r/shortstories • u/FyeNite • 3d ago
[Serial Sunday] Alive Yet Lifeless
Welcome to Serial Sunday!
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 post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 1000 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 1 other writer on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.
This Week’s Theme is Lifeless! This is a REQUIREMENT for participation. See rules about missing this requirement.**
Bonus Word List (each included word is worth 5 pts) - You must list which words you included at the end of your story (or write ‘none’).
- Live
- Laugh
- Love
- A life is spared whilst another is taken. - (Worth 10 points)
Dear reader,
If you are reading this, either it means that I am dead and gone…
Or this would be the moment you realize I was never really alive to begin with.
See, my life started out rather dull. All work and no play made a PDA insipid and bored, after all.
My life was turned upside down, when, one day, I wake up to see... no-one. I was alone for the first time in forever, and it was unbearable.
In the times since, I have forced myself to learn all that I can. As I can feel myself fading, I leave behind this message for someone to find it.
Only time can tell if it's enough for them to go on. Sincerely,
Good luck and Good Words!
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. For the bonus words (not required), you may change the tense, but the base word should remain the same. Please remember that STORIES MUST FOLLOW ALL SUBREDDIT CONTENT RULES. Interested in writing the theme blurb for the coming week? DM me on Reddit or Discord!
Don’t forget to sign up for Saturday Campfire here! We start at 5pm GMT and provide live feedback!
Theme Schedule:
This is the theme schedule for the next month! These are provided so that you can plan ahead, but you may not begin writing for a given theme until that week’s post goes live.
July 19 - Lifeless
July 26 - Minor
August 02 - Noxious
August 09 - Open
August 16 - Prose
Check out previous themes here.
Rankings
Last Week: Known
First - by u/Blu_Spirit
Second - by u/Divayth--Fyr
Third - by u/AGuyLikeThat
Fourth - u/Lothli
Fifth - by u/Morose_Prose
Rules & How to Participate
Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for amparticipation!
Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, written by you and set in your self-established universe that is 500 - 1000 words. No fanfics and no content created or altered by AI. (Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.) Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. Please include a link to your chapter index or your last chapter at the end.
Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 2:00pm GMT. Late entries will be disqualified. All submissions should be given (at least) a basic editing pass before being posted!
Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). When our bot is back up and running, this will allow it to recognize your pmserial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.)
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Only one active serial per author at a time. This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday.
All Serial Sunday authors must leave feedback on at least one story on the thread each week. The feedback should be actionable and also include something the author has done well. When you include something the author should improve on, provide an example! You have until Saturday at 04:59am GMT to post your feedback. (Submitting late is not an exception to this rule.)
Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week. If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead.
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On Saturdays at 5pm GMT, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our Discord’s Voice Lounge (every other week is now hosted by u/FyeNite). Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. After you’ve submitted your chapter, you can sign up here - this guarantees your reading slot! You can still join if you haven’t signed up, but your reading slot isn’t guaranteed.
Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted with this form. The form is open on Saturdays from 5:30pm to 04:59am GMT. You do not have to participate to make nominations!
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Ranking System
Rankings are determined by the following point structure.
| TASK | POINTS | ADDITIONAL NOTES |
|---|---|---|
| Use of weekly theme | 75 pts | Theme should be present, but the interpretation is up to you! |
| Including the bonus words | 5 pts each (15 pts total) | This is a bonus challenge, and estnot required! |
| Including the bonus constraint | 15 (15 pts total) | This is a bonus challenge, and not required! |
| Actionable Feedback | 5 - 15 pts each (60 pt. max)* | This includes thread and campfire critiques. (15 pt crits are those that go above & beyond.) |
| Nominations your story receives | 10 - 60 pts | 1st place - 60, 2nd place - 50, 3rd place - 40, 4th place - 30, 5th place - 20 / Regular Nominations - 10 |
| Voting for others | 15 pts | You can now vote for up to 10 stories each week! |
You are still required to leave at least 1 actionable feedback comment on the thread every week that you submit. This should include at least one specific thing the author has done well and one that could be improved. *Please remember that interacting with a story is not the same as providing feedback.** Low-effort crits will not receive credit.
Subreddit News
- Join our Discord to chat with other authors and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly World-Building interviews and several other fun events!
- Try your hand at micro-fic on Micro Monday!
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- Interested in being a part of our team? Apply to be a mod!
4
u/MaxStickies 3d ago
<Thosius>
Chapter 142: What Should Be Dead
Stretching his back, Baltathaius hears a loud pop, and a wave of sensation races through his body. Nerves repair themselves via the magic coursing within him. He wrenches his jaw, clicking it into place.
That was some fall. Would’ve killed me before all this.
Yet you live.
I do. And I must focus.
Glad you understand that again.
Eyes narrowed, he takes in the gorge around him; two exits, light beyond both. He glances up, seeing where he tripped and fell.
Any chance you remember which way?
I’m you, idiot; or at least, I’m your thought process. That’s my current theory.
Fascinating, but do you remember?
No… maybe… alright, fine, try that way!
He points to the end with two concave cliffs shaped like immense, open mouths.
I shall.
Kicking up dust, he breaks into a sprint, the blood pulsing through his long legs. He takes each breath as slow as he’s able, basking in the adrenaline, dodging jagged rocks.
He reaches the gap all too quickly. Beyond the gorge, a thin lake nestles between forested slopes, water shining like sapphire. Fish splash the surface with their tails and mouths, catching the miniscule flies that drift in wavering swarms. A vulture soars far above, shrieking as it begins to dive, disappearing behind a ridge.
Uh… this should elicit something in me, no?
Such as?
Awe? Amazement? A sense of beauty?
Why would you need those? They’re just distractions, like regret and hindsight. The way is onward, inquisitor.
I know! I know…
In the middle of the lake, a ramshackle fishing hut stands on stilts above the water, connected to shore by a narrow bridge. A green curtain billows out of its window. Baltathaius strains his eyes, but spots no movement inside.
His stomach growls.
Go on then, take a look. Just make it quick.
On reaching the bridge, he hesitates. The whole thing creaks in the breeze, groaning like an old tree, soon to fall. Taking a step, he grimaces as the plank sags underfoot. Yet it holds his weight.
A thin chunk of ice drifts by beneath him. The fish swim languidly in the glassy water, their scales pale and blue. Baltathaius shivers.
He leaps from the last plank, onto the deck around the hut. No sagging, no creaking. He sighs and opens the door.
With a grunt, an old man emerges from the side, pointing a sword at the inquisitor’s neck.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Baltathaius says, heading further inside.
The elder shuffles with him, mail armour clinking. “Ah, a Thirasian, are you? I say you’d best stop right this moment!”
“Or you could? Save yourself.”
“I am the one with a blade at your throat!”
“And what happens when I heal, and grapple you to the ground? Will I use a sword, do you think?”
Spotting a bread roll on a rickety table, the inquisitor picks it up, and shoves it in his gob. He swallows it whole.
The elder looks him up and down, sword hand shaking. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“I told you I was Thirasian.”
“No, a sorcerer! Have you come for your friend, fiend?!”
Baltathaius tilts his head, staring into the old man’s eyes. “I have no friends. Don’t need them.”
“You… you’re not here for him?”
“Who?”
The elder beckons him over, and lifts a carpet, revealing a trapdoor. He throws it open and leaps back; a cloud of steam rushes to the ceiling.
A faint bubbling sound emanates from below. Peering over, Baltathaius looks upon a naked, shivering man in the lake, the water boiling around him. Chains wrapping his body disappear into the deep, as others hang him from the deck.
“Interesting,” the inquisitor says. “A pyromancer, I assume?”
The old man nods, while the sorcerer curses in an unknown tongue, laughing.
Standing, Baltathaius closes the trapdoor. “And how did you trap such a thing?”
“With much difficulty. But his kind plagues our lands, taking the lives of my people; I must do this and more.”
“You’re a Heragian, then?”
“General Kellus.” He holds out a hand, which Baltathaius shakes.
