- Joined
- Jan 24, 2020
I wanted to take up the challenge at some point.God damn it. At least I could do an unofficial one myself.
Start a thread here, call it “KiNoWriMo” (Kiwi November Writing Month), credit me with the name.
The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
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- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
Not a bad idea, but might make it part of this writing thread come November rather than start a whole new thread.
- Joined
- Apr 10, 2021
Track Bear is a good alternative, you can even import your old nano stats from the site.
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
I've gotten back to it after having a lot of other shit to do, and I've decided to stick with stand-alone short stories rather than just following one person around. This one's about barbarian kings on an icy planet fighting over resources, I like how it turned out so far I wanted it short and sweet.
The Killing Hold Of The Frozen Wastes
The king sat on his throne, looking at the young boy below him, speaking powerfully enough to cut through the sound of the blizzard outside the longhouse.
‘My son, my son, I tell unto you our story. I tell you what it means to be a king, what it means to fight for your people. Our story begins when I first became king of these frozen wastes. Our story begins when another man’s ended, when I broke the old king and rightfully took his crown…’
I felt his spine snap, but my ears were so battered and swollen I couldn’t hear the sickening pops. With my two legs wrapped around the left one of the king, with his right arm tucked behind my head and my own arms wrenching his skull, the vertebrae were twisted to and beyond their natural limits until, finally, the crown was mine. His final words were spoken in the fight, none but me heard them.
It’s not for me to tell even you, my son. It was barely a whisper. He laid dead soon after, and there is little sense in dwelling on the private words of a dead man.
I untangled myself from the still warm corpse, raising my arms in victory as the sage handed me the crown. My crown. After fighting my way through each and every other challenger, it was I alone who stood in that icy arena victorious.
I was now king of the Ice Wyrms, and it was now my job to fight for the good of the tribe. Here in this frozen world we know we cannot farm like our ancestors, so we must fight other tribes for our rightful share. We are the blessed of the Great Frozen Dragon, whom encircles the world deep below the ice. The Great Dragon, praise be to his unknown name, who created all life and taught us to hunt. Taught us to fight. Taught us to survive.
According to the sages, the Holy Dragon created the animals of the ice and of the frozen sea to provide us, his sanctified children, the nourishment we need in this harsh world. The great eight-legged bison who burrow in the glaciers, the furry fish we pull out of the ice holes, the glowing blue algae that grows on the frozen roof of the sea, these are all gifts from the Greatest of Dragons, and now it was my job to fight for them.
There is little ceremony when one becomes king, as the fight itself is our ceremony. With the crown, one worn since before the world froze a myriad ago and made of metals and stones of which we have forgot the names, laid on my head I walked alone to the King’s Longhouse. No fanfare, the proper way of our people. Remember, my son, life is change. Like the currents below and the glaciers above everything is always moving. No sense in adding weight to a natural process, you simply move forward.
As king, I sat upon my buffalo-bone throne considering my next move. Our people were strong, but the hunt was slim that season and if we didn’t expand our territories we may soon have one even slimmer. That could not be allowed to happen, so I called over the sages. They wore their cloaks of bright red fishfur, with tattoos of dragon scales and ancient symbols visible on their bare arms and the right half of their face. The left was, of course, hidden behind a mask made of buffalo bone.
The sages told me that the herds of bounders, the great beasts that spring across the ice on two legs, had made home in a valley that was the territory of The Boars, a neutral tribe we had trade relations with. They provided us with stone and metal from their valleys and canyons, we provided them furs and algae-medicine from our sea. We would take that valley, and so I sent a courier with my challenge. Winner takes the valley, single combat, king against king, to the death, as is right. His tribe was civilized, aside from worshiping their pig god, and followed similar customs to our own, so I expected him to accept my challenge.
Accept it he did, and the match was set. It would be held in our arena, in one week's time, with the conditions as per my request. As a young man, I heard tales of the Boars. How they were ruthless combatants, using even their heads as weapons to bash rivals into the ice before savaging them like the wild pigs they took as their namesake and as their god. Carnivorous and brutal pack hunters, the wild pigs were fitting emblems of the Boars. Moving together, smart in strategy, physically powerful, merciless mutilators of their prey.
The sages prepared the arena. With their staves thumping the ground and their cloaks swirling in the beginnings of a blizzards, they chanted in the Old Sacred Tongue, begging the Great Dragon of Ice to bless our battle and let the strongest attain victory. Their chants reminded me of my duty, the duty of every king before me. Fight for your people, risk your life, die, so they will not have to. Finally, the arena formed.
As the chant ended, the wind stopped. The sages formed a circle, thirty feet in diameter, the pure white snow of the circle now glowing a bright blue, illuminated from below. This was the most sacred of sacred locations, the Dragon himself casting light on us from his resting place under the ice, so say the sages and so say I.
It was time to enter. Praying to the Great Serpent, bringer of all life and eater of death, I entered the arena. Many people from each tribe were there, silently waiting, there was no sound but the wind. My opponent arrived in chains.
He was carried in upon a metal shield, wrapped in chains that fastened him to the disc. Even sat on his heels, he exuded a power I have rarely felt. This man, eyes closed and unmoving, ice hanging off his beard, was not chained down as punishment, he was chained down as sacrament. Much like the wild boars of his people’s name, if not restrained he was liable to rampage. There was a solemnity to the sounds of the chains being undone, the king not moving a muscle. Once the chains were gone, he sprang up in a sudden burst of power and in a smooth motion threw the shield into the sky, letting out a brutal roar as he charged me. The fight was on, not a word was exchanged, we already knew what mattered.
He shot his leg straight out in front of him, stabbing me in the gut with the ball of his foot and pressuring the attack. I shifted and parried his blows, his unrelenting barrage of jabbing fists and thunderous roundhouses, and answered back with a volley of my own. I stepped in and unleashed an avalanche of elbows and knees, inside his pocket just daring him to clinch. We Wyrms are second to none in grappling, a fact the Boar was well aware of. Nobody would willingly go to the snow with a Wyrm, I thought. How wrong I was.
Pounding at his torso and crashing my bones into his skull, I had the upper hand for the moment. But just for the moment. Much like all things, my son, there is rhythm to a fight.
He caught one of my knees, keeping it on the outside of his body, and I saw him grin before he pulled his head back and hammered me in the nose. His foot was suddenly behind mine, and I fell to my back from that blow and that trip. He held on to my leg, and dazed from the headbutt with blood pouring down my face I didn’t react fast enough as he wrapped both his legs around one of mine. We were suddenly entwined like two fighting glacier krakens, all over control of a single foot. As I turned out to escape the entanglement, he placed his shin in the pit of my knee and had my foot shelved on his hip. He sat up and grabbed my waist, tucking his own ankle into the pit of his own knee. His shin was now the stone and my leg the pair of unwilling shears trying to break the stone. The shears broke first, my knee cracking and popping as the joint was pulled apart around the fulcrum he had set there. The pain was blinding, but the fight was not over.
I felt his arms wrap around my neck, fishing for a choke as my leg was still trapped in his brutal entanglement. My body moved automatically, trying to keep his arms from enveloping my neck. With no regard for the pain, I rolled us to where we were both facing the sky, him on my back with his arms still moving like angry snakes who wanted to strangle their prey. He released the bite on my leg, untying us, opting instead to wrap his legs around my torso. His hold was crushing, he tied his own legs together around my lower ribs, his ankle in the pit of his knee locking him to me with no escape and constant, suffocating pressure.
I grabbed one of his wrists with both my arms, pulling it over my head and wiggled my shoulders to the glowing ground. It was never cold in the arena, but even after all these years I don’t know if it’s because of the Dragon’s light or because of the brutal exertion of our debates, but it was never cold, not even then.
