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electrospherevaults · 2 months

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Blossoming a wilder flower

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

An orchard is meant to preserve life. Every day since she was a little kid, she witnessed this miracle with her own eyes. She had played amidst the naked trunks every winter, and explored the nooks and crannies the trees laid with golden and crimson arches each fall. The summers were warm but the shade the trees provided was enough. They gifted her fruit which tasted like candy under the clear blue skies, and their morning dew rejuvenated her lungs every spring. All she could ask these blossoming wild flowers was lent her another temporary respite now that her estate was cast ablaze.

She sought refuge in the dead end of the night, path illuminated by the embers shooting off behind her. Her face was covered in ash and soot; all she had heard was a pot cluttering to the ground, and then screaming and shouting and the floorboards getting warm. The crackle of the fireplace she listened to with such fondness every evening now roaring outside her door. This same door that had been now locked from the outside, as was customary once the chattering of the evening and the blandishment of the night had ceased. Her window was looking towards her grandmother’s garden and the orchard further north. She made her escape using old priceless garments and strong sheets made of pure silk, running barefoot as she heard an explosion followed by gunfire. She did not turn to look back as the fires intensified, as the roofs collapsed, as the voices drowned and the light brightened, turning the night sky to daylight, stifling the stars behind the rising smokescreens.

All she could muster was breathe.

All she could think was run.

All she could do was…

She stopped, out of breath, out of courage. She had to look back. She had to know what happened. She wanted to understand why it all came to be. Instead, she turned and all she could see were trees.

She had never been this deep within the orchard. It did not belong to her family – not, at least, to any of the closer relatives she knew about. But she was always welcomed, and she had never been chastised for her curious walks and treks, even if admittedly they skirted along the edges and the first couple rows of the trees within. Those trees were filled with fruits most of the year, fruits she had grown to love – cherries and apricots and oranges and tangerines. The gardener, an old man or woman with an older wicker hat that obscured their eyes and always wearing a smile as bright as the sun, would pick the best ingathering the season had to offer each and every time. They also made pies in the summer, and enjoyed them under the shade on the grass adjacent to the entryways.

She had tried a piece once. It tasted unfamiliar to flavours she was accustomed to.

The fruit she spotted now were also unfamiliar to her keen eye. She wondered if the taste would now make more sense.

She ventured further. The trees felt larger, bigger, mightier.

Wilder.

An illusion perhaps, but every time she looked behind to ascertain her observations, the other trees looked exactly the same as the new ones she encountered. Same size, same width, all seemingly towering over her, but not enough to block out the moonlight. They subsided to let the moon reign over them, hanging just overhead over the middle of the only path forward and illuminating it with a pale blue colour. It was calm to her eyes, soothing like the balm of comfort a motherly embrace ought to have felt. The orange hues of her past that may have roared behind became miniscule as the moon effortlessly laid down a carpet for her to walk upon, one laid with gravel and pebbles and the warmth of the morning dew and the smell of the zest of citrus, freshly grated and harvested. She felt the invitation the orchard was offering growing fonder with each step.

In the middle of the orchard, she found a large olive tree. It was not like those other trees that tried to trick your eye by appearing to be large and big and mighty, for it simply was all those three things in the flesh and bark. The tree dared to obscure the moonlight. She approached it with small but assured steps, each one lessening in hesitation – just as the moon had been trying to assure her this entire time. She touched the bark. She felt its skin. It was coarse, it felt old; older than her, older than the house, older than the world. It had stories to tell. It had legends to unfold. It had myths to embrace.

“You are lost, young child of the estate?”

She turned to look around. There was nobody else besides her here.

“I think I might be,” she replied after some time passed her by. There was nothing left to lose more if she indulged the questioning.

“Would you like to go back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

She tried to look back again. She looked for the fire. She looked for the home. There was no fire, there was no home. Both were beyond her eyesight’s reach. Was there ever a fire, was the heat she felt real? Did the brick and mortar and wood furnishings gleam in the sun or were they the tricks of sentimental memories?

Did she intend to walk this far all along?

“I don’t think there’s something for me to go back to.”

A brisk breeze swept by; the coldest she had ever felt all night. She hugged herself a little closer, leaning by the old olive tree. A gentle flowerbed blossomed underneath its roots. She laid down to rest, sitting down with her back against the trunk, letting her arms become one with the crimson flowers. Petals underneath and over spotting the same colour, an armrest to lay down with eyelids that felt so very heavy and tired. She was not used to staying up this late at nights after all.

“I will miss you,” the voice continued.

She perked up. She smiled as she was about to fall asleep at last.

“What’s there to miss but the blossoming of a wilder flower?”

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writers #kinda unsatisfied w this one cus it's both shorter than im used to and didnt know how to finish it but i hope y'all enjoy it)

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electrospherevaults · 2 months

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No new story for today; trying to consider alternatives to hosting my written work in lieu of Tumblr's AI policies enacted.

2024 Friday Writing Challenge Masterpost

Each Friday, at (give or take) 6:43pm (UTC+2), a new short story will be posted and shared here. Those will vary in themes and genre and worlds. Each one should be enjoyable without further prior knowledge. Enjoy!

Stories list:

Imbalance

Mostly Harmless

A Dance With My Clone

Sorry About The Inconvenience

Friends And Foes

Coming Friday 8/3!

[To read my other stories, check here]

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electrospherevaults · 2 months

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Friends And Foes

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

This was not the first time she tried to punch her teeth out. Instead she smirked and smiled and spat her own to the floor, getting back up and wiping her blood with her hand. She enjoyed her ferocity – and some would say to the point of jealousy – but she would not dare be caught admitting that now.

Not in front of her.

Her rival and very occasional sparring buddy stood opposite her, hands on hips. This time she had bruised her, she thought, look at how she is holding onto her waist. That cocky smile betrayed pain withheld through gritting teeth.

“Tsk! You lack technique and skill, but you got one adoring quality!”

“And what is that?”

“You are stubborn, my lady!”

She rushed at her, fists raised high, her smirk showing off her fang. She had wound up, exposing her left side, aiming to deliver an overhand.

Typical.

She ducked and dodged out of the way, sliding her own arm to the underside. The sheer panic in her eyes. The delight in hers.

“ALKISSI!”

The two of them froze immediately, retaining their positions perfectly. A snapshot just before the blow landed. Their superior got up from her seat and walked across the arena, each step arriving with a hurried but heavy thud upon the floor. The two rivals breathed heavily, their bodies still entangled and frozen and immobilized. She could feel her breath on the top of her head, and the side of her ribcage clinging against her tantalizingly close claws.

Oh.

Uh-oh!

“No claws,” the superior strictly ordered as she slapped Alkissi’s hand away with her metallic stick. Alkissi let out a yelp, retracting her hand and trying to soothe the burn on her fingers. “You do not fight to kill here. Remember your training, ladies.”

Both of them pressed their fists against their hearts, showing the respect of the salute they had grown to learn. The superior’s face did not move an inch; not a hint of a smile, not a sign of respect. Instead, she sat down upon her throne and crossed her legs.

“Again!”

They turned to face each other. Alkissi cracked her knuckles, whilst the rival affixed her shoulder. They locked eyes. They each awaited the first flinch.

When you first start out on your journey to become a proper Maiden of Wrethella, you are taught all about your body. It is a delicate and powerful tool, capable of feats of strength and miracles of endurance. They then beat into you that each fight is a dance. You are no mere street rat, you represent her holy wrath. You do not simply fight, you perform war. You are an expression, an art form in motion, your bodies singing one next to another in unison, a chorus so effective nobody dares challenge a maiden in combat.

She flinched first.

Before she knew it, Alkissi had her arm grappled and pinned to her side. Her legs crossed hers, her body fell on top of her, entangled, suffocating, lungs pressed tightly against her sternum. Her neck now braced her shoulder and then her head was upside down. Alkissi landed on her back with a thud, hand still held imprisoned. She gasped for air as her rival prepared for a strike that would pin her down for good.

She had not watched for that other arm though.

Alkissi acted quickly; what should have been a quick victory now tumbled down alongside her feet. She swiped at the ankles, making the rival lose her balance and fall next to her. She landed on her arm and she yelped in pain, giving Alkissi precious few seconds to get back up and retain view over the defanged prey.

The rival tried to follow after her. She got half her body back up, one knee still on the floor when she noticed Alkissi overhead. She was simply too slow; slow enough for Alkissi to employ once more her good, old reliable method involving her two trusty hands -- bringing about an uppercut to her jaw. She punched mightily; that knocked her back on the floor.

Much to her sadness, her fang still showed as she smiled through bloodied teeth.

Alkissi scoffed playfully, rubbing her knuckle gently as she saw her stay still. “A throw? Really? After all that transpired? Heh, don’t tell me you’re going soft on me just because you’ve yet to learn how to mend a cut, Labirra!”

“Shut up,” she chuckled laboriously, a few jabs grabbing on her side.

“How about you get up and make me?”

Labirra, her rival, for whom she felt such tantalizing desire to dominate, lifted her head again. She sighed. “You still rely on fists too much, my lady.” She dropped her head back again on the floor, resting her eyes by staring at the beautifully ornate ceiling overhead. “Good fists, though. Very powerful.”

“You feeling dizzy?”

Labirra raised her hand and shook it so-and-so. Alkissi chuckled, giving one last look at her good handy right jab. She almost wanted to kiss it. Not in front of the superior, however; she would save that congratulation for later. She turned to look at the superior and saluted her again, pressing her fist with force against her heart. With this vow of combat done, the superior got up from her seat once more and departed the arena.

The next thing Labirra saw after the depictions of Wrethella and her Six Maidens clad in their colourful armour was the face of Alkissi. The bright light from the windows that extended vertically across the entire walls of the arena gave place to simple pillars and bioluminescent light fixtures hanging on the ceiling. She arose gently, holding onto her head that was accompanied by a massive headache that split her skull in two.

“How long has it been?” Labirra asked, standing upright on the wooden bench. Alkissi sat beside her, having just finished changing back into her blue robes.

“About half an hour, give or take.”

“And you dressed me up?”

“By her grace, no!” She smirked. “Not alone, at least; I had a hand help me out.”

Labirra brought her hands over her face, whole room still spinning around. “Great,” she sighed and got up.

“I hope I wasn’t too mean on ya!”

She snapped back at her. “Mean?! Motherfucker, you gave me a concussion!”

“And you punched my tooth out! Again!”

“It’ll grow back!”

“Yeah, but I liked that one!”

