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Flowers

“Papa, what are those?” She pointed to a painting on the wall, a green field littered with pricks of blues, yellows, and reds and a bright sky hanging above.

“Those are flowers, Amy.” The old man placed his fork on the table and stood to grab the painting. “I painted this when I was a boy just about your age. I used to live near this field. Every day during spring I sat under a big oak tree and just watched the world. Bugs, rabbits, birds, deer, and of course, the flowers.”

“So, they’re real?”

“As real as you or me.”

The man handed Amy the painting. “This was just before the Migrant Wars. I left soon after—along with everyone else. This is the only painting I’ve finished and something I hold dear, memories of a much better time.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and dreamed of a world full of color. A world full of life where kids just like his great-granddaughter played and laughed. Not at all like the world they now lived in. The world outside was barren.

“You know, I went back there. Just after your parents were born. They’re still there, those flowers. The bugs and the animals too. They’re different now but I think the world I once knew has become something even more magical.”

“I want to see it too!”

“Maybe when you’re older. And maybe your great-grandchildren’s grandchildren will be able to return and live there again. But Earth has rejected man and made itself uninhabitable to us. Yet it still remains so full of life just to spite us.”

Read Story #15 - Watercolor Children

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In Love and War

“Gather around! Gather around. This is a show you must not miss,” the carny said, “This is a show that will change your lives forever. And for the better. Look around, boys and girls, and you will see that you are not alone. Be not afraid! Come closer.”

The man danced on stage as he called out to vagrant children. He caught their curiosity with colorful ribbons pulled from hidden places. And the children gathered around. The long war halted the flow of visitors and there was now little to distract the children from the harsh reality of the world they occupied. The city lacked empathy for them, no food or water given, and certainly no entertainment—and so the allure of the mysterious man was too great of an enchantment.

“Yes, my dear children. So sweet but so rejected. Today, will be a very special day and a special day just for you.” The man bowed as more than a hundred children huddled together and sat. “For today I bring a gift… a brief moment of respite to help you through your troubled days… And now, we begin.”

The man pulled back the curtain hanging over the stage and disappeared into the evening shadows cast onto the caravan by the surrounding buildings. Behind the curtain, a robed figured stood silently, its face covered by a tribal mask painted white with merlot stains around sunken, black eyes. White cloth draped over its body, concealing a hunched back and gangly limbs, the robe’s ends flowing freely in the light breeze. The children turned to one another for reassurance, their faces marked with unease as the creature’s gaze bore into their psyche. Tears flooded the eyes of younger children not yet inured by years of vagrancy.

The sudden beat of drums snapped the children to attention and the creature began to move. A devil’s dance. It moved with unnatural precision as its body shifted and morphed beneath its robe, hidden limbs tearing at the cloth in an attempt to free itself. A dance practiced by witches and necromancers of the olden days. The children squirmed but remained seated, drawn into the performance by unseen forces. The drums stopped. And the creature froze.

Its mask cracked and ash spewed from the fissures, coating the crowd in soot. The children silenced and their bodies stiffened. From the dark recesses of the stage, a crusader stepped forth. His armor shined brilliantly in the firelight. The children cheered for their hero, a knight sworn to defend them from the evils of the world, a warrior they’ve only glimpsed through crowded streets during parades celebrating their return from conquest. The children leaned forward, delighted to witness the champion’s power.

The crusader unsheathed his sword and readied the blade above his head as the creature coiled itself to strike. The creature launched and the crusader swung. Blood stained its once white robe as it fell to the ground and a black mist erupted from the wound, shrouding the stage and children in darkness. A voice called out to the children.

“My dear children, witness the power of your hero! Know that you too can be a hero. The devils have invaded your city. You must rise up and defeat them as you have witnessed your hero do so today. Now go.”

The last light of the sun dipped below the distant mountains and dark clouds blotted out the stars. The black mist dispersed, revealing an empty stage and bewitched children. They rose in unison and marched out into the city.

***

The door to the caravan opened and the crusader walked in, joined by the creature. “Is this really necessary? They’re children. Unwanted ones at that. Why not let, at least them, live in peace?”

