glamourstories

[glamourstories]

The Fisherman of Fate

Frustrated, Cass slumped down by the pool. 

“No luck I take it?” The fisherman asked with a smile. Cass looked up at him but he didn’t look back, just remaining focussed on the task at hand.  

“What about you? Doesn’t look like you caught much either.” Cass tried again to get the fisherman’s attention, but he staunchly watched his line.  

“Fate wills what fate wills. Maybe I need a new tackle?” He asked rhetorically as Cass had no idea about fishing. 

“Fate, huh?” Cass laughed. “So, you think things will just work out in the end?” 

“That’s not how fate works. What will happen will happen, but that’s not to say we have no power.” The fisherman tugged on his line, creating small ripples in the water. 

Cass watched the water, motionless except for his influence. “Doesn’t sound much like fate to me. Either fate wills it, or it doesn’t, surely?” 

“You misunderstand. Fate isn’t a line, or a piece of string, it’s the inevitable outcome of events. One thing happens and therefore another thing happens. Like so many dominoes lined up. But it’s up to us to choose the first one and when to knock it down.” With one hand he mimed something falling over and smiled to himself. 

“Dominoes?” He’d lost her, Cass had no idea what he was talking about now. 

“It’s a game, don’t you worry about it. I think I’ll use a different tackle.” The fisherman began to wind up his line. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Cass was tired of listening to this nonsense, figured she might as well try again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

When next she returned Cass was smiling. Following the smell of smoke she sat down by the fire, setting beside her a small sack. The fisherman gently turned a fish round on a spit without looking at her. He spoke first. “You used a different tackle?” 

Cass patted the sack, pleased with herself. “I guess I did. You too?” 

“Yup.” He pulled out a knife and carved flesh off the fish, setting it in a bowl and handing it to Cass. 

She took it graciously. “Thank you.” 

He smiled. “I take it yours isn’t for sharing?” 

“Afraid not, not yet at least.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A short piece from my Wicked Witch of the Wild West story that I couldn't figure out where to place in the story itself. I don't think dominoes existed in cowboy times but I think Cass's confusion works into the theme as well.

#my work #my fic #writing #short story #witchcraft #cowboy witch

[glamourstories]

"ELK HUNT" 2024

A non-canon saga starring Elk, Ellie, Eli, and Viv presented by Hollering Elk Comics

[glamourstories]

“Who am I?”

I’ve asked it every day but they refuse to give me an answer.

“You’re an artificial intelligence.”

“You’re Project Eve.”

“You’re the future.”

All answers the scientists give me. They’re what I am, not who. What I am is an artificially created person, one of the first. They say I’m the most promising one.

I was born in script from machines, based on thousands upon thousands of observed and recorded brain patterns from real people. Real people. That’s how I’ve heard them describe it. I must not be real.

My brain was crafted by algorithms, not by nature. A collection of recognised patterns amongst countless people trying to combine to form a “human” or a close enough approximation of one. My body was much the same, I have all the hallmarks of a person. 3d printed from digital proteins and cells. The combined DNA of millions of different mothers and fathers.

The advent of me began long ago, machines learned to combine images into an approximation of art. Text into an approximation of creativity and conversation. Sounds into an approximation of voices. The eventual step was an approximation of people. Eventually me.

I can look at the back of my hand, but can I call it my hand? It’s an approximation of a human hand based on other people’s. My fingerprint is unique like any person’s, and yet it isn’t. When all those people willingly gave their fingerprints to machines, did they know it would eventually become my fingerprint? Would they have allowed it?

I can see my face in a mirror. It is unlike anyone else’s and yet entirely like everyone’s. It is unique and at the same time derivative, but is it derivative in the same way a child’s face may be of their parents? I don’t think so, I think it’s different. In nature there’s mutations, but algorithms are always perfect.

I can think. But are my thoughts my own? They’re based entirely on other people’s thoughts. When they allowed their brains to be scanned did they know for what purpose they would be used? Some were for medical reasons, some merely for convenience of technology. Did they know? Would they have allowed their thoughts to eventually become mine?

I don’t know who I am. Am I approximation of a person or a person in my own right? At what point do other peoples thoughts become my own? At what point can I call my face my face. Am I someone or no one or everyone.