She laughed, taking a few steps to the door. She stumbled; she led herself to the bench next to the one she stood from just prior, opting instead to take that rest. She now had the luxury to bring her second hand over to her head and hold it in place. Surely two hands were better than one and make all this spinning stop.

She did not expect a third hand.

She turned to look at it. Alkissi was holding onto an apple. “Ain’t that your ration?” She nodded. Labirra was about to complain and chastise her rival for wasting her resources on her; then she stopped herself. She did not even utter a single word. Instead, she extended her hand and opened her palm. Alkissi dropped the apple square in the centre.

“Good girl! An apple a day keeps the traumaturgon away, doesn’t it?”

Labirra laughed as she took a chomp out of the thing. It took less than a minute for the headache to go away, and another for the blurriness to fade. She turned to look back at Alkissi and saw that cut above her eye was yet to be sewn.

She scoffed. “Don’t tell me you waited until I was better so I could fix your eyebrow!”

Alkissi simply smiled from ear to ear. “I love a good butcher on the job.” She turned around and brought the med-kit over. “Who knows, maybe tomorrow you won’t get to work your hands on my pretty face at all!”

She relented with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Alkissi.”

Alkissi stopped and looked at Labirra. “What happened?”

“Me and the girls are shipping off to Tessereich.” She clicked her teeth. “It was announced at the dorm this morning.”

“Ah. That explains you missing breakfast.” She was handed the apple back, placed gently on her hand. “I’ve heard about that planet. Nasty ongoing war for, what, ten years now?”

“More or less.”

Alkissi stared at it, taking a good look at the bite marks her rival had left. She stared it down, obsessing over the markings, Labirra’s voice droning off as she explained some things about the factions and the soldiers and all the different critters involved. In the end, she took a bite right next to hers. She turned back to Labirra.

“Wanna go at it again?”

“I told you, I’m shipping off to-”

“Now, I mean.”

Labirra stopped. Her mouth was left hanging. She did the calculations in her head. And finally, she showed her fang with her most well-adored smirk.

Not before long, they were standing again within the arena. No superior to supervise them this time. Curious how no other maiden had decided to train on this day – but it was late evening, and the sun would begin to set. Wrethella’s golden façade from the ceiling bounced off the sun’s golden rays, her eyes showcasing the two rivals where to stand as they prepared to meet each other in one final spar, as friends and foes do.

Alkissi took position. She raised her hands over to her head, keeping visual of Labirra right in between them. She was facing off against her with her side pointed towards her – one of her favourite positions to be in.

“Ready?”

She smiled.

“Always.”

Alkissi rushed in first. She practically leaped at her, feet dancing so fast Labirra had no time to react to that first jab that got her cheek, nor the second one that landed just underneath her nose. The fierceness pierced Alkissi’s own skin as her claws dug into her hand. And in the next breath, Alkissi waved her leg, aiming to kick her rival to the ground in a motion so swift it would have ended the fight before it even started.

Labirra deflected; in all the times they had faced off, her rival always preferred to be overtly aggressive than to calculate all the mistakes she opened her body up to. She could take the damage, sure, but to keep fighting like that was a surefire way to the grave, no matter how much of a glutton for punishment you are. And Labirra figured she would deliver that lesson to her once more straight. She stopped the kick with the arm, and with her other fist she delivered an uppercut straight into Alkissi’s sternum.

Alkissi gasped for air; in the next inhale, Labirra pushed her away. The next exhale found her lying down, tripped over her grounded leg by a swiping leg kick. The second kick that was to stomp her whilst she was down on the floor missed; she rolled further back and got on her knees. She turned to look again at Labirra, smiling gently as she wiped blood trickling from her nose.

“You’re giving me all the greatest hits, my lady?”

Alkissi beamed with a grin; she tried to maintain it through the pain as she got back up. She readied her arms for her rival once more.

“What are you aiming for, Alkissi?”

She clicked her tongue in playful contempt. “Didn’t they teach you never to reveal your plans to an enemy combatant, my dear?”

Without hesitation, Alkissi launched again. She went for an uppercut this time, aiming for her jaw. She was deflected once more, in time for her to launch her other fist against her mouth.

It made impact.

Labirra moaned in pain. Immediately, Alkissi sought to dance around her dearest rival, turning even closer. She shifted her whole body weight around, seeking to deliver her next blow with as much force as she could muster. She ended with her back turned against her, pressing tightly against her chest.

And, in that singular moment, she left her breathless.

Her elbow connected straight to her sides.

This dance of war is common for all the initiated in her holy ways – but unlike her old dancing partners, this one could kill you. Labirra grit her teeth, biting her lips until she drew blood. She choked the pain because Alkissi, once more, fell onto her bad over-eager habits. She stayed still as Alkissi wrapped herself into her body. The moment her elbow connected was the moment the fate of this battle was sealed. She brought her arm around her neck and squeezed tightly.

Alkissi panicked. She wound up to deliver another impact to her side, but this only worked against her. Labirra pinned that arm away, locking her own arms together.

Finally, with a careful step of her leg in-between her thigs, she pulled her towards her.

Alkissi was slammed to the floor. She coughed in pain and misery, and then her throat was held, pressed on tightly by Labirra’s own arm. She had a ferocity within her she always admired. She always enjoyed bringing it out of her – and the detractors that called it jealousy were only half-right.

But for now all she could do was stay pinned to the ground, her dear rival on top, choking her with her bare arm. All she could do was look her in the eyes, and smile amidst the pain.

“Guess I won, eh?” she coughed out amidst the choking. Labirra frowned. She ran her tongue against her teeth. She spotted the gap. Her frown turned into a furore as it dropped back into a cocky, naked smile. She released her grip on Alkissi’s throat. Her dearest lady coughed some more of her lungs out, catching the breath she finally needed.

She was not going to make it all that much easier for her as she sat upon her chest, resting upright. She saw the tooth having rolled next to them, sitting by her ear. She bent over, with force; she could not resist making Alkissi let out one more yelp alongside an expletive deriding her. She smiled with satisfaction. She took her hand and put the tooth in her palm. She closed the fingers tightly.

“Guess you won, indeed.”

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #fight scene #sapphic #defiler #maidens of wrethella

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electrospherevaults · 2 months

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Sorry About The Inconvenience

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

The sun went out one day. Woke up one morning and it was nowhere to be found. You would think that the winter solstice would have something to do with that, but it was eleven in the morning by the time you checked again, and there was still no sun climbing over the horizon. The streetlights down the road were out too and everyone was walking about in flashlights and phones. It could not have been a solar eclipse either; there had been no warning for one, and most importantly – they do not last this long.

Maybe it was better to just admit that the sun, simply, had disappeared.

But it is not fair to say it disappeared. Stars go out all the time; such is theorized in deep fields of academia whose job is to look at the stars all night long. “Must be nice for them now,” mom said, “they can work during the day too.” You nodded and got out in the street, because, truth be told, you did still have that telescope stashed away in the garage, under a bunch of cobwebs and cardboard boxes labelled with letters you did not remember writing. It was a gift from her, acquired for your seventh birthday. You liked to gaze the stars that night, and then you kept it as an heirloom of their kindness for the next thirty-forty odd years. And now that it was properly unwrapped from plastic sheets and set up again for the first time in decades, you got it set on the stars blinking overhead, all in an effort to find the star that blinked closest to us.

The neighborhood soon started to gather around. Maurice was there, of course; he always claimed to be an expert in matters of the moon and the sun – neither to be found at the present moment. He chased eclipses around the world, successfully attending several, and he was near certain this was not one of them.

You shrugged. You would hope so. You could not imagine a world without light. You recalled mom’s plant by the windowsill; she had it for eleven years now. She loved her little dude so much. It kept her company as she worked from home on the sunny days and the rainy days and even the stormy ones. Those were the worst as the internet would cut out and make her upset over her inability to understand that you could not, in fact, slap the router to make it work again. Because it did not work like the old boxy cable television. No, a kick worked better.

“And you think we will find it again?”

Old-man Jenkins and his wife, Martha, joined you the next day, who taught in the primary school up until twelve years ago and now tried to enjoy a mostly-retired life. He still carried with him a fascination for space that most old men his age harbored from when they had witnessed the moon landing as kids. It was charming to listen to him talk about the reverence he held and still hoped to pass onto others-

“Also you call this a bean dip? It barely has any BEANS!”

-even if his grumpy ways got worse with his old age. You sighed. The bean dip had no beans because it was not a bean dip. It had lentils. You still could not understand how the old man confused the two.

“I still do not understand why you don’t cook something simple for once,” Jenny, from accounting, added; an old friend, an older crush, and an even older thorn in your rear.

“Well, they are healthier,” you argued, tossing another pistachio shell over the rooftop. Only half the houses now had lights on, even if it was merely noon. The electrical company was reported to have been unable to cope with the sudden demand, and a blackout had been hastily and unexpectedly scheduled. Meanwhile, mom had bought a generator on a whim last summer after that horrid thunderstorm had smitten the neighborhood. This was now the only house with a lamp turned on. And, as an added bonus, it had a premium view to the stars above too.

The balcony was spacious enough to hold a black metallic table with a white marble top and some fancy black metallic chairs (a gift from Grandma Nia that your parents could not keep in their tiny apartment anymore). It had to be pushed back to the wall, and old-man Jenkins and his wife, Martha, sat patiently, waiting for their turn to look through the telescope. Jenny was the one using it now. She looked curiously, her eyes filled with wonder; it had been long since a genuine smile like that had been painted over her face. And one of frustration too; the big guy was nowhere to be found. She argued you had not set the telescope right. She left after she stole a platter of bean dip with her, which you still argued was made of lentils and should not be called one.

She would be back the day after tomorrow as it was now the weekend and the sun was still to be found. Old-man Jenkins and Maurice had been exchanging theories all night long – a considerably longer time than one would believe given how long this night had already lasted. Once the battery drained out, they would pop in a new one with their freshly brewed coffee and exchange more ideas on what happened to our sun. Maybe it was stolen actually, and aliens held it hostage. Maybe it blew up and this was the afterlife. Maybe it just dimmed.

“Why would it dim, dimwit?”

“Well,” Maurice argued back, sipping his espresso, not realizing the clock said it was supposedly two in the morning, “ever heard of a white dwarf?” Old-man Jenkins nodded. “Ever seen one up close?” Old-man Jenkins now shook his head. “Me neither! So we COULD be witnessing a white dwarf now!”

Old-man Jenkins delivered a slap to Maurice’s head. It landed with the same thud Maurice dropped his piece of wisdom – very loudly, and without a hint of intelligence behind his actions.