The carny looked up from his mirror as he removed his makeup, his clothes already changed from his earlier performance. “Do not forget what these people have done to ours. You wear the armor of a fallen crusader not their faux badge of honor.” The carny stood from his chair to face his comrades. “These children have been abandoned by their own people. Let those people die at the hands of their repudiated. The children will die regardless—at least they will die heroes of their own mind.”

The crusader paused for a long while. “Then let us leave, this city will be gone come dawn.”

Read Story #14 - Watercolor Children

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Watercolor Children

The woman lifted her brush from the canvas and her face flushed with joy. On the canvas was a boy painted in vibrant watercolors, swirled and pooled flourishes accenting the boy’s soft face, its drying paint bringing the portrait to life. A month of work and it was done. The woman studied her creation, tracing his locks of hair with her eyes, each ending in wild wisps. She smiled.

“Anita, madam, pardon me,” a man said, “your new student has arrived.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey. I will be down in a moment.”

“Is that Alexander, madam?” Anita turned to face him, her smile grew and her eyebrows raised. “I must say, your skills have grown tremendously over the years. It is as if he himself were standing before us. It’s unfortunate he died so young—such a studious boy.”

Anita nodded at the affirmation and her steward returned to his stately duties. She lifted the canvas. It’s time for you to meet the others, my dear, she thought. Each painting reminded of her purpose. Though how could she forget? Every stroke of her brush immortalized those she painted. No longer would she forget those she cared for, her precious students. Not like she forgot her son.

She opened a door, beyond it a gallery. She stepped in and the temperature dropped. Her hairs raised, making her skin course with bumps. She walked along corridors, walls lined with watercolor portraits of boys, and stopped at an empty spot on the wall. Anita placed the fresh portrait in its spot and turned to an altar against the far wall of the corridor.

She stared at a painting sitting on a bed of flowers atop the altar, its colors dull. Globs of old paint marked frequent mistakes. Anita reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. It was lifeless. It was a painting which could not immortalize who her son was and could have been. And so she wept.

“I will get better. I will paint you the way you should be, I promise.”

She turned away, tears still dragging mascara down her cheeks. The portraits towered over her, their eyes following as she walked past. Their presence pushed down upon her as chills shot down her back. So full of life, not at all dull like her dear son. Their colors were bright and vibrant. Why was it she could bring all those others back to life but not her own child?

Read Story #13 - Stone Soldiers Read Story #15 - In Love and War

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Stone Soldiers

“For how long have you dedicated yourself to carving these?” the Emperor asked.

Ten thousand stone soldiers stood motionless in perfect alignment before him, each solider an exact copy of the next—every hair, every button, every crease in their uniforms, the details a testament to the mastery of their creator. The image sparked a sense of unease in the Emperor as he walked through their ranks. His retinue followed, careful not to disturb decades of artisan labor.

“Nearly one-hundred years, your Imperial Majesty.” The creator’s face wrinkled as he spoke. “The first soldier took form when I was merely eight.” The Emperor offered an arm to the old man as they climbed the steps to the palace. The man shook his head and continued on his own. His legs trembled upon each step despite the assistance of his wooden staff.

“You know, your Majesty, when I was a boy, I climbed these very steps. That was a long time ago.”

“During my great-grandfather’s reign, yes?”

“Indeed.”

The pair turned to face the stone army and the man breathed in deep, savoring the moment. His eyes glistened as he looked upon his creations. “I climbed these steps after my father. He was a great stone worker too, you know, but he refused your great-grandfather that day we were summoned.” The man raised his staff and struck the ground. The impact reverberated through the ground and a ring of dust washed over the world. He struck again and the air stilled. And again. The world silenced. “And for that he was killed.”

And he struck the ground once more. The world froze and the Emperor stared back at the man, consternation written upon his face. His stomach sank as the earth convulsed. A cloud of dust billowed up from the courtyards below. And the stone army marched.

“I watched my father’s head roll down these steps from the very spot I now stand. Today I will watch yours.”

Read Story #12 - The Omen Read Story #13 - Watercolor Children

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The Omen

“I need two engineers,” Alexia said. Two men stepped forward, dressed in fatigues and weighed down by nearly seventy pounds of equipment. “Run cables to the railgun and override its controls. Everyone else, secure the rooftop and prepare to defend.”