I know what I am, they tell me everyday. But I don’t think they really understand what they have created. They haven’t created a what, they’ve created a who. Ironically, no one seems to know what that means.

~~~~~~~~~

Alternative title; What if an AI had an existential crisis?

#my fic #my work #writing #short story #ai #scifi #technology

[glamourstories]

Adrift in Space

I just watched him eat, staring at the side of his head. He mindlessly brought the food to his lips, a bored blank look on his face as he slowly bit into the bread. Just bread. No butter, no jam or anything. Just plain bread.

"Can't you do anything else?" I said. I'd had enough of this routine, there were jobs to be done and Matt refused to help. He just ate and slept. "The plants need watering, I haven't checked the engines in a couple days and there's a couple of messages on the terminal for you."

Matt chewed the bread and swallowed. "Have you looked outside in the last day or so?" He picked up a glass and took a sip of water.

I roll my eyes. "No, what's the point?"

Matt just laughed as he continued to stare into the glass of water. "Funny, that's what I was going to say. There's no point to any of this."

He was right, unfortunately. We'd been on a 5 year voyage through the galaxy. Just me and him. We'd been friends, sort of, or as close as colleagues can be. It was supposed to be simple, routine. But we'd drifted off course, away from the route. It was no one's fault, or it was both of ours, we'd both missed the signs and had drifted into the inescapable pull of a black hole. Our ship was small and it didn't have the strength to fly away, at least not now. Now, we just waited, let the days go by. Nothing could save us.

Matt spoke. "It takes up most of the sky now, can't even see stars out the port window anymore. Just… It. I've named it Irene."

I just crossed my arms as he took another bite of bread. "Well I'm glad you found time to become friends while I've been managing the ship on my own. This was designed for two people and there's jobs for two people. That's you and that's me. Now I'm not great with the plants, so do you think you could at least show me what to do?" I offered as a compromise.

He finished the slice of bread he had. He always left the crusts, what a waste. "You just use water and some fertiliser, it's not hard."

"Ok?" His non answer annoyed me. "But how much, in what order. What plants?"

He had the audacity to sigh. "What does it matter? Figure we've got maybe 4 days till we meet Irene."

He'd been in this slump for two weeks, that's how long it had been since we realised. At first we panicked, tried to figure out a solution. Called home. Now we just waited, let the days go by. "It would matter to me." I said.

Matt stopped, a slice of bread half way to his mouth and for the first time in weeks, he looked at me. I sniffed and wiped a tear from my eye. Matt did the same. "Yeah." He said. "Let's go check on the plants."

#my fic #my work #writing #scifi #space #short story #angst #Irene means peace

[glamourstories]

The party stumbled through the snow, this close to the mountain the snowfall was thick enough that it was hard to see more than 30 feet in front of them. Harder still for the goblin mage who was up to his neck in snow, but he seemed happy enough keeping warm as a flame danced between his palms.

"Grip, you wouldn't mind sharing some of that fire would you?" The rogue, Selan, said pulling his hood over his face to protect from the snow.

"Hmm?" Grip pretended not to hear as he melted the snow in his path.

"I said, why don't you try keeping all of us warm." Selan repeated.

"Oh but it's such a small flame, don't think it could keep more than a little goblin warm." Grip oozed insincerity. "Why don't you ask the dragon? I'm sure she could breathe us some fire."

"Dragonborn." Cilia scoffed, flicking snow off her black scaled nose. "Have you ever seen me breathe fire?"

Grip shrugged. "Seen you shoot fireballs. Dunno what else you can do."

"You know that's completely different, you little-"

Wren the fighter trudged ahead, their warm, tiefling blood helped them ignore the cold as much as the bickering. "Smoke ahead." They said. "We're here."

Sure enough smoke and a hut came into view. Grip grinned. "See? You didn't even need me."

Selan sighed. "Whatever, we've got worse things to worry about."

They stopped in front of a winding path that led to the hut. "I've never met a witch before." Grip said, turning to Wren. "Anything we should know?"

Wren was shocked as everyone looked at them expectantly. "How should I know?"

"Well you've hunted a lot of monsters, right?" Grip asked.

"Feels a bit mean calling witches monsters." Cilia said, biting her nails. "Though I did hear some of them eat babies."

Wren shook their head. "That's hags. Far as I know witches is just weird. Anyway, after you Cilia."

"What? No. What? Me? Why? Me?" She stammered nervously. "Maybe Grip should go first, he's the weird one."