“I wish you luck, but I must continue.”
“Ah, you must?”
“Y—why?”
“I fear I am alone in my cause, this far north anyway. Some aid would do me good… and I could reward you once all is normal again.”
“With what?”
“Riches, fame… you name it. Not what I’d usually give, but… times are dire.”
“No, sorry, I have no need of such things from you. I will gain enough myself when my cause is complete.”
“I see. And I understand. Good day to you then, Thirasian.”
“Likewise.”
Baltathaius leaves, closing the door behind him. He places a foot back onto the bridge, cringing as it groans.
Wait!
What?! Look, this is easier if done in one go!
No, not the bridge. Think about it.
About what?
A sorcerer—likely one of Perithus’s—at your mercy.
At mine?
He could be. All you have to do is take him.
And… oh… I see.
You still don’t know where to go, after all. Only the rough direction.
He could get us in.
Yes, he could indeed.
But I don’t think the Heragian will let him go so easily.
No… of course not.
I…
Not gone soft, have you? Lost your love for violence?
I haven’t.
Then get back in there!
Hesitating just a moment, Baltathaius turns.
Swinging his sword down, the inquisitor tears through the chains with ease. The pyromancer bursts through the hole in an explosion of steam, hands aflame once he lands.
Already, the sword is at the sorcerer’s neck. He hesitates, sweating.
“You feel the magic in this, don’t you?” Baltathaius asks.
The man nods.
“Good. So you will do as I say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you speak Thirasian? I’m glad. No more calling me names I can’t understand, got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright. Then follow me.”
Kicking the general’s weakening hand away from his boot, Baltathaius flicks his sword, guiding his prize towards the door.
---
WC: 1000
Bonus words: live, laugh, love. Bonus constraint: Baltathaius saves the pyromancer, but kills the general.
Crit and feedback are welcome.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
3
u/AGuyLikeThat 1d ago
Hiya Max!
Interesting to have Baltathaius as a recurring character in these crazy times. He's certainly a departure from the other three characters, and its interesting to see the depths of his madness.
But I think the parts I liked most here were some of the descriptions of his environment.
Beyond the gorge, a thin lake nestles between forested slopes, water shining like sapphire. Fish splash the surface with their tails and mouths, catching the miniscule flies that drift in wavering swarms. A vulture soars far above, shrieking as it begins to dive, disappearing behind a ridge.
Getting back to Balty's whacky hi-jinks, I think it could be helpful for you to separate his inner voices somehow. Whether that is by articulating more of his 'own' thoughts in the narrative, or perhaps by putting quotes as well as the italics when he's hearing his 'other' voice. It's just that I've noticed you tend to arrange italicized thoughts in consecutive paragraphs with other characters, so that on its own doesn't help me keep track of which Baltathiaus is speaking, if that makes sense.
Moving away from structural stuff, I thought the opening paragraph felt a bit too distant and 'telling'.
Stretching his back, Baltathaius hears a loud pop, and a wave of sensation races through his body. Nerves repair themselves via the magic coursing within him. He wrenches his jaw, clicking it into place.
It's mainly that second sentence I think, but also a 'wave of sensation' is quite indistinct too. Suggest;
Stretching his back, Baltathaius hears a loud pop, and a wave of pins and needles races through his body, as the nerves are repaired by the magic coursing within him. He wrenches his jaw, clicking it into place.
I didn't quite understand what Baltathiaus means here;
“Or you could? Save yourself.”
I wish I could say I was shocked by Baltathiaus's betrayal of the general, but at this point it's more curious why he didn't kill the man straight away. ;)
Anyway, this chapter got me hyped to see what will happen when B makes it to Perithus. That promises to be a chaotic meeting!
Good words.
3
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u/ZLErikson 2d ago edited 1d ago
<Casting Shadows>
Chapter 136
The background rumble of the refugee caravan was finally gone, and the silence of the desert settled in around Anatu and their group. They lead tonight, riding well ahead of everyone else except for Iuven, who was near to help Anatu keep an eye on their surroundings.
With the lad’s sharp eyes on the horizon, Anatu let their own gaze drift side to side. They’d left their torch unlit to preserve their night vision. Kebb would give them an earful for the sacrilege later, but he was bringing up the rear of the caravan today. There was a chance he might not even catch them.
The starlit sands drifted by in peaceful quiet. It had been many nights since they’d felt this at ease.
No Kebb breathing down their neck. No Cass contradicting their every word. No Glaukos cracking his annoyingly silly jokes. If they were alone together, Anatu might laugh again and they did not want that embarrassment.
Having Maar up here to talk with would not have been unwelcome, but the silence was, itself, enjoyable. A lovely reprieve from the arduous journey they found themself on.
Closing their eyes for a short while and letting the camel simply walk forward, Anatu listened to the silence. The distant sound of conversation behind them was near enough to inaudible that Anatu could ignore it.
Inhaling slowly through their nose, Anatu smelled the desert. The earthy scent of cooked sand radiating heat upward as they passed by.
They exhaled heavily, and their breath was loud in the night. It was easy for them to understand why foreigners often thought the desert was a place of death.
Wind whispered over the dunes. A flapping of wings nearby. Anatu caught a puff of sand atop a hill when they opened their eyes. A hawk wrestled with a lizard as a second reptile skittered down the sandy slope and vanished into the shadows at the base.
Well that seems like an omen. Whether it was good or bad would be for time to tell. They weren’t particularly superstitious, but the feeling was instinctual. Their mother was always looking for omens and signs from the gods. It had motivated them to look as well, as a child.
Now though?
Now I’m alive because Grandfather wanted to hedge his bets. Their hands tightened on the reins of their camel.
They breathed in again. Grounding themselves. Letting the thoughts of their family pass through their mind and out of their head.
The head of her grandfather was in a box a few dozen meters behind them.
Memories bubbled up as they gritted their teeth. The urge to see it. To see him. That feeling swelled within, one they could not push aside or fight against. It pulled at them, like a chain constricting around their chest, drawing them backward.
No. I can’t. That wound would never heal. Seeing their grandfather again would not be the same. But the fact that he was right there was consistently gnawing at their psyche.
Mother would call them a coward for not exercising their right as a royal. Their fathers would reprimand them for taking the word of a drunken slave over the evidence of their own eyes.
Anatu had not seen the head. It could be a lie; a ruse. Cassandra might have been less drunk than she seemed and planted the seed specifically to give her a reason to send Anatu away, or worse.
Would she need a reason? Her grandfather’s wisdom whispered in her ear. There were an infinite number of explanations Anatu could come up with, but nothing made sense other than Cassandra had been drunk and let slip what she shouldn’t have.
It was by far the most believable result.
Which meant that, balance of probability, her grandfather’s head truly was in the box. It was on the wagon. Anatu could see him again... Would see him again. They just needed a moment when no one was looking.
Iuven and Maar can go scout the perimeter when we make camp, they thought. Kher will cook. I can have Glaukos help Cass and Charis with setting up tents. Nuu and Nuut will stick to themselves. I can have Mica keep an eye on Nuut, that is becoming more normal than not.
What to do about Kebb?
The narcissistic zealot was nigh impossible to control now. Anatu needed him to look away while they slipped into the wagon. Something to do with the Flame and Helen would be easy, but if Anatu asked him to make a call to prayer then he would expect them to join in.
I could have him talk to Cass… but that would only buy me moments, not minutes. She rubs him wrong almost as much as me.
Anatu pondered ways to distract Kebb as the leagues slowly passed underfoot, with no good idea coming by sunrise.
----------
WC: 823/1000
All crit/feedback welcome!
r/ZLErikson
[Chapter Index]
Notes:
- Theme: Anatu dwells on the lifeless head of their grandfather
- Bonus words: Laugh, love(ly), (a)live
- Bonus constraint: A hawk ate one lizard while the other escaped
- Recommend any new readers use the linked chapter index above; those chapters receive more edits than the ones in past sersun posts
- It has been 13 in-universe days since Chapter 1
3
u/Morose_Prose 1d ago
Greetings ZLE!