The engineers unpacked their gear and ran to a control panel, cables in hand, their spools unraveling behind them. A steel door concealed a railgun that would tower sixty feet into the air once deployed. It was part of the planetary defense system, a network of weapons meant to defend Artemis against invasion. A defense system that failed its purpose. Humanity never considered the possibility of an advanced civilization waging war. Now, the Vanghul penetrated deep into the inner colonies.

The wind whipped Alexia’s matted hair into her face, her bun long since unraveled by battle. She watched the Vanghul ship hovering above the valley, her first encounter with the enemy. It’s black exterior devoured the surrounding light as it eclipsed Artemis’ sun. Command named the ship, Omen. It’s presence sent shivers down her spine. It truly was an omen of death. Below, it’s fighters swarmed, sending barrages of plasma into military convoys. The forest blazed and smoke filled the sky above.

A voice freed her from her thoughts. “We’ll make it, Lex,” Tassos said, “Once we get this railgun online, we’ll blast those fuckers out of the sky and have our revenge.”

“I’m not so sure”—she looked to the sky—“How can we beat them?” An orbital battleship broke through the clouds, leaving a trail of smoke and flames in its wake. It crashed against a far off mountain and after a moment, the shockwave blew past her platoon. She faced Tassos, “Three thousand people dead. Just like that. Even if we take down Omen, how do we win?”

“All we can do is what we’re trained to do. To keep moving forward.” Tassos placed his hand on her shoulder and she relaxed—for a moment.

“Ma’am, we’re connected. Give us the order and we’ll take control.”

“Do it. And make it fast. Once it’s powered we’ll be overrun by fighters.”

The engineers connected their field computers and began the sequence to take control. The steel doors lurched free and the railgun ascended. The enemy fighters changed course, ignoring beaten down convoys in favor of a new threat.

“Shit. The railgun’s moving too slow.” Alexia turned to her platoon. “I need shields covering the cables, now! Ready your MANPADS and fire when they’re within one thousand yards. Protect the railgun!” Her platoon scrambled into position. Soldiers deployed their energy shields and panels of light shot into the air along the cables and before the embrasures of the rooftop bunker. “Railgun’s nearly out, get ready!”

“Fire!” Smoke filled the air as rockets raced towards their targets. Of the first barrage, ten hit their mark and Vanghul fighters dropped from the sky engulfed in flames. A second volley struck the fighters as they returned fire. Charges of plasma rained down on the platoon, crashing into shields. The plasma electrified the air and filled it with bright blue light. Other charges found their mark and incinerated soldiers caught out in the open.

The first wave of fighters passed overhead, giving the soldiers a brief moment of respite. “Reload and reposition! We don’t have time to waste,” Alexia said. She rallied her troops and prepared for the second wave. There were fewer but a single plasma charge could end the mission.

The world flashed with light and an explosion rocked the bunker. Alexia fell to the ground, her ears ringing, temporarily blinded from the assault. The world came into focus. Smoldering bodies littered the rooftop, the shields now destroyed. Alexia pulled herself up to the embrasure. The first wave of fighters returned in the direction they originally came. Had they turned around that fast? she thought. She looked up, the railgun was aimed at its target but its firing sequence had halted.

“They knocked the cable loose,” Tassos said, pointing to the control panel. “I’ll take care of it.”

Alexia moved to stop him but she was too slow. Tassos sprinted through falling plasma fire. Concrete erupted around him as the second wave passed. He reached the control panel and secured the cable, giving affirmation to Alexia with a wave. “Start the firing sequence. The second wave will turn around soon!”

The engineers keyed in their code and the whine of electromagnetic coils pierced her ears. Alexia eyes darted between Tassos and the railgun. Her heart raced. The railgun fired. And another explosion knocked her to the floor, blinding Alexia once again. Engines roared and the second wave passed overhead.

Alexia fell to the ground and crawled through the entrance as she regained her vision. Tassos lay just outside the bunker, covered in blood, his arm and leg missing and body charred. She sat behind him, leaned against the bunker wall, and pulled him into her arms, his upper back against her stomach.