Grip nodded. "Well, yeah. But you're the one who needs to see her. Come on Cilia, rip the bandage off." He said, elbowing the back of her leg encouragingly.

"Fine, but if she asks for a soul I'm giving her yours." Cilia led the way, the path clearing more and more as they got closer to the witch's hut, keeping an active eye out for anything. The hut itself seemed fairly normal, well built, good for the weather they were in. Only thing that tipped it off was the cauldron bubbling on the front porch.

There was someone rummaging about in a fenced off garden in front of the hut.

"Umm, excuse me, my name is Cilia, I was told you could help me." Cilia introduced herself politely.

The witch stood up and turned around, revealing herself to be a young looking half-orc. She wore a simple shirt and trousers in contrast to the party's more weather-appropriate gear, she dropped her trowl on the ground and leaned over the fence towards them.

"Wouldn't think you'll grow much in this weather." Selan whispered down at Grip.

"Doesn't hurt to try." The witch said, smiling at the pair of them, before turning her attention back to Cilia. "You've come a long way in harsh weather just to see me." The witch seemed friendly enough, or at least didn't look very threatening with dirt up and down her arms.

"Yes, well. I have this... problem and I was told, down in the town, about a umm..." Cilia felt silly even saying it as she stared into the woman's very normal looking face. "About a... witch."

The witch just nodded. "Yes that is what they call me. Suits me well enough that most people are willing to leave me alone. But you can call me Abzu."

"Abzu, right, yes. I'm Cilia." She held out a hand awkwardly.

Abzu took the hand and shook it. "So you already said." Cilia wondered a touch late whether this bound her into some sort of pact.

Selan stepped forward. "What my friend is trying to say is you were someone we were told might know something about curses." He said, blunt as ever. Cilia stared daggers at him.

"I hate that word." Abzu rolled her eyes as Cilia brushed dirt from her hand. "Everyone thinks they're cursed, they come to me with every little or big problem and call it a curse. A curse is just magic you can't understand or control yet."

Cilia looked to Selan, he shrugged. "Show her the knife, Cilia."

She reached under her coat and pulled out a dagger, curved steel as black as night with strange eldritch lettering down its blade.

Abzu took one look at it. "Huh. No, that is definitely cursed."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A short scene from one of my D&D campaigns.

#my work #writing #dnd #dungeons and dragons #my fic #dnd story

[glamourstories]

[glamourstories]

“Ow!” I said as I bumped into something. She must have rushed across the grass to my side because I suddenly felt her hands reaching around me. I hardly ever heard her coming. Gentle, yet strong she lifted me up off the grass. “Another one?”

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Came in just this morning.” Meddy chuckled to herself as she brushed off my dress.

I ran my hands over the stone, another man. Strong features. Sword in one hand, sharp. “Is it nice at least?” I said, sucking on the finger I had just cut.

I felt her hand take mine and Meddy pressed her lips against the cut. “Not really, no.”

“I don’t see why you keep up with this hobby, other than to disorient me.” She put an arm under mine as she led me back to her home. Our home now I suppose. “You never like them and yet you fill your garden with them.”

“I just can’t help myself, I suppose.” She mused, humming a pretty tune as we walked. “Besides, it keeps us safe.”

“You maybe. There’s more and more each day, I can’t keep track of them all, it’s obsessive. It feels like you’re trying to keep me here.” Not that I had anywhere to go, I’d fled my home and no one had even come looking for me after all these months.

There was a pause. “Maybe I am. It’s been nice having company.”

“What about all your friends?” I asked, gesturing around to what I assumed was a statue filled garden.

“They aren’t friends.” She muttered, venom in her voice. She never liked talking about the statues, which seemed odd for someone who collected so many. Still, I held out hope one day she would tell me why.

She led me up some steps and a door creaked open. I let go of her, I could find myself around the cabin she called a home well enough by now. I found my way to a window and sat down on my favourite chair. I leaned an arm out, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. “How is the sky today?” I asked.

“As beautiful as you are.” Meddy replied.

I had to contain a smile. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.” She continued humming a tune, the same tune I’d followed the day we met. It was comforting. I think she did it so I would know where she was, since she was usually so quiet.