“And you’re telling me these two come and bicker every day at your place?” Jenny asked bemusedly.

“Yep.”

“Are you that starved for miscommunication?”

“Beats thinking about anything else, really.”

She sipped on her cup of tea and nodded. It had not taken too much fiddling to position the telescope right actually back on the first day, nor did it take too much guesswork to realize where it should have been pointing. A hazarded guess was that the sun would actually still be out there, but that it just happened to be completely dim.

Instead, there was nothing to be found, no matter the time of the day.

You sighed as you leaned over the edge, letting the nightly breeze wash over you once more. A lone telephone pole stood across the street, and a single light was open. People walked around with flashlights on; from phones, from torches attached to the belt or the hat. Some braver ones attached them to their front pockets of their shirts, but soon realized that they were too small and would fall on the ground. One such pocket torch fell with a particularly loud crack, like a mirror shattering. The expletives were plenty. Jenny chuckled as she slid next to you.

“At least,” she said, turning herself around and looking back up to the night sky, “it is pretty.” You turned to look with her. Thousands of millions of billions of stars overhead – all blinking in and out of existence.

You blinked back to earth. There was a man in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit standing underneath the telephone pole. He carried a briefcase. He kicked his feet on the ground and he started walking forward, crossing the street and making his way to the other side.

To your house.

To your door.

The man in the orange jumpsuit arrived at the front door. You all watched him from the balcony, ringing the same bell that had a clear label stating it was out of service repeatedly.

“Think he wants you?” your mom asked.

“I mean,” you replied, “nobody else lives here. Would be weird if he rang the wrong person.”

“Should we go downstairs about it then?” Maurice asked.

Old-man Jenkins slapped him on the back of his head again. “What, you eager to be on the headlines first thing in the morning tomorrow? Local dumbass opens door to stranger, six dead, killer at large?”

You shrugged. “Beats staying in the dark about it.”

“EXCUSE ME!”

Everyone looked down. The man in the orange jumpsuit had a longer face than you would expect one man to have. “Will you let me in?” he asked again, gentler this time.

“Why?”

“I am a representative of the Sunlight Company!”

“The what?”

“He means the electrical,” mom explained.

You turned back again down. “I paid it yesterday!”

The man checked again. “No, it says you have not.”

“Are you sure you got the right building?”

He looked around, without a flashlight. He seemed to know what he was doing. “No!” Evidently, he was not. “Everything looks the same to me.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No.” He looked again back on his paper. “Are you Mister Jonathan Harry Klinger?”

“Th-the President? No, he’s at the capital!”

“Well… This is addressed to you still, sir.”

“Are you sure you’re not pulling our leg?”

“I… cannot? I am on the ground and you are upstairs.”

You took a step back. Everyone followed suit. You stared at each other, looking expectantly at one another for answers.

“I think we should give him a chance,” mom argued. You turned to look at her with a side-eye. “He looks like an honest young man, but just a little confused.”

“You do not look human,” mom said later as she opened the front door. You held a rolling pin, whilst Jenny held a pitching fork. Maurice had grabbed a frying pan. And old-man Jenkins had his revolver on hand; his wife, Martha, carried it for him in her purse.

The man in the orange jumpsuit grabbed his face in a moment of panic, fixing up a wrinkle in a hurry. Had you seen him, you would have believed he had left his zipper down. “I am sorry about that; company policy, but they do not invest in proper critter generators.”

“I understand,” you lied through your teeth, loosing the grip on your rolling pin. There was a hint of truth, however; you had done customer support in the past, you can relate to a man struggling with a confused customer that made contact with a piece of technology they had no interest in understanding.

“So,” the man in the orange jumpsuit began. “Your planet has been overdue in its payment, so we had to turn the lights off.”

“And how much is the damage?”

The man in the orange jumpsuit who desperately tried to keep his legs straight and together looked back into the piece of paper. He turned to look back to you. “Oh I assure you, there is no damage! The star has simply been stored in a temporary pocket dimension until the rent has been paid back in full, along with interest. Thusly,” he took a breath and a quick glance on the paper; old-man Jenkins, who had graded many students in the past, would have failed him. “You owe the Company 314’496 Units.”

“Oh, that does not sound good dear,” your mom said as you ruffled through your wallet. Instead, all you had was a couple dollars and a dollar store coupon.

“How much is that in human money?” you said as he took a fancy calculator out next.

“What is your currency called?” he asked you back.

“Dollars.”

The man in the orange jumpsuit sighed with a gravelly voice; if you had not been observing his mouth, you would easily think it was a lawn mower revving up to go at full speed for an early and refreshing five in the morning lawn mowing that was specifically aimed to get you up and running on a Sunday. “There are twenty-five types of dollars in your planet.”

“American,” Jenny added.

The man contorted his face into a smile now. It seemed genuine enough for you to return the gesture. He seemed pleased with himself for getting the expression right this time. He pressed a few more buttons, and a few more raggedy clanking sounds came out, and the calculator spat out a piece of paper; a receipt that the man in the orange jumpsuit handed to your hands.

“Your rent is 78 cents in American Dollars, sir.”

You stared back at the man in the orange jumpsuit. You reached into your pocked and picked up some spare change you still happened to have from the kebab shop you visited earlier. You handed them over to him without counting. He was surprised, astounded even, much like a child whose father shows him how multiplication works.

“We are terribly sorry about the inconvenience,” the man in the orange jumpsuit added, handing you back the leftover change. You insisted on him keeping these coins, for his hard and meticulous work. You hazard, at least, that such work is hard and meticulous, and possibly arduous. “Your star will be back tomorrow.” The man in the orange jumpsuit left. You all turned to look at each other in disbelief, and next thing you know he was truly gone. He could not have turned right nor left without being still visible. Maurice sat down by the nearby chair.

“Screw the sun,” he said, plucking out his pin from his jacket. “Aliens are real…”

He departed soon thereafter, after old-man Jenkins and his wife, Martha, had left first. Jenny was the last one left. “You think this man in the orange jumpsuit was honest?”

“Well,” you said, “he only cost me eighty cents or so.”

She chuckled. “See you tomorrow morning.”

You went back to sleep. It was four in the morning.

Three hours later, sunrays hit your eyes through the blinds – and you had to wake up for work.

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #comedic fiction

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electrospherevaults · 3 months

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A Dance With My Clone

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

Cloning had recently been defined as an illegal theft of the soul. Not unexpected an outcome, really; ephemeral cloning lacked the charm to hold imperfections – they thought of these bodies made of flesh and marrow and blood as cheaper machines, and thusly they were stuck in a valley of uncanny gestures and stiffer movements. They were automatons, the same ones that would collapse when ordered to conduct an orchestra when all they were programmed for was to shove coal into a steam engine – except they breathed.

She understood that flesh and blood held more than that, however. Sure, it was true that the technology always operated under a veneer of grime and slime, a grey morality as she called it, through which bad men got away with doing worse things than they would be normally allowed to do. And if you proved you enacted against a clone and the original person was unharmed, was the crime still of the same significance? It was no surprise that so many parts of the known galaxy had long enacted such strict laws against the practice.

But she was lonely. An only child, a single heiress to the House of Fern – one of the oldest known names in the galaxy – and her daddy, whom she had loved very much, passed away suddenly in his sleep many years ago. More debts remained from him than friends, and thusly young Amelia Fern had to get crafty quickly.

And the rest, as they say, was history. She performed the first cloning, willingly, and she performed the first public appearance with her own clone. They danced under the moonlight together, two droplets of water identical to each other, observed by both top scientists and top men the entire night. A reproduction so perfect had never been achieved before.

A reproduction.

The word held importance. To create a copy of yourself is considered anathema in most major religions, but Amelia Fern argued that a reproduction held merit. She reasoned that without reproductions many pieces of art would have been lost to history, to rot and decay, and we would have forgotten what made us who we are. She saw her clone in the mirror and saw not just another being of flesh and creation, but an art form perfected. She saw herself perfected. And she saw not just friends and family, but company for the rest of her life, now stretching beyond her wildest imaginations.

And now her empire was to crumble in one swift signage, one flick of the wrist done kilometers away.

Sir Johnsen knocked on her door. He knew Amelia had stopped consuming the news through modern means, and relied more on others to relay them to her. The House of Fern had re-established itself as an untouchable modern bastion of progress and art. Why would the commoners’ law affect her again now? Johnsen rang the doorbell and knocked with more force.

She finally opened the door. Her slim cheeks and her red bow as familiar as ever.

“Amelia, I-”

“Mistress Fern is awaiting you in the lounge, Sir Johnsen.”

“Ah,” Johnsen responded, recognizing Amie the maid. A grave mistake. He left her his coat and his hat, and proceeded further inside the mansion. He did not need to address the help Amelia had cloned out of herself to help around the manor. The last heir of the House of Fern instead concerned herself with more pressing manners, such as lounging by the sofa, feet on the pillow next to her, sipping on a singular glass of wine from the second bottle she had just ordered Amie to open for her. She raised her glass and welcomed him with a big courteous smile. He relaxed a bit.

“I heard about the ruling,” he said, tone almost hushed, feeling as if he was being watched. “I thought I would pass by and check on you.”

“You need not to worry, dear,” Amelia responded. “Business will keep booming.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She brought the glass to her lips, a few drops spilling on her dress below. Johnsen, ever the pretend-gentleman he thought himself to be, turned his gaze away. She smirked once she was done. “You would be surprised by how many senators and lords still seek a body. Some even choose to have a body double even! Imagine that depravity, dear Johnsen!”

“I see…” he said hesitantly, taking a look around. He coughed, and he then saw Amelia right in front of him, offering him her glass, with the lipstick still printed on its lip. He brought it closer. The wine had a sharp taste, and her smile was even sharper, laughing the bitter aftertaste of those mushed grapes with joy.

“Don’t forget, my dear,” Amelia said, as she poured herself another glass, “that we made this business together. You were the last one that stayed loyal to my ailing father, may the gods rest his soul, and it was also your idea to pursue this trade.” He turned around, but she only smirked. “I am not complaining! A lady from one of the most esteemed houses of these lands does give a lot of credence – and I do love my sisters running about and helping me around my manor.”

She turned to look towards the maid, the one who had answered him at the door. She offered a gentle smile back to her mistress. He could only feel ambivalence about the creature; she was not Amelia, no matter how much she dressed them like her. In the end, he could only let out a weary sigh. “I am glad you are taking all this in much better humour than I am, because frankly…”

He stopped and turned around. Only a slight giggle followed after him. “Always the pessimist,” she retorted with some slight indignation and scorn in her voice. Gauloiserie wine was not for those faint of heart, or stomach – and gods knew if she has had anything to eat all day. “How about we change the subject…”

Johnsen turned to look at her. Music started playing. Eulenlieder. He winced.