As I escaped the choke, he spun around my torso like a pole, pinning my back to the ground as he mounted me, wrapping his legs around mine and using his feet as hooks to stretch me out flat. My leg screamed in pain, but I did not. Pain simply is, my son, and how you choose to react to it is up to you. He pinned both my wrists to the ground, and then I learned how a Boar truly fights.
Headbutt after headbutt rained down on me, the only sounds being heavy breathing and rhythmic bludgeoning as he drove his skull into my face over and over again. But then I heard myself say something. As these were my words, I shall share them with you, my son, but I will not share my rival’s response.
“My first bout as a king, and I’m going to die.”
I was not afraid, I was only ashamed at the possibility of failing my people. The Boar said something back to me, what he said I will not share, but it gave me peace in the brief moment before the bashing continued. I couldn’t see anymore, but in a moment of strength I ripped one of my arms free and hooked it around the back of his neck, pulling him tight on top of me. It was when he let go of my other arm to remove the hook that his downfall was inevitable. The arm around his head grabbed the bicep of the now freed arm, and I wove my fist through until it was crushing his neck, locked as tight as his chains were before. Constricting him.
He started thrashing at the unexpected choke, falling to his side in an attempt to make space. But his legs were wrapped around mine, we were tied together until he finally, gurgling, passed out from the strangle. I held onto the hold until the light faded not just from his eyes, but from the snowy arena around us. Two sages came to lift me up, covered in blood and maimed, my face bright hot with wounds and pain, my leg broken in two, my people prouder and richer than before. The valley was ours, the fight was over.
The Boars thanked us for our hospitality, and apologized for the weakness of their king. Soon they left, leaving the body in the arena as is tradition. The scavenging beasts that come out at night are more than enough of a burial for anyone, from weakling to a warlord. The Dragon provided life and as such life returned to the Dragon through the stomachs of his creations, the cycles repeating themselves for all eternity. Life, death. Hot, cold. Cowardice, bravery. Weakness, strength. My son, there are no opposites in this iced-over world, merely different expressions of the same concept. Remember that, and death will not frighten you.
So now, my son, you know the tale of the first time I fought for our people as king. And I hope one day I will fight you, I hope one day you will kill me, and one day you will be king. Like I have done, and like my father the old king had done, and like his father has done, you will fight and you will win. You will fight so your people do not have to, and you will die so they do not have to, that is our duty as king.
The king arose from his throne, scars visible all over his body from countless battles, the only true damage aesthetic thanks to the miracles of the sages and of the Dragon, and looked at his son. A young boy, no more than thirteen, looked back up at his father. It was time for the king to fight yet again, against the Snowhawks from the mountains who demanded prime fishing holes in disputed territory. The king said one more thing to his son, but there is little sense in dwelling on the private words of a dead man.
The king sat on his throne, looking at the young boy below him, speaking powerfully enough to cut through the sound of the blizzard outside the longhouse.
‘My son, my son, I tell unto you our story. I tell you what it means to be a king, what it means to fight for your people. Our story begins when I first became king of these frozen wastes. Our story begins when another man’s ended, when I broke the old king and rightfully took his crown…’
I felt his spine snap, but my ears were so battered and swollen I couldn’t hear the sickening pops. With my two legs wrapped around the left one of the king, with his right arm tucked behind my head and my own arms wrenching his skull, the vertebrae were twisted to and beyond their natural limits until, finally, the crown was mine. His final words were spoken in the fight, none but me heard them.
It’s not for me to tell even you, my son. It was barely a whisper. He laid dead soon after, and there is little sense in dwelling on the private words of a dead man.
I untangled myself from the still warm corpse, raising my arms in victory as the sage handed me the crown. My crown. After fighting my way through each and every other challenger, it was I alone who stood in that icy arena victorious.
I was now king of the Ice Wyrms, and it was now my job to fight for the good of the tribe. Here in this frozen world we know we cannot farm like our ancestors, so we must fight other tribes for our rightful share. We are the blessed of the Great Frozen Dragon, whom encircles the world deep below the ice. The Great Dragon, praise be to his unknown name, who created all life and taught us to hunt. Taught us to fight. Taught us to survive.
According to the sages, the Holy Dragon created the animals of the ice and of the frozen sea to provide us, his sanctified children, the nourishment we need in this harsh world. The great eight-legged bison who burrow in the glaciers, the furry fish we pull out of the ice holes, the glowing blue algae that grows on the frozen roof of the sea, these are all gifts from the Greatest of Dragons, and now it was my job to fight for them.
There is little ceremony when one becomes king, as the fight itself is our ceremony. With the crown, one worn since before the world froze a myriad ago and made of metals and stones of which we have forgot the names, laid on my head I walked alone to the King’s Longhouse. No fanfare, the proper way of our people. Remember, my son, life is change. Like the currents below and the glaciers above everything is always moving. No sense in adding weight to a natural process, you simply move forward.
As king, I sat upon my buffalo-bone throne considering my next move. Our people were strong, but the hunt was slim that season and if we didn’t expand our territories we may soon have one even slimmer. That could not be allowed to happen, so I called over the sages. They wore their cloaks of bright red fishfur, with tattoos of dragon scales and ancient symbols visible on their bare arms and the right half of their face. The left was, of course, hidden behind a mask made of buffalo bone.
The sages told me that the herds of bounders, the great beasts that spring across the ice on two legs, had made home in a valley that was the territory of The Boars, a neutral tribe we had trade relations with. They provided us with stone and metal from their valleys and canyons, we provided them furs and algae-medicine from our sea. We would take that valley, and so I sent a courier with my challenge. Winner takes the valley, single combat, king against king, to the death, as is right. His tribe was civilized, aside from worshiping their pig god, and followed similar customs to our own, so I expected him to accept my challenge.
Accept it he did, and the match was set. It would be held in our arena, in one week's time, with the conditions as per my request. As a young man, I heard tales of the Boars. How they were ruthless combatants, using even their heads as weapons to bash rivals into the ice before savaging them like the wild pigs they took as their namesake and as their god. Carnivorous and brutal pack hunters, the wild pigs were fitting emblems of the Boars. Moving together, smart in strategy, physically powerful, merciless mutilators of their prey.
The sages prepared the arena. With their staves thumping the ground and their cloaks swirling in the beginnings of a blizzards, they chanted in the Old Sacred Tongue, begging the Great Dragon of Ice to bless our battle and let the strongest attain victory. Their chants reminded me of my duty, the duty of every king before me. Fight for your people, risk your life, die, so they will not have to. Finally, the arena formed.
As the chant ended, the wind stopped. The sages formed a circle, thirty feet in diameter, the pure white snow of the circle now glowing a bright blue, illuminated from below. This was the most sacred of sacred locations, the Dragon himself casting light on us from his resting place under the ice, so say the sages and so say I.
It was time to enter. Praying to the Great Serpent, bringer of all life and eater of death, I entered the arena. Many people from each tribe were there, silently waiting, there was no sound but the wind. My opponent arrived in chains.
He was carried in upon a metal shield, wrapped in chains that fastened him to the disc. Even sat on his heels, he exuded a power I have rarely felt. This man, eyes closed and unmoving, ice hanging off his beard, was not chained down as punishment, he was chained down as sacrament. Much like the wild boars of his people’s name, if not restrained he was liable to rampage. There was a solemnity to the sounds of the chains being undone, the king not moving a muscle. Once the chains were gone, he sprang up in a sudden burst of power and in a smooth motion threw the shield into the sky, letting out a brutal roar as he charged me. The fight was on, not a word was exchanged, we already knew what mattered.