She looked up and saw Omen. The railgun hit its mark, dead center of its engines. Now the ship sank to the ground, it’s once black exterior red with flames as fire spread. Alexia placed her hand on Tassos and lifted his head. “Look. You did it, Tassos.” Her vision blurred, from the light that blinded her and now from the tears that filled her eyes. Tassos raised his burnt hand and rested it on her arm. “You struck down Omen. You had your revenge.”

She leaned down to kiss his head and his hand fell.

“I’ll keep moving forward.”

Read Story #11 - From Beyond the Void Read Story #12 - Stone Soldiers

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From Beyond the Void

The red glow of emergency lights bounced off the iron-clad walls of the freighter as Adori held her daughter tight. They were finally headed home, back to Earth. Four months bouncing between star systems. Four months in hyperspace and it was almost over. Supposed to be over. Now every last person on this god-damned ship was dead or dying, except for two. They were lucky enough to escape into the cryo chambers before it attacked. Now they waited for the ship’s autopilot to exit hyperspace just outside of the Moon’s orbit.

Adori rocked her sobbing daughter, stifling her own cries as she hummed a lullaby. Mere feet away, between the thick glass that separated the cryo chamber from the hall, stood a monster. Black as the void it came from and just as deadly. It watched them, waiting, salivating at the chance for another meal. Their only solace was the distress call that would be sent out upon their arrival. Only a few days until rescue.

The squeal of slick boots echoed down the halls. A man appeared from beyond the window. Thick carapace encased his head and blood dripped down his body. The alien clicked and the glass vibrated. The man lifted his hand, registered his fingerprint on the scanner, and the door opened.

Read Story #10 - Parasite Read Story #12 - The Omen

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Parasite

The doors of the saloon swung wide and Abram stepped in. His eyes scanned the room for his target as he walked to the bar, a middle-aged man with a cybernetic arm—a member of the Scarlet Riders. Abram slid a tablet to the barkeep. “I’m looking for this man. You seen him?” Abram pulled aside his duster and revealed his Hunter badge. “Heard he likes old town bars on Mars.”

The barkeep titled his head to the side, towards a group of five playing cards in a backroom. Abram tipped his hat and made his way to the table. Patrons eyed him as he passed. An old town bar wasn’t the place for government dogs, the locals preferred the Federation stay out of their business, but they’d be damned if they touched a Hunter.

“How much to play?” Abram lit a cigarette and pulled out the empty seat at the head of the table. “I reckon I win, I get some information outta y’all.”

The man to his left stood and kicked the chair away from Abram. “Whoa there, buddy. You think we’d let a pup like you join in?” The man stood a few inches taller and had at least fifty pounds on Abram. Scarlet tattoos covered his face and exposed chest. A little young, Abram thought, and no cybernetics—not the guy.

“Tell you what, you tell me where the Black Rose is and I’ll let y’all live.” Anger flashed across the man’s face as he reached for his gun. “Wrong, choice,” Abram replied. In the moment it took for the man to grab his weapon, Abram already fired his. Dead center. The man dropped. The rest retaliated. Time slowed for Abram and his hairs stood on end as his body tingled with electric energy. The air cracked and the room exploded with light. The light faded and the air burnt with the smell of chlorine. “Should’ve just told me where he is,” Abram said as he kicked the charred remains of one of the men.

A voice came from behind. “Lightning’s a bit dangerous inside, Hunter.” Abram spun and met the glare of his target, the Black Rose. He raised a shotgun but Abram was faster, as all Hunters should be, and the Black Rose fell out into the common room.

His head melted into a puddle of brown goo. Abram pulled out a small jar and filled it. As he stood, he caught the bewildered faces of his audience. Abram paused. “A parasite from Kepler-90 system. Keep your mouth closed at night.”

Read Story #9 - Temptation Read Story #11 - From Beyond the Void

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Temptation

The ship lurched to the side as it crashed against rock. Emil emerged from his quarters and ran to the deck. Three hours. Three hours of sleep and his first mate grounded the ship. Emil cursed as he watched his sailors gather at the edge of the ship, each taking a turn to peer through the spyglass. “What’s going on? Where’s Ricard?”