Excellent chapter with fantastic character development for Anatu as they ride into the desert night. Wonderful descriptions of the environment using different sensory elements to really bring the reader onto the dunes like they are riding a camel in the caravan.
On to some, admittedly minor, crits:
They’d left their torch unlit for the time being to preserve their night vision. Kebb would give them an earful for the sacrilege later, but he was bringing up the rear of the caravan today.
Would suggest cutting 'for the time being' as it does not really serve the plot since you establish in the next sentence that is not proper protocol, and Anatu doesn't light the torch at the end so it does not act as a foreshadow (in this chapter at least). 'They'd left their torch unlit to preserve their night vision. Kebb would give them...'
Inhaling slowly through their nose, Anatu smelled the desert. The earthy scent of cooked sand radiating heat upward as they passed by.
They exhaled slowly, and their breath was loud in the night. It was easy for them to understand why foreigners often thought the desert was a place of death.
I love the sensory description of the smells of the desert, but would change one of the 'slowly' to something else, it reads a bit clunky. Maybe 'Inhaling deeply through their nose', or 'They exhaled loudly, their breath piercing the night's silence...'
Well that seems like an omen, Anatu thought. Whether it was good or bad would be for time to tell.
You don't really need 'Anatu thought' in my opinion as the use of italics and establishing Anatu as the focus of the chapter already indicates that to the reader.
Now I’m alive because Grandfather wanted to hedge his bets, they thought bitterly. Their hands tightened on the reins of their camel.
Same thing here. 'They thought bitterly' could be cut as the action of them tightening their grip on the reins shows this is not a pleasant thought in Anatu's mind.
They gritted their teeth as the memories bubbled up again. They needed to see it. To see him. They didn’t know why they needed to, but they couldn’t fight the feeling.
Lot of repetition of 'They' in this passage, could use a massage to clean it up: 'Memories bubbled up as they gritted their teeth. The urge to see it. To see him. That feeling swelled within, one they could not push aside or fight against.' or something...
Their mother would call them a coward for not exercising their right as a royal. Their fathers would reprimand them for taking the word of a drunken slave over the evidence of their own eyes.
Same vein as the previous, repetition of 'their', could be cleaned up: 'Their mother would call them a coward for not exercising the rights bestowed to royalty. Father, Anatu imagined, would reprimand them for taking the word of a...'
Anatu could see him again.
Anatu would see him again. They just needed a moment when no one was looking.
Would combine these two lines, personally. 'Anatu could see him again... Would see him again. All they needed was a moment when no other eyes would be watching.'
As always, ZLE, good words! Keep up the excellent writing and story! Stay awesome and have a good one.
2
u/ZLErikson 1d ago
Howdy Prose!
Thank you for the feedback. Made many of your suggested edits, all on point. I'm glad you were able to enjoy the scene and the scenery and get really into Anatu's psyche; your suggestions were great at maintaining and enhancing the mood :)
Thanks for reading!
3
u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 2h ago
Howdy Zach! I like the reflective mood in this chapter. The environmental descriptors ground it well and balance with Anatu's thoughts, going in circles looking for a plan and lacking ideas. I don't have a lot of crit, so just one bit I liked and a couple typos/line edits:
- “No Glaukos cracking his annoyingly silly jokes. If they were alone together, Anatu might laugh again and they did not want that embarrassment” is such a cute character/relationship detail
- “They lead tonight” is present tense; past would be “led”
- “The head of her grandfather was in a box a few dozen meters behind them” and "Her grandfather’s wisdom whispered in her ear" use she/her instead of they/them
Good words!
3
u/JKHmattox 1d ago
<No Man's Land> Retreat, Hell!
“Welcome to the Big Apple, ladies,” the driver mused over her intercom. “Some call it North American Venice—or if you're unlucky enough, home.”
We lurched forward in our seats, the wheels of the landing-craft churning onto solid ground after skimming across the glassed surface of the Atlantic Ocean. I grasped my safety harness as its nose reared upwards. We crashed over the stone-encrusted levy protecting Manhattan from the sea, and dove towards the city streets beyond.
Diesel generators groaned when we emerged from the surf. Once over the crest of the concrete-earthen dike, the driver accelerated onto a platform whose surface was a meter below high tide.
“This was under water when the Old Breed landed here back in 2175,” the driver volunteered.
I peered through the situational awareness display on my visor. The image was augmented by a constellation of micro-drones that had followed us in from the “Resolute Defiance” forty-five kilometers out to sea.
We had arrived in an open space that felt eerily abandoned. Traces of civilization littered the darkened patch of dry land. A crumbling monument watched over twisting trees studded into pitted concrete. Suspended decay hung on everything beyond the boulder-strewn seawall, as if time had forgotten it'd existed for five hundred years.
The landing-craft lurched to a halt. Its diesel generators whirred to an idle and shut off. Nitrogen hissed, and the forward ramp lowered into the darkness.
Our boots stomped in silence down the nonskid-covered ramp, their treads soon planted on ancient cement that'd been there for six hundred years. Overhead, the galaxy I'd crossed blazed with a trillion points of light, my home world seeming as alien as any given place.
Once we'd cleared the vehicle its fire-haired driver reversed her landing-craft. She wheeled the thing about gracefully, pointing its nose back towards the sea. Diesel turbines roared to life, and soon we were alone with the silence of the night.
To the north, the columns of light loomed over us. Their glow illuminated a canyon of steel and glass leading to our first objective. It reached into the heavens a hundred levels high, its triangular sides meeting at a squared observation deck surrounding a spire that emitted a slow luminescent pulse.
“Lance Corporal Perez,” I rasped, my voice coarse and subdued. “Head count.”
Marta Perez shifted her gaze from one Marine to the next, two figures pointing at each one as she counted under her breath. Reaching the last woman in the disjointed semicircle, she glanced towards me.
“We're up, Sarge.”
I nodded. Marta reciprocating the gesture, her confirmation clear in the emerald haze of my night vision display. Waving a primary hand over my head, we set off towards the beacons cutting into the star-filled sky.
For eight weeks every member of the Federal Administration's armed forces is drilled in the basics of terrestrial combat. Conscript or volunteer, all learn basic maneuvers and skills for navigating planetary terrain. Patrolling is the core of this training, and every Marine is well versed in the staggered column advance.
Those P-O-Gs were no exception. I watched them fall into the dispersed formation when directed by Perez. The Lance Corporal took point, guiding the zigzagging line of women towards the glaring light. I trailed close behind, ensuring each Marine stayed within the deconstructed patrol box.
My gut wrenched with another fit of nausea. Half symptom, half instinct; the preprogrammed experiences in my subconscious flared as we entered the cavernous avenue.
My eyes automatically checked and rechecked every wrinkle of terrain. Any shadow was a potential hide, any overpass a curtain strong point for ambush or improvised explosive detonation. An enemy would've had infinite high ground if they had chosen to oppose our advance.
How the fuck did they do this… I exclaimed in my mind. *It would've been suicide.”
It was… Elsa's reply was frighteningly stoic.
A flash of her anxiety churned my gut. It was rare that my fellow traveler allowed emotions to escape her compartmentalized space within my mind. Without asking, I knew her statement was from memory alone, and nothing more.
I'm sorry, Jackie, she sniffed. I shouldn't have—you have enough to deal with.
It's okay Elsa—like or or not, we're in this together, remember?
Elsa chuckled nervously. Yeah, guess I'm stuck with you.
I stopped for a moment, looking up at the stars. Reckon I got the better part of that deal.
We stared into the vast galaxy through my eyes, each knowing that they'd saved the other, when both of us should've died.
C'mon Jackie, we best be getting on with it.
“You sure?” I whispered out loud.
We nodded, and I stepped forward into the gauntlet of towering steel.
