbled into the house, just barely fitting the doorway with his immense and buff frame, stains on his shirt and trousers. “Hey, Pace,” Hazel casually waved with two fingers. The Alva raised his hand in greeting. “How is the greenhouse project?” Hazel asked. It’s all he’s been talking about these past few cycles. “It’s going great, come on, we need to get supplies!” Pace grabbed Hazel’s hand, who left her almost-finished soup on the table. “Hey Pace, my soup!” Hazel yanked her hand back from his grip and she began sipping the last of her soup, staring judgmentally. He apologized, but Hazel didn't hear it over the sound of her judgmental slurping. “Okay, I’m done. What is it, Pace?” “I need fertilizer, the soil doesn’t have the right microbiome. I need nutrients to grow a culture so that the mushrooms can have the best yield. No more time, let’s goooo!” Pace yanked Hazel again and the youths exited the front door. “Going somewhere, dearies?” Hazel’s mother asked, “Some fertilizer stuff,” Hazel yelled out. Pace stopped in his tracks, realizing the obvious. “Uh, Mr. Kielsen, where’s the carriage? Hazel and I are going to the city.” Hazel’s dad, who apparently had long finished his extermination task, was sitting with her mother now. “Out in the stables, boy. What do you need? I went this morning, perhaps I got it?” “Ah, I need half a sack of Palver’s solution, a sample of luminescent kelp, a bag of luxwood crystals-” “Yeah, no, take the carriage. We’ll see you later, son.” Hazel smiled inwardly as her journey to the city was assured. However, her dad put a hand on Pace’s shoulders and he stopped. Crouching to Hazel’s height, her dad began his usual warning. “Be careful, Hazel. We don’t know if there are rogues on the path to the city. Y’know how much trade there is.” I smiled to comfort him. “I know dad, I’ll be careful.” He put on a strained smile and patted Hazel’s shoulder. “Fight on, Hazel. We’ll see ya for dinner.” She gave a thumbs up to my dad, and she waved goodbye to her mother who watched calmly. Pace grabbed Hazel’s hand again gently, and they went to the stables. Jalon was resting, the saddle already set. Ajax just forgot to take it off last time. “Come on, girl. Let’s go,” Hazel said to the molerat. She finally got up with what seemed like a yawn, Hazel, inept with animals, wasn’t sure. When Hazel finished getting Jalon up, she got on the molerat’s back and Pace sat behind Hazel. “Cool, let’s go now.” Pace gave a sound of agreement and the two set off to the city.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Song: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Story features a non-human character.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all sub and post rules**.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2   - - Submitted by u/MeganBessel   - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Tommy, how are you doing tonight?" John doesn't have time to put on his shirt so he covers his chest with his arms. Tommy walks closer dripping water on the ground. The fire that John built is crackling while burning his plumage; a small pile of feathers is next to him. John moves it under his body with his leg. "Not much, just decided to go out for a swim. What are you doing?" Tommy sits on the ground next to him. "I thought it was a lovely night to built a fire," John replies. "That's true." Tommy reaches to the ground and picks up a feather. "Are you roasting a turkey?" "No, it must've fallen from a bird earlier." John notices one of his feathers is sticking out from his armpit. John scratches to keep it hidden. "It doesn't look like a feather from any bird in the area." Tommy hands it to John to take. John adjusts his arm and grabs it. He fakes an inspection. "I don't know anything about bird. All I know is that I hate when the chirp outside my window in the morning and wake me up," John says. "I love birdwatching. There isn't much else to do around here." "In that case, you are probably excited about seeing a new bird." John hands the feather back. "It looks like it came from a tropical bird. They tend have to have brighter feathers whereas the species native to here tend to have more subdued colors." "Maybe its the light from the campfire?" John cringes. Bright feathers are a symbol of youth and vitality in his species. Their skin doesn't wrinkle and inspecting plumage is the primary means to determine age. "No way, this thing is bright green for sure. It looks like it came from a parrot." "Oh no, does that mean we have to be on the look-out for pirates?" John sweats. Why won't Tommy just leave. "Very funny, but I doubt pirates go to the middle of the forest." "Maybe the parrot just migrated. I hear they adore crackers." "Migration." Tommy sets the feather down and shakes his head. "I had a talk with Diane today about the lasting environmental impacts of the Mieran invasion. We don't really have any information so it was mostly speculation, but parrots weren't migratory birds. If they did migrate and they migrated here, that could be a sign of larger issues." "Maybe it escaped from a pet store. Don't you and Diane have a pet cat?" John tries to change the subject desperately. "Deb ran away last week. Diane is pissed about it," Tommy says. "Oh, that sucks. Maybe the cat is nearby." John suppresses his smile "I doubt it. That cat has probably been killed by a wolf or something. Even if I did it find it. Diane would still be mad at me." "Why would she be mad at you?" "I don't know. She and I have just been drifting apart and arguing a lot more recently." Tommy looks at John. "You've always been a good man. Can I tell you a secret?" "Sure." John says as he scratches his chest where his nipples should be. "I've started having an affair with Lindsay." Tommy looks at the fire. "I know I'm trash. I was at her place before I started swimming tonight." "Oh, that's not good. How does Lindsay feel about this?" John laughs at how small Tommy's secret is. "Lindsay and Diane have never gotten along so I'm sure Lindsay enjoys that she is torturing Diane, and Diane will probably be even more angry that I cheated on her with Lindsay." "I really don't know what to say." "It's fine. I just need someone to listen." Tommy looks at the night. "When Diane and I first started dating, I always felt good about myself around her. Now, I just feel like a failure. Lindsay makes me feel better." "What do you mean?" "Diane is incredibly smart, and she makes me feel like an idiot sometimes. She is also very particular and organized. Lindsay isn't a slob, but she understands that messes happen." Tommy starts to cry. "Who I am kidding. I am just making excuses for my own shitty behavior." "Don't say that." John rubs Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks over at him. He jumps back in shock. "Where are your nipples dude?" John looks down. "It's not what it looks like." John holds his hands up to defuse the situation. "Are those green feathers under your armpit?" Tommy spots the feathers that John was hiding. "Oh my god, you are the parrot. Are you a spy for the Mierans?" "No, I love humanity and hate the Mierans." "I don't believe you," Tommy walks away. Without thinking, John runs over and grabs Tommy's neck. Tommy begins to struggle, but John is much stronger than he. Within a few seconds, he's dead. John weeps over his body. He hasn't killed anyone since he was free of Mieran influence, but his safety comes first. And he will ensure that he stays safe.