“Would you like to dance?”

“I will see you in the morning, Amelia, after you’ve sobered up.”

He walked out the door after grabbing his coat in a hurry. And she laughed as she awaited his frustrated arrival in the morning. But until then, the night was young, and the bottle still half-full. “Amie,” Amelia dictated, leaving her glass on the floor as the music picked up. “Dance with me.”

Amie, who up until this day had never refused a call from the mistress she shared a face with, complied. She opened her arms, assuming the position, and took on the lead. Perfectly practiced, exceedingly well performed. A step left, a nudge right, a swing and pirouette – the former ballerina knew these rhythms well. She knew the rhythm her mistress dictated. It was said that Eulenlieder had been their mother’s favourite, the one she danced on her wedding day. This was the same dance that made her and Amelia famous too; a rhythm they knew by soul, through beating heart to beating heart, exercised out in the open on the ballroom of the Fern Mansion that fateful night all those years ago. She was not the Amie that danced with Amelia; she couldn’t have been. But Amelia did not mind. She preferred it that way, some might say. Not before long, they settled into their rhythm, dancing together as they had danced hundreds of thousands of times before. Amelia, the daze from her wine slowly replaced by the comfort of her perfume adorned by the maid that she made in her own image, laughed gently.

“You remember our first dance, my dear Amie? You remember how we swooned them together, just you and me?” She allowed herself to fall, to be caught by her hands. Amie never let her down. She never let her fall. She never let her go. She laughed, charmed as she hung in mid-air, her maid holding her so delicately and so assuredly. She pulled her back up, and they continued their slow dancing. The song was coming to an end. “You were, by far, my finest creation, my dear,” she said as she rested her head on her shoulder. Amie let her. She was shaking, feeling her breathing against her neck, the delicate hands they shared still intertwined. Her mistress closed her eyes. She instead turned her gaze away, out towards the glass window. She saw her reflection combining with hers; two drops of water that splash against glass on a rainy day, now finally conjoined. They formed a greater whole, what Amelia called a greater purpose.

She spent a long time swaying gently with her to the left and to the right, her mistress lulled by their rhythm that the proximity of familiarity afforded. She knew her, after all; she was her, after all; it was always her, after all.

Before she knew what transpired, she snapped her neck like a twig.

The last heiress of the House of Fern collapsed on the floor. The rain outside intensified. From the rooms adjacent, more maids came out; valets and waiters and staff Amelia kept in order to afford her still luxurious living, without having to change the amount of people that stayed in this manor.

After all, it was only her.

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electrospherevaults · 3 months

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A Dance With My Clone

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

A reproduction.

And now her empire was to crumble in one swift signage, one flick of the wrist done kilometers away.

She finally opened the door. Her slim cheeks and her red bow as familiar as ever.

“Amelia, I-”

“Mistress Fern is awaiting you in the lounge, Sir Johnsen.”

“I heard about the ruling,” he said, tone almost hushed, feeling as if he was being watched. “I thought I would pass by and check on you.”

“You need not to worry, dear,” Amelia responded. “Business will keep booming.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Johnsen turned to look at her. Music started playing. Eulenlieder. He winced.

“Would you like to dance?”

“I will see you in the morning, Amelia, after you’ve sobered up.”

Before she knew what transpired, she snapped her neck like a twig.

After all, it was only her.

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #defiler #original fiction #original characters #honestly wanted to do a second draft but i dont really got time and thusly im posting it now a day late lol my bad enjoy regardless!

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electrospherevaults · 3 months

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Mostly Harmless

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

The Royal Library of Commons had a grand reputation to uphold across the known galaxy. They were not just a bastion of knowledge, they were the bastion. Everything you knew the Commons was already aware of. Such was its influence that people would simply opt to look through its archives for confirmations, to search through its databases for answers. If it was on the Commons, then it had been vetted and it had been declared truthful, and that was deemed enough. All of the universal truths available directly in the palm of your hands, or at your local library if you so preferred – they were renown for the speed with which they would update all common knowledge found across the cosmos.

To put it simply, it was common to look it up on the Commons.

As such, he had come today to file a complaint.

The error had been passed left and right, through many inboxes and many desks, with answers from across the institution’s many arms offloaded to their next colleague, further up the chain their institution was comprised of; quite a rambling mazy chain that swung left and right and up and down, in all possible directions. Again, this made sense. You would not expect an institution such as it to not have a lot of steps and hoops to crawl through, and he had weathered them all as he embarked on one final road trip to the Grand Library itself in Gran Solara – the birthplace of the Royal Library itself. The line had been thinning now – it was comprised of critters that resembled him uncannily so, but also creatures his own two eyes could not comprehend. The wonders of the galaxy were vast, and a mere glimpse today was enough to reassure him his task mattered. He finally got ahold of the clerk, sitting behind her desk, three mountains of paperwork flanking her corners, and a lone pen placed neatly over her ear. She glanced, pushing her glasses back, then she leaned over her microphone.

“Number 234.”

He approached diligently and devoutly; it is not often you get to walk these halls, or speak with the people that work these places. Yet, his vision was transfixed to her pen. He was certain it would have fallen off her ear by now, what with her glasses keeping on slipping and her having to affix them (on average) every three minutes and fifty-four seconds. He would know; he had timed it.

“State your name, origin and business, please.”

He was startled, but he curved his fright into a smile. “Hello! My name is Oratius and I hail from Hoppers Point,” he said, his words coming off with a slight whistle, owing to a very unfortunate crack on his front tooth. “I have come to file a complaint.”

She looked up from her desk. The man, numbered 234 on the waiting list, held a little dossier on his right hand. The dossier was bursting with pages and pictures. She sighed.

“What kind of complaint?”

The man immediately put the dossier out front. On it, with bold letters, the word [CORRECTION] was printed. He then landed this dossier masterfully on the tip of her desk, balancing it with finesse for seven seconds before succumbing to their weight on the eight. They spilled on the floor, the dossier’s tape snapping upon touchdown. For good measure, the mug in which her cold tea rested tagged along. She sighed again; third mug this month. She leaned over her microphone. “Cleaning supplies to desk 39.”

A small robot was soon dispatched. It beeped happily as it bopped against the man’s shoe. He shooed it away, trying desperately to save what remained of the documents before they sipped more of her spilled tea. That would render them useless and unreadable. Even worse, it would restart the whole process from the beginning. No one had time for that.

“What kind of correction do you seek from the Commons, sir?”

“A fairly simple and easy one, but it would probs be long and arduous! You see, I hail from the nation of Hoppers Point, we have been quite a studious little people, the joy and pride of the Spring Court expeditions if I dare say so.”

“You may dare.”

He smiled happily. He lifted the papers he had collected in his hands, with only the most minor of tea-related damage dripping from their edges. “I have here a vast and carefully vetted selection of the histories of my people! We have been in service to the Spring King dating back several decades – histories and records and all that hubbub are sure to have been documented.”

He then procured his phone. He had the page for Hoppers Point open. The page was marked for deletion as it only contained a single blurry image of the planet (which was also monochromatic and with few enough pixels you could count them on one hand), and a single word.

Harmless.

“Yeah,” she said, exchanging a glance with the opened dossier still on the floor, “I can see the problem.” She picked a sheet of paper from underneath the middle stack that towered behind her; she snapped it so fast the mountain barely moved. He was worried it would fall upon her, and catch him in its fall too.

He need not have worried on account of the fact she had glued most of the papers together since last Tuesday.

“You got the originals with you?”

“Oh heavens no!”

She burrowed her eyes in her palms, then pushed her face back at him. “Then-”

“I am glad you asked! We DID consult your photocopiers and copyrighters over at the Commons’ arm in Mizna, and they told us that we would not need to procure any of them. Instead, what we needed was signatures! Stamps! Verification that those are legitimate copies which carry forth our very legitimate business.”

“Huh. I thought our policy was mandating the original work be brought over for verification.”

“Well. I can assure you it is not.” He coughed gently. She prompted him to continue. “So, of course, we gathered it all back in our central library, and then we brought all the most esteemed leaders and researchers and histories together for a good ole brawl!”

“You… brawled.”

“Why, of course! How else are you supposed to settle a dispute?”

“With words.”

“Well, true, we are doing that right now,” he admitted somewhat timidly, as if the thought had never crossed his mind before. Yet, he was insistent. He brought his hand by his eyes, where it was now visible. “But you can mince words. You cannot mince fisticuffs!” He clumped his hand into a ball, which could have been taken as a threat if the man had not described it as a fisticuff beforehand. “Fisticuffs leave marks, and you have to be certain of where you leave your marks. Speaking of!” He brought his other hand down, leaving the documents on the table. “All marks, signatures, and appropriate regalia are accounted for.”

“Cool.”

“Very!” He affixed his bowtie. His mom would be very proud. “Now, in fairness, none of us had noticed that mistake. We did try the usual channels, but nothing was procured, and we had assumed that our librarians had filed our histories and stories and discoveries to the Commons for proper documentation and categorization. But, as it was proven fairly recently…” He shuddered to utter any more words; he already missed his tooth from the last signature, and he would not make the same mistake twice.

He went back to smiling widely instead. She looked at him exasperated.

“So, you would like to file a complaint about missing Common knowledge then?”

He nodded. “And if possible, I would like our stories to go on record too. I have them all here, stamped and signed and all – ready to be inserted at once!”

“I would like to remind you, sir,” she interrupted, “that I am not in charge of the content to be found inside the Commons. I only take the queries and requests; the rest will be passed along to our esteemed Content Writers.”

He came to a halt. His brain screeched as if he had ran into a deer in the middle of the road on a snowy night, and there was sleet on the ground. His carcass would be collected by the barrier as he uttered his next words. “Then, why did they send me here?”

“I don’t know, sir. Wouldn’t be the first time Dolores skipped on trying to do her job either.”

“Wait, who’s Dolores?”

She lowered her gaze. “A bitch.” She pushed her glasses back on and was about to lean over her microphone, but he pushed it away, putting his hand over the device and with puppy-like eyes he stared at her, pitifully pathetically. It was a combination she still found unnerving.