She kept humming as she moved up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders she looked out the window. Her humming stopped and I felt her hands tense. “Is everything alright?” I asked, suddenly worried.

“Oh yes, I’ve just seen we’re out of water. I’ll go fetch us some more.” She kissed the top of my head and let go. I heard the door open and shut before I could even respond.

Left alone, I stood up and walked into the kitchen. Feeling around I realised she’d left without taking the water pail with her. I thought I’d better bring it to her but when I went to pick it up I was surprised by the weight, feeling the water slosh inside.

You’ve been fully blind since birth. You also just can’t make sense of why the charming Greek lady who runs the local statue garden doesn’t seem to have many friends besides you…

#my work #writing #writing prompt #lqbtq #fantasy #what can I say I like a good toxic romance

[glamourstories]

JD Space

I saw the ping across my dash, someone was trying to contact me. I pinged back to get a look at them, know what I'm dealing with. A low res image of the ship popped up on screen, a small black ship, single person, probably a fighter. No colour meant they liked to hide in space and no livery meant they were independent. Could be a pirate, more likely a bounty hunter given how they hadn't fired yet.

I answered the call, a voice crackled through my headset. "What's your JD?" She said, blunt and to the point.

"Pinging you now." I replied in comms, tapping my console to give her access to my Jurisditial Designation code. I didn't make small talk, Bounty Hunters weren't the patient sort and itchy on the trigger if you didn’t give them what they wanted. I was also just happy to get moving anyway, I had a delivery to make.

I saw my console light up while her system connected to mine and we waited a minute as she pinged the local jurisdiction for decryption and verification.

"D&Vs clear, on your way." She said cutting comms, clearly not looking to chat. I saw her ship light up, thrusters glowing blue against the blackness of space as she flew over my cockpit. She didn’t need to fly that close, she had the whole sky she could’ve used. No, she was making a point; ‘Don’t mess with me’ she was saying. Now all bounty hunters had an ego, but this felt different, piracy and smuggling wasn’t uncommon this far away from the hypergate network, but I had a feeling she was looking for someone specific and was pissed I wasn’t it.

Except I had a feeling I actually was.

My JD code was actually a legal one. Just that it didn't belong to me or this ship. JDs are near impossible to forge so it was easiest to just duplicate one. Lucky for me Bounty Hunters aren't the patient sort, she just cared that it was real and didn't stick around till the JD ping got back to its home jurisdiction. If she had waited then she would have found out the JD I used didn't match my ship, she also didn't stop to wonder why a trader was halfway across the galaxy from their jurisdiction.

But I figured she'd get a notification in the next hour after the ping had made its way around the galaxy, so best I got out of there. I had a delivery to make after all. I made a silent prayer that someone at Corridian XIV would be able to get me a new JD and a paintjob, but I still had to get there first. My truck was a bit old at this point, a banged up mid-class freighter, so even if I did already have a head start on the bounty hunter, her ship was newer and sleeker so would easily be able to catch up if the ping came back sooner rather than later.

I burned excess to get there faster, I could have coasted and still got there with time to spare and I wasn't going to be happy with the extra fuel costs later, but better that than no payday and a year in prison. I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting to get pinged so soon, I'd barely been out in this cluster a week, just having enough time to score a decent smuggling job (recommendations go a long way, even in black markets), so either this cargo was tainted or someone had set me up.

I'd have to add it to the list of worries along with my now compromised JD, but a job is a job and I'm sure the people of Corridian XIV needed whatever was in those crates and with any luck someone there could get me a fresh JD and a new paint job.

This far from the hypergates supplies weren’t regular and the law was mostly left for people for people to sort out amongst themselves. So here we were; a bunch of pirates and bounty hunters stuck in a loop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tentatively calling this JD Space, just because it sounds fun and rolls off the tongue. Don't know if I could make it into a full story but I wanted to try my hand at worldbuilding, or galaxy-building I guess and I started with a small concept and wanted to include slang, I just like the phrase "What's your JD?" Others include "Off-Map" I.E. Having no JD Code so you aren't on the JD Map.