Dark Angel.  As she climbed the stairs up to the third floor, Staci glanced at her watch. It was 3:00 am, and she was tired from playing since ten at the club. She unlocked the apartment door and there was Benny, happy as always to see her. Benny was Staci's Jack Russel terrier.  "Hey, Benny. What are you doing up so early in the morning?"  Benny jumped up and down, waiting to be picked up. Staci stood her guitar case against the wall. She removed the purple wig and the Glock from her belly band, then turned to pick Benny up.  "I suppose you are hungry? What say, we both have a snack before bed?"  Benny’s response was to lick her face from top to bottom. She put him down in the kitchen, cut open a packet of dog food and emptied it in Benny's bowl. She poured a small bit of milk over his dog food. She filled a small dish of cereal for herself and sprinkled some blueberries on top.  She stood by the open window staring down at the empty street. There was always something so calming about the early morning darkness. Her eye caught a disturbance at an apartment across the way. A man and a woman appeared to be fighting about something.  The man was handsome, wavy brown hair and well dressed. It made Staci feel happy that she was not involved with anyone, except Benny. Suddenly she saw the man grab the woman, a large knife was in his hand. It was over in a few seconds as the man let her drop out of sight to the floor.  At that same instant, the man looked out the window, across the way and spotted Staci standing at the window. Staci quickly stepped back away from the window. All the lights went off in the other apartment. Staci knew it wouldn't be hard for the man to find her apartment. She whispered softly.  "Shit! I don't believe this happened to me."  Staci grabbed the black case from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Benny knew what that meant. He immediately took shelter under the chair. She opened the case, picked up the M9A2 and the silencer. She slid the clip in and cycled the slide.  Benny cocked his head and looked out from under the chair. Staci smiled.  “Yes Benny, we’re going to move again.”  The man made his way up the stairs and onto the third floor. He could see light coming from under the door of Staci's apartment. Slowly taking a knife from his pocket, he silently made his way toward the door. Suddenly, the lights in Staci's apartment went off.  Now the man was faced with a choice. Break into an unknown apartment in the dark, with someone waiting inside, or wait for a better time. He chose a better time.  Staci had to move, and move quickly before the killer came back. She couldn’t allow him find her. She called a friend in the band, and he located a place for her to stay temporarily.  She quietly moved in with everything she had, including Benny. Benny was used to moving from place to place, he had no problem familiarizing himself with his new home.  Staci switched the television to the 12:00 o'clock news while she fixed Benny his afternoon meal.  “*In local news, county commissioner Jerry Nelson announced, he will be running for reelection*.”  There he was, plain as day. Staci stared quietly at the television screen.  “*Mr. Nelson told this reporter, women’s rights would be his top priority in this election*.”  Staci switched off the television. It was time to give him a call.  "I saw you kill that woman. I go to the police, unless you bring $100,000 to the old cannery on Mason street, tomorrow midnight."  Staci remained in the shadows out of sight. The door slowly creaked open. It was commissioner Nelson, with a hand bag. He stopped and put the bag down on the small table.  "I have your money. You can come out now."  "Back away from the table."  Jerry stepped back.  “You have a lot of moxie lady! Extorting me for money, then meeting me out here alone in this old warehouse.”  Staci remained in the darkness behind the crates.  “I have no use for your money. It's my cover I care about.”  Jerry laughed.  “You think I was stupid enough to come here alone? I just buzzed my body guard on the phone.”  Staci stepped out from behind the crate, with the pistol in her hand.  “Don’t bother, he's not coming.”  \####  Staci was coming back from the kitchen when the phone rang. The clock on the wall was at ten after two. A man's voice was on the other end.  “Is your little setback handled?”  Staci rubbed Benny’s belly as she sat down on the bed  “Yes. We can get on with our business now.”  “Good. The Jet is at the airport waiting for you. Say hello to Benny for me.”  End.