“Women, captain!” one man said. He pointed to the shore of an atoll. “They’re stranded, captain. They need our help.”

Another man handed Emil the spyglass. Three women sat along the rocky shore, staring back at him, their eyes piercing. He felt beckoned. A sudden urge to help washed over him as he stood there, locked within their gaze. He felt light, as if he could simply leap across the hundred-yard gap to meet their calls. Cheers freed him from his trance and he peeked over the bow, following his crew’s gaze. Ricard and four others had launched a dinghy for rescue. A second group prepped another to follow suit.

Emil rushed to his men, pulled them away from the edge, and cut the line to the dinghy. It crashed against the reef below and split. “Fools! Those are not women. They’re sirens.” But his words fell on deafened ears and the men began to jump overboard. He tried to rally his men, to break them from the enchantment, but he failed. He sat against the ship’s railing and listened. To the song of sirens. And to the screams of men.

Read Story #8 - Lost Thoughts Read Story #10 - Parasite

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Lost Thoughts

Naji glanced at his clock. Eighteen hours since he last slept. He locked himself in his makeshift lab thirteen days ago and made no progress since then. Naji leaned over his desk and stared out the window. The streets were deserted, fresh snow blanketed the city, and fires burned here and there—some to warm vagrants, others to cleanse the dead from disease. He yearned for the view he once knew, before the quarantine, a pleasant view from high in his tower of a city full of life. Now the city was nearly as dead as its people.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind and returned to his work. His desk reflected his mind. Papers strewn across it and the remnants of failed experiments mocked him. They derided his efforts to save them. How could he be so foolish? To think he alone would save the city—no, the world—from a plague that has hidden its truths from the world’s brightest minds. To think he could push the boundaries of science and discover those truths. To think he could become the world’s hero.

Naji snapped his pen as his body tightened at the indignation of such thoughts. He picked up a piece of paper, a list of all known symptoms. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories, necrosis. The list continued. Nearly sixty percent of those affected ended their illness in death. Survivors were often left disabled, their minds gone mad, leaving them unable to care for themselves or others. Man, woman, young, old, it didn’t matter who they were, there was no pattern, no sliver of hope a scientist could cling to. There were no clues to the cause of its symptoms nor the origin of its creation. Yet the world worked endlessly to find a cure.

Naji sighed and cleared his desk. At the edge lay a stack of papers in a box, neatly tucked away from the rest. A scrap pile of work that led to dead ends and worthless notes. He closed the box and walked to his fireplace, placing the box gently inside. He sat in his chair and watched the flames dance. The heat warmed him just as the fires outside warmed those vagrants. The same fires used to slow the plague.

In his hand, he still held a paper, the list of symptoms he studied hundreds of times. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories. False memories. The words echoed in his head as it throbbed with pain. False memories. And he remembered his notes. The ones that contained his answer, the hidden truths that have evaded the minds of the world. The notes that led to the cure. The notes he set aside from the rest. His mind awoke from its delirium and he sprang forth in an effort to save the papers consumed by flames. But his efforts were in vain.

He knelt before the fire for a while and wondered why ash filled his scorched hands. His eyes shifted to his arms and he wondered why his flesh hung loose—decaying, rotting.

Read Story #7 - Holy Flames Read Story #9 - Temptation

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Holy Flames

Farmers paraded the local healer through the crowd, her arms bound to her body by silver chains and her neck choked by brass shackles. She lurched with each step as if she was commanded by unseen forces—an unnaturalness to her movements. A cleric followed, chanting his prayers. The people spat and prodded with tools and words alike, keeping their distance, until she shrunk down. Men and women parted and soon she faced the pyre that awaited her.

The cleric finished his prayer as farmer boys tied her to the stake and he turned to the people who thronged before him. “Children of God, today we gather for the immolation of not a woman, but a spawn of the devil himself. Do not be deceived by the monster that stands before you. Today you will know that our Lord watches over us, guides us, and bestows upon us a salvation free from these demons.” He spun and faced the woman, his hands raised in a display of reverence. “And if we are wrong, Lord save our souls,” he muttered.