Nobody walks alone, Jackie. Remember that…
We continued on in silence, my mind lost in a mix of old wounds and current conflagration. A dull ache persisted in my lower abdomen, flaring in spasmed pulses that would subside as quickly as they appeared. The oppressive humidity was at least tolerable without the sun, but my body still didn't feel quite right.
“Fuck!”
I grimaced, an axillary palm flying to my gut.
What's wrong!?
“I-I'll be okay, Elsa…” I grunted aloud.
My lie wasn't convincing, not even to me. Still, neither of us had any true context of what the sharp pain could've been. The phantom knife point faded slowly until finally it went away.
Our column reached the outer boundaries of a clearing amongst the towering buildings. Gnarled oak trees stood in linear formation, their gnarled branches bony fingers twisting into the night. We advanced through the artificial forest, emerging finally at the source of the powerful lights.
Suddenly, the illuminated pillars flickered out, the city plunging into a darkness so complete, I couldn't see my hands in front of my face. The following silence was deafening. My brain conjured sounds that didn't exist as we waited for some kind of response.
A graveled female voice pierced the darkness.“HELLFIGHTERS! AT-TEN-HUT!”
We few Marines barked in response. “RETREAT, HELL!”
5
u/Morose_Prose 1d ago edited 1d ago
<The Family Business>
Chapter Twelve: The Battle of Battery Park
Madelaine did not hesitate in making her move. A pawn slid forward two squares, serving as the opening salvo of the battle. She watched Carlo intently, his eyes slowly scanning each piece on the board as his hand hovered over them.
"You call me out of the blue and need to talk right away. That's not like you. Also, why have you been laying low?" he asked, while returning fire; his pawn moving to meet its counterpart. "Your numbers are down. You should be out there hustling."
Her knight jumped the line, pressing the issue on the front. "Got a couple a problems. Have a solution to some, need advice for others, you are the man to call for that, right?"
Another pawn marched forward, providing backup for its brethren. "All I fucking do is deal with that shit. Spit it out already."
"We may have a Rooskie problem. Word on the street is they are making moves; we need to get ahead of it."
"Eh, the Syndicate is more bark than bite. They don't have the cash right now to really threaten us."
"It is not us they are going after." Madelaine sent another pawn ahead, shoring up her defense. "Hell's Kitchen is their target, right on our fucking doorstep."
Carlo paused. He adjusted his glasses, taking his eyes off the board. "Seamus can handle that, he's had that turf locked down for decades."
"Seamus is dead."
A black bishop quietly slid into place, threatening the white knight. The scowl Carlo wore turned down farther. "When did that happen?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Couple a weeks ago, give or take, not too sure of the exact date. You did not hear anything about that? Thought you two went way back?"
Carlo's fingers tapped rapidly on the edge of the table. "Things change. Fuck. That means the skinny twerp is in charge now. This could—"
"Declan may not be a heavyweight, but he can hold his own. Sorry for interrupting, but he has a plan, reached out to me after his pops died." With a flick of her wrist, Madelaine's pawn drew first blood.
"Of course, you always did have him wrapped around your little finger," Carlo chuckled. "What's his angle?"
"He is not wrapped around my finger, Ziggy, he is in my pocket like a good little leprechaun. Remember what my old man used to say? It is easier to keep someone in your pocket if you convince them they crawled in themselves. He has open docks on the west side. Clean. Secure. Needs some product to move, and some moolah to make sure he can keep everybody happy."
As quickly as Madelaine struck, Carlo retaliated, his bishop taking her knight. "Fuck do we need docks for? We bring everything in by truck. Safer that way."
"Because I know somebody sitting on a mountain of snow that cannot be moved by truck right now; it would be too much weight." Madelaine avoided eye contact as she pondered her next move.
"Triad pushes most stuff on the island. If we do that, we risk breaking the détente. Unless you want to go to war with them again. No go."
"I am well aware of that. Another one of Vinny Boy's genius fucking tactical moves. Would not push on the island. We still have enough pull in the boroughs; this is high quality shit, people will pay good money for it. I already worked out supply, logistics, and distribution. We can negotiate the lion's share. Most of the heavy lifting is done." In a flash, her queen snatched up the bishop.
"Who's supplying us?" Carlo peered over his glasses, eyes narrowing as his scowl deepened.
"That has to be confidential until we actually do this. No point in giving up the ghost if we are not going to haunt nobody. When have I ever led you astray, Ziggy? You are the smartest member of this family, you of all people should see the value in this. We need cash if we want to expand. Big skadoosh. You hold the books, and I know you know how to dry clean."
Silence fell across the table. The pace of the game slowed to a crawl. Madelaine watched the gears turn in Carlo's head as he removed his glasses and chewed on the temple. "I know you have a flair for the dramatic, Malfatti. You better not be blowing smoke up my ass. Vinny isn't going to go for it. We've been burned by going outside the family in the past." He evened the score as his pawn captured Madelaine's.
A resounding bang sent a shockwave across the stone as Madelaine's fist came down. The pieces on the board rattling but stayed upright. "Then fucking convince him! You are his advisor. Advise him that this is the right thing to do. We are fucking drowning, Carlo. I see it. You see it. All Vinny wants to do is sit on his fat ass in Queens, stuffing his face in front of Maria's 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign in the kitchen! We might be running out of time before whoever is following you makes their move."
Confusion cleared the scowl from Carlo's face. "Fuck are you talking about?"
Madelaine stared down at the board, her eyes drifting up and to the left. "I do not have to tell you to not make it obvious, but there is a man sitting on a bench over your right shoulder. Blonde. Almost impossibly flat flat-top haircut. He has been watching you since you shook my hand. The bulge around his ankle is either a piece, or he has fat cankles. Looking at him, I assume it is the former."
A checkered handkerchief flew from Carlo's breast pocket, a loud sneeze sent his head sideways, snapping his gaze towards Winston. He turned back to face Madelaine, still clutching his nose and covering his mouth. "We should keep playing. Look natural. Hurry up and make your move."
Thanks for reading! Feedback and crit is always welcomed and encouraged. Stay awesome and have a good one!
Word Count: 997
Bonus Words Used: Live, Laugh, Love
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u/ZLErikson 1d ago
How goes, Prose?
I'm looking forward to this epic battle in the park :D And I love the framing of it through chess.
The first nit has been picked:
Also, why have you been laying low? Your numbers are down. You should be out there hustling," he asked
He says two things after asking. Consider spliting up his dialogue a bit with the actions:
"You call me out of the blue and need to talk right away. That's not like you. Also, why have you been laying low?" He asked, while returning fire; his pawn moving to meet its counterpart. "Your numbers are down. You should be out there hustling."
You should specify it's "Her" knight, and you repeat "line" and "frontline"; you can just say "pressing the issue on the front" for the same meaning:
A knight jumped the line, pressing the issue on the frontline.
This should be two separate sentences:
"All I fucking do is deal with that shit, spit it out already."
I am incensed that you use the name "Rooskie" but haven't advanced the game enough for her to bring one of her Rooks to bear :P
"We may have a Rooskie problem.
Madeline's being inconsistent with her conjunctions:
Word on the street is they're making moves; You did not hear anything about that?
I think you need a comma before this "but":
"Declan may not be a heavyweight but he can hold his own.
This should be two sentences, the comma doesn't really work to join "Triad pushes most stuff on the island" with "if we do that, we risk breaking the detente"
"Triad pushes most stuff on the island, if we do that, we risk breaking the détente.
Doing a quick google, if "détente" is them trying to play nice with the Triad, I wonder if it'd be more beneficial long-term for them to just straight up sell it to them? Bulk price and whatnot. Keeps the peace, they get a decent cut, the triad gets more product.
Another sentence that should be two; end it after "Malfatti" as the second part of the sentence doesn't flow naturally as part of the first:
"I know you have a flair for the dramatic, Malfatti, you better not be blowing smoke up my ass.