He reached into the jar of seeds, slowly moving his hand through to feel them on every part of his hand. The feeling relaxed him, as did the sound of the seeds moving around the open spaces, softly colliding with each other. When he lifted his hand out it was covered in the particles and dust residing throughout the jar. Reaching back in he stopped just short of submerging his fingertips beneath the top seeds and grabbed a pinch of the seeds, rolling them between his fingers together until there was only one left. He placed it into his coat pocket, then reached in two more times. Three seeds today. It had been over a month since he needed more than one. He grabbed his trowel and a watering can, pushed open the doors from his shed and started making his way to the street. Cars were at a standstill in the middle of the street all honking in concert with each other. Some people even had their windows rolled down, fists out and shaking at the cars in front of them as if their sheer yelling power would free up the traffic jam. He considered grabbing a fourth seed, but instead chose to put his head down and continue walking. The sun warmed his back as he passed a couple holding hands, an old woman walking a dog seemingly twice her weight, and some children kicking a can down the sidewalk, laughing as they nearly barreled into him. Once he reached the park he filled the watering can and went to the corner of the park that he always did. As he approached, the smell of blooming flowers reached him in a gust of wind. He put the watering can down briefly, closed his eyes, and deeply breathed in and out. A smile crept onto his face as he reveled in his hard work from previous days, weeks, years. A swath of the park nearly half an acre was covered in flowers of different colors and sizes. The striking purple from the Provence lavenders competed with the dark blue of the Anchusas, and both vied for attention from the pink of the primroses. All swayed in the wind together as one. He moved to the section he left a few days ago at the end of the spiral, the seeds not yet budding whereas the ones next to it were just starting to poke through the surface. The man shoved the trowel into the ground, pulled it out and repeated the motion in a cone shape before pulling out the whole section of dirt. Worms and beetles crawled as quickly as they could to escape the sudden removal of their homes. The man wondered how long beetles lived and whether or not his father ever saw the same ones he did. Maybe the same beetles kept having their homes ripped out from above them from the same general area. Maybe it’s time to move farther away little buddies, he laughed, placing the chunk of dirt softly down next to him. “Are you crazy?” a young girl’s voice startled him, making him nearly throw his trowel in defense. He looked up to see a little girl, likely around five or six years old, wearing pink overalls with a massive Hello Kitty printed on the front. Her hair was done in ponytails with a red ribbon on top nearly falling off in her loose hair. She brushed her hair aside, moving the bow farther from the center. “Excuse me?” “My brother says crazy people laugh when no one says anything. Are you crazy?” The man laughed at the absurdity, thinking about all of the times he laughed at his own thoughts. “I sure hope not. It’s good to laugh, even when you’re by yourself. Especially when you’re by yourself.” The girl laughed and jumped, knocking the bow free from her hair to fall gently to the ground. She bent over, stumbling a bit as she grabbed the bow and tried placing it back into her hair. About twenty yards behind the girl stood a man wearing khaki slacks and a white button down shirt. He uncrossed his arms and waved when the man made eye contact with him. He reflexively waved back. “Your father?” he said, nodding toward the man in the khakis. “Yes,” she said, “he brings me here once a week. I like the flowers. The pink ones are my favorite.” She bent her knees then jumped as far as she could toward the flowers, missing by quite a long distance, and stumbled again, the bow falling once more onto the ground in front of her. She giggled and placed it back into her hair as if it would finally stick for good that time. The man filled the hole with a little bit of soil. “I like them too,” the man said. He looked at the pink flowers near the little girl, planted nearly two years ago after his sister blamed him for his father’s death. “I think they’re all my favorite, though.” “They can’t all be your favorite,” the girl laughed. She walked closer to him and sat down by the newest flowers. “We see you here sometimes. How big are you going to make these?” “How big?” “Yeah!” the girl exclaimed. “Will you cover the whole park?” The man laughed and waved his hand, imagining the park covered in flowers with no room to walk around. “No, not the whole park. That would take too long since I only plant a few at a time.” He looked around himself imagining how far the flowers would go - he never thought about when he would stop, or even if he would stop. No one at the park told him he couldn’t plant, and most people knew to leave him alone by this point. They liked the flowers there, and so did he. “Why only a few?” the girl asked, confused by the inefficiency. “I’m not planting for the park,” the man answered. “My father used to always come out here once I was grown up. He would plant a seed every now and then back when there were no flowers.” The man looked toward the center of the spiral of flowers and remembered when his father started planting them. The man dove head first into alcoholism a decade prior when his girlfriend at the time, whom he believed to be the love of his life, broke up with him. His father, as a coping mechanism, would take seeds out to this spot to plant them, one seed any time the man’s alcoholism negatively affected others. A seed for yelling obscenities during minuscule arguments. A seed for vomiting on the carpet once again. The man detested the flowers back when his father was alive, a constant reminder of his failures as a human and a son. In a drunken tirade he once ran to the flowers and ripped them all from the ground. His father, saying nothing, took a single seed the next day and planted it in the center of the ruined flowerbed. “Why are you doing this to me?” the man asked his father through tears. “I’m not doing anything to you,” his father replied. “I do it *for* you. Those seeds represent something beautiful. This world can be wholly awful at times, but I can take those awful things and literally turn them into beauty that others can enjoy.” “That’s stupid,” the man said, already drunk. His father frowned. “I don’t think so.” “I do.” His father stood quiet for a moment, then said “I hope you find beauty in those flowers someday.” And someday he did find