He shot his leg straight out in front of him, stabbing me in the gut with the ball of his foot and pressuring the attack. I shifted and parried his blows, his unrelenting barrage of jabbing fists and thunderous roundhouses, and answered back with a volley of my own. I stepped in and unleashed an avalanche of elbows and knees, inside his pocket just daring him to clinch. We Wyrms are second to none in grappling, a fact the Boar was well aware of. Nobody would willingly go to the snow with a Wyrm, I thought. How wrong I was.
Pounding at his torso and crashing my bones into his skull, I had the upper hand for the moment. But just for the moment. Much like all things, my son, there is rhythm to a fight.
He caught one of my knees, keeping it on the outside of his body, and I saw him grin before he pulled his head back and hammered me in the nose. His foot was suddenly behind mine, and I fell to my back from that blow and that trip. He held on to my leg, and dazed from the headbutt with blood pouring down my face I didn’t react fast enough as he wrapped both his legs around one of mine. We were suddenly entwined like two fighting glacier krakens, all over control of a single foot. As I turned out to escape the entanglement, he placed his shin in the pit of my knee and had my foot shelved on his hip. He sat up and grabbed my waist, tucking his own ankle into the pit of his own knee. His shin was now the stone and my leg the pair of unwilling shears trying to break the stone. The shears broke first, my knee cracking and popping as the joint was pulled apart around the fulcrum he had set there. The pain was blinding, but the fight was not over.
I felt his arms wrap around my neck, fishing for a choke as my leg was still trapped in his brutal entanglement. My body moved automatically, trying to keep his arms from enveloping my neck. With no regard for the pain, I rolled us to where we were both facing the sky, him on my back with his arms still moving like angry snakes who wanted to strangle their prey. He released the bite on my leg, untying us, opting instead to wrap his legs around my torso. His hold was crushing, he tied his own legs together around my lower ribs, his ankle in the pit of his knee locking him to me with no escape and constant, suffocating pressure.
I grabbed one of his wrists with both my arms, pulling it over my head and wiggled my shoulders to the glowing ground. It was never cold in the arena, but even after all these years I don’t know if it’s because of the Dragon’s light or because of the brutal exertion of our debates, but it was never cold, not even then.
As I escaped the choke, he spun around my torso like a pole, pinning my back to the ground as he mounted me, wrapping his legs around mine and using his feet as hooks to stretch me out flat. My leg screamed in pain, but I did not. Pain simply is, my son, and how you choose to react to it is up to you. He pinned both my wrists to the ground, and then I learned how a Boar truly fights.
Headbutt after headbutt rained down on me, the only sounds being heavy breathing and rhythmic bludgeoning as he drove his skull into my face over and over again. But then I heard myself say something. As these were my words, I shall share them with you, my son, but I will not share my rival’s response.
“My first bout as a king, and I’m going to die.”
I was not afraid, I was only ashamed at the possibility of failing my people. The Boar said something back to me, what he said I will not share, but it gave me peace in the brief moment before the bashing continued. I couldn’t see anymore, but in a moment of strength I ripped one of my arms free and hooked it around the back of his neck, pulling him tight on top of me. It was when he let go of my other arm to remove the hook that his downfall was inevitable. The arm around his head grabbed the bicep of the now freed arm, and I wove my fist through until it was crushing his neck, locked as tight as his chains were before. Constricting him.
He started thrashing at the unexpected choke, falling to his side in an attempt to make space. But his legs were wrapped around mine, we were tied together until he finally, gurgling, passed out from the strangle. I held onto the hold until the light faded not just from his eyes, but from the snowy arena around us. Two sages came to lift me up, covered in blood and maimed, my face bright hot with wounds and pain, my leg broken in two, my people prouder and richer than before. The valley was ours, the fight was over.
The Boars thanked us for our hospitality, and apologized for the weakness of their king. Soon they left, leaving the body in the arena as is tradition. The scavenging beasts that come out at night are more than enough of a burial for anyone, from weakling to a warlord. The Dragon provided life and as such life returned to the Dragon through the stomachs of his creations, the cycles repeating themselves for all eternity. Life, death. Hot, cold. Cowardice, bravery. Weakness, strength. My son, there are no opposites in this iced-over world, merely different expressions of the same concept. Remember that, and death will not frighten you.
So now, my son, you know the tale of the first time I fought for our people as king. And I hope one day I will fight you, I hope one day you will kill me, and one day you will be king. Like I have done, and like my father the old king had done, and like his father has done, you will fight and you will win. You will fight so your people do not have to, and you will die so they do not have to, that is our duty as king.
The king arose from his throne, scars visible all over his body from countless battles, the only true damage aesthetic thanks to the miracles of the sages and of the Dragon, and looked at his son. A young boy, no more than thirteen, looked back up at his father. It was time for the king to fight yet again, against the Snowhawks from the mountains who demanded prime fishing holes in disputed territory. The king said one more thing to his son, but there is little sense in dwelling on the private words of a dead man.
Last edited:
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
Wrote another short story, wanted one more simple than another idea I have that'll take more time.
One day, on a cattle ranch near El Paso, Texas, a litter of puppies was born. An odd mix of Golden Retriever and Doberman, they were a sight to behold. The ranchers, who were father, mother, and son, eventually sold to trusted friends all but one, one they named Ozzy. After Ozzy Osbourne, of course. Over the next year, Ozzy grew up big, strong, and smart. He loved his family, and they loved him. He helped on the ranch, sniffing out trouble and playing with the son. Ozzy learned tricks quick, and was clever to boot.
Whenever Ozzy’s cleverness got him into trouble, like that time he stole a steak right off the grill, he scurried on under the porch with his prize. Of course later he would be called a bad dog, but that was a problem for Future Ozzy. But not everything is forever.
It was Spring, just warm enough to leave the window a little open at night. It was one of the nights where the son didn’t have school in the morning, so he was up on his DS playing Pokemon Pearl with Ozzy by his feet when the clock struck midnight. That’s when the light appeared outside, bright as the sun. Ozzy jumped up, hackles raised but unsure of what was happening, and the boy looked out the window. As light flooded the room, the boy turned around and began to walk out the door, into the hallway. Ozzy was close by his heel.
The boy was soon followed by his mom and dad, all three of them moving with total and complete calmness, not a word spoken. Ozzy was starting to whine, more afraid than he’s been in his entire life. Still, he followed the family. He followed them right out the front door, onto the lawn, where the light awaited them. Not a blinding spotlight, but simply as if, somehow, at midnight it was suddenly noon. Ozzy ran under the porch.
The craft was large, large enough to have crushed an apple tree in its landing. It was simply a cube, blacker than black, so black it was as if darkness were visible, with a large door showing nothing but a bright white light. The family walked through that door, all as calm as could be. When the door shut, it was night again, and the cube flew away.
Ozzy was still under the porch when the police arrived some time later, called out by quite a few locals with an incredibly bizarre story. The tales spread around town quick, ones of bright lights and strange objects in the sky, especially once the Feds showed up to take over the case. Nothing came of it. Ozzy was adopted by a married couple and named Roswell. Everyone knew why, though the story just became a bit of a joke after a while.
Roswell soon adapted to his new life, the husband worked from home and the wife came from fortune, so Roswell was never alone again. He played in the yard with the couple, was taken on lovely hikes around the state, and somewhat spoiled with treats, but he always had a quirk the couple found adorable. Every night, he would look up to the stars, sometimes he would whimper, but after a while he stopped whimpering.
But he always looked up at the stars.
He was looking at the stars again, outside after needing to go potty late at night. Until it wasn’t the middle of the night anymore, suddenly it was day.
And even though Roswell was half blind he saw the cube, darker than dark, and it landed without a sound not but twenty feet away from him.