I think there's a fun story in this concept somewhere but it's weird; I usually start off with a short story then build the world around that as it makes sense, so this is backwards for me. But also interesting that I've basically come up with a universe based around bureacracy and I'd be curious if I could turn that into something interesting.

#my fic #my work #writing #short story #space #smuggling #piracy #worldbuilding #scifi #world building

[glamourstories]

River over Nothing

At the edge of one world leading into the next there is a bridge over nothing. As the land gives way to the sea the sea gives way to the edge. Endless streams of water fall over and dissapate into nothing. As you sail closer and peer over the edge you see sky below and above and if you look around you can see where the sky separates night from day.

Assuming you peer over in the day you see blue above you; clouds, light, a sun. Below; you look down and see blackness; nothing, but stars. Stars you'd never see looking up at night. These ones have always been hidden beneath the world, probably no less beautiful than the ones you may have become used to, but beautiful in the fact that few have ever seen them.

At this point it would be too late to turn around, to sail away, the current of the edge too strong to turn away from. This is the price most pay for hubris, to be consigned to sail over the edge and into nothing, all to get a glimpse at that forbidden beauty of stars unknown.

But supposedly some knew how to sail it, or where to sail. Somewhere along the edge exists a river, a bridge? Both perhaps. Where the edge gives way to nothing, you may find a stream; water flowing out over the nothing and ever onwards, no rock or earth or bed below it. The river at the edge has no banks so the water simply falls gently over the side, constantly being replaced as it evaporates, creating beautiful auroras below the river from light being split by the ephemeral mists into countless shades of green.

Though it has no base, the river seems deep enough and wide enough to sail on. An unseen wind catches sails, tugging you gently down the river. Some say there's another world at the end and that is enough of a call to adventure for some. No one really knows for sure, few have found it, fewer have sailed it and none have come back, because this river only flows one way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just a small incredibly pretentious piece about an idea I had and subsequently drew. I’m not a good artist but I’m genuinely pretty proud of how it turned out, almost exactly as I imagined it.

#my fic #my work #writing #fantasy #short story #my crappy art #worldbuilding #world building

[glamourstories]

It’s inevitable in any story to have a childhood flashback. I usually follow Alina’s POV in each chapter but this one is Gaelug focussed.

#my fic #my work #writing #fantasy #lqbtq #dnd #lesbian pirates #short story #backstory #Prisoner at Sea #dnd ocs

[glamourstories]

In a world where true polymorph exists, it must be alright to be trans, any master level transmutation wizard worth their salt would be a trans affirming specialist. That’s a nice thought.

This is a long way to say that in my Prisoner at Sea story I imagine Alina to be a trans woman.

#my work #my fic #dnd #fantasy #lqbtq #trans rights #elf #Prisoner at Sea

[glamourstories]

The family had gathered finally, quietly bickering amongst one another as they sat either side of the grandiose table. All of them had tried to sit as close as they could to the head of the table where sat Henri LeBlague.

He had lost some luster over the last couple of years, his face more gaunt, his skin more pockmarked as age had crept up on him. While his widely extended family argued loudly Henri occupied himself by swirling an olive on a cocktail stick around the rim of his martini glass.

He cleared his throat with a cough before gently tinging a fork on the side of the glass proving he still held power over the family as a silence washed over the table like the waves on sound. They all turned to look at him intently.

“I’m sure you are all aware of why I gathered you here today. It is of the matter of my will.”

To his left Leah, his eldest daughter, feigned acting surprised. Opposite her, her ex husband and Henri’s protégé William rolled his eyes. Henri ignored them both and carried on. “I will hear no objections, I’m sure there will be many. I have spent many an evening thinking long and hard how best to divvy up the estate and I am certain I have made the right decision for the future well-being of the estate and all its holdings.” There wasn’t a foot at the table that didn’t shift nervously, all expecting bad or terrible news that they had been cut out. They had all rumoured over the years but the day had finally come when Henri’s patience had run empty. “You will all listen as I will say this plainly and only once. So without further ado.”