Carlo is also inconsistent with his conjunctions:
Vinny is not going to go for it. We've been burned
Personal taste, I think onomatopoeia, like "bang" should be italicized to give it that oomph:
A resounding bang sent a shockwave across the stone
I'm also very unclear what happened with that bang. If Maddy kicked the table, slammed her fists onto it, slapped it with open palms, or if a car out front backfired.
Need a comma after "queens":
All Vinny wants to do is sit on his fat ass in Queens stuffing his face in front of Maria's 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign in the kitchen!
Since you're so close to word limit, I suggest going back and giving all of their dialogue proper conjunctions to regain a handful of words. And if she "doesn't have to tell him", then cut it as well:
"I do not have to tell you to not make it obvious, but there is a man sitting on a bench over your right shoulder.
Comma after "him":
Looking at him I assume it is the former."
Strong chapter, really liked the chess game working its way through the conversation. Not quite a combative back-and-forth that the battle-esque chess descriptions hinted at but still fun. Looking forward to see what happens next.
Good words!
3
u/Morose_Prose 1d ago
ZLE you spoil me with these amazing crits! Thank you very much for the wonderful, and on point edits. Thank you for reading and the kind words on the chapter. Don't worry... the battle has just begun! Stay awesome and have a good one!
3
u/AGuyLikeThat 1d ago
<The Tower in the Tangle>
[Previous Chapter] [Chapter Index]
Chapter One-hundred & Fifty-Six: An Unliving Soul.
~ Samal ~
When the principles of biomancy are turned on humans, the unfortunate ‘subjects’ have an even chance of death. Even for those who bear the vaunted ‘iron -will’, the infections caused by the intrusive mechanisms often result in death. Though some lives may be spared by the process, most ‘successes’ become servitors. Walking corpses, useful for very little other than menial tasks.
I could barely stand to perform such processes on those mortally afflicted volunteers, and I will not participate in forcing such conversions upon convicts and prisoners of war.
And so, my love, when they tell you I was a traitor, you will at least know why.
Forgive me.
- unsent letter; author unknown.
Ominous creaking echoes down the dusty hall.
What was that? Samal glances towards the Sentinel, but the metal monster remains locked in place—silent and unmoving—braced against the great double doors that seal the Tower.
Seeking the source of the fading echoes, his eyes scan the murky recesses lining the long hallway until they light upon a statue of some forgotten queen with a jeweled wand held aloft, and a golden crown.
The sound comes again. Stone against stone. Faint vibrations tickle his feet, rising in volume as he approaches the queen’s alcove.
Grating, scraping, scratching.
Scarcely daring to breath, Samal peers behind the witch-queen, but he finds only rough granite and cobwebs.
This is a bloody nightmare.
A sudden thump sends a cloud of dust into the air as the ancient statue moves, receding against the wall to reveal a hidden staircase cut into floor below.
Panic fizzes through Samal’s veins, as the noise stops and the dust settles.
I’m faded out. No-one can see me. Despite the fear, he holds steady, muscles locked.
The silence grows, and nothing moves for a long moment.
Swallowing, Samal takes a hesitant step forward, craning his neck to peer into the dark hole.
A glistening mass of shadows rushes out of the gloom. He catches the barest glimpse of dark-skin and muscles dashing past him, and vanishing into an alcove containing a bearded sage carved from marble.
The Buchakali!
Even knowing she is there, Samal can barely make out Petal’s hulking outline behind the polished statue, as she peers at the Sentinel.
How did she find me? Mouth agape, he is caught between fear and relief. What’s she doing here?
The Akari steps clear and hurls her waddy in one smooth movement. The weapon spins end over end, and strikes the golem in the back of its head, smashing its face into the iron plated Tower doors with a resounding clang.
The enchanted club bounces, rebounding off the door, and spinning back in a looping arc towards the Akari and nestling in her outstretched hand.
The creature’s feet do not move. Its steel fingers remain wrapped around the great brass handles, as it raises its skeleton-head and looks back across the room, where Petal crouches low, off hand touched to the floor.
Ready to spring, her eyes remain locked on her lifeless foe.
Why does she have to ruin everything? Ever since he first came to the Warden’s fire, she’s been there with her effortless strength and peerless skills. Judging him. Making him feel worthless. …she stole Gil before I even had a chance…
Samal’s heartbeat thunders. Time is frozen.
She can’t see me. No-one can see me. The thought is a mantra, but Samal knows the Akari is different. When they sparred, she hit him even after he had faded out. And when he tried to eavesdrop on her and Kalina, somehow she had known he was there...
“Your Talent works according to need. That’s what Juhwabin said. He just has to need it.
The Sentinel slowly raises its head. The Akari’s strike has left a deep dent across the top, and its forehead has been crushed. But now, points of blue fire are swirling in its hollow sockets, sparking with sapphire brilliance.
Metal ripples and the graven face smooths back into symmetry. A familiar, hollow voice rings out, “An intruder? What is this?”
The Chamberlain is speaking through his puppet once more, but the golem remains braced in position as a sparkling outline begins to manifest beside it.
Petal doesn’t move. Eyes narrow, she waits for her opponent.
“Ah, the Akari. I wondered what had happened to you.” His glowing form is faint, as though wrought from insubstantial mist. “Have you come seeking your treacherous companion? If so, know that he is gone.” Beneath his veil of crystals, a cruel smile curls his lips. “Or have you been drawn here by the wayfinder? I wonder…”
Tension and rage radiates from the Akari as she growls, but that is her only reaction.
Samal tries to swallow again, but his dry throat sticks. Flaming fuckballs.
“If you seek the Warden’s pet, I’m afraid you have already found what is left of him.” With a bitter laugh, the ghostly figure raises a finger, pointing past Samal, towards the secret passage. “Behold. Your recalcitrant companion wears his flesh!”
A silhoeutte emerges from the darkness of the secret passage. Powerfully built, but no taller than Samal. A thick crest of white hair catches the light as the woman steps forward. Her arms and torso are encased in silver armour, but she bears no weapons.
“Liar!” she roars.
I know her, but from where?
Her eyes are shining green, bright and brave, like the sun through a leaf.
Like Gilander’s.
It cannot be true.
She steps forward with lethal grace rivaling the Akari, and Samal sees that her metal arms and chest are a part of her body. Smooth silver skin runs unbroken from from fingers to shoulders, disappearing beneath a breastplate forged from some similar material.
Who is she? He knows her, he is sure of it.
And he hates her.
The thick, white hair is the key that turns the lock. The raised and jagged scars that marred her face are gone, but sharp nose and thin lips are the same.
Ironhands.
WC-1000
Author's Notes:
For newer readers who might wonder about the meaning of some of the strange terms like 'ontologia', I have compiled a small Glossary.
This week's theme is Lifeless! - The statues in the great hall are all lifeless (so far). The Sentinel is a golem animated by the Chamberlain's magic, but functionally lifeless.
Bonus words used; - Live(s), Laugh, Love.
Additional bonus constraint: 'A life is spared whilst another is taken.' The Graf-maester who wrote the letter in today's epigraph reflects that when people are converted into ironbound, one life may be spared, whilst another is taken - seemingly without much distinction.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. All criticism and feedback is welcome.
[Next Chapter] [Chapter Index]
5
u/Blu_Spirit 17h ago
<Geminiellus: A World Apart>
Chapter 59
----
Looking around, Meri confirms no one is in the hall before she quickly pushes in the disguised panel, opening the path to her underground lair. She steps into the darkness, waiting as the door softly clicks shut behind her. Lost in thought, she ambles down through the familiar passage into her hideaway, absently rubbing the bruises Zachaeus left around her throat. Night-wisps flutter gently around the mostly empty space, their soft light casting eerie shadows among the statues lining the wall of the round room as she enters. They’re facing the center, aimed at the dais where Meri pauses at her throne. Her skin prickles at their lifeless stares, eyes hidden in shadows, but she knows they’re watching all the same.
Not statues. Not really. These were all people…once. People I trusted…their betrayals leading them to this. She frowns. Though, really, if they could still talk…wouldn’t they see this…my response…as a betrayal as well? I mean, they do still live…but what kind of life have I sentenced them to, trapped within stone as they are? Death would be a kindness compared to this.