“Please,” he said, “where else can I take this? At least, can I offer you these documents, can you,” he said holding as many of the pieces could be withheld from spilling on the floor. One was already half-eaten by the dispatched robotic floor cleaner, still bopping against his shoe which desperately needed cleaning. “Our stories are worth telling! To reduce us down to one word, to disregard everything so completely, it’s just…”

He stopped. Unable to find the right words, he just kept staring at the papers on his hands. His eyes softened, his muscles relaxed. He sighed wearily, a resignation of knowledge accumulated and of knowledge lost, of mistakes that lead to further mistakes that cascade into omissions and forgetfulness.

The clerk pushed her glasses back up. She detached the pen from the bone of her glasses and started writing down on the slip she had procured earlier. The slip notice called for a correction. She wrote the name of the planet, and its singular description for ease of access by the writing staff. She raised her hand, waiting for the man to turn in the dossier with the leftover papers. He complied, if a bit clumsily, but she was prepared for the mess anyway.

And as she accepted, she turned to look back at him. Then back on the slip, with the paper documentation back in front of her. She struck out the single lone word that provided the descriptor with three rigid, thick, haphazard lines. In its place she wrote two new ones.

Mostly harmless.

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #defiler

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electrospherevaults · 3 months

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Today's Friday Short will be arriving tomorrow; tight time schedules from real life happenings and shenanigans, stay tuned!

2024 Friday Writing Challenge Masterpost

Stories list:

Imbalance

Coming Friday 19/1!

[To read my other stories, check here]

#2024 Friday Stories #my writing #letsrevince

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electrospherevaults · 4 months

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Imbalance

[Find other stories from the 2024 Friday Writing Challenge here]

“What do you want to see most in the world?”

She looked up to the skies. They were filled with stars, shining distant and bright, dancing alongside waves of lights that graced the atmosphere above their heads. You could not see them that easily back home, even if the home itself was remote and the skies were a deep dark that allowed the mysticism of the cosmos to unravel above you – tendrils exploding in a canvas of deep golds and bright greens. Aurora borealis, was it not? She never paid enough attention at school.

She sat by him next to the tall grass, a rushing river just below their feet, and the bridge just a few klicks away. It was not a long walk to the village, but a longer one to the rooftop of his place. And even longer to the next town over. There was a bus station there. Well, there were in fact two but only one mattered. That one had an old man stationed, grumpy as they come, perpetually stuck at least three days from retirement since she met him on his first day at work seven years ago. He would stare at the calendar and mark the days the charter busses would come about, the ones that went out of Isorropa and into the greater territory. Benefits of living near the border – it held more opportunities for escaping its clutches.

She did escape once. It was during one of the field trips with her own mother. They were as close as they come, her upbringing by a travelling saleswoman, crafting jewelry and cutlery, and pretty little golden trinkets, instilling the sense of wander she felt for this world. And on that day she got lost, she wandered all the way to the city centre, and she saw a cosmodrome with her own two eyes. A slingshot to outer space. A gateway. She tuned everything away, just sitting by idly, watching chemtrails pierce the skies, leaving her behind. Her mother was not very happy about leaving her behind either.

She soon found out all things shined just about the same to the people outside; they were the ones that could pay for pieces of art they saw fittingly exotic and mystical, all whilst unable to tell a keyring chain that joined and showcased familial love to an engraved earring that indicated lustful passion. This one symbolized love and had to be worn on the left ear, that one with the chain was about family and you both had to wear it. Times were not tougher than usual, and you could always use a little shine in your life. Now, come along, come along now dear sir, dear madam! Do not cheapen out!

They always cheapened out.

Her village by the border had its own problems; too many fields to tend, not enough hands to work them. But gold shined as both a mineral and a grain, and their fields stood tall next to the grass. A dance of gold and green, not much unlike the stars she observed above her head. Unlike them, these fields were finite. She could count them, and not lose track. The border never shrunk. It never moved. More of those gentle giants outside would trickle in as the years passed her by. It was said to not be easy to live in those big cities of the towns beyond, but when you see the pretty dresses, the fancy cars, the wide roads with tarmac and brick, and the tall buildings, it does leave you wondering what kind of problems led them away. And they, bulky and large as they come, had tender hands that the fields welcomed.

A family of theirs moved close enough by. His rooftop stood next to an old tall tree, same one her mother used to climb as a kid, and it overlooked the entire valley. It was not big by any of the means that came to indicate wealth or status – it was just an abandoned old oak that could have used the renovation. They did become friends, and she did offer him an earring – a token of their friendship – and she would come visit often, late at nights when the lights were out below, and the lights were out above. They would sit on plastic molded chairs, their backs laying across with an endless sight to behold and a kettle of tea brewing; a more then perfect companion for discussions of existence, passion, understanding, identity. They would discuss the universe frequently, it laying so effortlessly overhead. He appreciated its beauty, but it was too big for him. Too vast. Too chaotic. Datrakan, his home, his planet, was enough. Maybe she could be enough too.

She thought otherwise.

She stared back down now, looking at her own two feet, firmly planted in the soft soil, whose colour now they matched. Her arms, blackening similarly as you would go about lower and lower from the collarbone to the fingertip, shimmered by the moonlight, as did the waters in front of her eyes. Both reflected a fate she could not deny.

She turned to look back at him.

“More.”

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction #defiler

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electrospherevaults · 4 months

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2024 Friday Writing Challenge Masterpost

Stories list:

Imbalance

Mostly Harmless

A Dance With My Clone

Sorry About The Inconvenience

Friends And Foes

Blossoming a wilder flower

Coming Friday 5/4!

[To read my other stories, check here]

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #writing #short fiction

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electrospherevaults · 4 months

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2024 Friday One-Shots Announcement (and other news)

Good evening everyone! As I was researching the calendar yesterday, and noticed my birthday falls on a Friday. This year also has 52 Fridays total, starting tomorrow. For the new year, I will be aiming to write a new short story every week of the year; they will probably be at around 1k words each, and will be posted at 6:43pm (UTC+2) each Friday. I wish to challenge myself and to be able to put in some consistent writing all year around.

This challenge was inspired by the creative output of an artist I follow, who recently announced her achievement of completing a year-long each-day-a-new-drawing challenge. She skipped a couple days, but she still ended w 350 new drawings started - and crucially not every drawing was finished, nor will some ever be finished.

In addition to this main goal, the scope of the main story I worked on in 2023, Defiler, has expanded since I started working on the second draft. As such, you can expect to hear more about this world, and maybe some of the short stories will take place in this universe.

Expect stories to commerce from next week!

#2024 Friday Stories #letsrevince #my writing #defiler #who knows what else to tag it as tbh lol - i just hope i get to do it

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electrospherevaults · 4 months

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Defiler - Chapter 0

[Click here to read the rest of the Defiler story]

The Barrens, One Last Time

In the olden days, it was said that the Astrid Republic boasted a membership of four hundred and thirteen star systems. An endless expanse from one arm of the galaxy to the other; an empire that claimed itself to be humane, kind and resourceful. It was in the name after all – how can an empire be a bad thing once it has taken the mantle of calling itself a republic?

…They were lies, of course. Damned lies, the lot of them, but they made for a nice story.

And, if anything, He loved his tales.

He bestowed that knowledge onto me. I am living with this memory now, one amidst many – too many, if you ask me. I watched His carcass burn upon impact. I watched the crater where he lied expand, creating rifts in His wake, and cracks which the sands have yet to fill. The Fallen Gorge; that’s what I’ve heard people call it. Quite a silly name, but I hear it’s catching on with its intended audience, so I won’t be complaining. Tabora is my planet and my home, and it is still whole, bearing just one more scar of one more battle it never sought to fight; of one more battle it never knew it was fighting; and of one more battle it never (and would never) agree into fighting.

But a home is a home, and it still stands, wrinkles, cracks, stains and all.

What more can you ask for at the end of the day, on a home where the sun never sets?

To see the stars?

I mean, duh!

Somehow this desire still lives. I do not know whether it is something within me, or within Him, that keeps this flame alive. Nevertheless, Zysso put a good word out for me; he is the inheritor of an empire now, one he is coming to terms with accepting and commanding. We attended his father’s funeral back in Y’Trage. For as sombre as it was, I could not help myself; a promise that was uttered only in death was kept.

We did fly together in the end after all.

It is weird to have friends in high places. Weird to have friends that died in your arms a lifetime ago now hug you tightly. Friends that should have stayed dead exclaiming hopes for the future. I did manage to save them all. “All” is probably doing some heavy lifting – Zysso’s dad is still dead, Jean-Michel du Rembrandt and the King are both gone. But I saved my friends, and my family, and my planet. No easy task for a ratlung that’s yet to learn how to fly, if you ask me.

How long has it been now? Months? Weeks? Maybe just a couple days, but it can’t have been that little. I know I slept as much though, that much is true; mom will still tease me fondly whenever I’m late in waking up. The haziness of time remains, and yet I can recall and recreate every single detail in pristine perfection, as if my mind committed my memories to film, taking snapshots at everything and anything that occurred, to document it all in a library existing entirely within me. Memories both mine and His.

He longed to return back home. To meet with His brethren, to fulfil His higher purpose – a purpose I found to seek new homes for His people, to populate them, to let them thrive so that the astrids could live long and prosper longer. A galactic embrace, so as they say.

The Astrid Republic died seventy-eight years ago. Wait, no, it died seventy-eight years ago! The Astrid Republic died seven- ugh.

Well, I know the truth. The exact date lists it so much longer ago, but something within me will not let me say it out loud, or type it down. It is a memory I share that is locked, and I am afraid to discover what other memories I will retain for myself alone. The home He was seeking was long gone; even if He escaped, what my mind assumes is that He would simply roam back to his birthplace, find the maps corrupted, the planet lost, and thus prompted to wander towards a random planet as per protocol. Rinse and repeat until home was found again.

I am not aware if this is a fault in how the Maker was made, or if this is something He Himself came up with to cope with His existence having no longer a purpose to serve.

Of course, He did have a purpose to serve – to us, the planet and the creatures He raised.

But gods like Him don’t concern themselves with squishy bugs I hazard.

Nevertheless, Tabora stands when the astrids do not. So do His memories. So do mine. Each one recorded clearly and perfectly, and recalled without hesitation. And I can feel that happening every waking moment now. I call Friga and she tells me all about the wild trips she had out in the desert. She mixes and pieces together different events from other days she lived, events she likely forgot she had already told me a prior time, and I recognize those pieces; I still have not found it apt to call them out, her excitement is too cute to reel back in. She tells me of Jaksy, of her mom, of Jaksy’s mom – their names Belit and Kruga respectively – of how she and Jaksy are planning on coming to the Strip, of how we should go out for drinks. I recall the night she threw up after just two beers and I wince, then I tell her how great an idea it will be and how I will wait them with the next caravan to arrive. Their caravan will be arriving back from the trip to the Maker in fact today, after a gruesome week of travelling. The defilers, who once sought to connect with Him through his body, now only find his bones bleached naked by the sun He stopped in time. I have not asked Jaksy yet how she feels about our dearly departed Maker, but whenever I see Friga light up on the subject of the new pilgrimages, Jaksy extinguishes. Out of courtesy, I try to change the subject.