The door opened, and three figures calmly walked out, framed by the bright white light. The shortest one stepped forward, and Roswell began to walk, and then run, run as if he was young again, and though he was deaf and almost blind he could still see the son’s mouth call out that old word.
Ozzy!
Whenever Ozzy’s cleverness got him into trouble, like that time he stole a steak right off the grill, he scurried on under the porch with his prize. Of course later he would be called a bad dog, but that was a problem for Future Ozzy. But not everything is forever.
It was Spring, just warm enough to leave the window a little open at night. It was one of the nights where the son didn’t have school in the morning, so he was up on his DS playing Pokemon Pearl with Ozzy by his feet when the clock struck midnight. That’s when the light appeared outside, bright as the sun. Ozzy jumped up, hackles raised but unsure of what was happening, and the boy looked out the window. As light flooded the room, the boy turned around and began to walk out the door, into the hallway. Ozzy was close by his heel.
The boy was soon followed by his mom and dad, all three of them moving with total and complete calmness, not a word spoken. Ozzy was starting to whine, more afraid than he’s been in his entire life. Still, he followed the family. He followed them right out the front door, onto the lawn, where the light awaited them. Not a blinding spotlight, but simply as if, somehow, at midnight it was suddenly noon. Ozzy ran under the porch.
The craft was large, large enough to have crushed an apple tree in its landing. It was simply a cube, blacker than black, so black it was as if darkness were visible, with a large door showing nothing but a bright white light. The family walked through that door, all as calm as could be. When the door shut, it was night again, and the cube flew away.
Ozzy was still under the porch when the police arrived some time later, called out by quite a few locals with an incredibly bizarre story. The tales spread around town quick, ones of bright lights and strange objects in the sky, especially once the Feds showed up to take over the case. Nothing came of it. Ozzy was adopted by a married couple and named Roswell. Everyone knew why, though the story just became a bit of a joke after a while.
Roswell soon adapted to his new life, the husband worked from home and the wife came from fortune, so Roswell was never alone again. He played in the yard with the couple, was taken on lovely hikes around the state, and somewhat spoiled with treats, but he always had a quirk the couple found adorable. Every night, he would look up to the stars, sometimes he would whimper, but after a while he stopped whimpering.
But he always looked up at the stars.
***
Years went by, many of them. Roswell went grey, deaf, blind in one eye, he lost some teeth, and was very, very sore. But Roswell had a good past couple days. He got to eat people food made just for him, his family spent all of their time petting him and they even helped him up onto their bed at night. Unheard of luxuries, but he didn't mind it.He was looking at the stars again, outside after needing to go potty late at night. Until it wasn’t the middle of the night anymore, suddenly it was day.
And even though Roswell was half blind he saw the cube, darker than dark, and it landed without a sound not but twenty feet away from him.
The door opened, and three figures calmly walked out, framed by the bright white light. The shortest one stepped forward, and Roswell began to walk, and then run, run as if he was young again, and though he was deaf and almost blind he could still see the son’s mouth call out that old word.
Ozzy!
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Tiny Tom Cruise
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2022
Back on the writing grind consistently for the first time in ages. I tried to write in uni but with all the schoolwork I just couldn't do it. Was burned out on reading/writing after that for a while. Then dabbled again for a bit and have been back at it and idk, I don't think my writing is where it used to be but it's been going okay. I finished a first draft of a novel for the first time ever (95k) and am now in editing. I'm looking at chopping it down to 75-85k and I don't think that will be an issue, but more making all the parts fit together is gonna be rough but at least it's all *there* now.
Now, I'm mostly reading in my genre for a while so I can go back to my draft and look at it with fresh eyes and slash it apart.
In the meantime, I've also been submitting to lit mags again for the first time in a long time. I've never had a rejection before so I'm nervous and wonder how bruised my ego is going to get. I did get a quick acceptance on a short story I wrote very quickly so that surprised me, and that one was submitted to a smaller mag. I have some poems and short stories out that I'm still waiting to hear back on, from some bigger lit mags, including one that I desperately want an acceptance from and I don't care much if the others forsake me.
I'm thankful to have a decent job, but man do I wish I was independently wealthy so I could just write most of the time. It sucks having to scribble down inspo real quick when at work and hope you remember what you were going for once you can actually get back to writing. I don't like trying to write at work because I can't reliably get in the zone when there's constant interruptions to it.
Now, I'm mostly reading in my genre for a while so I can go back to my draft and look at it with fresh eyes and slash it apart.
In the meantime, I've also been submitting to lit mags again for the first time in a long time. I've never had a rejection before so I'm nervous and wonder how bruised my ego is going to get. I did get a quick acceptance on a short story I wrote very quickly so that surprised me, and that one was submitted to a smaller mag. I have some poems and short stories out that I'm still waiting to hear back on, from some bigger lit mags, including one that I desperately want an acceptance from and I don't care much if the others forsake me.
I'm thankful to have a decent job, but man do I wish I was independently wealthy so I could just write most of the time. It sucks having to scribble down inspo real quick when at work and hope you remember what you were going for once you can actually get back to writing. I don't like trying to write at work because I can't reliably get in the zone when there's constant interruptions to it.
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
I wrote another short story. I had an idea about a sci-fi colony on a gas planet, then I thought about how isolating that would be.
The twin suns were rising over Aerium, casting their light over the lives of the city's denizens. They were already about their day, hundreds of gliders creating traffic as people went wherever they had to be. Some were opening their shops, some were heading out to the great gaseous sea with their nets, others went underneath the flying city to maintain the machinery that kept them all from plunging down to the core of their vaporous world.
The sunrise turned Aerium into a beautiful cascade of reflections. The bronze-colored metal of it’s construction gleaming, glowing, a beacon of civilization on the gas giant Itzamná. Aquila, a young man of nineteen, watched from above, circling his glider to get a better view of his home. No matter how many times he saw the suns rise on his home it took his breath away. Like many generations before him, he was born, raised, and would likely die in that city. There were three like Aerium, and rarely did they meet in their travels across the sky. Nomadic yet self-contained, such was life on this planet. Aquila turned his glider around, scanning the horizon.
It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for, the storm. From this distance it looked like any other cloud, but the young man’s keen eye saw the lightning within. He stalled for a moment before pointing his glider straight down into a blindingly fast dive, pirouetting in the air as he went. Despite being strapped in and having done this maneuver hundreds of times before, Aquila felt the thrill deep within him, a thrill that increased along with his velocity as he plunged himself down under the great city in the sky.
He pulled up, his great momentum and practiced navigation propelling him straight towards the Watcher’s Pod. He used the glider’s brake-chutes to slow himself as he approached a porthole opening on one of many large metal orbs tacked underneath Aerium. Deftly landing, he unstrapped himself from the glider, once again with solidity under his feet. The Chief Watcher was awaiting his report, and Aquila told him what he saw in the endless sky. A storm was brewing, and making its way towards the city. This is not unusual, the city would simply have to fly elsewhere as it had for hundreds of years. The young man was dismissed, preparations had to be made and his job was done for the day.
Strapping himself back in his glider, the young man slid out the porthole and back into open sky. Open sky, freedom manifest. Aquila sometimes wished he could forever live in the air, live as free as the eight finned whales that dived and flew through the clouds, as free as the flat blue snakes who were so light they could swim through the air like ribbons. As free as the eagles who fed on the flat snakes and legless balloon birds. But he was not an eagle, he was not a whale, he was not even a snake.
He was a young man, and young men could not fly unaided.
It called to him, and he answered.
For no apparent reason, Aquila turned his glider towards the storm as if under the control of a power he could not deny. Not even the young man knew why he made the choice to go towards the storm, but he made no move to turn around. Nobody followed him. He was alone.