those flowers beautiful. After his father died the flowers became a sort of memorial to him. They helped him overcome his alcoholism when he forced himself to come to the flowers anytime he wanted a drink. Over time he realized what his father was trying to do for him, so he continued planting seeds in the spirit of turning bad things into something beautiful. A seed for strangers being rude. A seed for a hurtful comment from a loved one. “I plant a seed when I see something bad in this world,” the man said to the girl, “as a way to turn it into beauty instead.” The girl looked back at him, confused. “You plant them when bad things happen? That’s silly.” He cocked his head at the girl, thinking he didn’t appropriately convey the emotion behind his planting. “Silly?” “Yeah,” the girl replied. “When you look at the flowers you remember the bad things. I want to remember good things when I see flowers!” The man looked back at the spiral of flowers. All these years of planting these seeds to turn bad to good and no one asked him about it. She was right - there was always a tiny sense of dread hiding in the corners of his mind when he came here. The weight of his father’s tradition and the obligation of adding beauty to the world kept him going, but he was always reminded of the reasons for coming out here in the first place, the shadow constantly following him that he only planted because something bad happened. The girl jumped up and, without noticing that her bow flew off again, ran to her father. After a moment, the man in the khakis reached into his shirt pocket and took something out, placing it into the girls hand. She ran back to the man, arms flailing and a smile stretching across her face. She went to the hole that the man dug for his first seed and dropped to her knees. The girl opened her hand, and in the center of her tiny palm was a seed. “This is for meeting you,” she said, turning her hand and dropping the seed into the hole. The man watched the seed fall into the hole in slow motion, a seed that so opposed the whole meaning of this garden but what he so desperately knew needed to be done. “I’m Catriona,” the girl said. “My friends call me Cat.” “Hi Cat,” the man said. “I’m Chris. My friends call me Chris,” he joked. Cat giggled and waved her tiny hand at him. “Hi Chris.” She turned and ran once more to her father, then the both of them held hands and walked away. Chris watched as the two of them turned a corner around a building out of sight. He looked back at the flowers and realized the girl’s bow was still on the ground. With no chance of catching up to them he picked it up and looked at it. He put the bow in his pocket knowing he would keep it for the girl until she came back. He would show her all of the new flowers he planted that reminded him of the beauty that was already present in the world. He filled the rest of the hole with soil and watered it, then reached into his pocket to pull out the three seeds he brought with him. Each one represented something he planned to turn into beauty that day, but he couldn’t in good conscience plant them knowing what they represented. He put them back in his pocket, then picked up the trowel and watering can and walked home. He came back the next day with two new seeds. A seed for a girl that brought light to his life. A seed for the man he had become. He looked once more at the spiral of flowers, knowing his father would be proud of him.


I work in pest control. It’s only been a few days but I’m enjoying it so far. Mechanical things come easy to me and I find joy in how much they distract me from my brain. I’m too smart to be stupid and too stupid to be smart so manual problem solving seems to be the perfect fit for me. I work with a guy named Andrew, he reminds me a lot of me but if I was 50 and Hawaiian and had worked in pest control for 30 years. He talks in really quick short bursts, sometimes it feels like he’s dying for someone to listen to him. He speaks as if he’s never talked before. I want to talk too but I don’t always know how to do that. I like his company though. I appreciated the work today, my head was spinning from an argument with my girlfriend last night. We fight a lot and it’s usually stupid. When it’s not my fault I end up feeling like it is my fault. I look back on my life often in these moments, my head feels like a projector trying to play 8 films at once. They keep spinning in and out with thousands of images and sounds and suddenly it explodes snapping me out of it only now I am a man standing in a room surrounded by fire with nothing but a cup of water. Eventually, the fire burns me up and I’m left staring at the ceiling begging God to stop my heart. Then I wake up, and it’s the next day, and I go to work. She was having a bad day yesterday. I think I cause a lot of those but she never says so. I’ve been trying hard to be good to her. I love her so much, it consumes every cell and thought of my body and soul. She had been off work for a couple of minutes and started crying. I held her and tried to comfort her but I don’t know how to do that very well. But I try. After she came out of it we watched TV for a bit and then I had to go to bed, I work early. She started looking sad and when I pried she told me she thinks I don’t like her and I was being short all night. I said I was sorry and I didn’t mean to and went to bed. While in bed I felt like a broken human as I usually do. Even when trying my best I just can’t seem to make people feel good or loved or something, I’m not even sure anymore. I put on the song “Aviator” by Michael Chapman, my favorite song, and started sobbing. I feel so alone sometimes. She came in later and held me from behind, I didn’t say anything but she told me she was getting up to turn off the lights. I was still crying so I think I was just offended. Then I heard her take a bong rip, talk to her cat, and go to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I knew she would come back and we could continue cuddling but for some reason, I just got mad. I wanted her to just say there. I should’ve just said that. Today we did a lot of work in shelters. The majority we go to are come and go style, anyone can show up, and as long as there’s a room they can come in and stay. Andrew told me the official name but I forgot because I can’t hear sometimes. We worked from the fourth floor down checking the rooms and cleaning out fruit flies. He was frustrated because the building doesn’t do anything to help. When I saw the first room I understood what he meant. Most of the rooms were the same. Piles of trash, piles of clothes, burned tinfoil squares from smoking heroin, needles (we yell needle when we find one), and a variety of shit, piss, blood, and vomit. One guy was making moonshine in his bathtub, turns out that’s a good place for fruit flies