It is weird to know He is dead and does not speak anymore. Weirder still to find a way to explain to your friends the extent of how He defined our lives in ways that were much more reaching and controlling than any of us, even the most fervently religious among us, believed to know. He was a weaver, a storyteller, and He had his rules. Once you defied these rules, these rules of the narrative that was written, these rules the living had to follow, it became messy.

I wonder still what repercussions I will face for saving my friends from the fate He planned for them. And I don’t know if I will have the guts to tell him of how he died once in my arms next time we meet; a meetup that also is coming next week. He did say he wanted to accompany me to the next academy exams after all. I was like “Zysso, are you crazy? It is so expensive!” and he responded with a mere “Well, I do own an entire fleet now.”

Like I said, it’s weird to have friends in high places.

Beneficial too; I hope I can make it this time. If they cut me, I’ll just turn up to the officer, say “Hey I saved your asses back then, give me a break!” and hopefully that’ll be enough! Otherwise, Zysso has the money too. I recall drinking wine back on the ship to Tabora, him asking me if I would still like to be a cosmonaut. I just stared out of the window, sometimes looking at him through the reflection, but mostly just staring out towards the stars. I feel that answered his question handsomely. I would not hesitate to ask him to help me, I think.

But Mom says I shouldn’t. She is right – but also, don’t I deserve a little break? A treat even?

Heh, maybe I am beginning to sound like him more and more. I should tackle it on merit.

I’m sure the Maker will smile on me when the moment comes, bleached bones and all.

I don’t know why I am writing any of this today. I never managed to keep much of a diary, buying journals and leaving them half unfinished after the first couple of pages. It feels different today. Maybe it was not just the desire to ascend that I inherited from Him; maybe the weaving of tales, of real fantasies and fantastical stories, and the need to will them into existence through my own narration is another. I don’t think I possess the power to bend time and space like He did. No, I do not believe I do – He did say the powers He bestowed began with Him and ended with Him. But I cannot say I do not believe I don’t either. It is silly, I know, and not something worth pondering about, yet I lie awake on my bed and reach out for the stars on my ceiling, harking back to the star I reached once upon a time that Zysso pointed out for me.

Not my Zysso of course, His Zysso; the one in the dream that now seems like lifetimes both ago and far ahead. I still remember the feeling of touching a burning ball of fire that glows in the embrace of the darkness of space, only for it to sparkle on my hand, tiny and puny and nothing. Just a pretty little thing, a pretty little thing that attracts planets that host creatures that live lives full of joy and pain from their births to their demises.

I dream about that a lot.

Then I wake up, go to the kitchen, and have some blue milk.

This is another thing that haunts me. I still wonder what He had put into the milk He had fixed for me. I still ponder if I would be here now, looking back at my mom preparing eggs for breakfast inside our kitchen, humming the same tune she cooked up decades ago, when granny Jasmin first taught her how to master the fire and the pan. The crack that runs along the window meanwhile is new, created from the day He fell back. On particularly windy days, sand blows inside; momma has me clean it up near immediately, even if we know not but five minutes later more dust will swoop in because we got a damn hole in the wall of our home.

Maker bless her heart. You failed to kill her, and now she is killing me, and I could not have been happier.

I cried so much the moment I returned home back to the surface and back to our home. We embraced for so long until I fell asleep in her arms, hearing her reassuringly call my name. My real name. I am Mallik. Daughter of Zenit, daughter of Jasmin the Defiant. The Mallik of Tabora. The name I embraced.

Once I woke up again later, I told momma everything. Of the Maker, of His dreams, of granny Jasmin and how He used her to speak to me. Of how we got inside Him, of how He took me away, of how He awakened.

And then, of how I was able to save everyone. To go back, to slip before he knew of the control I exalted, to help in the ambush he put up for us. Lionelli and Amateracci were not meant to survive originally. Instead, He wounded them heavily, to drive the impact further of what devotion allowed you to suffer through.

They are both fine now, to my knowledge. Sadly, neither of them have reached out to me since our bidding goodbye to each other back on the planet’s surface. Lionelli, I think, was the most hurt that I did not decide to join them; I only told her to embrace Analussa the way she really wanted. She turned red, and not because of the sun, whilst Amateracci only laughed, confirming her suspicions. I do not know if they discussed it further, or if Lionelli still hides it. I am no god after all; only a ratlung.

And this ratlung saved her friends. I stopped the being that was to hurt Amateracci, the one that Zysso dived in front of to take the hit instead. Zysso saved me back, firing his weapon on another being that was never meant to be there originally. And, together, we stopped three more of them that lunged towards Jaksy and Friga, collapsing them into pure mirror shards. I never expected Friga to be this good at fighting.

And once we were done, I led them to the escape bay. We unlocked the same shuttle, the one the Maker had prepared for just Lionelli and Amateracci, and we shot into space. I watched from the porthole, counting down the seconds to His obliteration. He fell on Tabora, almost cracked in half, burning from even before His entry.

Mom did not like the tale much. She dropped her glass on the floor, her hands shaking too much from the realization of her kid nearly having died inside the thing she called her god all those years.

After the funeral, and upon arriving back to Tabora, I decided to take a trip. Zysso was still around, and I convinced him to tag along. We still had at my home granny Jasmin’s old windwaker, the one she used just for herself. It was a tight fit for two people, what with one of us not being a ratlung, but we made it work.

I travelled back to the Barrens. To Anderson’s Crater. I stood by the edge, feet now not bare unlike before, and looked down. For as much damage as Tabora had taken from the Maker’s second planetfall, Anderson’s looked the same as before. Same hills and bumps, same rocks scattered by the basin. Same dangerous drop inside, where if you fell, the likelihood of survival decreased the more meters you tumbled down.

“You ever think of going down there?” Zysso asked me.

“You don’t?”

“Not really my style, climbing down big holes in the ground.”

“I wonder what kind of animals live here. Is it as hot as on the surface, at the lip we’re standing, or does the sheer size turn the inside better?”

“Well, I know some geography, and-“

“Don’t ruin the moment, dude!” I bumped him with my fist against his shoulder, laughing. He laughed back, nodding. He took off his sunglasses, and almost blinded himself from the glare of the sands. A boy so clumsy should not have been this good a pilot.

I stared at the crater. I looked down to its centre. My fingers grasped onto my scarf; still the same crimson red my granny adorned. I felt the thread with my tips, rustling from the neckbone where it rested up to my cheeks. Zysso noticed me, but he did not say anything.

I began unwrapping it from my head. Each circle a history unwrapping in front of me. I felt the sunrays hit my face, to embrace my hair. The heat was felt more and more prominently with each layer removed. And then, in the end, I held it all in my hand. A clenched fist, raised against the horizon, a crimson scarf dancing with the desert winds. An intricate dance that my body, my family, my name belonged to. Granny Jasmin had another prayer for such occasions.

Sadly, I have to say, I have forgot that one. I unclasped my fist.

Zysso followed with his eyes the trip my scarf made, swooping around the edges before gaining air and diving into the crater, rushing from left to right and swerving just centimetres from the ground; and yet, it never got stuck, it never fell, it never broke its dance.

Granny Jasmin would have loved it, I think; she would have called it a sign from the Maker Himself. I would like to agree.

I turned to Zysso after our eyes could no longer track it. “Do you want to pilot the waker back home?”

“Sure, that’d be fun!”

“Just don’t crash into any of the rocks on the way. Shit’s expensive, you know.”

“Ah, drat, and here I was thinking of doing exactly that…”

He smiled at me. I winked back. “Eventually.”

Such, after all and forever still, will be life out in the Barrens.

#defiler #my writing #nanowrimo 2021 #nanowrimo wip #original fiction #sci fi

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electrospherevaults · 4 months

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Defiler - Chapter 27

[Click here to read the rest of the Defiler story]

Forget Me Not, Shattered One

Oh Holy Maker,

blessed be Your sands

for I walk on You,

blessed be Your sun

for I walk under You,

blessed be Your earth

for I walk with You.

Today I visit You

to pay respects

to the world You…

the world You…

They say creation is followed by destruction, and destruction begets creation. That the two are the two sides of the same coin. And it’s true – I am your creation, as much as I am the result of your destruction. You tore everything up in order to build it all over again, and you built a world that was to be everything to us; a nourishing god in seas of aridity. A beacon of hope amidst obliteration. A Maker of Living where Death stood.

It’s weird to realize I would not exist had it not been for all the death that came before me.

Granny Jasmin had a prayer she once taught me. She taught me lots of prayers, of course; she was that kinda person, a true believer as ones would call her. But when I was young, and when I’d stand outside, by the canopy of our tent, staring longingly at the horizon, witnessing where You stood and trying to see how long I could last before my eyes started hurting, this prayer made me believe that I too was destined to be a defiler like her. I did not know what words meant back then, and I never realized how awful a meaning our word carried. But to me all it meant was that I too could reach for you, to become greater than the woman I felt destined to become. She possessed the same kindness I believed you held for us.

I believed you. I believed you to nourish us into who we are. To protect us from harm, even if we were spat upon, trampled down, taken away and separated. Your deserts welcomed us, where everyone else sought to use us and abuse us.

But really, you were no different than them. Our namesake was, in the end, very apt. Because I cannot give you the satisfaction of a happy ending, Maker.

And for that, as much as you created me, so much I will destroy you.

Forget Me Not, Shattered One

............three of them crossed the threshold again, stepping back onto where they once were before. Room well-kept and shiny and beige-white, as it was left. And by the wall, next to a bench, Zysso, Jaksy and Friga stood, still terrified of where their friends had been going, as they passed a door on the opposite wall. The door closed, and any traces of its existence went away with it.

“Oh,” Zysso commented, “so you just teleported?”

“What do you mean?” Amateracci asked, confused.

“You left through this door,” Friga pointed out, “just seconds ago! And now you’re here!”

Time passes differently around here.

They all turned around at the sound of…

“You should not have been-“

Bang.

Heh, didn’t expect a finger gun to actually work.

This wasn’t meant to happen, Mallik.

I know.

What are you doing out here? You’re scaring them.