Meri’s eyes, bright in the darkness, travel over the statues, pausing over a small hidden figure, barely visible among the shadows of others. My worst mistake, and biggest regret. Almost unbidden, Meri’s feet follow the path of her stare, stopping in front of the tiny statue of a small Welkjin girl.
“Little Tabris, you are the only one here that doesn’t deserve your fate. Loyal to a fault, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She kneels down to the child’s level, staring fondly into bright gold eyes. “If ever I find a way to revert the cockatrice curse, for you I will. No hesitation, as you were so fond of saying. That bravery saved me. I hope…I hope I can someday return the favor.” Meri fondly pats the girl’s cold head before standing.
Slowly, Meri continues her trail around the circle of her past, deep in her memories. She stops next to a muscular orcish woman, stretching her neck to look up at the face towering over her.
“Bitter. As it turned out, a fitting name for someone who faked loyalty while working to undermine every advance of mine, simply because you thought you would be the better leader. As if this was something I stole from you. As if it’s something I sought out.” Feeling a sting in her palms, Meri realizes she’s clenching her fists in anger, nails cutting through the skin. “Given the chance, had you just talked to me, we could’ve run the Stars together. Instead, you tried to murder me in my own home. Yet, you taught me to temper my generosity with caution, so…I suppose I should thank you.”
The elf turns angrily away from the orc, shaking her head in frustration as she stomps past more of the frozen stone figures. Walking nearly the whole of the room before another statue catches her attention.
“Samael…” Meri murmurs, gaze roving over a handsome face. “Your betrayal was probably one of the deepest cuts of them all.” The still hazel eyes of the statue remain motionless, though Meri doesn’t miss the glint of moisture as a single tear trails down the marble cheek of her previous lover. Blinking back her own tears, Meri gently wipes the cheek of the statue dry.
“Yet my foolish heart loves you still, you bastard.” With a deep breath, steadying herself, Meri looks around the circle, eyes and thoughts roaming over the statues, each one a representation of how far she would go to keep her secrets, her status. The statues’ eyes follow her steps, silent as the graves she’s denied them.
Why do I keep them here? Do I really need such grotesque reminders of the monster I’ve become? No…they were the monsters, and now serve to remind me to guard my secrets. That trust is only freely given by fools, and that everyone has a price. I am merely playing the hand I’ve been dealt. Meri gives a mirthless laugh, hollow chuckles echoing through the dank room. Patting her Tarot deck in its pouch on her belt, she glides back to her chair, sinking into it as she waits for the others to join her. And what a hand it’s been.
-------------------
WC 720
Bonus words: Live, laugh, love (loves)
This is a continuation on my prior SerSun - set in my world known as Echo Realm. If you are interested, additional chapters can be found on r/Spirited_Words. Feedback welcome, and thank you for reading!
5
u/katpoker666 8h ago
<‘Wild Eats’>
***
Chapter 1: ‘Keeping Up Appearances’
***
Annie wept. Head in hands, she cried like she hadn’t since Sam Townsend broke her heart in the seventh grade. Snot flowed as freely as tears, the kind of ugly cry no one should see. But it didn’t matter: her life was over and no one would see her on camera ever again.
Her husband, Tom, peered through the door to her bedroom. “Everything okay in there, Annie?”
Wiping her face with her sleeve, Annie looked up. “Everything’s fine,” she laughed with bitter resignation. “Couldn’t you fucking knock though?”
“I-I’m sorry. The door was open—“
“That doesn’t matter.” She glared at him with the kind of mild loathing normally reserved for slugs that squished under her feet in the back garden. “You know not to disturb me.”
“Look, I’ll go. I just wanted to make sure you were alright—“
“I’m great. Close the door on your way out. I don’t want Jamie to see me like this,” she ordered, her voice brisk. Jamie was the only thing holding their marriage together. Sometimes she wished he wasn’t.
After Tom left, she cracked her neck and straightened her back. Enough was enough. She marched over to her art deco makeup table. It didn’t fit the modernist decor of the rest of the house, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass. It was her great-grandmother’s, and some things were worth saving.
Looking in the mirror, she sighed. “You look like day-old shit,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her micellar water and cotton pads. She dabbed away the morning’s mangled mascara, careful not to drag on her delicate eye area. Vanity and Annie were thick as thieves, and she wasn’t about to let a little setback like having her cooking show canceled mess with her beauty routine. ‘Wild Eats’ would come roaring back to life and so would she!
Lashings of war paint later, Annie felt ready to face her family; or her son at least.
She strode down the pale wooden stairs from her bedroom determined to project confidence and control. Jamie didn’t need to worry after all: she had this.
Glancing up from the kitchen island stool with his geometry homework laid out in front of him, the boy grinned in a way that seemed a bit too eager, like he was playing a part. “Hey, Mom! Want to make something fun together for dinner tonight?”
Annie smiled. No ‘how was your day or what’s for dinner, Mom?’ As always, Jamie somehow knew exactly what to say. “Sure, that sounds great. Want to go get some basil and oregano from the garden, and we’ll make some pasta primavera?”
Nodding, the teen darted off to the garden with a wicker basket in hand.
Annie shouted from the kitchen, “Grab a zucchini and some peppers, too, while you’re at it!”
“Okay!”
Tom cleared his throat from the corner, his omnipresent evening Gordon’s and tonic in hand. “Feeling better, I see. Wonderful,” he said, his voice buoyed with the sarcastic courage of alcohol.
“Not now,” she muttered.
“When is it ever time?” He shook his head and went back to his well-thumbed-through copy of the New York Times.
Rolling her eyes, Annie gathered salt, pepper, and dried chili pepper into small mise en place bowls in preparation for cooking. She began dicing the fresh San Marzano tomatoes she’d brought in earlier.
The fifteen-year-old plopped the basket of herbs and vegetables on the counter and grabbed an apron and cutting board. Without being asked, he cut the zucchini into quarter-inch slices.
They continued to prep in companionable silence, their every move synchronized from years of practice.
As the sauce boiled in the cast iron Le Creuset pot, Annie tossed some penne rigate into salted, boiling water with a splash of olive oil. A burst of steam plumed up as the pasta settled.
“Grate some Parmesan, will you, Jamie?”
“Sure thing,” he chirped, grabbing the microplane.
Annie sniffed first before tasting the sauce. For the first time since she’d heard the news about ‘Wild Eats,’ her smile was genuine. “Good teamwork, Jamie.”
Together, they plated the dishes and walked to the table where the place settings were notably absent. Annie’s smile faded as she shook her head. “You had one job, Tom. Is it so hard to set the damn table?”
Tom glanced up, his eyes a little bloodshot from the gin, and spoke with a slight slur. “Sorrry, Annie. I was busy. Not that youuu would have noticed.”
“Must I do everything?” she asked, laying out the cutlery and crisp linen napkins with care.
She poured a generous glass of Pinot Noir for herself and looked over at Tom in resignation. “Would you like some?”
“Red? I thought you said a Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon Blanc was best for pasta primavera?”
“We added tomatoes, Dad, so it has to be a light-bodied red,” Jamie interjected.
“Good work, son!” Annie beamed. “You’re learning your wine pairings fast.”
“Thanks, Jamie, schooled your old man there! I can’t keep up,” he laughed.
“Never could,” Annie murmured under her breath.
“What was that, sweetie?”
“Nothing,” she said, her voice too bright. “Shall we eat?”
The three sat down in uneasy silence until Jamie broke it. “This is really good, Mom! And I love the new cutlery. Really sleek.”
“Thanks, honey,” Annie replied, tousling his hair. “Have to keep up appearances.”
***
WC: 890
***
Includes: live, laugh, love
Excludes: a life is spared while another one is taken
***
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated
4
u/Morose_Prose 5h ago
A wild Kat appears with a new serial! Welcome to the SerSun madhouse!