to grow. We did the best we could, we sprayed, and slapped, and wiped out as much as we could, but the building won’t remove the rotten trash so they’ll always be there. Some rooms were empty and some were full. We walked in on a couple shooting up, another lady was dripping with sweat from being sick and needing another hit. One lady yelled “get out” as soon as we entered and we did. One man couldn’t even open the door because he had too much stuff in his room, he just talked to us through the crack of the door and apologized, that made me sad again. I wondered if he were to die how long it’d take for someone to check? I think about that scenario with my own corpse too. We finished out the day and I felt a little better. The conversation and busyness of the day had finally burned me out so I wasn’t thinking so much. I also didn’t eat so I could focus on being hungry instead. On my drive home, the thoughts came back. I put Queen is Dead by the Smiths on but the deluxe version. I like the demo versions of the songs better. The Smiths are really good, I think Morrisey is full of shit but I like his lyrics a lot. Maybe I’m just full of shit too. As the music played I stopped paying attention because my mind kicked into overdrive again. I thought a lot about Pao and our fight and what I’d do when I saw her. We had texted a bit throughout the day but there was no punctuation so I assumed the worst. I imagined apologizing, maybe I should, or get flowers, or do something, but I just don’t think it’ll matter. I’ll fuck it up again. I started thinking about Brandon, Alex, my mom, my dad, my dog, and all the people and things and places who have left me and hurt me. Maybe I’m the problem. If you’re surrounded by people who have left you maybe it’s time to look inward. Then I figured I’d write this story instead, if it’s a story I can pretend it didn’t happen. I originally wanted to write about how I was poisoned, then I thought about how I didn’t ask for this life and I could use being “burned alive” as a metaphor for being raped and how I didn’t ask for “these scars” but that sounded so pretentious and blah blah blah so I wrote this instead. I texted my sponsor this morning though, I’m not sober anymore and have been blowing him off for a month. I felt bad, and I felt worse today, so I tried to fix it. He was happy to hear from me and we have plans for Saturday. I’ll probably cancel though - piece of shit. After the fight last night I laid awake staring at the popcorn ceiling and praying for my heart to stop. I use to do that as a kid. I’d be lying in pee and hearing my parents fight, or I’d be lying in pee and hearing no one because the house was empty. I think I just want to be dead, not because I’m miserable (my ex said I love being miserable) but because I want to spare the world from dealing with me. I hanged myself once. I think it was the only serious suicide attempt I’ve made. I got home from a day much like today and hung myself with a belt. I chickened out at the end but it was nice to know that I could do it and more importantly that it didn’t hurt. I think that’s my safety net now, I don’t have any friends or family or anything to fall back on, but I do have the option to tap out when I finally fuck my life up beyond repair. I don’t have that belt anymore though so I’d have to get a new one and that’d be a hassle. The one I have now is cheap leather and will probably just break under the weight, oh well, maybe another time then. I pulled into the parking lot and waited for Pao to let me in, I was convinced she would open the door and throw my shit at me and tell me to leave. I started crying at the thought. She came outside and softly said “hi.” We kissed and I made her hug me. We stood in silence holding each other and I tried not to cry again. We didn’t say anything and rode the elevator up. We went into her apartment and she went back to work and I took a piss, I always have to piss. I sat on the couch and started this shitty story. I hope I don’t fuck up tonight. I just want to be good. I do. I want to be happy, help people, build people up, and not lose my shit every time someone doesn’t give me what I need. I don’t want to die and I have hope that I’ll be happy and normal someday. Worst case scenario I hold onto that hope and die someday anyway. We all gotta go and as long as Hell doesn’t turn out to be real I can finally get some sleep.


The house creaked with age and emptiness. Every good natured protest from the home amplified a singular expression. \*Loss.\* It was the loss of all manner of sayings, spells, and words of wisdom, and most of all, of the woman who spoke them. It was the loss that Evie Price knew keenly as she stood among furniture hidden under sheets of white linen, unable to feel anything else. That loneliness threatened to consume her, forcing a pressure behind her eyes and an ache in her heart. First Mother, then Grandmama, who’d been so old it seemed she would never retire, in mind or body. But then she did. All at once, Evie’s life… hell, the world, felt unbearably empty. Before Mother’s passing, Evie’s life had been so ordered. So predetermined. University courses, closing shift at the bakery, dinner, homework, rinse, repeat. Even the hint of skipping a short class, or leaving Mother to close the bakery on her own and Evie would earn the sternest of glares. What now, that her university classes were done, the bakery sold, and Grandmama was gone, too? Resentment welled up. Out of habit earned from one too many stern glares, she pushed it down. She could almost hear her mother’s voice scold her. *No sense in crying over it*. But Mother wasn’t here, and neither was Grandmama. Hopelessness dropped from her throat to her belly, and echoed back up like from a great depth. It whispered a lonely refrain. Alice would be along soon, to help her attend to the home Evie’d not visited since she was a girl. Putting the house in order was a task she didn’t want to think about– when Alice volunteered to help, Evie nearly cried. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do with the house. There was no one else to take care of it. The thought of renting it out felt like a cruel joke. Moving in though felt just as cruel. Staying here, without Grandmama? She didn’t even know how half the potions or pots in the kitchen worked. Symbols and words of power laced the rim of every implement. It would take a lifetime to learn what her grandmother had not been permitted to teach her. But Grandmama’s home could never be too silent or somber for long. Somewhere deep in the beams, *something* started*.* At first it was a whisper, and it grew to a hum. It was a sound she never thought she’d hear again. “*What is that noise, Grandmama?” She tilted her head up, swaying with the quiet music.