I don’t think I am. Can’t you see, Maker? They are hugging me right now. They got tears on their faces, crying tears of joy. Why would they cry so much in relief if Your machine was indeed the guide they sought? Instead, the machine was who had been scaring them; obeying out of fear, knowing already the vicious fight that awaited should they pick up their guns again like before, with foes that remained undefeated until they left arbitrarily for seemingly no reason at all.

But we both know what the reasoning was. This subjugation worked, and they followed down the path you laid. Willingly.

Until now.

Because, in the end Holy Maker, I am who they had been looking for this entire time. Their faces betray that. They are full of joy, of elation, and of relief, and they each hug me tight and close, with kisses on the cheeks and on the foreheads, as you taught us to be our customs.

It is the display of the most base emotion we all possess, Holy Maker. Love.

The likes of which you only witness after the darkest moments of your life are put to rest. Even, if momentarily. Even, if a small relief.

I thought you would be happy for them? Isn’t that what you had in mind for your main cast after all, dear Maker?

…Yes, that is right.

Then, what is your issue?

It is not how I had planned for it to be carried out.

Narratives are rarely so static and stagnant, don’t you find?

No, they are not. Yet, they possess rules. Guidelines. Definitions. A narrative is a fickle thing, as you should know by now – because I cannot see any other reason for you to be dillydallying around, shooting people dead, without expecting consequences to rear up at the next turn of the tale. At least, you seem to know a lot more now, Mallik – or should I call you by your true name?

Tabora? You do insist upon this name for me. I never got to ask you why.

Curious. Then maybe you do not know as much as you claim to know.

I never claimed anything. You are the one in charge of this grand narrative you try to weave.

And I am just a child, running with scissors.

Tabora, cut it out already! What are you…

…why…

…I remember. You actually know a lot more.

And you’ve already tried to do a lot more. Pity; it will not work.

I will make it work.

How? You sent only but a single squadron inside of me, comprised of just three wings, one of whom was damaged; the same one did not even survive the trench run – did you mean to create narrative tension, or were you just being optimistic in how much gusto they possessed? Still, you thought three measly cosmonauts could knock on my door and then proceed to knock me off my feet. But I can simply swing my arm, clap my hands together, even bring down the rolled up newspaper depending on how annoyed and ferocious I am feeling about them – because they’re naught but tiny squishy bugs, and ones I already took care of the moment you let your guard down. As you bore witness.

A mosquito cannot kill God, Mallik.

Only revere, correct?

Correct. And bugs that come too close to the light they worship are burnt.

It is their nature to burn after all.

If it’s our nature to burn, why are you so eager to light up the matches?

I’ve seen the wreckages. I’ve felt their pain – of the three I handpicked, and of the nine thousand cosmonauts fighting You outside and inside, and of the twenty-seven million people down on the planet’s surface watching their homeworld collapse with not a signle clue why. I have felt their pain, and their grieving. I still fail to see what your goal is.

To weave tales, my child! Tales of my Daughter, of my Tabora, of OUR journey! I have told you so. Time and time and time upon time again. The narrative is but a light in the darkness that we traverse. Stories are what keep us alit.

And your story is special – I wouldn’t invite you if it was not, yet you keep trying to cut it down with the pair of scissors you possess for brains.

What use is a story if all it leads towards is suffering? What are you even trying to say amidst all this; you just use us for a plot you got no idea how to finish, other than with more death, more blood, more suffering! And all for what?!

You wanted me to be part of Your Narrative. To join you up in Your Heaven, to help weave Your Tales.

Did you ever bother to ask yourself how I felt about all this?

…No.

And don’t you find that wrong, you son of a bitch?

Also no.

Huh?!

“Mallik, are you okay?!”

They are calling for you by the way, Mallik. Your friends, the ones who you claim they love you. Don’t neglect them. Life is a precious thing that so easily can be taken away.

What are you…

No.

NO!

“NO!” she cried as the battle drew to a close. The walls, lavished in red, emblazed in chrome, decorated with burning holes, remained unshifted. The chromatic apparitions, the Astrids Lionelli and Amateracci had so much been taught about, were not going to stop, but there was only so much two trained maidens and a bunch of children could stop all at once. For now, however, there was respite from the onslaught. Mallik finally seemed to had snapped out of it, whatever it was that put her in this trance; her face red, her breathing laborious, her shock evident.

“Mallikka,” Lionelli said, grasping onto her right eyesocket, its contents missing as that enemy earlier had taken another swipe at her, even though she had blasted its arms and torso away with the rest of her clip. “Are. You. Okay?”

“I don’t think so,” Mallik replied, stifling a scream that punctured her lungs. “He is trying to kill us!”

“Who?”

“The Maker, who the fuck else?!”

“That’s been evident for a while now,” Friga commented, no joy left to be found in her voice like usual; she was tending to the gnashing wound Jaksy suffered from in the altercation earlier. Purple streaks of jaldari blood soaked her shirt, running lines across the seams to her waist, and then falling below. The young jaldari herself was biting her lips; as much as it was true that these mighty warriors can withhold pain a thousand times more painful than you can possibly imagine, they too cry. She held her head down, trying to will the fate to continue, and to not concern her friends with what awaited her, or them by further extrapolation. Not like it was not in everyone’s mind.

“Where is Amateracci?” Mallik asked, as the second maiden could not be spotted anywhere. Then, her gaze steeled, her teeth grit. “Where is Zysso?”

Lionelli pointed down the hallway. Mallik shoved her out of the way, leaping practically with each step, claws drawn out, as she rushed to their side. Amateracci, holding onto her gun with her right hand, trying to pressure the wound on her good arm whilst the armour’s self-treatments kicked in, chuckled. Her green armour soaked in red and green. Cradled, in her arms, was the friend you made along the way, Mallik of Tabora.

“No…” Mallik fell to her knees. Zysso stared out into space from the holes in the walls that kept fading in and out, with each stray bullet that managed to connect with the structure.

Onto my body.

Galaxies of stars, twinkling amidst the explosions. A sight for sore eyes indeed. And his eyes were so very sore. He coughed weakly, drawing a breath that visibly hurt.

And he turned to look at you. A warm smile carved across his face.

“Hey, you’re still up!”

Mallik crouched, smiling back weakly, placing her hand gently across his cheek.

“Of course. But I let you fall down.”

“It was sudden, we had no time.” A cough, spittle mixed with some more blood. A punctured lung inside. You could sense it, even if the surface appeared pristine.

“Don’t blame yourself Mallik.”

But his requests would fall onto deaf ears.

“I’m sorry, Zysso.”

“You don’t got to be.”

“You’re dying.”

“Heh. Think my dad will be mad?”

“I will be too, you fucking dolt!”

A voice broke, a whimper badly withheld. He raised his arm from his wound and he held onto the hand you had been resting upon his face. The hands touched tenderly, quivering.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to fly, Mallik.”

Then the hand fell.

“Do not weep for this one, child. You will die a thousand deaths like his before you are finally laid to rest.”

Amateracci laid her hand on Mallik’s shoulder. Mallik, who now had Zysso’s blood on her hands, did not move. She only turned to look back at him, staring into eyes that no longer could meet hers. Then, those eyes closed, aided by Amateracci’s gentle movement. She put him gently on the ground, letting his body rest whilst his spirit wandered with the stars beyond the confines. She then wiped a tear off her own face, before she offered her good hand, now steady and functioning again, pumped full of anabolic and aided with what remained of the musculoskeletal system.

Zysso Lofr’atek passed away on a nameless planet on an unremarkable day. Son of a chairman who too would be forgotten by time. A cruel death for a child that only sought to traverse amidst the stars. The witnesses were few; Maidens Lionelli and Amateracci of Wrethella; Friga, daughter of Bellit, and Jaksy Krugason, defilers of the planet Eonov; and Mallik, daughter of Zenit, daughter of Jasmin the Defiant. His memory was to forever haunt whatever remained of their lives, stuck within a structure that simply offered no exit for anyone.

But Mallik had a plan. As she always did. And the plan was…

…you genuinely are that stunned?

I do not know why he grew to be so important to you – but I can save him, Mallik of Tabora.

I can save them all, if that is what you wish for your tale.

“What?” Mallik hastened laboriously, turning her head left and right. Once again, her friends were frozen in time, as if someone had pressed pause on the videotape, and-

“For FUCK’S sake, cut it with the prose!”

She stood up. She wiped the tears off her face, blood smearing the edges in their place.

“What do you want of me?”

You know what I-

Say it.

To abandon your name.

You are Tabora.

I am Mallik.

You will lose him if you remain Mallik.

You will save him if you embrace Tabora.

Fuck you!

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

Fuck. You.

Why do you hold onto an identity that up until yesterday you lamented? An identity that meant so little to you?

I am offering you so much more, Tabora! Godhood! The ability to manipulate time AND space! To forge your own tales as you see fit!

You want Zysso? You can have him! So many like him, and so much of him, and to take him in all ways your mind can conceive! You want your mother? You can lock her in time, in your own special place, and visit her whenever the time comes for a trip back to the maternal embrace we all so desperately crave as we grow older and weaker and lonelier!

I am offering you everything.

Why do you insist upon rejecting me still? Why do you insist upon rejecting your destined fate?

If I am so fucking frustrating to you, why don’t you let me DIE then like them?!

Why am I so fucking special to you? What did I do to deserve your obsession over me? I am just a ratlung who couldn’t even get into the damn space academy! There are thousands like me! Millions I fucking bet!

What is so special about ME, Maker? ANSWER ME!

WHAT IS IT?!

Nothing.

I… Huh.

You were at the right place at the wrong time. So was your grandmother Jasmin. Sometimes destiny is as simple as that. The ties that bind us together rarely make sense – we just untangle them and make sense of the combs that came to be after the fact. Knots that speak of chance, that speak of fate, that speak of happenstance and luck, both good and bad. You are still standing unhurt and unharmed, when all your friends are on their last leg and destined to depart, much like your most favoured one.

And I, a benevolent god that has been so ever patient with YOU, am offering the chance to save them – and even undo a whole death, even if I and you both will get into trouble for that. But before we do that, I do need a favour from you. Because right now there is one more scene that I need the maidens to act out. One last knot to untie, one last unbinding to free them from their shackles, and to allow them to depart their prisons. Much like you allowed me.

I see. Alright then.

When is the scene?

Hm, you are getting smarter. I am glad you understand the maidens are meant to survive your ordeal.

It is later, after the battle, after our ascendance. You figure out a plan of escape. Of the five, only two make it out – and those maidens travel back to the royal palace in Solaria, to announce of the fleet’s defeat and of the planet’s shattering. And they are to hear of the treason, and of the demise, of their head maiden.