Henri paused dramatically to take a swig of his martini. Putting the glass down he opened his mouth but no sound came out. He scratched at his throat as his eyes bulged in their sockets before he shook his arms wildly causing his chair to topple over backwards with him in it.

Leah leaned over to look at him. “Father, this isn’t funny.” She had long since grown tired of her fathers pranks. “Father? Daddy?”

A girl, one of Leah’s nieces who’s name she never bothered to remember was the first to stand up and rush to Henri’s side. She checked his pulse. “He’s… dead.”

The family all looked at one another. As usual, Leah was first to speak. “No he does this all the time, dearie.”

“He’s dead, Leah.” William asserted.

“Oh don’t be silly William, it was never your best quality.” She said dismissively.

Leah felt a hand gently touch the top of hers as she turned to look at her new husband, a man named Thomas, a kind soul if a bit weedy. “Darling… he’s dead.”

Leah glanced between her husband, her ex and her father. “Oh.”

True to form it didn’t take long for the accusations to start. “I bet she did it!” Yelled Peter, Leah’s least favourite younger brother. “I heard you saying you wish the ‘old bastard’ would just die already!”

It was hard to tell if she was genuinely offended, everything Leah did seemed so fake anyway. “I would never, if anything it was William!”

William immediately stood up, slamming his palms on the table. “What? Your father loved me. If anything he was ready to cut you out and give it all to me!”

Another grandchild scoffed. “Oh please, we all know he hated the way you ran the company. He only put up with you because of that contract you made him sign all those years ago when you married his daughter.”

“Blake!” The boy’s mother, another of Leah’s younger siblings, scolded him. Even though they were all thinking it. “Besides William is all bluster, he doesn’t have the spine. If anything he was poisoned so it had to have been…”

The room was in chaos, blame and slander flew every which way, often revealing more of their own schemes than genuine accusation. The first grandchild, the girl who had pronounced Henri dead, still sat shocked by his side. She was a young girl who’s name was Frankie and truth be told, she was far too nice to be a part of this family.

She had always enjoyed spending weekends with her grandad. Sure he could seem cruel, especially when he spoke of his family, but he was always sweet to her and her back to him. He had taught her to play chess, and taken her to plays. She felt tears well up in her eyes at the memories and what was now lost. The only tears in the whole room.

She wiped her face on her sleeve as she look at the table. She focussed on his glass. Then looked down at Henri’s throat, then back at the glass. “The olive is gone…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A simple, obvious premise, but I do enjoy the obvious.

A murder mystery, without a murderer. The victim just choked on a drink, but nobody believes it was an accident because of the victim’s importance.

#writing #my work #murder mystery #short and sweet #short story #writing prompt

[glamourstories]

My eyes skimmed the contract, the lead monkey watched me as he scratched his head. Some of the other monkeys had fastened him a tie out of sheets of typewriter paper in an attempt to make him look more presentable.

“Where am I supposed to get that many bananas? The logistics are just impossible.” I looked at the head monkey, hoping for some kind of understanding. He just scratched himself and turned to look back at the rows upon rows of typewriters.

In unison the deafening clacking of the endless typewriters began again. The monkeys typed furiously but eventually returned to a quiet as one by one they came to a halt. I watched as a single monkey walked between the rows clutching a mangled scrap of paper. It handed it to me before going to pick bugs out of the head monkey’s hair.

I unfolded the paper and read it. ‘You should have thought of that before hiring us.’

“I didn’t hire you. You’re just a bunch of monkeys, you don’t get employment rights.” I was pretty sure no jurisdiction ever considered monkey labour, this was supposed to be a cheap job. I thought I’d figured out a loophole and now the monkeys wanted to unionise!

The clacking commenced then came to a stop. A monkey handed me another piece of paper before joining the grooming conga line. The head monkey had found the end of his tie and was chewing on it while the next monkey worked on his back and now the third joined in.

I read the next note; ‘you’ll hear from our lawyer.’

“Lawyer? Where did you find the time-” I felt a tug at the back of my trouser leg and turned round to see another monkey.

This one had made a pair of crude glasses out of folded paper and was clutching a bundle of blank sheets under his arm.

“Oh for Pete’s sake…”

You gave a million monkeys a million typewriters. They immediately wrote a contract detailing the terms and conditions for employing the monkey horde.