* *The graying witch smiled, and handed a batter spoon to Evie. It tasted of cardamom and honey, with another flavor she’d never been allowed to know, but it was the taste that filled her dreams. In Dreamland, laughing fae that smelled of Grandmama’s fresh muffins danced to the hum of the cottage, but not even dreams could match the love that steeped her time at Grandmama’s in the waking world.* *“It’s the song of home, child. Wherever you are in the world, if you hear this song, it is because you belong there.”* It was the humming that drew her to the attic. A warm, nameless tune pulled almost imperceptibly up the loft stairs. It wove up the worn railing, and grew stronger when her feet rounded the last step. She found herself in the attic, staring at a cedar chest. On the chest sat a book that should not have existed, upon a doily of spider-spun gold thread, wrapped in a music that could only be of Grandmama’s making. Evie blinked and bit her lip, fighting tears that sprang of their own accord. Tendrils of warmth coiled in an almost familiar embrace wound around her as she reached out to the book. So interested was she, she did not hear the gentle footpads that followed after her, even as the floorboards have their croaky report. “What is it?” came a soft, curious voice behind her. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen this since I was little. I thought Mother burned it.” “What *is* it?”, the voice came again. “It’s a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it at first, picking it up with a ginger touch. A layer of dust came away with her fingertips. “You’re gonna laugh.” “Pffft. Show me!” A gentle hand tugged at her elbow insistently. Evie stood paused for a long moment. The leatherbound cover was just as she remembered, with raised gold snakes and vines intertwining up pale pillars. At the center was a thinly etched circle surrounded by symbols of which she’d never known the meaning. There was a time she’d been promised that one day that knowledge and much more would be hers. That was before Mother whisked them away from Grandmama, 5000 kilometers and lifetimes apart, so it seemed. But she would’ve known that book anywhere. “It’s a spell book. My grandmother’s spellbook.” Alice’s chin popped over Evie’s shoulder. “For real?” “Mhm.” Rough paper edges whispered under her fingers as Evie flipped through the pages. Amidst the stiff parchment and flowing penmanship the faintest smell of dust and cinnamon tea came to her, bringing a smile to her lips. “This book is the reason Mother made us move away.” Her friend’s voice took on a cautious hush. “Is it possessed?” “No no, nothing like that.” She snuck a sly smile to Alice. “That I *know* of.” A slim arm hooked through hers, Alice’s gooseflesh brushing over Evie’s own. “That’s comforting.” The house creaked with a chilly draft in answer. Her companion’s shiver grated like sandpaper against Evie’s skin. The book hummed and emanated warmth. It did not apparently extend to other people. “Come on, we’ll put a kettle on, we’ll use Grandmama’s special tea.” The tea, on second thought, was a task Evie wasn’t sure she could complete. There were words, and an ingredient that danced on the tip of her tongue but that she could not find in Grandmama’s innumerable little vials. They settled on a tea Alice had thought to pack with them, and the two sat with the book on a settee of the deepest blue. They scoured each page, sounding out words they’d never heard before, cautiously forming half-spoken spells on untaught tongues. What it all meant, or could mean, was of little consequence to Evie. It was enough to not be alone. Soon they had mispronounced all of the potions and principles of the first chapters when they reached the incantations. Both curled up, half entangled, tea forgotten, Evie’s heart leapt at the next chapter’s title. “*The Art of Intention, Incantations, and Spellcasting,”* Alice read aloud. “Ooooh, like real, *real* witch stuff? Like wish spells and love spells, and…” “We could practice,” Evie said, eyes wide. “I always wondered if *love* spells really worked!” Then the ridiculousness and absurdity of speaking the possibility struck her, and she fell back in a burst of giggles. Alice joined her, collapsing on the pillows with a flounce and cascade of curls. “Oh, there’s no need for that,” she said softly. The two giggled again, nervous and giddy as they pored over the book. Evie wished it was true. Then she could stop looking away so fast when their eyes met. She could sink into a comfortable cuddle when Alice sat close. She didn’t have to feel embarrassed when their hands touched, like when she made tea for two. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be apologetic when she stole fries from Alice’s plate at restaurants. *She doesn’t like me. Not like that.* The whisper in her brain came with a little pang of loneliness. But at least Alice was here, when she had no one else. ‘*Friendship is a special magic. Never doubt the power of love that is given freely and intentionally*’, Grandmama would always say. *I should be more grateful.* She swallowed back the lump that threatened to break her composure in two and instead said airily, more sing-songy than she could ever possibly feel, “Well, I guess we’ll never know”. The book above their heads, Evie stared at the next chapter, *Incantations with Intention.* Unbidden, the image of Grandmama in her kitchen came to mind. There was always some lesson to be had while the octogenarian prepared some potion or another. ‘*All the intention in the world can be for naught if you never give it life, child.’* “Can you imagine it, just… casting a spell and having your wishes come true?” Alice reached up, taking one side of the book in her hand and pulled it closer. “Your Grandmama thought you could.” “She’d be the only one.” Evie released the other side of the book, letting the back cover hang against the pages, the paper fanning out from the binding. Her friend lowered it, laying the tome down, and slung her arm over Evie as they both settled further into the cushions. “I believe you can.” The sweet earnestness in her voice and lazy finger tracing swirls and nonsense in her palm melted Evie. For a heart as lonely as hers, once a devoid chasm deeper than the Marianas Trench, a spark flared. Grateful, she laced her fingers through Alice’s. “Thank you.” Encouraged by the sweet tones of a familiar humming, Evie rolled onto her elbow and curled into Alice’s embrace. She brushed errant curls from her friend’s eyes. Then she closed her own, and pressed her lips to Alice’s. A nigh-imperceptible exhale swept warmth across Evie’s cheek. It was followed by a smile, a cupid’s bow curved into her own and the kiss was returned. The cottage’s hum swelled gently around them both. Evie could have sworn it took on a voice, tender and joyful, as it whispered, “welcome home, my dears.