As he advanced, the storm came to meet him. He could hear it getting louder and louder, he could swear the wind was calling him by name. He could hear the wind speak to him, and the wind understood him. The storm understood that the young man wanted more, more than a single city to glide around, more than simply watching the skies, more than the same life his father and his father’s father lived. He wanted more, he wanted to be free. The storm promised him that freedom, promised Aquila with shrieking assertions that he would be among the whales and eagles, free to fly as he wished. The young man pulled up.
He soared further up than he had ever flown, so high the air became thin and cold. So high he could see the entirety of the storm below him. It was not thrice the size of the city, not even close to such an insignificant metal speck in the great open sky. The storm stretched beyond the horizon, as infinite as the oceans of legend from the old world. Aquila was right above it, circling, considering if he wanted the freedom the storm had promised him.
What would his freedom entail? Death? Life? Did it matter so long as he was free? He decided that it didn’t. The man unstrapped himself, diving into the storm unaided.
Free.
The sunrise turned Aerium into a beautiful cascade of reflections. The bronze-colored metal of it’s construction gleaming, glowing, a beacon of civilization on the gas giant Itzamná. Aquila, a young man of nineteen, watched from above, circling his glider to get a better view of his home. No matter how many times he saw the suns rise on his home it took his breath away. Like many generations before him, he was born, raised, and would likely die in that city. There were three like Aerium, and rarely did they meet in their travels across the sky. Nomadic yet self-contained, such was life on this planet. Aquila turned his glider around, scanning the horizon.
It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for, the storm. From this distance it looked like any other cloud, but the young man’s keen eye saw the lightning within. He stalled for a moment before pointing his glider straight down into a blindingly fast dive, pirouetting in the air as he went. Despite being strapped in and having done this maneuver hundreds of times before, Aquila felt the thrill deep within him, a thrill that increased along with his velocity as he plunged himself down under the great city in the sky.
He pulled up, his great momentum and practiced navigation propelling him straight towards the Watcher’s Pod. He used the glider’s brake-chutes to slow himself as he approached a porthole opening on one of many large metal orbs tacked underneath Aerium. Deftly landing, he unstrapped himself from the glider, once again with solidity under his feet. The Chief Watcher was awaiting his report, and Aquila told him what he saw in the endless sky. A storm was brewing, and making its way towards the city. This is not unusual, the city would simply have to fly elsewhere as it had for hundreds of years. The young man was dismissed, preparations had to be made and his job was done for the day.
Strapping himself back in his glider, the young man slid out the porthole and back into open sky. Open sky, freedom manifest. Aquila sometimes wished he could forever live in the air, live as free as the eight finned whales that dived and flew through the clouds, as free as the flat blue snakes who were so light they could swim through the air like ribbons. As free as the eagles who fed on the flat snakes and legless balloon birds. But he was not an eagle, he was not a whale, he was not even a snake.
He was a young man, and young men could not fly unaided.
***
Aerium rumbled slightly as its propellers steered the city away from the coming storm, now quite visible and much closer. Not close enough to worry anyone, this was quite routine, but even still this storm looked formidable. Rust colored clouds crackling with blue lightning, producing a cacophony of thunder and screaming winds that could be heard even in the busy markets where skymongers hocked their fresh catch. Aquila viewed from above, lazily circling in the air as he tended to do when he was bored. Passively he gazed at the storm, at the jagged patterns of electricity and swirling clouds. The storm was at once both terrible and beautiful, the largest, most powerful storm the young man had ever seen. Even from a distant view, the storm was at least thrice the size of the city, Aquila had never seen anything like it.It called to him, and he answered.
For no apparent reason, Aquila turned his glider towards the storm as if under the control of a power he could not deny. Not even the young man knew why he made the choice to go towards the storm, but he made no move to turn around. Nobody followed him. He was alone.
As he advanced, the storm came to meet him. He could hear it getting louder and louder, he could swear the wind was calling him by name. He could hear the wind speak to him, and the wind understood him. The storm understood that the young man wanted more, more than a single city to glide around, more than simply watching the skies, more than the same life his father and his father’s father lived. He wanted more, he wanted to be free. The storm promised him that freedom, promised Aquila with shrieking assertions that he would be among the whales and eagles, free to fly as he wished. The young man pulled up.
He soared further up than he had ever flown, so high the air became thin and cold. So high he could see the entirety of the storm below him. It was not thrice the size of the city, not even close to such an insignificant metal speck in the great open sky. The storm stretched beyond the horizon, as infinite as the oceans of legend from the old world. Aquila was right above it, circling, considering if he wanted the freedom the storm had promised him.
What would his freedom entail? Death? Life? Did it matter so long as he was free? He decided that it didn’t. The man unstrapped himself, diving into the storm unaided.
Free.
Last edited:
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
I liked how you captured the feeling of flight. Well done.
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
Finished a book. Started another one that probably won't get done anytime soon. Will probably go into a dark souls coma for a while until I get bored of it.
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
Thank you. One of my bros is a recreational pilot so I was thinking of things he told me about flying.
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2024
Does anyone have a place that'd be good for getting what you wrote critiqued? I went to Critique Circle and came to the conclusion that what I wrote would probably be triggering to them. My short stories would be out of place. I need a place that could handle some pretty dark content.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
You have to buy one of their books to join their forum but it's pretty fair & balanced. Failing that, try here, and 4Chan's lit (if you dare). Avoid Reddit like the plague.
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2024
Thanks, I'll check it out. The only thing I'd gain from going to 4chan or Reddit would be derision.
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2022
When I'm drunk I end up writing dumb prologues and never expanding on them later. Here's an example:
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2019
I'm not even half done taking notes for this project I'm working on. It's just bullet points with some notes underneath and it's already 29 pages and 7000 words. Unironically looking like it's going to be bigger than my thesis.
Poteto
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 6, 2025
I'm not a writer so I don't know how to do this but every once in awhile I think of concepts.
I am currently reading wheel of Time, and I have been paying close attention to the Carmelo Anthony and Shiloh Hendricks stuff and I had an idea.
That sort of thing happens where there is an ultimate evil or world ending threat that's going to kill everyone, and there is a prophesized chosen one who is supposed to rise up against it and defeat the evil, but it takes place in basically a mirror of our modern world. This guy is Born into the West which is completely consumed by woke bullshit, progressive stack, purity testing, and various forms of guilt imposed on "privileged" people with double standards that victim groups are allowed to do anything they want and it's fine but if someone from the privileged side does exactly the same thing, it's an unforgivable evil.
The guy who is revealed to be the chosen one who is supposed to save the world, ends up being about as privileged as you can get. A straight white non trans guy from a generic Christian middle class upbringing who is politically a centrist (a Nazi according to the current heavily left leaning overton window). After the spotlight gets put on him and he becomes the center of attention for the whole world, the purity testers set their sights on him with the full backing of the political establishment. All of his past behavior on social media gets put under a microscope and he gets put on blast for being edgy when he was a teenager and saying basic common sense stuff like if a guy is sexually attracted to a trans woman it's still gay because she's still a guy, or that women who falsely accuse men of rape should get prison sentences of equal weight to what the alleged rapist would have gotten, or did get, or that nuclear families and children's fathers being directly present in their lives is good actually, etc. His ancestry also leads back to either American southern slave owners or Italian or German fascists, but by this point in his family line they are totally disconnected from it and it's nothing more than a piece of trivia about the history of his family that nobody is proud of but they also don't think about it very much because it has nothing to do with them and has no bearing on anything
You see him constantly apologizing for this stuff but it doesn't do anything because apologies like this are not meant to be accepted and unlike in our world, this ideology has mostly taken over the world and the conservative side is so small at this point and the wokies have such a stranglehold on everything that no effective resistance to it can be organized, so it's kind of like England on steroids but everywhere more or less.