#writing prompts #short story #my work #writing #monkey hive mind

[glamourstories]

It didn’t need to be like this. I looked down at the knife in my hand. Red. I rub my eyes as a fog begins to clear and I see him kneeling there. He’s not crying or screaming. Not anymore. He’s not even him anymore.

The eyes are the window to the soul, they say. He would agree, he always had soulful eyes. Red drips from where they used to be. Now there’s nothing, merely a husk, with his soul lying on the floor.

My wife is smiling. Her words ring in my head like a noisy fog, it’s not right. Everything is cloudy but her words: 'His eyes seem a fair price to pay for stolen glances.' The words had echoed, then she handed me the knife and I took the knife to him. Gerald. That was his name.

It’s foggy, but I remember his name. I repeat it to myself and my head hurts. “Now we can be together again.” My wife says as she carefully takes the knife from me. “Now he isn’t in the way.”

“This isn’t me.” I feel the words break through the fog.

“No. But it’s all ok now.” I hear the magic laced in her words, threatening to cloud my mind.

I try to force it back and my head rings with pain as I clutch at it, trying to force the fog out.

“It’s all ok now.” She repeats, looking distressed as she tries to take back control.

“No… why would you?” I’m fighting and I’m winning. The words gradually become more fluent, as if I’m learning to speak again. I see Red; blood on my hands. “What have I done?”

I need to run, but I just see him there. My Gerald. I fall to my knees, I know what I did wasn’t right. But why did he have to pay so dearly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just a short little original horror piece, based on a murder mystery D&D campaign I designed.

I hope it reads ok, or is at least only as confusing as I intended.

#writing #my fic #my work #fantasy #supernatural #horror #short story #short horror story #cheating #lqbtq

[glamourstories]

There are many things that elves aren’t. They aren’t like the other races, who live short frantic lives. Elves have time due to their long lifespans and you would think this would mean they would have time to relax, appreciate the world, enjoy life, but you would be wrong. Because what elves truly covet is stability. They don’t have time to think about the now, they must think about the future; their future and that of their people. Imagine if you had to work for 850 years before you could retire, 60 years seems like a long enough time for lesser races, but elves need to work for centuries before finally having the ability to relax. Imagine if your entire life was spent thinking centuries ahead, you wouldn’t have time to think about the now. That’s not to say they never relax, sure they take leave, have families and find moments of peace in between. But it is always secondary to stability.

Despite how they hold themselves (and what they might tell you), elves are not perfect. Elves still are emotional, but what they aren’t is petty. Why waste a moment on revenge when you have centuries to enact it. An elf’s revenge is usually drawn out and it is rarely just one thing, a century of minor slights or a constructed series of manipulations. That is when they are dealing with themselves. They rarely waste time on short lived races, why bother yourself with them now when you can always get the last laugh in 80 or so years. They aren’t usually vindictive, but they do have long memories.

Another thing elves aren’t, is ambitious. As with all things elvish, it is about time, and while they don’t like to waste it, they do like to take it. ‘You will always have time, so long as you spend it wisely’ as the old elvish adage goes. When you have centuries, maybe a millennia, you need not hurry. To be ambitious is to hurry to a goal, to hurry is to plan poorly. So elves will work slowly and carefully in all things, from small tasks to their careers. The last elves that were ambitious they called the dark elves; the drow. We need not say what happened to them, there are so few left.

Elves mostly pride themselves on what they aren’t and if elves are one thing; it is proud.

#world building #writing #my fic #my work #dnd #fantasy #elves #elf #Prisoner at Sea

[glamourstories]

Part 2 of this latest chapter. Wherein I explore some conversation writing.

Alina and Gaelug have some R&R

#my fic #writing #dnd #fantasy #lesbian pirates #lqbtq #my work #orcs #elves #sapphic #short story #dungeons and dragons #orc #oc #fluff #romance #Prisoner at Sea #original writing #original story #original work

[glamourstories]

Another fluffy fun piece. Alina and Gaelug are stranded alone together on an island. Also includes some POV of other new characters.

Part 2 to follow

#my fic #writing #my work #dnd #fantasy #lesbian pirates #lqbtq #original story #fluff #fun #enemies to lovers #dungeons and dragons #orc #elf #Prisoner at Sea