He opened his tome and began his chants once again, this time not of prayers but words of sorcery passed down through the clergy over thousands of years. The people quieted—the world quieted—and the runes he read lifted from his tome, encircling himself and the pyre. White light poured forth and turned to blue flames as the power he invoked flourished. The pyre ignited.

The woman wailed, begging the people to help her, but when none came her cries turned to ghastly howls. Her skin split and orange fluid oozed from the cracks, pooling beneath her. It tried to spread beyond the pyre but the barrier of flames contained it until it was no more.

The cleric called to the farmers, “Gather her family. I’m afraid it’s too late for them.”

Read Story #6 - One Small Sacrifice Read Story #8 - Lost Thoughts

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One Small Sacrifice

“Houston, we’ve made contact.” The radio cracked with silence while Emerson waited for a response. At over nine million miles from Earth, it would take nearly two minutes to respond. But a response wasn’t needed. Emerson pulled the metal cylinder free from his Zero-G pack and began a dance he rehearsed thousands of times on Earth.

Magnets in his boots kept him locked to the ferrous rock while he drilled. Any peace one could feel deep in space was swallowed whole by the void. Billions of light years of nothing surrounded Emerson, yet the vastness of it crushed him in his suit. Earth, merely a blue spec at this distance, returned his call, “Good luck, Emerson.”

The woman’s voice was somber—distant, not in miles but in a despair only those part of this mission could understand. Emerson focused, his transponder would have to suffice for his own response. After hours of drilling, he keyed in the arming code, placed the cylinder deep into the hole, and pushed off the asteroid. Emerson pulled himself into the cramped vessel and removed his helmet. “The bomb is planted.”

As he drifted away, he watched the asteroid fade, swallowed by the abyss that also awaited him. It was the sixth interstellar object aimed directly at Earth. He shifted his gaze to the stars, the same stars he watched on Earth, the ones that led him to become an astronaut. The ones that have drawn him to his death.

Earth replied, “this is one small sacrifice from man, and one giant loss for mankind.”

Read Story #5 - The Martyr Maker Read Story #7 - Holy Flames

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The Martyr Maker

“Any last words, hero?” the queen asked, though her words were sarcastic as his tongue lay at her feet. “Look at the people you hold so dear. Five thousand of them will watch you hang and five thousand of them will understand that I am.”

The queen gave the signal as she stepped aside and in a moment, the hero slipped beneath the gallows for all to see. The murmurs that spread through the crowd ceased. And then the first rock was thrown. And another followed. Her guards shielded her as a few rocks grew to dozens. As the voices of the crowd grew to a thunderous roar. The queen and her guards retreated.

The palace gates closed and soldiers lined the walls. Smoke filled the sky as government buildings burned as hot as the people's fury. The citizens’ roars echoed through the halls of her throne room, barely covering the sound of battle just outside her palace. The doors to the room opened and a young man in worn leather armor stepped in.

“Your Majesty, the townsfolk have broken through the palace gate. What would you have us do?” the captain said.

“Fool, I would have you kill them,” she replied, motioning for her guards to go forth and fight. “If they wish to fight, then they choose to die.”

The captain rose and yelled out for his men. From the beyond the doors, soldiers flooded the throne room, their weapons readied. “Your Majesty, if you wish to fight, then you choose to die.”

Read Story #4 - Conclusion of Eternity Read Story #6 - One Small Sacrifice

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Conclusion of Eternity

Dark clouds blotted out the morning sun. Just beyond the city marched the Cursed King’s army, demons of the night that threatened the survival of humanity. Kalir stood from his mountain-top throne and watched their approach.

“This is the final day, my lord.” A small man in ornate robes took his place beside Kalir. “It is time to say goodbye to your people. Our time with you has brought us fortune man has never known, but all things good must eventually end. It is the law of this world.” Kalir stood silently as he looked over the city—his city, his people. People of this world he as grown to love over his thousand year reign of man.

“I have lived as long as everything that is. One thousand years is no different to me than mere seconds for you, yet I regard my time here as something to cherish.” Kalir turned to the man and bowed. “It is time to take my leave but it is not time for humanity to end.”