Over time he gets increasingly more disillusioned. Not only will these people not give him a break, but they are also totally unwilling to look at the bigger picture and just make a concession for the greater good on this because that's how they are. If a meteor was going to hit Earth and they had to collaborate with a "Nazi" to stop it these people would rather accept an avoidable but principled world ending apocalypse, because the concession would morally taint them in their eyes and it wouldn't be a future worth living. These people are also the same retards who care more about inanimate space rocks than their neighbor and say shit like "giant meteor 20__" during a presidential election, or that we need a new plague to offset overpopulation.
He ends up either just fucking off from Earth and abandoning it to the thing he was supposed to protect it from, killing himself because he's so disillusioned and blackpilled that he doesn't see a point in continuing to live after earth is wiped clean and dead and all that's left is the cold dead unforgiving boring universe with cold dead rocks to keep him company for the rest of however long he lives and humanity is so permafucked that it would better off extinct and giving the microbes a chance to evolve, or he turns evil and just wipes earth out and takes himself with it.
The premise and foregone conclusion might be a bit cringe, but I feel like there are ideas that could be explored in a meaningful way and maybe get some points across to people who need to hear it the most if it were written skillfully enough.
Anyways it's just an idea.
I am currently reading wheel of Time, and I have been paying close attention to the Carmelo Anthony and Shiloh Hendricks stuff and I had an idea.
That sort of thing happens where there is an ultimate evil or world ending threat that's going to kill everyone, and there is a prophesized chosen one who is supposed to rise up against it and defeat the evil, but it takes place in basically a mirror of our modern world. This guy is Born into the West which is completely consumed by woke bullshit, progressive stack, purity testing, and various forms of guilt imposed on "privileged" people with double standards that victim groups are allowed to do anything they want and it's fine but if someone from the privileged side does exactly the same thing, it's an unforgivable evil.
The guy who is revealed to be the chosen one who is supposed to save the world, ends up being about as privileged as you can get. A straight white non trans guy from a generic Christian middle class upbringing who is politically a centrist (a Nazi according to the current heavily left leaning overton window). After the spotlight gets put on him and he becomes the center of attention for the whole world, the purity testers set their sights on him with the full backing of the political establishment. All of his past behavior on social media gets put under a microscope and he gets put on blast for being edgy when he was a teenager and saying basic common sense stuff like if a guy is sexually attracted to a trans woman it's still gay because she's still a guy, or that women who falsely accuse men of rape should get prison sentences of equal weight to what the alleged rapist would have gotten, or did get, or that nuclear families and children's fathers being directly present in their lives is good actually, etc. His ancestry also leads back to either American southern slave owners or Italian or German fascists, but by this point in his family line they are totally disconnected from it and it's nothing more than a piece of trivia about the history of his family that nobody is proud of but they also don't think about it very much because it has nothing to do with them and has no bearing on anything
You see him constantly apologizing for this stuff but it doesn't do anything because apologies like this are not meant to be accepted and unlike in our world, this ideology has mostly taken over the world and the conservative side is so small at this point and the wokies have such a stranglehold on everything that no effective resistance to it can be organized, so it's kind of like England on steroids but everywhere more or less.
Over time he gets increasingly more disillusioned. Not only will these people not give him a break, but they are also totally unwilling to look at the bigger picture and just make a concession for the greater good on this because that's how they are. If a meteor was going to hit Earth and they had to collaborate with a "Nazi" to stop it these people would rather accept an avoidable but principled world ending apocalypse, because the concession would morally taint them in their eyes and it wouldn't be a future worth living. These people are also the same retards who care more about inanimate space rocks than their neighbor and say shit like "giant meteor 20__" during a presidential election, or that we need a new plague to offset overpopulation.
He ends up either just fucking off from Earth and abandoning it to the thing he was supposed to protect it from, killing himself because he's so disillusioned and blackpilled that he doesn't see a point in continuing to live after earth is wiped clean and dead and all that's left is the cold dead unforgiving boring universe with cold dead rocks to keep him company for the rest of however long he lives and humanity is so permafucked that it would better off extinct and giving the microbes a chance to evolve, or he turns evil and just wipes earth out and takes himself with it.
The premise and foregone conclusion might be a bit cringe, but I feel like there are ideas that could be explored in a meaningful way and maybe get some points across to people who need to hear it the most if it were written skillfully enough.
Anyways it's just an idea.
- Joined
- Jun 26, 2024
still in the worldbuilding phase
Naruhito, a god originally worshipped in the lands of Ichigopai a large archipelago/continent to the east of Valensvald and the Corronian Ocean was initially one of the 11 benevolent Gods in Ichigopaianese Religion, eventually he rebelled, attempting to conquer the worlds of the other 10 gods and was cast down to the mortal world by the vengeful Pantheon, eventually finding himself in the lands of Valensvald, he preached to various peoples in Valensvald in the year 200 BIY amassing a large following over the next 150 years, using this support he attempted to conquer the various petty Kingdoms and Chiefdoms that existed in Valensvald at the time, he nearly succeeded in taking over but was stopped by the Warlord Tiberius in the battle of Rexorian Field, for his efforts the people in Southern Valensvald crowned him the first Emperor of Rexoria, and a capital city, Tenochtalanum would be built over the battlefield where he achieved victory, unknown to most at the time, Naruhito and his surviving followers went underground and continued the practices of his cult.
the Warlord Tiberius's ascension as the First Emperor marked a new epoch for the continent of Valensvald, he would be crowned the first Emperor of Rexoria with the regnal name of Tiberius Redanium I, marking the first time Valensvald had a unified ruler in its history, the empire would become a beacon of civilized and chivalric culture with the Emperor being seen as the god Edo's representative on the World, from Tenochtalanum situated in South-Central coast of Valensvald, Tiberius and his descendants would rule as absolute monarchs for the next 850 years
eventually the distinctive northern region of Valensvald, Ulvsrike was born from the fires of a noble rebellion in the Imperial Year 850 by Duke David of House Alskling, Valensvald was always a culturally diverse continent and with the advent of a unified Empire it always proved difficult for the Emperor to control his subjects, especially with the noble houses of the North, the War of Snow as later historians would name it, would end in the Battle of the Black Tree Forest with a devastating defeat for the Imperial Army under the command of General Ambrosius Severus, under the terms of the treaty the Empire would be forced to acknowledge the Northern parts of Valensvald as their own independent Kingdom with Duke David becoming King David I of the new Kingdom of Ulvsrike, unlike Rexoria, Ulvsrike, while still a strict monarchy there was some limits on Royal Powers as the other northern lords were granted permanent seats in the Riksdag in return for supporting David's rebellion, a council of Nobles and elected officials that voted on policy with the King having power to introduce legislation and also veto legislation introduced by the Riksdag, King David also employed a strange Court Mage from a distant land known as Ruskeat born over the Northern Ocean, his name was Abbaloth, a intelligent man from the Metsapeura tribe
For the next hundreds of years the destiny of continent of Valensvald would be shaped by two nations,two royal houses,and rival ambitions of the various noble houses of both nations, by the Imperial Year of 1270 the aging Emperor of Rexoria, Bacchus Redanium III is on his deathbed, his heir is his 18-year old daughter Agrippina, a fashionable princess always seen wearing Dresses, her ambitions lay in the reunification of Valensvald, putting the over 400 years of uneasy peace between the Nations at risk, her advisor Justina is a secret worshipper of Naruhito, the God whose worship is outlawed in all of Valensvald
The Imperial Guard, an organization as old as the Rexorian Empire itself, has safeguarded the lives of many Emperors and Empresses in the over thousand years of the Empire's existence, it's current Grandmaster Talin Mercurio is a seasoned bladesman, at the age 40 he finds himself tasked by the new Empress with uncovering a plot by the banned cult of Naruhito, a native of the Duchy of Mildsnow, a rural border territory to the southwest of the Kingdom of Ulvsrike, the area has had little contact with the followers of Naruhito, but now a seasoned veteran in the capital city of Tenochtalanum, he has been named as a Tribune of the Inquisitorius a new organization consisting of members the Imperial Guard alongside the members of the Rexorian Ecclesia, which is the High Priesthood of the State Religion tasked with finding members of and destroying the cult, unknown to the Inquisitorius, Julia, a trusted advisor of the Empress is a devoted High Priestess of Naruhito and has been using strange spells to influence members within Empress Agrippina's court, is in a position of power within the cult is casting spells on various Nobles and Priests in an attempt to secure toleration for the worship of Naruhito, and eventually turn him into the only legal God of Rexoria, and eventually all of the lands of Valensvald.