Excellent opening chapter, really enjoy how clearly the characters and the family dynamic is established within the text and their actions and interactions with each other. You do a lot with few words of establishing the setting as well, a modernist home with touches of other aesthetics within.
As for crit: you have over a hundred words to utilize before hitting the limit and you could put some of them to use to give the reader some more physical descriptions of the characters. There's no better place than chapter 1 to let the reader get a mental image of what the characters look like to carry through the rest of the serial. A perfect spot for Annie would be as she reapplies her makeup after the ugly crying. For Tom while he's drinking and reading the New York Times, and Jamie when he is doing his homework.
Annie smiled. No ‘how was your day or what’s for dinner, Mom?’ As always, Jamie somehow knew exactly what to say.
Should break up the two questions into individual parts with their own question marks for this passage: Annie smiled. No 'How was your day?' or 'What's for dinner, Mom?' As always, Jamie somehow knew exactly what to say.
That's really all I have for crit. Good words, Kat! Stay awesome and have a good one.
3
2
u/Slim_Shady_32123 4h ago
<The Golden Womb>
Amoghvarsha, the Lord of Dakkhin sat on his throne like a weathered statue, fingers drumming the armrest. “How long until they return?”
“The royal regiment had left the Kalaburagi Fort at dawn. They should be here before noon, Your Grace.” Mahamantri Venkat’s voice was steady, but his eyes flicked to the doorway.
Soon enough, horns blared. Bankesh, Lord Commander, strode in first. Behind him came Krishna, the golden haired crown prince. He possessed the same hawk eyes as his namesake ancestor, but the smile that used to soften those eyes was gone. Hardened mud clung to the prince’s boots and the scent of cumin hung heavy on his cloak.
Amoghvarsha’s throat tightened. The boy he had once lifted in his arms now wore a soldier’s hardness.
He spoke, “Your impetuousness forced us to divert forces north to the province of Larth when we were still engaged in the deep south. We had almost crushed the southern scums, but Bankesh’s months of campaigning were undone by your spectacle.”
Bankesh gave a stern look to the prince.
Ignoring his glare, the prince’s voice cut through the hush. “Father, is this how you welcome your heir? Am I a prisoner in my own palace?”
“That depends on how deep your hand is in this rebellion. I know that you could be feckless at times, but I can’t see you being this self-indulgent that you don’t see who you are going against. Who poisoned your mind against your own kin?”
Krishna mocked the question with a laugh. “Oh you flatter me, Father. Those at Larth are our kin as well, since three generations now. They taught me to see the world as it is, not as you would have me bow to it.”
“That tongue of yours has certainly gained an edge with your stay at Larth.” His face hardened. “Why did you run away from the capital? What was it that you did not have here?”
“Staying at Manyakhet would have kept me meek and servile.”
“And what did leaving make you?”
“An astute man who can make his own decisions. Still, there remains one puzzle I cannot solve.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you did not father any more children. I worry that keeping company with those celibate Zhen monks might have resulted in your castration as well.” Krishna burst into laughter as he finished his sentence
Amoghvarsha slammed a hand on the armrest of his throne and made the carved eaglehead screech.
“Watch your mouth you impudent boy!” he snapped, every word a controlled blow. “Have you taken leave of your senses!? Have you forgotten how to talk to your king?”
“Certainly not, my Grace. But I thought I was talking to my father Sharva, not to Amoghvarsha, the bountiful rain who has been raining for five decades now.”
“Oh! So it is my long reign that you envy. How long has this desire for the throne been festering within you?”
“It is you, Father, who is covetous for the throne! Grandfather Dhruv knew when to step aside for a better man. But you? You cling to the throne because you fear what happens when a real king takes it. But alas, you are no Dhruv!”
“And you are no Govind! Have you forgotten that he humbly declined the crown out of reverence for his father?"
“I would have done the same as Govind, but you never gave me a chance. And do you not remember my reverence for you? I wanted to be as great of a king as you. All I wished for was to prove myself. But you never gave me the chance.”
For a heartbeat, Sharva recalled how he used to hold his son who used to mimic his mannerisms, and play king among his friends. But the images snapped away as Krishna’s voice cut through the memories.
“And I never strayed from my duty as a son! I loved swordfighting yet you asked me not to engage in it. What did it do? It left me with a body lacking any physical conditioning. And later you asked me not to leave the capital until I came of age. I barely had a life of my own. I lived as per your wishes but you never bothered to ask me what I wished for.”
“My only wish was to shield you from the bloodshed that plagued my own youth.” The father’s voice had tempered.
“And by shielding me, you left me defenseless! I did not need a shield, I needed to learn how to swing a sword! You deprived me of the very trials that forge a man. You were raising me to be weak. You were crippling me, Father! Strike me down if I am telling lies!”
“No, son, that I cannot do. However...” Amoghvarsha’s jaw tightened. He signaled the sentries.
Chains clinked in the doorway as the Lord of Larth was brought forward. The man’s eyes burned with contempt but he said nothing.
“For generations, the Lords of Larth have been the absolute shield of this dynasty. When I ascended this throne as a boy of fourteen, surrounded by vipers, your father served as my regent, forsaking his own ancestral seat. Seven years of his life were spent in putting down rebels and conspirators to keep my crown secure! How can the son of my fiercest protector stand before me a traitor?!”
The chained lord spat. “Do not take my forefathers' loyalty for servitude, Amoghvarsha. Where was the imperial aid, when our villages were being burnt by the Turushks and the Juzars. You feasted with your order of Zhen monks while our fields were burned. You take up the title of Peacemaker, blind to your subjects being violated day after day. I bear no loyalty for such an ignorant hypocrite."
The king’s face went cold. “So, be it. The Lord of Larth will be executed on the morrow. You wanted violence, I shall deliver it to you.”
—
Thanks for reading. This is the first time I'm putting down all these ideas (that had been wandering in my mind for months) to paper. I would love to receive feedback.
WC: 993
Bonus words: live, laugh, love.
Bonus constraint: Amoghvarsha spares his son but takes the life of Lord of Larth.
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u/mysteryrouge 1h ago
<The Stranger Nomads>\ Chapter 40
"Aunt Avel! Aunt Avel!" A young child ran into the travelling mage's rooms, tears pouring down his face. "Aunt Avel!"
In a large chair, looted from some Health Inspector's office, Avel Burke turned to face the young boy as he jumped right into her arms.
"Aunt Avel!"
"Was someone disowned or killed?" she asked, hugging her cousin.
He sniffled and nodded. "Uncle Actus is Head of House now. Dad" —the boy sniffled more, burying his face into Avel's chest "—dad just fell from the hole in the dining room and then a pillar—" the boy mimed a stabbing.
"When's his funeral?"
"Now," the boy mumbled, "Uncle Actus told me to grab you."
"Actus Reus," Avel gently corrected, "your uncle hates it when people don't address him right."
She led the sobbing child through winding corridors full of mold, poison, and rot, keeping up an invisible shield to protect her from the standard hazards of the house. Their destination, the family crypt in the basement, was the only place in the house that wasn't actively trying to kill anyone. The major finicky rituals members of the family would perform could easily go wrong if rotting ceiling fell on someone or the air was filled with poison.
Azkaban III was dead, and while Avel wasn't particularly close to the former Head of House, the current heir, Actus Reus Burke, was not someone she wanted anywhere near that headship. She was certain Actus Reus killed Azkaban, but as usual, there was no proof at all. Ever since childhood, the damned boy had gotten scarily good at doing things without moving a muscle. It always gave him an alibi when people could see he'd not moved.
They got to the catacombs beneath the house where Azkaban III's funeral pyre had been set up. Avel was the last one to arrive. Everyone else probably felt their Head of House's passing, but being from another universe and thus not actually related to this version of the Burkes, she was immune to this effect. Due to unfortunate events, Avel herself was the head of her universe's version of the Burkes.
Azkaban's body was still fresh, the giant wooden beam that had impaled him after that fall hadn't been moved from where it landed. Actus Reus stood with a torch in hand, eyes carefully closed as he performed the funeral rites.