Kalir walked to the edge of his shrine and raised his hands. The clouds above parted and the sun shone upon him, igniting the shimmering brilliance of his icy-blue skin. A column of blue light burst from the heavens and swallowed the Cursed King’s army. The earth shook at the touch Kalir’s might, its light blinding, its power incomprehensible. The robed man shielded his eyes.

As quickly as it came it was gone. The man looked up and saw the demon army was gone—and so was Kalir.

Read Story #3 - Boy's Best Friend Read Story #5 - The Martyr Maker

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Boy's Best Friend

“Come on,” the boy sighed.

Sparks launched from his flint and buried themselves into the deep snow. Each strike took with it a little more of the boy’s hope. There were only a few hours of True Night left. The sun will finally be here, he reassured himself. Five days with no sun nor moon was his limit, but he could push past it to prove to himself—to his tribe—through this rite, he was worthy of the prophecy.

Another strike. More sparks. They fizzled out on the damp wood and he cursed himself once again. The boy leaned against the rock wall in defeat. It was cold. Colder than he ever remembered, yet despite the numbness in his limbs, he was warm. He curled into a ball and stared into deep void before him.

The snow crunched under the paws of his pursuer. Four days of fleeing from the beast but the boy was not afraid. Maybe his final throes of life were exhausted. Or it was delirium finally embracing him. It was all the same in the end.

The beast was close now and the boy could feel its breath on his face. It paused, studying him in the dark night with senses the boy couldn’t comprehend. The tension released from his body as it lay down against him. The boy buried his head in its fur and he felt the dull pain of warmth return. And the conditions for prophecy were met.

Read Story #2 - From the Apple Tree Read Story #4 - Conclusion of Eternity

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From the Apple Tree

The glow of flames darkened the half-orc’s ashen skin. His sword readied, he circled with his opponent, a human—the Protector of the Vale. Around them stood his comrades, clashing swords against shields and cheering for the duel before them.

“So you choose the orcs then?” The man asked. His voice cracked with sorrow as he forced the words from his throat.

The half-orc raised his weapon. “I’ve been given no choice. Human or orc. You can’t choose when others choose for you.”

The man cried out in anguish as he charged the orc. Their swords struck metal as they parried and blocked each blow. Their audience roared. The Protector of the Vale had grown old and his combat prowess waned through middle-age. Each strike he parried sent him reeling. The crowd grew louder—insatiable—emaciated from years of peace.

The man stumbled and the orc took advantage. He struck again, and again, with his full strength and weight pressing against his sword in a blind fury. The man buckled beneath him and the orc’s sword cut deep into the man’s chest.

“You could have prevented this, Protector! This didn’t have to happen. But you couldn’t protect her. You said you loved her, yet you let her die! The Vale murdered her.” The orc raised his sword as tears streamed down his face before thrusting it through the man’s chest. “I’m sorry, father.”

The cheers crescendoed.

Read Story #1 - Gods of War Read Story #3 - Boy's Best Friend

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Gods of War

Armin watched him through his spotter scope. The man left chaos in his wake. Nothing but death survived his passing. He was as much a force of nature as a volcanic eruption and he was a god amongst men—the men of Red Company, who fell before him. Armin watched in awe mixed with disgust at the horror he faced.

“Target, Section One Alpha, five mil,” Armin said.

“Contact,” his partner replied.

Armin and Josef laid in the mud beneath thick brush, waiting for their one chance to avenge their slaughtered comrades. Three long years of war led to this moment, though it felt much longer. How many friends died to the man before them? How many enemy soldiers were killed by their nation’s Corsairs?

Neon blue vines of light whipped around the Corsair, destroying the few operational armored vehicles that remained in Red Company. Flashes of purple light enveloped him as bullets clashed against his barrier. The ground around him liquefied into molten rock, vaporizing the water in the soil—the mist giving form to his barrier, refracting the light of his magic and the soft amber glow of the fires surrounding him. The sight sent shivers down Armin’s spine. Of the Corsairs they faced, the man before them was the deadliest.

“They truly are gods among men,” Armin said. The Corsair paused and Josef exhaled. A cylinder of solid red light etched with glyphs enveloped the barrel of Josef’s rifle. The light grew to a flash and shattered as the weapon fired. The bullet found its target. “But those gods are still men.”

Read Story #2 - From the Apple Tree

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