the Warlord Tiberius's ascension as the First Emperor marked a new epoch for the continent of Valensvald, he would be crowned the first Emperor of Rexoria with the regnal name of Tiberius Redanium I, marking the first time Valensvald had a unified ruler in its history, the empire would become a beacon of civilized and chivalric culture with the Emperor being seen as the god Edo's representative on the World, from Tenochtalanum situated in South-Central coast of Valensvald, Tiberius and his descendants would rule as absolute monarchs for the next 850 years
eventually the distinctive northern region of Valensvald, Ulvsrike was born from the fires of a noble rebellion in the Imperial Year 850 by Duke David of House Alskling, Valensvald was always a culturally diverse continent and with the advent of a unified Empire it always proved difficult for the Emperor to control his subjects, especially with the noble houses of the North, the War of Snow as later historians would name it, would end in the Battle of the Black Tree Forest with a devastating defeat for the Imperial Army under the command of General Ambrosius Severus, under the terms of the treaty the Empire would be forced to acknowledge the Northern parts of Valensvald as their own independent Kingdom with Duke David becoming King David I of the new Kingdom of Ulvsrike, unlike Rexoria, Ulvsrike, while still a strict monarchy there was some limits on Royal Powers as the other northern lords were granted permanent seats in the Riksdag in return for supporting David's rebellion, a council of Nobles and elected officials that voted on policy with the King having power to introduce legislation and also veto legislation introduced by the Riksdag, King David also employed a strange Court Mage from a distant land known as Ruskeat born over the Northern Ocean, his name was Abbaloth, a intelligent man from the Metsapeura tribe
For the next hundreds of years the destiny of continent of Valensvald would be shaped by two nations,two royal houses,and rival ambitions of the various noble houses of both nations, by the Imperial Year of 1270 the aging Emperor of Rexoria, Bacchus Redanium III is on his deathbed, his heir is his 18-year old daughter Agrippina, a fashionable princess always seen wearing Dresses, her ambitions lay in the reunification of Valensvald, putting the over 400 years of uneasy peace between the Nations at risk, her advisor Justina is a secret worshipper of Naruhito, the God whose worship is outlawed in all of Valensvald
The Imperial Guard, an organization as old as the Rexorian Empire itself, has safeguarded the lives of many Emperors and Empresses in the over thousand years of the Empire's existence, it's current Grandmaster Talin Mercurio is a seasoned bladesman, at the age 40 he finds himself tasked by the new Empress with uncovering a plot by the banned cult of Naruhito, a native of the Duchy of Mildsnow, a rural border territory to the southwest of the Kingdom of Ulvsrike, the area has had little contact with the followers of Naruhito, but now a seasoned veteran in the capital city of Tenochtalanum, he has been named as a Tribune of the Inquisitorius a new organization consisting of members the Imperial Guard alongside the members of the Rexorian Ecclesia, which is the High Priesthood of the State Religion tasked with finding members of and destroying the cult, unknown to the Inquisitorius, Julia, a trusted advisor of the Empress is a devoted High Priestess of Naruhito and has been using strange spells to influence members within Empress Agrippina's court, is in a position of power within the cult is casting spells on various Nobles and Priests in an attempt to secure toleration for the worship of Naruhito, and eventually turn him into the only legal God of Rexoria, and eventually all of the lands of Valensvald.
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
This one took me longer to puzzle out than I thought it would, but it's done.
a: SEVEN DAYS
The words popped up on the screen.
a: SEVEN DAYS
Seven days, that was the answer. Not an odd answer, but at the same time a frightening one. After all, the question posed to the computer was quite serious.
q: How long until the universe ends?
a: SEVEN DAYS
Mithran looked to his side, he and Jessamine’s eyes meeting in a grim acceptance. They both knew it would be soon, but still they worried. A human had not died in four million, two hundred eighty six thousand, four hundred and five years. His name has been forgotten, he threw himself into a black hole. In fact, Mithran and Jessamine were the last two who didn’t get so curious about the beyond and so tired of immortal life, like all the others, that the now certain inevitability of non-existence weighed on them.
“What to do now, my love?” Inquired Jess, breaking the eye contact to instead look out at the void around them, face turned from the planet they were over. It took a while for an answer from the man.
“I suppose we have to figure that out.”
With that, they flew away from the computer. Legend has it that once there was a great moon above the Earth, hollowed out and stuffed with gears and vacuum tubes and wires and blinking lights to create a computer with knowledge beyond knowledge. But when asked, the computer did not know its own origins, or wouldn’t say. Not that it would matter in a week.
The pair, the final pair, slowly floated back down to Earth in quiet contemplation.
They had no reason to eat, but after trying it a few thousand years ago the pair found it quite enjoyable to share the sensations of flavor and texture with each other. Their choice today was simple, having conjured spiced wine with bread and fruit of such quality that the intergalactic emperors of eons past would have sold solar systems for a morsel. Not that they knew that, of course, they simply created what they wished in its most perfect form. The benefits of warping reality, a skill long ago perfected by mankind.
The couple talked, as they often did. Talked about things they could create, stories from their immortal lives, people they used to know. But these topics soon petered out, for what use would creation or adventure have with the end so near?
Falling into silence, their meal finished, Jess laid her head on her love’s lap. She was playing with a flower of mercury she picked, watching the liquid metal leaves swirl in fractal patterns that both did and did not have rhythm to them. Deep in thought, concern on her face. Mithran was stoic, gazing up at the black sky. He waved his hand, and turned the light of the sun from it’s previous brilliant green to a pale violet. He was still unhappy with his work, not for lack of quality but lack of purpose.
Leaning down, putting his lips to her ear he whispered. “Let us leave this place, my beloved. It bores me now.” Kissing his cheek, Jess murmured her assent. Standing together they embraced, an embrace that would last until the end of time itself. And then they flew, up into the sky, up past the sky, into the infinite expanse of the universe. They began to dance.
And then, as the universe begins to wither, stars flickering out like fading embers, black holes swallowing whole galaxies, their dance endures. Time, once a river flowing endlessly, grows stagnant, its currents slowing to a crawl, and eventually, nothing. The last remnants of existence are swallowed by the yawning silence, and even the memory of worlds past drifts into oblivion. Yet they remain, suspended in the eternal void, a shimmering light in the face of all-consuming darkness. There is no more matter to shape, no more time to measure. Only the two of them, still holding each other, weightless. Without the ticking of clocks, without the need for words, they float together, their bond a timeless embrace, transcendent, beyond all reason. They are the last two, the last whisper of love, bound to one another in the face of a universe that has ceased to be. And in that endless stillness, there is peace. An unbroken, infinite moment where nothing moves, and yet they move together.