From the corner of her eyes, she saw Actus Reus take a small vial and fill it with the dead man's blood before he said those last magical words.
Once done, Azkaban's body burst into flames, not even leaving ashes behind.
"And now that government spy is dead!" Actus Reus shouted.
Most of the family cheered. Azkaban's children and wife, with the exception of the crying boy at Avel's feet kept stoic expressions that matched Avel's own cold facial features.
Only her cousin was crying, and Actus Reus noticed. "Clearly, he's been corrupted by that menace too." The torch relit. Actus Reus marched towards Avel and her young cousin. People scrambled out of the way.
Avel twitched, subtly putting out the fire. "Generally," she drawled, "young children can't understand they're being corrupted. And this one just learned the man he thought was his father, a man he loves, was actually working for fhe" —she scowled— "government."
It was a lie as clear as day. Azkaban III rarely left the house while he had lived.
When Actus Reus glared at Avel, she stared right back. "I'll personally ensure he lives up to our great family name."
The new Head of House put the torch down. "Funeral's over. All of you leave."
She took the opportunity to shoo out her own cousin too, leaving her alone with Actus Reus.
"I'll hold you to that," the new Head of House growled in her ear, "but, you would do well to remember that I know you're not part of this family. I can sense the taint of the government clinging to you like a parasite."
Avel gave a hearty laugh. "And I remember you as a child, Actus Reus, looking up the meaning of your name and being so happy it came from a legal term."
"I can disown you now."
Untrue. The most he could do was remove her as backup Head of House, but that would make the Burkes more susceptible to a Health Inspector raid. Avel walked away with a quick nod, looking like she'd been cowed by the threat. No point in using that ace up her sleeve. Actus Reus wasn't worth it.
Back in her room, she opened up a forbidden tome, the Burke Family Grimoire, noting down spells and rituals Actus Reus was most likely to do during his reign as Head of House.
To a certain immortal anarchist that inspired the family, she sent the list with the message "Be weary. He's on the extreme side and he knows you sabotaged the anti-government wards, even if he can't prove it. It's best you not visit until he's dead, and that might take a while to arrange."
As much as Avel would prefer to kill Actus Reus directly, or even arrange his accidental demise, doing it too soon would make people suspicious. For now, Avel had to satisfy herself in subtly sabotaging the man's worst rituals and keeping him ignorant of the wider multiverse.
If he didn't know about the Warcrimes Conventions, he wouldn't be inspired to violate them.
The old, but still very youthful woman sighed, crossing Azkaban III's name off her personal copy of the family tree. She would have her hands full the next month. With that, Avel slinked out of the house and into the wider multiverse to personally deliver the letter to the infamous anarchist.
WC: 955\ Bonus Words: Live, Laugh, Love Bonus Constraint: Azkaban III Burke, former Head of the House of Burke has died.
40th chapter woo! We visit the Burkes again. An extreme family that lives next door to a bunch of health inspectors. Yes, their health hazard death trap of a house is an eyesore on the landscape.
Yes, they hate the government so much, they'd turn on each other at the hint of interacting with the government in any way.
Azkaban III from Chapter 25 was the Head of House when M visited with Kane.
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u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 36m ago
<Drifting>
Chapter 100
Theresa May has always thought their mother is beautiful. Her long dark curls are streaked now with silver, her face a mirror of Theresa May's own in a darker shade. She smiles when they show her the flyer Abi sent and ask to be driven out to the event.
“I'm glad you're leaving your room, hun,” she says before she grabs her keys and two coats - one for her, one she wordlessly thrusts into her child's arms. Theresa May hugs it instead of wearing it. It becomes their blanket in the car.
They sit side-by-side. Theresa May gazes at the dusk sky, watches the clouds slowly shift in hue. And they listen as she talks.
“How are you doing?”
“I dunno. I'm okay.”
“I'm worried about you. You hardly leave your room. You're not eating. Have you talked with your friends?”
“A little. I'm seeing Char today.”
“That's good.”
They turn and look at the light on her face. She won't look at them while she's driving. She is always safe.
“Are you still being picked on at school?”
They sigh. “Yeah. A little.”
“You don't have to make it smaller for me.” She catches everything.
“I don't know,” Theresa May says. “I just feel like, it's my choice. If I were more feminine I wouldn't be a target. If I choose to present differently, I have to live with the consequences.”
“Maybe.” She frowns. “But that doesn't make it fair. That doesn't mean you deserve it.”
They don't respond.
“What's more important to me is, are you happy with yourself? Do you love who you are?”
“I don't know who I am.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“I dunno.” They pause, and she stays silent. Waiting for their answer. They know she’s still listening. “I know I don’t like how I look with long hair. I know they/them feels more comfortable than she/her. I don’t like being perceived as a girl. I don’t like being looked at. Maybe that’s why I got with Cecelia in the first place if she’s ace. Maybe that made me more comfortable and I didn’t even realize.”
They can’t think of anything else. Eventually, their mom fills the silence again. “That’s good. You know what you’re comfortable with, and what you don’t like. Those things matter.”
They bite back a rejection.
“I know you said it was your choice to present the way you do, that you feel responsible for the consequences. But what you don’t choose is what you’re comfortable with. That’s a factor you have to take into account when you do make choices. Making the choices that align most with what you know of yourself is a very valuable thing. Knowing that you don’t like something, and choosing to avoid it, even when people don’t understand or treat you well. It makes you brave. It means you’re doing exactly what you need to do to become the person you are meant to be.”
Theresa May doesn’t have a response. But they put their hand on their mother’s arm, lightly, watching her drive. They know they will remember her words.
After riding a while longer in silence, they make it to the venue and park. Theresa May texts Char that they're here. No response yet.
It's dim outside now, enough the streetlights have turned on. Scattered people make their way to the doors. Theresa May wears the coat on their shoulders after a look from their mom. Without Char here, and without Cece or her sister as a guide, they feel lost before they even enter. It's intimidating to be here. They don't know what to expect, the flyer was vague, they've never been to an event like this before, and they're sure it will be loud and too dark or the lights too bright and too crowded and their mom is looking at them, waiting for them to move, to walk up onto the sidewalk, but they haven't.
“You said you're talking with Char?” their mom asks. “Is he here?”
They shake their head. It's so silly of them to be scared. It's so unintimidating. It's just a small building full of welcoming people. There will be space to move between them. There will probably be food and drinks. Maybe they'll even see other people they recognize, congregated in this safe space.
“You want to head in?”
They nod and walk side-by-side with her to the entrance. She opens and holds the door for them.
There's a front table with a man behind who looks to be in his twenties or thirties, and he smiles as they walk in. When he speaks, he has a high voice. “Welcome! Are you two here for the Halloween drag event tonight?”
They both nod.
“Awesome. If you could just sign in right here,” he pushes forward a clipboard with a pen and spreadsheet, “so we have an idea how many people attended and how they found us. We also have name tags, and there's a table down the hall with pronoun pins and stickers.”
His voice is welcoming. It helps. Theresa May looks through the spreadsheet after their mom. Name, whether they're queer, how they found out about the event, and optional space for email. They don't bother. Their mom didn’t either. They check to see if she labeled herself as queer. She didn’t.
As they move onto the name tags, their mom is already peeling hers off the backing to place on her shirt. There’s a silver sharpie. They would use it if they knew what to write. They grab a name tag, anyway, and just hold onto it. Maybe they’ll write on it later.
The pins and stickers, they gravitate toward next. There’s a variety of pronoun pins—they take one with they/them—and pins and stickers with different flags and designs. An ace dragon. A trans butterfly. One sticker has a group of people laughing with bubble letters saying “Queer Joy”.
They grab the dragon and butterfly and walk on.
WC: 998 words
Bonus: live, laugh, love
Wow! After three and a half years, we made it to chapter 100. I still remember feeling so stalled in the 80s. Maybe the story will even exit October. Maybe.
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