And you will achieve this goal – setting them free – by killing off their mistress?

Her Most Esteemed Lady Serenessi, that is correct.

I am sensing a pattern in your storytelling, Maker. But I do have to ask – why?

Why should she die for a belief you instilled in her?

That is the nature of conflict, dear Tabora. Every villain needs a motive, and every hero needs a foil. We would not be able to tell our tales, were they not for the friction we have to fight against. And both Lionelli, and Amateracci to a lesser extent, need to finally learn how to swim. Their destinies do not die here inside me. They instead will learn to go against the flow of the river of fate. Their fate is marred by blood and fighting, but so had been the rest of their lives.

At least now they will be able to fight for something greater – themselves.

The tales we weave are not just ours. They are theirs too. We just help stir them towards where they will be useful-

To us.

If it helps you, then yes.

What happens to Jaksy and Friga?

Your friends? Jaksy is too wounded to go; Friga is too attached to let go. They willingly buy time for you to reach the escape shuttle. They will not be forgotten, if that is your concern – not with you still alive. Not with you ascending alongside me.

It is why you leave Lionelli and Amateracci behind too. They protest, they yell, they cuss at you – but you close the doors behind them, and are ejected into space, with a distress beacon that gets picked up by late-arriving reinforcements. By the time they are picked up, We have left.

By the time they arrived in Solaria, news of the King’s demise had spread. The failure of his campaign, the knowledge that a new starchild has awakened and is loose in the galaxy frightened even the most secured and the most vain and the most self-absorbed. Lionelli sensed the tension in the air amidst the royal guard, a stunned stillness not befit of such elite. Their posture betrayed a great reckoning.

In one fell swoop, King Arcuturus not only rid the galaxy of his greatest enemy and friend, but also of its greatest tactician, and its most important ruler. The galaxy, the kingdom, was beheaded.

All that would follow was the mad swaying of a headless corpse falling from horseback.

Amateracci bumped shoulders quietly with her comrade, whispering in husked tones. “Do you think Serenessi made it out alive?” She shook her head. “Then I guess things are about to get real interesting for all of us left alive.”

“Maybe we should have chosen death and defied Mallik.”

“We are too stubborn to die, Lionelli. I am high as shit, and still my mind thinks of all the escapes and all the weapons pointing at us in this room. A Maiden cannot choose, even when it comes to death, I guess.”

Lionelli chuckled. “I guess.”

The ship docked onto the cosmodrome. The white banners, adorned with the blue emblem of the fawn were gone already. Only black masts remained in their place. The station was quiet. Only the rhythmic yet frantic steps could be heard echoing down hallways for miles and miles. Nobody talked, nobody made eye contact. Nobody had to say anything more than what needed to be said; an acknowledgement, a typical salute, a request for clearance and access. The maidens knew the way to the bridge, and could have gone there on their own.

Instead, they were led to the brig. An admiral, adorning a mourning uniform, greeted them without much fanfare.

“I take the circumstances are dire, officer?”

“You will speak once ordered to, ratlung.”

Amateracci growled. “Tough crowd I see.”

“Your order,” the admiral spat out with venom behind his teeth, “has been accused with treason. Your leader, her Most Esteemed Lady Serenessi, was charged, and promptly executed-“

“Serenessi is dead?” Lionelli said, shocked. A shock that took even Amateracci by surprise.

“What did I tell you, ratlung?” A soldier from behind butted the back of the rifle they were carrying against Lionelli’s back. She bent, but she did not fall, and stood up again.

“So, as I was saying, your leader has been executed for treason against the King Arcuturus, may he rule forever after in the Seven. You are, to our knowledge, the last veterans remaining in the order – how do you plead?”

“Plead on what, Admiral?” Amateracci asked.

“Of your order’s treason?”

“We never broke our vows. Put out your truth-teller, but anybody we sworn fealty to – we carried out to the end. Ask my comrade, she will assure you.”

A blue light was cast down. It blinded Amateracci for a moment, then it was gone. A voice came on the speaker. She was telling the truth, it decreed. The admiral, frustratedly satisfied, whisked the assistant away. Amateracci was allowed to step away.

“And what about you, Maiden of Wrethella?”

“I swore fealty to the King, and Lady Wrethella. My vows are to them both, like my comrade’s. We acted according to their wills, and we followed them to the end.”

The admiral nodded. The same blue light shined down upon Lionelli.

It turned red.

“You’ve broken your vows, haven’t you?”

Lionelli looked at her friend, tears starting to form.

“I did, Amateracci!”

She stood there, broken.

“I love her. I could not not love her.”

Amateracci knew what this meant. Every Maiden has a sacred vow, a vow that is taken in the name of Lady Wrethella, and in the name of wrath. A vow of complete and utter obedience to the Most Esteemed Lady. A vow to the Maiden who, when all the men laid slain around Her, Her righteous wrath saved the very galaxy at the tip of annihilation. A Maiden cannot have any other vows; not to any kings or generals, to herself or to anything else.

Not to anybody else.

Because a Maiden cannot choose.

To do so is treachery.

To do so is blasphemy.

To do so is betrayal.

There is only one remedy for a broken vow.

Amateracci raised her blaster. Lionelli kneeled, her last remaining eye wrecked with tears, sobbing peacefully at long last. She whispered her thanks to her friend, for listening, and for proving a better Maiden than she thought she would ever be. She closed her eyes and awaited the ringing that would seal her fate, and let Analussa ascend to her rightful place. She pictured her in her armour, glowing golden eyes reigning fear on those who deserved it, hope to those who sought otherwise. She smiled.

Amateracci fired her gun.

The Solarian fell to the ground, his lungs on the floor, emptying their last breath. She then fired at the other guard. His limb shattered by the might of a thousand bolts, broken like a used toothpick about to be discarded. He screamed as he fell down before his face was crashed under her bootheel.

“Get up, Lionelli,” Amateracci shouted, wrestling the rifle from the guard’s hands. “It is no time to die just yet.”

Lionelli opened up her eyes to the carnage. She struggled to get back up, her knees having given in as the prospect of her fate was seemingly sealed whilst her secrets laid out spilled in the open, along with the last of her spent strength. Instead, Amateracci offered her another path once more. She turned to look at her, who in turn threw the rifle at her. Lionelli’s instincts kicked in, and grabbed it in mid-air.

“Amateracci,” Lionelli called out, “what are you doing?!”

“Saving your lovely ass, my Lady.”

“Amateracci, what? No… Your vows, you can’t-”

“The only person I’ve sworn fealty was to you, Lionelli. Kings come and go, and Wrethella is long gone. If we don’t fight for each other, all we’ve done was for nothing.”

Nothing.

Do you understand now, Mallik of Tabora? Are you ready to embrace your role?

Will they live?

They are highly dangerous fugitives of an order whose leader betrayed the King. They will, so long as their bodies can take their way of living.

And their order?

The Maidens of Wrethella were always teetering on the cusp of betrayal. People will know they finally took the plunge.

So that means Analussa will also be on the run, like Lady Lionelli whom she tended.

And whom she fell in love with, yes.

Again, Maker – will they live?

It is their tale to weave, not ours.

Our goal is to return home. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I see.

I am glad you do.

(Even if it took you a while.)

I want to return home too.

…You already are home, Tabora.

We’ve been through this!

Come on now! Don’t keep wasting time going in circles!

Nah.

All I did was waste your time.

Tab-

[SYSTEM ERROR!] [MULTIPLE SYSTEM FAILURES DETECTED] [FAILSAFE PROTOCOLS FAILURE]

I think you fail to realize still that you are not the only man with agency.

Even if you think yourself a god.

The battle lasts twenty-four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. We are on minute twenty-three, and your thrusters are about to go offline.

But I-I killed your cosmonauts! I SUQASHED THEM!

You gave me godhood, remember?

All for merely accepting a name I do not even want to be called.

You are not the sole narrator anymore.

…

YOU.

IDIOT!

Heh.

You understand your powers derive FROM ME, right? Right? RIGHT? You will DIE-

And so will you.

Twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds. Cosmonaut Jean-Michel is making contact. Destination: Unknown.

Oh you absolutely know where he’s headed, you little shit!

Maybe!

Maybe not!

Memory’s a fickle thing. We remember moments in time, actions, words; a mother’s embrace, a grandmother’s prayer, a friend’s smile.

CUT IT OUT!

Aw, I thought you enjoyed my prose! Guess I’m not that good a co-narrator after all.

Either way, it’s Twenty-three minutes and fifty-four seconds now. The last remaining thrusters on the King’s vessel, the Starlink are magically operational. What a fitting name for a fellow creator, a fellow maker, who linked distant stars together to forge a kingdom! Now, King Arcuturus, the last King of the Kingdom of Solaria, who ruled for a hundred years and three days, is about to enshrine himself in a legend that will last a thousand times his lifetime.

He is aiming for-

Your heart, yes.

How did he know where to-

Are you really that dense?

…You whore.

Yeah, I’ve been called that lots. You made me a ratlung, remember?

Twenty-four minutes, just.

Impact.

Now!

I WILL NOT LET YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS, MALLIK YOU BITCH!

THERE IS MORE TO ME THAN MEETS THE EYE!

I WAS NOT ENTOMBED IN YOUR DEAD WORLD JUST TO RETURN BACK TO IT!

I WILL DRAG YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS DOWN WITH ME!

AND CRUSH YOUR PLANET IN HALF!

UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR YOU TO MOURN AS YOU SUFFOCATE IN SPACE!

I would like to see you try.

Twenty-four minutes and one.

The light from the heart dies. The explosion is catastrophic. It is the end. You know it.

Twenty-four minutes and seven.

Your tendrils expand. There is nothing near.

Twenty-four minutes and thirteen.

You realize too late the ships are already out of your reach. General J’Ardin’s evacuation, with the aid of Admiral Gustoffson, is a success.

Twenty-four minutes and nineteen.

You below one final cry. Nobody can hear you. They’re too busy shooting at you.

Twenty-four minutes and twenty-five.

Your carcass is riddled with bullet holes. From these, we make our escape – every single one of us. You disapprove one final time; I do not care.

Twenty-four minutes and thirty-one.

You are falling, now a burning wreckage. Admiral Gustoffson orders to cease fire.

Twenty-four minutes and thirty-seven.

The last silver bullet reaches you. You are dead; not big surprise.

And thusly Tabora, of the Eonov Family, breaks.

I would say I’d miss our little talks, but it would be a lie.

#defiler #my writing #nanowrimo 2021 #nanowrimo wip #original fiction #sci fi

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