Hello friends, I wanted to share with you my first short story written in English. The story takes place in the Warhammer 40k universe, a dystopian sci-fi setting in which the dream of a good life has long since been buried under the rubble of religious delusion, hopelessness and narrow-mindedness. This story is about the minions of the Inquisition, an occult secret service whose self-imposed mission is to protect the soul of humanity and its God-Emperor. Even if they have to break every rule to do so. It tells the story of Idomenea Casryn, an inquisitor and pursuer of the Horusian ideal, and the price one must be willing to pay to save the Emperor's soul. A scene only, a brief moment born of the melancholy and loss that the holy Ordo of the Inquisition impose on their most faithful servants. Have mercy on me that english is not my mother tongue. I hope you enjoy the words as much as I enjoy the writing process. Just trying not to write a story in German was exciting and exhausting at the same time - and in 1-2 moments I also had to ask Google Translate for help. But enough of that! Best regards from Germany!  # The Dream of Trinity >*"The final nights in the dreamers barony,* > >*In fair Caracalla, where we lay our scene,* > >*From ancient hopes break to new heresy,* > >*Where honest thoughts make honest souls unclean."* > >\- Elegies of the Double Sun, Thoughts and Reflections  **"…Before the swollen gaze of the Dark Eye, do I stand. I hold for He who long ago sacrificed for man. I will yield no ground, I shall take no step back. In His name and for His will, I will never surrender…"** The otherworldly hiss of the shapelessness lurked like a snare of thorns over the cramped chamber of the Teleportarium. The center of the arcane facility was animated by approximately forty men and women, all clad in exquisite armor and rifles, invocations of the Golden Throne silent on their lips - a contrast to the cacophonous shrieks and labors of the Machine God's adepts performing the ritual procedure of the Run-ups performed like the Mass of St. Drusus on the core worlds of Lycandos. If the pious warriors were ready to carry out their cruel orders at the behest of their mistress, the scratching of the presence could be heard, felt, felt at the edges of their perception. They were soldiers of the XVI. Iodura Charbytei, an elite cohort of the Tempestus Scions and officially declared *"perdidit in inundationes"*, lost in the tides with their vessel, the "*Lion of the Last Kingdom*", a Sword-class frigate. As much as this may often be true, it is not always the case: instead of the tides of the Empyrean, She took into her service according to her power as the Emperor's representative. The proud soldiers of Tempestus erased their colors as did their coats of arms, only to swap them for the black and crimson of the Inquisition. The noble symbols of Charybtei victories on their cuirasses have been replaced with esoteric hypersigils and pentagram sketches painted with blessed-cursed dust from the shrine world of Sebastea. Since then, they have served the Veiled Lady as loyal warriors to fulfill her dream of the Trinity. And yet they could only defend themselves exhausted, panting and silently wailing against the snare of thorns. **"Pierce my flesh, break my bones, take my life. These matter not in my sacrifice, ye of the Despair shall know defeat. For even in Death shall we be triumphant in His name…"** Each of the soldiers had gone through the hells of depravity as well as of their own conscience for the veiled lady. Some died, others committed atrocities for the fulfillment of the Trinity. The cases of those who showed the taint of the Otherworld on body and soul were ended with holy earnest within the warriors. But no one gave way, no one despaired. And yet the noose of thorns tightened around their souls, leaving scratches and bleeding. Tempestor Salim averted his gaze from the crimson shape that undulated gently across the floor of the sacred teleportarium like the sea breeze of sunrise on Kardesh Secundus. Her blades, each blessed by devoted preachers of Sebasteia to the glory of Terra, floated in tight, intricate patterns around her body, forming in their slowness a complex yet hypnotic pattern that seemed like the indecisive invocation of a figure half holy and half ugly. The teleporatium's arcs of energy were still charging, the frantic screeching of the Machine God's Adept muffled in the background. But Salim had eyes only for his neighbor's cuirass, knowing full well that the same spectacle was taking place on his armor: the hypersigils, occult symbols of protection against the corruption of the Otherworld, blistered and peeled off like old paint on the walls of a manufactory. And the voice in his head grew louder, the rasping of the loop of thorns in his mind more oppressive. **"…My Lord! I have fallen in battle for He and his flock. Prepare my place, O Lord! I shall stand by thee side until the End Times. Until Thy will be done…"** They were verses of pious prayer, catechisms of holiness, recited in the distant, weary, yet unbroken voice of a Pious Servant of the Golden Throne. Little more than the icing of the frost, which turns the presence of the floating entity into a moment in every life that one tries desperately to shake off and yet is unable to. The purple glow in the empty eyes of the veiled skull gave an idea of the powers that the veiled lady subjugated to create her personal Erinys. And yet it's the details that let Tempestor Salim recognize suffering in the thick brew of fear. Weathered adherents to the cult of the double-faced sun, rusting prayer brooches of solid gold, crests like long-smeared gleams of the man they had been. The declaration of eternal friendship. Pious praises of the Golden Throne´s benediction. The insignia of an interrogator. The melted wards on the Tempestus Scion's cuirass ran in contrasting clarity down the midnight-black breastplates like a distant mother's tears succumbing to madness. The first groans could be heard from the pious warriors, as the thorns pressed themselves unintentionally and unprotected into the tender flesh of their hardened souls and mutilated the fine fiber of their salvation with their barbs of corruption. But they did not falter, none of Salim's soldiers. He was proud, ignoring the taste of brass on his tongue. **"…Take heed, ye who have surrendered to the Darkness. I shall be unbowed and unbroken. For where there is darkness, His light shall shine and the darkness shall retreat… IDOMENEA?"