And then, from the stillness, a spark ignites, soft as a breath, yet ancient as the void. In that delicate gleam, the first pulse of life stirs. It unfurls like the petals of a rose, vast and radiant, each one glistening with gold as bright as the sun, and silver as soft as the moon’s touch. At the center of this blooming rose, pure mercury pulses, a liquid warmth, a perfect harmony between gold and silver, between light and shadow. With every beat of their hearts, the universe begins to spin anew. Stars twirl into being, galaxies stretch and spiral, the vast, endless void once again brimming with life. The sun and moon, now eternal partners, share their light in a dance that mirrors the lovers’ embrace, each breath they take stirring the cosmos like the gentle breeze that fans the fire. Gold and silver intertwine, creating a radiant tapestry, while the very air hums with the song of creation, alive with possibility.
From their love flows the pulse of all existence, an ebb and flow that shapes the universe with the steady rhythm of their hearts. Time, once stagnant, begins to flow again, but now guided by their love. Balanced, eternal. The galaxies spin in perfect harmony, and with every new star that lights the sky, the rose grows ever more beautiful, its petals stretching outward, casting light upon new worlds, new wonders. They are the sun and moon, the light and dark, the beginning and end—together, they are the architects of all things. The universe is no longer a cold, empty void but a living, breathing testament to their eternal embrace. And as it unfolds, their love remains at the heart of it all. Undisturbed, unbroken, a flame that will never fade, for it is the very pulse of the cosmos itself.
The words popped up on the screen.
a: SEVEN DAYS
Seven days, that was the answer. Not an odd answer, but at the same time a frightening one. After all, the question posed to the computer was quite serious.
q: How long until the universe ends?
a: SEVEN DAYS
Mithran looked to his side, he and Jessamine’s eyes meeting in a grim acceptance. They both knew it would be soon, but still they worried. A human had not died in four million, two hundred eighty six thousand, four hundred and five years. His name has been forgotten, he threw himself into a black hole. In fact, Mithran and Jessamine were the last two who didn’t get so curious about the beyond and so tired of immortal life, like all the others, that the now certain inevitability of non-existence weighed on them.
“What to do now, my love?” Inquired Jess, breaking the eye contact to instead look out at the void around them, face turned from the planet they were over. It took a while for an answer from the man.
“I suppose we have to figure that out.”
With that, they flew away from the computer. Legend has it that once there was a great moon above the Earth, hollowed out and stuffed with gears and vacuum tubes and wires and blinking lights to create a computer with knowledge beyond knowledge. But when asked, the computer did not know its own origins, or wouldn’t say. Not that it would matter in a week.
The pair, the final pair, slowly floated back down to Earth in quiet contemplation.
***
Jess was always the more delicate artist, Mithran the more bombastic. He created the landscape upon which they rested, a meadow of flowing red grass dotted with trees grown of sapphire with leaves of emerald and gold highlighted by a bright black sky. She crafted the mechanical squirrels and birds and lizards climbing up and down the great gemstone trees, as well as the flowers of copper, mercury, and flaming magnesium that carpeted their incomprehensible picnic spot.They had no reason to eat, but after trying it a few thousand years ago the pair found it quite enjoyable to share the sensations of flavor and texture with each other. Their choice today was simple, having conjured spiced wine with bread and fruit of such quality that the intergalactic emperors of eons past would have sold solar systems for a morsel. Not that they knew that, of course, they simply created what they wished in its most perfect form. The benefits of warping reality, a skill long ago perfected by mankind.
The couple talked, as they often did. Talked about things they could create, stories from their immortal lives, people they used to know. But these topics soon petered out, for what use would creation or adventure have with the end so near?
Falling into silence, their meal finished, Jess laid her head on her love’s lap. She was playing with a flower of mercury she picked, watching the liquid metal leaves swirl in fractal patterns that both did and did not have rhythm to them. Deep in thought, concern on her face. Mithran was stoic, gazing up at the black sky. He waved his hand, and turned the light of the sun from it’s previous brilliant green to a pale violet. He was still unhappy with his work, not for lack of quality but lack of purpose.
Leaning down, putting his lips to her ear he whispered. “Let us leave this place, my beloved. It bores me now.” Kissing his cheek, Jess murmured her assent. Standing together they embraced, an embrace that would last until the end of time itself. And then they flew, up into the sky, up past the sky, into the infinite expanse of the universe. They began to dance.
***
Beneath the boundless vault of stars, where the very fabric of time trembles in the infinite expanse, they danced. Two immortal souls entwined in an eternal waltz. Their bodies, immortal as the cosmos itself, glide effortlessly through the swirling nebulae and silent moons, their hearts a single rhythm echoing across galaxies. Each movement a testament to love unyielding, a fire that neither the eons nor the void can extinguish. In the quiet symphony of the universe, they are both music and silence, the stars their orchestra and the cosmos their stage. As worlds are born and die in the blink of an eye, they continue, bound not by time, but by a bond deeper than the universe itself. One that no matter how many lightyears stretch between them, never wavers, never fades. They are the eternal dance, the unbroken promise, the pulse of the infinite. And then, as the universe begins to wither, stars flickering out like fading embers, black holes swallowing whole galaxies, their dance endures. Time, once a river flowing endlessly, grows stagnant, its currents slowing to a crawl, and eventually, nothing. The last remnants of existence are swallowed by the yawning silence, and even the memory of worlds past drifts into oblivion. Yet they remain, suspended in the eternal void, a shimmering light in the face of all-consuming darkness. There is no more matter to shape, no more time to measure. Only the two of them, still holding each other, weightless. Without the ticking of clocks, without the need for words, they float together, their bond a timeless embrace, transcendent, beyond all reason. They are the last two, the last whisper of love, bound to one another in the face of a universe that has ceased to be. And in that endless stillness, there is peace. An unbroken, infinite moment where nothing moves, and yet they move together.
And then, from the stillness, a spark ignites, soft as a breath, yet ancient as the void. In that delicate gleam, the first pulse of life stirs. It unfurls like the petals of a rose, vast and radiant, each one glistening with gold as bright as the sun, and silver as soft as the moon’s touch. At the center of this blooming rose, pure mercury pulses, a liquid warmth, a perfect harmony between gold and silver, between light and shadow. With every beat of their hearts, the universe begins to spin anew. Stars twirl into being, galaxies stretch and spiral, the vast, endless void once again brimming with life. The sun and moon, now eternal partners, share their light in a dance that mirrors the lovers’ embrace, each breath they take stirring the cosmos like the gentle breeze that fans the fire. Gold and silver intertwine, creating a radiant tapestry, while the very air hums with the song of creation, alive with possibility.
From their love flows the pulse of all existence, an ebb and flow that shapes the universe with the steady rhythm of their hearts. Time, once stagnant, begins to flow again, but now guided by their love. Balanced, eternal. The galaxies spin in perfect harmony, and with every new star that lights the sky, the rose grows ever more beautiful, its petals stretching outward, casting light upon new worlds, new wonders. They are the sun and moon, the light and dark, the beginning and end—together, they are the architects of all things. The universe is no longer a cold, empty void but a living, breathing testament to their eternal embrace. And as it unfolds, their love remains at the heart of it all. Undisturbed, unbroken, a flame that will never fade, for it is the very pulse of the cosmos itself.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2022
Thank you.
Even though it was a short story, trying to square my love of Dancers At The End Of Time with the symbolism of the Chemical Wedding from alchemical thought and also with some of the visuals from the ending of Fire Punch was a challenge to write.
Something about the last two people in existence generating a new universe through their love was an idea I couldn’t get out of my head for a bit, so yeah.