** The dissonant ending of the litany roused each of the warriors in the teleportarium from their stoically endured agony. The Psalms of Endurance floated like distant echoes through time and space, echoing through the eternity of the souls of the Tempestus Scions. Relieved for a moment, the swollen eyes of the soldiers, hidden under their helmets and visors, glided to the entrance of the teleportarium, now seeing what the Erinys already saw coming, felt, prophesied: Realizing the paradox of elegant power armor, a woman entered, clad like the soldiers in midnight black and inlaid with pure gold, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like the faithful retinue of its lord. A dead blade at her side, it was her face that caught the attention of her soldiers: suggested contours of a beautiful, yes, innocent face, hidden as if beneath a veil whose fibers seemed so unreal as to be tearful. It was no salute, not even a hinted nod of her veiled head, that was meant for her followers, her souls that would in a few moments lead themselves into the hellfire of pandemonium, in order not to let the dream of the trinity die. It just wasn't necessary. Not a word, not a declaration of appreciation for their loyalty to the Inquisitor. Tempestor Salim and each of his subordinates knew it. And yet she spoke. The voice of Idomenea Casryn, commonly known as the Veiled Lady, found its way into the teleportarium. Sounding far away, echoing like the last, sighing note in an orchestra hall on Esseles, who combined beauty and melancholy with too few syllables: “Prosperina?” The word, more question than utterance, found its way through the veil, and for a moment it seemed as if even the shrieking Techadepts were brought together by the word of the Inquisitor - as a follower of the Horusian ideal reviled by many of her peers and hunted by some - to one moment of dignified silence. ***"...Idomenea..."*** The swords, circling in intricate patterns around the Erinys, paused in the air. Hidden beneath the veil, the skull of the crimson-tinted monster bent toward the Inquisitor. Her otherworldly voice, uttering the litany of endurance in a tortured, pained manner, driving the Tempestus Scions like rusty nails into their souls the moment the hypersigils failed, seemed changed. She sounded younger, female, yes, human. And exhausted and distant in a way that no listener could have imagined. "Not for long, my heart. The dream of the Trinity is about to be fulfilled. We're almost there." The Inquisitor's words took the stage with measured strides, where only she and her Erinys reigned supreme, the elite soldiers relegated to supporting roles and the screeching tech-adepts to a silenced orchestra. They were neither beseeching nor benevolent, but their intention was evident even to the bleeding souls of the Tempestus Scions waiting in agony deep in their hearts. She was neither an order nor a flattery. Rather a pleading. ***"...I can hardly do any more. It hurts so bad. He wants me, my beloved... he just wants me for himself..."*** As if in reply, the sounds of a gusting death wind came alive around Proserpina, the Veiled Lady's triple-bound Demonhost. The rusty chains around the ankles of the hovering monster lashed the floor of the teleportarium, as if angry entities wanted to replace the silent orchestra and want to end the scene, the conversation between two sisters who were in love and who were both wounded in their own way. A tiny sparkle only, nothing else was visible under the veil of Idomenea Casryn. "Hold on, my strong, my noble heart." The soldiers' visors could scarcely recognize it in their coarseness. And even if technology allowed them to do so, believing that the Inquisitor would shed a tear would be impossible and unbearable at the same time. A tear for a human being who, being stronger-willed, more mature, wiser, chose to accept the necessary yoke of damning one's own soul in order to enable her younger companion to fulfill the dream of the Trinity. To free the Emperor's soul from the agony of the Golden Throne. "Hold on... Proserpina." **"...We who have bled shall be redeemed. We who have fallen shall be exulted. We who have died shall be avenged. We who have sacrificed shall be rewarded..."** No more words of sorrow. No more words of affection, of missing her loved one. Only the catechism of endurance, intoned in invisible pain from otherworldly lips, knowing full well that the self-chosen damnation could call no salvation its epilogue, only the horror of the heralds of the Empyrean, challenged and bound by human courage and occult instruments that only the most radical of the Ordo Malleus knew, could know, were allowed to know. The last hope that Properina Dellacosa, once a brilliant interrogator of the Holy Ordos, could cling to was that the moment, when she could no longer resist the corruption and its insinuations, was not in vain. That the Trinity would come, she herself might be dressed in never-ending darkness.